My apologies for the very long gap between this and the previous chapter. If you haven't lost patience with me, a review would be most welcome!

Chapter Eight

"What the hell is going on here?" Ros snarled as she shoved her way unceremoniously into the group of officers thronged around the screen showing the rolling news broadcast. "Well?" when lowered eyes and nervously shuffling feet provided the only response.

"It's Harveys Bank," Lucas supplied; he recognised the bank's main branch in the Strand from the demonstration that had taken place there on the day of Harry and Ruth's wedding. Now there was a constantly lengthening line of people snaking from its door down the pavement and curling into Duncannon Street. "Looks like a - " he didn't want to use the word – "like customers."

"Well, they're not likely to be auditioning for Britain's Got Talent," Ros snapped. She whirled on Khalida. "What are they saying?"

The answer flashed up on the screen before the flustered young Pakistani could reply. POSSIBLE RUN ON 'USURY' BANK? Ros gestured impatiently for quiet as the camera followed a journalist walking down the queue. His report rang out into the sudden hush.

'Harveys Bank has raised a storm of protest by increasing its charges for basic banking services such as issuing a credit card or running an overdraft, by five per cent above the rate of inflation. Bank officials cited the need to compensate for write-offs of bad debt and to meet more stringent operating requirements placed on banks by European Union financial regulators as justification for the increases.'

A subdued muttering of disgust arose from the watching officers. Ros glared, and Lucas quickly waved it down.

'The bank has previously courted controversy by giving a golden handshake to its Chief Executive, Adrian Stillwell, despite having been the beneficiary of a substantial Government bailout. That decision provoked protests by both shareholders and customers, and it now looks as if the latter may have reached the end of their tether. Perhaps this gentleman could tell us - '

"Ros!" The shout came from Callum, who had moved away to answer a ringing telephone. "Ros, it isn't the - "

The look Ros threw him would have felled a lesser man, and his last two words subsided into a mumble. Lucas slid away from Ros's side and joined the technical specialist.

"Only one?" he murmured.

"Yeah. Section E says there are queues popping up at branches both sides of the river. Islington, Dulwich, Hampstead, Wimbledon … " He broke off as Lizzie joined them. Anxiety had replaced her signature sneer.

"Lucas, I've been in touch with some of the regional offices. It's outside London, too."

' … since the government doesn't seem to be able to rein in the greed of our banking system,' a prim female voice informed them, 'we feel the time has come for people to act on its behalf. There's only one message to which these people respond - one that hits their profits. So we are removing our funds from Harveys Bank until such time as they reconsider this scandalous policy, and we encourage everyone who has lost patience with their rapaciousness to do the same.'

Lucas looked across at Ros just as the red telephone in Harry's office that linked him directly with the Home Office, began to shrill. Ros raised her eyes from the screen, and gestured to him to answer it. Lucas strode swiftly across the room – Harry forbade running on the Grid even in utmost urgency and fined anyone who disobeyed his edict – and picked up the phone. Before he could so much as say 'hello', William Towers's irascible voice snapped: "This is the Home Secretary. I need to speak to Rosalind Myers - immediately. Who is that?"

"Lucas North, sir. She's not available at the moment. May I help?"

"No, you may not, Mr North. Wherever that damned woman is, I require her on the end of this line within five minutes or there will be serious consequences!"

Lucas's polite 'yes, sir' suffered the same fate as his 'hello'. He groaned inwardly; Ros wasn't going to appreciate the nature of the summons, but a summons it was. He rejoined the group just as she was snapping at a junior officer to mute the sound on the news broadcast, which was now reporting a steady spread of queues appearing at branches of Harveys Bank nationwide.

