Chapter Text
John and Christine sat down at the bar, well away from the front windows. Zubec brought them Irish coffee. It was his own recipe, and it tasted like heaven. “Somebody was here looking for you,” he said gruffly.
“Again?” Christine groaned.
“Another reporter?” John asked.
The big barista shook his head. “I don’t think so. Different one, anyhow. Red-head. Said she was looking for help to find a man.”
Reese felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to bristle.
“She leave a number?” Christine asked.
“Nope. I offered, she said she’d stop back. Kinda skittish. Quiet.” Zubec shrugged. “I might’ve scared her.”
“As you do.”
“How old was she?” Reese asked, trying to sound casual.
“Eh, early thirties, maybe. Little bitty thing.”
“Well, if you see her again,” Christine said, “give me a yell.”
“Will do.”
The barista moved away. Reese sipped his coffee appreciatively. “So. The newlyweds are happily away.”
“They are. We’re going to plan the apartment and the office in the cloud, and then we’ll go from there.”
He lifted his cup. “To new horizons.”
“Fair enough.” She clicked her cup to his and they drank again. “Of course, I need to hit the books like, yesterday.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“Hmmm.”
“I thought I’d come over tomorrow and work on the yard.”
Christine shook her head. “No point in that until they’re done tramping through with construction materials.”
“True.”
“You can still come over if you want, though.”
He nodded. “We’ll see what the morning brings.”
They were quiet for a while, content. Then a delivery guy showed up, and Christine slid off her barstool to sign for the paper goods. “Be right back.”
“No rush.” Reese pulled out his phone.
When she was safely engaged in putting things away, Reese scrolled swiftly through the photos on his phone. He gestured Zubec back over. “The woman who was here. Is this her?”
Zubec studied the photo briefly. “No. She was younger than this. A little less …” he gestured to his own face “ … delicate. Stronger chin, bigger jaw. Bigger eyes. And darker skin. I don’t think she was a real red-head.”
John sighed in relief. “Good. Thanks.”
“She’s pretty,” Zubec said, gesturing to the phone.
“Yeah. And if you ever see her in here, I need to hear about it.”
“Dangerous?”
“No. Just problematic.” He clicked off the photo of Grace Hendricks and tucked his phone away. “If you see the other one again, let me know, too.”
“I will,” Zubec promised.
They weren’t exactly friends, John thought, but he and the big barista had enough in common to be comrades. He liked having him around Christine. And even though she’d moved away from Chaos, Zubec was still close. In an emergency, he could probably get to her long before John did.
Of course, once Julie and Will took up residence at the new place, she’d had professional bodyguards on hand 24/7. He liked that idea very much.
Christine came back and sat down again. “What?”
“What what?”
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile sometimes,” John insisted.
“No, you’re smiling in that up-to-something way.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not up to something.”
She cocked her head. Then she gave up with a sigh. “Men!”
***
Carl Elias moved cautiously into the vistors room. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and while he welcomed the diversion, he was also wary. The guards were all bought and paid for, of course – but men who could be bought could always be re-bought by a higher bidder.
The man sitting on the other side of the table was unmistakable simply because of his size. Teeny Bellatore was more than a foot taller than Elias, and roughly three hundred pounds heavier. He was wearing a polo shirt, black, open at the neck to reveal a deep black pelt on his chest.
He was like some massive silverback gorilla waiting to pummel a younger rival.
Teeny rose a little when Elias entered the room, just far enough for his ass to clear the chair, enough to show a token respect.
“Hello,” Elias said quietly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”
Bellatore nodded. “Just passing through on my way back home. Thought I’d stop and pay my respects.”
“I appreciate your courtesy.”
Teeny jerked his head. In the corner of the room, a tall, slender young man waited silently. He wasn’t, as Elias had feared, Bellatore’s muscle. He wasn’t his Marconi. He was just a skinny kid. “My associate,” the big man said, “Clay. I want to let you get eyes on him, in case I need to send him to you in the future.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Elias asked calmly.
“No. But one never knows.”
“Of course.” He nodded to the young man. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He turned his attention back to Bellatore. The big man was studying him. “I knew your old man,” he said. “Back in the day.”
Elias kept his face relaxed, placid. If Bellatore was here for retribution, he didn’t think there were enough guards in the block to save his life – if they even bothered to try.
