Two weeks later...
Black Site #88 - "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location - London, United Kingdom - June 17th, 2000
It was late morning when Raymond heard the tread of light footsteps in heavy boots ascending the stone steps outside his room.
He was wide awake, having spent most of the night prior tossing and turning. A few short days in Mi6 custody had been enough to give him walking pneumonia and a number of strained muscles which were very nearly healed, but not quite.
The healing process was an uncomfortable one, but Red's convalescence had given him some much-needed rest. He was fully recharged and healthy as could be expected after an intense four-day stint in a glorified torture chamber.
The host of responsibilities and pressing matters which awaited him darkened his last few moments of solitude until Dembe knocked on the bedroom's lacquered door and stepped inside.
"Your meeting with Bazalgette is confirmed. You will meet him at the Bull's Head as discussed in two hours to review next steps. He will bring Sika Boateng as well. After you meet with them, you have an appointment with Dr. Tiller."
"Right...Right," The not-so-subtle reminder was enough to bring Red hurtling back to Earth at an unpleasant velocity. "Thank you Dembe, I'll be down shortly."
Dembe gave a curt nod, then retreated from the room.
Raymond flopped back amongst the pillows, a resigned huff leaving him in the process.
After the incident at the opium den in Tajikistan, weekly meetings with Dr. Tiller became an unspoken requirement for Red, facilitated by Dembe himself. As much as he loathed their sessions, Raymond dragged himself to each and every one as penance for letting his guard slip so low.
Still sprawled out on the bed, Red's eyes traveled the stone walls around him, taking time to appreciate once more the incredible bit of architecture that was to be their home base for the foreseeable future.
Rosalie's newest black site, aptly named 'The Abbey' was once a 3,000 partitioner-strong testament to Gothic architecture and the Christian faith in London's Poplar district.
Poplar was a seafarer's town, and with its proximity to the local docks, the Abbey was severely damaged during the raids of World War II. The community raised funds to restore the attached chapel, but the economic fallout in the area left the sprawling sanctuary in a state of permanent disrepair.
The building sat as an eyesore for several decades before a mysterious real estate investment firm stepped in to purchase the building under the guise of turning it into chic new office spaces. The board of said firm, acting under Rosalie's sole discretion, agreed to the arsenal of demands made by the church and the township in exchange for ownership of the crumbling house of worship.
Once a new community center was built and a healthy fund set up for the prosperity of the adjoining chapel, the last connecting spaces between the old structures were walled up and the interior of the main abbey readied for remodeling. The general debris was cleared in a matter of days, then the first six months were spent restoring, weatherizing, and bullet-proofing the abbey's interior.
This was all done in utmost secret, mind.
Shipping containers full of equipment and construction crews arrived one after another in the dead of night to quickly and quietly drop off tools, machinery, and manpower to complete the job.
Rosalie had always insisted the success of the black site network hinged upon utmost secrecy, even in the purchasing and renovation stages. As such, she went so far as to sneak a deconstructed crane into the building, hire a team to rebuild it inside the cathedral, then use it to complete the necessary renovations to the abbey's roof and ceilings before dismantling the heavy machinery to sneak it back out the front door.
All this not to mention the secondary floor she added by digging beneath the abbey's foundations.
Construction was finally completed mere weeks before their arrival, two years after the purchase papers were finalized. Months upon months of phone calls between Rosalie and her teams on the ground replayed in Red's mind, those efforts now abundant in the incredible space before him.
It was easily one of the most beautiful places he had ever lain his head.
The Abbey's ceilings soared 80 feet in magnificent arches to reach the centuries-old wooden coffers above. Rather than rebuild the places where the old wooden roof had crumbled to ruin, Rosalie installed an unobtrusive glass ceiling. This served the purposes of protecting the interior from the elements, attack, or attempted surveillance while keeping its beauty and history intact.
Custom-cut sheets of bullet-proof glass were also installed flush with their stained-glass counterparts on each of the abbey's enormous windows. This allowed the early morning and late evening sun to pour through the colored glass, casting a rainbow of color on the occupants inside, a feat Raymond was admiring at that very moment.
His suite occupied the whole of the choir loft in what was once the south transept of the abbey's latin cross. This gave him a front-row seat to the southern rose, a magnificently recreated work of stained glass which started near the foot of his bed and reached nearly as high as the rafters.
The stained glass was a labor of love which Rosalie and several artisans had spent the better part of a year lamenting over until the dimensions and choices were just right. It then took another year to install with glass smiths working around the clock. The result was a masterwork that would make any art historian positively salivate.
It was both surprising yet inevitable that Rosalie would eschew traditional themes for the piece such as the passion of the Christ or the days of lent. Instead, the pantheist in her chose both powerful and tranquil scenes of nature for the focus. The central rose above Red depicted the sea in its many forms with deep indigos, grays, and sea foam green crested with striking white to create waves crashing against a rocky shoreline. Branching out from the center, the panes contained glass formed into delicate strands of seaweed with tiny mosaics of vibrant fish glittering amongst their emerald fronds.
He turned on his side, admiring how the smattering of greens, blues, and purples doused both him and the empty side of the bed in a riot of color.
'How beautiful would she have looked there, with an artist's palette speckling her ivory skin?'
Raymond rose with a groan and forced himself in the direction of the ensuite, determined to keep his morning from being derailed by thoughts of his ex.
Another two weeks had passed and still he had received no word from Rosalie. The curt phone calls with Horace continued, occasionally broken up with a more pleasant exchange with Teddy wherein Raymond would at least know where they were and whether they'd had any run-ins with the German or his associate.
Much to Red's dismay, he found himself growing more accustomed to this solitude with each passing day.
Though Dembe and Kate were always around, Raymond often found himself retreating to the study with his reading material of choice at the end of each day. The heavy quiet seemed more tolerable than the faint stirrings caused by his companions.
Reaching the welcoming ensuite with its bright Carrera marble and opaque stained glass windows, he set about getting ready for the busy day to come. Once shaved and showered, Red donned his customary suit in a pale beige color and exited the bank of rooms to descend the stone steps into the cathedral's narthex.
From atop the choir lofts' twin staircases, the whole of the abbey's sprawling floor plan could be seen.
Old at its bones and despite the cavernous ceilings, the abbey was somehow bursting at the seams with warmth and comfort. The sumptuous lounge hosted two enormous chesterfield sofas in a deep merlot leather flanked by two pairs of identically upholstered club chairs and a striking crystal and hammered brass coffee table. While open to the narthex, the room's far 'wall' wasn't really a wall at all.
It was, in fact, an oil painting.
Rosalie had fretted over how to separate the abbey's various living spaces for months, having wanted to create demarcation without sacrificing the home's unique open-air feel. The project had come to a grinding halt until one particularly long night in Myanmar had her leaping out of bed with a sudden spark of ingenuity she had remained terribly secretive of, and now he knew why.
It was not the remodel which had taken so long to achieve, but the systematic theft of over a dozen treasured works of art.
Rosalie had stolen a number of priceless nudes from the Louvre, Metropolitan Museum of Art, Museo Nacional del Prado, and le Musée du Petit Palais. She then used industrial cables to suspend the artwork from the abbey's rafters at the perfect height to create the spacial distinction she required.
Allegory of Victory by La Nain, Goya's Nude Maja (its clothed companion piece was notably absent), works by Courbet, Delacroix, Collier, they were all there creating pocketed spaces throughout the house of worship's main sanctuary.
Raymond stopped to admire each and every piece as he made his way toward the front of the cathedral where the altar had once been. A chuckle rose in his throat when he realized there had been no public outcry, nor black-market whispers of such high-profile thefts, which could only mean Rosalie had found an impeccable forger as well as a team of master thieves to swap out the paintings.
And, to his knowledge, it had all happened right under his nose.
...Thieving little minx.
When Red finally reached the abbey's apse, he found the kitchen's enormous island laden with an assortment of drink carafes and intricately patterned china.
Dembe had graciously made a run to the bakery down the street for scones, croissants, and various other baked goods for breakfast. The trove lay nestled inside two large white bakery boxes, their wide cerulean ribbons cast aside to showcase the contents therein.
A pot of tea joined the assortment when Dembe exited the nearby butler's pantry.
"You need to eat. We have no way of knowing what your treatment will be like once you meet with Albert and Agent Boateng."
"Does that mean I get a sweet and a savory scone?" Red examined the flaky pastries with keen eyes, brows raised as he took in the myriad of options before him. "What's that one there? Chives? Looks like cheese and chives..."
Dembe shook his head as he filled a pair of teacups with the darjeeling he had chosen, "You should be taking this more seriously."
Raymond gave a dry chuckle and took the offered cup, "I am taking this seriously. There's nothing so important as a hearty breakfast before climbing into bed with the feds."
He looked up to see Dembe staring him down with a look of distinct disapproval.
"Oh come now Dembe, it's not as though I'm handing myself over to the CIA. The Brits tend to be far more pragmatic in their dealings with international fugitives than their U.S. counterparts. Besides, I come bearing gifts: the kind of incentive they will want far more than my head on a pike." He plucked a warm scone from the stack and set it on his plate with a flourish, "Keep in mind, Albert and I have been swapping intel since you were in your pre-teens. If he were about to sell me up stream, I would already know."
