A/N: Well, here is the final chapter/epilogue. I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for your support of my small tale. To my reviewers, your every word is gold!

39. Epilogue. Following Wednesday. November 2012.

Canberra

It was yet another faceless government building in a small city that was full of either them or strangely monumental offerings to public service that could be anything from classically elegant (the War Memorial), sleekly modern (New Parliament House), quirky (the Academy of Science's Martian Embassy) to just plain glass monstrosities (the High Court). As the manufactured capital of the country and seat of the Federal Parliament, he thought the place had the air of a gigantic stage set, built in a bowl in the khaki hills, and felt oddly empty but it was going to be his home base for the foreseeable future so he would wouldn't pass judgement on the place yet. Anywhere was better than a freezing cell in the Lubyanka or the grim, uncertain life of a mercenary, after all.

The city was his new home but this building would be his new office. Featureless, bland, stuck in generic, drought-tolerant grounds with a large car park there was nothing to identify it as the seat of the national intelligence service, with none of either the air of solidity of Thames House or the showiness of Vauxhall Cross about it. Although apparently they weren't going to be staying here for long; they were due to move into a new, purpose built facility not so far away very soon. He wondered if it would have as many windows as this building. Bullet and bomb proof, but windows nonetheless, with a view over the expanse of the lake behind him. Another reminder that he was a world away from the Grid, where the only 'windows' were Harry's goldfish bowl of an office and the only view that of each other's desks. Unless, of course, you had escaped to the roof but even there you would never get the sparkling blue clarity that was present here on this morning.

Ilian's arrival – later than normal, she thought she'd deserved a sleep in after the past few weeks and Lucas' arrival gave her the excuse – diverted him from his thoughts and he followed her inside meekly, gazing around with interest and instantly feeling more at home. Unlike the cavernous stillness outside, in here was busy, a rabbit-warren of activity that reminded him strongly of what he had, not long ago, thought he had lost forever. The nerves started as they approached the elevator; sensing it, Ilian grinned at him and told him not to worry, apart from the core group he was about to meet, no-one else would know who he was, or not all of it. From here on in he would be known only by his new identity.

He thought about that new identity in the few remaining minutes left to him in his old one. He had quietly consigned the Chinese-created Lloyd Ensham to the flames on the Sunday morning, content that, were anyone to look, they would lose the name on the flight out to Singapore that it was booked on tomorrow. There was nothing tangible left of Lucas North, hadn't been for almost two years now, apart from the tattoos and he was seriously beginning to look into how to lose those, and Jonah West was about to go the same way while John Bateman could stay permanently missing, presumed dead, in Senegal. It had taken some work to come up with the new name. The surname was easy – although slightly risky, he had settled on the maiden name of his maternal grandmother, and there were already enough of them out here that it wouldn't be particularly unusual – but the first name had been rather more difficult, at least until, flicking through a magazine while waiting for his flight to Sydney on Sunday afternoon (the lure of seeing that city, the focus of so much of his time over the past year, on his way to Canberra had been too much to resist), he had begun reading an article about a local actor who was about to start filming the second series of a highly successful television show. The article was mostly about the man's previous life as an athlete on the international cycling circuit at the height of the doping culture and how he had chosen to walk away from it all to retain his honour and self-respect rather than go down that path in order to compete with the cheats and how it had taken almost two decades of dogged determination to achieve the success in his new chosen field that he had finally, recently, received. There was something about the man's strong sense of morals, integrity and his inherent dignity that appealed to Lucas; running the two names together, he realised he had just come across his new identity.

By this stage they were at Ilian's nerve centre and she escorted him through their own version of the pods onto a floor that was light, bright, airy and very, very busy, with views he could only have dreamed about in London. There were a few curious glances and some morning greetings called to Ilian but she just waved back and took him straight through to a secure conference room towards the back, where there were no windows and no distracting views. Seated around the polished timber meeting table were three other people, a woman and two men, whom he guessed to be Brendan's Aunt Ruby, Ilian's 2IC, and the two other main players, the Indonesia Department Head, Wisnu Haryanto, and the analyst, Salvatore di Luca. They all looked up as the door closed behind their boss but before anyone could say anything she announced,

"Okay, you lot. I'd like you to meet the gentleman who's been so helpful to us of late and the newest member of the team. Everyone, this is Nathan Tolmie."

