Chapter 38: she'd triggered something; buttons...more buttons; where you stood in youth;
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...
Airspace over West Africa, January, 2015
Reese glanced over at the leather seats on the far side of a metal divider; the one that separated Finch's flying office from passenger seating on the other side. After they'd taken off from the airport in Abuja, he'd come forward and settled in at Finch's desk. It was a good vantage point to keep an eye on the Nigerian, Olawale.
Their flight attendant, Hope, had brought hot spicy food from the galley. Reese ate his at the desk, while Olawale sat in one of the passenger seats next to a large oval window. He kept staring outside, down at the landscape passing below them, and Reese could see the relief in his face the further they flew from Abuja.
"Your food's gone cold," Hope said, standing in the aisle next to him. Olawale smiled up at her.
"I was so taken with the view," gesturing toward the window.
"Shall I heat it for you? And freshen your tea?" He smiled again, gratefully, and let her fuss over him a bit. It had been a long time since anyone had fussed over him – in a good way, that is. She lifted his tray and walked it back to the galley while he leaned back in the seat with his head turned to the window. After a little while, Hope returned with the tray and a fresh cup of tea. She slid it on the table in front of him, and then came forward to check on Reese. Her head tipped to one side and she winced.
"You look all in, Mr. Reese. I can keep your guest company, if you'd like to take a rest for a bit," she said. He gave it some thought. The knee was throbbing again; he'd have to get up to deal with it, anyway.
"I'd like to clean up," Reese said in his whisper-voice, and Hope reached out to help him stand.
"I'll need my bag," he said and limped back behind them to some tall cabinets. They formed a wall that separated the flying office from the front access door for the jet. Inside one of them the crew had stowed his gear.
"Let me help you with that, Mr. Reese." Hope protested as he swung the heavy webbed strap for the duffel bag over a shoulder.
"I'm good, Hope," he said, turning to face the back. "But I could use another cup of your coffee."
She looked up at Reese, aware that he was sending her away, insisting on fending for himself. What a stubborn man, she thought. She backed out of his way as he passed, and then stopped to clear the breakfast dishes from the desk. Hope watched him limp down the aisle ahead of her, past his guest in the passenger seating. They exchanged a few words - and then Mr. Reese kept going to the guest bedroom just past center section of the jet.
Inside, Reese swung his bag onto the bed and glanced around the room. There were cabinets on the end wall on the left, with a sink there in the middle between them. Towels and toiletries were stowed in bins below the sink. The bed stretched out below a pair of oval windows with their shades pulled low to dim the light. Reese lowered himself onto a bench seat just inside the door, then reached down to the laces on his boots.
The right knee wouldn't bend or straighten at this point and it was better not to try. With the left foot he pushed at the heel of the right boot. It made the leg tense on the right and the knee threatened to hurt even more. Reese pushed through it - until the boot abruptly gave way. Instantly, the knee lit up in spasms of sharp, intense prickling pain and Reese grabbed for it. The knee felt swollen, warm and stinging under his hands. It took some hard breathing to compartmentalize again. And that reminded him of the brown bottle of pain pills in the duffel bag. Compliments of Shaw. He owed her, again.
The left knee bent like normal and he was able to gingerly slide the boot off on that side. The warm fleece jacket was next. He pulled it off over his head; and underneath, the dirty green tee from his Ranger fatigues and what was left of the neckerchief he'd tied around the right arm. It had mostly shredded on the outside where the cotton had rubbed on the rough rock walls, braking him during descents in the tunnel. All that remained of the outer part were fibers stuck in the dried ooze from his arm. Reese turned it so he could pull at the knot with his fingers, but with just the one hand, it wouldn't loosen. Then he tried with his teeth. A knock came at the door. It was Hope with his coffee on a tray. She winced again when she saw him.
