Los Angeles, California
11:59 p.m.
Sydney lay sprawled on her bed, over the covers, staring at the dull glow of the clock's numbers. In one minute - well, two, if the next day didn't officially start until 12:01 - she would have fulfilled her promise to her father. She had waited the three days. From now on, Sydney told herself, she owed her dad nothing.
Mr. Sloane would tell her the truth about her mother; Sydney had no doubt about that, and she craved more information as badly as any addict could crave a drug. But he would also tell her the truth about her father, and Sydney didn't know if she could handle any more of that truth.
Groaning in frustration, she turned away from the clock, trying to pretend the deadline wasn't about to pass. But that only changed the view to her bookshelf, at eye level was a large brass frame that enclosed a picture of her and her father: Sydney was 9 years old, and she'd just danced a solo in the ballet recital. Her father held her tightly, smiling somewhat uncomfortably at the camera. It was one of her favorite pictures of them, for a dozen reasons - the memory of how beautiful she'd felt in her pink-and-white costume, her pride in finally fitting in with the other kids, her father's visible unease at being surrounded by little tutu-clad girls and their mothers.
Now, when she looked at it, she could only think, This is the man who betrayed my mother. Four years before that picture was taken, he left Mama to be beaten -
--all the years that had passed since had never erased the sound of it from her memory, that horrible sickening thud of her mother's body, the low cry of pain -
--beaten and, for all he knew, killed.
Sydney forced herself to look down at the quilt that covered her bed; she traced the outlines of thread, narrow triangles of yellow and periwinkle and baby blue, trying to follow the pattern and order her thoughts.
Dad can't ever have loved Mama, she thought. There's no way you could do that to somebody you loved.
But she remembered their life as a family in Moscow; those recollections were rough with time and youth, but Sydney had treasured each one, polishing them all to clarity by turning them over and over in her mind. And among the incidental, almost trivial moments (pulling the head off Bronya's doll to make her shriek, watching the May Day parade from Aunt Katya's shoulders), Sydney had a dozen memories of her parents kissing, hugging, or walking hand in hand. On weekend mornings, she would sometimes go into their room and climb into bed with them for a lazy hour; Mama and Daddy would be curled next to each other, one in the other's arms. Sydney remembered her father's hand stroking her mother's hair gently, over and over, trailing his fingers through the strands while she smiled.
If that could be a lie, anything could be. Maybe her father had been right to hide it from her all this time; there didn't seem to be any way of understanding a world where even that memory could be a lie.
Sydney turned over again; the clock read 12:05. She was free to call.
For a few long moments she simply lay there, balled up in a fetal position. By the time the clock flashed 12:06, Syd knew she wouldn't call - tonight.
Emily's still worn out from the marathon, she said to herself. And Mr. Sloane's probably asleep too; he'd talk to me, and he wouldn't mind at all, but still. I can call in the morning. After I sleep on it, maybe I'll know what I want.
Sighing, Sydney sat up and debated what to do, now that the night's scheduled activity had been scratched. Despite the hour, she was still too wired to sleep. Normally she would deal with such a situation by luring Francie out of bed with promises of old movies on cable and ice-cream sandwiches, but Francie was spending the night at Charlie's.
She might have spent the night at Danny's herself, or invited him over here; however, she'd avoided him as much as possible during the past three days. Telling him the truth wasn't something she could do yet - or maybe ever - and she didn't yet know how to be with Danny and not tell him the truth.
Ask Dad, she thought bitterly.
No, she wasn't going to think about Dad, or Mama, or anything remotely parent-related for the rest of the night. Instead she settled on a glass of wine and a call to Will, who never went to bed before 2 a.m. if he could help it and would happily turn his TV to whatever channel she wanted in order to play a long, comforting round of MST3K.
She got up and padded toward the kitchen, turning on one lamp as she passed by it. There was the really great burgundy Charlie had brought to the house, technically for a special occasion, but Syd felt she'd earned the right to define that loosely. She cast a worried glance down at her white satin pajamas, which would be ruined by even a drop of red wine, then decided to chance it. She poured herself a generous glass and hoped something really, really awful would be on TV - nothing beat Will when he was in top form.
