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Chapter Two: Tour of the North
Alone and unattached to anyone else at the social gathering, Lucile Adams clutched her glass of wine and trod cautiously round the little knots of people. There were faces she recognised, of course, but only from GCHQ files and the newsreels on TV. Nicholas Blake, the Home Secretary, was hunched in a corner at the back of the room, speaking in hushed tones to a squat and chubby man who'd accompanied Ruth Evershed to the event. She could only assume it was Harry Pearce, the one 'they' all talked about. Ruth herself was with him, but Lucile failed to catch her eye. Feeling like a fifth wheel, she hovered awkwardly beside the Minister for Trade and Industry and smiled at passers-by as though she knew them.
"Are you alright, dear? You look lost." The person who addressed Lucile was Miss Trade and Industry, or Sinead Kelly to her friends.
Lucile's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, fine," she said, hurriedly. When Miss Trade and Industry kept staring, Lucile found herself struggling for something else to say. "Lovely party, isn't it?"
Actually, no it wasn't. She'd hurried round here on her day off, expecting to be given instructions for her secondment to MI-5 before rubbing shoulders with the political elite before foiling dastardly terrorist plots within twenty-four hours. Instead, she'd been lurking on the side lines like a bad smell and grinning at strangers in an effort to make it look as though she hadn't accidentally wandered in off the streets. If she had known that partners were invited as well, she would have brought Pete, her husband. They were only just married and she had delayed their honeymoon for this chance to work at MI5.
The man standing at the side of Miss Trade and Industry was none other than Mister Defence Secretary, David Shelley. Every so often, she noted, he would slip his arm discreetly round Miss Trade and Industry's waist and whisper softly in her ear. He was an undeniably handsome man, still only in his late forties, with hazel eyes and warm complexion. His black hair was greying, but only served to add dignity to his bearing. When the gaze of those same hazel eyes came to rest on her, she found herself standing almost to attention, gripping the stem of her glass. The eyes narrowed, his thin lips parted as he went to say something.
"Er, what do I call you then?" he asked. He knew her name, but not whether he was allowed to use it at a social gathering. But the guests were only politicians and other spooks from MI5.
"Just call me Lucy," she said. "Everyone else does."
Extricating his hand from around the Minister's waist, he extended it instead towards Lucile. She shook, noting the firm politician's handshake he used.
"Pleased to meet you, Lucy. Thank you so much for agreeing to this little assignment we have for you-"
"Yes, thank you. It's much appreciated," the Minister for Trade and Industry added her voice to Shelley's.
Lucile found herself trying to look both of them in the eye at once. However, she was soon spared the effort as David Shelley was collared by another guest and he excused himself, bringing Miss Trade and Industry with him. Alone again, after the thrill of that brief social interaction, Lucile retired a little more towards the side lines. In desperation, she looked towards the only other person she knew – Ruth Evershed – who was still being bored to death by the Home Secretary. Curious to find out what they were talking about, she began discreetly gravitating towards them. Skirting the length of the long, whitewashed room, she paused halfway to replenish her wine before making for the back wall, where Ruth, Harry and Blake were still deep in conversation. But, as she walked away from the drinks table she collided with a young she hadn't realised was standing right behind her, stamping on his foot in the process.
"Ouch!" the young man flinched, almost tripping over himself. "Shit!"
Lucile apologised hastily, quickly placing her glass down as she went to help him. "I'm really sorry," she stammered, one hand on his shoulder as she steadied him again. "I didn't see you."
"Obviously not," he replied, breathlessly.
The two of them looked at one another for a moment. He was young, much younger than everyone else at the function. Dark eyes; so dark they looked almost black. But wide and imploring, softening his features further was a mop of equally dark curls. He sketched a smile through his pain.
"It's okay, honestly," he said, flushing slightly.
Lucile, however, was still mortified. She reached for a glass of wine and handed it to him, before having second thoughts: was he old enough? He was very young looking. But he took the glass and thanked her. She let it go, seeing as she had just crushed his foot. But besides almost breaking his bones, she had at least also broken the ice. They lapsed into small talk.
"I saw you talking to my father," he said, glancing towards the Defence Minister.
Lucile followed the direction of his gaze, to where David Shelley was making sure Miss Trade and Industry's backside didn't fall off by clamping his hand to it.
"He's been fucking her for months and he seriously thinks no one knows it," the now disgruntled teen pointed out.
