Author's Note: thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. In answer to one of my guest reviewers, this is set at the start of season seven (so an alternative to that).

Just a quick note on Nicosia, too: Nicosia is a divided capital (much like Berlin before the wall came down). The north is governed by Turkey and the south is governed by the Greeks, hence why it's spoken of as if it were two different countries.

Chapter Three: Dead Man's Shoes

"Mister Asani will be with you shortly."

At the sound of the woman's heavily accented voice, Oliver Mace turned abruptly from the painting he had been studying. He nodded a gesture of thanks, before cutting off any further prospect of chatter by turning back to the canvass. Its garish colours jarred with the stained cedar panelled walls of the dimly lit interior. He hurriedly mopped his brow with an old handkerchief before his host arrived and quickly stuffed it back in his breast pocket, just as the door behind the reception desk opened once again.

"Mister Mace," Devran Asani stepped into the reception, hand extended towards his guest already. "Good to see you again, come this way if you will."

Mace followed Asani through the door he'd just emerged from, down a passageway and into a private office. As they settled themselves on either sides of the desk, a smartly dressed woman appeared, serving them both Turkish apple tea in small crystal glasses before exiting as discreetly as she entered. With courtesies done, the two men went straight to business, with Mace picking his words carefully.

"You understand, don't you, that the Greeks have organised and funded the excavation of Southern Nicosia, and there's not an awful lot I can do to make them stop it. It is their territory," he said. "I'm as sorry as you are about the timing, it is unfortunate-"

"No, Oliver, it's catastrophic for us," Asani cut over him, leaning forwards across the desk to emphasise the point. "The Greeks have only done this to try and make us look like genocidal warmongers; to turn all of Europe against us and destroy our chances of joining the EU."

Oliver suppressed the sigh of exasperation, trained his expression to remain utterly neutral and took a deep breath. "Forgive my say so, Devran, but you don't understand how the EU works," he countered. "If you allow this excavation to go ahead, it will look like you're willing and able to confront your past and make amends. It is a gesture, Devran. Get it out of your head that you're losing face and accept that this could be to your advantage."

He couldn't understand the mentality, himself. Whoever was buried under the park in south Nicosia, they weren't going to be doing any talking; they weren't going to be revealing any deeply held secrets of the Turkish invasion. Unless…

"Unless there's something you're not telling me," he pointedly hinted.

Asani leaned back in his seat, fiddling with a fountain pen as he tried to distract himself. "The Turkish are planning to take back the south," he admitted. "My concern is not losing face. My concern is that this could lead to a rise in nationalism, another outbreak of hostilities between Greeks and Turks in the whole of Cyprus. I, personally, do not feel victimised by the dig. But my people will."

The corner of Mace's lip twitched into a half-smile, quickly suppressed before returning to placid neutrality. "Do you have intel on that?" he asked.

Asani nodded. For the first time in their acquaintance, he showed his forty-five years. "I have assets in various groups," he clarified. "I have assets in a Greek organisation calling itself Golden Dawn. They're all waiting to feed off each other. At least, I can watch them much more closely here than I could in London."

Mace sips the last of his apple tea, momentarily lost in thought. "You know the Greek economy's about to go completely tits up, don't you? It's a false dawn they're heading for, never bloody well mind a golden one."

Devran Asani, head of Intelligence, let the fountain pen he was playing with fall to the desk as he returned Mace's look. "Is it really that bad?" he asked, dark brow raised.

Mace snorted. "They're spending other people's money hand over fist," he pointed out with a shrug. "What do you think will happen?" he asked, but the question was purely rhetorical.

It was late – almost ten in the morning – by the time Ros woke up. Or rather, by the time she regained consciousness. Her head felt thick and fogged by the wine she knocked back the night before. She found herself surrounded by the wreckage of the hotel room. Cautiously, she set one bare foot down on the carpet, between two large splinters of mirror. Seven years bad luck, for that one. Normally, she was not prone to such emotional incontinence, but when she did indulge, she liked to make it one to remember. But, her grief for Adam could find no voice, even if she had the will to use it. It was something physical; that needed to be expelled through force, not words, not grief counsellors.

