Friday 4th August 2006 - early evening:

Hearing a knock on his office door, Harry Pearce knows he's about to be the receiver of bad news. He looks up to see Ros Myers entering his private domain. Only Ros and Ruth are in the habit of entering without being invited, so Ros's uncharacteristic knocking already has him on edge.

"I only want good news, Ros," he says curtly, glancing back to the pile of reports sitting on one end of his desk - nagging him, while not yet demanding his full attention.

"And I only want a month on the south coast of France with a wealthy Frenchman, but alas, that is not to be my destiny."

Harry glances up at Ros, who has already sat herself on the chair across his desk. Her sarcasm is not a good sign, although it's preferable to her giving him a thorough bollocking. It is almost two weeks since Havensworth, and the memory of Ros's dressing down of him still smarts. Ruth had assured him it wasn't his fault, but he's sure it is. Most things are.

"So," he says calmly, "what brings you calling at this hour?"

Ros lifts her left wrist, and since she never wears a watch, she pretends to read the time. She sits back in her chair and offers him a long stare before speaking. "It's almost seven, and most people are home from work, and there were four more parcel bombs delivered this afternoon."

Harry flops back in his chair, sighing heavily. "That makes eleven. I was hoping that the original seven was all they had."

"Two were in Greater London, while the other two were in small towns in Essex."

"Demographic?"

"All men, and all are white, and employed."

Again Harry sighs. "And?"

"And what?"

"Injuries?"

"Minor burns to three, while the fourth unfortunately lost two fingers on his right hand, while his partner sustained minor burns to his chin. It appears the partner was attempting to kiss him at the same time he opened the parcel."

Harry grimaces, his mouth firm. "Send Ruth in," he says, sitting up straight. "I need her ... unique take on this."

Lifting his eyes to Ros, Harry knows that Ros's lifted eyebrows are worth a thousand words. "Consider it done," Ros says, rising from the chair, and leaving the office.

Harry had no sooner begun to check his email that morning when he'd received a call from a Chief Inspector in the counter-terrorism department of the Metropolitan Police, pleading for help from counter-terrorism in Mi5. The man had given a brief account of how parcel bombs - non-lethal, but able to cause minor injuries to anyone opening them - had been delivered to seven people scattered around the country. "We can't work out why those seven were chosen, and until we know, then we can't predict when, where or even if there'll be more."

Of course there will be more, Harry had thought once the call had ended. It had been an unpleasant way for the day to begin, and he'd suspected then that the mailing of these bombs was meant as a curtain raiser to something bigger .. perhaps much bigger.

Harry's musings are interrupted by Ruth, who breezes through his doorway like the door doesn't exist, and never has existed. He considers shouting the word, `knock', but given she'd no doubt ignore him, he glances up at her and frowns. Ignoring his odd mood, Ruth places an A4 notepad on the corner of his desk. He glares at the notepad, and then at her.

"I just thought I'd bring some of my findings, Harry. I hope you don't mind, but one of my contacts in the Met rang me this morning, asking for my help with this parcel bombing thing."

"One of your contacts?"

"From my days with GCHQ. Kevin Strudwick."

"How is it you've never mentioned this before, Ruth?"

"You've never asked. He's an asset, Harry. I thought we were meant to cultivate assets."

She's right, of course. "Go on," he says, holding in his irritation with himself. If he's being honest, he had experienced a brief moment of jealousy at the mention of this mysterious, never-before-mentioned Kevin.

Ruth waits, watching him closely, having noticed that his frown has deepened. "I've known Kevin for years. He's slowly rising in the ranks in the Met, and he's been a useful contact."

Harry leans back in his chair, wondering for how long Ruth has possessed the superpower of being able to read his thoughts, because there are times - like now - when he's certain she can. Being honest with himself for a moment, as much as she fascinates him, beguiles him, hypnotises him, he is still annoyed with her for turning down his invitation to a second dinner. Her excuse had sounded to him like the kind of thing a woman says to a man when she wishes to let him down kindly; when she wants to say, `you're just not what I'm looking for in a man', but wishes to avoid having a lengthy and possibly heated discussion about it. He doesn't believe that Ruth had been put off by others knowing about them. Ruth is sociable and friendly, and while she's not always the most confident of women, he can't believe she'd be upset at the prospect of others' gossiping about them. Subjects of gossip change as frequently as the weather, and already he is sure that their colleagues have lost interest in the prospect of them being a couple. There has to be another reason, and he'd like to know what it is, because he is struggling to come to terms with her apparent change of heart.

Their one and only dinner together had been three weeks earlier, twenty-one days, almost to the minute. That she'd said yes to his invitation had surprised him then, and it still surprises him. That she'd turned up at the restaurant at the appointed time had filled him with hope. She'd been a bright and challenging, interesting dinner companion, and the taxi ride to her house afterwards had been filled with anticipation, especially once he'd asked her to again have dinner with him. When they'd reached her front door he'd kissed her cheek, and she'd turned towards him, smiling. The words, "Goodnight, Harry", had been softly spoken, and he'd detected interest in her eyes, so that he'd walked back to the taxi with a spring in his step.

