Guy says so evenly, a look of strange resignation in his face. "Perhaps not to the same extent, but I bloody well know the feeling."
Here, he was no use to Russia. He couldn't work with making sure that Moscow got ahold of Ultra. Wonderful, wonderful Ultra, the taskforce that had broken Enigma, the only souls that were helping Russia to win the damned war on the Eastern front. Here, he couldn't work his way in and out of the rings of parliament, sniffing under Macnamara's nose to influence the swing of the right-wing political scene. He couldn't use the BBC to flit in and out of interviews with major leaders in France and Spain and Italy and Germany. He couldn't brilliantly make scenes within MI-6, walking out with their files and working as a talent spotter to place all those wonderful moles within the offices. Couriers, file takers, 'understudies' to report back and forth between he and well-placed Kim and Donald. Here, he couldn't watch Donald Maclean, a rather nervous fellow about infiltrating the embassy. They all were wary about Donald. They all were wary about him, too.
He was in a world where he couldn't use his talents. Here, there were no attainable upper rungs. The information was laid out and plain, there for the finding. There's very few secrets and Guy has lived his life by them.
He can't imagine not going back. He has to go back. He's nothing if he can't shape England for the better. Even if the only way to change her is through bitter, sloppy betrayal. If that metaphorical knife in the back is what it takes...
"The first week is hard. It's very hard, and I know it because of what I was here."
Guy turns away. There's too much passion in his face, and he knows he doesn't entirely understand all that Julian feels. Though he does know what it means to burn every bridge he knew. To throw around disillusionment like a cloak.
no subject
Guy says so evenly, a look of strange resignation in his face. "Perhaps not to the same extent, but I bloody well know the feeling."
Here, he was no use to Russia. He couldn't work with making sure that Moscow got ahold of Ultra. Wonderful, wonderful Ultra, the taskforce that had broken Enigma, the only souls that were helping Russia to win the damned war on the Eastern front. Here, he couldn't work his way in and out of the rings of parliament, sniffing under Macnamara's nose to influence the swing of the right-wing political scene. He couldn't use the BBC to flit in and out of interviews with major leaders in France and Spain and Italy and Germany. He couldn't brilliantly make scenes within MI-6, walking out with their files and working as a talent spotter to place all those wonderful moles within the offices. Couriers, file takers, 'understudies' to report back and forth between he and well-placed Kim and Donald. Here, he couldn't watch Donald Maclean, a rather nervous fellow about infiltrating the embassy. They all were wary about Donald. They all were wary about him, too.
He was in a world where he couldn't use his talents. Here, there were no attainable upper rungs. The information was laid out and plain, there for the finding. There's very few secrets and Guy has lived his life by them.
He can't imagine not going back. He has to go back. He's nothing if he can't shape England for the better. Even if the only way to change her is through bitter, sloppy betrayal. If that metaphorical knife in the back is what it takes...
"The first week is hard. It's very hard, and I know it because of what I was here."
Guy turns away. There's too much passion in his face, and he knows he doesn't entirely understand all that Julian feels. Though he does know what it means to burn every bridge he knew. To throw around disillusionment like a cloak.
"I'm sorry."