The Concierge & The Citadel

by RosalieReddington

"There are few that understand love and loss more than I..." Raymond Reddington once had a relatively normal life. A wife, a child, a few good friends. Fate was unkind when it took those he loved. Now, as he faces death row, fate returns a familiar face that will bring memories, joy, and love back to Red's life. Pre-Blacklist Years. (Mostly) Cannon Compliant.

40. The Mi6 Years: Pt 3- Dr Death

Mi6 Black Site 'The Cromwell' - Under the Thames, London, United Kingdom - June 19th, 2000

"So he really just showed up in your flat that day?"

"On my soul, I came down from the bath and there he was, cool as you please, helping himself to my biscuits."

"What did he say when you found him?"

"Told me I was out of milk and then offered me a cup of my own tea."

Murmurs of shocked disbelief punctuated the whispered conversation occurring at the far end of the Cromwell.

Skip Sutherland, Ezra Yadin, and the newly-minted Agent Knightley were clustered together, discussing the elephant in the room.

It had been three weeks since Reddington turned himself in to Mi6.

The MoJ's refusal to cut a deal with the man hadn't sat well with any of the agents in Bazalgette's team, who had been fighting tooth and nail for any stale shred of intel they could find for the past two years.

When Albert had returned to the Cromwell with the news that the prime minister himself had ordered they stand down, it was to a roar of outrage.

Seeing the value of Raymond Reddington as an informant, Bazalgette and his team met in secret in one of the Cromwell's hidden war rooms to discuss the possibility of working with him on the sly.

Skip, Ezra, and even Sika all agreed the prime minister was being short-sighted, and if they could do so without getting caught, it was their duty to use Reddington's intel and connections to protect queen and country.

Once they'd all agreed, Albert was sent to retrieve Reddington from Sheep's Rock prison and hand him over to the CIA.

The three agents had waited on tenterhooks in their separate flats, pretending not to notice the security details which had rucked up outside their doors around midnight.

The next morning, they'd all received the notice of their two-weeks' probation while Mi6 investigated their handling of the incident at the Cromwell. It was a tense fourteen days of no-contact between them, filled with questioning from their superiors and peers, often under polygraph.

Sika was cleared almost immediately and set as interim director, Ezra and Skip were cleared the following week, though their security details remained in place for the whole of their probation, disappearing into the ether when they woke up that very morning.

Emma, on the other hand, had taken an extra two weeks to be cleared of suspicion. The agency had issued several polygraphs on her, insisting she must have been lying when she told them about Reddington showing up in her flat unannounced, and that she had never met the man before in her life.

Skip and Ezra were shocked to find out Sika had convinced the higher-ups to keep Emma on and to promote her to their team for her efforts in securing Reddington.

Their superiors did so, begrudgingly, in the hopes that Knightley would be able to lure him back out of hiding.

Little did they know that it was only Knightley's first day on the job, and she and the rest of the team were already at the Cromwell bright and early for their first secret briefing with Raymond Reddington.

"It's weird not having Director Bazalgette here," Skip complained at length, "Even the peons are gone…who's supposed to file the paperwork and make tea?"

Emma's tone turned chiding, "You did not just call your clerks peons."

Skip shrugged, "Well, what should I call the busy little worker bees who take care of the boring things?"

"They're called clerks, you absolute prat!"

"Well, you can do the filing then, love, since you seem to be so knowledgeable about it-"

Ezra watched the two bicker back and forth with delight, his eyes lighting up as Knightley opened her mouth to rip into Skip once more.

"Shut up, the lot of you."

Interim-Director Boateng exited Bazalgette's office with a stack of files in tow and a haughty scowl on her features.

"If any of you are having second thoughts, now is your last chance to turn back. Once we meet with Reddington, we are bound to see this through. Agreed?"

Emma looked around nervously, noting Ezra and Skip both gave curt nods of agreement without saying a word.

They all looked at her, waiting.

Finally, she too gave a shaky nod.

Sika led the way out of the Cromwell's glass dome to the metal doors leading to the establishment's various tunneled hallways. They walked down the farthest one, entering the last conference room on the left.

Once they were all inside, Sika closed and locked the doors.

Emma, Ezra, and Skip all watched as she shifted aside a nearby potted plant and flipped the light switch behind it.

Nothing happened.

Instead, Sika made her way to the telephone in the center of the large conference table and proceeded to key in a complex numerical code.

Once the 'click-clack' of her fingertips hitting the keys had ceased, they heard the heavy metal clunk of a lock disengaging.

The three agents gasped when, right behind the presenters podium, a whole section of the conference room's wall separated from its compatriots.

The wall swung open on a hinge to reveal what looked to be an old stone silo with one side missing.

Sika stepped inside the cylinder and bent to fiddle with something on the floor.

Emma and the boys craned their necks to see what she was doing.

There, in the center of the silo, sat an ornate metal hatch whose dial Sika was turning. A series of metallic clinks could be heard as the hatch opened wide to reveal a cavernous hole.

"Follow me," she said, slipping off her heels and gathering them in hand before stepping onto the top rung of an iron ladder which descended into the hole's depths.

They watched as Sika disappeared into the darkness below, Ezra and Emma exchanging nervous glances before Skip nudged his way to the front.

"You heard the woman."

He stepped onto the top rung, grasped the ladder's sides and slid all the way to the bottom without touching another rung.

Ezra waved a hand for Emma to go first.

She carefully stepped onto the top step and descended rung by rung.

Thankfully, Sika had secured a flashlight by the time Emma was nearing the bottom.

She'd no more than taken two steps from the landing when Ezra came rocketing down the same as Skip had, his booted feet hitting the floor with a loud thump.

"We need to hurry," said Agent Boateng, waving the flashlight ahead of her. "Though the clerks have been removed from the Cromwell for 'security reasons' we shouldn't be in that conference room for more than a couple hours."

The others all nodded and followed her lead into the dark tunnel.

"You'd think in this day and age the MoJ would spend the capital to put a few lights down here." Said Skip, squinting at the damp stone walls.

Sika shook her head, "There are centuries old gas lanterns overhead, but without any ventilation system to get rid of the CO2, lighting them would be more trouble than it's worth. Besides, the MoJ has completely forgotten about this tunnel and where it leads. That information is passed from acting director to acting director only, and they are sworn to keep the Cromwell's secrets."

She turned to give Skip a shrewd frown, "I expect you to keep this secret as well. All of you."

They followed the tunnel in silence for a long while before a sliver of light could be seen in the distance.

Another ladder could just be made out as they reached the tunnel's end.

Sika removed her heels once more and quickly ascended the much shorter ladder leading to another metal hatch. She spun the dial and swung it wide, allowing the bright warm light to pour in through the opening before she hoisted herself out of it.

The three agents followed suit, each gawking when they emerged from the hole in the ground to find themselves in a large old wooden telephone box.

They were in The Bull's Head.

Once they were all out, Sika closed the hatch and covered it back over with the thick rug at their feet.

A covert knock on the telephone box's door signaled their arrival. An older gentleman stood to greet them on the other side.

"Director Boateng, Mr. Reddington's people are waiting for you out back."

They stepped out into the pub, then followed him through the establishment's kitchens and out the back door.

When reaching the back alley, they all caught the briefest glimpse of a black van before dark cloths were placed over their heads, shielding their eyes from where they were going.

Muffled shouts of surprise could be heard as calloused hands shunted them into the van and roughly buckled them in.

From what they could hear, two men were seated up front, while one remained in the back to ensure none of them removed the head covering.

The van took off without preamble, weaving through London's busy streets at a steady clip.

"Where are you taking us?" Asked Agent Boateng, her voice distorted by the covering.

"To Reddington's current safe house," came the man's graveled reply.

Skip could be heard shifting around in his seat. "He told you you could just abduct us and cram these sacks over our heads? Why can't we see where we are going?"

"We do not work for Reddington; we work for the keeper of the network in which he resides."

"What network?" Emma asked curiously, tilting her head left and right to try and see anything.

"Never you mind," said the gravelly voice.

The van carried on this way, finally coming to a halt roughly twenty minutes later.

They could feel the whole vehicle tilt forward on an incline, and the space beyond their face coverings became incredibly dark before they emerged once more in the light.

The doors opened to the sound of new voices bickering back and forth.

A woman's voice, flat and unmoving, could be heard first.

"Christopher, he didn't want the agents ruffled on their way here. Why do they look like hostages?"

"Protocol, M'am," said the same rough voice they now knew to belong to Christopher, "Security is heightened for black sites; your guests aren't allowed to know their location."

An annoyed sigh issued from the woman's voice, "Call your employer and see if she doesn't have a blackout sprinter van available instead. I'm sure she wouldn't approve of such barbaric tactics either."

"…Yes, M'am." Christopher agreed, albeit reluctantly.

The agents were shuffled out of the van one by one and loaded two-by-two into a pair of small cylindrical chambers.

A small beep could be heard, then the woman's voice said, "You can take off the hoods now."

Emma lifted the black cloth and caught a brief glimpse of a petite woman with short dark hair and glasses before a clear barrier slid closed on her and the other occupant.

Ezra peered curiously around them as the stone walls seemed to move.

He reached out to touch one, only to feel a glass barrier beneath his fingertips.

"It's an elevator," he whispered, in awe.

It was a very short ride to the first floor, where the capsule opened with a soft 'ding' and the two agents came shuffling out with their mouths wide open.

Sika and Skip exited the elevator in the column across from them with similar expressions.

An enormous cathedral, renovated to be a stately home, stretched before them in either direction.

Emma and the others all gaped at the sumptuous luxury which surrounded them, none of them having expected anything quite like this when told they were heading to Reddington's safe house.

"Woah…"

"This is a safe house?"

"Who the hell just lives in a cathedral?!"

---

Black Site #88 "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom

Red chuckled at the sound of dinging elevators and the Mi6 agents' various explicatives. He rose from his seat in the Abbey's private lounge to round the corner of the nearest painting with Albert in tow.

The four newcomers were distracted to say the least.

If they weren't goggling at the soaring ceilings and gorgeous furnishings, they were staring in complete shock at the priceless painting which separated the main seating area from the rest of the Abbey.

"Isn't it a tad sacrilegious to use a church as a safe house? Not to mention..." Ezra Yadin gestured at the suspended sensuality of Courbet's 'Le Sommeil', his cheeks noticeably pink.

Red's deep voice rumbled from the piece's opposite corner.

"There's nothing half so wondrous as collapsing into a lover's embrace, sated and exhausted from a night of ravenous lovemaking. I, for one, find such endeavors to border on the divine. What better home for such exquisite works?"

The agents all whipped around at the sound of his voice, but Raymond's eyes were only for Emma.

Her cheeks too had turned a vibrant pink. Striking blue eyes wide with surprise batted up at him. She seemed too starstruck to even speak.

He sauntered further into the room, smiling warmly at her before returning his attention to the painting as Ezra spoke again.

"Yeah but, this is a church and these paintings are really…um…quite…"

"…Erotic?" Red supplied with a look of utmost comfortability, "Well, of course. But more than all that, they're honest. Look at them," he gestured for the others to take in the piece, "The luster of tousled curls, sinewy legs intertwined, every curve and shadow exposed to the observer's gaze. It's intimate, sensual, and just…lovely."

Clever green eyes fixated on Emma once more, "I find the profound serenity of post-coital bliss to be a particularly evocative theme, don't you?"

Emma's face flushed impossibly darker, a terrified nod seemingly all she could muster.

Giving the poor girl a reprieve, Raymond turned his attention to the others, "Please follow Albert through to the dining room. There's a lovely array of pastries and teas waiting."

They all quickly followed Director Bazalgette, looking the very picture of a brood of lost ducklings who finally found their mother.

Red paused for a moment to give 'Le Sommeil' one last appreciative glance.

He could recall with ease those precious hours spent with Rosalie, basking in the afterglow. There hadn't been another time in his life were he'd felt so at peace.

Frankly, it was no secret that the sanctuary of a woman's body was Raymond's temple of choice, and the closest to organized religion he would ever willingly come.

