Harry's expertise on the ever thorny issue of Northern Ireland is called upon once more, reawakening many a bitter memory. Meanwhile, the Peace Process slowly moves ahead but not everyone is willing to follow; not all the bitter past is willing to stay buried.

This is a reworking of a story that was pulled from the site earlier in the year. To avoid repetition, the story has been radically rejigged with new characters introduced.

Special thanks to Antonia Caenis for extra information on Harry's early army career.

Chapter One: Unstoppable Force

"…the enemy strikes; vengeance for the dead becomes an ethic for the living, bloodshed begets further bloodshed; the wheel turns, the generations tread and tread and tread."

(Seamus Heaney, notes on 'Beowulf'. 1999)

January, 1976. Crossmaglen, South Armagh.

Snowflakes swirled on a gusting wind, catching the light of the swerving headlamps as a clapped out Vauxhall veered across the narrow country lane. So narrow, both the bonnet and the bumper almost wedged between the grass verges that marked the boundaries between road and endless farmland. The driver cursed as the engine cut out, thumping the steering wheel with one clenched fist and cursing loudly. He turned the key in the ignition, causing the engine to splutter and choke, before falling silent and dead again. The driver paused, hand still gripping the key, not daring to breathe while he succumbed to awful truth. That his car had finally died and he'd have to get out and run for it.

He had wasted time already. Driven too far south and crossed the border into County Monaghan; not realising until the headlights flashed off a welcome sign written in Gaelic. The handbrake turn he'd pulled off in response would have made a racing driver sick with envy, before he came haring North again, back into the blizzards and head-on winds. In doing so, he realised he had probably driven the final nail into the coffin of his civilian motor, already a mobile rust bucket long before it was passed down to him. It was blocking the road, but there was little he could do about it with the nearest telephone box a good two miles back towards the border. But luckily, the faint lights of Crossmaglen twinkled in the near distance and if he ran, he knew he could make it in time.

Once out of the car, the frigid, frozen air burned at his lungs and slapped him in the face like a final insult. Impeding him further was poor visibility. Snow continued to swirl violently, making his eyes water and his vision blur. After years of city living, he'd forgotten how dark the countryside could be. But those years of extra drills and strenuous cross-country runs at Sandhurst paid off as he found himself to be still fast of foot. Even in the ever deepening snow, he kept on running and running, with his arms wrapped round his middle, keeping his flapping jacket hugged tight around him. He followed the lights; blind to the dark, rolling countryside that now lay carpeted in a thick layer of virgin snow.

Even the town was deserted, except for the miserable foot patrol army officers skulking in the shadows and hunching round dark corners. He could see them only from the tail of his eye, didn't notice them until they moved or their radios crackled into life. But the town itself was tiny. Barely a street, with a few side streets leading off the main thoroughfare to god knows where. It was small wonder he missed it the first time round. The pub he was supposed to be in was on a corner of an intersection off the main high street. Its low perimeter wall pock marked with bullet holes and discoloured with ancient republican graffiti. An Irish tricolour offered a rare glimpse of colour as it hung limply from a lamp post outside the main door of the bar. Round the side, he knew, there was a side entrance leading to the side street where the draymen made their deliveries every morning.

Breathless and sweating, he paused, doubling over with hands on knees as he fought to regain his breath. MI5 had approached him, not so long ago. If he had accepted their offer, then he knew he wouldn't be in this fix now. But 'what ifs' were getting him nowhere, and not twenty feet away he knew a Military Intelligence Officer's life was in jeopardy. With the car dead, he didn't even know what he would do in the event of an emergency extraction. The nearest foot soldier was at the other end of town, so they'd have to be bloody fast if they wanted to make it in time. The Police wouldn't come to Crossmaglen, either. Their mere presence would cause a riot among the locals. That was the reason the troops had been called in in the first place, because the RUC had lost control of the Republican districts. 'It would only be for a week or two,' they had said, at the time. That was seven years ago now, and the war ground mercilessly onwards, never ceasing, never letting up.

