CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Khordad was clearly an intelligent man, and a passionate one. Although Harry disliked him, Muhammad seemed to him to be a man who had a similar goal to Harry's, that of preserving his idea of right and of freedom. The fact that their ideas were diametrically opposed to each other made them no less compelling.
After the discussion of ideologies was dispensed with, Khordad got right to the point. "We both know I am not afraid of killing. And you're right not to trust me. It's your job. So I propose reciprocal tokens of sincerity. Today at three o'clock, a cell will carry out a military operation in London."
"A terrorist attack." Harry was unwilling to allow Khordad to sugar-coat it.
Khordad didn't blink. "Let's not fall out over semantics."
When Harry asked who was behind the attack, Khordad said he had no idea, but that he would post the bomb's location on a website as soon as he had gotten what he wanted. Unfortunately, what he wanted was impossible for Harry to procure for him: a statement affirming that two Pakistani soldiers, just released from Guantanamo Bay, were wrongfully arrested, illegally incarcerated, and tortured. And a guarantee that they would face no further charges in the UK.
Harry quickly imagined the conversation he would need to have with the Home Secretary, and the answer he would get from Nicholas Blake. Another chorus of We do not negotiate with terrorists, and beyond that, Blake would say that a statement of this sort would be tantamount to saying that the Americans had lied about their actions at Guantanamo Bay. Under no circumstances would Britain be willing to burn that bridge with the cousins so completely.
Harry stared Khordad down, and spoke quickly, firmly. "That is not within my power."
"Deliver the statement, Mr Pearce," Khordad said evenly, "And I'll deliver peace on the streets."
"And if I can't?" Harry asked.
Khordad simply returned Harry's stare, silently.
Ros softly spoke the word that was on Harry's tongue. "Blackmail."
Khordad wished to use a more genteel word, inaccurate though it may have been. "Negotiation."
So this wasn't about finding a middle ground. It was another case of the UK being threatened from the outside in order to further someone's political agenda. If Harry lost this gambit, people would die. If he won, he would simply be preserving the status quo. Harry sighed, and realised that his hope for a new job description wasn't going to be fulfilled today. Today he had to find a bomb and defuse it.
So much for talk of peace.
After finishing her coding, Ruth read the letters one more time, and then again. By the time she decided to open a new document to begin a letter to Harry, the sun was making its descent toward the sea outside her window. Ruth was still going on just three hours' sleep from the night before, and now her eyes were red-rimmed and her neck hurt. She had pulled some slices of ham and an apple out of the refrigerator at about noon, but other than that she had survived only on four cups of tea.
She didn't know what she would say to Harry, but she had a fairly good idea of what her conclusion would be. Before she started typing, she put her fingers on the keys of her laptop and closed her eyes, as if she were waiting for a message to come from above. Finally, she opened her eyes and composed a letter in one go.
Harry,
I have never understood how a reader can go to the back page of a book and read the ending before actually reading the rest, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me. I so desperately wanted to know the ending of this story. Our story. Our letters from Paris have come into my hands, thanks to Isabelle, and I've done what I've always so indignantly disparaged in others. I turned to the ending of our story and I read the last letter first.
We aren't often given the privilege of knowing beforehand when something happens for the last time. The last kiss goodbye before a sudden death, the last time making love before a horrific row that ends a relationship, or even the last time we touch someone before a long separation.
Did you know in Dover, as you released my hand, that it was the end? Or did you come to that decision later, when you determined that I was better off without you? Your trusting, wide-eyed and, in your words, psychic Ruth, had no idea, Harry. If I'd had an inkling, that ferry, and another, and a hundred after it would have left without me.
But I digress, and I've promised myself to try and analyse this in an organised fashion. I'm attempting to take a page from your book and compartmentalise. It's a new process for me, and I'm afraid that like all things that are new and unpractised, this will tend to come out rather stilted, perhaps a bit sharp. There will be some anger in these lines, a pinch of sarcasm here, a dash of cynicism there. My claws may show themselves, but I know you're intuitive enough to understand that they only protect my heart.
After reading our letters, my love for you is so enormous and so close to the surface that I must nearly transform into an utterly new person to analyse our relationship properly. But I'm getting quite good at changing names and situations. The woman who introduced herself to you in the alcove, the one with the three names she was given at birth, seems to have misplaced pieces of herself everywhere. In Bath, Paris, London, Calais, and even here, just a few miles up the road, on a terrace overlooking the sea.
All that's left of me is this heart, still beating, although it wonders at times why it does. And a mind that thinks far too much for its own good. Both are living in two different times and places, in the present and in the past. And they are quite frankly exhausted with the effort.
So in an attempt to finally move forward, I've re-read our letters, starting with the last one, and ending with the first, in a sort of frenetic, surreal, Lewis Carroll style. It was like running a film in reverse, and it was actually quite illuminating. My mind walked backwards from forever, to marriage, to commitment, to passion, to a tentative kiss, to looks in the hallway, to our first meeting. And curiouser and curiouser, it turns out that life is a circle, and I've returned to the beginning again.
Today I'm back to the silence, the wondering, the awkwardness, the lack of touch, the loving from afar, the resignation that you and I can never be. And here I sit, pondering if it would even be possible for me to do it all again. But there, I've skipped to the ending, wanting things to be linear, and they're not. They're messy, and muddled, and as confusing as they can possibly be.
And why today, after all this time, am I suddenly needing clarity? Sit down, Harry, as this may be hard to hear. There's another man standing beside you now. He can't possibly measure up, poor soul, but he wants to so badly. He seems to love me very much, and he wants to take care of me. He's gentle, and kind, and he has even moved me from my sphinx-like, morose self, to an occasional laugh.
But you've not only been the love of my whole life, you've been my very best friend, and I need to ask your advice. I come to you with a dilemma. This man told me last night that he can't be with me without love, so I'm left with only a few choices.
I can tell him I love him, but I don't, and he really deserves better than that. I can tell him I'll never love him, which is what I believe to be true, but if I do that, I'm likely to lose him. Or I can take the coward's way out and remain silent, letting him wonder while I enjoy his company without paying the price for it. And I can hope, fervently, that someday you will quietly leave my heart and there will be a space in it for him. At present, I'm leaning toward the third choice, but I don't admire myself exceedingly for it.
There's a passage from my last letter to you that seems to summarise how I've felt since the day we first declared our love: "I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time."
Such certainty in those words, and so filled with starry-eyed hope. That was a woman with a ring on her finger, and a dream that she thought would never die. I look at her now and want to hold her in my arms, to protect her from her inevitable future. I want to warn her about what's coming so that she can put on some armour.
