Chapter Eleven: Docklands

In the back seat, Ruth fumbled with the seat belt. Being flung around every time Zaf took a corner didn't help. She braced herself as they hit the kerb, her head almost hitting the roof before she finally managed to click the tongue into the lock. The belt bit into her neck.

Being back in Britain had held a strange, dreamlike quality. Seeing Zaf again had suddenly made it real. This was happening. The impossibility she had forbidden herself to imagine. Mia already knew her story. Their story. But on their journey across borders, Ruth found herself recounting it anyway. It was like speaking herself into existence, bringing it all back to life - a memorial built of words and memories to something- She smiled wryly. Something wonderful.

Mia, hunched awkwardly in front, jabbed at her phone.

'Calling back-up?' Zaf asked.

'These days I tend to just call it help,' she replied. And swore under her breath.

'What?'

'No signal.' Mia held up the small silver rectangle, squinted at it. 'What the hell is going on?' She thrust it at Ruth. 'You try.' To Zaf, 'Give me yours.'

One hand on the wheel, he dug into his pocket and almost threw it at her.

'There's nothing.' Ruth gripped it anxiously, as though somehow she could squeeze it into co-operation. 'I-I think the signal is being jammed, o-or scrambled.'

Mia snapped Zaf's phone shut. It sounded unnaturally loud, like a lock turning. 'Shit.'

Zaf stared ahead, weaving skilfully through traffic. Tyres screamed as they took a corner at speed. 'Then they're probably following us.'

Ruth turned automatically; outside the window was an unending blur of headlights.

'You won't see anything,' Mia said. 'They won't be right on our tail.'

'If they're tracking us, they won't need to be' Zaf pressed down the accelerator.

ooOoo

The water was black as oil, reflected lights shifting erratically on the surface. Low tide. The foundations of the walls built along the riverbanks were exposed, concrete and rocks, the occasional rusting hull of an abandoned barge. It was a desolate area by night, skyline punctuated by hulking shapes - warehouses and cranes dedicated to the regeneration of places further down the river. Words like that hadn't reached here yet. Welcome to the Wasteland.

Oliver Mace turned, shivering slightly despite his overcoat. The air was keen and damp. His breath frosted. 'What are we doing here?'

Harry didn't reply immediately. He was staring across the water. Then his shoulders squared and his eyes met those of the man standing with his back to the water.

'It's very simple, Oliver. You're going to do a lot of talking. You're going to tell me everything about how you murdered Benedek Ulpius. And then you are going to tell me about Cotterdam. The truth about Cotterdam and the entirely fictitious agent you created called Fox.'

Mace's lips parted in a sneer. 'You mean you want to talk about Ruth Evershed.'

Harry smiled then. 'No. Because apart from you framing her for murder, Oliver, Ruth had nothing to do with any of it. This is about you and me. And this is where it ends.'

ooOoo

They had turned off the road into an industrial estate. It was a labyrinth; that might just slow their pursuers down but not throw them off.

'It has to be the car,' Zaf had admitted glumly.

Not necessarily. They could have tracked Mia the way Zaf had, been following all across Europe, she told him. Be using the signals from the mobiles.

Jettison them.

Mia couldn't go dark. She was expecting a call. It would be important.

They chose a warehouse whose broken windows and rusted lock gave easy access. More than just a warehouse once they were inside, they found. Different levels, stairwells – if they were lucky, they might just be able to hide.

Mia became very aware of the gun in her holster. She hated the thing. She had always hated them, but sometimes it was necessary and one of those times was now.

Their footsteps rang against metal steps. Mia took them two at a time, Ruth following, Zaf bringing up the rear, glancing back at the doorway as he moved. They had blocked it off as best they could. The place was littered with debris – wooden planks, sheets of metal, poles, twisted remnants of machinery. The place reeked of machine-oil and dust.

The only light came through the windows from the arc-lights around the perimeter fence. Ruth kept her eyes fixed on Mia jogging lightly in front of her. With every step something crunched underfoot and she stumbled slightly, righting herself and continuing.

When she had asked Mia why she was doing this, she had simply shrugged and said, 'Harry's paying me.' A moment, a brief consideration and she expanded, 'I owe him a favour.'

It must be a big favour, Ruth thought. Or perhaps Mia just preferred keeping her reasons to herself.

Along a metal landing, turned through a door and found themselves in a large, half-empty space. High windows that almost reached the ceiling; dustsheets covered unnameable machines. For a few moments the only thing that could be heard was hard, heavy breathing. And Ruth could hear her heart hammering in her ears.

Someone had once told her – Danny, she was sure – that life as a field agent was ninety-nine percent boredom, one percent fear.