She walked three steps to the foot of the bed before she realised she was completely naked. It wasn't that she cared, it was more that she didn't want to inadvertently fall and do even more damage to herself. So she sat at the end of the bed, leaning down to extricate a dressing gown from underneath an over-turned table. Wrapping it round her shoulders, she surveyed the scene before her sadly.

"Rock n' roll," she numbly remarked to herself.

Once dressed, she spent an hour returning the hotel room to a semblance of normality. Or at least, so that it looked as if it was an accident. Like she stepped through the door, tripped over the table, knocking it over before landing on the mirror, smashing it to the ground and accidentally trashing the rest of the room as she flailed about. People could be ever so clumsy, and she didn't really care if she got lumped in with them.

By eleven thirty, she was dressed and out of the door. By the time the cleaners came around, she would ensure she was well away from the scene, all the same. She paused by the front door of her suite and straightened out her jacket, then picked up her case file. Mentally, a line was drawn under last night's emotional shit storm – it was done, in the past. Harry had made her Section Head, leaving her with the slightly uncomfortable feeling of having stepped into dead man's shoes. Methodically, she shelved all the feelings of unease, the insecurities and doubts. She eased herself back into her professional persona, and swept out of the door.

Even though Lucas expected it, the buzzer managed to catch him by surprise. It was midday and he should have known that Ros wouldn't have been as much as a second late. He splashed another handful of cold water over his face, an attempt to freshen up after another night spent tracking the cracks in the ceiling of his safe house. He buried his face in a nearby towel, patting himself dry and checking his reflection one more time. Impeccably clean shaven, shirt neatly pressed and not a hair out of place. Only the eyes betrayed his lack of sleep, lined red against the dark circles beneath, still holding the residual memory of his nightmares.

The buzzer sounded again. Sharp and impatient, just like her. He tossed the towel over the side of the bath and hurried to the door. She was there, smartly dressed and blonde hair swept back into a neat pony tail. They regarded each other in silence for a moment, before Ros simply nudged him to one side and stepped around him.

"Come on in," he belatedly invited, not quite keeping the facetious tone from his voice.

"Thanks," she called, casually, from over her shoulder as she rounded the corner, into Lucas's living room. "Mine's a coffee, black, no sugar," she added as he heard her flopping into one of his old, second hand armchairs.

"Sure," he murmured, shutting the front door and heading towards his small kitchen area. "Make yourself at home."

While the kettle boiled, he watched her through the hatch. She was already studying the file on Mace, seeing what Malcolm and Connie had added to it since they last looked. Since then, phone calls had been recorded, letters intercepted and copied before being re-directed and even one dead drop from an asset within the Ministry had been collected. Ros's expression was impossible to read, but then, she was an impossible woman. Whether what was inside that file was enough to convince her that this really did warrant investigation, Lucas couldn't tell. But, he resisted the urge to lace her coffee with salt and instead, made himself a cup of tea and even extended his hospitality to some chocolate digestives laid out on a side plate. It was worth a try, if only to sweeten her up, if that were possible.

He carried the two cups with the plate balanced precariously on the underside of his wrists. Looking, catching sight of his circus worthy balancing act, Ros was quick on her feet to help him.

"Here, let me," she said, lifting the plate and placing it on the small, uneven coffee table in the living room. "Chocolate biscuits, too! You're spoiling me."

He smiled, acknowledging the banter, but made no reply as he settled himself in the armchair opposite the one she was in. One wrong word could illicit a death glare and, at that hour, he wasn't ready to run the risk of joining in. At least, until he got to know her better, if that day ever came.

For a moment, Ros seemed content to go over the file, occasionally passing something over to him to check for himself. Once he had read everything through carefully, he placed it face up on the coffee table. After another ten minutes, Ros stopped and looked at him thoughtfully. "Lucas, tell me honestly," she said, keeping her tone even. "Do you really think there's enough here to warrant all this attention?"

"I know Harry, he wouldn't be doing all this simply to score a point," he replied. "And if Mace is only in Cyprus for a bit sun, sea and sex then why's he there with the head of Turkish Intelligence? Looks, he's crossed the border in to the south, he's been talking to assets. Why? He has no formal role within any of the security services and he has no business being there, at all. Harry's right; he's up to something."

