The air inside the restaurant was thick with the accumulated memory of year upon year of all-day breakfasts. The smell of fried eggs and bacon grease permeated the weave and clung to the fabric of all those who entered. Ruth sat alone in a worn vinyl booth, shoulders hunched, nursing a cold coffee, close enough to the window to survey the street, yet far enough removed to avoid detection from passing traffic. She debated ordering another cup of coffee but decided she was already functioning on one frayed nerve, any more caffeine and she would out jump a cat. A pain shot through her side, a mixture of the wound and hunger. Unable to order food, the last of her money spent on the taxi, her fingers rummaged in her bag for a small plastic bottle and shook out two tablets. She popped the paracetamol into her mouth, grimacing as she washed them down with the tepid coffee. She tapped the side of the mug, reflecting on her options, calculating how much longer she should wait. Two men sat by the window, dressed in work boots and overalls, language peppered with epithets, going or coming from work she couldn't tell. The waitress, strands of grey slipping from a hairnet, wiped down the counter with the slow thoroughness of years at the task. Her eyes gravitated towards Ruth, her mouth pulled in a thin line of disapproval. Ruth looked away and gave herself a reason for extending her stay by picking up an ancient vinyl bound menu. Decorated with a mosaic of grease stains and coffee marks, she stared unseeingly at the choices. The paracetamol taking effect, the hunger and pain subsided, replaced by a sinking feeling; it had been over an hour since she had left the mall, something must have happened to Malcolm. Closing her eyes, she searched for a plan. Where could she go if Malcolm didn't meet up with her? She would phone Harry, obviously. Of course, there was a way out, she wasn't totally stranded.
"I recommend the Spanish omelette."
Ruth's eyes flew open. On the seat across from her, sat Harry. He removed his gloves, pulling the leather from each finger with a terse snap as he levelled a look of disapproval in her direction. Her initial wave of relief gave way to trepidation.
"Where's Malcolm?"
"He's fine." Harry casually extracted a menu from between the serviette holder and the condiment tray and glanced at the fare. "We've got another place lined up. There won't be any provisions there, so you had better eat something."
She stared at him over her menu, stunned by his lack of concern for her. "I'm also fine, thank you for asking."
Harry leaned forward, hands gripping the menu with tightly controlled anger. He half turned the menu, using it as a blind to shield their conversation. "What were you thinking?" he hissed at her.
"I'm sorry," she stuttered, perplexed by his anger, expecting that he would greet her with words of comfort instead of censure. "I thought I could get something-"
"It was reckless," he angrily cut off her explanation, "Incredibly dangerous and against my orders."
"Orders?" she echoed, her mouth remaining open in a circle of disbelief. "You may recall, I don't work for you anymore. In fact-"
"Damn it, Ruth." His fist fell on the table with a soft thud. "There are people after you. We don't know how far they will go. You can't take chances like that."
A shadow fell across the table. The waitress stood at the ready, a cup of coffee in one hand. Harry sat back, making room on the table for the beverage. Ruth retreated in her seat and concentrated on the menu, silently seething. The waitress pulled out her yellowing order pad.
"Same as usual, Harry," she asked in a chipper voice.
Harry folded his menu and slipped it back behind the napkin holder. "Sure." He gave the waitress a benevolent smile.
Ruth glared at him beneath heavy lids.
"And you?" The waitress turned to Ruth, a motherly smile replacing her previous look of disapproval.
Having not entirely concentrated on the menu, Ruth took a breath as she hastily constructed her order.
"She'll have a Spanish omelette," Harry answered on her behalf. "And some more coffee."
Ruth opened her mouth to protest, but the waitress had already turned on her heels and headed to the kitchen. Relenting, Ruth folded up her menu and slid it into place alongside the other one. Harry opened a packet of creamer and poured it into his coffee, the spoon clinking testily against the side of the china. Why were they always at such odds?
"If you're going to be angry with me, I can just leave."
The spoon stilled. Harry tapped it against the rim of the mug and then set it down on the table, lips pursed, holding back one set of words, exchanging them for another. "We need to be careful," he calmly whispered."We don't know who we are dealing with." He reached across the table and took her hand.
Surprised by the gesture, Ruth stiffened in her seat, her cold skin unaccustomed to touch. His hand was large, but his grip was gentle. She had studied his hands on many occasions, fingers laced, gripping a phone, holding a scotch, occasions when her fingers had grazed against them, imagining them on hidden parts of her skin. His thumb caressed the top of her hand, and her shoulders eased as she gave herself permission to enjoy the sensation. It was allowed here, off the Grid, away from eyes, on this other plane where they now existed. The motion served to massage away her residual anger.
