"A Voice in the Dark" (Lucas/OC; Thriller/Romance- PG13/R) Chapter III
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 III
When she came round it was to find herself lying in what she assumed was a very comfortable sofa since, although her hands were tied and a blindfold prevented her from seeing her surroundings, the lack of movement and the ample leg room meant she wasn't in the back seat or the boot of a car.
Her jaw hurt and she was still a little dizzy after breathing in a moderate amount of chloroform. It was clear that whoever had seized her from her flat had wanted to make sure she wouldn't try to escape or loosen her blindfold and see enough to know where they were heading.
So far she didn't have an inkling of her whereabouts, only the nagging feeling that the Russians were somehow involved in her kidnapping, that or she'd been dreaming with the voice in the dark once again.
“Miss Reed?” asked a slightly accented velvety baritone she located immediately behind the sofa.
Her head was pulsing and that voice with its modulated deep tone didn't help clear her already confused thoughts. Politeness wasn't what she'd have ever expected from a kidnapper.
“I..” she began answering in a voice which sounded raspy and alien to her own ears. “I don't know what it is you want with me,” she added after swallowing to ease the dryness of her throat, “but this has to be some kind of mistake.”
“You're Annabelle Reed, are you not?” he stated matter-of-factly.
“As I told you before, you've got the wrong person,” she insisted, struggling against the pounding in her head and the barely disguised tremor in her voice.
“We aren't amateurs, Annabelle. We don't make mistakes. We've been waiting a long time for you to come back home.”
“We? Look, I don't know what you think I have that could interest you. I'm just a boring thirty-something with a nine-to-five job which doesn't pay that well. I don't understand what would make you hit and tie up somebody like me, unless you got a kick out of kidnapping defenceless women to have your way with them.”
“I apologise for any manhandling. You took my partner by surprise; he had orders to bring you here unharmed, but I wouldn't describe you as a regular damsel in distress. And I'm not a rapist or some twisted psychopath who enjoys hurting women. You're here only to talk.”
“There are more civilised ways to approach a woman for a conversation than having her kidnapped and restrained.”
“I just want to ask you some questions, Miss Reed,” he told her in a soft and pleasant tone which did odd things to her stomach.
She needed to take a painkiller; maybe then she'd be able to identify what it was about this man that tickled her consciousness. He had had her kidnapped and yet, there was no trace of threat in his voice. Annabelle didn't know what to make of that. If anything, it made her more jittery since that might mean he was unpredictable.
The rumours she'd heard of what had been done to Adam before his death came unbidden to her mind and so did her memory of the agonised whispers which still haunted her in the dark. Would she be able to put up with the level of pain both men had suffered without breaking? She doubted it; it was just a question of how long she'd last before giving in. That was one of the reasons she'd worked mostly on The Grid; being a full-time field officer demanded a power of resilience her sensitive nature would probably never have.
“Whatever it is you've got planned for me, just do it. But you won't get anything from me because there's nothing to tell,” she replied, hiding how scared she was behind a mask of defiance.
“You've got nothing to fear. As I said before, I had you brought here only to talk. I've no intention of inflicting any bodily harm on you,” said he in his chocolatey voice.
“Please, don't insult my intelligence,” she told him in a scathing tone.
“There are more subtle ways to get the answers I'm looking for than resorting to torture.”
“Drugs? I really don't see the difference; they're just another form of violation in disguise.”
“Believe me, there's a difference. Pray to God you'll never get to experience it.”
There was a fair chance he was playing with her and yet, she could feel relief wash over her. She'd perceived something in his voice, something indefinable which told her he wouldn't hurt her. Maybe she was clutching at straws because she was scared witless.
“Why don't I tell you a story? You don't have to do anything but listen and assent if I've got the details right,” he suggested after a slight pause.
Her captor's faint accent did nothing but add an appealling extra quality to his beautifully rich voice. Annabelle couldn't help but remember all those training lectures about kidnapping victims and the Stockholm Syndrome. Could it be she was endowing her captor with attributes that weren't actually there?
“Six months ago your people carried out an internal hush-hush operation which ended up with a senior field officer behind bars for treason. Her name was Connie James. The intel that was used to identify her as a mole was provided by a man your agency traded for an FSB asset. Sir Harry Pearce, the Head of Section D, set up a meeting to debrief the source after the pick-up turned into a bloodshed with several officers out of commission, including Arkady Kachimov- the new FSB head of operations in London. Somebody sold your source out, someone within MI5, and Harry Pearce's the only secret service officer to have survived the armed confrontation virtually unscathed.”
