Note: Fashion expert? Me? Psh. Then again, neither is Ellie.
The fun begins. Snaaaaaaaaark.
#####
One Year, Six Months Prior
Several days after delivering a box of used but perfectly serviceable doorknobs to Elizabeth Ruben, John Reese entered the library and made his way up the stairs towards the Batcave. He had the usual box of doughnuts in one hand, a cup carrier balanced in the other. He strolled past the open gate, moving quieter than a panther on the prowl.
Harold Finch sat before his computer desk, as usual, but he was not alone. Like a lithe shadow, Samantha Shaw was poised behind him, peering over his shoulder at something on the monitors. Reese couldn't see what they were looking at from his angle.
Pictures and documents had been taped up on the cracked glass panel—Team Machine had a number to save. Or to stop.
He walked up and set the box down with care, handing Finch his tea and Shaw her coffee.
"Good morning, Mr. Reese," said Finch.
"John," Shaw said, nodding once.
"We have a number, Finch?"
"Actually, we have a slight problem, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "We don't have a number; we have three. And despite my continual efforts, I have not been able to find a link between them. They seem to be independent cases. We'll need to split our resources."
John nodded. "When it rains..."
"I'll take this guy," Shaw said. She pointed at the monitor, indicating a picture of a bulky, particularly grumpy-looking man.
"Perhaps the detectives will be able to assist with one of the other Numbers," Finch said.
Reese walked over to the glass. Examined the pictures.
"This guy has a lot of computers behind him," he said, tapping a picture of an older, swarthy man with graying hair. He was grinning, seated at a keyboard and monitor in a server room.
"Yes," Finch said. "Mr. Sarim works as a network engineer at Connetrix, a small ISP."
"In that case, I think I'll invite Elizabeth with me on this one," Reese said. "I'm sure Harold can get her an internship at Connetrix."
Both Finch and Shaw turned to look at Reese.
"Elizabeth?" Shaw said. Her voice was an equal mix of disbelieve, curiosity, and disdain. "That little girl?"
John shrugged. "She's good with computers. And she's tougher than she looks."
"She looks like somebody's kid sister," Shaw said. "The little-girl shoes and tights don't help."
"Why, Sam, I thought you knew the first rule of being an undercover agent: don't look like an undercover agent."
Finch cleared his throat and said, "Mr. Reese, while I realize that Miss Ruben has proven useful in the past when I've been unavailable or when our attention has been divided between multiple Numbers...don't you think it's unwise to have her out in the field? She has no experience."
"The best way to gain experience in fieldwork is to do fieldwork, Harold."
Shaw nodded and said, "I agree."
"It's dangerous," Finch protested.
"I agree with that too," Shaw said.
"Don't worry, Harold," said Reese. "I'll keep her safe. This way, you'll be able to focus on the other two Numbers. Unless you want to run point on this one." He raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Sarim does look kinda bookish..."
Shaw snorted. Finch raised an eyebrow, but didn't deign to respond.
"Thought so..." Reese said.
#####
Dawn.
For the past few weeks I'd been thinking that I'd gotten lucky, that the nightmares had finally gone away for good. But in the wee hours of that morning, the dark dreams had risen from the abyss, had pushed forward in a vicious blitzkrieg of hot metal and handcuffs that left me drenched in sweat, terrified to fall back asleep. So I'd gotten out of bed. Settled into my computer chair. (The fabric was rough and cold against my bare back and thighs—but infinitely preferable to the corrugated metal of a cargo container.) Powered on the desktop, programmed until the sky began to lighten.
Breakfast was instant oatmeal, the real sugary kind that I usually loved, but I didn't feel like eating it today. I just mashed it around the sides of my bowl until the "brown-sugar flavored" mush grew cold. I watched the world awaken beyond my kitchen window. There went Amy Jones, dressed in a flowing maroon overcoat and knee-high boots to ward off the cold as she walked to her little Toyota. There went Mr. Baxter, taking Nessie out for her early morning walk like he did every morning at 8:07AM. There went James Stanfield, the elderly Physics professor, bundled up like an Eskimo as he hopped onto his bicycle, dutifully reducing his carbon footprint even in the midst of December.
