A Department S Story by AZombieWrites

In an attempt to keep a case unsolved, the agents of Department S are abducted. Kept hidden away in an isolated location. When two of them escape plans begin to unravel leaving one life at risk.

CHAPTER 1

Stewart Sullivan walked through the open door into the small tearoom. The cafe almost abandoned. Stopped. His gaze wandered, searching, finding Sir Curtis Seretse sitting at a table at the back of the tearoom in a darkened corner. Privacy assured. Sullivan made his way through the maze of tables and chairs. Destination reached. He sat down, expression stoic as a twinge of pain gripped his side. A reminder his body required more time to heal. A recommendation of an extra two weeks medical leave given. The advice ignored by everyone when Sir Seretse called with a case that would be detrimental to the security of MI5 if not solved with quiet efficiency.

“Sir Curtis.”

“Sullivan,” said Seretse, leaning forward, elbows on the table, fingers entwined beneath his chin. His own gaze searched for something Sullivan was unwilling to reveal. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“The Doctor’s recommendation is unnecessary,” said Sullivan. He adjusted his position. A subtle movement giving very little away. The change of position relieved the pressure against his back, the edge of the chair digging at the injury on his right side. Pain he didn’t want surfaced, making it difficult to keep a calm facade. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. A dead giveaway. Could feel the exhaustion still pulling at his limbs. “I’ll be fine.”

“I would believe you, Sullivan. If you weren’t so pale.”

Sullivan smiled. Raised his left hand, resting it on the table. Finding the corner of a folded napkin, fingers began to play with its edge. “I didn’t realise I was so transparent?”

“You hide it well but,” Seretse waved a hand in the air. “I trust you know what you’re doing. You wouldn’t risk national security if you weren’t physically up to the job.”

A moment of hesitation.

“There’s some pain still. I’ve worked under the same circumstances before. It won’t be a problem.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am.”

“Breakfast?”

“Just coffee thank you.”

A frown. Decision made. A nod of acceptance. Seretse motioned for the waiter hovering a short distance away. An order for breakfast made. A full English breakfast. Sullivan grateful he wasn’t required to stay.

A shadow of movement to his left. Sullivan turned his head. Looked toward the front of the tearoom. A man, tall, thin, face plain, suit bland, walked through the door. Sat down at the table closest to the door. Taking a moment, the man stared at Sullivan. Gaze unflinching, Sullivan stared back. The man looked away and picked up a menu, hiding his face.

A suspicious interaction.

Precaution taken, he hadn’t been followed. He was certain. Coincidence? Sullivan didn’t think so. He’d been in the job too long to believe in coincidences. A nagging feeling scratched at the back of his neck, hairs standing up in warning. A confrontation may be required.

“Sullivan?”

Gaze pulled away. A slow process, returning his attention back to Seretse. A thin black folder, the letter S embossed in red on the cover. Held out toward him, Seretse waiting, a little impatient. Sullivan took the folder. Opened it. A glance to his left. The man quickly looked away.

“Henry Declan. A high-ranking member of British Intelligence,” said Seretse. “Abducted from his home last night. His wife and live-in housekeeper were home at the time. The police couldn’t get much out of them. You may have better luck.”

Sullivan looked down at the black and white photograph of Henry Declan. Mid-forties. Face heavy with weight. Nose a little too large, lips thin, his eyes dark. A comb-over covering a receding hairline. He lifted the photo. A single sheet of paper beneath. Names and an address. Sullivan retrieved a small notebook and pen from an inside pocket of his jacket. Wrote down the required information. Returned the notebook and pen.

“We need to find him, Sullivan,” said Seretse. “If Declan was taken by the Russians . . . He is aware of the location of several agents in Russia. MI5 are unwilling to extract them. They don’t want to act prematurely.”

“It’s possible he was taken by someone not involved with the business of spying.”

“Everything is possible.”

“Should I be considering another possibility?”

“No. Unless something else comes up, we’re going to assume that he was taken to gain information of agents in Russia. We have everyone working on this. Including the police.”

“What time was he abducted?” said Sullivan, closing the folder and placing it on the table.

Silence fell, the waiter returning. They waited. Coffee served, the waiter walked away. A return to conversation.

“Sometime last night.”

“Or sometime early this morning.”

“We’re going to assume sometime last night,” said Seretse.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Sullivan turned his head. The tall, thin man looked away. “Do you know him?”

Seretse frowned. Followed Sullivan’s gaze. “No. Why?”

Waited a moment. Turned back to Seretse. “If it were the Russians . . . they’ve had him long enough. They could have the locations of the MI5 agents already.”

“We believe he can hold out until we find him.”

Gaze down. Stirring a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee, Sullivan said, “Torture can break a man.”

Seretse stared at Sullivan. “It didn’t break you.”

Fingers slipped. The teaspoon dropped. A splash of coffee over the rim of the cup.

There were moments when he thought he could still feel the pain. Still hear his own screams. There were nights he couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares. So many times he’d come so close to giving up . . .

Coffee untouched, Sullivan stood and walked away. Reached the occupied table at the front of the tearoom, stopping beside the seated man. He stood still. Shoulders back. Waited. The man looked up, a bead of sweat making its way down the side of his face. A nervous reaction. Sullivan continued to wait. Silent. The man began to fidget. Pushed his chair back. Stood. At least two inches taller than Sullivan.

“Do you have the time?” said Sullivan.

The man sat back down, confidence returning. “I’m sorry?”

“The time. Do you have it?”

The man looked down . . .

Sullivan wasn’t in the mood for games. Patience lacking.

A quick, explosive punch. Sullivan’s fist slammed against the man’s left temple. A sudden and expected result. The man collapsed, upper body hitting the table. Sullivan grimaced, pain snapping at his side. He leaned over, clenching his jaw when the pain reached a higher level. Fingers searched the man’s pockets. A wallet found and removed. Sullivan stood upright. A slow movement, the pain finally fading into a dull throb.

Sullivan opened the wallet. A small amount of cash. No more than five pounds. Identification. John Finch. The name as unfamiliar as the face that went with it. An address in Stratford. Nothing else. He threw the wallet onto the table. Glanced back over his shoulder. Sir Seretse was watching him. A touch of pride and concern marring his dark features.

Sullivan turned and walked out of the tearoom.

Annabelle Hurst drove the white Vauxhall Victor FD down a long, dirt driveway. Tall elm trees lined the road, filtering the sun, shadows playing across the windscreen. In the distance, a picturesque cottage. The home of Henry and Alice Declan. Distance closing. More of the cottage revealed. Stretched wide and set low. Painted white. Chequered windows framed in black. More windows set in the dark thatched roof. A bright, colourful garden. It belonged on the front of an English chocolate box.

“It’s beautiful,” said Annabelle, a small smile on her face.

In the passenger seat, Sullivan leaned forward. A better look. “Quaint.”

Annabelle turned her head. A quick glance. A charitable expression. “Quaint?” Gaze returned to the front.

“Old-fashioned. Charming. Oddly picturesque,” said Sullivan.

Eyes bright with amusement, Annabelle smiled.

Sullivan sat back against the seat. A mistake. Unable to hold back a reaction, he turned away from Annabelle. A pained expression. He took a shallow breath. Let it out. It did little to help. The pain had become a reliable companion. Not what he wanted.

The car followed the curve of the road, stopping in front of the cottage. Annabelle turned off the engine and sat back. Waited. Her head slightly turned, watching, searching for a sign of discomfort from Sullivan. Very subtle. Her gaze shifted when the front door of the cottage opened. A short woman with closely cropped blonde hair stood in the doorway, her gaze suspicious. She stepped forward onto the path, moving slowly, an angry expression appearing across her features.

Sullivan opened the car door. Twisted his upper body and stepped out of the car. Ignored the pain biting his side. Mind over matter. Before Annabelle could make a comment about his health, Sullivan moved forward, closer to the woman, he assumed was Mrs. Declan. Reached into his pocket. Identification removed.

Fingers brushed his lower back. Annabelle beside him. The physical touch a show of concern. A question he was in no mood to answer. He wanted to move away. Create some distance. Stood his ground, unable to hurt her feelings. Get on with the damn job.

“Mrs. Declan,” said Sullivan.

She wasn’t a natural beauty. Face harsh, masculine. Body full of sharp edges. No curves. At a closer look, hair colour a bottle job. “I’m Miss. Townsend.”

“The live-in housekeeper.”

“Yes.”

“We’d like to talk to Mrs. Declan.”

“You’re American.” Not a question. A factual statement. “What do you want with Mrs. Declan?”

His mood turned sour. Not difficult. Sullivan moved without hesitation. He walked around Miss. Townsend and through the open front door. Ignored her spluttering protests. Annabelle moved with him, staying by his side. His gaze travelled the entryway. Just as quaint as the outside. Low ceilings. Wood panelling patterned the walls. Expensive furniture. Antiques.

Miss. Townsend appeared in front of them. Arms out, fingers splayed. An attempt to stop them moving further into the cottage.

Annabelle smiled and said, “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Declan. Please.”

“I’m going to call the police.”

Sullivan stepped forward. “Mrs. Declan. Where is she?”

“Here.”

They turned to the right. Mrs. Declan stood in an open doorway. Tall. Thin. Young and very pretty. Not what Sullivan had expected. Auburn hair styled high. Sleeveless red dress, the hem floating a few inches above her knees. She stepped forward. A graceful movement. “Do I need to call the police?”

“No,” said Sullivan, showing her his identification.

“Interpol.”

Situation defused. Identification returned to an inside pocket of his jacket.

“We’d like to talk to you about your husband’s abduction.” Movement at his side. Miss. Townsend quickly fleeing the scene. Sullivan frowned. “You too, Miss. Townsend.”

Miss Townsend stopped. Eyes wide. Hands held against her chest, fingers making a valiant effort to create a tight knot.

“We’d also like to see the room where the abduction took place,” said Annabelle.

“Do you have to call it an abduction?” said Mrs. Declan. She raised her hand, fingers hovering over her forehead. A change of mind, her hand falling back to her side. “It’s this way.” She turned on the balls of her feet. Walked back into the room she had come from.

“Miss. Townsend,” said Sullivan. “If you don’t mind.”

Her expression obvious. She did mind. No choice given, she followed Mrs. Declan.

Annabelle and Sullivan walked into the room. Stopped in the crowded space, the room small. A home office. A large desk. A large, red leather chair behind it. Two matching chairs stood at attention in front of the desk. A dark, red curtain drawn across what looked to be a large window. Bookshelves lined the right wall. A small collection of Jason King novels. Of course. The left wall filled with framed photographs. Alice Declan the subject of each photo.

A suffocating environment. Not enough space.

Sullivan walked behind the desk. Sat down. The chair was soft against his back, his right side. Sitting forward, he switched on the desk lamp, illuminating the area in front of him. He pulled a draw open. An immediate find. A small handgun. He lifted it, barrel close to his nose. Sniffed. Not recently fired. He placed it back in the draw. Began a thorough search of Declan’s desk.

“Is that necessary?” said Mrs. Declan.

All business, Annabelle turned to Mrs. Declan. “Anything you can tell us about what happened last night would be very helpful, Mrs. Declan.”

“Please. Call me Alice.”

Sullivan shut a drawer. A little heavy handed. The snap of sound turning heads.

“Alice,” said Annabelle. A slight nod of encouragement.

“There isn’t much I can tell you,” said Alice. “I went to bed early-“

“At what time?”

“About eight, I think.”

“You don’t normally go to bed at that time?” said Annabelle.

“No. I’ve been feeling unwell. Do you mind if I sit down?”

Sullivan looked up. Frowned. Familiar crease appearing between his eyebrows. His gaze found Annabelle but she seemed unconcerned. He trusted her. He returned to what, so far, was an unsuccessful search. No secret documents. No threatening letters. Nothing so far to suggest an ulterior motive for the abduction of Henry Declan. He slammed another drawer shut. A show of frustration.

He was tired. Beyond exhausted. In pain, a constant ache in his side. The bullet wound slow to heal. Broken rib taking too long to mend. His temper short, ready to snap at anyone and everyone. It wasn’t like him. Usually so calm; carried beneath a thin veil, a threat of violence, a strength that belied his thin frame. He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a month. The case a serious threat to national security, he had no choice but to keep going.

Alice Declan sat down. Leaned back and crossed her legs. A picture of normality.

“Any loud noises-“

“I took a sleeping pill. Slept right through it.”

Convenient. Sullivan smiled. No humour in his expression. He abandoned the search of the desk. Nothing found. He stood and faced the curtained window. Raised his left hand, fingers gripping the thick curtain.

Annabelle sat down next to Alice. “And when you woke this morning.”

Pulled the curtain aside. The window not as large as he had thought. It was open, the lower part of the window lifted up. Close to the window’s lock, a square piece of glass was missing. Sullivan looked down. Brown carpet beneath his shoes. Rubbed the tip of his shoe against the grain. No glass fragments.

“Was this broken last night?” said Sullivan, turning to look at Mrs. Declan.

“Yes. I found it like that this morning.”

Sullivan frowned. This was all wrong. If Declan had been in here when the window was broken. Time taken to unlock it. Open it. Move the curtain aside. To gain entry. Enough time given to Declan to do something. Enough time to open the top draw, remove the gun.

“Your husband was in this room last night?” said Sullivan.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. When I woke up, Henry wasn’t beside me. It’s not unusual for him to work through the night. I expected to find him here . . . working. He wasn’t. When I saw the broken window, I knew something was wrong. Henry wasn’t in the house and his car was still in the garage so I called the police.”

“The broken glass?”

“I’m sorry?”

Patience thinning further. “Where is it?”

Miss. Townsend raised her right hand, the appendage trembling. “I cleaned it up.”

“You seem very nervous, Miss. Townsend,” said Sullivan. “Why is that?”

Alice smiled. “Sarah has what you would call . . . an infliction. She’s nervous by nature.”

Sullivan looked at Sarah. She returned his stare. “Really. An infliction that only manifested after she found out we were from Interpol.”

Alice stood. Outraged. “What are you insinuating, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I’m not insinuating, Mrs. Declan.”

He turned back to the window, gaze searching the frame. It was clean. Too clean. The police called; a search for fingerprints made. It wouldn’t matter. A professional job. Sullivan sure they would have worn gloves. “Did the police check the window for fingerprints?”

Expression uncertain, Alice sat back down into the chair. Watched Sullivan. “Yes. But I got the impression they didn’t find any.”

“You also cleaned the window?” said Sullivan, once more turning to look at Miss. Townsend.

Sarah glanced downward. Looked back up at him. Defiant.

Sullivan nodded. “You’re very efficient, aren’t you?” He turned away before she could respond. Leaned forward. Hands on the bottom of the frame. Stuck his upper body through the window. Below, the ground hard. No footprints.

Annabelle stood up. Moved close to Sarah. A few short steps. She smiled. “Did you see or hear anything last night?”

Sarah Townsend shook her head, her gaze snapping away from Sullivan to Annabelle. “No. I didn’t. I was in my room on the other side of the cottage.”

Sullivan pulled himself back in. Stepped toward the wall of photos. Two long strides. The room really was too small. He lifted a frame off the wall. Turned it over. Removed the backing. Nothing. He returned the backing to the frame. Placed the photo back on the wall. So many photos. This was going to take a while.

“Surely, you’re not going to check every frame?” said Alice.

Sullivan looked back over his shoulder. A look of disbelief on Mrs. Declan’s face. He turned back. Removed another frame from the wall. Her question answered.

“Neither of you saw nor heard anything?” said Annabelle.

Said in unison. Succinct. “No.”

“What about the last couple of days? A car that shouldn’t be there? Strangers coming to your front door? Someone watching the cottage?”

Alice frowned. Manicured eyebrows drawn downward. “The day before yesterday. A man came to the door. He wanted to know if the cottage was for sale. He tried to come inside. He said he wanted to see the inside of the cottage. Do you think it’s connected?”

Sullivan turned. Curious. Suspicious. “What did he look like?”

“Like someone you wouldn’t remember,” said Alice. “He-“

“Tall. Thin. Plain face. Cheap suit?” said Sullivan.

“Yes,” said Alice. She leaned forward in the chair. Her own curiosity piqued. “Do you know him?”

“I had a one-sided altercation with him this morning.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Did he give you a name?”

Annabelle stepped away from Miss. Townsend. Stood at the far left side of the wall. Removed a photo frame. Checked it with efficiency. Put it back. Took another. Movements repetitive, slowly making her way across the wall.

“He told me his name was George Smith.”

“John Finch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“His real name is John Finch,” said Sullivan. “Does the name sound familiar?”

“No.”

“Did he arrive by car?”

“I didn’t see one. I assumed he walked.”

“What about you, Sarah.” Use of her first name a surprise, caught off guard. “Do you know a John Finch?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Do you need to take a moment to think about it?”

“Stewart,” said Annabelle.

Anger flared at the interruption. “Sarah? Do you know John Finch?”

Miss. Townsend sighed. A deep breath exhaled. “No. I don’t.”

Sullivan stood still. Arms by his side. His gaze steady, unmoving. He didn’t believe her. A different approach was required. Turning away, he faced Annabelle. She stood by the wall, her back to the room. A photo frame in one hand. Photo in the other. He stepped up beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. Correction. A set of photos. Sullivan frowned. Looked up, gaze connecting with Annabelle. She handed him the photos. Explicit photos. Not Alice Declan. Not her husband.

“Does he look familiar?” said Annabelle, her voice low, a soft whisper.

Sullivan shuffled through the photos. A man and woman in the throes of passion. “Alex Turnbull. Declan’s boss. I don’t recognise the woman. Do you?”

Mrs. Declan stepped forward, around the chair. “Did you find something? What is it?”

Annabelle shook her head. “I do know she isn’t his wife. Do you think Turnbull arranged Declan’s abduction? If he knew Declan had these photos . . .”

“Blackmail,” said Sullivan.

“Why else would he have them?”

“There is no other reason.”

“Declan wasn’t taken to gain information on the locations of agents in Russia,” said Annabelle. “He was taken because of these photos?”

“I don’t think so. If they took the time to search this room, they would have found them. Just like we did.”

“Maybe they didn’t have time?”

“His wife conveniently asleep-“

“How dare you!” said Mrs. Declan.

Sullivan looked over his shoulder. Mrs. Declan stood with her hands on her hips, face glowing with anger. He could show her the photos. Ask her why he had them . . . destroy the image she had of her husband. He was in the mood to do it. Annabelle reached for the photos in his hand, her fingers resting against his for too long. A gentle squeeze. Reassurance. Her hand removed. The photos taken. She knew him too well.

He turned. Faced Mrs. Declan. “Do you have any idea who might have taken your husband?”

Face collapsing, her voice hoarse with emotion, she said, “It’s all to do with his job . . . isn’t it? You don’t think it’s something else?”

“We’re not sure,” said Annabelle. Use of discretion. The photos hidden beneath her coat.

Sullivan looked at Sarah Townsend. “We’re investigating all possibilities.” A nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you, Mrs. Declan. You’ve been a lot of help.”

Eyes glistened with moisture. “Do you think you’ll find him?”

“We’ll do everything possible.”

She nodded, sitting back down. Quiet sobs filled the room.

Sullivan placed the frame and photo of Alice Declan on the desk with gentle care. He began to walk from the room. Stopped next to Miss. Townsend. His expression open. His suspicion revealed. “Miss. Townsend.” A different approach needed. He walked out of the room. Annabelle behind him.

Photos, straight-on, right and left side profiles of Henry Declan lay on one side of the small conference table. Spread out across the rest of the table, the pictures found in Declan’s office. Jason King, cigarette in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, paced the length of the table. Barely a glance at the photos of Henry Declan, gaze shifting from one blackmail photo to the next. A look of intrigue on his face. Dragging in a deep lungful of nicotine, he turned to face Sullivan.

Gray waistcoat and white shirt, Sullivan lay on the lounge, hands resting on a flat stomach, ankles crossed – take any opportunity to rest – his right side handing out minimal protests. Shifted his back and shoulders. The protesting stopped. He raised an eyebrow. A question asked. What do you think?

King picked up a photo. The woman’s upper body framed in the black and white photograph. His selection intentional. He smiled. “I don’t suppose you have her name? Phone number? I have this sudden need to take up photography.”

Sullivan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A hard fight. “Jason.”

King let out of lungful of smoke. “Blackmail. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Annabelle moved in. Snatched the photo from King’s hand. Collected the photos from the table. King looked disappointed. She placed the images into a folder. Walked to the lounge. Lifted Sullivan’s feet. Sat down, lowering his legs back down, across her thighs.

“My, aren’t we cosy,” said King, smiling at Sullivan.

“Injured here,” said Sullivan.

King sat down in one of the small chairs. Crossed his legs. A sip of whiskey. A drag on his cigarette. “Did you read my latest book while you were recuperating?

“Still recuperating,” said Annabelle.

“I called it, ‘Woman in a Black Dress.'”

Straight face. “My Doctor told me not to exert myself.”

Annabelle smiled.

King didn’t.

“Do we think Alex Turnbull is behind Declan’s disappearance?” said Annabelle.

Sullivan and King looked at each other. Thoughts mirrored. Responded at the same time. “No.”

“Why not?”

Shifting his shoulders, making himself more comfortable, Sullivan stayed silent, allowing King to answer Annabelle’s question. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids. He snapped them open. Vision unfocused, he tried to concentrate. A difficult process. He was falling asleep. Every effort to stay awake becoming weaker.

“Why go to all that trouble,” said King, glancing down. Glass empty. He frowned. “Turnbull has three choices. One, he does whatever it takes to get the photos back. Two, he refuses to pay up. Three, he pays the extortion fee. It’s a lesser of three evils. Which do you choose? The only way Turnbull can keep his job, his marriage and his mistress is to keep paying.”

“People have done more devious acts to save a marriage,” said Annabelle.

“True. I knew this woman once . . . beautiful-“

“We give the photos to Sir Curtis,” said Sullivan, closing his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. “He can deal with it. Finding Declan is our priority.”

A gentle grip around his ankle. Not wanting to see the concern on her features, Sullivan kept his eyes closed. Silence filled the room. They were watching him. He was sure of it. Don’t think about it. Get back to the job at hand. He agreed with King. Blackmail wasn’t the motivation behind the kidnapping.

“Then we’re back to the Russians,” said Annabelle.

“Stewart.”

Sullivan opened his eyes. More difficult than it should be. Turned his head. Jason was staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. Sullivan turned away. A glimpse of Annabelle before he allowed his eyes to close once more.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it was an inside job. If Declan was in that room, sitting at his desk working. He had easy access to a gun and enough time to get it. But he didn’t. Either he wasn’t in that room or-“

“He was incapacitated. Unable to reach for his weapon,” said King. “Drugged or knocked unconscious. The window was broken more for effect than anything else.”

“What you’re saying is, Mrs. Declan or Miss. Townsend drugged him or . . . if that’s what happened, the people who took him,” said Annabelle, “would have come through the front door and not the window.”

“A front door someone opened from the inside.”

“If the Russians took Henry Declan,” said Sullivan, exhaustion dragging him down, “it won’t be for the location of agents in Russia. I think this is about something else entirely.”

“They want other information,” said King. He allowed the thought free rein. “What other information could be more important?”

Darkness circled. Sullivan shifted, head turning toward the side of the lounge.

King dropped his glass onto the conference table. Snapped his fingers. “Brain washing!”

“It’s been done before.”

“Sir Charles Hallet,” said Annabelle. “What’s our next move?”

Voices began to fade.

“Jason talks to Sarah Townsend . . . she knows more than-” Sullivan yawned, mouth stretching open. A deep breath in. Breath released. “You. Find out everything you can about Sarah Townsend. And John Finch. I want to know . . . more before I confront him.”

No longer able to keep sleep at bay, darkness fell.

Jason King stood back. Admired the cottage. Quaint, Stewart had called it. King couldn’t agree more. His thoughts wandered, concentrating for a moment on Sullivan. There was never a need to worry about the younger man, Stewart always able to take care of himself, even in the mist of the direst of situations. But he worried now. Fully healed, Stewart wasn’t and it had been almost two months since he’d received the injury. King grimaced at the memory . . . so much blood . . . so much pain. And now, back at the office, Stewart slept, too exhausted to do much else.

Curtains in a front window shifted. A woman’s face revealed.

Not his type but that had never stopped him before.

King smiled. Waved a hand in greeting. Charm oozing, settling around him like a shroud. The woman waved, smiled back. Success. He walked to the front door. Knocked. It opened without hesitation. Sarah Townsend stood in the doorway, flower patterned apron protecting a gray dress. She raised her hands. Checked her hair, patting it down.

Introduction made. “Jason King.”

“Sarah Townsend.” She reached forward to shake his hand.

King took her fingers in a soft grip. Lifted her hand. A soft kiss. Lips brushing across her knuckles. She blushed. He drew her in, pulling her closer, breathing in her scent, making a show of it. “Could we talk?”

She frowned. “About?”

“Henry Declan.”

She pulled her hand from his grip. Stepped back. “Do you work with them?”

Aware of the answer. “Who would they be, my dear?”

Eyes narrowed. “Interpol. They were here earlier. A man and a woman. He was very unpleasant.”

Her words useful. A strategy formed. “American?”

“He was. She wasn’t. She called him Stewart, if that helps.”

“Stewart Sullivan,” said King. “Nasty piece of work.”

Sarah smiled. “You’ve met him.”

The lies left a bad taste in his mouth. “Yes. I found him to be rather . . . distasteful.”

“Then we have something in common, Mr. King.”

“Jason.”

They walked through the garden. The sky blue. The air tainted with a pleasant odour, the garden in full bloom. She led him toward a wooden bench set beneath a young elm tree. They sat down. A small gap between them. That won’t do. King shifted to the side, bodies now pressed together. An uncomfortable position, her sharp edges digging painfully into his hip. He liked curves. He looked into her eyes, gaze lifting upward. Held back a grimace. Her hair badly dyed. Put on a false smile. Allowed his gaze to wander, to graze over her body. King placed a hand on her thigh, fingertips drawing an endless circle. In his left hand, a packet of Sobranie cigarettes and lighter.

“Who do you work for, Jason?”

“I’m self-employed.”

“Why are you interested in Mr. Declan’s abduction?”

“Call it professional curiosity.”

She wasn’t satisfied with the answer.

Giving her no time to pry any deeper, King said, “Have you worked for Declan very long?”

“Almost ten years.”

“That long. You must enjoy your work.”

“Alice and I were childhood friends,” said Sarah. “She gave me a job and a place to stay.”

Possible motive for betraying a friend. Alice had done so much better in life. Sarah seeing that life every day. It could make her angry. Jealous.

“Henry Declan?”

“He’s a good man. Treats me well.”

How well?

“Did you see anything last night?” said King. “Hear anything?”

“No.” She held her hands in her lap, fingers dancing. “He didn’t believe me.”

“Sullivan?”

“Yes. The way he looked at me . . . he frightens me.”

“What about Mrs. Declan?”

“She went to bed early. Slept through the entire thing. She told the woman with Sullivan that she didn’t do that very often. She lied. Alice takes a sleeping pill every night. Can’t bear being touched by her husband.”

He looked into her eyes. Searched for a lie. There was something there. A flash of anger. Quickly gone.

“Interesting. Do you think she had something to do with his abduction?”

“A few months ago, no, I wouldn’t but now.” She shook her head. “She isn’t the same person I grew up with.”

“What happened to change their marriage?”

“I think she’s having an affair.”

King looked away. Thoughts tumbled through his mind. Both women had motive. Could it be a simple act of jealousy? Sarah envious of Alice and the life she lived. Alice, a wife who no longer loved her husband; if Sarah was telling the truth. He dismissed Alice. To take a high ranking official of British Intelligence just to end a marriage. A divorce would be much simpler.

Out of nowhere, the conversation took a sudden turn. “Stewart Sullivan. Is he good at what he does?”

Still playing the game, King lifted the corner of his lip in distaste. “Recruited by Interpol straight out of the hands of the FBI. Now runs Interpol’s Department S. He and his team solve the unsolvable. So, if you’re worried about Mr. Declan, don’t be. I can assure you, as barbaric as Sullivan is, he’s very good at his job. He’ll find Mr. Declan.”

“I see.”

Enough talk about Sullivan. “I’m a bestselling author, you know.”

His screams are loud, the sound a hollow echo. The pain is excruciating. Never before had he felt such pain. They were relentless, brutal in their pursuit of information. His body trembled, limbs shaking. Another course of electricity tore through his body . . . another scream, his throat raw . . . a strangled sob escaped through bleeding lips.

“Wake him.”

Annabelle knelt beside the lounge, hand hovering over Sullivan’s heaving chest. His breathing hard, his head pressed deep into the cushion beneath him. Rapid eye movement beneath the lids, back arching upward.

“He won’t wake up easy,” said Annabelle, her eyes wet as she looked up at King. “He’ll lash out in an attempt to protect himself.”

His jaw clenched, Sullivan let out a deep groan.

King reached down, hands on Annabelle’s shoulders. Guided her upward and away from the lounge. He placed a hand against her right cheek, wiping away the wayward tear. Turned back to Sullivan. Took a deep breath.

A hand on his shoulder. An unwelcome touch. Anger tore through him, the pain pushed aside. Opening his eyes, Sullivan sat up, his upper body snapping forward. His fingers gripped the lounge beneath him so tight, his knuckles turned white. He took deep breaths, his chest heaving with the effort.

Hand still on his shoulder, a painful grip. Sullivan struck out. The movement expected. King just as quick, catching Sullivan’s right fist. King lowered the arm back to Sullivan’s side, holding it there, fingers tight around Sullivan’s hand.

His gaze wild, his blue eyes unfocused, Sullivan searched the room, gaze settling on Annabelle. It took him a moment . . . too long for him to recognise such a familiar face.

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in that room. The nightmare still fresh, he could feel the pain. Hear that voice. The questions repetitive. He felt the warm breath on the side of his face. Turned his head, an abrupt movement. Jason beside him, his eyes watching. He looked down. Jason’s fingers around his hand.

Sullivan tore free from King’s grip. Slumped back down on the lounge. Chest still heaving as he struggled to breathe through the torrent of emotions the nightmare had brought. He placed his left hand over his eyes. Hid himself from prying eyes. He needed time.

That had been a bad one. Everything so real. He wasn’t there. The pain so real. He wasn’t there. Chest bare, strapped down into a chair in the middle of the room. He wasn’t there. Screaming, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t there.

He let out stuttering breath. A broken sound at the back of his throat. Minute tremors shook his body.

He wasn’t there. It was over. He wasn’t there.

King stood up and faced Annabelle. “Why don’t you make some tea? Give yourself a moment to calm down.”

Nodding in agreement, Annabelle looked at Sullivan. A long, searching look. She turned away and left the room.

Much like Annabelle had done earlier that morning, King lifted Sullivan’s legs, made a difficult manuvioure and sat down. Dropped Sullivan’s legs onto his own, open palm patting Sullivan’s leg in support. Sullivan refused to react. Kept his eyes hidden. The need to endure his emotional pain alone too strong . . . too stubborn.

King waited.

