A/N: Thank you to those who are reading and especially leaving reviews for these weekend one-shots. The inspiration lake is fast drying up, I'm afraid.
Despite there being only thirty minutes until midnight his mind is too active for him to be turning in. The night is mild, and a light breeze drifts through the open door from the balcony. Harry takes his whiskey glass through to the balcony, leaning his forearms on the railing of the balustrade, his glass resting between his fingers as he leans forward, gazing across the lake to the valley beyond, and the village which rests within its bosom. In that moment Harry wishes he smoked; a cigar, or even a cigarillo would go well with his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, the glass of malt whiskey in his hand, and the wooden railing on which he leans. He looks down at the railing, imagining the many arms and palms which have rested here. He half expects to read `Kim Philby was here 1939' etched roughly into the polished woodwork.
Covington House hasn't the grandeur or the elegance of Havensworth, although it possesses it's own brand of charm. The brochures claim the original house was gutted by fire in 1927, and the current building of three stories took ten years to complete, due to the stock market crash of 1929. Harry had wondered why the rebuilding had taken so long, given the landed class must have had the bulk of their money stashed away somewhere, well away from the sticky fingers of the banks.
Harry imagines Philby and the other members of the Cambridge Five, hovering together on this very balcony, cigarettes concealed as they discussed which state secrets they would leak to the Soviet Union. Given their leaning towards the Soviets, standing together on an open balcony, smoking cigarettes would have made them easy targets for any random sniper hiding in the dense bushes around the lake.
"Harry?"
He spins around to see Ruth also standing at the railing, having stepped out of the shadows outside her room. For how long has she been there, hovering in the darkness? The balcony is shared by three adjacent rooms, Ruth's, his and Dimitri's, with his own room in the middle. Tariq and Alec are on the ground floor, close to the operations room. Given it's a small gathering, counter-terrorism are only required to ensure the weekend runs smoothly. Neither the delegates nor Section D expects there to be any terrorism to be countering, and for that Harry is grateful. He's expecting it to be a quiet three days in the country. Having Ruth's room next to his own is a bonus.
Whiskey glass in hand, Harry takes a few steps towards Ruth, and then noting that she also is dressed in her night attire, he hesitates, lifting his eyebrows in a question. It is late at night, he and Ruth are dressed for bed, and they are alone on a dimly lit balcony. In his mind that is a recipe for something illicit, and very welcome.
"Ruth," he replies, replacing the unspoken question with a smile.
Ruth looks around her to the door to her own bedroom, before glancing back at him. "I just thought, with it being ... but I'm not properly dressed and .."
"..nor am I," he finishes for her, given she may never make it to the end of that particularly painful sentence. He smiles, hoping to put her at ease, but she may still dart back to her room at any moment. "I was just thinking," he says, "that it's possible Guy Burgess and Kim Philby, and the rest of the Cambridge Five may once have met on this very balcony."
"Had they, it would have been a coup for our intelligence service," she replies quickly. "Just five well-aimed bullets from across the lake, and they'd have been toast. It would have been suicidal for them to have practised that level of indiscretion."
She's right, of course. He's just being a sentimental old fool, one who is trying hard to keep her with him on this balcony, away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks, lifting his glass towards her so that she can see what he means.
She shakes her head, perhaps a little too vigorously. "I ... I came to tell you something, Harry."
"I have a bottle of single malt in my room. I can pour a drink for you and bring it out here if you ... It's no trouble."
In the time he has taken to offer her a drink, Ruth has ventured closer, so that the light from his room illuminates her face - free from makeup, and softened by the dimmed light on the balcony. Dressed in pale yellow pyjamas, a blue dressing gown, and pale pink slippers, her hair is sleek and shiny and newly brushed, and she appears soft and gentle and innocent. He wants nothing more than to take her hand in his, and lead her to his bed.
Believing that a moment such as this may never happen again, Harry places his glass on the railing, and takes another step closer to her, so close that he can smell the scent of her soap, something fresh and flowery. "Are you cold?" he asks, just for something to say. "Can I get you a drink - tea, perhaps?"
Ruth lifts her eyes to his and smiles. A smile like that can keep him going for days. "I'm fine, Harry, and if I drank anything now I'd be back and forth to the loo all night."
Harry allows his eyes to glance down her body, hidden beneath her dressing gown, although he already knows her shape by heart. His eyes hover on her breasts, and just the knowledge that she is probably not wearing a bra has his body stirring, tightening ever so slightly inside his track bottoms. He pulls his gaze away from her, glancing across the lake to where some lights still twinkle in the village nestled in the valley.
"Did you know that this house burned down in the 1920s?" she says, following his gaze. "The ground floor was largely untouched. It was mainly the upper floors which had to be rebuilt, thus the differing architectural styles."