Oh, we were good together, you and I. Ours was the love I'd dreamed of but never thought I would find. Laughter, respect, honesty, passion, and a seemingly endless supply of tenderness. At times I would look at you and my heart would fill so completely that I thought I might not survive it. Every inch of your skin, every hair, your eyes, your voice, your thoughts, your humour, have been so precious to me. The feel of your hand in mine, the way we made love, the way you adored me, how cherished I felt.
I'm remembering that night at Havensworth, when you said to me, "Don't worry, it will get better." I close my eyes and I can still put myself there, the moon making patterns on the carpet, your arm snug around me, listening to you breathe softly on my neck. I thought then that it could never get better than that, Harry. To my amazement, it did.
But now, when I put myself back in your arms at night, I lie with an ache that won't lessen, and I wonder, can't I simply turn back the clock and forget that a love like that ever existed for me? Or am I able to excise only the memories that give me pain, so that I can remember you with happiness, instead of feeling your loss so acutely?
Oh, our letters, Harry. How well they tell the story of our love for each other. I hesitate to pull out the old chestnut, but here it is: No one will ever love you as I have. You have chosen to let go of a woman who would have spent her life making you astonishingly happy.
I read once that when you find yourself in a tug-of-war with someone, the easiest way to end it is to simply let go of the rope, to relinquish the investment you've made in the outcome. I feel my grip loosening, my love. I don't really want to let go, but may I take the analogy too far, as you smile indulgently at me? My hands are burned. I'm tired. I need to sit down...
Ruth stopped, no longer able to see the screen in front of her. For a few minutes, she pushed the heels of her hands firmly over her eyes, and she cried. Out loud, softly, on the power of an exhale, she said, "Can I do this?" And the answer came to her analyst's mind in a sudden, clear voice, "Yes."
And this time, in her head, it wasn't Harry's voice she heard, it was George's. It was what he had said to her last night on the porch. "No more." And those words were now what every part of Ruth, even the scattered ones, came together to say. "No more."
She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a sudden surge of energy. She drew strength from the fact that instead of waiting, she was doing something. Instead of having choices made for her, she was making her own choices. Ruth still cried, but it was in grief for what she was letting go, and not from indecision. And there was anger, too, brought on by the waste of a love that Ruth knew so many could only dream of.
We couldn't stop, could we? The progression is so clear when it's all laid out before me. We said just letters, then it was a phone call, then we had to see each other, revelling in the danger, flying in the face of everything we knew. We went too far, and we lost everything. You know we would do it again, wouldn't we, Harry? And that's why you stay away. You do it to keep me safe. I know that's what you tell yourself.
But there's another reason, isn't there? We might as well say it, because the truth of it has hit me today like a brick. You stay away because you can't make the final leap. You've been so long with the Services that you're not quite sure how you would define yourself away from them. It is truly as simple a choice as this: me, or your work. How banal we've turned out to be, Harry. It leaves me feeling sordidly like "the other woman."
I can see you through the glass right now, sitting at your desk, still loving me. I get angry, I rail at you, I say things to hurt you, but I don't ever doubt you still love me. What has broken my heart is that you clearly love your job more.
I have a new friend here, and she says none of this is complicated. I'm coming round to her point of view. My fingers fly on the keys now as I realise how very simple this is. She said that any day you could get on a plane to me, any day you could pick up the phone and call. But that would require that you turn your back on everything you've worked for, on the life you've known for longer than you've loved me.
Do you remember the day your friend died, and I came to try to comfort you? I asked you if he was married, and you said he probably imagined himself married to the Service. My heart ached for you in that moment, because I was so afraid that you saw yourself that way too. It aches again now, Harry, in just the same way.
Did you get my ring from Paris? If you did, drop it on the tall sword of that lovely bronze sculpture you keep on your desk. Let it remind you to whom you're married. Till death do you part.
That was spiteful, that last bit, wasn't it? And although I feel somewhat entitled to be selfish, I suppose I should apologise, and say something kind. I'll make an effort. I know that you defend the people who cannot defend themselves, and you're very good at it. I do know how important your work is, and I know the lives you save. Unfortunately, the only life I'm trying to save right now is my own, so I'm suffering somewhat from tunnel-vision. I just want us both to agree that you've made your choice. I shall do my best to lose gracefully without throwing darts as I go.
When I sat down to write this letter, I gave myself an assignment to write a paper of sorts, based on our story. An in-depth analysis of us. I've gone quite drastically off-topic, but it's been a valuable digression, as my mind feels uncommonly clear at present.
The theme of the story? Well, it's a tossup between love and hope. The protagonists? You and I are, of course, the hero and the heroine. The antagonists? Oh, that's a thesis all its own, isn't it? A cast of thousands. I think in my angry state I'll just say the whole wide world, with its terrors and tyrants and their indiscriminate wish to do harm. And when I put it that way, a picture emerges of how small you and I are, tiny stick figures trying to find their way to each other through monolithic walls and across deep oceans.
I've been offered a life raft, Harry, and I believe I'm going to take it. I'll leave you to save the world. I will love you from the depths of my soul until the moment I die, but I refuse to give up on life waiting for you.
Goodbye, my dearest love.
Ruth
Her hand on the mouse, Ruth hovered the cursor over the "send" button. She wanted so much to do it, and it would take only the slightest movement. But then she thought about how she could never take it back, and this awareness of the finality of the act made her stop and work through the consequences.
She imagined Harry's face as he read these words, and although it felt cruel to be so specific about her dilemma with George, her anger made her think Harry needed to know that he was poised to lose her forever. Ruth knew it was time for her to look ahead. It was beyond time. Now she just had to sort out her first steps into a new life. A life without Harry.
Just a twitch of her finger, and the letter would be sent. She could move on, knowing that because she had burnt a bridge and said things that couldn't be unsaid, it would be harder to backslide. She began to put an infinitesimal pressure, just a whisper of the weight of her finger on the button...
Suddenly, Ruth pulled her hand away from the mouse, and said aloud, "No." If he had already let go of her, why would she need to send this? Only for its dramatic effect, its sense of catharsis for her. But the letter had already fulfilled the purpose of helping her to analyse and determine what she would do. Harry didn't need to see this letter. The only one who needed to see it was Ruth.
She closed it, and as she did, she imagined herself releasing Harry. She tried to see George instead, but when that proved futile, she allowed that these things take time.
To anyone who might have been watching, this was a woman who knew what she wanted to do, and she had done it decisively. But a very careful observer would also have seen that after Ruth closed this very decisive letter, rather than deleting the copy, she opened the server again and moved it gently into the folder there named "Scarlet" for safekeeping.
She hardly knew she was doing it, but it was clear that she still felt the need to keep the complete story of Harry and Ruth intact, just in case she should happen to need it again.
