August 1945.

Andrew Jackson (no relation) sat gazing out of his newly re-glazed office window. Outside, the sea of shattered stone and concrete which was the American Sector of Berlin baked in the summer heat. A chain of women in bright floral dresses was clearing rubble from a site across the street, passing each piece of masonry or broken brick from hand to hand, to be thrown onto a heap at the side of the road. The sound of a throat being cleared made him turn in his seat. His assistant for this task, a neat dark-haired young G-2 major, stepped into the room with a quick smile.

"The last load has just left, Sir."

"Good. You're to accompany the whole cache to Washington and oversee its microfilming. Copies to the British, of course."

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"I'm not one of your damned generals, Harris. You can always speak freely."

"Thank you, Sir. I was just wondering. The information in those files… the entire German Foreign Ministry archive...it's going to have some pretty serious implications for the whole of Europe, for years to come. And we're just going to give it away?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow at his subordinate. "They are our allies, Harris."

Harris shrugged unrepentantly. "For now, Sir. I just don't believe in leaving hostages to fortune."

Jackson sighed. "You may even be right, son. But the decision's been made, and it's above our pay grade anyway. Just get those files to Washington."

He rose from behind his desk and reached across to shake the other man's hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Henry. If you're ever in DC after this is all over, come look me up."

"Thank you, Sir," said Harris, a little surprised at the State Department man's sudden warmth. "The same goes for you – if you ever get out to Puyallup, Washington, I'd be glad to see you."

He hesitated a moment, almost saluting the man, though it wouldn't have been appropriate. He settled for a nod, turned and left the room.

Xxxx

October 2015

Martin Bowen's office was a sixty-four square foot airless box. It had no window and no furnishings apart from a desk and chair, a single visitor's chair and a small regulation portrait of Her Majesty on the wall. Bowen himself, tall enough that he found his chair desperately uncomfortable after a few hours, spent as little time as possible there. But today there had been no avoiding it. He was just about to retreat to the cafeteria in search of lunch when there was a knock at his door.

"Come in!" he called. He hoped this would not take long. His stomach gurgled – it had been a long time since breakfast, caught on the run as he'd emerged from the Tube at Vauxhall and hurried though commuter crowds to start his day.

"Martin, something's come up." Annie Jarvis came in, closing the door behind her and holding out a file.

Bowen sighed. "Can't it wait until after lunch, Annie? I'm starving."

Annie pulled up the chair. "You really need to see this, Martin. I've never seen Sir Jeremy so angry – he was practically incandescent with rage, and once you've looked you'll see why."

His brows rising, Bowen took the file. He flicked it open and his stomach growled again, but as he read he ceased to be aware of this. "Oh my God. Oh shit. Is it real?"

"I spent the morning out at the Public Records Office at Kew. It took me half the morning to get access to the file, it's buried so deeply. But yes, what you've got there matches the original. It's perfectly genuine."

"Hell."

"This is a huge problem, Martin. The Palace is out for blood."

"I don't blame them. Not just the Palace, either. The damage-"

"Yes. The PM's been informed. But Sir Jeremy wants you to assemble a team. As soon as Downing Street gives permission, you're to get on the next flight to New York and put this to bed. Get it back. Eliminate anyone who knew of its existence."

Bowen nodded and reached for his phone. As Annie rose to leave, he asked "Annie? D'you think you could get me some lunch?"

"What do I look like, your secretary?" At his doleful look she softened. "All right, Martin. Since you ask so nicely."

"Anything that's not sushi," he called to her as she left.

Xxxx

Joss.

"Hello Athene." Joss was walking back to the apartment from the local subway station, part of a crowd of end-of-day commuters. To camouflage her conversation with no-one, she pulled out her phone and put it to her ear.

I've been accessing archive footage. Trying to understand where I came from.

"I thought you'd been through all that with Finch. And your Mama."

Yes, but I like having multiple angles of view.

"So have you found out anything useful?"

I went looking for Greer.

Joss stopped, ignoring the muffled curse from the man who nearly ploughed into her from behind. "You what?"

I went looking for Samaritan's old Admin.

"Did you find him?" She had to remind herself that Greer wasn't a threat any more.

Sort of. He was living in a homeless shelter in Albany until a few weeks ago. But he's dead now.

"Oh." Joss wasn't at all sure how she felt about that. "How did he die?"

Raped and rolled. I think after Samaritan died and was no longer protecting him he went downhill pretty fast.

Joss stood still for a moment more digesting this. "Why are you telling me this, Athene?"

I wanted to see what your reaction was. He was your enemy.

"A defeated enemy." She took a deep breath. "I'm sad a human being has come to a squalid end. He was no threat any more. No point wasting energy hating him." She began walking again.