"I'm sorry," she said in appeasement. "I just wanted to be myself again."
Lines creased his forehead as he studied her. "Who were you before?"
Unable to properly explain the workings of her existential dilemma, she shrugged her shoulders. "A ghost, I guess."
"We're not ghosts." He gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Not yet."
Before she could ask him to explain his cryptic comment, the waitress arrived with a pot of coffee. Harry released her hand and sat back. A fresh cup was poured for Ruth, the steam rising, and she thankfully wrapped her hands around the mug.
"Are you alright?" Harry asked.
"I'm just cold. I haven't been able to properly warm up."
"We'll get you settled into the new place."
"How many safe houses do you have?" She sipped the bitter coffee, one eyebrow raised in mock query.
Ignoring the question, Harry pulled out his mobile. "We don't have much time."
They never had time.
The waitress returned, two plates in her hands, an omelette for Ruth, and an artery stopping fare for Harry. Ruth dove into the omelette not realising the full extent of her hunger until she started chewing.
"Everything okay," Harry asked, a bottle of brown sauce poised in his hand.
"This is great," she begrudgingly conceded through a mouthful of food.
"You see, sometimes I do know what's best for you."
She looked away, refusing to admit that he may be right. They ate in silence, forks scraping against the plates. Harry shifted in his seat, his foot accidentally bumping against hers, an apology mumbled. She pulled her foot away with her own apology, the dance of distance maintained, the earlier hand holding forgotten, one step forward, two steps back.
The meal finished, Harry tossed some notes on the table, leaving a generous tip. Ruth studied the money noting how he and Malcolm had paid with cash. Always untraceable. She shimmied out of the booth, adjusting the bag over her shoulder as Harry collected his gloves. Her eyes wandered over to the window. A man stood on the other side of the road, staring directly into the restaurant. Before she had time to thoroughly register his presence a van drove past. When the vehicle had cleared, the space was empty, leaving her to wonder if there had actually been a man or if it was her imagination. It was her state of heightened paranoia, she cautioned. Though she was unseasoned in the field, she had taken nothing for granted, meticulous in her cleaning route, certain that she had lost her tail.
Harry held open the glass door and she walked before him out onto the pavement. In the cold, her breath formed tiny clouds, a scattering of snowflakes trying their best to create a storm without much success. Harry had not bothered to button up his overcoat, the tails flapping as he walked along. Ruth drew hers tighter around her torso, amazed that he did not feel the cold. Slush had turned to ice, and a layer of frost coated spots on the pavement. Harry, as sure in his step as he was in his convictions, walked along without a second thought to the hazards. Ruth, gingerly placed her feet on the ground, unsure of the tread of her new boots. They walked in the direction of a busier intersection.
"It's a few blocks away," Harry informed her. "I'll get us a taxi."
Ruth stepped aside to allow him access to the kerb. Her foot landed on a patch of ice and the sole of her boot slid along without her. Arms flailing, she tried to maintain her balance. Harry reached out and caught her elbow, his other hand gripping her around her waist.
"Steady there," he murmured.
Hands searching for anything to latch onto, she grabbed onto the lapel of his overcoat. She held the fabric between her fingers, her heart thudding at the near fall. Keeping his hand around her waist, he looked down at her. She made no move to step away, but let herself sink into the moment. This was how he should have greeted her – gathering her into his arms, enfolding her in a protective embrace. The air between them warmed, their breath mingled in a combined cloud, and she looked up into his eyes. There was no anger, only softness. Pedestrians continued by, traffic moved along, yet still they stood. Creatures of the shadows brazenly standing in the open. Her eyes fell to his lips, her mouth parting in a silent signal to him. Her fingers curled tighter around his lapel. Her body stiffened and the air instantly cooled. Beneath the pad of her finger, she felt something hard and round. Please, let it be nothing more than a button.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
With a furtive look over her shoulder, she grabbed his hand and pulled him next to a shop, then decided better, and took a few steps around the corner into an alcove. Ignoring his questions, she flipped back the lapel of his overcoat. Hidden near the seam was a small metal disc. Picking at the fabric, she carefully scraped it off with her fingernails. She held it up to him, eyes wide with horror.
"It's the same device that was on me."
Harry took the device from her hand and examined it. "Are you sure?"
She nodded. "How would they get it on you?"
