CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

An early December rain was falling, and the dirt roads had turned to mud. Ruth had joined George on his rounds again, this time to the western mountains, where countless families worked the land in self-sufficient solitude. George never told the people he visited that he was coming to provide medical attention, he simply stopped by to say hello. Over a cup of coffee or a meal, which were always offered, the conversation would invariably turn to a broken finger, a stomach ailment, an infected cut, or headaches.

Ruth watched in awe as George drew the information out of them, especially about the children. He would find out, without seeming to ask questions, whether they were eating well, or sleeping and playing as healthy children do. George had certainly saved the life of one six-year-old girl who had been in the throes of an extremely high fever the last time he'd stopped. This morning, she sat on his lap, rosy-cheeked, smiling, and clearly enamoured with her doctor.

The women of the mountain families had been accustomed to seeing Dr. Constantinou arrive alone for his visits, and now they raised their eyebrows and nodded to Ruth as if they shared a wonderful secret with her. They could see that the pretty, dark-haired Englishwoman was good for their kind doctor. He smiled more, this much was obvious, and his eyes seemed to hold something like love in them when he looked at her. Ruth looked shyly back at the women, feeling rather like a prize horse they were assessing. She smiled, thinking she wouldn't have been surprised if they'd asked her to show them her teeth. George belonged to all of them, and it was clear that Ruth needed to be worthy of him.

The truth was, on days like this one, Ruth wished she could be worthy of George. Sometimes she felt it would be so much easier if she could simply love him. She was certain no one in these mountains would understand why she didn't. How could she explain to anyone here how she felt about Harry? He and MI5 would be incomprehensible to these earthy, basic people.

Cyprus had its own troubles, certainly, as an island that was split down the middle and had been in conflict for so many years. But in the mountains, there was a degree of separation that kept them removed from problems in other parts of the world. They led uncomplicated lives, worked the land, loved each other, raised children and died of old age, rarely considering Al Qaeda, dirty bombs, terror cells or the threat of holocaust. It may be that without MI5, they would be affected greatly by some of these things, but for now, they were in blissful ignorance of nearly everything beyond the shores of Cyprus.

Ruth's life on the Grid was fading into a sort of dream, becoming more and more the film with each passing day. Since she'd come to Cyprus, she'd fallen into a rhythm of waking, working, swimming, walking, eating and sleeping. She knew Polis and many of her people well. The familiar faces looked back at her as one of their own now, her quiet routine giving them ease, making them forget that she was once exotic, a foreigner.

And these trips with George on his rounds were like a cool balm to Ruth's pain of being without Harry. The people of the mountains led hardworking lives, without many of the amenities Ruth had come to expect in her life. And they were happy people. They didn't complain, they didn't need therapy, and they seemed never to be bored. They took what life handed them and they made the best of it. She saw them as her teachers.

Ruth looked over at George and smiled as they bounced along the rutted roads. She peered out of the windscreen and gazed up at the sky, full of thundering clouds, and suddenly, she was overcome with a memory. She had done the same when she and Harry had sat outside the safe house on the day they'd driven back from Bath. Ruth had leant forward and looked up at the building in just this way, and she realised now that the prospect on that day was no less ominous than the one she was seeing now.

Ruth fell back into the seat, immediately lost in the memory. How happy they had been in Bath. It was the most innocent time she and Harry had spent together after knowing they loved each other. Two people, hopeful and in love, on a week-end that held only the obstacle of keeping a simple secret. Ruth turned her head toward the truck's side window, watching the rain slide in rivulets across the sodden, green landscape. She did it to be alone with her thoughts, but also so that George couldn't see her, in case her eyes should fill, as they always wanted to do when she remembered Bath.

Before Ruth could stop the feeling, she had travelled there, and she was again lying in Harry's arms after they'd made love for the first time. A slight chill went down her neck, and her breath caught. It was probably the happiest moment of her life, and now Ruth thought she might never know that happiness again. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself the luxury of imagining the feel of his skin, the touch of his lips on her cheek, his voice soft and resonant, I love you, Ruth, I'll always love you... Oh, Harry, why can't you just leave me bloody well alone ...

"Ruth? Did you hear what I said?" George was speaking, and Ruth blinked quickly to release a tear that she caught with the palm of her raised hand.

