Chapter 29, part 2.
The courtroom looked at the same time familiar and very different from what Alice was used to. Obviously, it bore little resemblance to the two courts-martial she had participated in previously, but even comparing with the American courtrooms she'd sometimes glimpsed in movies, it seemed quite dissimilar. Sure, there was a judge, a jury, lawyers for the prosecution and the defense, a clerk and the defendant—but they were all positioned differently, the judge and the barristers wore actual wigs, and the whole case was called R. v McCallum—R for Regina, she knew. It was, after all, the Crown Court. The proceedings themselves were quite familiar, too—waiting outside until she was called in (she only waited a few minutes as the charges and the opening statement had been done the day before), swearing to tell the truth, questioning by the prosecution and the cross-examination from the defense. The difference from her own prior experience was that the lawyers seemed much less aggressive in their assertions and inquiries—and, for once, nobody tried to put her character in question, possibly thanks to all the positive publicity she'd received since her name had been revealed to the press. The prosecution asked her to relate the whole incident from her point of view and to identify the defendant based on her best recollection. The defense, on their part, had her repeat a few points in her testimony, and she knew they were attempting to sow doubt for the jury: "But you did not see the Defendant enter the cockpit?", "But how can you be sure that he was not trying to fly the plane to safety?" and "Would you not agree that the Defendant could have mistaken you for one of the hijackers after you forced your way into the cockpit with a pistol in hand?" It was quite clear that they were trying to paint him as one of the good guys who, just like Alice, was trying to do his best to wrench the plane away from the real hijackers. Alice didn't think such a strategy would work—the other two surviving terrorists pleaded guilty and made deals to testify against their remaining comrade in return for commuting their sentence from what was known in Britain as 'whole life' to 'life sentence'—essentially meaning that they would be able to get out on parole at some future point, though probably not anytime soon.
After she was released, she could have sat down at the witness bench to watch the rest of the trial—but she decided to skip that doubtful pleasure and instead simply left, though that required wading through the crowds outside once again—there were so many people, the police had to blockade the street and organize a detour. Alice stuck to her no comment policy and, having finally crossed the moving seas, she came upon a black sedan waiting for her at the curb, John Derby leaning against the hood, pretending to read a newspaper. He closed it at the sight of her and sauntered to open the front-left door—for just a second she was confused and then remembered that this was London and people drove on the wrong side of the road here.
"M'lady," he murmured with a wink and a smirk.
She shook her head and got in.
"So, how was it?" He asked, sliding onto the driver's seat and starting the car.
"Oh, please, you already know how it was." She rolled her eyes.
He grinned. "My sources say you were great."
"Your lawyers are nicer than ours," Alice acknowledged. "Even the JAG Corps was more bloodthirsty."
"It's quite a dignified process," he agreed. "This one's clear-cut, though. They have to go through it to keep up appearances, but everyone knows how it'll end."
"What a waste of time." She sighed.
"Hopefully not all the visit was a waste, though." He winked at her again.
She snorted and shook her head. "I don't know. I may need a repeat to judge that," she teased.
He laughed out loud. "I'd be happy to oblige!"
"Where are you taking me right now, anyway?"
"Orders from above, ma'am," he replied with a smirk. "And here you were, thinking this ride was just my chivalry!"
She ignored the gibe. "But seriously, where are we going?" A little unpleasant sprout of suspicion appeared in her head.
"There are some people who'd like to talk to you—don't worry, today you're just gonna meet with their secretary."
"Their?"
"Well, Hers, really."
"Hers," she repeated. "John, I have no desire to meet royalty. In this, I'm with the hijackers."
He laughed again. "Don't let Her know that!"
"I'm being serious, though. I don't want to."
"Well, you should've just let them crash the plane, then, because you're gonna—when the Queen says bring her to me, we bring you to her."
She rolled her eyes again and sighed. "I swear, once this is all over, I'm never stepping foot in this country ever again."
"Aw, and what about me?" He made a face at her.
"You're welcome in Colorado anytime," she replied lightly, knowing he'd never come.
He nodded, acknowledging the unsaid truth. "I'll keep you to that."
