"Vaughn, Vaughn. Wake up."

Darkness, then bright blurry shapes, as he forces his eyes open. Sydney is leaning over him, gently shaking his chin.

He watches her face slip in and out of focus. She's okay, she's okay. But how?

"Come on, Vaughn. You have to get up. I don't know who was shooting at us, but — "

The doors to the middle armoire open with a loud creak, and he turns his head, watches as a short, striking old man, clearly Italian, emerges. His hair nearly white, thinning only slightly, and long, eyes clear and brown, first step out of the armoire stiff and cautious.

Sydney swings her arm up, points a gun at the old man. It must have been the double's, unless she crossed the room and found his or Sark's. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am the man whose home these people invaded." The old man stands to his full height — 5'5, maybe 5'6. He wears black pants and a gray button-down sweater, and reminds Vaughn of Mr. Rogers from the children's television show because of them, although his height and features are all wrong.

"Please put the gun down. I don't need any more of that in my house this evening. I don't mean you any harm. I didn't mean to hit him, either — " pointing at Vaughn " — but it is tough to pick a target when you're all fighting like that. Especially in here."

Sydney lowers the gun, slightly, and the old man turns around, closes the doors to the armoire. The woodworking on the front is intricate, so full of curves and columns it is difficult to see two tiny holes between the doors, unless you're really looking. One for a tranq gun, one for a sight. But why?

The old man reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out four of the plastic ties used by some of American law enforcement as a backup for handcuffs. "I'm going to put these on those two, if that's okay?"

Sydney nods, and the old man walks toward the double, lying there on her back, one knee bent, arms out to the sides, classic chalk outline form. He attempts to roll her so he can get both of her hands behind her back, but lifts her barely a foot off the ground before it becomes clear he is struggling, and Sydney sighs, stands and steps over Sark to help him with one hand, the other still on the gun.

The old man pulls a tie tight around the double's hands, and Sydney releases her grip on the woman's shoulder, lets the body fall back to the floor on top of her arms and hands.

"Not that these matter much," the old man says, holding up his bundle of ties as he moves to the double's feet. "They'll be out for the better part of a day. My own special recipe. You're lucky Sydney pulled yours out before the tranquilizer could take full effect."

"How did you know my name?" Sydney swings the gun back up, points it at the man's head.

Vaughn slips his hand back across the floor, the paint thick, plastic, his senses dull, not quite right. He attempts to push off on a weak arm, prop himself up; he must be ready to fight if she needs backup, but he is still groggy, a little dizzy.

"My dear, I know much more about you than your name." The old man pulls the tie tight around the double's feet, looks up at the gun. He puts his hands in the air slowly, palms flat, facing her. "Now, Sydney, Sydney. Have I done anything here to make you think that I'm not on your side?" He motions to Sark and the double, prone and motionless on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Why don't you put that gun down, and I'll tell you." The old man's eyes are wild, panicked, but his voice is calm. "I'm not armed, now. My gun is back in the armoire. If I intended to hurt you, surely I would have brought it with me, yes?"

Sydney lowers the gun until it hits the floor with a metal thunk, her grip still tight on the base. There is a long pause before the old man speaks.

"For all of this century, and much of the last, I have been Giovanni Moretti, retired financier. But I believe you know me by my original name — Milo Rambaldi."

Vaughn rolls his head slightly to look at Sydney. Stares at her eyes, shocked and disbelieving. They must echo his.

"The rest I will tell you downstairs. This is hardly the proper place to talk." The old man stands, walks over to Sark. "Help me with him so we can get out of here. And I believe there are some more guns over by the electronics."

Sydney takes a circuitous path, around the bodies, around the old man, over to the computer desks. She bends over to pick up Vaughn's gun, ejects the clip and pockets it, then stands, looking over the mess on top of the desks. She pulls the other gun from behind a monitor, ejects that clip as well, and lifts her t-shirt just enough to tuck both guns into the waistband of her jeans.

"I already checked them for more," she says. "This is it."

The old man — Vaughn can't think of him as Rambaldi, not without proof, not without substantial, overwhelming proof, and maybe not even then — has long since finished with Sark's feet, and he waits near his torso for Sydney to cross the room and kneel between Sark and Vaughn, push at Sark's shoulder until there's room to reach his wrists. Then the old man stands, backs up a few feet, and Sydney tucks in the last gun at her back, turns toward Vaughn.

"You think you can walk?"

"I don't know." He pushes off of his hand again, brings himself all the way up to sitting. There is a moment when blackness creeps into the edges of his vision and his head feels hollow, wrong, but it passes, and he tucks one foot under his body, then another, starts to stand.

He is halfway upright when the blood starts swirling around his head and he thinks no, definitely not ready to stand, but she grabs his arm, stands underneath his shoulder, helps him all the way upright.

The old man watching. "There is an antidote, but since you didn't get a full dose of the tranquilizer, I'm afraid it might give you a heart attack."

"I think I'll pass, then."

"I thought so. Some caffeine will help. We will get you some espresso when we get downstairs." The old man motions toward the top of the stairs. "After you."

He leans heavily on her, and they stagger across the floor, then down, and the stairs do creak under his sluggish feet. Down to the second floor and then turning, the old man a few steps behind, around to the last flight. Starting to feel a little better, a little more awake — his system must be processing more of the drug — but not sure he wants to try to make it the rest of the way to the living room without assistance.

At the bottom of the stairs, now, across the hallway and into the parlor, the old man flicking a switch on the wall, filling it with light. The couch is on the far side of the room, set back against a velvet-curtained window. Sydney walks him there, turns with him, and bends her knees, letting him sink onto a red-and-cream tapestry couch. Antique, but clean, like the rest of the furniture in the room. Old and elaborate, fine fabric on bold mahogany.

The whole room feels antique, like it is left over from some other era. Dark beams stripe the ceiling, wide wood panels form a well-polished floor. It is sparsely decorated — a line of candles atop the mantel of a marble fireplace, a few gilt-edged paintings on the walls that do look distinctly Rambaldi.

