CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
As Harry walked toward the pods, he was aware that it was the second time he'd seen that look from Ros. The one that told him she was worried, suspicious, and very aware that he was going off on his own. The first time had been earlier, when he'd gone to meet Bernard Qualtrough.
Now he was on his way to meet Muhammad Khordad, and Harry had told no one. He'd been very close to walking over to Ros, and simply saying, "Trust me." But he'd said nothing. She would have wanted to go with him, or at the very least, put a team on surveillance. Harry knew that would destroy the tenuous trust he'd managed to instil in Khordad.
They'd managed to defuse the terror threat to Quartermain's Restaurant, by pretending to let the bomb explode. Looking dazed and soot-covered, MI5 officers and various plods had wandered out of the completely intact restaurant after a distraction device was detonated to make it look as if the building had been destroyed. The news cameras had dutifully recorded it, reporting it as yet another attack, and Khordad believed he hadn't been betrayed. But in reality, no one was hurt. A win-win-win outcome, which were few and far between in the Security Services. Harry was grateful.
Soon after, Harry had gotten a phone call from Khordad. "You are a ruthless man, Mr Pearce, letting the bomb explode. We all have to make impossible decisions. You and I are not so different."
Harry had fairly sneered his answer. "We are completely different." After a pause, he collected himself. "But unfortunately, we need each other."
Khordad agreed. "You've earned my trust. We need to meet. Come alone."
Harry knew that meeting alone with the head of Path of Light would not be considered either advisable or safe. But he had a feeling about Khordad, that there was something still to be gained from him. He sat at his desk for just a moment longer, deliberating, and then stood to get his coat. As he'd left, he'd gotten the look from Ros.
And as he drove to the meeting, a conversation with Ruth entered his mind. He remembered when he'd told her of the necessity for him to hold parts of his job confidentially from the other members of his team. Truth was, these days, Harry was feeling very much alone. Being alone hadn't always been a bad thing in his experience, but now there was a sharp edge to it. The combination of Ruth's absence and the possibility of Connie's betrayal were burdening him with an inertia that he found increasingly difficult to overcome. If Ruth were here, he would be able to talk to her about it, but as it was, he kept the news to himself.
He'd thought about talking to Ros about Connie, but Harry knew it was never a good idea to divide your team with suspicion. It was already bad enough that Harry had his doubts about Connie, he didn't want to add Ros to the circle of distrust, especially on the basis of speculation. Harry found himself listening to Connie just a little more carefully, analysing her words to see if there was something he was missing. It was frankly exhausting to have to focus outside the Grid and inside it, looking for threats.
But for now, he needed to think about the meeting with Khordad. He pulled his car to the curb, got out, and walked toward the tall man who stood waiting for him.
"You and I can do business, Mr Pearce. I think we've learned that much." Khordad held out an envelope for Harry, who took it. He opened it and pulled out the papers, some of them typed documents, and some of them diagrams that looked to be a weapon of some sort.
Khordad explained. "The Tajr-6, third generation Iranian missile, payload 3000 kilograms, launch system land or sea. Meet your new enemy." Harry felt a chill go down his spine as he looked up from the papers to Khordad, who continued, "Professionally manufactured, high-spec missiles, capable of striking any target within the UK."
Harry had a number of questions, but he didn't voice the most obvious one: Why on earth would Khordad be giving me this information? His second question, he spoke aloud. "Who has these?"
"People." Not a tremendously helpful answer, but expected.
Harry asked what Khordad was expecting in return for this intelligence, and Khordad told him exactly what he wanted. "My mission remains the same. Justice for Palestine. A corrupt-free Saudi Arabia.
The U.S. out of the Middle East. I will do anything to achieve those ends. Anything. If these are used, our cause will be put back decades. We may never recover. I can't let that happen." Khordad paused. "I can't stop them on my own. I need your help."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "You want me to eliminate elements within your own organisation. That's why you've risked everything?"
Khordad gave an almost imperceptible nod. "It's either that, or all-out war. A war we both know neither of us can win. We both have dangerous friends. Perhaps between us, we can make sure they don't destroy the world."
Khordad put out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry thought of the papers he now held in his other hand and the missiles that could be, right now, trained on Britain.
Khordad's hand was still suspended between them. "The future," Khordad said. Harry clasped the Pakistani's hand firmly in his own, and he was reminded of Connie, saying "Sometimes you have to sup with the Devil to see what he wants."
Khordad might not be the Devil, but he certainly was well-acquainted with him.
"'Night, Ros," Ben said, as he passed by her desk on his way to the pods.
