CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Ruth pulled away from George and tried to smile at him, more out of her natural sense of politeness than anything else. The porch was still in the dusky shadows of early morning, so he was unable to see her clearly, and she was grateful that he wasn't able to read the subtleties of her face. Ruth was still a tiny bit drunk, but she was in complete possession of her ability to judge what had just happened.
She had hoped so much to enjoy that kiss. Her anger had made her want to thumb her nose at Harry Pearce's lopsided idea of love, and her sadness had left her in need. Life would have been so simple if there had been rockets going off in her head as she kissed George, but it was a kiss, and only that. Not unpleasant, but something informed by memory and mechanics rather than passion.
Even now, as she slowly pushed away from George, Ruth could feel the tears beginning to spring to her eyes at the loss. As if she had known the intricate, dusty flavour of a fine wine and had now been given something bland and tasteless as a substitute. And added to that was the knowledge that she could never have that wine again. She was left to a future filled with only remembering its complexities.
It wasn't George's fault, and he was her friend, so she not only felt her own loss, she felt her friend's loss as well. She felt sorry that the one George loved could never love him. She'd wished better for him.
"Ruth ... I... " He held her arms for as long as he could, until she had moved beyond his reach. Of course he had only one thing to say. The words that had been on his lips for so many months, the words he'd almost blurted out scores of times. The words that, with her kiss, Ruth had given him permission to speak. " … I love you."
Before she could stop herself, she said, softly, "Don't." And then she put her head in her hands and the tears started again, because that was the word she had said to Harry on the dock. Harry, please don't.
Was she forever to be stopping men from speaking their hearts? Because now she wanted to go back, to give Harry that chance again as the boat waited. To tell him to say whatever was on his mind, to ask her to marry him, to ask her anything. The bloody boat could have waited all day and all night if it had to. Right now, Ruth longed for those words, for any words from Harry.
And would there be a time in the future when she would wish that she had let George speak? Would she push George away now, and be alone later in her misery, thinking, if only? If only I had moved back into his arms and said yes, George, love me, and I'll be grateful for it.
She didn't have the chance to move back to him, because George couldn't stand the helplessness of watching her cry without going to her. He pulled her to him again, but now he held her tighter, as if somehow he could protect her from the depth of the pain she was feeling, as if he were rescuing her from drowning, his strong arms in complete control of her slack, shuddering body.
"Oh, God, Ruth..." George spoke into her hair, softly, soothing, " ...oh, so much pain, my Ruth..."
"No!" Suddenly she pushed violently away from him. Her face was contorted, anger mixing with the tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, "Don't call me that! He called me that ..."
Finally, George gave his own anger free rein, "Well, he's not here, is he? Where is he, this man you love so much? Why does he let you feel this pain?" George pounded his chest, "I'm here! Right here in front of you, Ruth. And I love you." As his anger subsided, George sighed, and spoke more softly, "I love you." Exhausted, he sat heavily into one of the chairs at the table.
"I know." Ruth spoke softly too, but her voice still had a sharp edge. She knew how unfair she was being, but she couldn't help herself, because she felt Harry was here. He might as well be sitting at the table across from George, and she couldn't bear to look at the two of them together. She turned away, standing just inches from the edge of the roof, feeling the splash of the cold rain on her bare feet, seeing the waterfalls that ran from the roof above to the tiles below.
"I won't wait forever, Ruth," George said. It was spoken through strong emotion, but it was an uncompromising statement, and she knew it was true. It's within your grasp. Reach out and take it.
"I know that, too." Ruth still couldn't turn around. She wasn't crying anymore, and her breath was slowly returning. She closed her eyes and visualised that house again, the one above the ocean, with the pool and the herb garden.
She tried to imagine a new life for herself, away from Harry, away from London, from the Grid. A life here. For just a flicker of a moment, she saw the house on the hill again. She saw herself there with George and Nico, with Christina, Panos, and the children coming for dinner. Harry wasn't there. It was only for just a moment, and then it was gone.
"George ... I ..." She turned to tell him that she had seen it, but the chair was empty. I won't wait forever, Ruth.
She stood for a time, alone, shivering, knowing she had a decision to make. Then Ruth walked quietly into the house and back to her room.
After recording another letter to Ruth, Harry had a dream. One of those flying dreams that he'd heard about, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying. In his dream, he'd flown to her, watching the endless sea move below him until he was suddenly on the beach where they'd walked together on Cyprus.
He was barefoot, and could feel the sand between his toes. He looked up, and there was Ruth, no less beautiful than Aphrodite, smiling at him from some distance. He was there to marry her. She wore the white dress and the flowers in her hair, and he could see her raise her face deliciously to the warmth of the sun. She was tanned and achingly happy. He imagined taking her in his arms, kissing her, and feeling her hair brush across his face in the light breeze.
They started walking toward each other, but they seemed to be getting no closer. He broke into a run, as did she, but still the distance between them was the same. He saw her happiness dissolve into worry, then terror. The flowers flew from her hair, and tears were streaking her cheeks as she ran. He was running too fast, and he stumbled and fell, tasting the sand in his mouth, its grittiness sharp between his teeth. When he raised his head hoping to see Ruth, he was back in the jail cell from so long ago, after Cotterdam, and he was cold and alone. He looked up at the bars on the one small window and screamed, "No," as he had done that night. It echoed in a long, low wail against the confining walls, just as it had then.
Harry awakened in the early hours of the morning with that "No" still ringing in his ears, and there were tears on his pillow. The pain of missing Ruth was utterly unbearable. He lay staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily, and then, in an entirely spontaneous and emotional moment, Harry decided that he would go to Heathrow and catch the first flight that would take him to Cyprus. He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but irrationally, he imagined he might find her on that beach, waiting for him, and that they could finish his dream with him holding her in his arms.
He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, and he knew what he was planning was dangerous and slightly insane, but Harry's will seemed to be broken. He felt he had to touch her again or he would actually lose what rational mind he had left.
He got dressed, packed a small bag, and chose in his mind which legend would do the travelling. He drove to the Grid to get his passport, but as he sat at his desk and opened the drawer, Harry was abruptly assaulted with a combination of the crushing responsibility of his work, and the awareness of the small note he had written to himself.NO. If you love her. NO.
Harry sat in the misery of indecision until the sun rose. He missed the flight he'd planned, then missed the next, and then the next. In absolute despair, he felt unable to go, but unwilling to stay, and in the end, he did nothing. Harry alternately felt himself a coward, a victim, a realist, and a villain, but at the last, he was merely the head of MI5, a man with a conscience who was desperately in love with a woman he couldn't have.
Exhausted, heartbroken, and barely able to think, Harry quietly put away his passport, turned on his computer, and pulled out the files that began his work for the day, willing them to distract him. He watched the beginnings of life on the Grid as people came through the pods, and felt simultaneously grateful and angry that he was no longer alone in his dreadful state. He had no idea how he would work, how he would string coherent thoughts together, or how he could bear to be Harry Pearce today.
"Sugarhorse." Lucas stood in Harry's doorway and spoke the word that he had suddenly remembered.
Lucas tried to swallow the feelings back, but he could still taste the water filling his throat, moving down into his lungs, choking him, a feeling like drowning, but not as merciful as drowning, as it went on and on. The memory of his torture had come back to him unbidden, but the word kept playing over in his head. Sugarhorse. It was what his interrogator had asked him. If he'd known what it was, at that point he might have been close to telling her, but the word meant nothing to him.
