Chapter Text
To flee from memory
Had we the Wings
Many would fly
Inured to slower things
Birds with surprise
Would scan the cowering Van
Of men escaping
From the mind of man
—Emily Dickinson
Washington, D.C., 2013
"You in position?" I asked quietly into my earpiece, as I unholstered my Glock.
"Affirmative," replied my partner. "Meet you in there on your Go."
I had entered the abandoned warehouse through the main entrance, while Marston covered the back. We were on the verge of interrupting the sale of a painting that had been stolen years earlier in Amsterdam. The plan was to arrest the buyer and seller, who would lead us to the identity of the thief. We knew who the seller was — a meek pawn shop owner who was relatively inexperienced in fencing stolen art. The buyer was an unknown subject, so we were prepared to use force. The investigation leading to this moment was so easy that we expected an easy, uneventful operation — just not quite as easy as it actually turned out.
I walked stealthily down a long, winding hallway and finally encountered the room where the deal was happening. I heard male voices behind the door, but they were so quiet I could not discern the words. Through a small window in the door, I saw the pawn shop owner talking to the mystery buyer. Between them on the floor were the painting and a briefcase presumably filled with cash. Upon a nearby table lay a suit jacket and fedora.
"Go," I said. Opening the door slowly and quietly, I entered the dark, dusty room.
Marston did the same from the opposite side of the room.
"FBI!" he shouted. "Get down!"
They both complied immediately, kneeling to the floor and placing their hands on their heads in surrender.
Marston approached the pawn shop owner, and I approached the mystery buyer. I holstered my Glock and grabbed my handcuffs. I moved the buyer's hands behind his back and cuffed them together quickly.
He looked up at me, and as soon as our eyes met, I recognized him.
Raymond. Fuck. My stomach dropped. My mouth went dry.
He smiled and spoke with his deep, smooth voice and precise enunciation. "Agent Keen, what a pleasure."
Marston and I brought both suspects to FBI holding. We were told to focus on the pawn shop owner. Raymond Reddington was taken away from us. We weren't allowed to question him. I was angry; I was certain my professional integrity was being undermined and I would not be awarded proper credit for this arrest. Only 20% of FBI agents were women, and we routinely were overlooked for interesting assignments and promotions. My boss was fantastic and supportive of my career, always looking for ways to champion my skills. But there was only so much he could do within a toxic culture.
The next morning I was summoned to a tiny conference room for a meeting with my boss Assistant Director John Weller, Assistant Director Harold Cooper, and the Director of the Criminal Investigation Division. I hoped there would be praise for making The Arrest of My Career.
"Do you know who I am, Special Agent Keen?"
"Of course I know who you are, Director Hayes," I responded.
"I'd like to begin by congratulating you on this arrest. You led an outstanding investigation, and you are to be commended."
"Thank you, sir."
"We're 100% certain he is Raymond Reddington as he claims," continued Hayes.
Yes, I could have told you that, I didn't say. Fuck, why is this haunting me now?
"His fingerprints match Reddington's Navy records. We also ran his DNA against blood on Reddington's Navy uniform from the 80s. He even volunteered classified details about a Brussels Mission in '08."
I nodded. "What happened in Brussels in '08?"
"We tried to kill him."
The FBI had a special task force actively hunting Reddington (along with several other three-letter agencies from around the world and INTERPOL). I was under the impression we wanted him alive, not dead. So this came as a shock, but I maintained a blank facial expression.
"I questioned him for hours," said Assistant Director Cooper, leader of the Reddington Task Force.
"Did you learn anything interesting?" I asked.
"Very," said Cooper. "He said that Ranko Zamani was in town, and he provided some vague intelligence on an impending crime that Zamani is planning. But he refused to provide specifics." He pressed a key on his laptop to play a piece of a recording.
"You've overestimated your authority," said Reddington on the recording. I would know that voice anywhere. "I said I'll help you find Zamani, and I will. But from this point forward, there's one very important rule: I speak only with Elizabeth Keen. Her brilliant investigative work led to my arrest, so she gets the candy."
Cooper stopped the recording.
I knew he was a feminist.
