Chapter IV – Baghdad, Iraq – June, 2011
"Here's your tea, lady," said the gruff, middle-aged proprietor of the Café Gaza in a thick middle-eastern accent, handing Emily Prentiss a cup of tea.
"Thank you," Prentiss said, mustering her best accent and speaking in the other man's native tongue. From this vantage point, in the corner of the restaurant, the supposedly deceased FBI agent commanded the best view in the place. She was seated diagonally across from the front door and could see every person who came and went from this rundown business in a country still struggling to rebuild following the horrors of war.
"Wow." Emily said in a low voice so as to not attract attention. In the fifteen some-odd years since she'd last spent any time in the middle-east, she'd forgotten how spicy the tea was. Good old, Tetley-brand tea was just one of the things she missed about that life she'd been forced to give up in March. At the top of that list were her friends. She especially resented that her friends had to go through thinking she was dead just so that they would be safe.
That was when the man with whom she was meeting appeared. She didn't know what Martin Connors looked like, but she had created a mental picture of him when she talked to him on her disposable cell phone the previous week.
Martin Connors was a lifer – about everything. He'd had a crew-cut since the Top 40 included songs by The Crew-cuts, and he'd stuck with it through thick and thin – literally. He'd has his first taste of government work as a legislative intern in Albany, part of a corps of eager young grad students and draft dodgers sucked into the lawmaking maw when the then speaker of New York State Assembly decided that what would make the legislative process more like the sausage-making process (to which it was always being compared) was professionalism – as if the main problem with either business was excessive amateurism. Now, forty-five years later, Martin Connors, the Assistant Deputy U.S. Ambassador to Iraq, enjoyed GS-18 status in the federal government, which meant he could only be dismissed from employment in the event of a prolonged thermonuclear conflict.
Connors made his way over to the table where Emily Prentiss, now under the alias Karen Hughes, was sitting.
"Karen?"
"Martin."
"Well, I've familiarized myself with your file, but I'm afraid there isn't much we can do at the embassy."
"I saw Ian Doyle again. He is here in Baghdad! What do you mean you can't do anything?" Emily demanded, her voice rising to a quasi-operatic shriek.
"According to the U.S. government, Ian Doyle doesn't exist – and for that matter, neither do you. Ian Doyle is off the grid. We can't track him. Unless you can give me some authoritative evidence that Ian Doyle is here in this city, there's nothing I can do." Martin Connors explained in his don't-you-know-common-sense-when-you-hear-it tone that he sometimes lapsed into.
"Well, I don't have anything else right now, Martin, but I'll try to get something more substantive to you." Emily said, feeling dejected that her own government couldn't do anything.
"You'll do no such thing. The very fact that we're having this meeting is a security threat. We're going to be re-locating you again. I want you to meet me at the consulate at 2:00AM tomorrow. We'll discuss the particulars then."
And in a flash, Martin Connors left, followed shortly thereafter by Karen Hughes, now a blonde.
Lake Pleasant, VA – September, 2011
"I was watching the hearings on TV. I figured you would be too, so I took a chance and stopped by." Jason Gideon explained as he took off his shoes upon entering David Rossi's lake-front cabin.
"Good to see you, Jason. Make yourself at home."
The two of them made their way into the den at Rossi's cabin, where Dave's dog, Mudgie was planted comfortably on the sofa. Jason Gideon, always one to notice the littlest details upon entering a room, looked around the room.
"You writing another book? How many does that make?" Gideon said, noticing Rossi's typewriter and stack of paper sitting on a rustic looking desk in the corner of the room. Of all David Rossi's and Jason Gideon's differences, which were plentiful to say the least, one thing they had in common was a reluctance to participate in the technological revolution.
"What can I tell you?" Rossi replied sheepishly, knowing how his old friend and former colleague disliked how he had capitalized on his profession.
The two friends caught up over coffee in David Rossi's den. Jason as it turned out, lived in Lake Pleasant now, just a few miles up the road from David Rossi's cabin. Gideon liked the solitude – reading, cooking, thinking. It was a variety of happiness. Eventually, their conversation got back to the real reason Gideon was there.
"All I know is what I've read in the papers. Can you fill me in?" Gideon asked, although his question sounded more like a demand than anything else.
"Well, you know Morgan's been suspended? Well, what happened was Garcia came across this file, and. . ."
As David Rossi continued telling Jason Gideon the long and involved story of what happened and how the situation got so out of hand, Gideon couldn't believe what he was hearing. The BAU might actually be shut down. Permanently. I just don't believe it.
Quantico, VA – June, 2011
JJ woke up and looked at the digital clock on her nightstand. It was 2:23AM. She was still wrapped in Will's arms from earlier in the night. She needed some fresh air. Slowly creeping out of bed, trying her hardest not to wake Will, she eventually tiptoed her way down the hallway, past Henry's room, downstairs, and eventually, outside. She stood on the porch of their suburban house and ponderedthe events of the day.
Sure, Morgan can take things into his own hands sometimes, but this? I can't believe that even Morgan would put his own life – and ours – in jeopardy like this.
JJ couldn't stand that Ian Doyle was still out there, and it was still her fear that Doyle would make good on his threat to take away the only thing Prentiss cared about – her family. That kept her up at nights and made her ill. She was especially worried that Doyle might now find out that Prentiss isn't really dead. JJ was determined to protect Will and Henry no matter what. It was moments like this when she missed Prentiss the most, just having her there to talk to about her problems.
A sudden gust of wind brought JJ back down to earth. Realizing that the only thing she was wearing were a pair of pink, lace underpants, she quickly covered her breasts with her arms and scurried back inside, mortified to think anyone might have seen her.
