Notes
1. In this story I treat Red as a Russian-born citizen who ran from the USSR with his mother.
2. 'Krasnova' is the maiden name of Red's mother. 'Krasniy' means 'red'.
3. The names of the chapters are chess moves. The pieces are a bishop and a queen.
Gracie and Rachel—Upside Down
Aron Wright—Twisted
April Rain—A Sailor without the Sea
Much love to my amazing co-author Gwyllt who helped me with the original Russian version of this story!
Many thanks to Lillian for helping me out with English! All mistakes are on me. Feel free to nudge me :)
In my headcanon Ressler and Red have the same eye color :)
"Bc1-g5"
Gardez (gardez la reine, from French, guard the queen; gardez is also directly translated as "watch out")—used in chess to warn that an opponent's queen is in danger of immediate capture.
Somewhere a bird chirped, flapped its wings, and took off into the sky. A massive maple tree hummed, swaying its sprawled top. Slender thujas nodded in time to the maple, bowing their heads in a greeting. Isles of faceless marble tomb-stones spread on the thirty-five acres of the Congressional Cemetery. Some of the graves were hundreds years old, but the keepers knew their job well—not a single crack slipped from their keen eyes. A wide ribbon of a hedge belted the site. It kept peace of both dead and the living left alone with their grief. Ivy curls twined the forged fence and a few ruffled crows perched on its top. A bit further from here the sunshine bathed in the stained-glass windows of the family tomb. On both sides of the doors sculpted angels folded their hands in a prayer. A stray maple leaf, picked up by the wind, brushed the angel's shoulder.
Wheels of a black Mercedes softly crunched on the gravel, braking just at the cemetery's entrance. A fit and brawny African American got out of the car. His leather jacket was one size bigger and he was cautiously scanning the place for at least good five minutes when, finally, rounded the vehicle and opened the rear door.
A brown crown of a fedora hat appeared first. Next, a short man in tinted glasses showed up. The car's door closed with a soft thud. His windbreaker unzipped, the man raised his eyes to the sky. The sun had just hid behind a chubby cloud. Meanwhile the African American opened the trunk.
"I'll take it from here, Dembe, thank you," the man in a fedora said, putting the glasses into the inside pocket and taking the wrapped flowers. His bodyguard scanned the perimeter again, but everything seemed fine so far.
If there was something, Dembe would have surely told him. Raymond "Red" Reddington aka the Concierge of Crime would undoubtedly bet his life on it. Once Reddington freed fourteen year old Dembe from the drug cartel's claws in Sierra Leone. Since that time Dembe Zuma—"Dembe" for him—had become more than just a bodyguard for Reddington. Dembe had been and was his true and only friend. The one who knew all the dirty and bloody secrets Red had acquired during the existence of his criminal empire. It thrived on satisfying the most urgent needs of all sorts of criminals as himself.
Adjusting the hat, Raymond let the sun which had just looked out from behind the cloud warm his round face. Dark bags under his eyes screamed of insomnia and a deep wrinkle laid between his brows. Red didn't look his age—he had turned fifty this year. Some of his lovers gossiped he reminded them a cute teddy bear.
Raymond cheerfully sauntered the path, enjoying calm and peace. Funny thing was, he had never felt more alive than at the cemetery. And what was even more important for a man with his occupation—surrounded by those who couldn't care less how he made his money. The dead don't give two hoots about the living. And anyway, for the past twenty years, he hadn't found a person to feel safe with, or a place where he'd feel safe.
His keys jingling, a grave keeper was walking Red's way. Raymond, touching the brim of his hat, greeted the man. Shaking Red's hand, the grave keeper raised his brows in amusement—a one hundred bill brushed his palm. All he could do was to simply nod at Red's "Have a good day, Linus."
Sauntering further and muttering something under his breath, Raymond noticed the weather this year in April was much better than last year. However the water was still cold for a swim—only 185°F.
Red stopped at the family tomb, looking at the angels. He wasn't a religious man at all. The art lover, though. However, he wouldn't define a whole lot of lumbering sculptures all over the world as "art". For example, the statues he saw here were closer to goblins anyway.
There was a massive amount of money flowing within his criminal empire, so Red could treat himself to rent Ėrmitaž for a few nights, enjoy the glorious magnificence of Capella Sistina or simply sit at the London National Gallery.
The wind blew. Red tucked his patterned tie behind the vest and adjusted the jacket. The maple leaf took a leap from the angel's shoulder on Red's windbreaker and then, chased by the wind, flew away into the unknown direction. Raymond, humming a tune under his breath, sauntered further into the graveyard's heart, circling along the graves.
In an instant he halted. A bushy over-sized blackthorn fifty feet to his left had caught his attention. The raven on its top uttered a raucous "Caaaaw!" and flew away. Red slightly raised the corners of his lips in a light smile and walked off looking for the right stone-tomb.
Just at this moment the Special Agent Donald Ressler lost his balance, falling on the thorny pillow of the bush. The bird angrily crowed at him and took off.
He held his breath, frozen in the dumbest way possible—half-sprawled on the thorns, cursing the day he'd been assigned to investigate the infamous Concierge of Crime.
The dense blackthorn had stood the pressure of Don's fit body unexpectedly well. Prickles stabbed his sides and back clawing through the scarred jacket. His tie dangled like a dirty-crimson rat's tail on the wrinkled shirt.
My favorite, damn it!
On his right cuff—dirtied so bad that light-blue was hardly traceable—the button had been ripped off. Not mentioning his strawberry blond comb hair was nothing but a mess. A bead of sweat dripped from his cheek.
