More Broken, Part 1
Fandom: Spooks (BBC)
Timeline: AU, pre-Series 7
Rating: K+
Summary: After eight years in a Russian prison, MI-5 agent Lucas North is released.
Disclaimer: Spooks and all recognizable characters belong to the BBC and Kudos Productions; I am only borrowing them with no intent to profit.
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"Eleven Kapitolina ... twelve Kapitolina ..." Lucas North always added the name of his wife whenever he was counting. Especially during the routine of exercises he'd contrived to combat both the atrophy of his muscles and the boredom of his cell, thinking of her name brought a memory of her face and made him feel closer to her. Before he could grunt "thirteen Kapitolina," however, the sound of footsteps in the corridor stopped at his cell door, and a key rattled in the lock.
Breaking off his pushups, Lucas got to his feet, turning to face the door. He knew at once that it wasn't lunch – not this soon after breakfast. And it wasn't the day that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually came for his talk. This left only the possibility of an unscheduled interrogation session, and Lucas wondered why. What could he tell them after so long? He thought he'd given up all his intelligence secrets ages ago, as they hadn't tortured him for years. They'd left him in isolation since then, and his only contact with the outside came when Aleksander Dmitrovich visited him once every two weeks. His meals were shoved into his cell through a small flap at the bottom of the door. Sometimes Lucas lay down on the floor with his head by the flap, waiting for the guards to bend down and push the tray through, in the hopes that he could at least see their fingers and remind himself that there were other people in the world. On rare occasions, he caught a glimpse of a boot.
But it was Aleksander Dmitrovich, a stereotypical Russian in body type; short and broad, but with a surprisingly high voice. "Lucas Aleksandrovich," he said quietly. Lucas remembered how put out the man had been at discovering that Lucas had no middle name, and how he'd promptly given Lucas one -- his own. Lucas had immediately thought that it was a subtle way of showing that he belonged to Aleksander Dmitrovich now, body and most of his soul, but not like a beloved son. Proof of ownership or not, however, he'd gotten used to the name over the years, and rarely thought of it anymore.
"Aleksander Dmitrovich," Lucas replied, not bothering to hide his surprise or his pleasure. It had been ten days since he'd last seen the man, and he hadn't expected to see him for four more. Even if Aleksander Dmitrovich was going to haul him to the interrogation room, it was still good to see another human. Maybe there'd even be a guard.
"I have a surprise for you," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling a little, but Lucas thought the smile didn't quite meet his eyes. "Come out."
"Come out," was what he always said whenever Lucas got to leave his cell, for a shower, for an interrogation, for their talks, but the part about the surprise was new. Trying not to frown with concentration, Lucas walked out of the cell, following Aleksander Dmitrovich down the corridor. Counting the steps silently, and this time reaching "twenty three Kapitolina," the number that signalled the entrance to the interrogation room, Lucas turned, but to his surprise, Aleksander Dmitrovich kept going. Lucas had to scramble to keep up, especially as they also went by the interview room next door, and around the corner to the only other place that Lucas knew in the prison – the shower room. In the antechamber, there was a table and chair near the door, where Lucas could see not only the usual towel and soap, but also an electric razor, a hair cutting machine, a pair of scissors, and other things underneath. At the back of the table, there was a bundle of folded clothing that was much more colourful than his grey prison uniform.
"Aren't you a lucky boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling again. "It is not even a Saturday and you get a shave, a haircut, a shower, and clean clothes."
"What's going on, Aleksander Dmitrovich?" Lucas asked. He wouldn't allow himself to hope, not just yet. It could all be a ploy, something else to torment him with.
"Be a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich,." the older man said. "Don't ask questions, and you will get a reward. Now, you sit here. I will shave you and cut your hair."
A reward. Lucas felt his mouth water at the thought that it might be coffee. That was the reward that Aleksander Dmitrovich gave him most often, when they spoke. He sat down and leaned his head back for the older man to trim and then shave off his beard. Involuntarily, he remembered the first time Aleksander Dmitrovich had offered him a reward, a drink of coffee. It had been after he'd broken, when he was feeling guilty, sick at himself, and yet relieved that they weren't hurting him any more. The coffee had been vile, but he'd drunk it anyway. Lucas pushed that memory away and replaced it with a more recent one, of accepting a cup of coffee during one of Aleksander Dmitrovich's visits. It was part of a pattern they'd established, Aleksander Dmitrovich asked him a question, just one, and if he was pleased with the answer, he poured coffee for Lucas. If he wasn't, Lucas got only lukewarm water.
Aleksander Dmitrovich finished with the razor, then reached for the machine to cut his hair, shaving it down military short and using the scissors to snip away any stray strands. When he was finished, he tidied everything away, then nodded approvingly. "That will do. Strip down now, body search."
Lucas obeyed, knowing it was just routine. He'd stopped feeling humiliated long ago, and had recently even joked to Aleksander Dmitrovich that he was keeping an eye out for a rat or a mouse in his cell, so that he could kill it and stick it in his armpit as a surprise. His reward that day had been Aleksander Dmitrovich's full-bodied laugh, along with the cup of coffee. But in all the time he'd been in the cell, he'd never seen anything larger than a spider.
"Now, get washed and get dressed," Aleksander Dmitrovich commanded.
