For a long, long time I have wondered what the background was to Finch's reaction to the presence of Reese and Stanton in 316 ("RAM"). He had obviously had some previous encounter with them, and I was really, really hoping Season 5 would answer the question of how and where Finch first encountered Reese. This is my attempt to unravel how Finch first became aware of the man who was to become his friend and partner.
Aragarna, this is for you, for providing the inspiration. I hope you like it.
The first time the Machine sent Harold a number with nothing – absolutely nothing – attached to it, he simply had no idea what to do. He stared at it, taped to the glass notice board in lieu of a photograph. Frustration filled him, blotting out the normal background pain of his healing injuries. He turned his chair and pushed himself back over to the computer. Nothing at all. No name, no image, no bank accounts… uneasily he considered the possibility of a glitch, some mistake in the code. Far too late to fix now, and in any case his gut told him that there was no mistake. The person, whoever they were, existed. They just had… no identity. Which made no sense. Shaking his head, he picked up the paper cup with his lukewarm tea and took a sip, grimacing.
Several hours later he had made no further progress. The number simply didn't exist in any database he could access. He considered his options grumpily. It was two in the morning, his body was on fire, especially the hip, and he was nauseous with hunger. Time to stop and go home. Reluctantly he wheeled over to the exit, wrestled the mesh door closed, and placed his life yet again in the metaphorical hands of the creaking old elevator.
The next morning the Machine sent him a new number, that of an old lady in Queens with a lot of money and an impatient nephew. He put his mystery aside and instead spent the morning trying to find a way to derail the nephew's murder plot.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
John Reese sat sipping coffee in a café with Kara Stanton as they watched the local paramedics working on their guy. He was lying among the tables belonging to the café on the sidewalk opposite.
"Pfft," said Kara derisively. "Don't know why they're even bothering. That stuff's so fast, he was probably dead before he hit the ground. You do good work, John."
Reese gave a minute shrug at the compliment and sipped his coffee again, his face impassive.
POI*POI*POI*POI*
The second time the Machine sent a number with nothing attached, Harold glared at it, taped in magnificent isolation on the glass board. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on the arms of his wheelchair. It was two months after the last one. Maybe there was a glitch, some bad code somewhere in the Machine… he ran a tired hand over his face and wheeled back over to the computer.
Nothing, not a thing in any database-
In any database I can access… what about the ones I can't access?
A small smile curved one corner of his mouth. Of course, if I put my mind to it, that's a very short list… His fingers began to fly across the keyboard.
An hour later he had his answer. The number had been assigned to James Wilson, an employee of an import-export company dealing with agricultural machinery. Wilson's taxes were perfect and he was unmarried. He had no driver's licence, but his passport was used several times each month. No debts, no mortgages, no entanglements of any kind. Credit card barely used at all. A very strange pattern. Except that it was all explained by the place where Finch found all this information.
"You're a spy," he said aloud. "So why do I have your number?" A thought struck him. The other mystery number from two months ago – a connection between the two, perhaps? Not safe to stay in here much longer, but he had time for a quick peek. He called up the number and entered it.
Nathaniel Patterson, a currency trader. Travelled regularly between New York and London. Unmarried, perfect taxes, no entanglements personal or financial anywhere. Strange gaps in his financial transaction records. He took another look at Patterson's passport photo and froze. The good-looking man with the dark hair gazed back at him from the photo. James Wilson. Two identities, one person. Finch backed out of the CIA database. Why is the Machine sending me the numbers of a spy?
He sat back in his chair. But if he's working for the Government, he must be working on the Relevant side, surely? Even as the thoughts formed he smiled grimly at his own naivety. Just like Nathan was Relevant, right?
There was always the possibility that Wilson, or Patterson, or whoever he really was, was the victim. Maybe a colleague with a grudge? But he was forced to admit that Occam's Razor made it far more likely that the Machine wanted him to prevent whatever the man was involved in. He leaned forward again and began the painstaking comb through his more normal sources of information. Now he knew what to look for it was easier to find the elusive Wilson/Patterson. He seemed to flip-flop between different identities. In fact, Wilson and Patterson weren't even his favourites. He was John Reese, more often than not. But there were others: Max Peck, John Collingwood, Terrence Matthews. Tracing his convoluted trail across four continents was actually quite fun, Harold found. A logic puzzle.
Three hours later – though it felt more like thirty minutes – he had a fairly complete picture of Reese's movements for the last three years. He'd also noticed that his hotel reservations frequently coincided with those of a woman, Marion Martell. Or Eloise Quincy, or Kara Stanton. Probably a partner or handler or some such. This was confirmed when he found airport security camera footage which showed the couple: a dark-haired woman with a beautiful face and cold eyes; a tall man in a suit walking with her, thin-lipped. He felt a little shiver of pride at having worked it out. But what were they up to? If I'd made the Machine an open system I could just ask it, of course. But that was one decision he'd never regretted. Maybe the only one, though. Sighing a little, since it was getting late and the air was cooling, he ran an algorithm which matched Reese and Martell's presence in their various locations with the news of the day.
Good Lord. Every single place they visited was the scene of a violent crime or a mysterious death. Sometimes several. "They're killers," he said aloud. "Assassins." He went back to the day two months ago when the Machine had sent him Patterson's number. They'd been in New York. A couple of murders that day and the day after – a gang shooting in the Bronx and a domestic in Brooklyn. Unexplained deaths? The elderly lady in Queens (his mouth tightened in anger and grief). An otherwise healthy man who collapsed and died at a sidewalk café in Manhattan. Supposedly a brain aneurysm. Harold's eyes narrowed. His fingers flew over the keyboard and windows bloomed across the screens in front of him. Surveillance footage from the camera at the corner… ah! Yes, there they were – sitting at a table across the road, apparently unconcerned as another human being lay slumped on the ground only yards away from them. Harold stared at the image on the screen with loathing. He had tried to fight this thing, this side project of Nathan's – saving the irrelevant numbers. Even after his friend's death he had undertaken it out of guilt, trying to make some kind of expiation for his sins. But it was only now, looking at the relaxed posture of the couple out enjoying coffee on a summer morning and knowing it was a charade, a cover for something deep and dark and evil – it was only now that he fully embraced what he was doing. Righteous anger blazed through him.
"You're never going to do this again," he whispered in a shaking voice. "You are not going to be responsible for another number. You're not."
To be continued...