“He was an asshole,” the man continued. “And from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t right, the way he treated you.”
“I appreciate your sentiment,” Elias said. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way out here to tell me that.”
The big man snorted. “I hear you sent your man to see Chrissy Buchannan.”
Elias blinked, confused.
“Fitzgerald,” Clay offered, very softly. “She changed her name.”
“Ah. Miss Fitzgerald,” Elias answered. His interested picked up sharply, but he kept his voice calm. “Merely a social call. They are friends from long ago.”
“I know about your boy,” Teeny said, with a hint of a scoff. “I know what he wanted. So I came to tell you face to face. I’m going back home. Up north. I’m going to buy me a vineyard. Grow some grapes, you know?”
“As one does, in a vineyard.”
“You bein’ smart with me?”
“Of course not.”
“Grow some grapes,” Bellatore repeated firmly, “and bottle some wine. If it’s any good, I’ll come down a couple times a year for tastings or shows or whatever. But beyond that, I got no interest in this city. You can have it, and good luck to you.”
“I appreciate your candor,” Elias said sincerely. “And your reassurances. You put my mind at ease.”
“Just one thing. One carve-out I want.”
Elias waited. He did not have to grant this request, of course, but if it was reasonable enough he might do so simply to avoid conflict with the retired Don.
“I known Chrissy since she was no taller than this table,” Bellatore continued. “Since she was protectin’ her crazy dad from her drunken shrew of a mother. She was a good kid then and she’s a nice lady now. And you aren’t going to mess with her. Understand?”
It was a direct challenge to his authority, Elias recognized. But it was also done here in private, a courtesy that would allow him to accept this small request without losing face. Bellatore was showing respect at the same time he was demanding it.
Teeny Bellatore could be a problem, if he set his mind to it. His request, though it was inartfully put, was one that Elias was inclined to agree to, for a number of reasons. “I will treat her,” he said carefully, “with the respect and deference that I would show to any member of your family.”
“Her and all her associates. Her and her business.”
“The coffee shop?”
“That and her new thing. Something about windmills or solar panels or something for Africa. With that Ingram kid. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna keep out of it. Clear?”
Elias took a slow breath. Solar panels. There was some profit in that, he understood, or there would be. Young Ingram was a billionaire. Their new business, whatever it was, would be big, and there would be lots of money. A profitable pie, and one that Elias might be inclined to get his fingers in.
But the obstacles Bellatore could put in front of him would be substantial. Elias swiftly calculated that was worth the sacrifice of any potential profit to insure the older man’s continued retirement. Provided that he didn’t return with additional requests.
And more importantly, Elias knew that Harold Finch was very much interested and involved in the young lady’s future, and the young billionaire’s as well. He had already resigned himself to this carve-out, for different reasons. He could well afford to look magnanimous.
“Clear,” he agreed.
Bellatore pushed back from the table and stood up, with some effort. “Mr. Elias, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He stuck his hand out.
Elias stood and took the hand. His fingers disappeared into the ham-like fist. Bellatore gave him a little squeeze, just enough to remind him that, old as he was, he could still break the younger man over his knee like kindling.
Elias accepted the warning for what it was. “And you, Mr. Bellatore. Good luck with your grapes.”
“I’ll send you a bottle, if it’s any good.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Teeny Bellatore turned sideways through the doorway as he left the room. The skinny teen scampered after him, with a terrified glance back at Elias.
It was an unexpected visit, Carl thought, but it was good. It was very good.
He settled back at the table and held his hand out for the guard’s cell phone.
***
Carter approached the door cautiously. She looked up and down the street, then eased her lockpicks out of her pocket. But when she pulled gently on the handle, it opened silently.
She paused, sighed. So she was expected, then. She shouldn’t have been surprised.
She eased through the door and closed it silently behind her. The access hallway was dim and dusty, with cobwebs in the corners. Carter resisted the urge to draw her weapon. At the far end of the hall it was lighter. She moved that way. Her shoes whispered on the hard floor.
The hall opened onto the main lobby of the library. Yellow light filtered doggedly through the dirt on the high windows. She looked at the books scattered thickly on the floor, and for one instant she thought she must be in the wrong place. But they were cheap paperbacks, the kind you bought at the grocery store or the airport. Nothing important or valuable. She stepped on them gingerly; they were a little slick.
Carter looked around the lobby, but there was nothing to indicate which way she should go.
