A/N: This story was conceived, plotted out and the majority of the chapters written before the recent tragic events in Manchester and London. Any similarity to those events are coincidental and most certainly unintended.

PART I: WHERE THERE'S SMOKE

To conquer oneself is the best and noblest victory; to be vanquished by one's own nature is the worst and most ignoble defeat.

Plato

o0o

From episode 3.4:

Catherine: Remember your son? The one with the brains, you always said?
Harry: I just wanted him to do well.
Catherine: He isn't doing very well, is he?
Harry: …No.

o0o

Monday 13 March 2017, evening
Clapham North community hall, AA meeting

The chair creaked as Graham Townsend shifted his weight in an effort to find a more comfortable position. It was fruitless; the plastic chairs were not made for comfort and he sighed softly. His eyes roamed over his fellow recovering addicts as he only half-listened to the emotional woman speaking up front. He felt a twinge of guilt; her story should resonate with him, should keep his attention, but after almost two years of these meetings he had heard it all before. Her story was the same as his, and the man next to him, and the woman next to him. They were all haunted by the same demons, the same sense of failure, of shame. By the itch that they couldn't scratch. He'd been clean for almost two years now, and he was inordinately proud of that. He'd managed to hold down a job for longer than a year and maybe, just maybe, there was hope of a promotion. Sure, it was menial work, but he actually found its repetitive nature soothing. With a higher salary he could perhaps move out of the dingy flat he currently occupied, to a slightly better neighbourhood. Still, he wasn't complaining – it felt good to know he'd pulled himself out of the black hole of failure and despair his life had become and got back on his own two feet. He had done this, and it was a victory he was determined to cling onto.

You didn't do it without help, though, an insidious voice whispered in his head, and he shuffled his feet uncomfortably. The suspicion that he had received some unseen help wouldn't leave him. Once again he recalled the first time he had met David, the man who had been willing to employ him. The flash of fear in the eyes, which at the time Graham had ascribed to a fear of junkies. But in time he had come to realise that there was probably a deeper, darker reason for the fear. For almost six months David could not look him straight in the eye, and he could not understand it, until Catherine accidentally let something slip and he began to suspect that David had been pressured into giving him the job. No, actually that was being too generous; he hadn't been pressured. He had been blackmailed. And there was only one person Graham knew who would resort to such methods. He Who Shall Not Be Named.

At first he was incredibly angry. It was yet another thing he could add to the long list of grievances he held. He Who Shall Not Be Named had no confidence in Graham to sort out his life. Instead strings were pulled from afar by the malevolent puppet-master forever nestled in the dark ether that swirled in the corners of Graham's consciousness. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get free of the man. He grimaced, somewhat ashamed at how many times he had ranted against He Who Shall Not Be Named to his sponsor, Kenny. About the lack of emotion, the inability to comfort, the unrealistic expectations. The overblown sense of own importance, the aloofness, the darkness that Graham could sense. About the immoral occupation. Kenny, bless his soul, always listened wordlessly, sympathetically, and Graham had felt that at least someone understood. Because Catherine didn't, not any more.

Graham idolised his big sister. She had always been there for him, even in his darkest days of addiction. Something that He Who Shall Not Be Named could never claim. They had been abandoned, the two of them, at a young age, usurped by a job that Graham could not fathom anyone with a shred of humanity wanting to do. Their mother had done her best, but there had been a hole she simply wasn't able to fill, no matter how hard she tried. And as a result he and Catherine had been united in their hatred of He Who Shall Not Be Named. Graham had thought that would never change, could never change, but it did. About a year ago he suddenly noticed that Catherine no longer joined in when he complained about him, that she merely kept quiet with a slight look of disapproval in her eyes. When he eventually challenged her about it, she had stated quietly, "I recently experienced a small part of his world, and it-" She'd sighed, then added, "I guess it made me understand him a bit better." He shook his head, still baffled by the change in her, confused as to how she could have been taken in so easily. Because he was certain that whatever had happened, it had all been a front, a façade. He Who Shall Not Be Named was simply not capable of real emotion. And he, Graham, would not be so easily taken in as his sister.

