CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Ruth pulled away from George and tried to smile at him, more out of her natural sense of politeness than anything else. The porch was still in the dusky shadows of early morning, so he was unable to see her clearly, and she was grateful that he wasn't able to read the subtleties of her face. Ruth was still a tiny bit drunk, but she was in complete possession of her ability to judge what had just happened.
She had hoped so much to enjoy that kiss. Her anger had made her want to thumb her nose at Harry Pearce's lopsided idea of love, and her sadness had left her in need. Life would have been so simple if there had been rockets going off in her head as she kissed George, but it was a kiss, and only that. Not unpleasant, but something informed by memory and mechanics rather than passion.
Even now, as she slowly pushed away from George, Ruth could feel the tears beginning to spring to her eyes at the loss. As if she had known the intricate, dusty flavour of a fine wine and had now been given something bland and tasteless as a substitute. And added to that was the knowledge that she could never have that wine again. She was left to a future filled with only remembering its complexities.
It wasn't George's fault, and he was her friend, so she not only felt her own loss, she felt her friend's loss as well. She felt sorry that the one George loved could never love him. She'd wished better for him.
"Ruth ... I... " He held her arms for as long as he could, until she had moved beyond his reach. Of course he had only one thing to say. The words that had been on his lips for so many months, the words he'd almost blurted out scores of times. The words that, with her kiss, Ruth had given him permission to speak. " … I love you."
Before she could stop herself, she said, softly, "Don't." And then she put her head in her hands and the tears started again, because that was the word she had said to Harry on the dock. Harry, please don't.
Was she forever to be stopping men from speaking their hearts? Because now she wanted to go back, to give Harry that chance again as the boat waited. To tell him to say whatever was on his mind, to ask her to marry him, to ask her anything. The bloody boat could have waited all day and all night if it had to. Right now, Ruth longed for those words, for any words from Harry.
And would there be a time in the future when she would wish that she had let George speak? Would she push George away now, and be alone later in her misery, thinking, if only? If only I had moved back into his arms and said yes, George, love me, and I'll be grateful for it.
She didn't have the chance to move back to him, because George couldn't stand the helplessness of watching her cry without going to her. He pulled her to him again, but now he held her tighter, as if somehow he could protect her from the depth of the pain she was feeling, as if he were rescuing her from drowning, his strong arms in complete control of her slack, shuddering body.
"Oh, God, Ruth..." George spoke into her hair, softly, soothing, " ...oh, so much pain, my Ruth..."
"No!" Suddenly she pushed violently away from him. Her face was contorted, anger mixing with the tears streaking down her flushed cheeks, "Don't call me that! He called me that ..."
Finally, George gave his own anger free rein, "Well, he's not here, is he? Where is he, this man you love so much? Why does he let you feel this pain?" George pounded his chest, "I'm here! Right here in front of you, Ruth. And I love you." As his anger subsided, George sighed, and spoke more softly, "I love you." Exhausted, he sat heavily into one of the chairs at the table.
"I know." Ruth spoke softly too, but her voice still had a sharp edge. She knew how unfair she was being, but she couldn't help herself, because she felt Harry was here. He might as well be sitting at the table across from George, and she couldn't bear to look at the two of them together. She turned away, standing just inches from the edge of the roof, feeling the splash of the cold rain on her bare feet, seeing the waterfalls that ran from the roof above to the tiles below.
"I won't wait forever, Ruth," George said. It was spoken through strong emotion, but it was an uncompromising statement, and she knew it was true. It's within your grasp. Reach out and take it.
"I know that, too." Ruth still couldn't turn around. She wasn't crying anymore, and her breath was slowly returning. She closed her eyes and visualised that house again, the one above the ocean, with the pool and the herb garden.
She tried to imagine a new life for herself, away from Harry, away from London, from the Grid. A life here. For just a flicker of a moment, she saw the house on the hill again. She saw herself there with George and Nico, with Christina, Panos, and the children coming for dinner. Harry wasn't there. It was only for just a moment, and then it was gone.
"George ... I ..." She turned to tell him that she had seen it, but the chair was empty. I won't wait forever, Ruth.
She stood for a time, alone, shivering, knowing she had a decision to make. Then Ruth walked quietly into the house and back to her room.
After recording another letter to Ruth, Harry had a dream. One of those flying dreams that he'd heard about, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying. In his dream, he'd flown to her, watching the endless sea move below him until he was suddenly on the beach where they'd walked together on Cyprus.
He was barefoot, and could feel the sand between his toes. He looked up, and there was Ruth, no less beautiful than Aphrodite, smiling at him from some distance. He was there to marry her. She wore the white dress and the flowers in her hair, and he could see her raise her face deliciously to the warmth of the sun. She was tanned and achingly happy. He imagined taking her in his arms, kissing her, and feeling her hair brush across his face in the light breeze.
