The Loneliness of the Once-Distant Agent
Part 1
Title: The Loneliness of the Once-Distant Agent
Author: Zelofheda
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Spooks, Lucas North, and anybody else that you recognize all belong to BBC and Kudos, I am simply borrowing them with no intent to profit.
Timeline: Set in Series 8 after Jo's death. This fic is Alternate Universe, Ros is still alive, but Sarah Caulfield is also dead. Series 9 never happened, John Bateman never existed, and Lucas North was, is, and always will be one of the good guys.
Summary: Lucas has to help stop someone from stealing and using a deadly gas, but almost everything that can go wrong, does go wrong.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, in fact, any feedback at all is greatly appreciated! Please feel free to nitpick at anything that bothers you.
+++++
"Happy birthday, Lucas!" Mercy Ojiambo sang out as soon as Lucas North stepped onto the Grid. Surprised, Lucas tried not to let her see the dread that had exploded inside him at her sudden, unexpected words, and forced a smile instead. He didn't like birthdays anymore, not even after last year's had gone by without incident. Before he had recovered his composure enough to thank her, however, Mercy groaned audibly. "Oh, no. Not you, too."
"What?" Lucas asked, following her gaze down to his left arm, and glancing around in case everybody else at Section D was sporting a bandaged wrist as well. The few people that were there all looked as they normally did, however.
"Tariq's got stomach flu or something, he threw up three times while trying to explain why he'd be off work to-day. And Ros said she'll be in as soon as she's finished in casualty, she thinks she's broken at least one bone in her foot this morning on the Tube. Apparently, she didn't mind the gap."
Lucas lifted his eyebrows, but Mercy went on. "Ruth's not here, either. Her 'little cold' has turned into bronchitis, or maybe even pneumonia."
"You're here," Lucas remarked, which Mercy acknowledged with a shrug and a little smile that looked, to Lucas' critical eye, as forced as his own had felt.
"What did you do to your hand, anyway?" she asked.
"Slipped on a patch of ice last night and fell on an empty wine bottle," Lucas said.
"Ouch!" Mercy exclaimed. "How many stitches?"
"No stitches, three Steristrips." Lucas displayed his hand, turning it over. "If I'd known they were going to make me wait for three hours for the equivalent of superglue and a plaster, I could have stayed home and done it myself."
"And then you insisted on a big bandage over that tiny plaster so that you'd get tea and sympathy from everybody here at MI-5," Mercy teased, and Lucas smiled in acknowledgement.
"Well, maybe coffee and sympathy," he conceded.
"Still, at least it happened yesterday, and not to-day. Are you going to celebrate after work?" She smiled as though "after work" was something to look forward to, and Lucas, who'd taken an involuntarily deep breath at a certain word, forced another smile in return. He didn't answer. How could he tell her, this newest addition to Section D, so fresh from training that her brown eyes were still bright and innocent and eager, how mild this injury would seem compared to the birthdays he'd spent in a Russian prison, and the ways his tormenters had found to celebrate? Refusing to let those memories out, refusing to think of the fact that he had nobody to meet after work even if he had wanted to celebrate, which he certainly didn't, Lucas turned the conversation back to the current situation. "What about the rumours of a terrorist threat that Ruth was monitoring yesterday?"
"Yeah, something did come in overnight," Mercy said, accepting the change of subject without missing a beat. "The chatter seems to indicate that children will be their target – British children."
"As retaliation for what happened with the suicide bomber in Afghanistan?" Lucas asked. There had been an incident in which a British soldier had been responsible for the premature demise of a suicide bomber on a bus in Kandahar which had killed several children on their way home from school. The details were sketchy; it was known only that the suicide bomber had been headed somewhere else, the soldier had challenged him, and that a small cannister of a primitive, but deadly gas had been involved, the effects of which had killed more victims than the actual blast. Some of the relatives of the dead children were blaming the British – but from what Lucas understood, it had simply been an accident that had caused a chain reaction of events, each with the worst possible outcome.
"That's what we're thinking." Mercy's attention shifted, and Lucas followed her gaze to see their boss, Harry Pearce, coming out of his office.
