Disclaimer: The Blacklist is not mine. None of these characters are mine. Not even the general storyline... and whole sections of the actual DIALOGUE in this isn't even mine. This is the heftiest disclaimer that ever disclaimed.

Author's Note: Sorry to those who were hoping for a bunch of info from Liz at the start of the last chapter! I'm taking a page from the show's writers' playbook and refusing to deliver the information I seemingly promise to give in the teasing cliffhanger of the previous chapter/episode... But I think you'll be pleased with the Berlins. :) Maybe. :) I hope. :)

…:::…

Chapter 20: The Kingmaker Part 2

…:::…

"How did your meeting go?" Liz asked that evening as Dembe delivered her to the room in which Reddington sat.

"Not as well as I'd hoped," he said, closing the file he had open in his lap. Liz flopped down casually in a chair across the room and studied a small bronze statuette on the end table next to her. "Are you here for a specific reason, Agent Keen, or do you just not want to go home?"

"My husband isn't my husband, and last night he beat me, knocked me unconscious, and left me handcuffed to our banister." Liz leveled a look at Reddington. "Do you blame me for avoiding my place tonight?"

Reddington frowned and said nothing, tilting his head and glancing back down at the folder he held. He seemed to want to say something, but didn't. Liz let the silence stretch for a moment before she spoke again. "Who did you meet with?"

"Mmm… You know how you say that you're only keeping information from me in order to ensure my safety?" Reddington asked.

"Yes?"

"Let's call this… me returning that favor."

Liz shook her head and looked at the ground for a moment before lifting her gaze to Reddington. "See, I want to be annoyed at the fact that you won't tell me who you met with, but when you say sweet things like that… what's a girl to do?" She shot him a half-hearted smile.

Reddington looked slightly uncomfortable. Liz leaned forward in her chair and braced her elbows on her knees. "Okay, spill. What is going on with you? You're acting more cantankerous than usual."

Reddington raised an eyebrow briefly at her choice of phrasing before pushing himself up out of the chair. He walked slowly across the room to Liz, and she sat back as he approached. He finally came to a stop directly in front of her. He had never been great at observing personal space, but this time it was a bit much. Liz looked up at him, and as she watched his face, his eyes flicked from hers, down to the layers of make-up she'd carefully applied over her bruised jaw, and back up again.

Liz's mind raced. What did he expect her to do? She couldn't back up—she was in a chair. Tell him to back off? Push him away? She couldn't stand up—he hadn't left enough space for her to do so without being in his arms.

Liz swallowed.

Before she was able to choose a course of action, Reddington silently held out the file he was still holding, offering it to Liz. Caught slightly off-balance, there was a beat before she took it from him.

As she set the folder in her lap, Reddington turned back to his seat across the room. Liz opened it, and found several pictures taken from security feeds at St. Adrian's Hospital. "This is… this is where my father died," she said quietly. "And…" She brought the picture closer to her face, and leaned to the side to catch more light from the lamp on the table.

Tom. Tom was clearly walking out of the building, wearing what she'd seen him leave for the airport dressed in on the day Sam died. Liz glanced quickly at the time stamp at the bottom of the page and she suddenly found it hard to swallow, her throat squeezing as if Tom had left the photo and was standing behind her, his hand around her throat. "When was this taken?" Liz whispered.

"The time stamp at the bottom is accurate," Reddington said, his voice low. "Tom left the hospital at 4:37 in the afternoon. Confirmed by other cameras inside the hospital, and in the parking garage elevator."

"Tom said he was in Tulsa…?"

"He wasn't. Some flights were diverted to Tulsa that day, but his was not. He landed as scheduled, and spent almost a half hour in your father's hospital room before he left." Reddington watched Liz carefully, but she said nothing, unable to tear her eyes away from the picture. "I know you've probably already done the math, but… Your father was found at 5:30 PM. The medical examiner estimated he died a little less than an hour before that."

Liz finally looked up at Reddington, and he found himself impressed at the look of resolve on her face, and her lack of tears. "When Tom was in the room," she said, her voice hard.

"Yes."

"Tom killed my father."

