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Secrets III: Chapter 62 - 64

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

"Tha káno aftá." Ruth pointed to the basket of very large strawberries on the cart, and felt the exhilaration that always overtook her when she was able to use a language in its natural environs. Hundreds of hours sitting in A levels, studying etymology, dialects, phonetics, construction, and now it all boiled down to "I'll take that one," for a particularly scrumptious-looking set of strawberries.
Ruth was fluent in Greek, ancient and modern, and since the people of Southern Cyprus spoke a combination of Greek and English, she had no trouble communicating. Harry knew that, Ruth thought with a hint of a smile. Cyprus was beautiful, warm and friendly. Harry had sent her to a place that offered no real hardships. Except, of course, that of missing him.
It had been exactly a week since she'd last touched his face and walked away into the Dover fog. As Ruth remembered the chill of that early morning, she stopped her progress through the open-air market for a moment. She moved off to the side to allow room for the locals who were single-mindedly doing their morning shopping, but that could be dangerous as well. The moment she slowed, she was fair game for the considerable sales techniques of the stall-keepers.
A large piece of fresh deep-sea tuna was thrust under her nose, and she came jarringly back to the present. She smiled broadly at the young man offering it, saying, "No, thank you," with a slight wave of her hand. Although the fish looked lovely, Ruth was still living in the room that Adam had booked for her, and she knew she couldn't do the meal justice in the tiny kitchenette the hotel provided.
Ruth bought a bag of whole shelled almonds, a container of yoghurt, and a small cup of aromatic Cypriot coffee, and walked away from the Central Square down toward the sea. The bounty of this place continued to amaze her. The natural sun and rain cycles caused everything to grow, and to grow very large. Ruth felt as if she had stepped into something Maurice Sendak might have drawn, full, leafy, and primitive.
Polis Chrysokhou, the town's official name, meant "City of the Golden Land," and Ruth thought the name couldn't be more apt. Polis was endlessly interesting to her. It was fertile, delightfully traditional, and its distinctive character blended as best it could with the increasing influx of tourists. Most of the streets were cobblestone or dirt, the dress infinitely casual, and the local people hospitable, kind and open.
Ruth was as happy as could be expected in her new exile. She was waiting for Harry, but while she waited, she was doing well. It was just now beginning to sink in how precarious her position had been before Adam showed up in that Parisian forest five days ago, and how terribly frightened she was. She supposed she had been in a sort of shock throughout her time being held by Yalta, and to a degree, her first days here. It was as if she had been coiled tightly, and was just now gradually unwinding, letting go.
Carrying her purchases from the market, Ruth found a spot on the sea wall, and perched herself on it. She opened the container of yoghurt and dropped some almonds in, and then reached into her purse for the knife and spoon she had borrowed from her room. She cut up three of the strawberries and mixed them into the yoghurt, licking their sweet juice from her fingers. The paper cup of strong Cypriot coffee sat cooling beside her.
As she ate her breakfast, Ruth gazed out at the far away horizon. She felt she would always find her greatest peace when facing toward England, as she was now. Harry was there, though it was two hours earlier. On a Tuesday at 6:00 a.m., Harry would just be waking up, getting ready for work, most likely shooing the girls from the bed, stepping into the shower, then getting dressed. Ruth closed her eyes, smiling wistfully, and imagined herself picking out a tie for him to wear.
How she missed him. He rattled around in her head everywhere she went, commenting, making her laugh as she walked past the fountain in Central Square with its stern lion faces meeting the four winds.
She could see him squinting up at the imposing tower of St. Nicholas' Church, the Agios Nikolaos. He would love its rounds of thick glass embedded in the stone walls, creating windows of sorts and allowing the light to come into the silent, ancient structure. And they would sit for a time in another church, the Apostolos Andreas, with its massive wooden panelled doors flanked by impressive mosaics of the saints, still brilliantly-hued after centuries.
And of course, Harry would have opinions about the amusing amalgam of the old and the contemporary in Polis, the parts they hadn't had time to see when they were here. Its traditional Greek restaurants with ancient women cooking in the old style, juxtaposed with the new and, for Polis, modern, Steak House. The Disco Club, transported directly from the 80's complete with mirror ball, sat across the rough stone street from the bright yellow awning of the Kamara Kiosk offering disposable underwater cameras.
Ruth could hear Harry, as if he were here. Last night she had even dreamt of him walking the old streets with her, and it was so real that she woke smiling. She fully expected him to roll over and say good morning. She wanted it, so much.
Ruth took a tentative sip of the hot coffee, and she felt a rise in her impatience to see Harry. Again, she suppressed it, but she wondered every day how and when Harry would contact her. Last week, just after Adam left, Faith Benson had opened an account at the Bank of Cyprus. She'd gone from there to the Post Office to organise a mailbox. She wanted to make it as easy as possible for Harry to find her, and since finding people had been one of Ruth's specialities on the Grid, she knew precisely how to make Faith just visible enough.
In the week she had been on Cyprus, her need for news of London had returned, but it wasn't like popping round to the newsagent in Paris to pick up one of the hundreds of copies of The Times. Polis had some British influence, to be sure, but The Times arrived to the island late, and in scarce numbers. She knew she could always go to Paphos, ten miles south by highway, to the one fairly large Municipal Library in the area, but she hadn't made that trip yet.
The Polis Connect Internet Cafe in the centre of town had ten computers and a surprisingly good connection, but at this time of year it was packed with tourists, and in any case, it was very expensive. Her natural frugality simply wouldn't let her pay their exorbitant prices. Once she got her flat, she could arrange a connection and a laptop, but for now she felt somewhat limited. Ruth found herself going to the Internet Café at odd hours, during the hot afternoons or late at night, and for short periods, certainly not enough time to properly read The Times online.
More than once she had thought of sending an email to Martin Wingate, but each time she'd remembered Adam's words: This was an extremely close call, Ruth. The people who are looking for you are very, very dangerous. No contact, until someone contacts you. Ruth felt safe on Cyprus, anonymous, almost invisible. The thought of venturing to England again, or even Paris, brought back all the fear she had felt in that cell. She knew a way to send an email safely, but it had only been a week, after all.
So, curbing her natural impatience, and holding her love and trust for Harry close to her heart, Ruth waited and learned the lay of the land. And she soon learned that any business she had to attend to would need to be done in the morning. The bank and the post office adhered to some extremely relaxed hours, open Monday through Friday until only 1:30 in the afternoon, except Wednesdays, when they re-opened after lunch from 3:00 to 5:30. The concept of the siesta was alive and well in Polis, and Ruth found it charming. She wondered how Harry would cope on a long-term basis with the relaxed nature of this place. She thought he might just warm to it, under her influence.
As she looked out at the sea, Ruth sighed, and closed her eyes. She didn't always know exactly what she wanted, although right now it felt clear to her that she wanted Harry to come here and stay. To live with her in the sunshine, to forget about painted targets and his responsibility for the safety of the world, to let someone else deal with whatever terror lurked around the next corner. To sit next to her on this wall and listen to the waves fall and then retreat from the soft white sand. To hear the sea birds and watch them swoop and dive over all of those magnificent colours of blue.
She had always tried to refrain from thoughts like these in connection to Harry, feeling his job was a part of who he was, and she had no right to take him from it. Not to mention the fact that Ruth had also dearly loved being a spy, on the Grid or off of it. But there had been a perceptible shift in the two of them, even before her abduction by Yalta. They had talked of being "normal" during those last few days together at Harry's house, and they had done it with an increasing longing. She didn't know whether Harry could give up MI5, but she wanted it to be a discussion they could have.
And as she watched the light play off of the blue waters, Ruth thought this was the perfect place to have that discussion. She would admit to him that although she'd been thrust into a sabbatical of sorts from the Grid after Cotterdam, she felt ready for it now, to have time with Harry without worry. In Paris, she had held out hope that she would be cleared and someday soon return to England. Now, there was not only that obstacle, but also the danger inherent in being linked by love to Harry Pearce, Head of MI5's Section D.
Ruth was exhausted with the whole business, really. Harry had talked of "pushing the river" and she felt as if she had expended enough energy to reroute the Thames. The last few days had seen an establishment of a sort of peace in her, a feeling of being calm and in sync with the magnificent nature that surrounded her on Cyprus. She didn't have to struggle to survive here, she flowed with the river, or more appropriately, with the sea that surrounded this small island. She felt at home, somehow. All that was missing, and it was a gaping and very painful sense of missing, was Harry.
