Early September, 2008:
Now she's here, she can barely believe she'd allowed Harry to talk her into this.
"You're overdue for a break," he'd said bluntly, his face grim. "You're tired. You've lost your edge."
Lost her edge? Her immediate response had been outrage, closely followed by a powerful urge to turn her back on him, and storm from his office. "A break? I haven't time for a break," she'd said quickly. "I still haven't put my finger on where Lucas spends his time."
"Leave Lucas to someone else. Besides, you're not indispensable."
"Thanks for that," she'd said flatly, her fury quickly replaced by acceptance. She'd already known that further resistance was pointless.
Sometimes Harry can be cold and sarcastic, and even uncaring, but this time it appears that he is right. As she stands on the balcony outside her second floor hotel room, her hands on the balustrade, she allows herself the luxury of drinking in her surroundings. The sky above this island is so blue that even had her life depended upon it, she'd still have no words to describe it. And the ocean; she has never seen water so clear, nor the light reflected off the surface of the sea so bright that it hurts her eyes.
She had not exactly chosen this place for her two weeks away. She'd rather believe that this island in the Eastern Mediterranean had called to her, beckoning her from afar. She has a map of Europe and North Africa hanging on a wall in the front hallway in her flat. She'd stood in front of it with her eyes closed, and when she'd opened them again, the first word she'd read had been `Cyprus' - a small island south of Turkey, and west of Syria. She'd sighed heavily, smiling. Better that than Syria, had been her first thought. Or Scotland. Even in early autumn, Scottish skies can be dark and low and threatening. She knows very little about Cyprus, which had rendered it more attractive to her. Cyprus is a mystery parcel, handed to her from who-knows-where.
Five days pass in a bustle of beach walks, reluctant morning swims, and shopping. Five nights are spent exploring the bars and clubs in Polis. Mostly she had been ignored by other patrons, but on her fifth night, spent in a club close to the centre of town, she'd had to fend off the attentions of a Greek Cypriot property developer, followed by a sales executive from Norwich. She'd suspected both men to be married; men that bold, that persistent usually are. She had resisted both, not because they were unattractive, but because she's not here to complicate her life. Besides, she is meant to be relaxing, so that when she returns to London, her mind will be fully on her job.
It is on her seventh day in Polis that the landscape changes. The day manager at her hotel had suggested she visit the market, the one closest to the beach.
"You must try the Turkish bread," the manager had said with a smile.
The reluctant tourist had smiled her teeth-only smile, holding back her retort – that there are Turks in London who make and sell rather good Turkish bread.
She is sitting alone at a table for two, a coffee and a generous slice of hortopita on the table in front of her. While she gazes unseeing at the throng of people milling past, her mind is busily planning her escape. She has found Cyprus to be dull; different day, same shit. If she'd wanted that level of predictability she'd have taken a train to Nottingham, or Brighton, or even Cardiff.
She takes a sip of her coffee, and then breaks off a piece of her hortopita. As she concentrates on eating the savory without spilling any, she becomes aware of someone watching her. It is a feeling she has. She has had that feeling before; a sense that she is being watched. setting her finer spook's senses buzzing. Glancing around her she sees nothing, no-one, but in her peripheral vision to her left she is aware of a female figure standing still, watching her. She quickly turns, and what she sees has her drawing in her breath. She drops her eyes, and then quickly lifts them. The woman is still there, but she has taken a few steps closer, and then closer again.
"Ros," says the woman, once she is near enough to be heard.
"Ruth," says the reluctant tourist, "fancy seeing you here."
Ros had invited Ruth to join her, and Ruth had hesitated, before sitting in the chair opposite. Ros has the sense that were there a hole in the ground big enough to swallow the former intelligence analyst, Ruth would choose the hole rather than join her at the table. There is a long moment during which neither woman speaks.
"So," Ruth says at last, "how did you know where to find me?"
"I didn't," Ros says dryly. "I thought it was you who found me."
They each fall silent, contemplating the improbability of their meeting in this way. Neither mentions Ros's role in Ruth having to leave London, although the memory sits phantom-like between them.
"So ..." Ruth says, "you're not here in search of me."
"No. I'm not. We had no idea of your whereabouts."
"By `we' you mean … you and .."
Ros nods. "Me and ..."
"How is he?" Ruth asks, not looking at Ros, but gazing into the distance, towards the sea.
"Harry?" When Ruth nods, Ros drops her eyes to her plate of half-eaten hortopita. "He's … you know, he's Harry. No-one really gets close to him. Other than you," she adds unnecessarily.
