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Chapter Twelve: All or Nothing

It was dark. Too dark to see. All Nathan could feel was the cold and the damp gravel ground beneath his feet. Even the other man's breath was cold against the back of his neck, making the small hairs prickle in sick anticipation. He couldn't see him, only sense his physicality nearby and drawing closer. Skin brushing against skin as they moved through the indeterminate darkness. Small sounds reverberated off concrete walls, their feet shuffling and trying to step around each other. A mistimed two step dance that had them bumping into each other every way they turned, descending into a fearful confusion.

"Who are you?" Nathan tried to ask.

But the darkness was so thick it smothered even the sound of his voice. How was that even possible? His curiosity was not enough to fend off his growing anxiety. An anxiety that spread in the void left by information. He thought he could hear the crackle of a radio losing frequency, somewhere in the far distance. Then the moment played again. A bunched fist to his gut, the invisible blade sinking into the soft tissue of his belly. As he doubled over in pain and closed his eyes, he remembered a man he used to know. An old boyfriend from his druggy days who was nifty with his fists. He could feel those fists again, the backhander to the side of his face and the force slamming his head against the back wall. Blood from his mouth dribbling down the yellowing wallpaper as he curled up in the corner.

Images and memories faded as he opened his eyes again. A gentle coming round, slowly nudging him over to the right side of consciousness. The old boyfriend faded into light. A morning sunshine giving chase to the darkness. The cold warmed, the hard gravel softening to crisp linen sheets. He blinked rapidly, eyelashes fluttering darkly against his pale cheek. Eskimo kisses, his mother used to call them. He pushed the limits of his consciousness by clenching one fist, an act ghosting the residual phantoms of his coma.

You're alive then, a small voice at the back of his mind spoke. There was no rush of near-death euphoria, just a slow coming too. A dawning realisation of his extended existence.

"Child."

His response to the familiar voice was slow. As though the outside stimulus had long been disconnected to any learned response in him. Slowly, he turned his head on the pillow and only distantly registered a reaction to the machines all around him. They weren't just there. They were part of him, connected through tubes and wires. His chest was bared, pads stuck over his heart and the places the knife cut him. A fact his sluggish brain easily glossed over.

"Dad?" it sounded like a question.

His father smiled and brought a hand to the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he leaned down and kissed his forehead. A whiskery kiss that lingered, dampened by a falling teardrop.

"Are you crying?" that really was a question, his tone almost incredulous.

Laughter. Brief and muffled, but it was still a laugh. When his father sat back down again, Nathan was able to look at him. Tired and careworn, he looked older than his sixty years. The single tear dried on his cheek, leaving a faint track down into the moustache. Although grey now, the father once shared his son's unruly auburn curls.

Although he remembered, in acute detail, what had happened to him, Nathan did not wish to think about it now. He met his father's gaze, a blue on blue sapphire clash. "Where's Mum?" he asked, aching to see her again. "Is she here?"

Something in his father's face changed. An almost imperceptible fall in the brow, a rejected dog being kicked out into the rain. As though the asking for one parent was a rejection of the other. Had his father expected it and hoped for the opposite anyway? A twinge of guilt permeated his aching wounds.

"I'll go and call-"

"No," Nathan cut him off. "I'm sure she'll be along soon. Stay with me, please?"

It was more than a gesture of appeasement. He tried to lift his hand, but found it leaden and heavy. Nevertheless, his father met him half way. It was the first time they had made bodily contact in the best part of a decade.

"I'm not going anywhere," his father assured him, a faint smile twitching at his lips. "Do you remember what happened? Do you know where you are?"

Nathan swallowed, finding his mouth and throat dry. The former tasting like a small furry animal had curled up and died in it.

"I remember what happened well enough."

"Do you remember who did it? Would you recognise them again?"

Nathan turned away, finding himself staring at a heart monitor and a saline drip. He would have sighed had it not hurt so much. But he was spared the need to answer as a nurse arrived on the scene, clipboard in hand and admonishing his father pointedly for not ringing the buzzer as soon as he woke up. He allowed himself a small smile as he turned to the new arrival, submitting to her checks without protest.

Lucas pushed his way through the swing doors of the cafeteria, finding it almost empty but for the servers. Decidedly not hungry, he bypassed the dry pastries and croissants left over from the breakfast rush and ordered only a pot of tea. It was a small, intimate sort of a place, situated on the ground floor of Thames House well away from all the state secrets upstairs. A small island in the central hub of espionage where the agents could breathe freely and get their wits together out from under the ever watching eye of surveillance.

