Author's Note: thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

Chapter Six: Missing in Action

Lucas woke up late and, disconcertingly alone in a wide, empty dormitory. His bearings returned slowly, taking a few seconds to remember where he was and why he was there. He could have sworn he had left the radio on while he slept, but as he rolled over to get up, he noted that it had been switched off. He jabbed the on switch and listened to the static give way to the shipping forecast of their private frequency while he dressed for the day ahead. The smartest, least wrinkled jeans and shirt from his still unpacked case, before shaving as best as he could in the Gents bathroom opposite his dorm.

It was only half an hour later, as he emerged clean shaven from the Gents, that he noticed the absence of Ros. A rinsed plate and coffee cup sat unwashed by the kitchen sink, the Ladies dorm was empty and the radio broadcaster repeated their made up shipping forecast for the eight hundredth time – all in the absence of Ros. He returned to the kitchen for breakfast, while trying to quell the suspicion that she had begun the Op without him.

By the time he had made his toast and tea, he'd still failed to explain the ongoing absence of Ros. He wondered whether he'd been crying out in his sleep again, whether she had heard it and decided he was not equal to the task. He sat heavily at the aluminium kitchen table and ran a hand though his hair, trying to come up with some other reason for being left alone. But, his mind wandered back to his bedroom radio. Was it that static of the broadcast that attracted her attention, or had he been crying out in his sleep again?

The more he made a conscious effort to not think about it, the more his fears seemed to amplify in the dark space at the back of his mind. Until the sound of high-heeled boots echoed off the cold steel walls of the passageway outside the kitchen, the sound startling him into dropping his toast. By the time he'd scooped it up and tossed it into the bin, Ros entered and dropped two bags on the kitchen table.

"Tonight, Bob, you're going to be a traveller working your way around the Med," she declared brightly, leaning casually against the counter. "Think you can handle it?"

Lucas looked from the bags on the table and back to Ros, smiling with relief.

"I thought you'd started without me," he said. "I thought you were about to send me home."

Ros frowned. "Why would I do that?" she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she plunged into an explanation of the next phase of the Op. "Some friends at the Turkish Embassy have arranged for us to be cleaning staff at Mace's Hotel for the day. Well, I say 'us', but I mean 'you'-"

"So I get to be the cleaner?" he asked, smirking. "I guess you get to be the suave and sophisticated Hotel Manageress, belting out the orders to your unfortunate subordinates. I say 'subordinates' but, of course, I mean 'me'."

Ros beamed brightly. "You're learning fast, I'm proud of you."

"I do my best."

Taking a seat at the table, Ros helped herself to the last half of Lucas' toast. However, he was too relieved at not having been booted from the op to make any formal protest.

"Anyway, you're not quite right," she said, before taking a dainty nibble of the corner. "You're going into Mace's Hotel room. If he returns while you're there, he won't recognise you. If he remembers Lucas North at all, it'll be from a memo telling him you're languishing in a Russian prison cell and presumed soon-to-be-dead. As for me, I was part of the team who brought him down barely two years ago. Mace can bear grudges to the point of making it an Olympic sport, so best take no chances."

Lucas sat back down in his chair, letting himself slouch in defeat. "I can't even argue with that!" he replied. "So, where will you be?"

"Round the back, sat in a lovely jeep outside listening in," she said, swallowing the last of the toast. "Keep your wire on at all times, and tell me everything you do and see. I want copies of any computer hard drives you come across, photos of any documents you find. You know what to do."

For a moment, Lucas was pensive. "Tell me again, what happened with Mace?"

"I told you all I know," she answered. "He tried to frame Ruth Evershed for murder because her findings exposed a load of patsies burned to death in a detention centre. He fabricated evidence that she was a member of a terrorist organisation called 'Acts of Truth', along with the victims. He was aiming for Harry, but Ruth happily took a bullet for him."

"Do you think he's over here to strike against Harry again?" he asked, frowning into the dregs of his tea.

Ros shrugged. "We can't rule anything out, so rule everything in," she replied. "It is a possibility and nothing else could give him any better satisfaction. But, if Mace wanted revenge against Harry, I think we would have done it by now. That said, keep an open mind. I wouldn't put anything past him."

