Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

35. Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thrity-Five: "You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed." ~ Antoine de Saint-Esupery, "The Little Prince"

So much for John and Sherlock staying nearby, damn them! They probably ran off the minute the cops showed up.

The people in the bar seem divided between staring at me being hauled along, my hands cuffed behind me, and the screaming row that has erupted over by the stage; that commotion attracts the attention of both the officers holding my arms. They exchange an anxious look, then stop pulling me forward in favour of evaluating the drama over there, probably wondering if they need to intervene.

It looks like Arthur and one of the dancers are getting into it, and there is a third cop standing between them. Arthur is shouting, "Do you know what you've done, you stupid cow! Do you have any idea what you've done? They're going to shut us down now!" and the dancer is shouting back that she doesn't fucking give a fuck, this place can go to fucking hell. It looks like the lone policeman over there is the only thing keeping Arthur from launching himself at the dancer's throat.

"I think Dale could use a little help over there," says the policewoman holding one of my arms. "Take this one to the car, load her in, and wait for me. Let's see if we can defuse this before it gets ugly."

The young male officer tugs my elbow to get me moving again as the other cop goes to help keep Arthur and the dancer from doing each other bodily harm. Okay, so it's down to one. Could I take on one? Not with my damned hands cuffed behind my back and wearing wobbly six-inch heels, I don't think so.

The commotion by the stage starts to edge into a full-scale scuffle, with several more almost-nude dancers getting involved, and the young cop holding me turns to look again. Someone runs by us toward the brawl, dodging through the crowd, and he careens too close to the cop holding my elbow, knocking into both of us. The cop slams sideways into me, and the impact topples me against a table.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't see –– Are you all right?" The running man grapples the cop to keep him upright, and the officer staggers, straightens up, brushing the man's hands away.

"Watch where you're going, there!" the cop shouts at him, and the man grovels appropriately and slinks off, obviously embarrassed; except that I can tell that he's not embarrassed at all. It's Sherlock, and god only knows what is going on, but at least they haven't ditched me.

I peer around but can't spot John at all; Sherlock has melted away now, too, and the cop pulls me upright again and on my feet to steer me toward the door, and the stream of customers headed for the exit –– officers in uniform at a strip club tend to make people nervous, even if they aren't breaking any laws at the moment –– the stream parts to let us through, and we are out the classy brass front doors and down the wet steps down to the puddled pavement, toward the police cruiser parked in front of the club.

And I have to work hard not to let a big smile show, because John comes trotting over, calling out, "Constable! Constable!" The cop grips my arm tighter, and turns toward John.

"What!" He barks, and John halts a a respectful distance away, acting all out of breath.

"Sorry, I caught them at it, but they ran off too fast for me to catch!"

"Who? Caught them at what?"

"Some kids, young punks, they were hanging around this police car! I'm afraid they might have let the air out of one of the tyres or something, but I can't really tell in this light."

"Oh, for god's sake!" the cop drags me with him as he goes around the car to look at the tyres; sure enough, one of them is almost completely flat. He says a few choice words about young people today, then asks John, "Will you give a statement? Interfering with police property is serious business."

"I imagine that it is! Of course I'll be happy to give a statement. Whatever you need."

"All right, then, first I have to assess the damage, if there is any . . ." he flashes his torch around the tyre for a moment, while John and I exchange quick, conspiratorial smiles. "No puncture, so they didn't knife it; looks like they just let the air out of the stem valve." He sighs, shakes his head, and stands up. "Kids. All right. I can take care of this myself, there's a portable compressor in the emergency road kit. You," he says to me, firmly moving me against the car, "You will stand right here, in this spot, and you will not move." I don't offer any sass or resistance; I don't see any point in either. I watch John out of the corner of my eye for cues, and he is completely ignoring me.

"You, sir," he says to John, "I need you to stay right where you are until I'm finished repairing this flat; after I take your statement, then you'll be free to go." He leans a bit closer to John, adding, "You wouldn't mind helping me keep an eye on her would you?"

"Not a bit," John answers, and the cop claps him on the shoulder.

"Good man," he says, and starts to rummage around in the boot for the air compressor. Once the noisy little machine is going, and the officer is down by the tyre holding the hose onto the valve to inflate the tyre, John leans just a little closer to me.

"This wasn't planned," he murmurs, very quietly.

"I didn't think so."

"Sherlock will have got the recording off of this one," he nods ever so slightly toward the cop wielding the chugging air compressor, "So they've got no evidence. Admit nothing. We'll have you out in the morning."

"But the morning will be too late!" I whisper to John. "Mycroft . . . "

I swear to god that John rolls his eyes. "Oh, for ––" But then he really looks at my face, and relents. "Okay, we'll get in touch with Greg tonight." I assume he means Lestrade. "I'm sure he'll have you out in a couple of hours. Did you get the information?"

"Did I ever! It'll all be on the recording."

"Good girl. Remember, you don't admit anything, to anyone, right? Especially, god forbid, to Mycroft."

"Okay, but what ––"

The compressor chugs to a halt, and the officer rises, brushing his knee. He raises an eyebrow at John. "If it were me, I should think twice before chatting up someone like her, sir."

John sniffs. "Well, I'll say good evening to anyone. Even someone like her. Just being polite."

The officer doesn't venture anything more, just puts the compressor away and takes John's statement about the band of delinquents who supposedly let the air out of the tyre. When he leaves, John makes a point of wishing a good evening to me as well as the cop, and fades into the shadows of the street lamps.

