Mischa hadn't been put in with the prisoners, and a translator had explained to her that she wasn't under arrest. She wasn't even necessarily in trouble. The handcuffs were just a precaution because of her behavior, when she had been brought in. Did she remember that during her extraction she had bit one of the agents? And that same agent had been forced to neutralize her?

“Neutralize” - translation, I got a gun rammed into my temple, too.

The agent had needed stitches, as Misch was often reminded. She explained that she'd been scared and upset for Tal. She asked about him, over and over again. Where was he, was he okay, was he alive, what had he been yelling about? Ansuz. What did that mean? What was he involved in? What was going on!?

Please don't let him be terrorist. Let him be okay and not a terrorist. Please please please.

They had told her she'd been brought in for questioning, but no one asked her any questions. She was originally locked in an old office that still had a couch. She slept fitfully with the handcuffs on, and was woken up for a disgusting breakfast that she couldn't finish. Then she'd waited, till some guards came and took her to another room.

It was almost cliché, the room she was in; large, all dark gray, with a cheap card table in front of her, a bare bulb hanging above her, and a huge mirror on the wall across from her. Obviously a two way mirror, she watched “Law & Order”, she knew her stuff.

I'm going insane. Please, god, let him be okay, please, oh please, oh please.

“Mrs. Rapaport.”

Mischa jerked her head up and was shocked at who was walking into the room. She hadn't seen him since Rome, and on top of that, he looked so different, wearing a suit.

“Ruiz!?” she exclaimed. He nodded his head at her, but didn't smile. He sat down at a second folding chair that had been pulled up to the table.

“How are you?” he asked, placing a folder in the middle of the table.

“Is he okay? Please, tell me if he's okay. They hit him so hard. Tell me he's okay,” she begged, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Canaan's perfectly fine. I'm sorry about our surroundings, they didn't have a safe house ready – the prison was the best option,” Ruiz said, as if it explained anything. Mischa let out a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Oh, thank god. I was so worried about him,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Rapaport, please. We have a lot of ground to cover, and not much time. You need to answer some questions,” Ruiz informed her. She opened her eyes again.

“What questions? What am I doing here? Is this because of the shooting!? Tal said it was a terrorist thing. Was he involved with it?” she babbled. Ruiz nodded.

“He was not involved. Yes, it was a terrorist act. We need you to explain some things to us. Tell us everything you know about Peter Sotera.”

Mischa gasped.

“Peter? Peter Peter!? Peter, my boss, Peter?” she double and triple checked. Ruiz nodded.

“That Peter.”

“What could you possibly want to know about him? He's an insurance agent, a uh … uh … field guy, he gets sent to start new branches. He sells fucking insurance!” Misch exclaimed. Her mind was unspooling, slowly but surely, becoming a pile of frayed memories and split ends.

“Yes, he does that. He is also the U.S. liaison for a very violent and aggressive chapter of al Qaeda. He sells them information – advanced intel on NATO and Interpol and the U.N., not to mention the U.S..”

Misch sat back, stunned. Peter. Her boss, Peter. Slightly overweight, generally smelled like salami. Got drunk and groped her tits at a Christmas party once. Wore Hawaiian shirts every Friday. Peter.

“You must be joking,” she breathed.

“I wish I was. Mr. Sotera became involved with al Qaeda following the attacks on 9/11. He's actually spent a lot of time in Afghanistan.”

“But … but … he's from Hoboken.”

“Yes. He was a very influential insurance lobbyist in Washing D.C. for a while, where he made a lot of political connections. Then he moved to New York, where he used secrets and blackmail to get the info he wanted. He is responsible for sending information that resulted in the bombings of at least four U.S. convoys, that we can prove. We suspect many more,” Ruiz just kept going.

I'm having a nightmare. Wake up now, Misch. Wake up, and Tal will be trying to heat up waffles on the hotel's coffee maker. Wake up.

“Four bombings …,” all the breath left her body.

“We believe he moved to Detroit shortly after the failed 'shoe-bombing' on Flight 253. Since then, he has been gaining more contacts within the terrorist organizations. He came on the C.I.A.'s radar a little over a year and a half ago, and that's how we were alerted to the fact that he was planning an overseas trip. Armenia, Turkey -,”

“Italy,” Misch finished for him, her voice barely a hint of a whisper.

“And Italy. Our contract is with the Turkish government. They knew he was coming here after Rome, so it was requested that we go ahead into Italy to gather more intel and to track his contacts,” Ruiz explained.

“You knew,” she gasped, her eyes finally meeting his. “You knew who I was. Before you met me, you knew who I was.”

“Yes,” he answered swiftly.

“That's why you were upset. That's why you didn't want us to be together,” she began connecting the dots.

“Yes. Above all else, the mission could not be compromised.”