Normally so calm. Sullivan took a deep breath. It caught in his throat. A strangled sob. Normally so calm. Another breath. Let it out. The emotion gripped his chest. A deep ache. It shouldn’t take this long, usually quick to recover after a nightmare. But it had been a bad one. He wasn’t there. Another deep breath, the ache easing. Becoming calmer. Another breath. He didn’t understand it. It had been two years since . . .

Get back in control.

Sullivan sat up, upper body twisting. A hiss of breath, the movement painful. Pulled his legs from King’s lap, an upright-seated position. Elbows on his knees. Placed his hands – visibly shaking – over his face. Shoulders rising, broken movements, as he continued to breathe deep.

King frowned. Leaned forward “Stewart?”

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t still in that room.

Sullivan dropped his hands. Fell back against the lounge, head back. Gaze staring at the ceiling. Still hiding.

The door opened. Annabelle walked into the room. Cup in one hand. She stopped in front of Sullivan. Glanced at King. Received an encouraging nod.

“Stewart?”

He had fallen asleep. Had a nightmare. A very, painful nightmare. Now there were repercussions he didn’t want to deal with. A show of comfort and support from Jason. A rare thing. It must have looked bad to gain such a reaction. And Annabelle. Regret filled him. She’d seen him in the throes of a nightmare. Right now though, he didn’t want to see her reaction, deal with her emotions. It was selfish of him but . . . the way he was feeling right now. Too emotional still. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t break down in front of both of them. He closed his eyes. He wasn’t still in that room.

“I’ve made you a cup of tea.”

Not the reaction he had expected. Tilted his head forward. She stood before him, cup of tea held out toward him. He held up his hands, the tremors still visible. He couldn’t stop shaking. Fear and adrenaline slow to leave his system.

“Stewart-“

Head back. Eyes closed once more. “Don’t.”

Annabelle left the cup on the small conference table. Sat down on the lounge on Sullivan’s other side. Rested her hand on his thigh. He laid his hand on top of hers. A gentle squeeze before letting go.

The tremors began to retreat. The nightmare becoming a distant memory. Lungs no longer struggled. But his eyes itched. His head ached. His side ached. Sullivan raised his arms, wiping his hands over his face. His skin felt warm, flushed. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of sweat. Dropped his hands back into his lap. Why couldn’t this end? The last nightmare had been almost two months ago. Brain delirious with fever, he had dreamt, sedation not enough to keep the dreams hidden.

“Sarah told me Alice Declan is having an affair.”

“With who?” said Annabelle.

Grateful for the effort. An attempt to ease his embarrassment and he was embarrassed. Normally so calm. Normally so in control. “No. She’s-” His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed. Took a deep calming breath. Back to the job. “-lying. Mrs. Declan was genuinely upset.”

“Or a good actress.”

“You didn’t meet Mrs. Declan.”

“Pretty?”

“Very.”

“And younger,” said Annabelle.

Everything back to normal.

“How much younger,” said King.

“Eleven years.”

“Young and very pretty. What does she see in Henry Declan?”

“Annabelle?” said Sullivan.

Playing the devil’s advocate, Annabelle said, “Money.”

King pulled out a cigarette. Laid it to rest between his lips. Lit it. Took in a deep drag. Taking a few minutes, King spoke of his conversation with Sarah Townsend.

“Sarah could be jealous,” said Annabelle.

“Perhaps.”

“You think Sarah and Declan-“

“No,” said Sullivan.

They fell silent for a moment. A trail of smoke drifting through the air.

“Sarah Townsend is lying,” said King, agreeing with Sullivan.

“The question is why,” said Annabelle.

“She’s a part of it.”

“I’m sorry, Stewart, but I had to insult you to gain her trust.”

Sullivan smiled. “Stretched the truth a little?”

“I think the words were, ‘unpleasant and barbaric’. That woman took an instant dislike to you.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

A drag of nicotine. “So unlike you, Stewart.”

He ignored the sarcasm. Opened his eyes and turned to Annabelle. “Sarah Townsend and John Finch?”

Annabelle stood up and walked to the conference table. Retrieved two folders. Returned to the lounge. Sat down. She opened the top folder, removed a photo, passing it over to King. After a quick study of John Finch, King handed the photo back. Annabelle gave her report.

“John Albert Finch. No family. Orphaned when he was six. Never married. No children. No current girlfriend. Long criminal record. Paroled two months ago after serving ten years for armed robbery. A violent man by all accounts. No connections to the Declans.”

“He didn’t look violent. Seemed very nervous.”

“You don’t look violent,” said Annabelle.

“What are you trying to say, Annabelle.”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Apparently.”

“Sarah Townsend,” said Annabelle. “Went to the same school as Alice Declan. Both parents still alive. Married young. Divorced young. No children. Started working for the Declans ten years ago. No criminal record. I couldn’t find any connection to John Finch.”

Sullivan frowned. “There has to be a connection. Sarah Townsend is the inside man-“

“Woman,” said Annabelle. “I couldn’t find anything to connect them.”

“He’s connected somehow. They have to be working together,” said Sullivan. “He was at the house day before yesterday and this morning wasn’t a coincidence.”

“Finch could have been following you for a different reason,” said King.

“He didn’t follow me to that tearoom.”

“You said he arrived after you.”

He looked at King, gaze steady. “You think I’m off my game.”

“On the contrary, Stewart, I-“

“He didn’t follow me, Jason. I’m sure of it.”

“You didn’t see him outside when you arrived?”

“No.”

“Then how did he know you were there?”

“He could have followed Sir Curtis.” It was a weak suggestion.

“That would imply he was aware of your meeting before hand.”

“A leak,” said Annabelle. “It’s possible.”

“Sarah Townsend cleaned up. Did a very good job,” said Sullivan. “Maybe she knew we were coming.”

“To stop us from finding anything the police couldn’t,” said Annabelle.

“There was nothing there to find.”

“The leak could only come from Declan’s office,” said Annabelle.

“Declan’s office wouldn’t have knowledge of a scheduled meeting between Sir Curtis and Stewart.”

“A leak in Sir Curtis’s office? He won’t like that.”

“I’ll inform Sir Curtis when I give him an update this afternoon,” said Sullivan.

“Maybe there isn’t a connection,” said King, dragging on his cigarette. Continued when Sullivan raised an eyebrow. “She could have been offered an insane amount of money.”

“There’s very little in her bank account,” said Annabelle. “If someone did offer her money. She either hasn’t collected it or she’s hiding it somewhere.”

“Stewart’s correct. There’s a lot more to this than the location of MI5 agents in Russia.”

Sullivan stood up. A little, unsteady on his feet. Took a moment to regain his balance before beginning a search for his jacket. Found it behind the lounge, a crumpled lump on the floor. He frowned at the sight. Bent over to retrieve it. Very little pain. Grateful. A different story when he put the jacket on, the movement pulling at his side. He paused, wrapping an arm around his right side. Bent over, right hand on the back of the lounge, piece of furniture turned into a crutch.

Annabelle came up behind him, her hands taking his jacket, finishing the job. Brushed her fingers over his shoulders, removing flint and dust that wasn’t there. Her fingers combed through his hair making it more presentable. “You’re still having nightmares.”

He looked at King, only inches away. King smiled. Patted Sullivan’s hand and turned away, giving Sullivan and Annabelle a private moment. How private can you be with a third person in such close proximity. It didn’t seem to bother Annabelle that King was so close. That he would hear her every word. Hear Sullivan’s response.

“After all this time?”

Sullivan turned to face her. Her blue eyes, so intense. So emotional. He hesitated. Unsure if he wanted to tell her the truth. Yes, he still had nightmares after all this time. Not every night. Not every week. Only when something brings it all back. The smell of Brown Avon aftershave. Leather straps tight around his wrists. A warm breath against the side of his face . . . It had been two months since the last one. He’d thought it was over. Part of a conversation bringing it all back.

“No.”

“Stewart.”

Behind him, King shifted in his seat. King had taken Sullivan’s response for what it was. A lie.

“Honestly, Annabelle.” He placed the tips of his fingers on either side of her face. A gentle touch, her skin warm beneath his fingers. He could see the worry, the concern in her eyes. He dropped his hands. Took a deep breath. Let it out. Changing his mind, he decided to be honest. He couldn’t lie to her. King: yes. Annabelle: no. “Yes. I still have them. But it’s getting better-“

“Really,” said King. “From our view point it looked very unpleasant.”

Ignore him and he might go away.

“And the aftermath was very . . . emotional.”

Sullivan turned. Ready to snap a retort. The expression on King’s face stopped him cold. “The last one was two months ago-“

“While you were in hospital,” said Annabelle.

He leaned back against the lounge. “The use of torture was brought up in conversation this morning. It doesn’t matter what was said or who said it . . . It brought back some memories.”

Annabelle leaned forward. Her lips soft against his cheek, a gentle kiss . . . a warm breath brushing the side of his face . . .

He closed his eyes. A snap of memory, images flashing through his mind. In his head, where only he could hear it, a long, violent scream, the voice his own.

“You should tell me about it one day,” said King. “It would make a wonderful plot for my next book.”

Sullivan turned his head. Angry gaze settling on King. Again, King’s expression kept him silent. Words unspoken. King was giving him an opportunity to talk about what had happened. The torture. The pain. The fear. King made it his choice. His decision. “It might give you nightmares.”

King smiled. “It would be worth it.” Words unspoken. Anything to help.

“What’s next,” said Annabelle.

“John Finch.”

Bridge Road, Stratford. Plain. Simple. Amongst the homes spread out on either side of the road, a small row of prefabricated homes built after the war. Homes for families of war until something more permanent became available. Still there. Still waiting. Not something, you would put on the front of a chocolate box.

Finch lived in a house further down the street.

“It’s very . . . droll,” said King, leaning forward over the car seat, positioning his head and shoulders between Sullivan and Annabelle. “Not very House and Garden.”

Sullivan turned to Annabelle. “Stay here.”

“Stewart-“

He placed a forefinger against her lips. “Stay here. If you see Finch or anyone approaching his house, use the horn.” He turned away. Opened the door. Placed his left hand against his side, twisted his upper body. Removed himself from the car. The expected pain snapped at his side. Lips thinning, Sullivan closed the car door, a soft click. Looked back over his shoulder. The street behind him empty. He turned. Faced the direction of Finch’s home. Empty. A few cars parked on the road. All empty. His gaze followed the row of houses. A curtain moved in a front window. A curious neighbour. Sullivan stared. She dropped the curtain, hiding herself from his view.

The rear door opened. King stepped out of the car. Followed Sullivan’s gaze. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He walked away. Toward the house further down the street.

King followed, cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

They stopped in front of Finch’s home. A two-storey semi detached house. Walls that were once white, now stained. Windows large. Dirty. An overgrown garden. Roses lost amongst the weeds. King grimaced. Tossed his cigarette onto the road. A subtle glance. They followed the short path up to the front door. Sullivan turned in a slow circle, gaze searching. He reached into a jacket pocket, fingers finding a set of lock picks . . .

“Allow me,” said King. He held up a strip of plastic. Much like a tongue depressor. Only thinner and wider and green in colour. Sullivan carried one in his pocket along with the wire lock picks.

“What happened to the lock pick you had made?”

A look of disappointment on King’s face. “You had that door open before I could turn the thing on.”

“Simple is always best.” Sullivan lifted an arm. An invitation. Stood back. Waited. Gaze searching once more. No movement in the house, the curtains still. He looked down the road. Nosey neighbour watching their every move. He turned away. Too much fear and she would call the police.

The lock clicked open. Finally. Sullivan about to take over.

King opened the door, an inward swing. A soft thump against the wall. King turned to face Sullivan, proud smile on his face. Sullivan smiled, unable to ruin the moment, King taking too long to open the door. They stepped inside. Sullivan in front. King behind him. Sullivan turned, reached around King and pushed the front door shut. Turned back around.

A length of hall in front of them. Stained beige carpet beneath their feet. A set of stairs on the right leading up to the second floor. The carpet on the stairs threadbare, well worn. They would search for Finch first. If unfound, they would search his house. Sullivan moved forward. To the left, a sitting room. Door wide open. Furniture simple. A small lounge. A single chair. Coffee table. A tall radio in the corner. No John Finch. When they reached the stairs, Sullivan nodded at King, head lifting slightly. King nodded, making his way up the stairs. Sullivan waited a few moments. King disappeared from his sight. Everything still silent. No surprises waiting for King.

Sullivan moved further into the house. A bathroom on the left. He pushed the door open further, now flushed against the wall. Not a pleasant sight. He closed the door. Next to the bathroom, a small kitchen. Movement repeated, the door pushed open. Green kitchen cupboards, the paint beginning to peal. A sink full of dirty dishes. A small table. One chair. Still no Finch. He stepped up to the back door. Opened it. A tiny yard. Tall grass overrun with weeds. The garden shed at the end of the garden too large. Sullivan frowned. Stepped forward . . .

A sound from upstairs. A cry of surprise.

Sullivan reacted, turning quickly. Made his way down the hall to the stairs. Left hand on the banister . . .

Something slammed into his back. He hit the wall face first. A grunt of pain. A heated complaint from his side. He placed the palms of his hands against the wall. Pushed back with everything he had, the man’s hold becoming weak. Sullivan dropped his left arm, bending it at the elbow. He turned his body to the left. Elbow up. He struck back. Struck hard. His elbow hit the man’s nose. Dead center. A spray of blood against the side of Sullivan’s face. He ignored it. Followed through, body continuing to turn, now facing his attacker. Not Finch.

A struggle upstairs. King holding his own.

Sullivan threw a hook punch, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw. The man fell to his knees. A short, hard jab to the side of the head and the man was down. Stayed down.

A sound behind him. Sullivan turned on the balls of his feet. Two men stood in the hallway, the open back door behind them. Two, very large men. He was losing his touch. Constant pain disrupting his process. Dressed in matching brown suits, they stepped forward. One man stopping in front of the other. The one in charge. A head of thick, black hair. A clipped moustache.

“We can do this the easy way, Sullivan,” said the man in front, holding up a syringe in his right hand. “Or the hard way. Which do you prefer?”

Sullivan smiled. Still healing wound be damned. He wasn’t going to surrender. He positioned his body into a fighting stance. He couldn’t help but notice the silence coming from the floor above. The fight over. Who the victor was, Sullivan didn’t know. He hoped it was King. If not . . . three against one weren’t very good odds.

The man sighed, a deep exhaled breath. “Eddie.” He nodded toward Sullivan. “Be careful. I’ve been told he’s very good at what he does.”

Eddie. Your typical thug. Very tall. Heavy set. More weight than muscle. Face scarred. Too many fights notched on his belt.

Sullivan thought of Eddie’s options. He would either rush him or move in close enough to throw a punch. Expecting one or the other, Sullivan waited. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. Okay, there was a third option. From behind his back, Eddie produced a baseball bat. Presented it to Sullivan with a smile and a wink.

A rush of feet on the landing. He was running out of time.

Eddie moved quickly for such a large man but his stance was wrong, his movements clumsy. Bat swinging in the confined space, not a lot of room to manuvioure, Sullivan ducked below the strike. Bat still swinging. A miss. Eddie off balance. Sullivan moved, spinning his body to the left. Threw a back fist punch, left fist connecting with the side of Eddie’s jaw. Pain tore through his hand. A second punch, a powerful jab slamming into Eddie’s throat. Eddie’s knees buckled as he dropped the bat, hands clutching his throat. Sullivan snatched up the bat. Swung. Eddie fell. Unconscious before he hit the ground.

Feet on the stairs.

Movement above him. A body falling toward him. Not King. A third thug.

So quick. Not enough time to step back out of harm’s way. Weight and momentum forced Sullivan down. His back hit the floor. Pain flared in his side. His head hit the bottom of the front door frame. The bat fell from his lax fingers. Darkness pushed against his vision. He pushed back. A punch to the side of his face, turning his head. Hands around his throat. Sullivan threw his own punch. A quick jab to the left side of the man’s face. Another . . .

“That’s enough, Jack.”

The sound of a gun cocking, bullet sent into the chamber. Sullivan stilled. Jack smiled. Hit the side of Sullivan’s temple with a closed fist. Not enough strength behind the blow. Sullivan stunned but still conscious.

“Impressive, Mr. Sullivan.” The man stepped into his view. “Turn him over.”

Jack did as instructed. Stood up. Bent over. No time to react. A violent move; a painful grip on Sullivan’s shoulder and hip, snapping him over onto his stomach. A knee shoved into his back, between his shoulder blades. A hand against the side of his head, pressing down. Sullivan had nowhere to go. No room to move.

He hoped Annabelle was still safe. Out of harm’s way.

Chapter 2

Impatient. Concerned. Gaze erratic, Annabelle searched the street. Front and back. Anxiety nagging at the back of her mind. Something was wrong, she was sure of it. She looked back over her shoulder. Bridge Street still empty. Turned back to the front . . .

Coming around the corner, a man on foot. Tall, thick head of hair, neat moustache. Hands in his pockets, head held high, he looked liked he belonged. She took her hand off the steering wheel, left it hovering over the car’s horn, ready to alert Stewart.

Behind her. The sound of a vehicle’s engine. She flicked her gaze upward. A white van reflected in the rear-view mirror. It moved slowly, with intent. Two men in the front seat. Annabelle took a moment to look away, find the man walking along the street. He stepped onto the road, his pace picking up speed. Stopped in front of her car, blocking the way.

Everything happening so quickly. In the middle of the road, the van stopped beside her.

Indecisive, Annabelle no longer sure, if she should alert Stewart to the danger now present. If these men were unaware Stewart and Jason were searching Finch’s home . . . Decision made, she lowered her hand. Stewart wouldn’t be happy, she knew but she also felt the need to protect him, Stewart still healing. Still vulnerable. She shuddered, the sight of Stewart caught in a violent nightmare still so fresh . . .

The man, satisfied expression, moved around the car . . .

Annabelle turned the ignition. Reached for the handbrake . . .

He opened the car door. Reached in. Took her upper arm in a powerful grip and pulled her out of the car. No use struggling, Annabelle not strong enough to escape his hold.

The side door of the van slid open . . .

Stewart Sullivan lay in an uncoordinated lump on the floor of the van, his face toward her, eyes closed. Fear embracing her chest, her heart skipped a beat. Beside Stewart, Jason King sat against the wall of the van. He stared back at her, arms behind his back, legs stretched out in front of him. A cut above his right eye, still bleeding, a trickle of blood marking his skin like a dark scar.

“Get in.”

No choice, pushed forward and up, she stumbled and fell into the van. Floor painful against her knees. She stole a moment, fingers of her right hand touching the side of Sullivan’s face. He felt warm . . . too warm. Annabelle searched what she could see of Sullivan, looking for any injuries; a reason he was unconscious. A growing bruise on his jaw. A puncture wound on the side of his neck. Drugged.

The man with the moustache stepped up into the van. Settled down on the floor, back to the front of the van. A crowded space, Annabelle moved away, closer to the wall. She realised the man had been watching. A mistake made. Her physical touch of Sullivan giving away too much; something to use against them. She turned her head. King stared ahead, refusing to look at her. Beyond King, sat John Finch.

The van’s door slammed shut. A small amount of light in the back of the van, the front section shut off. The only window covered with a curtain. The engine roared, the van jerked, drove away from Bridge Street, Stratford.

Annabelle calmed her beating heart. Concentrated. At the end of the street, the van turned left and followed a straight road. Turned right. If she could follow the turns, the direction of the sun. More light in the van when the sun faced the van’s small window. She leaned back against the van. Intent gaze on the window, easier to concentrate . . .

“I wouldn’t bother, Miss. Hurst,” said the man. “It’s going to be a long drive.”

She shifted her gaze. Refused to look down at Sullivan. “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know who you are.”

“Until I’m ready, you’ll stay at a disadvantage.”

“You abducted Henry Declan.”

“Of course he did,” said King, breaking his silence. “And he’s abducting us because we’ve gotten too close.”

The man smiled. No humour in the expression. Reached into a coat pocket. Pulled out a Walter PPK handgun. Pressed the barrel against Sullivan’s forehead. A warning given. “I don’t need Sullivan. It’s dangerous to keep a man with his abilities alive. You’ll stay silent, both of you. If you don’t . . .”

Expecting Jason to make an off-handed comment, Annabelle held her breath. Waited. King remained silent. Annabelle grateful. The van turned a corner, too sharp, its occupants thrown to the side. A moment of insanity, Annabelle considered attempting to take the gun from the man’s fingers. Common sense returned she glanced away, downward. Stewart now lay on his back, head swaying side to side, matching the van’s movements. She wanted to reach out. Touch him. Make him more comfortable. She couldn’t. Her first touch of Sullivan when she entered the van already used against them.

The man slammed a fist against the piece of wood hiding the front section. Shouted over his shoulder. “Take it easy. We don’t want to draw any attention to ourselves.”

A barely heard grunt of acknowledgement from the front seat.

It felt like hours. The drive long. An anxious wait. Sullivan not waking. They had driven out of London, Annabelle was sure of that. Now in the country. The sun no longer facing the window. She was unsure of their direction. The van finally slowed. Turned onto a road rough with potholes. Followed a long curve in the road and came to a stop. They had reached their final destination.

The man stayed still. Gun still held in his right hand. John Finch stood up. Reached forward and opened the van’s sliding door. He jumped out. Turned. Grabbed Sullivan’s leg and pulled. Stopped when Sullivan’s legs hung over the edge of the door. Took a wrist and pulled Sullivan upright. Sullivan limp, body palpable. Finch leaned down. Shoulder against Sullivan’s abdomen, he lifted, slinging Sullivan over his shoulder. Walked away.

Annabelle watched, helpless, her fear for Sullivan growing. If this man was so willing to kill Stewart . . .

The man moved backward, stepping out of the van. Gun held upright. “Out.”

Using the heels of his feet, King dragged himself forward. A clumsy attempt. Annabelle noticed the rope restraining King’s hands behind his back. King managed to find the edge of the door. A small push and he was out. Stood up. Stepped to the side and waited. Gaze steady, he watched the man with the gun.

Annabelle stood up. Shoulders hunched. Moved forward and climbed out of the van. She turned her head at the sound of the van’s front doors closing. A man, similar build to the one in front of her, stood close by. His face bloody. Nose obviously broken. Another man walked around the front of the van. Stopped by the second man. Guns removed from coat pockets. They were careful. Coordinated. No chance of escape. Not yet.

“Inside.”

Annabelle turned. Looked. An old, single-storey industrial building stretched out before them. A crumbling, brick chimney made a futile attempt to cling to the right side of the building. She searched the immediate area. Low, rock walls separating green paddocks. Trees sparse. No other buildings in sight . . . Nowhere to hide.

“Now!”

A hand against her back, pushing her forward. She took in as much as she could. In front of her, King would be doing the same. They entered the building through an open roller door. A button pushed, the door rolled down. Closed.

Inside the building. Miss-matched fabricated rooms set in crooked rows. At least a four-foot gap between the ceiling of the building and the flat roofs of the fabricated rooms. Short hallways. Sharp corners. No sign of Finch or Sullivan.

The man with the clean-shaven face, and lack of blood, moved around them, taking the lead. Expected to follow, Annabelle moved forward, King behind her. She looked into every open room. Every short corridor. Unable to see Stewart, she became anxious for his safety. The man in front of her stopped. Opened a door. Stood to the side.

“Inside.”

Expecting to find Sullivan, Annabelle stepped into an empty room. King moved in behind her. The door closed. Locked. She turned to face King, an expression of concern on his features.

Stewart.

Not a quick, sudden return to a conscious state. Awareness lingering on the sidelines, waiting. A slow arrival. Heavy fatigue unwilling to leave. A slow retreat. An ache behind his eyes, spreading through his skull. His body. Pain burrowing through his right side. A pulsating rhythm. Thump. Thump. Thump. Pushing forward. Pulling back. Playing with him. Thump. Thump. Thump. He shifted his body. An attempt to roll away from the pain . . . A hiss escaped through dry lips.

Faculties a stumbling mess, unable to understand why he couldn’t move. A second attempt. Limbs still heavy. Still unable to move. Brain attempting to gain knowledge, understanding of his situation . . .

Something tight around his wrists. His ankles. A warm breath against the side of his face . . . Fear ripped through him.

He was still in the room. Still strapped into the chair.

No. Please. No.

Sullivan’s head snapped up. Fell back, lolling to the side. Drug-induced fatigue sapping his strength. His gaze clumsy, flickering across the ceiling, unable to settle on one thing. The fear tightened his chest. Lungs unable to pull in a deep breath. He panicked. Fast, shallow breaths. Pulled at his restraints, fingers curling into fists. A deep, gutted groan tore from his throat.

They will break him. He had no doubt. His mind would fracture into a thousand pieces. It would be his undoing. If he survived the torture . . . he would be useless, a liability . . . a man broken beyond repair. Yet to reach the point of no return, he was going to fight. Fight with everything he had and more. Fight until they broke him.

Finding more strength, Sullivan fought to free his limbs. Head lifting, shoulders hunching, body tense with the effort. Pulled with his hands. Pushed with his feet, fighting against what held him down. His entire body moved. Balance lost, he began to fall backward. Stopped, a firm touch on his shoulder pushing him back.

Fingers seized his jaw. A painful grip turned his head, holding him still. Vision blurred, Sullivan struggled to focus. Jaw released, his head falling back once more, gaze finding the ceiling. Blinked. Breaths still shallow, fear still strong. Tried for a deep breath. Couldn’t take one in, the fear constricting his lungs.

A tall, thin man stood over him, upper body hovering over Sullivan. Face so close. Breath, warm against Sullivan’s skin. Sullivan blinked. Frowned. Something familiar about the man. Brain sluggish, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t recognise the man standing over him. Standing too close.

Couldn’t see it coming . . .

Fast and violent, the fist collided with the left side of his face, his head snapping sideways. Edges of his vision turned dark, Sullivan struggling to stay awake. Fingers in his hair, pulling his head back, a sharp tug. Painful. His vision danced. Everything out of focus. Mouth open, he struggled to breathe. The fear and panic still in him.

His fingers still in Sullivan’s hair, grip still tight, still painful, the man stepped back. Moved around the chair, standing beside it, keeping Sullivan’s head up . . .

A violent flow of ice-cold water against his face . . .

Abrupt awareness.

Sullivan gasped, swallowed. Fought to breathe.

His head pulled back, fingers brushing through his short hair . . .

Water entered his lungs, cold and painful, drawing out a violent cough. He held back a groan when the pain tore at his side. Coughed once more. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair, a tight hold. He blinked the water out of his eyes, vision beginning to clear. Rivulets of water ran down his skin, over his face. His neck. Soaking into the collar of his shirt. Skin chilled, goose bumps forming.

Head released, Sullivan forced forward, his upper body bending at the waist. The change of position quick and unexpected. A sudden bout of dizziness, his world spinning. Closed his eyes and hoped for the best. A few moments. An eventual settlement, his world stopping its sickening spin. He opened his eyes.

Beneath him, a cement floor. His feet were bare, shoes and socks removed. Rope wrapped around his ankles, the front legs of a wooden chair. He lifted his gaze, heart pounding in his chest. His wrists tied to the arms of the chair . . . rope used. No leather straps. Gray trousers. White shirt. His waistcoat, tie and jacket gone . . .

He wasn’t in that room.

He wasn’t strapped down into a chair with leather restraints.

Sullivan closed his eyes. Released a grateful breath. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be as bad. He would survive unbroken, his mind in one piece. It couldn’t be as bad . . .

Hands on his shoulders pulled him back up. His balance shifted, an ugly feeling, mind floating, still slow to respond. The hands pressed downward, fingers digging into his shoulders, keeping him in place.

It couldn’t be as bad.

Sullivan uncurled his fingers. Relaxed his body. He couldn’t let them see his fear, not as strong as it had been, but still there. Lingering. It can’t be as bad. Breathed in. Slow and deep. He looked up, gaze searching. Something tugged at his memory, pushing forward. He couldn’t grasp it, the memory quickly fading into the background.

There before him, stood the man with thick hair, trimmed moustache, wearing a brown suit. Like a slap in the face, the memory snapped forward . . .

Jason.

Annabelle.

A warm breath against the side of his face . . . He wasn’t in that room. He turned his head. Calm and slow. Beside him, John Finch, an expression of anger on his face. A flash of movement. Sullivan turned his head, tried to roll with the punch. Too late, brain still trying to free itself of a drug-induced stupor. Finch’s fist hit his jaw with surprising accuracy. A solid blow. Painful. Teeth biting his tongue, he could taste the blood. A second punch left him stunned, brain shutting down, eyes closing . . .

Another torrent of cold water thrown into his face.

His eyes snapped open. No time given to react. To think. Fingers in his hair pulled his head back, his neck straining. An open-handed slap across the side of his face . . .

The next blow more accurate than the last. His head spun. Pain, unforgiving, heavy and thick filled his skull. The heel of Finch’s hand slammed into his chest, his solar plexus. The air burst from his lungs. His diaphragm froze . . .

“Enough!”

Head released, Sullivan fell forward. Water cold against his skin, he did everything he could to take a breath. His body refused, diaphragm unwilling to co-operate. A sound of wheezing filled the room, Sullivan’s struggle to breathe obvious to those around him.

A hand against his shoulder, pushing him back against the chair. A hand cupped his jaw, a soft touch. His head lifted. Sullivan’s gaze unsteady, losing focus. He couldn’t breathe. His chest ached. Panic churned his gut. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs fighting a losing battle.

“Breathe, Mr. Sullivan.”

He closed his eyes. Concentrated. Relaxed his muscles. Allowed his body to do what it did naturally. Edges of his vision turning black, his diaphragm moved. A deep breath. A sharp pain in his chest. His side. Breathe out. Back in. Shallow breaths, the pain too sharp. It felt like something was broken.

A gentle slap against his cheek. Sullivan opened his eyes, his focus returning. His gaze shifted. Looked up into the eyes of Henry Declan. Sullivan blinked. A slow movement. His eyelids heavy. Confused, Sullivan frowned.

Henry Declan stepped back. Smiled. Waved his hand toward Finch.

Sullivan expected the violence to continue. He turned his head. Watched as John Finch moved away. A slap against the back of his head. Sullivan winced. A man came from behind him. Stopped next to Finch. The face familiar, Sullivan recognised him. Jack. A third man stood by the door. Nose broken. A collection of small buckets on the floor beside him.

It couldn’t be as bad as the last time.

Sullivan turned his head back. Ache in his skull shifting, growing to a new level of pain. In front of him, Henry Declan and the man with the moustache. He had to concentrate. A very difficult thing to do. He blinked. Bit his teeth into his cheek. The sharp pain brought his mind into focus. Concentration a little easier.

“I’m sorry Eddie couldn’t join us,” said the man with the moustache. “You gave him a skull fracture.”

His throat dry, Sullivan swallowed. The effort painful. “I’ll send him a get well card.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. The underlying message clearly understood. Defiant, he was going to fight them all the way.

Finch stepped forward. Fist at the ready . . .

“John,” said in warning. “We’ll ask first.”

Continuing forward, Finch stopped beside Sullivan. Waited.

Sullivan refused to acknowledge Finch. Gaze steady, Sullivan watched the two men in front of him.

“My name is Albert Stanford. You know Mr. Declan,” said Stanford. “And you’ve met John, Jack and Stanley.”

