- 0 –
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene III.
- William Shakespeare
- 0 –
London, Home Office
For a few seconds it is as though the gunshot has sucked all sound from the room, before it comes rushing back. He hears shouts and running feet, and loud breathing. The last, he realises, is his own. As he drops the gun and kicks it away, he says, "Get up, Home Secretary. You're not in any danger."
Towers slowly emerges from behind his desk, white as chalk and hands trembling, to find Harry standing in the middle of the room, hands on his head. He glances at the dead man and pales even more, and for a moment Harry worries that he will vomit, but the politician gets himself under control.
"My God, what have you done?!" he exclaims, stridently. "We are civilised men, living in a civilised country- What?" he demands as Harry smiles cynically.
"You are labouring under an illusion. Mankind is not now, and never have been civilised. We lie, we cheat, we spite and slander and turn away from the suffering. We betray, we destroy the world in our greed, and we all want our fifteen minutes of fame, no matter if we have to trample over others and show the worst of ourselves to get it." He pauses, then adds, "We are savages dressed in Savile Row suits."
The two men stand staring at each other, tension heavy and thick in the air.
"What's happened to you, Harry?" Towers asks eventually, almost plaintively, but before Harry can respond the door bursts open and Security rushes in, guns drawn.
Towers has the presence of mind to command, "Don't shoot!", and everyone stops, uncertain what to do next. Harry nods imperceptibly, and the Home Secretary points a shaking finger at his once trusted Head of Counter Terrorism.
"Arrest this man for murder."
As he is grabbed from behind and forced to his knees, Harry looks towards the door. Ruth stands there, a file clutched in her hands, and stares at the tableau with something akin to revulsion. When her eyes find his, the horror in them breaks his heart. It is one thing to know that a man is capable of dark acts, but it is quite another to see it illustrated so starkly, and he is filled with a sense of desolation.
"I'm sorry," he tells her as his hands are cuffed behind his back and he is hauled upright.
She says nothing, but her eyes never leave him until he is out of sight.
Then she turns to Towers. "We need to talk."
- 0 –
One hour later
Thames House
Erin gets off the phone and turns to Dimitri. "They've taken him to Belmarsh."
He nods. "I'm on it. Calum?"
"Already doing it." He never lifts his eyes from the screen as his fingers fly over the keys. Moments later he leans back triumphantly. "Messrs Austin and Donnelly have just been transferred to guard duty at Belmarsh Maximum Security Prison." He regards his colleague with twinkling eyes. "Mind telling us how you came to be on first name terms with two prison guards?"
Dimitri grins. "A bloke has to do something when he gets too old for the SBS." He sobers as Tariq joins them. "They'll look after him. Are they putting him in Solitary?" he asks the young techie.
"Yes." He looks crestfallen. "He's not getting out of this one, is he?"
They're all silent for a moment, before Erin says gently, "No. But if we do our part, at least he'll get to do it on his own terms."
A voice interrupts from the door, "What can I do to help?"
They turn to find Ruth there, pale and clutching her oversized handbag. Dimitri smiles broadly at the sight of her, but Erin looks alarmed.
"Ruth. You're not supposed to be here, to get involved in this. Harry's orders were explicit on this point."
Ruth shakes her head and smiles sadly. "I know what Harry said. But if you think I'm going to stand idly by whilst he is thrown to the wolves, you don't know me at all. Now, what can I do?"
Erin regards her, torn between her orders and the conviction in Ruth's face. She thinks about what she would do if the man she loves were in trouble, and knows that doing nothing would kill her, so she smiles slightly. "Help Dimitri and Tariq find proof that will convince the Americans that Hayes was a double agent."
Calum frowns. "What about me?"
"You," she says as she claps him on the shoulder, "are going to help me prove Harry innocent of involvement in the bombing in Texas, and make it look like he was about to turn Elena Gavrik."
He perks up at the thought. "Outstanding."
She looks over her charges one more time, acutely aware that they cannot overtly stop the destruction of the reputation of a man they all respect and admire, and in some cases even love. But sometimes, she reflects sadly, you have to kill something to set it free.
"Let's get this right, guys," she says softly. "We owe him that much."
She gives Ruth a small smile and a nod before she walks off.
