FADE IN: 

INT. CONSUL-GENERAL’S OFFICE – DAY

The signs of moving -- half-empty boxes, a filing cabinet on a furniture dolly, a few paintings leaned against the walls -- fill a spacious office.

Even with all the clutter, the place looks expensive: big wooden door, big wooden desk, heavy ugly curtains.

BRENT WAGNER (50s, American, pricey suit) picks a Don Quixote figurine out of a moving box.

He puts it on his desk next to his phone and a family snapshot, accidentally knocking a signed baseball off the desk and into the box-pile.

As Brent fishes around for it --

STEPHEN (O.S.)

“Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

BRENT

Yeah, Yeats knew a thing or two about government work.

Brent looks up to see --

STEPHEN WHITCOMBE (50s, British, pricier suit) setting a coat and a red scarf on a pile of boxes.

STEPHEN

Stephen Whitcombe. The ministry’s liaison to the American consulate.

Stephen holds out a hand, but Brent doesn’t see it -- he’s fishing around in the boxes for something.

Stephen awkwardly retrieves his hand.

STEPHEN

You are the consul-general, yes?

BRENT

As of today. Brent Wagner, at your service.

He fishes out a file, hands it to Stephen.

Stephen flips through it, stops on a photo of LINDA HASSAN (30s, professional, Middle Eastern descent).

STEPHEN

This would be the ‘favor’ you had mentioned?

BRENT

Linda Hassan. U. S. national. Picked up near one of the Dungeness plants in Kent --

Stephen continues rifling through the file.

STEPHEN

-- under the Terrorism Act, yes.

Brent resumes looking for his baseball.

BRENT

I need her out of police custody --

STEPHEN

That’s not possible --

BRENT

-- quickly.

STEPHEN

Mr. Wagner. Your first day as a chief diplomat is not an auspicious time to ‘cowboy up’ and lay down demands. Now, your predecessor understood discretion and --

BRENT

Handler knew how to do two things: make money off of oil pipelines, and donate two million dollars to a presidential campaign without getting thrown in jail.

STEPHEN

The fact remains, she is a suspected --

BRENT

She’s not a suspected anything!

STEPHEN

With respect, Mr. Wagner, how can you know that?

BRENT

Because she’s my chief of staff! Only I don’t have a staff yet, because Linda’s in a cell somewhere.

STEPHEN

Ah.

BRENT

We’ve background checked her out the wazoo, Stephen, so unless what you’ve got on her is scarier than “snapshotting a nuke plant while beige,” I’d let this one slide.

STEPHEN

This isn’t racial profiling, because racial profiling doesn’t work. And we do this sort of thing eminently well, Mr. Wagner, because England has fought domestic terrorism for longer than Americans have sold processed cheese.

Brent closes the door.

BRENT

Check the end of the file.

Stephen does so.

BRENT

Mr. Bajaeen at The Guardian is already putting together a piece about Linda.

STEPHEN

How speedy.

BRENT

Human-interest, wronged by injustice, whole nine yards. I give him all our intel on it, the story’ll have legs.

Brent nearly trips over something.

BRENT

Ha!

He plucks his baseball off the floor.

BRENT

You could have a scandal on your hands.

STEPHEN

You won’t divulge anything, Mr. Wagner --

BRENT

I will do --

STEPHEN

-- because the ministry has already talked to your boss about the need to rein in her rather demanding new consul.

BRENT

(“you’re kidding”)

My boss is the U. S. Secretary of State.

Stephen smiles.

STEPHEN

I do hope you’ll replace these curtains. Handler picked a color so bilious it clashes with itself.

He gathers up his coat.

STEPHEN

And, Brent, “scandal” is a poor threat. For a British politician, a scandal is a bit like --

He retrieves his scarf.

STEPHEN

Like a colorful scarf. Perhaps it could choke one to death -- but instead it just lends a splash of color to our rather dowdy lives.

The phone starts ringing.

A little red light on the phone starts blinking.

STEPHEN

Ah. That would be her.

BRENT

“Her” as in the Secretary of --

Stephen nods.

STEPHEN

That’s what the little red light means.

Stephen shakes Brent’s hand.

STEPHEN

I’ll leave you to it.

Stephen exits.

The phone keeps ringing.

Brent sighs, absently drops the baseball.

FADE OUT.