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Chapter Three: Broken Things

It wasn't the first time that one of Harry's agents had been brought back to Thames House with somebody else's blood congealing in their hair. But it was still an infrequent enough event as to raise a few eyebrows as they passed through reception. Harry met their gaze, inwardly defying them to say something. Whether it was the look on his face or the temper he oozed, no one complained. Before entering the Grid, Harry and Ruth remained outside the pods while Nathan detoured to the gents to get cleaned up.

While they waited for him, he looked her up and down, noting that she was still ashen faced and shaky. They had found Nathan waiting next to his car, breathless and scared half to death. Like the centrepiece in a scene straight from the Tales of the Macabre, their Asset's severed head had rolled down the windshield, leaving in its wake a spiralling trail of blood and landed in the dirt next to the front left wheel. It was the first thing they saw as they exited their own vehicle. Immediately upon arrival, he regretting not leaving Ruth behind and bringing Ros instead.

"I made eye-contact with it," Ruth said as they waited. "God, Harry, it was staring right at me."

"Don't worry, I don't think he saw you," he replied, trying to sound reassuring. He flashed her a smile to alleviate the tension. "Anyway, a scene like that, it is rather eye catching."

That being said, Harry knew there was someone watching them. While they were inspecting the scene and waiting for the police to show up, Harry tried to shake the feeling off. It was like being a kid who had watched a horror film and couldn't shift the fear that there really was a monster lurking beneath the bed. He couldn't see anyone besides Ruth, Nathan and most of Sharaf Suleiman's head; but he thought he heard footsteps pacing the concrete floor of the car park. For the twenty minutes it took them to arrive, Nathan had been alone with the killer – Harry was certain of it. A thought that made him shiver on Nathan's behalf and one that made him stay silent about his suspicions. But now they were safe and back at the Grid, there could be no skirting around the issue.

"Harry, do you not think we should send him home for the day? Get his boyfriend to come and pick him up; I have Oliver's number back at my desk."

Ruth meant well, but Harry disagreed. "On the contrary, I want this over and done with – for his own sake more than anything else. That and I don't want him blanking any details out."

She smiled a wan smile. "You're all heart these days."

"It's not just that I don't think he'll be able rest – I'll have one of our friendly doctors prescribe something in that case," he pointed out. "It's more that I don't want him going home at all. I'll have Beth arrange a safe house for him and his partner. Just until we know more."

Ruth's eyes widened as she looked up at him. "You think Nathan was seen?"

"Actually, I think we all were," he said, then quickly soothed her. "But it's just a precaution. We still don't know what Suleiman said to Nathan. We don't know much of anything, just yet. I'm just not willing to take any risks."

After five minutes, Nathan returned. His dark auburn hair was mussed up in a mess of wild curls where he'd dried it under an automatic hand dryer. But at least it was bloodless now. He pulled at it nervously, attempting to work it back into some semblance of neatness – something he rarely achieved on the best of days.

"Right then," he said. "Where are we doing this?" He looked and sounded like he was about to be water boarded.

Harry led the way to his office, beckoning Ros over as he went. She quickly fell into step with Nathan, offering him whispered words of encouragement that Harry could not make out. Ruth nipped over to Beth to relay Harry's safe house instructions before joining them in the private office. To seal them in a little tighter, he blocked them from view by closing the blinds over his window. Once that was done, he poured a measure of whiskey into a tumbler and handed it to Nathan.

"First things first," he declared. "Get that down you and steel yourself."

Ruth frowned disapprovingly and muttered something about hot, sweat tea. Words that trailed off into silence as Nathan downed the whiskey faster than a blink of the eye. Harry flashed him an encouraging smile as he took back the glass and the whiskey worked its restorative magic.

"Before he was killed, Suleiman told me something," Nathan began, perking up a little. "He said to me that it was Jon Carlton, Managing Director of Securitech, who sold that dirty bomb to ISIS."

Ruth's glance shot up sharply. "Did he have proof?"

"No. He said he would bring it when we next met. He asked me to bring Harry," replied Nathan, meeting his boss' gaze.