He chuckled to himself as he realized the Abbey, as a whole, was a reflection of its owner. The woman who had loved him best.

Rosalie was the only person in the world who would purchase a crumbling house of God for the sole purpose of packing it with criminals, thieves, and stolen nudes.

"Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss."

Albert could be heard directing his team, and Red knew he could linger no longer.

By the time he rounded the corner of John Collier's 'Lady Godiva', the agents were all seated at the enormous mahogany table, each with a steaming teacup and a baked good.

"Well then," he chewed the inside of his cheek and smirked at the room at large. "By turning up here, I am assuming you are all of sound mind and body, and furthermore are willing and consensually entering into this...shall we say, morally questionable arrangement."

The agents all nodded minutely in turn.

"Make no mistake," he advised, "From here on out you're treading into treason territory. If your country ever finds out you've been working with me, you can all kiss your careers and your normal lives goodbye. This is your last chance to turn back without implication."

When none of them made to move, Red clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.

"Excellent, well then, there's no time to waste. Agent Knightley, I believe you received a rather mysterious usb drive in your letterbox this morning. Could you please hand it to my associate?"

Emma's face turned scarlet once more as the entire room turned to stare at her.

"...Is that what this is?" She asked, pulling the small manilla envelope from her jacket pocket.

Thankfully, Kate Kaplan entered the dining room with Dembe hot on her heels and carrying a small pocket projector. She snatched the drive from Emma's hand without a word and queued up the presentation.

"These are my associates," said Red in the interim, "Kate Kaplan and Dembe Zuma. You'll be seeing a fair bit of them in the coming months…"

Once the projector was ready and the lights in the Abbey dimmed, Kate and Dembe exited the room once more.

The projector's image blinked and then a haggard-looking man with gray hair, a snowy beard, and large round glasses stared impassively back at them.

"Our first target is one of Britain's most deadly serial killers. Harold Shipman, a physician who took great care in quietly causing the death of hundreds of elderly patients in his three-decade-long tenure before a spat of greed got him caught."

A deafening silence met the big reveal.

"…Who?" Emma asked at last, having noted the others seemed as nonplussed as she was.

"Dr. Death," said Red, matter-of-factly. He switched the slide to one of the many news clippings about Shipman which had come out in the past few years.

When he turned around, it was to find most of the agents still looking lost.

"Oh come off it," scoffed Ezra, turning to gawk incredulously at the others, "Everyone knows about Doctor Death, he was all over the telly for ages. Everyone's poor old gran was paranoid that their physician was going to kill them and steal their pension."

Albert sat at the very opposite end of the table, his hands folded and his lips pursed against his index fingers. "I do not doubt you Red, but is this really the kind of criminal worth concerning ourselves over? That article says Shipman was tried and convincted and is serving out multiple life sentences at Wakefield."

Raymond gave an unconcerned shrug, "For now."

The agents sat up a little straighter.

"What do you mean, for now?"

"Life sentences are only served by those who lack the means to avoid them, Albert."

"So he's planning to escape? How is it you know this?"

Everyone turned at Sika's questions.

She was seated on Albert's right, hackles raised, every suspicious bone in her body trained on Reddington.

Red pursed his lips and nodded, "Technically, I was outbid on the contract to extract him from Wakefield prison."

"What?"

"Director Bazalgette, he can't possibly be serious-"

"Are we supposed to just ignore that?"

"Hold on a tick, what's our liability if he commits a crime-"

The outcry from every member of the team save for Emma was uproarious. Raymond's frown deepened when he held up a quieting hand.

"If it's any consolation, I did get the contract to build his new identity."

He said this as though it were the perfect solution to their outrage. They were not amused.

The resulting tumult of questions and accusations became tiresome, at which point Red's attention returned to Agent Knightley, whom he noted was seated quietly in her chair and refusing to make eye contact with anyone as she fidgeted with her teacup.

Albert finally quieted the others down and reiterated his previous complaint.

"Red, we need more than this. Dr. Death isn't enough to warrant our involvement. We can take the information to local police who can forward it on to Wakefield, but I'm afraid there isn't much more we can do."

Raymond watched Emma for a long moment, waiting to speak again until she looked up at him.

"You should all know that going forward, as a rule, I don't show my hand. Ever." Emma shrank and Red's eyes moved to each agent in turn, ensuring they understood his meaning before continuing, "However, since this is our first time together and you all seem to be so reticent to catch a serial killer, I'll let you in on a little trade secret...Dr. Death is merely a pawn in the very long game of chess we're about to engage in. By intercepting Dr. Death, we set our move for the real target, a fugitive known only as 'The Jailbreaker'."

The team all shifted to the edges of their seats, their collective interest sufficiently piqued.

"Who is the Jailbreaker in all of this?" Asked Albert wryly, as though he was halfway expecting him to be another run-of-the-mill criminal.

"Let's consider him a rook of sorts," said Red, "The Jailbreaker is the kind of criminal your parliament knows nothing about. Fugitives in a bind seek his expertise to wriggle their way out from maximum security institutions and black site prisons the world over. I once paid an astronomical amount for his assistance with a little misunderstanding in Laos."

Skip Sutherland could be seen smirking from the other end of the table, "Had a little dustup in Ventiane, did you?"

Raymond shrugged, "I enlisted a hundred Lao men and a contingent of my own associates to destroy ten million dollars worth of logging equipment used by the Sandoval corporation. Apparently a number of the Royal Lao police were in cahoots with Sandoval, looking the other way on dangerous practices and rampant deforestation while working to pass laws which benefited the loggers at the expense of the Lao citizens. Seven months I was stuck in that hell-hole Phonthong, trying to lie, cheat, or bribe my way out to no avail. I finally managed to get my situation before the Jailbreaker, who executed my release in just under thirty-six hours. How? I'm not sure."

"If you have worked with him before," reasoned Sika, "Why don't you just contact him?"

The other agents murmured their agreement.

"Because that was years ago, Agent Boateng. Besides, the Jailbreaker is one of the underground's most elusive fugitives. You don't call him, he calls you. Without any other recourse to reach him, we can only take the avenue afforded by Dr. Death's impending escape."

Albert finally seemed to be on board.

"So...Dr. Death must have a contract with the Jailbreaker?"

Red nodded, "Dr. Death was meticulous in practice, hence why it took so long for him to get caught. That meticulousness hasn't dissipated in his time in Wakefield. Rather than put all of his eggs in one basket, he utilized his connections inside to make contacts on the outside. One of those contacts was me, but there are others involved. One to extract him from police custody, another to smuggle him safely out of the country, and a third, me, to provide the documentation and funds he needs to start up a new practice elsewhere."

"Wait, you're helping him set up a new practice?"

"Of course not," Raymond demurred, "You all will have Dr. Shipman back behind bars long before my syndicate should even come into play."

"But then why must we wait for him to escape?"

"Wouldn't it be better to go to Shipman with our information and press him to give up the Jailbreaker?"

"That could work..."

"I bet we could get into Wakefield yet this week-"

"Absolutely not." Red's low voice cut easily through the agents' frenzied conversation, making them all fall silent.

Sika glared at him. "And why not, dare I ask?"

A sigh of annoyance preceded the explanation.

"Dr. Death is serving no less than 15 consecutive life sentences, Agent Boateng. There is quite literally nothing you could offer the man to get him to fold on his ticket out of prison. The Jailbreaker, if double-crossed, has the means to make Dr. Death's remaining years inside an absolute nightmare. You and your team will have to hold off until Shipman has made his break for freedom before taking action. "

"So we have to just sit and wait?" Ezra, who was seated backwards on his chair, allowed his chin to drop dramatically onto the top of the seat's wooden back, "Bugger all, how long is that going to take?"

"The escape is expected to happen the first week of August."

He, Skip, and Sika all slouched in their seats, looking sullen.

"What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Asked Sika.

"Yeah, that's six weeks from now," Skip complained.

"It will take all of those six weeks for your team to uncover the Jailbreaker's extraction plan without him finding out," said Red, "That also gives you ample time to get your new compatriot trained up and ready for action."

Emma shrank in her seat once more, trying desperately not to be seen.

Albert stood with a sigh and rapped his knuckles smartly on the table's polished surface. "Very well then. Sika, Skip, Ezra, I'm expecting the three of you to handle this. Ezra can focus on getting Agent Knightley up to scratch. Sika and Skip, you should be running the interference on Shipman's communications with the outside. See what you can scrounge up from Wakefield without coming into contact with him."

The agents all nodded, albeit begrudgingly, and rose from their seats as well.

"Emma if you wouldn't mind lingering, I'd like a word."

Emma's head snapped up at Reddington's request, her blue eyes wide and fretful. "Y-Yeah."

"We can wait for her-" began Sika, noting Knightley looked uncomfortable, but Red waved the remark aside.

"One of my associates will give Agent Knightley a ride back to the Bull's Head, thank you. If you'd like, you can wait for her there."

Sika waited until Emma nodded her agreement before joining the others to queue for the elevators.

Raymond waited until the others were safely inside the capsules before crossing the room to where Emma stood fidgeting with her teacup.

"Are you alright?" He asked gently, reaching across her to refill her teacup and dropped a single sugar cube within its depths.

Emma felt her cheeks burn hot once more as he invaded her personal bubble. "...What?" She asked, shaking her head to relieve some of the fogginess.

Red turned to her with a frown, "Albert's people, I hope they are being polite, accommodating?"

"Oh!" She stammered, "They're...They're fine."

He pulled out her chair once more and gestured for her to take a seat. Emma sat without thought and was once again surprised at how much of a gentleman an international fugitive could be.

Plucking another cup and saucer from the stack, he fixed himself some tea before taking the seat directly beside her. Legs crossed, he folded one of the cloth napkins neatly in his lap before relaxing into his seat and taking a long, slow sip.

Red sighed his approval once he'd swallowed, "Do you like the tea? It's a custom blend of lemon and darjeeling I've become rather fond of. The proprietor of this abode has it brought in from one of London's most exclusive tea houses along with that exquisite acacia honey."

Emma nodded, not really saying anything one way or the other. The tea was truthfully very good, but once again she found herself feeling tongue-tied.

Reddington noticed this.

"You were awfully quiet for our first meeting."

"I..." she fidgeted restlessly with her tea spoon until he reached across the table and eased it from her grasp. A defeated huff escaped her lips as he set it back on her napkin. "I'm committing treason for the sake of national security, and I just realized I have no idea what I'm doing."

A smile tugged at Raymond's lips. "You'll learn."

Emma pouted up at him, "You say that like it's the easiest thing in the world."

Her frown deepened when a genuine chuckle escaped his lips, but it didn't last long. The deep, throaty sound of his laugh managed to make her snigger as well.

The sight made Red's sly smile widen to a predatory grin, "In my experience, taking the low road comes more naturally than one might think. You might surprise yourself at how easy it will be. In the interim, you can always come to me. If I can help, you only have to ask."

"Why are you being so nice?" Emma questioned, her tone turning suspicious.

Raymond shrugged, his head tilting to examine her more thoroughly. It made Emma feel as though he could see right through her clothes.

"It's weird," she snapped, struggling to decide what unsettled her more, his unflinching politeness or the way his eyes stared so intently at her that it made her skin burn.

When she finally gathered the courage to look up, his attention had returned to his teacup.

"Criminal though I may be, I recognize my appearance has put you in a rather difficult position. If there is anything I can do to help smooth your path, I would consider it as penance for causing such a stir."

That sounded like a deal with the devil if there ever was one.

"The other night, you said you couldn't do this without me..." Emma's eyes widened at her own daring, "What did you mean by that? You never explained why you chose me."

He took another lengthy sip, then blinked sedately up at her with a smirk that could only be described as mischievous. "Why don't I take you to dinner tonight? My treat, I'll have Dembe pick you up around 7?"

"Woah," said Emma, leaning back in her seat and holding her hands up, "Listen mate, I have a husband at home-"

"Of course, of course, I'm sure you must already have plans." Red glossed over her rather boisterous refusal with ease, "Another time, then."

