Author's Note: thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.
Chapter Eight: Dead Man Walking
Briefly, Ros considered bringing Lucas up to speed on the latest developments. But when she checked the CCTV monitors, she found him fast asleep, his long frame stretched out on the cot bed fixed to the wall. A good few inches too tall for it, his feet were hanging off the end. While she watched, he tried to roll over, a tattooed arm flopping over the side, hitting the cold, tiled floor and waking him with a start. It was the way the cells were designed: maximum discomfort, everything proportioned to be that little bit too small or just out of reach. All the better to break people, but Lucas was already well and truly broken. Left there much longer, and they may not be able to piece him back together again.
Turning away from the monitors in the small surveillance room, she paused to speak with the Security Guard who'd stepped outside to give her privacy.
"Keep up the suicide watch on Lucas," she instructed, working to keep the twinge of pain from her face. "I'm going to have a word with Harry, see if we can't get him moved out to Tring."
The Guard gave a nod and a smile. "Right you are, miss."
She started walking back towards the meeting room, paused and glanced back at the Guard who was just returning to his station. "And thank you," she called after him.
When she returned to the meeting room, everyone was already in place. Ruth, Tom and Harry sat grouped at the far end of the table, while Jo, Tariq and Beth all occupied the left hand side. A video player had been salvaged from somewhere and had been rigged up to an old TV – it being incompatible with the smart screen they normally used. Tariq looked as if he wanted a hot bath after sullying himself with such stone-age technology. Not for the first time, Ros hankered for the days when Malcolm was still on the Grid – he was more than capable of staying abreast of the technological explosion, but he had been around long enough to appreciate the old methods.
Tom got up to operate the VCR, rewinding the tape showing the lobby of the Embassy. He pointed to one of the people, entering via double doors. The image was grainy – typical of mid-90s, pre-digital CCTV, but Lucas could still be made out if they all squinted. They all watched, with Tom giving a running commentary, as Lucas deposited the briefcase beside the bench, followed by the picture breaking up and going dark.
"If it was a power cut, the whole thing would have gone shut off in an instant," Tariq said, referring to the end of the tape. "The distortion was someone pulling the cables on the actual cameras, or messing up the settings."
"Exactly," Tom said, still standing beside the machine. "Whoever was in the camera room that day was waiting for Lucas to deliver that briefcase. Or, it's a hell of a coincidence. Ruth has more for us,"
He resumed his seat just as Ruth got to her feet and rifled through some papers in a file. She selected one in particular and placed it in the middle of the table, where everyone could see it. It showed the image of a large, African man in his late forties or early fifties, dressed smartly in a clean, pressed uniform of white shirt and black tie. An identity badge was pinned to his lapel, the bottom half out of view of the camera.
"This gentleman," Ruth explained. "Is Mamadou Bacary – I found him on the list of survivors contained in the files. I have already contacted Six, they tell me he still works as a Security Guard, manning the CCTV cameras, at the British Embassy in Dakar. He was there on the day of the blast, but survived because a maintenance man had come to fix his cameras. He used the opportunity to go outside for a smoke, which meant he had to go well outside the perimeter gates. He made a joke out of it to the local papers – the day smoking saved his life. He also said that the maintenance on the cameras was unscheduled, but that had happened before. He assumed it was a regular spot check, rather than anything suspicious."
Ros wanted to believe that it was enough to get Lucas off the hook, but she had to admit that it still could all be a coincidence. If it was maintenance, then it would be normal for the cameras to go off. But, that didn't explain how, or why, the tape came to be in Vaughan Edwards' possession, he could only have got that if it was handed to him directly. Harry, however, seemed more optimistic.
"Get Bacary's contact details," he said, gesturing to Beth Bailey. "Call him, and find out if he can give a description of this maintenance man. And try again with Paul Seward, Lucas' old drug running friend."
"Sure, Harry," she agreed.