Lucas took the towel and soap, and went into the shower. The water was cold, and after making sure he was wet all over, he turned it off before lathering up. It was always cold, even in the summer, but he was good now at washing quickly and efficiently. He had an inkling that he was being transferred somewhere else, somewhere worse. Siberia, perhaps, one of the gulags, but he didn't know why. Why now, after so many years of isolation, with only Aleksander Dmitrovich for company? Drying himself off, he reached for the clothes, and realized with a jolt that they were his own, the things he'd been wearing when he'd been arrested. Lina had bought that shirt for him; he hadn't thought he'd ever see it again. He could remember a time when she'd run her hands up this particular jumper, too, before grabbing his earlobes and giving his head a little shake. Their laughter had been a prelude to a kiss … and other things. He stopped that memory and counted the buttons instead.
Lucas knew he'd lost weight after several years of prison food, but he hadn't realized just how much until he put the clothes on again. They hung, much too big for him now. He could barely keep his trousers up, even after tucking in both his shirt and his jumper. Aleksander Dmitrovich looked at him and shook his head in mock sadness.
"There's almost nothing left of you," he said, then lifted up a manila envelope that Lucas hadn't noticed before and dumped the contents out on the table. Lucas stared for a moment. Amid the other things, he'd spotted a golden wedding band that had almost rolled to the edge – his wedding ring. He picked up it wonderingly, and saw not his own hand, but Lina's, slipping it onto his finger during the ceremony with such enthusiasm that she'd jammed it into the flesh of his hand. He'd pretended to wince, and her smile had faded instantly into abject agony. He could still hear her gasp of dismay, see her relief as he'd smiled again and reassured her it wasn't that bad, he wouldn't be crippled for life. Now, Lucas slid the wedding band over the knuckle of his ring finger and made a loose fist so that it wouldn't slide off again immediately, then reached for the other objects.
His wallet was still fat with money, documents, and various plastic cards. He pushed it into his hip pocket and wondered if the extra weight would be enough to send his trousers sliding down to his knees. Thankfully, they stayed up. Next, Lucas picked up his watch. The battery had gone dead long ago and the display was blank. He laid it over his wrist, then thought better of it, and jammed it into the front pocket of his trousers instead. He stuffed his keyring there, too, then picked up his passport. It had probably expired by now, too, he thought, and flipped it open to check. His own face stared up at him, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He probably didn't look like that anymore, he thought, and looked away, his eyes landing on the expiration date. 12 May 2006. He pulled down the collar of his jumper and slid the passport into his shirt pocket, scratched his scalp. then glanced up at Aleksander Dmitrovich for further instructions.
Picking up a clipboard and pen, the older man gave them to Lucas, then indicated a space with one stubby finger. "Sign here."
Lucas glanced over the page. It was an old form headed with the words "Possessions of Prisoners," and every single item of his had been detailed, filled in by hand in the spaces provided. He saw his own signature there on the bottom left hand side and looked automatically at that date. September 12, 1999. They'd captured him, stripped him down, and made him sign that they'd inventoried everything he'd had on. He remembered how shaky his hand had been as he'd gripped the pen that day, and realized it was shaking that way again. The space indicated was labelled "Prisoner confirms receipt of specified items," and he signed, then gave the clipboard back. Aleksander Dmitrovich added the date, which Lucas couldn't see, and scrawled his own signature at the bottom.
"You'll need this," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, handing Lucas an overcoat.
"Aleksader Dmitrovich," Lucas exclaimed in true astonishment, pulling it on. It was military issue, without markings, but delightfully warm and heavy. He hugged himself, enjoying the feeling. "Thank you!"
Aleksander Dmitrovich waved his thanks away and picked up something else from the table. "Give me your hands."
Reluctantly letting go of his ribs and putting his hands out for the cuffs, which were cold enough to send a shiver down his spine, Lucas wondered yet again what was going on. Aleksander Dmitrovich wouldn't be sending him to Siberia in his old clothes, would he? If that were the case, it would be more likely he'd get another prison uniform. They must be sending him somewhere else, maybe even -- Lucas stopped that hope, and returned his mind forcibly to Siberia. It was easier to think of Siberia, because whatever happened couldn't be worse than that.
They went up a set of stairs that Lucas had not seen for years now, and through several locked doors before finally emerging outside. It was achingly cold and windy, and the overcoat didn't seem as warm as it had inside. Snow had fallen earlier, but the sun was shining now, and the whiteness was bright enough to blind Lucas. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clapped his hands over his face, then finally recovered enough to squint out through the gap between his wrists. He could just barely stand staring down at the ground and watching Aleksander Dmitrovich's boots. The corner of a car door came into his line of vision, and he glanced up. It wasn't a prisoner transfer van or any other kind of official vehicle. It was, in fact, a beige Mercedes, complete with driver. Blinking both with the light and with surprise, Lucas risked one quick glance at Aleksander Dmitrovich for confirmation.
"Get in, Lucas Aleksandrovich," the older man said. Squinting, Lucas lowered his hands to slip inside and hauled himself automatically to the middle seat in expectation of being squeezed between Aleksander Dmitrovich and a guard. But the door on his left opened, and Aleksander Dmitrovich said, "No, no, take all the room you like, Lucas Aleksandrovich."
