"Just – oh god..." Harry had never concentrated so hard in his life – attempting half succeeding in balancing Ruth against the door frame while he fished for her keys. It was probably a sin, ratting through a woman's hand bag but he had little choice and Ruth was no help at all. When he found them, Harry was presented with an intimidating sculpture of coloured metal. He held it up to completely inadequate street lamp, squinting at the mess. "What in the name of sanity? How many doors do you have?"

Ruth didn't so much as reply as reach toward the keys with a puzzled expression. Delicately, she separated some of them with her fingers then plucked out an unassuming silver strip of metal.

"Thank you." Harry tried that one in the lock and mercifully, the door opened. Now he needed only to coax Ruth into her house.

'Ruby Ruby, Night Owl here...' The MI6 operative lingered across the street, throwing alarmed glances at the gathering storm above. There was a wind kicking up, blowing dried leaves over the asphalt. Fuckity-shit! It was going to pour. 'Looks like we could be here all night. Can someone do the coffee run?'

'Negative on that, Night Owl. Bring your own at this hour.'

'Cunts. All of you.'

'Foxtrot objects to Night Owl's language.'

'Copy that, Foxtrot. Ruby Ruby out.'

In the end, Ruth managed on her own, arms outstretched, back to the wall as she slid over the threshold and into the house. Her head nudged some of the wall hangings, very nearly sending them to an unfortunate demise before Harry pried her off the surface.

"Come on..." Harry insisted, when Ruth stumbled. "Straight to bed with you."

"Scandalous!" Ruth went to whack him on the shoulder. Missed. Sent a lamp crashing to the floor in an almighty cataclysm.

It was the loudest sound Harry had ever heard. He wasn't sure what to do, staring at the shattered bulb and fresh carpet of glass, mortified that it was somehow his fault. Harry didn't have time to dwell.

"Shit – shoes..." Ruth was trying to take off her heels.

"Not here," he raced to stop her. "You'll cut yourself. Come on. Upstairs. Don't make me turn that into an order, Evershed."

Even though it was dark, Harry could feel the indignation in Ruth's lofted eyebrow. One, he'd called her, 'Evershed' and two... "Harry Pearce," she started, as he led her to the stairs, "I'm not sure that it's proper for you to pull rank in my house."

"Maybe not but the occasion calls for it."

By this stage, Harry was exhausted. Escorting Ruth safely home was far too much responsibility for the head of Section D. She required a royal escort. "All right..." They reached the top of the landing together, her arm around his neck leaning heavily. He was presented with a nightmare of multiple doors and no light. "Which way is it?"

"Are you trying to tell me," Ruth stalled, "that you haven't broken into my house at least once? Not even for a peek?"

"Contrary to water cooler gossip," he replied sternly, "I do not make a habit of home visits." Yes, he had but there'd been no cause to sneak upstairs. "This one?" No helpful reply. "I'm going to go ahead and guess."

Harry guessed correctly. The door opened to a modest room with its navy curtains pulled back with a silver tie, allowing the street light in. A soft, white glow illuminated a double bed, scatterings of tables and a chair housing the coat she'd been wearing yesterday. He could not help but smile at the simplicity of the room that was all so very Ruth.

"Here we go," he warned her, before his hold loosened and Ruth dropped gently to the bed. She seemed to have no inclination to sit – immediately unfurling herself over the covers.

Harry took her shoes off while she was distracted groping at the pillows. It would take a heart of ice not to find her perfectly gorgeous in her irrational rage directed at the stuffed items. He probably should have helped her with her earrings or done something about the jacket she was wearing but Harry wasn't game with Ruth's playful mood. Suffice to say, she didn't have the best boundaries, proved when she suddenly reached up, tangling her hand in his sleeve. She tugged him down to the bed with her until he was sat there in the soft light.

"Was there something else, Ruth?" Harry asked, patiently.