Atherton Tablelands

It was mid morning in Far North Queensland when the rain started to come down again, driving Iona and Laurence Stafford inside from their tasks in the garden. Life had settled down again after the drama of the weekend; they had briefly caught up with Ray and Marie on Sunday for their own form of debrief but since then had returned to their normal routine which included, at times like this, an extended morning tea.

They had started out commenting on how the G20 summit in Sydney had passed without a hitch, all the participants now being gone while remaining blissfully ignorant of what had so nearly happened to them all, and had then moved to discussing their forthcoming trip over the ditch next month to catch up with Catherine and Aron when a natural pause had fallen between them. After a couple of minutes Ruth had mused quietly,

"I wonder how he's going…"

Harry knew exactly who she was talking about and had been thinking along not dis-similar lines. He exhaled and reached for the pot to top up their tea.

"Well, I hope. For his own sake if nothing else. Ilian will look after him: she's a bit of a mother hen underneath that terrifyingly professional exterior."

"Yes, I got that impression!" The quick smile faded a little and the opalescent eyes grew more serious. "You still don't completely trust him, do you."

It was a statement, not a question.

"No. Not yet. It will come but I meant what I said to him the other day, it's going to take time to get beyond the past. Time and effort, for all of us. If he returns to what he originally was, though, when I first met him, it will be worth it. You?"

She considered it as she nibbled on a biscuit.

"My head is finding it difficult to forgive but my heart is yearning to, especially now I know about his childhood. I believe he has finally turned the corner, though, so I'm willing to work on the relationship."

Harry shrugged, stretched, picked up his mug of tea and stood up.

"It's going to be his battle, then." He walked out into the peristyle to gaze down the length of the lap pool and beyond, to the rain drifting over the garden and the stunning green hills, so much like home and yet so different. When he spoke again she could hear the smile in his voice although she couldn't actually see it. "We've got enough battles of our own coming up, anyway."

Grinning at his back she picked her own drink up and moved to join him.

"Yes. You've got to deliver your first nationally syndicated article next week on, coincidentally, the threat of Islamic fundamentalism to western democracy!"

"You've got the next chapter of your thesis due," he shot back as she came to a stop next to him, sliding her arm around his waist and leaning in to his side. As he wrapped his own arm around her shoulders she twinkled up at him,

"Then again, you've got to get through this weekend at cattle dog school learning how to work with the new dog!"

He grimaced at the thought of the three days he had to spend in the red dirt and heat of the training farm half a day's drive away, west of Clermont, learning how to work with their new, rather expensive, four-legged farm-hand; now, a movement caught his eye, distracting him from thoughts of the upcoming trial by dog and firmly fixing his attention on the garden. Nodding that direction as his trump card fully reappeared, his smile broadened in anticipation of her reaction as he reposted softly, with just the slightest hint of triumph in his voice,

"And you really have to get back to researching how we're going to deal with that."

Her gaze followed his and what she saw caused the smile to disappear and a mock frown to replace it. As though aware it was being scrutinised, the beady black eyes belonging to the scrub turkey turned to stare back at them and Ruth could have sworn its expression was clearly inimical, even from this distance. Growling half under her breath she muttered, showing with her words and tone that she was well and truly on the way to going native,

"You know, if it wasn't illegal I'd kill that bloody chook…"

Brisbane

In Brisbane, an unremarkable, middle-aged receptionist for a high end commercial real estate office high up in a tower in the city centre glanced at her watch and realised it was lunch-time. Retrieving her food from the refrigerator she took a seat at the small table in the kitchen, flipped open her tablet and logged on to her favourite news website. The headlines made her mouth go dry as she swallowed the first mouthful of her lunch and continued to scan the article, a strange excitement and disbelief building as she did so. News had just broken of ASIO successfully thwarting an attack by Islamic extremists on the recently completed G20 summit in Sydney. Mention was made of the extremists having a training base on a remote cattle station on south-west Cape York and that the major conspirators had been arrested at the airport in Cairns (fortunately, there was no footage, the security guard having had her phone confiscated by Wayne, who had spotted her filming while he had Shinwari at gun-point and had put the fear of God in her by arresting her on the spot as the group returned, and had not only lost her phone with its poor quality image of the event but lost her job too when her security clearance had been revoked as a result of her actions). It had been confirmed that the original tip-off about the property location and owners had come from a member of the public in Brisbane. And that was all.

She caught her breath and gazed out the window for a moment. Jesus Christ. It was her phone call that day. She blew a breath out and calmed her thoughts. No-one would ever believe her so she would probably never mention it to anyone but she knew, would always know. And would be happy that she had trusted her gut that day and made that call.