Whose Side Are You On?
This story begins a few months after 'Triumph and Disaster' ended. Original characters from the show belong to the writers who invented them, Kudos and the BBC - I'm only borrowing them. Those who emerged from my imagination belong to me.
Chapter One
"What's the problem?" Ros snapped, sliding down the window and craning out to scrutinise the line of cars crawling sluggishly like an elderly caterpillar in front of them.
"Don't know." Lucas eased over into the left-hand lane. "I'll go round it, take the back doubles."
Ros shot him a look. "Make sure you know where you're going. We're running late as it is."
Lucas opened his mouth to remind her of his photographic memory, and then thought better of it. She had been tense for over a week now, and he was acutely aware that one wrong word could destroy several days of the patient persuasion that had finally convinced her to come with him.
"We're OK," he said lightly, as she stabbed at the window button and checked her immaculately dressed hair in the mirror. "Plenty of time. Not as if we're going to be spending hours in the office." Actually, he mused, as he steered carefully through a phalanx of parked cars on both sides of a narrow street that barely left a vehicle's width between them, they didn't need go to the office at all. Agreeing to do so was another concession to Ros's mood. "And the traffic shouldn't be heavy."
Ros grunted. "Unless there's any more disruption." She peered out of the front window. "Hear that?" Lucas nodded as the steady thud of helicopter blades punched through the air. "Another demonstration somewhere. That's why the traffic's snarled up. There wasn't anything authorised, was there?"
Lucas shook his head. "Not as far as I remember. Don't think Ruth listed anything in the digest."
The reply was a disgruntled snort. "Wouldn't rely on that. She's not been making lists of much of anything for a month other than guests."
Lucas bit back a sigh. For a while, he had thought that Ros's eternally fractious relationship with Ruth was finally beginning to evolve from snarky teenage back-biting into something more befitting two highly intelligent, if competitive, adults. The resentment between them seemed – finally - to have abated somewhat. When Harry and Ruth had at last broken the news of their forthcoming marriage to the Grid at large, Ros had even managed a fleeting, if sardonic smile. Lucas, who had half-expected her to come out with a cutting comment, had breathed a sigh of relief.
But that was then. Since, what could have become a lasting peace had begun to resemble a temporary, fragile cessation of hostilities. As the wedding day approached, Ros, although, thank God, restricting her comments to muttered asides usually audible only to him, had, if anything, become even more caustic about it than before. Lucas had been cold-shouldered for a week after making one tentative attempt to talk to her about her attitude, so he backed off and instead set himself to working out the reason for it. He dismissed Callum's smirking suggestion of 'green-eyed monster?' out of hand. That explanation was both too obvious and too petty to apply to a woman as complex as Ros. Anyway, Callum didn't seem to have much faith in his own explanation, for he immediately followed it up with a 'Nah, not Ros.' Chen Liu was too much in awe of her to pass judgement, so Lucas was still mired in the swamp of his own incomprehension when Khalida murmured to him quietly one day, "I think she is afraid, Lucas."
Afraid? Lucas's first instinct had been to laugh. There were things Ros Myers was afraid of – needles, helicopters, losing control – but going to a wedding wasn't likely to be one. But the comment must have seeded itself into his brain, because as he observed Ros more closely, he slowly began to realise that Khalida wasn't too far off the mark.
"Pull over!" His foot slipped on the clutch at Ros's barked command, and the engine whined in protest. "The sirens – are you deaf, Lucas?"
He belatedly saw the spinning sapphire lights of emergency vehicles coming up at speed behind them and hurriedly swerved to the kerb. A convoy of a police car, an ambulance and two Black Marias swept past in a banshee wail that rattled the windows. Ros glared at him.
"Save the romantic daydreaming for later, if you don't mind. Step on it; we need to get to the office and find out what the hell's going on."
