Harry saw Lottie and Ruth off to the front door for their daily endeavours, before busying himself with the washing-up. It was a heavy task, with tottering piles of dishes from the party the night before. But he didn't mind. He liked to keep busy – especially when something was bothering him. That was one of the things he missed about Five. That sense of purpose. Despite all the pain and heartbreak and crap he had endured, there was always been something to do. He hadn't always felt successful, but he had felt like he was doing something useful. Now, he whiled away most days, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the next guest to arrive and watching the hours tick slowly by until his family returned. He was happy enough, of course. But there was that small part of him that missed his old life. And now that a big part of his former life was currently sitting a few hundred yards away in one of his caravans, it was harder than ever to ignore it.

Harry shook his head, willing his rising emotions away as he scrubbed at an already gleaming plate. The scourer slipped and screeched out a loud, high-pitched squelch that irritated his ear drums. He tutted and shoved the lot back into the washing up bowl. Leaning against the sink, he took a couple of soothing breaths, trying his best to think calmly. The conversation with Lottie had gone about as well as it could possibly have done. And Ruth had assured him that Catherine would likely come back. He just wasn't too convinced. His daughter could be pig-headed and stubborn – just her father. And when it suited her, she had her mother's vindictiveness. Those two combined did not make up for a promising reunion. Still, he cogitated with a small sigh, life went on. He couldn't allow himself to wallow all day. That mindset would surely drive him mad. And so he got back on with the washing-up. What else was there to do?

He was about halfway through when he heard a sharp rap on the door. Harry frowned. He wasn't expecting anyone. Guests usually arrived mid-afternoon, and it was a little early for the postman. There was only one other person it could be. Hope was the first emotion to hit him. Fear followed in hot pursuit. He felt a sort of anticipatory terror prickle up his spine, his heart immediately starting to thunder in his chest. He steadied his breath, dried his hands and went to answer the door.

Catherine was standing there, hunched in on herself, looking small and vulnerable and devastatingly sad. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and she was knotting her hands together in a fashion that was surprisingly akin to Ruth. It seemed that his darling Ruth, astute as ever, had been right. Yet it was still a shock to see Catherine there, up close and in the flesh. He struggled to find something to say. Something, anything, that wouldn't have her running for the hills again.

"Hi," was the only thing that came out in the end.

"Hi."

He blinked stupidly, then gathered his wits and opened the door wider "Here... er... come in."

Catherine gave a rather flat, half-smile and stepped inside. Harry closed the door, leaning his forehead against its cool wooden surface for a second. Then he turned around and studied his daughter, somewhat uneasily – and probably more than he should have. She shrank away from his scrutiny, continuing to twist her hands awkwardly, one into the other, again and again.

"Er... come through?"

Again, Catherine did as instructed, following him through into the living room, slowly and cautiously, without a word. Harry gestured to the sofa, and she perched there with a surreptitious glance around at all the photos on the mantelpiece. Harry felt a twang of guilt that she and Graham were not up there, but forced it back down again. He was determined to remain calm. He didn't want to trigger another argument.

"Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Juice? Something stronger?" he asked, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. Even without the stifling tension between them, Harry had always been a rather awkward host. Illicit affairs with random women and taking charge of the Grid were the only exceptions to this rule.

"I'd like something stronger, to be honest, but I won't."

Catherine's voice was hoarse and stuffy from all the crying, and the sound of it almost broke Harry's already fractured heart.

"Right."

"I want to keep a clear head," she added by way of explanation.

"Right."

"Are you just going to keep saying 'right'?"

"I'm... not sure what to say," he admitted warily.

"No, you never really did."

Harry winced at the vehemence in her voice. Catherine sighed and looked away, her hands continuing their knotted ballet and her knee jiggling irately. She was clearly trying to make a valiant effort to remain cordial, for which Harry was grateful. So grateful that he wasn't about to do or say anything that might ruin their fragile truce. So he just hovered, waiting for her to make the first move.

"Look, just... just sit down, will you?" she said impatiently. "You look like a rabbit caught in headlights."

Harry swallowed and did as he was told, sinking down into the armchair opposite.

"And stop looking at me like that!" she snapped.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like that. Like I'm some exotic creature."

Harry glanced away, his gaze moving to her muddied boots instead, "Okay. Sorry."

"And stop being so bloody sorry!"

Harry sighed and withered into the depths of the armchair, really not sure where he was supposed to look or what exactly she wanted from him. The sharpness of her tone reminded him distinctly of Jane and he had never been able to temper his ex-wife's anger very well. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from saying any caustic remarks that might set her off, and continued to stare at her feet.

"My eyes are up here, you know."

Harry snorted incredulously, unable to hold his tongue as he whined a soft, "You just told me not to look at you."

"Like that. I told you not to look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you... Oh, just forget it."