Harry repeated the word back to him, but with a question at the end. "Sugarhorse? Is that it?" He shook his head as if he was hearing it for the first time.
"That's what she said," Lucas answered. "'Tell me about Sugarhorse.' What is it?"
Harry looked straight ahead, his mind working. "No idea. Curve ball, control question, maybe?" He finally looked at Lucas, his eyebrows raised, "Nonsense, probably."
"Well, it seemed pretty important to the interrogator at the time."
"Yes, I'm sure it did."
It was hard for Lucas to accept the detached way that Harry was taking in this information. Just saying the word was painful for Lucas, and Harry's manner was cool, offhand, dismissive. Lucas controlled himself, and said, "I thought you'd want to know."
"Thank you." Harry didn't look up, letting Lucas know that this conversation was over.
Lucas turned to the door and said, "Probably not the best time." He was fighting to keep his emotions down. He'd brought Harry what he thought might be important information. And after eight years of being tortured in a Russian prison, Harry couldn't even manage to look at him?
"'When troubles come...,'" Harry said, quietly.
And now he's quoting bloody Hamlet at me. Yes, troubles come in battalions, Harry. I've seen every one of them. Lucas stopped at the door and turned back. "If it did mean anything, I'd like to think that I went through all that..." For a reason. For a damned good reason.
"Absolutely." Harry still didn't look up. As he walked back out to the Grid, Lucas could hear Arkady Kachimov's voice in his head, day after day in prison. They don't even try to get you back, Lucas. Harry Pearce refuses to talk to us. It seems he doesn't care whether you ever return to England...
Harry sat in silence for a long time after Lucas left him, trying to still his breathing and the fierce beating of his heart. If Harry had wished for a compelling problem to take his mind off Ruth, he couldn't have come up with a better one.
Sugarhorse. Christ, I never thought I would hear that word spoken aloud by an officer just returned from Russia. At just hearing the word, the adrenaline had gone through Harry like a shot and he had difficulty remaining calm. He'd been afraid to meet Lucas' eyes because he was worried that the turmoil he was going through would be too obvious.
Sugarhorse. No one, most especially a Russian interrogator, should have even known to ask the question. Clearly, what Harry had thought of as the Security Services' best-kept secret was no longer that.
Now Lucas wasn't the only one thinking of Kachimov. Harry's thoughts were also drifting to the Russian, but in an entirely different vein. He was regretting again that he had killed Arkady. If he hadn't, at this moment he would be getting his coat and going to him. He would sit with Kachimov in his cell and find out exactly what the Russians knew about Sugarhorse.
But that wasn't possible, so Harry decided there was another person to whom he should pay a visit. A person Harry trusted with his own life. Bernard Qualtrough.
Something has happened, Christina thought. The tension across the table was palpable, and it hung in the air between George and Ruth as each pushed the eggs around on their plates. Both were looking down, lost in thought, separate. Yes, something has definitely happened.
"More fruit?" Christina asked her brother, offering the bowl to him. He waved her away, not unkindly, but in a manner that told her he wasn't interested in anything but the fascinating prospect of the plate in front of him. She tried Ruth, who at least looked up and attempted a smile, but Christina thought perhaps Ruth hadn't slept at all, by the look in her eyes.
"Were you comfortable last night, Ruth?" Christina had a frown wrinkling the space between her eyebrows. Ruth was aware of how she and George must look to Christina, so she forced herself to brighten a bit.
"Oh, yes, very comfortable. It's a wonderful room, Christina. Thank you." Everything Ruth said seemed to be emerging from her mouth in a stilted, formal way, and Christina nearly laughed.
"Well, you are very welcome," she said, matching Ruth's formal tone, and shaking her head. Christina picked up her own plate, and stood to go to the sink. "And as I have fivechildren to get ready for church," she said, including Panos in her count with a large smile, "I will go upstairs." After rinsing her dish, she walked toward the door. "And perhaps, you two would like to talk to each other." To their silence, Christina shook her head again, and left them alone.
For some moments, they sat quietly. George was waiting for Ruth to let him know what part of last night, if any, she wished to talk about, and Ruth was weighing that very question herself. Finally, Ruth sighed, and looked up at him. He looked at her, and she could see he'd probably gotten as little sleep as she had.
All she could think to do was to apologise. "I'm sorry ..." She really was, and the sincerity in her voice had the effect of breaking through the barrier George had built since last night. His eyes softened, and now she could see the hurt there.
"Which part are you sorry about?" he said quietly. "About kissing me? Because I'm not sorry. I've wished for it." He looked back down at his plate, his voice growing even softer. "I've longed for it."
Ruth leant forward just a bit. "No, I wanted to kiss you. I needed to ..." Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to be dishonest again, but how could she tell him that she'd had to find out if she could love him? And how could she then tell him that she'd discovered she couldn't?
George saved her the deliberation. "You needed to know if you would like it. If it could make you forget him." He looked up again. "And it didn't." Now his eyes were challenging her, asking her to contradict him, to tell him he was wrong. Ruth's mind was racing, but she couldn't think of what to say, and her pause answered his question more thoroughly than any number of words could have. His eyes returned to his plate, and he said, resigned, "It didn't."
Finally, deciding to be as honest as she possibly could, Ruth found her voice. "I don't know what to do, George. I don't want to lose you, but I can't help how I feel." She waited until he looked at her, and then she engaged his eyes with her intensity. "I want so much out of life. I want a home, and love, and marriage, and security." She sat back, sounding surprised at her own words. "I think I want children."
George was feeling a glimmer of hope again. "I want those things too. I hadn't thought I wanted more children, but if it were with you …" He worried he might be saying too much, but Ruth was still there, her face open. "I want all of those things, with you, Ruth."
He shook his head, and looked down again. "But it needs to be with love. I can't do it with less than that." His eyes peered out at her from under the shadow of his dark brows, and George asked the most important question. "Do you think you can ever love me?"
Ruth reached her hand out and enclosed his. "I want to. I can't tell you how much I want to." She really meant it, and her intention was clear in her voice. "I see a house on a hill, overlooking the ocean, with a pool and …"
"And an herb garden." George coloured a bit as Ruth tilted her head, frowning slightly. "I heard you talking to Christina yesterday. I didn't mean to. I was coming into the kitchen to get more tea, and I heard you tell Christina what a good life she had, and then … that you still loved someone else … and I couldn't stop listening …" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, but I've wanted so much to know your feelings. It was too hard to move …"
Now Ruth's mind was hurrying over the conversation with Christina, trying to remember exactly what she had said. He saw her look, and said, quickly, "You said nothing that you shouldn't. And really nothing that I didn't already know, except that you could see us in a house together." He smiled at her, his eyes full of love. "It made me very happy to think that. It gave me hope."
His hand remained in hers, and she made no move to release it. "I saw it last night too." Shyly, she said, "I still see it."
"Do you? Because I won't keep trying if it makes no sense." He kept his eyes on their hands for a short time, and then looked up and smiled again, this time a broader smile. "Christina was right. I am a catch." The word produced the desired effect, and Ruth laughed softly.