"We already have a man moving about the building in blue overalls, so he could be the maintenance man in question," Tom put in, rewinding the tape again. When he stopped the tape and played it again, the ticker informing them it was fifteen minutes before Lucas' 3.05pm arrival. Grainy images of a white man slipping into a side door appeared. However, his features were impossible to make out beyond the blue fuzz of his overalls and a smudge of dark hair. Desperate to make the man out, Ros went cross-eyed with the effort. It wasn't Lucas, there wouldn't be enough time for him to do whatever he was doing and get changed before re-entering the building through the front doors.
When Tom sat down again, Ros took her turn to speak.
"We also know that the bomb in the Embassy was placed in the basement, which is where I believe our maintenance man was heading in the CCTV footage we just saw," she began, growing more hopeful. "Lucas left the briefcase outside the Ambassador's office on the first floor, well away from the actual blast site. We know it wasn't moved, as there wouldn't have been enough time and, frankly, what would the point be. Whatever was in that suitcase, it wasn't a bomb."
"A dead drop of some sort?" asked Jo, leaning forward.
"It's possible," Harry answered. "You need experience and expertise to set, prime and code a bomb. Something like this would also involve extortionate amounts of money being paid to the bomber and his handler. Would they really trust a job so big to a student drifter like our Lucas? It's very unlikely. Then, of course, there's Tariq's findings to enlighten us further." Harry stopped talking and motioned for Tariq to deliver a synopsis of his own discoveries.
"Yes, I ran facial recognition on the fake Lucas North," he began to explain, getting to his feet. Ros felt herself almost overcome with a sudden desire to kiss him for branding their mystery man as a 'fake'. The real Lucas North – she was becoming increasingly convinced – was festering in their cells; he just wasn't born with the name, that was all and people changed their names all the time. Meanwhile, Tariq continued explaining his findings.
"I wanted to find Fake Lucas' relatives because no one, ever, just springs into being out of thin air," he said. "Even if his parents were dead, they'd still leave records. But there was nothing. What there was, was this chap." He flicked on the smart screen and pulled up a picture of the convict, Dylan Hughes. "Fake Lucas was arrested in Sierra Leone alongside Vaughan Edwards in 1998, three years after his alleged murder. Unsurprisingly, he's using another name. Lucas North, it seems, was an empty legend that was simply passed from one man, to another."
"Lucas is being totally set up," Jo interjected, voice shrill with indignant excitement. "We need to bring Vaughan Edwards in, right now. Where is this other Lucas North? Can't we find him?"
Tariq answered with a subdued shrug. "He's dropped off the radar, but I'm willing to bet he's lying in wait somewhere in the background."
Tom got up again and thanked Tariq for his work. Then, he moved to the head of the table, leaning down and pressing his knuckles into the table top. He looked each of them in the eye, a look so intense even Ros felt herself shrinking back from it. She was only dimly aware of Tom's personal history in MI5, but still knew enough he'd once been framed himself, coming to within a Gnat's arse of flushing his whole life down the toilet. It was how Adam came to join them.
"We know Vaughan Edwards," Tom said, turning to look directly at Harry. "We know what he's like and what he's capable of. With that in mind, I want to hypothesise that Vaughan has planned this himself, from the very beginning – including North's faked death. He was employed by the Somalis to arrange that bombing. A man like Edwards was never going to dirty his own hands and, clearly, the Fake Lucas is a regular partner in crime. They arranged it so that our Lucas would always believe himself responsible, which would give them complete control over him when they planted him in MI5. Our Lucas, to them, was nothing more than a disposable pawn who, one day, would come in very useful when they wanted something – like the Albany File – then he could be easily dispensed with."
"Just going back to the plant in MI5," Harry said, remaining seated. "Perhaps the faux Lucas North was meant to be the plant all along – hence him taking all the entrance tests, but then Edwards realised North was much more valuable to him in person. Then along came John Bateman – lost, drifting and morally pliable. Except, it went wrong. MI5 was the making of him and then, of course, Russia happened and their precious insider pawn was almost lost. But really, they hadn't lost anything. They didn't gain anything, either. But there was no real harm done. Bateman was just an investment that didn't work out, or so they thought. Meanwhile, Vaughan still had his much more valuable right hand man where he needed him, by his side."
