CHAPTER EIGHTY
Harry had to know. He'd mulled over his suspicions about Connie for long enough, and it was time to force the issue. It wasn't the best time to do it, but he didn't suppose there was ever a good time to confront an old friend with betrayal. All he knew at this point was that not being able to trust Connie was taking more out of him than he had to give.
He parked his car a couple of blocks from Connie's house so that he could walk a bit and clear his head with some fresh air before seeing her. Harry knew Connie was cynical and jaded, and that she had a less than rosy picture of the Services, but he still felt a strong pull to believe she wasn't the mole. When she denied knowing Hugo Prince well, Harry had known she was lying, because he could see it in a flash of her eyes. But he'd understood why she'd lied.
And Harry was continuing his struggle to understand the new insight that he'd gained from loving Ruth. That insight led him to wonder if it even mattered that Connie and Hugo had been in love. In the time that Harry and Ruth had been together, through all their deep talks, Harry had never mentioned Sugarhorse. Why would he? In fact, it was the very depth of his love that made him want to keep her far away from any knowledge that might endanger her. So why was he assuming that Hugo would have told Connie?
Harry got out of his car and pushed the button to alarm it. It was a crisp March day, and he was glad he'd decided to walk a little. The world was in turmoil, especially the financial markets, and Britain was on the brink of bankruptcy. In particular trouble was the bank chaired by his old friend, Francis Denham. A meeting this morning had uncovered a threat to Francis' bank, Highland Life, in the form of Alexis Meynell, a merciless financial vulture. Meynell not only preyed on weak businesses, he actually went after whole economies, and these days it was Britain that was squarely in Meynell's sights.
Harry was extremely concerned for Francis and for Highland Life. He'd never seen his friend so distraught. Francis was afraid that Meynell was planning to start a run on the bank, and then to bet against it in the stock market. The bank would collapse, and Meynell would walk away with millions. So Harry had placed Ros on the inside of Meynell Holdings as a tax auditor. He was relying on her to get the proof MI5 needed to shut down Meynell's operation before he was able to ruin Highland Life.
The very fact that this seemed an odd time to ransack Connie's flat made it the perfect time to catch her off guard. Harry had tasked two MI5 officers to be waiting at Connie's door as she left for work this morning. They were then to take her back inside and begin pulling the place apart, and Harry had told them not to be gentle about it. He wanted to put her off her game, wanted her to feel violated and afraid. He knew Connie too well to think that timidity on his part would force her into any kind of confession.
Only the possibility of a breach to Sugarhorse could drive Harry to these measures. The operation was too important, and although this was one of the parts of his job that he truly hated, Harry knew it was necessary. And he wouldn't be such a coward that he would let others do it and not be there to feel the consequences. He would watch, and endure what he was sure would be Connie's accusing eyes.
As he walked up the steps to her flat, he saw Connie through the window, and yes, her eyes were all that he thought they would be. And as he felt himself falter a bit, Harry told himself again that this was the only way that he would know. Once he knew, one way or another, they could both move on.
Harry came around the corner and through her front door, steeled for her anger. She nearly spat the words at him. "Comes to something when you leave for work in the morning after thirty years in the Services and find yourself manhandled back by your own side."
Harry started with what he had rehearsed on the walk there. "If I suspect you of being part of a possible security breach..."
She cut him off, her voice indignantly high, "Security breach?"
He was determined to get through this, but Harry found himself sounding like he was trying to justify his actions to her. "...then I have to exclude you from the Grid and deny you access to communication."
The problem was, Harry was having trouble meeting Connie's eyes, because every time he did, he saw Ruth staring back at him. And that made him think that Connie and Hugo had simply been two people in love, and that Hugo, in all likelihood, had never so much as thought about Sugarhorse when he was with Connie. Harry's voice took on a slight tone of resignation. "Let's let these men get on with their job. I think we both know the outcome we're hoping for."
Connie stared defiantly back at him, and for a moment, they stood in silence. Finally, she said, with acid in her voice, "Well, I'd offer you a cup of tea, Harry," she looked under her brows at the man going through her kitchen cupboards, "But I'm afraid I might hinder the progress of your gorillas." She sat down at the table, her back straight, her lips pursed, and didn't say another word.
Although the chair wasn't offered, Harry sat across from her, still finding it difficult to meet her eyes. While he watched books being thrown on the floor and baskets being emptied in just the manner he had instructed, Harry had to give himself a stern lecture about the fact that this was his job, and he had nothing to apologise for. He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his forehead, but it wasn't Connie he was thinking of. He was imagining his Ruth being asked questions about an operation of which she knew nothing, her things being thrown about, her face drawn and confused.
His Ruth. Would she always be his conscience? Forever in his head asking him questions that he'd never before asked of himself? Harry opened his eyes again, and Connie was looking at him. Her eyes were now narrowed, as if she saw some weakness that she'd never seen before, but then they quickly became accusatory again.
Harry looked back at her and sighed. She may as well have said it. Yes, I know. I'm a cold bastard.
Ruth ran her hands over the white cotton of the shirt, again appreciating its feel. She found the buttons, touched them with her fingers, one by one, as he would have, skilfully turning them inside the tailored buttonholes, and then smoothing them down in the front. It was no longer starched and crisp the way Harry had liked it. Instead it was soft, from many washings and from the countless nights she had worn it to bed and left it wrinkled and warm from the heat of her body.
It had been in her drawer for two months now, unworn. She no longer rubbed the collar with the soap, although at first she'd had to fight the urge to do so. It was another addiction Ruth had mastered, but still it never left her thoughts. She hadn't put it on, but she'd known it was there. Each day as she reached into her drawer for fresh knickers she had seen it, peeking from the shadows in the back, just as Harry peeked from the shadows of her mind, always.
And now another decision. She knew that she should place the shirt in the box of things she was sending to the Polis Community Centre for the thrift shop. She tried to imagine Harry's shirt on one of the poor men in the mountains, its high quality and fine tailoring being tested day by day with the sweat and dirt of hard labour and farming. A catch on a harvesting knife would start a small rip, which would grow and fray. Finally, tattered and no longer any colour resembling white, the shirt would move into the rag heap to clean equipment and live in the shed. And as she sat on the side of her bed, Ruth thought miserably that it would be a fitting end for another symbol of their love.
For now, Harry's shirt had a new purpose, as it served to catch Ruth's tears. She wasn't ready to make this decision. She'd sat here on the bed for twenty long minutes holding it, turning it over in her hands, dealing not only with the shirt itself, but with the flood of memories that it held. And giving it up, of course, was not just giving up the shirt. It was letting go of another strand of the rope, breaking a piece of the thread, extinguishing one of the very last shreds of hope that still held a tiny flame alight in her heart.
Ruth stood, finally, and walked to the bathroom. She opened the cupboard and took out what was left of the sandalwood soap. She hadn't used much of it, but she wondered at how resilient it was, how the aroma still wafted from its waxy surface every time she held it to her nose. She wondered how long it would last. Not just the soap, but all of it. The aroma, her love for Harry, her refusal to let things go.
Ruth sighed deeply, and pulled off her t-shirt. She was packing today, so she wore no bra, and now as she pulled Harry's buttoned shirt over her head, she felt the familiar smoothness as it slid down her arms, over her bare breasts, and rested finally on her neck. She hugged her arms around her chest and looked in the mirror at her rosy, tear-stained cheeks.
She looked down and saw the small, dark spots of moisture that spread into the cotton of the shirt, and then Ruth raised her head up to meet her own eyes. Desperately sad eyes, and at times like this, Ruth thought she had progressed no further than when she'd sat on the Vespa in the field after reading Harry's letter of goodbye so long ago. Now she knew that it would never go away, this longing for him. It was like the ghost pains that plague people who had lost limbs. The ache that resided in the ankle of a leg that was no longer there. And because it was no longer there, treatment was impossible. They lived with it, pure and simple. And so would she.
Ruth pulled the shirt back over her head and folded it gently, tenderly, on the sideboard. She straightened the collar and aligned the shoulders, tucking the sleeves carefully, methodically, behind. Then she took the soap and placed it in the centre of the chest, and folded the sides over it, holding it firmly inside.
She put her t-shirt back on and went out to her carryall on the bed. Harry's white shirt would go with her to George's house, to her new house. It shouldn't, but it would. Ruth sighed again, knowing that she had lost this battle. But the next one, she was determined she would win.
Tomorrow night, she would sleep in the mountain house. The house that was everything she'd imagined, and more. She would sleep in the same bed with George, and she knew that what would happen there hadn't a chance of matching even a kiss with Harry. She would give her body in the hope of finding something, anything, to fill the spaces that still yawned in her heart, and what she hoped now was that it would at least be pleasant, warm, and a tender way to show her love for her friend. God knew George deserved that much after all this time.
Ruth lifted what she'd already packed into her carryall, and placed the bundle of white cotton under it, safely at the bottom. Then she inhaled deeply and said aloud, wearily, impatient with her own weakness, "Let's get on with it, shall we?" and moved on to the next drawer of her armoire.
The minutes ticked by and the two officers seemed to be finding nothing. It was what Harry suspected, because of course, this was never really about finding anything. Connie was too smart to have Sugarhorse files in a kitchen drawer. This was more about intimidation, about letting her know that his mistrust had gone a notch higher.
The men finished, and the agent in charge gave him a look with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, You're sure you want us to leave it this way? Harry returned the man's look with a slight nod. Yes. He rose and put his hand on the man's shoulder, leading both agents out into the hall.
Though he already knew the answer, Harry asked softly, "So, nothing?"
"No, found nothing, sir," the man said, as he moved past him outside the door.
"Thank you," Harry said, nodding.
