Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Thanks also to the anonymous reviewers who I cannot thank in person – thank you!
Apologies for the long delay in getting this updated, but the most heinous writer's block descended after the last chapter. The block is still there, but I'm ploughing through this chapter anyway (instead of spending more hours staring at a blank word document).
Chapter Eleven: The Grid Again.
One by one, they all drifted away from the bedside. Ollie went first, a tactical retreat as though he'd been flushed out by the arrival of so many of the Fraser clan. His continued presence there became an intrusion, a cuckoo in the family nest, and he slowly inched away until he was out of the door. Then there were four. The youngest sibling, a man-boy of nineteen, making ill-timed jests in a desperate effort to lift the tension. The other three had grown so adept at blocking him out they didn't even notice when he vanished altogether. The middle sibling, a woman in her twenties, silent and stunned with grief, discreetly faded into the hospital background. Only the parents remained, sticking it out to the bitter end. It was like the building of their family in reverse – with children departing in the opposite order of their arrival, leaving only Mum and Dad alone with their eldest stuck in some comatose hinterland.
The middle aged man lifted his gaze, to the spots once occupied by his younger children as thought noticing their sudden absence for the first time. On the opposite side of the bed, his wife still had her coat on but they had been there for over twelve hours now. Her face was slack with incomprehension as she watched her son's chest rise and fall. Sometimes slow, sometimes quickening, the heart monitor bleeped Nathan's continued existence, a heart rate registered in fluctuating lines on a nearby monitor.
"You should get some sleep," he said. "I'll call if anything happens."
It was nearing three in the morning and she showed no sign of having heard him. But, after a long delay spent watching their comatose child, she rose to her feet. She had her handbag clutched to her stomach; as though she expected him to die as soon as she looked away, she kept her gaze on Nathan. Even as she backed out of the door, she studied him one more time. Then, as with the others, she was gone. Not even the sound of her footsteps could be heard as she made her exit.
Now there was one. James Fraser reached for the clear plastic bag that contained his son's personal items, it was sat on the bedside table. Inside was an identity card for one Nigel Fitzgerald alongside Nathan's picture. He glared out of the mug shot as though he'd been challenging the photographer to a fight. A false name, a false date of birth and a false address. Nigel Fitzgerald was not his son, even if he had his son's features. He dropped the card back into the bag and replaced it on the table.
"It's just you and me, then," he said, speaking softly. A strange thing happened, not so long ago, they were just told their son was being transferred to a private room. But still, he kept his voice down as he spoke and reached out one hand, resting it on his son's forearm. He drew a deep breath before resuming his one sided conversation. "Ask them to consult me, next time they make you a legend. You don't even look like a Nigel."
Linda wanted to name him James. That egotistical self-indulgence of fathers giving their first born sons their own name. At least, that was what it felt like to him and he refused to allow it. The knowledge that his son worked for MI5 came on a wave of vindication over that last minute name change. Knowing he had unwittingly saved his boy from a raft of unfunny James Bond jokes brought some pale satisfaction. Whatever else he had gotten wrong in the boy's life, he got that right.
"You didn't expect it to be me here now, did you?" he continued. "You thought I'd be sick of watching you die, but at least you're not doing it to yourself this time."
There was a seven year stretch throughout which father and son exchanged not so much as a word. Neither verbal nor electronic. But it wasn't always like that. They were joined at the hip for the first decade of their coexistence. Then life happened and paths diverted. Teenage angst clashed with a tortuous self-hatred, succumbing to the temptations of heroin and crack cocaine. There was nothing more unbearable than watching your own child die a slow death, day after day. So, he turned his back and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he learned Nathan had joined MI5 – a rather unexpected turn of events given the not so distant past. He only found that out because the boy had almost got himself shot and killed in Northern Ireland. The same place where he literally was shot and nearly killed, some thirty years before. Such is life.
His thoughts were cut off as a nurse opened the door and peered in quietly. He responded by pushing back his chair, making room for her to carry out whatever checks she needed to make.
