Chapter 39: not very brave; powers of persuasion; gone cold; fine blue suture (rated T for adult themes);


Airspace over the Atlantic, January, 2015

At last, the two men sat facing one another. Reese observed while Olawale swirled tea at the bottom of his teacup – his attention seemed to be elsewhere. Slender, small build; slow, deliberate movements; and dark, pensive eyes. He hid his thoughts well, Reese noticed. Tough to read what was going on inside.

They knew little about him, according to Finch, and yet this man had been capable of reaching out directly to Finch with his cryptic message. He'd asked for their help and, given his apparent skills, Finch had had little choice but to send Reese to Zuma Rock to find him. Greer got there first, but Reese followed his trail and found clues left behind. A lucky break high up in Zuma Rock revealed the camp where they'd taken him, and the raid on the camp had freed Olawale. Now, they were about to see if it was all worth the trouble. Reese would apply some pressure and see where it lead.

"How is your knee faring, Mistah Reese?" Olawale began. Reese eyed him, no emotion in his face.

"It works," he said in his whisper-voice. "And your ribs?"

"Sore as the devil," Olawale frowned, looking back to his teacup. "I'm afraid I am not very brave, Mistah Reese. Not like you. When I was captured I didn't know if I would live or die. I prayed mah message was received and someone would come."

Reese sipped his coffee, watching him over the rim of his cup. He didn't respond.

The conversation lagged – almost as soon as it had begun. Neither one seemed to feel the urge to fill the silence. Reese watched him stare into his teacup, swirling the contents. It seemed more like he was plotting something than feeling any pressure to speak, and in a little while Olawale raised his eyes to Reese. In a soft voice:

"Of course, I want to thank you fah what you did. I am grateful. And I'm sure you have questions fah me now." Reese watched him over the rim of his cup and said nothing; he could sense the "but" that was coming.

In a firm, soft voice: "I will need certain assurances, Mistah Reese. Before we proceed with the questioning."

Reese leaned forward in the seat, lowering his cup to the table. With steady blue eyes:

"You came to us, remember?" Even the whisper couldn't hide the intent.

Olawale looked directly into his eyes.

"I contacted one man. You ah not him," he said, softly. "I'm sorry. I must wait to meet with Harold Finch."

Ah, Reese thought, Olawale was stalling because he didn't know whether he could trust him or not. Maybe the whole escape had been staged somehow – and Olawale was really on his way to more of Greer's interrogation in another country. Reese glanced at his watch. Still too early to call Finch. In his whisper-voice:

"It goes both ways," he said. "I don't know you, either." Reese threw the passport he'd found in the cave onto the table between them: clearly a different name under Olawale's picture.

"I can explain," he said, and his face contorted. But then he shook his head and didn't speak.

Slowly, Reese said to him, "Looks to me like we're gonna have to trust one another." He spread his hands out over the top of the table covered with the finds from the cave. "Because there's nothing here to make him wanna meet with you. He's a very private person."

Olawale's eyes flashed.

"He must! Greer and his people ah not going to stop!" Olawale had started to raise his fist for emphasis, but clutched at his ribs instead. Reese could see the fire in his eyes. He leaned forward again and waited for Olawale to meet his eyes.

In his whisper voice, blue eyes steady: "Common foe. Isn't that what you called him?"

Olawale stared at him for a moment, and his face contorted with the memory. Reese could see the struggle going on behind those eyes. Should he trust Reese or not? He turned away to the oval window and watched the wing flexing in the air out there. Far below, the sun sparkled off wave tops, endless ocean stretching as far as he could see. Olawale shrugged and seemed to make his decision then. He nodded his head and turned back to Reese. In his soft voice:

"Alright, Mistah Reese. Where do we begin?"

Safe-house, Midtown Manhattan, January 2015

Just after seven in the morning, Bear stretched his legs and rolled to standing. Time for a walk outside. He shook himself next to the dog bed, and his collar jingled with the sound of metal tags. Often, that would cue Finch to peek down the hallway and come to take him out. Finch often rose with the sun, sitting for hours at his desk conversing with the Machine until the others began to stir in the apartment. Not this morning, though; so Bear headed down the hall to find him.

At the first door he passed, Bear paused to nose at the bottom. Air carried the scents from inside. He picked up two of them and noticed something else, too, peeking out at the edge under the door: some small white discs on the floor, and a black one a little further away. They had the same scent on them as the two inside. Bear nosed at the discs, pushing them along with his paw in the hallway before he gave up the game and moved on toward the back. At the end, Bear shouldered the door open just wide enough to slide past. He headed straight for the bed where Finch slept.

A nose pushed at the side of his neck and Finch stirred a bit. Bear waited patiently, watching, but when nothing happened he pushed again. This time, success. Finch opened his eyes just in time to catch a blurry image of the culprit withdrawing. He sighed out loud, barely awake.

