CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
"I don't feel like being honoured, not publicly, not privately, not at all." Harry grimaced as he slipped into the morning coat that Connie held for him.
He turned, and she began straightening his lapels, clucking like a mother hen. "Oh, don't be so snooty. Besides, giving a K to a member of the Security Services is merely a way for the government to rubber stamp themselves. It isn't about you."
"I'll try and remember my place," Harry murmured. As she tightened the knot on his tie, he thought it might as well be a noose.
Ruth's birthday. The day they were to be married. He didn't mind the coat and tie, in fact, he was going to be wearing this today in either case. But what a different look there would be on his face if it were Ruth across from him creating one of her perfect Windsor knots. If her face were this near to his, the hint of a smile, the love shining through the green in her eyes. Harry closed his eyes, imagining his own Lady Pearce, dressed for an audience with the Queen. Not a normal occurrence, certainly, but he and Ruth as a normal couple. On this day, Harry was longing for normal.
First thing this morning he had called her. He'd waited until midnight, and called at just the stroke after, awakening her because he said he wanted to be the very first to be with her on her birthday. He so loved the sleepy sound of her voice next to his while they were both warm in their beds, and when he closed his eyes he could almost imagine her next to him. He'd sung "Happy Birthday" to her in the deepest, slowest, most seductive tones he could muster, and she'd laughed through the entirety of it.
Of course he had sent her a gift, a number of them, actually. First thing, a coffee and fresh-baked, warm croissant for both Sophie and Isabelle, sent to the shop with a card from Will Arden. Then, at noon, a mammoth bunch of tropical flowers that made Isabelle laugh with joy as they threatened to engulf Ruth behind them, this time from Giles Farmer. In the afternoon, there were Belgian chocolates with a note from Henry James, saying that he still thought they were the best kind of gift to give a sweetheart.
As Harry moved toward the pods with Connie, he knew that Ruth was still at work. But, he thought with just the hint of a smile, when she arrives home, there will be a note to call a number, and minutes later, the exact dinner they had eaten at the Royal Bombay Indian Restaurant will miraculously appear at her door.
The bearer of the dinner will hand her an exquisitely wrapped package. When she opens it, she will find a book, a large, rich volume, elegantly illustrated, whimsically collected, called, "Blue: The History of a Colour" by Michel Pastoureau, a French author. The card will read, "To my exceptionally beautiful wife, from your exceedingly loving husband. I wish so much that I could be with you tonight, for so many reasons. I will call you at one minute before midnight so that I will have spent all of your birthday with you. Je t'aime. H."
So, understandably, as Harry opened the car door for his Lady Pearce stand-in, he was missing someone. He appreciated Connie, certainly. At least he wouldn't have to go through this alone, and she could be very amusing in the face of pomp and circumstance. She would keep him from running from the room, and that was a blessing. He was grateful for her, and very grateful that she had forgone the tiara for what he assumed was a very appropriate purple hat. But she wasn't his Ruth. No one was.
A Knighthood. Good God. Harry could never have imagined this for himself. It wouldn't occur to him. And Harry was feeling enormously cynical today. He knew he wasn't taking this honour at all in the spirit in which it was given, but he just couldn't raise himself into an acceptable mood.
Part of the reason Harry was a bit out of sorts was that he was realising the premonition he had on Saturday, about the necessity of his presence on the Grid, had been correct. Even without the Knighthood, he never could have gone to Paris today. As he drove out of the car park, Harry thought he shouldn't really even be going to Buckingham Palace. There was too much going on. He should be staying right here.
The last couple of days had been stressful to say the least. Bob Hogan had been a permanent resident on the Grid, and Harry hadn't felt he could leave him alone for a moment. Just yesterday, Adam saved the Iranian Special Consul from a car bomb that almost took Jo's life as well. And now there was a threat on the horizon for Iran to become a fully capable nuclear power. The entire Grid was focused on a courier who was carrying the final piece of the puzzle, the switches Iran needed to arm their weapons.
And although Harry had always felt he could leave the Grid in Adam's capable hands, even Adam was worrying him more and more. Now he seemed to have transferred his affections from Ros to his contact in the Iranian Embassy, who happened to be the Special Consul's wife. A very dangerous and complicated relationship, and Harry was feeling a need to keep an eye on Adam.
Not to mention the fact that Ros wasn't seeming too keen on Adam either, which was leaving her distracted. She seemed always to have her mind elsewhere. So Harry's two senior officers were not at their best, and he simply didn't feel in good conscience that he could leave the volatile security of the realm in their hands. He feared he wouldn't be going to Paris anytime soon.
And Harry couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach that no matter how many plans he and Ruth made, there would always be something that would keep him in London. At least in the near future.
This feeling was what Harry's old friend Bill Crombie had called "pushing the river." Bill had said you could find yourself going in circles trying to accomplish something, running into brick walls and roadblocks, expending energy, or you could simply let the river take you where it would and save yourself for a time when you could have an effect on things. The key was knowing when it was important to fight the river and when it was important to let go.
These were the thoughts going through Harry's mind as he waited his turn in the presence of the Queen. Then he and his knees made it through the ceremony without embarrassment, and after putting in an appearance at the reception, Harry drove Connie home before making his way back to the Grid to get some work done. He'd finish up and then go home in time to call Ruth before midnight.
Ruth. Harry sighed into the thought of her as he drove. He saw her smile, the intelligence in her eyes, the deep love she felt for him. If he continued to put his job first, he wondered how long it would be before she began to feel as Jane had, that there was no place for her in his life.
Maybe he was being too hard on Adam, he was being too pessimistic. Perhaps he needed to reassess. One day was all he was asking. Adam could hold it together for one day, couldn't he? If Friday didn't work out, and he suspected it wouldn't, as soon as he possibly could, he would hand the Grid over to Adam again. He and Ruth would travel back to Polis and marry there as they should have in the first place. One day of peace, he owed her that.
He returned to the Grid, only to find that Adam was in real trouble. Murder from the looks of it. Indiscretion at a safe house with Anna, the wife of the Iranian Special Consul. A mugger who turned out to be a journalist. A back alley fight, and now the journalist was close to death from a head wound. And the journalist was investigating the bomb on the train in Tehran. It was all unravelling.
And Harry's one day of peace, with Adam at the helm of the Grid, disappeared.
Harry went to Adam's flat to wait for him, but while he waited, he had a promise to keep, and at one minute to midnight, as promised, he called Ruth. Except he wasn't in bed, and he wasn't in the playful mood he'd hoped for. He was looking out of the window onto the buildings below, waiting to send his senior officer into temporary exile.
She wasn't sleepy this time, she was wide awake. His heart tightened at the sound of her voice. "Harry, I'm looking at the most exquisite book. And it's given me so many colours that you'll never be able to compete. You've virtually conceded the game, you know."
Harry smiled in spite of himself, "That was my plan, my love. I wanted you to win. It's your final birthday gift."
Now her voice was soft, seductive, "I'm wearing the one you like, Harry. The blue one." She purred, "How late do the trains run? I miss you."
Harry closed his eyes, and exhaled loudly, "Ah, my Ruth. You can't imagine how tempting that is."
"Can you? Her Majesty has finished with you, yes?"
"Yes, but ... " Harry stopped, unsure about how much to say.
Ruth's voice grew serious. "You're dealing with a problem. This late? It must be a bad one, Harry." She paused for a moment. "You're not in danger?"
"No, not me, but Adam is. I'm waiting for him. And I have to take care of this tonight." Harry began to pace from the window to the kitchen and back. "There's a lot going on, Ruth. I'm not going to be able to get away. I don't know how long, but we're at a critical juncture. The decisions I make will have long-reaching consequences."