"Excuse me," she said, apologetically.
He stood up, allowing her easier access to Nathan's equipment. She went through the charts methodically, mostly in silence until she started to check things over.
"They say he's a spy."
"He's my child," he replied, vaguely. He was ex-military and not about to divulge information on other members of the security forces. But, to take the bite out of his dodging the question, he raised a pained smile and added: "That must sound so ridiculous. He's nearly thirty."
"Of course not; he'll always be your child," replied the nurse, glancing over her shoulder. "It's just that there was someone else trying to get access to him. Someone outside your family."
She returned to her checks, taking Nathan's temperature and adjusting various knobs and dials he could not put a name to. Meanwhile, he thought on what she said. There was more to his son's stabbing than anyone was telling them. He dared think to himself that the one who really knew the full story was the same one buried under all those tubes and wires, unconscious in a Hospital bed.
"Unless it's his partner, Oliver Jones, then no one outside our immediate family is permitted to see him," he informed her. "It'll be on CCTV, won't it?"
The nurse frowned. "I think so."
"Could you have your security men go through the footage and identify him? It could be significant."
Nathan wasn't stabbed as a warning. He was stabbed so that he would die. Something he'd failed to do and lying there he was vulnerable. All they had to do was flick a switch and wait.
The nurse nodded. "Of course. We'll do what we can."
He nodded his thanks as she turned to conclude her checks. "He's doing well," she assured him as she readied herself to leave. "He's over the worst of it."
Only Nathan's regaining his consciousness and wits would satisfy him on that score. Nevertheless, he raised a smile as she left. "Thank you," he said.
They may have had the Grid back, but Harry still woke up on the sofa of the old farmhouse. Greeting the new day with a resounding sneeze brought on by a night's worth of inhaled upholstery dust, he rolled over stiffly and found his feet. Still mostly dressed from the day before, he opened the curtains onto a bitter and frosty morning. It should have been beautiful, but on a farm it made the land look barren and harsh; the gnarled bare trees looked black and rotten, almost threatening as they leaned over the boundary wall. He grimaced at the sight before bracing himself for a wash and shave in cold water.
To help distract him from the temperature, he switched on an old transistor radio and listened fixedly to the news broadcast. The big stories came first: dodgy dealings in Whitehall, minor sexual scandals and a little low level corruption here and there. Poor Nathan had slipped down the schedule to just a footnote in a bulletin that centred on John Carlton.
"The managing director of a security and munitions company, John Carlton, last night refused to comment on the circumstances surrounding a twenty-nine year old man found with multiple stab wounds on his business premises…" the newsreader stated. Still, at least she was mentioning Carlton in connection with the incident – mud, after all, has a habit of sticking. "Reports state that the unnamed victim remains in a stable – but serious – condition. Also, no further details of what happened have so far come to light."
And nor would they, unless the Home Secretary stopped playing ball again. Then it would be Towers' name being dragged through the same mud as Carlton's.
As soon as he was vaguely presentable, he returned to the bunker in the basement where Malcolm and Tariq continued to monitor phone calls to and from Securitech. Each was taking it in turns to listen in shifts. Malcolm over night; Tariq during the day. Before he was stabbed, Nathan had managed to rig Carlton's office and they had a day's worth of material to catch up on before deciding whether it was worth the effort to move all their equipment back to the Grid. But, in the early stages just as they were starting to get somewhere, it was decided to remain there and keep disruption to a minimum.
He thought he should be used to these places, as he descended the steps half in a darkness. But emerging in the engine room still felt stepping into an insect tank. Its fluorescent strip lights and blank glass windows gave it the feel of one. Although infinitely warmer than up above, the feel of the place still made him shiver. Inside, Malcolm had his back to the door and a large headset clamped over his ears. Only belatedly did he realise Harry was there.
"You look done in, Malcolm," he greeted his old friend. "Has it been worthwhile?"
