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jaybee65Title: The Monster At Home
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: R (for references to violence and strong language)
Characters: Juliet-centric genfic, with appearances by Harry, Ros, and Adam, among others.
Spoilers: Contains spoilers all the way through the end of S6; certain scenes and snippets of dialogue borrowed from numerous episodes scattered throughout S5 and S6.
Wordcount: Approximately 7700
Summary: How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington: she hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
Disclaimer and thanks: The characters and settings belong to the BBC and Kudos. Thanks tomsgenevieve for the handholding and encouragement and to petite etoile22 for the beta! This is a new fandom for me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome!
The first time Juliet lays eyes on Ros Myers, she mutters to Harry, "Well, she'll get the attention of the red-blooded males."
It comes out sounding envious, which thankfully Harry is gentleman enough to ignore. But it's not quite envy, is it?
She sets the question aside. There are far more pressing things to think about at the moment, like the fuel depot bombings, three men dead oozing tears of blood, a country in the grip of a media-inflamed panic, and God only knows what might happen next.
Yet as they all shake hands and make their introductions, she finds her attention oddly fixed on Ros. There's something about the woman that both attracts and repels: the white-blonde hair, the tastefully tailored grey suit, the pair of black heels that could puncture a steel plate, but most of all the rigid glaze across her face that doesn't crack even when she smiles. Juliet has a knack for making snap judgements about people, but Ros defies categorisation. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that somehow resists being filled.
Pleasantries exchanged, they all take their seats. The meeting goes nowhere, as expected. It's a pissing match between Michael Collingwood and the Home Secretary, which would be amusingly ludicrous in an overgrown schoolboy sort of way if there weren't a genuine crisis to cope with. As it is, however, there isn't time to waste with such nonsense; since Juliet's job title does, after all, contain the word "coordinator", she takes advantage of an awkward lull in the hostilities to jump in and move things along.
For her trouble, Collingwood interrupts her -- twice -- but just as she's on the verge of ripping off his testicles, she reminds herself that his real target is the Home Secretary. She just happened to get in the middle of them, figuratively, and got elbowed out of the way. Against her usual instincts, she stifles her temper while Harry and Adam finally steer the meeting onto a more productive track. As they take over, she observes Ros, who hasn't uttered a word. Ros just sits and watches, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, like she knows something the rest of them don't and finds it oh-so-comical.
Interesting. Ros is up to something, she and Collingwood both, and it's not simply taunting Cabinet Ministers for sport. Whatever it is, let them get on with it: Juliet can duel with the best of them, as can Harry Pearce, so Collingwood and his tartish blonde lackey had better watch out.
***
Juliet can scarcely believe what she's hearing.
It's disorienting enough watching Harry and Adam stalk back and forth like caged tigers across her living room carpet at two in the morning, but what they've come to tell her verges on the surreal.
Conspiracies within the government don't exactly faze her; after all, she's dabbled in one or two herself. But the scope of this one beggars belief: elements within MI6 deliberately provoking terrorist incidents, assassinating high-ranking political advisers, and now attempting to abduct the Prime Minister's son? She's tempted to summon an ambulance and have both men committed to a mental ward -- except that they've brought proof. Evidence directly implicating Michael Collingwood and Ros Myers, no less. Perched on the edge of her sofa in a dressing gown and slippers, Juliet examines the documents and photographs for several silent minutes, then looks up.
"Jesus Christ," she exclaims, unable in the initial fog of her shock to think of anything more intelligent to say.
"They've murdered one of my officers," says Harry, and his gaze fills with a volcanic loathing. If it were aimed at Juliet, her skin would blister. No, she would be incinerated. She instinctively shrinks out of the way.
"We want to confront them tomorrow," says Adam. "Once they know we're on to them, they'll be forced to advance their timetable. If they're in a hurry, they might make a mistake."
"Or they might just crush us before we can figure out their next move," counters Juliet.
"We can't let them," says Harry. As if it's as simple as that.
After they leave, she bolts the door, then leans her back against it and closes her eyes. She's dizzy, and not just from being abruptly awakened. She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, and then she heads to the kitchen and pours herself a more-than-generous serving of gin. She finishes it in one gulp. The warm flush gives her the illusion of courage, if not the reality.
What it doesn't give her is any comfort. She's always prided herself on her connections, on knowing everyone and everything, on sensing changes in the political weather before the wind can even begin to shift. But she hadn't seen this coming.
How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington, had convinced herself that the American hegemon was the source of all evil. She'd only looked outward, not inward.
She hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
***
In the depths of Whitehall, where one tries not to imagine what spectres may dwell, the military intelligence bunker smells stale from decades of accumulated must. As Juliet descends the rickety stairs with her colleagues, she doubts it's been used since the Suez crisis.
Downstairs, Collingwood, Ros Myers and Millington -- that little gnome of a so-called media mogul -- await in a menacing-looking line to greet their adversaries, like characters from a low-budget gangster film. It's all so sordid and melodramatic that she really should laugh, and yet at the same time it sets her heart pounding.
They take their seats, enemies facing off on opposite sides of the table, but the place directly across from Juliet is empty. Its occupant keeps them waiting just long enough to ratchet up the anticipation, and then makes his belated entrance: Sir Jocelyn Myers, the real driving force behind everything, the "final piece in the jigsaw puzzle" as Harry so aptly puts it.
Sir Jocelyn pats his daughter's shoulder as he claims the empty seat; Ros smiles back at him with a wisp of filial pride. Their resemblance is striking, but so are the differences. What's ambiguous in Ros is overt in Sir Jocelyn. She's guarded, a frosty enigma; in contrast, he's warm and direct. He may hide what he's up to, but never who he is. It's a sign of his power -- and the confidence that accompanies it -- that he doesn't need to bother.
Juliet, too, has always felt free to be herself, but in her case only because it's actually the best disguise. In America, she was openly contemptuous of everyone she worked with, and they merely found it charming. As long as she ticked all the right ideological boxes -- strident Cold War veteran, pro-free trade -- she could insult them to their faces and still win their adoration. "It's the accent," confessed a helmet-haired Oklahoma Congresswoman at one especially stultifying state dinner. "You can say the most outrageous things and still sound so elegant!"
She sees the same kind of contempt in the expressions of the four people across the table now. She knows better than to be charmed.
The two sides finally engage, and the verbal fencing quickly draws blood. Harry does most of the talking for her camp, but when Millington launches into a pompous speech about how their self-enriching little coup will save the country for everyone's grandchildren, Juliet finally has enough.
"That is no reason to dismantle our democracy," she protests, and she hates them for provoking her to be so embarrassingly sincere, like some earnest schoolchild delivering an oral report on the Magna Carta.
Sir Jocelyn nearly laughs aloud, and for that she hates him even more. "I wonder why we fetishise democracy so much," he says, smirking. "It's a system that's a blink in the eye of history."
No, it's not, she thinks, and she suddenly doesn't feel any shame in being sincere. Democracy is something precious. Something to be proud of. Something worth fighting for. And as long as she -- and Harry, and anyone else with even a shred of decency and principle -- can stand up to these bastards, there will be a fight.
***
The ride in the car is nervous but quiet. In the rear seat, Juliet shuffles through papers without actually reading anything. Beside her, the Home Secretary sputters in outrage for a few moments, but other than agreeing with the obvious that yes, yes, they simply must do something, Juliet doesn't know what to say. They've got one week to come up with some sort of response, but the trouble is that she doesn't trust the PM not to buckle under to Sir Jocelyn's demands. There has to be a way to outflank their opponents, but she needs time to think, to gather her wits, to plot out a strategy to strike back.
Whatever course she decides to take, she'll have to find a way to warn her Yalta colleagues. She's too high-profile to steal away unnoticed, even if she hadn't resolved to stay and fight, but the rest of them might have enough time to flee the country, or at least to--
It takes a few moments for it to register that the escort's gone missing. Just as she mentions it to the Home Secretary, her phone rings. It's Adam. "Juliet, get out of the car!" he shouts, his voice high-pitched and frantic. "Get away from the vehicle!" She freezes, unable to process what he's saying, until he yells again, "Just do it, now!"
Apprehension swells into panic. She begs the driver to stop and they all scramble out the doors. The adrenaline makes her run faster than she ever has in her life.
It's not fast enough.
***
By her hospital bedside, Harry's sombre and, God help her, kind -- which means the news is dire indeed. He makes a half-hearted effort to be optimistic, but she's having none of it. She's been rendered helpless, like a fly dangling in the strands of a spider's web, and all she can do is dwell on the worst.
"They're stronger than us. They're going to finish us off," she says, giving into her gloom, and he doesn't even try to argue otherwise. They both know she's right.
As he leaves, he pauses by the door, then makes a half-turn to look back at her over his shoulder. "By the way, it was Ros Myers who sent Adam the warning about the car bomb," he says, brow wrinkling. "I'm not sure what to make of that."
She's not sure, either. Quite the family, Ros and Sir Jocelyn Myers: the father nearly killed her; the daughter saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.
She'll never forgive either one. That much she is sure of.
***
Outside, the country is falling to pieces. In between MRIs, pin prick tests and catheter cleanings, Juliet watches the news on television.
