CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

George and Ruth spoke little on the ride home from the vineyard. There was certainly enough to look at, what with the rain-washed mountains and the magnificent sunshine surrounding them. The rutted road took all of George's concentration to traverse, as the torrential waters had carved new and dangerous gullies into which the truck could easily have gotten stuck.

In addition, they obviously had plenty to think about. In less than seventeen hours, their relationship had gone from seven months of a relatively tentative friendship to the first talk of marriage. It was no wonder that their heads were spinning a bit.

When George dropped Ruth off at her flat, he hesitated for a moment, but then decided to give her a warm hug and a chaste goodbye kiss on the lips. She let him hold her, let him stroke her hair, and didn't turn away from the kiss. He had always seen Ruth as a wounded animal of sorts, and he felt now that he'd made a tenuous connection. He finally seemed to have developed a level of trust with her, and he could hardly contain his joy. Ruth saw the change in him, and she smiled lightly as he walked backwards down her steps. George got into his truck feeling he'd travelled to the moon and back in one glorious day.

It was Sunday, but they'd forgone their usual reading of The Times in the Square. They both needed a bit of distance to adjust to this new way of being, and they'd agreed they would have dinner together after work on Monday. George didn't tell Ruth, but he planned to get the local Polis paper on his way back to the vineyard. The first section he would turn to would be the one with homes for sale.

Ruth wanted a bath and a fresh change of clothes. She needed the familiarity of her flat, the feel of the hot water, things she could comfortably wrap her mind around. She felt disoriented, as if the ground were moving under her feet. It was odd for her to think of George now and remember his face so close to hers in the half-light, the feel of his lips, the texture of the skin on his chest covered in coarse, dark hair. Ruth got quickly into her flat and leant against the inside of her door. She closed her eyes at the memory of the night before and took a deep breath, again allowing it to sink in.

She went straight to the bathroom and turned on the taps, and she immediately felt Harry enter her consciousness. She'd forgotten for just a moment that he always came to her mind when she ran a bath. Wearily, Ruth sighed aloud. Quietly, inexorably, he joined her there, the memory of him offering the usual contradiction of pleasure and pain. She felt too exhausted to fight him anymore.

"Oh, Harry..." she said, softly, desperately, "How will I get through this?" With her hand curling through the warm water under the tap, she closed her eyes. She was on her knees by the tub, and as she leant her cheek on the cold porcelain, the words that came out sounded almost like a prayer. "Help me, please, to let go of you." She said it again, for emphasis. "I have to let go of you."

Ruth had lived her life with an uncommon ability to reason things out, and she couldn't understand why she was now so uncharacteristically adrift in her thoughts. As she felt the warmth of the water on her hand and the cool of the tub on her face, the words she'd once spoken to Tom came back to her. I'm an analyst with nothing to analyse. Ruth lifted her head and blinked.

Of course. She was too close to this situation, too overwhelmed by her feelings to think logically. She needed to step outside of herself and find the solution, the way she used to do on the Grid. She wasn't quite sure how she would accomplish it, but it felt like a sort of revelation to Ruth.

What had Harry called it? Compartmentalising. He'd said he could put his emotions in a box and set them aside, whilst he did what he needed to do. I wish I could ask him about that. She laughed softly, and thought, Of course you do, idiot, but then there wouldn't be a problem to sort out, would there? Ruth laid her forehead on the tub, enjoying the smooth feel of it, and wondered if she truly was going daft.

Ruth tried to take herself back to the moment this morning at breakfast, when she had put her hand on George's and told him she wished she could feel differently about him. It had been the truth. If she couldn't have Harry, and with each day's silence, that was increasingly looking to be the case, then she needed to move on. She cared deeply for George, but loving him seemed to ask so much of her, and it was something she didn't feel strong enough to give right now. In her present state of sleep-deprived confusion, it utterly exhausted her to imagine the mental and emotional work it would take to let go of Harry completely and give herself to George.

She knew she had to find a way to see George without Harry standing by his side, but every time she tried to imagine herself with George, there were three of them in the picture. Harry stood at some distance from them, patiently, and she had to look away from him. He had the soulful eyes from the corridor at Havensworth, and he looked at her with that deep well of sadness that she could hardly bear to remember. Every time she thought of Harry, her heart was so engaged that her brain could barely function.

Ruth stood and stepped out of her clothes. They were the ones she had put on yesterday morning to go on rounds with George, and life had been so different then. She'd still been on the other side of the line that she'd crossed last night, and it was a much simpler place to be. She wished now that she could be back there, but it was too late now. George had said I love you, and she'd said she wanted to love him.

