Two things. One: I have no idea if Tariq could have done what I have suggested he did. Please forgive the dramatic licence! Two: my apologies to any French readers. I needed a credible villain.

Chapter 14

They drove in silence as Harry headed southwest towards Surrey. He had a face like thunder, and Ros felt it more discreet to hold her peace for a while. Once they were speeding along the Kingston bypass, she finally asked where they were going. She had thought Oliver Mace lived somewhere in Kensington.

"He did. Had heart surgery a couple of years ago and took early retirement. Bought a place out of town." Harry glanced across at her, his face hard. "It would take more than a couple of blocked arteries to floor Oliver Mace. He won't drop off his perch at the first question, Ros; don't be concerned for him."

Nothing had been further from Ros's mind than concern for Oliver Mace, but she didn't say so. She didn't want to push her luck any further; having twice kept Harry in the dark about her own unofficial investigations she knew she was probably here on sufferance. She flicked quietly through the pages of the report on her lap, familiarising herself with its contents, as Harry took a sharp right through Esher.

"Here." He signalled left and turned down a narrow road bordered by a rugby pitch on one side and a hospice on the other. He didn't take much care with the speed bumps, and Ros winced as the car lurched rather than eased over them, but her discomfort gave way to surprise as they entered the village proper. They might have been deep in the Cotswolds rather than on the edge of suburbia. There was a green with a large pond speckled with waterfowl, and a mixture of stone and brick-built cottages in a kaleidoscope of varying styles lining the two single-lane roads that bordered it. A large pub stood on the corner and a tiny church nestled among trees further down. Harry swung into the pub car park.

"This way." He led her down the road until they came level with a large red-brick detached house with wisteria cascading over the front of it. Ros hesitated.

"Harry, are you sure? It doesn't - "

"Look like Mace?" Harry finished.

"Well … no. More like Marple."

"Or Machiavelli," Harry said dryly.

That's more like it. Now they were here, Ros felt uneasy. She hadn't actually seen Mace in years, but her memories of him were crystal-clear, and none of them were good. He had used her distress and anger at her father's imprisonment with consummate skill in order to trap Ruth and manipulate Harry. Exactly the same way as he used Lucas all those years ago. So remember that, Myers. Forget what he did to you in the bloody past and make sure you stop him ruining Lucas's future.

She realised that Harry was scrutinising her. "You all right?"

"Of course," Ros said firmly. "I'm fine."

'Good." He hesitated for a second. "Just don't be surprised at anything I say or do, Ros." With a tight smile, he opened the gate. "After you."

Two sharp raps with the old-fashioned brass door-knocker produced an instant outburst of barking, and seconds later a young border collie raced around the side of the house and hurtled up to them. Ros squatted down as the animal pawed at her, frantically wagging its tail and whining with excitement.

"Hey, calm down!" as the dog licked her face. "Good girl, good girl."

"Susie!" The commanding, well-bred voice was unmistakable, but Susie took absolutely no notice. Ros stood up as Oliver Mace followed the dog into the garden. "Susie! Here!" At last, the dog looked up from sniffing interestedly around Ros's ankles and reluctantly answered his summons.

"Good lord, Harry. What brings you to our peaceful little village?" Mace's jowly features shaped themselves into a smile, but his eyes were cold and wary. They flicked to Ros and she saw recognition dawn. "Good grief." The depth of contempt that he managed to convey with those two words made her blood boil.

"Oliver." Harry's answering smile was about as sincere as Mace's own, but he shook the man's proffered hand. "You're looking well; rural life must agree with you. Since you ask, I'd like to seek your advice about something. Little problem we have."

Mace barked out a laugh that caused Susie to look up enquiringly. It didn't seem to be a sound that was familiar to her. "Dear me, Harry, you must be desperate. I'm finished with all that now. A civilian. Out to grass. No longer 'in the loop' as our American cousins would say."

"Oh, I'm sure you keep in touch with a few old friends here and there." Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Besides, it's not purely a current issue. Dates from back in the day, when we were a couple of young bloods swashbuckling our way up the ladder." He was advancing casually towards the house so that Mace had little choice but to move with him. "Old sins cast long shadows kind of stuff. Old war-horses like you and I understand the importance of the past, don't we? We won't keep you long."

