CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The afternoon was lovely, peaceful, quiet. Ruth read in French to Harry from a copy of Bleak House she'd brought, and he sat, mesmerised, charmed by her accent, which was nearly perfect now. And they stopped to talk, as they always did, this time about the judiciary system of Dickens' fictional Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce. They listened to music, one of Harry's favourite pieces, Verdi's Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, with Ruth's head on his lap as she absentmindedly stroked Fidget, her eyes closed.
They were both tired, and late in the afternoon they went upstairs and Ruth got her nap, whilst Harry watched over her. And when the sun disappeared completely and dark descended on his bedroom, Harry slept as well. His arm lay gently over Ruth, his body formed to her back. In fact, they slept soundly for almost ten hours, finally, peacefully, together and at home. Fidget and Phoebe had significantly less real estate on which to sleep, but in their joy at having Ruth back, they made do. Even Scarlet moved closer on the rug, not willing to be left out.
When they awakened, it was Monday morning, and they had the entire day and most of the night ahead of them, as they didn't have to meet Tom in Dover until 3:30 in the morning on Tuesday. Over breakfast, Harry asked Ruth what she would like to do for the day.
"Am I allowed to go out?" She nibbled on a piece of toast, thinking. "I suppose the question is, do I want to go out? I haven't gone stir crazy yet, and how often do I get to be here with you? I think I'd like to stay here. Will that drive you mad?"
Harry shook his head. "Not in the least. This house suddenly seems the only place I'd like to be." He gazed at Ruth, and she looked so rested after a full night's sleep. Harry thought she looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. Wanting to cover the warmth he felt come to his cheeks, he took a sip of tea, forcing himself to stop staring at her.
"I have only one plan for the day," Harry said, "And that's to fulfil your wish for take-away fish and chips, my love. There's a very good place about three blocks down, and there happens to be a shop close by where we could rent DVDs. What do you say we rent a film or two, get take-away for lunch, and then I grill steaks for dinner?"
Ruth gave him a radiant smile. "Perfect. Oh, Harry, I'm very happy. Do I have to go back?" She was meaning it as an offhand remark, but they gazed at each other in earnest for a moment. Harry broke away first, looking down at his hands. Ruth looked sadly at him, and said, softly, "I know. I do." She reached across and touched his hand, just grazing it with her fingers, and as she did, she lightened her tone. "I'll be your brave officer, Harry, and get on that ferry as Mrs. Elizabeth Archer." She looked up and met his eyes. "But in my heart, I'm Lady Ruth Pearce, and always will be."
Harry could stand it no longer. He stood up and pulled her into his arms, gripping her so tightly that it hurt his chest, but still he wouldn't ease his hold on her. Ruth loved the way it felt, his strength coursing into her, and she felt even braver than she had moments ago. His voice was ardent in her ear, "I'm inches away from taking you somewhere exotic and living there with you. Tell me why I shouldn't do that, Ruth."
Ruth paused, wondering if she could come up with a good reason. "Because sooner or later you'd regret it?" It came out as a question, and Ruth supposed it was.
Harry sighed deeply. "I think it would be a long time before I regretted it." He pulled away and looked into her eyes. He thought of all the times he'd wished he could hold her, and couldn't. He leant down and put his lips on hers, gently at first, and then with all the power of the love that was surging through him. The thought of her leaving again tonight was a tangible pain. Too soon. It's too soon.
They stood that way for a long time. As Harry calmed, so did the kiss, and he moved his lips from hers to her cheek, and then to her hair. Ruth's eyes were still closed, and her voice was somewhat breathless. "Mmm, gosh, Harry, that's a kiss I won't forget for a while. Have you always been so good at that?"
Harry laughed softly, "I don't think so. You inspire me." Still he didn't move. "I don't want to let you go."
She snuggled further into him. "Now? Or ever?"
"Neither. Both."
Ruth spoke into his chest. "Let's take our tea and go into the lounge. Will you make a fire? We need to talk, Harry."
He knew what she meant, and she was right. They had to find a way to live with this, or they would go insane. "Yes. I agree." He released his hold on her, and they moved apart. "You get the tea, and I'll make the fire. But first, just one thing."
Ruth looked up at him, smiling. She put her lips on his cheek and said softly, "I love you too, Harry."
"Mind reader," he whispered.
In a few minutes, they were being warmed on the outside by a fire, and on the inside by hot, sweet tea.
Ruth spoke first. "I had a good talk with Tom on the crossing, Harry. He made me realise something." She paused for a moment, finding the words. "We ... well, I ... need to be grateful for what time we have together, and not always be wishing it could be more. Otherwise, instead of enjoying this ... " She swept her eyes around the room, ending with Harry, kneeling, just finishing up at the fire, "... I'll be forever unhappy, and miss the best part of us together, you know?"
Harry looked down at his hands, rubbing them free of the tiny pieces of wood from the logs. "That's good advice, Ruth."
"Do you do that too, Harry? Wish it was more, even when we're together?"
He stood and walked to her, "All the time." He sat down next to her and put his arm around her back on the sofa. "I try to stay in the moment, but I can't ever seem to forget that there's a time, an hour, that it will end." He moved a lock of hair away from her face with his finger. "A time that you'll leave. Or I will."
"So how do we stay in the moment?" Ruth asked.
Harry saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and pulled her close to him. The true warmth of the fire had reached them now, and he held her gently in the space beneath his shoulder. "I don't know, my love. But if I only concentrate on how this feels, right now, I can be here. If I think about how alone I'll be in this room when you're gone, I'm somewhere else. Maybe it's simply a matter of concentration, and discipline." He leant down and looked in her eyes, smiling sadly. "But when I'm with you, I generally despair of having either concentration or discipline."
She shook her head, looking back at him. "You see? Bad influence." She kissed him, and he felt her lips tremble slightly. When she opened her eyes, there were definitely tears there. "So, is it an indulgence? Are we feeling sorry for ourselves? Tom said ..."
Harry spoke quickly, with a tinge of bitterness. "Tom gets to sleep next to his wife every night. It's easy for him to say anything." He took a deep breath and released it. "Sorry. That wasn't fair." Nodding, he said, "Yes, I'm feeling severely sorry for myself. I have to remember that the choices Tom made in order to have his current life are ones I haven't had the courage to make. Yet."
Ruth kept her head on his shoulder. "Harry. What would you do if I weren't in your life? Do you think you'd still be thinking of the DG job, or of retirement, or of just leaving, as Tom did?"
Harry was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he spoke, slowly. "Before you came into my life, before I knew I was in love with you, I had reconciled myself that I would go it alone. I think I've told you that I never thought I would find a woman who would put up with me, much less one I would want so much, one who could challenge my mind and stand up to me." His fingers played absentmindedly across the skin of her neck. "Christ, I love the way you think. No one has ever surprised me the way you do."
Ruth started to sit up and look at him, but he stopped her. "No, I think I like saying this to the fire instead of being distracted by those hypnotic eyes of yours, my Ruth. I might go completely off the deep end and wax poetic, so you'd best just listen." Ruth settled back down wordlessly, smiling.