She wanted to talk to him, to have a proper conversation with him. To hear what he thought about anything and everything. There was so much to say about this fascinating place, and Ruth thought she had hardly spoken a hundred words since she'd been here, and then only of the necessities and amenities: good morning, where can I find this?, how much is that?, thank you, yes, lovely day.
She wanted to make love with him, to hold him, to feel his urgency again, his strong arms around her. To touch his skin, to kiss him, long lovely kisses, and to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck. To hear his wonderful, soft, low voice telling her that he loved her. To fall asleep with him, to feel the rhythm of his breathing and hear his murmured good night, my Ruth.
Ruth inhaled sharply, and opened her eyes to the sea again. She knew she had to hold back, to not want so much. She needed to hope less. He would come to her when he could, she knew that. She trusted Harry with her whole heart, and if he said he would come, he would. She needed to be patient.
And in order to be patient, Ruth knew she had to focus on something else. She needed to get a job. She was so grateful to Harry for the money from her house, because it meant she didn't have to take the first thing that came along, but she knew it was time to start a serious look at what was available. If she had something to occupy her time and her mind, she would spend less time thinking about him.
She had looked at the classified adverts, and the one place in town that seemed to be hiring was the Chrysochous Hospital and Rural Health Centre. She had seen the imposing curved white building up on the hill, overlooking the town. She thought of Malcolm's certificate, and Ruth intended to apply there for something clerical once she got settled into a flat and had established a routine.
And, she thought with a slight thrill, she had all but decided she would purchase the red Vespa scooter she had seen advertised. It was practically new, and at only 575 Euros, she could hardly afford to pass it up. It would suit the narrow roads, and present no difficulty with parking. She had called the current owner about it and told them that as soon as she had her flat, she would commit to buying it. Ruth had to admit that she had already imagined what fun it would be to traverse the rural roads with Harry, each of them on a scooter. She wasn't sure she'd be able to get him on one, but the picture of him on a Vespa brought her a smile every time she thought of it.
As she packed up her breakfast, Ruth noticed again how bare her finger looked without Harry's ring. When she had first arrived, she'd finally had the energy to go completely through the carry-all Adam had packed for her. She'd searched every pocket for her ring and her necklace, but neither were there. She'd asked Adam about them, but he had packed so quickly for her, he couldn't remember seeing them.
So Ruth had torn the name off the top of the hotel stationery, and had written a quick, nondescript note. She'd tucked it into Adam's coat pocket as he left, knowing that he would say no if she asked him to take it to Harry. Adam would find it later, he would give Harry the note, and Harry would do as she asked. She was sure of it.
Another thing that wasn't in the carry-all was a bathing suit, but at this time of year, they were hanging in nearly every shop window beckoning tourists. Some of them were so small they didn't look to be made for actual swimming, but she'd managed to find an out-of-the-way shop that seemed more geared toward the locals, and bought a real bathing suit, a one-piece that would survive the laps she hoped to swim just beyond the waves.
Ruth took the last sip of her coffee and bundled her things together, walking down toward the water. Her new bathing suit was under the light cotton skirt and top she wore. At a little after eight in the morning it was already nearly 80 degrees. The water would be chillier than the air, to be sure, but her swim would warm her up quickly. She was alone on the beach, and as she undressed, she turned to see the town, already bustling.
Then she turned again toward England, and Harry. As she walked into the water, she knew that here in the sea, she was the closest to him that she would be today. Ruth smiled, looking out at the horizon, and said softly, "Good morning, Harry. I love you. Come soon."
She dipped her head under the water, tasting the refreshing saltiness, and began her swim.



That morning, Harry wasn't getting ready to go to the Grid. He dressed casually, just an open blue shirt and jacket with his jeans. Very early, he drove to Dover and boarded the Ferry. At the very moment Ruth stepped into the Mediterranean Sea, Harry was putting the key into the door of her Paris flat. Three thousand kilometres apart, he was moving toward her, and she was moving toward him.
He had gotten her note, although at first he'd told Adam to take it away. Finally, sadly, Adam had simply placed the folded paper on Harry's desk, saying, "What could it hurt, Harry? She's safe. This can't hurt her. Read it." And then Adam was gone, closing the door behind him.
Harry was left staring at the piece of paper on his desk, the paper she had touched, written on, folded. It contained her thoughts, it was a part of her, and he simply couldn't stop himself. He opened it, holding it gently, and saw her handwriting, precious, hurried, and so very Ruth.
My dear love,
I miss you already, but I don't have time to say how much. I need to tell you that I've left two invaluable things behind – my ring and my necklace. They're in a dish on the bathroom counter, and I hope you can bring them to me. Oh, wait, I've left a third invaluable thing behind – you. Could you bring that as well? And soon. Please soon. I can only survive for so long without those three very dearly loved things. Please keep all of them safe for me until we're together again.
Your mule
Harry read the note over, and then again. He knew he should destroy it, but he tried to imagine someone reading it, and what they might find that would be of use to them. Nothing. It was harmless.
Oh, no, not harmless. How was he expected to endure this? He read it again, and once more, and then opened his top right drawer and put her, because he couldn't help thinking of her note as being her, next to the chocolate buttons. He sat back in his chair, letting the sharp ache subside a bit. The worst part was that he knew the depth of his love was the only thing keeping him from her. If he loved her less, perhaps he could convince himself to go to Cyprus. Ruth might not see it that way, nor could he blame her.
It felt cruel to let her continue to believe, but in the logical part of his mind, the one that was separate from his deeply pained heart, Harry knew it would help her in the long run. She would find a life while she waited, and when she finally realised he wasn't coming, she would turn and embrace that life, and be more grateful for it.
Harry had to hope that her natural adaptability would allow her to find happiness. He pulled the note out of his drawer and read it again. He despaired that the love that fairly flew off the page would disappear, and that made it even more precious now. It still existed in her heart, today, and he wondered sadly how strong it would be, and how long it would last, until she finally gave up on him.
But as he read the note still one more time, Harry knew he couldn't leave the ring and the necklace to strangers. That was beyond his power to resist.
So he had boarded the Ferry in the dark, peered through the fog again, and then walked through the door of Ruth's flat. It hadn't been touched since MI6 closed the investigation, and Harry would let the flat go at the end of the month. He walked back to the bathroom immediately and found them, the necklace and the ring, just where she said she'd left them.
Harry walked out to the bedroom and looked around him. It felt slightly intrusive, secret, to be here without her, knowing that she would never come back. But he couldn't leave her things here to be tossed out like rubbish. I already have a garage hired, holding the contents of her house until she returns to London… Harry stopped the thought before he finished it, and sat wearily on the side of the bed, … but she's not coming back.
And all he could think was, How could that be? He held the necklace gently, and slipped the ring on his small finger, just to the knuckle, of course, because it was made for her finger, her delicate, finely boned finger. Harry took hold of the small charms on the necklace and brought them up near his eyes. The H and the R, so small, perfectly matched the ones on the ring. She was the only one who could ever wear them, and now she never would again. How could it be that his Ruth would never come back?
Harry suddenly felt so tired, unable to cope. He turned and laid on the bed, pulling her pillow to him and holding it as if it were her. He could still find a trace of the scent of lavender there, on the underside. He closed his eyes, and she was there. Sweet torture. For a time, he lay on the bed, on her bed, wondering what could possibly be so important that it kept him from her. None of it seemed to matter now. And then, the realisation that the last time she had been here was just before they had taken her. And he remembered again why he had to leave Ruth to her new life.
Harry sat up and looked out of the window. In his line of vision was the small card. Je t'aime. He picked it up and held it with the ring and the necklace.
Harry walked out to the lounge table and, on top of the large blue book he had sent her for her birthday, he began the pile of things he would take with him. Precious things. Her things. Harry walked back into the bedroom, and began the process of collecting from her armoire and her closet. When he was finished, he had filled the boxes he had brought with him. Then when he was satisfied that he'd gotten everything, he took the boxes down to the boot of his car.
Harry stood in the doorway and had one last look. It was as if she had died, really. Her presence was no longer here. Now this was just a flat in Paris where a woman named Sophie Persan had lived for a time.



Isabelle was working with a customer when the bell rang and Harry walked into the shop. She looked up and nodded to him, "Un moment, s'il vous plait?" she said, and Harry nodded back. How long had it been since he'd seen her? She'd been younger then, and so had he. Her long grey hair told him the years had passed, but he could still see something that was uniquely Isabelle in her eyes.
"Take your time," he said, and she gave him another quick glance, recognising his voice. She tilted her head and he saw her narrow her eyes slightly at him. "James?" she said, her eyebrows raised. He nodded and smiled at her. She put her hand on the other customer's arm and murmured something, and then walked toward Harry.