One of the security detail tells her in a whisper that Harry's been arrested. She nods stoically, but the back of her throat burns when she tries to swallow. Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes they don't make him suffer.
She wonders, idly, if any of the hospital staff might be in Collingwood's employ. Not that there's anything she can do to defend herself, if so. A toxin surreptitiously added to her drip might very well succeed in achieving what the car bomb failed to do. Then again, perhaps not. After all, Collingwood and Sir Jocelyn hadn't even bothered approaching her to see if she would join them. That either meant they knew better -- in which case she hadn't done a good enough job cultivating her right-wing reputation -- or that they thought her irrelevant.
Strictly speaking, the former explanation should be more of a worry. Somehow, however, it's the latter that stings more.
***
She hasn't had visitors for quite some time now. Everyone she knows is in hiding or out in the streets. Even the hospital seems nearly empty; the few staff who pass by her room are silent and fearful. They forget to bring her lunch, but she's not hungry anyway.
When the police begin herding the protest marchers to slaughter, she mutes the sound but can't quite make herself turn off the set. Instead, she keeps watching, fingers tight around the remote control, while she whispers obscenities to herself. Then, somehow, nothing happens, and the tension slowly dissipates, floating away like the remnants of tear gas that drift off in the breeze.
She turns the sound back up, but the announcers are as confused as she is. All she can tell is that it's over. Over. Just like that. She's not sure how, and she hates not knowing. It's her business to know things. It's her business to know everything. Not knowing is impotence, insignificance -- paralysis.
An apologetic attendant finally carries in a dinner tray. She switches off the television and stares into space until the food grows cold.
***
Eventually, she ceases to be an afterthought, and a trail of visitors forms to deliver flowers, well wishes, and briefings. The last comes across more as ritual courtesy than anything else; the planet has resumed its regular rotation, but she remains trapped in stasis.
The Home Secretary is one of the first to stop by. His face is ruddy with triumph and mutual congratulations, as if the two of them had accomplished something other than being rendered superfluous. Like him, she'll gladly take credit for helping thwart the coup; that's just political common sense. The difference between them is that he actually believes it's true.
He is, however, full of useful details that the others have omitted. "Ros Myers switched sides at the eleventh hour," he tells her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "According to Adam Carter, she was instrumental in bringing things to a peaceful conclusion."
How very heart-warming. The contemptible woman had no qualms about installing a Latin American-style dictatorship, but apparently the prospect of bloodshed made her squeamish. Was backing out of the plot at the last possible moment supposed to make up for everything else? Turn her from a criminal into a heroine, just because she was too gutless to see her misdeeds through to their ultimate consequences?
Juliet isn't impressed in the least. She actually respects Collingwood more. Madman though he was, he understood that committing to a cause means going all the way. Harry, in contrast, appears to think a lack of conviction is something to be rewarded. He's actually hired Ros. Juliet is appalled, but she'll deal with that later. One Myers at a time.
***
Twenty years for Sir Jocelyn. The PM dithers about offering a deal for half that, but Juliet is adamant.
He can't tell her no. She's a living martyr to democracy, after all. She can tell by the way he rigidly holds his gaze above her shoulders that the mere presence of her wheelchair shames him, rebukes him for his cowardice. In the end, he gives her what she wants, and she lets him believe he's absolved.
Her weakness is a potent weapon. She intends to make the most of it, even as sensation seeps back into her thighs like a prickling tide.
***
Her muscles are atrophied from lack of use. With the physiotherapist, she makes a token effort at doing the mobility training drills, but quickly pleads exhaustion. "At least you can get in and out of the wheelchair without assistance," he says, with a cheerfulness more mechanical than genuine. He dutifully notes her lack of progress in her medical chart, all too willing to let her give up.
At night, however, she lies propped up in bed religiously doing every exercise. After weeks of trying, she manages to flex the muscles around her knees. She repeats the movement so many times she nearly vomits with the effort. When the cramps bring her to tears, she stops -- but only long enough to wipe her eyes.
Sir Jocelyn will die in his prison. She vows to escape hers.
***
"I don't need your pity," she tells Harry during her first week back at work, and perhaps with him, it's true. But in fact, pity is precisely what she counts on.
She wheels around Whitehall at whim, free as a ghost who can pass through walls. She's become utterly invisible, not because they don't notice her, but because they're trying so hard to pretend that there's nothing to notice.
Being invisible means no one asks questions. Being invisible means she acts with impunity. Being invisible means she can go places and look at things that she really has no right to.
It opens her mind to new opportunities.
For Yalta, in particular.
She sees now that they've lacked the proper ambition. They thought it was enough to worm their way into positions of power; they assumed that afterwards, as insiders, they could change the course of history by the miraculous effect of moral suasion. In reality, all their supposed influence has accomplished nothing. They're little more than a glorified debating society, dressed up with a clever name and a secret handshake. She's disappointed in them -- no, to be honest, in herself -- for having harboured such a passive, utopian fantasy.
It took her enemies to teach her another, nobler way. A way of action, rather than of wishful thinking. Sir Jocelyn, Millington, Collingwood: they may have been morally wrong, but they were also bold. They knew what they wanted, and they risked everything to achieve it. They failed, true -- but only just.
Her gamble is going to outdo even theirs in sheer audacity. She might fail, too, but failing is better than merely pretending to try.
***
Certain members of Yalta express discomfort with her new vision. "Incompatible with our principles," some protest. "Crossing a dangerous line," argue others. She concludes, most reluctantly, that these doubters must be silenced. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, least of all comrades, but there's too much at stake to tolerate dissent.
"Did you hear about Campbell?" Harry asks as he escorts her from a late-morning meeting with the DG.
"Shocking," she says. "Whatever possessed him to drive in such a bad storm? I always thought he had more sense."
"As did I." He presses the button to summon the lift, then gives her a downwards glance. "You didn't have him killed for some nefarious reason you're not telling me about, did you?" His mouth twists in a repressed smile.
"Oh, Harry," she says, placing her hand above her heart, "I'm touched that you think I still have it in me to be nefarious."
They both laugh, and he drops the subject.
Such a pity she can't recruit him. Yet. But there's really no need at the moment. He's fighting the good fight right out in the open, and he's more valuable there than anywhere else. She'll bring him on later, after she racks up a few victories -- maybe even a few at his expense -- and they'll have a good laugh together at how long she fooled everyone. It will be like old times. She misses those days, more than she likes to admit. They were young and thought themselves invincible, and lying for a living -- much like lying to their spouses, much like lying to each other -- was just a droll little game.
No longer young, and far from invincible, she's lost her taste for games.
The lift arrives with a ding and a rumble of opening doors, and she waves him off. "I know how to see myself out."
To her secret disappointment, he stands back and allows her to roll away by herself.
***
At home, she's had a treadmill installed. In the evenings, she straps braces on her legs and drags herself along in agonising, slow-motion steps. She barely manages to cover any distance to speak of, but the effort makes her gasp and sweat like a marathon runner.
Across the room, a news report drones. Flooding has devastated parts of Costa Rica for the second week in a row; a rail workers strike looms in Italy; rising unemployment figures are no cause for alarm, claims the Chancellor. Juliet only halfway pays attention, until a familiar face flashes across the screen.
"The Court of Appeal has upheld the record twenty-year sentence of energy magnate Sir Jocelyn Myers for accounting fraud and tax evasion," announces the newsreader. "Myers had pleaded guilty in a bid for leniency, and appealed the sentence as disproportionate. He's scheduled to begin serving his prison term next week."
She should feel vindicated. And she does, but she also feels unexpectedly sorry for the man. He'd come so close to victory, yet when he reached that final step below the summit, he stopped in his tracks and headed back down. Whether it was out of fear, a twinge of conscience, his love for his daughter, or whatever other human weakness might have made him hesitate, Juliet will never know for sure.
She can't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself any weakness.
With renewed determination, she increases her pace, but her foot lands at an odd angle. She lacks the ankle strength to compensate, so she topples to one side and starts to fall. Just in time, she catches herself on the handrail. She hangs there for a few moments, panting with exertion, then grits her teeth and hauls herself up to begin again.
She'll begin again as many times as it takes.
***
She can't just drop by Section D unannounced anymore. Instead, she has to make appointments. It's not nearly as informative or as diverting: nothing quite entertains like impromptu inspections of Harry's flock in their native habitat.
This time, she makes do with a meeting in a conference room on a lower floor of Thames House. Officially, her purpose is to convey the latest policy directives; in reality, she simply wants to know what they're up to. As is her custom when she has no particular agenda in mind, she lobs random insults to see what sort of reaction she can spark. And as is their custom when they have nothing in particular to hide from her, Harry answers with exasperated scowls, Adam with macho posturing, and the others, unless directly called upon, don't answer at all.
Throughout the meeting, Juliet makes a point of observing Ros. The body language is telling: her colleagues respect her, but they don't like her. Ros, in turn, pretends she doesn't care.
How intriguing. Ros doesn't belong in Section D. She doesn't really belong anywhere, as far as Juliet can tell. But she wants to. Yearns to. Perhaps more than she even realises herself. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that craves being filled.
The meeting concludes with a flurry of shoved-back chairs and beeping mobiles. As Juliet rounds the table and wheels towards the door, she catches Ros's eye and bestows a broad smile.
