Chapter 5:
Control's morning had been typical; albeit busy. She had dropped her daughter off to school, attended a morning briefing with white house staff in the room, and orchestrated bombings on three different terrorist cells in Syria and Pakistan all before finishing her first cup of coffee. It was shaping up to be just another ordinary day. So, when Control headed to her office for a break just before noon, she could not have anticipated what—or who—would be waiting for her.
Upon entering her office, Control did a double take, realizing that someone was sitting at her desk. A rather familiar someone. What the hell?
"Agent Shaw…" She drawled out in a deceptively welcoming tone as a sweet smile that was as fake as a porn star's cup size spread itself across her face. "What a pleasant surprise."
"Don't start lying to me yet." Shaw met Control's expression with her own challenging smirk, watching the older woman's expression falter until it fell into a more familiar one.
"Okay…" She spoke, challenging Shaw right back. "Let's start with 'why are you in my office?' How are you in my office?"
"You should know." Shaw held up a security clearance badge identical to Control's own that had previously been hidden under the desk. "I learned a lot from ISA."
Control's response was a predatory smirk that was somewhat like looking into the face of a blood-thirsty Cheshire cat. "Clearly you didn't learn not to go messing with powerful people after they try to have you killed."
Shaw chuckled slightly under her breath at the irony of that statement. Powerful people were the reason for her being in this office…however reluctantly. She looked back up at Control with a bored expression while fiddling with a pair of scissors from Control's desk.
"Look, I'm gonna level with you. I didn't come here to reminisce about our fucked up history." She noted Control's hand was very slowly inching its way behind her back. The place where Shaw knew she kept a gun. Underneath the desk, Shaw's own hand was creeping toward her firearm.
"Then leave." Her hand inched just a little bit closer. "This conversation has no interest to me, and I have nothing you want."
"Oh, but you do."
Just as Shaw thought the situation might turn ugly, Reese's gruff reply to that last statement was heard from the doorway. Control took her attention off of Shaw to see John standing behind her with his gun pulled out.
"We need to talk."
"Agent Reese." Control heaved a heavy sigh. This was not how she wanted to spend her break. "All right, we'll talk." She moved over to her desk, ushering Shaw out of the chair. "But first, I'm gonna need my chair back, Shaw."
Shaw moved from behind the desk and came to sit in one of the two seats in front of it. Once John was satisfied that Control would be cooperative, he put his gun away and sat down in the remaining seat to Shaw's right. With everyone situated, Control questioned them once more.
"So tell me; why are you here?"
"We've come across a group that calls itself the Anarchy Council: ex government agents intent on bringing down the government. Does that seem familiar to you?" Reese spoke.
Control pretended to think about it for a moment before responding negatively. "I'm afraid it doesn't. Even if it did, the fact that you're here on my doorstep means that you probably know about as much as I do.
They all knew that at least part of that statement was bullshit. Shaw remembered being ordered to kill no less than five members of the group during her stint working for the woman across the desk.
"That's not entirely true, is it?"
Shaw was once again challenging control, engaging in a brief, but intense, staring contest as she drove her point home. "I remember the AC members you had me kill. What happened? Why did that stop?"
Those were all good questions; questions Control had asked, herself. Still, she hadn't previously cared enough about the matter to dig into it and question a decision made by a superior government official. She was still getting to kill terrorists, after all. Still, she did have to admit that something about the situation had never sat quite right. That didn't mean that she was about to make anything easy for the pair in front of her, however.
"That's classified." She smirked at the pair, and then it was Reese's turn to respond.
"Classified or not, we need answers." Shaw glared at Control, who smiled smugly in return.
"And how exactly is that my problem?"
Reese was quick to offer an answer the question, "As we speak, there are members in New York working with what's left of Decima's operation in the city." John leaned forward as he spoke, coming to rest with his elbows on Control's desk and boring into her with his steely gaze. "That is a dangerous combination. One that puts not just the machine at risk, but your ISA, as well. I'd say that concerns you. Now, why don't we start over? Why did you stop pursuing the Anarchy Council?"
She sat back in her chair and met his gaze with her own, mulling the situation over. If what they said was true, then this was a problem she couldn't avoid whether that meant helping the people sitting across from her or getting personally involved. As much as it annoyed her to come to the decision, she decided that the best course of action for the time being would be to cooperate with the pair of assassins in front of her.
"Orders." Control answered simply after a few moments of thought. "I was ordered to stop pursuing relevant numbers related to the AC in favor of putting more heat on domestic extremists."
