Many, many thanks to the wonderful people who reviewed - you keep me inspired to write even when real life tempts me away! David Rawle is borrowed from the Home Secretary that actor Jeff Rawle played in an earlier season. I tried to find the character's name but he always seemed to be credited as 'Home Secretary' so I named him in honour of the actor who played him instead. I always though him a quite principled and fair HS, so rather than presenting him as a cipher, I gave him a bit of thought and character in this chapter. Any thoughts are always greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

After a long, tiring, and seemingly unending week of playing bottom-kisser to some rather unsavoury Russian delegates, (because that appeared to be the only way to get them willing to work together with the British for the ever-important Anglo-Russian partnership), David Rawle had been looking forward to a nice, peaceful flight. He had managed to secure a very comfortable window seat, with no one occupying the seat beside him. He had in front of him his favourite malt, which he knocked back at leisure, enjoying the burn of the amber liquid against his tired throat. The added bonus of the no-phones rule for this particular flight (he had heard a rumour that this was due to fears that the delegates might accidentally say something derogatory that might be overheard, upset their cousins from other nations, and set back the deal) meant that there was blissful peace and quiet, and he had been able to catch up on some well-earned sleep.

That was until it had been disrupted. He had been in the game of politics for a long time now; longer than he would ever have thought considering he had started out of school with the intention of joining the army. And with that breadth of experience in politics, he knew when someone was acting shiftily. So when he had been disturbed from his gentle slumber by a hissed controversy between a young stewardess and a Russian passenger sitting a few rows ahead of him, his interest had been piqued. Translating their conversation in his head, he gathered that the young delegate – who now he came to think of it, Rawle could not recall seeing at any point in the promotional tour for the partnership – was refusing adamantly to allow the stewardess to place his black leather briefcase into the luggage holder above. Instead, he insisted on keeping it close beside him. At surface value, the man's reasoning may just have been that he had particularly personal items in the case which he didn't want being accidentally mislaid. Yet the aggressive tone he used, and his intimidating body language as he puffed his chest out in a display of dominance, told Rawle that this man was up to something. Irrespective of whether they actually liked each other or not, politicians were trained to behave dapperly and speak politely to appease others in a bid to maintain popular approval. This Russian man was doing nothing of the sort, and he stuck out like a black sheep amongst a white flock. The question was: did this black sheep have a darker agenda.

Rawle suddenly realised what exactly he was insinuating, and he frowned, scoffing and shaking his head to himself. The current tension between Britain and Russia at the dawn of this partnership had left him uncharacteristically wide-eyed, wary and distrustful, and the years served as Home Secretary, liaising with MI5 and CIA operatives had led to him seeing shadows, conflict and espionage where there was none. His wife often accused him of the latter, deeming him a conspiracy theorist. Yet if only she knew just how many conspiracy theories the public had allegedly dreamed up, actually held more than a degree of truth. He released a deep, long-suffering sigh and took another large swig of whisky, swilling the mouthful against his tongue for a few seconds to gain an optimum appreciation of its harsh flavour. He noticed that his measure of amber liquid was getting rather low and was on the brink of calling a stewardess to ask for a refill when the senior stewardess, a woman looking to be in around her late fifties, with thin dark hair that was flecked with grey, and intelligent green eyes, approached him. As if she had read his mind, she set another glass of expensive Talisker down in front of him. A little surprised, but nevertheless appreciative, he smiled at the thoughtful woman and was just about to thank her when he noticed something sticking out from underneath the bottom of the glass. A handwritten message was visible through the murky depths of the amber liquid, but Rawle could not quite make it out. Confused, he slid it out and read its content, a frown coming to etch itself across his aging features.

Urgent Matter. Pilot needs to speak to you. Follow in two minutes. Try to avoid being seen.

What on earth was so urgent that the pilot needed to speak to him as opposed to any of the other delegates on the plane? Could it be a personal matter? He was just about to question the stewardess, who until that point had been subtly hovering under the pretence of clearing away his almost empty glass and wiping his already spotless table, however she flashed him a meaningful look, nodded covertly at the message, and moved off up the aisle, in the direction of the cockpit. Gaping and entirely flabbergasted, Rawle stared after her, before glancing once more at the handwritten message in front of him. He sighed at the irony of it all. What had he been saying to himself only a minute ago about kicking the habit of seeing shadows and espionage everywhere? He wondered if it was a very good idea to actually comply with this charade, however curiosity got the better of him. So after two minutes of dithering, he clambered to his feet and walked as calmly as possible in the direction of the toilets. However, once he was sure he was out of the eye line of the other passengers, he changed tack and carried straight on towards the cockpit. As he approached, he saw the senior stewardess waiting patiently for him, her hands clasped primly in front of her; her expression quite impassive, although he thought he saw a smidgeon of relief cross her features as she caught sight of him. She flashed him a brief, polite smile, but made no attempt to brief him as to what was going on. As she carefully opened the cockpit door, Rawle resigned himself to the fact that he was just going to have to ask these questions for himself.