"'Night," Ros answered, just shutting down her computer. She stood and walked to Harry's door to see if there was anything else he needed from her. She was surprised to find Harry standing behind his desk with his best bottle of Ardbeg 17-year-old single malt, pouring out two glasses. Ros knew that was the bottle he saved for only the most special of occasions. It was worth just over two hundred pounds.
She took in the sight not only of the bottle, but of the recipient of the second glass Harry filled. Connie. Except that somehow, Connie didn't seem in a very festive mood. Ros assumed that was because Connie also knew the significance of the bottle, and was wondering why she was being thus honoured.
"What are we celebrating?" Ros asked. She stood in Harry's doorway, thinking this didn't look so much like a celebration as it did an interrogation.
"Saving the free world," Harry said, as he turned to give Ros a smile.
Ros smiled back as she reluctantly walked back out to the Grid. "Well, don't stay up too late." Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.
Connie was relieved to see Harry's smile, because up to now, she had felt a bit like she was being called on the carpet. They had managed to save quite a number of lives today. Perhaps Harry was simply wanting to enjoy a glass of fine scotch with an old friend. But really, she doubted it. Connie was squarely on her guard.
She reached out to pick up her glass. "Saving the free world, I'll drink to that."
Connie was right to be suspicious, and that was Harry's aim. He knew that the bottle of Ardbeg was notorious, practically legendary, on the Grid. It sat in his cupboard, quietly continuing to age, until something very extraordinary happened. He would bring it out on occasion for the Home Secretary, or if a visit by the DG was warranted. But for a lowly member of the Grid? Not a common occurrence.
Harry knew that Connie would question it, and that was what he wanted. He wanted her to wonder what he was up to, and to watch her react to it. They were like two old lions, circling one another. He was still standing behind his desk as he looked across at her.
"You know, we might be able to work with Khordad. It'll be a long bumpy road, but with a new resident in the White House, who knows? This could be the beginning of the beginning of the end."
Harry offered his glass, and Connie touched hers to his, saying, "Hear, hear."
As he sat down, Harry got to the real reason for the meeting. Betrayal. On the way back from meeting Khordad, he had remembered a story that presented an ideal way to raise the subject of betrayal, without actually doing so.
In a cordial, offhand way, he began. "You know why people chink glasses before they drink? Apparently it's attached to an old fear that an enemy might poison your drink." On the word "poison," he looked pointedly at Connie, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. Connie sat, seeming to listen impassively, although her heart was something short of calm.
Harry continued, his eyes fixed on her. "So crashing tankards together meant that a bit from either drink spilled into the other." He let the words sink in, and then, when he was sure she was suitably agitated, he dropped the final brick. "Hugo Prince told me that. Back in the day."
Harry kept his eyes down now, on his drink. "You and he were quite close, weren't you?" Not until the end of this question did he raise his eyes to hers. She was smiling, as he expected she would be. Now Connie knew the reason for the meeting, for the scotch, and for the interrogation. She was a pro, and Harry knew it. He just wanted her to know that he knew exactly what he was doing.
Harry understood that Connie would have two options in answering his question. She could realise she was cornered and tell him the truth. Or she could continue the facade and hold the secret.
The secret. As the word went through Harry's mind, time slowed down, and then stopped. Two people who worked for the Security Services who had fallen in love, and had decided to keep it a secret. Harry imagined himself in Connie's place, being asked the same question. Or worse, he imagined Ruth sitting there, many years from now, at Connie's age, and after his death, being asked this question. What would Ruth say? He knew the answer before Connie even spoke it.
"Me and Hugo? Hardly knew him. I remember he was always very highly spoken of."
Harry took a sip of his scotch, and his face remained still, but he was now as rattled as he imagined Connie was. Whether Connie was a traitor or not, Harry felt a sudden bond with her, an understanding of the unfathomable sea of memories that can be carried around inside a human being.
He was aware of how superficial his question had been. You and he were quite close, weren't you? If he imagined someone asking that question of Ruth, he would wonder how she could distil the time they had spent together, their profound connection, and the depth of their love into something someone else could understand. He would almost hope Ruth wouldn't dignify the question with an answer. That she wouldn't stoop to trying to make it comprehensible. That she would answer as Connie had. Me and Harry? Hardly knew him.
Just then, Ros came in to Harry's office. "There's something you should see."
Khordad was dead. Either that, or as good as dead, depending on what news had been fed to the BBC by the cousins. His plane had gone down over the Ural Mountains in northern Kazakhstan, where the Americans just happened to have an airbase.
"Why do we bother?" Harry said, dismayed.
"Because it would be a lot worse if we didn't," Ros said firmly.
"Would it?" Harry asked.
