"Pardon?"
"You heard me."
"Jack Daniels?"
"That's the lad's name."
"So he's joining our little clique?"
He smiles then, the memory of their long ago discussion about what collective noun best describes the Grid personnel having popped into his mind. "Jack Daniels joins our ... Brotherhood on Monday." As he utters the word, `Brotherhood', her eyes dart up to hold his, so he hesitates, mining the moment. "We have him on a three month secondment before he returns to Tunisia."
"Who'd call their son after ... a whiskey," she muses.
"His parents are missionaries ... in Sudan."
"You're making this up."
She has no idea how close to the truth she is, but he smiles across his desk to where she's perched on the sofa. He's happy that, like him, she appears to be enjoying the mild banter. "It's true," he says. "He's requested he be free to return to Tunisia in three months." Harry sits up in his chair, looking behind him to the whiskey bottle on the shelf. "Drink?" he asks.
Ruth checks her watch. "Isn't it a bit .. early?"
"It's almost 7. I'd call that a late start."
Harry stands, turns, and pours a drink for each of them - two fingers for Ruth, and a generous splash for himself. With a glass in each hand he joins her on the sofa, before handing her her glass. "Tell me this isn't Jack Daniels whiskey," she says.
Harry reacts as though shocked. "Of course not. Jack Daniels is an American brand."
"Sorry," she says sheepishly, "I thought all whiskeys were the same."
He shakes his head slowly, before lifting his glass towards hers so that they gently clink in a toast.
"What was that for?" she asks.
"No-one died today." He quaffs his drink. The whiskey warms him, all the way from his mouth, down his throat, and then to his stomach, from where the warmth spreads throughout his abdomen. "Delightful." He glances at Ruth, who hasn't tried hers. "Drink up."
"I'm not sure I should."
"Live dangerously, Ruth."
"Haven't you just had your yearly medical?" Harry rolls his eyes. "That bad?"
Ruth reaches out, perhaps unconsciously, and places her hand on his knee. He drops his eyes to her hand, which she immediately withdraws. "It's alright, Ruth," he says, lifting his eyes to hers. "Other than handshakes and back-slaps, that's the first time anyone's touched me in weeks .. perhaps even months." He holds her eyes, silently willing her to return her hand to his knee. "Although it could be said," he continues quietly, "that the section doctor's examination of certain parts of my person was a form of touch, just not what I .." and he can't finish the sentence, thinking that maybe he should keep his random thoughts to himself. Taking his eyes from hers, he sighs heavily. "Perhaps I'm rebelling against doctor's orders."
"Which were?"
"The usual ..."
"Cut down on alcohol and sweet foods, get more exercise."
Harry grimaces. "I don't know when I'm expected to exercise. It's not as though my job is nine to five." Glancing back at the glass resting between his fingers he sees that he's already drunk half his whiskey in the time it has taken Ruth to turn her glass around between her fingers, touch his knee, and then just as quickly withdraw her hand. "He suggested I limit any alcohol intake to weekends."
"Today is Thursday."
"I'm practising for the weekend." He's relieved when she smiles.
"I'm sure you don't drink enough to have withdrawal symptoms."
"Not physically, no, but .."
"You rely on it emotionally."
Again he sighs. "Put like that, I sound weak."
Ruth drops her eyes to her whiskey glass, still untouched. "You could never be called weak."
He detects a subtle change in the air between them, a slight shifting of the earth's axis. The setting is hardly romantic, but if he knows her well, Ruth is, in her own indirect way, telling him that she is - perhaps - open to some of what he offers. Except that it is months since he has offered her anything, and when he had, she'd uttered a definitive no. He knows his timing is terrible, and he imagines their relationship to be something other than what it is.
He also suspects he has waited too long to act.
"Why is Jack Daniels returning to London for three months?" Ruth asks. "Surely it can't just be because we're an agent short."
He drops his eyes to his drink, determined to resist the pull of the alcohol. "He experienced some ... personal difficulties," he says carefully, "and then when his partner moved in with someone else, he asked for extended leave. That was two months ago, and he's been back in London this past month. I'm told he's attempting to dry out before returning to Tunisia."
"So .." Ruth says quietly, lifting her eyes to his, "we're like a rehab centre?"
Harry smiles, turning towards her. Her pupils are wide, and a slight smile turns her lips. For a long moment they watch each other, until Harry wonders should he take a chance and reach out to touch her. He could grasp her hand in his. He'd rather kiss her, but they're still at work, in his office, and while it might be the right time, it's hardly the right place.
"Harry ..." Ruth says, holding his eyes, "what's wrong?"
