CHAPTER SEVENTY
Ruth had fallen asleep, but it hadn't lasted long. Two hours later, she'd rolled over and her eyes had opened and stayed that way. No matter how she tried to get comfortable, it was a lost cause, so finally, she gave in and got up.
When Ruth's analyst's mind was working, it was futile to try to get it to stop. It was why she was so good at her job on the Grid, she simply got hold of a problem and worried it until it was solved. And her intuition, her feelings, had been the reason she'd been able to take so many seemingly unrelated bits of information and put together a final answer. It was a talent she valued in herself, one of which she was proud. But at times like this, it was more of a curse than a blessing. It gave her a night like this one, losing sleep and pacing the floor of her small flat at three in the morning.
She was trying not to open her laptop, because she knew if she did, she would email Malcolm. She knew she could do it anytime she wished, but she wanted to use judgment and discernment in choosing to open that channel of communication again. It was hard to know if this feeling of distress was real, or if it simply came from a longing for Harry, from a need to make contact with her old life.
For a time, Ruth stood on her balcony, gazing at the small strip of the Mediterranean that was visible there, and she watched the glimmer of the moon on the sea. If only she could fly across the water, beam herself onto the Grid, and see what was going on.
Ruth smiled. Nothing's going on, you idiot, it's one in the bloody morning there. She closed her eyes. She imagined the Grid dark, as it had been on that night that she'd waited for Harry. The night she'd learned that he'd been reinstated as Head of Section D, and she knew that he would come to his office before going home. Ruth had decided she would stay all night if she had to, because he deserved a welcome after what he'd been through. When she heard the sound of the pods, she'd known it was him. Ruth had the glorious privilege of seeing him before he saw her, for just a moment, as he took in the pleasure of being back there again.
Good to have you back, she'd said to him. It's good to be back, he replied. Ruth had long wished to hear those words in reverse, had wondered under what circumstances it would be possible for her to hear Harry say, Good to have you back. She imagined herself repeating his words, It's good to be back.
Opening her eyes again, Ruth tried to shake the feelings of dread she was having, but it wasn't working. From experience, she knew that it had now gone beyond her power to forget. The feeling had taken up residence just under her breastbone, and her thoughts were running out of her control. The only thing to do, the only way she could find peace, was to write to Malcolm and ask him.
Ruth walked back into the flat, and went straight to her laptop, this time with purpose. She opened it, pressed the power button, and put in her password. While it booted up, she went to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Sweet tea, that's what you need. Ruth shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. Get out of my head, Harry. How on Earth am I supposed to forget you, if you won't get out of my head?
While the water boiled, she started the intricate process of getting to the l'Alcove website. She composed the short email in her mind while she waited for the window to open, and then she typed it quickly, and clicked "Send." Ruth looked at the time. It was a quarter past one in London. Not likely that she would get an answer before Malcolm arrived on the Grid at about eight, which would be ten Ruth's time. But now she had a steaming cup of sweet tea, and was completely awake. She clicked the icon for The Times online to see if there was any news of Remembrance Sunday.
It was front and centre of the home page. A car afire, and a large article:
...In the wake of yesterday's aborted terror plot, opposition leaders have been swift to question the Government on the impact of its anti-terror legislation. Other than a brief statement in which it gave thanks to the police and emergency services for their part in averting an unthinkable catastrophe, the Government has yet to officially comment. No details have been released about the identities of the suspected terrorists involved...
Ruth read it all. She could close her eyes and see the Grid alive with activity, Harry managing the information as it came in from Adam and Jo, and probably others by now. New people that Ruth didn't know, certainly. She felt out of touch, but she could easily recall the feelings, the urgency that must have been there yesterday. She read the article again to see what time the bomb had detonated. Eleven o'clock. One o'clock on Cyprus. Just when the chill had gone down her back.
Her heart was starting to speed now, and she was the analyst again. She read the story three more times, and clicked for additional photos. A spectacular bomb blast, and the pictures taken from all sides of the still-burning car showed the damage that had been done to the square and what looked to be empty buildings around it. No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car. But if they had planned to kill those at the St. Augustus ceremonies, why was the car nearly a mile away?
Someone must have driven it there. Either the terrorist, or someone else. It didn't really make sense that the terrorist would be taking the bomb away from the people they wanted to kill, so it was probably somebody else. Somebody from the police, from emergency services, or from MI5.
Exactly eleven o'clock. Ruth leant back and took a long sip of her tea, trying to calm herself. How many press releases had she written and delivered to the Home Office as their official account of "what had happened?" And the first rule was, no one from MI5 dies. The terrorists die, but spooks are already ghosts. There's never an acknowledgement to the public. Who was driving that car?
