Rating: FRM

Summary: Tom Quinn’s haunted by his past, but some of his ghosts won’t stay dead.

Disclaimer: I don’t know who "Spooks" belongs to. The BBC? Whoever you are, Peter, Tom, and the others belong to you. I’m just messin’ around. Don’t sue me. I’m already broke!

Feedback: Welcome and cherished at kapantaleo@aol.com

Thanks: To the lovely Antonia, for helping me with Peter’s accent, (Hey, it ain’t easy for a Connecticut Yankee!) and for being the bestest of betas, ever! Also, thanks to Michamon, who found the typos I made while I was fixing the typos I made.

Ch. 1

Tom Quinn tossed restlessly on the bed in his London flat. The memories that he buried each day while he labored at Thames House refused to stay dormant in the long hours of the night. He had always believed in what he did. He felt that the sacrifices he made in his life were worthwhile. His actions served his country. Protected millions.

But the cost. The terrible cost. Lately, it was becoming more than he could bear.

He saw Helen screaming as first her hand, then her head, was plunged into a deep fryer. He was ashamed, in a way, to believe that it had been a mercy when the racist bastard had shot her, ending her suffering. He remembered the terror on Ellie and Maisie’s faces, when it seemed that the dangers in his life might claim them as victims as well. He had loved them both. Seen a chance for a future, a family, that he’d dared hope might be his shatter into a million scattered shards of glittering memory.

He tossed again, sweat-soaked and tangled in the sheets. The voice of his friend seemed to whisper to him from the darkness:

"It has to end sometime, you know."

"What?’

"Obedience to the state."

Peter.

Peter Salter had been his friend, his teacher, his mentor. Most of all, his responsibility. He had owed Peter his judgement. That’s what a Control did for his agents. It was his responsibility to ensure that his agent stayed on target, because sometimes when you were under as deep and as long as Peter had been, the lines of right and wrong, of duty, could get blurred. It had happened to Peter. He had known it. Had seen it. He could have stopped it. Closed him down, brought him in.

But he’d hesitated. Had allowed Peter’s pleas for the girl that he had fallen in love with to sway him. Tom had known the long, lonely path that Peter was walking. He had seen something in Peter’s eyes that night for a while that had been missing for so long.

Hope.

Peter had hope in his eyes. Hope for a chance at love. A chance for a life. A normal life, after all his long years of service.

Tom had let him go, because he wanted to believe in that hope.

For Peter.

And for himself.

"Would you do it, Tom?"

"What’s that?"

"Die to protect what you believe in?"

"I would."

The blow has been strong and sudden, and it had stunned him. Dropped him as his vision narrowed down to pinpricks as he’d struggled for air. The last thing he remembered seeing before he passed out was Peter’s legs thrashing as the noose around his neck did its’ work.

When he regained consciousness, they had told him that Peter was dead. He had seen the still, cloth-covered form lying on the floor of the bog.

This was the way that decorated national heroes died?

Ibhn Khaldun stood again next to the young boy with his hand on the trigger of a bomb.

"I am with you, brother!"

"Don’t interfere with a man who is going to God!"

The sound of the explosion hit him like a physical blow. He shot upright in bed, mouth open in a soundless scream as he tried to suck air into his starved lungs. The dream receded, but the sound remained. Not the numbing impact of the explosion, but the ringing of his mobile next to the bed. It took him a few moments to realize that, as he fumbled for the phone and clicked on the light.

"Tom Quinn."

"Tom? It’s Zoe." There was no answer for a moment as he tried to get his brain functioning again. He clawed at the clock and turned the face to himself. 3:25 a.m. He’d been home from Thames House less than an hour. There was a virus threatening their systems. Something called the "Monte Cristo" virus was threatening their database. He’d been working on trying to block it or convert to their emergency backup system. So far, nothing had helped. He had been at it for the last 72 hours. Harry had finally insisted that he go home for a rest.

"Tom?"

"Zoe? What is it?"

"Tom, I hate to ask, but could you come over here?"

"What’s wrong?"