Exactly at 5:00 AM Donald lay in ambush, hiding among the lush rhododendron shrubs on the east side of the graveyard. The visitors were coming in so he had to improvise. Thank God it was Friday and there weren't so many of them: an elderly couple, a female police officer with two roses and a teenager holding a lily in her hand. Donald found out that if to lean on the fifth brick on your left in the family tomb (there were "J. A. A." initials on it), the hidden door opened. Unfortunately, he didn't stay there long. When Ressler heard the voices, he hurried to exit through the door at the back.
A seven feet tall boxwood was planted on the north-northwest side—it turned out to be quite cozy in there. Although Donald had almost screwed up his hideaway because of some woman and her son. Ressler was rescued by a huge, hulking oak tree he discreetly slipped behind.
Now he moved to the south-west—just in time to have spotted Reddington entering the western gate. Frankly, Donald hadn't even dreamed of all this happening now. Reddington had been on the run for almost twenty years.
He never slipped. Never. Until today.
At first the lead had seemed ridiculous. Well, there had been much worse, but a shabby Mary's Flowers shop ways away in Silver Springs was the definition of bullshit.
"...So, you're absolutely sure it is the same man?"
"I swear to God! I've seen him on the TV! And the funny hat... Fydora?.. Nah. Frodora?"
"Fedora?"
"Yeah, whatever. I helped you, right? I'm getting the grand from the ad, yeah?"
Over a couple of encounters with the Concierge of Crime Donald picked up the bits of Reddington's style preferences. He tried to track Reddington by the fabric suppliers for the high-priced three-piece suits he fancied so much. It got him nothing. He got more lucky with the pricey Zegna ties Reddington adored. Once Ressler got a package from the Concierge.
Of course, the return address was a dummy PO box. The forensics couldn't match the handwriting and the paper was untraceable. But Ressler's gut told him—it's Reddington.
"Get yourself something less lugubrious, Agent Ressler."
Reddington was a ghost. He had no country, no citizenship, no passport. No agenda. No principles. No morals. His allegiance was to the highest bidder. His loyalty's measured by handsome pay offs from brokered deals. The truth was, everyone had a soft spot. Surely, Reddington did, too. Or Ressler guessed he did. Because if he didn't, why risking everything for a gaudy bunch of flowers?
Picking up Reddington's trail, Ressler didn't let go the lead until he squeezed it to the last drop. The CCTV footage showed a man wearing a fedora hat. But you might as well be chasing resurrected Elvis with that kind of intel. Donald quit terrorizing the forensics who worked with the footage and buried himself in the archives.
A mighty hand of the Naval Intelligence redacted almost everything about the ex-intelligence officer Raymond Reddington. Trying to dig up at least something, Ressler was on the verge of despair. Almost hopeless to find anything, he came across a black-and-white photograph of a woman and a child. At first Ressler thought it was Reddington's wife. But the woman on the picture held a boy's hand, and Reddington had two daughters. They and his wife died on Christmas in a fire. Right after that classified NOFORN documents started showing up in Moscow, Beijing, Islamabad.
The woman's clothes didn't look American. More like tacky and poor. There was a swing behind the boy and his mother. The boy had a red scarf on his neck and saluted in a military-like manner.
For days, Ressler's brain was almost boiling with the mystery—Why the hell was the boy saluting anyway?! Until one day Ressler's nephew did a project about boy scouts in different countries. Donald reached out to his contacts in Russia, but got nothing.
It got so bad he dreamt of the woman in his sleep. Her disconnected stare, full of despair, was before his eyes every fucking morning. But Ressler wouldn't be Ressler if he didn't get to the bottom of it. His superiors might have discarded the lead, but he hadn't. In case it proved reliable, at the very least he'd get a salary bonus; at the very best—it opened a whole new world of the intelligence elite for him.
Except a young and cocky florist Dick Mellow from the flower shop, there was a much buoyant old man for his age by the name of Douglas McCrane. After three tumblers of whiskey his tongue had been untied and Ressler, as discreetly as possible, pressed the "Rec" button on the hidden recorder.
It turned out the "man in the fedora" came by the shop every year in April; each time with the same order on the same day—mimosa and lilacs. According to Douglas, it was the most weirdest mix he'd ever heard. The "man in the fedora" was as precise as the Swiss-made watch: he ordered the bouquet exactly two days prior to his arrival and he arrived exactly for the shop's opening at 9:00 AM.
Unfortunately the reliability of the intel acquired by drinking whiskey with your witness was, at the very least, questionable. Being a thorough agent he had been for the past few years on the job, Ressler decided to check on his own where the lead might get him to.
And after one long and tiresome year his efforts had been handsomely rewarded.
It took him almost five wasted years of his life, give or take, to get to this moment. A failed Reddington's assassination operation in Brussels; disrupted international summit in Beijing; explosion in Istanbul, and here he was, the Concierge of Crime, in flesh! And where? In Washington! At the fucking Capitol's backyard!
You're insane, his inner voice hadn't yet left the hope to reach his common sense. The backup will be here in half an hour, tops. What if he sees you?
His naturally stubborn temper hadn't let him giving up so easily. Especially when the thing you wanted was right under your nose.
Trying to be as quiet as possible, Ressler unstuck his body from the prickles and looked out of his hideaway.
Eighty feet from him Reddington's fedora was looming on the path.
Donald slipped back into hiding, thinking. He couldn't just go now and arrest Reddington—his lawyers would bury the District Attorney alive at the first arraignment court. But if, say, Reddington came here to meet with someone and broker another arms deal or there was a stash of cocaine—in this case things would spin much faster.
