Michael's first restoration period assignment was doing some basic tactical training for a bunch of whippersnapper CIA analysts. Once a week, eight shiny new CIA babies flew to Miami from all over the country so they could sit in a room for 20 hours over three days and learn from Michael how to not die in the field. These people were literally among the smartest in the world, but, based on what Michael'd seen so far, more than a little short on street smarts. Not that they'd need to be that savvy. Analysts are never going to do dead drops in front of a Nicaraguan crack house and never going to blow up a Russian parking garage to create a distraction while they hauled ass to Finland. They're going to sit at their desks, with 5 or 6 monitors in front of them and another 30 on the wall, and figure out what a bunch of really important crap means.
Never say never, though. Every now and then an analyst found herself smack dab in the middle of something spyish and scary. The CIA finally wised up after the fourth one was killed and decided to give these people some basic skills. How to do a brush pass. How to convince a foreign interrogator you're an idiotic tourist who got lost in enemy territory and not an idiotic CIA analyst who got lost in enemy territory. How, apparently, to restrain someone so they can't rip the tape off their mouth and untie their hands and come yell at you for doing it wrong.
Enter Michael Westen.
And it'd been kinda fun, really. Michael always did have a soft spot for the underdog, and these people, no two ways about it, these people were the underdogs of life. So he decided to approach them like all the stray-kitten clients he'd picked up over the years: Recognize they're not entirely to blame for their situation, solve their problem and maybe impart a little common sense along the way, and try really hard to not let them be murdered. Usually for free. At least this time he was being paid. And he had health insurance for the first time in ages.
"All right," Michael said to this week's batch of eight earnest, eager students. "What was wrong with what we just saw?"
"She got away," one of them said. Maybe not the smartest one.
Ask a stupid question, Michael thought. He spread his lips into a broad smile, his go-to facial expression when he actually wants to pummel you. "Let me rephrase. What did Neal [aka the Cherub] do wrong that allowed her to get away?"
Crickets.
"I see. Well. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? Good place to start, yes?" Michael smiled, trying to convey empathy and kindness, but mostly he conveyed his fear that the eight of them would get themselves abducted and/or executed within a month. He pushed some other buttons on the console, and a new image appeared on the screen.
Fiona was walking into the room. She kind of fake bounced, like someone does in a self-defense class while they're nonchalantly strolling before a sneak attack they know is coming. Neal followed her, maybe four or five steps behind. Suddenly he leapt towards her with his arms out, and when he made contact, he enveloped her in a bear hug from behind. Fi's face wasn't visible, but Michael knew, because he was Michael and she was Fi, that at that moment she was taking deep breaths and slowly counting to 10 over and over to stop herself from elbowing Neal in the neck. What was visible was that Fi stopped walking. Stopped moving, in fact. Neal still had her in his bear hug, but she wasn't trying to get away. Even so, it took him 16 seconds for him to figure out how to hold her with just his left arm, dig around in his pants pocket for the already-fastened-ready-to-be-tightened cable tie with his right hand, find it, get it out, drop it, lean both of them down a bit, retrieve it, get back up, move it to his left fingers, reach down with his right hand to grab her right wrist, stretch to try to reach her left wrist without losing his balance, use his left hand to kind of push her left arm towards the center, gather up her left wrist in the same hand as he held her right, reach up with a thumb and finger on his right hand to get the cable tie from his left hand, manage, somehow, to get the two-headed hydra of crossed wrists and balled fists through the oval, pull down on the end of the tie to tighten it, realize he'd put it on upside down so pulling on the end accomplished nothing at all, and instead pull up on it until it was snug around her wrists.
In 16 seconds Fiona could have killed him twice and tidied up.
Back on the screen, Neal released his grip on Fi, panting a little. Fi jerked away and spun around to face the camera she knew Michael was using to watch this little performance. Now her face was perfectly visible. As were her middle fingers.
