CHAPTER SIXTY
The silver coffee service was laid out on the long mahogany table, set for three. Their dinner plates had been removed, and just the barest evidence of a lovely Boeuf Bourguignon remained.
"This was never going to work, Juliet. We all knew it, didn't we?" Sholto reached out to take the handle on the pot and poured steaming cups of coffee for Juliet and Magritte as they watched. "The best we can do is get a high price for her. It will help to finance our operations here."
Juliet was in a huff. She raised her chin to him. "I think you're wrong. And I still think it can work."
Sholto put down the pot and leant back, looking at her. "It worries me, Juliet, your obsession with Harry Pearce. There are other areas where we need to focus our energies." He moved to pour some cream from the silver pitcher. "Personal grudges are generally not intelligent, nor effective, motivators in the long run. You need to keep sight of the big picture."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "He's not an obsession, or a personal grudge. He's an important man, a senior Intelligence officer, and we're very close to having him exactly where we want him."
Sholto could see he was getting nowhere with Juliet, so he turned to Magritte. "What is your impression? You've spent the most time with her."
Magritte sipped at her coffee. "I think you're right." She stole a look at Juliet, whom she didn't particularly like, to see her reaction. She received the predictable glare, and returned it. Magritte looked back at Sholto. "I can't quite believe her. She wants me to think she doesn't care, but her eyes give her away. There is a sadness ... a desperation ... something, when she talks of him. I believe she loves him very much." She put her coffee cup down. "Very much, indeed."
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Sholto called out, "Come in."
A young man, dressed entirely in black, walked through the door. "Sir, I have some news."
Sholto motioned him forward into the cavernous room. The man moved to the end of the long dining table. "Our people have been watching her apartment, as you requested. They have reported that there was first an older woman, and then a young man who went inside, and then others. MI6."
Sholto calmly took another sip from the china cup. "Thank you." He dismissed the man with his eyes, and once the door was firmly shut behind him, he turned to the two women at the table.
"We'll begin the negotiating process immediately." He turned to Juliet. "How much do you think we can get for her?"
The Grid was dark, and Harry was alone. After the intense activity of the last couple of days, everyone had gone home to their beds. There was only the soft whirring of the computers and the blue glow of the screens.
Harry hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he opened them again to stop the visions that wouldn't go away. He was exhausted, completely spent, and nearly incapable of stringing his thoughts together.
Where is she now? He knew she was still alive, because his heart was still functioning. He could sense the thread that connected him to Ruth, stretched taut, but holding. If he put his hand on his chest, he could almost feel it linking his heart to hers, joining them. Alive, yes, but where? And in what condition? His eyes were starting to close again, and he quickly opened them.
Unfortunately, his only frame of reference was his own memory. His own abductions, his own experience of torture. It was all too easy for him to simply put her lovely, open face there, looking uncomprehendingly into the depraved eyes of the people who would do this. Her delicate, pale wrists held by cold metal ... and he could imagine other things, worse things ...
Harry stood up, for the hundredth time tonight it seemed, to shake himself out of the memory. He walked over to the bottle of scotch and poured another, needing it, although he'd told himself no more after the last one. He didn't want to drink too much, he wanted to be available to Adam, such as he was. But he needed to dull the pain, the panic.
And as he poured it, he felt guilty. She couldn't do this, could she? Dull the pain and the panic? She had to face them, head on, unaided by the numbness he was seeking. He left the glass on the tray and walked reluctantly away from it. If she can bear it, then I bloody well can.
As he fell back into his chair, he opened his mobile. Yes, still working. No new messages. He resisted the urge to call Adam. He would hear what he had heard the last five times he'd called him. No word yet. They were searching the traffic cameras for vehicles that were near Ruth's apartment yesterday morning. A Paris MI6 officer had gone missing last night as well, and they were coordinating the investigations, thinking it might also be the Redbacks.
Every minute that ticked by was another minute she was alone, probably cold, in pain, desperate, terrified. Harry felt the tears threaten again, and this time, unable to fight them any longer, he allowed them to come. He grieved for her, for himself, for them. He remembered her, just two days ago at his house, and every vision of her came with a sharp pain. He knew that he would never forget her. Could not forget her. Not as long as he lived. The best case scenario was that she would live apart from him in peace. The worst case ... well, that was unthinkable right now.