"I'm going to go into the kitchen and get Mr. Vaughn some espresso. Would you like anything, Sydney?" The old man standing, hands clasped, in front of the arched entrance to what looks like a dining room. "Espresso? Or maybe you'd prefer tea? Or wine? It is late enough in the evening for you Americans to drink wine, now, I believe."

"Espresso would be fine."

"I will be back shortly. Then we will chat." The old man spins, disappears through the narrow archway.

Vaughn leans against the firm back of the couch, feels a bit like this is a party and he is the one who's had too much to drink.

"You okay?" Sydney turns toward him, lays a hand on his arm.

"Yeah. Just a little tired. I think it's wearing off."

"Do you think it's him?"

"I don't know, Syd. I mean, it sounds insane. It has to be. But then — he was working on some sort of formula for eternal life, right? What if it worked?"

"I thought that required my death."

"Maybe there really was an alternate way to do it. Sark and the double had to be after something here."

The faint sound of steam hissing from somewhere deep in the house. The old man will be back, soon.

"Whoever he is, he knows who we are." She shakes her head. "I don't like that at all, Vaughn."

He shifts, slips an arm around her back, low, his fingers colliding with the gun.

"You should take one." She reaches beneath her t-shirt, pulls out a boxy Glock 19, silencer capping the barrel, and hands it to him, followed by the clip, pulled from her back pocket, her hips arching off the couch to reach. "Just in case."

He checks the safety, slides the clip into the gun until he hears, feels the proper click, and reaches behind his back to tuck it into his jeans. The metal is still warm from her body.

Footsteps in the dining room, china rattling. The old man walks back through the archway, carrying a large silver tray, covered with three tiny white cups and saucers, a small pitcher, a bottle of Pellegrino, a pile of bread slices.

"This little bakery down the street makes the best ciabatta." the old man says, his voice high, accent thick. "You can taste the olive oil. Unfortunately, this is a day old — I had to stay home today, of course. It should still be good, just not as good as the first day."

The old man sets the tray down with a soft clank on the broad marble-topped coffee table in front of them, and in this room, it seems they should be a group of women sitting down to afternoon tea in 19th century London, not themselves.

There are two velour chairs in the corner of the room, arranged around a small, round table. The old man lifts one, carries it over to the coffee table opposite them. He points to the pitcher. "Creamer. I would have bought milk if I had known you were coming."

Vaughn skips the creamer and picks up the cup nearest him, a thin layer of caramel crema floating over the top. He considers chugging the whole cup — maybe it will help him focus — but instead takes a large sip. The espresso is strong, but the old man made it right — no grit, smooth and bold. Sydney pours just a tiny wisp of creamer into hers, lifts her cup and drinks hesitantly. The old man takes it black.

He reaches for the bread at the same time as Sydney; they haven't eaten since lunch on the plane. It would taste good even if he wasn't so hungry — crusty on the inside, chewy in the middle, not stale at all.

"You are hungry. Would you like anything else to eat? I could go get some cheese and fruit — "

"I'd like to know what the hell is going on," Sydney says.

"Yes, of course." The old man places his cup back in the saucer, sits up straight against the chair back. "It would help me to tell the story if I knew what brought the two of you here. Were you after the manuscript as well? I thought I had only leaked that to Christophe's camp."

"We're on vacation," Vaughn says. "We just happened to run across Sark and — the woman — at the airport."

"I see," the old man pauses. "What a remarkable coincidence, Sydney, that you should come to my home like this." He looks at Vaughn. "Not that I am not also pleased by your company. But she is important — "

"Important enough for you to prophecize electrocuting me in order to achieve eternal life?"

"Ah," the old man says. "I was wondering when we would get to that. I promise you, Sydney, I will explain. But that is not the beginning of the story."

Vaughn lays his hand on her knee, squeezes hard. Patience, Syd.

The old man reaches down, picks up his cup and takes a long, thin sip, deposits it back in the saucer with a muffled ceramic ding.

"There was a woman." He looks at Vaughn, his eyes almost conspiratorial, and smiles. "But then, there is always a woman, isn't there?"

Vaughn does not smile back.

The old man continues. "In my case, she was Isabetta Orsini, of the Orsini family — one of the most powerful in all of Rome. She was beautiful, so beautiful. But there were many beautiful women in Rome. No, with Isabel — that is what I called her, you see, Isabel — there was something more. Her personality, her intelligence, they set her apart. She was the loveliest woman I have ever encountered."

The old man looks beyond them, perhaps to the curtained window, the tiny sliver of twilight flowing into the room, streaking across the table in front of them.

"We met when I was still an apprentice. Her family had already given the church two popes, and would later provide a third, plus a number of bishops, so her father had frequent audience with Pius the Second. She would come with him to the Vatican, and I found her there one day, wandering the corridors.

"I asked her if she was lost. No, she said, merely bored. You must understand that I started my apprenticeship early in life — I was 15 when I met her, and I had never even kissed a girl, much less one so beautiful. But although I was nervous, I asked her if she should like to see my workshop. It wasn't mine, really, it was the old man Lorenzo's. It would become mine when he retired, or died — which is what he actually did several years later — and I would become chief architect. Chief architect for the pope! It seemed in those younger years that the day would never come. Of course, it did, and you know this. But I digress."

The old man stops, appears puzzled, as though he's lost his narrative somewhere in his mind and he's searching for it frantically. Vaughn seizes the lull, downs the rest of his espresso.

"Do you believe in fate?" The old man asks, abrupt. He does not wait for an answer. "I consider myself a scientist and most scientists, I believe, do not allow for fate in their facts and theories. But it must have been fate that brought us both down the corridor that day — must have been! I could not have hoped for a more amazing young woman, you see.

