After the amazing first episode we got for Season 3, I've had a hard time finding a chapter for this episode! There was so much in it. It was SO tight that there really weren't any glaring holes that would normally scream for an additional scene. But after multiple viewings (I know, it's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it!) I started to see that there where little holes that could be filled in. And since there is always room for more Ressler and Keenler, this is what I came up with to start off Conversations 3 for this stunning Season 3 opener!
The tavern is dim in the shuttered interior as shards of sunlight shine through the upturned glasses on the bar. A musty beer-filled odor permeates dark wood paneling on walls that surround chipped and worn tables and chairs. The chairs sit empty, awaiting the regulars that saunter in each evening to partake in a drink with friends. It's a comfortable establishment that waits silently until the laughter and conversation fills it at night. But there is no silence today, nor cheerful banter. Through dirty windows the strobe of red and blue law enforcement lights flash from vehicles that surround the building. Inside and out, heavily armed SWAT and FBI agents in black combat gear stake out the location, assault rifles poised for action
Standing at the rear of the building by a small sink in an alcove, Donald Ressler is flanked by two armed SWAT guys. Yet he's calling point. He's the Director of the lead agency on scene and they're looking to him for their next move.
He knows Liz is near. There is no hard evidence, just a feeling. And while his gut had let him down badly when he'd let her go, right now it's working just fine. She is near. She is close. He's just not exactly sure where. His eyes drop as he searches. And that's when he notices the floor. A distinct square cut around the base of the sink. He reaches quickly for the taps and turns them, only to find they are not connected to any plumbing. Son of a bitch.
As the SWAT guys lift the sink, he steps back. Behind him, Tiffany Lepman is being escorted out to a waiting police car. She's now given up all pretense of not making the call to the tip line.
"You need to catch that terrorist woman! She held me at gunpoint!"
Ressler ignores her. Or tries to. He's been surrounded by people referring to Keen as a terrorist all day and to say it's not sitting well with him is an understatement.
He steps forward as an underground bunker is revealed at his feet. The concrete floor is about 15 feet below the foot of the access ladder. His heart is hammering, yet his voice remains calm. Not one of the SWAT guys would have any idea of the torment behind the cool façade he's got firmly planted in place. He's an expert at this.
"Keen, I know you're down there." Nothing.
"Look, there's two ways this ends. You come up hands raised or we come down guns raised." He waits. Nothing again. In a strange dance within his brain, he is afraid she will answer, yet equally afraid she will not.
"Your call." Silence greets his voice again. She's not here. He can feel it.
At his nod to the SWAT commander, a smoke and flash grenade is tossed into the cellar. As the smoke infiltrates the small underground room, Ressler drops down the stairs, shining his flashlight. With no more than a cursory glance at the man on the ground, he scans the room. It's not unlike another underground bunker a lifetime away on a cult compound - except there are no taunting bottles of pain pills on these shelves. He shoves the memory aside. There is no time for that now.
Focus.
They're gone. And in a terrible, unwanted moment of déjà vu, it's three years ago after he'd stormed another bunker to find it empty. Reddington had been gone then and now he's standing in a vacant room in Reddington's wake. Their elusive game of cat and mouse has begun anew, except now it's a party of three. The beam of his flashlight lands on the grate on the wall and hovers over the loose corner. Their escape route. Red's contingency plans would have been in place for such a scenario. Nothing surprises the man.
Resisting the urge to thump something, he gives a quick flick of his head toward the armed men before two SWAT guys are already on it. Hauling the grate open they're inside, maneuvering down the tunnel before disappearing from sight as it rounds a turn. He wants to run down that tunnel with them and haul the criminal back in and catch up with Liz. The sudden overwhelming desire to turn and walk away from all this and be back at work in the morning with his partner sitting across from him rises in his gut. But that's not happening. Instead he retrieves his phone from his pocket and hits the speed dial on it.
"Aram, the tip paid off. They were here. Seal off an area of 20 blocks around the address the tip came in from." He hangs up as Aram confirms the order, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He turns and lowers his flashlight toward the man on the ground.
"Where did they go?" It's a useless question. No way would Reddington have told this man, who is no more than a pawn in the criminal's plans.
"I don't know! Where is my sister?!" The plaid shirted man asks as he's pulled roughly to his feet by the SWAT commander.
