A/N - This chapter has a lot packed into it but I didn't have the heart to split it up since I saw it happening this way in my mind's eye. Hope you enjoy it. Thank you once again for reading!
Her sleep was deep and dreamless, the quality of which she had not experienced in a very long time. Surrounded by warmth, she buried herself in the luxury of its oblivion. But at the edge of her slumber, consciousness pricked. At first, it was the nip of a pin, and she dismissed it, adjusting her body into a more comfortable position. It grew insistent. The dull ache of a blunted nail throbbed along her side, and she brought her knees up, curling into a ball. It was scant relief. In the end, it was the cut of a knife across her midriff that she could not ignore. She squeezed her eyes tighter, willing away the pain, concentrating on the slow, steady breath of the body next to hers. It was no use. The seams of her sleep torn, she opened her eyes in resignation. An expanse of white shirt beneath a tattered grey blanket greeted her, shoulders moving beneath the fabric in undisturbed slumber. She reached out and carefully touched the fabric, the cotton crisp beneath her fingers. If only they could stay there, sequestered away from the rest of the world. Fully awake, the pain could not be ignored. She quietly lifted herself from the bed. A parametcol would take the edge off of the discomfort, then she could return and spend a few more minutes beside him.
Early dawn light, cold and blue, filtered through the broken blinds as she tiptoed into the next room and searched in her bag for the bottle of painkillers. The supply was alarmingly low. She swallowed the pills with a glass of water, the metal aftertaste of the liquid sitting in her mouth. Arms stiff, she leaned on the counter, waiting for the misery to subside. Giving into the pain wasn't an option, she would have it seen to later. Still, a small voice in her head wondered if it was a sign, a warning that she should reevaluate her plan. Some would call it madness, traipsing to the other side of the planet, all to infiltrate a bank with the hope that it would lead to a quieter life. The chances of running into unaccounted for variables grew exponentially. Doubt was a weakness, she was stronger than that. It was the safe house; once she was outside the four walls, in the fresh air, she would feel better.
"Are you alright?"
Surprised by the voice, she jumped. Harry hovered near her shoulder.
"Yes," she prevaricated. "I couldn't sleep anymore."
He picked up the bottle and shook it, the dwindling contents inside giving a hollow rattle. He frowned at her, his look conveying his disbelief at her explanation. She did nothing to confirm his suspicions, but he knew the pain had returned. He was always better at reading her than she was at decoding him. He put down the bottle.
"I thought you'd left."
"I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. Unlike some people." She smiled, softening the brittleness of her words.
"I know. I'm sorry. I had to leave yesterday to keep up the pretence that I had no knowledge of your existence."
She nodded, not entirely mollified by his explanation. "It will be nice to be alive again."
Harry reached for a glass and rinsed it out before refilling it. Drinking the water, he contemplated her sentiment."
"Perhaps it would be wiser to stay among the departed a little while longer."
His morbid suggestion dropped on her optimism with the weight of a stone; she was tired of death in all its forms, fake and real. Why was he asking her to subvert her life even longer? Never one to meet confrontation head-on, she traced a finger along the edge of the counter.
"You said that you would leave the service with me."
"And I meant it."
"Yet, here we are."
"This is the last mission. Then I'm stepping down."
"You told me that once, in your car. It's always the last mission." She looked at him. "Until it's not."
He placed his hand over hers on the counter. In the coolness of the room, his eyes were warm, flecked with gold. Was this his morning gaze, tawny with sleep and affection, touched with amber before they became the inscrutable brown of a hardened spy. She had, on the rare occasion, glimpsed this side of him, free from the strictures of the Grid, no tie, shirt open. Her hand gravitated once again to his shirt, coming to rest on his chest. Heat radiated through the fabric, her palm feeling the deep thud of his heart. She pressed against it, binding him to an oath.
"Will you honour your promise on my return?"
"If not sooner."
She gave him a puzzled look.