Feeling strangely sheepish, Lucas scooted back to his right, fumbling with his seatbelt. Once he'd clicked it into place, Lucas covered his eyes with his hands again. The car started up, and they passed two separate gate checkpoints. Lucas counted them, one Kapitolina, two Kapitolina, then stopped. Somehow, it didn't seem right to say her name out here. Her name belonged indoors, under the artificial light, to routines that he knew backwards and forwards, not to outdoor structures he'd never count again.
As the car drove on, Lucas peeked out once from between his fingers, catching one quick glimpse of snow-covered trees before the light blinded him again. It was the first greenery he had seen since his capture. He'd forgotton that there was such a thing in the world as pine trees, or any other kind of tree, for that matter. Pines made him think of Christmas trees, of Lina and their first Christmas together and how she'd been intrigued about celebrating a religious custom. He'd told her that his family's Christmases were about as religious as Father Frost and the Snow Maiden bringing presents on New Year's Eve, but if Lina had been disappointed, he hadn't been able to tell.
Realizing he'd lost track of the date, Lucas wondered if he'd missed Christmas this year, or if it were still to come. He opened his mouth to ask Aleksander Dmitrovich, then remembered the promised reward, and remained silent. No questions.
The car left the isolated road and joined what sounded like a bustling highway. Lucas risked a few short looks at the cars around them, but it was still too bright and he had to retreat behind his hands again each time. In comparison to the quiet of his cell, the traffic was annoyingly loud.
Eventually, the car left the highway and drove down a very long street lined by a mixture of buildings, some old and some new, with lots of slow-moving traffic. Once, Lucas looked over to Aleksander Dmitrovich, which didn't hurt as much as looking directly outside. Where were they going? A different prison? Then suddenly, Lucas heard the roar of a jet engine, and through the window on Aleksander Dmitrovich's side, he saw a plane coming in very low over the houses.
A airport. They were approaching an airport. Lucas knew that the Russians didn't fly their prisoners to Siberia, so they had to be going somewhere else. Home! his mind cried eagerly, before he shut it up. Don't hope, he told himself firmly. Don't hope. Siberia. Or maybe it was that scare tactic where they put a hood over your head and pretended to push you out of a helicopter a mile high, but you fell all of four feet to the ground. Yes. Torture.
But there was still a part of his mind that didn't believe it, a part that thought longingly of Lina and had even started to hope to actually see her again.
Eventually, the car stopped in front of a familiar-looking structure. The guard got out of the front and opened the door on Lucas' side, holding it open. Lucas fumbled his way out of the car, trying to protect his eyes and stare at the building at the same time. Domodedovo Airport! He recognized it immediately, even if they were several meters away from the main entrance. Aleksander Dmitrovich had already gotten out, now he came around the back of the Mercedes and headed to a smaller door at the corner of the building marked "Staff Only," which he opened with a key card. Alongside the guard, Lucas followed awkwardly, only taking his hands away from his face once they were completely inside.
Here, there were no signs of the bustling terminal that Lucas had expected, just a long, deserted corridor with several doors. Aleksander Dmitrovich strolled down it as though he were at home, leading them up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, until, after another use of the key card, they finally emerged in the departure area. From where they stood, Lucas could see a long row of airport gates, along with the duty free shop and the entrance to a lounge. There were people everywhere, crowding certain gates, scattered in more isolated groups at others, or bustling along with their luggage.
It was so open and so unstructured in comparison to the prison that Lucas felt immediately overwhelmed. He'd yearned for so long to see other people, but … not so many, and not all at once. He didn't realize that he had stopped and was staring until Aleksander Dmitrovich nudged him from behind, and then he staggered for a few steps. They walked in the direction of the lounge, and then Aleksander Dmitrovich turned suddenly to enter the almost-empty waiting area in front of one of the gates. There were only a few passengers there, and as they approached, two of the men in the nearest seats stood up.
"Aleksander Dmitrovich Kuznetsov," one of the men said, and Lucas frowned slightly. He couldn't remember if he'd ever heard Aleksander Dmitrovich's surname. In any case, it wasn't the way the man should be addressed.
"Harry Pearce," Aleksander Dmitrovich said.
Harry Pearce! Lucas' heart gave a little jump at the familiar name, and he stared hard at the man. A bit less hair, a few more wrinkles, but it was unmistakeably him.
"Lucas," Harry said, smiling. The other man, whom Lucas didn't know, was smiling, too.
"Give me your hands," Aleksander Dmitrovich said. It was the first time Lucas had ever heard him speak English, and it took him a moment to realize what the man had said. Slowly, he extended his wrists, and Aleksander Dmitrovich unlocked the handcuffs, then pulled them off. Still speaking English, he reached up and patted Lucas' cheek with one hand. "You've been a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich. Here's your reward. You're going home."
"No coffee?" Lucas blurted out before he could stop himself, and Aleksander Dmitrovich laughed. "Harry will buy you coffee from now on. With any luck, we will never see each other again."
He wrapped his arms around Lucas and pulled him close for a quick bear hug, then gave him a kiss on each cheek. Lucas was too startled to react, except to stiffen at the man's touch, and stood dumbfounded, watching in silence as Aleksander Dmitrovich nodded to the two men, then strolled back the way he'd come.
"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas turned his head to meet Harry's gaze.
"Harry," he said, surprised that his voice came out normal, and not as a whisper. Harry reached out and caught Lucas' hand in both of his, gripping it strongly before letting go.