A voice said, "Don't scream."
Sydney jumped and spun around; the wine goblet slipped from her hand as she saw her mother's face. The world seemed to shift into slow-motion - her mother's outstretched hand, the glass tumbling bowl over stem, a gasp of fear and surprise, the swirl of red wine spilling out in a flume.
The glass crashed onto the tile, shattering in a hundred directions, and snapping everything back to real-time. Burgundy splashed all over her legs, her bare feet, the floor, and for a moment all Sydney could do was stare at it. "Oh, God -"
"Don't move," her mother said, more urgently now. The fact that she was speaking English made this even more surreal. She moved a little closer, her outline becoming clearer in the lamplight. "Are you hurt?"
"No." The light fell across her face, and it wouldn't have mattered if her father hadn't shown her the photo, or how old her memories were. She would always have known her, always. But still, Sydney found it hard to actually say, "Mama?"
Her smile transformed her face, making it more beautiful and more familiar. "Valentina."
Sydney started to go to her - and stopped short, blocked by the glass shards all around. Her mother walked carefully toward her, her heavy shoes crunching on the pieces of glass as she crushed them underfoot.
And then she was there - Mama's arms wrapping around her, Mama's lips kissing her cheek, her forehead, her eyes. Sydney knew she was crying, that she was saying things that didn't make any sense, and it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Her mother was alive, and she was here in Sydney's arms. She could feel her mother's heartbeat against her chest.
After a while - Sydney couldn't begin to guess how long - Mama's arms wrapped more tightly around her, and she lifted Sydney just a few inches from the ground, carrying her just as she might have when Syd was very small. Sydney hung on tightly as they crossed the glass-strewn floor and made it to the safety of the living room - but when her mother set her back down, she still didn't want to let go. "Shhh, my baby," Mama whispered, rubbing her back and soothing her as she might have twenty years ago. "It's all right now."
"I'm okay." Sydney was ashamed that her mother, who'd been through so much, was the one comforting her. She stepped back to face her as a grown woman for the first time; Mama wiped the tears from Sydney's cheeks, then from her own, which nearly made Syd start weeping all over again. "You - we - I can't think. Let's just sit, okay?"
Together they sank down onto the leather sofa, hands clasped. Her mother spoke first, her voice even lovelier than Sydney had remembered. "I hope I didn't frighten you too badly." Mama's head tilted slightly. "How much do you know?"
"I knew you were alive. Dad told me that much." At the word 'Dad,' her mother's eyes flashed unpleasantly.
"What else?"
"That he lied to you. That he was spying on you all the time we were in Russia. That he never loved you." Ten minutes ago, Sydney couldn't imagine ever speaking those words aloud; now they poured from her, spilling out beyond her ability to check them. But why should she bother to check them? This was her mother, who knew the truth, maybe the only person in the world who could explain. "I couldn't believe it. I still can't."
"It's hard to believe, isn't it? And yet it's true."
"Are you okay? Where have you been? Were you - did you look for us? Did you think we'd been killed? I've felt so bad - all this time I mourned you, and I should have been out looking for you."
"Valentina." Mama smoothed Syd's hair with the palm of her hand. "I'm better now than I've been in a very long time. After your father abandoned me, and his role as a spy was known, I had to pay the price. But I survived that. I always knew I would find you again, someday. Nothing could ever have stopped me."
Pay the price. What did that mean? Sydney wanted to ask, but if the answer would hurt her mother, maybe it was better left unsaid. Instead she whispered, "You're beautiful." Syd would have said that no matter what her mother had looked like, but in this case it was an understatement; the woman in front of her didn't seem to have aged ten years, much less twenty, and she looked more like a model than a former dissident. Her hair was slicked into a ponytail at the nape of her neck; she wore a tailored black pantsuit that outlined her trim body. Only a faint bruise along one cheekbone marred her perfect skin.
