he fits the profile: disaffected, 'susceptible to radical indoctrination, problem with authority. doesn't vote or pay taxes, but witness statements all say he's not a player. he does sketches of his landlady's dog. oh, and he's lying about the woman who called him -- we checked the records, no calls came in before we picked him up --
mid-level fso. been stateside the past three years. no red flags. he was killed when a truck ran a light in crystal city.
great, i'll access state's database
but, tom, i can do everything from
yes. sir.
that's the point. no one'll tell me. i cross-reffed the sci database, talked to the intel committee, nsa gave me. nothing. krebs doesn't want me to ruffle any feathers. i've been up and down all the ladders and everyone just thinks i'm a -- when an mp suddenly appears and grabs her by the arm. stopping her. he towers over her --
everybody in this place have a six-foot height requirement? anyway. i'm going back to the office to--
-- but its a total shut out --
secretary callister!.: he looks behind him briefly before being shuffled into the meeting room. and slam.  the doors close in latesha's face.
well, shit.
afternoon.  afternoon, sir.  afternoon.  afternoon, general.  pretty intimidating. finally callister walks out, flanked by advisors. the weight of the world's on his shoulders.
secretary callister? he looks back, preoccupied. she catches up, holding her id:
latesha simms, dhs, level 2 clearance. i need to ask you a question, sir --
it'll only take a minute, sir, thirty seconds -- b-36? can you tell me what it is? 'cause its not --
so should i assume it has something to. do with the four cvn class 21 aircraft carriers you and the president just ordered to the strait of hormuz -? he looks at her, stunned. how the hell--?
i just checked the intel, sir, we have some of the same indexes --
secretary callister. voice echoing down the hail. callister stops short, stunned by the gall and volume of this woman. she weaves through the generals, planting herself in front of him:
my department's tracking a home-grown terrorist on the loose as we speak who may be connected to a cell with ties inside this building. now seeing as you just had a meeting back there with more brass than the navy marching band and with the terror threat rising every three hours, i'm going to just have to assume you're in the middle of a very delicate dance to stave off world war three.  so with all due respect, you either give me my thirty seconds and tell me what the hell b-36 is, or this world just fell into an even bigger heap of trouble. sir. callister looks down at her, completely struck dumb. she's hit a chord deep inside him. it's called balls. slam to:
an electronic espionage system.
(what we're all
working here must be pretty tough -- all the security, the pressure, long hours.  as in: "did you notice him acting strangely?"
except what?
i dunno, the whole thing's off somehow - but get this: b-36 isn't a security classification, it's a sub-level here at the pentagon -- what? girl's gotta groom.
yeah, 36 floors underground -- and it gets weirder:
yes, sir. morgan, preoccupied, is about to hang up. but stops: did she just call me sir?
it talks?
 am i supposed to -- (he gestures, "answer um.  what's up.
there's no feed from inside here?
except three minutes early.  on the monitor: the elevator doors open and paul steps inside. latesha studies the feed. something's not right. then.  her eyes narrow: the way paul's facing the button panel. like he's deliberately pivoting away from the camera.
wait, in the reflection, did you see that? scott rewinds the footage, zooms in. paul stepping into the elevator and facing the button panel. close on his face in the panel's reflective surface --
it's like he's trying to say something.
it's not morse, but there's a sequence to it --
it's the only spot in the hallway not covered by .the cameras.
i don't get it. he had to be saying 'fire extinguisher.' scott pulls a maintenance sheet off the wall. scans --
we have to look in there! latesha starts climbing into the compactor
the hell i can't! come on! shit. scott has no choice but to follow her and climbs in, ducking low, the arm frozen just feet above them. the compactor's foul, inches of industrial grease and crap and god- knows-what. they start wading through the extinguishers, turning them over, shaking them, looking inside--
keep looking, it's here.
yeah. i need to get out of here.
your girlfriend can't see us in here -- gimme your phone --
he hid it under the valve. this is what paul shaw left for us --
here to see the secretary.
mr. secretary?! he turns, sees latesha and scott racing up to him.
sir, paul shaw left his shift three minutes early the night he died -- highly suspect except there aren't any cameras in aria's control hub, so we weren'.t able to know why.  he knew that, so he left us a recording: she hits ":play" on the cell's recorder -- static, some rustling -- then paul shaw's voice, panicked, fragmented:
mr. secretary.  why does aria think the government's responsible for the terror threats? callister stares, grave. deciding whether or:not to answer.
the white house said we weren't responsible for
what if she thinks.'she is following the law? you.saw the news, you've been dealing with it all day'-- suicide bombings at our embassies overseas, elevated threats at home -- we made the wrong call,' now americans are dying. don't you see? she thinks you're a threat to your own country. callister looks stunned.  of course:
(stomach drops, to
jerry shaw's his twin. that's why she needs him. to undo the lock.
go go go!! they scramble for another grate and she kicks it outward --
tell me she has an off switch --
what're we supposed to do, say pretty please? scott's mind spins, an idea -- he stops at another vent access hatch marked: "b-36"
so we boil her brain.
can't she just drain the. water? he pulls out a fuse, drops it, smashes it with his foot.
-- what?!
yoi.:can do it you can do it you can do it!
don't you ever shut up?!
drops the axe. sinks to her knees, utterly exhausted.
what.  do you mean?
so.
that's my address. i'm not using a cell phone anymore. pick me up at eight. they smile at each other, latesha's eyes catching a surveillance camera. a chill creeping down her spine. as --