Right now she felt one-hundred percent terror. And she didn't want to die like this. Not now, not for nothing, not without-

From below, the sound of breaking glass and a faint roar.

'What was that?' Mia's voice, kept low, still sounded harsh and sibilant in the enforced silence. Zaf tilted his head.

'I-'

A window shattered, shards of glass spraying down and a great tongue of fire tore through the dark. Zaf grabbed her, pushing towards a wall, down behind one of those misshapen lumps. They had to move, he thought; get Ruth away from here. If they couldn't find a way out, find better shelter. And then he realised that it was just the two of them huddled together.

Mia stood, frozen, her eyes fixed on the flames. She could feel the heat against her face and her skin burned in response. Prickling, blistering under the flame. The hissing roar of fire, and the smell. And she couldn't move.

Zaf took her arm, shook her hard. Her eyes, glazed, refocused. Her breath came in a strangled gasp.

'You okay?' It sounded rougher than he intended.

'Ye- Yes. I'm okay.' Her hand moved automatically to the back of her neck; she tossed the hair out of her eyes. 'I'm okay. Thanks, Junior.'

A series of dull thuds, voices from below.

'C'mon, we've got to keep moving.'

They all flinched, instinctively ducking as another window exploded above their heads.

'No, wait.' Mia glanced around. 'We can use the fire as a barrier.'

ooOoo

The wind played through power-cables overhead. A low, keening sound.

Mace moved suddenly, black coat flaring out.

It was unexpected. Harry stepped back heavily, momentarily off-balance and then regained his footing. A neat side-step, old skills suddenly remembered. The two men grappled for a moment, desperation on both sides lending added strength. Mace got the heel of his hand under Harry's chin; he could feel his head being forced back, almost to snapping point.

Old skills remembered. He had always been very good at this. A swift blow, a grunt from Mace as his grip loosened. Harry blocked a blow with his arm, his other hand finding Mace's throat and pushed hard. Mace staggered backwards and Harry went with him. Back, towards the river.

There was a sickening thud as Mace's body collided with the wall. He was lifted off his feet, scrabbling frantically for a purchase on something, anything.

Harry braced himself. 'You'd better start talking, Oliver, and fast. I don't know how long I can hold you; and it's a long drop.'

ooOoo

They had pulled the dustsheets off; blackened machinery stood bare and glinting dully in the firelight. Ruth had found a stack of heavy sacking. It didn't burn as much as smoke, a thick acrid fug that distorted vision and stung the back of their throats.

Mia's eyes prickled; she screwed them up, staring through the smoke and listening for any sound that would tell where their attackers would appear. And when. It wouldn't be long. She was more furious with herself than with the people coming for them. To have come so far and now... Where had she gone wrong? she wondered. Her hand tightened around the butt of the gun, rubber bands fixed tight to help the grip. Her palms felt damp. She felt damp all over and cold.

Shouts coming closer, more breaking glass, footsteps ringing on metal.

The waiting was always the worst part. The waiting was almost over.

ooOoo

Seeing what Mace had done to Benedek Ulpius, reading the reports, had been bad enough. Actually hearing it – the confession wrenched out of him in half-sentences and ragged gasps – was worse.

It would be so easy, Harry thought. Another push: just let him go and that would be it. The detachment of that thought was frightening. He was not a murderer. Yes, he had killed people and he had had them killed. But only when it was necessary. Not like this. Not because he wanted to.

There were flecks of foam at the corners of Mace's mouth. His eyes were wide, rolling from side to side and then fixing on Harry's face. So easy...

Harry increased his grip. 'Very good. Now Cotterdam. Tell me about Fox.'

'There was no Fox; there was never an agent called Fox, all right? Please, Harry-'

Begging only made him despise the man more. His voice was raised, high-pitched, hands clawing at the grip at his throat.

'Don't struggle, Oliver,' Harry ground between his teeth. 'It just makes your position more dangerous. You've made a career from talking your way into high places and out of bad ones. Trust me, it doesn't get much worse than this.'

The whole story, from the beginning. He knew it already, but hearing it from Mace's lips... That was a sweet victory. The fire; the cover-up; and then Maudsley's conscience had got the better of him; the steps they had taken to quieten him. Too late. It was an open secret that if Ruth Evershed told Harry Pearce something, he would listen. It made it easier for Maudsley; it had made it easier for them, too.

'What about the footage from the Underground?'

'Doctored. I had it doctored.' He was yelling the words hoarsely into the night; darkness and black water were his confessors. And Harry.

'And what about the witness?'

'Paid off. She was very well paid. For a few thousand she'd have said anything. Harry, for God's sake-'

The Reptile Fund was a good name for that not-so-secret stash of money kept to hush-up the Service's more unspeakable crimes.

