Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.

Chapter Five: Worst Case Scenario

Sipping a cool beer, Ben Kaplan was sat with his feet up on the balcony rail, watching the sun set over the city of Sunderland. Drawing deeply on a cigarette, he watched the river Wear burn in the dying sun's afterglow, and the arch-backed bridge silhouetted against the darkening skies. Further south, church steeples still just about rose above the other rooftops, old sandstone walls at odds with the surrounding modernity. A Londoner born and raised, he had never been so far north before and they were bound for Durham the following afternoon. So far, he had been impressed.

The book he had been reading was momentarily set aside on the glass topped table, just while he had a smoke and took in the views. But as he went to pick it up again, another interruption blocked his plans.

"I hope I haven't disturbed you."

He turned in his seat to find Sinead Kelly standing in the balcony doorway, one hand holding back the net curtains. He ground out the cigarette and sat up properly, as his mother always nagged him to, as soon as he realised the Minister had joined him.

"Not at all," he replied, hastily pulling up a seat for her.

The Minister was still young: early forties, at most. New in the job and keen to make a difference. She had thrown herself into her public engagements with aplomb. But clearly, she was still growing used to life away from back-bench obscurity. Her auburn hair was scraped back into a functional ponytail and she had dressed in casual clothes now that her engagements were done for the day. She had taken out her contact lenses and her blue eyes were slightly magnified by the glasses she wore. Her skin scrubbed pink where she had clearly just washed off her makeup.

While she settled into the seat he offered, he went to fetch her a drink. A small bottle of white wine and a glass.

"Oh, I'll just have a beer too, if you don't mind," she said. "Get enough of that posh stuff at functions."

Ben stifled a laugh. "Is it considered unladylike for female MPs to be seen knocking back pints then?"

Minister Kelly rolled her eyes and sighed. She was alright, really. But he was curious as to why she had come out to join him on the balcony when there was still the odd local businessman and dignitary to rub shoulders with, further down the corridor. By the time he had returned, she had lit a cigarette and was, like himself only minutes before, taking in the view.

"It must be thrilling," she said, her words drifting out with the smoke stream. "Your job, I mean. Must I keep my voice down while out in the open like this?"

"Nah, don't think so," he replied. "In all honesty, it's not that exciting. Mostly reports and surveillance, really."

Minister Kelly turned to look at him, her eyelids drooping with tiredness. "Really?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Forgive me if I sound a bit of eavesdropper myself, but I hear those broadcasts you get. It's all very mysterious, I must say."

Ben laughed. "Not to me, I know what it all is, how it all works and how it's all decrypted. No mystery for us." He could tell the Minister was still curious, so he explained further. "It's mostly encrypted coordinates, so I know where you're supposed to be going and when. If there's any unexpected threats or disturbances, I'll be forewarned with another encrypted broadcast on this."

Ben held up the tiny transistor radio he carried, one built into his phone and demonstrated the earpiece by letting her listen to the currently broadcasting static with intermittent shipping forecasts.

"How do you know when a broadcast is coming through?" she asked, handing it back.

"I get a blank text, and then two minutes later the call sign plays – just a random jingle – then another two minutes after our girl in Suffolk reads out the encrypted message. No one but me can make sense of it. Once it's done, the encryption is burned."

Minister Kelly looked impressed as she listened with rapt attention. "It is exciting," she emphasised. "Well, I think so anyway. But listen, I really only meant to ask you whether it would be possible to stop off in Durham for a little longer than scheduled?"

"Sure. I'll let the boss know; Harry won't mind."

"I wouldn't ask, but my partner is introducing me to his son for the first time. You know, officially. The boy, Leon, expressed an interest in applying to Durham University, so it might help ease things along if I picked up a prospectus and a little present for him," she explained. "I won't be too long."

"It'll be fine, honest," he assured her, before returning to the last of his drink.

By the time Lucile has been bound and gagged in the empty dormitory, she had begun to sob helplessly. Immobilised on the cold tiled floor, she could only watch helplessly as the bunker was raided by the people in masks and black boiler suits. She was guarded by one of them, who stood over her wielding a small fire extinguisher he'd pulled off the wall. The door was open, so she tried to count how many there were. But she grew disorientated and confused, no longer able to tell whether she had counted the same person several times. She soon gave up on that.

Loud echoing bangs resonated down the steel hallways, amplified and terrifying. Tears were soon leaking into the tea towel they had gagged her with. She flinched violently at every crash and thump as the place was turned over. After what seemed an eternity, the place was plunged into sudden darkness and blue emergency lights flashed on overhead. Angry, startled voices echoed from the other rooms, but the woman – who Lucile had already guessed to be the one in charge – seemed happier with just the emergency lights. Lucile's own cry of alarm was smothered by the gag and caught in her throat. She turned her head to where she knew there were security cameras, but they had been knocked out, too. They were blind, and nothing, not even people's heights, were being recorded now.