In actuality, it took only a few minutes for the senior stewardess to get a covert message to David Rawle, however, with the limited time they had at their disposal, to Harry and Ruth, it felt like an eternity. The atmosphere was fraught with a thick, debilitating tension that made even the slightest noise cause them to jolt forwards eagerly towards the phone in the hopes of hearing the politician finally entering the cockpit. Sokolov remained quiet and stoic, seemingly stewing in his own guilt and terror, and Ruth could only offer occasional soft words of comfort that they all knew were quite useless in the circumstances. She still held tight to Harry's hand like a lifeline, squeezing it with an almost bruising grip. However, amidst his own terrifying cataclysm of emotions, Harry did not mind a bit. He was more than thankful for her warm, solid presence beside him, a quiet beacon of strength and hope, guiding him once more through the horror, as she had done on countless occasions. But he couldn't deny that despite the bomb threat taking precedence at that very moment, he was worried. Through his adrenaline-fuelled haze, he was dimly conscious of Ruth spending an inordinate amount of time with her other hand pressed flat to her stomach, sporadically releasing short, pained gasps. However, whenever he raised his eyebrows at her in a silent question of whether she was alright, she shrugged it off stubbornly, uttering a tiny: "I'm fine." When this happened for about the fifth time, Harry, more than a little perturbed, was just about to openly question her when the sound of a latch opening carried over the phone, signifying that someone was entering the cockpit.

"Surely this really is most dangerous, not to mention extremely unorthodox." A male voice blustered through the phone's loudspeaker – a voice which Harry recognised instantly and with monumental relief, as David Rawle, the former Home Secretary. They heard the distinct clicking of high heels against the plane's hard floor and realised that the stewardess must have followed Rawle into the cockpit. "The pilot needs to focus on actually flying the plane, not speaking to me, however urgent this matter may be, and – oh lord – is… is that…? Why is the First Officer snoring away at his station? What… what is going on?"

Rawle sounded completely clueless and entirely disgruntled – rightfully so, Harry had to admit.

"Katiya, would you leave us alone, please?" Sokolov asked, his voice impressively calm considering that only minutes previously, he had been in crying like a baby.

"Of course, Kapitan." An elderly female voice (Katiya, the stewardess, apparently) responded, before adding hesitantly. "Is… is Alexei alright?"

"Da," Sokolov lied with admirable fluency and conviction. "He was feeling unwell and I have things under control here, so I instructed him to take a short sleep. He will be fine."

"Ah, khorosho." She did not sound entirely (or indeed, at all) convinced, but Sokolov had mentioned that this woman was very discreet, and she lived up to her reputation in that she thankfully did not ask any more questions, instead dutifully leaving the cockpit as instructed.

There was a beat, in which Harry fully envisioned David Rawle standing with his mouth hanging gormlessly, completely bewildered by the situation he now found himself in. If only he knew it was about to get a hundred times worse.

"Look, Captain," Rawle began, calmly though with a slightly impatient edge to his voice. "What exactly is going on? I get a message that you urgently need to speak to me and I'm ushered away from the other passengers like I'm a secret to be ashamed of. And when I get here, I find that your co-pilot is unconscious and… "

"It is not me who needs to speak to you, sir." Sokolov answered enigmatically.

"What? Then who – ?"

Harry decided it was probably time to end this silly charade and spoke up in his best, assertive, no-nonsense Section Head tone: "It's me, David."

There was a pause. "Who… who said that? Who is this?"

"This is Harry Pearce."

Another beat, then Rawle swore under breath. "Oh lord, Harry Pearce." He breathed, half in wonder, half with rightful trepidation. "Well that name is certainly a blast from the past."

"I bet. I'd exchange pleasantries; ask you how life's been treating you and all that, David, but I'm afraid the hour is late and we have a national emergency on our hands."

Rawle snorted, "Too right you do. I heard about you allegedly murdering two CIA agents, and now the Americans are out for blood. And so are bloody MI5 because apparently you conspired to kidnap and kill the Home Secretary, Minister Gavrik and his wife. Are you aware that they've issued a nationwide security alert and a warrant for your arrest?"

