CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
November 1
My dearest Ruth,
Today is my birthday, and it's very early in the morning. This year, my birthday happens to be on a Saturday, and the world has been quiet of late, so I'm allowing myself a bit of a holiday. I will say my good morning to you here, and then I'll go to Bath. Just for one night, as a birthday present to myself.
I'll finally do what I pretended to do that night that I showed up on your doorstep in Paris at the Hotel Britannique. I'll stroll the Crescent, eat dinner at the Moon and Sixpence, and sleep in our room. I wish that I was planning to play the same trick on you and appear at your door on Cyprus, but it's not to be, my love.
I feel that every day we spend apart is a day that you're safer, a day that the people who wanted to harm you either forget, or disappear, or die the deaths they deserve, until there's no one left to hurt you. Our circle, the ones who know that you still live, is small here. Malcolm, Adam, Tom, Christine, Isabelle and myself. Of those, only Malcolm, Adam and I know where you are. But we all love you, and have denied ourselves the joy of your company to keep you safe.
And today, my precious Ruth, I am loving you very much. I seem to have turned a corner of sorts, or perhaps it's just that the pain of having you so far away has transformed from always being a sharp stab into a diffused, familiar type of ache most of the time. In a strange way, the pain has become a friend, because it reminds me of how much I continue to love you. I kissed you goodbye on the 20th of May, a Tuesday, and I can still feel your lips on mine. Over five months apart, my Ruth, and you haven't been out of my thoughts in all of that time.
So going to Bath feels like a sort of renewal of vows, a remembrance of us, a recommitting of who we are together. You'll notice I didn't say who we were. Malcolm's story of his Sarah, the one I told you of in a letter a while ago, seems to have had the desired effect. You and I may be far apart, but we're still together. I know it because you continue to fill my heart.
So I carry on hoping that the world will turn enough times that we'll find our way back to each other. A feeling is taking up residence in me, an image of us growing old together. It sits alongside my dream, the one I had of you long ago, and both visions are persistent.
It's hope, Ruth. As you know, it hasn't been a strong characteristic of my life, but to my eternal surprise, hope seems to be following me these days.
On November 1st of last year, if you had asked me what I would be doing or thinking on this day, my guess would have been far wide of the mark, hardly on the same continent. I would have thought my heart would still be locked up tightly, safe in the cavity of my chest, protected, untouched by another human being.
I used to take it out and look at it once in a while, but only in private. And I cried before I met you, but even that was done with an element of control. With you there has been an abandon, a sort of revelling in the glory of feeling things. I'm not saying this very well, but it's because I feel so much, that I find it hard to be articulate. Even these letters are proof of my newfound ability, stumbling though they may be, to express my emotions. I suppose what I'm saying is that I've changed from the man who had a birthday last year.
The man who sits here is a better man, a more complete man, a better friend. I'm a more compassionate supervisor, still unyielding when necessary, still the bastard when I have to be, but there are more layers to me. When a decision needs to be made, I listen more for the questions to be answered, and I answer more often with my heart than I did before.
And if I am so different today than I was a year ago, the question is begged: where will I be a year from now? If birthday wishes come true, then I'll be in your arms, here on the sofa, in front of a fire, celebrating my birthday with my four favourite women: Scarlet, Fidget, Phoebe, and you, my dearest Ruth. What a warm picture that presents for my future. I'll hold onto it until it's real.
But, Christ, I miss you, and here it comes again, another sharp stab. I just have to close my eyes and wait until it passes.
Do you remember the small framed photograph I stole from you, the one of Ruth the Ice Princess amongst the falling snow? On our night at the safe house, you wrote "I love you" on the back of it. I've taken it out of your frame and put it into one of those clear ones so that I can see both sides. It sits quietly and unobtrusively on a shelf between books, and I look at it now from where I sit. Today I wished to see your contagious smile, but tomorrow I may need to see your words. Either way, you continue to help me through my days and nights, my Ruth.
And now I'll close this, and get on my way to Bath. I look forward to this holiday for many reasons, but in part because I have a very busy week coming up. We've finally reached terms for the exchange of our officer, and I rejoice in bringing Lucas back home. He was one of our best men before he was captured, somewhat fearless, very intelligent and dedicated. If he's still in one piece, we could use him on the Grid. The exchange will happen a week from tonight, on Saturday, and the next day is Remembrance Sunday, which, as you know, is always a day of no little worry for me.
It's such a large target, that day, so enticing for those who wish to make a statement. You would be working on our Threat Report, my love, in your usual thorough and intuitive way. But today, I would convince you to lay it down and come away with me. We would be the banker and the shopgirl again, with no thoughts about terror for a day and a night.
You'll be there in Bath with me in any case, my Ruth. You're always with me. On this birthday, I pledge my love to you again with my whole heart. I hope you're safe, and warm, and that kind people are caring for you.
And as I say that, a fresh pain occurs. I hope they're caring for you, but not too much. Not just one person, too much. Everything I said in Paris that day, about wanting you to move on? I realise now that it wasn't entirely true. The thought of you with another man, of him touching you, kissing you ... it makes me just a bit light-headed, actually, and I can feel my chest tightening. I can't think about it. And it's my birthday, so I won't. I'm compartmentalising again. It's my gift.
So come, get in the car, and we'll go. I love our talks in the car. We're both captive there, focused only on each other, the road, and the lovely place we're headed.
But before we go, I have one request. Your ring and necklace are upstairs in a heart-shaped box I found amongst your things at your house. The box sits by the side of the bed, on your side. Please go put them on, my Ruth, and then we'll go.
Yours always and ever,
Harry
Some days were harder than others. And some days Ruth just gave up and thought about Harry. She had searched for metaphors to describe the struggle, but still came up short. It was like fighting off an impending cold, holding the wolves at bay, trying not to fall asleep during a good film – something that she didn't want to happen, but she knew in her heart would happen sooner or later, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. Not thinking about Harry was an exhausting process, frankly.
She'd be moving calmly through her life, and suddenly, there was Harry, full in front of her. She'd push him away, and then a minute, or an hour later, or a couple of hours, there he was again. Some days she was angry with him, some days she was just so sad that she cried at nothing. Some days she got through with a combination of busyness and friendship and sheer strength of will. And some days, like this one, she just gave in.
Today was Harry's birthday, and rather than fight it, Ruth thought she would try a different tack. Total submission. She would spend the day with him, and maybe he would be appeased and leave her alone for a time afterwards. Today, thoughts of him wouldn't be her adversaries. She would embrace them, and afterwards, she would try again to move on. Rather like an indulgence in the middle of a diet. Tomorrow would be another day.
Ruth ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature of the water, and then went to the cabinet. She pulled out the sandalwood soap, still square, but with edges slightly rounded from the warmth of her skin, from the countless times she had rubbed it just behind her ears or on her wrists. After bringing it to her nose, as she always did when she picked it up, she set it gently by the tub. Just the smell of it caused the tears to prick at the back of her eyes. Ruth sighed and shook them off. If I start with that now, this is going to be a very long day.
The soap was like a piece of him. It was the only thing she had, other than his shirt, that had a direct connection to Harry. It had never touched water, and today, instead of worrying about how long she could make the soap last, Ruth had decided to luxuriate in it, to allow the steam to rise in billows of sandalwood and surround herself with him. Sweet torture.
After her bath, she thought she might ride the Vespa to the Hotel Anassa. She would walk on the beach and then take the path on the Akamas Peninsula to the waterfall and the Bath of Aphrodite. Ruth wanted to have a little chat with the Goddess, as she was now one of the star-crossed lovers in Aphrodite's care. It never hurt to go to the source, and Ruth was nothing if not practical. She wasn't quite sure what she would say to her. Ask for a miracle, perhaps, or just peace.