It starts to drizzle again, and the damp cold gives me a shiver. "Can I get into the car, please? I'm not exactly dressed for the weather."

"I suppose not." He has to switch the cuffs around from my back to front for me to get in, and in the seconds that my one arm is free I consider taking him on. I could manage it, I think, but it might make the trouble I'm in deeper than I know. Do I trust Sherlock and John to get me out of police custody before Mycroft knows I've been taken in? I guess I do, because I let the cop have my wrist again and lock the cold metal around it once more.

I must still be a little buzzed from the champagne, because I nod off sitting there in the car, leaning my head against the hard window beside me. Eventually the older cop climbs into the driver's seat and slams the door with a Woof! and the two officers look at each other with a laugh. "Wasn't this supposed to be a quiet night?" she says. "Didn't I hear the sergeant tell you it was going to be a quiet night?"

"Wrong, again!" they say in unison, and chuckle some more. On the short drive to the Charing Cross police station, the two chat like I'm not even there about the raid they just did. Apparently one of the dancers called in a vice complaint shortly after I started my session with Swinhar, alleging that some of the VIP rooms weren't being properly monitored and that there would be "irregular activities" taking place. When the cops arrived they made the security bloke turn the camera on.

Well, no wonder Arthur was so angry, but I don't think that dancer would have done it if she hadn't had enough of being poorly treated; she probably was so pissed that she didn't care if the place went under.

Getting arrested is one indignity that I've managed to avoid up til now, but there's a first time for everything, I guess. It's a good job that I don't expect to be treated like a human being in police custody, because I'm not. I'm photographed, fingerprinted, stamped and processed with attitudes that vary from indifferent to disdainful, and the whole thing feels strange and distorted and almost completely unreal to me. I give my real name, because after thinking it over, I don't want the additional charges of falsifying information on top of everything else, but I honestly don't know what to say when asked for a home address; I just shrug, and the weedy-looking Custody Sergeant purses her thin lips and marks me down as "Homeless." I suppose so.

It isn't until I'm perched on the concrete bench of the tiny custody cell that I start to feel like anything is real. The bright orange stripe that runs around the beige tile walls is strangely cheerful, although the cell smells strongly of disinfectant. I guess that's better than some things it could smell like.

I flop over onto the clammy blue plastic pad that sort of covers the bench. At least my gut has stopped churning from the antibiotic, although at the moment it's cramping with hunger. I wish I had a cigarette right now; a smoke would be just the thing. Damn. There doesn't seem to be much of anything for me to do but wait for Lestrade to come and get me out. I curl up, listening to my stomach growl.

'Admit nothing,' John told me. 'God forbid, especially to Mycroft.' Why would it matter so much if Mycroft knew what I had been at The Bacchanal for? John went to an awful lot of trouble to talk to me privately, and I don't believe it was just to reassure me; it felt kind of like that message was the important bit. Admit nothing.

Bloody hell. If Mycroft actually is compromised by Magnussen, then he may well be interfering with Sherlock's investigation –– which would explain why Sherlock was so pleased to realise that Mycroft wasn't tracking me: I could be sent to get the information from Swinhar. Well, bully for Sherlock, then. I hope that recording he nicked has some answers for him.

I hear voices echoing in the hall outside my cell door, loud ones. I sit up, straining my ears and hoping that it means someone is coming to release me. A moment later, though, I realise that it's just some drunk-and-disorderly being brought in for the night. They put him in the cell next door, and all is quiet again; he probably passed out right away. I lie back down, this time falling into a light sleep.

I'm waked by a gruff male voice outside my door that sounds familiar to my hopeful ear, growling on about police regulations: bless your cotton socks, Detective Inspector Lestrade! Eager to get the hell out of this place, I sit up and run my fingers through my cropped hair, and adjust my skirt. If I play it right, maybe I can get him to buy me a bite to eat after getting out of here, and a ride back to Baker Street.

The hatch on the door slides open, and the narrow face of the Custody Sergeant peers through for a moment, then the lock makes a loud, metallic clunk as the door is opened. There are two men standing in the hall behind the small figure of the Sergeant; a middle-aged male officer in regular blues who isn't Lestrade, and . . . . ohshitshitshitshit.

Mycroft.

My face flushes with surge of heat, although I'm not sure if I'm embarrassed or furious or what, exactly, and for a moment I can't breathe; I freeze like a wild animal caught in torch-light.

The officer who isn't Lestrade scowls furiously at Mycroft, grating, "I'm going to report this, you know; I don't care what your security clearance is."

Ignoring him completely, Mycroft slips between the two officers and into the cell, turning around to instruct them, "Close the door, but do not secure it."

"But, regulations!" the Sergeant objects. "Sir, we can't ––"

I can't see Mycroft's face, but he doesn't have to say a word for both cops to glance nervously at one another. "Close the door, but do not secure it," he repeats softly.

The Sergeant swallows nervously. "Sir, you ought to be using the monitored interview room ––"

"No," he replies patiently.

"Sir," she tries again; I have to admire her pluck in facing him down. "Sir, the Humane Treatment statutes require supervision of all questioning. I have to remain ––"

"Out in the hall will suffice."

She opens her mouth to argue the point some more, but the other officer grabs her by the shoulder and pushes her ahead of him into the hall, pulling the door shut behind them.

Mycroft turns then slowly toward me, planting his umbrella between the burnished toes of his brogues. It occurs to me that I should be flattered; he's wearing the grey pinstripe suit. Isn't it a complement when an opponent dons their best armour?