Harry continued. "So thinking about my life without you in it is impossible at this point, because we're entwined. Even if you weren't in my life anymore, it would be defined, in a way, by you not being in it, if that makes any sense at all."
Ruth nodded, and said softly, "Yes. Perfect sense."
"And in answer to your question? If you were to suddenly disappear, I would likely hang on to my job as if it were a lifeline, my love. I would go back to the man who felt it was all there was, a man who would stay far too long to be of any use to anybody. Probably either die of old age seated at my desk, or behave badly in a dangerous situation and thus put paid to any speculation about whether I should be forcibly retired."
He felt Ruth sigh deeply, and now he turned her shoulders so that he could look at her. One tear had fallen, and she wiped it quickly away, unable to meet his eyes. He spoke quickly, "No, no, my Ruth. Oh, that sounds sad to you, doesn't it? No, it's not. It's what I've known for years, until very recently. Until you."
"But Harry, you're worth so much more than that. Your heart is enormous, full of love." Ruth reached her hand up to stroke his cheek, "Such tenderness, passion, sweetness in you. You hide it well, but it comes through anyway. I've always seen it. It's who you are, your essence, and you would push that away?"
He looked tenderly at her. "Ah, my Ruth. I've said you see the best in me, but you don't know how few others do." Smiling, he said, "Don't you know? I'm the cold bastard, the heartless son-of-a-bitch who makes decisions that force good people to walk into danger, the man who will die with his teeth clenched and his boots on. That man."
"They don't know you, Harry." She put her arms around him. "They don't know about your soft underbelly."
He gave a low laugh. "And for God's sake, don't tell them." He whispered to her, "So you're saying I'm a fraud, Ruth?"
She smiled up at him. "I'm saying you're a complex, multifaceted man. There are many sides to you."
"And you love them all?"
"Yes. Every one of them. The tender and the infuriating."
He leant down and kissed her. "Then don't ever leave me, my Ruth."
"Done." They watched the flames as they danced and licked at the brick fireplace. Both worked at being simply in the moment. Unfortunately, it was with limited success, as their minds turned again to the ferry ride Ruth would take when this night was almost over. Ruth pushed the thought away, determined to be cheerful.
She sat up to take a sip of her tea, and pulled a face. "Gone cold." She kissed Harry gently and said with a sweet smile, "Cripes, we talk a lot. Can't even manage to finish a decent cup of tea."
Harry handed her his cup as well and said, sadly, "And we didn't solve a bloody thing, did we?"
Ruth sat up straight. "Yes, we did. We determined that if I left you, you would be a miserable, sodding mess. And then we determined that I would never leave you. We solved quite a lot, actually." She stood up, taking her cup and Harry's with her to the kitchen.
Harry looked after her, smiling. "Ah, good, then. Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted out." As she steeped fresh tea for them, he sat, completely in love, and still wondering how he would let her go tonight.
Harry was baffled. "Why would she run in front of a train? She had everything to live for."
Ruth was still sniffling, as the credits for The Red Shoes ran across the screen. "Because she was so conflicted, between her desire to dance, wanting to be with Julian, and needing to fulfil her promise to Lermontov. She couldn't do them all, could she?"
Raising his eyebrows, Harry asked, "So she does none of them? That's not a choice. That's cowardice."
Dabbing her eyes, Ruth said, "No, it's romantic."
"Broken and bloody on the railroad tracks. Julian distraught. Lermontov with a theatre full of paying customers and no lead dancer. All that time training for the ballet, for naught. Romantic?" Harry pulled out The Gold Rush and walked toward the television.
Ruth sniffed again, but Harry could see she was trying not to laugh. She managed to stifle it, and said, gruffly, "I take back everything I said about your soft underbelly."
"Thank God for that." He walked back to her, remote in hand. "Now for a real film." Sitting next to her, he put his bare feet up on the table in front of him after moving the paper trays that held the remains of the fish and chips. "Chaplin, Alaska, blizzards, grizzly bears, dance hall girls, and a happy ending."
His smug look was too much for her, and now she did laugh. "Men and women are simply at opposite poles. How on Earth does the human race survive?"
Harry put his arms around her, pulling her toward him and kissing her on the neck. "Because no matter how little we agree on the nature of films, we almost always agree on the nature of making love."
Ruth pretended to still be angry, "And maybe your sour opinions have put me right out of the mood." She started to push him away, but Harry was making her laugh, and she couldn't keep it up.
"Mmmm, you're not very often out of the mood, my Ruth," Harry said, in her favourite low, soft voice, right at her ear. "We're not together enough for either of us to get properly out of the mood." They were nearly lying down on the sofa now, but Ruth's elbow was uncomfortably near his bruise, and Harry suspected there wasn't a lot of comfort to be had on this particular piece of furniture. He eased himself into a standing position, and took her hand. "I think I fancy a nap."
Ruth looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. "I think I know precisely what you fancy, Sir Harry."
"And didn't you say earlier that you would always be my Lady Ruth?" He pulled her up, gently, and took her in his arms.
Ruth put her lips on his chest, just above the buttons of his shirt, and kissed him. Her voice was as low as his. "I'm not feeling very much like a lady right now, as it turns out."
Harry turned toward the stairs. "Ah, I have just the place for you. Follow me, please."
The alarm on Harry's watch went off at 7:00 p.m., and they both awakened slowly. Ruth put her head on Harry's shoulder, her eyes still partially closed. "Oh, Harry, all this luscious sleep! We've barely seen the light of day."
Harry curled his arm around her. "We needed it. And we won't likely be sleeping tonight ... " He stopped, not wanting to think about tonight. "Are you hungry for dinner?"
Ruth held him tighter. "No, not just yet. I want to stay right here a little longer. I'm very happy."
Harry closed his eyes again. "Then here we stay, my love."
They lay together, lost in their thoughts, luxuriating in the feel of the other's skin, the warmth that settled around them and the peace they found together.
Finally, Ruth spoke. "I have another question, Harry."
He smiled, "That doesn't surprise me, Ruth."
"I want you to know that I'm prepared for it to take a long time to get me cleared and back to England. I know it's not easy, and I know you're doing everything you can, but in order for me to be content with my life, it has to be my life, yes? Not just marking time until something else happens?"
Harry sighed. "Yes, I know." He had been waiting for this, and it frightened him, because he thought if Ruth really committed to a life in Paris, he wouldn't be there. He would remain separate from her somehow, a part of the past from which she was moving away.
She must have felt what he was thinking, even though he didn't say it. "You're my life, Harry. No matter where I am. Always know that." It was still early evening, and the sun was low in the sky. She turned so she could see his eyes. She saw the sadness there, and reached her hand up to hold his cheek. "Always."
He folded her into his arms, holding her tightly. "I know that. And I know that I'm asking you to stand in two worlds, Ruth. You can't do that forever. It's unreasonable to think you can."
"I will, for as long as it takes, Harry." She sighed. "But right now, that other life, the one in Paris, has no colour, no depth, and it's what I'm going back to tonight. It makes it so hard to leave you, to leave this..." She felt the tears starting, but she didn't want to cry anymore. Not while she was holding him, not when she should be grateful that she could feel him under her fingertips. "When I'm with you there's light, and joy, and passion in me, and then I simply wait until it happens again. It's like a half-life of sorts."
