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Chapter Seven
"Morning, Mr North! Lovely drop of weather," the security officer beamed. Lucas pulled a face in reply as he slid his bag and saturated umbrella through the scanner and ducked through the security gates. Although largely thanks to Ros's help he could now get through pouring rain without a panic attack, he still hated the sound of it, and being cold and soaked through always reminded him of things he would probably spend the rest of his life trying to forget.
"Day'll improve from here on out," the man added cheerfully.
It had better. Lucas glanced up at the clock, calculated that he had time to warm up with a quick coffee, and diverted to the bar.
"Good morning, Lucas." As he joined the queue, Khalida turned and smiled at him.
"Morning." He went to shake hands – a Russian habit he had never entirely lost despite being teased remorselessly on the Grid for his tendency to do it so often – and inadvertently sprayed her with droplets of water from his umbrella. "Oh hell, sorry, Khalida. It's like a bloody monsoon out there."
Khalida laughed. "Then you have never been in a pukkah monsoon. This oh so British baby umbrella would be as much use as a - a - "
"Solar-powered foghorn," Lucas supplied with a smile. "What would you like?"
"No, no, you must let me. I am buying for everyone." She looked at him enquiringly, and then added his cappuccino to a list she reeled off to the girl behind the counter. Lucas noted the 'double espresso, no sugar' and groaned. There was a running (though carefully concealed) joke on the Grid that Ros's mood could best be gauged by the type of coffee she ordered. Cappuccino would have meant 'off-duty and relaxed'; unsurprisingly, she hardly ever drank one. Her standard order was 'Colombian, black, no sugar'. Double espresso, no sugar suggested that the storm clouds lowering over the Grid could probably hold their own with those outside.
Hardly surprising. Ros had barely spoken on the previous day's drive back from Wormwood Scrubs. More worryingly still, she had stopped at all the amber lights and kept within the speed limit. Because Lucas recognised Myers Silence Version 3 (embarrassed and ashamed) he had refrained making from any flip comments. The silence had been broken in no uncertain terms on their arrival at Thames House when Callum reported that he had been unable to contact Harry on his secure, encrypted phone as instructed. Ros, who tolerated technology only as long as it did its job efficiently, exploded and told him to do something with his bloody gadgets that would have been very painful had it only been anatomically feasible. Her tirade had much the same effect as the cloudburst that had just drenched Lucas in sending people running for cover. Callum, who was made of stronger stuff than most, stood his ground and suggested leaving Harry an innocuous-sounding message at his hotel reception desk. The simplicity of the idea had almost mollified Ros and the message had been sent.
As Khalida turned with a laden tray, Lucas swapped it for his dripping umbrella and asked casually: "Boss in, then?"
"Oh yes, indeed. Harry was asked to phone in at ten, but Ros wants to brief us first." The young woman lowered her voice as they got into the lift with several other officers. "I do not think she is very happy, Lucas. Things did not go so well yesterday, na?"
"Oh you know. Usual stuff," Lucas said evasively. It was Ros's job to decide what version of yesterday's events to give the team and when - not his. On returning, she had ordered him and Khalida to start the painstaking process of checking into the backgrounds of everyone Phelps had interviewed at the Scrubs, barked at Chen and Callum to speed up their work on identifying the Crisis Crusade demonstrators, and stayed around just long enough to fire a blistering verbal broadside at Lizzie Sandell for using office time to sort out her personal finances. Then she had disappeared to the Ministry of Justice to look into the possibility of having her father moved from the prison. She had phoned in late in the afternoon only to say that she was going straight home, and had rebuffed his suggestion that they meet at his flat instead. Lucas hadn't protested. Unlike every other woman he had known, Ros found comfort in solitude rather than solace when she was hurt. Having experienced enough solitude in Russia to last him a lifetime, Lucas found that difficult to understand, but he accepted it as part of the enigma that was Ros Myers, and went home on his own.
On entering the Grid, he spotted her immediately, leaning over Chen Liu and reading something on his computer screen. As she glanced up and raised a hand, Lucas saw with relief that she looked her usual business-like self - no sign of the previous day's distress. She joined him at his desk as he was taking off his soggy coat, told Khalida to gather everyone in the meeting room, and asked crisply: "All right?"
I should be asking you that. On closer inspection, Lucas saw dark rings beneath her eyes under the carefully applied make-up and guessed she hadn't slept much.
"Sure. You?"
"Fine." Ros's eyes sparked as he couldn't resist answering the question in chorus with her, but then her lips twisted in a quick, reluctant smile. "All right, all right. Come on," her expression became serious again, "I want to brief everyone before Harry calls."