"I believe so." Liz was silent, and Reddington continued. "I don't know how much you want to discuss this with me... but I think it's worth me mentioning the fact that..." Reddington stopped and tried again. "During my investigation into this, I didn't know, at first, what information was going to be helpful and what wasn't. I obtained your father's full medical records, and... this may not be what you want to hear, but... Tom may have done Sam a favor." Liz shot Reddington an aggressive look, and he continued quickly, "He was dying. Every part of his body was failing. It seems, according to the nursing notes, that he was impatient for it to end. He'd asked to be disconnected from all the machines. He was... in pain... and suffering." Reddington paused, and added softly, "I'm sure he would have wanted to say goodbye... but objectively speaking... I think this was a kinder end than what Mother Nature had in store for him."

"Are you defending what Tom did?" Liz asked quietly.

"No," Reddington answered. "Not at all. I'm just attempting to... propose a way to look at all of this that might bring you some measure of... comfort, if not peace."

Liz's jaw clenched, but she said nothing, returning her gaze down to the security feed picture.

Reddington gave a firm, single nod of his head and stood. "Okay." He walked purposefully over to where Liz sat and eased his palm under her elbow, applying gentle pressure. She let him guide her to her feet, and he looped her arm through his, starting toward the door. "Dembe?" he called. "Bring the car around, we're going out." He lowered his voice and added, "I could use a drink; what about you?" Without missing a step, Reddington took the file from Liz's hand and placed it on the hall table as they passed, as Dembe joined them, holding the front door open for both of them.

…:::…

"I thought you said we were going for drinks?" Liz asked, confused, her voice just loud enough to be heard by Reddington. "This is a pawn shop. And what the hell is it doing open so late...?"

Reddington approached the glass case in the far back of the shop and smiled broadly at the sales clerk. "Mr. Gibbons," he said, introducing himself.

The clerk nodded and gestured to a plain door off to one side. "Of course, Mr. Gibbons. Right this way."

Reddington thanked the attendant as they were led into the back of the shop and down a steep flight of stairs. As they emerged into a dimly lit, extravagantly decorated room, Liz realized this was some sort of private club.

Of course Reddington wouldn't take her for drinks at a regular bar. Of course not. Liz wondered when she'd stop being surprised by these sorts of things. Probably never.

Dembe walked ahead of them, all business, scanning the room as he strode toward the bar. Several other servers and members of the staff smiled at them and greeted Reddington as 'Mr. Gibbons' as he and Liz made their way to a plush booth on one side of the room.

The server who seated them looked expectantly at Reddington, who ordered two drinks Liz had never heard of, and two cigars.

"Ah," Reddington sighed, stretching an arm across the back of the booth toward Liz. "I love this place. Smells like decadence and vice."

"Who are these people?" Liz asked, trying to glance around without being overly obvious.

"Exactly," Reddington said. Their server appeared again at their table with the cigars. "Oh, thank you," Reddington smiled, taking both, as well as the small silver tray with associated paraphernalia. Liz watched silently as he prepared one, lit it, and passed it across the table to her. She shook her head, wrinkling her nose.

"Mm-mm," she refused.

"Well, hold it, at least. Wave it around," he said, still offering it to her. "At least look like someone who wants to be here. The owner's going to be making his rounds soon enough."

Liz took the cigar and held it gingerly. Her fingers were going to smell for days, she could already tell. "Listen, Red, I appreciate you trying to cheer me up with this, but I just found out that my husband murdered my father, speeding up his death by just enough time that I didn't get to say goodbye. And even if Tom hadn't killed him that day, he would apparently have died shortly thereafter…" Liz lifted the cigar a few inches and turned it slightly, pointing it towards Reddington. "…of lung cancer."

Reddington, having just lit his own and taken an initial puff, cringed and blew out the smoke away from Liz. "Forgive me," he said immediately. "Should I put these out?"

"Why are we here?" Liz asked seriously. "At first I thought you were just taking me out for a drink because of tonight's… revelations, and you thought I needed one. But my situation is obviously not on your mind right now; I can tell. You're here for some other reason, and you're letting me tag along. Why are we here."

Reddington cocked an eyebrow at Liz. "Well, aren't you astute this evening."

"I'm just not in the mood for bullshit."

"I can see that," Reddington said, lifting his cigar again. "You didn't answer my question. Do you want me to put these out?"

