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vanillafluffyAs we know, Fluffy hasn't been writing a lot of fic lately. This tale, however, has been patiently waiting for me to scribe it for a few years now, so I finally obliged.
Here for your birthday pleasure, dear![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karaokegal, is a bit of backstory:
The Man in the Boat
(or, How Jools Siviter Came to Be Recruited by MI-6)
1984
Despite the fact that it's long past office hours, two gentlemen are still discussing business. The business is espionage, and the two senior members of Her Majesty's Secret Service are contemplating the recruitment of more agents to their cause.
This conference is taking place, not in Century House, but in a private room at an ultra-exclusive gentlemen's club. Neither party considers this unusual; these premises, to their way of thinking, are as safe or safer than their headquarters, and a judicious snifter of brandy can be indulged simultaneously.
They are methodically working their way down the list of young men under consideration, and have reached the penultimate candidate. Two stacks of file folders rest on the table between the two leather armchairs. One column is much taller than the other.
"Julius Siviter," Quentin Yarborough reads aloud from the next-to-last folder, and his colleague's attention sharpens.
Harrington is the senior-senior man, nearly a decade in service ahead of Yarborough. "What was that name?"
"Siviter, Julius Augustus.” A moue of distaste is barely concealed. ”I'm not sure he's right for us. Apparently he took a year off before university and went sailing." Yarborough's tone clearly brands sailing a frivilous and unworthy pursuit.
"Did he?" Cyril Harrington sounds less displeased. He swirls the amber nectar in his glass. "Where to?"
"Everywhere, judging by his passport. There's a memorandum in here from one of our boys in Sydney about his helpfulness when the locals apprehended a jewel thief at that opera house of theirs."
"Solo passage to Down Under?" He sips the liquor, watching his associate with more concentration than earlier candidates have warranted.
"Not that particular trip; he was crewing on a yacht owned by Chesterton Fortescue."
"That's a good recommendation right there," Harrington replies, nodding. "Chesty's nobody's fool, he wouldn't take a man who couldn't pull his own weight. That sort of fellow could be damned useful to us."
"It also looks like he paid the Olympic games a visit in 1980—the sailing events, at any rate. There's a tourist visa for Tallinn, Estonia, in his file. That was solo, on his own boat, the Nixie, an 18th birthday gift from his grandfather. He's got expectations, young Julius does."
"Family's from the eastern coast, somewhere near York? Grandfather named Peter? Father is Tarquin?"
Yarborough stares at his associate. "Hull, actually. How in the world did you know all that?"
"Stop gaping, Quen, you look like a fish." Harrington beams over his snifter. "Hire the boy. I don't think he'll disappoint."
Yarborough moves the file folder to the very short stack. "Care to tell me why we're hiring him? Just our of curiousity?"
"Peter Siviter sailed a boat called the Naiad. I was sick as a dog the entire time, though I'm told the weather was fairly good. There was barely enough room for four of us, and I hung on and prayed…."
"Top secret mission, was it?" teases Yarborough, imagining a day sail gone wrong on some placid lake.
"A little caper called Operation Dynamo," Harrington says crisply, and the younger man is chagrinned. The deepest regret of his life is that he’d been too young to have served in the War. The few years age difference between himself and Harrington is the difference between heroism and anonymity.
"You were at Dunkirk?" They’ve worked together for nearly a decade, and this is the first he’s spoken of it.
"Indeed. Got evacuated along with Tarquin and a fellow named Bailey aboard the Naiad. If it weren't for the Siviters, God knows if I’d've made it off that beach. They got us back to Ramsgate, and in all the hoopla, I never saw either of them again. Lost track of Bailey after the war, but he made it through, alright."
"So, you're using Her Majesty's Secret Service to repay the Siviters by giving young Julius a job?"
"Nonsense. He already shows a fine streak of independence and initiative. There's no doubt in my mind that he's got real potential.”
There’s a quiet moment while the fire crackles in the fireplace and the gentlemen tipple their brandies. Harrington gets the last word.
“I think we can exploit his connection to Tallinn; there's a certain Estonian electronics factory…ostensibly, it manufactures scanners for fishing boats. Intel says there’s a link to their submarine navigation. If, once he’s trained, we give young Siviter plausible cover, send him back...."
"If you say so," Yarborough sighs. There’s no point in arguing with a war hero. "One candidate left, Edmund Webber...."
Harrington yawns. "Do as you see fit with him. Only fair, since I'm standing firm on Siviter."
