Chapter Four


"Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Benedict?" Andrew Coleridge spread his arms out over the table, clearly offering not just the drink, but everything in the Xanadu, all at his disposal. This man was very sure of his empire, and completely unaware of what a small part of the world it really was. "What's your pleasure?"

Jack forced himself to look away from Irina's eyes. Normally, he wouldn't drink on a mission unless it was necessary for his cover, but now -- "Whiskey, neat. And thank you."

"I'll have a brandy," Irina said.

She always did that -- took after-dinner drinks before the meal even began. Port while she cooked dinner, turning her lips plum-tinged and sugary-sweet. A glass of Gewurztraminer in the afternoon, with Handel on the stereo and her feet resting in his lap while she read. 

"This is Beatrice's first trip to the United States," Coleridge said, gesturing imperiously to the nearest waiter. "She's Belgian."

"Belgian." For some reason, this struck Jack as comic. Then again, what about this situation wasn't? "What brings you to Las Vegas, Ms. Lacroix?"  He awaited her answer with trepidation; Jack had never, in all his plans, considered that the Ace of Diamonds could prove to be Irina -- and he still didn't want to believe it.

Because the Ace of Diamonds was working with Sloane.

"I needed some time to get away," she said, letting her head tilt slightly to one side, a gesture he remembered well. It suggested appraisal.

"Not many people would come to Las Vegas for peace and quiet," Jack said. He watched her smile in response, but the humor didn't reach her eyes. "Difficulty at work?"

"Family trouble. I'd prefer not to get into it."

"Of course not," Coleridge said, quickly leaning so that his body edged between Jack and Irina. "Tonight's about having fun, isn't it?"

She'd rather not get into it. Jack could well imagine that she'd rather let the subject lie. Their "family trouble" could comprise anything from Irina's interaction with Sydney during her lost two years, to the daughter she'd borne Sloane -- Jack's temples throbbed at the thought, quickly shoved aside -- or the fact that he'd spent the night with Katya. (He strongly suspected that she knew.) Probably it was a strong mixture of all three, and other secrets besides. By this point, Jack had learned that he could never assume he'd truly discovered it all.

"And you, Mr. Benedict? Are you here to talk to Andy?"

Andy. How cozy. Jack said, "That's one of the reasons I'm here, yes."

Irina was looking past Coleridge; whatever goal she had in mind for his seduction had obviously taken second place to her curiosity. At first, this was mildly gratifying -- then, he realized with a rush of relief, the best alternative he could've hoped for.

"Is that the only reason?" she pressed. "Not that being with Andy isn't a good reason to travel to Las Vegas - or anywhere else."

She wouldn't keep asking him if she already knew the reason. If Irina had been briefed on the heist, she would know the reason. Therefore, she wasn't the Ace of Diamonds. Irina wasn't working with Sloane.

For months, he'd had to push away the terrible mental picture of her with Sloane during their marriage; at least he didn't have to add a more current version. Besides, looking at her tonight -- dark eyes and glistening lips and the hollow of her throat -- was a pleasure Jack didn't intend to share with Sloane. He wanted that to be his alone.

And Coleridge's, of course. But Coleridge was purely a detail, whether the man knew it or not.

"I'm visiting with friends, actually." He emphasized the word friends so slightly that Coleridge would notice nothing, but he saw the recognition in Irina's eyes.

Would she forfeit her plans with Coleridge -- probably regarding the Waning Moon, he realized -- in order to get a chance to see Sydney? To confront Katya? To talk to him?

No, Jack suspected she wouldn't. Nobody he'd ever known could remain focused on her goal more intensely than Irina, for good and for ill.

"And are you in business with your friends, Mr. Benedict?" Coleridge tried, once more, to insert himself into the conversation.

Jack adjusted his glasses. "With far too many of them, Mr. Coleridge."

Through the lenses, he could see one corner of Irina's mouth lift in the smallest possible smile.