Ros looked at him, and her worry about Harry's state of mind increased. He was actually beginning to sound as if he was giving up. "You know it would."
Connie approached them, coming out of Harry's office. She had just dodged a bullet, and she knew it. In the nick of time, another crisis had reared its ugly head and had allowed her escape the questions she had no desire to answer. She said wryly, "So, the Americans have done it again." Connie looked right at Harry. "God defend me from my friends. From my enemies, I can defend myself."
Harry watched as Connie walked past him. He suddenly felt a weariness that went right down to his bones. His hopes of being able to work with Khordad toward peace had just been blown out of the sky by the Americans. And Connie. How could he begin to express how he felt about someone he had long considered a friend, but who he now feared might be completely the opposite. He still couldn't be sure she was the mole, but with each passing day, he had to acknowledge that his alarms were sounding more insistently.
God defend me from my friends.
Ruth couldn't think of a place more beautiful than Cyprus to celebrate Christmas. It was a solemn, traditional, and deeply religious time, played out in a mostly Greek Orthodox town. Work hours were relaxed, beautiful carols, or kalanda, were sung, and a sense of reverence descended on Polis.
The lovely aroma of sweet almond cookies, roasted turkey, and Christopsomo, the Christ bread, filled the streets as people walked to and from church. And not just Christmas Day, but the entire holiday season, which lasted from December 6th, with the Feast of St. Nicholas, all the way through to January 6th, with the Feast of Epiphany. She learned quickly that as the names implied, a remarkable amount of cooking and eating was involved.
Of course, that meant Christina was completely in her element. During the holidays, Ruth was often in the kitchen at the vineyard house with Christina, laughing over a glass of wine as she learned the traditional recipes and customs of this holiest of times. The extended Constantinou family gravitated toward the vineyard in droves. Ruth had met many of them during the harvest, but now, rather than being a stranger, she was considered one of the family. This was a result of their natural warmth and their inclusive nature, but Ruth also understood completely that in the eyes of his family, she was expected to become George's wife one day.
Not all of the feelings brought on by this expectation were unpleasant to Ruth. She loved being a part of a large family, and she couldn't remember having been hugged so thoroughly and so often. She could enjoy it because she was continuing to be honest with George. She didn't feel guilty about deceiving him, at least not about her feelings.
But George still had no idea what her life had been before Cyprus, and he hadn't asked her. She told herself that she didn't tell him about her work in MI5 and the danger she'd been in there because she didn't want to worry him or cause him pain. She could also rationalise that he really didn't need to know, because there would never be a reason for it. In truth, Ruth made an effort not to dwell on thoughts like these. She tried very hard not to delve deeper than the thin, brittle surface of her own heart. She likened it to picking a scab. The wound was covered over now, and she thought maybe, just maybe, if she left it alone, it would heal and become new, fresh skin.
But in the quiet of her own flat, when she had no distractions, Ruth sometimes had to face the truth. She knew her lack of feelings for George had only to do with Harry. She'd tried so hard to burn the bridge to him, but no matter what she did, it remained. One strand of rope held firmly across the chasm, one she felt she could still walk across, back to her old life. Back to Harry. She'd tried to cut it, to make it disappear, but she would turn and there it was again, linking them, seemingly forever. She also continued to check the l'Alcove server. Only once a week now, and she did it secretly, guiltily, like an alcoholic sneaking a forbidden drink.
George had stopped asking Ruth if she loved him, although he told her often that he loved her. She told him that in her mind she had let go of the other man, and that she was now waiting for him to leave her heart. It was the honest truth, and sometimes Ruth could convince herself that if, indeed, Harry's memory did fade, she might be able to love George. And Christina had been absolutely right. George was a patient man.
Perhaps it was his strict Greek Orthodox upbringing, or perhaps he knew that pushing Ruth would never succeed, but George was letting her find her own way to him. He kissed her goodnight every time he dropped her off after dinner, or a movie, or one of their many walks on the beach. He held her hand, he put his arm protectively around her, and he often pulled her warmly to him for long minutes at her door. But he never let his hands roam, and Ruth never felt an urgency from him to go faster or further than she wanted.
Ruth was intensely grateful to George, and she cared for him deeply. But when she tried to imagine making love with him, she found she had to close her eyes, and a sigh would escape as a feeling of fatigue descended on her. She felt that as soon as she took that step, she was resigning herself to never again feeling the intensity and the passion she had known with Harry. She told herself that she needed to be a bit stronger to take that leap. She simply wasn't ready yet.