Mace, who since recognising her had so far ignored Ros completely, grunted. "Oh, very well." He looked over at her and then down at Susie, who was now gambolling around Harry. "Yes, bring the bitch in with you."

Ros caught Harry's warning glance and set her jaw to prevent the escape of any one of several possible scathing put-downs. Oliver Mace was an expert in manipulation. She had fallen into his trap once, and both she and Ruth Evershed had paid the price. She wasn't about to make the same mistake again. Mace could be Lucas's return ticket to Section D, and in order to secure that she could take a few insults. Besides, revenge was a dish best eaten cold. My time will come, you bastard.

In the living room, which looked out onto the fields of the nearby farm, Mace ungraciously waved them both to seats and poured Harry a glass of Scotch from a sideboard decanter.

"Miss Myers?" he enquired.

"Just mineral water, please," Ros said.

His lip curled. "How very healthy. Ice-cold, I presume?"

Ros returned his look impassively and accepted the glass with a wordless nod of thanks. Mace moved towards the armchair that would have allowed him to keep his face in shadow, and then realised that Harry had already sat in it. His eyebrows rose imperceptibly, but he took the other one.

"Well, this is nice. Now, Harry. What is this little … 'problem' of yours?"

"Vaughn Edwards," Harry said. When Mace merely sipped his Scotch, he added helpfully, "The Fixer. Done quite a few jobs for MI-6 over the years, one way and another."

"Quite possibly," Mace allowed.

"Quite, indeed." Harry flicked his hand at Ros, and she passed over the report. Mace's eyes followed it. "Slippery little bugger by all accounts. Not above doing a little bit of double-dipping here and there. You know the kind of thing – you can rent a mercenary, but you can't buy one. Thug for hire."

"I believe that's the dictionary definition of a mercenary." Mace's voice betrayed impatience, but his eyes were calculating. "Your point, Harry?"

"He's dead," Harry said, bluntly.

"Sad," Mace said, without a trace of regret. "But then a lot of people are."

Ros saw Harry's lips tighten. "Do you remember the bombing of the British Embassy in Senegal, Oliver?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Of course you do. You were there. Wrote this report." He flicked to the page with Mace's signature and held it out. Ros would have admired the other man if his name hadn't been Oliver Mace. He glanced at it and met Harry's eyes with every appearance of boredom.

"I'm retired, old boy, not senile. I know where I was, even twenty years ago. Kind of you to come all this way to remind me, but hardly necessary. I was a junior officer en poste in West Africa, attached to the investigation that wrote that classified report. May I take it that your charming colleague did the digging that put it into your hands?" He turned his head towards Ros. "Congratulations, Miss Myers. I see time hasn't blunted your rather unsavoury appetite for dishing up the dirt on your fellow-officers."

Ros felt her mouth go dry, but she neither moved nor spoke. Harry looked at Mace for a long moment as if he were something that Susie might have dumped on the lawn, and then suddenly pulled out the photograph of Lucas entering the embassy, and thrust it under his nose.

"Who is that?"

Mace held up a large hand and disdainfully pushed the photograph further away from his face before he looked at it.

"Looks like the little toe-rag who planted the bomb. Planting it." He snatched the report from Harry and flung it down on the table. "He was never found, Harry! If you've read the bloody report then you must know that. If you have an axe to grind, then will you kindly dust off the moss and cobwebs and grind the damned thing?"

"That 'little toe-rag'," Harry hissed, "became my section chief twenty years later. Lucas North. One of the best officers I ever had, and one who spent eight bloody years, Oliver, being tortured in the cesspit of a Russian prison because he wouldn't betray this country. He is not responsible for that bombing and you know he isn't. We both know who is. What I don't know is why. But before I leave this house, you will have told me."

"Will I now?" Mace drawled. "Now why would I do that?" He reached languidly towards the telephone and picked it up. "You do realise that with one call to Peter McFarlane I could put you in deeper shit for this than the horses on that farm leave every morning?" His eyes narrowed at the smile that appeared on Harry Pearce's face.

"Sadly, BT's customer service gets worse every day, Oliver. I think you'll find your phone's out of order and your Internet link down." Mace held the phone to his ear and snarled. "Oh, and don't bother with that," as the man reached for his mobile. "No signal. Sunspots, I imagine."

