Chapter Six


Marshall keyed in the code - should be the right code, anyway, unless it automatically rolled over every ninety seconds or something, and that was seriously anal-retentive - and the first door to the south vault slid open, thick metal rods uncoupling.

"How many more of these do we have to go through?" Something about the way Mr. Sark was holding those tranquilizer guns suggested just how much he wished they weren't merely tranquilizer guns.

"We'll get there when we get there," Dixon said. He stared down at Sark, and it hit Marshall all over again just what a big guy Dixon really was. "And then we're getting out again in a hurry."

"No arguments," Sark replied. Marshall could feel the guy staring at him as he hacked their way past the second door; Sark had a stare like laser sights, and it made Marshall even more nervous than he already was. Good thing the final encryption was a simple seven-sequence job, or else this might actually get sticky.

His fingers were sweaty, so Marshall wiped his hands on the Dale Earnhardt T-shirt before he finished the last sequence. The bars slid back, slowly allowing light to slide across the interior, revealing the inner vault.

The absolutely, completely, 100% empty inner vault.

Dixon leaned forward, mouth slightly open in shock. "What the hell?"

Marshall couldn't think of anything to say besides the obvious: "No diamonds."

His words were followed by a cold, hard pressure at the back of his neck that Marshall was pretty darned sure was the muzzle of a tranq gun.

Mr. Sark said, "No diamonds - no deal."

**

Will slid his key card into the door of his room, then knocked as he opened it. Sure, it was his room, but he didn't know if that mysterious woman would still be there, and it only seemed polite.

The mysterious woman was there, propped up on the bed and looking considerably less mysterious. She still had on the fluffy caramel-colored wig, but instead of a fur coat and a slinky, cream-colored dress, she was wearing white Nikes, jeans and a navy-blue sweatshirt proclaiming the glories of El Paso, Texas. At his expression, she smiled. "I can't look the same when I meet Miss Reed again, now, can I?"

"If it weren't for the wig," Will said with a shake of his head, "I wouldn't know you."

"And soon I'll take care of that, too." She reached into one of the bags beside the bed and held up a short, wiry-gray bob. "In a few minutes, I'll be geriatric and greedy. I think the term is a 'slot jockey.'"

"See, that's no good." Will grinned and flopped down on the foot of the bed. "You, pretending to be a little old lady? It's not gonna work. Sorry, but it's true."

"You have a talent for flattery, Will. Cultivate that. It can take you far." She patted his cheek. "Champagne? I've had as much as I need to tonight, and it's a shame to let the rest go flat."

He hesitated, then realized - his part in this whole scheme was more or less over, so a glass of bubbly really wouldn't matter. "Sure, hit me."

"You're in fine spirits," she said as she poured, carefully gauging the foam. "I take it that means your mission went well?"

By way of reply, Will pulled out the key to the Waning Moon, flashed it front and back, then handed it to her as she handed him the champagne flute. "Piece of cake, really. Marshall had it totally under control down there - strange but true."

"Marshall? I don't know him." Hey, Will thought, that's surprising. He found himself stepping down hard on the journalistic impulse to ask her more about how she fit into all of this; after spending less than ten minutes in her company, he knew her well enough not to expect a straight answer. She cocked her head and asked, "But you were supposed to work with Sydney tonight too, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Saw her." He knew that his expression had changed, and that she could read him far better than he could read her. "Syd's where she needs to be."

"You're her friend. Just friends?" Her expression was sympathetic, and Will couldn't even feign ignorance.

"How do you do that? The mind-reading thing?"

"It runs in my family. Let me guess: You're just friends because Sydney wanted it that way. You've accepted that but - sometimes, still, you wonder."

"Sometimes, still. Yeah." Will crossed his legs so that he was sitting in front of her, Indian-style. For a moment he remembered telling late-night secrets to Amy - the sister he now got to see in government installations, three carefully appointed times a year - and felt his blues deepen. "I know my place in Syd's story. I'm the sidebar."

"Sidebar?" She folded her hands in her lap, obviously preparing for a long confession.