Then a dog barked above her. Joss turned and looked up the stairs. At the top, Bear wagged his tail happily. Beside her, Finch smiled gently. “Detective,” he said. “Please, join me.”
He turned and walked away, but Bear trotted down to accompany her up the stairs. “Hello, boy,” she said, petting him fondly. At the top of the stairs, the dog turned and continued down the corridor.
“I’ve made you a cup of tea, Detective,” Finch called. “I know you generally prefer coffee, but not this late in the day unless you’re working.”
She followed the dog past a sliding steel gate and into what was obvious the work room. It was cluttered and very much lived-in.
“Lady Grey, I believe, is your favorite,” Finch continued. He fussed at a side table over an honest-to-God silver tea service. “I never cared much for bergamot myself, but Miss Fitzgerald also prefers that variety.” He held out a delicate porcelain cup and saucer to her. “Please, make yourself at home.”
Bear dropped onto his bed next to the desk.
Carter moved slowly though the space and took the cup. “So this is the Bat Cave.”
“Something like that.” Finch smiled warmly again and picked up his own cup.
She was drawn to a big bulletin board that was covered with pictures and articles, connected with a web of strings on thumb tacks. “Are these your … people?”
Finch moved to her side. “My failures, I’m afraid. The people I was unable to help. Most occurred prior to my partnership with Mr. Reese.”
Under the flatness of his voice, Joss could hear the aching loneliness of that time. The despair. “You had the information. You needed a gun for hire.”
“I thought so, initially. But after several … failed attempts … I realized that what I needed was a partner. Someone who would be as dedicated to my mission as I myself was. Someone who genuinely cared about these people.”
Carter traced her finger down the long list of numbers at the center of the board. “Where are the ones you saved, then?”
Harold chuckled. “All the intelligent women I bring here ask that question.” He gestured to a second board. This one was covered edge to edge with pages, and each page was covered with line after line of numbers. Scattered across the flat black and white were tiny splashes of color, highlighted sets of five numbers in pink and yellow, green and blue.
She looked at the numbers and then at him. “The ones you lost,” she gestured, “have names and pictures. The ones you saved only have numbers?”
“The ones I lost,” Finch explained, “are beyond caring. The ones we saved are still alive. In the event that the library is compromised …”
Carter nodded, understanding. “Who are they?”
“Mafia dons and babies,” he said. “Judges and prosecutors and lawyers. Doctors and school teachers.” He stopped, chuckled ruefully, then went on. “Runaway teens. Con men. Scoundrels. Spies. And hackers. People from all walks of life.”
“Homicide detectives,” Carter guessed.
“Yes.”
Finch gestured to the side table and they sat down. He offered her a tiny cookie from a matching plate. It looked rather plain, but the taste was very rich.
A huge gray cat appeared and jumped into Finch’s lap, nearly causing him to spill his tea. He tried to push her away, but the cat was insistent on staying. He gave up and held the tea over her while he petted her with his free hand.
“Wouldn’t have thought you were a cat person, Finch.”
“I’m not. But she’s an excellent mouser.” He made a little face. “If she likes you, perhaps she’ll present you with a trophy head later.”
“Something to look forward to.” Carter sipped her tea. “Why now?”
“Mr. Reese and I,” he explained, “have done everything in our power to shield you from this knowledge. To protect you. Because knowing … knowing is very dangerous. And we did not want to endanger you.”
His words were very precise, clearly rehearsed and carefully chosen. Carter waited, let him speak at his own pace.
“After all that you’ve done for us, after all the lives that you’re helped us save, being anything less than fully devoted to your safety would have been churlish.”
Churlish, Joss thought. She wondered when the last time anyone had used that word in a conversation was. Her best guess was fifty years ago. “What’s changed?”
“A number of things, including the fact that your curiosity has not diminished, in spite of our warnings about the danger.” Harold nodded to himself. “But also, you son now stands to be tangentially involved in this matter. I have seen enough nature documentaries to know that a man endangers the cub at the very real risk of engendering the wrath of the mother. With the aim of avoiding that confrontation, we felt is best if you approached this decision … fully informed.”
She put her cup down rather more firmly than she intended to. “Taylor.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Through his association with Dr. Ingram. And his closer association with Miss Fitzgerald.”
“I figured Scotty was in this up to her eyeballs. How’s Ingram involved in this?”