"Go home, Malcolm." Connie had her coat on and was standing between Malcolm and the pods.
"I'm too angry to go home." Malcolm didn't even bother to turn around. It was very late. It wasn't Remembrance Sunday anymore, it was half past one, already a new day. No longer the day that Adam Carter had died.
Walking over to Malcolm, Connie tried to understand what she was seeing on his monitor. "What are you doing?"
"Displacement activity. Surfing the frequencies."
Connie stood behind him for a moment, and then she said, "Don't stay all night."
Malcolm's eyes were still focused on the screen. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Absolutely. Good night."
After Connie went through the pods, Malcolm watched the monitor for a short while, and then he finally let his eyes gravitate again toward the bottom of his screen, to the small icon there. An email had come through on the secure channel, and he'd been waiting for Connie to leave so that he could open it. There were only a few people who knew about Martin Wingate's email, and there was only one who had used it regularly of late.
He opened the letter from l'Alcove, read it, and for a moment, was at an absolute loss. Harry had told him that under no circumstances was he to show him another letter from Ruth. Well, he could follow that order. He wouldn't show Harry, but her question still hung in the air. It was a simple question. Unfortunately, the answer was far from simple.
Dear Mr. Wingate,
I need you to answer this letter. Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. No matter what your instructions are from that particular person, I won't rest until I get an answer. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence.
I've always counted on you, and I beg you not to leave me in the dark. It's a terrible place to be. I know something has happened, I simply need to know what it is. I deserve to know. Please.
F.R.B.
Malcolm released a heavy sigh. Ruth and her bloody sixth sense.
Trouble was, he agreed with her. She did deserve to know. Both things. That Harry was well, physically, anyway, and that Adam was dead. Hadn't they all, through their years of dedication to the Security Services, earned the right to at least be allowed to grieve for each other? If he were in exile, if he had felt a loss that he couldn't explain, wouldn't he want to know? He would hope, if the shoe were on the other foot, that Ruth would find a way to tell him.
One by one, so many had left the Grid, by circumstance or by death. Helen, Tom, Zoe, Danny, Sam, Zaf, Ruth. Of course, Colin had been the hardest for Malcolm to reconcile, because he never should have been put in a position to die that way. And now Adam. Malcolm was sick of it, of saying goodbye to people. He was mad as hell, really.
So Harry didn't want to know? Well, then, he wouldn't need to know. But Malcolm would do what he felt was right. What's the bloody good of secure technology if you can't use it for this very purpose?
Malcolm took one last look around the Grid, and clicked "Reply."
Ruth looked at the clock. Nearly four in the morning. Although she knew it was unlikely that Malcolm would have gotten her email, she couldn't stop herself. She worked her way back through the system, and after entering her password, Ruth took a sharp breath. One message. If Malcolm was still on the Grid, it could only be very bad. Her heart was pounding now, and she considered simply closing her laptop and giving herself more time to not know. But she had to know.
His email was very short. And utterly devastating.
F.R.B.
Arden is well, but another has eaten from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Our hearts are broken.
M.W.
Ruth's eyes began to fill and spill over immediately. Malcolm knew this was all she would need. The passage from the Bible, "...but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it; for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die." It was the warning to Adam in Genesis. And now Ruth knew that it was Adam who had driven that car to the square, and that Adam was dead.
The sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, "No, no ...," in a soft wail, " ...no, not Adam." The screen blurred and his face replaced it, smiling, laughing, then with the pain of Fiona's death written there, then Danny's, then his face proud with Wes. She saw him across from her in meetings, how he would wait, and listen, his mind working. The long night after Cotterdam, before she left England. Their deep talk as they drove from the forest south of Paris to the airport before their trip to Cyprus. He had brought her here, he had saved her life. When she had been so afraid and she'd turned and seen him, a smile curling his lips, Shall I hit her again, Ruth? A low sob echoed through Ruth's small flat as she tried to make sense of what she now knew was true.
He had driven the car to that square to save others, and after cheating death so many times, Adam Carter had finally lost the gamble. She traced the route in her head, pictured the car speeding past busy intersections, past car parks, past buildings full of people, toward the one place it would do no harm. No harm to anyone but him. Adam was dead. Oh, Harry, you knew this would happen.
What had Harry said? I've tried to keep Adam safe, but he won't let me. It's like he wants to go to where Fiona is. Now he was there, with Fiona. Ruth stood, her tears still falling, and began to pace, slowly. And Wes, what about Wes? Harry would have taken that on himself, to make sure Wes was cared for.