Ros sighed as she dropped her head into her hands. For the first time, Lucas noticed how her own tiredness seemed to match his own. There was a livid bruise on one wrists, exposed as the cuff of her jacket lowered as she kneaded her eyes. Another small cut, fresh and painful looking, was just visible on her other hand. If it had been anyone else, he would have asked if she needed assistance with it. Instead, when she returned to the subject at hand, he simply pretended he had not been looking at all.

"I know you're right," she said, leaning back in her chair and shrugging in a gesture of defeat. "I loathe questioning Harry's judgement like this, but all we've got to go on is a few phone calls, a visa issued under a false name and some dodgy meetings. If we get to Cyprus, how're we going to keep tabs on Mace? I mean, how do find out what he's been up to?"

"Intercept his Assets," Lucas replied, offering the simplest solution. "If they're talking to him, then they'll talk to us. If Mace is really in deep disgrace with the service, then maybe Six will help us out – make it a joint Op." It made sense, seeing as Six should have been the ones handling it in the first place. But, as Ros had already pointed out, Harry did have an old score to settle. "There's one thing that worries me, more than anything else," he said, looking over at Ros.

"Which is?" she asked, prompting him to elaborate.

Lucas paused as he tried to word his concerns without sounding delicate, or damaged by his last foreign outing. But, there was no way he could get around the fact that his fear was genuine, bringing him out in a cold sweat whenever he thought about it. When he remained silent for just a little too long, Ros prompted him again, but not unkindly.

"Lucas, what is it?" she asked, softening visibly before him.

"Look, I'm not scared, or anything," he said, well aware he was protesting too much, "but I want to be clear on how we're staying in touch with The Grid. If anything changes, or if we become …"

"Compromised," she finished the sentence for him, but again, her tone was gentle, guiding him rather than acerbic impatience to hurry him. "It won't be like Russia, Lucas. Comms will be open at all times; Harry and the rest of team, Malcolm and Connie, they'll all be in constant touch. Given all that Harry went through to get you back, he would rather die than let anything like that happen again."

Lucas's heart leapt to his throat. "He did?"

"Yes, he sweated blood to get you back," she replied, firmly and without hesitation. "Whoever betrayed you, it wasn't him. Okay?"

He raised a wan smile. "Oh, I know that," he retorted, trying to force a laugh to make it sound preposterous. But, the truth is – and given Ros's ability to almost see through people, she probably already knew full well – that it had crossed his mind on more than one occasion. After eight years in solitary, you question everything and everyone.

"Anyway, it won't be like Russia; we'll be in Cyprus," she breezily added. "You'll be closer to the beach and you won't be freezing your bollocks off morning, noon and night. And if you're really lucky, you'll have the God ordained pleasure of being handcuffed to the same radiator as me for the next eight years." She grinned impishly, lighting up her whole face.

Lucas laughed, genuine and liberating laughter as the kid gloves fell from her hands, at last. "Oh well if that's the case," he replied. "Harry and his recue parties can get stuffed. We'll grow old together, sharing that radiator for all eternity."

She snorted with laughter just as she tried to drain her coffee cup, accidentally choking on it. "Never mind that fine romance," she choked, "come into town and get some lunch with me. Then we go back to Thames House and look at the evidence again."

He had barely eaten since waking up that morning, just a hastily grabbed slice of toast that had gone cold while he shaved. Ros's mention of lunch brought home just how hungry he was. Besides, a relaxed Ros could, it seemed, be pretty funny company. That, in turn, made him feel a few stone lighter and a few years younger as he grabbed his coat and fetched his car keys and wallet.

It was getting late by the time Ruth made her breakthrough. She glanced up at the clock on her wall informing her that it was inching towards midnight. But she had finally made progress as she located a visa, issued to a man who looked just like Oliver Mace, but using the name Owen Mason. She would have recognised him anywhere, from any distance. The downside was, the visa itself told her nothing. She took a screenshot, rather than printing the page, and saved it to her old flash drive before exiting the Turkish Government's database altogether.

When that was done, she realised she felt eerily calm. She disconnected her PC from the router, shut it down and poured herself another glass of wine before taking a walk out onto the veranda of her apartment. The sound of the restless ocean, waves crashing into more waves, drifted uphill from the low lying beach nearby. The full moon shone high, but provided little by way of light. So, she listened to the sound of the waves as she sipped her wine, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders as the tide ebbed in the darkness. Now that she knew, she could relax. Uncertainty never helped anyone.