"So are you - a woman, now. I always tried to imagine you as an adult, and I never could; you were always my little girl. But here you are." Her mother hesitated for only an instant; her smile never wavered. "Your father's looking well. I don't suppose the past has troubled him much."
Sydney felt a nauseating drop in her gut, as though the roller coaster she'd been riding was entering a steep dive. "You've seen Dad?"
"Yesterday. Did he not call? It wasn't a pleasant encounter." Mama's voice was as untroubled and smooth as before, her smile as sweet. "I don't want to subject you to the details."
A chill swept over Sydney. How could her father have come face to face with her mother and not even bothered to let her know? And - worse and stranger - how could her mother just keep smiling? Nobody could ever see the person who had betrayed them so terribly, who had lived with them for so long, and genuinely feel like it was no big deal.
Was her mother telling her the truth?
Confused, she dropped her eyes to the floor. Mama's hand tightened around hers, and Sydney hastened to explain. "I'm sorry. It's just - it's a lot to take in."
"I know, sweetheart." The English endearment sounded so natural, as though Mama had said it to her a hundred times. "I'm sorry. I should have called you, or written."
"Or knocked," Sydney said, making it a joke.
"Maybe not a bad idea." Her mother laughed a little. "I've learned to be cautious, these last many years."
Cautious. Of course. After everything she'd been through - of course her mother didn't just show what she was feeling. That made more sense. Sydney felt the iron band of tension around her ribcage loosen, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. "I have so much to tell you, so many things I used to wish you knew - I don't know where to start."
"Start anywhere." Mama smiled, so beautifully that it made Sydney's breath catch in her throat. "Oh, malishka. Tell me everything."
So she did - for what had to have been hours and felt like years, but was in every way the happiest time of Sydney's life. Photo albums, school yearbooks, tennis trophies: it all came spilling from her hatboxes and cedar chest, all poured out for her mother as a kind of libation. Sydney didn't even try to keep the stories in order; she said whatever sprang to mind. All of it delighted her mother, she could tell. Mama would repeat the names after Sydney, as if memorizing them. Will. Francie. Danny.
"My beautiful girl." Her mother said that other and over, no matter what the picture was: Sydney covered in mud after a softball game or in the terrible pink prom dress she'd thought was so cute at the time. And every time she said it, Sydney felt herself glow with pleasure. Her mother's beautiful girl.
Some of the pictures showed her father, of course - he stood by her side at her high-school graduation, hugged her at her ballet recital. Sydney always felt awkward when his face was before them; her mother never acknowledged him.
It was 4 a.m. before Sydney began to feel herself running out of steam; they were piled up together on her bed, old photos scattered around them. Syd fluffed a pillow under her head. "All these years - I was so sure you were dead."
"I'm sure that's what your father told you. He may even have believed it."
Awkward and defensive, but unwilling to admit it, Sydney said, "Actually, that's what I told him. I heard you - Mama, I heard them hurting you, that night. From next door."
"At the neighbors'?" Her mother sounded confused. "I had thought - your father, he came to get you -"
"Not there." Sydney's memories of their escape from Russia were fragmented and clouded with panic, but a few images stood out as vividly as the sound of the attack on her mother. "I ran to the park to hide. It was the only place I could think of; I was just so scared, and I thought I'd feel safe there. I didn't, though. That's where Dad found me."
Her mother's face was sharp with an expression Sydney couldn't read, but she said only, "I'm sorry you had to hear that, malishka. So sorry."
"It's not your fault. It's Dad's." Sydney breathed out, refusing to let the tears start again. Her mother had suffered enough pain at her father's hands without worrying about the pain he'd caused their daughter, too. "Ever since I learned you were alive - three days ago - I've spent every single second wondering about you. I was nearly going to call somebody who might know something - about you, about Dad - but I couldn't do it."
"Arvin Sloane?"
Sydney felt her eyes widening. "Yeah."