I don't trust myself to stand, so I stay where I am and take a deep breath. He's not going to kill me, not right now, not like this, so I don't have anything to be terrified of at the moment. Just chill, Angelica. Chill.

Mycroft still hasn't looked at me directly, and now his eyes rove around the cell, making a show of taking in my surroundings, his silent assessment more of a critique than any verbal thrashing could be.

Finally, he lets his gaze meet mine. "Soliciting, Angel? Really." His soft voice drips with scorn and disappointment.

I won't betray John and Sherlock by telling the truth. I could, but I won't. "A girl has to eat."

Mycroft frowns at my glib reply, tilting his head slightly down, and the harsh shadows of the cell's single light-bulb reveal dark creases under his eyes. "It wouldn't have come to that, if you could manage to follow simple instructions . . ."

"Do as I'm told, you mean. Be obedient. Be good. Do the good ones get to stay alive a little longer, then?" If he's going to corner me like this, he's got no right to expect that I'm going to be nice about it.

"I was never going to harm you," he admonishes. "You were never in any danger from me."

"That's not what I heard," I snap. "I heard something quite different."

"It's not what you think."

"Then what is it? Because I heard that I can be controlled, and, if more convenient, eliminated. That's what I heard."

"Those may be the words that you heard, but the context. . ." His voice trails off; he slides his eyes down to gaze at the cracks in the painted concrete floor, and I see his cheek briefly bulge with his tongue being caught between his teeth. "Well, the context doesn't matter, does it. I doubt that it would make much difference to you, even if you could grasp it."

I feel my cheeks flush again, and this time I know it's anger. "Look, what do you want? Why are you even here? I gave you back the book, why don't you just leave me alone and stop bothering me?"

A hit, a palpable hit! Just for a second, as he raises his eyes to mine, I see a flash of real anger; then it's gone, smoothed over with bland arrogance. "I'm here to offer you protection, if you're not too foolish to take it."

The laugh that bursts out of me is a little louder for the tension in the room, but it's genuine nonetheless. "Protection? What? Like I'd be safer with you, for fuck's sake!"

"Oddly enough, yes. Events have been set in motion-"

"Which of course you can't tell me about -"

"Naturally," he agrees smoothly. "But until the scenario has played out, it is quite dangerous for you to remain at large. I believe you experienced a taste of that this morning?"

"Yes." This morning at the cemetery park seems so long ago! Like another lifetime; but I remember the terror of being shot at. "I guess I did. Who was after me?"

The furrow between his brows deepens. "That is a stupid question. I don't indulge stupidity."

"What?" God, he is so annoying! "Why is it stupid?"

"Because you already know the answer. You're being obtuse."

And you're being a dick, but there's no use pointing it out. . . "I'm not a ballistics expert, Mycroft. I've never held a gun in my hand, I've only ever seen a few––oh!" The handgun Lena flashed at me in the car park; it had been bulky, ugly, badly-machined. Sherlock was right, the shooter in the cemetery park this morning had been using a weapon that couldn't hit a sitting-duck target. . . " McCutcheon's driver, Lena. Did your people get her?"

Mycroft doesn't deign to look pleased, but his frown vanishes. "Yes, of course. But there are others."

Others. . . of course, he could be lying. But, I have a feeling he isn't. "What sort of protection are we talking about?"

"I believe relocation would be the best for all concerned. We can provide that, but nothing comes for free, you know. You will have to earn it." He looks down and idly twiddles with the umbrella handle in his long fingers, saying to it, "There is a small, useful task you could accomplish more easily than anyone else, and with less risk. Once completed, you will be permanently re-settled in a safe location. It's what you want, isn't it? A fresh start?"

"Yes. Yes, I do –– but, I'm not interested in working for you, Mycroft! Not even doing a small, useful task. I'm done, done, done! So you can just forget about it."

"Oh, dear," he says to the umbrella, very unconvincingly. "Well. Then, that's that, I suppose. I should warn you, however, that you will find the full extent of the criminal charges against you are considerably more than just soliciting for prostitution: Breaking and entering, destruction of government property, theft of confidential documents. More. A competent solicitor, if you can find one, might be able to get your sentence reduced to somewhat less than a life term. Somewhat."

A real arsehole would have smiled unpleasantly at me as he looked up, but Mycroft's gaze is perfectly blank, cold and remote. If he were a real arsehole, I could rail and rage against him, but how do you rage against a glacier?

"You are an utter turd," I tell him matter-of-factly.

He looks askance at my vulgarity, but doesn't comment on it, continuing instead, "If it makes your situation any more palatable, the little task is under the direction of MI6, and not my department."

"What is your department, anyway?"

"I really couldn't say."

There's a long silence as we eye each other. "What's this 'little task'?"

"Since it's not under the auspices of my department, I'm not at liberty to say."

"What assurance do I have that I won't be just disposed of after I do it?"

"None at all, I'm afraid," he says, without a trace of regret.

Lovely. I get to choose between blind obedience, or rotting in prison; isn't that grand. However, it occurs to me that if they're going to kill me, in prison I'm a sitting duck; at least if I'm on the outside, I have a fighting chance no matter what.

"Okay," I tell Mycroft grudgingly. "Okay, you win. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic." He carefully hooks his umbrella over one arm, and takes out his mobile, tapping out a text as he speaks. "MI6 will send someone to collect you shortly, and you will be released into their custody. The charges against you will be dropped after you perform the required task, and their relocation team will handle your removal to a safe zone." He pockets his mobile again, then turns away and reaches toward the door.

