CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-THREE
Harry sat down and thought for a moment before he switched on the recorder. He was in his study, sitting in the same chair he'd been in when CO19 had come crashing through his windows. Apart from the faint odour of new paint and the occasional sparkle of a bit of errant glass that had escaped the eyes of the cleaners, it looked to Harry as if it had never happened.
That is, except for the feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the fact that he could still hear the music in his head. He thought he always would hear it as he sat in this chair now. The music was like a friend, someone who had stayed steadfastly with him through a terrible ordeal, and Harry found that he welcomed the warmth of the slaves' voices as they rose and fell in his memory.
He took another sip from his glass and smiled. Not only the music, but Ruth had stayed with him through those days as well. Reaching down, Harry pushed the button for the recorder.
My dearest Ruth,
You're here in London, just miles away. It seems like a miracle, as if all the hours I've spent thinking of you and wishing you were close to me have finally managed to conjure you into existence. I've said that, or something very like it, into this recorder already in the last few days, but it feels different tonight, so I needed to say it again.
It's different, because tonight, I feel as if we're taking slow steps toward being friends again. I fear I don't have the words to describe how that makes me feel, but I'll do my best. I wish I could capture this feeling in a bottle so that I could open it now and then when I'm low. You've been here for six days now, and although the first day was one I initially struggled to forget, I've realised I'm not willing to give up that moment when I looked into your eyes and saw that you still cared for me. I find it's worth it to relive the pain of that day, of what we went through together, because it's a memory that contains you.
The contradiction is that I saw the love first, but only now do I feel the hope. It's because you smiled at me today, and for just the briefest of moments, we shared a memory of who we'd been together. That moment exploded into thousands of moments as you walked backwards away from me. We both felt it, my Ruth, and I saw your smile threatening to break through to a grin, as mine finally did when you were far enough away for me to give it freedom. I could almost see the thread between us spinning stronger, its filaments shining in the afternoon sun there by the River.
I shake my head and laugh at what I just said. You'd think I imagine myself a poet, with all this talk of "shining filaments"! Christ, what you do to me! It never ceases to amaze me.
And now, where do we go? You sound as if you're considering staying in London. I can hardly say those words without a jump in my heart. First, I thought I'd never see you again, and then I thought you'd married and found a new life. But things weren't what they seemed, and today, you graced me with a forgiveness I hadn't believed was within a reasonable range of hope. I'll admit my head is spinning a bit, but this feeling is so much better than any from the last year.
When I ask the question of myself: What should I do? The answer comes back: Nothing. I'll be patient, I'll wait, and I'll love you. You need time to heal. I find I'm grateful just to know that you're here, close by. I'll do whatever you ask of me. I hope I can be a part of your life, but that's up to you now, my Ruth.
And I remain, as always,
Your loving Harry
Harry turned off the recorder, and set it on the table next to him. He looked at the clock and saw that it was early, not yet eight in the evening. He'd had an idea brewing in his head for some time, and now that he'd finished his letter to Ruth and was feeling completely relaxed, he leant back in his chair and thought it through.
After taking the last swallow of his drink, Harry picked up his mobile and pressed in one number. A very familiar voice answered on the other end, and Harry said, "Malcolm. This isn't too late, is it?"
Harry could hear Malcolm's slight sense of outrage through the phone. "I'm retired, Harry. I'm not dead. It's what? Half past seven?" Although he was pretending to be in a slight huff, the pleasure at hearing from Harry was evident in Malcolm's voice.
Harry smiled. Nothing had changed, and he was very glad of it. He said, wryly, "Well, I wouldn't know about what hours you keep, not being retired myself." He paused for a moment, and then said, "I have an idea that I think you'll dislike, but I'm going to ask you to indulge me. Will you do that?"
Malcolm smiled now, too. "Ah, you having an idea I'll dislike. That's nothing new, now is it?"
Harry laughed, and said, "I want to give you a farewell. A going-away party, at The George. Just a small group of us from the Grid. Nothing formal. It's just that we never got a proper goodbye." Surprised that Malcolm hadn't cut him off yet, Harry continued. "We'll drink too much and tell lies about you. What do you say?"
Malcolm didn't answer right away, primarily due to the fact that he was feeling slightly overwhelmed by the idea. Never one to be the centre of attention, Malcolm tended to shy away from these sorts of affairs. But after nearly a week, and what was now feeling like an abrupt departure from MI5, the idea of seeing everyone again was strangely comforting.
Harry misunderstood his silence, and said quickly, "I told you that you would dislike the idea, but just give it some thought, will you? It would mean so much to all of us ... "
Malcolm answered before Harry finished, "Yes."
"Oh." Harry was slightly taken aback by Malcolm's unexpected agreement. "Oh, good, then. Say Saturday? Around six? We won't require speeches, perhaps just a hearty handshake and a 'job well done?'"
Malcolm said, quietly, "Actually, I may want to say a few words, if that's alright."
Harry smiled again. Malcolm was known for his speeches, usually chock-full of obscure literary references but also given with a sincerity and vague self-consciousness that was endearing. "That would be very good, Malcolm. Yes ... I look forward to it." Harry was pleasantly surprised. He'd hoped that Malcolm would be amenable to the idea of a gathering, but hadn't thought he would acquiesce quite this easily. "You sound well. Retirement is agreeing with you?"
"Hard to know as yet, but Mum seems pleased. She's had me round for tea three times already." Harry could hear the familiar dry humour in his friend's voice. "I'll have to put a stop to that before it goes any further. This will take care of Saturday, at the very least."
Remembering their last conversation, Malcolm said, with gratitude, "But I've rested. Thank you for making it easy for me, Harry. That was much appreciated. If you'd tried to talk me out of it, I might've given in, and I didn't want to."
"You're welcome." Something popped into Harry's mind, and he wondered whether he should ask. He decided he would. "Will you go to look for Sarah, Malcolm? Is it finally time?"
There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, as Malcolm said, ""Well ... I do know where to find her. I suppose now it's simply a matter of nerve. I find myself wondering if I've waited too long."
"For Sarah? Or for yourself?"
Malcolm exhaled. "Both."
With the memory of Ruth's soft smile clearly before him, Harry said, "Sometimes you simply have to leap without knowing where you'll land. You'll never know unless you try, Malcolm."
