"BLACK BAG" (2025)

A MAN walks down a London street at night. It’s busy, full of REVELERS, probably because it’s

FRIDAY

We’re behind the man, so can’t tell much about him, except that he’s broad-shouldered and wears horn-rimmed glasses.

Down one block, there’s a line of CLUBGOERS waiting to get into a trendy place. The Man skips the line and goes straight to the BOUNCER, who puts a hand in his chest to stop him.

GEORGE WOODHOUSE, forties, well-dressed, has a commanding nature and isn’t often stopped.

That means something. The Bouncer unclips a rope and gestures George inside.

AA2 INT CLUB NIGHT

This THUMPING club does not seem at all like George’s scene -- it’s crowded, noisy, and a bit out of control.

George surveys the place, cleaning a smudge from his glasses.

He recognizes someone in a far corner and heads for it.

IN AN ALCOVE,

PHILIP MEACHAM, late thirties, sits at a table, chatting up a WOMAN too young for him. He sees George coming and sobers (as much as he can, he’s loaded), and waves her off.

George sits. Meacham pours two shots from a bottle. George ignores his, waiting. Meacham pulls out a piece of paper, folded in half, and slides it across the table.

He downs his shot and SHOUTS over the noise of the club.

George nods. He takes the piece of paper.

George opens the piece of paper and studies it. His face shows an almost imperceptible reaction.

He folds the list and puts it in his pocket.

Meacham pours himself another shot, downs it, and bobs his head, hard, to the THUMP of the music.

George watches him.

Meacham knows when he’s being judged.

He takes a hit from a vape pen, likely not tobacco inside it.

George straightens his glasses.

Meacham looks at him and exhales an enormous cloud of vapor.

BA2 EXT CLUB NIGHT

George seems to have successfully persuaded Meacham to leave. They come out of the club and start down the street, Meacham a little unsteady.

Suddenly, we see them from a greater distance, as with a longer lens -- and it’s night vision.

Someone is watching them.

George and Meacham exchange a last word and head off in separate directions. The night vision follows Meacham.

Through the window we see FREDDIE SMALLS, late forties, approaching, gift bottle of wine in hand. He enters and scans the room. Seeing what he wants (offscreen), he crosses to the bar.

A bartender, MATTHEW, turns and heads to Freddie.

The Bartender nods and moves to take care of it. Freddie pulls out a credit card and some cash. He looks to the corner, where THREE PEOPLE sit at a table for four.

AT THE TABLE,

are ZOE VAUGHAN, late thirties, JAMES STOKES, same age, and CLARISSA DUBOSE, younger than the others in her late twenties.

CLARISSA & STOKES George.

Freddie arrives, drink in hand.

Stokes, who doesn’t have a drink, forces a tight smile and raises a water glass. Freddie drains his drink without ever sitting down.

They get up to leave. Stokes has a gift bag with wine.

CLOSE ON George’s glasses, their lenses fogged with steam as he leans over a boiling pot.

He gives the contents of the pot a stir. Several courses are going at once in his kitchen, all under control. He’s in his element, moving, chopping, stirring, seasoning.

In contrast to George’s kitchen, it’s a bit of a mess in the bedroom, rejected outfits scattered on the bed.

KATHRYN ST. JEAN, George’s age, is lean and controlled, precise in her appearance. She holds up a pair of Edwardian-era earrings, rejects them for Art Deco.

George chops, solid knife skills. Light gleams off the large blade.

Kathryn unzips a dress and steps out of it.

She picks up another dress. As she pulls it on, and without looking away:

George is in the doorway, staring at her. His gaze is disconcerting.

Her eyes flicker up at the word, but then go back to the mirror, matter-of-fact.

She stands and turns, for him to zip her up. He does, and she turns back, into him. He touches her diamond earrings, pleased.

She looks at him, close. She’s both appalled and attracted.

The DOORBELL rings.

She leaves, to answer the door. George watches her go.

Kathryn moves down the hallway toward the front door, passing us. George comes out of the room, slower, content to let her answer.

We move with him into the kitchen as we hear the front door open and VOICES in greeting. As they enter, a legend:

Sunday

7 IN THE KITCHEN,

George goes to the stove and carefully tucks his tie in between two shirt buttons. As he tends the food, he looks up, into a window over the stove.

It’s nighttime, and the window reflects back at him, showing the entryway to the house through a cutout in the kitchen wall.

George watches the GUESTS arrive. There are two couples, dressed for cold and rain. Kathryn moves among them with poise and grace. She is as natural with people as George is not.

George hears a HISS and looks down. The pot is at a high simmer, and there’s a single spot of red sauce on his shirt.

IN THE KITCHEN,

a tall man appears in the doorway of the kitchen. George sees FREDDIE SMALLS’ reflection in the window.

Freddie’s in his late forties, trim, sharp, and don’t let the sad eyes fool you. He can be vicious.

George turns, self-consciously touching the stain on his shirt.

Freddie glances out through the pass-through, where COLONEL JAMES STOKES, late thirties (not in uniform), takes off his coat and greets the others. Stokes is tight, tense, and perfect.

George straightens his glasses.

The three couples sit at the dining room table, the meal in raucous full swing. Wine and liquor have been flowing. Besides George, Kathryn, and Freddie Smalls, the others are --

CLARISSA DUBOSE, Freddie’s date, late twenties. He’s too old for her, but Clarissa is wickedly intelligent and doesn’t give a shit what you think.

COLONEL JAMES STOKES, who we saw from the kitchen, is in his late thirties, not an ounce of fat or a millimeter of wasted movement about him. It’s like dining with a drill sergeant.

He’s there with DR. ZOE VAUGHAN, same age, who rivals George for penetrating gaze. She’s dark, brooding, and watching you. Zoe wears a small crucifix pendant.

The table is round. But Kathryn is the head of a table no matter where she sits.

Kathryn drinks her wine, no comment. Clarissa turns to Freddie.

Colonel Stokes speaks up.

Zoe Vaughan doesn’t like it.

Uh, that was inappropriate, but it seemed out of her control. Clarissa turns to George, who has been silent, as he usually is.

He puts more on their plates. Kathryn fights back a smile.

Freddie, refilling his wine glass, agrees.

He goes to pour for Stokes, whose glass is empty, but Stokes covers it with his hand. Freddie rolls his eyes.

Again, Stokes doesn’t like it.

He gestures to George. They look at him, puzzled.

Freddie stops immediately. With Kathryn you do not fuck.

Freddie gestures to him, and here we notice Freddie is starting to slur his words.

George speaks, softly.

George doesn’t answer. Clarissa leans forward.

George looks at her, silent. The stare is intense.

The table goes quiet. Clarissa backs off.

Freddie stops at once. Awkward for a moment.

Clarissa turns to him, flushing with anger.

But the damage is done, and the story’s out. Freddie rubs his head, as if he’s not sure why he did that.

George puts his wine glass down.

He takes his glasses off and pulls a small electronic gizmo of some sort from his pocket.

While he talks, he cleans his glasses carefully, using the battery-powered brush at the end of the device.

Pause.

He gets up and hurries into the kitchen.

Kathryn looks at George, impressed and anxious.

The tiny buffer finishes with George’s glasses and he puts them back on, the lenses spotless.

The bowl of chana masala is now completely empty.

An EXPLOSION of laughter at the table, as the game has gone on for a round or two. There are several empty wine bottles.

Zoe, the therapist, is looking at George, who must have made the last resolution, on her behalf.

Kathryn leans over, supportive.

She turns and looks at Stokes. He sits upright, steely. Then again, he always does.

More laughter, and Stokes’ face colors.

Freddie pats Stokes’ arm.

Freddie looks at her, puzzled by the hostility.

Stokes turns to Zoe, angry.

Kathryn tries to catch George’s eye, to stop things before they get out of hand, but George is watching the others.