She went to the cupboard and put her fingers on the bar of sandalwood soap, lifting it for a moment to her face. In its heady aroma, she travelled back to the Hotel Britannique as she watched Harry shave. It was the day he had asked her to marry him. No, it was the day they had married each other, in the warmth of the hotel's soft feather bed, enclosed in each other's arms.

Ruth looked at her hand, and again saw how bare her finger was. The ring had only been there for a short time, but it had felt so right, so perfect there. Ruth felt the tears coming, and she reluctantly replaced Harry's soap. She picked up a bar of milled soap, fresh from the box. It was new, different, and uncomplicated. Just like George. With no sad memories attached.

Ruth slipped into the deliciously warm water. She calculated she was going on only two or three hours of sleep, so she washed quickly, thinking longingly of a nap. Within minutes, she was towelling off as she walked to the bedroom. She looked at the bed, knowing she should simply get into it, but instead she pulled on a cotton shirt and shorts and went back out to the lounge. She hadn't checked the server in two days, and she knew she wouldn't sleep until she did.

She knew it was silly, but it had gone from a habit to a sort of obsession. She'd tried many times to keep herself from it, but then she would think about it all day. She would wonder, what if today was the day that he'd decided to write to her? So she found that simply checking it first thing gave her the peace she needed to get on with her life for the next twenty-four hours.

But in her exhaustion this morning, she realised this was probably a mistake, because now she wanted a cup of tea as well. Somehow she always connected tea with sitting at the computer at l'Alcove and checking for Harry's letters. Ruth gave in to the craving, rationalising that she had the entire day to sleep, and just a few more minutes wouldn't hurt. So she set the kettle to heat and opened her laptop. By the time she found her way to the server, she had a cup of English Breakfast tea wafting its lovely fragrance under her nose.

Ruth was so accustomed to finding nothing, that for a moment she had trouble comprehending how something could be there. She stared at the new folder, named "Scarlet," and Ruth knew immediately what it was. She still had the cup of hot tea in her hands, and although she bobbled it a bit, she managed to set it down safely as the pieces fell into place in her mind. These were her letters to Harry, and his to her. And with that small folder came the memory of the magnificent realisation that she'd had in Paris as she sat missing him so much. The knowledge that she and Harry could still communicate.

Ruth had never found the courage to delete the letters from Isabelle's computer, although she had hidden them. She'd had some idea in her head that she would code them someday, but the urgency had never taken hold of her, and then, suddenly, she was no longer in Paris. For a moment, Ruth wondered how Isabelle had discovered them, and had then found the way to get them on to the server, but she quickly reasoned that it had to have been Guillaume.

Ruth stared at the folder, her chest suddenly tight. Now that she'd seen it, she was thrown back to the thrill of seeing those words, Your Much Appreciated Correspondence. She remembered the tears she'd cried at that small computer desk in the back of l'Alcove, and the way her entire world had been contained in Harry's words as she'd read his letters. She moved the mouse over the folder, and clicked. As her heart pounded, she counted them. They were all there, every one of them.

She transferred a copy of the folder to her laptop and closed the server. When she was at l'Alcove, she'd read the letters so many times that she'd thought she could almost recite them, but now, they seemed of another time and wonderfully new, like Christmas packages to be opened. Seeing them again catapulted her back to Paris, to her flat there, and to Harry.

But now she found that she couldn't simply open them. She needed to absorb the fact that they were in her possession again, and to decide if reading them would make things better, or worse. She was suddenly frightened, knowing how close her emotions were to the surface, and knowing the power Harry's words had over her. Just moments ago, she was trying to let go of Harry. Would it be helpful for her to spend a morning lamenting over what had been, rather than looking ahead to a new future?

Ruth stood, taking her tea with her, and walked out to the balcony. She was breathing as if she had just sprinted up a flight of stairs, and she felt a need to calm herself. She closed her eyes, and as she calmed, Ruth began to think that, in fact, lamenting might be just exactly what she needed. Perhaps she could remind herself, finally, what she had lost. And she did now believe that she had lost him. It was truly beginning to dawn on Ruth that she would never hear from Harry again.

Her words to Christina about destiny suddenly came back to her. 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 ...

Why these letters now? What set of forces had combined to allow Isabelle to find them, and then to decide that Sophie needed them? If there were no accidents, and Ruth believed that down to her soul, then why now? On the morning after George's declaration of love, on a day when Ruth was so confused she hardly knew where to turn? Hadn't she just asked Harry to help her let go? The letters felt somehow like an answer.

Ruth had wanted so much to believe that she and Harry were meant to be together, but what if the opposite were true? She and Harry had pledged themselves to each other forever, but now she didn't know what forever meant. To her, it had always meant forever together. What if they never found each other again? Was she expected to turn her back on what George was offering, and spend forever alone?