***
Only a few months after Juliet's return to work, she composes her resignation letter. Yalta's projects have progressed to the point where it's wise to sever her ties to officialdom, and so, after an entire adult life spent in service to Her Majesty's Government, sever them she does. She'll lose her security clearance, inconveniently enough, but that's a necessary sacrifice: when the Americans inevitably realise what's happening, she'd prefer not to be the first person under scrutiny.
That same afternoon, she invites Harry to meet her at a modestly fashionable bistro. She insists on an outdoor table with a shady umbrella; it's not quite the same as their old riverside walks, but it comes close.
"You're buying me lunch," he says, after the waiter takes their order and whisks away the menus. "An expensive lunch, no less. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
"I may as well come right out with it. I'm resigning, effective next month. I thought I owed you the news in person."
"Resigning?" He sets his glass down, his expression wary. "Is there some scandal I should be aware of?"
She waves a hand in laughing denial. "No, no, nothing like that. I've simply decided it's time to move on."
He frowns, clearly puzzled. "You're still young, Juliet. I expected you to be terrorising hapless Cabinet Ministers for many years to come. What prompted this?"
"Truthfully? I'm tired. This job has taken, well, rather a toll."
She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to.
"I see." An uncomfortable shadow crosses his face. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
"Oh, please. You'll be popping the champagne cork as soon as you get back to the Grid."
He shakes his head. "They'll only replace you with someone worse. Better the devil you know, as they say."
"I'm sure you'll manage."
He sits back in his chair, and something in his demeanour changes -- visibly relaxes -- as if her announcement has wiped away whatever traces of awkwardness still hung between them. Decades-old guilt, rivalry and recriminations, faded but lingering, finally slide into oblivion. Will there be new recriminations later? Probably. But for today, she can pretend they're gone forever.
"So, what on earth are you going to do with yourself?" he asks, openly curious, but no longer on guard. "Somehow I can't see you in a country cottage doing crosswords by the fire."
"Charitable work, I think." At his snort of disbelief, she smiles. "Don't scoff, Harry. For all you know, I might just bring peace to the Middle East someday."
***
She buys the property in Norfolk using a Yalta shell company and a Caribbean bank account. The house is isolated and inconspicuous, without actually being very distant from anything at all. It's near enough to the sea to allow flight by motorboat in an emergency; when the wind is right, she can smell salt in the air from the bedroom window.
The wiring is worse than primitive, so it takes several weeks to install the security system and satellite uplinks. The prior owners left behind unwanted furniture and fixtures strewn from room to room: an out-of-tune piano, dusty books piled on tables, brass candelabras, even a gong. The effect is spartan with a veneer of lost opulence; it suits her current tastes, so she leaves it as it is.
She moves in with a single suitcase and a cadre of armed guards for company. Other Yalta members come and go -- albeit discreetly, and never for long -- but it's her new home, and they respect it as such.
As for the wheelchair, she puts it in storage. She hasn't needed it in over a month, but she can't bring herself to get rid of it. It's like an outer skin that she shed, the husk of an earlier self sloughed off after metamorphosis into an entirely new creature. She keeps it as a memento of what once was.
Her present incarnation is better, stronger, more resolute. She prefers not to think about what qualities may have died with the old.
***
Eventually -- no, inevitably -- Juliet decides to target Ros for recruitment.
She has her excuses. They're even quite logical. Without Juliet's security clearance, they need a new way to monitor Section D's activities and ensure that there's no threat to Yalta's operations. Planting bugs in Harry's office is no assignment for the timorous, but if there's anyone with the right combination of talent and recklessness to pull it off, it's Ros Myers. That's what Juliet tells her colleagues, at least, and maybe they even believe her.
However, she can't truly pretend there's not an element of the personal involved. Ros is an irresistible temptation, a trophy to be won -- not just from Sir Jocelyn, but from Harry Pearce himself. If she can bring Ros into the fold, give her that place to belong she's been seeking, replace that chilly cynicism with faith in a cause, she will have been able to accomplish what they could not.
The idea teases, then intrigues, then tantalises, then obsesses. It's no longer enough that Sir Jocelyn is rotting in prison; it's no longer enough that Harry languishes in happy but ineffectual ignorance while Yalta saves the world under his nose: Juliet has to take away the one thing that used to belong to both of them. It makes her smarter, more talented, more deserving; it makes her right, because winning over the unwinnable is the ultimate proof.
It won't be easy. But that only makes Ros all the more desirable a prize.
***
They start with an initiation. They'll tell Ros afterwards that it was all just a test, but there's no way she can possibly fail. Whatever she does, however she reacts, they'll express amazement and pseudo-grudging approval -- then dangle the prospect of something even more rewarding on the horizon. Punishment, praise, then promises: the induction sequence of secret societies since the dawn of time, and with good reason. However, the ritual needs to be customised for optimal effect.
"Tell her the story about your father in Hungary," Juliet urges Sholto before he leaves for London. "Be maudlin, if you like."
"Why?" he asks. He's an intelligent man, in his own understated way, but he lacks Juliet's instinct for jabbing at the emotional jugular.
"She has Daddy issues," she explains. "We can exploit that."
It works better -- and faster -- than she'd even expected. When it comes time to set up the next rendezvous between Ros and Magritte, Juliet can't resist writing the coded letter to Ros herself. I hope this letter finds you well, she begins, then fills the page with invented reminiscences, chatty descriptions of prison life, and hopeful-sounding predictions of an eventual Myers family reunion that Juliet has made sure will never, ever happen.
She signs "Love, Daddy" with a flourish.
***
When the nuclear trigger arrives safely in Tehran, Juliet opens some vintage champagne she's discovered in a corner of the cellar. Sholto's still in London, scrubbing away any evidence that can be traced directly back to them, so Juliet and Magritte finish the entire bottle themselves.
"To a better world," Juliet says, raising her glass.
"And our role in it," adds Magritte.
They drink, and the champagne bubbles stream down Juliet's throat. It's a cool evening, so they've set a fire on the hearth across the room. Dancing flames glint orange in their glasses; a log pops and sizzles.
Alcohol and several stressful days without sleep are a potent combination. Just as Juliet starts to nod off in her chair, Magritte breaks the silence.
"What's to become of Ros?" she asks. "We don't really need her anymore." It's hard to read her expression in the subdued light, but her voice sounds oddly constricted.
"You don't like her, do you?"
"I don't trust her. She might turn against us now that she knows we lied to her."
She might indeed. But the fact that her loyalty isn't so readily held, that it can spill from one's grasp like droplets of mercury, is part of her allure.
Magritte won't understand that, so Juliet simply shrugs. "We'll see. She might still be of use."
Magritte's jaw tightens, and she turns her head away to stare into the fire. She's jealous, Juliet realises with a mix of amusement and disdain. She's worried that her place in Yalta's hierarchy is threatened.
She may be right.
***
Just at the moment of Yalta's triumph, everything unravels.
It isn't due to Section D, or the CIA, or Mossad. That would somehow be easier to take. But to be brought down by a single, lone-wolf infiltrator is worse than a defeat, it's an affront. It makes them look like amateurs, like desiccated aristocrats play-acting at espionage to spice up their frivolous and parasitic lives.
How on earth did such a reactionary lout get access to them in the first place? Juliet would kill the idiot responsible for vetting and recruiting him -- except the CIA's already taken care of it for her. Far less brutally than she would have done, more's the pity.
"Glogauer's dead," announces Sholto as he joins her for breakfast in the dining room, but she already knows. The news feed on her laptop ran the story five minutes before; she'd nearly spilled scalding coffee down the front of her blouse in her shock.
The peace accords gutted; Yalta exposed; American air strikes on the verge of being launched against Iran. And now, six members of their London network murdered in less than thirty-six hours. She closes her eyes for a few moments and then opens them with a resigned sigh. They're all done for, almost certainly, but there's no point being histrionic.
"I sent warning to our comrades in France," she says, and she struggles to keep the bitterness from her voice at the thought of all their work so disastrously undone. "They'll pass word to the others to go into hiding."
"Have you packed your bags?"
"Not yet." At his raised eyebrows, she adds, "I won't leave until we've exhausted all our options."
"I'm afraid we have."
"There's still Floodland," she insists. They'd saved it as a last resort, hoping never to use it at all, but surely looming Armageddon must qualify.
"Not without Glogauer," he says. "He's the only one who knows where the activation code is. Knew, that is," he quickly corrects.
"We can search for it. We have nearly twenty-four hours left." She rises to her feet and begins to pace. The movement helps her focus; the worst thing about her injury was being left behind when her thoughts raced out of control. "We can't just let this war happen," she says. "Not while there's anything in our power to do to stop it."
"It's going to be rather difficult for us to do much of anything with this CIA foxhunt going on. The hounds are baying from every direction."
"Then we'll use Ros. She's still under Bob Hogan's radar. She can take advantage of MI5's resources while the rest of us stay out of sight."
She stops pacing and gives him a stern look that makes it clear the matter is no longer open to debate. He's still sceptical, she can see it in his eyes, but he's nothing if not a loyal field marshal.
He takes out his phone and flips it open. "I'll tell Magritte to contact her."
