Many thanks to all who read and even more to those who reviewed. Into Day 3 we go

The Grid. 6.30am approx

From the energy Harry expended in his brisk march from the pods barking, "Malcolm, my office in five minutes", no one would have suspected that he was functioning on a maximum of three hours sleep. Nor could anyone have discerned the internal disquiet he was suffering as a consequence of Jane's unexpected presence in his bedroom. The instant she'd exited to throw on some day wear, while inwardly berating himself for leaving on open display his sole private indulgence of mourning, he'd hurriedly checked the book case, its contents representing a compromise of remembrance. Photographs hurt too much, the sight of them trapping him in an impotent circle of paralysing grief. Just as he'd shied away from verbalising his feelings and desires while Ruth lived, so now he retreated from gazing at her paper image. Snaps depicting her in solemn or pensive mood tormented him with reminders of the damage that Section D - of which he was the personification - had wrought upon the enthusiastic, naive young woman who'd stumbled through the Briefing Room door dropping files, while those that had caught her smiling enshrined in clarified, miniscule detail an expression so closely resembling the happy face she shown when asking him to leave the service with her he couldn't bear to look. Not when five minutes later she was dead. Nor could any photograph ever displace that final sight of her alive. That last hopeless resigned struggle to draw her final breath was inescapably burnt into his brain.

Mercifully the books were all in place, so in theory he could relax into what passed, for him, as peace of mind. Despite this the persistent thought lingered that Jane's proffered reason for being in his bedroom was just a little too pat, had been volunteered just a little too hastily. Her silence, as the car swished them through the gray rain washed London streets, just a little too oppressive. Or had he been in his game just a little too long, had he finally become contaminated with the spy's curse of believing that everyone lied. A blight second only to the worst disease of all; that of becoming entirely numb to all emotional pain. Should he be grateful that the events of recent months had proved beyond all reasonable doubt that curse number two had failed to pollute his psyche? Lucky old him. That Jane had made absolutely no attempt at conversation was also in itself suspicious. Dialogue between them had remained void, until he initiated it himself on the subject of another lady, one who was definitely not close to his heart, and unlike the woman he addressed, never had been.

"Jane I forgot to ask if you'd contacted Rebecca."

The response had been terse, "I'll text." At the quirk of his eyebrows she'd finished, "With the stress you're under, the decisions you have to make and the care you've taken to keep me safe and comfortable, I don't think I can take an endless earbashing that concentrates solely on your less delightful qualities."

The sheer thrill he experienced at the news that Jane was forswearing an opportunity to verbally dissect him said much about the grim vista of gloom that surrounded him, a miasma of depression that shrouded his every move. Not wanting to discuss Rebecca, nowhere near as dangerous as your average terrorist but every bit as blood curdling, he'd switched the topic to something more immediate.

"How are you planning to keep yourself amused for the next few hours, I know you don't take well to boredom."

"About as well as you do, which is to say I don't. I've still got to produce a detailed list of anodyne scenes for the Reception, followed by researching suitable schools for Rosie, the sooner the better for both."

"Let me know about the latter. Good schools in London have long waiting lists so I'm assuming I'll have to call in a couple of favours."

"I've a few contacts myself so you can sit in reserve as the big gun."

With that astoundingly cryptic remark conversation had concluded. All of which explained why, when they were finally disgorged onto the Grid, Harry having issued his order to Malcolm, had hurried wordlessly into his red lined goldfish bowl while Jane, equally silent, headed towards the desk that seemed to have become hers by default.

Malcolm materialised in rather less than the five minutes Harry had allowed, the usual bundle of papers in his hand. This was, Harry reflected, a trait he'd shared with Ruth, a mutual desire to lock down exactly upon every minor detail. Malcolm the painstaking and calm waited patiently while Harry, the irascible and choleric, settled himself at his desk before demanding, "Well Malcolm, what have you got for us?"

Anyone unused to Harry would have taken exception to the exacting tone. Malcolm, as a colleague of long standing, recognised it for what it actually was; a desire to be ahead of the game,allied with a determination win against all comers. Clearing his throat Malcolm began his briefing, wondering how long it would be before Harry interjected.

