CHAPTER THREE

I'd intended to do as Ros had suggested and take it easy before the next round of questioning. Though I wouldn't have told her so, I was completely drained following the first session. I felt as if she'd extracted from me not only every drop of information but every ounce of energy as well, and I certainly needed to try and recover before she started on me again. But after two days I was struggling to find something with which to fill the hours. The television alternately bewildered and bored me, and I had done enough reading in prison to last a lifetime. So when I got up I installed myself in the kitchen with a cup of tea, stirring the lemon slice moodily round and round as it stared up at me like a jaundiced eye, and tried to think of some way of occupying myself.

It was the lemon that gave me the idea. When we first married, Elizaveta had mocked me for, as she would put it, 'ruining' the tea by adding milk, and she had laughingly tried to convert me to the Russian habit of lemon tea. Eight years of imprisonment had succeeded where her gentle persuasion had failed.

Elizaveta. I had had to press him, but Harry had eventually, and with great reluctance, told me that she had divorced me on the grounds of desertion. I couldn't pretend that it didn't hurt, because it did, it hurt like bloody hell. Perhaps it was unreasonable to have expected anything else. After all, she was young, she was beautiful, and she had no idea when – or if – I was going to come back to her. And I wasn't naïve enough to think that the Russians wouldn't have put pressure on her. Darshavin had mentioned her a couple of times … hinted that something might happen to her if I didn't co-operate, might have happened, when I didn't. Perhaps MI-5 had turned the screws on her too; how did I know? Even when I was clinging to the memory of her in prison, to the idea of a reunion with her, I think that in the depths of my soul I knew it was nothing more than an illusion. But it was an illusion that helped to keep me alive, and suddenly I wanted to see just how far it might have been from reality.

I took a bus to Vauxhall – the tube was still out of the question for me at the moment – and decided to cut through the park towards the house. Incredibly, I had barely passed through the gates when I saw her. Even after eight years I recognised her immediately. She had let her hair grow, but there was no mistaking that quick, decisive stride, or that mysterious half-smile that had so intrigued me when we first met. I was just about to call her name when she stopped, and crouched down on the path.

'Lapochka maya, idi k mame!'

Come to Mummy? The air around me seemed to have turned hot, and then, just as suddenly, icy cold. I stopped so abruptly that a youth on rollerblades had to swerve violently to avoid knocking me off my feet. I could vaguely hear him shouting abuse back over his shoulder, but all my attention was on Vyeta, now swinging an excitedly giggling little boy around in her arms. Even from where I was standing rooted to the spot, I could see the similarity between them.

I could feel the bitterness of anger rising up in me. How old was he, who was his father, above all, how long had she waited? I looked at the boy again. No, not how long. How soon … how soon had she decided that I was a liability, a burden – a mistake? I wanted to march over to her, shatter her illusions, and demand to know it all.

Fortunately, common sense kicked in, and I did none of those things. Instead, I just stood there watching them, silently trying to convince myself that this was right, the way it should be. After all, I wanted Vyeta to be safe, and I wanted her to be happy. I doubted that she would ever have been either of those things with me, not now. Common sense also dictated that I should go before she saw me, but even so, I think I might have stood there indefinitely had my mobile not begun to ring.

"Good morning, Lucas," Harry's voice said crisply. "I'd like you to brief us about Kachimov. Do you think you could come into the Grid?"

Kachimov! I swallowed hard. Presumably Ros Myers had told him about the debriefing, but I couldn't gauge from his tone what his reaction to it might be, and hope was already doing battle with anxiety in my mind. "I'm on my way."

oOoOoOo

Any hope that either Harry or Ros was going to be more sympathetic or less suspicious towards me melted away like a snowball in a heat wave within a few moments of my reaching the Grid. Harry was amiable enough, but totally impersonal. I barely recognised Ros as the woman who'd given me a lift home from the debriefing and, I had thought at the time, seemed genuinely, if very awkwardly, concerned about how I was. As Harry probed me about Arkady Kachimov, she leaned against the wall, watching me with an unchanging expression that seemed to me to combine both scepticism – which didn't surprise me – and considerable personal animosity, which did, since I hadn't sensed it before. Within an hour, and despite my protests, I was back on the street with nothing more than an injunction from Harry to 'go home and unpack' and a few platitudes about enjoying being back in England.