And behind Henry James Pearce, the one who was heartsick and terrified for the woman he loved, there lurked Harry Pearce, Head of Section D. It was inconceivable to him that even in this pain that beggared description, there was a part of him that was thinking of the job. Harry despised himself for the thoughts the other half of him had: Would she talk? How would it affect their operations? Would she give names? And he thought, in misery, Oh, she's better off without me. Run, Ruth. Run as far and as fast as you can from me.
And again, her words played in his head. I know we will be together one day. He pushed them harshly from his mind. That was the dream, and this was stark reality. He needed to face it, he was dangerous for her. Much as he'd tried to love her, to keep her safe, he'd done more harm than good. At every turn, their love had been a bargaining chip for someone else, reduced to a negotiation tool, and Harry was unwilling to allow it to continue. He knew that his love for Ruth was purer and more complete than anything he'd ever known. Too pure for this world, he thought.
Adam would tell Ruth that Harry would come to Cyprus, and he never would. She would reach out to him, not believing he could have abandoned her so completely, and he wouldn't reach back. She would move from hurt, to disappointment, to anger, to hatred. Then, though it pained him deeply, Harry hoped she would accept it and forget him. She would never know that this was the hardest thing he had ever done, and that he would love her, agonizingly, until the day he died.
Pressing his thumbs hard at his eyes, he finally let the sound come with the tears. A combination of anguish, frustration, and pain, an animal sound that he hadn't allowed free rein since he had sat in the prison cell so many months ago. He was letting Ruth go now, just as he was then. But this time it had to be a permanent, ultimate, unbending decision. Harry lowered his head into his hands and silently continued his ongoing talks with God.
Please let her be all right. Please keep her safe and whole. I'll never ask another thing of you as long as I live. I will keep my promise. I'll let her find a new life, a safe life. I'll set her free.
Ruth had closed her eyes in the early hours of the morning and found some fitful rest. She tried to remember her training, When there's no chance for escape, be calm and take the opportunity to rest, so that you'll be strong when the chance presents itself. She imagined she had slept for about five hours. She'd stolen looks at Magritte's watch throughout yesterday to get her bearings, and now there was a light glowing outside, blurry as it was through the small window.
They hadn't let her call Harry last night, and Ruth thought that couldn't be a good sign. She was afraid it meant that she hadn't convinced them, and if that were the case, she was of no further use to them.
Ruth's fear was increasing with every minute, but it wasn't a specific fear. She didn't have enough information, really, but the glint in Juliet's eyes when she said, "we're saving you from something much, much worse," was sufficient to tell her she didn't want to find out. That, coupled with the haunted look in Harry's eyes when he talked about Zaf ... This isn't helping, Ruth thought, and forced herself to sit up.
Ruth pulled the blanket tightly around her to fend off the cold. She needed to get her wits about her, and she did that best when moving. She stood, taking the blanket with her, and began to walk around the perimeter of the room. Running her fingers along the wall absentmindedly, she came across a seam under the bright, white paint. Stopping, she pulled on it. Wallpaper. And now she saw what she hadn't seen before, wainscoting, and a finely-turned chair rail under the paint. Ruth ripped a small piece of the paper away, and there was a lovely, elegant pattern underneath, probably very expensive, and very Parisian.
Now she looked at the room in a different way, not as a cell, but as a bedroom, small but serviceable. Perhaps a child's room, perhaps guest quarters, or even a maid's room. She closed her eyes and re-imagined the hallway and the bath she had seen. The courtyard, once elaborately landscaped, had now fallen to seed, but the evidence was still there. And when she tried to remember any sounds from her venture outside yesterday, she realised that there were no airplanes, no cars, just the gentle chirping of birds. Ruth went to the metal door, and yes, it was a recent addition. New hinges, new bolts, probably replacing a graceful wooden door.
So perhaps this was a mansion of sorts, not a prison. Maybe one of the thousands of villas that dotted the landscape all around the suburbs of Paris. Could she still be that close? If so, she also knew that one of the most attractive features of this type of estate were the wide open spaces that surrounded them, the acres of land and vegetation that came with the property. If she could convince Magritte to let her go beyond the courtyard, to take a walk, there was a chance, a possibility, she could get away.
Ruth was still standing at the metal door when she heard keys rattling in the lock. She stepped back quickly and waited. Magritte walked in, still smiling, but with a different look, not so conciliatory, not quite as kind. Ruth felt a shiver go down her spine, and she suspected that she didn't have much time left in this place.