"And you need to make them without distractions." Ruth sighed. "I distract you, don't I, Harry?"
Harry shook his head. "No. You calm me. You nurture me. You keep me sane." He took a deep breath. "But I want so much to be there with you right now. I feel torn in two. I stand here thinking of you, and if I were there with you, I'd be thinking of this."
He heard her shift, probably sitting up. Her voice shifted as well, and Harry suddenly heard the voice of Ruth on the Grid. "Harry. This has to stop." She was the analyst, logically laying out the facts. "You're not doing your job well, I can hear it. You're distracted, and as you put it, torn. So you're not with me, and you're not there, and that's absurd, because the Grid is losing, and so am I."
She hoped Harry wouldn't protest, and he didn't. He simply listened, with his forehead against the cool pane of the window. Ruth continued, more softly, "I was needy when I first got here, but I'm better. I have a flat that now has memories of you, I know my way around Paris and I'm beginning to feel somewhat at home here. Isabelle is a wonderful friend, and she would do more with me if I wanted, museums, dinners, shopping. I haven't even visited the bloody Louvre yet, Harry."
"I know."
She could hear some guilt in his voice, and she leapt on it. "It's not your responsibility to get me to the Louvre, Harry. I have strong legs, and a fine mind. And much as I would love to go there with you, I can get there on my own." Ruth took a pause. "I was thinking about all this tonight as I lay here waiting for your call. It feels like we're pushing against this great weight, you and I. Trying to move a huge boulder, our shoulders against it, and it just won't budge. I've been grasping at you, trying to pretend there aren't extraordinary circumstances here, like I'm on some sort of holiday in Paris. I'm in exile, Harry."
"And I'm trying to get you home." She could hear anger beginning in his voice, "As soon as I have a bloody minute of peace."
"Harry. I'm all right here, and you mustn't worry about me. I spent my birthday counting my blessings, and there are so many. I was thinking again about all the wives waiting for their husbands in the military, how they're separated for long periods of time, not a letter, or a call, and constant worry. I have letters, and your voice on the phone, and visits. Our trip to Cyprus, for God's sake. I'm so lucky, Harry. And you love me, I know that completely."
"I do, Ruth. My heart feels like it might burst with it sometimes." He laughed softly, his head still against the window, enjoying the cold against his warm forehead. "Like right now. Exactly like right now. I ache for you."
Her voice softened. "I know. But I have to keep reminding myself how much more we have than so many others." She spoke so softly that he could barely hear her. "Zaf. I think about Zaf. Don't we have a responsibility to be happy with all the wonderful things we're given?" She looked down at the ring on her finger. "We have so much, Harry. So much."
He began pacing again. She was, as usual, making perfect sense. And he was beginning to feel less torn, although he wanted her no less.
Ruth continued. "I'm telling you that I don't want to be one of the things you worry about. We'll get married one day, but it will be when you have a clear mind to concentrate completely on it. I don't want the memories of our wedding muddled up with where you felt you should have been instead. You've asked me, Harry, and I've said yes. You've given me a ring, and I look at it every day, knowing we are pledged to each other. So, do your job, and when the time is right, it will happen naturally, without us pushing it."
Harry sighed. She had given him the greatest gift possible. The gift to simply be himself and do what he needed to do, with the promise that her love would still be there. "You're more understanding than I could ever have hoped."
"Yes, I am." She paused. "And I love that you called me your wife in your note."
Harry felt really relaxed for the first time today. He walked over to sit at Adam's kitchen counter. "You are my wife, Lady Pearce."
Ruth laughed. "Oh, God, yes. How did it go? Were you suitably humble?"
"I didn't embarrass myself, if that's what you're asking."
"And Connie went with you?" She paused. "I feel a little jealous twinge when I say that, Harry? Do I need to?"
Now Harry laughed. "Connie? Christ, no. She thinks she's my mother, and I guess at times lately it looks as if I need one. Not a romantic inclination in sight, on either side, believe me. She's a tough one, Ruth. She actually managed to get me in with the therapist last week, threatening suspension."
Ruth's tone was teasing. "And what was the result? Are you in your right mind, Harry?"
"I did mention something about aliens, but the doctors haven't come round yet, so I must not be dangerous."
Ruth laughed. "I had a lovely birthday, Harry. Thank you for all the gifts. And as I struggled under the weight of those flowers, the smell of them, I was thinking more and more about Polis. I do believe that's where I would ultimately like to get married. This summer, I think. Maybe if we plan far ahead, all the chess pieces will line up perfectly and we could have a week there together. I think we should visualise that, and it will happen."
Harry let out a sigh of relief. "You're right, this has been weighing on my mind more than I thought. Yes, summer. And I can see you in that white dress, a flowing one, with flowers in your hair."
They both sat in silence for a moment, and then Harry said, "I should go. Adam will be here any minute, and I'm not looking forward to the conversation I need to have with him."
Ruth's voice was soft. "I'm sorry you're working so late. I wish I could put my arms around you."
Harry cradled the phone next to his ear. "Oh, I wish you could too, my Ruth." He sighed and closed his eyes, "I'll make do with imagination. Happy birthday, my love."
"You made it beautiful, Harry. And you were right. Belgian chocolates are a lovely gift. It's all in who's doing the giving."
He chuckled, with an 'I told you so' air, "Yes, see? No woman can resist them. Why will no one listen to me?"
"I bow to your greater experience. All of it, the flowers, the dinner, which will last me for days, by the way, the morning coffee, the book. Everything, lovely and sweet and thoughtful. My Harry. I do love you so."
"Ah, my Ruth. And I love you. Sleep well. And I haven't forgotten I owe you a letter."
Harry's sleep cycles were seriously compromised. As he was driving home, he realised he wouldn't be going to sleep anyway. There was only one person he wanted to be with, and it was Ruth. And the way to be with her at three o'clock in the morning was to write her the letter now.
So he turned his car toward the Grid, toward the place he had spent the most time with her. Where they had first met, where he learned of her intelligence, her beauty, her integrity, where he had fallen in love with her, where he had first wanted her, touched her, dreamt of her.
To my Lady (at your request),
I write this not to Sophie, but to you. My soulmate. The love of my life. My wife. I do love the sound of that word when applied to you.
I sit here feeling an intense gratitude for your strength, your patience, your good sense, your love for me. I've worried so much in the last few days about not being able to meet your expectations, and I find at last that the expectations are mine, the disappointment is mine, the urgency is mine. I don't say I want it more than you do, I have simply been less patient as regards when. There is a calm in you that I don't possess, but I aspire to it.
I suppose it's because nothing as wonderful as this has ever happened in my life. Now that I know it, I find I fear its loss, and I worry that for some reason there won't be enough time, that the dream will remain out of reach. But then I hear your voice, and the doomsayers cease their drumbeat in my head, and I believe again.
You are suddenly the realist and I take your place as the romantic. You console me with your words, that the deed is already done in our hearts and we are simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. Patience. You are my guide.
What a journey we're on, my love. From that first night that I found you shivering on my doorstep, I had an inkling of what we could be, but I couldn't have imagined this because I didn't have the tools or the experience of what two people could be together. You are woven into me, as integral as bones or flesh, and wherever this journey takes us, you are there, always.
So keep your eyes on that patch of sand and the summer sun, and I will as well. I will wear an open shirt, white linen, and a flower in my lapel. You in flowing white, with a flower in your hair. Barefoot as natives, both of us. The sea crashing, as it always has, and Aphrodite smiling on us.