They took their cups and one of the pastry boxes and moved to the round table tucked in the nearby breakfast nook which had been carved from a large confessional booth.
Dembe took the seat opposite him, lifted a green-tinted scone, and placed it delicately on his plate. "For all our sakes, I hope you are right to trust him."
The pair settled into their breakfast with only the soft clinks of china and silverware breaking the silence for several minutes.
"Whether the whole lot of them can be trusted remains to be seen," Raymond finally admitted, "Unfortunately, Emma Knightley is our only 'in' right now. I take it she is under surveillance like the rest of them?"
"She and her husband have been under house arrest these past two weeks. There seems to be an assumption that you will try to make contact."
Red tutted to himself, "Poor thing. Hopefully a promotion and a colossal pay raise will make up for the inconvenience."
An arched brow greeted this statement. Dembe had even halted in buttering his scone. "You are still confident the higher-ups will be willing to reward her? As it is, she looks quite suspicious."
"I'll just make it a requirement to my working with them," Red stated simply, "It'll be Albert's duty to figure out the logistics. Speaking of which, has Mi6 decided what they're going to do with him yet?"
"They've put Albert on a three-month probation," said Dembe, "Agent Boateng is the agent in charge during the interim."
A long sip of tea punctuated the slight wrench in Red's plans.
"Well…then it's Miss Boateng's problem."
Dembe managed a rueful chuckle this time. "I'm sure she will appreciate the challenge."
Both men sniggered to themselves, fully aware they were playing with fire. Straight-laced and formidable, Sika Boateng was not going to be near as laissez-faire as Albert had been in his dealings with Red.
Raymond found himself looking forward to the battle of wills as well.
"You mentioned she is under surveillance?"
"They all are. Three-man teams on each of the agents and Basalgette, six on Knightley"
Red shrugged, reaching for the teapot and topping off both of their cups. "That shouldn't be an issue. The fellow who owns the Bull's Head, he's holding our table?"
The sound of clinking china could be heard as Dembe nodded his thanks and stirred in a scant teaspoon of sugar. "Yes. Even if the tails follow them inside, they would have to go to the far end of the bar and peer around the corner to see you. There's no way for them to do so without completely blowing their cover."
"Excellent." Raymond reached for the nearest paper and unfurled it, "Once Kate has confirmed our teams are in place, we'll make our way to the Bull's Head."
Early Afternoon…
The Bull's Head Pub - London, United Kingdom - June 17th, 2000
It was quarter past noon when Albert Bazalgette emerged from the tube a few short blocks north of the National Archives. His customary suit was absent in favor of civilian attire, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes from view as they swiveled restlessly back and forth in search of his companion.
Sika emerged from the dissipating throng, looking radiant in a neatly pressed summer dress. Her brow was puckered in a frown, but that quickly relaxed upon catching sight of Albert.
The pair met in a chaste embrace, lingering long enough to briefly whisper to one another.
"How are you? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine Alby. Really, I'm quite alright. We shouldn't linger, you've got a tail."
"…So do you."
Albert already knew at least three plainclothes agents had followed the same path from his apartment to London's Richmond neighborhood. He could make out another on a nearby bench and two in the walkway behind Sika, but which tails belonged to whom was anyone's guess.
They turned towards the pub, Albert's hand resting gently on the small of Sika's back as he guided her through the front door.
The bartender greeted them with a nod of recognition. Their usual booth at the rear of the establishment was waiting, and Sika and Albert each felt a rush of gratitude to their past selves for selecting the most secluded corner of the pub as their normal rendezvous point.
They no more than rounded the corner when a familiar face appeared seated in a shadowed alcove beside their table.
Raymond Reddington, teacup and all, sat with one leg crossed over the other, his foot bouncing leisurely in time with the ambient music playing overhead.
"Pay no heed to the man behind the bar," he advised sagely, pointing to the booth, "Take your usual seats as though nothing is amiss. It's best to keep your eyes on each other as well, don't want your friends outside to suspect there's someone else in the room."
"You-?" Sika followed the instruction with some reluctance, sparing one suspicious glare for Reddington while her eyes were hidden from outside view.
Red smiled and made a sweeping gesture toward himself. "Me. Now, as I mentioned, you're being followed. Though, I'm sure this doesn't come as a surprise to seasoned agents such as yourselves."
At that moment, the bartender came over with biscuits and a pot of tea which he left on a hot pad near the edge of the table after filling Albert and Agent Boateng's cups.
The two sat in pointed silence, fixing each other a cup of tea then swapping them as Red knew was their custom. He found the practice most peculiar.
"Why do the two of you make each other's cup of tea every morning?" He couldn't help but ask, "The people I had following you mentioned it. You do it like clockwork, knowing exactly how the other prefers…"
His curiosity trailed off when he noticed a fine sheen of sweat on Albert's brow and the fact that the two still had said nothing.
Raymond leaned forward, "We're out of range for any listening devices, Alby. Take a deep breath."
"We are aware we're being followed," said Sika finally, giving the contents of her cup a cooling blow, "Which begs the question why you could possibly feel now is the appropriate time for us to meet?"
Red pointed toward the hot pad, "I'm afraid we don't have the time to wait for suspicions to cool in Mi6."
Under the guise of moving the teapot to a less precarious location, Albert lifted it and its hot pad to reveal a photograph of three surly-looking men in flannel shirts and dark jeans.
"Who are these men?" He asked, keeping his voice low and his eyes on Sika.
"The Brothers Sionnach."
It was obvious that it took a great deal of effort for both Albert and Sika not to whip their heads around and gawk at Red.
"How-? Nobody knows what the three brothers look like."
"Now you do."
"What, I'm just supposed to take your word for it that these three grungy-looking street runners are the same Brothers Sionnach we've been hunting for years?"
Sika glanced at the photo again, "Sionnach means 'fox' in Gaelic. Foxes are clever, swift, and stealthy. It would behoove them not to stand out while they're in London, hence the shabby attire." Her focus lifted from the table and rested on Alby once more, "If these are the three brothers, what do they have to do with our team?"
"Albert, take Sika's hand won't you?"
Red continued to sip his tea leisurely while the two worked to decipher his meaning.
It was Sika who rested her hand atop the photograph first, fingertips raised in a beckoning gesture.
Albert followed suit, threading his fingertips through hers.
In tandem, they used their thumbs to stealthily pinch and flip the photograph onto its face.
There on the back was a set of dates listed in chronological order.
"What is this?" Albert kept Sika's fingers entwined with his own, giving them an excuse for their combined gaze to linger on the photograph.
"Dates of various attacks on her majesty's perfidious Albion since the middle of last year," Red replied, gesturing at the list with his saucer, "Each of these was quietly orchestrated by the men in that photo as direct retaliation by the IRA against the British Commonwealth."
The dates seemed to stand out to Agent Boateng.
"The shootings in Watford... that arsonist streak in Bromley...Twickenham's string of robberies...HQ's been going absolutely barmy over these incidents; nobody's been able to pin them on any single group."
Red couldn't tear his focus from Sika's thumb, which had unconsciously begun to circle Albert's palm as she spoke. He followed its concentric rings with keen eyes, his mind content to wander as they discussed.
"So the brothers are responsible for all of these?"
"It would certainly explain why we've been unable to track the culprits..."
"If we could bring this to the Prime Minister, perhaps he would change his mind-"
"Nonsense, to do that we'd have to admit where we got the intel from, which is tantamount to treason."
"Well then, what do you suggest we do?"
The pair carried on like a well-oiled machine, brainstorming ways to utilize the intel to their advantage without getting called out by their superiors for working with a fugitive. A few tense minutes passed as they slowly came to realize there was no way for them to bring up the photograph without implicating themselves.
Raymond waited patiently for that boot to drop before he murmured solicitously, "You are right that your team cannot bring this intel up out of the blue; the same would apply to any other suspicious characters I'd hazard to throw your way."
"Then why are you helping us? We can't give you immunity, our country would likely imprison us for taking your intel, even if it did lead to an arrest. Why do you still seek to work with us?"
Red took a long sip of his tea, parts of him equally intrigued and annoyed at Sika Boateng's relentlessness. He decided on a truth.
"Because I'm looking for information, and working with your team is the only way I'm going to get it."
The waiter arrived then and swapped out the tray of tea and biscuits, casually picking up the photograph he had dropped the last time and passing it off to Red before making his way back into the kitchen.
"...What kind of information?" Asked Albert, sparing a sullen look for the piece of intel which was now safely tucked back inside Raymond's suit pocket.
The fugitive smirked back at him, "All in good time, Albert. For now, my stake in our agreement is something you needn't worry yourself over. You catch the bad guys, I provide the intel, queen and country can go on as though nothing is amiss."
"...How do we know we can trust you?" Questioned Sika, who had yet to relieve Albert of her insistent stare, as though asking him the very same question.
Raymond set his teacup aside, "You have my word."
A haughty glare narrowed her eyes to slits, "The word of one of the world's most notorious criminals is worth next to nothing."
Albert blanched, giving Sika the kind of the look which begged her to remember exactly who she was talking to.
"Oh quite the contrary," said Red with a laugh, watching the tension crackle between the pair with obvious glee. "In my line of work, one's word is the only currency others can't steal. My word is my bond, Sika. You can take my help or you and the rest of Mi6 can fight the IRA in the dark, the choice is yours."
