1/1/11

Secrets II: Chapter 48 - 50

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

They spent the night in Paradise, and the next morning boarded a small plane to an uncertain future. Harry was supposed to be back on the Grid on Monday late afternoon, but faced with the prospect of saying goodbye to Ruth in Paris, he lost his nerve.
As he was getting their bags, he called Adam to get his daily report, and was told that there was no need for him to come in until the morning. It was only a couple of hours, after all. Zaf was in Tehran, and Adam, Ros, Malcolm and Jo were holding down the Grid. They could meet tomorrow morning and fill him in on what had happened in the last couple of days, which wasn't much. Mainly the news of the impending peace with Iran, due to an olive branch offered by the Prime Minister. The Home Secretary was planning a BBC interview at ten-thirty. Harry could catch the train at eight, and with the time change, be on the Grid by ten.
When he rang off, Harry couldn't suppress the feeling of a boy being let out of school for the day. It was only one o'clock. He hadn't yet been inside Ruth's apartment, and there was that Indian Restaurant around the corner that she had gone on about. The car was waiting at the airport to drive them back to Paris, and as they pulled on to the main road, Harry took Ruth's hand.
He felt the unfamiliar brush of metal and ran his finger across her ring. Picking up her hand and looking at it, he gazed over at her, and met her eyes on him. He kissed the silver band, and looked playfully at her from under his brow. "What would you say if I told you that you were stuck with me for another night?"
Her face broke into an incandescent smile, "I'd say I was very fortunate. Really? How?"
"It seems they're doing quite well without me on the Grid." He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And here I thought I was indispensable."
She moved closer to him on the seat, "You are, Harry. Just not today. And their loss is my gain." She kissed him lightly, still smiling, "You can see my flat. God, how many nights have we spent in hotel rooms? I want you in my bed tonight."
"And that's an offer I can't refuse, my love." He leant forward and spoke to the driver. "Changement de direction. Nous n'allons plus a la Gare du Nord, mais 2 Rue du Banquier, s'il vous plait, " he said, letting the driver know that they would be making only one stop, and would not be going on to the train station.
When he sat back in the seat, Ruth said, "I love hearing you speak French, Harry. Your accent's quite good."
He gave her a self-deprecating laugh, "French by way of Berkshire, Jesus College, and a lazy tongue. You're very generous, Ruth."
Ruth tilted her head at him, a small frown forming. "And you truly need to learn to take a compliment, Harry. How is it that I've never noticed this about you?" She put her hand up to his face. "What do you think of yourself? Is it possible that you really don't know how extraordinary you are?"
Harry smiled at her tenderly, "Now who has a rose-tinted blind spot, my Ruth? You should know better than anyone that I'm a man with many limitations."
"Not quite so many as you seem to think. And I love you the better for them. What does that tell you?"
His eyes soft, Harry said quietly, "It tells me again that I'm the luckiest man in the world."
She squeezed his hand, and then looked out the window. "April in Paris, Harry. Always my dream. And now here I am, and all I can think is I want to have April in Paris with you." She looked back at him with a sad smile. "Greedy, aren't I?"
"We both are." He returned the smile, and gazed at her, memorising.
Ruth broke the silence first. "I need new rules, Harry. Are we held to just letters, or can we talk now and then? I know I can't come see you, but can you come over from time to time?"
He laughed softly. "We just keep making it up as we go along, don't we?" He paused, thinking. "Letters, absolutely, and Sophie and Will might be allowed an endearment or two, as I think we're very safe there, and they do seem to get on."
Ruth smiled. "Sophie's fallen for him, and hard. She'll be glad to hear that."
"It seems to me that the only real danger would be if you tried to come back into England. With Mace out of the picture, I just don't see anyone chasing you anymore, Ruth. So as to calls? I'm assured my mobile's secure. If it's not, there are bigger issues of national security that would be cause for concern. And you have a mobile, no phone in your flat, correct?"
"Yes."
"For the time being, let's leave it that I'll call you. I never know who might be with me, so best to wait until I'm safely alone."
"And the third thing, Harry? Visits?"
"That's a little more problematical." He was looking straight ahead, his face passive.
Ruth's heart sank, but she was hearing something unusual in his voice, so she went further. "But you came last week? And it turned out well, yes?
"Not bad." He was sounding very businesslike to Ruth. "But since you ask, I have a trip planned to Paris next Tuesday, week from tomorrow. A celebration." He turned and looked out the window, strangely silent.
Ruth couldn't make out what he was doing. It was another game, she thought, something she had to figure out. Perhaps it was an anniversary of some occasion that she had forgotten? She began to work it through. Today was April 21, and next Tuesday would be the 29th ... Suddenly she gasped.
"Cripes, Harry. That's my birthday!"
He turned to her, a sly smile on his face. "Then it's a good thing I happen to be coming to Paris on that very day, don't you think?"
Ruth laughed. "God, Harry, I couldn't figure what you were playing at." She shook her head. "I was about to forget my own birthday. Thanks for that." She leant up and kissed him. "That would have been dreadful. Probably would've noticed the date on a receipt for someone at the shop and burst into tears." Now it suddenly hit her. "You're coming? Really? Oh, Harry!"
Harry chuckled at her. "That progression was just a joy to watch, Ruth. You've managed to run the gamut of emotions in all of thirty seconds."
Ruth was feeling too much joy even to be teased. "You're coming. Oh, how wonderful! What shall we do?"
"I think Sophie said something about a dinner cruise on the Seine, maybe a trip to the top of La Tour Eiffel? Dessert from the Patisserie around the corner? Eaten in bed ... " His voice was descending lower, as he moved closer to her, the last words spoken softly against her ear.
Ruth sighed loudly, "I think you just described the perfect birthday, Harry."
He moved away to look at her eyes. "So is that a yes?"
"Yes." She leant back on the seat and raised her eyebrows. "I've been saying yes quite a lot lately, haven't I? But I suppose it's a bit late to play hard to get." Harry nodded his head, silently. "Yes, it sounds lovely. So much more than I could have imagined for us ..." She calculated in her head, " ... fifty-six days ago."
"Fifty-six days." He smiled at her. "You keep a calendar too?"
"Yes. Since that day at the docks, since I left you, and England? Yes, I keep a calendar." Her eyes grew sad suddenly, but she took a deep breath and smiled. "The cards we're dealt, Harry. I'll play them as long as I have to, until I'm home with you." Her cheeks coloured faintly, and she added, "In our home."
"I like the sound of that, Ruth. Our home." He took her hand across the seat, and held it there, between them.
Our home. Ruth smiled and, embarrassed at the heat from her face that she knew must be evident to him, looked out of the window at the slightly grey April skies. She still had to pinch herself at times. It seemed such a long time that she had loved Harry and thought no one knew, Ruth had resigned herself to it. And now, looking down at her ring, the one that Harry created just for her, she knew that this was real. He loved her, with all his heart. A future was possible.
When she said the words our home, Ruth realised that she finally believed it. She saw it. She saw them together, in the house that they would make their own. Somewhere, it had happened. In Polis, or the Hotel Britannique, or the cafe with Tom and Christine, she had finally let go and believed in the fairy tale. And now, as she looked out at the Paris sky, Ruth pushed the feelings of dread away, the way one casts off a depressing acquaintance. She was choosing not to spend time with those thoughts.
Another visit, for her birthday. At least, thank God, the carousel was moving still. She had so much more than she ever thought she would have with Harry. She looked over at her hand, enclosed in his. She would be grateful for this, for these moments, until they could be together. In theirhome.
Until now, Ruth had been holding a part of herself back, the piece that she could use to rebuild her life should this not work out with Harry. Now she gave it freely to him. She abandoned her rope, tore down the safety net, cut away the parachute, all the metaphors she had been unconsciously muttering in her head.
