Or more like my only family, she thought bitterly.
Instead of trying to fill the aching void of Sydney's mother's death, Jack Bristow had spent the years since the accident driving his daughter as far away as possible. A nanny, an all-girls boarding school, and countless business trips later, Sydney and her father were virtual strangers. She resented him for not wanting her in his life, the same way he seemed to resent the fact that she'd ever been born. If they didn't actually hate each other, they didn't love each other either. And with every passing year, the gulf between them just grew wider.
The limousine hit a bump, jolting her back to the present.
“Sorry about that,” the driver's voice said over the intercom. “LAX in ten.”
“What?”
A shocked glance out the window revealed that they were closer to the airport than Sydney had realized. Falling to her knees beside the open suitcase, she pulled out a pink Chanel dress, linen mules, and a matching lightweight sweater and hurriedly began dressing. Yanking the mascara from her new, fully stocked makeup kit, she added two thick layers to her usual light coat and quickly brushed both eyelids and cheekbones with an all-purpose bronzing powder.
If only Francie could see me now! she thought, letting her hair out of its ponytail and completing her new look with red lipstick and movie-star dark glasses. A mirror inside the limo reflected her stylish transformation. I feel like a model. No, better. I feel like Super Spy!
One thing was for sure: She didn't look like herself anymore. The knowledge gave her a strange sense of power.
Quickly, confidently, Sydney strapped on the money belt under her dress, loading its hidden pockets with most of her cash. The remaining money, her passport, and her ticket went into a purse that matched her designer suitcase. She'd buy magazines and snacks at the airport, she decided, to look more like a tourist. She even knew which magazines a woman dressed in Chanel would read.
Spying was just acting, really, and she was nothing if not a good actress.
I can do this, she told herself happily, her spirits rising to the challenge. Whatever happens on this mission, I won't let my country down!
2
A FLIGHT ATTENDANT'S VOICE came over the big jet's speakers, jolting the passengers to full wakefulness. Unfortunately, he was speaking French.
I should have learned French before Russian, Sydney berated herself, straining to understand him. She was good at languages, but she needed to learn so many for SD-6 that sometimes the prospect of mastering them all made her feel a little desperate. Not only would French have been easier, I could actually use it right now.
As it was, she barely understood one French word in ten, and even those she wasn't sure of.
The flight attendant finished his announcement and mercifully repeated it in English: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are on final approach to Orly Airport and will be landing in a few minutes. At this time, please make sure that your seats are in the upright position and that your tray tables are closed and locked.”
No problem there, Sydney thought, a bit smugly. SD-6 had sprung for a first-class ticket, partially to support her cover and partially to give her a chance to sleep in the big reclining seat. Between her excitement about her first mission, free movies, and countless cups of coffee, though, she hadn't slept five minutes all night. She had never flown first class before, but it hadn't taken her long to learn that first-class flight attendants didn't let a girl go thirsty or hungry, or do menial things like adjust her own seat back. Even now they were cruising the aisle with hot wet towels, dispensing them with silver tongs.
“Hello, this is your pilot speaking,” a new voice said in English. “Paris time this Sunday is 12:22 P.M. The current temperature is eighteen degrees Celsius. We hope you have had a pleasant flight, and that you will keep our airline in mind for your future travel needs. Flight attendants, please prepare for landing.”
Sydney craned her neck in a futile attempt to look out the window from her aisle seat. Her stomach told her the plane was descending, but all she could see was sky.
I wish Francie were here, she thought, wanting to share the experience. I hope she's still speaking to me when I get back!
She had telephoned her friend before the plane left Los Angeles, full of hastily invented explanations for her sudden departure. Francie had answered the call from her car, already on her way to the beach.
“It's just that the bank needs me to cover for someone in San Diego this weekend,” Sydney had lied. “One of their clerks got sick and left them shorthanded.”
“And so they need you? On a Saturday? To fly to the rescue without even a suitcase? Why can't they cover it with their own people?”
“It's . . . flu. A lot of them have the flu.”
“Oh, great,” Francie had said sarcastically. “Be sure to bring it home and give it to me.”
“This is a good opportunity for me, Francie,” Sydney had pleaded. “Don't be mad.”
“I am mad! You promised that if you didn't make it to the beach you'd go to the party tonight.”
“I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you.”
There had been such a long silence that Sydney had started to wonder if they'd been disconnected. Then Francie had sighed.
“All right. What's the address?”
“The address of what?”
“Of your hotel room! I hope they put you somewhere good, because I expect a killer pool. They do have a swimming pool, right?”
“You . . . uh . . . you want to come stay with me at the hotel?” Sydney had faltered, mentally kicking herself for not seeing that coming. San Diego was only a two-hour drive from Los Angeles, full of students from three major colleges, and legendary for the bars and clubs just over its border in Tijuana, where the drinking age was eighteen. She and Francie had once driven down and had a great time shopping for cheesy knickknacks and tacos on Avenida Revolución before returning north to roller blade on the Mission Beach boardwalk. Sydney had picked San Diego as an alibi precisely because she knew what it looked like in case Francie started asking questions; she hadn't thought of the now obvious drawback.
