7

Reckoning ch 2

1.

'Come on, penny for them?'

'What?'

'Penny for your thoughts', John says to Ruth teasingly. She is finding it hard to resist his smile, and his charm. His light-heartedness is a welcome relief from Harry's sombre mood. She smiles back. 'Well, I was thinking that in three days from now, I will be standing with my choir in St Paul's Cathedral, to sing Beethoven's 9th symphony.'

'Well, well, well…you're a dark horse, Ms Evershed. I didn't have you down as a singer.'

'Oh. And…you had me as what, exactly?' I am flirting with him…she is astonishing herself, but she feels freeer, looser, when he is around. For all that he knows about the middle east, in other ways he is rather superficial, and light, but God it is lovely not to have to ponder and reflect on everything she is planning to say before actually saying it…

'Oh, as mostly a reader…', he says somewhat inanely. 'And…is it possible to come to this concert?' he asks charmingly.

She stares at him. 'Are you actually interested in Beethoven's music?', she asks dubiously.

'Not really, I'm more of a Stones kind of guy', he replies disarmingly, 'but if it means getting you out of this place and into a pub for a drink, I'll sit through anything.'

She can't help laughing. He manages to be flirtatious without being smarmy, so utterly at ease and confident in his own skin, so open too, that she can read him like a book. She doesn't kid herself for a second that he really wants her. He has a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man (she's read his file, obviously), as someone who can't help try it on with female co-workers, without ever crossing the line into harassment. If Ros were here, he would try it with her, but she isn't, Ruth is the only woman on the grid, so he tries it on with her. And he does it so charmingly, so affectionately almost, that she cannot feel offended at all. He is, in fact, James Bond incarnate, she reflects, open to all and to no one, and therefore utterly unattractive to her. Whereas Harry, of course, is open to no one at all, which is why she still hankers for him. And which is why too she would love for him to come to her concert. Not that he has shown any sign of remembering.

She smiles at John brightly. 'You're on. I'll give you my spare ticket tomorrow.'

'John? Ruth?'

Derby turns round. Harry is standing three feet away from Ruth' desk, face unscrutable, eyes cold.

'In my office please? Something has come up.'

John saunters over to Harry's office, with a wink at Ruth who is following them, fully aware of Harry's coldness, not giving a damn.

2.

'So, in a nutshell, we think that an as-yet unknown group of Muslim fundamentalists are training in Egypt with the full knowledge of the CIA; in fact, that some elements within the CIA are funding them, with the complicity and agreement of some elements within our own secret services…

'With a view to launch multi-pronged and simultaneous attacks on several European capitals. The ultimate goal being to seal a Western, Christian coalition of the willing, with the US and the UK at the core but this time…'

'This time with all the others on board, especially Paris and Berlin…'

'That's right. Probable targets: Eiffel Tower, Reichstag, the King's residence in Spain, St Peter's basilica in Rome…'

'And in London?'

'That we don't know.'

The enormity of what they are actually saying silences Ruth and John. Harry, so far, has said very little, beyond the snippets of information Tariq has at last pulled out from various sources. He has not needed to say very much: Ruth and John think so much alike, feed off each other's mind so well that watching them interact would be a joy – if it were not Ruth with whom the younger man is flirting, sparring, conversing…

He was watching them earlier, laughing, smiling. He heard John ask Ruth about her concert…he should have been the one to ask, he should be going to it. He wanted to, in fact, but the pressures of work, his inability to let go of his inhibitions, once again, got in the way…

With an effort he drags himself back to their meeting. It's a breakthrough, at last. Of a kind. They know the contours of Nightingale's new move. They know some of the players. They guess what some of the targets are, except for London, their own patch. He should be pleased. He is not. He wants Ros and Lucas back. Ros especially, whom he has come to love almost as a daughter, in whose emotionally closed mindset he recognises himself. He wants Derby out. He hates the younger man's superficiality, much as he admires the way he can become utterly professional and focused when the occasion demands it. It irks him that Ruth doesn't seem to realise that Derby is just a handsome glossy flirt, that outside the narrow confines of the job his character isn't worth a penny. It irks him that Derby can get her to laugh, and smile, in a way he himself never could. And he cannot stand the fact that he is allowing himself to be distracted by those two, at a crucial time in their battle against Nightingale.