Lucas said nothing. He knew Ros would seize on any excuse to spend the afternoon at work rather than at the wedding, and he wasn't about to let her find one. She had already claimed that being officer-in-charge during Harry's forthcoming week-long absence made her attendance at the ceremony impossible. Lucas had countered that one with the unassailable argument that Harry would be offended and hurt beyond measure if she weren't there. So far, Ros hadn't been able to find a credible riposte, but a nice unruly little demonstration, preferably involving a few acts of hooliganism within stone-throwing distance of some sensitive government building, would play right into her hands.
"Almost there." He made a right turn, crossed the traffic stream and slid down the ramp leading to the garage under Thames House. Ros barely let him put the brakes on before she was out of the car and striding towards the lifts. Lucas just caught up with her in time and squeezed in through the closing doors.
"See, no problem," he said casually. "Plenty of time."
"Waste of time, you mean," Ros shot back. "Anarchy on the bloody streets, and I'm expected to spend the afternoon throwing confetti while they're out there throwing bricks." She swept out of the lift, almost trampling him in the process. Lucas sent up a brief prayer for patience and scurried in her wake.
"Come on, Ros. It's a long way from anarchy. We're not going to lose control of the nation because a handful of officers in Section D spend a few hours at a wedding. Besides, they're not a bunch of choirboys over at the Met. They'll keep an eye on the ringleaders, and deal with anyone who gets out of hand."
Ros threw a comment over her shoulder that he couldn't hear, ran her ID card through the reader and was through the pods by the time he got the outer door shut. As he followed her, he registered the startled glances among the weekend staffers. It wasn't often the section chief arrived on the Grid dressed in shot silk and pearls. Ros merely gave them an indifferent collective nod and made straight for Harry's office.
"Hi Lucas!" He turned at the greeting from Lizzie Sandell, one of Ruth's two analysts. She peered cautiously towards the office, saw that Ros had her back to them, and said eagerly: "Thought you and the boss were going to make sure Harry didn't get cold feet at the altar?"
"We are." I hope. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes, and Ros Myers was going to be leaving here if he had to carry her over his shoulder caveman-style - even if that meant having to lug Harry's desk and chair as well.
"Boss is all very royal garden party today, isn't she?" Lizzie giggled with a touch of malice. "All prettied up. Well, from the neck down, obviously."
As if she had heard, Ros replaced Harry's phone, turned, fixed Lizzie with a stare that would have made a basilisk seem warm and welcoming, and beckoned Lucas to join her. He nodded acknowledgement, and glanced with sudden dislike at the young analyst. He knew Ros was the butt of a lot of mockery on the Grid. Much of it was benign, but some people could be unnecessarily spiteful, and Lizzie Sandell was one of them.
"Hope the wedding's not in church." She giggled again. "Might mistake her for a gargoyle rather than a guest."
Lucas drew himself up to every inch of his six feet three and looked down at her with disdain. "Yeah, bit weather-beaten, spouting off at the mouth … sound familiar, Lizzie?"
He heard the young woman's jeer about his being 'sweet' on Ros as he strode away, and chose to ignore it. When he entered Harry's office, Ros looked up and shook her head before he could speak.
"Don't bother. With her dress sense, I'd be far more offended if she was paying me compliments." As Lucas smiled wryly, she gestured at the phone. "The Met says the demo's about three hundred strong, outside Harvey's Bank in the Strand. The usual banker-bashing."
Lucas pulled a face. "Well I can understand anyone wanting to bash that shower after the golden handshake they gave Adrian Stillwell. They're a bunch of bloody incompetents, too. They've buggered up my direct debits more times than I can count, and when my credit card was cloned they argued the toss for weeks, even though I put an immediate stop on it. And levied a shylocking 'service fee'. Wouldn't mind throwing a few rotten eggs at them myself."
"Well maybe you should skip Romeo and Juliet and play Coriolanus with the bloody mob over there instead then," Ros said tartly. She had booted up Harry's computer and was studying the screen intently.