Malcolm was quiet for a moment, and then, as if he was sharing the vision in Harry's head, he asked, "How is Ruth?"
Harry kept his tone light. "Better, I think. She seems to be coming to grips with ... with what happened."
Malcolm said simply, "You might invite her." Then, before Harry had a chance to comment, Malcolm said, "I'll see you Saturday, Harry."
"Yes, Saturday. Goodbye, Malcolm."
"Goodbye, Harry."
Harry closed his mobile and returned it to the table. He stood and poured another measure of scotch into his glass, and sat back down in the chair. The last few days had been very busy, but now Harry realised how much he'd missed his friend's quiet wisdom and counsel. And Harry had to admit that on some level, Malcolm's retirement moved him inches closer to his own.
"You might invite her." Yes, I think I might. Opening his mobile again, he searched through his address book until he found the name he was looking for – Ruth's. He wouldn't call her tonight, but now he had a reason to call her tomorrow, and that thought sent a wave of anticipation through him.
She was, after all, a good friend of Malcolm's, and she belonged there, if she wanted to be. The exquisite normalcy of raising a glass at the pub with Ruth again, of surreptitiously watching her from across the room as he had done so many times, warmed Harry. Even more than the scotch he sipped, slowly - until he stood to go downstairs and put out the girls' dinner.
Ruth woke early, with a sense of purpose. She was in an organising mood, and had determined that she would begin to plan the rest of her life, whatever that entailed. After fixing a cup of tea and toast with marmalade, she started with the first thing on her list.
When Ruth had gone through the boxes of clothes from Paris, there had been one box that she'd opened and then quickly closed again. The first thing she'd seen in it was "Blue: The History of a Colour" right at the top. Without looking at anything else, Ruth had snapped the flaps of the box shut and had pushed it into the closet at the safe house. Although she'd been simultaneously hoping and dreading to find her ring and necklace, Ruth hadn't been prepared to wander through those particular memories then. But now, with the picture firmly in her head of Harry standing at the rail overlooking the Thames, Ruth felt she'd gained the strength to look in the box she'd hidden away.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom, Ruth opened the flaps again, and there was the book, extravagant in its size and richness. With a deep breath, she opened the front cover and fanned the first few pages, hoping she would find what had been there since the day the book had first been delivered. And there it was. Harry's note.
"To my exceptionally beautiful wife, from your exceedingly loving husband. I wish so much that I could be with you tonight, for so many reasons. I will call you at one minute before midnight so that I will have spent all of your birthday with you. Je t'aime. H."
And with the suddenness of a speeding train, Ruth's eyes filled, and she began to cry. Not from sadness, but more from the feeling of truth and "rightness" those words brought forth in her. "Wife," "husband," "Je t'aime." For over a year, Ruth had tried to push away her sense of what those words meant, but in reading this one simple note, she felt them profoundly. I am Harry's wife, he is my husband, and I love him. Whether they would ever manage to find that place again was still an unknown, but as Ruth's tears fell into tiny starbursts on the cardboard of the box, she knew she couldn't deny the intensity of what she was feeling.
Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, Ruth put the book down gently on the floor next to her, and returned her attention to the box. It held paperback books, and the few other possessions she'd had in her small flat in Paris, but the ring and the necklace weren't there. On some level, she'd known they wouldn't be. Either Harry hadn't found them at the flat, or he'd decided to hold them safe with him. Ruth allowed herself a sad smile. Considering her mood toward Harry of late, he probably thought she would throw them back in his face. Smart man. I just might have.
Ruth began to pull the books out of the box, looking at each one. Some were in French, and some in English. The small "je t'aime" card that Harry had first left for her was tucked between the pages of Abbaye de Northanger as if it were a bookmark. She opened the page, and found it was marking a section in Bath, and Ruth wondered if she had put the card there, or if Harry had.
Ruth closed her eyes again and sighed. Harry had always loved her. She knew that now, and she wondered why she'd ever doubted it. But, as she closed the book, Ruth reminded herself that love wasn't always enough.
Up until yesterday afternoon, it hadn't seemed to matter what Harry was saying or where they were, Ruth hadn't managed to free them from that warehouse, and from what had happened there. She'd looked at Harry's face when he'd come to visit her in the safe house, and she'd only been able to see him as he'd looked sitting across from her, his hands bound, his face drawn, distraught, beaten, tired. When they were on the bridge, she hadn't really heard him clearly - she'd been remembering his coldness as he'd challenged Mani.
But standing at the river, it had been better. For a time, she'd seen Harry as he'd looked when he'd first asked her to dinner, as he'd been in the car on the way to Bath, as he'd acted at the lunch with Tom and Christine when he'd asked her to marry him. As they'd talked by the railing yesterday, she'd seen that he was nervous, for the same reason she was. Because it mattered.
Ruth took the last items out of the box. They were a vintage mother-of-pearl hairbrush and comb set that Adam had missed when he'd quickly gathered up her things from the Paris flat. She'd bought them from a small antiques shop that she'd passed every day on her way to l'Alcove. They'd reminded her of a set her mother had, and they'd made her feel at home.
Ruth stood and walked toward the bathroom to put them there, and she realised that she was unpacking, as if the safe house was where she lived. It suddenly occurred to her that she needed a home, a place to call her own. Now that she was back in London, she'd been thinking about Fidget and Phoebe, and she longed to see them. And she remembered her London house, the one that Harry had sold in order to send her the money.
Ruth stood in the middle of the hallway, working it all through. If she were to buy a new place to live, first she would need to transfer the money from the Polis Bank to London. But until her name was cleared, it wouldn't be allowed. The dominos began to line up, and they were all dependent upon Ruth Evershed being not only alive, but cleared of the charges against her. And after all that had happened in the last two years, taking on another identity felt out of the question.
Walking to the lounge, Ruth went to the window to look out. She still carried the brush and comb in her hands, and she held them up to the light to see the rainbow of colours that shone from the surface. She found the place where the blue was brightest, and she smiled. Mother-of-pearl blue. Harry had offered to help her, to "sort something out," he had said, about her status in Britain.
