“And I was part of the mission.”

“Yes.”

She knew she should argue. Knew she should be proclaiming her innocence, shouting from the roof top that she didn't know, she didn't know! She'd had no idea. She'd been busting her ass setting up insurance offices. Peter had been busting his ass trying to topple governments.

But all she could think about was …

I was a mission. A mark. A way to get closer to Peter, to get closer to the mission. That's why he was so secretive. That's how he always knew where to find me.

“He knew me,” she whispered, sniffling.

“Yes. Now, Mrs. Rapaport, can you tell me the names of every person Peter came in contact with while in Rome?” Ruiz questioned, pulling out a pen before opening the folder he'd brought in with him.

“Uh, no. No, I didn't spend a lot of time with him,” she coughed out a reply. She felt sick to her stomach.

She hadn't spent a lot of time with her boss because she'd been busy spending all her time with a man she never really knew.

“But you did spend some time with him. There was a lunch meeting, and a dinner date,” Ruiz went over some papers.

“I …,” she couldn't finish. Tal had interrupted, both those times. Both times, he'd assured her Peter wouldn't catch them. She had always wondered at his confidence. Now she wondered if he'd orchestrated it that way; if he'd known that they wouldn't be interrupted.

How is this my life?

“What about in Detroit? What kind of business expenses was Mr. Sotera making?” Ruiz pressed.

“How would I know that? I'm just an agent!” she exclaimed.

“You are one of the top selling agents in the entire city of Detroit, Mrs. Rapaport. You must be somewhat aware of your boss's movements,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, when it comes to insurance! You wanna know how many policies he sold!?” she snapped.

“If you become difficult, the interview will stop. It won't start again till tomorrow morning. How long your time in this prison lasts is entirely up to you,” Ruiz told her.

“Are you threatening me!?”

“Just explaining the rules, Mrs. Rapaport.”

“I want to speak to a lawyer.”

“I'm sorry, that's not possible, Mrs. Rapaport.”

“Then I want to speak to the U.S. embassy.”

“I'm not required to do anything you request, Mrs. Rapaport.”

“A phone call! I should get a goddamn phone call!”

“This isn't America, there is no 'one phone call' clause, Mrs. Rapaport.”

“DON'T CALL ME THAT!” she screamed at him.

“Hey!” he jumped out of his chair. He immediately loomed over her and she shrank back into her seat, afraid of him. “Just answer the goddamn questions! Were you ever aware that your boss was knowingly involved with terrorist cells!?”

“No! I don't know anything! I don't know anything!” she yelled, pressing her hands over her ears as best she could.

“You know something! You must know something! I'll keep you here for a fucking year, it that's what it takes! A fucking year in this goddamn pri-,”

There was a loud alarm. It cut through the room like a buzz saw, startling both of them. Then it shut off, just as suddenly as it had started. Ruiz glared down at her for a second longer, then he grabbed the folder off the table. He strode to the door and yanked it open hard enough that it banged off the opposite wall. Then he slammed it shut behind him.

Mischa tried to catch her breath, shaking and shuddering in her seat. She'd barely started to calm down – well, calm down as much as was possible in her situation – when there was another buzzing sound. She clasped her hands together again and clutched them in her lap. Wished she could curl into herself. Disappear.

The door opened and a man started walking across the floor. Not Ruiz. She knew who it was the moment he stepped foot in the room.

“Are you okay?” Tal asked, sliding into the chair Ruiz had just left.

She stared at him, her eyes wide. He had a bruise on the side of his head, blooming around his temple. He hadn't shaved in a long time, even for him. But the strangest thing was the suit he was wearing. A Brooks Brothers style suit, with a tie that looked like it had been yanked on more than a few times. He looked rumpled and disheveled, which was almost bizarre. Not that he was normally clean cut, but he never looked harried, not the way he looked right then.

Who is this man?

“Not really,” she finally replied, her voice scratchy.

“I'm sorry about all this, I didn't know that was going to happen,” he sighed, rubbing his palm down his face.

“What happened?”

“Someone took down my license plate, when I grabbed you outside your building,” Tal explained. “Those were … like policeman, S.W.A.T., the guys who came into my house. They thought I was a part of the shooting.”

“But you weren't.”

“No. Just the opposite.”

“You track them.”

“Yes.”

“And me.”

“... yes.”

They looked at each other for a long time.

Wake up, Misch. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up …

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Just Tal,” he replied with a sad smile. “Same guy as before, I just know more about you than you realized.”