A/N: The plotty stuff develops in this chapter ... bear with me.

Malcolm keyed in the time frame of Harry's leave five months earlier. Then he set the program – as usual – to let him know when it had found a match by sending a coded message to his mobile phone.

Now all he had to do was wait.

Harry:

The Grid – 11.12 am:

Harry had no sooner sat himself at his desk than he felt someone at the door. It was the gentle knock and the polite cough which gave away the identity of his visitor.

"Harry," Malcolm said politely, waiting to be invited into Harry's inner sanctum. "There's something I need to run by you."

"Come in, Malcolm," Harry said, indicating the chair across the desk from his own.

"Cutting a long story short, I've found a connection – rather loose at this stage – between the 2005 London bombings, and last month's bombings in Manchester. As you know, the brains behind the London bombings is still something about which we're not entirely certain."

Malcolm took a breath, and shuffled the notes in front of him. Harry knew better than to interrupt or – his preferred response – to express irritability.

"The London bombers themselves," continued Malcolm, "deliberately expressed that they were acting on behalf of Islam, and in particular British Muslims, and `our mothers, children, brothers and sisters in Palestine, Afghanistan, Iraq and Chechnya', to quote Shehzad Tanweer. Thus, we were led to believe they were cleanskins with an agenda all of their own, acting on behalf of other oppressed peoples."

"And your point, Malcolm?"

"We have uncovered a similar agenda from the statements left behind by the Manchester bombers. It was the statement by Shezad Tanweer that caught my attention, since similar sentiments were expressed by Afzaal Bhalli, who was -"

"Purported to be the brains behind the Manchester bombings."

"Yes," Malcolm breathed, "but it seems he was merely a worker bee. The queen bee – or king bee – is someone who has until now been hidden from view."

"And you're here to tell me who this king bee is, Malcolm."

"I'm not certain yet, but I have uncovered email evidence of contact between each of Tanweer and Bhalli with Abdul Golovkin. Golovkin had a Pakistani mother and a Russian father."

"Don't tell me this is Viktor Golovkin's son."

"The very same. We don't know if Viktor is still in the land of the living. If he is, he's been very quiet during the past ten years or so, but his son, Abdul is an extremist. He is a Muslim with a Russian agenda for total world power."

"And the quickest way to world domination is to destabilise stable economies through terrorism."

"Right," said Malcom.

"The question remains," Harry added, steepling his fingers under his chin, "is how it is we didn't receive ample warning for each of these bombings – both 2005 and last month – when they must have been planned months in advance."

"I think that Abdul Golovkin is the key, Harry. I'm here to ask your permission to hack into some quite sensitive bank data and email accounts. I'm getting close to Golovkin electronically, but I just may tread on some important toes in the process."

"Malcolm, I can't profess to have any idea of what it is you actually do, but I trust you and your methods, and as far as I'm concerned you can step on all the toes you like, so long as you catch this Golovkin in the act."

"Even if it means that some red faces may result?"

"Even then, Malcolm. Was there anything else?"

Harry noticed Malcolm squirm slightly in his chair. Malcolm was one person who, apart from a propensity for blushing, never gave away his feelings. Were he ever to develop an interest in gambling, he would make the perfect poker player.

"Er, yes, but this next thing is ….. er …... delicate, and I'd rather not talk about it here. Can we meet after work, Harry?"

"Alright," Harry said, almost certain that he knows what this will be about. "How about seven o'clock at The Fox and Chicken? It's along the -"

"I know where it is, and I'll be there."

The Fox and Chicken pub – 7.17 pm:

Harry knew that Malcolm knew he'd be late. It was practically a given. He wished it were otherwise, but Harry had no control at all over politicians and the fact that they expected him to be on call all the hours that he was given.

"Sorry I'm late, Malcolm," Harry said, taking a seat opposite his technical analyst.

"It's alright, Harry. I enjoy people-watching. I am endlessly fascinated by the behaviour of our species. I find most people completely bewildering." Malcolm smiled across at Harry, and seemed to include his boss in the group of people he found to be bewildering. "I bought you a Glenfiddich. I hope that's okay."

"That's perfect. Thank you, Malcolm. Now, what's all the mystery?" Harry had a fair idea, but he wasn't about to pre-empt Malcolm by saying something like, `I know what you've found.' He sipped his drink as he watched Malcolm wriggle in his seat as he drew an envelope from his coat pocket.

Malcolm opened the manilla envelope, and from it drew several sheets of A4 paper. "Before I show you these," he said, "I have to tell you that I began my search intending to give you a gift. Now, I'm not so sure how much of a gift this is, but I'll leave that up to you. For the past eight months I've been electronically searching Europe for Ruth."

Harry tried to keep the concern out of his face. The last thing he needed was people digging around electronically in search of her. She was vulnerable enough as as it was without techno-wizards like Malcolm performing their particular brand of digital archaeology.