And then another thought occurred to Ruth. She knew she would always love Harry, but if they weren't meant to be together, perhaps she was intended to honour that love by living vibrantly. By moving on to a new and full life, rather than the half-life she'd been existing in for all these months. Ruth opened her eyes and squinted at the morning sun. If the sudden appearance of these letters was intended to be her answer, then she would listen to them.

Ruth took a long sip of her tea and walked back to the kitchen to freshen it. With a new sense of resolve, she decided that today she would spend with Harry. She would submerge herself in his words, and remind herself of the words she'd written. She would attempt to put her emotions in that box, and set them off to the side so that she could think clearly. She would code their letters, and in the process, she would determine, as dispassionately as possible, what their future would hold. And finally, Ruth decided, no matter what the letters told her, she would commit to a decision, one way or another.

Now Ruth was wide awake. She felt energised, as she had felt when she'd been given a task on the Grid. Ruth sat back down, and clicked on the first letter from Martin Wingate. Thank you for the very welcome information regarding your new website. To say it was received with gratitude would be an understatement ...

She felt the tears coming again, as she knew they would, but she didn't fight them. She let them fall while she kept her mind engaged. I have passed your information on to an associate, a Mr William Arden, who is currently immersed in a study of Romanticism, although he also has recently developed a strong interest in Atlanticism...

Ruth laughed softly as her eyes filled. Tears and laughter, the ongoing punctuation of their story. She had all day to read The Story of Harry and Ruth, and then she was certain she would know what to do.

Harry thought he might finally be able to make a difference. So many of his days started and ended in a defensive posture, reacting to the movements of others. Fighting terror required that terror be present, or imminent, or at the very least, predicted. Creating a space for accord wasn't often in Harry's job description. But today, he'd been given the chance to work toward peace.

Muhammad Khordad wanted to talk. Born in Afghanistan and educated at Cambridge, Khordad was the leader of the Pakistani terrorist organization, The Path of Light. He'd fallen off the terror map for a while, but two years ago he'd resurfaced as one of the brains behind Al Qaeda, and now the Americans rated him as their third most wanted. Ros had learned that he'd been the paymaster for the recent bomb that had killed the two police officers.

When, through a carefully planned drop, Khordad made contact and suggested in a phone call that they meet, Harry was sceptical. "A senior MI5 officer and Al Qaeda's number three? I don't think that's going to be possible," he said to Khordad.

But Khordad was offering intelligence that MI5 needed, and in the end, Harry couldn't say no. This offer to negotiate could be nothing, probably was, but Harry thought it could also be the first step toward ending the war on terror, and he wasn't willing to throw the opportunity away. Connie, as always, had a sardonically cynical take on the meeting, "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil, just to find out what he wants," but Harry saw it differently. Harry felt hopeful. It astonished him, but there it was again. That elusive sense of hope.

Harry stood in his dark office and watched the activity on the Grid, the way he had so many times, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. But lately, he could feel something very different about himself. He still entirely understood the nature of his job, but it seemed to have a deeper emotional core now, as if he were connecting for the first time with the consequences of the work he did. If he had to track it, Harry would say it had started with the Tehran train and the feeling of remorse he'd had, leaning against his door after giving the order.

And now, as he watched the bustle on the Grid, he found himself wondering about the analyst sitting across the room, Derek, was it? Was he married, did he have children, where did he live? Did he love his work, or was it just a job? A small frown started to furrow Harry's forehead. How little he knew of the people he oversaw every day. He'd always wanted it to be that way. Harry thought it easier in the long run to be removed and separate, but lately, he found he was curious about the people who worked for him.

Of course, Harry knew this recent awareness was intimately connected to his love for Ruth. He heard her asking questions in his head all day long, and so often the question was, How do you feel? She also asked What do you think? but more often her voice spoke of what was in his heart. He supposed it was due to the fact that Ruth lived in his heart, every minute of every day.

Still gazing out at the Grid, Harry fought to control the corners of his mouth as they began to curl into a smile. He imagined if anyone who knew him well saw him with this look, or heard these ideas spoken aloud, they'd be sending him to Diana on suspicion of some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. Actually, considering the changes that were happening in him, Harry thought it would probably be wise for him to talk with Diana, but he didn't really need a shrink to diagnose these symptoms. And most importantly, he wasn't sure he wanted them cured.

