All language subtitles for M.S.S01E05.1080p.Web.h264-Ethel [eng]

His partner didn't
escape. I let him go.

I didn't see much point
in hanging onto him.

The same way there
wasn't much point

when I saw you this morning

and telling me that two men
had tried to kidnap Teresa?

Did someone get lost?

Apparently so.

Mmm.

Huh?

Psst!

Anybody needs me,
I'll be in the pool.

No, you won't. Basam
drained all the water out.

What? He's out there right now

scrubbing the plaster
with some smelly chemical.

What the hell for?

Something about dead
bodies and bad juju.

Hi.

Good morning, Henri.

Can I fix you some breakfast?

No, no, no, thank you. I'm
just retracing my steps.

I lost my notebook. You
mean the little black book

with the names of
all your girlfriends?

It's brown.

Do you remember the
last time you had it?

The other day when the
body was, you know...

Fucking up my pool.

- Have you seen it?
- No.

Did you write
your name inside?

No. Next time
you really should.

Yes, good idea. I will.

You know, I can write
your name in for you

since your handwriting
is a bit slipshod.

Really? You'd do that?

Of course.

How about later we go into town,

and I'll help you
pick out a new one?

- That sounds lovely.
- Okay, how about the two of you

get the fuck out of here
before I chuck my breakfast?

Someone's in a mood because they
can't swim in their piscine.

Bye-bye. Au revoir. A bientôt.

Let me just go up and change.

I certainly can't go
in my pajamas, can I?

Just wait here.
I'll be two minutes.

Great.

Yeah. I already know
what I'm gonna wear.

I can't wait.

It's not her I'm worried about.

If only that were enough.

Mademoiselle.

- Merci.
- Merci.

Oui.

Patrice. It's Spade.

I found the kid.

Don't ask me how.

You got a pen? Write this down.

Just past the abandoned
train station,

there's that dirt track
that goes into the woods.

Take the car as far as you can

and then walk to the lake.

I'll meet you at the boat ramp.

Oh, and, uh,
Patrice, bring a gun.

Philippe could be
somewhere hiding.

Oh, dear.

Well, this is
indeed embarrassing.

I saw two of you in the car.

You thought you did.

We only pretend to be idiots.

You do a great job.

Still, you had your suspicions.

I had my somethings.

So, what are you... MI5, MI6?

Tomato, to-mah-to.

So...

You mind putting that down?

Hmm. Sorry.

So

Just to clarify,

you move in next door,
you bug my house.

I'm guessing you're not
trying to steal the secrets

to my superb wine.

Mildly superb, I'm
afraid. Philippe?

He's not all that superb either.

The kid? Getting warmer.

Why would I know
anything about him?

Colder. Teresa?

Ding, ding, ding.

Why would she know
anything about him?

Our work relies less on
knowledge than proximity.

Sister Angelique?

Imagine our surprise.

We follow one of the
kidnappers to a convent.

She doesn't have the
child in question.

Isn't actually a nun. So
what is she doing there?

Communing with Jesus?

Taking a well-earned
break from fornicating?

Waiting. Watching.

Doing what we would
do in her situation.

But, again, why there?

So we look at
who's in residence.

We start with the good sisters.

But outside the Mother Superior,

whom, I must admit, has a rather
colorful background for a nun...

You haven't met some
of the nuns I have.

Alas, none of them
revealed any connection

to our Algerian wayfarer.

So next we look at the children.

And we discover one young
lass who's a bit different

from the others. That's
an understatement.

One young lass whose
mother was an American,

a convicted murderer
and antiquities thief,

and whose father is an officer

in the French Army
intelligence service

and just so happens to
be... Fucking sociopath.

The other kidnapper.

Oh, sure. That, too.

Naturally, we became
very interested in her.

You wanna recruit her,

I'm sure she'd
jump at the chance.

As well as the shadowy man

we observed delivering
envelopes full of cash

to the convent each week.

Nothing shadowy about it.

I was just doing what
I was paid to do,

which is to make sure that
young lass was taken care of.

A little above and
beyond, don't you think?

Or is your karmic debt
really that substantial?

You'rethe spy.

Let's just say your
time in San Francisco

made for its own
colorful reading.

Then you'll know that I
don't want any part of this.

A little late for
that, don't you think?

In my experience, a little late
usually refers to a lot dead.

So no, I'm happy to step aside.

Well, as they say in Hackney,

in for a penny, in
for a pound of flesh.

The flesh in this
case being the boy.

You've seen his work, I presume?

The numbers.