As Harry walked along the Thames, he stopped and watched the water for a minute. He had suddenly been overcome by a feeling and was trying to put his finger on it. He could only think it must be the meeting he was about to have with Bernard. His old friend had been cryptic in his phone call. "I think I've found the leak. There's someone else who knows about Sugarhorse. Meet me in the usual place."
"Okay." Harry and Ros had been walking away from a meeting with the Home Secretary when Harry's mobile had rung. He'd turned and put a hand on Ros' back, motioning her toward the Range Rover. "Ros, you take the car, I'll meet you back there. I need a breath of fresh air."
Ros had looked at him strangely, and he'd known that he'd roused her suspicions about what he was doing, but there was no helping that right now. He still didn't know who the mole was, and he was becoming increasingly worried that it was someone on the Grid. There were too many Russian connections with Ros and Lucas for him to be completely certain of either of them.
Harry stood at the rail for a moment longer, until he had composed himself. It was as if his world had tilted, and suddenly the realisation hit him that it wasn't his meeting with Qualtrough that had caused it, but something to do with Ruth. She was still in his heart, but she resided there alongside a nebulous feeling of dread. Harry felt a fresh need to get something, anything else, out of Malcolm about what she was doing.
But that would have to wait for now. Harry turned and walked on until he saw Qualtrough standing under the bridge. "We've been sniffing at the wrong dog," Bernard said. "I've been checking Richard Dolby's old files, and there's no way that he could have leaked Sugarhorse. It would have meant compromising missions that went on to be successful."
Harry narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. So if it wasn't the DG, and it wasn't Dolby, and Hugo Prince was dead, then who? "It doesn't make any sense. Everyone else is either dead, or accounted for," Harry said.
"Not quite. There is someone who was working with Hugo Prince at the time." Qualtrough looked Harry right in the eyes, and took a pause before he spoke. "Connie."
The shock was evident on Harry's face. If anyone else but Bernard had implied this, he would have cut them off at the knees, but since it was Bernard, Harry had felt he had to listen. And this thought was suddenly joining with his earlier feelings that the mole was someone on the Grid.
Qualtrough continued, "There was a rumour that they were close. Nobody took it seriously, just the usual gossip."
Harry was still bewildered. "Connie and Hugo?"
"He cut quite a dash in those days. We all did." Harry managed a weak smile at this, but he still couldn't allow the thought to entirely sink in. Connie. Harry felt he could trust Connie with his life.
Bernard said quickly, "I really don't believe it was Connie, but we have to check. For her sake, as well as our own." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll make the necessary inquiries."
Harry nodded, but he was far too lost in his thoughts to have any kind of discussion about this with Bernard. Harry was no longer much of a betting man, but as he walked back to the Grid, he thought he would bet quite a lot that Connie James wasn't a mole.
Within moments of coming through the pods, he saw her, and suddenly, he thought he might change that bet. He saw her face, and was reminded of her astonishing facility with the Russian language and culture, of her sharp criticism of the British government and its policies, and now this news of a possible relationship with Hugo Prince.
Harry had certainly been betrayed before, but if this were true, he thought it might quite throw him. Trusting those you worked with was a necessity in this business. This would change everything he'd thought about those around him. If Connie couldn't be trusted, Harry wondered who could.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
As Harry walked toward the pods, he was aware that it was the second time he'd seen that look from Ros. The one that told him she was worried, suspicious, and very aware that he was going off on his own. The first time had been earlier, when he'd gone to meet Bernard Qualtrough.
Now he was on his way to meet Muhammad Khordad, and Harry had told no one. He'd been very close to walking over to Ros, and simply saying, "Trust me." But he'd said nothing. She would have wanted to go with him, or at the very least, put a team on surveillance. Harry knew that would destroy the tenuous trust he'd managed to instil in Khordad.
They'd managed to defuse the terror threat to Quartermain's Restaurant, by pretending to let the bomb explode. Looking dazed and soot-covered, MI5 officers and various plods had wandered out of the completely intact restaurant after a distraction device was detonated to make it look as if the building had been destroyed. The news cameras had dutifully recorded it, reporting it as yet another attack, and Khordad believed he hadn't been betrayed. But in reality, no one was hurt. A win-win-win outcome, which were few and far between in the Security Services. Harry was grateful.
Soon after, Harry had gotten a phone call from Khordad. "You are a ruthless man, Mr Pearce, letting the bomb explode. We all have to make impossible decisions. You and I are not so different."
Harry had fairly sneered his answer. "We are completely different." After a pause, he collected himself. "But unfortunately, we need each other."
Khordad agreed. "You've earned my trust. We need to meet. Come alone."
Harry knew that meeting alone with the head of Path of Light would not be considered either advisable or safe. But he had a feeling about Khordad, that there was something still to be gained from him. He sat at his desk for just a moment longer, deliberating, and then stood to get his coat. As he'd left, he'd gotten the look from Ros.
And as he drove to the meeting, a conversation with Ruth entered his mind. He remembered when he'd told her of the necessity for him to hold parts of his job confidentially from the other members of his team. Truth was, these days, Harry was feeling very much alone. Being alone hadn't always been a bad thing in his experience, but now there was a sharp edge to it. The combination of Ruth's absence and the possibility of Connie's betrayal were burdening him with an inertia that he found increasingly difficult to overcome. If Ruth were here, he would be able to talk to her about it, but as it was, he kept the news to himself.
He'd thought about talking to Ros about Connie, but Harry knew it was never a good idea to divide your team with suspicion. It was already bad enough that Harry had his doubts about Connie, he didn't want to add Ros to the circle of distrust, especially on the basis of speculation. Harry found himself listening to Connie just a little more carefully, analysing her words to see if there was something he was missing. It was frankly exhausting to have to focus outside the Grid and inside it, looking for threats.
But for now, he needed to think about the meeting with Khordad. He pulled his car to the curb, got out, and walked toward the tall man who stood waiting for him.
"You and I can do business, Mr Pearce. I think we've learned that much." Khordad held out an envelope for Harry, who took it. He opened it and pulled out the papers, some of them typed documents, and some of them diagrams that looked to be a weapon of some sort.
Khordad explained. "The Tajr-6, third generation Iranian missile, payload 3000 kilograms, launch system land or sea. Meet your new enemy." Harry felt a chill go down his spine as he looked up from the papers to Khordad, who continued, "Professionally manufactured, high-spec missiles, capable of striking any target within the UK."
Harry had a number of questions, but he didn't voice the most obvious one: Why on earth would Khordad be giving me this information? His second question, he spoke aloud. "Who has these?"