Harry made his way past Birmingham on the M6. This time, he was the one driving out to Liverpool, and Malcolm sat in the passenger seat. It was Christmas Eve, and Malcolm's mum had gone to spend a few days with her sister in Brynmill, so Harry and Malcolm had decided to take Tom and Christine up on their kind offer to spend Christmas with them.
Both Harry and Malcolm seemed to be at home in their own thoughts on this drive, and they'd been friends for so long that there was no awkwardness in silence. Harry had Beethoven's Rondo in C major on the car's CD player, and it flowed well with the countryside as it moved quickly past them.
Christmas was an odd holiday for Harry. He wasn't a strongly religious man, and his adult Christmases seemed only to hold memories of tension with Jane, and of disappointing Graham and Catherine with his absences. Terror doesn't take holidays. In fact, as with Remembrance Day, they seemed to be ideal times for a terrorist to make a point. People gathered together during the holidays, and it was a time when the tragedy of a bomb or a kidnapping seemed particularly acute and poignant. Holidays had become only the targets of terror to Harry.
As he drove, Harry was recalling what he had done in years past. He remembered Ruth standing at his door one Christmas Eve as she was leaving the Grid, on her way to take gifts to a friend's son and daughter. He could still see her, bundled in her coat, scarf, and hat in preparation for the cold, her arms filled with bags, her face wearing the childlike excitement of the holidays.
He'd looked up from his desk and smiled at her, despite a morose mood that seemed to be brought on by the abundance of good cheer around him. She'd been so beautiful standing there, and now as he remembered it, he'd wanted to stand, walk to the door, and break all of his rules about professional detachment. He remembered thinking that on this day it might be permitted, a friendly hug from the boss, the season giving permission for him to fold her in his arms, to feel what it was like to hold her.
Instead, of course, he had simply tilted his head at her and said, "Off out, Ruth?"
"Yes," she'd said, cheerily, as she nodded. She'd held up the bags, smiling wider, "Playing Santa."
"Ah, good," was all he'd managed to say. He wanted her to stand there for a while, because he longed to etch the picture in his mind. When Ruth let go into happiness and really smiled, there was a way that her eyes danced. He didn't get to see it often, so he wanted to keep her there as long as he could. But he suddenly became aware that he was staring, and smiling at her, and he thought he must look a proper idiot, so he turned back to his desk and picked up a pen, just to tear his eyes away. Still looking down at his papers, he'd said, awkwardly, "Well, you have a good night, Ruth."
He'd always felt he wasn't very good at hiding his feelings from Ruth. He would try to, and she would pause and narrow her eyes slightly, as if she were peering into his soul. That night, she'd stood there, deciding, and then finally had asked, "Do you have plans, Harry?"
He'd kept his eyes down. He'd been expecting this question. He got it every year from someone or other. It was the curse of being alone at the holidays, that everyone felt they needed to draw you into the warm bosom of their families. He had to admit that the idea of going to watch Ruth hand out packages to people she loved was a more attractive prospect than any other offer he'd gotten lately, but still, he knew that he would refuse.
Perching on the edge of a sofa in a room full of laughing children at Christmas, eggnog held gingerly in hand, trying to smile ... no, Harry had tried it once and had vowed never to do it again. It made him more acutely aware of the fact that his children no longer sought his company, and that he had let them down at Christmas more times than he wanted to dwell upon.
And then Harry thought, What if I simply say what's running through my head right now?
What I'd like to do, Ruth, is to go somewhere with you, and have a drink. I'd like to walk with you along the Thames and look at the lights, and to see if, with you, I could find some joy in this season. I'd like to hear you talk about your Christmases, what you wanted as a child, what you ate at your Christmas dinner. I'd like to hear you talk about anything, really. There's no one I'd rather be with tonight than you, Ruth.
Instead, Harry lied. "Yes, yes, of course." He finally looked up at her. "Meeting some friends," he'd said, nodding. He didn't think he was doing a very good job of lying, however, because a flash of pity crossed her face before the smile returned.
Ruth went along with it to save him embarrassment, but she gave him one more chance. "That's good. Because if you didn't have plans, I was going to ask if you ..."
He put away his files, and looked at his watch, just for effect, "No, no. Actually, I'm off as well." He glanced up at her and forced a smile as he stood. "Mustn't be late." Her smile was gone now, and her eyes were no longer dancing. He needed to end this, or he would simply go to her and give her that hug. Instead, he inclined his head toward the pods and said, "Or you."
Ruth nodded. "Or me," but still she had stood there. Finally, she had let out a small sigh, and said, softly, "Merry Christmas, Harry." She had come to his door full of life, and now she looked as if she might actually cry. What an extraordinary effect I have on people, Harry thought. Happy bloody Holidays from Harry Pearce.