Ruth stared at him for a long time before finding an answer. "Why, in god's name, did you want to marry me?"

Panic immediately chased by sadness. Harry hoped that Ruth wasn't seriously blind to his reasons. He was aware, painfully so, that his timing lacked finesse but not his meaning. Never that. Was he so guarded? Had the only person able to read him missed what should have been obvious?

"You know why..." He whispered. This was not the time to be having this conversation – especially as he doubted Ruth would remember much of it. Her hand was on his forearm, playing with the material of his jacket.

"To help look after the cats, I imagine..." She replied dryly.

Ruth caught Harry so far off guard that he snorted with laughter, shaking slightly as he tried to stifle his amusement. "Yes, that must be it."

"Knew it..." Ruth declared.

A little entranced, Harry used his free hand to brush away her unruly fringe. Ruth blinked slowly at him, rather startled by his softness. Harry Pearce is in your bedroom Ruth reminded herself. This wasn't one of her debauched fantasies, this was him. Real Harry. She could feel his warmth through the material of the jacket.

Ruth shifted slightly, snaring her hand in the thin black scarf laying over his coat. The accessory made him look rather dapper.

"Ruth-" Harry started to caution.

She ignored him, tugging him closer until Harry's free hand rested on the pillow beside her head. His warm breath against her lips. "It's just another secret, Harry..." Ruth murmured, surging to his lips.

Gods forgive him, Harry let her. His eyes closed at the last moment and then there was only Ruth. The slight burn of alcohol on her lips. Her tongue rolling across his. A gasp from nowhere. Another one of their secrets.

Harry pulled back as she faded away, succumbing to the liquor. He didn't mind. There was something peaceful in her face as her head turned to the side and she dragged the edge of another pillow toward her, surrounding herself with their softness. He stole a few moments, simply watching her breathe. Would she ever say 'yes'? A man could only try.

Rain it did. Sheets of it. They hit Night Owl's windscreen with such force that he startled out of almost-sleep. God this was the worst assignment he'd ever had bestowed on him. You'd think that following the head of MI5 would make for interesting viewer-ship but so far Pearce primarily shuffled between the office, a bar by the Thames and Evershed's house. There was definitely something going on with those two. Where there's smoke, there's fire and there was a shit load of smoke to go around.

Night Owl couldn't turn his windscreen wipers on without appearing conspicuous so he waited for the rain to cascade off in a second layer. His vision wasn't perfect but it was enough to watch for Pearce's figure if he found himself kicked to the curb again. Maybe not. They'd been in there an hour and there were no lights on. Old dog. Perhaps he'd finally scored.

Harry knelt on the ground in the spare bedroom. It was exactly as Ruth had described her hide. Obscured by a rug – which Harry folded back, one of the floorboards could be easily prised from the rest. Impossible to pick, he counted them – seventh from the door. Beneath was a hole, perfect for stashing the odd state secret.

Except that it was empty.

He rocked back onto the floor, sitting in defeat. Gone. How could Rasmussen's file be gone? Ruth would never give it away so either it had been lifted and she didn't know or – or it was stolen and she hadn't had the courage to face up to him.

"Oh Ruth..." He whispered. It was his fault, really. She'd told him to burn the whole bloody lot and he should have. His own selfish hoarding had led to this.

Harry replaced the board, folded the rug down and headed downstairs.

Wrong again. Harry Pearce did emerge from Evershed's residence. Night Owl rubbed his face, trying to wake himself as he clicked his seatbelt on, ready to follow. Wait.

Knock. Knock.

Night Owl swore. Swore again then rolled down the window. Harry Pearce himself leaned through the rain into the car.

"Fancy offering me a ride?"

"I – what?"

Rain quickly found its way around Harry and hit Night Owl in the face. He shied away as a waterfall of it fell around him.

"You are following me, correct?" Harry was met with affirmative silence. "So let's save each other the trouble." He didn't even wait for a 'yes' before switching to the other side of the car. Harry let himself in, ducking out of the rain – a lot of which he brought with him as his drenched clothes got all over the tasteless Peugeot. "My place, if you would."