"Firstly I've called Dimitri out to supervise the collection of our friend the soldier, who goes by the name of Franklin Tyler. The credit for tracing him belongs to Calum. He checked the CCTV around Catherine's flat since the bomb. For some reason Tyler had gone to view, just a walk past, but it was enough for Calum to track and trawl endless CCTV footage. Finally Tyler headed for an area popular with rough sleepers. Confirmed eyeball from an undercover officer who was in the vicinity working on a drugs case. It's something of a no-go area for the police so..."

"Hence Dimitri and the heavy mob. What do we know about Tyler?"

"Calum pulled the name from some chatter plus my CIA back door hack. An exemplary record. Six months ago he was posted to something described as Special Operations. He's been AWOL for the past three weeks, possibly a little longer."

Harry considered for a moment. The information unearthed by Malcolm showed signs of dovetailing with their earlier theories, "Very well. We'll await Dimitri's return with GI Joe in tow. What was the other piece of news?"

Malcolm pushed a printout across Harry's desk. "This is a blow up from a group photograph. The same man appears in a few other frames, including torture snapshots. As he's obviously not Asian or African I ran a few checks."

Harry, while not interrupting, translated this statement to mean that Malcolm had delved into every database he could access; ie each and every one known to man. "Finally I made a positive identification. Marcus Treloar. He went missing from Six several months ago."

Harry recognised the name instantly, "One of the best Six had. He was sent to babysit Charles Heymark, the MP who was caught out taking backhanders to turn a blind eye to certain arms deals. The rumour was that he and Marcus were in league and when Marcus realised the game was up he ran. My opposite number at Six was adamant that Marcus was being traduced but with his disappearance couldn't prove it. So he was being illegally held by the Cousins all this time?"

"Probably. It is possible that he's not innocent."

Harry brushed this caveat aside, fury consuming him at the knowledge that a representative of their sister service had been subjected to such callous treatment at the behest of a so called ally. An anger sharpened by personal consideration as to the fate that would have awaited him had his extradition not been cancelled. Towers' promise that the British Government would monitor his care had been sincerely meant, of that Harry was certain. Despite that assurance Harry had had his apprehensions as to the practicalities of the proposition. The beating up in the Embassy, accompanied by deliberate dehydration and permanent application of handcuffs before he had even been removed from London had confirmed his doubts. When springing Harry from CIA custody Dimitri had had a close escape; that being the only occasion in Harry's heavily heterosexual life when he'd been tempted to kiss another man. Once restablished on the Grid Harry had ensured that his instant promise concerning Dimitri's pay review had achieved fulfilment. These were all reflections that pushed Harry's disgust with the mechanics of the alleged special relationship to whatever lay above the upper apex of his private Richter scale.

"Then they should have handed him over. This, when known, should fatally undermine the argument for that treaty. Small wonder the CIA are leaving no stone unturned to destroy the evidence. Anything further Malcolm?"

Malcolm threw a quick glance across the Grid towards the sight of Jane muttering under her breath as she beavered away before replying, "About this no, but I did a little digging around Robin Tindall. Did I understand that he's planning to blackmail Jane with a threat about her hitherto undisclosed assault on a violent pupil?"

"Yes, but Jane says he's bluffing."

"She may be wrong. Jane is gradually becoming quite high profile and could be underestimating her importance as an asset to Robin.

For someone who was usually lightening quick Harry was slow to grasp the implication of Malcolm's surprising words. He doubted that Jane had deliberately concealed facts. She'd always been quite modest about her career achievements, regarding success as a by product of doing her job. If Malcolm was correct, and he would be, then it would be typical of Robin to milk Jane's contacts as ruthlessly as any officer in Section D milked their unfortunate assets. As Harry processed the concept, ramifications of, he appreciated what Malcolm was trying to tactfully imply.

"Meaning that she's a very useful contact for Robin. If she dumps him he loses prestige and may well try to destroy her by way of revenge!"