"The Gnome," he said, sotto voce. "In a strop. Wants you in five minutes or - "

"Or he'll send me to bed with no supper." Ros gave a snort of derision, then raised her voice. "Chen, get down to the Strand. Take Lizzie with you, join that queue and talk to people. I want every scrap of information you can get. Callum, get hold of our people in Manchester, Birmingham and Newcastle; conference call in - " she glanced at her watch, " twenty minutes, and you need to have every piece of information you've got from CCTV identification and the Scrubs interviews ready. Go. Khalida, you'll meet Simon Ferguson at Vauxhall Cross. Get going, I'll alert him. Tell him we suspect possible foreign involvement behind the scenes with Crisis Crusade. See what he can give us. Lucas, come with me."

As people scattered obediently, she swept across the Grid, towing him in her wake.

"Do we suspect foreign involvement?" he enquired dubiously.

Ros slid the door shut and cast a baleful look at the red phone. "Not yet. But for the purpose of squeezing blood out of the stones at Vauxhall Cross, yes, we do. Simon Ferguson read Islamic Studies; he'll probably swoon at the mere sight of Khalida's headscarf, but there's nothing wrong with adding a bit of extra embroidery to it - especially when trying to get those sods to co-operate. I want you to go to Trans-Atlantic Security."

Lucas frowned. "I thought we were going together?"

Ros shook her head decisively. "No. With this breaking loose, I have to be on the Grid. Whitehall will be wetting its collective nappy, and for once I don't blame them. You know the level of people's trust – or lack of it - in the financial system, Lucas; this is dangerous." Her eyes narrowed. "Crisis Crusade is trying to see how far they can push, and we have to push back – quickly - before we lose control. You know what we need – my father out of the Scrubs, secure location, 24-hour protection. You'll be liaison with both Trans-Atlantic and Phelps. And wherever the location is, it'll be classified – need to know, you and I only. Clear?"

"Clear." Lucas checked the address as the rapid-fire stream of instructions finally stopped. Even as he spoke, he wondered at how completely the Ros who had expressed doubt about her suitability to be in charge less than an hour ago had vanished. "Anyone in particular you want me to see?"

"You know the guy in charge. Tom Quinn. He was at the wedding." The shrill of the telephone cut across her words.

"Gnome on the phone," Lucas said dryly.

Ros snorted, and reached for the phone. "Good morning, Home Secretary. Rosalind Myers speaking; I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting."

Danger or no, Lucas couldn't help smiling as he left. He knew that seductive, deferential tone. Over the years Ros had used it to great effect in both honey traps and the Home Office. By the time its victims spotted the sting beneath the sugar, she usually had them comprehensively ensnared.

He stopped to phone for a pool car, pulled on his coat and threaded his way through the maze of desks to the pods. The Grid was buzzing with the kind of febrile activity that a salvo of orders from Ros always generated, but Lucas sensed a simmering tension underneath. Officers were shooting him surreptitious glances and looking away instantly the minute he caught their eye, a conversation was broken off as he came within earshot, and one young woman hastily ended a phone call in what sounded like mid-sentence as he approached her desk. Puzzled, and increasingly, suspicious as well, Lucas stopped and turned on his most dazzling smile.

"Problem?"

"No … oh, no." The girl smiled back – too brightly. She's nervous. "No, everything's fine."

"Good." Lucas allowed his smile to drift towards a leer. "If that was a prospective date you just hung up on, I hope the Boss wasn't monitoring."

That produced a giggle, but one that was fearful rather than flirtatious. Lucas moved on, making a mental note to check her personnel file later. The Crisis Crusade mole wasn't likely to be a simpering junior, but no MI-5 officer worth his salt ever judged solely by appearance. He weaved past two more officers and caught a snippet of their conversation.

' – yeah, well it's all right for her and her bloody pep talks. Not going to affect her, is it? Her family's rolling in it; you can bet Daddy's millions aren't on the bloody High Street making peanuts.'

Lucas stiffened and stooped to re-tie a shoelace that hadn't come loose.

'Too right,' the second officer said sourly. 'Maybe we're on the wrong bloody side; you ask me, we should be out there with them. You with Harveys?'