"I know you are. Any woman would be lucky to have you." Ruth sighed. "I would be lucky to have you."
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, tentatively. She didn't pull away, so he held it there as he looked at her. "Was it so terrible, that kiss?"
Ruth's eyes grew soft too. "No. Not terrible at all."
"Just not fireworks," he said, quietly. He gave her hand one more kiss, and then put it gently back on the table. "That's all right. Perhaps we can discover the fireworks." He sat back in his chair. "Did I tell you my father's parents were in an arranged marriage?"
Shaking her head, Ruth answered, "No."
George was suddenly feeling hungry, even for cold eggs. He leant forward and speared a forkful, and then he took a long sip of coffee. "Yes. She was fifteen and he was seventeen when they were promised. Before he was twenty, they were married. They've been together for sixty-two years, and I've never seen such love, such respect, between two people." He piled some of the fruit from the bowl onto his plate. "They didn't love each other when they were married, but they love each other deeply today." George looked at her. "Love can grow, Ruth."
Ruth smiled at him. He was giving her space. Generously showing his love for her by allowing her the time and the room she needed to make a decision. She was intensely grateful to him, and for a moment, she thought, perhaps love can grow.
Ruth looked across from her, and Harry wasn't here now. She couldn't hear his voice or see his face in this warm Cyprus kitchen that seemed a world away from London and the Grid. Harry's absence suddenly brought her a compounded feeling of peace and pain.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, wincing with the ache of missing Harry, and when she opened her eyes and saw only George, she managed another sad smile. The smile warmed slowly, until it reached her eyes, and George saw a subtle change begin. She was opening to him, methodically unlocking the doors that had kept him at arm's length.
And in that moment, George knew that despite his brave words of not waiting forever, he would be there for Ruth for as long as it took.
Slowly, Ruth pushed her coffee cup the few inches to touch George's. "Here's to love growing. And hope." She said it bravely, taking the leap, but as she said it, she felt Harry intruding again, pushing his way into her mind. She could hear him saying No, and she felt not only her own pain, but Harry's as well, coursing into her body. It ran through her like a drug, nearly paralysing her, although she knew it must only show in a faint blush at her cheeks. George took her hand from the cup, lifted it, and kissed it again, this time holding it against his cheek.
As he looked at her, George said softly, "I know you can't say it, and I don't want you to, until you truly mean it. But I must say it. I love you, Ruth, so very much." He released her hand and inhaled deeply, smiling. "This is good. This is progress." He picked up his fork and began to eat again. "I will be patient." He looked up at her from under his brows, his eyes bright. "And I will keep my eye out for a house overlooking the ocean, with a pool, and an herb garden. Someday, I know, we will live there."
Now the dark brown of George's eyes deepened, and he grew more serious. He said firmly, "But you need to know that I want more than that, Ruth. Not just to live with you. I want to be with you, always. I want to marry you."
He waited to see her reaction, and it was as he expected. Her cheeks coloured and she looked down, unable to meet his eyes. George had learned so much about Ruth in the time they'd been together. He knew she was thinking, and with Ruth, thinking was a good thing. He felt his dreams were closer than ever to being realised.
Ruth was thinking, but not in the way George hoped. She was asking herself, What have I done? In an instant, Ruth was overcome with guilt. And in her head were the words that now joined in the chorus with Harry's firm No.
You can't marry George. You're already married.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
"Guillaume? Are you hungry?" As she asked, Isabelle was going through the cupboards in the small l'Alcove kitchen. She hoped he wasn't feeling a need for food, because the shelves were nearly bare. She found some biscuits that were still fresh, and arranged them on a plate.
"No, thanks, Maman, I ate breakfast. Wouldn't mind a coffee, though." Guillaume sat at the computer desk, squinting his eyes into slits at the mess his mother had made of her files.
Isabelle sighed. I finally get my son to visit, and there's nothing to give him. Why didn't I shop? "Oh, my dear, no coffee either." She tried to keep her voice bright. "Tea?"
"Yes, please, but nothing fruity. What do you have?" He peered in wonder at her computer's desktop, completely filled with all types of icons, in no order whatsoever. "How do you find anything on here?"
"That's why you're here, dear." She pulled a tin down from the shelf, and asked hopefully, "Earl Grey?"
"Yes. Good," Guillaume said, sounding distracted. Now Isabelle sighed with relief, her duty as a mother fulfilled. She filled the kettle and switched it on, readying the tray with cups and teabags.
Guillaume was muttering in exasperated sotto voce, "Folders. We need folders… "
"What, dear?"
"Folders, Maman. They organise you. I can show you how to create them, and then how to choose what you put into them. You'll find things much more easily."
The kettle boiled, and Isabelle poured the steaming water over the teabags, letting them steep. She carried the tray out to the side table, and pulled a chair up next to Guillaume. For a moment, she just looked at him in wonder. Completely grown, yet she still saw him at six years old. The furrows in his brow were the same, if slightly deeper now at thirty-one. This was the look he had as a child when drawing or reading a difficult passage in his books.
Isabelle reached up spontaneously and touched his cheek. "My smart boy."
He looked over and smiled at her with warm, patient eyes. "No longer a boy, Maman. And this …" he turned back to the screen, "… is a disaster." Despite saying he wasn't hungry, Guillaume reached for a biscuit.
Isabelle took a deep breath. "So, what do we do? The main problem is the mail. Can you look at that?"
Guillaume clicked the icon and waited for the Inbox to appear. He had plenty of time to take a sip of the hot tea and finish his biscuit. When it finally opened, he turned and looked at her incredulously. "You have over fifteen-hundred emails in your Inbox?"
"Yes?" Her face was open, questioning. "They keep sending them to me, dear. What am I to do? I've answered them all, but I can't throw them away, can I?"
Guillaume was muttering again. "Folders … ," but Isabelle was already up again and on her way to the kitchen, looking for something else.
"I remember that word, folders. Sophie told me how to do it, but she left rather quickly, and I never wrote it down." Isabelle was opening drawers and cupboard doors, searching for napkins.
Guillaume's voice changed tone suddenly, "Maman? Who is Martin Wingate?"
Isabelle stopped, and peeked her head around the cupboards. "He was a friend of Sophie's. Why?"
"There's a folder here, titled 'Scarlet.' It's hidden inside a folder, inside another, in a place you probably would never look. It has … fifteen letters saved, all either to or from Martin Wingate. Do you want to keep them?"
Isabelle walked quickly to stand behind Guillaume. "Let me see," she said, over his shoulder. He showed her where they were, and she wanted to ask him to open one so that she could read it, but she suddenly had the picture in her mind of Sophie sitting here, poring over these letters. Isabelle had walked into the back room countless times and had found her either smiling, or crying, or just staring. Guillaume moved the mouse to open one of them, and Isabelle put her hand over his.
"No," she said softly. "They were very private to her. Very personal. From a man she loved very much."
Guillaume stopped, and Isabelle sat in the chair next to him. He reached out to her, because her eyes had suddenly filled. "Maman?" he said gently, "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine. It's simply that … it's such a sad story, a love story." She looked up at him, and a tear fell. "And I don't know the ending of it." She wiped away the tear and smiled at him. "I hope for you a love like that, my Guigui," she leant over and kissed him on the cheek, and then said, in a cheerier voice, "But with a happy ending." She looked at the computer screen. "Yes, keep them, please. I'll decide later what to do with them."
