A/ N – I'm just going to slip this little chapter in here and hope that you won't notice my inability to let go of this story. It didn't feel quite right to tack the ending on. ;)

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Chapter 14

Untouched by the rays of the sun, the alley grew dimmer, luring Ruth into its all-consuming greyness. Her feet hesitated, the scent of decay and rot invading her nostrils, the smells of lives lived in despair seeping from the darkness. The Sumerians had a name for the underworld - Kur, and Ruth wondered how deep she would have to go before she discovered its goddess, Ereshkigal. The nearing footsteps of her pursuers echoed off the ancient walls. She had no choice but to continue. Legs pumping, Ruth resisted the urge to look over her shoulder, aware that she could lose valuable time. Or turn into a pillar of salt. As her feet pounded rhythmically against the stone, she grappled with the straps of her laptop bag, the sharp corner of the book inside digging against her shoulder blade. Just keep going. Just keep going. As the mantra played over and over in her head, her scarf slowly unravelled, flapping behind her like a streamer. Her breath came in ragged bursts; she could not keep up this pace much longer. As if hearing her thoughts, her body rebelled and a stitch pierced her side. She slowed down to a half jog, her hand massaging the muscle under her rib. Too much time behind a desk. When she got back, if she got back, she vowed to foreswear her sedentary lifestyle.

Squinting into the gloom, she could barely make out a slit of light in the distance. Focused on the promise of escape, she picked up her pace, but let out a yowl surprise when her foot twisted on an object. Stumbling, she crashed against a wall, her fingers clawing at the stone in an effort to maintain her balance. A painful moan told her that she had tripped over a sleeping man. Spouting curses in an unknown tongue, he angrily rose from the ground, gaunt limbs unfolding before her, blocking her path. Ruth retreated, stepping into the refuge of a shallow doorway. The door opened and a man appeared, his head wrapped in the checkered cloth of a kaffiyeh, his fathomless stare far more frightening than the beggar's curses. She stepped away, but another man emerged from the shadows. Ghosts awakened by the disturbance of her presence. A slow smile spread across the man's face. He reached out to her with a sinewy hand, whispering to her in a voice full of insinuation. A cackle erupted from the beggar, as he revealed a mouth full of blackened teeth. Panic closed in on her. Fingers scraped against her, one hand pulling at the bag, a different hand grabbing her shirt. If she screamed, who would hear her? There was no Ereshkigal here to pass judgement. Anger churned within her; she had survived far too much to be defeated now. Wriggling like a fish, she blindly kicked at the men's shins, her shoes cracking hard against a bone. A howl reached her ears, the pain she had caused warning enough for the men to ease their grip. She squirmed through the opening. Instinct and adrenaline superseded fear and her shoes flew over the ancient cobblestones. The stitch in her side forgotten, she pressed her lips together in frustration, angry that Harry had abandoned her to such a fate. Damn him. The sliver of light grew brighter, and she reached down into her last bit of reserve and hurtled toward the opening. Stumbling out of the alley, lungs searing, she squinted into the sun. The street roared with the din of morning traffic, and she gave thanks that her instincts had been correct.

Hair tangled in her scarf, she tugged at the material and wrapped it around her head, hastily scanning the street. On the other side of the road, a sand coloured field jacket moved through the crowd. Relief welled within her. The man was wearing a hat but she was certain it was Harry. Dodging cars, she made her way through the traffic. Her hurried steps took her to within arm's reach of the man, her toe catching the back of his heel. He whirled around in irritation. Her heart fell with the leaden weight of disappointment. It wasn't Harry. Throwing her a look of annoyance, the man continued on, leaving Ruth to stand forlornly alone, the throng of pedestrians flowing around her. Harry must have given his jacket away to act as a decoy. Nervous fingers rose to the scarf on her head. It marked her. Leery of standing still for too long, she walked along the pavement and tore the scarf from her head. It was such a pretty colour; she hated to let it go.

Stalls lined the street, displaying the wares she had only glimpsed at a few days before. Cajoling voices shouted, vying for attention as buyers haggled with vendors. Ruth stopped near a stall, a wealth of trinkets and jewellery on display. A woman raised her voice, pointing out the inferior quality of a pot and demanded a reduced price from the vendor. The woman monopolised the vendor's attention, and Ruth took advantage of the distraction to subtly place her blue scarf on a rack and extract a plain brown cloth. It wasn't stealing, merely an exchange of goods. With shaking hands she wrapped the scarf around her head, keeping one eye on the crowd. Her hands froze at the knot under her chin. Two men were making their way across the street, their ubiquitous sunglasses telegraphing their connection to the CIA. In an effort to blend in, Ruth donned her own sunglasses and pretended to browse a selection of American DVDs. The two officers stopped a few stalls away, their fingers pressed against their ears, indicating that they were communicating with another team. How many more were there? Ruth held her breath, debating whether to wait until her way was clear or take the chance and flee. Perspiration trailed down her spine, the back of her blouse sticking against her clammy skin. After an agonising eternity, the men decided to move further up the street. Ruth turned and walked in the opposite direction. She desperately needed a drink of water, but more importantly, she needed transportation. A young man in jeans and a t-shirt lounged idly against a car, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. She approached him.