"It's a newspaper term. I used to write for a newspaper." It felt like something he'd remembered from a past life, one in which he was actually useful for something besides following instructions. "The sidebar is information that's good to have, but it's not part of the main story. So you just kind of put it in its own box, over on the side. Handy phone numbers in case of emergency, that kind of thing. Sydney - she's part of this great, epic love story with Vaughn, you know?"

"I know a little of Mr. Vaughn."

Will didn't pay much attention. "Syd and Vaughn, they're the story. I'm the sidebar." He sighed heavily. "I don't expect you to get it. Somebody like you - you've never been the sidebar."

She found this a lot funnier than he'd expected. "Oh, dear boy. Let me tell you a secret, and remember it well." Her finger crooked under his chin as she said, "If you find yourself in the sidebar, write another story. If you find the right angle, you can always - always - work your way into the lede."

Will grinned. "You've written for a paper."

"And here I am giving away unnecessary information! But you've shared with me, so I'll tell you that I spent a fair bit of my youth at Pravda. So I know how to shape the truth." She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head. "I take it everyone else shares your satisfaction in a job well done?"

"Far as I can tell, this whole plan's going off without a hitch. Jack Bristow - he's the man, you know?"

"Mmm, yes. I do know."

Will took a deep sip of the champagne, which was a far finer brand of stuff than he'd gotten used to now that he worked construction. "I used to think he was this boring guy in a suit -- Sydney's stodgy old dad. Instead, it turns out he's, like, this strange visitor from Planet Bad-Ass."

"You have a gift for words." She laughed and ruffled his hair. "I'm just glad everything's going smoothly."

"Like clockwork."

**

Sark kept the guns trained on the back of Dixon and Marshall's necks as he walked them back toward the control room. "The diamonds are supposed to be in this vault," he said, keeping his voice low and even. Unless his companions were stupid - and he knew they were not - they'd recognize his seriousness without any need for an undignified display of anger. "Where are the diamonds?"

"I don't know, I swear." Marshall was bouncing on the balls of his feet, and his skin glistened with sweat. "The plans we had going in said they'd be here, and I can't get through the on-site scanning. They must've moved them."

"Stealing diamonds was only part of our planned adventure," Sark said, pushing them forward. All around them, security-cameras showed people running to examine the debris of the Pagoda of Light; that job, at least, had been done well, because he had been in charge of it. "A trivial part, perhaps, but one I was looking forward to. And now that I find we are not stealing diamonds after all, more than my enjoyment has been diminished. I find a certain sense of trust is now lacking. If I can't trust you to tell me where the diamonds are, then how can I trust you to share the use of the Waning Moon?"

"You're not exactly in a position to give lectures about being trustworthy," Dixon replied. He turned - slowly, but intently, so that Sark's gun was in his face. The man was utterly unworried; Sark had little use for Marcus Dixon as a general rule, but he did admire nerve. "Listen - the diamonds aren't where we expected. Getting away with them was never more than a remote possibility. We have to do exactly what we were going to do if we had found the diamonds, which is get the hell out of here."

Sark considered that for a moment as he stepped back - just far enough so that his guns would be out of reach of Dixon's long arms. "No. I don't believe we will."

"So what is it you intend to do?" Dixon's expression was changing from blank, professional calm to disdain. "Shoot us? I admit, waking up in a Las Vegas jail isn't something I'd enjoy. But you know as well as I do that one phone call sets us free; that plus a couple of Excedrin for the headache - and the situation's over. I'd think you would have more pride than to stand there and threaten us with an inconvenience."

"Interesting." Sark cocked his head. "And how do you know I won't render you unconscious and then kill you through whatever means I find expedient?"

Marshall's face fell. "Oh, hey, that's kind of a good point."

"You won't." Dixon was still completely in control. "You have a kind of honor, Mr. Sark. It doesn't extend far, and it's not worth much - but it's there. Neither your honor nor your pride would allow you to kill an opponent while he was unconscious on the ground."

"I'm flattered," Sark said. "You're right, of course. Your deaths, when they come, will serve my purpose. Killing you while you lie on the floor in a stupor would be useless."

Marshall raised one of his hands slightly higher than the other. "So, uh, does that mean we're going to leave? Now, maybe?"