"This is Adam Carter." Harry indicated the blond man next to him, who was as tall as Lucas himself. "Adam, this is Lucas North."
"Hello," Adam said, and Lucas echoed the word. They shook hands, too.
"Adam, go get Lucas some coffee," Harry said, indicating a machine nearby. Adam went off without a word, and Harry pulled something out of the pocket of his coat. "I think you'll need this."
It was a belt, rolled into a tight coil. Lucas took it.
"I never pick up anybody from Russia without bringing one," Harry went on.
"Are you really here to pick me up?" Lucas asked slowly. He hadn't spoken English in such a long time. "This isn't a joke?"
"It's no joke, Lucas. You're coming home."
Lucas suddenly remembered something and felt a rush of panic. "Harry, my passport's expired."
"It's all right, Lucas, we've got you a new one." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a British passport, opening it to show Lucas a copy of the picture he'd just seen in his old passport. "Put the belt on, hmm?"
Lucas removed his coat, then threaded the belt through the belt loops of his trousers, tightening it until it was comfortable. It was such a relief not to have to worry about losing his clothes that he sighed deeply. "Spasiba—" Harry frowned, and Lucas realized he'd spoken Russian. He tried again. "Thank you, Harry."
Adam came back then and extended a small steaming cup in Lucas' direction. "I put milk and sugar in, I hope you don't mind."
"Thank you." Lucas would have drunk any kind of coffee. He lifted the cup and automatically counted one Kapitolina before sipping, wondering if he could make it last to seventeen Kapitolina, the size of the cup that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually rewarded him with. It was hot, and sweeter than he was used to, but tasted good. He took another sip. Two Kapitolina.
"Let's go," Harry said. "They've already called our flight."
Folding his coat over his arm, Lucas followed Harry to a gate farther down the concourse, and was surprised to see how many people had already lined up to hand over their tickets and walk down the skyway to the plane. Only a few remained lounging in their seats, reading newspapers in both English and Russian. Harry steered them to the end of the line and they shuffled slowly forwards. At first, Lucas peered around at everything, trying to take it all in at once, but was soon so overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity that he soon ended up staring down at the floor.
"Here," Harry said, handing back an electronically printed card, and when Lucas hesitated, not knowing what to do, he added, "It's your ticket, Lucas."
Lucas transferred his coffee to his left hand and gripped the ticket in his right, reading it again and again. There was his name, Lucas North. There was the number of the flight and its destination, BD2904, Moscow Domodedovo to London Heathrow, departing at 10.05 and arriving at 11.15. It looked real. It had to be real. Aleksander Dmitrovich had left him here with Harry Pearce. It was real. He was out of prison and flying to London with Harry. It was real.
"Sir? Your ticket?"
Lucas glanced up at the unfamiliar voice and realized that they had made it to the front of the line, and the airline employee was holding out her hand. Slowly, he surrendered the card. The woman ran it through the machine and returned a stub to him with a cheerful smile. "Have a nice flight, sir."
Lucas took the stub and walked quickly to where Harry was waiting at the entrance to the skywalk. Adam came up behind them, and they walked towards the door of the plane. There was a crowd there already, blocked from getting to their seats by the others ahead of them, and Lucas realized that they were all going to be on the same plane. For some reason, the thought worried him, and his anxiety increased as they got closer.
When they finally boarded and were looking for row 22, Lucas thought he heard Harry ask something, but the words didn't register. All that he could see were people, men and women and even children filling every seat and overflowing into every available space. There wasn't going to be enough room for them! Surely the flight was massively overbooked, and it would take off with them still in the aisles, holding on to anything they could grab and jammed face to face with strangers with barely enough room to breathe. It would be like a London bus or tube at rush hour, no, it would be worse, because they wouldn't be stopping every five minutes to let people out.
"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas pulled his eyes away from the alarming sight. His heart was starting to pound, and breathing seemed more difficult all of a sudden. He wanted to plead with Harry to get him out of there, but pleading had never worked in prison, and he stopped himself before he'd said more than, "Harry …"
"You're all right, Lucas," Harry said. "Take a drink of coffee."
Lucas looked down at the cup in his hand, surprised it was still there, and obeyed without stopping to count which sip it was. His hand was shaking, and the coffee, once too sweet, now tasted strangely sour. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"No, you're not. Sit down there by the window," Harry commanded. Lucas swung himself into the seat, pulled the tray table down, placed the coffee cup on it, dropped his coat across his legs, then buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. He was trembling all over.
"Lucas, look at me," Harry said, sliding into the seat next to him. Lucas glanced up, clenching his hands to fists as he saw not only Harry, but all the people behind him as well. Shuffling his feet restlessly back and forth, Lucas clamped his lips shut to keep from screaming.
"You can't panic on board, or we'll never get you home." Harry reached into the inside pocket of his suit and brought out a pen. "They have new rules about disruptive passengers these days. I'm sorry."
Lucas forced his hands to open, then balled them into fists again, too agitated to listen properly. A moment later, Harry thrust the pen close to his face and clicked the button at the end of it. Lucas jerked back, but it was too late, the funny taste of the knockout gas had already filled his mouth. The last thing he knew was Harry saying, "Just close your eyes, and think of England."
Part 2
Timeline: AU, pre-Series 7
Rating: K+
Summary: After eight years in a Russian prison, MI-5 agent Lucas North is released.
