"A Voice in the Dark" (Lucas/OC; Thriller/Romance- PG13/R) Chapter II
TITLE: A Voice in the Dark
AUTHOR: Lexie aka lillianschild
FANDOM: Spooks/MI5
RATING: PG13/R (probably in later chapters)
PAIRING: Lucas/OC
SUMMARY: Section D has a traitor in its midst and a mysterious man arrives with what appears to be the key to rid MI5 of the mole.
A/N: this fic is my own version of Series 7. I know I said I'd probably update this once a month, but I'm already working on a new instalment of my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series- and this was ready so I decided to post it now.
By the way, as I told a couple of readers, this is a LUCAS fic; meaning he's NOT a footnote. In short, not everything is what it seems. Enough said. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: all recognisable characters belong to BBC and Kudos Productions; I'm just playing with them for a little while without making a profit. No infringement's intended.
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
CHAPTER II
Two days after the debriefing, Annabelle was back on The Grid taking part in a meeting convened by the Head of Section D; only a small group was present, those she assumed were amongst Harry's most trusted.
“How and where exactly did this asset get the intel?” asked Edwards, the oldest senior officer in the room. “This kind of information couldn't have been stored just in one location.”
“Maybe he got it from different sources and then mentally assembled it,” Annabelle suggested. She was the only person in the room who was aware of the asset's prodigious mind at work, but nobody except Harry and Adam knew of her role in the exchange of information. Pearce had asked both officers to keep things under wraps, and she'd follow his order to the letter.
The meeting broke up half an hour later and she stayed behind, waiting patiently for the rest of the group to leave so that she could have a word with Harry in private.
“I've told you everything I know, Annabelle.”
“I'm not asking you to tell me who he was. I just want to know if... He was kind to me,” she swallowed the lump which was lodged in her throat. “That night... did he...?”
“Shortly after you left. The end wasn't painful; that much I can promise you. The doctor made sure he got enough morphine to numb the pain. There wasn't much else he could do... the damage was too great. I'm aware this might sound callous, Annabelle, but it was for the best. I would have welcomed my deliverance had I been in his shoes,” he replied after a brief pause.
Wasn't that what she'd actually prayed for on leaving his bedroom- that he could be delivered of his agony and find rest at last? It was the most humane thing to wish for a man who was suffering the way he had.
Still, there was something about the way Sir Harry had recited the events which didn't ring true. She couldn't put her finger on it, but a feeling in her gut told her that not everything her superior and mentor had shared was the truth. Could it be he'd encouraged the doctor to speed up the patient´s deliverance? And if that were the case, would she blame him?
“Thanks for answering my question,” she said quietly, getting up and grabbing her notes to return to her station.
He was dead and life went on. New threats put the nation on the rack every day and it was up to them to ensure the world was a safer place. New names were added to the Memorial Wall at Thames House on a regular basis, unknown to the world, anonymous like the voice in the dark which still rang in her ears.
Although she doubted she'd ever forget, there was a lot going on and she needed to keep focused; too much depended on it.
MAY 2009
“Adam Carter's disappeared,” Edwards informed her one morning when she was pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee.
“What?” she exclaimed, spilling part of the hot beverage and burning her hand in the process.
“Careful,” he said with a frown, grabbing the mug for her to wipe her desk with some tissues. “You should put some butter on that.”
“I'll survive. What's that about Adam disappearing? I thought he was on leave to spend some time with Wes and his in-laws.”
“Apparently he never made it. His father-in-law got in touch with Harry and the Boss sent Jo and Ben to his flat. It appears the entry had been forced. Adam wasn't there but... they found his blood on the scene.”
“My God,” she gasped, plopping down in her swivel chair.
She sat stunned for a few moments trying to get her bearings again and then knocked at Harry's door before entering his office.
“You've heard?” he asked on seeing her blanched face.
“Is it true? Is he dead?”
“We don't know yet. At first glance everything looked fine when Jo and Ben searched the flat. That is until they noticed some blood spots on the kitchen floor, a few cabinet doors open and a missing carving knife. According to our forensic team, there were definite signs of struggle and the blood found matches Adam's record.”
“What about his car? He was supposed to pick Wes up and drive to Surrey to spend the weekend with his parents-in-law.”
“Still in the garage.”
“Was he working on something new?”
“No, nothing you don't know of.”
“Then... do you think... I know it might sound crazy... Do you think it could be connected with what happened that night?”
“We caught the FSB sleeper six months ago, Annabelle. “
“And what if Connie and the spy you caught almost eight years ago weren't the only members of Tiresias in our midst? What if he or she is still working from within and trying to find out how much we know?”
