Chapter 40: like a magnet to steel; a charm offensive; He'd slept through worse;
Underground, Queens to Manhattan, January, 2015
The subway seemed nearly empty at this time of the day, rolling its way in from Queens. The usuals were there in their usual seats, eyes closed, bodies swaying with the motion of the car rocking along underground. Its wheels had a certain cadence to the sound of rolling over metal rails – until the curves – when the roll became a drag for some and a long, piercing screech sounded one after another through the cars. Overhead, the lights flickered on and off, too, in the curves. Yet through it all, sleepy passengers dozed, catching a last few minutes before trudging off to start the night shift.
Ping watched the people in the car, and when he'd tired of them, he stared out the window at the tunnel walls. Little to see in the dark, until they rolled into the stations – where the bright lights lit the old gray platforms, the grimy yellow tiles on the walls and symbols stenciled on the iron beams. That is, if you could read the symbols.
Ping didn't read English. But he knew the stops along the way now – the one where he needed to stand so he'd be ready for the next one; where the doors opened on the platform and a voice announced something in English on the loudspeaker – before the doors closed again. Usually, he was the only one leaving, and the platform outside looked deserted.
It was better this way: traveling after the crowds had gone and the daily commute had long finished. Traveling this late in the evening was the best time to do what he had to do. Ping would walk the empty platform with his shuffling gait, then up the steps. His hand slid over the smooth surface on the old brass railing. Then down the dim hallway with its low, dark ceiling and glaring, blue-white lighting – to damp stairs that led to street level. After the long trip in from Queens, underground, arriving here seemed like entering another world.
Outside, even at this hour, the streets were busy. There were always people out on Manhattan's streets, walking, driving, signaling for a car or bus, on their way – somewhere. And though he was a stranger to all, sometimes one would wave or say something in his direction. Ping noticed but didn't respond. He kept to himself.
He'd gotten used to it, seeing people all the time. It was not how it was back home. In the little cluster of shacks nearby where he went for his supplies, they watched him come and go, their eyes suspicious. He was a stranger. Not one of them. They never spoke unless spoken to. They disappeared from view when a stranger happened by.
On his hill outside his shack, the vastness of the Steppes spread in all directions, grasslands waving in the wind out to the horizon. And the night sky so black the stars sparkled like crystals from the ground, so many it made his head spin to see them. When he looked up at the sky here in the City, the stars seemed pale and few, blotted by the millions of lights, competing. This City engulfed you. You were a dot in the vastness of its noisy space. And that was something Ping could understand. A tiny dot in the vastness of the Steppes, nearly silent there except for the wind, the incessant wind. This City never rested, either. Just like the wind. It was alive, constantly moving, like a serpent undulating. Instinctively, Ping knew it would devour you if you let it.
Each day, at this hour, Ping made his way to this same place, in the same way. In cold and wind, or dead calm, he'd returned each night to this place: wide brick face on the building, steps up to the landing and, set back in the shadows, a black door.
He'd lean down, reaching with his fingers to the lower corner of the doorway. There, in the dark, he could feel, but not really see, a thin slender piece of bamboo reed he'd fastened to the door. Still there. No one had opened the door, disturbing the reed from its spot. The tall American had not come home yet; at least, not through this door.
He'd wait there in the shadows until the street was clear, then he'd descend the steps like a shadow himself. Down the narrow passage at the side to the stairs in the back – feeling again for the bamboo reed at the bottom of the door. Still there after all these nights; he stood and faced into the darkness.
Ping was a patient man. He exhaled in the cold damp air, breath hanging like smoke curling. He'd retrace his steps, return to Queens, to the empty salon where he kept his room under the stairs. In that silent space with its tiny window looking out on the back, he slept and he trained. With the keen sense of a Warrior, he knew his time was coming – he could feel it.
The Tall American was coming to him, like a magnet to steel; and when he did, Ping would be waiting.
Manhattan, January, 2015
Leon checked himself in the mirror in his bedroom. Corduroy pants, button-down shirt peeking out from the argyle vest, wire-rim glasses, and dabs of makeup in his hair, graying his temples just so. The disguise made him look years older, more like the studious-chap look he was going for; easy-going, soft-spoken, patient – all the things he was not.
He practiced his smile in the mirror until it looked sincere and then he readied himself to leave. Oops. Almost forgot the bouquet. Nothing elaborate or gaudy – just a little thank-you bouquet for the time she'd spent tutoring him on her favorite subject: History and Memorabilia of the New York Public Library System.
Leon had enlisted Miss Eldridge – Florence, as she'd allowed – as his local expert on anything NY Public Library. He'd been given a singular task – assigned by none other than his boss, Mr. Greer: find Harold Finch.
And with Mr. Greer's enforcer, Kara Stanton, monitoring his progress, Leon didn't dare fail him.
That's where his little secret had come in handy.
Strangely, Leon had already been in Finch's office, a twist of fate in his complicated relationship with Finch and his enforcer, Reese. Reese had brought him, blindfolded, to Finch's office one of the times he'd had to save him from some kind of misunderstanding. Leon could tell that the office was an old library building, something from the City's historical past.