Lucas drained the last of his tea and got up. "These my glad-rags?" he asked, tentatively peering into one of the bags Ros deposited in front of him. He spotted navy overalls inside.

"You'll be the belle of the ball," she flatly answered. "Now, get a move on. Our car will be dropped off soon."

Lucas flashed her a smile and scooped up the bag as he passed her by, on his way to the dorm to get changed again. He opened the door to be greeted by the sound of the radio, broadcasting their stations strangely soothing forecast. The soft, male monotone voice reading the same thing over was what had lulled him into his first peaceful night's sleep since before he went to Russia. Once he pulled his overalls on, he scooped his bedding up off the floor. If Ros did switch off his radio, the previous night, he couldn't help but feel rather self-conscious of her noticing his peculiar sleeping habits.

Ruth parked her car outside the Hotel and, for a long moment, looked at the photograph on her mobile phone. It had taken her over an hour to hack the JIC's database to get that picture of Mace and another hour to select a suitable picture of herself to Photoshop the two of them together in a suitably romantic pose. In the end, she only used their faces and superimposed them onto two models sitting at a candlelit table for two. Her Photoshop skills were not a patch on Colin's, or Malcolm's for that matter, but she was pleased with what she had done. Also, the smaller scale of the picture on her phone hid any small mistakes she may have overlooked. Stored on her phone, it even made it more personal. More convincing.

Satisfied, she tugged the keys from the ignition and got out. It was suicide, and she knew it, but with the stakes so high, she knew she also had to protect her family. With Sophia terminally ill; George's emotional state in disarray, and a nephew who was about to lose his only parent, Ruth knew she couldn't afford to simply sit by and hope Mace went away of his own accord. But still, she didn't even know what she fully hoped to achieve through doing what she was about to do.

She passed the noisy market, still very noisy even at that early hour, and headed towards the entrance. The Doormen tipped their top hats to her as they swung the tall, glass doors open for her. She smiled politely as she stepped inside, almost bumping into a Concierge as she went. She hastily apologised and headed straight for Reception.

Mercifully, the queue was short. The holiday makers in front of her were swiftly dealt with and despatched with a set of keys to a room much smarter than the one they had hitherto. Ruth hastily pulled the photograph of herself and Mace, showing it to the girl on Reception.

"Hi, this is my husband, Owen Mason, and I believe he's staying here," she explained while the girl squinted at the screen for a second. "I called a few nights ago, saying I was stuck in Polis and that I was having trouble getting in touch with him-"

"Sorry, Mrs Mason," the girl said, talking over her but looking thoroughly apologetic. "Your husband was due to check out yesterday evening, but he's not been seen in over twenty-four hours."

Ruth schooled her reactions astutely.

"Oh really, so your staff have been trying to reach him, too?"

"Yes, his belongings are still in his room. If nothing is done soon, we may have to call the Police."

"Don't do anything yet. Would it be possible for me to go up there, to see if there's anything he's left behind?" asked Ruth, gripping the edge of the desk in anticipation.

However, the girl looked sceptical. "I really shouldn't," she replied.

"But you know I'm his wife," Ruth put in, sounding hopeful. "I've shown you the evidence."

Twenty minutes later, and Ruth has been escorted to Mace's room by a spare Porter. He unlocks the room for her and holds the door open. As she passed, however, she noticed the cigarette packet wedged in his breast pocket.

"Why don't you go for a smoke," she said, smiling and giving him a wink. "I won't tell if you don't."

For a moment, it looked as if the lad would refuse. But, the shadow of doubt passed his features quickly, and he took off at speed with a nod of thanks in Ruth's direction. Once he was out of sight, Ruth peered nervously in the room once occupied by Oliver Mace. Allotting herself no more than ten minutes to get in and out again, she began by opening the drawers of the desk. Only spare clothes, underwear she had no wish to go through and odd socks tossed inside without a thought. She had come to the Hotel to end this investigation and instead, she could feel herself being drawn deeper in as she began studying receipts left on the desk.