He stood from his seat and nodded to the cafe owner, then lifted his jacket from the nearby hook. "While I have you here, I really must insist you relieve Agent Knightley and her husband from their confinement; you all know as well as I they have nothing to do with my syndicate. And for god's sake, give the woman a promotion and a raise, she's been through enough."
Sika whipped around to balk at Red, "You can't possibly mean-?!"
Albert quickly snatched her chin and brought her focus back to him, making it look as though the two were in the midst of a passionate discussion and she hadn't just nearly blown their cover to their outside surveillance.
Red shrugged into his jacket once more, safely hidden by the same wall he'd been seated behind all afternoon. "If you recall our earlier discussion regarding the fact your superiors will stonewall any intel you acquire from me, we are in need of an intermediary communiqué. Someone innocent enough not to ruffle the PM's feathers, but pragmatic enough to see the value in what you and your team can do with my particular brand of knowledge. We'll be killing two birds with one stone and the fellows at the top will be none the wiser."
"Agent Knightley is a glorified clerk," Albert insisted, "She's inexperienced in the field, I won't put my team in danger like that-"
"Then train her," said Red, lifting his hat from the side table.
Albert shook his head, "Red, I agree with Sika. It simply isn't a reasonable request. Trying to bring Knightley in now is too risky."
Raymond rose to his full height, effectively chilling the room.
"You mistake me, Albert, I won't be assisting you without her. Besides," he gestured at Sika with his hat, "It will be on the lovely Agent Boateng to convince the powers that be that taking Knightley into the fold will be the ideal way to draw me out of hiding. I have the utmost faith in her ability to sway anyone to her way of thinking. Once you've cleared the path for Agent Knightley, I'll reach out to plan our first gathering."
With that, he set his hat upon his head, fingertips tracing the edges of the brim to settle it into place before he gave a cheery wave and slipped out the back door.
Albert and Sika could only scowl at one another from across their teacups.
They both flinched at a loud bang, trying not to look up when Reddington swung the door wide and peered inside once more. "I nearly forgot," he added, perfectly casual, "A voicemail was scrubbed from my burner when it was confiscated by your team. I expect it to be returned to me and deleted from your files post-haste."
The door closed once more with another loud bang, and Albert finally waved for the waiter so they could order.
It seemed they were going to be there a while.
Early Evening...
Black Site #88 - "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location - London, United Kingdom - June 17th, 2000
It was half-past five when Red trudged up the steps to his secluded bedroom in preparation for his session with Dr. Tiller.
The doctor was currently wrapping up his appointment with Dembe across the foyer and would be making his way to the master suite in mere moments.
Raymond considered pouring himself a glass of scotch when he remembered it was one of Tiller's rules that he not imbibe during session so as to keep himself present and in touch with his emotions. The thought made him roll his eyes and contemplate pouring a couple of shots to quickly toss back.
Unfortunately, Dr. Tiller's steady footsteps could already be heard ascending the stone staircase leading to the south transept, and Red's window for sneaking a drink was already gone.
The doctor appeared in the doorway seconds later, a genial smile on his serene face. "Mr. Reddington, how are we today?"
Red blinked back at Tiller with a look of thinly-veiled annoyance and gestured toward the pair of armchairs in the corner of the suite. "I'm well, and yourself?"
"Excellent, excellent," said Tiller, taking the proffered seat and setting his notepad in his lap, "Is there anything particular you'd like to bring into today's session? Any emotions or concerns coming up since we last met?"
"No."
Red's brevity did little to dissuade him. "Not a problem, not a problem. Well, if you're up for it, I think now would be a great time for us to really sit down and discuss what happened in Colombia-"
"No."
The two men stared at each other for a long while.
"Raymond, it's time," said Tiller, "Frankly, it's past time for you to process-"
"I said, no. The only topic I'll consider discussing in reference to Columbia is their abundance of beautiful women and premium cocaine."
The joke did little to dissuade.
Red wasn't sure what annoyed him more, Tiller's constant questioning, or the fact that his own irreverent tactics never even managed to scratch the other man's surface.
Cuthbert was perfectly calm when he spoke again, "Alright…perhaps Paris, then? Might we talk about what happened between you and Rosalie?"
"Not unless it involves that one tryst we had with that tourist couple from Sweden."
Raymond was finally getting a rise out of him. A dull pink hue had begun to appear on Tiller's ears. He clicked his pen shut and set his notepad aside.
"Belgium?"
"I must admit, I'm indifferent to their infamous waffles. Their chocolates also leave much to be desired." He shrugged, "The beer's alright, though."
Tiller merely blinked stoically back at him. "Never mind, how about Scotland?"
"Terrific!" Red all but cheered, "We can compare and contrast their many variations of scotch. Personally, I don't like the highland "
Dr. held his hands aloft, "Raymond I can't help you if you won't talk about what's happened. A great deal has changed since I first met with your companion in Paris. I want to help, but I can't do that when you shut me out."
Red crossed one leg over the other, "Have you perhaps considered I don't wish to talk to you about such things?"
"Then why am I here?" Tiller shrugged, "You're paying me no small fee, you're flying me to your safehouse once a week, you sit in this chair for an hour and twenty minutes every seven days like clockwork, for what? Why not simply fire me and be done with it?"
Raymond didn't have a snarky comeback for that. Dembe had been the one to insist he seek counseling, and though he could very easily refuse to go, Red still showed up every week without fail.
Tiller leaned forward, "Is it possible that a part of you knows you too are suffering because of what happened in Colombia?"
"Nothing happened to me."
"Raymond you were forced to scramble the whole of your enterprise's Colombian resources to try and rescue her. You care deeply for Rosalie, more than I've seen you care for anyone these past years.
"Raymond, I know your past. Over the years we have worked together, I have learned that all-important the truth about who you really are and who you're pretending to be. Yet when you found out Dembe had recommended Rosalie begin therapy with me, you weren't even remotely unsettled. You forget that I was there when she told you. You trust her implicitly, and without hesitation.
"Rosalie would want you to come to terms with what happened too, Ray."
Tiller's comment brought Red back to himself. He was robbed of speech for several long moments before he asked, "You see her still?"
"I meet with Rosalie twice a week," said Tiller, choosing his words carefully.
"Twice?" Raymond shifted forward in his seat, his brow furrowed and his entire frame suddenly as taut as a newly-strung bow, "What's happened? Is she alright? Why is she seeing you so often?"
Tiller's eyes softened, "You know I can't share anything about our sessions. Doctor-patient privilege."
Red was now on the edge of his seat, "Come on, you've got to give me something. She won't speak to me, not even Dembe can get through to her. It's been three months since I've even heard her voice."
"Really?" Dr. Tiller seemed surprised by this, "How does that make you feel?"
Raymond flopped back into the chair, "Irritated," he barked, then amended, "Concerned...I'm worried about her."
He ignored it as Tiller took up his notepad once more, nodding to himself.
"Rosalie has certainly proven herself capable. Are you of the opinion she is not safe without your intervention?"
"It's not that I think her incapable," said Red, "It's just- You know what happened with the cartel, she was taken from right under my nose-"
"And what emotions does that knowledge elicit? Can you name them?"
Raymond's visage darkened. He felt a hot bubble of anger swell in his chest. "I was furious," he seethed, working to battle back the bone-deep hatred that tried to consume him, "I can barely remember the last time I was that angry."
Dr. Tiller gave a slow nod, "What do you think it was, specifically, that made you so angry? Was it more to do with someone having the gall to attack your enterprise, or was it because it was Rosalie whom they targeted?"
"They had the audacity to hurt her...I-" Red was on the cusp of tearing into Tiller again when he caught sight of a familiar-looking fabric caught between the bench where the doctor was seated at the foot of the bed.
He rose without fully answering the question, closing the distance between himself and the other man only to thrust his arm behind the bench and pull the long swath of cream-colored cotton from its depths.
Raymond didn't even register Tiller's incessant questioning as he turned the fabric over and over in the light.
The shemagh's edge bore an easily recognizable intertwining pattern of laurel and bluebell.
Rosalie.
"She was here."
Tiller's voice came through clearly then, "Raymond, we should talk about this-"
"You knew?" The question flew from Red's lips with enough ferocity to level a lesser man, "All this time, you knew she had been here?"
Unfortunately for Red, Cuthbert Tiller had been on the receiving end of his ire more than a few times and was no longer fazed by such tactics.
"Yes I knew," he stated, rising when Raymond stormed toward the door. "As I said before, anything Rosalie discusses in our sessions is doctor-patient -"
Red pivoted long enough to get within centimeters of Tiller's face, his own voice dipping to a low, threatening growl. "Get out. Now. Before I decide you know too much to be left alive."
Kate and Dembe were loitering about the kitchen when Red's voice echoed along the rafters in their direction.
The former turned to her companion, her slender black brows raised. "...I think he may have figured it out."
Dembe peered around the refrigerator door to meet her gaze, a quiet huff leaving him as he abandoned his search for juice and exited the pantry.
It took mere seconds for Raymond to cross the whole of the cathedral, whipping around the gilded edge of a priceless Delacroix titled 'Liberty Leading the People' before confronting his associates with the damning piece of evidence.
"She was here," he seethed, snarling when he held the length of fabric aloft, "Rosalie was here, and you didn't tell me. Why? When?"