Ruth walked back to the computer, needing to read the email again. Arden is well. She read the words over and over, feeling a sense of guilt that those words could give her such happiness in connection with the rest of the news contained there. Harry was well. She didn't think that could be entirely true. Ruth was certain that Harry was crushed, Harry was feeling responsible, Harry was, as Malcolm had said, heartbroken.
Another sound, a strangled "ooh," emerged from Ruth's throat as she closed the email and exited the website. Turning off her computer, she stood again and went over to the sofa. She lay down, clutching a pillow, and thought of the waste. Adam was, what, thirty-six years old? Wes was ten, now an orphan. Another one taken, and no one knew. No casualties other than the terrorist who was driving the car. She had written those words before, sent them quickly off to the PM's office, or Whitehall. It was her job, it was what she did. No one could ever know the truth.
Ruth held the pillow up to her face, and now it was to stifle the scream that came from deep within her. The sound sprung from anger and the agony of loss, but it held so much more. It demanded to know, What was it all for? and in that moment, Ruth felt something snap in her. Something broke free, and she felt it drifting away, out of her reach.
Memories began to tumble past her, out of order, with no sense. Kissing Harry goodbye in the mist of Dover and the profound pain of missing him, her prison room in Paris, the feel of the coldness of Danny's forehead as she stroked it, listening to Harry tell them Colin was dead, her last hug with Isabelle, leaving her cats, her house, London, her loneliness, her tears and still more tears. Ruth simply watched as they tumbled past, but they piled one atop the other, until finally the scream ended and the numbness began.
Ruth was aware that she was having a sort of a breakdown, and she let herself fall, almost calmly, into it. She let go of everything she'd been clutching at for so long, the Grid, her life in London, the place she occupied in that world, the people there. She fell, like Alice down the rabbit-hole, the memories held in niches on the walls. Harry was above her, at the mouth of the hole, but he grew smaller and smaller, as she was pulled away by gravity, a force so strong she couldn't begin to overcome it.
She didn't consciously let go of Harry, her strength simply disappeared, and she was drawn away from him. Her heart was beating softly now, rather than pounding, as it had been. Her breath slowed, and nothing seemed terrible anymore. It was as if she'd been given a wonderful forgetting drug, and all the things that had seemed so important just moments ago lost their hold on her.
Still on the sofa, still with her head on the pillow, Ruth looked at what she could see of her flat. She was warm, safe, and had a roof over her head. She had friends and a job. Her body was strong and her mind was good. She was in a beautiful place and needed for nothing, really. In her numbness, she felt a sense of her ingratitude for all the things she'd been given, and she wondered why she'd spent so much of her time here unhappy, wishing, wanting, needing something else.
Her life on the Grid and in London suddenly looked to her like a film. She could see herself in the Polis Cinema, feel the hard folding chair beneath her as she watched what had been. That was the film, and Polis was real life. And when she saw Adam, she knew that he had, in fact, left the screen and gone home to Fiona. They were together, and Adam's grief, his agony at losing the love of his life, was gone from his face.
Ruth lay for a long time, the tears drying from her cheeks, her face impassive. On some level, she was aware that she was probably in a sort of shock, but she was also grateful that she didn't hurt so much anymore. She lay thinking until the sun began to peek over the horizon. Finally, she got up and went to the balcony again. The moon was gone.
She cleaned up the tea things, turned out the lights and went in to bed. And then Ruth finally slept.
At the moment Ruth arose from her sofa in Polis, Harry did the same in London. He had slept some hours there, and was by now wedged into place by warm animals. He opened his eyes, and for a blissful moment, Harry didn't remember what had happened the day before. Then it seeped into his consciousness and he rolled over on his back, feeling the ache there from the cramped position he'd been in.
Fidget and Phoebe woke and jumped down to where Scarlet lay. Harry sighed and sat up, running his hands roughly over his face. Turning on the side lamp, he looked at the clock. Quarter past three. He thought he should go upstairs and try to get a few more hours of sleep, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn't be capable of it.
Standing, Harry stretched, and felt every bit his age. He padded to the kitchen and switched the kettle on, pulling down the tea. Sweet tea, how very English. The thought of Ruth suddenly assaulted him, and a fresh wave of pain washed through his chest.
What would Ruth think about all this? Harry remembered her face as she stood over Danny. Seeing that look had been almost as shattering to Harry as seeing Danny's body lying there. She was in desperate grief, of course, but her eyes held something else, something reproachful. How could this happen? He'd had to walk away, to turn away from her eyes, because he didn't know the answer.
