White Tea

Finch spent the rest of the flight talking Reese through rescuing a banker from suicide and had the case closed by the time he landed in London. It was a very welcome diversion. Reese in the banking world was exactly like Reese on Wall Street, but Finch would never know precisely what he said to the banker to get him to put down the gun and turn himself in. Finch took a well-founded guess that it was something from his own life.

Cassidy brought him unending cups of that really excellent green tea as well as the in-flight meal, always with the same cheerful courtesy. If it had been permissible to tip a flight attendant, he would have tipped her well. She had learned her lesson and did not ask him what he was working on. For the flight he had brought a Blue Tooth, because it was always better to be obviously talking on a phone on public transportation rather than making your fellow passengers think you were a crazy guy who talked to himself. He had also brought a program that projected almost imperceptible but highly sound-masking white noise from his computer so that no one else in first class would hear him talking to his ex-CIA operative for hours on end. He was really going to have to consider buying a private plane, but that would entail keeping a private pilot, which would mean more layers upon layers of security.

Once when he interrupted a conference to say "Thank you" to Cassidy for the new cup of tea, Reese teased him about his pet "stewardess."

"What is it with women flocking to you, Finch? All the girls eventually fall for you. Root, Martha, Amy—"

"There's no falling, Mr. Reese. It's the limp. They want to take care of me."

"Don't sell yourself short, Harold. Women think you're attractive. Beats me why."

"Mr. Reese, would you please stop making up ridiculous stories and turn your mind back to your work? I need you to be familiar with the basic 401K before your meeting."

He was never going to live that down. It was ridiculous, of course, and even if it were true, that would be more of a liability, when you were really trying to be a paranoid recluse because people wanted you dead and you had responsibility for vast numbers of Irrelevants. Reese should understand this, but he seemed determined to gather an entourage.

And this is why you're traveling to England to meet a man who knew your father? a snarky—and very Reese-like—voice in his head asked him. He ignored it.

He did not end up dying—or being kidnapped—on the flight. Cassidy pulled down his carryon and received his thanks; he made it through customs without being arrested as a spy; and he made it to his hotel without being followed. He could probably relax. A little.

The next morning he was picked up by the private car service he had contracted with while still in New York and traveled the two hours to Gloucester. Driving in New York City was one thing, but he drew the line at driving on the opposite side of the road.

He'd emailed Brian Williams a month ago, before Root, introduced himself as a friend of his son, and asked if he could come meet with him about a mutual friend. The man's email in response had nearly trembled with eagerness, and Finch wondered if he knew about his son's death, far in the past, and if he knew, how. Did he know about the Doctor? Did he understand about Weeping Angels? He'd asked to meet in Gloucester because it was quite a large town, and he didn't want to meet anywhere his resemblance to one George Smiley might be taken note of. He didn't know if the former secret agent had been well-known or not in his chosen Cotswolds hometown of Cirencester.

He came to the café he'd arranged as a meeting place with Rory's father, Hedley's Tea and Coffee Shop (they'd had a terrible website, he'd noticed), well in advance of his time. Across the street was a bookshop, so he stepped in and, on a whim, bought a cheap, secondhand copy of Our Mutual Friend, because it was there, staring at him on the shelf the moment he entered. He took it across to the coffee shop, which was housed in a beautiful timber-framed building built in the 1500s, giving him an almost oppressive sense of history as he entered and ordered a pot of tea (white tea, with orange blossoms, since he'd had enough Sencha yesterday to last anyone a lifetime). Within moments he was lost, as always, in the story of Lizzie and her two strange suitors, of John and his murky half-life, of Bella and her charming selfishness, of Eugene and his tormenting of the schoolmaster and himself, of odd little Jenny Wren and her dolls. He didn't notice the time going by, until he realized that someone had been standing and staring at him for some minutes. He looked up into wide brown eyes in a round face, belonging to a round man wearing a vest.

"You look like him," the man blurted. "How you do look like him. Like you could be his son, only that's silly, 'cos he didn't have any children."

Finch closed Our Mutual Friend and rose. "Please have a seat," he said courteously. "I am Harold Sparrow. You must be Brian Williams."