They started walking toward each other, but they seemed to be getting no closer. He broke into a run, as did she, but still the distance between them was the same. He saw her happiness dissolve into worry, then terror. The flowers flew from her hair, and tears were streaking her cheeks as she ran. He was running too fast, and he stumbled and fell, tasting the sand in his mouth, its grittiness sharp between his teeth. When he raised his head hoping to see Ruth, he was back in the jail cell from so long ago, after Cotterdam, and he was cold and alone. He looked up at the bars on the one small window and screamed, "No," as he had done that night. It echoed in a long, low wail against the confining walls, just as it had then.
Harry awakened in the early hours of the morning with that "No" still ringing in his ears, and there were tears on his pillow. The pain of missing Ruth was utterly unbearable. He lay staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily, and then, in an entirely spontaneous and emotional moment, Harry decided that he would go to Heathrow and catch the first flight that would take him to Cyprus. He had no idea what he would do when he got there, but irrationally, he imagined he might find her on that beach, waiting for him, and that they could finish his dream with him holding her in his arms.
He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, and he knew what he was planning was dangerous and slightly insane, but Harry's will seemed to be broken. He felt he had to touch her again or he would actually lose what rational mind he had left.
He got dressed, packed a small bag, and chose in his mind which legend would do the travelling. He drove to the Grid to get his passport, but as he sat at his desk and opened the drawer, Harry was abruptly assaulted with a combination of the crushing responsibility of his work, and the awareness of the small note he had written to himself. NO. If you love her. NO.
Harry sat in the misery of indecision until the sun rose. He missed the flight he'd planned, then missed the next, and then the next. In absolute despair, he felt unable to go, but unwilling to stay, and in the end, he did nothing. Harry alternately felt himself a coward, a victim, a realist, and a villain, but at the last, he was merely the head of MI5, a man with a conscience who was desperately in love with a woman he couldn't have.
Exhausted, heartbroken, and barely able to think, Harry quietly put away his passport, turned on his computer, and pulled out the files that began his work for the day, willing them to distract him. He watched the beginnings of life on the Grid as people came through the pods, and felt simultaneously grateful and angry that he was no longer alone in his dreadful state. He had no idea how he would work, how he would string coherent thoughts together, or how he could bear to be Harry Pearce today.
"Sugarhorse." Lucas stood in Harry's doorway and spoke the word that he had suddenly remembered.
Lucas tried to swallow the feelings back, but he could still taste the water filling his throat, moving down into his lungs, choking him, a feeling like drowning, but not as merciful as drowning, as it went on and on. The memory of his torture had come back to him unbidden, but the word kept playing over in his head. Sugarhorse. It was what his interrogator had asked him. If he'd known what it was, at that point he might have been close to telling her, but the word meant nothing to him.
Harry repeated the word back to him, but with a question at the end. "Sugarhorse? Is that it?" He shook his head as if he was hearing it for the first time.
"That's what she said," Lucas answered. "'Tell me about Sugarhorse.' What is it?"
Harry looked straight ahead, his mind working. "No idea. Curve ball, control question, maybe?" He finally looked at Lucas, his eyebrows raised, "Nonsense, probably."
"Well, it seemed pretty important to the interrogator at the time."
"Yes, I'm sure it did."
It was hard for Lucas to accept the detached way that Harry was taking in this information. Just saying the word was painful for Lucas, and Harry's manner was cool, offhand, dismissive. Lucas controlled himself, and said, "I thought you'd want to know."
"Thank you." Harry didn't look up, letting Lucas know that this conversation was over.
Lucas turned to the door and said, "Probably not the best time." He was fighting to keep his emotions down. He'd brought Harry what he thought might be important information. And after eight years of being tortured in a Russian prison, Harry couldn't even manage to look at him?
"'When troubles come...,'" Harry said, quietly.
And now he's quoting bloody Hamlet at me. Yes, troubles come in battalions, Harry. I've seen every one of them. Lucas stopped at the door and turned back. "If it did mean anything, I'd like to think that I went through all that..." For a reason. For a damned good reason.
"Absolutely." Harry still didn't look up. As he walked back out to the Grid, Lucas could hear Arkady Kachimov's voice in his head, day after day in prison. They don't even try to get you back, Lucas. Harry Pearce refuses to talk to us. It seems he doesn't care whether you ever return to England...
Harry sat in silence for a long time after Lucas left him, trying to still his breathing and the fierce beating of his heart. If Harry had wished for a compelling problem to take his mind off Ruth, he couldn't have come up with a better one.
Sugarhorse. Christ, I never thought I would hear that word spoken aloud by an officer just returned from Russia. At just hearing the word, the adrenaline had gone through Harry like a shot and he had difficulty remaining calm. He'd been afraid to meet Lucas' eyes because he was worried that the turmoil he was going through would be too obvious.