"People." Not a tremendously helpful answer, but expected.
Harry asked what Khordad was expecting in return for this intelligence, and Khordad told him exactly what he wanted. "My mission remains the same. Justice for Palestine. A corrupt-free Saudi Arabia.
The U.S. out of the Middle East. I will do anything to achieve those ends. Anything. If these are used, our cause will be put back decades. We may never recover. I can't let that happen." Khordad paused. "I can't stop them on my own. I need your help."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "You want me to eliminate elements within your own organisation. That's why you've risked everything?"
Khordad gave an almost imperceptible nod. "It's either that, or all-out war. A war we both know neither of us can win. We both have dangerous friends. Perhaps between us, we can make sure they don't destroy the world."
Khordad put out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry thought of the papers he now held in his other hand and the missiles that could be, right now, trained on Britain.
Khordad's hand was still suspended between them. "The future," Khordad said. Harry clasped the Pakistani's hand firmly in his own, and he was reminded of Connie, saying "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil to see what he wants."
Khordad might not be the Devil, but he certainly was well-acquainted with him.
"'Night, Ros," Ben said, as he passed by her desk on his way to the pods.
"'Night," Ros answered, just shutting down her computer. She stood and walked to Harry's door to see if there was anything else he needed from her. She was surprised to find Harry standing behind his desk with his best bottle of Ardbeg 17-year-old single malt, pouring out two glasses. Ros knew that was the bottle he saved for only the most special of occasions. It was worth just over two hundred pounds.
She took in the sight not only of the bottle, but of the recipient of the second glass Harry filled. Connie. Except that somehow, Connie didn't seem in a very festive mood. Ros assumed that was because Connie also knew the significance of the bottle, and was wondering why she was being thus honoured.
"What are we celebrating?" Ros asked. She stood in Harry's doorway, thinking this didn't look so much like a celebration as it did an interrogation.
"Saving the free world," Harry said, as he turned to give Ros a smile.
Ros smiled back as she reluctantly walked back out to the Grid. "Well, don't stay up too late." Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.
Connie was relieved to see Harry's smile, because up to now, she had felt a bit like she was being called on the carpet. They had managed to save quite a number of lives today. Perhaps Harry was simply wanting to enjoy a glass of fine scotch with an old friend. But really, she doubted it. Connie was squarely on her guard.
She reached out to pick up her glass. "Saving the free world, I'll drink to that."
Connie was right to be suspicious, and that was Harry's aim. He knew that the bottle of Ardbeg was notorious, practically legendary, on the Grid. It sat in his cupboard, quietly continuing to age, until something very extraordinary happened. He would bring it out on occasion for the Home Secretary, or if a visit by the DG was warranted. But for a lowly member of the Grid? Not a common occurrence.
Harry knew that Connie would question it, and that was what he wanted. He wanted her to wonder what he was up to, and to watch her react to it. They were like two old lions, circling one another. He was still standing behind his desk as he looked across at her.
"You know, we might be able to work with Khordad. It'll be a long bumpy road, but with a new resident in the White House, who knows? This could be the beginning of the beginning of the end."
Harry offered his glass, and Connie touched hers to his, saying, "Hear, hear."
As he sat down, Harry got to the real reason for the meeting. Betrayal. On the way back from meeting Khordad, he had remembered a story that presented an ideal way to raise the subject of betrayal, without actually doing so.
In a cordial, offhand way, he began. "You know why people chink glasses before they drink? Apparently it's attached to an old fear that an enemy might poison your drink." On the word "poison," he looked pointedly at Connie, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. Connie sat, seeming to listen impassively, although her heart was something short of calm.
Harry continued, his eyes fixed on her. "So crashing tankards together meant that a bit from either drink spilled into the other." He let the words sink in, and then, when he was sure she was suitably agitated, he dropped the final brick. "Hugo Prince told me that. Back in the day."
Harry kept his eyes down now, on his drink. "You and he were quite close, weren't you?" Not until the end of this question did he raise his eyes to hers. She was smiling, as he expected she would be. Now Connie knew the reason for the meeting, for the scotch, and for the interrogation. She was a pro, and Harry knew it. He just wanted her to know that he knew exactly what he was doing.
Harry understood that Connie would have two options in answering his question. She could realise she was cornered and tell him the truth. Or she could continue the facade and hold the secret.
The secret. As the word went through Harry's mind, time slowed down, and then stopped. Two people who worked for the Security Services who had fallen in love, and had decided to keep it a secret. Harry imagined himself in Connie's place, being asked the same question. Or worse, he imagined Ruth sitting there, many years from now, at Connie's age, and after his death, being asked this question. What would Ruth say? He knew the answer before Connie even spoke it.
"Me and Hugo? Hardly knew him. I remember he was always very highly spoken of."
Harry took a sip of his scotch, and his face remained still, but he was now as rattled as he imagined Connie was. Whether Connie was a traitor or not, Harry felt a sudden bond with her, an understanding of the unfathomable sea of memories that can be carried around inside a human being.
He was aware of how superficial his question had been. You and he were quite close, weren't you? If he imagined someone asking that question of Ruth, he would wonder how she could distil the time they had spent together, their profound connection, and the depth of their love into something someone else could understand. He would almost hope Ruth wouldn't dignify the question with an answer. That she wouldn't stoop to trying to make it comprehensible. That she would answer as Connie had. Me and Harry? Hardly knew him.
Just then, Ros came in to Harry's office. "There's something you should see."
Khordad was dead. Either that, or as good as dead, depending on what news had been fed to the BBC by the cousins. His plane had gone down over the Ural Mountains in northern Kazakhstan, where the Americans just happened to have an airbase.
"Why do we bother?" Harry said, dismayed.
"Because it would be a lot worse if we didn't," Ros said firmly.
"Would it?" Harry asked.
Ros looked at him, and her worry about Harry's state of mind increased. He was actually beginning to sound as if he was giving up. "You know it would."
Connie approached them, coming out of Harry's office. She had just dodged a bullet, and she knew it. In the nick of time, another crisis had reared its ugly head and had allowed her escape the questions she had no desire to answer. She said wryly, "So, the Americans have done it again." Connie looked right at Harry. "God defend me from my friends. From my enemies, I can defend myself."
Harry watched as Connie walked past him. He suddenly felt a weariness that went right down to his bones. His hopes of being able to work with Khordad toward peace had just been blown out of the sky by the Americans. And Connie. How could he begin to express how he felt about someone he had long considered a friend, but who he now feared might be completely the opposite. He still couldn't be sure she was the mole, but with each passing day, he had to acknowledge that his alarms were sounding more insistently.
God defend me from my friends.
