A/N: Characters from Spooks are not mine, but Jude Trinder is a product of my own imagination.

Trinder Services, London. Office of Jude Trinder. Monday 9.03 am:

"Malcolm. It's been -"

"Too long, Jude."

"Sit down, and tell me why you're here. I heard you'd left MI5."

"Nothing escapes you, does it?"

"Not if I can help it." Jude Trinder sat up in her executive office chair, and shuffled the papers in front of her. Her resemblance to Juliet Shaw still had the power to startle Malcolm. Jude wore her hair in the same way – wavy, natural – although hers was cut shorter that Juliet's. When Jude stood it was also easy to see how much shorter and more petite she was that Juliet, and with a rounder face, and softer mouth. And she's an infinitely nicer person, too, thought Malcolm, as he smiled across at his old colleague and friend.

"I'm here as a favour to an old friend."

"How old?"

"Harry Pearce."

"That old?" Jude said with one eyebrow raised. "How is the old war horse? I haven't set eyes on him in years, although information still trickles through to me from …... well, you have no need to know from where."

Malcolm smiled slightly, and then cleared his throat with a polite cough, a sign that he was about to say something he considered important, and that discretion was required. "Harry doesn't know I'm here. I retired a little over eight months ago after an …... an incident, but I still manage to keep in touch. I'm here to ask you a favour. I'll pay you, of course, but what I require will take a delicate hand, and you're the first person I thought of."

Malcolm continued with his request. When he'd finished, he looked across at Jude enquiringly. When she said nothing, he again coughed quietly into his hand. "What do you think?" he asked.

Jude Trinder pulled at the lapels of her smart suit, and then absently twisted one of her hoop earrings with the fingers of one hand, while the other fiddled with the mouse of her computer, twirling it around in circular motion on the mousepad. Malcolm knew her well enough to know that this distracted behaviour was what she did when she was thinking deeply. "What makes you think I can pull this off successfully? As you may have noticed, I'm almost permanently desk bound these days. I don't venture into the field unless someone I care about is involved, and even then, it's best I stay away. I'm not sure I'm qualified to be doing this. And don't forget, I'm also on the wrong side of fifty."

"This is hardly field work, Jude. There is no danger to speak of. Besides, I consider you to be eminently qualified, and your advanced age is a bonus." Malcolm smiled at his own reference to her age. "You have obviously forgotten the occasion when MI5 agents – Harry included – first noticed you, and decided to approach you with a view to recruiting you."

"That was a long time ago, Malcolm. I was young and a bit stupid. I thought I could do anything."

"You talked that woman off the ledge. Even the police psychologist had no luck with her. You have a gift, Jude, and I hate to see it go to waste."

Jude thought for a while, twisting her mouth and pulling at her bottom lip with her fingers while her mind worked quickly. "When do you need me to do this?"

Malcolm, smelling victory, smiled widely. "As soon as possible. Time is of the essence. Immediately would be nice."

"Immediately is impossible, but I can probably detach myself from this desk by – say – Friday. That's only four days away. I wouldn't do this for anyone other than you, you know, Malcolm. Even Harry would have to beg me on bended knee. Speaking of Harry, how much does he know about this?"

"Nothing at all," Malcolm replied, " and nor should he. He has enough on his plate at present."

"So …... and I have to ask this question …... why would you go to the trouble to pay a private security agent to do a favour for Harry Pearce? It's as though the thousands of pounds you'll be paying me is a gift to Harry – if it works, that is, and there's no guarantee that it will. Why would you do that?"

"Because I can, Jude. And because I believe that Harry deserves to be happy. But mainly because I messed up back before Ruth first went to Cyprus. I … er …... I said something to Ruth that broke she and Harry apart, just as they were growing closer. I regret that deeply. I feel that I owe them both the opportunity of happiness."

"I hope I can do justice to this act of faith, Malcolm."

"I have absolute faith in you, Jude."