Hell, that crazy guy would ride through snow, just as long as it wasn't too deep.
I sighed and poked at the cold mush in my bowl, trying to summon up the energy to get dressed, tame my hair, dash on a little lipstick, and drive to the 94th street library. I wasn't doing very well, not even after two cups of tea and a little more honey than I usually preferred. It wasn't so much that I was tired—I'd worked on less sleep before. I was just...drained.
I padded back to the kitchen with my teacup. Before I could reach for the kettle, a faint buzz caught my ear—my cell phone, rattling against the wooden dresser in my bedroom. I set down the cup, walked into the bedroom, and snagged the phone from its dusty perch.
Blocked Number.
I tapped accept and held it to my ear. "Hi John," I said.
There was a pause. "Ellie," came John's voice. "I thought you would've sounded happier to hear from me."
I smiled, just a little. Rubbed my feet together. "Sorry, John. Freaking nightmares. And last night I found out that Mama isn't flying out here for Christmas. The company won't give her time off."
"Maybe you could fly out to Colorado instead," John said.
"I'd rather drive," I said. "I really, really hate airplanes."
"Technically, airplanes are the safest form of transportation short of elevators."
"I also hate the TSA agents who think it's fine to grope at me for reasons of national security."
"There's that."
"I'll think about it later," I said. "So. What's up?" My smile widened; my voice turned conspiratorial. "Do you have a case?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," John said. "But this one's more...risky."
"Sign me up." I was already headed for the dresser to find something suitable to wear.
"What about your work? This case might take a few days."
"I'll call in sick. Didn't want to go to the library today anyhow..."
"I'll pick you up at the park," John said. "We'll talk about it. You won't need your laptop yet." He hung up.
Ten minutes later I was dressed. It was cold enough for me to wear the dark overcoat Mama had bought me last Christmas, plus the gray-and-black striped scarf Isaac had bought me as a gift a few months ago. The scarf had an annoying tendency to catch strands of my hair, but I wore it anyway for the warmth. I buckled my shoes, grabbed my keys and my flash drive—just in case—and stepped out into the early morning chill. Locked the door and walked down the sidewalk towards the park, shoving my hands deep into the toasty pockets of the coat.
When I'd made it about a quarter mile down the sidewalk, a car pulled up next to me. The passenger door opened. By instinct, I veered away, but then I saw John in the driver's seat.
"Hey, little girl," he said.
"I'm gonna brutally murder you in your sleep," I responded as I slid into the passenger's seat.
The car was warm. John waited until I was buckled in before he pulled away from the curb.
"So," I said. "What's this about a fun—I mean, risky—case?"
John looked over at me for a moment, then returned his attention to the road. He said, "Just how far down the rabbit hole are you willing to go?"
"To the bottom."
"There is no bottom, Ellie."
"Then where do the rabbits sleep?"
John said, "You remember those assignments they gave you in school—write like you're somebody else, tell a story from their point of view?"
"God yes," I groaned. "I hated them. The writing part, I mean. I loved the story part. It was fun to imagine other peoples' points of views, y'know?"
"Good," John said. "I'm watching a guy who works at an ISP. I know he's in trouble, but I can't tell if he's gonna hurt someone or if someone wants to hurt him."
"Ooh, a mystery," I said. "What do you want me to do?"
"How do you feel about going undercover?"
"Undercover? You mean, like a police officer?"
"Sort of. I need more information on this guy—once I know the nature of the threat, I can stop it. I can get you an internship at this place. But not as Elizabeth Ruben."
The pieces started clicking in my head. "Ah," I said. "You want me to pretend to be somebody different. Keep an eye on this guy."
"Right. For a day or two. I don't have the technical background to do it, but you do. You wouldn't be alone. I'd be in contact at all times and nearby most of the time. I'm not asking you to intervene—just to watch."
"I'll do it," I said.
"It might be dangerous. He could be a criminal. You could be caught in the crossfire, even as an observer."
"Tough beans."
"I'd be throwing you into the deep end of the pool."