Connie still sat at the table, her face marked by the anger she was feeling. Harry walked back into the room, closing the door behind him.
Connie crossed her arms and glared at him. "So, is that it? Is this over now?" She shook her head, incredulously. "Harry, I don't know what theory this is part of, or whatyou've got on your mind." She put her head in her hand, dumbfounded.
Harry was still standing, and now he began to pace. "You want to know what's on my mind, Connie? You and Hugo Prince." He stopped pacing and looked down at her, sarcasm in his voice. "Well, then you barely knew him, did you?" He kept his eyes on her, willing her to continue to lie to him. Again the picture of Ruth came into his head, and he pushed it away, trying to convince himself, This is completely different.
And surprisingly, Connie broke. She looked down, and said more softly, "If I lied to you about Hugo Prince, it was because it was private."
"Then you don't deny that you had a long-standing affair with him?" Harry walked around so that he was even closer to her. This was the time for him to come in for the kill, but Harry didn't quite have the stomach for it.
Connie let out a loud sigh, and leant back in her chair. "I know what you're implying." She looked up at Harry with fresh venom in her voice. "But unlike you, Hugo knew when to stop." Now she spoke more softly again, with a hint of tenderness, "Whatever time we had, he didn't spend it talking about work."
"How sweet." He'd meant it to come out ominously, threatening, but he suddenly had a vision of Ruth surrounded by white sheets, laughing as they'd talked about travel, and food, and a wedding. He remembered how far away the Grid had seemed, how incongruous it would have been for him to inject Sugarhorse into that scene. He couldn't look at Connie anymore, so he turned away, and began to pace again. Get hold of yourself, Harry. It's not the same. You need to do this.
"It's true." Connie's voice was low, resigned. He almost heard her thoughts. How can I explain real love to someone like you?
Harry was committed now, and he wasn't leaving this flat without an answer. There would need to be shouting and anger for the truth to come out. He began to work his way up to it. "I might even believe it, if it weren't the case that there's no other explanation."
"For what?" Now Connie sounded truly angry.
"What did he tell you, Connie, about operations he and I worked on together?" Harry's voice was still soft, but it had taken on a menacing quality.
"Nothing, Harry. Nothing!"
"What did he pass to you?" Stronger now, and louder.
Connie now began to get indignant. "Harry, I don't deserve to be talked to like this."
"What did he pass to you?" Harry walked around the table, moving closer to her.
"Harry!"
"Don't!" Harry stood over Connie now, and leant down, threatening. "Because whatever it was, I will not allow you to jeopardise the operation he and I worked on!"
Connie's hand came down hard on the table, and she stood. There were tears in her eyes, mixed with the anger and the hurt. "Fine. Do you want to see it?" She hurried over to a pile made up of the contents of her upside-down shelves. "Do you want to see the only thing Hugo Prince ever gave me?" She looked through the papers at the top of the pile, and found what she was looking for. A ceramic replica of Big Ben.
"I was summoned to his hospital bed. I thought it might be for some declaration of love, or meaningful token by which I could remember what we had," Connie handed it to Harry, still overcome with emotion. "Of course that wasn't Hugo's way. All I got was a pat on the bum and this tacky souvenir."
Harry trained his eyes on Connie from under his brows, trying to read her. He could usually tell when people were lying, but she was so full of emotion, it was hard for him to discern. She had certainly loved Hugo Prince, that much was clear, but whether her profession of innocence was simply an act was still up for debate in Harry's mind.
There was one thing Harry knew, and that was the reason Hugo had given this to Connie. It was a favourite trick of Hugo's, one he'd used many times. He'd known a man who created these cheap pieces of art, and had often hidden things inside them.
Harry threw the piece to the floor and hit it hard with the heel of his shoe. Connie cried out, seemingly suddenly aware of how precious it had become to her. Harry looked down amongst the pieces of broken ceramic, and there it was, a small cassette tape, appropriately old-school. On it was a typed label that read: HARRY PEARCE.
Now he knew Connie had no idea the tape was hidden, as there was no one who could act the surprise he saw on her face. She couldn't take her eyes off it. "I promise you I've never seen that before in my life."
"Get me a player," Harry said, his voice low and uncompromising. As Connie rummaged around for the mini-cassette player, Harry's heart was pounding. Was this to be a confession? Hugo telling him he was sorry, but yes, he'd told Connie everything? What would Harry do then?
Harry sat back down, and Connie joined him. They were both in the same chairs as earlier, but neither spoke a word. With shaking hands, Connie placed the tape in the recorder. She was so distraught, Harry knew this was as much a surprise to her as it was to him. She pushed the button to play the tape, and Hugo's voice, immediately recognizable and eerily disembodied, rose from the player.
"Hello, Harry, it's Hugo. If you're listening to this, it's because there's been a breach. I think you'll know what I'm talking about. And if that's happened, then I know my relationship with Connie would have placed her under suspicion. That's why I've left you this message. Because I want you to be sure that at no time did I ever mention to Connie or pass on to her anything relating to the matters we worked on. Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all, and I know my selfishness has caused her enough harm when I was alive, and I couldn't bear to leave her vulnerable now that I'm going. I hope you understand."
The sound of his old friend's voice, the tears making their way slowly down Connie's cheeks, and the sickness he felt in his heart, combined to nearly take Harry's breath away. He looked across at her, and now it was Ruth he saw. The memories that must be going through Connie's mind right now, listening to Hugo's words, Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all. Another love unexpressed, another loss of two people who might have found happiness together except for the bloody job.
Suddenly all of Connie's cynicism, her sardonic nature, the flippant way she dealt with most affairs of the heart, came into clear focus. Is this how Ruth would end her days? Remembering a love that had meant so much, but now came down to only a voice on a tape? And a voice that didn't even speak to her, but spoke instead to Harry, and spoke about the work. Though I never told her. Well, you still haven't told her, you coward, you've only told me, and she just got to listen.
Harry looked across at Connie, and thought, What have I done? A woman who has given so many years to the Services. A woman who was peacefully finding her way in the world until I dragged her back on to the Grid. A woman who lost the love of her life to a disease, but only after losing him many times over to his country. And here I sit, amongst her ravaged possessions, and accuse her of treason. I, who should know better.
Connie put her head in her hands as Harry reached out and turned off the player. And then, he too, raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes, feeling so completely like a bastard that he wondered how he would ever regain Connie's respect. He wondered if he even deserved it.
Tear-stained, Connie looked up at him, and she graciously let him off the hook. "It's all right Harry, I understand. I know you had to do it."
He still couldn't meet her eyes, and he had no idea what to say to her. Everything he could think of sounded hollow after the voice they had both just heard. He wondered what his friend and colleague Hugo Prince would think about the way Harry had treated Connie. He wasn't sure, but what he could do now was to trust her, and Harry promised himself he would put this suspicion behind him. He would tell Bernard that he had been wrong. Connie James was not the mole on the Grid.
Harry was saved from having to formulate a reply by the feel of his mobile in his coat pocket, vibrating. He had felt it earlier as well, but hadn't wanted to stop his interrogation. Now, as much to cover his awkwardness as out of curiosity, he pulled it from his pocket and pressed the button to view the screen.
Seven missed calls, all from Francis Denham. Connie was still crying, and Harry still felt like a son-of-a-bitch, but now he had to go and find out what this was about. He was essentially still in the middle of an operation, and as he hadn't shared his suspicions about Connie with anyone else, no one knew where he was. He grimaced, and speed-dialled his voicemail. The first message sent a chill through him.
Harry, it's Francis. I need to see you. Usual place. The situation is worse than I admitted. A lot worse. I'm afraid I may have destroyed everything.
Harry clicked off, and set down his phone. He could listen to the rest of them later, but he looked at Connie, his face somewhat stricken. She looked across at him, the tears subsiding, but still evident in her red-rimmed eyes. He shrugged slightly, and sighed, his look apologetic.
Connie shook her head and managed a sorrowful laugh. She put her hand up and waved him away. "Go. I know that look. Duty calls, Harry." Connie stood up. "I think I will have that cup of tea, if I can bloody well find it."
Harry also stood, and put his mobile in his pocket. He surveyed the disaster of Connie's flat, and said, half-heartedly, "I wish I could..."
She cut him off with a laugh, "Oh, I just bet you do, Harry. Go!" she said good-naturedly. "Get the hell out of here and go do your job." As Harry went out the door, he saw Connie making her way slowly through the debris toward the kitchen.
While Harry walked the two blocks back to his car, he listened to the other six messages from Francis. They all said much the same thing, Please. I need to see you, now Harry. Please call. The usual place. Situation worse. Harry, please return my call.
It was lucky that their usual place was not far from Connie's. It was a section of the car park under a mall, and Harry was there within ten minutes. There was Francis' car, and Harry gave an inward sigh of relief. Now they could talk, and he could try to find some assurances to give his old friend that they would work this out.
As he walked toward the car, Harry's mobile beeped, but this time with a text message. He stopped walking and pressed the button. Another from Francis Denham, but this time, just a one-word message: SORRY.
Harry frowned, and looked at the car in front of him, not 20 metres away. And then he saw the hose. The one that snaked from the exhaust pipe, around the side of the car, and into a window, just barely open. And then he heard the engine running.
"Francis!" Harry started running. He saw him in the backseat, and felt the acrid sting of carbon monoxide as it wafted through the small space above the window. "Francis!" Doors locked. Harry ran around to the other side, and jerked the hose violently out of the window.
"Francis!" Harry knew he was dead. He knew that he was too late, and it was because he had been accusing Connie, a woman who was innocent. Ah, Christ, another one lost because I was facing the wrong direction. Harry felt suddenly that he'd lost his instincts, his spook sense. He peered in at Francis, who looked so old in the final peace of death, the deep lines etched in his face. Harry suddenly felt he was looking in a mirror, and thought, Am I that old?
