Author's note: thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed this story – your feedback means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply. Thank you, again!

Chapter Seven: Golden Dawn

It was late by the time Ruth returned to her hotel suite. The television was off, the ceiling fan hung motionless, but a cool breeze swept in from the open balcony door. She paused, looking for George. Their bed was empty, not slept in and as pristine as the maids had left it that morning. Checking the clock, she knew that Sofia would not be up, so George had nowhere else to be. The bathroom door was ajar, empty looking. To be sure, she slipped off her shoes and crept over to it. She blamed her jarring nerves on the events of the last few days, but she couldn't deny she was beginning to fear the worst as she slowly nudged the bathroom door wide open. Nothing.

Ruth paused again, turning her attention to the balcony. The net curtain billowed into the room on a small gust of wind and sank away again, as though enticing her outside. She stole forwards on tip-toes, circling the wide bed and crossing the rug to the door as silently as she could. She paused on the threshold, heart beat hammering against her ribs as she poked her head around the aperture. There he was, dozing in a sun-lounger with a book splayed open across his chest. She felt faint she took a sudden intake of breath, a rush of oxygen that made her head spin. After allowing herself a minute to win back control of her own nerves, she gave him a gentle nudge.

"George," she whispered, leaning down to be level with him. "George, wake up; it's late."

A snore hitched in his throat as he jerked away, alarmed at finding himself still out on the patio.

"Ruth!" he yelped, quickly rubbing the residue of sleep from his eyes. "You scared me."

She stifled a laugh. "And you scared the life out of me, too!"

She sat down in the second sun lounger and noticed the bottle of wine open on the table. Holding it up to the moonlight, she gave it a swirl. Satisfied that it hadn't become a final resting place for any bugs or insects, she took a deep draught straight from the bottle.

"Did they teach you that in the famous English finishing school you went to," he joked, watching her down the last of his wine.

Ruth grimaced as she replaced the now empty bottle. "Don't be silly, only common British girls go to English finishing schools. I told you, I am a secret love child of the Duke of Edinburgh and Margaret Thatcher. I went to a Swiss finishing school."

Her attempt at humour was followed by a long moment of silence, during which George regarded her closely.

"Will you ever tell me what you did?" he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "I feel like there's this big mystery; something I don't know. And now, since we came to Nicosia, you vanish for hours on end and we never see you. I wanted Nico to get to know you."

Although she had expected this question for a long time, the timing caught her off-guard. Time and again, throughout the last two years, she had rehearsed the precise conversation she would one day have with George about who she had once been. But already, he had gone off-script by bringing the subject up himself. Ruth knew she had nowhere left to run. The time for the truth had arrived and they would both be in need of a drink.

"Wait here," she said.

He nodded his agreement and she got up to return inside. She collected her handbag from where she had dropped it near the front door. Then, she collected another bottle of wine from the mini-bar and two glasses. Armed with the essentials, she returned to the balcony in the warm night air. The moon was bright outside, reflecting off the restless ocean not two miles away. On either side were dark hills, studded with tiny beacons of light shining from invisible houses. The view was entrancing, even in the darkest hours.

She handed him a glass as they both took seats at the table. George frowned at it.

"Am I going to need this?" he asked, pointing to the glass, now brimming with red wine.

Ruth took a deep breath, feeling her already battered nerves prickling back into life. From within her handbag she produced her driver's license and passport and handed them over, directing him to look at them. A second later, he looked up at her frowning deeply.

"Who is Emily Austen?" he asked, with good reason. "She looks an awful lot like Ruth Evershed."

"Ruth is my real name," she said. "It's what my parents named me. It's what's on my birth certificate. Unfortunately, it's also on my death certificate."

George's mouth dropped open in shock, clearly trying to cut a path through a fog of confusion. "But, you're not dead!" he observed. "What is all this?"

She raised a pained smile. "Well spotted," she laughed. "I was an Analyst working for MI5. You know them, don't you?"

"Like, James Bond?" he said, it was always the first thing anyone said when confronted with MI5. "You were a spy?"

"I was an Analyst," she corrected him. "Our field agents did the leg work when it came to spying. I read the data, or analysed it and assessed the risk level. Mine was strictly a desk job. But I got a report about a fire at a detention centre for immigrants awaiting deportation. The fire was started deliberately and we lost several potential MI6 assets who all belonged to a terrorist organisation called Acts of Truth-"

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" he asked, cutting over her. "Less terrorists!"

