"A Voice in the Dark" (Lucas/OC; Thriller/Romance- PG13/R) Chapter IV
TITLE: A Voice in the Dark
AUTHOR: Lexie aka lillianschild
FANDOM: Spooks/MI5
RATING: PG13
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 will probably update it once a month, considering my busy work schedule, and try to pen a one-shot in between to continue my Guy & Marian Acrostic Series.
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.
READ THE BEGINNING HERE
READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER HERE
CHAPTER FOUR
Annabelle woke up with a dull headache, no doubt the result of her hitting her head when she'd fainted the previous night.
As soon as the room stopped spinning she made her way to the bathroom to attend to the urgent needs of nature. Then she struggled to strip down in order to have a shower in the semi-darkness; although there was a lamp on the bedside table, there was no switch in the room and it was up to the people who held her hostage to leave the lights on or off.
She found the quick shower invigorating; she would have killed for an immersion bath with her favourite salts and scented candles, but beggars aren't choosers and she couldn't risk having her captors walk on her naked.
Despite their overall civilised treatment of her, she hadn't expected to find her suitcase when she returned to her room nor did she believe she would be afforded the luxury of spending a few hours sans blindfold and of having even hot running water and perfumed soap to freshen up. Drying herself up quickly she donned a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt, a red cardigan and sandals.
Rummaging through her suitcase to choose a clean change of clothes had been a strangely disturbing experience. There was no doubt in her mind they had searched through her things and yet it wasn't the idea of their handling her intimate apparel that unsettled her but, rather, the thought of the man with the chocolatey voice and the subtle aftershave going through her belongings... touching her lingerie. God, what was wrong with her?! She should be sickened not blushing furiously at the images her mind seemed to be determined to conjure up.
Stockholm Syndrome, yes, that's what it was. She would have had the same reaction no matter what her captor had sounded like.
She didn't have to wait long for the lights to go off again and the key to turn in the lock. The room was cast into darkness and yet she recognised the spicy cologne as that of the man who'd seized her outside her flat. Tom. That was his name or, at least, that was what she'd heard the other one call him before she passed out in his arms the night before.
“Is this really necessary?” she asked her kidnapper when he approached her with the blindfold ready in his hand.
Ros would have in all certainty made an attempt to neutralise him and run for her life if she'd been in Annabelle's place- after all, the young woman's hands had been untied when he entered the room. Maybe she was a coward, but she found comfort in the thought that her decision had been a sensible one; she didn't know how many there were and, considering the man's height and build, she was clearly at a disadvantage. No, she'd much rather survive the ordeal than leave the place in a bag.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
Annabelle hadn't turned up to work in the last three days and everyone on The Grid was growing restless. Ben and Jo's visit to her flat had yielded no positive results and the bed & breakfast they discovered she'd recently moved into was a dead end. Nobody said it in so many words, but the fear another officer would turn up dead at their doorstep was hanging on their heads like the sword of Damocles.
With Annabelle missing in action, the section was short of a very skilful linguist, and the urgent need for a replacement- hopefully a temporary one- couldn't be ignored. Bringing new people in was a particularly delicate matter when the allegiances within were being questioned; Annabelle's disappearance left no doubt there was someone in their midst who knew Tiresias was under threat, and that someone was beheading the pawns on the board to get to the major prize.
Sir Harry needed someone he could trust implicitly and that someone had unexpectedly resurfaced after an absence of two years. Ruth Evershed, now a widow, was back on British soil and some of the old ghosts he hadn't been able to put to rest started visiting the head of Section D.
“Harry, about Annabelle's replacement...” said his new chief of section on seeing him emerge from his private office.
“I'm going to see to it today. Any news?”
“We've kept trying her mobile with no luck. The battery must have been removed. We can't use the GPS signal.”
“OK. Keep me posted. You can reach me on my mobile. Now, I'm off. I have an appointment with my barber before meeting the Home Secretary,” Harry smiled wryly, walking towards the pods.
Although the barber and the Rt Hon Nicholas Blake were part of the head of section's agenda for the day, there was an off-the-record visit he'd meant to make on his way back from Ruth's. It was high time he faced two of his most personal failures face-on.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
She'd been led into the room blindfolded, trying to follow Tom's guidance without stumbling over a carpet or bumping into the furniture, hating the sense of helplessness of the whole situation.
Sitting in a comfortable upholstered armchair she heard voices whispering across the room, too low for her to be able to make out what they were saying but fast-paced enough to surmise something had happened, something which had shaken the unflappable man of the chocolatey voice, judging by the anger in his tone and his reverting to Russian. No, she couldn't understand what they were discussing but the Slavic expletives she overheard were unmistakable.