To relieve the pressure of the bindings, she leaned back against the wall to balance herself properly. But the effect was limited and every time she moved, her guard stepped towards her, brandishing the fire extinguisher menacingly. Even an hour following her capture, she couldn't guess what these people wanted. But, after roughly that period of time had elapsed, someone else entered the dormitory and relieved the guard. The new person closed the door once the old one had left to join his colleagues. For a long time, Lucile looked up at her latest silent tormentor, who didn't seem to be armed at all. Although unable to tell due to the person's mask, she could tell he was looking back at her, studying her closely as he slowly closed the gap between them.

Once he was standing over her, Lucile looked up at him unable to say anything. A fresh wave of tears choked her as she silently pleaded with him not to hurt her. Silently, still scrutinising her, he knelt down so that they were level with each other. Her eyes followed him as he descended and knelt, her breath coming in short, sharp rasps of fear. But she was mute, unable to even scream – not that anyone would hear her. To her surprise, however, the newcomer slowly began to lift his mask. As his face was revealed, Lucile could have sworn that her heart stopped altogether for a few seconds. She didn't know whether to be even more afraid, or relieved.

"You're wrong."

The words, spoken by Ruth, seemed to hang heavy in the air. Harry's eyes widened in surprise, gaping at her over the rim of his whiskey glass. They were seated at Ruth's kitchen table where she was picking at some toast while he enjoyed a night cap and a hitherto amicable chat suddenly turned serious. Although Ruth seemed quite oblivious, the temperature suddenly dropped.

"Come again?" he replied, gesturing with one hand for her to explain exactly why he was wrong.

Ruth didn't skip a beat. "The word's been in use since roughly the early nineteenth century and, although listed as 'nonstandard', the word 'irregardless' is still listed as an actual word in most English dictionaries. So, with that suffix, not a proper word, but it is still classified as a word."

"Most," Harry repeated in a low voice. "But not all. Because I am right: irregardless is not a word."

Ruth sighed heavily. "Jesus, Harry! If 'chillax', 'yolo' and 'twerk' can be added to the Oxford Dictionary after appearing online more than five times in the last week, I'm pretty sure we can make an exception for a nonstandard word that's been in use for well over a century."

"Incorrect use," Harry corrected her, downing the rest of his whiskey. He checked his watch and stifled a gasp. "It's gone midnight. Didn't you want to call Lucile-"

"Don't try that," Ruth cut over him.

"What?" he asked, arranging his expression into something he hoped resembled innocence.

"You're throwing out diversions in fear that I'll prove you wrong," she replied, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "I know you, Harry, and your spy tricks."

"I'm not!" he protested, throwing up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Anyway, it's too late to call anyone. We should get some sleep ourselves."

Abandoning the remains of her toast in a nearby bin, Ruth heartily agreed. But not without getting a final word in. "I got a report from you the other day," she said, as they each wrapped an arm round the other's waist. "You used a comma before 'and'."

Harry froze on the spot, his expression scandalised. "An Oxford Comma is a perfectly legitimate grammatical mark."

"The word 'and' in itself does the comma's job, Harry," explained Ruth. Then, she relaxed and smiled, still holding him close to her. "I'll let you off. The Oxford comma is an optional extra."

"You're not going to send me to the grammar death camp, then?" he smiled, leaning in to kiss her.

"Not tonight," she whispered, returning his kiss where they stood in the draughty hallway.

They were discussing something, but neither of them could remember what it was. It was late; long past midnight. Whatever occupied them, it would come to them in the morning.

During the initial search of the bunker, Leon had sensed his presence was more a hindrance than a help. He still didn't know what was going on, but Emma seemed to have found what she was looking for: a large book of cipher, which she was using to scribble out messages already. It was then he made his excuses to go and watch over the girl they had bound and gagged in the women's dormitory. Emma readily agreed, under the condition he try to get information out of her or, even better, win her over to their side. That was how he came to be kneeling in front of the captive minutes later, the mask lifted from his face.

He watched her for a full minute. The only light in the room came from a blue emergency light. It made the woman's face pale, her eyes appear almost silver and even the tears that still streaked her cheeks glittered blue when she turned to look at him. Although he did not get a good look at her before, he knew she looked familiar and now he can see the recognition in her eyes too. Her laboured breathing gradually stabilised as she studied him in return. The others would go crazy if they knew he had shown the girl his face, but he no longer worried about it. It all seemed irrelevant.