"I can swim just fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Mr. mIRC, I'm certain."
"Are you willing to keep this a complete secret?"
"Duh."
"Your family and friends can never know that you're working with me. No one can know, not even the police. It would put you in danger."
"I got it, I got it. We've gone over this before."
"Just making sure," John said. He reached up and tapped his ear. "She's onboard, Finch."
"Who are you talking to?" I asked.
"Lucius Fox." He tapped his ear again.
"You mean Lucius Finch."
"Close enough. Get the bag from the seat behind you."
I reached behind me and caught the plastic bag by the handle. Inside was a cell phone, a small brown leather purse, a glasses case, a set of keys, and a sheaf of paper.
"What's all this?" I said.
"Burner phone, linked to a Bluetooth earwig. Driver's license, credit card, social security card, old university ID. All under your temporary name. Some cash for expenses, let me know if you need more. Fake reading glasses. Keys to a car and apartment. Resume. Life story. Next time you'll get to write some of it yourself. Right now, you need to practice. I'll give you a few minutes to read and then start asking you questions."
"Holy cow, you don't go halfway." I went for the tech gizmos first. "This is the smallest Bluetooth receiver I've ever seen," I said. I inserted it into my ear. It fit comfortably—couldn't even feel it after a few seconds. I zipped open the purse and fished out the driver's license.
"Robin McCartney?" I said. I squinted at the picture. That was me, all right. Only the date of birth on the card was a year and a half after I'd been born, and there was no organ donor indicator. "Robin McCartney." I laughed. "Robin McCartney."
"A fitting name for a sidekick, isn't it?"
"McCartney. People are gonna ask me if I'm related to Paul."
"Good. You have a conversation starter built in. Your mother is a Beatles fan."
"What? No, she hates—"
"You're Robin McCartney now, Robin. Your mother, Anne McCartney, loves the Beatles. It says so in that document that you're not reading. You should be reading it, by the way."
"Robin," I muttered. "Robin. I kinda like it."
"See how much you can absorb in the next ten minutes."
I started with the resume. Robin McCartney, it seemed, had a bachelor's degree in Computer Science from the University of Oregon. She had—I had—graduated with honors, class of 2011. I had worked as an intern at the college's high performance computer research center for a year, had some minor experience with Red Hat Linux and Samba, and had received two modest scholarships that added up to about ten grand. I had also held several part-time jobs—waitress, dog-walker, computer technician at a mom-and-pop computer store.
"Kinda a skimpy resume," I said. "Looks like I didn't work that hard in college."
"And you're suffering for it now. You have a bachelor's degree and the only job you can get is an IT internship. Don't worry, Robin. I'm sure the next one will be paid. How are you reading without your glasses, by the way?"
Glowering at John, I reached into the glasses case and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. The frames were rectangular, stylish, sleek black. I hooked the glasses behind my ears and found that the lenses didn't interfere with my vision at all.
"First suggestion: don't take them off, except to sleep. People will get suspicious if they see you without your glasses, but they won't give a second thought if you keep them on all day. You don't start work until this afternoon, by the way. What's your name?"
"Robin."
"What university did you go to?"
"Um, UO."
"In what city?"
"Eugene, Oregon."
"Good. Keep reading."
I switched to the life story. Robin McCartney, born to Anne McCartney and Daniel McCartney in Eugene, Oregon, 1987. Father died shortly after birth from a heart attack. I attended South Eugene High School, graduated class of 2002, and then attended the University of Oregon.
Anne McCartney worked as a hotel manager at a Best Western. She liked the Beatles, occasionally dabbled in watercolor painting, and sent out a biweekly neighborhood newsletter. There were pictures attached. Anne McCartney stood in front of a little house in the suburbs. Her freckled face was framed by long, curly ginger hair. She wore a patterned green-and-white Maxi dress and a pair of brown rubber garden shoes. Behind her was a small house—a perfect little bungalow in Suburbia. A massive mimosa tree lurked in the left side of the frame.
"Is she real?" I asked.
"She's your mother, Robin."
"No, I mean, if I googled her right now—does she exist?"
