Chapter Three


"Okay, not that I'm not flattered," Will said, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face. "But the last time you and I went on a mission, you told me I was over-the-top."

Sydney's cheeks dimpled. "You're in luck. This time, over-the-top is exactly what we're looking for."

"Playing to my strengths, huh?" Will shook his head. It's like a dream, he thought. Except it's not. Sydney's really here. This is really happening.

He leaned back on his sofa (Goodwill, $85) and studied her. Should he mention that he liked the bangs? Better not. She might have had them for months, for all he knew, and Will didn't want to underline how long it had been since they'd been together. "We both know I'm gonna say yes," he said. "No way I'd refuse, not if it means getting a chance to hang out with you again, even for a few days."

"It's good to see you too," she said. This would have been more convincing if her eyes hadn't immediately filled with tears.

"Hey, hey - what's the matter?" 

Sydney leaned against his shoulder, suddenly limp, as if the strength had just ebbed from her. "Remember how I told you I was having a bad time? It hasn't gotten a whole lot better."

Will quietly said, "What's the story with Vaughn?"

As he'd expected, this immediately made everything worse. Syd hugged him tightly as her voice became hoarse. "Lauren - she was lying to him, the whole time - it was all just some plot -"

He knew how that went. For a moment, Francie's face lingered in Will's memory, dark eyes and beautiful smile. Her murderer had stolen that face, along with everything else in Francie's life. That feeling, of loss and anger, had never gone away and never would. "Oh, my God. That's - Syd, that's awful."

"Vaughn's just - it's like he's broken, Will. Like Lauren broke something inside him." Sydney wiped her eyes. "We aren't together now, and that's fine. That's probably for the best. But I don't think we'll ever be together again. Even that wouldn't matter if I thought Vaughn would be happy that way. Instead, right now - it seems like he'll never be happy. And I can't stand that, knowing that Lauren took that from him."

The unspoken words - from us - hung in the air between them.

Will stroked her hair and gathered his own thoughts. His crush on Sydney had faded into friendship long ago - but that friendship had flared into passion the last time they were together, and he realized that, down deep, he'd been wondering if that would happen again.

But Will knew that his head was clear, and that his motives were unselfish, when he said, "I'm sorry for Vaughn. I've been there, pretty much, and there aren't many worse places to be. But he's not your responsibility, Syd. Not any more than I was, or your dad way back when." 

"I know that," Sydney said. "I just wish I could feel it."

No matter how much time they'd spent apart, Will could still read Sydney - well enough, anyway. He said, "You know what you need?"

"What's that?"

"A few days in Vegas." She smiled, but only politely. He continued, "You know what I need?"

"Nope."

"To get the HELL out of Wisconsin." And that made her laugh.

Will grinned back at her. Mission accomplished.

**

Jack slipped on the glasses he'd used last autumn for his cover as Gilbert Warner. As a younger agent, he would have found it absurd to put on part of a disguise before making a phone call. But Jack had found that, when it came to role-playing, total commitment was always best.

It took seven transfers through various secretaries to get to Andrew Coleridge's office, and another few minutes on hold before the faraway, distracted voice said, via speakerphone, "Hello?"

"Mr. Coleridge." Jack made the cover's voice and demeanor just slightly less formal than his own. "My name is James Benedict, and I represent the Vortex Group. Entertainment investments."

"Ahh, right." Coleridge sounded unimpressed, but curious. "How can I help you?"

"I heard about the problems you've been having at the Pleasure Dome," Jack continued. His fingers clicked across the keyboard, bringing up a picture of Coleridge: handsome, perhaps a few pounds and a couple years past his prime, but younger than Jack himself. Then his attention shifted away from the picture as Sydney came in the room, just back from Wisconsin. Jack raised his eyebrows; she nodded, answering the unspoken question. Then she made loops with her fingers around her eyes and grinned. It took him several moments to realize she was teasing him about the glasses. The whole time, Jack kept talking: "And it made my colleagues wonder if you weren't interested in taking this opportunity to really do something with the place."

Coleridge paused, then picked up the receiver. His voice was far more clear as he said, "We had thought about redecorating, yeah. Not that the Pleasure Dome's not a classic - it is - but you don't want to slip from nostalgia to kitsch, you know?"

