A/N: This is a story in two parts. The first plot bunny came to me several years ago during two particularly long drives so blame white-line-fever for it. The second was a few years later, after the movie. And I apologise to Shakespeare for the precis!

1. London, Friday 8 November 2013.

London Marriott Hotel, West India Quay, Canary Wharf, East London. Mid-evening.

"Are you bored too?" A child's voice snapped him out of his reverie and he glanced down to see a young girl – six or seven at most, he thought – gazing at him solemnly from bright blue eyes. Her cloud of flyaway, very dark, hair was escaping from its jewelled clips and she had a slight smear of chocolate on one cheek; without giving the man a chance to respond she held out her hand and added formally, "Hello, my name's Rosie. Do you mind if I sit next to you?"

He took the proffered hand and shook, gently, replying gravely and repressing for the moment his desire to smile at this serious little imp,

"Hello, Rosie. My name is Ilya and of course you may sit here." As she clambered onto the ornate velvet chair next to his he answered her original question. "No, I am not bored, just resting. I thought little girls enjoyed weddings?"

Rosie flopped into her seat and gave an exaggerated sigh, still gazing at him out of those blue eyes. There was something about her that reminded him of someone although he wasn't sure who.

"I did but it was hours ago!" He had to smile at her theatrical exclamation. It hadn't been hours, exactly, only a couple but no doubt it felt like forever to a child. To his surprise she dimpled back at him. "Now it's all talking and even the cake is gone!"

"Now that is a tragedy, I agree. It was a particularly delicious cake." They smiled at each other before he added, "Did you enjoy being the flower girl?"

The child nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh yes! I've never been a flower girl before, it was fun. And I love my dress, I think I'll wear it forever!"

Like the rest of the bridal party she was arrayed in shades of green, silver and oyster grey. Hope was dressed in a form-fitting 1950's style suit in a slightly stiff, sage-green silk that had a collar, embroidered in silver and crystals, which framed her shoulders and décolletage like an opening lily and a knee-length pencil skirt that showed off her legs, with a silver-grey pillbox hat and net, pewter shoes and silver vintage jewellery from the same era; Erin, standing support for the bride, was in an elegantly flowing oyster grey chiffon and sage green silk shift, also with delicate silver accessories while this little one was in what amounted to a forest-green calf-length tulle ballet dress with a grey satin bodice embroidered in metallic silver and studded with glittering jewels of multiple shades of green that matched the ones in her hair. That's who the child must be: Erin Watts' daughter, he thought to himself, realising why she looked vaguely familiar. She was smoothing down her net skirt, admiring the diamante drops on the hem and her glittering silver ballet pumps when she looked at him, slightly sideways, and said,

"You talk funny."

He laughed gently, delighted by her bluntness and honesty.

"That is because I come from a long way away."

The blue eyes turned serious.

"How far? As far away as Paris? I've been to Paris, when Mum and Dee took me to Disneyland."

Definitely Erin's daughter, then.

"You are a very lucky young lady! No, I am from much further away than Paris. My home is Moscow, in Russia."

Her gaze suddenly widened and she stared at him intently. There was suppressed excitement in her voice as she asked,

"Russia? Where all the famous ballerinas are from? I do ballet and I love it! Do you know any ballerinas?"

"You look like a ballerina in that dress!" Her eyes glowed and her smile came out again as radiant as sunshine as he continued on. "My company helps some of them study so yes, I do know one or two of the current ones but those I really knew were a long time ago and you probably would not know their names."

"I can guess," she replied, looking animated at the thought of such a game.

"Very well, as long as you do not ask me if I knew Pavlova or Nijinsky."

She sighed, a forty year old in a seven year old's body.

"Don't be silly, no-one's that old!"

Their little game kept them amused for a good ten minutes or so and Ilya was quietly surprised at the girl's encyclopaedic knowledge of Russian and Soviet ballerinas and ballets from the past hundred years or so, or he was until he remembered Sasha, at a slightly younger age, and his obsession with dinosaurs that was so deep he could give chapter and verse on any of the major ones and quite a few of the lesser ones you cared to name. The memory of the happy, carefree little boy that his son had been caused his enjoyment in the game to fade a little but his smile didn't falter as his tiny companion continued her enthusiastic patter. A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention just as someone came to a halt in front of them and he looked up to see a woman not much younger than himself standing there, looking apologetic but who spoke slightly sharply to the child.