He was starting to understand that feeling didn't have to mean weakness. It was infinitely more complicated, to be sure, to have to analyse every decision from another's point of view. But it didn't mean it was wrong to do so. It felt trite to say that his love for Ruth had made him a better person, but there it was, and that was what made Harry smile this morning. Ruth had always known the delicate balance between the man he had to be here, and the one she'd held in her arms. Right now, he felt like both of them. She had changed him, and the change was feeling more permanent with every passing day.

Ros came around the corner and into his office. "It's under way. Now all we do is watch and wait." They were waiting for Khordad to contact them with the information on where they were to meet him. They still had no idea what he had to say, but Harry was grateful for the opportunity to find out.

Harry didn't turn, but kept his eyes focused on the Grid. "If this happens, it will be an unprecedented chance for an accord, and after such an accord, peace may follow."

"Well, I'm glad the stakes aren't too high, you'd be making me nervous," Ros said dryly, as she sat on the edge of his desk behind him.

Now he did turn to her, and Ros could hear the passion in Harry's voice, but also an uncharacteristic idealism. "This wouldn't just be a coup for us, or MI5, or even Britain. Bringing Al Qaeda to the negotiating table would save untold lives."

Ros had seen the change in Harry, and she recognised it for what it was. She did worry at times that his love for Ruth had softened him, blinded him a bit to the realities of the world. She'd first seen it during Cotterdam, although her contact with Oliver Mace had kept her out of the trusted inner circle of Harry, Adam and Zaf. She'd watched Harry struggle to keep his emotions down, and then finally, as they'd stood in the cold at the doghouse, she'd seen him lose out to his feelings altogether, rendering him unable even to function as Section Head.

Ros knew she had a reputation for coldness, and she was grateful for it, because there were plenty of times that she held herself in check simply to uphold that reputation. Seeing Harry weaker only meant that she needed to be stronger. He counted on her for that. Ros often wondered what she would be like at Harry's age, having seen what he'd seen, and having lost the number of people he'd lost. She had great affection and respect for Harry Pearce, and thought she would do nearly anything for him.

And although Ros tried never to wallow in regret, she had to admit that she wished now that she had acted differently during Cotterdam. Dying does have its benefits, she thought, and one of them is the process of watching your choices, the good and the bad, parade by in front of you. Ros had been angry with Harry when her father was sent toprison, and she'd lashed out at Ruth precisely to hurt him. It was a regret she'd felt sharply as Harry sat with her and called her his outstanding officer. Ros had decided that the best way to make that up to him was to stand beside him, to support him, and yes, even to protect him when she could.

And today, even Ros thought it was dangerous ground Harry was walking. "We take nothing for granted, Harry. 'Top MI5 man captured by Al Qaeda,' that's a very different sort of coup."

"It's a risk we have to take. We've been chasing the shadow of Al Qaeda across the globe for years. This is too important an opportunity to let slip through our fingers."

Ros nodded slightly. So be it. This was Harry's choice, but Ros was going with him to the meeting. She knew that if Harry was following his heart, he might need her steel to protect him.

Nicholas Blake wasn't nearly as conciliatory to Harry's idea as Ros had been. "You can't seriously expect me to sanction a meeting with Muhammad Khordad, not after the last few days."

"It's an opportunity we have to take." Harry knew this wasn't going to be an easy sell, and in truth, he'd already decided he was going. But Harry had to ask, and the Home Secretary had to say no. This was a formality for both of them, a part of the game.

Blake narrowed his eyes at Harry. "It's an opportunity for the PM to cut my bollocks off."

"Well, you can join the choir."

Harry knew that one of his fortes was his ability to traverse not only the roads trodden by the truly evil people in the world, but also those walked by bureaucrats. He had to admit that sometimes it felt safer with the former than with the latter. But Harry felt he was justified in standing up to Nicholas Blake, even in the posturing mood the Home Secretary was sporting today.

Blake's voice fell into the familiar cadence of his speeches to Parliament. "You know the policy. We do not negotiate with terrorists. Ever."

Harry was unimpressed. "With all due respect, Home Secretary, we're not in the House now. You know as well as I do, we started talking to the IRA in 1972."

Blake gave Harry a warning glance. "Don't quote history at me, Harry. This is entirely different, and you know it."

Harry did know it. Horrible as it was, the IRA was a local problem. Negotiating with Pakistan and The Path of Light moved them into the global arena, and as Blake pointed out, if the Americans, or the press got wind of it, there would be hell to pay.

Harry stood firm. "We cannot afford not to explore every avenue."

"Oh, please," Blake said sarcastically, turning his head away.

"Do you know what's going on out there? Kids who played football together are now fighting in the streets. If this goes on, we could see the Balkanisation of Britain."

"And they say the Government spins." Blake's voice fairly dripped with condescension.