Malcolm held his silence. Harry knew the personalities, he didn't. Having voiced this all too credible scenario this Harry rubbed his face with his hands. When had anything in his existence ever been straightforward? Perhaps a lifetime ago before his mother died, but since then, in personal terms, he'd become an evolving disaster area.

Divining Harry's thoughts in part Malcolm proceeded to offer a chink of light, this time based on positive Intel . "Further to that threat I ran a check on Jane's ex headmaster, name of Randolph Rogerson. Known to his friends as Randy."

Harry nearly spluttered at the alliterative pairing, 'Randy and Robin, more like Pinky and bloody Perky, both of them pure ham, fit only for the purposes of a bacon slicer.' Malcolm unaware of Harry's struggle to keep a straight face continued to outline his more sober discoveries, "While checking the files on the claimed assault I found some interesting references relating to the school finances."

If Harry had been a hunting dog his ears would have been pointing heavenwards in a straight vertical line as he eagerly invited, "Go on."

"The Head oversees a special fund to which he seems to have the sole right of disbursement. He and two governors are signatories. One of those governors is..."

Light began to filter through, promising to convert Harry's all pervading gloom into a glorious dawn.

"Let me guess, Robin Tindall."

Harry's instant and understandable assumption was dashed as Malcolm hurriedly warned," I've seen no suggestion that Robin is financially corrupt. What he's signing for is legitimate in itself. However the companies benefitting all have well buried family connections to Rogerson. Quite possibly Robin is being exploited."

Blast. Harry's hopes of Robin being caught in a flytrap of his chum Randy's making were dashed. After a second's consideration his disappointment was tempered by a joyous thought. While it would always be mission impossible to dent Robin's self image as an all wise and all seeing guru, his gullibility, when revealed, would severely damage his professional credibility. Not as completely as Harry would have wished, but then Harry would only be fully satisfied when Robin presented as a role model for the ideal Christmas turkey, plucked, stuffed, trussed and ready for roasting in the flames of Harry Pearce's long suppressed thirst for revenge. Further logical pursuit along the highways of planned retribution made Harry recognise that even if Robin was dipping his fingers in the till, he, Harry, wouldn't be able to use it publicly. Even the vaguest of hints that Robin's lifestyle was based on financial malpractice would inevitably lead to some highly glutinous mud adhering to his estranged spouse. On the other hand...

"We can still use this Malcolm. See what you can dig up on the finances. If the Rogerson is discredited then anything claimed about Jane won't carry much credence." Harry frowned as he thought through the implications, "The assault details though still remain on file. Any investigation might conclude that Jane wasn't proceeded against as part of an old pals act. What are you ..."

This last was owing to the ghost of a pitying smile playing across Malcolm's face, swiftly replaced by a deadpan expression with matching voice. "The computer records of that event have vanished. A small localised malfunction. Sadly the hard copy of the allegations will still be extant."

That issue didn't troubled Harry in the slightest. "They can be taken care of. Thanks Malcolm."

Accepting that as a dismissal Malcolm headed back to the relaxing ambience of his workstation and modern technology. He was just settling himself into further forensic trawling when Dimitri whooshed through the pods, his grubby face and black clothing proclaiming that he'd just returned from his semi covert operation in the habitat of the homeless. His progress towards Malcolm's desk halted when he saw Harry beckoning him into his office. Assuming that Harry hadn't summoned him with the intention of discussing the weather –dank and drizzly if he asked - Dimitri opted for conciseness the instant he walked into Harry's eye line.

"No problems Harry. Actually once he realised were Brits he came along quite happily." Seeing Harry's sceptical face he amended that conscientiously to, 'Well he didn't struggle much."

Reacting to the news that a direct source of human Intel was in the building Harry immediately began to rise from his chair until Dimitri halted him with, "Can you leave it for a few minutes Harry. I ordered a meal for him, some clothes and a shower."

"Plus aromatherapy and a nice relaxing massage."

The sarcasm failed to hit the spot, "No Harry, I thought that would be a little over the top."

Knowing that Dimitri wouldn't have authorised a prisoner pampering session without good reason Harry let the retort pass. "Ten minutes then. Get yourself cleaned up and met me in the interview room."

