Notes: I've reworked the "retirement planning" scene in Skyfall where Mallory meets M for the first time. In this fic, they are both acquainted long before the events of the movie. I think it's reasonable to assume that the head of MI-6 and the Chairman of the ISC, who'd be a presiding MP presumably around for several years in order to earn that position, would know each other. In my opinion, it makes their interaction more meaningful when they spar verbally. Power plays and personal agendas on both sides galore! It's also fun to have an outsider react to finding out about the hush-hush relationship between Mallory and Ros. I took the majority of M's and Mallory's conversation from Skyfall itself, so the canon dialogue should be recognizable.
The main reason I'm writing this fic is for my own entertainment, although I would REALLY love you forever if you took some time to let me know what you think. Please, let me know I'm not just shouting into the void. ;)
CHAPTER NINE
"I want to love but my hair smells of war and running and running."
-Warsan Shire
"It's like being summoned to the headmaster's study." M bit out as she ascended the steps into the office building. Bill Tanner followed his boss closely.
"Standard procedure for the ISC, ma'am." The look of worry he wore suggested he was mentally preparing himself for the fireworks ahead. A meeting request from the Intelligence and Security Committee didn't bode well for M. The dust had barely cleared from the implosion of the Turkey operation. Only a total idiot wouldn't put two and two together.
"Bloody waste of my time's what I call it…"
The front office staff didn't slow their advance or ask them to sign in as they would for lower level visitors. The staff assistant did at least open the door leading to Chairman Gareth Mallory's office. Tanner knew that the meeting was to be private so he'd wait in the outer office until M had had enough. His boss entered the office and the door was pulled shut by the staff assistant, effectively blocking Tanner from listening.
M found the man standing at one of the tall windows that afforded a view of the street. Mallory was someone she could supposed it was the PM's way of politely showing her the door in getting Mallory to sack her. It was the circumstances that rankled: a deceased agent, a missing list of identities, the threat of publicised executions of intelligence assets. The PM was up in arms about the botched operation that cast the British intelligence community in sharp relief. If there was one thing M didn't care for, it was the judgment of politicians who wilfully misunderstood the nuances of her role.
"Mr. Mallory," M began with offering a handshake as he came around the two armchairs situated by the windows to greet her.
"M." The man released her hand after a perfectly timed moment and motioned for her to have a seat. She set her handbag on the floor and perched herself on the nearest chair, keeping her eyes trained on him as he moved about the room. Mallory wore all the bespoke trappings he was known for: an ironed cotton shirt of deep blue with a navy coloured tie and matching braces to ensure his grey trousers stayed put. He left his suit jacket off, perhaps a sign however unstudied, that she was a guest in his domain and therefore the traditional etiquette didn't matter. He was a bastion of old British bureaucracy, she thought with faint disdain.
He went to his desk where he had a decanter and single glass tumbler and proceeded to pour a small amount. She noticed he poured none for himself. The gesture was meant to be reassurance yet the fact that he had news to warrant a drink before noon was infuriating. M accepted the glass but let her hand rest in her lap. She had no intention of imbibing when she needed all her wits about her.
"I'm sorry to have to deal with such a delicate subject, in light of ongoing events. But I have to be frank with you." Mallory said. He took the seat opposite her and draped his long arms over the armrests.
"It would be a good idea." She responded lightly.
"The Prime Minister is concerned." He certainly knew how to put those blue eyes of his to use in staring her down. Now that the niceties were over, Mallory was keen to move onto business.
"Well, you can tell him my operatives are pursuing every avenue."
"Have you considered pulling out the agents?"
"I've considered every option."
"Forgive me if that sounds like an evasion."
"Forgive me, but why am I here?"
"Three months ago, you lost a computer drive containing the identity of almost every NATO agent embedded in terrorist organisations across the globe. A list which in the eyes of our allies never existed. So if you'll forgive me, I think you know why you're here." Mallory's tone grew stern. He would brook no dissent, it seemed.