"Yes, I had an inkling." Harry said dryly. "It's a very long story, David. One I'm afraid I haven't got time to tell now, so I'm just going to have to rely on my memory of you being a good man and that, as such, you will believe me when I say that I have been set up – framed by a cell who have conspirators with very slimy, corrupt fingers in lots of pies, including, I believe, in the British Cabinet."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for that based on your very poor attempt at flattery?" Rawle sighed, though thankfully he did not sound too indignant, which Harry took as a hopeful sign.

"Not flattery, David. Just honesty."

"What's to stop me from calling the police right now and giving them this number?"

"Several things." Harry answered truthfully, praying that Rawle would not let them down after all the effort Ruth had put in to getting Sokolov onside. "Firstly, steps have been taken by… by a trustworthy source to ensure that this call cannot be traced back to me. You could alert the police to the fact that you've had contact but you wouldn't be able to find me. Secondly, the reason I am speaking to you here is that the usage of mobile phones have been prohibited on your flight, which you very well know. And finally, I swear I am telling you the truth."

"You swear? You're a spook, Harry. Forgive my reluctance to believe you, but you're trained to lie under extreme circumstances, and the world and its wife are looking for you right now."

"I'm not interested in what the world or even its wife believe, David. Right now, I'm asking you to consider what you believe." Harry responded, hoping he sounded calm and collected, despite the fact his heart was thumping too erratically to be considered healthy, so much so it was all he could do to keep breathing steadily.

There was a short pause, as David Rawle mulled over his words. After a while, he hedged slowly, "This… source… wouldn't happen to be Ruth Evershed, would it?"

Harry's gaze squinted sideways to Ruth, who glanced up at him, half alarmed and half bewildered that her name had been mentioned. She did not recall ever meeting this particular Home Secretary so how exactly did he know of her existence? Then she realised sadly that she would probably have been put out on the national security alert along with Harry's name. Harry contemplated her, noticing the rabbit in the headlights appearance and squeezing her hand gently in reassurance. He would do his utmost to protect her.

"You know I'm not at liberty to divulge my sources, David." He answered calmly, not wanting Ruth to be even more involved in this than she already was.

"Alright." David conceded, before apparently changing tack and saying in a softer tone. "But just so you know, Harry – though I never met the woman, I remember Ms Evershed's intel very well. It was good. Very good. And I remember her judgement, her talent and her loyalty to her country was incredibly admirable. She was a very reliable source, and I remember trusting her intel enough to make more than several very hard decisions that ultimately had a very positive outcome. So… shall we say… hypothetically, if Ms Evershed was to confirm your word, I might be more inclined to take your word as Gospel."

Harry physically hold back a heavy sigh of relief. He could hear the twinkle in Rawle's eyes, and his kindly tone indicated that he was actually willing to believe Harry. Getting Ruth's confirmation was him extending an olive branch; a second opinion to see that his trust in Harry was not misplaced.

"Hypothetically, David?" Harry repeated slowly.

"Hypothetically." Rawle agreed.

Harry looked to Ruth, who smiled wanly in return and added in her best formal, Senior Analyst tone, "Hypothetically, I would confirm every word that Harry has said, Mr Rawle."

There was a beat, and Harry could almost hear Rawle's lips stretching into a small smile, "I see. Well… hypothetically then, that's good enough for me."

"And my word wasn't good enough?" Harry asked, trying not to feel a little offended, even though he knew he more than deserved the mistrust. After all, he had many skeletons in his closet. So many terrible secrets.

"Sorry, Harry, but no. Both of you are on Britain's Most Wanted – your place on that list I'm more inclined to believe, but Ms Evershed's… not so much." He hesitated, as if wondering whether to divulge any further information that he was privy to. "I've smelled a rat with William Towers ever since the pompous prat came into office, and that's not just jealousy over him occupying my former position. And though I whole-heartedly approve of this Anglo-Russian partnership, I've conversed with enough unsavoury Russian politicians this week to suspect that all is not what it seems, especially with Ilya Gavrik."

"You suspected something and you didn't come forward?" Ruth frowned, speaking up in spite of herself.

"Cowardly, I know," Rawle admitted, sounding genuinely ashamed of his lack of action. "But my wife, and to some extent, I am constantly doubting my own judgement these days: apparently I keep seeing conspiracies where there are none. The curse of working with you spooks for too many years, I suppose."