"Bear, couldn't you walk yourself today?" he mumbled, and Bear tipped his head to one side and perked up his ears. Finch tried to focus on the clock then, to check the hour; and groaned as he rose up stiffly from the bed. He'd fallen asleep with some notes in his hand, and the papers lay crumpled and folded beneath him. Later for those, he thought; first, he needed to find his glasses. A glint of light reflected off the lenses and he located them on the border of his keyboard. Finch reached over to pluck them off and slide them on. Quarter-past seven in the morning. Short night. And Bear sat there staring at him.

"Very well, let's go then," and Bear swung away toward the hall. Finch got up, stiffly. Bear had doubled-back to his bedroom door and stood there with ears forward and head tilted to one side, waiting. Finch limped forward and the two walked the hallway together. Just before Root's room on the right, something caught Finch's eye. He bent down to pick up a few small white and one large black shiny discs sitting there on the floor. He bounced them in his palm, then looked over at Root's room.

"Buttons," he said and nodded at the door.

Evidence of Miss Shaw's powers of persuasion.

Finch nodded to himself and kept walking. Interesting to see if her method worked.

Airspace over the Atlantic, January, 2015

"I was born in Nigeria – in a small village near the capital, Abuja," he said. Reese could see a change in his eyes, recalling that time in his life. He stayed silent and waited for Olawale to go on with his story.

"I know little of how mah parents met. Mah father nevah married mah mothah, until much later, when she knew she was sick. He brought us to the City when I was a boy of ten. In months it was clear she was dying and days before, he married hah." Olawale paused for a moment and Reese watched for a reaction over the rim of his cup. Little to see. If the memory was difficult, there was no outward sign.

"I suppose having a precocious ten-year old around must have been – inconvenient – in mah father's line of work. He nevah tried to excuse it – perhaps the one thing he was honest about. He made his living deceiving and stealing from othahs. He could have chosen anothah way, but he always said he did what he excelled in, and loved the life it gave him." Olawale paused again and turned his eyes to Reese. No emotion, no judgment there, either; none expected. He went on.

"We spent some time togethah early on. We started to get to know one anothah. He even showed me the cave in Zuma Rock, told me stories of hiding there when things got too hot fah him. It seemed exciting to me then. I told him I wanted to be just like him." Olawale stopped again and Reese saw his eyes focus off in the distance. He smiled a wry smile.

"Shortly aftah, I found myself installed in boarding school in London – with a new name, a new life, and no past. The best life money could buy," he said. Olawale reached over to the passport on the table and lifted it up, wagging it in the air between them. Reese nodded and he lowered it to the table.

For a long moment, Olawale took in the rest of the finds Reese had placed on the table top, as if to remind himself of his own history. He noticed something important missing, and it occurred to him that he didn't know whether this would be good news or bad in this situation. If he'd guessed wrongly, and Reese hadn't been sent by Harold Finch, then keeping certain things to himself could give him a bargaining chip when the truth revealed itself. Olawale leaned back in the passenger seat. Perhaps he'd said enough for now and raised his teacup to his lips. His tea had gone cold.

Safe-house, Midtown Manhattan, January, 2015

The bar was dead tonight. Sunday.

Not even the regulars were here tonight. Root glanced around her at the empty seats. Friday and Saturday the place had been packed, so many people it was hard to move in here. And so many bodies on the dance floor, you couldn't help sliding up against someone in the dark. Bodies everywhere. No shortage of choices then.

Root yawned – partying for two nights into the early morning, then out with someone til dawn. And later on, waking up in someone's bed. A little drink would make things better.

She sat in her usual seat at the bar, and her bartender eyed her with a half-smile.

"Usual?" and Root nodded back. Her usual would be just fine.

On the far side of the bar her bartender lifted a glass from the stack, flipped it neatly in the air with a flourish and reached for the vodka. She dropped the ice in first and then poured a generous amount of Root's favorite vodka over the top. The cubes rattled in the glass. She smiled a little wider at Root and grabbed for a fresh lemon, rolling it on the counter under her palm. Then, she made a show of stripping a wide piece of peel from the lemon and twisting it over Root's drink. The smell of fresh lemon in the air made a small smile come to Root's lips, finally, anticipating the taste. Her bartender dropped the peel into her drink and slid it across in front of her. Root stared at the glass for a moment, twirling it on the bar in silence. As if she could read her thoughts, her bartender withdrew and busied herself with something else.

Root was grateful for the silence. She didn't want to talk about it tonight. Not with the bartender. Not with anyone else. She just wanted to sit by herself and drink. It was fine that the bar was empty tonight – her drink would keep her company. Root lifted her glass up high, bowing her head toward her drink-maker, and took a first sip. It made her shiver inside.


