The Final Lesson
by Jardyn39
Note: This Chapter was previously posted here. Minor changes only.
Chapter 1 - The Armourer's Lament
Almost three months have passed since the raid on the Archive ...
Mary Happell climbed the steps up towards the open air from the ticket hall of the underground tube station. She wasn't at all comfortable travelling by tube, especially at this time of the early evening when commuters were hurrying to get home on the overcrowded London Underground.
As much as she hated being jostled, she felt much safer just recently as an anonymous traveller amongst many.
She paused a moment, waiting for the people in front to push their way forward through the throngs of people trying to move down the steps at the same time.
Being fairly petite and generally polite in public, Mary never did any pushing herself, of course. However she willingly followed close behind any impatient commuter that was prepared to barge their way through.
This evening, she was following two male students who sounded like they were meeting some friends in a bar at street level.
Looking down, Mary noticed the dirty white floor tiles were dry. At least it wasn't raining this evening, she mused.
Then, as expected, one of the students ahead of her lost his patience and ended the impasse with an aggressive shove, ably assisted by his friend. Mary hurried up the steps behind them before the space they created was filled by more irritated travellers.
The welcome smell of fresh cool air was the first sign that they were nearing the top of the steps.
She followed the two students through the slightly less packed crowd of people waiting to descend, but unfortunately they went straight into the first Public Bar door they came to. Picking her way more slowly through the remainder of people, she was soon walking along a busy high street at a comfortable pace.
A red double decker bus passed her at speed, its diesel engine straining under acceleration and drawing Mary's attention. The internal lights on the packed bus were blazing.
It was getting dark, something that wasn't immediately obvious under the glare of the floodlighting around the station entrances. She checked her watch to confirm that it was later than she thought.
She quickened her pace for a few yards but gradually slowed again while she decided what to do. She had remembered that she had virtually nothing to eat in her flat. Mary decided to take a slight detour to a delicatessen two streets away. If she hurried she would get there just before it closed.
*
Mary climbed the short flight of smooth stone steps to her apartment building close to the highly polished brass handrail and entered the lobby through the glazed hardwood doors.
As usual she scowled down at the nylon entrance matting that had replaced the traditional coir mat, much to her disapproval.
She was about to say good evening to the Night Porter when he looked up from his desk.
"Where is Charles?" she asked at once.
"Charles, Ma'am?" he asked with a slightly confused look on his face. "Oh, sorry, you mean Charlie?"
"Indeed," agreed Mary. She was perhaps the only person to call the affable regular Night Porter by that name. She couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been on duty.
"Charlie had a dental appointment this afternoon. I'm staying on for a couple of hours until he gets in. Is there anything I can do for you, Ma'am?"
Mary took in the photocard security identification badge he wore and said, "No, thank you. Please tell Charles that I hope his dental appointment went well. Good evening to you."
"I'll do that, Ma'am. Good evening."
Mary opened the glazed door that led to the lift lobby and stepped inside, fumbling through her handbag for her pager. The badge on the new Porter looked genuine, but she should have received a message from the building security manager of any change to the usual staffing.
Out of view from the reception desk, she pulled out the pager and glanced at the fire exit that would be her means of escape if there were no confirmation message.
She absently pushed the lift call button as she tried to remember the buttons on the pager she needed to press to review her messages.
Her new pager was much smaller than her previous one but also much heavier. It also went through batteries at an extraordinary rate.
The messages scrolled slowly across the single line display. Every time she pressed the pager button to hurry it along it reset and began to display the first message over again.
Just as the lift pinged to announce its arrival, she found the message. It had been sent earlier that morning and had been hidden behind the four pointless meeting reminders that had irritated her so much earlier. Since when had she ever been late for a meeting? To make matters worse, she had no idea how to erase the offending messages.
She read the text as it scrolled across the small readout. The clearance code for the replacement Porter had her prefix. She must have personally vetted his security application to work in the building, although she didn't recognise his face at all.
She entered the lift and pressed the button for the third floor before standing with her back to the concealed video camera at cornice level.