After a moment, Yarborough sets Webber's folder on the taller stack of files. The poor fellow can't compete with the likes of Julius Siviter.
***
Here for your birthday pleasure, dear
karaokegal, is a bit of backstory: (or, How Jools Siviter Came to Be Recruited by MI-6)
1984
Despite the fact that it's long past office hours, two gentlemen are still discussing business. The business is espionage, and the two senior members of Her Majesty's Secret Service are contemplating the recruitment of more agents to their cause.
This conference is taking place, not in Century House, but in a private room at an ultra-exclusive gentlemen's club. Neither party considers this unusual; these premises, to their way of thinking, are as safe or safer than their headquarters, and a judicious snifter of brandy can be indulged simultaneously.
They are methodically working their way down the list of young men under consideration, and have reached the penultimate candidate. Two stacks of file folders rest on the table between the two leather armchairs. One column is much taller than the other.
"Julius Siviter," Quentin Yarborough reads aloud from the next-to-last folder, and his colleague's attention sharpens.
Harrington is the senior-senior man, nearly a decade in service ahead of Yarborough. "What was that name?"
"Siviter, Julius Augustus.” A moue of distaste is barely concealed. ”I'm not sure he's right for us. Apparently he took a year off before university and went sailing." Yarborough's tone clearly brands sailing a frivilous and unworthy pursuit.
"Did he?" Cyril Harrington sounds less displeased. He swirls the amber nectar in his glass. "Where to?"
"Everywhere, judging by his passport. There's a memorandum in here from one of our boys in Sydney about his helpfulness when the locals apprehended a jewel thief at that opera house of theirs."
"Solo passage to Down Under?" He sips the liquor, watching his associate with more concentration than earlier candidates have warranted.
"Not that particular trip; he was crewing on a yacht owned by Chesterton Fortescue."
"That's a good recommendation right there," Harrington replies, nodding. "Chesty's nobody's fool, he wouldn't take a man who couldn't pull his own weight. That sort of fellow could be damned useful to us."
"It also looks like he paid the Olympic games a visit in 1980—the sailing events, at any rate. There's a tourist visa for Tallinn, Estonia, in his file. That was solo, on his own boat, the Nixie, an 18th birthday gift from his grandfather. He's got expectations, young Julius does."
"Family's from the eastern coast, somewhere near York? Grandfather named Peter? Father is Tarquin?"
Yarborough stares at his associate. "Hull, actually. How in the world did you know all that?"
"Stop gaping, Quen, you look like a fish." Harrington beams over his snifter. "Hire the boy. I don't think he'll disappoint."
Yarborough moves the file folder to the very short stack. "Care to tell me why we're hiring him? Just our of curiousity?"
"Peter Siviter sailed a boat called the Naiad. I was sick as a dog the entire time, though I'm told the weather was fairly good. There was barely enough room for four of us, and I hung on and prayed…."
"Top secret mission, was it?" teases Yarborough, imagining a day sail gone wrong on some placid lake.
"A little caper called Operation Dynamo," Harrington says crisply, and the younger man is chagrinned. The deepest regret of his life is that he’d been too young to have served in the War. The few years age difference between himself and Harrington is the difference between heroism and anonymity.
"You were at Dunkirk?" They’ve worked together for nearly a decade, and this is the first he’s spoken of it.
"Indeed. Got evacuated along with Tarquin and a fellow named Bailey aboard the Naiad. If it weren't for the Siviters, God knows if I’d've made it off that beach. They got us back to Ramsgate, and in all the hoopla, I never saw either of them again. Lost track of Bailey after the war, but he made it through, alright."
"So, you're using Her Majesty's Secret Service to repay the Siviters by giving young Julius a job?"
"Nonsense. He already shows a fine streak of independence and initiative. There's no doubt in my mind that he's got real potential.”
There’s a quiet moment while the fire crackles in the fireplace and the gentlemen tipple their brandies. Harrington gets the last word.
“I think we can exploit his connection to Tallinn; there's a certain Estonian electronics factory…ostensibly, it manufactures scanners for fishing boats. Intel says there’s a link to their submarine navigation. If, once he’s trained, we give young Siviter plausible cover, send him back...."
"If you say so," Yarborough sighs. There’s no point in arguing with a war hero. "One candidate left, Edmund Webber...."
Harrington yawns. "Do as you see fit with him. Only fair, since I'm standing firm on Siviter."
After a moment, Yarborough sets Webber's folder on the taller stack of files. The poor fellow can't compete with the likes of Julius Siviter.