Well after ten, Root got up from her seat and wandered over to the stairs that lead down to the restrooms. Her bartender watched her go. Root was feeling no pain now. The elixir in her glass had done its work. She leaned on the railing as she made her way down to the lower level. The last two nights she remembered the crowd spilling out into the hallway down here. People pressing up against one another, pushing each other against the walls, hands and mouths everywhere, and the music so loud, thumping. Bodies entwined everywhere.

But not tonight.

Root made her way to the Ladies Room, her steps echoing in the empty hallway. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she had to stop for a closer look. That can't be right, she thought. The woman in the mirror looked so old; so tired. Her face was swollen, and there were dark circles under her eyes, like she hadn't been sleeping. There were little fine lines, little wrinkles in the places where smooth skin had been before. What was happening? She wouldn't have it!

Root tipped forward toward the mirror, stretching her skin with her fingers to smooth out the lines. While she was leaning, the door opened and in walked two women. They brushed past her and straight back into the nearest stall. Root heard the two struggling together inside, and then a ripping sound and buttons dropping everywhere on the floor. Root turned around. She could see the back of one of them, a tall Asian woman, with long straight black hair. Root could see through her lacy black top, and on her back a long design tattooed on her skin. She couldn't see enough of it to tell what it was, but it started on the back of her arm, ran up her shoulder and down her back, disappearing at her hip under her skirt. Root kept staring at the spot on her skin where the tattoo disappeared. She was wondering how far down it went.

The two women were moaning, oblivious to Root standing there, watching them. After a minute, she turned around and walked out to the hall. The Men's room seemed like a better choice. In a little while she wandered down the hall again, unsteady, and back up the steps to her seat. Her bartender watched, her eyes suddenly serious.

"Bad day, Sugar?" Root didn't answer. She just picked up her glass and drained the rest. Then she slammed it down on the bar.

"Lemme call you a cab, Sugar." Root waved her hand, no, and then reached into her bag for a twenty, throwing it onto the bar near her glass.

"I'm good," she said, turning, unsteady. From the corner of her eye she saw someone coming up the stairs from the lower level. Tall, very thin, with long black straight hair and a lacy top, hiding that design on her skin. Their eyes met and Root watched her cross to one of the tables in the darkest part of the bar, and lift her coat. She saw her slide it on, and reach under her hair, lifting it from under her collar. It fell like a black waterfall from her hands, down her back. Long black hair, long black coat, and tall black boots. She turned to look over her shoulder at Root.

Yes. She was looking back.

Without another glance, the tattooed woman walked toward the door, black heels clicking on the wooden floor. At the door she called back to Root, without turning to see.

"You coming?"


In the quiet of that same hotel room, Root could just make out the design in the darkness. The top curled around her upper arm, and part was hidden by the sheets – but the rest swung around the back of her shoulder, down her back, winding down and down to her hip, then down further still.

When her lacy top had come off, and the tall boots, the skirt – falling to the floor, Root had made her show it to her before anything else. She needed to know, needed to see what it was.

A dragon. Fire-breathing.

Winding the length of her, and around all of her best parts. Root pressed herself against it in the dark, both of them spent now, and the fire-breathing dragon between them.


Shaw reached out for Root's arm. The fine blue suture on her wrist tickled against her skin. Hard to see in the dark, but by feel the wrist was healing well. No heat. No swelling now. The tear from the shackle had come together cleanly with the suture, and Root would have only the faintest reminder there of her brush with the Zheng. None of them knew how she'd been lured there, to that hotel. The Zheng had used her like bait for the rest of them. Not a high-IQ move, Shaw thought. A street-gang like the Zheng had no business poking this Team – a fatal error for the gang, as things turned out.

Shaw felt a sudden jerk behind her. Root's restless sleep.

She wondered if Root was beginning to remember.

Shaw slid out from under Root's wrist draped over her shoulder. She let her arm slide down her back as she slipped forward to the edge of the bed. Root didn't wake. There was a thin line of light peeking around the drapes. It must be morning, Shaw thought. She tipped forward and stepped toward her clothes on the floor. Something hard under her foot! She reached down and brushed the hard lump off her in-step. It bounced and the sound reminded her of the buttons last night. Shaw felt for her clothes, layered together on the floor with Root's. If it hadn't been for Finch wandering around out there, she'd have walked down the hall naked. But somehow, the thought of Finch's face if he saw her in the hall made her dress, hastily, before she headed out.

It wasn't long before she was standing in her room, peeling off the clothes again and sliding them onto hangers. She'd have to go looking for all the missing buttons later. Shaw grabbed a towel from the knob on her closet door and wound it around her. Another, she wound around her hair like a turban. Then off she went toward the shower.