"I promised you a house by the sea, remember?"
He leaned into her, his lips brushing her forehead. He released her and picked up his suit jacket from the chair.
"What time is Malcolm due."
"Any minute."
He shrugged on his jacket and extracted his tie from the pocket. With habitual ease, he threaded the tie through his collar and secured it with a knot. The accessory added, his air of authority returned, the man who had always been her superior. True, she did not officially work for him anymore, but the years of deference to his position was hard to shake. Someday, when they had shed their service skins they would stand as equals. He pulled out an envelope from his breast pocket and place it on the table, fingers tapping on it as he spoke.
"Whatever happens, you must board that plane."
"Do I need an oracle to decipher that command." She raised an eyebrow in vexation.
"I have a few pieces in play. I'm not sure how they will all pan out."
"It might be better if you share them with me."
"Since we won't be in communication, it's better if stick with your plan."
She sighed; this man and his secrets.
He found his overcoat, his eyes scanning the room as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Sorry to leave you with this mess."
"It's not the first time."
His shoulders sank, and he looked at her, asking for indulgence. With a few steps, he returned to where she stood at the counter. He raised his hand, his fingers cupping her cheek. The feel of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her face was so seductively novel. She didn't want to be prickly, but perhaps he was right to call her such. She needed to let go of the past. The displeasure in her bones melted and she closed her eyes.
"It will all be over soon," he assured her.
"Promise."
"Yes," he whispered, lips close to hers. "But you must promise to get on that plane."
"Yes," she agreed in an answering whisper.
The musk of sleep still hung about him, cheek rough with bristle, warmth exuding from his pores. They each gave an inch, and their lips met. They would do well in the future to forgo obstinacy in return for stolen pleasure. His lips moved across hers with a soft melancholy. It was not a kiss of hard demand, but of a pact sealed, a promise elicited from both of them. She leaned against him one last time, reluctant to let him go.
"It feels like we're always saying goodbye."
"It's not goodbye, we'll see each other soon."
She nodded, the voice of past experience rising, her trust not entirely placed on his words. Tides do change, and perhaps it was time for the wave of fate to rise in their favour. He quietly left the flat with noiseless steps, as always, displaying the ingrained stealth of a thief. She blinked and he was gone. She leaned back against the counter for support, a cloud of loneliness overtaking her. She was not alone, Malcolm would soon arrive. She quietly swore to herself. In all their talk, she had forgotten to question him on who he had conscripted for back up.
.
The sun shone with the promise of warmth, but frost still painted the windows of a derelict car that sat abandoned on the street. Hands buried deep in his pocket, Harry assessed the neighbourhood and decided that his chances of hailing a cab in the vicinity were exceedingly slim. He walked a few blocks to a more prosperous intersection and flagged down a ride. One ear glued to his mobile, he gave the driver directions to his first destination, praying that he would have enough time to complete all the tasks that he had set out for himself. In the underbelly of the city, traffic was surprisingly sparse, and within minutes, the cab pulled to a stop in front of the shop. Harry debated the merits of retaining the same driver and then thought the better of it. Wiser to move from cab to cab.
The glass door of the record shop gave a soft thud as Harry let it swing closed behind him. Deserted, the place appeared abandoned, the only sign of life the forlorn notes of a cornet wafting from the back room. Harry made his way through the stacks of records to the source of the music.
"Harry," Jerry raised his head in surprise. The man sat amongst digital debris, the cardboard sleeve of a Bix Biederbeck album resting against an ancient turntable. "You're early."
"Not too early I hope."
"No, it just came."
Jerry reached into a crate of records and pulled out a brown envelope from between the albums. "This isn't my usual gig. Hope it meets your standards."
Harry opened up the envelope and carefully examined the documents. "Looks in order to me."
"If you keep this up, I might have to start charging you."
"Or I could just continue to distract the government from your operation."
