Harry glanced at his watch and the empty chair at the table for the fifth time since the morning briefing started, but schooled the scowl that tried to form on his brow. His brain turned him back to the meeting when Lucas finally said something interesting.
"During routine monitoring of the known extreme far right groups in Britain, chatter has increased in the past couple of days about a group called the 'Integralists.' Chatter indicates that they may be planning an attack on UMTB, the UK branch of the Mizrahi Tefahot Bank, one of Israel's largest banks," Lucas said. "The language is coded in racial slurs against Jews, and how a shadow cabal of Jewish bankers controls the world through their money."
Harry couldn't keep the scoffing sound from escaping his lips before he added, "This has been a conspiracy theory that has trotted the globe for centuries, mind you, and the Integralists, whatever they may be now, we are group of so-called intellectuals started by George Knuppfer in the early 70s. Their little publication, Right, was full of innuendo and slander against all manners of conspiracy theories having to do with International finance, and Jewish bankers controlling the word was one of them. I thought we had seen the last of that lot in '74." He scowled at Lucas, "But it can't be George Knuppfer leading it now, he's been dead for years."
"He might have been dead for years, Harry," Ros piped up, "but his manifesto against capitalism and communism is still out there in his book."
Harry glanced at his watch, again, which was not lost on Lucas or Ros, and the meeting came to a silent halt as the annoyance from Harry was felt around the room.
"Yes," Harry finally said to Ros, "The Struggle for World Power…" He thought for a moment before continuing. "Knuppfer was monarchist in the 60s when he was authoring books, and a conservative clap-trap artist when he established the Integralists in the 70s."
"Wasn't he a Russian émigré?" Lucas asked.
"Yes," Pearce nodded, "yes he was. Very conservative and convinced that Jewish bankers had tried to control the Russian czars, thereby unleashing the violence visited upon them in the early 20th century, driving most Russian Jews to leave. He also believe that it was the same attempt at world domination that drove the Nazi's to the Holocaust." Harry shook his head, "It's an old story that's still being regurgitated."
"Blame is any easy thing, "Harry," Lucas said. He looked at the others around the table, "we have some leads. Ros, I'd like you to go round to the UMTB bank on Old Broad Street and check out their security. Tariq, please run background checks on the list I sent you, and flag anything that doesn't look right. I was going to ask Ruth to chase down the name of the current leadership, but… any idea where she is?"
Lucas didn't think about it, but his gaze landed on Harry.
"I… I have no idea." Pearce looked at his watch as if for the first time that morning, "But she is a half hour late."
"Not very like Ruth," Ros commented.
"No," came Harry's flat response. If Ros or Lucas found Harry's lack of interest to be odd, they didn't show it.
"Tariq, call Ruth and find out why she missed the briefing and get her up to speed, I'll start the search in the meantime," Lucas said.
Pearce glowered around the table as he stood to leave, "It won't do to take the time to repeat ourselves because someone missed the meeting. As with all fringe groups, time is not on our side. Somebody get Ruth in here and up to speed."
Harry stalked out quickly.
"Fire in the hole," Ros muttered to Lucas as she got up from the table and left the room.
Tariq got up and looked at Lucas who tried unsuccessfully to cover a grin. "Harry seems pissed. Glad I'm not Ruth."
As they walked out of the room, Lucas added, "I'm guessing Ruth sometimes wishes she wasn't Ruth…"
The truck's ride was bumpy, and there was a smell in it that was familiar, but not yet recognizable in the pitch black darkness. She tried to loosen the restraints around her wrists, but her arms were pulled tightly around her back. The truck hit another large bump in the road, and she tried to steady herself, but lost her balance, keeling over onto the floor of the cargo bay. Her head hit hard, and she lie still for a moment, trying to catch her breath form the impact. When she finally pulled herself up to a sitting position again, Ruth could feel something slick and sticky on the side of her face.
That's when she recognized the scent from earlier; it was blood.
Ruth tried to keep the panic from rising. Her mind was still reeling from being ambushed in her flat the night before, tied up and tossed unceremoniously like an old laundry bag into the back of a truck that hadn't been in front of her flat moments earlier when she had arrived. They had been driving for at least five hours, Ruth guessed, so they could easily be in Northern England, or possibly Scotland. The men who took her had been wearing masks, and they never spoke in front of her, so she couldn't begin to guess who had her, where they were going, nor why.
She shivered uncontrollably whether from the actual cold or from fear, she wasn't sure. Surely someone on the grid had noticed her absence by now. Surely someone was looking for her. Surely Harry would—
Ruth slammed her eyes shut against that train of thought. Harry. Things between them were so strained and different now, nothing like they were in the beginning of her work with Section D. Ruth smiled at herself in the dark at the thought of Harry rushing in to save her. It was hubris to think after the way she had kept him in the cold after the death of George, that he would be the one to move heaven and earth to find her. While she still blamed him for the loss of her family, she could not blame him for no longer caring; for that, Ruth Evershed knew she could only blame herself. She had pushed him away, and that was the right thing to do to honor George's memory. It had been entirely her mess that caused his death. Hers and Harry's.
Her brow furrowed in the darkness. Whatever feelings they might have had for each other at one time were gone now. She was on her own, and could only expect that he would do for her what he would do for anyone else on his team. It meant there was a chance they would find her, but she knew he would no longer risk his career, his life, or his soul for her.
Before she could stop it, a tear streaked down her bloodied face. She was suddenly glad for the darkness. For the darkness, and that there was no one there to hear her soft, stifled sobs.