At that moment, I think I felt as alone as I had ever felt in Russia - more so, in a way. Elizaveta was lost to me, and even Harry didn't seem to understand that as long as I was barely tolerated within the walls of Thames House I wasn't, and never really would be, home. Ros's restrained but palpable hostility seemed to make the likelihood of any change to my status an even more remote prospect. Grateful as I was for Malcolm's hesitant attempts to be kind and Jo Portman's smiling friendliness, I knew they wouldn't be sufficient to counter the weight of their superiors' mistrust of me.

I suppose it was that – the feelings of rejection, the loneliness and the sheer uncertainty of my position – that meant that when Kachimov contacted me, I did as I was instructed without mentioning it to anyone on the Grid. I knew that Harry wanted Kachimov's head because of his involvement in the death of Adam Carter, and I'd noticed that Ros's eyes turned as hard as flint whenever his name was mentioned. Neither had feelings anywhere near as intense for him as I had developed over the previous eight years. And theirs were easier to manage – straight, pure loathing. Mine were a corrosive, confused, disabling mixture of hatred, fondness, gratitude and fear. But for the moment, he wanted me, and they didn't. So I went to Highgate Cemetery to meet my handler.

When Elizaveta appeared down the path I thought at first that I was hallucinating. I had been getting flashbacks, and half the time I wasn't sure whether what I saw in them was real or imaginary. Even when she stopped, close enough for me to smell her perfume and see the familiar flecks of gold in the darkness of her eyes, I was still too shocked and bewildered to be sure. So I blurted the first, inane thing that came into my mind – the truth. I don't understand.

Who better to be your handler? Every syllable she spoke stabbed into me as if she was using a dagger rather than words. The ground seemed to be rolling underneath my feet, and I had to sit, for fear that I would fall if I didn't. All the anger I had felt on seeing her in the park swelled back up again. Eight years … eight years wasted, sacrificed on a Service that didn't trust or want me, and a wife who had discarded me like an unwanted pet. She had built a new life and created a family while I struggled to survive in Russia, clinging to the love of a woman who, unbeknownst to me, had already long switched her allegiance, apparently in every sense. Given time, I might have been able to patch over the wound from her personal betrayal, but this – this just ripped it wide open again.

I didn't move when she left; I didn't think I could. I wanted to hug her, to hit her, and part of me – a large part of me – just wanted to crawl away behind one of the grandiose Victorian angels looming over the tilting tombstones and hide my despair in the shadows. I hadn't felt such utter desolation since the time when I tried to take my own life in the prison at Leshanko. Not for the first time, I silently and vehemently cursed Oleg Darshavin for having saved it.

The crunch of feet on gravel made me move my own; the shock of seeing Ros Myers, her face set like granite, advancing on me, almost took me off them.

"Ros! Ros, I - "

She interrupted me with a snarl of contempt that made it clear she'd overheard at least some of my conversation with Elizaveta, and I felt my stomach clench with the realisation of what that might mean. You didn't believe all that happiness crap, did you? Her next movement was so fast that all I felt was the shock of pain before everything went black.

oOoOoOo

When I came to my senses in Thames House I found myself caught like a trapped animal between Harry's incredulity and the silent, icy, disdainful glare of Ros Myers. The disappointment in me that I sensed beneath Harry's sarcastic words hurt, but it was the unspoken threat in her silence that turned me cold. It could have been Captain Tukhachevskaya standing there, and it wasn't only the residual effect of the Taser that was making me shaky and nauseated. When Harry invited me, with a mockingly courteous gesture, to explain my conduct, I knew that this would be my last opportunity to convince him that I wasn't betraying MI-5. So I threw caution to the winds and told him everything, trying to ignore the glacial green eyes observing my every move like an eagle surveying its prey. The office door was slightly ajar, and from the Grid I could hear the urgent sounds of a full-blooded crisis being managed. The information Elizaveta had sought from me meant that I could hazard a fair guess at the nature of it, and that Kachimov was almost certainly deeply involved. I had to persuade Harry that I wanted the Russian's hide every bit as much as he did. Together, we could bring the bastard down. I knew that was as close to revenge as I would ever get for everything Kachimov had taken from me – eight years of my life, the woman I loved, and the respect and trust of my colleagues and friends. I could feel the acid taste of the longing for that revenge in my mouth. But Harry – and Ros, which surely was the rub - had to trust me first.