"Danny and I have been working on Monte Cristo. I think we have something. Can you come?"

Oh, to be in your early 20’s and have limitless energy again.

And ignorance. Oh, what he would give for ignorance.

"You’re at Thames House?"

"No. We were working at our flat."

That was unusual. Even improper.

"You brought classified information home?"

"Well…Yeah. We…"

He sighed. He wasn’t surprised, really.

"I’ll be right there."

20 minutes, a cold shower, and four aspirin later he dragged himself out of his car and up the stairs to Danny and Zoe’s stylish flat, a steaming cup of Royal Blend clutched in one hand. He pushed the button for the buzzer of their flat, and was rewarded by the door unlocking and opening for him as if operated by ghosts.

He went inside, squinting in the bright light, and walked onto the waiting lift. He jabbed the button for the fifth floor and glared at the speaker as an annoying female voice chimed, "Floor five," as if this was something he didn’t know.

The door whisked open and he made his way slowly down the narrow hallway to knock on Danny and Zoe’s door. The chain rattled and the door swung open. The lights were down inside. He stepped through the door while taking a healthy swig of his tea, still trying to stir his reluctant brain cells into motion. Two steps into the room he froze.

Zoe was stretched out motionless on the couch. Danny was also unmoving on the floor.

He knew it was too late even as he dropped the cup and grabbed for his gun, then froze as he felt the muzzle of a pistol pressed against the base of his skull.

"Uh-uh, Tom Quinn. We’ll have none of that."

A shape moved, just out of range of his peripheral vision, and the door closed behind him.

"Hands on your head." He hesitated just a second, and the pistol jabbed harder. The voice was soft, and brooked no argument.

And it was familiar, somehow.

He slowly put his hands on the top of his head. His gun was removed and dropped on the floor, followed by his mobile.

"Now put your hands behind you." He hesitated again. "Do it!" the voice snarled. He could think of no options at the moment. He put his hands behind him, and felt them cuffed. Then his jacket was pulled down to his elbows to further impede free movement. One hand started to search him.

The other held the pistol to his head without wavering.

It was a man. A big fellow at that. Who? Who? The answer was there, just on the edge of his awareness.

"Are they dead?"

"No. They’re both drugged. He’s going to have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. He put up a fight."

"Good on him."

"Tell it to his bleedin’ head."

"I suppose you held a gun to his head to get Zoe to call me."

"Yeah. Don’t be mad at her. I think she’s sweet on him."

He was grabbed by the back of his shirt and dragged forward, then shoved down onto a chair.

"Stay there. No heroics."

The figure moved around the darkened room. Tom couldn’t make out his features.

"What the fuck is this about? Who are you?"

A laugh, harsh and bitter.

"Haven’t you figured it out yet, Tom?"

The voice was SO familiar….

"You might want to call me Edmond Dantes"

Oh, yes. He was awake now.

"You created Monte Cristo?"

"Yeah. Lovely, isn’t it? Unless I get what I want, it’s going to destroy all your systems at MI-5. Then it will move on to the linked systems at MI-6. Every file on every terrorist, anarchist, criminal, assassin, people who were ticketed for double parking, spitting on the sidewalk, tax evaders…"

"And just what is it that you want?"

"I’ve told you before."

"What?"

"I told you once before what I wanted, Tom. It’s a little different now. Back then, I wanted my girl, a pension, and the chance for a quiet life. It would have been easy."

The dark figure had settled in a chair opposite him. He turned on the light.

"Now it’s going to be complicated."

His jaw worked a few times before sound came out.

"Oh my God."

"Why, Tom. You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost."

"This can’t…I saw you die!"

"Smoke and mirrors, old boy. You saw what Harry and the chaps from Six wanted you to see."

"Peter…Fuck it! Peter… You hanged…I saw it. We buried you."

Peter Salter kept one hand on the pistol in his lap. The other pulled out a pack of cigarettes, worked one loose, and lit it.

"Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

"How?"

"Little harness that ran under my arms and across my back and chest. Hooked it onto the belt and it took off just enough weight to keep me from choking."