He looks at Clarissa, angry now and looking to lash out.

Zoe nearly does a spit take, and Stokes colors again.

Laughter.

More laughter.

It’s getting out of hand, and Kathryn looks at George. Quietly, so only he can hear over the rising argument:

Clarissa, visibly angry now, raises her voice.

She’s looking at Freddie. Laughter slows at the table.

The others nod, fearing what’s next. She looks back at Freddie.

Pause. Awkward. Freddie attempts a save.

Now the table is silent. She’s not kidding. All eyes end up on Freddie. Clarissa stares at him, cold.

She doesn’t answer. Freddie laughs, hollow, and shakes his head. He appeals to the others.

Still, Clarissa just stares. Freddie looks around. No one comes to his defense. They’re all watching his reaction.

Zoe tries peacemaking.

But even Kathryn can’t stop this now.

George speaks up.

All heads turn. George has been silent throughout the diatribe, but watching every second.

Freddie, floored, is without words. He sits, hands out on the table, palms down, no moves left.

Before anyone can react, Clarissa picks up a steak knife --

-- and stabs it through Freddie’s hand, pinning it to the table.

Freddie SCREAMS. Blood sprays everywhere.

Stokes leaps to his feet, yanks a napkin from under some dishes, and wine glasses fall and SMASH.

Zoe SHOUTS and covers her mouth in horror.

Kathryn jumps up, her chair falling over behind her.

Chaos ensues -- Freddie staring wide-eyed at his pinned hand and SCREAMING, Stokes trying to stop him from ripping it away, Zoe trying to stop the bleeding, and Clarissa calmly turning back to her glass of wine.

George, sitting placidly, catches eyes with Kathryn.

Afterwards. George and Kathryn are in the kitchen, cleaning up.

Quiet for a bit as they work. Finally:

They clean. George, rinsing plates for the dishwasher, comes across one with a pool of half-dried blood on it.

He puts it in the sink.

She leans in close and gives him a meaningful kiss on the ear.

She leaves. George looks up, into the window over the sink, and watches her reflection as she goes.

Kathryn undresses. George comes into the bedroom and starts putting a few things away.

But it’s compulsive, and he doesn’t. She smiles. That’s George, and it makes him happy.

She slips out of her dress and underwear.

12 IN THE CLOSET,

George puts more things away. Kathryn leaves a bit of a mess when she gets ready.

As George tidies:

He glances at the mirror and sees her slip into bed, semi-nude.

George scoops up a few used tissues and things on top of a closet dresser, and drops them in a trash can.

He stops, noticing something white on the top of the sundry trash. He bends over and picks it up. It’s a small square of printed material -- a movie ticket stub.

DARK WINDOWS is the name of the movie, a 2:40 p.m. showing.

He studies the stub. He looks up, into a mirror, which provides a view into the bedroom.

He looks up into the mirror, seeing her in bed, and the ticket stub in his hand.

George thinks.

He carefully puts the stub back in the trash can, where it was.

George comes into the bedroom, distressed by what he just saw. Kathryn, impatient in bed, doesn’t notice.

He does. George keeps it tight.

He does. She gestures, and he comes to her side of the bed. She sits up and pulls him closer. She kisses his stomach, runs her hands down him.

She pulls him into bed and rolls on top of him.

He runs his nails down her naked back. She likes it.

He does. She kisses him.

As they move toward sex:

Things heat up further.

She reaches down.

A14 INT CONDO - CLERKENWELL NIGHT

A grand old church is lit up at night, seen from the balcony of a condo in Clerkenwell. The condo building is a converted factory, high ceilings.

Meacham, the man in his early thirties George met on the bench in the opening, sits in a chair on the smallish balcony, staring into the night and his liquor.

Meacham is unhappy. Plus he has heartburn. He rubs his chest absent-mindedly, a small circle with a closed fist.

ANNA KO, roughly his age, appears in the sliding door behind him. The apartment, behind her, has vaulted ceilings, criss- crossed with old beams.

Meacham turns, as if to say something. She hesitates.

He turns back. Not content to leave the night at that, she goes to him, reaches down, and takes his hand. He looks up at her.

She shrugs, leaves it unspecific. But it’s better than nothing. She lets go of his hand, turns, and goes back in the apartment.

Meacham finishes the rest of his drink. He rubs his chest again, the heartburn bothering him.

And then it stabs him.

He winces. He feels another stab, lower, and looks down.

His left hand is contorted oddly, the pinky finger trembling and curling back toward his palm.

The stabbing pain returns, much worse.

Meacham GASPS and clutches his chest. He sits up sharply, bringing his left hand up into view.

It’s completely gnarled now, a twisted claw. Meacham tries to stand, but his legs go out from under him.

He hits the floor hard, his now-useless left arm failing to break his fall.

His head SMACKS on the balcony tile and he lands on his side, clutching his chest with one hand and flailing with the other, distorted hand, now in spasm, reaching out toward the apartment.

FROM HIS POINT OF VIEW

we see the apartment from ground level, askew and shuddering.

Inside, Anna walks across the living room in the distance, looking for something on the tables.

She doesn’t see him. Meacham reaches out, pathetically, but can’t. (All sound drains out of the scene.)

Anna goes into the bedroom. Meacham turns his head, in agony, and sees the empty liquor glass on a side table next to him.

He thrashes, kicking the table, and the glass falls, spinning and CRASHING (silently for us) on the tile floor.

He cranes his head and sees Anna, running out of the bedroom at the sound. She hurries onto the balcony.

She SHOUTS to him, trying to help, but we hear only his breathing.

Meacham convulses, gobs of white foam forming at the edges of his mouth. His eyes roll back into his head.

Everything goes black.

The sun comes up over their residential block in Chiswick.

George, dressed for work, drinks coffee at the kitchen island. He stares at an open leather satchel that stands upright on the countertop near him.

Monday

Kathryn bustles into the kitchen, late.

Pause. Not the reaction he was hoping for.

She goes into an anteroom and opens a closet door, to pick a coat and scarf.

In one deft movement, George pulls a key card from his inside jacket pocket and dives his hand into the open satchel, dropping the card behind one of the fine leather dividers.

Kathryn, just re-entering the room, doesn’t see. She picks up the satchel and CLICKS it shut.

She kisses him and leaves. He thinks.

16 OMITTED

17 OMITTED

The sharp edges of GCHQ’s National Cyber Security Centre building (NCSC) pierce the London sky. The building reflects the world back at itself, giving away nothing inside.

19 OMITTED

A20 INT NCSC - SECURITY DESK DAY

George stops at a security desk, staffed by GUARDS. He presents a standard government-issued ID card.

The GUARD picks up George’s ID, scans it, and compares it to a photo of George that appears on his screen, next to his credentials.

Satisfied, the Guard takes a plastic card with a large V on it, drops it through a scan box, and the box flashes green. The Guard puts the badge on a lanyard and hands it to George.

He loops the badge around his neck and heads inside.

20 OMITTED

21 OMITTED

22 OMITTED

Finally, some human life in another corridor. TWO WOMEN walk toward us, in quiet conversation.

George approaches them, his shoes SQUEAKING softly on the polished floor. The Women stop speaking as he passes, then resume when he’s gone.

George enters a busier work area. Freddie Smalls sees him and breaks off a conversation with an AIDE, who hurries off.

Freddie waves to George, rueful, holding up a heavily bandaged left hand.

They fall into stride, headed in the same direction, Freddie carrying a thick file folder. He lowers his voice.

George looks at him, puzzled. He hasn’t.

George blanches. His mind whirs.

George looks away, thinking. Freddie lowers his voice.

They sit with the implications of that for a moment.

George shakes his head, unconvincing. Perhaps to change the subject, he looks down at Freddie’s injured hand, in its professional-looking bandage.

Freddie holds it up, wiggling his fingers.

They move off, down the hallway. George remains rattled.