No sooner had the voices stopped than she felt knuckles softly graze her cheek. Goose pimples covered her skin and, for the first time since she entered the warm room, she appreciated wearing the cardigan to conceal her betraying body.
“Don't,” she said aloud, flinching away when the long-fingered hand she recognised as his made to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear.
“I'm sorry about the blindfold,” he replied with polite civility, “but it's for the best.”
“Who are you?” she asked unable to hide how puzzled she was at his treatment of her. Even now, when she expected him to resort to some sort of violence after overhearing his angry exchange with Tom, he was disconcertingly gallant.
“The less you know the better, Miss Reed.”
“I'm not stupid. I don't know what game you're playing or how naïve you think I am..”
“This is not a game. There's too much at risk to be so cavalier. And no, you're hardly stupid...”
“If this isn't a game, stop pretending you're someone other than you are.”
“And what makes you think this isn't me? A name doesn't make us who we are, Annabelle.”
“You had your goon knock me out, chloroform me and drag me here to be held against my will. I think that's more than revealing, don't you?”
“I'm sorry for the punch. It wasn't part of my instructions. I've been told you haven't taken any of the painkillers with your meals.”
“As if I would be so foolish. At least, if you're going to drug me, I'll have the consolation of knowing I put up a fight.”
“I promise you there'll be no drugs. Just tell me what I want to know.”
“We can go on like this for days and I still won't tell you a thing, because there's nothing to tell. I don't know anything about the asset, except that he's dead. He's been dead for six months, in a grave somewhere away from your filthy FSB. You can do nothing else to him now. I bet it must be killing you, knowing he won and you lost, and there's not a thing you can do about it,” she seethed, wondering how much more of his eerily calm control she could tolerate.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes and thanked the presence of the blindfold because it allowed her a temporary reprieve to get hold of her emotions. He would never see her cry. No, the last man she cried for deserved them, and she wasn't about to desecrate his sacrifice by breaking down now.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
“Gone? What do you mean gone?” exploded the Head of Section D after gaining admittance to the secluded private clinic he hadn't set foot in for the last four months.
“The patient left us a month ago, sir. He...” the doctor in charge of the case began to explain.
“Why wasn't I informed?” glared the veteran secret service agent.
“I thought you knew. Your signature was in the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one in which you informed us that his brother had been contacted and that as his next-of-kin he'd now be the one signing all the paperwork.This isn't a prison, Mr Pearce. The patient had been responding very well to our treatment and, although he still had a couple more weeks of physiotherapy to be ready for release, he was eager to leave. His brother told me the family had hired the services of a professional to see the programme was completed at home. My first priority's always been the welfare of my patient and having the support of family and friends, particularly in a case such as his which was touch-and-go for over a month, is vital to speed up a difficult recovery.”
The support of family and friends. The man certainly knew how to rub salt into an open wound.
“Well, I don't know who wrote that letter but it certainly wasn't me. You said two people came to pick him up. Could you describe them? Were they foreigners?”
“They were a very attractive couple- a 6'3'' man and a blond woman. She didn't speak so I cannot tell for certain, but he was definitely British.”
“Did you notice anything worth-mentioning as regards their interaction with your patient?” frowned Sir Harry.
“All I can say is that the three of them left the building walking and that there was no sign of coercion. Both men hugged on meeting and cracked some jokes; there was no doubt in my mind they were close.”
“You have CCTV cameras in the reception area and the corridors....”
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
“Did Pearce tell you how the asset had approached MI5?”
“He didn't tell me anything.”
“Anything other than it was done through Kachimov, the late head of the FSB in London, that is,” he patiently clarified.
“If you say so. Whatever information you're fishing for, I don't know. You appear to have more answers than I actually do. I really don't understand why you're wasting time questioning me.”
Maybe I should have kept that last thought to myself, mused Annabelle. There was a fair chance her kidnappers would decide she was a wasted effort in the end, and either dispose of her in much the same way they had the late doctor and Adam or move to less civilised methods of interrogation than having her listen to this beautiful voice in the dark.
“Haven't you ever wondered where and how your informant got all the intel he passed on to you? You had to; it was a wealth of information.”
It wasn't the first time he'd asked her that question and it was one which invited speculation since Annabelle was convinced he knew exactly where the information had been gained. What's more, a gut feeling told her he knew a lot more than what she had assumed on debriefing the dying man. Although it'd been enough to hear the asset's raspy voice and perceive the battered and abused body in the dark to imagine the indignities he'd suffered at the hands of the FSB, only God knew when his Calvary had actually begun.
