A/N: This took a little longer than I hoped to finish – apologies for the wait. I hope you enjoy this final chapter and as ever I would be very grateful if you left a review!
Breaking into Ruth's house was relatively simple, due to the fact that I have the relevant experience in the matter and because her home is old-fashioned enough to not be embellished with complicated alarms or particularly safe doors and windows. I considered telling her that it would probably be wise to update her security but then decided to focus on the operation at hand instead, trading her coat for mine and ushering her out the way I'd come in to go and meet Adam. I knew I'd probably be there for several hours and so I soon made myself comfortable on the sofa after drifting ominously past the window to give the watchers something to observe. I assumed they must be either short-sighted or inattentive in not noticing that my appearance is the polar opposite to Ruth's, but either way I was glad that they didn't suspect anything. I located the television remote and switched on the news, eager to distract my mind.
After several relatively low-key news bulletins, two cups of coffee (which I had made with Ruth's seemingly-abandoned pot of coffee granules which didn't appear to be of any admirable standard) and an old re-run of Bargain Hunt, my ringing phone thankfully provided an interruption from the tedium of what I could only assume was normal life for the majority of the population. It was Zaf: he told me it was time to get myself arrested. It seemed like the most pleasing news I had heard all day.
I quickly washed up the mug and spoon I had used for the coffee and stacked them back where I had found them before donning a hat and trotting outside, making the watchers finally put down their newspapers and takeaway coffee cups and take notice. I'd barely made it down the street before I was cornered by armed police - they were obviously het up about Ruth's security considering the sheer mass of officers present and the detailed, efficient way in which I was bundled into the car and driven to the station. When they realised their mistake there was an explosion of confusion and outrage, amongst which I was offered profuse apologies and released back onto the streets with a tiny smirk on my face.
My good deed complete, it was time to return to the Grid.
...
The Grid was oddly still. The hustle and bustle of urgent business had vanished, replaced by a weary and suffocating pace as the odd analyst bumbled into the kitchen for a cuppa or someone checked their emails. The rest of the team was absent, although Malcolm might well have been squirreled away in the forgery suite. I considered making myself a coffee and taking one to him but I wasn't really in the mood for conversation; he would also probably be keen to avoid me seeing as we were of completely opposite personalities. I was quite content with having nothing to do with him.
Then he plunked a mug of black coffee on my desk and awkwardly stuffed his hands in his pockets.
I looked up. "Thank you, Malcolm," I said woodenly, wanting to sound grateful but unable to summon sufficient warmth in my voice.
"You're welcome," he said quietly. I took a sip and then he blurted out: "Why did you do it, Ros?"
"Do what?" I asked, despite knowing exactly what he meant.
"Ruth didn't mean to cause any harm. I think we both know that," Malcolm said, perching hesitantly on the edge of my desk. "I hope she doesn't end up having to leave, because of... this."
"I wanted to sort out the enigma behind Cotterdam, and Maudsley. I feel like I haven't proved myself yet," I blurted, before feeling instantly regretful: it was the most honest I had ever been since joining the team. Perhaps it was because I knew Malcolm was kind enough not to snigger behind my back, and fearful enough of me to not speak out of line.
"It usually runs more smoothly when we work as a team," he reminded me gently. "I'm sorry if you haven't felt welcome here, Ros. But if you have concerns you can talk to Harry. As bosses go, he's very fair and will pull out all the stops to protect one of his own."
His words were poisonous considering Harry's failure to help my father but I suddenly felt too tired to snap someone's head off. Instead, I said "Give me an example."
Malcolm look startled. "Erm..." he started. "There was a young lady who worked here a few years ago. An operation went horribly wrong and she had to take the blame. She was sentenced to ten years in prison. Harry got her a new identity so she could still live her life with her soon-to-be husband abroad."
"Harry did that?" I asked in disbelief.
Malcolm smiled. "She was one of us. There's nothing he wouldn't do to try and protect one of his team."