AT THE FAR END OF THE HALL,

cubicles dominate an open area, and an enormous, opaque white glass wall takes up one side of the room.

George and Freddie reach a door in the white wall. Freddie taps a passkey on a lock panel --

-- and the door BUZZES open. Freddie goes inside.

A few moments later, the white wall WHOOSHES and turns transparent.

Beyond, Kathryn sits at one end of a long table, in a meeting with SEVERAL ANALYSTS. Large video screens inside show satellite views from all over the world, and a wide variety of other surveillance and security information.

ARTHUR STIEGLITZ, seventyish, sits at the head of the table, presiding. Annoyed, Stieglitz turns and looks out the window- wall, at George.

They make eye contact and nod curtly.

Kathryn notices George, excuses herself, comes to the door, and steps into the hallway.

She pulls a key card from her pocket, of the exact kind he dropped in her satchel at the kitchen island.

She looks at him for a moment, not entirely convinced. Her eyes dip down to the large Visitor pass around his neck. Satisfied, or satisfied enough, she gives him her card.

She gives him the key, but studies his face for a moment, suspicious.

She doesn’t seem to want to elaborate on that, or react at all. George studies her.

She nods, and he leaves. He watches her as she steps through the threshold and touches a panel on the wall.

On the other side, Stieglitz still stares at him.

The wall WHOOSHES to opaque white again.

The door BUZZES in a well-appointed office in another part of the complex.

George pushes it open, using the key he just borrowed from Kathryn.

He closes it softly behind him and walks in, going straight to her desk.

He pulls a small, collapsible metal pointer from his pocket and extends it. He pokes through the papers on her desk, all marked with varying degrees of “classified” warnings.

He goes to her desktop computer and taps the keyboard with the pointer.

The screen winks to life, asking for a password. He knows it, and enters it carefully with the pointer.

The screen flashes and shows her full desktop. He skims, without touching the keyboard. Not much of interest.

But he’s after something else. He pulls on a latex glove, takes hold of the mouse, and moves the pointer to a calendar icon.

He CLICKS.

The calendar feature comes to life. He skims her entries for the rest of the week. He’s drawn to three:

And other, less interesting entries. George thinks.

Hearing a sound in the hallway, he moves quickly, using his gloved hand to close down her computer.

He reaches down, to her leather satchel, which is on the floor beside the desk, dips inside, and pulls his own key card from the place he deposited it back in their kitchen.

He leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

26 OMITTED

-- another hallway, just as stark. Kathryn walks quickly down it, late for something.

She reaches an office suite at the end and strides in. The feel here is different from the rest of the place, an attempt has been made to make it seem homey.

A RECEPTIONIST looks up, sees Kathryn, and gestures toward a door. Kathryn doesn’t slow, just moves toward the door and holds her hand on the handle, waiting for a moment --

-- till the Receptionist BUZZES the door lock and Kathryn pushes the door open.

Like the outer area, this office has been decorated, and we know this setup -- couch, two leather chairs, box of tissues on a table next to one of them.

She sits. Dr. Zoe Vaughan, whom we know from the dinner party, gets up from a desk, throws a pointed look at a clock on the wall -- it’s 1:21 -- and comes around to sit opposite.

Kathryn turns and looks at the clock.

Zoe stares at Kathryn, waiting. Kathryn just stares back, her resentment palpable. Finally:

She stops, staring at Zoe, who just nods, taking that all in.

Kathryn stares at her for a long moment. She softens. Or just tries another tack, it’s hard to tell.

Kathryn looks away, thinking. Then back.

Zoe reaches for a notebook on the table next to her.

Zoe puts the notebook down.

It takes some effort, but Zoe does not smile.

Kathryn studies Zoe, assessing her.

Zoe looks at her -- c’mon.

Zoe picks up her notebook and flips to a page.

Kathryn stares at her, freezing up.

Zoe still just looks at her.

Fuck. Shouldn’t have said that.

Black-bottomed clouds hover over Lowesmere, a two-mile long lake about an hour outside of London. The water’s cold but not frozen.

A small fishing boat floats on the surface not far from shore. There’s a single figure in the boat, in a raincoat and hat.

George fishes, alone. He trolls the line, turning the reel handle smoothly and slowly.

There’s no sound except for a FLOCK OF GEESE in the distance and the steady CLICKING of the reel as it turns, pulling the lure through the water.

We move in on George, as steadily as he draws in the line.

We get all the way in on his face. The rippling water is reflected in his glasses.

As George thinks, we get glimpses of his thoughts.

ON THE PARK BENCH,

from the opening, Meacham looks at us, fear in his eyes.

AT THE DINNER,

George sees the face of Freddie Smalls, from the dinner party, but a moment we didn’t see before.

Freddie looks right at us.

We turn our gaze, across the table, and see Zoe Vaughan, also looking at us, also an image we hadn’t seen before.

IN THE BOAT,

George has reeled the line all the way in.

He whips the rod back over his head, snaps it forward in a practiced motion, and sends the lure arcing back out over the still waters of the lake.

It lands with a soft PLUNK fifty feet away.

George reels it in.

BACK AT THE DINNER

we see Colonel James Stokes, at the table, looking at us, then shift our gaze across the table to Clarissa, leaning forward to look right at us.

IN THE BOAT,

George pulls his line all the way in and checks the lure, a shiny half-ounce casting spoon. He pulls a string of seaweed off its hooks and casts again.

BACK AT THE DINNER,

Kathryn looks at us, from the other end of the table at the dinner. She smiles at us.

BACK IN THE BOAT,

George winces, pained by the thought. He blinks it away. Can’t be her.

A sudden TUG on the line draws his attention. He snaps the rod and reels fast, sinking the hook and bringing in his catch.

The fish draws close, and it’s a big one, the flash of its dark olive belly just visible in the murky water below.

But then it thrashes and flips away, slipping off the hook.

Released from the pressure, George’s pole snaps back and an empty line bounces free, not even a lure left on it.

George pulls it in. The fish bit clean through the line. Took his lure with it.

George looks up, his attention drawn to the shore.

A car is pulling down the long dirt road that leads to the boat launch, just the driver inside.

It parks beside his own. The driver puts it in park and Stokes gets out. He looks out at the water.

Stokes reaches out and helps George pull the boat onto the sand- and-dirt shoreline.

George, in hip waders, is beside it.

George does not disagree. He goes to the back of his car, opens the rear hatch, and starts to stow the gear. He works methodically, drying each bit before putting it away.

George glances at him, but doesn’t say anything. He goes back to work, waiting.

George looks around. There’s nothing but forest and lake in all directions.

George sits on the back end of the car and starts removing his hip waders.

George shakes a pebble out of one of his hip waders.

George looks up.

Pause.

Yes. But George barely reacts.

He looks uncomfortable.

Pause.

Stokes nods, and starts toward his car. George calls after him.

Stokes gets in his car and leaves.

George packs up, now breaking down his reel.

He studies the broken fishing line, where the lure was snatched away. He thinks.

A31 INT MOVIE THEATER NIGHT

Tuesday

In a darkened movie theater, SUSPENSEFUL MUSIC plays. George and Kathryn are in the audience, watching the film.

The music and sound effects are slowly rising in tension, building to something. George turns slightly, watching Kathryn as she watches the film.

A LOUD SOUND from the screen accompanies a jump scare of some sort, and the AUDIENCE MEMBERS around them startle and SHOUT.

But Kathryn does not.

George looks at her. She notices him looking and smiles.

George looks back at the screen.

A SECOND JUMP SCARE.

and this time Kathryn jumps. George thinks.

31 OMITTED

Wednesday

George and Kathryn sit at the table, the same one they ate at a few days ago. George has cooked a grilled fish of some sort.

They eat. Kathryn looks through a stack of briefing papers (NONE MARKED CLASSIFIED, SHE WOULDN’T BRING THOSE HOME). She notices the food.