I love you endlessly,
Sir Will
~~~~~
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
If it was possible for the Head of MI5 and his beloved officer-in-exile to fall into a routine, Harry and Ruth did. The freedom she had given him allowed Harry finally to relax and concentrate on the challenges at hand, and they were abundant. And Ruth, as she always seemed to, had created a place for herself where she was rapidly becoming indispensible. She watched with great pleasure as Isabelle's bank balance rose steadily with the increased sales from the website.
Harry called her every night, but Friday came and went, and now they were at the end of another Friday. They longed for each other, and spoke of it often, but each kept their eyes on that beach in Polis and waited for the summer sun. In fact, they laughed as they talked about how often each of them found themselves typing "Polis Cyprus" into Google. Restaurants, hotels, cottages, beaches, all became as familiar as if they were walking the narrow streets together every day. Polis became, for both of them, a symbol of another time. A time when they would have time. For travel, for making love, for a wedding.
They dreamt, and they worked, and they loved each other. They thought about the future, and they promised themselves that when they were finally together, they would never take it for granted. They made their way through their busy days, and the last thing they heard each night was the other's voice saying I love you.
Harry didn't tell Ruth about the disastrous failure of an operation that saw Ros and Adam on a plane to Tehran, chasing the triggers that Iran needed for their nuclear missiles. Not only did the triggers get to Iran, but Ros and Adam were responsible for the death of a CIA agent who was on the plane to back them up.
Harry spoke to Ruth in general terms about his job, but she knew him well enough to know he was under a tremendous amount of pressure. So she was gentle with him, and held back any expression of her own loneliness, in order to give him less pain. Harry, in turn, not wanting to distress her, did the same. But they were still crossing days off the calendar, marking time.
Ruth didn't ask him questions about the work he was doing, but she missed the Grid so terribly. Even with her memories of the pain and the loss of colleagues, she still wanted to be back there. She hungered for the puzzle, for the part of it that challenged her, made her think beyond her own boundaries. Christine was right, adrenaline was a drug, and Ruth wanted badly to feel that particular high again.
Instead, she constantly reminded herself of why she was in Paris. She had done what she'd done so that Harry could continue to fight the very fight he was waging right now. Harry never asked her if she regretted it, and Ruth thought it was because he knew it was a futile question. In truth, she thought he knew the answer. Regret? Not really. Boredom, a wish for more, a desire for him, and for home. But no, Ruth didn't feel regret. Faced with the same situation, she would make the same choice again.
Yet for all of her brave talk, she missed him dreadfully. Memories that threatened her reason would accost her at odd moments. She would see a flash of his teasing smile, the one that rose slightly higher on one side of his mouth than the other. Some people thought Harry never smiled, but Ruth knew he had a dozen of them, some full and open, some uninhibited, some vulnerable, some born of pure love.
And then, one afternoon, she was standing on a stool, pulling a book down from a top shelf, and the sudden memory of his bare arm and its soft, golden hairs in the morning sunlight almost caused her to lose her footing. She held tight to the shelf, laughing at the level of her own insanity. Isabelle had gotten used to these moments, and once she had been assured of Sophie's safety, would shake her head in memory of those days in her own life, smiling and saying, "Ah, love."
So it was Friday again, and another week-end loomed for Ruth. She'd only talked to Harry for a few moments last night, as he took a break from an all-night session of the JIC. That was all he had told her. That, and that it was likely he wouldn't be able to call her tonight until very late, if at all. She wanted to ask why, and she was still concerned about his lack of sleep, but she held her tongue. What she always asked was if he was in danger. This time he had chuckled and said, "Only from the effects of horrible coffee and even more appalling food."
And because he wouldn't be calling, she'd made a plan with Isabelle. Dinner and a film, "Hors de Prix" or "Priceless," with much the same story as "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Isabelle's pleasant company, the lovely actress Audrey Tautou, and a film with a romantic ending, just Ruth's cup of tea. The movie was over at ten, and Ruth and Isabelle decided to stop for dessert.
They chatted about the film for a while, and suddenly, Isabelle frowned, remembering something. "Ah, Sophie, I forgot to tell you. There was a couple today, in the shop, when you were out at the bank, asking for you. Or, I should say, they asked if Sophie Persan was employed at the shop."
Ruth's first thought was that Tom and Christine had come to surprise her. She smiled, "British man, American woman? Tall man, blonde woman?"
"No, dear, both French. The woman had dark hair, the man blonde, or light brown. Absolutely French. And not tall, medium height, I would say."
Ruth's smile moved slowly into a frown. "And what did you tell them?"
Isabelle smiled slyly. "I told them I had never heard of a Sophie Persan, that my employee was a Mlle. Ardenne." Isabelle said, remembering, "They seemed like nice people, very kind, but I didn't feel ..." She trailed off, unsure.
Ruth tilted her head. "That was quick thinking, Isabelle." A cold feeling was starting in the pit of her stomach. Who would be asking for Sophie Persan?
Isabelle looked deeply into Ruth's eyes. "You are in trouble?" She paused, waiting for Ruth to answer, and when she didn't, she said softly, "I wonder if you will ever tell me, my dear?" She sipped her coffee, but kept her eyes on Ruth. "I don't want to pry, but I care so much for you. And for your James, who makes you so happy."
Ruth looked down, unable to meet Isabelle's eyes. "I know. And I care for you, as well. It's ... it's very complicated." Ruth shook her head. "I don't know why someone would be asking ... " She stopped and took a deep breath.
Isabelle finished her sentence, "Why they would be asking for you under that name, and not your own?"
Ruth's head moved up sharply, but she saw the sparkle in her companion's eyes, and smiled weakly at her. "Yes, Isabelle. Exactly."
Isabelle raised her eyebrows, "Well, then, it is not so ominous, yes? I am a good reader of people's eyes, my dear. And they were convinced, I believe, that they had got it wrong, that they had the wrong bookshop." She reached across and put her hand over Ruth's. "They were, how do you say, asking around, not just of me, but other shops."
"But why?" Ruth's voice was soft, as she ran through all the places that Sophie Persan's name might be. The flat was leased through a complicated network of names, as was her mobile, not easily traced. She had no credit cards, and Isabelle paid her in cash each week. Her passport? She'd had it with her for Cyprus and Baghdad, but had only shown it twice, and Harry had been there with diplomatic papers each time.
Suddenly she looked up again, "They didn't show you a photo, did they?"
"No, my dear. I didn't get the feeling they knew anything about you. No photograph, no."
"Could you describe them, Isabelle? Write down a description?"
"Oh, yes, I could describe them." She could see now that there was worry in the younger woman's face. "Ah, Sophie, I'm so sorry, I should have thought of this sooner, and should have known it would be upsetting. I was so busy this afternoon, and you were in the back, it simply ... " She made a gesture to her forehead, " ... flew."
Ruth reached over and squeezed Isabelle's hand. "No, no, it's fine." She shook her head and gave a crooked smile. "They asked for the wrong person, Isabelle. No one is looking for Sophie Persan. I must have left my name somewhere ... " Suddenly it came to her, and she inhaled sharply. "Ah, the jewellery shop."
Isabelle looked at her, questioning, and Ruth said quickly, "A ring. For James." Unconsciously, Ruth touched her own ring with her other hand. She smiled at Isabelle with radiant joy on her face. "He's asked me to marry him."
Isabelle clapped her hands together in front of her mouth, and released a deep sigh, "Oh, Sophie! How wonderful!"