Jerry chuckled. "You'd never turn me over. Where else would you find your original Deutsche Grammophon?"
"I hear they've invented this thing called the internet."
Jerry motioned to the motherboard that he was working on. "Yeah, we can convince ourselves that we've moved along with the times, but in the end, we're vinyl men, Harry."
Harry gave a tight smile, smarting at the allusion to age, acknowledging that the man was only verbalising what had been floating around in his head for the past few days. Years if he were to be completely honest. A man out of his time, living in the past. The only way to move forward was to let it go. He tipped the envelope to his forehead in a mock salute and nodded his thanks. His tread slowed as he walked back through the stacks, the vastness of the day looming before him. Gone were the days of rushing from place to place, fuelled on nothing but caffeine and nicotine. His muscles felt the ache of an unfamiliar bed, and as he opened the door, his bones shrank at the unrelenting cold.
Back out on the street, he managed in his first attempt to hail a taxi. Punching in a number on his mobile, he spoke as he entered the vehicle.
"Erin," he greeted his Section Chief without preamble. "I've had a chance to reconsider my security detail. I may have been too hasty in dismissing them. Yes, get a car ready and I'll send them my location. I should be at the Grid within the hour."
.
In the dim light of the tiny bathroom, the wound was a mottled patchwork of white scar tissue and angry splotches of redness. Ruth carefully placed her finger on the edge, the inflamed skin tender to her touch. Supplies arranged on the chipped countertop, she conceded it wasn't the most sterile of environments but it was all that she had. Closing her eyes, she steeled herself, reigning in her imagination from going down the dark hole of infection and abscess. Soaking the cotton swab in alcohol, she cautiously placed it on the wound, sucking air through her teeth as the skin burned beneath it. In the history of wounds, she had seen others suffer worse and survive. For that matter, Harry had been shot point blank by Tom and returned to the Grid within a few days. She need only make it through the next few hours and then she would have a professional look at the stitches. Using her teeth, she tore the medical tape into strips and carefully placed each one on top of the fresh gauze. Realising that she was holding her breath during the entire procedure, she let out a long sigh of relief and looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles showed beneath her eyes, the taut skin of her face still pale. There was no time to dwell on her appearance. She quickly ran a comb through her damp hair and secured the knot of her dress around her waist, careful to mind the sight of the wound. A knock sounded on the outer door and she jumped, knocking over the bottle of disinfectant.
"Shit," she swore softly, righting the bottle as quietly as possible, unsure of who was knocking at the door.
The visitor rapped two more times in quick succession. The signal of a friendly. She opened the door. Malcolm stood in the hallway, arms loaded with paraphernalia.
"I got those danishes that you like."
"Wonderful." Ruth greeted him with a smile as she freed the bag and a briefcase from his hands.
He entered the flat, rolling in an old brown suitcase behind him. "I hope this isn't too ugly."
"It's perfect." She took the case from him and opened up the zipper. "Not that I have too much to put into it, but it will be enough to give the impression that I'm a tourist."
"Here are your papers." He removed the documents from his briefcase. "Passport, driver's licence, credit cards, ticket."
Ruth picked up the passport and grimaced at the rather unflattering picture. "Charlotte Hennessy. I can live with that name."
"It's an art, you know, deciding on the right name to fit the person."
Ruth picked up the brown envelope that Harry had left behind. "Harry dropped this off. It's papers signing over Sasha's account."
"Yes, he told me."
Ruth's mouth drew into a line, irritated that the two men had discussed the retrieval of the account without her. What other matters had they discussed that she was not privy to?
"I'm leaving out of Gatwick." Malcolm informed her. " I'll be arriving later than you."
Ruth studied her ticket. "I have a stopover in Miami."
Malcolm sifted through his treasures as he spoke. "I'm sending a few devices with you just in case something is lost in transit." He pulled out a set of earrings, a lipstick tube and a compact. "Disguised of course."
