Furnace
Where fine tailored suits are made was the message John sent on the eighth day.
It took him one day to leave the country and find a hotel in central Italy.
Finding a hacker who would send the message and keep his mouth shut proved to be a bit more difficult. The money wouldn't have been an issue if the hacker hadn't demanded an exorbitant price.
John had to negotiate, which had cost him more time than he thought. Turns out? He wasn'tthat good at speaking Italian.
On the tenth day, John received a reply. The code was harder to decipher than the one John had sent, almost as if Harold was chiding him for daring to send him such a simple one.
Thankfully, John still had the entire day to figure it out. He took the subway to reach the national library. There he occupied a large table, which he used to check out old books and find out what Harold sent. An hour later, he left the library quite satisfied and with a new destination in mind: Brussels.
He checked in at a hotel near the central train station, one that didn't cost much but was decent enough. The next morning, the weather was surprisingly sunny. John left his room wearing jeans, his usual shoes and a blue shirt. He looked like a tourist.
At the Grand Place, where most people took pictures of the old buildings, he sat down at a table in one of the overpriced café-brasserie's almost full terrace and ordered a coffee. He had only been there for five minutes when he heard a voice behind him.
"You should taste one of their waffles or crêpes, they're delicious."
He didn't tell Harold he had seen him coming, watching his reflection in someone else's glasses. He just turned around and smiled.
It was good to see him again. No, it was better than good. John felt like he could finally breathe.
"I think I will. I've got all the time in the world," he replied.
Harold smiled and sat in front of him. John noticed that he was wearing the exact same clothes he had worn the day he found John in Italy all those months ago. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. It was a pleasant sight, anyway.
They didn't talk for a while; they watched the comings and goings in the Grand Place. John had been there before with Kara. A significant number of politicians came to this town to make deals and not just the Europeans. Many of them were persons of interest to the CIA and other agencies.
John checked his memory, but he already knew how many people he had killed in the city, three. Technically, two had been Kara, but they had been his responsibility too.
A waiter came; Harold and he spoke in French.
"Je vais prendre un café et mon ami et moi allons goûter votre gaufre au sucre," Harold said.
The waiter nodded and wrote down the order.
"Très bien, monsieur," he said and left.
"I ordered waffles with sugar," Harold told John. "It's one of their specialties here"
John already knew it was a specialty, just like chocolate, beer and French fries were, but he wasn't there for the food.
He wanted to ask Harold what he had been up to since their departure from New York, if he was okay. He wanted to ask about Bear. He wanted to ask about Shaw, if she was okay too.
In the end, he said nothing and scanned the crowd.
Harold followed his gaze.
"We're all alone here," he told John.
Well, John thought, at least there's a 'we' in that sentence.
"What do you think then?"
Harold nodded at John's nearly empty plate. John swallowed the last bite of his waffle and sighed. "It's good."
Harold smiled.
It was surreal. Two weeks ago, John thought he had lost him, that he was gone, kidnapped, tortured, but Harold was here, eating a waffle, smiling at John like nothing had happened, like they hadn't had to flee their home.
He supposed he ought to enjoy the moment, and indeed the waffle had been delicious. He was just too nervous and Harold's merry attitude worried him.
"Did you know there's a statue nearby that can bring you luck if you touch it?" Harold asked.
"Always the professor," John replied, but he nodded. "You have to touch the arm and you're granted a wish."
Harold wiped his mouth with a napkin before he answered.
"Yes. The statue is called Status de t'Serclaes. It was made in 1902. Well, it's not the real one; I think it's been replaced... Still, I suggest we go and take a look. After all, we could use a wish."
John stared at him. Harold pretended not to see it. He took out his wallet, left a generous tip, and together they left the terrace.
"You don't have to tip here," John told him.
"Yes I know, but I like tipping whenever and wherever I can. You know that. Come on, the statue is close."
They walked in silence. John's uneasiness grew.
Usually, it meant there was someone around who was a danger to Harold. It meant shooting kneecaps. This time, the warnings in John's head had nothing to do with the people around them.
No, it was Harold, Harold and his smile, his suggestion, his entire demeanor. He was the warning.
John knew him too well, enough to realize Harold was performing; he was playing a part, but which one? They weren't being followed, there were no cameras or listening devices pointed at them at the moment. We're all alone, Harold had said, but it didn't feel like it, did it?
John almost put a hand on Harold's shoulder to stop him but it was too late, they were now in front of the statue. Tourists were smiling or making faces while friends and family took their pictures.
There was no line, no turn, but when they finally managed to reach the statue, John noticed Harold's fingertips barely brushed against it.
"Germs," Harold explained. "You never know."
It was unsettling not to be called Mr. Reese. It was like it was on the tip of Harold's tongue but he was refraining from saying it.
"Why don't we go back to your hotel?" John proposed.
That made Harold pause.
They exchanged a glance.
"I don't know; it's a sunny day. We could always walk more," Harold replied.
There was no expression on his face, no sign that he wanted to say more. John sighed. This was getting to be too ridiculous, even for Harold.
"I'll go whatever you go and you know that," John whispered, "but I'm not here to be a tourist."
Harold hummed to that, as if he expected nothing less, as if he had been waiting for John to say this.
"Fine," he said. "But perhaps it would be better if we didn't go there together."
He put his hand in his pocket and handed John a piece of paper. The name of the hotel and the number of a room were written on it.
"You'll burn it later," Harold said, before leaving him in the middle of the crowd.
A new group came, pushing John a little. He almost crushed the foot of a young mother, who was there with her three kids. She glared at him.
He shook his head, apologized and finally left the Grand Place. It's only later, when he was making his way to Harold's hotel, that it occurred to him that none of them had even touched the statue.
Later that evening, Harold opened the door to his hotel and ushered John in.
The room he was staying in was large and luxurious, making John believe Harold still had access to most of his assets. There was a large wooden table; Harold's laptop was on top of it and he was clutching a stack of papers in his hand. Harold set the papers on the table and sat down in front of his laptop.
He made a gesture with his hand, inviting John to sit on the opposite chair, which he did.
"So," John said. "How are you, Harold?"
"I am fine, Mr. Reese. And how are you?" Harold replied, without glancing his way.
This was proving to be a bit more difficult than John thought. He sighed and decided not to answer. After a moment, Harold raised his head and stared at him. John stared back.
"Hello Harold," he said, his tone indicating how annoying he thought Harold was being. "I'm pleased to see you."
Harold rolled his eyes. "Yes. Hello. I'm pleased to see you too."
John couldn't help it. There was something so familiar about this (the gesture, the tone, so Harold), he had to smile at him.
"How have you been?" he asked.
"Mr. Reese, do you have any idea what's happening right now, what I've been doing since we... were forced to leave the city?"
He didn't sound judgmental, just curious. John nodded.
"I can only guess."
Harold smiled.
"No, I don't think you can guess," he replied. He took a deep breath and added: "I'm talking to her."
"Her?"
"Yes, Mr. Reese. Her. The Machine."
A silence followed his statement. John stared at him, trying to process the information. Harold had always been reluctant to talk to her ever since John knew him. He just refused, to the point that the Machine had picked Root as her human interface. Things had to be pretty bad for this sudden change of heart.
"It was bound to happen eventually," John ended up saying.
He pretended he didn't see the way Harold looked relieved, as if he had expected John to be mad. Truth was, he wasn't that happy with this new development, but he wasn't angry either.
"We don't have a choice, do we?" he asked.
Harold nodded. He looked pleased, which was at odds with what John said.
"No, Mr. Reese. We don't have a choice"
"Okay," he replied. "What's the plan?"
The plan was to take back Manhattan.
While John had been busy hiring a hacker in Italy and sending a ridiculously coded message, Harold had been talking to the Machine. What really happened and how it happened, John didn't know because Harold didn't tell him. After several attempts to form a plan, they had decided on one. They communicated online using God knows how many coded messages and software to prevent Samaritan from catching them.
It would be like a game if the losers didn't have to die.
"Dare I ask if you have news of Root and Shaw?"
"I've not been in contact with Ms. Shaw. I imagine she's busy doing whatever she does when she's not with us."
John nodded.
"And Root?"
"Ms. Groves and I have not been communicating."
That meant he intended to contact her. John sighed.
"I don't like this," he said.