“He’s not. Will knows less about it than you do. Far less. But Will’s father …” the loneliness echoed again “… he was very much involved. And it cost him his life. If the truth of what we’re doing ever comes out, it’s possible – remotely – that they will go after Will. Or anyone close to him.”
Joss looked at him for a long moment. This time she knew he was waiting, giving her time. She ate another tiny cookie and sipped her tea. “I think you’d better start at the beginning.”
“Very well. But as I believe Mr. Reese once told you, once you go down this path, there’s no going back.”
“I think I burned that bridge long ago, don’t you?”
Finch nodded. “Of course.” He sipped his own tea, then set his cup down. “As you know, after 9/11 the government gave itself extraordinary powers to capture and examine every electronic communication that took place. Phone calls, e-mails, file, everything.”
Carter nodded.
“What they lacked, however, was a system that could sort through it all. Something that could examine all that data, connect the dots, and accurately predict the next mass-casualty event.”
“Prism,” she guessed.
Finch shook his head. “Prism was one attempt. There were several others. And the public was allowed to become aware of them because they didn’t work. They were sacrificed as diversions.”
“But Nathan Ingram created one that did work.”
Harold took a deep breath. “Nathan was my partner. And as much as I loathe the term, my corporate beard.”
“So all the stuff IFT came up with, all the innovations …”
Finch nodded.
She whistled softly. “And even his own son doesn’t know?”
“As far as Will knows, I am his father’s dear friend, a doting, supportive insurance executive who needs his assistant to turn on his cell phone for him.”
“You’ve lied to him his whole life.”
“Yes.”
“Will you ever tell him the truth?”
“Not if I can possibly avoid it. As I’ve mentioned, knowledge of this secret is very, very dangerous. There are people who would kill to keep it a secret – or to learn how it works.”
“The government?”
“And others.”
She took a minute to consider. “So you built a system that actually worked. That sorted through this huge haystack of data and found the needles.”
“Yes.”
“And then you sold it to the government.”
“For a dollar. Yes. Well, Nathan did. They had no idea I was involved in any way.”
“The potential for abuse …”
“I was well aware of that potential, Detective.” His voice took on just a little edge. He modified it before he spoke again. “Abundantly aware. That’s why the Machine is a closed system. A black box. They cannot access any part of its programming. They cannot alter it in any way.”
“The government went along with that?”
“Not willingly, of course. They tried to hack it the entire time it was in development. They continue to try to hack it to this day. They have not succeeded.”
“Is that why they killed Nathan Ingram? They were trying to get inside?”
“He was going to tell the world what we’d created. I was going to help him do so.”
Carter stared at him.
“He realized, too late, that even with all our precautions the technology could be abused. He was determined to stop it.”
“And they blew up a whole ferry dock full of people to kill him?”
“Yes.”
Joss stood and paced a slow lap around the work room. Bear got up and walked beside her. She studied the two boards again. Then she sat down. The dog sat beside her. “How does it work?”
“As you so accurately described, it sorts through the haystacks of data and finds the needles of threat. Or to be more precise, the tiny fragments that compose the needles of threat. It then identifies people associated with potential mass-casualty events and provides those identities to the appropriate government asset in time for the attacks to be stopped. Most often it provides the numbers to a group called Research, which is an independent entity operating inside the NSA.”
“It tells them when and where and they …”
“No,” Finch said firmly. “Except on extraordinary occasions, it gives them a number, nothing more. A social security number when possible. Another identifying number when not. A bank account, a telephone number, rarely longitude and latitude – it gives them some way of identifying the person of interest. Nothing more. It’s for the human operators to determine the exact nature of the threat and the involvement of the person designated.”
“A number.”
“Yes.”
“They must be so pissed off.”
“Yes.”
“What constitutes an extraordinary occasion?”
“Hijacked missiles inbound on Manhattan. Or any emergency of that magnitude and immediacy. Then, and only then, the Machine directly interacts with the operators for a period of time limited to the time needed to eliminate the immediate threat.” He considered. “It is quite rare.”
Carter stood up and took another lap around the room. Bear went with her again. This time she paused and looked into the little kitchenette. Then she walked back and sat down again.
The dog gave up and went back to his own bed.
Carter gestured to the boards. “These people. The Mafia dons, the babies. Me. We’re not part of any mass-casualty event.”
