7

Reckonings ch 4

This chapter is not for the fainthearted…enjoy!

1.

'Ruth?'

She looks up from her station, eyes garded, as ever these days. He clears his throat. 'I'm afraid Ros isn't well enough yet to accompany me to Paris. She'll stay here with Tariq and John and cover the London of the operation. So I'm afraid that you'll have to come with me.'

'To Paris?'

'Yes.'

'But…but surely you might need a field agent. Why not take John instead? Or even Lucas? He is well enough now….' She is flustered, caught on the wrong foot, but she would do more or less anything to avoid going.

He averts his yes. 'No. John has got to stay here. So does Lucas. Our priority is the London side of things. It's very unlikely that I'll need a field agent in Paris, but I'll definitely need an analyst. That leaves me very little choice. Sorry, Ruth.' He can tell she's not thrilled by the idea – to say the least. Nor is he: the potential for awkward and difficult moments is more or less unlimited here, not to mention the old memories of Havensworth, of their stilted and difficult conversation in the corridor of that hotel, what preceded that conversation…he doubts that she would remember: Unlike him, she's lived a full life since then, she has known the multifaceted intimacy of a proper relationships…so why would she remember?

'Fine', she states shortly. 'Shall I make travel arrangements?'

'It's been taken care of. We leave on the Eurostar tomorrow morning. We'll be back the day after.'

What about my life, she wants to say. I might have had plans, I might not be able to leave, just like that, with hardly any notice….but of course, she doesn't have a life, she doesn' t have plans, as he knows full well. She grits her teeth. 'Fine. I will have all relevant briefings on your desk by the end of the day.'

He looks at her for a few seconds. One day, he thinks, we'll have to clear the air between us, to find our way back to our friendship even though there can be nothing more than that. But not now…I don't have the strength for this now. Now is not the time…

He nods a worldless thank you, and goes back to his office.

She turns back to her screen, without seeing it.

2.

As usual, when they start analysing and dissecting Nightingale, while the Eurostar takes them to Paris, they somehow manage to put unspoken tensions and unexplored exasperation behind them. Miraculously, they check into their separate bedrooms, at a lovely hotel which Harry knew from his stint in Paris, without too much awkwardness. Harry's bedroom, a suite really, has been organised into a temporary office and debugged by the French secret services. Hers is a few doors down the corridor – not too close then, which suits her fine. They meet in the lobby half an hour after checking-in, and are taken to the French 'Thames House' by armoured car.

And then, the troubles begin. The conversation unfolds in English and French – both Ruth and Harry can speak the language, but their host, Harry's counterpart, curteously insists on using both. He is charming, clever, in his mid forties, good-looking, with the right balance of humour and seriousness. He is very friendly to Ruth. Very obviously married too, but he makes Harry feel his age and lack of social graces. Not a good start, then.

And it gets worse. Much worse, in fact, as Pierre Bernard outlines his service's latest thinking on the French wing of Nightingale.

'I'm sorry', Pierre Bernard says, with a typical gallic shrug. 'But if we move in on this network now, we risk showing our hand too quickly and exposing our undercover agent. If we do that, we will lose a chance to get them all.'

'So. Let me summarise', Harry says bluntly. 'You have evidence that the French wing are about to manipulate a bunch of teenage extremists into blowing a bomb at a High School here in Paris; in fact, you have intelligence about which high school. You also believe that they will make it look as if the bomb could only have been made by Al Quaida trained engineers; that they are going to do this in order to test the strength of your government response, and that if they are satisfied with that response, or rather, lack of effective one, they will then move on to the big thing, which we all think is the Eiffel Tower during the music festival on June 20th. And your view is that you let them do this, in order to catch the big fish, even though it would mean letting dozens of students die.'

'En gros…basically, yes. Allons, Harry…If the same situation presented itself to you in London, you would do the same.'

Please say you wouldn't, Ruth prays inwardly. Please say you wouldn't…please tell me that the man I love despite everything would not condone this.