- 0 –
Two days later, late night
Belmarsh Prison
Harry lies on the bunk and holds his hand up against the light. The mattress is thin and lumpy, and his kidneys hurt from the working over he received from his guard. He wonders why the Prison Service attracts so many of that ilk – weak men who try to impose themselves on their much more dangerous charges through violence. All he did was ask for a book to read. The fingers silhouetted against the light tremble slightly. There is the finger that pulled the trigger, right next to the one that has traced across Ruth's skin so gently, that has circled her nipples and made them stiffen for his eager mouth. He studies the hand dispassionately, for he has long ago ceased to be surprised by his contradictory nature. The peephole slides open with a clang, and his eyes shift to the door. Otherwise he doesn't move. Someone regards him for a few seconds, but it is not the man he's had the displeasure to meet previously. There is too much intelligence in the gaze, for one thing. The peephole closes and a key turns in the lock. Harry stays where he is. A new guard enters, a powerfully built man, light on his feet. Ex-Army, Harry knows immediately. They study each other wordlessly, before the guard nods and says, "Dimitri sends his regards." And then, louder, "On your feet. Shower time."
Harry sits up gingerly, surprised but incredibly grateful to his team. As they walk along the corridor, the guard murmurs quietly, "We have your back now. You'll be all right."
Embarrassingly, Harry feels tears spring to his eyes, as he for the first time allows the reality of the situation to sink in. He is in jail, where he has many enemies and nowhere to hide, and it is good to know that there will at least be a friendly face or two as well. He says gruffly, "Thank you."
When they get to the showers, he is surprised to note they are the only ones there. He looks at his guard questioningly.
"Safety reasons," the man explains, with a twinkle in his eye, before taking up station at the door, his back to Harry. So, for the first time in two days, Harry gets to shower without enduring the lascivious looks of his fellow prisoners. It is a small thing, but it lifts his spirits immeasurably.
- 0 –
Next morning
Marriott Hotel, Grosvenor Square
Dimitri stands in front of the hotel, hands on hips, and looks up and down the street. By the time MI5 gained access to Hayes' room, the CIA had already removed everything of interest. Nonetheless, they went over it painstakingly, but without success. "Suggestions?" he asks.
Back on the Grid, Tariq and Ruth look at each other helplessly. "CCTV is useless; the CIA blocks everything in a half-mile radius around Grosvenor Square," the techie says glumly.
Ruth bites down her frustration. "They must have missed something. They always do," she says. "Pull up that map of the Square again, Tariq."
Dimitri looks around once more, then randomly wanders off to his right. "Okay, Hayes was a spy, right?"
"Yes," Ruth says, frowning. Where is he going with this?
"We know he left the hotel the night of the shooting and the night before that. On both occasions he didn't take a taxi, but walked."
"So?" Tariq says.
"So, it's likely he was off to meet someone on that first night. He doesn't want to take a cab and have a cabbie who can remember him. That means someone either picked him up, or the meeting was close by."
Ruth immediately picks up on his train of thought. "And spies like to meet in places where people can come and go without inviting unwelcome questions." She once again scans the buildings around the Square, this time looking with a different eye. If Hayes wanted to meet with Elena, where could they have done so without attracting attention? Which of the buildings in the vicinity would have been open to the public late at night? And then she sees it.
"The Ukrainian Catholic church."
- 0 –
Dimitri walks into the church, not really sure what he is looking for. There are a few older women scattered around kneeling in pews or sitting quietly towards the front, staring at the large Christ figure on the cross above the altar. A young man lethargically sweeps the floor to his left. He doesn't even glance up at Dimitri's entrance. The spook looks around, scanning every dark corner for evidence of surveillance. There is none that is obvious to the casual observer, so he moves along the side to the front. One of the women looks at him curiously, and he suspects that they don't get many young people in here anymore. As he moves towards the Ladies' Chapel, he notices it – a tiny surveillance camera tucked into a dark nook of the roof. His heart lifts.
- 0 –
Same day, afternoon
Belmarsh prison
He is sitting at the small table in his cell, reading the Shakespeare that his friendly guard, Donnelly, brought him this morning, when the peephole slides open again.
"Your lawyer's here," Donnelly announces before the key scrapes in the lock.
Harry frowns; he specifically declared that he does not want a lawyer.
The door swings open to reveal a fresh faced young man that looks about twenty years old, and Harry's irritation increases.
"Sir Harry," the young man says, advancing with an outstretched hand. "This is a great honour."
Harry does not move. "Who are you?" he asks coldly.
"Ryan Montgomery."
"I did not ask for a lawyer," Harry points out.
"I know, but the Service feels that you should have one."
Harry's eyes narrow. "So they send a whelp," he says contemptuously.
The young man's eyebrows raise a fraction, but he does not seem particularly offended. "Ah well, I may be a whelp, but I'm here to help," he quips, smirking at his own joke.