"Believe me," Harry sympathised grimly, thinking of his misplaced trust in Elena Gavrik for over thirty years. "I can relate to doubting ones judgement, but in this case, David, there is a very real conspiracy and a very imminent threat."

"What threat? And what does it have to do with me?"

Harry glanced across at Ruth, knowing that they were about to plunge into an extremely dangerous and terrifying situation, risking putting the lives of thousands in the hands of a politician. Ever his consoling constant, Ruth squeezed his hand coaxingly in a show of solidarity and gave him a single nod.

"David, I need you to keep calm, alright?" Harry began softly.

"Oh, balls. Asking someone to keep calm at the start of a long, complicated explanation almost never bodes well." Rawle muttered bleakly.

Harry didn't rise to the bait of replying to unnecessary banter. A glance at the clock told him that they had forty minutes left. He needed to get to the point.

"On-board your plane there is a passenger who has been assigned a mission at the behest of the cell I have been talking about." He swallowed, inwardly imploring Rawle not to fly off the handle. "David, it's a suicide mission."

There was a lengthy pause as Rawle digested this information. The silence went on for so long, Harry began to worry that the other man had fainted, run for the hills, or worse, Air Traffic Control had finally ended the connection to the plane. However, Rawle eventually croaked:

"Bloody hell. Oh, bloody, bloody hell." He sounded rightfully shocked, and somewhere between furious and terrified. "You're telling me that there is a passenger on the plane with a bloody bomb."

"Yes."

"Oh shit. Fucking hell!" For a reasonably mild-mannered politician, Rawle was doing enough swearing to make a sailor proud, and Harry began to worry that the man was spiralling into panic. That was the last thing they needed.

"Calm, David, remember?" He tried to soothe.

"No offense, Harry, but that's a bit rich coming from you when you're safely on the ground. It's us on the plane who are affected by the fallout."

"No it doesn't just affect you, David." Harry contradicted, knowing he sounded callous in his convictions, but he needed to get David to focus on the direness of the situation; the bigger picture. "The plane is only the start, but it will be the final straw in bringing down any semblance of a possibility of that partnership being signed. It will be seen as a terrorist act. By blowing up that plane, important delegates will be killed from Britain, Russia and America. But it doesn't just stop there, the bomb is triggered to go off as it lands at London City Airport. Hundreds, maybe thousands, could be killed."

"Bloody hell." Rawle breathed. "I sensed that certain more extremist parties were unhappy with the idea of the partnership, but this… this is monstrous."

"Terrorists are monstrous in my experience." Harry replied harshly.

"But what is it you're wanting me to do?" Rawle asked with great trepidation. "I'm no expert, but if protocols for this kind of emergency are the same as when I was in office, then MI5's responsibility is to ensure that the plane is shot down over water rather than risking the lives of civilians."

"No," Ruth argued with surprising strength and determination in her voice. "That's just what this cell would want us to do. Having our government shoot down that plane would even be an advantage to them. It could be viewed as an act of war, and cause unbelievable chaos."

"Yes, but so could this bomb." Rawle replied, his aggravated tone betraying that he was beginning to feel the pressure.

"The matter is irrelevant now anyway," Harry informed them both. "If the plane is on track, then you will not be flying over a vast enough stretch of water now to avoid civilian casualties."

"He is right." Sokolov confirmed quietly over the loudspeaker.

"So what can we do? Say a few short prayers and share a heartfelt goodbye?" Rawle demanded.

"No, David." Harry replied honestly, resolving to say the solution as quickly and painlessly as possible. "We need you to take out the bomber and diffuse the device."

There was another long pause, indicating Rawle's shock. Neither Harry nor Ruth could lay any blame; they realised what a monumental task it was that they were asking of him. They heard a few short shaky breaths, but could not tell whether they were being emitted from Rawle or Sokolov. After what felt like an eternity, Rawle enunciated slowly, as if trying piece and re-piece Harry's words in his head so that they made sense:

"So… let me get this straight. You want me... me – a man who has never openly attacked anyone or diffused an incendiary device in his life – to do both of those things."

"Yes."

"And if I don't then thousands could be killed."

"Precisely."

"Including myself."

"That's correct."

"You know, I never liked you Harry Pearce."

Harry sighed, "That's… that's probably fair. But I need you to be our man on the inside, David."

"Surely there's someone else who is better qualified –"

"You went to Sandhurst." Harry relayed, trying his utmost not to get impatient. "You've got combat training."

"Harry, Sandhurst was nearly forty years ago." Rawle scoffed.