Disclaimer: Spooks and all recognizable characters belong to the BBC and Kudos Productions; I am only borrowing them with no intent to profit.
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"Eleven Kapitolina ... twelve Kapitolina ..." Lucas North always added the name of his wife whenever he was counting. Especially during the routine of exercises he'd contrived to combat both the atrophy of his muscles and the boredom of his cell, thinking of her name brought a memory of her face and made him feel closer to her. Before he could grunt "thirteen Kapitolina," however, the sound of footsteps in the corridor stopped at his cell door, and a key rattled in the lock.
Breaking off his pushups, Lucas got to his feet, turning to face the door. He knew at once that it wasn't lunch – not this soon after breakfast. And it wasn't the day that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually came for his talk. This left only the possibility of an unscheduled interrogation session, and Lucas wondered why. What could he tell them after so long? He thought he'd given up all his intelligence secrets ages ago, as they hadn't tortured him for years. They'd left him in isolation since then, and his only contact with the outside came when Aleksander Dmitrovich visited him once every two weeks. His meals were shoved into his cell through a small flap at the bottom of the door. Sometimes Lucas lay down on the floor with his head by the flap, waiting for the guards to bend down and push the tray through, in the hopes that he could at least see their fingers and remind himself that there were other people in the world. On rare occasions, he caught a glimpse of a boot.
But it was Aleksander Dmitrovich, a stereotypical Russian in body type; short and broad, but with a surprisingly high voice. "Lucas Aleksandrovich," he said quietly. Lucas remembered how put out the man had been at discovering that Lucas had no middle name, and how he'd promptly given Lucas one -- his own. Lucas had immediately thought that it was a subtle way of showing that he belonged to Aleksander Dmitrovich now, body and most of his soul, but not like a beloved son. Proof of ownership or not, however, he'd gotten used to the name over the years, and rarely thought of it anymore.
"Aleksander Dmitrovich," Lucas replied, not bothering to hide his surprise or his pleasure. It had been ten days since he'd last seen the man, and he hadn't expected to see him for four more. Even if Aleksander Dmitrovich was going to haul him to the interrogation room, it was still good to see another human. Maybe there'd even be a guard.
"I have a surprise for you," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling a little, but Lucas thought the smile didn't quite meet his eyes. "Come out."
"Come out," was what he always said whenever Lucas got to leave his cell, for a shower, for an interrogation, for their talks, but the part about the surprise was new. Trying not to frown with concentration, Lucas walked out of the cell, following Aleksander Dmitrovich down the corridor. Counting the steps silently, and this time reaching "twenty three Kapitolina," the number that signalled the entrance to the interrogation room, Lucas turned, but to his surprise, Aleksander Dmitrovich kept going. Lucas had to scramble to keep up, especially as they also went by the interview room next door, and around the corner to the only other place that Lucas knew in the prison – the shower room. In the antechamber, there was a table and chair near the door, where Lucas could see not only the usual towel and soap, but also an electric razor, a hair cutting machine, a pair of scissors, and other things underneath. At the back of the table, there was a bundle of folded clothing that was much more colourful than his grey prison uniform.
"Aren't you a lucky boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, smiling again. "It is not even a Saturday and you get a shave, a haircut, a shower, and clean clothes."
"What's going on, Aleksander Dmitrovich?" Lucas asked. He wouldn't allow himself to hope, not just yet. It could all be a ploy, something else to torment him with.
"Be a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich,." the older man said. "Don't ask questions, and you will get a reward. Now, you sit here. I will shave you and cut your hair."
A reward. Lucas felt his mouth water at the thought that it might be coffee. That was the reward that Aleksander Dmitrovich gave him most often, when they spoke. He sat down and leaned his head back for the older man to trim and then shave off his beard. Involuntarily, he remembered the first time Aleksander Dmitrovich had offered him a reward, a drink of coffee. It had been after he'd broken, when he was feeling guilty, sick at himself, and yet relieved that they weren't hurting him any more. The coffee had been vile, but he'd drunk it anyway. Lucas pushed that memory away and replaced it with a more recent one, of accepting a cup of coffee during one of Aleksander Dmitrovich's visits. It was part of a pattern they'd established, Aleksander Dmitrovich asked him a question, just one, and if he was pleased with the answer, he poured coffee for Lucas. If he wasn't, Lucas got only lukewarm water.
Aleksander Dmitrovich finished with the razor, then reached for the machine to cut his hair, shaving it down military short and using the scissors to snip away any stray strands. When he was finished, he tidied everything away, then nodded approvingly. "That will do. Strip down now, body search."
Lucas obeyed, knowing it was just routine. He'd stopped feeling humiliated long ago, and had recently even joked to Aleksander Dmitrovich that he was keeping an eye out for a rat or a mouse in his cell, so that he could kill it and stick it in his armpit as a surprise. His reward that day had been Aleksander Dmitrovich's full-bodied laugh, along with the cup of coffee. But in all the time he'd been in the cell, he'd never seen anything larger than a spider.
"Now, get washed and get dressed," Aleksander Dmitrovich commanded.