Recovered, Neal strutted to Fi and tried to push her down. No talking or fighting or anything. Just push her down. Neal didn't succeed, because Fi wasn't five and this wasn't a playground. Now Fi was starting to look really, really mad. Even on the black-and-white screen, you could tell her neck was pinking with rage. She glared at the camera, then she glared at Neal, then she glared some more at the camera, and then she just sat down on the floor. "Yes? The floor?" asked Fi. "You want me on the floor?" Neal nodded, careful to avoid eye contact.
Back in the viewing room in real time, Michael paused the playback. Fi had calmed down enough to join the rest of the class. She scooted a chair to Neal and sat down, stretching her arm out over the back of his chair. Neal started to scoot away, but Fi pulled his chair back to her with one arm, scraping the tile floor loudly. "No, no, no, Neal. You stay with me. I may need to reiterate some of my earlier points."
"So," Michael began. "Talk to me. What just happened there?"
One of the guys, Jason or Clint or something, said, "Seems like he could've tied her wrists faster."
"He could've driven home faster," Fiona snorted. Michael shot her death rays.
"Fair point, Jason/Clint," Michael replied. "Neal? What's your take on it?"
"I mean, yeah, sure, in a perfect world, it would've gone faster. But there was a lot to do and she wasn't helping," Neal said defensively.
"Neal, you're aware she wasn't moving, right?" Michael asked. "She stood totally still and let you fumble and 'accidentally' grab her breast and tie her wrists together." Michael made sure to slow down and use air quotes on accidentally. "You want to see what would happen if she were trying to get away? Or even if she just wriggled around to trip you up?" Fi started to stand up, the twinkle finally back in her eye.
"No," Neal whispered.
"Smart man," Michael said, clapping Neal on the shoulder a couple of times. Fi sat back down, pouting.
"Okay, here we go. The duct tape scene. My favorite part," Michael announced, unpausing the playback.
Black-and-white Fi was sitting on the floor, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, staring at Neal, while black-and-white Neal fished around in a fanny pack he was wearing, pack part towards his fanny. He scooched it around his waist to get a better look. They'd packed each other's bags, the eight of them, to simulate real Spy Situations where you have to work with what you got. Michael and Fiona had brought in their junk drawer.
Besides the zip tie he'd already used, whoever packed his was kind enough to give him a Clif bar, an epi pen, a half-used roll of duct tape, four cigarettes (but no lighter), a small coil of detonating cord (but no lighter), a cheap cell phone, three prepaid credit cards, and a fake Kenyan passport. That should come in handy, thought the blue-eyed, tow-headed blonde. He wondered if some people were allergic to Clif bars and that's why he'd need the epi pen.
The class watched the screen as Neal leaned against a wall and stared at Fiona for a while. They watched him look at his right hip suddenly, pull his phone out of his right pants pocket, and look at the screen. They watched him tap his thumbs on the screen for four seconds and then reholster the phone.
In the here and now, Michael asked, "Neal, were you responding to a text in the middle of an operation?" Neal's look to his feet was all the answer Michael needed.
Back to the monitor.
Neil arranged all his spy swag on the table in front of him. He picked up the Clif bar, looked at the back of the wrapper for a bit, then returned it to its spot on the table. Checking the ingredient list for peanut products, maybe?
"Neal," a distorted voice interrupted. Remember, the voice came into Fi's and Neal's room, which then got even more distorted as it returned to the viewing room through the playback monitor. Neal picked up his head and shifted his eyes upwards, trying to locate the sound. "Neal, the woman with you is former IRA. That's not her cover. That's real. You might want to move it along before she decides you look English enough."
"Roger that," Neal replied, saluting. Neal picked up the roll of duct tape, unstuck about eight inches, and ripped it off. Then he walked backwards a couple of steps to Fiona, bent down, and stuck the tape over the majority of her lower face. Catching a lot of hair. He kneaded it into her cheeks a bit. Fi rolled her eyes. Neal turned and walked out of the frame towards the door. And that's when Fiona started inspecting her hands.