He'd gone home that night and grilled himself a steak. He'd listened to The Messiah and cut some small pieces of the meat for Scarlet, putting them down next to him at the kitchen table. "Merry Christmas, girl," he'd said, as she ravenously consumed her holiday dinner. One more scotch and then he'd gone upstairs.
Now, driving to Liverpool, Harry stretched his arms on the steering wheel and looked over at Malcolm, who was nodding along with Beethoven. He reached his hand out and turned down the music. "Malcolm?"
Malcolm turned to him, his eyebrows raised. "Yes?"
"What do you imagine Christmas is like on Cyprus?" Harry didn't wait for the answer, but turned his eyes back to the road. "Probably girls in white dresses, carrying banners down the middle of the cobblestone streets, church music everywhere, the smell of bread baking ..." His voice trailed off. Malcolm was the only one he could do this with, and he knew he was indulging himself, but he couldn't help it. Harry was fervently wishing he had asked Ruth about that walk on that Christmas Eve.
Malcolm simply looked at him for a time, pensively, and then, he spoke. "Harry, may I speak as a friend?"
Harry laughed softly, knowing what was coming. "Yes, Malcolm. I count on it."
"You need to make a decision. You've got your feet in two different places, and you need to choose." Malcolm paused, but Harry stayed silent, listening. "You can either go to her, or you can stay here, but you need to do one, or the other, fully. Otherwise, you're going to tear yourself right down the middle, and then you won't be any good to any of us, including yourself."
Harry knew every word was true. He knew it because he felt it. "I know," he said, softly. "I just can't help wondering if she's alone on Christmas, but of course, she wouldn't be, would she?" He looked over at Malcolm, who was simply gazing at him tolerantly. "No, she'll have friends to spend it with, probably many of them ... " Harry stopped himself and looked back at the road.
"Harry." Malcolm waited until Harry looked back at him, and then said, simply. "Let her go."
For just a split second, Malcolm saw a look of raw pain move across his friend's face, and then the mask was back. Harry turned away, and said, "This from the man who has waited six years without losing hope?"
"Hope, Harry. Not desperate longing. Not ... not ... agony." Malcolm now kept his eyes on the road as well, because he found it hard to say these things whilst looking at Harry. "It's different with Sarah and me. She's a wish I hold for the future, a life I hope someday to lead. As I've said, she mightn't even be there when I'm ready for it, and I'm reconciled to that." Malcolm paused for a moment before continuing. "But you and Ruth, it's like ... well, breathing. It's as if she is your life. You can't go on like this."
Harry kept his eyes forward as well. "Then tell me how I let her go."
Malcolm spoke forcefully. "You just do it. You choose it. You put her aside, along with all of the other feelings that don't fit with this job. When she intrudes on your thoughts, you say to her, 'No, not now. I'll get back to you later.'"
Now Harry looked at Malcolm, and he smiled at his old friend. Malcolm had the same look he wore when he was putting his foot down, when he'd had enough. "Just like that, Malcolm? 'I'll get back to you later?'"
Malcolm looked out the windscreen again. "Just like that."
Harry paused for a moment to let the words sink in. Just like that.
"Thank you, Malcolm." Harry turned back to the road, and reached over to turn the music up again. Ruth was fully in his mind now, especially the picture of her in his doorway on Christmas Eve. He imagined himself getting on a plane and going to Cyprus, showing up at her door, and wishing her a Merry Christmas. But he knew that wasn't the end of the story.
He would get back on another plane, there would be another goodbye, and he'd be left with the same feelings he had now. But what if he didn't come back to London? What if he stayed there, and they lived out their lives together, watching the girls in the white dresses every Christmas?
The hardest truth Harry had to face was that the idea of being away from the Grid forever was nearly as difficult for him to bear as the thought of being away from Ruth forever. Connie. Sugarhorse. The relationships he'd built so painstakingly with his superiors. Assets like Bernard. The experience and knowledge Harry had amassed over his years of service. His love of Queen and country. His desire to protect them. His feeling that he was, in fact, making a difference, no matter how uphill the climb.
Just like that.
Malcolm was right. It was time for Harry to let go. Not of his hope for the future, but of his daily desire for Ruth, of his agony, as Malcolm had called it. As Harry listened to the magnificent strains of Beethoven, he imagined Ruth in the white dress of their wedding, but now she was walking down the cobblestone streets of Polis as he remembered them. Celebrating Christmas, a part of the town, a part of the life there, at home.
And although he knew letting go wouldn't be nearly this easy, he took the first step now, and walked away from her. He left her laughing and dancing in the white dress, and this time he didn't allow himself to make her sad, to change her mood. Although Harry knew he would have to repeat this process over and over until it could really be true, he opened his hands, and released her to her happiness.
