When Harry debriefed us about the Addressing Africa Summit and our operation at Havensworth Hotel in Berkshire, I automatically winced. I enjoy the work that I get to do as a member of Section D but working all day and night with the team for three days was a guaranteed way for me to turn insane, particularly as I'm currently involved in a financial and emotional mess with my mother. She doesn't want to sell the family home; I think we should. Then again, throughout my childhood she hardly ever paid attention to what I said, so why would she now?
On the plus side, this operation would be a new project to keep my mind ticking over. I was to assume the role of Deborah Soames, the summit organiser. This also meant that I got the chance to buy a new outfit or two. Shopping can be a tiresome pursuit, but when you can purchase expensive office-wear and have the bill footed by HR it's certainly worth indulging in.
Malcolm, Ruth and Jo were staying at the Grid, and they were offered kind goodbyes from the rest of their colleagues. I, however, faked a phone call and scarpered, jumping into a taxi alone. I would be like the odd relative at a family gathering, the one everyone is reluctant to embrace. The feeling was entirely mutual and so escaping as efficiently as possible was my most favourable option.
Havensworth Hotel was enormous, suitably reclusive and posh for such an affair and absolutely swarming with officials. Thankfully, none of them turned out to be the intellectual equivalent of Thames House's Gary the guard, and I was quickly given a key to my own suite. I had dreaded the very notion of a team sleepover and so being granted my own private breathing space was a small mercy.
Harry rung me upon arriving shortly after I did and we all gathered in the suite booked for our operational investigations. Adam grabbed some chocolate and Pringles from the mini fridge and passed them around, causing me to realise with disappointment that I had forgotten to pack my own supply of food. Any form of nourishment provided in hotels, as a general rule, is either over-greasy or over-priced. I had got into the habit of taking a stash of essentials on any hotel trip, including my own favourite brand of coffee granules, some light snacks and, in the face of a particularly difficult operation, a bottle of vodka. I declined the offer of a barbeque Pringle when the tub made its way to me, making a mental note to find the hotel's restaurant and order a quick bite. I had no time to do so, however, being summoned by Reception to greet the delegates who were about to arrive.
I slapped on a smile and began to chat to Emile Becker, the French finance minister, who was apparently spineless enough to cave in to our demands if we applied appropriate pressure. On the other hand, Trainor Styles, the US secretary for trade, could be problematic. I laid the flattery on thick when conversing with him but he was a slippery character. I got the feeling that he wouldn't bend to any pressure.
When all of the delegates had left their possessions in their rooms they were called for drinks and light refreshments in the breakfast lounge before the talks commenced. I thought this would be the best opportunity to relieve my famished stomach – however, Zaf caught me eyeing up the nibbles and shook his head sternly before grabbing a crisp himself with a wink. Being on the catering team, he had easy access to the snacks. Bloody Younis. I'd get him back later.
Eventually everyone piled into the room and the chatter began, giving me ample time to make my observations. Adam was chatting away to someone whose name he had probably already saved to his memory database. Harry was making small talk with the Foreign Sec – both were wearing pained expressions and I knew for a fact that Harry held little liking for the man, and it was highly probable that the feeling was mutual. Zaf was preparing coffee with two young female waitresses and was evidently enjoying every second.
I 'introduced' myself to Adam and we discussed the issues with Styles. We'd need to gain access to his suite to figure out how to make him sign the agreement. His security was predictably tight and we'd have to tread carefully – if an important figure even suspected MI5 manipulation rather than mere protection the whole operation could some crashing down. Zaf had already attempted to make first contact, posing as a helpful newspaper boy, but he got turned away at the door. I felt confident in the knowledge that Malcolm would be on the case right now, figuring out an inventive and untraceable way to get to Styles.
I then opened the talks, smiling widely, before disappearing back to Reception and finally locating some lunch. It appeared that the negotiations were proving successful until Styles had been taken ill, which we all knew was bullshit. He was planning something; something that I was keen to uncover.
The problem with pretending to be best friends with someone that you've just met is that you have to feign interest in whatever they like. If their credit card records say they've bought a new CD, you tell them about how much you love that particular singer. If you find a cinema ticket stub in their pocket, you pretend that you've seen the film. To do all of this effectively, we had to carry out some serious surveillance.