"So, that's it?" It seems terribly wrong to end on this note, so . . . businesslike. Impersonal. I want to say. . . I don't know what, something that has closure. Something profound and memorable, but I don't know what.

Mycroft pauses, looking down. I see him half-turn his head, take a breath –– but then he quickly pulls the door open and steps out into the hall. The lock clunks heavily as the door is secured, and I hear his footsteps echoing away.

Sitting alone in the tiny cell, I feel very small. The drunk next door wakes, and begins pounding on his door with a hollow booming, shouting thickly that he needs to go home and feed his cat.

I'm not sleepy any more, so I sit and stare at nothing. Relocation to a safe zone. I wonder what the British Security Services would consider a safe zone? Someplace abroad, maybe, but I can't imagine where.

What could the small task be? I have an ugly thought: what if the "small task" is likely to get me killed? Wouldn't that be so extremely convenient? I mean, what an elegant solution, getting me to take on a suicide mission.

After what feels like a long time, my dispirited musings are interrupted by more footsteps echoing in the hall. I wonder what these MI6 blokes will be like? They'll probably just be more suits, like Davies and Brown. I'm going to demand that we stop and get some takeaway and a packet of cigarettes before I'll go anywhere, and no cuffs, damn it.

The Sergeant doesn't bother peering through the hatch window this time; she unlocks the door and pushes it open, closely followed into my cell by a very rumpled DI Lestrade. It lifts my spirits to see him there, and I can't help but smile, even though he looks horribly tired and cross.

Lestrade gives me a careful, close look, probably judging my current mental and physical state so he knows how to deal with me, then turns to the Sergeant. "Ah, can I have a minute alone with the suspect, please, Gwen?" he asks her. "I have a few confidential questions. . . . "

The Sergeant looks at me, then at Lestrade. "Are you sure, Greg?"

"Look, I wouldn't even ask if it weren't important! You know me."

"Yeah, that I do." She sighs, resigned. "Okay, I'll be outside in the hall."

When the door is closed, Lestrade puts his hands in his pockets and steps a little closer to me, looking regretful and shaking his head. "First off, you should know that I can't get you released, or even moved to another facility. I'm very sorry. Security Services has you flagged already, and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it." He squares his shoulders, steeling himself for me to cry, carry on, get angry, whatever, but it doesn't happen.

"Yes, Mycroft was just here," I say calmly. "It's fine, everything is fine!" I hasten to add. I don't want the DI to feel bad for not getting here first. "We talked, and it's all good. Will you tell John and Sherlock that? I'm fine."

Lestrade doesn't seem at all happy about that. "They said you were very, very concerned. Utterly terrified, in fact, which is why I left ––"

"And I can't thank you enough, Inspector! I really can't. If I had been able to notify you that things weren't as dire as I feared, I would have. I'm very sorry that you were put to any trouble." I make my best contrite face.

He runs a palm over his stubbly cheek, sighing deeply –– then chuckles like someone who has had a very long day, and is laughing because he refuses to cry.

"Okay, then. Okay. Any chance you could tell me what's up?" he asks without a trace of hope.

"Nope."

"The buzz up there," he points up at the ceiling of the cell, "Is that your arresting officer misplaced a piece of evidence related to the raid you were picked up in. Care to elaborate?"

"Nope."

Lestrade sighs. "Right. So, did I totally waste my time coming here?"

"Well, it made me feel loads better, seeing you," I offer.

"Glad to be of some small service, then." He sounds only a little sarcastic. "Good night, Miss Talbot. And, ah, good luck."

"Thanks."

After Lestrade leaves, I hear him chatting for a few minutes with the Sergeant out in the hall. I do feel a little bad about him coming out here and using his connections for nothing, but it makes me marvel at Sherlock's sway over people; the DI obviously came posthaste because Sherlock asked him to. Now, that's power.

By the time there are footsteps outside again, I'm reduced to literally twiddling my thumbs with boredom.

I watch the door eagerly as it opens, and the Sergeant enters, looking like she has Simply Had Enough. "Well, here we are AGAIN," she sniffs at me. "Maybe I should put up a red light for you? And a revolving door? Perhaps a more comfortable bed?"

I'm not insulted; actually, the image makes me giggle. "I wish! I'd much rather be making some money instead of talking to these fools for free!"

Two men in dark suits brush past the Sergeant into my cell; one of them turns to her and says, "We need ––"

"–– a few minutes alone with the suspect?" she asks crossly.

The suit looks perplexed. "No, ma'am. We'll need the transfer of custody forms, please, and any personal effects she may have been brought in with."

Chagrined, the Sergeant nods and mutters, "Yes, of course," as she ducks out.

I stand up, looking expectantly at the two men. "No handcuffs," I warn them. They look at each other. Bastards were going to cuff me, I knew it.

"But, miss ––" one of them starts.

"No cuffs."

The one who seems to be the leader says, "Miss, it's the regulations, you have to . . ."

"Bugger the regulations. No cuffs." I'm not sure why this seems a hill worth dying on, but damn it, I am not giving in.

Leader-suit takes a pair of cuffs from his pocket and hands them to me. "We have to at least look like we're following procedure, miss. Would you put them on yourself, please, as loose as you'd like?"

Okay, so they're willing to work with me. I ratchet the cold metal over each wrist loosely, like he suggested; I can slip them off anytime I want to.