She looked up at him, and saw that he'd been watching her, the familiar lines of concern folding between his eyebrows. His brown eyes were the colour of rich earth, and filled with love. Moving toward him, she put her hand to his face. "I see it, Harry," she said softly, although she wasn't sure she could describe what she was feeling. "I see us, together, forever. Until the day we take our last breath. I'm not sure I've truly believed it until now."
There were tears forming in her eyes, brought on by the emotion of the realisation. "I've been saving a part of myself as a kind of insurance against disappointment. Just in case." She leant up and kissed him, and Harry could feel a slight tremble in her lips. "I give it to you, Harry. With all my heart."
Harry folded her in his arms, not knowing what to say. This was his dream, and yet it frightened him somehow. He almost wanted to tell her that she should hold something back, to keep that part safe, because "just in case" had been a stark reality in his life. But he also wanted to accept the gift with open arms. Maybe this time it would be different, and perhaps he could have the happy ending. So Harry let go too, and decided that whatever happened, they would stand or fall together.
He tilted her head up and kissed her, warm and deeply, as the car moved them toward Ruth's flat. It reminded him of the surreptitious kisses in the backs of cars when he was much younger. She always made him feel that way anyway. Younger, less worn, less aware of the danger in the world. Right now the whole world was contained in her lips, and the breath he felt on his cheek. With his eyes closed and his mouth on hers, nothing else existed.



The car dropped them off in front of the green door on the Rue du Banquier, and Ruth took Harry up to her flat, joking about giving him the grand tour, which took all of ten minutes.
Looking out of the windows on to the small park below, Harry smiled. "I like it, Ruth." He turned to her. "Do you?"
She went to him and took his arm, peering across at the white dome of Les Gobelins. "I do." She looked up at him. "Although, I must say I like it better with you in it."
The sadness that she hoped hadn't crept into her voice was evident to him, and he circled her with his arms. He spoke softly into her hair, "Then I'll have to spend more time here, my love."
Ruth knew she needed to lighten the mood, so she asked a question that she had been wondering about for while. "How did you choose this, Harry? This area, this flat?" She moved instinctively to the kitchen, knowing they were both craving a good English cup of tea after their travels.
Harry followed her and stood at the doorway watching as she filled the kettle and switched it on. "This was all Zaf's doing. Did rather a lot of research for the amount of time we had, actually. Wanted to be sure you had everything near at hand, art and bookshops, cafes, places where you could make friends. He cares about you quite a lot, you know."
She looked up and smiled. "The feeling's mutual. I'm not very much older than he is, but there are times I feel quite motherly toward him." Her voice grew softer, "He was good to me in those last few days in London." She turned back to the tea. "How is he?"
"He's in Tehran now." Harry realised that except for the Baghdad operation, he hadn't talked much about the work. Ruth hadn't asked, not wanting to put him on the spot, and he hadn't wanted to get too specific. He wasn't sure why, but that old chestnut plausible deniability popped into his head. Now he felt he wanted to tell her about her friends and colleagues on the Grid, if she wanted to know. "He's keeping an eye on the local dissidents, what with the PM opening up the possibility of peace. So many don't want it, would prefer the war, which is ideologically more to their liking."
She turned to him again. "Is he safe, Harry?"
Harry sighed. "Safe? Well, his legend has him working in an oil company's office there, but safe? I can't say it's ever safe to be a member of the Security Services on foreign soil, especially a place like Tehran. It's not all that safe at home."
Ruth leant back on the counter. "Will you tell him, when you can, that I think about him? And tell him that I'm happy about the flat. Tell him well done. From Sophie."
"I will." Harry still stood in the doorway, as there really wasn't room for two in the kitchen. "Maybe we should keep this place after you come home. To have a Paris base? The cost is minimal, and I like being here. The Grid feels very far away. It feels healthy somehow to really get away from it." The word he was looking for came to him. "Gives a sense of equilibrium."
The water boiled, and Ruth turned to pull down the cups. Harry watched her, feeling the quiet joy of familiarity. Such a simple thing, making tea, but this was a picture to treasure, a memory he would store away with all the others of the last four days. He found himself watching the movement of her hands, and the intermittent gleam of the ring he had placed on her finger. She was his. His Ruth. The dream he spoke about on the way to Bath was now truly within his reach.
She turned and handed him a steaming cup of Earl Grey, and he held it up to breathe in the splendid aroma. "Nothing like a little travel to make you appreciate home. I'm very glad I fell in love with a good English girl," he said softly, as she moved past him toward the lounge.
She looked back at him over her shoulder, "You'd best get her home, or she'll turn French on you."
As they sat down, Harry said, "Mmmmm, English and French. A very good combination." They both blew on their tea at the same time to cool it, peering at each other over their cups. She looked so beautiful sitting there, her eyes so large and soft, and Harry couldn't stop himself. "I love you."
She looked back at him, not moving, a smile curling the corners of her lips. "I love you." She took a quick sip of the hot tea and then put her cup down. "Now, more about the Grid. Whatever you can tell me. What about Adam? You were worried about him?"
"Yes. He's been seeing Diana. It's post-traumatic stress, she's certain, but he seems to be improving. I'll have a report from her on my desk when I get back." He put his cup next to Ruth's. "He's been taking chances, unreasonable ones, and he's been lucky so far. But that sort of thing catches up with you, it's simply the law of averages."
"How much of it has to do with Fiona, do you think? God, he loved … loves … her still. I don't see him ever finding another woman who could live up to her."
"Oh, I think it's everything to do with Fiona." He paused for a moment. "Did you know that my mum's name was Fiona? My dad called her Fee, just as Adam did. I've often wondered if it adds to my care for Wes. Losing a mother at that age …" His voice trailed off, and he picked up his cup again to cover his slight awkwardness. "Sorry. Don't talk much about this."
"When did you lose your mother, Harry? How old were you?"
"Twenty, twice as old as Wes. But my mother had always been fragile ... and ... you know, children tend to think that whatever happens is their fault." He sipped his tea, not wanting to go any further. Ruth took the cup from his hand and moved closer to him. She put his arm around her shoulder and rested her head on his chest.
"Everything can't be your fault, Harry." She put her arms round him, hugging him. "Even if Adam gets himself killed, it's not your fault."
Harry took a deep breath and held her even closer. "How, Ruth, do you manage always to go right to my heart? To what's bothering me, even when I don't know it? That's it. I don't want to be the reason Wes has no mother and no father. I've tried to keep Adam safe, but he won't let me. He doesn't really take orders from me anymore, he does what he pleases, and it's usually dangerous. It's like he wants to get himself killed." The words had been tumbling out, and now Harry took a pause. "Like he wants to go to where Fiona is, Ruth."
She pulled back so that she could look at him. "Can you understand that feeling?"
Harry put his hand on her face, cradling it gently. "Yes, my love, I can. You think you'll never find it, and then you do. And then it's taken from you." He leant down and kissed her. "Yes, I can understand."
Ruth took a long pause, wondering if she should ask him the question she was thinking. And then, she simply did. "If something were to happen to me, Harry? I know this is rather morbid, but I want to know. You wouldn't want to die? You would go on, yes?" Her frown was back in full bloom, complete with creased forehead and slightly downturned mouth. "I would want you to, to find someone else, to love again. I love you too much to think of you the way you're describing Adam. I would hope that loving me has opened your heart to finding more happiness."
Harry took a deep breath, needing the extra oxygen to even think about it. After a moment he nodded, solemnly. "I would go on. But a part of me would die with you, my Ruth, and … " he pulled her close to him, "And, I would never look for this again." His voice was almost a whisper, "Nothing could measure up to this. To us."