He walked wearily over to the cement wall and slumped against it. Now the smell of the exhaust from the still-running car was reaching his nostrils, so he walked further away into an area with fresh air, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He pressed in a number.
"Lucas? We have a problem. Francis Denham is dead. Suicide."
~~~~~
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
"Lucas. My office." Harry walked from the pods toward the hallway. A productive morning so far, he thought darkly. Ransacked the flat of a thirty-year Security Services veteran, and allowed another good friend of many years to feel so alone that he took his own life.
Harry had decided on the way from the car park that he had better start trusting the people around him and stop thinking of everyone as the enemy. He'd realised he'd been suspicious of Lucas too, ever since his arrival from Moscow, really, and that would stop now. He couldn't tell him everything, but he could at least let him know what was going on. If Harry was going to keep Sugarhorse on track, he was going to need allies.
He'd realised, as he was driving back to the Grid, that he couldn't do this alone. He thought of Francis' face again, of how alone he looked in the backseat of that car. He thought of Connie's face, bereft at the sound of Hugo's voice. And finally, Harry had a good long talk with Ruth in the car, asking her what he should do. He knew what she would say if she were really here, and her sweet voice came back to him, telling him to stop trying to go it alone, and to allow those around him to help him. She told him to trust someone.
Harry hung up his coat and jacket, and sat down at his desk, as Lucas followed him into his office. He opened his top right drawer and dropped Hugo Prince's tape into it, and then began, without preliminaries. "I have a confession to make. I'm afraid that when I told you I'd never heard of Sugarhorse, I was lying." Harry paused, and then continued, "And I need you to remember everything that happened at the time that it was mentioned.
Lucas' voice had a hint of suspicion in it. "Why?"
"All I can tell you is that Sugarhorse is the most important network in the history of MI5. And now it's been compromised."
Lucas turned his back, and walked a few steps away from Harry. His voice was low, measured. "Do you know what they were doing to me when it was mentioned?"
"Yes." Harry knew this would be hard for Lucas, but it had to be done. Now that Connie was cleared, he needed to get a grip on this problem, determine some way to find out who the mole was. "And I still need you to put yourself back there. Who was present? Any detail that might ..."
Lucas was clearly already putting himself back there. His voice quavered as he remembered. "I was tortured for seventeen days, continuously."
Now Harry could see how affected Lucas was just by talking about this. The pain was visible on his face. He felt for him, but still he needed to know, and Lucas was the only one who could tell him. "Lucas, I..."
"Was Sugarhorse the reason?"
Harry almost said, I don't know. He nearly spoke it, but stopped himself. If Lucas could survive seventeen days of waterboarding, then the least Harry could do was tell him the truth as he knew it. "I'm certain it was."
Lucas looked at Harry with contempt. His voice was angry, low. "But now you want me to just put myself back there without telling me anything about what I was tortured for?"
"Lucas..." This was not going the way Harry had intended, certainly not the way he had imagined it in the car.
His voice rising, Lucas turned on Harry. "Don't you dare try any of your sanctimonious, good-of-the-nation crap on me!" Now Lucas smiled cynically, and shook his head, "There are limits to what you can ask of people, Harry. Even in our business." Lucas went to the door and opened it, stepping out into the hallway.
Quickly, before Lucas could get away, Harry said, "I'm sorry." He couldn't look at Lucas as he said it, but he truly was sorry. At this moment, Harry was having a great deal of trouble understanding where things had gone so terribly wrong on the Grid, and his overwhelming feeling was that of having lost control. Of his people, of his emotions, and of arguably the most important operation of his entire career.
Lucas didn't acknowledge Harry's apology. In fact, far from absolving him, Lucas stepped angrily back into the office and said, "And by the way, if I were you, I'd talk to Jo. You probably haven't noticed, but she's in trouble over what happened. A lot of trouble." Lucas walked out the door again, and down the hall, leaving Harry alone.
You probably haven't noticed. Another indictment, and now about Jo. Harry had noticed, he'd just had no bloody idea how to handle it. He knew that after an experience like Jo's, it wasn't unusual for a woman to see her rapist's face. But Jo was seeing Boscard everywhere, even during ops, and Harry was afraid that she'd been traumatised more than anyone knew. Harry had been holding off, but now he thought it was time to use the only solution he could think of. He reached into his drawer and pulled out the Redbacks file.
Opening it, he touched the photos that lay at the top. Adam had filed his usual report on Jo's abduction and time in captivity with the Redbacks, but had then brought these photos and a secondary eyewitness report in to Harry for safekeeping. At the time, Adam was unsure about which report would function best to help Jo heal.
The two sets of reports told the same story: Boscard was dead. How he died was where the official report differed from the one Harry held in his hands. Jo, in her blind rage, had turned on Boscard with her fists. Adam had known that she needed to express that rage, and he'd closed the door and allowed her to take her revenge.
What Adam hadn't counted on was the extent of Jo's power in the throes of that rage. With her bare fists, Jo had killed Boscard, and then she had promptly blocked it from her memory. Harry took the photos and placed them in an envelope. As soon as they had Meynell safely where they wanted him, Harry would take Jo aside and show them to her.
Yes, Lucas, I've noticed. I notice everything. I just don't always know what to do.
Ruth waited until the breathing next to her was rhythmic and even, and she quietly pulled the covers back and slipped out of bed. She walked naked to the closet and felt her way until she found her cotton t-shirts where she had just this afternoon put them on the shelf. Everything was new and strange, as if she were in a dark and foreign hotel room. She pulled the t-shirt over her head and made her way out of the bedroom. She walked past Nico's empty bedroom, remembering the sparkle in Christina's eyes as she'd offered to keep him for their first night together in the new house.
It was a pleasantly warm night, as Cyprus was starting its rise toward the hot summer she remembered from last year. Ruth tiptoed her way down the stairs and across the tile floors, and now she could move more by sight than by feel, as the doorway to the patio was illuminated by a bright moon, not full, but waxing toward it. She stepped out onto the smooth rock floor of the patio, and full into the moonlight.
She could see the water from here, the vast black Mediterranean with its dark blue flecks where the moon traced a line that led straight to the horizon. The blue of the Mediterranean. That's all it took, and Harry's arms were around her again. He stood behind her and whispered, "Aquamarine" in her ear, and she pushed him resolutely away, whispering back, "No, not on this night."
Ruth walked down the four steps to the pool, and then pulled her t-shirt over her head, standing openly nude in the moonlight for a moment. She could feel the slight breeze that came off the sea, and it was cooler than it had been in the house. Ruth relished the privacy and the beauty of this place as she listened to the soft rustle of the leaves and the hushed chirp of the night birds. She felt she might be the only person in the world right now.
Her skin rose in tiny goose bumps as she steeled herself to step into the water, knowing that the unheated pool would be a shock, but she was looking forward to it. She wanted the freshness, the cleansing that it offered, and she walked down the steps without pausing, letting it take her breath away, until she was completely immersed, and swimming. She pulled herself under the sparkling moonlit water with strong arms all the way from one end to the other, and rose noiselessly. The flagstone around the pool was still warm from today's sun, and she crossed her arms under her head, feeling the welcome warmth rise up to her cheeks.
Ruth lay there, letting her legs dangle weightless, and listened to the light lapping of the water, and to her own breath. Now in the chemicals of the pool, she could feel the slight rawness of her face where George's beard had scraped, so rough, so different from ... No, Ruth. Don't compare. That way madness lies, let me shun that. Ruth's face moved into an incredulous smile even as her forehead wrinkled into a frown. Quoting King Lear, just as Harry would.
She let go of the edge of the pool and slipped under the water again, swimming silently so as not to wake George. She needed this time alone to process the change that had just happened. And she wanted to deal with the slender feeling of betrayal that had nagged at her from the very moment George had set down his glass of wine, taken the glass from her, and led her gently by the hand to the bedroom.
Gentle. That would be the word she would use to describe how George made love. As if she might break, and with a reverence that made her feel like a virgin again, almost pure, like a girl. It was nearly ... charming ... if one could use that word to describe sex, and Ruth was grateful that it had served to remove her from the process, as if she wasn't expected to know how, or was even expected to participate. As if she were simply being worshipped. She knew that being worshipped could be lovely, but it also detached her from the worshipper. It created a separation between the two of them that she knew she would have to try to bridge someday.
Ruth stepped up to the stone surface around the pool and allowed the water to drip down her skin and collect around her feet. Now the air felt much cooler, and she shivered just a bit, moving toward the stack of towels on the rock wall. She pulled one around her, and its fluffy softness and fresh-washed smell was luxurious. She leant back against the wall and looked again at the sea. What a life I have fallen into, she thought. And fast on the heels of that thought came, Ungrateful wretch.
How many women in the world could never even dream of having this life? A beautiful house, exquisite nature around her, the richness of the pool with its cool water and privacy. It felt like living at a resort on an ongoing holiday. George had even told her she could stop working if that was what she wanted. She could stay here and plant her herb garden, tend the house, walk the fifteen minutes through lush trees on the road to the market, swim with Nico, cook, read books, and be loved by a man who had no other desire than to make her gloriously happy.
What a species we are. The words slipped unbidden into her head, but in quite a different context than the last time she had said them, sitting across from Harry and drinking white burgundy. Then she had meant that spooks were quite a species, combining the menacing talk of thermobaric bombs with the elegance of a refined evening over a glass of wine. Now the phrase took on a new meaning for Ruth.
This time she was chastising herself for wanting more. She was cursing the trait of human nature that takes for granted what it's given, and struggles after what's not. Ruth had everything here she could possibly want, and, desolately, she knew in this moment that she would trade it all for a life with Harry in the lowliest hovel anywhere in the world.