Malcolm lowered the headset so that it was hanging round his neck like a poor man's welcoming garland. "Nothing to get too excited about. Carlton's been discussing the Nathan situation, but refusing to be drawn on the reasoning behind it. But, I still think it's worth you having a second listen."
It would be too much to hope for that Carlton would simply come out and say: 'we had the man stabbed because he was about to expose our selling bombs to ISIS'. But stupider things had happened before, and Harry couldn't help but feel the sinking feeling of utter deflation.
"Well, store them all as sound files and copy them to a pen drive. I'll have them analysed properly back at the Grid," he said. "You should call it a night. Where's Tariq?"
The answer was questioned as the man himself finally surfaced. He'd taken up residence in one of the back rooms, close to a boiler for a trace of warmth. Still half drugged with sleep, he greeted Harry and Malcolm with a silent, stiff wave. Meanwhile, Malcolm collected his things and they departed together.
Back in the main farmhouse, they headed out of the back door to let themselves into the open fields. A mutual understanding that, having spent the last forty eight hours underground, they both needed to see actual daylight again. Leaving it any longer would render them both transparent and blind, or something like that. Casually, they strolled around a beaten track that lined a large paddock, momentarily lost in their own thoughts.
"We're still not getting the evidence we need," said Harry, pulling his jacket closed. The cold air made his lungs burn. "Ruth's gone back to Thames House to start running suspects through facial recognition. Even then, I doubt it will be straight forward."
"When is it ever straightforward?" Malcolm retorted, straightening a flat cap on his head. "Even if it was, you'd be bored."
Harry sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right. But I still want this concluded. There may not be an immediate risk to life, but it's still a deeply unpleasant business. While this drags on and takes up our time, real plots could be in the making and we're bloody missing it all."
It always happened when politics intruded upon their workings. It was a major component to his loathing of the breed. Tiresome and pig-headed, he'd yet to meet a politician un-afflicted with the traits. Still, he savoured the brief interlude as he and Malcolm continued their short walk across the farmland. It had been so cold overnight that the normally soft ground crunched beneath their feet. All the while, he looked out for signs of interference. Neither Malcolm nor Tariq would have heard anything, down in that bunker. But he had heard the noises again during the night.
It felt like a homecoming, of sorts. Having been gone from the Grid for only a week, Ruth hadn't had time to notice how much she missed the place. Or rather, missed the easy access to the resources it offered. Never more so when the facial recognition search turned up a match. She had the images Ros and Lucas provided lined up on her desk for easy reference. But before she could verify, Ros herself was at her side bearing a pen drive.
"There's been another development," she said, pulling up a spare chair. "An uninvited guest has been turning up at Nathan's hospital room."
Ruth picked up the pen drive from where Ros had placed it beside the photographs. "CCTV footage?"
Ros nodded. "I've already seen it. He looks familiar."
With no further questioning, Ruth connected the device to her computer and waited for it to load. There was no film footage on there, just grainy images in the form of stills. There was one close match, but she wanted the pictures cleaned up first.
"I want them enhanced," she said, eyes still fixed on the PC screen. "It shouldn't take long. But he looks remarkably similar to one of Lucas' tails."
"Exactly what I thought, too," replied Ros. "Now, what about the payments made to that offshore shell company? Have you been able to trace it back to Carlton yet?"
"I've been able to go through the accounts, thanks to one of the malwares we implanted on Carlton's personal computer. There was a sum transferred from Securitech to that off-shore account connected to the same shell. There's been a number of payments, in fact. Money flowing both ways."
"So it's just a matter of matching up the date and the sum?" Ros asked, looking hopeful.
"Basically, yes."
"Thanks, Ruth. Good luck with it."
With that, Ros returned to Lucas. The pair of them sat round the same computer on the opposite side of the Grid. Meanwhile, Harry's office stood dark and locked in front of her. Inwardly, she willed him to return as soon as possible.
Thanks again for reading and sorry again for it being a short (and overdue) update. It's been a horror to write. Thanks again!