Now let's get back to the real plots. Mark and Demetri are in a part of downtown Hong Kong that happens to sell Persian newspapers and Iranian cigarettes. Demetri muses, "That voice, it's a pretty good bet she smokes." And would you look at where they're standing? Right in front of a Persian restaurant named "The Tide and the Mist." The boys agree to come back tomorrow.
We cut to Our Lady of the Mood Lighting Memorial Hospital. Bryce is trying to post something on Mosaic for Keiko to find, and deleting every effort. It doesn't help that Janis is hanging around wearing her I-mean-business expression. She offers to go away in exchange for Lloyd's phone number, and Bryce dryly asks, "And what do I do after I get fired?" Anything you want, my indifferent little doctor. Spend the remainder of your days painting pictures of Keiko and sighing Byronically! Janis then moves the topic around to her own flashforward and being pregnant, but notes that she's not yet well enough to have a baby so, "Maybe I'll just listen to the universe and throw the towel in on the whole thing." Bryce prods how far along Janis was. She was four months, so in theory, she's supposed to get knocked up in January. Bryce urges her not to give up. Projecting much, Bryce?
And then we see that getting a glimpse of the future did nothing to curve the unfounded speculation and incendiary blather among cable news's talking heads. One is calling Simon and Lloyd the worst mass-murderers in history -- indirectly, with the "Don't you think so, guest?" so they'll have the chickenshit "My guest is the one who said that, not me!" excuse to hide behind later, of course. It really is too bad that nobody at ABC has thought to exercise a little corporate synergy and show what sports talk shows would be like if everyone knows what's going down in six months. Doesn't that take the tension out of baseball trades and suchlike? ANYWAY, the real point to this scene is that Simon just sort of strolls on into Wedeck's office all, "I heard you needed a genius-cubed to solve your little blackout mystery? Here I am. The line to regard me with primitive awe starts on the left."
And now, the battle to see who can be the coolest and snarkiest commences. Simon says he had nothing to do with the blackout. Wedeck: "Well, you probably shouldn't have stood up in front of a crowd of reporters and said you did." (Point to Wedeck.) Simon says it wasn't his choice, but the excitable Lloyd's. Wedeck asks Simon if he has any idea who's responsible, and Simon coolly says, "No, but I'm certain if you allowed me access to your Mosaic investigation, I could divine the answer for you." Wedeck asks, "So you want to be to be deputized?" Simon begins to rattle off his resume-stuffing bona fides, but Wedeck says, "Son, you're confusing me for someone who gives a damn. I'm up for giving you a listen, not a new career." (Point to Wedeck. Score, 30-love.) Simon asks, "How long do you think Washington will continue to fund an investigation into the blackout when someone has already stepped forward and accepted the blame. My guess is unless you come up with some compelling evidence relatively soon, you'll never find out what or who caused the greatest global catastrophe in human history, or if you can prevent it from happening again." (I think we can give Simon that point. 30-15) Wedeck agrees to give Simon a trial run the next morning, and if it bears fruit, then maybe he'll consider a more official role. Simon says, "Because I do like you, Assistant Director Wedeck, I will accept your disingenuous offer." Okay, they're tied. And I hope they team up to fight crime and make grown men cry with their cutting remarks!
And now, poor Lloyd comes skulking through the hospital ward toward Dylan's room. Everyone who sees him gives him a wide berth and a dirty glare. Lloyd is, of course, acutely conscious of this and only gets more self-conscious and crouched as he goes through the lobby. Janis swoops down on him and introduces herself, and implores Lloyd to come in and talk. She tells him that the FBI can protect him and Dylan. Lloyd politely tells her to get bent.
On the other side of the Pacific, Demetri and Mark have taken advantage of the post-lunch lull at The Tide and the Mist to ask the proprietor if he might be able to hook them up with the lovely lady who sounds like Eartha Kitt after a long night and a case of Camels. The guy grins as he lies, "I'm sorry. I would remember that voice if I knew who it belonged to. Now! How about some dessert?" Demetri would like some dessert, but Mark tells him "A moment on the lips, forever on the hips. Now go outside and make sure nobody enters, okay?" When the proprietor comes back with some faloodeh, Mark asks him to sit down. So the proprietor does and Mark says, "The woman we're looking for: she has information we need. It's a matter of life and death." The proprietor says, "I'm so sorry I can't help you with that." Mark tells him, "You have it backwards: If you can't help, you will be sorry." Mark pins him with what is meant to be an interrogative stare but really just comes across as Bambi in need of some castor oil. Then Mark says, "You know that woman." Mark slides his badge across the table and says, "Not so long ago, a hotel concierge named Anoush Harandi, an Iranian man -- much like yourself -- was taken from his home in Bangkok in the middle of the night, because my government believed he had some small piece of information. His friends, his family -- no one knew what happened to him. He spent two years in secret detention. My government's gotten very good at that sort of thing."
And that is how Mark finds out who Nhadra Udaya is and where she eats dim sum every night. I am sort of troubled by the implication that Abu Ghraib and rendition and suchlike are the interrogative gift that keeps on giving, but I suppose the point to that scene is to highlight how very far off the reservation Mark has strayed. And, bless him, he's kept Demetri clean. "If someone's hands are going to get dirty, let them be mine," Mark says.
Back in Wedeck's office: The boss man is showing Simon the satellite images that the Cheeto Bandit (or whatever the heck he was called) pulled from the NSA servers per Gough and Mark's monkeyshines, and pointing out that his top analysts can't make heads nor tails of these. "It's a good thing I'm smarter than they are," Simon says. Behind him, Janis rolls her eyes and explains that Simon's looking at highly cl