Ros couldn't prevent a tiny twitch of her lips as she saw the black rainclouds building up outside. It was a while since she'd seen Harry in action; his cutting edge didn't look to have suffered too much from spending most of his time behind a desk. She had seen him issuing orders to Tariq Masood before they left. Now she knew why.

"And before you think of tying a piece of rice paper with a message in invisible ink to the leg of that pigeon out there," Harry nodded towards the garden, "let me just tell you that it was Peter McFarlane who alerted me to the fact that the report was in Miss Myers's possession. Feels he owes her, you see. I passed the information to William Towers late last night. He was quite … shall we say intrigued? Feels very strongly about that bombing, even now. His uncle was a guest at the reception. Small world, isn't it? Lost three fingers in the explosion, I think he said. Don't think he'd be too pleased with anyone involved in a cover-up."

Don't be surprised at anything I say or do, Ros. It was a skilfully delivered blend of the truth, half-truths and downright lies, and impossible to tell where one began and the other ended if you didn't know. Mace's heavy features had turned a light shade of puce. Harry took a long swig of his whisky.

"Talk, Oliver."

Mace took his time, draining his glass and rising to refill it.

"Vaughn was working for us. Doing some of the more - unpalatable - little jobs that the Service can't be seen to be involved with."

"Such as?" Harry enquired politely.

"Doesn't your report mention these things?" Mace sneered.

"Oh, you know what the written word can be like. So unreliable. I like to get my information from what I believe the CIA describes as HumInt," Harry said. "Although it always sounds rather like an insect repellent to me. Do go on."

Mace glared. "The Senegalese were on the point of granting concessions in the Diamniado oil field. Obviously, the French were pushing hard. The Yanks too. Japan. Cuban 'help' lurking around. We needed the oil - and a foothold in the area. Our people needed a little help to nudge the decision our way. Vaughn provided it … on HMG's behalf. We'd used him before for some of our grubbier jobs. He had no provable link to the government. Totally deniable." His eyes shifted to Ros. "He was a good dirt-digger, too, when it was necessary. He had a few off-the-record chats for us. Provided incentives for a couple of key officials. "

"In other words, bribery and blackmail," Harry translated.

Both Mace's chins wobbled as he laughed unpleasantly. "Oh come, Harry, you're not going to tell me you still adhere to that Dragoons code of honour of yours? It's known as 'business tactics', I believe, these days." Again he looked towards Ros. "I'm sure Miss Myers could enlighten you. Wasn't her father a leading light in business before he decided to become a full-time traitor?"

Without thinking, Ros threw the contents of her glass into his face. Both she and Mace sprang to their feet, and Susie joined them, barking furiously.

"That's enough!" Harry roared over the noise. "Ros! Sit down!" He gave his handkerchief to Mace and repeated: "Sit down!"

With her heart still pounding in her ears, Ros did so, furious with herself for having risen to Mace's bait. Harry quietened the dog and glared at Oliver Mace. "You asked for that. Now get on with it."

Mace dabbed the last of the water fastidiously from his face and brushed a stray ice cube from his trouser leg. Then he ostentatiously turned his chair so that its back was to Ros.

"We didn't trust him. Vaughn. Not a hundred percent. You said it yourself - he was a mercenary. Go to the highest bidder. So we paid the deputy manager of the casino to keep an eye on him and report back. There was a kid who worked in the casino who used to hang around with him. That one, your – whatever his damned name is. Vaughn used him for a lot of his errands – delivering cash, documents, whatever was needed. We had no objection to that as long as the jobs got done; it served our purposes, put an extra distance between Vaughn and any representative of HMG. Vaughn would slip him a few quid every now and then, and the kid never asked questions. Seemed to enjoy it. Flattered, I suppose. Little fool." Mace's voice dripped with scorn, and Ros took a couple of deep breaths to control her anger. She knew that one more false move and Harry would order her to leave.

"I'm not interested in your opinion, Oliver, just the facts." From the tension in Harry's voice she knew the remark had got under his skin too. "Go on."

Mace gave a theatrical sigh. "The evening of the bombing our deputy manager was found with head injuries in the gardens of the casino. We got him to hospital and he came round forty-eight hours later. A couple of days before he'd seen Vaughn having a conversation with some bod in the hotel gardens. He'd listened in and seen a briefcase handed over."