**

As Katya strolled down the sixth-floor hallway, she could hear loud music pounding, getting closer all the time. She consciously timed her footsteps to the beat, remembering a long-ago assignment in Milan that had involved a few trips down a fashion catwalk. A jeans-clad family on their way to the elevator stared at her as she strutted past; Katya didn't acknowledge them. Models never do, she thought.

The music was overpowering now, shaking the mirrors on the walls. Most guests would have been forced to turn down their stereos a long time ago -- but the high roller on the sixth floor was no ordinary guest.

Katya pounded on the door once, twice, then again. It was opened by a young man in an alarmingly bright blue shirt, with hair that seemed to stick out in a dozen directions at once. She liked him instantly. "Would you MIND, sir? Some of us have better things to do than listen to your garbage!"

He smiled, easy and slow. "I tell you WHAT, baby. How about I GIVE you something better to do?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You surprise me."

"That's not the ONLY surprise waiting for you."

What accent was he trying to do? Katya couldn't guess, but fortunately, a certain amount of laughter was right for her role. "I have high standards -"

"I LOVE a challenge." He tugged her hand, and she let herself be towed inside. No doubt the family in jeans had an anecdote they would retell for many years.

The young man quickly turned the stereo down, though not off. "Hey," he said, in an altogether different voice and an American accent that sounded far more genuine. "What happens after this?"

"We all go for ice cream." Code phrases exchanged, Katya dropped her routine and her sunglasses. "You have a plan for exchanging this in the lobby?"

"Should be simple, right? Uh, I'm Will, by the way."

Katya stared at him. "Never exchange unnecessary information. You don't know what can be used against you."

"Do I have to be scared of you?" He said it as a joke, but she could see the worry in his eyes. This was a lost lamb, to be sure.

"Not of me," Katya said, which was true enough, at least for tonight. "Just a tip for the future."

Will shook his head. "This is my grand finale in the espionage business. I know my place: help Syd and Jack out, do exactly what I'm told. So -- key?"

"I dropped the weighted copy into her wallet when I stole this," Katya said, dropping the key into Will's outstretched palm. As she shrugged her way out of the stifling sable coat, she added, "The copy will feel the same in the wallet, but it's not very similar in appearance. If Ms. Reed doublechecks, we'll have trouble."

"Oh, man." Will put the key in his pocket very carefully, as though afraid it could burn him. "I'll hurry."

"DON'T hurry," Katya said, already concerned for the young man. Was Jack so certain this was a good idea? No matter -- it wasn't her op, their goal not her goal. This was just about making sure Jack owed her a favor, not about helping him. She didn't do such things, nor would she consider the possibility. "Take as much time as you require, no more and no less."

"Okay. Good tip. Thanks for that." He ran one hand through his wild hair, then gestured around. "Uh, remote's over there, and -- oh, right -- the key card to the Pleasure Dome's here, if Jack comes by before I get back. I ordered up a bunch of champagne from room service, just figured it was in-character --"

Katya smiled at him as she stretched out on the bed. A sweet lost lamb, this one. "Very much so. You've done well."

As she'd hoped, his chin went up, boyish confidence restored. "All right, then. Let's get this high-roller out on the floor."

"Good luck!" she called as he left. After that, there was only the low thump of the stereo and her own thoughts -- pleasant ones, tied up with Jack and champagne and long hours in hotel rooms.

And even if she barely saw Jack tonight, and even if the long hours proved to be dull --

-- Katya picked up a bottle of Dom Perignon and poured it into one of the waiting flutes --

-- there could always be champagne.

**

Marshall was annoyed almost past the point of endurance. Nobody had ever said that role-playing was so HARD.

Take this hand, for instance. His talent for card-counting had told him, with mathematical certainty, that the house had 13 points. He had 15 showing. All he had to do was refuse the next card (the Jack of Hearts), and he would win a small fortune in chips.

But he COULDN'T. His character wasn't due to go on a hot streak for another half an hour, at least; until then, he needed several convincingly amateurish losses. He had a role to play -- even if pretending to know nothing about the cards, much less the laws of probability, was irritating in the extreme.