"Sorry?" She still couldn't look at him, and George knew, as he always did, that it had taken hold of her again. There didn't seem to be a pattern to these episodes, but George thought it was almost as if Ruth left her body behind while her mind journeyed. George knew that Ruth went to the other man, the one she still loved, and he tried not to take these moments personally. It was never as if she were leaving him, but rather that she was being drawn almost against her will to another place.

George sighed softly, trying not to let into his voice the impatience he suddenly felt. "I was saying that I think we should stop at the vineyard and see if this blows over. It's still a long way over dirt roads to town. Do you mind?"

She forced a smile, and her voice went up just a notch too high. "No, not at all." And then, lower, getting hold of herself, she said, genuinely, "Yes, let's go there. I'd like to see Christina."

Harry and Ros sat across from the Home Secretary over a breakfast tray of tea and scones. It was Ros' first meeting with Nicholas Blake as the new "head girl," as Richard Dolby had called her. She was being uncharacteristically demure, but Harry knew that look. She was simply watching and waiting.

Blake asked them the current threat level. Harry answered in the only way he honestly could. "Severe."

Ros and Lucas had gotten word from an asset in Pakistan's Interservices Intelligence Bureau that there was something spectacular brewing. It would start with a "waterfall," a huge increase of rumours, threats, and spikes in internet chatter. A terror cell, led by a man named Nadif, was planning a number of suicide bombings. But, according to their intel, that would only be for the purpose of deflecting attention from a more important cell, which would come after. Ben was posing as one of the bombers in the first group, and Harry was anticipating the emergence of the second cell.

After hearing the word severe, Blake had frowned across his desk at them. "Can we give the glass a little tap? Take it down to moderate, or lower?"

Harry looked at him in astonishment. "You want us to reduce the feel-bad factor?" He liked Blake, but politicians in general were appalling, and even a good man such as the Home Secretary wasn't immune from the pitfalls of public life. Blake proceeded to order Harry to arrest Nadif and shut down the first cell, effectively forcing MI5 to relinquish its only possible route to finding the more important group.

Harry shook his head, and spoke firmly. "You can't believe for a second that I'll allow you to do this."

The Home Secretary did believe it, and he was standing fast. "We're going to downgrade the threat level because the general public needs some good news."

"Then arrange a royal wedding." It was impossible for Harry to keep the clipped sarcasm from his voice.

Impatiently, Blake said, "Harry…"

Now it was Harry's turn to issue an ultimatum. "We stay on Nadif, and my officer remains undercover until operational reasons dictate otherwise. Or else, get Nigel out there … " Harry inclined his head toward Blake's assistant beyond the door, " … to take charge of national security. Come on, Ros."

Harry stood and walked out of the door, but he had to stifle a smile as he heard Ros say in her sweetest voice, "He always walks a little taller after a haircut."

Ros caught up to him in the corridor. "Nicely done, Harry. Winning friends in high places, as always."

He turned to her, grimacing slightly, "It seems to be what I do. And speaking of haircuts, you won't guess who I met at the barber." To her raised eyebrows, Harry said, "Richard Dolby."

She grimaced. "Ah. Bit early in the morning to have to endure a conversation with that pompous arse, wasn't it?"

Harry nodded. "He told me he'd had a call from the other firm, long distance, on the red phone." Harry opened the door for her to step out into the early December cold. "He sniffed at me, and said they'd told him that their local manager had gone AWOL. Then he asked me if I'd heard anything about it."

Ros took a deep breath. Kachimov. "And what did you say?"

"I sniffed back at him, and said, 'Afraid not.'"

"Convincingly, I hope."

Harry tilted his head at her. "You doubt my ability to persuade? I believe I handled it with only a slight blush." He turned to her, seriously. "And thanks, Ros. I'm very glad it was you out there in that field with me."

"All for one, Harry. We stick together." She turned to go to her car. "See you back on the Grid."

Almost before Ruth and George had dried off, Christina had hot tea in front of them. The rain on the roof was loud now, and Ruth felt that the storm was just beginning to gather steam. As she looked out from the portico, she could see small rivers forming between the rows of grapevines, joining together into larger ones and carrying leaves and dirt down the hillside.

Christina had already asked them three times if they were hungry, and as they had been given the hospitality of food at every stop along the way, both Ruth and George raised their hands and groaned. "Please, no," Ruth laughed, taking Christina's hand and motioning for her to sit, "No more food. I'm stuffed." Christina sat, but she was a woman who never seemed entirely comfortable unless she was doing something, so she popped up again within moments.