"We went to the workshop, and thankfully, Master Lorenzo was out. I showed her some of the plans I had been working on, my side projects — yes, even then I had side projects. I daresay I fell in love with her that day. It was rare that I had anyone — much less someone like Isabel — to share my work with. I must have blathered on like the young teenage — what is the word they use now? Nerd, that's it. Like the young teenage nerd that I was.

"But she did not seem bored. No, not at all. She had this — this bold curiosity to her. She left only when her father came calling, but before she did, I received my first kiss."

The old man smiles, broad and fond. He takes a sip of espresso, then continues. "I thought perhaps that might be the last I would see of her. How could I be so lucky as to warrant her return? And indeed, three days passed, and nothing. But on the fourth day, she came knocking on the door to the laboratory. Her father had not had business there for three days, she said, but he did today, and she had asked to come along, hoping to see me. I am sure you can imagine how my heart swelled to hear that!

"It was not long before she did not need an excuse to come and visit. She would tell her mother she was going to the Vatican to pray, and meet me there. Or we would meet elsewhere in Rome when the old man did not require me. It was quite a different city, then. I was quite a different man."

He sighs, slumps just a bit in his chair. "I suppose you can see where this story is headed. The beautiful rich girl and the young, penniless apprentice, sleeping on a straw mattress in the corner of the laboratory. It was not supposed to work out. She came to me one night in tears — her parents had arranged a marriage for her, as was custom, then, for such a family. The news was not a shock to me — I had known this day would come.

"I was prepared, you see. We'll run away, I told her, work on my inventions and sell them someday. I thought this would appeal to her — not just being with me, although I hoped that was a large part of it, but working, using her mind. She was a woman who should not have been born a woman in that time. She hesitated for a moment, and then she told me yes, she would run away with me. Oh, how my heart soared! It may well have been the most spectacular moment of my life.

"But we shouldn't be brash about it, she said. The wedding wasn't for months. Give her a month to prepare — in that time, she could steal a bit here, a bit there from her parents, her uncle, her new fiancé, even, and come up with enough money for us to get away, to live on for awhile. My beautiful, brilliant girl, I said, that's just what we'll do. There was an olive grove in the outskirts of the city where we used to picnic. We made plans to meet there in one month. We could go anywhere."

He clears his throat, picks up the cup and drains the last bit of espresso ringing the bottom of his cup.

"I suppose you see what happened. A month later, I waited and waited, and she never came. But perhaps she had been detained by her parents, her fiancé, I thought, and had been unable to make it that night. So I returned the next night, and the next. Still she did not come. I waited for her to come to the workshop, to leave a note — anything. When a week had passed, and I had not heard from her, I grew worried. I feared something terrible had happened to her."

There are tears in the old man's eyes. "I took a walk, down to her street. I saw her with him, that fiancé, and she was smiling, holding his hand. I did not know what to think. Perhaps she had decided she could not give up her life there. Perhaps she had fallen in love with this new man. But as you can imagine, my heartbreak was complete."

"I'm so sorry," Sydney says, her voice softer, affected by the love story. "But I don't understand what this has to do with me."

"My dear, that is not nearly the end of the story." The old man reaches for the Pellegrino and unscrews the cap. He pours to the brim of his cup, the water tinted brown from the coffee, and places the bottle back on the tray with a heavy clank. A small sip from the cup, and he begins again. "I did not ever talk to her again. I intended to, once. I'd had a bit too much to drink, I must admit, and I stumbled over to her house with every intention of confronting her. What did I have to lose?

"When I got there, I waited for awhile, hiding behind a carriage that had been parked across the street, working up the courage to go up and knock on the door. But I did not. The door opened after a few minutes and she came out with her fiancé — now her husband. But I saw then that she still possessed love for me. Oh, I saw the most beautiful thing! She was carrying in her arms a young infant child — a baby girl. And I wept there in the street as they got into the same carriage I was hiding behind and rode off. What a sacrifice she had made!"

The old man presses his hands together close to his face, his eyes bright, loving.

"I don't understand," Sydney says.

"The child was mine — I am certain of it. The dates, the age of the child, it had to be. But what sort of life would she have lived, with me? On the run with an infant? Isabel stayed to protect her baby — our baby. I suspect she did it to protect me, as well. If we had run and been caught, with her pregnant — I surely would have been hanged.

"Seeing her, seeing our child, brought peace to my heart. I knew then why she had never tried to contact me — the danger to both the child and myself would be too great. And I decided then that I would never again try to speak to her, or even to correspond. I returned to my work — it was one of two things I had left in my life. And I achieved many things. I am sure you know some of them. I came to have many followers, and just as many enemies. Ultimately, some of those enemies set into motion the events that led to my death, as it were."

He sips at his water, smiles. "Obviously, I am not dead. I told you that I also had many followers. That was their work."

"They faked your death?" Vaughn asks. He feels sharper, now — not quite normal, but his mind isn't nearly as sluggish, and he could probably get up and walk, if he needed to.

"Yes. I do not know how, precisely, and I am not sure I want to. Presumably someone died in my place — burned at the stake, as I was to be. I myself was spirited away the night before my scheduled execution. I went into hiding out in the country for many years, then when enough time had passed, I returned to Rome. I have been here, for the most part, since."

"That explains how you survived your execution," Sydney says. "But how are you still alive?"

"Oh, I am getting to that. You have to understand how I was in that time — so many ideas, so many plans. I felt that a lifetime was not nearly enough to complete them all. Then one night, I had a thought. Why not find a way to give myself more time — a longer life? Perhaps even eternal life."

He looks directly at Sydney, then Vaughn. "A preposterous idea, you think. But what is life without challenges? And it is not quite as preposterous as you might think. Our lives — how we are born, how we grow, how we age, and how we die — these are all governed by science. Thus science should be able to alter them, I thought, and maybe even halt them. You see this today, even — people now live longer than they did in that time. They will live even longer in the future, I have no doubt."

The old man sips at his water. He holds the cup almost daintily, the thin handle pressed between his thumb and index finger.