They worked into the afternoon, organising, archiving, and cleaning up Isabelle's email and her files. Finally, Guillaume began on the website and the server. Isabelle had gone out to buy sandwiches at the Café Hugo, and on her return, she locked the front door and walked to the back of the store.
Guillaume looked up at her, smiling. "Your friend? Sophie? She's been in here."
Isabelle put down the food and went to him. "What? In here?" She pointed to the screen in wonder, as if Sophie might suddenly pop out like a jack-in-the-box.
Laughing, Guillaume said, "No, well, not in here exactly, but on the server. She sent an email to Martin Wingate just … erm … nearly three weeks ago, and he replied the next day. There were a couple more almost seven months ago. And she … or someone … has been checking the mail on the server nearly every day for the last seven months."
He nodded to Isabelle with respect in his eyes. "She's very clever, your friend. I have no way of knowing where she is, or where Martin Wingate is. The IP addresses are completely hidden, or simply don't exist anymore. Very clever girl. What did you say? She was your assistant?"
Isabelle smiled. "She was … erm ... overqualified, I believe, to be my assistant." Looking at the screen, which held nothing that she could understand, Isabelle said, "But you say she comes here … every day?"
"Yes. Every day. At least, someone comes here every day. Whoever it is that sent the email to Martin Wingate, and knows the way to get into the server without letting it know where they are. We must assume she's the one."
"So, today, my Sophie was here?" She looked into Guillaume's eyes, and he nodded. Isabelle released a deep breath and clapped her hands together. "Oh, she is safe. I'm so pleased." Suddenly, Isabelle had an idea. "This place she comes to, can we leave something there? Can I give her a message without anyone knowing?"
Now Guillaume's forehead furrowed again, "What is this about? Why wouldn't she be safe? Why shouldn't anyone know?" His eyes narrowed. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
Isabelle laughed, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, mon cheri, there are many things I've never told you. One day, when I have had too much wine, I will share with you what an adventuress your dear old Maman has been. But for now, I want to send those letters, from the file named 'Scarlet,' to Sophie. Can I do that?"
Guillaume thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, I suppose if I …"
Laughing again, Isabelle, said, "Oh, please, no, don't tell me how. My head is splitting from this day already. Please just do it, and tell her they are from ... from Scarlet, with much love. Will you do that?"
Invigorated by the challenge, Guillaume was already clicking faster than she could possibly understand. "Yes. I will. But only on one condition." He turned to her, smiling. "You promise me we'll share that bottle of wine soon. You, an adventuress? I'm very intrigued."
Harry knew he should be on the Grid, but as the suicide bombings were merely to be a dry run, he thought Ros could handle it. She had looked at him strangely as he'd gone through the pods, but there was no one he could tell about Sugarhorse. No one but his old friend Bernard Qualtrough.
Harry walked to the back of The Bookshop on the Heath, and found Qualtrough with his head on his desk, sleeping. It was a habit of Bernard's from the old days, catching rest whenever possible during ops. He always called it "resting his eyes." Never was it called sleep.
Harry smiled, and spoke loudly enough to wake him. "Looking for a copy of The Captain's Daughter, the Gautier, 1891."
As Harry had known he would, Bernard awakened in a protest. He looked up, groggily, "I wasn't sleeping." Harry let him know with a tilt of the head that he knew better. Bernard looked down at the book on his desk, "I think what we have here is Kak Poluchit Ne Menee."
Bernard thought he would stump him with that one, but Harry responded with a smile, "How to get at least one-hundred-and-sixty-five eggs from every laying hen."
"Very good. Published in Moscow, 1936. Very rare."
"Hello, Bernard." Harry had great affection in his voice. It was extremely good to see Qualtrough again, although he wished it were under different circumstances. He needed Bernard's help. Harry thought he was the best spy catcher the Services ever had, and he had been Harry's greatest teacher.
Harry came right out with it. "I have every reason to believe that the Service has been penetrated at the very highest level. Somebody has been talking to the Russians."
Harry couldn't tell Bernard everything about Sugarhorse, but he could tell him they'd been breached and ask his advice on how to catch the mole. There were only four people who knew about the operation. Harry, the Director General, Richard Dolby, and an officer named Hugo Prince, who was now dead.
"Well, I'd stake my life it's not you, Harry," Qualtrough said.
"The DG?" Harry asked sceptically.
"No, no, unthinkable. And if it was Hugo, at least the danger is over. And your new boss, Dolby? Now careful, Harry. Can't make it him just because he's the most frightful little tick. One must have some proof. Why can't you put your team on to it?"
Harry shook his head. "It's too sensitive for an in-house investigation. Need an outside eye. Somebody with discretion."
"And you think flattery will get you everywhere?" Just then, Harry's mobile beeped. He looked quickly at the screen. A Red Flash back to the Grid.
"I've got to go." Harry stood.
"Come back when you can, Harry," Qualtrough said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."
Harry hurried back to the Grid where he heard that the suicide bombings of the first cell hadn't been a dry run after all. Ros, through quick thinking and excellent operational management, had coordinated the defusing of two of the three bombs. The last had gone off, killing the bomber and two policemen, but no civilians.
Harry was grateful to have Ros for many reasons, but an added one was that he felt confident in leaving the Grid in her capable hands. That meant that he could focus on working with Bernard to find the mole who had leaked Sugarhorse to the Russians. After spending some time down at Registry, Harry stopped off again at the Bookshop. He walked to the back and handed Qualtrough some files, saying, "These files have two things in common. They represent compromised operations, and they involve Richard Dolby. At either planning or execution level."
Harry knew that Bernard's excellent mind would go to work on the problem and find the thread that Harry had missed. There was no time to be lost in determining where the leak existed. Hundreds of double agents in Russia were in danger of losing everything, including their lives.
After meeting with Bernard, Harry went back to the Grid. He knew he was running on very little sleep and should go home to get some rest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He always had work to finish in his office, but tonight it wasn't for the work that he returned to the Grid, it was for a very different reason.
Ruth had been intruding on his thoughts all day long, distracting him, and his desire to see her was every bit as powerful as it had been this morning after his dream. As he drove back to the Grid, he thought again about what he had written in his letter. Over six months apart and not a word from me - I have to wonder if you've given up on us. The thought wouldn't go away, no matter how he tried to deflect it.
Harry had all but decided to break his own rule, and now he had only to convince Malcolm to help him. He thought perhaps if he knew more about her life, if he had just a little more information, it would prevent what had almost happened this morning. He still promised himself he wouldn't make contact, but he had to know something, or he thought he simply might lose his mind.
So when he stepped back on the Grid and saw Malcolm tapping away at his station, Harry felt a wave of relief come over him. "Malcolm," he said, "Christ, I'm glad you're still here. I need to ask a favour of you."
Malcolm turned and saw the look on Harry's face, and immediately narrowed his eyes and said, "No."
Harry was already feeling guilty about what he was going to ask, and he wished for once that his old friend didn't know him so well. "I haven't even asked you anything yet," he said, doing his best to sound innocent.
Malcolm shook his head. "I know that look, and you're trying too hard to be nice. You either want me to take Scarlet for the week-end, or escort a friend of a friend with questionable conversational skills to a Bar Mitzvah or some such." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I won't do it."
