EPILOGUE
**
Sydney hated waiting.
Of course, it made sense; she wouldn't expect the CIA to simply hand over the keys to Langley just because an SD-6 agent had strolled in the door and proclaimed that she was ready to do the right thing. But her father had explained her situation to Director Devlin a long time ago, and they ought to have all her information on file, and she hadn't been on a mission in a full month and, dammit, she was BORED.
Then again, patience was sometimes the best skill an agent could bring to a mission. This was a mission, first and foremost - probably the most important she would ever be on. So Sydney forced herself to be calm and use the time.
When you could do nothing else, you could note details; there was no telling what bit of minutiae might prove important later on. This office, for instance: Clearly it belonged to a junior operative; he didn't have enough status for a window or enough discipline to keep his desk straight. She thought he was intelligent, though, somebody who had potential. The reference books piled on the shelves indicated both depth and breadth of interests, and the two newspapers on the desk were in French and Polish. He didn't smoke - no lighter at the edge of the desk, ready for a quick trip to the parking lot - but the bottle-opener affixed to his keychain said he didn't mind having a beer now and then. Healthy, but not a stiff. CDs by Soulstice and Lamb were tucked into the pocket of his computer bag; so he had better taste than she would've guessed by the boring tie he'd had on. And on the far edge of the desk was a picture of him with a pretty blonde girl, one with hair cut almost as short as a boy. So he was a guy who could make a commitment, but not one who wanted to gaze at this girlfriend's face all that often. Interesting.
Her cellphone chirped, and Sydney grabbed it. Probably it was just Francie calling from the grocery store, but any break from the dullness of waiting was welcome. "Hello?"
"Sydney." Her father's voice sounded as clear as though he were in the next room. "It's me. How are you?"
"I'm good. Waiting for the CIA to come back and talk to me, but good."
"Don't worry about the CIA. They know what they've got in you." How had she ever convinced herself that her father didn't believe in her? His approval was more matter-of-fact, more quiet, than Sloane's had been - but that only meant that it was real.
"I'm not worried," Sydney said, and it was mostly the truth. "Did you - find what you were looking for?"
Her father couldn't give her any specifics, of course; as long as her mother remained a fugitive from U.S. justice, it was in Sydney's best interest to be able to honestly say that she had no intel regarding her mother's present location.
"I did," he said quietly. "I found it."
Which told her absolutely nothing. Syd considered this, then asked, "Tell me about where you're staying. Is it nice there?"
"Oh. Yes. It's -" He breathed out, a sound that wasn't quite a sigh. "It's beautiful."
Just the sound of her father's voice told Sydney that, at that instant, he was looking at her mother. She imaged that her mother was probably smiling back. Surprise, delight and even a soft flicker of jealousy flashed through her, an aurora borealis of emotions that that lit her up within. Delight triumphed over the others, and she felt a broad smile spreading across her face. "Good to know. Do you, uh, know when you'll be coming back?"
"The CIA owes me considerable vacation time. I expect to be here for at least a week." There was a faint rustling over the line, and then her father said, "Maybe two."
Did she want to know exactly how her mother was persuading him? No, Sydney decided, she really did not. But she was still laughing as she said, "Well, keep me posted. And I'll let you know what happens with the agency, okay?"
"Sounds good. I'll talk to you soon."
"Love you," Sydney replied.
She could hear the smile in her father's voice when he said, "I love you too, sweetheart."
The line went dead, and Syd slowly folded up the phone and slipped it back in her bag. Maybe she could make her own trip to Russia before too long. Maybe she and her father could go together, and they could have a few days as a family. Even though the three of them had spent a year working together at SD-6, Sydney knew they'd spent almost none of that time as a family. She hoped that would change soon, and change for good.
"Hey there." The operative she'd been interviewing with walked back into the room, smiling apologetically. "I know we've kept you waiting a while. Can I get you - coffee, or a Danish, maybe -"
"I'm fine. Am I in, Mr. Vaughn?"
"You can call me Michael."
"I might call you Vaughn. Am I in?"
"They're still reviewing your statement." When she tried - and failed - to restrain a frustrated sigh, Vaughn added, "I'm sorry. It's just - you wrote a lot. It's long. Like, Tolstoy long."
Sydney found herself smiling. "Tolstoy long?"
"I thought it was funny." Vaughn was studying her face, as though her reaction already mattered to him. "But not that funny."
"Sorry. I'm getting my graduate degree in comparative literature at UCLA, and I've written a lot about Tolstoy."
He nodded, impressed. "I haven't written anything about Tolstoy, as in ever. I did read Anna Karenina, though. Do I get points for that?"
"Depends." Talking about literature was as good a way to kill the time as any. "What do you think about the role of destiny in Anna Karenina?"
Vaughn considered this as carefully as any freshman in discussion group; it was both comical and oddly endearing. "Well - it's undeniable that Tolstoy believes in the power of destiny. The foreshadowing -"
"I don't need Tolstoy's opinion. I have too much of that already. What I'm looking for is your opinion." Sydney folded her arms.
"Okay, then. All this fate stuff? It's a crock." He shook his head as he leaned back in his chair. "I believe that we determine our own futures. Not fate or destiny, or some author with a sense of the poetic."
"You're so right. Fate? No such thing. And if you've read my statement, you know - I actually proved it." When Vaughn grinned at her, Sydney felt a strange, pleasant swoop of uncertainty, and decided to get back to the subject. "So, when do I find out if the CIA's accepted me?"
"Tomorrow, probably. Then you'll come back here, start debriefing."
"I'm not in yet - but you talk as though I am."
Vaughn shrugged. "I have an instinct about you."
**
THE END
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