She felt the water in the bath, and it was perfect. Ruth let her robe drop to the floor and stepped in. Baths always reminded her of Harry now, even though she had taken thousands of them before she'd ever met him. But from the moment she'd first spoken of a bath to him at Havensworth, as he sat at the bar downstairs, she had never stepped into the bath without thinking of him.
It was already a hot day today, but Ruth didn't care as she slipped into the steaming water. She picked up the soap and began to roll it between her hands under the still-running tap, and sighed as the delicious aroma of Harry began to fill the small room. It washed extravagantly over her, reminding her of making love with him, when the scent would envelop her as it intensified with the heat from his body.
How many times had they made love? She tried to remember. Bath, Harry's house, the Sunstrike safe house, the Hotel Britannique, Polis, Baghdad, her Paris flat, the hotel in Calais, and finally, back at Harry's house. Their house, the one they dreamt of sharing together. She had appreciated every single time, and had never taken it for granted. She and Harry never allowed themselves to forget how easily it could be taken away from them. And in the end, it was.
Harry's birthday. Ruth had worked through every possibility of sending him a gift. Her first thought had been to email Malcolm asking him to buy something lavender-scented to put on Harry's desk. Just the thought of Malcolm searching for the appropriate item, and then his trying to explain it, had made Ruth smile. Or perhaps a repeat of her gift a couple of years ago. Good scotch, four bottles, with R, U, T, H on them. Or maybe she could send a request for something to Isabelle through l'Alcove's website, a book perhaps, mailed from Paris.
Even just a note saying I love you, or Je t'aime, or Se agapó.
In the end though, she'd done nothing. Ruth knew that if this separation was about keeping her safe, anything she sent to Harry would be less of a gift and more of a worry to him. So today she would do what they had always done so well, she would communicate with him without speech, or paper, or anything of the material world. She would wish him a happy birthday with her heart. And Ruth wanted so much to do it without being sad. She wondered if she would ever be able to fully rejoice in who they were together, without wishing the ending could have been different. Not today, but perhaps someday.
She missed him so deeply, but Ruth had to admit she felt safe. Truly safe, for the first time in a long time. That feeling was bringing her closer to understanding what Harry had done in abandoning her completely the way he did. He had given her up so that she could live in peace. And although it was hard for her, in her best moments, Ruth knew that it showed the depth of his love.
Ruth now understood adrenaline withdrawal in a whole new way. With the perspective of just over five months and her utter retreat from the business of spying , she had gradually been able to admit fully to herself how very terrifying those last few days in Paris had been. Actually, the fear had been there from the time she was taken through the pods by Mace's men. She'd managed her way through it with a combination of adrenaline and bravado, but in Polis, none of that was necessary.
Ruth leant back, placing the slightly smaller bar of soap carefully on the dish next to her. She closed her eyes and she was back in his arms. She felt him there, the warmth of his skin, his touch strong, sure and gentle. For a time, she let him surround her as she let go and allowed the tears to slide down her cheeks, warm water into warm water.Oh, Harry, why couldn't it have been different? Why can't you be here now?
She opened her eyes, and there he was, across from her, just as he had been in Bath. The water too high, both of them laughing, and Harry whispering, "Don't move." Ruth smiled at him, even as her tears continued, the memory swelling in her heart.
She said, aloud, "Happy birthday, Harry. I love you."
"I love you, too, my Ruth. Now shhhhhh."
Then Ruth closed her eyes again, and remembered.
Harry was lost in thought. His gloved hand to his mouth, he kept his eyes down. His years of training were clearly light years beyond Ben Caplan's. The younger man's inexperience showed every time he looked up and squirmed at the slightest sound.
This was the moment when Harry would find out if all of the hours of negotiations were to pay off. In Bexley Industrial Park, deserted, dark, quiet, he and Ben sat in the car with one of the top Russian agents in London. At least he used to be. The man had been caught accessing confidential files from the British Power Consortium, looking for information regarding a substantial oil supply deal between the UK and Russia. The ensuing embarrassment of the Russian government was leverage enough to get Lucas North back.
At least that's what Harry hoped. Twin lights shone in the distance, and Harry finally looked up and took his hand from his mouth. Harry turned to the man in the rear seat and spoke ominously low. "If this isn't him, Edward, it'll be the shortest walk you ever took."
The black Lexus drove slowly toward them until its lights were trained on Harry's car about ten metres away, and everyone stepped out into the chilly night. Harry had spoken with Arkady Kachimov and had seen his photo, and he now saw him remove the hood from the prisoner's head.
Harry gave an imperceptible sigh of relief as he saw that it was, indeed, Lucas North. Shaky, stumbling, the worse for wear, but definitely Lucas. Harry motioned the Russian agent from behind him, and he started to walk. Lucas did the same. They crossed in the middle, and Harry put his arm out to greet Lucas as the space between them closed. "Hi, Harry," Lucas said, his voice rough.
"Welcome home, Lucas. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Good. Cold." Harry made sure Ben was getting him safely into the car, and then he turned and walked to Kachimov, who now stood in the middle of the light from the headlamps. Finally, a face to match to the file photographs and the voice on the phone.
"Welcome to London, Arkady. Of course you'll be working hard to replace the spy we're sending home."
"Isn't that the dance?" Kachimov smiled at Harry, speaking as if they were old friends. "You look after Lucas, now he's home. He's weak, he's tired. You tell him, eat broccoli."
After the terrors Harry was certain Lucas had endured, this advice was more than Harry was willing to allow without a sardonic remark. "I think he's suffered enough, don't you?"
Arkady let it pass, but his voice now had a darker quality. "You know, when you sent Lucas to Moscow, he paid an appalling price. You might wish to ensure such a thing doesn't happen again in the near future."
Harry narrowed his eyes at the Russian. "Is this a message, Arkady, or merely a homily?"
Now the lightness was back. "I am making conversation, like an Englishman." He smiled again, and walked away. As he returned to the car, Harry was thinking it was probably a good idea to get Ros out of Moscow as soon as possible.
As Ben drove them back to the Grid, Harry peered at Lucas in the rear of the car. As Harry had anticipated, Lucas looked damaged, different. He'd hoped it wouldn't be the case, but he'd seen enough of officers returning from captivity to know what to expect. "How did they treat you?" he asked.
"Sometimes well, sometimes not." Harry assumed Lucas needed time before he could talk further, so he turned back to look at the road ahead. But Lucas had more to say, after a pause. "They told me I could come home if I would spy for them."
Suddenly the atmosphere in the car changed, becoming decidedly colder. Ben looked over at Harry, disconcerted. Harry frowned, and turned back to Lucas. "What did you say?"
"I said yes." Lucas was smiling. A strange smile, challenging Harry. Lucas knew well enough that after eight years in a Russian prison, he would be considered a risk to MI5. They wouldn't trust him right away, and well they shouldn't, so he thought he would get it out in the open right away. Lucas North knew that he could, in fact, be trusted, and he wanted to get back to work as soon as possible.
Harry looked at him for a time, and then smiled back, relaxing. Yes, that's what he would have said as well, if their situations had been reversed. Name the elephant in the room. After eight years of depending upon the Russians for his food, shelter, well-being, his life, had Lucas been turned? Harry couldn't be certain of the answer yet, and Lucas knew it. The formalities over, Lucas wanted only one thing. "Think we could stop for some fish and chips? Got a craving."
Harry had to smile. Christ, what is it about fish and chips? First Ruth, after months in Paris, and now Lucas, after eight years in prison. With all the fine English food there was, it seemed that fish and chips were the quintessential British culinary memory.