With the forcible deferring of what Harry desperately hoped would be an enlightening interrogation his eyes strayed across the Grid to Jane, bent over her borrowed desk and scribbling furiously. Malcolm's outline of her recent career profile had only made Harry the more determined to rescue her from her current marriage. Recollections of their own divorce had inevitably made him wonder about Jane's personal financial position, he'd shelved that as an enquiry for a later date, but it now it would appear that once unshackled from the obnoxious Robin she'd be able to fly free. As if on cue Jane lifted her head up from whatever she was perusing and looked across towards the office. Meeting his eyes she graced him with a warm smile before returning to her task. Malcolm, who'd caught the optical crossfire was experiencing a certain deja vu, the whole incident reminding him forcibly of the stolen glances Harry and Ruth had shared. Had Harry noted the resemblance of circumstance? From his usual inscrutable expression Malcolm thought not.

Malcolm was partly correct, Jane's smile had jolted Harry, not into drawing parallels with his recent past, but into the consideration that if he wanted to construct any future in which he and Jane remained on good terms he had to sort out her present. Ferreting in his jacket pocket he located his mobile. It was still way too early to ring anyone but a voicemail message would wend its eventual way to the recipient.

"Good morning Tom. Giles Farmer here. Please contact me. I've a small private job I'd like you to undertake. At your usual rates."

Putting down the phone Harry felt a pang of envy. Tom Quinn's decommissioning might have been traumatic for all concerned but at least he'd escaped into as ordinary a life as an ex spy could reasonably expect. Despite Harry's forthright condemnation of their relationship Christine Dale, the ex CIA operative, had proved to be a stabilising force. Tom had emerged from his near breakdown with a good pension, a happy marriage and a future that was not peopled by regrets. The closest Harry had come to normal was when he'd married Jane and fathered their children, and just look how that had turned out. Glancing at his watch Harry realised that if he was to do his best to preserve what little remained from his pathetic stab at family life he'd better make his way down to the meeting rooms sharpish.

The prisoner was instantly recognisable as the man seen arguing with Catherine in the cafe. That was a plus; the minus was that if Franklin Tyler was his real name then he could not be the peskily named Gene Seth Jardvec. The individual seated on the other side of the table sporting a tan and toothpaste smile looked like an advertisement for the archetypal 'All American Boy', in itself enough to turn Harry's stomach. Surveying the muscles and the physical bulk that not even a mid blue boiler suit could disguise, Harry mentally applauded Malcolm's wisdom in sending out a large armed team to apprehend Franklin. Had he not come quietly the results could have been quite well – bloody. Harry took his seat in silence while Dimitri remained mute; this was Harry's party. As a result the stranger could have been forgiven for thinking that he'd wandered a surreal Trappist monastery, one that bizarrely sported fastened down furniture and very unpacifist armed guards prepared to shoot transgressors on sight. Given that fact, combined with the strangeness of the surroundings, Dimitri could only marvel at the confidence Franklin exuded, particularly since in the absence of any conversation he was being subjected to the full force of the Harry Pearce stare, an expression that had been known to reduce bombastic politicians to neutered wrecks. In the quietness Dimitri's wandering mind began to speculate on what life must have been like chez Pearce three decades ago. A household that self evidently had featured two adults both of whom gloried in the possession of a whiplash tongue, while Jane, probably courtesy of her own profession, could nearly match Harry in the art of withering offenders with a glance. He was abruptly returned to the current scene when the unabashed recipient of the stare opened the conversation with a chummy,

"Hi Buddy. Franklin Tyler at your service. My friends call me Frank."

How Harry was going to respond to this casual greeting? The anticipated explosion failed to arrive as Harry, with the thinnest possible veneer of civility, responded to this relaxed salutation with a blunt request.

"Good morning Franklin. Start by telling me what possessed you to hand a memory stick containing such toxic data to a civilian."

The force of his words made the American cringe for a microsecond before he recovered to say, "Okay, not my best move but it seemed the only option at the time. I tried to get it back when I realised the lady in question was in danger but she wasn't having any. Is she okay? I was sure worried when I saw what that bomb had done and heard one of the guys on guard saying there'd been a casualty."