They arrived twenty minutes later; Derby barely stopped at the gate to a back entry, waving his MI5 badge to the sentry who immediately opened the barrier.
"This is the business end, I gather?" Alice asked as they got out of the car and he led her through a huge iron-studded double door.
"Aye. You are now entering the belly of the beast," he quipped, but he had lowered his voice, and Alice understood that the time for jokes had passed; serious people worked within these walls.
Derby waved his badge to another guard who saluted, eyeing Alice suspiciously, but nobody checked her credentials. They walked through the off-white or light-green corridors with red carpeting and no doubt priceless art on the walls (though Alice couldn't tell if they had been cheap knockoffs), and people in black-and-white uniforms passed them by with respectful little nods, but no one stopped them or asked them what they were doing there.
"Trusty bunch," Alice commented eventually, with her eyebrows raised high.
"No, they're not—trust me, if you'd try to get up to where the Royals actually are, you'd be stopped within thirty seconds," Derby replied seriously. "This is just what you said—the business end. Staff works here, it's essentially an upscale office space."
"But they didn't even check my ID!" She protested.
He grinned. "Keep with me, babe, I've got you!" And then he chuckled. "They know me here. I've got certain privileges."
"I can see that," she murmured, wondering what his actual position was. His badge proclaimed him to be part of the MI5—the Security Service, the British counter-intelligence and security agency, sort of their own FBI. But she didn't think any run-of-the-mill MI5 agent could just walk into the Buckingham Palace with a plus one like he owned the place.
He stopped in front of a non-descript door and knocked.
"Come!" A stern voice called from inside and Derby opened and ushered Alice through into a spacious office with more paintings on the walls and a big mahogany desk. A man in an impeccable suit stood up from behind it and extended his arm.
"Major Boyd, it is an honor to meet you. I am Frank Landall, the Deputy Private Secretary to the Sovereign," he introduced himself as Alice shook his hand. "Thank you so much for coming. Please, take a seat."
Alice did, noting that Derby remained in the room, standing just a few steps behind her elegant plush chair.
"Nice to meet you to, Mr. Landall," she answered a little belatedly, wondering if there was some protocol to meeting the Queen's Deputy Private Secretary. "It's an honor to be here—though I admit it was quite a surprise."
He smiled and his contrition almost seemed genuine. "Sorry for that—it's for security reasons, you see."
She raised an eyebrow, but decided not to comment. "What can I do for you, Mr. Landall?" She asked bluntly instead.
"Oh, it's not about what you can do for us—you've done quite enough, dare I say! It's about what we can do for you," he clarified with a bit of a highfalutin flair. "After all, the United Kingdom owes you a great debt of gratitude."
"With all due respect, sir, I did not do that for the United Kingdom. I was saving myself."
"Spoken with humility, like a true hero," he praised, completely dismissing her argument. "Well, in recognition of your heroic acts, Her Majesty The Queen would like to bestow upon you one of the greatest honors that exist in our Kingdom—the honorary Dame Commander of the Royal Victorian Order," he explained loftily. "It recognizes distinguished personal service to the British monarch and, at that grade, grants the honor of knighthood in all the Commonwealth, though of course in your case it would be more of an honorary thing."
She counted four uses of the word honor or its derivations in that little speech, and had to make an effort to keep her face passive. This whole thing was so absurd!
She waited for a couple seconds to ensure he wasn't going to say anything more, and then replied simply: "No, thank you."
She had the satisfaction of watching him blink quickly and stare at her for a second, like a deer in the headlights. "Excuse me?"
"I'm honored," she elaborated, barely restraining a smirk. "But I must respectfully decline."
"Decline?" He repeated, still in shock.
"Yes, decline."
There was a moment of silence, during which she could almost feel Derby's eyes boring into the back of her head, but she didn't turn around nor did she speak.
"Why?" The Deputy Private Secretary finally managed to choke out. "This is a huge distinction—there's little precedence for giving this type of honor to ordinary Americans—don't you want that?"