"I was talking to the girl about how I worked in a shop, a bookshop, I said, near la Place des Vosges. And I did leave her my name to hold the ring until I got back to her. I didn't think that name would ... " Ruth visibly relaxed, exhaling, "Yes, I'm sure that was it. I should have let her know." Now she looked at Isabelle, slightly sheepish. "I need his size."
Isabelle held Ruth's hand up and looked at the ring she was wearing. "It is very beautiful, my dear." She picked up the glasses she'd used to read the menu, and put them on her nose. Bending down close to it, she squinted, and then peered over her glasses at Ruth with a smile. "There is more here than meets the eye, isn't there?" She laughed and said very softly, "You spies. Everything must be clever, yes?"
Suddenly, seeing it through Isabelle's eyes, Ruth was struck with the absurdity of it all, and she laughed. "Yes, Isabelle, I suppose so." She gently extracted her hand, and took a sip of her tea, trying to cover the slight blush that had come to her cheeks. "You're a good friend, Isabelle. A dear friend. Thank you."
Isabelle smiled and removed her glasses. "No, my dear, I must thank you. You have given me a wonderful puzzle. Hortense and Richard? Hermoine and Robert? Or perhaps, Horatio and Rebecca?" At Ruth's laugh, she continued, "Endless hours of speculation, my dear friend. Invaluable for a single lady of middle age."
Ruth looked at her, suddenly serious. "I will tell you someday, Isabelle. Not today, but someday. I do trust you, but ... it's so important ..."
Isabelle shook her head, "No, no, Sophie. I am teasing you. You keep your secrets, and you stay safe." Now her face became serious as well. "And I want you to know something. If you should ever, ever need anything from me, at any time, day or night, you come to me and get it. I would do anything for you, my dear." Isabelle felt overcome by emotion suddenly as she remembered. "Your James was my angel of mercy. He gave me so many wonderful years of life with Pierre." She looked up again, and there were tears in her eyes. Intensely, she said, "And you have already done so much for me, too. Anything, my Sophie. Anything, ever that you need."
Ruth heard the sincerity in her voice, and said, "Thank you, Isabelle."
Now Isabelle beamed at her. "I am so happy for you, my dear." She leant forward, as if she were telling Ruth a secret. "He is such a good man."
Ruth leant forward too, and took Isabelle's hands again. She whispered as well. "Yes, I know."
As Isabelle and Ruth were having this conversation, Harry was watching a television show. Not at home, but from the Grid. And not for entertainment, but because the life of every person in the studio was in danger.
The reason Harry was working late tonight was the live broadcast of "Ask the Question," with three very special guests. Iranian Special Consul Darius Bakhshi, the Foreign Secretary, and Bob Hogan. Signifying the confidence of all three governments, they agreed to sit together and be interrogated by a studio audience. Ros, Adam and Ben Kaplan were members of that audience, and although Harry had jokingly suggested filling in the rest of the seats with pacifist Suni poets, things had gone terribly wrong.
Suddenly standing and holding a gun to a woman's head, a member of the audience shouted out, "Does Iran have a nuclear bomb?" and Harry knew this would be a long night. He was going on two hours of sleep after the JIC meeting, and he wondered how long he would be able to keep this up. It didn't help that this television broadcast had been his idea. Now the station was under siege and locked down.
The audience listened in horrified silence as it was disclosed that Iran now had nuclear capability. They heard things that were never meant to be uttered outside of the most private and secure top-level government meetings. And they watched as the Iranian Special Consul was shot, and the man who began the siege was killed.
Two hours after it began, it was over, and Harry stood in front of the studio audience. "Good evening, everyone. I'd like to thank you on behalf of the British government for your bravery throughout this terrible ordeal. The world outside does not yet know that the siege has ended, and it cannot know until we have agreed what happened here tonight." Applications for entrance into the Security Services were passed out to everyone in the room as Harry continued.
"I have a job for you. As of this moment you are all invited to become employees of Her Majesty's Intelligence Services. Although you will return to your normal lives, you will remain in our employ until the day you die. You will experience huge pressure to tell what you know, but no one must know what was said in here tonight. On the back of the paperwork, there is a copy of the Official Secrets Act. No one leaves this room until both the terms of the contract and the Secrets Act are agreed to. We're in no rush, for there can be no refusals. We're all spies now."
It was a very long night. There were a dozen refusals, arguments, complaints and rebuttals from various members of the audience, and Harry had to keep the doors locked until everyone complied. He wheedled, cajoled, coaxed, persuaded, and charmed in every way possible. And when there was nothing else to say to the one last male dissenting voice, he threatened, softly, and with unmistakeable authority. Finally, at just after midnight, the papers were collected, the doors were opened, and Harry went gratefully to his car.
To call her or not, that was always the question. She never seemed to mind him waking her, and selfishly, he did love the sound of her voice freshly out of sleep. As he drove, he remembered a conversation this afternoon with Darius Bakhshi. He had finally convinced him to appear on the television programme by offering safety for Bakhshi's wife, by way of a new life in Canada.
"There's a plane leaving tonight for Vancouver. Your wife could be on it with a new identity. And later, in a different world, in a more peaceful world, who knows? You could even be with her." Harry had surprised himself with the softness that came with the words as he spoke them. In a different world, you could be with her. How could he say those words and not think of Ruth?
He and Bakhshi were on opposite sides of the global spectrum, but in that moment, Harry felt the scale tip slightly. Perhaps if he could open a space for Bakhshi's happiness, he was doing the same for himself. For a fleeting second, protagonist and antagonist were linked in their humanity, in something as simple as their love for their women. And the thought entered Harry's head again, how different are we, when all is said and done? Not very.
Yes, he would call her. He had only talked with her for a short time yesterday. Actually, he thought, looking at the soft blue glow of the digital clock in the Lexus, now it was the day before yesterday, but it felt even longer than that. He pressed the button, and on the second ring, he heard just a sweet sigh as she answered, "Mmmmmm, Harry. Oh, good. I've missed you."
"I'll assume I woke you, my love, and I'll apologise now, although I'm not at all sorry to hear your voice. I've missed you, too."
He could hear her roll over and take a deep breath, as if she were sitting up. "What time is it? Oh, late. Are you just leaving the BBC?"
Harry chuckled softly. "Now how on Earth would you know that?"
"Oh, come on, Harry. This one doesn't even require an analyst. It was all over the news. Bakhshi, Hogan and the Foreign Secretary, a man with a gun threatening them on British soil, on live television. Let's see how I do, shall we? Probably Adam in the audience, maybe Ros as well. Malcolm cut the feed. And please tell him it was at a very good moment, although I'm sure the BBC was less than thrilled with that intervention. And the reason you're so late is that you had to bring an entire audience of civilians into the Services with the Official Secrets Act, because they all saw what we in the real world missed out on. How did I do?"
Harry laughed out loud, shaking his head as he drove. "I will never be able to keep a secret from you once we're under the same roof, will I? I'm completely done for."
"I'll take that as a confirmation that I was fairly close in my assessment." He could hear that she was proud of herself. "Just logic. Pure and simple."
Harry took a deep breath. He realised there was something he had thought every day, but he hadn't told her yet. "I need to say something, Ruth." He paused, and then continued. "Of course I miss seeing you, and I want you back in England, but I want you also to know that I very much miss my analyst, my officer. Connie does her best, but the Grid misses you, and your Section Head feels acutely the space you've left. You have one of the finest Intelligence minds I've ever encountered."
Ruth was taken aback, and she sat in silence for a moment, before she was surprised by her eyes welling up with tears. She heard the honesty in his voice, and she separated, as Harry did, his deep love for her and his value of her professional abilities. When she spoke, her voice was soft, full of feeling. "That feels very good to hear, Harry. I spent my day stacking books, and the most analysis I did was agonising over whether to categorise Rodin with the Impressionists."