Sighing, she said, "Oh, I'm content there, I have a good friend in Isabelle, and I'm in Paris, for God's sake, how bad could it be?" She heard Tom in her head again. "We're so lucky, Harry, to have each other, to have this love, and I suppose it's the human condition to want more and more." She turned and looked at him again. "Is any of this making any sense?"
Harry stroked her hair, his eyes soft with love. "Yes, my Ruth. I know what you're saying, and I've felt it. The only thing that keeps me from being in exactly the same position is an extremely compelling job. And still I can't wait to get on the phone with you every night." He sat up a bit so he could see her better. "I understand the problem, I just don't know the answer."
Ruth continued, "So, my question is, after we get married, will it still be like this? Will I be kissing my husband goodbye in Dover? Will your wife travel across the channel, away from the man she loves ... will we ... " Now, she couldn't stop the tears, and Ruth turned back on to his chest. "I know I'm being ungrateful, I should be glad we have the time we do have ... but, God, Harry ... I want to wake up with you, and watch films we don't agree on, and read to you in French, and cuddle the animals, and ... I want this." She took a ragged breath, and rolled over on her back, her eyes on the ceiling. "And I'm whining, and complaining, and I was never going to."
Harry saw a tear roll down her cheek, and spread its heat into her pillow. Exactly the same pillow that held the tear he had dropped there, and he saw their pain mingle and blend right before his eyes.
He reached out and she moved into his arms, pressing her head into his warm, strong shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, and they both cried, not with sound or passion, just the silent slipping of tears on skin, and cotton, and hair, until they couldn't tell which ones belonged to Harry and which to Ruth.
Tom was waiting for them, exactly as planned, at 3:30 a.m. The mist was thick, and it felt appropriate somehow, as if they had stepped into the final scene of Casablanca. But instead of an airport, they were saying goodbye in Dover, as the bleat of the ferry horn bounced off of the heavy, saturated air.
Ruth would catch the early train from Calais to Paris. Harry would drive straight to the Grid, knowing that after two days away there would be plenty of work waiting on his desk.
They both felt it, but couldn't name it. Something ominous, a supplementary pain added to their usual goodbye. They held each other more tightly, and for longer, until the moisture from the air left a slight sheen on their skin, separate from the tears that Ruth couldn't contain.
"I'll call you tonight?" Harry touched her face with his leather glove, and then removed it, preferring the cold of her skin to the warmth of the lining. He couldn't stop kissing her, on her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, which were full with the emotion she was feeling.
"Yes. Tonight. Anytime." Ruth straightened the knot on the tie she had picked out for his day at work, the green one. She looked in his eyes, and then put her hand up and held his face, as another tear made its way down her cheek. "Oh, Harry, I love you so much. This has been wonderful, being here with you." She kissed him lightly, her lips quivering, "I want forever, but this is enough for now. I'm sorry I've been so sad, I don't know what it is. I just want there to be enough time, that's all. There's not enough time."
Harry pulled her to him, tightly, and whispered. "We'll make the time, my Ruth." Once more, he kissed her, a long, lingering kiss, and against her lips he said, "I love you, so completely. We'll do this again, I promise you. Soon." The ferry horn sounded again, and still he held her. He could see Tom, off to the side, point to his watch, and finally, Harry whispered, "You need to go."
She stepped back and took a deep breath. "I love you, Harry. Call me tonight, yes?"
He let her go. "I love you, Ruth. Yes, tonight."
Ruth turned and within seconds, disappeared into the fog with Tom. Harry couldn't even see the terminal from where he was, much less the ferry or the water. But he stood in the cold for a long time, until he heard the horn sound again, and then he heard the engines change pitch.
It wasn't until the sound had completely died away that Harry wiped his tears and got into his car. He turned out to the main highway and made his way back to London and to the Grid.
~~~~~
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
"Sixty-six people, predominately girls under the age of ten, have been killed by an airstrike by Israeli fighter jets on the Gaza Strip this morning. Israel has expressed its deep regret for the civilian casualties, but has emphasised that the real targets of its raid were planning lethal attacks on settlements in Northern Israel ..."
Harry stood with Adam on the Grid and watched the BBC News with a mixture of horror and fear at what would come after this atrocity. He had managed to make a start at clearing off his desk since arriving at 5:20 a.m., and now he listened, trying to regain the peace and stillness he'd felt for the last two days in Ruth's arms. She would be in Paris by now, at the bookshop, and he was back in the middle of yet another crisis.
If Ruth had still been here on the Grid this morning, she would have seen the sadness in his eyes. A new sadness, not directly connected to the little girls that died in the bombing attack, which was, of course, something impossibly sad and incomprehensible.
This was different, a melancholy look which rose from deep within Harry's heart, a feeling of loss brought on by the memory of Ruth's face in the mist, the vision of her walking away. No one else noticed, because no one else knew Harry the way Ruth did. She was the only one who would have seen it, recognised it. But Ruth wasn't here, seeing every movement, knowing him completely.
After the BBC broadcast concluded with an interview of Darius Bakhshi , Harry turned to Adam. "There are going to be consequences," he said. Just then, Malcolm came through the pods, and Harry motioned to him with his head. "Malcolm. A word, if I may?"
Malcolm followed Harry into his office and closed the door behind him. "Yes, Harry?" Harry came around his desk and sat next to him in a chair against the window.
"The bug that was found in my office, the Yalta bug?" Malcolm nodded as Harry continued, "Have you finished your look at it?"
Malcolm shrugged. "Pretty standard issue, no extravagant bells and whistles. Why do you ask?"
Harry wasn't looking forward to the consequences of his next statement. "I probably haven't been as careful as I should have been in this office about my conversations with a particular friend. On my mobile." Malcolm rolled his eyes and sighed, exactly the reaction Harry expected. "I wondered how much it could pick up, how long it had been here, that sort of thing."
Malcolm sniffed. "Harry, contrary to your beliefs, we don't have rules just so that you can break them. We discussed this. Inside this building, only use her call sign, Lady Lazarus, or LL, or whatever works best for you, but neither of her names, for God's sake. You didn't use her name, did you?"
Harry's silence told him all he needed to know. Malcolm shook his head. "And the place? Where she is?"
Harry looked up, his eyes darting. "I don't think so. I can't remember. I was just wondering if there was any way to know ... what ... it heard ... "
"Harry, it's not a bloody recorder, it's a wire. It transmits, it doesn't record. I've recommended a recorder for your office for years, but I recall you saying you didn't need one. Or words to that effect, and not such nice words, if memory serves."
Harry rubbed his forehead. "So there's no way to know what Yalta heard?"
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose we could put in a friendly call to Juliet Shaw and ask her, but short of that, no."
"And we're certain my office is clean now, yes?"
Malcolm nodded. "One can never say without a doubt, but yes, I believe so. What with Special Branch crawling through here, and our people, I would say you can be as sure as is humanly possible." Malcolm added, quietly, "But no one expected that Ros would be the one planting the bug, Harry. I could have just now put one under this chair."