"If you googled her right now, you would find her FriendZone page and her newsletter. If you sent her an email, she would respond."
"I feel like I'm in a spy movie. What's your name, anyway?"
"John Rooney. Assets manager."
"Seriously, that name makes you sound like a serial killer."
"I've killed people before, Ellie. I don't like to do it. But if I'm forced to, I'm very good at it."
I glanced at him, wondered if he was talking in-character or as John Reese, and decided I didn't want to know more right now. It wouldn't be too surprising if it were true. I knew John was capable of killing—and he'd probably had to do it on occasion to defend the people he was protecting.
I went back to the documents in my hand.
There was another picture beneath the first. In this one was a little girl, maybe four years old. She was half-hidden behind Anne McCartney and had her arms wrapped around her mother's legs. The girl stared balefully at the camera.
"That's me?"
"Yep."
I had to admit, it looked pretty convincing. I'd had a yellow sundress just like that as a little girl and I had not particularly liked cameras. The only part that was off was the rubber garden shoes.
"I'm wearing clown shoes," I said.
"Sorry. It's easier to photomanipulate a face than feet."
Back to the life story. I'd had few friends growing up, preferring to stay inside and read instead of playing outside with the neighborhood kids. I had been a quiet, average student in high school and college.
I read my likes and dislikes.
"I like green tea?"
"If you forget, you can always say you're experimenting. And I thought it'd be kinder than coffee."
"Thank you, Mr. Rooney," I said sweetly. "'Cause there are some things I won't do, not even for you."
I got down to the part about my personality.
"You want me to be a ditz?"
"I wasn't going to say it that way, but—yeah. You act too competent and people will get suspicious. Nobody suspects the nervous employee who's always dropping papers and forgetting meetings and running all over the place. Don't go overboard on the inept. Just a touch."
"You know, I'd always wanted to get into the drama club at the college."
"Really, Robin? Where does it say that?"
Damnit, I thought.
"Sorry, dude. Elizabeth always wanted to get into the drama club. This sounds like it'll be fun."
John looked amused. "Did you just call me 'dude'?"
"You said be a ditz!"
He chuckled. "All right. Let's review. What's your current home address?"
"5454 77th St, Apartment 6B."
"Good. SSN?"
"542-00—shit."
"Shit isn't a number, Robin."
I dug around for the card and decided to practice staying in character. "I'm so, so sorry, I can't remember anything." I added a nervous chuckle at the end. "542-00-1262. Is this a real social security card?"
"Yes. What's the name of your mother's newsletter?"
"Um, The Wayward Times."
"How many sisters do you have, Robin?"
"I—um—" I reached for the paper, but stopped. "Wait, I don't have any siblings."
"Mother's maiden name?"
"Kruger."
"Excellent. Mother's favorite food?"
"Polish sausage."
"Say it without wrinkling your nose."
"Polish sausage. With lots of relish and onions."
"Better..."
#####
John drove around for at least an hour, not headed anywhere in particular, just driving. He quizzed me mercilessly on who I was, where I'd come from, what did I like, what experience did I have, where did I go to school, and most importantly of all, what was my name?
Robin McCartney.
Fortunately, the name was easy to remember, but I had to keep reminding myself not to respond to Elizabeth Ruben.
"The hardest part of any cover identity is keeping track of the lies," John said. "It's better to gracefully wiggle out of a question than respond to it with something you make up on the spot to fill in the gap. If you make up more information, write it down as soon as you can and review it often."
I nodded.
"We'll take a break now, Robin," said John. "Let's grab lunch."
We stopped at a little diner. It was crowded, but the waiter led us to a little booth near the back. I looked over the menu. The waiter came over and offered drinks. I almost ordered black tea—but then I remembered who I was.
"Uh, green tea please," I said.
"Coffee," John told the waiter. When the waiter left, he added, "Very nice, Robin."
"This is fun," I whispered.
"You haven't even started yet."
"It's still fun!"
I ordered hash browns and toast. John didn't order anything.
"So what do you want me to do when I get to this ISP?" I asked between mouthfuls of hash browns.