"Oh, my," was all she managed to say before folding him into her arms in a warm hug. Harry was a bit taken aback, but laughed and returned her hug, saying, "Hello, Isabelle."
And then she did something he didn't quite expect. She held him by the shoulders at arm's length and she looked deeply into his eyes. It was extraordinary, Harry thought, how she communicated exactly what she was feeling, and the empathy he felt from her nearly brought on the emotion that had been threatening him all through his time at Ruth's flat.
She was telling him she was sorry, that she loved Sophie too, and how much she wanted them to have happiness. He thought he almost heard it, it was so clear. But all she said was, "How good it is to see you again," and then, "Is she well? I have been so worried." This last bit she almost whispered to him, so as not to be heard by the customer, who was still searching through the shelves.
"Yes. That's why I came. I wanted you to know she's safe." Harry felt suddenly self-conscious. Isabelle was not a stranger, certainly, but she felt like a new person in his life. As he looked at her, he was very aware that Ruth had shared something of what she and Harry were to each other. He felt somewhat exposed, and a light flush came to his cheeks, which then made him even more self-conscious. Isabelle saw it, and smiled.
"She only told me after I guessed it." She took his arm, moving further away from the other man in the shop. Smiling at him, Isabelle said, "It was so obvious. How could it be a secret?"
Harry looked down at the floor and composed himself. "You know about secrets, Isabelle." Then he brightened a bit, and looked around approvingly at the bookshop. "You have a new life. You may have moved on," he said, touching a nearby book, "but I'm still in same profession."
She leant close to him, and said, "Stay here. I will close the shop for a while and we will have some tea. Do you have time?"
Harry nodded. "I'd like that." He looked slightly apologetic, and said, "But do you mind if we go somewhere else to talk? A café? Or if not, perhaps a bench in the square?"
Isabelle laughed softly, "Ah, yes, of course. Somewhere a little more … erm … public?" She whispered to him conspiratorially, "The walls may have ears, no? Yes, James. You may buy me a cup of tea, then."
He was grateful that she understood so quickly. "Thank you." As Isabelle helped her customer, Harry gravitated toward the travel section, and his eye was immediately attracted to a photo book of the Greek islands. He opened the book and found Cyprus. His heart clenched. She is there, by the blue sea. It should be a colour all of its own. Cyprus blue. That will be my next choice for our game, my love, and now it's your turn.
Isabelle rang up the man's purchase, and as he walked out the door, she got her coat and her keys. "Come, James." Harry saw the twinkle in her eyes, and she so clearly let him know that she knew it was not his name. She took his arm. "Someday, I will get it out of you two."
Harry felt good here with her, and he realised it was because she still saw him with Ruth. The world hadn't turned so far yet that Isabelle knew it was over, irrevocably, irretrievably over. Her heart hadn't been broken by the unfairness of it, her eyes still saw the lightness, the deep love of them as a couple. Harry sank into the feeling, and thought, as they walked out the door, that he wouldn't tell her that he and Ruth would never be together again.
He would let her know that Sophie was safe, and he would thank her for her kindness, but he would let her continue to believe that their future together was still as bright as she thought it was. He knew he was being a coward, and that he was doing it so that he could hide in Isabelle's belief for a little longer. But Harry had underestimated Isabelle's intuition.
"What has happened?" They sat in a quiet corner of Café Hugo, and Isabelle picked up her cup of tea to take a sip. She looked at him with an intensity that Harry thought he could use in the interrogation room. "You are very, very sad, and it has to do with Sophie?"
Harry exhaled, and gave her a wry smile. "I suppose it's you who expanded Sophie's psychic abilities?"
Isabelle laughed softly. "Oh, my dear, this takes no ability. It is all over your face, but especially, the eyes." She shook her head, "You two. Always apart, always loving." She looked across at him. "And so much love." Her eyes began to glisten slightly. "She loves you so dearly. So deeply. I saw it every day. And I see it now with you. The same."
Harry was unable to speak for a moment, and he fell back on his usual response when he was a loss for words. He simply looked at Isabelle, his face passive. He felt an urge to be honest with her, to feel her empathy, to tell her how hard it was for him. But Harry didn't do that because it might put Ruth in more danger. He stayed silent.
Isabelle pursed her lips. "Still you cannot say. I understand. I always told Sophie I wanted her to stay safe, not to tell me if it was not safe." She looked down at her tea. "What can I do, James? Anything? Can I help?"
Harry was feeling drained. He simply said, "No. There's nothing to be done." He sipped his tea to buy some time, to collect himself. "I really wanted simply to say thank you for your kindness to Sophie. It meant a great deal to her, Isabelle. And to me. You were a good friend."
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. "I was a good friend. Am I not still?" She smiled at him, her tone light.
Harry was having trouble meeting her eyes. They saw so much, and he felt it. He found himself becoming more formal, to overcome his discomfort. "If Sophie should contact you, Isabelle, you must not allow it."
"How am I to not allow it? She is free to do as she pleases, yes?" There was a shift in Isabelle, to the protective mother bear, and Harry found her suddenly formidable.
"I mean, you can't allow her to … you mustn't … " Harry rubbed his forehead, and stopped. What am I doing? This is a good woman, who was good to Ruth. He looked up and into Isabelle's eyes. "She's far away, for her own safety. Far from you, far from me, and she's alone. She'll want to reach out, but I'm so afraid for her, Isabelle … so worried."
His eyes looked haunted, and Isabelle reached out to touch his hand. Harry continued. "I'm just saying that if she makes contact with you, she may be found by the people who came to your shop looking for her. Your shop may already have a bug, Isabelle. I'm sorry for that, but it's true. If you talk to her on the telephone, if she should send you an email, you mustn't let anyone know."
Isabelle held his gaze. "I will not ask questions. I will not fight you, James. I know you love her. I love her as well."
She was still touching his hand across the table. For moment, she was silent, and then she spoke softly, smiling at an inward thought, "She never would tell me what your names are. I saw her ring, however, and it has been such a wonderful puzzle ever since. Helen and Ralph? Rose and Harvey?" She saw Harry smile, which was her intention.
Isabelle finally nodded. "I will do as you ask, but you must make me a promise in return." Harry looked up from the table, but didn't give her any assent.
She continued, "I can see that you think all hope is lost, my friend. But I don't see that. I see you together. So when this time is over, this time that you think will last forever, and you are back in each other's arms? You will come see me, and you will tell me your names."
She pulled her hand away and sipped again at her tea, looking inscrutably at him. Harry was getting a bit of his own medicine, and he had to admit she had him a bit flustered.
Then Harry smiled at her. "Isabelle, if that happens, it's a promise." He put out his hand, and Isabelle shook it gently. After a long pause, she smiled sweetly at him. "This job you have seems very difficult. Have you ever considered another line of work?"
Harry laughed, genuinely. "Every day, Isabelle. Every bloody day."

~~~~~


CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Ruth made a decision. It had been over three weeks since she'd arrived in Polis, and there had still been no word from Harry. She knew she wasn't supposed to make contact, but she was worried about him and she couldn't keep herself from it. Twenty-five days was too long for her to be expected to have patience. She was concerned about whether Harry was safe, but also about his state of mind. It was well into June, and he should have been here by now. Ruth had decided that she would write to Malcolm.
But she would take precautions. She would go through the back end of the l'Alcove website to send an email to Martin Wingate. It would seem as if it were coming from the Paris IP address, so there would be no connection to Cyprus. And she would do it from Paphos instead of Polis. Buses ran daily between the two towns, but Ruth was anxious to try out her new scooter. So she filled her backpack with provisions for the day and began her journey down the Polis-Paphos highway.
Thank God they drove on the left side of the road on Cyprus, because if Ruth were managing the erratic drivers on the highway and having to organise which side of the road she was on, she might have found herself in the ditch. As it was, she was muttering into her helmet, which she was frankly very grateful she'd purchased, about how such a sleepy little area could have such sodding fast drivers.
Nearly halfway through the thirty mile trip, Ruth was wishing she had taken the bus after all, but by this time, she was on a mission. The blessing was that for the hour-and-a-half she was on the highway, she had little energy left over to worry about Harry.
If it was possible, she loved him more than when she had last seen him. Her first week had been filled with creating a place for herself and finding her way. The second week she found her flat, a third-storey walk-up with a terrace that had a view of the barest sliver of blue Mediterranean. It was only temporary in her mind, but it would do, and of course the rest of that sentence was, until Harry gets here. During the third week, Ruth had repeatedly admonished herself to be patient, and had repeatedly found herself backsliding.