He can't possibly tell her the truth. The truth is that he's wasted every opportunity he's had with her, either by his poor timing, or inaction, and he's about to do it all over again. "I'm just a bit tired, Ruth. It's been a long week so far."
He is tired, and it has been a long week, but that's not the real source of his melancholy. He can't tell her about the longing he has for her - the long working days when he's determined to occupy his mind so that thoughts of her creep in only occasionally, and the longer nights spent wondering will they ever find their way to one another. In a world where hatred appears to lurk in every corner, finding love with another is a gift which shouldn't be denied.
"I wonder whether Jack Daniels has been seconded to us to ... watch us, and report back."
Harry shakes his head. Is she mocking him? Are her words a reference to when she'd first joined Section D as a GCHQ mole? That had been over seven years ago, a lifetime in intelligence terms. "If he is then he needs to slot it in between his tasks. I plan to team him with Lucas. That way they can each ..."
".. keep an eye on each other?" Harry nods, before draining his glass. "Does Lucas know about this?"
Harry stands, turning to face Ruth. "Do you need a top up?" When she shakes her head, he strides across the office to his drinks cabinet, before sloshing another generous measure of whiskey into his glass. When he returns to the sofa, he again sits beside Ruth, but this time he sits close enough so that their bodies almost touch. The slightest movement from either of them could have their shoulders or thighs touching. He is testing her. Were their bodies to touch and she doesn't move away, his chances are good. If she deliberately puts distance between them, then the time is not right. Harry is surprised by his own level of optimism. He is sure she loves him. He just has to choose the right moment to address the issue.
Then there is Jack Daniels. For the young man's safety, he should keep the information to himself, but he needs to share something with her, something no-one else knows, even the young man's mother. He needs to demonstrate to Ruth that he trusts her above all others. Placing his glass of whiskey on the floor beside the sofa, he stands and crosses the floor to his desk, where he opens a folder, and removes a photograph the size of a postcard. When he is again seated beside Ruth, he hands the photograph to her.
"This is Jack Daniels," he says quietly, keeping his eyes on her as she scrutinises the image.
"He looks .. young," she says after a long silence while she gazes at the serious face of the new recruit, his eyes staring at the camera.
He turns slightly on the sofa, so that he is half-facing her. Their knees almost touch, but he can't allow her proximity to distract him. "His real name isn't Jack Daniels. He chose that legend himself."
"That's not unheard of, Harry. Many of those who work overseas use legends."
He takes a deep breath, then holds her eyes. "I am the only one who knows his real name, but I think - given your knack for uncovering truths - that you also need to know who he is." Seeing her eyebrows wrinkling in a frown, he knows he needs to word this revelation carefully and sensitively. He swallows. "Jack Daniels - as a name - is ironic. His real name is Graham Pearce. He's my son."
Harry watches as Ruth's face changes - from surprise to shock, then confusion, and then eventually, having slotted all the various pieces together, she smiles. "He's chosen that name deliberately," she says, and he nods.
As if the walls have ears, Harry also speaks quietly. "I'm the only one who knows his identity. Even his mother believes he's just completed a degree in computer science, and he's travelling for a few months." He hesitates, carefully choosing his words, watching Ruth while she examines the photograph of his son, perhaps searching for a family resemblance. Then he continues quietly, relieved to be talking about this with her. "He - Jack, Graham - has taken a long time to find his feet. He's had a drug and alcohol problem since his mid teens. He got off the drugs, but he still uses alcohol to ... deal with stressful situations."
"Like you," she says quietly, and then he is surprised and pleased when she reaches out and grasps his hand. His whiskey glass on the floor beside the sofa is forgotten. What is now happening is so much more important than the instant gratification provided by alcohol. He grasps her fingers between his, just in case she backs off. "Why would he want to work with you?" she asks, curling her fingers around his.
"I asked him the same thing. I suspect he wants to make my life difficult, but he told me he wants to `learn the craft' - his words. He's never before shown an interest in what I do. He even applied and completed the training without my knowledge, so when he rang me, asking could he begin in Section D, my first response was to say no, definitely not."
"Why? How better for him to learn than from his father?"
Harry sighs, his eyes roaming over Ruth's face - from her eyes, to her hair, then down her nose to her mouth. For a moment he believes her mouth to be calling him, drawing him to her. He resists the pull of her body, now so close to his that they share the same body warmth. "I've never wanted my children to follow in my footsteps. I viewed his interest in computer technology as a good thing. Now he's saying that if field work doesn't suit him, he can take a sideways step into technical support."
"Does he have the qualifications?"