"My honor extends to my opponents," Sark replied. "Not to my hostages." Keeping his left hand trained on Marshall and Dixon, he lowered his right hand to the head of the red-haired woman Dixon had tied to the chair. She shivered as the muzzle made contact with her temple.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dixon's mouth twisted into a snarl.

"I think the tranquilizer darts would penetrate the skull easily enough at point-blank range. That might not kill her, but it might. At the very minimum, I'm sure she'd have considerable neurological damage." Now he had Dixon's attention; now there was some fear in the man's dark eyes. About time. "I shall only ask this once more: Where are the diamonds?"

**

A quick walk through the lobby revealed that most of the Xanadu's guests remained cheerfully oblivious to the explosion outside; Jack was satisfied that the City Without Clocks was also the City Without News Bulletins. He overheard a couple of security guards discussing "the alert," but they appeared more interested in a break from routine than alarmed.

Good. One more potential difficulty taken care of. Now he only needed to get to the Pleasure Dome and set up his headquarters for the rest of the night.

He walked to the elevator, but before he could press the arrow, a woman's hand did it for him.

"Going up?" Irina said. 

Jack glanced over her shoulder. "Your date appears to have vanished."

"My date appears to have another crisis to deal with." The elevator's doors slid open, and she stepped in at his side. As soon as the doors had closed around them, Irina added, "I take it the explosion was your doing?"

"Indirectly." After only a moment's hesitation, Jack passed over the button that would take him to the Pleasure Dome and instead hit the one for the Abora, on the very top floor. Irina made no other selection. "I assume you're here for the Waning Moon. All I ask is that your plans not endanger Sydney's safety."

"You assume incorrectly." Irina looked out the exterior glass wall of the elevator; as they rose, the city of Las Vegas spread out beneath them, resplendent with color. The fire was on the other side of the building. "The Waning Moon won't tell me anything I don't already know."

Jack wondered what that meant, but knew better than to ask. "Then why are you here?"

"I need to find out a little more about the travel history of the courier who lost the Waning Moon in the first place." She shrugged. "Andrew Coleridge can tell me, and he's pleasant enough company."

"Then by all means enjoy yourself."

Her face darkened. "You should know by now what I will and won't do merely for fun."

Jack's mind instantly supplied an interpretation of her words - You know I didn't go to bed with Sloane willingly, you know it was different than it ever was with you - and he wanted to believe. But how many times had he deceived himself about her? Irina Derevko had never made a fool of him; he'd done that to himself. "I'm more interested in actions than motivations," he said.

"You always were." Arms folded behind her, Irina leaned against the far wall of the elevator. Jack tried not to look at the long, elegant line of her neck, the tapering of her waist, the flash of thigh the skirt's slit revealed. So many of his life's desires were contained in her body, her beauty, her mere presence.

How many times had they discussed a second baby? Just after Sydney's birth, Jack's longing for another child had briefly wavered; it had seemed impossible that he would ever be able to love the next baby as much, that any one heart could contain that much feeling. But he'd soon become willing to learn differently. His wife had wanted to wait, and so they had waited, but at the end - that autumn of 1981 - they'd started talking about the subject again.

He remembered Irina's head - Laura's head - pillowed on his shoulder one night, the words he had whispered to her: In the summer I'll be home more. I can ask for fewer field assignments, especially now that Project Christmas has become a higher priority.

Are you so desperate for a son? she had teased.

No, he'd replied truthfully. Just - more of our family.

She had embraced him more tightly, and asked him about the new status of Project Christmas. And he'd told her.

"Why didn't you tell me about Nadia?" he said.

"You wouldn't have listened."

Jack sighed. "Obviously, I can no longer disprove that."

"Are you telling me you would have been calm and understanding? That you would've forgiven everything?" Irina's words were meant to cut, and they did.

"No. I wouldn't have been 'understanding' about your infidelity with Arvin Sloane. But -" Jack hesitated before saying the rest. "I would have helped you find her."

Her head jerked away from him. "You're lying."

"I helped Sydney find her, didn't I?" He took a deep breath and tried to retain some measure of control. "And I would have preferred finding her for you to finding her for Sloane."

"You should never have led Sloane to Nadia. Never."

"It's unfortunate I didn't have that information earlier."