Just like that.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Harry and Ruth might have been surprised to know that at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, they each had identical wishes. For peace in their hearts, for the ability to move on, and for the other to find happiness.
As they moved into the new year they were no less in love than they had been in Bath. Each had struggled against that love, wishing with all their hearts that they could remove it, sublimate it, put it firmly in their past, and each had failed. Now, on this day of resolutions, they gave up the fight and asked, at the very least, that they be allowed to live with it. To put it away like photos from a lovely holiday, in safekeeping but seldom looked at, a memory only.
Ruth moved through the winter and into the spring on Cyprus with a growing regard for George, and a sense of familiarity that made him more and more a possibility as a partner for the rest of her life. She had ridden the crest of the wave with Harry, had been thrown brutally to the sand, and now she floated peacefully, unexcited, subdued, and wishing for nothing more than simply to be allowed to breathe freely again.
George had found the perfect house, and it was so close to what she had imagined that Ruth could almost talk herself into feeling it was meant to be. It sat nestled in the trees, high above the sea, and felt as if it was alone on the mountain. Only ten minutes from the vineyard, and fifteen minutes' walk from a small, family-owned mountain market, but still completely separate. Its walls were both built of, and surfaced with, natural rock. That, and the lush greenery that surrounded it, made the house feel almost as if it had been carved out of the land.
Looking out on the sea, there was a lovely porch, already equipped with an outdoor kitchen that also overlooked the pool. Ruth had stood there with George, and she could almost see herself cooking in the sultry days of summer, feeling the breeze off the water. There was no herb garden, but one could easily be planted in the rich soil at the edge of the patio, down by the fence.
It had been owned for years by a couple from Italy who had used it only in the summers, but they were becoming elderly, and were considering buying something closer to town. George had talked with them, and they would be willing to sell if a suitable replacement presented itself. So now George, bless him, was functioning not just as the only paediatric surgeon in town, but also as something of a real estate agent. Ruth's feelings for him were growing every day.
She did love him, as she loved her friends. As she loved Christina, as she loved Polis. Ruth had the same kind of love for George as she had for Isabelle, one that grows from laughter, and daily care, and the understanding that love is a precious commodity that's not to be wasted. George seemed to love her enough for the both of them, actually, and she would have been very lonely without him and the family that he'd brought into her life.
But her feelings for George were growing in a separate section of her heart than the one where Harry lived. Ruth still had moments every day, sometimes many times a day, when she would float back to Harry on the power of a thought, and her chest would tighten with the loss of him. She had discovered that anger and indignation worked best to offset the pain, so when she felt herself beginning to travel to him, she stood in her own way, saying, "He's not here. He could be, but he's not. That's his choice." It would cause her lips to flatten and her eyes to go cold for just a fraction of a second.
George had learned to recognise those looks, and they were usually followed by a short period of silence. He'd found that the best way to move through them was to simply take Ruth's hand in his own and hold it. After a few moments, she would feel the warmth of it and look at him. Her eyes still held the deep sadness of the place she had been, but they would soon smile, and he would have her back.
In a strange way, George had come to appreciate these episodes, because he was seeing them decrease by small steps. And he couldn't help thinking that if Ruth was capable of this depth of love for someone else, she would also be able to offer it to him someday. He certainly felt it for her.
They had talked about the house, and Ruth had said perhaps. She'd begged off until the spring, and now spring was here. Her flat was feeling smaller to her, and as her life had expanded out to the vineyard house, so had her heart. She'd become a sort of assistant to George on his weekend rounds, and she found she looked forward to the long rides on the bumpy dirt roads in the mountains, and the routes that always ended with the gracious hospitality of the generous, open-hearted Cypriot people who lived there.
Ruth looked out at the mid-March sunshine and remembered back to the first time she'd gone on rounds with George. She'd had no idea where she was for most of the day, and the mountains had seemed an endless series of loops and cutbacks folding in on each other. Now she knew each road as well as she'd known the streets of London or the path from her flat on the Rue du Banquier to l'Alcove. She knew exactly who lived on which piece of land, and she looked forward to the greetings they would receive in each warm kitchen.
Today, they were on their way to the Miklos house, where the patriarch, Xristakis, was suffering through what George was certain was gall bladder disease. He'd tried repeatedly to get him to come into the hospital, but the man was exceedingly stubborn. Ruth looked forward to seeing the Miklos family, because children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, uncles, and any number of friends would be there whenever Ruth and George visited. They were a lively and vibrant family, and Ruth had started bringing treats for the children, just a small toy or a postcard from somewhere exotic, or something sweet. When she arrived, they would surround her like baby chicks, pulling at her pockets and laughing.