Harry remains impervious. He watches the lawyer coolly for a few seconds, before he says, "And the difference between a wit and a twit is similarly only one tiny letter. I'll give you a hint – it rhymes with a beverage beloved throughout the Realm."
Montgomery throws his head back and laughs. "You really are a grumpy old sod," he says cheerfully. "They told me you'd be."
"'They'?" Harry asks carefully.
Montgomery nods. "The people who care about you."
He watches as Harry's mask slips for a second, can see the older man is moved by the gesture, so he continues, "And they sent me because I care about you too."
Harry frowns, tilts his head questioningly. "I don't even know you."
"No, but I know you, by reputation. Clive McTaggart was my godfather."
He smiles gently as Harry blinks in surprise. "Now, let's talk about your defence."
Still somewhat thrown by the previous revelation, Harry reiterates absently, "I don't want a defence. I shot him, I'm guilty."
There is a pause before Montgomery says, "Oh. Well. That's that then." He looks at his watch. "We still have forty minutes left though, so what shall we talk about?" He looks around the spartan cell, and his eye falls on the volume of Shakespeare. "I actually know my Classics, so how about that?" He quotes in a portentous tone: "'Two households, both alike in dignity.' Although, I can't imagine you being a Romeo and Juliet kind of bloke. No, I'd imagine a bit of political intrigue is more up your alley. Maybe some Macbeth? 'Out, damned spot!'"
"Actually I prefer Julius Caesar," Harry retorts, still grumpy, but beginning to enjoy the company despite himself.
"Really?" Montgomery says, interested. "I don't think it's too many people's favourite. Why is it yours?"
"Because it doesn't have the hocus-pocus of witches and spells and what-not of many of the others. And it's closest to modern day politics. Caesar, a good leader but arrogant, and perhaps destined for greatness – but will he remain a good leader or be corrupted by the power? You have a few people who decide he will be and kill him before we have a chance to find out, in the process persuading the gullible moral man, Brutus, into treachery. You have the man that can use words as a weapon, Mark Anthony, who can and does talk the masses into revolting against the conspirators. And eventually, you have the moral man so wracked by guilt that he falls on his own sword."
Montgomery watches him knowingly. "Is that the part you identify most with?"
"No," Harry says promptly. "I identify with the soothsayer who warns Caesar about the Ides of March, but is impudently ignored."
Montgomery smiles. "Of course you do," he responds drily, causing Harry to smile as well, somewhat embarrassed. The young man turns serious as he pleads, "Let me help you, sir. Please."
Harry sighs deeply. "I'm sorry, Mr Montgomery. I have to be found guilty. It's a matter of national security."
The lawyer opens his mouth, then closes it again as he tries to make sense of what the spook has said. Harry watches him sympathetically.
"It's better for your fledgling career that you are not associated-" he begins, but Montgomery overrides him.
"There is more than one way to plead guilty," he says, eyes bright and excited.
Harry frowns. "Explain."
Young Montgomery points at the Shakespeare. "We do a Mark Anthony, and pretend to praise Hayes when in fact we intend to cast doubt on his character. You know, 'The noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious, and Brutus is an honourable man.'"
When Harry doesn't respond, he presses on. "We set Hayes as Noble Brutus, who cast aspersions on your character, and if he said it, it must be true, because he was, after all, an honourable man, not a traitorous lunatic. Come on, sir, at the very least it will be fun."
Harry quirks an eyebrow, but can't keep the amusement out of his expression. "Call me Harry," he says, and the young man smiles.
- 0 –
Next day
MI5 safehouse, outskirts of London
Jim Coaver approaches the house on foot. It sits, unassumingly, on a quiet street, looking for all the world like a normal house. As he walks towards it, he wonders what the Brits want with him. Hell, he's not even sure that this is official; it was Ruth Evershed that requested the meeting, after all. Perhaps she is acting in a personal capacity – he's heard the rumours about her and Harry. In the end his curiosity won out over caution, and he agreed to come. He wants to know what the fuck is going on, why Harry felt the need to dispatch Hayes so publicly. There is no sign of life as he approaches the front door, but he is well aware that he is being observed. He steps up to the front door boldly and rings the bell, and the door immediately opens to a plainly dressed woman in her fifties. She invites him in and directs him to the back of the house, where a group of people await him in the sitting room.
A dark-haired woman steps forward. "Do you know who I am?" she asks, and he nods.
"You're Ruth Evershed."
She smiles, but it is a tense smile. "Good. Please take a seat, Mr Coaver. We have something to show you."
For the first time he notices the small screen and the projector. He sits, and the screen flickers to life. The man operating it (Dimitri somebody, he vaguely recalls) explains, "This is footage from CCTV inside the Ukrainian Catholic cathedral on Grosvenor Square."