Ruth picked up the compact and noted the hollow space underneath the disc of powder. "I guess our trip to the makeup aisle came in handy."
"You can store the USB device in it."
She frowned as she considered that option, though she was somewhat loathed to store it any place else except on her immediate person.
"All the containers should be within regulation size. We don't want to draw any undue attention to ourselves."
She nodded her agreement. She turned to cross to her suitcase, but the sudden movement left her unbalanced and she was struck by a moment of dizziness. She clutched at the edge of the table.
"Everything okay?" Malcolm asked.
"Do you find it hot in here?"
Malcolm looked around the room and pulled up the collar of his coat. "I would say its unusually chilly in here."
Ruth pulled out a chair and sat down. "I probably just need to get something into my system." She tore off a piece of a danish and popped it in her mouth. Her blood sugar was low, that was it. She chewed the pastry hungrily and gave Malcolm a smile thanks, assuring him that she was perfectly fine.
.
The vagaries of weather had worn away a chunk of the step, and Harry was careful to avoid the hazard as he made his way toward the double doors of the library. He pulled on the handle but the door did not budge. A bolt of panic ripped through him at the thought of having to rearrange the entire day. The drop needed to be done as early as possible for the pieces to fall into place. He tried the other door, his worry assuaged as it easily opened. The first floor was free of visitors but for an elderly man who sat near the window, leisurely reading a newspaper. A fellow Luddite, Harry surmised. Silence followed behind him as he walked between the shelves. Rows of faded spines passed by the periphery of his vision. No doubt books would soon suffer the same fate as records, just as he was destined to one day to end up on the ash heap of obsolescence. Better to go out under one's own steam than to be carried out with the refuse.
The metal skeleton of the spiral staircase gave a soft twang as he ascended the steps. With an air of purpose, he headed to the section devoted to Science, casually glancing at a book on biology while surreptitiously gauging his surroundings. There was no one. He quietly shelved the book and meandered over to the history section, tipping out two volumes before he selected the biography of Cromwell. Using his body as a blind, he opened the book and subtly inserted a slip of paper into the spine. He quickly replaced it and pulled out another book for good measure. He tucked the book under his arm, giving the impression that he was on his way to check it out. He retraced his route down to the first floor and gave a cursory scan of the room. A new visitor had appeared. Slumped in a chair one table over from the elderly patron, was a man who had obviously been living life rough on the street. It would have been easy to overlook the man, dismiss him as one of the many homeless who found shelter within the walls of the city's libraries, but a having lived a life steeped in suspicion, Harry could not easily ignore it. He subtly changed the trajectory of his steps, coming close enough to the old man to see the morning headline on The Times. A librarian carrying an armload of books passed by and Harry sidestepped her, brushing against the table where the homeless man sat. Taking a moment to regain his balance, Harry paused and inhaled a deep breath. There was no stench of unwashed clothes, of stale urine or alcohol, or any of the usual odours associated with life on the streets, nothing to disturb the dignified must of aged paper. The homeless man stirred at Harry's presence but did not meet his eyes. It was one of the oldest surveillance tricks, random homeless bloke. He was being followed. He quickly calculated the odds of the safehouse being compromised.
As he exited the building, Harry pulled out his phone. He begrudgingly admitted that the advent of the mobile phone had certainly made his life much easier. Malcolm answered on the first ring.
"I suspect that I am being followed. Don't know if your location has been jeopardised." The conversation was kept to a minimum and Harry rang off without saying goodbye. He rounded the block and spotted a black car. Without breaking his stride, he walked over to the vehicle and stepped in.
"Thanks for stopping by, Trevor."
"I was informed that you wanted the security detail discontinued."
"Saner minds prevailed." He could not confess the real reason for reactivating his security detail. He would reveal that to Trevor closer to the time that he needed his cooperation.
"Thames House by way of the Royal, if you don't mind."
"Certainly, Sir."