"I know him too." Before Syd could even begin to process that surprise, her mother leaned forward, speaking slowly and carefully, the way she always used to give instructions. She still seemed to be wide awake. "Sloane and I knew of each other for years, though we only met recently. I think you should talk to him, Valentina. You haven't even begun to realize how special - how powerful - you really are."
What were you supposed to say to that? Syd finally stammered out the promise, "I'll call him."
"I have a better idea."
**
"No milk, two sugars, right?"
The tall man smiled kindly at her, and Sydney found it easy to smile back; she had trusted him at first sight, which was pretty impressive considering that had only been this morning, while her world was in the process of being turned upside down. "Right. Thanks, Mr. Dixon."
"Not a problem. And call me Dixon," he said as she accepted the steaming cup of coffee. "I know it's overwhelming at first. I spent my first few weeks here just staring and gaping, like my kids' goldfish."
Sydney laughed, unable to imagine this man being unnerved by anything, much less a fairly ordinary office. But the ordinariness was all in the appearance: the computer terminals, the industrial-drab colors, the bustle and flow of people. The truth - that this was SD-6, the most secret Black Ops division of the CIA - was what you couldn't see at first glimpse, and what threatened to overpower you.
"I don't know if I'm staying," she confessed. "I don't even know if I'll ever come back here, after today."
Dixon shook his head and smiled. "Don't worry. Once they let you down here, you're in." He seemed to think that was good news, and maybe it was.
Mr. Sloane was the one who had asked her to become a spy years ago, the one who had believed in her, who thought she had potential to be something more. She'd said no, for fear of hurting her father. Now, he was asking again, and her father couldn't hold her back any more.
"How do you take yours?" she said to Dixon.
He looked puzzled. "Black. But I already have some."
"I meant for tomorrow morning." At that, he grinned and held up his Styrofoam cup, and they toasted one another like friends of long standing.
A yelp rang out, startling everyone into silence. One neon-green ball bounced down the hallway, followed by a short man in goggles, gloves and a lab coat who was running after it with tongs. "Do NOT touch the ball!" the man shouted. "No touching. Bad idea, with the touching - oh, jeez - look out there - don't worry, nothing to worry about, just - whoops, exposed skin, also a bad idea - oh, NO --"
The ball rolled out of the room, the short man behind it, still darting at it with his tongs. For a moment, silence lingered in the room; then everyone simply went back to what they'd been doing before.
Syd said, "And that would be -"
"Marshall. Mad scientist in residence. He appears a bit strange - and that may not be inaccurate - but he's a genius. Marshall comes through for us every time."
"Can't wait to meet him," Sydney said, surprised to realize that she was telling the truth.
The folding wall's panels opened up again, and Syd turned her head to see her mother and Mr. Sloane walking out. Mama was every bit as polished as she'd been the night before, when she sat by Sydney's bedside so Syd could fall asleep knowing she was close. Mr. Sloane was smiling broadly, as relaxed and happy as Sydney had ever seen him.
He held out his hands for her to take. "This is a very special day for me, Sydney. I don't mind telling you that."
She smiled back. "For me too."
Mr. Sloane patted her cheek and drew both Sydney and her mother into what was apparently his office. He gestured at the two chairs, inviting them both to sit. "I have to confess, there were times I didn't think we'd ever make it to this point. Certainly I was never sure that your mother would come and work for us."
The smile on her mother's face dimmed slightly. "I'm working with you."
"I'm not likely to forget that. Certainly your record would make it difficult to pass CIA clearance." Record? Her mother had a record? Sydney tried not to stare. Every time she thought her life couldn't get more confusing, it did. Mr. Sloane looked perfectly at ease. "But the most important thing is that we share common goals - first and foremost, taking care of Sydney."
"Valentina," her mother said, as if correcting him.
"We'll have some company in just a few minutes," Mr. Sloane said. "Until then, I see Mr. Dixon's taken care of our girl. Irina, can I offer you some coffee? Tea?"
"I'm fine. Company?"