"Hit me," Marshall said, with what he hoped was a persuasive grin.

Dixon solemnly dealt the Jack of Hearts. The people nearby groaned. "You lose, sir."

"Well, shucks all to heck." Was that a good drawl? Maybe that was too much. That was a little Beverly Hillbillies, funny show, featured Irene Ryan and Buddy Ebsen, top stage talents underrated in the public because of their cornpone roles, so there was no need to perpetuate the stereotype, none at all. "I gotta take a little break here."

With a nod, Dixon scooped back the cards, hearts and diamonds vanishing beneath his fingers. A couple people patted Marshall's shoulder or back as he walked off, much the poorer. That's kinda nice of them, really, he thought.

Then a broad hand swatted him hard on the shoulder. "That was HARD, my man. HARD luck for you!"

Marshall grinned broadly at Will Tippin before remembering that he wasn't supposed to know him. He hadn't changed much, except for being Australian, though that part was probably fake. "Oh, well, you know. That's Vegas for you."

"Listen, my friend." Will gestured to a harried blonde woman who appeared to be following him around; after a moment's hesitation, she handed an enormous stack of chips to Marshall. People nearby started to applaud. "THIS is Vegas, okay? You play AGAIN, and you do some DAMAGE to the house this time. You HEAR me?"

"Definitely! Definitely!" Marshall stuck out his hand for a shake; Will took it, and the Rambaldi key was cool against his palm.

Pretending to nearly drop the chips, Marshall fumbled to grab them both, tucking the key against his body as he did so. "Thanks again, buddy! Muchos gracias, amigo!"

"De nada," Will said, strutting across the floor the casino as admiring eyes followed him around.

Marshall thought, briefly, Sydney has the best job in the world. Then he nodded to the people watching him. "Gonna take a little boy's room break, try my luck with the big spender's chips. Yeah. So, here I go."

In the men's room, he stacked the chips atop the toilet tank, then reached into the back pocket of his acid-washed jeans. The device contained within hadn't been easy to create -- coming up with metallurgical-analysis components that themselves contained no metal, THAT was tough. But the gaming room's metal detectors might've caught anything else, and though Marshall could've truthfully said this device wasn't designed to cheat at cards, he'd have had a difficult time explaining what it really was for.

Carefully, he lay the key across the gel surface, watched that surface meld to its form. Beneath, the colors shifted and changed in various ways, exactly attuned to the presence of different metals. Pink for nickel, scarlet for iron, and just a little orangey bronze there -- oh, there it went. When he returned to the CIA labs, a spectrogram would translate the information of color into metals, and an exact copy would be easy as pie.

"Come on, baby," Marshall said, grinning as the colors began to set. "Papa needs a new pair of shoes."

**

In a black van in the parking lot of the Tsunami Casino, half a dozen small screens showed feeds from the Xanadu's security systems. Tapping in had been trickier than Sark anticipated; this access was limited, but it would have to do.

On the cell phone, Sloane said, "Are you quite sure?"

"Tippin and Flinkman certainly met for some purpose on the gaming floor," Sark replied. "But neither of them made any move to leave the building either before or after that meeting. Lauren's van, and by extension the key, are being left severely alone."

Too severely, in Sark's opinion. It made no sense for Bristow's team not to make an attempt for the key. But Sloane was so sure that Jack Bristow was a man of his word. Then again, perhaps Bristow truly was trusting in Sloane's complicity, after a thousand other betrayals; he'd done so before. If this gullibility was the result of friendship, Sark was quite relieved to have skipped the experience.

"Have you found Tippin's room yet?"

"I'm afraid not," Sark said. "When we tapped into the computer earlier, it showed that they'd placed him in one of the penthouse suites. But he has yet to show up on that feed, and I can't test 40 stories, one after the other, without tipping off their security."

"No matter. Continue to monitor the situation as long as you can," Sloane said, sounding altogether too satisfied with himself.