"We must have read the same brochure," he says calmly, although from his neck down he's not feeling especially calm.
"Why would they mix the architecture, do you think?"
"Perhaps they were experimenting, or ... perhaps they didn't have the money."
"Mmm," she says, "throughout the thirties and forties they hired out the rooms in the upper stories to paying guests. I suppose that's how they paid for the restoration."
Ruth lifts her eyes to his. He holds her gaze, and to his surprise, she doesn't look away. She smiles into his eyes, and he is reminded of the optimism of the younger Ruth, the woman who had accepted his invitation to dinner. Suddenly Ruth drops her eyes, and it is as though a much desired gift has been snatched from his fingers. He sighs heavily, stepping back a little, so that his elbow nudges his whiskey glass on the railing, sending it tumbling to the courtyard below.
"Damn," he says quietly, hearing the distant shattering of the glass.
"Was that good whiskey?" Ruth asks quietly.
"The very best, although there was only a mouthful left."
"Will you pour yourself another?"
He shakes his head. "I'll take it as a sign I'd had enough."
Again they each hold the gaze of the other. Harry is aware that they are revisiting another hotel, at an earlier time in their shared history. He longs for the events of this night to be different.
"Tariq and I have discovered an anomaly." The change in direction shocks Harry into the present. He nods, encouraging her to continue. "There's something not quite right about one of the Middle East envoys."
"Which one?"
"There are only two. It turns out that Aidan Pell has never visited any of the countries he claims to represent. He visited Egypt in his teens, but has never been to Iraq or Afghanistan, Syria or Palestine. He has two other names under which he travels, and nor has he visited using either of those names."
Harry nods, then turns from her, again gazing across the lake. He is sure there are now fewer lights on in the village. "I have a theory about this conference. I wasn't planning to mention it, but perhaps the presence of this ... envoy, or whatever the man is, is a sign that my suspicions are correct."
"Suspicions?"
Harry glances back to Ruth, and holds her eyes with his. "This ... gathering is perhaps a conference to discuss the Middle East, with no intention of ever solving the problems there. It's possibly little more than elaborate theatre. The press, the public, all have to be convinced that the government is serious about a peaceful solution. In the end, nothing will change."
"And the people behind it get richer," Ruth adds distractedly.
Harry is surprised. He has always seen Ruth as a seeker of truth, a staunch believer in justice, no matter what the cost. "Our job is not to question the motives of these people, Ruth."
"But you question their motives constantly, and judge their morality."
Harry smiles into her eyes. She knows him better than anyone knows him. "Perhaps to my own detriment," he adds. "Our remit this weekend is simply to ensure no-one dies."
Ruth nods, still smiling, but her smile has lost some of its lustre. Harry wishes he could make her smile again, as she had been only moments ago, before he inadvertently alluded to the death of Sekoa at Havensworth. The silence which settles between them is heavy with the memories of their shared past, much of it too tragic, too terrible to talk about.
"I have no intention of walking away from you tonight, Harry." Ruth's voice is so quiet that he only barely hears her.
For once in his life so far, Harry is stuck for words. "Pardon?" he says, still stunned.
"You heard me. I'm not about to walk away from you ... until we've talked."
"But we are talking, Ruth."
And as though his caller has x-ray vision, able to see through several walls and layers of stonework, Harry's mobile rings. He glances apologetically at Ruth, who nods, while he takes his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown.
"I just thought I'd keep you up to speed, Harry," he hears Tariq's voice.
Just in case she disappears, Harry keeps his eyes on Ruth. "Tariq, it's after midnight."
"Yeah, I know, but I wanted to finish this."
"Ruth has already told me about Pell."
"Oh, right, good. I just thought I'd let you know that Alec has offered to keep an eye on him ... Pell."
"Fine, but he shouldn't shirk his other duties -"
"He won't. He can manage his usual tasks, plus ... Aidan Pell. I just needed to let you know that it's all under control."
"Thank you, Tariq. Is that all?"
"At this stage, yes. I thought I might catch some zees."
"Very well. Goodnight." Harry closes his phone and slides it into the pocket of his dressing gown, then gives Ruth his full attention. "Tell me, Ruth, does `catching some zees' mean sleeping?"
Ruth's smile is wide, and her eyes dance. "It does. I take it Alec has offered to watch Pell." Harry nods, desperately searching for the magic words which will have them returning to their personal conversation.