Harry chanced a glance up at her, "I was just... happy to see you."

For a moment, Catherine looked like she was about to say something acerbic in reply, but she swallowed it back down in the nick of time. It seemed that she too wanted this conversation to work.

"So I got your letters," she said quietly.

Harry frowned, "What letters?"

"The letters in that ratty old shoebox. Your – whatever she is – Ruth... gave them to me, this morning."

Fear gripped at Harry's heart. Fear and fury. Fear at what Catherine was going to say. And fury at Ruth. That bloody woman! That bloody, bloody woman! She had had no right to interfere like that; to invade his privacy! She hadn't even told him... hadn't even asked. And for that matter, since when had she known about those letters? He had pushed them to top of the bookcase when he was alone. He had written them when he was alone. How could she possibly have known? They were supposed to be living a life without secrets between each other. Why had she not told him she knew? He discarded the rational side of his brain reasoning that he too had been keeping secrets: writing and hiding the letters in the first place. He didn't want to think about that. Not now. No, for now he was too angry. Too scared.

"Right," Catherine nodded calculatingly, clearly having read the dumbfounded expression on his face. "She said you didn't know."

"She had no right – " he croaked, trying to keep his anger under wraps.

"She had every right," Catherine argued. "To be honest, it's the most decent thing either of you have done. The letters technically belonged to me. Well... half to me. And she gave them to me, that's all."

"But... but..."

"And I'm glad she did," the blonde continued stoutly. "How else was I ever going to know what was going on inside your head? Why you did what you did. You were always hopeless at talking to me about the things that mattered."

Harry blinked, unsure of whether or not he was still angry. Could it be that Ruth, however annoyed he was at her interference, had given him the chance he needed to mend the rift between him and his daughter?

"You... you read them?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Most of them, yes."

"Right," he murmured dumbly.

"Can you stop saying 'right'?"

"Well, I really don't know what else to say. I've had a lot of balls thrown at me at once in the last twenty-four hours."

Catherine snorted derisively, "Oh no, Dad. You have no idea."

"What do you mean?"

Catherine didn't reply. For a moment, she just stared at him, the blankness in her face really rather unsettling. Then she shook herself free of her reverie, cleared her throat and folded her arms stubbornly across her chest.

"Okay. So. This is what's going to happen. I'm going to... sum up what I got from your letters and you're going to tell me whether I've got things right. Okay?"

"Okay. Does that mean I can say 'right' again?"

Catherine cast him a withering glance, "Now's not the time for jokes, Dad. I'm not in the mood for shitty humour."

"Right. Sorry. Yes," Harry held his hands up in defeat, despite inwardly cheering at hearing her call him 'Dad' again. "Please. Continue."

"You didn't die six years ago."

"Right."

"You got together with a woman from work and had a baby. They were the woman and child from yesterday – Ruth and Lottie."

"Right."

"So that little kid is my sister."

"She is, yes."

Catherine swallowed, clearly still trying to comprehend this revelation.

"And..." she frowned, shaking her head as if to get back on track with the interrogation. "And you faked your deaths to protect someone at work who otherwise would've gone to prison."

"Right."

"And you just... what... stuck a needle in a map and chose here?"

"No. I can't remember exactly when I wrote that first letter, but I think we'd just arrived here. We'd travelled Europe extensively, but didn't feel safe; kept coming across old... adversaries. So we kept moving and ended up in Sydney. Then, one day we stopped here."

"And you stayed."

"And we stayed."

Catherine frowned, as if something had just occurred to her, "Where... where exactly is here?"

It was Harry's turn to frown.

"You don't know?" he asked, astonished.

Catherine usually managed to keep her feet firmly on the ground, aware of where she was and where she was going at all times. Her erratic behaviour was seriously starting to worry him.

"Just tell me!"

"Okay, okay," Harry appeased, holding his hands up again in surrender. "Beechworth. We're in Beechworth. North-East of Victoria."

"Right," she nodded, processing this before waving them on. "So you settled in Beechworth. And you now run the whole Caravan Park. Is that right?"

"That's right."

"And no one here knows who you are, or what you did when you were back in England?"

"No. For six years, we've been living as Henry and Rebecca Knight, two former teachers."

"And this woman. Ruth. Are you two married?"

Harry hesitated. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about proposing. Again. But whenever he raised the topic, Ruth always seemed to steer the conversation elsewhere. And he let her. He wouldn't push things. He didn't doubt her love for him and, after all, there were a shed load of reasons for them not marrying at this point in time. The disastrous proposal a lifetime ago at Ros Myers' funeral was a major factor. Even now, he wasn't sure she had quite gotten over how poorly timed that was. And also, he knew that were they to marry, they'd want to be bound to each other by their real names. Marrying using sham names might surely doom them to a sham marriage. And they both deserved more than that. So for now, their comfortable little life and what they had, was enough. It had to be.