"Then how come he didn't-"I began, but promptly stopped. My father wasn't one of Harry's officers. He was a traitor. It seemed so easy to digest when it was spelled out like that, free of all of my emotional attachments. Cold, rational logic is the best solution to utilise and I had been foolish to forget it.
I gulped down some more of the coffee. "You're quite a good counsellor, Malcolm."
He blushed slightly. "Well, thank you Ros. Glad to be of help." He offered a shy smile and scarpered back to his den of gadgets.
I noted with surprise that since arriving back from my arrest just after five in the afternoon, it was now almost eleven. I decided to head off, realising I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. I soon located a fairly crummy cafe around the corner and took my portion of chips and takeaway Diet Coke down to the Thames to eat uninterestedly in front of the view. Neither drink nor dinner were particularly spectacular in taste but I realised I'd have to please my stomach in order not to collapse or starve in the next few hours. I wandered around in the dark streets for a while afterwards, hoping that the cold breeze would help to clear my head and refresh my senses. It had little effect. It was out of the ordinary for the team to have broken up and my mind struggled to figure out something to do in the meantime. It hadn't even occurred to me to go home to bed – the tiredness I was feeling wasn't one that could be remedied by sleeping – and so I walked for at least two hours before returning to the central heated bliss of Thames House.
...
The rest of the team trickled back to the Grid at various intervals during the small hours of the morning and I became aware of the events that had unfolded the previous day. Adam and Ruth had discovered the genuine drop that Maudsley had left which confirmed the operation to remove the seven terror suspects from Cotterdam prison so that Mace and his morally-incapable cronies could inflict 'special interrogation measures'. The report included an unnamed member of Section D in the list of people present at the meeting as an insurance policy in the hope that we wouldn't reveal the true fate of the suspects in order to cover our own backs. Harry had attacked Mace and got himself arrested to try and cover for Ruth, who was unwilling to let him take the blame for her. Together with Adam and Zaf, Ruth fabricated a plan: she was to be the officer that knew of the whereabouts of those seven men. Thanks to some skilled photoshopping, Ruth was 'proved' to be Mace's associate and had now gone AWOL in order for her to flee undetected.
It was an elaborate and dangerous scheme, but I had to admit I felt some small form of admiration for Ruth. Standing up to men like Oliver Mace would never be easy but she was more than willing to give it a try to defend the basic human rights that he had so flippantly overlooked. Her insistence that men like Mace should not be able to intimidate and torture was just a small example of her strong moral code; her insistence that Harry couldn't be the one to take the blame demonstrated her unyielding loyalty.
Harry had shut himself in his office with his head in his hands, staring at the phone as if willing it to ring. Adam had been delivering hot drinks, asking me in an off-handed manner to which I replied in the negative anyway, having already re-filled my mug before he arrived. Jo was tidying her desk so meticulously as if focussing on anything else would make her break. Zaf was tapping aimlessly at keys on his computer, presumably replying to emails or playing solitaire or just pretending to be doing something rather than entertaining the agonising wait. He had arrived hours later than the rest, having stayed with Ruth down at the docks until dawn broke over the city. I had asked him where Ruth was to try and show that I was actually interested in the matter but he bluntly refused to tell me, even spinning the yarn that she'd 'gone off our radar' even though he must have known I would never believe it. I tried to express that I hoped she was well covered and joked that she would need a broomstick to escape the inevitable witch-hunt that would ensue from her disappearance. My comment was a little facetious to mask my serious concern for her safety, but Zaf didn't even crack a smirk.
I was glad when the moment everyone was waiting for suddenly occurred: Harry's phone erupted to life. He took the call quickly and marched from his office, Adam in tow. I realised that this would be their last chance to say goodbye to Ruth, whereas the rest of us had no such opportunity available. For a fleeting second I wish I had chosen better words during our brief exchange at her house. I had told her that I never apologise, which is true. Perhaps I could have offered reassurance or goodwill wishes, but these qualities don't come naturally to me and even if I put on a convincing front Ruth probably wouldn't believe that I sincerely cared anyway.