"Good morning. How did you sleep?" Magritte asked her.
Ruth managed to find her voice. "Better, thanks. The mattress made all the difference." Her mind was racing, her fear escalating.
Magritte didn't see the flush that had come to Ruth's cheeks, because she was motioning someone into the room with them. The man who had brought their meals before came in with the tray and set it on the table as usual, but behind him, there was another man. This one simply looked pointedly at Ruth. Her thin smile frozen on her face, Ruth felt as if he were choosing a piece of meat from a butcher's window.
She pulled the blanket around her, her arms clasped tightly across her chest to fend off her sudden and inexplicable feeling of nakedness. Ruth had to remember to breathe. There was no embarrassment in his eyes, only a chilling combination of excitement, anticipation and raw lust. And then he was gone. Magritte stood with her head out of the door and whispered to him. Ruth couldn't hear, except for the final word Magritte said. "D'accord."
Agreed.
In that moment, Ruth knew a deal had been made. And if that dark, oily, steel-eyed young man was the one taking her, she had an inkling of what Juliet had meant by "much, much worse." Her panic began to rise, but she pushed it down, knowing that what she did from here could mean the difference between freedom or something worse than death.
Magritte motioned with her hand for Ruth to sit, and then sat across from her. Ruth's stomach was suddenly queasy, but she picked up a croissant and tore it as if she were hungry. She took a bite and suppressed her nausea, looking down until she could compose herself.
She smiled again, and looked up at the small window. "It looks beautiful outside. Sun shining?"
Magritte looked up from her eggs, "Yes, it's lovely." Then she said, rather aimlessly, "Spring days." Magritte was consumed with thoughts of her own. Sholto had given her the honour of handling the pass-off to the Redbacks, and now that the deal was done, she was trying to think how best to accomplish it.
She knew that Sholto disliked drama and noise of any kind, but also that he didn't wish to drug Ruth again. He felt it was always best for the buyer to see the full scope of the person they were purchasing rather than simply taking possession of an inert, tranquilised body. Magritte wanted to impress Sholto, and perhaps surpass Juliet in his mind. She had waited a long time for this, and wanted to make no mistakes.
So when Ruth presented the solution, Magritte couldn't believe her luck.
"I was wondering," Ruth said in her sweetest, most spaniel –like voice, "If there was any chance we could take a short walk today? Beyond the courtyard? I know it's asking a lot, but , you know that I'm going to work with you, yes? I won't go anywhere. I won't run. I don't want to."
Magritte looked up. Of course, a pass-off in the forest. Quiet, remote, away from the house. No fuss, a short walk, and then she's gone. She tilted her head at Ruth and smiled. "Yes, I would like that. Of course you won't run. We know that, Ruth." She took another bite of her eggs, inwardly elated. "Yes, a walk. That would be lovely."
They finished their breakfast with small-talk, the pleasantries they had used for all of yesterday. When they were finished, Magritte stood and knocked on the door. The tray was taken, and as Magritte left, she said, "In about an hour? I'll come get you, and we'll have a nice walk."
"Yes, I'll look forward to to it." Ruth heard the absurdity of her words, as if they were simply two friends going out for a stroll. But she felt hopeful, somehow. At the very least, this was activity. At the least, this was a chance.
In precisely an hour, the door opened again, and Magritte led her out. Into the courtyard as before, but then through a tall, wooden gate that led to a shadowy, wooded path. Ruth stole a look behind her, and through the thicket of trees, she could just make out the villa, large, imposing, and ivy-covered. A house straight out of a Jane Austen novel.
They walked on, slowly, until the trees began to get taller, the canopy rising high above them. Wordlessly, Ruth and Magritte threaded a path through the trees, which stood like wooden pillars. Ruth looked over at her companion, who had taken the precaution of wearing her pistol at her hip, and her hand was on it as a warning. So much for two friends going out for a stroll, Ruth thought.
Ruth's eyes scanned the forest, its floor thick with needles. The sun they had been seeking was barely visible through the broad overlapping of the evergreens above them. She tried to imagine herself breaking away and running, but her feet wouldn't comply. The gun at Magritte's hip was doing its job, frightening her, riveting her to the path. She looked up again, searching for a way out, and she saw something far in the distance. Two figures coming toward them. Her heart rate increased, and she realised she had walked herself right into Magritte's plan.