"No, we're not married. People assume we are. Our aliases certainly are, and our passports say so. But in reality, no, we're not."

Catherine rolled her eyes and grunted disparagingly, "Of course. Some things never change."

For the first time since Catherine arrived, Harry felt a twinge of annoyance towards his daughter.

"If you've read my letters, then you must surely know how serious I am about Ruth."

"Sure, Dad," Catherine muttered, blatantly unconvinced. "If you say so."

"I do say so," Harry stated, folding his arms firmly across his own chest; a perfect mirror of his daughter. "The fact that we're not formally married means nothing. We're very much together in every other way."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. I don't want to know the sordid little details."

Harry opened his mouth to retaliate, but managed to stop himself just in time. He had always been quick to defend his relationship with Ruth, especially when it came to his love's honour, but he realised that actually, Catherine was probably just trying to get a rise out of him. So instead of responding to her goads, he broached the line of questioning that they both knew was coming.

"Ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me what's been going round in your head since we saw each other last night. I explained it to some degree in my letters. But I think somehow you'll probably want – and indeed, deserve – an explanation face-to-face."

Catherine paused, then nodded, her breathing accelerating as the cracks in her barely restrained anger began to show.

"Okay, fine. Why couldn't you have found some way to tell me? To even just let me know that you were still alive?"

"Because to let anyone know would've been dangerous. For myself, Ruth and Lottie; for you, for Graham and Jane, for the people within Five who got us out."

"Who knew within Five?"

"That doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"You wouldn't know them."

"Did Uncle Malcolm know?"

Harry hesitated. His silence was enough.

Catherine laughed humourlessly, running frustrated hand across her forehead, "That bastard..."

"Don't be angry with Malcolm – "

"I'm not angry with Malcolm. I'm fucking furious!" she growled, pounding the arm of the sofa with her fist for emphasis.

"He was only trying to help. And it was what he was trained to do after an operative's been extracted."

"So you've done all this before with other people?!"

Harry's jaw twitched with guilt, "Yes."

"Oh, bloody fantastic! Exactly how many living, breathing human beings have been declared dead? Exactly how many families have you destroyed?!"

"We did what needed to be done, for the safety of all concerned."

"Well congratulations, Dad!" Catherine spat, tears filling her eyes and overflowing down her flushed cheeks. "What a good job you did! Because I have never felt less safe in my life!"

Harry was caught between wanting to hug his eldest child, and ask her what exactly that meant. Her behaviour had already been worrying him, but now she was starting to talk in riddles.

"I don't understand," was all he could think to say.

Catherine ignored him, "So whilst Malcolm was busy lying to us, comforting us at your fucking funeral, and you were busy shacked up with some woman, did you ever stop to think about how we were? You know... the kids you left behind?"

"Every day. I thought of you every day."

"Yeah? And did you ever think about how much we might need you?"

The tears were coming harder and faster down Catherine's cheeks. The bravado was fading fast from her voice, and all that was left was hurt, grief and a bewildering note of terror.

"Catherine?" he murmured concernedly.

His head told him to stay rooted to his seat; that any contact might scare her off. But his heart couldn't bear to see her in such a state. He rose from the armchair, quickly crossed the threshold and sat down beside her on the sofa, placing a hand atop of hers. She made a rather weak attempt to pull away.

"Get off," she ordered, without the assertiveness, or indeed the resolve that was actually required of such a demand.

"No, I won't," he negated, gently dragging his hands up her arms and pulling her into his embrace. She made another feeble attempt to wriggle away. However, it seemed her own heart was pulling like a magnet into the warmth of her father's arms because she gradually gave up the fight and allowed herself to be held. "I won't let you go, because you're upset and I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," she sobbed, her trembling voice resonating painfully against his chest. "I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity. It's love."

"You don't love me. You can't!" she cried wretchedly, her distress ripping his fractured heart to shreds.

"Oh, yes I can," he whispered certainly. "That's one thing I distinctly remember writing in every single letter. That I love you. I meant it and I still do."

"If you loved me so much, then why weren't you there when I needed you?"

"I... I know... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he murmured back, kissing the top of her head, and running a soothing hand up and down the knobs of her spine. She was thin. Far too thin.

"Why weren't you there when I met him?! Why weren't you there to tell me?!" she wept.

Harry swallowed. Her emotions were spiralling increasingly out of control, and her words becoming more of a mystery than ever. Him? Who was 'him'? He could only assume that some bastard had broken her heart. And Catherine didn't suffer fools lightly, so for her to be in such a state, this man must have done a real number on her. He kept a tight rein on his own emotions, and tampered down the rage that threatened to raise its ugly head.

"Who's him?"

But Catherine didn't seem to be listening. She was too busy caught up in the torrent of her tears, sobbing her heart out against his shoulder and gripping his shirt with every ounce of strength she had left. It was making his bruised chest ache, but that was the very last thing he was worried about right now.