"Taxi?" she asked, the word transcending all languages.

He nodded. "Where do you want to go?"

"The airport." She smiled at him, feigning nonchalance, quelling the hysteria that was bubbling beneath the surface.

"Where's your luggage?"

She blinked, derailed by his question, for the first time realising that her suitcase was back at the Ambassador's car, never to be seen again.

"I'm meeting someone at the airport, they have my bags."

The explanation mollified him, or perhaps he had learned not to ask too many questions, and he flicked the cigarette onto the pavement, motioning for her to get into the car. Safely ensconced in a moving vehicle, Ruth relaxed a fraction, sitting back in her seat as the driver wove through the traffic. After a few blocks, the gods of good fortune deserted her, and they were ensnared in the inevitable gridlock of the city. The driver lit another cigarette and dangled his arm out the window, settling in for an extended wait.

"You know, you are very trusting," the driver observed. "You should be careful, there are kidnappers roaming the streets."

Ruth's eyes widened, overcome with the fear that she had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. She kept her voice cool. "Thank you for the warning."

The man shrugged his shoulders. "I only say that because I don't think you are being followed by friends."

Breaking her vow, Ruth looked back through the rear window of the car. A black SUV loomed a few cars behind them. Shit. How had they found her? She turned around contemplating her choices. Stay in this vehicle or find another car. Searching through her bag, she pulled out her ticket, checking the departure time. She fished in her case for her mobile. Time was not on her side.

"My plane leaves in thirty minutes."

The man shrugged with the resignation of one who dealt with congestion on a daily basis. "Today it is your fate to be caught in traffic."

Ruth peeled off a few bills from the bundle that Harry had given her and flashed them across the back of the seat. "I can make it worth your while."

Unimpressed by her money, the driver took a slow drag of his cigarette. "Maybe the people behind us make it more worth my while."

It dawned on her that the driver thought she was already being hunted by kidnappers; a summation not completely off the mark. What was to stop him from handing her over and collecting a tidy finder's fee? Tampering down her growing dread, she unrolled the entire pile of notes and held them up.

"Better?"

The driver eyed the money suspiciously. "Who are these people who are following you?"

"Americans."

The man flicked his cigarette out the window. "Then again, every man is the architect of his own fate."

With a swift turn of the wheel, the driver hitched the car over the kerb, driving along the pavement, ignoring the shouts of angry pedestrians. He dove into a side street, the transmission creaking as they careened over ruts in the road. Jostling in the back seat, Ruth turned around and looked out the rear window. The SUV had also turned into the alley, the narrow confines of the space impeding its progress. The driver snaked through another back street, honking his horn as pedestrians ran to avoid the car. The maze of side streets would not deliver them all the way to the airport; eventually, the driver would run out of options.

"Don't we need to cross the river," Ruth yelled over the rocking of the car.

"Yes. Yes. But we go south first."

"We don't have time," she protested.

"I get you there, don't worry."

The driver manoeuvered the car onto a busier street, the expanse of a bridge coming into view. The sightseer in her had departed long ago, and Ruth gave no glance to the water as they crossed it. She focused on the road ahead, clutching onto the seat, silently urging the car to go faster. Without slowing down to merge, the driver sped onto an expressway, the squeal of tires sounding as the vehicle behind them swerved to avoid a collision. The traffic clipped along at a faster rate, and Ruth chanced a glance behind them. The SUV had capitalised on the increased speed limit, taking full advantage of its size to muscle in between cars as it barreled closer. A jet rumbled overhead; a sign that they were nearing the airport. With astounding agility, the driver navigated their car through the blast barriers that encircled the airport's outer roads. A long line of vehicles idled outside the drop off zone and their car screeched in behind them. Ruth did not wait for the driver to pull up to the entrance. Shoving the bills into the driver's hand, she jumped out of the car and sprinted to the door.

Once inside the gold and teal interior of the terminal, she hurriedly looked around, hoping against hope to find Harry. Everywhere she looked, her eyes landed on American soldiers in desert fatigues. She lowered her head and pulled the scarf tighter around her face. Expecting to be hauled away at any moment, she cautiously made her way toward the departure board. As she skimmed the list of cities, the boarding call for her flight came over the loudspeakers. Her fist curled into a ball of indecision. She couldn't leave without Harry. But she would be of no use to him if she was caught. She still had the USB stick and all its incriminating evidence against McCaul; they could always use that as a bargaining chip. Across the terminal at the baggage counter, a dark-haired man with sunglasses searched the crowd. It was Ronnie. He must have been the one in the black SUV. The final call to board came over the speakers. The decision was made for her.

