"Her name is Julie Mullins," Finch said when he returned. He taped her picture to the board, took his cup from Reese's hand. She was a pretty blonde with short hair and brown eyes. "Thirty years old, works as a translator for a company called Universal Transport. They specialize in international shipments and logistics. She has an apartment in Brooklyn. Clean driving record. Unremarkable financials."

"International shipments may imply drugs," Reese mused.

"Perhaps."

Reese picked up his phone and dialed. On the fifth ring, a breathless woman answered, "Uhhh … Universal Transport, how can I help you?"

"Julie Mullins, please," Reese said evenly.

"One moment." There was a lengthy pause. "I'm sorry, Ms. Mullins isn't in today. Would you like her voice mail?"

Reese raised one eyebrow at Finch. "No, thanks. I'll try her at home."

"I … uh … believe she's out of town," the woman told him.

"Oh. All right then. I'll try her back next week. Thank you."

He hung up the phone, stood up. "I think I'll take a drive out to Brooklyn."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Finch answered. "I'll see what else I can find out about her."

"Let me know."

Reese let himself into the apartment and waited just inside the door, listening. There didn't seem to be anyone home. He looked around. Nice enough place, mid-range furniture, fairly neat. Small. He moved through the living room and glanced through a doorway at the single bedroom. The bed wasn't made. Smallish bathroom, with one damp towel thrown over the shower rod. One toothbrush in the holder next to the sink. He opened the medicine cabinet. Clearly only a woman lived here; no sign of a man. He went to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. It looked like a single woman's refrigerator, too, one who was a little worried about her weight.

He moved back to the living room and looked around more closely. There was framed commercial art on the wall, nothing helpful. In a drawer he found an electronic photo frame. He turned it on and flipped through all the pictures in it. There were four dozen, nearly all of them of a Hispanic family. The very last one was a group of young women. He snapped a picture of it with his phone, then plugged in a flash drive and downloaded all the photos. When it was done, he put the frame away.

By the front door there was a trash can that overflowed with junk mail. He bent and picked a handful out. None of it had been opened. He flipped through the stack, then touched his earpiece. "Finch? You there?"

"I'm here, Mr. Reese."

"Mary Delgado," he read off the junk mail. "Sarah Towne, with an 'e'. Rachel Smith. Serena Orazco." He ran through the stack again, then dropped it back into the trash.

"And who are they?" Finch asked.

"Possibly they're all sharing this cozy one-bedroom apartment with Julie Mullins. But more likely they're all fake identities." He sent the photo he'd taken from the electronic picture frame. "This may be them. Or not. But judging from the other pictures, the Hispanic girl is the only one who lives here."

"So where is Miss Mullins?" Finch wondered.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

There was clicking in the silence. "All of these young women are friends on Facebook," Finch finally said. "None of them are particularly active. Nothing controversial or even very personal." There was another pause. "You're right; I don't think any of these are real identities."

Reese studied the picture again. Five young women, all in t-shirts and shorts, all smiling, sweaty. Fit. Their target was second from the right. "Her name is not Julie Mullins, Finch."

"Obviously," Finch answered. "And we have no idea where to locate her. I'll find out what the five have in common."

"It's a good bet that Universal Transport is a front company, too," Reese offered.

Finch sighed. "You knew it wouldn't be an easy one, didn't you?"

"I had my suspicions." Reese let himself out of the apartment.

"As we know," Finch said, when Reese got back to the library, "when the Machine gives us a Number that's part of a false identification, it generally means that that ID has been compromised."

"She's an undercover?" Reese asked.

"I believe so. But I haven't been able to determine what agency she works for. You're sure she doesn't live in the apartment?"

"It's just a mail drop."

"As you predicted, Universal Transport is a false front as well." He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. A headache was gathering behind his eyes. "She's in danger, Mr. Reese, whatever her name is. We need to locate her. And I really have no idea where to look."

Before Reese could answer, Finch's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID and relief surged through his body. "Will! Are you alright?"

The young man laughed. The connection was filled with static, but he'd have known that laugh anywhere. "I'm alright, Uncle Harold. I'm fine."

"I was scared to death, Will."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Reese retreat from the main room, down the corridor toward the stairs. It gave the illusion of privacy, though Finch was sure he could still hear every word he said. He didn't care. Not as much as he might have once, anyhow.