Harry laughed, and shook his head. "Neither." He sighed, and said, "I want you to break a rule that I set for you." Malcolm frowned, not understanding. Harry looked around the Grid to be certain they were alone, and continued, "Malcolm, I want you to tell me about Ruth."
Malcolm paused, thinking. This request didn't surprise him. In fact, he thought it was a testament to Harry's strength that it hadn't come sooner. But he'd been given a direct order never to broach this subject with Harry, and he had to at least attempt to follow that order.
"I don't know anything about Ruth," he deadpanned.
Harry sat on the edge of Malcolm's desk, and said evenly, "But you know how to find out."
"Yes. But you told me not to."
"And now," Harry said, his voice rising slightly, "I'm telling you I want you to."
They sat in silence for a moment, at an impasse. Neither would look away, and each was wondering what the other would say next. Finally, Malcolm sighed. "What would you have me do, Harry? Do you want me to quote exactly what you said? I believe it was, Never, under any circumstances, no matter what I say ..."
Harry interrupted him, exasperated, "Yes, I know what I told you. I'm telling you something else now." His face softened, became slack, and Malcolm saw the pain in his eyes. "I have to know, Malcolm. I can't go another day not knowing." Harry took off his coat and folded it carefully next to him. "It can't hurt her, can it, for me to know? What could hurt her is if I acted impulsively on the knowledge, and I'm telling you I won't."
Harry's voice became very soft. "I almost got on a plane this morning." Malcolm could hear the wonder in Harry's voice at his complete loss of control, and his heart went out to his friend. Harry was trying very hard to hide the emotion he was feeling, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.
"Harry. Do you recall what else you said on that horrible night? You called it a slippery slope. You said once you know something, you need to know more, and then more." Malcolm paused. "I can tell you from experience that it's dreadfully hard to resist the temptation."
Harry gave a slight shake of his head. "Yes, but you've done it for six years. I've barely made six months. Six years, Malcolm. You're apparently made of steel."
Malcolm suddenly coloured slightly, and Harry raised his eyebrows. Sheepishly, Malcolm said, "I will confess to the odd backslide here or there." He let his eyes drift to the comfort of his computer screen as he talked. "I watched her once, stepping into a cab outside the school." His voice grew quieter, "And once more, as she left home in the morning. Sometimes, it's ... it's very hard to stay away ..." Malcolm shrugged, a bit embarrassed, and looked up at Harry, his tone changing to the more businesslike, more distant one of the Grid. "I do understand, you know."
Harry's eyes softened, "Yes, I'm certain you do."
For a moment, they sat in silence, until Malcolm turned and leant back in his chair. "She wrote to me. When Adam died." To Harry's blank look, Malcolm added, "Ruth."
Harry was caught off guard, his heart in somewhat of an open stance, and the news scored a direct hit. He lost his breath for a second, and he needed to regain his composure before he spoke. "What ... what did she say?"
"That she felt there was something wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. That she thought it might have been you, hurt or in danger." He smiled sympathetically at Harry, seeing how thrown he was, "Psychic Ruth, in action again. How I've missed her."
"And did you answer?"
"Yes, in a far-too-easily cracked code, but I told her that it was Adam who'd died, and that you were well."
"You never told me."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows archly and spoke very slowly, as if Harry were a child. "You told me not to."
Harry ignored his tone, and simply stared at Malcolm, his mouth slightly open, his mind racing. "How long ago was this?"
"Three weeks or so." Malcolm turned and clicked the icon on his taskbar at the bottom of his screen. After a few twists and turns and more than one password, he pulled up the email Ruth had sent him. "I got it early in the morning, the day after Adam died."
Harry read it over Malcolm's shoulder. Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence.
Harry was suddenly so filled with love for her that he had to sit down. He closed his eyes against the waves as they broke over him. She was all there, in those few lines. Her care and compassion, her intuitive nature, her intelligence, her stoicism. Someone I love. Oh, thank God, she does still love me.
Harry propped his elbows on the desk and put his hands up to his face. Malcolm allowed him these moments in silence, understanding completely. He heard Harry sigh into his hands, and Malcolm knew that the worst of it had passed, as he continued, "We have operatives there, you know, near the Green Line." The Green Line between the Greek and Turkish sides of Cyprus, also known as the United Nations Buffer Zone, was the cease-fire line established in 1964. It was a volatile area, and needed watching. "And, Six has a man in Polis. A newsagent." Malcolm allowed himself a slight smile. "She might buy her paper from him, if she's still partial to The Times."
Harry looked at Malcolm and was unable to hide his relief. Just having these small bits of information made him feel closer to Ruth, as if she still existed out there. It made this impossible situation less surreal, and made her seem more accessible to him. Already he felt his nerves calming, his urgency subsiding.
"Can you find out where she's working? Where she lives?"
"Yes. I can also tell you how much she has in her bank account, where she shops for soap, and if she's run afoul of the local gendarmes, but should I?" Malcolm looked uncompromisingly at Harry. "What do you really want to know?"
Harry sighed, his exhaustion finally beginning to take its toll. "I want to know ... if she's happy. If she needs anything. If she hurts."
Malcolm's voice softened, as he shook his head slightly. "I won't be able to tell you that."
Harry turned away, and finally gave in. "I miss her so terribly, Malcolm, sometimes I'm not sure I can get through the day. How do you do it?"
"Well, old friend, I do miss Sarah very much, but ..." Malcolm reached out a hand to place it on Harry's shoulder, and then pulled it back, unable to move quite that far into new territory. " ... but you and Ruth... ah, that is something extraordinary."
Malcolm could see that Harry was on the edge of something very dangerous. "Harry, you haven't precisely asked for my advice, but in any event, that's what you're going to get. I have lived with this for six years, so I'm more experienced at it." Speaking slowly, Malcolm tried to articulate exactly what he wanted to say.
"You ... you think this will make you feel better, but it won't. You'll feel ... erm ... cheapened by it, spying on someone you love, as if you're peering into her bedroom window at night ..." Malcolm looked away and shook his head. " ...horrible feeling, really, and she doesn't deserve it." He looked up again. "It's one-sided, and tawdry, and beneath me. She can't look in on me, can she?" Harry stayed silent, as Malcolm continued after another pause. "It doesn't help, Harry. It makes it worse. Please believe me."
"So what do I do, Malcolm? How do I get through this?" Malcolm had never seen Harry so open. He supposed the better word was broken. They were clearly heading into intolerably maudlin territory again, as they had when Malcolm first told Harry about Sarah. Enough was enough.
Malcolm's tone changed into its familiar clipped cadence. "You suck it up and remember that you're the one who's made the decision to live a life that's impossible for her. This isn't being forced on you, Harry. Right now, this minute, you could call Ros and tell her she's Section Head. You could get on that plane, and we'd never see you again." Malcolm stopped and raised his eyebrows at Harry, challenging him. "Am I correct?"
Harry realised he had gone past Malcolm's available sympathy, and again, he was immeasurably grateful to his friend. "Yes. Yes, Malcolm, as usual, you're correct."
Finally, Malcolm did offer a gentlemanly pat on Harry's shoulder. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Good, then. And although it's against my better judgment, I will give you one thing, and one thing only. Something small ... " Malcolm pursed his lips in thought, " ... something unemotional." He looked pointedly at Harry. "How about what she's driving? That should be fairly innocuous."