It was pointless, it wouldn't change anything, but he needed to say it. He hadn't forgotten what Root had done. He hadn't forgotten how enraged he had felt when she had kidnapped Harold. He couldn't just stand by and give a silent approval.
Harold, busy typing on his keyboard, glanced at him but didn't reply.
"It's almost time for dinner," he said. "Are you hungry, Mr. Reese?"
"Are you going to order in?"
"Yes. The menu is on the nightstand."
John entered the bedroom and picked the menu. He took a look around and saw nothing that could indicate the room was taken. The bed looked perfectly made. Not for the first time, he wondered if Harold bothered to do the same thing in his own home. Maybe 'home' was relative when it came to Harold.
It made him think of the library. Not a good thought. John returned with the menu in his hands.
Harold wasn't hungry. The dinner was meant for John. He didn't protest, knew ordering for two would have caused Harold more anxiety than it was worth.
One of the hotel staff came minutes later with a plate of fancy pasta. Harold thanked him and closed the door.
John started to eat while Harold kept typing. The sound of his hands hitting the keyboard was weirdly reassuring. This is what John was supposed to hear in his ears, every day.
"How long are we going to stay here?" he asked.
"We're going to visit Bruges tomorrow," Harold replied.
"And by visit, I hope you mean doing something useful," John told him.
Harold raised an eyebrow.
"Have you forgotten who you're talking to?"
John shook his head, amused.
He returned to his own hotel not too long after that. Harold had asked him to meet him at the South Station the next morning.
For the first time since he left New York, John slept like a baby.
At 8AM, the station was full of people, most of them busy and rushing to the subway exit, others were sitting on benches. John decided to do the latter. He had bought two croissants earlier, one for him and one for Harold. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a vest.
He didn't feel out of place, there, watching people move around. He felt strangely calm. What was waiting for them in Bruges, he had no idea, but he would ask Harold.
Harold joined him ten minutes later, holding a briefcase and two tickets in his hand. He was dressed in a bespoke suit as usual.
"Good morning, Mr. Reese," he said.
Harold gave John his ticket and together, they took the elevator to the platform. A voice kept announcing all the arrivals and departures. John listened but couldn't understand a word.
"This train will stop twice before we reach Bruges, but the trip will only take one hour," Harold explained.
Five minutes later, the train arrived. John followed Harold, who took a seat next to the window, his briefcase between his feet.
"Here, for you."
He gave Harold the croissant.
"Thank you," Harold replied.
They were eating in silence as the train left the station. Harold watched the landscape while John took a quick look around to see who was inside the compartment with them. Nobody caused his radar to ping, they were all harmless travelers.
"No one is following us," Harold whispered.
John nodded.
"Doesn't hurt to check," he replied.
The rest of the trip went without incidents. The train stopped at Gent, and a family of three came inside their compartment. They sat behind John and Harold.
John listened to them talk, they were speaking in Dutch and were also harmless. Harold gave him a look, John shrugged. He wasn't the one who had been so paranoid and weird yesterday.
When the train finally stopped, John took a look at his watch. Harold had been right, only an hour had passed. The station in Bruges was considerably less busy than the one they had left in Brussels.
"Do you want coffee to take with us?" Harold asked him.
"I'm fine," John replied.
"I'll take coffee," Harold said.
He was walking with confidence, and looked less anxious than yesterday. John wondered if he had been here before.
Harold paid for his coffee and they left the station. The weather was more or less the same as it was in Brussels; warm but not so hot that they would feel the need to complain about the heat. There was a park nearby; they walked there first, slowly, just looking around.
"Are you going to tell me why we're here now?"
Harold shook his head, amused.
"You know I hate surprises," John insisted.
"Enjoy the city, Mr. Reese. You'll have to worry later when we meet a certain gentleman."
That was all Harold would tell him.
Ten minutes later, they reached a part of town that looked like the perfect setting for a period movie. It was the Bruges John had in mind when Harold first told him where they were going. Walking in those streets was like being transported into the past, like the city was inviting them to discover just how strange things were back then.
They shared a look as they came across a pond. John was surprised by what he was seeing.
"Swans?"
"They're everywhere in Bruges."
They kept walking.
"Nuns live here," Harold said, pointing to their left, to a path that led to a row of houses. "It's called the Beguinage."
"Did you do research before we came here? Are you my tour guide now, Harold?"
"I'm only curious. Aren't you?"
John stared at him.
"It's difficult to care about the city when you're not telling me what's waiting for us"
Harold sighed.
"I told you," he said. "We have a meeting later. I also happen to know you took a gun with you, Mr. Reese, which I believe won't be necessary in this instance. You should enjoy Bruges. It's a beautiful city."
It was the careless tone Harold was using that made John see red. He wanted to tell Harold this wasn't an issue, that the issue was Harold hiding things from him, not trusting him. They were supposed to be a team, weren't they? Only Harold was holding all the cards and John was left to navigate blind. How could he possibly enjoy Bruges under those conditions?
"It is a beautiful city, but that's not the problem. I think you know what the problem is, Harold."
He hadn't meant to speak with such a harsh tone, but it was too late. Harold turned to look at him, surprised and a bit... hurt?
"What do you mean?" he asked, looking so innocent he couldn't possibly be sincere.
"I thought we were going to do this together," John told him. "That's what you said in the hotel. We. That implies you and me. I don't mind being your bodyguard, Harold; I just want to know who or what is going to blow up in our faces."
John stared at him, daring him to reply, but of course this was the moment Harold chose to take his time. He looked pensive, like he was analyzing every word, like he was trying to calculate the best answer possible. John felt tired.
"You're right," Harold said. "And I promise you, Mr. Reese, I wasn't trying to hide things from you. I just wanted you to enjoy the city while the calm lasted."
"I'm not going to enjoy anything if I worry about your safety," John replied.
Harold looked at him. John couldn't read him, which was unnerving. He was about to clarify his thought when Harold started speaking again.
"We're meeting a man named Boris Van Hout. He's going to sell me something I need."
"Something you need?"
"A chip," Harold said.
Several tourists with cameras walked right past them. Maybe it was Harold's influence, but John was starting to become a little paranoid himself.
"It's too crowded. Let's move," he proposed.
John didn't have to ask twice. They kept walking, he stayed close to Harold.
"This chip you want, did the Machine tell you to get it?" he ended up asking, when his curiosity became a bit too much.
Harold nodded.
"So there really is a plan and we're doing this," he said out loud, without really meaning to.
Harold seemed so troubled by his question that he stopped walking and put a hand on John's arm.
"Did you doubt it?" he asked.
John opened his mouth but closed it a second later. He knew the answer to his question was important somehow, that maybe Harold needed to be reassured too.
"I didn't doubt you," John told him.
Harold stared at him.
"I see," he finally said. "Let's keep walking, Mr. Reese. I'm hungry."
They turned left, past a shop claiming to sell the finest laces of all Europe, until they found themselves in a square full of cafés and restaurants.
"Let's find somewhere to eat," Harold suggested.
"Are you taking me to McDonalds, Harold?"
Harold rolled his eyes. "As if, Mr. Reese."
They found an Italian restaurant near the square. Thankfully, it wasn't so busy that they weren't served on time.
John ordered a prosciutto pizza, Harold ordered spaghetti Bolognese.
"When is the meeting?" he asked Harold.
"In an hour. We have time."
"What happens after?"
Harold shrugged.
"There's no reason to linger here. We go back to Brussels."
Harold added, "If you don't feel confident about this little endeavor of ours, you should tell me."
In his head, John was mentally cataloguing everyone inside the restaurant. He knew Harold had done the same as soon as they entered. Once, he had imagined what it would be like to come to a place without assuming the worst. Now, he couldn't picture not doing it, not when Harold's life could be in danger.
No one was paying attention to them this time, and the table they were at was quite isolated. John put his elbows on the table and looked straight at Harold.
"Are you Root now, Harold?" he asked.
Harold played with his fork. They were still waiting for the pizza.
"It isn't as simple as you make it sound."
John waited patiently.
"I'm no human interface. I created her. It's not the same."
John kept silent. An expression of annoyance showed on Harold's face.
"Ms. Groves takes orders from her and obeys her; regardless of Ms. Groves own personal opinion. I'm not doing that, I assure you. Besides, we need her help. We need to have a plan. Isn't that what gives you a bit of hope?"