"I don't know."
"Please don't say that we have to split up." She almost cried at the thought.
"No, you're staying with me." He firmly took her hand in his gloved one. "They know that we're here. It was lucky that we found it before we compromised another safe house." Harry scanned the end of the street as he formulated a plan. "Better not take any chances. We have to lose them."
Tired from running, morale plummeting, she was quickly losing optimism. "I don't think we'll ever be free."
His grip tightened on her hand and he tugged her closer. "Don't say that."
Ruth let herself be pulled behind Harry as he strode out of the alcove. Without looking left or right, he walked to the edge of the pavement and extended his arm, flagging down a cab. When one pulled up, he opened the door and Ruth climbed into the back seat. Harry climbed in beside her and gave the driver an address. Eyes closed, Ruth slumped in the seat, no idea where they were going, giving herself over. After a few blocks, they pulled up in front of a shop and Harry paid the driver. As they hurried into the shop, Ruth barely had the chance to look at the sign over the door. She was instantly hit by the musty smell of ancient cardboard and pressed vinyl. Harry walked purposefully down the aisle, weaving his way between bins and stands of records. The sleeves of long-forgotten LPs brought back memories to Ruth of teenage crooners and scratchy turntables.
"You looking for anything in particular, Harry."
A man approached them from behind a counter, long grey hair tied back, wearing a floral shirt.
"Jerry," Harry nodded in greeting. He pulled an album out of a bin, and placed the tracking device on top of it, hiding the nature of the interaction. "I'm looking for the owner of this."
The man took the device."Are we looking at a domestic label?"
"Possible import."
"Let me see what I have in the back."
The novelty of the interaction had piqued Ruth's curiosity, her former malaise deserting her, replaced by her usual inquisitive nature. Did Harry know everyone in this neighbourhood? They followed the man past stacks of old albums, into a storeroom. In complete contrast to the front of the shop, the room was crammed with flickering screens and cannibalised desktop towers, all the trappings of the digital age. The man peered in one box after another, pulling them from a metal shelf until he arrived at the one he was looking for.
"Ah hah," he exclaimed with the excitement of a child. "I haven't seen one of these in years." He held up a similar looking device. "It's Israeli."
"Mossad?" Harry asked, surprised by the information.
"Possibly," Jerry conceded. "Doesn't mean it was from an active agent. Tech passes between many hands these days."
"We were carrying it live. They'll probably track it here. Can you dispose of it?"
"No problem."
"You know, my offer of employment still stands."
Jerry chuckled. "No thank you, I make better money from people looking to maintain their privacy from government intrusion."
"We don't use unauthorised surveillance on citizens."
"Sure, Harry, sure." The man gestured toward a door. "You might want to take advantage of the back exit."
Harry took Ruth's elbow and guided her towards the door.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Trust me."
Opening the door, he gave her a look. Her eyes met his with an answer. Implicitly.
The back exit of the shop emptied onto an alley and Harry followed the narrow lane, rounding the corner coming out near the entrance of a tube station. Using cash, nothing traceable, aware of surveillance, Harry purchased two tickets and handed her one. No words were needed, no instructions given, as she mirrored his actions and stepped up to the ticket barrier, inserting paper, walking in unison through the machine. They reached the platform and stood waiting, face to face, looking over each other's shoulders. The platform echoed with the sounds of the previous evening, a sense of coming full circle, a fear rising in her that this time circumstance would cleave them and they would be separated. Biting her lip, she looked down the track, willing the train to come. Fate was listening, and a train barrelled through the tunnel, pulling into the station. The mid-afternoon commute was not as harried as the evening, and they easily made their way onto a car. They stood holding onto the straps, bodies brushing against each other as the train lurched forward. They did not separate but remained close.
Harry leant down to her ear. "Man in the next car. He's following us. Do you recognise him?"
Ruth half turned, covertly looking into the adjoining carriage. "No. But there was a third man. I heard his voice but I never saw him. What are we going to do?"
"Get out at the next station."
She nodded, subtly moving closer to him, taking strength from his proximity. Harry looked back through the window to the adjoining car, focused on the threat. She, on the other hand, focused on his throat, the dusting of stubble growing on his chin, the faint musk of his skin reaching her nostrils, telling her he that had not showered. The man that stood before her was all that mattered. If she didn't look back, the man in the next carriage did not exist.