Christina went toward the kitchen, saying, "I have peas to shell for dinner, and I think I'll get a cup of tea, too." She inclined her head toward Ruth, asking her to join her. Ruth smiled at George as if to say, do you mind?, and when he smiled back and shook his head, she picked up her tea and stood, making her way through the stone archway. "I'll help you." She found Christina at the stove, re-heating the water in an old tin kettle.

Ruth leant back on the tiled counter. "How are you, Christina? Panos is well? And the children?" Ruth took a grateful sip of the hot tea, and set it on the counter. "It's been weeks since I've seen you."

"Panos is well, yes. Although he worries day and night about the wine, whether there is enough sugar, the proper ratio of acid and ferment, if its colour is right." She raised her eyebrows at Ruth with a wicked smile, "If he only worried as much for me."

Ruth smiled back at her. "He loves you more than life itself, and you know it."

Christina shrugged, but there was a twinkle in her eye, "Ah, yes, I believe he does, at that." The water boiled, and she poured it into her cup. Then she took a large wooden bowl filled with pea pods from the sink , and another empty one from the counter. Putting them both on the long harvest table, Christina said, "Galen still has problems with his numbers." She looked back at Ruth, "It would be wonderful if you could come work with him again. He understood when you showed him, and what he's studying now makes no sense to me. Nico, I think, you see as much as I do." She motioned Ruth over to the table, "Kineta is true to her name and is never still, and Magus has his nose always in his books, as ever."

Ruth joined her in shelling the peas. A very satisfying process, she thought. Bend the pod, hear its pop, then run a thumb through it as the tiny, bright green spheres fall into the bowl. Ruth said, softly, "You have a very good life, Christina."

Christina's eyes took on the wisdom that Ruth so often saw there. "A life you could have too, Ruth."

Ruth looked up at her, and sighed, but she said nothing.

Christina shook her head. "And still you don't love him. How can that be? You're the envy of many women on this island, do you know that? He is quite a, how do you say, a catch."

Ruth looked down again. "It's not his fault, Christina."

Christina laughed, "Oh, I know that! It's you, and you alone, who stops this." She lowered her voice, and paused in her task for a moment. "He loves you so, Ruth. What else can he do?"

Ruth had never talked with Christina, even in the most abstract terms, about Harry, although she had longed to. She thought somehow that Christina would understand, as she understood everything. She assumed that George had told her what little Ruth had told him, but now she ventured further than she ever had. "There is someone ... someone else ... or there was ..."

Christina's eyes softened. "Ah, yes, the man you still love." She moved closer and looked into Ruth's eyes, speaking softly. "And where is he? Is he sitting out on the porch right now wondering how to make you happy? Does he think about ways to make you smile every day? Is he ready, on a moment's notice, to pledge his life to you? Because if not, Ruth, there is someone on the porch who is."

Ruth's eyes began to fill, and Christina reached her hand up to touch her cheek. "Oh, agapite, how I wish I could help you make this decision. But only you can know when to let go."

Ruth caught a tear with the back of her hand. "It's ... complicated, Christina."

Christina handed her a kitchen towel and then sat back, shaking her head again. "Love is never complicated unless we make it so. You love a man who is very far away from you. Does he have a telephone? A hand to write with? Legs to get him to an aeroplane?"

Ruth had to give a pitiful laugh at the way Christina asked the questions. It did sound simple when she put it that way. "Yes, but ..."

Leaning forward, Christina took Ruth's hands over the bowl. "No but, Ruth. That's where you make it complicated. We all make choices, every minute of every day. This man, even if he does love you as much as you love him, is making a choice not to come to you." Seeing the look in Ruth's eyes, Christina softened her tone slightly. "I know that's hard to hear, but it's the truth. Whether it's his job, or his life in England, or something you don't know, he chooses every minute not to come to you, Ruth." Christina paused. "And George would spend every one of those minutes with you, if you would only let him. You are choosing to be unhappy."