As they came closer, Ruth recognised the man who had looked at her earlier, and her legs began to falter. She slowed and looked at Magritte, pleading with her eyes. Ruth's voice was small, thin. "No," she said, but her companion simply took hold of her arm roughly and pulled her along.
Suddenly, there was a noise, and both of the women looked up. The two men were no longer coming toward them. They had crumpled to their knees, and two other men were now standing over them, holding guns. Magritte grabbed Ruth, and pulled her own gun, holding it to her head. But just as suddenly, Magritte's grip slackened, and the gun fell with a soft thump to the pine needles below.
Ruth whirled around as Magritte fell limply to the ground. Standing over her was Adam, smiling. "Shall I hit her again, Ruth?"
At first she couldn't believe he was really there. Then she threw herself into his arms, laughing, crying, and saying, "Oh, God, only if you want to, Adam."
As they drove to the safe house, Adam told Ruth he'd managed to find her on a hunch. Since the French Secret Services were already working on their investigation of the Redbacks, he thought he would focus on Yalta. He knew them better than anyone around him, although the French authorities had some knowledge of their mission.
What kept coming back to Adam was the memory of the large estate in the country. He thought there might be a pattern with Juliet and her aristocratic tastes, so he started looking at estates and villas.
That was no small task in Paris, and actually, he couldn't even be sure that Ruth was still in Paris. But if he put himself in their place, if they wanted from Ruth what they had wanted from Ros, she would need to go back to her life quickly in order not to arouse suspicion. And that would mean she wasn't far.
His was an investigation that relied heavily on instinct, because there was so little that was concrete to go on. But Adam believed in instinct, and he followed it. He hadn't been able to save Ros. He hadn't been able to save Zaf. But he'd be damned if he'd let another officer fall into their hands without a fight, especially when that officer was Ruth.
As it turned out, there was perfect synchronicity at work. As the Parisian-based MI6 officers worked toward finding their own kidnapped agent, Adam searched online for large estates around Paris. At about midnight, the lines converged. Through the notoriously invasive Paris traffic cameras, MI6 found the car that had taken their officer the night before. And that same car was travelling south, holding two Redbacks. Six's intel told them there was a big prize for purchase, and the road south led them to a forested area that was known for its lovely, old world mansions and villas.
They followed the car and Adam tagged along, working with his laptop, as the Redbacks were tracked to the edge of the forest. Their car stopped for the night, but Adam continued his search. Somewhere in the early morning, he found it. Almost a carbon copy of the estate where Yalta was headquartered outside of London, the one he and Harry staked out, where he had switched the syringes.
Adam thought it was more than just a coincidence that this estate was on the edge of the very forest where the two Redbacks were waiting out the night, ready to pick up their prize. Along with the MI6 officers, Adam waited for the Redbacks to make a move. When they did, he was exceedingly relieved to see Ruth walking toward them.
Adam finished his story to Ruth just as they stepped into the safe house. But there was one part of the story he didn't share with her. What he didn't tell her was that early this morning, he had called Harry to keep him updated. "It's only a hunch, Harry," he'd said. "I can't be sure, but we don't have many other options. We're waiting now." Adam paused. "But I feel it. It feels right."
Harry's head was in his hands as he talked to Adam from the Grid. "Thank you, Adam. I can't tell you what this means to me."
"You don't have to, Harry. I know. We'll let you know as soon as we know anything." Harry heard Adam take a deep breath. "And Harry? I'll ask again, just to be certain. If I find her, you don't want to talk to her? Is that correct?" His voice went softer. "Even to say goodbye?"
Adam heard a sound that couldn't be defined, a ragged sigh, a sound of such pain that he almost felt it move through the phone and into his own chest. "No, Adam. No goodbye. I've made a promise, and I'm going to keep it."
So when Harry got the call he had waited for all night, it wasn't from Adam, it was from Julien. "They are at the safe house, Harry. She is well and unharmed. It was Yalta, and they hadn't touched her, but they were handing her off to the Redbacks when Adam found them. It was just in time." Julien sighed. "We didn't fare so well with our agent. The trail has gone cold, and we know from experience that the Redbacks we captured aren't likely to tell us anything. Our agent is a woman as well, and we are very fearful for her."