A long silence stretched out between them as she assimilated everything her captor had said. She didn't need this man to spell it out more clearly; he believed Harry Pearce was somehow guilty of what had happened to the man in the dark. She had suspected there were things her superior hadn't shared with either Adam or her, but the idea of Harry as a double agent responsible for their asset's torture and subsequent death was too painful to consider.
“Do you remember that operation?” he asked quietly.
“I'm a linguist. Languages are my area of expertise. I don't know anything about secret operations.”
“You, Sir Harry Pearce, Adam Carter and Dr Delaney were airborne to an eighteenth-century castle half an hour away from London, where your agonising asset was debriefed, and you were the officer in charge of the interview. You personally typed everything he had to say into your laptop. Do you now remember that night, Miss Reed?”
How could she ever forget? She was still haunted by the memory of being enveloped by darkness, with only the glow of the screen to register every word whispered by the dying man whose death she'd grieved deeply, despite their brief acquaintance.
“Annabelle, do you remember that man? Can you tell me his name?”
The question was unexpected and made the purpose of her kidnapping even more confusing. The Russians knew the identity of the man; they'd handed him over after torturing and beating him up within an inch of his life. Why would he ask her to give him a name he already had?
“I told you I don't know what you're talking about.”
“All I want is a name.”
“I can't give you what I don't have,” she insisted.
A blanket of silence fell over the room, disturbed only by a weary sigh and the rustle of clothing as he shifted his body in the seat across from her.
“Two agents are dead; six,counting the ones that were shot at the rendezvous point. Half the team that was at the castle with you and Pearce is deceased,” he went on to explain, leaning forward and teasing her senses with the subtle but utterly masculine aroma of his aftershave. “Adam Carter, Dr Delaney... Are you ready to be the next?”
The question sent a chill down her spine, making her swallow nervously. She wasn't Ros Myers; her colleague would have never let him read the fear written on her face.
“You questioned both of them and you still have no answer?”
“They didn't have it. That leaves you... and...”
“Well, as I've told you countless times, I don't have the information you want.”
“... Sir Harry Pearce,” he finished. “Maybe he's the only one who knows the name,” he added, giving voice to the thought that had been circling her mind. She was the one who'd been closest to their asset and yet she'd never known his name; she hadn't even asked it. For a fleeting moment she'd felt tempted to because if there was one thing she hated about their job was that so many gave their lives, left grieving families behind and ended up in an obscure dossier or as a carved name on a cold concealed wall; unsung heroes who only lived in the memory of a select few until their time came too. And yet, she was now glad Harry hadn't shared the man's name with her since she'd hate to be the one responsible for desecrating his memory when her captor broke her; for break her he would.
“You keep mentioning this Sir something or other, but I don't know what it is you're talking about.”
“Annabelle...” he began in a silky voice that she was sure would manage to charm even the coldest-blooded member of her gender.
“Stop using my first name! Nobody's given you the right!” she hissed. No one outside The Grid called her by her Christian name, no one ever had... until that night in the dark when she'd broken her golden rule. And hearing it on her captor's lips hurt her in some unfathomable way; it reminded her of long-forgotten dreams of a normal life she knew she'd never have. All she could hope for now was a few stolen moments when she could pretend she was the kind that didn't care for forever.
“Miss Reed, someone knows his name. I just want to know who.”
“Why?!” she finally exploded, telling herself it was useless to keep denying any involvement when he clearly knew more about the people who'd taken part in the operation than she ever had. Maybe she could get some answers at last. “Why do you want to know his name? He's dead.”
“Is that what Harry Pearce told you?” he asked in an even tone which betrayed nothing. “And you believed him?”
“What are you hinting at? Of course I believed him. I was there, as you very well know. There was no need for lies. The man was dying in front of my eyes... “
“Who's to say he didn't live longer? Were you there when he passed away?”
“There's no way..,” she swallowed painfully. “He'd been tortured and brutally beaten...”
“I know...” he said quietly.
“Harry told me the man died that night,” she repeated in as controlled a voice as she could muster. She'd had her own doubts about how much of the truth her superior had told her, but she wasn't going to share her lingering uncertainties with this man, no matter how pleasantly seductive his voice was. Everyone close to their dead informant and the rest of her own team would be at risk.
“You're an intelligent woman, Ann... Miss Reed. Lying is part and parcel of who Sir Harry Pearce is. It goes with the territory. “
Of course she knew that. She wasn't that naïve. Knowing how to lie was a necessary asset in their world and was one she'd struggled to master after joining MI5 following a collaboration with Section D four years ago. Although she'd had a lot of scruples when the offer to join was presented to her, her mother's mounting hospital bills and expensive treatments tipped the scales. MI5 offered her a better pay and health insurance than her job as a university lecturer so, eventually, she decided it would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth and took up the offer.
“Why is it so important for you to find out who knew his name?” she asked the man she suspected had ordered or taken part in their asset's demise.