Harry knew just the place to get them.
Lucas would be back working for MI5 even more quickly than he thought possible. Because the extra pair of hands were needed, and Lucas was itching to do something, anything, that resembled his old life, Harry gave him clearance until midnight on Remembrance Sunday. After that, he would rest, and Harry could take the time to find out just how damaged Lucas was. For now, they needed every skilled officer they could find.
A young private home on leave, Andy Sullivan, had been abducted and thrown into a van on Friday night outside a pub after beers with his mates. The extremists who were now holding him had released a video, calling Remembrance Sunday "an affront to all the Muslim brothers and sisters murdered by infidel forces in Iraq and Afghanistan." They were threatening to behead him and post the killing on the internet if the ceremonies weren't cancelled.
Andy Sullivan wasn't only a good soldier, he was also a husband and a new father. His baby girl was only days old. Apart from the inherent horror and sorrow of the situation, this was a public relations nightmare for all concerned. Downing Street was now involved, and Harry had to find a way to defuse the situation.
Soon after Harry arrived with Lucas, he quietly gave Connie the order to pull Ros out of Moscow. Everyone was briefed on the hostage situation, and Adam and Harry went into Harry's office for a meeting with Henry Wyndham, the Prime Minister's security advisor. Wyndham's first priority was to give Harry an ultimatum of sorts. "The Prime Minister is unwilling to risk going ahead with the Remembrance Day ceremonies until we give these little jumped-up fanatics what they want."
This was Harry's greatest fear, the one he had expressed in his letter to Ruth. Britain's National Day of Remembrance was a very large target. This year, someone was aiming for it, and it was now on the verge of being cancelled.
Adam said forcefully, "We can't let that happen."
Harry's eyes moved sharply over to Adam. His senior officer seemed to be more on the edge than usual, and there was a dangerous look in his eyes. Harry had seen it before, as if Adam had decided that he would right the world's wrongs single-handedly. Harry knew that this was Adam Carter at his most vulnerable, when his judgment gave way to his passion.
Adam looked back at Harry, whose face remained impassive. The truth was, in this case, Harry happened to agree with Adam. Cancelling the ceremonies would be a terrible decision, and would leave them open to this sort of national blackmail every year. If the Security Services didn't have the power to stop threats like this, they had no power at all. As he looked into Adam's eyes, Harry could see that Adam had an idea working.
Adam asked Wyndham quickly, "What about the Queen?"
Thinking along with Adam, Harry decided this might be a workable alternative. Harry said to Wyndham, "If she knew what was going on, she would never allow the Remembrance service to be cancelled. It is Her Majesty's prerogative."
Wyndham's next point was one that Harry fully expected, and it was a good one. "And if this young soldier dies, if they cut off his head, and post a picture of it on the internet, at whom does the British public direct its wrath? At Her Majesty?" He looked at both of them, seeing that they knew the answer. "The Prime Minister is unwilling to take such a risk."
Adam said sharply, "No one's going to kill Andy Sullivan." Oh, Christ, Harry thought, looking over at him, here it comes. Adam's passion was not always his greatest asset in situations such as this. This was not a time to make empty promises. The hard truth was that they couldn't stop anyone from killing Andy Sullivan until they had significantly more information.
Wyndham asked the question that was in Harry's mind as well. "And if you're wrong? Lord knows I'm praying for this young man, but when one does the cold calculation ... "
Adam interrupted him. "There's only one calculation. Everyone matters or no one matters."
"Is this just empty rhetoric, Mr. Carter? Or is it an assurance," Wyndham turned and looked pointedly at Harry, "from Her Majesty's Security Services?"
Harry had no time to speak, before Adam interrupted him again. "It's an assurance. We have solid intelligence pointing us to where they're keeping Andy Sullivan. And a good idea of who's got him. He's going to be alright."
Harry had to will his mouth shut during this spinning of pure fiction. They had no solid intelligence, no idea who had him, and no way to know he would be alright. As Wyndham looked over at him for corroboration, Harry had two choices. To contradict Adam and give in to the ceremonies being cancelled, or to keep quiet and figure out a solution later. Harry opted for the second choice, but he wasn't happy about it.
Wyndham sighed loudly. "Then I might be able to make a quiet call to a discreet ear. I'll see to it that Her Majesty is fully appraised of the situation. Her Majesty will be at the Cenotaph in the morning, as will the Prime Minister."
Harry smiled and stood to see him out of his office. "Thank you, Henry."
The moment Wyndham was out of sight and hearing, Harry turned on Adam, highly irritated. He barely managed to curb his anger, but he spoke in soft tones. "I feel obliged to point out to you that you have absolutely no idea where Andy Sullivan is."
"I'm pretty sure he's in London." Harry gave him an incredulous look, and Adam could see it wasn't a time to be clever. He said, more seriously, "It's a start."
Harry looked up at him. "And is this the first time you've manipulated the will of Her Majesty the Queen?"
"Probably."
Harry shook his head. "Well, I hope you have a plan, because I'll be honest with you, I'm drawing a bit of a blank."
"We'll get him, Harry. We have to." He gave Harry a wide smile as he was off out the door. "Wes has a rugby game tomorrow at 1:30, and I told him I'd be there. He's counting on me. I won't miss another game."
As Harry watched him go, he heard Adam's words again. Everyone matters or no one matters. Harry wondered if he'd ever been that idealistic, and he wondered how long his senior officer's idealism would last. How many people have to die in front of you before you give in to the fact that you can save some, but others are beyond saving? In truth, Harry didn't think they could save Andy Sullivan, any more than they could have saved Zaf, or Danny, or Helen, or Colin. Or Fiona.
Harry was wrong. In the end, they would save Andy Sullivan. But at a very high price.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
"Ruth! Look at me!" Nico was scrambling out through the water with his small belly board, and he turned to her just as he caught a wave. His legs bouncing behind him, he rode it all the way in, until the board was on the sand. He stood and laughed, and held the board up for her to see.
Ruth clapped her hands together, shouting, "Good! Fantastic ride!" Ruth turned to George, who quickly looked away toward the sea. There it was again, that look. Ruth knew it was love, and it appeared even more often when they spent time with his son.
She couldn't ignore the looks, but she could appreciate how diligently George tried to curb them. Ruth knew he was in love with her, George knew that she knew, and they both understood it would go no further unless Ruth gave him permission. This was the promise George had made to her, and in an odd way, it was a relationship that appeared to work for both of them.
George never seemed unhappy. He seemed to be waiting, but not in a hurry, and Ruth had been as honest about her feelings as her exile allowed. She had told him nothing specific of her life before Cyprus, and he could see clearly that she was still in love with someone else. But she very much enjoyed his company, and he seemed willing to simply be with her now. She didn't know many men who would put up with that, and Ruth counted herself lucky to have found a friend like him.
George was an amazing person. She had seen him give of himself to his community, and to his family and friends, with a goodness of spirit that was rare. He was always on call for the hospital as the only Doctor of Paediatrics, and he saw children for emergencies no matter what time it was. He'd been called away from their Sunday morning paper time occasionally, and once during a dinner. He'd never complained.
George also went out into the country once a month on his own time, and at no charge, to check on the children whose parents wouldn't venture into town, those that didn't trust hospitals and the expense they brought with them. He'd asked Ruth if she wanted to join him next month on his rounds, and she'd said yes. She was looking forward to it.
And he was an exceptional father. He was raising Nico with a combination of unconditional love and good country discipline, teaching him the value of hard work and money, at the same time he allowed him the creativity and individuality to flourish.