Lucas followed her into the conference room. As Ros sat down at the head of the table and reached for a coffee cup, Khalida called: "That one is not for you, Ros – it is sweet."
"Just what she needs," Lizzie muttered as she sat down next to Lucas. Before he could reply, Callum picked up another cup, winked at him and enquired with a smirk:
"How do you take yours then, Lizzie? Sour?"
Lucas hastily turned his snort of laughter at the analyst's indignant expression into a cough as Ros clapped her hands.
"Callum, is your box of magic tricks ready?"
"Yes ma'am. Chief's voice'll be clear as Quasimodo's bells." Callum grinned. "Be a lot easier if we could just Viber him, though."
"Blame the NSA," Ros said sardonically. She checked her watch. "Right, we have twenty minutes."
Lucas listened with half an ear to her description of their interview with her father, concentrating instead on the reactions of his colleagues. When Ros came to her father's allegation about 'Kallima' their expressions ranged from disbelief to fear, and a hiss of indrawn breath crept round the table like an ill-tempered snake.
"Do you think that's true, Ros?" Chen blurted.
Ros shook her head impatiently. "What any of us think is irrelevant. It's proof we need. That means internal security carrying out a full-scale investigation."
Which could take forever, Lucas thought. And who was to say that 'Kallima' was the only active Crisis Crusade mole in Thames House? He wouldn't trust Sir Jocelyn Myers as far as he could throw a boulder, but his comment about the rot of resentment and dissatisfaction having spread far rang uncomfortably true.
"Your father did not have any idea at all who 'Kallima' might be?" Khalida asked uncertainly.
"None that he was prepared to share with me," Ros answered tartly.
"Yet," Lucas added quietly. From the way Ros had pressed her father, he knew that she, like him, suspected the old man might well be keeping something back.
"But -" Chen fiddled nervously with his spectacles as he spoke, "he could mean – it could be - "
"Anyone," Ros said, abruptly. "In any section."
"Including this one," Callum said grimly. Alongside Lucas, Lizzie Sandell shifted in her seat. Alone of the six people around the table she had said nothing so far, but Lucas noticed that her gaze was fixed on Ros. It didn't take a GPS to pinpoint the direction of her thoughts.
"So whatever will be happening now?" Khalida's precise English had a tendency to take on stronger South Asian overtones when she was anxious. "Harry is sure to be jolly damned furious."
As if on cue, there was a soft whoosh as the conference room doors slid open. "Ros? Sorry," Peter Davies said when she looked round. " Coded call coming in from Paris."
Callum was up and seated in front of the computer before Ros could even issue instructions. Ros's eyes went from him to Chen and Khalida, who had both brightened visibly, lingered for a second on Lizzie Sandell and then moved to Lucas. She raised her eyebrows and gave a tiny, eloquent shrug. Lucas glimpsed again the sadness he had seen in her at the wedding and read the unspoken message. Harry's back. They'll be all right now. Got someone they really trust.
"He's there, Ros." Callum looked up expectantly, and Lucas watched Ros gather herself.
"Patch it through." She gripped her hands together on the table top and cleared her throat. "Harry, it's Ros. How's the honeymoon?"
There was a pause, and then Harry's voice emerged into the room, sounding metallic and tinged with a slight echo.
"At an end, I take it. What is it, Ros?"
Ros unclasped her hands and toyed with the slender gold chain she wore.
"I'm sorry to break things up, Harry. I wouldn't have called if I didn't think it absolutely necessary."
Harry's voice lost its edge. "I know that, lass. What's wrong?"
Ros swiftly recapped her briefing. When she concluded, there was a long silence from the squawk-box. She threw a glance at Callum, who responded with a thumbs-up.
"Did you interview him alone?" There was a whiplash crack in Harry's voice, and Ros's expression tautened at the rebuke underlying the question.
"No, Lucas was with me."
"So, do you believe him? Either of you?"
Ros made a 'speak up' gesture towards Lucas. He leaned forward. "Yeah, I think he was telling the truth, Harry. But in my opinion he knows more, he's holding something back."
"Ros?"
"I concur," she said shortly.
"You're sure?" Harry rapped.
Ros's lips twisted. " I'll never be sure, Harry. This is my father we're talking about. We both know he's good at manipulating people, even those who should know better than to fall for it." She swallowed. "Yes, he could deliberately be playing divide and rule by sowing suspicion within the Service – he has a grudge against us, and he's never applied a statute of limitations to how long he holds one. Or Laverne could be using him to divert our attention from Crisis Crusade, and this whole 'Kallima' business could be a red herring. But it would be one hell of a risk to assume that. I think we should call in the plumbers."