I kept it short – Harry had always had an acute allergy to verbosity unless it was his own – and waited while he studied me assessingly for a long moment. I wanted to hold his gaze, but despite myself I found it hard not to avert my eyes. Not because I was lying or ashamed, but because I simply couldn't bear to see regret or disillusionment. At last, he swivelled in his seat and looked over at Ros. Her eyes flicked from me to him, and without the slightest change of expression, she gave a crisp, decisive nod, peeled herself away from the wall she had been leaning against and moved to his side. Harry turned back to me. If I had ever wondered how much influence Ros had with him, I knew for sure now. Every trace of doubt and hesitation had vanished from his expression as completely if she had wiped it clean.

"This," he said briskly, spreading out a diagram in front of me, "is what we need."

"And this," Ros interjected quietly, sitting down opposite me, "is what you are going to do."

oOoOoOo

Later, I found it incredible that we were successful in thwarting the Russian attack and in turning Kachimov. In immediate terms the former was more important, but it was the latter that meant most to me. After eight years of systematic moral and physical degradation, I had finally been able to hit back, and I couldn't pretend that I wasn't enjoying the sweetness of it.

When Harry gathered the team on the Grid to 'stand them down' I couldn't help smiling. He had never quite lost the patina of the army officer he had once been, and he did love his little pep talks. A lot had changed on the Grid in eight years, but that hadn't. Nor had dear old Malcolm, who was beaming proudly at his own immense contribution to the success of the operation. He hissed 'well done, Lucas!' in my ear, and gave me a clap of congratulation across the shoulders that almost knocked me from the edge of the table on which I was perched. I saw Jo quickly muffle a giggle, and smiled back at her. I remembered this, too. There was nothing quite like the atmosphere on the Grid after a successful operation, a heady sense of triumph that infected everyone involved.

I corrected myself. Almost everyone. The one person who seemed singularly unimpressed by the positive vibes swirling around us was Ros Myers. She had followed Harry from his office, but I noticed that she had carefully stayed a few steps behind him, almost as if she were using him as a shield. There was nothing of her usual confident, straight-backed stride on display either; she had her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans, and was keeping her head lowered and her eyes on the floor. Instead of taking her usual place alongside Harry when he started speaking, she moved quietly round to a table that was slightly isolated from the rest of the group and sat there, still very deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone else. To look at her, you would think the operation had just gone belly-up and that she was personally responsible.

I was both puzzled and curious, but my attention was deflected by Jo's unexpected outburst that Kachimov was responsible for Adam Carter's death and we were letting him off too lightly. I remembered how emotionally she had spoken about Adam in the cafeteria, and hot on the heels of that came the recollection of what she had told me about Adam and Ros being a couple. I looked over at Ros, just in time to see her grimace in agreement. With a shock I realised that there was a glaze of tears in her eyes.

What had Harry said? She's not as uncaring as she seems. I spoke quickly, not so much to disagree with Jo as to distract attention from Ros.

"Don't underestimate his importance in future battles," I offered.

"That's just what Adam would have said." Ros's voice was strained, and she bowed her head again immediately she had spoken. I wondered what on earth had become of the woman who had so unhesitatingly lashed out at me with a riot stick just a few hours previously.

I didn't notice when she left the room. One minute she was there; the next, her seat was empty and there was no sign of her. Jo was still protesting heatedly that the punishment for Kachimov should fit the crime, but Harry cut her short and turned to me.

"Good job, Lucas. Thank you. You did well."

I felt myself colouring like a schoolboy who'd just been given a gold star by his favourite teacher. I tried to sound nonchalant.

"Yeah, well if it's bought me out of months of de-briefing …" I said ironically, although I didn't have the slightest idea whether it had.

Harry glanced towards Ros's deserted seat. "It's bought you a return to this Section. If that's what you want."

For a moment I wasn't sure I'd heard him right until Malcolm's beaming smile and Jo's grin confirmed his words for me.

"You know I do, Harry." The speed of the about-turn in my circumstances left me almost lost for words, and the few I could find emerged in little more than a croak. Harry extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

"Talk to Ros. She'll get you up to speed. Well done, everybody." Without further ado, he walked briskly back to his office.