Ruth liked Nico, as much as she liked George. He was bright, funny, outgoing, and as well-behaved as could be expected of an eight-year old with a strong and curious mind. This was only the third Sunday afternoon they'd shared, but George had talked so much of him on their Sunday mornings that she felt she knew him even before they'd spent time together. She had first seen Nico on the harvest day, when, for a time, the boy had worked alongside them, and she'd taken a liking to him straight away.
Nico made it clear that he also liked Ruth very much. She had the accent of his British mother mixed with an earthy love of life in Polis, the best of both worlds. She was warm, liberal with hugs and praise, and she made his father happy. Nico thought they felt like a family, and it was something he'd missed. He might be only eight years old, but he knew they were good together. In a way, Nico was biding his time, just as George was. He had talked with his Aunt Cristina about it, and she'd said everyone simply needed to be patient. She said love was like the grapes on the vines, and couldn't be rushed.
Ruth pulled Nico's towel from the pile behind her, as he ran up the beach toward them. She wrapped it round him, laughing, "You're so good at that. You ride them all the way in."
"You come try!" His eyes were wide, and he started to pull her down toward the water.
Ruth shook her head, "Oh, no. Not me. I'll do my laps later though, while you ride. Come eat, Nico. You need to have some lunch." She pulled sandwiches out of the basket and handed one to Nico, one to George, and took one for herself. The three of them sat eating, looking out at the waves, feeling the warm sun on their faces. As Ruth watched Nico tuck ravenously into his sandwich, her mind and her eyes wandered, as they often did, beyond the horizon, to Harry.
Before she even knew she was doing it, Ruth imagined him here with her, on the beach, relaxed, untroubled. She had seen enough of Harry that way in Bath, in Paris, and here in Polis, to make the imagining easy. But as she narrowed her eyes against the sun, she astonished herself by going a step further. She was seeing them not as just two, but three, here on the beach.
She knew it was ridiculous, considering their present situation, but she found it futile and counterproductive to fight the thoughts she had about Harry. They always came back. So she simply let her mind wander to the conversation they'd had on the terrace at the Hotel Anassa. It did slightly amaze her that she was looking at the same sea as she had on that day. So much had changed.
When Harry and Ruth had talked about the possibility of having children, it was in a different time, a different world. As she looked at Nico, Ruth felt something stirring in her, something new. And suddenly, although she knew it was impossible, or at best highly unlikely, she felt a longing to have that conversation with Harry again. The one about little Henry.
She gazed out at the other children on the beach, making sandcastles, lying on towels, sharing picnics with their families, and Ruth realised this was a very good place to raise a child. Ruth thought back to her conversations with Fiona, and none of those worries seemed to apply here. No nannies, no danger, no legends, no secrets. Just green hills and good people and time to spend together.
Life on Polis was simple, and inexpensive. Her job at the hospital took up a set amount of her time, only from about seven in the morning until one in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. The rest of her time was her own, and she had more of it here than she could remember having since she, herself, was a child. She had time now to devote to something ... someone ... else. And no matter how hard she tried to push it away, Ruth realised that there was no one but Harry that she wanted to create that someone with.
Ruth frowned. But Harry wasn't here. He was far away, and his life was still a compelling, absorbing, dangerous one. Ruth sighed and looked over at George. In another time, under different circumstances, she thought she might be relatively happy with him. Never a love like hers with Harry, that wasn't possible, but there was a contentment, an ease between them. Women had settled for much less. She knew women who had, including her mother.
After Ruth's father died, her mother couldn't bear being alone, so she'd married again. Ruth had loved her father dearly, and it had taken time for her to warm to her step-father. But contrary to her lies to Angela Wells, Ruth could never remember her mother and her step-father raising their voices to each other. David Shaw was a good, kind man like George. A man who adored her mother beyond all reason. And now Ruth understood their relationship in a way she never had before. Her mother had lost the love of her life, and in the wake of her grief, she'd made a decision to settle for less than she'd had, knowing it would probably never come again.
Ruth realised that she was still staring at George, and a small frown was beginning to form above his eyes. She shrugged and smiled at him, and then looked away at the water.
She felt the hunger for Harry well up in her again, and Ruth thought suddenly that she might begin to cry, right here in the middle of a lovely picnic on the beach. God, Harry, please do something. Anything. I'm so bloody confused. I can't make sense of what I'm thinking anymore.
Suddenly, looking off at the sea, Ruth felt a chill go down her back, despite the perfect warmth of the day. She closed her eyes, and opened them again, looking past the horizon toward England. She couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened, something appalling, to someone she cared about. Harry. It was all she could think, that something had happened to Harry.
Ruth looked at her watch. 1:00 p.m. exactly. Eleven o'clock in London. She closed her eyes again, and then the realisation dawned.
This was the day Harry always dreaded. Today was November 9th. Remembrance Sunday.
"He's there," Malcolm said, relief in his voice. Harry finally let out the breath he felt he'd been holding for quite some time. Ever since Adam had gotten into the car, the one that held the bomb meant to kill everyone at the eleven o'clock Remembrance Day Ceremony at the St. Augustus Memorial. Harry had told Adam that there wasn't enough time, he'd told him to ditch the car, but Adam had refused, saying that people would die if he did. When Adam wouldn't take orders, he was at his most dangerous.
Harry, Malcolm, Connie and Ben had been watching on the Grid as the car moved less than a mile to the open square where Adam would leave it to detonate harmlessly. It was finally there, but just at the moment it arrived, the tower began to chime eleven o'clock. And at that moment, in a split second, Adam's signal was lost.
Harry looked at the screen in front of Malcolm in disbelief. Signal lost. But surely not Adam lost. No, not Adam. But as the signal didn't come back, as Adam didn't answer, as the smoke from the bomb rose into the air, Harry was forced to let it sink in. He joined his arms across his chest, trying to hold off what he knew was true. He knew he'd lost another officer. Another outstanding officer.
As Harry walked back toward his office, Lucas' voice came over the speaker. "Malcolm? Malcolm? Did he make it?"
Harry closed his door. He couldn't bear to hear the answer. Adam dead. Harry didn't have the strength right now to offer the leadership that he knew was required for the rest of the team. He had to be alone, to find a way to live with this. He sat in the dark of his office, his arms still locked, as if he were literally holding himself together.
Slowly, he bent forward, just trying to breathe. He closed his eyes and willed back the tears he wished he could let fall. There would be time later, but not here on the Grid. Never here.
How could he continue to do this work, what was the point of it, if good, young men like Adam Carter lost their lives? How could he stay in this office, safe and secure, and keep sending people out to die? Since the day Adam had walked on to the Grid, Harry had liked him. Yes, he was hot headed, fiercely passionate, and often refused to follow Harry's orders. But, other than Ruth, Harry had trusted Adam with more than anyone else on the Grid. Adam had been as deeply committed to the Services as Harry himself. He'd been a leader, a colleague, a superb and resourceful officer, but also, a friend.
Memories of Adam began to move through Harry's mind as he sat, still doubled over. Everyone matters, or no one matters. Adam was the reason Ruth was still alive. We'll find her, Harry. His loyalty when Harry had been banished from the Grid. They offered me your job, I told them they couldn't afford me. Sitting at the dog track with Wes. Oh, Christ, Wes.
Wes has a rugby game tomorrow at 1:30, and I told him I'd be there. He's counting on me. I won't miss another game.
Harry forced himself to move. He sat up, steeling himself, willing the strength back into his body. He had to pull himself together, because there was something he had to do, and it was something he could leave to no one else.
Harry walked out to the field with his heart heavier than he could ever remember. As he walked, he kept his eyes on the boys in the brightly striped jerseys, looking for one special boy. He found him quickly, with his blonde hair flying. Blond hair, just like Adam's. Blonde, like Adam's was.