"I know you didn't expect this," Mr. Sloane said. "But in the end, I'm sure you'll see it's for the best."
The office door opened, and Sydney's father walked in.
For a long moment, nobody said anything. Dad stared at Mama, then at Mr. Sloane, then down at Sydney herself; he could only meet her eyes for a moment. The last time Syd had seen him, he'd told her that her whole life was a lie, and she still remembered what it had felt like to strike her own father.
The last time her entire family had been in one room, she'd been five years old.
Dad didn't yell, didn't react, didn't even flinch. He only shut the door behind him. "I trust we're all about to receive an explanation."
Mr. Sloane sat down behind his desk, giving Sydney an apologetic glance. "If we're all going to be working together here, and I believe we are, then I think we need to get used to that fact."
"Sydney is NOT working for SD-6," her father said.
"Yes, I am." When she said it, he looked at her, his eyes dark with some emotion she couldn't begin to name. Syd hadn't realized her mind was made up, until that moment. "Mama brought me here - but this is my decision to make. Not yours."
Her father answered not her, but her mother, his eyes cold. "How could you ever - ever - bring her into this life? Knowing the dangers, knowing the risks?"
"Valentina can take care of herself. Maybe you've never believed in her, but I do."
"As do I," Mr. Sloane added. "Actually, Jack, you've never known it, but I tried to recruit her a few years back. You're a protective father, and I respect that. But Sydney has all the qualities to be a top agent."
Dad just kept staring at Sydney. She could have said, Yes, Dad knew you tried to recruit me; I told him months ago. But her father wasn't saying it, and she remembered the three days she'd had to wait to talk to Arvin Sloane.
Apparently her dad thought it was a good idea to keep secrets from Mr. Sloane; Sydney and her mother weren't the only people he lied to. A hard curve of anger rose up inside her, pushing out her awkwardness, her confusion, even her misery.
And yet, when she wanted to betray this one secret of his, to force him to deal with the truth for once, she couldn't do it. She said nothing, and after a moment she saw her father relax ever so slightly.
"You've tried to keep Valentina in the dark her whole life," Mama said. When Sydney glanced over at her, she scarcely recognized the face as her mother's. She was still beautiful, but cold and hard, a Roman marble with blank eyes. "She deserves better than that. After all, she only wants what you want - to serve your country. That's what everyone at SD-6 wants, you most of all, I'm sure. You've done worse things in the name of patriotism, as I recall."
"Doesn't explain why you're here, does it?" Her father folded his arms across his chest. "What's the matter? Did K Directorate steal one arms shipment too many? No more money to be made in the weapons business?"
Her business? Sydney tried not to turn her head, but she couldn't help glancing over at her mother. There was no denial there, no confusion, only a slight lift of her chin; whatever her father was talking about, her mother was proud of it. For years, Sydney had cherished the image of her mother as a idealistic dissident, perhaps distributing illegal newspapers that called for democracy, or helping refugees escape to the West. That image blackened and curled like paper in fire, floating upward into nothingness. But - of course, she'd had to do those things. After what Dad did to her, she probably didn't have any choice.
"I've lived long enough without my daughter," her mother said. "From now on, I go where she goes. And she's going to be here. With me."
Dad glanced away, for only a moment - but it was enough for Sydney to see that his icy composure was something he was fighting for, hard. Her mother had hurt him. In one way, Sydney was glad to see him hurting, but she could tell her mother was glad to see him hurting too.
They had always defined love, for her. And now, when Sydney looked at them, she could see only hate.
"Excuse me." Syd didn't wait for Mr. Sloane's permission, or her parents' reactions; she just got up and left the office.
Then, of course, she was standing in the middle of a room crowded with strangers, none of whom knew her situation or cared, but a few of which were turning to glance over their shoulders at her. Sydney ducked through the nearest door, hoping it wasn't a broom closet; fortunately, it was just a conference room. She slumped down in one of the chairs, trying to regain her composure.
A soft rap at the door made her squeeze her eyes shut, trying to keep back tears. Would it be her mother or her father?