Sugarhorse. No one, most especially a Russian interrogator, should have even known to ask the question. Clearly, what Harry had thought of as the Security Services' best-kept secret was no longer that.
Now Lucas wasn't the only one thinking of Kachimov. Harry's thoughts were also drifting to the Russian, but in an entirely different vein. He was regretting again that he had killed Arkady. If he hadn't, at this moment he would be getting his coat and going to him. He would sit with Kachimov in his cell and find out exactly what the Russians knew about Sugarhorse.
But that wasn't possible, so Harry decided there was another person to whom he should pay a visit. A person Harry trusted with his own life. Bernard Qualtrough.
Something has happened, Christina thought. The tension across the table was palpable, and it hung in the air between George and Ruth as each pushed the eggs around on their plates. Both were looking down, lost in thought, separate. Yes, something has definitely happened.
"More fruit?" Christina asked her brother, offering the bowl to him. He waved her away, not unkindly, but in a manner that told her he wasn't interested in anything but the fascinating prospect of the plate in front of him. She tried Ruth, who at least looked up and attempted a smile, but Christina thought perhaps Ruth hadn't slept at all, by the look in her eyes.
"Were you comfortable last night, Ruth?" Christina had a frown wrinkling the space between her eyebrows. Ruth was aware of how she and George must look to Christina, so she forced herself to brighten a bit.
"Oh, yes, very comfortable. It's a wonderful room, Christina. Thank you." Everything Ruth said seemed to be emerging from her mouth in a stilted, formal way, and Christina nearly laughed.
"Well, you are very welcome," she said, matching Ruth's formal tone, and shaking her head. Christina picked up her own plate, and stood to go to the sink. "And as I have five children to get ready for church," she said, including Panos in her count with a large smile, "I will go upstairs." After rinsing her dish, she walked toward the door. "And perhaps, you two would like to talk to each other." To their silence, Christina shook her head again, and left them alone.
For some moments, they sat quietly. George was waiting for Ruth to let him know what part of last night, if any, she wished to talk about, and Ruth was weighing that very question herself. Finally, Ruth sighed, and looked up at him. He looked at her, and she could see he'd probably gotten as little sleep as she had.
All she could think to do was to apologise. "I'm sorry ..." She really was, and the sincerity in her voice had the effect of breaking through the barrier George had built since last night. His eyes softened, and now she could see the hurt there.
"Which part are you sorry about?" he said quietly. "About kissing me? Because I'm not sorry. I've wished for it." He looked back down at his plate, his voice growing even softer. "I've longed for it."
Ruth leant forward just a bit. "No, I wanted to kiss you. I needed to ..." Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to be dishonest again, but how could she tell him that she'd had to find out if she could love him? And how could she then tell him that she'd discovered she couldn't?
George saved her the deliberation. "You needed to know if you would like it. If it could make you forget him." He looked up again. "And it didn't." Now his eyes were challenging her, asking her to contradict him, to tell him he was wrong. Ruth's mind was racing, but she couldn't think of what to say, and her pause answered his question more thoroughly than any number of words could have. His eyes returned to his plate, and he said, resigned, "It didn't."
Finally, deciding to be as honest as she possibly could, Ruth found her voice. "I don't know what to do, George. I don't want to lose you, but I can't help how I feel." She waited until he looked at her, and then she engaged his eyes with her intensity. "I want so much out of life. I want a home, and love, and marriage, and security." She sat back, sounding surprised at her own words. "I think I want children."
George was feeling a glimmer of hope again. "I want those things too. I hadn't thought I wanted more children, but if it were with you …" He worried he might be saying too much, but Ruth was still there, her face open. "I want all of those things, with you, Ruth."
He shook his head, and looked down again. "But it needs to be with love. I can't do it with less than that." His eyes peered out at her from under the shadow of his dark brows, and George asked the most important question. "Do you think you can ever love me?"
Ruth reached her hand out and enclosed his. "I want to. I can't tell you how much I want to." She really meant it, and her intention was clear in her voice. "I see a house on a hill, overlooking the ocean, with a pool and …"
"And an herb garden." George coloured a bit as Ruth tilted her head, frowning slightly. "I heard you talking to Christina yesterday. I didn't mean to. I was coming into the kitchen to get more tea, and I heard you tell Christina what a good life she had, and then … that you still loved someone else … and I couldn't stop listening …" He sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, but I've wanted so much to know your feelings. It was too hard to move …"
Now Ruth's mind was hurrying over the conversation with Christina, trying to remember exactly what she had said. He saw her look, and said, quickly, "You said nothing that you shouldn't. And really nothing that I didn't already know, except that you could see us in a house together." He smiled at her, his eyes full of love. "It made me very happy to think that. It gave me hope."
His hand remained in hers, and she made no move to release it. "I saw it last night too." Shyly, she said, "I still see it."