Harry turned on him. "You want it without spin?" Sometimes bureaucrats needed to hear the unvarnished truth. "We cannot win the war against terrorism, ever. We can contain it, we can prevent its worst consequences, but we can never defeat it. So when we get an offer to talk, however tentative, however precarious, we take it. We have to."

The Home Secretary looked down, and he had to admit he felt slightly humbled by what Harry had just said. Blake was trying to retain his cold demeanour, but he was seeing something new in Harry today. Harry was certainly not a boy scout, although he did have his moments of acting like one. But today, Blake thought Harry was sounding positively idealistic.

He still couldn't offer sanction, but he could offer to look the other way. Blake gazed up at Harry, and said in an even tone, "Total deniability, do you understand? Total."

Harry nodded silently as he turned toward the heavy mahogany door. It was the best he could have hoped for. But much as he enjoyed the exquisite music of choirs, he had to admit he had no desire to be joining one himself.

Ruth worked for almost the entire day, coding all fifteen of the letters. When she broke them down, word by word, letter by letter, it somehow changed them, in the same way that the binary language of computers can change complicated formulas into simple ones and zeros.

It didn't mean she felt them any less. In fact, it was quite the opposite, she felt them acutely. By the end of the day she had each sentence, each phrase, nearly memorised. She remembered the initial writing and reading of each letter, and re-experienced the feelings that had created them. And not only the letters themselves, but what had led up to them, and then, what had come after.

In essence, she relived the entire time she had spent living in Paris. It was the time between her normal life in London, and her complete exile on Cyprus. From her new vantage point, Ruth plainly saw that it had been a time of transition from one thing to the next, merely a part of the progression that had led her to now.

But what brought the tears, even as she tried so hard to be the cold analyst, was that Ruth was gradually seeing something very clearly. She saw that if she extrapolated that progression, it was not leading her toward Harry.

It was leading her inevitably away from him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

Khordad was clearly an intelligent man, and a passionate one. Although Harry disliked him, Muhammad seemed to him to be a man who had a similar goal to Harry's, that of preserving his idea of right and of freedom. The fact that their ideas were diametrically opposed to each other made them no less compelling.

After the discussion of ideologies was dispensed with, Khordad got right to the point. "We both know I am not afraid of killing. And you're right not to trust me. It's your job. So I propose reciprocal tokens of sincerity. Today at three o'clock, a cell will carry out a military operation in London."

"A terrorist attack." Harry was unwilling to allow Khordad to sugar-coat it.

Khordad didn't blink. "Let's not fall out over semantics."

When Harry asked who was behind the attack, Khordad said he had no idea, but that he would post the bomb's location on a website as soon as he had gotten what he wanted. Unfortunately, what he wanted was impossible for Harry to procure for him: a statement affirming that two Pakistani soldiers, just released from Guantanamo Bay, were wrongfully arrested, illegally incarcerated, and tortured. And a guarantee that they would face no further charges in the UK.

Harry quickly imagined the conversation he would need to have with the Home Secretary, and the answer he would get from Nicholas Blake. Another chorus of We do not negotiate with terrorists, and beyond that, Blake would say that a statement of this sort would be tantamount to saying that the Americans had lied about their actions at Guantanamo Bay. Under no circumstances would Britain be willing to burn that bridge with the cousins so completely.

Harry stared Khordad down, and spoke quickly, firmly. "That is not within my power."

"Deliver the statement, Mr Pearce," Khordad said evenly, "And I'll deliver peace on the streets."

"And if I can't?" Harry asked.

Khordad simply returned Harry's stare, silently.

Ros softly spoke the word that was on Harry's tongue. "Blackmail."

Khordad wished to use a more genteel word, inaccurate though it may have been. "Negotiation."

So this wasn't about finding a middle ground. It was another case of the UK being threatened from the outside in order to further someone's political agenda. If Harry lost this gambit, people would die. If he won, he would simply be preserving the status quo. Harry sighed, and realised that his hope for a new job description wasn't going to be fulfilled today. Today he had to find a bomb and defuse it.

So much for talk of peace.

After finishing her coding, Ruth read the letters one more time, and then again. By the time she decided to open a new document to begin a letter to Harry, the sun was making its descent toward the sea outside her window. Ruth was still going on just three hours' sleep from the night before, and now her eyes were red-rimmed and her neck hurt. She had pulled some slices of ham and an apple out of the refrigerator at about noon, but other than that she had survived only on four cups of tea.

She didn't know what she would say to Harry, but she had a fairly good idea of what her conclusion would be. Before she started typing, she put her fingers on the keys of her laptop and closed her eyes, as if she were waiting for a message to come from above. Finally, she opened her eyes and composed a letter in one go.