And over the last few days she'd felt an escalation of nagging doubt, a sense that something wasn't right, either with Harry, or with her. Adam's words at the safe house came back to her, as well as her own reaction. "And if he has some idea that letting me go is a great, noble sacrifice..." Ruth knew Harry so well that she could sometimes think as he did, and this theory was beginning to hold some weight in her mind. If Harry thought he had put her in danger, he might think that the best way to love her was to take the target far away from her. To take his love away.
That thought ran a chill through Ruth. She was so alone on this little island, so far from him, unable even to state her own case. Of course he would think that was a solution.Self-denial, self-control, Ruth. You think I'm a limited man? You think I don't understand the emotional side? She had accessed his emotional side, found the real man inside, but she was too far away now to remind him. Might he forget how important it was to feel?
She meant to remind him. A letter to Malcolm, and he would remember. And then he would put aside this foolishness of protecting her, and he would come to Cyprus. It was the only answer that made any sense. She had managed to charm the newsagent in Polis, who now set aside the first copy of The Times for her each day. If anything was going on, it was deep under cover, because the news told of a peaceful June in England. Domestic tranquillity. A holiday of sorts for the Grid.
Finally turning off of the highway, Ruth geared down on the Vespa and arrived at her destination, grateful to get there in one piece. What she saw was very different from Polis. Paphos was once a tiny fishing village that had now been transformed by tourism into a bustling resort town with two McDonald's, a Pizza Hut and a sparkling nightlife.
The Paphos Municipal Library was a whitewashed one-storey building, not much more spacious than a large house in the London suburbs, with four Greek columns announcing its entrance. Ruth pulled up to the front and got off the Vespa, feeling a bit shaky, but proud of herself for braving the trip.
She found the computer stations and pulled out the notes she'd made, knowing that she needed to access the website by memory. She felt the same exhilaration she'd felt at the beginning of her correspondence with Harry. Her longing for him, for his words, had intensified over the last twenty-five days, and she found her heart was pounding in anticipation of making contact with him through Malcolm.
"Eínai aftó pou chrisimopoieítai?" Startled, Ruth looked up at a very tall, very Cypriot-looking man. He appeared to be around forty, handsome in a chiseled sort of way, and he was smiling at her. She saw that she had spread out a bit into the next computer station, and she smiled back at him apologetically. Before she thought, she spoke in English, "Oh, sorry." Then, quickly, in Greek, "Den, den lamvánontai." No, not taken. Ruth began to collect her things, clearing the way for him to sit down.
As he did, his smile grew larger. "You're British?" His Greek accent was evident, but Ruth guessed he had been educated in a British school.
"Y-yes," she stammered. She hadn't encountered many people yet who might have a knowledge of England, and she was regretting that she hadn't done much work on her legend.
"Where in Britain, if I may ask?"
"Erm, yes," her mind was racing wildly, "From Bath."
"Ah, Jane Austen country. Beautiful place, isn't it?"
"Yes." Ruth turned back to her computer screen, hoping her one-word answers would give him the hint that she wasn't in the mood to chat. Unfortunately, it was not the case.
"I haven't been back in years. I studied in London, did my internship there. I'm a doctor, paediatrics." He put his hand out in a friendly, open way. "George Constantinou."
Unable to be rude in the face of his easy manner, Ruth took his hand and shook it. "Faith Benson."
His smile went even wider, and he chuckled, "So your mother was an Elizabeth Gaskell fan, then?"
She turned quickly, not knowing what to say. Answer a question with a question, it buys time. "Pardon?"
"Ruth?"
She felt suddenly panicked. Her eyes went wide and her mouth was dry in a split second. "Sorry?"
He looked slightly confused at her reaction. "The novel, Ruth. The Elizabeth Gaskell novel. There's a character named Faith Benson in it. It was one of my mother's favourites."
Ruth took a deep breath, and said, with a nervous smile, "Yes, yes, of course, Ruth. Yes, of course I've read it. My mum was a big fan as well. Liked the name quite a lot."
He shook his head a bit, and frowned. "I think I've frightened you. I'm sorry. You went white when I said 'Ruth.'"
She exhaled, thinking she had to salvage this somehow. "It's my middle name. Ruth. I was just surprised you said it, that's all. No, I'm fine, thanks. Just surprised." Ruth felt she was stammering, and wanted to move the discussion off of herself. "Yes, lovely novel, but not very popular. I'm a bit stunned you've heard of it."
George shrugged. "As I said, one of my mother's favourites. That Henry was a scoundrel, though, abandoning Ruth that way in her hour of need. Didn't like him much. But I liked Thurston Benson, and his sister Faith." He smiled at her again. A nice smile, but Ruth couldn't help wishing he would go away. She had a letter to write and she wanted to get to it without interruptions and prying eyes.
She said, not impolitely, "Well, it's nice to meet you." She turned back toward the computer, "Erm ... I'd better ... "
"Yes, of course. I've distracted you. I'm sorry. " George had found what he needed on the computer, and stood to go to the medical journals. "Nice to meet you as well, Faith Ruth, from Bath." He gave her another brilliantly white-toothed smile as he walked away.
Ruth smiled too, but she was very glad he was gone. That was a bit too close, and she hadn't been prepared to be Faith Benson in this little library in Paphos. He seemed a nice enough sort, but the last thing she needed was a British-schooled Cypriot asking questions about her life.
Ruth opened the internet browser and began the process of entering the l'Alcove website through the back door she had built into it. Simple, really, and a trick that Malcolm had taught her. She finished her letter and sent it, and then packed up her things. She looked at her watch, and realised that the combination of her time here and on the road had now put her at 5:30 p.m. She should have started earlier from Polis, perhaps given up her swim today. She retrieved her receipt for a much more reasonable fee than Polis Connect, and walked out into what she could only classify as a torrential downpour.
"Cripes!" The Vespa was soaked, and she was rapidly joining it. Well, she thought, all this greenery doesn't come from nothing, but how was she to get home? The roads were treacherous enough without dealing with rain, and how would she even see through the plastic guard on her helmet? Ruth ducked back under the cover of the Library entrance and weighed her options.
She was still at a loss when she heard a voice behind her. "Need a lift somewhere?" She turned, and George Constantinou stood behind her. Actually, behind and up. He was very tall. Even taller than he had looked sitting next to her.
"Oh, no, thanks, I'll sort it out. Maybe the bus?" She looked at him, moving her now wet hair out of her eyes.
"Where are you going, Faith Ruth?" He smiled as he said it. He clearly liked the sound of her names, because it made him chuckle again.
Ruth sighed. "Polis, I'm afraid."
"It's where I'm going. And I have a truck with a ramp to load your scooter." To her confused stare he said, "Country folk. We use all-terrain vehicles to check on the vineyards."
"Ah." Ruth was trying to take it all in. This was a very kind man, and he was offering to help her, but she had been less than a month in this new land, and she felt compelled to be suspicious. On the other hand, her logic was telling her that an hour-and-a-half on a scooter in the pouring rain was not a brilliant plan. She could book a hotel room in Paphos for the night, but who could say whether it would still be raining tomorrow?
George read her features well. "Yes, of course, you've been taught not to get in a car with a total stranger. That's good. I need to prove myself to you, and well I should." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. George Constantinou. Doctor of Paediatric Medicine. Polis Chrysochous Hospital & Rural Health Centre.
Ruth stared at it, and then looked up at him. He pulled out his driving license and showed her the name and the photo. "See? That's me. Fine upstanding citizen. Not likely to harm you, as I've taken a Hippocratic oath." Just to prove his point, George put his hand up as if he were swearing in on a witness stand and said, sternly. "Do no harm."
Ruth laughed, and the moment was broken. She shook her head. "Sorry, suspicious foreigner," she said, looking abashed. "I forget sometimes what a nice place this is, and that there are very nice people in it." She looked back out at the rain. "You sure you don't mind? It's not out of your way?"
"I live in Polis. I'm going home." George looked at her and took a pause, wondering if he should say what he was feeling. In the end, he did. "Maybe you can pay me back by having a cup of coffee with me sometime."
Ruth said quickly, perhaps too quickly, "I'm married." She immediately blushed, but thank God, it was lost in the flush of the rain still on her cheeks. "Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed it was a … a romantic cup of coffee, but I just wanted you to know."
He did look disappointed, but he covered it well. "Ah, yes, well, all the best women are married, aren't they? He's a lucky man. I didn't see a ring, I assumed ... "
Ruth interrupted him. "I-I left it somewhere ... he's bringing it to me. He'll be here soon." She was babbling now, and just wanted to get going. "I would appreciate a ride, George. I'm feeling a bit damp, actually."