Moving to sit in the chair on the patio, Ruth sighed, and she felt the tears begin to come. She knew this would never stop, that Harry would never leave her. She'd known it for a long time, but she'd held out a desperate hope that making love with George would surprise her, and that the thread that held her to Harry would transfer to George miraculously in that most intimate act. But it hadn't, and now she knew for certain that it never would.
Making love with George had reminded her of Jonathan, the man at GCHQ. It was a strangely sterile blending of mind and body. She'd enjoyed the way Jonathon thought, and had wrongly assumed that the thrill she felt in his ideas would carry over to their lovemaking. Instead, although the closeness was always nice, she'd found herself going through the motions somewhat, and had felt a bit guilty each time about being glad it was over.
Ruth held the towel up to catch the tears that continued to fall soundlessly, trickling and blending with the chlorinated water that was still evaporating from her cheeks. That had been the revelation of making love with Harry. She'd thought she knew what lay ahead of her, even with him, but she'd quickly learned that anything she'd known before Harry had been a pale imitation.
As she'd done so many times, Ruth closed her eyes and relived those moments with Harry of climbing the mountain and then flinging herself off it with him. The weightless trusting, the split second where she lost complete awareness and could have been on any planet in the universe, as time stopped. Even now, sitting in the Cyprus moonlight, just thinking about it sent a chill down her neck and caused her thighs to tingle deliciously. And then the tears fell faster, as she realised she was feeling more, just thinking about Harry, than she'd felt an hour ago with the reality of George.
Ruth put her face down into the towel now, as she felt a sob rise in her throat. Oh, Harry. No matter what I do, I can't stop loving you. However I try to wish it away, it's as strong as it was in Bath. Where are you right now? How do you feel? Do you miss me? Have you done what I've done and tried to move on? Ruth remembered Harry's story of taking his legends out to the bars in order to find women to sleep with him, and she wondered if he'd dusted off those boxes and tried it again. And Ruth knew that she wasn't very different. Wasn't it nearly what she was doing?
George still knew nothing of her past or her life at MI5, and now Ruth knew she wouldn't tell him. She had never uttered the name Evershed to him. He knew nothing of her parents, and little of her childhood. Hadn't she pulled the legend of Faith Benson off a shelf and put it on? Hadn't George just made love to a shadow?
Ruth's tears slowed, and then stopped. She pulled the towel across her face and opened her eyes to the moon. It was the same moon that had smiled down on London and Paris, Calais and Baghdad, Havensworth and Bath. It was timeless and non-judgemental, and unconcerned with the dramas going on beneath its brilliant light.
Again, the thought came, Harry could be looking at that moon right now. And Ruth wondered if their memories could be enough to sustain them. She inhaled sharply and thought, resigned, Well, they'll have to be, won't they?
Standing, Ruth rubbed her hair dry in the moonlight, and then pulled the towel more tightly around her. She walked soundlessly back through the house, her new house, and padded up the stairs to the bedroom. Dropping the towel, she slipped between the cool sheets without waking George. In sleep, his arm went round her.
Closing her eyes with a sigh, Ruth allowed herself to be held.
Harry sat in his office, going over the final reports on Meynell and Highland Life. It had all turned out perfectly, with two glaring exceptions. The first was Francis' death, which continued to haunt Harry with "what ifs." What if he had left Connie's just a bit earlier, what if he had picked up his messages, what if, what if. Harry was feeling stretched to his limit, and utterly responsible. Not only for Francis, but for all of them. His team, Ruth, Connie, Jo, and now, for Ros.
She was the second part of the Meynell operation that was weighing on Harry's mind tonight. Ros had been forced into a corner with Meynell, and the only way out of it was to allow him to have sex with her. Not only allow it, but initiate it, ask for it, pretend to want it. Harry recognised the look in her eyes the moment she'd walked back through the pods. It was filled with the conflicting emotions of disgust, of triumph, of self-loathing, of pride.
Harry saw the look, and he understood the feeling, but he couldn't feel it from a woman's point of view and he knew it. And he still had to talk to Jo. Although Harry hoped somehow that Ros would choose to have that talk with her junior officer, and that she could bring some of her own understanding to Jo's pain.
Just as Harry tucked the Meynell reports into the folder, he heard a knock at his door, and looked up to see Lucas.
"Lucas. Come in."
"Harry, I was angry last night." Lucas' voice was much softer than it had been the last time he'd been in Harry's office. Harry was glad to hear it.
"That's understandable."
Lucas walked slowly across Harry's office, until he stood in front of his desk. "When I got home, I couldn't sleep, so I wrote down a few things, and it prompted a memory." Harry leant back in his chair, his attention now fully on Lucas, who continued, "When I was meant to be out cold, I kept hearing a word repeated. Polomnik."
Harry tilted his head in a question, and Lucas answered, "It's Russian for Pilgrim. I thought it might be the name of an operation or an asset that betrayed me. So I checked it out and..." Lucas opened up the file he had carried in, and pulled out a sheet of paper, "... the only link seems to be to an MI5 officer. He's quite senior but he seems to have been retired for a while."
Harry frowned slightly, and leant forward, putting out his hand. "May I see the file?"
"I think he runs some sort of second-hand shop in South London now." Lucas watched Harry's eyes as he handed him the file, but it seemed the only thing Harry could focus on was the profile sheet on top, the one with the photo and name of the retired MI5 officer. Harry's face had gone somewhat white, and his mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but words wouldn't come.
"Harry?" Lucas frowned. "You alright?"
In that moment, it all made sense. The accusation of Connie. The veiled questions, asking for more information. The face that stared back at Harry told the whole story. Much younger, less gray, but undeniably Harry's teacher, mentor, and friend. Bernard Qualtrough.
Bernard was Polomnik, an operative for the FSB, and the link from Sugarhorse to the Russians. Right now, the one thing Harry could be exceedingly grateful for was the fact that he hadn't given Qualtrough anything meaningful about Sugarhorse. He'd told him it was an important operation and that it had possibly been compromised. When he and Bernard had suspected Dolby, Harry had given Qualtrough files of other operations that had been compromised, but no information on Sugarhorse itself.
Of course, the primary thing Harry had given Bernard was his trust, and this news was a sharp blow to the gut. Harry suddenly realised that he hadn't breathed properly since Lucas had handed him the file.
What had Bernard called them? The old team.
~~~~~
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
It had been a very long day for Harry, and although he'd tried, he couldn't sleep. After wandering the rooms of his house, he finally landed in the study next to the grand piano. In his favourite brown leather chair, he turned on Mozart's Requiem softly in the background, and switched on the recorder.
My dearest Ruth,
I'm feeling completely adrift, and I have no other place to turn than to you, my love. I've been close to flying to be with you many times, but never closer than tonight. The only thing that stops me is the fact that I am at the centre of an operation so important, so delicate, and so utterly on the verge of collapse, that for me to leave right now would be tantamount to treason.
This was not a good day, as I may have lost two good and old friends. One is certainly gone, to suicide, as the result of a desperation I can only imagine. The other I may have lost because I put my trust in the wrong person, and allowed myself to be swayed by paranoia and suspicion.
I feel myself wanting to tell you the details, the facts of these two losses, but I know that you will be waiting patiently for me to finish with all the minutiae and get to how I feel about it. That's always been what matters to you, and I astonish myself with the realisation that it's what is beginning to matter most to me as well.
I'll start with the man who committed suicide. I'm overwhelmed by a sense of how alone he must have felt to have done such a thing. And I'm one who could write the book on feeling alone, my Ruth. There have been nights that I've sat downstairs with my scotch watching the fire, listening to whatever music wouldn't remind me of you, and I've wondered gloomily if the world would even miss Harry Pearce. For a time, perhaps, they would, but I sometimes feel that the waters might simply rush in to fill whatever space was left by my absence, and soon, all would be as it was before I made any kind of mark on the world.
Just to reassure you, I know that taking my own life is something I won't do. Before I would give up on life completely, I would give up this life here, and come to find a new one with you. You are the only companion I would seek. I would find sturdy travel carriers for our three girls, give Ros all my codes and get on a plane to Cyprus, never to be heard from again.
Can you hear how I'm longing for that peace, my Ruth? But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep...
Harry voice broke slightly, and he pushed the button and placed the microphone in his lap. Picking up his glass, he took a long swallow of its contents and closed his eyes. He tried to find Ruth in his mind, but he couldn't feel her arms around him as easily as he'd been able to just months ago. She was fading, not from any decrease of his love for her, on the contrary, he was certain he loved her even more in her absence. It was simply that his powers of recollection were diminishing, and it was like losing her all over again. He put down his glass, picked up the microphone, and pushed the button once more.
Are you there? Can you still hear me? If I came to find a new life, would you be a part of it? In imagining that life with you on Cyprus, I have only our two days there as a foundation. Those two days, and one small piece of information that I was able to pry from the miserly Malcolm. Your Vespa. Such an absurd snippet of a picture it gives me, but so comforting nonetheless. With hair flying behind you from the wind off the sea (and then, for your safety and because of my love for you, I must conscientiously give you a helmet to protect your precious head, even in my dreams). You certainly have a smile on your face, sitting bravely upright, with places to go, and people to meet. It's a pretty picture, Ruth, and it makes me smile even on my darkest of days.
But darkness is what started this letter, and I haven't told you of the second loss. Connie. Hard for me to think that you've never met her, but she's a tough old bird, as thick-skinned as they come, and I made her cry today. A particular talent of mine, making women cry. I've watched it my whole life, from my mother straight through to you, my Ruth. And always before, I've managed to put a woman's tears into a special category, a mysterious box filled with hormones, moods, and processes that men don't often want to understand. But even that is changing in me.