He sighed softly, and continued, "So stay with the living, will you? Stay with me." He kissed the top of her head, and held her tightly. "And it is rather morbid, yes, but good to say. Hard to say. I wonder if Adam and Fiona talked like this. It might have helped him if they had." He looked down and found her eyes. "And you? If something happened to me? What would you do?"
She sat up and looked at him. "The same, Harry." Her eyes were focused sharply on his. "I would know for the whole of my life that I had found my soul mate in you." Her eyes began to glisten, "After a time, I might seek a companion, but never this, Harry, it would be pointless to try. I would live through it, but I would be so sad without you."
"I've no intention of leaving anytime soon." He took her hand, and then looked back into her eyes. "But I agree, I would want you to find happiness. No pining, my Ruth." He ran his thumb gently across her cheek, and then put his arm around her again. They sat quietly for a time, listening to the life of Paris that flourished just outside the window. Harry took a deep breath. He felt better for having talked about it. It had been somewhat the elephant in the room ever since Ruth had brought it up over breakfast in Bath.
In truth, Harry thought more about death than he ever let on. His life had felt like a long game of Russian Roulette, and the gun had been placed at his head more times than he liked to count. The fact that a bullet had yet to be in the chamber only served to convince him that the chances were even greater the next time it happened.
As far as where he would go, Harry wasn't convinced of any of it. He knew he prayed, like all good sinners, as a last resort, when there was no more hope. In the millisecond between the bullet leaving the gun that Tom held and when it struck his body. In the minutes as he watched wild-eyed Irish Army members torturing his agents, wondering when they would turn on him. In the hours he lay hidden in a building in Tehran, listening for footsteps. There are no atheists in foxholes. He had prayed, but without a clear idea of to whom he prayed.
He knew what he hoped. He hoped that all the stories were true, that he would walk through a tunnel and find those he had loved. That both Fionas, Adam's and his mother, would be there, whole and strong and without accusing eyes. That Danny would smile at him, Helen would reach out to him, Colin give a tip of the head. That Bill Crombie would laugh. So many others, for whom the game had turned out badly, for whom the chamber had finally held the bullet.
But even if he wasn't sure where he was going, Harry now had something very precious to leave behind. He couldn't bear the thought that Ruth would spend the rest of her days longing for him, although he couldn't honestly imagine that happening. Ruth was a vibrant, beautiful, intelligent young woman with a passionate love of life. She might not seek someone out, but someone would surely find her.
That thought simultaneously gave Harry a deep sense of comfort, and a sharp stab at the heart.
And now that was settled, Harry needed to get up and move. He took a deep breath and said, as lightly as he could, "I'm ready to venture out to explore your neighbourhood. By foot, or by taxi?"
"Definitely by foot. We won't get as far, but we won't need to. Zaf did a wonderful job, everything is nearby." She took one last sip of her tea and stood to go to the kitchen. "We'll have a nice, long walk, and then an early dinner. How does Indian sound?"
"I was hoping for that. I've certainly heard enough about your corner restaurant to be curious." Harry stood too, following her. "And what comes after the dinner, my Ruth?"
She turned suddenly, and caught him in the doorway. Ruth leant up and kissed him, her mouth tasting wonderfully of sweet tea. She spoke softly against his lips, "Why don't we just play that by ear. See what occurs to us."
His arms went round her. "You lead, I'll follow."

~~~~~



CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

After a delicious dinner of tandoori barbecued chicken, warm breads with colourful chutneys for dipping, curried lamb, basmati rice, and a shared dish of Indian cheesecake, they walked the long way back to Ruth's apartment. They held hands and talked as they always did, easily, laughing, in love.
And Ruth finally had memories of Harry in her Paris apartment, curled with her on the couch over a late cup of tea, a long, steaming shower surrounded by her green tiles, and then making love to the distant hum of the cars below the open window. A Paris moon shining across the bed, and his acknowledgement of the card still propped on the side table, now endowed with not only the words Je t'aime, but with a kiss from the very lips that had asked them to be written there.
A morning alarm, and then the rush of both of them getting ready for work, as normal and routine as any married couple beginning their day. But Harry was taking a taxi to Gare du Nord to go back to London and the Grid, and Ruth said goodbye before she walked to the Metro to begin her day at l'Alcove Booksellers. They shouldn't have been melancholy. They'd stolen another eighteen hours from the turning world, hours they didn't think they'd have together. But saying goodbye was hard, still. It seemed to be getting harder, rather than easier.
Just inside the green door, they held each other, bundled up in coats and gloves against the early morning chill. They kissed, long, soft kisses meant to last for a full week until Ruth's birthday. They said "I love you" more than once, and released each other again, their fingers touching across the threshold, maintaining contact until the very last second.
Harry arrived on the Grid with time to spare, even before Adam and Ros managed to get there to brief him. He stood in his office, waiting for the Home Secretary to come on the news, and he found himself wanting, just once more, to hear her before he brought himself back completely from their holiday together.
So he followed his impulse and simply called her. One ring and then, "That was fast, Harry." He smiled as the sound of her voice moved through him.
"There was something I forgot to tell you," he said softly, pacing his office and watching the beginning of the BBC broadcast on his computer screen. His office seemed particularly dark this morning, and her voice brought to mind the sparkling blue sea, warm kisses, and her hair blowing in the wind. He whispered, although his door was closed and no one could hear, "Turquoise."
She laughed, and then said softly back to him, "It's interesting you should say that, because there was something I forgot to tell you, too. Robin's egg."
His smile grew wider as he continued to walk the length of his office. "You're very competitive, my Sophie. Must you always have the last word?"
"Yes, and it's one of the qualities you love about me, my Will."
The Home Secretary was now on the screen, and Harry turned the sound up just a bit. "That happens to be true. I do love you. And now I have to go to work, but if I can, I'll call you right back. It seems that I like to hear your voice."
"I love you, too. And thanks for passing on that very vital information about turquoise."
"I'll call you in a minute."
"If you can. I'll be here."
Harry closed his mobile and listened now as the interview continued. The Home Secretary was talking about a lasting peace in Iran. A frown creased the space between Harry's eyebrows. He knew he was really back at work, because he was feeling the weight begin to settle firmly back on his shoulders. It wasn't minutes, but hours, before he managed to call Ruth back, but she had known it would be, by the sound of his voice. Ruth knew better than anyone the compelling power of the Grid.
Harry and Ruth's first day back at work couldn't have been more different. Ruth walked into the bookshop and faced a quiet, peaceful morning filling the internet orders that had come through over the past four days. Harry walked on to the Grid, and within an hour of his phone call to her, was embroiled in a crisis.
Harry met first with Adam and Ros, and something struck him the moment they sat down. Maybe it was the fact that he still had the memory of Ruth's voice soft in his ear, or perhaps his radar was more attuned now to this sort of thing, but he got the clear message as they talked that these two had more than work going on together. Although Ros sat icily looking at Harry, Adam was different with her, and now that Harry thought about it, they had been different since their near-death experience at the Thames Barrier.
Good, he thought. It was an appropriate match, and perhaps Ros could help Adam to see that there was more left to do in his life. After Ros went out, Harry gave Adam the good news that the review board had passed on his latest psychiatric assessment, and it showed that he had made excellent progress in the last few sessions.
Harry wanted Adam to know that he sensed what was going on with Ros, and also that he approved, so he added, kindly, "Working in this field, it's important to have some kind of ... equilibrium." Harry said it with the clear picture in his mind of the last time he'd used that word, in Ruth's Paris kitchen, and the sure sense that he now felt an equilibrium beginning to settle itself into his own life.