But Harry remains silent. He walks over to the windows overlooking the Seine river, hands in his pockets, his back on all of them - on Ruth too. He knows what she is thinking, what she is remembering….Could I do this again?, he mulls. Could I condone sacrificing the lives of children for the sake of saving even more children….He doesn't know anymore. And today, right now, he wishes that he were not doing this job, that he didn't have to make decisions like this, that he could escape from those terrrible responsibilities. Today, he wants to walk through Paris, and enjoy the cafés, and the museums…with her. Of course, with her. How could it not be? How could he kid himself that he was getting used to the distance between them? Unbidden, a fragment of a conversation with Ruth rushes to his memory…I often dream of doing the Grand Tour, he remembers telling her on the one and only occasion when they had diner together. And of course Paris is what he had in mind; and of course he pressed her too hard, too much, too soon, that night…

His shoulders sag. He feels crushed by the moral, intellectual, and emotional burden of his job. This is absurd, he tells himself angrily. Here am I, having to decide on matters of national security, and all I can think about is a diner years ago, the highlight of my…relationship, if you can call it that, with her… He turns round to face them all again, to face her. His face is a forbidding mask, his voice cold, but he's inwardly seething with anger at himself for being stuck in the past, unable to move on, unable too to bracket off his emotions and feelings – and for allowing himself always to be put in a situation wher he has to make life-and-death-decisions.

'I can't tell you what to do', he states with more calm than he really feels. 'This is happening on French soil, and your government alone can decide on the best course of action.'

'Harry', Ruth pleads. 'Harry. Pierre. Please. Is there not a way around this? Can we not at least explore other options?'

Bernard shakes his head. 'We've been through this, Ruth. We've looked at it…dans tous les sens. How do you say it? From all angles? There's no other way.'

'But…'

'Ruth', Harry interjects. 'There's not point in going over this.'

'Surely, we…'

'Enough!', he says through clenched teeth. He's never used that tone with her before: sharp, almost military in its refusal to countenance a challenge, but he's had it really, and wants to get their long distance briefing with Ros, Lucas and John over with. He turns to Bernard. 'We 'll go back to the hotel now and liaise with my team from there, before we head back to London tomorrow on the 8am train. All I ask is that you keep us posted. This will make it easier for us to trace…repercussions…on the British wing. Ruth?'

He leads her out, into the waiting car, back at the hotel, keenly and painfully aware of the tension in her. They do not say a word in the car; they remain resolutely silent in the lift; he opens the door to his suite, and goes straight for the computer and its secure line to Thames House. It takes him 15 mns to summarise what their long day, in short, clipped sentences.

When he is done, Ruth is standing in the far corner. Erect, wide eyed. Upset. 'Ruth', he say softly.

3.

'How can you? These are just kids. Kids, Harry. Not merely the victims, but the bombers too, who of course will die in this. How can you stand there, and calculate numbers, and let this happen, and…'

He walks to her, torn between wanting to comfort her and his growing anger at himself, at her too. 'What choice do I have?! This is not London. I have no jurisdiction here, no standing, nothing. Besides…'

'Besides what?', she challenges him.

'He's got a point', he says in a low, strained voice. 'If it had been on our patch…if it had been Lucas' life at stake, undercover…and lives of thousands of…I don't know what…'

She snorts, half a cry really. 'Oh, but I do know what you would have done. We've been there before, haven't we? At that point where you decide whose life has more value, who gets to live and who gets to die….'

'Ah, so that's what it is about really! Nico….George…for all your talk of being unfair on me for holding me responsible, this is what you come back to today! Well, I decide because I don't have a choice! Because someone has got to decide and sometimes that person happens to be me! Do you think I wanted Mani to capture me? Do you think I wanted him to get to you? To make me choose between Nico and the thousands of children who would have died had Mani got hold of the bomb?! No! But I tell you what, Ruth! In that job, we have no choice! And it's all well and good to say that it's easy, to say that we should never sacrifice lives for the sake of other lives! But my God it's cowardly! Because…'

'I don't want to listen to this', she grinds out, moving away from him.