'No, thank God. Frances is, though.' Lucas flicked a glance over his shoulder and followed the man's gaze back to the young woman who had ended her call so suddenly. 'Don't see why we should save their bacon – they've been living the high life for years, bankrolled by muggins like us …'

Lucas glanced over to Harry's office where Ros was still on the phone, hesitated and then strode on. There wasn't an officer in Section D who hadn't been obliged to do something they strongly disagreed with in the sacred cause of Regnum Defende, but any grumbling was usually kept well-concealed from Harry and firmly quashed by Ros if she got wind of it. Lucas would probably have written the comments off as harmless tea-break tattle, had not Jocelyn Myers's allegations been playing through his memory on a continuous loop. He would be happier when he could tell Ros of the murmurings and get her view of their significance.

In the meantime, they weren't the only ones with a distaste for their orders. He couldn't quite rid himself of the feeling that they were playing captured mouse to Jocelyn Myers's Siamese cat, and he would have happily left the man in the Scrubs for the rest of his natural life – if only for the way in which he had treated his daughter over the last seven years. This assignment stuck firmly in his craw.

Not the first time, won't be the last. He collected the keys to the pool car, checked his route, and set off for Trans-Atlantic Security.

oOoOoOo

Despite his years in espionage, something in Lucas had half-expected to find a dusty, nineteen-sixties 'Circus'-style time warp behind a railway station, or a lavish penthouse suite with floor-length windows and minimalist designer furniture in Canary Wharf. The small but elegant office in a Georgian house overlooking Richmond Green was a surprise. The door bore the single word 'Transatlantic' curved in navy blue lettering around a whimsical logo of an eagle holding its wings outspread over a pugnacious-looking and seriously bandy-legged bulldog. There was no mention of Security, but Lucas took in the overhead CCTV camera swivelling to focus on him, the eye-level spyhole and the solid 'thunk' from the door when he gave it an experimental rap with his knuckles, and deduced that he was at the right place. He had phoned en route and made an appointment with a friendly American voice that he matched to the blonde whom he had seen with Quinn at the wedding, although he thought he'd detected a distinct lessening in the warmth of her voice at the mention of Ros Myers's name. Now the same soft drawl announced from the interphone: "Transatlantic."

Lucas North, I have an appointment."

"Raise your head, please."

Candid camera. Obediently he did so, and after a minute heard the clunk and rattle of security bolts being withdrawn on the other side of the door. Tom Quinn opened it and shook his hand.

"Come in. You've met Christine."

"Yes, of course." Lucas smiled, and the American smiled back.

"So, how's Sir Harry and his bride getting along?"

"Enjoying the pleasures of Paris," Lucas answered nonchalantly. "Red wine, entrecote ... "

"- and freedom fries." There was a malicious glitter in her eyes. "And how you all coping without the big boss over there at Thames House?"

Lucas kept the smile on his face. "Ros has everything in hand. You remember Ros?"

"Oh sure." Now the sarcasm was unmistakable. "And I still have a few pals at Langley, Mr North. Everyone's had doings with your Ros Myers."

You're telling me. Lucas refrained from reminding her that one of her erstwhile colleagues had almost got Ros killed and that another had tried to kill him. He was grateful that for now at least, Mrs Quinn wasn't aware of the precise reason for his visit.

"Lucky everyone," he said lightly, and glanced at her husband, who had been watching them with the serious concentration which Lucas remembered from his brief acquaintanceship with him a decade before. He was relieved when Quinn responded by ushering him into a second office and firmly closing the door. When they had settled into two comfortable armchairs he poured coffee and asked briefly: "What do you need?"

After years of working among politicians with acute commitment allergy and civil servants who never gave a straight answer where an elegantly crafted exercise in obfuscation would better serve their purpose, Lucas appreciated decisive brevity more than most. He took a long swallow at his coffee and spelled out the assignment. Tom Quinn had a poker face to rival Ros's, and gave only the briefest flicker of surprise when Lucas told him the name of the 'client' Transatlantic Security would be protecting. He plucked thoughtfully at his bottom lip for a moment and then asked: "Do you believe his allegations?"