Adam's reply surprised him with its vehemence. "Oh, come on, Harry, who are you kidding? No one in this place has time for a real life." Adam turned and was through the door, leaving Harry feeling even more concerned for his senior officer. So much for equilibrium.
Within an hour, Harry was sitting across from the Home Secretary, discussing a possible disruption of the peace process with Iran. Mehan Asnick, a member of Iranian Intelligence, but also one of the reactionary die-hards that Zaf had been keeping his eye on in Tehran, was planning a trip to London, and as Adam said, "it's not for the shopping."
The Home Secretary was clear in his directive. "Mehan Asnick can't be permitted to even step on British soil, let alone unleash his carnage here. So deal with him. Over there." Harry knew very well what the words "deal with him" meant.
The plan was to kill Asnick by bombing the train on which he travelled. Unfortunately, it went horribly wrong when the train suddenly slowed, still in the city, giving Asnick the opportunity to move to another train. With a mounting sense of dread, Harry called the Home Secretary, who told him to detonate anyway. Harry was unable to convince him that the resulting forty Iranian civilian deaths was too much collateral damage. The Home Secretary was as clear as he could be. "This is not to be negotiated. So you go ahead. You do your job. And you swallow it."
So Harry gave the order to detonate. And swallowed.
A moment later, Harry closed his office door behind him and leant against it. He had just killed forty people without warning, and he literally needed to catch his breath. They had been everyday people, husbands, wives, children, mothers, fathers, friends. People who were peacefully beginning their day, who had simply boarded a train, just as Harry had done this morning.
He imagined the horror the British people would have felt, the outrage, if his train from Paris to London had suffered the same fate. And he imagined Ruth, hearing about Harry's death from the blast. Her grief, the sudden testing of all they had discussed about death just yesterday. And he multiplied that times forty.
Harry stood with his back to the Grid, so that even someone outside the glass could barely see him. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to hear Ruth's voice again. He pressed the button on his mobile and heard it ring, once, twice, three times, and then he got his wish. It was her sweet, soothing voice, but in a recorded message. Merci de votre appel. Veuillez laisser un message, s'il vous plait.
In Paris, Ruth's mobile vibrated on the table next to the computer in the back of the shop. Sophie was in the front, helping Monsieur Beaufort, a man who came nearly once a week to l'Alcove. She had begun to suspect the elderly gentleman simply liked talking to her, because he never purchased, only looked, but always required assistance. He must have been close to eighty, and his eyes were not what they used to be.
Harry listened to her message, and breathed in the sound of her. It washed over him like cool water, but it was so pure, he couldn't speak. He began to, but what he had just done made him feel strangely unworthy of her, unable even to allow himself the comfort of contact. Suddenly their morning, their kisses inside the green door of 2 Rue du Banquier seemed a lifetime away. He didn't leave a message. The tone after her voice hung in the air, until he finally closed his mobile, not having said a word.
Incredibly, Harry's day got worse. In the blast, something even more horrible was unleashed. A virus that caused death within eighteen hours. More people were dying now, sick with the virus, and Harry added their lives on to the others he had taken earlier in the day. There was no known vaccine. And to underline the pointlessness of the casualties, Asnick was still miraculously alive.
As his day drew to a close, Harry was on the Grid waiting to hear from Adam and Zaf, who were bringing Asnick in. In all likelihood, they had been exposed to the virus, and they had to be stopped before they brought the plague to Britain. They had arrived in England, he knew, but he hadn't heard from them since.
It was a desperate evening for him, after a day that had started in the arms of the woman he loved. He wanted so much to call Ruth, but couldn't bring himself to tell her what he'd done. Perhaps now that he was more free to say what he really meant, a letter would allow him to express his thoughts.

My dearest Sophie,
I had to make a decision today that has wrenched me practically into paralysis. Actually, I can't call it a decision, it was an order which I carried out, but which leaves me no less responsible. I will admit that before following through, I had a moment of wanting to turn and leave my place of work and come straight to you. I would have taken you in my arms and we would have gone in search of more colours of blue, a search that would last us this lifetime and into the next.
Today I ended the hopes of forty innocent people, and as I write this, that number is rising. I caused forty families to make the choices we discussed just yesterday, about whether to carry on or to grieve. I sit here wondering at my own humanity, and whether the laws of the universe will require a price to be paid for my actions.
I could rattle on about being the best man for the job, but in the end I feel I am a minor character, little more than a pugilist for the state. No better or worse than the apes that were sent up in space capsules, trained to push a button without consideration, without responsibility.
And as I sit here with my guilt, I am envious of the rules of the firing squad. The rule dictating that not every gun contains real bullets, so that none of the men in the line know exactly who fired the fatal shots. I have not been given that grace. I know what I did, and I'm fully aware of the result.
This is not what I signed on for. Service is one thing, wanton destruction is another. This was truly a case of destroying the haystack to find the needle, and for tonight you must forgive me for hiding behind a metaphor because I cannot honestly face myself in the mirror.
Contrary to popular belief, there is a heart that beats within my chest, and it's in such pain as I write this that I can hardly breathe. Perhaps I reach out to you now, because you're the only one who knows the capacity of that heart. I suppose I'm asking for forgiveness from the one person who can give it, the only one who matters.
I tried to call you earlier to hear your voice. I cannot call you now because I simply can't think of what I would say. Your forehead would furrow deeply at this one, I fear. I worry that you might wonder again who it is you love.
The one who loves you,
Will

Ruth watched the reports come in on the news, and she used her skills of analysis to recreate what she thought had happened. Somehow, for some reason, Harry had given the order to blow up that train in Tehran. She assumed from his letter that he had been told to do so by the Home Secretary, the DG, or even higher, the PM's office. Her heart ached for him.
She wanted to call, but she honoured Harry's wishes and didn't. It was after five now, and she didn't want to leave the shop without answering his letter, so she sat, after the bookshop closed, and typed a response.

My dear Will,
Let me assure you, I know the man I love. I love him still and will always. He's a man with integrity, compassion and honour, no matter how you might feel about him at this moment. As we discussed long ago, that man has good reasons for everything he does. You need no forgiveness from me, but if it will ease the pain you're feeling, I give it completely, with all my heart.
I believe I know what it is you were told to do, having analysed the news we get here. I say that because I don't want you to worry that telling me will make me think less of you, or judge, or criticise. What I will do is love, and trust, and comfort. It's what my heart tells me to do, and I will follow it.
The question I believe you're asking yourself is, would you have made the same decision if you hadn't been ordered to do it? This is one of the few times when you have the luxury of judging the decisions of those above you. And I think you know better than most how hard those decisions are to make.
Whatever you would have chosen to do, you would have had to live with it, my love. It's the path you've chosen - you could have been one of the bank tellers, after all, rather than the bank president. And much as I would have loved to see you walk through my door today, I might have turned you on your heel and sent you back to your destiny, to the place where you're so valuable and needed.
As to the size of your heart, you're right, I may be the only one who knows its true capacity. Not only do I feel its ache through your words, but mine aches in sympathy with it. I know you show detachment to the world precisely because your heart is so big, but I'm so grateful that you show your true self to me. You can trust me with it.
And finally, as to those people. They join with so many others, past and present, on all sides of conflict. I don't know the reason behind your act, but I do know that you get it right more than you get it wrong. And if this one turns out to be wrong, the scale will still tip in your favour by a large plurality.
I'm sorry I missed your call. I would have liked to tell you all this. Please call now. I won't let my mobile out of my sight until I hear your voice. You said we were allowed endearments? I love you very, very much.