"Raymond," Kate gestured for him to take a seat, but he wasn't having it. "Rosalie came after you were rescued from Sheep Rock. She was barely ten minutes behind you in arriving at the Abbey."
A dull, angry flush crept up Red's neck. He turned to Dembe, making the younger man shrink with the ferocity of his gaze. "We spoke that night. How could you keep this from me?"
Dembe exhaled slowly before finally meeting the other man's eyes.
"Raymond you must understand, the woman who came to see you that night was not the same Rosalie who left you in Belgium."
"Explain."
Try though he did to subdue it, the sharp command made Dembe flinch.
The reaction gave Raymond pause.
Slowly, his voice and demeanor softened. A quick trip around the kitchen island netted him two bottles of beer and a glass of ice-cold papaya juice, the latter of which he slid tentatively across the counter.
Dembe caught the glass with a nod of thanks and took a sip, his eyes not leaving the floor.
Raymond handed the second bottle of beer to Kate then gestured gently toward the breakfast nook, "Please, tell me what happened."
The pair followed his lead, taking seats on the half-moon banquette in tentative silence.
"I remember that night..." Red murmured once they were all seated, "I dreamt of her. It was calm, serene. She was smiling the way she did when we were together but-" he struggled to form the words of what happened in that dream, "I tried. I tried to hold onto her, but the more I clung to her, the more of a whisp she became. She disappeared from my arms, and that's when I woke up."
His frown deepened, "She was there then, wasn't she?"
Dembe's head bowed low, but he nodded all the same, "She was on the staircase."
"Please," said Red, keeping his voice as calm as he could, "Please help me understand why you both kept this from me."
It was Kate who spoke first.
"You must understand Raymond, we didn't keep this secret to hurt you. What we did, we did in the service of a friend..."
Two Weeks Earlier...
Black Site #88 - "The Abbey" - Undisclosed Location - London, United Kingdom - Midnight - June 2, 2000
"I had the strangest dream about Rosalie... I think I may have called her on the plane. Whatever you do Dembe, don't tell her what happened. I don't want her here for this. Not that she will even call but...you know what I mean."
Rosalie stood rooted at the top of the stone stairs just outside the bedroom. The war which had been raging within her over whether or not to go to Raymond was suddenly and completely extinguished at his words.
'I don't want her here for this.'
She was right to hesitate. He didn't want her here.
How could she be so foolish?
She waited long enough to hear what Dembe's response would be, considering it was either withhold the truth about her being there or fess up.
Much to her relief, he could be heard assuring Raymond he would not let her think anything of his call.
With that assurance in place, Rosalie turned on her heel and descended the steps. It would be an unpleasant waking for Cedric and Ted, but she couldn't risk staying now that Raymond was awake. She told herself they would understand.
Rosalie had just rounded the foot of the stairs when both men came hurtling out from one of the guest rooms, barreling her over in the process.
It was Ted who managed to catch Rosalie before she hit the ground, scrambling to scoop his arms under hers and spin her back to a standing position.
"What in the world are you two doing-?" She began, but a cacophony of harried whispers cut across her.
"Rosalie, we were just coming to get you-"
"It's bad, it's really bad-"
"It's Horace, he called-"
"What, why?"
"Well he called me, and then I went to Cedric to see if you'd left Ray, and then we both ran into you here, but-"
The three struggled to talk over each other until Rosalie reached out and placed a quieting hand over each of the men's mouths.
"First things first," she turned to Teddy, "Tell me what happened with Horace."
Her hand no more than left her bodyguard's lips when he blurted, "There was an incident when he went looking for Norrick. We have to go, now."
"Norrick?" Rosalie's tone turned dubious, "What could have possibly happened with a missing property manager that warrants such panic?"
"We don't know exactly," said Cedric, holding out her jacket in an attempt to persuade her into it, "All we know is that somewhere in the altercation, Horace was shot."
"He what?"
The question ricocheted loudly among the home's rafters, the echo making the three wince.
Ted hushed them all and helped wrangle Rosalie into the jacket's sleeves. "We've gotta go. Horace is still at Norrick's flat in Blackfen, but if we don't hurry I fear he could bleed out before we get there."
All thoughts of the abbey's occupants disappeared from Rosalie's mind, "Go, quickly! We can figure out the closest underground hospital along the way."
The three crammed themselves into one of the small elevators hidden inside the home's stone pillars and fidgeted restlessly while the capsule crawled into the underground garage bay.
Cedric turned to her in the interim, "What happened with you and Reddington?"
It took a moment for Rosalie to register the question, her mind already far away with Horace.
"I..." The truth came flooding back to her, making her chest tighten painfully, "I shouldn't have come here."
She couldn't bring herself to meet Cedric's questioning stare.
"Why? What happened?"
The three poured ungainly out of the elevator when it reached the subterranean level. Ted took off down the long row of vehicles, keys jangling noisily with each step.
"What happened, Rosalie?" Cedric asked again, trying very hard to catch her eye.
She wouldn't meet his gaze. "I thought I was ready, that I could handle seeing him…I wasn't."
Cedric looked as though he wanted to pry further, but the topic was sidelined by a familiar voice.
"Rosalie, wait..."
They both turned to see Dembe shoving his way through a barely open elevator door, nearly tripping over himself in the process. His stumbling footsteps brought him mere feet from Rosalie, whose arms thrust out to help stabilize him.
Dembe was usually so stoic, but in that moment Rosalie could clearly see the heartbreak written on his face. "Raymond is asleep once more, must you leave so soon?"
"I can't stay, sweetheart. I'm not ready to come back…and we both know he doesn't want me here."
Her head inclined meaningfully, making Dembe's shoulders slump.
"He didn't mean that…"
"He did, and that's okay," she assured, "I've got to go now, though. Horace has been hurt, and as much as I would love to stay so I could catch up with you, he needs me."
Ted pulled up in the car, quickly popping the boot and helping Cedric load their bags into it.
Rosalie realized they were running out of time. She rushed forward with arms outstretched, enveloped Dembe in a bracing hug, and kissed both of his cheeks.
"Stay safe," she whispered, brushing away the small smudge of lipstick with her thumb, "If you need me, for any reason at all, don't hesitate to reach out."
Dembe's arms tightened around her, "We won't be seeing you for a long time, will we?"
"…No."
It was goodbye all over again, and with it came a particularly poignant two friends lingered in their embrace, neither really wanting to let go for the second time.
"If you need us, you will call."
It wasn't a request, and Rosalie found herself nodding without thought, assuring Dembe she would be in contact should anything go awry.
She moved to release him, but Dembe's hand moved swiftly to the back of her head, keeping her in a whisper's distance.
"Promise me you will heal, and when you are ready, you will come back?"
Rosalie rested her temple against his with a small sniff, "I promise."
With that, Dembe let her go.
Rosalie took a step back, squaring her shoulders and giving him a wry, watery smile. "Take care of each other…"
"You as well…"
She moved to board the phantom, sparing her friend one last look before Ted closed the passenger door behind her and turned to gather Dembe in a brief hug as well.
Cedric was the last to board, stopping to shake Dembe's hand before closing the passenger door with a heavy thud.
The armored vehicle descended into the dark tunnel leading out of the safe house's garage, and Dembe waited until its headlights were invisible and the ramp ascended to become level with the floor once more before glancing at what Cedric had pressed into his hand.
A slim black burner phone rested in his upturned palm, a scrap of paper tucked neatly inside.
'When he inevitably discovers she was here, I will be awaiting his call.'
-Cedric
Back in The Abbey - June 17th, 2000
"They left that night, and we haven't heard a word since," finished Dembe, setting the burner Cedric had given him beside Raymond's teacup.
The three sat in tense silence until their heads snapped up in unison at the sound of the home's security chime ringing out.
Kate rose from her seat, "That'll be Baz. He must have information on Agent Knightley's whereabouts."
"Where did she go?"
The brusque tone had leaked back into Red's voice, the betrayal he felt evident in its rough timbre.
"I do not know," said Dembe honestly, "I have been reaching out to contacts within the underground, the last I heard she was traveling through Amman."
"Then we're going to Amman," Red bit back, snatching up the burner and making to leave. "She could still be there; call Edward and have him ready the jet-"
"Raymond we are not chasing Rosalie across continents this time."
"I just want to talk to her. She won't even speak to me-"
"Stop."
Red turned to see Dembe rooted to the spot inside the breakfast nook, his tone as unmoving as his body and a glare of fierce disapproval marring his features.
"Pardon?"
"Raymond, you cannot go after Rosalie because Rosalie is not healed. The woman who came to your side was not the same woman who left you in Belgium. She cares for you deeply, but Rosalie is not herself right now."
"What do you mean?" Asked Red, retaking his seat and leaning expectantly across the table. "What's happened to her?"
Dembe's hard expression softened to a look of deepest sadness, "I told you she was in agony Raymond, but she now harbors no small measure of anger in her heart for how things turned out. Rosalie is still hurting, and seeing you only tore that wound afresh. You don't want to subject her to that again; you don't want to do that to her."
"Why wasn't I allowed to see her? Why didn't you say anything when I woke?"
"You did not wish for her to know what happened to you, wanting to spare her from the truth of what you'd done. She did not wish for you to know she had dropped everything to see to your safety. She was here for hours, refusing to move from your side despite how much it hurt her."
