Fanfic MI5/Spooks

New York New York

Obviously this is a work of fiction that has no links with Kudos or it would be better written! Neither do I have any claim to the characters or 5.5 would not have ended as it did. This is my first attempt at fanfic, inspired by all your efforts on this forum, so be gentle with me!! The next chapter will be more adult so be forewarned.

Scene: Imagine the beginning of a Spooks episode with the opening shot of a jumbo jet thundering down the runway at night with the lights flaring in the camera and the runway glistening in the rain. The lift off of the plane cuts to a view of London at night from the air.

An air hostess walks down the First Class accommodation to a lone figure seated near the front –

"Can I help you sir". (The camera passes from the back view of a man's head with close cut curling blond hair that we see has receded at the front as the camera pans around to a side view revealing Harry in a dark grey suit with open neck shirt and a velvet-collared coat resting on the seat next to him on which is neatly folded a grey woven silk tie)

(The rest of the story will be more a straightforward narrative as I think the continuous camera directions will be too intrusive, but hopefully you get an idea of the scene)

"Yes, a single malt, no make that a Bourbon, as we are flying to the land of the free".

This was said with a sardonic tone and a slight ironic twist of Harry's pouting full lips that would only have been noticeable to those who knew him well. The air hostess sashayed efficiently back to her post.

"Definitely some potential male totty on board tonight" she said to her rather camp companion as they busied themselves opening and shutting metal lockers.

"Oh you mean Orlando Bloom in the VIP area"

"Oh no, far too much of a pretty boy for me, no I mean the smouldering dish down on the right aisle sitting on his own".

The 'smouldering dish' however had other things on his mind than pretty vacuous air hostesses – he'd had several decades of avoiding Barbie-doll look-a-like honytraps to be lured in by her brittle manicured charms.

Harry reached into his breast-pocket and brought out an unremarkable postcard with a rather tasteless sentimental picture of a white terrier and a grey tabby cat sitting on a bench together. He turned it over and read again the brief cryptic message written in a script that made his stomach churn over at its familiarity, even now on the umpteenth reading:

My Spirit rather than yours. Eat where mobile food entertains lonely guests. If not then seek a bed where the Duke would feel at home.

"Look like the innocent flower

But be the serpent under it"

So typical of Ruth – to blend personal detail with literary reference to make her meaning plain only to him. His heart started to palpitate at the thought that he might see her again after 12 long miserable months, when like the Giant's Garden, his life had been empty, dark and with no hope of renewal. He had searched his mail expectantly every day since she left, even though he knew that she would not compromise him by any direct contact, yet when the postcard finally came it caught him unawares. He had almost binned it along with the usual junk mail of garish adverts for pizzas he never would order and Saga holidays which made him physically shudder to contemplate. Catching sight of the familiar hand writing he had felt his heart literally stop when he realised the significance of what was in his hand. He had told Ruth in that heated passionate moment in the corridor after her encounter with Angela he was a man who was capable of strong emotions but that to be a successful spook, agents had to learn to control and channel their feelings. At the same time as dolling out this lecture to Ruth, he had struggled very hard to control his own desires; the atmosphere between them had been electric and he had had to fight an overwhelming desire to pull her to him and kiss her soft lips that trembled with emotion only inches from his face. In the succeeding weeks it was an image that kept returning to him as he sat in his glass Olympus – at least it would have been his private space if his operatives didn't spend their entire day barging through the door without knocking. Ruth had been the worst offender – a habit that was born of her impetuous enthusiasm for communicating some new vital information she had uncovered, but which rapidly became an expression of their mutual respect, friendship and increasingly, unspoken desire. Back in his kitchen, with the postcard quivering in his hand he seemed very far from a man in control of his emotions.