When he'd presented the idea on the bridge, she'd been too angry to accept, but now she was able to see the sense of it. Ruth had given up her life in London for Harry, and for MI5. It was only fair that they should be the ones to give her life back to her. And now, all the things he had tried to say to her made sense. If she were going to stay here, she needed her name, a place to live, and a job. Harry had wanted to help her. It was all he was trying to do, really.
Absent-mindedly, Ruth ran the brush through her hair as she used to do whilst looking out at the park on the Rue du Banquier. She tried to imagine herself living in London again, being Ruth Evershed, and going to work. Suddenly, she stopped the movement of the brush and let her hand fall to her side. Ruth realised that the only place she really wanted to work was the Grid, and this was entirely surprising.
Ruth felt a level of excitement growing in her. An excitement for the work, for the pure joy of analysing. For making a difference again. Her time on Cyprus was beginning to feel like a dream from which she was awakening, although she still deeply mourned George's death, and her heart ached for Nico and Christina.
But that was her past now, and even if she could regain it, she didn't think she would. Of course she would give George his life back if she had the power, but Ruth knew now that she could never have stayed there with him. This was where she belonged. In London. At MI5. And with Harry, no matter what their relationship turned out to be. They had, after all, started out as friends, it wasn't impossible that they could be friends again.
For a moment, Ruth let the thought sink in. She would need to live with it for a day or two to determine if it was what she really wanted, but somehow Ruth felt that it was. She would wait to talk to Harry until she was certain, but then she would ask him to repeat his offer of help.
Harry sat back in his office chair and looked out the window to the Grid. Nothing on this day had gone as planned, and Harry wondered why he ever expected that it would.
His talk with Ruth by the river had helped him understand that Bibi Saparova needed protection, but in the end, they'd lost Bibi anyway, at her own hands. With Jo looking on in horror, Bibi had turned the gun on herself just after shooting Urazov. And after the murder of their Trade and Industry Secretary, the Tazbeks refused to go through with the deal for their gas. As a consequence, the Home Secretary had been forced to work instead with the Russians and the Americans.
But the lights were still on. The rolling power cuts had been halted, and London was peacefully blazing away, its inhabitants largely unaware of how close they'd come to the imminent cold and darkness. As he sat now in his office, Harry knew that a deal was being brokered with the Russians, assisted by Samuel Walker, the Director of the CIA's London branch.
As he looked out at the Grid, Harry could see Lucas and Ros chatting as they wrote their reports. Jo had her hand on Tariq's shoulder, speaking softly to him. Tariq had been in the hotel corridor when the shootings occurred, and he'd had a dreadful lesson in how quickly death could occur, and how messy it could be. Harry had seen him walk back onto the Grid with glassy eyes, and was glad that Jo had somewhat taken him under her wing.
Of course, Jo was also dealing with her own feelings about Bibi's death. Harry had planned to have a talk with her about disobeying his orders, but he would wait until tomorrow. As always, Harry found he heard Ruth's voice in his head – and this time she was saying that people needed time to grieve. Harry would give Jo a day to grieve in peace.
All through the day, Harry had wanted to phone Ruth to invite her to Malcolm's party on Saturday. He'd managed to get a quick call into The George to reserve their back room, and had told Ros to spread the word to the Grid, but he hadn't wanted to rush a conversation with Ruth. Now he knew that his briefing with the Home Secretary wouldn't be until after the negotiations were completed, probably late tomorrow, and presently, none of his team seemed to need advice or counsel. Harry opened his mobile and leant back in his chair.
He paused, rubbed his forehead, and smiled. I'm nervous as a cat. He knew he could face down a roomful of powerful people with less worry. He remembered this feeling from school, and thought, Thank God I'd no idea then that I was still going to be so jumpy at this ripe old age. Bloody hell, he finally said to himself, and simply pushed the number.
Ruth picked up on the second ring. "Harry." She sounded surprised, but he thought pleasantly so, and that gave him courage. She also sounded slightly out of breath.
"Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"No, no, just came in from a walk to the shops to get a few things." Ruth struggled to hold the phone to her ear whilst putting down her shopping bags. "Tea, eggs, bread ..." Her voice trailed off, as if she felt slightly ridiculous enumerating her purchases to him.
He filled the space quickly. "I'm calling to ask if you're free on Saturday." As soon as the words left Harry's mouth, he wanted to pull them back. Instead, he hastily clarified, "For Malcolm. We're throwing a party for Malcolm. You know he's retired?"
"Yes, Jo told me. I was going to call him, perhaps meet him for coffee somewhere." Ruth finally managed to extricate herself from the strap of her purse, and she sat down on the sofa. "How's he doing?"
Harry smiled, remembering. "I spoke with him last evening. I worried I might have called him too late, and he said, 'Harry, I'm retired, I'm not dead.'" Harry's spot-on imitation of Malcolm made Ruth suddenly laugh, and Harry closed his eyes, falling into the exquisite sound of it.
"Well, it certainly sounds like the same old Malcolm," Ruth said. "And he's agreed to a party in his honour? That's rather surprising, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is, but I think he's missed us..." Harry had become so comfortable with this conversation that he'd let down his guard, and the short silence that followed his heartfelt expression of the concept of "missing someone" was enough to tell him that he needed to pull back. He sat up a little straighter in his chair just to strengthen the point. "And he'll even be gracing us with a speech, I believe."
Laughing lightly again, Ruth said, "Ah, that's always something to look forward to." Her affection for Malcolm was evident in her voice, and the softness there filled Harry's heart. He and Ruth had fallen so quickly into the ease of who they naturally were together, that they seemed, in the last few moments, to have forgotten the last year.
"It's on Saturday at six, at The George..." and suddenly Harry wished he had chosen any other place. The name hung between them and changed everything. They both felt it, and Harry said, "Oh, Ruth, I'm so sorry ..."
Ruth took a deep breath, but her voice had lost its lilt, and now sounded slightly clipped. "Don't be silly, Harry. It's not as if you can change the names of things." Harry waited to see where she would take the conversation, and finally Ruth said, vaguely, "On Cyprus, I'd be in mourning, and I suppose there wouldn't be the question of going to a party."
Ruth paused for a moment, and then continued, measuring her words slowly. "I'll have to think about it, but thanks for letting me know. And if I don't come, I'll get in touch with Malcolm on my own."