"Here, let me help you, Mr. Reese," she pleaded. Quickly, she lowered the tray on the end of the bench and stood there in front of him. Reese lowered the arm for her. Long, slender fingers worked the knot, and for a moment his thoughts turned to another with long slender fingers, like hers. Smoothing white cream on the bruises; then letting gel from a plant in her living room drip onto the burns in the center. Gelila had long, thin fingers, too. For a moment Reese felt a shiver through his body. Hope looked up to his eyes, then back again, gently pulling at the knot, working it patiently until it loosened under her fingertips. And then, as she started to unwind the neckerchief, it caught on his skin, and she turned the arm to see where.
"Oh, dear." She looked at him. "We'll have to soak this, Mr. Reese. It's stuck and I'll just hurt you if I try and pull it. Please, follow me." She moved toward the sink, and Reese limped along next to her.
"Oh, dear," she said again, watching him limp. "This is terrible! Whatever happened to you?" Reese didn't say.
So, Hope pulled a large, thick hand towel from one of the bins below the sink and ran the water until it was hot. Then she let it run onto the towel until it was saturated. She wound the sopping towel over the top of the neckerchief. Reese felt wet heat circling his forearm.
"Let me get you a chair. Hang on," she said. Hope pulled the end of the bench close enough that Reese could sit, while the wet towel drained into the sink. She kept adding hot water over the top, re-wetting the towel, soaking the cotton fibers stuck to his arm.
"Thank you, Hope. I think I can take it from here," Reese said in his whisper-voice. She looked at his eyes.
"Are you sure? I don't mind – " Reese laid his long fingers over her hand, and smiled with his eyes. He let his fingers linger there a little longer. Her skin felt warm and soft under the roughness of his. Scraping along in the tunnel had left his hands rough and torn, like his arms.
Hope kept her eyes on his. Then, softly: "I'll go and check on your friend, then." Reese lifted his fingers from her hand, and she backed away to the door. She stepped through into the hallway, and slid his door closed, softly, behind her.
When Hope left, he looked down at his hands and took a deep breath.
She'd triggered something inside. For a little while he let himself have his thoughts.
Midtown Manhattan Safe-house, January, 2015
At the end of the hallway, the light was on under Finch's door. Soft sounds of two people talking could be heard in the hallway. Inside, his room was dark, save for one lamp lit over the top of his keyboard at his desk. Finch leaned back in the leather chair. He looked first at the clock, nearly 2:30 a.m., and then over at the person sitting on the other side of his desk.
"What is her prognosis, then, Miss Shaw?"
She stared back at him with her dark eyes. "Hard to tell yet, Finch. She doesn't remember much of what happened." He hesitated for some time. Shaw could tell he was getting ready to ask the hard questions.
"And how about you, Miss Shaw? Does she remember you?" Shaw didn't want to answer that. It was true that there were momentary flashes, but then they were gone. Root had made it through, alive; but she wasn't the same. Not yet. For days now she'd slept – and then awakened from deep sleep, unaware of where she was or who the others were around her. She seemed to trust Shaw, confide in her like a friendly stranger.
It was all a consequence of the deep hypothermia. She could still come out of it. Shaw looked down – but what if she didn't? Finch was sure to ask. What would they do if Root couldn't remember? They couldn't just let her hang around like this, indefinitely. And what if they let her go and she started remembering? What then? They couldn't afford to take a chance and let her go, either. Something would have to be done.
Back in the old days in black ops for the CIA, someone in Root's condition who wasn't improving would need to be retired – to protect the rest of the team. She'd seen it happen with her own eyes, and they'd even sent her to do it once, knowing that her disorder let her act when others might have held back.
She looked up at Finch. No. He wouldn't ask her to do something like that. She was sure of it. Harold wasn't built that way. It would be left for someone else to make that decision – and see it through.
There was still time. Just not much of it.
"We need to give her some time, Finch." With that, she stood up and turned back to the door. Perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands again. In spite of her experience pushing Reese too hard, maybe it was time to push Root a little harder.