When she turned back to him, he was startled to see tears in her eyes. "Did you wait for this? The chance to tell me how I lost a daughter again?"

The story Katya had told - of his wife, imprisoned for suspected treason (for love of her CIA husband?), new-delivered and weak, being robbed of her infant daughter - sliced into his heart, drawing fresh blood. Jack remembered trying to lord the shards of his own broken relationship with Sydney over Irina in Los Angeles; at the time, he had thought it was no more than she'd deserved after her abandonment. He hadn't known about the child that had been stolen, hadn't known the cruelty of his own words.

It was too much, to feel her pain as well as his own, to feel it even more strongly.

People always talked about love as though it were something wonderful. Did they not know how terrible it could be? The power it held over you? The way it could make you suffer the agony that should be contained within another person's skin? Damned sentimental fools.

"Irina - no matter what else I have said and done in anger -- I never would have wished for you to lose a child." He couldn't have wished that on anyone he'd ever loved, not since the day he'd first seen baby Sydney in her crib. "Never." 

"I know that." Her voice was softer. "I know you."

Did she? Jack hoped so. Then he wondered why he bothered to hope.

**

Sydney pulled the bag of diamonds from her wrist, the better to keep it out of her way while she tried to work on a control panel. It appeared to have a band of metal around the neck - definitely some kind of metal - was it something she could use?

No need, she decided. This panel routed the phone system, and it already had an emergency receiver. No point in dismantling whatever security device was attached to the bag of diamonds unless and until it was necessary, and it wasn't yet.

She was lying flat on her back in the air vent; a strong breeze was blowing through it now, making her shiver and wish that the Abyssinian's showgirls wore something more than silver bikinis. Maybe fur coats and boots, for a nice Eskimo-themed number. Keeping the wig had been a good choice. At least her head was warm.

Fortunately, the Xanadu Casino's super-secure methods didn't seem to apply to their phone systems, which had no more than the normal protocols to get through. Sydney worked as fast as she could, silver-painted nails flashing in the blinking lights.

I have to get in touch with Dad, she thought. He has got to find out just how screwed-up this situation is. Right now, he probably thinks everything's just fine.

**

"Tell me, Jack," Irina said, "how are you enjoying Katya's company these days?"

The elevator doors slid open; every single diner at the Abora, as well as the waiters and a fair number of the kitchen staff, were pressed to the glass of the far window, watching the Pagoda of Light burn. A cook still held a pan out in front of him, its contents bubbling steam into the air unheeded. Jack was tempted to step off the elevator just to avoid answering Irina's question, but he didn't. She raised an eyebrow as the doors shut again and Jack pressed the button for the fourth floor.

After another moment hovering above the city, they began their descent. Jack said, evenly, "Your sister is delightful company. Thanks for asking."

"I'm glad to know it." Irina's fingers brushed at her temple, as if tucking back her hair - though it was all still clipped back in its loose bun. "I hope you'll both be quite happy."

Jack hadn't realize, until that instant, how much he'd counted on Irina being jealous. Actually, he didn't doubt that she was jealous - if she honestly cared so little, she wouldn't have bothered mentioning his liaison at all. But he had wanted to see that jealousy; small and mean though the impulse was, Jack knew too well that he was starved for some proof Irina still cared about him, whatever form it might take. "It's a little early to start talking about happy endings."

To his surprise, she smiled. "My husband the optimist. Most people in our position would've said it was far too late."

"Me. An optimist." Jack found it as funny as she did; when their eyes met this time, the anger was gone.

"I always used to wonder, you know." Irina stepped closer; outside, one of the hourly fireworks displays had begun, scattering colorful fire in the sky around them. "I didn't let myself receive reports about you and Sydney too often. Whenever I did get them, I'd ask myself if this would be the one."

"Which one?"

"The report that told me you had remarried." Jack was genuinely startled by her words; he'd never considered it, even as an abstract possibility. "I told myself that you deserved another love, that Sydney needed a mother. And yet, every time I read that you remained single, I was glad. Tell me, Jack - when was I lying to myself?" Her hand brushed against the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. "When I hoped for the best for you, or when I celebrated that you were still alone?"