Ruth couldn't think of a place more beautiful than Cyprus to celebrate Christmas. It was a solemn, traditional, and deeply religious time, played out in a mostly Greek Orthodox town. Work hours were relaxed, beautiful carols, or kalanda, were sung, and a sense of reverence descended on Polis.
The lovely aroma of sweet almond cookies, roasted turkey, and Christopsomo, the Christ bread, filled the streets as people walked to and from church. And not just Christmas Day, but the entire holiday season, which lasted from December 6th, with the Feast of St. Nicholas, all the way through to January 6th, with the Feast of Epiphany. She learned quickly that as the names implied, a remarkable amount of cooking and eating was involved.
Of course, that meant Christina was completely in her element. During the holidays, Ruth was often in the kitchen at the vineyard house with Christina, laughing over a glass of wine as she learned the traditional recipes and customs of this holiest of times. The extended Constantinou family gravitated toward the vineyard in droves. Ruth had met many of them during the harvest, but now, rather than being a stranger, she was considered one of the family. This was a result of their natural warmth and their inclusive nature, but Ruth also understood completely that in the eyes of his family, she was expected to become George's wife one day.
Not all of the feelings brought on by this expectation were unpleasant to Ruth. She loved being a part of a large family, and she couldn't remember having been hugged so thoroughly and so often. She could enjoy it because she was continuing to be honest with George. She didn't feel guilty about deceiving him, at least not about her feelings.
But George still had no idea what her life had been before Cyprus, and he hadn't asked her. She told herself that she didn't tell him about her work in MI5 and the danger she'd been in there because she didn't want to worry him or cause him pain. She could also rationalise that he really didn't need to know, because there would never be a reason for it. In truth, Ruth made an effort not to dwell on thoughts like these. She tried very hard not to delve deeper than the thin, brittle surface of her own heart. She likened it to picking a scab. The wound was covered over now, and she thought maybe, just maybe, if she left it alone, it would heal and become new, fresh skin.
But in the quiet of her own flat, when she had no distractions, Ruth sometimes had to face the truth. She knew her lack of feelings for George had only to do with Harry. She'd tried so hard to burn the bridge to him, but no matter what she did, it remained. One strand of rope held firmly across the chasm, one she felt she could still walk across, back to her old life. Back to Harry. She'd tried to cut it, to make it disappear, but she would turn and there it was again, linking them, seemingly forever. She also continued to check the l'Alcove server. Only once a week now, and she did it secretly, guiltily, like an alcoholic sneaking a forbidden drink.
George had stopped asking Ruth if she loved him, although he told her often that he loved her. She told him that in her mind she had let go of the other man, and that she was now waiting for him to leave her heart. It was the honest truth, and sometimes Ruth could convince herself that if, indeed, Harry's memory did fade, she might be able to love George. And Christina had been absolutely right. George was a patient man.
Perhaps it was his strict Greek Orthodox upbringing, or perhaps he knew that pushing Ruth would never succeed, but George was letting her find her own way to him. He kissed her goodnight every time he dropped her off after dinner, or a movie, or one of their many walks on the beach. He held her hand, he put his arm protectively around her, and he often pulled her warmly to him for long minutes at her door. But he never let his hands roam, and Ruth never felt an urgency from him to go faster or further than she wanted.
Ruth was intensely grateful to George, and she cared for him deeply. But when she tried to imagine making love with him, she found she had to close her eyes, and a sigh would escape as a feeling of fatigue descended on her. She felt that as soon as she took that step, she was resigning herself to never again feeling the intensity and the passion she had known with Harry. She told herself that she needed to be a bit stronger to take that leap. She simply wasn't ready yet.
Harry made his way past Birmingham on the M6. This time, he was the one driving out to Liverpool, and Malcolm sat in the passenger seat. It was Christmas Eve, and Malcolm's mum had gone to spend a few days with her sister in Brynmill, so Harry and Malcolm had decided to take Tom and Christine up on their kind offer to spend Christmas with them.
Both Harry and Malcolm seemed to be at home in their own thoughts on this drive, and they'd been friends for so long that there was no awkwardness in silence. Harry had Beethoven's Rondo in C major on the car's CD player, and it flowed well with the countryside as it moved quickly past them.
Christmas was an odd holiday for Harry. He wasn't a strongly religious man, and his adult Christmases seemed only to hold memories of tension with Jane, and of disappointing Graham and Catherine with his absences. Terror doesn't take holidays. In fact, as with Remembrance Day, they seemed to be ideal times for a terrorist to make a point. People gathered together during the holidays, and it was a time when the tragedy of a bomb or a kidnapping seemed particularly acute and poignant. Holidays had become only the targets of terror to Harry.
As he drove, Harry was recalling what he had done in years past. He remembered Ruth standing at his door one Christmas Eve as she was leaving the Grid, on her way to take gifts to a friend's son and daughter. He could still see her, bundled in her coat, scarf, and hat in preparation for the cold, her arms filled with bags, her face wearing the childlike excitement of the holidays.
He'd looked up from his desk and smiled at her, despite a morose mood that seemed to be brought on by the abundance of good cheer around him. She'd been so beautiful standing there, and now as he remembered it, he'd wanted to stand, walk to the door, and break all of his rules about professional detachment. He remembered thinking that on this day it might be permitted, a friendly hug from the boss, the season giving permission for him to fold her in his arms, to feel what it was like to hold her.
Instead, of course, he had simply tilted his head at her and said, "Off out, Ruth?"
"Yes," she'd said, cheerily, as she nodded. She'd held up the bags, smiling wider, "Playing Santa."
"Ah, good," was all he'd managed to say. He wanted her to stand there for a while, because he longed to etch the picture in his mind. When Ruth let go into happiness and really smiled, there was a way that her eyes danced. He didn't get to see it often, so he wanted to keep her there as long as he could. But he suddenly became aware that he was staring, and smiling at her, and he thought he must look a proper idiot, so he turned back to his desk and picked up a pen, just to tear his eyes away. Still looking down at his papers, he'd said, awkwardly, "Well, you have a good night, Ruth."
He'd always felt he wasn't very good at hiding his feelings from Ruth. He would try to, and she would pause and narrow her eyes slightly, as if she were peering into his soul. That night, she'd stood there, deciding, and then finally had asked, "Do you have plans, Harry?"
He'd kept his eyes down. He'd been expecting this question. He got it every year from someone or other. It was the curse of being alone at the holidays, that everyone felt they needed to draw you into the warm bosom of their families. He had to admit that the idea of going to watch Ruth hand out packages to people she loved was a more attractive prospect than any other offer he'd gotten lately, but still, he knew that he would refuse.