The door swung open without her saying anything; when she could finally turn her head to look, she almost wept with relief to see Mr. Sloane. He carried a small case in one hand; with the other, he clasped her shoulder. "I'm more sorry about this than you can possibly know. That scene - it was difficult, and I hated putting you in that position. But it was going to happen eventually, sooner rather than later, and I wanted to be there to run interference when it did."
"You did the right thing," Sydney said as he sat next to her and set the case atop the table. "I needed to see that."
Mr. Sloane smiled, his whiskery face wrinkling. "Don't judge your dad too harshly. Or your mother either, for that matter. Your parents have had difficult lives. They've had to make difficult choices. That makes them damaged human beings, sometimes dangerous ones. Yet human, all the same. I don't condone what your father's done, and I've spent the last several years of my life working against your mother. But I respect your mother's intelligence and determination, and your father will always be my friend."
Would she ever have that kind of perspective? Sydney couldn't begin to imagine it. "I don't feel like I can ever trust my father again."
"Intelligence work takes its toll on human relationships, sometimes. I've always found a way to balance my marriage and friendships with what I have to do - just the way I think you will, Sydney. But it's not a gift your father possesses. That's his misfortune. I'm sorry it also has to be yours."
"He was moving strangely - like he was holding his side, maybe. Is he hurt?" Sydney wondered briefly why she still cared, how long it would take her to stop caring.
Mr. Sloane nodded. "Nothing serious, a couple of broken ribs. I'm afraid your mother made an attempt on his life yesterday; that's the result."
"Wait - Mama tried to kill Dad?" Sydney felt as though her chest were splintering in pain. Oh, God, as much as she felt like she hated Dad right now, she didn't want him dead. She could never want him dead. Didn't her mother know that? She didn't blame Mama for wanting to kill Dad - but didn't she realize what that would do to their daughter? Or did she just not care?
"He was able to defend himself. And I don't think she'll try it again," Mr. Sloane said.
"That's not very comforting."
"Anger - hatred - they corrode the spirit. Irina Derevko is a woman who's been given a lot of reasons to hate. I know it's ugly to see, but consider: You've spent your entire life putting your mother on a pedestal." Mr. Sloane patted her shoulder. "No flesh-and-blood woman could ever live up to your expectations. As time goes on, the two of you will get better acquainted."
Sydney forced herself to relax. "You're right. I can't judge her. I don't even know her, do I?" She'd never considered that before, that perhaps everything she knew about her mother was little more than a child's dream.
"The knowledge will come when you're ready. Don't rush it. The first person you can trust is yourself. So go with your instincts."
Her instincts, at that moment, told her that the luckiest break she'd ever gotten was her father's inexplicable friendship with Arvin Sloane. She smiled unevenly and took a deep breath. "So, you're a spy."
"Secret agent man," he half-sang, and Syd was surprised to realize she could still laugh. "You understand why I never told you that, don't you? Why I couldn't tell you about your mother, even though I wanted to?"
"Of course." Mr. Sloane's secret only made sense; that was a matter of national security, not something you trusted to your friends' young daughters. Her father had owed her more. She rapped her fingers against the case. "What's this?"
He lit up in a smile, snapping the case open with a flourish. "What do you make of it?" Mr. Sloane lifted out a brass device with wheels that spun.
"It's a clock. Right? There are the hands, and the hours, but - no, there's more-"
He dropped a golden disk of glass into the back of the clock. The entire device seemed to whirr, gears turning, hands moving. Sydney stared, fascinated and delighted, as the golden glass lit up, revealing an array of shining points of light. "What is that?" she whispered.
"A starfield. The picture of the night sky from a specific place on earth, on a specific night." His hand squeezed her shoulder, the kind of loving gesture she'd always wished for from her father. "I want to tell you about a remarkable man, Sydney. A man named Milo Rambaldi."
**
CONTINUED IN PART IV: "THE REVELATION"
Go back to the last chapter.