The car moved forward and Harry glanced in the rearview mirror. The homeless man from the library stood on the street, watching helplessly. Harry smiled to himself as the car sped away.
.
The air of the safehouse crackled with a contained nervousness, and Ruth's hands shook as she filed away her new identity, Harry's call to Malcolm adding tension to her already strained system. Her stomach fluttered as she recalled the speed in which she had left Cyprus. The present situation was markedly different, she would be returning, and she was not alone this time. Malcolm methodically double checked her documents as she packed away her few possessions. They did not speak but moved about the flat with quiet efficiency. Ruth entered the bathroom, the medical supplies clattering as she swept them into her bag. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, expelling the anxiety that was rising within her. Returning to the outer room, she stuffed the leftover takeaway into a plastic bag alongside the empty bottle of wine. A glass fell from her hand and dinged against the side of the sink.
"I can look after all that," Malcolm offered. "You should leave first."
"What if they're out there?"
"I think that is highly unlikely. Harry is erring on the side of paranoia. Find a taxi. They won't be anticipating a flight out of the country."
Not totally convinced by Malcolm's reasoning, she nodded. She took a final tour of the apartment, looking in the cupboards and under the bed searching for any miscellaneous items. A gnawing sense of loss told her she was forgetting something, but she couldn't figure out what it was. Returning to the bathroom, an object on the shelf caught her eye. The necklace. She had taken it off when she had showered. She smiled at her forgetfulness, glad that she had checked twice. With the help of the mirror, she secured the clasp and patted it in place. Touched by both of them, it was a talisman for luck.
She shrugged on her black coat, grabbed the brown suitcase, and gave one last glimpse to the documents in her bag.
"Right then."
Malcolm stood before her and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Everything is going to be alright. Go straight to the airport, get on the plane and I will see you soon."
The time had come. She could not back out of a plan of her own design. She slipped out through the door, the wheels of her suitcase squeaking slightly as she padded down the carpeted hall. The doors of the ancient lift opened.
"Into the valley," she murmured and stepped into the waiting cage.
.
Harry studied his reflection in the glass. Oblivious to his thoughts, the pod door waited patiently for him to step on the sensory pad and engage the mechanism. There was always the chance that each pass through the doors could be his last. He was making the right decision, leave the service with her. It was too late anyway, he could not reverse the pieces he had set in motion. He stepped forward, concentrating on the click and hiss as the glass activated, committing the sound to memory. The noise of the Grid greeted him as he passed through. Erin was perched on the edge of Callum's desk, and Harry walked over to her.
"Do you have eyes on Ariadne?"
"Yes," Erin confirmed. "Dimitri's watching her."
Harry turned to Callum. "Did she do as we asked at the Committee meeting?"
"She was very compliant with our request, much to the consternation of Price."
"Are you going to tell us where you got the information about her identity?" Erin asked.
"I have my sources."
She looked at him sceptically but did not press for an answer. Harry changed the subject.
"I've got one last meeting with Gavrik before he leaves."
"Do you think that's wise?"
"Don't worry, I'll behave."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"I've reinstated my security detail. They'll keep an eye on me."
Harry turned to leave, but Erin halted his retreat with a hand on his arm. She stepped in closer and lowered her voice.
"Everything is in order for the service tomorrow."
Confused, Harry racked his brain to figure out what service Erin was referencing, when it finally dawned on him that she was speaking about Ruth's memorial. He recovered himself by brushing a hand of grief over his brow. "What time?"
"Ten in the morning."
"Good."
He looked into the eyes of his Section Chief. If she were Ros, he would tell her. He would have confided in Adam, after all, the man had been there at the first death. Erin tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she examined him. She had not risen through the ranks of the Service without the talent of spotting a lie. Harry walked away before she could delve any deeper.