But whatever was happening at that moment, it wasn't over yet. So the young man lowered himself between the pub and the outer perimeter wall and hunkered down beneath one of the shuttered front windows. The feel of the handgun wedged into a holster under his jacket offered some reassurance as he listened to faint voices emanating from within the barroom. He couldn't pick up what they were saying. To try and get a better idea of what was going on inside, he levered himself up from the ground, trying to get a peek through the shutters over the windows. Even though he could see nothing, he remained in that position until a familiar voice sent him into near cardiac arrest.

"You made it then, Harry?"

The younger man cursed as he bolted round. Kendall had approached him from the side door, grinning like the lunatic he'd proved himself to be several times over. His thick moustache had collected a considerable smattering of snowflakes and his grey eyes twinkled in the light of the lamp post nearby.

"I heard you were fucking compromised!" Harry hissed back. "I drove that bastard rust bucket all the way from Belfast-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sound of Kendall's laughter. Harry's face contorted into something torn between anger and amusement, unable to decide which emotion best suited the scenario he found himself in. Kendall closed the space between them and knelt down in the snow so they were level. When he spoke, he did so in barely a whisper.

"Sean Mallon is in there with his cronies," he explained, deadly serious now. "He knows a tout put him behind bars and he suspected me, that's true enough. But I set him right, don't worry. Now stay out of sight, for fuck's sake. You're in over your head, Pearce. I'll be out again in no more than an hour. I'll get you back to the rust bucket in one piece."

With that, he turned and walked away. His six foot four inch gangly frame loping back into the darkness, back into the lion's den of the IRA drinking club inside. Harry had to remind himself Kendall was a professional; that he'd been undercover with the Provisionals for almost a year. But it didn't stop his heartbeat racing, or the feelings of sickness swelling in the pit of his stomach as he strained his ears to try and pick up what was being said. It was nothing more than an indecipherable buzz punctuated, ten agonising minutes later, by a ringing gun shot that pierced the night time silence around him.

For several long seconds, Harry's heartbeat ceased altogether. When it started again, it did so at thrice the normal speed, prompted it seemed by the shrill scream of a woman from inside. The occupants inside ran from the pub like rats from a burning building, forcing Harry to take cover lower behind the perimeter wall. Several times, he tried to peer over it to make a mental note of those who were inside, to see if Paul Kendall was among them. A thrill of terror –sickening, but undeniably exciting –gripped him as he spotted the aforementioned Sean Mallon exit, discreetly holstering a handgun as he vanished into the night with a female companion. There was no sign of Kendall anywhere. People accustomed to gun fire soon settled and those who ran from the pub initially soon settled to a quick walk down the high street. They clumped together, all chattering loudly in a haze of noise Harry could not decipher. Many, he noted, conversed in Irish and thus eliminated the risk of being overheard by lurking soldiers.

Harry waited. Freezing cold and stiff as a board in the snow, he continued to wait until long after silence fell. It was only when forced to move by the threat of frostbite that he got up and moved to the front doors of the bar. He looked inside, through the glass fronted doors and saw only emptiness inside. Cautiously, he raised one numb hand and peered round a small aperture in the door. Still nothing. Emboldened, he let himself into the deserted bar room. If anyone said anything, he would fake a southern accent and pretend his car broke down in the snow storms outside. Close to the truth, but not quite fully there.

As it happened, there wasn't even a barman around. Bar stools had been overturned. A black and white television played an RTE news broadcast that Harry scarcely paid attention to. Ashtrays still emitted thin wisps of smoke where the cigarettes had not been properly docked and the warm yellow lights fixed to the warmly gave the room an oddly welcoming feel. At the far end of the bar room, a store cupboard door was open. From just inside, a low and frantic voice recited hail Marys, dimly heard over the news broadcaster.