"Do you? Because I won't keep trying if it makes no sense." He kept his eyes on their hands for a short time, and then looked up and smiled again, this time a broader smile. "Christina was right. I am a catch." The word produced the desired effect, and Ruth laughed softly.
"I know you are. Any woman would be lucky to have you." Ruth sighed. "I would be lucky to have you."
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, tentatively. She didn't pull away, so he held it there as he looked at her. "Was it so terrible, that kiss?"
Ruth's eyes grew soft too. "No. Not terrible at all."
"Just not fireworks," he said, quietly. He gave her hand one more kiss, and then put it gently back on the table. "That's all right. Perhaps we can discover the fireworks." He sat back in his chair. "Did I tell you my father's parents were in an arranged marriage?"
Shaking her head, Ruth answered, "No."
George was suddenly feeling hungry, even for cold eggs. He leant forward and speared a forkful, and then he took a long sip of coffee. "Yes. She was fifteen and he was seventeen when they were promised. Before he was twenty, they were married. They've been together for sixty-two years, and I've never seen such love, such respect, between two people." He piled some of the fruit from the bowl onto his plate. "They didn't love each other when they were married, but they love each other deeply today." George looked at her. "Love can grow, Ruth."
Ruth smiled at him. He was giving her space. Generously showing his love for her by allowing her the time and the room she needed to make a decision. She was intensely grateful to him, and for a moment, she thought, perhaps love can grow.
Ruth looked across from her, and Harry wasn't here now. She couldn't hear his voice or see his face in this warm Cyprus kitchen that seemed a world away from London and the Grid. Harry's absence suddenly brought her a compounded feeling of peace and pain.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, wincing with the ache of missing Harry, and when she opened her eyes and saw only George, she managed another sad smile. The smile warmed slowly, until it reached her eyes, and George saw a subtle change begin. She was opening to him, methodically unlocking the doors that had kept him at arm's length.
And in that moment, George knew that despite his brave words of not waiting forever, he would be there for Ruth for as long as it took.
Slowly, Ruth pushed her coffee cup the few inches to touch George's. "Here's to love growing. And hope." She said it bravely, taking the leap, but as she said it, she felt Harry intruding again, pushing his way into her mind. She could hear him saying No, and she felt not only her own pain, but Harry's as well, coursing into her body. It ran through her like a drug, nearly paralysing her, although she knew it must only show in a faint blush at her cheeks. George took her hand from the cup, lifted it, and kissed it again, this time holding it against his cheek.
As he looked at her, George said softly, "I know you can't say it, and I don't want you to, until you truly mean it. But I must say it. I love you, Ruth, so very much." He released her hand and inhaled deeply, smiling. "This is good. This is progress." He picked up his fork and began to eat again. "I will be patient." He looked up at her from under his brows, his eyes bright. "And I will keep my eye out for a house overlooking the ocean, with a pool, and an herb garden. Someday, I know, we will live there."
Now the dark brown of George's eyes deepened, and he grew more serious. He said firmly, "But you need to know that I want more than that, Ruth. Not just to live with you. I want to be with you, always. I want to marry you."
He waited to see her reaction, and it was as he expected. Her cheeks coloured and she looked down, unable to meet his eyes. George had learned so much about Ruth in the time they'd been together. He knew she was thinking, and with Ruth, thinking was a good thing. He felt his dreams were closer than ever to being realised.
Ruth was thinking, but not in the way George hoped. She was asking herself, What have I done? In an instant, Ruth was overcome with guilt. And in her head were the words that now joined in the chorus with Harry's firm No.
You can't marry George. You're already married.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
"Guillaume? Are you hungry?" As she asked, Isabelle was going through the cupboards in the small l'Alcove kitchen. She hoped he wasn't feeling a need for food, because the shelves were nearly bare. She found some biscuits that were still fresh, and arranged them on a plate.
"No, thanks, Maman, I ate breakfast. Wouldn't mind a coffee, though." Guillaume sat at the computer desk, squinting his eyes into slits at the mess his mother had made of her files.
Isabelle sighed. I finally get my son to visit, and there's nothing to give him. Why didn't I shop? "Oh, my dear, no coffee either." She tried to keep her voice bright. "Tea?"
"Yes, please, but nothing fruity. What do you have?" He peered in wonder at her computer's desktop, completely filled with all types of icons, in no order whatsoever. "How do you find anything on here?"
"That's why you're here, dear." She pulled a tin down from the shelf, and asked hopefully, "Earl Grey?"
"Yes. Good," Guillaume said, sounding distracted. Now Isabelle sighed with relief, her duty as a mother fulfilled. She filled the kettle and switched it on, readying the tray with cups and teabags.
Guillaume was muttering in exasperated sotto voce, "Folders. We need folders… "
"What, dear?"