There was only one reason Albert Stanford would give his name. Only one reason they would allow him to see Declan as a willing participant. An understanding of his intended fate left an uncomfortable feeling in Sullivan’s gut. He wasn’t afraid to die. His life at risk every day. What he didn’t want was to die in this chair. Arms and legs restrained; a reminder of the torture he’d endured resting at the back of his mind. He didn’t want to take that memory with him to the grave.

“You’re missing someone,” said Sullivan.

Stanford stepped forward. “And who would that be, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Sarah Townsend.”

Not surprised, Stanford nodded. “Very perceptive, Mr. Sullivan but expected. Sarah was a risk we had to take. We needed someone on the inside. Obviously, that was a mistake.”

The statement confused Sullivan. He had too many questions. If Declan was willing, why did they need someone inside? Why take the risk? For appearance sake? For the benefit of Declan’s wife?

“What led you to John Finch?”

An immediate answer required. Not yet willing to release the information gained during the short investigation into Declan’s disappearance, Sullivan remained silent. Stared back at Stanford. Knowing what was coming, he kept the tension from his body. Relaxed his neck . . . clenched his jaw. The blow more powerful than he anticipated.

“Not so hard next time, John. I want him awake.”

Not as bad as before . . .

They were just getting started . . .

Taking it as permission to continue, Finch struck again. The punch just as hard. Just as destructive as the previous one.

Head falling forward, Sullivan grimaced. If they kept this up, he wasn’t going to last. He wasn’t going to stay conscious long enough . . . The back of Finch’s left fist struck the side of Sullivan’s head.

Thrown into his face, another bucket of cold water.

Still conscious. The water cold enough to bring him back to his senses.

Stanford stepped forward. Stopped next to Sullivan. Leaned down . . . so close. His breath warm against Sullivan’s chilled skin. Snatches of memory stumbling through his mind, Sullivan fought to control his emotions. He could feel the fear. Hear his own voice screaming, the pain unbearable. A never-ending barrage of questions. He wasn’t in that room. He wasn’t there. This couldn’t be any worse . . .

Fingers gripped his jaw, a painful grip on bruised and swelling flesh. Stanford lifted and turned Sullivan’s head, staring into pain-filled eyes.

“I want to know everything, Sullivan. I want to know what led you to Finch. I want to know if our mission has been compromised. You will tell me.”

“No,” said Sullivan. No more words required.

Stanford released his hold. Stood upright. “You think you can hold out on us.”

“I don’t think. I know.”

It can’t be as bad as the last time.

Stanford smiled. “I’ve been told you’re very good at what you do, Mr. Sullivan. Department S solves the unsolvable. You’re here because we don’t want the case solved. But we need to know how much you’ve learnt. We need to know if you’ve told anyone what you’ve found out. I need to know if you told anyone about John Finch.”

Gaze steady; assured, showing more confidence than he felt, Sullivan stared at Stanford.

“You’re either very stubborn or very stupid, Mr. Sullivan.”

A silent response.

“You know the situation you’re in. You know what’s going to happen if you don’t talk and yet you sit there, defiant, willing to take a beating and for what? To show me how tough you are?” Stanford smiled. “This is why I chose to question you and not your fellow Department S agents. You’re strong. Mentally and physically. I see you as a challenge. Something to play with. Something to break. And I will break you.” Stanford returned to his previous position, leaning down. Close . . . too close. Breath warm. Words whispered into Sullivan’s ear. “If you don’t break, I’ll question the woman.”

Annabelle.

Sullivan kept his expression neutral.

Was Stanford bluffing?

Sullivan decided to call Stanford’s bluff. See how far the man was willing to go. A lie given. “They don’t know what led me to Finch.”

“I’m sure you told them.”

“If you thought they knew, you’d ask them,” said Sullivan. Understanding dawned on him. Slow on the uptake, physical abuse affecting his ability to think clearly. “You didn’t choose me to break me. You chose me because you know I’m the one with all the information. I’m calling your bluff.”

Stanford smiled. Nodded. Stood up and stepped away, turning his back on Sullivan. “Break him. Do whatever it takes.”

Sullivan laughed. A reaction caused by anxiety. It won’t be as bad. “Yuri Krasnoff couldn’t break me.”

Turning around, Stanford frowned. “Yuri Krasnoff?”

“Ask him,” said Sullivan, looking at Declan.

Stanford did, turning toward Henry Declan. “Do you know who he’s talking about?”

Declan took a long moment, forehead creasing in thought. Face relaxing, he said, “No. He’s pulling his own bluff.”

Sullivan frowned. Suspicious. Yuri Krasnoff, very well known amongst the hierarchy of MI5. Declan should have known Krasnoff. He began to think. Sullivan didn’t believe there had been enough time to brainwash Declan; something that would take days, maybe weeks. Was it possible . . . Declan should have known. Sullivan stared at Declan, taking in his appearance. Compared it with the photos they had of Declan. He noticed a mild difference, only there if you took the time to look. A faint scar beneath his right ear.

It wasn’t Henry Declan . . .

“What do you see, Mr. Sullivan?” said Stanford.

Sullivan tore his gaze away from Declan. “I see Henry Declan.”

Stanford shook his head. “I saw it in your eyes. You understand. Very smart, Mr. Sullivan. You now know too much. It will cost you. But, first . . . what did you see?”

Silence.

Stanford nodded to Finch.

Finch changed position. Stood in front of Sullivan. Smiled. Sullivan stared back. It won’t be as . . .

A powerful punch to the right side of Sullivan’s face. He could feel the pain through his cheek, his jaw. The room began a slow turn, his balance threatened. Unexpected, Finch went lower, a punch to the right side of his ribcage, targeting his liver. The pain so strong, so sharp, Sullivan cried out. Curled his body forward. Tried to lift his knees, rope holding his legs in place. Eyes moist with the pain. Gagged on the bile rising into his throat. Sullivan began to lose focus.

His upper body pulled back, neck against the back of the chair. A second punch to the same area. Already injured rib breaking. Body held in place. Sullivan’s mouth opened in a silent scream, voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t breathe through the pain. Fingers dug into the chair’s arms, knuckles turning white. Too much pain. A short, painful, shallow breath. It was all he could manage. Harsh, shallow breaths . . .

Happy with his work, Finch stepped back.

Stanford moved forward, around Finch. Stopped next to Sullivan. Leaned over. Face so close. Sullivan couldn’t focus on what was above him, the pain too great. Stanford placed the palm of his hand on Sullivan’s forehead. Sullivan’s gaze unsteady, pupils dilated with pain.

“What did you see?”

Patience lost, Stanford shouted, “What did you see!”

Finch moved back into position . . .

Stanford removed his hand. Held it up. “No. I don’t think he’ll feel it right now. We’ll give him some time to recover. Finch, you and Stanley bring the other two in. Jack, go make a call. Find out who Yuri Krasnoff is and what his association is with Mr. Sullivan. Henry, take your leave. I don’t want King and Hurst to see you.”

Orders followed, the four men left the room.

Moving toward the door, Stanford picked up one of the buckets. Returned to Sullivan. Lifted the bucket over Sullivan. Tipped it over, the water falling onto Sullivan’s face and head.

Sullivan’s body jerked in surprise. He lifted his head, turning it away. Difficult. Body weak and in pain, his head falling forward. Water in his mouth, Sullivan coughed. It hurt. Swallowed. The water in his lungs painful. So much pain. He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe. Quick breaths. It felt like an eternity. The pain finally beginning to fade. No longer sharp, turning into a deep, pulsing ache.

Focus returning, Sullivan evaluated his injuries. He knew his rib was broken; the pain recognised. If Finch had hit him hard enough, it was possible his liver suffered trauma. A bruised liver needed no medical treatment but if there was a tear, or a rupture, he was in serious trouble. His head and face hurt, much like a migraine. Certain he hadn’t suffered a concussion . . . yet.

It could be worse.

It was going to get worse.

The door opened. Sullivan glanced to his left. So out of it, he hadn’t realised four of the men had left the room. Annabelle stood in the doorway, expression composed. Good girl. He lifted his head. Noticed his fingers cramped around the arms of the chair. He relaxed his hands. Allowed the tension to fall from his body. Putting on a show of strength for Annabelle. A subtle shift, a single twitch of his left eyelid. Message sent; he was okay. He’d been through worse.

He knew he didn’t look okay. Left side of his face the colour of fresh bruising. Sure to be an ugly, red in colour, the flesh swollen. Water still dripping from his hair. Shirt and trousers soaked. Not wanting to keep eye contact, Sullivan looked away. Searched for Stanford. The man was watching the door. Annabelle. He nodded. Annabelle pushed into the room.

Sullivan refused to react. If he showed any concern, any emotion, Stanford would use it against him. A familiar odour. Nicotine. Sobranie cigarettes. Jason. They moved into the center of the room. In front of Sullivan. Finch followed, gun in his right hand. The other man . . . Stanley behind him, a chair in each hand. Stanley placed the chairs on the other side of the room, a large gap between them; Sullivan on the opposite side, a triangle created . . .

Their positions would give Annabelle and Jason a clear line of sight . . . front row seats. It was possible Stanford was about to change tactics. Use him against his colleagues. If they didn’t talk . . . Sullivan would suffer the consequences. Sullivan wasn’t sure how long Annabelle would last, not normally placed in such a violent situation. She had seen the aftermath of injuries suffered, but she had never seen him receive a serious injury . . . never seen him tortured.

It could also go the other way. Continue to question him. Jason or Annabelle hurt if he remained silent . . .

So hard to keep his expression inflexible. In his mind, Sullivan recited a piece of childhood poetry. Watched as Stanley tied Annabelle and Jason to the chairs. He looked at Jason. The man unharmed except for a small cut above his eye. Jason stared back. Sullivan could read his expression. Refusing to answer, Sullivan looked away.

Finch stepped in front of Sullivan.

Stanford moved in, closer to Sullivan, stopping beside him. “Shall we try again, Mr. Sullivan? What did you see? How did you know?”

Expecting a frontal attack, Sullivan watched Finch.

Beside him, Stanford moved quickly. A strong, sudden hold over Sullivan’s right hand. A grip on his small finger. In one, quick fluid movement, Stanford forced the finger to the side, bone breaking at the base. Sullivan screamed a guttural shout. Leaned forward. Pain through his right side. Broken rib protesting. Stanford held on, twisting the finger. Sullivan clenched his eyes closed. Gritted his teeth. Short breaths through his nose.

Across the room, Annabelle looked away, unable to watch.

King held onto the arms of the chair, his grip tight.

The door opened.

Stanford let go. Stepped away from Sullivan, moving into a corner on the far left side of the room. Jack joined him. A quiet conversation started. Stanford glanced back over his shoulder, his gaze assessing Sullivan. Conversation over, Stanford returned to Sullivan’s side. Took a handful of hair, pulled Sullivan’s head up. Back.

Refusing to show any weakness, Sullivan glared back at him.

“I don’t know if I should respect you,” said Stanford, “or fear you, Mr. Sullivan. Anyone who can endure such pain should be treated as a worthy adversary.”

Don’t go there. Don’t put it out in the open. He hadn’t told Annabelle everything. Left out certain details. He swallowed the fear rising into his throat, his chest tight with emotion. Don’t go there. He wasn’t in that room. He wanted to close his eyes. Take a moment . . . the smell of Brown Avon aftershave lingered in the air. He could feel the leather around his wrists. Hear his own screams . . . a warm breath on the side of his face.

Sullivan closed his eyes.

“I can break him,” said Finch.

“No, John. It seems we’ve been wasting our time on Sullivan. We need to change tactics.” Stanford leaned down. A position of power. Close to Sullivan. “Mr. Finch isn’t averse to hitting a woman.”

His eyes snapped opened. Stanford’s words bringing him back to the present. The thing he feared more than being back in that room, strapped to that chair with leather restraints was someone hurting Annabelle. He didn’t want Annabelle to feel what he was feeling. Didn’t want her to feel the pain of torture. He would talk to protect her. Anything to protect her . . .

“Gag him,” said Stanford, returning to an upright position.

Quick. Jack moved forward, taking up a position behind Sullivan.

“No-“

Jack’s hand clamped over Sullivan’s mouth. Fingers dug into bruised cheeks. An arm wrapped around Sullivan’s throat, keeping his head up, pressed back into the crook of Jack’s shoulder, his gaze forward. Jack’s face so close, Sullivan could feel the stubble on his cheek. Words whispered into his left ear. “Bite me, and I promise you, I’ll break her fingers.”

Stanford smiled. “I can see it in your eyes, Mr. Sullivan. You’re willing to talk to protect her. But before you do talk . . . I want you to watch.”

King shifted in his chair. “You don’t have to hurt her. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“It’s too late for that. Sullivan saw something. I need to know what he saw so I can fix it.”

King frowned. Looked at Sullivan.

Sullivan’s heart pounded against his ribcage, a painful beat. His fear so strong. He struggled within Jack’s hold. Ropes burned his wrists. His ankles. He closed his eyes . . . if he couldn’t see . . . the arm around his throat tightened. Air supply constricted . . .

“Open your eyes, Sullivan,” said Stanford. “If you don’t watch, I’ll make her scream.”

Reluctant. Left without a choice, Sullivan opened his eyes. Stared at Annabelle. His eyes expressive. A silent apology given. She nodded. Annabelle understood. A heavy knot in his chest, the emotional ache hurting him more than the physical pain. If they hurt Annabelle . . . if she screamed . . . it would break him.

Finch stepped into Sullivan’s line of sight. Pulling his gaze away, Sullivan stared at Finch. The man smiled. Turned. Moved to stand in front of Annabelle.

King turned his head. No fear in his expression. Only acceptance. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”

Stanford placed a hand on Sullivan’s right shoulder. Fingers digging deep.

Finch turned to King. Raised an eyebrow. “You’re not. I am.”

“If you hurt her. . .” King nodded toward Sullivan.

Understanding, Sullivan relaxed his body. His features. The threat of violence he carried below a usually calm exterior rose to the surface. Expression speaking volumes, his eyes held a promised threat. He would kill without hesitation to protect Annabelle. To protect King.

Finch turned his head. Looked at Sullivan. Confidence dropping, Finch hesitated before turning back. An open-handed slap across the left side of Annabelle’s face. She cried out, more in surprise than pain but it was enough for Sullivan.

Stanford strengthened his grip, the hold on Sullivan’s shoulder becoming painful. Ignored it. Controlled his anger. His fear. If he could take a deep breath, he would, knowing it would help. Kept the silent threat in his expression. His eyes. Waited for Finch . . . hoped the man would look at him before he struck a second time.

Finch looked back over his shoulder . . . attempted a smile. Failed when he saw the way Sullivan was looking at him. Turned his back on Sullivan.

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” said Stanford. “There’s nothing Sullivan can do to stop you.”

“No,” said King. “But the moment he gets an opportunity, he will kill you for what you just did.”

Beads of sweat appeared on Finch’s forehead.

King smiled. Nodded in understanding. “Stewart was right. You are a nervous man-“

Stanford released his grip on Sullivan’s shoulder.

Sullivan closed his eyes. He wanted to keep that piece of information from Stanford.

“What are you talking about, Mr. King,” said Stanford, moving away from Sullivan, closer to King.

Opening his eyes, Sullivan watched. Waited for the inevitable.

King looked at Sullivan.

If he could shake his head, Sullivan would. Once Stanford had all the information they possessed about the abduction of Henry Declan, he will kill them.

“He didn’t tell you about their . . .” King hesitated, as though looking for the right words.

Annabelle smiled. “Stewart called it a one-sided altercation.”

“Really,” said King. “I must use that in my next book.”

Despite the situation, Sullivan rolled his eyes.

Ignoring the room and everyone in it, Stanford stepped close to Finch. “You had a run-in with Sullivan? I told you to keep your distance. Not to approach him or let him see you!”

“He’s lying,” said Finch. “They’re trying to turn us against each other.”

“Explain.”

“Considering Finch was unconscious for most of it,” said King, “you may want to ask Stewart to explain.”

Stewart didn’t want to explain.

Undeterred, King continued. “He showed up at the Tearoom when Stewart was meeting with Seretse. We’re assuming he had prior knowledge of their meeting. A leak in-“

Sullivan’s anger changed direction. A deep growl rising in his throat, the sound muffled behind Jack’s hand. He glared at King.

King noticed Sullivan’s reaction. He looked embarrassed. “I fear, I’ve said too much.”

Stanford looked back at Sullivan before turning back to King. “Please continue, Mr. King.”

“What more is there to say?”

“Jack,” said Stanford.

Jack tightened his hold on Sullivan’s throat. Breathing already difficult, the chokehold successful, Sullivan’s source of air cut off. No longer able to breathe. An attempt to force King to talk. Sullivan closed his eyes. Recited poetry. Anything to stay calm. He didn’t want Annabelle to see this, to watch him suffer . . . Seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. He couldn’t keep fighting his body’s need for oxygen . . .

Lungs screamed. Fingers curled around the arms of the chair, broken finger sticking out at an odd angle. Someone had to give in. Jack held on, embrace around Sullivan’s throat still too tight. Stanford remained silent. Sullivan’s upper body tried to move, back arching forward, body slumping further down into the chair. Jack moved with him, keeping his grip around Sullivan’s throat.

If he could hold out. Stanford wanted him conscious . . . an idea began to form in Sullivan’s mind.

“Stop,” said King.

Stanford waved his hand in the air.

Jack weakened his grip.

Sullivan drew in a painful, harsh breath. He wanted to take a deep breath. Knew he couldn’t. Shallow breaths in and out through his nose, he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. Relax. One breath at a time. His lungs settled, no longer fighting.

“Talk, Mr. King.”

No.

If Jason talked . . . all this pain for nothing.

“We assume there’s a leak in Seretse’s office. Stewart confronted Finch. Knocked him unconscious with one punch, if Stewart told the story truthfully. He then searched Finch and found his identification. When they questioned Mrs. Declan, she told Stewart and Annabelle a man had come to her home a few days before her husband was abducted. When she described him, Stewart realised she was talking about Finch. It wasn’t a coincidence. Finch at the Declan’s home and there at the meeting. We knew Finch was the key. Find him and we find you.”

Finch began to fidget, unable to stand still. A trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.

“And what made . . . Stewart, suspicious of Finch?”

“Finch isn’t very good at spying on people.”

“So,” said Stanford. “The person who led you to Finch was Finch.”

“Gave himself away, I’m afraid,” said King.

“Does anyone outside of Department S know about Finch?”

Said too quickly. “Yes.”

Stanford turned his shoulders, toward Sullivan . . .

“Stewart was going to make a report to Seretse this afternoon.”

Sullivan closed his eyes. He had to do something drastic. Anything to end this.

“Our mission hasn’t been compromised, then.”

Finch relaxed, tense shoulders sagging with relief.

Time running short, Sullivan aware that Stanford had one remaining question. An answer only Sullivan could give.

So unexpected. Stanford drew the Walter PPK from his coat pocket and shot Finch. A heavy weight, Finch fell, dead when he hit the floor. A bullet to the heart. Very little blood. A silent, almost painless death. Sullivan knew Stanford wouldn’t give him the same . . . kindness. His own death would be violent and very painful.

Stanford put the gun away, patted his pockets. Turned and walked to the other side of the room. Stopped in front of Sullivan. Nodded to Jack.

Jack released his hold on Sullivan. Stepped back.

Already in the correct position, Sullivan stayed slouched in the chair. He was ready. Waiting. Any opportunity and he would take it. He should have done it sooner. Knew it would only bring him more pain. No longer cared. Knew Stanford would do whatever it took to gain information. Sullivan had to stop this now.

Stanford leaned over . . .

Sullivan shifted forward. Tilted his head downward. Clenched his teeth. Neck muscles stiff. Bending the middle of his back, he snapped his head back then forward. Forehead slamming into Stanford’s nose. Enough strength behind the blow to break bone.

Stanford stood up and stumbled back, a strangled noise hissed out through clenched teeth. Hands reached for his face, blood spurting from his nose.

Refusing to look at Annabelle or King, Sullivan smiled in satisfaction, sat back and waited for the consequences of his actions.

He didn’t have to wait long . . .

Stanford roared in pain and anger. Moved quickly. Wanting to cause as much damage as possible, Stanford struck out, closed fist battering Sullivan’s right side. Stanford so angry, his efforts clumsy. Not a direct hit to the liver but it was still painful.

Not what Sullivan wanted or needed.

Stanford threw a second punch. The blow to the side of Sullivan’s head so powerful, it knocked Sullivan off his feet, momentum forcing the chair to tip. Balance lost, the chair fell over, taking Sullivan with it. His right shoulder hit the floor hard, the pain jarring his collarbone. Pain burned through his right side. Broken finger caught beneath the arm of the chair . . .

He could hear Annabelle’s voice, her tone desperate, begging Stanford to stop. He could hear King’s threats . . .

Could feel his consciousness leaving him . . . closed his eyes and let it go.

Not finished, not enough satisfaction given, Stanford stepped around the chair. Raised his leg, heel forward. His intent obvious . . .

Annabelle, heart in her throat, fear squeezing her chest and curling her stomach, struggled to speak. “You still need him. He saw something!”

Jack reacted. A hold on Stanford’s right elbow. Pulled him back, away from Sullivan. No words spoken. Pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, holding it up for Stanford. The offer taken, Stanford held it against his nose. White quickly turned red, blood dripping onto Stanford’s shirt, the floor.

Her heart still pounding painfully in her chest, Annabelle leaned to her left. An awkward position. Searched Sullivan’s face. His features relaxed, she knew he was unconscious . . . no longer in pain. The left side of his face swollen, an angry red already beginning to turn purple. She blinked back the tears filling her eyes. Couldn’t afford to show any emotion. Sat up. A quick glance toward King. Toward Finch. Returned her gaze to the front. Watched the man with the newly broken nose.

King was dealing with his own emotions. Wearing an expression of guilt, he stared at Sullivan, unable to look away.

Stanford, anger now under control, turned away from Sullivan. He nodded at the man by the door. Grimaced. Stepped back and watched. Bucket now in hand, Stanley moved forward. Close enough, he threw the water into Sullivan’s face. Annabelle flinched. Thankful no one had seen her reaction. Sullivan remained still, body and limbs slack. He wasn’t waking anytime soon. Stanley shook the dregs out of the bucket over Sullivan. Returned to his position beside the door. Dropped the bucket. Arms by his side.

Unsure of what would happen next, Annabelle held her breath. Not difficult. Fear and worry restricting her air supply. The room quiet, she could hear Sullivan’s quick, shallow breaths. Risked another glance. Sullivan’s chest and diaphragm rose and fell but the movement was clumsy, graceless. Something was wrong. A possible internal injury. Her worry grew. For Stewart. Herself . . . Jason.

Stewart seriously injured . . . escape more difficult.

“Untie the woman,” said Stanford.

Glance snapping forward, Annabelle acted as though nothing were wrong. Such a hard thing to do. Jack moved toward her. She made every attempt not to react to his touch. His actions rough as he untied her hands. Tried not to flinch when his gaze roamed over her lower body as he released her legs from the chair. Fingers caressed her ankles. She held her ground. Her breath. Stared back when he lifted his gaze to see her reaction. He smiled; something evil in his expression. Unlike Finch, this man didn’t fear Stewart Sullivan.

“Jack.”

Slow to react, Jack stood up. Walked away, finding a position next to the prone Sullivan. Smile still on his face. Worried, Annabelle looked away. Stanford moved forward, taking Jack’s place. He leaned forward. His face so close she could feel his breath, smell the blood, taste it on her tongue. She kept her expression still.

“You’ve been given a reprieve, Miss. Hurst. Be grateful Sullivan knows what he’s doing,” said Stanford. “You’ve got one hour. I want him awake. I want him still willing to talk. Do not convince him to stay silent.”

“He’s hurt,” said King. “No doubt, he now has a concussion. You won’t get much out of him.”

Annabelle understood. An attempt to buy more time.

“I need to know what he saw-“

“If he has suffered a concussion,” said Annabelle, “he won’t remember what he saw.”

Stanford smiled. “You’ll make sure he remembers.”

“I can’t. Not in an hour.”

A glance back over his shoulder. Gaze returning to Annabelle. “You’re very close. I can see how much you care for each other. Miss. Hurst, I am willing to kill to get an answer. I am willing to kill you. Do you want him to carry that guilt for the rest of his life?”

Not a stupid person, Annabelle said, “Once you have your answer, you won’t let him to live long enough to feel any guilt.”

“You underestimate me, Miss, Hurst. I can keep him here and alive for a very long time.”

Her eyes gave her away.

Stanford smiled. A smug expression. Pleased with her reaction.

King added his own observation. “If you kill Annabelle, you won’t get your answer.”

“And if I kill you?”

“It’s possible my death would be a conversation starter,” said King. “More so than Miss. Hurst’s.”

“Well, then, Mr. King, if you want to live, you will get him ready. One hour.”

Stanford walked away. Opened the door. Left the room. Stanley followed. Jack hesitated. Looked down at Sullivan . . .

Please don’t hurt him anymore.

Jack sighed. A sound of disappointment. Walked to the body in the middle of the room. Reached down. Picked up Finch’s legs and dragged him out of the room. Closed the door behind him. Locked it.

No hesitation. Annabelle stood up. Quickly moved to Sullivan’s side. She knelt beside him, fingers reaching for his carotid pulse point. Fingers hovered . . . afraid something was seriously wrong. No time to wait, imagination wild, creating so many scenarios . . . best to get on with it. Tips of her fingers pressed against the side of Sullivan’s neck. Annabelle closed her eyes. His pulse strong . . . rapid. Moved her hand up, palm against his forehead. Skin too warm. Ran her fingers through his wet hair, the water still cold, droplets still falling to the floor. Anger welled in her belly . . .

“Annabelle.”

She swallowed the emotion rising into her throat. Closed her eyes against the tears. Like Sullivan, she was normally calm, able to do her job . . . able to get herself out of a difficult situation. This . . . so much different. Stewart suffering another form of torture and she had been witness to part of it. Saw enough to make it so much harder to gain control. She removed her hand. A long look. Seeing so much. His long lashes against pale skin. Mouth open, he still breathed with difficulty . . . Annabelle shut her emotions down. She had to do this for Stewart. He was relying on her. On Jason. It was up to them to get him out. Get him home.

Stood up. Her legs trembling, she walked back to Jason. Refused to look into his eyes. Her emotions lingering on the edge of her mind, waiting for her to lose control. She wasn’t going to give into the fear, the worry. Stayed in control.

The knots tight, it took too long to release King from his bindings. Even longer to remove Sullivan from the chair; the skin on his wrists and ankles raw. Time wasted. Not enough time left. King curled his arms around Sullivan’s upper body. Annabelle took his legs. Together they lifted him. Carried him to the other side of the room, the floor dry. Laid him down, movements careful. Gentle. Positions changed, Annabelle sat on the floor. Lifted Sullivan’s head. Shifted her body into a better position. Back against the wall. Legs curled beneath her, she rested Sullivan’s head in her lap. Placed the palm of her hand on his chest. She could feel the heat building in his body . . .

For a moment, her mind wandered. Yuri Krasnoff. Had it been this bad . . .

“Finger first,” said King.

Pulled away from her thoughts, Annabelle nodded.

“Hold his hand.” King, sitting beside Sullivan, looked up. Stared at Annabelle. “A strong hold, Annabelle. I only want to do this once.”

She understood his meaning. Hesitated, not wanting to cause Stewart more pain. Unconscious, he wouldn’t remember it. She would. . . “Why did he do it?”

King frowned, expression growing impatient. “We don’t have time for-“

“I want to know why Stewart provoked that man. He had to have known he would retaliate.”

“It’s simple,” said King.

“Is it?”

“Stewart didn’t want you hurt. The only way he could think of to stop-“

“He did it on purpose, knowing . . .” She looked down at Sullivan.

“They can’t make him talk if he’s unconscious. He knew they wouldn’t hurt you if he couldn’t watch. Stewart did it to protect you.”

Resolve crumbling, Annabelle needed a moment. She knew and understood Stewart would go to the extreme to protect her. A deep breath. It was her turn; willing to do whatever it took to protect Stewart. She leaned forward, reached for Sullivan’s right hand. Held it in her hands. As instructed. A strong hold.

A sharp tug. Bone grinding back into place . . .

An abrupt return to consciousness. A quick intake of breath, the sound abrasive. Painful. His body shifting, pulling away from the pain.

A soft touch on the side of his face. Warm breath against his skin. Words spoken. Touch recognised. Sullivan knew it was Annabelle. He opened his eyes, the lids too heavy. Through blurred vision, he saw Annabelle above him. Smiled in relief.

The emotion torn from his features, pain through his right hand. Gaze shifting, Sullivan grated his back teeth. King strapped Sullivan’s fingers with the handkerchief from his jacket’s breast pocket. Pinkie and ring finger an odd couple. Pulled the wet shirt from Sullivan’s trousers, gathering the right side up far enough to reveal damaged flesh. Dark reds already changing colour. Amongst the growing bruise. Two inches in length . . . a scar across the side of the fifth rib, the skin still pink. Still healing. King reached toward it, fingers probing . . .

The pain so sharp. So sudden. Sullivan unable to stay quiet. A rasping cry escaped. Shallow breaths. Broken rib expanding, contracting. He felt faint. Dizziness clouded his vision. Nausea churned his stomach. Closed his eyes. Concentrated on the fingers caressing his face, Annabelle’s touch gentle. Her fingers brushing through his wet hair . . .

“Broken rib.” Explanation blunt, King lowered Sullivan’s shirt.

Feeling the need to explain, Sullivan said, “Liver punch. Two.”

“Check his abdomen,” said Annabelle.

“For?”

“Check if it’s swollen or firm.”

King followed Annabelle’s instructions.

Sullivan became tense. Feared that something was seriously wrong. He felt his abdomen give beneath King’s touch. Released his breath.

“Everything’s fine,” said King.

“Press into the right side.”

Not wanting any more pain, Sullivan tried to pull away . . .

Annabelle explained. “Right side of his abdomen. If there’s any tenderness. ..”

Nothing. No injury to his liver. Opened his eyes. Vision slightly clearer, Sullivan saw the emotion in Annabelle’s eyes . . . the red mark on the side of her face. He lifted his left hand, fingers reaching. “Annie?”

“I’m okay,” said Annabelle. Fingers stroking Sullivan’s forehead, she smiled. Gave Sullivan the reassurance he required. Needed. “They didn’t hurt me.”

“Your plan worked,” said King.

Hand falling to his side, Sullivan said, “It did?”

King smiled. “Can you stand up?”

Sullivan glared up at King.

“Of course you can,” said King.

Left arm supporting his side, Sullivan sat up. His head spun. Unable to locate his balance, he fell back. Stubborn, he made a second attempt. Behind him, Annabelle pressed her hands against his back, pushing him forward. Kept him upright. Arms under Sullivan’s, Annabelle lifted. Sullivan moved with her, gathering his legs beneath him, pushing up. He made it to his feet . . .

Knees refusing to lock into place, he fell back to the floor. Annabelle followed him. Her arms embracing him. A strong hold. A show of comfort.

“Time for a cigarette, then,” said King.

Sullivan continued to glare. “You must be dying . . .”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it.”