Harry smiled. "If you turn on us, I think I'd have to simply call it a day, Malcolm." He put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I've been sloppy, and I'm sincerely regretting it right now. I apologise for any disrespect you've felt from me about the need for protocol. Please look at your notes from your debrief with Ros, and get me the dates the bug was in place, would you?"
Both men stood, and Malcolm moved toward the door. Harry sat at his desk and said, quietly, "And Malcolm?" He looked up. "Get me a recorder for my office."
As Malcolm closed the door behind him, Harry heard him mutter, "Well, it's about bloody time."
Harry needed to hear Ruth's voice. He opened his mobile to call her, and then closed it again. He couldn't bring himself to trust the safety of his office completely, so he stood, thinking the safest place would be his car in the garage below. He needed just a quick call to say hello, to ease his mind. But as he started for the door, the desk phone rang. Harry sat back down and picked it up. "Yes."
"How are you?" It was Darius Bakhshi.
Harry, surprised, said, "I saw you on television."
"How did I look?"
"Like any diplomat practiced in the art of double standards." They talked for a short time about the airstrike on the Gaza school, and then Darius said something that made Harry's blood run cold. He said that Israel might not be the one to pay the price for the attack, and ended with the cryptic phrase, "I have happy memories of London."
From that point, Harry was focused on finding out if there was to be a revenge attack on London, which is what he suspected Darius was trying to say to him. He felt he needed to take full advantage of the warning he had been given, and soon they determined through intelligence that the target might be a British school. His call to Ruth wasn't forgotten, but he was forced to postpone it.
And then, a call from the British Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. A body had been found, and it looked to be Zaf's, wrapped in a desecrated Union flag and dropped there. An autopsy would be done, and they would have the report the next day.
Finally, at around 5:30 p.m., Harry found a moment to make the trip down to the car park. Ruth's phone rang three times and then she answered. "It's so good to hear your voice, Ruth." He felt a wave of relief, and had to tell her right away what was worrying him. "I need to tell you something. I've wanted to tell you all day, but ... well, you know. Crisis after crisis."
Ruth was on the Metro, and she had barely heard her phone ring as it was. She was straining to hear him, but she still noticed something odd in his voice. "What, Harry? You sound worried."
"I should have told you sooner, but Ros planted a bug in my office, and I don't know how long it was there, or what they could have heard, but I want you to be careful, will you?" He realised he might scare her if he was too serious, and after all, there was no real evidence that she was in danger, so he tried to lighten his tone. "Just don't get into any cars with strangers, yes?"
She only heard every fourth or fifth word, but she heard clearly that he was making a sort of joke at the end, and she smiled. Harry was good at so many things, but jokes weren't really one of them. "No cars with strangers, Harry, I promise." She put her finger tightly on her other ear so she could hear him more clearly. She always felt self-conscious talking on her mobile when others were close by, so she kept her voice down. "Harry? I'm on the Metro, can you call me later? When I'm in my flat, and can hear you better?"
He raised his voice to be sure she heard him. "Yes, I will. I have to go back to a meeting anyway. You must be exhausted. I know I am. When did we sleep last? Yesterday afternoon, I think?"
Her voice was soft, but he could still hear it on his end, even over the muffled noise of the rails. "It was so lovely being there with you. I'm tired, but I don't mind it, Harry."
"I know, I feel the same. I miss you already, my love. We'll talk later. I'll call when I'm on my way home." He paused, and then, "I love you, Ruth."
"I love you, too, Harry."
When she got home, she waited for quite awhile, but her mobile didn't ring. Harry did everything he could to get out quickly, but between the arrangements for the return of Zaf's body, security for the upcoming visit of the Argentinean President, and the continuing intel about the schools that might be attacked, it took him longer than he anticipated.
As she'd told Harry, Ruth was tired, and wanted to take a quick shower before falling into bed. She reached into her carry-all, still unpacked from her trip to London, and her hand encountered something hard, square. She pulled it out and smiled. A bar of sandalwood soap with a post-it note attached that said simply, "Think of me."
She went to the dresser and pulled out his shirt. Then she rubbed the soap lightly across the collar, and inhaled the lovely aroma. Ruth sat on the bed with her eyes closed and the shirt covering her face for a few long minutes. She was thinking of their two days together, and wondering, if she had him every day, would she take him for granted? She couldn't imagine she ever would.
When Harry did finally get the chance to ring her, she was in the shower. He left her a message, wishing her sweet dreams and telling her again that he loved her. She saw the message and listened to it before she went to bed. Tonight she wore his shirt to sleep.
At a little after 2:00 a.m., there was a soft knock at her door. Still partially lost in a dream of him,
Ruth looked sleepily at the clock, and her heart filled. Harry. He'd come to surprise her. It could only be him at this hour. She hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans under his shirt. She opened the door, groggy, smiling.
The light in the hall must have burnt out, she thought. Must ring the manager.
And the last thing Ruth was aware of was the sting of a pinprick in her neck, as the world spun and then went black.
Next morning, Harry briefed the rest of the team in the meeting room. "Zaf's body will arrive at Northolt. His family have requested that we stay away, so we'll respect that."
"He was taken by a group calling itself the Redbacks," Adam said. "They operate by extracting information for a primary client and then selling on down the food chain."
"As far as Pakistan?" Connie asked.
"Well, we think he was drugged and taken out of the country, but the big question is what he might have revealed about us under torture."
Connie opened a file folder. "The autopsy threw up an interesting detail. At some point, one of his guards must have given him a soft drink in a can. He used the ring pull to scratch something on his foot."
Connie squinted, and she could just make out what it was in the autopsy photo. Puzzled, she said, "L.V. two something."
Ruth awakened in the corner of a very small room containing a table, two chairs, and nothing else. She was barefoot, cold and hungry. Her left hand was just in front of her, and it looked strange, empty. Then she remembered that her ring and necklace were still on the counter in the bathroom at her flat, where she had left them while she showered. She wore only her jeans and Harry's shirt.
She sat up, shaky and disoriented, her muscles sore from the hours on the hard, cold floor. There was a bright overhead light, and she squinted against it, looking around her. Things were still spinning a bit, so she took her time. When she felt strong enough, she stood, and holding on to the wall for support, she made her way to a large metal door, the only one in the room.
Ruth knocked on it, at first softly, and then harder. "Hello?" She felt tears beginning to form, and swallowed them. This was clearly not a time to be fragile, so she called upon all of her reserves of strength. She rubbed her neck, feeling the soreness there, and tried to remember exactly what had happened.
A small window, too high up to look through, showed morning light, and Ruth suspected she had been unconscious for some time. What was less clear was where she was. Was it possible she wasn't still in Paris? She could be anywhere, for all she could see.
She moved one of the chairs over to the window, and standing on it, there was nothing but a hazy brick wall visible through the bars. The panes of glass were thick and dirty, and the window looked to be painted shut.
Once more, Ruth went to the door, and called out, louder, "Hello? Is someone there?" She pounded a while longer, and then gave up. She moved the chair back to the table and sat, her knees pulled up to her chin, shivering slightly from the cold, but shaking more from the hard ball of fear that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.