"Exactly," Jack said. He had no opinions about kitsch. "Every other element of the Xanadu is considered world-class; the Pleasure Dome should be as well. And we're interested in helping you make that happen."

"We should talk, definitely." The scent of money obviously affected Coleridge the way a whiff of blood did a shark. Sydney walked to Jack's side and put a hand on his shoulder, which was nice. Then she soundlessly kissed his forehead, which was astonishing.

Focus. Jack pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the way Benedict would. "What do you say to dinner, tomorrow night? I'll be in town, and it's been too long since I visited the Abora."

Coleridge paused, but only for a moment. "Hope it's okay if I bring a guest -"

"Certainly," Jack said. The presence of another party would only help cover the true purpose of his questioning. "Shall we say eight o'clock?"

Plans finalized, Jack hung up. "What was that for?" he asked Sydney. He knew he didn't have to say that he was talking about the kiss.

"Will," she said. "The bit about the Witness Protection Program - it's good. It's convincing, even. I can see why Dixon bought it."

Jack considered denying it, then decided there was no point. His daughter was too smart for him.

"It was good to see him again." Sydney smiled, looking for a second like the vibrant young woman she used to be. "Thanks, Dad." Then she walked off to prepare for her trip, sparing Jack the need to find something to say in reply.

Just as well. He needed to be focusing on his immediate target, namely Andrew Coleridge. At this moment, no doubt, Coleridge was running a web search on the Vortex Group - and finding the many sites Marshall had designed and uploaded, the promise of vast money freely spent. By tomorrow evening, Coleridge would be primed.

And, if all was going according to schedule, everything else at the Xanadu was coming together even now.

**

A hardhat. Of all the indignity.

Sark had no objection to disguises, though he did not share what appeared to be the CIA's near-religious belief in their efficacy. Certainly he had managed his career to date without humiliating himself in the way Sydney Bristow did regularly. He knew precisely how far he was willing to go for verisimilitude - and this hardhat represented the absolute limit. It was all the more galling to be costumed as a demolitions worker when nobody had actually come to question him and be informed that he was a demolitions worker. Apparently nobody cared enough about this relic of the Tsunami Casino to object.

The Nevada heat blazed all around him as he scaled the interior of what had been known as the Pagoda of Light but was now a plastic monstrosity, out-of-date and dark among the glittering newer attractions. Perhaps, Sark admitted, it had looked more to advantage at night, with the ground-level spotlights shining through. At the moment, there was only stark, cloudless sunshine filtering through the plastic, fading it from the desired jade to a sickly green.

Annoyed and hot, he pressed a C4 charge on what looked like the pagoda's second floor. Would one more charge be overkill? This structure was rickety enough that they had little concern about destroying it; the greater worry was that it would collapse of its own volition before nightfall.

Then again, Sark never did things by half-measures. With a faint smile, he began climbing up to the pagoda's peak, ready to set the next charge.

Across the highway, he could see the Xanadu, a shimmering mirage in the heat. No doubt many illusions were being created within.

**

"Five, six, seven, eight!"

And KICK and KICK and half-turn, half-turn - arms, arms, sway and pivot -

Sydney was certain she'd felt more self-conscious in her life than she did at this moment - performing a dance routine she'd seen just once while wearing only black tights, high heels and a sports bra - but the precise memory escaped her.

The smile didn't leave her face, and the steps followed a pattern after a while, and the five people watching her - mostly middle-aged men who looked utterly unmoved - didn't matter as much as her performance. When Sydney finished, nobody clapped or praised her, but one of the guys said, "Let her do one with the headdress."

With a certain satisfaction, she thought This gig is mine.

Unfortunately, the headdress was nightmarish - it weighed at least 25 pounds and seemed to shift balance by the second. Then again, that mission during Carnival in Rio had taught her how to do more than just dance the samba for five miles in spiked heels. Sydney blew one of the silvery feathers away from her face, smiled once more and started over. Her smile was much more artificial this time, but otherwise, her moves were the same.

"We can put you on the floor. Thank God you showed up, kid," the casting agent finally said. "We had so many girls call in sick today. Unbelievable! We have alternates, but not that many."

