Chapter 7

Colonel Virginia Lake sauntered into the outer office, every inch the successful film executive. Dressed in the very latest fashions, manicured and flawless in appearance it was no surprise when she took out a delicate mirror and checked her already perfect lip-gloss. She frowned, and turned around to look around the room as if she had seen something behind her.

Picking up the phone on the desk she punched digits.

'Miss Lake here. There seems to be a problem with the lighting in Mr Straker's office. Can you come immediately and check it? Thankyou.'

She walked back out into the reception area, smiled knowingly at Miss Ealand and headed for Studio Lot 4.

Once inside the underground HQ she went to the Commander's office where Alec Freeman was working at the conference table, unwilling to sit behind Straker's desk.

'Colonel,' he acknowledged her with a nod, putting down his pen and straightening the papers he had been reading.

'A bugging device in the inner office.' she came straight to the point. 'On one of the sculptures in the inner office. It must have been put there by that Creighton-Ward woman. Security are dealing with it now. What do you want me to do about it?'

He leaned back in the chair, and sighed. 'You'd better do a G6 on her. Find out who she is working for. And warn the team they may need to detain her. This is the last thing we need right now. I wonder what she might have heard.'


The light was dim. A single low watt bulb hung from the ceiling, blackened, dusty and flickering with age; casting charcoal shadows in the corners of the room. Where was he? He had awoken to find himself lying on his side on a narrow metal-framed bed in a very small room; concrete walls and just large enough to take a three or four paces in each direction. T

here was no window, but an extractor fan was humming in the top corner of the room, circulating fresh air, and he could see a screened recess with a small sink and toilet. There was no light switch inside the room. The only other thing was the metal door.

He had a good idea that it would be locked. The clothes he was wearing were too casual; he would never wear clothes as dated and out of fashion as this, and the t- shirt was too tight. Not his clothes then. Bare feet as well. His medic bracelet was missing and he had a headache. A very bad headache.

Sitting there, on the hard, narrow bed he tried to remember what had happened and how he had got here.

There had been the business trip to French Polynesia, to inspect the base there, and then the flight home. And then...................... the catastrophic engine failure and the pilot's warning to him to prepare for a crash landing on the water.

There had been someone there, in the cabin, when it was filling with water and he couldn't get his seatbelt open or breathe properly; someone helping him to get out and then there had been a girl, a woman really, who had given him a drink when he was thirsty.

He remembered her face, her fingers lightly tracing the silvered scar tissue on his shoulder and her warm hand resting on his cool skin. He remembered that for some reason she was lonely and unhappy. But he didn't recall how he had got here, in this room.

Shit, what the hell had happened? He stood up and nearly fell. Dizziness swept over him and he put his hand up, feeling a dressing on his forehead and pain as his hand encountered bruises and swollen, tender skin on his forehead.

Then it all flooded into his mind, as if all his memories had been trapped behind a floodgate and had suddenly been released. Swamped with the unexpected influx of chaotic thoughts, he slumped on the bed and waited until his mind had sorted them into some semblance of order, and he could recall the events of the past hours.

Dear God; Alec and Rachel. They didn't know that he was still alive. He had to get a message to them, he had to contact SHADO.

He staggered across to the door; yes, locked. He leaned against it, looking round the small room at the walls as they closed in on him. In his dazed and confused state, panic began to overwhelm him and he found it impossible to control the unmanageable emotion that threatened to engulf him. Hyperventilating, he hammered on the door till his hands were bruised and his knuckles scraped and bloody.

Eventually, completely exhausted and terrified, he sank to the floor, almost sobbing with unsuppressed fear, curled up tightly in a corner, hands over his head in a vain attempt to keep out the encroaching walls. Memories from the past overwhelmed him and he was lost in the nightmare of the past.

TinTin hurried down the little used passageway. She had watched as Jeff had supervised his sons as they transported the man down to the cells. Alan and Scott had been roped in to help carry him, and she had had to wait for some time to ensure that it was safe before stealthily making her way down to the old cell block.

As she approached the door, she could hear him thumping on the heavy metal, as if trying to call for help. It was useless though; there was no one near who would be able to help him apart from her.

She stood outside the cell, preoccupied with her thoughts. What would happen if she opened the door? Would he rush out and attack her? Jeff and the others were obviously concerned that he was dangerous, but she was not so sure. There was only one thing for it.

The door opened, cautiously and TinTin peered in, her face showing unease and apprehension. He remained unaware of her presence until she bent down beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

He leaned towards her, desperately seeking human contact to enable him to deal with the terror that he was experiencing and she held him tightly, trying to still his frantic breathing, to calm him.

It was useless; he was too wrapped up in his own torment to be able to respond to her. But she continued to hold him, remembering the smooth touch of his skin under her fingers, his gentle, intelligent eyes watching her, his head leaning against her breast.

She heard his voice, hoarse and subdued, pleading to some unseen assailant to let him go, to set him free. He shook with the memories of the terror, and clung to her, his fingers digging into her. She knew that her arms would be marked with purple bruises from his fingers in the morning.

'Sshhh,' she whispered in his ear, 'it's alright, I'm here.' She settled down against the rough concrete wall, still holding him.