Harry thanked Julien and closed his mobile. He walked to the glass of scotch that he had poured earlier and took a long swallow. Now that she was safe, he felt he could seek the numbness that came with the alcohol. He closed his eyes as the warmth moved down his throat and spread through his body.
It was nearly 8 a.m., and an early riser, an analyst, was just coming through the pods. Probably not a good idea to be found here at this hour with a drink in his hand. He downed it, quickly, and got his coat. Harry needed fresh air.
He managed to get downstairs without running into anyone, for which he was grateful. He walked past the guard at the front door and stepped out into the bright late-May sunshine in front of Thames House. Harry felt himself drawn to the River, so he walked toward it, moving through the throngs of commuters, walking or driving to their jobs. He looked ahead to Lambeth Bridge and the Embankment beyond it. A normal Thursday morning in London, nothing extraordinary.
Harry walked to the water and looked over it, squinting at the sharp reflections of the morning sun on the ripples there. Everything was as it usually was. But this would always be the day that Harry's life had changed forever, and he knew it. He had sent a desperate request out for Ruth to be safe, and against the odds, that request had been mercifully answered.
She was safe, but they wouldn't be together. She would find her happiness with someone else someday, of that he was sure. He smiled sadly out at the water. Closing his eyes against the glare of the sun, Harry let Ruth go. It was the most selfless and loving thing he could do for her. It made him feel a little better about himself, and it distanced him a bit from the world that would wish to hurt someone as genuinely kind-hearted and harmless as Ruth.
She was on her way to the tranquil sands and blue waters of Cyprus. Harry had the gift of being able to imagine her there. Any time he wanted, he knew he could bring Ruth to mind. He could see her standing on the beach, the wind blowing in her hair, laughing, and imagining more colours of blue.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Adam plugged in the kettle and pulled the tea down. He hadn't ever been in a French safe house before, but he was amazed at the similarity to the ones in London, as if they had been cloned and stocked by the same hospitality service. It was a bit like going to a fast-food franchise, the same in any country, standardised, homogenised, lacking in local colour, but comfortable, unremarkable, and recognisable.
Today he was very grateful for the English Breakfast tea and the familiar workings of the electric kettle. He hadn't admitted to himself, until now, how much the responsibility had weighed on him to get Ruth back. It had been two very long nights for him, and he hadn't slept yet. Adam knew he wouldn't, until he had a clear idea of what their day was to entail, and the first thing on his agenda was to find out just where they were going.
Before he could ask, Ruth had a question of her own. "Can I call Harry? Can I talk to him? I need to, Adam. Please."
Adam shook his head decisively. "It's too dangerous, Ruth. I'm under strict orders. No contact, from me, or from you. The Grid may not be secure, his mobile may not be, his car, we just don't know. We've been extremely lucky to get you back, and we're not going to push our luck." He poured the hot water into the cups and began to steep the tea.
Ruth watched, exhausted. She sat on a stool at the counter that divided the kitchen from the lounge. She still wore Harry's shirt and her jeans, and she desperately wanted a bath and a bed to sleep in. But she knew that before that happened, there were plans to be made.
"Where am I going, Adam? Can I go home now? To England?" Ruth's voice was so sad, almost a child's voice, asking for a treat that she knew was out of the question. She pressed her case anyway. "What does it matter now? I'll need a new legend. Can't I go to Liverpool, or Tweedmouth, or... " Ruth's voice trailed off, and Adam saw a tear slip down her cheek before she brushed it quickly away with the sleeve of Harry's shirt. She looked up at Adam, her eyes brimming, her mouth trembling. He walked around the bar and put his arms around her, and she cried some of the tears she had been holding in for days.
Adam held her, his eyes looking up to the ceiling. How much are we expected to give to this Service? he thought. He was so weary of it all, everyone wanting, no one getting quite enough back for what they gave. He patted her shoulder and let her cry until she calmed. Finally she said, "Sorry, Adam. Sorry. I know what has to be done. I'm not going closer, I'm going further, yes?" She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and moist.
Finding a box of tissues, Adam pushed it toward her and smiled gently. He reached out to get the mugs of tea, and handed one to Ruth. "Actually, I need you to tell me where you're going." She looked at him with a question, her head tilted slightly, as Adam continued. "Harry said he wants me to take you ... " Adam paused, making sure he got the words exactly right. " ... to find more colours of blue."
