Throughout the long, dreary meeting Harry's head was spinning. As ever he used Frank Holland as a sort of barometer, nodding or scowling according to the expression on the other man's face, but for the most part he was struggling to follow the thread of the conversation. If he had not been so consumed by fear for Ruth, he might have taken a moment to consider the ramifications of his sudden inattention; compartmentalization, ruthlessness in the face of personal loss, these were traits he had honed over a lifetime of service, and to lose them now, to lose his focus and the tenacity that had been the hallmark of his career for the sake of a single woman, was troubling. It was important that he take note of the behavior of the Russian delegation, and Fedorov in particular, that he gauge his counterpart's mood and motivations and not allow his personal agony to cloud his judgement, to leave an opening through which his enemies might willingly step in order to seize their own advantage. For the most part he succeeded in this, even if he could not recall a single word that had been spoken. His gaze had taken in the visage of the Russian diplomat, the slight curl to Fedorov's mouth, the way he dug in, more stubborn, more combative than he had been during previous sessions when Ruth's presence had tempered all of their aggression. He had listened, not to the words spoken, but to the derisive, wheedling tone coming from the other end of the table, and he had noted this, but in truth his heart wasn't in it.
His heart was in St. Thomas's, next to Ruth.
Erin had assured him that Ruth was well, that she had been brave and strong, the way he had always known she could be, when push came to shove, and beneath his worry for her, he felt a great swelling of pride, at the thought of Ruth, gravelly injured and terrified yet still fighting with everything she had, saving herself and the life of her security officer as well.
You should have seen her, Harry, Adam had told him once, cradling a glass of whiskey in his hands and laughing in Harry's office one night after an operation had gone tits up, and Adam and Ruth had nearly been killed. I thought she'd run off like I told her to, and then there she was, like something out of a film. She clocked him with this big branch, I'd never seen anything like it. Ruth, can you believe it? And then she looked at me, and she said, "shall I hit him again, Adam?" Bloody Ruth. Bloody brilliant, that girl. It's always the quiet ones you have to look out for. And then Adam laughed again, and took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes watching Harry speculatively over the rim of his glass all the while.
In that moment, Harry would have given anything to have Adam Carter by his side again. Adam, who had known Ruth as she had been, that girl with the gentle smile and the trembling hands, tender and sweet and still full of hope. Not the Ruth with whom Erin was acquainted, cloaked in shadows and disbursing her steady guidance, broken inside, the Ruth who wept in his arms, crying because she was happy, and she knew that such joy never came without price, that it must always be followed by sorrow and loss and pain. The Ruth that Adam had known had not yet learned that lesson, and Adam had always behaved rather protectively towards her as a result, just as Harry himself had done. If it had been Adam who found Harry in that meeting room, took him aside to tell him that Ruth had very nearly died, Harry was certain that he would not have received a lecture about doing his duty. Adam would have sent him to the hospital and assumed his seat in the conference without blinking. Such solicitousness had never occurred to Erin, of course, and Harry couldn't decide whether that spoke to a lack of compassion, or a dogged determination to follow the bloody rules, but either way, he didn't care for it. Not that it mattered, of course. Adam Carter was long dead, and it would not do to dwell on dreams of what might have been.
As Harry listened to Towers sparring with the Russians, he thought about his Ruth. She took a knock to the head and dislocated her shoulder, Erin had told him. Not as bad as it could have been, given her car had taken a nosedive off Lambeth Bridge. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, running a weary hand over his face as he imagined his darling Ruth tossed around in the backseat of the car, the sheer terror she must have felt as she plummeted down into the murky depths of the Thames. He promptly berated himself for such a show of weakness, listening for a moment before growling out some invective against the Russians just to prove he was listening.
He had to see her; his heart would be satisfied with nothing less than holding her in his arms, than seeing, feeling for himself that she was still alive and well. Perhaps Erin had been right, and perhaps it was dangerous for him to go rushing off to the hospital, but he would not be deterred in this. Let them try and come for him, then, he thought bleakly. He was ready, now, and angrier than he could recall having been for quite some time. It was one thing, for him to think that perhaps Ruth had been collateral damage to his faceless attackers, that she had simply gotten in the way that night the bullets tore through his kitchen, but now Ruth had been targeted directly, and Harry was determined to find those responsible, and tear them limb from limb. Ruth was the kindest, the gentlest, the most compassionate, the single best woman he had ever known, and the thought that anyone could willfully set out to hurt her filled him with rage.
The question he kept coming back to was simply this: why? Why hurt Ruth deliberately? That someone should want him dead was no great stretch of the imagination; in point of fact, the list of people who would gleefully put him down was too long to be reckoned. If someone wanted to remove him from the playing field, it would have been as simple as crashing into his car, instead of Ruth's. Why would they go after her, if Harry was their goal? This seemed to him to be the most solid lead he had yet uncovered; he had been operating under the suspicion that whatever was happening was meant to distract him, and based on their conversation in the corridor, it would seem that Erin had drawn the same conclusion. Now, though, Harry wasn't so sure.
Ruth had been meeting with Frank Holland; as Harry's thoughts raced, his gaze fell once more upon his friend from across the river. What had they discussed?