Sark, on the other hand, had a cell phone in his pocket that was already blinking red as a sign that it was ready to set off an explosion at any moment. Ideally, that moment would not come until Sark was back in the Xanadu, and thereby unlikely to be found. Although he was prepared to do more jail time in the future, for any number of acts, Sark had no intention of spending even one second in custody as a suspected member of al Qaeda.

Of course, one wrong move by Bristow's team -- one move on Lauren -- and Sark was ready to blow things up now, frame Bristow's friends later.

He focused once more on the small screen that showed the van; fuzzy dice hung from the mirror, and Lauren was staring at them balefully. Sark laughed, despite himself -- it was so funny, letting her work herself into those frantic states, then releasing all the tension and panic and fear in bed. Like a wind-up toy, really.

**

"Excuse me?" Sydney drew back, hand to her chest. Granted, the whole modesty act would probably work better if she were wearing something besides a sequined bikini, but that's what she had to work with. "I auditioned for a dancing role, and I think this is serious dancing --"

"It is, it is," the blonde woman said, clearly not paying any attention to what Sydney was saying.

"-- and I am not just some -- some man's plaything." She would have tossed her head, if it wouldn't have sent 25 pounds of glitter and feathers sailing across the room. As it was, Sydney just stuck out her chin.

"Nobody is asking you to do anything illegal. Nobody is asking you to do anything you don't want to do. It's just that, this man who talked to you in the lobby -- he's a serious whale, European, definitely a guy we'd like to see become a regular at the Xanadu --"

"That does not mean I'm going to, well, you know --" Sydney cocked her head to one side, letting the silvery feathers cascade past her shoulder. "What's a whale?"

The blonde woman smiled. "I forget you're new. A whale is a man with a lot of money. A whole lot of money."

Sydney hesitated. "How much money?"

"He's already placed one $60,000 bet tonight. Lost it. Didn't blink." Voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the woman continued, "The files we pulled up on the computer say he's worth almost a billion."

"Well." Sydney drew herself upright. "I guess a drink wouldn't hurt."

"I thought you looked like a smart girl."

You thought I looked like a whore, Sydney thought, smiling as she waved goodbye and wandered toward Will. Then again, I'm wearing a sequined bikini.

"Baby. BABY." Will held out his hands; Sydney pretended to be coy as she sidled up to his side. "SO glad you could make it. So very, VERY glad."

His arm slid around her shoulders, and Sydney bit her lip, as if uncertain. The blonde woman came up to them and said, "If I might suggest -- maybe a table in the Abora? We can get you the best view in the house --"

"Nahh. My sweetheart here is going to give me a TOUR, aren't you, baby? Show me how you girls handle things BACKSTAGE." Will waggled his eyebrows, making it clear that he meant "handle things" quite literally. With great difficulty, Sydney resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"Ah, great. Okay." The blonde woman began backing away from them. "So, maybe you two would prefer some private time --"

"AbsoLUTEly," Will confirmed, taking one of the feathers and tickling Sydney's cheek with it. Thank God, she thought, grateful for the excuse to start giggling. "Got your cell, baby. Call you if I need you."

"You kids have a good time." Sydney's would-be pimp wandered off to cater to other whims elsewhere.

"I'm still kinda sweaty from the show," Sydney said, looking up trustingly into Will's eyes as she ran one finger across her chest. "I sure wouldn't mind a chance to freshen up."

"We'll get you CLEAN, sweetie. You lead the WAY." His lecherous grin only worsened after they stepped into a corridor and were alone with the stage lights and drapes. "Damn, Syd. What have you got on?"

Sydney pulled off the headdress, feeling her shoulders tingle with relief. "Take this, will you? If anybody asks about it, say it's a souvenir."

"Excellent. How would I look in one of these things?" Will tried to balance it atop his head as they hurried to their destination. "Holy shit. This is like carrying a whole other person on your skull."

"That's a good look for you," she said. "You think the guys on the construction site would like it?"

"They'd love it. This could make hardhats a thing of the past," Will grinned.