All around him chairs scraped and he realised that the meeting was over. He migrated to the coffee along with the others, looking around for Kenny, hoping to invite him over for a chat. He spotted his sponsor moving towards the door, deep in conversation with another man, and sighed in disappointment. He had seen the other guy around for the last month or so, but had not yet met him. Graham noted the short beard and the Persian features, and wondered whether the man was helping Kenny with his conversion to Islam. It was interesting that there were about four or five of the people attending this chapter of the AA who had begun the conversion process – he supposed they found solace in the structured nature of the religion. He himself was not religious at all and the thought came to him, belatedly, that he had something in common with He Who Shall Not Be Named after all, apart from the blood that ran through their veins.

o0o

Tuesday 14 March 2017, morning
The Grid

"She should be here tomorrow," Ruth was saying as she scurried along beside him, and Harry unconsciously shortened his stride to match hers. Her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck today and his eyes followed the pale column to where it disappeared into her collar, before dropping to the pile of files she clutched to her breast. Their shoulders brushed and he blinked, trying his best to refocus on what she was saying. "Debra is quite impressed with her – she says our Miss Portman is the best recruit she's seen in a couple of years." Ruth beamed up at him and his heart skipped a beat.
"I should hope so," he responded, taking refuge behind pompous bluster, but then ruined the effect by adding cheekily, "because only the best will do for our illustrious little brotherhood, right Ruth?"
He was teasing her and she knew it, and a second's silence followed as they both remembered that other conversation about the best collective for their team. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly before musing out loud, "Mmm. I wonder what position you will assign her in your imaginary cricket team?" and ducked into the meeting room, smothering a mischievous smile. He frowned sternly at her retreating back, but he had to work hard to suppress his own grin as he followed her inside. And all the while he studiously ignored the warning light blinking in the distance, trying to caution him that he was becoming rather too fond of his analyst.

"Right. What calamities looming on the horizon today?" he queried as he pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. The others settled as well and all eyes turned to Ruth, who was rummaging through her pile of folders. Harry placed one hand on top of the other on the table and waited patiently until she extracted a sheet from between two files. It was filled with her scribbled writing but he could not make out any of the words from where he sat. She gave a brief run-down on the progress of the ongoing operations, with Adam and Zaf adding a few comments here and there, and apparently all was going to plan. But just as Harry allowed himself to relax – no impending crisis today – she added, "And lastly, GCHQ reported increased chatter about a multiple terror strike on London."
His neck prickled and his focus narrowed until she could almost feel it probing her face like a laser. "Anything specific?"
"No. Just rumours at the moment."
"We should be so lucky," Harry retorted, being of the firm view that there was no smoke without fire.
Ruth ignored the interjection. "They're trying to trace back and see if they can isolate when the rumour started, but it'll take some time."
"I can save them the bother," Harry snapped irritably, and Adam exchanged a glance with Ruth. Here we go again.

"You can't blame everything on Donald Trump, Harry," Adam said wearily, and next to him Fiona stifled a smirk. Ever since the outcome of the last US election had been announced, Harry did not let an opportunity pass by to lambast the new President.
"Can't I," he said with a baleful glare. "That narcissistic, misogynistic, racist nincompoop is dangerous. His policies will increase extremism exponentially, and he will drag all of us down with him. He can build a wall around the whole bloody country and enforce travel bans galore; not much good that will do if the extremists are being cultivated among those already inside."
Adam looked at Ruth helplessly and she tried to steer them back on track. "GCHQ has created a heat-map of the chatter," she said and pointed a remote at the screen. "There is a concentration in south-central London."
Zaf sat forward. "That may stroke with some random intel I received from one of my sources – he claimed that there was a Syrian man floating around Clapham, putting out feelers for extremist Islamists willing to blow themselves up. I gave Ruth the name, but I have no idea whether it is real."
Harry absorbed this news gloomily as Ruth began to scrabble through the files once more. "Yes…" She extracted a photo triumphantly and handed it to Harry. "Imad Tu'mah entered the UK via Ireland in 2014 as a refugee. He wasn't flagged as a possible extremist at the time and has not been in trouble since his arrival."
The photo was in black and white and the dark eyes stared back at Harry mutely. "So. Militant extremist or victim of xenophobia?" There was no answer so he looked at Malcolm and Colin. "Can we cast an electronic eye over his life?"
Malcolm nodded and caught the photo as Harry flicked it over the table towards him. "Right then. Squeeze the lemon, good people, and the pips will come." With that dubious wisdom he departed, Leaving Adam to sort out the operational details.