John didn't reply. He had no idea what he could say that would make Harold understand.
They kept eating, in silence this time.
Harold refused to look at him; he was staring at his plate as he was eating. John wondered what was going on inside Harold's head. He finished his pizza. Harold didn't finish his spaghetti; he got up and paid for their meals.
Outside, the sky had taken on a shade of grey that made John think it would rain soon. He hadn't planned for rainy weather.
"Follow me," Harold said.
They walked down more little streets, only this time in a more modern part of the city.
John thought about the gun he was carrying and hiding on him.
As if sensing his thoughts, Harold stopped and faced him.
"We're almost there. I suggest we try to look as harmless as possible. That means you too, Mr. Reese. We're not looking for a fight."
"And we won't find one unless this man hurts you."
If this Van Hout tried to do anything to Harold, John would put a bullet in his head. He would burn the city if he had to, but Harold was getting out of there alive.
Harold stared at the street around the corner, their destination.
"Let's go."
They stopped in front of a yellow house with a green door. Harold rang the bell, the door opened.
They entered a narrowed hallway, a bit too dark for John's taste. He was glad Harold was behind him as a man came to meet them.
The second thing John noticed about him was the man's gray hair and beard, followed by his huge belly and wrinkles. He seemed like the jolly type but John wasn't going to trust appearances. Of course, the first thing he noticed was the places where the man had hidden his weapons. There was one knife in the left pocket of his jeans, one inside his boot and a gun in his right pocket. John exchanged a glance with Harold, who looked tense.
"You Partridge?" the man asked Harold.
He nodded.
"This way," the man said.
He had a heavy accent, making it obvious that his mother language was Dutch.
John was first to follow him, putting some distance between the man and Harold.
They left the hallway and came inside a large room, furnished with red couches and a wooden table with four chairs. Sitting in one of the chairs, a blond man was looking them up, as if to evaluate them.
"Mr. Van Hout?" Harold asked. "I'm Mr. Partridge and this is my business partner, Mr. Ware. Pleased to meet you."
Van Hout waited a second before getting up and shaking their hands.
"Pleased to meet you! Welcome to Bruges," he said.
Harold relaxed a little. John didn't.
"So," he said. "Before we make our deal, do you want anything to drink? Pepsi, Cola, orange juice maybe?"
Harold shook his head.
"That's very nice but thank you, no. We're unfortunately on a tight schedule."
"I see," the man replied.
His smile reminded John of a shark, one that had smelled blood and was on its way to its prey. John had the sudden urge to reach for his gun but any sudden movement would make this situation worse. So, he waited.
Van Hout's partner, the jolly type who had shown them in, was staring at him. John stared right back, which seemed to amuse the man.
Van Hout noticed the exchange and started laughing.
"Not to worry!" he said. "We're friends here, aren't we?"
"Of course we are," Harold said.
This made the man laugh harder.
"Well, not really," he said, but he kept smiling.
He went back to the table and offered a seat to Harold. John stood as Harold sat in front of Van Hout.
"So the money will be transferred into the account?"
Harold nodded.
"Yes."
"When?"
"It should be here now. It will disappear if I don't get the chip today."
"Disappear?" Van Hout asked. "Did you hear this?" he turned to his partner. "How does money disappear like that, after it's been put in the account?"
Harold shrugged, like it wasn't his concern. John resisted the urge to close his eyes, out of pure annoyance. Harold.
"Check your account, Mr. Van Hout. The money is already there. Give me the chip and we should have no problem."
Van Hout looked doubtful.
"Go on," Harold said.
Van Hout's partner left and came back two minutes later with a laptop. Van Hout inserted a card in an orange device, typed what seemed like a password and stared at the screen for a long time, so long that John thought Harold might have bluffed and there was indeed something wrong with the transfer. It was a relief when Van Hout finally smiled.
"It was a pleasure dealing with you, Mr. Partridge."
"I would like my chip now, Mr. Van Hout," Harold replied.
As annoyed as John was by Harold's stunt, he couldn't help but be impressed.
"Of course!" the man said.
He clapped his hands. His partner disappeared again. He came back with a plastic bag, which he gave to Harold. Harold opened the bag to inspect the chip.
"It looks good," he said. "If it's not, I'll come back."
"You'll find you got exactly what you wanted. My partner will see you to the exit, now. Goodbye Mr. Partridge, Mr. Ware."
John watched the door close on them. Harold was already walking to the opposite side of the street. John caught up with him and whispered: "Next time, try not to threaten a man who has guns pointed at us."
"Guns?" Harold asked, frowning. "I didn't see any guns"
John shook his head, amused despite himself now that they were relatively safe.
"His partner had a gun on him, and there was another man in the room next door, also carrying. I caught a glimpse."
"I didn't know that," Harold said.
"Well, was it what we needed?" John asked.
"If it's not, I wasn't kidding," Harold replied. "We'll come back and get it."
He put the chip inside his briefcase and closed it.
"About that..." John said. "It's nice to know you had it all planned and asked me."
Harold looked at him, puzzled.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when you said we would have to come back, you meant I'll have to come back and hurt them. That's what you meant."
"Yes," Harold replied.
It sounded like a question.
John didn't say anything. He waited and waited, but Harold looked at a complete loss.
"I don't understand, Mr. Reese. What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing," John replied.
And that was it. They stopped talking, they just kept on walking. Harold was silent by his side, probably mulling over what John had said. He hoped anyway, but who knew?
"Our train leaves in an hour," Harold said when they arrived at the station. "Let's drink a coffee here."
They took a seat in one of the coffee shops in the station and drank. The tension between them was heavy, just as it had been when John had tried to leave New York.
He didn't like to be reminded of that time. He wasn't proud of leaving.
Back then, the grief had been too strong. It still wasn't gone.
Even now, as he sat there, he thought about Carter and how much he missed her. She would have helped them see there was a solution to all this; she would have told John not everything was as dark and grim as he thought it was.
John hated those moments the most, the ones when he allowed himself to think about this, because it was followed by a feeling of pure terror.
Terror at the idea that Harold could be gone too and John would be all alone in this world. Before, it wouldn't have mattered because he didn't know what he was missing. Now he knew, and he wanted to hold on to this, this life, as hard as he could, even if Harold was making it difficult.
"I'm going to buy a newspaper, do you want one?" Harold asked him, interrupting his thoughts.
"Aren't they in Dutch?"
"Not all of them," Harold replied.
"Yes. Just pick one for me."
Harold looked concerned for a second. He opened his mouth as if to ask John something, but ultimately decided not to stay anything. John kept staring at his coffee.
On their way back to Brussels, John passed the time by reading a book that Harold had bought for him. It was one of those detective stories they were selling for five euros in stations all over Europe. It wasn't very good but it wasn't completely bad either. When the train finally arrived in Brussels, it was the middle of the afternoon. John already felt tired.
"Do you need me for something now?" he asked Harold.
"No."
"Alright. I'm going back to my hotel. I'll see you tomorrow morning."
He was about to leave when Harold kept him in place, one hand on his left arm.
"John," he said.
Just that, just his name. John looked at him.
"Did I do something wrong?" Harold asked.
His voice sounded weak, full of vulnerabilities, perfectly calculated to make John want to reassure him.
And he wanted it, of course.
He wanted to hug Harold, to tell him everything was fine but he couldn't.
Around them, he noticed the way people were walking, fast and urgent, like they couldn't wait to leave and go home. In the middle of this station in Europe, nobody knew who they were. John could say what he wanted.
He moved forward, as close as he could be to Harold, and whispered in his ear: "When Grace was kidnapped, you told us to kill everyone if they hurt her. You didn't care about the consequences, about what you were asking. You could only think about her, about saving her or avenging her no matter the cost. You asked us to kill people for you, Harold."
He stepped back. If he thought Harold would look shocked, he was wrong. Harold looked angry, as if he hadn't wanted John to remind him of this, as if John was the one in the wrong here.
John sighed. He suddenly had no interest in staying there.
"I'm going back to the hotel. Good evening, Harold."
He turned around and left.
That evening, he took a long shower. He let his eyes close and as the water fell all over his face, John realized just how tired he was. The shampoo bottle fell. Lowering his back hurt as he tried to put it back. Maybe he was getting a bit too old, maybe it had been some time since he had the chance to do some "exercise".
