Thanks for the reviews to the last chapter. Now we move on.

Breathe deeply – don't look scared. Why did you ever get involved? Walk slowly. Seem natural. Relax but stay alert. Remember supposedly you are only here to view a house. That house. The familiar one you can see as you hurry up the road, the one labelled with the Dixon and Murray estate agent's board, although you know it is not the property that is for sale. Sold subject to contract the notice says. That's about right. It doesn't mention type of hidden contract the owners demanded you sign. The one in which you sold your soul and they promised you safety, allegedly. Not that you have physically signed anything, the owners have other, less legal methods, of enforcing their will.

Has he arrived yet the unknown man you've come to meet? Chris Patterson – not his real name – that is the one thing, the only thing, that today you can be sure of. Like you he lives in the shadows, a person seen by all, but in reality unknown. Turn around, check: have you been followed? You were so careful, watchful, on your way here. After parking your battered prone to breakdown car as ordered by custom and practice, in an area well away from this journey's end, you were forced to cover the remaining distance on foot. You are still shaking, a result of that horrible drive, long, tedious and thankfully remarkable only for your obsessive monitoring of the lights mirrored behind you, causing you to grip the wheel in terror, trying to concentrate on the road while mentally assessing your chances of being run off it. A lengthy, urgency driven transit, haunted by worry, so far unnecessary, over thought because who would suspect you for what you are. If anyone does – don't even think about that – but you must - the rumours about the last person caught out doing what you now do haunt your brain. If you want to keep that, along with your knees, an unmarked face, even your life, no one must suspect who you really are, what you have done, what you are about to do again. Be vigilant. From the depths of your shoulder bag you think you hear the rattle of the car keys, disturbed by the uneven haste of your walk. You briefly consider turning, running away, trying to escape all of this. Even as you think it you know that you won't. Pragmatism perhaps, fear definitely. Conversely you know too much and not enough. Too much to allow either of the sides you serve to just let you go, fly free, and yet not enough too make you indispensable, worthy of their protection.

What do you see as you walk quickly? You approach your rendezvous with your nerves increasing, you attempt to subdue them by telling yourself you are just a normal ordinary woman out for an early morning walk. If you repeat that wordless mantra often enough to yourself you might convince you, and more importantly convince any dawn watchers who lurk sight unseen. You are struggling, trying for an appearance of normality but suspect, no, you know that you are failing in this endeavour. Pray that this doesn't matter, and that this is the only way in which you are falling short. As you continue your passage down this nondescript, near deserted street you are hyper aware of everything, the cream bricks of the wall you are approaching, some stained from the base upwards with ancient creeping damp, the badly painted brown doorway you almost brush past. The black iron, slightly old fashioned, lamp post that stands sentinel outside your given destination. You quash down the worry that it might truly prove to be your final destination if the man you have come to meet is dissatisfied. But this new handler, the term they use, when what they really mean is the manipulator, where is he, who is he? What does he look like? You don't know, but he'll give you a sign. Pre-arranged so you can both be certain that neither of you is an imposter. A sick joke as you are both pretending to be something or someone you are not.

Only a road sweeper is in evidence. The road sweeper! Is he a road sweeper? His brush is gathering the leaves correctly into small heaps. But is this a cover, the leaves simply an excuse. It's the beginning of May, the start of summer, so why are autumn dead leaves coating the road and why now to dispose of them. Again you wonder is it a cover? If so who is he really? Whose side is he on? You try to glance without revealing your interest. He looks genuine shuffling around in his shabby working clothes and hi viz jacket but then so do you. You hope. You take stock for the umpteenth time of how you should, wrong word, if you are to survive, how you must appear to the world you walk in. A middle aged women, badly dyed blonde, typical clothes, white tee shirt under a denim jacket, jeans and high heels, toting an average sized black shoulder bag who walks, shoulders hunched, defensive and alone. Just an everyday person. Someone you'd see and pass in any street. Just as well. Even if other than the road sweeper the area is bare of people. This should reassure you but it doesn't, even as you remind yourself that at this time in the morning that is to be expected. You bite your lip apprehensively. You are moving ever nearer, eyes twitching restlessly as you do so. Wary, like an animal suspecting a trap, you survey the opposite side of the road. There stands the familiar building, squat with a sagging wire fence placed either side. Still neglected and sorely in need of a lick of paint. With its white scarred cladding, bars on the lower windows, it seems faintly sinister set against the backdrop of the high storied buildings that surround it. With the double yellow lines in front it is almost stranded, a secure isolated island. For you a symbol of menace, as you live your nightmare existence. The only sign of flourishing life in the midst of the desolation is the single tall green weed by the doorway, waving bravely in the slight breeze produced by passing movements. It is an unloved and obscure place, an almost ideal location. A washed up part of London well away from the tourist beat, featureless with nothing remarkable, but then the secret and covert prefers not to draw attention to itself. You wonder once again at the dramas that might have unfolded within this disguised rectangle of bricks that has now drawn into view and you suppress a shudder. Despite your knowledge that you are useful, an asset as they call you, fear arises from your stomach. Fear at what might happen once you meet.