It was late, she was tired, and suddenly the tears came. She let them fall to the pillow, silently. "I miss it so much, Harry. I never want you to feel my unhappiness, because there's no way to solve it and I know you'll want to try, but I watch the news and I'm so bloody jealous of everyone there." She broke away from the phone, and after a pause, said, "Sorry ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. Caught me at a weak moment, I suppose."
Harry sighed. "Don't be sorry. I can only imagine how I would feel. How I did feel, sitting in that cell after I cut Mace. Powerless, unable to affect any outcome at all, waiting, for something, anything to happen. I know, Ruth. You're in a cell of sorts, too."
"Yes. That's what it's like. Powerless." Ruth took a deep breath. "I know I could help you, Harry. That's part of it as well. Not knowing, and knowing that I could help. I'm so bloody good at my job, and I love it. I watched the news, and I wanted to be there."
Harry's voice was soft, low, and so tired. "I want to be there."
Ruth spoke before thinking. "Then come here."
Harry smiled into the darkness around him. "It's 12:45, Ruth. No trains to Paris until 7:30."
"Drive to Dover. It's, what, an hour and a half from London? The car ferries run all night to Calais. I'll meet you there."
Silence. "You're serious."
"Utterly. We'll book a room. You'll be in my arms by four-thirty."
Harry inhaled, and then let it go. "Ruth ... I ... " He had worked straight through for nearly three days and it was Saturday, after all. He was exactly straddling the fence. It would take only a slight breath of wind to send him in either direction.
Her voice was low, seductive. "Where's your spirit of romance, Sir Harry?"
That was the slight breath he was looking for. "How will you get to Calais?"
"Don't you worry about that. Shall I choose a hotel?"
"Yes, do." He laughed suddenly. "When in God's name did we entirely lose our senses?"
"When we fell in love, Harry. And I, for one, hope I never find it again." He could hear her moving about. "Now let me get dressed. Oh, God, I can't wait to see you."
Ruth was wrong. It wasn't until 4:53 that Harry was in her arms, but that was only because they both insisted on a hot shower before climbing into the cool sheets. They lay together, breathing each other in, revelling in the feel of each other's body, the half-moon outside casting just the barest of shadows as it made way for the rise of the sun.
Harry could feel himself stir, but wanted just to hold her for a time, so he pushed his need away. He knew he was exhausted enough to win the battle if he wished, to simply fall asleep holding her. She gave him a peace he could find nowhere else, and he fell into it, luxuriously. It was like the resolution of a chord at the end of a long symphony, and he let it wash over him as he trailed his fingers aimlessly across the soft skin of her back.
His lips were at her ear, and he whispered, "I love you."
She moved just slightly, pressing against him, and put her lips at his neck. "And I love you."
He felt the warmth of her breath and the length of her body on his, and he wondered how he ever thought he would resist making love with her. He moved his lips down to hers and kissed her, deeply, hungrily, and the battle was over.
Hours later, they sat on the balcony, sipping coffee, looking out over the Channel. Their chairs were as close as they could be, their arms linked, forming a continuous line of white terrycloth. Ruth looked down and smiled. "Whatever would we do if someone hadn't thought to put these robes in the rooms?" She looked up at Harry, his face relaxed, soft. "I'll never be able to see you out of one, you know? Back on the Grid, I'll look at you and see this, you padding from room to room in your bare feet..." She trailed a finger down his neck to the V at his chest, " ... open here ... "
He smiled at her. "You keep that up, you will see me out of it."
She put her head on his shoulder. "You can't threaten me, I know how sleep-deprived you are."
He reached his fingers between the folds of her robe and rested his hand gently on her breast. "Try me."
She snuggled in closer to him. "Ummmmm, you win. You called my bluff. Then I'm the one who's sleep-deprived. But you can stay there, if you like."
Harry took her advice, and kept his hand warm inside her robe. "So how did you get here this morning, my Ruth? No trains running at midnight for you either. Please don't tell me you hitchhiked?"
Ruth smiled, "No, I borrowed Isabelle's car and drove myself."
"That was very enterprising of you. And very trusting of Isabelle."
"She and I had a date last night. Dinner, romantic girls' movie, and then dessert. She foolishly offered to do anything for us. I said goodnight to her and then woke her a few hours later, asking for her car to drive to Calais. Lucky I wasn't thrown out on my ear, but she just smiled and handed me the keys. Cute thing, too, Renault, Twingo, I think, and Harry ..." Ruth raised her eyebrows, "It's blue. I believe they call it ... "
He put a finger to her lips, smiling. "Oh, no, my Ruth. I gave you the ammunition as a birthday present, and now you propose to lob it at me? Unfair. Tell me more about your date."
"She called you her angel of mercy, Harry. She said you gave her many happy years with her husband."
Harry looked down. "That might be stretching it a bit, but she's a good woman, Ruth."
Ruth sat up and looked at him. She took his face in her hands and defiantly complimented him. "She also called you a very good man."
Harry knew she was baiting him now, but he was at a loss about how to stop her. He could feel the heat starting into his cheeks, and on an impulse, simply picked up their breakfast from the table and looked at her. "Muffin?" He knew it was a ridiculous change of subject, but it achieved his aim. Ruth let go of his face and laughed, saying, "You're entirely hopeless, Harry."
"What?" Now he was laughing too. "It's a lovely gift, on par, I think, with Bavarian chocolates." He put his arms around her, holding her tightly so she couldn't move, "The basket of muffins, always appropriate, always welcomed." He leant down and kissed her, and she stopped her struggling, but she murmured against his lips, "If it takes me forever, Harry, I will teach you simply to say 'Thank you' when someone tells you something nice about yourself. My mission in life."
He kissed her again, long and deeply, after which she sighed, and said, "You're extremely good at that."
Harry ran a finger across her lips, and said softly, "Thank you." Then he smiled at her. "Mission accomplished."
Ruth grimaced, and said, "We'll see. I'll have to keep testing you." She looked over at the table, and then turned to him, smiling. "Do I get to keep the muffins?"
He picked up the basket and placed it in her lap, and then looked out at the Channel again, smirking. Ruth laughed softly, and put her hand up, cupping his cheek, "I miss you."
He looked over at her, smiling sadly. "I miss you, too."
As she turned back to look out at the sea, Ruth was suddenly reminded of the visitors to the bookshop. For a moment, she thought about telling Harry, but then thought better of it. She was nearly certain it was the woman from the jewellery store, and she truly wanted the ring to be a surprise. But what really stopped her was the thought that he would worry. She glanced back at him. He looked relaxed, happy. They had so little time together. She told herself to let him be.
Ruth picked away at one of the muffins in her lap, and then placed the basket back up on the table. They sat for a while gazing at the water, the soft waves lapping against the sandy beach. She sighed, and murmured, "So close, and yet so far. I could start swimming and the next land I'd touch would be England." Her voice was sad, wistful, and Harry moved to hold her even closer.
He didn't know what to say. What he knew was that she loved Britain as much as he did, and he thought he knew the pain he would be feeling in exile. Harry loved her so completely that he wanted to give her everything she desired, but England seemed out of his reach for now.
Then, as he held his eyes on the horizon and the far edge of the water that held England just fifty kilometres away, he wondered if he couldn't give them both a gift after all. It wouldn't be forever, just one night, perhaps two. If she only stayed at his house, and he had her escorted ... to have her back in his bed, back in England, for just two nights. To wake with her, fall asleep with her, there in England. She could see her girls, put her feet on British soil, breathe in British air.
