In honor of our collective efforts as The Blake Army to bring back our favorite series, following is the continuation of my story of Lucien's disappearance, before I take up pen to join in the letter - writing to Seven.
Dr. Lucien Blake - Missing
Chapter One:
Lucien:
In my next conscious moment, I called out Jean's name as I reached for her, thinking I must be waking from some terrible nightmare. I felt warm and dry, but the clothes were not my own, and I seemed to be in some sort of enclosed vehicle. It was dark, and I was lying on a thick mat. My hands were bound, but not painfully. As my mind became more lucid, I realized the nightmare was real, and I immediately panicked, thinking of Jean. Was she alright? I had no way of knowing how long I had been unconscious, or where I was. It occurred to me that what had happened must have been intentional, and Jean might have been attacked as well. My thoughts were swirling. I felt panic arise in me again as I realized I was helpless to protect Jean, to even know if she was alive. In the midst of the chaos, logic prevailed. I realized what had happened probably had nothing to do with the killer I had been chasing, and that he had been the one who went over the Sydney Harbor Bridge rail. I also realized if I was meant to be killed, I would already be dead, and the only way I would ever see Jean again was to get through this, whatever "this" might be, and find my way back to her.
At first, they moved me every week or two: the same two men wearing balaclava and some kind of jumpsuit, similar to those of the paratroopers I treated during the war. It was always the same routine: always dark, my head covered with a hood. My hands were tied and I was put into the enclosed vehicle. The sound of its engine and the interior reminded me of a Ballarat divvy van. I was driven: sometimes for about an hour, sometimes several hours, with many turns and stops along the way. The places I was taken were all much the same, and much the same as those I had frequented during my years in intelligence: meant to be undiscovered. Once a day, I was free to walk and exercise outside in an enclosed, high-walled kind of courtyard: grass, no trees. I noticed the guards were always armed during this respite. I wasn't as afraid of being shot as I was of being rendered unconscious again for an unknown time, so I remained silent.
I was comfortable enough. The clothes provided were typical civilian, casual. The food was plain, but nutritious: typical Western foods in variety, but the preparation was different. There were books: some older classics in English, but most were language lesson manuals: English, French, Italian, German, Russian, some Indo-China dialects. There were also reels of language tapes and a tape-recorder. I spent a good deal of time reading and listening to the tapes. There was little else to do except that and exercise. Neither was discouraged by the minders.
Although I didn't know yet how much time had passed from when I had fallen unconscious to when I awoke, I used the only way I had to keep track of the passing days. Each day, I tore off a small piece of a book page and hid it in a small slit I had made in the edge of my shoe with the fork that was provided with my meals. I was seldom alone. My two minders didn't speak to me in those many weeks I was moved from place to place. Once when they were guiding me into the rear of the van, I feigned tripping and fell, pretending to be unconscious. One man gently shook my shoulder, speaking English, but with a faint Eastern European accent. As he knelt, the light from his partner's torch revealed the cuff of some kind of uniform sticking out beneath the jumpsuit. The texture and color was typical of the uniforms worn by provincial Australian coppers. What better way to move about without curiosity or questions than as police? It also gave me a tiny glimmer of hope, that in spite of the odds, I might be in or near Victoria. It seemed fairly certain whoever I was being held by had a military connection, and that the plan to kidnap me was likely related in some way to my intelligence service. It had also been thoughtfully and skillfully orchestrated. I began to focus my waking hours on who: why Eastern European, and specifically why now, when my active participation in clandestine operations had ended many years before? No matter what angle I considered it from, I couldn't see how Robert Hannam fit in.
Each night, however, I allowed myself to think of Jean, and one by one, day by day, I treasured the memory of each and every day of love I had shared with her as my wife.