The second story in the Encounter Series.

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A Small World

The Vacancy – Your Country Needs You – Ticking All the Boxes – A Motley Crew – Meeting the Boss – The Assistance – Small World.

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Mark had been the one who pointed the vacancy out to her, dropping a print-out of the details on her desk as he walked past her office to grab a coffee.

"What's this?" Grace picked up the sheet of paper, scanning the top few lines.

"Something you might find interesting," he'd smiled, taking the visitor's chair in front of her desk, crossing his legs and blowing across the top of his mug.

"A job?" she raised her eyebrows, laying the sheet down. "Trying to tell me something?"

"You know you're wasted in this one," he leaned back, relaxed and open. "You've got the Law Archives running so smoothly, you don't even need to be here anymore," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. "This place needs someone far less skilled and experienced," a sly curve tilting his mouth. "Someone far more like me than you," he added cheerfully.

"I see," Grace leaned back in her chair, a matching smile on her face. Despite his open and enthusiastic attempts to depose her from her role, Grace liked him, she really did. He was brash and cheeky and, despite his attempts to hide the fact, a very clever man. Though Mark Ellington hadn't been with the Archives all that long, he was a competent and capable person, more than able to handle her job now that she'd got the place set up the way it needed to be run.

"Just take a look," he pushed the paper towards her. "You're getting bored out of your skull in here now there's no more mountains to climb."

Grace Chandler sighed. Mark was a pushy little bugger at times, but in this particular instance, he wasn't wrong. Now that the presence of the Archives had become well-established on the London rare-document scene, and now that they had built something of a seasoned and well-respected profile in the conservation community, both locally and on an international basis, there really wasn't that much for her to do that was exciting and different any more. The occasional hunt for a missing document, some unexpected connections between trial recordings ... the Archive was becoming so well known that many people in the legal industry – from both sides of the legal industry – were bequeathing their own archival records, knowing it was a safe place for precious historical papers to go.

Grace's work had changed from that of London's judiciary tomb-raider into something altogether more desk-bound and passive. And yes, though she was loathe to admit it: she was bored. There were only so many committee meetings one could go to and only so many reports one could write or records to acquire before everything started to take on the sensation of repetition. She had been doing this for nearly four years now, so yes; things were starting to feel a little on the mundane side.

Making a face at l'enfant terrible, she picked up the paper and paid a little more attention to the details. There was no indication of the company or organisation at the top and she frowned slightly.

"Who is it?" she asked, her eyes staying with the lines of closely printed text.

"Tell me if you like it and then I'll tell you who it is," waving a second piece of paper in the air, Mark grinned almost gleefully.

Frowning some more, Grace read down the job-description.

Director of (Secure) Archives required to manage the delivery of hard and soft data records management (DM) and all associated technical services. As Director, you'll be responsible for delivering DM services to consistently high standards, taking into account sustainability, relevant health and safety legislation, cost, quality, resources and customer service. You will ensure the maintenance and operation of the archive, ensuring that physical security is maintained at all times. The role will require occasional foreign travel and liaison with similar, national and international agencies. This is a demanding, London-based position and will be remunerated accordingly. Selection criteria includes the following ...

She recognised the little leap in her chest as genuine spark of interest, hard not to ... a secure archive? In London? Whom would that be for, she wondered. The police? Something to do with the legal profession at least ... Grace felt her curiosity start to warm as she read down the page for the relevant selection requirements. She knew she wanted the job even before she got to the end of the page.

When she read the last of the details, Grace lifted her eyes to the soft brown ones watching her. Mark's grin widened. "Knew you'd be interested," he was unbearably smug as he waved the second sheet between his fingers. "Want the rest?"

"Give it me," she looked ferocious as he teased, keen to see exactly who might be looking for someone like her. She snatched the page from him as he leaned closer.

Oh my god ... MI5: The Security Service.

"This job is with MI5," she said, blankly, looking up and across her desk. "You want me to apply for a job with the secret service?"

"Why not?" Mark shrugged in his chair. "It's not like you're got to be James Bond and rush off to save the world exactly, is it?"

MI5. Grace inhaled slowly. MI5. Secret agents and guns and old friends who were really strangers. Strangers who were more than friends ... him ... she shook herself inwardly.

It had been nearly two years since the events at Cambridge, since she had met ... him. Almost two years since Rafe Erwood had perished in an accident that wasn't an accident and Carol Williams had died trying to betray them all.

"I'm not sure it would be a terribly good idea," she sighed softly, laying the printed sheets down on the desktop. "I know ... knew someone involved with the security services and ..." Grace shook her head. "Not a very good idea."

Scowling theatrically, her senior archivist leaned back, linking his fingers and looking obstinate. "This archive directorship job's made for you, even I can see that," he said. "Was this thing with MI5 recent?"

Grace smiled faintly. "Nearly two years ago, long before you came on board," she sounded faraway. "Water under the bridge, I suppose."

Then what's to stop you at least going for the job?" Mark sat forward, enthusiastic again. "You can withdraw at any point, but it'd be a shame not to go for something because of a bad experience with someone you once knew."

Someone I once knew, yes, that about summed it all up, really. Inhaling hard through her nose, she leaned forward to the desk, resting her chin in her hands, thinking. "I'd need to be sure you'd be willing to stay here at least long enough to train someone up into your job," she said. "Tracy would be good, or even that new chap ... Gary? Guy?"

"Garth," Mark nodded, pleased. Grace was an amazing boss; there was almost nothing in the business that caught her out and she knew just about everyone there was to know. She could turn her hand to any part, any role in anyone's job and was happy to share her knowledge unstintingly with anyone who needed it.

Which was one of the reasons it felt so wrong the few times he'd found her staring out of the window as if wondering what might be just beyond the horizon. She really was wasted in this place, whereas he still had buckets to learn, but Grace had this place set up so smoothly that, even if he made a mistake, he'd still be able to find a way around the problem.

"I'll train them both up and see which one is the best," he said thoughtfully. "I'd probably give them both a month in the job to see who handles it best."

Good idea. He was already thinking like she would.

Grace sighed. It was starting to look as if there were no really good reason to avoid applying. "I'll think about it," she said, folding the printed sheets into her jacket pocket knowing that, even if she were to apply, she'd probably have very little chance of success.