"Look," Lucas said placatingly. " Most of these people are bloody angry, Ros, and you can't blame them. Demos are like opening a valve on a pressure cooker. Letting off steam - noisy, but harmless. Three hundred people isn't necessarily a mob, not unless it turns violent, and the police - "
"Whose bloody side are you on?" Ros snapped. "What did you think we were talking about the other day when we sat here discussing Crisis Crusade?"
"I know how you feel about them," Lucas said soothingly. "I know they're behind a lot of this. But think. Two years ago we had Occupy, a radical movement poised to overthrow the world as we know it. Now it's producing fewer tweets than a nightingale with laryngitis and could barely occupy a bench in Hyde Park. We contained that, Ros." He hesitated. "You're over-reacting."
Ros's eyes flashed dangerously. "You're wrong." The words were flat and dismissive, and Lucas felt his own temper rising. No-one else in the Section, with the possible exception of Harry, really shared the intensity of Ros's concern about the Crisis Crusade movement. Quite a few officers, including Lucas himself, had some sympathy for its anti-capitalist, anti-bank, anti-cuts manifesto and felt that its street protests, disruption of bank shareholders' meetings and occasional launching of buckets of paint and horse manure at selected public targets, were little more than what the world of politics and finance deserved at the moment. "Get Peter in here, will you?"
Lucas glanced at his watch. "All right. But we need to go, Ros. Five minutes." As her face tightened in irritation, he added firmly, "We can't break our word to Harry." That should do it, he thought as he hurried to the tech suite to find the officer who ran it when Callum was off-duty. Nothing like a little emotional blackmail to liven up the day. He'd pay for it later, probably with interest at a level far higher than the parsimonious skinflints at Harvey's Bank were currently offering, but for now, his main concern was to get Ros out of her bloody second home.
Peter Davies was being trained by Callum, and, through close proximity, seemed to have absorbed some of his joking flippancy. Fortunately, he had a little more sensitivity than his mentor, and one look at Ros's impatient expression brought forth a swift response to her rapped questions. Yes, he was in close liaison with the Met, no, he hadn't yet matched any of the faces they had logged as being street generals for Crisis Crusade, no, so far the demo was heated but under control. When Ros ran out of queries, Lucas leapt in.
"Thanks, Pete. See you Monday, then." He felt, rather than saw, her glare boring into him. "We'll be off now."
"Right." The young man beamed. "Give my best to the happy couple! Be a bit different around here when they get back. Sir Harry and Lady Ruth running the Grid together? Sounds like something out of Downton Abbey. I can just imagine them discussing office politics over breakfast. Mind, could be useful when Harry does his stubborn mule act, we can sneak in via the back channel and ask Ruth to use her influence on the QT, can't - "
Hell. Peter Davies was a promising officer with good prospects within the Service, but they were shrinking with every word he spoke. He clearly hadn't yet learned to read the quality of Ros Myers's silence; this one, Lucas knew from experience, spelt 'D.A.N.G.E.R.' He inclined his head very slightly towards the open door and mouthed 'now'. Peter stopped dead, blanched, and then disappeared at speed, leaving a mumbled apology hanging in the air behind him. Lucas turned to Ros. Her face was impassive, but before she looked away from him, he caught the expression in her eyes. Instead of anger, or the resentment he might have expected, he glimpsed plain, straightforward unhappiness, and yes, the fear that Khalida had mentioned. He put his hand gently on her shoulder.
"Ros, he's - "
"Right, I expect." She moved towards the door. "Come on." She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, but he could see it was an effort. In the depths of his brain he heard a distant clang, the familiar sound of Ros Myers pulling the shutters down. "Crisis Crusade can wait until Monday. Let's go. Get me to the church on time."