She goes back to reading.

He studies her.

He looks at her. He seems emotional, which for him is only a minute change in expression.

She picks up her phone and looks at it.

Kathryn comes out the front door, wheeling a small travel case.

Across the street, the sedan that was parked in front starts up and pulls around, in front of the house.

A flicker of a look crosses her face, why would he say that? But she kisses him --

-- and is gone, out the door.

Kathryn hurries down the sidewalk to the sedan, as the Driver jumps out and opens the rear door for her.

From the doorway, George watches her go.

As the car pulls away into the street, Kathryn’s phone BUZZES. She checks the screen and answers.

A WOMAN sits with her back to us, on the edge of a bed. There’s a single light on in her apartment.

(INTERCUT AS NEEDED.)

Kathryn is surprised.

Moving closer, we recognize the woman on the bed is Anna, Meacham’s wife. She looks rough, like she’s been sobbing since the moment she watched him die.

She sobs. Kathryn waits.

She’s good. And correct. Anna pauses again, then:

There’s a CLICK, and Anna’s gone.

Kathryn thinks. She’s distressed.

The same night. George sits up, noodling at the piano in their living room.

He stops, takes his glasses off, and picks up the little electric cleaner. He buffs the lenses and puts them back on.

He sits, staring for a moment. Struck by an idea, he gets up and walks out.

A used plate and fork CLATTER into a sink half full of dirty dishes.

Clarissa DuBose, who stabbed Freddie through the hand at the dinner party, is in her kitchen, late. She’s cleaning up, though tidiness does not seem to be a priority for her. The sink has a window over it, the night black outside.

She moves to the counter, back to the sink again --

-- and there’s someone out there.

Clarissa SHOUTS, startled.

The figure moves, gone as quickly as it appeared, and she follows it, dousing the lights and moving across the kitchen as the shadow moves outside her window.

It reaches the front door, Clarissa yanks open a cabinet, and rummages around behind some boxes of breakfast cereal.

Clarissa yanks open the front door, a handgun pointed straight at us.

And then she lowers.

George stands on her front step, hands half-heartedly raised.

CLOSE ON a glass, red wine in a juice glass, as Clarissa puts it down in front of George, in the living room now.

He still wears his jacket.

He takes a sip of the wine, and puts the glass down again.

George is rather delighted by the sick nature of that.

George looks up, uncomfortable.

Oh. Clarissa takes a drink of wine.

She just looks at him.

She hardens. George is not so amusing anymore.

He doesn’t answer. She looks away, shaking her head. When she looks back, she’s emotional.

He doesn’t answer.

He just looks at her.

George looks at her, but then looks away.

She gives up. Blood from a stone. She wipes away tears.

He gets up to leave.

He hesitates, but has nothing to add.

George leaves.

A jet ROARS overhead, in its final approach to Kloten Airport, in Zurich.

Kathryn comes out of the glass-and-steel main terminal and goes to a waiting black car.

The DRIVER stands beside it, she waves him back behind the wheel, gets her own door --

-- and slides inside. The car pulls away fast.

The wedge-shaped NCSC building glows deep red in the pre-dawn light.

Thursday

George walks down one of the long, soulless corridors. With purpose.

He reaches glass doors marked VIGILANCE STAFF ONLY. He peers into a retinal scanner and the doors WHOOSH OPEN.

George enters a large room filled with ANALYSTS.

At the front of the room are 64 enormous video screens, all bricked together into a wall of images, thirty feet tall and a hundred feet wide.

It’s an overwhelming amount of visual input from myriad surveillance satellites.

The room is mostly quiet, just the CLICK of keyboards and the WHIR of the cooling ports on massive server stacks.

George enters through a side door. He studies the room for a moment, and the screens on the wall.

As he watches, one of them goes black and switches to a numerical countdown -- two minutes and twenty-six seconds, in big red numerals, a few few words beneath it:

satlink handover pending.

George turns, looking to a figure at a raised platform to the side. THE MAJOR is fortyish, lean, former military but not uniformed. He notes the screen that’s switched to black and punches a timer on his own desktop.

George looks back to the wall of screens. Another black monitor is further along in its countdown -- :03, :02, :01 -- and then it winks, and switches back to its aerial view.

handover complete.

George turns back to The Major, who’s watching that same screen. He ticks a box and moves on.

George goes to the back corner of the room and TAPS twice, then a third time on a door.

Clarissa taps a key card on a lock panel and opens a door for George, who comes into the tiny room, closing it behind him.

They’re behind glass here, and there’s only three monitors, standard 32” size. They show different aerial views around the world. Clarissa sits behind two keyboards.

She types in some commands, and blank data fields appear on one of the screens.

He puts a slip of paper on the desk in front of her.

(They’re the same numbers he photographed in Kathryn’s secure calendar.)

Clarissa types in the numbers and her screen changes to a view looking directly down on a European city. Data scrolls beside it, specs and locations, and she skims it.

While he watches the screen, George methodically tears the paper into tiny bits and drops half of them in a bin. He puts the other half in his pocket.

She looks up, at the big screens out the window.

George looks out the window at the wall of screens in the main room, and at the one she’s pointed out in particular.

George glances into the main room and at the Major, who’s monitoring the big screen and its sixty-four images intently.

George looks up at a clock on the wall. It’s 6:31 a.m.

George watches the clock, which ticks over to 6:32 a.m.

Clarissa enters a flurry of commands.

46 OUT IN THE MAIN ROOM,

the monitor screen in the second row, third from the right, goes black, switching to a digital countdown in red letters, “satlink handover pending” below it.

Three minutes, twenty seconds.

3:19. 3:18.

ACROSS THE ROOM,

the Major makes a note, watching it.

Clarissa’s screen goes black, then switches on again, now showing a direct overhead view of a public park somewhere. Data bars at the bottom tell us where we are.

George sits forward, studying the screen.

Clarissa types. The image zooms in, from a massive overhead view to a closer one -- an open area, nicely landscaped, benches and fountains.

Clarissa types. The image zooms all the way in, now just a single park bench. It’s empty.

George looks at the clock. It’s 6:33.

He looks out the big window. The handover timer is counting down, now at 2:32. 2:31.

Clarissa looks from the satellite image of the empty bench to George.

They do. The bench remains empty.

He waves her off, stop talking. The timer keeps ticking down. And then --

-- Kathryn walks into frame and sits on the bench.

She is easily recognizable. George leans forward. Clarissa looks at George, surprised.

George looks at her.

He looks back at the screen, where Kathryn checks her phone, checking the time herself. Waiting for someone.

That was forceful. A little scary.

They go back to watching the empty bench, where Kathryn waits.

Finally, a MAN appears in frame. He goes to the bench and sits beside Kathryn. They both sit forward.

The image moves in to its limit. The faces of Kathryn and the Man are clearly visible.

Clarissa’s already doing it -- blue rectangles form over their faces, scan, and a stream of data appears on the image, fully detailing Kathryn’s identity.

The data field beside the Man says SEARCHING as it scrolls through databases and facial comps at blinding speed.

The screen whirs, RIPPING through data and faces all around the world, but still the message is the same -- SEARCHING.

Anxious, George looks out at the countdown on the handover, on the big screen outside. 1:02. 1:01.

She HAMMERS away at the keyboard, opens a blank field, spins out of the chair, grabs a small external hard drive off an equipment rack, SLAMS a plug into the side of the computer, and a new data field opens up:

LIOPA - BETA 3.4 - TEST USE ONLY.

She narrows the fields on their faces, to exclude as much of the image as possible except their facial features, eyes to lips.

As Kathryn and the Man talk, word-selection software FLASHES past, picking up stray words. Random words fill in the blank spaces on screen -- “the,” “said,” “you” -- in a sentence blank.

More commands, and now the sounds on the screen are verbalized by the AI -- “st,” “k,” “tch.”