There would undoubtedly be dozens of extremely qualified and experienced applicants for such a role; there were probably several candidates already working inside MI5 who would be lining up for the job, and the advertisement was there merely to meet legal requirements of advertising the job to all-comers, regardless that it was very likely sewn up for an insider. The chance of her being anything near what they were after was negligible at best.

There was almost no likelihood of her being offered this role.

###

"So, Doctor Chandler," the Panel Chair at her second interview, a stuffy fifty-something Civil Servant type, rested his linked fingers on the table in front of him. "Assuming your Vetting proceeds without issue, I am required to ask you for a convenient commencement date," he paused, looking down at several clipped sheets beside him. "How would the third of next month suit?"

The third of March. Less than three weeks away. Grace swallowed.

"I was advised that any vetting process might take up to four-months," she said. "Sixteen days would seem to be precipitous, reckless, even."

Smiling pleasantly, as if her query was the most astute thing she might have said, the man looked across at his colleagues, two women and two men, who all offered some sort of accommodating smile or nod.

"Normally, this would be the case, but the Director's position is currently vacant and we are hoping to have an active incumbent in the role as soon as feasible," he smiled easily. "Do you have any last questions for the Panel?

Most of the key issues had already been addressed, but this last statement had raised one more question in her mind.

"Why is the position currently vacant?" she asked. "After absorbing all the information you've been able to offer me about the job, it seems a fairly pivotal and somewhat crucial role. How then would anyone see fit to leave before you had located a suitable replacement?"

There was an extended and, Grace imagined, an oddly uncomfortable pause.

"Shall we say the previous incumbent saw parts of his role in a different light to that of senior management?"

"There was a clash of personalities?" she wanted a little clarity here.

The Panel Chair looked fractionally embarrassed. "Something of that nature," he smiled again, lifting and stacking his papers.

There had been a fight and either the previous Director had quit ... or he'd been fired. Something to bear in mind, in that case.

Grace recognised the fiddling with papers as an attempt at dismissal; she smiled back. "I'll speak to the Head of the Archive's Committee," she nodded. "And see if they can be persuaded to release me for that date," she added, a small doubt in her voice. "However, as my employment with the Archive has been entirely without ... clashes, you will understand that if they ask me for a full month's notice, I will be inclined to give it to them," she stood, holding out her right hand. "May I confirm my start-date with you by phone or email?"

"Either would be acceptable, though email is probably best; good to have something in writing as you yourself would appreciate," he was being jolly now that she wasn't going to ask any more difficult questions, accommodating even, as he shook her hand in farewell.

Exiting the Portland stone building on Millbank for the second time in her life, there was still enough light left in the day for her to eschew a cab, instead heading directly across Lambeth Bridge and down along Lambeth Palace Road, all the way around Waterloo Station and down towards the river. The walk in the chill late-afternoon air clearing her head and bringing a tinge of colour to her pale skin.

Street lights were flickering on as she rounded the corner of Barge House Street and made her way across the road to the old warehouse and her apartment on the third floor. Clanking her keys in the front door, Grace flicked the lights on inside with a practiced thumb and walked into the welcoming warm with a huge sigh of pleasure, kicking off her shoes and dragging off her heavy winter coat as she did.

The entryway to the flat had been properly finished off some time ago and now boasted a décor of floor-to ceiling documents that she had painstakingly cleaned and restored, then individually framed in black wood and hung almost edge-to-edge around the pale walls. Some of the calligraphy and illuminated pieces were truly spectacular, and the temperate sepia of many of the sheets added a warmth in what might have been a fairly stark and sterile vestibule. The dark russet glow of the polished floorboards and the central chandelier of refurbished garnet glass she'd found in an old theatre auction lent the whole place a deeply welcoming feeling and she felt the external pressure of the day ease immediately as she walked through her central book room and into the kitchen.

Digging around in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, Grace unearthed a container of chicken stew she'd made too much of the previous week, throwing it into the microwave to heat as she poured herself a glass of champagne in celebration of the afternoon's success.

She was going to be in charge of MI5's data archives.

She was going to be working with secrets.

And secret agents ...

###

There were two separate and, as yet, unopened files on his desk. One was new and contained standard hard-copy recruitment documents which would soon enter the main-stream data-management flow, either to be digitised and stored if the candidate was successful, or destroyed in a secure process if they were not. There was a name printed across the file, Grace Evelyn Chandler. The second file was almost two years older, and had never been committed to any form of systematic data-management at all, had never left his private records, in fact. For some reason he had never taken the time to deal with the necessary paperwork. It contained details and reports of a subverted Russian operation on British soil, of the resultant deaths and deportation of several foreign and British nationals, and of the life and times of one Grace Evelyn Chandler.

Looking down at both, Mycroft Holmes felt his mouth tighten. As per the usual procedure, the details of any external candidate being recruited into a Level Two security role or higher crossed his desk as surely as the sun crossed the sky.

MI5's Director of Archives was a Class Two clearance with the option for Class One, dependent upon circumstance and need. The kind of information handled by the archives ranged from scrawled notes on ancient paper napkins taken from cafés in Bucharest at the height of the Cold War, to de-encrypted, de-codified, satellite-transmission transcripts of attack-strategy discussions between international terrorist groups. It was a sensitive role and demanded the right sort of personality, appropriately backed up by technical skills and experience. It wasn't simply about storing, finding and supplying information, it also required a searching eye, a mind able to piece together large-scale ideas from a multitude of minutia. Not just a keeper of things, but an analyst of inconsequential detail and an understanding of critical mass.

The previous incumbent had become overly lax, incurring an unacceptable level of performance error. Data had been misplaced; information gone astray. Whoever took the role now would need to run a much tighter ship.

Flicking open the cover of the original file for the first time in over a year, Mycroft found himself examining a large black-and-white photograph of a very attractive blonde-haired woman dressed in jeans and a windcheater, her fair hair blown about by the wind, a pile of old books under one arm as she browsed stalls at an outdoor market. She seemed comfortable and unworried, as if any bad memories had been safely put aside from her life. The next photograph showed the same woman outside a portentous-looking office in the City receiving an industry award for rescuing a series of ancient artefacts from a fire; her bandaged hands testament to her courage and possible insanity. There was a third picture, a faint pressure rising in his chest as he held the photograph up between his fingers.

Sitting at the window in a café staring out and up into the pale sky, she looked suddenly young and without defences, as if she had just heard a sad song on the radio. He remembered her like that; remembered the unexpected light of candour in her face as she looked at him with those clear grey eyes.