"Folders, Maman. They organise you. I can show you how to create them, and then how to choose what you put into them. You'll find things much more easily."
The kettle boiled, and Isabelle poured the steaming water over the teabags, letting them steep. She carried the tray out to the side table, and pulled a chair up next to Guillaume. For a moment, she just looked at him in wonder. Completely grown, yet she still saw him at six years old. The furrows in his brow were the same, if slightly deeper now at thirty-one. This was the look he had as a child when drawing or reading a difficult passage in his books.
Isabelle reached up spontaneously and touched his cheek. "My smart boy."
He looked over and smiled at her with warm, patient eyes. "No longer a boy, Maman. And this …" he turned back to the screen, "… is a disaster." Despite saying he wasn't hungry, Guillaume reached for a biscuit.
Isabelle took a deep breath. "So, what do we do? The main problem is the mail. Can you look at that?"
Guillaume clicked the icon and waited for the Inbox to appear. He had plenty of time to take a sip of the hot tea and finish his biscuit. When it finally opened, he turned and looked at her incredulously. "You have over fifteen-hundred emails in your Inbox?"
"Yes?" Her face was open, questioning. "They keep sending them to me, dear. What am I to do? I've answered them all, but I can't throw them away, can I?"
Guillaume was muttering again. "Folders … ," but Isabelle was already up again and on her way to the kitchen, looking for something else.
"I remember that word, folders. Sophie told me how to do it, but she left rather quickly, and I never wrote it down." Isabelle was opening drawers and cupboard doors, searching for napkins.
Guillaume's voice changed tone suddenly, "Maman? Who is Martin Wingate?"
Isabelle stopped, and peeked her head around the cupboards. "He was a friend of Sophie's. Why?"
"There's a folder here, titled 'Scarlet.' It's hidden inside a folder, inside another, in a place you probably would never look. It has … fifteen letters saved, all either to or from Martin Wingate. Do you want to keep them?"
Isabelle walked quickly to stand behind Guillaume. "Let me see," she said, over his shoulder. He showed her where they were, and she wanted to ask him to open one so that she could read it, but she suddenly had the picture in her mind of Sophie sitting here, poring over these letters. Isabelle had walked into the back room countless times and had found her either smiling, or crying, or just staring. Guillaume moved the mouse to open one of them, and Isabelle put her hand over his.
"No," she said softly. "They were very private to her. Very personal. From a man she loved very much."
Guillaume stopped, and Isabelle sat in the chair next to him. He reached out to her, because her eyes had suddenly filled. "Maman?" he said gently, "Are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine. It's simply that … it's such a sad story, a love story." She looked up at him, and a tear fell. "And I don't know the ending of it." She wiped away the tear and smiled at him. "I hope for you a love like that, my Guigui," she leant over and kissed him on the cheek, and then said, in a cheerier voice, "But with a happy ending." She looked at the computer screen. "Yes, keep them, please. I'll decide later what to do with them."
They worked into the afternoon, organising, archiving, and cleaning up Isabelle's email and her files. Finally, Guillaume began on the website and the server. Isabelle had gone out to buy sandwiches at the Café Hugo, and on her return, she locked the front door and walked to the back of the store.
Guillaume looked up at her, smiling. "Your friend? Sophie? She's been in here."
Isabelle put down the food and went to him. "What? In here?" She pointed to the screen in wonder, as if Sophie might suddenly pop out like a jack-in-the-box.
Laughing, Guillaume said, "No, well, not in here exactly, but on the server. She sent an email to Martin Wingate just … erm … nearly three weeks ago, and he replied the next day. There were a couple more almost seven months ago. And she … or someone … has been checking the mail on the server nearly every day for the last seven months."
He nodded to Isabelle with respect in his eyes. "She's very clever, your friend. I have no way of knowing where she is, or where Martin Wingate is. The IP addresses are completely hidden, or simply don't exist anymore. Very clever girl. What did you say? She was your assistant?"
Isabelle smiled. "She was … erm ... overqualified, I believe, to be my assistant." Looking at the screen, which held nothing that she could understand, Isabelle said, "But you say she comes here … every day?"
"Yes. Every day. At least, someone comes here every day. Whoever it is that sent the email to Martin Wingate, and knows the way to get into the server without letting it know where they are. We must assume she's the one."
"So, today, my Sophie was here?" She looked into Guillaume's eyes, and he nodded. Isabelle released a deep breath and clapped her hands together. "Oh, she is safe. I'm so pleased." Suddenly, Isabelle had an idea. "This place she comes to, can we leave something there? Can I give her a message without anyone knowing?"
Now Guillaume's forehead furrowed again, "What is this about? Why wouldn't she be safe? Why shouldn't anyone know?" His eyes narrowed. "What have you gotten yourself into?"