"Ruth."
"Yes, Harry."
"What would you think ... " He turned slightly to her, looking directly into her eyes. "If I told you I could arrange to have you come home, for a couple of nights?" His mind was racing now, his thoughts starting to come together into a plan.
She sat upright, her eyes wide. "Do you mean it? Is it possible?"
He poured out another cup of coffee for both of them. "Well, I was just on the Dover Ferry, and they were beyond relaxed about checking papers. I have a man in the Border Agency in Dover, an old friend. I could have Tom drive over, you could take the Saturday evening train from Paris to here, and you both could come across in the small hours of the morning on Sunday, when people are least on their guard." He smiled sideways at her. "That is, if you wouldn't mind being married to Tom for a night or two?"
Ruth was so excited that she laughed, "God, no."
Harry gave her a look under his brow, "Don't get used to it, my Sophie. He's taken."
She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers at him, "So am I." She threw her arms around him, nearly upsetting his coffee cup. "Oh, Harry, really? Is it safe?"
Harry kissed her on the neck. "I won't let it happen if it's not. But you'd be under the radar. Mrs Matthew Archer or some such. Get yourself a good wig, a scarf, keep your eyes demurely down. We're spies, Ruth, we really should know how to do this sort of thing."
"When?" The green in Ruth's eyes sparkled. Harry thought she looked like nothing so much as a child on Christmas morning.
"Don't know why it shouldn't be soon. I just have to arrange with Tom, and call my friend ... next week-end? "
Ruth inhaled deeply, "Oh, Harry. England."
He smiled at her, "I'll try not to take it personally that you've yet to mention me, or my bed, or my house. Our house."
She moved closer to him. "Of course there's that." Gently, she pressed her lips against his, a tender kiss, full of love. "Thank you, Harry."
"It's for both of us, my Ruth. Let's hold good thoughts for this being a relatively quiet week in espionage, shall we?"
Harry would think on that statement later. If only he'd known what this week would bring.
~~~~~
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Harry drove back on to the deck of the Dover Ferry at 3:20 that afternoon, with another two-and-a-half hours of sleep and the memory of Ruth's lips warm on his. He'd gotten an update from Adam, and the Grid had been quiet today. Bakhshi was going to make a full recovery from his gunshot wound, Anna was safely in Vancouver, and only a few of their newly-acquired employees from the television audience had called with questions about the scope of their positions in the Security Services.
It was Saturday, and Harry told Adam he would go straight to the Grid to get some work done. Harry thought Adam sounded good, relaxed, and when he mentioned Ros' name, Harry felt he heard something in his officer's voice that was playful, happy. Perhaps the on-again-off-again was now on again. For Harry, having those two in a good relationship meant not one, but two contented officers, and as he remembered his joy at being with Ruth, he knew that being replaceable by Adam and Ros on the Grid for a time could only be good for his own future.
As Ruth made her way down A16 into Amiens, she called Isabelle and thanked her for the use of her car. In fact, this had worked out so well, she was considering the idea of finding her own, a used car, perhaps a Smart car, something small, easy to park, inexpensive. Isabelle was at the shop today, and Ruth said she would meet her there, with a tank full of petrol. She'd also gotten a small gift in Calais, a delicate lace scarf from Royal Dentelle, just to say thank you.
Ruth enjoyed the drive back, and rather than being tired, she felt energised. She realised that although she still missed her old life, she was feeling more comfortable in her new one, that she had eased into it somewhat. And she knew that it stemmed, in part, from Harry's continued presence here, in France, connected to her. Of course Calais and the drive down to Paris reminded her of the day, nearly three months ago, that she had been driven, for the first time, to her flat on Rue du Banquier.
On that day, Zaf was still alive. In fact, she had just eaten the sandwich he'd made for her, his voice still in her ears from their conversation on the dock. She had been leaving everything she knew and loved, her country, her job, her house, her life. She had just said goodbye to Harry, and now, as the road flew by, Ruth could clarify in her mind what had so worried her on that day. That he would forget her. Ruth looked at her ring and then back to the road. He hadn't forgotten, and now she knew he wouldn't. She trusted him with every part of her, down to her very soul.
Harry arrived on the Grid at about 5:30, given the hour's difference between London and Calais. He shuffled through the messages and memos that had been printed out and placed on his desk, and read through Connie's report of the day. Next, he wrote his own account of last night's events, and sent it off to the DG for the files. Then on to the news from Intelligence sources.
"In 48 hours, the U.S. will launch air strikes against strategic targets inside Iran. When Iran responds, which it most certainly will, there is likely to be another war in the Middle East. At this point, there is nothing the UK can do to prevent these strikes, so our only duty will be to prevent repercussions on British soil. The Yalta Group must become the Security Service's highest priority."
In order to balance out the bad news, Harry called Tom and asked him to hold next Saturday night and Sunday morning free. Tom loved the plan, and said he would deliver Ruth safely to Harry's doorstep on Sunday, and then back to Calais on Tuesday morning, early.
They would have two nights together, in his home. In their home. For a moment, Harry tried to imagine again how they could get married in those two days, but then he let it go. Bill Crombie stood at his shoulder saying, "Don't push the river, Harry. Let it flow." Cyprus, white linen and flowers. That felt right, and Harry again released the urgency that crept in.
Harry drove out of the car park at Thames House to make his way home at 9:15, and was in slippers and dressing robe at 10:30, scotch in hand, as he dialled Ruth's number. She was still awake, but in bed, and close to drifting off. Her voice had the quality he loved, peaceful, with the vulnerability that comes from abandoning yourself into dreams. "Calais was wonderful, Harry. A lovely reason to lose sleep."
"Yes, it was. And I was thinking on the ferry, how many new memories I have of different places with you. It's not the traditional Grand Tour, Ruth, but just think, Bath, Paris, Cyprus, Baghdad, and now Calais. Makes me wonder where we'll find ourselves next."
"England, your house. Our house. That's where, Harry." He could hear her stretch. "Oh, England and you. Every time I think about it, I feel I'm dreaming."
"Not dreaming, my love. It's all arranged. I spoke to Tom and to my friend at the border. And Malcolm. Look for papers to come for Elizabeth Archer, couriered to the shop. You'll take the late Saturday evening train up to Calais, and Tom will meet you. It'll be two nights. Two. I feel rich beyond compare knowing that."
"We are rich." He could hear her beginning to fade a bit. "We certainly don't take each other for granted, do we?" Ruth pulled the covers around her, the phone between her head and the pillow.
Harry took the last sip of his scotch, and removed Fidget from his lap. He stood up, on his way upstairs. "No, we don't. And Calais was just what I needed. Another ten hours stolen. Only ten hours together, and it made me into a new man."
"Not too new, I hope. I was rather fond of the old one." She spoke slowly, her voice drifting off at the end.
Harry paused at the top of the stairs, and remembered the last time Ruth had been here, looking so beautiful in his wrinkled shirt. Her hair dishevelled, her legs bare, leaning over the railing and saying goodbye. At the time it had felt as if they would have so many more of those mornings, that it was the beginning of a fresh life for him. It came back to him now, the feeling he'd had then, of wanting to freeze the moment in time. She had said, "See you later," but everything had changed after that. She'd gone to the tube station, and nothing was ever the same again.
He held on to the railing, and the weariness of the last two sleepless nights enveloped him. Walking to his bedroom, he heard her faint breath in his ear, and wondered if she had actually fallen asleep. He didn't speak, just listened, until he had gotten into bed himself, and lay in the dark of the half-moon. "Ruth?" he asked softly, and he heard her stir. "I love you."