And now, Adam. He'd begged him to get out of the car, but he'd known all along that Adam wouldn't do it. Harry wondered sometimes how much power he had over the people in his charge. They had been chosen for the Services because they had minds of their own. Creative, dynamic minds that made decisions independent of any orders they received. Harry counted on them for that, so how could he fault Adam now for doing what he felt was right? In the end, he'd saved hundreds of lives.
The scale can't tip toward just one person. Adam couldn't have lived with himself knowing that he'd chosen himself, the one, over the many. If only he'd had enough time to do both. Harry hadn't said as much last night, but Ros may have been right. Those few seconds she had stolen from him may have been enough.
As Harry waited for the kettle to boil, he wondered at the intricate dance of human beings together. Those few seconds yesterday had determined the life and death of so many people. And each death touches so many. The deaths of everybody at that ceremony, had the bomb detonated as the terrorists planned, would have affected so many others, in ripples outward, ad infinitum. Ros' few seconds with Adam may have been the reason Wesley Adam Carter's life changed forever yesterday. Wes' experience would affect his children someday, and so on, and so on.
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He felt empty, in more ways than one. He hadn't eaten dinner the night before, unless scotch could be considered a meal. He went to the breadbox to make some toast, and in fact, he thought, an omelette would taste good. Ruth would be telling him to eat. Please get out of my head, Ruth. Not now, I can't face you now. Would you wonder how I could let this happen? No, she would comfort him, tell him he'd done his best. She would hold him, and say she loved him ...
Harry shook his head, unable to deal with how much he missed her right now. And again, he wondered how Malcolm could possibly be in his sixth year of loving a woman he didn't have. He supposed it could only be explained by a cast-iron constitution, and a heart that was steadfast and overflowing with hope. Good qualities. Harry wasn't sure he had any of them right now.
He walked over to the shelf in the lounge. Her photo was toward the wall so that I love you showed through the clear frame. He picked it up and turned it around in his hands. Running a finger gently across her face, he allowed her radiant smile to curl the corners of his own lips, and his heart filled with her. Yes, she would comfort him. You did your best, Harry. Softly, gratefully, he said, "Thank you, my Ruth."
Walking back to the kitchen, he began to sort out his day. Breakfast, a hot shower, and then he would meet with Richard Dolby at the JIC. Harry's pain was moving back toward anger, and a need for revenge.
However it was served, hot or cold, he would have revenge.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Harry asked Richard Dolby for permission to go after the Russian operation in London, and most especially Arkady Kachimov, whom Harry held personally responsible for Adam's death. Arkady had known about the car bomb, and had done nothing to warn them. But Dolby had said, in no uncertain terms, that Harry was not to target the Russian operation in London.
"What do we do?" Jo asked when Harry relayed the news.
"We target the Russian operation in London." Harry pointed to the video screen. "Led by this man, Arkady Kachimov. I've been told we can't target him directly, but we have to find out what his game is. He's a real and present danger to the British people, and let's not forget," Harry's voice took on a menacing quality, "This is the man responsible for the death of Adam Carter."
Harry placed his hands on Kachimov's file in front on him on the table. "A file three inches thick. Tells us where he's been, what he's done, and with who, but I want the smell of him, his breath, his sweat."
Ros explained that they had selected a key Russian player in London to find a way to Kachimov. Harry said, "Then let's leverage that asset until the pips squeak. Find me a way to stop Arkady Kachimov." Everyone but Harry pushed their chairs back, preparing to leave the meeting.
In a tone that offered no room for argument, Harry added, "One more thing. As of today, Ros assumes the position of Section Chief."
Lucas stood at the door to the meeting room. "I want to come back."
The debriefing process hadn't gone quite the way Lucas wanted it to. Instead of getting an assignment, he'd answered a few questions about Arkady Kachimov, and then been dismissed to his unpacking at the new flat. But as he started to go out the door, Lucas simply couldn't leave it. He wanted to come back to work, and he knew that with Adam gone, the Grid was a man down. They needed him.
"No." Harry sat at the table with his head in his hands. He didn't want to have this discussion. Not because it was unreasonable for Lucas to ask, but because Harry felt so utterly on the fence, he was afraid Lucas might find a way to sway him.
"I'm ready."
Harry pounded his hands down on the table. "You are not. The debriefing process alone will take several weeks, and then there's the question of your health."
Lucas came right to the point. "There's the question of my loyalty."
"In my mind, there's no question, but that's my mistake, Lucas. It would be wrong of me to trust you because of where you've been, who you've been with, and the threat that Russia currently poses towards this country." Harry stood and went to Lucas, softening his voice. "Don't take this personally. You're home. Take the time, enjoy it."
Lucas gave a weary laugh. "Home isn't where you live, it's where people understand you. If I don't have trust with MI5, with you," he looked pointedly at Harry, "then I'll never really be home. I'll just be back in England."