"I know," Will said, "and I'm sorry. Really, this was no big deal…"

"You were kidnapped at gunpoint." Finch snapped. "That's a big deal. A very big deal, in my book."

"We're fine," the boy said again. "We're not hurt. We barely had time to be scared. I promise, Uncle Harold, we're okay."

Harold sat back, forced himself to take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Will. I'm probably over-reacting. I just …" He let the words fall off. But maybe the boy needed to hear them. "I couldn't stand to lose you, too."

He did not turn his head, but peripherally he could see Reese studiously not react.

"I know, Uncle Harold." Will's voice was soft for a moment, gentle. Then he cleared his throat, because conversational again. "So, um, the State Department has us and they're making us fly back to New York."

"Good."

"I don't really think it's necessary. I mean, we're not hurt or anything, I don't see why we …"

"If you're asking me to intervene, Will …"

"Could you?"

"Absolutely not. They must have their reasons."

"Uncle Harold …"

"And I want you back here. I want to see for myself that you're not hurt."

The boy sighed, audibly exasperated.

"Besides," Finch cajoled gently, "you probably need a real shower and a good meal anyhow."

There was a brief pause. "All right. I'll come home for a while."

"Good."

"But just for a while. Not really like I have any choice. But listen, can you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Can you meet me – us – at the airport?" There was muttering behind him. "Air strip, I guess. I don't know where they're flying us in to, I'll let you know."

"Of course," Harold repeated. He did glance at Reese then. Being invited to a secret government airstrip set off all his internal alarms. Reese moved closer, a little crease of concern between his eyes.

Finch reached out, hesitated, then pressed the key that put the rest of the conversation on speaker. The sentimental part of the conversation was over, anyhow.

Will's voice dropped to a near whisper. "And, um, could you bring chocolate?"

"Chocolate?"

"Really good chocolate. Like Godiva, one of those? Not a lot, just like, ten pieces. Dark chocolates, no nuts."

Finch frowned at his computer screens, not seeing them. "You don't like dark chocolate, Will."

Reese tipped his head, puzzled. He obviously wondered if it was some kind of code. Finch wondered the same thing.

"Yeah, I know." Will cleared his throat again, but continued to speak very softly. "The other, uh, the other hostage. She's coming back with me, on the plane. She doesn't have any family to meet her, so I thought … not a big box, she's kind of a health nut. Just a little …"

"Will …" Harold said.

The voice grew quieter still, but there was a smile in it. "I really want you to meet her, Uncle Harold. She's, um … she's pretty special."

"You were kidnapped with this woman for, what, three hours, and now you're telling me you have feelings for her?" Finch asked carefully.

Reese shook his head. Evidently it sounded like a terrible idea to him, too.

"No, it's not like that. I've been crazy about her for weeks, way before we were kidnapped, I just never got anywhere with her. But you should have seen her, Uncle Harold. She was just … I was scared to death, and she was just so calm, so together … look, just come and meet her, okay? And bring her chocolate? She's had a rough couple days."

"As have you," Finch sighed. "I will bring chocolates. Dark, no nuts. Understood."

"Thanks. I, uh … thanks. I gotta go."

Reese suddenly leaned down, urgently mouthed several words. Finch blinked at him, confused. He repeated it. "Will, wait," Finch said swiftly.

"Yeah?"

"Your young lady. What's her name?"

"Oh. Her name's Julie," Will answered. "Julie Mullins."

The library was silent. Except it wasn't, of course. Noise from outside traffic filtered in through the windows. The generator hummed; the computers whispered. The only sound missing was the omnipresent click of a keyboard. But its absence made the library seem lifeless.

Finch stared at his monitor. His fingers rested on the home keys. But he was not typing. Or moving. Reese had to look closely to make sure he was even breathing. "Harold," he said gently.

The genius turned his head a little to meet his eyes. "What if she means to kill him? What if she intends to murder Will?"

Reese shook his head firmly. "She's had dozens of opportunities to do that already. Think, Harold. If she wanted him dead, she'd have made it happen by now."

"Oh." Finch blinked. John could almost see the paralyzing fear leave him. He took a deep breath. Began to focus. "Oh. Of course."