Lucas hesitated. He had told Harry he did, a response that he knew had stemmed at least partially from his desire to support Ros. Now he shrugged. "Truth? I'm not sure; he's a manipulative bastard, but he may be holding back. We can't take risks."

"No, no of course not. I remember that coup attempt. I'd … left … by then, two years or so but …" He let the sentence trail off. "Do you have clearance?" When Lucas nodded, he asked: "When do you need him out?"

Lucas half-smiled. "Immediately would be ideal."

Tom Quinn laughed; he had a sudden bark of a laugh that seemed at odds with the solemn persona. "Forty-eight hours. No problem with the Scrubs?"

"None." Lucas finished his coffee. "The Governor first suggested it."

"Not his daughter, then?" He didn't look in the least surprised when Lucas shook his head. "No, not the woman who shot a fellow-officer." When Lucas bristled, he said brusquely: "I'm not criticising; I've done worse. Haven't we all?" For a moment Lucas saw a shadow in his eyes. There was an awkward pause. "Two questions. How long? And how tight are you keeping this?"

"One - no deadline as yet. Two - you, me and Ros, strictly need-to-know." Lucas smiled slightly. "Three – you can send the invoice direct to Harry. Not too exorbitant, please."

Again, Tom laughed. "Don't worry, he's earned a discount." He reminded Lucas of Ros in the way the laugh hinted – no more – at the presence of a warmer, more accessible individual behind the guarded exterior. The rules strictly forbade officers who left the Service from having any contact with their former colleagues. Lucas would have liked to know why Tom seemed to be an exception, but his MI-5 file was sealed, and, again like Ros, he seemed unlikely to welcome or be willing to answer personal questions.

"All right." The momentary mirth had subsided. "Twenty four hours to get my people together, and we'll move him the following day."

"Good," Lucas said, matching his brisk tone. Despite the unanswered questions, he liked Tom's confident, no-nonsense approach to his work. He could see why Harry had suggested approaching him and Ros had approved.

"Who's liaising with the Scrubs? You?" Lucas nodded. "Does the client have a code-name?"

Lucas hesitated; Khalida's sudden summons had distracted them from choosing one. He could imagine Ros's caustic reaction if he were to phone back to the Grid for guidance, and it wouldn't exactly enhance his standing in Tom Quinn's eyes either.

"Zagadka," he offered.

Tom's expression flickered. "Pretty word, but I don't speak Russian."

Lucas could have kicked hadn't even realised the word had come out in the wrong language. Over three years, and still he couldn't shake off the last ragged scraps of his Russian imprisonment. He could see Tom assessing him, and wondered uneasily if the man knew as much of his past as he clearly did about Ros's.

"It … it means 'enigma'," he said, striving to sound offhand.

Quinn shrugged. "Seems appropriate. Zagadka it is." He scribbled on a card. "My personal number."

Lucas reciprocated. "I'll be in touch with the green light as soon as I've spoken to the Governor."

"Fine." As they rose, Tom said casually: "This can't be easy for Ros. Keeping an open, unbiased mind."

"No, it isn't." The inference was clear, and even as Lucas resented it on Ros's behalf, he knew that Tom was perfectly entitled to feel concern. "But she's dealing with it." He recalled Ros's scathing retort to William Towers. "She never lets the personal interfere. Her fa … Zagadka could testify to that. She's been the only one of us who's been truly concerned about Crisis Crusade before now, and I'd say she's been proved right on that. You've seen today's news."

"Of course." Tom gave a quick smile. "Point taken." They shook hands. "We'll be in touch, then."

"Tomorrow," Lucas agreed. He promised to pass on Mrs Quinn's gently mocking 'best wishes to Sir Harry and Lady Ruth', and made his way swiftly back to his car. His mobile had vibrated several times in the course of the interview, and the three 'Missed call' alerts all showed Callum Reid's number. Lucas returned the call as he drove away.

"What is it, Callum? Where's Ros?"

"Home Sec ordered her to Whitehall. She argued the toss, but he insisted; they're convening COBRA. We had that conference call before she left, though."