"She's in custody. Arrested for harboring a known fugitive and terrorist." The words roll smoothly off his tongue to the man, yet Ressler almost chokes on the word 'terrorist'. His partner is a lot of things, but terrorist is not one of them. "Which is what you are also being arrested for." Steely eyes boring into the cuffed man, Ressler looks at him a second longer before dismissing him, addressing the SWAT commander in the dim smoke filled bunker.
"Get him out of here."
As the prisoner is assisted up the access ladder, Ressler turns again and steps toward the opening in the wall. He's going through the motions. Leading the team. And as much as he hates to admit it, it's his gut which is leading the show right now and he knows they are long gone. Yet he was close. So damn close. Reddington has slipped through his fingers once more, but it's the thought of Liz slipping further from him that makes his stomach lurch.
The bunker is empty now as the last of the SWAT team leave. He stands alone turning slowly as his flashlight beam falls on the meager furnishings and supplies. Two cots adorn either side of the room. One has been used, the other is made up tight, evidence of a military background. Perhaps the plaid shirted man was an old Navy comrade of Reddington's. He stops. The thought of the word 'comrade' brings a hiss to his lips. His thoughts that are never far from her land squarely back on Liz. She's not Russian. Her mother may have been Russian, but she isn't.
Eyes follow the flashlight beam around the room, picking up the shelves of food items and decades old magazines. Who knows how many have used this space as a safe harbor. As a living quarters. It's musty, old and dank. Yet surprisingly well laid out and utilized. His ordered mind scans the room and lands on the small table and chairs. The remains of a meal are on the table. Dinner for two. He knows which side Liz sat at, looking at the two plates. Red's meal was finished. The man was calm and had his appetite. This is his territory, being on the run. He knows the ropes. Yet Liz's plate is half eaten, her meal barely touched. His flashlight lands on the small chair at the table. She was sitting right there just minutes earlier. Fingers brush the back of the small, hard chair.
Eyes land back on the half eaten meal. She was nervous. Sick at her stomach and couldn't eat. His mind is back in their office, sitting with her as they celebrated her birthday. She had eaten all of her meal that night and been comfortable in his presence. He had been comfortable in hers and yet now it feels a lifetime ago. One half touched meal is telling him so much about her state of mind. She's out of her depth and relying on Reddington to get her through this.
"Liz…" he whispers, almost unaware he's uttered her name.
Turning his attention back to the cots he knows the rumpled one is where Red would have laid out and rested. Liz would not have been comfortable enough to do so. She was too on edge and ready to run at a seconds notice. He moves toward the ladder to exit the room. At the base of it, one hand on the rung near his head he turns back once more as his eyes linger on the sight of her empty chair.
The room above him is quiet, with the prisoners having been escorted from the premises. The SWAT guys have retreated to the outside. He stands alone looking around the room that housed his partner and her mentor, Reddington. He's learned more about her in the past two minutes than he's understood all day. He's profiled her. She'd be proud of him.
A gasp escapes his lips as he catches his breath. The smoke has dissipated and for one brief second he almost smells her perfume. It has to be his imagination. Yet he can smell it. Feel her near him in his mind. See her standing before him. Beside him. Across from him at her desk as they share their office. Yet it's all gone now. She is gone.
He turns and hauls himself up the ladder, leaving the empty bunker and the memory of its occupants below him.
###
As the SWAT van pulls out in front of his SUV, he follows and with a backward glance in his rear view mirror, he leaves the tavern. It's time to head back to the Post Office and brief Reven Wright. Which is not such an easy task with the city on lock down. In roads jammed with traffic, drivers curse, honking horns uselessly at the delays up ahead. Commentators chatter incessantly on car radios, breaking in with any and every detail on the hunt for the FBI agent who murdered the US Attorney General. They're calling her a terrorists, wanted in connection with the deaths of 14 CIA agents and a US Senator. There is talk of her being a Russian spy. Men shake their heads at the hype. Mothers head to schools to retrieve their children and hug them close. The terror has come home and instinctively they seek to shield their offspring.
Drivers are angry. Frustrated at the slow crawl and I.D. checks by police demanding paperwork. The afternoon is hot in the city, a fact that is fraying worn tempers further as car air conditioners work overtime. Pedestrians are not spared the inquisition. Stopped at street corners, their credentials are checked before they pass through road blocks. Phones are everywhere, held high in hands as the activity is snapped on their cameras, posted to YouTube, Twitter and Tumblr for the world to see. The city is a gridlock of cars full of irritated drivers late getting to their destinations. Full of laughing youth who are reveling in the change in their dull routines, some glad of the excuse to be officially late somewhere. The steady hum of car engines and radio announcers is punctuated with the whir of FBI, news and police choppers flying overhead. It is obvious they are hunting for someone.