Ruth's eyes filled again immediately, and the tissue made it there just in time. "Cyprus. P-polis, Cyprus," she said with a light hiccough. "He wants me to go to Cyprus."
Adam pulled out his mobile and pressed in a number. "I'm calling the pilot. He's waiting for orders." Adam paused as it rang, and then said, "Polis, Cyprus. Yes. 7:30? We'll be there." He closed his phone. "That will give us time to get cleaned up and catch a quick nap. Are you hungry?"
Ruth thought back, and wondered how long it had been since she had picked at her breakfast with Magritte. She turned Adam's wrist so that she could see his watch. 10:45 a.m. She was a little hungry, but was more anxious for a bath and sleep. "Maybe just a quick bite? What is there?"
Adam made a show of going through all the cupboards. "Soup, crisps, olives, biscuits, more soup, ah, cassoulet?" He held up the tin grandly. Ruth smiled weakly at him, as if to say For breakfast? and he was glad to have at least gotten that small amused response. "Negative, then, on the cassoulet." He picked up a loaf of sliced wheat bread from the counter, and Ruth gave him a maybe look. "Something in the fridge?" he opened the door, "Boursin cheese. Beer. Lots of beer. Eggs ... " That combination caused him to pull a face, and this time Ruth's smile widened slightly.
She took a sip of her tea, and said warmly, "Thank you, Adam. Did I thank you properly for saving my life? I'll admit I was losing hope, falling into utter despair, as I walked toward those men. What did they want with me?" Ruth stood now, and walked around to the refrigerator. She pulled out the Boursin, picked up the bread from the counter, and got a plate down from the cupboard. Pulling open a drawer, she found a knife, and walked back around to the stool.
"Redbacks. They were the ones who ... Zaf was held by them for a time ... " Adam stopped, unsure of what to tell her. He decided to err on the side of caution. "They wanted you to tell them what you know about MI5, Ruth. They're not nice people. It's just as well we got you when we did."
Ruth took a bite of bread, spread with a generous layer of the cheese. She looked at Adam under her brows, frowning. "I have a nasty feeling that's a monumental understatement. You don't need to tell me any more. I'm starting to think that the less I know about everything, the better." She took another bite. "The safer for me."
Adam had decided on the cassoulet after all. He opened the tin and poured it out into a bowl before putting it in the microwave. He turned to have another sip of tea, and the buzzer sounded at the front door.
Ruth started, and looked at Adam with frightened eyes. He smiled at her, and said, "I'm waiting for a courier. Your papers from Malcolm." She sighed and sat back again. While he was at the door, the microwave sounded. She walked around and pulled out the cassoulet, getting a spoon for Adam. By the time she had it set up on the bar for him, he was back with an envelope.
On his way past the refrigerator, he pulled out a beer. He put the envelope down in front of her and shrugged as he opened the bottle. He held it up to her. "Might just as well. Haven't been to sleep in two nights, my body doesn't know what bloody time it is." He walked around and sat, ravenously tucking into the cassoulet.
Ruth opened the envelope, and was taken back to Harry's safe house in London. She had opened an envelope just like this one when she was introduced to Sophie Persan. Sophie had become a dear friend, and she realised that this time, she had to let go of Ruth Evershed and Sophie Persan.
She took a deep breath and pulled out the papers. She went first to the passport and opened it. There was her photo, the same as the one on Sophie's passport. She smiled, thinking that if this was going to continue to happen, she really needed to get a better photo to Malcolm. She moved her eyes down to the name, and a broad smile crossed her face. Oh, Malcolm, so clever. Thank you.
Faith Benson. A character from an obscure Elizabeth Gaskell novel, first published in London, in 1853. Not a primary character, but an important one, a kind woman who takes in the heroine of the novel, the one after whom the novel is named. The name of the book? Ruth. And as icing on the cake, the man Ruth loves? Henry.
She looked through the rest of the papers. Malcolm had been very thorough, and had even included a certificate of graduation with honours from a secretarial college. Ruth ran her fingers across the name, written in ornate calligraphy. Faith R. Benson. She looked back at the other papers, and found no middle name anywhere. So Malcolm had left her an initial for her middle name, one that she would always know stood for Ruth. Faith Ruth Benson. And yes, she would try to have faith. This time she said it out loud, softly, "Thank you, Malcolm."