His heart thumped once. A reminder that while he may have taken her from his life, he had not been able to remove the woman entirely from his memory. There were moments when he envied his brother's apparent ability to delete unwanted information at will; perhaps he should try it.

But no matter. He sighed, turning to the second file, the new one with all her application details; he'd soon be able to tell if she were up for the role or not.

The first thing he saw, as he had expected to see, was another photograph, this one of a much more recent genesis. Taken at her first interview several weeks prior, she was seated, dressed in a formal suit, its dark contours outlining and flattering her form. For the first time in an age, Mycroft looked into the face of the woman he had cast adrift on a warm London night nearly two years before.

There was little change; the same pale skin, clear and mostly unlined except for a slight hardening around the eyes. She wore her hair shorter now, its chic raggedness an unimpeachable statement of both control and self-expression. Her half-smile was the same as he recalled, as was the faintly mocking tilt of her eyebrows, as if she had just heard something improbable. She was possibly even more beautiful now than she had been two years ago, her evolving loveliness a permanent consequence of her life and experiences. She would still be a stunner in her eighties.

His heart thumped again and he scowled at himself, turning rapidly to the rest of the file.

It was clear within a very brief space of time that Grace Evelyn Chandler was indeed a superb candidate for the vacant position; her knowledge and experience more than sufficient to meet the leadership and technical aspects of the job. The fact that she was also more than willing to go the extra mile for both the people and articles entrusted to her care easily evidenced by her impressive record at Essex Street over the last four years.

A smile flickered across his face; he remembered the Ripoll Transcript she was so determined to acquire; it hadn't taken much to ensure she did. It was the least he could have done under the circumstances.

He turned to her personal details. Had she married? Had she changed her mind and decided to stay with Robert Allen? Or had she found another partner, someone more suited to her various passions?

Omega ...

Apparently not, he read, scanning down the printed page of dry, factual information. There had been no permanent or ongoing partner or close companion of either gender in her life since Allen, a fact Mycroft found curious and somewhat inexplicable. Such a woman as she would never lack for potential mates. He wondered why she had avoided any romantic entanglements; possibly because of her increasing involvement in her work. Grace Chandler had certainly been busy, building up the London Law Archives into a world-renowned facility of conserved documentation that even the better newspapers now quoted as a source of information.

His eyes paused at an unticked box in her personal details section, the one asking if she would like to confirm her biological status as being either Beta, Omega or Alpha. There was also a box she could have chosen to confirm she did not wish to provide that detail, but she'd left all of them blank.

He exhaled, puffing out his cheeks in thought. It would be simplicity itself to add a tick in the appropriate box, or even to have someone formally query the absence of a specific answer, A faint smile curved the corner of his mouth as he remembered the first time he'd queried her biological status; she had been quite provoked.

Shaking his head, he passed on, reading down the rest of the details. There was nothing at all that might offer any cause for concern in the usual run of things, in fact, the only possible negative in her entire application stemmed from the Georgian icon affair of two years previous, and from his own ... relationship with her, if it even merited such a title. It had been over almost before it had begun, a brief moment of contact between them that had faded as quickly as the television news. Ships passing in the night.

He sat back, assessing the whole. There was no reason to keep Grace Chandler from this position. In all requirements, she was far above expectation, and her experience and knowledge would be a solid advantage to the service. Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft Holmes pulled a sheet of signatures from the back of the application file and added his own at the bottom.

Then he sat back and wondered how she would feel working, albeit indirectly, for him. If it became overly problematic, no doubt she could be moved, or persuaded to resign as easily as had her predecessor.

Flipping the file closed, he moved it firmly to one side and got on with the next task requiring his attention.

###

The Law Archives had been more than reasonable about her notice, especially when she mentioned where she was going. After an endless round of goodbyes and a farewell-party that left her with a weekend-long headache, Grace found herself getting ready for the first day of her new job.

Though she wasn't expected to be on site before nine, she had awoken early and decided she was too excited to lie in bed and so had spent some extra time in the bathroom, calming the odd moment of nervous energy under the sybaritic shower.

Once out, she rough-dried her hair, pleased it was short enough not to need much more attention than a quick rub. Deciding to have a really good breakfast, she opted for a full fry-up and a massive mug of fresh-brewed coffee. As the food cooked, she put on some Tchaikovsky violin concertos and ballerina-danced her way between kitchen and bathroom as she finished her hair and put on what little makeup she normally wore. Being a special day, she'd bought a new rose lipstick just dark enough to know it was there. Still in her dressing-gown, she waded through her food, feeling surprisingly hungry for the first day of a new job.

Grace realised she was genuinely excited, a feeling she hadn't had for far too long. She was going to enjoy this job and everything that came with it.

Dressing in a new and rather elegant grey suit, the same colour of her eyes, the lightweight material had a Prince of Wales check, a masculine pattern, but was cut in a style undeniably more aligned to the female form. A plain silk camisole of sea-green under the jacket added both a little more respectability as well as a splash of colour. A pair of elegant black low-heeled courts, swirled gold earrings, a splash of her favourite perfume, her old black Condotti briefcase, and she was ready to go. Pulling on a long winter coat and voluminous pale green scarf, she saw it had rained during the night, so waited outside until a cab appeared. As it was only about two miles between Barge House Road and Thames House, Grace found herself at her new place of employment just after eight-thirty in the morning.

Approaching the uniformed security staff at the reception desk, she handed over the letter which asked her to appear by nine, as well as the new photo ID card that had been couriered to her the previous week.

"Doctor Chandler, is it?" the rather substantial man in dark blue kit with a holstered firearm at his hip checked her name on a handy clipboard before picked up a nearby phone. "You can go on up," he smiled, friendly, as he beckoned her through the metal-detector. "Take the nearest lift to the fifth floor and someone will meet you there," he indicated the lift in question. "Enjoy your first day."

About to go, Grace turned, holding out her hand. "I always like to know the people who look after my front door," she said. "And please, call me Grace."

"I'm John Kelso, but everyone calls me Jack," the big man shook her hand, grinning as he nodded at his two compatriots. "The tall young streak at the far end is Perry Mardel, aka Noodles, for obvious reasons, and this is Wilson Burberry," he added, nodding at the older man seated on the other side of the phone.