The one with the bomb in it. Ros glanced at Harry, but his eyes were on Mace.

"And?"

"He said that he had another briefcase just like it stashed away. He'd found it in Vaughn's room and lifted it - about the time the bomb went off." He snorted. "Pestilential bloody amateurs. Robbins and Aylwin had flown in and already started the investigation, so we played the sympathy card with the Senegalese and got to the case first. Full of cash and share certificates – what that double-crossing little guttersnipe Vaughn should have delivered – or have had delivered – to the embassy. I assume Vaughn bopped him to try and get it back."

"And this 'bod' of yours. Who was he?"

The other man got up and walked across to the French windows. Ros tensed, but he just gazed out for a moment and then turned back.

"We didn't know then. It was months before Six identified him. He turned out to be a Corsican, Pierre LeDantec, ex-Foreign Legion, supposedly working as a fitness instructor in Dakar. In fact he was a low-level staffer with the then SDECE."

French Intelligence. Ros just stifled a gasp. Harry's face was like stone.

"And what were they discussing? The weather?"

There was a pause before Mace replied. " LeDantec said: 'Il y aura une enquête. Il nous faut un bouc émissaire.' To which Vaughn replied, 'T'en fais pas. J'ai le parfait candidat. Jeune, naïf et fauche. Il travaille ici, au casino. Lucas North. Je lui montre le pognon et les documents, puis je les échange. Et il est piégé."

Harry raised his eyebrows. His French was workable, but Ros knew he wanted Mace to say it.

" 'There'll be an investigation. We need a fall-guy.' Vaughn said, 'Don't worry. I've got just the man for the job. Young, naïve and broke. He works here, in the casino. Lucas North. I'll show him the cash and the papers, then switch the cases. And he's trapped.'

Ros felt the tension drain from her body. Just as Lucas claimed. Thank God.

"More 'business tactics', I suppose. The British are a security risk; don't give them the contract. And your reliable, deniable asset changed sides." Harry's face was a study in disgust. "Looks as if Lucas wasn't the only one who was played for a fool, Oliver. What is it they say – if you sup with the devil, you need a long spoon?" Mace said nothing. In the silence Harry regarded him with loathing.

"So you knew – you, Aylwin and Robbins knew that that boy wasn't guilty, and yet you let it be known that he was the main suspect in the bombing?"

"Oh, spare me the sermon, Harry!" Mace raised his steepled hands to the ceiling in a mocking gesture of prayer. "Yes, we'd covered our connections with Vaughn, but his face was known, at least in the intelligence community. People gossip, especially in countries where the damned expats don't have much else to do. Do you think we could have risked it leaking out that a UK citizen in the employ – we thought - of the British Security Services had bombed the British Embassy? And that's without the rest of it! The UK would have lost that contract – do you have any idea how many jobs and how much Treasury revenue would have been lost with it? Not to mention what our attempts to - persuade - the Senegalese to award it to us would have done to our standing in the rest of black Africa! The French needed a scapegoat. So did Vaughn. So did we. And there he was. The bigger picture, Harry! Your young drifter did us all a favour. They both ran – we never found a trace of either of 'em. I doubt they ever met again."

"Oh, they met," Harry growled. "Believe me. Vaughn sent that photograph to the Foreign Office, us, Vauxhall Cross … and because of it, my officer's in hiding and on my own bloody terrorist watch list, Oliver!" For the first time, his voice rose to a shout. Ros shot him a glance. "Your deputy casino manager. How did you get him to stay silent about what he'd seen and heard? Or has he been pushing up mangroves somewhere in Dakar for the last twenty years?"

Mace laughed sourly. "Robbins and Aylwin didn't have the balls. Paper-pushers. So we bought him off and got him out of the country."

"I assume he didn't go to France," Harry said dryly.

Mace snorted. "Hardly."

"Then where?" Harry demanded.

There was silence. "Here," Mace said finally. "Brought in as a refugee from the Ivory Coast; they were slaughtering each other there at the time. Still lives in London. Six won't let you talk to him," he added petulantly. "He's been under protection for years."