Perching on the edge of a sofa in a room full of laughing children at Christmas, eggnog held gingerly in hand, trying to smile ... no, Harry had tried it once and had vowed never to do it again. It made him more acutely aware of the fact that his children no longer sought his company, and that he had let them down at Christmas more times than he wanted to dwell upon.
And then Harry thought, What if I simply say what's running through my head right now?
What I'd like to do, Ruth, is to go somewhere with you, and have a drink. I'd like to walk with you along the Thames and look at the lights, and to see if, with you, I could find some joy in this season. I'd like to hear you talk about your Christmases, what you wanted as a child, what you ate at your Christmas dinner. I'd like to hear you talk about anything, really. There's no one I'd rather be with tonight than you, Ruth.
Instead, Harry lied. "Yes, yes, of course." He finally looked up at her. "Meeting some friends," he'd said, nodding. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of lying, however, because a flash of pity crossed her face before the smile returned.
Ruth went along with it to save him embarrassment, but she gave him one more chance. "That's good. Because if you didn't have plans, I was going to ask if you ..."
He put away his files, and looked at his watch, just for effect, "No, no. Actually, I'm off as well." He glanced up at her and forced a smile as he stood. "Mustn't be late." Her smile was gone now, and her eyes were no longer dancing. He needed to end this, or he would simply go to her and give her that hug. Instead, he inclined his head toward the pods and said, "Or you."
Ruth nodded. "Or me," but still she had stood there. Finally, she had let out a small sigh, and said, softly, "Merry Christmas, Harry." She had come to his door full of life, and now she looked as if she might actually cry. What an extraordinary effect I have on people, Harry thought. Happy bloody Holidays from Harry Pearce.
He'd gone home that night and grilled himself a steak. He'd listened to The Messiah and cut some small pieces of the meat for Scarlet, putting them down next to him at the kitchen table. "Merry Christmas, girl," he'd said, as she ravenously consumed her holiday dinner. One more scotch and then he'd gone upstairs.
Now, driving to Liverpool, Harry stretched his arms on the steering wheel and looked over at Malcolm, who was nodding along with Beethoven. He reached his hand out and turned down the music. "Malcolm?"
Malcolm turned to him, his eyebrows raised. "Yes?"
"What do you imagine Christmas is like on Cyprus?" Harry didn't wait for the answer, but turned his eyes back to the road. "Probably girls in white dresses, carrying banners down the middle of the cobblestone streets, church music everywhere, the smell of bread baking ..." His voice trailed off. Malcolm was the only one he could do this with, and he knew he was indulging himself, but he couldn't help it. Harry was fervently wishing he had asked Ruth about that walk on that Christmas Eve.
Malcolm simply looked at him for a time, pensively, and then, he spoke. "Harry, may I speak as a friend?"
Harry laughed softly, knowing what was coming. "Yes, Malcolm. I count on it."
"You need to make a decision. You've got your feet in two different places, and you need to choose." Malcolm paused, but Harry stayed silent, listening. "You can either go to her, or you can stay here, but you need to do one, or the other, fully. Otherwise, you're going to tear yourself right down the middle, and then you won't be any good to any of us, including yourself."
Harry knew every word was true. He knew it because he felt it. "I know," he said, softly. "I just can't help wondering if she's alone on Christmas, but of course, she wouldn't be, would she?" He looked over at Malcolm, who was simply gazing at him tolerantly. "No, she'll have friends to spend it with, probably many of them ... " Harry stopped himself and looked back at the road.
"Harry." Malcolm waited until Harry looked back at him, and then said, simply. "Let her go."
For just a split second, Malcolm saw a look of raw pain move across his friend's face, and then the mask was back. Harry turned away, and said, "This from the man who has waited six years without losing hope?"
"Hope, Harry. Not desperate longing. Not ... not ... agony." Malcolm now kept his eyes on the road as well, because he found it hard to say these things whilst looking at Harry. "It's different with Sarah and me. She's a wish I hold for the future, a life I hope someday to lead. As I've said, she mightn't even be there when I'm ready for it, and I'm reconciled to that." Malcolm paused for a moment before continuing. "But you and Ruth, it's like ... well, breathing. It's as if she is your life. You can't go on like this."
Harry kept his eyes forward as well. "Then tell me how I let her go."
Malcolm spoke forcefully. "You just do it. You choose it. You put her aside, along with all of the other feelings that don't fit with this job. When she intrudes on your thoughts, you say to her, 'No, not now. I'll get back to you later.'"
Now Harry looked at Malcolm, and he smiled at his old friend. Malcolm had the same look he wore when he was putting his foot down, when he'd had enough. "Just like that, Malcolm? 'I'll get back to you later?'"
Malcolm looked out the windscreen again. "Just like that."
Harry paused for a moment to let the words sink in. Just like that.
"Thank you, Malcolm." Harry turned back to the road, and reached over to turn the music up again. Ruth was fully in his mind now, especially the picture of her in his doorway on Christmas Eve. He imagined himself getting on a plane and going to Cyprus, showing up at her door, and wishing her a Merry Christmas. But he knew that wasn't the end of the story.
He would get back on another plane, there would be another goodbye, and he'd be left with the same feelings he had now. But what if he didn't come back to London? What if he stayed there, and they lived out their lives together, watching the girls in the white dresses every Christmas?
The hardest truth Harry had to face was that the idea of being away from the Grid forever was nearly as difficult for him to bear as the thought of being away from Ruth forever. Connie. Sugarhorse. The relationships he'd built so painstakingly with his superiors. Assets like Bernard. The experience and knowledge Harry had amassed over his years of service. His love of Queen and country. His desire to protect them. His feeling that he was, in fact, making a difference, no matter how uphill the climb.
Just like that.
Malcolm was right. It was time for Harry to let go. Not of his hope for the future, but of his daily desire for Ruth, of his agony, as Malcolm had called it. As Harry listened to the magnificent strains of Beethoven, he imagined Ruth in the white dress of their wedding, but now she was walking down the cobblestone streets of Polis as he remembered them. Celebrating Christmas, a part of the town, a part of the life there, at home.
And although he knew letting go wouldn't be nearly this easy, he took the first step now, and walked away from her. He left her laughing and dancing in the white dress, and this time he didn't allow himself to make her sad, to change her mood. Although Harry knew he would have to repeat this process over and over until it could really be true, he opened his hands, and released her to her happiness.
Just like that.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Harry and Ruth might have been surprised to know that at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, they each had identical wishes. For peace in their hearts, for the ability to move on, and for the other to find happiness.