It made him think of Shaw, who no doubt was out there doing what John was not. He hoped that she was safe and sound, whatever she was.
As he put on shorts and a t-shirt to get to bed, the thought occurred to him that he missed her. At this point, he might even miss Detective Fusco.
I hope he takes good care of Bear.
That was his last thought as he went to sleep. The next morning, he found himself in the large dining room of his hotel. Breakfast was 'croissants' and 'pains au chocolat'. John ate two of these, hungrily. He went back twice to serve himself coffee. Nobody paid attention to him. There were families, kids making a lot of noise. He enjoyed it, for a while content to be there.
Outside, it was raining.
He took several different turns before he entered Harold's hotel, this time taking the front door but carefully hiding himself from the cameras, even if he thought all this was unnecessary precaution.
In the elevator, he said hi to the maid. In front of Harold's door, he hesitated. He was about to knock when the door opened and he was face to face with him.
"Are you going to enter, Mr. Reese?"
Harold looked unhappy.
John nodded. The room looked exactly like it had been two days ago. Harold's laptop was still on the table, humming.
"Anything new?" John asked.
"This chip will help but I'm afraid it's not the only thing we'll need. We're leaving tonight. I bought us plane tickets."
"Where to?" he asked.
He didn't care much, truth be told. It wouldn't matter. One country or another, they were on the run. They weren't going home.
"Lisbon."
"I see," he replied.
Harold glanced at him. John was still standing near the door.
"Sit," Harold said.
It didn't sound like a suggestion. John shrugged.
"I'm fine here."
"As you wish," Harold snapped, this time clearly annoyed.
He typed for a while on his keyboard before he glanced at John and said, "You can go. Be back tonight at 6PM with your bag."
It was a dismissal. John bit his tongue, more angry than he thought. In the end, he said the most neutral thing he could think of with his sweetest voice.
"See you later, Harold."
John walked the entire afternoon. First, he went to see the Mont des Arts. He didn't stay long. Later, he went to see the Bourse of Brussels. He saw some interesting shops nearby selling old LPs. He didn't buy anything, he just wandered there. Later in the afternoon, he walked some more to reach Les Jardins du Botanique where he sat on a bench and ate a sandwich he had bought. It was a nice place, with a well-kept garden and the Botanique, the building itself, was beautiful. It was covered with pretty glass; John could see all the other buildings reflected in it.
Bear would have played there, he knew, the dog would have been happy.
Once he was done with his sandwich, he rose from his bench and walked again.
He was lost for a bit, until he found the Park of Brussels, where he stayed for an hour, just slowly walking and watching people. He thought about tomorrow, about Lisbon.
He had been there once or twice, with Kara. He had been in her shadow, as they walked in different streets, where luxury and poverty met. John had loved Lisbon.
Back then, John had noticed he and Kara would always leave when he was finally starting to like a city or a country. This time wasn't any different, except Harold wasn't Kara, and he wasn't the same person who had left Lisbon with two people hidden in body bags. Or was he? It was hard to tell.
He went back to his hotel.
There wasn't much he wanted to take with him, only his weapons and some clothes. Harold was outside his hotel, standing beside a taxi when John came out to meet him. The taxi driver was an old man who drove them in silence to Zaventem, Belgium's biggest airport.
As Brussels's landscape was slowly fading from his view, John silently said goodbye to the city.
In Lisbon, the temperature was much higher.
John was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, so he wasn't sweating. He thought Harold must be really uncomfortable with his suit and his vest. He didn't say anything, but he winced when they went outside. The warm weather hit them like a brick. It was late.
The sky was dark as they took a cab to their hotel. It was located in a busy street so the taxi driver had to park somewhere else. Harold paid him and they left. The street was full of restaurants. Waiters and waitresses were competing and asking tourists to eat at their restaurant, showing their menus or in some cases yelling what the restaurant had to offer.
Some patrons were already eating outside, drinking wine and talking to each other.
They ignored the activity and entered the hotel, whose main entrance was thankfully empty. John was surprised Harold had put them in the same hotel. He didn't ask questions, didn't comment on it but he was definitely curious to know why. He wondered if Harold's paranoia was gone.
The hotel employee, a man who seemed to be in his thirties, welcomed them with a jovial smile. John listened as Harold talked to him. Finally, the man gave them two card keys and wished them a great time in Lisbon.
The elevator was so small they barely managed to get inside with all their bags.
"There we are," Harold said, as they hit the second floor. He took a handkerchief from his suit's pocket and put it on his forehead to swap away the sweat.
"I know you're fond of your suits, Finch… But maybe it would be best if you bought clothes more suited for this weather," John told him.
Harold gave him a sharp glance.
"Here's your key card," he said.
Their hands touched as John took the card from him.
"Your room's number is 20. Mine is 21."
John watched as he took his bag in one hand and used the key in his other to get inside his room. At the last moment, Harold turned around, and said, in a surprisingly soft voice, "Good night, John."
John sighed.
"Good night, Harold"
If John's own voice was soft, well, it wasn't a complete surprise.
That night, John dreamt Grace was there with them. She was in Harold's hotel room and he was hugging her. Harold looked small and tired but there was such an expression of joy on his face that John had to look away.
He didn't dream after that. He woke up feeling sad, but he was used to the feeling. He thought about Carter. Sometimes he just wanted to talk to her, to say hi again.
He sat on his bed, and looked at the curtains covering the windows. Outside, the sun was shining. It was quiet, the restaurants weren't open yet. They would be soon, in a few hours. John wasn't hungry but he dressed for breakfast anyway.
His room was small but he preferred it to the other one. It was easier to see every part of it; no one could hide there without him seeing them.
In the hotel's lobby, John realized that there was no dining room or room for breakfast. He had to wait, then. He went back to their floor and knocked on Harold's door. Harold appeared, wearing his usual pants but no suit, only a shirt.
"Let's find a place to eat," Harold said.
He looked better, like he had a good night's rest. John was glad.
Not far from the end of the street was a small place that served breakfast. There was an ad outside showing a picture of a coffee cup, orange juice and croissant, all for two euros. There were chairs outside, they sat at a table and waited. Harold ordered for them in Portuguese. John wasn't paying attention but from the length of the conversation, he knew Harold was engaging in some small talk with the man.
Finally, breakfast arrived. They ate.
His coffee was black but not too bitter. John watched as Harold put milk in his.
"What are we going to do today?" he asked him.
"The Machine wants us to meet someone."
"Someone? Who?"
Harold shook his head.
"I don't know"
John sighed. "Where?"
"Castelo de São Jorge," Harold replied.
John frowned.
"Castle of St-George," Harold added.
"I know what it means. Isn't this place at the top of the city and full of tourists?"
"Yes. I suspect that's why the Machine wants us there. It will be easier to blend in."
John didn't argue with the logic. In fact, he knew it was pointless to argue now. Harold would follow the Machine's orders, period. What he had to say didn't matter in the grand scheme of things, which is why he was genuinely surprised when Harold asked him what he was thinking.
"I told you in Bruges what I thought of those plans, Harold."
It was one of the most frustrating things about Harold, the way he asked questions like this and pretended they hadn't had a fight about it the day before. John had no idea if he did it on purpose as part of a larger strategy or if he was really clueless.
"She wouldn't let me meet someone who would hurt me," Harold replied.
"She wouldn't let you? You're starting to sound like Root."
Harold pinched his nose.
"Hardly."
He didn't offer any other explanation. John sipped his coffee.
Half an hour later, John watched a tramway go up the hill, the one which would take them near the entrance of the castle.
"We don't have to wait for a new one. We could walk," Harold suggested.
John refused. Harold would never say anything but this kind of walk would hurt his leg and as much as John was unhappy with the situation, there was no point in making him suffer.
"No. Let's wait and take the next one."
They waited on a bench. The city, the tramway, it reminded him of San Francisco. A group of women, some wearing short dresses, passed them by. One of them had sunburns on her shoulder, the others were already tanned.
"Do you have sunblock, Harold?" he asked, watching the group disappear.
Harold looked up, surprised.
"It's in the hotel. I... I forgot to put it on."
"That's alright; you can do it when we get back."
Harold nodded. He gave John a short, tentative smile. John looked away.