"That doesn't mean he's in the clear," Reese continued reluctantly. "If someone's after her and he gets in the way, or if someone's after her because she stopped them from getting to him … but Will Ingram is not her target. I'm sure of that much."

Finch nodded. "Is she safe, for now? Are they safe?"

"State's got them wrapped up. They won't let either of them out of their sight until they get them back here."

"So we have a little time."

"Yes." Reese could see that the gears had re-engaged in Finch's head; he was thinking again, and probably faster than John ever would. "And we know we can start looking for background on her with State."

"I didn't know the State Department even had undercover agents," Finch admitted.

"Not many," Reese confirmed. "So she should be easy to find."

"Yes." Finch reached for the keyboard, then paused. "Will doesn't know, does he?"

"Probably not. Julie Mullins, or whatever her name is, is a government minder. Her job is to follow him around and keeps him out of trouble. And if that doesn't work, she calls in the big guns to get him out of trouble."

"He had a security team. He didn't know about that, either."

"Why not?"

"Will's very independent. And highly resentful of the limitations that he felt his father's wealth imposed on him. When he was in high school he thought his bodyguard was reporting back to his father." He began typing.

"Was he?"

"Of course he was." Finch looked mildly annoyed . "So Will took to shaking him off whenever he could. They fought about it constantly. When Will went to college, Nathan discontinued the protection."

"Except he didn't," Reese guessed. "He just had them drop back a little, stay out of sight."

"Yes."

John nodded. "State knew about them. That's why they sent him a minder instead of a real covert op."

Finch raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't stop typing.

"State's agents are primarily assigned to diplomats and their families," Reese explained. "And they're mostly in the open. They have less training than some of the other agencies. A lot of their people aren't ex-military." He shrugged. "They're good at what they do. They're very diplomatic. Good at smoothing things over, making things run right. But if they get into trouble, they whistle for the big dogs. Our girl would have known about the private team. When they vanished, she screamed for help. Which is exactly what she's supposed to do. That's why there was an extraction team there. They weren't planning on having to rescue him. They were just going to throw him in a bag and get him out."

"Will would have been furious."

A little smirk pulled at the corner of Reese's mouth. "The mission would have been to get him out safe, not happy."

"Found her," Finch announced. He gestured to the screen. "Miss Mullins is actually Miss Essex. Mrs. Essex," he corrected. He frowned at the screen. "She married Paul Essex in 2004. He's a …" there was a brief pause for scrolling and tapping. "He was Marine corporal."

"Was?"

"He was killed in 2006 in Afghanistan."

Reese shook his head. "Is that when she went to the State Department?"

"No. She'd been working at a consulate in Germany since shortly after they were married. But after Paul's death it does look like she retrained for field assignments." He looked further. "Before her marriage, she was …"

There was a very long pause. Reese stood up and moved closer. "Finch?"

Finch shook his head, aggravated. "It looks like everything prior to her marriage to Corporal Essex has been redacted."

"Standard procedure for undercovers. Even with State."

"It limits our knowledge," Finch complained. "Which limits our ability to help her."

"I doubt that an old college rival is trying to kill her now," Reese pointed out. "We're in good shape, Finch. We know who she is and who she works for. We know where she'll be tomorrow, and we know she's safe until then."

"Yes," Finch said dryly. "The only thing we don't know is who may be planning to kill her and why."

"Or who she may be planning to kill and why. But we have time to work on that." Reese rolled a chair closer. "We need to talk about you going to the airstrip, Harold. It's a bad idea."

Finch nodded. "You think this whole kidnapping drama may be a means to trap me." From his tone, that scenario had already occurred to him.

"I think we need to consider that possibility."

"I can't not go, John."

That was the answer Reese had expected. "That may be the point, Harold. They may have found the one thing you can't refuse."

Finch sat back, folded his arms over his chest. "If that were true, though, they could easily have detained me in my office."

"True." Reese sat quietly for a minute, rolling the possibilities around in his head. "Their choice of airstrip may tell us a lot about their intentions," he finally said.

"We probably won't know that until morning."

"Which may also be part of their plan." It was standard SOP to conceal the location of a meet from the enemy for as long as possible. It limited their ability to prepare, gave your side an advantage. He sighed. "Take a look, Harold. Look for chatter, for spikes in …"

"I know what to look for," Finch reminded him, with just a bit of tartness in his voice.

