"Nobody wants to hear from a burned spy," Michael VOs. "Your old handlers send your calls straight to voice mail, your appeals are filed in the trash, your old contacts are worthless. Your best bet is to find a field operative who can't hang up on you." Which is presumably why Michael and Sam are sitting in the Charger at the airport, watching planes take off and land, consulting a list of tail numbers every time one does, and doing this for what the time-lapse photography would have us believe is days on end. Presumably they're parked out of sight of the big sign that reads "REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY DIAL 911," which is the only reason I can think of that nobody would notice a pair of disreputable-looking dudes in an even more disreputable-looking car hanging out at the airport for so long. "If you're on domestic soil, the airport's not a bad place to look." And the airport doesn't even seem to mind, either. So what about those tail numbers? "Intelligence agencies are like amateur magicians. Watch closely and you can see how they set up their tricks. It doesn't matter how good they are at misdirection and sleight-of-hand; they can't make a covert ops supply plane disappear." With that, Michael awakens Sam from a lovely dream about nachos to say they've got a winner: the plane that's taxiing across the tarmac in front of them had clearance, but doesn't show up on any of their manifests. Therefore: black ops flight. "Bringing toys to all the good little spooks in Latin America," Sam says. QED-o.

Michael's next project is to go home and dummy up a fake ID for himself. While he's busy with that, Fi flounces in wearing a diaphanous cover-up over a bikini, expecting to be taken to lunch. Michael blows her off. She gives him a hard time over the ID photo he's using on his license for "Duane Winger," which she thinks looks like a bad prom picture. Michael explains he needs a driver's license to pull some FAA records, and disagrees with her assessment of the photo. "I think it makes me look trustworthy." Michael's hoping that someone behind the plane can help get him "back in," as he keeps saying. I suspect that if this show ever does change its title, it'll be to "Back In." And then the USA Network can sow nationwide confusion by advertising it in parking lots all across the country. Fi starts to leave, weary and defeated and beyond bored with Michael's project, as we well know. Michael stops her on her way to the door: "I know you don't like what I'm doing. But you know, it's not just about the job." Fi makes mocking noises about patriotism and duty "and the sacred call of... whatever." That was a very well-delivered "..." "I was told that hell on Earth would rain down on me without an umbrella," he reminds her. Fi points out, quite correctly, that that doesn't really appear to be the case so far. She tells him to enjoy the metaphorical sunshine, and flounces out. "Prom picture?" Michael mutters to himself. Let's all pause for a moment to imagine Michael Westen at prom, shall we? He'd look good in his rented tux, but in his eyes you would always see that discomfort over the fact that his date showed up in a diaphanous cover-up over a bikini.