Her pout was firmly back in place, "But you didn't answer my quest-"

"Kate will escort you back to the Bull's Head, I daresay I've monopolized your time for long enough. Your team will be waiting."

Kate Kaplan seemed to appear out of the woodwork, shrugging into a trench coat and barking, "Follow me."

Emma shot out of her seat and scrambled to grab her things when Kate disappeared behind another of the paintings. She didn't put it past the brusque older woman to just leave her behind.

"I'll see you in a few days, Agent Knightley!" Red called, his voice laced with amusement, "By then, I expect to see you playing a more active role."

Dembe emerged from the opposite painting with a chastising look for Red, who could only chortle in response.

"You shouldn't terrorize her so." Dembe said in that low, even-keeled voice which told Raymond he was being ill-behaved.

He laughed again, "I'm doing no such thing. I'm being precisely who I've always been, it's not my fault she nearly has a coronary any time someone speaks directly to her."

"You are intimidating her on purpose."

Though Emma Knightley was new to Red's more manipulative tactics, Dembe certainly wasn't. He knew very well when the older man was throwing his weight around on purpose, and didn't think it was reasonable for him to do so with someone like Knightley, who wasn't even aware she'd become a player in Red's games.

Raymond merely took another sip of his tea, supremely unconcerned about the matter.

"Dr. Tiller wants to know when you will finish your session." Dembe reminded gently, holding his hands up in surrender when Red's amusement disappeared and instead leveled him with a tumultuous look.

"I'm not going." Raymond growled, reaching for the nearby paper and unfurling it with a snap. "That old quack. I've sat through his sessions enough to last me a lifetime and what good did it do?"

Dembe's voice could be heard from beyond the paper wall, "You should talk to him about Cedric's call. You cannot deny that knowing the leak is in Rosalie's organization and not your own changes things."

Raymond peeked moodily from behind the arts section, "It doesn't."

That, Dembe knew, was an outright lie. A wry, knowing smile pulled at his lips even though he fought valiantly to subdue it, recalling the events of the night before with ease.

After hanging up on Cedric, Raymond had paced the Abbey's library for hours mulling over all that the man had told him. It had been nearly four in the morning before he could finally be coerced into getting some sleep.

Even then, it had taken threats of bodily harm from Kate to manage it.

"If it does not change anything...why are you so angry?" Dembe countered, taking Emma's vacated seat and pouring himself a cup of tea as well.

The newspaper ruffled disgruntedly, flipping several pages before Red muttered, "I'm not angry."

Dembe chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh.

The sound of Raymond's sullen voice behind the rustling newspaper reminded Dembe of Rosalie and the last time they were all in New York; when the two of them had spoiled Raymond's crossword so thoroughly that he refused to finish it and spent most of the day grumbling.

"You are. You've been testy from the moment you ended the call with Cedric. That's why you don't wish to talk to Dr. Tiller about it; you know he will tell you the very thing you wish not to hear."

Red tossed the paper irritably aside. "And what is it I don't want to hear, exactly?"

His tone was a warning one, but Dembe knew he hadn't yet reached the line of Raymond's patience.

"You were wrong to drive Rosalie away."

It was as though the room were plunged into ice water, so chilling was Red's sudden change in demeanor.

Dembe had found the line, and was currently toeing it to great effect.

"I wasn't wrong to end things with her," Raymond defended with a growl, "And she was the one who left; I didn't send her away."

"You pushed her well enough and you know it."

The soft clink of Red's teacup setting on its saucer was deafening in the silence between him and his compatriot.

"I don't deny it." He said dangerously, "I pushed her away because if it wasn't the German after her, it would be the Cabal, or Townsend, or any of the other key players threatening my interests. I did it for her own good, and you know it. I don't need that quack asking me how I feel about the matter; I live with the agony every goddamn day."

Red's chair toppled over when he abruptly stood. "The leak being in Rosalie's syndicate changes nothing for me. Nothing. That's why I'm angry. "

Kate had just appeared at the edge of Collier's 'Lady Godiva as Raymond stomped off toward his suite. She watched him go with a deep frown, waiting until he was well out of earshot before turning to Dembe.

"He's getting worse...I fear what'll be left of him by the time he sees reason."

Dembe heaved a weary sigh, "I remain optimistic. Try though he may to convince himself that Cedric's intel changes nothing, Raymond's sour demeanor is most telling, and can only come to a head. When it finally does, I have no doubts that he will realize separating from Rosalie was a pointless decision. My only concern is whether Rosalie will let him back in after all that."

"She's still unreachable?" Asked Kate, huffing when Dembe nodded in response, "Honestly, they make quite the pair, belligerent, stubborn, blind as bats..."

The two shared a commiserating look and chuckled, at a loss for what they could do.

---

The Bull's Head Pub - London, United Kingdom

Emma exited the sedan and slipped through The Bull's Head's back door twenty minutes later. She wound her way through the kitchen only to stop at the sound of brusque voices hissing back and forth on the other side of the dining room's door.

Skip Sutherland's moody tenor could be heard first.

"Honestly, sitting on our arses for six weeks isn't going to do anything..."

"Agreed," came Sika's voice, "I think Reddington is bluffing. If we just went to Wakefield and brought up the Jailbreaker-"

Ezra seemed to be the only voice of reason among them.

"What if he's right, though? If we tell Shipman we know about the Jailbreaker, won't he just call the whole thing off?"

"His only bid for freedom?" said Skip, "Not bloody likely. I bet if we put the pressure on him, he'll move the date up just to get the hell out of there."

"D'you really think so?" Ezra's tone was rather dubious.

"Come on Ezra, we could have this banged out in a week, two tops. We wouldn't even have to teach the whelp."

"Don't call her names, Skip. Besides, Reddington was adamant he won't work with us without Knightley, so we are stuck training her regardless."

Emma felt resentment settle in her stomach like a heavy stone.

Ezra was the only one to stick up for her.

"Come off it, she's not that bad. Honestly, don't you two remember when you were still green?"

The three agents shushed each other and whipped around when the kitchen door swung open with a loud bang.

Emma came bustling through the entry with a tight smile, "Sorry that took a bit longer than expected. Thanks for waiting."

"Yeah...no problem" Skip murmured, looking a tad guilty.

To her credit, Emma didn't so much as hint that she had caught wind of their conversation. Though, when the others turned to head for the secret tunnel in the telephone box, she did stop to mouth a quick 'thanks' to Ezra, who gave her a shy smile and a silent nod in response.

---

Black Site #90 "The Bedouin" - Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan - June 19, 2000

The entry to The Bedouin billowed open with a strong gust of wind, bringing with it a whirl of sand and the low grunting of camels.

Rosalie Øllegaard stormed into the home seconds later with Teddy following close behind. He stopped long enough to pull the tent flaps closed before tugging back the hood of his shemagh to reveal a head of mousy brown locks, newly shorn at the sides yet still long in the middle. He usually had it combed neatly to one side, but the wind and his head covering had left the look a tousled mess.

He shook a cloud of sand from the strands, looking up at the sound of rippling cotton to see Rosalie had ripped off her keffiyeh and abaya only to throw them on the nearby coat rack.

She was positively fuming.

Horace appeared in the entry leading to the home's sheltered interior, his face puckered in a frown. "How did it go?"

They'd just returned from an abysmal meeting in Amman with the proxy of a prospective client, and to answer Horace's question, it did not go well.

The proxy in question had been an absolute cad, acting as though Rosalie was somehow beneath him and his mysterious employer, calling her 'girl' and 'sweetheart' in the most condescending tone imaginable. He was so rude, in fact, that Rosalie hadn't stayed long enough to even find out who the prospective client was.

"If that son of a bitch calls again, you tell him he and his employer can go pound sand. I don't give a damn who they are, I don't tolerate this kind of behavior from clientele or their proxies."

She blew past Horace with a glower and made for the far lounge where she knew Dr. Tiller was waiting to start their first session of the week.

Horace turned to Ted, his own discontent now plainly visible. "What the hell happened?"

The tone he directed at the other man was rife with accusation, making Teddy scowl back at him. "You tell me; you were the one who recommended the client. You were the one who vetted him and set the meeting. Did it escape your notice that his proxy was a monumental arsehole? You should've heard the things he said to Rosalie."

"David's a tad prickly, but he bars the gates to one of the underground's wealthiest players," contended Horace, "That's why I told you I wanted to go with her. The bloke's client isn't even known to be a criminal, how bad could it have possibly b-"

"So you knew the proxy was an absolute git and sent her in there to be berated and belittled anyway?" Ted cut across him with a snarl, "Do you know what he called Rosalie when she finally decided she'd had enough of his condescending bullshit? He called her an uppity cunt and basically told her that if she didn't bend to his abhorrent attitude, he and his employer would ensure she'd never sign another client."

All the blood rushed to Horace's face at this.

"He really called her that?"

Ted threw his jacket on the coat rack and kicked off his boots with irritable huff, "Yeah, Horace. He really called her that. Fucking prat."

Horace's ire rekindled once more when Teddy's shoulder collided with his, the other man's bad temper starting to wear thin.

---

"I'm sorry I'm late, a meeting with a client ran longer than expected."

Rosalie took the armchair opposite Dr. Tiller with but one longing glance for the bar cart across the room.

Honestly, these sessions would be a lot less tedious if she could drink and vent at the same time.

"That's quite alright. Would you like to pick up where we left off last week, or is there anything coming up today that you'd like to talk about?"

This was Cuthbert Tiller's standard procedure at the beginning of every session, but today it seemed rather unnecessary. There was obviously a barrage of emotions lurking just beneath Rosalie Øllegaard's surface which were one poorly-timed sentence away from spilling over.

In truth, it had been that way for weeks.

Since Raymond and Rosalie had gone their separate ways, Tiller noticed a distinct change in his newest client.

What he understood of Rosalie thus far was that her personality and her work went hand in hand. The old adage of southern hospitality rang true, and it coursed through her veins as though it were very well fused into her DNA. She was elegant, eloquent, and exceptionally intelligent. Though there lived inside her a cherished well of empathy and gentility, right alongside it lived a carefully cultivated bramble of rage that was positively deadly when utilized.

Like a vacated house, the loss of Raymond seemed to have collapsed the well and instigated the bramble to grow wildly over it.

The result was the warm, playful woman he had caught necking in a secluded alcove with her lover the day of their first meeting had hardened drastically into a volatile, formidable tempest.

Still, like Raymond, Rosalie was there for every meeting. She sat in the chair, talked, answered questions, but getting beneath the surface of her problems now proved just as difficult.

"I had a run-in with a particularly unpleasant potential client. Please forgive me if I'm a little curt."

"Would you like to talk about that?" He offered magnanimously, unsurprised when she shook her head in the negative. "Well then, why don't we pick up where we left off at the end of last week? You mentioned you are struggling to feel settled in this new arrangement, and I tasked you with the job of sitting down for a quarter of an hour each morning and simply considering what you want this new chapter to look like. Did you get a chance to do that?"

Rosalie shrugged, "No matter how long I sat there, nothing came to mind. Besides, I'm not giving in to what I want right now. I'm in the midst of another expansion, I'm too busy focusing on what I need."

"Oh I don't know, your trip to London certainly suggests differently," Tiller murmured, cautiously testing the waters on the subject. Though she had admitted to the trip shortly after it had happened, Rosalie had been quite reluctant to discuss the matter at length.

"It doesn't" she insisted, eyes narrowing when she recognized where their discussion had turned, "In that moment, going to Raymond wasn't a want. I needed to know he was safe. I needed to know I wasn't living in a world where he didn't exist. That alone shows that what I want and what I need are incongruous. I'm not ready to go back or to deal with those emotions because all of those old feelings are still there."

Tiller's brows lifted at her statement. "You are trying to heal without a support system Rosalie, don't be surprised by how long it will take. Facing those emotions and those they are tied to could do wonders for coming to terms with everything that happened. I have no doubt that your friends would be eager to assist in that matter."