Depositing the laptop bag on the scanner belt, Ruth showed her boarding pass and her passport to the security agent. He compared the documents and then scrutinised her features. Suddenly conscious of the picture she presented, Ruth took off her scarf and ran her fingers self-consciously through her hair. She straightened her perspiration soaked blouse, her finger finding a rip in the seam. The security agent typed a few keystrokes into his computer terminal. Her heart thudded in her chest. Had she been flagged? It was the first thing she would do if she were hunting a fugitive. Her eyes travelled to her laptop bag as it moved through the scanner, realising that she was now physically separated from the insurance of the USB stick. A portly security guard removed her book from the bag and opened it. Ruth cringed as the guard's greasy fingers carelessly flipped through the pages, despairing that the splendid gift was now sullied by his irreverent handling of the book. Finding nothing, the guard turned his attention to examining the lipstick tube. With one guard examining her passport and the other potentially discovering the USB stick, Ruth didn't know which way to look. The guard put the lid back on the lipstick and deposited it back in the bag. Ruth jumped when the thump of a visa stamp hit her passport. The agent motioned for her to continue. Collecting her documents and her bag, she ran to the exit.

Heat poured off of the asphalt, and a hot wind whipped at her hair as she walked out onto the airfield. Biting her lip, she willed Harry to be on the plane. There was still time, he could make it. She stepped onto the mobile stairs, each ascending step telling her that the chances of Harry catching that flight were becoming slimmer and slimmer. She entered the cabin and paused. Almost every seat was taken up by British armed services personnel. Praying that Ronnie had not gotten word to anyone on the plane, Ruth kept her head down and made a beeline for her row. Having found her seat, her chest moved rapidly as she attempted to regain her breath, her arms wrapped protectively around the laptop bag. Doubt whispered in her ear; it was not too late to go back, she should stay and find him. There was a commotion at the loading door, and Ruth looked up expectantly. The area cleared, but there was no sign of Harry.

The thrum of the engine vibrated beneath the floor, signalling their imminent departure. Ruth looked through the oval of her window. The small figures of baggage handlers scurried about as they unloaded the last few pieces of luggage and then drove off in their cart. Lights flickered on the wings as the plane slowly backed up, scribing a large circle as it manoeuvred its way towards the runway. The flight attendant stopped at Ruth's seat and reminded her to buckle up her belt. Reluctant fingers closed the latch of her seatbelt, the mechanism clicking with a note of finality. The plane gathered speed, harnessing the forces of thrust and lift, stretching the band of gravity. Ruth looked at the city below - her view of Baghdad entirely different from when she had arrived. A piece of her would always remain in the tattered country, and in its ruins, she had discovered the unknown depths of her own courage. Her farewell should have been enacted with greater ceremony. She should have left with the man to whom she had finally given her heart. Oh, Harry, she whispered, stupid, stupid man. Where was he? They should have stayed together. What was she going to tell the team back on the Grid?

The plane levelled off and a bell dinged, the overhead light indicating that she could release her seatbelt. There was a general shuffling in the seats as passengers took advantage of the opportunity to retrieve items from the overhead compartments. Ruth stared into the endless expanse of white cloud, lost in a sea of regret. She started when a passenger took the seat beside her. She turned to say that the seat was taken, but was instead, rendered speechless. It was Harry. Her body crumpled with relief, and she stifled a sob of joy. Her arms rose to hug him, but she was still aware of their surroundings, and out of a sense of caution she let them drop helplessly back to her sides. Her mouth opened with a thousand questions but could not form any of them into articulate words. Dishevelled in a crumpled blue shirt, he too looked like he had run the gauntlet. He smiled at her with the same roguish grin that he had shown her the day before in the desert.

"I had to go back and get my briefcase."

Ruth shook her head, amazed at the complete lack of regard for his own safety. She sat back in her seat, tension draining from her muscles. The clatter of a cart approached, and Ruth signalled to the flight attendant.

"I'll have a water," she said. And a scotch."

Harry gave her a look of concern. "It's ten in the morning."

"I don't care."

He turned to the attendant. "I'll have the same."

As Harry passed the drinks over to Ruth, he assessed her appearance, his brow furrowing when he noticed the scratches on her arm and the rip in her shirt. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, taking a large gulp of her water. His fingers graced over the back of her hand and she leaned into him.

"I eventually found a driver to get me here. But how did you-?"

There was a movement in the seat in front of them, and Harry gave Ruth a warning glance, preempting her question. She understood his silent message; this was not the place to discuss any matters involving their mission. Harry pulled back from her and averted his eyes, the veil of secrecy once again descending. With a slowly sinking heart, she accepted the fact that they would never be able to discuss any part of their trip to Baghdad. She slowly sipped her scotch, the liquid burning down her throat. Doubt returned to her shoulder, its whispering words awakening insecurity. It was clear. The end of the mission would mean the end of everything.