Ressler, in a cat-like manner, jumped over a thick scarf of the hedge, and landed on the grass. Thank God the hedge hadn't been trimmed. Crouching, he followed Reddington. Reddington was cheerfully humming Humpty Dumpty tune. It sounded eerie in the silence of the graves. For a moment, Donald felt like a kid, sitting by the crackling fire and listening to scary stories. He tightened the grip on his Sig Sauer.
The juicy green scarf was getting thinner and thinner with every minute, and Ressler was anxiously looking for a new hideaway. He fancied a chunky oak surrounded by tiny boxwood balls. Catching his breath, Ressler leaned on the sturdy trunk.
It wasn't a problem to move that poor woman's body—Reddington had plenty of resources to pull that off. The question was—what happened to the boy on the photo? Where was he now? Did that mean Reddington had a son?..
Ressler closed his eyes, remembering the picture. The timid smile of the boy and the firm, austere stare of his mother.
The photograph almost burned Ressler through his jacket. Why would he even carry it with him anyway? He had no idea. He didn't have to cast another look at it—he knew it by heart.
The woman's face was furrowed, her features fierce. She wasn't smiling; but she didn't look sad either. Worn-out, rather. Her grip on the boy's hand was tight. Not a trace of softness. A necessity, then. Probably the kid was naughty and she had to keep an eye on him. She stared right at the camera. There was something elusive, almost vague in her eyes. Like a melting snowflake on your palm. And yet the spring was on the picture—lush trees, blossoming flowers. Her son, saluting, was grinning. Widely, contagiously and a little naive. The wind blew his hair, and the knot on his tie was crooked. Perhaps, he tied it by himself?..
It drove Ressler insane. Hundreds of times he swore he would fucking throw the picture away. And each time he changed his mind.
The forensics confirmed that it was a copy of a very old photo, printed in modern days. The only thing they were sure of—the original picture hadn't been altered in any way. It was just printed as it was. And judging by the clothing style, it was took in late 70s.
Much as he tried, Ressler couldn't find the original photo. When it was zoomed in the lab, Donald had noticed freckles on the boy's cheeks and a toy truck at his feet.
"Dad, Dad, look!"
"Not now, I'm busy."
Ressler opened his eyes, focusing on the present. His father had become a pawn in the big game. For the forty years on the job as a police officer he had only slipped once—he trusted the wrong man. His friend and a partner, Tommy Markin.
"I was accepted."
"Oh, Donald. I'm happy for you, really, I am. But... You sure this is what you really want?"
"Yes. He tried to make this world better for you and me. For all of us."
The noise above his head broke the memory.
Damn it. If the squirrel went down... Well, he's fucked then. The fuss got more rowdy. God, no. Please. Yet it seemed the luck was on his side today. The ginger rascal had left off and didn't come back.
Ressler softly breathed out, leaning his back on the trunk. The oak's coolness pleasantly refreshed his occupied mind and stiffened body.
"Nadezhda."
Donald blinked, utterly confused by what he had just heard. He cautiously stuck his head out of the tree. His knowledge of Russian was as good as the first page of the phrasebook. If Reddington gave now a talk, he'd be of no use whatsoever.
"N-Nadezhda..." Reddington's voice broke. He almost whispered the word. A name? Yeah, it seems so. So, the woman's name was "Nadezhda". For Donald's taste it sounded kinda rough, but at the same time so... special?
His... mother?
Ressler hurried to slip back behind the oak, uncocking the gun. The euphoria had evaporated and the doubts were clawing him within.
"I'm proud of you. Call me whenever you can, okay? Love you, dear. "
"I love you too, Mom."
What was the last time he called his mother? Or came over more often for holidays and longer than for a couple of hours? Of course, he would send the money, took care of his brother. He did what he was expected to do, like a good son. He was ashamed—he would visit his father's grave more often than checking on his mother.
He was torn apart. On one hand, Reddington—as vulnerable as never. You could handcuff him now, just like that. On the other hand... Damn it, how could you feel sorry for someone like him?! How?!
"Everyone has a soft spot, whether it's a scumbag or a saint."
"Even you, Dad?"
"Even me."
"What is it?"
"You and your mother."
Then his younger brother was born, and Ressler went to college. This conversation had been stamped on his memory. It often helped him to crack the most ingenious scumbags. People were indeed so boring in their weaknesses.
Donald didn't hurry to holster his Sig, leaning on the trunk. The scabrous oak's bark scratched the back of his head and tortuous cracks scraped his neck. He dug his nails deep into the gun's grip. His knuckles, grazed by the blackthorn, were throbbing again.
In a flash, the intel regarding the Naval Intelligence officer, Vice-Admiral Raymond Reddington, had vanished off the face of the earth, when the conspiracy to commit treason was uncovered. Ressler was refused to get access to anything despite his high security clearance. But he found a way around it with the assistance of the Lieutenant Commander Tara Baker. It's a shame Cabernet Sauvignon and the dinner in a restaurant can't solve most of your problems.
How come the foreigner had become the intelligence officer of one of the most important country's military structures? And not just any foreigner, but a Russian-born citizen! This was the grandest conspiracy against the US since the Cold War. And he, Donald, not someone else, had come this close to the bottom of it. To think about it, if he successfully closed Reddington's case, what would become of him! What opportunities! After all those years, he would finally make a name for himself!