You don't say, Lucile though. But in reality, she didn't quite know how she should respond to that gem of information. From what she knew of Shelley, he had been widowed over a decade ago, so it wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong. But, this was his son she was talking to, and the problem slotted into place. She arranged her face into an expression of what she hoped was sympathy.
"He's bound to tell you eventually," she said, causing the boy to look even more pained. "Maybe he doesn't want to … you know … cause upset?"
She hated these situations, when she was talking to total strangers about their deep emotional problems. She wanted to tell him that there was nothing wrong with a bit of casual sex and welcome to the real world. Mercifully, however, they were interrupted by two people at once. Ruth managed to wriggle away from the Home Secretary and appeared at her side; while David Shelley had put Miss Trade and Industry down for five minutes to collar his stray son.
"Leon, I do hope you're not making a nuisance of yourself," he said, tartly. "Get something to eat and take it up to your room, there's a good boy."
Ruth flushed, as though she'd walked into the middle of a domestic, but Lucile clutched her wrist to keep her in place. Meanwhile, Leon glowered at his father's back and snatched up another drink. Clearly, he was having a liquid lunch that day. As he turned to leave, Lucile raised a smile. "See you then, Leon," she said, kindly. He shrugged at her, but said nothing else.
"What was all that about?" Ruth asked, turning to Lucile.
Lucile just shrugged. "Difficult age, isn't it?"
Ruth raised a brow. "I was never that age," she deadpanned. "Anyway, come and talk to us; we've been discussing the Op and you need to meet everyone."
Before Ruth took her on a circuit of the room, Lucile glanced over her shoulder. Harry Pearce was still in conversation with the Home Secretary, but was looking directly at her. A hard and uncompromising look that unnerved her. It left her with the uncomfortable feeling she was being talked about, and had possibly been talked about since the moment she arrived.
The incoming text message awoke Lucas with a start. He gasped sharply, sitting bolt upright as he searched out the source of the noise. When he realised what it was, he could have kicked himself. In the pre-dawn gloom, the display of the phone glowed bright, shivering as the device vibrated across the surface of his bedside table. A glass of water shimmered in the disturbance as Lucas grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen. It was from Harry Pearce, and the message was a simple and direct one: "Get in here, you're needed." Having been prepared for the old heave-ho again, Lucas breathed a sigh of relief before rolling out of bed. He jabbed at the power button on his radio as he passed through to the bathroom, shattering the silence with jarring generic pop music.
After eight years in Russia, swiftly followed by a few weeks in a very basic military unit in Cyprus, it was still a novelty for him to have indoor plumbing. Lucas made the most of it, running a hot shower and being sure to take his time with it. He'd passed the point of his new liberation where he was able to think like a free man, without time even the smallest of everyday actions being utterly regimented. Following the previous afternoon's talk with Ros, he had a shirt and smart trousers already pressed and ready to go. Within an hour, he was heading into Thames House, officially back on the team.
It was early enough for the traffic to still be light and free flowing through the main roads as he headed towards the city of Westminster. If Lucas lifted his gaze to the rooftops, he could see the sun rising with the promise of another fine day ahead, lifting his spirits that little bit further as he parked up a side street beside Thames House. Already, other early starters were beginning to trickle in alongside him and he nodded a silent greeting to the few he knew by sight.
"You're late," Ros greeted him as he stepped onto the Grid.
His brow creased into a frown as he went to check his watch, but Ros' voice cut over him again.
"Harry messaged you an hour ago, you're still late."
He thought better of protesting, seeing as it seemed to be giving her immense satisfaction. She stood with a hand on her hip, grinning lopsidedly at him before leading him into the meeting room. If he really was that late, Harry didn't say anything as he took his place beside Ros. Opposite him sat a woman of about thirty-ish, whom he had never seen before. On either side of the stranger was Jo and Ben. Harry was at the head of the table, as always, with Ruth on his right and Ros to his left. The atmosphere was calm, with the assembled agents exchanging low, friendly greetings before Harry leaned forwards in his seat, clearing his throat to get their attention.
"A few things to start off with," he said. "First of all, please welcome Lucile Adams to the team. We've borrowed her from GCHQ for the next few weeks for reasons that will soon become clear."
All eyes briefly glanced over the new girl, making her blush vividly. Nonetheless, she muttered a "Hi" and "Just Lucy" by way of personal introduction. Before she could wilt under the glare of the Section D spotlight, Harry brought them back to him.