“I didn’t,” said Sullivan.

King reached into an inside pocket. Pulled out a packet of cigarettes . . .

“Jason,” said Annabelle. “At a time like this.”

“For some reason, they conveniently left me my cigarettes.” Opened the packet. Removed and held up a strip of plastic. “Simple is always best.”

Sullivan smiled. The bruising on his face painful. At least nothing was broken. Jaw and cheekbone still in one piece. He closed his eyes. Shallow breaths. He had to do this. A feeling of urgency filling him. Opened his eyes. A third attempt more successful. With Annabelle’s help, Sullivan made it to his feet. Knees locked. Annabelle now beside him, her arm around his waist. He looked into King’s eyes. Saw the worry . . . saw the need to hurry.

“How long?”

King looked down at his watch. Lifted his gaze back up. “We have twenty minutes until they come back. Unless he lied.”

Sullivan nodded. “How many?”

King frowned. “Three. And they’re armed.”

“Okay,” said Sullivan. “Let’s get one thing out of the way. If something goes wrong, don’t stop. Keep going. Is that understood?”

He saw the understanding.

“We’re not leaving you behind, Stewart,” said Annabelle.

“You might not have a choice,” said Sullivan. “Jason. If I can’t make it, get Annabelle out of here.”

King nodded in agreement. “Then, you need to tell us what you saw.”

“What?”

“What did you see?”

Sullivan flinched. Stepped back. Away from the expected pain. Unsteady on his own, he stumbled. Caught himself before he fell. Breathed as deep as he could, not enough air, the breath miserable. Concentrated. So hard to think. His head ached.

“It’s not Declan.”

“What do you mean?” said King.

“Declan. He was here, but it wasn’t him.”

King stepped forward. Held up two fingers . . .

Sullivan shook his head. A mistake. Felt like a bowling ball bouncing around the inside of his skull. Pressed the heel of his left hand against his forehead. His knees buckled. Not good . . . Surprised he stayed upright. Annabelle and King, each taking a side. A strong hold on his upper arms, keeping him from falling.

“You can explain later,” said King.

“No. I might not . . . There’s a scar below his right ear.”

“Declan doesn’t have a scar. . .” said Annabelle, words trailing off when she understood.

“A surgery scar?” said King. “Plastic surgery? They’re replacing Henry Declan with their own model.”

Sullivan swallowed. “He didn’t know who Yuri Krasnoff is.”

“Should he?”

Looked at King. “Yes.”

King nodded.

“We have to escape,” said Sullivan. “Stanford is willing-“

“We know,” said Annabelle. “Stewart, you can’t tell him what you saw.”

“Annabelle, I-“

“You can’t tell him, Stewart. Once you do, he’ll have no need to keep us alive,” said King.

Angry, Sullivan turned on him. Pulled himself from King’s grip. “If I wanted Stanford to know about Finch, I would have told him. This might be more of a hobby for you, Jason, but for me . . . I didn’t go through all that pain for you to . . .” Sullivan bit down on the words, saying too much. Revealing too much. Annabelle’s hand on his lower back. She understood.

“I’m sorry, Stewart. I-“

“We need to go.” No time to wait, Sullivan snatched the piece of plastic from King’s fingers. Legs unsteady, balance shifting, he walked to the door. Annabelle staying close. He knew he wouldn’t make it. Knew he would hold them back. If confronted, not enough strength in his body to win a physical confrontation, the pain taking almost everything he had. If he could give Annabelle and King an opportunity, give them any chance to escape, he would take it. He would give his life to save them.

A cheap lock, Sullivan unlocking the door within seconds. Handed the makeshift lock pick back to King. Waited. Listened for any sound. His short breaths loud. Took a chance. Opened the door. Glanced out into a thin corridor. Empty. Opened the door wide, stepped out of the room. A glance left, then right. He turned and motioned for King and Annabelle to join him. Closed the door behind them. No key in the lock.

“This way,” said Annabelle, taking the lead.

Sullivan reached out. Took her arm and pulled her back. Nodded to King, motioning him forward. Once King and Annabelle were moving, Sullivan followed. Left arm using the walls of the small rooms as a crutch, he managed to keep himself upright, body ready to collapse. He could feel his balance leaving . . . not much left to keep him going.

To their left, a small dark cavern. Large open fireplace . . . It looked lost and unwelcomed amongst the collection of rooms and corridors.

A sharp, snap of sound behind them. Sullivan turned . . . too quickly. Dizzy, he leaned against a room. Gaze unsteady, he searched for the source of sound. Footsteps.

Harsh whispers. “Annabelle. Jason. Get in the fireplace. Now.”

No time for arguments. They did as told. No doubt expecting him to follow. He didn’t. Drawing on the last of his strength, Sullivan kept moving. Stumbling steps. Turned a corner. A dead end. Turned back. Sense of direction lost. He looked up, gaze following the ceiling. Smiled when he saw a wall . . . front or back of the building. Hopefully, an exit.

Running footsteps. Escape revealed to their captors.

Moving as fast as his body was capable, Sullivan followed the corridors to the end of the building. A large roller door. A backward glance over his shoulder. Nothing there. Searched for the switch to open the door. Found it. Pushed the button. The door opened. A slow, rumbling sound echoed through the building. His location given. He would leave the door open . . . oldest trick in the book. It might by some time . . .

A single gunshot.

Pain tore through his right shoulder . . . bullet exploding through the front. He stood still, in shock, pain lacking. Knees collapsing, Sullivan fell forward . . .

Consciousness fled.

CHAPTER 3

A lonely gunshot . . .

Annabelle’s heart sank. A heavy, uncomfortable weight in the pit of her stomach.

Stewart.

Emotions boiling, reaching a breaking point, she moved forward, desperate to find him. To help him. A strong, painful grip on her arm. She snapped her head to the side, her anger and fear visible. She glared at King. He shook his head. She knew what he was thinking; they couldn’t allow Stewart’s sacrifice to be for nothing. They had to escape . . .

No.

She wasn’t going to leave Stewart. She wasn’t going to leave him to die . . . if he wasn’t already dead. Annabelle turned her face away. Closed her eyes. A single tear falling. She had to think. A deep breath. Another one. Difficult to ease the ache gripping her chest in a tight embrace. Sudden clarity. She opened her eyes. Realised they wouldn’t kill Stewart. Not yet. Not until Stewart released the information, they required.

More torture . . .

Understanding. They had to get Stewart out, as quickly as possible but to do that, they needed a plan. Annabelle took control of her emotions. Easier to think. They needed to stay hidden long enough for . . . Stewart had called him . . . Stanford . . . long enough for Stanford to think a successful escape had been made. Rescue not possible if they were caught a second time.

Stanford would search the building. They would search outside. Nowhere to hide. Certain they would search this hearth, the fireplace not a good hiding spot; large enough, sun filtering through the crumbling brick, the shadows not dark enough, not deep enough.

A more gentle touch on her arm. “Annabelle, we can’t stay here. They’ll find us.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

Snapped in a harsh whisper. “Annabelle! We have to leave. We can’t stay.”

She missed Stewart’s calm approach. His calm assurance. “Then go, Jason. But I’m not leaving Stewart.”

King reached out. Took Annabelle’s upper arm in a firm grip. Pulled her close. “This isn’t what Stewart wanted.”

Annabelle stared into King’s eyes. “He may have just died for us, Jason. I’m prepared to do the same for him. Are you? Was Stewart right? Is this just a hobby for you? Are you willing to let him die just so you can escape with another plot for your next book?”

She was angry. Her words meant to hurt. Meant to snap King back into reality. As much as he wanted to get away, they couldn’t. Shoe on the other foot, Stewart wouldn’t even think of escape. He would risk everything to rescue them. Why wasn’t King as protective of Stewart?

“How do you think Stewart would feel? He’s so willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. How do you think he’d feel if we were put back in front of him? He’ll talk, Annabelle. He’ll talk to protect you. To protect me. Once Stanford has what he wants, he’ll kill you in front of Stewart. He’ll kill me. How do you think Stewart would feel about that? We have to escape. Once we’ve gotten help, we’ll come back.”

“Stewart wouldn’t leave me,” said Annabelle. “I’m not leaving him.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, I do.”

“If he’s dead . . . if we’re caught a second time we won’t get another chance . . .”

Determined. “I’m not leaving him.”

King deflated. Shoulders sagging with the weight of the truth. “I can’t talk you out of it?”

“No.” Annabelle tried to pull her arm from King’s grip. Difficult. King not willing to let her go.

“Annabelle, look at me.”

She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the self-serving attitude. Stewart’s life meant nothing to King.

“Devil’s advocate.”

Annabelle turned her upper body, arm still in King’s grip. She saw it in his eyes. The worry. The fear and the concern. He felt the same way she did. She closed her eyes. Took too long to open them again. The things she had said . . . she should have known better.

“Of course, I wouldn’t leave Stewart. I thought you knew me better than that,” said King, letting go of her arm. “But I had to be sure you understood the consequences. I had to be sure you were willing to take the risk. If we’re caught . . . it’ll be the end for all of us.”

Annabelle smiled. Relieved. “I understand.”

“Now that you do, you must do everything I tell you.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“No. But we have to find a better hiding place where we can wait them out.”

“Stewart can’t wait . . .”

“Yes, he can. Stewart-“

“Don’t tell me he can look after himself,” said Annabelle, “because right now, I don’t believe he can.”

“No. He can’t. But we have to give them time to think we escaped. If Stanford sends someone out to look for us, it’ll be one less person to worry about.”

“We stay here,” said Annabelle. “It’s the last place they’ll expect us to be.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Stanford isn’t stupid.”

“Yes, he is.”

King sent her a look.

“He brought us here. He brought Stewart here.”

Nodded in agreement. “He allowed Stewart to see the man meant to replace Henry Declan.”

“And Stewart told us how to recognise the fake Declan. We now know a lot more than we did this morning.”

“He’s relying on us to get that information back to Seretse,” said King.

“We’re not leaving Stewart behind.”

“No. We’re not.”

“Any ideas?” said Annabelle.

“Wait here.”

She didn’t want to wait but she had agreed to do what he asked.

King, shoulders hunched, body in a low crouch, moved forward. Stopped at the edge of the large fireplace. Looked out. Nothing to see. Only fabricated rooms and empty corridors. He looked up. More to see. A plan delivered. Moved back into the hearth. He took Annabelle by the arm. Led her outside. Pointed upward.

Plan revealed. Annabelle smiled. Removed her shoes. Threw them up onto the roof. Hands clasped together, King offered a helping hand. Her foot in his hands, King lifted, pushing Annabelle upward. She stretched her arms, hands gripping the edge of the fabricated room. Helped herself up the rest of the way. No time to be lady-like. Clambered on to the flat roof of the room. She turned. Lay on her stomach, reaching over the edge. King reached up, took her hand. How they managed it, Annabelle didn’t know. In a matter of seconds, they were both on the roof . . .

Just in time . . .

Jack appeared below them, upper body disappearing into the fireplace. Came back out. Looked around.

Body still, Annabelle held her breath . . . waited.

Jack looked up. Looked away. An expression of frustration. “If you don’t show yourself, we’ll kill Sullivan.”

A soft exhale. Stewart still alive. The threat to kill him a weak attempt to force their hand.

“You’ve got ten minutes. Enough time for Sullivan to bleed to death.”

King placed his hand on Annabelle’s arm. A gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Moved further down the corridor, Jack repeating his empty threats.

Now out of range. His voice no longer heard. Annabelle turned to King. He refused to look at her. Refused to acknowledge her growing fear. If they’d shot Stewart . . . no time left. Stewart’s life at risk. They had to move. Not waiting for King, Annabelle got up onto her hands and knees. Taking her shoes with her, she crawled to the other side of the roof. They had heard the roller door open . . . possibly Stewart’s last location. They would start there.

King moved into a position beside her. “All this will be for nothing if they move Stewart to another location.”

Annabelle made a poor attempt to ignore him. If Stanford did move Stewart to another location . . . they might never find him. She looked at King. Something in her features causing him to regret his words, his own expression falling.

“Not to worry, we’ll find Stewart.”

She glanced across the maze of rooms toward the front of the building. Concentrated on the one in front of her. She looked over the edge. Searching for Jack, for anyone. Nothing. Annabelle stood up, a low crouch. Took a few steps back, ran and jumped. Landed with a soft thump. Closed her eyes and waited. If they were in the room below her . . .

Seconds passed. Her position not revealed. She turned around. Watched as King removed his shoes and socks; less noise with bare feet. He searched the corridor below. Satisfied, he jumped, landing beside her. Repetitive. A look to make sure the area was clear. Jump to the next room. The distance between some greater than the distance between others.

They finally made it to the front of the building. The roller door still open. An obvious trap. A splatter of blood against the wall beside the door. A small pool of blood on the floor . . .

Had it been a bluff . . . Stewart left to bleed to death?

“They won’t let him die,” said King. “They can’t take the risk. They need to know what Stewart saw.”

Not reassured. “What if they can’t keep him alive?”

The sound of a car engine. Stones shifting beneath moving tyres.

No . . .

They were moving Stewart, taking him away from her. If she lost him. If she couldn’t protect him from further harm . . . she would never forgive herself.

The car came to a stop. The engine turned off. A car door opened. Closed.

Stewart had been right . . .

Sarah Townsend, lacking her nervous nature, appeared in the open doorway. Another player added to the mix. One more person to deal with.

Annabelle watched as Townsend made her way down a corridor. Four rooms down. Turned a corner. Annabelle stood up, ran to the other side of the room. No sign of Townsend appearing in the next corridor. A small smile. A little more confident. Hopeful, she now had the location of Stewart Sullivan.

Annabelle didn’t want to wait. Without a plan, there was little choice. Until an opportunity presented itself, or they created their own, there was little they could do.

They had to wait.

She had to wait.

Left alone to contemplate his fate, Sullivan lay on his back on the floor. Lack of strength keeping him there, consciousness refusing to leave him. Pain, heavy and dull filled his right shoulder, his side. The pain overriding everything else; head and face and broken finger no longer as painful as they had been. He could feel the blood beneath him. The wound still bleeding, a thick, slow, oozing rhythm. Blood loss, the biggest threat to his life. Shooter’s aim correct, nothing vital hit. Lung and subclavian vein left alone.

Sullivan closed his eyes.

Contemplation: he knew he might die here. Death an acceptance made a long time ago. Knew it would be a slow, painful death. Wanting information, Stanford would keep him alive by any means possible. Also knew he would refuse to talk, to give Stanford what he wanted. Death on its way, Sullivan needed to hold out as long as he could. Rescue now achievable. Annabelle and King successful in their endeavour to escape. A sinking feeling. He knew Annabelle too well. Knew she wouldn’t leave him. His hope lay with King. Dependent on Jason to keep Annabelle away. To keep her safe. If she stayed. If caught . . . all this for nothing. They needed to find help . . .

The door opened.

Stanford moved into the room. Blood cleaned from his face. Bruises already forming beneath his eyes. An ugly sight. Knelt down beside Sullivan. Watched, gaze roaming across Sullivan’s features. Taking his time. Enjoying the moment. Fingers against the side of Sullivan’s face, turning his head. A soft caress across bruised flesh. A gentle touch. Hand removed. A backhanded slap across Sullivan’s face.

A nauseating, bout of dizziness, brain feeling as though it were on the move. A strange, sensation of floating. Felt as though he were going to be ill. A moment. The feeling fading into the background. Sullivan opened his eyes. Stared up at Stanford.

“Why don’t we make you more comfortable, Mr. Sullivan?”

Throat dry. Desperate for a drink of water. Unwilling to ask. Brain making a poor effort to understand what Stanford meant by ‘comfortable’. An expectation of more pain . . . another beating. Nothing comfortable about that. A misguided attempt to unbalance Sullivan; violent shifts between pain and comfort. Sullivan not fooled. Experienced in the methods of torture.

Stanley entered the room, a chair in his right hand.

If he never saw another chair . . . Sullivan rolled his eyes. Not a smart move. Dizziness moving back in. No time to recover. Stanford grabbed a hold of Sullivan’s shirt. Pulled Sullivan upright. His body suffered a fusion of feelings. Pain ripped through his shoulder. An ache similar to a leaden weight filled his skull. His stomach rolled . . . short breaths. Body limp his head fell forward, forehead resting on Stanford’s shoulder. A smell of cologne. Not Brown Avon aftershave. Still not as bad. Nothing they could do to equal the pain created by Yuri Krasnoff.

A hand on the back of his head. Fingers in his hair. His head pulled back. Gaze unsteady, Sullivan stared up at the ceiling. A hand against his chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. His shirt opened . . . cool air against his warm skin. The shirt pulled from his shoulders, his arms, material pulling at the drying blood. Sullivan grimaced.

Upper body left bare . . .

No.

Too much of a reminder . . .

Pulled up onto weak legs, limbs trembling. Sullivan thrown into the chair. Gunshot entry at the back of his shoulder slamming against the back of the chair. Bit into his lower lip, scream cut off. Searched for his balance. Couldn’t find it. Body slumping down, forward. Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. Pulling him up. Fingers dug into the exit wound. Pressure applied. A slow growth of pain. Sullivan clenched his jaw . . .

Leather restraints applied to his wrists, strapping him down . . .

No.

So much like last time . . .

Stanford waved his hand. The added pain removed from Sullivan’s shoulder. Stepping forward, Stanford crouched down in front of Sullivan. Looked up. Found Sullivan’s wandering gaze. Not pleased, Sullivan not giving Stanford his full attention. Stanford stood up to his full height. Gave Stanley a subtle nod.

A hard grip on his jaw. His head held still. Sullivan looked back at Stanford. Watched as Stanford removed something from his pocket. A pale, brown glass bottle shaped into a car, the liquid inside visible . . .

Brown Avon aftershave.

How did Stanford know?

Hand removed. Sullivan memorised. Unable to pull his gaze away. To turn his head.

Stanford opened the bottle. Splashed a small amount of the aftershave onto his right hand. Placed his hand against Sullivan’s throat . . .

A fearful reaction. Sullivan pulled his head away, Stanford moving with him. The aftershave wet, cold. The odour unmistakable . . .

Stanford stepped back. Screwed the lid back onto the bottle. Placed it into his pocket. Watched Sullivan react.

Fear took hold. Refused to let go. Tried to keep it from his eyes. Couldn’t. He felt weak with fear. It restricted his breathing even further. A taught knot across his chest. His body began to shake. Violent tremors. Pain, so much like a phantom, filled him. Tried to convince himself this wasn’t real . . . couldn’t.

He was back in that room.

Upper body naked. Strapped into a chair with leather restraints. The smell of Brown Avon aftershave in the air . . . so strong.

He wanted to scream . . .

Couldn’t find his voice.

Short, rapid breaths.

“I can see your fear, Mr. Sullivan,” said Stanford. “Perhaps, I can break you after all.”

Mind lost, Sullivan couldn’t find his way back.

Stanford moved in. So close. Leaned over. So close. Breath warm against Sullivan’s skin. Sullivan’s eyes, glazed over, looked through him . . . Stanford frowned. Slapped Sullivan’s face. No reaction. Pressed his fingers into Sullivan’s shoulder . . . smiled.

Sullivan blinked. The pain different. His shoulder the focal point. Gaze coming into focus. A face . . . too close. Not Yuri Krasnoff. Sullivan concentrated on the features in front of him. A gruelling effort . . . a slow return to the real world.

Stanford.

He wasn’t in that room.

He closed his eyes. A grateful sob released. The smell of aftershave lingered. He couldn’t take a breath without smelling it, each breath a violent reminder. If he lived through this . . . a rescue made . . . a physical survival . . . sure his mind would never be the same . . . certain, he’d just been broken.

Stanford stood upright. Moved back. Stood in front of Sullivan. “Open your eyes.”

No fight left in him, Sullivan opened his eyes. Looked at the man in front of him. Not Yuri Krasnoff. Stanford. Awareness not enough, the fear still strong . . . too strong. That room, that man ready to take him back without a moment’s hesitation. He couldn’t go back there. He had to stay in the here and now . . . if he didn’t . . . if his mind returned to that room, he knew he would never come back. He had to concentrate. A short, painful breath. Brown Avon aftershave. Sullivan bit into his cheek. Tasted the blood. Mind kept in the moment.

“I’ve made a call, Mr. Sullivan,” said Stanford. “I now know enough about what happened to you two years ago to make use of it. If I need to, I will use the same method Krasnoff used.”

Words escaped before he could stop them. “No . . . please don’t.”

“Then tell me what I want to know. What did you see?”

The wrong thing to say. The words a strong incentive to stay in the present. Taking control of his emotions, Sullivan’s resolve grew. Tenacity a welcomed strength. Stanford didn’t know everything about what had happened to him, Sullivan not revealing everything. Only he knew the extent of what had happened . . .

He smiled. The only response he was willing to give. Stanford couldn’t know everything.

Stanford returned the expression. “Don’t push me, Sullivan. You don’t know how far I’ll go to get answers.”

Decided to give up a little information. “You don’t know enough about what happened with Yuri Krasnoff.”

“My source has access to your file. He has access to you medical files. I know enough.”

“No. You don’t. I didn’t tell them everything that happened.”

“You told them enough,” said Stanford. “Enough to recreate the same environment. Your reaction was interesting. The smell of the aftershave took you back there. Didn’t it?”

Sullivan wanted to look away. His eyes giving up too much information. Held his gaze steady. Stared back at Stanford.

“The leather around your wrists started the journey. But it was the aftershave that did it.” Stanford smiled. “Does it happen every time you smell that particular odour?”

Looked away. Unable to stop himself.

“What did you see, Sullivan?”

“I saw Henry Declan.”

“Did you tell your friends about Declan?”

“No.” No reason to keep him alive if he admitted he told Annabelle and Jason. A distraction. An effort to gain more time . . . “They got away didn’t they.” Not a question. A statement.

“Not yet. They’re still in the building somewhere. Jack is still looking.”

Kept the anger from his features. If King stayed . . . Annabelle still with him. His life almost given to help them escape . . . if they stayed . . . everything he’d done thrown back into his face. Sullivan wasn’t happy. The anger welcomed. The emotion helping to keep his mind in the present. He wasn’t in that room. Yuri Krasnoff wasn’t standing in front of him.

He couldn’t let the thought of Annabelle, still here, play with his mind. Concentration needed he decided to continue, keep playing for time.

“How did you know we would be at Finch’s home?”

“We already knew who you were. Department S. You solve the unsolvable. I couldn’t let that happen. We’ve been following you since you left your meeting with Seretse.”

Managed to keep the surprise from his face. “You must be good.”

“We used different vehicles. Different drivers. Makes it harder to spot.”

Definitely off his game.

“By the time you got the front door open, Jack was already upstairs. Eddie, Stanley and I waited out the back.”

“I let King open the front door,” said Sullivan. “I won’t do that again.”

“You won’t get the chance.”

“Maybe not but I’m not ready to give up.”

“Then let’s get on with it shall we?”

No.

“You made a mistake,” said Sullivan.

Stanford nodded in agreement. “Finch. That turned out to be a rather big mistake. I should have known better. I assume he wanted a closer look at his competition.”

“Not much of a competition.”

“No.”

“He wasn’t your only mistake.”

Stanford’s expression asked for an explanation.

Sullivan explained. “You brought us here.”

“Ahh, but that turned out to be a good thing. You saw something that revealed the man you thought was Declan to be a fake. I want to know what you saw.”

Words repeated. “I saw Henry Declan.”

“Once I have Miss. Hurst back, you’ll talk.”

Yes, he would. Anything to protect her. Anything to stop her from suffering . . . even if it meant her death.

Stanley spoke up from behind Sullivan. “We should move him to another location. If they do manage to escape, they’ll-“

Stanford waved his hand in the air. “They won’t leave him. They’re too loyal. Now, enough of your games, Mr. Sullivan. I know you’re only trying to delay the inevitable but it will happen. I will break you. Permanently.” Stanford took out a piece of paper. A written list. Gaze searching the list. “I have a few things I need to gather before we proceed.” He looked up. Smiled. “We’ll be back. In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy that pleasant aftershave?” He took the bottle from his pocket. Threw it against the wall, the glass shattering . . . the odour filling the room.

Stanford and Jack left the room. The door closing. Lock engaging.

The aftershave stung his eyes. It overwhelmed his senses. It sent him back, suddenly pulled away from the present.

His head fell back.

Voice willing . . .

Sullivan screamed. A broken sound . . . his voice rough.

He struggled to breathe through the fear. A living nightmare. Everything felt so real. A current of pain coursed through his body, fingertips tingling. The voltage not high enough to cause permanent damage . . . but enough to cause excruciating pain. Questions asked. Repeated. Cruel in their relentless pursuit of answers. He won’t talk. He can’t. Information given would cost numerous lives. He refused to be responsible for the deaths of fellow agents. Responsible only for his own . . .

A warm breath on the side of his face . . .

Tears of pain in his eyes . . . he blinked. His body shuddered. The pain stopped. Time to recover before the next bout. Krasnoff knew what he was doing . . .

The door opened.

Sarah Townsend walked into the room. Closed the door behind her. Stared at Sullivan for a moment. A quick intake of breath, she rushed forward. Held his face in a gentle grip, thumbs rubbing across his skin, a continuous touch.

“Stewart.” She titled his head forward; better access. Looked into his eyes. More urgent. “Stewart!”

Let go, his head falling forward.

Another current of pain . . .

Long fingernails pressed deep into the wound on his shoulder . . .

Snatched from the past. Thrown back into the present. Pain of Krasnoff’s torture lingering, Sullivan tried to pull away.

“I’m sorry, but I need you to be here,” said Townsend. Removed her hand. Wiped the bloody tips of fingers against her coat.

A hand on the side of his face, thumb beneath his chin. His head lifted, turned. He frowned. Sure, he was seeing things. Sarah Townsend stood beside him . . .

“I work for MI5. For Mr. Declan.”

Still in a nightmare, the subject changing, becoming more of a fable than reality. He fought hard to think, to make sense of what was happening. Thought process shattered, everything changing so quickly, he couldn’t keep up. Memory broken, only pieces emerging. Enough to make him understand. Enough to know this was wrong.

“No. You’re part of it.”

“I’m a Sleeper, Mr. Sullivan. I only work as an agent when needed.”

“Sleepers work for the other side.” He knew that much.

“We’re called Sleepers for a reason. We stay hidden until needed.”

“You let them take Declan.”

She shook her head. The movement making Sullivan’s own head spin. “I have to get you out of here.”

It was still wrong. “Get Declan out of here.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“But you knew where I am?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

Her fingers pulled at his restraints. The leather difficult to handle. At least a minute to release his right wrist. “One year ago, Stanford approached me and offered me money to give him information on Declan. Personal things. How he interacted with his wife. What he did at home.” Released his left wrist a little quicker. “Hobbies. What he liked to eat. What type music he listened to . . . I told Mr. Declan. He made a report to his boss, Mr. Turnbull. They decided that I should play along-“

“That’s what you were doing this morning?” said Sullivan. Thoughts becoming more organised. “You were playing along. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I couldn’t. There was a listening device in the study.” Continued when he frowned up at her. “On the bookshelf. I couldn’t lead you toward it. They would have known.”

He still wasn’t convinced. “You knew they were coming for him. You let them in. Why weren’t MI5 waiting for them?”

“We had to know why they wanted Declan. Stanford wouldn’t tell me.”

“You know now?”

“Stanford called me and told me to come here. I’m supposed to be collecting the money he offered.”

“He’s not going to pay you.”

“I think he intends to kill me. I heard them talking about you. Said you saw something but you won’t tell them what. I heard what they were planning to do to you. I have to get you out. We can’t wait any longer.”

“Why didn’t you bring MI5 with you?”

“I had to make sure Mr. Declan was here. If I brought help and Declan wasn’t here . . . I’m not sure he is. I haven’t seen him. I asked Stanford but he wouldn’t tell me. I think he’s dead.”

Gut instinct told him she was lying. Off his game, not working to his full capacity, he wondered if he was right. Either way, he couldn’t pass up on the opportunity offered to him. He didn’t know how far she was willing to go. Didn’t know how far Stanford told her to go. Sure, she had permission to get him out of the building. Maybe into a car . . . he could take it from there . . .

No.

If Annabelle and Jason were still here. Hiding somewhere, waiting for a chance . . .

Stanford would follow them. Keep them close. If he made a move to escape without Townsend, Stanford would move in. If he could get away, drive the car . . . he could draw them away from the building. Give Annabelle and Jason another chance to get away. They wouldn’t stay if they knew he was gone, escaped without their help.

Decision made . . .

Left hand gripping the arm of the chair, he pushed forward. Up. Failed miserably. Slumped back down into the chair, dizziness and pain threatening to take him down. Townsend came around to his other side. Arm under his, she lifted, her thin frame hiding a formable strength. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. His own strength lacking. More difficult to overcome any opponent.

Arm wrapping around his waist, she kept him upright. “Okay.”

Wanted to nod in agreement. Refused to move his head, any movement creating a session of vertigo. Said yes instead. Took a tentative step. He felt much the same as he had the last time someone shot him. King with him at the time. Grateful he wasn’t with him now. The distance to the door felt like miles, an eternity to walk them. Got to the door quicker than expected.

“Can you stay up long enough for me to check outside?”

He looked into her eyes. Saw the betrayal. He’d continue to play along. “Yes.”

Leaned back against the wall, mindful of his shoulder, his broken rib. Legs weak, ready to collapse. Wondered what his doctor would say when he showed up on his doorstep with more injuries.

Townsend opened the door. Stuck her head out.

Sullivan waited. Closed his eyes. Brown Avon aftershave. Yuri Krasnoff’s voice. His face. A question asked…

Her hand on his arm. Snapped his eyes open. “In case we don’t get out, tell me what you saw.”

There it was. If he told her now, any chance of escape gone. “I’m still not sure I trust you.”

She nodded. Took another quick look outside. “All clear.”

Of course it is.

He shivered. An unexpected chill moving across his skin. Grimaced, twitching muscles causing the pain to spike. Could feel his knees giving way. Body pushed to the edge of his limit. Mind pushed to breaking point. Townsend’s hand against his chest, her skin warm. She applied pressure, a strength he longer held. Kept him up. Her other hand against his cheek. Held there for a moment. Moved to his forehead. Up close, he looked at her. A lack of concern in her eyes.

“You’ve got a fever.” She didn’t offer her coat. “We have to get you to a hospital.”

Hand still against his chest, she opened the door. Allowed it to swing wide. Stood beside him. Arm around his waist, fingers digging into his side. Lifted his left arm over her head, across her shoulders, a firm grip on his wrist. The first step sent him down, his legs too weak, blood loss taking its toll. Townsend’s balance shifted, taking his added weight. Kept him up. Kept him going. Another step. A third. A rhythm created.

Out of the room, the smell of Brown Avon aftershave began to dissipate. Enough on his skin. A constant reminder. His own voice screaming in the back of his mind. Krasnoff’s accent breaking through . . . He wasn’t in that room.

He had to keep moving. He had to get out. He had to survive. Physically and mentally. He couldn’t let this break him . . . knew it wasn’t that simple, already feeling like he’d been broken. Mind wanting to shut down, Sullivan struggled to stay alert. Body no longer cold, he could feel the heat . . . could feel the sweat on his skin. Could feel the drying blood. Realised Townsend had made no effort to stop the bleeding.

