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fredbassettTitle : Extraction, Part 1 of 3
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.
“We need him back alive, Ryan, and preferably in one piece. James Lester knows where far too many bodies are buried.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t already told them everything they need to know?”
“He’s tougher than he looks.” The bloke in the dark suit leaned back in his chair, looking deceptively unruffled for a man who’d just had his arse handed to him on a plate by the Home Secretary who, understandably, had been somewhat miffed that a serious Government asset had been snatched in broad daylight from the middle of London whilst under the supposedly watchful eye of the Security Service.
“No one’s tough when someone’s turning a pencil sharpener around the tip of their little finger or taking a food grater to the soles of their feet,” Ryan pointed out.
The Home Secretary looked pained, although from what he knew of the man, that was probably more because of Ryan’s indelicacy than the thought of one of his hatchet men being tortured.
Sam Vincent from M15 brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from his immaculate suit cuff and shot the politician a hard look. “If he has told them what they want to know – assuming that’s why they’ve snatched him – do you still want him back?”
Ryan counted three seconds down in his head. The lack of an immediate answer wasn’t looking good for James Lester, whoever he was. The name meant nothing, but Ryan had been in Iraq for the last three months and hadn’t caught up with the latest comings and goings in Westminster. It would all be in the briefing doc, anyway. Vincent was an obnoxious little shit at times, but he never sent anyone into the field unprepared, whether they were his own men or just the hired help.
After five seconds, to Ryan’s surprise, the Home Secretary said, “Yes. We need to know what they wanted him for.”
“There’s been no ransom demand?” Ryan asked.
The Home Secretary shook his head. “Everyone knows the government doesn’t negotiate with hostage takers. Mr Vincent has explained that the most likely scenario is that they’re trying to sell him to the highest bidder.” He stood up. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I’ll expect to hear from you soon with a happy resolution to this unfortunate incident.” The Home Secretary swept out of the room without a backward glance.
Vincent waited until the door had closed before he stood up. “There’s a café a few blocks away that serves decent coffee. My shout.”
“On expenses, I presume?”
The man grinned. “Of course. There’s nothing that pisses Her Ladyship off more than my expense claims. I might even run to heart-attack-on-a-plate, if you’re lucky.”
*****
The café was an archetypal greasy spoon with the sort of vinyl floor that stuck to the soles of your feet, but Vincent was right, the coffee was good, and so were the two bacon and sausage sandwiches Ryan had just wolfed down.
He’d barely been back at base long enough for a shit, a shower and a shave before he’d been packed off on the early train to London. The train had been jam-packed, the bogs were overflowing, and the buffet window had remained firmly closed the entire way. Points failure had added to the misery, resulting in Ryan arriving in Marsham Street with only five minutes to spare. There had been no time for coffee or anything to eat, so he had every intention of making up for lost time, especially when it was at someone else’s expense.
He presumed the place wasn’t bugged or frequented by journalists, but even so, they kept the conversation circumspect, with no names mentioned.
“I thought for a minute your man was going to turn this into a total wet job,” Ryan said quietly.
“So did I,” Vincent admitted. “But they can’t afford to lose someone of this guy’s calibre. He’s pulled their irons out of the fire on several occasions.”
“Much good it’s done him. I counted five seconds before Pretty Boy answered you.”
Vincent nodded. “Never expect loyalty from a politician and that one’s worse than most.”
Pretty Boy was spook-speak for the Home Secretary, a man with an ardent love affair with his own reflection. The nickname was meant to be an internal secret, but Ryan just wanted to make the point that there wasn’t much that went on in Thames House that didn’t find its way to the ears of the Sabre Team on permanent secondment to the capital.
Ryan knew the current bunch of London lads well. They were tough and bright. The only reason he’d been sent down from Credenhill was that their captain was in Charing Cross Hospital with a burst appendix, of all things, and they’d needed someone at short notice who knew the team. Ryan had fitted that particular bill. It was a shame he hadn’t known about this shit 12 hours ago or he could have saved himself a journey north.
After another coffee and a double chocolate muffin later, they wandered down to the river and started to walk in the direction of Thames House.