"And, of course, Real Lucas couldn't possibly have known any of this as that would take away all leverage they had over him, as well as freeing him up to tell us about the bomb," Ros added, now feeling her heart lift fully. "They pocketed the cash, although probably chucked some peanuts at our Lucas just to keep him happy, then got away scot-free. If anyone got close to the truth, they could pin all the blame on our Lucas because they had CCTV footage of him leaving that briefcase in the Embassy. All they would have to do is edit it so it didn't look as though the plug had been conveniently pulled before the actual explosion."
Now, Harry also got to his feet and looked his team square in the eye, much as Tom had done moments before. "Thank you, all of you," he said, giving them each a nod. Ros smiled as she noticed the twinkle in his eye, his fighting spirit fully restored. "Now this is enough talk. We need proof, before our Senior Case Officer – a man who sacrificed everything for this country – is laid to waste because of a grave and foolish mistake in his misspent youth."
A flurry of activity followed as the agents rushed back to their desks. Papers were hastily retrieved amidst a buzz of chatter that slowly died away as they resumed their places on the Grid. Only Ros, Tom and Harry remained in the meeting room. For a moment, they sat in silence as they each marshalled their thoughts and feelings. It was only after a minute or two that Harry finally spoke up.
"I keep coming back to the briefcase that Lucas delivered," he said, looking puzzled. "What could possibly have been in it?"
"Nothing. Maybe they just needed him implicated?" Tom put in.
Ros, however, had already given that some thought. "Money. The first half of the payment for the Embassy job. New identity to make a hasty getaway. It could have been a number of things. A dead drop for certain, our friend was waiting in the CCTV room for Lucas to make that delivery – so it was definitely something important."
"What brings us nicely on to the next step – bringing in Vaughan Edwards," said Harry. "Maya might be our best option."
"Harry, I'm really not happy about putting Maya at risk again," Ros put in. "I know you said no, but hear me out on this: let Lucas bring him in." She paused while Harry recoiled. "No, seriously. All he has to do is ring Vaughan from his phone, tell him he has the Albany File and arrange to meet him somewhere we can all be waiting. Put this to Lucas, who is desperate to help us, let him do it on condition that he gets professional help from Tring straight afterwards."
It was going against every one of Harry's instincts, but Ros could see that he was considering it. She raised an eager smile, intending to jolly him along but probably succeeding only in scaring him. "Tring is the best place for him, regardless," Harry pointed out. "You must understand why I cannot have a suicidal officer in the field. He can make the call from his cell. He most certainly cannot come with us-"
"That's all I want," she said. "Well, that and permission to visit him for a little while, just until we're ready to spring Vaughan."
Harry waved a hand, dismissively. "You've done all you can for now," he said. "So, go. Send word as soon as he's made that call."
Before he could change his mind, Ros bid her farewells to Tom and ducked out of the meeting room.
Lucas had given up trying to rest. He'd given up on a lot of things since he'd confessed all. That morning's interrogation had left him feeling hollow, like someone had cut away a fundamental part of his being. Maybe, he reasoned, it was simply the case that he'd lived the lies for so long that, without them, he could no longer function. Not even the prospect of living out the rest of his days in a Senegalese prison could elicit any feeling in him. Whatever it was that lay around the corner, he resolved to simply endure it, to carry on breathing and cease to think about it.
So, in the interim, he sat back on the bed in his cell and waited for time to pass. Mentally, he could not think of what he'd lost: it was too great to comprehend. It was no good lamenting the fact that he'd met Vaughan Edwards before he met Harry Pearce, or Ros Myers, or Ruth Evershed … or any of the other people who'd made him the man he briefly became. Because he couldn't have become the man he was if he hadn't hit a moral low to begin with. He would have just carried on drifting.
He let his mind wash itself blank by tracking the cracks in the walls of his cell. Previous inhabitants had still found ways of scratching their initials in the plaster and, just for a moment, he made a note to mention it to Harry to get something done about it. Then, he remembered with a fresh, crushing realisation that he was no longer in a position to have a word with Harry about anything. To distract himself from the graffiti, he lay down again and turned to the ceiling, where the strip light fixed to the tiles glared down at him. From that spot, he didn't move again until the key turned in the lock of his cell door.
