God, Pip loved doing the CIA’s dirty work. She had almost been tempted not to tell the section chief that this was not even remotely her fucking job. If the wankers over at Langley had just kept tabs on their asset – she suppressed the urge to hit someone and focused instead on presenting her best authoritative face. She sincerely hoped that they did not encounter any local law enforcement beyond the security detail that was holding on to Mr Wallace.

Since Eli had left, everything had been categorically worse and SIS had been no closer to re-instating Pip to her former post than they had when she had first arrived in this bloody country. It had been almost a year. She had been so angry when Eli had been reassigned, so certain that she would walk away and follow some daft crusade to uncover the ugliness that had led to it and yet, here she was still on the payroll and stealing B-Grade witnesses for the Americans. She had been brutally logical about it; her chance at success in finding Eli was zero, her chance at getting back to that life, which had sated whatever desires most drove her at least in part, was significantly higher than that.

She cut her losses. She followed the path she knew best. Forward.

And currently, that involved Mr Wallace; informant, rat and, now, witness in a major murder trial. Of course, if he presented his evidence in court, the CIA could wave goodbye to six months of careful groundwork. Worse yet, from Pip’s perspective, SIS could say goodbye to the first good lead they had in putting an end to the cross-Atlantic H100 supply. She hated it when important things rested in the hands of stupid people and Mr Wallace had made himself a prime target for her agitation.

They’d best not leave him alone with her in the SUV.

As they pulled up outside the safe-house with about as much subtlety as a circus – trust the CIA to make spying a newsworthy event -- and exited the vehicles, Pip became acutely aware of the presence of another vehicle in the drive. As she and another agent approached the door, she tried to calculate the importance of the discovery.

“I’ll need to see some identification, please,” the plain-clothes officer waiting on the porch pressed.

“Agent Montgomery,” Pip said quickly, flipping out her temporary credentials, “I’m on retainer with the CIA. Can we take this inside, do you think?”

He was nearing the favorite part of his job: the conviction. Which was convenient, as he had a habit of buying himself something nice with every case he closed. About time, too, because looking down he realized that he was going to need a new suit. Taupe wasn't really his color, and he had to keep on his coat to cover the popped seam of his vest.

He was just starting in on his daydream of strolling into work next week with a well-fitted charcoal suit--and maybe a hat--when the front door open. Mr. Wallace nearly jumped out of his skin from where he sat in the livingroom, hidden from view of the front door. Zane glanced up from where he stood, expecting more cops, not her.

Immediately his eyes narrowed. He picked himself up off the wall he'd been leaning on, his arms unfolding and sliding down to his sides at the ready. His stance was wide, defensive, and his voice as piercing as his stare, "What is this?"

He was in charge of this. It was on the District Attorney's office to provide an escort for witnesses and informants for their cases. It as Zane Kennedy's job, and he was supposed to be informed of everyone meant to walk in and out of that door. No one had notified him. No one had asked him. Already his hackles were raised and his teeth were all but showing.

Oh, here was the home guard. Taupe. Cute.

Pip did not bend to the defensive approach, her belief in her superiority stretching a little further than merely her authority to walk away with his witness. She wondered who he was, F.B.I. maybe? Local P.D.? It did not really matter, the wonder of America was that National Security tended to trump turf wars. For a moment she even felt a little grateful for the affiliation.

“This,” Pip began with a slight smirk on her face, even if she had been hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible, she would make up for it with a little sadistic pain-inflicting of her own, “is a matter of national security. We’re going to need Mr Wallace to come with us, Mr?”

Perhaps if she pretended to co-operate in part with him, he’d just step aside. Well, a girl could dream.

National security. It was a potent phrase that meant absolute shit to him. Little kids and grannies were being groped and interrogated at airports in the name of "national security". It wasn't right. This wasn't right. Something was fishy.

Rather than step to the side, Zane stepped forward. One hand lifted, nearing his breast pocket, a vague warning that he didn't trust her presence more than he trusted the handgun hidden beneath his coat. Standard for detectives.

"Detective," he almost hissed. "Kennedy. District Attorney's office. Who the fuck are you?" They were over niceties. She had to chance to prove herself friend or foe, and made the standings abundantly clear. She wanted to take his witness, and it was his job to protect his witness at any cost.

Right. So Detective Kennedy did not care to play nicely. Pip ignored for a moment that her opening hadn’t exactly set the mood for tea and biscuits. Diplomacy was not her strong suit unless it strongly served her purposes. She hardly needed it right now. The District Attorney’s office? She thought they might have been able to afford better suits.