When Harry left the safehouse that morning he had been too distracted by thoughts of Ilya Gavrick and the dark days they'd spent together in Berlin to question Ruth about her plans to speak to Holland. That she had been attacked as she was leaving his office seemed to be important, though Harry could not say exactly why.
Would Gavrick have done this? Harry asked himself. Would he strike against Ruth directly, and if so, why? Because Harry had slept with his wife, thirty years before? To watch Harry endure the pain of losing the woman he loved? To keep Harry from the meeting table?
There just didn't seem to him to be any logical explanation for it. Ruth's role was mostly research and admin, though she ventured out into the field on occasion when they were short staffed, or when her particular knowledge base might prove useful, though such forays almost always ended in calamity. Her name was well known in certain circles, but she was hardly a power player -
Bloody hell.
All this time, Harry had been thinking of Ruth's role on his staff, her usefulness as an MI-5 analyst, her value to him personally. It was not until that very moment, as his gaze came to rest upon Towers's grumpy visage, that Harry realized his own foolishness. Ruth didn't work for him, any more, she worked for Towers. Her role had changed, had brought her more power, more prestige, and more visibility - as well as healthy pay rise. Could it be, he asked himself, that all of this, the bullets and the accident and the whispers in the corridors, had nothing to do with him at all, and everything to do with Ruth? After all, the night they had been attacked had come at the end of her second day on the job. What if Ruth's arrival at Whitehall was the impetus for this chaos, what if it were Harry who was the collateral damage this time around?
I have to speak to Ruth, he thought grimly. That was always his way; when he could not see the path before him, when he found himself mired in muck and misery and more details than he could fathom, he carried his burdens to Ruth and laid them at her feet, and she shined the brilliant light of her smile upon him, and together they waded through it. She had a mind like no other he had ever encountered before, brilliant, intuitive, and more deeply understanding of the nature of the human condition than even he himself could claim to be. If anyone could solve this particular riddle, it would be her, his brilliant, beautiful Ruth. The team was working hard, Tom Quinn was using his veritable army of contacts to ferret out information, and Ruth was still alive and well; Harry would go to her, then, and they would sort this out, together.
It seemed to him that negotiations were winding down; Holland was grumbling and the Russians were shuffling through their paperwork and Towers was making some feeble attempt at an apology. Harry was itching to leave, but before he could make his own departure, he had to speak to Frank Holland. Across the table he caught the man's eye, and raised gave a subtle of nod of his head. Frank returned the gesture, and Harry relaxed infinitesimally, content to wait out the farewells and then speak to Frank the moment they were alone. After much shaking of heads and muttering of half-hearted promises to think on the other party's proposals the Russians followed out, tailed by a conciliatory Towers and the ever-present aides.
"Harry," Frank growled as they stood together beside the table. "What's going on? Where's Ruth?"
"In hospital," Harry answered grimly. In the harsh lights overhead, he clearly saw Holland's face pale at those words; good, he thought. Surprise was easy enough to fake, but draining the blood from one's own face at will was a trick few could master. It seemed to him that Holland was genuinely shocked to hear of Ruth's fate, and Harry counted that as a blessing. He needed someone he could trust in this pit of vipers.
"Her car was struck on Lambeth Bridge," he explained. "Deliberately."
"Bloody hell, Harry," Frank said slowly. "Is she-"
"She's a bit shaken, but she'll be all right. Tell me, Frank, you met with her this morning. What did you discuss?"
Frank ran a weary hand over his face, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "It wasn't much of a discussion, to tell you the truth. She had questions about Hadley, but I'm afraid I wasn't much help on that front." His eyes went wide, as if he'd just recalled something. "We talked about the Russians, Harry. I gave her a file."
"What file?" Harry demanded sharply. Though Erin hadn't mentioned it, Harry was fairly certain that Ruth had been too busy trying not to die to rescue her briefcase. Likely whatever documents she'd carried were currently resting on the bottom of the river, and that left him ill at ease.
"Documents from one of our people in Moscow, proving that Ilya Gavrick ordered a hit on you."
Harry swore and banged his fist onto the table, hard. He had no sooner come to a conclusion than an alternate theory asserted itself. Would there be no end to these twisting, turning machinations?
"I'm assuming you have another copy of the documents?" Harry asked, rubbing his palm discretely over his smarting knuckles.
"I do," Frank allowed. "I'll have it couriered over to Thames House."
"No," Harry shook his head. "I'm going to check up on Ruth, and then I'll come to Vauxhall myself. I think it's time you and I had a nice long chat about all of this."
"I couldn't agree more," Frank said seriously. They shook hands, and then Holland departed, leaving Harry alone for a moment to gather his thoughts.
I have to get to Ruth. through all the noise that surrounded him, the endless, riotous clamoring of a hundred different suppositions, he clung to that one certainty. Whatever was happening, whoever was behind it, he had to make his way to her side. Somehow he just knew that if only he could hold her hand in his, he could find a path out of this minefield.
A/N: Just a head's up, I likely won't post again until Monday. It's that time of year! Too much to do, and not enough hours in the day.
