Chapter 51: hit it just right; quite a bit more; there wouldn't be a next time;
East side, Manhattan, January, 2015
"Mr. Wren?"
"Yes. I've been expecting you. Please, come in, Detectives." The two men climbed the last step and entered through the lobby. Heat and light poured in through large panes of glass, but a chill crept in with them from the winter's day. Finch led them back to the elevator, up to his floor, then down the hall and through a large carved wooden door to his apartment.
He watched them glance about as they entered. It had left them with the impression he'd wanted them to have – here lived this wealthy businessman ensconced in a luxury apartment on the East side of Manhattan, a stone's-throw from the East River. They'd expect a man who presided over his business success – but not one necessarily burdened with every detail of operations. So, there'd be room for him to be less candid.
"May I offer you some tea or coffee?" he asked, escorting them to a sitting room overlooking the River. He lifted a silver carafe, ornately carved, and offered to pour. Both consented and then helped themselves to cream and sugar, but declined sweets offered from a silver tray.
Finch sat back and sipped Sencha tea from his cup while the two savored a few sips of exceptionally smooth coffee from theirs. Finch watched their eyes. The younger man slipped a lined pad of paper from a pocket of his coat. The other had the air of a mentor, letting his young apprentice take the lead, while he observed. Introductions were made, and then Finch re-directed conversation back to the subject at hand, like a time-sensitive executive might do:
"You mentioned you had questions about the incident at Kennedy Airport," he offered. "Distressing situation. I'm certain you can imagine. First, though, I should ask how the injured police woman is faring?"
He watched the reactions of the two men sitting across from him. The younger one automatically smiled and volunteered an answer, while the other said nothing and took more careful notice of Finch. He'd need to tread cautiously with this one – the elder already seemed suspicious. Finch would need to find the right balance of near-fact, business savvy, and enlightened self-interest, to pass this one's sensitive nose.
"Happy to hear she's been released," Finch said, mildly, and rested his eyes on the younger man, who began the questioning:
"So, the jet where the shooting happened – belongs to your company?" he asked.
"Yes, that's right," Finch said. He'd keep his answers to just a few words for now, to avoid over-answering and raising more suspicion.
"You have business over there, in Africa?" the younger man pursued.
"No, not really." They all paused for a moment, and when the two Detectives waited for him to explain, Finch added, "An annual flight we make, usually in December, but it was delayed this year until January."
"Tell us about it," he asked, with a trace of annoyance.
"Once a year we collect medical supplies and equipment donations for several hospitals there – I'm on the Board – and we fly everything over in our corporate jet," Finch offered, and then the part that made him seem like an enlightened businessman: "good for the hospitals over there, and good for public awareness of our company over here," he said with a smile.
The younger one nodded his head then, but the other hadn't made up his mind yet, Finch noted. He kept his eyes mainly on the younger one, so as not to appear to challenge the elder. For some men, a steady gaze could be interpreted that way.
"You had a passenger aboard," the young man stated.
"Yes, just the one." And he waited for more specific questions on this. They were getting to the heart of the matter now.
"What relationship did your passenger have with your company?"
"Mr. Reese is a contractor who works for us on occasion. An outdoorsman, I believe. He had plans to do some rock climbing while he was there. Something went awry with his equipment, apparently, and he had quite a fall."
"So, he flew back on your jet?"
"Yes, we brought him back right away for care – earlier than we'd planned."
The younger man reached inside his coat and pulled out his cellphone. He swiped the surface and tapped a few times and then scrolled through until he found the specific photos he wanted. Then he rose and walked his phone over to Finch.
"Mr. Wren, have you ever seen this man before?" Finch adjusted his glasses and took a look. A chilling scene – of a man, clearly deceased from a gunshot wound, lying against bright orange netting. Finch shuddered, for real.
"Or this one?" the young man asked, watching his face. Another body.
"No, no. I don't believe I've ever seen either one before. What happened to them? Are they involved?" The Detectives could see his wheels turning, questions jumping to his mind – a normal reaction for any smart civilian, like him. The younger man turned back and seated himself again in front of his cup. He took a moment to gulp the rest of his coffee, while his eyes settled on Finch.