Despite the uncomfortable shoes and the difficult work she was about to have to pull off, Sydney found herself caught up in a rare kind of jubilation -- for the first time in far too long, she realized, this job was FUN again.

And then they turned the corner and saw Vaughn.

Vaughn wasn't having fun. Vaughn looked tired and disheartened and washed-up -- which wouldn't actually be a bad affect for a security guard, but Sydney knew it wasn't an act. He just stood there, next to his cart filled with barrels of chips, waiting as dispassionately as he might for a bus. When his gaze flickered over to Will, whose arm was still wrapped around her, Sydney waited for some reaction. An embarrassed joke, maybe, or jealousy, or even anger. Anything would've been better than the flat, dead gray she saw in his eyes.

"Vaughn. Hey, man." Will set down the feathered headdress and offered his hand for a shake. "It's good to see you."

"Glad you're okay." Vaughn clasped Will's hand, and Sydney found herself remembering North Korea and the confession she'd made there. He'd been so hurt then, so frustrated; she'd seen it in his eyes as they worked on the Jeep, though she had pretended not to see it. She had treasured it, and hated herself for that -- for being glad that he was hurting, for even this awful proof that he cared.

But now, if she'd seen that in Vaughn's eyes, Sydney would have rejoiced, and she would've felt no guilt for doing so. If only she could be sure that Vaughn would ever care that much about anything, ever again --

"So, what are we doing here?" Will said. Sydney was sure he understood the plan, but had spoken to break the awkward silence that had fallen.

"I'm getting in a barrel," Sydney said, slipping out of the rhinestone-crusted high heels she wore. "You're going to get back up to your room without your handler seeing you. Vaughn's gonna get me in a vault."

"That's my job," Vaughn said. His voice was hollow, his smile empty. Sydney realized, to her dismay, that of all of the eleven operatives, Vaughn's role was the least challenging, the most automatic. Vaughn had to have realized this -- and it couldn't have helped the depression he was feeling. Although she understood her father's reasoning, Sydney resolved to have a talk with him about it afterward. Dad, of all people, ought to try trusting Vaughn a little more.

"Okay. Great." Will clapped his hands together. "Syd, be careful down there. Everything's going to be ready for you when you get out."

"I know." Sydney gave Will the smile that she couldn't give Vaughn. "No worries."

With that, she stepped into the barrel -- plastic cool against her stocking-clad feet -- and curled into a ball. The barrel's size made for a tight fit, but with her legs folded up against her chest, she could just manage it. "Lids away," she said.

Will waved as the dark-blue plastic went over her head. Vaughn's face was expressionless as he sealed her in. Darkness swallowed her up, and Sydney took a moment to be very, very glad she wasn't prone to claustrophobia.

With a shift and a bump, the cart started rolling; she heard Will say something that she couldn't quite make out, and then they were gone, moving on.

As they went, Vaughn said nothing. Sydney understood that he couldn't talk to her, but the weight it of settled on her all the same. They were always going to be like this, weren't they? Working together, miles apart.

The memories flooded through her mind: practicing their golf swings at the driving range, joking about his Rangers pen in an old warehouse, a picture frame left in a bag at her feet. They used to find so many ways to connect. And now, when he needed that connection the most, she had nothing to give him. 

Voices beyond the barrel made chit-chat; no doubt she was going into the vault now. A few buzzers sounded, some clicks and whirs -- and then the heavy CA-THUNK of a door opening.

She kept her breath shallow, her body utterly still, despite the cramps beginning in her legs. The cart's rolling stopped. Vaughn said nothing, gave no sign, to indicate that he'd left her. Although it was already dark in the barrel -- and beginning to get rather close -- Sydney noticed the darkness growing deeper, suggesting the vault wasn't well-lighted. Another CA-THUNK, and she knew she was alone.

**

He'd run his little errand. Vaughn tried to glean some sense of accomplishment from that, but he couldn't.