Ruth caught another tear with the towel and looked up, speaking softly, "It's fading, Christina. Slowly, but it's moving away from me. I told George that I will always love that man, and I will, but his life and mine won't mesh somehow." Her tears were stopping now, and as she talked more about it, her emotions calmed. "I used to think that we were destined to be together, but as time goes by, I'm starting to think that it's the opposite. It's as if no matter how hard we tried to be together, something kept driving us apart. We would break down a wall, and another would rise up in its place ... "

Christina was silent, letting Ruth talk. What neither of them heard was George, who stood on the other side of the wall. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but now that he was here, he couldn't stop himself. He was hearing more of Ruth's heart in this short conversation with his sister than she had shared with him in over six months of companionship. He couldn't seem to make his feet move to take him away from it. He stood, holding his breath, as Ruth continued.

"I care for George, Christina. And I believe I love Nico, because my heart allows me to." Ruth took a sip of her tea. "I sometimes imagine what a life with them would be, in a house overlooking the ocean, with a pool so that I could swim, an herb garden ... "

Christina laughed. "You imagine well, Ruth. It's yours, if you want it. George spends his money on nothing. I think I recognise that sweater he's wearing today from when we were in our 20's."

Ruth laughed too. "Ah, yes, what did he say to me one day? Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without."

Laughing again, Christina said, "That was our grandfather. A wonderful influence for country people. You've read Walden?" To Ruth's look, Christina said, "Oh, that surprises you?" She said it without rancour, matter-of-factly. "George and I had a very rich education, Ruth. We could both be in London if we had chosen it, but the city doesn't call to us." Christina looked around at the warm country kitchen, and then out of the window toward the vineyard. "This calls to us. It's home."

Ruth said simply, and with absolute conviction, "It's wonderful."

Christina leant forward, her eyes narrowing in her intensity. "It's within your grasp, Ruth. Reach out and take it." Christina held her gaze for a moment, and then went back to shelling the peas. She let Ruth sit in silence for a time as they both worked.

Within my grasp. Reach out and take it. Ruth was suddenly reminded of the carousel. Was this the proverbial brass ring? Everything did seem simple and uncomplicated in this warm kitchen with a friend like Christina. She'd been right in everything she'd said. Ruth was making a choice to be unhappy, and an alternative to unhappiness was within her reach.

George wasn't her passion, but passion, and all that went with it, hadn't endured. In fact, it had threatened to engulf her completely. It had almost killed her. Harry was the stuff of her girlhood dreams, her one true love, the name that would be on her lips until the day she died. But Christina was right. Harry made a choice every day not to come to her, and no matter how complicated that choice was, he had clearly made it.

During the weeks after Adam's death, Ruth had thought fleetingly that Harry might be moved by the loss of his friend to come and find her. That he might have taken stock, weighed the brevity of life against the compelling nature of the Service, and come up with a good enough reason to make Ruth his choice. But when there was no word from Harry, even after she had sent her note to Malcolm, Ruth felt she was losing the final strand of hope.

George was safety, security, constancy, peace. All she had to do was move toward him.

Christina smiled at the look on Ruth's face. "You're thinking very hard. That's good."

Ruth looked up, and Christina could see that the sadness was gone from her eyes. There was a resolution there, a plan, it seemed. "Thank you, Christina. You're a very sensible woman."

Christina laughed, "Panos would not agree. He thinks I am ruled far too completely by my feelings." She brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "But I'm glad if I've helped you at all."

"You have, very much. And I might be ... ready to ... think about ... about being happy again." Ruth was having trouble choosing her words. She felt as if she were stepping off a cliff, and it was so much just to say it out loud.

Smiling, Christina patted Ruth's hand gently. "Just let him know it's a possibility, Ruth, and George will do the rest."

Ruth immediately felt overcome by an attack of nerves. And not just nerves, but a sense of betrayal, as if Harry were sitting right here at this table, watching her. She tried to imagine his eyes, the hurt that would be in them if he could see her weighing the possibility of allowing another man into her life. And suddenly, Ruth didn't know if this was a decision she could make.

She looked up quickly at Christina, her eyes now empty of the resolution that had been there just moments ago. "I still need time... "

Christina leant back and picked up her tea to take a sip. She could see the changes that were happening in Ruth. But she saw that the possibility was now there, and Christina knew it would be up to nature to take its course. She smiled at Ruth kindly. "Well, my brother is a very patient man."

As they continued with their work, George stepped quietly away from the doorway, feeling only slightly guilty for the time he had spent there, listening. He wanted nothing more than to walk into the kitchen and take her in his arms, to tell her that he loved her, and that he would keep her from the pain that seemed to be her constant companion.