From the day he'd first met Wesley Adam Carter, Harry felt a connection to him, something he couldn't explain, not even to Adam. It was as if Harry had known, on some level, that this time would come. That no matter how hard he tried to save Fiona and Adam, Harry would find himself taking this walk toward Wes on this day. That the two of them would be alone with this terrible outcome to work through together.
Harry stopped at the sideline and waited for Wes to see him. Harry couldn't even conjure a smile or a wave. All he could see was a little boy who would never see his father again, who would go to live with his grandparents, whose life would never be the same from this moment forward. It was taking every ounce of strength Harry had not to give in to the unfathomable sadness he was feeling, to let the tears fall. But Wes turned and saw him, and Harry took a deep breath, bracing himself for what was to come.
For a moment Wes just stood there, and then he started to walk slowly toward Harry. Bless him, Harry could see that Wes knew. He saw it, a moment of confusion crossing Wes' face, and then the understanding, the knowledge of what had probably happened. Their connection still intact, Wes read Harry's face and knew there could only be one reason for Uncle Harry to look like that.
Wes walked faster then, frowning, blinking back the tears that were starting. He walked off the field and into Harry's arms. It was all Wes could think to do for a moment, just to stand with his face warm in the wool of Harry's coat, his arms around him. Harry moved a hand up to Wes' head, and leant down to hold him closer. Harry couldn't think of what to say, so he murmured into his hair, "I'm sorry, Wes, I'm so sorry."
Still being held, Wes said, softly, the tears beginning to add a shine to his cheeks, "Is it Daddy?"
"Yes." Harry moved his arms around Wes, tighter still.
Wes knew the answer, but he had to ask, his voice breaking. "Is it ... v-very bad?"
"Yes, Wes. It's very bad." Harry felt he was a coward to let Wes deduce it all on his own, but he had no idea how to break this news to a child of ten. A child who had already lost a mother in the same mysterious way. How to explain Andy Sullivan and all the people at the ceremonies at St. Augustus, the people in the streets all the way to that deserted square, all those who would have died?
They stood that way for a long time. Harry could feel the boy shuddering, and he simply held him more tightly. Harry wanted to cry, but held himself back, wanting to be strong for this little man who was taking the news so valiantly. Finally, Wes calmed, and Harry heard his muffled voice, broken, but needing an answer.
"Was he brave?" It was what his Daddy had always said. We can be afraid, but we should also be brave. His Daddy always asked him to be brave, and Wes was trying very hard to be brave now.
Harry felt his throat catch, but he spoke firmly. "Yes, he was very brave. He saved the lives of lots of people."
Harry pulled away and looked into the wise, tear-filled eyes of Wes Carter, and saw a very old soul. Wes looked over at his mates, still playing, and he wiped his eyes self-consciously. Harry turned away from the field with him.
"You want to walk a bit?" Harry put a protective arm around Wes.
"Yes." His voice was small, the tears still falling, but he seemed to know, as Harry did, that this day had been coming for a long time. He'd been at boarding school now for over a year, and had seen his father often during that time, but even Wes knew that his dad had never been the same since his mum died.
As they walked in silence, Harry thought again of Wes at Paddington Station trying to get to his father, wanting to help him. Wes knew Adam needed help even then. But neither Wes nor Harry could save him, and now they needed to get through as best they could.
Wes suddenly stopped and looked up at Harry. "Where will I go for holidays?" The question was a basic one, the next step Wes needed to take to move on. It was asked so bravely by Wes, with tears still streaking his cheeks, that Harry could hold back no longer. He fell to his knees on the wet grass, feeling the cold seep in through his trousers, and pulled Wes into his arms.
Now Wes cried, really cried, and so did Harry. They stayed that way until they caught their breath, and finally, Harry said, softly, "I'm taking you to your Granny and Papa's house, Wes. You'll all decide what's best."
Wes pulled away and wiped his eyes. "Okay." Harry looked silently into Wes' face. It was blotched, red, and his eyes were so dreadfully sad. Wes nodded, and took a deep breath. He looked Harry directly in the eyes and pulled himself up straight. "Daddy would want me to be brave."
Harry took him back into his arms before heading to the car to take him to Fiona's parents' home. "He's very proud of you Wes." He held Wes again at arm's length. "I know he is."
Ros filled her glass and placed the wine bottle at the end of the bed, as she watched the car burn one more time on the news. She tried to imagine where Adam was when it happened. How much time did he need to get to safety? Was he still in the driver's seat or was he just getting out? Did he feel it or was it too fast? Did he have the same moment she had felt as Juliet sank the needle into her neck, knowing, finally, that this was it? Before she'd "died," Ros had seen a fleeting vision of Adam, a wish that she could see him again. Did Adam have the same of her?
Ros wiped a tear again from her cheek, at the same time she took a long swallow of her wine, draining the glass. She was in the St. Luke's Hotel, alone. Having just got back from Moscow early this morning, she hadn't even thought where she'd be staying tonight, but she knew she hadn't thought she'd be sitting in a hotel room listening to the news of Adam's death. The voice droned on from the telly. It is believed that one of the would-be bombers died in the attack. There were no other casualties.
Ros heard a light knock. She set down her glass, walked to the door and opened it, knowing it could only be Harry. He had dropped her here, hours ago, on his way to pick up Wes and take him to his grandparents' house, so he was the only one who knew where she was. Ros thought he might also be the only one who really cared. Six months of being dead in Moscow hadn't done much toward maintaining relationships with anyone else on or off the Grid.
Harry's face looked as haunted as hers felt. "A drink at the bar?" he asked, his voice betraying the emotion he was barely suppressing.
"Another one?" She inclined her head toward the nearly empty wine bottle behind her. "Why not?" Ros got her keys and stepped out to meet him in the hall. They were the only two who could comfort each other, really.
They rode the lift down in silence, and found a spot at a long table with a view of the street. Ros ordered another Merlot, and Harry a scotch. Harry finally spoke, wondering if Ros didn't want to stay in her own home tonight.
Ros shrugged. "I sold my house, given that I was inconveniently dead." To Harry's distressed look, she said casually, "It's only a house."
Another short silence. Harry needed to talk about Adam, but he didn't know quite how to start. He realised he'd never spoken to Ros about what he knew of their relationship. He started tentatively, "I know that you and Adam ..."
Ros cut him off, sharply. "Adam and I were never going to be, Harry. That's why I stayed dead in the first place. To let him move on."
"And you?"
"Me too. To let me move on." She took a sip of her wine, and then she turned to Harry. "And you and Ruth?"
Harry was astonished by the question, and how casually she had asked it. For a moment, he just held her eyes in silence. Ros was looking at him with her familiar icy stare, but there was a softness, a vulnerability to it. In her own pain, she was reaching out to ask about his. "Come on, Harry. I, of all people, should know she's probably still alive somewhere. And if I can rise from the dead, anyone can."
Harry's first reaction was to say I don't know what you're talking about, but he broke her gaze first, and looked down into his drink. He couldn't see the need not to be honest in this moment. They had a bond of sorts. He'd watched Ros die, after all, he'd cried watching her. And they'd both lost so much today. This was his third scotch tonight, and he just didn't have it in him to pretend.
Harry's voice was low. "We've moved on too." He looked up at Ros, and she could see his eyes glistening slightly. "She's somewhere safe."
Ros tilted her head slightly and frowned, understanding completely what she was seeing. Her voice was soft. "And you still love her."
Harry looked away, and shrugged, sighing. Then he turned and gazed at Ros again, fully meeting her eyes. "I'll always love her."
Ros smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Harry. Really sorry." She looked at the cars passing on the street outside. "Love doesn't mix very well with this job, does it?"