"Lucas, Mercy, we've just been contacted by a sleeper agent –"
"Harry, um, sorry –" Mercy said, standing up suddenly and hurrying in the direction of the loo. Harry stared after her in surprise and annoyance, then turned back to Lucas. When he shrugged, also unable to explain her reaction, Harry frowned, but went on.
"As I was saying, we've just been contacted by a sleeper agent, one involved with toxic gas. I don't think it's a coincidence that he's contacted us just now, with the threat of a retalition attack. He wants to meet as soon as possible. Pull up the file on Canterbury and find out where his usual place is, then go see what he has to tell us."
"Right," Lucas said.
"Oh, and happy birthday, Lucas."
Now that he'd had time to prepare himself for the congratulations, Lucas was able to answer without hesitation. "Thank you, Harry."
Canterbury's real name was Rory Miller, a biologist working in the private sector, quite capable of making biological weapons such as ricin gas, though he worked for a company that manufactured the components for industry and other benign uses. The officer who had recruited him was long gone from MI-5, but the emergency signal had been clearly laid out; Hackney would be standing outside the pub "The Iron Man" at Victoria Station, holding the book Strong Poison, by Dorothy L. Sayers, and the approaching agent would carry a copy as well. There were pictures of the man, though they were at least ten years old now. Lucas was studying them carefully, looking for features that wouldn't have changed over the years, when Mercy came back.
"You all right?" he asked.
Mercy nodded a little too hard. "Yeah, fine."
Lucas filled her in on Canterbury, but when he offered to let her go meet the man, she shook her head. "No, um, you go ahead, Lucas. The thing is, I seem to be having a funky reaction to some antibiotics I'm taking and I think it might be best —" she glanced over in the direction of Harry's office and lowered her voice dramatically – "if I stay in."
"Antibiotics? For what?"
"Oh, nothing, really, and don't worry, it's not contagious." Mercy bent her head, but Lucas could have sworn he heard her whisper, "at least, not to you."
Pretending he hadn't heard, Lucas picked up the copy of Strong Poison that had been included with the file, then stood up to get his coat. The book was old, but still in such good condition that Lucas wondered if the agent who'd bought it had ever read it, or even opened the cover. He was tempted to take it home after the mission and do just that, but for now, he had to get to Victoria Station. The morning traffic combined with the bad weather made for slow going, and the car's heater absolutely refused to work, no matter how much time he spent jiggering and poking at it. By the time he got to the station, he felt thoroughly chilled, and of course the car park nearest to the station was also full up. He blew on his hands to warm them, then followed the signs to the next closest car park and hurried the rest of the way on foot. Outside, it seemed almost warmer than it had been in the car.
Rory Miller had obviously been waiting for some time, standing casually outside the pub with the book open in front of him as though he were reading. Every so often, however, he'd glance up and scan the area, looking worried. Lucas approached, feigned a stumble, and dropped his copy of the book at Rory's feet. Rory bent down to help pick it up, saw the title, then gave Lucas a questioning look.
"Rory Miller!" Lucas exclaimed heartily. "Now don't say you don't recognize your old friend Simon Stannard!"
"You've – changed," Rory said, glancing quizzically from Lucas' face down to his copy of Strong Poison and back again.
"Mid-life crisis," Lucas replied, smiling. "So, you still got that old Jaguar?"
Rory looked surprised at the mention of the car he'd used to own, then smiled ruefully. "No, we've got a Toyota now, a family car. Have you had breakfast? Yeah? Let me buy you some coffee, anyway, and we'll talk … have you got a car nearby?"
"I'm parked in Pimlico," Lucas said, indicating the general direction of the car park.
"Do you mind if we go there? We can drink coffee in the car, and make sure there won't be any eavesdroppers when we talk," Rory suggested.
Lucas made an inviting gesture towards the nearest source of coffee, and after they'd bought some, he led the way out onto the street. As they walked, Lucas asked, "How are Karen and Lydia?"
Rory glanced at him in surprise. "Karen? Oh! I'm divorced and married again since, uh, the last time I made contact with you. I haven't seen Karen for years now, and we both like it that way. It's Lydia I'm worried about. She lives on her own, ever since she started at university, and I can't reach her. Every time I call, I only get her mailbox!"