"I'm scared, Dad! I'm s-so s-so scared!" she cried.

And suddenly Harry realised that this – whatever this odd tangent in the conversation was – wasn't about his relationship with Catherine anymore. And perhaps it wasn't even about a disastrous love affair. It appeared to be as Ruth had suspected: something was very wrong with his daughter. She was in some kind of trouble, and she needed help. He wanted to dive straight in and demand answers; leave no rock unturned, but he knew that that sort of pressure wouldn't be helpful right now. Not when Catherine was weeping so hard it seemed as if she might never stop. Not when he could barely get a coherent word out of her.

So he just continued to let her blub into shirt, squeezing her to him and whispering reassurances of help. Because even though he hadn't seen her for six years, and even though she was very much now a grown woman, a father never stopped wanting to do his damndest to make everything okay for his little girl. And it was painfully obvious that everything was far from okay with Catherine. How could it be when she was clinging to him like a small child, sobbing over and over, with eyes that shone bright with fear?

"They're after me! They're coming after me and I don't know what to do! Help me. Please help me!"

And he was helpless. All he could do was rock her, all the while wondering what on earth his little girl had gotten herself into.

"Here. Drink this."

Catherine, who was still puffy-eyed and red-faced after her meltdown, silently took the proffered mug, nursing it between her hands. It had taken a while for her to calm down. In the end, she had cried herself dry, before passing out on the sofa for an hour. Harry had simply watched her sleep; anxious about her health, worried for her safety, and wishing fervently that Ruth was there. He wasn't sure she would be much better at handling Catherine than he was; he had never seen his daughter so devastated, so utterly inconsolable. But her presence, warm and comforting by his side, always filled him with a quiet strength. A strength he knew he dearly needed right now.

Eventually, Catherine had awoken, silent and sheepish and clearly very embarrassed by her breakdown. Harry had retreated to the kitchen under the guise of fixing a drink. He could see that they both needed a moment to compose themselves. The conversation they would inevitably have on his return was either going to see her push him away, or tell him what exactly was going on. And he wasn't sure he was ready for either.

But now, here he was, sitting tentatively on the sofa beside Catherine, waiting for her to say something... anything. She didn't tell him to bugger off. At least that was a good sign. The blonde was staring down at the contents of her mug, a small smile playing across her face.

"Sweet tea?" Her voice was even hoarser than before, wrecked from all the crying.

"Am I that predictable?"

"Yes."

Harry smiled ruefully and took a sip of his own tea. When he glanced back at Catherine he was surprised to find her staring at him.

"When I was sixteen, my first boyfriend dumped me," she announced out of nowhere. "Thomas McCloud, do you remember him?"

It took him a moment to recover from this random recollection, but he nodded silently. He rather wished he didn't remember Thomas McCloud. The cocky little toerag had been all bravado and bluster and hadn't been anywhere near good enough for his little girl.

"You made me a mug of sweet tea and told me that there wasn't anything a good cup of sweet tea couldn't fix."

Harry grimaced. He had forgotten that. He certainly wouldn't dream of saying something that patronising now. Yet Catherine didn't seem to be viewing it as a negative. On the contrary, she was blinking at him in wonder, a rare softness permeating her gaze. It was almost as if she was looking at him – really looking at him – for the first time in forever.

"You'd moved out by then," she reminisced quietly. "But Mum called and told you. You left work early to come round and fix me a cup of sweet tea."

Harry ducked his head bashfully. He didn't know why. He had never been the bashful type. Perhaps Ruth's mannerisms were rubbing off on him. Or perhaps he just wasn't used to the semi-compliment from his eldest child.

"Well," he huffed out a gruff chuckle. "Don't worry, I won't be so condescending as to suggest that a mug of sweet tea will fix everything now."

The tiny, infinitesimal smile faded from Catherine's face, "No. I don't think anything will fix this."

She sounded so forlorn, so despairing that it almost broke him. Catherine was many things: stubborn, sarcastic, passionate, opinionated, and at times a right madam – but she wasn't a quitter. She had an inner strength. It was that strength that must have driven her anger last night; spurred her on to hit him again and again and again, even when she was seemingly falling apart at the seams.

"You know what else you said to me that day that day that boy dumped me?" she continued, her voice soft and devastatingly sad. "You said that men could be shits. You said that you knew that, because you could sometimes be one of them," she glanced apologetically up at him, her gaze gloomy but nevertheless unwavering. "And though you comforted me then, I was so ungrateful. I stormed off and told you you didn't know anything. And for years after that I used that comment against you. I called you horrible things; said things I didn't mean."

"So did I," Harry shrugged, trying not to remember all those times their rows had compelled him to hit the bottle, or seek solace in the bed of yet another nameless, faceless woman.