I thought she'd get a reprimand and would stop trying to save the day by herself and let the team cooperate on the operation. I'd get some steely glares (which I was used to anyway) and we'd all keep calm and carry on regardless. Only now do I realise that the consequences will be far more severe, and I hate how naive I may have been in trying to run rings around men like Mace who have real power compared to our lowly status of civil servants.
Uncomfortable with the train of thoughts beginning to swamp me, I cornered Jo at her desk. My words on the bus had been too harsh and I couldn't quite get the image out of my head of the way her face crumpled at my remarks about Ruth. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that, Jo."
My voice isn't naturally reassuring. I've always sounded bossy and authoritative, which worked well when directing incompetent classmates in a group presentation or conversing confidently with senior officials. But my counselling skills are undoubtedly patchy - the words sounded clunky and wooden despite my sincerity.
"Don't apologise," she told me. I couldn't tell if she was too bitter to bother talking to me or if she genuinely accepted my display of remorse. "But you should apologise to Harry."
Her response shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. That she had the audacity to suggest to me that I should apologise to my boss? Was she so nosy that she thought it appropriate to try and patch things up in my personal life? Did she think I valued her opinion on the matter that had nothing to do with her?
Then I surprised myself. "I'll try."
Jo almost dropped her mug of tea in her lap.
I chose that moment to make my way back to my desk. I didn't want to have to explain myself to her, but I was beginning to realise that maybe it was about time that the colleague-boss relationship got restored. Not only would it make working together more efficient and professional, but I was beginning to remember that Harry was the man with the impeccably polite front who would bend orders behind the scenes and stand up for his own. The experienced officer to whom death and destruction still caused a sizzling pain, rather than the snooty officials to whom death was unfortunate but nothing more.
Forgiving Harry would be no easy task. But one thing was becoming glaringly apparent: he'd never intended to hurt me.
But I had intended to hurt him.
Turns out forgiving myself would be no easy task either.
...
I tried to compose what I would say to Harry upon his return to the Grid but found it incredibly difficult to do so. I have a habit of speaking my mind and holding my tongue is a skill I've never learned, yet alone had time to perfect. I wasn't willing to run the risk of writing something down lest a colleague got hold of it and had a good giggle – a substantial portion of my dignity was not something that I was willing to sacrifice.
Harry was coming back onto the Grid before I knew it and despite feeling uneasiness for the first time in a very long time I bullied myself into getting to my feet. I saw him pick up the phone through the glass of his office. He froze. He blinked rapidly.
Adam came onto the Grid soon after and clocked Harry's expression, heading immediately to his office. I disguised my sudden standing up as an attempt to stretch my legs before sinking back down into my seat, discreetly watching the two of them. Spies have to be experts on body language; a handy skill for surveillance and reading your assets. Harry was running a hand across his face before his inborn efficiency kicked in and his hands hurried over the keyboard of his computer, his eyebrows knitting together. Adam stood with his arms crossed, pacing slowly in anticipation. Harry finished with the computer and rose to his feet, giving instructions to which Adam nodded with a nod. Harry made his way to the door and Adam stopped him to offer a brief word. I made out 'thank you' on Harry's lips before he paced back past and into the pods, only making eye contact with the floor.
Adam came out to deliver the news: Harry had received intelligence from our man in Beirut that his daughter, Catherine, had been badly injured in a bomb blast. Harry was on the next flight to Lebanon to try and find her, but the authorities were unsure of where she was being treated.
The team were visibly shocked. Adam told us that the best thing we could do was finish tying up the loose ends of our Cotterdam operation and stay focussed. He was slightly reassuring but visibly exhausted.
Adam crashed down on his desk and began talking with Malcolm, both of them looking worse for wear. Zaf sat on Jo's desk and they were whispering in low tones, Jo looking visibly shaken and Zaf adopting his role as confidant.