Lucas swung his legs down off the bed and stood up, hastily tucking his t-shirt into his jeans in an effort to smarten up. Before he could finish, Ros stepped inside nodding her thanks to the Guard, who closed the door after her. For a moment, they both looked at each other. Lucas noticed that she no longer looked furious or disdainful. But she was visibly tired and her face looked pinched, as though she had lost weight since the morning's meeting. He saw a thick file in her hands. Then, he saw the faintest flicker of a smile: whether that was because she relished seeing a man she now despised cast down, or whether it was out of real, lingering affection, he could not tell. Folding his hands behind his back, he remained standing with his gaze directed at his now dirty, bare feet.
Not long after she arrived, the cell door opened again and the Guard entered. Placing a chair in the middle of the room, he offered it to Ros before leaving them alone again. She sat down and gestured for him to do the same, which he did with the only piece of furniture in the cell – the bed. He both dreaded and yearned to hear what Ros had to say, steeling himself to extradited to Senegal that night.
"How did you kill Lucas North?" she asked, sounding quite calm.
Before answering, he cast his mind back to the moment. When he returned from the Embassy, he had walked into his kitchen and found the radio on, reading out the number of fatalities. In a rage, he had pulled it out of the wall, yanking the power cord clean out of the back.
"I strangled him with the power cord from a radio," he replied, honestly. "It all happened so quickly. I threw it around his neck and pulled him back and …" his words trailed off as he struggled to articulate what really happened. "I tried to stop, but he was already dead. I don't know how long… seconds, or minutes. I just don't know. It felt like a second or two but must have been longer because he was dead and-"
"Okay," Ros cut him off and handed him a picture. "Identify the man in the photograph."
Lucas' heart twisted painfully as he looked into the face of his old friend. "Yes," he nodded. "That's him. That's Lucas North. The real Lucas North, I mean."
He would go to his grave with that face haunting him. When he went to pass it back to Ros, he noticed the ghost of a smile on her lips. "That picture was taken following his arrest in Sierra Leone in 1998," she explained. "Arrested, alongside Vaughan Edwards."
"That's impossible," he replied. "He was dead; I saw the body. I saw where he was buried, under the Mangrove trees."
"Did you bury him yourself?" she asked. "Vaughan pressured you into it, didn't he? He threatened to shop you if you didn't, would be my guess."
"No, I didn't bury him," he admitted, dumbfounded by what she was saying. "I was just shown the spot afterwards. Jesus Ros, I can barely remember. Vaughan did it, he told me to stay out of sight because the police would already be looking for me."
He could hear himself becoming shrill with panic, again. The world was shifting beneath his feet and skewing his perceptions again, and so soon after he thought he had it straight in his head. He moved, so that his back was pressed flat against the wall and his knees drawn up under his chin. Seeing his clear distress, Ros backed off and tempered herself. She moved to sit beside him, lifting his head so that they were facing each other.
"We know what you were led to believe," she said. "We don't doubt that. But we're desperately trying to get to the bottom of what happened – what really happened. All we know is that nothing's as it seems," she paused as she handed him a photograph of the Embassy from inside the file before explaining what he was looking at.
"So, you're saying I've been set up right from the start?" was all he could think to ask, after she had brought him to speed.
Ros replied with a nod. There were a number of feelings he thought he ought to have, but really, he only felt doubt and confusion. He couldn't comprehend how it could have been done but, simultaneously, he could see how it was so devastatingly easy. Nor could he let go of the guilt, or the culpability for the bombing. He wasn't off the hook, and nor would he be so foolish as to allow himself to feel it. Numb, he handed the pictures back to Ros, who replaced them in the file. Setting it to one side, she lifted a mobile phone from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to him. Up close, he recognised it as his own; he'd handed it over to Harry prior to his confinement.
"Call Vaughan Edwards now and tell him you have Albany," she instructed him. "Arrange to meet at your house in one hour."
Amidst the swell of conflicting emotions, something like excitement flickered in his chest. Now that there was sufficient doubt cast on his guilt, he dared to hope that he would be allowed to do what he did best: counter terrorism.