Harry,

I have never understood how a reader can go to the back page of a book and read the ending before actually reading the rest, but it's becoming increasingly clear to me. I so desperately wanted to know the ending of this story. Our story. Our letters from Paris have come into my hands, thanks to Isabelle, and I've done what I've always so indignantly disparaged in others. I turned to the ending of our story and I read the last letter first.

We aren't often given the privilege of knowing beforehand when something happens for the last time. The last kiss goodbye before a sudden death, the last time making love before a horrific row that ends a relationship, or even the last time we touch someone before a long separation.

Did you know in Dover, as you released my hand, that it was the end? Or did you come to that decision later, when you determined that I was better off without you? Your trusting, wide-eyed and, in your words, psychic Ruth, had no idea, Harry. If I'd had an inkling, that ferry, and another, and a hundred after it would have left without me.

But I digress, and I've promised myself to try and analyse this in an organised fashion. I'm attempting to take a page from your book and compartmentalise. It's a new process for me, and I'm afraid that like all things that are new and unpractised, this will tend to come out rather stilted, perhaps a bit sharp. There will be some anger in these lines, a pinch of sarcasm here, a dash of cynicism there. My claws may show themselves, but I know you're intuitive enough to understand that they only protect my heart.

After reading our letters, my love for you is so enormous and so close to the surface that I must nearly transform into an utterly new person to analyse our relationship properly. But I'm getting quite good at changing names and situations. The woman who introduced herself to you in the alcove, the one with the three names she was given at birth, seems to have misplaced pieces of herself everywhere. In Bath, Paris, London, Calais, and even here, just a few miles up the road, on a terrace overlooking the sea.

All that's left of me is this heart, still beating, although it wonders at times why it does. And a mind that thinks far too much for its own good. Both are living in two different times and places, in the present and in the past. And they are quite frankly exhausted with the effort.

So in an attempt to finally move forward, I've re-read our letters, starting with the last one, and ending with the first, in a sort of frenetic, surreal, Lewis Carroll style. It was like running a film in reverse, and it was actually quite illuminating. My mind walked backwards from forever, to marriage, to commitment, to passion, to a tentative kiss, to looks in the hallway, to our first meeting. And curiouser and curiouser, it turns out that life is a circle, and I've returned to the beginning again.

Today I'm back to the silence, the wondering, the awkwardness, the lack of touch, the loving from afar, the resignation that you and I can never be. And here I sit, pondering if it would even be possible for me to do it all again. But there, I've skipped to the ending, wanting things to be linear, and they're not. They're messy, and muddled, and as confusing as they can possibly be.

And why today, after all this time, am I suddenly needing clarity? Sit down, Harry, as this may be hard to hear. There's another man standing beside you now. He can't possibly measure up, poor soul, but he wants to so badly. He seems to love me very much, and he wants to take care of me. He's gentle, and kind, and he has even moved me from my sphinx-like, morose self, to an occasional laugh.

But you've not only been the love of my whole life, you've been my very best friend, and I need to ask your advice. I come to you with a dilemma. This man told me last night that he can't be with me without love, so I'm left with only a few choices.

I can tell him I love him, but I don't, and he really deserves better than that. I can tell him I'll never love him, which is what I believe to be true, but if I do that, I'm likely to lose him. Or I can take the coward's way out and remain silent, letting him wonder while I enjoy his company without paying the price for it. And I can hope, fervently, that someday you will quietly leave my heart and there will be a space in it for him. At present, I'm leaning toward the third choice, but I don't admire myself exceedingly for it.

There's a passage from my last letter to you that seems to summarise how I've felt since the day we first declared our love: "I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time."

Such certainty in those words, and so filled with starry-eyed hope. That was a woman with a ring on her finger, and a dream that she thought would never die. I look at her now and want to hold her in my arms, to protect her from her inevitable future. I want to warn her about what's coming so that she can put on some armour.

Oh, we were good together, you and I. Ours was the love I'd dreamed of but never thought I would find. Laughter, respect, honesty, passion, and a seemingly endless supply of tenderness. At times I would look at you and my heart would fill so completely that I thought I might not survive it. Every inch of your skin, every hair, your eyes, your voice, your thoughts, your humour, have been so precious to me. The feel of your hand in mine, the way we made love, the way you adored me, how cherished I felt.

I'm remembering that night at Havensworth, when you said to me, "Don't worry, it will get better." I close my eyes and I can still put myself there, the moon making patterns on the carpet, your arm snug around me, listening to you breathe softly on my neck. I thought then that it could never get better than that, Harry. To my amazement, it did.