"I know you do. I just wanted to make sure you weren't too distracted by Ingram and the girl."

Finch glared at him for a moment. Then his expression softened and he unfolded his arms. "Will can be a bit of a distraction at times," he admitted reluctantly.

"Yeah. I got that impression." Reese shrugged. "It may be nothing. It may be exactly as it's been presented. But as you're fond of saying, only the paranoid survive."

Reese returned to the library just after seven the next morning. He hadn't really wanted to leave the night before, but Finch had convinced him that first, he wasn't doing anything useful and second, once their target was back in the country, sleep might become a very rare commodity.

There was a third element that had gone unspoken. John sensed that Harold was deeply rattled by the day's events, by the reality that he might have lost Will Ingram. Reese would have stayed and tried to soothe his nerves, but Finch wasn't that kind. However deep their friendship became, Finch was at heart a recluse. To get his mental equilibrium back, what he required most was solitude. He wouldn't ask for it, not that baldly, but Reese had sensed his relief when he finally agreed to leave.

Finch had changed his clothes since the night before, but Reese doubted that he'd slept. The active board was full of new postings, mostly letters and reports surrounding their picture of the girl.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese." Finch sounded more like himself. He didn't look up from his desk; he was hunched over a small box wrapped in gold foil.

"You're putting bugs in her chocolate?" Reese said. "That's rather unappetizing."

Finch glanced up at him. "I suppose so, when you put it that way." He straightened, took the tea Reese had brought him with a grateful nod. Turned the box to examine the views on two monitors. "I don't actually anticipate that it will do much good, but I am fond of back-up plans."

Reese nodded. The box contained two cameras on opposite sides and a microphone. It might be useful – unless she put it in a drawer, or shared all the chocolates and threw the box in the trash. Still, it was worth a try. He stepped over to the glass and took a closer look. "You're been busy."

"I've been looking into Ms. Essex's history with the State Department. It's somewhat interesting, if not particularly helpful. But more importantly, at the moment, Mr. Ware just called. Will and Ms. Essex will be arriving around ten this morning."

"Where?"

"The NorthEast Aviation hangar at Teterboro."

Reese could feel the tension sliding off his shoulders. He'd only been half-aware that it was there.

"That's good, isn't it?" Finch continued.

"It's very good. Open, visible, public. It's possible, but it's not a great place for a snatch. Of course, it is in New Jersey."

"You haven't lived in this city long enough to rip on New Jersey," Finch said.

"I've lived here for more than ten minutes. Apparently that's long enough." He sobered. "That doesn't mean you're in the clear, Harold."

"I know. But it does mean it's less likely that the government is up to anything nefarious." He returned to his computer. "I've checked all night. There's some chatter related to the rescue, but nothing more."

Reese glanced at his watch. "I want to get out there first, have a look around. I'll pick up a tie. I can be your driver."

"No," Finch said flatly.

"I'm a very good driver," he protested. "Ask Zoe Morgan, she'll vouch for me."

"I'm sure she will. But if this is a snatch, as you say, I need you on the outside so you can come and get me."

John sighed. He'd pretty much known that was what Finch would say. And the truth was, he was right. But he would have been a lot more comfortable with the whole thing if he could have been right at Harold's back.

He gestured to the board. "Tell me about our girl."

Finch put the lid on the chocolates and stood to join him at the board. "As we learned yesterday, she was in as support position at a US consulate in Germany while her husband was in Afghanistan. After his death, she re-trained and took her first field assignment in 2007. She didn't work undercover, however, until late 2009. Her evaluations are glowing. Her reports are well-written and concise. And she gets love letters from her clients."

He gestured. Reese bent to read one of the letters. It was from an ambassador whose name and location had been redacted, and it praised her work with his small children during what sounded like a brief but violent local uprising. "Kept them calm and entertained," he read aloud, "which greatly assisted the defense of the consulate." He skimmed a little further. "She even helped the older boy get his history project done."

"This one," Finch said, tapping another, "is from a much older statesman, who finds her to be an excellent companion and promising bridge player. And in this one she managed to usher a teenage girl around the city without losing her temper at her even once. Which, I gather from the context, is a significant achievement."

"It doesn't sound like she's done anything particularly challenging," Reese mused. He scanned the other documents. "Still …"

Finch nodded. "I saw it, too."