“We’re being followed,” Ryan commented after five minutes.
“Couple of work-experience kids from Vauxhall Cross.” Vincent pulled out his phone, pressed an icon and when the call was answered said, “Angela, call your idiots off before I give the River Police something to do.”
“You’re showing your age. They call them the Marine Policing Unit now,” Ryan commented when Vincent ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.
“I know. Angela’s husband’s their head honcho. Her lot are just being nosy.”
There were women in the top jobs at both Thames House and Vauxhall Cross, much to the disgust of many of the old timers. From what Ryan had seen, the two arms of the Security Services spent as much time spying on each other as they did on anyone else, even if the two women were rumoured to have bucked the trend by actually liking each other and working well together.
“So what’s your intel on the snatch?” Ryan asked when he was certain there wasn’t another snooper on their tail.
“The Ukrainians have got him and are prepared to sell to the highest bidder. What we don’t know is if they’ve extracted any teasers out of him to up the bidding. That’s what Pretty Boy and his mates are worried about. I meant it when I said Lester knows where the bodies are buried and several of those are tied up rather inextricably with the current incumbent of nunber 10.”
“Where’s he being held?”
“I’ll tell you later, but it looks very much like a backstreet in Rotherhithe.”
“Classy.”
“Could be worse. He could already be in a container truck on the other side of the Channel.”
“You sure he’s not?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment, but I hope to be in a few hours.” Vincent pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Ryan. “That’s all we know so far. You talk to your lads and get kitted up. We don’t want anyone inconveniently left alive at the end of it, by the way, apart from our boy.”
“And I presume you’ll let me know if that order changes.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Vincent nodded, but Ryan could tell from the look on the spook’s face that he wouldn’t be overly happy at imparting an order like that. It made him wonder what sort of bloke James Lester was if he managed to command some respect inside Thames House.
****
Four hours later, he knew everything MI5 wanted him to know about James Lester. The man had gone from the inauspicious beginnings of an inner city comprehensive to the dizzier heights of Oxford where he’d studied Philosophy, Politics and Economics. Ryan had once heard that described as the ultimate blagger’s degree, but despite – or because of – that, Lester had soon started a steady climb up a notoriously slippery pole. He could see why the Home Secretary wanted the man back, preferably in one piece.
From what Ryan knew about the Ukrainian gangs operating in London, they were hard bastards who couldn’t hesitate to take someone to pieces if it would serve any useful purpose, and occasionally just for the hell of it. So time was very definitely of the essence in this case. Lester had been snatched two days ago and bundled into the back of a nicked British Telecom van that had subsequently been found 50 miles away down a country lane, burned out. But according to Sam Vincent’s intel, Lester had travelled nowhere near as far as the van.
Ryan was now holed up in a house in Wapping with the four man SAS team. They were all dressed in civvies, nothing flash, just plain clothes at their most innocuous. But there was nothing innocuous about their kit. They were each tooled up with enough firepower to start - and win - a minor Balkan war. Ryan had a Sig Sauer P226 holstered on his right thigh, chambered with 9mm rounds, plus half a dozen of the extended 20-round magazines preferred by anyone engaged on counter-terrorism operations. Good stopping power and plenty of lead in reserve.
On top of that, he’d just spent the last half an hour repeatedly stripping down and reassembling an MP5 compact 9mm sub-machine gun with a collapsible stock. The weapon was ideal for close quarters. Another favourite for hostage rescue scenarios as the bullets were less likely to pass through the target or any walls and strike a hostage. The version they were all carrying had a shortened barrel and was small enough to be concealed beneath a jacket, making it ideal for undercover work as well as for close protection duty. They were all fitted with integrated suppressors, useful for dealing with look-outs and any other threats that needed to be neutralised quietly. Coupled with a magazine of specialist sub-sonic ammunition, the MP5s were extremely quiet.