Now Director Hayes spoke again. "He's arrogant. I believe he's making this demand simply to assert control over the situation. Still, we'd like you to talk to him. Get his intel so we can look into it."
I saw my moment. "Sure," I responded. "I'd be glad to talk to him. Especially considering this was my arrest. But I want to be part of the investigation that comes from his intel. I don't want to be pushed aside like yesterday."
"I support that," my boss said.
Cooper agreed. "Absolutely, Agent Keen. That's more than fair."
Director Hayes furrowed his eyebrows with skepticism. "When you applied to the FBI Academy, your background check was clean. You were an excellent student. Your work since then is impressive and unimpeachable."
"Thank you."
"Yesterday you went on an operation to arrest a small-time pawn broker selling a stolen painting. When you went in, did you know the buyer was Reddington?"
"No, sir. But it's not surprising; it's well known that Reddington buys and sells stolen artwork."
"What I find surprising is that an international fugitive — skilled enough to be in the wild over 20 years — was caught by happenstance. He's more careful than that. Surprising and odd, I'd say. Even unbelievable."
"You congratulated me on the arrest. Now you're insinuating… what exactly?"
"That you're working together. That you know him somehow, and the two of you hatched a plan together for God knows why."
Bile rose in my throat. "With all due respect, sir, that is preposterous."
"It's your assertion, then, that you aren't even casually acquainted with him?" he asked.
"Correct. That is my assertion."
I could lie convincingly. I had participated in theater from a young age and through college. In addition, the FBI had trained me well in undercover work. But I had never applied this skill to my colleagues and bosses. I saved it for the criminal organizations I sometimes infiltrated.
They subjected me to a polygraph test. I passed, and they accepted I was being honest (Director Hayes, only tenuously so). They "temporarily" reassigned me to Cooper's Reddington Task Force.
He and I headed downtown to the black site where Reddington was being held.
I had met Cooper once before, years ago when consulting with his previous team on a case. He was a giant of a man, both literally and figuratively — warm and kind, qualities that were unexpected in someone at his level of the FBI. He seemed intent on giving me the benefit of the doubt here. Or perhaps he was simply building trust with me.
I would need to be extra cautious and double-down on my contention that Reddington was a complete stranger to me. Of course, none of that mattered if Reddington had told them the truth about our association. But I was willing to bet money that he hadn't done any such thing. He was smarter than most and was likely using his considerable charms to maintain an air of mystery and remain in control of the situation.
The prisoner's dilemma theory indicates that if both parties cooperate rather than betray one another, then they both increase their chances for a more positive outcome for themselves. Yes, I decided, it's best to play innocent and dumb here.
I was introduced to Special Agent Donald Ressler, who I knew only by reputation. He had spent years hunting Reddington. If Cooper was warm and kind and giving me the benefit of every doubt, Ressler was the polar opposite.
I extended my hand. He looked in my eyes and said, "I should put cuffs on you, not shake your hand."
Cooper admonished him. "Ressler, she's on our team."
"I'm not a criminal," I said with indignation. "I'm a special agent with the same training as you, same background checks—"
"We're not the same," said Ressler. "I'm not pals with any fugitives. Let's get this over with."
He led us to an observation room overlooking a large void. Within the void was a clear box I'd only heard about — a high-tech military-grade prison cell built of explosion-proof materials. The fugitive was held inside, but I couldn't see him from my vantage point.
I stared at the box.
"Anything specific you want me to ask him about, besides Zamani?"
Cooper responded. "Zamani is it for now. See where that takes the conversation." After a beat, he added, "I've seen your work, Agent Keen. You've got this."
I guess he thought I was apprehensive. I was, but not for the reason he thought.
"Thank you, sir." I inhaled deeply and braced myself as I walked down the stairs to approach the box. The door to the box opened slowly, and I sat on a chair facing it. He was shackled to his chair by the wrists and ankles. Wearing the gray suit pants and matching vest, the top two buttons on his dress shirt were open. His tie had been taken away.
My eyes scanned him top to bottom. The expensive, tailored suit certainly tracked with the man I had once known, but the similarities seemed to end there. His hair was no longer blond but rather graying. The hairline had receded considerably. But he was still incredibly handsome and attractive.
"I thought you'd never show," he said.