"Also," he continued. "It's time to officially welcome back to old friends to the team: Senior Case Officer Lucas North is back full time, as is our Analyst, Ruth Evershed."
Where Ruth was another blusher, Lucas merely nodded an acknowledgement of the returning looks he got. But he had to admit to a secret gratification when Ros rewarded his return with a full smile. Lucas supposed that this was the first full team meeting since the death of Adam Carter, but no one said anything about it. As always, they did their grieving in private and left it there when returning to the fold. Once Harry himself had looked them each in the eye, in that mildly disturbing manner that Lucas had almost managed to forget during his eight year absence, he continued:
"Top of the agenda this week is the Trade and Industry Minister's tour of the north. Sinead Kelly will be visiting Durham, Sunderland, Newcastle and Hartlepool on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, respectively."
There, Harry paused. His gaze drifted to the right, where Ruth was sat glancing over a stack of papers loosely grouped together in a file. A pen dangled between two of her fingers as she glanced over her notes.
"Ruth, can you give us the latest?" he asked.
She looked up at him and smiled knowingly, before turning to the rest of the team. They'd been waiting for years to say and hear those words again.
"There are no known terrorists at all in that region," she began, sounding almost disappointed. "Threat level is low, so any security will also be low key. Kelly's off to visit the north east's mostly redundant shipyards, view a few cheese factories and drop in on a few car manufacturers. So, because she is going to be out and about, she will have the usual bodyguards and minders. The Defence Secretary has taken some degree of interest in Miss Kelly's security-" she paused while a murmur and a few suggestive looks went round the meeting table – "for reasons I am sure we're all aware of."
"Which is why we've brought in Miss Adams," Harry took up where Ruth left off, casting a quick glance at Lucile. "Ben, I want you and Lucy to work together because you'll be accompanying Miss Kelly on her tour. Lucy can fill you in on that herself."
Everyone turned to Lucile, who didn't seem to notice at first. Lucas noticed she was looking over a page of cipher, her large, soft blue eyes made slightly larger by her reading glasses and a lock of brown hair hanging loose from its ponytail. She flushed again when she looked up and noticed the whole room looking back at her expectantly. To Lucas, she seemed even more jittery than Ruth.
"Oh, yes," she replied, smiling bashfully. "Forgive me, I am paying attention, but I wanted to check this code over before handing it in." She paused and slid the book of cipher to her left, where Ben Kaplan was sitting looking blank. "This is the code you will need to decrypt the messages I send you. Each day is a different page, a different code. Burn each page as you go. It will have details of security arrangements and where you need to be on each day. Burn all messages after use …" she trailed off, realising she was talking to experienced field officer. "Well, I'm sure you know what to do."
"You're alright darling," replied Ben, causing Ros to go rigid with irritation beside Lucas. He could almost feel the annoyance radiating off her. Lucile didn't seem to mind though, or rather she just ignored it. "You coming up there with me, then?"
"Sadly, no," Lucile answered. "I'll be stationed at an underground bunker in Suffolk. But you can hear me over the radio signals. Isn't that how it works, Mr Wynne-Jones?"
She turned to look at Malcolm, who sat up in his seat. "Call me Malcolm, please," he replied. "And yes. We had a station here that you could have used, but sadly it was compromised. But you'll be alright in Wiltshire. We've already cleared it with the Home Secretary, the Defence Secretary and the Minister herself. They're all in the loop."
Harry's expression darkened at the mention of the compromised station they were using, memories of Connie James creeping back into his memory. Ruth and Lucas exchanged a look, a tacit understanding passing silently between them. However, it was Lucas himself who stepped in to divert the meeting, now that Lucile's job had been clarified.
"What of the great chocolate poisoning?" he asked. "Is there any more news about that?"
Ruth livened up a little, shuffling once more through her papers as she answered: "Actually, yes. It has been confirmed as a hoax, but the company has already had to recall and dispose of millions of pounds worth of products. The group claiming responsibility gave the name 'Black Flag'. I want to spend today looking into them and seeing what I can find out."
Harry looked satisfied that Ruth had everything under control on that front and turned to Lucas and Ros. "If you two could go down to the factory again and see if anything new has turned up," he said. "It would be a great help. There's every danger that these people are planning more industrial hits."
Ros turned to Lucas and sketched a smile. "You and me again," she whispered, looking far from unhappy about that – unlike the last time. Turning back to Harry, she added: "Fine."