As they moved into the new year they were no less in love than they had been in Bath. Each had struggled against that love, wishing with all their hearts that they could remove it, sublimate it, put it firmly in their past, and each had failed. Now, on this day of resolutions, they gave up the fight and asked, at the very least, that they be allowed to live with it. To put it away like photos from a lovely holiday, in safekeeping but seldom looked at, a memory only.
Ruth moved through the winter and into the spring on Cyprus with a growing regard for George, and a sense of familiarity that made him more and more a possibility as a partner for the rest of her life. She had ridden the crest of the wave with Harry, had been thrown brutally to the sand, and now she floated peacefully, unexcited, subdued, and wishing for nothing more than simply to be allowed to breathe freely again.
George had found the perfect house, and it was so close to what she had imagined that Ruth could almost talk herself into feeling it was meant to be. It sat nestled in the trees, high above the sea, and felt as if it was alone on the mountain. Only ten minutes from the vineyard, and fifteen minutes' walk from a small, family-owned mountain market, but still completely separate. Its walls were both built of, and surfaced with, natural rock. That, and the lush greenery that surrounded it, made the house feel almost as if it had been carved out of the land.
Looking out on the sea, there was a lovely porch, already equipped with an outdoor kitchen that also overlooked the pool. Ruth had stood there with George, and she could almost see herself cooking in the sultry days of summer, feeling the breeze off the water. There was no herb garden, but one could easily be planted in the rich soil at the edge of the patio, down by the fence.
It had been owned for years by a couple from Italy who had used it only in the summers, but they were becoming elderly, and were considering buying something closer to town. George had talked with them, and they would be willing to sell if a suitable replacement presented itself. So now George, bless him, was functioning not just as the only paediatric surgeon in town, but also as something of a real estate agent. Ruth's feelings for him were growing every day.
She did love him, as she loved her friends. As she loved Christina, as she loved Polis. Ruth had the same kind of love for George as she had for Isabelle, one that grows from laughter, and daily care, and the understanding that love is a precious commodity that's not to be wasted. George seemed to love her enough for the both of them, actually, and she would have been very lonely without him and the family that he'd brought into her life.
But her feelings for George were growing in a separate section of her heart than the one where Harry lived. Ruth still had moments every day, sometimes many times a day, when she would float back to Harry on the power of a thought, and her chest would tighten with the loss of him. She had discovered that anger and indignation worked best to offset the pain, so when she felt herself beginning to travel to him, she stood in her own way, saying, "He's not here. He could be, but he's not. That's his choice." It would cause her lips to flatten and her eyes to go cold for just a fraction of a second.
George had learned to recognise those looks, and they were usually followed by a short period of silence. He'd found that the best way to move through them was to simply take Ruth's hand in his own and hold it. After a few moments, she would feel the warmth of it and look at him. Her eyes still held the deep sadness of the place she had been, but they would soon smile, and he would have her back.
In a strange way, George had come to appreciate these episodes, because he was seeing them decrease by small steps. And he couldn't help thinking that if Ruth was capable of this depth of love for someone else, she would also be able to offer it to him someday. He certainly felt it for her.
They had talked about the house, and Ruth had said perhaps. She'd begged off until the spring, and now spring was here. Her flat was feeling smaller to her, and as her life had expanded out to the vineyard house, so had her heart. She'd become a sort of assistant to George on his weekend rounds, and she found she looked forward to the long rides on the bumpy dirt roads in the mountains, and the routes that always ended with the gracious hospitality of the generous, open-hearted Cypriot people who lived there.
Ruth looked out at the mid-March sunshine and remembered back to the first time she'd gone on rounds with George. She'd had no idea where she was for most of the day, and the mountains had seemed an endless series of loops and cutbacks folding in on each other. Now she knew each road as well as she'd known the streets of London or the path from her flat on the Rue du Banquier to l'Alcove. She knew exactly who lived on which piece of land, and she looked forward to the greetings they would receive in each warm kitchen.
Today, they were on their way to the Miklos house, where the patriarch, Xristakis, was suffering through what George was certain was gall bladder disease. He'd tried repeatedly to get him to come into the hospital, but the man was exceedingly stubborn. Ruth looked forward to seeing the Miklos family, because children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, uncles, and any number of friends would be there whenever Ruth and George visited. They were a lively and vibrant family, and Ruth had started bringing treats for the children, just a small toy or a postcard from somewhere exotic, or something sweet. When she arrived, they would surround her like baby chicks, pulling at her pockets and laughing.
Ruth smiled over at George, and realised she was happy. In this moment, no matter what came after it, she was content. Her days had an order to them, a simple progression of one thing to another. There were no real crises, no surprises. There were certainly emergencies at the hospital and here in the mountains, but even those events had a set of procedures to be followed, a known quantity of solutions.
Hadn't she said once that she thought simplicity and elegance wouldn't be enough for her? She had meant it then, but that was before Polis, before George, and before her heart had been shattered into so many pieces that she despaired of ever recovering all of them. She had thought that simplicity was boring, but these days, she was of a mind that boring wasn't half bad, really.
George looked over at Ruth, and again, he felt his heart flood with hope. There was a softness in her eyes that forced him to breathe in sharply as he smiled at her, and he knew that now was the time he'd waited for.
"It's spring," he said, smiling cryptically, but he knew that she would know exactly what he was saying.
Ruth's smile grew wider. "Yes, it is." They liked to play with each other, as friends do. She found it easier, because in a strange way it masked the lack of deep love in their relationship. So Ruth continued smiling and looked out of the side window, teasing him. "Yes, lovely."
She knew he was going to ask about the house, and she was ready to say yes. Trouble was, the house came with so many other things. She couldn't very well move in with him and continue to kiss him goodnight at the door, now could she? And beyond sleeping together, she knew that George wanted very much to marry her. Although Polis had moved a few decades further into the 20th century, it was still not common practice for a man and a woman to share a home without the benefit of marriage.
But Ruth had thought very long and hard about this, and she felt prepared to take the leap into a new life. She wasn't sure what it would look like, whether or not it would include marriage, or how it would feel. She was frightened and nervous, but she didn't think she would ever be more ready than she was now.
She turned again to him, and forced her face to remain blank. "Yes."
His eyes grew wide, and for a moment she worried that he might lose his way on the road. "Yes?"
Now she gave him just the hint of a smile, and nodded. "Yes." He was still looking at her, and her smile grew as she said, "Do keep your eyes on the road, George. I'd like to live long enough to move into that lovely house with you."
His head snapped back to watch the road, and George released the breath he'd been holding. He paused for a moment, and then said, "That's good. That's very good." And now he wanted to ask her about everything, about marriage and children and most of all, when. But he held his tongue, as he'd gotten so used to doing. This was so much to have happen at once, after so many days of waiting.