As the lift began to rise, Mary looked into the large bronzed mirror above the handrail.
Even though the warm lighting gave her reflection a flattering appearance, she still looked tired and careworn.
Just lately, when she looked at her reflection, she wondered who she really was these days.
Was she really the same woman who, with boundless energy, used to arrive for work two hours early just so she could have the choice of the analyses that the night-long computer runs produced.
She smiled sadly to herself. She hadn't done that in a very long time. Of course, these days she could pick and choose her own assignments.
Mary found herself frowning, annoyed with herself. The days of choosing her own areas of study and endeavour were over for the foreseeable future, anyway.
The lift came to a gentle stop and the doors opened silently.
With one final look back at the persona she no longer felt she was, Mary exited and walked the short distance along the corridor to her flat door.
She unlocked the heavy metal faced front door and entered quickly in order to tap in her ten-digit pass code into the beeping pad next to the door. The beeping stopped and a green light came on above the pad.
Mary dropped her things to take off her coat and hang it up in the small closet before heading for the kitchen.
As soon as she entered the kitchen, she felt something wasn't quite right.
She didn't know what it was exactly. Everything looked in its place, although there was actually very little evidence that anyone actually lived in the small flat.
Mary pushed open the door leading into the dining and living room area and made to switch on the lights.
Before her fingers found the switch, however, there was a small click and a table lamp was switched on.
"Good evening, Miss Alice."
Mary froze. Being called by that name outside of work was almost as shocking as discovering someone inside her flat.
Mary's pseudonym of Miss Alice had been given to her by the senior administrator of the first high security complex she ever worked in. He had compared her to Alice, such was the wonder she had with everything that went on there.
Somehow the name stuck, and now probably only a handful of people at her workplace knew her real name.
Inwardly furious with herself that she hadn't been more vigilant, she stepped towards the seated man who was entirely too big to be sitting in her favourite high backed reading chair. Lying next to the lamp on the side table next to him was an automatic handgun.
"Well, this is a surprise, Bear," she replied, mustering her self control and casually opening her handbag. "I quite thought you had vanished from the face of the planet."
"Really?"
"By the way, you know you have less than ten minutes, don't you? If I don't check in soon an alarm will be raised."
"I estimated five minutes, but that will be from when you get home."
Mary looked in her handbag again.
"Missing something?"
"You know I am," spat Mary, thinking furiously what had happened to her tracer. She stopped looking, seeing the smile that crossed Bateman's face.
"It was lifted from you on the tube. I imagine that anyone taking an interest in your movements will realise that you are now doing some evening shopping."
"Dare I ask what you did with Charles?"
"I promise you he's fine. He genuinely had a training day today."
"I'm sorry I got you killed Charles," she thought unsteadily. "I hope it was quick."
She crossed the room and sat in the matching chair opposite Bateman, thinking through her options.
The small tracer was an electronic radio device that could detect her progress along certain pre-defined routes. So long as she kept moving and within expected areas, like her normal route to and from her place of work, no alarm would be raised.
Few people knew she carried it, though. But then, Bateman was very well informed having somehow gained access to the most secret information. Compared to the other information that had been obtained, her personal security arrangements were hardly a challenge.
"I suppose you disconnected the alarm pad as well?" she asked.
"Naturally. The newer ones are harder to crack, but with yours we just had to make the little green light come on."
"May I get you a drink?" she asked.
Bateman laughed and shook his head.
Miss Alice couldn't stop herself from smiling guiltily back at him. She was teetotal herself, but had always kept a generous supply of alcohol on display in all her residences. The drinks were all spiked, of course. She had caught no less than three intruders in her unsecured bed-sit a few years back.
"So, how did you enjoy The Willow?" he asked conversationally.
Mary reeled inwardly. Even the name of the Willow was a closely guarded secret. Hardly any of the staff working there knew its code name, even.
The Willow was an exclusive safe house where selected national security suspects were detained under round the clock guard. The house and grounds were luxurious and staff were in attendance to cater for the residents' every whim.