The next station was announced, and Ruth stirred. Harry placed a hand on her arm, shaking his head, telling her to wait. The train slowed as it pulled into the station, moving in counterpoint to Ruth's accelerating heartbeat. The doors opened, but Harry remained still, his face impassive, giving her no clue as to his intent. Seconds ticked by, stretching out into minutes. Another announcement and the doors hissed as they prepared to close. Ruth relaxed; she must have misheard, Harry had meant the next station. As the doors were released from their mechanisms, Harry let go of the strap and took a step, leaving Ruth frozen in surprise. He grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her behind him. Her feet stumbled over each other as her body realised what was happening. With only millimetres to spare, they slid through the doors, metal grazing her coat. Pulled from behind, she was stopped short, unable to move. A strangled gasp left her throat as she realised her shoulder bag was caught in the door. Harry had turned back to her with a look of consternation, questioning her delay. Overcome by panic, she tugged at the bag, unable to free her arm from the handle, thoughts of being carried along with the train flashing through her mind. She stared at Harry, wild-eyed. His fingers pulled at the strap but he was unable to break it. The train door disengaged and opened, allowing her the opportunity to remove the bag. Stunned, she pulled it free, and Harry grabbed her hand, yanking her away from the train. Shaking, she quickly walked alongside Harry down the length of the platform, praying that the extra seconds had not given their tail time to leave the train. As the cars sped by, curiosity overcame her, and Ruth looked into the passing windows. The man who had been following them stood at the door, hand against the glass, watching them as the train left the station.
"We have to catch the next train back," Harry told her.
Unable to speak, she nodded. One step forward, two steps back.
.
The lens of the security camera stared down from the pockmarked brick, the modern piece of equipment standing out against the crumbling facade of the building. Ruth looked directly up into its sights, unflinching, wanting to be recognised. Harry pressed the intercom button and within seconds the main door was unlocked. A rickety cage of a lift deposited them on the third floor of the converted warehouse. She followed Harry down the hall, feet scuffing along a worn carpet, past cracked walls and broken lights, a definite downgrade from her last residence. This, it would seem, was her new normal, moving from safe house to safe house, pursued by unknown agents, all her worldly belongings in one shoulder bag. Her mouth opened in silent desperation, longing for a book, a cat, a bill with her address on it, all the things she had taken for granted. There must be a way she could return to her old flat. Harry stopped at a door and rapped three times. She schooled her face, replacing her look of dejection with a neutral mask. The door was open by Malcolm.
"Thank God, you're alright."
Venetian blinds dangled at haphazard angles, slats missing, barely hiding dirty windows, pieces of yellowed newspaper covering the panes underneath. Like the record store, there was a pervasive smell of must and closeness, a place forgotten in time. The furniture reminded her of a doctor's office she had once been in as a child; her orange turtleneck and tweed skirt would have fitted in perfectly with the decor. On the plus side, there was a wide assortment of anglepoise lamps. One sat on the table were Malcolm had set up his equipment.
"I managed to salvage the laptop. It seems to be free of any malware," he informed them. "Unfortunately, they got the USB stick."
"What USB?" Harry asked.
"No, they didn't." Ruth patted her side, having sequestered the thumb drive in her bandage once again. "I didn't want to leave it behind."
"Clever move," Malcolm commended her.
"Are you going to bring me in on this," Harry asked, "Or is it just for you two?"
"They gave me a USB stick full of Gavrik's information from Kaspgaz. It's a pretty concise compendium of Gavrik's finances."
"Once I got through a few firewalls," Malcolm carried on with the explanation, "We were able to uncover two accounts; one in his wife's name and one under the son. They both hold a significant amount of money."
"Money that he might not be able to access due to the fact that he murdered his wife," Ruth added.
"Sasha has an account?" Harry took a moment to digest all the information. "Are these accounts in London?"
"No, Turks and Caicos."
"Of course," Harry gave out a derisive huff. "Our friend Gavrik has just requested permission to leave the country."
"You're not going to let him are you?" Ruth demanded.
Harry raised his hands in sarcastic defeat. "They've taken it out of my hands. Six is looking after it."
Ruth walked toward the window as she ordered her thoughts. "Obviously, he needs this money for whatever he's planning, or maybe he needs to hide its provenance. If we can prove that the money is laundered, it could be seized under the Proceeds of Crime Act."
"Can you get in and see where the money originates?" Harry directed the question at Malcolm.
"I've been poking about, I'm surprised they haven't sensed my presence already."
"But could you?"
"I need more time."