Ruth heard keys in the lock at the door. The door opened, and in walked Juliet Shaw.
"Hello, Ruth."
Ruth didn't speak. She couldn't. Her terror now turned her to ice. Although she pushed it away immediately, the only thought in her head was Harry's description of Juliet plunging the needle into Ros' neck.
Juliet was wearing a business suit, and might as well have just stepped out of a meeting in Harry's office. She used the same officious tone, and had the same aristocratic bearing that Ruth had seen countless times on the Grid. But what caught Ruth's attention most sharply was that Juliet was pacing around the small room on two very able legs.
Juliet's voice was sarcastic, lilting. "Imagine my surprise, Ruth, when a photo of Sophie Persan was put in front of me." She turned, her head tilted ominously, and walked toward Ruth. "I knew it couldn't be you." Juliet stopped, put both hands on the table in front of her and leant forward just a little, "Because you're dead."
The mixture of hatred, anger and fear Ruth was feeling turned her face into a mask. The natural downturn of her mouth was now etched there, her eyes like molten steel on Juliet.
Juliet, on the other hand, was all sweetness. "I did tell Harry not to let the opportunity pass him by. I just didn't tell him whose opportunity it was." Her eyes were locked on Ruth's. "Poor Harry. I tell him you're in love with him, and what does he do? He promptly falls in love with you. Simple as moving chess pieces." She looked at Ruth in mock sympathy. "You don't think he got that idea all on his own, do you?"
Ruth's breath left her, but not due to any doubt of Harry. Juliet could never touch their love, no matter how much heavy-handed, transparently evil psychology she tried to use on Ruth. It was the "chess pieces" reference that hit Ruth so hard. The fact that all along, it was a plan. That Juliet had been scheming, trying to use her, all those months ago.
Juliet was still talking, now pacing again. "Unfortunately, we didn't count on that miserable ferret Oliver Mace deciding to use you first." She leant against the wall and turned to Ruth. "And then, you bloody died. What a phenomenal waste that was. You're a very valuable commodity, Ruth. In bed with Harry Pearce? Pillow talk?" She laughed, but Ruth heard no joy in it. "I thought for a time I might get there again, but Harry has always been unreasonably suspicious of my motives."
Juliet moved under the small window, high in the wall. "But you. Innocent, naive, and so sweet. When he finally told me he was in love with you, I would have laughed, if I hadn't had an acting job to do. He'll tell you anything, won't he?" She turned to Ruth, her eyes like cut glass. "And he has, hasn't he?"
Ruth stared her down, refusing to speak. Juliet pulled the second chair from the other side of the table and set it next to Ruth's. She sat down, close to her, and leant in, putting her arm around Ruth's shoulder. Just like two friends, having a chat, except that Ruth's eyes remained riveted on the wall in front of her. Juliet whispered to her, her voice cold, calculating.
"You will talk, Ruth. I killed Ros because she made me angry. I let Harry live because we need him where he is. But you," she moved closer, and Ruth felt the movement of breath in her hair, "You we will sell on, just as we did Zaf. And the people who will buy you will not be nearly as nice as we are. There's been some interest, as it seems they already know about you." Juliet's voice rose, and she frowned up at the brightness of the light overhead. "Weren't you supposed to be in exile, thought to be dead? How did they know about you? Not really very good at this spying business, are you, Ruth?"
Not expecting an answer, Juliet continued. "So at this point in time, believe me, we're actually protecting you from something much, much worse. And, of course, keeping them from getting you for free, which would not be in our best interests. If you decide to work with us, we'll continue to protect you from them, and you'll simply go on with your double life as it is now. Sleep in your dear Harry's bed and listen to his ramblings, and then tell us what he says. Simple. And safe."
Ruth turned to her now, and their faces were just inches apart. She could smell Juliet's very expensive perfume, French of course, and it nearly turned her stomach. With the venom evident in her voice, Ruth whispered just one word.
"Never."
Silently, Juliet stood and moved the chair back to its place. She walked to the steel door and knocked once, her eyes still on Ruth. When it opened, she stepped into the doorway. Before she closed the door Juliet said, casually, lightly, "We'll see about that."
The door clanged shut, and echoed through the room. Ruth leant forward and put her arms on the table in front of her, and now she allowed her breath to come in the short bursts demanded by the panic she had been holding inside. One tear slipped out, then another, until they fell on the table and spread into the porous wood.
It will never end. I will never be safe. Anywhere. Ruth looked down at her hands, and then to her shirt. Harry's shirt, that still smelled like sandalwood. Like him.
She could almost see the target painted there.
Adam burst into Harry's office. Harry had been expecting him, but he was more distraught than he'd seen him in a long while. Adam was shouting, "I can't believe they've taken Jo!"
"Adam! Calm down."
They both knew who had taken her. The Redbacks. The ones who had tortured Zaf. And now they knew so much more about them. Professional torturers who extract information, probably for Al Qaeda's British affiliates, and then they either kill, or trade agents on, for large sums of money. They had a network all over the world, and no security services were safe from them.
As Harry stood watching Adam pace his office, he tried to erase his memory of the photos of Zaf's body. He tried even harder to keep himself from putting Jo in that picture. And apart from the personal aspects of the torture and loss of another friend and colleague, it would be catastrophic for MI5's operations if Jo were to tell what she knew.
Adam took a deep breath, but couldn't stop his pacing. "They broke in through the back. Everything else was untouched. We've got hours to find her, otherwise she's lost."
"Yes." Harry was just as upset as Adam, but as usual, he needed to be the one to keep his head. He cared deeply for Jo, but he didn't have room for one more thing on his plate at the moment. "We also have a school under threat, and some bloody 'Carlos the Jackal' wannabe on the loose." In his head, Harry repeated his mantra. The scale can't tip toward just one person. Even if it's Jo.
Adam moved closer to Harry and stood in front of him, challenging him. "Every time. Every time we offer our people up as a sacrifice. Well, not this time, Harry. Not this time!"
"You don't even know where to start." Harry stood his ground and held Adam's eyes, unblinking.
"Wrong. We've got Hogan. He has a link to them, and he can do a deal without them even knowing it's us behind it. Put a tracker on the money. We go in, we take these bastards out. All our security's compromised anyway, but we don't need to make that argument here. We get Jo back." There was fire in Adam's eyes, just inches from Harry's. "No debate."
Harry thought it through. It was good plan, as long as the Redbacks didn't know it was the British Government that was buying their own agent back. Adam was no good to him until this was resolved anyway, and Harry knew that whether he said yes or no, Adam would go. Finally, he gave Adam a minuscule nod, and one directive. "Nobody knows."
"I'll need Malcolm to sort some trackers for the money."
Harry needed to keep this as quiet as possible. "He mustn't know the money's for Jo. He must think you're paying for information about Zaf." Adam nodded, and started to leave Harry's office.
"And Adam. " Harry stopped him at the door. "You're on your own. If you take too long, I'll haul you back in."
Unfortunately, even that wasn't possible. It turned out that Hogan was not only working with the Redbacks, he was working for them. Adam found Jo, but he found her by being put in the same cell with her. And in fact, Jo had only been bait for them to get the bigger prize, MI5's senior officer, Adam Carter. He had walked right into their trap.