The tramway finally arrived and they stepped inside. The ride was a bit of a rocky one.
One tourist, an old woman, looked like she was going to pass out with the heat and the sheer number of people inside who were constantly bumping into each other. John wasn't comfortable, but he had felt worse. Harold kept using his handkerchief to put it on his forehead. Everyone was sweating.
Finally, the tramway stopped.
They walked. A crowd was in front of them, all waiting to pay to enter. John scanned every face, trying to find a threat, an anomaly or an enemy.
There was none for the moment. After ten minutes spent waiting in line, Harold finally paid for their tickets. John felt a headache coming.
"We have to go to the top of the castle, where we can see the city," Harold informed him.
"Can the Machine contact you here?" he asked.
"I have a phone with me, so yes."
They moved ahead, following the other tourists. The ruins of the castle were grey, with different corners to visit.
"You're not going to play the part of the guide, now?" John teased.
He needed to stay calm.
"I'm afraid I didn't have time to do much but look at the Wikipedia page, which if you ask me is not going to give us an accurate overview of the castle's history."
"Really? Come on, Harold. I'm curious. What does Wikipedia have to say about it?"
Harold gave him a look, like he knew what John was doing, but decided to roll with it.
"It was occupied by the Moors in the twelfth century before the Christians came and invaded it. Later, it became a residence for Lisbon's governor."
Harold stopped walking and took a deep breath. Once again, he put his handkerchief on his forehead, trying to wipe away his sweat.
"Later, it was damaged by an earthquake in the eighteenth century."
"Okay," John said.
Harold didn't look too good.
"Stop talking now," John said. "We're almost there, take a deep breath. We'll go slowly"
"I'm fine," Harold replied, looking offended.
They stared at each other.
"Oh for the love of... Fine," Harold said. "Let's go"
"What is it with birds in Europe?"
In front of them, peacocks of different colors were walking around. People were taking pictures and making a lot of noises, as if they've never seen those creatures before.
"I don't know. I like birds," Harold replied.
He was no longer out of breath, thank God.
They were almost there, anyway, John could see, at his right that a pathway was leading to a large open space where they could watch the entire city from above.
"Harold," he said.
"Yes. We should go"
They walked. John watched everyone around them. There were maybe fifty people here and more were coming. They weren't all walking next to each other, the opposite in fact, which was making it a bit hard to keep track of them. Some were just walking past them, taking pictures or videos of the landscape, some were talking to others. John focused on people who were alone but all he could see were more tourists.
Harold's phone started ringing.
Harold took his phone.
"Hello?" he said.
There was some noise at the end of the line. Harold listened attentively. John couldn't afford to be distracted, so he kept watching everyone, looking for someone dangerous, someone with guns, anything out of the ordinary.
"Right," Harold said.
He put his hand on John's arm to catch his attention. Harold's hand brushed against John's naked skin.
"There," he said, pointing with this head at someone at the opposite end of the open space.
It was a young girl, sitting on a bench and looking nervous.
"Her?" John whispered.
Harold nodded.
He was still receiving messages.
"Yes, I understand," he said.
It reminded him so much of Root's way of dealing with the Machine that John looked twice at him to make sure it was really him.
"Alright, I will."
He ended the call.
"She's a hacker, a good one." Harold informed him. "We're here to recruit her."
"And the Machine couldn't tell you that, I don't know, hours before we got here?"
"I'm not going to pretend I understand everything she does," Harold replied.
John knew, of course, why the Machine had decided to tell them the information at the last minute.
The reason was right in front of him: a young girl, looking nervous, perhaps scared. This wasn't a Terminator movie but they were still getting ready for something ugly, a war of machines.
John didn't want this girl involved. The Machine knew and had anticipated it.
He felt furious, suddenly.
"Harold," he said, as Harold was about to leave to meet the girl. "She looks like she's sixteen years old."
Harold turned back to look at him.
"Does she?"
He stared at the girl. From here, John could see how young she looked. She was wearing jeans and a tank top. Her long brown hair was falling in front of her face. She had a zit on her chin, for God's sake.
"Harold," he said again.
Harold sighed.
"I hadn't realized," he replied.
They didn't move. John saw the girl was starting to bite her nails.
"I don't want to win the war this way, not by hiring innocent children," he found himself whispering. "What about you?"
There was a long moment of silence. Harold was thinking, John knew, and he would let him. He wouldn't say one word.
Finally, Harold turned to look at him.
"Would you follow me?" he said. "If I walk and say hi to this young girl, would you still follow me?"
John could lie. The reality was that Harold already knew his answer.
"Yes," he replied, also a whisper.
Harold nodded. He had a strange expression on his face, like he expected to hear this answer but was relieved anyway.
"Let's go back," he told John. "I'm hungry."
They took one last look at the girl and left.
At the castle's exit, Harold's phone started ringing. He ignored it.
He and John walked side by side, down the hill.
John was waiting in Harold's hotel room, listening to the noise of the shower coming from the bathroom. They were about to go to lunch.
Harold's laptop was open in front of him; the screen was filled with lines of codes John couldn't even begin to comprehend. He wasn't paying much attention to the screen when it went black, and words in white appeared.
Hello John.
John stared at the words. A red dot at the top of the laptop was now blinking, indicating the webcam had been activated.
"Hello," he said.
He knew the Machine wasn't a real person.
He never made the mistake of picturing it as anything more than cable, servers, algorithms. The product of Harold's brilliant mind. Even so, he wondered if she wasn't rebelling sometimes, like a daughter who is starving for attention and thinks her father doesn't care about her.
How are you?
He snorted, more out of annoyance than amusement.
"What do you think?" he replied.
This wasn't the first time John had talked to her while he was in such a bad mood.
He remembered a street in Manhattan and Leon's terrified face as he had stood there, yelling at a camera, begging for information that would save Harold. This time felt no different.
"Do you realize what you asked us to do?" he said, looking at the screen.
What needed to be done.
"First you suggest we kill a congressman, now you want us to hire an innocent teenager to do our dirty work? Is that really what you want Harold to do, to become?"
She didn't reply right away. He waited.
What I want is irrelevant.
The irony, John thought. He was still furious.
"Do you realize what you asked us to do is wrong, or are you incapable of seeing that?"
I am capable of understanding the moral obligation you have.
"The moral obligation we have or are you forgetting Harold?"
I am never forgetting him.
John shook his head.
"You don't understand," he said. "You never have and you never will. He can talk about you doing good things all he wants, but the truth is, what you did today was wrong. You manipulated us."
The girl would have been safe.
He sighed.
"You just proved my point. It's not about her being safe; it's about her never getting involved in something like this in the first place. Don't you see how ugly everything that happened is? Do you think I enjoyed killing people, fighting with another machine that is just like you?"
I am not Samaritan.
"No," he replied. "You're Harold's creation, and you need to start acting like it."
The screen was black for a moment. John heard the water in the shower turn off.
Take care of him.
John stared at the words.
"I always do," he whispered.
The red dot blinked again and was gone. Harold came out of the bathroom, a towel in one hand. He was using it to dry his hair.
"Are you ready for lunch?" he asked.
John nodded.
Harold decided on pasta with sea fruits, John ordered a pizza.
As usual, there was a lot of activity in the hotel's street. Waiters and waitresses were once again yelling for tourists to come and eat at their restaurant. John ignored them; it was background noise and nothing more.
"What are we going to do now?" he asked Harold.
Harold looked tense.
"I don't know," he said. "Wait, I guess."
John shook his head.
"I think we've relied on..."
He paused, not wanting to say her name in such close quarters with other tourists eating next to them.
"…her," he ended up saying, "for too long."
He continued, whispering, "There are people we can recruit, in Europe and in the US. We don't need her to tell us that."
"But we do need someone who's exceptionally gifted at finding those people, people who fit specific needs. I don't just rely on her because I feel like it, you know."
"I know," John replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "It was just a suggestion."
"I know what you meant," Harold said.
He looked pensive for a moment. "I think we'll need to speed things up if we ever want to go back. I'll have to talk to her."
John had no intention of telling him he had already talked to the Machine. There were things that he didn't want to share with Harold.
"Let's see that our recruits aren't children next time," he ended up replying.
They shared a look. Harold was the first to look away. He looked relieved when their waiter came to ask if they wanted more wine.