Adam looked over at her. "I'll tell him you liked it." He had finished his meal, and was walking around to the sink. He took a last, long swallow from his beer and dropped the bottle in the bin. When he glanced up, Ruth was looking at him, her eyes looking so tired, so drained.
"Adam? When do you think I'll be able to talk to Harry? How soon? Can I send you back with a note for him? I want him to know I'm okay. How I'm feeling. He'll want to know."
Adam blinked and looked down at his mug. "He knows. He's gotten a call from MI6 in Paris." He looked back at her, remembering Harry the way he last saw him in his office. A broken, beaten man. Adam could only imagine how relieved he was when he got the news that she was safe. He said again, more quietly, "He knows, Ruth."
Ruth frowned at Adam, seeing something there in his eyes. She suddenly understood, and felt her heart clench in her chest. "Oh, God, no, Adam. He feels responsible, doesn't he? He thinks this is his fault. His office was bugged, he should have known better, he was breaking rules..." Adam looked away. He knew he was too tired to pull this off, and women, Christ, how did they read men's eyes so easily?
Ruth was looking intently at him now, and Adam returned her stare. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You tell him, Adam. You tell him that I said this. It's not his fault. It was just ... just how things happened. And if you won't let me write it down, I'll tell you. You make sure he knows that I will love him until the day I die. And if he has some idea that letting me go is a great, noble sacrifice, you tell him that he has another bloody idea coming."
Adam couldn't help himself. He was exhausted, and she looked so... serious. He smiled at her, and almost laughed. "You're tougher than I thought you were, Ruth. You've just been kidnapped, held in a cell for two days and nearly lost to us, and now you're ready to take on the great and powerful Harry Pearce?" His smile faded, and he put his hand over hers on the smooth stone of the bar. "My job is to get you to Cyprus, Ruth. I don't know what happens from there."
"And what if I won't go? What if I refuse?" Her eyes were defiant and bright.
Adam sighed. He hated doing this, but it was unfolding just as Harry said it would. Harry knew Ruth even better than Adam imagined. "He says he'll meet you there, Ruth. On Cyprus. You have to go."
Her face softened, her eyes began to glisten, and Adam felt very small in his deception. She smiled, and relaxed. "Thank you, Adam. Thank you. Yes, of course he'll come." Shaking her head, she looked at Adam. "He wouldn't leave me there alone. I know that."
She took a long sip of her tea, and stood. "I need a bath so badly I can't wait another minute." She looked down at Harry's shirt, somewhat the worse for wear. "Of course I have nothing to change into. Do you think they have any clothes here?"
Adam walked toward the front hall. "Probably, but you won't need them." He picked up Ruth's carry-all, the one she had taken to Harry's and never completely unpacked. It was stuffed full of whatever Adam could get from her closet and armoire when he was at her flat. He had also grabbed what he thought she would need from the bathroom: hairbrush, toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo and other assorted items. "Don't know if I got everything, but thought you'd appreciate whatever I could manage."
He dropped it on the bar as she smiled broadly at him, and undid the clasps. She pulled it open and was nearly overcome with the scent of sandalwood. Adam had picked up the bar of Harry's shaving soap. Ruth put her face down and inhaled deeply. She closed it up again, and took the carry-all by the handles.
As she walked by him, Ruth leant up and gave Adam a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Adam. You got just exactly what I needed."
That evening, after both had enjoyed long and sound naps, Adam and Ruth boarded the private plane for Polis at the Bourget Airport, the same airport Ruth and Harry had used when they went to Baghdad. They arrived at Paphos Airport quite late, and went straight to a small hotel, where they booked two rooms. Still needing sleep from their experiences of the last two days, Adam and Ruth said a quick goodnight.
Adam would leave Ruth there the next day. Harry didn't want any of the arrangements to originate from London, so Ruth would decide where she would live, where she would work, and what her life would be. But that would require some security, and security required money.
Just before he left in the morning, Adam handed Ruth another envelope. She opened it and gasped. Looking through the contents, she said, "Adam, there must be ... over 25,000 Euros in here. Cripes, no, there's more. What ...?"
"33,828 Euros, actually. Harry bought your house yesterday at market value, paid off the loan, and this is your equity. This was sent with your papers to the safe house, and it's your money. Harry will sell the house later and get his money back. He wanted to be sure you had enough to be comfortable, to feel safe, until you find work." Adam smiled at her. "Get that to a bank, Ruth. No stuffing it in mattresses, all right?"