"Rosie, what are you doing? Stop annoying the gentleman, now." The woman turned to him and added in a more mollifying tone, "I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, she's such a chatterbox. I hope she hasn't annoyed you too much."

"No, on the contrary, we have been very much enjoying discussing ballet." He stood, unfolding his long frame to tower over the new arrival, and held out his hand. "Ilya."

"Jean." They shook, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously measure each other up. He could see the resemblance to her grand-daughter in Jean's dark, fine, fly-away hair, fair skin and grey-blue eyes but she was dressed in a much more understated way, in tailored navy trousers and a delicate lace top a shade or two lighter that was scattered with tiny, glittering crystals. A little taller than her daughter she had a wary, intelligent expression that intrigued him, not least because most people couldn't hide their subliminal fear when they first met him. The persona he had developed over his years in the GRU and KGB had never left him, had in fact proven more useful than not in business and politics in the years since although there were times when he regretted being so effective at intimidation, but the fact that there was no fear – natural wariness but nothing else – in the face in front of him was a refreshing change.

Jean had been talking to the bride and groom for a little while, secure in the knowledge that her charge was with her mother for the moment, when she glanced at her watch and realised what the time was. Excusing herself she had turned towards Erin, who despite being in conversation with a rather courtly couple by the names of Malcolm and Angharad seemed to be more interested in glaring at another woman – around her own age, blonde, bubbly, who had been introduced to Jean as Beth someone – who was currently involved in an animated conversation with Dimitri but who was also not accompanied by Rosie. Dread swept through her as her eyes frantically scanned the room, followed rapidly by a sigh of relief as she spotted the errant child seated on a chair towards the back of the room and, from all appearances, having an in-depth discussion with an older man that Jean had spotted earlier. He was a bit hard to miss: very tall, slim, dark hair with a strong face, she had noticed him a couple of times but, like most of the others here, she had no idea who he was. Now was her chance to find out.

Up close he was even taller and elegantly, although slightly severely, clothed in what she suspected was top-shelf Italian design but it was the accent that caught her attention. The last thing she would have expected in this particular gathering of wall-to-wall Western spies was a Russian. Which immediately begged the question… The voice was a deep baritone, cultured and apparently fluent in the language that was not his own but it was the eyes that caught her attention: nominally hazel, in reality and close up they were a textured dark brown flecked with enough scintillating gold to make them appear almost like tiger's eye, the shifting colours hypnotic.

"Well, thank you for keeping her out of mischief."

"My pleasure. It made a change from the normal type of conversation at events such as these." He gestured towards the seats. "Please, join us for a moment."

Well, it wouldn't hurt the child if they stayed for another few minutes. She was interested in finding out more about this mysterious foreigner. Smiling at his courtly manner she nodded acquiescence and took a seat on the other side of her grand-daughter, asking,

"Bride or groom?" as she made herself comfortable.

"Groom. Yourself?"

Hmm. A Russian friend of a British master spy from that era? Curiouser and curiouser…

"Neither, really, yet a bit of both. I'm here by accident, or default: my daughter Erin – I don't know if you've met her tonight – is supporting the bride and this one managed to inveigle her way into being flower girl. The baby-sitter came down with the flu so I was only attending the wedding so I could take Rosie home afterwards but the happy couple invited us to join the party so here we are." Jean thought something may have crossed behind the man's eyes at the mention of Erin but she couldn't imagine what. "Have you known Harry long?"

The smile was slightly ironic, although the words weren't.

"Yes. For far longer than either of us would care to admit." Surely he had to be KGB? Or ex-KGB. "Although I, too, am here by accident. I only arrived from Moscow this morning and called Harry to organise a time to catch up. He told me something was on and asked me to meet him: you can imagine my surprise when I walked into a wedding!"