"You can keep yours," Liz said, passing hers back to him. He set it in an ornate cut glass dish between them. "But you didn't answer my question, either. Why are we here?"

"I already told you. The owner of this place is going to stop by our table in the next few minutes. We need to speak to him."

Liz couldn't help her gaze dropping to Reddington's mouth as he turned his face away from her and brought his cigar to his lips. She knew he smoked cigars—she even knew his preferred brands—but there was something about his practiced movements, the comfortable way his mouth accepted the end of the cigar… She hadn't expected...

Liz realized her lips had parted, and she was staring openly at him. She dropped her eyes quickly to the table, mentally chastising herself for her lack of concentration. Why did her life have to be so complicated? Guilt washed over her as her cheeks flushed. She'd just learned that her husband had killed her father, and yet her life was continuing to trundle forward, not pausing for what seemed like an appropriate period of time to let her catch her breath. The psychologist in her understood that this was a common reaction: many people felt some kind of guilt for an extended period of time after the death of a loved one, but the rest of the world didn't stop just because one girl lost her adoptive father. There were still bad guys, she still had a job, and Reddington was still… Reddington.

"What do you need to speak to the owner about?" Liz asked, her voice tight.

"Charles!" Reddington said, suddenly all smiles. He stood, greeting the man approaching the table with open arms.

"Good to see you again, my friend," the owner said, enveloping Reddington in a hug.

As they separated and Reddington took his seat again, he gestured to Liz. "Charles, this is Natalie—"

Liz extended her hand to shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, plastering an easy smile on her face. She turned to Reddington. "And you said you don't have any friends," she chided good-naturedly, one eyebrow raised.

"Listen, Charles, I need to know whether this gentleman has been in recently," Reddington said, passing a copy of the cloned passport The Kingmaker had used to Charles.

"Oh, I'm not in the business of revealing my clientele, but… considering Mali…"

Reddington gave a boisterous laugh. "Oh my God, Mali!" He turned to Liz. "The tiniest woman on Earth. What a marvel. The things she could do…"

"On her head…" Charles interjected.

"That's right! On her head… Oh, I wish you could have met her," Reddington said, smiling fondly and chuckling.

"Anyway, about your inquiry," Charles offered. "He was here for dinner a few evenings ago. Mr. King."

Liz and Reddington shot each other a quick look. "How perfectly on the nose," Reddington said softly. Turning back to Charles, he asked, "Did he happen to leave a telephone number when he made his reservation?"

"No, but he was complaining about the heat register at the Brixton…?" Charles hinted with a wink before excusing himself to continue his rounds.

…:::…

Several hours later, Liz called Ressler from the Kingmaker's hotel room.

"You broke into someone's hotel room with Reddington?" Ressler groaned, and Liz could hear sheets rustling. "Ugh. Keen, I don't even know what time it is…"

"I know, it's late—"

"Actually, I believe we can officially classify this as 'early'," Reddington said pleasantly from the other side of the room where he was still shuffling through the papers spread out across the hotel room desk.

Liz waved a shushing hand. "—but we found blueprints and photos of a home, along with alarm codes and wiring schematics. Reddington thinks it's a breaching plan, and I've got an address for you. I think we need to get there now."

"Why?" Ressler grumbled.

"Because I think this is the house of US senator."

…:::…

Liz and Reddington were benched once they arrived at the Post Office.

"You two need to stop with the unauthorized stunts," Cooper bellowed. "You—" He jabbed a finger at Liz. "—are not a field agent. And you—" He pointed at Reddington. "Are skating on very thin ice with me. You know Agent Keen had a spotless record before you turned yourself in? You've become a bad influence on her."

"Why, Harold," Reddington said affectionately. "That's the nicest compliment I think you've ever given me. I'm very fond of you, too."

"Sir, do we have a team in place at Mitchell's house yet?" Liz asked.

"They're en route. You two are both staying put, though. You can watch from here."

"But sir, you wouldn't even know Senator Mitchell is the next target if we hadn't—"

"Not another word, Agent Keen," Cooper said sternly, turning to Aram. "Where are we on the senator's background?"

"He's clean—I can't find anything on him," Aram answered, continuing to type. "He's a boy scout."

Reddington walked toward Aram. "Yes, but if the goal is to kill him, who benefits? He dies, it triggers a special election. Who wants his seat?"