To complete their personal armouries, each of them was armed with Remington 870 pump-action shotguns, carried in a modified shoulder rig. Ryan and two of the lads had theirs loaded with Hatton breaching rounds and the other two had tear gas rounds. The Hattons were special 12-guage shotgun rounds designed for door-breaching operations and were great for shooting off hinges and blasting out locks. The round was a mixture of compressed gunpowder and wax, formulated to cause only localised damage without passing through the door and hitting a hostage. It was also fucking good at knocking a large hole in a human body. It didn’t matter where you hit someone with a Hatton round. Their chances of getting up again were small to non-existent.
The tear gas rounds were semi-solid slugs that could be deployed from long range. The round was designed to break apart following an initial penetration and disperse CS tear gas, filling a room almost instantly and incapacitating anyone inside. They were sturdy enough to penetrate windows and even light wooden doors. Each man on the team would be carrying a light-weight gas mask, as well as night-vision goggles and enough spare ammo to sink a barge, plus a few flash bangs for good measure.
In short, they were all loaded for bear.
At 6pm, Ryan’s phone pinged with an incoming message. Sam Vincent’s intel had been checked out and was regarded as solid. They were green lit for action against an innocuous-looking house in Rotherhithe. A sketch map of the premises arrived a few seconds later, based on the layout of one for sale a few doors away, along with the info that there were believed to be six men watching Lester.
It was Ryan’s job to get Lester out of there and make sure there were no kidnappers left alive. There had been no change to his orders concerning the hostage, for which Ryan was grateful. He’d spent most of his adult life doing the government’s dirty work, but that didn’t mean he always liked his job.
They were good to go.
*****
They waited until midnight before making a move. A couple of souped-up old bangers were waiting for them as transport. The vehicles looked like they were only held together by dirt and rust, but in this case, looks were very definitely deceptive. They were fitted with bullet-proof glass, under the fake rust was state of the art ceramic armour and they would go like shit off a shovel if needed. It would take an RPG to do them much damage, and according to Sam Vincent’s intel, the Ukrainians weren’t packing that sort of firepower.
Most of the street was in darkness, and according to the report he’d read, half of the streetlights had been out for at least a week, so they were in luck there. From what Ryan had been told, the opposition were relying on the fact that no one knew where Lester was being held, but what they hadn’t reckoned on was being sold out by one of their own for something a bit more substantial than the traditional 30 pieces of silver. Her Majesty’s Government might be above negotiating with hostage-takers, but they had no scruples about shelling out a hefty bribe for decent intel.
The house was on three storeys – not ideal for a hot entry – but they’d just have to make the best of it. He had a four man team, five counting himself. The house was tall and thin and Ryan’s bet was that Lester was going to be held in the top room at the back, with a view over a derelict factory site and bugger all else.
Ryan’s plan involved two of his team going in through the rear, after dropping tear gas through each of the windows on that side, flooding the back of the house in seconds while he went in through the front door with the other two lads, clearing each floor as they moved upwards. With three of them going in that way, he could head straight upstairs with one of the team while the other one cleared the ground floor and then followed them up.
SO19 had been briefed to stay out of the immediate area in case anyone local was keeping watch, but they were ready to move in if the Ukrainians got the chance to call for back-up.
Ryan dropped two of his men at the end of the deserted road. It was the sort of area where no one wandered around too much after dark, so they would have no trouble getting into position. They jogged off, small rucksacks over their shoulders holding their gasmasks and night vision gear. They’d be in position in two minutes. As soon as they radioed in, Ryan and the others would pile in from the front, leaving their cars blocking the road. He didn’t anticipate the need for a hot extraction. If that happened, they would have failed in one of their primary objectives and left someone alive to chase them. In the confines of a house like this one, that would be an unlikely result.
The only question in Ryan’s mind was whether they would get their asset out alive.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Ryan, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the OCs0, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 7,900 split into three more or less equal parts.
Summary : A highly-place asset has been taken hostage and the government want him back.
A/N : This was inspired by
fififolle’s Lester/Ryan fic Never Say No but can be read as a standalone.“We need him back alive, Ryan, and preferably in one piece. James Lester knows where far too many bodies are buried.”
“What makes you think he hasn’t already told them everything they need to know?”