Lucas negotiated the way out of the city in silence; Ros glanced out of the window a few times in response to the sound of sirens, but she said nothing, and when Lucas suggested putting some music on, merely shook her head. Reluctantly, Lucas let her be and concentrated on driving. Even at her most upbeat, Ros wasn't the world's foremost exponent of light conversation, and this was Myers Silence version 2 (hurt and withdrawn). When the JIC had refused to act on Harry's recommendation that she be appointed to his job after his retirement, her response – at least in public – had been a derisive 'their loss, not mine'. Harry had shown far more overt annoyance, and had made his point by delegating more authority and responsibility to her ever since, sending her to JIC meetings in his stead, and naming her Officer-in-Charge while he was away on his honeymoon. Her position as his number two was undisputed. But the wedding, Lucas thought, changed everything. In his cheerful innocence, Peter Davies had put his finger right on the fear that Khalida had sensed in Ros – that Ruth, by virtue of the time she would now be spending with Harry, might use her privileged position to by-pass official procedures, influence his decisions, and, in the process, undermine both Ros's status and her authority. Lucas knew she would never admit to any apprehension, which made it impossible to discuss the issue. So there it sat, he thought in exasperation, like the proverbial elephant while he and Ros tiptoed around it like two mice pretending the bloody room was empty.
Once they were threading their way through the patchwork of golf courses dotted among the wooded hills of Surrey, he switched on the eleven o' clock news broadcast. For the first time, Ros stirred, and listened attentively. The demonstration at Harvey's Bank was mentioned, but briefly, and there was no breathless, over-excited stringer reporting from the scene. That, as both of them knew, meant that it was unlikely that there had been any major disorder. Ros's mobile had been as silent as she herself had, which confirmed it. Lucas swung the car into a sharp turn eastwards to pick up the road to Shere.
"There you go, boss. All quiet on the western front, and we'll be in time to see Harry get hitched." To his relief, Ros responded.
"Do we know how many people are actually coming?"
"The team, couple of old army friends, I think. His kids. Ruth's mother, obviously, and Malcolm. Not sure who else." Lucas grinned. "Enough to form a defensive cordon if he thinks of making a dash for freedom at the last minute."
Ros's lips curved in the briefest of smiles. "He won't do that. His regimental motto was Nec Aspera Terrent." As Lucas raised his eyebrows she gave him a withering look. "Not afraid of hardship."
Lucas stuck his tongue out at her and expertly slid the car into a parking place between a large tractor and a Citroen deux-chevaux.
"Got a motto for Ruth?" he asked as they got out of the car and looked around.
Ros pointed towards the church steeple about a quarter of a mile away. After a moment, she offered, "Amore sitis uniti;'? and glanced sardonically up at him. " 'Be united in love'. Ignoramus."
"That's nice," Lucas said, surprised. "Oxford University?" He saw a fleeting twinkle of mischief in Ros's eyes.
"Not exactly. The Worshipful Company of Tin Plate Workers."
Lucas laughed, more out of relief that she finally seemed to be relaxing … very slightly. "Beautiful place," he observed, as they turned onto the village green and saw the church nestled among trees on the far side.
"Yeah, Ruth's mother lives in Guildford. It's part of the diocese; that's how they managed to get it." Ros's voice took on a sarcastic note as she pushed open the wooden lych-gate. "Ye Olde Middle England." She shot him a challenging look. "Just the kind of place your revolutionary pals in Crisis Crusade would like to turn over to 'The People'."
He was saved from replying when a voice shouted: "Lucas!" and they both saw Chen Liu waving energetically with both arms from among the tilted gravestones. Ros snorted.
"Didn't someone tell him we're under the Heathrow flight path? Anyone on final approach sees him, and Ruth'll be chased up the aisle by a sodding Dreamliner."
Lucas choked back his laughter as the young Chinese joined them at the porch. "We thought you'd got held up." He looked admiringly at Ros. "Wow, you're so - "
"So - ?" Ros enquired ironically.