"Almost. He only has one semester before he completes his Masters degree." Again their eyes meet, and so much more passes between them than can be conveyed in words.
"You don't have the right to deny him his dreams, Harry. If he wants to do this, you have to allow him."
"I know I do, but ... this section has a really bad record," and he hopes she understands what he means. When she nods, he continues, his voice quiet. "I don't want my son to die on some ... senseless operation." Seeing the surprise in her eyes, he feels the need to qualify his statement. "You have to admit, Ruth, that Colin's death was stupid and unnecessary, as was Jo's."
Suddenly Ruth's eyes are clouded by sad memories. While George hadn't been an intelligence agent, his death had been senseless - senseless and unnecessary. "We can't bring them back, Harry. We all know the risks this job brings. Does your son?"
"He does, because I told him. I related every work-related death for the past ten years, but still he wants to do this."
"Then you must stand back and treat him as you'd treat any of us."
Harry nods, squeezing her hand. "But I treat you differently, Ruth."
"That's because I'm an analyst."
"That's not the reason, no." And you know it, he thinks. The moment quickly passes.
"Perhaps equally as difficult for you will be to remember to call him Jack."
Harry smiles. He'll have no trouble with that. It's `Jack' being in a life-threatening operation which could potentially unhinge him. While he knows he should declare to management that Jack Daniels is his son, and that there could be a conflict of interest, he doesn't want to. "I suspect he's attempting to impress me," he says quietly.
"Of course he's hoping to impress you, Harry. I suspect that's the very reason he asked to work in this section.
Harry nods agreement. "If his mother gets wind of this, she'll ..." He can't even begin to imagine what Jane would do were she to discover where their son has chosen to work for three months. Castration might be high on her list of chosen penalties for him.
"Then let's hope she never finds out," Ruth says, again squeezing his hand, before pulling her hand from his and standing. "I should go home," she says. "There's a bus in fifteen minutes."
Harry quickly stands, taking the glass from Ruth's fingers, while forgetting that his own glass is still on the floor beside the sofa. "I can take you home, Ruth. I just have to call my driver."
"I can take the bus. It's no trouble." He notices that she's avoiding eye contact with him.
"Ruth," he says firmly, "please allow me to take you home. You've ... helped me tonight by listening to me, and I'd like to do something for you."
She turns then, lifting her eyes to his. "Is that all we are, Harry? People who do things for one another?"
"You know we're much more than that." She's still watching him, and so he throws away all caution. "Even if you don't acknowledge it, we're much more than co-workers, and we're much more than friends."
"I know we are."
"Then why can't you accept a ride home?"
She drops her eyes, but he sees the smile on her lips. "Very well," she says. "Perhaps we need to talk some more about Section D's latest recruit."
He moves closer to her, until they are almost touching. "I can think of much more interesting topics of conversation."
Ruth lifts her eyes, and he's relieved to see that she's smiling. "Such as?"
"Why don't I ring my driver, then on the way home I can share some of what I've been thinking."
He's pleased to see a flash of surprise pass across her face, along with a blush on her cheeks, and then when he steps away from her to make the call on his desk phone, she appears momentarily lost. The drive home could be very interesting indeed.
He finishes making the call. "Thomas is already downstairs," he says. "Ready?" He reaches out with his elbow, not really expecting her to respond, but she slips her hand through his arm, as she grabs her bag from over the back of a chair.
"Your son doesn't look much like you," she says, as they leave the office.
Harry stops, turning to look at her. "Perhaps from now on, we should refer to him as Jack."
"Of course. Jack doesn't look much like you."
They continue to the lifts, and are almost there when again he stops, turning towards her. "Jack looks uncannily like my late brother, Ben. He has the same long nose and thin face .. like our father."
Ruth nods, and Harry is surprised by his own personal revelations. Even with Ruth, it is unlike him to allude to his family members. They continue to the lift, and he presses the button to take them to the ground floor. Inside the lift he steps beside her, close enough that his arm rests against hers. When she doesn't move away from his touch, his level of optimism lifts even further.
"When we get to my flat," Ruth says quietly, staring ahead, "would you like to join me for a coffee ... to soak up the whiskey?"
"I would," he says.
Just then the lift reaches the ground floor, and they leave together, still standing close. When they are met by Harry's driver they are both relaxed and smiling.
"Thomas?" Harry says.
"Sir Harry. Ms Evershed. Your car's out front," so they follow him out the double doors and into the night.
They are settled beside one another in the back seat of the car, and this time Harry takes Ruth's hand and rests it on his knee. When she doesn't pull away, he silently admits that while for the next three months he could be facing all shades of hell, on this night he is a happy man.