"They're all rich."

"Rich, powerful, privileged. Or some combination thereof."

"Kind of a cushy niche, but I couldn't do it."

Finch raised one eyebrow. "You don't think you'd get along well with the very wealthy, Mr. Reese?"

"Not with the conventional very wealthy, no."

Harold seemed amused by that answer. He moved on. "Eleven months ago, Ms. Essex began to follow Will. At a distance, at first; apparently she checked in on him three or four times a day, but she didn't make contact. She also noted his security detail daily."

Reese nodded. The boy was covered. She had no reason to get close.

"Seven weeks ago, when he relocated to Mali …" Finch paused and did not quite roll his eyes, "… she signed on to the clinic as support staff and began to track him very closely." He tapped one other paper on the board. "This is her last report."

It was very concise. It contained their location and the exact nature of the expected threat. It was urgent, but not panicked. It explicitly requested an extraction, and it noted that the subject was likely to object.

It was sent roughly six hours before Will Ingram had been kidnapped.

Reese nodded approvingly. Within the limited scope of her training and assignments, Ms. Essex knew her stuff.

"But none of this," Finch complained, "gets us any closer to knowing who might be after her or why."

"True." Reese glanced at his watch again. "I'm going to go poke around New Jersey. Let me know if you find anything else."

On his way out of the library, he gathered a duffle and a small arsenal of guns. He knew Finch could hear him. But for once there was not even a token objection.

Not that it would have made any difference anyhow.

Finch parked his car just outside the steel building that was grandly labeled "NorthEast Aviation Air Hub". The larger part of the building could probably house five or six small jets. The attached entryway, which a smaller sign said was the boarding lounge, was no bigger than thirty feet on a side.

There were two black sedans with federal government plates parked next to the building. There was no one with them.

Harold sat very still for a moment, eyes closed, gripping the steering wheel, trying to fight down the panic that threatened to crush his chest. These were not the government men had betrayed him, that had killed Nathan. They were different men, and they had no quarrel with him. They didn't even know who he was. He was just an insurance man, significant only because he was listed as next of kin to a hot-headed young billionaire. All he had to do was go inside, wait for Will to arrive, and get him out safely.

In his ear, a deep and comforting voice said, "You okay, Finch?"

Finch made himself take a deep breath, and then another one. "I trust you're close by, Mr. Reese."

"Close enough."

"Good." He opened the door and slid out of the car, then reached back to retrieve the gold foil box. "Cameras receiving?"

"Just fine. Audio, too."

Finch took one more deep breath and walked into the building.

They had made the interior as plush as possible, with a deep pile carpet, dark wood trim, and oversized leather furniture. It still looked like a well-furnished tin box.

Finch's two visitors from the previous day were there, together with two other men. One was older, quite tall, and wore a good suit; the other, slightly younger and balding, was clearly dressed off the rack. All four of them looked at him expectantly. But there was no sudden drawing of weapons, no hurry to detain him. Only Ware moved toward him, and he did it casually. "Mr. Wren. Thank you for coming."

"I'm glad to be here," Finch lied.

He followed Ware to the other men. "Mr. Wren, this is Mr. Waldman, our … supervising agent, and Mr. Kemp."

Finch shifted the candy box awkwardly to his other hand and shook hands with both of them. "The plane isn't here yet?"

Walkman looked over his shoulder to the counter. "ETA?"

"On final approach now," the young lady there reported.

"Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Serra asked.

"No, thank you." Finch wandered over to the windows and looked out. He could see the tiny speck of a plane against the gray sky, distant and tiny. He held his breath, waiting for a hand on his shoulder, a harsh voice in his ear. If you're going to do it, he thought, do it now, before the boy gets here. He glanced over his shoulder.

None of the men had moved.

Reluctantly, he moved back toward them. "I want to thank you … to thank you all, for your part in bringing Will home safely," he said.

Waldman nodded. Whatever his title, he was clearly more important than a supervising agent. "I'm glad you're here, Mr. Wren. In light of recent events, we need to have a serious conversation about Dr. Ingram's future travels."

"Ahhh … yes."

Harold had a good idea what the conversation would entail, and his nephew was not going to like it. But if that was the reason they wanted him here, to placate Will Ingram, he would consider himself extremely lucky.

"I hope that you can help him see that traveling under his own identity had become intolerably dangerous."