"The process was not easy. It took me years — the formula is complicated, although the basis of it lies in what today's medicine calls free radicals. But I did in fact find it. That is why I am here in front of you today."

"So you're going to live forever?" Vaughn asks.

"No. I could live forever, or at least I think so. It is possible that I have only drastically slowed my own aging, and in a few millennia I will succumb to old age. But all I was able to do was halt aging. I am not a vampire, or some cartoon character. What's that one you Americans are so fond of? The wile coyote? I am not that. If I were to step outside and be hit by a bus, I would die the same as anyone else."

"So this formula you used — you had to electrocute someone to make it work? You killed someone so you could live forever?" Sydney asks.

"No, dear, not at all." The old man pauses. "I am afraid the next part of the story does not reflect so well on me. You see, I have been alive for five hundred and fifty-nine years. For centuries, I was occupied with my work. I filled time with inventions, with theories — it was a glorious time for me. I should have known that it would end, eventually. Well, it didn't actually end, but the ideas slowed. I suppose there was only so much in me.

"At first, I found ways to deal with the free time. I read, traveled — took part in the things I had not had time for previously. But soon, I grew bored. In the 1950s, after the storm had passed here in Europe, I noticed that an American intelligence agency — your National Security Agency — had started to take an interest in my work."

The old man reaches for the Pellegrino, refills his cup, the thin trickle of water loud, obnoxious.

"You have to understand, although I survived my so-called execution, my work — journals, inventions — was lost. Some of it was destroyed, some my followers managed to salvage. But by that time there were items scattered about the globe. You know this. I pursued these things — at auctions, markets, private sales, hoping to find ideas I had forgotten. Some inspiration, perhaps.

"I built up a small network of scouts to seek them out and buy them for me. It was they who made me aware of sudden aggressive pursuit of my work by another party, which I learned was the NSA. A segment called the DSR, in particular. It was a boost for the ego, you must understand, to see anyone interested in me after all of those years. My followers and their families had long since died out, or lost interest.

"So I became a spy. Not the sort you two are, or were, in your case, Sydney, all creeping about with guns and such. No, I simply eavesdropped, and interpreted. It was more difficult, back then, before the age of the Internet and all. But I had money — it is easy to amass a small fortune over such a great amount of time. So I added to my network, finding men willing to listen in, and pass along communications. Radio interception and other such things.

"I set out to crack your NSA's encryption — finally a challenge again! And I did, although it took me the better part of two years. I possess a code that many, many agencies would have killed for. It was amusing, for a time, to read about their interpretations of my work — wrong, in so many cases — and to read about the fervor with which they pursued it.

"An idea began to take hold, and I wish I could say it was for greater purpose than entertainment of a bored old man, but alas it was not. I would lead them on a global scavenger hunt, if you will, to see what would happen. So I produced new documents, new inventions, and had them hid in locations around the world. And then I sat back to see what would happen — "

"So all of these things we've been searching for, they're all a hoax?" Vaughn interrupts.

How many people have died? How many times have they risked their own lives, for what this man says is fake, false, for his own entertainment?

"Not all of them. Only some of them. Others are real, from the documents and items I had lost hundreds of years ago."

"But we tested all of the documents, to see if they were forgeries," Vaughn says. "We tested them for age, and they were all consistent with the 15th century."

"Mr. Vaughn, does it really surprise you that someone who is able to defy age should be able to make something appear older than it actually is?"

Vaughn shakes his head. Your own father died because he was wrapped up in that quest. What if he hadn't been? Was it really the quest that corrupted him? Or was it just a catalyst?

The old man takes another sip of water. "Things came about in much the way I thought they would. I saw men consumed by greed, working so hard to figure out the puzzle I had created for them. I suppose I should have seen how ugly it would turn. The very thing that had been my greatest achievement — the formula for eternal life — I made the treasure they were all looking for. I should have understood what that would do to men. What that did to your own parents and comrades."

"Oh, so I was almost killed over some document you made up for kicks? That's even better. This is unbelievable." Vaughn briefly thinks he's about to see Sydney attack a 559-year-old man. He shifts, slides his hand across her back, just above the gun.

The old man nods, holds up one hand as if to stop her. "I understand that is what you must think at this point in the story. But it is not the truth. I told you earlier that there were two things in my life. Thus far, we have focused on the first — my work. But the second is much more important to me — my child.

"For although I did not ever have contact with her mother again, I could not live without seeing my child, without knowing how she was. I watched her from afar for many years — I returned to Isabel's home many times, always just to watch, and I saw my little girl grow up, go to school, get married. She had a daughter of her own — my granddaughter.

"I watched her mother die, even went to her funeral, although her husband was still alive, and I felt it risky. I introduced myself to my daughter as an old friend of her mother's. It was the closest I ever came to her or my grandchild.

"But I continued to watch, over the years. So many generations lived and died, but I never lost track of them. They did not all just have one girl, of course. There was a long span where the generations fanned out and I feared I would not be able to follow them — brothers and sisters and their children and their children's children. But they all stayed in Rome, and there were times of war, and sickness, and my family, as it were, contracted.

"Eventually, they came back down to one central line. One daughter, one woman. But she was the one who did not stay in Rome. She fell in love, she did, with a stranger to town — a Russian businessman. And when he returned to Moscow, she went with him. It was around that time that I lost my inspiration. Perhaps she was the fire that burned within me."

The old man looks beyond them again, to the window, although it must be dark behind them, the streak gone from the table.

"But I did not lose track of her, even then. I went to Moscow, and I found her — she was married by then, and with child. I stayed in Moscow through a cold Russian winter, and the birth of her child. I watched them, from the window of my apartment, across the street from their home. I saw the midwife go in, and ten days later, they left the house with the baby for the first time."

"I considered staying there, but Rome was and is my home. I could not leave it permanently for a family I only knew from a distance. Still, I visited from time to time. I watched this new daughter bring out her own little girl. That child, Sydney, was your great-grandmother."