“Of course I'm coming!” Francie had said. “We never got to go to SeaWorld last time, so there's your chance to make things right.”
“But . . . you can't come,” Sydney had blurted out. “I'm going to be working the whole time, catching up on data entry, and I won't be able to go anywhere.”
Francie had sighed again. “Well, we can at least go out to dinner. Do a little clubbing . . .”
“I'm going to be working late, and it's only a single room,” Sydney had lied desperately. “If they find out you're in there, I might get in trouble.”
“For what?” Francie had retorted. “Having a life?”
“I'm sorry. It's just that—”
“No, I'm sorry,” Francie had interrupted icily. “Forgive me for thinking you might want my company.”
I do want your company, Sydney thought now. If only the CIA didn't have such strict rules against discussing anything with civilians!
A flash of color outside the plane window caught Sydney's eye. Buildings came into view. Then pavement. The plane's engines whined. Sydney held her breath, waiting, waiting . . .
Bump! The landing gear hit the tarmac and the plane rolled down the runway.
The pilot's voice came over the intercom again: “Mesdames et messieurs, bienvenue à Paris. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Paris!”
Sydney stood in one of the lines to clear airport customs, shifting nervously from foot to foot. So many people had disembarked from various planes at once that the distance between her and the customs inspector seemed to stretch on forever. People with babies and people with baggage, tourists, locals, and would-be immigrants . . . the more people crowding the lines, the more conspicuous Sydney felt standing by herself.
Adjusting her dark glasses, she tried to stop fidgeting—the last thing she wanted was to invite suspicion.
I only wish I knew what
was happening to my suitcase while I'm stuck standing here. She pictured it circling around and around, unattended, on the baggage carousel, its showy designer fabric crying out for someone to steal it. Then what would I do? What would I wear?
She made herself take a deep, calming breath. The thick bundle of euros Wilson had given her was zipped safely into the money belt around her waist; if she had to, she could buy new clothes. Unfortunately, carrying so much cash was suspicious in itself. She definitely didn't want anyone searching her and finding that kind of money. She shifted her weight, sighed, stood up straight. . . .
The inspector stamped a passport and began grilling the man next in line.
What if my alias doesn't hold up? she wondered worriedly. They had barely looked at her fake passport in the U.S., but this French inspector was giving everyone a hard time. If anyone suspected she wasn't Kate Jones, what would they do to her? Would her mission be over before it got started?
The inspector stamped another passport. Then another. Another. Sydney felt a trickle of sweat run down between her shoulder blades. Finally it was her turn.
The inspector held out his hand for her passport and scrutinized the photograph.
“You are American?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sydney replied, grateful that he spoke English.
“Remove your glasses, please.”
She pushed her dark glasses up onto her head, trying to appear nonchalant while he studied her face. The effort he was expending on matching her to her photo made her glad she hadn't worn a wig.
“Reason for visiting France?” he asked.
“Vacation.”
He cocked a graying brow. “You are meeting someone here?”
Sydney's heart skipped. Had she made a mistake? Was it suspicious to vacation alone?
“Um, yes. A friend,” she answered nervously. “She lives here in Paris.”
“What is your friend's address?”
“I—I don't have it with me. She's picking me up by car. She's probably waiting outside right now.”
The man gave her a probing look. It took every bit of her SD-6 training for Sydney to hold his gaze.
“Length of stay?” he asked at last.
“One week.” Wilson had given her a round-trip ticket with the return date a week away. She could exchange it for the real date later, he'd said, but one-way tickets aroused suspicion.
“You have a return plane ticket?”
Sydney nodded with relief.
“Let me see it.”
She produced the ticket from her bag, expecting him to inspect it as carefully as everything else. But the man simply glanced at it, then stamped her passport.
“Have a nice stay,” he told her. “Next!”
Sydney nearly danced out of the customs area on her way to baggage claim. Her suitcase was on the carousel, no worse for the long delay.
I did it! I'm here! she exulted as she pulled her bag off the conveyor belt. It seemed so easy now, she couldn't believe she had ever been worried.
Finding a direction in which a lot of people were walking, Sydney joined the crowd, her fancy suitcase rolling along behind her. Here in the steadily moving stream, it was no longer obvious she was alone, and even her designer clothes blended in. She was in Paris, after all, fashion capital of the world, and stylish women were everywhere. Sydney picked them out of the throng, strutting in their high heels, speaking in French too rapid for all but a native to understand, greeting their friends with kisses on both cheeks, meeting their lovers with the type of kisses France made famous . . .
The City of Romance, Sydney thought wistfully.
It wasn't as if she didn't want a boyfriend. Up until recently, though, the guys she had been interested in had always seemed to find her invisible. Now that they were finally noticing, there wasn't anyone she cared about.
Well, maybe one. But I barely even know Noah Hicks.
