Chapter 2:

The Freelancer (No. 145)

I sit hooked up to the Lie Detector and all I keep thinking is that this is a waste of time.

"Monday, 9:07 AM. Examiner Hatch. Subject: Elizabeth Scott Keen. Here we go. Before Monday of last week, did you have or have you ever had personal contact with Raymond Reddington?"

"No."

"Did Reddington notify you before he surrendered himself to the FBI?"

"No."

"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

"No."

"Does Raymond Reddington know, or has he ever known, your husband?"

"No."

"Have you been truthful to the best of your knowledge?"

"Yes."

See, people. That was a big waste of time. I don't know Reddington. He's nothing to me. But I must be something to him because here I am once again…. I'm the only person he'll talk to (Unfortunately for me). I walk towards him while in my skirt suit and heels and get myself up on his level.

"Tell me about the train wreck," I tell him.

He just laughs. "Do you have any idea how far I've traveled to see you again, Lizzie?"

"It's Agent Keen. Now, I've heard all your demands but I don't think you've heard mine so let me tell you how this is gonna work: I ask the questions, you answer them. Screw with me and I walk. Do you understood me?"

"How are Gabriel and Melanie?" Reddington asks me.

I ignore him. "They're not going to give you immunity, not a chance."

"Oh, I think they will. Otherwise, what am I doing here? I'm perfectly happy to go back to the boat."

"The train wreck," I say again, hoping to get him back on target.

"The train accident was no accident — you know that. But what you don't know is that the man behind it is quite prolific. He's responsible for a slew of other premeditated killings just like this one, disguised as accidents. Shall I go on?" he asks me as he gestures with his hands.

I motion for one of the guards to cut him loose.

"A building collapses in Moscow. A ferry capsizes on an Indian River. These are the events we've come to expect on the evening news. But in truth, there's always more to the story. Hidden in the facts, figures, the victims and heroes, there's always murder. The work of a man who disguises his killings in the headlines of everyday tragedies."

"What proof do you have?" Ressler asks him.

I answer before Reddington can. "It's in the victims — A Judge in Ohio, a French Diplomat who dies in a plane crash. I know you don't believe in Profiling, Ressler, but there's a pattern. There's always a pattern."
"Over the last seven years, more than 3,000 innocent civilians have died as a direct result of this man's unique method."

"He's a symphoraphiliac," I observe as I hear the sound of Cooper's door opening. He and Gabe come down and I can't help but to slightly gawk at my husband's prowess as he comes down the stairs. He came here to deliver his Profile of me to Cooper and to ask him to join the team.

"A what?" Ressler asks me.

"He gets off on disasters," I respond. "It probably stems from losing someone to an accident. His parents or someone close might have gotten killed by a drunk driver, fire — something along those lines."

"In the 20-odd years I've been working my side of the tracks, I've never met a contractor who's had a significant impact on the civilian population as he. He's rivaled only by governments and terrorist organizations," Reddington continues. "And you've never heard of him. I have it on good authority that his next contract will take him to New York. This is not an opportunity to ponder or deliberate. Once he's done, he's gone."

"Does this guy have a name?" Cooper asks him as he and Gabe join us. I assume that Gabe's been granted permission to stay on as some sort of liaison.

"They call him 'The Freelancer,'" Reddington responds.

I step forward and look up at the photos on the monitors. "This is some of the most organized work I've seen. He's a white male that I'd put in his late thirties to early forties. No kid could do this. He lives alone, probably in an apartment, and he's completely mission-oriented. Maybe even with a touch of OCD. He'll be clean-shaven and have good posture. He'll be average-looking." I turn around to see that everyone is looking at me. This is what I do: I profile. I wouldn't have been able to go through Quantico if I was unable to do this.

Gabe just gives me a smile.

"The only way to stop a mission-oriented Unsub is to catch him," I report to the team.

"How do we find him?" Cooper asks Reddington.

Reddington just looks smug. He's a narcissist if I've ever seen one. "You don't. I do," he says smugly.

"You two pen pals? You guys send each other coded emails?" Ressler asks him. He's trying to be funny, it's just not working.

Gabe rolls his eyes.

"I don't have email, or a phone, or an address," Reddington replies. "I prefer to handle my business face-to-face."

"You've met him?" I ask him. He could have said that before I started to profile this 'Freelancer.'