"Ulster Volunteer Force gunman, twenty-six year old Kyle McCracken, walked free from Long Kesh prison today. He spoke to the waiting press only to say he had no regrets over his shooting spree inside a Catholic owned business in West Belfast, in which three people were left dead…"

What was one more gunman on the streets of Belfast? Harry never got to ponder that dilemma as he rounded the bar and a large pool of blood came into view. Empty bullet casings lay scattered around its edge and there was a long smeared streak where someone had slipped in it. Further drops of blood led to the side door used mostly by the draymen. Someone took a bullet that night. Further smatterings of blood had splashed against the back wall, partially obscuring a badly reproduced leaflet advertising a march against Internment that had been tacked to a notice board. Harry ignored it and slipped out of the side door and back out into the freezing night. Immediately, his feet sank into the snow, cushioning his footfalls as to make no sound at all. But the snow was churned up where the clientele had recently fled the pub. A trail of blood had frozen into it, sunk in deep where it sparkled like scattered rubies amid the virgin white.

Once he had eased the door closed behind him, he stepped cautiously out into the deserted street. Whoever moved the body did so in a hurry and even the drag marks in the snow were quickly being obscured by a fresh fall. He barely made it the gate at the bottom of a small path before the trail vanished for good. There was still no sign of Kendall anywhere.

London, England. November 2012.

William Towers regarded Harry carefully from across the desk. In the personal confines of his private office inside Whitehall, he seemed somewhat deflated. Quieter, almost smaller, as their talk transcended banter and developed into something more serious. It was just the two of them now. The personal advisors, personal secretaries and hangers on had been dismissed back into the depths of the building from whence they sprang like so many spring flowers. He removed his gold rimmed spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, a weary gesture from a weary looking man.

"So, Harry, Northern Ireland," he said, looking back at the Spook. "You're one of the surprisingly few left who still remember the dark old days of the early seventies."

Whether that was a question or a statement, Harry couldn't tell. But whatever it was, it was definitely leading somewhere. Towers' own reticence was enough to set his nerves to prickling unpleasantly.

"Mm," replied Harry, thoughtfully. "And I get the impression I haven't been called over here to reminisce about the good old days of armalites and semtex, either?"

Towers heaved a dry, mirthless laugh. "Not quite I'm afraid. You know what's going on there next week, don't you?"

Of course Harry knew, but he paused and pondered for a moment anyway.

"These talks at Hillsborough Castle?" he asked, rhetorically. "All the main parties in Northern Ireland are barely cooperating – again – so London has decided it's time to step in and give the peace process a shot in the arm. Talks aimed at attracting investment, increasing cooperation between the Nationalist communities and the Police Service; negotiations between rival factions to clear the air before they start blowing each other up again."

"And of course, before they get any funny ideas about blowing up London again," Towers added.

Harry raised a wan smile, mildly amused at how he'd managed to miss that gem of self-interest. "Despite the lack of cooperation between the two main parties, the threat level from paramilitaries – both Republican and Loyalist – remain low. Even fifteen years into the peace process, as you yourself know, all known organisations are under constant surveillance. The main Republican group, the Provisional IRA, all seem to have found second careers as 'Community Workers' and their Loyalist counterparts, the Ulster Volunteer Force, are quite content with protection rackets and drug smuggling."

Towers paled, making a choking noise deep in his throat. "Goodness, Harry, that's hardly ideal!"

"What would you rather they were doing?" retorted Harry, defensively. "These groups were never going to go away completely, but at least they're not waging war against each other. Their activities now are strictly a matter for the Police Service of Northern Ireland to deal with. No, Home Secretary, the biggest terrorist threat comes from dissident Republicans. Most of whom are not organised enough to plot so much as a piss up in a brewery."

"That's not an excuse for complacency-"

"Nor is it being used as such," Harry cut the man off. "You know me better than that. But all I can do is assure you that all groups are being monitored closely, very closely. Anyway, the aims of these talks are being viewed by the Loyalists as benefitting mainly the Republicans. What are giving them to keep them sweet?"

Towers did not reply immediately. His steel-grey eyes cast downwards, towards the crystal glass containing water from a cooler. The brevity of their meeting and the subject at hand dictated that the usual excellent malt whiskey remain safely in the cabinet. The Home Secretary took a long sip, thinking things over carefully.