Agent Hicks was six or seven years older than Sydney, and far too highly ranked in SD-6 to be interested in a mere trainee. That hadn't kept her from checking him out every chance she got, though. There was something both attractive and rough around the edges to Noah's appearance—the cute guy next door after a few hard knocks—but the pull Sydney felt was caused by something deeper than looks. His attitude was what intrigued her, the way he walked a little taller and moved a little faster than everyone else. Even when he laughed, his intense brown eyes stayed wary. And the first time she'd seen him, in the middle of a Krav Maga training session at SD-6, the precise viciousness of his kicks and jabs had totally mesmerized her.
That's a man, she remembered thinking, not a college boy. Even now, walking through Orly Airport, she felt her face heat up.
She had spoken to Noah only once, briefly. Part of the team sent in to extract her when things went bad at the Sandoval concert, he had introduced himself and checked a minor injury to her hands. The most fleeting physical contact—but enough to start her wondering: Was it possible he'd felt something more than professional concern? Now when she walked the halls at SD-6, she was constantly on the lookout for a guy with short, wavy brown hair, a mysterious scar beneath his chin, and an attitude that entered the room before he did.
Reaching the exit at last, Sydney emerged from the terminal and stood blinking in the sunshine of a balmy Paris afternoon. Taxis were lined up waiting for fares, and a man was pointing passengers toward them in order. Sydney headed for the cab he directed her to, grateful when its driver jumped out to help with her luggage.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said as he wrestled her suitcase into his trunk.
He smiled and fired off something in French.
“Um . . . the Plaza Athénée?” Sydney replied, hoping he'd asked where she wanted to go.
Her answer obviously pleased him. He chattered away as he opened the passenger door and helped her inside, keeping up the one-sided conversation during the entire time it took him to climb behind the wheel and pull out into traffic.
“Je suis désolé. Je ne parle pas français,” Sydney said carefully, offering up her only perfected full sentence along with a sheepish smile.
She had told him she didn't speak French, but the man just laughed and kept talking. Sydney got the feeling he was commenting on the landscape they were passing, but he could have been describing his favorite movie and she wouldn't have known the difference. At first she strained to make sense of the unfamiliar language, but soon she became so caught up in the scene outside the taxi windows that she let the words wash over her just like the warm spring air. She was in Paris, and a man was speaking French to her, and if she didn't understand him, did it really matter? She was just going to drink it in and enjoy the experience.
The highway that had carried them away from the airport soon deposited them on surface streets, which became increasingly mazelike the farther downtown they traveled. Roads never seemed to meet at right angles, and every big intersection was like the hub of a badly mangled wheel. Cars shot in from all directions, then rocketed back out in others, frequently accompanied by squealing tires and honking horns. Paris drivers seemed to know exactly where they were going—and to expect everyone else to get out of their way.
Sydney eventually gave up trying to memorize the complicated route her driver was taking and concentrated on the sights. She had already spotted a cemetery and several parks; now the cab cruised a tree-lined street filled with picturesque shops. Church spires spiked the skyline, reminders of the city's rich history.
I wish we could drive past the Eiffel Tower, she thought, resisting the temptation to ask the driver for a detour. She was supposed to be a rich, worldly tourist; she couldn't continue gawking like a girl straight off the farm. Maybe I'll see it later, she consoled herself. And the Louvre, and the Seine, and Notre Dame . . .
Or maybe I'll work the entire time and never see anything.
Sydney settled back into her seat, resigned. Whatever Wilson had sent her to Paris to do was more important than sightseeing. Sliding her fin
gers over her collarbone, she felt her new little mole, reassured by the high-tech bump.
“Voici la Tour Eiffel,” the taxi driver announced, pointing through the windshield.
Sydney lunged forward to the edge of her seat. There, far ahead, intricately patterned iron girders stretched up into the sky, capping the city like an exclamation point.
“Now I know I'm really in Paris.” She sighed contentedly.
The man laughed and started rattling off what she supposed were facts about the famous landmark. And all the while they drove straight toward it, until its crowning antenna was lost above the car roof and Sydney had to switch her focus to the span of its massive legs instead. Finally the taxi got so close that she rolled her window down and stuck her head outside. Far, far above her the tower loomed, so big it was overwhelming.
Abruptly the cab turned a corner, and almost immediately it turned again, driving out onto a pretty bridge.
“La Seine,” the driver said proudly, smiling at Sydney in the rearview mirror. They were suspended over one of the most famous rivers in the world.
The Seine sparkled in the sunshine, more green than blue, its broad expanse alive with colorful boats of all sizes. Its banks were heavily developed with buildings and walkways, but the river still exuded an undeniable charm. Greenery and docks lined its shores as well, and Sydney spotted more bridges both upstream and down.
On the opposite bank of the river, the driver turned again, up another obliquely angled street, and moments later he stopped in front of an impressive-looking hotel. The multistory building was made of honey-colored stone with red fabric awnings at every window. Boxes of red flowers lent additional color to the balconies, and two solid, irregularly shaped domes over the entrance doors reminded Sydney of the separated halves of a giant black-lipped clam.
The driver twisted around in his seat.“Nous voici! Plaza Athénée!” he said with a proud wave of his hand.
A hotel doorman was already opening her taxi door, reaching in to help her out. Sydney paid for her ride in a blur as her suitcase was collected and taken into the grand building.
A Secret Life Page 2