"No." She was tempted to leave it at that, but she had to remember that she was still a representative of her country—and, more importantly, the US Armed Forces. "Mr. Landall, please do not misunderstand me—I am really honored to be considered for such a distinction, but I cannot receive it in clear conscience. I am quite set with the medals I already bear on my chest—figuratively speaking of course, I'm not wearing them now," she added, because Landall looked like a man ready to believe she had the orders hidden beneath her jacket. "I am not British and I do not feel it right to be receiving British decorations when your own subjects' sacrifice goes unrecognized. Plus, I really do not need any further publicity. It's bad enough that my name leaked into the press, all I am trying to do now is damage control and I have a feeling that accepting knighthood might have the opposite effect."
"None of the crew did what you did, and Mr. McQueen's efforts were already recognized," he retorted, misunderstanding her meaning. She didn't correct him, though. "I know you were oddly against publicizing your heroic acts, but this is going a little far. People already know what you'd done. It would look bad if we leave it unrewarded."
Alice restrained a dismissive shrug. "Well, then, you shouldn't've put ideas in people's heads. You think I don't know how it works?"
"We didn't expect you'd decline," he protested, inadvertently confirming that he—or, more likely, someone from his office—had been the source close to the Royal Palace that had started all the fuss in the press.
"You should've asked first," she emphasized. "Now you've gotta deal with the fallout. I know you'll find a way." She allowed herself to sound a bit condescending.
He didn't look happy about. "But even your President was on board!"
Alice grimaced. "He would," she mumbled, and then added louder: "He likes me. He wouldn't force me to accept an award I don't want." It was a subtle way to reiterate her wish and make Landall look bad for trying to pressure her.
"Well, then. If that is your final decision—"
"It is."
"—then I guess there's no point in wasting my breath trying to convince you," he finished, his voice dignified in a way that was almost insulting. "I shall relay this information to Her Majesty—she wanted to meet you, but if there's not going to be an investiture, we might need to modify the plans."
"You do that," Alice nodded. "But my flight leaves tomorrow at nine."
"You're joking, right?" He stared at her again.
"I'm honored that the Queen wants to grace me with a meeting, but I have to get back to work."
"Her Majesty doesn't conform to your schedule, Major. You conform to hers."
Something rather unpleasant bubbled to the top of her tongue, but she held it. She took a breath and composed herself. "Again, I am honored, Mr. Landall, but my job is important—not just to me, just in general."
"We're talking about the Queen of England, for God's sake!" He raised his voice just a smidge.
"I'm American, Mr. Landall," she reminded him. Then she shook her head. "I could potentially push my flight to the afternoon or evening, but I simply cannot stay longer. I have work to do that cannot be done by anyone else and that cannot be delayed. I'm not trying to equivocate or be disrespectful on purpose—you can ask your own Prime Minister if you don't believe me. He knows all about what I do."
He frowned. "So it's true, what they're saying in the papers? You're really working on developing space weaponry?"
The fact that he didn't know it was bullshit pleased her so she smiled sweetly. "I'm sorry, I cannot comment on that."
He nodded, as if that was all the confirmation he needed. "Well, then. Major, it was pleasure meeting you."
"Yes, thank you." She didn't say pleasure was all mine because it would be too much of a lie. They shook hands again and she walked out, shadowed again by Derby. They didn't speak at all until they were out of the Palace and back in the car.
"I'm trying to decided if your face is more disappointed or disapproving," she finally said, her voice amused.
"Neither," he replied, giving her a sidelong glance. "Desirous would be a more apt epithet. You were bloody brilliant!"
She laughed. "Now, here's a surprise. You don't think I'm stark raving mad for refusing an offer of knighthood?"
He shrugged. "I wouldn't—but you're not British, so it would be just one more piece of metal on your chest, I guess. I also assume you have a better reason to decline than because it would be too public."
She looked away, the amusement suddenly gone from her face. "I do."
"You won't tell me? I know it's not because you don't like monarchy."
"I don't, as a principle, but that's not why," she admitted and left it at that.
He nodded, acknowledging her right to keep the real motive to herself. "Either way, the way you handled that pretentious wanker was glorious."
"Thank you. I put some thought into it." She grinned at him.
He shook his head, amused. "But you must know, if the Queen wants to see you—no matter how much you need to work—then she will see you, and at her own convenience."