Harry turned around and watched as Malcolm made his way through myriad screens. Suddenly Malcolm's eyebrows went up, "I stand corrected. Controversial already, our Ruth." He pointed Harry to the screen.
Harry laughed in spite of himself, and looked at Malcolm, incredulous. "A Vespa?"
Amish Mani clicked off his mobile with his anger seething just beneath the surface of his outwardly placid face. "Oh, Harry," he said aloud to himself, "you didn't play by the rules."
So the uranium wasn't in Norfolk after all. It had taken all this time to reach an agreement with Libby McCall, and now it wasn't even there.
Harry knew where it was. Harry Pearce was easy to find, but Mani wasn't the type to get his hands dirty with an abduction of the Head of MI5 off the streets in London. He would put the word out that he would pay well for someone else to do it, and then of course, he wouldn't pay. No honour among thieves.
In the meantime, he thought he might try to find out where the woman was. Sophie something. Mani had felt a spark between Sophie and Harry, the heat that's generated when two people have slept together, or at the very least, when they want to. She could be useful.
He thought he would start with how they had gotten to Baghdad, to retrace their steps in order to find his way to her. A flight plan, perhaps. Pilots are usually ordinary people, with families, and Mani's specialty was families. It was amazing how much information you could get out of someone as they watched family members on a simple laptop.
Mani opened his mobile again to set things in motion. He would get the uranium that had been stolen from him.
It would only be a matter of time.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
George and Ruth spoke little on the ride home from the vineyard. There was certainly enough to look at, what with the rain-washed mountains and the magnificent sunshine surrounding them. The rutted road took all of George's concentration to traverse, as the torrential waters had carved new and dangerous gullies into which the truck could easily have gotten stuck.
In addition, they obviously had plenty to think about. In less than seventeen hours, their relationship had gone from seven months of a relatively tentative friendship to the first talk of marriage. It was no wonder that their heads were spinning a bit.
When George dropped Ruth off at her flat, he hesitated for a moment, but then decided to give her a warm hug and a chaste goodbye kiss on the lips. She let him hold her, let him stroke her hair, and didn't turn away from the kiss. He had always seen Ruth as a wounded animal of sorts, and he felt now that he'd made a tenuous connection. He finally seemed to have developed a level of trust with her, and he could hardly contain his joy. Ruth saw the change in him, and she smiled lightly as he walked backwards down her steps. George got into his truck feeling he'd travelled to the moon and back in one glorious day.
It was Sunday, but they'd forgone their usual reading of The Times in the Square. They both needed a bit of distance to adjust to this new way of being, and they'd agreed they would have dinner together after work on Monday. George didn't tell Ruth, but he planned to get the local Polis paper on his way back to the vineyard. The first section he would turn to would be the one with homes for sale.
Ruth wanted a bath and a fresh change of clothes. She needed the familiarity of her flat, the feel of the hot water, things she could comfortably wrap her mind around. She felt disoriented, as if the ground were moving under her feet. It was odd for her to think of George now and remember his face so close to hers in the half-light, the feel of his lips, the texture of the skin on his chest covered in coarse, dark hair. Ruth got quickly into her flat and leant against the inside of her door. She closed her eyes at the memory of the night before and took a deep breath, again allowing it to sink in.
She went straight to the bathroom and turned on the taps, and she immediately felt Harry enter her consciousness. She'd forgotten for just a moment that he always came to her mind when she ran a bath. Wearily, Ruth sighed aloud. Quietly, inexorably, he joined her there, the memory of him offering the usual contradiction of pleasure and pain. She felt too exhausted to fight him anymore.
"Oh, Harry..." she said, softly, desperately, "How will I get through this?" With her hand curling through the warm water under the tap, she closed her eyes. She was on her knees by the tub, and as she leant her cheek on the cold porcelain, the words that came out sounded almost like a prayer. "Help me, please, to let go of you." She said it again, for emphasis. "I have to let go of you."
Ruth had lived her life with an uncommon ability to reason things out, and she couldn't understand why she was now so uncharacteristically adrift in her thoughts. As she felt the warmth of the water on her hand and the cool of the tub on her face, the words she'd once spoken to Tom came back to her. I'm an analyst with nothing to analyse. Ruth lifted her head and blinked.
Of course. She was too close to this situation, too overwhelmed by her feelings to think logically. She needed to step outside of herself and find the solution, the way she used to do on the Grid. She wasn't quite sure how she would accomplish it, but it felt like a sort of revelation to Ruth.
What had Harry called it? Compartmentalising. He'd said he could put his emotions in a box and set them aside, whilst he did what he needed to do. I wish I could ask him about that. She laughed softly, and thought, Of course you do, idiot, but then there wouldn't be a problem to sort out, would there? Ruth laid her forehead on the tub, enjoying the smooth feel of it, and wondered if she truly was going daft.
Ruth tried to take herself back to the moment this morning at breakfast, when she had put her hand on George's and told him she wished she could feel differently about him. It had been the truth. If she couldn't have Harry, and with each day's silence, that was increasingly looking to be the case, then she needed to move on. She cared deeply for George, but loving him seemed to ask so much of her, and it was something she didn't feel strong enough to give right now. In her present state of sleep-deprived confusion, it utterly exhausted her to imagine the mental and emotional work it would take to let go of Harry completely and give herself to George.
She knew she had to find a way to see George without Harry standing by his side, but every time she tried to imagine herself with George, there were three of them in the picture. Harry stood at some distance from them, patiently, and she had to look away from him. He had the soulful eyes from the corridor at Havensworth, and he looked at her with that deep well of sadness that she could hardly bear to remember. Every time she thought of Harry, her heart was so engaged that her brain could barely function.
Ruth stood and stepped out of her clothes. They were the ones she had put on yesterday morning to go on rounds with George, and life had been so different then. She'd still been on the other side of the line that she'd crossed last night, and it was a much simpler place to be. She wished now that she could be back there, but it was too late now. George had said I love you, and she'd said she wanted to love him.
She went to the cupboard and put her fingers on the bar of sandalwood soap, lifting it for a moment to her face. In its heady aroma, she travelled back to the Hotel Britannique as she watched Harry shave. It was the day he had asked her to marry him. No, it was the day they had married each other, in the warmth of the hotel's soft feather bed, enclosed in each other's arms.
Ruth looked at her hand, and again saw how bare her finger was. The ring had only been there for a short time, but it had felt so right, so perfect there. Ruth felt the tears coming, and she reluctantly replaced Harry's soap. She picked up a bar of milled soap, fresh from the box. It was new, different, and uncomplicated. Just like George. With no sad memories attached.
Ruth slipped into the deliciously warm water. She calculated she was going on only two or three hours of sleep, so she washed quickly, thinking longingly of a nap. Within minutes, she was towelling off as she walked to the bedroom. She looked at the bed, knowing she should simply get into it, but instead she pulled on a cotton shirt and shorts and went back out to the lounge. She hadn't checked the server in two days, and she knew she wouldn't sleep until she did.
She knew it was silly, but it had gone from a habit to a sort of obsession. She'd tried many times to keep herself from it, but then she would think about it all day. She would wonder, what if today was the day that he'd decided to write to her? So she found that simply checking it first thing gave her the peace she needed to get on with her life for the next twenty-four hours.