At the term all MI-5 staffers used to refer to the internal security department, Harry muttered something that made Khalida blush.
"If it is a pure bloody fairy tale, we'll be wasting resources, undermining morale and playing right into the bugger's hands," he grunted.
Lucas saw Ros flinch and stepped in again.
"Harry, there are two things militating against that. He's up for parole in a couple of weeks. If he is playing footsie with us, he must know we'd slam the door on him once we found out. Au revoir parole, hello fourteen more years at Her Majesty's pleasure. That's a high price to pay for getting his own back. Plus, this attack on him was an attack - surely an attempt to stop him telling us what he knows. If it's a fabrication, then it's a bloody elaborate and dangerous one, and I don't see what the point of it would be."
"Take your pick," Harry said, sourly. "Revenge? Double-bluff? Thwarted ambition? It wouldn't be the first time he's developed a taste for interfering in government, Lucas."
"No." Ros was shaking her head vigorously. "Harry, when he – the coup was different. Think – he was trying to restore order. Maintain stability. I know he went the wrong way about it," as Harry snorted down the line, "but he would never, ever be part of something creating instability – not voluntarily. If he's keeping information from us, it isn't to mislead, it's - " she stalled.
" – a bargaining counter. Something for later that he can use to his own benefit." Lucas finished for her. "There wouldn't be any benefit to him in our discovering that he'd been trying to stitch us up in a fabric of lies."
"And he is not wrong about Crisis Crusade, Harry. There he is well and truly thumping the nail." Heads swung in Khalida's direction. "Their influence is growing all the time. Did you not see all the malarkey that happened at Waterloo a few days ago?"
"We had that pleasure. French television was kind enough to broadcast every detail, complete with witty commentary," Harry said ironically. "So what do you want, Ros?"
Ros took a deep breath. "Three things. One – to alert Internal Security. Two – to move my father out of the Scrubs. The Governor doesn't think he can guarantee his safety, and if he does know anything else, we need to ensure that we don't lose his information." She swallowed. "I've spoken to the Justice Ministry, but there's a problem."
"Which is?" There was an ominous note in the question.
Ros explained - an overstretched and seriously overcrowded prison service, no obvious viable alternative to the Scrubs, and no way of knowing exactly how far the network of Crisis Crusade's supporters might reach, making an open prison far too dangerous.
"And three?" Harry asked.
"I … I need you here. It's a matter of trust, Harry." Ros's voice wavered and then settled again. "With my record … and his … I don't think I'm the right person to be in command of this."
Lucas heard a sotto voce murmur of 'you can say that again' from Lizzie, and wanted to slap her. He knew better than anyone the courage it had taken Ros to make that admission, especially in front of the team. She had been so determined to prove to her detractors this week that she could do Harry's job.
"Absolute rubbish, Rosalind." The words spat furiously out of the squawk-box. Lucas wondered whether he was the only one with a mental image of Harry's steely-eyed gaze raking over the assembled team. "I trust you without reservation, and anyone – anyone – who queries your authority or your ability will answer to me. Is that understood?" There was a hurried chorus of 'yes, Harry' to which only Ros, scarlet with embarrassment, didn't contribute.
"Good," Harry said tersely. "Then tell me what you've been doing about Crisis Crusade."
Swiftly, Ros described their continuing efforts to identify the Waterloo demonstrators, and explained her intention to widen the scope of the work to search for possible connections between them and anyone who might have been involved with the attack on her father. When she had finished, Harry said crisply: "Good. Cross-check against the Occupy activists as well. Could be old wine in new wineskins."
"The people involved have a different profile, Harry," Lizzie piped up. "These are older, more conservative - and not only at Waterloo. It's a completely different demographic." She paused. "Ruth said as much."
An expression of anger and apprehension combined swept across Ros's face, and Lucas instantly knew why. Lizzie had just employed precisely the tactic – using Ruth's name and influence to bolster her own arguments - whose effect the section chief feared most.
Before Harry could reply, Callum raised a finger and got a curt nod from Ros in return.
"Harry, there's another thing – there's barely a trace of this shower on the Net. Facebook, Twitter, all the usual suspects … nothing. Well, nothing that I can find yet, anyway. There's the occasional comment about Crisis Crusade, but it's nothing like Occupy. They left their bloody footprint all over like a centipede with muddy boots on, but not this lot. No videos on YouTube, no flash mobs, not even a website. If they are organised, they're not using the mainstream social media. Not unless they're using it in a hell of a good disguise. Having a butcher's at e-mail might be more use, but not until I know whose bloody e-mail."