So you halt, pause and stare at the figure standing under the sale board. Is that the man? The quasi estate agent. Coloured, dark suit, yellow tie and, crucially, holding a newspaper. It must be him mustn't it, hold back, don't be impulsive, wait for the signal. He scans the street just as you did, he sees you but doesn't acknowledge your presence as his eyes sweep over you, checking you out. Then, possibly satisfied with what he sees, he moves. Swiftly the newspaper is discarded in a casual throw onto the top of the black rubbish bag. The signal, your moment has come. You draw breath, check the sweeper, has the movement attracted his eye. Are you crossing the road to be met by one spy while being watched by another? If so who is the sweeper, friend or foe and would you, of all people really know the difference?

Your contact, Chris Patterson but not Chris Patterson, again you remind yourself that his is an invisible identity that, like the newspaper, will be discarded the instant he leaves you, enters the property. You stand and wait, tense, trying to look normal while being prudent as you await further confirmation that all is well. The upstairs blinds flicker, open and close - the second signal - so you scurry your way across the road and disappear through the doorway. Grateful for your invisibility you swallow and close the door, the lock snaps firmly, like a dungeon. With a frission of fear you wonder if you will ever emerge again. You've done this before and the game - except it isn't a game unless you count Russian roulette - becomes more dangerous every time.

You enter, he's run down the stairs now and ushers you into the sparse kitchen. The interior is basic, nicely judged, the few furnishings consistent with abandonment, matching the general air of neglect, that faint whiff of damp cold that emanates from a house allegedly unoccupied. But it is, you suspect, still functional. An opinion confirmed when you note the clutter of ancient kitchen utensils resting on the old fashioned unit of steel sink and draining board. The last time you were entertained in these undistinguished surroundings this room was innocent of any evidence of leisure use. Tucked away out of sight in this seemingly unoccupied property the essentials for life in prison are hidden. Like everything else, including yourself, nothing is what it seems. It is a safe house, but safe for precisely whom, not those who enter uninvited or those who are required to stay for whatever purpose. You shiver, a reaction that has little to do with the grubby blue and white walls that decorate the room, enclosing you its gloomy insides, barely touched by the shafts of light that manage to filter through the still closed blinds. As you stare around – why - are you hoping to escape your doom, a cobweb in the corner draws your attention as it quivers with the trembling of a fly, caught, trapped, awaiting its inevitable consumption by a spider. It reminds you of you as the man you are with indicates that you are to sit. So you pull out the basic chair he points at, wincing slightly as its feet scrape across the white and grey diamond patterned canvas, reflecting as you do so that the floor is somewhat cleaner that you would anticipate if the house was truly disused. Without waiting for permission you pull out your cigarette packet, on these occasions you invariably chain smoke, hoping to puff out the nerves alongside the nicotine, while you attempt to ignore the CCTV, and even more incriminating for your future health, the recording equipment.