Rosalie's sharp eyes leveled him an appraising look. "Respectfully, Dr. Tiller, I'm not theirs to fix."

"That right there," Tiller pointed a finger at Rosalie, "That's what I would like us to work on today."

"What?" Said Rosalie, confused.

"You're angry, and you're just shoving it down."

"I am angry," she snapped, "Angry because I had to deal with the ego of some insignificant little toe rag on a power trip because he managed to land a big client. I'm angry a man of no notoriety or influence had the audacity to treat me like I was some insipid little tart there to serve his every beck and call."

"He disrespected you. You know your place in criminal society and expect potential clients to be civil. When one fails to meet that expectation, you would naturally want to knock him back in line, to make him feel intimidated."

"No," said Rosalie, thinking for a long moment before leaning forward with an uncharacteristic snarl, "I don't want to intimidate him; I want the very thought of me to make his blood curdle."

Tiller smiled, "Good. You're getting in touch with what you want in an exchange. Lean into that. What specifically is triggering that response?"

She considered him for another long moment, then said, "I'm angry that when I informed that man he and his client were a want, not a need, and that I'd be well within my right to tell them both to go to hell, he called me a vulgar slur and threatened my entire livelihood."

"So on top of offending you, he brushed off the boundary you set for respectful negotiations..."

"...Yes."

Rosalie watched as Tiller's pen zoomed back and forth across his notepad.

"Boundaries are important to you, aren't they Rosalie?"

"I would hazard to say they're important to anyone who's had to learn not to be everyone's doormat."

He looked up once more, twinkling eyes alight with surprise, "Oh, I don't think you've ever been anyone's doormat," he said with a shake of his head.

"I don't like when people assume things about me." She countered cooly, "You know very little of me, Dr. Tiller. There was a time in my life when a doormat was exactly what I was."

"With Francis, you mean?"

"Yes."

"It's interesting that you see your time with him as you being a doormat for his emotional cruelty," Tiller explained, pursing his lips in thought, "Have you ever considered that you were just a normal human being blinded by affection?"

Rosalie chewed her bottom lip and recrossed her legs, tapping an impatient fingertip on the chair's arm, "I let him get away with things I never should have allowed. I let him say things that made me feel...small. Worthless. I allowed that."

"It's easy to say you allowed emotional abuse to occur. But tell me, what if I were to say that your response was normal of an empath? What if I were to insist that your "allowance" was merely the act of someone who assumes the best of others but also makes space for those around them to be imperfectly human?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek, "I still had to learn to keep people like him out."

"Certainly," said Tiller, "You learned that setting boundaries is a kind of metal detector you can place before others to ensure that they are safe for you to engage with. It's how you protect yourself. You set a reasonable boundary and see how they respond. That's a good litmus test for agreeable human beings, no?"

"Yes."

"Rosalie, I don't think the boundary you are upset over has anything to do with your potential client."

A disgruntled sigh left Rosalie's lips. "Fine then. I'll bite, what boundary am I upset over?"

Tiller's eyes softened, "It trickles back to where all things are trickling back to right now, my dear. You've been doing great work in our sessions, processing everything that happened in Colombia with consistency and dedication. You're making great strides where that incident is concerned."

"But...?" She asked, knowing there was an exception to his barrage of compliments.

"But your anger isn't for your abduction. It's for what happened after. A barrier was breached, and you had no say in the matter."

Rosalie's frown deepened, "I don't understand..."

"Think about the events following Raymond's return to Paris. In what did they culminate?"

He shifted forward in his seat when a bad-tempered scoff was Rosalie's only response. "Precisely. Deep down, you could care less about a rude client; the anger you are holding onto has to do with what happened in Paris. A boundary was breached, by someone you loved. I'd like to hear more about that."

Bitter tears pricked at Rosalie's eyes. She quickly brushed them away, in no mood to sit with the sadness she felt every time she replayed that night in her mind. It came regardless, the voices of that argument echoing in the recesses of her memory with an unpleasant magnitude.

'You don't love me? Then say it. Say you don't love me!'

'I can't say I don't love you because it's a goddamn lie!'

'I'm not going to let you do this-'

'I am a threat to you, and a deadly one at that.'

'My entire life is a threat to me!'

'What I feel for you, I feel it so damn deeply that everything in me insists I let you go...'

'Does it matter at all what my choice would be?'

'...No.'

Rosalie gave a tremulous hiccup, "It wasn't my choice. He ended it, even though we still wanted each other. I was still there, still fighting for us, and he just decided that we were finished. I outright asked him if my choice in the matter counted for anything and he said no. Just like that."

Dr. Tiller offered her the box of tissues with a gentle, sympathetic look. "I suspect it hurt and angered you to have that choice taken from you. You didn't deserve that."

"I don't want to talk about him anymore," said Rosalie, plucking a tissue from the box and dabbing at her eyes, "He ended it, I'm moving on. End of story."

"Is it though?" Tiller questioned, unswayed by her brusque response. "It is my professional opinion that you're struggling to move on because you refuse to talk about what happened with Raymond in Paris. Brushing aside that anger every time it rears its head will only-"

Rosalie stood from her seat, her expression impassive, "I told you when we had our first session, my relationship with Raymond is off-limits. I have no desire to dredge up the past in that regard. I believe we should end our session here for today."

Dr. Tiller pursed his lips and stood. "Very well, I look forward to our next session Rosalie. I will leave you with but one last inconvenient observation...I understand that you do not wish to bring Raymond into our sessions in any capacity, but I am deeply concerned that one day the resentment you're trying to bury is going to spill over. It is my sincere hope that when that happens, it does not spill over onto the wrong person."

He let the notion linger for a moment, then picked up his things and exited the room, leaving Rosalie quietly seething once more.

---

Five days later...

Black Site #88 "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom - June 24th, 2000

The team's first week was drawing quickly to a close.

They met with Red every morning at the Abbey, taking the same route as their first meeting.

Sika had convince the heads of Mi6 to drastically scale back the number of unnecessary personnel in the Cromwell due to security concerns, which allowed her and her team to essentially come and go as they pleased, completely unnoticed.

Director Bazalgette, on the other hand, had been a bit more difficult.

Still under probation and surveillance, his every move was being watched.

Red had found a more permanent solution in sending in a doppelgänger posing as a courier for a nearby same-day laundry service, whereupon Albert exited the flat in a duplicate of the doppelgänger's uniform.

The doppelgänger puttered around Albert's flat in casual clothes while Albert snuck off to meet with Red and his team at the Abbey. He then returned in the same disguise, toting a bag of clean laundry, whereupon the doppelgänger would leave.

Bazalgette and his team had been working diligently on uncovering Dr. Death's communications with the outside world without drawing notice to themselves. Meanwhile, Ezra had taken on the task of bringing Emma up to scratch in field work. Things were going smoothly all-around, thus far.

During their second meeting, the team broached the subject of having a code name, owing to the fact that Bazalgette's continued surveillance made it impossible to contact him about the case when he was at home. Having a code would allow Sika to keep Albert in the loop without letting his surveillance on to what they were up to.

"...Code names?" Raymond had chuckled heartily at their seriousness, "I haven't had a code name since the Cold War. What do I get to be?"

"You can be 'The Liability.'" Agent Boateng had grumbled under her breath, "We've decided that since there are six of us on the team and this is a deep cover operation, we would keep things simple and refer to ourselves as the DC6."

"Fitting," chirruped Red, who had chosen that moment to make a bit of a meal out of pouring himself some tea, "A little bland and predictable, but I would expect no less from a group of Feds..."

And so the DC6 was christened.

Now, however, the newly-minted team were running late for their Friday meeting.

Emma and Ezra, fresh off the agency's underground firing range, paced the Cromwell with no small amount of restlessness.

"Where are they?" The former asked, wandering over to her desk where a small manilla envelope sat with her name on it. She popped open the little metal tab and tilted the contents into her upturned palm.

It was a thumb drive, around which was wrapped a post-it note with Sika's handwriting.

'Scrubbed audio, give to Reddington.'

"I dunno," said Ezra, flipping his phone closed as she pocketed the item and peered down the hall once more, "That's the fifth time I've called Skip, and it's gone straight to voicemail again. Bazalgette won't be happy. It isn't like Sika to be late..."

An echoing bang broke up their conversation.

The two turned to see Skip and Sika skidding through the metal doors and hanging a right toward the conference room.

"Come on you lot, we're going to be late!"

Emma and Ezra shared a confused glance, then went haring after the others as fast as their feet would carry them.

The foursome hurried down the ladder and jogged the length of the underground passage, sweating and breathing heavily by the time they arrived at the top of the opposite ladder.

Ezra had just reached into the hatch to help hoist Emma out when Christopher came barreling into the telephone box wearing a bad-tempered scowl. "About time. You're a quarter of an hour late!"

They all boarded the familiar van behind the pub, and Skip had no more than pulled the door closed when the driver peeled out of the alley and down the street. This sent some of the occupants tumbling over inside the dark cabin, having not yet buckled themselves in.

As previously requested, the vehicle was equipped with blackout windows and an opaque partition between the cab and the passengers, keeping the safe house's location a secret while allowing the agents to be transported with some dignity.

The familiar up and down of the vehicle's descent and ascent indicated they had reached their destination, and the four were soon scrambling out of the van only to come face to face with Reddington's dour associate, Mr. Kaplan.

"He's in the dining room," she barked, gesturing for them to get in the elevators, "A word of caution: whatever you got up to this morning, he's in a terrible mood."

Emma and Ezra looked confusedly at Skip and Sika, who rushed to the opposite capsule without a word.

Their arrival on the safe house's main floor was met with a pair of familiar voices bellowing back and forth.

"Did you put them up to it?"

"Of course not! Red you know me; if I take your intel, I follow it verbatim. I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding-"

"Misunderstanding? I was explicitly clear!"

Emma's footsteps faltered when she reached the edge of the painting delineating the boundary of the home's dining space. She didn't really want to reckon with Raymond Reddington's sudden and inexplicable wrath.

He caught site of her peeking around the frame's gilded edge, however. "There you are!" He barked, "Get in here, all of you."

Emma, Skip, Ezra, and Sika all shuffled timidly into the space.

"Sit down."

They took their seats without a word, none of them daring to even look at Reddington.

"Out with it. Which of you did it?"

The question sent a shiver around the room, the collective of agents shrinking away from the man as he paced restlessly back and forth.

"Did what, exactly?" Asked Skip.

Emma was new to the team, but even she could tell he was working much too hard to make himself sound innocent.

"Two of you went to Wakefield this morning and spoke to Dr. Death." Reddington said in a deadly growl, "Two of you went against my insistence that you uncover his plans quietly. Two of you went and interrogated the man, making a slew of hamfisted threats about his dealings with the Jailbreaker in a futile attempt to get him to talk."

Ezra and Emma both turned to gawk at Sika and Skip, the former of which made a soft, "tss!" noise and shook her head a fraction of an inch. They hurriedly looked away.

Red caught the exchange.

"I see."

He leveled Sika and Skip a furious glare which made them both shrink in their seats.

"We were trying-" began Skip, but he was cut off by the sheer volatile anger being directed his way.

"You were impatient and short-sighted." Red corrected, the knuckles in his fingers cracking ominously when he clenched his fists. "Because of you, Dr. Death sent word to call off the extraction the moment he was out of the interrogation room. I was contacted with a stand-down notice not twenty minutes before your arrival. The Jailbreaker's now in the wind, because you and your interim director-" his tumultuous gaze turned to Sika, "-don't know the meaning of the word 'wait'."

Sika's complexion took on a sickly pallor, "He was supposed to be taken directly to solitary confinement...We believed he wouldn't have a chance to make contact with the outside-"

Albert groaned from his seat opposite them, "Sika, how do you think the man got contacts on the outside? It's obvious that one of the guards in his block is crooked. You can't assume he won't be able to make contact simply because you requested the warden put him in solitary."

Both Sika and Skip hung their heads, recognizing their monumental mistake.

"What do we do now?" Asked Emma, turning to face Red directly.