"Not related to the coat people, unfortunately," Wilson stood, taking her hand, a West Indian background clear in his melodic accent. "Pleased to meet the new Archive Director," he said. "They're a good bunch of people here, but if you need anyone or anything while you're finding your feet, you can always give us a call," he said. "Extension 0007."

Grace found she was smiling back. "An important number to remember, of course," she laughed.

"And let us know if you need anything taken up to your office," the young Noodles was not to be outdone. "We can arrange to get anything up there that you want."

"Where is my office, by the way?" Grace hadn't thought to ask before.

"It's in the corner on the fifth floor, John-known-as-Jack Kelso nodded. "I'm sure you'll get to see it this morning as part of your induction," he said. "Best go on up; the HR people will be ringing wondering where you've gone to otherwise," he smiled.

Waving a farewell, Grace headed into the lift and her brand new job.

By lunchtime, she had completed a huge pile of paperwork, including the signing of a deceptively simple sheet of paper.

"What's this?" she asked, studying the heading below a small crest. Official Secrets Act (1989).

Oh.

Suddenly the job had become all too real. Taking a quick breath, Grace put her signature on the bottom line as she had already done with uncounted bits of paper this morning, suddenly wishing for nothing more exotic than a cup of tea.

Most of the people she had met so far were those with whom she'd be working on a regular basis; the HR staff, who handed her a ring of keys, assuring her they kept duplicates in case of an emergency, the Payroll Manager and the like. She'd not yet had an opportunity to sit and speak with Gerald Palmer, Head of MI5 to whom she would be a direct report, but was assured that he would make time for her as soon as his schedule allowed. She'd also met several other department heads and had been given an electronic tablet with all sorts of information pre-loaded to assist a rapid induction. Trying to keep all the names and faces connected was a full-time job in itself, but she made a few notes on who was who before she went to have an initial get-together with her new team.

There were five people reporting directly to her at Thames House. Three men and two women. Two Data-Management specialists, an Intelligence Officer, an Archivist and an Admin assistant.

Walking into a fairly large open-planned space on the fifth-floor, Grace saw there were several people in offices with closed doors, each with large glassed windows facing into the central space. There was another office in the corner with the same large windows, but this one not only had a closed door, but drawn blinds as well. She also noted how drab the place looked in comparison to the rest of the building.

"I'm your Assistant, Doctor Chandler," a very young man with the brightest red hair she had ever seen, in an emerald-green suit and a red bow-tie. The colours were so vivid she blinked several times. "My name's Colin Ward, but I usually get called Colly, or whatever vile calumniate the others can think of upon the moment," he offered cheerfully, shaking her hand. "If there's anything you want, just let me know and I'll arrange it for you," he added, a brilliant smile lighting up his pale, freckled face. "That's your office there," he pointed to the closed door with the blinds. Would you like some tea?"

"Colly, I'd kill for a cup," Grace sighed thankfully. "Can you show me where I can leave my coat and case so I don't have to drag them around with me for the rest of the day?"

Examining the ring of keys in her hand, the young man pointed one out. "That's the main one," he said. "Everything's lockable, although I'm sure you know HR keep spare master keys for everything," he said. "I'll tell the others you're here," he added, heading out for the tea.

Opening her new office and finding a temporary home for her belongings, Grace stood and stretched as she looked out of the window. There were pleasant views overlooking the river from above the line of bare and wintery trees, all the way down to Lambeth Bridge, although the day was cold and grey, she imagined it would be fabulous come summer. But this space was the same drab beige as the rest of the place. What had the painters been thinking?

"Surveying your new kingdom?" a deep, pleasing voice came from the open doorway. "Or is there such a thing as a Queendom?" he asked, walking forwards as she turned to look at her visitor. "Shane Meath, Senior DM specialist," he added.

"King is simply a job-title," Grace smiled warmly, shaking the man's hand. "It doesn't matter the gender of the person wearing the crown," she added. "Grace Chandler," she said. "Archivist, Conservator and Newbie," indicating Shane to one of the two visitor's chairs, Grace took her time walking around and sitting behind her new desk

One thing she had learned over the last few years working on the periphery of the legal profession in the Law Archives, was that there was a massive over-representation of Alphas in the industry, from both sides of the law. Apart from a large number of highly, though perhaps not ultimately, successful criminals cast in the Alpha mould, the sheer volume of barristers and judges, of both genders, who were Alpha to the core was hardly surprising when you actually thought for a moments about the job these people did. The law was an intellectual, moral and ethical battlefield, and since Alphas were nature's supreme strategists and warriors, it was hardly to be surprised at that the industry attracted them in droves.

On a more pragmatic level, it meant Grace had come into contact, in one way or another, with more Alpha personalities in the four years she worked at the law Archives than she would have done in almost any other vocational sector except, perhaps, for the armed services. With the extended senses and intuition of an Omega, she had been only too aware of her different physiology and perhaps because of it, had learned to recognise many of the tiny, inconsequential tells that others might have dismissed as mere idiosyncrasy, had they even been noticed.

And one thing she knew for certain as she took her seat on the far side of her new desk, was that Shane Meath was as openly Alpha as they came. Everything about him shouted it, from the way he wore his shirt, the focus of his eyes, even down to the pressure of his handshake.

Doing some quick mental arithmetic, Grace worked out when, in the next few weeks, she might need to be careful of working overly closely with the man. The suppressants she took were the very best and she had never had any problems before, but all eyes were going to be on her for the foreseeable future, and they would be clever and discerning eyes at that. The last thing she wanted or could afford was to have any Alpha in this place taking an unwarranted interest in anything other than her work.

The other thing Grace had learned about dealing with Alphas in the workplace was that any sign of early compromise was often taken as a sign of indecision and weakness and was to be exploited at every opportunity. The only way to instigate a successful working relationship was to meet them head-on.

"I haven't had an opportunity to look at your file yet," Grace smiled thoughtfully as she looked at him. "But I'd appreciate knowing now if you were one of the applicants for my job."

The faintest intake of breath and additional curve to the corner of his mouth answered that question.

"You don't waste any time," the grin was, if anything, a little wider, a little more alert. The man spoke with a very faint northern accent, perhaps from the Newcastle or possibly even higher, Northumberland, maybe. A Geordie, at any rate.

She smiled again. Her mother had come from Seahouses, about as north as you can get without being Scottish.

"Howay man," she leaned back in her chair, linking fingers across her stomach. "Ya think I divvin' na a canny lad in ma awn office?"

His eyebrows raised, Meath laughed outright. "Where?" he said. "Not Newcastle, but where?"