“Let's not jump to conclusions. Paranoia can be a double-edged weapon.”
Adam's beheaded corpse was found by some poachers a week later and it wouldn't be the last. A fortnight later Dr Delaney turned up strangled to death in his own garage.
Annabelle didn't believe in coincidences. Even though the rest of Section D would never see the connection between both murders, she had no doubt Sir Harry would. Someone was hunting down whoever had been in touch with the man that had provided them with a well of information.
“I'll buy you a drink,” offered Edwards, the newly-assigned Chief of Section D.
“Thank you but this report should be on Harry's desk first thing in the morning.”
“Rain check?”
“Sure,” she smiled, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee.
“Goodnight then”
“Night,” she mumbled, focusing on her monitor once again.
Thames House was virtually deserted by the time she finished typing the report and putting together the dossier her boss had requested. However, there was another person who had decided to burn out the candle at both ends just like her, Sir Harry Pearce himself.
Annabelle shut down the computer and, tidying up her station, knocked softly at his door.
“Come in, “ he said after a brief hesitation. “I didn't expect you to be still here.”
“I just wanted to finish this before tomorrow,” she replied, leaving the blue dossier on his desk. “I've gathered all the information you requested.”
“Thanks. I'll have a look at it straight away.”
“It isn't anything that can't wait until tomorrow, is it? You look drained, Harry. It's been a trying week. You should listen to your own advice sometimes.”
“Duly noted, Miss Reed,” he smiled, taking a sip of his Scotch and opening the dossier in front of him.
“See you in the morning, Harry.”
“Annabelle,” he said softly and she turned around at the door. “Take care. We still might not know what's going on, but I don't want to lose another officer. Be extra careful.”
She nodded and let herself out, leaving Harry with his tumbler and his favourite opera sounding in the background.
Unbeknownst to Harry and the rest of the team, she'd moved out of her flat following Dr Delaney's death and checked in at a bed & breakfast in the suburbs. In addition, she now took extra precautions such as taking a different route or a shortcut through a crowded shop every morning, changing taxis several times, covering her mahogany brown hair with a kerchief or a hat and leaving The Grid on time so as to blend with the rest of the employees- a rule she'd broken only tonight.
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened over the last two weeks and all the cloak-and-dagger routine was wearing her patience thin. She missed her flat, her books and her plants- she'd only taken her favourite fern with her afraid it wouldn't survive her desertion. And she was also getting tired of rotating the same wardrobe; she wasn't a fashion addict, but it wouldn't take long for her observant colleagues and boss to notice something was amiss.
One evening, after a quiet dinner in a cosy family restaurant just around the corner of her temporary lodgings, she returned to her flat, sticking to her spy routine to make sure she wasn't being followed.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
The mobile phone vibrated on the coffee-table, stirring awake the lonely occupant of the dimly-lit living-room as he lay outstretched on the comfortable sofa. The elegant, long-fingered hand reached for the phone and picked up the call.
“The pigeon's just landed,” said Tom's voice, breaking the silence. “Shall I follow through with the original plan or have you changed your mind?”
“No, do it,” he replied calmly, disconnecting the phone and massaging his neck in an attempt to ease the knotted muscles.
A sudden feeling of anticipation seized him, and he had to remind himself that, despite the confusing emotions the call had stirred, this was nothing but business.
Taking a deep breath to calm his erratic heartbeat, he walked into the kitchen, plugged in the coffeemaker and resigned himself to wait.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
The plants she'd set in the kitchen sink were withered but still alive, so she plucked a few yellowish leaves, fixed the compost and talked to them for a little while.
Nothing seemed to have been disturbed during her absence; the usual spy tricks to make sure nobody had tampered with her drawers, cupboards and desk remained in place.
She'd wait until the month was over and, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, move back in. It'd be foolish to deplete her savings and live on a shoestring in order to afford a room in a bed & and breakfast, meals in a restaurant every other day and transport fares to get to work six days a week.
Unzipping the bag she'd left on her bed, she packed up lingerie, a few trouser suits and even some leisure clothes just in case. Then she added some toiletries and make-up and did it up.
A quarter of an hour later, having ascertained through the peephole nobody was lurking outside, she turned off the lights and stepped out into the corridor carrying her bag in one hand. Looking up and down, she closed the door and- fumbling with her keys- proceeded to lock it. It was at that moment she felt a hand grab her elbow and a wave of panic overcame her, making her delayed reaction useless, for no sooner had she pulled out her gun and started to turn around than a fist connected with her chin and knocked her unconscious.
GO TO CHAPTER III