As he'd hoped, she'd become more and more outspoken with each passing meeting. Though his temper was still roaring beneath the surface, he made a concerted effort to address her with his usual politeness.

"There is only one way forward., and it's The Envoy Collective." Red pulled an intel packet from the nearby sideboard and threw it onto the center of the table, "The Envoy Collective is a criminal organism that provides credible and highly trained proxies for fugitives looking to do business with other criminals without actually giving face."

"What do they have to do with the Jailbreaker?" Ezra asked, flipping open the file and spreading its contents over the length of tabletop between the four of them.

Reddington turned his back on them and fixed himself a cup from the fresh tea tray Dembe had brought. "Personally, I only do business face-to-face. Sending a proxy in my opinion, tends to be a sign of distrust or an admission of guilt. However, there are many reasons other criminals might use a proxy. Some are not openly engaging in their illicit affairs and need to keep a distance, others are afraid their contact with the target will result in an outright refusal or an attempt on their life. Then there are criminals like Dr. Death who are incarcerated or otherwise engaged and cannot attend a set meeting. All are in need of a person to enter the exchange and be trusted to uphold the client's interests. This is the service the Envoy Collective provides."

Emma lifted a photograph of a bald man entering Wakefield's gates, "So Dr. Death hired a proxy from the Envoy Collective. This guy?"

Red nodded.

"What would he do with a proxy, though?"

"He would need someone to negotiate on his behalf," Sika reasoned, speaking up at last, "Red said there were three people contracted to complete the extraction. Dr. Death would need a proxy to work on the outside to negotiate those contracts and make the payments to cover them."

"Correct." Raymond paced around the table as he sipped his tea, "Since the Jailbreaker is in the wind," he spared another chastising look for Sika and Skip, "Our only avenue is to pursue the proxy Dr. Death was using to communicate with his extraction team in the hopes that he has a way of reaching the Jailbreaker."

"So we are looking for the man in that photo?"

Reddington took his seat at the head of the long table and set his cup neatly on its saucer. "His alias is Alan Edgar. All of the Envoy's proxies go by the surname 'Edgar' as a sign of conformity. In my opinion, it's nothing more than a homing beacon for the company's various misdeeds. Fortunately, their lack of foresight works to our benefit. Alan may have called off the extraction, but per our contract, I am entitled to 50% of my commission. I've set a meeting for next Saturday at a club in Oxford. With his alias and his mobile, you should be able to track his movements, infiltrate the club, and intercept."

"You want us to go undercover?" Asked Ezra, sitting higher in his seat, "All four of us?"

Red turned to the others once more, "Do you think you all can manage that without fucking it up?"

The team nodded sedately, all bearing looks of nervous excitement.

"Alright, Red," said Albert, "We've got a setup for next week, but we should be looking into contingency plans all the same. Do you have another way in with the Envoy Collective?"

The agents turned to watch as Reddington mulled it over, "I might. There is a soiree happening tonight in London's criminal underbelly that I've been advised to attend."

"We can send you in with a wire," suggested Skip.

Sika nodded, "Yeah, and we can run surveillance from outside."

"Absolutely not," said Red, "Walking into such an establishment with a wire could destroy me and my business. I go alone or not at all."

Albert rapped his knuckles smartly on the desk, "We can't send you in alone, Red. If we're going to take credit for the criminals you bring our way, we need to be involved in all of it."

Reddington considered the matter for a moment then shrugged, "Fine. Agent Knightley can be my plus one."

The other agents all sputtered indignantly.

"She can't go alone, she doesn't have any experience-"

"Director Bazalgette, he can't be serious-"

"That doesn't seem reasonable, what if she gets hurt-?"

It took Emma several seconds to look up from her lap, only to find Reddington's attention firmly fixed on her. "I couldn't possibly..." she demurred, looking to the others to back her up, "They're right. I have no experience, I don't know what I'm doing. Going with the rest of them is different, I would have backup. Besides I wouldn't even know what to wear to something like this, I'd stick out like a sore thumb."

"Nonsense," said Red, "Mr. Kaplan?"

The table's occupants turned at the sound of Red's voice, following his gaze to see his dour female associate had appeared at the opposite end of the dining space.

"Please take Agent Knightley to the guest suite behind the northern staircase. I took the liberty of having Genevieve bring over a selection from her boutique."

Emma, still looking shocked, couldn't manage to string together an argument as Kaplan bullied her from the chair and around the corner toward the suite.

---

The Knightley Flat - June 24th, 2000

It was half past eight when Dembe arrived outside the Knightleys' home.

A splendid row was occurring within, the raised voices echoing so loudly that Dembe couldn't help but overhear.

"-must be out of your mind, Em. It's one thing to take information from the man, but to be seen out in public with him? It's asking for trouble!"

"I wasn't given much of a choice, Colin!"

"You couldn't have just said no?!"

"You don't think I can do this, is that it?"

"Love, it's not that I don't think you can do it...I know you can! I'm just not willing to bet your life on Reddington having your best interests at heart-"

Dembe took advantage of the brief drop of silence between the feuding parties and rapped his knuckles on the door's face.

"Bugger all..." Emma's voice snapped from within, "Right. I'm going. We can argue about this later."

There was the rustling of footsteps before the front door whipped open, revealing a distinctly ruffled Emma Knightley dressed in the pink silk cocktail dress Kate Kaplan had sent her home with.

She strode out of the apartment without another look back, brushing Dembe's proffered hand away when she took to the stairs and left them both in her dust.

Colin Knightley stood rooted in the doorway for several long seconds.

He was a tall, good-looking man with short ginger hair and deep hazel eyes. His wrinkled dress shirt and slightly-too-big corduroys gave him the look of a university professor on sabbatical.

Colin glanced furtively at Dembe, then rushed forward, leaping down the steps to grasp Emma's wrist and turn her about so he could kiss her cheek.

Dembe politely turned his attention down the street, pretending not to notice or listen to the couple's whispers.

"Just...just be safe, yeah? I'll wait up for you."

"I'm sorry I yelled..."

"Me too, love."

Colin cleared his throat, at which point, Dembe swiveled back around.

"Right," he said, half-jokingly, "Tell your boss I want my wife back before midnight. And no funny business, if he knows what's good for him."

Dembe took great enjoyment out of leveling Colin an impassive, unblinking stare.

The man stammered fretfully for a few moments, then kissed Emma once more before returning to the safety of the flat's front stoop.

"Agent Knightley," Dembe nodded, then reached out to open the rear passenger door for her.

She took the offered seat, slid into the luxurious sedan with one final wry smile for her husband, then tucked her hands neatly in her lap.

They were off moments later, weaving through the last dregs of London's rush-hour traffic with ease.

Emma hadn't said a word, and instead spent the time watching Reddington's body guard intently.

He was a curious fellow, incredibly quiet for someone his age. The man to her known only as 'Dembe' possessed the kind of stoicism that took most people a lifetime to cultivate. He could be terribly intimidating without saying a single word, and when he did act, Emma suspected it was to deadly effect.

More than anything, however...and Knightley really couldn't quite make heads or tails as to why...she trusted Dembe. He seemed, at his core, to be honest and sincere. What he was doing working for a man like Raymond Reddington was anyone's guess.

Still, Emma was reasonably certain that he could be trusted to tell her the truth.

"Dembe," she leaned into the gap between the two front seats, finally voicing her concern, "Tell me the truth...Reddington, am I safe with him?"

The smallest hint of a smile played at the younger man's lips. "You needn't be worried. The establishment you are entering tonight has a strict neutrality-zone policy. Even someone as high-profile as Raymond will be safe tonight."

"What does that mean?" Emma asked, resting her shoulder against the front passenger seat when they came to a full-stop at a red light.

Dembe turned to speak directly to her, his tone dripping with amusement. "A neutrality zone is like the home-base in tag. No 'tagging' or in-fighting is allowed. Weapons aren't even permitted to cross the building's threshold; the proprietors know enough not to trust their clientele not to succumb to temptation."

Emma huffed, "The temptation to kill somebody? You say that like it's as normal as craving too much sweets."

An actual snigger broke Dembe's facade, taking Emma by complete surprise. "For us?" He sighed, "I'm afraid it is perfectly normal."

Traffic began to move again.

"You didn't answer my question," she needled with a frown, realizing what he'd done.

In the rear-view mirror, Emma and Dembe's eyes met. The latter smiled once more, "Raymond will stop at nothing to ensure your safety in his presence, Agent Knightley. Of that, I can promise you."

---

'Kore' - London, United Kingdom

When they reached the establishment, it was to find Raymond waiting for them. He was decked in a freshly pressed suit, this one in a midnight blue so dark it was nearly black.

Another bodyguard stood sentinel at his elbow. Emma recognized him as the same dark-haired man who'd helped Reddington corner in the park last week.

The man stepped forward once the car came to a complete stop and swung open the rear door so Emma could disembark with ease.

Emma feared she would turn as pink as her dress when Reddington sidled up to the door, tilting his head in that unnerving way, as though he could see right through her dress.

A mischievous smile pulled at the corner of his mouth when he said, "Agent Knightley, don't you look ravishing?"

A hand extended into her field of vision, and she took it without thought.

Red eased her out of the vehicle's confines and onto the sidewalk while Dembe and Baz switched places.

It was only then that Emma realized Dembe too was in a suit, a fitted number showing off his muscular physique in all-black from his tie to his shoes.

"The heels Genevieve brought for you...are they uncomfortable?"

Emma turned to see Reddington staring at her in concern. He must have noticed the tentativeness in the few steps she had taken from the car.

She shook her head, a self-conscious grimace drooping her features.

When she waved Red a little closer, he leaned in with an indulgent smile.

"I'm not exactly well-versed in heels. I feel like a newborn giraffe."

"Ah," he nodded his understanding, "My apologies, I should have had my associate provide a selection of flats."

"It's alright," she brushed his concern aside, "I can muddle through for one night."

Raymond reached over and placed her hand in the crook of his arm, "Lean on me, I promise I won't let you stumble."

Emma was glad he turned away and immediately started them off toward the building behind them, otherwise he would have seen the gobsmacked blush which had quickly illuminated her skin. At every turn, she found herself being surprised by Reddington. He was a true gentleman, and though she was obviously a married woman with a wonderful husband waiting at home, a part of Emma had to admit...

Even if it was just pretend, it was kind of a thrill to be out on the town with a man like Raymond Reddington.

He led them through a short, dark alleyway behind the historic row house they'd pulled up in front of, then turned them into a tighter, even darker nook one would never know was there if they didn't already know its location.

Emma was on the cusp of asking Reddington what he was doing when a neon light flickered into life over their heads, flooding them in a pale pink light.

Red's broad, masculine frame was mere centimeters from her own.

Blue eyes traveled up from the sharp tie that he wore, along the column of his neck to the defined jawline above, where a taught muscle twitched beneath the surface. As her eyes continued to wander, she couldn't help but notice the shape of his lips, they way the top one arced in a subtle Cupid's bow...

She looked up to see Reddington's eyes on her, too.

His cunning stare had softened slightly, or was that just her imagination?

Regardless, finding his attention fixated so intently upon her made Emma sway on the spot.

A warm hand reached out to cup the small of her back, holding her steady. "Careful now...I know it's bright."

'Bright?' she thought dazedly, taking several seconds to realize what he meant. "R-right."

The heady, luxurious scent of his cologne, only discernible in such intimate proximity, made her feel weightless and rather dazed.

'What could possibly be in that bottle that made him smell so alluring?'

A clear, pleasant voice not at all unlike a car GPS chimed above them.

"Mr. Hirschfield, such a pleasure. I see you've brought Ms. Sutton with you again as well...welcome, welcome."

The brick wall behind Emma bumped out and slid open with a surprisingly quiet swish, considering it was so large.

Red chuckled when she still stood there, dazed and unaware until he used the hand upon her back to guide her through the entry and into the establishment's dark foyer.

The only light available shone from the nearby metal elevator, whose intricate victorian etchings had been outlined with the finest fluorescent pink lighting imaginable, making it look as though the compartment were made of neon piping.

