LONDON CONFIDENTIAL
Disclaimer: I make no claim to The Blacklist or the characters depicted in the show. I am making no money writing this, which begs the question, 'Why do it then?'
Because 'extreme Lizzington feels', that's why.
CHAPTER 1
Elizabeth Keen was bored. Listlessly, she wandered from room to room in her empty house; it was the second day of her vacation time from work and she had already cleaned the house, rearranged the kitchen cupboards, watched TV and finished the last book on her Kindle. She was plagued by her own questions about work; they had just wrapped up the case with Number 153 on Reddington's Blacklist, Michael Hadley, an accomplished bomb maker and important link to other members of the list, or so Reddington claimed. She wondered if the team had been briefed on the next case in her absence, hating the fact she was out of the loop for the week.
Hudson whined and scratched at the back door, breaking her out of the same cycle of thought that she had been in since the night before; she let him out and stood at the door, gazing at the other homes she could see from the rear of their terraced house. She heaved a great sigh; everybody she would want to catch up with was at work – Tom was even away for the week on some teacher training event out of state in Lowell– aside from Hudson's presence she was alone for the entire week, and she felt the silence of the house was smothering her. Once the dog had finished his business he trotted up the steps and past her into the house, Liz followed him through into the living room and flopped down on to the sofa, pulling her laptop over and turning it on; she had to find something to occupy herself before she lost her mind completely. Perhaps skydiving? She shook her head at the notion. A road trip sounded good to her, but she couldn't decide where to go. Just as she opened up the Internet browser her phone rang, cutting through the quiet with its jagged melody, and she raced from her seat upstairs to the bedroom where her cell sat on the bedside table; she hoped it might be Tom calling as she hadn't heard anything from him except for a hasty text message to let her know he had arrived in Lowell. Picking up her phone she saw it was 'Nick's Pizza' and rolled her eyes as she answered the call.
"Lizzie! Wonderful to hear your voice," Reddington greeted brightly before she could even say 'hello'.
"Not sure I can say the same," she answered flatly.
"Don't be cruel," he admonished lightly. "How are you enjoying your vacation?"
"I'm enjoying it just fine," she said, though she knew her tone implied the complete opposite. "Have you briefed Cooper on a new case yet?"
Red tutted in mock disappointment down the line. "As I said in the beginning, I speak only with you, Lizzie. Until you return to your duties I shall not be communicating with any of your colleagues."
"I'm touched," she responded dryly and he answered with a chuckle.
"You're bored," he stated after a moment's silence passed between them.
"Yeah, I am," she admitted, deciding it was easier to be honest than to outright lie to Red – in her current state she doubted she could convince him otherwise.
"Is married life really that dull?" he asked, his amusement evident.
"Tom's away on work," she informed him, thinking of how she could change the subject before he latched on to the subject of her absent husband.
"Are you certain about that?" he probed.
"Don't start with that again," she warned, shutting down his line of questioning. "I told you before, I won't discuss Tom with you at all; do you understand?"
"I only have your best interests at heart," he insisted, though sounded entirely too amused for her liking.
"My best interests are not the same as yours, Reddington; be sure to remember that," she stated seriously.
"Duly noted," he conceded.
"Why are you calling, anyway? Surely you don't need to check up on me."
"I'm on a little vacation of my own and I too find myself a little bored, and lacking any sort of interesting company."
"Dembe and Luli?"
"Are on their own vacations," he answered.
"So?"
"I rather thought it might be fun to have you here."
"And where exactly is 'here'?"
"London."
"Ohio?"
"No, no," he laughed, "I'm in England, Lizzie."
"Oh."
"Have you ever been?"
"No, I haven't."
"You're going to love it."
"Going to? That's a little presumptuous, don't you think?"
"I apologise, I didn't realise your diary was so full." That hurt a little.
"I can't just up and leave," she reasoned, although the little voice in the back of her head reminded her that the trip she was considering before Red called was essentially the same thing, the only exception being that it didn't involve one of the FBIs most wanted.
"Of course you can, Lizzie. Everybody else has."
"I only have the week – I'm due back in the office on Monday."
"You'll travel back with me on Saturday night," he informed her. "When does Tom return?"
"Sunday afternoon."
"Excellent. You'll need to head to 'Jerry's P.O. Boxes'."
"Why?"
"Your flight tickets are there. I'd hurry; you're due to depart in," he paused, "around four hours."
"But-"
"Much as I'd love to chat for the rest of the day, I do need to find some dinner. I will see you at Heathrow when you arrive tomorrow morning."
"Um... okay."
"Excellent. Oh, and pack a scarf – it's a mite chilly here at the moment, unseasonably so."