God in Heaven how he loved her! He had never realised until she disappeared on that miserable boat on that cold dank morning by the Thames, how true the expression 'love-sick' was. He not only felt emotionally bereft but he had a churning sick feeling in the base of his stomach and a pain in his chest that he put down to the stress and anxiety of pitting his career and wits against Oliver Mace, but which he knew no amount of R & R would rectify. Everyone at some stage in their life experiences grief and develops strategies to cope with living with it; but knowing that Ruth was out there somewhere alone or perhaps even worse, creating a new life of which he was not a part, kept eating away at his conscious hours and preoccupying his dreams. His obsession with Ruth betrayed a weakness that made him vulnerable and vulnerability was not a luxury that MI5 Heads of Department could afford and yet by the same token it was only when he thought of her that he felt alive and happy. He was on that plane heading for New York not simply because the very fact that Ruth had contacted him so urgently meant that there was something seriously wrong and most likely connected with National Security, for she would never risk communicating if it was simply a personal crisis; but also because he was not going to let this one opportunity to find her and if at all possible in some form keep her in his life, pass him by. Harry was a good and moral man but when needs be he could also be ruthless, decisive and dangerous and he sensed that all three strengths might be called into play before his visit to New York was finished. Ruth's quote from Macbeth only served to sharpen the awareness of an operative who had been renowned for his ability to think on his feet and to step out of the box without hesitation when the occasion demanded.

"Your bourbon sir".

Harry's mind snapped back into the here and now.

"Would you like me to bring you anything else?" – the air hostess's voice was honeyed and dripping with erotic suggestion.

"Not that I want" he said acidly. He might have added "Except perhaps a beautiful face of bewitching demeanour with expressive grey eyes, a sensuous mouth and a sweet low voice, in other words a matchless package about as far as it is possible to get from your plastic obvious vulgar charms" but as Harry wanted to keep an unobtrusive profile and as Ruth was definitely not listed as an available item on the BA in-flight entertainment brochure, he kept quiet.

Harry dozed in his seat for most of the flight, hoping to minimise the jet lag at the other end, as he would need all his powers of concentration and physical strength to locate Ruth and deal with whatever crisis she had uncovered. Before absenting himself from Thames House he had taken Adam into his confidence, both as an emergency contact should things become difficult in 'The Big Apple', particularly, if as he suspected, it would involve their transatlantic cousins in the various Bureaus and also to cover his tracks and field any awkward enquiries about his absence. Their official cover story was that Harry had been diagnosed with stress-induced high blood pressure and ordered complete rest and recuperation at a spa for at least a week. He had taken a passport in the name of Charles Pointer that he had never used before and Adam had accompanied him to Heathrow to make sure that he passed unobserved by MI6 security checks on the way out. He had little worry about being spotted entering the US; the CIA and FBI were so paranoid about Middle Eastern terrorists at the moment that anyone of obvious anglo-saxon origins hardly warranted a second glance.

Harry passed through airport security at JFK, scowling at the rude and inefficient staff who frisked him and repeated asked him inane questions in slow drawling tones about the reasons for his visit the USA – it was a far cry from his usual cosseted progress in chaffeur-driven sound-proofed cars, although still more pleasurable than being flung in a prison cage and doused with petrol as he had experienced in the recent past at the hands of the rogue Head of MI6 ! Finally he sat down heavily in the back of a yellow taxi and gave the address of a discreet and comfortable hotel in downtown Manhattan. Ruth's veiled references to possible meeting points suggested to him the Chaplin Cafe in Greenwich Village (although his lack of familiarity with New York had necessitated using Google to work that one out) and the Duke of Wellington apartment block in Soho; although he would book in there under an assumed name, only if the first rendez-vous was unsuccessful.

Harry unpacked his bag, showered – luxuriating in the opulent if somewhat vulgar facilities of his hotel room and then changed into what passed for smart casuals in Harry's conservative wardrobe: beige chinos, check Aquascutum shirt with V neck blue cashmere jumper that slightly stretched over his expanding waistline and calf-leather lace-up boots. Placing his wallet deep in a hidden pocket of his casual jacket he stepped purposefully out into the hazy sunshine of the New York morning. The earliest he could hope to meet up with Ruth was lunchtime even supposing his guess at the rendez-vous was correct, but Harry was too impatient to wait passively for her to find him - he had a plan.