A short man in a top hat and tails bowed to them from the shadows.

"Splendid to see you again, Mr Hirschfield, and uh..." the man's smooth rapport came to a sputtering halt when he got a good look at Emma., "And your...uh...lovely new guest."

He called the lift for them and stepped back into the shadows until he could no longer be seen.

"Who's Ms. Sutton?" Emma asked shrewdly, turning to Reddington with suspicion.

Red grimaced, having obviously hoped she wouldn't have noticed that little exchange. "She's an...associate of mine," he explained, focus never leaving the elevator doors. "Ms. Sutton and I did a fair amount of business between all three of this establishment's sister sites. The two of you share a passing resemblance on security footage, but the proprietors know her well, hence their hesitation at recognizing their mistake."

He was offered a reprieve when the lift arrived with a soft chime.

Emma gasped when the doors opened to reveal what looked more like a miniature garden than an elevator capsule. The space's walls were covered over in moss and crowned with lovely rosy peonies while its corners were lit with more pale pink lights.

"What is this place?"

Reddington's hand returned to the small of her back to usher her inside. "The social gathering we're attending is being held in a little-known criminal den called Kore."

The doors closed without a noise, and Emma turned to eye Red beadily. "You must bring a lot of women to these...what did you call them? Sister sites?"

Red couldn't bring himself to be offended by the accusation. "There are three sites, and yes, I've done a fair amount of business in each."

"Kore...?" She muttered, unsure of the meaning behind the name.

"She was the maiden goddess Persephone."

"Hades' wife?"

"Kore was the goddess's name prior to her descent from the mortal realm. Her name changed to Persephone upon becoming Hades' queen."

Emma nodded, "So there's a bar somewhere called Persephone?"

"It's in Luxembourg," said Red, "Gorgeous little haunt, too. Completely underground of course, not like this establishment. The setting is the polar opposite; no pastels, only oxblood and onyx with rough stone and slivers of antiqued brass. The whole place smells of leather and sin..."

---

...Rough hands sought the nape of her neck to expose the slender column of her throat, the warm expanse just begging for his mouth to wander over.

It had taken a bit of trickery, needling, and no small amount of lock picking to get his lover sequestered in this private alcove of a VIP room, and Red was intent on making it worth his while.

A quiet thrill skated across his every nerve when dainty fingers wriggled their way beneath his layers of fabric to scratch at his back, drawing him in.

The whimpering sigh of a moan when he nipped along the warm hollow he'd unearthed threatened to take him to his knees then and there.

What he wouldn't give to taste her properly...here...now...with a host of the other criminal elite just a breath away from the door, talking loudly and dancing to the roaring band settled in the club's opposite corner.

Would the danger of getting caught sweeten the excitement between her thighs?

Would she be able to keep quiet as he leisurely sent her spiraling into ecstasy?

The thought made him grin even as his companion pulled away.

Rosalie's irises looked like fine rings of smoke haloed around jet black pupils. He didn't even have to listen to what she said next to know she didn't truly mean it. The mischievous, darling little smile she always reserved for him gave her away.

"We need to get back..."

A squeak of surprise left her lips when he hoisted her onto the polished onyx tabletop without a drop of hesitation.

"I don't think that's what you really want, Rosalie."

His lips met hers in a chaste, playful kiss that left her chasing him for more.

"Dembe and Ted will wonder where we've gone off to-" she demurred, playing her part to perfection.

He grinned as understanding dawned on him.

His lover had no intention of leaving this room, she merely wanted a little...persuading.

Well, Red was happy to oblige.

"Dembe and Ted will keep themselves busy," he growled, taking the hem of her skirt and rucking it up to reveal the tops of her stocking-clad thighs and the faintest peek of lingerie, "If they know what's good for them, that is."

"We could get caught-oh!"

Raymond had chosen that exact moment to unclip her garter straps, curl his fingers into the edges of her panties and tug the slip of lace down to her ankles in one fell swoop.

He knelt before her, pocketing the material without a drop of remorse.

"R-Raymond..."

A broad hand came to rest on her stomach, applying just enough pressure for her to understand his meaning and lay back onto the cool tabletop.

Red couldn't restrain a feral grin when a strategic kiss placed high on her inner thigh made her gasp and writhe impatiently.

"Yes, little dove," he praised in a heady purr, settling one of her legs over his shoulder, "My tongue is just aching for you..."

---

The elevator started to slow.

Emma turned to see Reddington's eyes had a slightly glassed-over look about them.

Where had his mind ran off to?

She nudged his shoulder, "What's the third one?"

"Nestis," he replied, physically shaking himself from his reverie, "Empedocles' wrote about the four gods of the elements being the only ones that mattered. In that text he cited Zeus, Hera, Hades, and Nestis, the latter of which was considered the water deity. As such, Nestis is an underwater establishment beneath the Tyrrhenian Sea, off the coast of Bastia."

Raymond shook his head once more, fighting to bring himself back to the present.

God forbid he get caught up in recollections of his and Rosalie's nights in Nestis...

As they ascended the few remaining floors up to the rooftop, he noticed Emma had grown completely silent. It was now she who stared at the lift's doors, forehead puckered in a frown.

Perhaps she was still nervous?

"Chin up Emma," he bolstered, patting the hand still curled over his forearm,"You're here with me, which will inherently make you an object of curiosity. Pretend like you belong here and the others will all fall in line."

He seemed to have hit the nail on the head, as she immediately turned and murmured, "How do I know they won't spot me?"

Red actually chuckled at this, "You're with me. Anyone who sees you in my company will automatically assume the worst; you have nothing to fear in that regard."

Emma thought she detected a note of bitterness to his tone, but didn't have time to think on it as the lift doors slid open to reveal a gorgeous open-air venue.

It looked like the kind of courtyard labyrinth one would see in an old stately home. Tall boxwood hedges swooped and swirled hither and dither, creating intimate pockets perfect for secret meetings at candle-lit bistro tables.

More pink lights outlined the walkway leading into the center of the maze, which was hidden from view by the many winding branches of climbing wisteria that curled and cascaded over the hedge walls to create a living roof of intricately twined limbs bearing lush clusters of pastel lilac flowers.

The maître d' appeared before them with a genial smile, "Mr. Hirschfield, it is a delight to have you with us again."

"Maxwell!" Red recognized with delight, pulling the man into a brief hug, "It's lovely to be back. Please meet my new associate, Jacqueline Butler."

Maxwell made a deep bow to Emma, who was working very hard not to let her confusion show. Finally, she realized that Jacqueline Butler was, in fact, her.

"And what is your preferred vintage, Miss?"

The simple question instigated a knot in Emma's gut which traveled upward to make her tongue feel like lead. Knowing full well she had no idea what the proper response would be, she just stood there.

Thankfully, before Maxwell could even register her gaping like a fish, Raymond swooped in with a recommendation that completely wiped Emma from the other man's mind.

"A bottle of the 1893 Chateau d'Yquem, I think."

The maître d' covertly flagged down a nearby sommelier and whispered the request in the man's ear before shunting him away and leading Raymond and Emma to their table.

Emma didn't have to say much as the excitable fellow talked animatedly with Reddington,

"Your usual is waiting at your preferred table in the labyrinth's central atrium," he chattered away, "There's a number of key players attending tonight whom you may be interested in talking with. A couple bosses from Wo Shing Wo triad, The Beekeeper, Balthazar, Juliette, a proxy for the King family, a handful of the Sicilian mafiosi, and The Brothers Sionnach as well..."

Raymond flashed a knowing smirk at Emma, her mouth having dropped open at the name of the very Brothers Sionnach their team was searching for.

"Don't whip your handcuffs out just yet, my dear," Red purred in her ear upon their arrival at the center atrium, "The best is yet to come."

They turned the corner and the dark labyrinth exploded into vibrant frivolity.

The enormous wisteria tree in the circle's center was responsible for the sea of branches and flowers overhead which created a moody, ethereal sort of vibe. The tree's twisting trunk was illuminated with tiny pink lights as well, winding all the way up to its boughs, where the lights turned to a mix of rose and periwinkle.

The lights fell on the host of dangerous-looking people which dotted the room, some standing and chatting, others nestled at bistro tables and quiet cushioned booths. Still more were exchanging wads of cash the size of Emma's fist and whispering behind hands bearing jewel-encrusted fingers so ostentatious it made her stomach turn.

As they were led to their table, Emma noticed how many of the fugitives in attendance stopped what they were doing to nod at Reddington, and the ones that didn't still stopped to either gawk or throw a scowl his way. It seemed, even if the establishment referred to the man as 'Mr. Hirschfield' everyone still knew precisely who he was.

Red took it all in stride, keeping his hand situated comfortably at the small of her back until they were safely in the confines of their own intimate booth.

Emma took a furtive look around the room, "Jacqueline Butler?"

Reddington laughed outright, passing the cold bottle of non-alcoholic beer that was waiting on the table to Dembe and taking a sip of his own amber liquor before replying. "That is the alias I've drummed up for you. It's best not to use your real name while in my sphere."

"Well Mr. Hirschfield, aren't you going to go looking for a contact?"

"Agent Knightley, I don't go looking for anything or anyone. Any intel worth having finds its way to me."

Emma rolled her eyes, thinking he sounded terribly conceited, when the maître d' returned with an expensive-looking bottle.

"Mr. Hirschfield, the gentleman across the way has sent over this bottle of Glenfarclas from our private stores. Would you like to accept?"

Reddington smirked, "The man across the way, hmm? Is it Adrian? You can tell him he can send me three of these and still not scratch the surface of what he owes from that little mishap in Bangladesh."

"No, no, I'm afraid your debt with Adrian will remain outstanding," said Maxwell, "No, this is from the man in the black suit with the rather flashy cufflinks. At your 10."

A brief glance in the aforementioned direction showed a dapper young fugitive seated alone at one of the establishment's bistro tables. He raised his glass with a covert nod to Reddington, who nodded back.

"I'll take it," he decided at last, watching while Maxwell poured him a fresh glass and set the tall bottle on the center of the table.

"...Are you going to go over and thank him?" Emma asked, thinking it would be rather rude if he didn't.

"Absolutely not," said Red.

"Why?"

"Because I haven't the faintest idea who he is, but if he's willing to front an $11,000 bottle of scotch and purchase an outlandishly expensive suit off the rack just to get his foot in the door with me, then he's either green and immensely stupid, or he's on the hook for a very, very big fish. Either way, our negotiations have already begun. If he wants to go into business with me, he can get off his ass and work for it."

Emma stared intently at the other man, her curiosity sufficiently piqued.

This seemed to amuse the hell out of Reddington.

"...How do you know his suit's off the rack?" She asked at last, unable to mask the impish grin tugging at her lips.

Red smiled, "The cheap shoes, for starters. The gap at the back of the collar as well. There's also the length of the sleeves; they're just a hair too long. I'd be willing to bet when he stands up the slacks are a quarter inch too long as well."

"A quarter-inch?" She scoffed, her tone disbelieving, "Does it honestly make that big a difference?"

Another mischievous grin darkened Reddington's countenance once more, convincing her that she didn't want him to answer.

Emma found herself tittering softly, unable to hold back her own amusement.

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of the sommelier as well as another of the establishment's patrons, a portly man named Terry Collins who had some business in the English Channel he though Reddington might be interested in brokering.

Collins...

Colin.

The reminder of Emma's husband brought her buoyant mood down a touch as she accepted the small measure of wine from the sommelier, who awaited her approval before filling her glass and leaving the bottle at the table.

The wine was sweet and smooth...Red had excellent taste.

Emma listened intently as Reddington and Mr. Collins bandied back and forth on the state of smuggling through the channel these days. The former seemed to know everything and everyone involved with the illegal shipping routes surrounding Britain, and likewise took great enjoyment out of exploiting those routes.

The men settled into a civilized but strenuous negotiation over Red's brokering of a sale of armored cars with a group of Belgian fugitives known as De Bloemen.