But now, when I put myself back in your arms at night, I lie with an ache that won't lessen, and I wonder, can't I simply turn back the clock and forget that a love like that ever existed for me? Or am I able to excise only the memories that give me pain, so that I can remember you with happiness, instead of feeling your loss so acutely?

Oh, our letters, Harry. How well they tell the story of our love for each other. I hesitate to pull out the old chestnut, but here it is: No one will ever love you as I have. You have chosen to let go of a woman who would have spent her life making you astonishingly happy.

I read once that when you find yourself in a tug-of-war with someone, the easiest way to end it is to simply let go of the rope, to relinquish the investment you've made in the outcome. I feel my grip loosening, my love. I don't really want to let go, but may I take the analogy too far, as you smile indulgently at me? My hands are burned. I'm tired. I need to sit down...

Ruth stopped, no longer able to see the screen in front of her. For a few minutes, she pushed the heels of her hands firmly over her eyes, and she cried. Out loud, softly, on the power of an exhale, she said, "Can I do this?" And the answer came to her analyst's mind in a sudden, clear voice, "Yes."

And this time, in her head, it wasn't Harry's voice she heard, it was George's. It was what he had said to her last night on the porch. "No more." And those words were now what every part of Ruth, even the scattered ones, came together to say. "No more."

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling a sudden surge of energy. She drew strength from the fact that instead of waiting, she was doing something. Instead of having choices made for her, she was making her own choices. Ruth still cried, but it was in grief for what she was letting go, and not from indecision. And there was anger, too, brought on by the waste of a love that Ruth knew so many could only dream of.

We couldn't stop, could we? The progression is so clear when it's all laid out before me. We said just letters, then it was a phone call, then we had to see each other, revelling in the danger, flying in the face of everything we knew. We went too far, and we lost everything. You know we would do it again, wouldn't we, Harry? And that's why you stay away. You do it to keep me safe. I know that's what you tell yourself.

But there's another reason, isn't there? We might as well say it, because the truth of it has hit me today like a brick. You stay away because you can't make the final leap. You've been so long with the Services that you're not quite sure how you would define yourself away from them. It is truly as simple a choice as this: me, or your work. How banal we've turned out to be, Harry. It leaves me feeling sordidly like "the other woman."

I can see you through the glass right now, sitting at your desk, still loving me. I get angry, I rail at you, I say things to hurt you, but I don't ever doubt you still love me. What has broken my heart is that you clearly love your job more.

I have a new friend here, and she says none of this is complicated. I'm coming round to her point of view. My fingers fly on the keys now as I realise how very simple this is. She said that any day you could get on a plane to me, any day you could pick up the phone and call. But that would require that you turn your back on everything you've worked for, on the life you've known for longer than you've loved me.

Do you remember the day your friend died, and I came to try to comfort you? I asked you if he was married, and you said he probably imagined himself married to the Service. My heart ached for you in that moment, because I was so afraid that you saw yourself that way too. It aches again now, Harry, in just the same way.

Did you get my ring from Paris? If you did, drop it on the tall sword of that lovely bronze sculpture you keep on your desk. Let it remind you to whom you're married. Till death do you part.

That was spiteful, that last bit, wasn't it? And although I feel somewhat entitled to be selfish, I suppose I should apologise, and say something kind. I'll make an effort. I know that you defend the people who cannot defend themselves, and you're very good at it. I do know how important your work is, and I know the lives you save. Unfortunately, the only life I'm trying to save right now is my own, so I'm suffering somewhat from tunnel-vision. I just want us both to agree that you've made your choice. I shall do my best to lose gracefully without throwing darts as I go.

When I sat down to write this letter, I gave myself an assignment to write a paper of sorts, based on our story. An in-depth analysis of us. I've gone quite drastically off-topic, but it's been a valuable digression, as my mind feels uncommonly clear at present.

The theme of the story? Well, it's a tossup between love and hope. The protagonists? You and I are, of course, the hero and the heroine. The antagonists? Oh, that's a thesis all its own, isn't it? A cast of thousands. I think in my angry state I'll just say the whole wide world, with its terrors and tyrants and their indiscriminate wish to do harm. And when I put it that way, a picture emerges of how small you and I are, tiny stick figures trying to find their way to each other through monolithic walls and across deep oceans.

I've been offered a life raft, Harry, and I believe I'm going to take it. I'll leave you to save the world. I will love you from the depths of my soul until the moment I die, but I refuse to give up on life waiting for you.

Goodbye, my dearest love.

Ruth

Her hand on the mouse, Ruth hovered the cursor over the "send" button. She wanted so much to do it, and it would take only the slightest movement. But then she thought about how she could never take it back, and this awareness of the finality of the act made her stop and work through the consequences.