Receipts from Restaurants, cafés and, more interestingly, a shop selling mobile phones. One of the phones was sitting on the bedside table, so she lifted it to have a read through the texts and check for voicemail. She made a note of the name Leon Markos, a name that cropped up in three of Mace's messages. She also had an address. With nothing else standing out, she began to search elsewhere. The bed had been made, but not slept in. Underneath, was a laptop that was also password protected. Lacking her usual array of equipment, she passed it over for want of time. However, it was as she got back to her feet that a small knock came to the door.

For a second, she looked frantically about the room. If it was Mace himself, she knew, he wouldn't bother to knock. It was his room. She could see the Porter still puffing away on his cigarette in the yard outside the window. With nowhere to run, she had to answer before she raised any suspicions.

"It's open," she called out, trying to keep her tone even.

She listened as the door handle briefly rattled and someone tried to pull the door, instead of pushing it. Eventually, the other person entered. To her relief, it was just the cleaner. A tall, broad shouldered man in navy overalls and a matching cap. She could just make out piercingly blue eyes under a loose, dark fringe of hair. Ruth, however, slipped effortlessly into an alternative persona.

She breathed in deep. "He's still not been back, but the bathroom needs a bit of attention," she explained to the man, who looked back at her ill at ease and awkward. "And if you could see to these windows, they're a bit mucky…" She let her words trail off as she looked at him intently. "Are you okay, or do you need an interpreter?" she asked, realising he wouldn't understand the question, anyway.

However, the man smirked. "I think I understand, Miss," he replied, taking her by surprise with his clear, English accent.

"Great, well now you're here I'll leave you to it."

Ruth smiled, rewarded him with an enthusiastic nod and ducked quickly out of the room, clutching her shoulder bag like a shield. Once out in the hallway, she hurried back down to the lobby and out the front entrance, to her car. She had taken a chance and got some information, but being interrupted by an Englishman had alarmed her. Before she revved the engine, she looked back at the entrance, analysing what had just occurred. The Hotels around here employed as many English speakers as possible, seeing as most of their tourists were English speakers, too. But an actual Englishman was something else altogether. She hadn't taken to time to guess his age, but she knew he was too old for a gap-year student. Someone working for Mace? She couldn't rule it out. Either way, she revved the engine of the car and pulled out into the busy street. Grateful, eternally, that she finally had some solid information to work on.

Harry held the bottle up to the light, tilting it to make the amber liquid inside pour to the side. It was the good stuff, kept in a cut-crystal bottle for special occasions: particularly large bombs successfully diffused, or an Al-Qaeda cell neutralised for good. Such were the special occasions in this Section Chief's life. Placing the bottle on his desk, he procured two old tumblers from the back of the cabinet and gave Connie a wink.

"Humour me," he said, pouring two generous measures and sliding the first towards her.

Connie wasn't complaining, she accepted the drink with a warm thanks. Let the young worry about their health; both she and Harry were of an age to dispense with superfluous worries about time of day or units consumed. In fact, binge drinking hadn't even been invented when they were that age.

"Don't mind if I do," she said appreciatively, sipping at the fine malt. "It's awfully quiet on the Grid without Ros here to mortally offend everyone."

Harry grinned. "Yes, you can have your old job back now."

Connie shot him a withering look from over the top of her glass.

Beyond Harry's Office, the Grid was unusually quiet. The clocks had struck six, and even Malcolm was absent from his station. However, he was still manning the radio station, reading out reams of numbers, issuing instructions to Ros and Lucas in Cyprus. Since the equipment was back in use, word had spread and they found themselves having to broadcast quick, one-off messages to other agents for MI6, while they were at it. Malcolm didn't mind, however, he was in his element.

Harry steered his thoughts back on to the topic at hand, taking advantage of the silence outside.

"I called in on an old friend recently, Bernard Qualtrough," he said. "Been years since I saw the old team."

Connie's expression softened. "Now that's a blast from the past," she replied.

"I didn't realise you knew Hugo Prince," he put in.

Harry was careful to keep the tone of his voice light, like he was genuinely reminiscing about the old days. A dinosaur looking back wistfully on the glory days of his youth. Connie, however, barely registered any reaction at all. Just a half-smile played at her lips.

"We were lovers, as it happens," she confessed, setting her glass down. "For many years."