"Once. I brokered a few jobs. He works through an intermediary. He might be for sale. Perhaps I should set a meeting," Reddington says a bit too happily. He's looking at me as he says this. Ugh. Talk about creepy.

"Maybe you should," I tell him.

"You should come," Reddington responds as he leans forward and begins walking towards me like a lion. "Just the two of us. No wires, no clumsy agents in the bushes. You want me to make an introduction, you need to trust me with my source."

Cooper just looks at me and gives me a smile.

"Ah! What fun. You'll need a dress," Reddington tells me as he touches my elbow.

"And where would this meeting be?" Cooper asks him.

"Montreal," Reddington responds.

Canada? I have to go to Canada tonight?

We go home first so that I can change into a dress and grab a go-bag just in case.

"Nervous?" he asks me.

"How'd you know?" I ask him, even though I know it's obvious.

"Despite the obvious discomfort you have at leaving your still-healing husband behind all alone, you don't seem too psyched. Pun intended."

"Good to know you're in good spirits," I tell him.

"You can't let a psychopath get you down," Gabe tells me. "Anyway, I'll call my parents and see if they can watch Mel tonight."

"All right," I sigh, relieved. "I'll see you later."

"It's a date. Hey, take this," Gabe suddenly tells me. He hands me a small box.

I open it to find an earwig inside. I just look up towards Gabe. "You really know how to woo a girl."

He just laughs. "I just wanted a direct line to you. He'll try to manipulate you, and gain whatever trust he can. I want me in your head before he gets there."

"I'll appreciate that," I tell him when I give him a kiss.

"Be careful."

Reddington and I find ourselves in a cab outside of the restaurant.

Reddington gets out of the cab and so do I. I get out to see him halfway around the cab. He was apparently going to open my door for me.

"Sorry, habit of an independent," I apologize. "It drives Gabe nuts sometimes."

"You better believe it does," Gabe replies in my ear through the small device.

"So what does this liaison look like?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Reddington says as we make our way to the restaurant.

I mentally curse my choice of pointy high heels as we walk.

I cannot possibly imagine a more uncomfortable situation then the one I am finding myself in right now. I'm on my way to what will appear to be a dinner date to everyone else, when in reality, we're on our way to some kind of meet. I'm going to be sitting at the same dining table as a career criminal.

Remind me how we got here again.

Oh, right. I wasn't given a choice.

"Relax, Liz. You'll be fine," Gabriel tells me. If only it were that simple to believe.

I keep my eye on Reddington as he gives his hat to the man who is standing beside the podium. When he turns back around, I see him readjust his sleeve.

"Watch him," I hear Gabe mummer. He's talking to himself.

I make a mental note to keep watch for more of the same movement. Just like with every time I'm with him, I watch his every move, listen carefully to what he says. Profiling him is like taking a nine-year-old girl to Disneyland. It's enthralling and I admit, a bit overwhelming.

"If anyone asks, you're my girlfriend from Ann Arbor," Red says as we float through the crowd and to a table that is right against a column.

Gabe scoffs in my ear.

Afraid of vulnerability — check.

I scoff. "Absolutely not," I tell him sternly.

Reddington just laughs. "Then you can be my daughter," he says oddly as he chivalrously pulls my chair out.

"Interesting," Gabriel comments.

I suddenly feel something tug at my mind as if it's a drowning person wanting the oxygen that is at the water's surface, but he or she can't get there. I watch Reddington carefully as he walks over to his chair.

"Bonsoir," the waitress says formally.

"What would you like to drink?" Red asks me as if he thinks I don't speak French.

"Verre d'eau,"I tell the waitress. Might as well have water, I'm pretty sure that this would be classified as a business dinner.

She nods at me before turning to Red. He answers her in fluent French. He orders a scotch.

"I didn't know you could speak French," Red tells me as she disappears.

I just shrug. "I wanted to learn so I taught myself. I also know Russian," I tell him.

"To the future," he tells me as he raises his glass towards me. I take my glass of water and clink it against his.

He gives me a weird, sort of paternal/avuncular-type smile.

"So tell me about your job. The Profiling."

I just gaze at him mutely. I've been reviewing his profile in my head since I first saw him. I haven't written any of it down, but it's memorable anyway. He's been Profiled dozens of times, but not by me.

"I'm fascinated," he says with a weird glint in his eyes. "How close to the truth do you think you can really get?" he asks me.