Ruth shook her head. "The fire was started by the authorities, on the watch of a man called Oliver Mace," she explained. "So, to deflect the blame from himself, he put the blame on me. My boss, Harry Pearce, arranged for me to flee the country, rather than be sent to jail for several life sentences." She paused, looked around her at the night time view of the beach. "And, well, here I am. Legally dead. I cannot go back. Ever." A chill came over her, bringing her out in goose bumps at the memories of those last few days in England, followed by months of wandering across the lonely continent.

She explained as best she could, answered what questions she could without betraying state secrets or, worse, her old colleagues. Despite all that, she couldn't tell whether he believed her or not. It was a tall story, even among the intelligence communities. Fit ups like hers were rare. However, George didn't react as she always feared he would: by throwing her out on the streets, or calling the police to have her locked up. But, he still looked as though he hadn't quite managed to take it all in.

"The worst thing is, I'm gone all hours because I've seen Oliver Mace walking the streets of Nicosia," she explained, dropped the most damaging of bombshells yet. "That's where I've been; keeping tabs on him because I need to know why he's here. Does he know I'm here, or is he up to something worse?"

George just looks bewildered. "Have you found anything out?"

"Only that he's been having meetings with Leonidas Markos, regional leader of a group calling itself-"

"Golden Dawn!" George snorted, sounding unmistakably derisive.

"You know them?" she asked.

"Everyone does. They're based in Athens, but they also fight for Greek control of Cyprus, so that means kicking the Turks out," he explained. "But don't look so afraid, Ruth. They're a joke; a laughing stock. It's just, they're also neo-Nazis. The disaffected and the angry set great store by them."

"Do you believe what I'm telling you?" she asked, setting Golden Dawn aside for the time being. "Or do you think I'm mad now."

George fell silent for a minute; clearly still reeling from her revelations. "I know you well enough to know you wouldn't horse shit anyone about something like this," he answered. "It even makes sense. The caginess, the secrecy, the reluctance to talk about the past. What I want to know is, are you happy here? Or, are you doing this to clear your name so you can go home again?"

The question came as a curveball. All along she had told herself she was doing this only to protect herself and George. But the opportunity to clear her name had always been high on her list of priorities. Where she had not gone, during her mental explorations, was what she would do once she had gained her exoneration. She could not, in all honesty, answer the question.

George took a deep breath. "I know you're not telling me everything," he said. "How can you? The world of espionage is…" he couldn't say what it was, it was something that had never encroached upon his life. "But I cannot blame you for wanting to seize an opportunity to clear your name. So, what can you do, now that this man is here? Can you confront him?"

"No, he would either kill me or run for his life," she replied. "Mace is ruthless. All I can do is gather Intel on why he's here and send it to some, er, old friends of mine. It would utterly discredit Mace while throwing him over a barrel. He may just confess, if the stakes are high enough."

George drained the wine from his glass and topped it straight back up again. "I admit I'm no spy, but let's see what you've got so far," he suggested. "Let's see if we can't work out a way to prove your innocence together."

Emerging from the manhole cover that disguised the entrance to their bunker, Lucas stretched out leisurely. Spending endless hours cooped up underground had the claustrophobic effect of a subterranean prison cell – and he had had enough of normal prison cells to last him a life time. A few moments later, and Ros also emerged, blinking into the natural sunlight and swearing audibly.

"So then," he said, whirling round to face as her as she got to her feet. "To Nicosia."

"To Nicosia," she confirmed, leading the way to their car. "I contacted our friends at the Embassy. They confirmed that Mace was holding meetings with the head of their Intel Agency, but the Ambassador got cold feet at the last minute. Nothing's been seen of him, since. But, Golden Dawn were mentioned by the Turks as well as liberal mentions of them in Mace's computer files and phone records…" her voice trailed off as she took in the view from their small, British Army compound. "Hot sunshine makes all the difference to afternoon briefings, doesn't it?" she asked, almost smiling.

Lucas had to agree, until he jumped into the passenger seat and promptly torched his arse on the lethal hot covering. "Careful, it's like an oven in here," he warned her as she got in beside him.

"Oh don't be such a girl, Lucas!" she admonished, but cursed loudly as she burned her hands on the plastic steering wheel. "It's not funny!"

Lucas composed himself as Ros pulled out of the army base and turned left to head towards the Greek border. The drive in the hot car was mercifully short, the house they were looking for was just a mile from the border. The district they found themselves in was run-down, with just ramshackle markets selling bric-a-brac that no one really needed. Chipped ornaments, bits of military paraphernalia lifted from nearby installations and passed off as valuable war memorabilia.