Then, only days later, Ruth had sounded the death knell to anything ever developing between them, and he's not felt truly happy since.

"Harry? Are you listening?" He focuses his eyes on her, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. "Are you alright?" she asks.

"Not really."

This time it is Ruth who frowns. "What is it?"

Again he sighs, his breath leaving him slowly. "This is neither the time nor the place for a conversation about my .. mood, Ruth." He watches as she drops her eyes. She knows, he thinks. She knows exactly why they can't talk about this now. It is not the right time. It is still too soon, and what's more, they have a potential crisis on their hands. "Tell me what you've found," he says at last, steeling himself to treating her as just another employee.

"Kevin Strudwick told me that the police had reached a dead end. They'd not been able to find anything connecting the recipients."

"I'd heard the same thing," Harry says quietly, keeping his warring emotions in check.

"I've engaged Malcolm's help with this, and the first thing he found was that all the parcels were delivered by the same courier company - The Daily Planet."

"Go on."

"When the recipients were interviewed by police, they mentioned the shape and size of the parcels - the size of a paperback novel - and thin enough to slide through the mail slots in doors."

"So none have seen the couriers?"

"No .. some have, but the couriers were delivering other parcels to other addresses, so clearly unaware there were bombs amongst their deliveries." Harry considers her conclusion, then files it away. It's more possible that the couriers and their vans are fakes - copies of the real thing. "The odd thing about the parcels is that while they were all the same size and shape, they were each packaged differently. Some were in manila packages, while other packages were white, and some were green."

"So we can't put out an announcement about the packages, other than to avoid opening packages shaped like a paperback."

"Which will upset the online booksellers."

Harry twists his mouth in a grimace. God forbid that the online booksellers would be inconvenienced. Are they not aware that this is a national emergency? Noticing Ruth watching him, perhaps waiting for him to catch up, he adds, "You have more," and Ruth nods.

"Malcolm and I have spent the best part of today on this, and we think - at least, I think - that we may have made an important connection." She waits for a heartbeat, and Harry nods, his cue for her to continue. "The name of the courier company is significant, because ... and this is a giant leap to have made, but it's all we have. There's an agent in Mi6 who goes by the code name, Rogue Planet." Harry frowns. That certainly is a giant leap. "Malcolm did some investigating, and he discovered that the agent's name is Calvin Shadleigh."

Harry's frown deepens. That name rings a bell, but he can't remember from where. "Is there more to link this to Shadleigh, because using a code name with the word `planet' in it isn't quite enough."

"I know. Malcolm has ... dug up ... some memos which have passed between Shadleigh and a member of the executive of the intelligence service. These memos have been encoded, but Malcolm and his small team have been able to decipher them. The suggestion from the decoded messages is that while we - counter-terrorism - are occupied with small scale activities, we'll not see a larger threat looming."

"I'd expected the low-threat nature of the parcel bombing to be hiding something much more sinister. It's an old ploy, and one generally used by intelligence services around the world. While the population are kept busy being afraid of Threat A, they won't see Threat B until it hits."

"But .." Ruth begins, and Harry can see that she is continuing with caution, "it appears that it's our own who are attacking the people."

"I had worked that out, Ruth, but you haven't shared with me the name of the high ranking intelligence service person."

"I suppose I was hoping you'd be able to guess, especially since -"

And she is unable to finish her sentence. They are suddenly and noisily interrupted by Adam Carter, who, like the Ros and Ruth before him, barges into the office unannounced. "Harry," he says curtly, noticing Ruth's presence, but still undeterred, "I've just had an angry phone call from Justin Singh -"

"And who, pray tell, is Justin Singh?"

"He's the lawyer from West London who received one of this morning's parcel bombs. He's threatening to sue the intelligence service for not managing to intervene before these bombs were delivered to innocent members of the public."

"Tell him I'm in a meeting," Harry says with increasing irritation, "and why can't you deal with it?"

"He insists on speaking to you. He seems to know you by name."

"God," Harry says, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. "Was he injured by the bomb?"

"Burns to four fingers on his right hand, which required a hospital visit, the result of which was he missed a whole morning in court."

"God forbid that he misses out on his exorbitant court appearance fee," Harry says, his words heavily laced with sarcasm. "Take his number, and tell him I'll get back to him within the hour. I'm in a meeting."

"Right," Adam says, quickly turning to leave the office.

Harry looks back to where Ruth sits, waiting for the interruption to be behind them. She flicks some invisible speck from her skirt before lifting her eyes to his. "You asked for the name of the intelligence executive who has been covertly communicating with Calvin Shadleigh."

"I did, Ruth."

"And I was hoping you'd guess the identity of this person, since -"

"Please don't tell me it's the Chairman of the JIC .." Harry watches Ruth from across his desk, and almost shudders when he detects a slight nod of her head.

"It's none other than your favourite person, Harry."

"Oliver Mace."

Ruth's nod is slight, and it's clear to him that she has dreaded having to be the bearer of the news.