But George was a very patient man. And unlike the man who had walked toward the doorway, the man that walked away from it had hope.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Through his open door Harry could hear the broadcast from Parliament. Ros sat on the Grid, watching, as she finished the day's reports.

As he often did, Harry slipped his finger under his mouse mat and pulled out the note, reading it again. It's edges were beginning to fray a bit, but the emotion from which it was written still managed to take him back to that night. "NO. If you love her. NO."

Harry looked at the small number on his calendar. One hundred and eighty-two days since he had kissed Ruth goodbye in Dover. Six months, half a year. It was a long time, perhaps so long that no one cared anymore, maybe so long that even the Redbacks had forgotten. Perhaps just a letter, safely sent... Harry rubbed his face roughly. Dangerous thoughts. He read the note one more time before returning it gently to its home under the mat.

He allowed his eyes to gravitate out to the Grid. Things had changed, as they always managed to do, and Ruth's desk was no longer in the same place, nor could he even call it Ruth's desk. Ros wanted a more central set-up, one that facilitated better communication. Although Harry had made a slight protest, he'd had no good reason to offer, other than that he could no longer look out and remember. And as he'd been unwilling to share that reason with Ros, she had turned away, put her hands on her hips, and begun directing the move.

Harry sighed. How he missed Ruth. It didn't get any better, and by now, he didn't reasonably expect it would. He'd reverted to his old way of being: private, taciturn, resigned to a life alone. But the monumental difference was that he'd been given a taste of the sort of happiness he'd never known before, and its removal had left him unable to find true peace in his old way of being.

He needed so much to talk to Ruth. Shooting Kachimov had been satisfying in the moment, but something about having done it was eating away at him. The only other person he could talk to would be Ros, but that was simply an impossibility. Ros was his senior officer now, and Harry needed to show unwavering confidence in his operational decisions, spontaneous or not.

Harry closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. He could still see Ruth across from him. Grilling him with questions for the DG job, standing firm as he angrily swept a stack of files off his desk and onto the floor, her chin quivering slightly as he told her there were no friends in this business. She would help him understand, with her perfect combination of good sense, intelligence and open-hearted compassion. Harry thought she was the only one who could help him. She certainly was the only one he wanted to help him.

The Parliament broadcast broke through his thoughts again, and Harry heard Nicholas Blake's strong and confident voice. Harry stood, needing diversion, and walked out to the Grid to Ros. It seemed the Home Secretary had found another way to up the feel-good factor.

"A national holiday would celebrate being British. The things that bring us together as a nation. A nation with many differences but with shared core values. A belief in democracy, in justice, and in human rights."

"He means it, you know." Ros turned around as Harry walked up behind her. "It's not all bullshit to him. He actually thinks being British is an honour and a privilege." Harry perched on the desk next to her. "Bless."

Ros paused for a moment, and then asked, "Is everything well with you, Harry?"

Harry looked over at her, aware that he must have carried his mood with him from his office. "Couldn't speak to everything," he said, with a tilt of his head. Harry had to admit that he felt somewhat grateful that he'd told Ros about Ruth. It gave them a sort of shorthand, and at least they started on the same page together. Ros had lost Adam, Harry had lost Ruth. They were each missing ... someone.

"You just seem ... " Then Ros came right to the point, the other point, and put her finger on what else was bothering Harry. " ... since Kachimov ... "

"Since I murdered Kachimov." Harry said it in as harsh a way as he could muster. He could see the look in Ros' eyes, and it was a look that was asking if he was losing his nerve. Harry knew it wouldn't do to have Ros thinking along those lines, so he spoke lightly now, without emotion. "I would have done the same for any of you, and I haven't lost a moment's sleep since." Except, of course, for last night and several nights previously.

Harry hoped his power to persuade was still intact from this morning, although he knew Ros Myers was a much more difficult and intuitive target than Richard Dolby. Then, suddenly, Harry wondered if this conversation was less about him, and more about any feelings Ros was having. So he asked her. "You? Regrets?"

"Too few to mention." Ah, Harry thought. The ice-cold Ros. When in doubt, quote Sinatra and move on.

Harry took her lead, and spoke with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "It was the right thing."

"The manual says we should have kept him alive, same as we're doing Nadif."

"We know what the manual says, Ros. But sometimes you have to send your enemy a message in the only language they understand. Blood for blood." Harry held her gaze for a moment, and then he stood and took a deep breath. He looked at the reports in front of her. "Almost finished?"