The image locks and the AI speaks, lifeless mechanical tones matching Kathryn’s mouth as she talks.

As the name locks into place, the facial rec scan, still underway, narrows, the name “Andrei” filling in one blank.

George furrows his brow, puzzling over that. Something doesn’t ring quite right. George mutters, trying to understand.

The facial rec finally BINGS with a match, and scrolls data alongside the image of the Man --

Lt. Col. Andrei KULIKOV Rus/4-30-68/FSB/FUG

-- followed by a string of associations and accomplices, too much to read so fast. George digests as fast as he can.

Clarissa looks out the big window, at the screens outside.

George leans into the screen again, trying to listen. But the AI voice has lost the thread, the sounds that are coming out now don’t form words, just vowels and consonant fragments.

She’s working, one eye on her own screen and one eye out the window. The handover has six seconds left. Five.

The counter hits three, two --

-- and Clarissa BANGS one more command through.

But the image on the screen freezes.

George looks out at the countdown clock on the screen in the main room. It hits zero.

48 OUT IN THE MAIN ROOM,

the image on the relevant big screen winks from black, and now clearly shows the overhead image of the park bench in Zurich. Kathryn and Kulikov are visible.

The Major, for the moment, is looking at a different screen and doesn’t notice.

49 IN THE VIEWING SCIF,

Clarissa is POUNDING on her keyboard, trying to complete the handover.

She sees the hard drive plug-in she added, its cord jammed into the side of the computer.

She RIPS the cord out of her computer.

50 IN THE MAIN ROOM,

the Major turns his head, just in time to see a SPLIT-SECOND image of the park bench in Zurich. It’s not supposed to be showing that.

The Major tilts his head, that’s odd --

-- and then the image winks and is replaced by a soaring overhead shot of a forest somewhere.

The Major blinks. Thinking.

51 BACK IN THE VIEWING SCIF,

George and Clarissa exhale.

George looks out the window.

52 THROUGH THE WINDOW,

the Major seems to have gone back to work as usual.

53 IN THE VIEWING SCIF,

He gets up to go.

George just looks at her, cold. She feels it, and wishes she hadn’t said that.

He leaves.

Colonel Stokes, George’s second-in-command, sits in a leather armchair, looking at someone. He seems wounded.

Zoe Vaughan, the psychiatrist, sits opposite him. They’re in her office.

That was a bit lewd.

Stokes nods, just looking at her for a moment.

He nods toward the couch.

She looks at her notepad.

Stokes thinks.

His phone BUZZES, from the table next to him. He looks at the screen.

He gets up, putting his suit coat back on.

He shakes his head, almost laughing.

He leaves.

She watches him go. Carefully.

Stokes comes out of Zoe’s office, phone in hand. As he walks off down the corridor, he punches a number into his phone.

Someone answers and --

In Freddie Small’s office, his desktop computer flashes and a red band appears at the top --

PRIORITY ENCRYPT - signal alert.

Freddie CLICKS on the red band, leans into his computer screen, and an attached camera does a quick facial rec scan before the computer flashes and a string of alert messages scroll.

Freddie’s eyes flick over them, fast.

He picks up his cell phone and hits a number. After a moment --

The same string of alerts, scrolling across the computer screen in George’s office, reflected in his glasses.

George looks at them, his eyes widening, the blood draining from his face. We’ve never seen him like this.

George hurries down a corridor.

The face of a very unpleasant man

takes up the whole screen. VADIM PAVLICHUK is fiftyish, thick- necked, dead-eyed. He stares into the camera, as in a mug shot.

We pull back from the image, which is on a huge monitor, hung at one end of a burnished wood conference table. This windowless room’s walls are baffled, and the single door protrudes from its frame, double-thick.

ARTHUR STIEGLITZ, whom we saw briefly in the meeting with Kathryn earlier, slumps in a chair at the table. Stieglitz is seventyish, leonine. He looks pissed.

Stokes is beside him. THREE ANALYSTS we’ve not seen before, two women and a man, are also in the room. All have red-bordered update sheets and open laptops in front of them.

No one speaks. Tension is thick.

Finally, the door CHUNKS, the tumblers of a lock falling into place, then it BUZZES and opens, turning on its off-center axis.

George, a bit out of breath, comes into the room and closes the door beside him.

He takes a seat at the table.

George looks around the table, anxious. Freddie gives him a nod. But the mood is dour, whatever’s happened is serious.

ANGELA CHILDS, one of the analysts present, turns to the screen, which is frozen on the unpleasant man’s face.

At the mention of “Liechtenstein,” there is the tiniest fluttering of George’s right eyebrow.

Angela taps a key on her laptop and the image changes from Pavlichuk to an overhead of a stately-looking house in a semi- urban area.

She TAPS again, and the image shifts to another view of the same house, closer angle. SEVEN RED BLOBS glow inside.

She checks her notes. Freddie Smalls speaks up.

George fights very hard against the color that wants to rise in his cheeks.

Tap. The image changes. The same house, the same angle. The red dots have moved around, and --

She taps her computer several times. The image changes each time, showing a different PERSON coming out of the house.

Freddie picks up the story.

Stokes speaks up.

George blinks.

Another face on the big screen, and we just saw this face, on the screen in the satellite surveillance room. He’s the man Kathryn met.

George starts to speak --

-- but his voice fails him. He clears his throat and starts again.

He turns to Freddie.

Stieglitz looks at them, debating something with himself.

Angela Childs and the other two analysts gather their things quickly and leave the room.

The others wait. When the door is sealed again --

George looks up. Strands are connecting.

They look at him.

Stokes and Freddie come out of the conference room first.

George, behind them, lingers for a moment, stopping to steady himself.

There are a few beads of sweat on his forehead, and he’s breathing harder than usual, forcing it through his nose.

He rubs his forehead, thinking. As he thinks --

GEORGE’S THOUGHTS

show an image we’ve seen before, of the trash can in the closet he shares with Kathryn, back at the house. George tosses some tissues in the can, but notices the movie ticket stub on the top, and picks it up.

BACK IN THE HALLWAY,

George blinks.

BACK IN THE IMAGE,

he sees the trash can again, and this time a hand wearing a surgical glove PLACES the ticket in the can.

BACK IN THE HALLWAY,

George thinks, furiously.

IN HIS THOUGHTS,

he sees Colonel Stokes, the moment on the lakeshore where Stokes first approached him about the offshore bank account.

BACK IN THE HALLWAY,

George pulls his glasses off, reaching in his jacket pocket for his lens cleaning device. Can’t find it.

He pats his other pockets. Not there either. It rattles him.

Freddie comes over to him.

George holds up his fogged glasses, waving them as explanation.

He untucks a shirt tail and wipes them on it. Freddie observes. For George, this is slovenly.

Freddie looks around, then lowers his voice to barely audible.

George looks up at him for a long moment, weighing whether to say anything at all.

Freddie controls his reaction well.

George looks up, to where Stieglitz and Colonel Stokes are in muttered consultation, at the other end of the hallway.

He nods, for Freddie to follow his gaze. Freddie does, then looks back -- him?

Freddie looks even more taken back by that than by the rest of it.

Freddie takes a moment, studying George.

George looks at him -- what?

George just looks at him for a moment, then turns and walks away, in the other direction. As he goes, he looks back over his shoulder.

Stokes has left Stieglitz, and now joins Freddie. They confer in low tones, watching George.

Clarissa hurries down one of the sterile hallways inside NCSC.

Clarissa comes into Freddie’s office and closes the door. He looks up from behind his desk and notes the look on her face.

Nighttime. A black car pulls to a stop outside a familiar condo building in Clerkenwell.

Kathryn gets out, still dressed in her traveling clothes. She goes inside.

Kathryn and a BUILDING SUPER walk down a hallway inside.

Kathryn just looks at him -- fuck off. The Super SIGHS.