"I will certainly be happy to stress that point with him," Harold agreed. "He can be, however, quite stubborn."

"We can be more stubborn," Kemp said gruffly. He gestured. "They're almost down."

The men all moved to the windows together. Finch felt crowded, confined among them, but there was still no move to arrest or detain him. He scratched at his ear, touched his earwig for reassurance. Whatever happened, Reese was there. He made himself focus on breathing.

The plane landed without incident and rolled casually to the gate. It was, Finch noted, a Challenger – the trans-Atlantic big brother version of the Lear Jet – a distinction that he'd learned from Nathan Ingram. Ingram preferred the Challenger for its additional headroom. It was not an issue Finch would have noticed on his own. He was …

Distracted.

He took another breath and forced himself to stay alert. The man around him were still relaxed, almost bored. The plane stopped, and there was the usual interminable, unexplainable delay in opening the door. Finch juggled the candy from one hand to the other. He looked down at it, checked that both cameras were undetectable. Except that they weren't, of course, for him; he knew exactly where they were. He set it on the windowsill and looked out the window again.

And what if they'd lied? What if Will wasn't on the plane at all? What if the plan was to rush him out and throw him onto the jet? Reese was good, but he couldn't catch an airplane … and if Will wasn't on the plane, was he already dead somewhere? The idea cut through him like a blade of ice.

And then, mercifully, Will Ingram came through the door of the plane.

Finch's head felt light. His heart felt light. The boy looked thin, tired, dirty. But he was obviously uninjured. He stopped on the third step and looked back, waiting. A young woman followed him out of the plane; Finch was a little relieved that she was, in fact, the young woman in the picture in the library. Will took her hand and led her down the steps. They were both smiling, clearly sharing some small joke.

They looked good together. Comfortable, happy.

They looked like young people in love.

It was a lie, and Will was the only one who didn't know it.

Kemp opened the door for them. The girl paused; Will kept walking and threw his arms around Finch.

Harold held him as tightly as he could. The boy felt thin. But he was Will, familiar and real, and Finch felt like his heart would explode. Whatever else happened, the boy was here and safe. He felt like he could take a deep breath for the first time in more than a day.

When he opened his eyes, the girl was still standing in the doorway, watching him or maybe Will. Kemp was whispering in her ear. She nodded, moved toward them.

Will broke the hug, kept one arm around Finch, and turned with the other to draw the woman in. "Uncle Harold," he said, with his father's beautiful grin, "this is Julie Mullins. Julie, this is my uncle, Harold Wren."

She smiled with genuine warmth. Her eyes were brown and bright; her nose had a tiny and frankly adorable little crease in the center of it. She'd broken it, he realized, and although it was barely noticeable, it wasn't quite perfect. The small imperfection enhanced her beauty. She extended her hand and Harold took it. And then, entirely on impulse, he drew her into an embrace instead. He expected her to resist. Instead she returned the hug warmly.

Where Will was just skinny, Finch noted, the young woman was firm, compact. Solid. It was a little like hugging a miniature version of Reese.

Julie drew back, still smiling. "It's wonderful to meet you."

"And you. I …" Finch looked around, located the box of chocolates on the window sill. He picked them up and gave them to her. "Will asked me to bring these."

She took the box. Her smile faltered. She met Finch's eyes for a moment longer, and he saw regret. "You're going to make this really hard, aren't you?"

"I don't understand," he murmured.

Julie probably didn't hear him; she had already turned to Will. "Band-Aid question."

"Huh?"

"If you have a big bandage on your arm and you have to change it, do you pick one corner and then peel it slowly, or do you just rip it off?"

Will's forehead creased with confusion, but he played along gamely. "I rip it."

"I thought so." She glanced at Finch again, then turned to face Will squarely. "My name isn't Julie Mullins, and I'm not your girlfriend. I work for the government. And I'm here to help you."

Ingram's grin broadened. "Funny, Jules."

"I wish I was kidding."

The smile fell away. "Julie …"

Joe Kemp joined their group. "She works for me, son." He pulled a badge and flapped it open, showed it to Will and then gave it to the young woman.

Finch could see Will coiling with anger as the truth sank in. "You lied to me," he said quietly.

"I did. I'm sorry." Julie tucked her badge into a pocket.