Catherine's next statement rattled him to the core.

"Men are shits, Dad."

He gulped, wondering just what had happened to his little girl to make her say such a thing. His stomach rolled uneasily. Please, God, don't let what had happened Ruth over six years ago have happened to Catherine.

"Catherine – "

"Men are shits," she repeated, a single tear trickling down her face. "You're not one of them. Not really. Well – maybe a bit... But men... but he..."

She trailed off listlessly, shaking her head and swiping a hand impatiently across her face. Harry tried to think of what to say, but all sense seemed to be eluding him. So he placed his hand underneath her mug and lifted it gently towards her lips. She followed his lead, taking a few slow sips before sighing as the warm liquid soothed her raw throat.

"Bit better?"

"Bit," she mumbled.

"Good. Because I think you need to tell me what's going on."

"Don't get up on your high horse with me!" she snapped, a hint of the usual fire returning to her eyes. "I'm still livid with you, you know."

Harry nodded, "Duly noted. But I'm still worried about you. So please. Talk to me."

Catherine sighed, lowering her mug and fiddling absently with the rim.

"I've been in Syria on and off for the last two years, documenting the conflict and following the White Helmets." Harry raised his eyebrows, rather glad that he hadn't known this, or else he knew he would have spent every minute of every day worrying. "I... I met him while I was there."

"Him?"

"Ollie Kinkaid. British-born journalist – or so he said," her face turned dark and she distinctly avoided his eyes now as she spoke. "We met in Damascus. We were both following a car bomb incident and I found out that he and his team had been covering pretty much the same things we were. So we teamed up. It's hard to find friends out there in the carnage... the savagery... and he was sweet. Really sweet, and attentive and basically, your stereotypical English gentleman in a country in chaos. And we fell in love. Or at least... I thought we did."

"Catherine – " Harry murmured sadly, reaching out a hand and laying it gently atop of hers.

"Don't," she swallowed, a hard edge to her voice as she stared determinedly at her mug. "I don't need you to tell me how stupid and naive I was."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Well, I don't want your pity either. I think that'd be even worse."

Harry sighed, doing his level best to remain calm, "What did this Kinkaid character do?"

"Nothing to me," she mumbled flatly. "Not yet. Unless you count lying – in which case he was the biggest shit of them all."

She sighed, shook her head once more and took another soothing sip of her tea.

"I was stupid, dad," she whispered forlornly. "I allowed myself to fall in love. I've always been so guarded, especially after you and Mum divorced. I mean, sure, I've had boyfriends and I'm certainly no nun. But I'd never fallen for someone. Not like this. For the first time in my life, I began to think that... that maybe I was going to get that all-elusive happy ending... that it was possible to fall in love without getting screwed over. But it turns out... you were so right all those years ago when you used to call me foolish and naive – "

"Catherine, I was wrong. So very wrong – "

"No, you weren't. In fact, I think that might've been the truest thing you ever said to me."

"No – "

"Yes. Now shut up or I'll never be able to get the rest out," Catherine ordered bluntly.

Harry wanted to argue with her; explain that he regretted his words from when she was a teenager. He had been frustrated and unhappy and although he had loved her, he had had no idea how to talk to her. After all, hadn't he thought the same things about Ruth at one time? Perhaps this was just what he ended up doing with the people he loved? He managed to belittle them yet simultaneously put them on a pedestal and believe that they were worth only the best. Why did he do that? But, of course, now wasn't the time to reflect. Now he had to do as his daughter asked: shut up and listen, or else he would never find out what was troubling her so.

"A few days, ago I was out in Damascus filming. Ollie didn't come. He said that he and Karim were going to stay at the flat to get some editing done."

"Who's Karim?"

"Karim Nahas. He's... he was a sort of go-between guy between our crew and the local communities. He was born Damascus; knew the people and the area really well. He was a part of Ollie's team."

"I see."

"Anyway, I came back after filming and I could hear voices in the flat. One of them was Ollie's, the other Karim's – but there were some others. Men I didn't recognise." Harry frowned. He didn't like where this was going at all. "I thought about calling out, but something... I don't know... something told me not to. So I just crept into the bedroom and listened. It turns out that the walls are really paper fucking thin in Damascus, I could hear every word being said, and I began to realise that this wasn't just a production meeting. A lot of the men were speaking in Arabic, but I've picked up a fair bit in my two years there."

"What were they saying?"

"They kept talking about something called Alfurasan Alarbe. They made it seem like some kind of organisation," she glanced up at him. "Do you know it?"

Harry shook his head. He had heard about hundreds of organisations running in Syria, but that one didn't ring a bell.

"They mentioned Daesh. Again and again. I began to a get a picture of what they were talking about."

Harry swallowed. Anything to do with Daesh was definitely not good. Could it be that Catherine had stumbled quite by accident upon a terrorist plot?