There is a small sheaf of paperwork that has to be filled out and signed by the agents before they are allowed to escort me from the station, and I wait awkwardly in the Custody Sergeant's office, pretending that she and her assistant aren't looking me over and trying to figure out why there is such a fuss being made over a garden-variety whore. To be honest, I'm still not sure myself.

Outside the police station, as Leader-suit opens the car door for me, I ease the cuffs off my wrists and hand them to him before sliding into the back seat of their silver saloon. "Now what?" I ask, buckling my seatbelt.

"We're to take you to the dormitory. You'll be sent for and briefed tomorrow morning."

"A dormitory?"

Leader-suit shakes his head. "No, THE Dormitory. It's a block of flats in Vauxhall maintained as a security zone for the department's . . . guests." He turns his head to look back at me. "You are still under arrest, Miss Talbot. The charges against you haven't been dismissed or erased yet."

"Oh. That." My stomach growls loudly, with an uncomfortable cramp. "Is there food in these guest flats? Because I really need some supper!"

The suit driving nods. "The flats are provisioned; there will be food in the freezer, and a microwave for you to use."

Well, as long as it isn't tinned beans or spaghetti, then I'll be able to handle it. "What about clothes and stuff?" I ask them. "I don't exactly have my luggage with me."

"Your handler will have seen to that."

"Handler?"

Leader-suit smiles. "That's what we call the coordinators who manage floaters like you."

This is like falling even further down the bloody rabbit hole! "Okay, next stupid question: Floaters?"

"No genuine question is stupid, miss; it may be ignorant, but that's a curable condition." I'm starting to really like this Leader-suit bloke. "Floaters are civilians recruited for a single mission or specific purpose, and not formally trained or employed by the department."

Okay, so I'm a floater for MI6 now. Well. I wonder how you'd list that on a CV?

I'm trying to phrase another question when we stop in front of a nondescript block of flats; it's nondescript in that same way that the research facility was: "These are not the flats you are looking for. Go. Away."

The driver stays behind the wheel, but Leader-suit gets out, and lets me out of the car. As he escorts me into the front door of the building, I notice that the place only looks average if you're not really looking. There's a card-swipe required to even get in the front entry, and a finger-print scan to get through the inner doors. There are several armed security guards casually standing around in the foyer, and CCTV cameras everybloodywhere. Not exactly your typical residential building.

We stop at the front desk, where there is more paperwork to be filled out. The woman behind the desk smiles at me, but hands the key-card to Leader-suit; apparently, I don't get one. Seeing my look, Leader-suit tells me, "You'll be in the top floor for now, which is the most secure area. You won't be able to leave your rooms on your own. The lower floors are minimum-security, and residents there come and go as they need to."

I look around curiously. "Who lives here?" The lobby is government-issue bland; everything, including the sparse decorative touches, is beige. Nice, but beige.

Leader-suit takes my elbow and steers me toward the lifts. "Like I told you, this place is for the department's guests. I doubt that you'll be here very long." Hmm. I'm starting to feel like I've traded one custody cell for another, but at least this one is a bit more posh.

My whole body shudders when the lift bell goes Ding!, but other than that conditioned response I am able to get in and out of the lift without so much as a flutter. I suppose I ought to thank Mycroft for that. Bloody Mycroft.

We get out at the fifth floor and it's as beige as the rest of the building, as is the flat that Leader-suit opens for me. He waves me inside, saying, "There is a telephone for you to use, Miss Talbot, although this floor can only ring through to the front desk. If you need anything, dial zero and wait for one of the staff to answer."

"Room service?" I ask hopefully. He shakes his head, and closes the door behind me.

I take a quick look around the rooms I've been provided: A narrow single bed, small kitchen, tiny bath, and tinier sitting room. The windows are discreetly equipped with metal grille work, not quite bars, but very obviously preventing any exit. There's a telly, of course, and I switch it on for a few moments, then off again; silence is better than that nonsense.

There is a stocked freezer and a microwave, as promised, and I make a good late supper of it, then go into the bedroom and poke around some more, opening the clothes cupboard just to look inside.

It's filled with stuff. My stuff. All of it very neatly set on hangers, and underneath some cartons and. . . my sex-toy box, lock still intact.

Bloody hell. Someone brought down all my belongings from Knightsbridge. Damn.

It's not very late yet, but I'm completely knackered and decide to go to bed anyway. Laying alone in the dark, I feel. . . I don't know what I feel. I feel a little lost. A little found. In transition. Seeing Mycroft today was really hard, harder than I would have thought. He seems to have moved on. What do I mean, moved on, though? Moved on from what? I'm being stupid. My last thought as I'm drifting off to sleep is, I wonder what he almost said, before he left my cell. I guess I'll never know. . .

The phone rings loudly right by my ear, and I jump awake with a gasp. Sunlight peeps in through the curtains, dappled by the metal grilles behind, and the phone on the bedstand keeps ringing and ringing and ringing.

I answer it just to make it stop. The voice on the other end is insanely chipper. "Good morning! This is Alex Hubbard, I'm your departmental liaison! This is your wake-up call, we have an appointment at half nine for your physical examination! I'll be up to collect you in forty-five minutes."

"Right. Ah. Okay." I'm not even half awake. "Wait, why do I need a physical?" I almost can't talk for yawning.

"Well," There's a little pause and I swear I can hear this Alex Hubbard on the other end smile. "They want assessments, you know, for drugs and level of fitness ––"

"I'm not on anything." I snap irritably.