I think one of the reasons that the portrayal of espionage is anathema to me is because you only ever see two sides of a spy. The slick, sophisticated, unrealistically good looking super-humans who have ridiculous gadgets and make killing look attractive. Or the incompetent Security Services who aren't pulling their weight, who are allowing terrorism on British soil, who misread intelligence. No-one really sees the other side unless they're living it. Spies get broken and killed; trodden on and forgotten. We are humans who are portrayed to be machines. As I watched Adam slouch in his chair I saw the embodiment of brokenness due to a grief that he hasn't had time to recover from. When Malcolm rubbed a hand across his forehead I saw a man who is all too familiar with tragedies. Zaf blinked sleepily and I remembered how he'd been awake for nearly two days and can't physically cope with any more exhaustion. I saw the smudges of mascara on Jo's face and saw someone so young trying to deal with the intolerable pain of losing people she cares about.
I thought of myself and saw someone who suppresses any sign of weakness for the sake of her career; for the sake of not being made to feel as if she isn't good enough.
Ruth is on a boat to a foreign country where she will have to rebuild her life. She has had to leave everything she knows behind for the sake of standing up to men like Mace who belittle and torture, hiding behind a mask of untouchable authority. Her absence on the Grid was going to be sorely felt. She was the beating heart of morality, combining goodness with intelligence and warmth. These qualities may not appeal to me personally but they certainly formed solid friendships with many others that she encountered.
Her and I were never going to be best friends. I think she is too good, irritatingly shy and unable to express how she feels. She probably thinks I am partly evil, too blunt and too cold.
I guess we never got the entire truth about each other, and I realised it too late.
Well, not entirely too late.
She'd left a part of her behind.
...
"Harry!" I practically yelled, pacing out of Thames House and wincing when I felt the rain pelting down from the sky.
Harry turned around, his guard holding an umbrella above both of their heads.
"Go back inside, Ros," he called to me, opening the door of his waiting car.
"Wait," I ordered, marching closer. "I just wanted to-"
Spit it out, Rosalind. My teeth were chattering and the rain was falling more frequently now and yet my mind had frozen when faced with an apology.
"I'll be more professional in future," were the words I chose to tell him, because 'I'm sorry' felt too obvious and emotional, and only now had I realised that my innate professionalism had been smothered by my too-often suppressed emotion. It had been inappropriate to report Ruth, and I was regretful that as a repercussion the team were hurting. An apology wouldn't do any good as there was nothing left to be done, but a promise could be counted on.
Harry was ever the enigmatic, nodding and saying "I'd better be off, Ros," as he clambered into the car.
"I hope you find her," I called, suddenly pitying Harry and his potentially futile search for his injured daughter. This fresh tragedy would feel even bitterer as it came so quickly after Ruth's departure, leaving him hardly any time to control the many ugly thoughts that were undoubtedly crashing through his head. I was responsible for some of his grief and the least I could do was offer my support. "If there's anything I can do, just ask."
Harry nodded, and the car pulled away from the kerb, kicking up puddles. I hurried back into Thames House, running a hand through my rain-soaked hair.
I would be better than this in the future. I would not remove my mask of cold indifference; my shield, my coping mechanism. But I would consider what is best for my colleagues, my team, my friends. Espionage is a ruthless pursuit, one that often requires unthinkable atrocities to be exercised or endured. I could make its taste a little less bitter by letting go of some of my want for revenge, and trying to appreciate my fellow officers and work and country a bit more.
Cold, rational logic. Professionalism over personal feeling. Confidence to cover fear and wit to liven banalities. Duty to my colleagues and my country.
These were the aspects I would strive to pin down and carry for the rest of my career at MI5, and attempt not to taint with my future actions.
For now, I headed to my locker, drying my hair with the towel stashed inside and marching back to the Grid. I offered to make the next round of coffee. It was a simple gesture, but all accepted my offer.
And, slowly but surely, they began to accept me. Partly because of the innate goodness in each team member of Section D, but also because I made a conscious effort. During our next operation I made sure to smile at Jo and assist Malcolm with planting bugs; not piss off Adam or Harry; rebuff Zaf's flirting with scathing comments.
That's what you do when you're in a team, and I don't have to be the outsider any more.
...