In the midst of it all, Ressler sits alone in his FBI issued, shiny black SUV. His thoughts still linger in the underground bunker and their escape tunnel. As he'd known, there was no sign of them at the tunnel exit. No clues. In front of his SUV the black SWAT van is stopped, effectively blocking his view of part of the mayhem outside. And he's glad of it. He has long since slammed his palm onto the volume dial on the radio, shutting off the voice of the announcer. He doesn't need to hear it. He's living it. He doesn't need to hear his partner's name dragged through the mud on the radio, discussed among the talking heads. It's the one thing he can shut off. The sound of the radio announcers may be gone, yet it doesn't silence the relentless commotion of thoughts careening through his brain.
The mass of law enforcement swirls around him at the roadblock ahead as he stops himself at the last second from punching the horn. They're taking too long to clear a path through the traffic jam. With another clench of his jaw he throws open the door, jumps out and flashes his badge to the police officer using a large mirror to look under vehicles.
"Donald Ressler, FBI. What's the hold up?"
"We've got a truck stalled with an overheated engine on the next block. Tow truck is en-route to clear it. Let me see what I can do." The officer nods to Ressler then reaches for the mic pinned to his shoulder, calling his colleagues.
"We got FBI and SWAT back here trying to get through. Make a hole for these guys, okay?"
With a nod to the cop, Ressler climbs back into his vehicle to wait while they make this mythical hole. His phone rings, startling him from his focus. It's probably Reven Wright demanding her update and gripping it tightly he answers.
"Ressler."
Samar's voice fills his ear as his eyes settle on a distant point of a multi-story building, lifting his eyes from street level. "We've sealed off the area surrounding the exit tunnel from the bunker and have units on site processing the scene. We're looking for witnesses, but nothing yet. Where are you?"
Frustration evident, he answers her. "Going nowhere apparently," he scowls, then addresses what she's said. "Check everything and everyone you can find. Someone had to see something." That's what he tells her, but he knows differently. They won't find any evidence in that tunnel or with anyone near it. When it comes to hunting Reddington, you may as well be hunting a ghost. There is no evidence. Eye witnesses are almost nonexistent and when present are completely unreliable. He sighs as his eyes close momentarily against the sunlight and distant memories. Reddington – and Liz – he still has to keep reminding himself of that fact, disappeared right under their noses. Samar is speaking again as his eyes open and land on the stopped SWAT van and hive of activity surrounding him.
"Hang on, I think we have something. Aram?"
There is a flurry of voices on the line, Arams first and foremost before Samar raises the phone again to speak to him. "Units have located an abandoned MPDC vehicle 17 blocks from the exit tunnel near the tavern. It doesn't match the plate numbers of any official vehicle," she answers, as he again hears Aram in the background.
"Roll two additional units to that location," Ressler tells her, exercising his authority from the driver seat of an SUV stuck in a traffic jam. Samar turns away from the phone to pass that on to Aram.
Ressler shakes his head as he listens. Reddington always was three steps ahead of him and it's starting all over again. He was done with that part of his life. Done with chasing the criminal across the world. And now it's landed right back on his doorstep again. Right back in his lap. But it's not the same. He knows Reddington now. He knows his partner better though and closes his eyes again at that thought.
"They're on their way," Samar tells him as he grips the phone.
He scowls. They'd better get through traffic quicker than he is. "Did they lift any prints off it? Was it Reddington and Keen?"
"They only just started processing it, but so far there are no prints. I mean, none at all. And that in itself clearly indicates an attempt to cover the identity of the driver and passenger. It's reasonable to assume they used it to make their getaway from the vehicle transporter after they left the 3rd Street tunnel, and quite possibly from the tavern," she answers.
He licks his lip and nods. Of course it's reasonable to assume. It's exactly what Reddington would do. Hide in plain sight among the throng of law enforcement. Ahead of him the black van resumes its slow progress and shoving his vehicle back in gear, Ressler follows.
"It was them alright. Let me know if they find anything and keep your ears out for anything else that comes in on that tip line. The tavern tip was solid." He spares no pleasantries and hangs up before she can reply. Ahead, the road opens up before him as an officer waves them through on a side access road. And picking up speed he drives, following the black van in front of him. Yet his drive alone offers no respite from the clamor in his brain and the overwhelming guilt that is consuming him.