When Mr. Greer commanded him to find Finch, he'd realized his good fortune. He'd been standing there in the man's office. Find it, find Finch. But, Leon's own efforts at finding the right building had come up short. He'd needed help, and that's where Miss Eldridge, Florence, had entered the picture. Finding her had been a stroke of incredible luck for him. And, tonight, he hoped he'd reached the end of his search and the end of his collaboration with Florence.
For days and days Florence had slowly metered out her knowledge, in precisely-lettered, hand-written lists. It felt almost sly to him, the way she kept him coming back each day for more. He'd been patient with her, though, collecting her brief list each day, tracking the sites each night, only to find that none were right.
At home, Leon slammed his fist on the table, cursed and ranted at her lists. But in her presence, a charm offensive – all calm and smiles, and his innocent questions, lubricated with a few small gifts to keep her interested: chocolates, a small moleskin journal, and now a bouquet of flowers.
Leon hurried toward his appointment with Florence, thinking mainly of the riches about to come his way. Finally, success was at hand, bringing him the one thing he'd chased after his whole life.
It promised to be a fair exchange: money – and lots of it – for the whereabouts of Harold Finch.
Airspace over the Atlantic, January, 2015
"So, we made a little progress filling in some of the gaps, Finch," Reese said in his whisper-voice. He glanced over at Olawale from his seat at Finch's flying office desk. Olawale sat in the passenger seats on the other side of a metal divider, and Reese could see him through the openwork in the metal. Hope had brought more food from the galley for him, and tea in a small china teapot. Reese could see him sitting there, staring out the window, sampling the food.
Next, Hope had started to make her way toward Reese for his food order, but he'd seen her coming and waved her off. She could see him speaking on his phone, and nodded. She'd be back later and turned around to head for the galley. Good smells were wafting down the hall from that direction. That should keep her busy for a little while.
Reese could speak freely and no one would overhear him. The jet engines made just enough sound to interfere. Olawale wouldn't catch what he said, either. Reese heard Finch clearing his throat impatiently on the other end, and spoke up in his whisper-voice.
"He was born in a village, Finch, far away from any city. The father was some kind of techie in the Capital. They never even met until he was ten or so. The mother died then and the father shipped him off to London boarding school pretty quick after that. The father was involved in some kind of cyber crime setup, but he didn't want his kid mixed up in it. He changed the kid's name when he sent him to London. That's why we couldn't find him in Nigeria. No records by that name."
"I see, Mr. Reese," Finch responded. "That helps. We'll fill in more of the story while you're in-flight. When do you land?"
"Some time between noon and one, your time, Finch."
"I'll have a car for you. Let us know when you're close."
"We could have a reception party waiting for us. They weren't too happy when we left," Reese said.
"Already working on the plan, Mr. Reese. We'll be ready." Reese heard him click off the call, and he looked again through the openwork of the divider at the Nigerian. Greer would certainly try to get him back alive. Whatever plan he'd had to use Olawale, it was still in play.
The Team could expect things to heat up back in New York, now that they'd grabbed him. Reese thought about what Finch had said – "already working on the plan; we'll be ready." Reese wished he was in on their plan. How were they going to get Olawale safely off the jet, through customs, and into Manhattan to one of the safe-houses? They needed to protect him while they got him there and then while they spent time debriefing him – for as long as that took. After that, they'd have to decide what to do with him. He was too valuable to let him go and Greer wasn't going to give up.
Reese stifled a yawn. He needed some sleep before they got to New York and glanced down at his watch. If he could catch a few hours, it would give his knee a rest, too. It wasn't too happy with him right now. Reese tipped forward out of Finch's chair and started down the walkway toward the back. Olawale turned to him as he got closer and Reese leaned down.
"Good time to get a little sleep. We'll be landing just after noon, local time," he said. Olawale didn't have a watch, so Reese showed him the time.
"Take the room in back. I can sleep over there," Reese said, pointing to the couch under the oval window across from the seats where Olawale was sitting.
"I'm fine here, Mistah Reese. The seat's quite comfortable." Olawale waved him toward the back, to the guest room. Reese glanced at the couch, but he remembered how it had aggravated his knee to sleep there on the way over to Nigeria. He didn't need to make it any worse.
"Suit yourself," Reese said in his whisper-voice.
Olawale raised his teacup to him, and Reese turned away down the hall to the guest room. With the shades pulled low over the small oval windows in there it was nice and dark, he noticed. Reese slid the door closed behind him and latched it, then sat down on the edge of the bed to loosen the laces on his boots.
He'd be a little more careful this time with the right side. Getting the boot off before had tweaked his knee pretty hard. The pain pill had barely done anything for the pain. But with such a short time to sleep, he wouldn't let himself take any more now. He'd just have to wait until they were back in New York, and Olawale was safely delivered to the safe-house.
Reese set his phone to ring and wake him up in four hours. Then he punched the pillows together and leaned back against them. Hope had made up the bed before, and Reese stretched out on top of it, pulling the quilt over him. He tried to settle in, but after a few minutes he could feel the pain starting to ratchet up in his knee. No matter which way he turned, it strained the swollen knee. The whole thing had started to throb again.
Reese leaned forward and pulled one of the pillows out from behind him, rolling it like a cigar. If he slid the roll under the right knee it would bend and take some of the strain off. Right. Bending it like that was definitely better. He leaned back and tested it.
He'd slept through worse.
