With Fusco home presumably asleep and Joss out in Queens with John, Finch was forced to simply hack into the city's domain awareness cameras in search of Ms Shaw. He wasn't unduly perturbed by this – really it wasn't much slower than using the detectives' legitimate access – but it did force him to concentrate at a time of the day when concentration was becoming difficult. His battered body didn't co-operate well with sleeping even at the best of times, though, so probably he wasn't even really missing out on much sleep anyway. And at least he could do this from his own home and not the draughty subway station. His back could thank him for that much at least.

Knowing where Shaw had started out from was a help, but what time was the problem. He focussed on the cameras within a hundred metres of Sundowner at first, then began the tedious chore of inspecting the footage from each one during the window of time from when he was sure she was no longer answering her phone. He worked backwards on each one until he was certain she was nowhere to be found, and then moved to the next camera to repeat the process again.

By 3 am he was no closer to finding Ms Shaw. Though the varied activities of the city's creatures of the night as caught on camera were an education, worthy of a nature documentary. He checked his watch. No: it was simply too late at night – or early in the morning – and he was becoming careless. Time to stop. Sighing, he closed down his system and staggered off to bed in the hopes of a couple of hours' sleep.

xxxx

When Shaw woke up next, the man sitting by her bed had changed. Instead of Dark Hair/Green Eyes there was Reddish Hair/Blue Eyes. The MI6 guy she'd seen tailing McKay the previous morning, in fact. He cast a cold glance at her as she stirred. Spending the night in one enforced position hadn't been much fun: she was usually a restless sleeper, and having to stay half curled with her hands tied behind her back was causing cramps, well, pretty much everywhere.

The thin strip of the outside world which was visible between the drawn curtains was blue-black: dawn was some way off. There was a tap at the door. Blue Eyes moved swiftly over to the peep-hole, then relaxed and opened up. Green Eyes, the cute one, shouldered through the door and closed it quickly behind him. There was murmured conversation between the two men which try as she might she couldn't quite catch, apart from the words "...she's awake now..." said in a Scottish accent. Then Blue Eyes left, and Green Eyes came over to sit in the chair by her bed.

Shaw tried to change position a little, but with hands and feet still restrained in the zip ties, she couldn't achieve much. There was also the matter of some physical necessities…

"Hey. Unless you've got a plan on how to explain the mess on their bed to the hotel staff, you're gonna have to let me up to go potty sometime."

Green Eyes grimaced. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

"You can trust me to piss myself pretty soon, I'll tell you that much," retorted Shaw.

Green Eyes looked harried. Bet you never even thought this through before you kidnapped me, you dumbass, she thought to herself. "What if I promise I'll be good," she whispered suggestively. He still looked unconvinced.

"Look, you took the duct tape off, didn't you? I haven't screamed or – what was your phrase? Made a fuss? C'mon."

"Okay," he said reluctantly. He produced a knife and cut the zip ties. Shaw sat up, rubbing her wrists and simultaneously trying to shrug the cramps out of her shoulders.

"Oh, God, that's good," she muttered in relief. She tried to stand. Cramps in her calves and thighs; she made a few shaky steps towards the bathroom and nearly fell as her knees refused to cooperate. Green Eyes grabbed her under the elbows as she stumbled. "Thanks," she husked. Through the door into the toilet cubicle. He stood at the open door, apologetically raising his brows and shrugging as she hastily skinned out of her leather pants and nearly collapsed again – onto the toilet this time.

"Oh God, that's good," she repeated. After she had finished she sat for a while, feeling the circulation returning to her cramped limbs. Green Eyes watched silently. From his expression there was some kind of internal conflict going on between courtesy and caution. Sadly, caution was winning – he wasn't letting her out of his sight. With a sigh, Shaw stood up and refastened her pants.

Green Eyes turned away for a fraction of a second as she came out of the bathroom, which gave her her chance. She lunged, aiming for a choke hold. Only to find herself slammed back against the wall as he spun like a cat and evaded her grasp, slowed as she was by her recovering muscles. She was pinned there by him, his face two inches from hers, their panted breaths mingling. Just for a second she found herself staring deep into those green eyes. Then he kissed her.

Xxxx

Can you hear me?

Bowen nearly jumped out of his skin. There was a voice in his ear, which wasn't that unusual, but it was definitely a woman's voice with an American accent.

"Who the hell are you?" he whispered after a moment.

I'm a friend. I think I can help you out with your little problem.

"Which problem is that?" He had no idea what was going on, or even if this wasn't just another dream.

The one you're trying to solve now. Where you have to kill two American citizens, seize a certain file, and then flee the country before the CIA or worse catch up with you.

"Worse?"

Yeah, there's one guy you're at risk of pissing off. He has an excellent line in murderous revenge rampages. So I'm trying to defuse the situation now. Before people get hurt.

Bowen sat up in the predawn darkness, more than half tempted to dig out the earpiece. Whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

"Okay, so you're trying to help. Whoever you are." He blinked his eyes several times, trying to pull himself together. "How are you up on our comms? And why on earth would I trust you?"