Aside from the discomfort of the earlier conversation with Juliet, Ruth wasn't being treated badly. There was a woman named Magritte who had been kind to her, and had brought her breakfast and coffee. She'd walked her down the hall and allowed her to wash her face and brush her hair. Ruth was cold, so Magritte had given her a sweater, and some socks to wear.
Ruth knew precisely why. There needed to be someone here whom Ruth would trust, someone who would be able to gain her confidence. They knew Ruth wasn't a field officer, that she wasn't as hardened as Ros, not as skilled at this sort of thing. If they were to get her to go back to Harry, to be a mole, there needed to be someone with whom Ruth would talk, someone who seemed human. It was classic tradecraft, and Ruth didn't care. It made her feel better, less scared. It allowed her to think. It gave her time to plan.
As she sat across from Magritte, Ruth's mind was working on the puzzle. She had already determined that the only way she would get out of this was to pretend that she would, in fact, inform on Harry. Her earlier "never" to Juliet, she realised now, was nothing more than bravado, and held no weight behind it. The only card Ruth had to play was her relationship with Harry, and as long as they thought there was a chance she would do as they asked, they wouldn't sell her on.
But why would they think Ruth would even consider informing on Harry? Wouldn't they know that she would simply say yes to get away? The only answer was that they had no idea what was in her heart. Juliet had tipped her hand a bit without knowing it. If Juliet thought she had orchestrated Ruth and Harry's relationship, then she might believe that Ruth was not really in love with Harry.
Perhaps because Juliet had never truly been in love herself, she didn't think a love existed that was above being an "opportunity." And if that were true, Juliet may think Ruth was just that kind of opportunist, someone who would pretend to love the boss in order to get ahead. A piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Ruth focused again on the woman across from her.
Magritte had been the one who had visited l'Alcove. She was chatting about the bookshop, and about her impression of Isabelle, and Ruth answered her in French, which Magritte seemed to like. They talked of Paris and of London, but not of the work they did. They ate lunch together, after which Magritte got Ruth some shoes, and they went outside to a small, enclosed courtyard. It offered no information about their location, but it did have a tiny patch of sunshine and warmth, and Ruth was grateful for it.
They were each giving a performance. Ruth could tell that Magritte was not pleased with this particular assignment, but she seemed a determined woman, and Ruth imagined she was very passionate about their cause, whatever it was. Now she wished she had asked Harry more questions about the people who had turned Ros, but she had a sense that Magritte was more than familiar with the whole affair, and might have even been Ros' contact.
But it was a dance, and Ruth knew that. If she capitulated too quickly, it wouldn't be believable. If she waited too long, they would lose patience and simply discard her. She may not have been a field officer, but she had watched from the Grid, and she had learned. So she peppered her conversation with a sort of discontent, an irritation, about her life in Paris. About her boredom, of missing London, and one fleeting remark about the "others" who had excitement in their lives.
Harry had let slip once, the "spaniel" remark that Juliet had made. He'd said it in passing, and they'd laughed at Juliet's impression of Ruth, but now, Ruth was very glad to know the type of person Juliet thought she was. An obedient sort, a pleaser, one who wanted to be liked. That sort of person would be easier to turn, and Ruth began to warm to her "character," the one she was playing. She knew Juliet was watching or listening somewhere. She tried to imagine the curl of Juliet's brightly-painted lips as she felt Ruth moving closer and closer to betraying Harry.
And underneath her fear, her performance, her planning, Ruth knew that her life was undeniably altered. As she talked with Magritte, as she smiled tentatively at the woman across from her, she grieved the loss of it bitterly. What could be her future? Certainly no longer in Paris or London. Deeper in exile, farther from him? Would he come with her? Could she even hope for that?
She wondered if he knew yet. As far as she could tell, it was early afternoon, but where was she? She could have gone across oceans in the night, drugged and unaware, but she thought not. Time was an issue. Magritte had spent nearly the entire day with her, and Ruth knew why.
Another piece of the puzzle. She remembered what Harry said to her in their phone conversation yesterday, in the parts that she could hear clearly on the Metro. He'd said that Ros had placed a bug in his office. So they must have some idea how often Harry called her. And they must know if he doesn't reach her tonight, he'll be suspicious. They would either need to let her talk to him, to reassure him that she was all right, or she would need to convince them that she was ready to start now to work for them.
Finally, Magritte left her alone. Ruth sat at the table, exhausted, knowing that a camera would still be on her. She played the spaniel, soft, sweet, no sharp edges anywhere. She laid her head on the table and closed her eyes, sighing, bored, as if to sleep.
Her heart ached. For him. For his pain, as well as her own. For their summer wedding, for their dream of a normal life, for films, and laughter, and making love. For their future, which seemed to have evaporated in this small room. She moved her arms up under her head, making a pillow for the camera, but really it was to catch her tears in the sweet-smelling cotton of Harry's shirt.
In another cell, in London, Adam immediately saw that Jo wasn't the same person he'd talked with yesterday. He quickly realised that she hadn't just been questioned, she'd been repeatedly assaulted. Adam felt powerless, unable to comfort her. "I can't say anything, can I?" Jo shook her head, numb. "No, no, you can't."
She talked to him about her father, and about the birds they used to watch together in their yard. And she told him about the injured ones who needed to be killed so that they wouldn't suffer anymore. Adam knew exactly what she was asking of him.
"I won't be tortured, Adam. They're going to use electricity, they took me to the room. And then I'll be passed on, to a new group, to be raped and tortured again. I know my fate, Adam. We know from Zaf what they do." She was pleading with him. "You owe this to me. You have to. It's not as if you haven't been trained for it."
Adam knew all he would have to do is break her delicate neck, so like a bird's really. A simple twist. But he couldn't do it. "No."
The tears were streaking Jo's face now. "Then you're sentencing me to a terrible nightmare. What's happened is just a start, you know that. I'm scared, Adam, I'm so scared. I'll give up the names of others, and then they'll have to go through this too, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I have names, Adam. This isn't just about us. Help me. You have to help me."
In the end, Special Forces made it in time. Adam and Jo were rescued. He held Jo's hand and she was put on a stretcher and taken out of the door that had held her in this horrible place. They were talking in those last moments about meeting when she was better, somewhere lovely, like Primrose Hill. Adam released her hand, but something was now in his mind, something that wouldn't let go of him, something he couldn't quite pin down.
Jo was wheeled down the corridor and was safe now. He finished up with the Special Forces officers, making certain that the Redback torturers were secured and on their way to interrogation, and then he made his way back to the Grid.
He would go home soon, but for now, he wanted to be sure his report was filed and there was no way those animals could get away with what they'd done to Jo. As he sat at his desk, he thought about his last words with her, and suddenly, it came to him. Primrose Hill.
"Oh, my God." Now he knew what Zaf was trying to tell him, and only him, because he was the only one who would know. LV2.
And Adam knew that another of Harry's officers may still be in trouble. It wasn't over yet. He stood and walked directly to Harry's office.