He took a moment to absorb that. "Why?"

Peter sat back and crossed his legs. "Why. Now that’s a tale. You see, Tom, the chaps at Six needed an assassin. A highly trained, highly skilled, highly expendable one."

"You."

"Me. Oh, they had me by the balls good and proper, Tom. Harry, Jools, and their little crowd."

"I don’t believe that Harry knows about this."

"Oh, yes. I’m afraid so, Tom. You see, I’ve sinned in Harry’s eyes. To him, I’m a traitor."

"Aren’t you?"

There was genuine hurt in those green eyes. *Fuck * you, Tom Quinn! I thought you of all people would understand."

"I understand you planted a virus that could have caused hundreds of planes to crash, including the one carrying the President of the United States!"

"Yeah…That was cool, wasn’t it? But Tom, I had to do that, to convince that lovely little group of maniacs that I was sincere."

"How many could have died?"

"Bah! I knew you brilliant bastards would figure it out. You’re too good not too."

"The risk…"

"Would have been worth it. I would have been in, Tom. On the inside. Right next to the big man." He sighed. "Regardless, I got caught and the whole thing fell apart, and Harry turned me over like the Pharisees’ turning bleedin’ Christ over to the Romans."

"You didn’t have to do it. You could have refused."

"No, I couldn’t. They had Andrea. Knew where to get her, anyway. If I didn’t go along, they threatened to kill her. Said it would look like a car accident. I couldn’t let that happen."

"I don’t believe…"

"One of us had to be free, Tom. And it had to be her."

"I don’t understand."

The tip of the cigarette glowed red for a moment, the dimmed. Peter Salter exhaled a long stream of smoke, then rubbed his forehead with the thumb of his cigarette-holding hand. He sighed, making an ironic little gesture. "Afraid I knocked her up."

"She was pregnant?"

"Yeah. She’d only just found out. That bastard, Siviter…He knew all ‘bout it. Made it simple for me, really. I "died" or they died."

Tom was shaking his head. "No! I don’t believe it. It’s not supposed to work that way. Not with our own people."

Peter gave a snort of disgust. "Jesus, Tom! Don’t be so fuckin’ naive. They used me. "The hand was rubbing his forehead again, and Tom noticed the tremor in it for the first time. He took a long, hard look at Salter. He was thinner than he remembered. Much thinner. His face was all planes and angles, his eyes dark-circled and bloodshot. He was very pale, and his hand…

Oh, shit!

The two outer-most fingers of his left hand were unnaturally short. Someone had cut them off at the knuckle.

Peter had caught him staring at his maimed hand. He made another vague gesture. "Compliments of an insurgent cell in Iraq."

"Siviter sent you to Iraq?"

"Not right away. At first, it wasn’t so bad, really. They had some people they wanted me to pop. Guys they’d been watching for a long time that were connected to Al-Quaeida. Real nasty bastards. The kind it’s a pleasure to kill. I guess I did too good a job. They bundled me off to Iraq to hit some high profile, highly inconvenient targets. Bloody brilliant, if you think about it. I hit a target and get away, I’ve got nowhere else to go but back to them. If I don’t get away, well, then I’m just another unfortunate bastard working security who was caught and had his head cut off by one of those sodding maniacs with their fuckin’ swords, right? Bloody perfect! I popped a couple of targets, then they sent me in for this Mullah."

The tip of the cigarette glowed again. "Oh, he was a right bastard, that one was. He liked little girls. ‘bout twelve years old. Virgins, you know? Well, they paid someone off to leave a basement door open. I went in, slipped into a closet…Waited for a chance to pop ‘im. The bastard had security with him all the time. I mean, * all* the time. He had this poor kids’ hands tied…Slapped her around some and then bent her over the…" Another drag on the cigarette as he looked away for a moment, his eyes dark-shadowed and mysterious. "Well…I couldn’t stand it any more. I jumped out and shot both guards. The Mullah got out a yell before I blew his balls off." He crushed the cigarette out. "Hope the kid got away. I cut her loose and told her to run before I took off."