They reach a door, the Super KNOCKS, waits a few moments, then unlocks it and moves away.

Kathryn waits till the Super reaches the end of the hallway and turns a corner, then she pushes the door open slowly.

Kathryn steps into Anna Ko’s apartment, the high-ceilinged converted loft she shared with her late husband, Meacham.

The place is empty, but there are a few lights on.

No answer. She takes a few steps further inside.

Still no answer, but there’s a SOUND -- a soft CREAKING noise.

Kathryn furrows her brow, trying to place it. She steps further into the place.

Ahead is a corner, another space off the big center room, and she can see the edge of a large wooden desk.

She rounds the corner and stops, looking at something. Kathryn’s face gives little away, but the CREAKING is louder here.

She moves forward, to the desk, her gaze shifting upward. As she reaches the desk --

-- a pair of feet come into view.

Swinging overhead.

Kathryn stops and looks up.

Anna Ko hangs by the neck from a high wooden beam, dead.

Kathryn stares, taking it in.

She looks down at the desk. There’s a notepad with a handwritten note on it.

She peers at the note, and we catch snippets of phrases -- not worth living without, and can no longer stand the thought of, and Mum and Dad I am so sorry.

Boilerplate suicide note stuff.

Kathryn looks around on the desktop. She sees another scrap of paper, this one a to-do list of some kind.

She moves it over next to the notepad, careful only to prod its edges with her fingernail.

She compares the handwriting in the two notes. Could be hers, could be fake.

Kathryn looks up at the swinging body.

Nighttime. On George and Kathryn’s street in Chiswick, only streetlights burn. A sedan pulls to a stop outside their house.

The rear door opens and Kathryn steps out. The Driver opens the trunk, gives her her bag, and slips back behind the wheel.

Kathryn starts up the walk as the car glides away into the night.

A FIGURE moves toward her, across the shadows of the garden. For a moment, we think she’s about to be attacked --

She HISSES in her breath and turns, as controlled a reaction as one could hope for under the circumstances.

Freddie Smalls steps barely out of the shadows, just a sliver of his face visible.

He gestures. Come this way. She does, disappearing into the shadows.

In the distance, TIRES SQUEAL. Probably nothing.

A nightbird CAWS.

A nocturnal animal of some kind scrambles out of the bushes and across the street. Maybe a fox, maybe a stray.

IN THE SHADOWS,

a minute or two later, Freddie and Kathryn stand close.

Kathryn looks at him, thinking. Something about his question has made her suspicious. Freddie shifts.

Very hard to read her on that one.

She hesitates, debating whether or not to tell him this next:

Freddie looks away, his mind whirring.

In spite of herself, she can’t help but glance at at the house before turning back at Freddie.

He turns and goes. Kathryn watches him, thinking.

67 OMITTED

Kathryn, dressed for bed, slips into the darkened bedroom from the bathroom.

George’s figure, asleep on his side, is dimly visible on one side of the bed. She pads around to the other side softly and slips beneath the covers.

Moving back, across the bed, we come over George’s sleeping form and move downward, to reveal his face, turned away from her.

His eyes are open.

BACK ON KATHRYN’S SIDE,

So are hers.

George rolls over, staring at the back of her head. After a long moment --

She rolls over, looking at him.

She puts a hand in George’s hair, looking into his eyes.

She starts to kiss him.

She rolls over onto him, to continue. But George’s mind is whirring now.

She resumes kissing him.

Now they both kiss, passionately.

Before dawn. A light CLICKS on in the garage of George and Kathryn’s place. George comes in, dressed in fishing gear.

Friday

He goes to a metal cabinet, opens it, and takes out a certain tackle box. He puts it on a work bench, opens it, and removes a tray. There is a cut-out foam imprint for a gun beneath it.

George goes back to the cabinet and takes another metal box off the top shelf. He enters a three-digit code into tumblers in its top and opens it.

There’s a 9mm Glock inside. He lifts it, SMACKS a clip into the base, and chambers a round.

He goes back to the tackle box, presses the Glock into the foam cut-out at the bottom, and replaces the tray of fishing lures.

The sun peeks over the trees on the shore of Lowesmere, the spot where George beaches his fishing boat.

He’s loading it with equipment, but he’s not alone this time.

Stokes is with him, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, the closest he’s got to fishing gear. They move the boat toward the water, one of them on either side of it.

Stokes stops at water’s edge, anxious.

Stokes looks at him, climbs in over the bow, and George wades in, his legs dry in half-waders. He pushes them off.

George takes a few quick strides into the water, pushes off, and climbs nimbly over the bow as the hull hits depth.

ON THE BOAT,

they glide away from the shore. George makes his way to the stern, pulls the start cord on the motor, and steers them out onto the glassy water.

It steams in the morning light.

Stokes settles in. It’s cold. He looks at George, who is indefatigable, as always. Stokes looks at his watch.

Stokes nods and looks around, uncomfortable.

Stokes shrugs, if you say so. He knows something’s up.

Clarissa looks up from her workstation in the NCSC building.

Kathryn stands in her doorway. She comes in, closing the door behind her. Clarissa’s antenna immediately go up; this is unusual.

Clarissa looks at her, steely. But scared.

Clarissa just looks at her, livid, but silent. She’s boxed in.

She gets up angrily, picking up a lanyard with a half-dozen IDs and key cards dangling from it.

She heads out. Kathryn follows.

George and Stokes sit in the fishing boat, on the pristine waters of the lake. The sun is up now, but there’s still a heavy mist on the water.

They each hold fishing poles, George slowly reeling in his lure. Not much sound besides the soft CLICK CLICK CLICK of the reel.

George, not looking at Stokes, breaks the silence, his voice soft.

George casts his line again, reeling it in slowly.

Stokes takes a small note pad from his jacket pocket and writes down Freddie’s name. George adds another:

Stokes writes it down.

Stokes looks at him.

Stokes adds his own name.

Stokes puts away the note pad. They fish.

After a moment, George mentions, with a studied off-handedness --

Stokes looks at him.

George has reeled his line in all the way, and he studies the lure. He sets his pole down and picks up the tackle box.

George puts the tackle box on the bench seat between him and Stokes and opens it.

George removes the tray of lures and sets them to the side, revealing the Glock in the foam cut-out beneath it. He can see it, but Stokes can’t.

Stokes looks around the lake. The sun is up now, but they’re still the only boat out there. There is no other living thing in sight.

He looks back at George, and is that a tiny quaver in his voice?

George nods, barely glancing at him. He appears to fuss with the lures, but instead he’s pulling the Glock from the foam, his hand out of Stokes’ line of sight.

Pause.

George looks up, meeting his eyes, measuring them.

Stokes voice has a tiny tremor in it. Is this next bit true, or is he lying?

George looks at him. The Glock is in his hand, just out of sight.

George studies him.

George’s hand is still on the gun. Stokes is still tense, but keeping his voice as level as possible.

Pause.

George thinks for a moment --

-- and Stokes’s reel goes crazy.

It spins and WHIRS noisily, the line racing out and the pole bending under the weight of a decent-sized fish.

George presses the Glock back into its space in the felt, replaces the lure tray, and closes the metal tackle box.

A tight semi-circle of curved office buildings are open at one end, and surround a small courtyard. Kathryn enters the semi- circle and walks across the courtyard, to a coffee bar.

74 IN THE COFFEE BAR,

the place is mostly empty, except for a MIDDLE-AGED GUY stirring a sugar into the latte he just got at the counter.

Kathryn goes to the counter beside him and points to something.

The BARISTA bags the croissant and puts it on the counter. Kathryn looks through a small wallet, finds no cash, and sets it down for a moment while she activates her phone.

She scans it, picks up the bag and her wallet, and leaves.

But there’s now a slip of paper on the counter where her wallet was.

The Middle-Aged Guy (MR. GREEN) picks it up and leaves.