Night Owl was in shock. "That..." he started to say, clearing his throat. "That's not how surveillance works."

'Night Owl, what the hell are you doing? Is that Romeo in your car?'

Harry heard the distinctive crackle of the MI6 officer's ear piece as the car pulled out, taking a right. It was quiet at this hour – no one about. He'd had Buckley's chance of catching a cab and he was rather congratulating himself on this moment of cunning. At the very least, bewildered MI6 operatives were always fun.

'Copy that.'

Ruby Ruby's response was a muffled tirade.

"Great gig..." Harry said, after they'd been driving in torturous silence for a while.

"I think it's better that we don't talk. Sir." Night Owl added, realising that he was absolutely addressing a senior officer.

"You know what the trouble with your generation is?"

"Can't wait to hear."

"You haven't lived through a proper war. Oh, you've seen shadows of it – spectres creeping in from the edges but not blood raining from the sky. This is peace. This is cosy. You're so busy watching your friends that you've completely lost sight of the enemy. It's a serious mistake that's going to come back and bite a few chunks out of that pert arse very soon."

Night Owl pulled up to a red light. The street was empty. He turned to the director of MI5. "We're all fighting for the greater good."

He'd heard that recycled line more than once. "Poor idiot... You believe that." Harry took a really good look at the MI6 agent. He must have been, what – twenty-three, four? A kid. "A piece of advice. No matter who does the asking, think about what you've been told to do. Corruption has grown through this country like a weed. People in positions of trust abuse that power daily. Some of us are still fighting for the British people, perhaps in vain but we'll stand our grand to the last. This is my stop."

Night Owl watched the door for a long time after Pearce had closed it. Why were they following him? No one had said. Night Owl hadn't noticed the omission and it bothered him now that he'd not even thought to ask.

'Ruby Ruby, Night Owl – check in.'

'Rome's in the castle. Lights out.'

'Juliet's in the tower. Lights out.'

As easily as that, Harry Pearce had sewn a seed of dissent among the ranks of MI6.

Now that Harry knew where his tail was, he quickly ditched it, ducking out the back door of his house into the ally. Moments later, he was in another car with Sasha at the wheel, pulling out from the curb and into the night.

"Did you bring it?" Harry asked.

"In the back," Sasha replied.

Harry reached around for the sports bag, bringing it into the front with him. He unzipped it, checking the contents. Everything was there.

"You board in a few hours," she continued. "Everything is arranged for tomorrow. In and out, Harry. We can't cover this for long. Are you sure it has to be you? Surely one of us could-"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "It has to be me. One day you might be lucky enough to appreciate why. Remember, strictly off the books."

"I know. It's covered."

THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

MI5 CENTRAL HQ

Ruth couldn't stomach her coffee so she stared at it, projecting all her wayward thoughts into the Styrofoam.

"Got these for you," Sasha placed a glass of water and two pain killers on Ruth's desk.

"Thanks." She took them immediately and then clutched the glass like death. If she looked half as poorly as she felt, they'd throw her out. "Harry in yet?"

"Called in sick."

"What?" That was a first. If her brain hadn't been busy thrusting itself against her skull, Ruth might have been suspicious instead of sympathetic. "And the HPA lot?"

"Yours, I'm afraid."

"Oh god – no..."

"Harry left instructions." Sasha passed across a folder which Ruth took with great reluctance.

"That bastard! I just knew I'd end up with them – and they'll hate me even more after dealing with Harry. I'm like the third transfer on a call centre where the customer's screaming for the manager and all they get is another intern. If he isn't already dead, I'm going to kill Harry. Not comically but actually."

Sasha didn't doubt it. "Cheer up."

"Why?"

"Painkillers will kick in shortly."