“No. You are all irrelevant to national security.”
“Irrelevant.”
“The Machine sees everything,” Finch reminded her. “So among all the needles of national threat it finds, it also finds warnings of more conventional crimes about to happen. Crimes that the irrelevant individuals are either going to be victims or perpetrators of.”
“And those numbers … come to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you help them.”
“We try.”
“The government …”
“Considers them irrelevant. The Machine deletes them every night.”
“That’s what you call it? The Machine? That’s it?”
“I was never one much for naming projects. Particularly super-secret ones.”
“Huh.” Carter stared at the board of numbers. “Your Machine told you that I was in danger.”
“Yes.”
“And John came to save me.”
“Yes.”
“Even though I was doing everything in my power to arrest him.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew if I did arrest him, your whole game was over.”
Finch hesitated. “I had … arrangements in place, in that eventuality.”
“Like you did when Donnelly caught him.”
“Yes. Less elaborate arrangements, at that point, but similar.”
The detective considered all of this new information for a very long time. Finch sipped his tea and waited. He was good at waiting.
“It can’t catch every crime,” Carter realized. “Only the ones that are premeditated.”
“Premeditated and prepared for in some electronic manner,” Harold confirmed. “But given the profusion of electronic devices these days, that is becoming a larger portion of those crimes.”
“Buy quicklime at ten different stores in the city,” she mused. “Even if you pay cash, the store inventories catch it.”
“And the surveillance cameras identify you as traveling to those ten stores.”
“And it only gives you the number, even though it knows that person bought quicklime at ten different stores?”
“Only the number,” Finch confirmed. “That’s how it has to be. Anything more would be risking … disaster.”
“You know,” she finally said, “you’re going to end up dead if you keep doing this.”
“We are aware of that very real possibility, yes.”
“I may not always be able to help you.”
“Your first duty, Detective, is to your son, and your second is to protecting innocent lives. I assure you that John and I are fully aware of those responsibilities. We would never ask you to diverge from them.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because there are innocent lives at stake.”
Carter shook her head. “No. I can see why John does it. He thinks he has a debt to pay. But you? I have no idea why you’d risk your life like this.”
Finch looked toward the gold-colored window. It was splashed with red now as the sun set. “I wanted to ignore them,” he confessed quietly. “Nathan was the one who said we should try to save them. He tried. Alone. And when he …” He stopped. “I suppose it’s my crusade. My beach full of starfish.”
Joss straightened. “It tried to tell you, didn’t it? The Machine? It knew they were going to kill him.”
He sighed heavily. Then he pushed the cat off his lap, stood up and walked to the board. “So now you know, Detective. It’s for you now to decide what you’ll do with that information. You can continue to help us, and we’ll do everything we can to protect you. You can walk away from this work, and we’ll still do everything we can to protect you, but without your direct knowledge. You can let your son go to work with Will Ingram, with Christine, fully aware that there’s some remote chance he’ll someday be endangered by that association. Or we can divert his attention to some equally enticing but far less potentially hazardous endeavor. The choice is entirely yours. Simply tell me what you want, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen.”
Carter walked over to stand next to him at the board. The board of lost chances, she noted. She doubted he spent much time enjoying his board of success, but this one, with the fading newspaper clippings and the curling photos – this one haunted him. He never forgot these people he had failed to save.
A few of them were cases Carter had caught, when it was too late to do them any good. But there were others, on that other board, little blubs of color that stood for cases she would never have to work because John and his partner had saved the victims or stopped the perpetrators.
None of what Finch had told her was really news. The details, sure, but she’d had a pretty good idea about the outline. And the danger.
Finch had let her follow him here because he trusted her. And because he wanted her to know exactly what she was letting Taylor get involved in.
“If anything happens to me …”
“To quote Valjean,” Finch answered immediately, “your child will want for nothing. That was arranged long ago.”
He didn’t just mean financially, Carter knew at once, though that was part of it. He or John would see to it, personally, that Taylor had everything he needed. “I … thank you.”
“Rather the least we could do, under the circumstances.” Finch crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it’s a great deal to take in, Detective Carter. You can certainly take some time to think it over.”
Carter crossed her own arms and moved just a little, until their shoulders touched as they stood in front of the board. “All things considered, Harold,” she answered, “I think you might as well start calling me Joss.”