"Yes, of course. Not very polite of me to keep you standing here. I'll just bring the truck round."
The Vespa was quickly loaded, and before Ruth knew it, she was back on the Polis-Paphos Highway, but this time in a very warm, dry and comfortable truck. George was being very kind to her, and she felt a need to make some sort of conversation.
"So, you're a doctor? At the Polis Hospital? I have an interview there at end of the week."
He looked at her, pleasantly surprised. "Really? For what position?"
Ruth shrugged. "Anything clerical. I have some office skills, and I can usually figure out what I don't know."
He laughed. "We need that. Desperately. Our offices are filled with very nice, very old ladies who think that technology is the tool of the devil." He glanced at her. "You obviously know computers, which will probably get you the job, to be honest."
"That's good. I like to work. I could use some diversion." Ruth said it casually, but was sorry as soon as it left her mouth.
"Ah, yes, waiting for your husband." George looked at Ruth, but she was silent, her eyes still forward. He looked back at the road, and smiled. "You are slightly mysterious, Faith Ruth Benson, but I don't often get the chance to make new friends, so I won't ask you any more questions. We will talk about the weather." He looked up at the lowering sky, pelting them with rain.
Ruth laughed, and said, "Well, that's a subject with infinite possibilities." She looked over at him, now, "And thanks. For no questions."
The rest of the drive was pleasant, with ordinary conversation and no difficult questions. She would have to be cautious about what she said due to his connection to Britain, but Ruth thought George was a nice man, a new English-speaking friend.
George felt quite differently, however, and thought he would bide his time and see how this whole husband idea played out. There was something wrong with a beautiful, intelligent and delightfully mysterious woman being left alone on an island. George Constantinou thought if Faith Ruth Benson were his, he would never leave her alone anywhere.



Malcolm had that look. He was standing in Harry's doorway with a piece of paper in his hand, held behind his back. Malcolm may have thought he was hiding it, but it was patently obvious to Harry, who gave him a slightly exasperated look and motioned him in.
"What are you afraid to tell me?" Harry asked, leaning back in his chair.
Malcolm sat by the windows, his eyes darting a bit. "I … well, you told me not to, but I can't help it." He stood suddenly and walked to Harry's desk. He laid the paper right in the middle, and walked to the door. "Just read it, and tell me what you want to say back. I can't do this all by myself, you know. It's too hard, Harry." And he was gone.
It was an email, addressed to Martin Wingate. The pain began again in Harry's heart. He'd managed to make it subside for nearly a quarter of an hour while he immersed himself in some routine surveillance reports. Just when he needed some good old-fashioned terrorism, everything had stopped. There was nothing to keep him from thinking of her. And now this.
He took a deep breath and leant forward to read the letter.
Dear Mr. Wingate,
I know I've been told to be patient, and I have tried, but I find I'm very anxious to receive the book that was promised to me. I'm having a disturbing feeling that it may not be on its way after all.
My first thought is that something has happened to it, that it has been harmed somehow, and I hope you will write directly to tell me if that's the case.
My second thought is that perhaps it's felt that I will be better off without receiving it. I hope that's a decision that I'm allowed to make, and not one that has been made for me, out of some sense of nobility or sacrifice.
I'm well and coping, but I do want and need that book so very much. I find it's difficult to function without it. I long for what it has to say to me, and to feel it under my fingers. I strongly encourage you to send it on, no matter what your worry might be of the ultimate consequences of my having it here with me.
At the very least, I beg you to open a correspondence so that we can discuss what's best. Please let me be a part of the choice. I think you'll agree I have a right to it, that I've earned it.
I love that book, Mr. Wingate, very, very much. Please do what you can to get it here to me.
Sincerely,
A devoted reader
Harry held the paper to his chest for a moment. So sweet, so formal. His Ruth, such a good spook. He thought he might love her more in this moment than he ever had. She was brave, and strong, and along with the intensity of the love he felt came admiration, honour, a sense of pride that this woman could love him. And between the lines were her tears, her sadness, her loss. What would he feel if he'd sent such a letter? What would the feelings be in his heart if their roles were reversed?
And now Harry knew that Ruth so shared his heart, that she knew exactly what he was doing. She was reaching out, saying, Don't do this for me. Come to me. I'll take my chances. Let me decide. It was such a reasonable request, and one with which he wanted so much to comply.
On the night Harry had sat here at his desk agonising over Ruth and wondering where she was, if she was safe, if she was even alive, he had written himself a note. He'd put the small piece of paper under his mouse pad where he knew he could always find it. He'd written the words in such a state of agitation, his hands shaking, that it was almost unreadable. He didn't want to forget how it felt, how unbearable those hours were for him. He never wanted to feel that way again.
He pulled the note out now. It said simply, "NO. If you love her. NO." It was for just this moment that he had written it. He looked at it for a very long time. He closed his eyes and remembered his promise. Then he inhaled deeply, and pushed down the emotion that was choking him. He put the note back in case he should need to be reminded again. Then he wrote a reply to Ruth on a notepad, and walked it down to Malcolm's office.
"Please send this. I won't change my mind, so don't ask."
Harry turned on his heel and walked back to his office. His door was closed for the rest of the day. No one had reason to disturb him, and in truth, no one wanted to, as there seemed to be a storm brewing in Harry Pearce's office. The deep red that shone behind him was completely appropriate, and someone on the Grid outside his windows might even think they could see clouds forming. His head was down, reading, until exactly five o'clock. Then he put on his coat and went silently through the pods, and home.



Ruth had printed out the letter, because she couldn't very well sit in the library and cry her eyes out, now could she? She'd read the first line and clicked "print," her heart pounding, her tears so near that she thought she would burst.
She gathered up her things quickly, retrieved the page from the printer, and went out to the welcome cover of her helmet. Within minutes, she was on the road again. She stopped at a small, deserted park on the side of the highway, and pulled out the letter to read it completely.

Dear Devoted Reader,
I'm so very sorry to tell you this, but that book is no longer available. I'm told to encourage you to find another to take its place, and that this will be for the best.
It's been said to me that this is a case of "pushing the river," that it has become clear that you're not meant to have that particular volume.
It's also asked that you not write again to request it, as this lack of availability will not change. We hope you can find what you need elsewhere.
Sincerely yours,
Martin Wingate

So Harry had decided. Finally. Completely. And he'd decided without her.
Harry bloody Pearce, man of stone. Ruth sat on the scooter in the middle of nowhere on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, and she wept. Big, full tears, enough to fill an ocean. God save me from chivalrous men, she shouted to the heavens, Save me from this man who has decided what's best for me.
She knew how much he loved her. How many times had he told her? From the depth and the breadth of his being, he loved her. She would never doubt that. And she knew that this misguided act came from that love. He was in agony, she was sure of it. She would be, if she were in his shoes. And perhaps she would be as sure as he was that it was the right thing to do. Two absurdly stubborn people. How were they ever to find each other in midst of all that stubbornness?
Ruth cried every tear she'd stored up over the last month. She shouted, she screamed, she sobbed. She resolved to take herself back to Paphos to the airport, board a plane to England, and march herself to the Grid to tell him what she thought. And she knew she never would. She was angry, and in the kind of pain that feels as if it can actually cause a sort of death. She almost couldn't breathe. She hurt all over and every cell in her body felt the throb of losing him.
And she understood. As much as it pained her, she could see his logic. If you remove the connection, you remove the danger. She wanted to say it wasn't worth losing him to be safe, but Harry had found his own solution. It was that damned carousel again, but now Ruth was turning and Harry was no longer there.
After nearly an hour, Ruth had calmed. She poured some water from her bottle and washed her face, drying it on her cotton skirt. When she could breathe normally again, she got on the Vespa and turned it back to Paphos, back to the library. She knew she looked a sight, but she walked quietly back to the computer desk, and sent a letter in reply.
She wrote it in one go, in a stream of consciousness. When she pushed "send," she hardly knew what she had written. She only knew that it had come directly from her heart.

My dearest love,
I'm dropping the pretence, because if these are the last words I say to you, I can't have them be misunderstood. You said I should not write to you, but I must. I ache down to my soul without you. I'm lost, and alone, and my comfort can only come from you. There's no one else I want.
I need to talk to you about things, about what I've been through. I was so frightened for myself when I was being held in that room, but you were with me every moment. I've always imagined there would be so many regrets in the prospect of death, and there was only one. Not that I wouldn't see another sunset, but that I wouldn't see another one with you.