o0o

Wednesday 15 March, morning
JIC Offices

"They've now picked up the phrase 'before Easter' three times," Harry concluded his briefing and Juliet frowned worriedly.
"That doesn't give you much time," she said, and he felt a flash of irritation. Talk about stating the obvious. Furthermore, he couldn't help but notice her choice of pronoun, and not for the first time he wondered whether he could truly count on her when things went pear-shaped. Whenever they'd had a success so far in her short time as Intelligence Coordinator, she had been quite happy to throw the 'we's' around. But more often than not when trouble loomed, it quickly became 'you'.
"We're shaking every tree we can think of, including mere saplings," he informed her flatly.
She sailed on, seemingly unaware of his annoyance. "You're checking the sales of the ingredients for home-made explosives?"
This time his chagrin was plainly obvious. "Yes, for all the good it will do. Nowadays all you need to become a terrorist is to lay your hands on a lorry or a car – look at what happened in Nice."
She threw him a shrewd look. "All right. Keep me informed."
Harry was about to rise when she continued, "There's one other thing. I am expecting a high level US representative in the next few weeks."
He frowned; there was no official visit scheduled that he was aware of. "Who?"
She hesitated briefly before answering. "George Enfield, the new Intelligence Advisor to the President."

"Christ," Harry muttered, and Juliet's voice sharpened.
"I expect you to be available to brief him on our anti-terror measures, and to provide any other assistance during the visit I shall deem necessary."
Harry's anger flared. "He's yet another of the Breitbart alumni this President is surrounding himself with. He knows nothing about Intelligence, and I am not inclined to share any sensitive information with him. Next thing we know it'll be splashed all over the Internet in that two-penny rag they claim to be a news network-"
"Enough!" Juliet snapped, her patience at an end. They glared at each other, the air crackling with animosity, until Juliet sighed wearily. "Look. I am not exactly fond of the new American administration either. But we need to work with them all the same. We need their help in the fight against terrorism. So play nice."
Harry scowled, not mollified in the least, before nodding shortly. Some days he hated this job.

o0o

Thursday 16 March, morning
The Grid

"Adam!" Zaf had just stepped through the pods and looked around for the Section Chief eagerly. Adam popped his head out of the kitchenette.
"Here, mate."
Zaf strode over. "I've got something. My guy heard whispers that this Tu'mah is targeting former drug addicts, offering them redemption through radical Islam."
Adam stared at him in surprise. "Drug addicts?" he repeated in disbelief. "I think your asset is having you on."
Zaf shrugged. "Possibly. But he seemed pretty sure."
The blond spook thought about it as he steeped his tea. "Mm. I suppose blowing yourself up will at the very least release you from your addiction," he mused as he tried to make sense of the information. "Come on," he said and walked over to Malcolm's desk. The techie looked up as they approached. "Malcolm, show me that movement map of Tu'mah's that you and Colin compiled again."
Malcolm called it up on his screen and the three men looked at it in silence. "Now, can you cross-reference it with AA venues?"
Malcolm's fingers hovered over the keyboard uncertainly. "AA venues?" he queried incredulously. "As in Automobile Association?"
No," Adam clarified, "as in Alcoholics Anonymous."
"Ohh," Malcolm said, even though this instruction made just as little sense. He had long since learnt not to question the sometimes tangential approaches the field spooks came up with. He did as instructed, and yellow dots appeared among the red ones that denoted locations visited by their target. There was one smack in the middle of a particularly dense patch of red dots, and Adam pointed at it.
"What's that?"
Malcolm called up the details. "Clapham North Community Hall. The local chapter of the AA holds their meetings there."
"Right – I think it's time we paid them a visit." Adam straightened up and looked around, spotting his wife across the Grid, talking to the new girl. "Fiona, with me," he instructed before turning back to Malcolm. "I'll need a computer content copying device."