"They were Daesh, Dad," Catherine murmured, her skin slowly draining of colour. "Ollie. Karim. Every single one of them. They seemed to be a faction calling themselves Alfurasan Alarbe. And Karim... Karim who'd seemed so nice and harmless? Well, he'd been a busy boy. Whilst acting as our go-between, he'd also found the time to gather intel from rogue MI-5 sources. He'd been running these assets for five years. Five bloody years."

"MI-5?" Harry croaked. "How does MI-5 fit into all this?"

"From what I could gather, Alfurasan Alarbe's objective was to... to..." she trailed off, dropping her mug onto the coffee table and dragging a trembling hand across her brow.

"Catherine?" Harry prompted, dread chilling his veins. He was unsure of what angle he should take now: the concerned parent or the former head of Counter Terrorism. "Tell me, what was their objective?"

Catherine moaned and dug her fingertips into her ears, as if trying to block out whatever travesty she had witnessed.

"Catherine?" Harry pressed, running a hand as gently as he could along her arm. "Catherine, I need you to focus. Come on. Focus for me. What was their objective?"

The blonde released an uncharacteristically vulnerable whine and unplugged her ears, taking a deep breath and staring at her father properly for the first time since she had talked about Syria.

"They seemed to be planning to bring a series of attacks to Britain in penitence for their interference in the war."

Harry's blood ran cold. For a moment, he sat there, staring agape at his eldest child. Shit. What could they do? What he possibly do? Catherine seemed to read his expression perfectly, because she nodded, gulped and took another deep breath.

"That's not all, Dad," she whispered. "I... I took something."

Harry's eyes widened, his heart hammering a billion to the dozen beneath his aching chest. Biting her lip, Catherine dug her hand into her pocket and slowly withdrew a small, metal device. It was a USB. A simple USB. Though what was on it, Harry could only imagine.

"Karim said that these MI-5 double agents had been feeding him intelligence on the location of hidden uranium and plutonium across the UK. He'd finally got the last of the locations so that they could act. Ollie... Ollie..." she sniffed, her voice trembling again as a few more tears trickled down her face. "He said that he was going to take this intel back to Britain, where the rest of Alfurasan Alarbe are based."

"They have a group in Britain?" Harry repeated sharply.

"Yes. It sounded like they'd been primed for years, waiting for this intel."

Harry exhaled heavily, running a hand through his thinning hair as he tried to comprehend all that Catherine had told him.

"He shot him, Dad," Catherine whispered suddenly, eyes wide with terror, her cheeks glistening with tears. "One of the men – the ringleader, I think – told Ollie to shoot Karim. He said that Karim had done good work, but that with the amount of time he had spent with all these British sources, he was concerned he might have an attack of conscience; might turn tail and become a double agent for Five. He said that they couldn't risk it and he told Ollie to kill him. And... and he did. He had a gun – a gun I'd never seen anywhere in the flat. And he just... shot him."

Catherine descended once more into sobs, and Harry was powerless to do anything other than hold her. He himself was still in shock and knew that there was nothing he could really say that would make her feel better.

"He didn't even think about it, Dad. This man. This good, sweet, kind man, who I thought I'd known – who'd held me after we saw so many atrocities; who'd told me he loved me. And he just shot his friend, without thinking, without seeming to feel anything. That wasn't the man I fell in love with. I don't know who he was but... but it wasn't him. Everything was lie! Everything was a total fucking lie!"

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered into her hair. "I'm so sorry."

"Why didn't I see it?" she demanded furiously of herself. "Why didn't I see who – what he really was?"

Harry had thought the same thing about Elena Gavrik. He hadn't loved her, but he when the truth of her lies were exposed six years ago, he had berated himself for not seeing the monster beneath the mask. Then there was Juliet Shaw, Connie James, Angela Wells, Nicholas Blake, William Towers, and all the others who'd been hiding their deepest darkest selves. He was only sorry that Catherine had had to experience such deceit. And, of course, he recognised that it must be a hundred times worse for her, because she had actually fallen for this man.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him – only he hadn't the faintest idea how to ask Catherine without hitting her where it hurt. He supposed there wasn't really any way he could soften such blow, and decided that it was probably just best to ask outright.

"Did he – Kinkaid – know about you? Your background I mean?"

Catherine pulled away, swiping at her eyes with a confused frown, "What?"

"I mean... did he know that... well... that I'm your father?"

Catherine blinked at him incredulously, the tears momentarily stopping as fury reclaimed her features.

"That's what you think?!" she cried, recoiling to the far side of the sofa. "You think he only chose me because he knew about you?"

"It was just a thought," Harry muttered helplessly. "I mean... why would he – ?"

"Why would he choose a nobody like me unless he knew about you?"