Since you began to let me into your life, trusting me with its secrets, I've found that I see women as intelligent, strong and resourceful beings, with the added benefits of intuition and deep emotion. And isn't it interesting that I've just described you perfectly. I suppose now that I see all women through the window of my love for you. It makes me a better manager, certainly, but also makes me a better person. Forgive me if I've said these things before, as I believe I have done in one of these hundreds of letters to you. But these ideas are like books that I read and then set down, only to pick them up later and see a whole new side to them.
I've digressed again, but my letters to you always seem to have me speaking in footnotes. Every idea spawns a new one, just as they did when we were together. I feel more alive when I talk to you this way than I do for all the rest of the day. How I miss you, my Ruth. I always will. How fervently I hope our paths cross again. I love you more in this minute than I ever have, and I have no illusions now that this feeling will ever leave me.
But, back to Connie, as I'm determined to express to you how I feel tonight. She was in love too, with a man named Hugo, an officer I knew well. I accused her today of working against me, of betraying secrets, and of being a Russian mole. And my prescient friend Hugo imagined that this might happen, so before he died, he recorded a message to release her from the possibility of any further accusations.
How did I feel when I heard his voice on that tape? The combination of hearing Hugo and seeing Connie's face made me feel I was of the lowest species on the planet. Connie was peacefully whiling away her days and nights in Norfolk before I pulled her out of retirement. I needed her, I've used her, and now, I've pointed a finger at her, and probably made her wonder why she ever agreed to come back.
I feel it's all falling apart, my love. I'm unsure of everything that matters to me. Adam is dead. Zaf is dead. Ros, Connie and Lucas all have Russian connections that have made me suspicious. Jo is teetering on the edge of sanity. I speculate on my superiors' loyalty to me. Even Malcolm seems to carry a weariness around, and at times I wonder at how long he'll be with us.
And on top of all this, still another old and dear friend has turned up as a possible traitor. So having just learnt my lesson with Connie, I'm being asked again to suspect someone I've known and trusted for years. Frankly, I'm at a loss to know what to do. I need you here with me to hold my head, to kiss my eyes in that way that makes me forget everything but the softness of your lips.
And that brings me to the most disorienting thought of all. It's been so long, my Ruth, that I can no longer feel what your heart is telling me. The fear has entered my mind that, even if I were to make that leap, to throw away my life here and come to you, your heart mightn't still belong to me. And that's a thought on which I cannot bear to dwell, so I push it from my mind, and replace it with a picture of you that persists beyond all others.
It's the memory of you lazing on the grass in Bath. I was gazing at you. The setting sun was bright in your eyes, and one of your hands played with a blade of grass, whilst the other was warm in mine. One of your sandals was off, but the other dangled precariously from your toes as you closed your eyes to the sun. Time seemed to stop for us. It's when you said, "We could be any couple in the world, Harry. The banker and the shopgirl."
And I thought, "No, not any couple in the world, because no man could be happier than I am in this moment. No man could love a woman the way I love you." And although I thought of myself then as a seasoned, cynical, hard sort of man, I realise now that I was an innocent in a way, a believer in the dream. I felt that since we'd opened the doors to our hearts, they would never close again, that we'd always lie that way, completely in love, impervious to whatever the world saw fit to throw at us.
I go back to that innocence tonight, and beg for it to take up residence in my heart again. I want to believe that we're meant to be together, no matter how things appear to be today. And although it all seems to be falling around my ears at present, or perhaps because it is, I choose that spot of grass, and you, as my companions for the night.
Goodnight my dearest love. My sweet Ruth. My heart is still yours. At the risk of again sounding uncharacteristically like an optimist, I choose to believe that yours is still mine.
Harry
Ruth laid her head back and closed her eyes against the sun. She drank in the sound of the children playing in the pool, the insistent chirp of the birds, and the music playing softly on the stereo. She'd managed to fill out their music library a bit from the meagre choices George had brought to the house. His taste ran to the Beatles from theirRevolver album onward, U2, Springsteen, Coldplay, Norah Jones, Bryan Adams, Sting, and Fiona Apple. Not bad choices, but not a classical CD in the lot, and thus, none of Ruth's favourite chorale music.
There was a new and used music store in Polis, and what she hadn't found, she'd been able to order. Now, playing behind the laughter of the children, she heard the strains of Vivaldi's Gloria. Her choir in London had sung it one year, and she knew every note. The warmth of the sun, the splash of the water, and the words all combined to give Ruth a moment of happiness, a time of forgetting.
She didn't realise she was singing along, until she heard Christina laugh. "Another piece of the puzzle. She speaks Latin."
Ruth's eyes flew open, and she was glad for the bright sunshine, as she was certain it covered the blush that flew to her cheeks. She put her hand up so that she could see Christina standing over her, a glass of fresh lemonade in her outstretched hand. Ruth sat up quickly and took it, smiling awkwardly at her friend. "I s-sang in a choir, in London," was all she said, faltering a bit.
Christina was used to these moments, when she got too close to Ruth's past, and she simply clucked and smiled back broadly. "Whatever you say." She shook her head, laughing, "I don't care if you sang on the moon, Ruth. My brother is so happy these days I think he might simply float away." Christina touched Ruth's hand. "You are the reason. I'm grateful."
Ruth smiled back, but then turned her head toward the children in the pool, changing the subject. "Nico is so happy when his cousins are here."
Christina paused for a moment, and then said softly, "You love him, don't you?"
Ruth's head turned back sharply, afraid that Christina was asking about George. Christina smiled, somewhat sadly, and tilted her head toward the pool, understanding. "No, that will take time, Ruth. I'm speaking of Nico. You love him."
Taking a deep breath and letting a soft smile play on her face, Ruth said, "Yes. I believe I do."
Christina took a sip of her lemonade, and looked slyly over the rim of the glass at Ruth. "It's a start."
Ruth laughed and shook her head. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Only because Panos tells me every day." Ruth laughed again, and they both watched the children for a time. Ruth had found a large inflatable shark and a dragon in the tourist shop in town. Nico and Galen were duelling, trying to pull each other off the plastic toys, then jumping back up, laughing and squealing. Magus was trying to play, but as usual, was getting the worst of it. Kineta floated peacefully on her tube, as far away from the action as possible, twirling in circles, and singing softly to herself.
Christina watched Ruth's eyes quietly as she gazed at the children. Finally, Ruth turned, and this time, Christina did see the blush that spread across her cheeks. Quickly, Ruth looked down at her lemonade and took another sip to cover her embarrassment. Christina was silent, but there was a devilish smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Ruth smiled too, still looking down, and shook her head. "You don't have to say it." She looked up at Christina. "Yes, I think I would like to have a child." She gazed quickly back at the pool.
Christina spoke softly. "First things first. We need to get you married."
As the final strains of Gloria rang through the house, Ruth sighed inwardly. This is what it always came down to. Marriage. How could she explain her feelings to Christina? Before Ruth could marry, she would have to sever her tie to the man she to whom she was already married.
Before she could give herself to another man, she would have to put that moment in the soft white sheets of the Hotel Britannique behind her, once and for all.
Ros thought Harry's eyes looked very tired this morning. He'd walked onto the Grid almost as if sleepwalking, and asked her, and then Lucas, to join him in his office. As she'd moved past him, just a few steps ahead of Lucas, she'd whispered to Harry, "Are you not sleeping?"
Harry had sighed and waved her to a chair. A full three hours last night, and I'm grateful for that.
Sitting behind his desk, Harry folded his hands in front of him. Once Lucas and Ros were seated, he began to speak. Without moving, without emotion, he relayed to them what he knew.
"Just under twenty years ago, as the Berlin Wall was collapsing, Richard Dolby, Hugo Prince and I conceived the most complex viral network of spies ever to infiltrate the Russian political system. We recruited young, pro-Western minds in all areas, with one aim. To ensure that in twenty years we would have moles at the very highest levels of Russian life. Moles who could limit or destroy the Russian nuclear threat. We have that capability, Operation Sugarhorse, which has remained entirely uncompromised."
Lucas leant forward in his chair. Now he understood. After eight long years of wondering why he had been tortured, why they had kept him alive, and what they had hoped to gain from him, he understood. "Till I told you that the Russians had interrogated me about it."
Harry nodded. "Yes. And I didn't know how the Russians knew about Sugarhorse until now." He paused for a moment while Lucas bowed his head, letting the comprehension sink in, and then Harry continued. "I'm waiting for some intel from a Sugarhorse asset in Moscow, and then I will expose the identity of the mole within MI5." At these words Harry looked from Lucas, to Ros, and back again. He was reading their eyes, trying to find any flash of recognition that might be there.
Harry continued. "A traitor, who has tried to sabotage a twenty-year British intelligence operation. When I expose the mole, all hell will break loose, both here and in Russia. I'll need both your support."
Without hesitating, Lucas said, "Whatever you need, Harry."
Ros' words came fast on the heels of Lucas'. "Anything at all."
Harry looked again from one to the other, still not moving. "Thank you. Thank you both."
Lucas and Ros stood, understanding that this briefing was over. Each was aware that it hadn't been conducted in the meeting room with the rest of the members of the team. No, this had been a private meeting, which could mean one of two things. Either it was private due to the sensitivity of the information being imparted, or it was information Harry meant only to give to his two primary suspects.
Each knew they had ties to Russia, and they knew that Harry would have to be certain the mole wasn't one of the senior officers on the Grid. He needed to know who he could trust. This knowledge didn't upset either of them. On the contrary, they acknowledged that they would have done the same thing in Harry's position.