Lucas left the meeting room, and Harry stood there for a long time, trying to read his own feelings. He shouldn't trust Lucas, but his instinct wanted to believe him. It seemed entirely wrong for a man to spend eight years in prison, and then be punished with mistrust when he finally got home.
In the debrief, Lucas had said that Kachimov spent years interrogating him, and that he'd been playful, with no impatience. So he's a chess player, Harry said. Lucas also said that Arkady had used Harry to try to turn him. He implied that you, personally, didn't seem in much of a hurry to get me back.
It was classic psychological technique, and very effective. Let the prisoner think that his own people had forgotten about him, make him feel alone, abandoned, and he's ripe for turning. It becomes a matter of personal revenge, to get back at those who let him rot in prison while they lived in their comfortable homes.
The truth was, Harry had worked tirelessly to get Lucas back. He never wanted to leave a man in the field, and Lucas had been one of the brightest young officers Harry had known. Harry knew that if he allowed Lucas to begin working with them right away, he would find out two things: If he was still loyal, and if he was healthy enough to do the work.
Before Harry had that opportunity, however, Ros discovered that Lucas was passing information directly to Arkady. When confronted, Lucas' explanation was a surprisingly good one. He said he was doing it to try to bring Kachimov down. Lucas wanted his own revenge after eight years of interrogation by Kachimov.
Sitting across from Lucas, Harry's voice was firm, cold. "If you're lying to me, you won't get so much as a funeral."
"I know you want him, Harry. So do I. This is your chance, your one chance. Take it. Now."
Lucas was offering Kachimov to Harry, and it was more than Harry could resist. Kachimov was playing a dangerous game. A Russian submarine had attempted a form of cyber terrorism by attacking a fibre optic communications cable in the North Sea. Through the efforts of Ros, Lucas and Malcolm, MI5 was instead able to launch a virus into the submarine's computer system. It not only kept the Russians from shutting down the internet throughout the UK, but it also took out the sub's computer and navigations systems, stopping them dead in the water. It was an unmitigated success.
Harry had followed his instincts and had trusted Lucas. In the end, it was Kachimov who lost the chess game. And it was Lucas who brought him to them.
"I just need to know that you're okay. Are you well?" George was looking at Ruth with narrowed eyes and concern etched on his face. He waited for her to answer, but she was taking her time. She simply gazed down into her wine glass, seemingly lost in another world. Ruth always seemed to have one foot in another place, but today, she appeared to be entirely elsewhere.
She'd been strange all day, from the moment he'd awakened her. He'd called her from the hospital, where she was uncharacteristically overdue for her shift, and she'd mumbled something about a sleepless night. She'd arrived an hour later, looking hollow-eyed and distracted. He'd asked then if she should go back home and rest, and she'd said, "No, I need to work." Those five words were all she'd spoken all morning. Ruth buried her nose in her accounts and scarcely looked up for four hours.
When George had reminded her of their dinner tonight, she'd answered, "Ah, yes," but with a delay, a momentary lapse during which she seemed to be looking right through him to the wall behind his head. If he hadn't known better, George might have thought she was on a high dose of Prozac or Zoloft. There was a vacancy in her eyes, an emptiness that alarmed him.
But George had learnt long ago not to ask too many questions of Ruth. The few times he had gone too far, he'd been met with a warning, a flash almost of anger, a look that said, Don't cross that line, I won't let you. He loved her so much by now that he almost didn't need to know what secrets she held. He tried to relate to her as a woman with no past. George loved her, and he continued to hold out hope that someday she would love him.
She seemed to care for him, and it seemed to him that it was in a way that was beyond the sisterly love he had felt from her at first. It was as if she were waiting for something, or someone, to decide whether she should move forward or go back to whatever it was that brought her here to Cyprus. George's hope was that one day she would wake and resolve to make the decision herself. That she would stop waiting. And when that time came, he wanted to be sure that he was standing directly in front of her.
Tonight, however, he was worried. Ruth was an expert at keeping her present life firmly separated from whatever mysteries she held inside. He'd seen her really crack only twice. With the newspaper that day in the Square, and one night at dinner, when he'd ordered a bottle of white burgundy. Her head had whipped up and she'd said, "No!" as if he'd asked that a live grenade be brought to the table. Both times she had immediately covered her distress, but tonight, she didn't even seem aware that there was any distress to cover.
Ruth looked up at him. "I'm fine, really." She spoke with what psychiatrists called a "flat affect." A lack of emotion, a clean slate, an empty canvas.