"I understand, Ruth. I wanted you to know that you were welcome," Harry said softly. And now that he was talking with her, Harry did understand, completely. It was still very soon for her to put herself into the centre of a group of people she'd let go of long ago, even if it was for Malcolm's sake. Not to mention whatever process of grieving she was going through.
"I appreciate that, Harry." Ruth's words sounded genuine.
This felt like a proper end to the conversation, and Harry was about to start his goodbye, when Ruth suddenly said, "I was sorry to hear about Bibi Saparova on the news. Jo must be very sad." Ruth understood that Jo had been told not to contact her anymore, so she added, "Could you tell her she's in my thoughts?"
Harry sighed. Another bad decision made in the heat of the moment, and one that needed to be reversed. So first, he would reprimand Jo for going behind his back, but then he would free her to see Ruth again. There was clearly a connection between them, and Ruth needed friends. Who was he to deny her that?
"Yes, I'll tell her. She is very sad. It wasn't supposed to happen that way."
There was a resignation in Ruth's voice that reminded Harry of his own. "It doesn't always go to plan, does it?" Ruth forced a slightly lighter tone, and said, "Jo's a very good officer, Harry. The service could use more like her."
"I know," Harry said, and then continued with a wry tone, "If only her boss would listen to her a bit more."
Ruth smiled, and said kindly, "Her boss has a lot on his mind."
Harry let the absolution wash over him, and answered softly, "Thank you, Ruth."
"I'll try to make it on Saturday. Thanks for letting me know."
"We'll hope to see you, but we'll understand if we don't. Bye, Ruth."
"Bye, Harry."
Harry pushed the button on his mobile and sat back. Another conversation with Ruth where he'd brought up none of the things that he'd thought were weighing on his mind. Not the house, not the girls, and not the love that was so clearly still between them.
And it didn't matter. In a three-minute conversation they'd run through the gamut of thoughts and emotions that had always been the hallmark of their relationship. They were reconnecting with each other. Harry thought that perhaps the next time they talked, he would feel he could bring up the things he'd wanted to say on the bridge the other day.
As Harry had often told Ruth, he was a very patient man. After a year apart, he felt again that he and Ruth had time.
Ruth put down her mobile and stood to put the food away. She realised she hadn't even taken off her coat, and as she went to the hall closet and hung it up, she could still hear the warmth of Harry's voice in her ear. She had the strange feeling of having been transported back in time. There had been moments of unavoidable awkwardness, but on the whole, her conversation with Harry was one they might have had on the Grid three years ago. It had the same undertones of feeling, the same depth of meaning beneath the everyday exchange, that had been the case so often before their secret.
How many times in the last year had Ruth bargained, and thought What if? What if she'd never gone to his house that night, what if they'd stayed as they were, in love, but not acting on it? Would she have been allowed by a kind universe to avoid Maudsley, Mace and exile? And was this Ruth's second chance at that alternate ending? She felt that all she would have to do was to reach her hand out to Harry, to say "I love you" again, and he would take it. And she would be right back on the carousel. But what if she never did that? What if they allowed themselves to hold the love they felt in check, as they had for so many years? What if, knowing now in painful detail how their love would turn out, they chose to be just friends instead?
Ruth put the last of the things in the fridge, and went to sit down. Her thoughts were swirling, and she wished, as she had many times in the last few days, that she had her laptop from Cyprus with her, so that she could type out her feelings and put them in order. And thinking of that led her mind to the letters, the ones she had stored safely back on the l'Alcove server after reading them just a couple of weeks ago in the office at the mountain house.
Looking blankly into the lounge of the safe house, Ruth could still imagine George standing at the doorway that night, when, after finding her in the dark, his impatience resonating clearly in his voice, he'd said, "Why do you insist upon doing that to your eyes?" Ruth brought herself back to the present, and breathed deeply, trying to reconcile the fact that George was gone now, that life was over, and yet another life was beginning.
Ruth suddenly had a strong desire to see her letters to Harry, and his to her. She needed to know if it would be possible for her to deny the expression of her love for him, and, ever the fine analyst, Ruth felt that one way to find out was to force herself to feel again the pull of "your much-appreciated correspondence." She knew the letters should still be there, safely waiting on the server for her to retrieve them.
Ruth stood, walked to her purse, and looked inside her wallet. She was nearing the end of the cash she'd tucked into the carry-all on Cyprus, but she had enough to get her through until she found the right moment to speak with Harry about transferring her account from Polis.
Ruth got her coat again from the closet, and walked to the street. She'd seen an internet cafe on her way to buy groceries, and she went directly there, booked a computer, and sat down at one in the corner, near the printer. She worked her way through the familiar path, her anticipation growing with each click, until finally she was looking at the folder named "Scarlet."
She was anxious to see the letters, but first she wanted to send a short note to Isabelle. Ruth had been thinking quite a lot of her wise friend, and was looking forward to the day she would be able to board the Eurostar to visit her. So before she opened the folder, Ruth typed out a short note.
My dear friend,
I want you to know that I'm safe, and I'm home. You're very much in my thoughts, and as soon as it's possible, I'll come to see you. I have much to tell you. I hope this finds you well and happy.
Much love,
Sophie
Ruth moved the message into the Drafts folder, and breathed deeply before clicking twice on the "Scarlet" folder. It opened, and there they were, all of them. Ruth found that her heart was pounding, and she wondered if she had the control to read them now, here in a room full of people, but she found she couldn't wait. Ruth clicked on Harry's first letter to her, hoping she was strong enough.
"Dear Mlle. Persan, My good friend Mr Wingate has done me the great favour of giving me your email address" ... "a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression" ... "It is very good indeed to know that another shares my feelings" ... "And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time. Faithfully yours, Mr William Arden."
Ruth stifled a laugh, and felt her heart expanding. The love she'd felt for Harry when she'd first read those words flowed into her like a wave, pure and clean. It was utterly separate from George, and Cyprus, and everything that had happened since, and Ruth allowed herself to feel it. No tears, she thought. I can do this. She clicked quickly on her letter back to Harry.
"Dear Mr Arden, Perhaps we can offer each other some comfort through our separate experiences" ... "I have recently had my own perfect experience of the romantic sort in Bath" ... "I was happier and more myself in those three days than I have been in my entire life ..."