Shaw heard a sound in the hallway, but when she looked out, there was nothing there. She walked down and stopped in front of Root's room. The lights were on under her door. No knock. She just pushed the door open. Root's eyes snapped up and for a moment the old look was there – insolent, wanton. But, quickly, her expression changed – coy now – as if she didn't know who she should be.
Shaw pressed back against the door and the latch clicked behind her. Her dark eyes were steady.
"I'm staying here tonight," she said. "With you."
Root's eyes gave nothing away. Shaw reached for the switch on the wall and the glare of light overhead flicked off. Now, softer light from a bedside table glowed. Better. Shaw started forward and Root's eyes watched her. She sat on the side of her bed, reaching with a hand to the back of Root's neck. She pulled her forward, towards her, and Root didn't fight it. Closer. Closer. Until Shaw could feel Root's breath on her lips. They touched for a moment, then Shaw backed away. What would Root do?
For a moment, hesitation.
Then hands and arms wrapped around her, pulling Shaw in, lips on lips, like hunger. Shaw leaned in. Root's hands slid forward. A moment later, the sound of buttons popping, bouncing, tapping all over the floor. Then Shaw's hands at Root – more buttons flinging, bouncing, scattering on the floor.
Airspace over West Africa, January, 2015
Reese stood on a towel in front of the sink in the guest room. He'd been able to take a decent wash with the hand towel, soap and some hot water - scrubbing tunnel-dust and grime from his face, the length of his body, and even his hair. Standing there, he shivered a bit in the air. The cloth had turned gray with all the dirt; but it felt good to get himself clean again. He toweled off and wrapped the long towel around his waist.
While he was searching the duffel bag for clean clothes, Reese found the brown bottle of pain pills inside and pulled it out for himself. There were a couple of elastic bandages inside a pocket, too, for his knee. It looked swollen and mottled now, purple-red in spots from crawling around inside Zuma Rock. The tunnel had been so narrow in places he'd had to commando crawl. And for most of the trip up and back it was crawling on hands and knees. Not what the doctor ordered for a knee still healing from a cracked bone.
Reese wrapped it in a typical figure-of-eight wrap, and then pulled black fleece pants on over the top. Warm and comfortable for the long flight ahead. He'd been able to peel the cotton neckerchief off his arm, too, and clean the skinned parts of both arms where they'd scraped on the sides of the tunnel. Those he could hide under long sleeves. Reese pulled on a heavy black shirt, but he still felt cool and shivery inside. Lack of sleep. He'd been awake for more than a day now, and the long hours and exertion in the tunnel had taken their toll. He rummaged in the bag for something warm. All that was left: a blue corduroy shirt. At least it would help keep the heat in.
Almost done now. In the mirror over the sink, Reese combed through his hair with his fingers, straightened his clothes so they felt comfortable and then took some time to police the room: all the towels and bagging the dirty clothes.
Speaking of clothes, Reese was thinking about Olawale out there. Shorts and a tee weren't going to work in New York in January. He'd offer the guest room to let him clean up. And he'd give him a change of clothes to wear from the suitcase. Borrowed ones would have to do until they could get some new ones in New York.
Reese slung his laundry bag over his shoulder, and grabbed the brown bottle of pain pills on his way out. He left the door open for Olawale and walked down the hallway to the passenger seating. Reese couldn't see Olawale as he approached. When he came even with his seat, Reese found him asleep under a gray puffy quilt, with the seat tipped back nearly level.
Reese kept going, then, to the cabinets where his bags were stowed. He pulled out the suitcase and laid it down on Finch's desk - where he could open it without bending his knee. There must be something warm inside that Olawale could wear. Once he woke and cleaned up, then they'd have some time for a little chat, the first of many. It would take days, maybe weeks, to debrief him. Finch needed to be there for some of it – way too technical for Reese to judge for himself. But for much of the story he'd be the right man for the job.