75 OUTSIDE,

he opens the slip of paper and looks at it.

76 IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COURTYARD,

Kathryn goes to a bench and drops the croissant in a trash can beside it. She scrolls through her phone idly.

Mr. Green comes and sits on the bench, facing nearly away from her. He takes a sip of his coffee. Kathryn speaks softly.

Kathryn thinks.

There is a glint of light and she looks up, into a window on a higher floor of one of the buildings that encircle the courtyard.

She turns away from it and walks away.

A moment later, Mr. Green gets up and walks out of the courtyard as well. He pulls out his phone.

77 WITH KATHRYN,

she reaches a street corner. While she waits for the light, her phone BUZZES. She answers it.

She looks around. Mr. Green is now on the corner opposite her, traffic racing in between them. He’s staring at her, phone to his ear.

She doesn’t answer.

They hang up, and head in opposite directions.

It’s a busy lunch hour in Whitehall.

Arthur Stieglitz sits, alone, at a sushi bar.

The WAITER appears and sets a plate in front of him.

Jimmy WINKS, for some reason, and glides off.

Stieglitz picks up a set of chopsticks, breaks them, then stops, sensing something.

He sets them back down.

Kathryn is now sitting next to him.

Stieglitz looks down at his food, and we see that the fish is moving. Only the head and the tail have been cut off, and the head has been placed on top of the body.

The gills are still active.

Now, a strange cut --

A SILENT IMAGE

of a remote-operated drone, up in the clouds somewhere. The drone descends, utterly silent, except for the sounds of the restaurant, which we can still hear faintly over it.

The drone breaks into the clear and we see a road down below, through a forest. A black SUV barrels down it.

BACK IN THE RESTAURANT,

Kathryn leans in to Stieglitz, lowering her voice.

THAT SILENT IMAGE AGAIN,

and now the drone is coming at us, dropping down closer to ground level. We break low, and the black SUV enters frame.

Through the windshield, we see two familiar faces -- Pavlichuk and Kulikov. Still, only the sounds of the restaurant.

IN THE RESTAURANT,

Stieglitz looks at Kathryn, a tight smile.

He picks up his chopsticks again and pushes them into the live fish. Mercifully, we don’t see it, but the sound alone is enough.

Stieglitz turns and looks at her. For the first time, real concern crosses his face.

THE LAST SILENT IMAGE,

is from inside the SUV, where Kulikov senses something behind the car. He reaches up, changes the angle of the rear view mirror --

-- in time to see a vapor trail approaching them.

FROM OUTSIDE THE CAR,

a silent explosion, as the car goes up in a great, noiseless fireball.

As it flips in the air, smashes to the ground, and burns, we still hear only the Japanese restaurant.

ON THE GROUND,

a charred, burning body crawls out of the wreckage, a USB stick in one hand.

But the hand burns, and the stick melts.

BACK IN THE RESTAURANT,

He looks at her, horrified.

She gets up and leaves, glancing down at his food.

She leaves.

A CAMERA LENS irises quickly, with a little ZZZT.

On one of several computer screens, a half dozen boxes open, each with a camera image in its box on screen. A wide shot, an overhead, a profile, the other profile, a close-up, a tight close-up, and a shot of a shiny glass tabletop where fidgety hands might rest.

Freddie Smalls slides into the chair on one side of the table, and his face fills all the frames.

A TECHNICIAN, face unseen, steps into frame and places a rubber tube around Freddie’s midsection, and another around his chest.

Freddie, who’s done this many times, holds up his left arm, and the Technician slips a blood pressure cuff around it. He pumps it tight.

Freddie looks across the table.

George sits on the opposite side, behind several laptops and other displays. Line displays read out on some, strings of numbers and data on others.

Freddie puts his hands on the table, and as they come to rest on the glass tabletop, we

JUMP UNDERNEATH THE SURFACE,

where heat sensors light up in every area that his skin is touching. The tabletop is wired to measure biometrics.

BACK IN THE ROOM,

three new boxes on George’s screens light up -- skin temp, moisture, pulse. He checks them.

(He’ll look at the screens frequently, and though we may see them, they don’t mean anything to us. Only to George.)

George does one more quick scan of the various data screens, then begins.

When we cut back to Freddie --

81 IN CLARISSA’S INTERVIEW,

-- it’s not Freddie that responds, but Clarissa, who is strapped in the same seat, another interview. She smiles.

George looks at her, a tiny bit frustrated. He resumes, flat affect.

Again, when we cut back to Clarissa, it’s not her, but instead --

82 IN ZOE VAUGHAN’S INTERVIEW,

-- Dr. Zoe Vaughan is in the chair, composed as ever.

83 IN CLARISSA'S INTERVIEW,

she smiles.

84 IN STOKES’S INTERVIEW,

Colonel Stokes, ramrod straight in the chair, answers that question.

85 IN CLARISSA'S INTERVIEW,

Clarissa answers.

Clarissa takes a slow breath in, hesitates, and lets it out.

George glances at the screens. He frowns.

Clarissa takes two deep breaths in and out.

86 IN FREDDIE’S INTERVIEW,

he looks dead into camera, his affect flat.

87 IN ZOE VAUGHAN'S INTERVIEW,

88 IN STOKES'S INTERVIEW,

89 IN FREDDIE'S INTERVIEW,

George glances at the screen, and doesn’t seem to like what he sees there. One reading, in particularly, has gone up sharply.

George looks down, at Freddie’s hands.

GOING IN SUPER CLOSE,

we see tiny drops of perspiration on Freddie’s fingertips.

Again, George doesn’t like the readings. He looks up at Freddie.

90 IN CLARISSA’S INTERVIEW,

she’s breathing hard, in and out, in a studied fashion.

The sensors are almost completely flat. George glances at a file in front of him --- CLARISSA BEATRICE DUBOSE.

He looks back up at Clarissa.

The sensor readings are exactly the same as when she said no. George studies her face.

Pause. George thinks.

Her facial expression changes. George sits back, just studying her for a moment. Gotta admire her style.

91 IN FREDDIE'S INTERVIEW,

this also looks like news to Freddie.

George studies the screens. He looks back up at Freddie.

92 IN STOKES'S INTERVIEW,

George’s eyes flicker to the screens.

93 IN ZOE VAUGHAN'S INTERVIEW,

George glances at the screens, which are dancing. He notes it.

Screens are flat again.

94 IN STOKES’S INTERVIEW,

George glances down at the screens, makes a note.

95 IN CLARISSA’S INTERVIEW,

she leans forward.

96 IN ZOE VAUGHAN'S INTERVIEW,

she looks, for the first time, taken aback by that question.

97 IN FREDDIE'S INTERVIEW,

98 IN STOKES'S INTERVIEW,

Stokes is surprised as well.

99 IN FREDDIE'S INTERVIEW,

George packs up.

Houses are lit up on George and Kathryn’s peaceful block.

Saturday

From overhead, looking straight down at George and Kathryn’s dining room table, laid out for six.

The kitchen is quiet. Pots gleam on the stove, unused.

The counter is clean. No cooking tonight.

Kathryn dresses. The room is a pleasant mess, as before. As she touches up something in the mirror, she sees a figure, out of focus behind her.

George is leaning against the door jam, head down, thinking.

She turns back to the mirror, one last check of her look.

The front door of the house opens, revealing Freddie.

He does, she closes the door,

A JUMP CUT,

and it opens again. Zoe Vaughan stands outside.

She comes in, Kathryn closes the door,

ANOTHER JUMP CUT,

and it opens again. It’s Stokes, and he sees Zoe and Clarissa in the background behind Kathryn.

He comes inside, and Kathryn closes the door, leaving us outside.

ALL SIX OF THEM

are seated at the table in the dining room. It’s set, but there is no food in evidence.

They turn and look at her.

Freddie reaches out and delicately moves the steak knife away from Clarissa’s place setting.