The officer's question from earlier in the day comes back to him. 'Is it true what they say? That she was your partner?' That officer never knew how close he came to being decked. His knuckles are white as they grip the steering wheel. His jaw painfully reminding him to let up on the clenched teeth.
"I should never have let you go," he says aloud to no one. "I should never..." his voice fades and he's back in the access tunnel at the post office as red strobe lights flash. She's in front of him and he's again lost in her eyes, her perfume and her closeness.
His personal need had overridden what he should have done. He hadn't arrested her. He had kissed her. Been held prisoner by those eyes and what she meant to him before letting her go. And now they were all paying the price for his lapse in judgement.
He had begged her not to make him do this. Yet he's well aware he is the one who has done this to himself.
###
Still following the SWAT vehicle, his phone rings again a few minutes later as he fishes it out of his pocket, eyes half on the phone and half on the traffic.
"Ressler."
"Ress," Liz whispers, startling him as he was expecting to hear Samar. His one hand on the steering wheel grips it tighter.
"What the hell…?" Common sense prevails and he finds a pull off on the road, coming to a stop in the parking lot of a convenience store.
"Are you okay?" she asks.
He ignores her. "Where the hell are you? I've got half of DC shut down looking for you." But as soon as he's said it, he knows it's a waste of time.
"I can't…" she starts, but he cuts her off.
"You can't tell me. I know. You also know that I have to ask." He keeps the engine running, needing the AC right now. Behind the convenience store a large elm tree hangs over it. His eyes rise and settle on it, finding solace in the greenery, seeing, yet not focusing.
"I'm in a bathroom."
"Oh." Not quite what he was expecting.
"Just got done taking a shower."
He pauses and try as he might, his mind goes there. Damn it. Focus. Why is she telling him this? "Okay." He can't say any more as his mind struggles off the scene it insists on playing.
"I look a little different now."
"Really?" She's telling him something, but not being specific. He should ask what she means. But he can't as she changes the subject.
"You don't sound good..." She almost adds his name to the end of her sentence, he can sense it.
"You can't tell that on a phone call…Keen." He almost calls her Liz, but to do so is too close. Too personal and she's anything but close to him right now.
She actually chuckles, and at the sound his heart skips a beat. "I can, actually. I can imagine you gripping the phone, looking upward but not seeing."
She's nailed it.
"And now you're, dipping your head, licking your bottom lip."
Damn, is she watching him?! He looks up. Meets his own eyes in the rearview mirror.
"I heard you at the tavern. I heard the anger in your voice and the tight control behind it."
"Yeah, well. It's not a good day, okay?" he says shortly.
"For me either." Her voice is soft, yet he can hear the strain behind it.
And suddenly he's angrier. But not at her. He put them both in this position when he didn't arrest her escaping the Post Office. His breath hisses through clenched teeth.
"This isn't your fault," she says.
"Of course it is. I let you go. You never could have kill-"
"You didn't make me shoot Connolly."
"Dammit, Liz." And now he says her name, gritting his teeth. "Do you have any idea what…?" He stops. Catches his breath. "Samar knows I let you go. Aram thinks I'm a jerk. And you know what? He's right." And he's telling her. Why is he telling her?
"I'm sorry," she tells him.
"Are you?" And there he goes, being a jerk again as he struggles to control the anger inside him.
"I don't like this any more than you do," she says, her voice a little stronger.
"That doesn't make me feel any better."
She actually laughs. Apparently hearing his voice is helping her feel better. "I told Red that same thing just an hour ago."
"Yeah? What was…?" He stops. "You know what, I don't wanna know."
"I need to go. I've been in here too long and he'll wonder where I am."
"I know how he feels."
She realizes what she's said. "Yeah, right."
He knows the call can't be traced and there is no point lingering to hold her there. He doesn't hang up on her though. He can't.
"Ress," she whispers, softly saying his name now.
"Yeah?" his voice is low. His eyes close listening to her in his ear. Shutting everything else out.
"You need to talk to Cooper."
"Don't you think I've done that?"
"I don't mean question him about his involvement. I mean, tell him. TALK to him. He'll understand," she says, and he can hear the determination in her voice.
"I'll take that under advisement." There is no way he can tell Cooper he let her go and admit he was complicit too.
"Talk to him, Ress."