"But we block all CCTV in that area," Jim immediately objects.
"Not this one," Ruth says in a clipped tone, "because it is one of your own."
Jim looks at them, confused, so Dimitri happily explains, "The CIA bugged that church because they thought the Russians might use it to spy on Grosvenor Square. Obviously, they used a frequency outside the range that they routinely block. And then they forgot about it."
Jim doesn't bother to argue further. He knows that it is exactly the kind of thing the CIA would do. And every intelligence officer knows that it is usually the little things that trip up an operation. So he merely nods in acknowledgement, and sits back to watch the footage.
A man appears, casually glances around, and enters the Ladies' Chapel. There is no doubt that the man is Stanley Hayes. The footage fast forwards through ten minutes in which nothing happens, before a woman appears. Elena Gavrik doesn't hesitate, but walks straight into the chapel. Some time later they both come out and move to a door a little way down the passage, which Elena unlocks. Before the door fully closes behind them, they are locked in a passionate embrace. Dimitri pauses the image and Jim stares at the image of his dead colleague wordlessly, his heart sinking into his shoes. After a long silence he says, "So he has his tongue down her throat. Doesn't prove anything. He could be trying to recruit her," his gaze shifts to Ruth, "the same way Harry did."
The comment is meant to unsettle her, but she doesn't blink. He is beginning to grasp what Harry sees in her.
"We thought you'd say that," she says evenly, "so we searched that church more meticulously."
Dimitri takes over. "And guess what we found? An audio recorder, cleverly concealed in the Virgin Mary's bosom."
Jim listens to the damning conversation grimly; it leaves no doubt as to Hayes' treachery. When Harry mooted the possibility of a Russian mole in the CIA earlier, Jim knew in his gut that the British spook was right – it explains everything that happened in Berlin, and all the failed operations against Russia since. But he has held onto a glimmer of hope that there may be another explanation, that they have not all been duped for so many years. And he also now understands Hayes' attempt to frame Harry for the bombing. Harry is the one man who knew for sure that it was not his fault that the Berlin network was rolled up, and as a result posed the biggest threat. Jim rubs a weary hand across his face. "What are you going to do with this information?"
Ruth looks down for a second, then says, "Nothing."
"What?" Jim blurts, surprised. "But you could get Hal off with this evidence."
"I know," she snaps, a hint of anguish seeping through. "But we don't want the Russians to know that we know." Her gaze is unwavering. "Harry has to be crucified in the eyes of the world."
Stunned, Jim sits back, observing his hosts carefully as he turns everything over in his mind. His discussion with Harry in the car park comes back to him, and he realises what the Brits are doing. "To protect the real Russian asset," he says quietly. "Hal is falling on his sword to protect the asset. Jesus."
Ruth ignores the comment. "We need your help to pull it off, though."
"Name it," the American says immediately.
"The US must demand that Harry be extradited to stand trial, for both Hayes' murder and the earlier bombing. And the CIA must project Hayes as the big hero, a model and loyal intelligence officer. Only one or two people can know the truth."
Jim nods.
"The CIA will come out of this smelling like roses, while Harry… Harry will be the traitor, the man that lost his way and killed Hayes to save himself."
She blinks, and for a split-second he can see everything she feels for Harry. "What happens once he's extradited?" he asks gently.
"You agree to let him disappear quietly, and you make sure that the CIA lets him be."
There is no need for Jim to think about it. "Deal," he says as he stands and holds out his hand to Ruth.
- 0 –
Three months later, late night
Belmarsh prison
It is dark, but the prison never truly comes to rest. Harry has got used to its nocturnal sounds; the tinny sound of the guards' television, the low murmur and steady footsteps of the patrolling men, the occasional clang of a cell door. He hates it, craves the soothing sounds of good music. It is the little things he miss most – his music, the burn of good Scotch in his throat and a long soak in the bath after a stressful day, the blue of her eyes when he looks into them for the first time each morning. For three months, as the British legal system has taken its meandering course, the only people he's had contact with are the guards and his young lawyer. He knows this is as much for his own protection as it is punishment, and accepts it without complaint. It all ends tomorrow, hopefully. He will have his day in court, and if all goes to plan, he will be extradited and allowed to disappear quietly. If not, he will either spend the rest of his life in this cell, or be left to the mercy of a vengeful CIA. For once in his life his fate is completely in the hands of others, and it discomfits him. He hates feeling helpless. The only ray of light is that one of those people is the person he trusts most.
Ruth.
tbc