The corridor stretched out before them. So close to the front of the building . . . Sullivan could see the roller door was still open. Beyond the open door, a car . . .

Sullivan stumbled. Balance lost, momentum sending him to the right, injured shoulder hitting the wall. The expected pain exploded through his shoulder. Knees collapsed. Body falling. Darkness pushed inward. Empty void beckoning, an invitation he couldn’t accept. If he gave up now . . .

“Get up.”

Townsend, so charming.

It was a hard fight. Legs unreliable, Sullivan battled against his body’s fatigue. Used everything he had left. Climbed his way back up, Townsend pulling him up onto his feet. He needed a moment. Needed to catch his breath. Give the pain time to settle back into an irritating ache. A moment to reassure himself . . . he had to get out. Get out of that room. Get away from Krasnoff. He couldn’t wait for rescue. If he did, more time given to Krasnoff. More time to break him.

One foot in front of the other. One step at a time . . .

He’d lost count of the steps taken. Finally reached the open door. Stepped out in the open. Blue sky above him. The air cold against his skin. Beneath him, gravel, the small stones sharp against his bare feet. Another shiver, a tremor rolling through his body. Lost his balance for a moment. Regained it.

“A few more steps, Stewart,” said Townsend.

Sullivan frowned. Looked to his left. Sarah Townsend. Back in the present. The car so close. He didn’t expect company, so sure this was a ploy to get him to talk. Surprised when he heard the footsteps behind him; gravel giving way beneath their feet. They were coming for him. They were going to take him back…

No.

Take him back to Krasnoff.

Sullivan tried to pull away from the woman beside him. No strength left. Twisted his body. Ankles and legs tangled, tripping him. He fell forward, taking Townsend with him. Struck the ground hard, sharp corners digging into his flesh. Not yet willing to give up, he struggled to get up onto hands and knees. He couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. Couldn’t do it, right arm collapsing every time he tried to get up. His body betrayed him. He closed his eyes . . .

It was over.

He’d failed.

A hand on his lower back. Fingers running up his spine. He shivered beneath the touch. Fingers wrapped around the back of his neck. A gentle squeeze. Palm against the back of his head . . .

“Stewart.”

Opened his eyes. Jason King was helping Townsend up onto her feet. King bent forward. Brushed away the small collection of stones sticking to her knees. No. She was the enemy. Throat dry, Sullivan couldn’t find his voice. Couldn’t warn King of the danger. Stanford probably already on his way. Tried to shake his head. Closed his eyes against the threat of dizziness.

“Stewart.”

Annie. She would understand. Knew him well enough to read his expression. He didn’t have to use words with Annabelle. Opened his eyes. Looked up at Annabelle. He licked his dry lips. Swallowed, dryness in his throat painful. Relaxed his features. Revealed his emotions. Allowed her to see everything.

Her expression changed. She understood. “Jason. Leave her. We have to go. Now.”

King frowned. Misunderstanding. “She-“

“It’s a trap.”

Good girl.

A look of disgust on his face, King pushed Townsend away, the force throwing her off her feet.

“Stanford!”

King leaned over. Raised his fist. Changed his mind. Two steps taken and he was on Sullivan’s other side, kneeling beside him. “Check the car. See if the keys are still in it.”

Annabelle nodded. Stood up. Walked away.

Her presence gone, Sullivan already losing confidence. His thoughts drifted. Brown Avon aftershave. Returned to the past. “Krasnoff.” His voice cracked, throat too dry.

Running footsteps.

“Isn’t here, Stewart,” said King. “Krasnoff isn’t here.”

Sullivan didn’t believe him. “I can smell him.”

Annabelle returned. Nodded to King.

So quick, Sullivan unable to help. They had him up and moving in a matter of seconds. He couldn’t do this. He felt so dizzy, about to throw up. His limbs so weak. Heavy weight of fatigue pulling him down. Before he knew it, they had him pressed up against the side of the car. Annabelle opened the back door .

A gunshot.

Sullivan’s body jerked in surprise. The passenger side window shattered. No time to be careful. King pushed Sullivan into the car. His upper body fell forward onto the back seat. King pushed Sullivan’s legs in after him. Annabelle climbed in behind him. The door slammed shut. She ducked down onto the floor. Held onto Sullivan’s arm, keeping him down. Not difficult.

King ran around to the other side of the car. Opened the door . . .

Another gunshot. The aim poor. Stanford desperate to stop their escape.

Got in. Closed the door. The engine started. Handbrake released. The vehicle an automatic. No need to struggle through the gears to gain speed. King floored the accelerator. The car sped off, back tyres kicking up loose gravel. Small stones spraying across the open doorway. They were away . . .

It wasn’t over. Not yet.

Townsend covered her face. Spots of blood appeared on the back of her hands. Stanford and Jack ran out into the open. Waited. A car came around the corner of the building, back end skidding through the stones. Stanley at the wheel. Declan in the passenger seat beside him. The car came to a stop. Stanford and Jack got into the back. The car drove away, now in pursuit of the car ahead of them.

Annabelle got up. Sat down on the seat, pressed up against the door, handle pressing painfully into her hip. Held Sullivan beneath his arms and pulled his upper body into her lap, a heavy weight. An attempt to make him more comfortable.

The movement increased his pain. His confusion.

Sullivan opened his eyes. Back in the past. Didn’t recognise the face above him. He panicked. Eyes wide with fear. Short, quick breaths. Struggles weak, a valiant effort to get away, arms flailing. Heels scraping against the leather car seat.

Annabelle wrapped her arms around his head. A gentle embrace. One hand against the side of his face, the other around the back of his head. Leaned over and pulled him close. So close, he could smell her perfume.

A scent of flowers . . . aftershave. A sickening mix. Confused, Sullivan didn’t know where he was. Bit into his lower lip, skin giving away beneath the onslaught. Blood pooled. Slipped over his lip, rolled across his chin. Created a small stain on Annabelle’s dress.

She whispered into his ear.

Her voice brought him back.

Her scent strong. More pleasant, it didn’t evoke an attack of fear.

Annabelle began a gentle, rocking rhythm . . .

“Stop.”

She did. Her expression uncertain.

“Dizzy . . .”

King glanced back over his shoulder. Saw the car behind them. “They’re following us.”

Annabelle turned her head. Four men in the car behind. Looked back at King. “It’s all or nothing, Jason.”

They skidded around the curve in the road. Momentum pressing Sullivan closer to her body. She kept him there. Fingers brushing through his damp hair. Sullivan familiar with the touch. Mind staying in the present. More aware of his surroundings.

Jason and Annabelle. He felt relieved; they were safe.

“How is he?”

“Both wounds are still bleeding,” said Annabelle, looking for something, anything to use as a bandage. “And he’s already developing a fever.” Her coat the only thing available. She let Sullivan go, his head falling away from her.

Distance created . . . the smell of Krasnoff’s aftershave returning.

She struggled in the confined space to remove her coat. Snapped her elbow against the door. Grimaced. Coat off. She folded it more than once. Lifted Sullivan’s shoulder. Placed one end of the coat beneath him. Folded it over his shoulder. Front exit wound covered. Wound on his back against her thigh. One hand on top of the other. Placed her hands over the coat. Closed her eyes. Pressed down on the wound.

A bolt of electricity shredded his shoulder. The pain too much, Sullivan released a scream. Tried to move away. Too weak. Used his voice. Throat still dry. His voice a coarse whisper. “Stop. Please. No more. I can’t . . . please.” His mind . . . so close to breaking. A gutted cry. “Please . . . Stop.”

King allowed the car to slow. Turned off the dirt road onto the main road. Increased the speed once more. An elongated road in front of them. Behind them, Stanford’s car skidded through the turn, across the road, came to a stop. A few moments, the car hesitant to continue. Continue it did, trying to eat up the distance. Failing.

Annabelle looked down into eyes filled with fear.

Sullivan didn’t look back at her, his gaze flickering . . . side to side. Mind somewhere else, he was lost. So hard to find his way back.

She frowned when she saw Sullivan had bitten his lip. Confused, Annabelle released the pressure on his shoulder, removing her hands. She returned to her previous position, arms around Sullivan’s head. Pulled him close once more. No change.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Talk to him,” said King. A quick glance back over his shoulder. “You have to bring him back.”

Annabelle didn’t question King. She moved in, even closer. Stared into Sullivan’s eyes. Her breath warm against his skin. Sullivan, gaze still awkward, mind somewhere else, flinched. His fear grew. He could hear the questions. Expected the pain . . .

King followed a curve in the road. Too fast. The car left the road. Dirt beneath its wheels. King lost control for a moment. Turned the wheel with the car. With skill, he regained control. Backend missing a solid tree trunk by a few inches. Back on the road. Accelerated.

Beginning a one sided conversation, Annabelle talked about anything and everything . . .

Annabelle. She was here. She was in the room with him. No. She hadn’t been there. She couldn’t be there. He concentrated on her voice. Listened to what she wasn’t saying. Listened to the tone of her voice. She was scared. Worried. He understood. She was scared for him. Worried about him. He blinked. Looked up. Annabelle above him. He stared at her, sight and sound of her voice bringing him back into the present. Still unsure of where he was, he made an effort to look around, search his surroundings.

“Where . . .”

King the better driver, began to create more distance. The gap between the two cars increasing. Stanford falling behind. Enough distance to feel safe. Up ahead. A welcomed sight. A sign directing them to London. Distance not as great as perceived during the journey out of London; must have taken the scenic route, an effort to confuse their prisoners.

Movement. Continuous. An uncomfortable feeling that left him nauseated and dizzy. Pain in his shoulder no longer dull, now sharp . . . raw. His position awkward. A strain on his neck. His shoulder. Pulling at his broken rib. She meant well. He was certain. The need to comfort. The need to be close. So close.

“Annie . . . let go.”

Annabelle looked down. Released Sullivan from her embrace. Pulled her coat from beneath him. Shook it out. Laid it over his body. Rested the palm of her right hand on his forehead.

He felt the need to apologise. Afraid he had hurt her feelings. “Sorry . . . too much pain.”

“It’s okay, Stewart. I understand.”

King looked in the rear view mirror. A long time before Stanford’s car appeared. “I think we’re okay now. Unless of course, we run off the road and hit a tree.”

A more comfortable position, Sullivan closed his eyes. Breathed as deep as his injuries would allow. Krasnoff. Eyes snapped open. He couldn’t let himself sleep. A fresh round of nightmares inevitable. Bad enough he was reliving it. Mind damaged as a result. Everything too much. He couldn’t allow himself to fall sleep.

“Don’t let me sleep.”

Long fingers stroked his forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He didn’t believe her. Nothing was okay. How can he be okay after everything that’s happened? He didn’t think he’d ever be okay. Didn’t believe he was going to recover. Forever broken. No longer able to do his job. A broken man with no purpose in life.

“Please . . . don’t let me sleep.”

“I’ll stay with you, Stewart. I won’t leave you. I promise.”

His eyes closed. Dragged them open. Lids heavy with exhaustion. Don’t sleep. Don’t let me sleep. A hand over his eyes. Lids pulled down. Words whispered.

“I’ll stay with you, Stewart. I’ll keep talking to you . . .”

Fought for as long as he could. Body too weak to keep up the pretence it didn’t need sleep. Mind shutting down . . . don’t sleep . . .

A rush of activity. Police entering the industrial building through the open roller door. Corridors no longer empty. Fabricated rooms forced open. A search made. Taking too long . . . It didn’t matter. No one left in the building. Stanford wouldn’t return. Mission gone bad, he would now be on the run. Their main concern . . . the real Henry Declan. An urgent need to locate him.

Cigarette in hand. A desperate need for a drink, King stood outside the building. Waited. Memories returning; each one ugly . . . cruel in their reminders of what had happened. Not a witness to everything Stewart Sullivan had gone through, but he’d seen enough. Knew he would suffer his own nightmares. Knew it would be so much worse for Stewart . . .

Seretse stepped up beside King. Clasped his hands behind his back. Conversation hesitant. A false start . . . unsure.

King stepped forward. Shoulders tense. Still angry.

“This wasn’t my intention,” said Seretse.

“No.” King turned on his heels. Body snapping around. Faced Seretse. Took a deep breath. Tried to calm his anger. “He shouldn’t have been on the case. He wasn’t fully recovered-“

“We had no choice. Lives were at risk. Sullivan knew what he was doing.”

King laughed a humourless sound. “You know Stewart. You knew he wouldn’t say no.”

“You would rather the deaths of several MI5 agents in Russia?”

Moved in close. “He smelt like Brown Avon aftershave.”

Seretse frowned. Looked away. Returned his gaze. “Krasnoff.”

“He wasn’t here. But Stanford knew enough to use it against Stewart. You have a leak in your office.”

“How can you be sure?”

“They were aware of your meeting with Stewart. One of Stanford’s men was there.”

“Tall, thin man. Very plain looking,” said Seretse, nodding

“He’s dead now. Stanford killed him in front of us.” King took another step, so close. “If Stewart doesn’t recover from this . . . if we lose him, I will hold you responsible.”

“Come now, Mr. King. We’re all aware of what can happen in this job. Sullivan more so than anybody. And as you said, yes, I know Stewart. I know how capable he is. I know we won’t lose him. He’s too stubborn. Too strong willed.”

“You didn’t see him.”

“I saw him two years ago. And that was much worse than this-“

“I read the file, Sir Curtis. I know how bad it was.”

“No. You don’t. You didn’t see him. You didn’t see . . .” A breath. “You’re not giving Stewart enough credit. Don’t underestimate him, King. That would be a mistake.”

Anger discouraged. No, he hadn’t been there when they rescued Sullivan. Didn’t know what had happened until days later. Sullivan not allowed visitors. A debriefing taking too long. Stewart almost recovered by the time King and Annabelle were able to see him. The signs faint, the physical and mental abuse hidden behind a false bravado. No, King hadn’t seen Sullivan’s injuries. He hadn’t seen the result of torture on the physical mind.

But King had a vivid imagination. The words, the descriptions of injuries in the report enough for King to understand the extent of what had happened.

“Stubborn isn’t the word I would use to describe Stewart.”

“Sir!”

King turned around. “You found something?”

The uniformed officer looked at Seretse. A nod from the government official.

“We’ve found two bodies, sir. One of them is Henry Declan.”

A deep drag on his cigarette. “Did you check the side of his neck for a scar?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“There’s no scar.”

King nodded. Turned away. Another drag on his cigarette.

“How does it feel, Mr. King?” said Seretse.

King frowned.

Seretse continued. “The brutality of real life.”

CHAPTER 4

Words spoken. A conversation void of anything that made sense. Annabelle so exhausted, voice weak, throat raw. A constant barrage of words, unwilling to give in; silence the one thing Stewart didn’t need. Dialogue without direction, an attempt to keep his nightmares at bay . . . not always successful. His fear tearing through her every time he screamed . . . every time he begged them to stop . . .

Annabelle, stretched out on the left side of the bed, her ankles crossed, back resting against the headboard, brushed her fingers through Sullivan’s sweat soaked hair. She had to be close . . . had to stay with him. Not because of a promise but because of a need. She’d almost lost him.

He lay beside her, legs tangled in the bed’s blanket. Chest bare, right arm in a sling, broken finger strapped with professional care. Bullet wounds in his shoulder repaired, checked at intermittent intervals, Annabelle not inclined to give the Doctor room to work. She had to stay close. Permission given. Unable or reluctant to tell the truth, Seretse had spun a believable tale.

Sullivan moved, head turning to the side. Another nightmare on the way, Annabelle so sure. Palm resting against the side of his face, careful of the bruising, she turned his head further. Forehead against her hip, bringing him closer. The smell of her clothes, her perfume always helpful . . . not always enough.

A soft groan at the back of his throat. Neck taught, Sullivan buried his head further into the pillow. Turned his body . . . slumped back . . . not enough strength to do more. Settled. His breathing remained relaxed although shallow, broken rib a hindrance. Eventual nightmare retreating.

Annabelle let out a tense breath. Gratitude showing in her eyes, her expression. So much emotional turmoil when Sullivan dreamt. Attention focused on the right side of his face, she waited. Conversation paused. Wanted to be sure his sleep remained peaceful. Minutes passed. No movement. Fingers returned to Sullivan’s forehead. Annabelle receiving as much assurance from the touch as Sullivan. A constant movement, fingers moving across his forehead, Sullivan’s skin cool beneath her touch. Words returned.

She looked up and away when the door opened. Eyebrow raised in surprise, Seretse stepped into the room. Uncertain, Annabelle lifted her right hand away from Sullivan. Body shifting, she moved to sit up. Knew Sullivan would miss her touch, his body trying to move with her.

“As you were, Miss. Hurst,” said Seretse.

King moved into the room behind Seretse, a knowing expression on his face. Cigarette in his mouth, he closed the door. Settled into the chair in the corner of the room. Gaze shifting from Annabelle to Sullivan.

Relieved, Annabelle leaned back. Laid the palm of her hand against the side of Sullivan’s head, thumb combing across his temple. A subtle movement, not wanting to reveal too much to Seretse. Enough for Sullivan, pushing his face even further into her hip.

“How is he?” said Seretse, moving around the bed. A show of compassion, he pulled the tangled blanket from Sullivan’s legs. Lifted it up, covered Sullivan’s upper body, tucking it around his shoulders. Sat down on the edge.

Annabelle smiled. Not something, she had expected to see. Thought of Sullivan’s inevitable embarrassment when told of Seretse’s concern, her smile grew.

Seretse, somehow aware of her thoughts, said, “That, Miss. Hurst, you didn’t see.”

She waited. Enjoyed the moment. Not enough of them lately. Not enough of them in their immediate future. Looked down at Sullivan. Couldn’t see enough of his face to satisfy. Eyes wet, looked back at Seretse. No words needed. Her expression explanation enough.

Seretse nodded in understanding.

King less willing to stay silent. “Physically he’ll be fine. Broken bones will mend. The bullet wound wasn’t as serious as we’d thought.”

A look passed between King and Seretse. A silent exchange. Annabelle frowned. Certain there was a silent ‘but’ at the end of King’s short and blunt account of Stewart’s condition. She wanted an explanation. Decided to wait. Now wasn’t the time. Wrong tone of voice enough to unsettle Sullivan. Calm assurance needed. Anything to keep the nightmares away . . . Her voice silent, Sullivan’s body shifted. Turned his head away from her. Dark bruising on the left side of his face revealed. An explosion of dark colours. Her fingers hovered, not sure where to touch.

“Annabelle.”

She looked up at King. He nodded at her. An act of encouragement. He understood. Been there often enough to see what the nightmares did to Stewart. Knew what kept him calm. Looked back at Sullivan. Rested her hand across his forehead. He flinched. Sleep not enough to keep him oblivious. Chest tight with anger, she could physically harm those responsible. Fingers trembling she stroked his forehead. Knew another nightmare was on its way . . . a quick, sudden touch bringing it all back. Began to speak, her voice soft. Conversation given a direction. Wanting it over. Not wanting Seretse here when Stewart dreamt. An audience not needed or wanted.

“Has Stanford been found?”

Seretse, more aware than she had thought, said, “Unfortunately, no. But we will.”

“Stanford failed. He’ll be on the run. Not only from us but from the people he works for,” said King.

Looked at King. “What about Sarah Townsend?”

King shook his head.

“We can’t let them get away with it,” said Annabelle, voice rising with anger.

“They won’t,” said King. Voice neutral. Assured.

“King, I hope you’re not planning a vendetta.”

King raised an innocent eyebrow. Looked at Sullivan. Smiled.

“That,” said Seretse, “I will not allow.”

“You’d think otherwise if you were there . . .” King stopped. Raised a hand in apology. “If Stewart decides to go after Stanford, I’ll be there with him.”

Annabelle smiled.

Seretse shifted his gaze. Looked down at Sullivan. “If he does it officially, he will have my support but if decides on a personal vendetta . . .” Words trailed off. Nothing more said.

“He doesn’t need your permission,” said King. A sudden show of anger.

“No but he will need my support. Make sure he understands that, King.”

King nodded. A mutual agreement.

“Did the leak in your office reveal anything helpful,” said Annabelle, pulling her gaze away from Sullivan to look at Seretse.

Seretse explained. “Cummings. He never met Stanford. They spoke only by phone. When Stanford was happy with the information given, Cummings received a healthy payment into his bank account.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing that would help us find Stanford.”

“Has anybody been to see Mrs. Declan?”

Grimacing, King said, “Stewart was right. She had nothing to do with it.”

“Were you right?”

Gaze snapped toward Sullivan. A reluctant yes given. More confirmation Sullivan had been off his game. Original search of Declan’s small office not thorough enough. “I found more photos on either side of the book case. I’m sure their intent was to stop a complete search of the room. I found a recording device in the center of the bookcase. Another way of gaining information on Declan.”

“Declan wasn’t a blackmailer?”

“No,” said King.

“Why didn’t they remove it when they took Declan?”

“I assume they wanted to record the visits by the police and any one investigating Declan’s disappearance. To gain information on how the case was progressing.”

Annabelle nodded. “It would have told them we knew about John Finch.”

Sullivan moved. Rolled. Struggled onto his left side. His breath caught in his throat, catching, sharp noise escaping. Annabelle unsure if he were dreaming or waking. Wanted neither. Awake, Sullivan kept his distance, his eyes haunted, body language frail; not the confident man she knew. So hard to watch . . .

“Tell Sullivan I stopped by,” said Seretse. Stood to his full height. Walked around the bed. A nod to King. Opened the door. A glance back at Sullivan. Left the room.

Annabelle shifted further down onto the bed. Closer to Sullivan. Began to speak. Words a mess. Hoped the sound of her voice would be enough . . .

Stewart Sullivan screamed. Broken voice torn from his throat. Muscles tense. Body rigid. His mind caught in yet another violent nightmare. A second scream . . . strong emotions catching, the sound coming to an abrupt end. Eyes snapped open. Gaze blank. Unaware. A long, drawn out moment of silence. Sullivan’s gaze shifted. Hesitated. Roamed the room. Recognition taking too long . . . too long to remember he wasn’t in that room. White walls. The smell of disinfectant. Annabelle, so close, sitting on the side of the bed. He wasn’t . . .

Sullivan rolled his head to the side, his body moving with him. Knees drawn upward. Shoulders hunched forward. Body curled inward. A series of quick, shallow breaths. A deep, guttural groan at the back of his throat. Face pressed deep into the pillow, he began to tremble . . . entire body shaking with emotion.

Fingers fretted across the back of his skull, through hair becoming damp with the sweat of a nightmare. “Stewart?”

Managed to lift his left hand, a subtle wave. A silent voice telling Annabelle to back off. To give him time. Time taken, Sullivan made every effort to regain control. Couldn’t. With each nightmare, it became increasingly difficult, taking so much longer to gain control. Images taking too long to fade. The imagined pain, so real, always there. The smell of Brown Avon aftershave lingered for far too long . . . a shallow breath.

He could feel everything.

He wanted to feel nothing.

He wanted to forget.

Could remember everything. Every small detail.

A slow, deep breath. The pain gathering in his shoulder. His side. A deeper breath. The pain increasing. Not enough. His emotions still beyond his control. His chest ached, a painful, twisting knot of anxiety. Sadness so deep, so dark, he couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. In the back of his mind, he knew he was losing the battle. To fight his emotions . . . it took too much effort, took too much out of him. Each fight left him emotionally drained, physically exhausted. He couldn’t keep fighting it . . .

If he stopped fighting, it would show a weakness he wasn’t yet ready to reveal . . . to others . . . to himself.

A hand on the back of his head . . . he flinched. A reaction he couldn’t control. It happened more often than he wanted . . . knew he’d been broken. A shattered bottle of aftershave doing so much more than the physical pain inflicted.

He was so tired.

Tired of everything.

So tired of fighting. Trying to stay in control . . . realised he no longer cared.

Decision made, Sullivan released his emotions. Couldn’t stop once he let go.

“Let me help.”

He didn’t know how she could help. A comforting embrace not enough . . . never enough . . . nothing she could do. Nothing she could say. A battle he had to endure alone. A battle he was sure he would never win. Mind broken beyond repair.

Seemed to take an eternity . . . mind finally shifting from emotional to numb, his body relaxing. Limbs too heavy to move, he could feel the exhaustion. Slumber pulling him back in. Dragged his eyes open. So difficult. He had to stay awake. Bit into his cheek . . . a well-used remedy. More alert. More aware.

He turned his head . . . a cool, damp cloth against his skin. The sweat and tears wiped from his face. Closed his eyes in frustration and embarrassment. Waited until she was finished . . . always waited until she was done. Noticed Annabelle was taking extra care this time, taking longer. Knew if he opened his eyes, he would see the hurt he caused. He could feel his body becoming more relaxed. Annabelle’s gentle ministrations calming him further . . . snapped his eyes open. Looked up.

Every time he woke, Annabelle was there, always with him. It was too much. Time needed to be alone. None given. Always having to hide. No longer able. No fight left in him. Rolled onto his back. Grimaced. Right arm in a sling, Sullivan struggled to sit up. Gritted his teeth when Annabelle tossed the cloth aside and moved in closer. She took hold under his left arm, ready to help him up . . . breath warm against the side of his face. He froze, unable to move. Closed his eyes. Made a poor attempt to convince himself it wasn’t real. He wasn’t still in that room. He couldn’t still be in that room. Opened his eyes . . . gaze distant. Krasnoff’s voice, a frightening presence in the back of his mind . . . his aftershave a sickening odour.

Annabelle let go. Sat back down on the edge of the bed. Reached forward. Took Sullivan’s left hand. Held it tight, thumb brushing the back of his hand. Words tumbled out of her mouth. No particular order. Only her voice required.

Took longer than it should, Annabelle’s voice breaking through. Sullivan blinked. Swallowed the painful lump of emotion in his throat. He couldn’t keep doing this. Alone, there wouldn’t be any reminders. Alone, there would be nothing to trigger the flashbacks. Alone, he could keep himself awake . . .

Knew his words would hurt. The only way left. Her refusal of his suggestions to go home and rest giving him no choice.

“Annabelle, please go.”

The expected hurt appeared on her face, eye’s narrowing slightly. Only for a brief moment. Her emotions quickly hidden. She couldn’t hide from him. He knew her too well. As well as she knew him. He could see the hurt shift to anger, the skin too tight around her eyes, her shoulders stiff. He almost gave in.

“We’ve been through this before, Stewart. I promised you, I wouldn’t leave you alone.”

His own anger rising, about to protest . . .

The door opened.

Anger deflating, Sullivan turned his head.

Jason King stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”

“Stewart was asking me to leave,” said Annabelle.

“Again?” said King.

Sullivan rolled his eyes. These two would be the death of him. Constant companionship driving him to the edge . . . he was ready to jump.

“Take her home, Jason.”

King stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. Found the familiar chair in the corner of the room. Dragged it to the side of the bed. Sat down. Lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. Made himself at home. Ignored Sullivan and said, “Change of shift.”

Sullivan glared at King, gaze unflinching. His gaze torn away when Annabelle leaned toward him. Afraid he would feel her breath on his skin, he leaned back, unable to create enough distance. Annabelle, reading his body language, stopped. Slowly moved back. She squeezed his hand. Lowered her gaze. Hesitated. Stood up. Without a backward glance, she walked away. Left the room, the door closing behind her.

He stared at the door . . .

“Stewart?”

Closed his eyes. Fatigue began a slow crawl . . . bit into his cheek. Tasted the blood. Opened his eyes. Found King staring back at him with a look of concern. Looked away. Use of his legs, heels pressing deep into the mattress, Sullivan pushed himself back and up. Body still lacking the strength required . . .

King stood up. Stepped forward. Reached toward Sullivan.

“Don’t,” said Sullivan, slumping back down onto the mattress. Position uncomfortable. Refused to accept help. Too afraid of the small things. He couldn’t understand how something as simple as a puff of breath on the side of his face could bring forward a memory that caused him so much emotion . . . so much pain. How a scent could send his mind into the past . . . how it could make everything so real. He couldn’t understand why he was still so afraid of something that had happened two years ago.

King sat down. A slow drag on his cigarette. “I’m sorry, Stewart.”

Sullivan wanted to close his eyes. Hide from the inevitable conversation. Knew sleep would take him if he did. Stared at the ceiling instead. He didn’t have the emotional strength to deal with this . . . didn’t have the emotional strength to deal with anyone. If they would just leave him alone.

“I’m sorry,” said King, “that you feel you can’t talk to me about what happened.”

He didn’t want to talk to anyone about what had happened.

“I know a professional who can help you. She’s very good.”

Sullivan’s gaze snapped toward King, angry retort ready . . .

“Don’t tell me you’re fine, Stewart. You’re far from it.”

Looked away, gaze returning to the ceiling. He knew he wasn’t fine. Didn’t need anyone to confirm something he already knew. Damaged by something he couldn’t forget. Confident a conversation couldn’t fix what had been broken. Knew he could no longer do his job.

“She could be here in an hour.”

“No.”

“Stewart-“

Turned his head. Expression angry. “If you want to help me . . . leave.”

“Why?”

Honesty would start a conversation he didn’t want. A lie would reveal its true intent. A distraction would only delay. If he closed his eyes, sleep would come . . . the nightmares would follow. Couldn’t get up and walk out . . . not yet, not enough strength. He needed time alone. Couldn’t be alone, not when there was someone always with him. They couldn’t see past the instinctive need to be alone. They watched him sleep. They watched when he suffered through a nightmare. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

A change of direction needed. Anything that would stop a slip of the tongue . . . anything that would stop a conversation he didn’t want.

“Why are you here?” said Sullivan.

“We want to help you.” Emphasis on ‘we’.

“How is this helping?”

“It won’t work, Stewart.”

He knew it wouldn’t. “If I promise talk to her . . . would you let me be alone?”

“Why are you so insistent on being alone?”

Sullivan stared at King. Anger pooled in his gut. Wanted to wipe that innocent expression off King’s face. Couldn’t do it physically. Settled for a verbal slap.

“Two years ago I was tortured. You wouldn’t believe the pain I had to endure. I couldn’t answer his questions. People relied on me to stay quiet. If I talked, they died. I can’t forget it. I still have nightmares. I still remember.” On a roll, Sullivan sat up. Leaned forward. Body trembling with emotion. Weakness making it difficult to stay upright. “I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Three days ago . . . Stanford is an amateur. He didn’t know what he was doing but he made you talk, Jason, and he didn’t have to lay a single hand on you.”

Expression wiped off King’s face.

“This isn’t about you though is it? Given the right incentive, people talk. You talked because he threatened me, even though you knew he wouldn’t kill me. Money made the leak in Seretse’s office talk. If he put Annabelle in the room with me, I would have talked. But Stanford didn’t have Annabelle. He had something else. He knew, Jason. He knew what would take me back there. He knew what would put me back in that room with Krasnoff. I can deal with the physical pain. What I can’t deal with is the memories, the nightmares. I can’t deal with the fear. I can’t bear the things that bring it all back. The small things. Things that you’re not aware of. Things I don’t want to talk about. I need to be alone so the small things aren’t there. So I can’t be reminded. So I can’t be sent back to that room.”