George decided that this was a time that he wished to see the warning and anger that questions would bring, so he took a chance. He did something he'd promised himself he'd never do. He asked her questions. "Something happened to you last night, between the time we dropped you off after our day at the beach and this morning when I called you. I want to know what it was." He spoke firmly, hoping it would jar her, and he steeled himself for her angry response.
It did jar her, but not in the way he thought. She wasn't angry. She suddenly looked up at him, and said, "You deserve to know so much more than I've told you." Now her eyes were alive, penetrating, with an intensity that he was glad to see. But what she had said was so open, so honest, that it took George aback for a moment.
Finally, he found his voice, and said, "Are there things you want to tell me now?" This was a change. He didn't know whether it was a good change or a bad change, but it was definitely different.
"Yes." She said it with her eyes on his, but then she looked down, almost as if the word had escaped her lips without her willing it.
Exhaling, he raised his eyebrows, and stayed silent. It seemed she needed time, and he would give her as much time as she required. He sipped his Cabernet, watching her.
Ruth began, softly, "I haven't been fair to you, and you've been more than patient. But life is too short..." At this, her voice choked slightly, and she stopped, gathering herself. After a sip of wine, she continued. "A good friend died yesterday..."
George started to reach out to her, but Ruth put up her hand to stop him. "I don't think I can bear sympathy right now, George. I thank you for the impulse, but I ... I can't ... bear it." Her voice broke again, and he pulled his hand back. He was almost afraid to breathe at this point. She was talking to him about her feelings, and was on the verge, it seemed, of telling him things about who she was.
She regained control and began again, her eyes down, as she folded and unfolded her napkin. "I lived and worked in London. I fell in love with a man at my work. That much I've told you." Ruth paused before moving into uncharted territory, but still she didn't meet George's eyes. "What I didn't tell you is that we had to keep our relationship a secret, because he was my supervisor. He was blamed for something he didn't do, and was put in jail. The only way I could get him out of jail was to say that I did it." She looked up at George, finally, her eyes moist. "I had to leave London. I can never go back to England, or I'll be arrested."
Ruth's eyes went quickly back to her napkin, and George thought she was waiting for a response. The news wasn't shocking to him, in fact, it explained so many things. It seemed something that Ruth would do, giving herself up for someone she loved. She had lost a country and a relationship in one swift act, which told him so much about her pain and her distance. Considering her skills at the hospital, George now assumed that she had worked in a financial institution of some kind, a brokerage, a bank, and that the issue was likely fraud, or embezzlement.
He spoke softly to her, trying to get her to look at him. "You acted selflessly, and out of love, which seems entirely in character, Ruth."
She looked up at him sharply, suspicious. "You're not angry, or disgusted, or disappointed. How can that be?"
"It's because you've told me the truth. That's all that matters to me. You haven't murdered someone. He wasn't married ..." He tilted his head at her, suddenly. "Was he?"
Ruth shook her head and managed a wistful smile, "Only to his job."
George weighed his next question carefully, but finally, just came out with it. "And you still love him, very much, don't you, Ruth?"
Now George saw the facade crumble. Where her eyes had been vacant before, there was now a depth of pain that he'd seldom seen in another's eyes. They answered his question more fully than any words could, and his heart sank a little. This was not merely a flirtation with a boss, this was a deep and lasting love. But even as her eyes began to fill, he saw that she wasn't waving him away or putting him off. Ruth was struggling to respond to him, and he was touched that she was trying.
"It's ... it's a very hard question to answer." Ruth quickly brushed her hand across her cheek to wipe away a tear that had escaped. She sighed, and shook her head. "Of course, you can see that I still love him." Looking directly into his eyes, she said, softly, "I suppose you need to know that I'll always love him."
Her honesty made George feel braver, and he leapt. "Well then, my next question must be, is there room in your heart to love another as well, Ruth?"
Ruth gazed at him in silence for a time. What a good man this is. She wanted to be as honest with him as she possibly could, but she needed to sort it out herself before she could answer him. She still loved Harry so deeply, but something had changed last night. She thought the shock might have passed, but the numbness had remained to a degree, and the diminishing feeling seemed to be in the general vicinity of her heart. She thought it had something to do with her having had enough, finally. Enough pain, enough death, enough worry, enough of missing Harry and not knowing if he was missing her.
She suddenly longed for simplicity, in the way that someone cleans out a wardrobe and impulsively gives everything away, or organises a new address book by removing long-lost acquaintances. As Ruth looked at George, she was very aware that simplicity was sitting across from her at this dinner table on a beautiful island in the Mediterranean.