“He’s tougher than he looks.” The bloke in the dark suit leaned back in his chair, looking deceptively unruffled for a man who’d just had his arse handed to him on a plate by the Home Secretary who, understandably, had been somewhat miffed that a serious Government asset had been snatched in broad daylight from the middle of London whilst under the supposedly watchful eye of the Security Service.
“No one’s tough when someone’s turning a pencil sharpener around the tip of their little finger or taking a food grater to the soles of their feet,” Ryan pointed out.
The Home Secretary looked pained, although from what he knew of the man, that was probably more because of Ryan’s indelicacy than the thought of one of his hatchet men being tortured.
Sam Vincent from M15 brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from his immaculate suit cuff and shot the politician a hard look. “If he has told them what they want to know – assuming that’s why they’ve snatched him – do you still want him back?”
Ryan counted three seconds down in his head. The lack of an immediate answer wasn’t looking good for James Lester, whoever he was. The name meant nothing, but Ryan had been in Iraq for the last three months and hadn’t caught up with the latest comings and goings in Westminster. It would all be in the briefing doc, anyway. Vincent was an obnoxious little shit at times, but he never sent anyone into the field unprepared, whether they were his own men or just the hired help.
After five seconds, to Ryan’s surprise, the Home Secretary said, “Yes. We need to know what they wanted him for.”
“There’s been no ransom demand?” Ryan asked.
The Home Secretary shook his head. “Everyone knows the government doesn’t negotiate with hostage takers. Mr Vincent has explained that the most likely scenario is that they’re trying to sell him to the highest bidder.” He stood up. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. I’ll expect to hear from you soon with a happy resolution to this unfortunate incident.” The Home Secretary swept out of the room without a backward glance.
Vincent waited until the door had closed before he stood up. “There’s a café a few blocks away that serves decent coffee. My shout.”
“On expenses, I presume?”
The man grinned. “Of course. There’s nothing that pisses Her Ladyship off more than my expense claims. I might even run to heart-attack-on-a-plate, if you’re lucky.”
*****
The café was an archetypal greasy spoon with the sort of vinyl floor that stuck to the soles of your feet, but Vincent was right, the coffee was good, and so were the two bacon and sausage sandwiches Ryan had just wolfed down.
He’d barely been back at base long enough for a shit, a shower and a shave before he’d been packed off on the early train to London. The train had been jam-packed, the bogs were overflowing, and the buffet window had remained firmly closed the entire way. Points failure had added to the misery, resulting in Ryan arriving in Marsham Street with only five minutes to spare. There had been no time for coffee or anything to eat, so he had every intention of making up for lost time, especially when it was at someone else’s expense.
He presumed the place wasn’t bugged or frequented by journalists, but even so, they kept the conversation circumspect, with no names mentioned.
“I thought for a minute your man was going to turn this into a total wet job,” Ryan said quietly.
“So did I,” Vincent admitted. “But they can’t afford to lose someone of this guy’s calibre. He’s pulled their irons out of the fire on several occasions.”
“Much good it’s done him. I counted five seconds before Pretty Boy answered you.”
Vincent nodded. “Never expect loyalty from a politician and that one’s worse than most.”
Pretty Boy was spook-speak for the Home Secretary, a man with an ardent love affair with his own reflection. The nickname was meant to be an internal secret, but Ryan just wanted to make the point that there wasn’t much that went on in Thames House that didn’t find its way to the ears of the Sabre Team on permanent secondment to the capital.
Ryan knew the current bunch of London lads well. They were tough and bright. The only reason he’d been sent down from Credenhill was that their captain was in Charing Cross Hospital with a burst appendix, of all things, and they’d needed someone at short notice who knew the team. Ryan had fitted that particular bill. It was a shame he hadn’t known about this shit 12 hours ago or he could have saved himself a journey north.
After another coffee and a double chocolate muffin later, they wandered down to the river and started to walk in the direction of Thames House.
“We’re being followed,” Ryan commented after five minutes.
“Couple of work-experience kids from Vauxhall Cross.” Vincent pulled out his phone, pressed an icon and when the call was answered said, “Angela, call your idiots off before I give the River Police something to do.”
“You’re showing your age. They call them the Marine Policing Unit now,” Ryan commented when Vincent ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.