With all those thoughts on his mind, Donald didn't notice the squirrel had come back. It was keenly studying him for a few moments. Then, almost like a ninja, it blended with the tree's bark and crawled to Ressler. Maybe, his gingerness confused her. Or maybe, the squirrel was too nosy.
It gently brushed the back of Donald's head with its tiny paw.
The squirrel took a leap on his back; Ressler jerked and his shoe tripped over the root. He hit his forehead, his cheek sliding on the bark. Donald helplessly waved his hands trying to keep the balance, but failed—his body sprawled on the ground.
He hadn't been such a mess since the college binges. His Sig lay around nearby. His right shoulder was throbbing—probably, bruised; his cheeks were burning—no surprise here as he nose-dived into the thorny bush.
Donald picked up the Sig from the mud with a nasty chomping sound and rose to his feet. Wiping the gun at his jacket, he noticed a button missing. A drop of sweat dripped off his temple. Ressler wiped it off and stared at the bloody stain on his palm, baffled. What the...? Brushing a thin scratch mark with his fingers, it came down to him—he accidentally slugged himself with his own gun.
Checking the gun, Donald, silently muttering curses, looked at the graves. Red didn't look bothered a bit by the commotion. He brushed over the headstone with his hand. Much as Ressler tried, he couldn't see the name on it.
Red unwrapped the flowers—Ressler recognized lilacs and mimosa—and put them on the grave. Donald took a step back, gluing his eyes to Reddington. Red folded the flower wrapper and put it into his windbreaker's pocket.
Well, that's been close.
"Good morning, Agent Ressler."
Not really.
"Is it really necessary, Donald?" Reddington chuckled like they were best buddies in the whole world.
His index finger on the trigger, Ressler licked his dry lips. Sig's safety catch silently clicked. He would give up a lot to shoot Reddington in cold blood right here.
No. Too easy for him.
Ressler quickly glanced at the headstone behind Reddington.
N. JOHNSON
1940 – 1985
It is the heart always that sees.
"Donald, you'll end up with no friends if you go on like that."
"Whatever. I don't need them anyway."
"It can't be that bad. Maybe, you should just give it a try..."
"They hate my guts, Mom! All of them! What'd you expect?! My dad's a cop who's put their parents behind bars. You should hear what they're saying about him. About me."
"Come here. Sit."
"I won't! They're calling me a rat! A traitor! They say I can't be trusted because I'm a scum like my father!"
"Donald."
"What?!"
"You believe them?"
"I... I don't know."
"Come here. Donald, whatever things you might hear, I want you to know this. You father is a hero. He'll always be one. It doesn't matter what other kids are saying, or how they call you. You father loves you, Donald. And I will always love you, no matter what. Because you are our son."
Donald's palm got wet, and he gripped the gun tighter with both hands.
"Don't move! Hands! Put your hands where I can see them!"
Reddington, ignoring the orders, curiously, almost flirtatiously, titled his head like he was being told the most fascinating story in his life.
"If at least half of the G-men had been working with the same fervor as you, our world would've become a better place a lot faster."
"It will be if you go to jail!"
Reddington took off his his fedora and twisted it in his hand, contemplating. He muttered something inaudible under his breath and put the hat back on, studying Ressler. He glanced at Donald's forehead where the bruise was growing; next, he looked at the cut on his cheek; then—his tie. When he cast another glance at his pants, he gave Donald a thin smile, but didn't say anything.
Donald didn't resist and looked down. His pants hadn't survived the encounter with the soil very well—two big muddy round marks with greenish grazings were on his knees.
I look like a fucking rug rat!
More than anything in the world, Donald wished to shrink into the tiniest thing ever existed. He wanted to hole up, disappear, hell, even bury himself under that fucking oak, if only it could spare him of the look Reddington gave him.
His head was still cocked to the side, the corners of his lips raised in a scoffing smile. Each time, Donald would see Red's mugshot in the FBI's database, he ignored the tobacco-green hue of Red's eyes, ridiculously similar to his own.
Last time Donald had the Concierge of Crime at gunpoint was his rifle's glass in Brussels. He had been given very explicit orders—to eliminate the threat to the national security by any means.
"Teams Alfa and Tango are ready to breach on your command. Two additional snipers are in position. The local police has secured the area."
Reddington's train was scheduled to arrive at 10:50. Platform four, car two. Red was his usual self—strolling at the station, maneuvering through the crowds. He bought a pretzel and a bar of chocolate.
Ressler watched Red's each step through the scope, waiting for the best window to shoot, but Reddington would slip away all the time. Between the rifle and Red's head would always come the station personnel; or a massive station clock; or he would get lost between the buzzing tourists, not leaving a chance for a clear shot. After a while of this hide-and-seek, Ressler realized—he knew. His gut had rarely been mistaken. At least, it was more reliable than useless profiling.
Ressler, almost dizzy from the rage and humiliation overwhelming him, had pushed the rifle's bolt so hard he barely tore his finger off. The comms spit the monotonous orders—not to engage and leave the position. But right now only one thing had been pounding in his mind—this was his only chance. If Reddington left the platform, they would lose him.
Donald, leaning forward, pressed his eye to the scope and located the target. He caught the crown of the damn fedora in the cross-hairs. And slowly, as he was taught, released the trigged to the front.
He almost got him. Almost.
"Qd8-a5"
"To be honest, I didn't expect to see you again. Especially after Brussels," Reddington, his face lit by a dreamy, wide grin, looked like he was taken back to the happiest day of his life.
Ressler gritted his teeth, fighting an urge to riddle Reddington with bullets. His body stiffened, sore with tension. Blood pounded in his ears, resonating within. His index finger was getting numb.