Lucas took the towel and soap, and went into the shower. The water was cold, and after making sure he was wet all over, he turned it off before lathering up. It was always cold, even in the summer, but he was good now at washing quickly and efficiently. He had an inkling that he was being transferred somewhere else, somewhere worse. Siberia, perhaps, one of the gulags, but he didn't know why. Why now, after so many years of isolation, with only Aleksander Dmitrovich for company? Drying himself off, he reached for the clothes, and realized with a jolt that they were his own, the things he'd been wearing when he'd been arrested. Lina had bought that shirt for him; he hadn't thought he'd ever see it again. He could remember a time when she'd run her hands up this particular jumper, too, before grabbing his earlobes and giving his head a little shake. Their laughter had been a prelude to a kiss … and other things. He stopped that memory and counted the buttons instead.
Lucas knew he'd lost weight after several years of prison food, but he hadn't realized just how much until he put the clothes on again. They hung, much too big for him now. He could barely keep his trousers up, even after tucking in both his shirt and his jumper. Aleksander Dmitrovich looked at him and shook his head in mock sadness.
"There's almost nothing left of you," he said, then lifted up a manila envelope that Lucas hadn't noticed before and dumped the contents out on the table. Lucas stared for a moment. Amid the other things, he'd spotted a golden wedding band that had almost rolled to the edge – his wedding ring. He picked up it wonderingly, and saw not his own hand, but Lina's, slipping it onto his finger during the ceremony with such enthusiasm that she'd jammed it into the flesh of his hand. He'd pretended to wince, and her smile had faded instantly into abject agony. He could still hear her gasp of dismay, see her relief as he'd smiled again and reassured her it wasn't that bad, he wouldn't be crippled for life. Now, Lucas slid the wedding band over the knuckle of his ring finger and made a loose fist so that it wouldn't slide off again immediately, then reached for the other objects.
His wallet was still fat with money, documents, and various plastic cards. He pushed it into his hip pocket and wondered if the extra weight would be enough to send his trousers sliding down to his knees. Thankfully, they stayed up. Next, Lucas picked up his watch. The battery had gone dead long ago and the display was blank. He laid it over his wrist, then thought better of it, and jammed it into the front pocket of his trousers instead. He stuffed his keyring there, too, then picked up his passport. It had probably expired by now, too, he thought, and flipped it open to check. His own face stared up at him, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. He probably didn't look like that anymore, he thought, and looked away, his eyes landing on the expiration date. 12 May 2006. He pulled down the collar of his jumper and slid the passport into his shirt pocket, scratched his scalp. then glanced up at Aleksander Dmitrovich for further instructions.
Picking up a clipboard and pen, the older man gave them to Lucas, then indicated a space with one stubby finger. "Sign here."
Lucas glanced over the page. It was an old form headed with the words "Possessions of Prisoners," and every single item of his had been detailed, filled in by hand in the spaces provided. He saw his own signature there on the bottom left hand side and looked automatically at that date. September 12, 1999. They'd captured him, stripped him down, and made him sign that they'd inventoried everything he'd had on. He remembered how shaky his hand had been as he'd gripped the pen that day, and realized it was shaking that way again. The space indicated was labelled "Prisoner confirms receipt of specified items," and he signed, then gave the clipboard back. Aleksander Dmitrovich added the date, which Lucas couldn't see, and scrawled his own signature at the bottom.
"You'll need this," Aleksander Dmitrovich said, handing Lucas an overcoat.
"Aleksader Dmitrovich," Lucas exclaimed in true astonishment, pulling it on. It was military issue, without markings, but delightfully warm and heavy. He hugged himself, enjoying the feeling. "Thank you!"
Aleksander Dmitrovich waved his thanks away and picked up something else from the table. "Give me your hands."
Reluctantly letting go of his ribs and putting his hands out for the cuffs, which were cold enough to send a shiver down his spine, Lucas wondered yet again what was going on. Aleksander Dmitrovich wouldn't be sending him to Siberia in his old clothes, would he? If that were the case, it would be more likely he'd get another prison uniform. They must be sending him somewhere else, maybe even -- Lucas stopped that hope, and returned his mind forcibly to Siberia. It was easier to think of Siberia, because whatever happened couldn't be worse than that.
They went up a set of stairs that Lucas had not seen for years now, and through several locked doors before finally emerging outside. It was achingly cold and windy, and the overcoat didn't seem as warm as it had inside. Snow had fallen earlier, but the sun was shining now, and the whiteness was bright enough to blind Lucas. Squeezing his eyes shut, he clapped his hands over his face, then finally recovered enough to squint out through the gap between his wrists. He could just barely stand staring down at the ground and watching Aleksander Dmitrovich's boots. The corner of a car door came into his line of vision, and he glanced up. It wasn't a prisoner transfer van or any other kind of official vehicle. It was, in fact, a beige Mercedes, complete with driver. Blinking both with the light and with surprise, Lucas risked one quick glance at Aleksander Dmitrovich for confirmation.
"Get in, Lucas Aleksandrovich," the older man said. Squinting, Lucas lowered his hands to slip inside and hauled himself automatically to the middle seat in expectation of being squeezed between Aleksander Dmitrovich and a guard. But the door on his left opened, and Aleksander Dmitrovich said, "No, no, take all the room you like, Lucas Aleksandrovich."