"Mother was from Northumberland, but my father is from London; they met while he was up in Coldstream making a documentary for the BBC back in the Dark Ages before the internet," she grinned to match him. "I regard myself as bilingual."

"I came down from Newcastle after the IT company I started collapsed in the GFC," Meath shrugged philosophically. "This place was advertising and I applied. Been here ever since," he said, nodding at the memory. "And yes; I did."

"Then what were you weak in?" Grace was puzzled. Internal applicants almost always had an edge over outsiders, unless they lacked something considered essential.

"People-management, I was told," Meath shrugged again. "For the Director's job, the applicant needed to have good experience in a range of skills, and I just about had it all except for the management stuff," he sighed. "Too late now, of course," he added, smiling a little ruefully.

"Then that's the first thing I'm going to get you working on," Grace leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "I'll need all my senior staff to be able to handle every senior role in an emergency, including mine," she smiled. "The next time you apply for a senior role, a lack of people-management will be the last problem you'll have. Can you start thinking about a three-month rota among the three senior positions and a deputy role for my position? I'll want everyone in the team with sufficient seniority to be able to double for me if I'm out of the office," she smiled again. "And since you were the first to come and say hello, put your name down as the first one for DD training."

"Deputy Director?"

Grace rolled her eyes, teasing. "What else?" she paused as the redhead in the green suit reappeared with a cup and saucer. "And what is your heart's desire, young Mr Ward?" she said, reaching for the tea and taking an enthusiastic sip with visible pleasure. "To what role do you aspire in this organisation?"

Standing, looking between a bemused Shane and a woman he'd never met before but who looked as though she liked his tea quite a lot. The shoulders of his green jacket lifted and dropped slightly.

"You'll laugh if I tell you," he looked unsure.

"Possibly, but if you don't tell me, I'll never be able to help you, will I?" Grace blew on the tea and sipped deeper, sighing as the hot liquid hit exactly the right spot.

"Well, okay then," Colly lifted his chin. "I want to be an Investigative Operative," he said, daring either of them to scoff.

"And why can't you do that?" Grace had no idea why he couldn't. "Are you intelligent?" other than an eccentric dress-sense, there must have been something to recommend the boy in order to be recruited in the first place.

He looked down, blushing. "They don't like gay field agents," he murmured. "They say it makes you vulnerable."

"Then if you want the job, you'll have to prove them wrong, won't you?" Grace finished her tea, and waved the cup in his direction. "Any chance of another? I've done so much talking today, I feel like old blotting paper."

"You aren't bothered about ... that I'm ...?" the redhead left the question incomplete.

"Only if you leave me dying of thirst on my first day," Grace waved the cup a little more vigorously. "Please?"

Grabbing the china, the green suit and a newly begun little smile vanished through the door.

"He's a good lad, a bit dreamy at times, but smart enough," Meath tipped his head towards the door. "He'll be like a puppy now he knows you're on his side."

"I'm on everyone's side, Mr Meath," Grace lifted her eyebrows. "But I always look after my team, and that's your first lesson in people management. Find out what your people want and find it out first thing. I already know you want my desk," she smiled cheerfully. "Which means you're going to be working extra hard to do not only your job but mine as well, which'll make us all look good, won't it?"

"You sure only ya ma was a Northerner?" Shane laughed.

"Positive. My father is now living in sin with a sixty-year-old widow in Hastings," she sighed. "He thinks I don't know about the widow, but they've been friends for years since mum died and Hastings isn't that far away," she paused. "When can you give me a guided tour around your part of the show?" she asked. "The sooner I'm abreast of what's happening here, the sooner we can decide what the problems are, if indeed there are any, and what to do next."

Colly returned with more tea.

"The rest of the gang are waiting outside if you wanted to say hello," he waved a finger over his shoulder. "Or not."

"A sensible idea, Colly," Grace grabbed her tea and ushered both men out of the room before her, walking into the open central space with a large oblong table running down the middle with a throne-like chair at one of the narrow ends.

That would be one of the first things to go, she thought.

There were three other people waiting for her now, and all the other office doors were opened. Another man and two women.

According to her earlier briefing by the HR manager, the older of the two women was Magda Borowski, like Meath, a data management specialist. The other, much younger woman was Ruth Lannagan, Intelligence Officer. The other man, older, perhaps in his early fifties or so, and in dire need of a haircut, would be Stratford Thomas, the Archivist.

Waiting until she was sure all eyes were on her, Grace put her cup down on the table and took her time looking at each person, meeting their eyes and offering a faint smile. Once she was sure they were all wondering what she might be about to do, she folded her arms and stared around the open office. It was functional, perhaps, but on the bleak side.

"My background is in archival conservation, preservation and management," she said, finally. "I have a profound dislike of things, especially important things, and especially important people, being ill-treated and abused," she added, turning to examine everyone's expression once again. "It doesn't take a genius or a mind reader to walk into this part of the building, this magnificent fantastic building, and wonder why the attention and care that has been so obviously lavished upon the rest of the place, appears to have ended at the entrance to the central archives office."

She looked around and smiled.

"First off, I'm going to get this area into a comfortable place to work for all of us, and then I'm going to ensure that we, each of us, have all the tools and training we need in order to not only do that work, but to do it flawlessly, and then we're all going to learn how to do at least one other job in case of emergencies," she added. "I've been told that everyone here has had a bit of a rough journey recently, and I understand very well how it feels to have one manager after the next, but I'm planning on bringing in a bit of stability for a while," she walked over and perched on the edge of the long table. "If you can think of anything you'd like to have changed, then now's the time to do it," Grace said. "While I'm the new broom, I can probably get a whole raft of things done that will be impossible in a couple of months, so let's take advantage of my temporary indestructability and push it as far as we can in the time we have," she looked carefully at each of them. "Any questions so far?"

"I'm Lannagan, Ruth Lannagan," the younger of the two women folded her arms as she spoke. "Why do you think making any of these changes will make the smallest difference to our problems? You have no idea what kind of problems we've been having here."

A reasonable observation, Grace saw, but not what she wanted to address right now.

"I have a very good idea of your problems, probably because I understand the tasks that have been set for this team, and those things I know extraordinarily well," she lifted her eyebrows and shrugged a little. "Of course there are going to be specific, parochial problems, such as the intense security safeguards here that I haven't had a chance to grapple with yet," she smiled happily. "But that's what makes this work so fascinating, doesn't it? It's the reason you all wanted to be in it in the first place? These are just operational issues. Once we find out what's causing them, we're all clever people; we can surely come up with enough ideas between us to fix our own mistakes?"