"You lied to me," Will repeated, louder. "You lied to me from day one. You lied to me all along."

"Settle down, son," Kemp said.

"Everything," Ingram continued. His voice grew louder with every word. "Everything was a lie. Was even a single word you said to me true? Was there anything you didn't lie about?"

Harold looked around. The other government men were watching, but none had gotten any closer. They'd been expecting this; they were unimpressed by the show of temper.

"How could you do this?" Will was shouting now. "What kind of person are you, that you could just … just use my … I thought you were special. I thought you were … but you're just like the rest of the government. You just lie, you just use people, use your …"

"Will," Harold said sharply.

"She made me think she was … that we were … how could you do that? How could you let me fall in love with you, when you knew none of it was true?"

"She was trying to keep you safe," Finch snapped.

Julie touched his arm lightly. He looked at her, and she shook her head very slightly. "It's okay," she murmured.

"It's not," he answered. His nephew was spinning out of control, on his way to a full-fledged tantrum. "Will, she was trying to protect you."

"To protect me. Why? Because I'm rich? Because I'm too dumb to be able to take care of myself? I need people to lie to me to make sure I'm safe? I'm too spoiled? Too stupid? What?"

"All right." Waldman stepped up and put a hand the size of a bear paw on Will's shoulder. "I understand you're upset. The girl made you feel like an idiot. That's what she does. That's her job, to get right next to you and never let you suspect that she works for us. She's very good at it. And you know what? It saved your ass. So put your hurt feelings under the seat and listen up."

It helped, Finch noted, that Waldman was roughly the size and build of Nathan Ingram. Something in Will responded to him at an instinctive level. It helped, too, that Julie retreated from the group. She went and stood by the door again, watchful, available, but out of the way. Out of Will's immediate line of sight.

"Here it is, Dr. Ingram," Waldman continued. "I don't know what the hell you were thinking." He looked up to include Finch in the discussion. "Either of you." He looked back at Will, but took his hand off his shoulder. "Your father was a billionaire, and now you're one. And yet you run all over the world using your own name, and you don't think a dozen different nutjobs are going to come after you, trying to get at some of that money. Are you just out of your mind? Or are you really that naïve?"

Will sputtered; the man cut him off. "Eight good men and that woman put their lives on the line to get you out of Mali safely. A hundred analysts and agents and other people put their time and energy into the effort. So if you want to stand there and bitch about how unfair it is that you were lied to, you go ahead. But you put yourself in that position when you put yourself in danger. And I am telling you right now, Dr. Ingram, it's not going to happen again."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that we're flagging your passport. Unless you submit a security plan that's acceptable to the Department, you will not be allowed to travel to any country where we consider your safety to be at risk."

"What?"

"We saved your ass this time. We don't want to have to do it again."

"You can't do that!" Will shouted. "You have no right to do that. You can't tell me where I can go and where I can't. You can't."

Waldman continued to be unimpressed. "Actually, we can. And that's exactly what we're doing."

Ingram turned to Finch. "They can't really do this, can they?"

"I don't know, Will. We can have an attorney look at it …"

"Do that," Waldman agreed. "But in the meantime, you'll have to find people here at home to help."

"You can't do this!"

Serra cleared his throat. "Gear's off the plane, sir."

"Good." Waldman gestured to the counter. "Dr. Ingram, we have some documents for you to complete. Then you're free to go."

"We – I did all your damn paperwork in London."

"We have more."

"You can't do this," Will said one more time. "I swear …" He turned to glare at the young woman one last time, as if their decision was her fault. Then he stomped over to the counter.

Julie Essex quietly checked her phone. Finch turned his back to her, drew his own phone out and quickly cloned hers. Then he tucked it away and moved to her side.

Without a word, Julie held the gold box out to him.

"No, no," Finch protested. "Please, I want you to keep it. I'm very grateful for all you've done for Will. Even if he isn't, at the moment."

She put the chocolates back on the windowsill beside her. "He's not wrong, you know. I've been lying to him non-stop for weeks." Like the men, she was calm, unimpressed by Ingram's outburst.

"You saved his life."

"Actually, the big guys with the big guns saved his life. I just kept his head down while they did it."