"David, I'll be blunt." Harry snapped, his patience finally waning. "You're the only man up there that I can trust. There is a passenger called Pablo Zykov who is going to blow up not only that aircraft, but London City Airport and its surrounding area in less than thirty-five minutes. The fallout could cause a major shift in parliament, whereby radicals within this cell could gain greater prominence in the security services and the cabinet, not to mention lead to nations turning on each other and at its most extreme, possibly even declarations of war. On behalf of your country, will you or will you not help us?"

He growled out the last part, unable to stop his frustration from roaring to the forefront. Ruth put a cooling hand on his shoulder, both to comfort him and to warn him not to push Rawle too far. They needed him desperately. Silence resumed as Rawle contemplated his options.

"What…" He said at last. "What would you need me to do? I have no firearm up here, and I have no idea if this Zykov fellow does."

"He does not." Sokolov informed them softly. "I could smuggle him through Airport Security with a dimmer on the device, but I would not have been able to manage a gun as well. I think he is unarmed."

"Wait a moment, what do you mean 'smuggle him through Airport Security'? You allowed this man through?" Rawle furiously demanded of the pilot.

"David!" Harry called the other man to attention using his best, authoritative Section Head persona. "Now is not the time. We need to focus on developing a plan. And quickly."

The last thing they needed was Rawle turning on Sokolov, who at best was a fragile asset. Any wrong words said to him might cause him to get cold feet and cut off all contact with them, instead communicating with the people who originally hired him. It was vital that they kept him sweet.

"I may have a way that we can get Zykov out of the frame without combat being used." Ruth piped up quietly, and Harry clasped her hand in his, unbelievably grateful that she was there with him, still providing her gentle strength and solidarity.

"If that's possible then that'd certainly make life a lot easier." Rawle admitted.

"Pyotr." Ruth addressed the vulnerable pilot patiently, without a trace of accusation in her voice. "You said that you managed to put something in your co-pilot's drink to make him sleep." She ignored Rawle's roar of outrage, intent on keeping Sokolov's mind on the task at hand. "Do have any more of that drug?"

"Da." Sokolov confirmed doubtfully.

"Is it in liquid or tablet form?"

"L-Liquid. Why? You want to drug the bomber?"

"He might not go for it, Ruth." Harry pointed out gently, seeing a fault in her plan. "This man is a trained assassin. He could well be anticipating ways in which someone might aim to stop him, including rejecting any food or drink that is put in front of him."

She smiled that spirited, impish grin that he so loved; it reminded him of the old Ruth that broke angle-poise lamps and recruited random taxi drivers off the street to join her collection of Spook Cabs. "Then it's a good job I wasn't going to suggest we administer it orally then, isn't it?"

"Then how?" Harry asked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his own lips as he marvelled at his Ruth's resourcefulness.

"They did it to us. We do it to them." She replied enigmatically, expanding when Harry raised a questioning eyebrow. Her face fell. "When… when poor Tariq was targeted…" She took a deep, steadying breath as the horrific images of her young friend and colleague lying pale and unmoving on the cold tarmac outside Thames House assailed her senses. Detecting how raw her grief still was for Tariq's dreadful demise, Harry placed a consoling arm around her shoulders, offering her the same silent strength that she had been giving him those last few minutes. He studied her face closely, watching as it drained of whatever remaining colour it had left; this was clearly a difficult subject for her to broach, but he noted proudly how she was forcing herself onwards. "Tariq… Tariq was never in a condition to actually tell me what had happened… what they did to him, but I read the post-mortem."

Harry groaned inwardly, wondering why Ruth would do that to herself. Actually, he thought morosely, he did know why. She had blamed herself for the boy's death. Though their lives had been complicated by one obstacle after another in recent months, and she had not had the time or the willpower to openly talk about it, he suspected that she probably still blamed herself. He prayed that in time and with the support he was more than willing to provide were they allowed to miraculously come out of this unscathed, she would come to realise that there had been nothing she could have done.

"The post-mortem showed that there was moderate bruising to his forearm, suggesting that someone knocked in to him shortly before… before his d-death." Ruth continued stagnantly. "A tiny puncture mark to his elbow indicated that that was how the lethal dose was administered."

"So you're implying that you want me to knock in to this Zykov fellow and inject him with enough sedative to kill him?" Rawle spluttered. "I'm a politician, Ms Evershed, not a murderer!"