Kathryn reaches down, into a bag beside her chair, and takes something out.

It’s a handgun.

She pops the clip, thumbs the shell casing on the open bottom to make sure it’s loaded, SMACKS the clip back into the base of the gun, and sets it down in the middle of her empty dinner plate.

Clarissa looks from Kathryn, to the gun, and to George.

Kathryn doesn’t pick the gun up, but she rotates it on the table so that’s aimed at Zoe.

Zoe does.

Zoe notices something at her feet.

No one leaves.

Collectively, they ignore her.

Pause. All eyes go to Clarissa, waiting for her to explode.

But she seethes instead, which is almost worse. She stares straight ahead.

Stokes turns and looks at Zoe.

Now, as we will with the others, we see a flash image --

AT THE ZETTER HOTEL,

-- of Freddie and Zoe, headed into a room at a hotel. As the door closes, they kiss and pull at one another’s clothes.

BACK AT THE TABLE,

George moves on, directing his attention to Freddie.

A moment we’ve seen before -- Freddie’s computer screen in his office, blazing with the breach alert messages.

He picks up his phone and makes a call.

But now we see the other end of the call --

-- where Zoe, in her office and on her phone, listens and thinks.

In Freddie’s office, he responds.

Freddie takes a breath. No point in objecting.

Back in the dining room, Kathryn turns to Freddie.

Freddie just looks at her levelly. He takes a drink of wine, his hand shaking slightly.

George turns to Clarissa.

Finally, George turns to Stokes.

IN A CORRIDOR AT NCSC,

Stieglitz waves Stokes over, for a private chat.

IN THE DINING ROOM,

George nods.

At the security exit, Stokes approaches a scanner on his way out of the building. He drops his phone and car keys into a small tray --

-- and we go in close on one of the “keys.” It isn’t a key at all, but a small USB fashioned to look exactly like one.

Stokes picks it up on the other side and leaves the building.

George continues.

Zoe and Stokes are naked in bed in her apartment, post-coital. There are two empty wine bottles and two glasses on the table beside them.

Stokes is talking, boasting, but we focus on Zoe’s face. She’s deeply troubled.

A113 INT MEACHAM’S APARTMENT DAY

A familiar apartment with vaulted ceilings sits empty in the middle of the day. A lock-pick SNICKS in the door and STOKES slips into the room. He’s wearing gloves.

AT A BAR CART,

Stokes comes to a cart with half a dozen liquor bottles and two clean highball glasses on it.

He takes a small plastic tube from his pocket, CRACKS it open, and taps a POWDER into one of the glasses. He PUFFS on the powder till it distributes invisibly on the bottom of the glass, then replaces the glass on the cart.

He pulls the poisoned glass forward slightly, closer to the bottle, and pushes the second glass further back.

B113 INT SAME APARTMENT NIGHT

Nighttime, in the same apartment. ANNA KO sits at the dining table, writing in a journal. She reaches the end of a page, turns to the next one --

-- and a strong arm wraps around her neck.

Stokes again. Anna struggles, but Stokes is strong, and his gloved right hand covers her mouth as he hauls her to her feet.

MOMENTS LATER,

a noose is shoved down over Anna’s neck and pulled tight. Her eyes pop wide.

SECONDS AFTER THAT,

Anna’s feet are yanked up off the ground and out of frame, as she’s hung.

MINUTES AFTER THAT,

Stokes’ gloved hand finishes her “suicide” note, imitating her handwriting from the previous entry.

George goes on, while Stokes fumes.

Freddie shrugs.

George reaches under the table and pulls out a file folder. He tosses it across the table, and it spills still frames from surveillance footage.

THE IMAGES

flash by quickly, showing Stokes on a street in Myanmar, then in the lobby of a bank, then at a desk with a BANK MANAGER.

AT THE TABLE,

Stokes can’t take it anymore.

He grabs the gun from the tabletop in front of Kathryn.

He stands, holding it in front of him.

This only serves to further enrage Stokes. He points the gun at George, fuming.

MORE QUICK CUTS,

-- to the tiny camera lens in a book spine in a bookcase behind them --

-- down from the light fixture above, with a Sennheiser .3 circular dot mic dangling above their heads --

-- to the pen in a jar on a far table, but zooming in tight on the tiny mic grill in its top --

-- and then looking straight down from above, to the china, with its circular center-dot design, and we zoom into those dots, we realize there’s a reason there’s no food on them --

-- and it’s because the dots are CAMERAS, each showing a wide- angle shot of the diner seated in front of them.

This room is wired.

AT THE TABLE,

Stokes looks around the room, eyes wide.

BANG!

He fires the gun, three times at close range, aimed directly at George’s head.

There are SCREAMS at the table, people fall back, dive out of the way, or freeze in their chairs.

But George is unhurt.

He sits, unharmed, staring up at Stokes.

Stokes looks down at the gun, dumbfounded. George sighs.

In one smooth movement, Kathryn --

-- pulls a SECOND GUN from a sleeve under the tabletop --

-- and shoots Stokes in the head.

There’s a SCREAM, a shout, and a chair knocked over backwards as Stokes’s brains are spattered all over the new rug.

His body crumples to the floor.

Kathryn drops the gun on the table with a CLATTER.

Silence for a long moment.

Kathryn looks around the table, then turns to Zoe and Freddie.

FROM OVERHEAD AGAIN,

the dinner guests sit, stunned, one of them now sprawled out on the floor, a spatter of brains and blood across the new rug.

George gets up from his chair, goes to a corner of the rug, and pulls it up, revealing the old rug underneath it. He drops it over the body.

BACK DOWN AT TABLE LEVEL,

Kathryn gets up as well and moves a couple chairs away, off of the rug. One by one, the other guests silently get up and start clearing things off the rug.

George gestures to Freddie, who takes one end of the table and helps him move it.

Kathryn and Zoe take one corner of the rug each and toss it over Stokes’s corpse, ready to roll him up in the carpet.

Clarissa, aghast, just watches them all.

The distinctive red wedge of the NCSC building glows in the pearl-gray morning sunlight.

A115 INT NCSC - OUTSIDE ZOE’S OFFICE DAY

Clarissa waits in a chair outside Zoe’s office, the office Kathryn went to earlier. Clarissa is not delighted to be there.

The door to the office opens and Freddie comes out, Zoe’s previous appointment. Clarissa stands, Freddie nods, a slightly awkward moment.

He heads off, down the corridor, and Clarissa goes into the office.

B115 INT ZOE’S OFFICE DAY

Clarissa sits in a chair opposite Zoe. Zoe smiles pleasantly enough, but just looks at her. She’s clearly of the you-must- speak-first school of therapy.

Clarissa shifts in her seat.

Clarissa gives her a look. You know about my weekend. And I know all about yours. She smiles.

Kathryn hurries down the hallway, another day at the office.

She nods to one or two ANALYSTS on her way to an elevator at the far end.

She swipes a key, the door BINGS, and opens.

ARTHUR STIEGLITZ is inside.

Kathryn nods and enters.

She swipes her card again, presses a floor, and the doors close.

They ride in silence for a few floors. Finally:

He looks at her. He knows, she knows he knows, and she doesn’t care.

He looks at her.

The elevator BINGS on a floor and the doors open.

Kathryn steps out.

He watches her, but she doesn’t turn back. The doors close.

AA116 OVER SHOT OF STIEGLITZ --

As the elevator doors close on Stieglitz’ unhappy expression, GEORGE’S VOICE comes over:

A116 INT KATHRYN & GEORGE’S BEDROOM NIGHT

Late. Kathryn and George get ready for bed.

She takes his glasses off and runs a hand through his hair.

He kisses her neck.

She smiles, touched. George goes on.

She pulls him back, onto the bed.

They kiss. Kathryn pulls back, with a thought.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief.

CUT TO BLACK.