She held the envelope to her chest tightly. "What's today? Friday? Yes, I'll get to a bank, straightaway." She stopped suddenly, and looked up at Adam. There was a hint of suspicion in her eyes. "This feels very final, Adam. As if I really am being dropped off on my own. Is that what's happening?"
Adam held her by the shoulders, and matched her stare. "This was an extremely close call, Ruth. The people who are looking for you are very, very dangerous. No contact, until someone contacts you. It's as serious as it can be. Find a life here, and immerse yourself fully in it. You mustn't give the Redbacks or Yalta any reason to know where you are. Please promise me that."
Ruth felt a chill run through her. "You said Harry would come here, Adam. You said that."
It took every last ounce of effort for Adam to maintain eye contact with the heartfelt, sincere look he was getting from her. "That's what he told me, Ruth." He gave her a quick hug, and then looked back at her from the door of her hotel room. "You take care."
Ruth watched the door close behind him, and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. She was still hugging the envelope with the money to her chest. She let it go and set it beside her, imagining Adam at the door again, looking just the way he had before he walked through it.
And hard as she tried, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was the last time she would ever see Adam Carter.
Harry sat looking at the fire he had just made, and put his feet up on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes and remembered. Just three days ago she had been here next to him, warm in the curve of his arm, laughing, crying, making plans for a summer wedding.
Tonight, Scarlet was at his feet and Fidget was curled on the pillow. Phoebe had found Harry's lap, and after a few painful digs at his thighs, had settled into a doze.
Harry clicked the button on the recorder next to him, the one Malcolm had given him for his diary. He couldn't write to her, he couldn't call her, but no one could stop him from speaking his heart to her.
"My dearest Ruth." He clicked the recorder off, feeling the tears starting. He leant forward, picked up his glass of scotch, and took a long, warm swallow. Leaning back again, he exhaled loudly and pushed the button once more.
"My dearest Ruth,
You are here with me. I close my eyes and here you are, at our dinner table, in front of the fire, in our bed. Perhaps that's the answer, to never open my eyes. To never face the reality that you're there, far away, and I'm here, in small pieces, scattered randomly throughout what used to be my life.
I'm on the sofa, my love, where you asked me that question that will now never leave me: 'What would you do if I weren't in your life?' Did you know, somehow? In your mysterious, psychic, wonderful Ruth way, were you tapping into what was to come?
What do I do now that you're not in my life? I'm answering that question for myself in every second that passes, my Ruth. And the answer is different for each of those seconds. Sometimes I spend them on things that are constructive, like immersing myself in the minutiae of work. Sometimes I will admit I feel like stabbing the walls with scissors. And a frighteningly large number of those seconds are spent fighting inwardly, physically restraining myself from getting on a plane and coming to you.
But if I did that, if I led them to you, if I spent another second feeling as I did for those terrible hours, wondering if you were lost, or being hurt, or tortured? That would be worse than never again holding you, never again feeling your lips ... "
Harry stopped, and clicked off the recorder while he composed himself. Another long sip of scotch, another deep breath, and he continued.
"I have to believe you understand. You always understood me, better than I understood myself. For my own sanity, I have to believe that you understand why I'm doing this, how much it's hurting me, and why I can never see you again.
So I'm closing my eyes now, and there is your beautiful, pale face looking at me, saying, 'Hello, Harry.' And I gaze back at you, looking serious and grave and guilty as hell, and say, 'Hello, my love.' And I imagine you putting a hand on my cheek and smiling, and saying, 'Yes, I do understand.'
That's how I'm getting through this second. Just as I said, they're all different. Is it working? I'll keep you posted.
And now, I think I'll imagine you getting up and going to our bed, with me following close behind. I will hold you, spooned and warm in my arms, and we'll sleep.
I'll love you forever, my Ruth. Every last second of forever.
Your faithful,
Harry"
He pushed the button to stop the recorder. The fire was still going, and it seemed a shame to waste it, so Harry pulled the throw from the arm of the sofa and wrapped it round him as he laid his head on the pillow. He told himself it was a shame to waste the heat, but the honest truth was that he couldn't bear to get into their bed alone tonight.
Phoebe found her way to the warm spot behind his bent legs, and Fidget curled in with her. Harry watched the fire as it licked and danced, until he finally fell into the welcome oblivion of sleep.
~~~~~
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