“The smell of Brown Avon aftershave,” said King, nodding.

King’s verbal slap down far more successful. Angry expression dropped from Sullivan’s features.

“How did you know?” said Sullivan, falling back. Grimaced when the pain struck.

“Two things. I read your file. Secondly, at the scene you told me you could smell Krasnoff.”

“Seretse gave you my file.”

“Yes.”

Sullivan looked away. “This conversation isn’t going the way I thought it would.”

King stood up. Sat down on the edge of the bed. “You can say anything you want. Anything you need to say. Your words won’t send me running for the hills. I promise you that.”

“Does Annabelle know?”

“No.”

“You won’t tell her?”

“No.”

“I can’t do my job anymore.”

“You need time to heal, Stewart. Physically and emotionally.”

“No. After what Stanford did . . .”

“What did he do?”

“He did what Krasnoff couldn’t . . . he broke me.”

Uncomfortable beneath Seretse’s gaze, Sullivan shifted in his seat, looked away. Gaze searched for a distraction. Nothing in Seretse’s office interesting enough. Seretse never there long enough to give the room a personal look. Travelling more often than not. Hotels his main accommodation . . . much like Sullivan. Looked out the window, sky full of gray clouds. Rain on its way.

Looked back at Seretse. Anxiety, an unfamiliar emotion, had burrowed deep into his chest, unwilling to leave. There were times when he’d been nervous during a case and with good reason but this . . . it wasn’t a simple case of nerves. It was a fear driven by a memory he couldn’t forget. Something he didn’t know how to fix.

“I can’t accept this,” said Seretse, dropping the envelope, unopened, back onto the desk.

“I’m not giving you a choice.”

Seretse stood up. Walked around the desk. Sat down in the chair next to Sullivan. Leaned forward. Not too far. Kept his distance. He knew. “Why?”

“You know why,” said Sullivan.

“Knowing and understanding are two different things, Stewart.”

He didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to tell another person he was too afraid to do his job. Too afraid of being taken. Too afraid of being strapped to a chair. Too afraid that something would bring it all back. In a situation where a mistake could mean not only his death but also Annabelle’s or King’s . . . if someone were to get too close, breath against the side of his face . . . if he were sent back to that room, no longer in the present . . . unable to defend himself or others. He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t be responsible for someone’s death.

“I made too many mistakes in the Declan case.”

“That I can’t argue with.”

“Then you accept my resignation?”

“Not yet.”

Sullivan stood. Ready to walk away. Balance surprised, he stumbled. Grabbed the desk before he fell. A hand on his elbow. Flinched away. Disturbed by his own reaction, he turned away, hiding his features. An expression of self-pity, of disgust at his inability to be comfortable in the presence of someone he trusted.

“Sit down, Stewart.”

Did as told. Sat down. Body grateful. Not long out of the hospital. Resignation on the forefront of his mind. Wanted it done and out of the way. After this . . . Annabelle.

“We’re both at fault,” said Seretse. “We both knew you weren’t ready to take on the case. We should have heeded your Doctor’s advice. You were still in pain. You admitted as much at the time.”

“My physical health wasn’t the issue. It was my state of mind. I wasn’t willing to accept that something was wrong. Not then.”

“Again, we were both at fault. At our meeting, I could see it in your eyes when I made the comment that the torture you suffered hadn’t broken you . . . I can see it now. If I had known what the future held for you . . .”

Unaware of what he was doing, Sullivan raised his left arm. Hid his eyes behind his hand, fingers shaking with the cruelty of Seretse’s honesty. Not intentional he was sure, Seretse only showing that he understood his part in what had happened.

“Stewart.”

Sullivan dropped his hand. Lowered his head. “I can’t do the job anymore. If you put me on another case . . . If I accept . . . mistakes will be repeated.”

“I told King not to underestimate you. Perhaps I was wrong.”

Looked up. Expression of acceptance turned toward Seretse. “Anyone can be broken, Sir Curtis. It was only a matter of time.”

“I apologise, Stewart, for not making sure your medical treatment was to the extent it should have been after your ordeal with Krasnoff.”

“I’m the only one at fault there.” Time to be honest. “I didn’t reveal everything. I kept some things to myself so I could be in control of my situation. I lost control with Krasnoff. I needed to get it back.”

“You never lost control. You would have given him the information he wanted if you had.”

Fingers played with the frayed edge of the sling. “To tell you the truth, Sir Curtis, if Krasnoff was here right now, I would tell him everything. I don’t have that control anymore.” A shattered bottle of aftershave had destroyed everything he had left in him in a matter of seconds. “I don’t trust myself. You know and understand more than you’re willing to say. You can’t take the risk of putting me back in the field . . .”

“A desk job-“

“No. I need to be detached from everything and everyone I know.”

Seretse rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. Steepled his fingers, deep in thought. A moment. Felt like an eternity to Sullivan. “I will not accept your resignation.”

Sullivan sighed, a throaty sound, his frustration and anger revealed.

“You’re too good an agent, Stewart. But, I am willing to compromise if you are.”

Suspicious gaze settled on Seretse. “Am I going to regret this?”

“Possibly.”

Sullivan smiled. Couldn’t stop himself.

“Six months medical leave. You will seek professional help to deal with your fear. We’ll talk again at the end of the six months. If you still wish to resign, I will accept without question.”

“You do know.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Stewart, especially after what you’ve been through. Please, do everything you can to deal with this. You’re a good agent. One of the best. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

“By ‘this’ you mean my fear.”

Gaze confident, Seretse stared at Sullivan. “Krasnoff and Stanford took something from you. You’ll get it back. I’m sure.”

“I’m not sure I will,” said Sullivan. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“I thought King had suggested someone.”

“He did. A woman.”

Seretse reached into a coat pocket. Removed a small card. Handed it to Sullivan. “He comes highly recommended. Your first appointment is written on the back.”

Sullivan turned the card over. Took note of the time and date. Put the card in his coat pocket. “He’ll report back to you?”

“No. At the end of the allotted time, the only thing I’ll need to know is that you’ll be able to do your job with your usual efficiency.”

“Before Krasnoff.”

“Before Declan,” said Seretse. “Your job performance didn’t begin its decline until that morning in the tearoom.”

Sullivan nodded in understanding. “Finch was my first mistake. I shouldn’t have hit him. I should have questioned him.”

“Declan was killed not long after he was taken. Don’t blame yourself for his death.”

Took a moment. Stood up. Kept his balance. “Thank you.”

Seretse stood with him. Shook Sullivan’s hand. “Take the six months, Stewart. Even if you feel you’re ready to come back early.”

“I wish I had your confidence, Sir Curtis.”

“Others may underestimate you, Sullivan. I won’t.”

Sullivan bit into his cheek. Not hard enough to draw blood. Painful enough to keep him focused. The conversation more emotional than he’d expected. Seretse understanding more than he thought possible.

“Go. I’m sure Miss Hurst is anxious to talk to you.”

Maybe, but it was a conversation he didn’t want. No choice. He couldn’t just walk away from her. Not Annabelle.

He put her off, not yet willing to have a confrontation with Annabelle. Couldn’t go back to his hotel. Knew she would be waiting for him. Instead, he’d somehow found his way onto the doorstep to the home of Alice Declan. He wanted to knock . . . a simple task so difficult. He waited. Gathered his courage. If he couldn’t do this . . . Knocked on the front door. A slow passage of time. Stepped back when the front door opened.

“Mr. Sullivan,” said Alice Declan. She looked like a woman who had just lost her husband. Features strained. Eyes red. Skin pale. She looked liked she’d aged ten years. She moved to the side. Made room. “Please, come in.”

He hesitated.

She waited. Patient. Her smile forced.

Suddenly realised he’d made a mistake coming here. Too late to turn back now. Sullivan stepped into her home. The cottage now too big for one person. Mrs. Declan closed the door behind him. Gesturing for him to follow her, she took him into the drawing room. Much larger than Declan’s office.

Alice sat down on the edge of the lounge. Bottle of wine and an empty glass on the small table in front of her. “I’d offer you a glass, but I assume you’re on some sort of pain medication.”

“Is that helping,” said Sullivan, nodding toward the wine.

“Not as much as I hoped it would. Why are you here, Mr. Sullivan?”

He looked around the room. Open space. Very little furniture. A large open fireplace. Pictures of Henry Declan on the wall. He didn’t know why he was here. Found he couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t know.”

“Are you going to apologise to me? Are you going to tell me you’re sorry because you couldn’t save my husband? Are you going to tell me that you’ll find the man responsible for my husband’s death?”

Bit into his cheek. This is why he came. He would take every deserving word. If she raised a hand to him, he would let her. She was angry. Desperate for an outlet for her emotions. He would give her one. She stood up. Came toward him. Stopped in front of him. He wanted to step back. Afraid he would feel her breath on his skin.

“I lost my husband, Mr. Sullivan, but I understand you almost died trying to find him.”

He lowered his gaze. Unable to look at her.

“They told me Henry died not long after he was abducted. There was nothing you could have done.”

He stood his ground. Lifted his head. Stared back at her. “I can’t tell you I’ll find the man who took your husband from you. But I can tell you that someone else will.”

She nodded. Turned away. “I understand. Once you recover you’ll have other cases.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

Alice turned back toward him. He kept his expression open.

“Sit down, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll make some tea.”

Fingers gripping the doorknob, Sullivan held his breath. Tried to calm his anger. He’d revealed more to Alice Declan than he wanted . . . more than he intended. Leaned forward. Rested his forehead against the doorframe. Closed his eyes. Unable to hide his emotions, Mrs. Declan had seen too much . . . understood all too well. She had vindicated him, removed the guilt from his shoulders. A case that shouldn’t have been difficult . . . he’d done everything wrong . . . endangered the lives of his colleagues. He wanted the guilt. The blame. He’d been at fault. Ramifications only he seemed to understand . . . consequences laid on his shoulders alone.

Couldn’t put it off any longer. Knew Annabelle was on the other side of the hotel room door. Waiting. Eager to talk him out of his decision. Opened his eyes. The door. Walked into the room. Closed the door behind him. Surprised to find his hotel room empty. Looked down at his watch. Hadn’t realised how late it was. Glanced toward the bed. No intention of sleeping. Sullivan sat down in the only chair, a slight twinge of pain in his shoulder and side. Body mostly numb, pain medication doing its job. Laid his head back. Gazed up at the ceiling.

Alone, his thoughts wandered; a confused mess, his mind couldn’t settle on one thing. Pushed everything aside. Tried to think of what he would do for the next six months. Still sure, he wouldn’t go back to Interpol, to Department S. Not certain professional help would give back what he’d lost. Remove what he’d gain. Fear had never been a problem for him. Comfortable with his work. Aware of the costs. The risk to his life. He got nervous in certain situations, something wrong with him if he didn’t. The fear so much stronger . . . so debilitating, an end to his career.

Bit into his cheek. Pain becoming too familiar. A momentary distraction. Thoughts returning. He was scared. Scared of everything. Of Krasnoff. Stanford. Scared of someone breathing against the side of his face . . . Two years ago, Krasnoff always so close, words whispered into Sullivan’s ear, threats made. Krasnoff’s aftershave, a smell Sullivan would never forget, terrified him. How could he admit his fear to a stranger?

He’d come so close to admitting it to Alice Declan, his words falling short. Unable to shut his emotions down, slow to react, still stunned that he’d almost said too much . . . his facial expression had told her what he couldn’t tell her with words. She had understood. Had expressed her sympathy. Unable to accept her gratitude of his honesty he’d walked out . . .

A knock at the door. Sullivan jerked in surprise and fear. Closed his eyes. Weak and vulnerable, Sullivan swore. Realised it could only be Annabelle. Deep breath. Pain in his side spiking. Breath released. Stood up. Knees weak, he waited until he was sure he could walk the short distance to the door. Afternoon conversations taking so much out of him. Body exhausted. Mind unwilling to rest. Not wanting another nightmare, sleep wasn’t an option.

The day not over. One more conversation required Sullivan made his way to the door. Opened it. Annabelle stood before him, hands full with mail. Her eyes red. She’d been crying. Knowing he’d done that to her, he turned away. Walked back into the room. Sat down in the chair. Gaze down, fingers of his left hand played with the fraying edge of the sling.

Annabelle followed him into the room. Closed the door, a little heavy handed, her anger showing. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Dropped the mail onto the mattress, a small package making a poor attempt to stay on top of the pile. She clasped her hands in her lap. Waited.

Sullivan refused to look at her. Should have known this would be one of his most difficult conversations. Didn’t know where to start. Waited for Annabelle to make the first move. She didn’t. Should have known better. Humour wouldn’t work. Straight to the point a better strategy.

“I can’t lie to you, Annabelle, but I can’t tell you the truth. Not yet.”

“You’ve been through worse, Stewart. Why is this so different?”

A snap of anger. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“Then tell me.”

Turned his head. Looked at the door. A sudden need to escape. Ignored the feeling.

“This is about Yuri Krasnoff, isn’t it?” She stood up. Walked toward him. Sat down on the edge of the chair. Her hand on his shoulder. She leaned down. A puff of breath on the side of his face.

Bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. The taste of blood on his tongue. Fought with everything he had to stay in the present. Fought to keep his fear hidden. Couldn’t. Feeling vulnerable, his position too much of a reminder, Sullivan stood up. Walked away.

“Stewart.”

Stopped in front of the window. Lowered his head. Covered his eyes with his left hand. Had no idea how he was going to live his life like this. Angry with himself, his lack of control, he wanted to throw something, break something against the wall. The smell of Brown Avon aftershave . . . Annabelle came up behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Her breath warm against the back of his neck. He pulled away from her. Kept his distance. Moved back to the chair. Resumed his previous position, too tired to stay standing.

“You resigned.”

“Apparently not.”

A silent response. Finally looked at her.

“Seretse wouldn’t let me.”

“Remind me to thank him,” said Annabelle, sitting back down on the bed.

“You may not want to.”

“Why not?”

“I agreed to six months medical leave. At the end of that time if I still want to resign, he’ll accept my resignation.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me about it first?”

“You mean, why didn’t I ask you.”

“You don’t need my permission to resign, Stewart.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was hoping you would tell me why.”

I lost my nerve.

“I did everything wrong on the Declan case. I endangered your life and King’s.”

“This isn’t about Declan. This is about Krasnoff.” Annabelle stood up.

Sullivan shifted in his seat. Afraid she would get too close.

She moved forward. Knelt down in front him. Crossed her arms over the top of his thighs. Looked up at him. “You don’t remember but . . .” she swallowed. “In the car when we were escaping . . . when I tried to stop the bleeding . . . you went somewhere else.”

He looked away. Stared at something else. Anything else.

“Jason said I had to bring you back. What did he mean, Stewart? Bring you back from where?”

She wasn’t stupid. Why couldn’t she figure it out on her own? He didn’t want to explain it to her.

“Don’t push it, Annabelle. Please. I can’t talk to you about this.”

“Why not?”

He couldn’t respond. Couldn’t tell her he was scared. What would she think of him if she knew he was so afraid of life? Of standing . . . sitting too close to another person. Afraid that the next man who passed too close would be wearing Krasnoff’s aftershave. How could he tell her he was terrified of going back into the past . . . back into that room . . . unable to return. Living his life in the past, in a memory instead of the present. She would think him a coward. Understood the thing he feared most was Annabelle’s opinion of him. He admired and respected Annabelle. Knew she felt the same way. Didn’t want to change her opinion of him. Knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it if she looked on him with pity. If she didn’t understand . . .

“I can’t talk to you about this.”

“I spoke to Jason.”

His head snapped up. Why did they keep surprising him? Noticed she still looked at him the same way she always had. She smiled. No hint of satisfaction.

“If you already know, why do you keep asking me to explain?”

“Jason didn’t tell me enough.”

“He shouldn’t have told you anything. He said he wouldn’t.”

“We only want to help, Stewart. Let us.”

“What did he tell you?”

“You first.”

“This isn’t a game, Annabelle.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Pulled his gaze away from her. Stared at the floor. Silence filled the room. She was going to wait him out. Would it really matter what she thought of him? Decision made, he was going to resign. No amount of conversation would change that. He couldn’t do his job anymore. The fear too strong. Resignation would end their friendship. Knew he couldn’t face her once it was official . . . so difficult to face her now. If he told her . . . if she didn’t walk away from him . . . he would walk away from her. He would never see her again. Maybe it was for the best. A quick, clean, hopefully painless end to both their working and personal relationship.

If she followed him . . . if he walked away and she followed him. A refusal to leave his side. He smiled. He would welcome her with open arms. Would know that her opinion of him hadn’t change. Confused, he wasn’t sure what he should do. Now afraid she would walk away . . . wouldn’t follow him if he left. Raised his arm. Hid his eyes. Emotions becoming too much.

“Let me help.”

A short, shattering breath. Felt her shift her position in response. Knew what she was going to do. Shut his emotions down. So difficult. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”

“Don’t keep pushing me away, Stewart.”

Kept his eyes covered. “What did Jason tell you?”

“He told me that some things make you remember what happened with Krasnoff. That it’s so vivid . . . so real to you that you feel like it’s happening all over again.”

Sullivan nodded. “He always stood so close . . . I could always feel his breath on the side of my face.”

“The smell of his aftershave.”

“Strapped into a chair with leather restraints. Stanford knew. After you escaped . . . he recreated the scene. Used Krasnoff’s aftershave. I can’t do it anymore, Annabelle. I can’t be put in that position again.”

Long fingers around his wrist. She pulled his hand down. Revealed his emotions.

“That’s all you had to tell me, Stewart. I don’t need anything else.”

Leaned his head back. Stared at the ceiling. Blinked. A shallow breath. Her touch removed. She stood up. Moved to his side. A hand against his forehead. The touch so familiar. He looked at her. “I can’t give you anything more. Not right now. I’m not sure when.”

“Jason told me he’d given you a name. Someone to talk to.”

“I won’t be seeing her.”

“Why?”

“Annabelle, how can I talk to a woman Jason has-“

“Yes, I see.” Annabelle laughed, running her fingers through his hair. “Pillow talk.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Sullivan. “Seretse has made arrangements for me.”

“Remind me to thank him.”

“For what?”

“For giving you a chance.”

“To redeem myself?”

“To recover.”

“What are you going to do now?” Afraid she would tell him goodbye, we should do lunch one day.

“Give you your mail.”

He smiled. Grateful for Annabelle Hurst. How could have ever doubted her? A mistake he won’t make again. “Well wishes?”

“Jason would be jealous,” said Annabelle, smiling. Made her way back to the bed. Distance short. Lifted the small pile of mail. The small package. Moved back toward Sullivan. Surrendered his mail. He took it from her. Difficult with one hand. Dropped it all into his lap. Raised an eyebrow . . .

“I’m not your assistant. Open your own mail.”

He started with the package. Predominant hand struggling with something usually so simple. Tore through the paper. A small box beneath. Removed the lid . . .

Breath caught in his throat. Sure, his heart had stopped beating. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Fear gripped his chest . . . so tight.

In the box, a small bottle of Brown Avon aftershave . . .

The End

By Gary Warner

Jason King took another sip of champagne before absentmindedly placing the glass back onto the table in front of him. He regarded the small bowl of strawberries with something approaching a frown as if they were in someway responsible for his present mood.

The meal at the Vittori’s had been up to its usual high standard. The service – Immaculate efficiency, but Jason was not happy. He didn’t want to dwell on the reasons for his deeply melancholy lest it start a downward spiral into something darker and more uncontrollable. He lifted the bottle of Dom Perignon from its ice bucket and refilled his glass.

Anger that he should have allowed himself to slip into such a malaise. He was a lover of life, someone who celebrated his existence to the full all day, every day and to be without that inner zest was simply soul destroying. But with the anger was also sadness in equal measure, and that was as bad.

“Mr. King?” He looked up.

“It is Jason King isn’t it?”

The owner of the voice was a honey blonde, her classic profile thrown into sharp relief by the lamp at the centre of the table. Jason regarded her with care, noting the strong, almost aggressive jaw line and deep blue eyes that seemed so alive.

“I believe so.”

Jason spoke lazily, as if to answer was too much trouble. On any other day he would have been ordering another bottle of champagne and turning on the 22-carat charm, but today even the most beautiful of women was an intruder.

“May I?” She pulled up an empty chair and sat down opposite him.

“It looks as if you have already.”

“My name is Clarissa.” The only response was an almost imperceptible raising of an eyebrow, but she was unperturbed

“I just adore your books Mr. King. How do you imagine such amazing plots?”

To his credit, Jason did not grown audibly or immediately cry out “Boring!” to a question that was akin to asking an actor how he remember his lines.

“I exist Clarissa. I notice people, places, events. A desire for life drives the imagination wonderfully.”

She considered this for a moment. “A desire for life but not for company this evening, Mr. King?”

For the first time that day he managed a half smile. “I’m sorry to be so obvious. I think tonight must be a first.”

“Oh?”

“My declining the presence of a very attractive lady.” She took the compliment as no more than her due as she eyed the empty strawberry bowl.

“They look so nice.”

“They are.”

It was clear that no further offer was to be forthcoming, so Clarissa helped herself to one of the largest juicy strawberries from the bowl.

“I was saving that one!”

“How kind of you.”

“For myself!” he added in a somewhat resentful tone.

“And I’d heard you were so generous.”

“Don’t know who from.”

Beauty would not have been nearly enough tonight, not on its own, but she had more. A spark, a spirit that Jason had to concede, was exceptionally appealing.

“Why do you need cheering up?” she asked with a childlike disregard for any of his finer feelings.

“You ask as if you know already.” If the comment was meant to provoke a response it failed. After a small pause he continued. “Have you ever felt loss, Clarissa – real loss?”

He found it difficult to believe that he was talking to her as if he’d known her for years.

“Tell me.”

The light, cheerful tone was replaced in a moment by the voice of someone who actually cared, and so he told her. Quietly, calmly, he shared his sadness with Clarissa.

As Jason and Clarissa left the restaurant some two hours later, they didn’t notice the woman in the car parked on the opposite side of the road. Their obvious happiness brought a smile of satisfaction to her lips. She had known Jason would need someone tonight. The right someone. He was no longer a working colleague, but he would always be a friend. Annabelle Hurst had remembered that today was the anniversary of Toki’s death, a loss that Annabelle knew had shaken Jason more than he would ever admit. But she also knew the antidote, and the medicine she had decided to secretly provide was in the shape of her cousin Clarissa – a girl with the right stuff for dissolving the worst depression.

Annabel slipped her car into gear and pulled slowly away into the London night.

---

© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790/

Written by Isolani

Canonical one-shot from the end of ‘Checkmate,’ in The Prisoner. 100+ word story without containing the letter ‘e.’ The title refers to an isolated pawn in a chess game – since Six is very alone. Six is Patrick McGoohan; Two (from ‘Checkmate’) is Peter Wyngarde.

“What do you want?” Six had said.

“Information,” Two had told him, as usual, but now it was unusual. Now Two did not want to know anything about him, only his plans.

Blond, sharp, tall, standing ramrod-straight within a spacious auditorium, Six was still staring at Two, divulging nothing. In front of him, a monitor spun with whirling stars.

Two, long and lanky, sallow, usually with a jaunty air and a quick grin, wasn’t smiling just now. With all unwilling participants shut up again, this mod, flippant Two could afford such gravity. “You put your trust in that idiot. Why?”

Six hadn’t thought of such a liability as his Rook in that way. Anyhow, his prior compatriot was now without doubt put into an isolation unit far away, with anonymous guards studying him, unblinking and continuous. “You put him into this match as Rook. You had to know that fool would – “

Two cut off Six, brightly, roosting in his round chair comfortably, his mouth sliding into a smirk. “So did you. And you wound up on a boat amidst nothing, brought in fairly simply.”

Six’s intonation was crisp, his consonants a hail of gunshots. “I will win. I will find a way out.”

Two shook his dark locks, a swift, slight, and disparaging motion. “Will you? You could just say it, and all this would go away, as if it was nothing. As if it was only a hallucination from a minor malady.” His hand ran along his colorful scarf, which lay slack against his coat. “Only a tiny shard of information. Say six small words, and you can go. Or how about just two?”

Not a word for Two’s puns. “My information is not a transaction. I will not draw up a pact with you – or with your upcoming proxy.” Six’s conduct was as sharp as his words, his back and jaw taut and rigid. “Play your match. Bring Rook back, and all your pawns. I am not playing.”

Two’s mood was tranquil, almost lazy. “You will. Soon. Assuming, that is, that you do want to find out – “

It was Six’s turn to disrupt things. A usual saying with its quick salutation had him strolling from Two’s vast boardroom, his gait pulsing against whishing aluminum doors and bringing him into a fantastical compilation of buildings and sprightly music. This town – no, not a town, a gilt prison – was starting to look all too much as if Six should stay.

A black-clad blot on his far too bright surroundings, Six took flight towards a small knot of bric-a-brac buildings, trying not to count his gait against nonstop, cloying marching music that had almost found its way into his brain.

---

© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790

‘The Pen Is Mightier Than the Sword’

Written by Gavin Llewellyn

Tidings!” exclaimed this sartorially elegant figure as it spun from the window in a display of erratic delight which cast a fervent glow into the dim reaches of that splendid parlour. All around lay souvenirs of bygone days, from the outer most reaches of the civilization to the comparative triviality of continental travelling. Tapestry and book, bone and dagger were curious bedfellows, united by the common thread of ownership to produce a veritable explosion of the variegated voyages to which they owed their present circumstance. The day was not yet middle aged, but the sunlight, that distinctive, unrelenting force which threatened the treasures of this opulent sanctuary, was already pounding the beige blinds at half-mast and now the elegant figure straightened to its maximum height, for it never succumbed to the often-enticing urge to relax its shoulders when the feet were burdened with a full load.

The distinguishing characteristics, for it is as well to give an account of these in early course in order that the reader might form a picture of the man whose vigorous external exertions we are disposed to expound, unremarkable as free standing objects, but upon the countenance of that outstanding gentlemen, the incontrovertible signature of that peerless amalgam of aristocracy current, sagacity, intelligence, magnetism, enchantment and boldness, provoking in the minds of all who had had the providential good fortune to behold him a portrait of an adventurer, a Buccaneer, a chevalier, a daring-do, dashing, debonair defier of dastardly deeds, a majesty amongst men, his exquisitely sculptured receptacles for four or five terrestrial senses, his magnificently crafted skull the vault into whose depths there was no-one who could claim to have looked for untold, unearthly senses, his mysterious ocular organs glinting with the celestial profundity of the oceans he had crossed; a mirror of the adventures he had seen, his magnificently his capacious moustache an umbrella for his enigmatic lips, the crowning glory of this sacredly credible compendium flirting expression into the gently swirling waves of dark brown hair which wandered courteously about but with an elegance which told of the Patrician patrimony.

“And to you, my good friend”, expressed ‘the dear friend’ who was seated adjacent to the fireplace, reaping the rewards of a glass of the finest whisky. Who raised this same glass as a token of his esteem.

“Tidings – the collective noun for a group of magpies”. The tone of this explication was far from patronising, for the cheerfulness with which it was enunciated was its sole occupant. a testament to the general appreciation kindled in the heart of that supreme being for the versatility of the English language. ‘The dear friend’ was unmoved by the infusion of some of his companion, but congratulated him with another, non-verbal to toast and a polite smile. We are, per chance, justified in hypothesising that the amplitude of ‘the dear friend’s’ waist played a not insignificant rȏle in his reluctance to become injected with ardour which so obviously drove his chum along life’s contorted carriageways.

“I shall use the term in my next column – probably after tonight’s farcical gathering of players at the Marquis of Albury’s party. Do you know, it is the third this month? He must be up to something. Causing the favours of some rich widow no doubt, a vain attempt to replenish his diminishing fortune”.

“But I thought that the Marquess of Albury was one of the richest men in the country”. There was a constantly burbling quality to ‘the dear friend’s’ voice which was the likely successor to decades of underlying addiction to a variety of restorative beverages.

“A wealth which ias negligently dissipated in several, injudicious investments and ventures, Barney. Combined with a puerile affection for entertainment”.

“So, you are attending tonight to help relieve him of some additional capital?” A mirthful Inflexion coated this interrogative.

“Rapidly reoccurring ennui is, rather unfortunate, the by-product of supreme intelligence”, the man standing with his back to the illumination sighed.

***

Tables brimmed and wine flowed, and ladies and gentlemen of the highest echelons frolicked merrily when the orchestra began flirting jauntily with its instruments. The proceedings were conducted with such great ebullience, in fact, that several spillages and the trampling of chicken bones under foot went quite unnoticed.

For the courtly (we can hardly say cultivated when so exquisite a comportment is the inevitable heritage awaiting one) gentlemen whose exploits it is our time-honoured privilege to recount for the general beneficent instruction of indubitably and manifestly inferior mortals, however, the evening passed without great amusement. The rubicund, bloated gentleman who had to be supported to the wings was a trifling diversion. The anorexic lady with the spectacles who performed the splits in the middle of a catastrophic rendition of a popular dance gave rise to no more than a flicker of mirth on the urban and unique countenance. He lounged lethargically with a glass in hand, with opulent, antique ring out sparkling the pale liquid which he poured indifferently (for he had sampled superior specimens) into the foresaid receptacle. All the while, the music chanted as if it had leapt into an ethereal plane which rendered it independent of the unrelenting minstrels. Still the cavorting and cascading continued. Would it ever cease? Would that some dramatic and singular enlighten the heart of the Observer. For that gentleman had already begun to construct diverse modes of embellishing the proceedings for the entertainment of the readers of whom he had spoken to his ‘dear friend’, Barney.

He had noted the presence of a lady upon whom he had reflected that he had not had the pleasure of gazing and for the next hour scrutinised her every move with the instinctive attentiveness of an eagle. A new face could not distract from the established monotony of the occasion and our subject began to feel verily enlivened at her not insignificant diffidence amongst the other guests. We have stated ‘other’ without qualification, but at this juncture, it was a lingering doubt whether the said different lady was in fact herself a guest. This lady, whose acquaintance the subject of this account have decided instantly to make, appeared to flitter from group to group as if in search of the person whose selflessness had procured the attendance of a stranger at the event that continued all around. She smiled timidly at the gentleman whose urbanity stood out from the crowd, which distinctiveness, we reflect, might very well have been the cause of her attempt to gain the confidence of one who gave the appearance of uncommon lack of involvement in the recreations. The gentleman assessed her character and intentions with a solitary, but all-pervading sweep of his angelic, sparkling blue eyes and returned her smile with more confidence than she had mustered when it had been her turn.

“You’re enjoying the festivities?” She spoke with a perceptible accent.

“I am sure they are nothing compared to the galas you have in Spain.” His voice was rich and velvety, pouring over the word suavely like the continuous flow of water that polished a bed of stones. A fleeting look of terror scudded across a face, an emotion which she quickly concealed with a nervous smile. For him, however, it was all the confirmation he required (if any were necessary) that the lady was not here entirely of her own volition. He sensed that her presence was a means to an end, a painful, but necessary experience in her tumultuous life.

“I do not attempt to conceal a truth from so evidently perceptive a gentleman. Our initial trepidation was overcome by bravado.”