I take offense to the question. It's pretty damn close if I have anything to say about it. I keep my face impassive despite the indignation I'm feeling.

"Tell me my Profile," he says as he brings his hands to the table after adjusting his sleeve.

Hmmm. It's tempting, but I'm sure we have prying eyes and ears in here somewhere. "And why would I do that?" I ask him.

He just gives me another smile.

"You've heard the debriefs, you've read Kessler's book reports. I so want to know how you see things."

"Why do I find myself under the suspicion that you are more curious as to how I see you than how I see 'things'?"

"Make him squirm, Liz. You get under that skin of his and make him squirm," Gabriel tells me.

The only thing that can make a man like Reddington squirm is emotion. I sit straighter in my chair and look him straight in the eyes.

"You're a loner. You are trapped by the events in your past, which makes you incredibly isolated. The primary emotional bonds of your former life are severed so you have no grasp of genuine, intimate connections. You're trapped underneath the debris of a collapsed former life. You keep your distance from others from the fear that they might be used against you. The idea of someone close to you getting killed because of what you do would be the only thing to absolutely horrify you. Loyalty is all-important. Your 'friends,' the people you surround yourself with, are complete strangers. You're comfortable here with your glass of Scotch, but you'd be just as comfortable in a cave sleeping with rebels. But I think, perhaps most importantly, that you are seeking something your heart longs for but it's something that your mind tells you cannot have."

"And what might that be?" Red asks me calmly, drinking a bit of scotch.

"Redemption," I tell him simply. I continue on with the profile, "You are a conflicted man, Mr. Reddington. And you hate that about yourself because it can make you vulnerable. And you hate vulnerability, which is expressed by your inclination to sit against the column. And you chose to repent to me. You didn't give me a choice in the matter, so you fear rejection. For some reason, you think I'm you're one shot. You think I'm your chance at redemption. You need me and you hate that about yourself because it makes you vulnerable. You're tired; you just want to be able to sleep at night. You've spent your life thinking that the next one could be it. And since you're sick of it, you want a lifestyle change. You tell yourself that helping the FBI is another fun adventure but it's more than that. It's so much more than that," I say.

"You're one of the few that regrets what they've done. You know that everyone dies and that being sorry and being buried alive in grief is a far worse punishment than death or anything the government can do to you. I can't claim to know what exactly happened to you, but I can say that if given a second chance, I don't think you would have traveled down the same path. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe I'm just speaking from my desperate need to see the good in people, even the ones who act so horribly. But you're here for a reason. You stepped out of the shadows for a reason. And however flattered I am about it, it's not just to speak to me."

Gabe just whistles in my ear.

I lean back in my chair and give myself an imaginary pat on the back. "And your contact is the coat check attendant," I report to him in French. "When you become a parent, everything loses its subtly. Just like I'm not the one with at least four Agents watching him."

"What about your husband? Does he know you as well as you know him? Does he know about you as a child? Does he know about the fire?" He looks at my scar as he asks me this.

"We both know I didn't get this scar in any fire. It's too uniform and it's an unusual spot just for one little burn. Had I been burned in that fire, it would have been more extensive, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah, Liz. But what about your husband?" Gab asks playfully in my head.

"My husband is the only person in my life that I feel wasn't obligated to love me. And yes we know each other — we are both trained in psychology so it's kind of hard to keep secrets. As for my past, he knows what I know. Speaking of that, if you think you can come waltzing into my life just because you have answers about my past, you're wrong. I have my own family now — the past is gone. I'm not going to ask you questions anyway because I know better than to look for answers where I'm not going to find them. My mother's sperm donor's life as a criminal was more important to him than I was. Good riddance."

"Burn!" Gabriel says like a kid. "Excuse the fire pun."

"Please excuse me for a moment," Reddington says as he gets up from the table.

I make my way out of the restaurant. He's leaving this place and so am I. As I do, I can hear the fire alarm going off. I find the oh-so-obvious surveillance van and start to walk towards it.

As I do, Ressler grabs me by the elbow and halts my journey.

"Easy, Ressler," Gabe tells him warningly.

"What the hell was that?" I ask him heatedly. "You sold him out!"

"You let him go!" Ressler complains as we restart the way to the van.

"I let him go? Who notified RCMP?! You compromised our asset!"