When I told John earlier today he said it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Then he smiled for 1.87 seconds and went back to cleaning his gun.

"Well, that sure sounds like John."

Humans seem to be quite inconsistent in the way they treat former enemies.

"A lot depends on the individual circumstances. Some people-"

Oh, it's okay, Joss. I know Samaritan liked you to explain stuff like that. But I don't really feel the need.

"Oh. All right."

I think the inconsistency is quite endearing, really.

Joss couldn't think of a useful response to this, so she put her phone away and just kept walking.

She got home to find John had only just arrived himself. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Quiet. It's a good thing South Manhattan Investigations doesn't really have to pay its way. Business is terrible." He dumped his laptop in the corner by the door and toed his shoes off, padding across to the bedroom door to toss them on the floor by his side of the bed.

"No new numbers from Finch?"

"Nope. Just an annoying ASI interrupting me all the time."

I heard that.

Joss frowned silently at him and mouthed, Don't say stuff like that!

"Just kidding, Athene." He looked unrepentant.

"If you don't mind, Athene, we would like some privacy now," said Joss firmly.

Okay. We can talk again tomorrow. Good night, Joss'n'John.

They exchanged looks as they dug their earpieces out.

"Joss'n'John. I wish she'd find some other way of referring to us," Joss sighed.

John shrugged. "Better than 'Hey, you'. Or 'Hey, minions'."

"Mm. That's true." She moved a little closer for a hug. "With no Numbers, I guess that means a quiet night in, huh?"

He squeezed her tight and nuzzled her hair. "That sounds like an invitation, Carter."

"Oh good, the boy catches on quick..."

xxxxx

BA0113 touched down at JFK at 18:36, slightly ahead of schedule. A tall brown-haired man travelling on a diplomatic passport as a courier was waved through Customs and Immigration. Carrying a small black satchel and nothing else, he was met by a British Consulate car and whisked away into the thinning New York traffic.

Facial recognition software picked up the diplomatic courier automatically. His file, tagged with his time and place of entry into the United States, was sent to Homeland Security and then bounced to the CIA. It appeared on the screen of a CIA analyst at 20:18. She glanced at it without much interest at first, but then went back for a second look. She opened another window on her screen, entered a search and stared at the results, chewing one fingernail. Then she made a face and picked up her phone. "Julian? Can I come see you a moment? Thanks." She cued a document to print, waited impatiently, scooped it up and went next door.

Julian Casey looked up from his cluttered desk as she poked her head around the door frame. "What can I do for you, Jennifer?"

"Well, it's nothing much right now, Julian. But in the last twelve hours three diplomatic couriers have arrived from London, Paris, and London respectively for the British Consulate in New York. That's in comparison with one in the previous ten days. And the latest one is this man." She passed the printout across and sat down.

"Martin Bancroft, aka Bowen, aka Styles, aka...well, a lot of names." Casey's brow furrowed. "This guy's one of their fixers. What the hell's got the British SIS all stirred up?"

"That's pretty much what I was thinking."

"Mm." Casey continued to frown at the printout. "Thanks, Jen. I'll take it from here."

"Okay." She beat a retreat back to her desk. Maybe she would find out what the hell was going on. Maybe not. That was working for the Agency for you.

Xxx

The car pulled into the parking under the Consulate building on Third Avenue. Martin thanked the driver, grabbed his satchel from the back seat and took the lift up to the fourth floor. When the doors opened David, small and dark-haired, was there waiting for him. Kevin ambled out from an office, all elbows and huge hands as usual. "Martin. Good to see that this time you're on time."

"I can see I'm never going to live that one down, you Glaswegian git," said Martin.

"No you won't, you bloody Sassenach. Hungry?"

"Not just now, thanks. I ate on the plane. David, we're all ready to go?"

"Yes, it's all through here." David gestured towards a darkened meeting room.

"Let's get started, then."

They sorted through the documentation laid out on the table: their American identities, along with the original letter which had thrown the cat among the pigeons. The directive from C which had brought them to this city. Two files with all the information the Secret Intelligence Service had been able to gather on short notice about their targets.

The three of them passed the two photographs from the files around.

"Hell. One of 'em's awful old," said Kevin. His Scottish accent always seemed to get stronger as the hour got later.

"He's ninety-seven," said Martin.

"But we're killing him too?" Kevin shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Martin shrugged. "That's the directive."

There was a little silence. "For Queen and Country," said David heavily.

"Aye," muttered Kevin. "Queen and Country."

"Priority one, recover the file. Priority two, eliminate McKay. Priority three, eliminate Harris. All to be done, preferably, without alerting the US authorities." Martin looked around at the other two. "So. Suggestions, please."