“You have come a long way, Senora,” he brandished xenarthrally.

“It is a long tale, my good Sir, and now I must bid you farewell.” Her attempt to terminate the germination and of their connaissance was stifled abruptly, without the remotest tendency to physical obstruction:

“Isabel.” His eye held her motionless, creating a moratorium in which she came to realise that the only path which lay open to her was the one which consisted in a confidence. He had an aspect which precipitated her decision to tell him everything. There existed in the bold lines of his countenance and experience in such matters, a sagacious quality which left no doubt in her mind that a consultation with this gentleman would very likely be profitable. She checked herself again, however, and for a scintilla temporis, that cloud of hesitation returned to overshadow her momentary buoyancy.

“My name. How…?”

“I am fully acquainted with your predicament, Senora.” Her eyes flickered nervously over the company. “Do not concern yourself with them, for they are quite unaware of your presence, your identity.” His flamboyant, engulfing gesture, indicating the crowd, gave him a languid and carefree feature which invested her with a trace of the same. The festivities around them were suddenly a mere backdrop.

All attention was now fixed upon him. Nothing else mattered. No one else mattered. She did not care what anyone else did, for her fate was instantly an immovably in his hands.

“Allow me the pleasure of introducing myself. My name is Pike, Langdale Pike.” He pulled her across to the floor where the room was spinning round the heads of the more indulgent revellers. They danced. “We are conspicuous by our absence. It would not be fitting to leave now, for we should certainly be witnessed. Not all those present are in quite the state of ecstasy as they would have you believe.” Not another word was uttered between them until the grand clock suspended from the north wall of the ballroom struck a solemn 12 and two-by-two, the dancing partners took refuge in the red drawing room. “We can leave now.”

“You are not like other people here tonight.” It was a simple statement which somehow sufficed to express her whole attitude towards her exploits and her circumstances. They sat, sequestered, in an arbor – the noise of chatter and the gossip which would have normally taken up the final hour of the soiree of this most illustrious gentleman; that gentleman we have the good fortune to know as Langdale Pike, behind them, a quiet reminder of that other world they had temporarily left behind. Langdale Pike smiled cognizantly. “Do you come here often?”

“The day I am not in attendance at the scene of such depravity and debauchery, the world as we know it will have fallen victim to the most brilliant of diseases and ‘tis well that I should not be here to cast my eye upon it.” His enunciation conveyed a mystique to his words which she seemed to understand only too well.  “But then, you too are acquainted with the singular breed of unhappy circumstance…” He teased out her story, the personal tragedy of which he had yet to be appraised.

“Why is it you do not join in the party? Are you hiding from something?”

“Those that participate are hiding. I am their observer. My presence guarantees their continuity. I am, you might say, the arbiter of fact and law. They can relax because it is I who will hold them together. Each is bound unto me and I exercise no favour which is not equal to them all.”

“You sound like my father.”

“Fernando XII?” He was not asking for verification. “And now, pray tell me, how is it that I can be of assistance to one such as yourself?”

“Help me to rescue my country from the forces which will send it spiralling into the depths from which it once rose to a greatness never to have been equalled.”

“Your views, Signora, I can contest, but my resources, I fear, are inadequate for the tournament which you propose.”

“Your Sir Francis Drake was a capable man.”

“And a pirate with all Her Majesty’s Navy behind him. I, au contraire, have but my wits about me and great service though they have done me today, I cannot promise that they will match up to your exacting expectations.”

“But you will try to help me.” The faltering of her step unbalanced her response.

“Confide in me as others have done, I shall endeavour to help in anyway which lies open to me.”

“It is my son, Alphonso, who is in need of your help.” Langdale Pike inclined his head gravely. “I shall speak without presumption of the knowledge of my affairs which you seem to possess, for it may be that my exposition sheds new light upon the subject.” Her audience was immobile. “The liberals to whom I turned after my father’s death, thereby provoking the war in my country, did, some years ago, revolt against me, causing me to flee from my people who are now forced to hate me, and from my country which was my inheritance. The government of the Republicans, as they so treacherously named themselves, have attempted to hold the fabric together, but it is a rent which cannot be stitched by any such means and it is our renitence which might prove the factor which precedes, as harbinger, our restoration as with your own history.”

“If your General Prim is as poor a tactician as our Lord Protector and his successor, I’m sure that time will tell of its own accord.”

“You speak of time as though we abound in it. I have no claims now that I have neglected my duty at the time when its fulfilment was most wanted. But my son, for him I pray that the restoration will come soon. I know it is what my people want – his people.” For the first time, she was plaintive and Langdale Pike could sense the great urgency with which she beseeched him to become a thread in this complicated, political twine that had entangled her. His earlier observation on the faculties of that temporal calibrator by which we conduct our every effort had established the veracity of her claims and he was prepared to involve himself inextricably.

“Have you expressed these fears to anyone else?”

“You are the first.” Her frankness gave him conviction for a cause.

“Then Signora, permit me awhile and I shall see if I can grab contribute in some way to a solution. If you hear nothing in fortnight, you will know that the resources which I command have not been equal to the task and you will have to continue your search.” The tumble of words in the very depths of her eyes told him of her eternal gratitude. “You are not alone?”

“No, I have been fortunate enough to avail myself of the hospitality of Lady Anthea smartt and I’m content with the assurance that I may continue to do so for the coming weeks. Thank you.” She had gathered herself and departed, as swiftly as she had arrived. Langdale Pike resumed his observations and circulations with renewed vigour.

***

At his club in St. James’ Square the following day (for many a daylight hour spent profitably in discourse and divers, intellectual pursuits at that place so prominent in Mr. Pike circle), Langdale Pike whiled away three parts of the day with a studious collation of hypotheses, extracted subtly and enthusiastically from his sundry acquaintance. The evening following was occupied with the scripting of an unusual work (unusual, that is, for Mr. Pike) which, two days following, was caused to appear in the press along with other, learn learning articles and opinions.

It described the benefits to be derived from that incomparable combination of monarchy with bicameral government, that which admitted of both legislative and discursive activities and the supreme watchfulness and guidance of one whose prowess in such matters was indisputably foremost in the minds of all politicians. It gave an account of the tragic circumstances which had surrounded the United Kingdom’s attempt at a commonwealth over two centuries previous and of how that sorrowful state of affairs was brought to a satisfactory conclusion in 1660, thus laying the foundations for the modern system of unvanquishable and unfading democracy.

Further testimony, provided for those whose intellectual ambitions drove them to read such an article in its entirety, as Langdale Pike was certain those who counted on the Iberian Peninsula would, was adduced in the form of vitriolic vilification of those societies which had not yet aspired to such a civilised state of government. He foretold the downfall of all, iconoclastic communities which failed or refused to adhere to this primordial and so axiomatic an order. He spoke of the fruitfulness of republicanism without the constitutional theory upon which to base it. So far did it go, that those targets which were struck with its force could not fail to be impressed in no small way by its inexorable voracity and Langdale Pike was confident that the excessively smooth to the point of being unctuous gentleman (if we are at liberty to called that title) whom he had been engaged in feigned admiration of his companion the preceding evening and whom nobody had confessed to having invited, and whom no-one could identify and who had vanished quite mysteriously afterwards would ensure that is masters did, at least, avail themselves of the opportunity to be so impressed.

So it was that Langdale Pike meddled in international affairs and one unctuous gentlemen of manifestly alien antecedence reported for duty loyally to Madrid and that only a week later, a great commotion engulfed the Spanish nation and caused numerous, other nations of democratic persuasion to proclaim the eternity of monarchy and Alphonso XII was crowned King of Spain.

---

© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790/

A Prisoner Story by Carly Dennison

WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…”

And so droned the mechanical voice of my tormentor; a grinding, piercing, wrenching voice from an unknown source hidden behind a blackened screen, that tore into my brain until I could bear it neither physically nor mentally any longer.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…! Faster! Faster! Faster! The strobe lights accompanying the words endlessly performed their terrible dance.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…” My hand clenched the armrests of the chair I was manacled to; my fingernails embedded into the cold leather.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…” the voice persisted. “WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT?…”

My whole body heaved and fell under the unrelenting cacophony of sound, lights and wracking pain. Blood trickled down my face from wounds made by electronic probes attached to my forehead, and with each static charge that stung the flesh of my body, I craved the relief that death might bring me. And though I knew that by betraying him this rest I longed for might come more swiftly, I dare not – I WOULD NOT – speak his name!

My whole body heaved and fell under the unrelenting cacophony of sound, lights and wracking pain. Blood trickled down my face from wounds made by electronic probes attached to my forehead, and with each static charge that stung the flesh of my body, I craved the relief that death might bring me. And though I knew that by betraying him this rest I longed for might come more swiftly, I dare not – I WOULD NOT – speak his name!

Through all of this: the brutal agony: the cold unrelenting, forbidding, inhumanity of it all, I still loved him. Even then, as he stood united with my tormentors, I could not feel anything but the most pure and tender love for him. More than anything else, I wanted to look upon him just one more time, but I knew that in my delirium the merest glance might give him away. And when at the very moment I finally began to fall into unconsciousness, I felt for the most fleeting of moments the touch of his gentle hand as it brushed against mine. For an instant my eyes met his. Those blue, once emotionless eyes were at last filled with such sorrow that all I’d been through in this cold, heartless place faded into nothingness. It was then, and only then, that I knew he had truly loved me.

“WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT…” Suddenly, my whole being came over with an overwhelming sensation a serine peace. It was as if all the pain had been lifted from me and, for a moment, I was back in the warm sunshine of that Cambridge summer 5 years earlier…

___________________________

I’d been just a very ordinary girl from a very ordinary village in North Wales; in fact, I was what some people might call a bit of a “Plain Jane” back then. My father owned a small garage near Conwy and had taken out a loan to help finance my studies. I remember so clearly how delighted he and mum were when I won that scholarship at Cambridge University.

I travelled down to the City alone by train in the September of 1957 and recall a somewhat befuddled feeling of excitement and trepidation as I entered the grounds of Queen’s College, the first leaves of Autumn crunching beneath my feet while I cautiously walked in the direction of the Bursar’s office.

popular with many of the male students. It was through her that I was invited to attend the May Ball at Trinity College the following year and it was there that I saw him for the very first time.

He was tall, devastatingly handsome and had the bluest, most mysterious eyes I’d ever seen. He was the kind of man who turned heads; he had an aura about him – an aura that oozed an insatiable sensuality and brooding menace. From the very moment I saw his face I was smitten, but not for one moment did I ever fool myself into believing that he would notice me. Nevertheless, I was under his spell and as he weaved his magic by merely BEING, little did I know that he would have the most cataclysmic effect on my life.

___________________________

During the Summer break, I decided to stay on in Cambridge rather than go home, so I took a part-time job in a tearoom in the city centre to tide me over. It was one late July afternoon that I saw him again; his college scarf draped across his elegant shoulders and a rolled-up umbrella in his hand even though there wasn’t so much as a cloud in the sky. He stood in the doorway of the café and after glancing around for a moment as if he was deciding whether he should grace us with his presence, he finally strolled inside, taking a seat at a table by the window.

As I looked across at him, motionless, I felt a sharp dig to my ribs: “Go on, girl”, insisted the manageress – “He won’t bite!” But I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Eventually, I gathered my composure just enough to walk over to him and, nervously clearing my throat, asked: “What can I get for you, sir?”. “Tea. Cream. No sugar,” he replied in the most exquisite tone. “He spoke to me!” I thought as I floated towards the kitchen. At last, he knew I existed!

I dutifully, and extremely nervously, served him his order but, as fate would have it, some old dear and her husband arrived at that very moment and decided to try one of our ‘famous’ Ploughman’s Lunches, which had to be freshly prepared. By the time I’d completed the task and hurried back from the kitchen, he’d gone. I never saw him again… until I was brought to ‘The Village’.

___________________________

After graduating from Queen’s in the September of 1969, I took up a position as a Chemical Analysist at Imperial College, London. With a great deal of hard work, not to mention a fair measure of good luck Professor Collins, one of my old lecturers, recommended me for a position with the Ministry of Defence at a military instillation in North Yorkshire, and within 18 months of my arrival, I was working on a rather hush-hush project alongside a hand-picked unit of scientists from N.A.T.O.. Nevertheless, suddenly and quite without warning, the project was shelved, and all the scientists that had been working on it were, hastily dispersed. It was shortly afterwards that I suffered a minor “accident” on the A1 near Catterick, when I was run off the road by a undertaker’s hearse of all things. It was shortly after that I arrived here, in ‘The Village’.

I’d been told to prepare my “master’s” quarters at The Green Dome in time for the arrival of the new Administrator and had watched the helicopter touch down on the landing pad through the main window. Only moments later, during a brief exchange between the “old” and “new” Number 2, I heard a familiar voice – the tone of which had the effect of making me stand motionless for several seconds – while my heart beat so ferociously that I feared it might leap from my chest. Only when I entered the living area did I know for sure: it was HIM!

At first, he didn’t notice my presence as I pottered about the room making sure that his every comfort was attended to. But then, as I collected up my cleaning equipment and started to make quietly away, I happened to glance in his direction to find those familiar blue eyes studying my every movement. ‘Had he recognised me?’ I thought – trying in desperation to reach the door without tripping over my own two feet. ‘No, of course he hadn’t – how could he?’ All I’d ever been was a shadow he once walked around.

That evening I sat alone in my accommodation thinking only of Him. Who was he now? Why was he here? Was he a “prisoner” too? No, he couldn’t possibly be. My mind wandered all night; I barely slept a wink.

The following morning, I made my way to the Green Dome to prepare breakfast; my heart filled with excited foreboding. He was already up and about when I arrived and was standing with his back to me – looking down through the window at the Village below; the master of all he surveyed. Suddenly he turned and gently laid down the teacup and saucer he’d been holding onto a grand, highly polished oak table. He looked at me directly.

Dressed in a black blazer and with what appeared to be the same college scarf I remembered him wearing in our Cambridge days draped over his left shoulder, he looked almost identical in appearance to the last occasion I’d seen him in the tea shop back in Cambridge. For several seconds it was if time had stopped as we looked at each other from opposite sides of the room. What strange quirk of fate had brought us together in this place? Whatever it was, I wasn’t about to find out there and then, as he was simply to turn on his heel and walk from the room without so much as uttering a word.

___________________________

For several weeks I worked for him without any pleasantries or instruction, until one morning he quite unexpectedly asked me to join him for breakfast. If we had been in Cambridge I’m sure I’d have nervously declined because of my insecurity, but here I dared not refuse, so I thanked him timidly and pulled up a chair at the oak table.

Within moments I felt that I’d known him all my life. In spite of the extent of our previous exchanges being limited to an occasional nod of the head which, I assumed, was his way of expressing his satisfaction with my work, we discussed literature, poetry, art and the sciences like old friends, and every now and then his blue eyes appeared to smile.

With every passing day our friendship grew, until soon we would not only share breakfast, but long walks through the woods and, often, secret rendezvous in the caves that ran for miles under the Village. And then one beautiful moon-lit evening he finally took my hand in his and kissed me with such a sweet gentleness that I could hardly believe this to be the same man who I’d witness many times crush my fellow inmates like flies.

I recoiled, not through lack of desire; God knows I’d yearned for this moment for so long. In spite of him only ever treating me in the gentlest manner, he terrified me, and I could not – DARED not – accept his advances. I turned and ran deeper and deeper into the woods.

From the sound of the crunching leaves and twigs in my wake, I knew that he was less than a few paces behind me, and for all my efforts to evade him, I realised very quickly that escape was impossible. Inevitably. I turned myself over to him.

“Why did you run?” he enquired in a pained tone – his blue eyes filled with sadness. “You must know I would never hurt you.” I did not. I could never be sure that he was not spinning some deceitful, cruel web to entrap me, at which he’d cast me aside for his sport. Ever so tenderly, he lifted my chin with his long, lithe fingers and drew my eyes to his.

“Can’t you see, I love you”, he breathed softly, his words almost whispered. Though I tried to fight it, I could feel a tear leave my eye which cascaded down my cheek onto his hand. “Please! Please,” I begged, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me!” And with that, I fell into his arms, where I had once prayed but never dared hope I’d one day be.

of new experiment he’d devised to relieve me of the information I supposedly carried in my head? How would I ever know? How could I ever trust him? Love him?

He held me so close to him that I could feel his heart beating against my cheek. I shook uncontrollably with such a terror than I had never known. This man wielded the power of life and death over me; he could crush me, destroy me, tear my heart from me and walk away without so much as a backward glance and yet I was prepared to yield without protest. I was totally within his power, both emotionally and physically. ‘Why would I need to give him my heart and my soul when he could just take them whenever he chose?’ Did he truly want me or was this some kind of new experiment he’d devised to relieve me of the information I supposedly carried in my head? How would I ever know? How could I ever trust him? Love him?

We stood together, motionless – I, almost ridged with fear; he, taking short, shallow breaths.

As the night began to draw in and the smell of damp earth filled my nostrils, I finally raised my head from his chest where it had been resting and looked deep into his eyes. “I had a dream all those years ago when we were in Cambridge,” I said quietly, “that one day God would allow me to be with you, although I knew it was a foolish dream. How could someone like you love someone like me? I’m nothing – less than nothing – especially in this place. Here, you are more powerful than God himself. Please be careful with my dream.”

___________________________

On the morning of the following day, I woke with him for the very first time – our bodies still entwined as in the moment that we’d had fallen into our slumber. I’d enjoyed the most peaceful, serine sleep of my life and for the first time, I felt that as long as I was with him, nothing and no-one could ever hurt me.

As on every morning for the past two months, we shared breakfast in his rooms. I’d then wrap his college scarf around his neck and kiss him passionately. He’d go off to his duties as Number 2 and I would return to my place within the Village system. But today, unlike most other days, I breezed through my duties safe in the knowledge that when all my fellow inmates were back in their ‘cells’ for the night following curfew, I’d be with HIM.

___________________________

As the weeks and months rolled on, we began to find it increasingly difficult to devise ways to conduct our relationship without putting wise the ever-vigilant Village Guardians. We’d arrange to meet quite by accident in the Village tea rooms and had both, quite by coincidence of course, enrolled at the same art class held at the Recreation Hall twice weekly.

But then came the news we’d both dreaded. A message arrived from a higher place that a “new” Number 2 had been appointed to take charge of the Village at the end of the month: “Preparations should be made for the switchover.” He broke the news to me as we walked along a stretch of beach close to the lighthouse at the eastern-most tip of the Village perimeter. I was devastated, and almost inevitably, the tears began to flow. ‘How could I go on here without him? How could I face another day in this God-forsaken place when he’d gone?’

“My darling,” he began in an attempt to console me. “Whatever it takes, I will find a way to come back to you – I swear!”.

I drank from his sweet lips as if I were a dying man in a desert who’d at last been given water, and I held him so tight that I felt I might’ve crushed him. Though I dared not let go for fear of never holding him again, I was shattered. Totally. Completely. All I could see before me was a lifetime of never knowing where he was or if I would ever see him again.

For several days we only able to see each other in passing as, for one reason or another, we’d both been preoccupied with preparing for the arrival of the new Number 2. It was during this time that another spectre arose: I was pregnant.

___________________________

It seemed almost an eternity before we we’re able to find a reason for us to be alone together again, and only then for the briefest moment. He finally sent for me under the pretext of a reprimand for shoddy work. When I arrived at the Green Dome I found his lunch guest, No.96 – a fellow Guardian – just preparing to leave; we passed each other in the grand hallway without so much as a glance. I eagerly told him my news.

For the very first time I saw fear in hiseyes as he digested my words. His initial reaction was to walk out onto the balcony where he stood transfixed; peering down on the hustle and bustle of daily life in the Village below. After what seemed like an age, he finally turned and strode cautiously to a large metal filing cabinet and took out a bound file inscribed starkly with the legend, ‘Sterilization Project’. At that very second there was a buzz at the door which prompted him to slip the volume into a briefcase. “Come!” he barked. The door slid open and in stepped No.12 – the Grocer who I’d always suspected was a Guardian. He looked at me shiftily.

As the case was handed to me he brushed my hand with his finger, then said sternly: “And make sure you take it to the clerk right away!” I nodded and left – the Grocer’s eyes boring into my back as I walked towards the door. I’d delivered such cases before for various No. 2’s, but once outside the Dome I quickly realised that this one had intentionally been left unlocked. Once safely inside my accommodations, I discovered that the document was an inventory of all the men   that had been brought to the Village over the past 20 years – every one of whom had been sterilized on arrival. I immediately realised what this mean for both of us.

“But why?” I asked when, some days later, I found an appropriate opportunity to return the file.

“To avoid this kind of thing; to discourage relationships such as ours. It disrupts the status quo, you see. It complicates matters.”

“Then how…?”

“…Oh, it doesn’t include Guardian’s” he interjected. “Just Prisoners. Did you never wonder why there are no children in the Village?” I had but had never thought to question it. Afterall, I’d been taught from the moment I arrived there that ‘Questions were a burden on others.’

“Then what are we to do,” I asked desperately. Even now I half expected some mad scientist or member of the Village authorities to suddenly emerge from his or her hiding place to congratulate themselves on the success of their latest experiment. Mercifully, that didn’t happen, Instead, the once confident man to whom I’d given myself, body and soul, stood before me like a lost child toying with the shooting stick he’d often wielded like a sceptre.

“Do you love me?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” I replied, taking one step closer to him. “Yes, of course I do!”

“Then we must get out of this place. I can’t leave you here to face this alone.”

“But how?” He held out his arms and ran into them. “I’ll find a way. I promise. “

___________________________

me at the back of the Labour Exchange. I’ll shut down the CCTV system from here. (A pause). I love you.” The line went dead.

Later that evening, my whole being began to fill with utter dread as I heard the familiar whir of helicopter blades that announced the arrival of the new Number 2 who would take up residence in the Green Dome. I leapt from my bed and threw open the window from where I could see a dim light breaking from his window.

The sudden unexpected shrill of the telephone caused me to jump. Cautiously, I picked up the receiver to hear a familiar voice. “We must go NOW!” it said. “Get whatever food you can and meet me at the back of the Labour Exchange. I’ll shut down the CCTV system from here. (A pause). I love you.” The line went dead.

I grabbed some clothes and a few provisions; a packet of biscuits and some fruit and I ran the short distance between my residence to the Bureau as quickly but cautiously as I was able. Though I’d managed to elude the ever-vigilant searchlight from the watch tower, my only fear now was that the thumping of my heart would give me away to one of the many patrols that weaved through the Village streets after Curfew.

He was already waiting for me at the rear entrance of L-Shaped building when I arrived, and after taking my hand firmly in his, we stooped to avoid the prying beam from the Watch Tower and ran as hard as our legs would take us towards the woods at the eastern edge of the Village.

Taking a small electronic device from his pocket and pointing it at a wire fence that stood guard in a clearing beyond the last trees, which hummed and spit the occasional spark in our direction, we crawled on all-fours beyond the Village parameter and to what I hoped would be freedom. Once outside, we simply ran, until our hearts cracked and legs could take us no further. Our home for the night, it appeared, would be a disused gamekeepers lodge that had nestled unnoticed under the leer of a nearby mountain range. Once inside, we hungrily ate the biscuits and melted icicles to ease our thirst – knowing all too well that the Village authorities would soon be on our heels.

We drifted into an exhausted sleep.

___________________________

A cold, icy blast brought us suddenly to our senses the next morning. Still wrapped in each other’s arms, we peered through a broken window across the vast expanse of snowy mountains. It was then that we heard the voices.

Quickly, I darted towards the door of the hut and, fumbling with frozen fingers, managed to untie the piece of rope that had kept it in place against the biting gale that had raged outside the previous night. I scrambled back to him on all fours as the voices grew increasingly louder. I immediately began to wrap the rope around my left wrist, and then putting both my hands behind my back, tuned to him: “Tie it. For God’s sake…”

For a moment I saw all the sorrow of the world in his eyes. A tear fell onto his cheek, rolled slowly down his finely chiselled features and fell gently onto the dusty wooden floor of the hut. Taking his hand in mine I told him that this,was the only way. One day he would have left the Village and never returned. Without him my life; my existence in that place would have been unbearable. At least this way we were able to spend at least one night of freedom together.

Without so much as uttering another word we just knew inside everything that needed to be said; from one heart to another – from my soul to his. Again, I offered him my partially bound wrists. He took the ends of the ropes between his slender fingers and pulled them tight.

___________________________

“…WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS IT? WHO WAS…..” Silence.

Through the haze of pain, I saw a masked figure make its way slowly towards me carrying a tray. On it lay a syringe. A gloved hand caressed it with its fingers while, from behind, someone placed a strap around my right arm and pulled it tight until my own fingers lost all feeling. The masked figure leaned towards me, the syringe in hand.

And then, through this agonising assault, I heard his voice as he took the syringe from the gloved hand: “This one is mine!” he said firmly. He must’ve known that I would want it to be him and not some faceless “thing” to take my life.

Ever so gently he brushed the sweat and blood-soaked hair from my eyes and lifted my head so that I might look at him just one last time. I thought of the life that we might have had together with our child.

“I love you!” I thought.

“I know!” he replied.

---

© Copyright The Hellfire Club: The OFFICIAL PETER WYNGARDE Appreciation Society: https://www.facebook.com/groups/813997125389790/

Broadcast: BBC Radio – Saturday, 2^nd April 1955

Character: Franz

The Story

The Ermine, although the first of Anouilh’s plays to attract widespread recognition, is perhaps the least innovative in its presentation, its originality residing primarily in Anouilh’s announcement and treatment of themes that would soon come to characterize his theatre. Cast in a naturalistic mold, The Ermine contrasts the wealthy Monime (Beth Boyd) with the underprivileged, ambitious Frantz (Peter Wyngarde), who will stop at nothing, even murder, in order to win her hand. Monime, however, does not decide that she loves Frantz until after he has claimed responsibility for the crime and turned himself in to the authorities. Such hopelessness, usually polarized between rich and poor, would continue to haunt Anouilh’s would-be lovers throughout the rest of his career as a playwright.

From The Radio Times

It was by now become almost a tradition that a play by Jean Anouilh should first be broadcast and then be staged in this country. That was true of Point of Departure which was staged in 1950 having been produced for radio by Raymond Raikes. It was true of Léocadia which Raikes produced for radio last July and which, as Time Remembered, is now running in London.

This week Raikes produces The Ermine, the first of Anouilh’s pièce noires, which he wrote when he was only 21. It will be interesting to see whether this, too, finds its way to the theatre.

The leading role will be played by Peter Wyngarde, who played the Prince in Léocadia. We met this handsome young actor last week and found him excited, on the one hand, about The Ermine (“an astonishing play for one so young”), and on the other, with the prospect of seeing Spain for the first time on Sunday, when the play is to be broadcast in the Third Programme, you will be on his way to Madrid where he is to appear in a film being made the about the life of Alexander the Great. This will be his first film appearance, so he’s spending much time reading about film making and making sketches of the character he is to playful stop

“I always do that,” he said, “and particularly for radio where I think an actor must have a clear idea of the physical appearance of the man is representing.

From Plays & Players

This month has brought the first performance in England of the earliest Anouilh play on the latest Gabriel Marcel. No two plays could be further apart.

The Ermine contains all the bitterness which he developed in his later days. The importance of money, the insistence on the transient transients of love, all very personal; while Marcel writes his play on a theme and moulds the play into Catholic dogma.

Anouilh’s The Ermine was written in 1931 and was the first play to set Paris talking about this young man who was then Louis Jouvert’s secretary.

His characters are not causey or complacent, but full of their own savage vitality. Even at this early stage of Anouilh’s philosophy was apparent, with this defiance of the normal social code.

The theme, of a young man who commits murder to gain sufficient money to make his love for a pure young girl possible, is reminiscent of Dostoievsky, but carried out only as Anouilh could any purge of purity through suffering.

The passage where Monine offers herself to Frantz is wonderfully sensitive and alive.

The translation by Miriam John is not very fluid, but is faithful enough to give an idea of the original. The production by Raymond Raikes had not enough atmosphere to come alive without the visual element.

However, Peter Wyngarde as Frantz had all the variety of pace and tempo which makes a long, difficult part possible. He had a false and quality which is right for this sort of playful stop best boys lack the depth which makes an Anouilh heroine so pathetic, but was good enough. Dorothy Homes-Gore made the Duchess who is murdered, into a pathetic creature, in spite of her behaviour. Raymond Raikes production was most effective and the cast played with absolute sincerity.

The Ermine: Written by the translator of the play

One recurrent theme in the work of Jean Anouilh cannot be ignored. It is the theme of pureté. The characters who plead for it are normally aiming at a kind of perfection, not compatible with the moral and social tenants the size if they live in. At least, the means to it are not compatible. They’re not out to reform society, but to ‘perfect’ themselves or some emotion they are involved in.

Frantz, in The Ermine, Anouilh’s first published play, described such people, as ‘constantly battling against hordes of hidden forces that attacked them from within or from the world outside’. The forces attacking Frantz from the outside world are those of poverty; from within, those of pride.

Anouilh’s writing has been described as the ‘explosion of a passionate rancour’. This description, although harsh, bears the seeds of truth, a may also explain, curiously enough, why Anouilh has more attentive and sympathetic audiences in England than his contemporaries have done. Anouilh is emotionally ‘involved’ with his main characters.

The title of The Ermine is the key to its author’s attitude towards his ‘hero,’ Frantz. I was convinced the title add a dual suggestion, and after some discussion with the producer, I was asked to find out from Anouilh what he really had intended. Luckily. For I had been barking up the wrong tree. In his reply Anouilh said that he had given the play this title because the ermine, confronted by a muddy stream, will, no matter what the consequences, refuse to dirty its fur. Whether or not this is a fact about the ermine (a symbol of purity), it is interesting as pointing the extent to which the author is emotionally ‘involved’ with Frantz. The Ermine shows us Anouilh with one foot in melodrama and the author taking the first stride on the road to Antigone.

Notes: When Jean Anouilh wrote ‘The Ermine’ in 1931, he was employed as secretary to the French actor, Louis Jouvet – the latter of whom was Peter’s uncle.

This page is a work in progress, which will be added to when ‘new’ items come to light.

 Action Figures

Below: Klytus – General of Ming’s Armies. AF-725546. 72. Manufactured by Biff! Bang! Pow!

Below: Dying Klytus – manufactured by Biff! Bang! Pow!

Below: Klytus Pop! Funko POP! Movies Flash Gordon General Klytus Vinyl Action Figure 311

• General Klytus collectable vinyl figure
• From Flash Gordon
• Funko POP! model
• Highly detailed collectable
• Approx. 9.5cm tall

 Above: Custom Signed 1/1 Funko POP General Klytus Gold By Chicago Artist Dichi Don

Above: The Prisoner No.2 figure – manufactured by Wandering Planet Toys, 2025

Audio Tapes

Above: The Two Gentlemen of Verona. 2 x 60 minute tapes (Unabridged). HarperCollins Audio Books. ISBN 0-00-105024-9

Badges

Above: Limited Edition Official Peter Wyngarde Appreciation Society badge. Buy here

Above and Below: 25mm Pin back badges by RetroBadge.

Below: Burn, Witch, Burn badge by Vicious Delights, USA

Books

The complete Department S comic strip collection. Limited editions. Only 20 made.