"And?"

"Not good." Callum sounded tense but in command of himself. "More and more queues popping up at Harveys."

"Any at other banks?" Lucas demanded.

"Not yet." Before Lucas could even breathe a sigh of relief, he added, "Something worse, though."

What the hell could be worse? Lucas forced himself to ask.

"It's getting heated," Callum answered. "The outstations in Manchester and Birmingham both reported scuffles at some local branches. Same thing in West Ealing, Brentford … oh, and Stockwell now, too. People trying to force their way into the bank, stuff being thrown – in Manchester bank staff who tried to remonstrate have been roughed up."

Lucas frowned. One of the hallmarks of Crisis Crusade was that its action was usually peaceful. "Any evidence of it being whipped up?"

"No. To be fair, some of the people queueing have tried to keep it calm, but they got shouted down when the pushing and shoving started. The ones getting violent don't look to be Crisis Crusade. Different type – younger and mouthier. Looks like they've just seen the queues on TV, heard the hacks speculating, jumped to the conclusion their dosh is at risk … you know what it's like. Panic does the rest."

Lucas knew only too well. He felt his guts tighten. "The police keeping it in check?"

"That's the problem," Callum said, and now his voice was grim. "We're getting reports that in some places officers haven't exactly been riding to the rescue."

Lucas gaped in shock at the phone and shot through a red light he hadn't even seen.

"Do you mean they're refusing to intervene?"

"Not exactly," Callum said. "And not everywhere. It's patchy. But there are definitely cases in which they've been dragging their heels, and when they have waded in it's been a pretty token effort. Our man says the manager in Manchester could have been protected if they'd been quicker. Trouble is, the coppers don't have a lot of sympathy; they're sick to the back teeth of the banks, austerity and 'all being in it together' as well."

Aren't we all. Shit. Dissatisfied prison officers, resentful MI-5 staffers, insubordinate police. All services supposed to maintain order and the status quo. Ros's assessment of the potential threat posed by Crisis Crusade was beginning to look more accurate by the minute."Are Chen and Lizzie back?"

"On their way. Khalida's still at Vauxhall Cross. God knows when Ros will escape. Number Eleven's had the Harveys board burning up the phone wires for the last three hours demanding the Chancellor back up their statements that the bank's solid and solvent. And the Treasury's shitting enough bricks to smash every bank window from Land's End to John o' Groats. Apparently the credit ratings agencies are about to make another of their bloody pronunciamientos. Treasury's afraid they'll put either Harveys or our entire banking system on 'negative outlook' again, and that'll stampede the markets."

Lucas had no time for 'the markets', which he considered to be peopled by a bunch of smug and greedy prats who threw a wobbly at the drop of a profit margin, but he knew the major international credit ratings agencies had massive influence on government financial and economic policy. The timing of Crisis Crusade's attack on Harveys couldn't possibly be coincidental, any more, he now realised, than the mass action at Waterloo had been – Ros had been right about that, too. Whoever 'Kallima' was, he and his acolytes had access to a dangerously wide range of inside information, and knew exactly the right moment at which to use it to the greatest effect.

"Is the bloody bank solid?" he grated now.

"I got hold of the financial whizz-kids in Section F," Callum answered. "That's the irony – it's almost repaid the bail-out it got, its figures are good now, and it's probably near the top of the heap."

Then Grosvenor could back them up and steady the ship. Even as the thought formed, Lucas realised that no official statement would placate the men and women now lining up outside Harveys Bank. Bank solvency wasn't the issue for them now; bank greed was, and it had had delivered a potent weapon for promoting their own political and social agenda right into their hands.

"Any good news?" he snapped sarcastically.

"Yeah. Faces from the family album," Callum offered cryptically. "But in person."

"OK, soon as I can. Keep monitoring events. " At least Callum's last comment offered a feeble glimmer of possibility that the team might have something positive to offer when Ros returned, doubtless in a foul humour. She had absorbed all of Harry's notorious intolerance for the seedier side of politics, and added a layer of her own. Knowing Ministers' tendency to demand instant solutions to every crisis, including those they'd created themselves, Lucas could imagine the grilling COBRA would have been giving her. The quicker they could talk, the better.