Ruth smiled over at George, and realised she was happy. In this moment, no matter what came after it, she was content. Her days had an order to them, a simple progression of one thing to another. There were no real crises, no surprises. There were certainly emergencies at the hospital and here in the mountains, but even those events had a set of procedures to be followed, a known quantity of solutions.
Hadn't she said once that she thought simplicity and elegance wouldn't be enough for her? She had meant it then, but that was before Polis, before George, and before her heart had been shattered into so many pieces that she despaired of ever recovering all of them. She had thought that simplicity was boring, but these days, she was of a mind that boring wasn't half bad, really.
George looked over at Ruth, and again, he felt his heart flood with hope. There was a softness in her eyes that forced him to breathe in sharply as he smiled at her, and he knew that now was the time he'd waited for.
"It's spring," he said, smiling cryptically, but he knew that she would know exactly what he was saying.
Ruth's smile grew wider. "Yes, it is." They liked to play with each other, as friends do. She found it easier, because in a strange way it masked the lack of deep love in their relationship. So Ruth continued smiling and looked out of the side window, teasing him. "Yes, lovely."
She knew he was going to ask about the house, and she was ready to say yes. Trouble was, the house came with so many other things. She couldn't very well move in with him and continue to kiss him goodnight at the door, now could she? And beyond sleeping together, she knew that George wanted very much to marry her. Although Polis had moved a few decades further into the 20th century, it was still not common practice for a man and a woman to share a home without the benefit of marriage.
But Ruth had thought very long and hard about this, and she felt prepared to take the leap into a new life. She wasn't sure what it would look like, whether or not it would include marriage, or how it would feel. She was frightened and nervous, but she didn't think she would ever be more ready than she was now.
She turned again to him, and forced her face to remain blank. "Yes."
His eyes grew wide, and for a moment she worried that he might lose his way on the road. "Yes?"
Now she gave him just the hint of a smile, and nodded. "Yes." He was still looking at her, and her smile grew as she said, "Do keep your eyes on the road, George. I'd like to live long enough to move into that lovely house with you."
His head snapped back to watch the road, and George released the breath he'd been holding. He paused for a moment, and then said, "That's good. That's very good." And now he wanted to ask her about everything, about marriage and children and most of all, when. But he held his tongue, as he'd gotten so used to doing. This was so much to have happen at once, after so many days of waiting.
Ruth looked out her side window and felt herself moving through the contradiction of relief and panic. She'd done it. Finally pulled herself off the fence. And mixed in with the other emotions, she felt the familiar twin pangs of heartache and anger that always came with the memory of Harry. Well, that's that, my love. You wanted me to move on, and I've done it. Now please, Harry, leave me be.
Closing the file in front of him, Harry leant back in his chair, surveying the Grid.
Connie sat at her desk as always of late, her head down, doing her job. Everything she did on the Grid now came across his desk, quietly and without fanfare. He hadn't asked her again about Hugo Prince, but he scrutinised her every move, and he knew that Connie knew it.
He wondered what he would do in her shoes, and he thought he might react the same way. If you know you're innocent, you allow your work and your loyalty to speak for itself. If you know you're guilty, you lay low and do your best to prove your innocence. He didn't know which one Connie was doing, but if Harry knew one thing about spying, he knew that time would tell.
Harry was communicating regularly now with a man codenamed Ivan in Moscow, who managed the Sugarhorse operation there. Under deep cover, Ivan had the ability to oversee and judge any threats to the operation, and the reports were that all was well, with no apparent security breaches.
And, just in case, there was one person in Moscow that Harry held in reserve, should he need her. A Sugarhorse operative, Maria Korachevsky. She was a person he would trust with his life, and one of the best operatives he'd ever known. When Sugarhorse had first been put in place twenty years ago, he and Maria had become very close. Through some long winter months they had talked about their lives and had found their philosophies to be much the same about the work they did. In a time of loneliness, Harry had allowed himself the comfort of her bed, although he'd not become involved emotionally, as she had.
When he'd left to come back to London, she'd placed a ring in his pocket. A blue stone set in silver, one that she'd worn throughout their time together. It was her most precious possession, and she'd said she wanted him to have it, along with her heart. The last words she'd spoken to him were, "Please come back to me." He never had. He'd told himself it was for her safety, but the truth was, he'd never intended their relationship to go beyond his time in Moscow.
