A Few Words In The Right Ear - Whitehall
The door, this time, does not open to Harry Wells' house, but to another London location instead. It's not far at all to Whitehall from here, and the weather's quite pleasant- high visibility in all directions.
Harry does not appear to like it, but then, the occasion calls for him to wear a suit, and he hates civilian suits. That may be ( Read more... )
Harry does not appear to like it, but then, the occasion calls for him to wear a suit, and he hates civilian suits. That may be ( Read more... )
"Excuse me- have you got an appointment?"
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With a regal sort of disdain she stares down her nose (thank the small fluffy gods the clerk is sitting) at the poor boy left to deal with visitors.
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"Ah- sorry, ma'am, but I've got to note down all the visitors in the computer, y'see. Security purposes?"
He didn't mean that last to come out like a question.
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"You don't sound so terribly sure about that, young man." She sniffs, chin up, eyes dark. "How long have you been working here?"
There's a definite tone of 'your superiors are going to hear about this, don't think they won't.' in her voice. It's the kind of tone that suggests that he really doesn't want his superiors hearing about this, not from her, because very bad things will happen to him if they get a bad report from her.
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There, that sounded a little better.
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In fact, she manages to look very cross and stern.
In a flash, she digs out her psychic paper and flips open the wallet.
"Do I look like everyone else to you?" There is a line, the tone of voice says, and you are just about to cross it, bucko.
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He's actively cringing now, but if Ace tilts her head at just the right angle she'll see that he's typing the name Anderson, Regina into the computer. It promptly spits up an ID tag indicating that Professor Anderson is, in fact, the Ministry's Chief Scientific Advisor, and has been since October of 2004.
"Sorry about the fuss," he offers in a small voice, handing the tag over.
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"That's better." Ace (or, if one prefers, Professor Anderson) grudgingly allows, pulling the tag closer to her.
She fussily stares at the printing at the tag for a few moments, as if she is certain this dunce of a secretary has gotten it wrong.
Meanwhile, she quietly folds the wallet with the psychic paper back into the palm of her left hand and holds it behind her back for Wells to take. Time for round two of 'bludgeon the poor boy with visitors he doesn't expect'.
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Wordlessly, Harry holds out the wallet and lifts one eyebrow.
According to the tag the computer produces, this is another Professor, this one by the name of Andrew Tuttle- a civilian consultant attached to Professor Anderson's office. Harry stares at the name for a while, then nods once. "Thank you," he says quietly. "Are we quite finished now?"
"Yes, sir," says the boy meekly. "Thank you."
"No," says Harry, with a smile that comes nowhere near his eyes. "Thank you. Let's be on our way, Regina."
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With that brisk walk that only Very Important People seem to manage Ace strides through the security checkpoint without raising any alarms. She had triple-checked before leaving the bar that she wasn't carrying anything that would get the security types riled up.
And if there are a few trans-dimensional pockets helping with that... Ace isn't telling.
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Tuttle, though. Jesus fucking Christ, why'd it have to be Tuttle...
"We're headed for the office of the Under-secretary of State for Defence and Veteran Affairs," Wells says to Ace under his breath. "At least, I am. Near as I can tell, Tom Ingram's the last honest man in the Ministry. Didn't see his name once on the fucking werewolf papers, and I've never heard a thing about him to say he wouldn't take that kind of shit as a personal affront. The rot ( ... )
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"Careful, y'got it." She mutters back, her own accent resurging for the time being. Upper-crust is hard.
"Anythin' in particular you want me t'do, or do y'have your speech all planned out there?"
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He jerks one hand upward very briefly, indicating not only the presumed snipers on the roof but the hunters in general who've made Wells' life merry hell these past two years.
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"Shall I put the fear of the living God in him, Mr. Tuttle?" She asks, her accent winding up towards upper crust snobbishness again. "I do believe that is possible."
If not by arguments, then by facing a rather pissed-off pyro with carnivorous instincts.
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He would like, very much, to wipe his hands on his trouser legs about now- but that would be an admission of weakness, and there can be no time, no place for that in what he's about to do.
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The hallway ahead comes to a T-intersection, and in the list of names, her target appears to have his office somewhere on the left-hand side.
"Catch y'on the flip side." She offers, entirely too cheerful, before heading off in search of her prey, the Powerful Person strut in full force, head high, looking like she not only belongs here, but has more right to be here than any single person in this building.
Someone gave her advice once, concerning infiltrating enemy buildings: Act as if you own the place. It always works.
And it always has.
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