"No." Harry held up his glass, and Ros touched hers to it. "No, it doesn't."
They sat for a time, quietly. Finally, Ros spoke. "I saw Adam today. This morning. For the first time in six months." She looked over at Harry. "For just a moment, standing outside the memorial. He was getting into the car." She sighed. "Of course, I didn't know it had a bomb in it, and he didn't volunteer the information."
"Did you speak to each other?"
"I called out his name, and he looked at me. He smiled, and it was the Adam I knew, the one from our times alone together, not working. He was surprised to see me. He said my name, and I walked toward him. For a moment, I thought he might close the door and come round to me, but ... " She paused and looked into her glass, just on the edge of control, " ... but, then, his face changed, he was back at work, and he said, 'Tranquillity's that way.' He got in the car and drove away."
Ros continued, "And when Lucas told me, 'Adam Carter is dead ... '" She took a breath, collecting herself, " ... I looked up into that smoke, from the bomb, and I knew he was in there somewhere. Who he was. It was flying upward, and it was the last I would see of him."
She turned to Harry, her eyes slightly stricken. "Adam and I stood for over thirty seconds, Harry. I stopped him from driving away." Harry could see tears beginning to form again. "I stood there too long. I needed to see him, and I kept him too long. If I hadn't called out his name, do you think he might still be alive? How much more time did he need? Ten seconds, fifteen? I'm afraid that I took those from him."
Harry shook his head, and spoke firmly. "It wasn't your fault, Ros. Any more than it was mine. I sent him out there." Harry put his hand on hers. "I know it doesn't make it any easier, but I was starting to feel that he wanted to die, somehow. As if he was looking for it."
Ros nodded. "Oh, I know. Adam was going to die, Harry. To know him at all is to know that. He knew it. It didn't frighten him, it exhilarated him, it gave him purpose."
"Yes." Harry didn't know what else to say. He wondered if there would ever be anything else to say about how this day had turned out.
After a long silence, Ros took a deep breath and turned to him. "I've had a little time, and I've done a lot of thinking, Harry, and I made my choices, I made them a long time ago. And as it turns out, they were the right ones. This is what I am." She paused for a moment, and Harry thought he knew what she was about to say. Ros said firmly, "I want it back. Give me Section D."
Harry shook his head, sighing, "Ros, there's nobody more capable of running the section, I know that ... "
She challenged him before he could finish. "Do you think that because Adam died, I'm going to go to pieces? Well, I'm not. I'm ready."
"You might be ready. You might be ready to leap into the fray, Ros." Harry sighed. "But I'm not even sure I can trust my own judgment at the moment. My friend is dead. And I want nothing more than revenge. I want to take the Russian operation in Britain, shoot it through the heart and watch it bleed to death. Am I to be allowed that indulgence?" Harry paused, waiting for an answer that didn't come, so he continued, looking away. "I'm going to ask Dolby for authorization to target Kachimov directly."
Ros was suddenly exhausted. Death, revenge, death, revenge. She agreed with Harry that Kachimov needed to feel some of their pain, but tonight, she couldn't think about it. She had flown in from Moscow this morning, she was back in London, and Adam was dead. It was more than enough for one bloody day.
She drained her glass, and stood. "Go to bed, Harry, we're not doing each other any good." Without another word, she was gone.
Harry sat for a little while longer at the bar. As he finished his drink, he was still thinking of Kachimov and revenge. Then he thought he might leave his car in the car park and call for a cab, so that he could order another single malt to increase the numbness he was just starting to feel. But instead, his mind strayed, as it always did, to Ruth, and that made him want to get home to her.
His Ruth. The only one who ever seemed able to give him peace. What would she say if she were here? How would she comfort him? Because he knew she would, somehow. As he called for the tab, Harry understood, of course, that she wasn't actually at his home. But there was more of her there than here in this bar, and right now he needed to be as close to her as he could possibly be.
A short and careful drive, then into his dressing robe, another drink poured, and a seat on the sofa with the girls around him. Harry picked up the microphone, and again, his Ruth was there, next to him.
My dearest Ruth,
I've said I've missed you, but never more than tonight. I feel I would give almost anything to have you here now, because never have I needed you more. To have your hand stroking my face, your lips kissing my fingers, your eyes offering wisdom, empathy, and love.
How to tell you this news? Terrible news, heartbreaking news. Adam is gone. He's with Fiona, finally, where you and I always knew he would go, sooner or later. I must confess, I hadn't thought that it would come so quickly.
At first I felt I couldn't bear this without you, but I seem to have managed up till now. Of course I haven't gone to bed yet, and I fear for my dreams. I need you to hold me tonight, to tell me that everything will be alright, because I'm having my doubts.
Right now I wonder about everything. There is a relentlessness to those we fight, and I see days stretched ahead filled with bombs, and threats, and young men, good soldiers and fine officers, losing their lives no matter how hard we try to save them. I need you to tell me, as you always have, that what I do has meaning. On this terribly sad night, yours is the only opinion I crave.
I had to tell Wes today that his father had died. Well, actually, he saved me the task, as he seemed to know as soon as he saw me, waiting for him to finish his match. Everything you said to me in Polis, about Fiona and motherhood, came back to me as I stood there. You said Fiona thought it selfish that she and Adam had a child, and I had to confess I agreed with her as I wondered how to tell her son that he was now an orphan.
Ros said tonight that love and this job don't mix. But that can't be true, because my heart is so full of you, my Ruth, and I am still here in this job. Tomorrow I must plan a funeral, another one. Not like yours, or Ros', but a real one. Adam is gone. I must keep saying it to make it real.
My eyes are closed, and now you're here. It calms me just to imagine it. Please tell me we'll have time, my Ruth. When this is all over, when we can be safe together, when I'm ready to leave this all behind, I need to know that we'll have time.
Love me, Ruth. Please continue to love me. And if your psychic powers are intact, and you know that something is terribly wrong here, I hope you'll hold Adam in that wonderful warm heart of yours. He cared a great deal for you, and I will never forget that he saved your life.
I love you dearly. And now I will try to sleep.
Yours always and forever,
Harry
He turned off the recorder, and laid down, pulling the blanket around him. He knew he couldn't go up to bed. She wasn't there. But as he had just spoken to her here on the sofa, he felt her close to him now. So here he would stay for the night.
Ruth didn't know why, but she cried herself to sleep that night. She felt Harry reaching out to her in such deep pain that she almost wrote to Malcolm. Something had happened, she knew it, and the agony of not knowing whether Harry was safe and well was almost too much for her.
She finally laid down and gave in to it. She cried for herself, for not knowing. She cried for Harry and whatever he might be going through. And she cried for both of them, because they should be in each other's arms right now, warm and loved, rather than being in their separate beds, alone.
As she fell finally asleep, Ruth told herself that if she didn't feel better in the morning, she would write to Malcolm, and safety be damned.
Ruth felt torn in two. Something had to change, or she thought she would lose her mind. She felt as if she had one foot on either side of a yawning chasm, the ground shaking beneath her. If she didn't choose one side or the other soon, she thought she might fall and be lost forever.
She had no idea how long she could bear this.
~~~~~
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Ruth had fallen asleep, but it hadn't lasted long. Two hours later, she'd rolled over and her eyes had opened and stayed that way. No matter how she tried to get comfortable, it was a lost cause, so finally, she gave in and got up.
When Ruth's analyst's mind was working, it was futile to try to get it to stop. It was why she was so good at her job on the Grid, she simply got hold of a problem and worried it until it was solved. And her intuition, her feelings, had been the reason she'd been able to take so many seemingly unrelated bits of information and put together a final answer. It was a talent she valued in herself, one of which she was proud. But at times like this, it was more of a curse than a blessing. It gave her a night like this one, losing sleep and pacing the floor of her small flat at three in the morning.