"And I have four hours?"
"Better make it three. You'll need time to get through check in, and you need to find somewhere for Hudson." She made no comment on the fact he knew her dog's name; she came to expect these things from Red now, and derived a little satisfaction at how it irked him that she no longer rose to the tidbits about her life he dropped into their conversations to bait her.
"Okay." She felt a little numb. Was she actually considering doing this?
"See you soon, Lizzie." The line clicked and went dead as he hung up.
She stood in her bedroom, not entirely sure of herself. She felt conflicted; part of her insisted that she stay, whereas the other part of her reasoned she had nothing but daytime TV to look forward to if she didn't go. She looked to Hudson, who sat in the doorway of the bedroom, and nodded decisively; she would need to contact a kennel to have him looked after for the week. She was going. Decision made, she grabbed her suitcase from the closet and threw enough clothes for the week into it before stepping over the dog – now completely stretched out across the threshold of the door – to retrieve her toiletries from the bathroom; she threw her cellphone charger into the case before zipping it closed and padlocking it. She shooed Hudson and strode out of the bedroom with her case only to stop at the top of the stairs, turn, and head back into the bedroom, cursing herself under her breath as she rummaged in her bedside drawer for her passport.
Liz pulled the car away from City Dogs; the first place she had tried, Pets Are Inn, had no room for Hudson, but they had been kind enough to recommend City Dogs as an alternative and had called ahead to ensure there was space for Hudson there. She headed for the location Red had specified on the phone which was across town in Georgetown. He had sent her a text message stating the box was under the name 'Cassandra Reilly'; she wondered why everything had to work out like some sort of mystery novel when it came to Raymond Reddington. Once she had her flight tickets and long-stay parking booking in her pocket she jumped back in the car and headed for Dulles International. She parked the car and checked the time – she had two hours until her flight was scheduled to depart, and allowed herself a small smirk at her speedy accomplishment. She grabbed her case and headed into the airport, checking herself in and heading straight for the bar. She sat herself on one of the tall barstools and ordered a double gin and tonic, finding she needed something to calm the sudden onset of nervousness she found herself experiencing as the reality of what she was doing began to sink in. She finished the drink a little too quickly and ordered another, which she sipped at more slowly as she briefly browsed a copy of the Washington Post which had been left on the bar. In her slightly inebriated state – she was only used to the odd glass of wine – she found herself more accepting of the fact she was travelling over three and a half thousand miles to meet with 'The Concierge of Crime' for the simple reason that she had nothing better to do with her vacation time, although part of her was still lamenting her inability to just go to an art gallery for the day. She snorted into her glass at herself as she finished her second drink. The tannoy announced the gate to British Airways 286 for London Heathrow was open to First Class passengers – typical Reddington – so she slid off her barstool and headed for the gate, feeling a little lightheaded and smiling a little too widely at the attendant when he handed her documents back to her and waved her through.
Liz managed to sleep through much of the journey, mainly due to the gin in her system. She declined the in-flight meal and settled for a bottle of water to drink; feeling a little queasy already, she didn't need anything to encourage her to be violently ill, especially not in First Class. Four hours into the flight they suffered a little turbulence, which had her gripping the armrests of her seat for dear life as her stomach flip-flopped; she hated this about flying, though she wasn't as bad as she used to be – she had been so ill on the flight out to her honeymoon that Tom had joked they should ask for one of the restrooms to be reserved for her on the return journey as she spent more time in there than in her seat. Thinking about Tom saddened her somewhat; while she had been trying to convince herself they were getting back to normal – and by appearances they were – she couldn't shake the niggle at the back of her mind whenever he left the house. She had been repressing the anxieties that had latched on to his trip out of state; what if it wasn't a teacher training course? She expected Red to allude to it being a front for some other criminal activity, and she considered that perhaps she was letting the master manipulator get to her too much, but still she couldn't completely disregard the notion.
Her flight landed at London Heathrow just after six in the morning, the early morning sun not quite high enough to illuminate the cityscape, creating a stark contrast between the warm orange morning sky and the cool grey-blue of the city buildings. The landing was mercifully smooth and she collected her bag from the overhead compartment before following the other First Class passengers into the walkway tunnel to the baggage claim lounge. She soon spotted her plain grey suitcase on the carousel and retrieved it. As she stood with her case she had the distinct feeling that she was being watched, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end; casually, she performed a sweep of the arrivals lounge as she turned and her eyes alighted on the unmistakable figure of Raymond Reddington, leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in his customary suit and fedora, overcoat held over his arm – the epitome of impeccable tailoring. He nodded at her in acknowledgement and she approached him, unable to gauge his expression accurately from that distance due to the familiar tinted shades he sported.