Ros looked down at the stack of papers. "Nearly."

Harry walked toward his office to get his coat. He raised his voice so she could hear him. "You've already impressed the boss with your dedication." He returned, pulling on his overcoat. "Don't stay long."

Walking through the pods, Harry knew what he had to do. Home, food and water for Scarlet, a quick dinner for himself, and then a scotch, or perhaps two, as he had a conversation with Ruth. Not with her lovely face where he could touch it, but the next best thing. He would record a letter, and she would help him understand.

The rain wouldn't let Ruth sleep. No, that wasn't entirely true. Ruth's thoughts wouldn't let Ruth sleep, and the rain wasn't helping.

She had managed to doze for a few hours, and when she opened her eyes and realised she wasn't in her flat, she'd had a moment of terror, like the morning she'd awakened in the room that was her Yalta prison. Instead, it was a warm, cosy room, with a soft bed piled high with feather pillows, and a Cyprus vineyard just outside her window.

According to Panos, the roads were virtually impassable, so this was a time to sit tight and wait for the mudslides to cease. It was Saturday night, and neither Ruth nor George were expected at the hospital on Sunday. Ruth didn't even have a cat to go home to, so it made perfect sense for her to accept the hospitality of a spare room, a hot bath, and some of Christina's rather-too-large but very soft flannel pyjamas. They had snowflakes on them, which seemed so out of place that Ruth didn't have energy to do more than laugh when they were offered.

She and George had found room for food, of course, when faced with the delicious table set by Christina. Four children, four adults and a wonderful night of laughter. Ruth felt part of a family here. In fact, she loved being invited into this family.

She had helped Galen with his algebra, struggling to remember the formulas, and had worked with Nico on a speech he was due to give on Monday. She'd held little Kineta until she'd finally fallen asleep, and then kissed her gently as she laid her into bed. Before leaving her room, Ruth had brushed the backs of her fingers on Kineta's flushed cheek, and the softness of the girl's skin had taken her breath away.

After the children were asleep, Panos had brought out an assortment of wines for tasting, and they'd all gotten slightly drunk as they compared, contrasted, criticised and praised. And laughed. What good people these were, and their happiness was contagious.

But as she lay awake later, all of that wine made it necessary for Ruth to find her way back down the hall to the bathroom. She peeked out of her door, first to the right, then to the left. There was a small lamp on a table giving off a dull glow, probably for this very reason, and Ruth was grateful for it as she found the bath at the end of the hall, hoping the noise of the pipes wouldn't wake anyone.

As she walked down the hall toward her bedroom, she thought perhaps another glass of wine would help her get back to sleep, and in any case, she loved watching the rain. So she turned instead to the large family room, and then out to the porch. It wasn't a warm night, but it wasn't cold either, and her bare feet were comfortable on the smooth stone surface.

The bottles of wine and the four glasses were still on the outside table. Ruth smiled, remembering the lively conversation, and she sat down, reaching for her glass. She poured from a bottle of what she thought was the Pinot Noir, and then sat back, listening to the drumbeat of the rain on the curved terra cotta tiles of the roof.

And before she could stop herself, before she even knew she was doing it, Ruth faced toward England. And then, Ruth got angry.

Here she was, in the middle of Paradise, being offered a life beyond the dreams of most people, and she couldn't keep herself from wanting Harry. A man who had clearly forgotten her, who had chosen his job over the woman he claimed was the love of his life. Christina had gone right to the core of it. And where is he? Does he have a telephone? A hand to write with? Legs to get him to an aeroplane? Love is never complicated unless we make it so. He chooses every minute not to come to you.

Ruth finished the wine in one swallow, and reached for the same bottle, but then moved her hand to the one next to it. This time, a Sirah. She filled the glass, sat back, and got angrier. And for the first time, Ruth started thinking of what else could be keeping him away. What if it's not just her safety he worries about, but his own? Harry's scared. I got too close, and all it took was some time apart for him to realise it.

His life had to be simpler without her. No worries about secrets, no distractions, none of those pesky sentimental questions that could be so annoying to the heartless bastard he needed to be. What had he said to her? How do I do my job and love you at the same time? What if that had gotten to be too much for him, finally, and it was easier to go back to the Harry Pearce whose life had no complications?