"We may not have time." Harry rubbed his forehead. "If Gavrik gets his hands on the money it may insulate him from prosecution and then we'll never know what he was really up to."
"I could work faster if I had a hard link into their system," Malcolm proposed.
Half listening to the two men, Ruth idly picked up a cassette tape from the coffee table and turned it over in her hand, her mind sorting through options. She glanced at the title - Led Zeppelin. She really had stepped back in time. If she could travel into the past, she could travel anywhere.
"What if we went there?" she mused aloud, half to herself.
"That's not possible," Harry countered. "It's not Five's jurisdiction. Towers effectively ordered me to stay away."
"That doesn't mean Malcolm and I can't go."
"That's impossible." Harry shook his head emphatically.
"Why not? I don't work for Five anymore. In fact, I'm dead. You can't get any more deniable than that."
"You'd have no backup."
"I'd have Malcolm."
"Um, well," Malcolm half raised his hand, trying to insert himself into the conversation that was quickly spinning off in an unforeseen direction.
"That's not the sort of back up I meant," Harry let out an exasperated breath.
"We could go to the bank in person, open an account," she directed her plan at Malcolm, hoping her enthusiasm would engender his support. "Get you into the system."
"We would need a bit of capital to pull it off," Malcolm ventured, swayed by her scheme.
"Stop!" Harry bellowed, holding up his hands. He turned on Ruth with a glare. "You are not leaving the country. Do you understand?"
Ruth blinked, her spine straightening, shocked at the fierceness of his tone. How dare he tell her what to do? Had her words in the restaurant been completely lost on him? She was a ghost, lacking any sort of self-determination, hovering on the fringe of existence. She wanted her life back. Her fingers curled around the plastic of the cassette case, quelling the impulse to throw it at the man. She took a step toward Harry, her voice low and terse.
"They will keep chasing me, Harry. Whether for the USB stick or for the information that I have in my head. They're never going to let us rest, you know that. I can't stay holed up in safe houses forever. I am going to find out what's going on. I'm tired of someone else pulling the strings. Aren't you?"
Harry's eyes narrowed. He was an intelligent man, he understood the deeper meaning to her words, an allusion not only to the unknown hand that had played with their lives but also his attempts to control her. His shoulders sagged and he took a deep breath.
"Before we entertain the idea of leaving the country, let's exhaust other avenues. I have to sort some things out. Don't do anything until I get back."
"You're leaving?" Ruth asked in disbelief. They were on the precipice of a breakthrough, the nascent stage of a plan, they needed to work together.
Harry spoke to Malcolm as he made his way toward the door. "There was a tracking device on me. Possibly Israeli in origin. Similar to the one on Ruth."
"Good Lord. How did they get it on you?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to think of when someone would have had an opportunity." Harry tipped his head and lowered his voice. " It could have been when I had dinner with Ariadne Kolos. I have to check that out."
"Ariadne?" Ruth interjected. "Who's Ariadne?"
Hand on the doorknob, Harry paused before he opened it. "I may know another way in. We'll talk more about this when I return." He levelled a gaze at Ruth. "Don't do anything foolish while I'm gone."
"Wait a minute!" Ruth hurried to the door, her voice straining in an unsuccessful attempt to halt his exit. "Who's Ariadne?"
The draft of the closing door stirred her hair and she stood staring at the peeling panel, baffled that Harry had departed in such haste. He had left without a proper goodbye, without some sort of gesture of farewell. Granted, neither of them were ones for overt displays of affection, but at least they could have shared a moment of connection, an agreement of commitment to the same goal. Driven by an idea that he had not seen fit to share, he had totally forgotten about her. She was no stranger to that sort of behaviour, she had seen him consumed by his obsession before, his single-minded pursuit of Jim Coaver was a testament to that. And he was still consumed by Gavrik. If she were truthful, she would admit that she was the same, latching onto a theory, compelled to see it to its conclusion. It had been the driving force behind her investigation into Mik Maudsley and look how that had ended up. She had learned from that experience. This time she would do it right.
Malcolm stood by the laptop, sharing Ruth's puzzlement over Harry's abrupt departure. He raised an eyebrow, looking to her for guidance.
"I need a passport," she said without preamble.
"Harry warned us not to do anything foolish."
"Flights leaving from Heathrow," she carried on, listing tasks on her fingers. "Accommodation. What kind of tech do you need?"
Finding it hard to resist Ruth's determined manner, Malcolm sat down and started to make a list. Ruth took the seat beside him and looked directly into his face.
"Who is Ariadne?"