It wasn't particularly cold, even at that hour. So Ruth sat down, dressed only in a camisole and pyjama bottoms as she pondered the return of such a ghost from her past. Mace couldn't possibly know she was there; and even if he did, what could he do? She was dead, at least legally. But nevertheless, when she returned to Nicosia, she knew she would have to tread carefully. She shuddered at the thought, but she knew she would have to start using an alias again. She resumed using her real name in Polis, simply because life was so ordinary, yet as different to her life in England as night is to day time.

Having allowed herself the luxury of a five minute break, she returned to the kitchen of her apartment and picked up her mobile phone. On the counter was a notepad containing a list of phone numbers, compiled that day while still at work. All the major hotels in Nicosia, along with their star rating. She began with the five stars, quite unable to imagine Mace settling for anything less.

"Oh hello, my name's Henrietta Mason and I'm looking for my husband, Owen," she said, as soon as she got answer. "I've been stuck in Polis and haven't been able to contact him all day … yes, I know it's late… Oh, you mean there's no one there of that name? I must have the wrong number; ever so sorry."

It was a mantra she repeated several times before she finally hit home. She circled the name of his hotel on the pad, and drew a big tick sign next to it.

"It's rather late, madam, are you sure you would like to be put through?" the apologetically voiced receptionist said.

"Ruth?"

Just at that moment, George appeared in the archway between the living room and kitchen. Hastily, Ruth made her excuses to get off the phone. "Sorry for disturbing you, I won't bother with a message, either. I'll just call tomorrow. Thanks for your help!"

Without another word, she hung up and switched off the phone altogether. "Just booking a hotel for when we're in Nicosia," she lied as she swept the notepad from the table, lest he should come to expect a five star affair. "Might as well make a weekend of it."

George smiled, evidently pleased. "Great idea," he replied, wrapping his arms around her neck and nuzzling her cheek. "Sophie wants to come, though."

"Oh, no!" Ruth groaned, not bothering to mask her aversion to the idea. "Look, it's not that I don't like your sister, but …" her words trailed off, but her brain finished the sentence for her: 'but I really don't like your sister.'

George was an only son, raised by his mother and elder sisters. A golden boy who could do no wrong. A devoted family man, until Ruth came and stole him away. For his part, George screwed his eyes shut in a grimace of actual pain.

"I know, I know," he tried to sound reconciliatory. "But ever since her husband left her and Nico, she's not been well, and … and…"

"And she's always bloody ill," Ruth cut over his stammering excuses for Sophia, the over-protective sister of Satan. "There'll be nothing there for Nico to do all day."

She twisted around on the bar stool she was sat on to face him properly.

"I have told her this," he protested. "But, he was her father too. She missed him as much as I did. So, maybe be patient with her?"

Ruth's heart sank. At the back of her mind, was this idea that she and George would sit down together in Nicosia, and they would have a heart-to-heart that she was beginning to formulate. During which, she would reveal her past for the first time. She would lay down the bones of her soul and bring out the ghosts of her past for him to see. The truth would set them, and her, free at last. Perhaps, the lingering memories of Harry Pearce would lose some of their devastating poignancy and the final barrier between her and George would finally fall. But at that moment, just as so many moments back on the Grid, she found herself passive and acquiescent in the face of a will that was greater than her own.

She raised a pained smile. "Alright, then," she said. "But, there is something we need to discuss, when we get back."

George's brow creased with concern. "We can talk now," he said, sitting beside her.

"Not now," she replied. "There's things I need to do beforehand."

"What things?"

He was becoming agitated, like he knew something was wrong but she was holding out on him deliberately. Like he was being forced out of the loop.

"It's nothing to worry about, I promise," she said, trying to sound light hearted. "There's something I need to double check."

He doesn't look satisfied with the answer, but he probes no further. Instead, he goes in search of the rest of the wine. She realises she could tell him right away; tell him everything. But still this unseen force prevents her, takes away her ability to form a coherent sentence. She let him go and returned to her own private musings before bedtime came and she could lie awake all night worrying about it, too. Still, at least, by the next day she would be in Nicosia once again, just a hare's breadth from the truth.