"I didn't mean it like that – "

"No, Dad, that's exactly what you meant!" she snapped, folding her arms across her chest in outrage. "Everything has to be about you. He couldn't have chosen me for me. It must have had something to do with you being my dad! Well. Fuck. You!"

"I just wondered – "

"Well, it had nothing to do with that," Catherine negated hollowly. "Everyone thinks you're dead, remember? Even I did. He never seemed that interested in my background. He asked once about my family back home. I told him my father was dead."

That hurt more than Harry knew it should. After all, he was legally dead. And his daughter had been forced to endure his funeral.

"Okay," Harry appeased, keen to stop their progress from backpedalling. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry."

The blonde just snorted and shook her head in response, running her hands once more over her face, and wiping away any remaining tears. Her nose was running and she inhaled a deep, snotty sniff in a bid to calm herself. All was silent for a moment, before Catherine turned to look at him again. Some of the anger seemed to have faded from her eyes, replaced by that same horrible deep-seated sadness.

"You know, I think it might've been easier to deal with if it turned out he only wanted me because of you. At least then it would have been for something. But no," she whispered bitterly. "I was just his handy bit on the side. The woman he could screw while he was plotting to destroy everything we've been trying to save."

Harry shook his head, unable to bear hearing his daughter talk about herself like that. He badly wanted to kill this bastard, Kinkaid. And the people he stood for – this Alfurasan Alarbe. He couldn't recall feeling this much anger, this much hatred, since the night Ruth was attacked. He could feel it blazing through his veins and lighting up the old, roaring fires within his rusty soul. For he was still Harry Pearce. Even though he was legally dead and a formally a traitor, he couldn't stand by and let this group wreak havoc on the UK. And he couldn't let Kinkaid get away with hurting his little girl. Yet as much as he was itching to launch straight away into a counter offensive, he knew that he had to keep listening patiently. Catherine still had more of the story to tell.

"Before... before Ollie shot him, Karim said that all the locations of the uranium and plutonium were on a USB. It was the only copy – to keep it secret and safe, he said. But he was actually bloody stupid really, because once he'd handed Ollie the USB, there was absolutely no other reason for them to keep him alive. He must've been smart to gather all that intel. No, he was smart – he could speak Arabic and English like he breathed air. He had a talent for people, and understanding how they worked. And yet with all those brains and all that human understanding, he just couldn't see that handing over that USB would lead to..." Catherine trailed off with another weary sigh. "Did you ever get used to it, Dad? All that death? That feeling you get when you realise that someone who was alive only a second ago, is no longer there anymore?"

Harry's heart clenched painfully, trying not to think about all the friends he had lost over the years, "No. You never get used to it."

"I mean. I saw my fair share of bodies in warzones. But I'd never heard it... felt it that close."

Harry could only nod in understanding, inching closer to her again and reaching out to squeeze her arm. He glanced down at the USB still clutched tightly in her fist.

"If Karim gave the USB to Ollie, how did you end up with it?" he asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

Catherine arched her eyebrow challengingly, "How did you get information out of the opposite sex when you were at Five?"

Harry was caught between supreme discomfort at imagining his little girl in bed with any man (let alone a gun-toting terrorist), and shame that she was very much aware of his former honey-trapping techniques.

"I acted, Dad," the blonde stated raggedly. "I put on the best performance of my life and pretended that I knew nothing of what had happened. I pretended like I wasn't disgusted by this man that I thought I'd loved. I left the flat without anyone noticing and came back a few hours later. I pretended not feel sick when I commented that the sitting room smelled of ammonia, and he said that he'd been doing a bit of cleaning. I pretended not to think about how Karim must've laid there bleeding only hours before. I pretended not to think about the fact that Ollie Kinkaid was a murderer... a terrorist; that he was planning to go back to England and build dirty bombs that could hurt thousands and thousands of people. I was scared and I wasn't thinking straight. All that I knew was that I... I needed to get that USB away from him. I needed to get away from him. So I did the only thing I could think of. I forced myself to sleep with him. One last time." Harry closed his and looked away. He really, really didn't want that image in his head. "Then, once he was asleep, I took the USB and ran."

She paused, staring down at the tiny device in her hand, twirling it idly between her fingers. Both father and daughter couldn't help but ponder how such a little thing could cause so much trouble. Harry's gaze then shifted to his daughter, marvelling out how strong she had become; how brave. Not many people would have had the courage to do what she did – not even the brightest and best MI-5 recruits. He'd try to praise her by calling her a chip off the old block, but somehow didn't think she'd take too kindly to that.

"Ollie mustn't have slept for long. He must've figured out that I'd taken it; that my strange behaviour with him earlier wasn't because of a stressful day of filming, but because I'd seen a lot more than he wanted me to see. And suddenly, he wasn't nice, kind, sweet Ollie anymore. He came after me. And he brought a load of those monsters with him too. They chased me through Damascus and... and I was so bloody scared, Dad."