He's right to be doubtful. She has no illusions about their chances. Even if they succeed, the Americans will never rest until they hunt them down. They can flee the country, change their names, get plastic surgery, beg the Iranians or the Chinese for asylum if they're desperate enough, but it's only a matter of time.
It doesn't bother her. It never has. She's always known that daring to remake the world carries a price.
***
Against Juliet's more rational expectations, Ros actually delivers the Floodland code -- suspiciously ahead of schedule, and after having her cover blown to microscopic bits. It's all too good to be true, nigh on miraculous in fact. There's an air swirling around this lucky congruence of events that utterly reeks of Harry Pearce's aftershave, and so Juliet decides to inspect the code -- and its messenger -- for herself.
Her entrance into the room renders the imperturbable Ros Myers wide-eyed and momentarily speechless. It would be a moment to savour at any other time or circumstance; instead, Juliet settles for a few stinging verbal slaps to leave no doubt whatsoever about who's in charge, and then gets down to business.
She seizes the laptop and swings it round on the table to take a look, but the string of numbers and letters appearing there tells her nothing. Is it the genuine code? That's a wild gamble, no matter what glib assurances Ros utters. However, when Ros offers up none other than Harry as a gesture of good faith, the odds start looking distinctly better.
In fact, in a small corner of her mind, Juliet might even call herself optimistic.
***
While the guards retrieve poor Harry from whatever clever hiding place he thinks he's safe in, Juliet escorts Ros to an upstairs bedroom to wait -- and to consider her options.
She leaves her there unsupervised -- aside from Magritte in the operations room a few doors down -- but with the code now in Juliet's possession, there's not much mischief Ros can accomplish. The freedom is more symbolic: it's an offer to join them, really join them, as a volunteer and an equal. As someone committed to something grander and more meaningful than herself: no longer anyone's lackey; no longer the sheltered daughter; no longer the colleague more respected than liked.
Juliet opens the door and ushers Ros inside. Sunlight from the windows pools on the floor. On the bed, Juliet's suitcase lies, neatly packed and ready for a voyage into exile and the pages of history. There's a place for Ros on that journey, a rewarding one in fact, if she cares to accompany her.
"Feel free to leave," Juliet says as she turns to depart downstairs, and whatever Ros may think, she actually means it. "But like you say," she adds, "where have you got to go?"
***
Harry struggles and kicks even as the guards deposit him in the chair. He looks rather badly roughed up, which wasn't Juliet's intent at all, so he must have put up quite the fight. She stifles a smile at the thought: she always has admired his spirit.
Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes she won't have to make him suffer.
After his initial open-mouthed double-take at seeing her standing at the far end of the room, he reacts with alternating insults and gallows humour. She recognises it's his way of coping with being so badly outmanoeuvred, so for once she indulges him without responding in kind. He seems to notice the difference in her manner, because he, too, eventually turns serious.
"Juliet, what are you doing?" he pleads.
"We're preventing a catastrophic war."
If only she can explain it to him, surely he'll understand. They're on the same side, the two of them. They always have been, even if he hasn't known it.
"And how many lives do you intend to take in the process?" he asks.
"The point is to save lives."
"Like the lives you risked when you planted toxins in the water supply?"
This catches her by surprise, and she breaks into laughter. "Oh, Harry, you disappoint me."
She gives him a moment to reconsider, but he merely glares at her in indignant silence.
"There wasn't any toxin," she says, finally. "We planted a harmless device and tampered with the monitoring system. When the device was triggered, the system gave a false alarm." At his look of dawning realisation, she continues, "The point was to keep you lot occupied long enough for the plane to travel outside European airspace before you brought it down. Your people got the moral satisfaction of being heroes, and we bought ourselves some time. A win-win, I'd say, wouldn't you?"
His glare softens, maybe wavers, but doesn't entirely vanish. Can he really misjudge her so badly?
"Did you really think I'd poison thousands of British civilians?" she asks. "What kind of a monster do you take me for?"
"I don't know any longer, Juliet," he says, shaking his head with an expression she can't quite decipher. "That's the problem."
***
Inside the Norfolk house, a late afternoon breeze stirs the curtains. Hundreds of kilometres above, Floodland is spreading: America's orbiting death machine begins to transform, piece by vulnerable piece, into mere scrap metal hurtling uselessly through the exosphere.
There won't be an attack on Iran tomorrow, that much at least is certain. Whatever else may come to pass is up to the Americans themselves. The shock to the system may just bring them to their senses, persuade them to forego their bellicose dream of New Rome and rejoin the company of civilised nations.
It's a beautiful prospect. But Harry doesn't seem to appreciate the new world that's emerging. He tries to persuade Juliet to bring it all to a halt: he reasons; he wheedles; he even appeals to her patriotism.
"Like it or not," he says, "the defence of the realm is linked to America. If they're blind, so are we. If they're helpless, so are we."
He doesn't stop to consider that she's weighed these arguments already and found them wanting. He doesn't stop to consider that she's spent years thinking everything through, or that her choices are based on ethical principles just as firmly held as his own. She suspects he's forgotten that anyone else even has principles, he's been the lone voice of integrity in the bureaucratic wilderness for so long. The problem is that in the process, his moral sense has shrunk to the boundaries of the personal; it's stunted, cautious, and, in the end, essentially conservative.
"The iconoclastic Harry Pearce, trotting out all the conventional platitudes," she taunts. "I see that knighthood's gone to your head."
When a voice sounds from the doorway, they both start. It's Ros. She hasn't fled the house, despite every opportunity, which means she's chosen something other than herself.
She's chosen Yalta, as it turns out. Juliet feels a twinge of pity as she watches Harry's face fall.
***
That liar. That poisonous, double-dealing cunt of a charlatan. Ros set them up, like the treacherous, reptilian thing that she is and always has been -- and now the laptop is gone.
If Juliet catches the creature, she'll destroy her. She'll rid the planet of that odious presence, once and for all.
***
The laptop has disappeared forever. By now, Adam and the rest of Section D must be invoking their technical magic to shut Floodland down. They might even succeed. It doesn't matter so much, in the end: it's the attempt that Juliet's most proud of, not the outcome.
Ros, however, isn't so fortunate in her effort to escape. She and Harry sit bound to their chairs -- impotent, defenceless, and paralysed in place. Much like Juliet herself was, once upon a time, when her vision wasn't as clear or her resolve as unwavering. Her true paralysis wasn't ever physical, she's finally come to understand: what held her back was hesitation, compromise, restraint.
At this point, it's obvious to Juliet that Harry won't join her, but she gives him one last chance for old times' sake. In thanks, he scorns her as a "self-appointed saviour."
"All I've done," she explains, although her patience even for him is wearing thin, "is all we've ever done: put Britain first."
Across the room, Ros snorts in disgust. Juliet grits her teeth. How dare this cold-blooded cynic question her motivations? What would she know about love of country? She couldn't even be loyal to her own father, much less the nation.
Juliet could give Ros a bullet to the head, but the two-faced turncoat doesn't deserve a quick death. No, she deserves to suffer, knowing in her last moments that she brought it all on herself. She could have chosen sides honestly, like a person with principles, or she could simply have left and saved herself. But Ros doesn't believe in causes, so she couldn't choose; she doesn't believe in herself, so she couldn't be saved. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that can't be filled and must therefore be sealed off.
"I gave you the opportunity to walk away and you didn't take it," says Juliet, methodically screwing the vial into the syringe mechanism. "You betrayed this operation and you betrayed Harry's." All she knows how to do is betray people. It's sickening. "You never found your place in the world, did you, Ros? You never found your place, and now...now you don't have one. I'm sorry."
But she's not sorry, not really. When she approaches Ros, Ros cries and cringes; while she tries to be brave, Juliet sees that she's really a coward. The defiant facade is a falsehood, just like everything else.
Juliet gives Ros a sharp yank by the hair to expose her neck, then positions the syringe, finger poised on the plunger. As the needle pricks the surface, Ros grips the arms of the chair and squeals in terror. From a vast distance, maybe from the other side of the universe, Harry's voice faintly echoes. He cries out; he protests; he shouts encouragement, praise, and exhortations to courage. My outstanding officer, he calls Ros, as he commands her not to be afraid. Is he deranged? The woman's a traitor, a compulsive betrayer, an amoral monster who must be annihilated for everyone's good, and-- God, shut up, Harry, with your incessant righteous outrage. You can't stop this. It's already done.
Done.
When Ros finishes gasping and seizing and slumps forward in the chair, Harry stares at Juliet with a volcanic loathing. It should blister. No, it should incinerate. And yet it doesn't; the wave of heat strikes her and freezes on contact as if her body temperature's dropped to absolute zero. She's finally impervious to his judgement, it seems. She's beyond rebuke, beyond shame, beyond guilt, beyond regret, beyond the petty, moralistic small-mindedness that people like Harry choose to indulge in. She's beyond everything now, and she won't look back.
She's beyond it all, and she has the Myers family to thank.
Sir Jocelyn Myers once tried to kill Juliet; Rosalind Myers had saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.
She'll never forgive either one.
Fandom: Spooks/MI-5
Rating: R (for references to violence and strong language)
Characters: Juliet-centric genfic, with appearances by Harry, Ros, and Adam, among others.