It wasn't just the vile headache. Ruth had a pretty good recollection of events last night, up to and including her ridiculously overt flirting. A few drinks down and she turned into a textbook idiot. Part of her was glad Harry wasn't here. Hopefully by the time he recovered they could ignore the evening's transgressions and do what they did with all the other inconvenient truths between them – forget.

Night Owl catalogued every item in his car. Counted the stitches on the foe-leather seating. Indexed the ingredients in his packet soup by chemical name – then again by calorie. Tried all available radio stations within range including a very alarming discussion group monitoring the variable height of sheep compared to seasonal rainfall. Love your country. Love your country. He muttered to himself. Now he was officially out of things to occupy himself.

If he'd thought Pearce was dull to follow before, the man was a bloody drag now. Not a peep since last night. Sick, apparently. Night Owl could think of a lot of things he'd rather be doing with his time including solitary confinement in a padded cell.

'Foxtrot, come in. This is Night Owl.'

A few minutes of static. Maybe they were asleep as well.

'Foxtrot went home hours ago. Status?'

'Romeo's grounded.'

'Copy that, stay with him.'

Night Owl bashed his head against the window for something to do. Is this what moons felt like – latched to their parent planets?

Hours later, his relief agent took over. Yawning, Night Owl nodded at the battered Merc pulling in and then headed straight home. Debrief was tomorrow morning and he'd need all those hours to prepare himself for Siviter's demonic presence.

PISCO, PROVINCIA DE ICA

PISCO, PERU

Stark. That's all Harry could think as his small plane headed out over the water, making a slow turn above the swathe of ocean as it dropped altitude. Water gave way to sheets of desert crashing into the waves edged by unnatural swatches of farm land. Peeking out of the middle was Pisco.

It was a confused mix of Spanish imperialist grandeur latched onto mud ruins. He didn't know what it reminded him of except perhaps civilisation itself, wealth built on poverty, beauty on ruin. Harry lingered at a street corner as a boy on a bicycle rushed across in front, whipping up the edges of his coat. An old tree leaned over the road,riddled with dead limbs, showering it in tessellated shadows. It was beautiful in its own way. Flawed, gnarled but laced with character.

Rather like yourself, Harry thought with quiet amusement, you're rather gnarled these days.

A small cafe sat opposite. Red and white chequered table cloths, a rusted iron fence with flowering vines trained around its sharp edges. Finally, a young woman with heavy glasses and a white hat drinking tea. Of course.

Harry wore a pale linen suit and hat he'd picked up from a market during the walk. It didn't matter how he dressed, he always looked like, 'Harry'.

"I'll have one of those," he said, taking a seat opposite Zoe.

She turned, lifting a finger to a solitary waiter. "Are you alone?"

"I'm not even here," Harry replied, leaning back as his tea was poured.

"Of course not."

Steam lifted from the surface. "I was under the impression we left you in Chile."

Zoe managed a slight smile. "I'm on holiday. Will believes I work in hotel management but-"

"-but you're the agent the Chilean police have following drug traffickers around the jungle. Once I knew what I was looking for, you weren't that difficult to dig up. You're bloody lucky no one at home has much interest in South American problems otherwise you, my dear, are running the risk of extradition and jail."

"I'm old news," Zoe assured him. "Besides, it would mean admitting that the security services and parliament deliberately mislead the public over my fate. Very messy. You didn't fly all this way to parent me over my career choices."

"No, that's true." Harry sipped his tea, trying to remember the last time he'd slept.

Zoe reached under the table and extracted the silver briefcase. She placed it on the table beside him but grabbed his hand when Harry went to open it.

"I wouldn't do that," Zoe cautioned. She told of him of Blanco's fate, of the plane and the mysterious distributors who worked as shadows. "And so you see," she finished, relaxing into the rusted, iron chair, "I had no choice. This new drug, whatever it is, will destroy the streets. It's only a matter of time before it finds its way to London, like heroin, Crack and Ice. I figure – stop it here, in its infancy. What is it?"