Those "sick" girls had all been persuaded to stay home by various deceits, of course. Sydney forced herself to appear surprised. "Bad luck for them - but good luck for me."

"You got it," one of the men said, with too long a look at her ass. Sydney wondered if she'd have the chance to punch him tonight. Probably not, but she could always hope.

**

"Disneyland, huh?" The head of security looked impressed, as well he should, Vaughn thought. It sounded funny to anyone not in the business, but the security checks at Disneyland were as extensive and high-tech as any others in the world. Then again, he wouldn't put it past Jack Bristow to find the idea amusing anyway: Michael Vaughn on patrol to keep Daisy Duck and Goofy safe from harm. "Four years there?"

"Almost five," Vaughn said, flattening his voice a little, to go with his persona's Midwestern background. "Been looking for a change."

"Well, you found it. Talked to your boss there, just a second ago." The phone call would have been routed to someone else, probably Weiss, and all the computer files Marshall had doctored had already been reviewed. "He says you're top-notch."

"Nice to hear." The praise for his persona felt strangely hollow, even for something fictional.

"Listen - I know it's kind of a rush, but is there any way you can start tonight? Just a few basic things, watching the show, chip transfers, stuff like that. Normally we'd break you in over a couple weeks, but we've had a bunch of guys call in sick today."

Vaughn raised his eyebrows. "You don't say."

**

"Baccarat."

Dixon dealt the hands, smoothly and swiftly. He did the same for Twenty-One, Poker and Gin, wondering who the hell played Gin in a casino. Mostly, he was just glad that his fingers were doing what he wanted them to do.

Once, he never would've had that doubt. He had trusted himself to defuse a bomb in ten seconds, to deactivate a land mine in the dark. But for the past two years, the greatest test of his dexterity had been the odd game of dominoes with Robin and Stephen.

And yet the ability was still there within him, just waiting for the chance. Dixon hadn't realized how badly he'd wanted that chance until Jack Bristow came up with this scheme - and now he had no idea how he could possibly not have known.

"Ten years in Atlantic City?" The pit boss smiled at him - Margo, that was the name. She had a nice face, Dixon thought: a perfect oval, with sexy cat's eyes. Then he wondered when he'd started noticing women's faces again. "I'm surprised you never moved out here before."

Dixon shrugged. "Comes a time in a man's life when he's ready for a little sunshine, you know?"

"Sure do," Margo said. Very, very nice smile. Red hair. He'd never dated a redhead, unless he counted pretending with a wig-clad Sydney on missions, which he did not. "Well, you'll find plenty of that here. Would you be able to take a shift tonight? I know it's soon, but we've had an awful lot of people call in sick today."

Gravely, Dixon said, "I hear there's a bug going around."

**

Will brushed his fingers over the lapels of his brilliant aquamarine shirt, feeling for the tiny microphone there. Nobody was trying to talk to him yet - but was anybody listening? For some reason, the idea of Jack Bristow sitting there, overhearing everything Will was doing without ever cracking a smile, was distinctly unnerving.

Then he remembered Sydney's mission advice: Once you've started, don't think about what could go wrong. Think about what you're going to get right.

No sooner had the limo come to a stop than a valet opened the door, as if unwilling to allow the slightest possibility that Will would have to do anything for himself. In Will's opinion, this was a refreshing attitude. The sunset's orange glow was blinding even through his sunglasses as they helped him step out onto a plush, royal-blue carpet.

"All RIGHT. YEAH. This is what I'm TALKING ABOUT." Will had been practicing the Early Stones accent for a while now, and he felt good about it. "Fuck Monte Carlo, you know what I'm saying? Fuck Albert and his jet-ski parties. Vegas, that 's the REAL thing, and I am HERE!"

He strutted into the lobby, trailed by bellhops with his countless pieces of luggage - God only knew what the CIA had packed in there - and a smiling young blonde that he knew was assigned to handle the European high-roller. "We're so glad you're here!" she called, somehow catching up to him despite the high, spiked heels she wore. "We've got you set up in the best penthouse suite -"

"Penthouse?" Will turned and gaped at her. "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

"Sir?"