Ros eventually parked down a narrow side-street, where an over-grown alley led down the back of the buildings.

"Well, here we are," she said, counting down the houses to make sure they had the correct one. "Our last positive sighting of Mace is there." She points to the relevant building.

"It looks derelict," observed Lucas, wrinkling his nose at the dilapidated state of the abode.

Ros did not reply. Together, they got out of the car and made sure it was safely locked up before gingerly stepping over the crumbling perimeter wall that separated the back yard from the alleyway, ignoring the rotten gate altogether. Lucas tried the bell, but no sound came. Ros knocked, as loud as she could, but no one answered. Not even answering footsteps approached. Lucas gestured for her to stand aside as he aimed one ferocious kick directly where the door's lock was. The whole thing splintered in a pile of woodworm infested fragments at their feet.

"Yup, that got it," Ros wryly observed, raising a brow.

"I didn't think the whole thing would splinter," he protested, stepping inside and fumbling for a light switch. "Got a flashlight? The electric's gone and the windows are boarded up."

"Only on a key ring," she answered. "It'll have to do."

After a moment fumbling through her pockets, Ros managed to produce a thin beam of light from the aforementioned novelty key ring. The narrow beam darted across a narrow passageway, revealing doors that were hanging off their hinges, leading into dingy rooms. One opened out onto what was once a living room. A dining table was up-ended and pushed up against the back window, blocking the light. Wall paper was peeling back from the walls to expose damp, decaying brickwork. Wires hung from torn out electrical terminals, whether live or not, they backed out of the room cautiously.

"What on earth was Mace doing here?" Lucas asked, seriously wondering if they hadn't got this wrong. "Anything below the Ritz brings him out in hives."

"Desperate times; desperate measures," Ros conjectured. "He's been brought low since Harry and Adam stuck the knife in."

They rounded the corner in the passageway, in to the kitchen. Two candle stumps were welded to the table top where the wax had melted down. It was the first sign of human habitation they had come across.

"You don't think he's taken up dealing drugs?" Lucas asked, edging his way into the kitchen.

Ros suppressed a laugh, stepped ahead of him to keep the light in the room as much as possible. The chairs looked as though they had been kicked over, one of the legs was broken. She dropped to her knees, casting the light down with her. At first, she thought it was compacted dirt ingrained into the cracked linoleum. Up close, however, she could see it was dried blood. Several, liberal drops of it forming a trail back to the door Lucas had just kicked in. Ros briefly turned away as she called Lucas to over to inspect the evidence for himself.

"Look at the door frame," he said, pointing to where wood had recently been clawed away. "That was there before we came, look."

He was right. Ros looked again at where the chairs had been kicked over, clearly as part of a tussle. Streaks in the dirt showed where they had been heavily dragged. Lucas knelt down beside one at the far end of the table, poking at something under one of the chair legs with a pen produced from his wallet. Ros had noticed anything there, at first. But as she directed the light on to it, she could see it was a man's wallet.

"Open it up, I'll hold the light," she said, keeping her voice low.

He did so, sliding the cards out first. "UK driver's license," he read aloud. "For one Oliver Mace."

Ros sighed. "Put it somewhere safe," she instructed him. "We'll take a proper look once we're back at base."

While Lucas slipped the wallet into his back pocket, Ros shone of the small flashlight up a small flight of stairs leading to the first floor. As uninviting as it was, they clung close together as they silently crept up the stairs. More than once, Lucas feared their feet would go straight through the rotten wood, but the old, worm infested timber just about held their weight. After a minute, they emerged onto a landing mercifully lit up by the only window in the house not boarded up. They paused as they took stock of their surroundings, until Ros directed the light through an open door.

The search was painstakingly slow, despite all rooms being virtually empty. It was clear that the room wasn't being used as on office or regular meeting place. There was no paperwork left haphazardly scattered about the place, or even any further signs of struggle.

Ros sighed, evidently giving up the struggle. "No one's been up here," she said. "We're wasting our time."

"Mace met with Markos in the kitchen, that's where the struggle clearly took place," he said. "Let's go back downstairs and follow the trail again."

The only problem was, was that they wanted to avoid searching out in the open. Nevertheless, they began with the upturned chairs, followed the few drops of blood to the door and paused outside. The back yard was over-grown, with litter and refuse scattered liberally in the untamed weeds and grass. However, as they hunched down by the door, where it looked like the most violent part of the struggle happened, Lucas noticed something peculiar.