Ruth stopped reading, and moved her gaze down to the keyboard. It blurred and spun before her eyes, as she worked hard to turn back the current of tears that were threatening. Okay, I can't do this, she thought, and she moved the cuff of her blouse up to the corners of her eyes to clear them. Once she was under control, Ruth moved the cursor up to the small printer icon at the top of the screen.
One by one, she printed them all. Then she took them from the printer, and returned to the privacy of the safe house.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FOUR
Another one dead, Jo thought.
Someone needed to retrieve Bibi's Saparova's possessions from the flat at the estate, and Jo volunteered. She'd also been the one to gather up George's things at the safe house, and the comparison wasn't lost on her. It seemed people kept dying, no matter what anyone did to try to stop it. Zaf, Adam, Ben, Connie, George, and now Bibi. Jo sighed deeply as she looked around her. She felt inexpressibly tired. What was it all for, really?
As she collected Bibi's papers and books and placed them in a pile, Jo tried to remember herself before MI5, and she recalled the first time she'd seen Adam. He'd come to her flat to read the gas meter, and once she'd understood what it was he really did, it had sounded exciting. She'd loved his passion, his drive, and the way his job seemed to pull him toward something greater than himself. It was what she'd longed for then.
And after spending those terrible days in captivity with the Redbacks, those days she could hardly bear to remember and still draw breath, Adam had arrived, and had been Jo's only salvation. She'd told him that she'd had "poise and gravitas" when he'd first met her, and it was true. She'd wanted to make a difference, and in small ways, she felt she had. But not in the ways she'd dreamed, and now, she had to admit that the price had simply been too high.
Jo sat down on the sofa for a moment, thinking, and her mind drifted to Zaf. She'd never been able to separate her experience of the Redbacks from what she'd imagined his experience had been. When she'd been in the cell with Adam and they'd heard the tapes of someone screaming playing relentlessly, she'd told Adam it was Zaf, but he hadn't believed her. It was Zaf, she'd known it, and she still heard him screaming at night, in the half-waking state of her nightmares.
Jo had seen the photos of his body. She'd offered so casually to Harry to file them that Harry hadn't suspected that she needed to see what they'd done to the man she loved. She'd stood in the Archives and cried for Zaf, and a part of her went with him into that cold, dark place. She'd thought then how long it would be, if ever, before anyone looked at him again. He would rest there until the end of time, or until the records were put into some other form, or perhaps were simply destroyed.
And then she'd gazed blankly at the stacks of files around her, and wondered how many other lives were held there, of people who were loved, or never had a chance to love. And she'd sat on the floor and cried again, until she thought she might never get up.
As she sat now, looking at the stack of Bibi's papers in front of her, Jo knew that something inside her was broken beyond repair. She had a naturally cheery disposition that she showed the world, but inside there seemed to be something growing that she couldn't stop. She'd thought once of taking her handgun and putting it to her head, just as she'd watched Bibi do yesterday. She hadn't done it, in large part, because she'd cleaned up after too many dead bodies, and she couldn't bear to have others given that task with hers.
She'd also thought of simply disappearing, but the basic flaw in that plan was that she would take herself and her own pain with her, and Jo knew that wouldn't solve anything. She could walk into the sea, she could step in front of a car, she could do so many things that would give her the peace that she knew Bibi Saparova was enjoying now. But she hadn't done it.
Most of the time, Jo wished that Adam had snapped her neck that day, like the injured birds she'd told him about. Every day since then had held some kind of terror, some old, some new, and now she was sitting in another empty room that held only the memory of a person who had died. Jo was more weary of it than she could express.
She stood to complete her task, and an envelope caught her eye on the table in front of her. She leant over and picked it up, and on the front, in a clean, steady hand, was written "Jo Portman." She opened it and pulled out the two small sheets of paper, and read.
Dear Miss Portman,
I'm sorry that I couldn't get to know you better. I think in a different world we might have even been friends. But the sorrow in my heart is too great for me to continue now. I wanted you to know, however, that I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.
Thank you,
Bibi
Jo didn't think she had any more tears to cry. But the sorrow in my heart is too great for me to continue now. Jo understood that feeling well. Before she could read it a second time, her mobile rang. She looked at the screen and answered, "Harry."
"I need to talk to you, Jo. I'm near the estates, may I meet you there?" Harry's voice was clipped, to-the-point.
"Of course. I'll be downstairs in, say ..." She looked at her watch, "Ten minutes?"
"Good. I'll see you then," Harry said, and rang off.
Eight minutes later, Jo had packed up the last of Bibi's meagre possessions into the boxes and called to have them picked up. She went downstairs and found Harry waiting just outside the front door of the building. The fact that he wanted to meet her here, rather than the Grid, told Jo that this was probably more of a personal issue, and she was certain it had to do with Ruth.
That suspicion was proven true in Harry's first question of her. "You went and spoke to Ruth, didn't you?" Harry began walking, indicating that she should fall into step with him. His tone wasn't particularly accusatory – it seemed merely a question.
Jo knew that she'd directly disobeyed an order, but she still felt it had been the right thing to do, so she answered him in the same even tone, "Yes."
"What did you hope to achieve by that?" Harry asked.
Jo knew that Harry was honestly asking a question of her, so she spoke bluntly. "I thought you were wrong for turning a blind eye to Bibi. There are some lines we should not cross." She thought that she might have been a bit too blunt, so she turned to Harry and added, "In my opinion."
Harry paused for a moment, and Jo wasn't sure how he was receiving that criticism. Then he surprised her by agreeing. "You were right. I didn't think it through properly."
Harry's honesty gave Jo courage, and she thought she might not have this chance again, so she simply said what was on her mind. "She should come back to us." Ruth belonged on the Grid, and Jo had seen it in her eyes as they'd sat talking on the steps. It was also clear to Jo that Harry wanted her there, so she turned to him as they walked, "If you talk to her maybe ... "
Harry interrupted her, and Jo realised that this might be the real reason Harry wanted to meet her today, "She's extremely fond of you, Jo. She thinks the service needs more people like you." He stopped walking and looked at her earnestly, "I can try and sort the logistical side of things out with the Home Secretary, but ... if you continue to meet her ... "
His voice trailed off, and Jo filled the space, "I'm happy to try."
Harry's voice changed abruptly, and he said softly, "Good." She could hear the intense gratitude there, and in his eyes she saw firsthand what she'd believed was true. She saw his deep love for Ruth, and in that moment, Jo knew she would do almost anything for the two of them. They belonged together.