Ruth's eyes dart back to Ros, who detects a change in the other woman's resolve, as though the last sentence she'd spoken had touched something deep inside Ruth. Ros is hardly a romantic herself, but she can read the signs of it in others. It is such signs which can render a person vulnerable, and which she has often used to her advantage.
"Were I to be able to accurately read him," Ros continues carefully, aware that she is walking a fine line, "I'd say he'll be much happier once you return to London."
"Return?" Ruth raises her voice slightly, leaning forward, her eyes on Ros. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"And what would that be?"
"That it's now safe for me to … return home," Ruth says quietly.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't."
Ros watches while Ruth turns away, as though needing to watch the people walking past them. Ruth's expression is unchanged, although Ros is sure that her mouth is firmly closed as a way of holding inside her some powerful and deep emotions. When Ruth again turns towards her, Ros detects a sheen in her eyes.
"And what are you doing here, Ruth? Are you holidaying, or .."
"I came here to escape," Ruth says quickly, "from everything. Until a month ago I was living with a Greek Cypriot doctor and his son, but that ..."
"Ended?"
Ruth nods. "Six months ago I believed I could settle down here, but things ..."
".. didn't work out," Ros finishes for her.
"Something like that. I was hoping for a miracle, but it seems he and I are human after all. We were … unsuited."
Ros spends a minute or two people-watching. There has to be a reason she and Ruth had stumbled upon one another. Maybe she can be the one to take action, to change the trajectory of both Ruth's life, as well as Harry's.
"How would you feel were I to call Harry?" she asks quietly.
"And tell him what?"
Is she really that clueless? "That we stumbled upon one another here … in this place."
For a long time Ruth gazes around her, watching the people walking past their table. Ros notes that Ruth's attention is drawn towards couples with young children. While Ros can empathise with Ruth's interest, she doesn't fully understand it. As she sees it, children are the human equivalent of a gaol sentence; once you have one, it takes years before they leave you free to live your own life.
"But he'll want to come here," Ruth says at last, "to rescue me."
"Quite possibly. Do you object to that?"
"I've managed on my own these past two years," Ruth says quietly. "I hardly need some man to save me. Besides, knowing how busy he is, I don't wish to inconvenience him."
Ros resists a groan. If there's one thing she finds nauseating it's cloying martyrdom, something Ruth can carry off with gold medal proficiency.
"Leave it with me," she says quickly. "I think he has a right to know you're here, and I suspect he'll want you back in London ASAP."
3 days later:
Ros is packing her suitcase when her phone rings. It had better be the hotel front desk with her taxi to Paphos airport. Her flight to London leaves in just under ninety minutes.
"Ros?"
"Harry," she says to her caller. "I take it you're in Cyprus."
"Polis, to be precise."
"I suppose you're here to see Ruth."
"I am. I'm after her phone number .. if you can provide it."
Ros resists a sigh. Privately she acknowledges that when it comes to their almost-relationship, both Ruth and Harry are ridiculously predictable.
"I'll text you," she says, hoping he doesn't expect her to chat to him. "I'm expecting my taxi at any moment."
"Jo will be happy to see you," Harry says quickly.
Ros seriously doubts that.
The same day – 4.03pm:
Trying hard to sound unaffected by their long absence, soon after speaking to Ros, Harry had called Ruth, who had suggested they meet at the beach front. They hadn't engaged in conversation. Before he'd had a chance to ask how she was, Ruth had quickly suggested they meet at a bench along the beachfront. The significance of her choosing a bench for their meeting had not escaped him. On a scale of 1 to 10, Ruth agreeing to meet him at all is maybe a 7, where 1 is where she'd hang up on him, and 10 is an invitation to join her for dinner at her bedsit.
Harry has only limited expectations for their meeting. Ros had already told him of Ruth's having lived with a local man for six months. And while, during Ruth's absence, he had hardly lived like a monk, nor had he contemplated sharing his living space with any of the women he'd briefly wined and dined. It's quite possible, even likely, that he and Ruth are no longer compatible, if they ever had been. Rather than making the heart grow fonder, time spent apart can also leave people wondering what it was they had ever seen in the other.
He is still some distance from the sea front when he sees her, sitting alone on a bench, her back straight as she gazes out to sea. He walks slowly, taking in everything about her, images of their time together in London suddenly crisp, and sharp in his memory. He can hardly speak for her, but his own heart is still very much hers. As he draws closer, he can see that her hair is shorter, and she has allowed it to fall in its natural wave. Harry decides that he prefers natural Ruth, the Ruth who sits alone on a bench facing the sea, her attention on the vista of the blindingly blue ocean. As he walks, his eyes never leave her. But suddenly he stops, standing very still while allowing some uncomfortable, niggling thoughts to percolate into his conscious mind.