The next day, Harold told John he wouldn't be able to see him until dinner.
John decided not to waste time and took the tramway near the St-George castle.
This time, he decided he would go back to town by walking in the Alfama, a famous neighborhood with narrowed streets. It took John two hours to visit it and to come back to the hotel.
Harold was waiting for him.
"Well?" John asked.
"She has already contacted several hackers. This one could have been really useful, that's why she wanted us to meet her in person. There's another hacker who can help us."
"Let me guess, we'll have to meet that one in person, too?"
Harold nodded. John sighed.
"Here?"
"We have a meeting in Sintra tomorrow."
"Sintra," John repeated. "Where is it?"
"We'll take the train from Lisbon, it's not far."
"Hum, alright," he said.
He took a chair in front of Harold and wondered if he should ask or not. In the end, his curiosity as always got the better of him.
"What did she say about what happened yesterday?"
Harold looked up at him.
"I..."
Harold shrugged.
"I don't know if she understood why we chose not to meet the young hacker. Actually, I can't be sure..."
Harold looked at his hands; they were clutching the edge of the table.
"That young girl... I know what it's like to be involved in something bigger than you could ever imagine."
He looked at Reese.
"Kids like her, they grow too fast. We were right not to meet her."
That was the last thing Harold said on the matter. He seemed so sad, John suggested a proper visit of the city.
Harold protested.
"It's too warm."
"No, it's not. Maybe you should just change clothes."
They argued. John won. Harold picked a light shirt with long sleeves, which he rolled up after John gave him a look.
"Let's go"
The weather was warm but a bit windy this time. They ate at a restaurant in the center of town. The atmosphere was different, like most of the tension between them was gone.
John was glad. He hated fighting with Harold.
They didn't discuss business, just the city. John thought Lisbon was like a mixture of different things, a duality between flat and high grounds, between poverty and wealth. There was something about it that made him want to do something. He had no idea what exactly, but he figured an artist would have the time of his life here.
Harold chuckled when John told him that. It was a nice sound.
"Wait till you see Sintra," he said.
"Have you been there before then?"
Harold shook his head. "I've googled it, Mr. Reese!"
John couldn't help himself, he laughed.
"What?"
"Nothing," John replied. "Never change, Harold."
Harold looked pleased by his comment. Of course, John meant it. He didn't want Harold to change. He wanted something else, and that was the problem.
They left the restaurant and walked.
Harold pointed out buildings from time to time, John listened. They could have taken the tramway but Harold didn't want to.
Stuck in that thing for almost an hour, crushed against strangers all sweating and impatient? No thanks, he said.
John didn't ask him if he would be alright with his leg, he just walked at a slightly slower pace, hoping Harold wouldn't notice. He did notice, but only at the end of the day, when they finally came back to the hotel, exhausted and ready to take a shower. He didn't say anything, he was too tired.
In the hallway, between their two rooms, John stopped and looked at the plastic bag in his hand. That afternoon, he had bought a bottle of sunscreen for Harold, who was getting red on his face and arms. John didn't have a fragile skin. He wouldn't be getting sunburns, he would tan easily.
"Here," he said, giving Harold the bottle. "Don't forget to put it on again, after your shower"
Harold took the bottle and sighed.
"I hope the burns won't hurt too much"
"It won't if you apply this now," John said.
They looked at each other.
Harold nodded. He seemed content, almost happy.
"We'll go eat in an hour, right?" Harold asked.
John nodded.
"Well then. Later, Mr. Reese."
He smiled. John watched him disappear inside his hotel room.
In the shower, John thought about Harold and his content smile and felt guilty.
He wasn't supposed to think about him, was he? Harold was off limits, he was his friend, his best friend even. There were feelings he didn't want to look at closely, didn't want to inspect for fear it would crush him. This was one of them, so he tried to dismiss it.
Kara had taught him that. For years, she had trained him to compartmentalize, to do what needed to be done. Today was a nice day, but it wasn't the end of their journey.
They still weren't home, still had stuff to do, people to meet, a war to fight.
If that meant John had to stop thinking about Harold that way, he would. Period.
Harold knocked on his door an hour later. John was putting his watch on when he opened the door and let Harold enter. He took one look at John's open suitcase on the bed and smiled, amused.
"Your suitcase is like your cupboard," he said.
John gave him a thin smile.
"Let's go eat"
Outside, they ate pasta and drank sangria before switching to wine. John tried not to worry about anything, but he felt it. The need to move, to leave this place, to finish this war. He hoped they were at the end of it soon.
It was still early when they went back to their hotel.
John spent most of the evening staring at the ceiling.
It was getting warmer, the kind of warm that makes you dizzy and dehydrated.
John followed Harold as they took the bus to the train station. He had packed two bottles of water, just in case. The train ride was fast. As they came out and saw the landscape before them, John looked at Harold, who seemed as admirative of the scenery as he was.
"This is like a fairytale," John said.
"Yes. I was thinking the same thing. It looks like something out of a Beauty and the Beast movie," Harold said.
"Fan of Disney?" John asked, smiling.
Harold shook his head.
"Disney didn't invent this particular story. In fact, it was-"
John interrupted him.
"Harold. I was teasing."
Harold didn't reply, he just rolled his eyes.
"Come on. See this castle over there? We actually need to get there."
The way to the castle required a lot of walking up a hill. John tried to distract Harold once again, by asking him questions about the castle.
"This one did belong to an old family but I can't remember the entire history," he said.
"What, no time for Wikipedia?" John asked.
Harold rolled his eyes.
"No, Mr. Reese. I was too busy thinking about something else last night."
They exchanged a glance.
Harold was starting to sound out of breath. John gave him a bottle of water. He took a long sip.
"Thank you."
"No problems," John replied. "By the way, do we have to hurry? I bet we're early."
"We are, Mr. Reese but so will they be."
"They?"
"You'll see. I promise I'm not telling you this time for a good reason."
"Oh, so you didn't have good reasons before?"
Harold shook his head. He sounded exhausted. "I meant for you, come on."
John had still no idea what he meant by that. Twenty minutes later, Harold paid for their tickets.
"Those are not cheap," he told John.
They were lead to a big garden. John looked around.
The place was occupied by many tourists, but it wasn't the same intense activity they had witnessed in Lisbon.
"They're in front of us. That's our rendezvous spot," Harold said, pointing at a bench.
At first, John didn't recognize them. It seemed like it was a dream. He had an idea in his mind, that he had seen them years ago and would not see them again, not so soon.
Harold smiled at him.
"She's alright," he said.
John nodded, a bit shaken. Shaw was sitting on a bench, Root sat next to her. When Root saw them, she smiled and waved. She was wearing her usual jeans, shirt and jacket. Shaw was wearing jeans and a black shirt.
Shaw looked like she couldn't possibly care about this little reunion, but John knew she was happy to see them. He knew.
It was enough, and it felt right to see her again and to know she was safe.
"Fancy meeting you here," he told her.
"Yes," Shaw replied. "Surprise, surprise."
John ignored Root, but heard Harold talking to her.
"So," he told Shaw. "What have you been up to lately?"
"What haven't we done?" Root interrupted.
"She's right," Shaw replied. "It would be quite the summary."
"Really?" John replied.
He stared at Harold, who looked defensive.
"We've been busy too, Mr. Reese!" he told John.
John shook his head.
"I didn't shoot anybody," he replied.
He turned to Shaw. "You shot someone, didn't you?"
She nodded.
"The fun we could have had…"
Harold shook his head but John knew he wanted to smile.
"It's a good sign. Shooting people means getting noticed," he told John.
"Well, you don't have to worry about that," Root said. "Nobody saw us coming here."
"And you would know how?" John asked her.
Shaw gave him a look. "I'm here," she said.
"Good point."
That's when it hit him.
"You're here," he said. "Why?"
"Come on," Root said. "I've always wanted to visit a castle, now's the time."
They walked side by side inside the castle. On the second floor, Root got a tiny camera out of her bag. Shaw watched her, amused, as she took pictures of the old furniture and in some cases, even the tourists around them.
"You're not supposed to take pictures, Ms. Groves!" Harold told her.
"Relax Harold. What's the worst that's going to happen?"
John turned to Shaw.
"Seriously, I'm happy to see you but why are you here?"
It was Root who replied.