Sophie

Ruth clicked send. She had written it quickly, hoping that she would catch him still there. In fact, he had been and gone to a tense meeting with the Home Secretary, and was just now walking through the pods, talking with Adam on his mobile. Zaf had been taken, and they didn't know where he was. And the virus was threatening Britain with national quarantine.
Harry didn't get back into his office until much later that night. By that time, Adam was infected, Zaf was feared dead, and Asnick was missing, spreading the virus to whoever passed him. Harry spoke the words everyone dreaded. "So it's finally happened. After 300 years, a plague is loose on the streets of London."
But Harry did open his email finally in the early hours of the morning, and Ruth's words did comfort him. By now, the forty on the train had been replaced by the 179 infected in the UK, so he still needed the absolution she offered. He sat at his desk, his head in his hands, and wondered how long he would need to go without sleep. He wondered how they would find a vaccine. And he wondered how on Earth he would tell Ruth about Zaf.
They had found the bodies of those in the van, burned beyond recognition, and Harry knew in the pit of his stomach that he had lost yet another officer. Ruth would not take it well, but he was far beyond keeping something like this from her. He couldn't simply take her comfort when he needed it, and then be guarded about the death of someone she cared for as much as she cared for Zaf.
He thought again about calling, but didn't trust himself. Apart from the fact that it was three in the morning, he wanted the thought and time a letter required. He knew it was less personal than a phone call, but in this moment, he needed it to be. He chose his words carefully in a quick letter to her.

My dear Sophie,
I haven't the time to thank you adequately for the words you wrote, as I'm hoping for a quick lie down and a few hours of much-needed sleep before I start again. I read your letter three times and finally the calm I was seeking descended on me. You are the best combination of logic and compassion I have ever known. You speak to my head and to my heart at the same time, and you know instinctively that it's what's required to comfort me.
The crisis is not over, it has escalated. Your analysis on this one should be easy, because it's all over the news. Don't worry for me as I'm not in danger, and I intend to keep myself from it, but I have some news that I dread telling you. I want you to take a deep breath and remember the talks we've had, and know that this is the life that we all have chosen.
Alan is ill and we have no medicine that will make him better. After my few hours of sleep, I will face that challenge, and I have some ideas already working. But this is the difficult news, my love. We believe that the one who found your flat may be lost to us. It was a very brave departure, one that saved others and is worthy of the man we know. I'm aware that you knew his full value better than anyone, but I am only now comprehending it as I sit here in the early hours before dawn, wondering again if anything could have been done differently.
I know I should call you with this terrible news, but I've managed to convince myself that we will do better in digesting it together through the distance of a letter. I can't afford to analyse or process yet, as I'm still in the trenches, and must move on to salvage what's left. The sound of your voice would, I fear, pull me toward deep sorrow, and that's one indulgence I'm not presently allowed.
Later there will be time to grieve. Believe me this time, my love, although I can feel you shaking your head though your tears, right now. Please believe me. We will do it together, in each other's arms.
Your love is my rock, my dearest Sophie. It's not possible for me to express what it means to me as I sit here. You keep me sane and grounded and fully aware of the basic freedoms this job aims to keep safe.
I don't know when I'll have time to write again, and I won't be able to call you either. I'll be away tomorrow working toward a solution, and my process for doing that will be unorthodox, to say the least. Please don't worry. You give me much to live for, my love. I'll call you as soon as I can.
Yours ever and always,
Will

"Sophie, do you know where ... " Isabelle stopped and gasped. "Oh, my dear, oh Sophie, what is it?" She moved quickly to put her arms around her neck, holding her as she sat in the wooden chair.
Ruth sat at the computer, her tears falling heavily on the keyboard in front of her, her sobs echoing through the open spaces of the bookshelves. She was beyond the comfort that Isabelle offered, but on some level, she was grateful for the arms that held her.
Isabelle knew that these were the tears associated with death, this was deep grief, and as Ruth spoke the name, "Zaf ... oh, Zaf ... no ... " Isabelle knew that it was not James that she had lost, but someone else. And Sophie had loved this person, very much, it seemed. Isabelle drew her up out of the chair and put her long arms around the younger woman, the difference in their heights allowing her to enfold her completely as the wracking sobs began to subside.
Once she had calmed somewhat, Isabelle walked Ruth over to the damask chair and sat her down. She put the kettle on quickly and returned to her, pulling the other chair close. "Oh, Sophie, mon cher, what has happened? What can I do?"
Ruth took the tissue that Isabelle offered her, but another was quickly needed as her tears continued to roll, large and round, down her cheeks. "S-s-s-omeone d-d-ied. S-someone I l-l-oved." It was all she could say before she lost her ability to speak again. Isabelle patted her knee ineffectually, and then, as she heard the kettle, moved to pour out the tea. She came back with the usual, two china teacups and a plate of cookies. She didn't know what else to do.
Isabelle handed the cup to Ruth, who took it and sipped gratefully. A weak smile crossed her flushed face, swollen with the tears that still fell intermittently. Ruth spoke so softly that Isabelle had to strain to hear her, "Thank you." She took another sip and put the cup down. "He was a very good friend. And he was so young ... " The tears started again as Ruth choked out the last word.
The bell rang in the front of the store and Isabelle looked up toward the doorway. Ruth touched the hand that was on her knee, and said softly, "Go. I'm fine. Thank you, Isabelle. Really, I'm fine."
Isabelle tilted her head, still with a question, but Ruth nodded again, "Go."
"You will call out if you need anything, yes?" Isabelle's face was a mask of concern as she stood and moved toward the doorway.
Ruth looked up at her, "Yes. Thanks." She watched Isabelle go, and then leant back in the chair with a deep sigh. She closed her eyes and he came into view, bundled against the cold, leaning against the cement wall of the docks.
"If we ever bump into each other, here or abroad?"
"I'll smile. I smile at every pretty woman I pass."
The tears began to fall again, through Ruth's closed eyes.



Sixteen hours later, Ruth's mobile rang. It was a little after one in the morning, but she wasn't asleep. She was studying the patterns of the ceiling in her bedroom as they floated through the tears that refused to subside. She hadn't been crying all day, in fact, she'd managed to put in a full day at work, wanting to keep busy. But after a hot shower, as soon as she laid down, the picture of Zaf at the dock had returned. He shimmered now in her memory, eyes closed or open.
Another ring. She reached over to the table and picked up her mobile. Her voice was broken, low, disused. "Harry."
He heard it immediately, and his heart clenched in his chest. She accessed all of the grief of this long day, and he knew he had been right to wait. Only his name spoken, and he could feel his own tears beginning to surface. He was home too, lying in the bed he had shared with her for just one night, surrounded by three small, warm creatures, instead of the one he craved.
"Ruth." His voice matched hers, and in fact, they lay there listening to each other's breath for just a moment, feeling the comfort of nearness wash over them. It wasn't what they wanted, but it was so much. Their eyes were closed, and they could almost imagine the other was there.
Finally, Ruth spoke, without care for how she sounded, knowing that the grief and tears could be heard. "Harry, you're okay? You're safe? I heard on the news about the vaccine. You found it?"
"Yes. And Adam is well, we got to him in time."
His voice was so weary, Ruth decided not to ask him all the questions she wanted to ask, about how he had accomplished it. It was enough that he had. "That's good, Harry."
Now the silence hung heavy between them, and they both knew they had to talk about it. Harry sighed, and said simply, "Zaf."
Ruth's chest contracted in a sudden sob, surprising her with its violence. Just hearing his name spoken by someone who had known him made his loss fresh, new, as if she heard it again for the first time. "Oh, Harry ... how? What happened?" This part she needed to know. She wanted to hear that it was fast, painless, a quick shift from this world to the next.