"One of his guards clipped me with a shot while I was running. I was bleeding pretty heavily, but I wasn’t far from the LZ… I thought I’d make it, and they’d patch me up. Well…I made it to the roof just in time to see my bird flying the coop. They left me behind."

"Peter, surely…"

"Surely nothing, Tom! They left me behind to die. I saw that prick Waldron laughing while the chopper took off. He even bloody waived."

"Niles Waldron?"

"The very same."

Peter lit another cigarette, and pulled deeply. "Three weeks, Tom. Three weeks those sick bastards beat me bloody. Tortured me." He held up his maimed hand. "When they did this, I thought it was all over. Then one of them got sloppy. Young kid. Couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He came a little too close to the bars. Snapped his neck, used the keys and ran like hell. I was lucky. Bunch of towns-folk hid me. Stitched me up. I was out of my head with fever for a while. They turned me over to the Americans. They had lots of questions for me, and I gave them lots of answers. Mostly made up, but it was enough to make them eager to keep me happy. They transferred me to a military hospital in Germany. I ditched my guard one night and disappeared. Then I came back here. Been layin’ low in Manchester for a while, dreamin’ up Monte Cristo and how to get Andrea and get out."

"It doesn’t have to be this way, Peter. I can help you. "

Salter gave a snort of disgust. "Tom, Tom…Always the bloody boy scout. What do you think you could do? Go to Harry and demand he do right by me? Stalk down Jools and tell him you know of all his evil deeds? Do you honestly think that they’d do anything except pop me and you both, if I didn’t have my dear Monte Cristo as collateral?"

There was a time when Tom believed that MI-5, and MI-6 for that matter, took care of their own, no matter what.

Now he was no longer sure.

"So, what’s the point, Peter? What exactly do you want?"

"I want you to go to Harry and that dickless bastard, Siviter. You tell them that Monte Cristo is my baby. I want Andrea, and our child, two million pounds, and a private jet to fly me wherever I like." He held up a paper with numbers scribbled on it. The writing was very poor. Peter was left-handed. There were brown stains on the paper that Tom didn’t want to examine too closely. "This is the bank name and account number. No explosives or tracers on the plane, Tom. Believe me, I’ll check. Right now Monte Cristo is only blocking access to your systems. If I don’t get what I want by midnight Friday, it will activate and destroy the networks of both Five and Six."

"Fuck it, Peter! That’s less than 48 hours!"

"Yeah. I know. Gotta be this way. The longer I give you, the better chance they have of snatching me up."

"There’s no way…"

Salter slammed his good hand on the armrest of the chair. "Dammit, Tom! You’d better find a way! And no screwing around!"

"Why me?"

Peter gave him a long look. "Because if there’s anyone in this shitty world I can trust, aside from Andrea, it’s you, Tom Quinn. Harry and the fuckers at Six tried to screw me. They’re going to pay for it now."

"And if we can’t make it work?"

The smile was decidedly nasty this time. "Then God save the Queen."

"Goddamn it, Peter!"

Salter had gotten to his feet. He did it slowly and carefully, as if trying to avoid aggravating an injury. Tom saw a brief flicker of pain cross his thin face before he straightened up. Broken ribs, maybe?

He crossed to Tom, and put a mobile down on the table. "This phone is clean. I’ll call you within 24 hours. Don’t try to find me. Don’t try to trace the call. It won’t work, and if anyone comes sniffing around me, I’ll set Monte Cristo off. Be ready. I’ll give you more instructions then."

"Peter, listen to me…"

Salter had moved behind him. "Nothing to hear, Tom." He felt a quick stab in his neck.

"What…?’

"Sedative. You’ll go to sleep for a couple of hours. Looks like you could use it, anyway. You’re going to have a hell of a drug hangover, but, all in the line of duty. Right? Your friends here should be waking up about the same time. I hope Harry isn’t too vexed with the lot of you."

The room was getting strangely elongated, and Peter’s face twisted and rippled as he fought against the effects.

"I’m counting on you, Tom. Don’t let me down."

"Peter…."

The world faded to black.