“Have you ever stopped to think how and where your source got the information he provided you with?”
“I don't know.”
“I think you do. You just don't want to see the truth...” he suggested quietly.
“And what's the truth?! Enlighten me,” she told him bitterly, struggling to sit up and hating herself for her weakness, for discussing details of a secret op with the enemy, for letting his calm and beautiful voice seduce her.
“You're exhausted. Let's leave it till tomorrow,” he replied softly as if he really cared about her well-being. “Come,” he added, getting up and grabbing her elbow to help her straighten up.
“Don't touch me!” she shook him off. “I can do it,” she gritted, taking a few steps until a bout of dizziness seized her and she collapsed.
“Tom!” he shouted, struggling with her dead weight.
“What happened?” asked the 6ft-3in man who barged into the room to find his old friend on the floor holding the faint prisoner in his arms.
“потерял сознание,” he replied slightly breathless.
“English, please,” Tom cocked an eyebrow and knelt down to relieve him of her weight.
“Sorry... She passed out.”
“I can see that. It must be the stress and the lack of food. She didn't touch the tray I brought her.”
“Her skin's clammy. She needs to ingest something sugary to boost the glucose in her blood.”
“I've restocked the fridge. Why don't you fetch something while I take her upstairs?” suggested Tom at the foot of the stairs.
“Я ненавижу все это;, ” mumbled the other man, looking at the pale face of the beautiful young woman, whose head lolled against his best friend's shoulder.
“I'm seriously considering taking a crash course in Russian. Does that mean you agree?” frown Tom.
“Be off with you. I'll be up in a moment.”
* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~* ~*
Я ненавижу все это. 'I hate all this' she'd heard someone mumble in Russian from a long way off before letting go into the darkness.
“Miss Reed... Annabelle.”
A whispering voice called her name and she blinked slowly, fighting off the lingering neuralgia in her jaw and the pounding in her head.
“Annabelle.”
The voice was real and close. It wasn't a dream. She was no longer wearing a blindfold but darkness surrounded her; for a minute there she was reminded of that black room six months ago.
“Do you remember who the current Prime Minister is?”
“Brown. Gordon Brown,” she whispered.
“And do you know what day it is?”
“I don't know how long I've been here. One day? Must be Friday.”
“What's your mobile phone number?”
“What? You want a date? I thought we'd established you aren't one to follow the rules. You could have invited me a cup of coffee to have a civilised chat, instead of having your goon knock me out and drag me to your cave.”
A rich and pleasant laugh came out of the darkness, taking her by surprise.
“I'm glad to see I was right; you're a beautiful lady but you also have claws. Sir Harry's always had a keen eye when it comes to recruiting his people.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, adjusting her eyes in an attempt to make out his shadow in the darkness which enveloped them.
“You hit your head when you fainted. I'm just trying to find out if you have a concussion.”
“I'm pretty articulate, wouldn't you say? And you haven't answered my question.”
“Who was your informant?”
“For the umpteenth time... I don't know. And he's dead. He's been dead six months. You made him suffer enough. Why don't you let him rest in peace at last? ”
No answer came from across the room and yet she could feel his presence and smell his subtle aftershave as beguiling as his softly-spoken voice.
Suddenly lethargic, and strangely relaxed, despite being under her captor's watch, she slowly drifted back to the safe realm of sleep.
“You should know better than to fall for a pretty face. This is looking more and more like an obsession to me, mate,” said Tom gravely when his best friend joined him in the living room.
“Half of the team's dead, murdered. And those casualties won't be the last. You know this isn't just about me; I've got others to think of.”
“I could hasten the process if you allowed me to do what I suggested in the first place.”
“No! No drugs.”
“Why not? Is it because you're afraid of the answers you might get? Maybe you don't want to find out the truth after all. I wouldn't blame you if... “
“Are you looking for a fight?” asked the coldly controlled voice.
“No, I just want to make sure you're keeping your eyes on the ball... ”
“The money in her account might be evidence, but it's not conclusive proof of her involvement.”
“I understand you need a reprieve- God knows you've earned it- but don't let your feelings for this girl, whatever they're are, blind you.”
“You didn't hesitate to put a bullet in Harry when he thought you a traitor. Do you believe I'd have qualms to do the same if I discovered he's somehow involved in all this?”
“We aren't talking about Sir Harry Pearce here.”
“No, we are talking about what I'm capable of. That should answer your question.”
GO TO CHAPTER 4
A/N 2: I know there are a couple of issues that might be disconcerting for those of you who live in the UK- the mounting hospital bills and her reasons for joining MI5 (mainly her salary). I'll make sure to explain them in coming chapters.
GO TO CHAPTER IV