What is he doing, and more importantly, why is he doing this? What makes he, a man in his mid-fifties, believe that he has the right to pursue this woman? How can he continue to believe that Ruth would be better off with him than with some more suitable partner, one closer to her own age? Why attempt to tie her down to someone who, in later years she may have to care for? Why can't he just walk away? He has occasionally allowed himself to entertain the idea that his interest in her is unhealthy, for him, as well as for her. Taking a flight to Cyprus to see her, with the intent of luring her back to London may to outsiders appear predatory, but his intentions towards her have always been honest, open, and most of all, honourable.
Harry has only just decided to turn around and head back to his hotel when Ruth suddenly turns on the bench, her gaze settling on him, her expression quizzical. His decision to return to his hotel, and catch the next available flight to London looks less and less likely the longer they each hold the gaze of the other. Harry nods and smiles, and to his immense relief, Ruth offers him a welcoming smile in return. All thoughts of returning to London pushed aside, he hurries to join her.
The same day – 4.11pm:
"Tell me," Ruth says after he has settled on the bench beside her, "did you send Ros to find me?"
"I had no idea you were here," he says quietly. "Had I, I would have flown here myself, and sent Ros elsewhere. It was she who chose this place."
Ruth nods, apparently satisfied with his answer. "She told me about some of what has happened to ... some members of your team," she says, not looking at him.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
She quickly turns to him, leaning away from him a little as though inspecting him. "You can't carry responsibility for it all, Harry."
"The buck has to stop somewhere. That's my job." He notes the slight smile around her mouth as she turns away from him. Her Mona Lisa smile.
"Ros says you'll want me back in London," Ruth says, turning back to him. Her sudden change of subject throws him, but only for a second or two.
"That will depend on the plans you have," he says.
"I have no clear plans. I haven't had firm plans for around .. two years."
"My hope is that you will want to return to London, and to work."
"Work at the same place, and for the same people who allowed me to wander on my own for two years?"
"You chose to go, Ruth. I could easily have gone in your place."
"And risk the section being closed down?"
Harry is not prepared to pursue the subject any further. Why hash over something which can no longer be changed? "It's good to see you," he says, leaning a little closer to her.
Her smile this time is shy .. and genuine. "And you," she says quietly. "I thought of you every day."
"As did I .. think of you. Fondly."
"My thought of you were not always fond," she admits.
After having been oh-so-polite to one another, Ruth is the first one to submit a challenge, as subtle as it is. Harry sighs. "I know," he says. "You have every reason to hate me."
"Hate you? Why? I could never hate you, but I felt frustrated with you for simply … letting me go as you did."
"But ... I thought that's what you wanted. It's what you said to me at the dock on the morning you left."
"I didn't necessarily mean it … not like that. I really wanted you to cancel the tug boat, and run away with me to the other side of the world."
Really? So, why hadn't she told him that at the time?
"Your face as the tug pulled away," she continues, not looking at him, "was the saddest I'd seen you in all the time I'd known you."
He nods. It was the saddest he'd been for some time. "I've been throwing myself into work, chiefly to … forget."
"You wanted to forget me?"
"Not you, no. I could never forget you. I needed to forget your leaving. I'd imagine you were just on an extended furlough, due home any day."
This time it is Ruth who sighs. For the first time he notices her tan, and how healthy she looks. How can he possibly expect her to return to London, with it's grey skies, its pollution, and the rain. And then, as if having read his thoughts, she changes the subject.
"They're forecasting rain for tonight," she says, her voice just above a whisper.
He finds that hard to believe. "But the sky is so blue," he says, "and there's not a cloud anywhere."
She turns to look at him then, her expression serious. "The weather here can change in an instant. One of the fishermen told me it's because Cyprus is an island. The same happens on Malta, and Crete, and the other Greek islands. One minute the sun is shining, and the next, the sky is black and torrential rain is falling."
He'll believe it when he sees it. "Would you like to return to London, Ruth?" This time his voice is very quiet. His hopes and dreams revolve around her answer, while at the same time he feels guilty for placing the responsibility for his well-being on her small shoulders.
Again Ruth turns towards him, watching him with those amazing eyes. "That's the best offer I've had in some time," she replies with a smile, "but I have conditions."