Your name is Martin Andrew Bowen. You're forty-two years old, and you work for the British SIS. You read history and political science at New College, Oxford, but got bored before you finished your degree and joined the British Army Paratroop Regiment. Where you showed a talent for languages which took you into military intelligence, and thence to SIS. You have a failed marriage, no kids, you hate sushi and you still mourn the death eight years ago of the horse your parents bought you as a twenty-first birthday present. You-

"Okay, okay." He held up his hands to stop the stream of information, though he wasn't sure who he was gesturing to, or how they could see him in the dark of the hotel room. "So you know a lot about me. But that still doesn't tell me why I should trust you."

There was a pause. I can see your problem. The voice sounded taken aback.

He pressed his advantage. "If you want me to trust you, you'll have to prove yourself."

Oh. That's what Joss said once.

He blinked. "Who?"

Never mind.

"Anyway, if you want my co-operation, there's a price."

A long pause. What price?

Now it was his turn to consider. "You know about the file. So you know what's in it?"

Yes.

"So you understand why we need to recover it."

Yes.

"You know where it is right now?"

Yes.

"Will you help us get it?"

He waited for a response, but he wasn't expecting laughter.

That's what I can never believe about you people. Recovering the file is exactly what I'm trying to do for you. Trust issues! You've all got trust issues, but I swear, Martin, you're the only human I've dealt with so far whose price for accepting my help, was accepting my help! In your own way you're even more screwed up than… someone else I know who's really screwed up.

He sat for a moment, scrubbing at his face with both hands to try to wake himself up, or convince himself he wasn't going mad, or, or something. "Okay," he said at last. "So you're going to help me. What happens next, then?"

Give me a little while. I'm going to try to set up a meet.

The voice stopped. There was no sound, but a sudden… absence… in his ear seemed to signal its departure. He lay back again. That was without doubt one of the strangest experiences in his life. If it wasn't an illusion. Presumably time would tell. He decided to give the voice until 08:00 to set up its meet. After that, he and David would proceed with their plan. Because time, after all, was a limited resource.

xxxxx

Shaw was surprised at herself. Green Eyes – gah, she needed to get his name – was a good kisser. After the initial shock she was quite enjoying this, and set herself to a thorough exploration of his mouth. He'd evidently just brushed his teeth, which she appreciated. Eventually they were forced to come up for air.

"Shit," he said. "What the hell was that?"

"Lust, I think," she said, panting a little. "Anyway, you started it."

"Crap," he said. And lunged at her again. This time his hands began to move, tracing her cheekbones, eyebrows, burying themselves in her hair. Somehow her own hands found his waistband, moved up under his shirt. Then some kind of sanity returned to her and she stopped. Twisted out from under him and broke the clinch. He looked dazed, and Shaw suspected she looked much the same.

"This can't happen," she said. "I mean, just no way can it happen. You snatched me off the street, you drugged me, you're a foreign intelligence operative here for some reason, and I, I, I..."

"And you're Sameen Shaw. You used to work for ISA until you disappeared a year or two back."

That drove the lingering hormones from her system instantly. "How the hell did you know that?"

He smiled. "I didn't. Till now."

"Shit." She ran a hand through her hair, wincing slightly as her still-sore shoulder muscles pulled. "Bastard. That was-"

"Exactly what you'd have done in the same position. Admit it."

The glare she shot at him should have reduced him to ash; instead he shrugged and smiled sadly. "Hey, I'm just doing my job, Sameen."

She pushed past him to go and sit on the bed. "It's a good thing for you I don't do emotions. Anyone else would be feeling..." pretty betrayed right about now, she finished to herself silently.

He looked confused. "What do you mean, you don't do emotions?"

"Axis Two personality disorder. I don't feel emotions much. Well, anger I can do. Not much else." She glared at him again. "Feeling pretty angry right now, actually."

His brows drew in. "Why?"

It was her turn to frown. "What do you mean, 'why'?"

"You just said you didn't do emotions. But you're angry at me for doing my job. Why? Why are you having any emotional response at all?"

"Are you trying to psychoanalyse me?" Shaw's voice was dangerous.

He shrugged again, and moved over to sit in the chair. "Nothing much else to do right now. Plus I'm curious. For someone who doesn't do emotions, you seemed to be enjoying yourself just now, and now you're angry at me. Just seems a bit inconsistent. I mean, you should be either a normal woman feeling hurt and betrayed, or a sociopath feeling, well, not much at all. Make your bloody mind up is what I'm saying, I suppose."

She stared at him in frustration. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that? And I'm angry with myself for being taken in by a fake kiss, okay? That's why I'm mad."