Spoilers: Contains spoilers all the way through the end of S6; certain scenes and snippets of dialogue borrowed from numerous episodes scattered throughout S5 and S6.
Wordcount: Approximately 7700
Summary: How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington: she hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
Disclaimer and thanks: The characters and settings belong to the BBC and Kudos. Thanks to
msgenevieve for the handholding and encouragement and to petite etoile22 for the beta! This is a new fandom for me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome!The first time Juliet lays eyes on Ros Myers, she mutters to Harry, "Well, she'll get the attention of the red-blooded males."
It comes out sounding envious, which thankfully Harry is gentleman enough to ignore. But it's not quite envy, is it?
She sets the question aside. There are far more pressing things to think about at the moment, like the fuel depot bombings, three men dead oozing tears of blood, a country in the grip of a media-inflamed panic, and God only knows what might happen next.
Yet as they all shake hands and make their introductions, she finds her attention oddly fixed on Ros. There's something about the woman that both attracts and repels: the white-blonde hair, the tastefully tailored grey suit, the pair of black heels that could puncture a steel plate, but most of all the rigid glaze across her face that doesn't crack even when she smiles. Juliet has a knack for making snap judgements about people, but Ros defies categorisation. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that somehow resists being filled.
Pleasantries exchanged, they all take their seats. The meeting goes nowhere, as expected. It's a pissing match between Michael Collingwood and the Home Secretary, which would be amusingly ludicrous in an overgrown schoolboy sort of way if there weren't a genuine crisis to cope with. As it is, however, there isn't time to waste with such nonsense; since Juliet's job title does, after all, contain the word "coordinator", she takes advantage of an awkward lull in the hostilities to jump in and move things along.
For her trouble, Collingwood interrupts her -- twice -- but just as she's on the verge of ripping off his testicles, she reminds herself that his real target is the Home Secretary. She just happened to get in the middle of them, figuratively, and got elbowed out of the way. Against her usual instincts, she stifles her temper while Harry and Adam finally steer the meeting onto a more productive track. As they take over, she observes Ros, who hasn't uttered a word. Ros just sits and watches, the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, like she knows something the rest of them don't and finds it oh-so-comical.
Interesting. Ros is up to something, she and Collingwood both, and it's not simply taunting Cabinet Ministers for sport. Whatever it is, let them get on with it: Juliet can duel with the best of them, as can Harry Pearce, so Collingwood and his tartish blonde lackey had better watch out.
***
Juliet can scarcely believe what she's hearing.
It's disorienting enough watching Harry and Adam stalk back and forth like caged tigers across her living room carpet at two in the morning, but what they've come to tell her verges on the surreal.
Conspiracies within the government don't exactly faze her; after all, she's dabbled in one or two herself. But the scope of this one beggars belief: elements within MI6 deliberately provoking terrorist incidents, assassinating high-ranking political advisers, and now attempting to abduct the Prime Minister's son? She's tempted to summon an ambulance and have both men committed to a mental ward -- except that they've brought proof. Evidence directly implicating Michael Collingwood and Ros Myers, no less. Perched on the edge of her sofa in a dressing gown and slippers, Juliet examines the documents and photographs for several silent minutes, then looks up.
"Jesus Christ," she exclaims, unable in the initial fog of her shock to think of anything more intelligent to say.
"They've murdered one of my officers," says Harry, and his gaze fills with a volcanic loathing. If it were aimed at Juliet, her skin would blister. No, she would be incinerated. She instinctively shrinks out of the way.
"We want to confront them tomorrow," says Adam. "Once they know we're on to them, they'll be forced to advance their timetable. If they're in a hurry, they might make a mistake."
"Or they might just crush us before we can figure out their next move," counters Juliet.
"We can't let them," says Harry. As if it's as simple as that.
After they leave, she bolts the door, then leans her back against it and closes her eyes. She's dizzy, and not just from being abruptly awakened. She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, and then she heads to the kitchen and pours herself a more-than-generous serving of gin. She finishes it in one gulp. The warm flush gives her the illusion of courage, if not the reality.
What it doesn't give her is any comfort. She's always prided herself on her connections, on knowing everyone and everything, on sensing changes in the political weather before the wind can even begin to shift. But she hadn't seen this coming.
How could she have failed to notice such a dangerous threat? She hadn't thought to be vigilant for it, that's how. She'd spent too many years in Washington, had convinced herself that the American hegemon was the source of all evil. She'd only looked outward, not inward.
She hadn't paid enough attention to the monster lurking at home.
***
In the depths of Whitehall, where one tries not to imagine what spectres may dwell, the military intelligence bunker smells stale from decades of accumulated must. As Juliet descends the rickety stairs with her colleagues, she doubts it's been used since the Suez crisis.
Downstairs, Collingwood, Ros Myers and Millington -- that little gnome of a so-called media mogul -- await in a menacing-looking line to greet their adversaries, like characters from a low-budget gangster film. It's all so sordid and melodramatic that she really should laugh, and yet at the same time it sets her heart pounding.
They take their seats, enemies facing off on opposite sides of the table, but the place directly across from Juliet is empty. Its occupant keeps them waiting just long enough to ratchet up the anticipation, and then makes his belated entrance: Sir Jocelyn Myers, the real driving force behind everything, the "final piece in the jigsaw puzzle" as Harry so aptly puts it.
Sir Jocelyn pats his daughter's shoulder as he claims the empty seat; Ros smiles back at him with a wisp of filial pride. Their resemblance is striking, but so are the differences. What's ambiguous in Ros is overt in Sir Jocelyn. She's guarded, a frosty enigma; in contrast, he's warm and direct. He may hide what he's up to, but never who he is. It's a sign of his power -- and the confidence that accompanies it -- that he doesn't need to bother.
Juliet, too, has always felt free to be herself, but in her case only because it's actually the best disguise. In America, she was openly contemptuous of everyone she worked with, and they merely found it charming. As long as she ticked all the right ideological boxes -- strident Cold War veteran, pro-free trade -- she could insult them to their faces and still win their adoration. "It's the accent," confessed a helmet-haired Oklahoma Congresswoman at one especially stultifying state dinner. "You can say the most outrageous things and still sound so elegant!"
She sees the same kind of contempt in the expressions of the four people across the table now. She knows better than to be charmed.
The two sides finally engage, and the verbal fencing quickly draws blood. Harry does most of the talking for her camp, but when Millington launches into a pompous speech about how their self-enriching little coup will save the country for everyone's grandchildren, Juliet finally has enough.
"That is no reason to dismantle our democracy," she protests, and she hates them for provoking her to be so embarrassingly sincere, like some earnest schoolchild delivering an oral report on the Magna Carta.
Sir Jocelyn nearly laughs aloud, and for that she hates him even more. "I wonder why we fetishise democracy so much," he says, smirking. "It's a system that's a blink in the eye of history."
No, it's not, she thinks, and she suddenly doesn't feel any shame in being sincere. Democracy is something precious. Something to be proud of. Something worth fighting for. And as long as she -- and Harry, and anyone else with even a shred of decency and principle -- can stand up to these bastards, there will be a fight.
***
The ride in the car is nervous but quiet. In the rear seat, Juliet shuffles through papers without actually reading anything. Beside her, the Home Secretary sputters in outrage for a few moments, but other than agreeing with the obvious that yes, yes, they simply must do something, Juliet doesn't know what to say. They've got one week to come up with some sort of response, but the trouble is that she doesn't trust the PM not to buckle under to Sir Jocelyn's demands. There has to be a way to outflank their opponents, but she needs time to think, to gather her wits, to plot out a strategy to strike back.
Whatever course she decides to take, she'll have to find a way to warn her Yalta colleagues. She's too high-profile to steal away unnoticed, even if she hadn't resolved to stay and fight, but the rest of them might have enough time to flee the country, or at least to--
It takes a few moments for it to register that the escort's gone missing. Just as she mentions it to the Home Secretary, her phone rings. It's Adam. "Juliet, get out of the car!" he shouts, his voice high-pitched and frantic. "Get away from the vehicle!" She freezes, unable to process what he's saying, until he yells again, "Just do it, now!"
Apprehension swells into panic. She begs the driver to stop and they all scramble out the doors. The adrenaline makes her run faster than she ever has in her life.
It's not fast enough.
***
By her hospital bedside, Harry's sombre and, God help her, kind -- which means the news is dire indeed. He makes a half-hearted effort to be optimistic, but she's having none of it. She's been rendered helpless, like a fly dangling in the strands of a spider's web, and all she can do is dwell on the worst.
"They're stronger than us. They're going to finish us off," she says, giving into her gloom, and he doesn't even try to argue otherwise. They both know she's right.
As he leaves, he pauses by the door, then makes a half-turn to look back at her over his shoulder. "By the way, it was Ros Myers who sent Adam the warning about the car bomb," he says, brow wrinkling. "I'm not sure what to make of that."
She's not sure, either. Quite the family, Ros and Sir Jocelyn Myers: the father nearly killed her; the daughter saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.
She'll never forgive either one. That much she is sure of.
***
Outside, the country is falling to pieces. In between MRIs, pin prick tests and catheter cleanings, Juliet watches the news on television.