A particular branch of the secret services ran four such residences, only three of which were in the United Kingdom. The Willow was situated in the county of Suffolk and was the only one they denied existed even to other branches.
Mary had been very surprised that she rated such an exclusive interrogation in a place normally reserved for the great and the good that were suspected to have strayed.
As pleasant as the grounds and cuisine had been, Mary had hated every minute of the six weeks she had been trapped there. She had been apprehended quietly and with a minimum of fuss early on the Monday morning immediately after the raid on the Archive.
She guessed at once that the raid had not gone to plan, but being isolated from any news or contact with the outside world she had been left to fret about what had actually happened.
One of the things that annoyed her intensely was the soft approach her interrogators took. She had been there almost four weeks before they even bothered to talk to her at all. When they did, they seemed almost disinterested in anything she had to say.
The thing that really concerned her was that as Miss Alice, she hadn't given a very good account of herself. She had decided not to volunteer any information and would instead answer questions honestly but succinctly. The problem was, their questions never gave any hint at all that her interrogators knew anything at all about neither the magical community nor her work for the Prime Minister.
Mary knew she had to at least try and keep the dialog with Bateman going.
"The Willow? Well, the grounds were very pleasant."
She had spent as much time as possible out walking during her spell there. Most of the day she could hear unseen tanks trundling around the surrounding firing range and occasionally loud bangs of shells being fired could be heard.
"I understand the Chef there is quite excellent. Apparently he could have got a television series on the strength of his Salmon Linguine alone."
"Really? I found him rather tiresome myself. Still, I did rather enjoy pretending to be indifferent to the meals Robert prepared."
"Robert?" asked Bateman. "I thought his name was Bobby?" he added, knowing she was testing just how much he really knew.
"Still, I shan't miss the place," said Mary truthfully, adding, "not when I can have microwave meals from the corner shop instead."
Bateman smiled pleasantly and nodded.
All she could think was, "Why hasn't this traitor killed me yet?"
"I suppose you know what I've been up to?" she asked conversationally.
"Not really. I know they let you return to some analytical task, but that's all."
"Well, I would hardly call it a task. I'm sure they destroy my reports before reading them."
"While you remain under suspicion, it's inevitable that people are going to be over cautious."
They were quiet a moment. All the while Mary calculated. Bateman's gun had no silencer. How quickly could he grab the gun and shoot her? Very quickly, was her immediate conclusion. He was a soldier, first and foremost. He'd killed many times before, a few were even on her orders, although he hadn't known it at the time.
He's a soldier, not a spy, she told herself. Bateman had never been a cold blooded killer, even before he'd become a traitor. But when was that exactly? And what now?
She shifted slightly and spoke to distract him from her arm movement.
"They didn't tell me anything that happened at the Archive. Were there any casualties?"
"We sustained a couple of injuries. The worst was Carlyle's broken arm. He fell in the cave system on the way there."
"I see. Well, I'm glad that you all made it out of there. You went back for him after, did you?"
"No, he came with us."
Mary frowned and asked, "But how did you get him through the caves? He must have been quite a burden for the rest of you. He was your most experienced climber, wasn't he?"
"I don't remember how he did it. He just did, that's all."
"And the others?"
"Others?"
"Yes, Harry, Ron and Hermione?"
"We went in alone," said Bateman firmly.
"So, you really don't remember?" said Mary to herself.
"Were you able to tap into the Archive?" she continued.
"Unfortunately not. Voldemort had breached the place before us and we had to fight our way out."
"Really? How interesting."
Bateman looked completely relaxed but was watching her very closely. She shivered thinking how, only a few short months ago she considered him to be one of her best friends. Certainly, he was one of the most trusted.
The question why he had turned traitor had obsessed her ever since her detention.
It was an absurd notion. Bateman a traitor? Impossible, but who else could it be?
"I must say just this," she said at last.