With Ben heading north with the Minister, Jo assigned to helping Ruth and Lucile about to be despatched to her underground bunker; the meeting ended. They filed out, each taking a moment to personally introduce themselves to their GCHQ colleague. But once Ros and Lucas had peeled away from the Grid, they headed up to the roof space for a breather, away from the others. Despite the dizziness induced by the height, Lucas took in the view of London afforded them up there. He could see into the distance, the gentle curve of the river and the bridges spanning the width. The sun was up fully, by now. He could see the swarms of traffic swelling in the streets below. Construction sites swinging into business and people the size of matchsticks rushing through the streets, heading for shops and offices.
He stopped at the barrier, with Ros close at his side. The height, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to bother her. She looked perfectly relaxed as she scanned the horizon, the clear blue skies reflected in her eyes. She squinted into the sun, looking out over the river and the little tug boats navigating the placid waters below. Lucas hated to intrude upon any private musings she might be having, but he couldn't keep his concerns to himself.
"Another numbers station," he began. "It doesn't sit right with me."
She turned from the view to look at him properly. "Why's that?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I think it's just the lingering effects of Connie James."
Ros pursed her lips at the mention of the traitor's name. "That deceitful bitch is gone. Speak no more of her."
Ros was still an enigma to Lucas. She seemed constantly annoyed and irritated at the smallest of things, but when speaking of someone who had wronged both her and the service as a whole, she seemed oddly relaxed – dismissive, almost. He guessed that Ros had simply stopped caring about Connie. He turned around so that he had his back to the city, and was facing a Georgian chimney stack – an altogether less inspiring view. Its whitewash tinged black and worn down by years of city smog and acid rains.
"She'll have guards though, won't she?" he asked, meaning Lucile.
"Of course," Ros answered. "Don't worry about it. It won't be like last time."
Satisfied, he raised a smile and looked at Ros sidelong. "So, you and me then is it?"
Ros smirked, but otherwise kept her eyes fixed on the far distance. "Looks that way, doesn't it?"
"Certainly does," he replied. "Are you okay with that?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" she looked at him then. "You and me, we're good together. Proved that in Cyprus. Let's ratify it here."
They held each other's gaze for a moment, like they were searching one another. Lucas wasn't about to argue, he didn't want to. Everything seemed lost to him when he returned from Russia to find that his wife had moved on, started a family with another man and left him in the past. It hadn't yet occur to him that he could also be part of someone else's future. Not so soon.
For Harry, the morning seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Sat in his office after the team meeting and undisturbed by intrusions from frustrated colleagues, raging HR staff or panicked politicians, he found himself with some rare free time. Time in which the name 'Black Flag' had started to ring some bells in his memory. He opened his desk drawers and rummaged through them one by one, as though the answer might be in there. But all he found were unfiled reports, unsigned paperwork and the incriminating photograph of Connie James and her old KGB handlers that had landed her in the shit just a short month previously.
Black Flag momentarily slipped from his mind as he looked at the picture, wondering just when Connie had turned on them. It still didn't make sense: she was his friend; he trusted her and he protected his trust the way a blushing village maid protected her maidenhead. It wasn't anybody's for a doughnut. But Connie now made as much sense to him as Malcolm secretly working for the Mossad or Ruth selling state secrets to the CIA. Even now, he was searching for some mitigating factor in Connie's betrayal. Not so much to exonerate her, but to exonerate himself for having placed his trust in her in the first instance. In short, he was still smarting from the blow she delivered.
Harry turned the picture over, flipping it face down between his fingers and studied the blank back. There was nothing there; no secret backing tape that could be peeled away, nor magic ink revealing the secret behind Connie James' conscience. Nothing. He heaved a sad sigh and got up out of his seat. It was well past noon and when he looked out over the Grid he could still see Ruth squirrelling away at her desk, alone. Jo had stepped out with Ben for lunch and Ros and Lucas hadn't yet returned from the factory. Malcolm was gone, too. Probably nipped home to check on his mother, as he was wont to do during the lunch break. Ruth, however, had no excuse.
He strode across the Grid, straight to her desk where all he could see was the top of her bent head. A few strands of loose, dark hair had fallen loose of their bindings and flopped against the paper she was working on. She heard his approach, looked up and smiled. Now, Connie James was pushed out of his mind, as he looked out over the Grid and saw Ruth looking back at him. Just two years ago, he thought he'd never see her walk through those doors again, and now here she was. Permanent, this time. Which was the real reason he had refused the Defence and Home Secretaries requests to send her on that field Op.