"Why aren't you pulling the trigger? The bolt's stuck? Or should I turn my back to you?"
Donald jerked his head. "Shut up!"
Reddington examined Ressler, as if assessing, how much was he worth. Or how worthless he was. Donald loathed this look with all his being—he felt himself clumsy, incapable... Just a total idiot. But that wasn't true! Total idiots weren't assigned to such a case. You had to prove your worth.
And Ressler did. 365 days a year, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day. Until one day he'd been told to pack the things for overseas—he was sent to Japan as the FBI's official representative. The CIA and FBI had decided to joint forces to find the elusive and notorious Concierge of Crime who had sold the USA's military secrets. The task force was dismissed in two years, and Ressler came back to Washington as the Senior FBI Agent.
He confidently climbed up the career ladder—first he got Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge rank; then—Agent-in-Charge a year later. He was this close to apply for the Deputy Assistant Director...
But the failed Brussels operation had ruined everything for him.
They forced him to take a leave—"to clear his head"—but in truth it was an exile half a year long. He was stripped of his security clearance—from he fourth to the second. When he was finally allowed to come back, they made him push papers for another year, no field duty. Despite the fact Reddington lay low for two years after the assassination attempt, Donald kept looking for him, hoping to restore his reputation.
He did it.
It cost him seeing his family, friends and relationships, but he did it.
"How's Burke, that old rascal, doing? As hideous as always, threatening the freshers with the exile to Kentucky?"
"Not your damn business!"
"I heard he's hiring exceptionally charming female Quantico grads as his personal assistants," Reddington purred, sounding like he took a bite of each of those girls. Donald could only guess how long the list was of all those women he had laid for the past decade.
"It is infuriating, isn't it?" Reddington grinned. It was a scornful, vicious grimace, designed to set Donald's temper off. "To comply with the orders from a trainee who hadn't even—"
Ressler fired. Reddington's oxfords hadn't moved an inch.
"You do not have a radiocom on you," Reddington didn't ask—he established a fact. "No one will ever know what has really happened." Red paused. He looked Ressler straight in the eye. "Pull the trigger, Donald. It's your chance."
The sun looked out from the cloud, its rays blinding Ressler. He blinked once, twice, but it didn't help. The skies had finally been cleared. He wanted to take the jacket off. Or hid in a tree's shadow.
Reddington hadn't changed a bit. Except one thing—Why the hell he was even thinking about it?—he looked exhausted. Really, in spite of the exterior glam and the forty grand suit he looked spent.
Life's been hard on you too, pal? Ressler wished he'd told him that. There were hundreds of things he'd say to Reddington in the interrogation room off the record. But most of all, he'd ask him this—why, why the hell he saved him in Istanbul?!
Fuck it all.
Ressler aimed his gun.
Somewhere a crow cried.
"I'm not your enemy, Donald. When the time comes, you'll understand."
Reddington's preaching tone, the way he was schooling him like a boy, made his blood boil. Who was he to speak like that to him? Like he knew something others didn't. Like he was beyond everything and everyone. Agonizingly untouchable; squinting at you, as if you were a bug under his sole.
"I hope I am allowed to the last word?"
"I swear, if it's one of your games..."
"Just the dying declaration of the man accepting the inevitable."
Ressler approvingly gestured with his gun.
"It's a shame there's no bench in here. Might be more comfy... Have you ever been to Russia, Agent Ressler?"
"A couple of times. So what?"
"Russians remember the deceased in a completely different way than we do. They put benches at the graves. And small tables."
"What difference does it make?"
Reddington didn't answer. He glanced at the headstone and then turned around to Donald.
"Do you still have it with you? I'd like to see it. At times, it seems I'm forgetting her face after all these years."
Ressler had never heard Reddington talking this way. The weight of the twenty years he gave over to breaking hundreds of international laws burdened his strained voice.
Keeping his eyes on Red, Donald took the picture from his inside pocket and handed it to Reddington.
"Why don't you put the gun down, Agent Ressler? It's much easier that way," Reddington gave him a weak smile. "No?.. Suit yourself."
Reddington took the photograph into his hands. Carefully, as if it could shatter into million pieces. He brushed the picture with his fingers. He gazed into it forever, ignoring Ressler's presence.
Donald felt awkward. Like he had caught Reddington at something private. Intimate. Something you didn't open up about to a complete stranger. He was taken aback by a sudden, totally absurd urge to squeeze Red's shoulder. Tell him the reassuring lie everyone told someone in that kind of situation. Fancy words had never been his strong suit, though.
The hit's been that hard, huh?
He wanted to say "Raymond Reddington, you're under arrest," but completely different words left his mouth.
"Is that you?" Donald blurted, like a kid who hoped for a candy from his strict father.
Reddington raised his eyes on him. "What do you think?" he said casually, as if they were chatting about the latest flea market's sale, not discussing his past.
Ressler would always clench his teeth with annoyance when someone would answer a question with another question. But the yearning to get to the bottom of the mystery had weighed on. And he said nothing.
"Perhaps, you might consider...?" Reddington gestured to the barrel of Donald's gun, still pointed at him. Not getting any conclusive reply, Red hid the photograph into his windbreaker's pocket.
Ressler had just opened the mouth to say he had no right to do that. It was evidence; and now Donald had to fill in a shitload of papers explaining why it hadn't been put back in the vault.