"By whom?"
Control sighed in frustration at Reese's prodding. This was not a good place for this conversation.
"Shut the door." She commanded, and Reese stood to do so.
With that out of the way, she continued her explanation, speaking in hushed tones. "Myself, and several other senior members of the ISA supervisory committee were brought into a meeting with the head of DHS. He told us that he wanted to push against violent domestic terrorism. He also told us not to concern ourselves with the Anarchy Council any further since they conduct activities without violence. We were all told never to speak of the meeting or the AC after that."
Reese and Shaw exchanged looks with each other as Control let slip the last bit of information. It seemed somebody in the government had a particularly interesting agenda.
"Can you tell us anything about the group?" Shaw questioned "Location? Faction strength?"
Control shook her head, "Nothing recent. There hasn't been any intelligence collected in over two years. But you mentioned they were active in New York City?" Reese nodded. "I do recall seeing something about an old warehouse used as a base of operations there in one of the old files."
Growing quite tired of the questioning and what she perceived as an intrusion, Control added somewhat harshly, "Now, will that be all?"
Shaw nodded then looked to John. "I think we're done here. Reese?"
Reese assented, and Control gave one last comment as the pair stood to leave.
"Good. Now get the hell out of my office."
"Gladly." Shaw muttered, making her way to the door, but Control wasn't finished quite yet.
"Oh, and one last thing."
Reese, who's hand had made it to the knob, turned to look at her along with Shaw.
"This conversation never happened."
Shaw and Reese spent the next several minutes in silence as they made their way out of the pentagon and away from the nerve center of the American government. They each pondered the possibilities of what Control had divulged to them. Each Idea was worse than the last; yet, while she knew a lot of people would die if the machine was compromised, a part of Shaw's mind thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Admittedly, she was coming around to accepting the machine's recent actions, but there was still progress to be made in that area.
Eventually, it was John who broke the silence as the pair walked on through downtown DC on their trek back toward the airport. They had plenty of time to kill before the flight back to New York, so a little walk through the city couldn't hurt.
"So, what do you make of that intel?"
Shaw simply shrugged beside him. "Doesn't seem like much of a mystery to me. Obviously, someone in the government is in bed with the Anarchy Council."
John nodded, sticking his hands into his coat pockets against the cold DC air. "Yes, but who? The head of the Department of Homeland Security would be the obvious choice, but it is possible that someone above him wanted things kept quiet."
"Or maybe someone's got dirt on him and he's on a leash?" Shaw suggested, "Anyway, this might not be so bad for us."
"Shaw." John chided her half-heartedly, knowing exactly the turn this conversation was taking.
Shaw smirked, "No, just hear me out for a minute. Say the machine somehow gets shutdown by the AC with Decima's help…assuming that's end goal of Decima's involvement with these guys. Then we're all out of a job, retired, and drinking rum on a beach in Mexico."
Reese couldn't resist the grin that crept across his face both at the thought of any of them vacationing in Mexico, and at Shaw's flawed logic. "We wouldn't answer to the machine in that case, but you're forgetting that a lot of the government is operated by it. If the machine ever did get shut down it would be crippling to the country."
At his response, she shrugged again with an assenting tilt of her head as they continued their walk down the street. "It was just a thought."
"By the way, Shaw; do you really see us as the types to sit around on a beach all day?" His tone was as teasing a tone as John Reese could manage and Shaw glanced over with a crooked smirk in response as he continued to speak. "You know as well as I do that if this gig working for the machine didn't pan out, we'd all be following the sounds of gunfire to the nearest action."
"Even Finch?"
"Somebody's gotta be tech support."
"Okay, so let's run through this one more time."
It was just after noon and Fusco was sat in the interrogation room for the second time in the last twenty-four hours with one Don Rezniczek. He had managed to get some useful information out of the man the night before, but he still felt like there was something the accountant was holding back. Whether that was out of fear for his life or any remaining loyalty to the Bratva that tried to have him killed, the detective couldn't say.
"I've already told you everything." Don protested
"No, Don. I don't think you have. Keep in mind, I'm questioning you 'cause I wanna find out why Hotel Moscow wants you dead." Fusco eyed him up and down, taking in his frazzled appearance, but honing in on the expensive suit he was still wearing. "Let's start with that suit."
Don looked down at himself in confusion, not quite understanding why his attire was important. "My suit?"