But in her exhaustion this morning, she realised this was probably a mistake, because now she wanted a cup of tea as well. Somehow she always connected tea with sitting at the computer at l'Alcove and checking for Harry's letters. Ruth gave in to the craving, rationalising that she had the entire day to sleep, and just a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. So she set the kettle to heat and opened her laptop. By the time she found her way to the server, she had a cup of English Breakfast tea wafting its lovely fragrance under her nose.
Ruth was so accustomed to finding nothing, that for a moment she had trouble comprehending how something could be there. She stared at the new folder, named "Scarlet," and Ruth knew immediately what it was. She still had the cup of hot tea in her hands, and although she bobbled it a bit, she managed to set it down safely as the pieces fell into place in her mind. These were her letters to Harry, and his to her. And with that small folder came the memory of the magnificent realisation that she'd had in Paris as she sat missing him so much. The knowledge that she and Harry could still communicate.
Ruth had never found the courage to delete the letters from Isabelle's computer, although she had hidden them. She'd had some idea in her head that she would code them someday, but the urgency had never taken hold of her, and then, suddenly, she was no longer in Paris. For a moment, Ruth wondered how Isabelle had discovered them, and had then found the way to get them on to the server, but she quickly reasoned that it had to have been Guillaume.
Ruth stared at the folder, her chest suddenly tight. Now that she'd seen it, she was thrown back to the thrill of seeing those words, Your Much Appreciated Correspondence. She remembered the tears she'd cried at that small computer desk in the back of l'Alcove, and the way her entire world had been contained in Harry's words as she'd read his letters. She moved the mouse over the folder, and clicked. As her heart pounded, she counted them. They were all there, every one of them.
She transferred a copy of the folder to her laptop and closed the server. When she was at l'Alcove, she'd read the letters so many times that she'd thought she could almost recite them, but now, they seemed of another time and wonderfully new, like Christmas packages to be opened. Seeing them again catapulted her back to Paris, to her flat there, and to Harry.
But now she found that she couldn't simply open them. She needed to absorb the fact that they were in her possession again, and to decide if reading them would make things better, or worse. She was suddenly frightened, knowing how close her emotions were to the surface, and knowing the power Harry's words had over her. Just moments ago, she was trying to let go of Harry. Would it be helpful for her to spend a morning lamenting over what had been, rather than looking ahead to a new future?
Ruth stood, taking her tea with her, and walked out to the balcony. She was breathing as if she had just sprinted up a flight of stairs, and she felt a need to calm herself. She closed her eyes, and as she calmed, Ruth began to think that, in fact, lamenting might be just exactly what she needed. Perhaps she could remind herself, finally, what she had lost. And she did now believe that she had lost him. It was truly beginning to dawn on Ruth that she would never hear from Harry again.
Her words to Christina about destiny suddenly came back to her. I used to think that we were destined to be together, but as time goes by, I'm starting to think that it's the opposite. It's as if no matter how hard we tried to be together, something kept driving us apart. We would break down a wall, and another would rise up in its place ...
Why these letters now? What set of forces had combined to allow Isabelle to find them, and then to decide that Sophie needed them? If there were no accidents, and Ruth believed that down to her soul, then why now? On the morning after George's declaration of love, on a day when Ruth was so confused she hardly knew where to turn? Hadn't she just asked Harry to help her let go? The letters felt somehow like an answer.
Ruth had wanted so much to believe that she and Harry were meant to be together, but what if the opposite were true? She and Harry had pledged themselves to each other forever, but now she didn't know what forever meant. To her, it had always meant forever together. What if they never found each other again? Was she expected to turn her back on what George was offering, and spend forever alone?
And then another thought occurred to Ruth. She knew she would always love Harry, but if they weren't meant to be together, perhaps she was intended to honour that love by living vibrantly. By moving on to a new and full life, rather than the half-life she'd been existing in for all these months. Ruth opened her eyes and squinted at the morning sun. If the sudden appearance of these letters was intended to be her answer, then she would listen to them.
Ruth took a long sip of her tea and walked back to the kitchen to freshen it. With a new sense of resolve, she decided that today she would spend with Harry. She would submerge herself in his words, and remind herself of the words she'd written. She would attempt to put her emotions in that box, and set them off to the side so that she could think clearly. She would code their letters, and in the process, she would determine, as dispassionately as possible, what their future would hold. And finally, Ruth decided, no matter what the letters told her, she would commit to a decision, one way or another.
Now Ruth was wide awake. She felt energised, as she had felt when she'd been given a task on the Grid. Ruth sat back down, and clicked on the first letter from Martin Wingate. Thank you for the very welcome information regarding your new website. To say it was received with gratitude would be an understatement ...
She felt the tears coming again, as she knew they would, but she didn't fight them. She let them fall while she kept her mind engaged. I have passed your information on to an associate, a Mr William Arden, who is currently immersed in a study of Romanticism, although he also has recently developed a strong interest in Atlanticism...
Ruth laughed softly as her eyes filled. Tears and laughter, the ongoing punctuation of their story. She had all day to read The Story of Harry and Ruth, and then she was certain she would know what to do.
Harry thought he might finally be able to make a difference. So many of his days started and ended in a defensive posture, reacting to the movements of others. Fighting terror required that terror be present, or imminent, or at the very least, predicted. Creating a space for accord wasn't often in Harry's job description. But today, he'd been given the chance to work toward peace.
Muhammad Khordad wanted to talk. Born in Afghanistan and educated at Cambridge, Khordad was the leader of the Pakistani terrorist organization, The Path of Light. He'd fallen off the terror map for a while, but two years ago he'd resurfaced as one of the brains behind Al Qaeda, and now the Americans rated him as their third most wanted. Ros had learned that he'd been the paymaster for the recent bomb that had killed the two police officers.
When, through a carefully planned drop, Khordad made contact and suggested in a phone call that they meet, Harry was sceptical. "A senior MI5 officer and Al Qaeda's number three? I don't think that's going to be possible," he said to Khordad.
But Khordad was offering intelligence that MI5 needed, and in the end, Harry couldn't say no. This offer to negotiate could be nothing, probably was, but Harry thought it could also be the first step toward ending the war on terror, and he wasn't willing to throw the opportunity away. Connie, as always, had a sardonically cynical take on the meeting, "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil, just to find out what he wants," but Harry saw it differently. Harry felt hopeful. It astonished him, but there it was again. That elusive sense of hope.
Harry stood in his dark office and watched the activity on the Grid, the way he had so many times, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. But lately, he could feel something very different about himself. He still entirely understood the nature of his job, but it seemed to have a deeper emotional core now, as if he were connecting for the first time with the consequences of the work he did. If he had to track it, Harry would say it had started with the Tehran train and the feeling of remorse he'd had, leaning against his door after giving the order.
And now, as he watched the bustle on the Grid, he found himself wondering about the analyst sitting across the room, Derek, was it? Was he married, did he have children, where did he live? Did he love his work, or was it just a job? A small frown started to furrow Harry's forehead. How little he knew of the people he oversaw every day. He'd always wanted it to be that way. Harry thought it easier in the long run to be removed and separate, but lately, he found he was curious about the people who worked for him.