"No!" Ruth said, startlingly swiftly, an almost pleading edge to her voice. "No. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to knock him out or incapacitate him. There's been enough death." She risked a glance up at Harry. "Surely there's been enough."

Harry would have been more than happy to just let the damn terrorist rot and die, but he could tell that Ruth's mind was still with their deceased colleague, and possibly all the others who had died before him – Jo, Ros, Adam, Zaf, Danny, Fiona – so many who had needlessly lost their lives'; so many bloody funerals and not enough time to adequately grieve before the next state of national emergency. However, there was stark contrast between them Zykov – all of their colleagues had died with the aim of protecting their country and maintaining peace. This bastard wanted to quell peace, instead causing unspeakable death and destruction. Yet he could read from the way that Ruth's eyes had landed on his for that brief moment that she anticipated his rather harsher outlook, and was asking him to leave it be. So reluctantly, he did. Not for that bastard, Zykov's, sake, but for hers.

"There should be syringes on board to administer glucose for diabetic passengers, or adrenaline for emergencies. I think the stewardess could probably find you one. Pyotr?" Ruth prompted the Russian man gently for his input.

"Katiya will be able to find you a needle and the sedative is right here in my pocket." He answered dutifully. There was a short rustling which they took to be Sokolov withdrawing the sedative bottle and pressing it into Rawle's palm.

"Good man." Harry praised, before turning his attention once more to Rawle. "You will need to be very cautious, David. Do not under any circumstances let him see what you are doing. Trip in the aisle, or fake stomach cramps and inject him as quickly as possible in the arm. Make a lot of ruckus so that he's not just concentrating on you."

"Does it have to be the arm? He might notice a bloody great needle jabbing at him."

"Unfortunately yes." Harry answered grimly. "And ideally you should catch the vein. If you were to administer the sedative to his ankle or such like it would take longer to take effect. And we just don't have the time. The stewardess – what's her name –"

"Katiya." Sokolov provided.

"Right – Katiya – give her as little information as possible, but get her to help in covering for you while you administer the dose."

"You make it sound so easy." Rawle responded grimly.

"I know this is a big ask but –"

"But it's necessary, I know." Rawle finished for him gravely, like one who had reluctantly accepted his fate. "I know."

"Thank you, Mr Rawle." Ruth appeased him graciously, experiencing an enormous wave of relief that there was actually a slight chance that the bomb might be stopped after all. "Pyotr, what type of sedative is it?"

"It is Midazolam. I wanted something that would make Alexei sleep quickly but painlessly."

Harry wracked his brain, trying to recall the overall effectiveness of that class of sedative. In the end, Ruth beat him to it: "Right, okay. That's… that's actually very good. Midazolam has the fastest action time in its class. It should take about 5 minutes for the sedative to start working. Hopefully, he should be unconscious within ten to fifteen minutes."

"Oh good," Rawle retorted, his voice audibly shaking behind the sarcastic front. "That leaves about ten minutes for me to diffuse a whole bloody bomb – with absolutely no bloody clue what I'm doing, I might add."

"We've got a man who will be able to help you with that, David. Just one step at a time, alright?" Harry said sternly, desperate to keep Rawle focused on the imminent task. That was going to be difficult enough.

"Midazolam has a high water solubility." Ruth reeled off confidently, feeling much more in her comfort zone presenting facts and figures. "That's a positive for us because it decreases the likelihood that Zykov will feel any pain as he's injected. If you conceal the syringe right, he won't even notice."

"I see." Rawle said faintly, and even over the grainy speaker of the cheap burner phone, Harry and Ruth could hear him gulp loudly. "Dosage?"

"Um…" Ruth hesitated, weighing up her knowledge of the sedative in proportion to the size and weight recorded in Zykov's file. "I suppose… I suppose I would say you should need… probably between 0.02 and 0.1 milligrams per kilo. Anything less and it might not work."

"Better make that 0.1 milligrams then – we need the highest possible dosage so that we have the longest time frame we can manage." Harry added, wondering how Ruth had such an in-depth knowledge of benzodiazepines and other sedatives. Then again, he thought fondly, he should be used to this wonderful woman's almost computer-like brain. She stored away information that he couldn't even begin to remember, analyse, or make useful in situations such as this.

"0.1 milligrams. Alright, understood." Rawle answered stiffly. There was an extremely pregnant pause as the impact of what they were about to attempt hit all concerned. Silence reigned from the other end of the line; all that could be heard was the faint hum of the plane's engine.

"David?" Harry asked after a while. "David, are you still there?"

A beat and then, "For now, yes. If all of this goes South then no, not for much longer."