Fusco nodded, "Yeah. You're an accountant. I figure a guy like you makes what? Five figures a year tops? But that suit looks like it's at least a six figure suit. Meanwhile, you got two million sitting in your bank account from an account Hotel Moscow uses for its legitimate business. I gotta tell ya…that doesn't look good."
Don perked up at Fusco's point about his suit. He could account for that much, at least!
"I can explain the suit."
Fusco nodded, trying to keep the cynicism from his features. "Go on."
"It was a gift from a friend of mine."
"A gift." Fusco's voice dripped with disbelief and Don's face fell. "Must be a hell of a friend."
"I'm serious!" Don persisted, "Look, I took it to the dry cleaner in Chinatown about a month ago…before the money got into my account. You can check."
"Alright, alright…" Fusco conceded, satisfied with that answer. He jotted down the information on a note pad in front of him as he continued talking. "I'll do that. The bank verified that you weren't the one who put the money in your account, but they also couldn't say who did. Do you have any guesses?"
Don merely shook his head by way of answer to the question, folding his arms in front of him and staring into the wall over the detective's shoulder. Fusco decided to try a different approach to the question. "Okay, one more thing. I know we talked about this last night, but I need you to walk me through exactly what happened before you realized that money was in your account."
The accountant's eyes flitted to Lionel, and then back to the corner of the interrogation room and his jaw clenched and relaxed several times in response to the grinding of his teeth. He looked to Fusco as he was debating with himself whether or not to answer the question. Unfortunately, it was after the lunch hour and Lionel's empty stomach was diminishing his worn down patience even further.
Don was startled from his internal debate when the detective abruptly stood and the harsh sound of the metal chair scraping across the floor grated on his ears. "Alright, you don't wanna answer, that's fine with me. It's your life." Fusco stifled a smug expression as he watched Don's eyes widen with fear. "I'm just gonna step out and go grab some food; maybe you'll still be alive when I get back." He shrugged casually, watching the accountant's reaction closely. He could see the cracks starting to form and spread. That's it…
The smug expression finally made it onto Fusco's face when Don caved in after a few seconds, putting a hand up as if that would stop the detective. "No…please don't go. I'll tell you."
Lionel pulled the chair out and sat back down at the table while Don explained his predicament.
"I don't just do the illegal book keeping. I'm also employed as the accountant for the mob's legitimate business practices."
Of course, Fusco had already gleaned this much but he still nodded politely, willing Don to continue. He sensed that that fact was an important factor in the direction this little story was going.
"Usually, they're careful to keep all the records for the business in perfect order. You know, to avoid any unnecessary trouble with the law. But, I noticed recently when I was running numbers that there was at least $80K I couldn't account for. A few days later, I found two million sitting in my account."
Fusco sat across the table, looking at Don with his eyes narrowed in thought. There could be any number of reasons for that missing money.
"So, what? You think someone's embezzling from the Russian mob?"
"It's possible." Don nodded in concession, "but there are only a handful of people who have that account information. And I can't imagine that the ones who would be smart enough to steal from the mob would also be stupid enough to do it."
Fusco had to agree with that. Of all of the Russian Bratva presence in New York City, Hotel Moscow in particular had a frightening reputation. Thanks in no small part to the boss' much renowned charismatic, yet iron-fisted and brutal approach to crime and discipline.
"There's also the issue of the two mil in your account transferred from the mob's own account. Do you know of anyone who would have legal authorization to handle transfers from the business account and the offshore account?"
At this, Don shook his head, "I have my suspicions, but I can't say for a fact. Sorry."
Fusco did too. The most logical people would be the boss himself and his lieutenants. Following that assumption, it seemed likely that Don got too close to something the mob didn't want him to find. Some secret dealings, perhaps. Given all of this, the detective now felt comfortable enough to say one thing. He now believed that Don had been framed, just as the man had insisted in his hysteric ramblings the previous night.
Lionel stood, satisfied that he knew enough of the situation for the moment. "Thanks Don, we're done for now."
He turned on his heel and pulled his phone out, pressing 3 on the speed dial once he was out of the room. He'd already called Finch about Don's theory that he was framed, he needed to inform him of the possibility that what they were dealing with went all the way to the top of the food chain.
"Yeah, Glasses?" Lionel greeted when Finch answered after the second ring. "I got something for ya."