Above: Bright Darkness: Lost Art of the Supernatural Horror Film by Jeremy Dyson. Published in August 1997 by Continuum (formerly Cassell Academic). 224 Pages. ISBN-10: ‎0304700371. This book makes a detailed study of the supernatural in films. Features a colourised still of Peter and Janet Blair from ‘Night of the Eagle/Burn Witch Burn’ on the cover. 

 Cine Film 

Above: Department S. Edited by Hefa Film, distributed by Techno Films. Episode title: “The Last Train to Redbridge”.

Above: Techno Films 400′ colour/sound home movie of ‘Jason King’.  This is part one of an episode titled “Die Steine Von Venedig (“The Stones Of Venice”).  This 400′ single-striped sound print is German language. Below: ‘Uneasy Lies The Head’

Coat Hanger

Above: A curiosity from the 1970’s – a Jason King coat hanger

Collector Cards

Above Left: Postcard-sized picture of Peter with facsimile signature, which were sent to fans by ITC and ICM (agent) on request of autographed photograph. 1962. Middle: Postcard-sized picture of Peter with facsimile signature, which were sent to fans by ITC and ICM (agent) on request of autographed photograph. 1970. Right: Postcard-sized picture of Peter with facsimile signature, produced by Carl Gresham at personal appearances.

Above: Issued by Six of One – the Official Prisoner Appreciation Society – in 2005. Peter had been invited to the Society’s annual convention at Portmeirion but, sadly, he was unable to make it. This card is therefore something of a rarity.

Above: This card was issued during Peter’s tour of Denmark in 1972

Above: A card that was available to fans requesting autographs during the ‘Underground’ tour, 1983

Comic Books

Below: Original four-colour ‘Alexander the Great’ film tie-in. No. 688. USA 1956

Department ‘S’: Televise Favorieten – Volume 6′. Published in Holland in 1969, features four different Department S cartoon strips entitled:’De Verwenen Geleeden’ (The Disappeared Scientists), ‘Gouldkapers Aan Boord’ (Gold Stealers On Board), ‘Het Poppenmysterie’ (The Puppet Mystery), and ‘Diplomaat Vermist’ (The Missing Diplomat).

Below: Flash Gordon Comic: 1980 (below) adapted by Bruce Jones and supported by amazing art by award-winning Al Williamson.

The X Men (Marvel Comics) – featuring Jason Wyngarde.

Above: 4th March, 1964 issue of Marvel’s, ‘The X Men’. First ever appearance of the character, ‘Mastermind, who would latterly be revealed as ‘Jason Wyngarde’.Currently selling for £2,700.

Below:

• Vol. 1 – No.129: ‘God Spare The Child’. Published: January 1980.
• Vol.2 – No.130: ‘Dazzler’. Published: February 1980.
• Vol.3 – No.131. ‘Run For Your Life’. Published: March 1980.
• Vol.4 – No.132: ‘And Hellfire Is Their Name’. Published: April 1980.
• Vol.5 – No.133: ‘Wolverine Alone’. Published: May 1980.
• Vol.6 – No.134. ‘Too Late The Heroes!’ Published: June 1980.

The Essential X-Men – Book 2. A black and white anthology of the above mentioned Marvel comics featuring the Jason Wyngarde character. Published in the U.S.A. by Marvel Comics. $14.95 (UK £10.95).

The Uncanny X-Men – The Dark Pheonix Saga. X-Men comics featuring the Jason Wyngarde Character. Published in the U.S.A. by Marvel Comics. $15.95 (UK – £11.99)

Department S Doll

Above: One-off Jason King figure made by D-List Dolls, March 2020

Events Programmes

Above: Fear in the Fens Festival 2019 programme

Fanzines

Above: Orange Alert: The magazine of ‘Six of One’ – the Official Prisoner Appreciation Society

Camera Obscura ‘Peter Wyngarde Special’ (Above). Issue No.23. 20 Page A4, black and white. Published in 1996 by the Birmingham branch of the Prisoner appreciation society, ‘Six of One’. Includes articles on actors who had appeared in both The Prisoner and Department S; transcript of Peter’s 1993 appearance on Pebble Mill; biography and analysis of Peter’s portrayal of No.2 in Checkmate.

SUB Magazine – UK Fanzine

Flash Gordon 35th Anniversary Collectables

Above: Specially designed poster by Alex Ross

Above: Promotional poster for the event on 25th November, 2015

Above: Souvenir brochure and, Below, inside

Below: Schedule of Events

Front of House Stills and Lobby Cards

Above (clockwise): American card for ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’ – British card for ‘Night of the Eagle’ – German card for ‘Himmel, Scheich und Wolkenbruch’ – American Flash Gordon Lobby Card.

Click here to see more Front of House Stills and Lobby Cards

Gaming Pieces

Below: 28mm miniatures from Crooked Dice Game Design Studio. The set is a mixture of characters from the 1980 movie and the Buster Crabbe serials.

Top-right: Peter’s character, General Klytus

Above: Whipton-based Devon Wargames Group

Iron-on Transfer

Above: Circa 1980. Original Klytus iron-on transfer (USA).

Laser Discs

Above Left: ‘The Innocents’ laser disc – US release. Right: ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’ laser disc – US release

Click below for more DVD, BluRay and Laser Discs

Magazines

Click below for more magazine covers

Matches and Matchbox Labels

Above: Book of matches promoting Peter’s appearance in ‘Butley’ at the Bourke Theatre, Melbourne.

One of 100 different 2⅛” x 1½” (approx 50mm x  3mm) matchbox labels featuring TV and music stars. It shows (and names) Peter, and at the top right-hand corner is the number F43. At the bottom right corner there is the emblem of a butterfly and the name Vlinder, who was the manufacturer. 1976.

Mirror 

Above: An incredible, and likely unique, 1970’s original retro vintage mirror in the form of Peter’s character Jason King (from the 1971 series of the same name). Cardboard construction, the front decorated in a psychedelic duo-tone pattern, the mirrors forming part of Peter’s sunglasses. Copyright marks to base for C.I.R. Torino. A rare and impressive display piece. 64cm tall.

Model Cars

Above: Manufactured in Germany. All-metal Bentley Continental as driven by Jason King in Department S. With accompanying plastic lamp-post and road-block.

Above: Diecast 1950’s Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud manufactured by the British toy company, Budgie Models, for H. Seener Ltd. Ref 102.

Above: 1:43 scale silver Bentley Continental with display box, from Code 3 models.

Above: 1:43 scale maroon Bentley Continental with display box, from Code 3 models.

Above: Model Bentley Continental with Jason King figure.

Novels: Film and TV Tie-Ins

Above (left to right): ‘The Siege of Sidney Street’. Written by Fredrick Oughton, 1960. ~ ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’: 1st Berkley, 1962 Richard Matheson. ~ ‘Flash Gordon’ by Arthur Byron Cover (1980). Based on the screenplay by Lorenzo Semple JR. ISBN:0-450-05191 9.

Above: (West) German publication by Fernseh-Buch. Written by Mit Bildtell.

Above Left: ‘Jason King – Published by Pan Books (1971). Written by Robert Miall. ISBN:0-330-231650. Story based on two episodes from the series – ‘A Deadly Line In Digits’ and ‘The Company I Keep’. Above Right: ‘Kill Jason King’ – Published by Pan Books (1971). Written by Robert Miall. ISBN: 0-330-234196. Story based on two episodes from the series – ‘As Easy As A.B.C.’ and ‘A Red, Red Rose Forever’.

Above: ‘Doctor Who – Planet of Fire’. Published by Target Books. (1984). Written by Peter Grimwade. ISBN: 0-426-199405.

Pinball Machine

Above: Produced by Bally, this ‘Flash Gordon’ arcade game in 1980 to coinciding with the release of the movie based on the comic strip character. There were about 10,000 of these games made.

Playing Cards

Above: Manufactured in Argentina (2019). The Three of Hearts clearly shows Charles Middleton as Ming the Merciless from the 1930’s series, which is a rather glaring error!

Pop-Up Books

Above & Below: Spain 1981. Flash Gordon Pop-Up Books.

Postcards

Jason King (Above) & Stewart Sullivan/Sir Curtis Seretse/Annabelle Hurst. Published in 1990 by Engale Marketing of Preston, Lancashire, as part of a 16-card ITC set.

Psychedelic card featuring Peter as Jason King. Published by Klassic Kards of London, England in 1993

Another card from the 1990’s (publisher unknown)

Above: Set of 10 Department S cards from Cassy. (2016)

Posters

Above: Two posters from Pace International (London). The poster to the left was the best seller for Pace in the UK that year in 1971.

Above: 30in x 25in colour print by Sandecor of Sweden, 1972

Above: 18×26 (46×66 cm) Fotobusta poster created for the Italian release of Flash Gordon by Renato Casaro. One from a set of eight.

Above: Set of Italian 18×26 (46×66 cm) ‘Flash Gordon’ posters – 4 of which feature Peter as General Klytus.

In addition…

In 1971, Scotch-Ege chose five of the biggest stars of the day, which included Peter, Jimi Hendrix, Steve McQueen, Elvis Presley, and Bridget Bardot – to help promote their magnetic tape and audio cassettes. The 39in x 25in posters were given away in exchange for three tabs taken from cassette index cards. The promotion was advertised in such publications as Melody Maker, Rolling Stone and the NME.

Above: Hand printed General Klytus promo poster. USA.

Poster-Magazine

Below: 1980. Fold out poster-magazine to tie in with the film release

Promotional Posters

Above: A promotional poster featuring general Klytus – used by the American rock band, Faith No More in 2015

Promotional Material: Television

Above: Brochure from Television Wales and the West, TWW was a British commercial television company based in Bristol that served South Wales and West of England between 26 October 1956 until 1968. This particular booklet features the programme, ‘Excusive’, which Peter appeared in during the late 1950’s. Below: Inside.

Publicity Material: ITC

Above: Department S Press Book: Published in 1969 for the American market. 34-Page guide to the series featuring profiles on the main characters. Black and white photograph on a glossy cover.

Above: Department S – A4 Landscape gatefold publicity card (Above): Published in 1969. Black and white photographs on front and back cover.

Above: Jason King Press Book (Above): 15-Page guide to the series featuring profiles on Peter and the production staff. Colour photographs on a glossy cover.

Above: front and reverse: ITC Jason King promotional card  – 1971

Above: Press Pack. Printed in 1995 to publicise re-showing of Department ‘S’ on satellite television.

Press Photos

Press Books and Flyers

Above: American publicity sheet for ‘The Innocents’.

Above: Promotional booklet for ‘The Siege of Sidney Street’ from Denmark

Above: American ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’ publicity sheet.

Above: British publicity booklet for ‘Night of the Eagle’

Above: ‘Flash Gordon’ pressbook. Left: Front cover. Right: Inside – Generals, Kala & Klytus

Records and CD’s

For all Peter Wyngarde-related recording on vinyl (7″ & 12″) and CD, please click here

Scripts

Above: Original script for ‘The Innocents’, signed by Peter, Deborah Kerr, Megs Jenkins, Michael Redgrave, Pamala Franklin and Martin Stephens.

12″ Single

Above: Of Japanese manufacture. 33rpm. Ultra rare!

Above: Peter very own personal acetate demo disc. The acetate would have been given to him by the production team to allow him to listen to the album in the privacy of his own home. The album is an early mix, without all the bells and whistles of the finished, released album on RCA.

• Title: “Peter Wyngarde”
• Label: Emidisc Records. 
• Year of Release: 1970.
• Country of Manufacture: United Kingdom.
• Sleeve Design: original studio bag.
• Label design: original ‘Emidisc’ first press paper labels. 

Sheet Music

Sheet music of Edwin Astley’s theme to Department S. Issued in Britain in A4 format with a black and white photograph of the three main characters on the cover. Published by New World Music Limited of New Bond Street, London. It originally cost 3 shillings (15p).

Cards and Albums

Above: Flash Gordon collector album from CEDAG S.A., Spain,1980. Holds180 stickers in total.

Above: General Klytus and Klytus & Karla cards.

Theatre Memorabilia

Varied: Programmes and posters.

Click below for Theatre Posters

T-Shirts

‘Jason King’, ‘Number 2’ and ‘Night of the Eagle’ shirts by Suchdesign

Trading Cards

Above: ‘The Avengers collectors card: Peter as John Cleverly Cartney in ‘A Touch of Brimstone’

Above: Trading card from the Avengers In Colour Series by Cornerstone – 1993. There were ninety-nine cards issued in this particular collection, but the numbering follows on from the previous series from 1992. This is Card No. 94 and features Peter and Isa Miranda in a scene from ‘Epic’.

Above Left: No.63 of The Saint trading card collection by C-Cards Inc. features Peter in the role of Turen in ‘The Gadic Collection’. Middle: The Prisoner Autograph series card. Right: Doctor Who collectors series.

Above: Strictly Ink: Series Three, No. 20 features Peter as Timanov  

Above: Set of 72 “Base” cards by Cards Inc. featuring scenes and characters from The Prisoner. No.27 features Peter as Number Two.

Above: The Prisoner 2018 Autograph Cards by Unstoppable Cards

Above: Prisoner ‘Sketch Card’ by Unstoppable, 2018. Peter as Number 2. 

Above: 2018 Sketch Card of Peter as Number 2 by Bruce Gerlach – published by Unstoppable Cards for the 50th Anniversary of The Prisoner.

Above: Original aceo collector card.

Above: Autograph card of Peter as Teberio Magadino (PW1) Turen (PW2). The card is part of The Saint Series 2 set of trading cards released by Unstoppable Cards in November 2018.

Above: Part of The Complete Avengers Series 1 set of trading cards, released by Unstoppable Cards in August 2019. Autograph card of Peter as John Cartney. Only 36 produced. 

Above and Below: Part of The Complete Avengers Series 2 set of trading cards, released by Unstoppable Cards in August 2019. Autograph card of Peter as Stewart Kirby. Only 36 produced. 

Below: Part of The Complete Avengers Series 2 set of trading cards, released by Unstoppable Cards in May 2020. Autograph card of Peter as Stewart Kirby. Only 36 produced. 

Above: The complete Avengers series 2 – Scott Fellowes (John Cartney/Emma Peel) ‘Sketch Card’ 1/1. This card is part of The Complete Avengers Series 2 set of trading cards, released by Unstoppable Cards in May 2020.

Above: This exclusive dealer promo card (AS2) was released by Unstoppable Cards for their ‘The Avengers Complete Collection Series 2’ Trading Card Collection.

Above: Collector card issued by the English Theatre in Vienna in 1977. The photograph features original autographs of Peter and Ruth Brinkmann – stars of ‘The Merchant of Venice’.

Above: Klytus Collector Card – issued by Weetabix, 1981. 1 of 18 cards – which feature movie scenes from Flash Gordon.  Cards measuring 90 mm x 42 mm, with a description of the scene on the reverse. Issued in strips of three or six, depending on packet size.

Above: Front and rear of Classic TV Classics – Card No.6. 2019

Video Cassettes

Above: ITC Home Video releases

Click below for more on ITC video releases

Above: The Avengers ‘Epic’. Released as a single episode in the USA in 1993. HSV 1604

Above: Early 1980’s release of ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’ on video cassette (USA), with introduction by Orson Welles

Above: ‘Burn, Witch, Burn’. Black & White, closed-captioned, carboard slipcase, NTSC. US Release.

Click below for more Peter Wyngarde collectables…

Presented by Bill Kenright Ltd. – The Old Vic, London – September 1985

Character: Carlton Fitzgerald

The Story

The action of the play is set in the living room of Irene Livingstone’s suite in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Boston, Massachusetts, USA.

Act I:

• 5.30pm

Act II:

• 11.45pm that evening

Act III:

• 3.30am

Light Up The Sky had all but disappeared from most theatrical memories by the time this production was staged, which was all the more strange when you consider who it was vaguely about: in there were characters owing more than a little to Billy Rose, Gertrude Lawrence and Nöel Coward, and though as a ‘greasepaint comedy’ it lacked the brilliant energy inventiveness of ‘The Man Who Came To Dinner, which had been written by Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman a decade earlier, it was based on a much greater reality about the great bloody awfulness of being in Boston with a tricky play and an even trickier leading lady.

EPISODES:

• Recalled to Life: Sunday, 29th July, 1957
• The Gathering Storm. Broadcast: Sunday, 4th August 1957
• The Jackal. Broadcast: Sunday, 11th August 1957
• The Honest Tradesman. Broadcast: Sunday, 18th August 1957
• The Storm Breaks. Broadcast: Sunday, 25th August 1957
• The Darkness. Broadcast: Sunday, 1st September 1957
• A Hand of Cards. Broadcast: Sunday, 8th September 1957
• The Footsteps Die Out. Broadcast: Sunday, 15th September 1957

 Character: Sydney Carton

 “It is a far, far better thing that I do now than I have ever done, it is a far, far better rest that I go to now than I have ever known” – Sydney Carton

Some Background

Charles Dickens story of ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ is probably so familiar to anyone reading this review that it would be difficult to tell you anything that you didn’t already know. But no matter how acquainted one is with the story, there is still something wonderfully moving in its famous climax on the steps of the guillotine – especially when the man playing the part of the novel’s hero, Sydney Carton, is real-life hero, Peter Wyngarde.

Certainly, Peter’s depiction of Carton resulted in the BBC receiving around 4,500 letters – almost all from women – who immediately fell in love with the actor while watching this eight-part serial. According to the Beeb, they had never taken delivery of more letters address to a single actor in one of their own production, either before or since.

There is a great deal in the comment made by dramatist and poet, G.K. Chesterton, that a man rereads a detective novel because he has forgotten the plot, but that he rereads a Dickens’ novel because he has remembered the plot.

Right: Peter as Sydney Carton

There are fewer characters in ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ that in Dickens’ earlier books, but they are all memorable: the pathetic Dr Manettes, kind Mr Lorry, the terrible Defarges and their equally dreadful enemy, St. Evrémonde (Heron Carvic), good Gerry Cruncher, (played by Ronald Radd) of the secret fishing expeditions, and the formidable Miss Pross (Joan Ingram) with her mysterious attacks of “The Jerks”.

But of all the characters in the story, Sydney Carton – the self-indulgent young lawyer who said of himself, “I shall never be better than I am” and yet, one day, superbly was.

It was a joy to meet all these wonderful creations of Dickens’ imagination through the distinguished cast that producer, Kevin Sheldon, assembled for this production.

The Story

The story begins just prior to the French Revolution in 1775 when bank clerk, Jarvis Lorry (Mervyn Johns), travels to Paris to help reunite Dr Alexandre Manette (Fred Fairclough) with Lucie (Wendy Hutchinson), his long-lost daughter. Manette had recently been released from prison having served an 18- year sentence in the infamous Bastille.

Lorry intends to bring the Doctor with his 17-year-old daughter together at the room he’s been renting over a wine shop in the City. The Doctor, it emerges, cannot remember anything about of his life prior to his imprisonment, but on meeting his devoted Lucie for the first time, begins to regain his memory.

Five years later, the Doctor has built a successful medical practice in his house in London. Lucie, meanwhile, has become engaged to a Frenchman by the name of Charles Darnay (Edward de Souza), who has turned his back on his former aristocratic life in France for a new life in England. We learn that Darney’s real name is Evrémonde and that he’d formally been put on trial for treason. Fortuitously, he was saved from the gallows by a young barrister, Sydney Carton (Peter Wyngarde), who also happens to be the spitting image of the Frenchman.

Although the Doctor is delighted when his daughter finally marries Darney, he’s completely unaware that his new son-in-law’s father and uncle had been the parties responsible for his imprisonment.

As a result of the continued persecution of the lower orders by the French aristocracy, an uprising begins in France, at which point Darney decides that he must return to his homeland in an attempt to save Monsieur Gabette – a former household servant of his. On his arrival in Paris, Darney is recognised, rearrested and imprisoned for the supposed crimes of the Evrémondes family.

When Dr Manette learns of Darney’s fate, he and Lucie race to Paris where, with the help of Sydney Carton, they manage to negotiate the temporary release of the young nobleman.

Unbeknown to all concerned, Carton has been hopelessly in love with the Doctor’s daughter since their first meeting, and seeing her with her infant daughter – bereft at the thought of Darney’s execution, Carton take his place at the prison and is brought to the guillotine in his stead.

A Bit Of Trivia

‘A Tale of Two Cities’ was filmed entirely in the Medieval French city of Bourges, and was shown as part of the BBC’s Children’s Hour.

Veteran British actor, Julian Orchard, played three different characters in the play, including Jacques, and two other unnamed men.

Critics Comment

“The TV production was very well done, and I think that in Peter Wyngarde, the actor who portrayed Sydney Carton, the dissolute barrister, we have yet another new British top-liner.” June Morrow – Woman’s Own

A Far Better Thing?

Fresh from his success in the BBC serial ‘A Tale of two Cities’ comes Peter Wyngarde. He is in Rudolf Cartier’s important Thursday play, ‘Ordeal By Fire’. Many Viewers have written to me about Peter Wyngarde playing of Sydney Carton in the Dickens serial. And thousands more have written to him and the BBC. It’s good, therefore, to see the TV companies snap him up. But Rudy Cartier already knows Wyngarde’s work well. He had him as Will Shakespeare, in the Clemence Dunn play, some years ago. Peter has been seen in a dozen or so TV plays in the past few years and in each he has caught the eye – and held it. It’s time he had the really big break now.  Shirley Long – TV Mirror, October 1957

Broadcast: BBC Home Service – Friday, 30^th August, 1957

Character: Sir Willoughby Patterne

The Story

This “comedy in narrative” begins with the engagement of Sir Willoughby Patterne – “The Egoist” of the title (Peter Wyngarde) to one Constantia Durham. Constantia manages to escape such a fate, however, running away with one Captain Oxford. In order to keep up appearances, Sir Willoughby soon seems to be courting Laetitia Dale, who has been a long time devotee of his. The town quickly supports Sir Willoughby’s egoistic need to be in control of his situation by singing the praises Laetitia.

The months pass by, and soon Sir Willoughby takes a trip to see the world. Upon his return, it is revealed soon that he is no longer interested in Laetitia; the town gossips speculate that Sir Willoughby will meet with Mr. Dale in order to propose marriage of his daughter, but instead, he speaks to him only of renewing his lease of a cottage on his grounds. Meanwhile, Sir Willoughby goes to London, and brings back his cousin, Vernon Whitford, to serve as his secretary at Patterne Hall. A literary scholar, Whitford had very little money of his own, and so was forced to accept money from his rich Baronet cousin. At Patterne, Whiteford devotes his time to walking at times with Laetitia, and also with educating Crossjay Patterne, a young boy who is a relative of Sir Willoughby’s living at Dale cottage. Whitford discerned that Crossjay’s talents suited him for the navy, but the fees for such training were beyond his own resources. Sir Willoughby would spare no such expense either, for he wished Crossjay would be made into a gentleman.

Soon, Sir Willoughby makes the fateful acquaintance of the beautiful, young Clara Middleton (Clare Austin). Sir Willoughby successfully woos Clara, and she is dazed into accepting an engagement. She protests, however, that she would like some time to see the world before marrying, but Sir Willoughby refuses. Hardly ever listening to Clara, Sir Willoughby talks to her about how they are above “the world” together, and seeks to win her into his egoistic orbit and subordinate all of her desires so that they accord with his. Clara protests that she would like to love “the world” and serve it so that it might be better, but Sir Willoughby discards such notions as naive and childish. He tries to exact an oath from Clara that she will be committed to him even if he should die, but Clara manages to refuse granting such an oath. It is clear that things are not going to be going as Sir Willoughby might wish them to go.

Meanwhile, Sir Willoughby has managed to secure the confidence of Clara’s scholarly father, the Reverend Dr. Middleton. Dr. Middleton is every inch the well-meaning but out-of-touch scholar who speaks in jargon-filled phrases. Unfortunately, he has very traditional patriarchal ideas and does not listen to his daughter’s pleas for traveling before marriage. Dr. Middleton becomes quite settled in, relishing the company of Vernon Whitford, and also Sir Willoughby’s collection of expensive wines.

Thus, Clara’s only comfort comes to be Crossjay, who, in love and in awe of her, seeks only to do her bidding and to make her happy (even when she leaves him under a tree and it begins raining, he does not budge because she has told him to stay). Things with Clara and Sir Willoughby take a turn for the worse when he refuses her counsel on Crossjay as suited for the navy.

When Clara makes the acquaintance of Laetitia Dale, Clara realizes that the devoted Laetitia would be a better match for the egoistic Sir Willoughby. Eventually, Clara goes to Sir Willoughby to apprise him of this and to petition for her own freedom, but Sir Willoughby sloughs off Clara’s words as merely an instance of her jealousy of Laetitia. Try as she might, Sir Willoughby refuses to countenance that she might actually want to be free of him. Much to Clara’s dismay, Sir Willoughby contracts a plan to marry Laetitia to Vernon Whitford so that he might relieve Clara of her supposed jealousy. Clara is supposed to apprise Vernon of this plan, but instead of doing so, she tells him about her predicament and wish for freedom. Vernon is not particularly responsive or encouraging of her freedom, and Clara becomes more and more distressed. Clara also unburdens herself to Laetitia (not to much avail, though Laetitia seems to begin to have an inkling of Sir Willoughby’s egoism, feeling the “power” of Clara’s speech against him).

At this point, Sir Willoughby’s dashing friend, the Colonel de Craye comes to town in order to serve as best man in his wedding. When he comes to town driven in by the slightly drunk Flitch, the carriage is accidentally upset as Flitch swerves to avoid Clara on one of her walks. The porcelain vase which the colonel has brought as a wedding present is broken in this accident (the infamous Mrs. Mountstuart who is gifted at capturing people’s characters in single phrases had once called Clara “a rogue in porcelain”; thus this incident signals that things do not bode well for Sir Willoughby). Indeed, the colonel walks the rest of the way to Patterne with Clara, and the two seem to strike up a friendly relationship. Furthermore, the colonel quickly perceives that all is not well with Clara and Sir Willoughby. Sir Willoughby, hit by suspicions of the colonel, imagines that perhaps Clara has not only spoken to Laetitia and Whitford of her dissatisfactions with him, but also with the colonel.

Unable to take her captivity any longer, Clara contrives to run away, first writing to her bridesmaid and friend Lucy Darleton to secure a place to stay in London. She tells her father that she merely needs a vacation, and at first, Clara manages to convince him to assent to it and also to talk to Sir Willoughby on her behalf. Unfortunately, Sir Willoughby manages to waylay the susceptible Dr. Middleton with expensive wine, and Clara’s plans to leave with her father’s blessing and companionship are foiled. Clara decides to run away anyways, and sneaks out to the railway station with Crossjay as a guide. A rainstorm follows, and soon the men of the house go off to try to find her. Whitford is the first to find her, and he does not force her to come home, but instead gives her some medicine to prevent her catching cold and then counsels her to think also on the cost of leaving behind her father and Crossjay. Clara is nettled, but still thinks to go through with her plan. Vernon consents, and even helps her out by distracting Mrs. Mountstuart, who was also at the station, meeting one Professor Crooklyn who will attend a dinner party of hers. It happens that the colonel also goes to the station, having guessed that Clara might be there. At the last minute, Clara decides to ride back to Patterne Hall with the colonel.

Though De Craye helps to cover for Clara, Sir Willoughby manages to find out from Professor Crooklyn that Clara had drank brandy with a certain gentleman at an inn. Sir Willoughby jumps to the conclusion that Clara was in love with De Craye, and that the two were plotting to run away together. Clara continues to ask Sir Willoughby for her freedom, but he continues to refuse. At long last, he is worn down and starts to convince himself that perhaps he should prefer Laetitia over Clara. After some mulling over this new thought, Sir Willoughby consults Laetitia on the matter at midnight one night and she refuses him, much to his surprise. Crossjay, who has been banished from Patterne because of his aiding Clara in her escape happened to have snuck back in that night and listened to the conversation between Sir Willoughby and Laetitia.

Crossjay’s loyalty to Clara leads to his scheming to tell Vernon of what has happened. De Craye, however, gets to Crossjay first and manages to guess what he has to tell. De Craye lets Clara know, and she now has ammunition against Sir Willoughby when he once again tries to convince her to marry him. In front of her father, Clara tries to get Sir Willoughby to admit that he has proposed to Laetitia. Pushed into a corner, Sir Willoughby eventually has to give up his game. Because he (mistakenly) believes De Craye to be the “other man,” Sir Willoughby tells Clara that she may be free only if she were to marry Vernon. It turns out that Vernon is actually in love with Clara, and so the two of them are engaged. Laetitia is eventually compelled to give in to Sir Willoughby, her father needing money and the rest of the town exerting further pressure on her. Still, Laetitia gets the last word in that she identifies Sir Willoughby as an egoist, and also vows that she does not love him. When Sir Willoughby agrees to accept her conditions, she agrees to marry him. Additionally, she compels him to forgive Crossjay as well as the driver, Flitch (whom he has also banished). Sir Willoughby assents to all, and “salutes [his] wife!” True to comic form, the narrative ends with tidily with these two pairs.

In Retrospect

I’ve found it hard to conceive the modern novel. In it is concentrated the restless probing energy of analysis which the author, George Meredith, had made all his own. And though written in his unmistakable style, with tense wit, poetic overtones, concise phrase and discursive exploitation, it owns a compact form which distinguishes it among his novels and makes it the best work through which to approach him.

He once declared: “It is a comedy, with only half of me in it, unlikely therefore to take either the public or my friends”. He meant that it lacked one of his bold dedicated characters like Sandra or Beauchamps; but there is a sense in which he’d packed himself into the book as into no other. R.L. Stevenson, to whom author read some chapters, was said to have commented that Sir Willoughby Pattern , was Meredith himself. The man himself replied: “No, my dear fellow. I’ve taken him from all of us, but principally from myself”.

Pattern is a subtle yet larger-than-life image of egotism, possessiveness, self-deception; and the book narrates how he is at last broken down by the women on whom he plays. But he is more than a grand comedic image. In him Meredith depicts, with tingling immediacy, the very stuff of an involved self- consciousness, which ceaselessly falsifies reality and yet at the same time is perversely sensitive to the life on which preys.

This is what makes ‘the Egotist’ a foundation work of the analytic novel. In a letter to Henley Stevenson wrote: ‘Willoughby is of course a pure discovery; a complete set of nerves, not hitherto examined, and yet running all over the human body – a suit of nerves. Clara is the best girl I ever saw anywhere.’ It might be added that she heads the long series of emancipated young women who were to push into a novel.

Virginia Woolf said of The Egoist: ‘Meredith pays us a supreme compliment to which as novel-readers we are little accustomed… He imagines us capable of disinterested curiosity in the behaviour of our kind.’ In this, the most dazzlingly intellectual of all his novels, Meredith tries to illuminate the pretensions of the most powerful class within the very citadel of security which its members have built. He develops to their logical extremity his ideas on egoism, on sentimentality and on the power of comedy. Meredith saw egoism as the great enemy of truth, feeling and progress, and comedy as the great dissolver of artifice. The Egoist is the extreme expression of his recurrent theme: the defeat of egoism by the power of comedy.

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