"We've met before, haven't we?" he asked.

The girl nodded her head, slowly. Carefully, Leon reached behind her head to remove the gag that silenced her.

"Don't cry out," he urged her. "I just want to talk."

With the gag removed, he shifted so that he was sat beside her against the wall. Their posture mirrored each other as they both sat with their knees drawn up to their chest, their faces turned towards one another.

"You're the Minister's son, Leon. I remember you from that dinner party. We spoke to each other," said the woman, her voice weak and shaky.

It was only a few short days ago, he remembered it well despite the conversation lasting barely five minutes. He hadn't even found out her name.

"I didn't know it would be you," he said, keeping his voice low. "I thought it was the other one. What's your name?"

"Lucy," she replied, sounding hoarse.

He had closed the door and he could hear the others still turning the bunker over and calling out to each other. He knew they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted for some time. Some way off, he could see a sports bag packed with personal belongings including a bottle of mineral water poking out of the top. Leon went to fetch it for her and held it to Lucile's lips while she drank. Once she'd had enough, she pulled her head back and was just able to wipe her own mouth on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she said. "As abductors go, you're all rather friendly."

Her voice sounded stronger after being rehydrated and she even managed a small laugh.

"We're not abducting you," said Leon, sitting back against the wall again. "This will be over by morning. Our leader just needs you to broadcast a message, then you will be free."

Lucile frowned. "What message?"

"I don't know the precise details," he admitted. "But she is composing it now. Just broadcast that message, help us, and we will free you unharmed."

Her face was still wet; damp streaks reflecting the pale blue light. On her face was small, sad smile as she replied: "I can't do that. Not without knowing what the message is and what will be done once it is received. I don't think your friends will be letting me go unharmed after that."

"They won't hurt you," Leon insisted. "No one will be hurt-"

"What are you even doing?" Lucile cut over him. "What is the point of this?"

Leon didn't reply immediately. He couldn't. No one must be allowed to know what they were doing until it was already done, when it would be too late and their position was already consolidated. "It will be like Catalonia," he replied at length, sounding vague. "Only this time we will make it last. We will make it work."

Lucile het her head fall back against the wall, pulling her hair even further out of its ponytail in the process. Loose strands of dark brown hair were plastered to her wet face, but she couldn't push them away. "Idealism," she sighed. "Everyone knows you can't negotiate with idealists. I bet you're talking about the Catalonian Anarchist experiment as well, aren't you? The one that was smashed by the lovely General Franco roughly ten minutes after it was set up."

"It won't be like that," replied Leon. "Different times, different eras-"

"You're right about that," she cut over him, defiantly. "Now there's even worse fanatics and idealists waiting in the shadows to exploit weak governments-"

"Scaremongering!" Leon shot back, pulling himself to his feet. Lucile was suddenly cowed by his brief temper flare. She looked scared again, looking up at him as though he might strike her. He allowed himself a minute to calm down again. "That's Government scaremongering. It's what they want you to believe: that we're under constant attack by extremists. Fear instils blind loyalty in people, it's how they get inside your head. Give people a chance to live freely and they won't need to resort to extremes. Can't you see that? It's a vicious circle of fear, extremism and misplaced loyalty. Black Flag are going to break it."

"Now you sound like a conspiracy theorist," she replied. "Do you think we faked the London Bombings-"

The rest of her question was cut off footsteps hurried down the corridor outside and the door was flung open. Leon hastily replaced his mask before any of the others could see just how personal their chat had become. Nervous and jittery now, he turned to see the whole group gathered in the failing blue light, at the mouth of the door. It was Emma, under the mask, who stepped forwards with the book of cipher and several loose sheets of paper. She thrust just one of them at Lucile. The Cryptologist had become terrified again, her voice tremulous as she tried to ask what was going on.

"Is that your call sign?" Emma demanded to know, pushing herself right up into Lucile's face.

Lucile could barely manage to nod.

"Your next broadcast is at seven am?"

Again, Lucile nodded. Emma responded by giving her another sheet of paper, this with their own cipher recently added. Leon couldn't begin to fathom it. It just looked like a series of random numbers to him, but he knew that Emma had coded it herself, using Lucile's method in the books. The papers and the books were left at Lucile's feet while one of the others untied her hands. Once freed properly, Lucile could finally study and decode the message they wanted her to broadcast.

Leon watched her studying it, working it all out in her head. He was surprised by how swiftly and methodically she worked, even in poor light. When Lucile looked back up at her captors, her expression was dark with suspicion.

"All you want me to do is change the direction in which the Trade Minister is travelling?" she asked, sounding a little more confident.

"Do this for us, and you will be free to go. Think about it."