His tea paid for, he paused by the cash till and looked out over all the empty tables and chairs as if at a loss as to where to sit. Faced with the overwhelming choice of 'anywhere', he followed his gut instinct and headed toward to the far left corner near a fire escape. Anyone coming through the main door wouldn't see him unless they looked all around and it offered him a relatively safe sanctuary before being thrown back in the deep end of the case they were working on.

Once settled, right next to the wall, he stirred his tea thoughtfully. Although they were getting somewhere, and they had names and faces, their victory felt hollow this time. It had come at the cost of his own integrity. It had chipped away another fundamental part of the Lucas North legend. And a legend was all it was. He could have all the paper work in the world, all the documents and proof to show he was this man working for MI5 – it didn't change the fact of who he really was. John Bateman. A clueless, drifting waster stumbling from one catastrophe to the next. It had been used against him once and it could be done so again. Then, once again, he would be reliant on the good will of Harry Pearce to dig him out of the shit and defend his good name. Without that, that one small veneer of protection, he would be naked to the machinations of whatever self-serving individual came along next. There would forever be someone else pulling his strings.

He didn't realise he was still stirring the pot. Mechanically, unthinkingly, going round and round unmindful of the swirl of hot liquid threatening to spill down the sides. Stopping what he was doing, he lifted his chin out of his free hand and glanced once more round the room. Alone again, the server had disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the sounds of metal pots and pans being stacked and water running from gushing faucets. Out of nowhere, he began to feel like he needed company. An alien feeling, after so many years of coping perfectly well on his own. But an undeniable one, too.

It was nearing nine am, but Harry was still at Connie's and Ros was out meeting an asset. Ruth was upstairs, so he dialled her number and had a brief conversation to invite her downstairs. Besides, she informed him, she had something she needed him to see. Lucky him. Barely a minute after the call ended, he heard the double doors open and rush shut again. His table being as discreet as he had guessed, she stood there glancing round for a second or two before he waved her over.

Ruth smiled as their gaze met across the room and she augmented the gesture by lifting a beige file to shoulder height. This was what she wanted him to see.

"Can I get you some tea?" he asked, already reaching for his wallet. "My treat."

She shook her head. "Thank you all the same, but I literally just finished a cup. Why are you hiding away down here?"

Her tone was light, making sure he could tell she wasn't chastising him. All the same, he apologised before explaining his peculiar mood.

"This is always going to keep on coming back, isn't it?" he said. "There's going to come a point where I can't carry on relying on Harry's protection. The only way I can wrest back control of my own career is by stepping down."

"Resigning from the service?" she replied, quickly. The question was rhetorical. "Lucas, if you were to resign from the service now, you'd be letting William Towers push you out. That's not what I would call taking back control. Actually, for you, that's rather defeatist."

He could feel his heart drop at the intonation of self-indulgence. "I don't mean right now. Maybe once the case is finished and the files closed. Once this is over, I could start again someplace else?"

Somewhere he could start from scratch and prove himself on his own terms. Somewhere where the shade of green on the grass was just that little bit deeper. As soon as he finished the sentence, he realised the folly of his own words.

"I hate to sound harsh, but you can never start from scratch, Lucas. You'll just be in a position where you have to explain all that stuff all over again," she answered, smoothing over the file. "Or, you could leave it out and find yourself living a lie again. In which case, you're just repeating mistakes you've already made. Once is forgiveable, but twice…"

Ruth let the rest of the sentence trail. She must have read the expression on his face, because the look on hers softened at the sight of it.

"Stay with us, Lucas," she said. "You've more than proved yourself and there's nothing you can do about rank opportunists except take pleasure in exposing to the world what they are." Ruth paused, looking down at her exposed forearm and giving it an idle scratch. "The best thing about that is, with MI5, you can expose them from the safety of the shadows."

Lucas smiled. "I sometimes think we underestimate your dark side, Ruth."

"Oh, it gets darker, take a look at this," she replied, opening the file.

She revealed three photographs, all paper clipped in a neat line at the top of an A4 sheet of printed paper. One of them looked familiar to him. The one in the middle, which he indicated with his index finger.

"This one," he said. "He was outside the house in Cumbria."