Michael paused it there. "Why did you tape her mouth?"
"Because I didn't have a bandana or anything to use as a gag," answered Neal.
Okay. Michael realized he needed to slow it down even more. "Neal, what was supposed to happen during this exercise?" Michael asked.
"We were supposed to get her to tell us where she was hiding the thumb drive."
"Did you give her a pen and paper?" Michael said.
"No," Neal said.
"Does she know sign language?" Michael asked patiently. Not all that patiently, actually.
"I don't know," Neal shrugged. "She seems to know a lot of stuff."
"That's true," Fi said proudly. "That may be the only thing you got right today."
"Fi," Michael warned. He sighed. "Okay, Neal, we're not communicating here. I know you're not a field agent and I know you prefer to sit behind your screen and watch people in eastern Europe doing bizarre shit, but seriously. Seriously. You are working for your government. My government. Tell me you aren't this clueless."
Neal didn't tell him that.
Michael leaned his neck all the way back and looked at the ceiling. "Anyone?" he asked weakly.
"She can't talk if her mouth is taped," said Kathryn, the shorter of the two female analysts.
"Yes. Yes!" Michael replied a little too excitedly. "She . . . can't . . . talk . . . if her mouth . . . is taped," he repeated. At least one of them got it. All hope was not lost. He might not need to move to Tuvalu after all. "Neal, what do you need to do to get someone to tell you something?" Michael asked.
"Um, well, make sure their mouth isn't taped," Neal offered.
"Definitely a start. What else?"
"Look, sir, if you're going to say I have to waterboard someone, I really will have to lodge a complaint somewhere because I'm not down with that," Neal said quickly.
"Nobody's telling you to waterboard the guy, Neal," Michael assured him. "Shut up, Fi," he said in the same breath, because he heard her clear her throat to speak. "So? What?"
"I guess you'd have to do a psych profile on them, figure out if you should be their friend or scream at them, that kind of thing. It would take a while."
"Neal, buddy, in the interest of time, I'm gonna skip the Socratic method and just tell you all the ways you fucked up. Sound good?" Michael asked.
"Uhhh . . . "
"Good. Here we go. First, Neal, you're gonna have to work on your coordination. The monitor says you took 16 seconds from the time you first touched her til the time you let go. Trust me when I tell you she could have killed you three times in 16 seconds."
Fi beamed with pride at Michael's adding a third to her count.
"Second, and this is more a matter of experience, but if you want someone's hands to stay tied, you can't let them cross their wrists. That'll increase the diameter of the zip tie when it's all fastened. And my bet is she tensed up her arms when you did it, 'cause that'll make everything a little bigger as well. Then later they just relax their arms and uncross their wrists and voila! Instant wiggle room."
Seven eager beavers sat rapt, alternating between writing furiously on their notepads and gazing at Michael like he was Elvis. Neal was listening, but he was fidgety and sweaty, and he desperately wished he could be very far from Fiona.
"I can show you how, Neal," Fiona offered, reaching for something – probably a zip tie, hopefully not a gun – in her purse. "Won't take any time at all. Give me your hands."
"Don't give her your hands, Neal. Fiona, behave. Moving along," Michael said. "She was able to take off the tape. What'd she use to take off the tape?"
"Her hands," Neal said.
"And how was she able to get her hands to her face?"
"She lifted them up," they all said, starting to like this game.
"And could she have lifted them up and reached her face if her arms had been . . . behind her?" Michael's voice went up the scale on the final two words, and he ended his question with a pregnant pause.
Oh.