Operations like the one at Havensworth are designed to run like clockwork. This keeps relationships healthy for future negotiations and prevents the media from writing some spiel about how a raised eyebrow from one delegate to another is blatantly indicative of international difficulties. These sorts of agreements are based on keeping up appearances: from the summit organiser to the toilet cleaner, everyone has to play their part, say the right things, act in the right way. Suspicion already exists prolifically in political agreements, and we couldn't afford to add to that.
So, for the week or so that followed the Foreign Secretary's permission for us to conduct our operation we swotted up on those attending and tested each other. Ruth, Jo and Malcolm who were staying on the Grid gave us a ruthless quiz to complete – failure to achieve full marks resulted in that person doing the washing up until the operation was over. Zaf had been the one to crack, swearing good-naturedly as he missed out one letter in the name of the Russian representative's daughter. Something about the whole pretence felt tiring and unnecessary, but I was later grateful for Ruth's insistence that we learnt more about these people than they knew themselves.
Trainor Styles was on the board of governors for the Kansas City Flamers. What a coincidence, that Deborah Soames spent three years in Kansas studying business management and saw every game. Styles would be eating out of the palm of my hand. But the fact that he promptly closed the lid of his laptop upon my arrival told me he was hiding something - I knew that this would be the key to confirming the American signature on the deal, but I couldn't afford to be too intrusive. Styles' laptop could wait until tomorrow.
...
It had been a hectic enough day with important figures tiptoeing across fraying political tightropes and mistrust so thick in the air it practically crackled with electric unspoken grudges. Who in their right mind would throw a bloody party?
The Italian trade minister, according to Ruth. I'd heard her chit-chatting to Harry in the corridor through the thin walls of my room. It had been a brief, emotionless exchange and yet it was so bloody obvious that they were longing to spend time in each other's company. Harry had been acting chivalrous recently and walking taller than usual, whereas Ruth blushed a delicate pink whenever his eyes grazed in her direction. She had asked to remain on the Grid for the duration of our stay at Havensworth, presumably to keep her distance from him and hopefully dispel the office rumours of their relationship that were beginning to circulate. However, Harry had requested her attendance, making something up about needing her organisation (when he knew perfectly well that he, Zaf, Adam and I could cope) when he really just wanted to spend some time with her. It was so pathetic how they kept scurrying around each other that I was half tempted to just book them a table at the nearest romantic restaurant with Lionel Richie on the sound system and let them get on with it. As a general rule I don't care one bit about the personal lives of other people, but when certain people make their attractions so glaringly obvious in the work place it becomes difficult to ignore.
Anyway, the Italian trade minister was throwing a party and I was thoroughly pissed off because of his incredibly poor taste in music and the fact that all of his guests were probably enjoying a hefty helping of alcohol, whereas I had salvaged a coffee of appalling quality here and there (staff weren't treated to the Finest granules that the guests were offered) but little else. I considered heading to the bar by myself for some wine and maybe a packet of crisps, but thankfully I realised how tragic that would be before I acted on it. Instead I returned to Reception, where I received a phone call from my mother. She explained that we had an offer on our family home and I urged her to take it – frankly we needed the money to pay off my father's legal fees.
I was interrupted by a message from housekeeping, detailing that the Americans were planning to sabotage the summit, using it as a cover for a major industrial sale to Japan. This was obviously a game changer, and told me that tomorrow would ensure that this agreement was about to get a lot more complicated that I initially thought possible.
...
The next morning the application of pressure upon Becker ensured he was the second item on the six o'clock news, along with a front-page story entitled 'My Passion For Africa'. Sneaky bastard – he had no intention of signing the deal, but would cover it up and use the American and Japanese's refusal as his excuse. Adam's tactic of getting a classroom-full of black children to clamber on Becker and cheer his name with cameras clicking left right and centre, although cunning, may not have had the effect we were hoping for in the face of the Americans' back-stabbing. On that topic, the arrival of a Kansas City Flamers DVD at reception jolted my plan into action. I headed to Styles' suite; he was delighted at the customer care he was receiving, putting the disc in his laptop and inviting me to join him. Styles was oblivious to the fact that Malcolm had embedded a software spider onto the disc which would download all of his files. I patted his knee and shot another mega-watt smile before leaving, despite feeling a little nauseous at being in his presence.