"Bad divorce, and she blames you?" Lucas asked, sparing a very quick thought for his own ex-marriage, but Rory shook his head. "No, I didn't mean it like that, I meant to-day, this morning."
Someone passed them on the pavement and Rory shut up immediately, waiting until the man had gone by before he said, "I'll tell you more in the car."
Lucas led him to the car park and they went up the stairs to where Lucas had parked the black Lexus. Once they were in, Rory wrapped both hands around his coffee cup in an attempt to warm them, and stared at the windscreen for a long moment without speaking. Lucas did the same, and Rory finally said, "You know where I work?"
"Spencer-Clark," Lucas said. Rory nodded.
"A colleague of mine is selling … something. I don't know to whom, and I'm not one hundred percent certain of what, but I'm fairly sure it's the new product we're developing. He's told me I'll get plenty of cash if I just keep my mouth shut, but I can't." He glanced over at Lucas, then quickly looked away again. "I'm not perfect. I don't mind earning a few quid on the side, either, but only if nobody else gets hurt. This is different. This could be deadly."
"Tell me more," Lucas said, sipping his coffee.
"I started noticing a few discrepancies," Rory said. "Ingredients missing, or too much of something. And then I remembered the day a while back when I missed the bus I usually took, and I had to get a later one. Patrick was on that one, and when I saw him, I went up to say hello, fancy meeting you here, that sort of thing. He was talking on his phone, and I overheard him say something about taking precautions because of the side effects. I thought he might be talking about prescription drugs or something, but just as I came up, he said, "It's Fazackerley. Fa-zack-er-ley.""
He paused dramatically to take a sip of coffee, and Lucas waited
Rory went on. "That's the name of this material that we're researching – Fazackerley Gas. It's named after the man who discovered it, Kenneth Fazackerley."
"It can be used as a biological weapon?" Lucas surmised, and took a drink of his own coffee.
"Oh, yes. It's even better than ricin or anthrax, because it's faster and more efficient. If you put it into an aerosol, anybody who inhales more than once will die within the hour, or so they say. The really great thing is –" Rory saw Lucas' frown, and his expression changed radically from enthusiastic to sheepish. "Sorry, I wasn't getting enthusiastic about killing people. I was about to say that we're applying it to cancer cells – not by aerosol, of course – and the tests are looking very good so far. Fazackerley could become a very important, very effective treatment in the future. But for now, however, this research is very new and very secret. I think Patrick felt pretty confident that nobody in the bus would know what he was talking about. They probably thought he was saying his own name."
He took another swallow of coffee, and Lucas waited until he'd finished before he said, "Go on."
"Once I'd heard that word, I couldn't help it, I stopped to listen," Rory admitted, "but he hung up just then, and turned around. I pretty much forgot all about it until yesterday … "
Rory's voice trailed off, and then he reached suddenly for his cell phone. "I've got to try Lydia again."
He dialled, but hung up impatiently as soon as he heard the first words of the voicemail message. "Do you have kids, Simon?"
"No," Lucas replied.
"It's probably a good thing, if you're in the secret service." Rory tightened his lips and stared out of the window.
Remembering his deceased colleague Adam, and the fact that Adam had left a ten-year-old son behind, Lucas decided to skip an answer, and instead asked, "Tell me more about Robinson and this Fazackerley gas."
"Oh, there's not much more to tell about Fazackerley," Rory said. "But Patrick – you know, once or twice he's gone missing from the lab, and then he shows up again in a place I've already checked. I caught him in the supply closet again yesterday afternoon, after I'd already searched it."
"Is it always the same place?" Lucas asked, his interest piqued. "Always the supply closet?"
"Or somewhere close to it," Rory said, staring into the distance as he remembered. "Yesterday, I actually caught him coming out. He said, I've just seen this huge dead rat, it must be a mutant of some kind! So I went in and asked him where the rat was, and he poked me in the chest, and said, it better not be you. I'm going to win the lottery soon, and I'll be glad to give you thirty percent, if you just keep your mouth shut about anything you might have noticed, or not noticed here."