Alice sighed heavily. "I know. I kinda hope I put them off the meeting with my uncooperativeness, but if push comes to shove, I'll be there, I guess. The President wouldn't want me to start an international incident. Though I do have something to do the day after tomorrow and it cannot be postponed—I'll just have to work around it." Worst case scenario there was Apollo in the orbit; it wasn't the preferable option because it could raise some questions if she suddenly appeared back in London without physically crossing the border, but it would still be better than committing a diplomatic faux pas.
He eyed her curiously and not for the first time she wondered how much he actually knew about her. He didn't ask many questions—not about her background, anyway. That could mean that he already had all the answers—or at least he thought he did.
"Where are we now?" She asked, because he slowed down and started maneuvering to parallel-park in a small, narrow street out of the way.
"Soho," he replied lightly. "I thought we could grab a late lunch and then I could show you a bit of London. You didn't see much the last time you've been here."
She rolled her eyes, but got out of the car quite willingly. "These aren't exactly the shoes for walking," she noted, sticking her foot out to showcase her low pumps.
"I'll carry you if you falter," he promised with a wide smile and a twinkle in his eyes. "Shall we?"
"You're up early," John mumbled sleepily, rolling on the bed to take a better look at Alice. She was curled up on the armchair with her laptop.
"It's late in Colorado," she replied lightly, without lifting her head.
"You're working?" He shook his head, sounding a little more alert already, got up and started looking around for his boxers.
"Just checking in on some stuff." She shrugged, finished the sentence in her e-mail and hit send. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork is required when you manage a team? And that's only three people!" She closed the laptop and put it away on the nightstand nearby.
He found and put on his boxers and then walked over to lean in and kiss her. She only allowed him a quick peck on the lips, though.
"Morning breath," she explained, standing up and stretching. "I didn't want to wake you so I held off on water-running." The bathroom in her hotel room had paper walls and every single sound was clearly audible.
"Very considerate and utterly unnecessary," he retorted. "Can I use your toothbrush?" He asked, walking towards the bathroom door.
"No!"
She heard him laughing as the door closed and sighed. Well, it's not like they didn't share enough germs last night.
She was halfway through packing her stuff when he came out again, his hair still damp from the shower—and still wearing nothing but boxers.
"Packing already?" He raised his eyebrows, sitting down on the bed to put on his pants.
"I have an early flight, don't I?" She shrugged. Nobody has come back to her yesterday, so she didn't change it.
"Hmph."
She shook her head, grabbed new underwear from the half-filled suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom.
He was all dressed and looking every bit elegant and impeccable as always when she came out, wearing just bra and panties. It was a mystery how he managed it, since she distinctly remembered throwing his shirt on the floor pell-mell last night.
He grabbed her by her waist and leaned in.
"Okay now to kiss?" He asked with a twinkle in his eye.
She allowed it this time. It would most likely be the last time, anyway—might as well say goodbye properly.
"Aah." He sighed happily. "Thank you. This has been great." It was clear he didn't mean just the kiss.
"At least one nice thing came out of this whole affair," she agreed, wondering what Green would say about it. Was this a step forward or back? It felt good to be able to relax, to get a little pleasure—without the added complications of a relationship. It was sort of freeing—it took the sting out of certain difficult memories. But it meant nothing and she wasn't sure if it would help or hinder her trauma recovery. Maybe neither—or both.
Derby raised his hand to touch the complex net of scars on her left shoulder. He didn't say anything, though, and after a few seconds Alice stepped away and turned to put on some clothes. In the silence she heard his phone buzz on the table—he had it on vibrate just like she did hers.
"Derby," he said into the receiver. "Yes. No, why would I? Well, if that's the decision… no, I don't think she'll throw another tantrum." Alice looked around her shoulder and he winked at her. "Understood. I'll get it done, boss. Thanks."
"Don't tell me." Half-dressed, she walked to the bed and dropped onto it, arms and legs spread wide. "I'm not getting on the nine o'clock flight?"
"Nope," he confirmed and climbed in after her, leaning on his elbow so he could look down at her.
Alice rolled her eyes hard. "And the day had started so nice."
He laughed. "Don't worry. You've dodged the biggest bullet—or lost your chance, depending on how you look at it. Apparently Her Majesty is busy entertaining important guests at the Windsor Castle but wishes to accommodate you so she delegated you to her grandson. He's inviting you to join him and his wife for tea at the Palace."