"Well, we can't recover the file without snatching McKay," said David. "His letter said he had the file in a safe place. If it was me, that'd mean a bank safety deposit box or something similar."

"He works on Madison Avenue. Walks to work from his home six blocks away on East 59th . We stake out his place and snatch him next time he comes out. Job done." Kevin cracked his knuckles.

Bowen nodded slowly. "The longer we're here, the more likely we are to attract attention. So let's get eyes on him tomorrow, and try to do the snatch in the evening when he goes home from work."

"Right you are,boss," said David.

"In the mean time, we can't keep operating out of the Consulate." Bowen tossed a hotel key to each of his men. "Your rooms at the Coronet."

"The Coronet?" Kevin raised his eyebrows. "Not the usual fleapit. I think I might enjoy this."

"If you use room service or the mini bar, it's out of your own pocket," warned Martin.

xxxx

It was close to midnight when Harold's computer chimed, the familiar sound of a Number arriving. He felt again the little stir of excitement as he ran the search to identify the next mission. Admit it, Harold, he thought to himself. You've come to enjoy this. It might have started out as a desperate search for redemption, but it's morphed into something else now… But he put the thought to one side as he printed the mug shot and limped across to the window to put it up. "So, Mister Patrick McKay. What have you gotten involved in?" he murmured to himself.

A second chime from the computer. Two Numbers. This was going to be an interesting one...then he saw the name and photograph of the second Number. "Oh, my goodness. That's..." very bad, he finished silently. He stood another moment or two looking at the picture, then sighed and printed it out. No point panicking, he told himself. Work through it logically, just like for any other Number. And call Joss first thing in the morning.

Xxxx

Joss's phone went at 6:45, just as she was leaving for work. "Hi, Finch," she said, resignation in her voice.

"Detective. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I need to talk to you as soon as possible. Can you meet me at the Lyric in twenty minutes?" Finch's clipped tones were even more clipped than usual.

"Twenty minutes? Finch, it'll take me at least forty-five minutes to get over there from where I am."

"Oh. Oh, yes, I'm sorry Detective. I didn't look. Well, just get there as fast as you can. It's extremely urgent. Oh, and please don't tell John at this stage." He ended the call.

Joss frowned at her phone. Finch hadn't bothered to check her whereabouts before phoning? Hadn't bothered – or been too flustered. And don't tell John? Something must be up. Sighing, she turned her collar up against the autumn morning air and began walking towards her subway station.

Xxx

Casey was sitting in the office of the Deputy Director. "Martin Bowen, David Goodwin and Kevin Gillespie. They're all very good. In fact Goodwin's worked with some of our boys once or twice. They've sent all three out because there's something, or someone, they want to make sure of." Casey passed a folder across the desk. The DD opened it and scanned the contents. The silence lengthened.

"So do you want to read the FBI or Homeland Security in on this?" asked Casey.

The DD snorted in reply. "No. But you can ping our guys at the London Embassy and see if they can find anything out at their end. The Brits are sure stirred up about something - someone over there must be willing to talk."

"Will do, Sir." Casey gathered his papers and prepared to leave.

"Oh, and you better task a couple of agents to keep an eye on the New York end too. If anything drops there we want to be right on top of it."

"Of course, Sir."

Casey left, mentally shaking his head. He'd had agents on the ground in New York since midnight. What did the guy think he was, some kind of amateur?

xxxx

The diner was filling with the breakfast crowd, but Finch had managed to secure a booth. Joss slid in opposite him. "So, tell me, Harold."

Finch was looking grim. He spoke quietly, so quietly she had to strain her ears to hear him over the chatter coming from the people around them.

"Last night I received a pair of numbers, Detective. Here they are." He placed a photo on the table. "Mr Henry Harris, ninety-seven years old, bed-ridden and living in an old folks' home in Queens."

"Ninety-seven, Finch. That's-"

"The oldest Number we've ever dealt with, Detective. But it's the other Number I want you to take a close look at. Patrick McKay, forty-nine years old, working as an advertising executive on Madison Avenue. He's Harris' grandson. Tell me what you see." He placed a second picture on the table.

Joss stared at it. "He's a good-looking man. In fact, he looks a lot like…John?" her voice trailed off.

"Would it help you if I told you Harris was born and lived most of his life in Puyallup, Washington?"

Joss was struck dumb for a moment. She reached out and touched the two photos with her fingertips. "Harris. John's-"

"-real name, yes." Finch's mouth was a tight line. "Harris is his grandfather. Which makes McKay his cousin. And they are both going to be involved in something violent in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

To be continued….