Chen's hand flapped in the air as if he was physically trying to pluck the word he needed out of it. "So … different from at work. I mean, now you actually look beautiful." It took a fraction of a second for him to hear his own words. "Not – that is, I'm not saying you don't – I mean aren't - "
"Chen. No need to dig your own grave, mate." Callum strolled out of the church. "Plenty going spare around here if you've got a death wish. You coming in, boss? Think Harry could do with a bit of last-minute moral support." He gave Ros an exaggerated bow and offered her his arm. Lucas flinched in anticipation. To his amazement, Ros contented herself with a penetrating stare, then took it, and accompanied Callum into the building. Lucas turned to a crestfallen Chen and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. We've all done worse and lived." He nudged him towards the doors and winked. "Just. Khalida here?"
His question was answered as they entered the church; he spotted her instantly, dressed in a beautiful red, gold trimmed salwar kameez, a matching headscarf draped in elegant ripples around her throat. Ros – predictably – was talking to Harry at the front. Lucas stopped briefly to compliment Khalida, whose golden skin took on a flush only a few shades lighter, on her outfit, and said hello to two elderly women sitting in the front left-hand pew, one of whom was obviously Ruth Evershed's mother, before joining them.
"Harry." He glanced at a group of three older men, none of whom he recognised. Along from them sat Harry's longstanding counterpart in MI-6, Sir Gareth York, whom he certainly did. Directly behind Harry sat a young strawberry-blonde in her thirties, and next to her was a man of roughly the same age. He looked uncomfortable in his suit, and was fidgeting nervously. The girl looked up at Lucas and gave him a smile that he returned. Harry's kids. It was an easy guess; he knew Graham's story from Ros. Sitting along from them was a man a few years older than himself, next to a tall, striking blonde. She was unfamiliar, but the man rang a distant bell in Lucas's memory. He frowned, and tried to dredge up further details, but for once that reliable instrument refused to provide a name to match the face. He shook off the slight feeling of unease and turned to Harry. "Ready to tie the knot?"
Harry pursed his lips, fiddled with his tie as if he thought Lucas was referring to that knot, then set his shoulders and mumbled something that Lucas took to be a yes, just as the vicar's voice announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!"
Lucas glanced down the church and saw two silhouettes haloed by the sun streaming in from outside. He was about to slide into the pew, when Ros moved to the empty rows behind Mrs Evershed and her companion and indicated with her head to the other officers that they should join her.
Typical Ros, Lucas thought, as the organ quietly started to play 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'. She hadn't wanted to attend this wedding, she was afraid of its consequences, and she had never been what you'd term a bosom pal of Ruth Evershed, yet she was the one to notice how embarrassingly few people were on Ruth's side of the church and do what was needed to redress the imbalance. He turned round to see a beaming Malcolm Wynne-Jones leading Ruth towards them, and winked at him. Malcolm had been earmarked for the job of being Harry's best man until Ruth insisted on having him give her away. Neither would yield an inch, so Malcolm – ever the peacemaker – had ended up doing both jobs.
As everyone rose to their feet, Lucas heard what sounded like a muffled burping noise from somewhere near his knee, and turned to see Ros sliding her mobile from her handbag on the pew. She met his glare with one of her own and checked the screen. Her lips tightened, but she merely flipped the cover shut and kept it in her hand as the small congregation shuffled and creaked its way back to a sitting position. The vicar, a neat, well-kept little man who matched his church so well that they could have been lifted together straight out of an episode of Miss Marple, took his place in front of Harry and Ruth and beamed at his congregation. Lucas squinted sideways at Ros. Her face was expressionless, and although she couldn't have failed to sense his eyes on her, she gave absolutely no reaction.
For a split second, Harry looked over his shoulder – looking for her, Lucas thought. As if in confirmation, Ros moved her head so imperceptibly that it could barely have been called a nod, and Harry, apparently satisfied – by what, her approval? confirmation of some agreed decision? - turned back.
The vicar cleared his throat. No happy-clappy 'worship songs' or Humanist wedding nonsense here. This was the good old-fashioned, much-derided, traditional ceremony.
Dearly beloved …
oOoOoOoOo
"So that's her? The legendary Rosalind Myers?"