An additional piece of information that didn't escape either Lucas or Ros was that there was another officer with ties to Russia who was not present for this meeting. In fact, Connie had yet to show up for work this morning. They left Harry's office with more questions than answers, but both had the same clear intention of proving their loyalty to him.
Harry waited until they'd left before he allowed the mask to retreat from his face. He hated mistrusting them, but it was procedure. A process of elimination. Connie had been cleared, and now he would keep a close eye on Ros and Lucas in the hope of clearing them as well. When he did, there would be two more in the inner circle that he could trust without reservation.
As soon as Lucas closed the door behind him, Harry pulled his mail from the side of his desk. He was looking for one particular envelope, and he soon found it. One with a Russian postmark, sent first to an asset in Reading, then forwarded to New Park Row, and subsequently forwarded to the Grid. The same path, or one like it, taken by every Sugarhorse asset wishing to make contact with him.
Harry opened the envelope and pulled out a postcard of da Vinci's Madonna and Child. He turned it over and read the message: Dear James, Having a lovely time, visited the Hermitage Museum which was splendid. Weather is good. Look forward to seeing you. Love, Maureen X. Taking his knife from the top drawer, he cut a line directly down the middle of the card, and carefully peeled back the layer of paper over the real message:
SUGARHORSE COMPROMISED. HAVE INTEL. I AM COMING TO LONDON. K.
Harry let the full impact of those words sink in. If the operation was truly compromised, people would die. Some may have already. He thought of Maria first, but then of the countless others who had given most of their adult lives to the Sugarhorse operation. They were in the top levels of government now, including Britain's prize asset, Alexander Borkhovin, Russia's Foreign Minister.
"Compromised" could mean so many things, and Harry wondered if the operation could still be salvaged. At the beginning, they had split the list of Sugarhorse operatives into three, so that none of them had all the names. When Hugo died, his list was divided, and half was given to Richard Dolby, whilst the other half went to Harry. Neither had access to the other's list. Finding out how, and by whom, the operation had been compromised was now the driving force behind Harry's thoughts.
As soon as Asset K, or as Harry knew her, Katerina, arrived in London, he would have what he needed. The Hermitage Museum, coupled with the word "splendid" meant that she had a full dossier with photos of the person who had been passing information from MI5, but for her safety, even Katerina had no idea what was in the sealed file she carried.
Harry felt himself dreading the arrival of that dossier, at the same time he knew he would be grateful to have this over. Maybe then, he could get some sleep.
Isabelle missed Sophie deeply. Of course, she missed her conversation, her smile, and her laughter. But she also loved the way Sophie had taken hold of the shop and organised it, and the effortless way she'd worked with the computer and filled the orders. Every request had been like a treasure hunt to Sophie, an exciting challenge to be met.
And once Isabelle had accepted the help Sophie had given her, she found she was spoilt, and wasn't able to do without it. So she'd found a replacement for her, a sweet young woman named Alice. Isabelle very much appreciated the help, but it couldn't be the same. Alice was working her way through University, and although she loved books, there was no real connection there for Isabelle. And unfortunately, Alice had none of Sophie's organisational talents. As Isabelle looked around the back of the shop, she despaired of ever finding anything again.
Today, Alice was working in the front of the shop whilst Isabelle was catching up with some email correspondence. It had been a slow day, and Alice was dusting the shelves when the bell rang over the door. Isabelle heard a male voice, and then she heard the name "Sophie," which got her quietly up out of her chair.
Alice was talking to a gentleman who looked to be Indian, tall, well-dressed, with a cultured British accent. The other man was shorter, wider, dressed simply in a t-shirt, jeans and jacket, and he seemed to defer greatly to the tall man.
Alice spoke passable English, and was just replying. "Yes, there was a Sophie, before I came here..."
"How may I help you?" Isabelle stepped quickly from the back, inwardly chastising herself for neglecting to tell Alice never to reveal Sophie's name to a stranger. It simply hadn't occurred to Isabelle to do so.
Now the man turned, discarding Alice straight away with his eyes and his manner, once he determined that the older woman was the one who had the answers he sought. Isabelle felt immediately that this was a man who considered himself very charming.
"I'm looking for Sophie Persan," he said pleasantly. "She was a dear friend. I'm wondering if you might have her address."
Isabelle's mind raced, as she calculated how she could best help Sophie. It was clear that this was not a man to be trifled with, and he was looking at her with an intensity that showed not only his intelligence, but also a hint of the suspicion he felt at what she was about to say. Isabelle thanked God for her training with Pierre, and for all the times she was required to tell lies. She knew the closest to the truth was always the best, as the truth had a power behind it that was unmistakeable.
"She no longer works here," Isabelle said, keeping her eyes focused and steady on his. "She left here nearly a year ago." Isabelle smiled as sweetly as she could. "She told me of many of her dear friends. I wonder if I might have heard your name?"
His smile widened, appreciating the gambit. "Oh, I doubt it. It was a long time ago. But she did always say she wanted to travel." He tilted his head casually, as if he were thinking, "Let me guess, she's finally gone off to explore the Greek islands, as she always said she would."
Mani was working on a couple of hunches. Of course, he knew that Sophie was British, from her accent. So there were men in London, searching out how she might have been connected with Harry Pearce. The simple answer was that she had worked at MI5, but there were no records of a Sophie Persan anywhere. Obviously, it was a legend. But photos don't lie.
Harry's photo was simple to obtain, but Sophie's had been a bit harder. As it turned out, however, she had applied for a new driver's licence in Paris, and it hadn't taken long for a copy to find its way to Mani's hands. That photo, although typically unflattering, was not only being shown around London, but was also proving to be a great help at the hotel where the couple had been dropped off on Cyprus. A housemaid, and the driver who had taken Mr Arden and Ms Persan there, both still had memories of the man and the woman who had seemed so in love.
So the second prong of Mani's search was Cyprus. He was looking for some memory, some loose conversation with a local, that would tell him where she was now. His men were still asking questions at the Hotel Anassa, and then they would go into the closest towns, Polis and Paphos, and show Sophie's photo. Perhaps someone would remember her.
Now, Mani stood across from Isabelle, and waited for her answer. He would know if she was telling the truth, and her answer now would determine if she would find herself in the warehouse where Mani had interrogated the pilot, or if she would see him simply walk back out the door. Mani loved this moment. The moment that would decide this woman's life or death. The moment that she answered with truth, or with a lie.
Isabelle gazed at him, and said simply, "I have no idea where Sophie is," and Mani's spirits fell, because he knew it was the truth. It wouldn't matter how he tortured her. She didn't know.
Mani took a deep breath and released it. "I can see that." He turned to his companion, and gave a slight nod of his head. Turning back to Isabelle, he said, "I'm so very sorry to have taken your time."
Isabelle smiled, and said, "I wish I could have been of more help."
Now she's lying, Mani thought, returning her smile. But still, she doesn't know.
"Not to worry," he said, lightly, moving toward the door. "I'll find her. Shall I give her your best when I see her?"
"Yes, please do." Isabelle began to move toward the back of the store, her heart pounding.
By the time Mani had gone through the door, Isabelle was on her mobile to Guillaume. His voicemail picked up, and she left him a message: "Guigui, I need you to come again to show me how to get a message to my friend, Sophie. Please come as soon as you can, it's urgent. Please hurry."
And now, Isabelle cursed her lack of organisation. She stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember where in this mess she had put the card with James' phone number on it.
~~~~~
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Harry's team was splitting its time and energy between two separate but related challenges: the emergency Peace Summit being held in London between the Palestinian and Israeli delegations, and the discovery and securing of a weapon that might threaten the Summit. Ros was on the Grid managing security for the peace talks, and Lucas was out in the field keeping the weapon in safe hands.
Whilst both of these missions were critical, Harry was managing still a third challenge, that of finding out who the mole in Section D was. It had become an even more delicate process since he'd learned that Bernard Qualtrough was Pilgrim, an FSB operative. Now, instead of seeking Bernard's help, Harry was working toward setting him up and bringing his network to light.
So Harry called Bernard and told him they needed to meet. He would continue to be the student, and allow Qualtrough to think he was still his mentor. And in order to make it a true experiment, he would tell no one but Connie of his plans. He would allow Bernard to hang himself. And it was breaking Harry's heart.
If Harry had been asked, just a day ago, who he trusted above all others, the first, of course, would have been Ruth. But close on her heels would have been Bernard Qualtrough. He would have named him his greatest teacher, but beyond that, Harry had idolised Bernard. He was a spy's spy, a man's man, the kind of brilliant, savvy, resourceful and erudite leader that Harry had always hoped to be. The question that now plagued Harry more than any other, was why? Why does someone like Bernard, who seemed to truly love Britain, turn against his country and work for the FSB?
And now, standing at a railing overlooking the Thames, Harry gazed at the decades-old photo of Qualtrough. He realised that the man he had known had never been working for Britain. In the same way that Harry had Sugarhorse assets working in Moscow for twenty years, Bernard had been working against the country of his birth for a very long time. Harry looked from the photo to the man himself in the distance. Bernard was unaware of Harry watching him, and Harry saw every year on the older man's face as Bernard leafed through the books at an outdoor sale.
Harry supposed Bernard's betrayal had its roots in some ideology or other. That he'd read the Communist Manifesto as a young man and had been enthralled, or perhaps he'd found a mentor himself during his years stationed in Moscow, and had been turned by another's passion. Harry didn't know, and he was frankly tired of speculating. He would use all the "spycatcher" tricks that Qualtrough himself had taught him, and he would expose his old friend.