"We've agreed to resume searching for the Disappeared," he said, making Harry wince.

"The Republicans will love that!" he retorted. "They'll think we're using the past to hold them to ransom. The Provisionals have already decommissioned all their weapons and the unconditional ceasefire has been in place since 1997. What more can they do, bearing in mind the dissidents are completely beyond their control?"

Towers understood. Harry could see that. But he could also see the man was in an impossible position. The immovable object of Ulster Loyalism had met the unstoppable force of Irish Republicanism once more, with the Governments of the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic caught somewhere in the middle of them, attempting to slowly ease them together without causing a catastrophic detonation.

"Well, here's a bit more progress for you on that front," said Towers, brightening up a little. "Kyle McCracken has agreed to meet the Irish Taoiseach actually in Dublin itself."

Harry was genuinely surprised. "Well, well," he replied. "He's crossing into enemy lines, isn't he? What does the rest of his party think of that? I supposed he wouldn't even think about it without their backing."

"I don't bloody care what the rest of his party think of it," Towers snorted. "If there's a chance that even hard line Loyalists like McCracken are now willing to work with Dublin it means less stress for us."

Small wonder Towers had looked so jolly as he revealed this meeting. McCracken was Northern Ireland's First Minister, a staunch Crown Loyalist and Orangeman who'd got this far in his career without even acknowledging the authenticity of the Republic of Ireland's legitimacy. However, Towers' expression had taken on an air of imploration once more.

"Harry," he said, plaintively. "I need you and your team out in Belfast, watching over everything that happens during these talks. I cannot impress upon you enough-"

"Alright, alright!" Harry interjected, holding up his free hand almost as an act of surrender. "I cannot abide seeing powerful men beg."

"Oh, bullshit Harry, you love it," Towers rounded on him, good naturedly.

Harry had to admit it, too. But he had grown genuinely fond of Towers, the first Home Secretary in years to actually go out of his way to help not just him, but Section D and MI5 as a whole. But soon, Towers turned serious again. Peculiarly pensive as he regarded the Section Head once again.

"You knew one of the Disappeared, didn't you?" he asked.

Harry felt the weight of history shifting inside him once more. An uncomfortable squirming like a snake in his gut, fighting its way out through his chest. The Disappeared: a substantial number of people, mainly Catholics accused of collaboration and British Soldiers, who had been captured, tortured and murdered by the IRA. Their bodies lay in secret graves, forgotten and mourned only by their relentless next of kin.

"Paul Kendall," Harry answered. "A military intelligence officer and a good one at that. As it happens, I saw him the same night he disappeared."

Harry remembered it all: the trail of blood in the snow, vanishing into the darkness; an eerie silence, deserted barrooms and gunshots shattering the night. A residual sense of dread closed over him whenever those days thrust their way back into his conscious mind; a paranoid feeling that something terrible was happening just beyond the periphery of his vision. Shadows within shadows…

Meanwhile, Towers look as though he wanted to say more. "We'll be searching for them again, Harry," he assured him. "All of them."

With that, their meeting came to an end and Harry got up to leave. Ruth was waiting in a nearby café and he was keen to be back with her. However, before crossing the street outside, Harry paused on the bustling pavement trying to catch his breath. In the event, she saw him before he saw her. She barged between two burly builders as she dashed across the street to catch him up, clutching her handbag like a shield, a smile spread wide across her face, pale blue eyes shining in the early autumnal sun.

"Hey!" she greeted him breezily, planting a kiss on his cheek. "How'd it go?"

"Pretty badly, to be completely honest," he replied, kissing her back.

It was such a routine thing for them now, so many months after their marriage; a reminder of how far they'd come. How far he had come. But in light of his discussion with William Towers, also a reminder of how far he had to fall back down again. Down into a place where the truth lay hidden and buried in an unmarked grave.

Ros cleared her throat. "You and I have had a rough year, to say the least."