Lucas would have smiled at the techie's exasperation if the situation hadn't been so serious. Callum was only ten years younger than he was, but like many officers who had grown up in the electronic age he occasionally fell into the trap of believing that if something couldn't be found on or by a computer, then it didn't exist.
"Maybe they're getting more savvy," Chen Liu offered from the end of the table. "I mean, thanks to Assange and Snowden … these days it's not Reds under the beds, it's spies in disguise. And even a dinosaur like my dad knows that hacking doesn't just mean riding a horse."
"That's beside the point," Harry's metallic voice rapped. "The first step is to identify our targets, and for that, the human eyeball is still often more efficient than the electronic version. And assuming Ruth is right, we're talking about a segment of the population that still fights its battles in the real world, not the virtual one." Assuming Ruth is right. Lucas glanced at Ros, who met his glance impassively. "So you keep at it – trawl CCTV and work the face recognition, but at the same time, look. Plumb your memories, use your eyes. Don't just rely on the damned technology. Use your instinct and think. Ros – contact the Chief Constables in the areas where the disruption's been most frequent and get whatever information they have from the Police National Database. And one of you needs to liaise with the other side of the river. Just in case this home-grown brew has a dash of exotic pepper being added to it."
"Will do, Harry." Ros, who had been scribbling in the notepad she always carried in a pocket, went to add something but stopped mid-phrase as Harry went on.
"One last thing, and I won't be repeating this." The hard edge to his voice caused a sudden stillness to settle on the room. "It was made crystal clear to all of you that Ros is Acting Head of Counter-Terrorism. So you will obey her orders, as you would mine. If on my return I learn that anyone in the Section has given her less than his or her total co-operation or shown in her anything less than the same absolute trust that I have, that someone will enjoy the privilege of their immediate decommissioning becoming the subject of my personal attention." He let the uneasy silence reign for a beat and then said sharply: "Ros, I'd like to speak to you in private."
Galvanised by the irritation in his voice, the other officers scrambled to their feet, almost tumbling over each other in their jostling haste to leave the room. Ros's cold stare ushered each of them out, but as Lucas came level with her she shook her head and flicked her hand towards the chair next to her own. Lucas looked warily at the loudspeaker squatting like a malevolent toad in the centre of the table, but her eyes flashed dangerously, so feeling a new sympathy for the rope in a tug of war, he reluctantly resumed his seat. Ros addressed the loudspeaker.
"Go ahead, Harry."
"Your father," Harry said without preamble. His voice softened slightly. "It must have been hard."
Ros bristled. "I can cope," she said immediately, "it's fine."
There was a pause that Lucas guessed was Harry debating with himself whether to pursue the point. Don't bother. Ros had never been able to accept sympathy or compassion; she always seemed to think doing so was a sign of weakness, and she was on the defensive already. Harry seemed to reach the same conclusion; with only a slight sigh, he changed the subject.
"All right. I'm reluctant to let the bloodhounds off the leash, but go ahead and speak to Internal Security. Play your cards close to your chest, though; give the asset a code-name and stick to it from now on." Ros nodded. "And Ros? 'One of yours' could mean one of the team, too. Bear that in mind. No letting sentimentality cloud your judgement."
Lucas's eyebrows shot up. Sentimentality wasn't a word anyone on the Grid associated with Ros, and she hadn't exactly shown a great deal while interrogating her father the previous day. He looked at her with trepidation, anticipating outrage. Instead, she looked down at the table and said softly: "I won't, Harry. I've learned my lesson. Twice."
Lucas frowned in puzzlement. There was a sudden, incomprehensible melancholy in her reply, and he realised uncomfortably that he had inadvertently become voyeur to an intimate, personal exchange.
"Good girl," Harry said. He sounded like a proud parent who'd just been told his daughter had come top of the class, and Lucas, incredulous, realised that Ros, Section D's emotional iceberg, was actually blushing, for God's sake. He hastily wiped the astonishment off his face before she could see it and revert to type.
"Now," Harry continued briskly, "about securing the asset. When's his parole hearing due?"
"Just over three weeks," Ros answered. "From what I learnt at the Justice Ministry it'll probably be granted – unless we have strong objections, ironically enough."