~~~~~
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Harry picked up his mobile to call Ruth. From now on he promised himself that he would follow the rules. He would call her Lady Lazarus. She would know, of course, that she had been named after the man in the New Testament who had risen from the dead at Jesus' hand, but the "Lady" would hold a meaning they hadn't even known when Malcolm had given her the call sign before she left for Paris.
It was only a feeling that Harry had, but something wasn't right, and it had to do with Ruth. He wanted very much to see her again, to see her eyes and know that she was well. But his "spy sense" was all muddled with the attempt on the life of the Argentinean President, the threat of the attack on the London school, and Jo's abduction. It was as if he'd been getting too much interference, and all it left him with was a nagging doubt, an amorphous worry, a kind of white noise in his usually sensitive personal radar.
But all that was over now, the complicated game of pleasing the Argentines and the Americans, and saving the British school. Jo and Adam were back and safe. Now he could call Ruth and ease his mind that she was all right. He would call her Lady Lazarus, she would laugh that wonderful laugh of hers, and the noise would go quiet in his head.
He opened his mobile and reached out a finger to press the button, just as he heard a knock at his door and looked up to see Adam standing there. He closed his phone and put off ringing her. One more minute won't hurt.
"Come."
Harry thought Adam looked tired, very tired. No wonder, as he'd spent most of the day in a cell with Jo, wondering when the Redbacks were going to begin torturing him, or her, or both.
"How's Jo doing?"
Adam pulled a chair toward Harry's desk. "As well as can be expected. It was very bad, Harry. She was assaulted, raped, multiple times." Adam looked down at his hands, then continued, softly, "She asked me to kill her before I let them have her again. I told her no, but I almost did it." Adam rubbed his face roughly, and Harry heard the weariness in his officer's voice.
"Go home, Adam. Get some rest. It's over."
Adam looked up, and for the first time since he walked in, Harry saw the despair that was still in his eyes. "I'm afraid it may not be over, Harry." He took a deep breath. "When was the last time you heard from Ruth?"
The question hit Harry with the weight of a hammer to his chest. His years of training kept his face passive, but underneath that placid look, his whole body was rebelling, heart, lungs, nervous system.
"I talked with her last night. Why?"
The one thing Harry noticed was that Adam couldn't look him in the eyes. Adam's eyes darted around the room as he spoke, landing everywhere but on Harry.
"In the briefing, Connie told us that Zaf's autopsy showed that he had etched something into his foot? LV2? I was so worried about Jo at the time that it didn't register with me, but I remembered something just now."
Harry's anxiety level was rising. He tried to keep his voice even, but the pounding of his heart was making it difficult. "What?"
Now Adam met Harry's eyes. And what Harry saw there terrified him.
"When we were on Primrose Hill, the day before Ruth left? When Zaf and I walked back up to the bench? He said something to me, just a joke." Adam sighed, exhausted. "He said, 'Well, I know what their call signs should be. LV1 and LV2, Love One and Love Two.'"
Adam leant forward on Harry's desk, his face stricken. "Harry. I'm afraid Zaf may have said something about Ruth under torture, and he was trying to let us know, trying to absolve his guilt."
Harry was grasping at straws now. "Why would they ask about Ruth? How would they even know to ask?"
Adam shook his head, his voice soft, "You know how it works, Harry. They don't ask. They take you to a place where you just tell. Anything."
Harry's face drained of colour, and he could feel himself losing control. So, not only the danger of Yalta, but now the Redbacks as well. Harry had experienced his own death many times, the feeling of watching his life pass in front of him in pictures, vignettes. But now, he wasn't in danger himself, Ruth was. And he saw her. Moments, fragments of her, laughing, in Bath, sitting across from him, in his bed, watching The Red Shoes, crying, loving him with her eyes, walking away into the fog in Dover.
The rushing of his blood was now so loud in his ears that it forced all the sound from the room. He was still looking at Adam, but he was feeling himself drift almost out of his body. And the thought came to him that if Ruth were to get ill and die, or be in some horrible accident and die, he would be devastated, broken, heartsick. But if she were to die because of him, because of this job, if she were to die the way Jo had described, or the way Zaf had looked ...
They hadn't let Jo see the photos of Zaf's body, but Harry had seen them. He shook the memory away, not even able to fathom the idea of Ruth in their hands. As soon as he pushed the pictures of Zaf away, Jo's haunted eyes took their place. What they do to women, oh God. He felt nearly paralysed with horror, and regret, and fear.
The scale can't tip toward just one person. Yes, it can. It will. Now instead of fighting the vision of Jo, it was the vision of his Ruth. No. Harry couldn't live with that. He wouldn't want to.
"Harry?" Adam was still looking at him, and Harry knew he had to get a grip on himself. He either had to hand this over to Adam, or begin to function again. And as his senses returned, marginally, he realised that they first needed to find out where Ruth was, to get her to safety, and then they could go from there.
Adam saw the life return to Harry's eyes, and he was grateful for it. Harry said, "Get Malcolm. And come back here." Harry was picking up his mobile as Adam left his office.
First, Harry tried Sophie's mobile, which went immediately to voicemail. He left a message from William Arden, asking for a first edition copy of Ovid, and could she call him immediately with its availability? He knew that would get her to call him, that she would know it was urgent.
He pressed in another number and heard it ring, once, twice, three times, before hearing, "Bonjour. l'Alcove." He had hoped it would be Ruth's voice, but it was Isabelle.
He had to trust Malcolm, that his office was clean. There was no time to find ways around the things he needed to say. In any case, once they got her to safety, Ruth would need a new identity. "Isabelle. It's James. May I speak with Sophie?"
The surprise was evident in Isabelle's voice. It was the first time Harry had spoken to her since he first called so long ago asking for a place for Ruth.
"James! Mon dieu, how wonderful!" Then her voice fell, "Ah, Sophie will be so sad to have missed you. She's not here. She left a message on the machine. She is under the weather, and oh, she sounded terrible. A headache, she said." Isabelle paused. "But strange, you know? She sounded more as if she had a cold, a different sound to her voice, somehow."
Harry felt himself drifting again, and willed himself back. "What time was this, Isabelle? The message?"
Isabelle's tone changed slightly, as she heard Harry's urgency. "Yes, it was in the middle of the night, what did it say, 2:30 a.m. or so? I thought it strange somehow that she didn't wait until morning to see if the headache had gone away ..." Her voice trailed off as Harry interrupted her.
"Isabelle, I need you to do something for me. Sophie may be in danger. I need you to close up the shop and go to her flat to make sure she's there. Will you do that for me?" Harry's voice left no room for negotiation, and Isabelle heard that very clearly. "Someone will meet you there. A friend of mine. He will mention her name, and he will get you into her apartment. I want you to go, because I don't want to frighten her if she's simply lying there with a headache, yes?" He tried to soften his voice. "Will you do that, please?"
"Yes, James. Of course I will." She knew better than to ask questions, because she knew he would give her no answers and it would only waste time. As she shrugged on her coat, Isabelle was taken back many years, remembering her days with Pierre. She knew how to do this. She wrote down the number of Harry's mobile as he gave it to her and promised to call him the minute she knew anything.