"Is that all he said? He didn’t threaten you or your family?" Lucas asked.
"He said, you've got a very pretty daughter. He knew her name, and he told me exactly where she lives. He said it must be expensive for me to have a daughter at university and a second family still at home, but better a few expenses than not to have kids at all. That's all – but it was enough. I went right home and told Hannah to take the twins and go."
He let his voice trail off, and Lucas asked, "Where's Hannah now?"
Rory turned his head a little. "I don't know. I wouldn't let her tell me, just in case. All I know is, she's safe for now, and she's not with friends or family. Her phone is off, she'll only turn it on at intervals to call me, and I made her get loads of cash before she left, so she wouldn't have to use credit cards. Also, she knows how to contact MI-5 if she needs to, if she hasn't been able to reach me for twenty-four hours."
Lucas nodded approvingly. Either Rory had been well-schooled in procedures, or he would have made a naturally good agent.
"Look, Simon, I'm quite willing to go to work this morning, play along with Patrick and feed you any information you want, but in return, I want your help," Rory went on. "I want you to use all your spy technology, all your James Bond gadgets, whatever you need, just find Lydia and get her to safety."
"We can do that," Lucas said, pulling out his phone and dialling the Grid. "What's her full name, date of birth, and where exactly does she live?"
"Lydia Sophie Miller, 28 March, 1989," Rory recited, and then gave Lucas an address close to the campus of London Metropolitan University, just off Holloway Road. When Mercy answered, Lucas summarized everything he knew about the threat, and asked for help with Lydia.
"I'll find you a safe house right away, and get working on everything else," Mercy promised. "What else do we know about this Patrick, anyway? Does he have a full name?"
Lucas relayed the request, and Rory said, "Robinson, Patrick Robinson. His birthday's in April … it was the day before Easter this year. And I know he lives in Hackney, but I don't know the exact address."
Upon hearing the vague pieces of information, Mercy said, "Well, I might not be as fast as Tariq, but I can still get into the computer files at Spencer-Clark and see what I can find out from them."
"Do that," Lucas said. "Give me everything you can get on him."
"You couldn't give me a lift, could you?" Rory asked when Lucas had hung up. "I've already called in and said that Hannah's had a bad accident with the kettle, and I'd be taking her to A&E, and getting the twins to nursery school, but they'll be expecting me soon."
"Of course," Lucas said, and started the engine. As they drove, he instructed Rory to open the glove compartment on his side, and take out a small box that was deposited there. Rory had finished his coffee by then; he put the cup carefully down on the floor of the car and opened the box.
"What's all this?" he asked, looking down at the collection of electronic equipment.
"Our James Bond gadgets," Lucas said, which made Rory smile. When they stopped at a traffic light, Lucas leaned over and picked up one of the tiny devices. "This is a tracker. Can you get it onto Patrick? Under the collar of his coat, in the back, is usually a good place."
"Yeah," Rory said, taking it from Lucas' fingers. "I wish I knew what he was going to sneak out next – I’d take an extra tracker and put it on that, too."
"Take one just in case," Lucas suggested. "You never know. And he has a cell phone – do you have the number? Any phones he uses at work? We'll monitor his calls as well, and see what comes up."
Rory nodded knowingly, then pulled out his cell phone again and found the required telephone numbers. Lucas passed the info on to Mercy, and when he'd finished, Robinson said, "Give me a number where I can contact you directly."
After Lucas had done so, Rory reciprocated in kind with his own number and that of his wife. Looking down at the phone in his hand, he murmured, "I'll just try Lydia again."
When his daughter still didn't answer, Rory left a voicemail. "Lydia, this is Dad. Something important has come up. I'm sending a friend around, Simon Stannard, he'll explain. Um, he's tall, he's got dark hair and a bandage on his left hand. Do everything he says, Lydia, this is vital! Love you – I love you so much."
He hesitated then, as though wanting to say more, but not knowing what, and eventually, he just switched off. For a moment, he sat staring out of the windscreen at nothing, cradling the phone in both hands, before finally turning back to Lucas.