With that, they all left. The clock on the wall of the dormitory read three am and, Leon guessed, the others would be stationed throughout the bunker. He, however, stayed with Lucile. He was relieved that she had been cut free, but knew also that her charge was solely his. "I won't let them hurt you," he said. "I promise." The words sounded hollow, even to him.

At the beginning, Lucas' dream was always silent and always still. It was dark, but he could see snowflakes spiralling all around him and drifting down from the night sky. He could feel them, cold and wet on his face as he huddled deeper into his overcoat. He turns a street corner, the silence is shattered as a single gun-shot rings out and the chase begins again. He couldn't see his pursuers, he could only hear their rapid footfalls gaining on him. They're almost on him when he realises that no matter how hard he runs, he isn't getting anywhere. He's running into strong winds that have blown up out of nowhere. Closer, closer and closer. He can hear the FSB men calling to each other, he can smell their cologne while he's left flailing into an invisible wind machine, all but pinned down. Fingers brush against the back of his coat, grabbing a fistful of the fabric, he's pulled backwards. A heavy metallic door slams in his memory and he awakens suddenly. Breathless and disoriented, sitting up and glaring intently into the darkness. The panic remained, the fear and cold sweat making his skin prickle unpleasantly.

In the bed behind him, someone stirs. He'd forgotten she was even there. His breathing steadies as Ros' arms close around his middle and her breath makes the skin at the back his neck tingle.

"It's over now," she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. "You're not there any longer."

As his eyes adjusted to the light and he could just see her next to him, sitting up and holding him. Her blond hair and pale skin were most visible as she coaxed him back down into bed. Offering little resistance, he still didn't say anything. The residual effects of the dream was like poison seeping through his veins, making him tremble. Once settled, he felt Ros' lips pressed against the side of his head, a firm kiss and a firmer hold under the bed sheets, soothing him.

"Ssh, go back to sleep now."

But every time he closed his eyes the same feelings of being watched, of being hunted closed over him in the silent, stifling darkness.

Lucile studied the cipher they had given her closely, decrypting it over and over to see if she had made a mistake. It never changed, but it kept her mind busy. The message itself looked so innocuous, just a harmless diversion. But the reasons behind it were opaque. Had they gone to all this trouble to play a stupid trick on the Minister? No matter what it was, the message could only come from her so whatever the consequences, they would fall back on her. Whenever she heard voices outside, she strained her ears to see if she could pick up any clues about Black Flag's ultimate Op. But she got nothing, other than that someone or something was already in place. Unable to pick up anything else, she turned her mind towards getting a message to Thames House in the event of being killed. Worst case scenario, she told herself when she felt her resolve flagging.

When the clock hit four am, she checked Leon again. It struck her that he was just a kid, still restless and troubled. Nevertheless, if he and his friends were going to kill her, she had no intention of letting them get away with it. Her feet were still stiff as she crawled over to her sports bag to retrieve a pen from its depths. Once she had it, she returned to where she was before. Outside, she could hear one of the others pacing the corridor between the station and the kitchen. Every time she heard the slow pacing boots pass her door, she froze and held her breath until they receded again. Then she got to work on encrypting an altogether different message.

It had to be one that, if found by her captors while she was still alive, would not incriminate her and could be easily explained. So she encrypted it using the old cipher from her first day at the bunker. To the casual eye, it would just be a sequence of random numbers. She checked the page number in the book and made a note of it at the bottom of the page. Included in her message was the name of the organisation that captured her, the name Leon Shelley and their aims summed up in two words: "Catalonia experiment". Once completed, she needed it kept safe somewhere on her body. If the message needed to be delivered, it would have to be done post mortem.

Worst case scenario, she reminded herself again and reaching for a tampon from her sports bag. She always carried one in case of emergencies – but she hadn't quite envisioned this emergency. She double checked Leon, who now had his back to her. She waited longer, until the pacing passed her door one more time. Then, she opened the tampon and stuffed the message inside the plastic applicator and used the cotton tampon itself to prevent the rice paper slipping out again. Then, she hunched down behind one of the other beds towards the back of the room. Even if Leon did awaken, he would see nothing. Her nerves hit a peak, her hands trembled as she unbuttoned her jeans and quickly pushed the plastic capsule deep inside her. She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, causing her to wince. But it was all done in a second and she had made herself decent again after another brief moment.

If they killed her, the message would be found during her autopsy. She had no illusions about that; she knew every crevice of a murder victim was searched thoroughly for clues. They would check her down there for signs of rape, and that's when they would find it. On the other hand, if Black Flag didn't kill her, she had some entertaining explaining to do to the doctor whose job it would be to extract the damn thing.