Dropping his voice, he leaned forward and whispered, "Heights. Don't like 'em. Can't even fly without a little help from my good friends Xanax and Dom Perignon. That gets around, I swear to God, it's a ten-minute drive to the Montecito -"

"No, no, no - that's all right!" She had freckles across her nose, which she wrinkled conspiratorially. "Our little secret."

More loudly, he said, "Me, I want to be close to the PLEASURE DOME. That place, it's SINATRA, baby. It's Lawford, it's Davis, it's CLASSIC." The handler went pale, and he chucked her on the shoulder. "Yeah, I know it's closed. Of all the fuckin' times, right? But you guys, you and me, we're going to be FRIENDS, and you can give a key to your friends, right?"

She hesitated, considering that. "Let me see what I can arrange. In the meantime, you'd like a room on the sixth floor? That's just above the Pleasure Dome, and, ah, the lowest floor we have rooms on -"

"Fine, fine, fine. Get some nice folks from the sixth floor, huh? Mr. And Mrs. John Q. Public, here for a vacation. You give THEM the penthouse, you hear what I'm sayin'? Show them a GOOD time." Might as well spread the joy around, Will figured.

And, he thought, speaking of joy -

People were clapping and cheering as showgirls began moving through the gaming floor, which was alive with sound and light just a few dozen feet away.  One absolutely beautiful woman after another, wearing next to nothing, dripping with sequins and rhinestones and feathers -

Yet none of them could outshine Sydney.

She was near the back, but Will found it impossible to believe that everyone else staring at the display of showgirls wasn't really just looking at her. And it wasn't her body (though that was amazing) or her face (gorgeous) - it was her. Just her.

He asked himself - are you sure there's nothing left but friendship?  No, he wasn't sure of that at all.

"Showgirls," he said, allowing a wolfish grin to spread across his face. "I LOVE showgirls."

With the handler hobbling along after him on her heels, Will strode up to Sydney and slid his arm around her shoulders. She blushed - beautifully, naturally - and whispered, "Ohmigosh, mister, I just started here -"

"Won't get you into TROUBLE, sweetie. Unless it's the kind of trouble you LIKE."

Sydney ducked her chin just a little, then said, "Are you maybe from Australia?"

The old joke slipped effortlessly into their conversation, and Will laughed out loud in pure delight. She was both wholly the showgirl she was portraying and wholly herself, Sydney and not Sydney, at the same time. It was astonishing. It was wonderful.

And then, the first thought in Will's head: No wonder Vaughn loves her.

The kick of it jolted him back into his role. Will chucked Sydney under the chin and said, "I'm from all over, sweetie. And you and ME, we'll go ALL OVER. If you want."

"Mister - I've got a show -"

When the handler waved Sydney off with a smile, Will realized she'd handled it perfectly. He tried to follow her lead, shrugging sheepishly. "Can't blame me for TRYING, can you?"

"Of course not," she replied. "And we've got that key card to the Pleasure Dome for you. Will you be requiring staff? A bartender, perhaps?"

"Maybe later," Will said, trying to hide his glee at how easy the first task had been. "I'll let you KNOW. Don't do NOTHING until you hear from ME."

**

Sloane was generally accustomed to a better class of accommodations, but the standard suite at the Xanadu wasn't unpleasant. It wasn't the surroundings he disliked so heartily - it was the sense of being forced to wait for Jack Bristow.

Well. Jack had so rarely possessed control over their partnership in any form - and would do so even less in the future. No need to begrudge him this. Didn't he owe Jack that much? Wasn't giving him some sense of autonomy the least their friendship required?

"Two minutes late," Lauren said. She had been skittish all night, perhaps dreading Michael Vaughn's appearance. But if Sloane knew Jack, Vaughn would be positioned far away from here. "How long before we abort?"

At that, the door thumped once, then again. Lauren darted forward and opened the door.

Jack Bristow's eyes settled on her, with a quality and clarity of hatred Sloane had never expected to see directed at anyone else; strangely, he found he disliked it. The sensation was rather like jealousy, though that was absurd, of course. Standing beside Jack in the hallway were Marshall Flinkman and Agent Weiss, both in ordinary suits.

"You arrived later than we expected," Lauren said.