Harry turned his glass in his hands. "Oh, I won't need to, Oliver." He bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile, Ros thought, if you were seriously short-sighted. "You see, I have all the proof I need. In your own words." He got to his feet.

Somehow, Ros kept her face blank. She knew neither of them were wired; Harry had said that Mace would have been alert to the possibility and checked for one. She wasn't sure what he was doing, except possibly trying a colossal bluff.

"You're lying." It was like watching two poker players. "You're not wearing a wire."

"A wire?" Harry's smile widened. "Tut tut. Oliver, you really are a little bit out of touch. How twentieth-century, as my young tech geek says. You see, your phone, as well as having been temporarily disabled by him, has also been hacked. And – though please don't ask me for the technical details - when you tried to make that call, you obligingly activated a bug. Which means that Section D will now have a high-quality, digital record of every word you've said."

The silence stretched out so long that the dog started to whine and whimper, unsettled by the electric tension in the air. When Mace finally broke it, it was with a bellow of laughter that made Ros jump.

"You bastard," he said.

"I like to think so." Harry looked across at Ros. "Ros, I think Susie might appreciate a little stroll in the garden for a few minutes?"

"Of course, Harry." She obediently got to her feet. The border collie jumped and barked around her as she crossed the room.

"Miss Myers." Oliver Mace looked down; he was a clear head taller than she was. "A delight, as always. Would you like me to bend so that you can spit in my eye as you're so clearly longing to?"

Ros met his eyes. "You're not worthy of my spit," she said, and walked out of the room.

She sat on the garden wall and threw a ball for the ecstatic collie for fifteen minutes until Harry emerged.

"Let's go," he said abruptly. "We have what we need."

Ros looked over his shoulder. Oliver Mace was standing at the window, smoking a cigar and watching them.

"Harry, he could bypass Six and report this straight to the Home Office or the JIC."

"He won't. He can't go to the Home Office because of Towers's uncle. The JIC never acts without instructions from the Home Office or Downing Street, and Downing Street would need a report from Towers. Which it won't get." Harry held the gate for her. "Ros, no-one will want the lid off this particular Pandora's Box. And though I despise a lot of what Mace is, he's served the country in his way, too. I gave him my word I wouldn't rattle any more cages if he confirmed the accuracy of his story in writing. Stating he was making it freely and not under duress." He tapped his jacket pocket. "In here." He turned and looked back at the house. The broad silhouette at the window briefly inclined its head, then turned and walked away. Harry briskly set off back up the street and Ros hurried to catch him up.

"According to his file Towers's father was an only child."

For the first time, Harry Pearce's smile was genuine. "I know."

Ros blinked, and then she laughed. She simply couldn't help it.

"He was right. You really are a bastard."

"Why, thank you, Miss Myers. Do you know what he said to me once you'd gone? I told him I couldn't do anything about the lives Vaughn took but at least I'd stop the bombing destroying another one. He said 'The slimy little oik put one over on us, yes, but in the end sympathy got us the contract, Harry. Gave us a foot in a sensitive area, saved thousands of jobs. Avoided a scandal. Called in some favours from the French that probably saved far more lives than we lost in the bombing. Weigh all that in the balance against seventeen lives and the smearing of a stupid, gullible kid, and we didn't do so badly. The moral compass is a very unreliable device, old chap. Changes direction with every shift of the political wind." Ros made a moue of repulsion as Harry sighed and passed his hand over his eyes. "The trouble is I'm not so sure he's entirely wrong. This is a filthy bloody business."

There was a moment's silence and then he produced a smile. "Let's get out of here and breathe some fresher air. Get the taste of expediency out of our mouths. I know of an equally good pub five minutes drive away. We can raise a toast to Lucas. Once I get the arrest warrant withdrawn I can take him off the watchlist myself." He grimaced. "Thank God the D-notice worked long enough for the press to lose interest."

"Think that football star's getting caught with his pants down did that," Ros said sardonically. "And once that's done - "

"It'll be safe for him to come home." Harry turned towards the main road and left the rustic charms of West End and the macabre secrets it concealed behind them. "If we knew how the hell to find him and tell him that."

Ros Myers hesitated. Then she allowed herself a smile.

"I think we do, Harry. I think I know where he is."

Not an easy chapter to write. Hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Please review!