The access we now had to Styles' laptop exposed the existence of Global Cordon, the network through which the American government were secretly selling state of the art weaponry to countries bordering with major US enemies. They had vehemently denied its existence when questioned, and the fact that we now had solid proof could be the bargaining chip we needed to get the Americans to sign. James Allan contacted the Prime Minister who threatened to expose the existence of Global Cordon, giving the Whitehouse time to consider their response. Harry suggested that everyone tried to get some rest but after unsuccessfully grasping sleep thanks to my inability to escape insomnia unless drugged in a hospital somewhere or in my own bed, I paced to the shared suite, remembering the whisky supply tucked away on a table somewhere that Harry had probably requested. Seeing as it was nearly 4am, I anticipated being alone and getting ample time to devour the drink in peace. I was therefore surprised to see Adam there. His exhaustion was written visibly in his slumped shoulders, loosened tie and heavy eyelids, but he cradled a glass of the whisky and looked perfectly content to tackle the hour. He greeted me upon my arrival and by the time he offered me a drink it was probably too late to sneak away. I had hoped to be alone, but I was beginning to appreciate Adam's company. I never thought that after my tacky ritual of seducing him that he'd ever forgive me, let alone try to be friends with me. I was grateful that he seemed to have chosen to forget the whole thing and focus on working together effectively, and despite difficult moments (which were inevitable considering our competitiveness) I was beginning to see the side of Adam Carter that everyone else adored.
But soon after he poured me a whisky I stupidly started talking about my family, the struggles with selling the house, dealing with my father's imprisonment, and I didn't realise how much of my current and hopefully short-lived vulnerability I had actually revealed until it was far too late. I coolly made a toast to insomnia and was ready to make my excuses to leave when the call to Styles came through. It was 4am – it was unlikely to be a chat about the weather. It confirmed the fear that we had been trying to prevent: maybe the Americans were backing down.
The next morning there was no sign of the Americans or the Japanese; we were becoming increasingly uneasy. I wasn't going to have endured a night away from the comfort of my own flat, being referred to as 'excuse me' and being denied a decent cup of coffee for the past forty eight hours for them to make it all count for nothing. When the Japanese representatives appeared I gave them a hearty good morning welcome, and for the Americans, singling out Styles with a smile. James Allen, standing across the foyer, employed similar complimentary tactics for which I viewed him with a little respect for the first time since our encounter.
Everyone attended the talks and it appeared that the shaky start had levelled out to a smooth ride until Jo issued a Red Call. A leading opposition politician in West Monrassa called Solomon Kabate was caught by MI6 discussing the 'Havensworth Operation' on tape, involving the assassination of Sekoa. This was clearly an attempt to prevent any other African presidents from attempting negotiations with Western countries again for fear of getting similarly murdered, and our 24/7 media culture would ensure mass publicity and mass hysteria. Ruth did some digging and found that Solomon Kabate had visited London recently, going to a bar and doing little else. After contacting the bar we were able to establish that they used agency staff, as we had done for the smooth-running of this operation. An evacuation was ordered of all agency staff (Zaf included) and they were driven away from the hotel.
Despite our precautions, the press conference that James Allen organised against Harry's orders nearly ended catastrophically. A waitress called Michelle Lopez had left her cell phone (and therefore Diaspora, Malcolm's wonder-tracker) in the bag of her friend so that she could remain in the hotel unnoticed. She then changed clothes, armed herself with a pistol and headed to the conference in an attempt to shoot Gabriel Sekoa. Adam managed to disarm her whilst I created a distraction that involved me clumsily dropping a large tray. Slightly humiliating, but needs must.
After intensive interrogation and research, we discovered that Michelle Lopez was actually called Baptiste Kadala and wanted to assassinate Sekoa on the grounds that he was planning an attack against the people of West Monrassa, her home. She also believed that Sekoa killed her parents in what was staged to be a plane crash but was actually a missile attack.
If her allegations were correct we were now in seriously scalding waters. If the negotiations were sorted out nice and neatly, there'd be a shot of Sekoa and our Foreign Sec on the front page of every major newspaper in the country - if Sekoa then proceeded to kill thousands of people we could hardly condemn his actions after previously appearing so pally.