It was intriguing to watch her informant at work, and though Emma was loathe to admit it, she found herself impressed.

Reddington handled Collins with incredible tact, his suave, debonair facade completely unruffled by the twists and turns of his opponent. It was easy to see how the intel on Red had labeled him as a ladies-man, as women of all sorts threw him covert, beckoning glances. A few even spared jealous scowls for Emma, which she gladly returned with a smug smirk of her own.

'Well,' she thought, 'They can glower all they want, I'm still the one sitting here...'

Emma shook her head.

What was she thinking? She was a married woman, and this was just work. She wasn't supposed to be enjoying herself or blurring the line with her and Reddington.

Another worried frown puckered her features as she continued to mentally berate herself between moody sips.

The Brothers Sionnach crossed Emma's field of vision seconds later, the three men laughing boisterously and nudging each other back and forth on their way out.

Oh no...

A heavy, warm hand rested atop Emma's, seeming to read her mind.

She spared a fretful glance for Red, whose head gave the smallest indiscernible shake, then turned to watch the brothers wait for the lift.

Her spirits fell further when they disappeared behind the door. Even if she rose to tail them now, the likelihood of intercepting them was slim to none.

"Emma."

Emma's head snapped up like a deer caught in the headlights.

The enigmatic Mr. Collins had already left, leaving them alone once more.

Red chuckled once more, "Do try and look like you haven't been brought here at gunpoint."

"I'm so out of my element," Emma whined, "If I had been paying attention, we could have gotten the brothers easily."

"You're doing fine," he assured, reaching up to brush her cheek with his thumb, "The Brothers weren't our target, anyway; they need to be approached with stealth. If we'd gone ferreting about for information while they were still on the premises, they'd be in the wind before you could even get out of your seat. You're here to babysit me and ensure I don't do anything nefarious, nothing more. I'm sure you can do that and enjoy yourself at the same time."

"You've made my job impossible then," she retorted, lifting a playful brow, "I don't think you've ever managed to get through an evening without at least one bout of nefariousness."

Red cocked his head at her with that same predatory smile, apparently deeply amused. "How do you like the wine?"

"It's lovely," sighed Emma, beaming when he topped off her glass.

"It'd better be, that's a $12,000 bottle."

She nearly spat a mouthful everywhere, "WHAT?"

Red shrugged, "I certainly couldn't have you sit next to my overpriced Glenfarclas with a glorified juice box now, could I?"

"You didn't know you were going to have that scotch when you ordered the wine-" she glowered, but was interrupted by a low, "Shh..."

The man who had sent Red the scotch earlier seemed to have finally shelved his pride and was making his way over to them.

He certainly had a great deal of swagger. Though, after their previous discussion, Emma couldn't notice much about the man other than that his suit was ill-fitting.

Reddington turned to Emma with a sly smile, "Watch and learn."

Emma nodded once, the excitement building in her chest threatening to erupt into a fit of nervous giggles. She managed to stifle them, however, just in time for the man to saunter up to their table.

"Mr. Reddington, my sincere apologies for interrupting your evening. I was hoping to have a word-"

"I don't wish to be rude but as you have undoubtedly noticed, I'm here for pleasure, not business." Raymond made a sweeping gesture toward Emma, who turned scarlet all over again. "I do hope you understand."

"Of course sir," the man bowed his head at Emma, "Normally I wouldn't dream of it. However, I am here on behalf of a prolific client who is seeking your assistance."

Understanding dawned on Red's features, "You're the proxy for the King family."

"Yes," said the man, puffing his chest out proudly, "My name is David Edgar, and I'm here on behalf of the King family's middle son, Earl."

"And what is is that young Mr. King is asking of me?"

"He's been advised that you're the man to speak to..."

David gave a quick, furtive look around the room then lowered his voice to a whisper, "Word on the underground is you are the best man to see if one is looking for an invite to The Penthouses at The Alcazar."

Emma felt Red's hand give hers an involuntary squeeze.

Was this the source he had been waiting for?

To the man's credit, he managed to keep his expression schooled.

"Dembe."

Reddington's bodyguard turned sharply, the look on his face expectant.

"Please take Ms. Butler to admire Maxwell's new peony room, Mr. Edgar and I have business to discuss."

Dembe held out his hand to help ease Emma from the booth. Unfortunately, there was little she could say otherwise, and so she accepted, nodding to David once before being led across the establishment.

"Dembe, why did he send me away?" She asked, once they were out of earshot, eager to know what was going on.

She was surprised to see Dembe shake his head stoically, "As Mr. Reddington said, there is business he needs to tend to without the eyes and ears of Mi6 on him."

"He just made a bootlegging deal right in front of me not twenty minutes ago," she contested with a frown, "What makes this one so different?"

No answer was provided as Dembe ushered her into an admittedly stunning room whose walls were bedecked with climbing, flowering peonies.

"Mr. Maxwell," he said, with what Emma swore was a tint of amusement, "Ms. Butler has been dying to have a tour of your newest VIP suite."

The same excitable maître d' they had met earlier all but leapt from his seat to show Emma around.

She spared one accusing glance for Dembe who stood sentinel at the entry and waved to her before she was taken to the room's opposite corner.

---

Raymond, meanwhile, was deep in conversation with David Edgar.

It had taken a few minutes for his heart to stop hammering at the mention of Rosalie's network.

'...They need only ask their friends if they've been invited to stay at the Penthouses of the Alcazar...'

Red remembered it like it was yesterday. He had known about the secret calling card for Rosalie's network for some time now, but he had never before encountered such a request in the wild.

Mr. Edgar, no doubt a proxy from the very Envoy Collective the Mi6 were investigating, could prove to be an immensely valuable asset. More than anything, however, Raymond wanted to understand this Earl King's interest in Rosalie.

"The innkeeper, I don't actually know her name..." David was saying, "The client knows her by some monicker, I can't recall what it is...Regardless, I have a meeting set with her on the eighth of July-"

"This Mr. King," Red asked, cutting him off, "What exactly is he looking for in the exchange?"

David drummed his fingers on the tabletop, "Mr. King is one of three brothers in the King family. Each of the three brothers has been tasked with developing some luxury real estate for family occupancy, formal events, etcetera. Given the King family's more ambiguous trade, the estates they wish to build would need to be more akin to luxury safe houses than your run-of-the-mill McMansion."

Raymond nodded, "That is where my compatriot comes in."

"Yes," said David, "The underground is alight with rumors about her network, so naturally my client wants to contract the best of the best. I'm certain she should be very flattered to be considered for the contract."

The comment made Red's eyes narrow. "She's a member of the elite; your client can do no better. You will need to approach her as such."

David's cheeks flushed a dull puce, "Of course; which is why I came to seek you out. My hope is that by bringing you into the fold as the broker, she will come to understand my client's sincerity."

Red considered him for several long moments, holding the other man in a steely gaze simply to see if he'd break.

Though he did start to sweat a little, David Edgar managed to withstand the scrutiny without crumbling.

"...You said you've set a meeting on the 8th?"

---

It was Emma's fourth time being led around the peony room when Reddington finally reappeared.

"It's been a half-hour," she grumbled under her breath when he was within speaking distance.

"Has it?" He asked, checking his watch, "Goodness me, eleven already. Well, I'd say it's time we get you home. Maxwell, always a pleasure."

Maxwell came to a sputtering halt, having not ceased his monologue the entire time they were there, "Oh, of course, very well then! Lovely to see you as always, Mr. Hirschfield," he made a small bow to Emma, "Ms. Butler."

The pair descended the elevator in silence, Dembe toting their unfinished bottles ahead of them on the way to the car.

The drive back to the Knightley's flat took less time than before, and Emma and Red were meandering up the front walk in a matter of minutes.

"May I ask you something?" She asked, waiting for him to nod before voicing the question which had been needling her since the day he'd turned up in her flat.

"Why me?"

Red grinned again, reaching into the front seat to grab her bottle of Chateau d'Yquem before ushering her up the walk. "Why not you, Emma?"

"No," Emma grumbled, nudging his shoulder with hers, "You don't get to do that. You don't get to insert yourself into my life, upend my career, and then not-"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted with a confused frown, "Are you unhappy with your newly elevated status in Mi6?"

"Well...no," she admitted lamely, dropping her eyes as they ascended the front steps, "But I'd prefer to have earned it."

Reddington shrugged, "You did earn it. You brought in one of the most notorious criminals in the world singlehandedly."

Emma's frown deepened. "No I didn't. You just showed up in my kitchen!"

"Would you feel better if you caught me?" He asked, and Emma was sure he was taking the mickey, "I'll tell you what; I'll go hide in the shrubbery, then you come find me, handcuffs and all. It'll be like hide and seek, but decidedly more...risqué."

Raymond's eyes gave her the briefest, once-over.

"Are you mad?" She hissed, pulling her shawl tightly about her, "I have neighbors! And don't do that, don't change the subject-"

"Ah, of course, you're right. Your neighbors might think you're some strange fetishist if they see you prowling after random men and handcuffing them in the garden. That's the issue here."

Red bounced on the balls of his feet, looking smug and arrogant.

Emma snatched the wine bottle from his grasp. "Ugh! You're insufferable, d'you know that?"

"I've been told so, yes." He said with a smile, rapping smartly on the door, which was opened seconds later by Colin Knightley.

The man's eyes widened to dinner plates at seeing Raymond Reddington, fedora and all, standing on his doorstep.

"Colin, thanks very much for letting me borrow your wife, I had an excellent time."

"What-?" began Colin, but Emma promptly shoved her way inside and slammed the door in Red's face.

"I'll see you at work then, Agent Knightley!" Reddington called, rather jovially, then descended the front steps to rejoin Dembe in the car.

"You are in a rather rambunctious mood," Dembe noted, turning the engine over and taking off in the direction of the Abbey.

"Nothing like a night out wheeling and dealing with a lovely woman to remind one of life's simple pleasures." Raymond countered slumping sleepily in his seat

Dembe raised an eyebrow in the rear-view mirror, "I find Agent Knightley to be rather volatile of temperament."

"Ah," Red waved an airy hand, "You're just used to Kate. Emma's quite alright..."

If Raymond were being honest with himself, there were a number of times that night that he'd caught himself comparing the young Mi6 agent to his most recent companion. The differences were striking, and at times a tad frustrating.

Rosalie would have been right there in the thick of things with him, had she been there. If he'd ever had the audacity to tell her to shush as a potential client came around the corner, she'd have no doubt placed a well-aimed kick at him from under the table.

He would, of course, never admit it, but a part of Red had missed her dearly tonight.

The silence stretched for a few moments before Dembe asked, "Did you take the deal with the Glenfarclas fellow?"

"Yes," said Red, latching onto the change of topic with another wolfish grin, "You and I are to be aboard the Belmond's new luxury rail, the Tripoli Express, next Saturday. Have Edward informed and the jet prepared the day before to take us to Ankara, once I've met with the DC6. We will board there and Mr. Edgar and his client will board just before Amman."

Dembe nodded, "What kind of transaction is it?" He asked curiously, rolling down the window long enough to punch in the code to the Abbey's garage.

"Just a simple brokerage deal, " Raymond said smoothly, not sure why he felt the need to lie, "A Mr. Earl King is seeking out some real estate."

---

One week later...

Black Site #88 "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location, London, United Kingdom, July 7th, 2000

Red was getting impatient with the DC6.

He had sent them all over London with a host of actionable intel, and they hadn't managed to garner a lead from it yet.

"Honestly, how difficult can it be?" He bemoaned, sitting slouched in his chair and looking for all the world like he'd rather be somewhere else. "The man was served up to you on a silver platter."

"He was dead before we even got there!" Snapped Agent Boateng, "Stop giving us leads that are already burnt and maybe we could catch one."

Raymond leveled her an cool look, "I bring you leads that are already burnt because they're ten times as likely to fold. Perhaps if you and your little band of door-kickers didn't waste so much time with bureaucracy, you might be able to find one of them before their enemies do."