The sanctity of his office had always been a refuge. He closed the door to his office but did not bother to take off his coat. Record shop, library, his office, each a shrine to the past. Over the years, the walls had remained the same intimidating red that he had commissioned the day he took up his post. There were deep indents in the carpet from his desk, never moved, squarely planted to oversee the Grid. He crossed to a shelf and picked up a marble figurine of a horse. A gift from Amanda Bennett after he had managed to second her and Archie Hollingsworth back from Six. She had joked that Harry could ride out on it if the job ever got too much, while Archie joked it was more like the pale horse of death looking over his shoulder. Harry smiled at the memory, his finger tracing over the smooth outline of the animal. They were both dead now, taken too soon, like many of his team. The horse had remained in the exact same spot for years, the wood beneath it a dark brown. Harry replaced it, moving the statue with his fingers to cover up the tell-tale sign of age. He unlocked the credenza and took out the decanter of scotch. He didn't need to look at the time. He knew it was too early for a drink. He poured himself a glass and eased himself into his chair. The computer had changed along with the phone, the man had stayed the same. Leaning back, he took a sip of the scotch, gazing out into the familiar business of the Grid. He tried to recollect the number of times he had either been escorted away, vowing to return, or stormed off under his own steam, at times vowing to stay away. The gravitational pull of his calling was always too much. He had not lied to her but would take a seismic shift in the universe to dislodge him from this orbit.
.
The taxi driver kept up a steady stream of dialogue, and Ruth answered his questions as vaguely as possible. The stars had aligned and she had secured the cab with greater ease than she had anticipated. She sank back into her seat, scurrying pedestrians and desolate shops passing by her window. A part of her was glad to leave the bleakness of the city. Perhaps by the time she had returned, spring would have shown itself.
"I don't like flying much," the cabbie offered conversationally,
"Neither do I," Ruth admitted.
She looked out the back window, monitoring the traffic, looking for a suspicious vehicle. She had no idea if she was being followed. All the cars looked the same to her.
"Anything wrong?" the driver asked.
"No, everything's fine."
"You were looking out the back like we were being followed."
"That would be exciting, wouldn't it?" She laughed, a tiny note of hysteria colouring her humour.
"I might be thinking you're a right spy or something."
"Do I look like a spy?"
"Nah, you look like the woman that works at my bank."
Ruth raised an eyebrow, simultaneously insulted and flattered by his assessment of her. She conceded it was for the best that he thought her capable of such a mundane profession. It gave a much-needed boost to her confidence that she could pull off her role with Sasha's account.
"You're right, someone like me could never be a spy."
It was the truth. She wasn't anymore, at least officially. Her stomach turned over, rising and then falling. She chalked it up to the serpentine nature of their route. She cracked open the window, inhaling deeply as a gust of fresh air filtered into the car. Once she was out of the moving vehicle she would feel better.
.
The exterior of the townhouse revealed itself as a wash of dreary grey. Between his last visit and the current one, the facade had somehow lost its patrician sheen. It could have been due to a stray cloud obscuring the sun, but Harry knew different. The last time he had visited Gavrik, he had been on his back foot, broken, lacking any coherent strategy in how to deal with the man. Back then, the sun had deserted him and shone on his nemesis. The board had changed, the game tilting in his favour.
The giant door was opened by the same balding man. Thick neck, broad shoulders, ex- Mossad. Harry blinked but quickly looked away, hiding his look of revelation. The other bodyguard held his hand out to take Harry's coat
"I'll keep my coat this time if you don't mind."
The two men shared a look, and the bald man shrugging his shoulder. They relented and showed Harry into the room where Gavrik waited. The man rose from his chair and greeted Harry.
"Thank you for meeting with me. Would you be more comfortable if you removed your coat?"
"I'm not staying long. I wanted to wish you a safe voyage,"
"I'm sure you did." Gavrik held up a glass pitcher. "Water?"
"Scotch, if you have it."
"You've come to your senses, I see."
Harry sat down and accepted the drink from Gavrik's hand. Secrets swirled about him. The man was rich with the currency of unknown information. Did he know that Ruth was alive? Had he planted a device on Harry purely out of habit? Like father, like son.