"You know, Donald, I envy you." Ressler raised his eyebrow in disbelief. "For you, unlike the rest, truth is tangible. It's a constant. Something you can get a grip of. You will toss and turn until you unearth the story behind someone's fingerprints," Reddington brushed over the name on the headstone with his fingers. "You believe in the system. The law. Justice." A crooked, vile smirk cut Reddington's face when he uttered "justice".
"Jus..." Donald's voice broke off. A drop of sweat was snaking down his forehead, but he couldn't wipe it off—he would have to draw the gun away from Reddington—and that was a luxury he could not afford. But, as a good cop, he hung onto the word Red had just said.
"What do you mean?"
The corners of Red's mouth turned up in a barely visible smile, and he fearlessly turned his back to Donald, looking at the grave.
"You already know who that is, don't you, Agent Ressler?"
Ressler did, but he couldn't help the inquisitive tone—What if he's wrong?—and said:
"Your mother?"
Red was silent. Then he nodded—the brims of his hat swayed lightly.
"Yes. Do you know why she ran away?"
Until now Ressler had Reddington at his gunpoint, but the gun had been lowered a bit. The Concierge tangled Donald in a web of the words he'd been weaving; he left him no chance to move. Those words suffocated him, crushing his will.
And—Why?!—he surrendered to them.
"I don't kn... I don't care! Let me see your hands!"
Red didn't move an inch this time either. He reached out and brushed a lonely oak leaf off the stone.
"It was... I was in college at that time. Once I came home and found my mother, unconscious, lying in a puddle of blood on the floor. Is that fair, Agent Ressler?"
Reddington's sudden honesty seemed suspicious. But apart of that it was as terrifying as the wounded wolf feeding on your hand. Ressler quickly scanned the perimeter. There must be a shooter somewhere. This level of sincerity implied a hundred percent confidence that an opponent would never spill your guts. Never.
"No need to worry, Agent Ressler." Although his face was still turned to the grave, Reddington read Donald's mood as good as a poker player calling someone's bluff. "There are no shooters, and I left my bodyguard at the car. I'm curious about your opinion on the matter, that's all."
"You could've gone to the police..."
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Ressler. We did everything we could."
"Donald, I'm your mother, talk to me."
Ressler shook his head slightly, as if it could help the memory go away. His hands froze—he couldn't feel them on the gun. He didn't let go of it, though. Instead, he straightened it, pointing directly at Reddington's back.
"How many closed cases regarding domestic violence do you know?" Reddington interrupted him. "Or, at least, opened?"
"I know Tommy Markin did it. Sir, please. He's my father."
"They found him not guilty. It's out of my hands. I'm sorry, Donald, I really am."
Reddington turned his face to Donald again. The corners of his lips were raised a little, but one could hardly call it a smile. He took a step forward. The muzzle of Ressler's gun poked above the round button on Red's vest, wrinkling the fabric.
He wasn't scared.
"What about you, Agent Ressler? Have you found justice on that April's evening? The evening you found your father's body at his own house porch?"
Ressler's hand trembled. His throat was desert-like dry. He breathed in heavily, trying to fill his lungs with air. The barrel helplessly slid down a few inches.
Reddington did nothing—he hadn't moved or taken a step back. Instead, he was observing Ressler like a peculiar exhibit. He looked at him the way he'd enjoy a masterpiece in the Louvre. Ressler was his own exhibit, in a way. A part of an impressive human collection the Concierge had been thoroughly gathering, with great attention to detail, separating the wheat from the chaff.
When Reddington had been given Ressler's dossier, he had laughed. An audacious, arrogant boy, fresh out from Quantico, goggling ridiculously honest eyeballs from the picture in his file.
"En Prise"
Chapter Notes
1. Andrei—Andrew.
2. Special services—refer to the Russian intelligence services back in the Soviet Union.
3. Macallan—a brand of elite whiskey.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
En Prise—a chess piece which was left without any protection.
Ressler's dossier evoked nothing but an urge to yawn: "with distinction", "promising", "outstanding", "the best performance". However, a bunch of papers didn't tell anything about a man. Papers should never be trusted—they were just inkblots, quite often designed with one particular aim—to misguide and misinform.
Scanning through the newspaper clippings where Ressler's name had been mentioned, Reddington stopped at the piece published on April 5, 1995.
"Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police Department sends their sincere condolences to the family of Sgt. Brian Ressler..."
Reddington frowned. He had already heard the name "Brian Ressler" in connection with some high-profile corruption case. It didn't take him long to find the necessary article—he had enough people to run such errands when needed.
"ROB DIXON—A CRIMINAL OR A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCE?
Rob Dixon, a benefactor and a philanthropist, is suspected of money laundering, bribery, and fraudulent activities. The charges are yet to be pressed, however..."
Reddington glanced through a few more issues. Judging by the snail-like speed of the investigation, it had been stalled for some unknown reason. The reason turned up quickly in another article—Dixon was groomed for a seat in the Senate.
Reddington flipped through a few more pieces.
"The charges against Rob Dixon have been dropped. Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police Department sends their sincere apologies for the unlawful actions against one or the most prominent people of our city..."
"...Sgt. Brian Ressler and his partner, detective Tommy Markin, will undergo a full and thorough investigation by the Internal Affairs to establish whether or not their actions against the famous philanthropist Rob Dixon have been lawfully executed. The source close to Tommy Markin says that Markin is ready to assist with the investigation and cooperate in any way he can."
Reddington raised his eyes on the sixteen-year-old Donald, caught in the camera. He covered his mother's shoulders with a sports jacket, making his way through the crowd of journalists to his own house.