“I know. Angela’s husband’s their head honcho. Her lot are just being nosy.”
There were women in the top jobs at both Thames House and Vauxhall Cross, much to the disgust of many of the old timers. From what Ryan had seen, the two arms of the Security Services spent as much time spying on each other as they did on anyone else, even if the two women were rumoured to have bucked the trend by actually liking each other and working well together.
“So what’s your intel on the snatch?” Ryan asked when he was certain there wasn’t another snooper on their tail.
“The Ukrainians have got him and are prepared to sell to the highest bidder. What we don’t know is if they’ve extracted any teasers out of him to up the bidding. That’s what Pretty Boy and his mates are worried about. I meant it when I said Lester knows where the bodies are buried and several of those are tied up rather inextricably with the current incumbent of nunber 10.”
“Where’s he being held?”
“I’ll tell you later, but it looks very much like a backstreet in Rotherhithe.”
“Classy.”
“Could be worse. He could already be in a container truck on the other side of the Channel.”
“You sure he’s not?”
“I’m not sure of anything at the moment, but I hope to be in a few hours.” Vincent pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Ryan. “That’s all we know so far. You talk to your lads and get kitted up. We don’t want anyone inconveniently left alive at the end of it, by the way, apart from our boy.”
“And I presume you’ll let me know if that order changes.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Vincent nodded, but Ryan could tell from the look on the spook’s face that he wouldn’t be overly happy at imparting an order like that. It made him wonder what sort of bloke James Lester was if he managed to command some respect inside Thames House.
****
Four hours later, he knew everything MI5 wanted him to know about James Lester. The man had gone from the inauspicious beginnings of an inner city comprehensive to the dizzier heights of Oxford where he’d studied Philosophy, Politics and Economics. Ryan had once heard that described as the ultimate blagger’s degree, but despite – or because of – that, Lester had soon started a steady climb up a notoriously slippery pole. He could see why the Home Secretary wanted the man back, preferably in one piece.
From what Ryan knew about the Ukrainian gangs operating in London, they were hard bastards who couldn’t hesitate to take someone to pieces if it would serve any useful purpose, and occasionally just for the hell of it. So time was very definitely of the essence in this case. Lester had been snatched two days ago and bundled into the back of a nicked British Telecom van that had subsequently been found 50 miles away down a country lane, burned out. But according to Sam Vincent’s intel, Lester had travelled nowhere near as far as the van.
Ryan was now holed up in a house in Wapping with the four man SAS team. They were all dressed in civvies, nothing flash, just plain clothes at their most innocuous. But there was nothing innocuous about their kit. They were each tooled up with enough firepower to start - and win - a minor Balkan war. Ryan had a Sig Sauer P226 holstered on his right thigh, chambered with 9mm rounds, plus half a dozen of the extended 20-round magazines preferred by anyone engaged on counter-terrorism operations. Good stopping power and plenty of lead in reserve.
On top of that, he’d just spent the last half an hour repeatedly stripping down and reassembling an MP5 compact 9mm sub-machine gun with a collapsible stock. The weapon was ideal for close quarters. Another favourite for hostage rescue scenarios as the bullets were less likely to pass through the target or any walls and strike a hostage. The version they were all carrying had a shortened barrel and was small enough to be concealed beneath a jacket, making it ideal for undercover work as well as for close protection duty. They were all fitted with integrated suppressors, useful for dealing with look-outs and any other threats that needed to be neutralised quietly. Coupled with a magazine of specialist sub-sonic ammunition, the MP5s were extremely quiet.
To complete their personal armouries, each of them was armed with Remington 870 pump-action shotguns, carried in a modified shoulder rig. Ryan and two of the lads had theirs loaded with Hatton breaching rounds and the other two had tear gas rounds. The Hattons were special 12-guage shotgun rounds designed for door-breaching operations and were great for shooting off hinges and blasting out locks. The round was a mixture of compressed gunpowder and wax, formulated to cause only localised damage without passing through the door and hitting a hostage. It was also fucking good at knocking a large hole in a human body. It didn’t matter where you hit someone with a Hatton round. Their chances of getting up again were small to non-existent.