Harry leant forward and put his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead. There were more Marias in his past than he liked to think about these days. He'd used so many people, bastard that he was, without much thought to their feelings. Assets. Purely numbers to tick off of a balance sheet, as the name implied. He still had the ring in his deposit box at the bank. And the truth was, he was still holding Maria as an asset, should he need her.
He sighed and looked out again at the Grid. Harry thought about that time in Moscow, but now he did it through the lens of his love for Ruth. He felt a twinge of regret as he wondered if the pain in Maria's heart could compare to the ache he felt now, still, after so much time without his Ruth. He hoped Maria had managed to move on, to find peace with his absence, because now Harry knew what it felt like to love deeply and have to let go.
Needing to think about something else, Harry turned on the BBC feed.
The Bank of England has today ceased to prop up the financial markets, sparking fears that the reserves have reached a critical low. Earlier, Chancellor of the Exchequer Jillian Calderwood vigorously defended Britain's financial prospects.
Jillian Calderwood came on screen, looking suitably grave. She spoke with an assurance that he knew she didn't feel, because he had just talked with her.
"I believe Britain is weathering the storm. That the worst of the credit crunch is behind us. There are no more losses to uncover, no more grounds for runs on banks. So my message to the British public is to have confidence in us, and confidence in themselves. Together we are putting Britain back on track."
Good job, Jillian, Harry thought. Quite convincing. Harry looked at his watch, and then began to gather up the files on his desk. Harry knew that Jillian would be leaving the BBC studios and coming straight here to the Grid for a meeting, as would Francis Denham, the President of Highland Life Bank and a very old friend of Harry's.
In fact, when Harry had purchased Ruth's house in order to send her the money for it, he'd done so after moving the mortgage to Highland Life. He hadn't sold the house yet, because he was waiting for the market to turn again. He thought it would be a nice surprise for Ruth to suddenly receive another sum of money at some point in the future, representing the profit. At least that's what Harry told himself.
If Harry really examined his motives, he would see that keeping her house was a way to have a piece of her in London. He told himself that the cleaners he sent out each month were only to be sure it was ready to show at a moment's notice. And that the weekly visits he made there were to check up on the place, to make sure it wasn't being broken into.
But as he walked through the empty rooms, he couldn't deny that he felt her there, some residual energy that belonged to Ruth. At times, as he stood in her kitchen and remembered making sweet tea for her, he could even hear her laugh.
Harry stood and walked out to the Grid. He asked Lucas if he would show Jillian Calderwood and Francis Denham in when they arrived, and then he made his way back to his office to wait.
Amish Mani looked at the busy Paris street below him, as he stepped out on his balcony at the InterContinental Hotel. It was a cool night, but the lights of the cars were so beautiful as they moved down the Place de l'Opéra, that he stood for a time longer and watched them, sipping his coffee.
Definitely a step up from the warehouse where I spent my day.
Mani found successful interrogations rather invigorating, and he had to admit he loved the drama of them. So much feeling, so many powerful emotions. Love, loss, and desperation so close to the surface. It made him acutely aware of how connected people are to their families.
As a boy Amish Mani had seen his parents die in a simple robbery attempt, whilst he crouched in a corner unseen, terrified. These sessions always took him back there, and he remembered himself huddled, powerless. But now he was the one with the power, and it seemed somehow to still his parents screams, to offer some vindication, some justice.
The pilot had been very helpful. He'd resisted at first, but had come around quickly. He'd saved his children, but of course Mani couldn't let him live after he'd told them what they needed to know. For the sake of the children, and because he was an honourable man, Mani had made his death fast and painless. He wasn't a monster, after all.
The man said that Harry Pearce and Sophie Persan had boarded his plane in France. Mani had a feeling that she was here in Paris, or had been. He had extensive connections in the city, and if Sophie had so much as left a pair of trousers at the dry cleaners under her name, he would find her.
From Paris, the pilot had flown them to Paphos Airport on Cyprus, where he'd spent the night in a hotel, while Harry and Sophie drove on to Polis. Just the two of them. Why hadn't they simply flown to Baghdad and stayed the first night there? Mani smiled as he brought the fine china cup to his lips and drank the last of his coffee. It sounded to him like a romantic interlude, and that made things infinitely more interesting.
Feeling a chill, Mani moved off the balcony and back into his suite. He would stay here until they had picked up a trail for Mademoiselle Persan. And Mani had no doubt they would find her. He always found the people he was looking for. Sophie would be very important to this process. Harry Pearce would not give up a secret if it were only his life in danger. But Sophie would make all the difference to Harry's state of mind. Mani had seen the looks they'd exchanged. He'd felt the heat between them.
Mani was looking forward to seeing how long Harry could last as he listened to Sophie cry out in pain.