Jack lifted his hand to her throat and used two fingers to pull back a loose strand of her hair. She shut her eyes. He said, "I'm too good at lying to myself to tell you."

"So. We can be honest with each other even when we lie to ourselves." Irina opened her eyes again, gazing up at him with her lips slightly parted. The fireworks lit her face in soft flickers of pink and gold. "Is that love?"

The first response Jack thought of to that question involved pushing Irina against the elevator wall and kissing her until she swooned. He didn't know if Irina Derevko could swoon, but he was willing to find out. But that answer, honest though it would be in one sense, was too easy.

Quietly, he said, "It is love. But it isn't trust."

Irina ducked her head, accepting the truth of his words. Each of them stepped away at the same time; Jack leaned heavily against the wall and stared at the fireworks. "Trust matters so much to you," she murmured. "I've learned to do without it."

"Depending on the circumstances, trust can be a more intimate emotion than love." That was a lot like something someone had said to him - who? When? He'd remember eventually, when Irina wasn't so close that she clouded his mind and confused his body.

"I suppose that's what all that talk was about upstairs," Irina said, puzzlng him until she added, "About the knives being symbols of trust. Such gifts you ask for."

 All Jack knew was that the greatest chance Irina had ever had to show that she trusted him - by telling him about Nadia, and damning the consequences - was gone and wasted.

His cell phone rang, startling Jack; even Irina turned her head a little too quickly. Jack answered. "Hello?"

"Dad! It's me!" Sydney sounded profoundly unhappy. "The Waning Moon - it wasn't in the vault!"

"Where are you, sweetheart?"

"I'm about halfway to the OTHER vault, the one where the Waning Moon actually is. Tapped into a comm. panel. I took the diamonds that WERE in the vault - I didn't know what else to do - but Dad, Sark's about to get the Waning Moon! If he gets his hands on it, we're NEVER going to see it."

Irina's eyes were studying his face too carefully. Jack said only, "Sounds good. Keep doing what you're doing."

"You can't talk right now." Sydney sighed heavily. She was obviously angry and frustrated - but, most importantly, she was also safe. "Okay. I'm on it."

No sooner had Jack hit END than the phone rang again. "Hello?"

"Mr. Bri - I mean, Watchtower, this is, uh, me, you know who I mean when I say me, and, well, we've kinda hit a snag here. The vault with the diamonds? Turns out it's the vault without the diamonds, or anything else for that matter, and the junior member of Team Evil is wondering where exactly the loot is."

The loot in question, of course, was with his daughter. "I couldn't say."

"That cryptography key I gave you - didn't it work right? Oh, man, oh man." Marshall was clearly working himself up into a froth; Jack thought with no small gratitude of the fact that Dixon was nearby to handle things. "Did you run the decoding sequence again, after that first go-through?"

"No, I didn't. I'm afraid I can't talk at the moment."

"Oh. Okay. I should also mention there's a whole hostage thing going on now."

Jack felt an unpleasant jolt of adrenalin, but reminded himself that capable hands were at the ready. "Let Dixon handle it. That's all you have to do."

This did not appear to reassure Marshall greatly. "If you say so."

The signal went dead. Irina pursed her lips. "Trouble?"

"Not at all." Jack managed to smile. "Everything's right on schedule."

As the elevator chimed and the overhead sign blinked 4, Jack took a deep breath. "I have to go."

"To look after Sydney. I know." Irina's broad hand pressed against the elevator door, holding it open a few moments longer. "Jack - I want to ask you for a promise."

He didn't question whether or not she had the right. "What is it?"

"If you can - if you get the chance - take care of Nadia." The expression in Irina's eyes now was one Jack knew, and loved; he'd seen it gazing down at their baby girl as she nursed her in their bed. "As Sydney's sister."

"As Sydney's sister," he said, then added, "and as your daughter."

She breathed in sharply and turned her face from Jack's. Irina's hand slid away, and the elevator doors shut between them.

**

Dixon tried not to meet Margo's eyes, though she sought his gaze desperately. He could imagine her panic: held captive by a psychotic stranger with a gun, betrayed by a man she'd hired who was nonetheless still her best shot at getting out of this alive.