With what Dimitri considered to be admirable self control Harry's prompt reply sounded matter of fact, concealing all reference to the private worry he must be experiencing.

"We don't know, she's missing. What we do know is that the CIA is involved. We assume they were trying to retrieve your memory stick."

No one could mistake the sincerity of the reply, "Gee that's bad. But if she's missing and you have the stick..." encouraged by the briefest of affirmative nods from Harry he added, "If the CIA had her I think you'd have known by now."

Since the commentary from Franklin to date could best be summed up as 'so far so obvious' it didn't amaze Dimitri that Harry was beginning to flush with banked fury. "So we'd gathered. Now would you please tell us what you do know?"

Despite the automatic inclusion of please in the request Franklin had plainly picked up the threatening undertow to Harry's words.

"Sure Bud, I guess I've no choice but to trust you. I can see you're ex army, both of you, so I think you might just understand, but no interruptions okay."

"Okay Buddy." Listening to Harry sarcastically merge into American argot was something Dimitri had never expected to hear. It would make a good story to recount later to Erin and Calum, not Malcolm though, Dimitri hadn't yet worked out whether Malcolm lacked a sense of humour or had just encrypted it.

"Okay it all started about six months ago. I've been a GI for ten years, made it to Sergeant and I've served off and on in several Middle East hellholes. I've seen my friends killed but told myself that it was all for the good, justice, democracy." Sensing a growing impatience in Harry he summed up, "Well you've heard the spiel from our Presidents. Anyway I was sent out on a hush hush task described as 'Special Ops' which seemed to be guarding a 'Special Facility" at Ain Aouda in Morocco.

Harry was frowning, "I was under the impression that that camp had been closed down."

"Yeah, and then reopened with some civilian activity as a front. We came and went in civvies, not uniform and were transported anonymous trucks. Supplies were concealed as non military with blind eyes turned. If you've seen the stick contents you know what's going on there. Torture of one or two people to obtain vital information I might just have been able to square it with myself, but this, power play and not being bothered about the guilt of the men in the prison. I tried protesting but my superiors implied that if I didn't go along with it I might end up in somewhere similar myself accused of unamerican activities."

At this point he paused for breath, little knowing that he'd virtually echoed the statement Calum Reed had made the previous day. Despite his fury at Franklin's involvement of Catherine in his disaffected swipe at his superiors Harry, having had dealings with the McCarthy mindset throughout his career, empathised with the dilemma the man had found himself in. It wasn't so dissimilar to the orders he'd had to obey reluctantly over the years, stamping down on similar qualms, the partnership with the Russians inevitably springing to mind. Before he could prompt the speaker Franklin, having recovered himself, continued,

"I tried to tell myself that it was necessary and that the men were probably guilty and had done even worse to others. Most of them were Asian or African, I'm not making excuses but when someone doesn't share your ethnicity it is easier to see them as other or lesser."

Harry was deeply thankful that the women in his life, alive or dead, were not present to hear this statement of excuse. Ruth, who against all the odds, had managed to preserve a compass of humanity would have been horrified, as would Erin. Jane dealt all children even handedly, regardless of their creed and colour. As for Catherine, she approached rabid on the subject of human rights; which was of course why they were now sitting in the depths of Thames House listening to this muscle bound American wittering on about his fit of conscience. For himself Harry did understand the reasoning, it was a by product of a vital conditioning The army trained you to kill; you could only do that efficiently by regarding your enemy as an object to be destroyed. You were forced to see them as a target, begin to consider them as human while sighting your weaponry and you were lost, and dead. Afterwards was different, it was then you felt sick, got drunk, tried to blot out memories. The successful soldiers processed the concept that killing was just one aspect of the job, a regretful necessity that they could cope with, the imaginative ones not infrequently suffered from post traumatic stress, the really brutalised became violent and uncaring, the ideal candidates for 'Special Operations' guarding a 'Special Facility'.

Harry was so engrossed in these thoughts that he nearly missed the ongoing narrative of how the dodgy memory stick was brought from Rabat to London. Frank's preferred personal nomenclature mirroring the essential starkness of his tale.