"If I felt I could trust anyone else to do this then I would." Harry insisted contritely, genuinely sorry for putting such a dangerous and unexpected task upon this aging politician.

"I know." Rawle agreed fairly. "But that doesn't mean I like it. Harry, if… if I don't make it out of this… just tell my wife… well… you know…"

It was as though an icy hand had clamped painfully over Harry's heart. He should be used to such requests – he got them all the time, usually from his junior officers, asking him to pass on their love to their friends and family should any harm befall them. But it never got any easier, the guilt never washed away, and he certainly never got used to it. Upsettingly, it was always him who came out of the situation unscathed, hiding behind comms and a computer screen, whilst others endangered their lives. Even now, in this very scenario, away from the backing of the Grid, nothing had changed. He was still plying others to risk their lives whilst he hid behind the secure walls of a Safe House.

"I will, David." Was the only answer Harry felt able to summon.

"And let her know that there was a bloody conspiracy, would you?" Rawle added emphatically, though with a touch of his characteristic humour. "What I'd give to see her face if you told her that…"

"You'll be able to tell her yourself, David." Harry argued, despite knowing that there was more than a fifty percent chance that he was bare-faced lying.

"Of course I will, Harry." Rawle replied, though his tone was blatantly disbelieving. He snorted. "Honestly, this is…." He paused, searching for the right turn of phrase. "Well, to be frank, this is bloody madness. The things I do for my bloody country."

"Join the club, David." Harry agreed bitterly, thinking of all the times that he and Ruth had saved Britain from total devastation, only to be thrown to the dogs like yesterday's garbage when bent politicians needed a scapegoat.

"Quite." A final lengthy pause echoed through the speaker before Rawle released a reluctant, world-weary sigh. They heard heavy footsteps reverberate against the hard floor of the plane, and gathered that he was heading to the cockpit door. "Well, better get on with it, I suppose."

"Good luck, David."

And with one last assenting grunt, they heard David Rawle exit the cockpit, sealed with a quiet slam of the door. Harry and Ruth glanced at each other anxiously, praying to any deity who would be willing to support them that they had just done the right thing.


David Rawle did not know whether to be relieved or extremely concerned that Katiya, the Senior Stewardess had given him a syringe at the Captain's behest, without raising any qualms or queries. Nor had she displayed much more than surprise and then dutiful agreement when he asked her to point him in the direction of the passenger, Pablo Zykov (though his instincts already had an idea – a correct idea, he might add – as to the man's identity). Of course it was the dubious passenger from before, and it briefly crossed Rawle's mind that he would love to gloat to his sceptical wife that he had correctly identified espionage under his very nose. But then the severity of the situation came rushing back the forefront of his mind, and he swallowed loudly. Again, with not much more that a brief flash of confusion when he asked, Katiya agreed to shield him from Zykov's view should Rawle 'accidentally' fall near his seat, and it occurred to tired delegate that this woman would actually make a very talented spook. Perhaps if they got out of this mess alive, he would recommend to Harry that MI5 recruit her. Her loyalty to her boss was certainly second to none.

As he drew back the curtain that provided a helpful barrier between the passengers, the toilets and the cockpit, Rawle became acutely aware of the fact that the hand that covertly held the loaded syringe up his sleeve was shaking wildly. He gritted his teeth and made a sizeable effort to stop its spasms before his nervousness became visible, and especially before he accidentally ended up injecting himself. Rawle sucked in a deep, soothing breath and schooled his face to impassiveness. He could do this. He was a politician. He acted and lied for a living after all. The only difference here was that thousands of lives were depending on him. Well that wasn't a daunting thought at all, was it?

Clearing his throat so that it felt a little less as if someone had scrubbed it dry with sandpaper, he made his way slowly – though strategically not too slowly – down the aisle. It was as he glimpsed Zykov that he decided now would be an adequate time to put his acting skills to the test. As Harry had suggested, Rawle clapped a hand sharply to his abdomen, screwing his face up in faux agony and groaning. Several of the delegates looked up at him, some surprised, some concerned, and typically, some just stared impassively and did nothing at all. Katiya played her role well, coming to meet him, a concerned expression etched upon her face as she coddled him gently:

"Sir, sir is everything alright?"

Rawle let out another groan of pain for good measure, now just two rows away from Zykov. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Russian bomber glance up, but Rawle was careful not to make eye contact, or indeed to look in his direction, instead focusing on his left hand which was clutching madly at his abdomen.