That assessment of the situation was pretty dead-on accurate, too. Which was why he needed to get himself in high gear.

"Jack Bristow can't tell you where the diamonds are, or he won't tell you?" Mr. Sark was glaring down at Marshall, without ever diminishing the pressure of the tranq gun's muzzle against Margo's head. "I should inform you that this distinction may prove to be critical."

Swallowing hard, Marshall stammered out, "He, ah, he couldn't talk, exactly, not that second, but the strong impression I got, and I think I have a pretty good ability to, uh, read people, not psychic or anything, but - I, I, I think he was telling me that he couldn't tell me. That he didn't know. That's my hunch. Deduction! Call it a deduction. Hunch is so, uh, flimsy. This is a deduction."

Sark's only reply was a scowl.

Dixon breathed in, evenly, steadily. Time seemed to slow down, showing him the room in a different way than it had before. The sense-memory of three hundred field missions was coming back to him, as powerful as it had ever been; it could direct him now.

Margo's chair was on rollers - a fact she either hadn't realized or was too terrified to take advantage of. She was wearing spiked heels in shiny patent leather. The security screens around them were all still working, all still connected to various alarms; of course, Marshall had shut the sirens off a while ago, so they could work in peace. Within another few minutes, the distraction of the Pagoda of Light explosion would no longer completely forestall regular security patrols; they could expect company before too long.

All dominoes, just waiting to be set up in a row and knocked down. Dixon remembered Robin and Stephen giggling as he set up the Ss and Zs on the dining room table. The kids would never believe what their old man was setting up now.

"I can't allow you to hurt this woman," Dixon said.

"Interesting," Sark said. "Not how I would've phrased it. I should've said that you couldn't stop me from hurting this woman."

Dixon kept his face blank. "I think I can - by telling you the truth." Then, quickly: "Marshall, DON'T argue with me on this. I'm pulling rank. We're deviating from the plan for the greater good."

After a moment's hesitation, Marshall nodded quickly, then made a tiny key-lock gesture in front of his lips.

Sark was still suspicious; the man was no fool. But his fundamental distrust had been played to, and that might buy them the time they needed. "You've known where the diamonds were all along."

"Yes." Dixon nodded, as though the gesture cost him dearly. "They're in the same vault with the Waning Moon."

"Meaning Sydney Bristow has them both. Marvelous." Sark edged forward, and though the gun was still pointed at Margo, its muzzle was no longer flush with her skin. "And when did this part in the scheme -"

Dixon brought up his right fist at the same time he kicked out with his left foot. The kick smashed into the bottom of Margo's chair, sending her toppling backwards; the crash would hurt, but not as much as the gun. The fist slammed into Sark's elbow, sending the tranq gun upward.

At that moment, Sark had two choices: regaining control over the gun in his right hand or shooting Marshall with the gun in his left. If he chose the left, Dixon knew, they were screwed. No version of any escape plan worked with an unconscious Marshall.

But Sark was a man who liked control. And - as Dixon had gambled - he tried to regain control over the gun in his right hand. That gave Dixon the opening he needed to elbow him in the gut and shove him savagely to one side. Then he grabbed the nearest weapon - one of Margo's spiked heels, now pointed skyward - and slammed the stiletto into Sark's face. This won him a muffled curse and Sark's temporary loss of balance.

"Marshall, MOVE!" Dixon didn't stop to see if Marshall was moving. Instead he grabbed the arm of Margo's chair and started running. She was screaming bloody murder now, and Dixon didn't doubt she was having an uncomfortable ride - but the point was that her chair was rolling, and they were getting the hell out of there.

"There's an outer lock!" Marshall gasped as he followed behind them into the hallway. "An outer lock - we can keep Sark in there for a few minutes -"

Tranq darts thudded into the wall behind Dixon. "Get us there and do it!"

The second they slid through the next door, Marshall slammed it shut, then tapped in a multi-digit code. A barred metal door slammed down over the whole wall, and Dixon swore. "What the hell?"

"It's to catch thieves, hold 'em in place," Marshall explained. "Pretty handy, huh?"

"We have to go," Dixon said, righting Margo's chair and pushing her before them as they ran down the hall. "I apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am. Where can I put you so that security will find you quickly?"