The Machine continued to buzz into Root's ear as she and Harold made their way toward Brighton Beach. Just after Reese and Shaw had departed for their own mission, She had begun feeding statistical probabilities into Root's ear. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, however, the probabilities weren't exactly optimistic this time, and The Machine insisted on reminding her of that periodically. Root's main concern was Harold. The low probabilities seemed to be centered on him anyway.
Probability of Administrator escape following current operation protocols- 8%
What? How could it have lowered?
"What can I do?" Root quietly asked of The Machine, but mostly talking to herself as she thought over different options. She knew that she could not allow Harold to be killed or captured…She wouldn't forgive Root if something happened to Her creator. It was also in the back of Root's mind that Shaw would forgive neither her nor The Machine easily if she failed to save Harold or got in trouble herself.
It wasn't until shortly before they reached their destination that The Machine gave Root an option and she stopped in her tracks, surprising Finch. He had little time to question her before she dragged both of them into a nearby alley.
"Change of plans, Harry." She quickly took some of the hardware she'd been carrying that they planned to use for hacking and gave it to Finch to put into his briefcase.
"What's going on, Root?" There was concern in Harold's voice as he packed the items into his case. He was able to guess that the machine had contacted her, but he found her uncharacteristically nervous demeanor quite disconcerting. Regardless, the hacker was quick to brush off his concern with a smile.
"You're not coming with me. She wants you somewhere else." Somewhere safer, Root thought to herself.
"And, where might somewhere else be?"
Root explained as she inserted the contact lenses that Harold had retrieved earlier, "The computers used by Hotel Moscow for their illegal business and legitimate business are all on the same server. I'm going to infiltrate the mob as planned and see what I can find. You're going to their business office."
Harold followed Root out of the alley and looked in the general direction of where she pointed. Ah, yes. Those offices. From where they stood right now, they were about midway between the Bratva headquarters to the south. Before either of them could say anything more, Finch's phone rang. He pulled it out to see that it was Detective Fusco.
"Detective Fusco." Finch greeted after the second ring, listening intently to the man's account of his recent findings. After thanking the detective and hanging up, he turned to see Root's interested look.
"Ms. Groves…before you go, one last piece of information. You may want to focus your efforts on Mr. Denisov and his immediate subordinates."
Root smiled, grateful for that bit of information from the detective. "Will do, Harold." She spoke as she turned on her heel to start her part of the mission. Harold lingered for only a moment watching her walk away, concerned for her well-being. He turned to head in the opposite direction but spoke a final warning under his breath as he went, aware that she probably still heard it through her comm.
"Please be careful, Miss Groves."
A short time later, Root arrived at Hotel Moscow headquarters. It was, in fact, an actual hotel owned and operated by the Russian mafia for generations. It was also far nicer than many of the surrounding buildings of Brighton Beach. It's elaborate décor and generally well kept appearance provided a stark contrast to the slum-like appearance of the rest of the block.
Upon her arrival to the building, Root was quick to notice that she had a welcoming party. A group of four men. Three of them wore black leather jackets of various styles, while the one in the middle—who she assumed was the highest ranking—wore a long tan trench coat and bore noticeable scars on his knuckles and a burn scar on his left forehead and cheek. Root noticed the pupil of that eye was discolored, implying blindness.
The Russian wearing the trench coat was the first to speak when Root finally reached the group. He smiled a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as he addressed her in his deep voice, thick with his Russian accent.
"Welcome. You must be Natasha, no?"
"I am." She smiled right back, taking the time to subtly survey what she could see as the man looked around confused.
"Good. I am the boss; Vladimir Denisov. It's always good to have new muscle. You come highly recommended from Providence."
Of course she did, Root thought as she continued to smirk at this sap. She recommended herself.
"I'm glad to know my work is appreciated."
Denisov nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course. But…" He continued to look around, as if someone else might pop up behind her at any moment. "Where is the other one? The one who was supposed to come with you?"
Root shrugged, waving his question off in a flippant manner. "Oh, him. You know how that is." She looked into his gray eyes with a dangerous look of her own. A look that implied all of the things she was capable of, while intentionally misleading him to think she was actually speaking of another person and not him.
"Some people just don't know their place."
The boss appeared to accept that answer and ushered her and the rest of his detail inside. With the conversation finished for the moment, Root allowed a slightly triumphant smile to cover her face as The Machine spoke in her ear once more.
Probability of Administrator escape following current operation protocols- 82%
Thank you all so much for reading! Those of you who have reviewed; your feedback has been helpful. I hope y'all continue to enjoy this story. Please R & R!