"Are we to call this civilian oversight?" She asked with slight facetiousness.
"No, we're to call this retirement planning." It took a proper gentleman to manage a balance between sternness and iron-backed assertiveness. Mallory achieved it without trying. "Your country has only the highest respect for you and your many years of service. When your current posting is completed, you'll be awarded GCMG with full honours. Congratulations."
Even though M knew it was coming, it still felt like a knife thrust through her ribs. She sat, preternaturally calm. "You're firing me."
"No ma'am, I'm here to oversee the transition period leading to your voluntary retirement in two months' time. Your successor has yet to be appointed so we'll be asking you to-"
M could stomach no more of this politician's conciliatory speech. She stood abruptly, ready to end this exchange, and set the full tumbler back on the surface of Mallory's desk. "I'm not an idiot, Mallory. I know I can't do this job forever, but I'll be damned if I'm going to leave the department in worse shape than I found it."
He followed her lead and stood as well, bringing his hands to rest at his hips. Move and counter move. It was his turn to parry.
"I will do what I can to stave off the Prime Minister's panic. In return, I need to know that you're doing everything you can to protect your officers, present and former. With all and any means at the service's disposal." Mallory's voice became hesitant. M knew it was a small and bitter victory that he would buy her time. The latter part of his statement struck her as odd.
"Our stations around the world are ready to provide all the necessary resources those agents need to return back to base. It's a matter of time before our officers and agents can get to safety. You have my word."
Mallory ran a hand over his face. He appeared increasingly worried-far more than he should be about firing an old woman from her post, M thought. There was more to this than met the eye. M was determined to find out exactly what it was. Before long, Mallory began to speak.
"The committee's had substantiated reports about a man named Faisal Helwani. He was an insider in the Assad regime in Syria. Disenchanted with his overlords, he agreed to provide key information to MI-6 in exchange for the promise of exfiltration to Britain. It turned out to be a very short lived agreement as his name was on that list and he was quickly arrested, tried and convicted of treason. Helwani was dragged into an alley and shot in the head for his alleged treachery. What will they do to the rest, with much stronger affiliations to the service?" Mallory's voice wavered, subtle as it was.
M was taken aback. The reason she respected Mallory was because he had a rational approach to often difficult issues and never lost his composure.
"What exactly are you asking me?" She fixed him with what she knew was her most pointed glare.
Neither of them backed down. She held his gaze for several seconds until he blinked. Despite knowing how much pride it cost him, M felt savage gratification that she had any sort of leverage against the push to oust her from her position.
"I lost an agent that day." M continued in the face of his stony silence. "Rest assured that our collective goal is to limit further loss of life."
Mallory bristled at that. M waited for him to respond, ready to push him further not only for the sake of this unexpected power play but also because she was genuinely curious as to what had him so distraught. At last, Mallory met her eyes.
"Someone...important to me may be in danger. Her life may be at risk."
M raised an eyebrow. "My, how the tables turn. We all have skin in the game, then."
"Rosalind Myers was deep undercover in the Middle East when that list went public. It's been four weeks of the most... awful silence." Every word was a struggle for him to get out. He left M to read between the lines. The man carried himself so still and upright that he could have been a statue. M understood with almost stinging clarity what he was imploring her to do. Some part of her couldn't help pitying the man.
Mallory and Rosalind. M supposed it wasn't very surprising at all. She knew her former 006 all too well, having taken her under her wing after recognising aspects of herself in the younger woman. After Sir Jocelyn Myers's fall from grace, M had to distance herself from Rosalind by necessity, not by choice.
Mallory's kindness was a rare quality-especially among people with whom Rosalind would associate in her professional life. He was a stalwart civil servant. In actual fact, Mallory was more of a relic than M was despite the twenty or so years she had on him. His preference for Savile Row suits, Courvoisier cognac and manner of speech were markedly old-fashioned. Of course Rosalind would be drawn to someone like him. She on the other hand was utterly good at her job and had a razor sharp wit that a man like Mallory could appreciate.