"We'll find her," Lucas reassured him, and Rory managed a nod.
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Part 2
Author: Zelofheda
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Spooks, Lucas North, and anybody else that you recognize all belong to BBC and Kudos, I am simply borrowing them with no intent to profit.
Timeline: Set in Series 8 after Jo's death. This fic is Alternate Universe, Ros is still alive, but Sarah Caulfield is also dead. Series 9 never happened, John Bateman never existed, and Lucas North was, is, and always will be one of the good guys.
Summary: Lucas has to help stop someone from stealing and using a deadly gas, but almost everything that can go wrong, does go wrong.
Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, in fact, any feedback at all is greatly appreciated! Please feel free to nitpick at anything that bothers you.
+++++
"Happy birthday, Lucas!" Mercy Ojiambo sang out as soon as Lucas North stepped onto the Grid. Surprised, Lucas tried not to let her see the dread that had exploded inside him at her sudden, unexpected words, and forced a smile instead. He didn't like birthdays anymore, not even after last year's had gone by without incident. Before he had recovered his composure enough to thank her, however, Mercy groaned audibly. "Oh, no. Not you, too."
"What?" Lucas asked, following her gaze down to his left arm, and glancing around in case everybody else at Section D was sporting a bandaged wrist as well. The few people that were there all looked as they normally did, however.
"Tariq's got stomach flu or something, he threw up three times while trying to explain why he'd be off work to-day. And Ros said she'll be in as soon as she's finished in casualty, she thinks she's broken at least one bone in her foot this morning on the Tube. Apparently, she didn't mind the gap."
Lucas lifted his eyebrows, but Mercy went on. "Ruth's not here, either. Her 'little cold' has turned into bronchitis, or maybe even pneumonia."
"You're here," Lucas remarked, which Mercy acknowledged with a shrug and a little smile that looked, to Lucas' critical eye, as forced as his own had felt.
"What did you do to your hand, anyway?" she asked.
"Slipped on a patch of ice last night and fell on an empty wine bottle," Lucas said.
"Ouch!" Mercy exclaimed. "How many stitches?"
"No stitches, three Steristrips." Lucas displayed his hand, turning it over. "If I'd known they were going to make me wait for three hours for the equivalent of superglue and a plaster, I could have stayed home and done it myself."
"And then you insisted on a big bandage over that tiny plaster so that you'd get tea and sympathy from everybody here at MI-5," Mercy teased, and Lucas smiled in acknowledgement.
"Well, maybe coffee and sympathy," he conceded.
"Still, at least it happened yesterday, and not to-day. Are you going to celebrate after work?" She smiled as though "after work" was something to look forward to, and Lucas, who'd taken an involuntarily deep breath at a certain word, forced another smile in return. He didn't answer. How could he tell her, this newest addition to Section D, so fresh from training that her brown eyes were still bright and innocent and eager, how mild this injury would seem compared to the birthdays he'd spent in a Russian prison, and the ways his tormenters had found to celebrate? Refusing to let those memories out, refusing to think of the fact that he had nobody to meet after work even if he had wanted to celebrate, which he certainly didn't, Lucas turned the conversation back to the current situation. "What about the rumours of a terrorist threat that Ruth was monitoring yesterday?"
"Yeah, something did come in overnight," Mercy said, accepting the change of subject without missing a beat. "The chatter seems to indicate that children will be their target – British children."
"As retaliation for what happened with the suicide bomber in Afghanistan?" Lucas asked. There had been an incident in which a British soldier had been responsible for the premature demise of a suicide bomber on a bus in Kandahar which had killed several children on their way home from school. The details were sketchy; it was known only that the suicide bomber had been headed somewhere else, the soldier had challenged him, and that a small cannister of a primitive, but deadly gas had been involved, the effects of which had killed more victims than the actual blast. Some of the relatives of the dead children were blaming the British – but from what Lucas understood, it had simply been an accident that had caused a chain reaction of events, each with the worst possible outcome.
"That's what we're thinking." Mercy's attention shifted, and Lucas followed her gaze to see their boss, Harry Pearce, coming out of his office.