"Wouldn't matter if you were!" he –– he? I think so –– replies cheerfully. "You're a floater, but they still need to know. So, after the physical, you'll be briefed, and then we can get you set up with your kit and travel arrangements. Now, off you pop, get your shower and some breakfast, I'll be up in forty-two minutes."

Forty-two minutes? Okay, I guess these people count their time a little more carefully than I'm used to, I need to remember that.

I'm still munching on a bit of toast when I hear a knock at the door –– and I laugh out loud, because there's no doorhandle on the inside, so someone knocking at it is just silly.

The knocking comes again, and I call out, "Come in, for goodness sake!"

The bloke who enters is wearing a classy blue suit and a big smile. He's not much older than I am, and a full head shorter than me, kind of elfin, with a head of carefully tousled black curls. He holds out his hand and shakes mine enthusiastically. "So glad to meet you, Angelica! I'm looking forward to working together."

I'm on the alert for any sign of a hustle, but he seems genuine, if a tad bit enthusiastic. I decide to just match his tone and attitude; why not? "It's a pleasure, Alex. Thanks for coming up, I'm almost ready." I down my last bite of toast and drops of tea, then spread my arms wide.

"Am I dressed all right?" I ask "I'm feeling a little insecure today." I had a hell of a time, actually, picking out an outfit; what do spies wear?

He takes a half-step back and eyes my look. "The leggings are fine, the spike-heel boots are great. I'm not thrilled with how tight your shirt is, but the blue print suits you, brings out your eyes. However, your hair colour is quite flat, and the cut isn't very professional." Alex spreads his hands. "I can give you more critique, if you like, but we really don't have time for it."

"No, ah, that's okay." Ouch, I don't think I'll be asking him anything more unless I really mean it. "I just don't know what's expected here, you know?"

His gamin face turns unexpectedly serious. "The main expectation is that you'll do as you're told. Rule number one, follow orders! All the other rules just elaborate on that one." Then the smile is back. "That doesn't mean you can't argue and sass and object and suggest, though –– I do, all the time! Sometimes they even listen to me. Time to go, now."

Alex has a car waiting out front, and drives us the few blocks to the SIS building. The whole while he is chatting constantly, but he's so clever that I really don't mind. It's not like he's flirty or anything; to be honest, I think he's either gay or ace. Whatever. He's very likable, but I'm not going to take anyone or anything at face value around here.

It's Sunday morning, but the grounds are by no means deserted. I've seen the building before, of course –– how could you miss it? –– but I've never hung out much in Vauxhall, and certainly never gone right up to MI6 itself; it's bloody imposing, as I suppose it's meant to be. Alex takes us to the huge multilevel carpark next to the SIS, and we go through several security checkpoints before being directed to a parking space.

The carpark lift takes us underground to the main building entrance, and more security checks –– including a body search! They take security pretty bloody seriously here. After I've been discreetly poked and felt up thoroughly, then we take another lift to go even FURTHER down. "Alex, how far down does this building go?"

"I honestly don't know," he tells me. "I don't think there are many people who do."

Our first stop is for my visit to the medical wing for physical assessment. Alex deposits me in a waiting room and scarpers off someplace, and when they get to me I'm given a thorough physical exam and another jab for my leg; the doctor says it's healing well, which I could have told him because it quite nearly doesn't hurt to walk now.

Alex collects me after my exam, and he seems a little nervous now. His smile is a bit too wide, his banter a bit too forced. . .

"So, what's next?" I ask him as we head down the corridor together. "And why does it have you spooked?"

He does a double-take up at me, and nods. "Well, I did hear you were fairly sharp. I guess that's another rumour proven true."

"Rumour from whom? What other ones are there?" I ask, but Alex won't say another word on the subject. Actually, he refuses to say another word at all, until he steers me into a posh, wooden-panelled office. There is a young PA, very pretty, sitting behind a desk and tapping away on a keyboard. She stops and smiles up at Alex when we enter, obviously happy to see him. "Working the weekend as well, are you? No rest for the wicked, I suppose."

"I'd tell you to speak for yourself, but I know for a fact that you are!" Alex grins at her fondly and glances at the clock on the wall above us. "We're a bit early."

"They're already at it. He said to go on in when you arrived."

"All right, then." He gives the PA a lord-help-us sort of look as he straightens his tie. "Wish me luck!" he begs, and she gives him a heartfelt smile, rapping her knuckles sharply on the polished teak of her desk.

Alex cups my elbow again, pulling me toward an imposing set of double doors at the far end of the room, but I balk stubbornly. "Why did you ask for luck? Why are you nervous? Who is in that room?"

He halts and says to me in a low voice, "Look, it's no big deal, right? It won't make any difference for you."

I don't alter my stance or my expression; I just wait him out, immobile, and finally he caves. "Okay, okay!" he whispers. "I found out that one of the people in there is. . . well, it's hard to describe his position to someone who's not in the department, but he's like, my boss's boss. And he's a really hard case, so my career is quite unexpectedly a bit on the line today."

"Oh! Wow. Do you want me to talk you up in there?"

Alex blanches a little. "No! No, that's fine. Just . . .be calm and relaxed, right? Like you are right now. That's perfect."

"But I'm totally nervous as hell right now!"

"I know you are," he reassures me, "And they will, too, but what matters is how well you're able to stay chill despite that."

"Oh, I can maintain through pretty much anything. I'm a professional." Alex gives me a wan smile, and I let him steer me through the doors of the conference room.