This can't be true, can it? That our last touch was just that, our last touch? Sometimes the river asks to be pushed, doesn't it, to show it how much we want things? I'm ready to push as hard as I need to, if it means I can have you here with me. And hear this. I'm ready to drown in that river if necessary, with no regrets, so I ask you not to make decisions for me about my life. It's my right to make them, and I choose to be with you, no matter how many painted targets there are.
If this is true, if you really won't answer me, then it's real exile. Exile from hope, from feeling, from everything. If it's true that I must never see you, hear your voice, touch your face, kiss your lips, then perhaps I should have died in that room.
If it's true, then my heart will continue to beat and I'll continue to breathe, but I won't live. I'll move through my days only for the sake of those I've loved who no longer have that opportunity. If I didn't feel a need to honour them, I would wear the white, flowing dress and put the flower in my hair, and wed myself to the sea.
But that's against my nature, so I'll live out my life without you. But you should know that there will be a space that will never fill, a need that will never be met, a part of me that's owned by you, that you'll take with you to your grave.
And my dearest love, you know that it will be the same for you. All I can think right now is what a monumental waste this is. People search their whole lives to find what we have, but if you turn your back on it, then so must I.
And although I can't imagine it now, if you do turn your back on us, it's likely that I won't spend the rest of my life alone. Perhaps our talk about death comes into play, and it will be easier to imagine you have died. But if we should cross paths someday, and you ask me if I've loved again, I'll be silent, and you'll know the answer is no.
But I grieve for our summer wedding, I grieve for books and films, and strong opinions, and laughter, and making love. I grieve for The Grand Tour, for Bath, for our dreams together.
I must also say this. If you don't answer this letter, I'll be angry, and hurt, and will think you somewhat of a coward. Harsh words, but deserved, I think. I've had the courage to do everything that's been asked of me, uprooted, alone, searching for a meaningful existence where there sometimes seems no purpose at all.
I've given up everything, and I've generally done it with good grace and a healthy dose of stoicism. Always, the reward at the end of the path has been you. If I've done all this, and the reward has evaporated like the mist around our last kiss, I feel I have every right to be bitter.
And now, the harsh words over, I'm having trouble closing this letter, because if I don't hear back from you, I won't write again. And as long as I sit here with this narrow conduit open to you, I'm still with you.
How do I let go? How do I finally push the button to send this if it's the last time we'll ever communicate? I sit with my hands on the keys wanting to freeze myself here for eternity, still touching you. Still in hope, and in faith. I want to live up to that name, my love, to have faith in you, to have faith in us.
I still believe we can be together. That we should be together. Come to me, please. Show up on my doorstep and let me remind you of what we are, of how extraordinary our love is.
But if you can't, if you still feel you are loving me best by removing yourself from me, I will remember, forever. If these are the last words I say to you, let them be these:
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Always.

She didn't sign it. It seemed superfluous somehow. Who else could have written this?
By the time Ruth had finished, she'd reached a level of acceptance, of catharsis. Her heart was empty, vacant, aching, but she told herself that if he didn't write back, she would allow him to let her go. She couldn't fight anymore.
She stood up, weary, spent. This was too hard. Hadn't it been hard from the very beginning? Stolen time, brick walls, insurmountable obstacles. Exquisitely beautiful, their love, but so hard. She would wait for an answer, but she already knew that it would never come. He loved her too much to be with her. It was the paradox of their love.
Ruth walked to the square outside the library and looked up at the bright moon. Harry might be looking at it right now, just as she was. She knew she would always wonder that, anytime she looked at the moon. In her mind, she put her arms around him and gave him one last kiss.
She closed her eyes, and Ruth finally stepped off the carousel.

~~~~~


CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Harry leant on the metal railing and looked out at the London skyline. The Thames House roof was his sanctuary of sorts, not only for the fresh air and the solitude it gave him, but also for the view it afforded. When he wondered what he was doing with his life, when MI5 became too surreal to him, as it sometimes did, he came here.
Laid out in front of him was his reason for doing intelligence work. This beautiful city that he loved, and all the people in it. He always knew, when he looked out over the rooftops, that those buildings were filled with people. They may be strangers to him, but he knew who they were. They had families, children, mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, and they all deserved to be safe.
Most of them had a desire to simply travel through their days and arrive home at night in peace. But there would always be bullies who wanted to harm those people in order to show how powerful they were, or simply to prove a point. Someone had to take the side of those who couldn't defend themselves. This was the "soft underbelly" of Harry Pearce, the one he seldom spoke about to those around him. He cared deeply, passionately, about the people in those buildings, and about their right to have hopes and dreams and a safe place to realise them.
Today, Harry was remembering another day he had stood here. There had been a morning briefing and he'd watched a simulation of the effect of a thermobaric bomb on central London. It was a clinical explanation, given by Ruth, doing her job well, as always. He'd watched the yellow circle spread out over the very view he was seeing now, over buildings he recognised, streets he knew. That yellow circle signified death in the wake of a hypothetical bomb.
But Ruth's professional detachment had broken down when Malcolm had calmly called the area around the bomb a theatre of operations. She had replied with a sharp edge in her voice, "Shame when that theatre of operations happens to be a city full of civilians." Harry had listened with gratitude. She'd spoken his heart and again allowed him the luxury of staying silent, appearing aloof, removed. He'd counted on her for that. He realised he had depended on her from the day she first walked through the door. She was his external conscience and the Grid's constant reminder that these were people they were talking about, not stick figures moving about on a map.
As he'd stood on the roof later, Ruth had found him. She always knew where to find him. He would have felt intruded upon by anyone else, but he'd been very glad to see her. In fact, he'd been on the verge of talking to her about all of those people in the buildings, because he knew she would understand, when she suddenly blurted out, "I'm not naive."
He'd turned to her in surprise. "I didn't say you were."
"It's bad enough that the bombers are home-grown, now they're going to blow us up with our own weapons." Harry felt such a strong connection to her in that moment, because she was speaking the thought he'd had right before she'd walked up to him. She was angry, and looked to be on the verge of tears.
"You're absolutely right." He knew Ruth paid the price for her sentimentality, that she fought against it in the face of Ros and Adam, who could be icy in their apparent detachment. Her feelings were always close to the surface, her heart full of compassion. She tried to hide it, to seem more disconnected, but she couldn't pull it off. The feelings were too strong in her.
This was the moment that Harry had felt himself fall. He'd been teetering on the edge for some time, ever since she'd said, "Bugger the Home Office," but as she looked back at him, her face so solemn, he hurtled headlong into love with her. On a grey day in the first week of February, talking of bombs. He'd been living with his dream of Ruth for years already, the one he'd had the night after he'd met her. He'd been fighting it, ignoring it, wishing it away, but now, on the roof of Thames House, he let go. Harry fell beyond saving, head over heels in love with Ruth Evershed.
The next words out of his mouth had been, "Would you like to have dinner one night?" and thus had begun the journey. The winding, wonderful, heartbreaking, impossible, magnificent journey that now, in the relative warmth of mid-June, had finally ended. As Harry stood without his Ruth, he looked out at the people he tried to protect, and he let his mind wander.
He saw random visions, memories of her listening on headphones to that horrible Riff and what she called music. Laughing with Sam in the break room over lunch, then serious and grave in a meeting, pained by the suffering of the world. He saw her call him a bastard, saw her stroke Danny's forehead tenderly in death, heard her say a firm "yes" sitting on the bench next to him when he asked if she would stand by him. And for some reason, here on the roof of Thames House, his mind settled on one thing, on a conversation he'd overheard, that he'd forgotten until just now.
She'd been talking about her community choir, and the joy it gave her. She was explaining to Zoe about the hymn they were practicing, "Behold, They Gain The Lonely Height." Harry knew the words. He knew the words to many hymns, not because of their religious context, but because he found their passion compelling, and he truly loved the blended and complex sound of many voices singing together. The opening words of the hymn were what Ruth was relating to Zoe,

"Ah, vain the dream! The morning clear
brings back earth's weary life again."

Zoe said that it sounded depressing, but Ruth said, "No, no, it starts that way, that the dream has ended and weary life has begun again, but listen to how it ends,

"Yet still within each faithful breast
there dwells the thought of what shall be."

"That's a happy ending," Ruth had said. And then she had sighed, and said, "It's about hope, about being faithful and knowing in your breast, in your heart, that it will all turn out well in the end."