Another long sip of wine. Yes, this will help me sleep. Harry would be sleeping now, alone in his uncomplicated bed, in his uncomplicated house, living his sodding uncomplicated life. Ruth thought how peaceful it must be for him. A long day on the Grid, followed by the necessary dose of single malt, a tuck behind Scarlet's ears, and uncomplicated sleep. He's probably blissfully and bloody uncomplicatedly contented.

Ruth reached out again, but this time, she thought it was the Sauvignon Blanc. She smiled, remembering the laughter that followed her question of the appropriateness of tasting a white so closely on the heels of a red, and from the same glass. Panos had said something in Greek that she understood to mean that at that point he could drink it from his shoe and appreciate it.

Panos and Christina. Two people so naturally and completely in love that there seemed no effort to them. They spoke truthfully to each other, but never harshly. They argued, but never bickered. And by the way they touched, Ruth could imagine they made love with an abandon and an honesty that bound them to each other in such a way that it made a discussion of forever unnecessary.

Ruth felt her anger begin to subside, and in its place came sadness. That was how she'd felt with Harry, making love. But it hadn't been enough for forever, and her heart was so broken by that knowledge that she almost couldn't breathe. In mute, futile despair, Ruth felt the tears start, and as she watched the rain come down in torrents, she felt she had so much sadness inside her that she could do the same.

And then, not just tears, but sobs. Ruth held her arms around her middle, wrapped in snowflake flannel in the middle of a Cyprus vineyard, and she grieved for Bath, and Paris, and Dover ferries, and for Harry. Most of all, for Harry. The tears ran down her cheeks like the rain splashing to the stone surface of the porch.

She sat crying that way for what felt like a long time, until suddenly she wasn't sitting anymore. She had been lifted from her chair, and now she was in George's arms, his chest bare and warm from sleep, his hands stroking her hair, his voice whispering, "No. No more. This has to stop." And she agreed with him. It had to stop, because she couldn't stand the pain of it anymore. There was no place for the pain to go, no solution for it, no answer to all of her questions. Yes, it had to stop.

Ruth put her arms around George, and cried, holding him tightly, so grateful for the contact, for the tenderness of his hand on her head, not really minding the strange feel of the hair on his chest, not bothered by his voice in her ear, familiar but new in its closeness. She lifted her head, needing even in the pale light to see him, needing to be sure she wasn't pretending he was Harry.

She wanted the reality of George, the starkness of the differences between him and Harry, in height, in colouring, voice, face, lips. Ruth reached her hand up and ran her fingers across his lips, and then, she needed to feel the difference, so she pulled his head toward her and she kissed him.

So different, and, no, not nearly enough. But then she pushed herself further, willing herself not to compare, telling herself she had better be satisfied with this, because otherwise there was no future for her in this world of men and women. It would have to be enough, or she would join Inessa in the Square, and nothing would ever make her happy again.

She parted her lips and asked for all of him. She could feel, even through too much wine, how much he loved her, and she basked in it. Ruth needed to feel loved, to feel wanted, to feel as if she mattered to someone. She got all of that and more, but deep inside her was a growing sense of despair, because she knew her feelings couldn't match his. This was nothing like kissing Harry, it didn't even fall within the same universe.

Her need was engaged, but not her heart. She wanted the warmth of him, his protective arms around her, and she wanted his need for her. But she didn't love him, and no matter how hard she tried, Ruth knew, without a doubt, that she never would.

My dear Ruth,

What are you doing tonight? It's the question I ask every night, and my imagination supplies answers that I sometimes wish it hadn't. Over six months apart and not a word from me -- I have to wonder if you've given up on us.

That was my hope at first, that you would forget me and move on. But now I find I waver between altruistically wanting you happy, and selfishly wanting you to miss me and find me impossible to replace. My rational mind says that time, and only time, will tell. That assumes, however, that I'm in firm possession of my rational mind.

Whatever you're doing, all I can think of is how much I need you tonight. Your good sense, your ability to comprehend life's complexities, your love for me, your forgiveness. Most of all, your forgiveness. I'll just come out with it, because it will be hard for you to hear. I've killed an unarmed man in cold blood.

It was an impulse, driven by anger and a need for revenge, and I must understand it before I can forgive myself. It happened several weeks ago, but I seem unable to make peace with it. I'm hoping that talking with you will help me. You would do that for me if you were here.