"Then I'll come with you-"
"No!" she smacked him down flat, snuffing out that brief flame of hope. "Call him now, or we'll make Maya do it."
Not daring to protest, Lucas dialled Vaughan's number and waited for him to pick up.
"Where the hell have you been?" Vaughan answered angrily, dispensing with even feigned courtesies.
Lucas raised a shadow of his old, cocky grin. "Getting Albany for you, that's where I've been," he answered, just about able to sound his old self. "Meet me round at mine in an hour. I'll have it ready and waiting."
"One hour," Vaughan repeated, before hanging up again.
When the line went dead, he handed the phone straight back to Ros. Blushing slightly, he asked where Maya had gone.
"She's in a safe house," Ros answered. "Then she's leaving the country, I think. You know I can't tell you where she's going. But you won't see her again."
Although it made him sad, he didn't truly expect anything different. Maya would be out of harm's way, and that was all that mattered. The next question that sprang to his lips froze there while he looked into her eyes. He wanted to ask, but feared the answer. But he was sick of being afraid.
"And how are you?" he asked in a timid whisper.
"Don't worry about me," she answered, clearly deflecting the question before changing the subject. "We're moving you out to Tring later. You'll be gone before Vaughan Edwards is brought in."
"Tring," he repeated, unsure as to whether that constituted progress. "Why? I thought I was-"
"You're not in the clear," Ros emphasised. "Not yet, anyway. Look, we're not sending you out there as punishment-"
"That's what it feels like," he protested.
"Christ, Lucas!" she hotly retorted. "Would you rather stay here with nothing to do all day except stare at the walls? Do you not want to go somewhere where you're free to leave your room; have access to professional help, books, telly, other people who're all in the same boat?"
Just this morning, he was expecting to be extradited to Senegal. He calmed himself down to see clearly enough to recognise Tring as the pretty tasty alternative it surely was. After a deep, steadying breath, he thanked her. With that, she got up to leave before remembering something else.
"When you get to Tring," she said, "make the most of it. Tell them about Russia, and everything that happened to you. You were never debriefed, you never got help; this is as much a fall out from that as it is from your misguided youth. If you and I…" her words broke off as she lowered her gaze, concealing the emotion that shone there. He could see her composing herself before she looked back at him. "Just you focus on saving yourself, first."
'Is there still a 'you and I,' he wanted to ask. However, he'd already been subjected to more raw, unforgiving truths than he could handle in one day. He decided that that one could go unspoken – it would give him something to grasp on to.
"Will you come to see me?" he asked, plaintively.
Ros was already at the door, from where she looked back at him. "We'll see," she answered.
Recognising that that was as good as she could give, he left it at that.
Jo Portman was concealed in a van outside Lucas' house. Ros was guarding the back door. Tom was sitting in an armchair, deceptively casual, in the living room; while Harry was stationed behind the living room door. It was silent. Silent to the point of hearing the mice scratching at the skirting boards of the empty sitting room. They were all still, but poised to spring to action the moment their target appeared.
They'd left the front door ajar, enticing Vaughan in like a rat into a trap. Adding insult to inevitable injury, the bait was nothing more than an empty promise. Albany had been secreted away to somewhere known only by Harry and the Home Secretary, William Towers. Back in the field, Harry felt alive again, even if the adrenaline was tempered by the fact that it was five against one as Beth guarded the upstairs along with them. All potential escape routes had been sealed.
Harry's earpiece crackled into life and Jo's voice piped up. Tom and Harry caught each other's eye as the information was relayed.
"Lima Team: visual on Target. He's entering the building now."
Harry opened the sitting room door fully, stepping behind it just as Vaughan's footsteps fell on the lino in the hallway. They approached cautiously, entering the living room.
"John?" his voice called.
Harry slammed the door shut as soon as Vaughan was safely inside and moved to block it. At the same time, Tom Quinn got to his feet, gun trained on their target, who glared at them both, failing to comprehend what was happening.
"Hello, Vaughan," Harry greeted him with a bright smile. "I knew you wouldn't keep us waiting."