Isabelle laughed, putting her hand on his arm. "Oh, mon cheri, there are many things I've never told you. One day, when I have had too much wine, I will share with you what an adventuress your dear old Maman has been. But for now, I want to send those letters, from the file named 'Scarlet,' to Sophie. Can I do that?"
Guillaume thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, I suppose if I …"
Laughing again, Isabelle, said, "Oh, please, no, don't tell me how. My head is splitting from this day already. Please just do it, and tell her they are from ... from Scarlet, with much love. Will you do that?"
Invigorated by the challenge, Guillaume was already clicking faster than she could possibly understand. "Yes. I will. But only on one condition." He turned to her, smiling. "You promise me we'll share that bottle of wine soon. You, an adventuress? I'm very intrigued."
Harry knew he should be on the Grid, but as the suicide bombings were merely to be a dry run, he thought Ros could handle it. She had looked at him strangely as he'd gone through the pods, but there was no one he could tell about Sugarhorse. No one but his old friend Bernard Qualtrough.
Harry walked to the back of The Bookshop on the Heath, and found Qualtrough with his head on his desk, sleeping. It was a habit of Bernard's from the old days, catching rest whenever possible during ops. He always called it "resting his eyes." Never was it called sleep.
Harry smiled, and spoke loudly enough to wake him. "Looking for a copy of The Captain's Daughter, the Gautier, 1891."
As Harry had known he would, Bernard awakened in a protest. He looked up, groggily, "I wasn't sleeping." Harry let him know with a tilt of the head that he knew better. Bernard looked down at the book on his desk, "I think what we have here is Kak Poluchit Ne Menee."
Bernard thought he would stump him with that one, but Harry responded with a smile, "How to get at least one-hundred-and-sixty-five eggs from every laying hen."
"Very good. Published in Moscow, 1936. Very rare."
"Hello, Bernard." Harry had great affection in his voice. It was extremely good to see Qualtrough again, although he wished it were under different circumstances. He needed Bernard's help. Harry thought he was the best spy catcher the Services ever had, and he had been Harry's greatest teacher.
Harry came right out with it. "I have every reason to believe that the Service has been penetrated at the very highest level. Somebody has been talking to the Russians."
Harry couldn't tell Bernard everything about Sugarhorse, but he could tell him they'd been breached and ask his advice on how to catch the mole. There were only four people who knew about the operation. Harry, the Director General, Richard Dolby, and an officer named Hugo Prince, who was now dead.
"Well, I'd stake my life it's not you, Harry," Qualtrough said.
"The DG?" Harry asked sceptically.
"No, no, unthinkable. And if it was Hugo, at least the danger is over. And your new boss, Dolby? Now careful, Harry. Can't make it him just because he's the most frightful little tick. One must have some proof. Why can't you put your team on to it?"
Harry shook his head. "It's too sensitive for an in-house investigation. Need an outside eye. Somebody with discretion."
"And you think flattery will get you everywhere?" Just then, Harry's mobile beeped. He looked quickly at the screen. A Red Flash back to the Grid.
"I've got to go." Harry stood.
"Come back when you can, Harry," Qualtrough said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."
Harry hurried back to the Grid where he heard that the suicide bombings of the first cell hadn't been a dry run after all. Ros, through quick thinking and excellent operational management, had coordinated the defusing of two of the three bombs. The last had gone off, killing the bomber and two policemen, but no civilians.
Harry was grateful to have Ros for many reasons, but an added one was that he felt confident in leaving the Grid in her capable hands. That meant that he could focus on working with Bernard to find the mole who had leaked Sugarhorse to the Russians. After spending some time down at Registry, Harry stopped off again at the Bookshop. He walked to the back and handed Qualtrough some files, saying, "These files have two things in common. They represent compromised operations, and they involve Richard Dolby. At either planning or execution level."
Harry knew that Bernard's excellent mind would go to work on the problem and find the thread that Harry had missed. There was no time to be lost in determining where the leak existed. Hundreds of double agents in Russia were in danger of losing everything, including their lives.
After meeting with Bernard, Harry went back to the Grid. He knew he was running on very little sleep and should go home to get some rest, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He always had work to finish in his office, but tonight it wasn't for the work that he returned to the Grid, it was for a very different reason.
Ruth had been intruding on his thoughts all day long, distracting him, and his desire to see her was every bit as powerful as it had been this morning after his dream. As he drove back to the Grid, he thought again about what he had written in his letter. Over six months apart and not a word from me -- I have to wonder if you've given up on us. The thought wouldn't go away, no matter how he tried to deflect it.
Harry had all but decided to break his own rule, and now he had only to convince Malcolm to help him. He thought perhaps if he knew more about her life, if he had just a little more information, it would prevent what had almost happened this morning. He still promised himself he wouldn't make contact, but he had to know something, or he thought he simply might lose his mind.