"Your son is doing well. Seems to be recovering nicely."
The smile on Gavrik's lips faltered, his eyes hardening. "You've spoken with him?"
"Part of the investigation. He did kill one of my officers." Harry took a sip of the scotch and studied Gavrik over the room.
"As I said earlier, I will support whatever justice is in line with his crime."
"Not all crimes receive their rightful punishments."
Gavrik crossed his legs, the toe of an Italian loafer swinging. "I'm glad you brought up my son. That is why I asked you here."
Gavirk paused, leaving an opening for Harry to pick up the conversation. Harry took a slow sip of his scotch, resisting the bait, waiting for the man to continue. Gavrik stared at him, both men using silence as a weapon. Harry settled into the comfort of his seat. He needed to get out of the room but he would do everything to refute that impression. Gavirk uncrossed his legs, the leather of his shoe coming close to Harry's calf.
"It would seem that my son has signed over one of his accounts to you."
"Well, not to me personally."
"If he is found guilty of a criminal offence those funds should revert to me."
"Actually, they would become the property of the British government."
"I was under the impression that we were working as a team."
"Quite right. I'm still waiting on those names from Tiresias." Harry finished off his scotch and set the tumbler on the low table that sat between them, a move on the board, calling Gavrik's bluff.
"I was hoping I could have those funds within the next few hours."
Harry patted his breast pocket with a mock search. "Not having the papers on me, I'm unable to accommodate that request."
"That is most unfortunate."
"A few months perhaps. The wheels of bureaucracy are slow to turn." Harry stood up. "But considering our longstanding acquaintance, I'll see if I can speed things along."
Gavrik rose in feigned courtesy. "That would be greatly appreciated."
"In exchange for the names, of course."
"Of course," Gavrik conceded with a tight smile.
The two men stood assessing each other, Harry holding back a smile, aware that he had given nothing up but had, in turn, received confirmation of the importance of Sasha's account to Gavrik. They were both masters of the bluff, but it was far easier to bet all the chips on the table when there was nothing left to lose. Besides, he had already won. He had found Ruth.
Harry exited the room, leaving Gavrik to stew in the juices of financial insecurity. He made no attempt to acknowledge the bodyguards as he left the building and walked toward the waiting car. Trevor stood to attention as his boss approached, and Harry held up his hand indicating that the man could relax.
"The weather is looking up a bit. I thought I might walk back through the park."
"Shall I come with you?"
"If you wish." Harry looked at the young man as he pulled on his gloves. "Discreetly, of course."
The path was filled with a stream of pedestrian traffic, office workers freed from their towers of steel and glass seeking a few moments of refuge in the patch of green. The gravel crunched as a cyclist sped past, shoulders hunched over the handlebars, Harry sidestepping the wheels avoiding a collision. A mother walked by with a pram, coffee cup in hand, shushing a wailing infant. A flock of starlings, disturbed by the bark of a dog, rose into the air and then dove in a unified wave of feathers. The grey limbs of trees hung over the path, tiny buds on their bows searching for the sun, patiently waiting for days of continued warmth to finally break free. The tune that had been running through his head for days returned and Harry absently whistled a few bars. He stopped for a moment, overcome by the view, the lines of Browning running through his head. This was the scene that he wanted to remember. In the distance, he spotted an empty bench and he headed toward it, giving himself permission to take a small rest. The Embankment might have been more fitting, there were a number of benches there that held significance, places that he had sat alongside her, the ebb and flow of the river framing their relationship. Their last bench had been in a park on a day that he had replayed in his head many times. He would sit on a bench with her again, and this time he would hold her hand and not let her go.
A man in a business suit hurried past, talking on his mobile, late to a meeting. Distracted, he careened close to Harry, the edge of his briefcase nicking Harry in the leg.