The tear gas rounds were semi-solid slugs that could be deployed from long range. The round was designed to break apart following an initial penetration and disperse CS tear gas, filling a room almost instantly and incapacitating anyone inside. They were sturdy enough to penetrate windows and even light wooden doors. Each man on the team would be carrying a light-weight gas mask, as well as night-vision goggles and enough spare ammo to sink a barge, plus a few flash bangs for good measure.
In short, they were all loaded for bear.
At 6pm, Ryan’s phone pinged with an incoming message. Sam Vincent’s intel had been checked out and was regarded as solid. They were green lit for action against an innocuous-looking house in Rotherhithe. A sketch map of the premises arrived a few seconds later, based on the layout of one for sale a few doors away, along with the info that there were believed to be six men watching Lester.
It was Ryan’s job to get Lester out of there and make sure there were no kidnappers left alive. There had been no change to his orders concerning the hostage, for which Ryan was grateful. He’d spent most of his adult life doing the government’s dirty work, but that didn’t mean he always liked his job.
They were good to go.
*****
They waited until midnight before making a move. A couple of souped-up old bangers were waiting for them as transport. The vehicles looked like they were only held together by dirt and rust, but in this case, looks were very definitely deceptive. They were fitted with bullet-proof glass, under the fake rust was state of the art ceramic armour and they would go like shit off a shovel if needed. It would take an RPG to do them much damage, and according to Sam Vincent’s intel, the Ukrainians weren’t packing that sort of firepower.
Most of the street was in darkness, and according to the report he’d read, half of the streetlights had been out for at least a week, so they were in luck there. From what Ryan had been told, the opposition were relying on the fact that no one knew where Lester was being held, but what they hadn’t reckoned on was being sold out by one of their own for something a bit more substantial than the traditional 30 pieces of silver. Her Majesty’s Government might be above negotiating with hostage-takers, but they had no scruples about shelling out a hefty bribe for decent intel.
The house was on three storeys – not ideal for a hot entry – but they’d just have to make the best of it. He had a four man team, five counting himself. The house was tall and thin and Ryan’s bet was that Lester was going to be held in the top room at the back, with a view over a derelict factory site and bugger all else.
Ryan’s plan involved two of his team going in through the rear, after dropping tear gas through each of the windows on that side, flooding the back of the house in seconds while he went in through the front door with the other two lads, clearing each floor as they moved upwards. With three of them going in that way, he could head straight upstairs with one of the team while the other one cleared the ground floor and then followed them up.
SO19 had been briefed to stay out of the immediate area in case anyone local was keeping watch, but they were ready to move in if the Ukrainians got the chance to call for back-up.
Ryan dropped two of his men at the end of the deserted road. It was the sort of area where no one wandered around too much after dark, so they would have no trouble getting into position. They jogged off, small rucksacks over their shoulders holding their gasmasks and night vision gear. They’d be in position in two minutes. As soon as they radioed in, Ryan and the others would pile in from the front, leaving their cars blocking the road. He didn’t anticipate the need for a hot extraction. If that happened, they would have failed in one of their primary objectives and left someone alive to chase them. In the confines of a house like this one, that would be an unlikely result.
The only question in Ryan’s mind was whether they would get their asset out alive.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 07:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 07:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 09:37 pm (UTC)Love the dialogue between Ryan and Vincent. Boo hiss for Pretty boy and his hesitation.
*purrs* and *twitches tail* for more
no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-28 10:56 pm (UTC)*eyes number of parts left*
Why am I thinking that things aren't going to be as simple as they seem to be?
*G*
no subject
Date: 2015-07-29 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-29 05:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-29 12:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-30 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-07-30 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 05:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-01 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 04:47 pm (UTC)Go get him, boys!
no subject
Date: 2015-08-02 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-08-03 04:32 pm (UTC)Nitpick for future reference: PPE is an Oxford degree, not a Cambridge one (to which fact, incidentally, is attributed the higher number of Prime Ministers produced by Oxford than by Cambridge).
no subject
Date: 2015-08-03 04:39 pm (UTC)