She and Lucas were sat at her dinner table, finishing up the last of the takeaway meal Ros had lovingly plated up for them both. Work had run on late and there hadn't been time for anything else if they were to get to bed before four am. But now Lucas watched her from over the rim of the wine glass he was drinking from, worry in his eyes at the sudden rearing up of their recent unhappy past. It was almost a year to the day that Vaughan Edwards had rocked up on his doorstep. A date he had mentally marked out in his head, but had absolutely no intention of speaking aloud, unless forced. It was only Ros' look of satisfied contentment that set his jittery nerves at ease, reassuring him that she was not angry.

"Fair enough," he replied, at length. Blunt and to the point.

Ros smiled, her expression soft. "Well then," she said, almost purring. "How does a week-long stay in a stately home surrounded by lush countryside, all expenses paid, including the fine dining restaurant, luxury spa and bedrooms, sound? That should help put things back together again, no?"

Already sensing something amiss, Lucas' eyes narrowed in suspicion. Grinning anyway, despite the fact she was clearly leading him down the garden path. "Fantastic. What's the catch?"

Ros sighed. "Okay, there is just a small catch," she replied, pinching thumb and forefinger together. "A small catch: it's in Northern Ireland; there's going to be hundreds of other people there – including the whole of Section D and we'll actually be spying on a bunch of reformed terrorists masquerading as respectable politicians who still think it's 1976."

"So yeah, just a small catch then!" Lucas retorted, groaning. "You've broken my heart, Ros. Again."

"The bit about the stately home is true," she pointed out, optimistically. "Hillsborough Castle, in County Down. Very nice, actually."

Lucas shrugged. "That's something then. When do we leave?"

"Monday, according to Harry," she replied. "So we'll have to speed up the Britain First op."

Now, Lucas was genuinely aghast. "Shit, Ros, we'll have to have it wrapped up by tomorrow at the latest. Nathan's already pulling an all-nighter with the cell he's infiltrated and he's still unsteady on his feet in a new job."

Ros sighed heavily, gently rubbing at her temples. "I know, Lucas. But Nathan's not new to espionage as a whole and I think he's doing really well. Especially given his circumstances. I'll make sure he gets extra support from Beth."

Lucas didn't say anything immediately. He drained his wine glass before carefully placing it back on the table, where he proceeded to contemplate it deeply. It had been two months since the 'other' Lucas North had been despatched to meet his maker from the top of the Enver Tower, and still he hadn't been released back into the field. His opportunistic side was beginning to crackle gently back into existence.

"I could do it," he suggested, keeping his voice low. Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to meet Ros'. To his relief, she didn't look altogether unhappy as she ran a hand through her bobbed, blond hair.

After a moment's quiet consideration, she returned his gaze. "Go on then," she agreed. "I think you're just about ready. But, Beth's going in with you. You can be far-right fascist Mosque invaders together."

"A match made in heaven," he returned, deadpan. "Besides that, how do you think the new boy's coping? Any good in the field?"

"So far, so good," she answered. Then, her face lit up in a rare, full smile. "You should see Beth Bailey flirting outrageously with him!"

"I noticed a certain attraction. Since when did you care about that stuff?"

"Oh, I don't. But this is priceless, you have to admit that."

The gleeful glimmer in her eye set Lucas' suspicions in swift motion. "Er…" he said, dully.

For a long moment, Ros fixed him with a searching look.

"You're always so down on Beth," he chided. "I wish you'd give her a break. So what if she fancies the new guy?"

She looked as if she was going to say something, but then changed her mind.

"Well, the only reason I know is because I've seen his personnel file-"

"What?" he demanded, suddenly interested. "You can't come this far with me then leave me dangling. What's the newbie's big secret?"

Ros smirked and winked at him, causing an earring to sway and catch the light of a candle. "Classified. But you'll find out, and when you do just make sure you clock the look on Beth's face."

Deciding to retreat from this conversation, Lucas grinned and topped up their glasses. It was still early in their reconciliation, they were still treading soft-footed and silent around each other. But slowly, step by cautious step, they were finding their own way back to each other. Essentially, they had survived, battered but not broken. This time last year … once more Lucas cuts those thoughts off.