Harry had been expecting a walkthrough of the events leading up to Suleiman's murder and nothing more. But this felt like the ground giving way beneath his feet. An accusation that could change everything, but with nothing to back it up. Or at least, nothing at hand.

"Surely we can still investigate, Harry?" Ros asked. "Suleiman said he was going to bring proof to the next meet. Which must surely mean it exists somewhere."

Harry could tell she was already getting the bit between her teeth.

"These people don't give receipts," he replied. "I don't think there'll be any invoices lying around, either. But there's no harm in looking."

Ruth glanced between the two of them. "Surely we should also warn the Home Secretary? He's the one about to strike a big deal with this man."

As tempting as it was, Harry found himself being instinctively cautious. Towers was banking a lot on his deal going through, he had staked his career and reputation on it. They could go to him with a baseless accusation and trust the word of a terrorist in a tight spot; or they could risk the truth and watch the government do business with a war criminal on the make. Harry considered both options carefully, sighing deeply in conclusion.

"Play it down for now," he said, at length. "Gently does it."

"We could just say that improper dealings have come to light," Ruth suggested.

"Or we could just tell Towers what Suleiman said," Ros cut in. "I think Ruth's right, Harry. Towers needs to know and what he does, or doesn't do, with that information is then entirely up to him and reflects back on nobody except him."

Nathan lifted himself out of his own thoughts, turning to Harry. "For what it's worth, I'm with Ros and Ruth too."

Harry waved one hand, dismissively. "Fair enough then. We tell him. But if this investigation gets back to Carlton he could cause problems. For which the Home Secretary will surely blame us."

"Sod it," said Ros. "And sod him. Harry, it's not like you to care about a politician."

"I don't!" Harry retorted, stung. "But Towers has been better than most and good to me. All the more reason to warn him, I suppose."

"Anyway, Nathan, what happened next?" Ruth said, bringing the meeting back around to the original topic.

Nathan seemed to falter again once the subject was back on him. He looked at them each in turn and drew a deep breath as he resumed retelling the morning's events.

"The meeting didn't last long. We walked along the canal path for less than half a mile. We passed some kids throwing stones, who shouted some abuse at Suleiman as we passed. They ran off immediately. I looked back at them and, if anyone else was following us, I would have seen them. There was no one. Anyway, we turned and walked back. We talked some more about Carlton – stuff I've already mentioned – and then he got into his car. The third car that was there had the door open, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. I went on foot to some pet cremation place and when I got back I heard something hit the car. The kids were back and I thought it was them hitting my car with a stone. Then I saw the blood on the windshield. I think I heard footsteps on the second floor of the car park – but I can't be sure. I phoned the Grid and was put through to Ruth.

When that call ended, I investigated the car park. But I didn't see anyone. I thought I did, and I ran after them, but I was chasing shadows, Harry. The killer was gone, I think. You arrived not much after that, so I left the rest to you."

In his mind, Harry returned to the scene. The third car was still there, he remembered seeing it as he entered the car park. Its passenger door was wide open, with no one inside. But the feeling of being watched once more returned to him. It was only after he had seen the head that the feeling came over him. Whether spooked or whether it was real, he could not say for certain. It was only his gut instinct telling him the killer was still there, watching them all.

"Harry," said Ros, voice full of concern. "Harry, what's up? You're pale."

Jolted out of his reverie, he gave himself a quick mental shakedown. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

But it wasn't. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, dismissing everyone else in the room. Only Ruth remained behind, finishing taking some notes before also standing. Nathan had shut the door after himself and the blinds were still drawn across the window. Taking advantage of their privacy, Harry wrapped his arms around her.

"We'll need a proper drink tonight, I think," he said, wearily. "But for now, how about some tea?"

"Sounds good to me," she concurred.

Severed heads had never been good for the appetite. But they left the Grid, arm in arm, for the nearest café anyway. To clear their minds and steeling themselves for whatever lay ahead.

"Some people have all the fun, don't they?" Lucas was sat up in bed, once more restored to human levels of consciousness. But he was still wired up to an intravenous drip and deathly pale. So white he almost blended nicely with the counterpane over his hospital bed.