"We have work to do here. More people to see, to hire, and some materials we need. We'll be leaving tomorrow. It won't be long now, John."
John looked at Harold.
"Harold," John said.
Harold shrugged. "She's right, Mr. Reese. More people to hire would be nice. The right ones, I promise you. They all need to be dealt with personally."
"Look at that chair!" Root said, sounding more and more excited.
Shaw rolled her eyes, but she still listened to Root talk about the chair's origin.
As John handed another bottle of water to Harold, he whispered: "Seriously, Harold. Why are we really here? The four of us?"
Harold shook his head.
"I don't think you'll believe my explanation."
"Try me," John replied.
"I think the Machine sent them here because she wanted to do something nice for you and me, Mr. Reese."
"Sending Root to meet us isn't doing something nice for me."
"Oh well, Ms. Shaw at least is a good person to have around. You know what I meant."
"Harold," John replied. "I can't tell if this is once again a blatant manipulation on her part or a really nice gesture. You gotta help me out there."
Harold sighed.
"Later?"
He looked pained. John guessed what that meant. He turned to have a quick talk with Shaw and Root.
"We're going outside and sit for a while," he said.
They nodded. To be honest, John didn't feel too bad leaving them, as they were paying far more attention to each other than to what was going on with him and Harold.
Five minutes later, Harold let out a deep sigh as he sat on a bench. He still looked pained, but relieved he no longer had to walk.
"Thank you," he told John.
"You're welcome," John replied.
He looked around. There was an abundance of flowers here in this part of the garden and things were much quieter.
"It's beautiful," he said.
I miss New York, he didn't say. Harold understood anyway.
"We'll be home soon."
"So... Today is what, the Machine giving us a day off? A chance to catch up?"
"I don't pretend I know everything that is going on in her head but it would seem so, yes."
He didn't provide more information, John didn't ask. He was wondering if this had anything to do with the discussion he had with her. Was that her way of saying sorry?
If so, it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough, but it was a nice change.
Time passed by. John watched the bugs fly around the flowers in front of them. Harold was starting to look better.
"I'm sorry," Harold said.
Surprised, John glanced at him.
"What for?"
"For doing this to you."
John frowned. The expression on Harold's face was so blank; John couldn't possibly know what was going on inside his head. In fact, he would have paid to know.
"Doing what to me?" he finally asked.
There was a moment of silence. Harold opened his mouth, closed it. He was holding his bottle of water with a strong grip.
"What happened with Grace," Harold replied. "You were right. I used your expertise and skills to protect her. I used you."
Harold got up.
"I'm sorry, John," he said.
He walked toward the entrance of the castle. John sat on the bench for a while longer.
Ten minutes later, Root waved at him to join them.
There was a tower nearby with narrowed stairs that tourist could climb to reach the top. Harold went a bit pale at Root's suggestion that they all try it. Even Shaw sounded unhappy with the idea. John said he would do it. Why not, after all? Climbing a tower wasn't that bad and he needed time away from Harold. The only downside was spending time with Root, but John was determined to ignore her. As they left for the Tower, he saw Shaw and Harold heading toward the exit.
"It's beautiful, don't you think? Castles and towers."
"I'm surprised you like anything medieval," John replied.
Root smiled.
"I like a lot of things, John. It's not just about technology."
John shook his head. He wasn't interested. As they entered the base of the tower, Root went on talking about the castle. It wasn't that different from hearing Harold play his best tour guide, but it wasn't Harold. John interrupted her.
"I already know this."
"Of course!" she replied.
She didn't sound offended by his attitude.
"I bet Harold told you all about it! He would, and in more accurate details than me, I'm sure."
John stayed silent. He thought for one second that he could always push her, but that was just a pretty fantasy. God, he still hated her guts. That would never change, but he knew Shaw would never forgive him if he harmed Root. Hell, even Harold wouldn't be happy.
How all of this happened, he didn't know. After all, Root had tortured both of them. What that said about those two, John didn't know.
Root was still talking as they were climbing. They were half way to the top. A couple of older tourists had reached the top a minute ago. They were alone.
John started to pay attention again when he heard her say Harold's name.
"And of course, she was happy that you contacted Harold. She didn't want him to be alone."
"What?" John said. "Who's she?"
Root turned around and gave him a look. "Our dear friend," she said slowly, like John was too stupid to live.
He rolled his eyes.
"Fine. So she told you everything. Good for you."
Root didn't reply for a while.
"She didn't tell me anything. I was just asking about Harold because I was worried."
Root added, "I really was," as if daring John to contradict her.
He shrugged.
"And?"
"And she likes you more than me," Root replied, her tone colder.
"I am seriously devastated to learn this."
He didn't know if it was the fact that he was starting to catch his breath or the dry tone he used to say this, but Root sounded almost amused for a second.
"I don't know why she likes you. I think it's because Harold loves you. Children follow the example of their parents."
They were finally at the top of the tower. He could adjust his eyes, and appreciate the brightness of the sky compared to the dark place that they just left. He froze as he heard her words.
"What did you say?" he asked her.
Root was brushing the sleeves of her jacket, trying to clean the white smears that had appeared there.
"What?"
John sighed.
"You said Harold loves me."
She threw a glance at him.
"Yes, I said that John. Is it that hard to follow a simple conversation?"
"No, I mean..."
He stopped talking. He didn't know what he meant; he was just too surprised to be eloquent. Root's expression changed. She looked at him with pity.
"You don't know," she said. "That explains a lot of things."
He couldn't stand that look. He couldn't stand the idea that she, of all people, would look at him like that.
"Then explain," he said.
"I don't think it's up to me to do it, John. Come on, we should get back to them."
Harold and Shaw were standing outside, talking quietly to each other. Root watched them.
"It's not easy," she said suddenly.
"What's that?" John asked.
"To keep someone safe. To want someone to be safe. It's not easy."
No, he thought, it's never easy.
For once, and this surprised even him, John didn't feel like insulting her because he knew what she was talking about.
This wasn't her playing mind games. He had seen what had happened to Hanna Frey.
She knew what had happened to Jessica, to Carter. To everyone John had ever cared about.
This was a pain they shared.
"Yeah," he whispered.
He couldn't say more, but he didn't have to. She gave him a gentle smile.
"I'm glad we had this talk, John."
John watched the beautiful scenery, not really in the mood for a conversation. He preferred to stay behind and think about what he had heard today.
I used you. Harold loves you.
One of those things wasn't like the other. But here Harold was, walking slowly, talking to Shaw, talking to Root, and enjoying himself. He was smiling. John heard Root laughing.
Knowing that the Machine was behind this, that this was her gift to them, it didn't ease his worries, but it did make him less angry with her and what she had done. Children follow the example of their parents. In many ways, it wasn't so surprising that she would try to make it up to him. It wasn't surprising that she wouldn't understand why he was so upset. Harold didn't always understand either, but he found ways to make John see, to say "here, I'm trying."
This was enough. This was more than enough.
At the train stop, Root and Shaw said their goodbyes.
"We'll see you soon," Root said, with a knowing smile.
"Take care," Shaw told them.
She looked at Harold before giving John one look. He knew what that meant.
"We will," he reassured her.
She nodded. Next to her, Root whispered something in Harold's ear. He looked surprised by what he heard, but she didn't give him enough time to reply. She took Shaw by the arm (at this, Shaw gave her a stern look) and they both walked away.
"I missed them," Harold said. "Which is strange, I know."
John shook his head.
"No, it's not strange."
They heard the sound of the train coming.
"Come on," John said. "Time to go."
At the airport the next day, he sat in the chair next to Harold and watched him.
This time, Harold was wearing a shirt with short sleeves. It pleased John.
"It's for your own comfort," he told Harold, when he started to complain.
"This isn't comfort, Mr. Reese," Harold told him. "In fact, it's the opposite."
John hid his smile behind his cup of coffee. Harold had been grumbling about this since they had left their hotel this morning.
The train ride back from Sintra the previous day had been uneventful. They hadn't even talked, and this might have been John's fault. He didn't like sharing his thoughts when he was so confused, and he was pretty confused these days. He had never expected Harold to admit anything.
Flat out telling him he was sorry for using him? John would have thought days ago that it wasn't possible, that he would never hear such a confession from him. For his part, Harold didn't react differently.