Lucas looked across the terrace of the local pub where Harry and Ruth had organised a simple buffet lunch.
"Yeah. But I wouldn't call her that to her face." Ros had been talking to Malcolm, but he and Callum were now sitting together, heads down, scribbling on a napkin. Lucas would have bet they weren't playing noughts and crosses. He frowned. "Did you know her before?"
Tom Quinn, whose name Lucas had remembered during the service, shook his head. "No, she was still in Six when I was Section Chief. But you hear her name … in the business. She has quite a reputation."
Lucas still wasn't quite sure what 'the business' was; he remembered Harry saying Tom had taken early retirement, but the man himself, though friendly, and obviously very fond of both Ruth and Harry, gave little away. 'Quite a reputation' could mean anything. He saw Ruth pulling Harry by the hand to join Ros, who turned from gazing out over the countryside and smiled in welcome. Lucas wondered whether only he could see her unease. He had to admit that she had put on a good show. She had made an effort to chat with Harry's son and daughter, let Mrs Evershed chat – at some length – to her, and scrupulously avoided gravitating towards either Harry or Sir Gareth York, whom he knew would have been her conversational partners of choice. Yet even when Ros was trying her hardest to socialise, there was a remoteness about her that seemed to discourage others from approaching; Quinn was obviously intrigued by her, but he too made no attempt to go and introduce himself. Perhaps like Lucas, he could sense her discomfort.
"It's well deserved," he said now, even as he told himself he should stop getting so defensive on her behalf; she wouldn't thank him for it. "I've never worked with a better officer." He watched Ros embracing Ruth.
Tom smiled. "See Ruth's as popular as ever."
Lucas coughed as some of his champagne went up his nose rather than down his throat. Whatever 'business' Tom Quinn was in, he hoped it didn't involve much in the way of assessing human relationships. Khalida had joined the other two women now, plying Ruth with questions about her forthcoming honeymoon, by the looks of it. Lucas saw Harry waving at him, and hastily excused himself to Tom.
"You've got a good woman there, Harry. Take care of her."
"Ditto," Harry said pointedly. "We're leaving in an hour. I'm relying on you – both of you. No nonsense from Whitehall – if she needs back-up, Lucas, you make sure she gets it. Clear?"
"Crystal," Lucas answered.
"And if there's trouble, you call me."
"Absolutely," Lucas confirmed, although neither he nor Ros had any intention of doing so – he because Harry deserved his peace, and Ros because she was determined to use this week to prove herself to the JIC. He shook Harry's hand and watched him guide his wife over to the group of men Lucas assumed to be his old army chums. In his pocket he heard the muted chime of his mobile and pulled it out.
May we go now, please?
He looked up. Ros, alone again, was sitting on the terrace wall, toying with an empty glass. Her posture was as elegant as ever, her appearance as immaculate, but there was a weariness about her now that she had done what she had to do. He weaved round a waitress with a tray of glasses and joined her.
"Enough wedded bliss?"
She got up. "And Podgy." She smiled wearily at his puzzlement. "I'll translate on the way home. Shall we?"
It took a few more moments to offer farewells, but they were almost at the road when a quiet voice said behind them, "Excuse me." A tall man of about Harry's age, ramrod-straight as only a former military officer can be, with a strong face and sharp grey eyes, enquired, "Are you Rosalind Myers?"
Lucas felt Ros's body stiffen to what he thought of as operational alert mode, but she merely said "yes," and waited.
"My name is Jeremy Phelps. I served with Harry in Northern Ireland – was his commanding officer, as it happens." When Ros nodded without comment, he glanced at Lucas. "I'm retired from the army, invalided out, actually. I'm a prison governor now. Wormwood Scrubs."
Lucas heard the hiss of Ros's sharply indrawn breath, but under the influence of wedding bells and several glasses of champagne, he didn't immediately grasp the significance of the words.
"I wonder, Miss Myers, if I might speak to you alone? I have some news I think you need to hear."
oOoOoOoOo
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