Harry knew that it was slow, and most likely agonising, the combination of a bullet wound and the effects of the virus, coupled with God knows what else. His body still hadn't been found. Harry lied to her, the prerogative he had told her he would use when necessary. "He didn't feel anything, Ruth. It was fast." He heard her sigh softly, with a ragged catch caused by the tears.
"Thank God. Thank you, Harry. That helps somehow."
Another silence, and finally, Harry said, "I wanted to call to let you know that I was okay, but also to tell you how much your letter ... how much your love ... has helped to keep me going, my Ruth. I felt like a coward telling you about Zaf that way, but I couldn't hear your voice and do the job I had to do. Do you understand?"
She did, completely. "Yes. You did the right thing. And it's so good to hear you now."
"I saw an old friend today, an old spy from the Grid, from before you arrived. Connie James. She helped us immensely, and I've asked her to rejoin us. I hope she accepts." Harry paused. "But I wanted to tell you a question that she asked me."
Ruth was silent, listening. Harry continued, "She said, 'No new ring on your finger?' I said something flip like 'can't find one that fits,' but ... I ... this has been a long two days, Ruth. I've been aware on so many levels, of the preciousness of life, and those we love, and ... "
"What are you trying to say, Harry?"
"I want to get married as soon as possible. I know you want the party in England, and I do as well. But life is so short, and things happen so suddenly. We can't see around the next corner, can we?" He stopped, and took a deep breath. "Truth is, I have found one that fits. You and I fit, Ruth."
Ruth smiled for the first time since this morning. She exhaled, relaxing. "When, Harry? I'll marry you this minute if you want. We can always have the party after."
"And it will have to be Sophie Persan, my love. We can't have the records anywhere. But you are Sophie Persan, no one else. And then we'll fix it after." He paused for a moment. "I can't explain why this is so important to me, but something about ... Zaf ... "
"You don't have to explain, Harry. I understand. It's lovely. Come to Paris and marry me on my birthday. Whenever you want. I'll just keep saying yes."
"I love you, Ruth. More than I thought possible."
"I love you, too, Harry. And just in case I didn't make myself clear, yes, yes and yes."



The cell was cold, dark and wet. His bare feet were nearly frozen and he could hardly feel his hands. It was almost over, he knew that. Almost over, thank God. They had only dressed the bullet wound and he couldn't feel the pain of it anymore, but he knew he was septic. The vaccine had stopped the symptoms of the virus, but he was so weak that he wasn't recovering. It wasn't so bad now, actually. He seemed to have risen above it somehow. He had accepted it, was ready for it. Longed for it.
He didn't even know who was questioning him anymore. He'd been moved so many times, looked at by potential buyers like a prize Sussex bull. He'd been strong and had held his secrets.
Except for one.
That was what tormented him now. Not his jailers, not his torturers, but himself. All they had wanted to know, what they asked over and over, were the names of Security Services agents and officers. He had held them off, but at one point, just before they administered the vaccine, he knew he'd been delirious. And somewhere in that delirium, he had uttered a name.
Sophie Persan.
Zaf knew he'd said it, and through the fog of memory he knew he had said it only because that person didn't exist. He hadn't said Ruth's name, after all. But as he made his way toward what he knew was a certain death, he had to let someone know. He couldn't feel any pain in his feet anyway, so he had scratched a message there, and hoped it would be found.
He lay back on the cell floor, and felt a warmth begin to overtake him. It felt good, peaceful, and he let himself breathe into it. He remembered the hill in Regent's Park where he and Adam had watched Harry and Ruth move into each other's arms so naturally, their love so evident even from that distance. Zaf had never had that kind of love, but he was grateful in his short life at least to have seen it.
He had turned to Adam as they walked up the hill together and smiled. He'd said, "I know what their call letters will be. LV1 and LV2. Love One, and Love Two." Adam had laughed at that, and they'd sat down at the bench feeling there was a goodness about the world.
It was the message he left for Adam. LV2, etched into the sole of his foot. As he drifted finally into the warmth, he hoped his friend would find it. And he hoped it would keep Ruth safe.

~~~~~



CHAPTER FIFTY

"Good grief."
Harry couldn't believe what he was reading. He scanned down the letter that had just arrived.

10 Downing Street
THE PRIME MINISTER
Dear Mr Pearce,
I am delighted to inform you that, in recognition of your outstanding achievements in the Security sector, Her Majesty the Queen is graciously pleased to confer the honour of Knighthood upon you.
You are invited to attend a closed ceremony at Buckingham Palace. My secretary will ...

"Apparently you're already late for your annual psychological profile." Connie stood in the doorway, and at the first sound of her voice, Harry quickly moved the letter under some other papers. He felt his face flush just a bit, and he supposed Ruth was right, he didn't know how to take a compliment. So how in the name of God am I supposed to take a bloody knighthood? He thought Connie might have noticed the letter, but he ignored her as she continued, "Shrink's waiting downstairs."
Harry didn't look up as he spoke, "Welcome to the new caring, sharing Security Services." He was in no mood for a session on the couch. The day had already started very badly. A British cargo plane down in the American military base at Halesworth. Malcolm dispatched there to speak to the group of UFOlogists that may have shot it down. Adam still distracted and not following orders. And Ros missing, following up leads on Zaf's capture.
Although Harry had yet to glance up at her from his desk, Connie was not going away. In fact, she seemed to be quite at home standing in his doorway. "She said to remind you that after two postponements they have powers to suspend you."
"Apres moi, le deluge." French always made Harry think of Sophie, and a wry smile crossed his face, but in this case it was entirely appropriate. He had barely caught his breath after the vaccine was found, and now today, new challenges. A downed plane, a missing officer, and a Knighthood. A part of Harry's brain, a small part, was thinking, Brilliant, suspend me, I dare you. You lot can deal with the flood of problems that follow.
What would he do if he were suspended? He would go straight into Ruth's arms. And for the hundredth time, Harry told himself he had to find a balance between the reality of MI5 and the fantasy of the beach in Cyprus, because that's where his mind always went now when it looked for escape. Phrases would whisper unbidden in his head, telling him that perhaps it was time to think of retiring, that he needed to hand the reins off to someone younger, that he had avoided the bullet for as long as could be reasonably expected.
Harry knew all of that would be true someday. He also knew that today, those phrases had everything to do with wanting to be with Ruth. He thought of mornings in hotel rooms, eating breakfasts in terry robes, reading the paper, laughing. Travelling, walking, making love. At times, he wondered what the hell he was doing here, when she was there.
And then, the other part of Harry Pearce took hold. This was the life he'd chosen, his job, and an important one. He would again admit to himself that he loved it almost as much as he loved her. That if he were with Ruth in those places for an extended period of time, he would be missing this life on the Grid in the same melancholy way. And for the hundredth time, he mentally closed the gap between his two selves, blending them into the man who loved his Ruth, but had a job he truly wanted to do.
Harry put his hand to his head and frowned. "How many times have I missed ... ?"
"Five." Connie was not backing down. Her stubbornness simultaneously brought out his deep respect and his sometimes deeper irritation. In this case, Harry knew she was only trying to help him.
He took a deep breath, and his voice softened as he got hold of himself. "Please apologise to her for me, and try to use all your powers to persuade them that I am still sane." He finally looked up at Connie in his doorway, and gave her a small smile, hoping it might charm her into making excuses for him yet again.
"Get down there, or you will be suspended." She turned on her heel and was gone. Harry sighed. Connie James was apparently immune to the famous Harry Pearce charm.
A quarter of an hour later, he was on the dreaded couch, thinking, God save me from word association exercises.
"Pleasure?"
"Cricket." Wish I was at a bloody match right now.
"Longing for?"
"Summer." She'll be home by then. In our home.
