Great College Street, London. A woman is waiting under the trees overhanging the wall of Westminster College Gardens, her gaze fixed on a row of Georgian terraces opposite, recently remodeled into a single building. The new main entrance is guarded by a pair of armed police officers.

After a while, one of the policemen approaches.

"Ma'am?"

She doesn't react.

"Excuse me. Ma'am."

Hostile: "What."

"You're going to have to move."

"I'm waiting for someone."

"You can wait down the street."

She glances at him. "My husband is in there."

"You've been here half an hour. Why don't you give him a call?"

"He doesn't take my calls." Her eyes are searching the windows again. "I'm not sure he still uses that phone."

The officer studies her, taking in the shadows under her eyes. He softens, slightly.

"Listen. This is a Protected Site under SOCPA and the Terrorism Act of 2006. It's not quite illegal to just stand where you're standing right now, but. . . loitering is frowned upon. Strongly. Just move along, will you?"

She is still looking up at the windows. Then she turns a pleading face to the officer. "We have a little daughter, you see? She's two."

"Just move a little further down the street, please."

". . . Can you call Mo O'Brien, Dr. Dominique O'Brien for me, please?"

"I don't know who that is."

"Yes you do, she's been on TV."

"I'm sorry. We're not the front desk for Q Division."

"See? You do know her. – Please. I'd call her myself, but she doesn't answer my calls either."

"Listen, ma'am, I'm sorry, but we can't help you. And you need to move. Now."

..

"Hello again, officer."

He sighs. "You brought a placard. Bad idea. No political demonstrations here."

"It's a name. Not a political slogan. My husband's name." She pulls herself up defiantly: "Although for the record, I do not approve of the abrogation of civil rights represented by Mr. Everyman's legal initiatives."

"I must ask you to leave immediately."

"What happens if I don't?"

"We'd have to arrest you. The Civil Contingencies Act is still in effect, as I'm sure you're aware."

She is still for a moment. Then, fey: "My husband works for them, you know. . . Or maybe he doesn't, now. He might be dead, for all I know. . . I mean, I hope they'd still. . . tell me about that. But who knows. . . Who knows, now."

"I'm sorry. This really isn't the place to deal with your marriage issues."

"You can learn some rather interesting things when your husband works for Q Division." Her face sharpens into challenge, suddenly. "Are you sure that you'd know how to arrest me?"

The officer sighs again. "We're warded. And you're bluffing. Please. Leave. I really don't want to arrest you."

..

A small conference room. Sandy is pacing nervously in the narrow space between the table and the wall when the door opens.

"Sandy. Hey."

". . . You."

"I know I'm not who you asked to see. . ."

She emanates silent fury.

"The police tell me you've been making yourself a nuisance for three days now. Good thing someone saw your sign and told Mo. She sent me."

"This is your fault."

"Yeah. It is."

"Take me to Pete."

"I'm sorry. He's not here. Not in London, that is. They've sent him on a training course."

Her laugh is bitter. "More brainwashing? Haven't you done enough?"

"Now c'mon. Sandy –"

"He wrote me this ridiculous letter. Like a suicide note. Like he was saying goodbye forever. . . I warned him, you know. Last year, when he finally told me what you do. What he'd been doing, since 2013. I told him that your world would swallow him up. - And now it has."

"Sandy. I'm sorry –"

"You're like a, a cult! You grab a person and tell them you know the Real Truth of the universe, you dangle this hidden world in front of them, where everything matters so much more –"

"Hey! I could say much the same about Christianity –"

"- you tell them they can't talk to anyone on the outside –"

"- only you get started much earlier, you snatch 'em right out of the cradle!"

"- you make it so they can't talk to anyone on the outside – "

"This is a secret intelligence organisation, Sandy. We deal with matters of national security. Secrecy kinda comes with the territory."

"Oh for. . . Do you even listen to yourself?!"

"Sandy. You didn't come here to argue about politics with me, did you?"

"What 'nation' is this that you think you're protecting? Cause it doesn't look like the one in which I grew up. Nor one in which I want to raise my child."

". . . I don't set policy, Sandy. The Laundry doesn't set policy."

She looks at him like a teacher who can't believe quite how asinine an answer a formerly promising student just gave her. Then, almost wistfully: "We really haven't seen much of Mo and you, these past few years. Maybe we should have argued about politics more. I always just. . . assumed we were more or less on the same page. On politics, at least. Silly me, hm?"

"Sandy. Things are sort of busy here right now, and there's stuff I need to say –"

"What are you doing to him? What is that 'training course'?"

"Sandy. . . Pete loves you. He loves Jess. That hasn't changed. That won't change. Take my word on that. If he's decided to cut ties that's because it's. . . fundamentally not safe, for you or the kid, to be around him now. And it isn't. You need to believe me on that, too."

"What does that even mean? No, don't say anything, I know it'll be a non-answer."

"– And no more protests in front of the building. We got them to turn a blind eye this time, but our influence only goes so far. Next time they really will arrest you. Jess needs you. Don't do anything stupid."

She looks at him with disbelief; with profound disgust. "You're threatening me?"

"No, I'm warning you."

Silence stretches for a long time.

Eventually: "I need to pick up Jess. I understand I'm not under arrest. So, can I leave?"

"Any time."

He steps aside, holds the door for her, accompanies her through the confusing warren of impressively refurbished corridors and stairways. In the lobby he speaks once more.

"Sandy. I know it's not my place but. . . it might be a good idea not to get a divorce."

She stares at him. He grimaces.

"There may be situations where being the family of a Laundry agent might. . . help. Even if the marriage only exists on paper."

". . . Situations."

He shrugs, helplessly. "Just saying. Keep your options open. If you can."

She scoffs. Pushes past his awkward attempt to open a last door for her. She shivers in the sunlight as she walks away from the building with quick steps.