They'd set him up in a safe-house they'd used to interrogate prisoners sometimes, mainly for his own safety. The Team had to watch for Greer's crew looking for Olawale. If they'd gone all the way to Nigeria to find him, they weren't going to give up on getting him back. Meanwhile, Finch would keep the pressure on Samaritan. The computer was alert, Finch said, but every means of communication was cut. Finch had a plan for Samaritan. Harness it first, break it like a wild stallion, and turn it to his own purposes. But if the plan ever faltered, Finch would pull the plug, destroy Samaritan in a heartbeat. To Reese, that sounded like the better way to go from the beginning. Destroy Samaritan, and have one less foe to have to fight.
He closed up his suitcase and returned it to the cabinet. Then he walked back to the guest bedroom with the clothing. He didn't want Hope to see him. She was already asking too many questions - and he didn't want to have to explain why his guest had shown up without any luggage. At the airport, Reese had made it seem like one of his bags belonged to Olawale and no one suspected any different. So for now, until they got back to New York, he'd let Hope think the same thing.
Reese returned to the office and sat down at Finch's desk again, glancing at his watch. Still the middle of the night back there in New York. He'd have to wait to speak with Finch. In the meantime, there was time to take a closer look at the finds he'd brought from the cave in Zuma Rock. He found his backpack in one of the tall cabinets and laid it out on Finch's desk. Finch had photos of everything he'd found up there, backup in case they hadn't made it out. All except for the CDs he'd found taped under the heavy water crock. To him, they looked like backups for Olawale's computer system – the one Greer had tried to steal, the one he'd destroyed in their escape out of the military camp.
To keep them safe on the way back, Reese had hidden them in plain sight – inside a square plastic box he used to hold sandwiches. It looked like it belonged with his climbing gear. That'd been his cover story – he'd come to Nigeria to climb Zuma Rock. He'd camped at the base, expecting to have to look for Olawale. But Greer had found him first. They'd scrambled soldiers from a military base just over the border, and when Reese got to Zuma Rock, the soldiers were already flying helicopter sorties.
First, they'd captured Olawale; then they'd returned to dismantle and transport his computer system. Reese had been lucky to get there when soldiers were leaving the Rock. He could see where they'd come out at the base. They must have found the way into the top of the tunnel from inside the cave and dropped down through it to the bottom of Zuma Rock. When Reese saw them leave, he'd climbed up the same tunnel to get to Olawale's cave. There were some things in the debris left behind, but the biggest find was from the view out the cave opening. From a thousand feet up, he'd had the perfect view south. Toward the capital, Abuja, and as it turned out, into the military camp where they'd taken their prisoner.
Reese looked up. Hope was tiptoeing in the hallway. When she saw Reese, she frowned.
"I thought you'd be resting by now," she said. "Like him."
"Got a second wind," Reese said, and she tipped her head to one side.
"Well, then, can I get you something from the galley? A sandwich? Coffee?" Reese smiled with his eyes and nodded.
"Sure, thanks," he said. She turned back and headed for the galley. While she was gone, he pulled the brown bottle out of his pocket and poured one of the tablets into his palm. Two would be better, but he wanted to stay alert, and one would take the edge off for now. When Hope returned, he swallowed the pill with a sip of coffee. He looked up to thank her and noticed her eyes on a book near his arm. One of the finds from Olawale's cave.
"Do you know this one?" he asked. She took a closer look.
"Folk tales. It looks like a collection of folk tales." Reese nodded. He thumbed through the yellowed pages, and then back to the one with a hand-written inscription. He looked closer in the bright light there, but it was written in another language. He turned it to Hope. She squinted at the handwriting, but shook her head.
"I don't know what it says, Mr. Reese."
"Where you sit when you ah old shows where you stood in youth." They looked over at Olawale, rising from his seat. "It's an old Yoruba proverb," he said.