The whiskey bottle had been set at Harry's elbow, where he carefully retrieved it without knocking it over and topped up their glasses. His raised his own and Connie did likewise as they toasted their old friends, absent and bygone. As he did so, he carefully stored away the information of her affair with Prince.

As though trying to steer the conversation away from old Cold War colleagues, Connie changed the subject back to the Cyprus Op.

"Lucas is coping all right?" she asked. "He seemed somewhat skittish when I saw him last."

"I've had no complaints about him, if that's what you mean," he answered.

"Oh no, nothing like that," she quickly corrected him, but then paused as she collected her feelings on the delicate issue of Lucas North. "My concerns about him relate purely to his frame of mind. I know he's been experiencing a lot of flashbacks and nightmares about his time with the KGB – he told me himself. After such intense psychological pressure, can anything he says about the time be fully trusted? He may not mean to pass on false information, but one of the key effects of prolonged mental and physical torture is that, often, the victim loses their sense of what's real and what's in their heads. I'm not saying Lucas is like that, but you have to admit that this business with Sugar Horse has scattered his nerves to the four winds."

Harry listened to this lecture on psychology with interest, but made no specific reaction and certainly not to the mention of Sugar Horse. When he did reply, it was just to reiterate his ongoing confidence in the abilities of his Senior Case Officer. The fact that everyone connected, however remotely, to Sugar Horse was now under suspicion made him uneasy. But, now, that included Connie. Pillow talk from Hugo Prince? With Prince dead, he couldn't rule it out. He had meant to ask her advice on how to work his way into Arkady Kachimov's head space, but that had been placed on the back-burner, now. Instead, he would have to once again fall back on Malcolm.

"Connie, I need to get some information out to Lucas and Ros," he said, draining the last of his whiskey.

"Do you want me to do it?" she asked, doing likewise. "In fact, why don't you let me take the station over for a while. It'll give Malcolm a break and give me a chance to get some paperwork done."

He thought she'd never ask.

"That would be most helpful Connie, thanks."

He watched her leave, waiting until she was out of sight before flipping open the file on Arkady Kachimov that he had in his desk drawer. He knew it couldn't hurt to go over it one more time.

"Who did you say that woman was?" Ros asked as they ate their evening meal in the kitchen of the bunker.

It took Lucas a second to remember which woman she meant.

"Hotel management?" he suggested. "She told me what bits needed cleaning, then promptly cleared off."

As he spoke, the radio station went suddenly off air. Both of them dropped what was in their hands as Lucas snatched up a pad of paper. Poised and tense, they both waited for the call sign to chime out, but the weather forecast simply gave way to static, like the station had gone off-air. They waited for a full minute, looking at each other expectantly, as the static continued and no call sign came.

"Technical problems?" Ros suggested.

"I thought it was fail safe?" he retorted.

The fact was, the station had been doing it for several hours. Intermittently, the frequency would cave in, or what sounded like other messages were being broadcast a few channels up. It wasn't doing much for Lucas's confidence. He put his pad of rice paper down and returned to the remainder of his meal.

"Never mind that now," she said, steering him back on topic. "You told me she is English?"

"Yeah, I did," he confirmed, fidgeting with the dial on the radio again. "I couldn't very well interrogate her there and then, I was only a cleaner and what if she really was Hotel management? Mace has been missing for over twenty-four hours, it's only natural they'll be hanging around his room."

Ros shrugged. "You're right, but we can't rule out that she's working for Mace. Just make sure you remember what she looks like and tell me if you ever see her again," she advised, frowning in irritation as he continued to fuss over the radio.

"I will," he answered, distracted and distant. She wondered whether he was even bothering to listen.

"Lucas, put that bloody thing down and listen," she snapped, ready to snatch the radio off him. "If you've finished eating, get to work on the laptop you took from Mace's hotel room, and I'll deal with the mobile phone. Okay?"

Lucas whipped his hand away from the radio like it had scalded him, but said nothing more about it to Ros. Her temper had been on edge all evening, ever since he finished his "shift" at the Hotel. The disappearance of Mace had made their Op that little more complicated. So, he took himself and his radio back to the men's dorm, where he could work on both without Ros glowering down her nose at him.