"Why would it hurt her to be with me?"
The younger man lifted his eyes to rest sympathetically on Red, "Because she knew nothing had changed, Raymond. Rosalie knew in the end, despite her love for you, she would be forced to walk away all over again…and when she heard you outright say you did not want her there, it merely confirmed what she had feared."
Dembe pointedly left out the part where he'd had to help physically pry Rosalie from Raymond's arms, knowing that knowledge would achieve nothing but to cause him pain.
Red slumped against the nook's bench, "Tell me she's okay, at the very least? She's been safe?"
"Rosalie did not mention any altercations with the German," said Dembe, "But we did not discuss the topic. She was far more concerned with your state and why I wouldn't tell her what happened."
"I don't want her knowing," Raymond reiterated, "In case something goes wrong…Speaking of which, you still have the envelope I gave you before I turned myself in?"
Dembe moved to pull the small lumpy envelope from his jacket pocket, but Red waved a hand, indicating he should keep it. "When you have a moment, have it sent to Ilya. He's been good enough to keep the other important documents for my death protocol, he should have this one as well."
"She deserves to know, Raymond."
"Rosalie deserves a great many things I can't give her just now."
"You and I both know if she knew you were going after the German, she would be at your side in seconds."
"Which is precisely why we won't be telling her any of it."
Dembe shook his head, meeting Raymond's baleful glare with one of his own. "Why not?" He asked, finally giving voice to the question which had been gnawing at him since Raymond had ended his relationship with Rosalie, "Why can't she help in taking down the man who tried to abduct her?"
"Because it puts her in danger," Red explained for what felt like the umpteenth time. "I can handle the German, I just need to ferret him out. Once he's cleared up and the ties leading to Elizabeth buried, things can return to…to the way they were."
Raymond caught himself a little too late, accidentally showing his cards to Dembe's keen observation. He held up a staying hand before any chastisement could take shape in the other man's mouth.
"Not a word, young man. I barely got our friend in the east on board for this bit of trickery with Mi6; Kate's willing participation was pure luck as well. I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth by letting anyone in on the real impetus behind my work with the Brits."
Dembe's tone was deeply disapproving. "You lied to Kate, and to Ivan. You told them going after the German was necessary to protect Elizabeth."
"Which it is," Red countered earnestly, "The German is an existential threat to my operation, which makes him an existential threat to Elizabeth."
He didn't have to look to know Dembe remained unconvinced.
"Your anger did not stop with the cartel, did it Raymond?"
"No," said Red, a tone of defiance coloring the word. "The real German and his associate, Maharaj, are still out there. Once they've been handled, I can let it go.
"And then what?" Asked Dembe, "You just go back to Rosalie as though nothing has changed?"
A sheepish shrug was all Red could muster. "In truth, I don't know what happens after that Dembe. If there's anything left between us by the time this is all said and done…I have to try."
Kate rounded 'Victory Leading the People' once more with Baz tailing close behind.
Neither dared to say anything further as the newcomers approached the breakfast nook.
"Boss," said Baz, sidling up to the group with a nod.
He and Kate took their seats on the opposite bench while Dembe slid around the bend in the table to sit beside Red.
"So?" The latter asked, drumming his fingers expectantly against the tabletop.
Baz pulled a small stack of polaroids from the pocket of his black button-down and fanned them out on the table's face. "From what we can gather, Knightley and her husband were relieved from house arrest twenty minutes ago."
He plucked a photo from the stack, showing Sika Boateng and two tall burly men poised on Knightley's doorstep.
"Agent Boateng met with her for roughly an hour, accompanied by a couple suits we recognized from our surveillance of the SIS building. When they left, so did most of the surveillance. Only one agent remains outside the flat. He's parked in a silver Audi halfway down the block."
Raymond nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully before saying, "Now is the time to make contact, then." He turned to Baz again, "Have one of the girls distract him. Hannah or Christina should do the trick. Better yet, both."
"You think that'll work?" Asked Baz, looking amused.
"Two pretty girls playing the sweet, gullible tourists?" Red stood and donned his hat, "It'll work like a charm."
Raymond and Dembe pulled out of the Abbey's underground garage minutes later, en route to Agent Knightley's apartment.
The former pulled the new burner phone from his jacket pocket, intent on making contact with one Cedric Durant.
He dialed the only number on the contact list and waited as it rang.
It rang, and rang, and rang.
Red called two more times in the time it took to reach the park near Agent Knightley's home.
"Christina called," said Dembe when Raymond hung up for the third time, "Knightley is walking her dog. The tail is parked up ahead."
They both looked through the windshield at the small silver car up the street from them.
Hannah and Christina, two of Red's more experienced assets, were sidling up to the vehicle, a folding map of London in hand and their smiles mischievous.
Like clockwork, they leaned down to the car's open window and demurely asked if the man within would be so kind as to give them directions.
The young agent practically leapt out of the car, all too eager to unfold the enormous map and point out every last point of interest and how to get there.
Raymond chuckled to himself and exited the car, Dembe closing the door behind him and following at a close distance.
Emma Knightley stood about a hundred yards past the park gate, shifting her weight from one foot to the other while a small fluffy dog scampered about at her ankles. She looked weary, but pleased to finally be outside. Her athletic wear was wrinkled, and the cheap sandals she wore had obviously seen better days, but her face was turned serenely up to the sky to drink in the last rays of sunlight as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
A quick glance to the right assured Red the Mi6 surveillance agent was still thoroughly preoccupied with Hannah & Christina's attentions. He moved to stand directly in line with a large oak tree, ensuring the man wouldn't see him, even if he managed to turn around. Dembe took up a similar post between the hedges marking the park's entrance.
Red removed his sunglasses and cleared his throat, "Agent Knightley, glad to see you're out and about."
Emma nearly leapt out of her skin, managing to drop the leash and the beverage she'd been holding, all at the same time.
The dog went haring off directly toward Dembe, who scooped the little animal up in a gentle hold to keep him from running into the street.
"I can't believe you have the gall to show your face around here again." Snapped Emma, stomping over to Dembe and taking back her dog, "Do you have any idea what my husband and I have been through because you decided to turn up in our flat?"
"Nothing remotely as unpleasant as my brief stint at the Sheep Rock torture emporium, I assure you." Red quipped, his voice dipping to a low purr. "Besides, I can think of a number of exciting things a husband and wife can get up to during a two-week staycation."
Emma scoffed, then turned to scowl up at Dembe, silently demanding he move out of her way.
He merely stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, then reached out to scratch behind the dog's ears, giving Knightley a placid smile.
"Tell your man to move."
Red's focus moved from the harlequin maple on which his eyes had fixated to the irate agent who stood nose to nose with his guard. "His name is Dembe."
This response only served to irritate Emma further. "Fine. Tell Dembe to get out of my way. I'm leaving."
"You can tell him yourself," said Red, "Though I doubt he'll listen. I have my hands full getting him to listen to me, let alone a random Fed."
An exasperated growl left Knightley's lips. She turned on her heel to make for the opposite exit only to see another hulking man with jet black hair tied in a low ponytail standing nonchalantly at the end of the walk. His icy blue eyes lifted to hers, silently confirming she would find no escape his way.
"Why won't you leave me be?" She huffed, shoulders drooping as she turned back to Reddington.
Raymond gave a smug smile, "I just want to talk."
"About what?" Knightley all but bellowed, her irritation reaching a fevered pitch, "About you making me a target for my employer? About you upending my life? About you nearly costing my husband his job?"
"I am sorry about all that, but it really was your employer who made the decision to place you under house arrest-"
"Unbelievable...You turn up in my life causing utter bedlam, and you have the audacity to try and pass the blame?"
"I'm merely stating a fact," soothed Red, "If you'll just listen, I have a proposition for you-"
Emma got right up in his face, "Well napery to burst your bubble, git, but I've already accepted Interim Director Boateng's proposition. She's been tasked with hunting you, and I'm going to help her do it. As a matter of fact, you're under arrest!"
"Excellent!"
"Wh-" Emma's scowl deepened, "What do you mean excellent? Didn't you hear what I said?"
Red nodded delightedly, "Sika offered you a position with the team of Mi6 agents to whom I turned myself in, did she not?"
"I...Yes?"
It was obvious Emma was now second-guessing her decision. Any choice that made Raymond Reddington this happy couldn't possibly be a good thing.
"Excellent," Red said again, brushing away a bit of pollen that had fallen from the tree above, "You see, Agent Knightley, Agent Boateng recommending you for her team was my doing."
"Why would she do that?" She asked. None of it made sense...Why would Agent Boateng risk her career by partnering with Reddington? And what could he possibly want from her?
Red shrugged, "Because despite your prime minister's short-sightedness, Director Bazalgette and Interim Director Boateng have more than a grain of sense between them."
When she still looked confused, he explained further. "Albert Bazalgette knows full well the kind of intel I carry, and how the successful application of such intel is not merely a boon for Britain's national security. He can set you all up for life with the right cases, all while protecting national interests. Your prime minister is a coward, too afraid to step a toe out of line where the Americans are concerned. I offered Albert an opening and he took it, as did Sika Boateng."
Emma halted, guarded interest flickering behind her eyes, betraying her in an instant. She leaned in a little closer, "Why did you choose me, though?"
"You long for a life that's..." Red chose his words carefully, "More. I can give you that."