"Lucas, Mercy, we've just been contacted by a sleeper agent –"
"Harry, um, sorry –" Mercy said, standing up suddenly and hurrying in the direction of the loo. Harry stared after her in surprise and annoyance, then turned back to Lucas. When he shrugged, also unable to explain her reaction, Harry frowned, but went on.
"As I was saying, we've just been contacted by a sleeper agent, one involved with toxic gas. I don't think it's a coincidence that he's contacted us just now, with the threat of a retalition attack. He wants to meet as soon as possible. Pull up the file on Canterbury and find out where his usual place is, then go see what he has to tell us."
"Right," Lucas said.
"Oh, and happy birthday, Lucas."
Now that he'd had time to prepare himself for the congratulations, Lucas was able to answer without hesitation. "Thank you, Harry."
Canterbury's real name was Rory Miller, a biologist working in the private sector, quite capable of making biological weapons such as ricin gas, though he worked for a company that manufactured the components for industry and other benign uses. The officer who had recruited him was long gone from MI-5, but the emergency signal had been clearly laid out; Hackney would be standing outside the pub "The Iron Man" at Victoria Station, holding the book Strong Poison, by Dorothy L. Sayers, and the approaching agent would carry a copy as well. There were pictures of the man, though they were at least ten years old now. Lucas was studying them carefully, looking for features that wouldn't have changed over the years, when Mercy came back.
"You all right?" he asked.
Mercy nodded a little too hard. "Yeah, fine."
Lucas filled her in on Canterbury, but when he offered to let her go meet the man, she shook her head. "No, um, you go ahead, Lucas. The thing is, I seem to be having a funky reaction to some antibiotics I'm taking and I think it might be best —" she glanced over in the direction of Harry's office and lowered her voice dramatically – "if I stay in."
"Antibiotics? For what?"
"Oh, nothing, really, and don't worry, it's not contagious." Mercy bent her head, but Lucas could have sworn he heard her whisper, "at least, not to you."
Pretending he hadn't heard, Lucas picked up the copy of Strong Poison that had been included with the file, then stood up to get his coat. The book was old, but still in such good condition that Lucas wondered if the agent who'd bought it had ever read it, or even opened the cover. He was tempted to take it home after the mission and do just that, but for now, he had to get to Victoria Station. The morning traffic combined with the bad weather made for slow going, and the car's heater absolutely refused to work, no matter how much time he spent jiggering and poking at it. By the time he got to the station, he felt thoroughly chilled, and of course the car park nearest to the station was also full up. He blew on his hands to warm them, then followed the signs to the next closest car park and hurried the rest of the way on foot. Outside, it seemed almost warmer than it had been in the car.
Rory Miller had obviously been waiting for some time, standing casually outside the pub with the book open in front of him as though he were reading. Every so often, however, he'd glance up and scan the area, looking worried. Lucas approached, feigned a stumble, and dropped his copy of the book at Rory's feet. Rory bent down to help pick it up, saw the title, then gave Lucas a questioning look.
"Rory Miller!" Lucas exclaimed heartily. "Now don't say you don't recognize your old friend Simon Stannard!"
"You've – changed," Rory said, glancing quizzically from Lucas' face down to his copy of Strong Poison and back again.
"Mid-life crisis," Lucas replied, smiling. "So, you still got that old Jaguar?"
Rory looked surprised at the mention of the car he'd used to own, then smiled ruefully. "No, we've got a Toyota now, a family car. Have you had breakfast? Yeah? Let me buy you some coffee, anyway, and we'll talk … have you got a car nearby?"
"I'm parked in Pimlico," Lucas said, indicating the general direction of the car park.
"Do you mind if we go there? We can drink coffee in the car, and make sure there won't be any eavesdroppers when we talk," Rory suggested.
Lucas made an inviting gesture towards the nearest source of coffee, and after they'd bought some, he led the way out onto the street. As they walked, Lucas asked, "How are Karen and Lydia?"
Rory glanced at him in surprise. "Karen? Oh! I'm divorced and married again since, uh, the last time I made contact with you. I haven't seen Karen for years now, and we both like it that way. It's Lydia I'm worried about. She lives on her own, ever since she started at university, and I can't reach her. Every time I call, I only get her mailbox!"