"I saw you talking to my step-Dad before. Do you know him, too?" Rosie piped up, eager to continue to be part of the conversation between her granny and this grandpa who knew so much about her favourite subject. She wished, just for a moment, that she had a grandpa, especially one who was friends with ballerinas!

"I know him only a little, Rosie, but we had a good talk tonight because we were both soldiers once and we both served in the same country, although many, many years apart."

"Oh." The girl clearly wasn't impressed. Jean smiled at her and straightened up one of the bejewelled hair clips which was coming awry.

"Where was that, Ilya? Not Iraq?"

He shook his head.

"No. Afghanistan."

They continued to talk for longer than Jean had intended, diverted at least in part by Rosie's ballet obsession onto discussion of the last hundred years of Russian history, an area of interest to both the adults, while avoiding any more talk of wars long gone, especially as Jean suspected the man had probably served in the same way as her son-in-law: in intelligence, under deep cover. The child herself gradually dropped out of the conversation, weary and almost falling asleep against the woman's shoulder. They were still chatting, animatedly, ten minutes later when a shadow fell over them. Erin. The voice was light yet rimed in ice.

"Minister."

On the far side of the room Hope and Harry were enjoying a moment of quietness together, one of the few they had managed all day. Their house was full of guests – Hope's sisters, their husbands and the occasional niece or nephew, who had elected themselves to assist the bride on the day and were otherwise tasked with looking after the house for the next week of the honeymoon – so Harry had decamped to Malcolm's place the night before for a very quiet but extremely elegant and classy buck's night (of sorts) with he and Angharad while the girls had a big night in that was significantly less elegant or classy. Today they hadn't seen each other until they had arrived at the venue in the late afternoon for the short ceremony and after that it had been straight into the festivities so by now they were quite glad for the break after the first of the small group of guests had left.

Harry had slid his arms around her waist, enjoying the sensual feel of the silk fabric and its inherent promise for later in the night, kissed her gently and said, with only the barest of twinkles in his eyes,

"Hello, Lady Pearce."

Her sea-green eyes widened for a moment then crinkled as she barely suppressed a snort of laughter.

"Oh no, I'd forgotten about that part of it! Anyone who knows me knows I'm no lady!" She kissed him back and added with a sigh, in a perfect cut-glass accent, "The things one has to do to keep officialdom happy: one would never have presumed one would end up with a title when one was growing up in the back-blocks of the colonies…" To an extent her words were true; although they had intended to tie the knot eventually, a sequence of hassles and hold-ups with Hope's work visa had persuaded them, after a run-in with a particularly recalcitrant member of the Civil Service whom Harry would have quite cheerfully fitted with a pair of concrete boots, to just get on with it and do the deed. And now here they were.

Her maid-of-honour caught Hope's eye over Harry's shoulder: the set of the other woman's back and she swiftly crossed the room spoke of a sudden, extreme tension. Following her progress, Hope thought she understood the reason and murmured in her new husband's ear, a hint of amusement in her voice,

"This might get interesting!"

From their distance they couldn't hear what was said but it was blindingly obvious that Erin wasn't impressed that her mother was conversing with Ilya Gavrik and even less impressed that Rosie was part of that conversation. Strangely, neither of her elders appeared to be put out by what was, Harry guessed, the sharp edge of Erin's tongue being politely applied to them; Jean was doing her best to listen seriously but was failing, judging by the sparkle in her eyes while Ilya had his inscrutable face on. But not so inscrutable to the Englishman: knowing Ilya the way he did now, Harry could tell that the Russian was equally as amused as his companion by whatever was being said.

The conversation was suddenly over as Ilya and Jean stood, with Rosie looking mutinous between them. She said something which was instantly cut off by her mother; Dimitri, who had been hanging back from the interaction came forward to take the girl, saying something into his partner's ear at the same time, which earned him a displeased glance. Within moments the family group were moving towards the door, Dimitri throwing a farewell wave to the bridal couple – they had said their verbal good-byes a few minutes ago – while Rosie suddenly broke free, ran back to Ilya, solemnly shook his hand and then scampered back before Erin had a chance to say anything. Jean threw what looked suspiciously like a wink at the Russian and they were gone.