Ros had drawn the curtain round his bay, shutting out the other visitors crowded around their sick relatives. Now she was sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair at his bedside, regaling him with the latest happenings on the Grid. She tried to keep her voice low so no one overheard anything about severed heads or dodgy government business deals.

"Exactly, see what we've been missing out on since you got sick?" she replied. "Just rehydrate soon – use a bloody water canon if you have to – and get back to work. This is turning out to be interesting."

Not for the first time he felt the frustration at his enforced inactivity. He had slept for most of the day, letting the medics pump him full of antibiotics and saline fluid, hoping it would kick in soon. But it would be at least twenty-four hours and another over-night stay. He recalled, with acute precision, passing out in the middle of Heathrow. He tried to blame it on hitting his head while getting off the plane, but Ros and Beth were having none of it.

"It's your fault I'm here," he reminded her. "Anyway, I'll be out tomorrow whether the nurses consent or not. I'll discharge myself, if need be."

"I want to go and have a sniff around Suleiman's flat," she said. "But I can't hold Harry off for long while waiting for you. Two days maximum, I think. That will give you enough time."

Lucas was thoughtful for a moment. "You know, the Russians believed the last thing a murder victim sees is imprinted on their eyes. Usually their murderer."

"I don't think that will stand up in a court of law, somehow," she replied. "Did they ever secure a conviction by looking into a dead person's eyes?"

Lucas laughed drily. "Probably!"

He watched as Ros pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. "It must be almost feeding time at the zoo."

"Five-thirty, according to the nurse I spoke to this morning," he replied. "They give you a choice these days."

Ros' eyes widened in feigned wonder. "It's practically the Hilton, you lucky sod. No wonder you don't want to leave. Anyway, I'll leave you to it and see you at lunchtime tomorrow. Okay?"

He nodded and stretched himself up to kiss her goodbye.

Once more alone, he lapsed into thinking over the details. He tried to link it in with what little he could recall of the Baghdad bomb. Since he and Ros had arrived back in England the death toll had risen again. The nerve agent used would probably see to it that the toll kept rising for some time to come.

Still not hungry after the food poisoning from hell, he lay down to try and sleep. But the noise of the ward and chattering relatives intruded every time he closed his eyes. Turning over to that he was flat on his back, he looked up at the ceiling and went through it all again. Whoever sold that bomb to Isis, for whatever reason, he wouldn't be in their shoes for anything.

It looked like a poor man's Laura Ashley show home. Blank white walls, but with over-stuffed, chintzy armchairs and sofa. There was a gas fire fitted into the once much grander original fire place and a dado rail ran the length of the walls in the living room, dividing two shades of cream and white. Cold and unlived in, the service had at least stocked the cupboards for him. Something Nathan hadn't expected them to do and had already been to Tesco for that purpose. But it at least passed the time and kept him busy until Olly got out of work. He hadn't told him what happened; only that they had to stay in a new house for a while. Already he was braced for the argument.

While the kettle boiled, he inspected the bedrooms of the apartment. Spacious and clean, Beth had helped him make the bed already. But it was still unnaturally cold, carrying an air of abandonment in every room. No one lived there, yet he still couldn't escape the uncomfortable feeling he was intruding into someone else's home. It just wasn't his.

The ringing of his mobile phone startled him, causing him to swear out loud. But it was only Olly, sounding confused and disbelieving in equal measure.

"Where are you now?" he asked, pushing the yellowing net curtain aside. "It's number 31, just ring the buzzer and I'll let you in now."

But still Olly seemed to prevaricate, demanding explanations and dithering outside. Seemingly, he was struggling with the intercom system. Nathan rolled his eyes in a sudden burst of irritation.

"Just ring the damn buzzer, Oliver, it's really not that complicated. Number three and then number one, okay?"

He regretted his outburst immediately, but it seemed to have done the trick and the alarm rang. Getting his wits together, he opened the door and waited at the top of the stairs beyond their front door. As he suspected, Oliver was furious.

"You're late," Nathan said, sharply. "Where were you? I've been trying to call you."

Oliver frowned, pushing past him into the living room. "And you're in the wrong house so don't take your foul mood out on me. Your woman from Thames House managed to reach me okay; it was her who told me where to go."