Of course, Harry knew this recent awareness was intimately connected to his love for Ruth. He heard her asking questions in his head all day long, and so often the question was, How do you feel? She also asked What do you think? but more often her voice spoke of what was in his heart. He supposed it was due to the fact that Ruth lived in his heart, every minute of every day.
Still gazing out at the Grid, Harry fought to control the corners of his mouth as they began to curl into a smile. He imagined if anyone who knew him well saw him with this look, or heard these ideas spoken aloud, they'd be sending him to Diana on suspicion of some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Actually, considering the changes that were happening in him, Harry thought it would probably be wise for him to talk with Diana, but he didn't really need a shrink to diagnose these symptoms. And most importantly, he wasn't sure he wanted them cured.
He was starting to understand that feeling didn't have to mean weakness. It was infinitely more complicated, to be sure, to have to analyse every decision from another's point of view. But it didn't mean it was wrong to do so. It felt trite to say that his love for Ruth had made him a better person, but there it was, and that was what made Harry smile this morning. Ruth had always known the delicate balance between the man he had to be here, and the one she'd held in her arms. Right now, he felt like both of them. She had changed him, and the change was feeling more permanent with every passing day.
Ros came around the corner and into his office. "It's under way. Now all we do is watch and wait." They were waiting for Khordad to contact them with the information on where they were to meet him. They still had no idea what he had to say, but Harry was grateful for the opportunity to find out.
Harry didn't turn, but kept his eyes focused on the Grid. "If this happens, it will be an unprecedented chance for an accord, and after such an accord, peace may follow."
"Well, I'm glad the stakes aren't too high, you'd be making me nervous," Ros said dryly, as she sat on the edge of his desk behind him.
Now he did turn to her, and Ros could hear the passion in Harry's voice, but also an uncharacteristic idealism. "This wouldn't just be a coup for us, or MI5, or even Britain. Bringing Al Qaeda to the negotiating table would save untold lives."
Ros had seen the change in Harry, and she recognised it for what it was. She did worry at times that his love for Ruth had softened him, blinded him a bit to the realities of the world. She'd first seen it during Cotterdam, although her contact with Oliver Mace had kept her out of the trusted inner circle of Harry, Adam and Zaf. She'd watched Harry struggle to keep his emotions down, and then finally, as they'd stood in the cold at the doghouse, she'd seen him lose out to his feelings altogether, rendering him unable even to function as Section Head.
Ros knew she had a reputation for coldness, and she was grateful for it, because there were plenty of times that she held herself in check simply to uphold that reputation. Seeing Harry weaker only meant that she needed to be stronger. He counted on her for that. Ros often wondered what she would be like at Harry's age, having seen what he'd seen, and having lost the number of people he'd lost. She had great affection and respect for Harry Pearce, and thought she would do nearly anything for him.
And although Ros tried never to wallow in regret, she had to admit that she wished now that she had acted differently during Cotterdam. Dying does have its benefits, she thought, and one of them is the process of watching your choices, the good and the bad, parade by in front of you. Ros had been angry with Harry when her father was sent toprison, and she'd lashed out at Ruth precisely to hurt him. It was a regret she'd felt sharply as Harry sat with her and called her his outstanding officer. Ros had decided that the best way to make that up to him was to stand beside him, to support him, and yes, even to protect him when she could.
And today, even Ros thought it was dangerous ground Harry was walking. "We take nothing for granted, Harry. 'Top MI5 man captured by Al Qaeda,' that's a very different sort of coup."
"It's a risk we have to take. We've been chasing the shadow of Al Qaeda across the globe for years. This is too important an opportunity to let slip through our fingers."
Ros nodded slightly. So be it. This was Harry's choice, but Ros was going with him to the meeting. She knew that if Harry was following his heart, he might need her steel to protect him.
Nicholas Blake wasn't nearly as conciliatory to Harry's idea as Ros had been. "You can't seriously expect me to sanction a meeting with Muhammad Khordad, not after the last few days."
"It's an opportunity we have to take." Harry knew this wasn't going to be an easy sell, and in truth, he'd already decided he was going. But Harry had to ask, and the Home Secretary had to say no. This was a formality for both of them, a part of the game.
Blake narrowed his eyes at Harry. "It's an opportunity for the PM to cut my bollocks off."
"Well, you can join the choir."
Harry knew that one of his fortes was his ability to traverse not only the roads trodden by the truly evil people in the world, but also those walked by bureaucrats. He had to admit that sometimes it felt safer with the former than with the latter. But Harry felt he was justified in standing up to Nicholas Blake, even in the posturing mood the Home Secretary was sporting today.
Blake's voice fell into the familiar cadence of his speeches to Parliament. "You know the policy. We do not negotiate with terrorists. Ever."
Harry was unimpressed. "With all due respect, Home Secretary, we're not in the House now. You know as well as I do, we started talking to the IRA in 1972."
Blake gave Harry a warning glance. "Don't quote history at me, Harry. This is entirely different, and you know it."
Harry did know it. Horrible as it was, the IRA was a local problem. Negotiating with Pakistan and The Path of Light moved them into the global arena, and as Blake pointed out, if the Americans, or the press got wind of it, there would be hell to pay.
Harry stood firm. "We cannot afford not to explore every avenue."
"Oh, please," Blake said sarcastically, turning his head away.
"Do you know what's going on out there? Kids who played football together are now fighting in the streets. If this goes on, we could see the Balkanisation of Britain."
"And they say the Government spins." Blake's voice fairly dripped with condescension.
Harry turned on him. "You want it without spin?" Sometimes bureaucrats needed to hear the unvarnished truth. "We cannot win the war against terrorism, ever. We can contain it, we can prevent its worst consequences, but we can never defeat it. So when we get an offer to talk, however tentative, however precarious, we take it. We have to."
The Home Secretary looked down, and he had to admit he felt slightly humbled by what Harry had just said. Blake was trying to retain his cold demeanour, but he was seeing something new in Harry today. Harry was certainly not a boy scout, although he did have his moments of acting like one. But today, Blake thought Harry was sounding positively idealistic.
He still couldn't offer sanction, but he could offer to look the other way. Blake gazed up at Harry, and said in an even tone, "Total deniability, do you understand? Total."
Harry nodded silently as he turned toward the heavy mahogany door. It was the best he could have hoped for. But much as he enjoyed the exquisite music of choirs, he had to admit he had no desire to be joining one himself.
Ruth worked for almost the entire day, coding all fifteen of the letters. When she broke them down, word by word, letter by letter, it somehow changed them, in the same way that the binary language of computers can change complicated formulas into simple ones and zeros.
It didn't mean she felt them any less. In fact, it was quite the opposite, she felt them acutely. By the end of the day she had each sentence, each phrase, nearly memorised. She remembered the initial writing and reading of each letter, and re-experienced the feelings that had created them. And not only the letters themselves, but what had led up to them, and then, what had come after.
In essence, she relived the entire time she had spent living in Paris. It was the time between her normal life in London, and her complete exile on Cyprus. From her new vantage point, Ruth plainly saw that it had been a time of transition from one thing to the next, merely a part of the progression that had led her to now.
But what brought the tears, even as she tried so hard to be the cold analyst, was that Ruth was gradually seeing something very clearly. She saw that if she extrapolated that progression, it was not leading her toward Harry.
It was leading her inevitably away from him.
~~~~~
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