Jude sat back in her chair, and put her fingers together, steepling them in front of her face, her thumbs together under her chin. "That's what worries me, Malcolm, but I'll do my best." Jude's grey eyes settled on a point on her desk in front of where Malcolm sat, and she appeared to go into an almost trance-like state. After a minute or two, she looked up and focussed her eyes on Malcolm. "I have an even better idea, one which I may very well live to regret. You know how litigation lawyers sometimes state `no win, no fee'? How about this time I do the same? If I'm not successful, you'll not owe me a penny. Besides, I could do with a holiday in the sun."

Malcolm Wynn-Jones stood and smiled. He reached across the desk, and shook hands with his old friend. "It's a deal," he said.

Thames House, London. Section D. Monday 3.25 pm:

Harry Pearce sat back in his chair and quickly flicked through the top file on the pile of files left on his desk by his latest intelligence analyst. Competent, but uninspiring. Had he fifty hours in a day, he could have done better himself, and still managed to fulfil his duties as section head, and manage a few hours of sleep as well. Where was an intuitive, remarkably intelligent analyst when one was needed? Not anywhere near here, he thought.

His deepest regret – after allowing Ruth to go into exile three years earlier – was in doing nothing to stop her returning to Cyprus after George was killed. He'd not taken her seriously when she'd told him that her home was still in Cyprus, and she'd planned to return. He'd suppressed his deep feelings of grief at the prospect of losing her again, and each day of the past eight months since she had returned to Cyprus his heart had become progressively more and more leaden. Since when had loving someone been so painful?

Harry's only contact with Ruth during the past eight months had been a brief letter he'd sent her after Jo had died. It was one of the hardest letters he'd ever had to write. It took him the best part of two days to write it and rewrite it until he was satisfied with his wording. He'd used phrases like, `she died bravely', and `the ultimate sacrifice', and `she put the lives of others ahead of her own', and knew how hollow were such words. Ruth would surely read between the lines how guilty he felt about Jo's death, and perhaps to how guilty he felt about George's death. Harry had wanted to sign off on a personal note. He'd wanted to acknowledge – even if only in a small way – how much he and Ruth had once meant to one another. He couldn't allow himself that indulgence, as he knew she'd see right through it. In the end, he settled on something friendly, but not formal. He'd written:

I know you will be distressed by this news, and I'm sorry to again be the agent of such distress. It has never been my wish to hurt you, or to bring you pain.

Don't hesitate to contact me if you wish further details.

Yours always,

Harry.

He'd taken a long time to decide upon the most appropriate way to sign off. In the end he'd chosen to write `Yours always', because it was the truth. He belonged to her, and he always would. Even if in the likely event she never again spoke to him, his heart was, and always would be, hers.

Polis, Cyprus. Monday (a week later) 1.42 pm:

Jude had taken a couple of days to settle in, and to establish where to buy the best fish, and the best fresh vegetables. Before she'd left London, she had rented a small beach house online,. According to Google maps, her own beach house and that in which lived Ruth Evershed (but known on Cyprus as Ruth Gordon) were only a few hundred yards apart, both only a short walk to the beach. She'd had ample time in which to devise a strategy, and as usual, she decided to think on her feet, trust her considerable instincts, and let Fate take care of the rest.

Jude ventured out of her house by the beach, intending to walk along the beach and into the town for some supplies – bread, milk, butter, eggs. She wore a colourful, flowing kaftan with leather sandals, and slung carelessly over her shoulder was a calico shopping bag. To anyone who asked, she was Jude Moore, having a well-earned break from the private business she ran in London with her husband. Most of that was true, except that Jude Trinder and Douglas Moore had been divorced for almost two decades. For the third day in a row, she met Ruth coming the other way along the beach, and for the third day in a row, they smiled at one another and exchanged a `Good afternoon'. For the first time, just after they passed one another, Jude heard Ruth say, "Excuse me. Are you English?"

Jude stopped walking, turned, and smiled. "Yes, I'm from London. You?"

Contact.