"No, of course I'm not bloody alright!" Rawle snapped irritably, knowing that at least those words were entirely true. "I think… I think it must have been the salmon fishcakes – I thought they tasted undercooked!"

And with just that one single yet powerful accusation, the cabin was immediately in uproar with several passengers suddenly protesting loudly in their contrasting accents and languages that they too had eaten the salmon fishcakes and that they had a right to be informed if there had been an outbreak of food poisoning. In spite of being busy acting the pained victim, Rawle swore he even heard one disgusted American bluster that he suddenly felt sick and that he was going to sue the airline. Whilst the chaos kept Zykov distracted, Rawle launched himself into a subtle stumble so that when the man sitting directly across the aisle from Zykov stood to help him, Rawle was able to seize his chance. Making his descent as convincing as possible, he groaned again and doubled over, bouncing against the unknown delegate, knocking him down in the process, before falling forwards against Zykov.

To her immense credit, Katiya concealed his hand from view by trying to lift him to his feet, which gave him a five second time window to draw out the syringe and plunge it as gently as possible into Zykov's arm. As reliable as Ruth Evershed's intel had always been, Zykov did not seem to feel the needle going in. However, when Rawle's head half lolled in his lap, he shoved him off and shrank away in disgust, dusting off his trousers. Rawle did not fail to notice that the sullen Russian tugged his precious briefcase along with him.

"Watch where you are going, slaboumnyy!" Zykov snapped aggressively.

"I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry about that." Rawle murmured as contritely as possible. He was sweating profusely and was having genuine trouble standing as his legs had numbed at the thought of what was being held in that briefcase.

"Sir, are you alright?" Katiya asked again, taking both his arms and finally managing to get him to his feet, with the help of the unknown delegate Rawle had 'accidentally' knocked to the floor.

"No, I'm… I'm going to be sick!" Rawle invented madly, trying to analyse what would be his most convincing move from there and deciding a trip to the bathroom would be his most viable option. "Need… need a bathroom."

"Let me help you, sir." Katiya replied courteously.

"Here, let me give you a hand." The helpful delegate offered, much to Rawle's chagrin. He had a twang to his accent that Rawle would guess as Canadian.

The politician wanted to tell the well-meaning man to go back to his seat and leave matters alone, but knew this would be exceptionally suspicious so he reluctantly accepted the aid with a brief nod. Groaning in fictitious anguish once more, he allowed Katiya to lift one of his arms around her bony shoulders, listening to her direct the Canadian gentleman to do the same. Together they walked him slowly back up the aisle towards the toilets, whilst he let loose several small moans and retches along the way. He did not dare risk a glance backwards to check if Zykov had found the activity suspicious; he merely prayed that his piece of theatre had been enough.

Rawle shut himself in the bathroom, expecting to feel relief now that he got past that particular barrier. However, he was surprised to find himself standing blankly for a split second as the adrenaline slipped away, before hurriedly crouching over the toilet bowl and genuinely heaving, in complete and utter shock over what he had just done. He had just attacked a man! Whether or not the man was a terrorist, or if he actually realised he had been targeted or not, Rawle had in fact attacked him in cold blood! Despite his Sandhurst training, he had never directly physically confronted a real person before and it left him feeling both repulsed and in awe of his own nerve to work under such pressure.

When he was finished retching, he wrinkled his nose, flushed the waste away and retrieved the now empty syringe with shaking hands from his sleeve. He tossed it into the swing bin in complete disgust, and ran a trembling hand over his face. He did not know how long he was in there, composing himself, but it seemed to be only a minute later when Katiya knocked on the door, informing him that Pablo Zykov was apparently unconscious. Rawle rewarded himself a brief self-congratulatory smile before asking her to fetch the briefcase that the Russian man had been guarding oh-so jealously; to bring it to the cockpit. Thankfully, she didn't ask questions beyond a small hesitation, after which she went to do as he asked. Screwing up his already lined face, removing his wire glasses and rubbing a soothing hand over his watery eyes, Rawle indulged himself twenty more seconds of respite, before unlocking the door. He checked that the curtain to the passenger quarters was firmly closed, before tiptoeing back to the cockpit to receive further instructions. All the while, he wondered how exactly he had allowed himself to get sucked into this mess.

Next, will be the attempt to diffuse the bomb - the question is: will they succeed? I'm aware that this was not particularly a HR-heavy chapter, however it was necessary to move the plot along and there is a good dose of Harry/Ruth coming up. I hope you folks enjoyed this chapter and would like to read more. All the best xx