"Welcome to London, Lizzie," he purred in greeting, relieving her of her suitcase before he guided her from the baggage claim area toward the car park. He remained silent until they were settled in the front seats of a sleek black Jaguar and he had pulled out of the short stay car park. She dreaded the conversation, knowing he would probe for the reasons she agreed to meet with him. "How was your flight?" he asked genially.
"Fine," she shrugged; "I napped most of it away."
"No sickness this time around?"
"How do you-" she stopped herself, knowing he would never answer her question. "Never mind, I don't want to know. No, no sickness."
He nodded, though kept his eyes on the road. "I'm glad to hear it."
"What is it?"
"What is what?"
"If you want to ask your damn questions then hurry up and get it over with."
"I don't know what you mean, Lizzie." He could feign innocence so well when he wanted to. "I'm just pleased you decided to make the journey; you ought to travel outside the States more."
"I guess," she agreed. "I wanted to when I was younger."
"Before you were married?" She shot him a warning look, a reminder of their earlier conversation.
"Yes," she confirmed, "and before the Bureau."
"Where did you want to go?"
"Anywhere, really."
"Surely there was somewhere you wanted to go, above all other destinations?"
She considered his question for a moment, remembering the scrapbook she had put together; it had ended up in the trash when it became something she had no hope of making a reality and instead served only as a mocking reminder of what might have been had she made different choices. "Morocco, I guess."
"Marrakech?" he asked, glancing over at her as she nodded. "I've had the pleasure of visiting the city several times; a beautiful place, full of colour."
"Just as I thought." She sighed, a little saddened at the memory of the aspirations she had shelved for her marriage and her job.
"Where else?"
"Uhm... I wanted to see Prague."
"Prague? A tad rainy this time of year, but you must go. I'll give you a list of some truly fantastic places, all off-the-beaten-track, if you intend to go?"
"What are you doing?" she asked, confused by him.
"Just making conversation," he answered simply. He was never 'just' doing anything in her books, and she found that she didn't have the energy to bother with any more of his questions.
"Where are we going?" she asked after a beat.
"Hazlitt's," he answered as though she knew what that was. "I have procured the Duke of Monmouth suite; it will be an excellent base for your stay."
"I'm sure," she replied quietly, turning her head to watch the city pass by as the Jaguar purred through the streets.
The frontage of Hazlitt's was unassuming and understated; Red parked the car and guided her through the ivy-flanked double doors into the lobby where he handed Lizzie's case to the Concierge who greeted them and led them to the suite on the top floor of the building. Once Red had tipped the man they were left alone in the lavish, yet tasteful, accommodation; looking around at the antique furniture and original oil portraits in gilt frames of a man she felt safe in assuming was the Duke of Monmouth, Liz could practically smell the money the room was probably costing Reddington, though he seemed rather nonchalant about the place.
"There's a charming courtyard just through those doors," he said, gesturing behind her. She turned and saw through a set of glass doors a bright courtyard under the cover of a glass roof. "The roof is retractable," he supplied, following her gaze.
"I see," was all she could say as she took it all in. "I think I'd like to see my room and maybe have another nap," she stated, turning back to face him.
"Just through that door," he waved at a dark wooden door and she made her way to it, picking up her suitcase. "Regrettably, I have a meeting to attend in Kensington in an hour," he informed her, "however I'd like it if you could meet me for a late breakfast at, say, eleven?" Liz considered the time and figured she could do with a couple of hours sleep and no more.
"Eleven sounds good," she agreed. "Where do you want to meet?"
"I will make a reservation and leave the name of the place on the console by the door," he replied. "Sleep well. If you need anything, just call down to the front desk."
"Dare I ask what name you're travelling under?" she enquired tiredly.
"John Howsham," he replied, the name dropping from his lips as easily as though it were his own from birth. "Get some rest, Lizzie. I'll have my cell, so call if you need me." She nodded and disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her before she set her case down and began to unpack her things, filling the drawers and wardrobe before placing her toiletries in the en suite bathroom. She returned to the bedroom and threw herself on to the enormous bed in the centre of the room, staring at the ceiling; she recalled the conversations she had with Red since the day before and wondered whether she'd made the right decision to travel such a long way from home, and exactly what Red's motive for inviting her was. She fished her cellphone out of her pocket and sent a message to Tom to enquire about his course and sending her love before she set the phone on the bedside table. She shifted into a more comfortable position, feeling as though the mattress could swallow her up, and she would gladly allow it; the pillows were a dream to lay her head down on, and she soon found herself drifting to sleep atop the covers, the draining events of the past twenty four hours catching up to her.