"Come out for lunch with me," he said.
Making the suggestion sound like a command was purely unintentional, and he worried that he had offended her. But Ruth felt affronted by it, it didn't show. If anything, she looked happier.
"Thought you'd never ask."
Soon, the two of them were making their way to the nearest deli, taking their time as they strolled through the streets now swelling with people doing the same as them. As they breathed in lungfuls of petrol fumes and congestion, Harry found himself worrying that Ruth would soon start to miss the clean sea air of Cyprus. But she did not say anything, about any of that. It was as though she had never been away.
"You know Black Flag have existed before?" she asked, as they took their newly purchased sandwiches to the nearest riverside bench.
"I thought it sounded horribly familiar," he answered.
If Harry was honest with himself, he didn't know whether it was horribly or not. The fear and suspicion was merely a learned response from years of bitter experience. He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded for her to go on.
"They were founded in 1968 in Paris," she explained, struggling to prize open the packet she had in her hands. "Damn thing," she cursed. "Anyway, all they did was daub the walls with Situationist sounding slogans, organise illegal sit ins and go fishing in private rivers as an 'up-yours' to the establishment. They were more of a pain in the arse than a real threat. However, the leader died in a motorcycle accident and they simply withered away. Until now."
Until now, Harry thought to himself. But he'd seen the type in his own student days: those trustafarian types (as today's youth would call them). They all walked round in German Army Surplus jackets with novels written by Camus and Sartre jammed in the pockets with the titles facing outwards so every could see what sensitive intellectuals they all were. Then they'd be marching through Trafalgar Square brandishing placards berating the pet cause of the day or spouting utter shite from Speakers Corner. They all added to the spice of life, he supposed. But this is a different time: a new age of direct action, a different class of protester.
"Still, keep digging," he advised. "God knows what they're planning."
Having finally managed to prise open the sandwich packet, Ruth now had her hands full. She leaned back against the bench, letting him put his arm around her shoulders as they both looked out over the river.
"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'm on it."
It was dark inside the disused storage hut. Almost too dark to see, but for the light spilling in from a high overhead window. Leon looked up to where the dust motes swirled in the shaft of light, momentarily distracted from what was going on elsewhere. It was warm and humid inside, almost enough to induce him into sleep. But for Emma calling him back to the here and now.
"Look," she said, bouncing a tennis ball up and down in the palm of her hands. "Watch."
She threw the ball against a back wall, where it bounced first off the walls itself before slamming into the concrete floor. Suddenly, a searing flash of bright pink flame exploded from the ball, a loud bang and the air was filled with sulphurous smoke. Leon choked, coughing violently into the sleeve of his jacket. Within seconds, his eyes were watering. A few of the others had already pushed their way out of the building, gagging on the smell and the smoke. Emma, however, looked pleased as punch.
"What do you think? Impressed?"
He had to admit, he was. But he hadn't gone there to admire her pyrotechnic skills. He'd gone to tell her what he'd picked up at the social gathering his father had held. What he had missed had been picked up on the pinhole spy camera and he wanted her to see it. With the other members gone, Emma led him outside, blinking into the bright sunshine as she went. They were in an industrial estate outside North London, right to the back where the units were mostly unused. Most had closed down, or were simply waiting to be re-let. It was quiet, and those who'd fled the building they were just in, were starting make their tentative way back inside.
In the palm of his hand, he held a pen drive with footage and documents stored on it that he'd managed to access from his father's computer.
"Take it," he urged her.
She did so, lip curled into a half-smile. "Thanks."
"They're sending someone, I couldn't make out who, to some bunker in Suffolk. From there, she's directing the Minister's bodyguards. It could be an opportunity to, er, make a statement." He suggested.
For a long time, Emma didn't say anything. She merely looked at the pen drive now in the palm of her hand, frowning at it as if it may impersonate that tennis ball at any minute. Eventually, she closed her hand over it and turned her gaze upwards to meet his.
"Leave it with me," she said. "I think we might be able to do more than that."
He hoped she had more tennis balls, but couldn't imagine what they'd do beyond that. It certainly beat the egg-throwers hands down. He was about to walk away when Emma called him back.
"How did you get all this?"
"MI-5 are briefing my Dad every day," he answered, shrugging. "Stupid bastard needs to protect his files more carefully." And scan the room more carefully for bugs, he thought.
He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked away. But he didn't look back. If he hadn't proved himself now, he never would. If he hadn't, he simply wouldn't bother again.
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