by Voleuse

He sips an unbelievably expensive whiskey, his bottom lip whispering against the crystal. The lights of the room are smoky and low, an attempt to fool patrons into thinking they dine with the finest of Bangkok's businessmen, rather than its most vicious, albeit well-dressed, criminals.

It is a rare moment between assassinations, and he intends to luxuriate in the evening's freedom. Tomorrow, he will fly to Mandalay and kidnap a minor dignitary. Tonight, however, he is free to pursue his own interests, wherever they might lead him.

An attractive businesswoman saunters into the bar, and he decides that any surveillance he does is for his pleasure, though ultimately to his employer's benefit.

Sydney Bristow has entered the building.

He assumes she is working, not so much due to their location as to the less-than-elegant cocktail dress and auburn wig with which she disguises herself. It is unusual to see her without the distraction of satellite static or her patented scorn. It is a distinct pleasure to watch her, uninhibited by a conflicting agenda.

He wonders if he should investigate, intercept whatever information she stands to acquire, but decides against action. The CIA is clumsy in its work, and he can procure their intelligence with a single phone call.

He watches as a nervous pimp approaches her, and she answers his whispered inquiry with a curt nod.

She slinks from the room, hips swaying with false invitation. He shifts against the leather of his chair, fighting the urge to follow.

Instead, he gazes after her, and anticipates the next time they will meet.


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