He stands up suddenly. 'Right. We've done as much as we can for now. What we need to do is…sorry, I need to take this.' He pulls out his phone. His hand grips the back of his chair. His face has gone pale. 'I'm on my way'.

He hangs up, and looks at his team. He's haggard. 'That was the Home Secretary. His precedessor's body was fished out of the Channel four hours ago. Preliminary findings suggest that…that he had been tortured.'

Instinctively, Ruth reaches out. 'Harry..I'm so sorry. I know you liked him and…'

He gives her the briefest of nods. 'I need to go and see Lawrence. Ruth, you're coming with me. I want another pair of ears to listen to what he has to say. I've got to get something from my office first though. John, Tariq, you keep going,. Re-analyse everything we have got.'

As they walk down the stairs together, and in the car on the way to the private, expensive clinic where Lawrence is half recuperating/half reintroducing himself to government business, they remain silent, each locked in their own thoughts.

3.

Andrew Lawrence is propped up on a bed, surrounded with red boxes and paperwork, his personal secretary at hand. It looks as if he has moved his office to the clinic, more or less. He no longer seems like a young puppy eager to please. His face is older somewhow, sterner, more substantial. The explosion, Ros' critical condition, have tested his character. He came through, and it shows. That much Harry is forced to acknowledge.

'We will re do a systematic trawl of everything we've got, and everything we haven't got', Harry starts without preamble. 'Starting with CCTV cameras footage three weeks before the day we realised he had disappeared.'

Lawrence nods. 'Good. Any news on the possible London target?'

'No.'

'We're running out of time.'

'My agents are doing everything they can, Home Secretary', Harry says through gritted teeth. He can be tough on them, and demanding, but no one, and certainly not this politician, can criticise them.

Lawrence stares at him speculatively. He's noticed the tension between the head of the counter-terrorism section, and this analyst, Ruth Evershed. Mousy, non descript, blending with the wallpaper almost…but there is something in the way those two are not looking at each other which speaks of difficult business. His politician brain registers and files away for future reference. But he is not merely a politician out for the highest office in the land. He is also, as it happens, committed to his country.

'You don't like me', he states bluntly. 'Please. Don't insult my intelligence by denying it. You don't like me, and never have. Clearly I am no Nicholas Blake but…'

'No. Clearly not. He's dead, and you're alive.' From the corner of his eyes, he can see Ruth wincing at that remark, he can sense her sharp intake of breath. Right now, he doesn't care.

'Just, Sir Harry. Just alive. I was hoping that the fact they left me as good as dead would convince you that I am not part of Nightingale. I was obviously wrong about that. Let me tell you this, though. I might be young enough to be your son – well, almost. I might be a politician who needs to court public opinion on order to stay in office. But I am not the insubstantial idiot you seem to think I am. Nor am I so ambitious as to be willing to authorise acts of terror against civilians abroad.' Well, that got his attention., he tells himself. 'I am absolutely determined to root Nightingale out, and see all the traitors punished as harshly as the laws of the land permit. And I will do this with you, or without you. So you have a choice. Either you work with me on this without treating me like a second rate official; or you're out.'

Harry's face is white with anger. 'You wouldn't dare', he almost hisses.

'Come, come, Sir Harry. I almost died a month ago, there's hardly anything I could not ask of the PM right now. Or of the DG of MI5 for that matter. If I want your head, I will have it. Right now, however, I happen not to want it. I need you too much….But there is a limit to what I am willing to put up with. Make no mistake about that.'