Feeling strangely sheepish, Lucas scooted back to his right, fumbling with his seatbelt. Once he'd clicked it into place, Lucas covered his eyes with his hands again. The car started up, and they passed two separate gate checkpoints. Lucas counted them, one Kapitolina, two Kapitolina, then stopped. Somehow, it didn't seem right to say her name out here. Her name belonged indoors, under the artificial light, to routines that he knew backwards and forwards, not to outdoor structures he'd never count again.
As the car drove on, Lucas peeked out once from between his fingers, catching one quick glimpse of snow-covered trees before the light blinded him again. It was the first greenery he had seen since his capture. He'd forgotton that there was such a thing in the world as pine trees, or any other kind of tree, for that matter. Pines made him think of Christmas trees, of Lina and their first Christmas together and how she'd been intrigued about celebrating a religious custom. He'd told her that his family's Christmases were about as religious as Father Frost and the Snow Maiden bringing presents on New Year's Eve, but if Lina had been disappointed, he hadn't been able to tell.
Realizing he'd lost track of the date, Lucas wondered if he'd missed Christmas this year, or if it were still to come. He opened his mouth to ask Aleksander Dmitrovich, then remembered the promised reward, and remained silent. No questions.
The car left the isolated road and joined what sounded like a bustling highway. Lucas risked a few short looks at the cars around them, but it was still too bright and he had to retreat behind his hands again each time. In comparison to the quiet of his cell, the traffic was annoyingly loud.
Eventually, the car left the highway and drove down a very long street lined by a mixture of buildings, some old and some new, with lots of slow-moving traffic. Once, Lucas looked over to Aleksander Dmitrovich, which didn't hurt as much as looking directly outside. Where were they going? A different prison? Then suddenly, Lucas heard the roar of a jet engine, and through the window on Aleksander Dmitrovich's side, he saw a plane coming in very low over the houses.
A airport. They were approaching an airport. Lucas knew that the Russians didn't fly their prisoners to Siberia, so they had to be going somewhere else. Home! his mind cried eagerly, before he shut it up. Don't hope, he told himself firmly. Don't hope. Siberia. Or maybe it was that scare tactic where they put a hood over your head and pretended to push you out of a helicopter a mile high, but you fell all of four feet to the ground. Yes. Torture.
But there was still a part of his mind that didn't believe it, a part that thought longingly of Lina and had even started to hope to actually see her again.
Eventually, the car stopped in front of a familiar-looking structure. The guard got out of the front and opened the door on Lucas' side, holding it open. Lucas fumbled his way out of the car, trying to protect his eyes and stare at the building at the same time. Domodedovo Airport! He recognized it immediately, even if they were several meters away from the main entrance. Aleksander Dmitrovich had already gotten out, now he came around the back of the Mercedes and headed to a smaller door at the corner of the building marked "Staff Only," which he opened with a key card. Alongside the guard, Lucas followed awkwardly, only taking his hands away from his face once they were completely inside.
Here, there were no signs of the bustling terminal that Lucas had expected, just a long, deserted corridor with several doors. Aleksander Dmitrovich strolled down it as though he were at home, leading them up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, until, after another use of the key card, they finally emerged in the departure area. From where they stood, Lucas could see a long row of airport gates, along with the duty free shop and the entrance to a lounge. There were people everywhere, crowding certain gates, scattered in more isolated groups at others, or bustling along with their luggage.
It was so open and so unstructured in comparison to the prison that Lucas felt immediately overwhelmed. He'd yearned for so long to see other people, but … not so many, and not all at once. He didn't realize that he had stopped and was staring until Aleksander Dmitrovich nudged him from behind, and then he staggered for a few steps. They walked in the direction of the lounge, and then Aleksander Dmitrovich turned suddenly to enter the almost-empty waiting area in front of one of the gates. There were only a few passengers there, and as they approached, two of the men in the nearest seats stood up.
"Aleksander Dmitrovich Kuznetsov," one of the men said, and Lucas frowned slightly. He couldn't remember if he'd ever heard Aleksander Dmitrovich's surname. In any case, it wasn't the way the man should be addressed.
"Harry Pearce," Aleksander Dmitrovich said.
Harry Pearce! Lucas' heart gave a little jump at the familiar name, and he stared hard at the man. A bit less hair, a few more wrinkles, but it was unmistakeably him.
"Lucas," Harry said, smiling. The other man, whom Lucas didn't know, was smiling, too.
"Give me your hands," Aleksander Dmitrovich said. It was the first time Lucas had ever heard him speak English, and it took him a moment to realize what the man had said. Slowly, he extended his wrists, and Aleksander Dmitrovich unlocked the handcuffs, then pulled them off. Still speaking English, he reached up and patted Lucas' cheek with one hand. "You've been a good boy, Lucas Aleksandrovich. Here's your reward. You're going home."
"No coffee?" Lucas blurted out before he could stop himself, and Aleksander Dmitrovich laughed. "Harry will buy you coffee from now on. With any luck, we will never see each other again."
He wrapped his arms around Lucas and pulled him close for a quick bear hug, then gave him a kiss on each cheek. Lucas was too startled to react, except to stiffen at the man's touch, and stood dumbfounded, watching in silence as Aleksander Dmitrovich nodded to the two men, then strolled back the way he'd come.
"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas turned his head to meet Harry's gaze.
"Harry," he said, surprised that his voice came out normal, and not as a whisper. Harry reached out and caught Lucas' hand in both of his, gripping it strongly before letting go.