Once he had barged into the living room, he turned a full circle with his squashed nose wrinkled in distaste. Upon that in-depth inspection, he took up complaining bitterly about the cold. Giving them both time to cool off, Nathan made a pot of tea from the recently boiled kettle. He hadn't had time to make a start on dinner and he knew Oliver could be like a bear with a sore head when hungry after a long day in work.

"Was it Beth you spoke to?" he asked, stirring the boiled water in the pot. Inexplicable tears welled in his eyes as the events of that morning sprung, unbidden, into his mind.

"No. I remember her from Ireland. It was your other one. Ruth, I think," Oliver replied, sounding as though he barely cared.

He had come to the door of the kitchen divested of his suit jacket, but did not enter. He merely watched Nathan stirring the pot with an incandescent anger in his dark eyes. "So, what's the story? Why are we here and not at home?" He sighed heavily, adding in an undertone: "What the fuck have you been up to now?"

Nathan turned away from him so he wouldn't see his tears. Bringing the tea pot with him, he carried on stirring and stirring without paying attention to what he was doing. Some of the scalding water slopped over the sides, burning his hands.

"Shit!" he yelped, whipping his hand away and dropping the pot. It smashed against the lino, sending the burning liquid perilously close to his feet. Nathan looked at the mess and the smashed ceramic and began to sob noisily. Choking and hiccoughing, he wrapped his arms around his middle and openly broke down. As he tried to kneel to start the clean-up, he was dimly aware of Olly's footsteps rushing over to him. Then two strong arms were around him, easing him down to the floor where he was hugged tightly until he had begun to settle once more.

With his head tucked under Oliver's chin, he began to recount what had happened and what it was that led to them being there. Still on the kitchen floor, Olly only let go of him to reach for a cloth to wipe up the spilled tea. But he listened in silence as Nathan divulged all that he was allowed to. By the time he had finished, he was reduced to sniffing noisily.

"You should have called me right away," said Oliver, boiling the kettle again. It was growing dark outside and they must have been talking for at least an hour. "I would have come to get you and helped get us settled into our new palace."

Nathan tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking straight."

Olly made a start on dinner himself, rooting through the fridge as he began rustling something up. Bacon they had in abundance, along with eggs and bread.

"Don't worry," he said, getting the stove going. "We'll think of something. It'll be safe enough for me to go back home every once in a while, won't it? It's you who's in danger."

Nathan had picked himself up off the floor and climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar. "Olly, no. I don't want you taking risks. Not after what happened in Ireland."

"Bollocks," he concluded, with an air of finality. "I'll be fine."

"Visitor for you, Mister Carlton. Joseph Weston."

John Carlton looked up from his computer screen as his personal assistant peered around his door. She greeted him with a smile as she offered tea or coffee for him and their guest.

"No, thank you Sarah. Show the gentlemen in, if you please."

His smile faded as soon as she closed the door; the colour draining from his face. Before he came in, he quickly double checked the computer screen again before shutting the browser down. There was nothing on the news, adding to his already abundant concerns of MI5's growing interest in some of his associates. By the time he had pulled up a more innocuous looking spreadsheet on his PC, the other man had entered.

"Good to see you again, John," the newcomer greeted him, extending his hand across the desk. "How are things?"

For all he was worth, Carlton tried to look nonchalant. "Very well Joe, thanks for asking. What about yourself?"

Even the basic pleasantries were becoming laborious to him now. He wanted it all out of the way so they could get down to business. Which he did when Joe handed him some files from inside his suitcase.

"Your immediate problem has been dealt with, but there may be one more," he said, a note of regret underpinning the good news. "But, you should see this."

Carlton took the file and read the "top secret" notice on the front cover. He flipped it open to reveal a black and white photograph of a dark haired man. It was paper clipped to an A4 page containing a report about a bombing in Dakar, Senegal. He caught the year: 1995. Before he could connect them, more dots appeared in his head. None of them logically joined.

"Er," he said, glancing up at his colleague. "What's this?"

The other man smiled. "That's Lucas North," he answered. "And this is going to be so easy."

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