Harry gets up from his chair, and sits directly on the bed. He can't help admiring the young man, at this point – by his backbone, his frankness, his ruthlessness. 'Home Secretary', he begins softly, lethally, equally ruthless. 'Let me tell you this. You are not the first, in your position, to threaten me with the sack. Nor, dare I say, will you be the last. I will work with you against Nightingale. But if I ever find out that you have double-crossed me, or that you are part of this monstrous plot, I will destroy you. You make no mistake about that.' He lets the words sink in. 'Now, as we have established how much we dislike each other, can we get on with the business of figuring out what happened with Blake?' He fishes out a mobile phone from his pocket and hands it over to Lawrence. 'This is for you. My computer tech programmed it. It is entirely secure. And it can only dial one number. This one. Which has been programmed in the same way.' He pulls out a second mobile. You keep one, and I keep the other. That way, we will have constant, and unmonitored access to each other. Give this number to no one. And I do mean, no one. Ms Evershed here will be the only person in my staff who will know what those numbers are – for security. Any routine business, we conduct through regular channels. Even routine Nightingale business. Anything else, we go through those phones. Only those phones.'

My God he is a wily old fox, Lawrence can't help being impressed. 'You came here knowing that we would have no choice but to work together, didn't you?', he asks.

Harry nods, with the hint of a smile. 'What could Nicholas have known that they would torture him for? What kind of privileged information were you given by the PM when you were offered the job?'

Slowly, over the next hour, with Ruth taking notes, and not saying anything at all, they try and piece it together. They can't see it, though. But when Lawrence at last signals that their meeting is over (he still tires easily) the air is no longer crackling with hostility – at least, not so much of it. As Harry and Ruth are about to leave, Lawrence calls them back.

'Sir Harry?'

'Yes?'

'Any…any news of Ros Myers? I have had my staff ring up the hospital but as I'm not related to her they won't give me any information.'

Harry stares at him, thrown by the uncertain, almost pleading tone of the question. 'She's recovering', he says bluntly.

'Ah. Good. Very good….next time you see her, will you tell her that….how grateful I…I sent flowers but…'

'She does not need any distractions right now and…'

'I'll tell her', Ruth interjects. These are the first words she uttered since entering the room and both men look at her puzzingly, as if they had forgotten she was there. 'I'll tell her. She's asked about you too', she adds on an impulse, not caring that Harry is stiffening beside her.

Lawrence smiles, his first genuine smile of the afternoon. 'Really? Well, Ms Evershed…if you could pass on my regards and tell her that when she is better I will go and see her maybe? IF she'd like to, that is…'

Ruth answers the smile. 'I will', she repeats.

They leave the room, with a nod to the security officers guarding the door 24/7. AS soon as they are out of earshot, Harry turns to Ruth. 'Why did you do that for?' he asks angrily.

'What? Passing on his best wishes to Ros? Why not?'

He can't believe she doesn't see it. 'Do you honestly believe that it would be a good thing if those two were…My God. The last thing we need, the very last thing, is a vulnerable Ros reeled in by a Home Secretary whom I can't fully trust – and this in the middle of our most important operation.'

'First, you are insulting her by supposing that she would let whatever there might be between them affect her judgement. Second, you don't trust him. But others might. I do. And so does Ros, for all we know. It might be a good idea to cut him some slack, at this point.' She's getting angry with him, with his arrogance and high handedness. His conversation with the HS threw her too – yet another reminder of what he is capable of.

He grits his teeth. He hates it when she adopts that tone of voice, clipped, stern, formal. 'He wants to get close to her', he states stubbornly. 'I want to know why.'

'The facts that she is very beautiful and that she saved his life might have something to do with it'.

'Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Ruth', he shoots backs.

They stand across each other, irritated with each other, tense, very close, yet so far apart. She sighs. 'You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that…' She's feeling exhausted, suddenly. And it shows. 'Come on', he says more softly. 'I'll have the driver takes you home. Take the evening off.'

'It's OK. I've got a choir rehearsal tonight anyway…John will drive me to it from the Grid, so I've got to get back.'

'I see', he says coldly, after a pause. 'Well. Let's go back, then.'

In the car, he asks her, boss to employee, what she thought of the conversation they have just had with Lawrence. She gives her views. He listens and comments. They get back to the Grid.

He locks himself up in his office, and draws the blinds down.

She sits at her desk, fingers hovering above her keyboard.

So far apart.