"Patrick Chandler," Liz said suddenly.

"The state assemblyman whose wife just died?" Cooper asked, his brow furrowed.

"In an accident…" Liz looked at Reddington, who nodded, agreeing with her theory.

"A freshman politician is suddenly thrust into the spotlight, his selfless heroism on full display… that kind of thing just reeks of the Kingmaker," Reddington confirmed as Dembe approached him and spoke quietly in his ear. Reddington nodded.

"Send a unit out to Chandler's house to watch him, and—Reddington! Where do you think you're going?" Cooper stopped mid-sentence as Reddington and Dembe started toward the door.

"It looks like you've got all of this well in hand," Reddington said over his shoulder.

"I told you and Agent Keen to stay—"

"Yes, but Harold, I don't work for you. Agent Keen can remain and be babysat, but I'm a big boy, and I'll take my 'bad influence' somewhere else. It's been a long night, and I'm in the mood for a greasy breakfast."

…:::…

Reddington was thoroughly irritated by the time Fitch joined him. He was anxious about the apprehension of the Kingmaker, and would not have left the black site an hour ago if it could have been helped.

"I've been waiting here for twenty minutes," Reddington said angrily as Fitch took a seat across from him. "I can't remember the last time—"

"Ray, before you say what you're about to say, I was told to skip this meeting entirely. To not come here at all. You're feeling disrespected, but the fact that I even walked in here is proof that the opposite is true."

Reddington frowned. This wasn't starting off well. "I take it you've spoken with your colleagues."

"We're out, Ray," Fitch said simply.

"That's a mistake," Reddington warned.

"Yeah, so you said. But we can handle ourselves. We can do our own risk assessment." When Reddington said nothing, Fitch went on, "Look, for what it's worth, I know… I know who you are, and I know what you're doing. What you felt you had to do over the last two decades, and why you were put in that position."

"You don't know the half of it," Reddington growled.

"But I know a whole lot more than most everyone else," Fitch pointed out. "And I voted to step in, but others were… not as forward-thinking. There are some among us who think we should have killed you outright; called your bluff about whether or not you actually have this… alleged evidence."

"And that would be another mistake. Like you said… you know me considerably better than either of us would like to admit. I will win this war. This enemy of mine will lose. Even with you and your short-sighted brethren watching safely from a distant hill. Because as bad as you may think I am, as far as you think I'm willing to go to protect that which I hold most dear, you can't possibly fathom how deep that well of mine truly goes."

"Now, Ray, I know how you get when you value something. You get scary," Fitch admitted. "But it isn't about your family this time. This is just about you. And the FBI notwithstanding… You don't have a lot of friends or family these days. You're on your own, more so than you've been in a long time, I think. I don't know how much this will mean to you, but… I want you to be careful. And watch your back."

Fitch's attempt at an olive branch fell on deaf ears. Reddington stood, palmed his hat onto his head, and listed slightly to the right as he looked down on Fitch before he left. "If you think I'm scary when I have something to protect... just imagine what I might become if I think I've got nothing to lose. You think you've come here simply to say that you can't help me, but all you've done is ensure that when this is all over, I won't be able to help you. When the day inevitably comes that I settle up with you and your little Alliance, it will be you, Alan, alone in the dark."

…:::…

As Reddington brushed past Dembe in the foyer, he held out his hand and demanded, "Phone." Dialing quickly, he pushed out through the doors, Dembe jogging ahead of him to start the car.

Liz picked up on the second ring. "Reddington, you should get back here," she said immediately.

"I'm on my way. Agent Keen, listen to me very closely. I need you to hold him for me. Ten minutes with him; that's all I need. I must know who commissioned that hit on the politician in Prague." Reddington slid into the back seat of the car and Dembe pulled away from the curb.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Red, that's not going to be possible," she said, before being interrupted again.

"We discussed this," Reddington said irritably. "You know that piece of information was the entire reason I brought you this case."

Liz closed her eyes with a wince. "Red, I'm sorry... The Kingmaker is dead."

Gritting his teeth, Reddington pulled the phone away from his ear and punched the button the end the call. He closed his phone and threw it angrily on the seat next to him, wiping at his chin in agitation as he stared out the window at the blur of the city.

…:::…

TBC.