Harry's next call was to Julien, a Six operative in Paris, one of the few he trusted. He gave him Ruth's address and asked him to meet Isabelle there and get her into the building and up into Ruth's apartment.
He sat back in his chair, shaking, his heart pounding, a knot in his stomach. Oh, my Ruth. Not you. Yalta. The Redbacks. Cold, lethal, uncompromising. You are my outstanding officer. Do not be afraid. Would anyone be there for her? For his Ruth?
And then Harry closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in as long as he could remember. He made a bargain with God. If they could get her safely out of this, he would remove her from danger, once and for all.
He'd been indulgent, he knew, and sloppy. His need for her had clouded his judgment. Calls, emails, visits, for God's sake. A lunch in the open air with ex-MI5 and ex-CIA? Travelling to England? Fish and chips, DVD shops, his house? He had wanted so much for them to have a life together that he'd forgotten everything he'd ever learned. What had he been thinking?
All he could think about now was getting her to somewhere safe. And safe meant away from him, away from MI5, from any connection to the Security Services. He knew, right now, without a doubt, that if he had to make that choice - to have her safely away, but to never see her again, he would make it. To know that his Ruth, his love, the woman who owned his whole heart, was alive and out of danger, he would give her up for the rest of his life.
Adam came back in with Malcolm. The look Malcolm saw on his old friend's face made him take a sharp breath. "Harry. Any word?"
"She's not at work. Isabelle had a message about a headache at 2:30 in the morning. I have people going round to check on her." His voice was low, measured, but both Adam and Malcolm could see he was right on the edge.
They sat for a time, waiting. Any plans were futile until they knew where she was. So they waited, their minds racing, willing Harry's mobile to ring.
When it did, moments later, he pressed the button. "Yes. Yes. Thank you for your help, Isabelle. No, worrying won't help her. Call me if she contacts you, yes? You've done all you can. We'll let you know. Please hand the phone to Julien. Yes, I will, thank you again." There was a slight pause, and Harry's tone changed completely. "I'll need to know anything you find out, Julien. We think it may be Redbacks. I'm sending Adam Carter. Yes, good idea."
Harry closed his mobile. "She's gone. No sign of a struggle, but the hall light was shattered. Six is starting an investigation."
For a moment, no one knew what to say. Then Harry spoke, more to himself than to the others in the room, "She's smart. She's very smart. She'll do what she can to buy us some time. If it's Yalta, she can talk to them, they'll want another mole, and she'll use that. If it's the Redbacks ... then ... "
Suddenly Harry looked up, as if he were seeing Adam and Malcolm for the first time. His eyes were darting back and forth between them, his breath was short, and they could see what an effort it was taking for him to remain in control. "I wanted you both here, because I need to ask things of you, and you're the only two who know about her, now that Zaf… now that Zaf is … " Harry put his hands on his desk and stood up, turning his back to them. They allowed him to get hold of himself, but when he spoke, he still had his back turned.
"I'm not going to be of any use to you on this one, because I'm so terrified for her that I can't think. Adam, I want to say two things to you." Now he turned to them, holding the back of his chair for support. "What you said Jo asked you? To kill her rather than let her face the same fate Zaf did?" Harry's voice choked, but he clenched his teeth against the emotion. "That applies here as well. I will not have her raped and tortured, not my Ruth." And then you might as well come back here and kill me, too, because I don't know how I live with an order like this.
Harry managed to speak, but he couldn't control the shaking. Holding the chair helped, but his fingers were white where they gripped it. "Adam, the second thing. If you get her safely away from them, she will want to come here. She won't want to go further into exile, and she'll try to talk you out of it. I want you to tell her, privately, that I told you to take her to ... find more colours of blue." Harry looked directly at Adam, and his eyes were sharp with fear. "Repeat that to me, Adam."
Wanting to calm Harry, Adam repeated it, almost as if he were a child. "Find more colours of blue."
"Good. She'll know where that is. Tell her I'll meet her there, tell her whatever you have to, but you get her there."
Now he turned to Malcolm. "She'll need papers. I don't want to know the name, but she would like ..." he started to falter, but took a deep breath and straightened again, " ... something from literature, she would like ... not obvious, someone obscure, clever ..." Harry's hand, the one not on the back of his chair, started to shake rather violently, and he moved it, gripping the chair again to still it.
Malcolm said softly, "I know. I'll choose a good one, Harry."
"She'll write, Malcolm. And she'll call. I won't write back, I won't talk with her, and I won't see her." He looked back and forth between them. "I have done this. I wanted her in Paris because I wanted her close to me. I wanted it for me. I've put her in the worst kind of danger. If we lose her, if we lose track of her the way we lost Zaf, if she's handed on, and on, and then a body shows up, wrapped in a flag ... " Harry pulled his chair toward him, and fell into it. "I can't ... I can't ... "
"We'll find her, Harry." Adam reached out to Harry's hand, which was still shaking, and put his over it. "We'll find her, and we'll get her to safety." Adam stood. "I'm going now. I have Julien's number. I'll take charge. We'll get her out, Harry. We got Jo out, and we'll get her out too."
Harry looked up at him, his face white. "You remember what I said? The two things I said."
"Yes, Harry. I'll remember." Adam walked out of Harry's office toward the pods. As he went down in the lift, on his way to Paris, he had only the vision of Harry and Malcolm, staring at each other with looks of infinite pain on their faces.
At that moment, Ruth was alone. Magritte had gotten her a mattress, pillow and blanket. She was drawing pictures on the ceiling, something her mother had taught her to do if she was afraid, when she was very little. When they were outside, they made animals out of the clouds, but inside, they drew pictures with their eyes. It was Harry's face she painted, smiling his best smile, the one that said he loved her and he always would.
She couldn't cry anymore. She didn't care if they saw her, but she didn't want to seem too weak. If they thought she would fall apart, they couldn't use her, they would lose confidence in her. So she thought of Harry smiling, and laughing, the way he did when she said something that surprised him. Ruth loved to surprise him.
They hadn't let her call him, and she hadn't pushed it. She didn't want to seem desperate, she didn't want them to think it mattered to her whether she heard his voice or not. They had to believe she was ready to betray him.
Tomorrow she would tell them yes, she would do it. She would tell them that she and Harry weren't really right for each other anyway, and she'd known it all along. She'd tell them she was afraid of the others who wanted her, and she wanted Magritte's protection. Whatever they wanted her to do, she would do. She would be Juliet's good little spaniel.
But the flaw in their plan was that sooner or later, they would have to leave her alone with Harry. She imagined herself taking off the wire and crushing it, and then throwing her arms around him and asking him to go with her, somewhere, anywhere, where they couldn't be reached.
She was so tired of all of it. Of exile, of missing him, of her double life, of feeling like she didn't exist. She was tired of riding the carousel, now turned away from him, leaving her in the dark. But as she drew Harry's face on the ceiling with her eyes, Sophie's words kept playing over in her head.
"I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time."
Ruth couldn't know that as Harry sat in his office, staring, unseeing, he was remembering her letter, and the exact same words were running through his mind. Whether they were from his own heart, or her heart had sent them to him, wasn't important.
~~~~~
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