Of course she does. "I can offer you a pay rise, but it won't be much."
"I'm not terribly motivated by money," she says flatly.
"So … what are your conditions?"
Ruth turns away from him then, her attention once more turned towards the horizon. "I will not go into the field .. under any circumstances."
Fair enough. Harry nods.
Ruth quickly continues. It is clear to him that she has given much thought to her return to the intelligence service. "I need a safer place to live. I need proper security – doors, windows, alarms, that kind of thing." Harry nods. The best analyst in the UK deserves at least that. "And I will only work the hours which suit me. I will start my day early, but I will not work nights. Once the clock strikes six I'm out of there. I am not prepared to be used, Harry." Her eyes are now focused fully on him.
"There were times when I took you for granted," he says quietly.
"More than that," Ruth replies. "You used me, or more accurately, you took advantage of my clear interest in you."
Harry sits back as though slapped. Part of him feels outrage, while the more honest part of him knows she is right.
"And there's something else," she continues, her voice low. Harry senses her leaning towards him, as if she is about to share a confidence. "Two members of Indian Intelligence have been spotted in Nicosia. It's only a matter of time before they find their way here."
"The uranium?" he says, knowing she will understand.
Ruth nods.
"From where did this intelligence come, Ruth?"
"Two members of Six are stationed in Nicosia. They have followed the .. Indian agents since sighting them in Cairo. I ran into one of them – Nick Burton – while shopping in Nicosia a fortnight ago." Ruth falls silent, allowing the information to sink in. "I chose this time to meet you today to .. allow me the opportunity to speak with you before I fly out … later tonight."
"You're leaving?" Why hadn't she mentioned this earlier … as soon as he'd arrived to meet her?
"There's a military air strip ten kilometres away, near the coast. A plane leaves at ten tonight, and I'll be on it. I'm telling you this now because you might want to join me."
"Where to, Ruth? Where is your destination?"
"In the first instance it's Belgrade. Where I go from there may depend upon whether you join me."
Put like that, he has little choice.
On the road from Polis – same day, 9.41pm:
"We're almost there," Ruth says unnecessarily.
Harry doesn't reply. He's just thankful that the only luggage he'd brought from London is an overnight bag. He has always travelled light.
When the taxi stops beside the air strip, they both slide from the back seat before hurrying to the plane which is about to swallow them, and transport them to somewhere safer. Ruth still hasn't told him where they are headed after Belgrade.
It is not until they are airborne, and the lights of Polis have disappeared beneath a tumble of gathering cumulus cloud that Harry breathes freely for the first time since seeing the lights of Polis fade behind them. Since leaving the taxi neither have spoken. It is Ruth who breaks the silence, and as is usual for her, her words take him by surprise.
"What is it draws us together, Harry?" she says, leaning closer to him so that he can hear her above the drone of the twin engines.
"Pardon? What do you mean?"
They are sharing the aircraft with not only the pilot and co-pilot, but three Cypriot military personnel, none of whom appear interested in making small talk.
She turns to him, her eyes flickering between his eyes and his mouth. "You and me," she says, "we seem destined to find one another, wherever on the earth we may travel."
Harry is not sure that's true. In fact, had he not insisted Ros Myers take leave, their chances of running into one another anywhere at all would have been slim indeed.
"What are you trying to say?" he says, holding her gaze so that she can't look away.
"That we're … each other's … I don't know, I don't know the correct term for what we are to one another."
"I doubt that a term for us exists, Ruth," he says bluntly, immediately regretting his curt tone. Here she is, trying to open them up to some truths, and he's closing the door on her. "Maybe we're … like moths to a flame," he adds obscurely, knowing that he's hardly helping.
Ruth leans back in her seat, clearly unimpressed with his answer. He considers saying something clever, or funny, or even seductive, but changes his mind. Hopefully, once they reach London – some time in the following day or two – he will have regained his confidence with her. For now, they are ensconced in a metal tube flying through the air at a frightening speed. While he has flown far, and often, the idea of flying over the Mediterranean at nighttime in a twin engine plane leaves him feeling uneasy. At least, if they are about to go down, then he and Ruth will die together. Harry leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.
When he awakens, he knows not how much later, a sleeping Ruth has fallen against his arm, her head against his shoulder. He smiles down at the top of her head, and without overthinking it, he wraps his arm around her, drawing her even closer, her face resting between his shoulder and his chin. If they are destined to die on this night, then he will at least die happy, although he's not sure Ruth would feel the same way. Once more he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.