Is that all you think they are?

I don't care what they are,

not after I come home
and find a dead soldier

clogging my pool filter.

And somehow the
problem found you.

And now I want it to lose me.

I want you and Mummy to stop
popping up in the vineyard.

And I want Teresa left alone

before she gets shot
by someone's bad aim.

Understood?

You are being
exceptionally clear.

Good. Very good.

Now if you'll excuse me,
I'm going for a swim.

I gathered from all that
"okay, good, very good"

that you grasped your
current situation.

That is the second
time in two days

that some fucking asshole

got the drop on me.

"The drop." So bloody colorful.

That was tae Kwon do.

I spent some time
in Korea, the North.

Okay, well done... I guess.

Hm!

What's your rush, dear fellow?

Join us for tea, won't you?

Mr. Spade?

The nanny snuck off with
the boy three years ago.

She worked for an
Egyptian family

whenever they'd visit Algeria.

Mind you, this is a very
large, very wealthy family,

with business interests
around the world,

and yet there has been
not a noise, nor a sound,

nor hint from them about one of
their children being abducted.

- Maybe he wasn't one of theirs.
- He wasn't.

From what we can glean, the
boy had been passed around

from one high-ranking
family to another,

since the day he was born.

Two years ago, we received
word out of Tunisia

that an Algerian
woman was attempting

to sell a child of
great import. Digestive?

An adoption was arranged in
Britain with a Saudi national,

but something went amiss.

The woman never showed up, and
the child disappeared again.

A full year would
pass before there was

another sighting of him...
this time in Algeria.

No better place to hide
than in the middle of a war.

Which meant the stakes had risen

to an entirely new
level of intensity.

I know her.

You knew her sister

the nanny, Angelique, the
woman pretending to be a nun.

This woman goes by Gazala.

The uniform? FLN.

She's fairly high up the
chain in the rebel army.

We think the kidnapping
was her idea.

We're not exactly certain why.

Perhaps to raise money
for her comrades,

or in exchange for some POWs.

Why would the French
agree to that?

Because they want the boy
as badly as everyone else.

Because of the numbers thing?

Well, we have come to

the proverbial fork in
the road, Mr. Spade.

- Have we?
- Yes.

Whether to reveal
all that we know,

or simply finish our tea.

Meaning

can we trust you?

As far as it goes, and with
the usual provisos and caveats,

but you know that.

Simply put, the boy
can break codes.

Any code, instantly.

He's also able to create
his own unique cryptograms,

what you call "scribblings."

Now I'm calling it bullshit.

Not according to Tzedek,
the CIA, the KGB,

and, of course, our
chief, back in London.

- You left out the Church.
- Hm, which one?

Name a religion, they
all want the child.

- Start with Rome.
- Yeah, those wretched cardinals.

They believe Zayd can prove the
existence of God mathematically,

and they would, of
course, prefer their god

to be the one the lad's
numbers add up to.

- You don't say.
- Some Shiite scholars

have come to the
conclusion that the boy is

the Mahdi,
a spirit close to Allah,

who can disappear and
reappear whenever he chooses.

Evidently, this
particular Mahdi's arrival

could announce the end of times.

Of course, the Sunni ulamas

believe the child
has come to Earth

to restore the
purity of the faith.

And whilst we all
wish him good luck,

we're fearful some in the
FLN plan to murder him.

Not particularly
religious, I guess.

No. For the FLN,

a martyr of any stripe
could come in handy.

Nothing like getting
everyone's anger

pointed in the same direction.

Exactly, and until now,
there've been so many factions

shooting at one another,
including the OAS in the middle,

shooting at everybody, that
some sort of divine casualty

could unify the country
faster than any bullet.

The fact is, Mr. Spade,

that whatever gifts
this child may possess

can be used as evidence that
he may very well be the one

for whom so many have waited.

"May very well be" is
a long way from "is."

Why would anyone
believe this hokum?

I mean, the world's gullible,
but not that gullible.

Many
thousands of years

of human history
to the contrary,

or perhaps I've missed the
moment when humans began

parsing the difference
between knowing and believing.

Neither of which are necessary
when creating a myth,

which is exactly what
some Algerians hope

to create around this child,

one that could,
amongst other things,

thwart Morocco's border
grab to the West.

So far, I've heard
a lot about Sunnis,

and Shiites, and Moroccans,

but neither of you have
mentioned Philippe Saint-Andre.

How has he found his way
into the middle of all this?

That one's easy. Her.