"The management here doesn't like a lot of change," Stratford Thomas, the older man with the bad hair, frowned. "They aren't going to let you do the things you want to do," he added, more or less adamantly.

Grace smiled again. It was the opening she'd been waiting for.

"Okay," she asked, light-heartedly. "Which one of you lot is the most honest and trustworthy?"

There was momentary confusion within the group as they looked at each other, lost.

"This entire cabal is about as trustworthy as a large orca in a tank of penguins," Colly stepped forward. "But you can trust me," he added. "Cross my heart," he said, with some newfound confidence.

"Good, then I will," Grace pulled out a twenty-pound note from her pocket and waved it around for all to see. "I've been waiting all day for someone to tell me I couldn't do something," she grinned delightedly. "And now I get the chance to show off and actually do it," she handed the cash to her Assistant. "Twenty quid says I can get anything I want for the next ten days," she said.

There was a brief silence,

"You're on," Shane Meath dragged a wallet from the back pocket of his trousers, digging out one of the mauve notes and handing it to the grinning redhead. "If you can get half of the things you think you can get, then I'll be amazed," he laughed. "Nobody else has been able to do it."

"Ah, Grasshopper, watch and learn," she waggled her eyebrows and affected a wise teaching voice. "But I have no idea of what really needs to be done," she added, more normally, looking around the room. "Although I could probably come up with a bunch of ideas just by sitting here. Anyone care to make me a list?"

"What sort of things?" the other DM specialist, Borowski, looked vaguely interested.

"Anything that can realistically be changed in this place within the next couple of weeks," Grace kept looking around. "The physical stuff; furniture, equipment, décor," she paused, thinking. "But also any training or additional familiarisation anyone feels they'd like to have or might benefit by," she added. "Especially if it's going to be expensive," she grinned. "Right now, I'm the golden girl, and I'm fairly sure I can wangle almost anything for the next week or so, so let's do as much damage to the budget as we can, while we can."

Colin slapped down a sheet of paper on the table behind her, scribbling rapidly. "For God's sake, get us some decent stationery and office supplies," he murmured as he wrote. "I'm deathly fed up of scrounging for stuff in other offices," he added, standing back up and giving her his irrepressible grin. "Difficult to be good at administration when there's no proper supplies."

"Right," Grace nodded. "Make me a comprehensive list," she said. "And I mean comprehensive. Don't leave anything out. Go mad," she matched his grin as the young man stood back, clearly thrilled with the idea of unlimited office supplies.

"Who's next?" she asked, looking around, half expecting it to be Meath.

Stratford Thomas cleared his throat awkwardly. "There is one thing ..." he paused, uncertain.

"What?" Grace was all ears. "What do you need?"

"It's the phones," Thomas said uncomfortably. "They need to be replaced; they've been muffled and off-kilter for ages and they don't always connect to the correct extension when you use them," he shrugged. "Nothing terribly serious, but..."

"Okay," Grace nodded, wondering for a moment if it really was the phones or if Stratford might be going a little deaf. "New phones, what else?"

"Sometimes the processing time on the computers is way too long," Magda spoke for the first time, revealing a broad Birmingham accent. "Despite the work we do on them, they really could do with a bit more oomph."

"Right; new computers if I can stretch the budget," Grace sucked in a deep breath, thinking about numbers. "What else?"

The expressions were still cautious and she knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

###

The red phone rang.

It could only be one of three people, and as Mycroft had spoken to both the PM and the head of MI6 within the last hour, he knew it would be neither of them. That only left ...

"Good afternoon, Gerald. How good to hear from you again."

"Data has apparently stopped falling into the black hole," Palmer announced abruptly. "There's been no further incidents of misplaced information since we removed the Head of Archives, so with luck, that'll be an end to the situation. God knows where he'd been putting the stuff, and we've still got a trace-team running down anything important, but now we have his replacement on deck, we should see an improvement in the performance indicators for the entire section, but there's a problem."

"Problem?" Mycroft disliked hearing this word from other people. It usually meant additional effort was about to be expected on his part.

"We can't be sure, but several small pieces of the ... misplaced data seem to have surfaced in unexpected places," he said, slowly. "We can't even be sure it's the same material, or just coincidentally similar, but if it is, then there was a great deal more going on than we suspected. We're checking now, but we're hampered because we don't want to go in too hard and disrupt the market, assuming there is one, and we're not just seeing shadows."

There would always be a market somewhere for classified information; always one side, or organisation or person who would pay and pay well, to undermine the competition. It was the nature of politics and Capitalism. But if the missing data was actually up for sale, then it meant ...

"He's still in London?" Mycroft felt his face harden. The last thing he could abide was a traitor. "We still have him?"

"Yes, and that's the strange thing," Palmer spoke thoughtfully. "The man's carrying on as if he didn't have a care in the world. Only a few days ago he accepted a position with one of the big banks involving a senior DM role and there was a bit of a party last night with the family. He's making absolutely no attempt to lie low. He's the veritable picture of innocence, in fact."

"He's also a clever man and if he was in the practice of selling classified information, then he'd know our eyes would be well and truly on him," Mycroft looked sour. "I want a full briefing on the state-of-play, but not over the phone," he pulled his hunter from its pocket. "I am in meetings for the rest of the day, but should be free after seven," he said. "Don't transmit anything; I'll come to you," he paused. "I may bring some assistance."

"Assistance?" Palmer had worked with Holmes for several years now and anything the man deemed 'assistance' was worthy of careful attention.

"Just some external resources we might consider using to unearth the missing data, if, in fact, it has actually been put out to tender," Mycroft lifted his eyes as Anthea entered his office, her eyebrows raised in query. He nodded, understanding the intrusion.

"The new Archive Director started today, do we bring her into this?" Palmer was of two minds. "She will have to be advised at some point, but perhaps not until we have something more concrete to go on."

"Grace Chandler," Mycroft mused as he finally uttered her name out loud. "If she's as good as she appears to be on paper, there should be no real issue," he added. "Her record speaks for itself, as long as she can handle the pressure, of course. Have you met with her yet?"

"About to," Palmer paused as if sensing something in the other man's tone. "Was going to give her the old sweet-talk about services to democracy, but hold off on the missing data until we were sure. Anything I should be aware of?"