“In this business we're paid to follow orders without asking questions. And that's what I did. It was a case just like any other. I simply typed what he said before he died, handed in my report and that was it. Death is part and parcel of my world; I can't afford to think about all the people who die around me. At the end of the day, what matters is to have done my job well and live to see another day.”
“I don't believe for a minute you're either as cold-blooded or cynical as you want to appear, Ms Reed,” he denied, leaning forward and brushing her hand lightly when he touched the delicate charm bracelet she was wearing.
Annabelle's stomach lurched for a reason that she knew wasn't fear. His touch was just as pleasant as his strangely caressing voice; a fact she found tremendously unfair considering no one had ever stirred her this way before. Well, nobody except the dying man she couldn't seem to forget; a fact which she found immensely ironical.
“Иисус Навин;. St Joshua,” he added, holding the charm symbolising the Patron Saint of spies. “Are you a religious person, Annabelle?”
“Are you?”
“You sound surprised. You don't think that someone like me can actually have a soul to save.”
“Nobody's beyond redemption.”
“Even if that person were FSB?... You've gone quiet all of a sudden. Things aren't as black and white, are they? You want to hold onto your faith and charity but sometimes belief can falter even amongst the most fervent believers. I know what it's like; I've been there... Are you as good as you want the world to think, Miss Reed?”
“That's not for me to say. He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone... . Isn't that what the Good Book says?”
“There's a lot of money to be made in the world of Intelligence, and you're in a very sensitive position. Haven't you ever felt tempted to profit from it?”
“I'd never sell out my friends,” she replied with clear accusation in her voice.
“But, you see, we aren't talking about friends here. You'd never met this asset until that night and you spent... what? Three? Four hours with him?”
“I find what you're suggesting truly offensive,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You can't blame me for being curious. You gave up a job at university which paid double the salary of a junior officer at MI5... “
Annabelle understood only too well what he was hinting at. Four years ago, when her father- Colonel Charles Reed- had passed away, leaving his only daughter in charge of the welfare of a terminally ill mother, the unexpected offer made by his late comrade-at-arms, Sir Harry Pearce, had sounded too good to be true. And yet, the man had managed to convince her to join in with air-tight arguments; Her Majesty's Service needed her expertise and was willing to pay her extra for the sacrifice of giving up such a coveted tenure.
The young woman had had great qualms about the recruiting; after all, being a spy -even a desk one- was hardly the sedate and safe teaching job she had then. However, her love for her mother and the knowledge that the NHS would never cover the expensive cost of the experimental treatment which might provide her with the cure traditional science had failed to, prompted Annabelle to accept MI5's God-sent proposal.
It had taken her a couple of years to find out the bonus she got every month came straight from Harry Pearce; the offer had allowed the veteran spy to pay off an old debt of gratitude to the late colonel for having saved his life on a mission several years before.
“Your offshore bank account balance is quite impressive. Tell me, Annabelle,” he suggested quietly, catching her chin and holding it with his warm, mesmerizing fingers. “Was it you who betrayed the man in the castle?” he asked her in a tone coloured by an indefinable emotion that wasn't anger.
“I've never had an offshore bank account in my life, and I couldn't have done what you're implying. I'd have never betrayed him!” she exploded, lifting her chin from his fingers and pulling away.
“Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger.”
Annabelle gulped.
“I had nothing to do with that...”
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
Tom Quinn and Christine Dale.
Seeing on the recording his former Chief of Section and the woman for whom Tom had resigned from the Service shouldn't have taken Harry by surprise, especially knowing how close Lucas and Tom had been ever since their university years. However, finding out Quinn had been the one to step in to help Lucas in his greatest moment of need when it should have been him there, made Harry Pearce, the man responsible for Lucas' predicament, ashamed. Yes, Sir Harry Pearce, loathed to admit it, but he hadn't been able to face the young officer who'd sacrificed everything for Queen and country and who'd gone through hell to prove himself in his mentor's eyes once again.
There was no doubt in the head of Section's mind that Quinn's decision not to either erase or seize the CCTV tapes had been a clear attempt to send his former boss a message- that he and Christine had been there for Lucas when everyone had forsaken him.
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
“Well, someone did; someone on your team. And whoever did it placed his former wife and her new young family in danger.”
The words played over and over again in her mind as she lay stretched out on her bed.
Could it be she'd been wrong all along? Could it be these men weren't FSB but something else entirely? What the beguiling voice had asserted didn't sound like something the FSB would have said. After all, if they were Russians spies, wouldn't they have been the ones to go after the asset's family in their effort to locate him and silence him forever?
But if her kidnappers' employer wasn't the former KGB, then who were they working for? And who was the traitor in Section D's midst?
GO TO CHAPTER 5