'And what did Ruth Evershed have to do with any of this?'

Mace was breathing hard, teeth bared and clamped together. 'Nothing. She was just a way to get to you. You were the one they wanted-'

'They?'

'Me! The one I wanted! Out of the way once and for all.

'And who else? Who has been helping you?'

'Marston. Nigel Marston.' That came as no surprise – not after what Juliet had told him. There were two other names: men he knew; men he sat on committees with, had sat opposite and smiled at. His fingers flexed instinctively, digging into flesh. And Mace was still talking.

'She just made it easy for us because you'd do anything to protect her. And we all knew it. Everyone - everyone knew it. She was innocent.'

'Again.'

'Innocent, she was innocent, she was-'

One push, so easy...

Harry pulled him back and let go. Mace crumpled, sprawled against damp concrete. He wiped his mouth, his hand shaking. Harry felt his stomach roil in disgust.

And then low laughter. Harsh, choking. Mace looked up at him, eyes hard and glittering. 'Let's just hope for her sake that your little helpers are as good as you think they are.'

'What are you talking about, Oliver?'

He swallowed, wincing; he leaned back against the wall and his chest heaved. 'You're not the only one with "people", Harry. You got someone to find her, and I got someone to find them. Quite a few somebodies. And I hear young Zafar Younis has been sniffing around. He's good. And very loyal. Ruth's a very good analyst, Harry, but do you think she'll be any good in a fight? She hasn't really had the training for it, has she?'

For a moment, Harry didn't trust himself to do anything. Then, with great deliberation, he pulled the gun from his coat pocket and aimed it at Mace's head. 'Call them off.'

'You're not going to shoot me.'

'Oh? You called my bluff once before and it didn't work out very well for you, if you recall.' Harry took the safety catch off. 'Point blank range, Oliver. It would be very difficult to miss. Call them off and I let you live.'

ooOoo

In the enclosed space the gunshots were defeaning. Ruth clamped her hands over her ears, shrinking against her bit of wall. Zaf and Mia were both still shielding her. She wished they wouldn't.

People always said that in moments like this your life flashes before your eyes.

Those people had obviously never been in moments like this.

A bullet ripped into the wall above her head and she huddled down further.

There was already a body on the floor. Glassy eyes reflecting red flame. One less of them, Zaf thought. He kept his gun trained on one doorway; next to him, her back pressed against his, Mia felt rigid.

The smoke was blinding; her eyes were raw, watering and she blinked continuously, trying to see through the pall. A shadow fell across smoke and flame, a figure in the doorway. She took aim, waited for him to come closer – they had too few bullets to waste them. It would be impossible to miss her target at this range and she squeezed the trigger.

And the gun stuck.

'Zaf. Zafar!'

He swung around, firing blindly. And there was not one figure silhouetted, but two. They were struggling. And then the larger of the pair got the other man's head between his hands and-

The figure fell, head twisted at a horribly unnatural angle.

The newcomer seemed to shrink as he drew closer, taking a flying leap over their barricade and landing heavily.

'Almost as bad as fucking Kosovo,' Mike said cheerfully. 'Mate, this is serious shit.'

Zaf stared at him. 'What- How?'

A grin. 'Your blonde girl.'

'Jo?'

'That's the one. Sexy voice. She's been worried about you.'

A second to digest the news. 'How many of them are there?'

'Too many.'

But even just one more on their side could be enough. A louder shout from somewhere. More footsteps. They all braced themselves again. And nothing.

From outside there was the squeal of tyres, then silence.

Zaf could feel his shirt sticking to his body, sweat running down his back. They all started when a shrill, broken cord cut the air. No-one moved and then Mia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen shone, sickly green.

'Hello? Yes ... Yes, we're fine, all of us ... Okay. Okay, thanks.' A faint beep; her hands were limp, nerveless. 'That was Harry. It's over.'

ooOoo

There was no euphoria, no jubilation. Just the feeling of something leaden in him finally lifting. It was dizzying. Oliver Mace was no longer laughing, no longer begging. He was folded in on himself and Harry felt nothing.

'Mr Farid.'

From out of the shadows, unseen all the while, Selim emerged. His listening equipment was almost as good as Malcolm's best, Harry thought. The pair would get on.

'I trust all of that was clear.'

Selim nodded, his dark eyes regarding Mace dispassionately and then meeting Harry's. Harry retrieved the envelope, handed it to the younger man. 'You know where to go?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Give the documents and the recording to Juliet Shaw personally. She's waiting.'

Selim slipped away as quietly as he had appeared, the only sound the hum of an engine a few moments later. Harry still watched Mace – the man didn't move. He pulled out his phone.

'Joanna? Red flash the team.'

TBC