His voice was still gentle, but now Jo could hear a lightness in it. "Don't go behind my back again, though, or I'll have you deported to Tazbekstan."
"Understood," Jo said. Now Harry smiled, and she smiled back at him. He turned and walked away. Jo was happy to try to get Ruth back to MI5. She'd felt guilty for so long about the part she'd played with the tracker in Ruth's pocket. And although Jo might not be long for this work, Ruth was meant to be doing it. Jo felt somehow that if she could help to get Ruth to her rightful place on the Grid, it might balance things out.
After talking with Jo, Harry called Nicholas Blake and asked if it would be possible to meet with him. Harry heard the last of the news report as he walked through the door to the Home Secretary's office.
"The energy crisis may have eased slightly with reports that an unexpected deal has been agreed with the Russians to provide emergency short-term supplies. Ministers have dismissed opposition claims of chaos at the heart of government. The Prime Minister says he'll get on with running the country and ensuring economic recovery."
Nicholas Blake clicked off the television and poured them each a drink. "People have every right to be angry," he said, sounding resigned. "We've let too much slide through our fingers."
Harry sat down across from him. "Things will look better in a year's time. And a lot of people who would have died, will now not die." He paused for a moment and lifted his glass. "It's breathtakingly simple sometimes."
Blake was sceptical. "Hmm, it doesn't always feel that way."
Harry drained his glass and set it down on the table. He'd rehearsed a speech thoroughly in the last few days, but now he thought he might just try it off the cuff. He leant back in the chair, put his hand to his forehead, and began. "Home Secretary, I have to talk to you about something that's not simple at all." Blake looked up expectantly, and Harry got right to the point. "Do you remember Ruth Evershed?
Blake did remember. "Yes, of course, very sad. Did you ever determine if she took her own life in the Thames, or was there foul play?"
Harry pursed his lips with just the hint of a smile, and said, evenly, "Actually, it was neither. She's alive."
Blake narrowed his eyes slowly in a look that was very familiar to Harry. It was a look that said clearly, Do I want to know about this?
"It's rather a long story," Harry said. Silently, he picked up his glass and put it on Blake's desk next to the bottle of scotch. Blake poured each of them a fresh glass, and sat back in his chair, waiting.
Starting with Maudsley, and ending with Mace, Harry related how Ruth had been involved with the Cotterdam case, and the sacrifice she had made. He carefully left out the details of why Ruth had been at that particular tube station the morning Maudsley died, and he never intimated that Ruth was anything more than a valued officer. But Nicholas Blake was where he was because he had excellent perception, and he could see that there was more to this than met the eye.
The animosity between Harry and Mace was legendary in the Services, especially the events of the day that Oliver's arm had been slashed and Harry had landed behind bars. It had been impossible to cover up completely, and although it had only added to Harry's mystique among his colleagues, in the end, it had seemed a bit too convenient that his Senior Analyst had taken the blame that had first been assigned to Harry.
Harry took another swallow of his drink. "Ruth is back in London, and I want to repay her for her service to this country by returning her life and her name." He looked pointedly at Blake. "We owe her that, Home Secretary." When he saw no reaction, Harry said, more gently, "I'm asking it not only as the Head of Section D, but as a personal favour."
Now Harry was silent, and he sipped the last of his scotch whilst keeping his eyes squarely on Blake's. It was a stand-off of sorts, and both men were fairly sure that they knew what the other was thinking. Blake knew he owed Harry, big time, for recent events. And Harry knew that Blake was wondering what Harry wasn't telling him. But the Cotterdam and Maudsley investigations had been long closed, Oliver Mace had disappeared to parts unknown, and both Harry and Blake knew that this was a thing that was easily accomplished.
The Home Secretary put down his glass and leant forward on his desk. "Will she come back to work for MI5?"
Harry relaxed, knowing that he'd gotten a Yes, and now they were simply hashing out the logistics. "I don't know. I'd like that to be a possibility, should she wish it."
Blake allowed Harry a half-smile. "I'll make the necessary arrangements. Is Friday soon enough?" He stood and offered his hand, letting Harry know that the meeting was over.
Harry stood as well, and shook Blake's hand warmly. "Thank you, Home Secretary. I'm very grateful."
"You're welcome, Harry. After all, we have to take care of our own, don't we?"
Harry nodded, but he didn't allow himself a full smile until he had closed the door behind him and was walking the long corridor toward the stairs.
"Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking..."
There was a collective and affectionate groan from those listening to Malcolm. Everyone present knew of his passion to quote and, indeed, to eulogise. Malcolm gave one of his customary half-smiles and continued.
"Well, I am a background person. I always have been, and I assume I always will be. But in my time here I've tried to help, and to be of service. And as I retire, hopefully to be able to read books by the sea in peace, I can only say that it has been a privilege to serve one's country." Malcolm paused for just a moment, and added, "Along with everything that goes with it, and alongside people who are, I know, very nice people, and, more importantly, very good people."
"Hear, hear!" someone called out, and there was mild laughter, to which Malcolm smiled again.
"Anyway, I joined the Service some time ago. In the first month of the first year of the decade that was the 1990s. That was a significant time ago, of course. And over the years, I have been somewhat constant in my duties. I've been content to be constant, because my duties were important. And I was, if I say so myself, rather good at the duties that I performed." There were smiles all around at this uncharacteristic lack of modesty, but no one disagreed with the assessment.
Malcolm looked at the faces that were turned toward him, and he faltered, unsure of what to say next. But he caught Jo's eye, and she nodded, urging him on. Malcolm gave a slight nod back, and continued, "The, er... the point being, I have been in the same place for a long time, and I've witnessed many arrivals. And many departures."
"The arrivals nearly always filled me with joy. The departures, always with sadness. And I leave you all with a certain gladness for myself, yes, but also with sadness … a great sadness, at leaving those of you for whom I have such fondness."
Malcolm blinked back what may have been a tear, and he wasn't the only one in the room. There were so many missing, and they'd been lost so quickly. Malcolm could picture Adam, Zaf, Danny, Ben, Fiona and even Connie standing amongst those listening. And Colin, always there was Colin. Thinking he'd better wrap up his comments before he became impossibly sentimental, Malcolm said, "However, tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis."