"Bad divorce, and she blames you?" Lucas asked, sparing a very quick thought for his own ex-marriage, but Rory shook his head. "No, I didn't mean it like that, I meant to-day, this morning."
Someone passed them on the pavement and Rory shut up immediately, waiting until the man had gone by before he said, "I'll tell you more in the car."
Lucas led him to the car park and they went up the stairs to where Lucas had parked the black Lexus. Once they were in, Rory wrapped both hands around his coffee cup in an attempt to warm them, and stared at the windscreen for a long moment without speaking. Lucas did the same, and Rory finally said, "You know where I work?"
"Spencer-Clark," Lucas said. Rory nodded.
"A colleague of mine is selling … something. I don't know to whom, and I'm not one hundred percent certain of what, but I'm fairly sure it's the new product we're developing. He's told me I'll get plenty of cash if I just keep my mouth shut, but I can't." He glanced over at Lucas, then quickly looked away again. "I'm not perfect. I don't mind earning a few quid on the side, either, but only if nobody else gets hurt. This is different. This could be deadly."
"Tell me more," Lucas said, sipping his coffee.
"I started noticing a few discrepancies," Rory said. "Ingredients missing, or too much of something. And then I remembered the day a while back when I missed the bus I usually took, and I had to get a later one. Patrick was on that one, and when I saw him, I went up to say hello, fancy meeting you here, that sort of thing. He was talking on his phone, and I overheard him say something about taking precautions because of the side effects. I thought he might be talking about prescription drugs or something, but just as I came up, he said, "It's Fazackerley. Fa-zack-er-ley.""
He paused dramatically to take a sip of coffee, and Lucas waited
Rory went on. "That's the name of this material that we're researching – Fazackerley Gas. It's named after the man who discovered it, Kenneth Fazackerley."
"It can be used as a biological weapon?" Lucas surmised, and took a drink of his own coffee.
"Oh, yes. It's even better than ricin or anthrax, because it's faster and more efficient. If you put it into an aerosol, anybody who inhales more than once will die within the hour, or so they say. The really great thing is –" Rory saw Lucas' frown, and his expression changed radically from enthusiastic to sheepish. "Sorry, I wasn't getting enthusiastic about killing people. I was about to say that we're applying it to cancer cells – not by aerosol, of course – and the tests are looking very good so far. Fazackerley could become a very important, very effective treatment in the future. But for now, however, this research is very new and very secret. I think Patrick felt pretty confident that nobody in the bus would know what he was talking about. They probably thought he was saying his own name."
He took another swallow of coffee, and Lucas waited until he'd finished before he said, "Go on."
"Once I'd heard that word, I couldn't help it, I stopped to listen," Rory admitted, "but he hung up just then, and turned around. I pretty much forgot all about it until yesterday … "
Rory's voice trailed off, and then he reached suddenly for his cell phone. "I've got to try Lydia again."
He dialled, but hung up impatiently as soon as he heard the first words of the voicemail message. "Do you have kids, Simon?"
"No," Lucas replied.
"It's probably a good thing, if you're in the secret service." Rory tightened his lips and stared out of the window.
Remembering his deceased colleague Adam, and the fact that Adam had left a ten-year-old son behind, Lucas decided to skip an answer, and instead asked, "Tell me more about Robinson and this Fazackerley gas."
"Oh, there's not much more to tell about Fazackerley," Rory said. "But Patrick – you know, once or twice he's gone missing from the lab, and then he shows up again in a place I've already checked. I caught him in the supply closet again yesterday afternoon, after I'd already searched it."
"Is it always the same place?" Lucas asked, his interest piqued. "Always the supply closet?"
"Or somewhere close to it," Rory said, staring into the distance as he remembered. "Yesterday, I actually caught him coming out. He said, I've just seen this huge dead rat, it must be a mutant of some kind! So I went in and asked him where the rat was, and he poked me in the chest, and said, it better not be you. I'm going to win the lottery soon, and I'll be glad to give you thirty percent, if you just keep your mouth shut about anything you might have noticed, or not noticed here."