Maintaining turns out to be more of a challenge than I thought it would be. There are three very government-looking men sitting at one end of a long, polished table; one older, grey-haired and stern-looking, the other two much younger. They look up as Alex and I enter, and I realise with a sinking stomach that I know the older bloke –– but I can't remember where or when I met him. That means he was probably a client, and I start frantically comparing his face and form with every man his age I can recall having had meetings with –– for the love of god, how many paunchy, grey-haired old toffs have I shagged? I've lost count.

Oh, what the hell. So what if he knows I'm a whore? I'm just a floater with a job that I'm being coerced into doing; I get it done, and I get a new life. Focus on that, Angelica.

Alex indicates I should sit right beside one of the younger men, and takes the seat next to me himself. I fold my hands in my lap and sit demurely. If the old toff recognises me, he doesn't show any sign of it; his keen grey eyes regard me with neither alarm nor recognition. Well, that's good, makes things a lot easier.

Nobody gives any introductions at all, which is very odd and feels a bit rude. They launch right into questioning me about my education and background. It feels for all the world like a job interview! I wish I'd worn a more professional outfit, and I'm painfully aware that my hair looks shite.

The two younger men take turns asking me questions; one of them, a short, dark bloke with a noticeable East End accent, notes down my answers, while the other nods a lot and strokes his tidy goatee beard. The oldie just sits at the head of the table, silently watching, and Alex is a ghostly presence behind my shoulder.

They test my linguistic ability by shifting in and out of German, Spanish, Russian, Farsi, and a few others that I don't even recognise. German is the only one I have any fluency in, because I actually took courses in it; the rest I can read pretty well and understand some, but speak only haltingly, if at all. I tell them as much, and Note-taker jots it all down.

Eventually they start asking about my work history, including my work as an escort, zeroing in on my friendship with Steen Dijkstra. They ask me all kinds of questions about him, even weird stuff, like what he liked to drink and what programmes he watched on the telly. It's hard for me to talk about Steen without getting emotional, but I muddle through it without embarrassing myself too much.

Eventually, the two younger blokes stop and nod at each other, exchanging glances with the oldie, who hasn't said a word since I came into the room. He looks down at an open file folder in front of him and shuffles through it a bit, looking for something. . . now he definitely looks familiar, doing that. . .

When it hits me where I know this grey-headed toff from, my throat constricts so hard I can't breathe for a moment; I shift my focus away from him, feeling the sharp eyes of the other two on me, and keep my expression bland and blank.

That's the bloke from the recording that McCutcheon showed me. That's the one that frowned at my photo and worried that I was a security risk, the one Mycroft assured that I could be killed if necessary. What the actual hell is he doing interviewing me? The adrenaline rush that I have right now is the last thing that need. I need to stay calm, cool, and collected, not run away shrieking in terror.

Finally, the old toff seems to find the bit of paper he was looking for. "Miss Talbot," he drawls in his posh voice,"We are prepared to offer you complete deletion of your criminal records and a secure relocation, in exchange for your assistance in a covert operation. Do you agree to this?"

I chance looking at him squarely, since it would seem odd if I didn't. He's speaking directly to me, and waiting for an answer; I clear my throat so I don't squeak with nerves. "Yes, I do."

"Do you understand that your part in this operation, although extremely minor, carries some potential risk of bodily harm?"

Which is a long-winded way of asking if I know it might be dangerous. Duh. "Yes, I understand."

"Do you understand that you are not at any time authorised to take any actions on behalf of the British Security Services, save for those you will be explicitly instructed to perform?"

Like Alex said, do as you're told and nothing more. "Yes."

"Do you understand that any mention or description, written or oral, of this operation and your part in it to any person or persons outside of the Security Services will constitute punishable treason, and will be vigorously prosecuted?"

I swallow. "Yes, sir."

He nods at Note-taker, who reaches across the table and hands me a form and a biro. I look the document over, and it's pretty much what I was just told; no sneaky fine print, so I sign on the dotted line and flick it back across the table.

The grey-headed bloke stands up to silently gather his paperwork into a dark leather briefcase, and everyone jumps to their feet with him. I feel the urge to stand as well, because everyone else is and that's what you're supposed to do, but, No. I don't think I will. All I can think of as I watch him is that video of Mycroft casually offering to terminate me. Context, Mycroft said. Bollocks, I say.

The blokes stand there almost at attention, and the toff nods at them all, ending with me; I get a slight frown and a brusque, "Miss Talbot" in acknowledgement of my existence, and he strides out of the room like a Terribly Busy Man.

Everyone seems to relax hugely after he leaves, and I feel brave enough to start asking questions. "So, what's my mission? What's this big covert operation?" I demand of the room at large.

The other two men both look to Alex, who sits down beside me again. "Right. First of all, Angelica, you need to understand how the intelligence services work; it's all about teamwork. Forget what you've seen at the cinema, that's just a lot of rubbish. Intelligence officers work as a team, everyone with their own little slice of the project that they know about and are responsible for, and each segment generally has redundancies built into it, to allow for human error, right?" I nod, noticing that Note-taker and Beard-boy have moved over to the far side of the room to have a private convo over a tablet computer, allowing Alex to do his handler thing.

Alex goes on. "So, you can be chill about this whole thing; it doesn't all depend upon you. Of course, your part is important, or we wouldn't bother, but you aren't absolutely vital." Alex smiles at the look on my face. "You're disappointed, aren't you? You wanted to hear that you were going to be single-handedly saving the free world."

I have to laugh at that, even though I feel a little embarrassed. "Maybe just a bit."