o0o

Clapham North community hall

Reggie Carpenter watched the elegant woman across from him in some awe. He didn't often rub shoulders with such well-turned out people – his chapter of AA served one of the poorer communities and he had little experience in dealing with the well-to-do. She smiled at him charmingly as she held out a business card. "Felicity Cummings, Mr Carpenter," Fiona said smoothly. "I represent a number of corporations – big corporations – that are looking for charities to invest in."
Reggie studied the card in his hand. It indicated that Ms Cummings was a PR consultant, and he smiled as he lifted his eyes back to her face. "What can I do for you, Ms Cummings?"
"Felicity, please," she encouraged. "As you may or may not be aware, the latest budget announced significant tax breaks on charitable donations. My clients are keen to take advantage of that. Some of them have factories in this area and are looking for something in the local community. I was informed that you do wonderful work here."
"Er, thank you," Reggie said, somewhat lost as to whom might have been saying such nice things about the local AA. "What, er, what sort of investment are your clients looking to make?"
"I am glad you asked, Reggie," Fiona responded with her brightest smile. "I was thinking you could show me around the premises, then I can see for myself where the money would be best spent."
Reggie agreed readily, and shepherded the woman out of his office and down the corridor. He did not notice the tall blond man that slipped into the office behind them.

o0o

Two hours later
The Grid

Adam perused the names on the AA list, hoping for inspiration. Tu'mah's name did not appear on it, but that did not surprise him. There were lots of foreign names – Clapham was a melting pot of nationalities and ethnicities, a poster child for everything the Brexit supporters loathed about the new Britain. He sighed; the US and their new President did not have the sole rights to small-mindedness and xenophobia, unfortunately. They needed someone inside that AA chapter, an informer. Zaf was an ideal candidate, but there was no time to put him in there and let him gain the confidence of the others. Easter was a few weeks away; by the time Zaf was trusted enough to obtain any useful information it would be too late. Besides, any new faces appearing this close to D-Day would automatically raise suspicion. No, it had to be someone who was already in there – who had been there from before Tu'mah appeared on the scene. He slid his eyes over the list again. These people were all ex-alcoholics or drug addicts; there had to be someone with a skeleton in the closet, who could be manipulated to their will. Problem was that it would take time to do background checks on all these people, and they didn't have any. And then he saw it. He stared at the name for a few seconds, before lifting his head and glancing around the Grid. Harry and Ruth were in his office, focussed on a file as she explained something to him, and Adam snaked out his hand and picked up his phone. It rang five times before someone answered, and he said without preamble, "It's Adam Carter. I need to speak to you. Off the record."

o0o

Friday 17 March, morning
The Grid

They were gathered in the meeting room and Ruth was briefing them on President Trump's latest gaffe. "His press secretary claims that GCHQ tapped Trump's communications on the behest of Obama."
Zaf sniggered and Harry looked exasperated, but Jo was new and didn't yet know how things worked. "And did we?" she asked, looking to Harry, but it was Ruth that answered.
"No. It's utter nonsense."
"Where did he get his alternative facts from this time?" Harry queried, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. "That beacon of journalistic excellence known as Fox News? The conspiracy-peddling Breitbart?"
"Some judge, er-" she shuffled her papers around, "Judge Andrew Napolitano made the claim on Fox News." She lifted her gaze to Harry. "George Enfield requested that the topic be put on the agenda for his discussions with you and Juliet."
"Of course he did," Harry said gloomily. "But onto things that really matter. What progress with our mystery Syrian in Clapham?"
Adam took a breath and steeled himself. "We've had a breakthrough." He explained about the connection to the Clapham North AA chapter, and he and Fiona's visit. "There's no time to get one of ours in there. We'll have to use a clean skin, someone already ensconced in the chapter."
Harry nodded. "Shouldn't be too difficult to find someone with something to hide among a bunch of former addicts," he said blithely, unaware of the coming storm, and Adam became inexplicably solemn.
"My thoughts exactly," he said before adding resolutely, "and I believe I've found our man." He pressed a button on the remote and the photo of a young man appeared on the screen. "Graham Townsend," Adam added, but Harry did not hear him.

All sound had been sucked from the room the moment he found himself looking into his son's eyes.

tbc