Why do you do this – you know, you were caught and offered the choice, work as an asset or go to prison and they'd also frame your brothers. You believed them. At the time it seemed to be the best, the only decision you could make. The odd piece of gossip to be passed on and all would be well. Now you marvel at your naivety. You traded a probable finite prison sentence for a different one, a lifetime of trading in this world of smoke and mirrors, straddling two opposing camps. Once again you remind yourself that these people who offered you that supposed lifeline resemble your parent organisation, they'll stop at nothing to pursue their beliefs. Now you are sitting on that hard, uncomfortable chair, resting your elbows on the basic wood chip table, trying to pretend - before you really succumb to your dread imaginings - that this is just a normal conversation, a simple transaction. In a way it is. You are giving information; that is their price for allowing you the freedom of the streets. The gift that keeps on giving from either side of the table. Except of course you aren't free, not really, they give you that chimera of choice, but if you try to walk away they will destroy you. The contact sits opposite. He fixes you with a stare as you try not to look at him. Instead you concentrate on the questions, intense, spat out like bullets.

He hasn't commented on the road sweeper, just checked the screen noting whatever is happening outside, so at least you've not been sussed. The sweeper is either a friend as in not a foe or the real thing, if that exists, after the last few years you are not longer sure of that. Be grateful it would seem that for now you are safe. A relative term as the interrogation begins.

"I just got my boss out of bed for this. Start reassuring me."

And if he does not receive that reassurance? The glare is intense, laser like... It asks if it can trust you – He is worried about his boss and his own position. That thought should give you strength; even as you pull nervously again on your ciggie you recognise that you are both united by a mutual dependence allied with a mutual distrust of another. You stutter and shake as you yet again spill out what you know, trying to make a bad situation better. Bad situation for whom, him and those he serves, or yourself?

"Explosives and detonators arrived in Liverpool from Ireland today at 2.30am. But it's nothing to do with us. No one's planning anything. No one's said anything."

You try to exonerate your friends, protect them even, as you reveal their never to be spoken secrets. And it's true. No one said anything directly; you overheard a whispered conversation and crept to the docks and then hastened here, to tell of what you shouldn't know. You are tempted to divert the conversation. He has questions, so too do you - starting with what happened to your previous contact, that tall, gaunt man with the dark hair and probing eyes code named Luke Nesbit. Where is he? One day you simply received a message that in future you were to contact Chris Paterson, no explanation, a simple bald statement. They gave no details, but then they never do. You reject the nosy impulse, as still the questions come in a relentless battering.

"How many devices?"

You are afraid now. He sounds fierce, but his eyes seem wary. It occurs to you that perhaps he is as frightened as you. Maybe, but in any balance he has the backing of his organisation. One false step on your part and you are sure that revenge will be enacted. You are not equal partners in fear. He has the upper hand, ultimately he is in control. You are on your own. You tell him.

"Twenty."

And he almost spits: "And where are they now?"

You draw again on the cigarette as, soothed by the waves of nicotine, you tell him the truth he doesn't want to hear, a mild, if pointless, revenge for what he and the organisation he represents are putting you through.

"I don't know."

You see the disbelieving look. And then you tell him what you do know. That the twenty includes pipe bombs, high grade explosives and remote detonation kit. You stutter news exhaled through your nicotine flavoured breath. You give him chapter and verse. You promise to continue researching, to make contact again if fresh, more accurate details reach your ear. You hope it is enough. Enough to let you live and breathe another day of freedom of movement. Freedom from fear is beyond you, it has been for years, you risk a glance at your interrogator as you assess your chances of being graciously granted a future, on their terms of course.

The man in front of you is young, might even be kind in real life but not inside this artificial construct you are currently trapped in as you play out your roles. To him you are simply an asset, and if you've got it wrong are you safe? So you've blurted out your story, you've told the truth as far as you know it, if they believe you then you live to leave, to survive and spy another day. It is the most you can hope for. Until the day, drawing ever nearer, when you are finally rumbled by someone, somewhere, and become just another casualty. You think you see a shade of contempt in his face and why not. At which point will he advise his employers that you have ceased to be an asset and should now be categorised as a liability? Would you know, and if you did would you even attempt to escape to a precarious safety, trying to survive those few days longer, or face up to the inevitable, that there will come a moment when the imagined gun to your head becomes the last ultimately known reality.

Trust no one. Trust what is it? Does anyone in this world of bluff and lies even know? Does anyone know whose side they really are on? The sole truth that you can vouch for is what you have finally become, what you are.

The liar. The double agent. The ordinary women. The betrayer.

The one code named Osprey.

Thanks for reading. if you have a moment a review would be acceptable.