"Sorry," the man mumbled, turning to Harry with a tight smile of apology.
Harry nodded and brushed it off. He continued on his way to the bench. After a few paces, his footsteps faltered and he crumpled to the ground. Gravel pressing against his cheek, he gasped for air. The toe of a shoe came into view and he closed his eyes.
.
The terminal was a scene of controlled chaos. Winding her way through the crowd, Ruth headed to the baggage check-in. Beads of perspiration pricked at her temple. It was the change in the temperature, the sudden transition from the coolness of the street to the closeness of the airport. Voices echoed in her head and she stumbled. She steadied herself against a pillar, mouth dry, craving a glass of water. She had to continue on. She had promised Harry she would board the plane no matter what. The line at the counter was mercifully small and she hefted her suitcase onto the luggage scale. She presented her ticket and then pulled out her passport. The attendant barely glanced at each document and then printed off a tag for her luggage. A placard sat on the counter warning travellers of illness. The attendant followed Ruth's gaze.
"It's for a strain of hemorrhagic fever. Screening people as a precaution. We seem to be dealing with that more often these days. I wouldn't worry about it though."
Ruth scanned the symptoms, fever, chills, dizziness. She looked up at the attendant a mustered the healthiest smile that she could manage. The attendant handed Ruth a boarding pass.
"Enjoy your trip," she smiled at Ruth and waved for the next passenger to approach.
Free of her luggage, Ruth followed the signs to the nearest washroom. She leaned her head against the cool tiles, certain that she was running a fever. The pill bottle was at the bottom of her bag, and she unscrewed the top dispensing the remaining tablets. Using her hand to cup water from the tap, she hurriedly swallowed the pills, taking the opportunity to splash the cold stream on her face. She pinched her cheeks and smoothed her air. A dash of lipstick and she would look passable.
She joined the line waiting at security, regretting the decision not to go the fast track route. Malcolm had pointed out that it would be better to blend in with the masses then stand out in business class. The line crawled along and Ruth inched toward the scanners wondering how long she could remain standing. She finally deposited her shoulder bag and coat in the bin, watching as they sailed along the conveyor belt. One of the benefits of not existing was the surprising lack of personal items. She stepped through the panels of the scanner, setting off a loud beep. She kept her face impassive. Against Malcolm's advice, she had tucked the USB stick in her bandage. It would no doubt raise suspicions if she were found concealing it. She would be pulled aside and searched. She closed her eyes, chastising her own stupidity. A wand was passed over her body, and she prayed that circles of perspiration did not show through her dress. She stared ahead, focusing on a point in the distance, devoting all her concentration to stop her limbs from shaking. The wand beeped as it passed over her necklace.
"Sorry, I didn't realise." She gave the guard an apologetic smile.
The security guard nodded and motioned for her to continue through.
Surviving the gauntlet of security, Ruth collapsed in a chair in the boarding lounge. A television played at one end. Volume off, it was a news channel, the anchor's commentary muted. Ruth read the chryon as it scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Plummeting market numbers, an actor divorcing, a crisis in the Middle East. She wanted to close her eyes and rest but she was afraid she might fall asleep. A voice announced the boarding order and Ruth glanced at her ticket to see her place in the queue. It was dishearteningly low. Her eyes flitted over to the television. Displayed on the screen was an old picture of Harry. She stood up and walked closer to the monitor. The chryon ran across the bottom of the screen.
Head of MI5 counter-terrorism found dead of a suspected heart attack.
The perspiration cooled against her skin and a shiver ran through her body. A heart attack? That was impossible. Though given his age, his lifestyle and drinking habits it wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. She sat down and rummaged through her bag. She needed to talk to Malcolm.
Get on the plane no matter what. His words ran through her head.
There was no way he could have anticipated a heart attack. Her blood froze. Suspected heart attack. She knew what that phrase meant, the actors who favoured that particular modus operandi. The lounge swayed before her and she closed her eyes.