"He's number four on the Most Wanted List, Keen! What did you expect?!" Ressler yells at me. I'm getting really tired of his attitude.

"You want to know what I expect?!" I shout. "I expect him to be in the damn van," I tell him honestly.

Ressler opens the van and there he is. "Hey guys," Reddington greets us.

Ressler jumps into the van and grabs Reddington by the lapel and shoves him to collide with the back of the van.

"You knew he'd never show!"

I lurch forward and pull Ressler off Reddington. Gabe immediately runs forward to help. It takes some doing.

"Stop it, Ressler. It's too late. His contact is long gone," Gabe tells him.

Ressler just fumes.

"I left payment in my hat in exchange he left a photo of the assassin's next victim," Reddington reports as he draws a picture out of his hat and hands it to me.

"Floriana Campo?" I ask. "The human rights activist?" There's got to be more to this.

"There you have it. A solid lead delivered exactly as promised. Find Floriana Campo, you find the Freelancer. Not bad for a day's work. Let's celebrate."

"We got Campo to agree to change the venue of her Charity Event," Ressler reports to Gabe and myself as I look up at the evidence boards.

"Good," I say absent mindedly as I continue to look at the board.

"What's it telling you?" Gabe asks me.

"Straightforwardly: that the woman's a saint. She's spent her life and millions fighting sex trafficking. Her husband was killed by the Eberhart cartel three years ago."

"The Eberhart cartel is the most ruthless cartel in Europe. What we know is that the leader killed other cartel leaders to extend his reach. Survivors tell stories of torture and forced addiction. Whoever killed Campo's husband hired The Freelancer to kill her."

"And we've done everything we can to knock the Freelancer off balance. We've changed schedules, travel routes, venues. But I have a feeling that this is the type of guy who's got back up plans for his back up plans," I tell him.

"He's going to have to get through our security to pull it off," Ressler tells me.

"Let's just hope that it's enough."

"But we still don't know what he looks like," Ressler tells me.

"But there is one person who does," I tell him with resignation. I don't really want to be in front of Reddington right now.

"Good luck," Gabe tells me. Without his deal, I have a feeling he won't tell me what time it is even if he did know.

"You said you've seen him," I tell Reddington as the box door opens. "We need your help."

He just stands there with his back to me. He finally turns back towards me slowly.

"Please, understand I want anything more than to help you. It's why I'm here. But I won't say another word until the conditions of my agreement are met. I'm so sorry to bother you with these trivia details, but it's a simple yes or no."

"So be it," I tell him coldly as I turn away. I feel his eyes on me as I turn away.

"Okay. Since Reddington won't help us, we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. We're going to be looking for a clean-shaven man in his mid thirties to early forties, with impeccable posture. Despite the attention his murders get, he will not be the same in his private life. He will be a loner, withdrawn. I don't think he'll be there tonight as a man with a lot or money or with a date of any kind."

Before I can continue, Ressler comes out of Cooper's office. "They agreed to his deal," he reports. He doesn't sound too thrilled about it.

Ressler and I go back to the box.

"You got your deal," Ressler tells him, but his eyes are all on me. "We got a list of the attendees."

"He won't be on any list, Ressler. He is the epitome of discretion." I look to Reddington. "You want to go to that party, don't you?" I ask him.

"I thought you'd never ask," Reddington tells me.

We got the Freelancer, but we lost Floriana Campo in the process. Reddington hired The Freelancer to kill her. He succeeded. We both succeeded tonight. The FBI took down an assassin that was unknown of until now.

I sit on a bench and just look at my phone. I look at the photo of me, Gabe and Lanie. We all are smiles and as happy as can be. I never thought I'd make a good mother. I didn't have the privilege of growing up with one. It was just Sam and me. I hate being away from Lanie. She's five years old. She doesn't need me away all the time.

"You look tired," Reddington's voice suddenly fills the silence of the dawn. "Go home. Get some sleep," he tells me.

"Sleep is something that never finds me easily," I reply as I stroke the scar on my forearm. "We were able to rescue the girls. The information you gave us was good," I tell him.

"She preyed on the weak and innocent while dressed in the wings of a savior. I detested everything about that woman."

"I knew that there was something off about her, but I didn't know what."

"We never truly know anyone, do we?" Reddington asks as he stands up and buttons his tuxedo jacket.

What the Hell is that supposed to mean?