"Is that all he said? He didn’t threaten you or your family?" Lucas asked.
"He said, you've got a very pretty daughter. He knew her name, and he told me exactly where she lives. He said it must be expensive for me to have a daughter at university and a second family still at home, but better a few expenses than not to have kids at all. That's all – but it was enough. I went right home and told Hannah to take the twins and go."
He let his voice trail off, and Lucas asked, "Where's Hannah now?"
Rory turned his head a little. "I don't know. I wouldn't let her tell me, just in case. All I know is, she's safe for now, and she's not with friends or family. Her phone is off, she'll only turn it on at intervals to call me, and I made her get loads of cash before she left, so she wouldn't have to use credit cards. Also, she knows how to contact MI-5 if she needs to, if she hasn't been able to reach me for twenty-four hours."
Lucas nodded approvingly. Either Rory had been well-schooled in procedures, or he would have made a naturally good agent.
"Look, Simon, I'm quite willing to go to work this morning, play along with Patrick and feed you any information you want, but in return, I want your help," Rory went on. "I want you to use all your spy technology, all your James Bond gadgets, whatever you need, just find Lydia and get her to safety."
"We can do that," Lucas said, pulling out his phone and dialling the Grid. "What's her full name, date of birth, and where exactly does she live?"
"Lydia Sophie Miller, 28 March, 1989," Rory recited, and then gave Lucas an address close to the campus of London Metropolitan University, just off Holloway Road. When Mercy answered, Lucas summarized everything he knew about the threat, and asked for help with Lydia.
"I'll find you a safe house right away, and get working on everything else," Mercy promised. "What else do we know about this Patrick, anyway? Does he have a full name?"
Lucas relayed the request, and Rory said, "Robinson, Patrick Robinson. His birthday's in April … it was the day before Easter this year. And I know he lives in Hackney, but I don't know the exact address."
Upon hearing the vague pieces of information, Mercy said, "Well, I might not be as fast as Tariq, but I can still get into the computer files at Spencer-Clark and see what I can find out from them."
"Do that," Lucas said. "Give me everything you can get on him."
"You couldn't give me a lift, could you?" Rory asked when Lucas had hung up. "I've already called in and said that Hannah's had a bad accident with the kettle, and I'd be taking her to A&E, and getting the twins to nursery school, but they'll be expecting me soon."
"Of course," Lucas said, and started the engine. As they drove, he instructed Rory to open the glove compartment on his side, and take out a small box that was deposited there. Rory had finished his coffee by then; he put the cup carefully down on the floor of the car and opened the box.
"What's all this?" he asked, looking down at the collection of electronic equipment.
"Our James Bond gadgets," Lucas said, which made Rory smile. When they stopped at a traffic light, Lucas leaned over and picked up one of the tiny devices. "This is a tracker. Can you get it onto Patrick? Under the collar of his coat, in the back, is usually a good place."
"Yeah," Rory said, taking it from Lucas' fingers. "I wish I knew what he was going to sneak out next – I’d take an extra tracker and put it on that, too."
"Take one just in case," Lucas suggested. "You never know. And he has a cell phone – do you have the number? Any phones he uses at work? We'll monitor his calls as well, and see what comes up."
Rory nodded knowingly, then pulled out his cell phone again and found the required telephone numbers. Lucas passed the info on to Mercy, and when he'd finished, Robinson said, "Give me a number where I can contact you directly."
After Lucas had done so, Rory reciprocated in kind with his own number and that of his wife. Looking down at the phone in his hand, he murmured, "I'll just try Lydia again."
When his daughter still didn't answer, Rory left a voicemail. "Lydia, this is Dad. Something important has come up. I'm sending a friend around, Simon Stannard, he'll explain. Um, he's tall, he's got dark hair and a bandage on his left hand. Do everything he says, Lydia, this is vital! Love you – I love you so much."
He hesitated then, as though wanting to say more, but not knowing what, and eventually, he just switched off. For a moment, he sat staring out of the windscreen at nothing, cradling the phone in both hands, before finally turning back to Lucas.
"We'll find her," Lucas reassured him, and Rory managed a nod.
+++++
Part 2