He uttered the word in a low rumble that bordered on indecent, making Knightley's cheeks burn a luminous pink.
"I can put you at the top of every pick-list in Mi6. The cases I'm going to give you, they'll make you the most sought-after agent in the service. You and to a lesser extent, your husband, will have the life you've been longing for."
"But why?" She pressed again, "Why me? I'm just an immigration clerk, I don't have any field experience to speak of. I'm of no use to anyone-"
Raymond took a brazen step forward, fully intruding her personal space and tilting his head curiously.
Emma shrank, her cheeks flushing a deeper scarlet...What was that glint she saw in his eye?
His smile was nothing short of predatory as he murmured, "Quite the contrary, Emma. I can't solve this without you."
Black Site #90 - "The Bedouin" - Transient Location - Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan - June 17th, 2000
Cedric had felt the burner phone buzzing away in his pocket an hour ago, but he couldn't answer it at the time. There had been too many people bustling around their current safe house. Even when Rosalie and her security were in other parts of the home, Cedric hadn't been able to maintain the level of privacy he felt was required to broach the topic he needed to discuss with Reddington.
Neither Rosalie nor her security knew he had left a method of contact with Dembe, and he wasn't about to let them in on it.
Instead, Cedric chose to bide his time and wait for the opportune moment to return the call.
It seemed his chance was drawing near as he watched Teddy and Horace head outside to try out the new firearms they had ordered. The glinting black muzzles of new Beretta rifles and pistols glinted at him from his hidden corner of the home's central hallway. He purposefully remained out of sight, waiting to emerge from the shadows until they'd given up their short-lived search and exited the tent's front flap.
Rosalie's newest black site was an interesting one, to say the least. The transient safe house she christened, 'The Bedouin', was a twenty-room tent city complete with five bedrooms and a central courtyard, all of which moved locations every time its occupants left on business.
With 278 square miles of desert to choose from, the ever-changing locale provided the kind of safety and seclusion Rosalie had desperately needed. So much so, that in the past month and a half, she'd mostly overcome her fear of the home's ensuite. She no longer had panic attacks whenever left alone in one of the baths, nor would she shuffle embarrassedly into the lounge to ask if Teddy or Cedric could stand guard outside while she showered or got ready.
She still flinched terribly at loud noises, and there were still many sleepless nights where Rosalie woke up screaming from nightmares of her time with the cartel, but she was getting better. They could all see it, and it made the men tasked with her security heave a collective sigh of relief.
The thought made Cedric smile fondly at Rosalie, who grinned back as she rounded one of the home's corners with a tall, dark-haired woman in tow.
She had declared a few days earlier that they were all long past due for a haircut, and expressed her immediate desire to have someone brought in.
Horace had leapt into action and secured Rosalie's favored aesthetician from Corsica, going so far as to have Marietta personally arrange her trip to Jordan on the sly.
Carina, toting her bag of tools and following closely behind Rosalie, gave Cedric an acknowledging wave before disappearing into the master suite.
The delight on Rosalie's face made the secrecy well worth it.
Though Cedric still had his misgivings about Horace, he could not deny that the man had been doing everything in his power these past months to make Rosalie feel safe and cared for. He was kind and considerate with her. He'd even become more polite and reserved with his opinions for once. Despite his well-known hatred for Reddington, a sour word hadn't passed Horace's lips since the night they'd all left London in a rush-
The burner buzzed inside Cedric's pocket once more as he heard Rosalie's and Carina's voices echo from the master bath.
"Goodness, look how long your hair has grown! Here I was worrying you'd started going to someone else..."
"Never," assured Rosalie fondly, "I had a spot of business that kept me away, I know it's been some time since we've seen each other. While I have you here, though, I think I'd like to try something new."
"Oh? What sounds good to you?"
Unable to resist, Cedric peeked through the crack in the door, watching as Rosalie, seated on a stool before the vanity, took a long section of blonde locks and scrutinized its ends.
"I've had this style for a few years now; it's begun to feel heavy and cumbersome..."
Carina paused, looking over Rosalie's shoulder to meet her eyes in the bathroom mirror. "You seem sad, Mademoiselle."
Cedric's lips pursed tightly together, knowing what Carina meant.
Rosalie's mental health had been getting better, she was processing what happened to her in Colombia twice a week with Dr. Tiller.
But...
The strides she'd made in overcoming that event did not extend to the sadness she felt over the loss of her and Raymond's relationship.
Cedric could see it in those rare moments of quiet, when Rosalie's eyes would scan the room in search of something only to come up empty. Every time . The ache that relationship had left behind had yet to subside for her.
"I have been," Rosalie acknowledged honestly, "I think I can see the other side now, though. I would like a change to match. Something...shorter. Much shorter."
Carina grinned, green eyes glinting with avid excitement, "You know with your hair's color and texture...I've always maintained you would look stunning with a Marilyn."
She lifted the wealth of blonde waves so their ends rested a couple of inches above Rosalie's collarbone, allowing her to get an idea of what the cut might look like.
A demure smile managed to break through Rosalie's cool facade. She turned her head this way and that, getting a good long look before murmuring, "What the hell...Do with me what you will, Carina. I trust you to choose something suitable."
Carina all but hopped up and down as she turned to rifle through her bag of tricks.
Only then did Cedric feel comfortable pulling out the burner phone which had begun vibrating in his shirt pocket once more.
"Oui?" He asked softly, slipping through the tent's many canvas hallways until he was safely inside the secluded central courtyard.
Reddington's voice came through clear as a bell. "You wished to speak?"
"Oui," Cedric confirmed, meticulously pulling the courtyard's various flaps closed to ensure his voice did not carry inside. In the distance, he could hear the echoing sounds of gunshots, ensuring him Teddy and Horace were safely out of the way as well.
"You're a man of many words, Monsieur Durant."
Cedric chuckled lowly, "I was merely ensuring I would not be overheard. The matter I wish to discuss with you is delicate, and extremely important."
"Is she alright?"
"Rosalie is just fine," he assured, "The desert agrees with her."
"Dembe mentioned she was seen in Amman..."
A knowing smile tugged at Cedric's lips. Reddington didn't even bother to put up a front of cool aloofness where Rosalie was concerned. The lack of tact in his prodding for her location was most telling.
"She has taken up residence in the Wadi Rum desert, in a new transient-style black site she's calling 'The Bedouin'."
There was a long pause before Raymond responded.
"You're the first person to give me a straight answer on her whereabouts in months. Why?"
Cedric pulled the phone away from his ear, hearing the gunshots cease suddenly. He waited on tenterhooks, his breath held, then exhaled slowly when he heard them pick right back up again, the bangs changing from those of a 9 millimeter to those of a semi-automatic rifle. "Because I now know the leak does not stem from your organization, Monsieur Reddington."
He could hear the cautious relief tint the man's voice when he next spoke, "You're certain of this? How do you know it wasn't one of my people?"
"In the time you and Rosalie have been apart, we have had only one breach in security. Just the one. It happened the night Rosalie came to check on you at the Abbey."
"You didn't encounter any problems until you were on the same continent as me..." Reddington corrected with a dour note, "In my experience, that would prove the opposite to be true. The proximity alone implicates my side of the isle."
Cedric nodded to himself, "Normally it would, but not this time. As a matter of fact, it is proximity which proves your innocence. Not a soul from your syndicate even knew we were on British soil until we appeared at your doorstep. Even with our appearance, that information never left the Abbey's walls. I don't believe anyone outside of the seven of us and our transport ever knew Rosalie was in London."
"Then what is it that makes you so certain my syndicate is clean of this mess?"
It took several long moments for Cedric to respond. He knew divulging this truth to Reddington was allowing him back into Rosalie's confidence, even if she was not aware of it. Though he did not relish the thought, Cedric knew Raymond Reddington was his only hope to quietly investigate the theory which had been consuming him since the night of Marietta's visit to Rosalie's Paris apartment.
"When Rosalie chose to drop everything and go to the Abbey so she could ensure you were alright, as you may have guessed, she incurred Horace's displeasure."
A dry, humorless laugh rumbled from the other end of the line, "Be sure to add nearly dying to the list of transgressions I've committed against him."
"Precisely. Knowing his temperament, and in an effort to make things easier on Rosalie, I opted to send Horace to check in on an employee of hers rather than accompany us to the Abbey." Cedric halted when the gunfire ceased once more, waiting until it started up again before continuing.
"The associate was a property manager by the name of Norrick, who went dark weeks prior without explanation. No amount of looking or prodding on our end was turning up any leads about his sudden disappearance. So, that night was the perfect opportunity to have one of our own go looking for him. If it hadn't been for Horace's foul mood, we'd never have found out about the unexpected visitor to Norrick's Blackfen flat."
"Who was it?"
The tension on the line was stifling before Cedric's voice dipped to a low, cautious murmur.
"The associate. We've now got a face and a name…"
Two Weeks Earlier...
London, United Kingdom - Midnight - June 2, 2000
Rosalie and her guard reached Norrick's apartment fifteen minutes later to find the whole block lit up like it was daytime.
Flashing lights from police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks flickered a cacophony of colors that could make one nauseous. Sirens screeched from every angle, and a protective barricade made of wide neon beams had been erected in the stretch of road between them and the apartment building. The road block was manned by a team of bobbies in jet black uniforms that made them look like faceless shadows against the blinding backdrop behind them.