"Do whatever they tell you, but keep an eye on one person when the chance arises. Explore their network if you can do it without attracting attention. Report back to me via phone, or in person—I'll be visiting their offices in the next day or so. What's your name?"
"Robin."
"Where are your glasses?"
By instinct, I reached up and patted the top of my head, which was usually where my sunglasses ended up when I was indoors. It took me a moment to realize the glasses were still on my face.
"That was mean," I said.
"Gotta get in my kicks before you strangle me in my sleep. Look on the bright side, Robin. No more 'little girl' while you're undercover."
"Great. We should do this more often..."
I finished eating; John downed his coffee. He paid, leaving a generous tip, and guided me outside. But we didn't go back to his car. He led me over to a small gray SUV.
"You got me a car?" I said.
"I didn't; Finch did. He got you an apartment, too. You're also being compensated for your time at the ISP."
"He made of money or something? This guy really is Lucius Fox."
"Pretty much. Now, go check out your apartment."
#####
The burner phone vibrated just after I stepped into "my" uptown sixth-floor apartment and switched on the lights. The earpiece distorted John's voice a little, but it was much clearer than it was through the cell phone speaker.
"Nice place," I said, looking around. The studio apartment squeezed all the amenities into one cozy room. There was a twin bed with plain white sheets, a dresser, a minuscule closet. A tiny kitchen: hot plate, sink, miniature refrigerator, dish rack, and microwave, all in black. A small wood table with two chairs. A desk with a DSL modem, wireless router, and laptop. Tracked lights on the ceiling; silver lamps on the desk and the bedside table. Alarm clock. Tall windows. Hard wood floor. Brick walls.
A little bathroom was tucked behind a door next to the closet. The washing machine and dryer were sequestered in the corner near the kitchen.
A security camera mounted to the ceiling kept watch from the corner of the room.
"Save the address and memorize the keypad code," John said. "If there's ever an emergency, you can hole up there. Now, you're due at work in two hours. You should get dressed and review your identity."
"Get dressed?" I said, unbuttoning my overcoat and peering down at my clothes. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Nothing," John said. "Well, they do make you look like—"
"Don't you dare."
I could hear John's smile. "I was going to say, Robin, they make you look like a friend of mine."
"Right," I said, opening the closet and rifling through the unfamiliar clothes—all of which seemed to be in my size. "How different should I look?"
"As much as you're comfortable. Keep in mind the persona you're adopting. How does Robin dress?"
"Hmm," I said. "I wanna say glitzy. Kinda a fashion freak, or she wants—I mean, I want to be. But I can't get it down, so it looks kinda goofy."
"Sounds about right."
"So in other words, I'll dress like my—like Shannon Ruben."
I glanced up and eyed the camera. "There's nobody watching through the camera, is there?"
"I'm not watching, Robin. Although I could, if you wanted."
I dressed in the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I had traded my outfit for a pair of comfortable dark slacks and a black-and-white striped blouse with long sleeves. For my feet, I had gone with tall black socks and my Mary Janes.
I had found a jewelry box sitting at the bottom of the closet. Whoever had filled it hadn't had any idea what they were doing when it came to jewelry—not that I was an expert—but in the end, that helped me, because none of it really matched. I had three bracelets, all with blockish silver beads: two on my left wrist, one on my right. (John had recommended that I pick ones that would snap easily in a fight, so no metal cords or bands.) Two thin necklaces, one of which had a black cross hanging from it. Two pairs of silver spring-close earrings, the lightest ones I could find to save my earlobes.
I looked vaguely mime-ish, which was as close to fashionable and quirky as I was going to get.
My hair was a bird's nest. I had messed it up as best I could with my fingers—not that it took much work with curly hair like mine, especially since I hadn't combed it this morning—and then tied it back with a band, wrapping it loosely enough to ensure that I would have a frizzy halo sooner rather than later.
The outfit was comfortable and warm, but more importantly, it would let me move around if I needed.
And I really did look a little ditzy.
I pocketed my cell phone, picked up my purse, took a deep breath and said, "All right, John. I'm ready. Let's do this."
#####