"But then one day a European was brought in. He'd been badly beaten up. I managed a few minutes to patch him up a little and although we were under strict orders not to talk to the prisoners beyond basic commands, - fear that we might start believing them I suppose - I took a chance and spoke to him whenever I could do so unseen." After another pause he said, "To cut it short I believed he was innocent and between his story and those he'd gleaned from others and then passed on to me I decided I had to do something so I..."

Harry intervened, "So you grabbed odd photos, occasional videos, sneaked them onto a memory stick as evidence." Having obtained some small idea of the circumstances he felt obliged to add, "I'm amazed you got away with it."

Franklin's expression became grim, "I wasn't the only one who was uncomfortable with this. Some of the material was taken by a couple of others. You know the system, fight your enemy but respect him when beaten. That's how it is for regulars, but there were only a handful of us, most of the guards were mercenaries."

Harry had half expected that last. Had the camp been rumbled he'd have been ready to take a bet on a sudden overnight evacuation of the official troops, cowed into silence by the threat of imprisonment with the paid thugs left behind to be caught and charged. Total deniability would have been the name of the game. A neat little ploy now spiked by Franklin and friends.

"I was the first to go on leave so I smuggled out the stick which we'd encrypted for security."

It made sense but Harry, while deliberately not exposing his personal interest, had one overriding question. "So why Miss Townsend?"

Franklin may have picked up on the underlying hint of anxiety, either that or he was feeling ashamed. For the first time his narrative faltered. "Marcus wasn't sure if he'd been sold down the river by his colleagues. We didn't know who to trust in the British security services and I couldn't approach the CIA. Marcus mentioned that Miss Townsend had developed quite a reputation for truthful, controversial documentaries."

Harry's limited sympathy dissipated in an instant, he was furious. This man had had the gall to involve Catherine as a tool in exposing a coverup he didn't have the nerve to reveal himself. In full roar he addressed Franklin, "And it didn't once occur to you that you were putting her into danger."

The reply combined the defensive with the shamefaced. "Not at first but I'd overstayed my leave by tracking her down. A mate texted me to say I was being hunted, a few days after that I got another text saying that one of the prisoners had let it out that I'd been taking photos so I thought it best to vanish. I wasn't sure if they'd got Miss Townsend's name as my possible contact so I started watching her from afar. I stole phones on three occasions and arranged to meet up with her for coffee. I asked for the stick back. Given the danger I thought I'd take a chance on you guys with it."

"That's good of you." The snort did not imply that Harry was placated.

Franklin, keen to complete, continued, "I got even more worried when I thought someone else was watching her. Various men aimlessly wandering up and down the road. One or two were American; you can tell by the dress and walk. Then I saw her with this other guy. At our last meeting she'd said she had a contact. Someone else who could put her in touch with another witness from a similar camp. Knowing how secure these units are I told her that was probably a fabrication but she wouldn't listen."

As he asked his next question Harry was forced into the private admission that listening was not his daughter's greatest skill. "When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"In the cafe, I can't remember the exact day. Then two days ago when I went to check her flat was okay I saw ...well you know what I saw. I didn't think the neighbourhood was healthy for me so I butted out."

Dimitri, in the hope of diverting a dangerously simmering Harry, swiftly shoved a picture of the man Graham had described under Franklin's nose. "Miss Townsend was last seen getting into this man's car. Can you identify him?"

"Yes and no." Encountering a gamma glare from Harry he hastened to explain. "He's the man I saw her walking with. I don't know his name but I'd guess he's bad news."

Noticing that Harry was furrowed with worry Dimitri asked on his behalf "Why?"

"Remember what I said about her being watched." Both his listeners gave a reluctant nod, "I shadowed one of the American dudes who'd been checking out her flat back to the embassy. The guy stopped and sat on one of the benches in Grosvenor Square."

Harry was nearly at the end of his tether as he snapped, "So he wanted a rest, what of it."

"He was joined by this man. They chatted and joked together for about ten minutes. I think it was an arranged meet. I don't know if chummy is formal CIA but he certainly has contact with them."

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