"Well, this mission isn't that critical, and you won't be out there alone." He waves over at the two blokes deep in conversation. "These two will be in the field with you - plus, I believe you've been assigned an analyst."

"Analyst?" Okay, now I'm really confused. "Why would I need a shrink?"

All three of the men in the room burst out laughing. Thanks a bunch. Way to build up my confidence, boys.

Alex shakes his head. "Sorry, wrong kind of analyst. I mean, a data analyst, someone who stays here in front of a computer screen, but remains in nearly constant communication with you when you're out in the field. A good data analyst can save your life! They're an important part of the team."

"You keep saying team, but I can't see what use I'm going to be. I mean, they're obviously trained agents, and I'm just . . . well, I'm just me. And you haven't said a word yet about what I'm supposed to be doing!"

"Well, telling you is their job." Alex nods over at the two other blokes, "Your turn," he tells them, and they come to sit back down at the table.

We get properly introduced then, with handshakes all around. The short, dark East Ender gives his name as Jason. The bearded one, tall and weedy, says he's Aaron. I look at the pair of them. "Not your real names, right?"

"Probably not." Jason's smile flashes, then is gone, like bright koi in a murky pool.

"That's fine," I tell him. "Then you can call me Angel."

"As you like." Jason clasps his hands on the table in front of him, continuing sombrely, "Angel, this operation is a very simple one, with a low risk assessment. We should be in and out within 12 hours or less, easy."

"In and out of where?"

"Amsterdam."

"The Netherlands? Fantastic!" I've never been anywhere, really, although I've always wanted to travel. One of my fantasies about escorting was to be one of those fabulous independents who get to jet around the world, like Calypso; not that it did her a lot of good in the end. "What am I supposed to do in Amsterdam?"

Jason hands me his tablet computer with a photo displayed on the screen. "Do you know this man?"

It's a police mug shot of an older bloke, probably in his fifties: pale and deeply lined face, very short, blond hair. He looks tall and powerfully-built, but stands a little oddly, like his shoulders don't quite match. I peer at the photo carefully, and then I recognise him. "Oh! That's Jan, Steen's dad. I met him once, last year, but his hair was a bit longer then, and he was wearing a nice suit . . ." What the hell is Jan doing in a mug shot? Steen never mentioned his dad getting in trouble.

"Tell us about your meeting with him, please."

"We didn't have a meeting," I correct sharply. That would be gross, having my friend's dad as a client! "Jan was in London last year on business, and joined Steen and I for lunch at some little place . . . I don't even remember where. He was nice, kind of quiet - well, quieter than Steen, anyway. His English was very good. Steen was really keen for his dad to meet me ––" I break it off there, because the rest is none of their business: Steen had me posing as his girlfriend, because his dad is a screaming homophobe. I don't usually go along with that kind of bollocks, but Steen talked me into it.

"Do you recall what business Jan Dijkstra said he was in?"

"Exports of some kind or another, they were a little vague. . . Oh, I remember. Pharmaceuticals, they said." I look again at the photo; it's labelled in Dutch, and, from the date, it was taken just six months ago. "What kind of trouble did he get in, that's a police mug shot of hi ––"

I blink as it hits me, and I think my mouth gapes just a little in surprise. "Oh. Bloody hell. Pharmaceuticals. Exports." I sigh deeply. Oh, Steen. "Jan was trafficking drugs, wasn't he? And Steen was helping him." Jason doesn't answer, he just reaches over and reclaims his tablet from my numb fingers, and I can feel my cheeks burning. "I'm kind of the world's biggest idiot, aren't I? I mean, I never put two and two ––"

"Innocence is nothing to be ashamed of, Angelica." Alex's kind voice is followed by a pat on my shoulder. "But you have to grow up sometime."

"I seem to be having a crash course in grown-up at the moment," I moan. "You still haven't told me what my part in the operation is."

Aaron answers this time. "For now, all you need to know is that we will escort you to Amsterdam today, where you will contact Jan Dijkstra regarding his son's death. Mr. Dijkstra hasn't been informed yet, and since you two are acquainted, isn't it fitting that you bring him the news?"

What the hell? "Why wasn't he contacted before now?" I fume. "That's really rude! I mean, they weren't all that close, but that's his father!"

Jason shrugs. "It's not ours to say. But," he stands and gathers up his tablet and papers, signalling to Aaron to do the same, "At least you'll be there shortly to remedy that, won't you?"

I'm suspicious. "You're not doing it out of kindness, I'm sure. What are you getting out of my going to see Jan?"

"Your briefing will have to be completed en route, I'm afraid. We've got a flight to catch." Jason turns to Alex. "Take her down to be outfitted. They've got the work order on file, and her analyst is already standing by on remote."

Alex stands, motioning me to do the same. "Are the rumours about that true?"

Aaron strokes his goatee and looks smug, like he's confirming a juicy bit of gossip. "Yes."

"Like, for real?" Alex seems genuinely shocked. "Not just somebody else using the same handle?"

"For real, they brought Argus back for her." Jason confirms.

"Who's Argus?" I ask them. "What's the big deal?"

"Probably the best analyst the department ever had," Aaron says. "He never scratched a mission, never lost an agent. Argus backing you was like having an angel on your shoulder; you were guaranteed to get home in one piece."

Jason gives me an envious look. "Somebody at the top really wants to keep you safe."

"Somebody," I agree. But is Mycroft keeping me safe because I have further utility to him? Or because he actually gives a shit? I'll never know, and it shouldn't matter, but I can't help wondering.