The black-and-white photograph jarred Reddington's memories about his own father. Major General Vladimir Gronsky had been under surveillance of the Soviet Union's special services—he was suspected of speculation and breaking the rules of foreign currency operations. He had left countless debts after him, gambling every ruble he had at horce races, bridge, billiards, baccarat.
Red was sixteen when he fled the Soviet Union with his mother. His father's old contacts had proven more useful than he thought they'd be. Red and Nadezhda had been provided with top-notch fake identities—they flawlessly went through the extensive CIA, FBI and Homeland background checks. According to the new papers, Nadezha Krasnova and her son Andrei had never existed. Instead of them, the law-abiding American-born citizens Nadine Johnson and Raymond Reddington appeared.
Though, as Donald did once, Red had trusted the wrong man. And his mother had paid with her life for that mistake.
Reddington put the newspaper away. It seemed that a pathologically boring boy scout had some sort of medieval valiance within him—following his father's footsteps to honor his memory.
In a way, Red had also done the same thing, although there was a hollow-like difference between him and his father—Red hadn't beaten his mother to the point she couldn't get up the next morning, and he hadn't gambled all the money.
At first, the name "Tommy Markin" didn't ring a bell to Red. He absentmindedly picked the tumbler and took a sip of Macallan. Next, he asked his people to dig up something on Markin. Just like reading a good book, Red didn't like to quit the story which had caught his attention. And this one, for sure did.
The good old Tommy Markin. Cleared of all charges, he continued, as if nothing happened, to work in the precinct. And Ressler's father took a bullet. Reddington also discovered that Brian Ressler had been offered a bribe to stop the investigation. But he'd refused. His partner, Markin, had proven to be far more flexible regarding what's wrong and right.
The vengeance had already been seeded within Donald—even if he hadn't realized it yet. It had grown slowly, almost invisible. At times, it came out as rage—the suspect might get an extra punch or two; or recklessness—Donald would expose himself to a stray bullet only to see if God had any plans to take him upstairs.
He was embracing the righteous side of it.
For now.
If done right, it could be transformed into something far more valuable. And extremely beneficial.
Donald was quiet. The gun unbearably burned his hands like a lit match, stinging the skin. What was he thinking, when he decided he's capable to apprehend Reddington on his own? Not to mention he screwed a ton of rules...
Yeah, rules. Reddington doesn't give a single fuck about them. Just as he didn't give a single fuck about how many guns a six-year-old child in Africa got; or how fast a modified virus would spread on the earth; or how many bodies would drop on his way to another mil of bucks.
But why Reddington gives a fuck about him?!
Ressler fixed his eyes on the Concierge's face. Identical, tobacco-green eyes. They—perhaps, he wanted to believe that?—sparked with curiosity. A scoff. Maybe, there was the kind of thrill people got when they went all-in, gambling everything they had just to see what happened. Yes, definitely the thrill. Reddington always had an ace up his sleeve—Donald had learned it well over all these years.
So, what now...?
Reddington reached out, placing his hand on the gun.
He didn't try to lower it in any way.
Donald's index finger slipped on the trigger.
His damp palm stuck to the grip. Tiny fractions on the grip stung, digging into his hot skin. A drop of sweat was dripping behind his ear. It crept down slowly, driving him crazy with its nasty wet trail. Reaching his chin, it softly slipped down.
Shoot him. Shoot! Shoot, damn it!
"Donald."
Reddington's mask of indifference had cracked open for an instant.
Years of running from his own self. Guilt. Losses. The real losses, not fake ones, like the list of his twenty-two aliases known to the FBI—Ressler knew it better than "The Our Father". Betrayal. And pain. It bled with injustice within.
Have you found justice, Agent Ressler?
He sought for it every single day. In the ongoing investigation. In another criminal he put behind bars. In countless lines of the reports. In pictures. In memories.
At times, his father's murderer came to him at night in his dreams.
His face—an ugly white mask with dark round hollows instead of eyes. The man is smiling—the mask twists in a callous grin. His laugh is contagious, boyish, although he is no longer a kid. He's tall, maybe 5'11", give or take. Black, thick fluid trickles out of his orbits, but he keeps laughing.
Donald's helplessness pleases him.
Who is he without his badge? His gun?
In an instant Donald finds himself naked. The man's laughter turns into cackle—he's cracking up like he heard the funniest joke in his entire lifetime. His laugh is knocking the eardrums out, almost like in the year round drills the agents are shooting at the same time.
The man draws the gun out. Adjusts the silencer. Checks the ammo. Reloads the mag. Aims.
The last thing Donald sees—his own face staring back at him.
The sun had disappeared, covered by clouds. Ressler took a deep breath as if trying to inhale all the oxygen in the world.
Reddington, his eyes glued on Ressler, hadn't even flinched.
Ressler was one hundred percent sure Red had kept a lot from him as for the circumstances of his mother's death. But Donald would have been a shitty cop if he didn't have at least, two assumptions about that.
Reddington hadn't dropped any hints, but Ressler was dead certain the Concierge had killed his father personally. He gave off an impression he wasn't afraid to dirty his hands when the people he cared about were in danger. And that was something Donald, despite his oath to uphold the law, understood.
Donald had no idea why the hell he had decided to profile Reddington now—What a waste of time and resources!—but the thought came out of nowhere.
The frames unfolded in Donald's head in a film.
One.
Reddington's father collapses on the floor, a crimson trail sprawling on his shirt. His fingers are hanging onto the tablecloth, dishes falling to the floor. He sobs, gasping for air, but Reddington strikes over and over. He stabs him. One, two, three times in a row. He finishes him with a jab to his temple.
Two.