Harry stared at the briefcase, his face folded in a frown. What she had described – it was so close to the nightmare of Gabon. This was a drug, Gabon a disease. Maybe it meant nothing but Harry was no friend to co-incidence. He went with his gut. "Describe the White Angel's fate again," he asked, hanging on her words. "You say there's a sample in that case?"

"There must be. The original needle and container are inside. Pulled it from Blanco's hovel myself. There'll be residue. What's that?" Zoe asked, as Harry gifted her a satchel bag.

"A precaution," he replied.

Her hands rested on the leather. They were disturbed by a salty breeze, picking its way through the town. "Danny?"

Harry looked into the depths of his empty teacup. "You know I can't."

"Please, Harry. Nothing specific. I only want to know if he's okay – if he's happy. Harry..."

Then he was gone, leaving her with the dust of the street and a cold pot of tea. Zoe opened the satchel and found passports, mobile, credit cards and a wad of cash. It was an exit bag.

"Right..." she said to herself, picking up her cup of tea.

She watched the empty place where Harry had faded into the crowd street. They'd meet again.

VAUXHALL HOUSE, LONDON

MI6 CENTRAL HQ

It was all business at MI6 headquarters. Sure, Vauxhall Cross looked impressive, looming over the water all glass and cream concrete but inside it was bland. Designed by a committee and executed by council workers, it lacked the character of Thames House. Most of the time, Night Owl felt like a civil servant in charge of photocopiers instead of a spy.

'Babylon' was an odd choice for a nickname. Granted it was a call back to the largest city in the ancient world (for a while) but things went south pretty spectacularly around 140BC. Considering how many times that pile of rubble had been conquered by foreign invaders, Night Owl wasn't sure it sent the right message.

No, if he had his way they'd make their base of operations in a seriously Gothic hovel with flying buttresses and nomadic bats nestled in the rafters. You know, scare the shit out of visitors.

"You're late..." Siviter stalked by, waving Night Owl into a briefing room.

"Actually -" he started to explain but the door slammed closed, ending that sentence for him. Siviter was tense, strutting around the other side of the table.

"Well – don't just meander there like a goldfish, report."

"Ah, not much to report, sir. Romeo's bunkered down all day. Not a peep since returning last night."

Siviter stared at the agent with cold, sharp eyes that could peel away flesh. "Harry Pearce. The Harry Pearce is having a 'me' day during a time like this? We're edging into his second day of MIA. Are you sure he's in the house?"

Night Owl nodded. "Dropped him there myself. Pearce went in, Pearce didn't come out. Maybe he carked it."

Siviter seriously hoped not. That's the last thing needed right now. "You're absolutely positive?" Siviter barely moved. He was like a species of stick insect, carefully extending limbs toward his prey.

"On my life, sir." Siviter threw photos on the table between them. They fanned out, some falling off the surface entirely. It didn't matter. They were of Harry Pearce, strolling into Thames house this morning,bold as fucking brass. Night Owl's heart sank. "Impossible..."

"I'd advise you not to stake your life so easily," Siviter's tone darkened. "Or it'll lose value."

"I don't understand how-"

"Harry gave you blind morons the slip last night. I want to know where he's been for the past twenty-four hours. Sneaky son of a bitch. It'll be nothing helpful, I can promise you that."

"I swear he never left the house."

"Harry Pearce might be getting on in this world," Siviter began, leaving the photos on the table, "but make absolutely no mistake, he's better than you, more dangerous than me and smarter than the combined efforts of MI6, GCHQ and the SIS. He's got resources that aren't on anyone's books and silent operatives in every corner of the globe loyal to him specifically. Thank god his heart's in the right place or we'd be fucked."

Night Owl wasn't sure what to do so he stood there, glancing at the photographs.

"Well go on then!" Siviter ushered him out of the room irritably. "Go find out what the bugger is up to."