"We have to do things according to the law," said Skip, "If we arrest them and things aren't by the book, they'll walk out scott-free."

"Whereupon they'll be sitting ducks for my associates," Red shrugged carelessly, reaching out to top off his teacup.

Albert finally chimed in, "We can't do that Red, and you know it. Stop mucking around."

Raymond turned to Emma, who had been notably quiet all week. Her focus rested on her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap.

From what Red had gathered, the other members of the DC6 had been rather cold to her following their brief stint undercover.

Her husband too had grown distant after Emma had turned up blustering and toting a bottle of wine worth more than their annual rent.

Emma had confided to Red that Colin was deeply concerned about them getting caught and what the fallout would look like, citing that as the reason for his dour temperament.

Whether it was jealousy or concern coloring Colin and the DC6's interactions with Emma, Raymond had little patience left to deal with either.

"Very well. Luckily for all of you, the meeting with Alan Edgar at the Tea Room has been confirmed for tomorrow evening. I won't be in attendance, but I expect you all camped out there shortly after opening."

"Wait," said Emma, "You aren't going to be there?"

The others turned to give him questioning looks as well.

Red stared impassively back, "I have a bit of business to attend to in the Middle East. I'm confident I can trust the four of you to handle this on your own?"

The agents all sat up and nodded excitedly.

Albert, however, looked nervous.

"You have just over twenty-four hours to make sure they're ready," Raymond reminded as Dembe re-entered the room, "It's a simple snatch and grab, Albert. Under your tutelage they'll be just fine."

"Raymond, the jet is ready. If you want to make Ankara by tomorrow morning we need to leave."

Red gestured for Dembe to go ahead to the car. "Feel free to use the Abbey for as long as you need. Kate will see to your transport back to the Cromwell and anything you should need in the interim. I'll see you all in a few days."

With that, he popped his hat on his head and left the agents to their own devices.

---

Black Site #90 "The Bedouin" - Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan - July 8th, 2000

It was half past eight when Rosalie woke.

She'd showered and gotten ready in a hurry, her mind abuzz with the host of responsibilities on her plate for the day, not the least of which was another meeting with that deplorable wretch, David Edgar.

Horace had pleaded the man's case, insisting Edgar's client was someone Rosalie definitely wanted in her pocket.

In truth, she had allowed Horace to set the meeting merely so she could give Edgar and his client a piece of her mind.

...But he didn't know that.

She chose her attire carefully this time around, eschewing her typical style for something a tad more formidable.

It was only a few short hours before they were due to board the train in Amman, and before that, Rosalie had an important meeting with one of her most favored architects that she simply refused to reschedule.

Hayashida Naoki was a Japanese architect with a keen eye for luxurious minimalism whom Rosalie had started working with only a couple years ago. He could be credited with black sites such as 'The Sliver' and 'Chaya', but also a long list of regular safe houses all throughout Asia and Oceania.

Now, however, Rosalie was contracting him for a new black site in Sitka, Alaska. The sumptuous log-cabin-style home she was calling 'The Alexander' was a vast departure from Hayashida's usual aesthetic, but he was taking to the challenge with immense enjoyment.

The foundation for the safe house had already been built, and the layout of the walls were being finalized in their meeting today, thus Rosalie's sense of urgency.

When she exited the master suite, it was to Teddy waiting for her.

"He's waiting for you in the lounge. I managed to secure a helicopter into Amman, so that should afford you a little more time."

"Thank you Teddy," she said, wasting no time in crossing the bank of rooms outlining the home's interior.

Upon stepping into the main lounge, Rosalie couldn't help but smile.

Hayashida was standing there, nose buried in a set of blueprints and his forehead puckered in a scrutinizing frown.

He was tall, svelt, and truthfully very dapper. The jet black glasses perched on the bridge of his nose matched perfectly with the obsidian locks covering his head. His taste in fashion was gorgeous yet simple, and every time Rosalie saw him she couldn't help but envy how effortless Hayashida made everything seem.

His personality was very much the same. Hayashida had a pleasant way of speaking, his deep voice lilting in perfect English and Japanese depending on the conversation. Conversing with him about anything always proved to be a point of great enjoyment for Rosalie.

Everything about the man was graceful, elegant, and those traits came through tenfold in the homes he designed for her.

"Hayashida-san," she beamed with a bow, which he returned before striding forward and kissing each of her cheeks in turn.

"How are you, Rosalie-san?" He asked politely, pulling out one of the chairs for her to sit in and drawing up another alongside her.

Rosalie gave a small smile and nodded, "I'm quite well; I hope the flight wasn't too rough on you?"

"Not at all," said Hayashida, pulling out a stack of blueprints for her perusal, "I've brought the latest mock-ups for the layout for your approval, as well as an array of samples and suggestions our dear friend Ms. Hammond has provided."

Sofia Hammond was Rosalie's preferred interior designer for her North American properties. Though she was exceptional at her job, both Hayashida and Rosalie had agreed early on that her boisterous and often abrasive personality left a lot to be desired.

An amused titter left Rosalie's lips as she took the stack and began to look them over.

Hayashida spent a good deal of time outlining the changes to the blueprints for her, as well as answering questions regarding the timeline of the project. When Rosalie finally took up the notes from Sofia, he couldn't help but notice the weary sigh which left her with each turn of the page.

He had noticed over the past few months that her previous companion was no longer in the picture, and despite the fresh haircut she now sported, Hayashida could practically feel Rosalie's exhaustion whenever they were in the same room.

"I cannot help but notice you have been expanding quite a bit these past couple months. You should consider a break, for your health," he advised, "Why don't you come to Japan for a few days? I'm sure a relaxing stay in one of our ryokans along the Takaido route would leave you delightfully replenished."

Rosalie smiled wryly at him, "As lovely as that sounds, I'm afraid I'm far too busy at the moment..." she handed the stack of papers back, " Please tell Sofia these will all do nicely, but I don't like the wallpaper chosen for the guest suite. Something in an earth tone would be more ideal."

Hayashida nodded and slid the papers back into his bag. "And what of the layout?"

She grinned, "As always, you seem to have read my mind. It looks exactly as I had hoped."

A warm smile lightened Hayashida's features.

"Very well, I am glad. Theodore mentioned you have another appointment, so I will not keep you. However..."

Rosalie looked up at his hesitation, "Yes?"

Hayashida finished zipping his bag shut and bowed to her, "I do hope you will find some time to step away from the stress of your network, Rosalie. I am well aware that you have been working tirelessly to expand, but reprieve and restoration have their virtues as well."

The sincere request brought another smile to Rosalie's face, "Thank you, Hayashida. I'll do my best."

Hayashida bowed once more, then took his leave.

Teddy had no more than led Hayashida down the hall when Horace appeared out of nowhere.

"Why didn't you take him up on his offer?" He asked, flopping into the nearest chair and taking a bite out of an apple he pulled from his coat pocket.

"What offer?" Rosalie replied distractedly, flipping through a stack of notes Hayashida had left behind.

"You know...to go to Japan for a spell? He was obviously gearing up to ask you out."

A snort of laughter caught in Rosalie's throat. "He most certainly was not. Hayashida and I have worked together for years now, I would have noticed. Even if he was testing the waters, I have no interest in dating right now."

She thankfully missed the eye-roll Horace threw her way.

"He's a nice bloke, and the two of you seem to get on well. I don't see why you wouldn't, besides..." he cleared his throat, "A rebound would probably be good for you right about now."

The look Rosalie gave him could have curdled milk.

"A rebound would be good for me right about now?" She said, the retort biting like a mousetrap. "Honestly, Horace."

"What?"

Rosalie had stood from her seat, cramming the notes in a nearby desk drawer before turning on him. "You are getting entirely too loose with your unsolicited opinions. Shut the hell up and stay out of my love life."

Ted returned at that exact moment, opening the tent flap with a worried frown.

"Come on," she barked, striding right past him, "We're going to miss the train if we don't get a move on. Horace can damn well stay here."

A brief helicopter ride landed Rosalie and Teddy on the outskirts of Amman with roughly an hour to get to the train station.

Ted weaved the armored car easily through the city's busy streets, whereupon they boarded the luxurious train with not a moment to spare.

"Caspian is waiting for us in Jerusalem, correct?" She questioned once they were safely on board, taking off her keffiyeh and stowing it in an overhead bin.

"Yes," assured Teddy, stowing his sidearm in the holster at the small of his back, "but didn't the proxy say we were to stay on until we reached Cairo?"

Rosalie nodded, but flashed him a sly smirk, "He did, but I'm only staying on this train long enough to tell him where he can shove it."

Teddy's face lit up with malicious glee. "Oh, excellent," he hissed excitedly, "I can't wait to see this..."

The pair couldn't help but snigger to themselves as they made their way through the train's decadent lounge car and down the central hall.

---

The Tripoli Express - Amman, Jordan - July 8th, 2000

Raymond was restless in the private lounge car David Edgar's client had commandeered for their meeting. He had been pacing the compartment from the moment they'd boarded in Ankara early that morning.

It didn't help that Dembe was growing more suspicious by the minute.

Red still hadn't told him that it was Rosalie he was meeting.

After all these months, the prospect of seeing Rosalie again made it feel as though an enormous bubble had formed in the center of his chest and was threatening to burst at any moment.

A thousand rampant thoughts had been running through his head with each mile the train completed.

Would she look differently?

No, certainly not. It hadn't been that long.

Would she be excited to see him?

He certainly hoped so.

She still wasn't taking his calls, though...

Christ, what if she didn't want to see him?

No...no, he mustn't think that way.

David stopped by shortly after he and his client boarded in Damascus, assuring Red he would be happy to introduce him to Mr. King once business was complete.

In truth, Raymond could positively care less about the deal he was supposed to be making.

When the train slowed to a halt at the station in Amman, every nerve ending from his head to his toes was on point.

In the midst of bustling bodies on the platform, Red had pressed his nose to the glass looking for one that looked familiar.

Faceless shape after faceless shape boarded the locomotive, and not one bore blonde hair.

Perhaps she was one of the many persons on the platform with head coverings?

Maybe they had already boarded at a different stop?

Both thoughts made Red's insides squirm.

Either way, he would be seeing her very shortly.

Any moment now, she was supposed to be making her way to the private car at the front of the train...

---

The locomotive's interior grew more and more lavish with each car.

Rosalie took her sweet time, prodding Teddy and pointing out all the design elements that caught her fancy along the way.

The luxury rail was bursting at the seems with elegant design. The polished mahogany paneling gave each room a look antiquated beauty. The textiles were a healthy mix of traditional and modern, each looking more inviting than the last.

Finely dressed passengers enjoyed tea and other accoutrements on equally fine bone china while the dessert scenery passed them by.

Had they not been there to cause trouble, Rosalie would have been even more inclined to linger.

However, the inclination declined as they got closer and closer to the end of the train.

With each new car, they half expected to encounter the stuck-up little rodent they'd met two weeks prior.

When they reached the end of the fifth car from the center, Rosalie came to a skittering halt so fast Ted ran into her.

"What?" He asked, but it didn't take him long to realize what she was gaping at.

There, in the center of the window leading to the next compartment, stood Dembe.

He had been facing profile, but the weight of Rosalie and Teddy's combined gaze made him turn.

His dark eyes widened.

A split-second's hesitation, then the door separating them sprang open.

The secondary door, behind which Raymond undoubtedly lurked, remained closed.

Rosalie rushed forward, eyes asking the necessary question, and Dembe did not hesitate.

"I...I had no idea," he said earnestly, looking from one to the other, "Rosalie, I swear Raymond did not tell me it was you he was meeting today. I would have called, I would have warned you first-"

"I know."

A hand had reached out to cup Dembe's cheek, reassuring him that Rosalie did not blame him in the slightest. "I know, Dembe. It's alright."

Dembe's brow furrowed even deeper, "If you aren't ready, I can make your excuses. He should have given you the chance to decline-"

"I'm ready enough for this," Rosalie murmured defiantly, and with a tight-lipped snarl, she swept past Dembe to burst into Red's compartment.