"Not a thing," Mycroft was smoothness itself. "Let me know how you get along. After seven, then," he added, ending the call. He had a momentary image of Gerald Palmer attempting to sweet-talk Grace Chandler with anything. A ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

"Anthea, please occupy the South Korean Ambassador for a few minutes, would you? I have two brief calls to make before she and I speak," he didn't wait for an answer, but closed the intercom and pulled out his Nokia, selecting a speed-dial number.

"Lestrade," the Detective Inspector's voice was brisk, as if he'd been caught in the middle of a fast walk.

"Inspector Lestrade, please forgive my interruption of your afternoon postprandial."

There was a brief pause. "I can't see a damned one of those CCTV cameras of yours, Holmes," the Londoner sounded curious. "So where are you?"

"I assure you, Inspector, you are not under any form of surveillance at present. You merely sounded a little breathless, and my assumption that at this time of day you would be fully clothed and at work renders it improbable you would be out of breath for any other reason."

"Yeah, well there is that," there was something of a grin in the words. "You never phone me without a good reason, so what is it you want?"

"Are you busy tonight around eight? I would appreciate your presence at a meeting with MI5."

"Why?"

"You know some of the seediest people in London, you know the markets; you know the fences," Mycroft sat back in his chair. "I may need access to that information tonight. Will you come?"

There was a delay of several seconds before the police inspector responded. "I might have a date tonight," he said. "Is it really that important?"

"Lestrade, you haven't had a date in over four months, do you truly have an assignation arranged for this evening or are you merely testing the waters?"

"Just seeing what you'd do if I said no," Mycroft heard a faint sigh at the other end of the phone. "No," the Scotland Yard inspector admitted. "No date, more's the pity. You want me to meet you there or do I rate a lift in that fancy wagon of yours?"

"I'll have my car collect you from the Yard at seven-thirty," he said. "I doubt the meeting will be over-long, if that's any consolation, but your local street-knowledge may offer an insight I'd otherwise lack."

"Yeah, okay, Mycroft," Greg Lestrade was definitely smiling. "No need to go all mushy on me, I get the drift. See you at half-seven at the front of the building."

Mycroft's second call was to his brother.

"Mycroft, it's a Monday afternoon and I'm about to examine a purported case of spontaneous human combustion; can this not possibly wait?"

"Relax, Sherlock," the drawl of the elder Holmes sounded more like an order than a suggestion. "I find I have need of your insight at a little soirée this evening."

"Oh? And what is it this time? Kim Jong-Un paying London a flying visit? Iran finally decided to see what the West is really like? Thinking of investing your ill-gotten gains in the buoyant London housing market? Hmm?"

"There may be a traitor dealing sensitive government information in London's streets," he answered calmly, used to his sibling's melodramatic outbursts. "I'd like your thoughts, if you'd care to offer them."

"Who is it? One of yours?"

"I'll have the car at Baker Street at seven-fifteen," Mycroft checked his watch again. "Must dash," he ended the call, knowing full well his brother would be unable to resist the lure of any possible hunt.

"I'll see the Ambassador now, please Anthea," he stood, fixing a congenial smile to his face as the door to his office opened and a small, dark-haired woman entered. Bowing, he indicated her to one of the visitor's chairs before he too sat.

"Madam Ambassador," he began. "So pleasant to see you once again. Is it the impending DRPK nuclear test, or the recent suicide of your Deputy Prime Minister you wish to discuss?"

Taking the tea Anthea brought in, the woman smiled and nodded. "Both," she said, reaching into her briefcase and extracting a single sheet of paper. "But also this," she added, placing the sheet on Mycroft's desk. "Our National Intelligence Service suggested I speak with you on this matter in the first instance."

Reading swiftly through the closely printed lines, Mycroft stifled an internal sigh. A portion of the missing MI5 material had now crossed international borders. This particular piece was additionally problematic in that it was regarding Britain's ... involvement in the recent Korean national elections.

Looking across his desk at the calm expression of the ambassador, he knew this was going to be a long afternoon.

###

He could see she wasn't the least bit unnerved by his scrutiny, even though he was the Head of the Service and they'd not actually met before. Nor had she been inside his office, nor been exposed to the full impact of his stare before, and he'd been told by experts that his stare was relatively ferocious. After shaking her hand and bidding her sit, he had simply regarded her as various thoughts floated through his mind.

Grace sat in the rather comfortable chair facing her new boss. The man was reasonably tall and broad-shouldered with something of a military bearing. They had spoken on the phone; he had called to congratulate her on gaining the appointment, but there had been no contact between them since. And right now he had her fixed with his eyes as if he half expected her to sprout wings and fly away.

"Is something wrong Mr Palmer?" she tilted her head slightly. "You seem uncomfortable."

"Nothing wrong," he relaxed fractionally. "Wondering at what level to bring you in, is all," he added. "Several issues are ongoing, but I'm reluctant to overburden you with all of it on your first day. It would be a little unfair, I feel."

She smiled. "One of the reasons I applied for this post was because my previous role had lost its sense of challenge," she lifted her eyebrows. "While I can't promise to resolve every issue on my first day, please don't feel you're being unchivalrous by asking me to do what I'm actually being paid to do," she laughed. "Is there anything in particular you want me to look at today?"

Despite his best intentions, Gerald Palmer found himself smiling back. Not only affable and competent, but extraordinarily easy on the eye, Grace Chandler would seem to be something of a catch. The woman was also approaching her forties and single; unusual for one so favoured. He wondered if there was anything there that might bear further inquiry.

"Gerald, please," he leaned forward on his desk, clasping his hands together. "We're a great deal more informal these days," he added. "How has your day been thus far?"

"Fairly hectic," she sucked in a quick breath, nodding. "Lots of detail to absorb and digest; lots of people to remember. Lots of questions I want to ask and one or two things I need to get fixed up in the archive area before I can really get to grips with the underlying issues."

"What kind of things?" Palmer wondered how far she had been able to delve into her new department's operation at such short notice.

"After speaking with my team earlier, it's painfully clear that there's been quite some neglect in the entire section," Grace looked down at her fingers before meeting his eyes again. "Not only has their individual development as professionals been deploringly omitted for the last two or three years, but the facilities of the section have been bypassed in almost every single upgrade budget since 2011," she added.

"And you know this because your people told you?"