In the time it took Teddy to drive them there, the entire building had been engulfed in an inferno.
Rosalie leapt from the car upon reaching the barrier, the rampant flames darting from the loft's upper floors reflected in her wide, horrified eyes.
"H-Horace?"
A section of the wooden beam roof collapsed into the buildings interior, sending sparks flying everywhere despite the number of hoses aimed at the blaze.
It happened so quickly...could he have made it out alive?
Rosalie made to rush toward the policemen, the question as to the home's occupants already half-formed in her mouth when Cedric's hand shot out and closed around her upper arm in a vice grip.
"Es-tu fou?" He hissed gruffly in her ear, "We never get within striking distance of law enforcement, Rosalie. Never. You know this, it's too risky."
"They might know," Rosalie whimpered plaintively, trying to wrench her arm from his grasp, "They might know if they managed to pull anyone out. He might still be alive-"
The two struggled against each other for a few moments, then halted when a succession of dry, brittle coughs issued from a nearby hedge.
All three fugitives spun around on the spot, staring intently at the foliage.
The dark leaves shook with another barrage of coughs, and the sharp crunch of twigs snapping could just be made out over the roar of the distant blaze.
Rosalie, Cedric, and Teddy all craned their necks trying to locate the source of the noise, and subsequently went scrambling backward when a large figure came rushing out at them.
Horace, covered in blood and soot and clutching several sheets of half-burnt notebook paper, practically threw himself on for her. Another round of hacking coughs had him toppling back to his hands and knees.
"Sœur, we have to get him out of here." Cedric spared contemptuous glance for the policemen who had caught sight of them and were now heading their way. He gestured quickly to Teddy, who hurried to help him lift Horace's limp body and load him into the car's backseat.
Rosalie slid in the opposite side, easing Horace's head to rest in her lap.
Ted wasted no time in returning to the drivers seat and peeling out of the road amidst shouts from the authorities. "He needs an underground hospital. Now."
"Beckworth is a couple miles north of here," said Cedric, pointing in the appropriate direction.
Horace's breaths came in shallow, labored wheezes, hitching with each agonizing turn the vehicle made. "Ros- Rosie..."
"Shhh," she soothed, brushing her hand along his furrowed brow in an attempt to keep the ash and sweat from reaching his eyes. "Don't talk. We're going to get you help, okay? Just...just stay with me okay? We're nearly there."
"No. 's important. Norrick-"
It seemed to take every ounce of strength Horace possessed to lift his arm, the limb flopping ungainly into Rosalie's lap with its charred and crinkled papers still in hand.
Rosalie frowned confusedly down at the crumbled mess, noting Horace's fingers were blistered and raw. "Christ, what happened with Norrick? Horace, what is this?"
"Proof."
Horace coughed heavily, a bit of blood and soot gathering at the corners of his lips. He finally managed to focus his beetle-black eyes on Rosalie, trying to make her understand the significance of what he held.
"Proof of what?" She asked, glancing furtively between the scorched paper and Horace.
Horace held her frightened stare with one of earnest reassurance. "The leak; it's in the network. I don't know how he did it Rosalie, but the German knew Norrick was one of yours."
The car jerked sharply, the statement taking the whole of its occupants by surprise.
"Wait, what?"
"How do you know?"
"Was he there?!"
"How do you know?!"
All of the color disappeared from Horace's face as he was jostled around. Once the car stabilized, he cleared his throat.
"We hadn't been able to reach Norrick for weeks. So when I saw the lights on in his window, I tailed another tenant into the building. I picked the lock to his apartment. A man was there, threatening Norrick with some kind of blackmail."
"...Was it the German?"
Rosalie's voice had dropped to a soft, terrified whisper.
Cedric whipped around in his seat, "Rosalie I promise you there was no intel indicating the German was on the move. There's been no chatter at all. We didn't even contact London's secondary property manager to have them ready the Abbey or any other safe house for additional occupancy. Nobody but the four of us and Caspian even knew we came to London."
"Cedric's right," Horace agreed with a feeble shake of his head, "It wasn't the German, it was his associate, the one who set the bounty on you in Colombia."
"How do you know he set the bounty on her?" Asked Teddy, turning the wheel sharply once more. The entrance to the underground hospital finally loomed up ahead.
Horace sucked in another breath through his teeth and gritted, "The bastard mentioned it. It sounded like he was blackmailing Norrick. I entered the apartment as he said, 'Tell your employer what happened in Colombia will be mere child's play compared to what's in store for her if she doesn't give us Reddington. I set one Cartel after her, I can send another.'"
"We can talk about this later-" began Rosalie, but Horace forcefully shook is head.
"You need to know," he hissed, "You need to know what you're up against."
"Let him talk, Rosalie."
The unspoken truth behind Cedric's request did not go unnoticed by the other occupants.
The car's interior reeked of blood; it had saturated the back seat and one side of Rosalie's skirt, the sticky warmth making her nauseous.
At this point, Horace's survival looked dubious at best.
It may be his only chance to tell them what happened.
He nodded, recognizing her silence as consent. "I made to go back the way I came. I had planned to wait outside for the man to leave so I could follow him...but he caught sight of me the moment I moved out of the shadows. I didn't make it more than a step when he pulled his sidearm and fired."
Another cough wracked Horace's body, bringing more blood to his lips.
"The bullet hit me somewhere in the chest...he caught Norrick above his left eye."
The others winced at the thought.
"The associate," said Cedric, "Where did he go? How did the fire start?"
Horace was struggling to keep his eyes open.
"I think it was lighter fluid, or maybe gasoline...some strong smelling chemical. He poured it on Norrick's computers and file cabinets, along the floors, even on Norrick and I."
"Did he say anything to you?" Rosalie asked, giving him a gentle nudge to keep him conscious.
"He was grumbling to himself while he doused the place, saying he would have to start all over again with another one of your associates."
The vehicle ascended into a seemingly abandoned car park, following the looping structure until they were nearly at the top.
Teddy stopped in the middle of the spiral to pull on a do-not-enter sign, which opened a previously closed garage bay door one loop above them.
"Where did he go, Horace?" Cedric repeated his earlier question as they pulled through the bay and into the bustling emergency entrance for Beckworth underground hospital.
"He flicked a match into the sitting room on his way out the fire escape," mumbled Horace, his head lolling uncoordinatedly in Rosalie's lap.
She gently nudged him again, but it was getting harder and harder to rouse him. He was so pale.
"Hey. Hey! You need to stay awake, okay? The doctors are coming out with a stretcher now."
For once Horace's features were untinged by the various resentments which had been clouding his judgement since Raymond Reddington had entered their lives. "Rosie, I...I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry I've been such a damn pigheaded. I only...only ever wanted to help keep you... keep you safe..."
What little color Horace had was rapidly draining from his face, and Rosalie's heart plummeted to the soles of her feet along with it.
The car doors all opened at once, and they were all shunted aside so the medical teams could access their new patient.
The medical team loaded Horace onto a stretcher within seconds and rushed him toward through the emergency bay.
"Wait!"
Teddy ran after them, following the stretcher through the bright white hallways until they were out of sight.
Rosalie and Cedric waited at the entry only to see Ted come jogging back around the corner with the stack of charred papers in his hands.
His face too was pale as he flipped through them, slowing to a stumbling halt mere feet from the others.
Cedric cleared his throat expectantly.
Teddy could only blink at them with wide, horrified eyes.
"What does it say?" Rosalie pressed, reaching out to take the files from him.
Gray eyes with pupils the size of pinpricks swiveled across the pages, reading some passages several times before moving on to the next. The more she read, the more her face resembled Ted's.
A shaky hand rose to catch the horrified gasp which rushed past her lips.
Teddy finally found his voice, turning to Cedric with a despondent whisper.
"…Who the hell is Basír Maharaj?"
Black Site #90 - "The Bedouin" - Transient Location - Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan - June 17th, 2000
"Did Horace survive?" Raymond blurted once Cedric had finished.
Cedric noted the gunshots had stopped once more, but picked up with the 9 millimeter again almost immediately.
"The bullet nicked his right lung. He lost a lot of blood, but once they got that back up and stitched the hole, he was essentially fine. A lucky shot, if you ask me...Anyway he's supposedly on bed rest, but you know Horace, he won't take more than a few steps from Rosalie's side after everything that happened. Now that we know the German and his associate have been prodding into her network, his suspicions have doubled. The man's positively insufferable at times, but he can at least guarantee her safety.
"Why would the German's associate shoot to kill when the entire modus operandi has been to capture Rosalie?" Reddington's tone had turned deeply suspicious, focusing on the one piece of the puzzle which didn't seem to belong, "Why weren't Horace and Norrick taken hostage in an effort to lure her out?"
It's what any criminal worth their salt would have done...why didn't Basír?
Cedric smiled to himself, "I asked myself the very same questions. In knowing your syndicate is clean, my concern for Rosalie has increased significantly. The whole event seemed awfully suspect, and had Horace not risked his life to salvage what little intel was left, we'd never have had a lead on the German's more subversive plot."
"Which is...?"