His name was Arkady Kachimov, and he was the one responsible for Adam's death. An eye for an eye was the simple equation that I wished to apply, but it feels woefully lacking in equality as I sit here now by a crackling fire, and Arkady lies somewhere in the ground, still and cold. Can I be convinced that I was avenging Adam, or did I do it for myself? That's the question I keep asking myself. Thanks to Ros' complicity, I'm in no danger of consequences other than those meted out by my own conscience. But my conscience is being unusually hard on me tonight.

This is not the first time, certainly, that I've set about the task of justifying the taking of a life, but it's never seemed so layered a process. What's different? If I were looking to place blame, I could hold you responsible for opening my heart, my love. It opened to love you, and now remains unlocked, vulnerable to attacks of guilt such as the one that preys upon me now.

Tonight my internal interrogation is more harsh, and my questions are more complex and infinitely harder to answer. I need to understand why there seemed no other option for me in that moment. I think again of the conversation you and I had on the way home from Bath, when I asked you how I was supposed to perform my job with the necessary level of detachment whilst I loved you so deeply. That question is entering my thoughts again, and although I firmly believe I can both love you and do my job, this desperate need to justify my actions makes me fear that I may be losing my nerve.

If I close my eyes and put myself back there, I can hear Arkady calling Adam a "resource," and I know that it was that word that marked the end of my rational thought. "Resources can be replaced," he said, and I could only think about how absolutely irreplaceable Adam was. And still is.

But now, as I reflect, I know that every person I've given the order to kill, such as those civilians on the Tehran train, were also irreplaceable. Unique, vibrant, loving, passionate, dedicated people with their potential not yet realised, just like Adam. They had no less value because I didn't know them as well.

I once told you that we have no friends here, just colleagues we would die for. That was a brash statement from a man who knew better. Bill Crombie was my friend, and I lost him. It broke me for a while, and I told myself friendship had no place in this work. Adam Carter was my friend, and I've lost him, too. You are my love and my best friend, and I can only hope that you're not lost to me. Saying I won't care doesn't make it so. It only makes it hidden, a secret, something to keep concealed from the world.

But I can't lie to you, and it's to you that I reach out now. If I'm telling the unvarnished truth, I'll tell you that I killed Arkady Kachimov because I saw myself in his eyes. I looked in a mirror, aware that I deal every day with "resources," the people I send out to do dangerous work. Just because one of those "resources" happened to be my friend, or because one of them happens to be the woman I love more than I ever imagined was possible, makes it no different.

I had to kill Arkady Kachimov because I couldn't bear to look at myself.

As I listened to him speak, I felt myself spiralling into a sort of madness. I gave in to an impulse that I've resisted countless times. Truly evil people have escaped my wrath because I've done the right thing, I've followed protocols, I've been the correct officer. How many times have I wanted to take that final step as someone taunted me, smiled at me, after they had committed the most heinous, horrible acts? Things that I couldn't possibly recount here, things I couldn't have imagined in my worst nightmares.

Well, not this time. This time I was not the correct officer. This time, I was simply a man with a gun in his hand, a man who had lost someone he cared about.

Arkady Kachimov was suddenly the reflection of what is worst about this job. We send people out into a dangerous world and ask them to do heroic things. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they fail. Adam succeeded at saving many lives. Unfortunately, he couldn't also save his own, but he made that choice. In fact, he chose it even when I told him to ditch the car, even after I gave him permission to fail. How is that the fault of Arkady Kachimov?

The lofty word I held as I pulled the trigger was "justice." But as I see your face before me, your sad eyes downcast, you're shaking your head. I would receive no sanction from my good Ruth. You would say that justice is achieved with the time and deliberation of careful thought, and that revenge is retaliation, hot-tempered, quick, unyielding. You would be right.

We all wanted revenge, every last one of us. Too many are gone, each a personal loss. In Malcolm's eyes, it was Colin. In Jo's, it was Adam. In my eyes, my greatest loss is you, my love.

So I suppose Arkady Kachimov was a man who signified our helplessness, our inability to save the ones we love. My helplessness. And a symbol of everything that's wrong with the work we do. And apart from that, he was not a good person. Although this is probably not a rationale that will satisfy you, my love, it does satisfy me, and I'm grateful to you for listening.

And since I know it won't satisfy you, I ask for the next best thing. I ask you, my moral compass, for forgiveness. Your good opinion is more precious to me than nearly anything I can imagine.

I love you so dearly, still. I hope you still love me.

Yours always,

Harry