"Ah." A strangely appealing smile. "The thing is, Sameen – it wasn't fake."

xxxx

The arrival of dawn left Joss with a choice. She could either call in sick, or she needed to pry herself off the row of chairs where John had insisted she lie down for the last couple of hours and drag herself in to work. Neither prospect filled her with much joy. Although she hadn't called in sick much over the last three months, she knew from experience that her lifestyle as Reese and Finch's Little Helper was going to see her bailing out of her day job a lot more than she was really comfortable with. On the other hand… she got off the makeshift bed and wandered over to the door to Henry Harris' room. There was John, sitting bolt upright in a chair watching the door. His face was set in that calm mask he assumed habitually, but she could read the underlying tension in his posture. She dug out her phone and made the call.

Once she had finished making her excuses she pushed the door open and went in. Harris was still asleep, or unconscious. The oxygen hissed from its tank. John's slight movement as he shifted in his seat to acknowledge her presence seemed out of place in the stillness of the room.

"You wanna go and have a rest?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "The nurse came in a couple of hours ago. He's stable for now. She thought he might wake up after dawn."

"You sure you want to talk to him again?" she couldn't help asking.

A tiny, wry smile. "Might be my last chance."

"To do what? Get your side of the story out there?"

"Something like that."

Joss grimaced. "You know, John, I tried that for nearly my whole life with Mom. I don't know your Grandpa, but some people it'll never work for. You have to find other ways to make a connection."

"That's the point, though, Joss. I don't know him either. Maybe this is a second chance for me." The appeal in his eyes was unmistakeable.

She reached out and stroked his hair. "I hope so, John. I hope so."

xxxx

Harold raised his hand to knock at McKay's door. "I hope this works, Bear," he murmured to the dog.

He had come to the conclusion that appealing directly to McKay's common sense was the best way forward. John and Joss were tied up out in Queens, Shaw was AWOL or worse – he refused to think too much about that right now, one thing at a time – and with only himself and Fusco left, Finch felt himself running out of options. Spoofing the security to get into the building unobserved was the easy part; persuading McKay to come with him to a safe house was likely to be much harder.

He knocked. There was a long pause; Finch's examination of the building's entry and exit logs suggested that McKay left for work at around nine each morning. Doubtless he considered seven-thirty a horrendously early hour.

At last the door opened a few inches. A blue eye, slightly bloodshot, squinted at him suspiciously.

"Mr McKay? I'm Harold Partridge, I was wondering if I could have a word with you about a matter of great importance." Harold put on his best "I am here to help you" voice.

The eye blinked. "How the hell did you get in here? I never buzzed you in from the foyer."

"That's really not important, Mr McKay. But I have reason to believe you're in grave danger. I can help you, but you need to come with me to a safer location." Even as he said the words Harold was aware of just how… lame… they sounded.

McKay blinked again. "No." The door began to close.

Desperately Harold jammed his foot in the narrowing crack. "Mr McKay, I'm aware of how improbable this sounds, but I assure you I'm telling you the truth. There are very dangerous people after you, it's tied up with British Intelligence, and I need to move you somewhere they can't locate you."

The door stopped moving. "Shit," hissed McKay's voice from behind it. There was a pause, and the door opened again. McKay was standing there in a blue plush bath robe. Finch was struck again by his resemblance to Mr Reese. McKay gestured him inside and closed the door behind them. He eyed Bear doubtfully.

"I suggest you gather your things and come with me now, Mr McKay," said Harold briskly. "I have no way of knowing how soon the men hunting you will strike, and I would really prefer to be elsewhere when they do."

McKay nodded at this. "Just give me a moment," he said, and disappeared through a doorway, leaving Harold standing in the small lobby with its white painted walls and potted plants. His voice was quite different to John's, Harold was relieved to notice. The accent was of course similar, but in volume and cadence he was quite the opposite of his cousin. Quicker and louder, somehow. After a moment Harold decided to follow him into the rest of the apartment. With Bear pacing at his side he walked through the doorway into a large, well-lit living area. McKay was still in his bathrobe, getting something out of a drawer. He turned to face Harold, and Finch found himself staring at the small black gun in McKay's hand. Bear came to attention too, suddenly quivering and tense.

"Mr McKay, we don't have time-" Harold began, but the other man cut him off.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you know?" asked McKay. His voice was loud in the quiet room.

"My name is Harold Partridge, and-"

"Cut the bullshit! Who are you really?"

Finch breathed deeply and tried to relax, hoping that perhaps he could transmit some calm to the dangerously tense man in front of him. "My name really isn't important, Mr McKay. I know you're in danger, and I'm trying to help you. That's all you need to know right now."

McKay shook his head. "Uh-uh. Tell me what you know." As Harold hesitated he raised the gun a little further. "Tell me!"

At his side Bear was stock still, ready to go the instant Finch dropped the lead. In a sudden floating moment several things came to Harold all at once. First, this man wasn't used to handling a gun. Second, he was not half as scary as John. He was like a tabby cat trying to be a tiger. Bear would be able to take him easily. Third, he himself wasn't at all frightened; in fact he had complete confidence amounting to foreknowledge that this situation was going to turn out exactly as he visualised it. He pondered this for what seemed like several minutes: was this how John felt when he went into action? Then the moment contracted back into now. He dropped the lead and Bear sprang forward.

To be continued...