He knew it was because he was tired, but he felt his chest contract with the emotion that welled up, and he wasn't surprised that his eyes began to fill. Harry was giving himself an uncharacteristic moment of self-pity, an indulgence that he rarely allowed. He wondered how he could go one more minute without her, and then he reminded himself of how. Put one foot in front of the other and keep working toward getting her home.
"I love you, too, Harry." Her voice was soft, faltering in the warmth of sleep. "I think I'd better sleep now, if that's all right."
"You sleep, my love. Sleep, my Ruth. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I love you." Harry heard the phone click off but he kept it there for just a moment longer before closing it and laying back, his eyes on the shadowed contours of the ceiling. And there in the dark, with no one to see, and no weakness to convey to anyone but Scarlet, Phoebe and Fidget, Harry blinked, and one tear slipped down his cheek. It fell and spread its heat into Ruth's pillow.
And the next day, Harry watched Ros die.
"Ros, look at me."
"Harry!"
"Look at me! Ros! You are an outstanding officer. You are my outstanding officer. Don't be afraid. Do not be afraid!"
He knew he was saying it because it was what he would want to hear, but of course she was afraid. And Harry was in the iron grip of helplessness. Utter and complete helplessness. He begged Juliet, put every ounce of strength he had toward getting her to stop, but the handcuffs at his wrists held him fast to the chair, and in the end, yet another officer had died in front of him.
Ros had come back for him. He'd thought she was a traitor, and her betrayal had cut right to the heart of him. He'd been unyieldingly hard on her all day, had allowed his anger and frustration to pour out, had directed it toward her, his hatred smouldering from him just inches from her face. And even as her eyes had shown him the depth of hurt she was feeling, Ros had stood tall, strong, unbending. His outstanding officer. And in the end, she had come back. For him. To save him.
How many times had Harry watched, or listened to, one of his people die? Each time he would have changed places with them, and this time was no different. He always wanted to turn away, to save himself from the visions that he knew would hover behind his eyes forever, but he didn't. If she had the courage to die, he could have the courage to watch. To give her the respect of his eyes, the connection in her last moments of another human being. The gift of recognition.
So he watched as Juliet plunged the needle into Ros' neck. "Harry!" Ros cried out, knowing this was finally the end, that no matter how many times she had cheated death, this was the one that would take her. He watched, unflinchingly, never taking his eyes off of her. Watched, as she struggled for breath, her body tensed, still fighting it, and then the realisation and the letting go as she slumped over, unmoving at last.
Harry watched. His eyes filling, his heart shattered, feeling helpless, weak, inadequate, ineffectual, unable again to change events. And then he'd cried, from a place so deep inside of him he didn't even have a map for it, but he never took his eyes off of Ros, now still, the agony past. He looked at the air above her body, and wondered where the complicated, talented, infuriating, resourceful, unique person that she was had gone. Disappeared, floating free, untethered, he suspected, and for a moment, he wished himself there too, free of his own agony.
He thought he might just will himself to die, to let go of life and take the journey with her. He felt so tired, really, and as Ros had, he ceased his own struggle against the handcuffs and the chair that held him. Harry wondered why he did this, why he wasn't just one more man sitting down to supper right now, with a wife, and children, and the blissful ignorance of not knowing the dangers that surround him. Perhaps someone else coulddo better. Perhaps someone else could have saved Ros.
But still he kept his eyes on her. Juliet and Sholto and Magritte calmly picked up their things and moved past him, dealing the final blow. They let him live with the memory of his own powerlessness, facing Ros' body inert in the chair across from him. All he had to give her now were his eyes, so he sat, unblinking.
And Harry wondered not so much about why he couldn't save her, as about why he ever thought he could. If he felt regret, then he must have thought he had the power to change her destiny, to pull Ros from what now seemed an inevitable conclusion, to change history. He was only a man, with more failings and limitations than he ever showed the world, more than he even dared show himself. How do you save someone from falling when you're searching for handholds for yourself?
In the long minutes before anyone else entered the room, Harry asked for peace, for absolution. She was so alone, growing cold and still colder just metres from him. Now all he wanted was to reach out and hold her, but it wouldn't be for her, as she was no longer there. It would be for him, to say he was sorry, to let her know that he knew now that she hadn't meant to betray him, she had only done as Harry had every day for so long. Ros had tried to make a difference, in whatever way she could.
And then, they had come to save him. Too late. Too late for Ros, and in a way, too late for him, too. In the silence just before they came through the door, Harry looked for forgiveness in the face he knew would always give it.
He thought of Ruth, finally allowing his eyes to close. The surreal vision of Ros and this cold place gave way to the balcony in Calais. The purity of white robes, the burgeoning life of Spring around them, and the timelessness of the sea. He saw the freshness of Ruth's smiling face, and the clarity of the deep love she felt, written there in her eyes.
He imagined himself, willed himself there, and as she enclosed him in her arms, she whispered, "It's not your fault, Harry." He sighed into the vision, not fully believing it, but gratefully taking the sliver of peace it offered.
Ruth didn't get a call that night, although she didn't realise it until she awakened the next morning. Her absence from the shop the day before had left her with a backlog of books to search out, and finding a specific edition of Walden had been particularly sticky. So the day had flown, and she'd gone home late, still feeling a lack of sleep. She'd laid down after a hot bath and put the mobile next to her ear. Next thing she'd known, there was bright sunshine streaming across her bed, and there were no missed calls.
Always Ruth's first reaction was the same. Is he all right? It gave her morning a sense of hurry, and she found herself thinking about time. She composed the letter in her head as she stopped at the Patisserie, rode on the Metro, and began her walk. When she got to the shop, she wrote right away. In the absence of his voice, she would reach out to him, and she hoped it wouldn't be long before he reached back to her.
Harry stood at the cemetery and watched as Adam dropped the petals on the casket. The one that was supposed to contain the body of Rosalind Myers, but instead contained carryalls that held something akin to her slight weight. In the early hours of the morning, Adam had told him he'd switched the syringes, and now they, Malcolm, and of course, a slightly groggy but very alive Ros, were the only ones who knew.
The funeral had necessarily been a bit of a rushed affair, bound as they were by the 48-hour effects of the near-coma-inducing drug that was in the syringe that Juliet stabbed so coldly into Ros' neck. Since they had removed her body from the chair at the Estate, Ros had slept peacefully, her pulse and breathing all but undetectable, under the constant care and supervision of Malcolm's friend at the Morgue.
She had a euphoric visitor in Harry, and as he smoothed the hair from her forehead, he thought it might be the best and most thorough sleep she'd had for months. His tenderness, looking at her now, came from the awe he felt at seeing someone, finally, snatched from death. The irrational hope he'd had, watching her die, that she could survive, had come true. Harry thanked every known and unknown deity for that reality. It filled his heart, and when his heart was full, Ruth wasn't far from his thoughts.
When something hopeless comes true, Harry thought, doesn't it, by extrapolation, make everything possible? In the early morning hours, as he and Adam made the unique arrangements for Ros' funeral and Malcolm created the papers she would need to disappear, Harry had thought again of calling Ruth, but decided against it. He thought he would let her sleep, but he loved her so completely as he worked through the night, it was as if she sat next to him. In Ros' resurrection he found a sense of hope, a feeling of certainty about their lives together.
Then after the funeral, he stepped back on the Grid, knowing that Ros was safely on her way. Now Ruth would be at work, and he would call her, but he decided to check for a letter first, feeling there might be one after his silence last night. There was. He opened it and read, and as always, they were of a mind.