"I set up my search to trawl the cities of Europe, beginning with the most likely ones according to Ruth's interests and tastes …... cities like Paris, Rome ..."

"Athens, Florence, Venice," Harry added, almost without thinking.

"I found her, Harry," Malcolm said, placing the first of his printouts in front of Harry. In that photograph, her image had been caught by a CCTV camera as she left a smart, modern office. "It seems she's working as an interpreter for the newly formed European Council On Foreign Relations in Zurich. She's a clever woman, your Ruth."

Harry almost missed Malcolm's words about Ruth, but a small part of his brain acknowledged the words, `your Ruth'. She's certainly that. He was staring at her image on the paper. They had agreed that they would not possess images of each other, either electronically, or hard copies. The dangers in so doing were many, and so they were having to rely on their memories. Harry found himself tracing the shape of Ruth's face with his finger. He suddenly drew his finger away, and looked across at Malcolm, who had been carefully observing his boss.

"What else do you have?" Harry said, trying hard to sound businesslike.

"Well, there's this," Malcolm replied, sliding another image across the table to come to rest in front of Harry.

When he leaned in and saw his own image, walking down a narrow street, holding hands with Ruth, he knew he was sprung, and any attempts to fake ignorance were now pointless. The image had been captured from satellite, so their faces were difficult to identify, but it was clear who they were. On the date and time listed at the bottom of the photograph, Harry Pearce and Ruth Evershed were walking down the main street of the small village in which Ruth lived, just a twenty minute bus ride from her work in Zurich. He remembers the day. It was a Thursday – Ruth's day off – and they had taken part in the village festival – held every fortnight – in which the local farmers brought their cows into town. He and Ruth had been woken early by the sounds from outside their bedroom window, sounds of cowbells, and cow handlers calling out to each other. It had barely been dawn. They'd tumbled into one another's arms in their bed in Ruth's third floor apartment above the main street, and made slow and sensual love. They had the whole day to themselves, so what better way to wake up? After breakfast they'd wandered along the street to where the cows were gathered in the Town Hall – a village tradition to honour the cows – and they'd bought jams and pickles and all kinds of breads and cheeses from the stalls set up outside the town hall. Cows inside, and people outside. Harry remembers Ruth commenting that she thought that to be a much more civilised arrangement between animals and humans. They had wandered back to her apartment around lunchtime, each carrying a carry bag of produce, while they held hands as they walked. Harry can remember feeling that in that moment he hadn't a care in the world. He'd temporarily forgotten the secret world of satellites and surveillance.

He looked up at Malcolm, who had been watching him the whole time.

"How did you know where she was?" Malcolm asked.

"She sent me a postcard. I received it around two weeks before I took my leave. It was coded, of course, but it was clear to me what she meant. She lives outside Zurich, which was where that image of us both was captured."

"Yes, I gathered that," Malcolm replied. "I had to follow her movements using satellite images. Harry, I began this search for you, so that you would know where she was, just in case you wanted to see her, but I see you got there ahead of me."

"So it seems." Harry thought of acting angrily to Malcolm's scrutiny of Ruth's whereabouts, but decided against it. He knew that Malcolm's motivation was an honourable one, and came from a place of respect for both he and Ruth.

Harry noticed a discomfort in Malcolm's body language. To be honest, Malcolm often appeared discomforted, but not normally in a situation such as this, with the two of them sitting in a pub over a drink.

Malcolm coughed into his hand before he continued. "There are two other images of Ruth, taken only two days ago," Malcolm continued. "I've been worried about showing these to you, but having come this far, I have to keep going, I'm afraid."

In the few seconds it took for Malcolm to find the relevant photograph, and then push it across the table to him, Harry's stomach dropped, and his felt a ringing in his ears. He was afraid of what Malcolm was about to reveal. Ruth with another man? Possible, but highly unlikely. Ruth engaging in an act of espionage? Again, very unlikely.

As he dropped his eyes to the photograph – another one of Ruth in Zurich, just as she'd left her work for the day – he wasn't sure what Malcolm wanted him to see. He looked hard, but to his eyes, it was his Ruth – visible from the knees up - stepping through a doorway onto the street.

"This image of her in profile is more defined," Malcolm said quietly, slowly pushing another printout in front of Harry.

Harry looked at it, and then he saw it, what Malcolm was trying to show him. "Fucking arsing hell," Harry said. "What have I done?"

A/N: 1) Although the London bombings did occur in 2005, and the name I mentioned as one of the bombers was so, the Manchester bombings, and all personnel associated are fictional. Abdul Golovkin is fictional.

2) The European Council On Foreign Relations does exist, but its offices are in London. For the purpose of this story, there is also an office in Zurich. The Council was set up in October 2007, so I am assuming that Ruth had been working there from the council's inception.