I imagine Sergeant Saint-Andre
forgot all about his orders

to terminate a
high-level FLN assassin,

when he saw this beautiful
face in his crosshairs.

Aren't you forgetting
that the one thing

Philippe Saint-Andre loves more

than a beautiful face is money?

Most assuredly, the
FLN are paying him very well.

Oh, I'm sure they think they
are, but if I'm Philippe

and I know that this kid is
on the top of the wish list

for every rebel,
spook, and priest,

I'm thinking it's
a seller's market.

I can make a lot more

by offloading him to
the highest bidder.

And that's what's happening.

Of course, he has the
problem with Gazala.

Again, if I'm Philippe, a
bullet solves that problem.

George: Not this time.

No one has actually
seen the child.

No photos of him exist.

Gazala is the only one who
can authenticate his identity

to a potential buyer.

So Philippe needs her.

One assumes that each believes

they have a deal with the other,

and one can also assume

that each has a plan
to kill the other

once the deed is done.

Either way, you can
understand our urgency

behind removing this
child from such danger.

Sure, so he can
break codes for you

instead of anyone else.

Tomato, to-mah-to.

Well, this has all
been very enlightening.

I'm afraid we can't let you go.

I wasn't asking for permission.

My dear Mr. Spade, please,
don't take offense,

but despite your stellar past,

these many years in Bozouls

have left you both
impetuous and clumsy.

Therefore, we cannot
allow you to jeopardize

what has been over two years
of meticulous trade craft.

And I can't allow you to...

The "Kato" thing worked once.

I propose a relationship.

Hold that thought.

Okay, don't be
mad. We need to...

- Are they moving?
- What?

Are they pointing a
gun, anything like that?

No, they're just standing there.

Good.

I'll drive.

Don't pout.

That George guy, does he
look like he knows kung fu?

Kung fu?

No.Yeah.

I didn't think so either.

That little bitch.

Hmm?

Marguerite?

Mm.

What's in there?

Nothing. The place is empty.

But Claude said...
It's a dead end.

Should we get a drink?

Really?

Just one, a very small one.

We're going to a bar?

That's where the drinks are.

Can I smoke? No.

Can I drive? Definitely not.

I gotta figure out
what to do with her.

The convent's not
opening anytime soon,

and she doesn't want
to go back, anyway.

But if you could, that's
where you would leave her?

At the convent?

Where else is there?

How could someone so
smart be so stupid?

She doesn't belong
anywhere but with you.

Me? No, she hates me.

Maybe because you
left her at a convent.

I was looking for
advice, not a lecture.

But
you need a lecture.

You know exactly
what to do with her,

you just don't want to...

What is the expression?

Own up to it.

Own up to what? To the obvious.

The thing you avoid
talking about.

You know, you sound like a
gal I knew back in 'Frisco

who talked in a loop-de-loop.

She'd never say a color was
red, only that it wasn't blue.

Why don't you just say
what you want to say?

I am. I have been.
For years now.

Each time, you suddenly go deaf.

You're not the one who has to
clean the puke out of the car.

Samuel knows how to
put a drop of gin

in a tall glass of tonic.

Maybe she should stay with you.

You seem to understand
her so well.

Okay, let's pretend you
really are an idiot,

and I will put this
in your own words.

Many years ago, Bridget
walks out of prison

and into your loving arms.

You whisk her off to a motel
and fuck her one last time,

only to realize that the love,

or whatever you two
shared, was all gone.

And before you can tell her,
she's run off to Turkey,

where she meets Philippe,

and you never see her again.

That's the story, yes?

Yes.

But where in that epic tale

do you hear that I'm a father?

Hm, so we are not
so dumb after all.

You honestly think that's
never occurred to me?

My point is only that
you won't face reality.

I won't, because reality
doesn't make any sense.

Why not?

Teresa was 4 years old when
I picked her up in Turkey.

So?

I hadn't seen
Bridget in six years.

And can you make the difference

between a 4-year-old
and a 6-year-old?

I can read a birth certificate.

Bridget sounds like someone

who knew how to get
a document forged.

Look at her.

Does she seem 14 to you?

She's 15.

Does she seem 15 to you?

Yeah.

15 going on 50.

Exactly.

Look at her.

Okay.

♪♪ Knock it off.

I'm already in a foul mood.

Let's not make it any worse.

I'm a private investigator
in Bozouls to find Zayd.

Get in line. Zayd?

I'm not what you think
I am, Monsieur Spade.

I can't imagine that a man
of your particular origins

is upset about body count.

I make decisions
and I live by them.

For better or for worse.

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