"Hiding from?"
"Aliens." Analyse that, you nosy damned shrink.
"Alone?"
"Scarlet." Did I leave water out? Think I forgot again.
"Reward?"
"Chocolate buttons." Top right drawer of my desk, and I'll need a few after this pointless hour.
"Missing?"
"Something ... someone." Oh, my Ruth. Three days since we said goodbye in Paris, and yes, I miss you already.
Harry's heart suddenly hurt, and he wanted so much to hold her. Thank goodness Connie burst in, telling him that Malcolm was reporting in from Halesworth. Harry followed her gratefully out the door. "Thank you, Connie. I think I was just beginning to get maudlin."
The click of their shoes echoed down the narrow hallway. He was actually having a bit of trouble keeping up with her. Connie said dryly, "Don't tell me you were lamenting the fact that there won't be a Lady Pearce to visit the Palace with?"
Harry looked over at her, surprised. Not only did no one know about that letter, it happens that it was exactly what he was lamenting. "Even by your standards, Connie, that's impressive."
"Harry, I haven't just spent my time in Norfolk drinking gin and plotting the Murdoch family's downfall. Oh, and just so's you know, somewhere I have a perfectly serviceable tiara if you need a last minute stand-in. Sic transit Gloria mundi, as they say."



Harry didn't have another minute to think about the Knighthood, or missing Ruth for that matter, until much later. There were lethal chemicals on the plane that went down, and now Malcolm had been exposed. With no way to combat the effects on his body, Malcolm was certain to die. Harry broke the news to him via the relay video. "The prognosis is not good. I can't put a positive spin on this, Malcolm. I'm sorry." Harry knew he had to stay focused, so he pushed away the thoughts that threatened to engulf him. My friend. My old friend.
A meeting with Bob Hogan in St. James Park, the rest of the day and night at Halesworth, and the relief in the discovery that there were no chemicals after all. Malcolm would survive. Harry finally crawled into bed at nearly 7 a.m. after being certain to set water out for little Scarlet.
It was Saturday morning, and Harry hadn't spoken to Ruth since the early hours on Thursday. She picked up her mobile sleepily, just enjoying the last of a dream. "Harry. Mmmmmmm. Good timing. I think I was just kissing you for some reason."
He chuckled softly. "You need a reason?" A yawn caught him unaware. "I'm calling to say goodnight, my love. I've been up all night and must get some sleep, but I didn't want to go another day without hearing your voice."
Ruth sighed. "You really need to do something about the hours you keep. I worry about you." She snuggled into the pillow with the phone at her ear. "But I am glad you called, Harry. I was going to sneak into the shop today and send you a letter if you hadn't."
"Do that anyway, will you? I love your letters. I read them incessantly when it's just me and the small animals." Harry's head was on the pillow too and his eyes were beginning to close. "I'll write back, because I have things to tell you." His voice was sounding a bit muffled as he pulled the covers around him. "I have to go into my office today anyway. A letter would be good ... "
"Get some sleep, Harry. I'm there with you. Can you feel me?"
"Mmmmmm, yes. I love you, my Ruth. Write to me."
"I love you too, Harry. And I will."



Harry arrived on the Grid at about 4:30 with take-away Chinese, and of course, remembered Ruth. So many reminders now, as their experiences together grew. In fact, it was unusual to get through even part of a day without seeing something. Necklaces, the hair colour of a woman walking in front of him, Chinese food, a photo of the sea, cats, lingerie in shop windows, travel posters, anything blue.
She lingered in his memory, wafting in and out, and he knew he was smiling more as he walked or drove, probably even as he slept. This was a Harry that was slightly foreign to him. The glass was more than half full, it was close to overflowing. He had to keep reminding himself that it was just happiness. Not a sign of weakness. Not a disease. Just happiness.
He booted up his computer and went straight to his email. Those magnificent words. RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. Harry smiled. They still used the same subject line as a matter of sentimentality.

My dear Will,
You asked for a letter, and here it is, with what's on my mind. I'll warn you now that it is a decidedly one-note symphony, and you'll likely be shaking your head somewhere round the middle of this silly communiqué. I've been thinking quite a lot about the question you asked me again the other night. The one to which I replied, yes, yes, and yes.
I find I am entirely and unreservedly happy whenever it crosses my mind, which is often. I had no idea I was such a girl, honestly - I rather thought I was much more sensible than this delirium is proving me to be. Something ancient, archetypal, has taken hold of me, and I now comprehend the giddiness I've seen in others in similar circumstances. I'm craving the ceremony of it, the promises, the public nature of the act. I also seem to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at my hand and losing track of where exactly I am.
Don't laugh, please, as I'm being painfully honest here. Will you be surprised to hear that I spent all of an hour the other day writing out my name as it will be? You should be proud that the rational part of me, the one that retains some semblance of a brain, managed to burn the piece of paper after.
Although you know I've always seen myself as a romantic, my current lack of logic still comes as a surprise to me somehow. As I've said, Austen has different kinds of heroines, and I've never fully been able to cast myself in the role of the romantic lead. It is, now that I stand here, such a lovely and insensible place to be. I'm so glad I held out hope for it and never compromised.
That said, if you will forgive me for being demanding before the words are even said, I do have two birthday requests. The first - I would so much like to share the moment with the same two who initially heard the question. I think another two bottles may be in order as well, at the same establishment?
I like the symmetry of that circle, and care for them more and more as I recall our new memories with them. There's a history of experience, the ability to let our true natures shine, and that seems to me to be what the day calls for. I hope it's possible, but if not, there will always be the gift of being alone with you, which is something I treasure.
The second request - you gave me your name once before, and I hope to have it again. I don't know how that's accomplished, considering you pledge yourself to a chimera, that which doesn't really exist. Even if it's not real, I'd like to hear the words spoken, somehow. Those words I wrote over and over again on the piece of paper I burnt became very precious to me in that hour.
As I mentioned above, logic seems to have deserted me of late. I'm hoping this will be the exception rather than the rule of our future, that my current mood is an aberration, due to the newness of it, but I'm not promising that's the case. I continue to think that nothing, and everything, makes sense. And I leave you, certainly shaking your head by now, with just these thoughts. I am astonishingly happy. And I love you.
Now I beg you to call me and tell me I'm sane. I truly need to hear it.
Your Elizabeth Bennett at last,
Sophie

Harry laughed as he finished, and marvelled again at how they read each other's thoughts, how they told each other exactly what the other needed to hear. He had been wondering about his own sanity just moments ago, but after reading her letter, he felt much better. The idea of her labouring with pen and paper, writing Ruth Elizabeth Evershed Pearce and every variation thereof, was a charming one. Harry smiled to himself. It's only happiness. Not a disease.
There was only one dark cloud on Harry's outlook, and it was characterised by an urgency to get to Paris, to make the dream a reality for both of them. Although he wouldn't admit it to Ruth, he was beginning to feel worried about his ability to get away. His early morning chat with Bob Hogan in the belly of that plane at Halesworth had put up so many red flags for Harry that he wasn't even sure which one to tackle first.
The Americans, the Iranians, Copenhagen, those who captured and tortured Zaf, the train blast in Tehran, weapons of mass destruction, all of it was linked somehow, and new information was coming in every day. Harry wondered if those few days with Ruth on Cyprus and in Baghdad were the last calm hours before a long and ominous storm. Reading her letter again, Harry did his best to push away his doubts.
Ruth's letter came from the innocence of being away from the Grid for ... he looked at his calendar ... sixty-one days, and Harry wanted some of that innocence, for one day and one night. As Ruth had said to him before Bath, the world would just have to turn without him for a time. On Tuesday early in the morning, he would take the train to Paris, they would get married, celebrate with Tom and Christine, and have a one-night honeymoon at Ruth's flat, which Harry was remembering now with more fondness every time he thought of it.