"And, Sir, what do you know about what happened when your jet landed at Kennedy?"
Finch looked up, deep in his thoughts of who those two men could possibly be and how they might be related to his company. He let his face tell the Detectives that he couldn't imagine how.
"Uh – landing – just what I saw on TV and in the papers," he said and then went on. "I haven't heard from our crew on-board yet, but I believe everyone has given a statement to the police." Finch looked a little bewildered, or maybe still a bit shocked after seeing those photos. The two men nodded.
"And final question, Mr. Wren. What happened to your contractor – Reese was it?" Finch took a swallow of his tea and looked back and forth between the two men.
"I believe he was released from hospital after an overnight stay. Very lucky man. No permanent damage, I heard."
The men sat for a moment while the younger one fished for his business card with his credentials and phone number. He handed it across the coffee table to Finch.
"If anything else comes up, don't hesitate to call, Mr. Wren. Thanks for the coffee and for the information." With that, they stood up and waited for Finch to show them to the front door.
"We'll see ourselves out," the older one said, peering over at Finch. Finch shook his head, like clearing his thoughts. He still seemed dazed.
"Detectives, this is all quite shocking. I don't know what to think," he said. The men backed out the door into the hallway and closed it after them, while Finch stared, blankly, out at them.
When they'd left, he smiled a small smile to himself.
He thought he'd hit it just right. Both men seemed convinced there was nothing more to uncover about the flight itself. They would have to look elsewhere to explain the ambush of the Officer and the two dead men found later on the scaffolding. For now, Finch would stay put for an hour or so, and then head out on a circuitous route back to the Mid-town Safe-house. There'd be plenty to catch up with once he'd arrived back there.
Secondary Safe-house, West Side, January, 2015
"Yes, as I'd mentioned to Mistah Reese, I nevah met my fathah until he moved us from the village where I was born, to the capital, Abuja. That was shortly befah my mothah died – she must have known she was ill and contacted him. They were married quickly befah she passed, and then I was sent to boarding school in London." Olawale made a point of pausing there to gauge Shaw's reaction. She didn't have one.
"My fathah and I spent very little time togethah – just long enough to get the sense he had something to hide. Latah, I understood he'd become some kind of cybah-criminal," he said.
"Nigeria is rathah known fah this, I'm afraid." And then he paused again.
Something was clearly on his mind, Shaw observed. She said nothing, but let things unfold as they would. Cameras and hidden microphones recorded their interview. More were placed throughout the apartment, dormant now, but available if the action moved to another locale.
The Machine, of course, monitored the debrief in real-time, partly to stand-in for Primary, who was absent at the time. It launched the various applications to verify Olawale's accuracy and credibility as his story unrolled.
Primary had missed the interview, but he'd certainly want to view it upon his return. To that end, the Machine prepared a set of summary points for him as the interview proceeded. A video recording, a transcript, and summary points would be waiting for his review.
Given that Finch's jet had become a crime scene, a set of lawyers had descended upon the appropriate Police Department Officials to request return of the jet as well as luggage and other personal materials belonging to crew and passengers aboard the flight. However, the most sensitive materials – those uncovered inside the cave in Zuma Rock by Mr. Reese – had been hidden inside the orange transport basket that their Team had walked off the jet.
Later, when they'd parked the ambulance in Queens, Mr. Durban transported the materials in his backpack – to Finch, at the Safe-house. A long night of analysis provided important new information and clues about their guest, Olawale.
He was quite a bit more than he'd said he was.
"At the risk of seeming ungrateful, Miss Shaw, I would like to inquire about when I will be allowed to meet Mr. Harold Finch. He was the person I contacted, aftah all, and I would feel bettah if I could meet with him befah we go much farthah." Shaw raised her eyes to his, her dark eyes steady and cool.
"Noted," she said and moved on with her line of questioning.