She was trying not to open her laptop, because she knew if she did, she would email Malcolm. She knew she could do it anytime she wished, but she wanted to use judgment and discernment in choosing to open that channel of communication again. It was hard to know if this feeling of distress was real, or if it simply came from a longing for Harry, from a need to make contact with her old life.
For a time, Ruth stood on her balcony, gazing at the small strip of the Mediterranean that was visible there, and she watched the glimmer of the moon on the sea. If only she could fly across the water, beam herself onto the Grid, and see what was going on.
Ruth smiled. Nothing's going on, you idiot, it's one in the bloody morning there. She closed her eyes. She imagined the Grid dark, as it had been on that night that she'd waited for Harry. The night she'd learned that he'd been reinstated as Head of Section D, and she knew that he would come to his office before going home. Ruth had decided she would stay all night if she had to, because he deserved a welcome after what he'd been through. When she heard the sound of the pods, she'd known it was him. Ruth had the glorious privilege of seeing him before he saw her, for just a moment, as he took in the pleasure of being back there again.
Good to have you back, she'd said to him. It's good to be back, he replied. Ruth had long wished to hear those words in reverse, had wondered under what circumstances it would be possible for her to hear Harry say, Good to have you back. She imagined herself repeating his words, It's good to be back.
Opening her eyes again, Ruth tried to shake the feelings of dread she was having, but it wasn't working. From experience, she knew that it had now gone beyond her power to forget. The feeling had taken up residence just under her breastbone, and her thoughts were running out of her control. The only thing to do, the only way she could find peace, was to write to Malcolm and ask him.
Ruth walked back into the flat, and went straight to her laptop, this time with purpose. She opened it, pressed the power button, and put in her password. While it booted up, she went to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Sweet tea, that's what you need. Ruth shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. Get out of my head, Harry. How on Earth am I supposed to forget you, if you won't get out of my head?
While the water boiled, she started the intricate process of getting to the l'Alcove website. She composed the short email in her mind while she waited for the window to open, and then she typed it quickly, and clicked "Send." Ruth looked at the time. It was a quarter past one in London. Not likely that she would get an answer before Malcolm arrived on the Grid at about eight, which would be ten Ruth's time. But now she had a steaming cup of sweet tea, and was completely awake. She clicked the icon for The Timesonline to see if there was any news of Remembrance Sunday.
It was front and centre of the home page. A car afire, and a large article:
...In the wake of yesterday's aborted terror plot, opposition leaders have been swift to question the Government on the impact of its anti-terror legislation. Other than a brief statement in which it gave thanks to the police and emergency services for their part in averting an unthinkable catastrophe, the Government has yet to officially comment. No details have been released about the identities of the suspected terrorists involved...
Ruth read it all. She could close her eyes and see the Grid alive with activity, Harry managing the information as it came in from Adam and Jo, and probably others by now. New people that Ruth didn't know, certainly. She felt out of touch, but she could easily recall the feelings, the urgency that must have been there yesterday. She read the article again to see what time the bomb had detonated. Eleven o'clock. One o'clock on Cyprus. Just when the chill had gone down her back.
Her heart was starting to speed now, and she was the analyst again. She read the story three more times, and clicked for additional photos. A spectacular bomb blast, and the pictures taken from all sides of the still-burning car showed the damage that had been done to the square and what looked to be empty buildings around it. No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car. But if they had planned to kill those at the St. Augustus ceremonies, why was the car nearly a mile away?
Someone must have driven it there. Either the terrorist, or someone else. It didn't really make sense that the terrorist would be taking the bomb away from the people they wanted to kill, so it was probably somebody else. Somebody from the police, from emergency services, or from MI5.
Exactly eleven o'clock. Ruth leant back and took a long sip of her tea, trying to calm herself. How many press releases had she written and delivered to the Home Office as their official account of "what had happened?" And the first rule was, no one from MI5 dies. The terrorists die, but spooks are already ghosts. There's never an acknowledgement to the public. Who was driving that car?
"Go home, Malcolm." Connie had her coat on and was standing between Malcolm and the pods.
"I'm too angry to go home." Malcolm didn't even bother to turn around. It was very late. It wasn't Remembrance Sunday anymore, it was half past one, already a new day. No longer the day that Adam Carter had died.
Walking over to Malcolm, Connie tried to understand what she was seeing on his monitor. "What are you doing?"
"Displacement activity. Surfing the frequencies."
Connie stood behind him for a moment, and then she said, "Don't stay all night."
Malcolm's eyes were still focused on the screen. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Absolutely. Good night."
After Connie went through the pods, Malcolm watched the monitor for a short while, and then he finally let his eyes gravitate again toward the bottom of his screen, to the small icon there. An email had come through on the secure channel, and he'd been waiting for Connie to leave so that he could open it. There were only a few people who knew about Martin Wingate's email, and there was only one who had used it regularly of late.
He opened the letter from l'Alcove, read it, and for a moment, was at an absolute loss. Harry had told him that under no circumstances was he to show him another letter from Ruth. Well, he could follow that order. He wouldn't show Harry, but her question still hung in the air. It was a simple question. Unfortunately, the answer was far from simple.
Dear Mr. Wingate,
I need you to answer this letter. Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. No matter what your instructions are from that particular person, I won't rest until I get an answer. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence.
I've always counted on you, and I beg you not to leave me in the dark. It's a terrible place to be. I know something has happened, I simply need to know what it is. I deserve to know. Please.
F.R.B.
Malcolm released a heavy sigh. Ruth and her bloody sixth sense.
Trouble was, he agreed with her. She did deserve to know. Both things. That Harry was well, physically, anyway, and that Adam was dead. Hadn't they all, through their years of dedication to the Security Services, earned the right to at least be allowed to grieve for each other? If he were in exile, if he had felt a loss that he couldn't explain, wouldn't he want to know? He would hope, if the shoe were on the other foot, that Ruth would find a way to tell him.
One by one, so many had left the Grid, by circumstance or by death. Helen, Tom, Zoe, Danny, Sam, Zaf, Ruth. Of course, Colin had been the hardest for Malcolm to reconcile, because he never should have been put in a position to die that way. And now Adam. Malcolm was sick of it, of saying goodbye to people. He was mad as hell, really.
So Harry didn't want to know? Well, then, he wouldn't need to know. But Malcolm would do what he felt was right. What's the bloody good of secure technology if you can't use it for this very purpose?
Malcolm took one last look around the Grid, and clicked "Reply."
Ruth looked at the clock. Nearly four in the morning. Although she knew it was unlikely that Malcolm would have gotten her email, she couldn't stop herself. She worked her way back through the system, and after entering her password, Ruth took a sharp breath. One message. If Malcolm was still on the Grid, it could only be very bad. Her heart was pounding now, and she considered simply closing her laptop and giving herself more time to not know. But she had to know.
His email was very short. And utterly devastating.
F.R.B.
Arden is well, but another has eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Our hearts are broken.
M.W.
Ruth's eyes began to fill and spill over immediately. Malcolm knew this was all she would need. The passage from the Bible, "...but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." It was the warning to Adam in Genesis. And now Ruth knew that it was Adam who had driven that car to the square, and that Adam was dead.
The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, "No, no ...," in a soft wail, " ...no, not Adam." The screen blurred and his face replaced it, smiling, laughing, then with the pain of Fiona's death written there, then Danny's, then his face proud with Wes. She saw him across from her in meetings, how he would wait, and listen, his mind working. The long night after Cotterdam, before she left England. Their deep talk as they drove from the forest south of Paris to the airport before their trip to Cyprus. He had brought her here, he had saved her life. When she had been so afraid and she'd turned and seen him, a smile curling his lips, Shall I hit her again, Ruth? A low sob echoed through Ruth's small flat as she tried to make sense of what she now knew was true.