He can hear Sydney's soft gasp beside him, feel her body tense beneath his hand, and although he can't see them, he knows her eyes: wide and shocked, disbelieving.

"I suppose you can figure out what happened after that," the old man continues. "Another daughter, who had a daughter. Two, actually, but one died when she was very young — tuberculosis. The one that lived, as you know, was recruited by the KGB. I lost track of her for many years after that — much of the time she spent in America. Her name came up, eventually, in the CIA memos I had been reading. Imagine my shock to find that my two worlds had intersected like that.

"I soon learned what she had been doing during that time. More importantly, I learned that she, too, had a daughter. I watched you grow up from afar, Sydney, from farther than any of the children up to that point. I learned of your achievements from newspaper clippings, the honor roll and your graduation, your choice of a college.

"And I learned of your recruitment from a CIA memo, written by your father, so distraught. I watched you, like your mother, become caught up in a mess of my own creation, working for a man who would sacrifice anything to solve my puzzle. I feared for you, Sydney, and I cursed myself for doing what I had. My petty plan had threatened the most important people in my life, and it became my only focus to right that wrong. But I could not think of a way to make it all end for you. Until recently. That document you speak of, the one that suggests your electrocution — I created it eight months ago."

"You were the sniper on the balcony," Vaughn says.

"Yes. Pretty good shot for an old man, huh?" He half-smiles. "I decided it was time to force a conclusion. There are still some loose ends to tie up — those two up there and the fake document they sought are part of that. But I wanted to set you free, Sydney. So that you could carry on."

But one thing doesn't make sense. "How does the prophecy fit into all of this? Was that part of your endgame as well?"

"Ah, that. No, that was an even greater coincidence. That was one of my original documents. You see, Sydney, you look more like Isabel than anyone I have seen for many generations. So beautiful. I am sure you agree." He looks at Vaughn. "That sketch is of Isabel. It was created in the time I thought she had spurned me. I fantasized becoming a powerful scientist, releasing that into the world and finally extracting my revenge for the pain she had caused me, having her detained, embarrassing her husband and her family. I do not think I could have actually done such a thing — I have always loved her, even in that time — but it helped me to cope.

"But then I learned what she had truly done, of her sacrifice, and I forgot about the document. It was one of the ones lost during my death, as it were. If I had remembered its existence, I would have destroyed it long before then. But it was not part of my more recent plans. I feared for you greatly, Sydney, when I read the FBI's communiques during that time. It was merely an unfortunate coincidence that it resurfaced when it did."

They lapse into silence, and Vaughn tries to think back through the story, to process everything the old man — should he call him Rambaldi? — has said.

"Oh!" The old man exclaims. "There is something I should show you. I do apologize. I had not planned to be telling this story today. I had not been planning to tell it ever, really. I will be right back."

Rambaldi walks to the stairs, pounding up the old wood.

When he is out of sight, Sydney turns to Vaughn. "Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"It's either the truth, or the most elaborate lie I've ever heard. I don't know if we have any way to verify it, either way."

"Vaughn, what does it mean, if it's the truth?"

"I don't know, Syd. I don't know."

The old man creaking back down the stairs. He walks into the living room carrying an old, leather-bound book. Over to the coffee table, handing it eagerly to Sydney.

It is larger than her lap when she opens it gingerly, revealing a sketchbook, the pages yellowed parchment. Isabel, 1442-1503 scripted across the top, below it, sketched out in a familiar style, a near copy of the woman in the prophecy document. She resembles Sydney in this, as well.

"Our family," Rambaldi says. He stands there, hovering, watching Sydney as she begins flipping through the book, careful with the brittle old paper. Each page a new member of the family, name and dates of birth and death across the top, relationship to previous members detailed on the bottom. Each looks slightly different, but the lineage is clear.

"You loved them all," Sydney says, softly.

"Yes. Very much."

"But you never once tried to contact any of them. Even while all of this was going on, you never contacted me. Why?"

"I did not feel it was my place. And if I had, what would I say? How would I reveal my relationship to them? How would I explain that I would never age in the time they knew me? I would outlive them, each and every one of them. Would you believe me, Sydney? Do you even believe me now?"

"I don't know," she says. "This — " she points to the book, open to Vittorio, 1723-1745, a young man with dark hair and bold eyes, long lashes — "this makes it easier."

She continues to flip through the book until she reaches Irina, 1951 - , and a striking portrait of her mother. She does not linger on Sydney, 1975 - , a rendering that has her smiling faintly, her eyes expressive, hair modern and straight, not at all like Isabel's. The rest of the book, roughly a third, is blank. Sydney eases it closed and hands it back to Rambaldi, balanced on her palms like an offering.

"Thank you, for letting me see that."

"No, Sydney. Thank you, for listening at least. I would not ever have contacted you, but it has been such an honor and a pleasure to meet you." The old man reaches into his sweater pocket, pulls out a gold pocketwatch by the chain. "It is late, now, and those two will not stay sedated forever, up there. I suppose we should think about doing something with them."

"What were you planning to do?" Vaughn asks.

"Ditch them somewhere and provide the carabiniere with an anonymous tip. I saw they were on Interpol's most wanted list."

"Yes. Top 10," Vaughn says. "How were you going to carry them?"

"I wasn't going to carry so much as drag," Rambaldi says. "So I suppose it is fortunate the two of you are here."

"Well, we can't just ditch them somewhere," Vaughn says, looking to Sydney. "At least I can't."

"Oh, yes. You are still with the CIA. Well, then I shall make it easier on myself and release them to you."

"I don't think we can do that. I mean, the CIA has been searching for your work for a very long time. They're going to want to talk to you. They're going to want — "

"Vaughn," Sydney interrupts, her hand on his arm. "They're going to test him, interrogate him — probably take him into custody — maybe permanently. Look what they did to me. We can't do that to him — he hasn't done anything but help us."