"The files Horace grabbed outlined Norrick's dealings with Basír leading all the way back to April of '99," The consternated frown that marred Cedric's features now seeped into his voice, "He's been blackmailing Norrick for intel and covert sabotage for nearly 18 months. Norrick was very well-insulated; I suspect it took Basír a great deal of time and effort to secure the man as his mole. He was lucky to get hold of someone a hair's breadth from Rosalie's inner circle."
"Too lucky," said Red.
"Agreed," said Cedric.
A not altogether uncomfortable silence stretched between them before Raymond finally asked the necessary question.
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
"I must return to Corsica" Cedric admitted ruefully, "Despite now knowing the breach is in her syndicate, I cannot remain at Rosalie's side any longer. My duties are piling up and Florian needs to be kept at bay."
"She still hasn't told him?"
Red's outrage boomed through the connection, making the other man hold the phone at arms' length. "No," he grumbled, "The fallout from her secrecy is mounting by the day, but she is still reticent. I am confident, with time, it will blow over."
"Blow over," Raymond scoffed, "Rosalie isn't the one who has to fear Florian's retribution. Who do you think he's going to turn on when he finds out what happened to his daughter in Colombia?"
"He won't kill you," said Cedric, relatively certain. "Florian's anger will be more to do with being kept in the dark. He may roar and rage for a bit, but Rosalie is his pride and joy; he won't harm you out of fear of upsetting her and incurring Marietta's wrath. Regardless, Florian Armel is the least of all our problems."
"How so?"
Cedric's voice dipped once more, ensuring he could not be overheard,"Though I am now confident none of this was Horace's doing, that does not negate the fact that the leaked intel came from within Rosalie's syndicate. Norrick was one of her longest-standing property managers, he knew a fair bit more than the others about the inner workings of her network. I struggle to see how he could have been found without other inside help."
A pregnant pause swallowed the conversation, the horrible implication making both men's skin prickle with unease.
"...You suspect Teddy."
The obvious disbelief in Reddington's voice was to be expected.
"I confess I too struggle to believe Ted could do such a thing," admitted Cedric, "I dearly hope that I am wrong, but he is the closest associate Rosalie has, and the only one who was intimately aware of her movements between the time the bounty was set and when she was abducted in Colombia."
Red thought for several long moments, then said, "I make it a habit to trust no-one, but Teddy...There's no possible way it was him, Cedric. We've been moving together all that time-"
"He wasn't in Corsica over the Christmas holidays," Cedric reminded with some reluctance, "He had the uninterrupted time, and we all know he had intimate access to Rosalie's movements. The only thing saving him as of yet is that I can't fathom a single motive which could give weight to the idea of Ted betraying Rosalie. When Horace selected him to fill out her guard, Teddy was more surprised than anyone. He was green at the time, gullible too. Nowadays I hold no misconceptions that Teddy is quite capable of betraying her to devastating effect; the real question is whether he actually would. I'm honestly not sure."
"What do you need me to do?"
Though his tone was still dubious, Cedric knew Reddington was pragmatic enough to suspect anyone with access. It was why he had brought the man into his confidence in the first place. No matter how things had shaken out between him and Rosalie, Raymond Reddington could be trusted completely and without reservation.
"Keep your ear to the ground;" Cedric advised, then added, "If you can, see what your contacts in the underground know about Basír Maharaj."
"Already done," said Red "My people managed to track down 'The German' only to find his name was Ferdinand Müller and he was nothing more than a banker. He already told us all about Basír."
Raymond quickly relayed the tale of their encounter with Ferdinand and the wealth of intel he provided.
"So that's why you're in London," Cedric noted with a nod. He fought to keep the wide, knowing smile which tugged at his lips from leaking into his voice, "Have you had any luck with the man who put Basír in contact with the German banker?"
Reddington hesitated for a beat.
"If we are to be in each other's confidence, Cedric, I'm going to require certain assurances."
It didn't take long for Cedric to realize what he was asking. His voice lowered to a barely intelligible murmur, "I will not lie to Rosalie. However, you and I will keep this particular matter between us until we have something definitive and of consequence to share with her. We will not, as you Americans say, 'tip her canoe' unnecessarily."
This seemed to appease Red well enough.
"I have a team beginning their investigation tomorrow. It will take some time and finesse, but I'm confident we can unravel the tangled web leading back to Basír's old contact."
The gunshots stopped for the last time, the late evening air falling quiet in Wadi Rum.
"Keep me posted " said Cedric, unfortunately forced to cut the conversation short, "I will keep you appraised of my findings and, should you wish, Rosalie's location."
"I'll have Dembe reach out weekly. Thank you, Cedric."
"You as well, Raymond."
Rosalie stepped out of the ensuite an hour later, her honey blonde waves just skirting beneath her jaw. Her bangs too had been trimmed, swooping in a side part to join the wealth of curls that were much wilder now that they weren't weighted down by their own density.
To be fair, Carina had been absolutely right. A Marilyn Monroe-style bob looked dashing on her.
"I'm a walking cliché," she muttered ruefully to herself. She stopped to check her reflection once more in the hallway's mirror, "Still...there's something about a new look ."
A low, amused voice rumbled warmly from behind her.
"My my, you are the spitting image of a young Marietta."
In the mirror's reflection, Rosalie could see where Horace stood at the edge of the lounge, his shirt half undone to show a broad swath of olive skin dusted with coarse black curls. A bloody bandage dangled from his left hand. His stitches had obviously pulled a little during his and Teddy's sampling of the new firearms.
She turned with a mischievous smirk, "So what you're saying is, I should keep this look for when I go see Florian?"
"Well..." Horace couldn't help but chuckle, "It couldn't hurt, Boss."
Teddy came bounding into the room at that moment, his soft grin widening considerably at the sight of Rosalie. "Oh heeeey, nice haircut!"
He ruffled her curls playfully, provoking another chorus of laughter before she started swatting him away, telling him not to muss her new 'do.
Carina stepped out into the hall, pointing her sheers expectantly at Teddy.
"Don't ruffle my creation," she chastised in her smooth, velvety voice. Her finger then turned over to crook beckoningly at him. "Now come along, little boy, you're due for a trim."
Both Horace and Rosalie snorted indelicately when Ted turned a luminous pink from his chest to his scalp.
He grinned all the same and practically skipped on his way to follow her instruction. The others roared their amusement when he halted just long enough to give Carina's cheek an impish peck.
Carina gasped and shook her head, "Mademoiselle Øllegaard, what absolute scoundrels you employ."
She turned to follow Ted through the ensuite amidst the sounds of renewing laughter from the lounge.
Rosalie wiped away the bit of moisture that had begun to bead at the corners of her eyes, which rested once more on Horace.
He was failing miserably in his attempt to re-bandage the bullet wound beneath his right pectoral.
With a sigh of resignation, she stood and wrested the length of gauze from his hands, then set about wrapping it correctly.
Tried though she did, Rosalie could not ignore the smirk Horace was aiming at her.
"What?" She groused at last, looking up to find herself nearly nose-to-nose with him.
"It's been a long time since I've heard you laugh like that."
The comment made Rosalie uncomfortable for some reason. She quickly fixed the bandage and took two healthy steps back. "Was I truly so miserable, Horace?"
"Yes,' he said.
Rosalie looked up with no small measure of indignation etched in her features only to find Horace's eyes soft on her.
"You were truly miserable, Rosalie. I think you knew that, though. I also think you've found the other side of it." He closed the distance between them again and fingered one of her curls, "It's nice to see you happy for a change."
Cedric appeared in the canvas entry, a lone eyebrow raised in question.
Rosalie took the opportunity to separate herself from the weirdly intimate conversation with Horace to deplore, in a very loud voice which undoubtedly carried to Carina's ears, that Cedric too was in dire need of a haircut.
Present…
Ajaccio Campo Dell'oro Airport - July 20th, 2000
Marietta's jet touched down in sunny Ajaccio a couple hours after departing from Normandy and leaving Teddy and Horace behind.
Rosalie's comfort at being back in Corisca was short-lived. Her stomach sank at the sight of the fleet of armored cars and guards which awaited her arrival.
Knowing in her gut this was Florian's response to her recent elusiveness, it did not surprise her to see Achille Fabron, Corsica's eventual successor, board the aircraft flanked by Florian's own personal bodyguards.
"Mademoiselle."
They spoke with one voice, bowing their heads in deference before standing erect once more.
"Achille, Leandre, Hugo," she stood and nodded at each of the men in turn, "Cedric has always been my escort to the estate. To what do I owe your presence in his stead?"
Achille inclined his head respectfully, "The Caïd has ordered us to escort you back to the compound personally."
Rosalie stood with a look of reticent acceptance, whereupon Leandre and Hugo flanked her on either side.
She knew the two guards as well as she knew Florian, and had spent nearly all of her criminal upbringing sheltered between them.
Though they were not intimidating in any regard, their presence and Cedric's absence meant Rosalie would not be able to quietly gauge Florian's mood on the ride back to the estate.
"Does he honestly think I would fly all the way here only to run from him?" She asked in a tone of obvious exasperation, following them out of the plane and down the narrow flight steps.
"Le Caïd dotes on you, cherie," Leandre reassured with ease, "Knowing the increased threat to your safety, he insisted you have a protective detail."
Rosalie heaved a weary sigh, deciding not to argue with them for now.
They all loaded into the armored car without a fuss, the rest of their security moving to flank them on all sides once they exited the private airport's gated entry.
To Be Continued...