So when he stepped back on the Grid and saw Malcolm tapping away at his station, Harry felt a wave of relief come over him. "Malcolm," he said, "Christ, I'm glad you're still here. I need to ask a favour of you."
Malcolm turned and saw the look on Harry's face, and immediately narrowed his eyes and said, "No."
Harry was already feeling guilty about what he was going to ask, and he wished for once that his old friend didn't know him so well. "I haven't even asked you anything yet," he said, doing his best to sound innocent.
Malcolm shook his head. "I know that look, and you're trying too hard to be nice. You either want me to take Scarlet for the week-end, or escort a friend of a friend with questionable conversational skills to a Bar Mitzvah or some such." He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I won't do it."
Harry laughed, and shook his head. "Neither." He sighed, and said, "I want you to break a rule that I set for you." Malcolm frowned, not understanding. Harry looked around the Grid to be certain they were alone, and continued, "Malcolm, I want you to tell me about Ruth."
Malcolm paused, thinking. This request didn't surprise him. In fact, he thought it was a testament to Harry's strength that it hadn't come sooner. But he'd been given a direct order never to broach this subject with Harry, and he had to at least attempt to follow that order.
"I don't know anything about Ruth," he deadpanned.
Harry sat on the edge of Malcolm's desk, and said evenly, "But you know how to find out."
"Yes. But you told me not to."
"And now," Harry said, his voice rising slightly, "I'm telling you I want you to."
They sat in silence for a moment, at an impasse. Neither would look away, and each was wondering what the other would say next. Finally, Malcolm sighed. "What would you have me do, Harry? Do you want me to quote exactly what you said? I believe it was, Never, under any circumstances, no matter what I say ..."
Harry interrupted him, exasperated, "Yes, I know what I told you. I'm telling you something else now." His face softened, became slack, and Malcolm saw the pain in his eyes. "I have to know, Malcolm. I can't go another day not knowing." Harry took off his coat and folded it carefully next to him. "It can't hurt her, can it, for me to know? What could hurt her is if I acted impulsively on the knowledge, and I'm telling you I won't."
Harry's voice became very soft. "I almost got on a plane this morning." Malcolm could hear the wonder in Harry's voice at his complete loss of control, and his heart went out to his friend. Harry was trying very hard to hide the emotion he was feeling, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it.
"Harry. Do you recall what else you said on that horrible night? You called it a slippery slope. You said once you know something, you need to know more, and then more." Malcolm paused. "I can tell you from experience that it's dreadfully hard to resist the temptation."
Harry gave a slight shake of his head. "Yes, but you've done it for six years. I've barely made six months. Six years, Malcolm. You're apparently made of steel."
Malcolm suddenly coloured slightly, and Harry raised his eyebrows. Sheepishly, Malcolm said, "I will confess to the odd backslide here or there." He let his eyes drift to the comfort of his computer screen as he talked. "I watched her once, stepping into a cab outside the school." His voice grew quieter, "And once more, as she left home in the morning. Sometimes, it's ... it's very hard to stay away ..." Malcolm shrugged, a bit embarrassed, and looked up at Harry, his tone changing to the more businesslike, more distant one of the Grid. "I do understand, you know."
Harry's eyes softened, "Yes, I'm certain you do."
For a moment, they sat in silence, until Malcolm turned and leant back in his chair. "She wrote to me. When Adam died." To Harry's blank look, Malcolm added, "Ruth."
Harry was caught off guard, his heart in somewhat of an open stance, and the news scored a direct hit. He lost his breath for a second, and he needed to regain his composure before he spoke. "What ... what did she say?"
"That she felt there was something wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. That she thought it might have been you, hurt or in danger." He smiled sympathetically at Harry, seeing how thrown he was, "Psychic Ruth, in action again. How I've missed her."
"And did you answer?"
"Yes, in a far-too-easily cracked code, but I told her that it was Adam who'd died, and that you were well."
"You never told me."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows archly and spoke very slowly, as if Harry were a child. "You told me not to."
Harry ignored his tone, and simply stared at Malcolm, his mouth slightly open, his mind racing. "How long ago was this?"
"Three weeks or so." Malcolm turned and clicked the icon on his taskbar at the bottom of his screen. After a few twists and turns and more than one password, he pulled up the email Ruth had sent him. "I got it early in the morning, the day after Adam died."
Harry read it over Malcolm's shoulder. Is our mutual friend safe, and well? A feeling will not leave me that something dreadful has happened to someone I love. Please reply to me, and then I'll return to my silence.
Harry was suddenly so filled with love for her that he had to sit down. He closed his eyes against the waves as they broke over him. She was all there, in those few lines. Her care and compassion, her intuitive nature, her intelligence, her stoicism. Someone I love. Oh, thank God, she does still love me.