They stand together near the railing, each silently watching the other. Harry thinks that perhaps he shouldn't have answered Tariq's call. He holds Ruth's eyes, willing her to return to the brief intimacy they had shared just before Tariq had rung. "Ruth," he says softly. When her eyes widen, he decides that this is the moment. It is time they healed the rift which had emerged between them when he'd foolishly proposed to her all those months ago. The day of Ros's funeral had been cloudy and dry, the air crisp and cold, his sadness so deep, so profound, that he'd wondered would he ever again feel able to smile. He'd been searching for some warmth in his life, and he'd turned to Ruth for that warmth, especially since he'd seen the affection in her eyes once more as she'd gazed towards him from her desk across the Grid. He'd been thinking of asking Ruth to marry him since before Ros had died, and with the shock of Ros's death, the proposal had just burst out of him, like a volley of shots from an accidentally discharged gun. Perhaps it had been her proximity, along with his vulnerability. Perhaps it had been the smell of her perfume in his nostrils as she'd sat beside him during the church service. Since that day he had had to tread carefully around her, and he was still being careful.
"I meant what I said, Harry. I'm not about to -" and then she stops, her eyes drawn to something behind him.
"Ah, here you are," a cheery voice calls. "I've been looking for you." Harry turns, instantly on alert. Strolling towards them from his own room, Dimitri Levendis, jacket and tie discarded, carries two opened bottles of Old Peculier, one in each hand. I thought you could do with one of these," he adds, thrusting one of the bottles towards Harry. "Sorry, Ruth. I only had two bottles."
Harry is horrified, which he's sure shows on his face. How is it possible that at such important moments in their lives he and Ruth are continually interrupted? He takes the bottle from Dimitri's hand, even though he has no taste for it. Right now, beer is the last thing he wants or needs.
"I'll ... leave you two to it, then," he hears Ruth say. He turns to see her darting a quick glance his way before she turns towards her room.
"Don't go, Ruth. Join me for a drink," Dimitri pleads.
But it's too late. Ruth is already at the door to her room, lifting her hand in a wave without looking back. That's it. The moment has well and truly passed, and another golden opportunity has passed by them. Harry sighs heavily, gently placing the bottle of beer on the railing beside him.
"Careful with that, Harry," Dimitri says, smiling. "Some idiot threw their glass on to the courtyard earlier. It's lucky no-one was out there. It wasn't you, was it?"
"Why would I throw a glass off the balcony?" he snaps, although Dimitri appears oblivious to his change of mood. Some spy the lad is.
"No idea, but someone did. Maybe someone had a spat or something." He turns to Harry and smiles. "Good day?"
"Just wonderful."
Dimitri at last catches up, noticing the iciness in Harry's tone. "Hey, I didn't, you know, interrupt anything, did I?"
"What are you insinuating?"
"Between you and Ruth. I wouldn't want to be the one to come between the two of you."
Harry chooses to ignore the implication in his comment. "We were discussing the events of the day," he says coldly.
"Good. Well ... drink up, Harry. There are still two days of this to go. Anything can happen."
Anything can happen. Dimitri is right. Anything can happen. Harry turns to Dimitri and smiles. "Thanks for the beer, but I think I might turn in. As you say, there are still two days of this to go."
Harry nods at Dimitri, then turns and enters his room through the open door. The night is not yet over. He closes and locks his door, pulling the curtains closed. Then he sits on the end of his bed, and takes out his phone. He could ring her, but perhaps he should exercise discretion. After all, Dimitri is still on the balcony, only metres from where he sits.
I'm so sorry we were interrupted, he texts. Dimitri's timing is as bad as my own. I want to continue our conversation, perhaps after the conference is over.
Having pressed `Send', he places the phone on the bed, and then heads to the en suite to perform his before-bed rituals. By the time he returns to his bed, he has received a new text message. He removes his dressing gown and climbs into bed, his phone in his hand. Only once he is comfortable does he open the message.
I'm sorry too, she'd written, and I meant what I said. Despite leaving when Dimitri arrived, I wasn't walking away from you. I was walking away from Dimitri.
Harry smiles. Ruth can communicate so much with so few words. He hesitates, weighing his options, before he types his reply.
Perhaps this fish bowl we are in currently is not the best place for a private conversation. Will you have dinner with me next week?
He has lain his cards on the table. The rest will be up to Ruth. He spends several anxious minutes waiting for her reply.
I'd like that. Perhaps somewhere discreet and relaxed this time.
He ponders her answer, not sure it even requires a reply, but he can't help himself.
I know just the place. He doesn't, but there's always Google. Friday night?
That long? That's a week away. How about Monday night?
Monday night it is, then. Goodnight Ruth, I'll see you in the morning.
Not expecting a reply, he shuffles down beneath the duvet, placing his phone on the bedside table. He is almost asleep when his text message tone again sounds. Expecting it to be Tariq, or - God forbid - Dimitri, he almost doesn't bother, but there is a small kernel of hope which has him reaching out to wake up his phone. It is a reply from Ruth.
Goodnight x
Harry is sure his burst of happiness is capable of bringing peace to the Middle East, and being the kind of man he is, he needs to have the last word, so he sends Ruth a final text.
xx