George was not a simple man by any means, but his life had an order to it, an elegance, that she suddenly craved. That he loved her was obvious, and that he played no games was very attractive. There was no guile to him. He wore his heart on his sleeve in his work, and with her. Right was right with George, with very few grey areas, really.
Amazed at the feeling, Ruth sensed her heart opening another notch to George. He was her best friend here, and she had no one to talk with about her feelings for Harry. He was willing to talk about them with her, and she was grateful. Ruth thought of her mother and David, and saw contentment. And right now, especially after last night, contentment looked to be a not-half-bad state in which to live.
Is there room in your heart to love another as well, Ruth? The question hung in the air, and George was waiting patiently for an answer. Waiting patiently. That was George. Could her heart expand? Could it stretch to include more than Harry, who seemed to have already filled it beyond any capacity she'd ever known?
"I don't know." She was withholding the truth about so many things already, she had to tell him the truth about this. She looked up at him, finally, and shrugged slightly, repeating the words, "I don't know."
He smiled good naturedly. "Well, that's not a 'no,' then, is it?"
She smiled back, but George could see that her eyes were still unalterably sad. "No, it's not."
George was wondering how long it would be before he had another chance like this, with Ruth so open. He had so many questions to ask of her. They were all stored safely away, but now he took them out and weighed which was the most important. "You're very sweet with Nico, Ruth. I see a longing in your eyes. I've often wondered, do you have a child?"
The question surprised her, as did his perception. She laughed softly, "No, but I've thought about it quite a lot lately, for some reason." She took another sip of her wine. "Nico's a wonderful boy, George, and you're a very good father. I enjoy being with the two of you. I always thought that motherhood was somewhat out of my reach ... my job ... "
She stopped suddenly, and George saw the openness begin to shut down. "Don't, Ruth. Don't go further than you want. I'm so very glad to be talking with you this way." He started to reach his hand out again, but pulled it back. "Tell me how you feel about Cyprus. Can you see yourself living here always? Is it enough, do you think? It wasn't for Emily, and you are like her in all the best ways, all the ways I loved ... " Now George stopped himself, unsure how to go on.
Ruth laughed now, really laughed. "Cripes, we can't even finish a sentence with each other, can we? So many forbidden subjects." Ruth tilted her head and smiled, relaxing a bit. "Give me time, George. I'm so bloody confused right now. But you're my best friend here, and that's something, isn't it? Can we go from there and just not ask too much of each other?"
He relaxed too. "Yes. We can."
Ruth sighed deeply, and said, resigned. "I love a man who is still in England, and right now, I feel I will always love him. But I'm afraid he and I can't have a life together, and that's that. I don't know how far my heart can expand, but you're my friend and I care for you. I feel good about Cyprus and my life here, and I need to reconcile myself that the past is just that. Can you live with all that for now, George?"
George nodded. "Yes, Ruth. The truth is what matters to me, and you've told me the truth." He thought the colour that spread across Ruth's cheeks was probably from the emotion of what she had just shared with him. "I've imagined so much worse."
Ruth couldn't look up. Truth. There was no need to tell him the whole truth, was there? I was a spy, George. A spook, and the man I love is the head spook. The people I worked for lied and pretended and yes, killed people, all in the name of Her Majesty's Security Services. And we lost friends, people we loved, and still we did the work...
"Ruth?"
Now she met his eyes, and some of the haunted, distant look was there again.
"Ruth, is that all of it?" He frowned, and gazed at her intently. "Is that all of the truth?"
Ruth swallowed hard. Just one more lie, and then you can get on with your life. Again she was facing Angela Wells, and then, she was in that blue hallway with Harry. You're a born spook, Ruth.
And like a born spook, Ruth lied. "Yes. That's all."
George smiled at her. "Then we'll never speak of it again." He felt brave, empowered by her honesty, and finally, he reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't pull it away, but let him hold it. "And when you're ready, we will begin to see if there is a way to clear you of whatever keeps you from England. I know a very good lawyer in London..." Ruth withdrew her hand, and the look on her face told him that now he had gone too far.
"No." There it was, the anger, the warning he had expected earlier. "No, George. You must promise me that you'll do nothing. I don't want to go back to England. I have a life here. You must promise."
He nodded, quickly, "Yes, yes, I promise. I'm sorry, I just thought that..."
"No," she repeated the word even more resolutely. "No."
"Alright, Ruth. I promise I won't do anything." He smiled, trying to regain some ground. "I'm glad you say you have a life here." His voice went softer, "I'm very glad to hear you say it."
It was just dusk in London, after a long day. Harry stood with Ros, looking at the man who killed Adam Carter. They despised Arkady Kachimov, and it showed in their faces, but they were trying to do the right thing.