Ruth's eyes widened, the startling blue of her irises glittering in the overhead strip lights.

"Joseph Weston," she said. "We have photographs of him hanging around Securitech's grounds and meeting with John Carlton. He was also the same man sent to Nathan's hospital room, we think to discreetly flick the switch on his machinery and finish him off. We also have that backed up with the surveillance footage from when he was hanging around your Dad's house. Now, what would Carlton's associates be doing loitering around two people he wanted finished off?"

Again, Lucas knew he wasn't expected to answer that question. He indulged himself with a satisfied, lopsided smirk as his gaze raked over the other two.

"And what about these two clowns? Whose circus have they been trampling over?"

Her eyes glittered anew, like a cat that finally got the cream. "Throughout all of this, because of everything that happened, we as good as forgot about the two suicide bombers. You remember, the ones you were tailing in Iraq? Well, I hacked a website I found on the deep web – one that supposedly belonged to an assassin for hire. Turns out this gentleman here-" she paused to indicate the man on the left –"is him. He was acting as some sort of go between for Carlton, the bombers and Sharaf Suleiman. He was tailing Suleiman on the sly, but of course, we have no proof that he was the one who killed him."

Only Nathan had been there at the time, Suleiman's severed head left on the roof of their agent's car. There were no CCTV cameras in the area and Nathan was currently indisposed. Besides, they already had his word that he saw and heard nothing prior to the murder.

"So, is it as we suspected and this man also acting as the go between when it came to money?" asked Lucas. "Or is that the man on the left?"

"Not quite. The man on the left is a Saudi oil tycoon named Fasil Ahmed. He set up the shell company with John Carlton, who also has shares in Ahmed's oil company by the way, and used it to transfer the money for the bomb that they tried to frame you for."

While she spoke, Lucas was rubbing at his chin with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. A sense of grim satisfaction now swelling in his belly. It was always the paper trail that caught them out in the end. No matter how they buried it; no matter how many shells and facades and laundrettes that money passed through. Removing his hand from his chin, he jabbed an accusatory finger back at Ahmed.

"Ahmed, then, is a Saudi based ISIS sympathiser who donated the money to them to buy the bomb and convinced Carlton to sell it?" he speculated.

Ruth smiled. "Precisely. But, our government is allied to Saudi Arabia, so what will actually happen to him is anyone's guess."

The smile died on Lucas' face. Never mind the public floggings, the beheadings and the utter subjugation of women. Britain needs oil and Saudi can be forgiven for everything. Especially their oily tycoons. Still, at least they had the truth even if no one else ever would.

"It makes me want to vomit whenever I think of us kow-towing to these people," he said, sourly. "The Wahhabi's are funding the very people we're fighting against, but there's nothing anyone can do because we need their resources and we can't have them whispering mean things about us in the ears of the House of Saud."

"I know that," Ruth replied. "But was have Ahmed's associates. We can expose them and bring them to justice."

It never paid to have an all or nothing attitude; not in their line of work. Lucas knew that. But he still loathed the thought of one slipping the net because of diplomatic niceties. Suddenly, however, he felt he understood his boss that little bit better. Harry wouldn't cross the street to spit on them if they were on fire.

Ruth closed the file and answered her mobile phone. While she spoke, Lucas zoned out but couldn't help notice the sudden and sharp lift in her mood. Her smile was almost dazzling.

"Good news," she said, after the call ended. "Nathan's awake and he's going to make a full recovery."

Lucas breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Excellent. Now, I hate to push things, but I really want to see if he recognises Joseph Weston as the man who attacked him. Ros and I will call in on our way home tonight."

"Go easy on him, though," she cautioned, getting to her feet again. "He's still tender and his family are with him."

He reigned in his urge to get the job done accordingly. Abandoning what was left of his tea, he followed Ruth out of the cafeteria and into the main building. Finally, it felt as though they were all getting somewhere conclusive.

Abandoned as the farm house may well have been, Harry could still ill-afford to leave any trace of their time there. Everything they had brought, from sandwich packets to listening devices, was carefully boxed up and loaded into the back of Ruth's car. It would be sorted properly once they reached the house. In the meantime, they all worked methodically to clear out the bunker and the living rooms.