Harry had stood in the doorway, unseen by the two women, and he'd heard the fervent sound of Ruth's words. She really believes it, he thought, even in the face of what we see every day. An optimist. In this business. How he needed to hear someone say that it would all turn out well in the end. She had filled his heart that day, and he'd never told her.
Harry tried to keep that thought in his mind now, because he'd come up to the roof today with a purpose. He had something to do, and he knew that it would be the end of one thing and the beginning of another. While he dreaded it, he was at the same time impatient for it.
Harry had a letter in his pocket that Malcolm had given him, a letter from Ruth, and he had come up to the privacy of the roof to read it. He pulled it out now, and before unfolding it, he leant again on the railing and looked out at London. He took a deep breath, opened it, and began to read.
As Harry read, his eyes filled, he blinked, tears spilling over, and then his eyes filled again. He wiped them with the sleeve of his coat, and still they filled. His tears dripped dark circles onto the green patina of the railing, reached its edge, and fell to the cement of the roof, and still they came. He held the back of his hand to his forehead and pressed there, his other hand shaking slightly, holding the letter.
He read it five times, and stopped himself from reading a sixth. He wanted to memorise it, to immerse himself in her pain, to share it with her so that she wouldn't have to feel it alone. And now, even with his eyes closed, he could remember what she had written. "Not that I wouldn't see another sunset, but that I wouldn't see another one with you."The purity of her love, of her honesty, staggered him.
Her eloquence in showing him the wound he had opened in her, "If it's true that I must never see you, hear your voice, touch your face, kiss your lips, then perhaps I should have died in that room." Her steadfast belief in his love for her, "And my dearest love, you know that it will be the same for you... but if you turn your back on it, then so must I."
Her sense of loss. "I grieve for our summer wedding, I grieve for books and films, and strong opinions, and laughter, and making love. I grieve for The Grand Tour, for Bath, for our dreams together." Harry's tears continued to fall. Oh, my Ruth, so do I.
Her rage. "I'll be angry, and hurt, and will think you somewhat of a coward." Harsh words, yes, but true. He was afraid. Although she was ready to face the danger of loving him, he wasn't strong enough to be the reason she might die. She should think him a coward, he thought. He thought himself one when stood next to her.
And then, what touched him most deeply, her optimism in the face of his coldness. His sweet Ruth, ever the glass half full. "Still in hope, and in faith. I want to live up to that name, my love, to have faith in you, to have faith in us." So her name was Faith. Good for Malcolm, for giving her that gift. It suited her.
The hymn he had just remembered returned to his mind:

Yet still within each faithful breast
there dwells the thought of what shall be.

Still in hope, and in faith, she had written. Still a belief in the happy ending. Could he believe with her? Could he believe that beyond this time there was something more? That right now they were caught in the churning, stormy, foam-filled waters of the roughest part of the river, but that there would be a tranquil, calm place ahead? A place where they could catch their breath, finally, and float together? Harry desperately wanted to believe it. He wanted to have faith. To have Faith.
And still his tears fell. He didn't know he had so many tears. Harry was aware he was sobbing softly now, the sound lost in the monochromatic London sky, mixed in with the sounds of the city, the metallic hums of cars and lifts, the soft pad of shoes on pavement, the rustle of newspapers, the clink of glasses in pubs.
And Harry understood that he was now, himself, one of the people in the buildings he protected. One of those with hopes and dreams to be realised. But today, he couldn't see how they could ever be realised, and he felt desolate, bereft, hopeless.
Harry tried to fill his lungs and get hold of himself. He breathed in and then exhaled, restoring calm in his agonised chest. He laboured to gather his thoughts. I'm not without choices, he thought. He refolded the letter and put it back into his pocket. Although the tears were still forming, they were beginning to subside, and he gazed back out to the distant buildings of London. He shook his head roughly. Right. I've had my breakdown. Now I think.
He could go to her, but it would have to be a total release. He would not only have to give up MI5, he would have to give up England. He would give up Harry Pearce and become William Arden. He had enough money put by to give them a good, solid life, if not an extravagant one, for as long as they both shall live. He would be doing what he had asked her to do, what she had done, twice, "With good grace and a healthy dose of stoicism." They would live as Faith and Will, and Harry Pearce would die with Ruth Evershed.
Harry closed his eyes. Although it felt like a simple trade of his name for his love, he couldn't reduce it to that. It was anything but black and white. The break would have to be final. They would need to disappear. He would always know things that people would want to know. Not just this year, but next, and the one after that. And she would always be his weakness, his Achilles heel.
When he was held by the IRA, he had been questioned while a gun was trained at another agent's head, a friend. He'd resisted and his friend had died, not ten metres away from him. That wouldn't be possible with Ruth. He didn't know what he would do, but for her he thought he might lose his honour, sell his friends and even his country. Or perhaps he would manage to stay silent, but he would then plead with them to put the gun to his head. The nightmare of that scenario was too much for him to contemplate, but it would be a very real possibility if they were together.
Were their dreams even possible under those circumstances? Would The Grand Tour exist if they were always looking behind them, peering around corners? Would they learn to despise each other, feel trapped, claustrophobic? Or could they fly to South America and hide next door to Zoe and Will, chatting about the old days as they formulated fiction for their legends? Was that a life either of them could tolerate for very long?
Harry put his head in his hands, his elbows hard on the railing. Perhaps a middle ground. He could go to her once. Hold her, tell her how much he loved her, reassure her. It's only for a time, my love, although he had no idea for how long. And if he were followed, if he jeopardised the peaceful existence she had carved out in the last month, what then? Even if nothing bad happened, he knew one night would lead to another, and another. Once the barrier was breached, it was a short step to repeat it, and each time would carry more danger, until he would be in his office again, looking at a piece of paper that said "NO!" and loathing himself.
Less, then. Just letters. But didn't they have a map for that already? The letters had led to phone calls which led to visits, which led to ... and Harry was back in his office in an endless loop, desperately waiting for news of the woman he loved. All possible scenarios took him back to the same conclusion. She was safer without him. He had to let her go.
Harry sighed raggedly. He couldn't answer her. He stood on the roof of Thames House, where he had fallen finally and completely in love with Ruth Elizabeth Evershed, and he let her go. Then he let go of Sophie Persan. And now, he let go of Faith, a beautiful, barefoot woman in a flowing white dress and flowers in her hair. She was standing on a beach in Polis, and she was waving to him. Waving goodbye.
He tried to imagine a smile on her face, but for the life of him, he couldn't conjure one. And, in wonder, Harry realised that he still had more tears to cry.



Ruth thought another glass of wine was probably a bad idea. She held the bottle up close to her eyes to see the level, but unfortunately, she couldn't remember where she had started. She sipped at what was left in her glass as she walked over to her computer again.
She now had a laptop and an internet connection, but it meant that instead of making the three-hour round-trip to Paphos, she simply checked obsessively on l'Alcove's IP address from home. It had been exactly a week since she'd sent the letter off to Harry. Yesterday she'd gotten the call that she'd been hired into the Accounting Department with the Polis Hospital starting Monday, and in one week it would be July. Ruth was standing on a razor-thin fence between her old life and her new one, and she was aware that she needed to jump one way or the other.
Her old life was starting to fade. She had lived for thirty-three days on Cyprus, and she'd adjusted nearly completely into its rhythms. She knew this because the Post Office hours felt entirely reasonable to her now, actually quite civilised. The days were warm, the water clear, and her flat pleasant.
If her heart hadn't fallen utterly out of her chest, leaving a cavernous hole, she thought she could, in fact, be moderately happy here.
She asked herself repeatedly about that night outside the library a week ago, and her question was this. If she had let go of Harry so completely under the full moon, how could she be in such terrible pain all the time? He was still rattling around in her head, but now there was no hope attached to the memory of him, so it always hurt. When he said something funny, she couldn't even laugh, because the ache that followed on its heels said, You'll never laugh with him again. Ditto the commentary on Polis life. Ditto the idea of making love. Even the happiest memories were sad. And the worst part was that he seemed to have attached himself to her brain, and there was nowhere that Ruth could hide.
She had known he wouldn't write back, and she had known why. So why in hell did she keep checking for an email? And as this thought ran through her mind, she checked again for an email. Nothing. "Bloody stop!" she railed at herself, and stood to resume her pacing across the room.
Nothing seemed to quite fit together anymore. She had her swim every morning, and in her head she still said good morning to him as she gazed beyond the horizon to England, but she wasn't sure he was still there, listening. She didn't know if he could hear her anymore. It disoriented her, and then the pain would hit again, the way Harry described Davey King's bullet, as a mule-kick to the chest.
