CHAPTER EIGHTY

Harry had to know. He'd mulled over his suspicions about Connie for long enough, and it was time to force the issue. It wasn't the best time to do it, but he didn't suppose there was ever a good time to confront an old friend with betrayal. All he knew at this point was that not being able to trust Connie was taking more out of him than he had to give.

He parked his car a couple of blocks from Connie's house so that he could walk a bit and clear his head with some fresh air before seeing her. Harry knew Connie was cynical and jaded, and that she had a less than rosy picture of the Services, but he still felt a strong pull to believe she wasn't the mole. When she denied knowing Hugo Prince well, Harry had known she was lying, because he could see it in a flash of her eyes. But he'd understood why she'd lied.

And Harry was continuing his struggle to understand the new insight that he'd gained from loving Ruth. That insight led him to wonder if it even mattered that Connie and Hugo had been in love. In the time that Harry and Ruth had been together, through all their deep talks, Harry had never mentioned Sugarhorse. Why would he? In fact, it was the very depth of his love that made him want to keep her far away from any knowledge that might endanger her. So why was he assuming that Hugo would have told Connie?

Harry got out of his car and pushed the button to alarm it. It was a crisp March day, and he was glad he'd decided to walk a little. The world was in turmoil, especially the financial markets, and Britain was on the brink of bankruptcy. In particular trouble was the bank chaired by his old friend, Francis Denham. A meeting this morning had uncovered a threat to Francis' bank, Highland Life, in the form of Alexis Meynell, a merciless financial vulture. Meynell not only preyed on weak businesses, he actually went after whole economies, and these days it was Britain that was squarely in Meynell's sights.

Harry was extremely concerned for Francis and for Highland Life. He'd never seen his friend so distraught. Francis was afraid that Meynell was planning to start a run on the bank, and then to bet against it in the stock market. The bank would collapse, and Meynell would walk away with millions. So Harry had placed Ros on the inside of Meynell Holdings as a tax auditor. He was relying on her to get the proof MI5 needed to shut down Meynell's operation before he was able to ruin Highland Life.

The very fact that this seemed an odd time to ransack Connie's flat made it the perfect time to catch her off guard. Harry had tasked two MI5 officers to be waiting at Connie's door as she left for work this morning. They were then to take her back inside and begin pulling the place apart, and Harry had told them not to be gentle about it. He wanted to put her off her game, wanted her to feel violated and afraid. He knew Connie too well to think that timidity on his part would force her into any kind of confession.

Only the possibility of a breach to Sugarhorse could drive Harry to these measures. The operation was too important, and although this was one of the parts of his job that he truly hated, Harry knew it was necessary. And he wouldn't be such a coward that he would let others do it and not be there to feel the consequences. He would watch, and endure what he was sure would be Connie's accusing eyes.

As he walked up the steps to her flat, he saw Connie through the window, and yes, her eyes were all that he thought they would be. And as he felt himself falter a bit, Harry told himself again that this was the only way that he would know. Once he knew, one way or another, they could both move on.

Harry came around the corner and through her front door, steeled for her anger. She nearly spat the words at him. "Comes to something when you leave for work in the morning after thirty years in the Services and find yourself manhandled back by your own side."

Harry started with what he had rehearsed on the walk there. "If I suspect you of being part of a possible security breach..."

She cut him off, her voice indignantly high, "Security breach?"

He was determined to get through this, but Harry found himself sounding like he was trying to justify his actions to her. "...then I have to exclude you from the Grid and deny you access to communication."

The problem was, Harry was having trouble meeting Connie's eyes, because every time he did, he saw Ruth staring back at him. And that made him think that Connie and Hugo had simply been two people in love, and that Hugo, in all likelihood, had never so much as thought about Sugarhorse when he was with Connie. Harry's voice took on a slight tone of resignation. "Let's let these men get on with their job. I think we both know the outcome we're hoping for."

Connie stared defiantly back at him, and for a moment, they stood in silence. Finally, she said, with acid in her voice, "Well, I'd offer you a cup of tea, Harry," she looked under her brows at the man going through her kitchen cupboards, "But I'm afraid I might hinder the progress of your gorillas." She sat down at the table, her back straight, her lips pursed, and didn't say another word.

Although the chair wasn't offered, Harry sat across from her, still finding it difficult to meet her eyes. While he watched books being thrown on the floor and baskets being emptied in just the manner he had instructed, Harry had to give himself a stern lecture about the fact that this was his job, and he had nothing to apologise for. He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his forehead, but it wasn't Connie he was thinking of. He was imagining his Ruth being asked questions about an operation of which she knew nothing, her things being thrown about, her face drawn and confused.

His Ruth. Would she always be his conscience? Forever in his head asking him questions that he'd never before asked of himself? Harry opened his eyes again, and Connie was looking at him. Her eyes were now narrowed, as if she saw some weakness that she'd never seen before, but then they quickly became accusatory again.

Harry looked back at her and sighed. She may as well have said it. Yes, I know. I'm a cold bastard.