"You left later than we wanted," Weiss replied. Jack's eyes shifted over to Weiss, but Sloane couldn't tell if he approved or disliked the insult. Oblivious to that reaction, Weiss added, "Let's get this thing done, okay?"

Jack and Sloane walked toward each other, each flanked by their associates, meeting in the center of the hotel room. Outside the window, the multicolored lights of Vegas flickered and pulsed, an erratic heartbeat. "I knew you'd honor our agreement," Sloane said.

Jack's lips pressed together in a thin line. "I don't know any such thing. We're here to see the key."

Sloane held up the small carved-ebony box, then opened it, revealing the key. After a moment's pause, Marshall said, "Oh - right." He ran a scanner above it quickly - not long enough to create the specs for duplication, which Sloane would never have allowed. "That's the real deal, Agent Bristow."

"Lauren Reed will now take the key," Jack said. She tucked it into a small green wallet that hung from a slender strap across her body. "Nobody is to remove the key from that wallet throughout the evening. Ms. Reed has the key for her insurance; Mr. Weiss will watch her for ours."

Leave it to Jack, Sloane thought. To still put his faith in others, after all. "Agreed." His heart did not beat faster; his eyes did not shift to the side. Sloane was long past thinking of such promises as lies.

**

Okay, Weiss thought, Lauren is creeping me out. Just by being there.

Everyone but Sloane had left the hotel room a few minutes ago. Jack was off to get ready for his appointment in the Abora restaurant, and at the moment, Weiss and Lauren were being trailed by Marshall as they moved through the corridor. "So, I'm headed to my own room, to change into my persona - I'm this guy from North Carolina, all with the, the barbecue and, you know, NASCAR, because that's what he'd like by the demographics, though demographics are a very imprecise science -"

"What about OUR disguises?" Lauren snapped, offending Weiss. He chose to ignore the fact that it was exactly the same tone of voice he would've used with Marshall in about five seconds.

Marshall just kept burbling on. "They're out there in the van. You guys, you're gonna be, like, hippie stoners, camping out in the parking lot. That way you can monitor entrances and exits, and you're guaranteed of not getting surrounded. Lauren, you'll have this whole earth-mother thing going on, even got a little patchouli in there if you feel the need to - okay. And Weiss, you're totally set up. You're gonna look really cool like, maybe, Gregg Allman or somebody."

"Gregg Allman?" Weiss' eyes narrowed. "There is a good way and a bad way to look like Gregg Allman."

"This is going to be in a good way," Marshall promised. "You two - ah - you okay?"

"I think I can handle it," Weiss said, finally meeting Lauren's eyes.

"As do I," she replied, her face a perfect porcelain mask.

"Right, then. Hey, if you guys feel the need, or you have a second, take a picture, okay?" Marshall grinned and waved as he set off for his own destination.

Then they were alone, and the urge to strike her gripped Weiss harder than ever. It startled him, in some ways; of course he hated her, for what she'd done to his friends, but why was it like this? Why did it threaten to pull him in two?

"We'll change in the van," Lauren said. "I don't think we can afford privacy."

Weiss snorted. "Trust me, I won't have any trouble not looking."

With an icy glare, Lauren whirled around to stalk out to the parking lot - and ran straight into another woman. "Excuse me -"

"My dear. Whatever is the rush?" The woman was older - European, Weiss thought, though the accent was hard to place. She had hair the color of caramel, fluffed out in a style that would have been ridiculous if it hadn't somehow managed to be glamorous. She wore a sable fur as though the desert's heat couldn't touch her, and enormous round sunglasses that put him in mind of Jackie O. Her lips were creamy with a toffee gloss that made Weiss remember exactly what toffee tasted like, and he didn't give a damn if she was twenty years his senior - this woman was gorgeous. "This man isn't troubling you, is he?"

"Buford?" Lauren smiled at him brightly. "Not at all. We're just in a hurry."

For God's sake. Weiss forced himself to slide his arm around Lauren's shoulders. "Muffy and I were just gonna try our luck at a little roulette, you know?"

"What else is a casino for?" The European woman shrugged elegantly, obviously losing interest in them altogether even before she turned and strolled away.

"Muffy," Lauren muttered.

"One hint: Don't mess with Buford," Weiss replied. "Let's go."