Sydney had looked so beautiful and so happy, standing there with Will. There had been a time, not so long ago, that the thought of Sydney and Will had driven Vaughn nuts; now, he found himself wondering if he hadn't done both of them a disservice by coming between them. After all, if Syd had hooked up with Will instead of him, she might be happy now. And nobody else would be dragged down in Lauren's dark undertow. Just him. Just the guy who had it coming.

Next up was his stroll back to the Abyssinian theatre, where he would spend another few minutes before going to the control room where he'd steal the VIP passes. Vaughn mentally calculated where the others were at that point, clicking off the roles: Sloane in his hotel room, the mystery agent God knew where, Will heading back out onto the casino floor with Dixon and Marshall, Jack up in the Abora, and Weiss -

Weiss was in the parking lot. With Lauren.

Michael, Sydney would want you to live your life. To have happiness. If she truly loved you, wouldn't she want that for you?

Will you, Lauren Joy Reed, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

If I said I wasn't shaken, I'd be lying. But I am glad she's alive. For her sake and for yours. How could I feel any other way?

Darling, I love you. I love you so.

The poison of hate swept through his blood, femoral artery to jugular vein to aorta, clotting his strength and lacerating his heart. Vaughn thought of Jack's warehouse with a sick kind of longing, the way he imagined addicts craving heroin. The guns, the disposal unit, the ability to rid the world of her, not to have to breathe air on the same planet where she breathed -

As if propelled by a force external to him, Vaughn veered off-course, leaving the hallway that led back to the Abyssinian, walking toward the glowing letters that said EXIT. Another few steps, and he stood in the parking lot; a couple minutes of searching, and he spotted it, all the way at the far end of the lot: an orange VW van. From this distance, he couldn't make out the figures inside, but he didn't have to. He knew who they were.

Vaughn's hand rested on the butt of his pistol, the cool ridges of the grip comforting against his palm.

He could do it. Weiss wouldn't stop him; he'd argue, and maybe he'd even resist, but in the end, there was no way Weiss would hurt him to protect Lauren. There would be consequences within the CIA - Dixon let a lot of things slide for people he trusted, but Vaughn was pretty sure he didn't fall in that category any longer. Possibly he was already being phased out. Why not go out like this, after having done the one thing in life he still wanted to do?

Do you want children? I've always thought - for a little boy, Christopher is such a nice name, don't you think?

Christopher. I like that.

Black heat throbbed at his temples, behind his eyes. Vaughn's breath quickened as he stepped toward the rows of shining cars. To hell with it. To hell with the robbery, with Jack's plan -

But that plan had left Sydney locked in a vault, relying on every step of the plan to unfold so that she could get out and be safe. Killing one of Sloane's operatives - even her, even Lauren - would disrupt the plan. And then anything could happen to Sydney.

He took his hand off the gun, turned around and went back inside.

**

Sydney counted off the moments by her heartbeats, adjusting mentally for her mood, the adrenalin in her bloodstream, the oxygen she had available. When at last she was sure, she pushed up slowly with her hands, lifting the lid carefully from the barrel. Fresh, cool air swept in, and Sydney gulped down a few grateful breaths before standing up.

The sweat on her body chilled, making her shiver; it was a little like anticipation. Soundlessly, she lay the lid atop some other barrels and stepped out. The other robbery would provide her cover to exit this vault in exactly 30 minutes; that was going to be more than enough time for her to get the vault open, if her safecracking skills were still sharp.

They were. She laid her head against the steel, grateful for the old-fashioned locks and tumblers. A computerized system could always be cracked by the right device, which could be sold to anybody; that was why the very most secure safes in casinos were still manual, and therefore accessible by only a very few experts. Probably fewer than 200 people in the world could break into this model unassisted. Sydney wondered where the other 199 were right now.

Click, turn, twist and -- yes. Sydney grabbed the bag in the safe. She'd take the whole bag with her when she left, but all the same, she was determined to see the Rambaldi device that all the fuss was about --

She opened the bag. She stared down at half a dozen colored diamonds, twinkling in the dim light. The diamonds that were supposed to be in the OTHER vault.

Sydney could think only one thing: We are so screwed.

**

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