In fact, he acted like he hadn't said anything. It could have been frustrating if John hadn't seen the careful glances Harold threw at him or the shy way he spoke to him.
He hated the idea that things could be fragile between them, but they were. It felt like a transition was about to happen, that something different was coming.
"Times like this, you can't help but miss the weather back home," Harold was saying next to him.
"Remember that storm we had once?"
"Of course. I almost got killed."
"It all ended well, Harold."
"That is true," Harold replied. "Besides, that man really was an amateur."
John didn't get a chance to reply, the stewardess announced they could board the plane.
All the passengers got up at once.
"You know," Harold said as the plane took off half an hour later, "This might sound wrong to say this considering the circumstances but I loved our time here."
John couldn't help but agree.
Barcelona was crowded.
The center of the city was especially, with all the streets near the Rambla so full of people that they couldn't take one step without running into someone.
"I hope we're not going to have a meeting here," John said.
It was still mid-afternoon. They were visiting a famous market near the Rambla.
"Of course not! It wouldn't be practical or prudent," Harold replied.
John watched as Harold looked at the fruits on display.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"No. I mean, yes, but perhaps it would be better for us to have a proper lunch."
They decided to go to a restaurant as soon as they were done with the market. In the end, they picked an Italian one. It was small, but well decorated. John and Harold picked a table near the front door, with a view to the street outside. The waiter, a young man with a friendly smile, came by to ask them what they wanted to order.
John wanted to try a new pizza. When the waiter suggested the one with the truffle oil, he didn't hesitate to order it. Harold ordered the same pizza after spending a minute or two staring at the menu.
"Really?" John asked him.
Harold shrugged.
"I couldn't find what I wanted."
They waited in silence. It was awkward, but of course it wasn't always like this. In Brussels, they had sat in a corner, eating waffles. Try it, Harold had said, and now they were in Barcelona, unable to talk to each other, besides doing small talk that even John was starting to find tedious.
Harold cleared his throat.
"Mr. Reese-" he started. "I..."
He paused.
"I wanted to thank you," he said.
Every time John thought he knew what Harold was about to say, Harold proved him wrong. This was another time.
"What for, Harold?" he replied.
"For being here," Harold answered.
John waited until he caught his stare, which was difficult because Harold wouldn't meet his eyes at first, and smiled at him.
"I'm glad I'm here."
Their waiter appeared with olives, bread, and drinks.
"Enjoy," he said.
John tasted one green olive and hummed with approval. Harold was still not looking at him.
"Tell me about tonight," John asked him.
John could tell Harold was distracted as he replied: "The meeting is at 8PM. It shouldn't take long to recruit this one. We leave the next morning for Denmark. This time we need more... material."
"Root said we could go home soon?"
Harold shrugged.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"That's not reassuring, Harold," John told him, surprised by his attitude.
"Sorry," Harold replied, looking at him this time. "I think her estimation might have been generous, yes, but it shouldn't be too long."
The waiter arrived with their plates. John had eaten all the olives and was ready for more. He thanked the waiter. Harold stared at the huge pizza in front of him.
John resisted the urge to laugh.
"It's just a pizza, and I'm pretty sure it's delicious."
Harold shook his head.
"I'll never finish it," he said.
John shrugged.
"Then I'll finish it for you."
Harold nodded. They ate in silence for a while. John was thinking about the last few days. He had something he needed to stay to Harold.
He shouldn't have kept his talking to the Machine a secret; he was starting to realize it. He had pestered Harold for information the entire time they had been in Belgium and Portugal. It seemed a bit hypocritical of him to hide things from him now.
He was thinking on how best to talk about this when Harold's phone rang. Harold looked tense.
"Sorry," he said. "I need to take this."
He went outside, where John could still see him. He was listening to the other person at the end of the line. In this case, person meant the Machine. John saw Harold nod before hanging up. He came back inside.
"Well?" John said.
"It's been postponed to 9PM," Harold said.
John sighed, relieved.
"I expected something worse."
"Likewise, Mr. Reese. Likewise," Harold replied.
"Let's finished our pizza, Harold," John told him.
He didn't say why he was so pressed out of a sudden, but Harold seemed to understand John wanted to talk to him. He wouldn't meet his eyes again. In fact, he looked so guilty John had to tell him there was nothing wrong.
"I believe you," Harold said, which was an obvious lie.
"Harold, I promise you. There's nothing wrong. I just have something I need to tell you."
Harold nodded but he still didn't look convinced. John finished his pizza and waited till Harold had enough of his to finish it too.
The waiter thanked them. They left a generous tip.
Outside, John tried his best to ignore how warm it was.
"What did you want to tell me, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked.
They were walking in small streets, which gave a sort of claustrophobic feel to the conversation.
"I told you nothing is wrong, Harold. I just..."
He looked around. They weren't completely alone.
"Look, let's just talk in my hotel room."
Harold gave him a curious glance that he ignored. They walked faster. The hotel was around the corner.
Inside, they said hi to the receptionist and took the elevator.
The silence between them had become so suffocating; it was a relief to arrive at their floor. John used his room's card. He noticed his hands were shaking.
Inside the room were a simple bed and a TV on top of a table. A chair was nearby. The bathroom was on the left. Harold sat on the chair and looked at John.
"I'm listening, Mr. Reese," he said.
John couldn't help but feel a rush of affection for him, for daring John to tell him everything, even if he was scared to hear what John was about to say.
"I talked to the Machine," he told Harold. "After she wanted us to recruit the young girl."
"I know," Harold replied.
"Oh," John said, surprised. "She told you?"
"Yes," Harold said.
He frowned.
"Mr. Reese, was that really all you wanted to say?"
John sat on the bed. He had no idea. No idea what he wanted to say.
"I wasn't that mad," John told him. "About what happened with Grace. I mean, I wasn't mad at you, Harold. I think I was angrier with myself, for letting you do this."
Harold stared at him. John kept talking.
"Because I know, and you know it too, that no matter what you ask me, I'll do it. That's..."
That's the power you have over me, he wanted to say, but couldn't. He really couldn't. He closed his mouth and tried to breathe. He needed to finish this.
"I know what that's like. For you and Grace. With Jessica... I would have done everything to make her happy. Everything."
This time, it was him who didn't dare to look at Harold.
"I understand," Harold said.
John shook his head.
"No," he said. "I don't think you understand what I'm saying at all."
"On the contrary, Mr. Reese. I understand perfectly."
Harold got up and took a step toward John.
"I was scared you would tell me the opposite of this, that you were tired of me, that it was too much. I thought you wanted to leave," Harold said.
"Leave? Harold!"
Harold sighed, took another step.
"You did it once," he said.
"Carter died," John whispered.
"You were in pain," Harold whispered back.
They stared at each other. They were so close, John could just make one move and he would be able to kiss him.
"I was," John said.
"I was in pain, too," Harold said. "I know it doesn't excuse anything... What I asked of you, I should never have asked."
John nodded.
"No, you shouldn't have."
Harold took a deep breath.
"But that doesn't change... That doesn't change..."
He didn't finish his sentence because John kissed him. It was a simple kiss, a very shy one to be precise, on the lips.
He stared at Harold after, trying to gauge his reaction. Harold had his eyes closed. He didn't look unhappy.
He opened his eyes and smiled.
"Well," he said. "That's what I wanted to say, more or less."
"Really?" John asked.
"Really," Harold replied.
John felt relief wash over him. It seemed that the last few days had been nothing but stress, anxiety and fights with Harold. Now, he could finally breathe, appreciate the moment, here in Barcelona.
It wasn't home, but they were getting there.
He took Harold in his arms. Harold let him. It felt nice to hug him.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to realize this, John," Harold said.
John kissed him again.
The meeting was near the port. On their way there, John wanted to hold Harold's hand. He wanted to scream at the entire world that they were together, that he was happy, so happy, but of course he couldn't.
He couldn't even say to Samaritan: See, I found this despite all the ugliness you created.
Instead he smiled at Harold and appreciated the breeze of fresh air coming from the port. He could hear birds flying around them.
"So after this meeting..." John said.
"Phase Two of the plan," Harold replied.
"I think I'm going to like Phase Two better than Phase One," John told him.
They looked at each other.
"Is that so, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked him.
John nodded. He wasn't even trying to hide his smile.
"Yes," he replied. "Phase Two sounds better."