"I better book a taxi," he said. "It's almost midnight and I don't want to wait forever."

Across the table, Ros toyed with her left earring. Long, tapered fingers caressing the threaded stones that hung there, gently tugging. Looking at him curiously, her deep green eyes narrowed. "Are you going somewhere?" she asked, voice barely a whisper.

Unsure as to whether he had misheard, Lucas put down his phone and glanced at her. "I just… I thought…" He could lie at the drop of a hat, but the truth always came stammering out in broken, disjointed declarations of ineptitude. "You know…"

Ros remained poised and unmoved, her posture upright and stoic; one hand still toying with the earring. "Stay," she said, disregarding his stammerings. Her gaze remained locked into his. "Just for tonight; let's stay together."

He still had his mobile in his hands. Lucas opened his palm to look at it for a second before switching it off, watching as the screen went dark. He wouldn't be needing it again until morning. Once that was out of the way, he looked back up at Ros and raised a smile; a flicker of nervous excitement curling in his belly. He didn't say anything; he had no need to.

The taxi stopped at the bottom of the street, disgorging a twenty-something man onto the pavement in stiff, awkward movements. He wasn't especially tall, only five eight, but slim to the point of skinniness. His dark-fair hair curled and his bright blue eyes glittered as he leaned into the driver's window to pay his fare and tip. He waited until the driver had gone before walking casually to his door, further up the deserted street. Shoulders hunched, head down; he stifled a yawn as he turned up his garden path, to the front door of his anonymous house.

Chairman Meow, the sleek black cat, leapt down from the garden wall with a soft mewling cry for attention. While the young man let himself in, the cat rubbed himself against his lower legs, eliciting a soft curse from his owner. But he stopped, when the front door gave way onto a silent, darkened hallway, and scratched the cat's ears. Mewling cries turned to a content thrumming purr within moments.

Once inside, his finger hovered over the light switch, before falling away again. As ever, the landing light upstairs had been left on and the glow of the bulbs permeated the darkness downstairs just enough for him to see by. Just go to bed, he inwardly advised. Just go to bed. But his time undercover with the far right fanatics was still in his head; he was still that person he was when he was with them: hateful, ignorant, dangerous. It should become like shedding skins and maybe, one day, it would.

He paused by the telephone, sitting silently on its hook on the wall. It was one am, he couldn't call anyone at this hour. But if he did, maybe she would answer? She always kept funny hours. As though incapable of resistance, he lifted the receiver and dialled the number anyway. Chairman Meow settled himself at the bottom of the stairs and watched him accusingly, green eyes flashing a brilliant white as he turned his head towards his owner. Meanwhile, the phone rang shrill in his ear.

"Nathan? … Nathan, is that you?"

He whirled round, looking up the stairs to where the other man peered coyly round the corner, down at him. His voice was heavy and low, drugged with sleep. He was meant to be home hours ago and had no explanation. Not now, with his brain so fried.

"It's me, Olly," he replied against the still ringing phone. "Go back to bed; I'll be up in a moment."

"Who're you calling at this hour?"

"Hello, who is this?"

The ringing had ceased abruptly, followed immediately afterwards by the sound of a disgruntled man. Nathan's heart sank, felt his hands tremble as he willed himself to say something, anything. But his nerve broke, the receiver fell from his hands as he hurried to hang up. Once the phone was back in place he paused, leaning his forehead against the wall as he regulated his breathing once more, getting himself back in command of his own wits. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Nathan?"

Nathan turned from the wall to look back up at Oliver, dressed only in a t-shirt and football shorts. His large, dark eyes still heavy with sleep, his hair a mess of pitch dark curls.

"It's nothing," he lied. "It's no one."

Lying. Better get used to lying.

Thank you for reading and, if you have a minute, reviews would be welcome. Thank you.

Extra Note on Irish Language:

Taoiseach = Irish Prime Minister (pronounced tee-shock)