And Tom and Christine were an inspired idea. Harry had been concerned about the two of them standing up alone, likely with a pair of strangers. It hadn't felt quite right somehow, too clinical, too distant. This was the answer, and it was Ruth who had suggested it, which was even better.
Well, no time like the present. Harry opened his mobile to make sure they were free before he called Ruth. Tom answered, and Harry got right to the point. "Are you free on Tuesday?"
Harry could hear papers shuffling, "Think so. Yes. We have some figures to go over with the accountant, but that can be done anytime. We could postpone it. What's up?"
"I'd like you to stand up for me. As best man. And Christine as matron of honour for Ruth."
The silence on the other end of the line dragged for just a little too long. "Tom? You there?"
Harry heard a deep breath, and then, "Yes ... Wow, God, Harry. Sorry, I'm slightly speechless. Honoured, very pleased to be asked. Yes, of course. I'll ask Christine, but I know her answer. Of course we will." Now Tom was regaining his breath, and his voice was excited, "So fast? What brought this on?"
Harry sighed, smiling. "We think we've waited long enough. Life is too short as it is, don't you think?"
Tom answered softly, "I couldn't agree more." A pause. "I'm so glad for you both, Harry."
Suddenly Tom heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and Harry said softly, "Oh, my God."
"Harry, what is it?"
While he had been talking to Tom, Harry was glancing idly at the papers on his desk. He had just realised that for the first time in recent memory, he had a date with two women on the same day. One of them was the woman he was going to marry. The other was Her Majesty the Queen of England.
Harry's voice was small, distant, "Not Tuesday, Tom."
Tom frowned, "Not Tuesday?" He paused for a moment, confused. "What day, then?"
"I'll have to get back to you on that. Sorry." Harry sounded distracted, remote. "I just realised I have another commitment on that day, but I'll let you know soon, yes?"
"Yeah, sure, Harry. Whenever. We'll make the time." Tom was hearing something in his friend's voice, "Are you okay?"
Harry inhaled and got hold of himself. "Yes, fine. I'm not looking forward to telling Ruth, is all. We'll need to find another day." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Tuesday is her birthday. We wanted it to be that date, but we'll have to find another."
"She'll understand, Harry. Ruth understands."
"Yes, I'm sure she will. Thanks, Tom. I'll be in touch."
He closed his mobile and took a deep breath before opening it again. He pressed Ruth's number and waited for her to pick up, drumming his fingers softly on the desk.
Her voice was light, almost laughing, and he could tell she was outside, probably on a busy street. "Are you calling to tell me I'm completely daft?"
Harry relaxed and smiled. She'll understand. "If you are, then I am as well, my love. Haven't been burning any paper lately, but I've had the same thoughts. I keep thinking there's something wrong with me, but I'm simply happy." Harry laughed softly. "Unfamiliar feeling, happiness. Have to get used to it, I suppose."
"I'm shopping. Let me get somewhere a little quieter." The noise started to subside. "It's lovely, all the benches in Paris. They're tucked away in the most amazing places. There, found one."
Harry knew he was stalling. "What are you shopping for?"
"None of your business. I'm not the only one getting a gift on Tuesday."
Okay, stalling over. "Ruth, there's something I have to tell you."
A pause. The lightness disappeared from her voice. "You sound very serious, Harry. Are you all right?"
Without thinking, he just blurted it out. "I'm being given a Knighthood."
"God, Harry, that's fantastic! How wonderful!"
"On Tuesday."
Her voice fell. "Oh."
They both sat in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say. Finally, Harry spoke. "You know there is no one in the world who could change our plans, except perhaps Her Majesty." To the quiet on the other end of the line, Harry said, "I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so sorry. I hope you know where I'd rather be."
Ruth had found her breath, and she answered quietly, "I do know that, Harry. I do. Just bad luck is all. It doesn't have to be Tuesday. Gives me my birthday back, you know? This way I get two presents every year, birthday and anniversary, not just one." Her voice trailed off. "I was worried about that, you getting away with just one present every year."
Harry put his head in his hand, desolate. "Oh, Ruth." He didn't know what to say. "I love you, and I want this very much."
Now she felt a need to comfort him, and her voice rose just a little, "I know that. And we'll have it. Just not on Tuesday." She forced a smile into her voice, "Don't worry, Harry. It gives me more time to plan. Wednesday, then?" A small pause. "No, Thursday, May Day. May 1st, that way we'll never forget it. No, wait, that's Labour Day here, nothing will be open, so Friday, then."
"Friday." Harry opened his calendar. No meetings with the Home Secretary, nothing scheduled. "Nothing in my calendar." But once bitten, twice shy. "Ruth ... I never know ... "
He heard her sigh softly, but her voice held logic, not blame. "Harry, I know what it's like. You can't really know, can you? Is this a good idea? Making plans?"
He answered her quickly. "Yes." Suddenly Adam's words came into his head. Oh, come on, Harry, who are you kidding? No one in this place has time for a real life. "But I want you to know, in case some emergency ... or like last night, I had no idea I would be needed all night, and that I wouldn't be able to contact you ... but it was important ... "
Ruth laughed softly, without rancour. "Harry, don't. If anyone understands your job, don't you think it would be me?" Ruth paused for a moment, watching the people walking by at a slight distance. "Let me tell you something, Harry. And I want you to hear this and know it absolutely. You and I are already married. We were married in the Hotel Britannique, in a lovely, simple, private ceremony in a soft bed. When I said those words to you, I committed myself to you as fully as if we were standing in a church in front of hundreds of people."
Harry closed his eyes, letting his whole being focus on the voice in his ear. When he answered, his own voice was soft, and low, and he felt himself calming. "I know. I feel the same."
Ruth continued. "So I am your wife, and you are my husband." Ruth paused for a moment, taking in what she had just said. She repeated it, more softly, "I am your wife, Harry. Oh, I like the sound of that." She went on, "We only have to sign the papers. Somewhere, sometime, in this world that you're needed to save, we'll do that. And, after all, do any two people know more about the transitory and very fluid nature of legal papers?"
Harry managed a small smile. "No, I suppose not. But I want these legal papers, the real ones. I want it to be official, Ruth."
"And it will be. We'll try for Friday, but if you call me and let me know that there's a crisis, we'll find another day." She paused, and her voice became even softer. "It's very romantic, and it's a lovely idea, but it's a formality, Harry. Nothing more, nothing less."
His head still in his hands, Harry said quietly, "I should have married you when I had the chance, in Polis. I keep seeing you in a white dress on the beach, with tropical flowers in your hair."
Ruth sighed, and closed her eyes against the busy Paris street. "I can see it too, Harry. Maybe we should just plan for that. You tell me when you can get away, will you? Would Tom and Christine come?"
After the letter he had just received from her, her sweet romanticism about their plans, Harry was suddenly overcome by the lack of blame in her voice, the concealed disappointment, the calmness. "You're a very understanding woman, my Ruth, and I fear I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do. We deserve each other, entirely." Suddenly, Ruth laughed softly. "I just thought of something. I'll be Lady Pearce, Harry. Oh, my God, now you have to marry me. Sir Harry and Lady Ruth Pearce." She laughed again, incredulous, "Bloody hell."
Harry laughed too. "I feel another burnt piece of paper in your future."
She was still laughing, "Straight away when I get back to the flat. First thing."
Harry's voice was soft, gentle, "Friday, my love. We'll try for Friday."
"Yes, Harry. And you owe me a letter. Address it to Lady Pearce, if you please."
She was still laughing when she rang off.

~~~~~


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