Adam's solution was to allow Baptiste to kill Sekoa. He presented us with classified West Monrassan files detailing the military operation, exactly what Baptiste had warned us about. Jo dug up intelligence that confirmed Baptiste's theory of the missile hitting her parents' plane. Harry was insistent that we couldn't just 'play God' and that if MI5 were found out to be involved in his death we would all go to prison, but Adam convinced him in the end. We armed her, and pretended she had escaped our detention. She shot Sekoa dead and we dealt with the situation calmly, as if we were completely blameless for the incident. It would have worked a treat until the Foreign Secretary ordered for Baptiste to be shot dead despite the fact that she had no weapon. To him, it was about keeping up appearances and staying in control. To Baptiste, she was defending the rights of her people and seeking justice for her dead parents. Then again, she wasn't a political figure in the limelight. Just a life. Just an inconvenience for James Allan. Something that could easily be remedied by a bit of bloodshed.
Adam was livid and hysterical at the same time. It was distressing to watch him in such a state, and later when we had cleared out of the hotel he didn't say a word to anyone, his face a mask of cool indifference with a hint of anger bubbling behind the surface. I wondered whether to approach the topic but soon realised that Adam wasn't the type who wanted attention drawn to whatever personal problems he was handling, and I respected that. I let him take a taxi alone, hopping into one with Harry, ready to be taken back to the somewhat normality that Thames House was beginning to provide for me.
...
Harry and James Allan had an unfriendly-looking chat back at Thames House - unfortunately, Harry's office is sound-proofed and so we couldn't hear the undoubtedly vicious squabble between the pair. The vast glass wall allowed us to observe Harry playing something from a Dictaphone and Allen shutting up before leaving hastily, thanking us all for our efforts on his way out. I imagine James Allan has never apologised for anything in his life: Harry must have obtained some substantial dirt on him.
After Allan dragged his unwelcome presence from our working environment, Adam practically sprinted to the pods. The death of Baptiste Kadala had obviously got to him, and considering the circumstances in which his wife had been killed and the almost identical events that had occurred this afternoon it was hardly surprising.
Most of the team sloped off soon after due to Harry's advice of them getting some rest after the operation, but I had some paperwork to get done and wanted to finish the loathsome chore sooner rather than later. I didn't anticipate that it would take me almost three hours, and only when my mobile phone rang did I notice how late the hour had turned. The anonymous voice at the end of the phone told me that my father's application for leniency had been turned down.
I was livid.
Harry had promised to pull some strings, and for someone of his rank it would have been an easy task. Even if it would have been problematic, he should have just told me it wasn't possible. Obviously it would have been difficult for me to take, but at least that way he wouldn't be giving me false hope. On top of that, he'd told Adam before the operation, saying he needed me to stay focussed. Stay bloody focussed? Was that what he was worried about? My operational abilities would never get diminished by any personal concern, no matter how serious, and the way Harry had treated me with such contempt made my blood boil.
After giving him a considerable piece of my mind I promptly left his office and headed straight to my flat. I got a call from Adam on my mobile but promptly pressed 'Decline'. That bastard. We had drunk whisky together and talked together and he had been lying through his teeth, the same teeth that I now held a strong desire to knock out with my knuckles. He had probably enjoyed it too, watching my raw pain that for once I was bloody stupid enough to reveal, smirking behind my back and sharing all with his colleagues. Then again, he would have been told by Harry. It was at Harry that I directed the full force of my anger.
I never apologise. And Harry had been completely out of order, telling Adam before telling me about my own bloody father. Did he think I was too weak to cope with the news and juggle operational imperatives? Did he want to confide in Adam so that together they could have one up on me, to pay me back for the attempted coup that I got caught up in?
"Forgive and forget, Rosalind." I can almost hear my mother's condescending tone upon hearing that I'd hit a pupil for bad-mouthing me, or attacked a sibling if they laid a finger on my possessions.
But I was wise enough to know that that attitude wouldn't ever be appropriate when working with spies. We're made up of carefully arranged lies. Some are more intricate than others, but they all have the same effect: killing any trace of trust you may have felt.
I do not intend to forgive Harry for this, not unless he makes it expressly clear that he regrets what he did.
...
A/N: This one was a bit more episode-focussed, but the next chapter will reveal Ros' true feelings about Ruth's departure... Please review if you have a second :)