"Tea at the Palace, fucking A," she mumbled crossly.
"Kensington Palace," he clarified with a smirk. "You've been downgraded, I'm afraid."
"And thank god for that." She snorted. "And here I thought the Queen doesn't conform to my schedule!"
"She might have gotten a tad offended that you declined her generous offer."
"Diplomatic incident offended?" She wondered, not really concerned.
"Nah. You're not that important," he teased.
She laughed. "British gratitude doesn't last long, I guess!"
He puffed. "It's not our fault that you're refusing our offers!" He pretended to sound wounded.
"It's not my fault you're offering things I don't want."
It was said as lightly as the rest of the conversation, but it must have struck him, because he frowned and looked closer at her, his face suddenly serious. "Is there something you would want from us?"
She bit her lip and shook her head. Then she rolled over to her stomach and stumbled out of the bed to finish getting dressed.
"No, but seriously. Is there something?" He asked, sitting up on the bed and watching her carefully.
She didn't reply until she had pants and t-shirt on. Then she dropped back on the chair to put on socks. "Maybe."
"What is it? You know I have some pull, I may be able to give it to you."
She held off again until she had boots on. Then she straightened up and looked at him steadily.
"I want Paul Emerson."
"Who?"
"We know he's ex-MI6, but your people don't want to confirm. He's running around selling important secrets to the highest bidder. I wanna get him, and to do that, I need to know more about him. If you really wanna express your gratitude, get me intel on Paul Emerson."
"I've never heard of him, but that means little. I don't know everybody at SIS," he said slowly, and she knew he was giving himself more time. That wasn't a request he was expecting, surely.
"He's been using several other aliases. I can send you a list if it helps, but we've traced the Paul Emerson one to your MI6," she hesitated, but finally added: "He's been selling intel to your own Prime Minister's Office. It's forbidden by some multilateral agreements, which is why they won't confirm anything. But I don't care about diplomacy, I want the guy."
Derby scratched his head in a comically comic-book way that would make her laugh if she weren't so intent on his reply. "That's quite an ask," he admitted. "But I'll see what I can do. We do owe you."
"So you keep saying." She smiled, indicating that they were done with the serious conversation. "Now, what does one wear to meet the Heir to the Throne?"
Any time later in her life someone asked how was meeting the prince, she always responded with 'better than expected'—a tongue-in-cheek reply that also happened to be true. She had expected the two hours to be dreadfully boring and awkward, and there certainly were a few uncomfortable moments until he mentioned his ongoing service in RAF Search and Rescue Force—of which Alice had been unaware of, not being au courant with American tabloids, much less British. She was not too familiar with rotor-wing aircraft, but it was still a common point and they spent a good hour discussing helicopters, fighters, differences between the RAF and the USAF, and other interesting bits. His poor wife was visibly bored throughout, but she smiled nicely and poured tea for them, adding little insincere injections like no, really? and that's so interesting!
"Major, I really want to thank you for what you did," he said at some point, which signaled to Alice that the meeting was mercifully nearing its end. "If they had succeeded—" he paused and looked at his wife for a second before continuing "—we would all be dead. Not just the plane passengers, not just us, but everyone who works at the Palace, that's something like four hundred people. And—well, it wasn't public back then yet, but you've saved our first child, too."
Alice nodded. His wife was visibly pregnant now—somewhere around six months, if Alice remembered from the few press articles on the royal couple she did read—and that meant she must have been at the very beginning of the pregnancy at the time of the incident.
"Really, sir, it was nothing," she reassured him.
He shook his head. "It was not nothing—I don't quite understand your stubbornness in refusing any sort of recognition for your heroism."
Alice sighed. "That's because it was not heroism on my part, sir. There are people who've done much more and their sacrifice goes unnoticed because it is not public like a hijacking." She paused, wondering for a moment if she was bold enough to say the rest, but she was in a reckless mood. "If you really want to show me gratitude, ask Her Majesty to recognize the heroism of Sergeant Basil Karim."
He raised his eyebrows a little. "Who's that?"