One of the security detail tells her in a whisper that Harry's been arrested. She nods stoically, but the back of her throat burns when she tries to swallow. Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes they don't make him suffer.
She wonders, idly, if any of the hospital staff might be in Collingwood's employ. Not that there's anything she can do to defend herself, if so. A toxin surreptitiously added to her drip might very well succeed in achieving what the car bomb failed to do. Then again, perhaps not. After all, Collingwood and Sir Jocelyn hadn't even bothered approaching her to see if she would join them. That either meant they knew better -- in which case she hadn't done a good enough job cultivating her right-wing reputation -- or that they thought her irrelevant.
Strictly speaking, the former explanation should be more of a worry. Somehow, however, it's the latter that stings more.
***
She hasn't had visitors for quite some time now. Everyone she knows is in hiding or out in the streets. Even the hospital seems nearly empty; the few staff who pass by her room are silent and fearful. They forget to bring her lunch, but she's not hungry anyway.
When the police begin herding the protest marchers to slaughter, she mutes the sound but can't quite make herself turn off the set. Instead, she keeps watching, fingers tight around the remote control, while she whispers obscenities to herself. Then, somehow, nothing happens, and the tension slowly dissipates, floating away like the remnants of tear gas that drift off in the breeze.
She turns the sound back up, but the announcers are as confused as she is. All she can tell is that it's over. Over. Just like that. She's not sure how, and she hates not knowing. It's her business to know things. It's her business to know everything. Not knowing is impotence, insignificance -- paralysis.
An apologetic attendant finally carries in a dinner tray. She switches off the television and stares into space until the food grows cold.
***
Eventually, she ceases to be an afterthought, and a trail of visitors forms to deliver flowers, well wishes, and briefings. The last comes across more as ritual courtesy than anything else; the planet has resumed its regular rotation, but she remains trapped in stasis.
The Home Secretary is one of the first to stop by. His face is ruddy with triumph and mutual congratulations, as if the two of them had accomplished something other than being rendered superfluous. Like him, she'll gladly take credit for helping thwart the coup; that's just political common sense. The difference between them is that he actually believes it's true.
He is, however, full of useful details that the others have omitted. "Ros Myers switched sides at the eleventh hour," he tells her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "According to Adam Carter, she was instrumental in bringing things to a peaceful conclusion."
How very heart-warming. The contemptible woman had no qualms about installing a Latin American-style dictatorship, but apparently the prospect of bloodshed made her squeamish. Was backing out of the plot at the last possible moment supposed to make up for everything else? Turn her from a criminal into a heroine, just because she was too gutless to see her misdeeds through to their ultimate consequences?
Juliet isn't impressed in the least. She actually respects Collingwood more. Madman though he was, he understood that committing to a cause means going all the way. Harry, in contrast, appears to think a lack of conviction is something to be rewarded. He's actually hired Ros. Juliet is appalled, but she'll deal with that later. One Myers at a time.
***
Twenty years for Sir Jocelyn. The PM dithers about offering a deal for half that, but Juliet is adamant.
He can't tell her no. She's a living martyr to democracy, after all. She can tell by the way he rigidly holds his gaze above her shoulders that the mere presence of her wheelchair shames him, rebukes him for his cowardice. In the end, he gives her what she wants, and she lets him believe he's absolved.
Her weakness is a potent weapon. She intends to make the most of it, even as sensation seeps back into her thighs like a prickling tide.
***
Her muscles are atrophied from lack of use. With the physiotherapist, she makes a token effort at doing the mobility training drills, but quickly pleads exhaustion. "At least you can get in and out of the wheelchair without assistance," he says, with a cheerfulness more mechanical than genuine. He dutifully notes her lack of progress in her medical chart, all too willing to let her give up.
At night, however, she lies propped up in bed religiously doing every exercise. After weeks of trying, she manages to flex the muscles around her knees. She repeats the movement so many times she nearly vomits with the effort. When the cramps bring her to tears, she stops -- but only long enough to wipe her eyes.
Sir Jocelyn will die in his prison. She vows to escape hers.
***
"I don't need your pity," she tells Harry during her first week back at work, and perhaps with him, it's true. But in fact, pity is precisely what she counts on.
She wheels around Whitehall at whim, free as a ghost who can pass through walls. She's become utterly invisible, not because they don't notice her, but because they're trying so hard to pretend that there's nothing to notice.
Being invisible means no one asks questions. Being invisible means she acts with impunity. Being invisible means she can go places and look at things that she really has no right to.
It opens her mind to new opportunities.
For Yalta, in particular.
She sees now that they've lacked the proper ambition. They thought it was enough to worm their way into positions of power; they assumed that afterwards, as insiders, they could change the course of history by the miraculous effect of moral suasion. In reality, all their supposed influence has accomplished nothing. They're little more than a glorified debating society, dressed up with a clever name and a secret handshake. She's disappointed in them -- no, to be honest, in herself -- for having harboured such a passive, utopian fantasy.
It took her enemies to teach her another, nobler way. A way of action, rather than of wishful thinking. Sir Jocelyn, Millington, Collingwood: they may have been morally wrong, but they were also bold. They knew what they wanted, and they risked everything to achieve it. They failed, true -- but only just.
Her gamble is going to outdo even theirs in sheer audacity. She might fail, too, but failing is better than merely pretending to try.
***
Certain members of Yalta express discomfort with her new vision. "Incompatible with our principles," some protest. "Crossing a dangerous line," argue others. She concludes, most reluctantly, that these doubters must be silenced. She doesn't want to hurt anyone, least of all comrades, but there's too much at stake to tolerate dissent.
"Did you hear about Campbell?" Harry asks as he escorts her from a late-morning meeting with the DG.
"Shocking," she says. "Whatever possessed him to drive in such a bad storm? I always thought he had more sense."
"As did I." He presses the button to summon the lift, then gives her a downwards glance. "You didn't have him killed for some nefarious reason you're not telling me about, did you?" His mouth twists in a repressed smile.
"Oh, Harry," she says, placing her hand above her heart, "I'm touched that you think I still have it in me to be nefarious."
They both laugh, and he drops the subject.
Such a pity she can't recruit him. Yet. But there's really no need at the moment. He's fighting the good fight right out in the open, and he's more valuable there than anywhere else. She'll bring him on later, after she racks up a few victories -- maybe even a few at his expense -- and they'll have a good laugh together at how long she fooled everyone. It will be like old times. She misses those days, more than she likes to admit. They were young and thought themselves invincible, and lying for a living -- much like lying to their spouses, much like lying to each other -- was just a droll little game.
No longer young, and far from invincible, she's lost her taste for games.
The lift arrives with a ding and a rumble of opening doors, and she waves him off. "I know how to see myself out."
To her secret disappointment, he stands back and allows her to roll away by herself.
***
At home, she's had a treadmill installed. In the evenings, she straps braces on her legs and drags herself along in agonising, slow-motion steps. She barely manages to cover any distance to speak of, but the effort makes her gasp and sweat like a marathon runner.
Across the room, a news report drones. Flooding has devastated parts of Costa Rica for the second week in a row; a rail workers strike looms in Italy; rising unemployment figures are no cause for alarm, claims the Chancellor. Juliet only halfway pays attention, until a familiar face flashes across the screen.
"The Court of Appeal has upheld the record twenty-year sentence of energy magnate Sir Jocelyn Myers for accounting fraud and tax evasion," announces the newsreader. "Myers had pleaded guilty in a bid for leniency, and appealed the sentence as disproportionate. He's scheduled to begin serving his prison term next week."
She should feel vindicated. And she does, but she also feels unexpectedly sorry for the man. He'd come so close to victory, yet when he reached that final step below the summit, he stopped in his tracks and headed back down. Whether it was out of fear, a twinge of conscience, his love for his daughter, or whatever other human weakness might have made him hesitate, Juliet will never know for sure.
She can't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself that sort of weakness. She won't allow herself any weakness.
With renewed determination, she increases her pace, but her foot lands at an odd angle. She lacks the ankle strength to compensate, so she topples to one side and starts to fall. Just in time, she catches herself on the handrail. She hangs there for a few moments, panting with exertion, then grits her teeth and hauls herself up to begin again.
She'll begin again as many times as it takes.
***
She can't just drop by Section D unannounced anymore. Instead, she has to make appointments. It's not nearly as informative or as diverting: nothing quite entertains like impromptu inspections of Harry's flock in their native habitat.
This time, she makes do with a meeting in a conference room on a lower floor of Thames House. Officially, her purpose is to convey the latest policy directives; in reality, she simply wants to know what they're up to. As is her custom when she has no particular agenda in mind, she lobs random insults to see what sort of reaction she can spark. And as is their custom when they have nothing in particular to hide from her, Harry answers with exasperated scowls, Adam with macho posturing, and the others, unless directly called upon, don't answer at all.
Throughout the meeting, Juliet makes a point of observing Ros. The body language is telling: her colleagues respect her, but they don't like her. Ros, in turn, pretends she doesn't care.
How intriguing. Ros doesn't belong in Section D. She doesn't really belong anywhere, as far as Juliet can tell. But she wants to. Yearns to. Perhaps more than she even realises herself. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that craves being filled.
The meeting concludes with a flurry of shoved-back chairs and beeping mobiles. As Juliet rounds the table and wheels towards the door, she catches Ros's eye and bestows a broad smile.