"We've got an answer, now, to the Rambaldi mystery. How else are we going to provide the CIA with that information? Syd, Sloane may be dead, and we can take those two into custody, but as long as you're referenced in those documents, it's never really going to be over for you."

"That's a chance I'm willing to take," she says, her eyes strong. She considers this man family now — sometime, in the story, or the sketches, he has won her over.

"Vaughn, please."

For a moment, although he's committed, it is hard to open his mouth. "Okay. How are we going to work this?"

"Obviously you will need to move them to another location," Rambaldi says.

"Yeah, but we can't just take them to a safehouse and say we found them somewhere. They'll want details."

"There is a house a few miles from here that has been abandoned," Rambaldi says. "I can give you a document to plant, to make it appear that they would have interest there. From there, you can contact your CIA, Mr. Vaughn."

"We'd have to drive their car there," Sydney reaches down into the front pocket of her jeans, pulls out a set of car keys, a tiny rubber Hertz logo attached to the keychain. "Sark had these on him."

"Wait a minute," Vaughn says. "They're going to know we had help — they've obviously been tranqued, and tranquilizer guns aren't exactly the sort of thing you take on vacation."

"We can use the antidote to clear that up," Rambaldi says. "However, that means they will be awake for some time."

"That should be okay," Vaughn says. "They'll still be restrained and unarmed." And unconscious again, if need be.

"Wait — they're going to remember where they were. They'll know that we moved them," Sydney says. "They'll know this address."

"My dear, they're not going to remember where they were for most of this week. That stuff packs quite a punch." Rambaldi winks at her. "Even with the antidote."

"How are we going to call the Agency?" Vaughn pulls his cell phone from his pocket, hits one of the buttons to light up the display. Still no service. "Neither of our cell phones are working."

"Oh — I nearly forgot about that!" Rambaldi straightens, brings one hand up to his mouth, the other locked around the spine of the sketchbook. "I do need to turn that off."

"You were blocking our reception?" Vaughn asks. "You didn't even know we were here."

"I was blocking everyone's reception. I didn't want them to be able to call back to Christophe, and I don't have a way to block individual phones."

"But we didn't have reception all the way back at the airport," Sydney says.

"Yes, it is still a bit too powerful. I am working on that."

"Aren't people going to notice when all of Rome loses cell reception for a day?" Vaughn asks.

"They do notice. They blame it on solar radiation or some other such nonsense. This is not the first time I've done it," Rambaldi says. "I'll turn it off when we go upstairs. You should have reception soon after that. Shall we?"

Rambaldi waits for them both to rise, then turns and starts toward the stairs. Although Vaughn feels tired, walking doesn't seem to be a problem, now. He uses the handrail as they go up, just in case.

Sark and the double are still unconscious when they reach the top of the stairs. Rambaldi walks to the far armoire, Vaughn and Sydney to the bodies on the floor. They stand over them, waiting, as Rambaldi opens the armoire. It is filled with stacks of blank parchment and leather-bound books, ink wells and calligraphy pens. And on the top shelf, a long row of royal blue apothecary bottles, hand-labeled.

Rambaldi picks up one of the bottles, pulls the glass top off, and inserts the needle of a large syringe, pulled from somewhere deep in the cabinet. He draws back the plunger until the syringe is full of clear liquid and places the bottle back on the shelf, the lid back on with a light clink.

"Take off their shoes, one each." Rambaldi presses the plunger slightly, two tiny drops slipping out of the needle. "We do not want the injection site to be easily found, correct?"

"I don't think they'll do that close of an exam, not on people we bring in alive." Vaughn kneels beside the double, anyway, begins to pull off one of her boots. He feels absurd, sitting here, holding the foot of an international criminal. "I guess it's better to be safe than sorry, though."

Vaughn peels off the double's sock as the old man sits beside him, lifts the woman's foot and runs his thumb over her arch.

"The toxicology should present much like methamphetamine, if they do run a drug test," Rambaldi says, neatly sliding the needle into a vein. He presses the plunger halfway, pulls the needle back out, then turns to Sydney, kneeling beside Sark, a black sock and an expensive leather shoe in her hand.

Vaughn struggles to get the double's sock and then boot back on as Rambaldi injects Sark. He manages, finally, and pulls the leg of her jeans back down. He turns to help Sydney, but she's nearly done, already, slipping Sark's shoe back on. Vaughn thinks, oddly, of Cinderella.

"You should have about half an hour before they wake up," Rambaldi says, standing.

Vaughn crawls over to Sark's head, eases his hands under the man's limp shoulders.

Sydney looks up at him. "You going to be okay to do this?"

"Yeah. I'm feeling a lot better, now."

"Let me go first, just in case. On three." She hooks her hands around Sark's ankles. "One. Two. Three."

He grasps Sark's arms and stands with her, finds the body isn't nearly as heavy as he'd expected. Sydney turns and starts toward the stairs in tiny, shuffling steps.

———

"That's good enough," Sydney says, a relief. His arms are starting to go prickly-numb, little needles of pain shooting through his shoulders, fingers starting to cramp, tight around the double's shoulders.

They are halfway across the hallway on the ground floor, not quite to the spot near the door where they'd dropped Sark, but she must be as tired as him, and probably more. He still goes to the gym to lift occasionally, but she hasn't done anything besides running in months.

They bend over and release the body. It falls with a loud thud on the tile, and he stands, shakes out his arms and hands with her, a little out of breath.

Rambaldi, who had wisely chosen to go down the stairs before them this time, stands near the entrance to the living room, holding two old brown extension cords and a pair of scissors. "I was thinking — those ties also are not the sort of thing you would bring on vacation, yes? These are something a little more like what you would find in the house."

They'd dropped Sark on his stomach, but the double lies on her back. Vaughn leans over and flips her as Rambaldi cuts the ties from Sark's hands and feet. He cuts both extension cords in half, as well, and hands two lengths to Sydney, two lengths to Vaughn, then moves on to the double.