Shaw went for details: names and dates of birth for his parents, any siblings, name of the village where he was born and raised, name of his first boarding school in London, and so on. These were all checkable facts, and the Machine collected this data as they moved through the interview, all the while recording facial expression, pupillary sizes, evidence of muscle tension, voice modulation, and other indicators of his stress level and emotional status. These would serve as data points for comparison, later. Should there be significant changes in Olawale's willingness to give truthful answers, the Machine was building a database with which to hang him.
Morning dragged into early afternoon and Shaw could see the lines deepening in Olawale's face, stress from relentless repetition of the facts, his efforts to recall finer and finer levels of detail, mixed with some jet lag and lack of food or drink for long hours since rising this morning. He looked washed out and hungry, verging on irritation now, and his answers were shorter and shorter.
A smell of coffee brewing and food cooking wafted through the rooms from the kitchen. Shaw was prepared to keep going, but Olawale looked up and asked her, "may we break for a bit, Miss Shaw? I'd like to make a cup of tea for myself, if you don't mind."
Then Reese appeared at the archway with Bear at his side. He looked much better now than he had this morning. He caught Shaw's attention and then tipped his head toward the kitchen. She got up to follow him out. Bear seated himself at the archway, eyes on Olawale, who leaned into the comfort of the leather couch.
"Wanna take a few minutes? You two've been at it for hours," Reese said in his whisper-voice. She seemed unfazed and Reese knew she'd forge ahead unless he gave her a reason to stop for a little while.
"Let's eat something and reset. I'll take the next leg," he said. Her forehead stayed furrowed, but she nodded and headed for the kitchen. Reese turned back to the library.
"We're gonna take a break. Come with me," he said, and Olawale got up to follow him back to the kitchen. It wasn't long before the kettle whistled on the stove, and he was sipping some tea. He'd found a small teapot in one of the cupboards, and a package of loose English tea. That seemed to put a smile on his face. Some of the stress lines washed away as he sipped. And once the hot food arrived, the three of them dug in to fill their plates. Reese and Olawale sat down at the table, but Shaw walked past them to one of the other rooms. Reese watched Olawale's eyes as he watched her go. When Olawale turned back, he realized Reese had been observing him.
"Miss Shaw tells me you ah the nisah one," he said, softly. Reese paused for a moment.
"Wouldn't want 'er mad at me," Reese said, blue eyes steady.
After lunch, Reese left him to find Shaw. In the front room near the security door, she'd found a chair where beams of sunshine streamed in. Bear sprawled at her feet in the sunbeams, too. His tail thumped when he heard the tapping of Reese's cane, and he rolled up to watch him lower himself into a nearby chair.
"We'll get started in a couple of minutes. Got a text from Finch. He's watching your interview now and he wants us to spend some time on two things: how Olawale found out about Samaritan and how he knows about Finch and the Machine."
Shaw nodded. "He's insisting on meeting with Finch. Didn't wanna go much further until then."
"He tried that on the way over. Didn't get him very far," Reese said. Shaw nodded.
"Finch went through all the things from the cave. I think he's got a better idea who Olawale is now. He wants the three of us to meet tonight to discuss it."
"Where?"
"The library office. Harper's gonna come here first, to stay with Olawale; then we'll leave." Shaw nodded again. They hadn't been in Finch's library office for many weeks. Finch had lived there for years, surrounded by all those books, until the Team needed to re-locate to the Safe-house. A lot had happened since then.
"OK. Guess maybe we can get back to our own places soon," she said, "and I'll get the medical supplies re-stocked in the Safe-house for next time," she said, absently.
Reese thought about it, too. They'd all been away from home for weeks now. Back and forth to Italy, then his trip to Nigeria. The D.C. Team, Logan, Harper and Joey, had been in New York for nearly as long. Logan had returned to D. C. a day or two ago.
Reese hadn't been back to his own place in months. Shaw was right. Maybe it was time to get back, at least for a visit. And as for re-stocking the medical supplies for next time, he swallowed hard on that one.
Necessary evil, but he had to hope there wouldn't be a next time.