Her blue eyes sparkled a little at his bristling response. “Now, now, Detective, there’s no need to be unpleasant. Agent Montgomery, with her Majesty’s SIS, but for our purposes my orders come from the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.” CIA would have sufficed, but Pip was in a mood.

She had not missed the movement of his hand to his breast pocket, nor had she backed off as he had taken a step towards her. She liked this guy, he didn’t have time for small measures. He also clearly did not know who he was dealing with and she didn’t have time to dance around him, “Now if you’ll be so kind, Mr Wallace here is an integral part of our work and, therefore, under our jurisdiction. I have orders to bring him in. Urgently.”

CIA. Well, shit. He hadn't got this far by making friends, and didn't see a good reason to back down now. She didn't know who she was messing with: he was a United States Marine.

"Too bad. Mr. Wallace is a key witness to a murder case and needs to present his testimony tomorrow." He said that, as if the murder charge changed everything. Surely she would see the sense in what he was saying. The murder of an Actual Person in the Real World was surely more important than chasing ghosts in the name of national security.

She wasn't even an American for God's sake.

"The Central Intelligence Agency," he sounded the words out, as if she did not know what the acronym stood for. "Will just have to wait until then."

Ok, she definitely liked this guy. Had she been in his shoes, she imagined similar words would have been spewing out of her mouth. He even managed to make it sound less than arrogant, endearing almost, but only because it did not matter what he said, or how he postured, she held all the key cards here. She admired the Boy Scout in him though. That she could use.

“I’m afraid that’s not how this works, Boy Scout,” she offered back as though she needed to explain the chain of command for him, “We at the CIA don’t have the kind of time you boys seem to. We have credible threats to eliminate to make sure you sleep peacefully at night. Got to keep the bogeyman out of the cupboard, so to speak.” Not even she bought half this bullshit, but she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to utilize it to get the job done.

With that, she made to duck past him and get at his witness.

She tried to side step him, but he did not move into her way. Rather he reached out with the arm crossed over his chest, the one that had threatened to grab for his gun. He gripped her arm, not roughly, but tight enough to make her struggle against him if she wanted to get by.

Mostly, he wanted to see how she'd react, to his hand on her arm and the challenge his eyes and his tightened lips posed to her. He looked expectant, waiting for her to give him something to size her up by.

Kennedy clutched at Pip; he actually took a hold of her.

The SIS agent’s natural instinct was to fight back, her training kicking in instantly as the hand not currently restricted snapped up and grabbed a hold of his offending wrist. She hesitated, however, stopped short of pulling him loose and twisting his arm with her fingers pressed to the pressure point in the centre of his hand. There was more than just pride at stake here and a scuffle could mean much more effort than Pip was willing to invest in this enterprise. Not to mention the paperwork. She met his challenging gaze with a serious one of her own. While she had been jovial to this point, she did not take kindly to being handled.

The other agent with her stepped forward immediately, his aggressive stance apparent in his eagerness to apply his training.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” it was a little darker than her earlier tone, actual warning resting in her words, “this could get exceptionally impolite otherwise.”

Her smile had faded.

At least she wasn't a coward. It wasn't that he posed a physical threat to her--Zane wasn't the type--it was merely the idea of confrontation. The touch was only there to draw her focus, to make her intensely aware that she was being challenged and she did not back down. Part of him admired it, but the rest of him was disgusted.

His fingers slackened somewhat, his eyes flicking up toward the agent behind her only briefly. He let her go after hesitating, but didn't move to make way.

"I'll sleep well tonight knowing a murderer will go free," he almost snarled at her. She knew what he was doing. Maybe if he knew why, what was so much more important than his murder case, he could at least loosen the knot in his stomach.

The loosening of his grip set a little more ease into the situation, though not by much. He did not step back, did not pull away, but he knew that she had him, at least on paper. She saw the disgust in his eyes.

She knew that look well enough; one had only to work in intelligence three weeks to know that look. It was the vile stench of the lack of understanding permeating the room that tended to bring it about. There was a poetic irony about intelligence work, it was effectively the most moral of activities: truth telling, but every eye that crossed over it knew that there were a hundred deceits created for every one bit of truth, needed for every one bit of truth.

Only those with the whole picture understood.

Kennedy’s last words were not attached to unusual sentiment; dozens of disappointed officers had expressed it before. Pip eyed him for a moment. She could tell him, paint him a picture that might help him deal with the circumstance that was occurring under his nose; perhaps she might even have his approval, but that was not the work of the intelligence operative, it was to get the job done and keep the ability to do so in tact.

She should have simply ignored him, challenged him with yet another quip. Instead, she lowered her voice slightly after a hesitant moment, “If I don’t take Wallace with me now, I guarantee a few more will never see the inside of a courtroom.”

Perhaps that would be enough.