He's about to reply, shaking his head on the phone when she hisses, "I gotta go!"
And she's gone as the line goes dead. His heart is hammering and all he's done is talk to his partner.
You need to talk to Cooper. Her words ring in his ears. He slowly lowers the phone and opens his eyes, looking up at his reflection again. He knows what is hiding behind his eyes. Guilt. Overwhelming, gut wrenching guilt.
His phone buzzes, startling him and for a split second he hopes it is Liz again, yet also hopes it isn't. "Ressler"
Reven Wright is looking for him and gives him an update on the status of Cooper and his wife.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm almost back." And with another glance at his eyes that are hiding the fact he just spoke to the FBI's most wanted, he hangs up on his superior, shoves the SUV in gear and heads the few blocks back to the post office.
And while he's driving, he reaches a decision. His partner may be on the run and a fugitive yet she also knows him. She's right. He enters the building and deliberately takes a detour on his way to see Reven Wright, and with his partner's words ringing in his ears he goes and talks to Cooper.
###
Two hours later, he's sitting in the car at the northern end of the blockade. Tracking the van Liz was transported in has turned up nothing despite the teams out on the streets looking. More leads haven't panned out. Sightings of Liz have turned up negative, resulting in them frisking people that just look like her. He should be out there on foot joining them. Yet he sits alone as his thoughts swirl and can still hear Liz's voice from her call to him. And in another phone call, his conversation with Reddington near the abandoned van keeps replaying in his head. He returns again and again to what the criminal had said. 'What you know about her. What you feel about her…' Reddington knows.
Understanding settles in his brain. He's not chasing Reddington. That much is clear now. As far as Reven Wright and the taskforce are concerned, they are chasing Reddington and Liz. Yet Reddington is now his ally in keeping her safe from harm. Reddington has become his silent partner and both of them will play their roles. On the surface they will be hunter and hunted. Yet below it, he knows Red will let him know what he needs to do to keep Liz safe. Staring ahead silently, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and fishes it out to answer it. Samar had said she would check in.
"Ressler," he answers, still distracted.
It's not Samar.
"Ress. I want you to know I'm sorry. I don't know what else-"
"Where are you?" He can hear the despair in her voice. She's lost and alone without Reddington.
"Please know that I'm sorry, Ress," she tells him and has hung up before he can even reply. It takes a full minute before he lowers the phone from his ear and drops it into his inner jacket pocket. Her phone is untraceable. There is no knowing where she is and where the phone call came from.
He's given his word to Reddington. He will give Liz every benefit of the doubt. He has to bring her in, but it doesn't mean he can't still listen to her and help her. He just needs to find her in order to bring her in and help her. He's still sitting in thought, rubbing his fingers together absently, reliving the sound of her voice in his ear when Samar climbs back in the car.
Their strain has lessened throughout the day, yet he feels her wariness around him. He looks to Samar and talks to her as they try and ascertain where Liz might be within the blockade.
"Whose gonna harbor an international spy?" he asks her calmly yet inwardly he can hear Liz's desperate voice.
"That's it. A spy. Her mother was a Russian spy."
"Son of a…" he guns the engine and heads for the Russian Embassy. That's what she was sorry for.
As they round the corner he sees the blonde hair flying from under the grey hoodie. It's not her hair. But it's her. He'd recognize that walk. That stance – recognize her – anywhere. 'I look a little different'. Her words make sense now.
She's running again at the sound of their sirens. Unable to park any closer to the gate he slams the SUV into park and exits, running after her. Gun drawn, he's gaining on her as her blonde hair flies loose of her grey hoodie. She can't reach that gate! Yet he can't get to her in time. And as she climbs his hand slams into the metal gate uselessly.
She's escaped his clutches and as she drops onto the other side of the gate, he knows what she's going to say. He can already hear her words before she opens her mouth. Her phone call makes sense. 'I don't know what else to…'
She might be giving herself up to the Russians, but she had apologized to him first. As her words reach his ears, all he can hear is him giving his word to Reddington. And now he can't keep his word. Can't keep her safe. Can't give her every benefit of every doubt. She's on foreign soil.
His eyes lock with hers as he shakes his head in disbelief. And behind her words "My name is Masha Rostova!" he can hear the pain. His eyes can't let go of hers. It's all he can hold of her.
Liz no. Don't. Don't do this. Unable to speak momentarily, his thoughts beg her.
She's so close he can reach through the gate and touch her.
Yet she may as well be a million miles away.