A little boy—not more than seven years old—discovers his mother's body on the kitchen floor. She is unconscious, but alive. His father's gone. Perhaps, he's managed to escape? The boy swears to find those who have done that to his mother. Years go by, he becomes a grown-up. He takes care of his mother as best as he can.
But there comes a day he fails.
Red knows his father's tracked them down and killed her in cold blood.
Red looks him straight in the eye. He shoots. The man winces from pain—the bullet has gone through the left knee. Red fires again. This time—the right knee. Then—arms. He paused between the shots: thirty seconds, not more. His father wails, disoriented from excruciating pain, his bawls bouncing off the walls.
Red gives him a look, full of contempt.
He empties the mag into his father's head.
Ressler could have thought of the third and the fourth version of the events—he was well aware of Red's feelings. It took Donald quite an effort to get back to the present.
The part of him he had been burying all these years understood Reddington at that moment. Better than anyone else. Understood and wanted the same thing.
Did that mean they had something...
In common?! You nuts?!
Donald cast a glance at the grave.
Reddington's hand smoothly lay on Ressler's gun barrel. An inch further—their hands would have touched.
Red lowered the gun.
Donald didn't put up any resistance. Instead, he raised his eyes and looked—for the first time in his life—looked into the Concierge's piercing eyes and saw his own reflection in them.
His own pain.
Wasn't it funny that they indeed had something in common?..
Ressler wanted to say something, but instead of words a deep-seated pain he thought he had buried a long time ago, burst out from his chest, breaking his ribs. It fractured his bones, tore him open, its waves submerging him.
He drowned.
"No." The word had slipped from Donald's lips—he didn't want to accept it. "No. No, no, no." He turned his face away from Red, trying to get himself together.
He needed to keep his cool.
The palm, heavy and ridiculously gentle at the same time, lay on his shoulder.
"It wasn't your fault, Agent Ressler," Reddington's voice was calm and detached, as usual.
Ressler turned back and aimed his gun again, pressing it hard between Reddington's eyebrows.
"You were a child." Red's voice was full of the deep-rooted grief—Ressler knew it. He knew it too well. "Children can't play the games adults do."
For some reason, the image of Reddington had been distorted, doubling. Ressler stubbornly shook his head, not realizing his eyes were wet.
Reddington took the gun away from his hands in one smooth motion.
"I hope you don't mind if I disarm it." He clicked the safety catch and hid the gun behind his back.
In an instant, Ressler gripped the lapels of Red's jacket, wrinkling the expensive fabric.
Why, why in the entire lifetime there had been only one person who understood him?!
And why it had to be Raymond Reddington?!
Reddington easily read Donald's confusion, the anger on his face. He twisted his lips in a grimace that could be hardly called a smile.
"You... don't... understand..." Ressler breathed out, fighting the urge to strangle Reddington. His fingers trembled.
"I do."
Ressler was taken aback by the ridiculous simplicity of the answer. He let go of Red's jacket.
"My m-mother..." Red paused, collecting his thoughts. "My mother understood the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself." He gave a deep sigh. "I was a difficult child. Of course, it shouldn't come as a complete surprise to you." He raised the corners of his lips. "Yes... My father," his voice hardened, "instead of trying to understand me, he ex-communicated me." The words Red uttered slashed the air like a machete. "He fancied himself a disciplinarian. I found the traces of his doctrine on my mother's face every morning."
Ressler could see it in his head.
The woman dries the blood off the corners of her mouth.
The glass is shattered.
A slap. One more. And another.
"I have been looking for justice too. A year became two, then—decades. My mother is dead because I've been naive." Reddington looked Donald straight in the eye. "I've been living with the thought I killed her with my own hands, sort of. I know how it feels, Agent Ressler. I know it very well."
Reddington reached out and squeezed Donald's shoulder.
Fatherly-like.
Ressler hadn't had a father for a very long time.
"I didn't kill him," Donald blurted, as if those four words could have saved him.
"Of course, not." Red's eyes were full of anguish. "But what if you hadn't stuck around to chat with friends? Would you have come earlier and helped him? If you hadn't walked the extra bus stop on foot. Or if you hadn't stopped to buy ice cream. What if you could have saved him?"
Something warm and damp trickled on Ressler's cheek. He angrily shook his head.
"Shut up! It has nothing to do with it! He was shot! I couldn't have saved him!"
It felt like Reddington's eyes were penetrating his own with their deep, hard stare. The Concierge of Crime squeezed Donald's shoulder again.
He nodded, twisting his lips:
"Remember this, Agent Ressler. You couldn't have saved him."
Ressler hadn't shed a tear since he was sixteen. He didn't cry now either. His face shrank into the mask with twisted brows and trembling lips on its own accord.
He turned away from Reddington, trying to save the rest of his dignity.
"It's alright, Donald. There is nothing to be ashamed of. No one will see it, except me. And no one will ever believe me anyway."
Reddington's soothing voice reminded him the tide of an ocean. A slight trace of his cologne, unknown to Ressler, with notes of cedar and sandalwood, was in the air.
Until this moment, Ressler hadn't realized the Concierge had put the hands on his shoulders. Concerned, he looked at Ressler, as if assessing how many more tears had been left in him.
Donald was shocked and pissed off at his own self for the weakness. He brushed Reddington's hands off his shoulders.
"You'd better take a couple of days off, Agent Ressler. You don't look good."
Red gave him a scornful smile, the familiar irony was back in his voice.
As if nothing happened.
Reddington, still smiling, gave Ressler his Sig back.
"See you again, Agent Ressler."