Ruth looked out her side window and felt herself moving through the contradiction of relief and panic. She'd done it. Finally pulled herself off the fence. And mixed in with the other emotions, she felt the familiar twin pangs of heartache and anger that always came with the memory of Harry. Well, that's that, my love. You wanted me to move on, and I've done it. Now please, Harry, leave me be.
Closing the file in front of him, Harry leant back in his chair, surveying the Grid.
Connie sat at her desk as always of late, her head down, doing her job. Everything she did on the Grid now came across his desk, quietly and without fanfare. He hadn't asked her again about Hugo Prince, but he scrutinised her every move, and he knew that Connie knew it.
He wondered what he would do in her shoes, and he thought he might react the same way. If you know you're innocent, you allow your work and your loyalty to speak for itself. If you know you're guilty, you lay low and do your best to prove your innocence. He didn't know which one Connie was doing, but if Harry knew one thing about spying, he knew that time would tell.
Harry was communicating regularly now with a man codenamed Ivan in Moscow, who managed the Sugarhorse operation there. Under deep cover, Ivan had the ability to oversee and judge any threats to the operation, and the reports were that all was well, with no apparent security breaches.
And, just in case, there was one person in Moscow that Harry held in reserve, should he need her. A Sugarhorse operative, Maria Korachevsky. She was a person he would trust with his life, and one of the best operatives he'd ever known. When Sugarhorse had first been put in place twenty years ago, he and Maria had become very close. Through some long winter months they had talked about their lives and had found their philosophies to be much the same about the work they did. In a time of loneliness, Harry had allowed himself the comfort of her bed, although he'd not become involved emotionally, as she had.
When he'd left to come back to London, she'd placed a ring in his pocket. A blue stone set in silver, one that she'd worn throughout their time together. It was her most precious possession, and she'd said she wanted him to have it, along with her heart. The last words she'd spoken to him were, "Please come back to me." He never had. He'd told himself it was for her safety, but the truth was, he'd never intended their relationship to go beyond his time in Moscow.
Harry leant forward and put his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead. There were more Marias in his past than he liked to think about these days. He'd used so many people, bastard that he was, without much thought to their feelings. Assets. Purely numbers to tick off of a balance sheet, as the name implied. He still had the ring in his deposit box at the bank. And the truth was, he was still holding Maria as an asset, should he need her.
He sighed and looked out again at the Grid. Harry thought about that time in Moscow, but now he did it through the lens of his love for Ruth. He felt a twinge of regret as he wondered if the pain in Maria's heart could compare to the ache he felt now, still, after so much time without his Ruth. He hoped Maria had managed to move on, to find peace with his absence, because now Harry knew what it felt like to love deeply and have to let go.
Needing to think about something else, Harry turned on the BBC feed.
The Bank of England has today ceased to prop up the financial markets, sparking fears that the reserves have reached a critical low. Earlier, Chancellor of the Exchequer Jillian Calderwood vigorously defended Britain's financial prospects.
Jillian Calderwood came on screen, looking suitably grave. She spoke with an assurance that he knew she didn't feel, because he had just talked with her.
"I believe Britain is weathering the storm. That the worst of the credit crunch is behind us. There are no more losses to uncover, no more grounds for runs on banks. So my message to the British public is to have confidence in us, and confidence in themselves. Together we are putting Britain back on track."
Good job, Jillian, Harry thought. Quite convincing. Harry looked at his watch, and then began to gather up the files on his desk. Harry knew that Jillian would be leaving the BBC studios and coming straight here to the Grid for a meeting, as would Francis Denham, the President of Highland Life Bank and a very old friend of Harry's.
In fact, when Harry had purchased Ruth's house in order to send her the money for it, he'd done so after moving the mortgage to Highland Life. He hadn't sold the house yet, because he was waiting for the market to turn again. He thought it would be a nice surprise for Ruth to suddenly receive another sum of money at some point in the future, representing the profit. At least that's what Harry told himself.
If Harry really examined his motives, he would see that keeping her house was a way to have a piece of her in London. He told himself that the cleaners he sent out each month were only to be sure it was ready to show at a moment's notice. And that the weekly visits he made there were to check up on the place, to make sure it wasn't being broken into.
But as he walked through the empty rooms, he couldn't deny that he felt her there, some residual energy that belonged to Ruth. At times, as he stood in her kitchen and remembered making sweet tea for her, he could even hear her laugh.
Harry stood and walked out to the Grid. He asked Lucas if he would show Jillian Calderwood and Francis Denham in when they arrived, and then he made his way back to his office to wait.
Amish Mani looked at the busy Paris street below him, as he stepped out on his balcony at the InterContinental Hotel. It was a cool night, but the lights of the cars were so beautiful as they moved down the Place de l'Opéra, that he stood for a time longer and watched them, sipping his coffee.
Definitely a step up from the warehouse where I spent my day.
Mani found successful interrogations rather invigorating, and he had to admit he loved the drama of them. So much feeling, so many powerful emotions. Love, loss, and desperation so close to the surface. It made him acutely aware of how connected people are to their families.
As a boy Amish Mani had seen his parents die in a simple robbery attempt, whilst he crouched in a corner unseen, terrified. These sessions always took him back there, and he remembered himself huddled, powerless. But now he was the one with the power, and it seemed somehow to still his parents screams, to offer some vindication, some justice.
The pilot had been very helpful. He'd resisted at first, but had come around quickly. He'd saved his children, but of course Mani couldn't let him live after he'd told them what they needed to know. For the sake of the children, and because he was an honourable man, Mani had made his death fast and painless. He wasn't a monster, after all.
The man said that Harry Pearce and Sophie Persan had boarded his plane in France. Mani had a feeling that she was here in Paris, or had been. He had extensive connections in the city, and if Sophie had so much as left a pair of trousers at the dry cleaners under her name, he would find her.
From Paris, the pilot had flown them to Paphos Airport on Cyprus, where he'd spent the night in a hotel, while Harry and Sophie drove on to Polis. Just the two of them. Why hadn't they simply flown to Baghdad and stayed the first night there? Mani smiled as he brought the fine china cup to his lips and drank the last of his coffee. It sounded to him like a romantic interlude, and that made things infinitely more interesting.
Feeling a chill, Mani moved off the balcony and back into his suite. He would stay here until they had picked up a trail for Mademoiselle Persan. And Mani had no doubt they would find her. He always found the people he was looking for. Sophie would be very important to this process. Harry Pearce would not give up a secret if it were only his life in danger. But Sophie would make all the difference to Harry's state of mind. Mani had seen the looks they'd exchanged. He'd felt the heat between them.
Mani was looking forward to seeing how long Harry could last as he listened to Sophie cry out in pain.
~~~~~
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