"Ros," he said, pointing to a yellowing patch of burdock leaves. "Under there – a pen drive." He picks it up before she can answer, holding it in the flat of his hand.

"Excellent," she replied. "With a bit of luck, it was dropped during the struggle."

Before they departed, they looked back at the kicked in door. After a minute of trying to obscure the gaping doorway, they gave up and headed back for the van. They could report a break in once they returned to base. First, however, they have to navigate their way back through the run down streets and military checkpoints of the bandit land they seemed to have wound up in.

Harry Pearce turned his back on the black waters of the river and looked back at Thames House. The windows were all blank, but he knew full well that even at that hour there were untold numbers of agents squirrelling away deep within its walls. All around him, the streetlamps shone an almost celestial haze in the London fog, casting a decidedly Dickensian air to the relentless modernity all about him. Only the traffic crawling by shattered his nostalgic illusions. Other than that, people hurried past, huddled deep in their overcoats and swaddled in scarfs, paying him no attention whatsoever. Whenever a middle aged, balding man in glasses passed him by, he lifted his gaze to see if it was Kachimov. But, so far, the head of the FSB was keeping him waiting.

Regardless of what hives of activity swarmed all about him, these days, he found himself increasingly preoccupied with the mole in their ranks. Unanswered questions crowded his mind; when they went unanswered, he found himself playing a game of probability. Was the person who betrayed Sugar Horse also the same person who betrayed Lucas? He could only wish he had pursued the matter then. He founding himself going over the personnel of the day: Tom Quinn, Zoe Reynolds, Malcolm… Each name came up, only to be instantly dismissed.

Growing restless, he was about to walk away when the black clad bulk of Arady Kachimov appeared through a swirl of fog, like some bad stage magician. The Russian walked with a definite spring in his step, greeting Harry with over-the-top joviality that made him want to vomit. The spectre of Adam Carter loomed large in Harry's mind, while he was this close to the deceased section chief's murderer.

"Tell me, what does the great Harry Pearce want at this hour?" Kachimov asked.

"To apologise," replied Harry.

Kachimov looked as though he hadn't quite heard that properly. Harry, to give the impression that they were merely two business partners on their way home from work, started strolling along the embankment. He was grateful for the dark and the fog, it formed a thin veil behind which he could shroud the contempt in his eyes.

"You are toying with me again, aren't you?" Kachimov laughed, as if this really was a joke.

"No, I'm being serious," Harry pressed on. "I didn't realise I had taken out one of your most important Assets within my organisation. I know how much you were relying on them."

There was a moment of silence, filled only by their sharp footfalls against the paving stones.

"You still suspect Lucas then, Harry?"

He knew that Lucas was away. Harry made a mental note of that, while refusing to confirm nor deny anything.

"You are right not to, of course," Kachimov continued. "Eight years in the hands of a hostile nation – how could you ever trust him again?"

Harry smiled. "Trust is a very big word, isn't it?" he mused. "How can you ever trust anyone in this game? Strip away our skin and you'll find another skin: layer upon layer of subterfuge, aliases and downright lies." He kept the nonsense coming, it seemed to be the sort of thing Kachimov liked, it made him feel deep. "You know, like those little dolls you get in Russia: one inside the other, always getting smaller."

They parted after a short meeting during which nothing of substance had been achieved, but it let Kachimov know that MI5 were not done with him yet. He crossed the street, picked up his pace and kept it going until he reached Thames House. Once back on the Grid, he headed straight for Malcolm's desk, where the techie was working on something undoubtedly shadowy.

"I've fed false information to Kachimov," he said. "I want you to listen in to every phone call and hack every email from Kachimov to see if he talks about it. You never know, we might just flush the mole out that way."

Immediately, Malcolm began tapping away at his keyboard, making the computer turn tricks that Harry couldn't begin to comprehend. "I hope you're right," Malcolm intoned, eyes still fixed on the screen in front of him. "Connie won't mind manning the radio station for a few days."

"Thank you, Malcolm."

With that, Harry returned to his office and poured himself a measure of whiskey to ease him through the Sugar Horse file. He knew the false information, naming Lucas as a suspect in the mole conspiracy, was a long shot. But, he had reasoned, it may just trigger some talk from the FSB. Lucas was safe in Cyprus, protecting him if anything went wrong. It was as harmless as it was unlikely. Or at least, it was as harmless as anything could be with MI5.