Harry propped his elbows on the desk and put his hands up to his face. Malcolm allowed him these moments in silence, understanding completely. He heard Harry sigh into his hands, and Malcolm knew that the worst of it had passed, as he continued, "We have operatives there, you know, near the Green Line." The Green Line between the Greek and Turkish sides of Cyprus, also known as the United Nations Buffer Zone, was the cease-fire line established in 1964. It was a volatile area, and needed watching. "And, Six has a man in Polis. A newsagent." Malcolm allowed himself a slight smile. "She might buy her paper from him, if she's still partial to The Times."
Harry looked at Malcolm and was unable to hide his relief. Just having these small bits of information made him feel closer to Ruth, as if she still existed out there. It made this impossible situation less surreal, and made her seem more accessible to him. Already he felt his nerves calming, his urgency subsiding.
"Can you find out where she's working? Where she lives?"
"Yes. I can also tell you how much she has in her bank account, where she shops for soap, and if she's run afoul of the local gendarmes, but should I?" Malcolm looked uncompromisingly at Harry. "What do you really want to know?"
Harry sighed, his exhaustion finally beginning to take its toll. "I want to know ... if she's happy. If she needs anything. If she hurts."
Malcolm's voice softened, as he shook his head slightly. "I won't be able to tell you that."
Harry turned away, and finally gave in. "I miss her so terribly, Malcolm, sometimes I'm not sure I can get through the day. How do you do it?"
"Well, old friend, I do miss Sarah very much, but ..." Malcolm reached out a hand to place it on Harry's shoulder, and then pulled it back, unable to move quite that far into new territory. " ... but you and Ruth... ah, that is something extraordinary."
Malcolm could see that Harry was on the edge of something very dangerous. "Harry, you haven't precisely asked for my advice, but in any event, that's what you're going to get. I have lived with this for six years, so I'm more experienced at it." Speaking slowly, Malcolm tried to articulate exactly what he wanted to say.
"You ... you think this will make you feel better, but it won't. You'll feel ... erm ... cheapened by it, spying on someone you love, as if you're peering into her bedroom window at night ..." Malcolm looked away and shook his head. " ...horrible feeling, really, and she doesn't deserve it." He looked up again. "It's one-sided, and tawdry, and beneath me. She can't look in on me, can she?" Harry stayed silent, as Malcolm continued after another pause. "It doesn't help, Harry. It makes it worse. Please believe me."
"So what do I do, Malcolm? How do I get through this?" Malcolm had never seen Harry so open. He supposed the better word was broken. They were clearly heading into intolerably maudlin territory again, as they had when Malcolm first told Harry about Sarah. Enough was enough.
Malcolm's tone changed into its familiar clipped cadence. "You suck it up and remember that you're the one who's made the decision to live a life that's impossible for her. This isn't being forced on you, Harry. Right now, this minute, you could call Ros and tell her she's Section Head. You could get on that plane, and we'd never see you again." Malcolm stopped and raised his eyebrows at Harry, challenging him. "Am I correct?"
Harry realised he had gone past Malcolm's available sympathy, and again, he was immeasurably grateful to his friend. "Yes. Yes, Malcolm, as usual, you're correct."
Finally, Malcolm did offer a gentlemanly pat on Harry's shoulder. He hesitated for a moment and then said, "Good, then. And although it's against my better judgment, I will give you one thing, and one thing only. Something small ... " Malcolm pursed his lips in thought, " ... something unemotional." He looked pointedly at Harry. "How about what she's driving? That should be fairly innocuous."
Harry turned around and watched as Malcolm made his way through myriad screens. Suddenly Malcolm's eyebrows went up, "I stand corrected. Controversial already, our Ruth." He pointed Harry to the screen.
Harry laughed in spite of himself, and looked at Malcolm, incredulous. "A Vespa?"
Amish Mani clicked off his mobile with his anger seething just beneath the surface of his outwardly placid face. "Oh, Harry," he said aloud to himself, "you didn't play by the rules."
So the uranium wasn't in Norfolk after all. It had taken all this time to reach an agreement with Libby McCall, and now it wasn't even there.
Harry knew where it was. Harry Pearce was easy to find, but Mani wasn't the type to get his hands dirty with an abduction of the Head of MI5 off the streets in London. He would put the word out that he would pay well for someone else to do it, and then of course, he wouldn't pay. No honour among thieves.
In the meantime, he thought he might try to find out where the woman was. Sophie something. Mani had felt a spark between Sophie and Harry, the heat that's generated when two people have slept together, or at the very least, when they want to. She could be useful.
He thought he would start with how they had gotten to Baghdad, to retrace their steps in order to find his way to her. A flight plan, perhaps. Pilots are usually ordinary people, with families, and Mani's specialty was families. It was amazing how much information you could get out of someone as they watched family members on a simple laptop.
Mani opened his mobile again to set things in motion. He would get the uranium that had been stolen from him.
It would only be a matter of time.