Sighing, Harry put the photo back in his jacket pocket. He was so tired. Not only from lack of sleep, but from a weariness born of feeling ineffectual, a need to understand what it was all for. So many twists and turns, Machiavellian plots and plans, time spent wondering who was friend and who was foe. It was exhausting, and although Harry kept his goal firmly in mind, he hoped that at the end of all this he could find time for a short holiday, some time away. And he couldn't stop his mind from drifting to Cyprus. He knew that in his exhaustion he was having dangerous thoughts, but he seemed unable to fight them off, so he was allowing himself the luxury of them.
But for today, he had a job to do. He looked once more into the distance at Bernard, and then he walked purposefully down the steps to the book sale. Reaching out, he took hold of Bernard's old and grizzled hand in his own. "Bernard," he said warmly, and he hoped it was without the tinge of deep sadness he felt creep into his heart.
"Harry. You said it was important. What's happened?" Bernard released Harry's hand and moved along the table of books in the cool of the breeze off the Thames.
"An asset is arriving from Moscow today. Asset K. Bringing a dossier that will contain intel on the Sugarhorse mole." Harry searched Bernard's face for any movement that might betray him, but saw none. Qualtrough was a consummate old spy, and Harry really hadn't expected any less.
"When's Asset K arriving?" Bernard looked as unconcerned as could be. He thumbed indifferently through a used copy of A Nurse's War as he spoke. Harry copied his air, speaking offhandedly.
"Three o'clock this afternoon," Harry said.
"Uh-huh. And you've no idea what intel they might reveal?" Bernard casually put down the book, not meeting Harry's eyes.
Now Harry was seeing a new side to Bernard's studied indifference. Every question he was asking Harry had a purpose, but Harry would give him nothing. "They're breaking twenty years' silence. I trust it's more than a weather forecast."
"Hmmm. You're hoping they'll tell you who the Sugarhorse mole is?"
Yes, Bernard, the one with whom you've been working. Harry took a deep breath to relax the anger that was building in him. And then he tried to lead Qualtrough into complacency. "Or confirm what we both suspect."
Now Bernard looked directly at Harry. "Connie James." Harry glanced away, as if in some despair, and Bernard continued. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know how hard this is for you."
Turning to him, Harry gazed at Bernard from under his brows. You have no idea how hard this is for me, Bernard. I'm watching you as you begin walking your path to prison, where it's likely you will die of old age. Yes, this is very hard for me.
And now, the question Harry had expected, asked nonchalantly by Bernard, "Nobody else in your team has any idea about this, Harry?"
Harry looked directly at Bernard and gave him the final piece of information he needed, "Only you and I are aware of the existence of Asset K."
"Let's keep it that way. I assume you'll go yourself?"
Harry smiled. "After twenty years' waiting, I'm not anxious to delegate."
Bernard wished him good luck, and touched his arm before he walked away. For a moment, Harry stood, feeling the vague, irrational guilt that suddenly took hold of him at the prospect of offering up a man of Bernard's age to the interrogation machine of the Security Services. And then he quickly let go of the guilt, as the names and the faces of his Sugarhorse assets began to flood into his mind.
Turning toward the river, he let the light wind off the water cool his face, and then he turned and started back toward Thames House.
Guillaume heard the urgency in his mother's voice when he listened to her message, and came quickly, as she had asked. He asked her a few questions that produced no answers, and then gave her warnings about having gotten in over her head. But finally he relented, and moved the email she had written on to the server. He clearly didn't like it, but he did it. Again he extracted a promise for that glass of wine, and the full story.
Isabelle's email was simple, to the point, and written in French.
My dear,
J'espère que ce courrier te parviendra. Un homme très grand, Indien je pense, était ici aujourd'hui et a posé des questions à propos de S.P. Je lui ai dit la vérité – que tu es partie il y a un an de cela et que je ne sais pas où tu es. Fais attention à toi. J'espère toujours te revoir un jour. With love,
I.F.
[I hope this reaches you. A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today. I told the truth - that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again.]
Isabelle sighed and visibly relaxed when Guillaume was finished. He could see how emotional his mother was, and his heart softened. "Do you think she'll get it?" he asked gently.
She took his hand and squeezed it. "Oh, I hope so."
George had been silent throughout dinner. Ruth caught him staring at her a couple of times, his eyes disconcertingly steely right before they softened again. It was as if he was holding back some terrible force by sheer strength of will, and then he would master it, and the man she knew was back, sitting beside her.
They had been in the new house for three weeks, and Ruth had seen George changing by small increments. Though she was beginning to fear that he wasn't so much changing, as he was allowing his true nature to emerge. He was still a very good and kind man, still very loving and gentle, but there was a darkness, an undercurrent of anger that she'd never seen before.
It was as if he'd been able to hold that part of him at bay until he reached his goal of this house, and Ruth in it. She understood that part of relationships well, as Ruth had often tried to be the person a prospective love wanted her to be. It was impossible for her to keep up and always seemed to break down at a certain point, so she'd finally determined simply to be herself at all stages of a relationship and let the chips fall where they may.
Living with George had been more of a shock to Ruth than she'd thought it would be, considering the many hours they'd spent together. Ruth had never lived with a man before, and she was finding the adjustment difficult. Back when she was still at GCHQ, she'd spent whole weekends at Jonathan's, but she still remembered the palpable feeling of relief when Sunday night came round. She would let herself back into her flat, say hello to her roommate, and make her way to her own bedroom, and privacy. Now Ruth's bedroom was also George's bedroom, and there was no privacy.
And then, as always, there were her memories of Harry. Ruth tried not to think of her last weekend at Harry's, because she felt she could have stayed there forever without ever feeling claustrophobic. They had shared a house smaller than this one with an ease that had made her feel they'd been together forever. She'd never wanted to leave that house, or Harry, but here, with George, it was different.
The mountain house was big, but once George came home from the hospital at the end of the day, he seemed always to be near her. There was a tension between them, an awkwardness, and it had begun to wear on Ruth, and she suspected, also on George. It was as if he was following her, willing her to make up her mind.
Ruth found that she was again pouring an extra glass of wine at dinner, and George was as well. It seemed to take the edge off, to remove them a bit from their thoughts. Some days she even had a quick glass before he got home from the hospital, to prepare herself for whatever mood he was in.
They still had wonderful times, too. They laughed, and played, and teased each other as they always had. Their friendship was a solid one, and when her friend George was present, Ruth felt everything would be fine. The awkwardness, the discomfort, came from the part of George that wanted Ruth to commit to him, to choose today over yesterday, to decide.
Of course, Nico felt it, too. Some dinners were great fun, as they talked about parts of the island they wanted to visit, days at the beach, which of Nico's friends could come and swim after school. But other nights, like this one, were so quiet that Nico seemed even to prefer the idea of homework to the strain he felt at the dinner table.
Nico scraped the last of the marinara sauce from his dish with the last piece of penne, and jammed it in his mouth. Still chewing, he picked up his empty plate, and started toward the kitchen. "Thank you for dinner, Ruth."
"You're welcome," Ruth said, smiling at him. "I'm glad you like pasta."
Nico spoke in the direct, effortless way of children, looking at his father, "It's much better than my Dad's." Then he looked back at Ruth, "And almost as good as Aunt Christina's."
Ruth laughed, her eyes sparkling with the compliment. "Well, I'll take that as high praise, then," she said. "You're off to do homework?"
Stopping in the hall, Nico raised his eyebrows, and said, "Will you help me? I have to write a story."
"You get it started, and I'll be up in a little while," she said. Both Ruth and George watched him go with identical looks in their eyes. When he was out of sight, their eyes met, and they smiled.
"You're very good with him," George said, softly. "I can tell you care for him, Ruth. He cares for you, too." Looking down, he said, "He's needed a mother." Suddenly, before Ruth could respond, George reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He placed it on the table between them without a word, and simply kept his eyes on hers.
Ruth looked at the box, unable for a time to look up, as her breath began to come faster, and she felt the colour rush into her cheeks. She'd known, somehow, that this was coming. She'd been dreading it, because she knew she couldn't say yes. Not yet. To cover her inability to speak and to bolster her courage, Ruth picked up her glass, and took another swallow of her wine.
Finally, George spoke again. "Nico needs a mother. And I need a wife, Ruth." He took her hand from the stem of the wine glass. "I love you. Will you marry me?"
Ruth looked up at him, and her breath caught. She thought again about what a good man he was. Despite his recent mood swings, he'd only raised his voice to her once, on Christina's patio that night, but Ruth had a feeling her answer now would tap into that same deep well of anger. And she acknowledged, with some inward guilt, that she was the reason for those emotions in him, that they were born of frustration, of not understanding, of utter incomprehension at what was stopping her from accepting the life he offered.
"George. You know how much I care for you, and for Nico ..."
He cut her off, sharply, with some impatience. "Yes or no, Ruth?"
She put her other hand on his. "Not now. That's all I can say. Not now."
George retrieved his hand and brought it up to rub his eyes, as his voice went lower. "Not ever."
Now her voice was sharp. "That's not what I said." Ruth didn't want to have this conversation right now. In truth, she was wishing that George could simply wait until she brought it up, until she was ready. But that sounded so selfish to her that she worked to soften it. "Just not now."
She heard the edge start in his voice. "Ruth, I go to work every day and hear the same question. When is the wedding? I look at Nico, and I think, he deserves to have the security of a mother." Ruth didn't answer, and now George's voice rose. "I don't know what else you expect of me. Can you give me a time? A month? A year? Ten years?"
"No!" Ruth stood and started to pick up her plate, but George snatched it away, and motioned for her to sit down again. She dropped back into her chair, sighing, her voice resigned. "I want to want it. Can't you believe that?"
George waited, his eyes fiery and fixed on her, asking for an explanation.