My dearest Will,
I sit with my coffee and, yes, a muffin, and I feel close to you. A balcony comes to mind, not to mention another set of clean, white sheets and yet another locked door. We should edit our own travel guide, don't you think? Hotel to hotel to hotel. The respite of home and the warmth of familiarity becomes the rarity, and the more precious for that. It is one of the many reasons I so look forward to this coming Sunday.
Do you know what day that will be? Bear with me, as actually, there are several numbers I track. One-hundred-and-one days from my fuzzy-slippered splendour, shivering on your doorstep. Ninety-six from the treasured alcove and the swans. Ninety-three since you set me right about what I heard in the hospital corridor by using the economy of three simple, splendid words. And of course, eighty-nine days since you showed me that your eyes were bad, your modesty nonexistent, and your bathtub skills beyond compare.
I could go on, but I'm certain you get the substance. And I'm sure you're saying to yourself, this woman who dislikes mathematicians seems to like numbers quite a lot. Only these numbers, my dearest love, only these.
I find I am of a philosophical bent this morning and must ask you to indulge my search for symbolism. Your comment about stealing hours struck me because I feel the same so often. But what, or whom, are we stealing hours from? Who is the enemy, the force that keeps us apart?
Sometimes it feels so large that I cannot even fathom it: the system, the state, the machine, and a favourite film of yours comes to mind, Chaplin caught up in the gears of the assembly line in Modern Times. Or perhaps it's something more ephemeral, like fate, or destiny, but no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to believe fate is working against us, because I feel in my heart that our destiny is to be together, in time. You see, my love? In time. Always it seems that the enemy is time.
When I begin to feel sorry for myself, thinking that this is a very unconventional relationship, I take comfort in the numbers I listed above. They show me that we're in the middle of quite a conventional progression indeed. We met, we liked and respected each other, we became friends, and we began to feel something. That something became love unspoken, then love spoken, then love realised, and now love committed to each other. We move toward forever, a life together. Somewhere, in time.
It soothes me to know there is nothing overly unusual or dramatic about all that. We have an assortment of obstacles, to be sure, but what couple doesn't, really? The point is (ah, there's a point, is there, Sophie? I can hear, you, you know), I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time.
So I console myself by looking forward, seeing the days stretched out in front of us, one hundred, two hundred, a thousand and more, and as I've said before, I will never love you less than I do today.
There is one additional number that has my attention this morning. Sunday will mark eighty-seven days since I stood in your bedroom and complimented your interior designer. So today my favourite number of them all is eighty-seven.
Your Master Mathematician,
Sophie
For just a moment, Harry sat with his head in his hands, overcome. On how little sleep is a man meant to function, after all? He knew when he was tired his emotions were more accessible, harder to keep down, but this was a combination designed to make him completely lose his reason. Ros still unimaginably alive, his beloved Ruth speaking of forever, blended with his uncharacteristically hopeful and sunny outlook this morning. He almost thought it would be a day to simply walk off the Grid, make a stop in Paris, and head to that beach. A moment more, and he might have, but he glanced up and through the glass he saw what looked to be a Special Branch officer peering in at him.
He'd been so focused on his letter, he hadn't seen him come onto the Grid. He couldn't say he was surprised. Ros had left them open to this, and in truth, he'd almost expected it. He walked out of his door and stepped up to the man, who was beginning to direct more and more people coming through the pods. Harry narrowed his eyes at him. "Harry Pearce. Section Head. Would you mind telling me what's going on here?"
The man turned to Harry, and he had the good grace to at least look slightly apologetic. "Section D has been suspended pending full investigation of the Ros Myers affair."
Harry watched as the Grid descended into utter chaos, with people filling boxes, emptying file drawers, shuffling through cabinets, copying hard drives. The few times Harry had witnessed this phenomenon, it always hit him with a blow to the gut. This is a "secret" Service, he liked to say. Harry knew it would be pointless to protest, so he stood, outwardly calm, but livid inside. The Grid was being violated.
"Thank you." Harry knew he had only a few minutes before they began going through his office. He walked without hurry, closed his door and locked it. Reaching into his top drawer, he pulled out a memory stick and downloaded Ruth's letters to him and his letters to her. Damn Malcolm for always being right. Tonight he would do what he should have done in the first place. He would read them into Malcolm's recorder as an addition to his diary, and then he would destroy them.
Harry watched the blue bar as it made its way across his screen, and whilst he waited, he reached into his top right drawer to retrieve the chocolate buttons. Bloody Special Branch will see these over my dead body. If anyone deserves a reward, it's me. When the blue bar reached its destination, Harry deleted the emails and stood, putting the memory stick in his pocket. There was a rattle at his door and the handle jerked just before he opened it.
The man looked a bit menacing. Harry looked at him and said, casually, "Sorry. Door sticks." He walked past him, smiling, and popped a chocolate button in his mouth.
Harry moved about the Grid and with his eyes, he collected Adam, Connie, Malcolm, and Jo, indicating that they should go outside with him.
Standing in front of Thames House, Harry made a short speech. "Putting aside for a moment the fervour of those currently rifling through our personal effects, please know that this suspension has no reflection on you or your service to this country."
Jo and Adam went their separate ways, and the three with the longest experience in the Security Services stood looking around them. The general feeling seemed to be, Ah, well, isn't the first time, won't be the last.
Connie was the first to voice what they were all thinking. "A drink, I think."
Grateful he hadn't had to be the one to suggest it, Harry said, "Under the circumstances, an excellent idea."
Malcolm piped in, "Cricketer's?"
Harry followed them, but just short of the pub, he touched Malcolm's elbow. "I need to make a quick call, Malcolm." Harry pressed a number on his mobile.
Smiling, Malcolm said softly, "Tell her hello for me, will you? Tell her … "
Harry smiled back at him, and handed him the phone. "Tell her yourself."
Malcolm looked as if Harry were handing him a snake, but he took it and put it to his ear, "Hello?"
Ruth heard Malcolm's voice, and her heart nearly stopped. "Malcolm? Is Harry all right? He's not hurt?"
"No, no, Ru … erm … no, he's right here. All in one piece. He's well." He smirked at Harry, "Or at least as well as you could expect." Malcolm smiled and let out a short laugh, "God, it's good to hear your voice. We've missed you."
"Oh, Malcolm, I feel the same. You sound good, too. They're treating you well on the Grid?"
Malcolm huffed, "Overworked and underappreciated, as usual. Status quo. Except now you're gone, I have to do everything." He practically whispered, "We're working on getting you home ... Sophie." He gave a small chuckle, "Can't quite get used to that."
Ruth laughed too, "I hope you won't have to much longer. It's so good to talk to you, Malcolm."
"Yes, and you. I'll hand you over to Harry now. 'Bye ... erm ... " He couldn't bring himself to say 'Sophie' again, so he simply shrugged and gave Harry the phone. Malcolm smiled as he backed away, and then went through the pub door.
There was no one nearby, but Harry spoke softly, "Ruth?"
He could hear her sigh loudly, "Harry. I was getting a little worried. You're okay?"
"Yes. I'm very well. Quite an extraordinary few days, but I'll tell you all about it when you come. We'll have lots of time to talk, my Ruth."
"Did you get my letter?"
"Yes. I just read it minutes ago. I can't talk long, but I'll call you tonight. There was just one thing I wanted to say to you. Well, two, actually."
"The first?"
"I love you."
"Oh, Harry, you're very sentimental , you know. I love you, too, very much. And the second thing?"
"Eighty-seven is my favourite number as well."
~~~~~
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