Within half an hour the last of the guests were leaving so the newlyweds, who were staying at the small, exclusive, boutique hotel for the night before flying out to Sardinia in the morning, walked out the front to see them off. Hope's family hailed a taxi, as did the last of his former army buddies, which was quickly followed by Ilya's driver turning up in his sleek, anonymous black Lexus. Fifty metres down the street, in another anonymous vehicle that was sparkling with the light drizzle that had been falling on and off for the last few hours after a mostly dry and sunny day, two men watched the Minister shake Harry's hand, exchange kisses on the cheek with Hope and then disappear into the back of his vehicle with a final wave from the couple. The latter turned to go back inside as Ilya's car purred down the street into the dark dampness of the night; the two observers – middle aged, unremarkable, as anonymous as their car – looked at each other and the younger one fired up the engine as the older one murmured,

"Well, who'd've thought that." The surprise, along with a dawning realisation, was evident in his voice and the other man responded sharply,

"What?"

"Our friend. The function he just attended was the wedding option, not the business dinner."

"Are you sure?" They were driving calmly along the almost empty streets, just keeping the Lexus in sight as they followed the Russian Minister back to his accommodation at Buckingham Gate.

"Positive, once I saw that pair. Don't tell me you didn't recognise them?"

"I was looking at the target, not the rest of them." He whistled, long and low. "So the rumours are true, huh? He is now a friend of Harry Pearce. That will make our job more difficult."

"It sure looked like it. We never got that bastard for what he did so maybe we take down his new buddy in revenge."

"Don't let the old girl hear you say that."

The other laughed derisively.

"I'm not scared of her—"

"That's all irrelevant," the man in the darkened passenger seat said. "The job goes ahead. We just have to be more careful, that's all."

Jean's Diary:

I did meet a nice chap this evening. A Russian politician, of all things, called Ilya. Rosie had latched onto him and I went over to rescue both of them and got talking to him, as he was on his own and looking a bit lonely. Turns out he knows the groom and was in town coincidentally so ended up at the wedding as an extra, as I did. We had a good long chat about all sorts of things, including global politics and history as well as theatre and literature, while Rosie went to sleep between us. Erin eventually came and got her and didn't look too pleased but managed to stay polite, at least until we left. Then she made it clear that she didn't think much of him and would rather I hadn't spoken to him until I pointed out it was Rosie who had taken to him, and vice versa. She simmered down after that and said no more after finishing off with a comment about it didn't matter because it was only once. Didn't have the heart to tell her we're meeting up for coffee tomorrow afternoon!

Erin's Diary:

Mum was talking to Ilya Gavrik tonight. Of all the people there she had to end up with him and seems to have enjoyed it, too. It was all Rosie's fault, apparently: she must have wandered over and bailed him up while I was over talking to Malcolm and Angharad and avoiding Beth Bailey. Hopefully that was all there was to it, anyway. I've told Mum to avoid him. Dimitri was absolutely no help: all he said was I was being a bit harsh and the man's actually quite interesting when you get to talk to him. I gather the pair of them spent most of the 45 minutes they were talking discussing their time in Afghanistan – Ilya in the late 70s with the Soviet Army and Dimitri, of course, having a couple of tours over there with the SBS rather more recently. Typical men.

Ilya's Journal:

The evening was surprisingly pleasant. Despite our odd relationship Harry and I get on better with every passing year and I have also developed a rapport with his new wife. Young Levendis and I also had a long discussion about our times in Afghanistan: much has changed but much has also remained the same. The evening was drawing to a close and I was considering taking my leave when a young girl decided to join me, the daughter of Erin Watts. She was bored and curious and is a bright, engaging child so we kept each other entertained until her grandmother came to rescue her. The child clearly takes after the grandmother, who is also very bright and surprisingly accepting of an old enemy. We were just getting into a very interesting conversation when Miss Watts came over and broke up the party, distinctly but non-verbally warning me off her family. It was too late: we had already agreed to meet for coffee tomorrow and continue our talk.