"He was in your SAS and assigned to an international contingent. He died while under my command. He willingly sacrificed himself to save me and about two hundred others from certain death. He stayed behind and sabotaged the enemy, preventing them from targeting us and allowing us to destroy their base—with him still inside. That, sir, is true heroism."
"I haven't heard about that before," the prince said, sounding just a shade too defensive for Alice's taste.
"No, you wouldn't, the mission was classified, sir." She shook her head. "Doesn't mean he doesn't deserve recognition. It's just easier to sweep it under the rug and tell everyone that he died in an explosion. It's technically even true."
"What was his name again?"
"Sergeant Basil Karim, SAS."
He pulled out his phone and made a note. "I'll look into it," he declared. "I can't promise anything, but let me have a look."
"I appreciate that, sir."
"Hardly an apt thank-you for saving all our lives," he noted. "But if that's really what interests you, then I'll do my best." He gave her a scrutinizing glance. "I've been around military types half my life, but I've never met anyone quite like you, Major."
She wasn't sure how to react to that, so she went with humor. "That's because I'm American, sir. Historically, I'm the enemy."
He gave her a polite chuckle. "Indeed. Well, it was a real pleasure meeting you, Major Boyd—thank you for coming."
"Thank you for the invitation, sir," she replied, restraining a sigh of relief that the ordeal was ending. It was better than expected—but still not something she'd ever like to repeat.
"You know I can get around on my own," Alice said, getting into the passenger seat of the car that was already waiting for her. "I don't need a chauffeur."
"But aren't you glad you've got one," Derby replied with a smirk and turned on the engine. "Don't worry, I haven't been hovering around all this time. I've been busy."
"Busy with what?" She asked suspiciously.
Without looking away from the road, he reached to the back seat and brought a thin cream-colored folder with a red stamp TOP SECRET on it and additional markings that read UK EYES ONLY and DORMOUSE. He handed it over to Alice.
"I can't give it to you, obviously," he told her in a more serious tone. "And in fact, I never did. Understood?"
"Yeah." She opened the folder and took a look at a photo of a forty-something thin man with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Her first look at Paul Emerson, she supposed.
"His real name is Francis Hodges," Derby said while she opened the next page; it was mostly blacked out, and he was essentially narrating all that was still visible. "He worked for the SIS until 2007, mostly in the field. He was good, very good—had a knack for cyber intelligence. He quit in June 2007 and disappeared from the face of the Earth. If he came back selling intel to us afterwards, I can't find any evidence of it."
"Don't worry, I've got it," she commented grimly, going back to the photo and looking at the elusive man. "How did you identify him?"
"Through his sister. Her name was Rebecca Hodges, she had moved to the US twenty years ago and married one Paul Emerson, then a lieutenant in your Air Force."
"So he took his brother-in-law's name as his alias?" Alice shook her head. What was that about?
"Seems so. One final piece of the puzzle—apparently the original Paul Emerson died in 2006. His wife, Rebecca, Francis' sister, committed suicide the following year."
"I see." Alice frowned, mulling over this new information. Paul Emerson, the colonel in the US Air Force, had died aboard the Odyssey when it was hijacked by the Lucian Alliance. A year later, his wife had committed suicide… and the new Paul Emerson, the data thief, was born. Did Rebecca tell him something to start him on this new path? Shared some intel she had gleaned from her late husband? For someone whose whole life was about finding out secrets, such knowledge must have been irresistible. And he had the skills to dig deeper, learn more, and start selling to the highest bidder… and he was so cocky, so sure of himself that he chose the very name that started it all for him. Moreover, he continued to play them by using the names of other dead Stargate Program members as his aliases—like Chenkov... son of a bitch. He was taunting them!
Her hands trembled in anger as she handed the folder back to Derby.
"Thank you," she said emphatically.
He smiled. "Don't mention it." And then he winked. "No, seriously—don't mention it. I never gave this intel to you."
"I'll go to my grave swearing you didn't," she reassured him, knowing full well she would tell Carter everything the moment she got home.
"Good." He nodded with a smirk, equally aware of her intentions. What a game they were playing… she was glad it would soon end. As much as she enjoyed herself with John, it was time to get back to reality. Break was over.