Everyone looked perplexed, but Harry, standing in the corner, smiled. Malcolm looked at him as he translated for the rest of those assembled. "Times change, and we change with the times." Harry smiled again, knowing, as Malcolm did, that despite MI5's statement of "preserving the status quo," things would always change.
Malcolm continued, "But so long as we remember, even death itself is not a goodbye. For death is no more than a turning over of us ... from time, to eternity." Coming to the climax of his speech, Malcolm said, just a bit more vigorously, "So I have one toast, and one only …" He raised his glass, and said, "Absent friends."
A short silence followed. Not long enough to be embarrassing, but long enough for all those who worked for Section D to pause, momentarily, to reflect on the colleagues and friends they'd lost. Appropriately, it was Lucas, himself away for eight years but now returned, who was the first to lift his glass and say, "To absent friends."
A chorus of voices raised together from around the room. "Absent friends!"
As Malcolm received well-deserved praise for his speech from those nearby, people began talking again. Harry scanned the crowd again for Ruth, but she wasn't there. He drained the glass of champagne, and moved toward the bar, ordering a single malt. He'd so hoped that she would come, and although he'd been talking himself out of it all day, he found he was disappointed that she hadn't.
He reminded himself that he needed to give her time and space, but Malcolm's speech had re-opened the sense of loss in Harry. He was happy for Malcolm, but after more than a week, it was truly sinking in that he would no longer have his old friend on the Grid with him.
Then Harry turned back toward the crowd, and there she was. Standing at the door, half in, and half out of the room. And from the looks of it, ready to fly away any second. Before she could escape, Harry walked quickly to her. "You did come, after all," he said, raising his voice to be heard above the music that had just started.
Ruth had a slightly startled look, and he felt as if he was shouting at her, so Harry angled his head toward the long hallway she'd just walked through. "Are you ready to come in, or would you like to wait a bit?"
She looked gratefully at him, and smiled. "I might like to have one glass of wine before tackling the whole room. Would you mind?"
Before he realised it, Harry had placed his hand on the small of her back and was walking with her to the main area of the pub. They both felt the touch, simultaneously familiar and new. Unlike the noise of the back room, the main bar was relatively peaceful, and Harry found a table that was empty and quiet. He looked at Ruth with raised eyebrows and said, "White or red? Or something stronger?"
She laughed softly, and said, "White is fine, thanks." She didn't say white burgundy, and he didn't ask, but each of them thought of it. He brought her a dry Chardonnay, and set it down next to his scotch on the table before he sat across from her.
"You missed Malcolm's speech," Harry said, smiling.
Ruth frowned slightly. "I couldn't seem to decide ... " She felt herself moving into dangerous territory, so she added lightly, "Can you give me the high points?"
"It was very good, and quite moving, actually. He offered a toast to absent friends." For a moment, Harry and Ruth looked at each other, and it seemed that nothing but questions hung between them. Then Ruth raised her glass slightly, and said, softly, "To absent friends."
Harry touched his glass to hers and repeated, "To absent friends." They both sipped at their drinks, their eyes still on each other.
Ruth broke his gaze first, and looked down at her hands resting on the table. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "I wanted you to know that I was … planning to leave, to go somewhere far away from here… " Ruth paused, and Harry's heart fell. But then she finished the sentence, "But in the last couple of days, I've realised that's not what I want."
Harry didn't trust himself to speak right away, so he simply nodded. Then, managing to keep his voice steady, he said, "So you plan to stay? In London?"
"Yes." She didn't flinch. In fact, Ruth sat a little taller. It was a definite answer. A clear answer. It was the answer he'd wanted so much to hear.
"I'm very glad, Ruth." He smiled at her, and said, "You'll need a place to live, then, won't you?"
Ruth's eyes narrowed, just slightly, and Harry realised she may have thought he meant his house, the house that was to be their house someday. His eyes flew open wide, and he said, quickly, "No, no, I never sold your house. I kept it, thinking that ... I was waiting until the market turned, to send you the extra ..." He was stumbling over his words, and finally, Ruth broke into a smile, and he stopped.
She said, surprised, "You never sold it? But you sent me the money, with Adam ... "
"Yes, I bought the house from you and sent you the money," Harry said, softly. He was remembering those terrible days, and how quickly it all had to be accomplished.
Ruth paused for a moment, and then she said, "Then the house belongs to you. I'll need to pay you for it. But I had to use some of the money you sent, to live." She was calculating now, in her head. "I only used a small portion, but I may have to make payments for the rest ..."
Harry started to say no, that he didn't need it, and she could live in the house and keep her money, but he stopped himself. He knew that Ruth wouldn't stand for that, so, measuring his words carefully, he said, "We can work out a business arrangement, if you'd like. Regular payments, we can even go to a solicitor, if that would make you more comfortable."
He could see that Ruth appreciated that idea. She smiled, and said, "I would like that." Then she said, slowly, "I'll be looking for ... a job." She kept her eyes on Harry's, waiting for his reaction.
Harry decided to leap. "If you want to come back to the Grid, Ruth, I can't think of anyone who would be more valuable to us. But if you want to go to GCHQ, or ..."
Ruth interrupted him, smiling. "There are too many bloody mathematicians at GCHQ, Harry."
Harry exhaled softly. "The Grid it is, then." His heart was so full in his chest he could hardly breathe. Ruth was home, she was staying in London, and she wanted to come back to MI5. He thought he might still be in one of his dreams.
Sipping her wine, Ruth knew without a doubt that this was what she wanted. She knew it now, because it felt right. Only time would tell if too much had happened for her to be with Harry the way they had been, but this decision felt good, and safe. Now there was only one last thing to ask him. "And the girls?"
Pursing his lips, Harry said, "They're yours, Ruth." He tilted his head slightly, "But against my better judgement, I seem to have developed an affection for them. May I visit now and then?"
Now Ruth laughed. "Affection? Fuzz and all?" Harry nodded, looking slightly sheepish, and she said, "If you ever want them to come stay with you, just ask."
"Thank you." Harry felt they had said so much, and he didn't want to stretch this moment any longer than he should, so he got right to the news he had to give her. "I took the liberty of speaking with the Home Secretary, and I received word yesterday that your papers have gone through, Ruth. I'll have them Monday. I can either have them couriered to you, or you can stop by the Grid for them?"