"Right. So …" Harry said thoughtfully, and it occurred to Lucas that the metallic edge to the sound quality could be the cogs of his mind grinding. Ros cut the ruminations short.
"Given that, and the fact that he's now a Service asset, I proposed that he be moved into our custody."
Hell. That's going to go down like a lead balloon. Lucas had learned from Jo Portman how close Harry had come to being killed during the coup attempt, and he had heard him fulminating against Jocelyn Myers several times. He obviously had doubts about the man's motives now, too. Lucas kept his expression neutral, even as he wondered whether Harry also shared his doubts about the motives behind Ros's suggestion.
"What's your opinion, Lucas?" The question shot out of the squawk-box like a bullet and hit him with about the same impact. He almost choked on the sip of water he had just taken. Ros stifled a wry smile. "Well?"
"I … er … well it – it makes sense. Or - or it did – I mean, it would have done - " Lucas stopped in disgust as he realised he was making none whatsoever, and pulled himself together. "But how the hell do we guarantee his safety when we have a Crisis Crusade mole somewhere?"
"May have," Ros corrected him sharply.
"We don't," Harry agreed. "So we contract the job out. Trans-Atlantic Security, Ros?"
"A private agency?" Lucas blurted in shock. He was aware that a plethora of Government services, from office cleaning to large chunks of the NHS, had been sub-contracted to the private sector, but entrusting the safety of a Service asset to a private security company was unthinkable. Memories of MI-5's forced marriage of considerable inconvenience with G4S during the Olympics were still vivid. "Shit, Harry, we can't trust those morons!"
Harry's response was edged with frost. "I assure you that we can trust these particular morons to know exactly what they're doing. Get in touch with them and make the arrangements, Ros. And keep the details on strict need-to-know." Ros murmured a satisfied 'yes, Harry', and, not for the first time, Lucas felt like the office junior, tagging along behind the two of them, occasionally useful for running errands, but never quite accepted into the trusted ranks of the inner circle.
"Last but most definitely not least," Harry went on, "I have no intention of returning early. You earned my trust a long time ago, Ros. Now your job is to earn it with other people. No-one will give it to you on a silver platter with your morning coffee. Ruth and I will be back in forty-eight hours as planned."
Ros's gaze flicked across to Lucas, and she gave a slight, almost mischievous smile.
"I assume that, and the fact that Callum couldn't raise you yesterday means you've been enjoying yourselves?"
A familiar 'harrumph' prefaced his reply. "We went to Malmaison for the day. Ruth said I could take either her or the phone."
This time both of them grinned widely. "Is she there?" Lucas enquired.
"No, she's gone shopping." Harry sounded more nervous about that prospect than he had about Crisis Crusade, and Lucas laughed.
"That should slim down your wallet, Harry."
"Pity my waistline isn't following suit," Harry said wryly. "But she loves the hotel, Ros. And the restaurant you recommended was superb – especially since your name got us VIP treatment. Much appreciated … by both of us."
Ros shrugged. "Not a lot of advantages in being born who I was, but knowing a few decent restaurateurs is one of them." She had spoken with a dismissive indifference that Lucas knew was entirely feigned. Now she checked her watch. Sixty seconds was the outer limit of Ros's capacity for social chat. "I'd better get on with things, Harry. Au revoir. Amusez-vous bien! "
She cut the call while Harry was still trying to extract the proper response from his rusty schoolboy French and said decisively: "Right, let's go. We need to talk to the paranoid androids of Internal Security and then get to Trans-Atlantic."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have expected you to be a fan of the 'Hitch-hiker's Guide'.
"I'm not. Guy who used to work here. Friend of Malcolm's." As they got up, Lucas's capacious memory banks obligingly opened the corresponding file. Colin Wells, technical specialist, murdered by renegade MI-6 officers during attempted coup.
"Yes, that one," Ros said flatly, without looking at him. "Get Peter to give Callum a hand with the remaining CCTV. I want Chen to handle the Chief Constables."
"And liaising with Vauxhall Cross?" Lucas asked. Whatever her status, Ros's appearance there tended to generate conflict rather than co-operation; he knew she wouldn't do it, and guessed she would veto assigning Lizzie Sandell. "Khalida?"
"She's the best," Ros agreed. "How much progress have the two of you made with analysing those interviews Phelps - "
She broke off as the doors slammed open and Khalida herself rushed through them, almost knocking Lucas into the wall. He hastily steadied himself on the back of a chair. It was a measure of Khalida's panic that she didn't even stop to apologise.
"Ros, Lucas, you need to come. Quickly, please. Now!"
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