"Yeah. Rule number two about tying someone up. If you need to make it so somebody can't use their hands, tie their hands in the back," Michael explained slowly. "It's not a guarantee that they won't be able to use them. I mean, I could use them. But it definitely makes it harder. You tie them in the front if you're trying to be nice and/or you don't want to deal with the paperwork if they get nerve damage from having them in the back. Okay, so, those are some tacti - "
"I must interject," Fiona announced, "on behalf of Neal's next victim." She stood up to speak, because that's what teachers do. "A, you do not need half a foot of tape to cover a tiny woman's perfect, petite mouth. You need maybe four inches. So save your tape, because you may need it later. Or hell, if you want to use more than necessary, use the whole bloody roll. Make a statement."
Michael hung his head.
Fiona continued. "B, if you actually want to silence the person, you don't use tape. You use drugs. You make sure you know what you're doing so you don't accidentally kill them, and then you stab them with a syringe full of – " Fiona stopped abruptly. "I'm not going to tell you what, because I suspect you will in fact kill someone accidentally."
Michael couldn't help but agree with her.
"And finally," Fiona said dramatically, "if you don't have drugs but you still need to silence someone, you have to figure out some way to fill their mouth so that their cries for help or jingoistic rants are absorbed. Now, this is an opportunity for creativity. It's performance art, really."
Sixteen young eyes were fixed on Fi, entranced. Michael thought this would an appropriate time to stop her. "Okay, Fi, thank you. I'd like to move to –"
"Michael, this is the fourth time I've allowed myself to be mauled in the name of supporting your career. I am damn well going to finish my thought." Fiona turned back towards the students. "As. I. Was. Saying," she said theatrically, shooting daggers at Michael. "Be creative. I once was holding a bail jumper for a few hours waiting for the bondsman's office to open. This cretin was operating a dogfighting ring. His voice bothered me, so I shoved a fistful of puppy chow in his mouth before I taped it shut," Fiona said proudly. "I mean, even he had to appreciate the artistry in that. And then, when he started to drool, I – "
"FIONA GLENANNE. ENOUGH," ordered Michael. "You are nearing the point where we can be charged as accessories." Fi rolled her eyes and dropped back to her chair.
At that point Michael pulled a chair to the area he'd been standing, turned it backwards, and sat down straddling it. "So. You had some tactical mistakes. They're easy enough to fix. Well, usually. We'll have to see about you, Neal. You may need to find some friends to practice on," Michael said sympathetically. "I recommend you do not ask Fiona," he added. "But there's a bigger problem here," Michael continued. "Neal, what was the assignment again?"
"Find out where she hid the thumb drive."
"Did you ask her where she hid it?"
"No."
"Did you tell her you wanted to know where it was?"
"No."
"Did you say anything at all in that room except 'Roger that.'?"
"I forget," Neal admitted.
"No," Michael said. "No, you didn't, Neal. You don't know this woman's name. What her job is. Where her loyalty lies. Why she has this thumb drive. What's on the thumb drive. You know nothing," he declared. "Fi?"
Fiona stretched out her leg to access the front right pocket of her jeans, stuck her hand in the pocket, and pulled out a thumb drive with a green case. She offered it to Neal. Neal didn't take it. Fi shrugged and returned it to her pocket.
"Neal, what made you think you were supposed to bind and gag one of your instructors?" Michael asked.
"'Cause there were like 6 rolls of duct tape and an entire box of zip ties in that big box of stuff you guys gave us to pack the bags," Neal said, a little loudly. "I had one, so I thought I should use it. And then it just made sense to use the tape."
"You also had my det cord," Fiona interrupted. "And I want it back." Neal unzipped his fanny pack immediately and complied with Fi's demand.
"Neal, you had money, food, cigarettes, a phone, and a way to stop anaphylaxis if need be. I would start with any one of those next time. Pay her. Flirt with her. Give her a bunch of peanuts and if she passes out then save her life with the epi pen," Michael suggested. "You catch more flies with honey."
Michael glanced at the clock on the wall and announced, "We're done for today. Tomorrow we're going to learn how to play dumb if you're being interrogated." Michael smiled. "Should be a pretty easy day."