Talk to Ros. Sure. So, where the hell is she? I was searching around the Grid, but there was no sign of her. Where do I start looking?

A hand tapped my shoulder. "Try the roof." Malcolm glanced around and lowered his voice to a whisper. "But proceed with caution. Ros doesn't like fuss."

He noticed, too. I set off, in some trepidation, in the direction of the staircase. Whatever character traits I'd ascribed to Ros Myers in my own mind, approachability wasn't one of them.

Proceeding with caution went out of the window when the metal door to the roof screeched like an ill-tempered parrot on being pushed open. It was difficult to see in the fast-falling twilight, but the light from the stairwell caught Ros's hair as she turned at the noise.

"What is it?" she snapped. "Harry need me?"

"Not exactly." I smiled. "He just reinstated me."

"I know. Congratulations." She didn't sound as if she meant it, but after a pause, she added, "Or commiserations. You'll be working with me."

It was a brave effort, and I responded in kind. "Well, every job has its down side." I saw a very faint smile of acknowledgement. "Look, I know I'm not Adam, but - "

I got no further; instantly, she held up her hand, turning back to the balcony rail, and I cursed my own clumsiness. I'd been away from women – well, normal women – for a long time, and I hadn't picked the easiest example of the species through whom to renew my acquaintance with them. Well, one thing I couldn't do was to continue this conversation with ten feet of pre-stressed concrete between us. I walked slowly across and leaned next to her.

"I'll do my best. I mean, I'm a bit rusty, but I'll try not to make too much of a dog's dinner of things." She didn't answer. "Will you cut me some slack?"

She snorted. "As long as you don't hang your bloody self with it." I gasped at the phrase. When I looked up I wasn't surprised to see those sharp eyes raking my face again. Now it was my turn to take an intense and entirely feigned interest in the lights of the city below us. When Ros cleared her throat, I felt myself tense in anticipation of the inevitable question.

"You'll need to do the paperwork. HR." It was so unexpected that I just looked at her in confusion. "And get in touch with the medical service. Insurance, you know, all that tripe."

"Yeah … I'm sorry. Of course. Tomorrow. I'll get straight onto it tomorrow." There was another awkward pause. It was the verbal equivalent of a judo match, each of us warily circling the other and backing off whenever we came too close to contact.

"I'm sorry about the Taser." She shrugged.

"It's all right," I said. "Interesting experience. The Russians never tried that one. Too many power cuts in Moscow."

I was pleased – if amazed – when Ros laughed.

"Yeah, I bet." I wanted to ask why she had been in Russia, but caution held me back. Somehow, we had painfully inched our way onto to reasonably safe ground, and my father had always advised me to quit while I was ahead. I opened my mouth to say a friendly, uncontroversial 'goodnight' but froze in panic when I heard what actually came out.

"I think I might go for a celebratory drink. Would you like to join me?"

I expected sarcasm, indignation, even anger, but instead she stared at me in total incomprehension, as if I'd just suggested a quick return trip to Mars. For an instant, I wondered idiotically if I'd spoken in a language other than English. At last, she licked her lips.

"I'm not - " The sound of her mobile cut across her words. "Myers. Yes, Harry. No, of course I haven't. Yes. OK, I'm coming." She clicked the call off. "Sorry." She looked relieved at her escape rather than sorry. "Harry wants me." She gave a graceful shrug of the shoulders. "Try Malcolm. He has a glass of red wine most evenings. You might even be able to persuade him to a second one."

She turned away and headed across the roof. Then the tapping of her heels stopped, and I turned from the rail. In the light from the stairwell I could see her face clearly, and for the first time registered the slight redness around her eyes.

"Welcome home, Lucas." For a fraction of a second a genuine smile softened the severity of her features. "It'll be good to work with you."

She disappeared into the stairwell, pursued by the shriek of protesting metal, before I could frame an appropriate reply. I returned to gazing out across the twinkling lights of the city. The day had been such an emotional roller coaster and the end to it so totally unexpected that I still couldn't really take it all in. But for all her brusqueness and apparent indifference to other people, Ros Myers had summed it up to perfection.

Finally, I'd come home.

oOoOoOo

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