***
Only a few months after Juliet's return to work, she composes her resignation letter. Yalta's projects have progressed to the point where it's wise to sever her ties to officialdom, and so, after an entire adult life spent in service to Her Majesty's Government, sever them she does. She'll lose her security clearance, inconveniently enough, but that's a necessary sacrifice: when the Americans inevitably realise what's happening, she'd prefer not to be the first person under scrutiny.
That same afternoon, she invites Harry to meet her at a modestly fashionable bistro. She insists on an outdoor table with a shady umbrella; it's not quite the same as their old riverside walks, but it comes close.
"You're buying me lunch," he says, after the waiter takes their order and whisks away the menus. "An expensive lunch, no less. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"
"I may as well come right out with it. I'm resigning, effective next month. I thought I owed you the news in person."
"Resigning?" He sets his glass down, his expression wary. "Is there some scandal I should be aware of?"
She waves a hand in laughing denial. "No, no, nothing like that. I've simply decided it's time to move on."
He frowns, clearly puzzled. "You're still young, Juliet. I expected you to be terrorising hapless Cabinet Ministers for many years to come. What prompted this?"
"Truthfully? I'm tired. This job has taken, well, rather a toll."
She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to.
"I see." An uncomfortable shadow crosses his face. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
"Oh, please. You'll be popping the champagne cork as soon as you get back to the Grid."
He shakes his head. "They'll only replace you with someone worse. Better the devil you know, as they say."
"I'm sure you'll manage."
He sits back in his chair, and something in his demeanour changes -- visibly relaxes -- as if her announcement has wiped away whatever traces of awkwardness still hung between them. Decades-old guilt, rivalry and recriminations, faded but lingering, finally slide into oblivion. Will there be new recriminations later? Probably. But for today, she can pretend they're gone forever.
"So, what on earth are you going to do with yourself?" he asks, openly curious, but no longer on guard. "Somehow I can't see you in a country cottage doing crosswords by the fire."
"Charitable work, I think." At his snort of disbelief, she smiles. "Don't scoff, Harry. For all you know, I might just bring peace to the Middle East someday."
***
She buys the property in Norfolk using a Yalta shell company and a Caribbean bank account. The house is isolated and inconspicuous, without actually being very distant from anything at all. It's near enough to the sea to allow flight by motorboat in an emergency; when the wind is right, she can smell salt in the air from the bedroom window.
The wiring is worse than primitive, so it takes several weeks to install the security system and satellite uplinks. The prior owners left behind unwanted furniture and fixtures strewn from room to room: an out-of-tune piano, dusty books piled on tables, brass candelabras, even a gong. The effect is spartan with a veneer of lost opulence; it suits her current tastes, so she leaves it as it is.
She moves in with a single suitcase and a cadre of armed guards for company. Other Yalta members come and go -- albeit discreetly, and never for long -- but it's her new home, and they respect it as such.
As for the wheelchair, she puts it in storage. She hasn't needed it in over a month, but she can't bring herself to get rid of it. It's like an outer skin that she shed, the husk of an earlier self sloughed off after metamorphosis into an entirely new creature. She keeps it as a memento of what once was.
Her present incarnation is better, stronger, more resolute. She prefers not to think about what qualities may have died with the old.
***
Eventually -- no, inevitably -- Juliet decides to target Ros for recruitment.
She has her excuses. They're even quite logical. Without Juliet's security clearance, they need a new way to monitor Section D's activities and ensure that there's no threat to Yalta's operations. Planting bugs in Harry's office is no assignment for the timorous, but if there's anyone with the right combination of talent and recklessness to pull it off, it's Ros Myers. That's what Juliet tells her colleagues, at least, and maybe they even believe her.
However, she can't truly pretend there's not an element of the personal involved. Ros is an irresistible temptation, a trophy to be won -- not just from Sir Jocelyn, but from Harry Pearce himself. If she can bring Ros into the fold, give her that place to belong she's been seeking, replace that chilly cynicism with faith in a cause, she will have been able to accomplish what they could not.
The idea teases, then intrigues, then tantalises, then obsesses. It's no longer enough that Sir Jocelyn is rotting in prison; it's no longer enough that Harry languishes in happy but ineffectual ignorance while Yalta saves the world under his nose: Juliet has to take away the one thing that used to belong to both of them. It makes her smarter, more talented, more deserving; it makes her right, because winning over the unwinnable is the ultimate proof.
It won't be easy. But that only makes Ros all the more desirable a prize.
***
They start with an initiation. They'll tell Ros afterwards that it was all just a test, but there's no way she can possibly fail. Whatever she does, however she reacts, they'll express amazement and pseudo-grudging approval -- then dangle the prospect of something even more rewarding on the horizon. Punishment, praise, then promises: the induction sequence of secret societies since the dawn of time, and with good reason. However, the ritual needs to be customised for optimal effect.
"Tell her the story about your father in Hungary," Juliet urges Sholto before he leaves for London. "Be maudlin, if you like."
"Why?" he asks. He's an intelligent man, in his own understated way, but he lacks Juliet's instinct for jabbing at the emotional jugular.
"She has Daddy issues," she explains. "We can exploit that."
It works better -- and faster -- than she'd even expected. When it comes time to set up the next rendezvous between Ros and Magritte, Juliet can't resist writing the coded letter to Ros herself. I hope this letter finds you well, she begins, then fills the page with invented reminiscences, chatty descriptions of prison life, and hopeful-sounding predictions of an eventual Myers family reunion that Juliet has made sure will never, ever happen.
She signs "Love, Daddy" with a flourish.
***
When the nuclear trigger arrives safely in Tehran, Juliet opens some vintage champagne she's discovered in a corner of the cellar. Sholto's still in London, scrubbing away any evidence that can be traced directly back to them, so Juliet and Magritte finish the entire bottle themselves.
"To a better world," Juliet says, raising her glass.
"And our role in it," adds Magritte.
They drink, and the champagne bubbles stream down Juliet's throat. It's a cool evening, so they've set a fire on the hearth across the room. Dancing flames glint orange in their glasses; a log pops and sizzles.
Alcohol and several stressful days without sleep are a potent combination. Just as Juliet starts to nod off in her chair, Magritte breaks the silence.
"What's to become of Ros?" she asks. "We don't really need her anymore." It's hard to read her expression in the subdued light, but her voice sounds oddly constricted.
"You don't like her, do you?"
"I don't trust her. She might turn against us now that she knows we lied to her."
She might indeed. But the fact that her loyalty isn't so readily held, that it can spill from one's grasp like droplets of mercury, is part of her allure.
Magritte won't understand that, so Juliet simply shrugs. "We'll see. She might still be of use."
Magritte's jaw tightens, and she turns her head away to stare into the fire. She's jealous, Juliet realises with a mix of amusement and disdain. She's worried that her place in Yalta's hierarchy is threatened.
She may be right.
***
Just at the moment of Yalta's triumph, everything unravels.
It isn't due to Section D, or the CIA, or Mossad. That would somehow be easier to take. But to be brought down by a single, lone-wolf infiltrator is worse than a defeat, it's an affront. It makes them look like amateurs, like desiccated aristocrats play-acting at espionage to spice up their frivolous and parasitic lives.
How on earth did such a reactionary lout get access to them in the first place? Juliet would kill the idiot responsible for vetting and recruiting him -- except the CIA's already taken care of it for her. Far less brutally than she would have done, more's the pity.
"Glogauer's dead," announces Sholto as he joins her for breakfast in the dining room, but she already knows. The news feed on her laptop ran the story five minutes before; she'd nearly spilled scalding coffee down the front of her blouse in her shock.
The peace accords gutted; Yalta exposed; American air strikes on the verge of being launched against Iran. And now, six members of their London network murdered in less than thirty-six hours. She closes her eyes for a few moments and then opens them with a resigned sigh. They're all done for, almost certainly, but there's no point being histrionic.
"I sent warning to our comrades in France," she says, and she struggles to keep the bitterness from her voice at the thought of all their work so disastrously undone. "They'll pass word to the others to go into hiding."
"Have you packed your bags?"
"Not yet." At his raised eyebrows, she adds, "I won't leave until we've exhausted all our options."
"I'm afraid we have."
"There's still Floodland," she insists. They'd saved it as a last resort, hoping never to use it at all, but surely looming Armageddon must qualify.
"Not without Glogauer," he says. "He's the only one who knows where the activation code is. Knew, that is," he quickly corrects.
"We can search for it. We have nearly twenty-four hours left." She rises to her feet and begins to pace. The movement helps her focus; the worst thing about her injury was being left behind when her thoughts raced out of control. "We can't just let this war happen," she says. "Not while there's anything in our power to do to stop it."
"It's going to be rather difficult for us to do much of anything with this CIA foxhunt going on. The hounds are baying from every direction."
"Then we'll use Ros. She's still under Bob Hogan's radar. She can take advantage of MI5's resources while the rest of us stay out of sight."
She stops pacing and gives him a stern look that makes it clear the matter is no longer open to debate. He's still sceptical, she can see it in his eyes, but he's nothing if not a loyal field marshal.
He takes out his phone and flips it open. "I'll tell Magritte to contact her."