They work quickly, the extension cords in tight knots around hands and feet. It's taken them at least 10 minutes to carry both bodies downstairs, and he'd much rather their captives wake up in their destination, instead of here, or in a car trunk.

Rambaldi stands first, followed by Sydney. He pulls a pair of brown leather gloves from a sweater pocket, hands them to her. "For driving the car. I thought they might look for fingerprints."

"That's good," she says. "We're going to have to put them in their car — there's no room in ours."

"I'll move it," Vaughn volunteers. Sydney may want some time alone with the old man, and this will be her only opportunity.

Sydney hands him the keys and gloves and he steps over Sark, opens the front door only far enough to slip through, pulls it closed behind him.

The street is dark, quiet. A few scattered golden windows, but no one walking the cobblestones, and the pizzeria appears closed. He had been worried about that.

He sprints the short distance to the convertible, hits the remote keyless and is rewarded with flashing parking lights. He slips on the gloves before he touches the door, finds they're thick but supple. Door open, he climbs inside, starts the car and backs crooked across the street, stopping when the trunk is just in front of the red door.

He pops the trunk before he gets out of the car, walks around to push it all the way open. It is empty, their bags in the backseat. Everything ready, he looks around the alley — still no one he can see, no faces in the lit windows. They must be careful, terribly careful, because the old man can't afford suspicious activity around his apartment, can't have the police showing up here and asking questions.

Back through the red door slowly, not sure what — if anything — they're talking about, but he wants to give fair warning.

" — supposed to graduate in December." Sydney looks over at him. "Are we ready?"

"Yeah."

The old man moves to the door and they walk over to Sark's body, first, sore arms, sore hands protesting when they pick him up. Rambaldi pulls the door open at the last possible second, and they rush the body to the trunk, trying to block as much of the view as possible with their own bodies. They push Sark all the way in, up against the seat backs, trying to arrange arms and legs, to preserve space for the double. Vaughn pushes the trunk halfway down before they go back inside, enough that the body isn't visible.

Back in, Rambaldi holding the door open again and then rushing to pull the trunk all the way open. The double barely fits, and he is not sure what they would have done if she did not. Vaughn slams the trunk closed and wonders briefly about the amount of oxygen in there, decides it doesn't matter; they won't be in there long.

They stand, awkward, in the alley for a moment — time for goodbyes, here, now? — before Rambaldi takes a step back toward the door. "I have a few more things for you," he says. They follow.

A roll of parchment and two large Maglites are propped against the wall in the hallway. Rambaldi hands them to Sydney, along with a folded piece of notebook paper from his sweater pocket. "You'll need the flashlights — there's no power. I suppose you can say that they had them. Plus your red herring, and directions."

Sydney unfolds the paper, stares at it for maybe a twenty seconds, and then hands it back. "I shouldn't have that on me," she says.

"Very good point." Rambaldi smiles and pushes both hands deep into his sweater pockets, seems small, trepid, the old man you pass on the street and don't look at twice. "Good luck, both of you."

"Goodbye." Sydney puts a hand on Rambaldi's left arm, leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "Would you mind if we came back to visit? I know it's not a good idea this time, but if we're in Rome again?"

The old man lights up like she's proposed marriage — in this moment his lonely, perpetual existence laid out on his face.

"I would like that very much, Sydney," he says. There are tears in his eyes.

Not sure of what he should do, but aware he needs to do something, and they really should be going, Vaughn holds out his hand, waits for Rambaldi to remove his from the pocket. Limp handshake and thank you.

They walk out the red door. He catches Sydney taking a long look back, wonders if the old man stands in the parlor window, watching her walk away. He does not turn to check.

This is their moment.

———

They drive away from the city, Sydney in the lead, Vaughn close behind. Under the GRA, the houses growing larger, farther apart.

Sydney turns down a side street, silent and dark, and then disappears down an unmarked driveway. He follows her. It is narrow, sided by thick trees, and bumpy — paved with concrete but laced with cracks that have filled in with high grass, weeds.

But there it is, up ahead where the trees clear slightly. Two stories tall and big, broad. Painted white at some point, but much of that has given way to gray wood. What was once a large porch in the front has largely collapsed, and most of the windows are broken, jagged edges pointing up and down like teeth. Vaughn looks at all of this, illuminated in his headlights, and thinks the place is much better suited to ghost stories — or maybe actual ghosts — than what they're about to do.

Sydney parks their car in the front, but he keeps going, to the back of the house, near what was once the walk to a back door. He considers leaving his headlights on, decides against it, pops the trunk and steps out of the car. Clicks on his Maglite and walks around to the back. The double is still unconscious, Sark hardly visible but not moving.

Sydney sprints towards him, her flashlight beam bouncing off of the trees that frame the overgrown grass lot. She holds the Rambaldi document in her other hand. They will not need to check for watchers this time; the only visible light comes from their flashlights, the moon and stars overhead, bright out here.

"We should check the house first," she says. "So we know what we're getting into."

He lowers the trunk lid and they start toward a back door, up old wood steps that look a bit rickety but are, fortunately, intact. Vaughn considers the gun tucked into his jeans, decides to pull it out as she opens the door. He doesn't expect any humans, but wild animals seem a real possibility.

Gun and flashlight side by side in front of him, into an old kitchen done in black and white tile, the appliances 50 or 60 years old, at least. There are still jars on the counter, plates in a cabinet where the door hangs half off of its hinges. The floor is covered with leaves and dirt.

He follows her down a short hallway, running his flashlight the length of a front room that must have been a living room, or parlor, perhaps. Parlor seems a better fit for the era this house must have thrived under, the expense that must have gone into it at some point, before it was forgotten.

It is large, the floor wooden and rotting, covered with lichen in a patch near one of the broken windows, still curtained. Some evidence of squatters or, more likely, teenagers — fast food wrappers, broken beer bottles, a used condom strewn around the edges, in and amongst the leaves. No furniture save for a broken chair and a pile of boards that may have been shelves once.