Ruth paced back to her small kitchen and picked up the bottle again. Oh, just one more glass won't hurt. I think I've only had two. Three at most. She poured out another glass of the Cabernet, made from locally-grown grapes. Most of the wineries were in Limassol, in the South, but she had found this wine, from Nicolo Vineyards, that was made right here in Polis. Before she could stop herself, she thought, Harry would like this wine.
"Oh, he would, would he?" she said out loud. "Well, he's not bloody here, is he?"
She stepped out into the early-summer warmth on her terrace. The moon was smaller now than it was last week, but it still didn't stop her from wondering if, right now, Harry was looking at it too. Ruth grimaced. "Enough!" she muttered to herself. She walked to the kitchen counter and set her wine down. Getting her purse, she slipped on her sandals and went to the door. She needed distraction.
Ruth really didn't have a plan as she walked down the three flights of stairs to the street, she only knew she had to find something else to think about. She had to remind herself that there was more in the world than Harry Pearce. She walked toward the Square, following the lights and the noise of the Disco Club. She thought she might see if there was a film playing tonight at the Community Hall. They were generally terrible, and the chairs were hard and of the folding variety, but she could at least immerse herself in someone else's sorry life for the evening, instead of her own.
Ruth was surprised at how tipsy she actually was, once she started walking. The cobblestones were uneven, and her sandals were thin, offering no support. She was needing to concentrate more than usual in the dark as she headed toward the Square. And suddenly, Ruth started to think that this wasn't a very good idea after all.
Polis was a lovely little town, but it did have packs of local boys who roamed the streets in their macho, very Mediterranean way, looking somewhat harmlessly for local girls. They weren't particularly sinister, but when they got together in threes and fours, they generally drank, and sometimes to excess, which made them bolder and more aggressive. And even through a bit of Cabernet haze, Ruth could see three of them walking toward her now.
It was dark where she was, especially when contrasted with the brilliant light of the Square nearly a block ahead. She could see people there, strolling, talking, but she knew they couldn't see her. She felt that her senses were dull, as if she knew what to do in a situation such as this, but couldn't quite remember what it was. She turned to look toward her flat, to see how far it would be to go back to the light of the front entrance to the building, but it seemed very far away now, and even darker than the street she was on.
So Ruth put her head down and decided to brave it out. She reminded herself that these were only boys, none older than twenty-five. Ruth was suddenly aware of how thin her blouse was, and that she had neglected to bring her jacket. She pulled her purse closer around her shoulder and joined her hands across her chest. She was only a couple of metres away now, and not only could she dimly see them, but she could hear them talking.
"Angliká ómorfi gynaíka," She heard the tallest of them say. Beautiful English woman. And Ruth realised that they knew of her, but probably didn't know she understood Greek. They weren't even trying to keep their voices low. She gave no indication that she understood, and hoped she could slip by them.
"Tha íthela kápoia apó óti." It was another voice, and now all three were laughing, and agreeing with what was said. Ruth's heart was beginning to hammer just a bit, and the wine seemed not to be affecting her quite so much, as her senses began to return with the adrenaline. Roughly translated, the second boy had said, I would like some of that. As she tried to pass on the right, she saw that her way was blocked, and she stopped and looked up into the dark faces of three tall, leering young men. They were so close around her now that she could smell the combination of too-strong cologne and sweat mingled with the heat of the night.
She knew if she had to, she could scream, but there had to be a better and less dramatic way out of this predicament. Ruth pulled herself up to her full five feet, four inches and tried to look imposing. Unfortunately, two of the three were well over six foot, and the third not far behind.
"Katálava," Ruth said, trying to sound menacing. I understand you. Her voice sounded thin to her, and there was a slight shake to it.
The leader's smile widened, his white teeth almost glowing in the darkness. "Aftó eínai kaló," That's good, he said softly. He reached his hand out, and ran the back of his fingers lightly down the skin on her arm. Ruth shrank back, and was beginning a sharp inhale to scream, when she and the three boys heard a man's voice boom from the darkness.
"Alexio Kostopoulos!" The boy's hand returned quickly to his side, and all three young men turned. With the light behind him, the figure coming toward them was indistinguishable at first, but soon Ruth knew who it was. And so did the young men. Their bravado turned immediately to a reluctant, arrogant fear, and they backed away, scattering as they disappeared into the darkness.
George came quickly to her side, and then looked out to where they had run. "I know their parents, all of them. They're just bored. They won't bother you again." He peered into Ruth's eyes in the meagre light. "You okay?"
Ruth nodded. Although she was grateful George was there, she had no desire to continue to be the damsel in distress every time the poor man encountered her. She was shaking just a bit, and tried to collect herself. "I'm fine, really. Just felt a little cornered, is all." The adrenaline was retreating now, and Ruth was dealing with a strange combination of embarrassment and mild inebriation. She leant against the brick wall to steady herself.
"I'm really not this helpless usually." Ruth sighed loudly. "I'm very seldom in need of rescuing, and now you've done it twice." She realised she wasn't sounding very grateful, so she added, "Thank you, I appreciate your help, George. Again."
"You're welcome. And they wouldn't have gone much further. They just like to have something to talk about tomorrow. As I said, they're bored. They know every girl in town already, and you're different, new." He pointed toward the lights. "Were you going to the Square?"
"Yes. I was going to see if there was a movie playing." At once, Ruth realised he would probably go with her and, nice as he was, she wasn't anxious for company tonight. She added, hurriedly, "But I think I'll go home now. I'm rather out of the mood." She started to turn, but slowed in the face of the darkness between where she was and her flat.
George quickly fell into pace with her. "I'll walk you. They won't be back, but it's probably a good idea for you not to go alone."
Ruth was still feeling a bit unsteady, so she concentrated all of her energy on putting one foot in front of the other on the uneven stones. As she did, her mind seemed to focus as well. She stopped suddenly, and turned to him. "That's quite a coincidence, isn't it? How is it that you happened to be walking by at just that moment?"
George laughed, "Ah, the suspicious foreigner is back." It was darker here, but Ruth's eyes were adjusting. She could see George look down at his feet, and she thought he seemed slightly embarrassed. "You're correct. I wasn't just walking by. I've heard some talk of you, and thought I would take my regular coffee in the Square just in case you ventured out."
Ruth was dumbfounded. "Talk of me?"
He looked up. "Faith, you must understand, Polis has a population of 3,000, and that's a broad estimate. The vast majority of those live in the country and hardly venture to town." He paused and weighed his next words carefully. "When a beautiful Englishwoman comes to live here ... alone ... it is noticed."
For a moment, Ruth was speechless. She thought she'd been so inconspicuous, and all this time there was talk about her? "What do they say?" she asked incredulously.
George indicated that they should keep walking as he spoke, "They say that you are very kind." He snuck a look back at her, smiling. "I said beautiful, yes?" Ruth kept her eyes on the ground and didn't react, so he continued. "They also say you seem very sad."
Ruth's mind returned to the night outside the library in Paphos. She had been uncertain then, but now she felt that George was interested in her as more than a friend. Her heart was so completely entwined with Harry's that she hadn't wanted to see it, but the way he said the words "beautiful" and "sad" spoke it clearly to her. What was confusing was that she thought he was a good man, a kind one, and God knew she needed friends — that was made apparent to her tonight. She knew she didn't want to encourage him, but didn't know quite what to say, so she said nothing.
They reached her door in silence, and Ruth stepped into the small lounge on the ground floor of the building. She turned, and said, "Thank you, George. I appreciate your help." Although she really did mean it, and she meant to say it warmly, her words came out rather clipped.
George stepped back and pursed his lips. "Faith, have I said something to offend you?"
Ruth tilted her head, frowning, "No, no, I'm sorry. I ... I can't ... I need a friend, George, but I can't offer anything more. I want you to understand that." She thought she never would be saying these things without the bravery of the glasses of wine she'd had earlier. "Am I misinterpreting?"
He smiled, and looked slightly abashed. "Ah, the directness of English women. I'd forgotten." After a pause, he answered her, shaking his head, his eyes on the ground. "No, you're not misinterpreting, but I had hoped it wasn't that obvious." He looked up at her. "I can see that your situation is...complicated."
Suddenly, Ruth was overwhelmed with love for Harry, and she thought the man before her couldn't be more different than the man she wished was standing here now. She felt her eyes begin to fill, and she backed further into the lounge, beginning to close the door. "I'd like to be your friend, George, but as for anything else ... my heart's taken. It always will be." The door was only open a tiny bit now, and her voice was beginning to quaver, "Thanks again. Good night."
She just managed to get the door closed before her tears spilled over entirely.

~~~~~


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