"Myers is no longer my agent. You should talk to Harry Pearce." She said, not without sympathy.
Mallory's eyes grew dark at that. "This was your blunder."
M supposed the grudging respect she held for him was reciprocated if he trusted her enough to let his guard down like this. Telling Harry Pearce what Mallory had just inadvertently revealed to her could be potential career suicide. They each had ammunition against the other but a silent pact existed between them to refrain from pulling the proverbial triggers.
"And I will fix it. So let me do my job." M stressed.
Mallory exhaled roughly before nodding twice and looking away, trapped in the storm of his thoughts. M departed Whitehall with Tanner at her side. James Bond, Rosalind Myers, Faisal Helwani...victims of the world's most dangerous game. There was no time for remorse. M intended to right her wrongs and would only leave when the job was done.
Returning to his flat in Kensington held absolutely no appeal to him. It was the end of a very long, difficult week, topped by M's visit that morning and the ensuing conversation. Mallory immersed himself in work and his public responsibilities to drown out the white noise. In the silence of his flat, the white noise would drown him. So instead of stopping in his neighbourhood, he battled the weekend traffic out of the city and drove until he ended up on that familiar street in Hampstead. The red brick facade with the wall of curling ivy vines stood out among the other buildings, now that the ivy leaves had died in the winter chill.
He had a spare key to her place. He used it to let himself in, the sound of the lock clicking into place as he closed the door resounded through the hall. Four weeks after the list was hijacked, his waking mind refused to accept the possibility that Ros could be anything other than alive.
Mallory hadn't been able to bring himself to enter her bedroom. He would sit at the table in the kitchen nook, do paperwork, read, sometimes eat. He amassed quite a lot of his belongings here: clothing, personal care items, and the like. He knew it was stupid to relocate to hers because he was still alone even if half of his possessions were here as well.
Tonight, he climbed the staircase and gently pushed the door open. The scent of an unburned candle and her fragrance greeted him. Mallory walked into the darkness, wondering if this would drive him mad. He wondered how long he could keep it up-this grief that was not grief. Mourning for someone who could still be alive. It was unquestionable fact that Ros's occupation put her in danger. It was routine matter to officers of her seniority and experience. He reminded himself that she'd spent the better part of a decade in war zones and hardship posts. Gareth was well aware of the risks she took at a level of almost sickening detail. She'd have protocols and contingency plans if she was burned. Gareth found none of that to be any comfort. He was ashamed that he didn't notice how deeply her life had become enmeshed with his after such an astoundingly short time. He supposed they'd had years of buildup and the last month was the culmination of it all. How cruel that it should end this way, he couldn't help but think. Then he closed his eyes tightly and balled his hands into fists.
"She is alive." Gareth said, to no one. He removed his scarf, coat, and shoes. The duvet was freezing to the touch as he pulled it back and settled into his side of the bed. Hours passed and sleep evaded him as it hadn't in so long. This was their sanctuary. Every association he had with this room centered on the woman it belonged to. He realised this was a terrible idea. In the dark, his imagination taunted him with her image. Combined with real memories, Gareth's subconscious was unrelenting.
"She is alive and she's coming home." He whispered again, cold fingers pressing into the empty space beside him.
In the bitter cold morning, Gareth woke to the insistent vibration of his mobile. He shook off the haze of sleep to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket and check his messages. At the top of his inbox, there was an unread text from an unknown number. His hand trembled as he read the message.
'Have faith. The songbird will sing no more.'
The phone fell out of his nerveless hand and onto the bed. He refused to believe that anyone else would have sent that anonymous text. She was successful in bringing down Nightingale if he interpreted her message correctly. India and Pakistan would not obliterate each other and half the world in nuclear war. It was so much easier to believe what he'd told himself in the night. Ros was alive, and she was on her way home.