He's right to be doubtful. She has no illusions about their chances. Even if they succeed, the Americans will never rest until they hunt them down. They can flee the country, change their names, get plastic surgery, beg the Iranians or the Chinese for asylum if they're desperate enough, but it's only a matter of time.
It doesn't bother her. It never has. She's always known that daring to remake the world carries a price.
***
Against Juliet's more rational expectations, Ros actually delivers the Floodland code -- suspiciously ahead of schedule, and after having her cover blown to microscopic bits. It's all too good to be true, nigh on miraculous in fact. There's an air swirling around this lucky congruence of events that utterly reeks of Harry Pearce's aftershave, and so Juliet decides to inspect the code -- and its messenger -- for herself.
Her entrance into the room renders the imperturbable Ros Myers wide-eyed and momentarily speechless. It would be a moment to savour at any other time or circumstance; instead, Juliet settles for a few stinging verbal slaps to leave no doubt whatsoever about who's in charge, and then gets down to business.
She seizes the laptop and swings it round on the table to take a look, but the string of numbers and letters appearing there tells her nothing. Is it the genuine code? That's a wild gamble, no matter what glib assurances Ros utters. However, when Ros offers up none other than Harry as a gesture of good faith, the odds start looking distinctly better.
In fact, in a small corner of her mind, Juliet might even call herself optimistic.
***
While the guards retrieve poor Harry from whatever clever hiding place he thinks he's safe in, Juliet escorts Ros to an upstairs bedroom to wait -- and to consider her options.
She leaves her there unsupervised -- aside from Magritte in the operations room a few doors down -- but with the code now in Juliet's possession, there's not much mischief Ros can accomplish. The freedom is more symbolic: it's an offer to join them, really join them, as a volunteer and an equal. As someone committed to something grander and more meaningful than herself: no longer anyone's lackey; no longer the sheltered daughter; no longer the colleague more respected than liked.
Juliet opens the door and ushers Ros inside. Sunlight from the windows pools on the floor. On the bed, Juliet's suitcase lies, neatly packed and ready for a voyage into exile and the pages of history. There's a place for Ros on that journey, a rewarding one in fact, if she cares to accompany her.
"Feel free to leave," Juliet says as she turns to depart downstairs, and whatever Ros may think, she actually means it. "But like you say," she adds, "where have you got to go?"
***
Harry struggles and kicks even as the guards deposit him in the chair. He looks rather badly roughed up, which wasn't Juliet's intent at all, so he must have put up quite the fight. She stifles a smile at the thought: she always has admired his spirit.
Gallant, foolish Harry Pearce. She hopes she won't have to make him suffer.
After his initial open-mouthed double-take at seeing her standing at the far end of the room, he reacts with alternating insults and gallows humour. She recognises it's his way of coping with being so badly outmanoeuvred, so for once she indulges him without responding in kind. He seems to notice the difference in her manner, because he, too, eventually turns serious.
"Juliet, what are you doing?" he pleads.
"We're preventing a catastrophic war."
If only she can explain it to him, surely he'll understand. They're on the same side, the two of them. They always have been, even if he hasn't known it.
"And how many lives do you intend to take in the process?" he asks.
"The point is to save lives."
"Like the lives you risked when you planted toxins in the water supply?"
This catches her by surprise, and she breaks into laughter. "Oh, Harry, you disappoint me."
She gives him a moment to reconsider, but he merely glares at her in indignant silence.
"There wasn't any toxin," she says, finally. "We planted a harmless device and tampered with the monitoring system. When the device was triggered, the system gave a false alarm." At his look of dawning realisation, she continues, "The point was to keep you lot occupied long enough for the plane to travel outside European airspace before you brought it down. Your people got the moral satisfaction of being heroes, and we bought ourselves some time. A win-win, I'd say, wouldn't you?"
His glare softens, maybe wavers, but doesn't entirely vanish. Can he really misjudge her so badly?
"Did you really think I'd poison thousands of British civilians?" she asks. "What kind of a monster do you take me for?"
"I don't know any longer, Juliet," he says, shaking his head with an expression she can't quite decipher. "That's the problem."
***
Inside the Norfolk house, a late afternoon breeze stirs the curtains. Hundreds of kilometres above, Floodland is spreading: America's orbiting death machine begins to transform, piece by vulnerable piece, into mere scrap metal hurtling uselessly through the exosphere.
There won't be an attack on Iran tomorrow, that much at least is certain. Whatever else may come to pass is up to the Americans themselves. The shock to the system may just bring them to their senses, persuade them to forego their bellicose dream of New Rome and rejoin the company of civilised nations.
It's a beautiful prospect. But Harry doesn't seem to appreciate the new world that's emerging. He tries to persuade Juliet to bring it all to a halt: he reasons; he wheedles; he even appeals to her patriotism.
"Like it or not," he says, "the defence of the realm is linked to America. If they're blind, so are we. If they're helpless, so are we."
He doesn't stop to consider that she's weighed these arguments already and found them wanting. He doesn't stop to consider that she's spent years thinking everything through, or that her choices are based on ethical principles just as firmly held as his own. She suspects he's forgotten that anyone else even has principles, he's been the lone voice of integrity in the bureaucratic wilderness for so long. The problem is that in the process, his moral sense has shrunk to the boundaries of the personal; it's stunted, cautious, and, in the end, essentially conservative.
"The iconoclastic Harry Pearce, trotting out all the conventional platitudes," she taunts. "I see that knighthood's gone to your head."
When a voice sounds from the doorway, they both start. It's Ros. She hasn't fled the house, despite every opportunity, which means she's chosen something other than herself.
She's chosen Yalta, as it turns out. Juliet feels a twinge of pity as she watches Harry's face fall.
***
That liar. That poisonous, double-dealing cunt of a charlatan. Ros set them up, like the treacherous, reptilian thing that she is and always has been -- and now the laptop is gone.
If Juliet catches the creature, she'll destroy her. She'll rid the planet of that odious presence, once and for all.
***
The laptop has disappeared forever. By now, Adam and the rest of Section D must be invoking their technical magic to shut Floodland down. They might even succeed. It doesn't matter so much, in the end: it's the attempt that Juliet's most proud of, not the outcome.
Ros, however, isn't so fortunate in her effort to escape. She and Harry sit bound to their chairs -- impotent, defenceless, and paralysed in place. Much like Juliet herself was, once upon a time, when her vision wasn't as clear or her resolve as unwavering. Her true paralysis wasn't ever physical, she's finally come to understand: what held her back was hesitation, compromise, restraint.
At this point, it's obvious to Juliet that Harry won't join her, but she gives him one last chance for old times' sake. In thanks, he scorns her as a "self-appointed saviour."
"All I've done," she explains, although her patience even for him is wearing thin, "is all we've ever done: put Britain first."
Across the room, Ros snorts in disgust. Juliet grits her teeth. How dare this cold-blooded cynic question her motivations? What would she know about love of country? She couldn't even be loyal to her own father, much less the nation.
Juliet could give Ros a bullet to the head, but the two-faced turncoat doesn't deserve a quick death. No, she deserves to suffer, knowing in her last moments that she brought it all on herself. She could have chosen sides honestly, like a person with principles, or she could simply have left and saved herself. But Ros doesn't believe in causes, so she couldn't choose; she doesn't believe in herself, so she couldn't be saved. She's empty; she's a cipher; she's a vacuum that can't be filled and must therefore be sealed off.
"I gave you the opportunity to walk away and you didn't take it," says Juliet, methodically screwing the vial into the syringe mechanism. "You betrayed this operation and you betrayed Harry's." All she knows how to do is betray people. It's sickening. "You never found your place in the world, did you, Ros? You never found your place, and now...now you don't have one. I'm sorry."
But she's not sorry, not really. When she approaches Ros, Ros cries and cringes; while she tries to be brave, Juliet sees that she's really a coward. The defiant facade is a falsehood, just like everything else.
Juliet gives Ros a sharp yank by the hair to expose her neck, then positions the syringe, finger poised on the plunger. As the needle pricks the surface, Ros grips the arms of the chair and squeals in terror. From a vast distance, maybe from the other side of the universe, Harry's voice faintly echoes. He cries out; he protests; he shouts encouragement, praise, and exhortations to courage. My outstanding officer, he calls Ros, as he commands her not to be afraid. Is he deranged? The woman's a traitor, a compulsive betrayer, an amoral monster who must be annihilated for everyone's good, and-- God, shut up, Harry, with your incessant righteous outrage. You can't stop this. It's already done.
Done.
When Ros finishes gasping and seizing and slumps forward in the chair, Harry stares at Juliet with a volcanic loathing. It should blister. No, it should incinerate. And yet it doesn't; the wave of heat strikes her and freezes on contact as if her body temperature's dropped to absolute zero. She's finally impervious to his judgement, it seems. She's beyond rebuke, beyond shame, beyond guilt, beyond regret, beyond the petty, moralistic small-mindedness that people like Harry choose to indulge in. She's beyond everything now, and she won't look back.
She's beyond it all, and she has the Myers family to thank.
Sir Jocelyn Myers once tried to kill Juliet; Rosalind Myers had saved her life. Between the two of them, they brought her to this.
She'll never forgive either one.