"I know this because my people told me and because I checked the last four years' worth of departmental budget allowances for the archives," she said calmly. "I'm already starting a list of essential equipment upgrades, and though I realise I have budgetary competition to contend with, I'm hoping to get at least a few things lifted to a properly functioning level before I ask everyone to put their shoulders to the wheel."

"A list?" Palmer managed not to smile. She probably wanted new carpet and the windows cleaned. "Might I see?"

"Of course," Grace looked happy as she pulled out a large folded sheet of paper from her jacket pocket, opening it and handing it across the desk.

Expecting the usual non-essentials, to which he could give a blithe nod and keep her happy, the Head of MI5 scanned down the first few lines and realised his smile was fading. Upgrades to all hardware bringing everyone within the organisation's technical envelope; a complete renewal of the internal phone-system; new archival software to run in conjunction with the internal secure system; a new rota of staff enabling the take up of transferrable skills; ongoing training ...

"You realise, of course," he sat back with a faint but slightly superior expression. "There is almost no hope of achieving most of this within your department's existing budget? I am reluctant to pop your balloon on the first day, but ..."

"If I may interrupt, Gerald," Grace smiled again, a ravishing, happy smile. "I did a few sums of my own and I think that if I'm able to defer part-payment of the upgraded technology until next year's actual funded budget, I should be able to do it all. At least," she paused and frowned for a moment. "I think that would be the best way to do it," she smiled again, handing over a second sheet of unfolded paper upon which were several long sections of jotted financials.

Gerald Palmer flipped open a pair of heavy-framed reading glasses and bent over the neatly written costings. There might be one or two incorrect assumptions, but they were minor. On the whole, the woman was right. It could be done.

"Where did you get this data?" he asked, meeting her calm grey gaze.

"Archivists are excellent researchers," she sat back in her comfortable chair. "And I know the right questions to ask people who know about budgets, plus I've already seen my department's previous budget submissions and frankly," she said, dubiously. "They were pitiful."

Palmer dropped his glasses back on the desk.

Clever, competent, beautiful and resourceful. Not to mention just the right amount of forceful. He smiled a genuine smile.

"It's going to be a pleasure working with you, Doctor Chandler," he said, opening the top drawer of his desk and selecting a small black USB. "And I'd like you to give this your earliest consideration," he said, handing it across his desk. "No need to rush with a response, but I think your analysis of the situation would be productive at the very least."

"And this is?" Grace held the tiny device between her forefinger and thumb.

"A problem," Palmer made a disagreeable face. "Hopefully a resolved problem, but still one with ripples that might affect your department," he paused. "Anything else you want to tell me at this time, or are we done for this meeting?"

"I'm wondering when you'd like the second part of the list," she said holding up another sheet of paper, a fresh smile lighting her face.

###

Fortunately, he was used to long days and short nights, and this day had been only one in a series of the same. Rubbing his eyes a little, Mycroft wondered how long the meeting with Palmer at MI5 would take. He had a sudden yen for Miso soup and knew of a perfectly charming little Japanese restaurant on the way home. That they also offered sake made from the Kimoto method was an added benefit that was neither here nor there.

After giving his brother an outline of the problem of the missing classified documentation, as well as the latest Korean twist, Sherlock was thankfully silent in the car, obviously thinking.

Lestrade was waiting in the appointed place at the appointed time and climbed into the car with considerable promptness. It was already dark and cold on the streets and the interior of Mycroft's Jaguar was warm and soft.

Nodding across the seat at the younger Holmes, the inspector rested his hands in his lap. "Planning on telling me what this is all about before we get there, or shall I start a little guessing game?" he asked, tartly.

There was a soft snort of amusement from Sherlock.

Banishing thoughts of dinner, Mycroft stared forward at the back of his driver's head. "It's about a possible thief, a possible theft and a possible ending," he said slowly. "We don't know if there even has been a crime, but evidence is pointing increasingly in that direction."

"And you want someone who knows the streets to follow the money, yes?" Lestrade wasn't a DI for nothing, even though his usual role featured heavily in homicides in the serious crimes division.

"A succinct summation, Inspector," Mycroft rubbed an eyebrow with one finger. "There are a number of pertinent details that can wait until we are in a more secure location, but on the whole, I see we are thinking along the same lines."

The Jaguar was already turning into Millbank, pulling into the kerb directly beneath a clearly marked NO STOPPING sign.

Not only cold and dark, but the edge of a late-winter's rain saw all three men striding swiftly towards the main entrance of the building.

###

Everyone else had left hours before.

Grace knew she was pushing it, but the whole thing was entirely too fascinating to stop reading, even though it was starting to get late. As she scrolled down the unwinding report on her computer screen. This was indeed a fairly massive thing to be given on the first day, but she was very glad she had persisted. That these things actually went on under the radar was like something out of a James Bond film. She wondered idly if Gerald Palmer had a code-name and if so, what it was.

Reading to the very end of the report, Grace removed the USB from her computer and locked it in her top desk drawer. There were two locks, she noted, so she found the keys for both.

Gathering her things together, she looked out of the window, scowling at the dark streaks of rain across the glass. Wrapping herself in her long coat and with her scarf around her neck to keep out any unsolicited drafts, she picked up her briefcase, turned off the lights and closed her door. Pleasingly, the lift arrived only seconds after being summoned and she made her way down to the marble foyer and hopefully a cab and home for a glass or two of red and a pizza.

Arriving at the ground floor, she noted that Jack Kelso and the younger, thin man ... Noodles ... were in the process of signing back in for the night-shift.

"Working late already?" Kelso grinned.

"Lost track of time," she gave an answering smile as she walked back out through the metal-detector. "I don't plan on making an everyday habit of it though," she added, turning to face the man while still walking backwards towards the main exit. "What time do most people get in?"

"Usually around nine or so, although you have access whenever you need it ..." Kelso paused, looking over her shoulder to the door. "Goodnight, then Doctor Chandler."

"Grace," she called back, waving and still heading towards the exit without looking. The young Noodles was in the process of standing, a concerned expression changing the lines of his face as she turned to face the way she was going, only to barge into a tall, unmovable body.

She bounced slightly, before stepping back, embarrassed.

"Oh, I am sorry ..." she began, meeting the eyes of the man she'd just run into.

Dark blue eyes staring down at her.

Grace felt the world stop spinning for a second as she took a sharp breath.

"Hello, Mycroft."