He gets hold of her, by the shoulders, almost roughly. 'You will listen!', he shouts. 'Because you too, one day, might have to make that kind of decision! And when you do, if you do, then before you conclude that you can let thousands die – thousands, Ruth – for the sake of three dozens, then ask yourself about those thousands of children! Ask yourself about the hell in which your decision will plunge their parents, their brothers, their sisters…Except that you can't really imagine, can you, because you don't have children of your own…' He is so caught up in his rage that he does not notice how pale she has just become at those words. 'But still, even though you can't have a clue, you'll have to try and imagine it! And when you've done that, and decided that it is worth it, then and only then you can come back and tell me that I am morally and emotionally inept for even considering the other option!'

He hasn't let go of her yet. He is standing so close to her that she can feel the heat radiating from his body, she can smell his scent, a mixture of sweat, aftershave and adrenaline, she can hear and sense his heavy breathing as clearly as if it were her own breathing and at last, at long last, she can see the wrenching despair in his eyes..

'I don't think that's what you are…', she whispers, overcome by waves of guilt and sorrow. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't…'

'And one other thing', he grinds out obliviously. 'While you're at it, ask yourself what you would have done if Nico hadn't been your lover's son, but any other child! If you had had to choose between him and his father! Or him and m…' He catches himself just in time, unable to go on, exhausted by his outburst, scared of disclosing too much.

'Please, Harry', she says brokenly. Her eyes, wide, a changing mixture of grey and blue which he loves so much, seem to explore every inch of his face. He stares at her, and suddenly becomes aware of the rapid rise and fall of her chest, of the feel of her shoulders under his hands….

Afterwards, neither of them would ever be able to say who made the first move.

4.

He's lying on top of her, heart hammering in his chest, his breadth ragged, stunned by what has just happened, his clothes in disarray, acutely aware of the tremors of release still coursing them both of their bodies…

After a few moments, he takes his weight off her. There's so much he wants to say. Apologies, of course, for losing his temper, but mostly words of love… He turns his head towards her. She's half naked, dishevelled, her skirt pulled up around her waist, her blouse undone, her lips full, almost bruised. She is crying, silently, tears streaming from the corner of her eyes. She won't meet his gaze.

His heart breaks. 'I'm sorry', he says, shame and self-disgust filling his voice. 'This should never have happened. And it won't happen again. Ever.'

She stiffens and turns away from him. Wordlessly, he gets up and locks himself into the bathroom. When he emerges twenty minutes later, she has gone – as he had hoped. She's left a note on his desk. I'm going back to London now, on the last train. Right now, all I want is to be alone. R. He lets the note slide between his fingers onto the floor and sinks on a chair, as far away as he can from the sofa on which, half an hour ago, he put an explosive end to years of self-imposed abstinence and destroyed his most cherished friendship. He stays there, motionless, for a long time. Shortly before midnight, with a shaky hand, he dials the secure number he always uses for urgent and sensitive communications with the Home Secretary.

5.

She is huddled against the window of her Eurostar coach. It's not cold, but she feels cold. She hasn't stopped feeling cold since Harry left her lying on the couch to go and clean himself off her. She closes her eyes, painful and red from crying. Images and sounds from the previous night fill her mind, noisily, invasively…although it all happened very fast, and was over very quickly, she replays the movie in a loop, in slow motion…she pictures herself in that movie, wanton, demanding, giving too, letting go more fully and more completely than she ever had…She pictures Harry too, his face harsh with desire, his long, final shout of release almost animalistic in its intensity….

And she can still hear him afterwards… she'd barely come down from the summit, shaken by what they had just shared, years of self-denial erased in a single moment, the tears a sign of her vulnerability…and then his voice, the words he used, coloured by disgust, anger, rejection…

The train pulls into St Pancras shortly before midnight. She gets into her flat at 1am. She does not sleep that night.

At 9am on the dot, she sits at her desk on the Grid, and places a call to Personnel.