Harry swallowed, running a hand up her arm, partly to comfort her, and partly to reassure himself that she was here now, safe and unharmed. He thanked whatever deity it was that had led her here so that he could help her; make a plan and ensure that she wouldn't come to any more danger. The psychological ramifications of what she had seen and done would probably be brutal. She had compelled herself to do something she despised for the moral good – something that unlike field agents, she wasn't trained for or prepared to do. No wonder her behaviour had been so erratic the night before. Enduring all of that and then seeing her dead father turn up very much alive must surely have almost finished her off.

"I ended up at the airport without really thinking. I used most of the money I had on me to board a flight – the first one I could find. And I ducked onto the plane just in time before the gates closed. I didn't realise I was heading to Australia until the plane landed. Then some instinct in me knew that I had to keep moving. So I took a bus from Melbourne and got off here. It seemed fairly out of the way and I was sick of travelling."

"And then Ruth and Lottie found you."

Catherine's jaw tensed, "Yeah. Then they found me."

For the moment, Harry didn't push the subject of Ruth and Lottie. He knew that she had endured enough, and he himself certainly had lots to think about.

"At least you're probably safe here," he murmured, not exactly sure who he was trying to reassure more.

Catherine shook her head doubtfully, "You don't know Ollie. Even without the whole... terrorist thing – he's like a dog with a bone. If he wants something, he'll go after it. And you didn't hear these people, Dad. They were fanatics." For the first time since her arrival, she actively sought out physical contact, reaching out and gripping his hand tightly in hers. "I have to face facts. They're going to come after me. They'll find out what flight I boarded and they'll track me down."

Harry's heart sank, but he wasn't exactly surprised. Since when was he and his family ever that lucky?

"Alright," he nodded grimly. "Then I think we need to think carefully about what we do next."

"We?"

"Yes, we."

"So you'll help me?"

"Of course I'll help you. I wouldn't leave you to face this alone."

Catherine bit her lip, squeezing his hand for a second time before murmuring a tentative but sincere, "Thank you."

"We need to tell Ruth when she gets home."

Catherine froze, her expression turning sour and resentful, and not unlike that of a sullen teenager, "Why?"

"Because I'm not keeping this from her," Harry said firmly.

"But why can't we just – ?"

"No," Harry negated sternly. "Quite apart from the fact that Ruth is my partner, she was also a damn good analyst back at Five. We'll need her. And if you're right about them coming after you, then this is going to affect all of us. Your mother and brother too, I expect."

Catherine blinked, as if this thought hadn't even occurred to her, "You mean they might –?"

Harry sighed, hating the thought that his entire family might now be in danger, yet trying to be as gentle as possible in breaking this to Catherine. The poor girl had clearly not been in the right head space to think through the repercussions of her actions.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I wasn't there. But protocol at Five was to prepare for all eventualities. You were there. What do you think? Do you think these people are dangerous enough to go after Jane and Graham?"

Catherine's chin began to tremble, her hazel eyes widening in horror, "Oh... Oh God!" she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh God, Dad! What have I done?!"

He wanted to tell her that she'd done the decent thing; the brave thing, but wasn't sure that was much of a consolation. Back at Five, it was often the good officers, the selfless souls, who ended up paying a heavy price for their bravery. He only prayed that this time it wouldn't be the case. He couldn't bear the thought of his son, or even his ex-wife, being in danger any more than Catherine could. So he just squeezed his daughter's hand a in a lame gesture of comfort.

"We'll get a message out to Jane and Graham," he promised. "We'll work something out."

Catherine didn't look too convinced, and as another bout of treacherous tears fell, she crumpled into his arms once more. Harry sat there, his mind whirling; his heart thundering inside his ribcage. He had been musing only this morning about missing aspects of his old life. But he certainly hadn't wanted this. Now he found himself trying to remember how exactly he was supposed to respond in the face of such a crisis. It had been six years. And his circumstances were entirely different. What exactly could he do now that he was over 10,000 miles away from London and legally dead?

And all he kept coming back to was Ruth. He needed Ruth. Now. For as long as he'd known her, she had been the calming voice in his ear: his morality, his conscience, his guiding light. She stopped him from making irrational decisions in the face of calamity, and right now, he wasn't sure he could be trusted not to make an irrational decision – not when everything he held dear was on the line. Ruth would be well into her shift by now, but that couldn't be helped. He needed to call her. Now.

Apologies for another delay. This chapter was really tricky to write as it dealt with a lot of expo that's necessary for the rest of the story to work, and I wanted to get that right. Thank you wofldrum, Gregoriana, fcpatechies, Alias47 and the lovely guest for your reviews - I am grateful to every single one of you. And thank you to all you readers who are sticking with me. All the best and take care xx