Meanwhile, outside, the afternoon wore on and the daylight faded to an inky dusk. Brisk northerly winds whipped at his coat as he trudged between the farmhouse and the car, passing Tariq and Malcolm intermittently. Inside, Ruth was talking on her mobile and ignoring the boiling kettle on the stove.

"Harry!" she mouthed, flapping a hand at him.

As soon as he came to a halt, she resumed her conversation as though he wasn't there. A habit he found intensely irritating. However, she quickly ended the conversation and approached him with a kiss.

"Ros has recovered CCTV footage from Securitech that shows Weston was there the night Nathan was stabbed," she said. "All we need now is a positive ID from Nathan himself."

"Excellent news," he said, happy again. "Look, shall we bypass the final cup of tea and just get out of here? We're almost done packing and I don't want to hang around."

There were still bits and pieces from the kitchen to dispose of. Half-used cheese and corned beef packets; milk and eggs. Small items, but stuff they didn't want to be leaving behind.

"Sure," she agreed, to his relief. "It won't take a minute."

Meanwhile, Tariq and Malcolm had returned from the car. The pair of them repaired to the lounge, engaging in a lively discussion about technology old and new. Or rather, old versus new. As ever, Malcolm was refreshingly old school about the issue. Harry smiled at the sound of the overheard snippets of conversation. To give them more time, he packed up what was left and carried it to the boot of the car himself before returning, leaving the boot open.

Upon his return, he closed the door behind him and paused to warm up by the radiator. The trip light over the porch shut off, then quickly switched itself back on again as something else triggered the sensor. He froze, trying to screen out the voices in the lounge as he focused on what was happening beyond the closed door. The light from the trip flooded through the porch windows, illuminating the darkened hallway. But the glass was frosted and he could make out nothing through the porch windows.

Glancing down the length of the hallway, he caught Ruth's eye and pressed a finger to his lips. Then, he gestured her over.

"What is it?" she whispered, approaching cautiously.

He raised a hand flatly, gesturing to her to stop. But as soon as he did so, a crash came from outside. One of the boxes being pulled out of the boot of the car. Harry kicked himself for leaving it open. Then the noise brought out Tariq and Malcolm.

"What on earth was that?" the older of the two techies asked, a frown troubling his brow. "Sounds like there's someone out there."

That's because there was, but Harry didn't have the heart to actually say it. "I've been saying this for weeks; there's someone out there. Watching us. Spy's instinct."

Ruth looked pale in the poor light. Tariq was merely curious. He grabbed an umbrella stand as if it were some sort of weapon. Harry had his handgun brought from home, he reached for it now and released the safety catch.

"Wait here-"

"I'm not staying in here alone," Ruth cut in.

She had that look on her face that brooked no arguments. Meanwhile, Malcolm reached past them all and wrenched open the door, letting in a strong gust of freezing cold wind. None of them paid any mind to it as they all eased their way outside.

As he had guessed, one of the boxes had been pulled out of the back of the car and its contents now lay strewn across the beaten earth tracks. Empty food packets were flying off into the night like rustling insects and a newspaper fluttered its pages half-submerged in a puddle. They all drew deep breaths, calming their racing nerves as they took in the scene. There was no one there.

Emboldened, they spread out a little and ventured beyond the reach of the trip light. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ruth rounding a corner slowly. Instinctively, he followed her to protect her from whatever or whoever was out there. But she was ahead of him, rounding the corner and letting out a piercing shriek.

"Ruth!" the men all called in unison.

An inhuman squeal of panic followed as Ruth bolted back towards them, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with terror. Relieved that she was otherwise okay, Harry's temper snapped and he rounded the corner ready to take on whoever was there. But he tripped and fell over something large and moving, eliciting another inhuman squeal of fear. Followed by an incessant grunting as more of the same herded around him.

"Connie's fucking pigs!" he bellowed, fighting to get back up again.

One of them had a tablecloth in its mouth and another was nosing at an empty sandwich packet. There were scores of the bastards surrounding their car in search of food. All the while, Ruth, Tariq and Malcolm were flapping their arms madly, trying to shoo them away.

"Harry! It's got my dress!" Ruth was pointing towards a herd of four of them.

He loaded a bullet in the chamber and fired into the darkening skies. The shot echoed over and over, fading over the Surrey countryside and sending every last pig running for cover. Their new porcine friends melted into the night like old pros. Only Connie could have her own savage pig army, he thought wryly to himself.

Thank you again for reading; reviews would be very welcome if you have a minute.