She imagined Harry's face as he read these words, and although it felt cruel to be so specific about her dilemma with George, her anger made her think Harry needed to know that he was poised to lose her forever. Ruth knew it was time for her to look ahead. It was beyond time. Now she just had to sort out her first steps into a new life. A life without Harry.

Just a twitch of her finger, and the letter would be sent. She could move on, knowing that because she had burnt a bridge and said things that couldn't be unsaid, it would be harder to backslide. She began to put an infinitesimal pressure, just a whisper of the weight of her finger on the button...

Suddenly, Ruth pulled her hand away from the mouse, and said aloud, "No." If he had already let go of her, why would she need to send this? Only for its dramatic effect, its sense of catharsis for her. But the letter had already fulfilled the purpose of helping her to analyse and determine what she would do. Harry didn't need to see this letter. The only one who needed to see it was Ruth.

She closed it, and as she did, she imagined herself releasing Harry. She tried to see George instead, but when that proved futile, she allowed that these things take time.

To anyone who might have been watching, this was a woman who knew what she wanted to do, and she had done it decisively. But a very careful observer would also have seen that after Ruth closed this very decisive letter, rather than deleting the copy, she opened the server again and moved it gently into the folder there named "Scarlet" for safekeeping.

She hardly knew she was doing it, but it was clear that she still felt the need to keep the complete story of Harry and Ruth intact, just in case she should happen to need it again.

As Harry walked along the Thames, he stopped and watched the water for a minute. He had suddenly been overcome by a feeling and was trying to put his finger on it. He could only think it must be the meeting he was about to have with Bernard. His old friend had been cryptic in his phone call. "I think I've found the leak. There's someone else who knows about Sugarhorse. Meet me in the usual place."

"Okay." Harry and Ros had been walking away from a meeting with the Home Secretary when Harry's mobile had rung. He'd turned and put a hand on Ros' back, motioning her toward the Range Rover. "Ros, you take the car, I'll meet you back there. I need a breath of fresh air."

Ros had looked at him strangely, and he'd known that he'd roused her suspicions about what he was doing, but there was no helping that right now. He still didn't know who the mole was, and he was becoming increasingly worried that it was someone on the Grid. There were too many Russian connections with Ros and Lucas for him to be completely certain of either of them.

Harry stood at the rail for a moment longer, until he had composed himself. It was as if his world had tilted, and suddenly the realisation hit him that it wasn't his meeting with Qualtrough that had caused it, but something to do with Ruth. She was still in his heart, but she resided there alongside a nebulous feeling of dread. Harry felt a fresh need to get something, anything else, out of Malcolm about what she was doing.

But that would have to wait for now. Harry turned and walked on until he saw Qualtrough standing under the bridge. "We've been sniffing at the wrong dog," Bernard said. "I've been checking Richard Dolby's old files, and there's no way that he could have leaked Sugarhorse. It would have meant compromising missions that went on to be successful."

Harry narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. So if it wasn't the DG, and it wasn't Dolby, and Hugo Prince was dead, then who? "It doesn't make any sense. Everyone else is either dead, or accounted for," Harry said.

"Not quite. There is someone who was working with Hugo Prince at the time." Qualtrough looked Harry right in the eyes, and took a pause before he spoke. "Connie."

The shock was evident on Harry's face. If anyone else but Bernard had implied this, he would have cut them off at the knees, but since it was Bernard, Harry had felt he had to listen. And this thought was suddenly joining with his earlier feelings that the mole was someone on the Grid.

Qualtrough continued, "There was a rumour that they were close. Nobody took it seriously, just the usual gossip."

Harry was still bewildered. "Connie and Hugo?"

"He cut quite a dash in those days. We all did." Harry managed a weak smile at this, but he still couldn't allow the thought to entirely sink in. Connie. Harry felt he could trust Connie with his life.

Bernard said quickly, "I really don't believe it was Connie, but we have to check. For her sake, as well as our own." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry. I'll make the necessary inquiries."

Harry nodded, but he was far too lost in his thoughts to have any kind of discussion about this with Bernard. Harry was no longer much of a betting man, but as he walked back to the Grid, he thought he would bet quite a lot that Connie James wasn't a mole.

Within moments of coming through the pods, he saw her, and suddenly, he thought he might change that bet. He saw her face, and was reminded of her astonishing facility with the Russian language and culture, of her sharp criticism of the British government and its policies, and now this news of a possible relationship with Hugo Prince.

Harry had certainly been betrayed before, but if this were true, he thought it might quite throw him. Trusting those you worked with was a necessity in this business. This would change everything he'd thought about those around him. If Connie couldn't be trusted, Harry wondered who could.