"We should plant this now," she says, waving the parchment.

"Our prints are on it, and if there's one thing they'll analyze to death, it's that. I don't think we should plant it — maybe we should just find a place that they would have got it from."

"Do you want to check out the rest of the house?"

"Not particularly." This place is creepy as fuck, and possibly not very stable.

He walks toward a corner of the room near one of the windows, kicks aside some of the detritus, tucks the gun back in his jeans. There is a small gap between the floorboards where the edges of the wood have rotted away, and he slips his fingers inside, grabs the board and pulls. It takes a bit of muscle, but the board gives way, popping back in his hand.

There is a space about half a foot high between the floor they stand on and what must be the ceiling to the basement, musty, filled with cobwebs and a few lengths of old copper wire.

"Give me the document," he says.

She walks over, hands it to him, and he slides the parchment into the hole in the floorboards, then back out. It comes out with bits of dirt, dust, clinging to it, and he lays it down in the leaves along the wall. That ought to be sufficient. The first thing they'll do is try to knock all the dust off and try to read it.

He stands back up and follows her back through the house. They leave one flashlight in the living room, the other in the kitchen, positioned as best they can to light the way. Outside in the moonlight, he opens the trunk with the keys and then pockets them, struggles to get a grip on the double's shoulders in the scant space he has to work with. Sydney tucks her hands around the woman's knees, shifts back to ankles when they finally pull her out of the trunk.

Up to the house, careful on the old stairs, through the kitchen and the hallway. They deposit the body on the floor in front of an old marble fireplace and stride back out of the house to get Sark. Both of them must be close to waking, and they don't want either of them to do so unattended.

Neither of them has hands free to close the trunk, once they've pulled Sark's body out; someone will need to make another trip.

They place Sark on the floor right next to the double, and he stands, pulls off the gloves, his hands sweating. "Let me go run these out to our car and shut that trunk."

"I'll get it," she says, her hand darting out. He gives her the gloves and watches her leave the way they came in. The front door is closer, but likely impassable, given the state of the porch.

He stands, facing the bodies, and wonders how close they are to that half hour.

It takes her a long time, it seems, to return. His back is to her, but he can hear the door clap shut in the kitchen, her footsteps through the hallway. He turns his head to watch her walk in, flashlight beam bobbing against the peeling wallpaper.

"I'll just hang on to the keys," she says. "Presumably we'd have searched them for weapons."

"Sounds good."

He waits for her to come join him, standing here, watching them, waiting. But she walks over to one of the windows, looks outside, then moves to the edge of the room, right beside the hallway. She sits on a fairly clean portion of the floor, her back to their captives.

He glances at the bodies, both still unmoving, then walks over to her spot on the floor. "You okay, Syd?"

"I can't — I don't want to look at her, anymore," she says, her voice quivering.

"Do you want to leave? You could take the car and go to the hotel. They'll want to talk to you later, but you don't have to stay here."

"No. I don't want to leave you alone with them, especially in this house. I'll just stay here unless you need help, if that's okay."

"Of course." He leans over, lays his hand on her shoulder for a moment, then crosses the room, over to the window. He picks up the end of the old, rotting curtains and tears off a strip, then rips it in half.

Then over to the bodies. He bends over the double first and pushes down her jaw, stuffing the strip of fabric into her mouth. He does the same to Sark. No need for them to be talking. Especially her.

He returns to Sydney and sits, facing them, his back against hers, knees tucked. "I'll call the Agency as soon as they show signs of waking, if that's okay."

"Yes. Thank you."

He reaches back, knuckles scraping on the damp old wood, until he finds her hand, clasps it in his.

Silence, for awhile, the bodies still motionless. He leans his head back until it rests against hers.

"How did he even know this was here?" she asks.

"Maybe it was his house, at some point."

"Then it wouldn't be a good idea to send us here. They'll check the ownership of the house."

"He probably owned it under another name. My guess is whoever's on the title is listed as dead somewhere."

"How often do you think he does that — changes identities?"

"I don't know." He runs his thumb over her wrist, her palm.

"I can't imagine that kind of life."

"Me either."

Someone across the room stirring. Vaughn picks up the flashlight from his lap, points it at the bodies. Reaches behind his back for the gun as he stands.

The double is awake, her eyes shining dark and angry in the flashlight beam. She shakes her arms and legs, tests the binding, but the cords hold.

Sark moving now, too. Vaughn walks the short distance to them. The double wants to speak, but can't, grunting into the makeshift gag. Gun or flashlight?

He chooses flashlight, holding the gun on her as he brings the Maglite handle down hard on her temple. A loud crack, and her head rolls to the side, unconscious again. He does the same to Sark, seconds after his eyes open.

Back to Sydney, sitting on the floor in front of her hips, his cell phone out, full service. He dials the emergency number for Station Rome, gets an answer on the first ring.

"Authorization code?" The voice sounds like a young man's, quick and snappy.

"P. Nine. Two. Four. Five. Six. One. Zero."

"Calling?"

"Michael Vaughn. Base Station Los Angeles."

"Purpose?"

"We've apprehended two Interpol top 10 fugitives. We need a little help collecting, here."

"What's the status of the fugitives?"

"Alive but unconscious."

"All right, Agent Vaughn. We're putting together a tactical team right now. We'll be mobile in five minutes, max. Where are you?"

"It's an abandoned house. What should be Via Paolo Mancini 26, but it's not marked."

"Give us 15, we should be there. Call if your threat level changes."

"We will."

The young man ends the call.

"They'll be here in 15 minutes," Vaughn says. "We should get our story straight. They'll want to debrief both of us."

"Yeah. Vaughn?"

"What?"

"Thank you, for doing this."

"You don't have to thank me, Syd. I don't like doing it, but I think you're right. It's what we need to do."