They were sending him on for interrogation, and the interrogators would attempt to turn him, just as he had done with Lucas. He was a great prize, and would be very valuable in future battles. It was the game they played. But right now, neither of them felt like playing by the rules.
Harry couldn't still the voice he heard in his head, and it was Jo's. "What happens to Kachimov?" she had asked him just an hour ago, back on the Grid.
"He belongs to us now. That's our revenge," Harry had told her. But even as he spoke the words, they sounded hollow.
"Well, it seems to me the punishment doesn't fit the crime." Jo had looked right at him, her eyes conveying what he already knew. Adam had saved their lives, all of them, countless times. And now he was dead, and they had the man who had killed him. "Harry. He was worth more."
He'd had no answer for her. And now, standing in this deserted field, he looked over at the Russian across from him. Arkady Kachimov had lost his gamble on Lucas North. Not only had Lucas not been turned, but he was able to bring Kachimov in to MI5's custody. Harry could do with him what he willed.
Harry walked over to Arkady, wanting to be done with him as soon as possible. "Your escort will be here in a moment or two. I know you won't mind if I don't wait around to wave goodbye."
"So, this is it." Arkady was still making conversation, as he had said, like an Englishman. And he was doing it with a snide smile, one that Kachimov hoped proved that he wasn't beaten. Whether it was bravado or simply sarcasm, it put Harry's teeth on edge. They stood across from each other. So many years of experience between them. They both knew what the next steps were.
Harry was working very hard at keeping this exchange businesslike. What Harry truly wanted in this moment, more than anything else, was to reach his hands out and put them around Kachimov's neck. To hold them there until his last gasp, and then perhaps a little longer. Harry knew he was right on the precipice of his anger, and he understood perfectly well how easily he could simply step over into it.
But instead of giving it free rein, he pushed his anger down. This would be a humane process, an orderly one. He answered Kachimov calmly, "This is it. You won't be free, not for some time. But we'll make you as comfortable as possible."
"Till you have squeezed from me the very last piece of intelligence that I have."
"You know the game." Harry was disgusted by Kachimov's light tone, his cavalier demeanour. He wanted very badly to punch him in his smug, Russian face.
But Arkady wasn't finished. "And I bow to the better player. I congratulate you on your victory."
Player, victory. As if this were a bloody rugby match. As if he hadn't killed one of my friends, one of my best officers, in cold blood. Harry's anger was beginning to overtake him, and he hoped his tone offered enough warning to Kachimov to stop this ludicrous banter. "God save me from any more victories like this one."
Kachimov either didn't hear the menace in Harry's voice, or he had decided to taunt him. In any case, he brought up the one subject he should have avoided. "It's a pity about your man. Carter, wasn't it?"
This question could not be overlooked. A pity? A fine young man is dead, his son is an orphan, and it's a bloody pity? "He's dead. That's not a pity. It's a crime." Harry felt the heat begin to rise in his chest. He knew he should walk away, simply remove himself from the stench of this odious man. He would make a call and tell them not to pull any punches in their interrogation. Somehow, Arkady has to pay for what he's done...
"I did what I had to do for my country. I'm not seeking forgiveness."
Forgiveness? You're lucky I don't take your head off here and now, you bloody bastard. Harry managed to keep his voice low, measured. "You'll find none."
"And you will never find rest, Harry, until you have forgiven yourself. Men like us, there is no room for remorse. Carter was a very courageous fellow, but he was a resource, and resources can be replaced. There's always another courageous fellow waiting to step into the breach."
He'd gone too far. Now the heat rose from Harry's chest and into his head, and his blood pounded there. A resource. Adam Carter, a replaceable resource. Tell that to his son. Tell that to Jo Portman. Tell it to Ros Myers, who now stands behind me, and who loved him. Tell it to me, who has known him as a fine officer, a good man, and an irreplaceable friend.
Tell it to the Devil, you bastard. You deserve to die.
Not this time. Adam had said it. Every time, we offer our people up as a sacrifice, Harry. Well, not this time. No, not this time. As he glared at Kachimov, seeing the smile tug at the corners of his filthy mouth, he saw them all move through his field of vision, all those he'd lost. And Ruth was there, too. The one he needed most, the woman he loved with more of his heart than he had even known existed.
Harry turned without a word and walked back to Ros. "Give me your gun." He said it softly, and she responded immediately. She didn't say it out loud, but he heard her voice in his head, saying, "Yes." She handed it to him.
Harry turned again to Arkady, who saw, too late, the gun in Harry's hand.
"No!" was all Kachimov managed to say, before he saw the flash. The last thing he felt was the bullet piercing him, directly through the heart.