The green wallet still hung around Lauren's body, and Weiss hoped like hell that Jack's Mystery Agent showed up soon.

Then he thought, wait a second --

**

Jack changed into his tuxedo - the one he owned, not a rental. It was slightly worn about the cuffs, in the elbows, but that was good. Nothing said unpretentious wealth like an obviously well-used tuxedo.

Then again, Marshall said the tux was going out of style. Jack studied it in the mirror and wondered why young men would abandon the only universally flattering garment humanity had ever devised. It was only a moment's curiosity; Jack's actual interest in clothing tended to be mission-related and short-lived.

Not out of style yet, he thought as he straightened his bow tie.

Almost eight. He slipped the glasses back on and, now fully garbed as James Benedict, headed up to the Abora. The elevator doors opened on a brilliant view, and Jack stepped forward to take it all in. Beyond the restaurant's windows stretched the city in all its gaudy splendor: the Eiffel Tower in pink, the Great Wall of China in blue, the canals of Venice to his left, the Great Pyramids to his right, all of it spotlighted and aglow in the darkness.

As he walked toward the window, he pulled out his cellphone and tapped the redial key. "Final call. Check in."

One by one, they answered: Sydney sounded harried, Vaughn depressed, Weiss and Lauren already annoyed beyond measure. Two faint clicks told him that Will Tippin wasn't alone and couldn't speak right now; two similar thumps told him that Katya felt no need to talk, and therefore had already successfully stolen the key from Lauren.

Sark was a measure too self-satisfied - in other words, normal. Marshall was babbling on about something, but that was a sign he was fine as well. Sloane didn't get off the damned line fast enough. But by the time Dixon started talking, Jack was sure that everything was going off without a hitch -

And then she walked in.

Irina had never looked more beautiful - not on their wedding day, not on that mission to Bangkok, not on the night they'd met. Her thick, dark hair was pulled up, but loosely, as though it might tumble down at any second. The halter of her black dress bared her long neck and smooth shoulders; its flowing fabric glittered in the Abora's candlelight. The gown fell over the curve of her hips, baring most of one perfect leg. Jack knew he was staring, and he would've bet a lot of money that he wasn't the only one.

Then their eyes met.

Dixon was saying something. Jack couldn't quite respond in English. "Yes. It's - do that. Go ahead."

Irina stepped forward, eyes wide, lips parted. He could hear the clatter of dishes, the laughter and talk of other guests. How was it possible that they hadn't all frozen? How could they do anything but look at her?

From the phone, Dixon's voice kept saying, "Do we have a problem? Watchtower? Watchtower?"

"Call it a kink," Jack replied. "Don't worry. I'm on top of it."

She began moving toward him, slowly and intently. Jack did the same, not having any damn idea what he'd say or do once they were together - he felt as though he were moving under some kind of spell.

But just as they came within a few feet of each other, a man's voice said, "Mr. Benedict?"

Jack turned to see Andrew Coleridge, grinning at him in an ingratiating, car-salesman sort of way. "Mr. Coleridge," he said, being careful to sound relaxed. It was more difficult than it had been on the phone. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you, sir. This is my date for the evening, Ms. Beatrice Lacroix." Coleridge's proprietary tone about Irina would have been maddening if it hadn't been so laughable. "I brought you a little something, Beatrice - you mentioned that you'd liked it when we were in the shop -"

The gaudy bracelet that Coleridge held out was just the sort of thing Irina should've admired while in-character, but Jack  could tell she was only thinly masking her displeasure as she held out her wrist. "Why, Andy. You shouldn't have."

"Never met a woman who said no to jewelry," Jack said. "Though you, ma'am - you seem more the type for books, I'd have thought."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "I prefer knives."

Coleridge's smile was uncertain now. "Ah - do you cook?"

"I think she meant that giving someone a weapon indicates a certain level of trust," Jack said. "Or maybe she just likes sharp edges."

Irina's lips flattened into a line. "I cook."

"Oh, good, good." Coleridge looked from Jack to Irina and back again. Jack knew the best thing he could do right now would be to walk away, or at the very least to stop staring at Irina, but that was impossible. "Say - do you two know each other?"

It was a better question than Coleridge could ever have known. Jack said, quietly, "I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

**

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