"I know what you're offering is something fantastic, and I wish I could say yes ..." Ruth paused. She shook her head lightly, looking down at her lap, and her voice became gentle. "Every woman dreams of that. A beautiful wedding in a beautiful place ... on the beach ..." Oh, Harry, where did this all go so wrong?
As her voice trailed off, George took her hand again, and now he spoke softly, "At the vineyard house, in the clearing, where the breeze comes through in the afternoon. Under an archway, covered with grapevines. A semicircle of white chairs, just up against the rows."
Ruth turned to him, amazed at the detail he was describing. He's thought about this so much. Her heart went out to him, and she felt a need to be kind. She laughed softly, sadly. "Your whole family won't fit in there, George. Who wouldn't we invite? You'd cause a riot of gossip."
He moved closer to her. "I don't care. That's where I want it. They can stand in the rows if they have to." George leant in and kissed her, first on the cheek, and then on her lips. She didn't pull back, and he pressed further. "Marry me, Ruth. I love you so much. Marry me."
Ruth was pleading with her eyes for him to stop asking, "George..." He didn't see her shake her head, because he was opening the box, taking the ring out, and slipping it on her finger. It was a lovely diamond solitare, gleaming and bright, and it fit perfectly.
He bent down to kiss it. "Just for tonight. For me. Wear it for tonight."
For a moment, she almost did. But the vision of Harry's smile as he placed the ring of charms on her finger intruded too completely. With inexpressible sadness in her eyes, Ruth reached her other hand down and removed the diamond solitaire. She placed it on the table, saying simply, "I can't. I'm so sorry." In the silence of George's visible anger, she stood and walked upstairs to help Nico with his homework.
After saying goodnight to Nico, Ruth went down for a quick swim and another glass of wine by the pool. By the time she came upstairs, George was asleep, turned as far away from her as possible. She got quietly into bed and lay with her back to him, not touching, and in the deepest recesses of Ruth's heart, she was grateful for the solitude.
"Every part of the peace process is slow and painstaking. But I believe tomorrow we will see the beginning of consensus, because the vast majority of Israelis and Palestinians want it to happen..."
Harry was so immersed in Sugarhorse that he had left the responsibility of the Emergency Summit largely in Ros' capable hands, but he did try to catch up in the evenings. He was listening to the United Nations Special Negotiator speak about the Summit, when Connie came to his door. He'd told her earlier in the day that he had an assignment for her, and this was the first chance they'd had to talk.
"What's going on?" Connie asked, still standing just inside Harry's office.
Harry switched off the BBC feed, and turned to her. "Close the door."
Connie closed it, and walked slowly to the edge of Harry's desk, as he continued. "A Russian sleeper asset is coming to London to meet me, bringing vital intel on an MI5 mole."
"How long has he been asleep?"
"It's a she. She's been asleep for twenty years, a Sugarhorse asset. She's arriving in two hours as a part of the Russian media delegation for the summit. We need to meet unobserved, and the FSB are all over me."
Of course, Harry didn't tell Connie that the FSB he was talking about was Bernard Qualtrough. He knew Bernard would have him followed to the meeting with Asset K, and Harry wanted to keep Katerina safe.
Harry sent Connie off with her assignment, that of coming up with a second person, another member of the media delegation, to be their fall guy. The next day, Connie found just the right person. Dmitri Volyakov, a man with a criminal history who was laundering cash for the Russian Mafia.
So Harry met with the fall guy, leading Qualtrough to believe Volyakov was Asset K - Bernard would have Volyakov eliminated, and another criminal would meet an untimely end. Connie met with the real Asset K, got the intel on the Section D mole, and was on her way to bring it back to Harry at the office.
Thanks to Connie's excellent work, everything went off without a hitch. Harry sat in his office waiting for her return, and was very grateful to have her in his corner. Again, he felt the pang of regret for having accused her, but once he had the intel in his hands, he would know who the mole was, and they could get on with their work.
But with that knowledge would come another, stronger pang of betrayal, because the mole would be someone from the Grid. Although Ros had turned once before, Harry knew that she'd changed since her return, and he couldn't really believe her passion lay with Russia. When Lucas had first come back from his time in prison, Harry had wondered about his loyalties, but since that time, Lucas had proven himself multiple times. Jo or Malcolm? Ben? Not possible. None of them seemed to fit in Harry's mind.
He had to believe that it was an analyst or a technician, somebody he didn't know well, who had found a way to the most sensitive documents on the Grid. Whoever it was, the punishment would be swift and irrevocable. Again,he ran the memorised names of his Sugarhorse assets through his mind, and he clung to his hope that they were safe.
Harry looked up, and Connie stood at his door, holding a magazine with a sealed file folder inside of it. She placed it on his desk with a sly smile, as Harry smiled back at her. "Just like the old days, wasn't it, Connie? Just the two of us, and we had them running in circles."
Connie raised her eyebrows. "Just like the old days, Harry."
"That should keep the FSB happy." He picked up the magazine and said genuinely, "Thanks for this, Connie." He glanced up at her, and saw the self-satisfied look that comes with a successful operation, and he understood, because he felt it, too.
And this operation had been entirely successful, after a string of disappointments for Harry. He found himself feeling better, more sure of himself, and he was also glad for Connie, that she'd had some of the fun of a field agent after having been stuck on the Grid for so long. He told himself he would use her more often in the field. Her years of experience could be very valuable to him, and he'd been underutilising her.
For a moment, he thought of asking her to have a seat, to share another glass of the Ardbeg with him, in celebration. But he was waiting to open the file until Connie had left his office so that he could ponder the ramifications of the betrayal alone. He placed the magazine in his file drawer for safekeeping as Connie turned toward the hallway.
There was one more thing he had to say to her, so Harry called after her, "By the way. " Connie turned and walked back to his desk. Harry opened his heart and did something he only did on rare occasions. He apologised. "I'm sorry I doubted you." He really meant it, and he wanted Connie to know that. He hoped that she would be able to trust him again someday.
Connie returned his gaze, without smiling. "It's forgotten." Harry sincerely hoped so.
Ruth had tossed and turned, trying to sleep, and she was afraid she might wake George. Finally, she simply gave up the fight and got out of bed. She pulled her robe around her and walked downstairs to the office. She knew she had checked the server only three days ago, but decided to log on again. Although she'd tried to stop looking for emails, she couldn't seem to. It still comforted her somehow, and reminded her of the thread that reached to Harry.
Ruth had tried to put into words in her mind how she felt about her life on the Grid. At times it was like a wonderful fantasy, a time of excitement and intrigue, and the operations that had made her think Goody, more spying. But it had all gone horribly wrong from the moment Mik Maudsley had been pushed onto the tracks that rainy morning at the tube.
Ruth now thought ruefully that the girl who had said goody was, in fact, naive. She realised that Harry had already been through these fires, and had come out the other side in a way that she hadn't. And it was clear to Ruth now that although he hadn't said she was naive, he had probably thought deep down, and quite correctly, that she was. Ruth turned on the computer, and as she did so, she waited for an intense longing for Harry to pass. It moved through her in the way she supposed labour pains did, and then she began to breathe again.
Now, when she thought of MI5, what sprung to Ruth's mind was the memory of the sheer exhaustion of wanting to get back to England, the desperation of missing Harry and stealing moments with him, and finally, the terror of Juliet, Yalta, and the Redbacks. It reminded her of the fear of imminent death, or perhaps, worse yet, ongoing torture.
It had all blended into a sort of bad dream, the type from which you can't wait to wake. Although she still missed Harry with an ache that seemed to reside permanently in her chest, Ruth didn't miss the bad dream. In fact, she felt she had left that part of her life entirely behind. She was still able to separate out the thrill of spying from the dangers it carried with it, and she could say honestly that she missed the thrill. But the two had been manifestly entwined in her experience, and she would gladly do without one, in order to escape the other.
The computer screen sprang to life, and Ruth began the process of accessing the l'Alcove server. With a sharp intake of breath, Ruth saw that there was a message in the drafts folder.
The Emergency Summit was on track, and the weapon had been recovered. Unfortunately, a life had also been lost, a teenager who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the death had hit Lucas and Ros especially hard. Harry sent them home with orders to rest and let work go for the night.
Since the moment Harry had placed the file from Asset K in his drawer, he'd been pulled from one direction to the next, but now it was late, and he decided the most secure way to view the file would be in the safety of his own house. People had been coming to his office door all day, and now Harry wanted to pour a scotch, put on some music, and finally uncover the truth about the ultimate betrayal whilst sitting in the most comfortable chair he owned. He was exhausted.
Harry quickly fed Scarlet, Fidget, and Phoebe and walked upstairs, taking the file with him. He hung up his coat in the wardrobe, but didn't bother changing or even removing his tie before going into the study. Mozart's Requiem was still in the CD player, and Harry thought a requiem mass was perfectly suited to the news he was about to receive. He chose his favourite section of the Requiem, entered the number and started the music. Harry poured a scotch and sat, finally opening the file, anticipating the picture of the traitor.
The music began with the plaintive soprano voices, but it soon became more strident, and suddenly, the voices of the chorus rose together, and with it, the speed of Harry's heart. Not from the strength of the music this time, but from the sight of himself. Photo after photo of meetings with Kachimov, talking on his mobile, pictures from years ago when he was in Moscow setting up Sugarhorse.
The voices climbed the scales of Mozart's masterpiece, and as they reached the top and held there, Harry knew that he had been set up. There, next to his official Security Services photo were the words, HARRY PEARCE. STATUS: MI5/FSB DOUBLE AGENT. RECRUITED: 1989.
Harry had seen Katerina with his own eyes, and he trusted her completely. The only other person who had touched this file was Connie James.
With a sinking heart, Harry had no choice but to assume two things. That Katerina was dead. And that Connie was the mole.
~~~~~
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