Ruth smiled. "I thought you wanted me to come back to work?"
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise, "What, Monday? So soon?"
Ruth actually looked slightly hurt. "Well, I don't ... have to ... if you'd rather ..."
Before he knew what he was doing, Harry reached out and touched her hand across the table, "No, no, that would be wonderful ..." he pulled his hand back, quickly, and took hold of his glass to cover his embarrassment. "Monday would be very good. We'll try and have some minor excitement for you."
Ruth looked across at Harry and remembered her days in Paris, and how she'd longed to come back to work. Before coming tonight, she'd sat reading and re-reading their Paris letters, spread around her on the floor of the lounge in the safe house. What had been so clear was the fact that they hadn't been able to stop the progression. At first, they'd said no contact, then they allowed just letters, then a phone call, then a meeting. They'd been unable to stay apart. The reason Ruth had taken so long to decide to come to Malcolm's party, was that she feared this might be the first step of another progression. She worried that somehow she was beginning to walk another inevitable, unhappy path.
But now, as she looked into Harry's eyes and saw the love there, Ruth couldn't believe that what lay ahead was unhappiness. She felt held, and whole, and more at home than she'd felt since the day she'd stood at the top of his stairs in his shirt, saying goodbye just hours before Mik Maudsley died. This was where she belonged, and she'd waited so long for it.
Her eyes began to fill as she looked at him, and Harry saw it. He tilted his head slightly, and she said, "It's alright, Harry. I'm fine." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He started to hand it to her, but then he reached up and caught a tear. For a moment, their hands touched at her cheek, and just as they had on the bus, they held them there. They both felt themselves pulled back to another time, and, not wanting to get completely lost, simultaneously, they moved their hands down to the table.
Harry remembered what he had felt after their last conversation, and he said softly, "There's time. We have time." Ruth nodded, and smiled, and an understanding passed between them. They sat for a few moments longer, and Harry didn't protest when Ruth carefully folded his handkerchief and put it in her purse.
Harry finished his drink, and said, "You ready?" Ruth nodded, and Harry stood, leaving a tip on the table. He took her arm gently to help her out of her chair, and they walked in silence down the long hallway. When they reached the doorway, Ruth turned to him and said, "Thanks, Harry. The drink helped."
When they walked into the room together, almost everyone was busy in conversation. But from across the room, Malcolm smiled.
Finally, it was time for Malcolm to go.
Nearly everyone had left. In fact, aside from the bar staff who were cleaning up, there were only six of them remaining now - Harry, Ros, Lucas, Malcolm, Ruth and Jo.
"Tariq will be excellent, you know," Malcolm was explaining to anyone who would listen, "I had a wonderful talk with him about nanotechnology this evening. He's sharp, he's bright, he's … well ... he's like Colin."
Jo put her hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "We know, Malcolm," she said softly, "we know you wouldn't leave us in hands that weren't as safe as yours."
Malcolm turned to hug Jo. "Now don't you go getting shot," Malcolm said, with a genial, almost paternal air. Jo laughed, and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't worry, Malcolm … I won't."
Harry listened, and thought back to the promise he'd made to Ruth just before she was exiled - the promise, of course, that he wasn't able to keep. And for a moment, Harry wondered if any promise was possible in a business like this.
Then, to everyone's utter amazement, Ros stepped up and put her arms around Malcolm, and gave him a hug. Malcolm knew that Rosalind Myers didn't hug people, and he reckoned he should be honoured, but it rendered him all but speechless.
"Malcolm," Ros whispered quickly into his ear, "You're a good man, and I'm going to miss you."
Then she pecked his cheek, broke the embrace and, before Malcolm knew it, there was distance between them. Part of him was not entirely sure that it had happened.
Harry and Ruth stood apart, waiting their turns. They watched as Lucas shook hands with Malcolm, and then gave way to sentiment and hugged him. Malcolm was one of the few people that Lucas had always found trustworthy in an unreliable world.
After Lucas moved aside, Ruth walked over and placed her hand on Malcolm's cheek. She kissed the other one, and whispered to him, "Thanks for being such a good friend. To both of us." She pulled away and smiled, wanting him to know that this wasn't nearly the end. "I'll call you next week. I'll buy you a coffee."
Malcolm smiled back at her. "An offer I won't refuse."
As he looked on, Harry remembered the handshake that he and Malcolm had shared on the Grid only a few weeks ago, before Harry made his way to visit London's FSB headquarters. He also remembered what he'd said to him. Malcolm, I know I can rely on you. Some things change, that never will. He was now no longer Harry's officer, but he was still his trusted friend, and always would be. Harry walked to where Malcolm stood, and he nodded. "Well, this is it."
"Yes. I suppose it is," Malcolm said.
"I'll ... miss you, you know."
Malcolm said haughtily, "You already do." Then he nodded, and spoke softly: "And I you."
For all the comings and goings, for all the deaths and exiles, in twenty years at MI5 they had remained constant in one another's lives. For all that the others on the Grid had been to them, or even Sarah and Ruth, those who they loved so much - none of them could equal the unbroken longevity of company, friendship and service that Harry and Malcolm had enjoyed.
Now both men were somewhat at a loss for words. Harry felt the emotion rising in his throat, but he told himself the same thing he'd just thought about Ruth. There will be time. Time for dinners at Tom and Christine's, time for lunches in town, and time to join Malcolm by the sea with a good book now and then. Harry put out his hand and said, "I'll see you soon?"
"I hope so," Malcolm said quietly.
Harry gave an almost embarrassed smile, and Malcolm, for his part, gave one of his customary half smiles, and nodded his head. It was almost a bow, perhaps indicating the fact that he felt himself in service to this man who, for all his human faults, he would have followed anywhere, if necessary.
Then Malcolm moved off. He walked past Harry, and was gone. Harry didn't watch him go, but instead allowed his gaze to move to Ruth. She let him know that she understood his pain at the loss of his long-time friend and ally on the Grid.
But she reminded him, with her eyes, that what is lost can always be found again.
-To "Sir Malcolm": A very warm thank you for the farewell party - it was a true collaboration, and I'm grateful for being allowed to incorporate your beautiful words into my story-