She took a long, shuddering breath, then said, "Outside. A fire exit, maybe."

"Done any second now," he promised.

Margo's eyes were starry with shock. Shock and, well, maybe something just a little more inviting. "You saved me," she breathed. "Who ARE you?"

Danger. Excitement. Adventure. Why had he ever given this up?

Gravely, Dixon replied, "I'm just a man doing his job."

**

"What the --?" Weiss leaned forward, staring at the side of the building.

Lauren froze. She forced herself to sound casual as she said, "What is it?"

He pointed. A woman was rolling across the parking lot in an office chair, apparently tied to it, shrieking as her red hair streamed out behind her. One of her shoes were missing. "Does that seem right to you?" Weiss asked.

Not part of the plan. "I suggest we ignore it."

"Ignore it? She's tied to a chair!" He straightened his ridiculous wig and added, "Where you go, I go. So move it."

Lauren rolled her eyes and hopped out of the van for the Great Chair Rescue.

**

Shit, shit, SHIT.

Sark's face hurt, and no doubt he was wearing shoeprints. The indignity bothered him less than his present captivity; if this was an automatic security function, and he suspected it was, the metal bars would now cover every exit from this hallway.

Which meant that, unless some genius came along with reckless disregard for personal safety but a sincere commitment to saving his ass, Sark was screwed. Very few such individuals existed, and he knew it. He thought only, God damn the CIA.

Then the metal bars slid upward and away.

"Honestly," Olivia Reed said. "Do you always need me to get you out of trouble?"

"You have me confused with your daughter," Sark said. He hoped she wouldn't take it the wrong way; after all, he might be entangled with Olivia for quite some time.

She brushed her cornsilk hair away from her face; she wore pure white, stretchy fabrics that clung to her body and inspired thoughts that, if things worked out with Lauren, might eventually be considered incestuous. "Where's the Waning Moon? And the diamonds?"

"Not here." Sark doublechecked the tranq gun, then sighed in relief as Olivia handed him the real thing, a Glock, with metal weight that was reassuring in his hand. "I can find them. I need you to stop Marcus Dixon and Marshall Flinkman from getting away. Feel free to kill them."

Olivia smiled. "Done."

**

Sydney only just managed to keep herself from shouting out when the metal grid came sliding up from the level below, closing her off from the air vent she'd just crawled through. She instantly made two deductions: This was part of a security system, one that somebody had just deactivated after its initial activation.

Something went wrong here, she realized. And somebody's put it right - or, at least, stopped it.

Either way, she needed to investigate.

When a few seconds of listening revealed no sound, Sydney pried back a ceiling tile and dropped down; her bare feet made a soft smack on the floor, but otherwise, there was no sound. The control room looked more or less as she would have imagined it: slightly disarranged, maybe missing a chair (?), complete with unconscious security guard on the floor.

Shivering - it was warmer here than in the air vent, but still chilly - Sydney tiptoed toward the vault. The empty vault. She swore under her breath; dammit, they'd gotten in. The Waning Moon was Sark's now. The plan was blown.

Sydney breathed in once, then again, steadied her thoughts. They'd had a problem. But there was no way Sark had gotten out of the Xanadu yet; that meant she still had time to set this right. First priority: Try again to contact her father and hope he could talk now, maybe that he'd had a chance to find out more about what had gone wrong. Second priority: Put on a security uniform or something, because the silver bikini was not cutting it any longer. Third priority: Find and stop Sark.

Thus calmed, she turned around - to see Sark standing in the doorway, pointing a Glock straight at her chest.

"Ahh, Sydney," Sark said. "How I've missed you."

"The feeling's not mutual."

"We have two important subjects to discuss." Sark stepped closer to her, his gun never wavering. The side of his face looked like he'd been punched, or maybe kicked, but his eyes were clear. "First of all, I'd like to know the whereabouts of the diamonds."

Diamonds? He actually cared about the diamonds? Sydney didn't let her surprise show. But worse was her dismay when he followed that by saying, "Second of all, I need you to lead me to the Waning Moon. Or else I'm afraid our acquaintance -"

He cocked the gun's trigger with an audible click.

"-will come to a premature end."

**

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