They met sooner than he had expected; Ros was just clearing the security check at the main entrance as he reached the lifts. Her face was set, and when she saw him she said curtly: "Roof," and pressed the button for the top floor. Lucas knew better than to argue. Over the years, the roof had become Harry and Ruth's private refuge; Ros disliked heights, and only came up to seek solitude or to have a really private conversation. She perched on some steps sheltered from the wind and snapped: "Well?"

Lucas told her what had transpired and for safety's sake, added that he would finalise arrangements with the prison as soon as he reached the Grid. When he mentioned Callum's report Ros paled, and closed her eyes momentarily – a rare sign that pressure from the sudden speed at which events were moving was beginning to tell even on her.

"What did COBRA do?" he asked.

"Copied its namesake. Hissed, spat, and did a lot of wriggling." She blew out a deep breath. "Grosvenor's going to make a statement confirming what Harveys has said. Treasury and the FO's already in touch with the IMF, the Commission in Brussels, and anyone else they can think of who might sing a reassuring hymn of praise to the banking system - before the sphincters start loosening on every stock exchange worthy of the name."

"That isn't going to mollify these people. They're completely missing the point. To hell with the stock exchange for once - it's their own voters, and feelings on the street they should be worried about!" Lucas exploded in exasperation.

"I know that!" Ros fired back. "Don't you think I told them as much?" She sprang up and began to pace, with her arms tightly folded. Lucas had rarely seen her so visibly rattled.

"So what did they say?"

She flicked a glance up at him. "The Gnome and the PM agree that however much they might disagree with Harveys' policy - "

"Do they?" Lucas had his doubts.

"Towers bloody well does." Ros's lips twisted sardonically. "He banks there. But they say that forcing them to change it would be a catastrophic admission of government weakness, and undermine morale. According to them, austerity's working, and they're determined to maintain order, not open the doors to mob rule. "

They're already ajar. As for order … Lucas's mind flicked back to the comments he had overheard earlier on the Grid. This was no time to bring those to Ros's attention.

"And that's it?" he asked.

"That's it. No 'yielding to blackmail'. 'Our job is to hold the line'." Ros mimicked. She was unconsciously chewing at her thumb – another tell-tale gesture of stress.

Lucas took a deep breath. "Well what the hell's ours, then?"

"You mean other than smooth the ruffled feathers on their arses while their heads are stuck in the sand?" Ros glared out over the city as the wail of sirens drifted up from the street. "Find out who these people are and stop them, Miss Myers. Failure is not an option."

"Great, and how the hell do they expect us to do that with Kallima possibly one of our own?" Lucas demanded incredulously.

Ros turned and looked at him defiantly. "They don't know about Kallima. I didn't tell them."

Lucas felt the ground rock under his feet. " You didn't -"

"There's enough distrust already. Anyway, we don't know for sure that he is. I won't put the wind up them with speculation. That's my decision, and I want your support."

Bloody hell. Although Ros wasn't averse to risk, she wasn't usually given to recklessness, but this was really playing with fire. And if she was wrong, they'd all be seriously burned. Lucas met the challenge in her eyes and swallowed hard.

"It -" The words snagged, and he cleared his throat. "It's yours. I'll – er – I'd better get on with it, then. Contact the Scrubs. Oh and – uh – Callum … says they've got some I.D.s. Good news, he said."

"Good." Ros pulled out her mobile. "I just have to make a call. Best to do it here … just in case."

In case 'Kallima' overhears? Lucas nodded, and headed for the stairs. He was just closing the door when the gusting wind carried Ros's voice across the roof. He froze with his fingers still on the handle at the last words he would have expected to hear.

I need to speak to Lady Annabel. Please tell her it's Rosalind and it's urgent. It's about Daddy.

oOoOoOo

Thank you for reading! Please review! :)