He had driven the car to that square to save others, and after cheating death so many times, Adam Carter had finally lost the gamble. She traced the route in her head, pictured the car speeding past busy intersections, past car parks, past buildings full of people, toward the one place it would do no harm. No harm to anyone but him. Adam was dead. Oh, Harry, you knew this would happen.
What had Harry said? I've tried to keep Adam safe, but he won't let me. It's like he wants to go to where Fiona is. Now he was there, with Fiona. Ruth stood, her tears still falling, and began to pace, slowly. And Wes, what about Wes? Harry would have taken that on himself, to make sure Wes was cared for.
Ruth walked back to the computer, needing to read the email again. Arden is well. She read the words over and over, feeling a sense of guilt that those words could give her such happiness in connection with the rest of the news contained there. Harry was well. She didn't think that could be entirely true. Ruth was certain that Harry was crushed, Harry was feeling responsible, Harry was, as Malcolm had said, heartbroken.
Another sound, a strangled "ooh," emerged from Ruth's throat as she closed the email and exited the website. Turning off her computer, she stood again and went over to the sofa. She lay down, clutching a pillow, and thought of the waste. Adam was, what, thirty-six years old? Wes was ten, now an orphan. Another one taken, and no one knew. No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car. She had written those words before, sent them quickly off to the PM's office, or Whitehall. It was her job, it was what she did. No one could ever know the truth.
Ruth held the pillow up to her face, and now it was to stifle the scream that came from deep within her. The sound sprung from anger and the agony of loss, but it held so much more. It demanded to know, What was it all for? and in that moment, Ruth felt something snap in her. Something broke free, and she felt it drifting away, out of her reach.
Memories began to tumble past her, out of order, with no sense. Kissing Harry goodbye in the mist of Dover and the profound pain of missing him, her prison room in Paris, the feel of the coldness of Danny's forehead as she stroked it, listening to Harry tell them Colin was dead, her last hug with Isabelle, leaving her cats, her house, London, her loneliness, her tears and still more tears. Ruth simply watched as they tumbled past, but they piled one atop the other, until finally the scream ended and the numbness began.
Ruth was aware that she was having a sort of a breakdown, and she let herself fall, almost calmly, into it. She let go of everything she'd been clutching at for so long, the Grid, her life in London, the place she occupied in that world, the people there. She fell, like Alice down the rabbit-hole, the memories held in niches on the walls. Harry was above her, at the mouth of the hole, but he grew smaller and smaller, as she was pulled away by gravity, a force so strong she couldn't begin to overcome it.
She didn't consciously let go of Harry, her strength simply disappeared, and she was drawn away from him. Her heart was beating softly now, rather than pounding, as it had been. Her breath slowed, and nothing seemed terrible anymore. It was as if she'd been given a wonderful forgetting drug, and all the things that had seemed so important just moments ago lost their hold on her.
Still on the sofa, still with her head on the pillow, Ruth looked at what she could see of her flat. She was warm, safe, and had a roof over her head. She had friends and a job. Her body was strong and her mind was good. She was in a beautiful place and needed for nothing, really. In her numbness, she felt a sense of her ingratitude for all the things she'd been given, and she wondered why she'd spent so much of her time here unhappy, wishing, wanting, needing something else.
Her life on the Grid and in London suddenly looked to her like a film. She could see herself in the Polis Cinema, feel the hard folding chair beneath her as she watched what had been. That was the film, and Polis was real life. And when she saw Adam, she knew that he had, in fact, left the screen and gone home to Fiona. They were together, and Adam's grief, his agony at losing the love of his life, was gone from his face.
Ruth lay for a long time, the tears drying from her cheeks, her face impassive. On some level, she was aware that she was probably in a sort of shock, but she was also grateful that she didn't hurt so much anymore. She lay thinking until the sun began to peek over the horizon. Finally, she got up and went to the balcony again. The moon was gone.
She cleaned up the tea things, turned out the lights and went in to bed. And then Ruth finally slept.
At the moment Ruth arose from her sofa in Polis, Harry did the same in London. He had slept some hours there, and was by now wedged into place by warm animals. He opened his eyes, and for a blissful moment, Harry didn't remember what had happened the day before. Then it seeped into his consciousness and he rolled over on his back, feeling the ache there from the cramped position he'd been in.
Fidget and Phoebe woke and jumped down to where Scarlet lay. Harry sighed and sat up, running his hands roughly over his face. Turning on the side lamp, he looked at the clock. Quarter past three. He thought he should go upstairs and try to get a few more hours of sleep, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn't be capable of it.
Standing, Harry stretched, and felt every bit his age. He padded to the kitchen and switched the kettle on, pulling down the tea. Sweet tea, how very English. The thought of Ruth suddenly assaulted him, and a fresh wave of pain washed through his chest.
What would Ruth think about all this? Harry remembered her face as she stood over Danny. Seeing that look had been almost as shattering to Harry as seeing Danny's body lying there. She was in desperate grief, of course, but her eyes held something else, something reproachful. How could this happen? He'd had to walk away, to turn away from her eyes, because he didn't know the answer.
And now, Adam. He'd begged him to get out of the car, but he'd known all along that Adam wouldn't do it. Harry wondered sometimes how much power he had over the people in his charge. They had been chosen for the Services because they had minds of their own. Creative, dynamic minds that made decisions independent of any orders they received. Harry counted on them for that, so how could he fault Adam now for doing what he felt was right? In the end, he'd saved hundreds of lives.
The scale can't tip toward just one person. Adam couldn't have lived with himself knowing that he'd chosen himself, the one, over the many. If only he'd had enough time to do both. Harry hadn't said as much last night, but Ros may have been right. Those few seconds she had stolen from him may have been enough.
As Harry waited for the kettle to boil, he wondered at the intricate dance of human beings together. Those few seconds yesterday had determined the life and death of so many people. And each death touches so many. The deaths of everybody at that ceremony, had the bomb detonated as the terrorists planned, would have affected so many others, in ripples outward, ad infinitum. Ros' few seconds with Adam may have been the reason Wesley Adam Carter's life changed forever yesterday. Wes' experience would affect his children someday, and so on, and so on.
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He felt empty, in more ways than one. He hadn't eaten dinner the night before, unless scotch could be considered a meal. He went to the breadbox to make some toast, and in fact, he thought, an omelette would taste good. Ruth would be telling him to eat. Please get out of my head, Ruth. Not now, I can't face you now. Would you wonder how I could let this happen? No, she would comfort him, tell him he'd done his best. She would hold him, and say she loved him ...
Harry shook his head, unable to deal with how much he missed her right now. And again, he wondered how Malcolm could possibly be in his sixth year of loving a woman he didn't have. He supposed it could only be explained by a cast-iron constitution, and a heart that was steadfast and overflowing with hope. Good qualities. Harry wasn't sure he had any of them right now.
He walked over to the shelf in the lounge. Her photo was toward the wall so that I love you showed through the clear frame. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Running a finger gently across her face, he allowed her radiant smile to curl the corners of his own lips, and his heart filled with her. Yes, she would comfort him. You did your best, Harry. Softly, gratefully, he said, "Thank you, my Ruth."
Walking back to the kitchen, he began to sort out his day. Breakfast, a hot shower, and then he would meet with Richard Dolby at the JIC. Harry's pain was moving back toward anger, and a need for revenge.
However it was served, hot or cold, he would have revenge.
~~~~~
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