Bateman raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
"I just wanted to say, how much I admired the way you did it. Not what you did, obviously. You managed to obtain the most secret information we had from right under my nose and then you got clean away to leave me implicated as the main suspect. Quite exceptional."
Bateman didn't react at all, but listened in silence.
"But, you know? The best thing, no, the brilliant thing, was having them modify your memory like that. You had erased all the physical evidence and then you had them erase your own memory evidence. Right now even you believe I'm the one who betrayed us, isn't that right? You'd pass a lie detector test with flying colours, I'd expect."
Bateman frowned slightly and in the instant that he hesitated Mary threw open the hidden compartment under the padded arm rest and grabbed the handgun concealed there.
He reacted quicker than she thought possible, and then they were sitting a few feet apart, each aiming a gun to the other's head.
Mary's hand shook slightly, unlike Bateman's. She knew she couldn't miss at this range, but if she fired he would react out of instinct. His trigger finger would shoot the gun as soon as he heard her shot. He wouldn't miss.
The question was, could she do the same? She might not even fire the gun.
Mary remembered the first time she had ventured down to the firing range. The armourer had been furious when, out of shear shock when the adjacent person had fired, she had just dropped the gun.
She had received her first and only reprimand for using her parity rank to get herself some time on the firing range. Analysts never had any need to handle or use guns, after all. Miss Alice, though, had disagreed and just turned up to have a go. It had looked easy, after all.
Fortunately, the armourer took pity on her and decided it would be safer if he taught her at least the rudiments of using handguns. They had mutually agreed not to continue with this tuition when it became clear she would never actually hit any of the targets she was aiming at. What she did take away with her, though, was a new respect for the people she sent out to face such weapons.
As the length of time the stand-off grew longer, Mary began to get concerned that any sudden noise might provoke either or both of them to fire. What if the phone rang or something?
Her gun also began to grow heavy in her hand and she began to shake even more.
*
Bateman looked on as Miss Alice sat there shaking a gun at him. It never even occurred to him that she would have firearms concealed about her flat.
"She is an analyst," he told himself. "Analysts don't use guns."
Of course this somewhat confirmed the widely held suspicion that she was an analyst who had decided to switch sides.
He wasn't too worried about her actually managing to hit him with it, even at this close range. He had actually been in similar situations before, and a cool head had kept him safe from harm up to now.
He thought back to the three other people that had pointed guns at him. Two of them had been too nervous to fire at all. The third hadn't cared whether he lived or died, but even he couldn't hide when he was about to pull the trigger.
Bateman chided himself.
If Miss Alice had been anything other than a scared analyst, he would be dead by now. These moments of lapses in concentration were so often the difference between life and death.
He was troubled, though. He had been waiting for her for almost four hours now.
Even Miss Alice had hinted about what had been bothering him.
Could it be true? Was he really the traitor?
Bateman knew that it was true that his memory had been modified. He didn't know exactly what memories had been changed, but Kingsley Shacklebolt had assured him that he had asked for it to be done in order to protect certain individuals, and one individual in particular. He even wrote himself a short note confirming this.
His instinct told him, with every fibre of his belief, that it would be impossible for him to willingly betray his country and his comrades in arms.
All of the official inquiries had cleared him entirely. He had even taken and passed a polygraph test.
Nothing had actually been proved against Miss Alice either, but the number of suspects was extraordinarily short. If not her, who else could it be?
The idea that Miss Alice was the traitor seemed actually even more preposterous. She had worked tirelessly for the public good.
He decided to trust his instincts and Miss Alice's logic one more time.
He would lower his gun and trust her to do the same so they could at least talk. Of course, she might just shoot him anyway once he moved his aim. If she really was the traitor, her shaking hand routine was probably just an act. If that were true, a traitor Miss Alice would want to talk some more as well.
"I'm going to-" he began to say.
Miss Alice jerked in shock and pulled the trigger.
The shot was deafening in the enclosed space of the living room.
Crying out in anguish she dropped the gun and collapsed to the floor, shaking violently.
"Oh my," she cried, too terrified to open her eyes and see what she had just done.