"In my book it's the same," Finch assured her. "I'm a bit confused, though. Why did you tell Will who you really were? Why did you, er …"

"'Burn my cover' is the cool-kids phrase you're looking for." She shrugged. "It's cleaner this way. The cover was a year old, so it's stale. And," she met his eyes again, "we figured you'd already burned it anyhow."

"Me?" Finch said, with as much surprise as he could fake.

"You're in insurance, right? You have resources? If I were you, every time the words 'I met this girl' came out of Will's mouth, I'd start running a background check. Yes?"

Finch let a rueful smile play around the corners of his mouth. "Well. Yes."

"Good. Because God knows he'd never think of it."

"You know him very well."

"Well enough." Julie looked over to where Will was signing papers – and still complaining. "He has a trusting heart. It's a damn shame that sooner or later the world will burn it out of him." Then she brightened. "But not today."

"No," Finch agreed. "Not today." He touched the woman's arm. "I wouldn't have told him, if you'd asked me not to."

"Thank you. But I think Will deserves one person in his life who's not lying to him."

Finch took a deep breath. He'd come to expect that Will could occasionally and quite by accident say something that sliced right to his heart. He hadn't expected it from a stranger. I have lied to Will Ingram every day of his life, he thought bleakly. I have lied to him about small things and about important things. About who I am. About how and why his father died. About everything. And I will keep on lying to him, until the day I die.

He blinked and looked away.

"That being said," Julie continued quietly, "I don't think there's any reason he needs to know about the Skydd team right now."

"For all the good they did him."

She put her hand lightly on his arm. "They did him a lot of good. They got him out of trouble he never even saw. And … they're probably all dead. When he decides he needs to be out in the world again, I highly recommend that you use them to get him a new team."

Finch frowned. "Your supervisor just said that he wouldn't be allowed to travel internationally."

"Sure. And that will last until Ingram remembers that he has billions of dollars and can therefore do pretty much any damn thing he wants to in this country."

"I suppose so."

The paperwork, he realized suddenly, was all for show. It was an excuse for the woman to be alone with Finch. They'd given up on convincing Will before they'd even started. He was the one they wanted to win over. And Ms. Essex, they'd determined, had the best shot.

She specialized, after all, in dealing with the wealthy and those around them.

They weren't wrong, he had to admit, in their assessments. Any of them. Her forthright, common-sense approach made her a very persuasive young woman.

"Take this," Julie said. She drew out her badge, and from behind it produced a business card. "He's a cobbler, probably the best in the country."

"A … cobbler? He makes fake ID's?"

"In the old days. Now they create whole identities, electronic and all. He can make Will a passport and driver's license, but also re-create his college record, his medical license, whatever he needs."

"Is that legal?"

"Not really." She glanced over at Will again. "Of course, the cobbler will then provide us with Will's new name."

"And you'll start watching him all over again," Finch completed.

"Not me, personally, but someone, yes."

She was telling him this, Finch knew, because they assumed he'd figure it out anyhow. Certainly Will's new security team would notice a new State Department minder on the scene and alert him. They were being, for a government agency, remarkably frank with him. They were also making him complicit in deceiving Will.

They knew they couldn't control the boy, not for long. So they'd appealed to someone they thought could. Whether that assessment was correct remained to be seen. Finch had never been confident in his ability to do any more than gently steer the boy's headlong charges. He nodded solemnly and tucked the card away. "Thank you. For everything. I'm very sorry that Will's being so … unreasonable."

"He needs to hate me for a while," Julie said simply. "That's how he gets past this. Please don't try to talk him out of it."

"You've been through this before," Finch realized. He studied the young woman. Almost against his will, he liked her. Her calm. Her understanding. Her kindness. Certainly he would see what Will saw in her, well beyond her physical appearance. He found himself believing what she was said, taking her words at face value.

It set off alarms in his brain.

"It comes with the job."

"It can't be easy."

She looked toward Will again. "He's home, he's safe. I don't really mind listening to him bitch about it."

Despite her words, Finch could see the pain in her eyes, in her posture. There was a sad resignation about her. She cares for the boy, he thought. Maybe it wasn't the way Will thought, or the way he wanted. But whatever else she might be lying about, Will Ingram was more than an assignment to her.

She drew back again, and a moment later Will was at his side, snarling. "Let's get the hell out of here, Uncle Harold."

Finch took his elbow and gave it a squeeze. "Yes. Let's go."