"This is Adam Carter." Harry indicated the blond man next to him, who was as tall as Lucas himself. "Adam, this is Lucas North."
"Hello," Adam said, and Lucas echoed the word. They shook hands, too.
"Adam, go get Lucas some coffee," Harry said, indicating a machine nearby. Adam went off without a word, and Harry pulled something out of the pocket of his coat. "I think you'll need this."
It was a belt, rolled into a tight coil. Lucas took it.
"I never pick up anybody from Russia without bringing one," Harry went on.
"Are you really here to pick me up?" Lucas asked slowly. He hadn't spoken English in such a long time. "This isn't a joke?"
"It's no joke, Lucas. You're coming home."
Lucas suddenly remembered something and felt a rush of panic. "Harry, my passport's expired."
"It's all right, Lucas, we've got you a new one." He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out a British passport, opening it to show Lucas a copy of the picture he'd just seen in his old passport. "Put the belt on, hmm?"
Lucas removed his coat, then threaded the belt through the belt loops of his trousers, tightening it until it was comfortable. It was such a relief not to have to worry about losing his clothes that he sighed deeply. "Spasiba—" Harry frowned, and Lucas realized he'd spoken Russian. He tried again. "Thank you, Harry."
Adam came back then and extended a small steaming cup in Lucas' direction. "I put milk and sugar in, I hope you don't mind."
"Thank you." Lucas would have drunk any kind of coffee. He lifted the cup and automatically counted one Kapitolina before sipping, wondering if he could make it last to seventeen Kapitolina, the size of the cup that Aleksander Dmitrovich usually rewarded him with. It was hot, and sweeter than he was used to, but tasted good. He took another sip. Two Kapitolina.
"Let's go," Harry said. "They've already called our flight."
Folding his coat over his arm, Lucas followed Harry to a gate farther down the concourse, and was surprised to see how many people had already lined up to hand over their tickets and walk down the skyway to the plane. Only a few remained lounging in their seats, reading newspapers in both English and Russian. Harry steered them to the end of the line and they shuffled slowly forwards. At first, Lucas peered around at everything, trying to take it all in at once, but was soon so overwhelmed by the sheer mass of humanity that he soon ended up staring down at the floor.
"Here," Harry said, handing back an electronically printed card, and when Lucas hesitated, not knowing what to do, he added, "It's your ticket, Lucas."
Lucas transferred his coffee to his left hand and gripped the ticket in his right, reading it again and again. There was his name, Lucas North. There was the number of the flight and its destination, BD2904, Moscow Domodedovo to London Heathrow, departing at 10.05 and arriving at 11.15. It looked real. It had to be real. Aleksander Dmitrovich had left him here with Harry Pearce. It was real. He was out of prison and flying to London with Harry. It was real.
"Sir? Your ticket?"
Lucas glanced up at the unfamiliar voice and realized that they had made it to the front of the line, and the airline employee was holding out her hand. Slowly, he surrendered the card. The woman ran it through the machine and returned a stub to him with a cheerful smile. "Have a nice flight, sir."
Lucas took the stub and walked quickly to where Harry was waiting at the entrance to the skywalk. Adam came up behind them, and they walked towards the door of the plane. There was a crowd there already, blocked from getting to their seats by the others ahead of them, and Lucas realized that they were all going to be on the same plane. For some reason, the thought worried him, and his anxiety increased as they got closer.
When they finally boarded and were looking for row 22, Lucas thought he heard Harry ask something, but the words didn't register. All that he could see were people, men and women and even children filling every seat and overflowing into every available space. There wasn't going to be enough room for them! Surely the flight was massively overbooked, and it would take off with them still in the aisles, holding on to anything they could grab and jammed face to face with strangers with barely enough room to breathe. It would be like a London bus or tube at rush hour, no, it would be worse, because they wouldn't be stopping every five minutes to let people out.
"Lucas," Harry said, and Lucas pulled his eyes away from the alarming sight. His heart was starting to pound, and breathing seemed more difficult all of a sudden. He wanted to plead with Harry to get him out of there, but pleading had never worked in prison, and he stopped himself before he'd said more than, "Harry …"
"You're all right, Lucas," Harry said. "Take a drink of coffee."
Lucas looked down at the cup in his hand, surprised it was still there, and obeyed without stopping to count which sip it was. His hand was shaking, and the coffee, once too sweet, now tasted strangely sour. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"No, you're not. Sit down there by the window," Harry commanded. Lucas swung himself into the seat, pulled the tray table down, placed the coffee cup on it, dropped his coat across his legs, then buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe deeply. He was trembling all over.
"Lucas, look at me," Harry said, sliding into the seat next to him. Lucas glanced up, clenching his hands to fists as he saw not only Harry, but all the people behind him as well. Shuffling his feet restlessly back and forth, Lucas clamped his lips shut to keep from screaming.
"You can't panic on board, or we'll never get you home." Harry reached into the inside pocket of his suit and brought out a pen. "They have new rules about disruptive passengers these days. I'm sorry."
Lucas forced his hands to open, then balled them into fists again, too agitated to listen properly. A moment later, Harry thrust the pen close to his face and clicked the button at the end of it. Lucas jerked back, but it was too late, the funny taste of the knockout gas had already filled his mouth. The last thing he knew was Harry saying, "Just close your eyes, and think of England."
Part 2