Ruth ran her hands over the white cotton of the shirt, again appreciating its feel. She found the buttons, touched them with her fingers, one by one, as he would have, skilfully turning them inside the tailored buttonholes, and then smoothing them down in the front. It was no longer starched and crisp the way Harry had liked it. Instead it was soft, from many washings and from the countless nights she had worn it to bed and left it wrinkled and warm from the heat of her body.

It had been in her drawer for two months now, unworn. She no longer rubbed the collar with the soap, although at first she'd had to fight the urge to do so. It was another addiction Ruth had mastered, but still it never left her thoughts. She hadn't put it on, but she'd known it was there. Each day as she reached into her drawer for fresh knickers she had seen it, peeking from the shadows in the back, just as Harry peeked from the shadows of her mind, always.

And now another decision. She knew that she should place the shirt in the box of things she was sending to the Polis Community Centre for the thrift shop. She tried to imagine Harry's shirt on one of the poor men in the mountains, its high quality and fine tailoring being tested day by day with the sweat and dirt of hard labour and farming. A catch on a harvesting knife would start a small rip, which would grow and fray. Finally, tattered and no longer any colour resembling white, the shirt would move into the rag heap to clean equipment and live in the shed. And as she sat on the side of her bed, Ruth thought miserably that it would be a fitting end for another symbol of their love.

For now, Harry's shirt had a new purpose, as it served to catch Ruth's tears. She wasn't ready to make this decision. She'd sat here on the bed for twenty long minutes holding it, turning it over in her hands, dealing not only with the shirt itself, but with the flood of memories that it held. And giving it up, of course, was not just giving up the shirt. It was letting go of another strand of the rope, breaking a piece of the thread, extinguishing one of the very last shreds of hope that still held a tiny flame alight in her heart.

Ruth stood, finally, and walked to the bathroom. She opened the cupboard and took out what was left of the sandalwood soap. She hadn't used much of it, but she wondered at how resilient it was, how the aroma still wafted from its waxy surface every time she held it to her nose. She wondered how long it would last. Not just the soap, but all of it. The aroma, her love for Harry, her refusal to let things go.

Ruth sighed deeply, and pulled off her t-shirt. She was packing today, so she wore no bra, and now as she pulled Harry's buttoned shirt over her head, she felt the familiar smoothness as it slid down her arms, over her bare breasts, and rested finally on her neck. She hugged her arms around her chest and looked in the mirror at her rosy, tear-stained cheeks.

She looked down and saw the small, dark spots of moisture that spread into the cotton of the shirt, and then Ruth raised her head up to meet her own eyes. Desperately sad eyes, and at times like this, Ruth thought she had progressed no further than when she'd sat on the Vespa in the field after reading Harry's letter of goodbye so long ago. Now she knew that it would never go away, this longing for him. It was like the ghost pains that plague people who had lost limbs. The ache that resided in the ankle of a leg that was no longer there. And because it was no longer there, treatment was impossible. They lived with it, pure and simple. And so would she.

Ruth pulled the shirt back over her head and folded it gently, tenderly, on the sideboard. She straightened the collar and aligned the shoulders, tucking the sleeves carefully, methodically, behind. Then she took the soap and placed it in the centre of the chest, and folded the sides over it, holding it firmly inside.

She put her t-shirt back on and went out to her carryall on the bed. Harry's white shirt would go with her to George's house, to her new house. It shouldn't, but it would. Ruth sighed again, knowing that she had lost this battle. But the next one, she was determined she would win.

Tomorrow night, she would sleep in the mountain house. The house that was everything she'd imagined, and more. She would sleep in the same bed with George, and she knew that what would happen there hadn't a chance of matching even a kiss with Harry. She would give her body in the hope of finding something, anything, to fill the spaces that still yawned in her heart, and what she hoped now was that it would at least be pleasant, warm, and a tender way to show her love for her friend. God knew George deserved that much after all this time.

Ruth lifted what she'd already packed into her carryall, and placed the bundle of white cotton under it, safely at the bottom. Then she inhaled deeply and said aloud, wearily, impatient with her own weakness, "Let's get on with it, shall we?" and moved on to the next drawer of her armoire.

The minutes ticked by and the two officers seemed to be finding nothing. It was what Harry suspected, because of course, this was never really about finding anything. Connie was too smart to have Sugarhorse files in a kitchen drawer. This was more about intimidation, about letting her know that his mistrust had gone a notch higher.

The men finished, and the agent in charge gave him a look with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, You're sure you want us to leave it this way? Harry returned the man's look with a slight nod. Yes. He rose and put his hand on the man's shoulder, leading both agents out into the hall.

Though he already knew the answer, Harry asked softly, "So, nothing?"

"No, found nothing, sir," the man said, as he moved past him outside the door.

"Thank you," Harry said, nodding.

Connie still sat at the table, her face marked by the anger she was feeling. Harry walked back into the room, closing the door behind him.

Connie crossed her arms and glared at him. "So, is that it? Is this over now?" She shook her head, incredulously. "Harry, I don't know what theory this is part of, or what you've got on your mind." She put her head in her hand, dumbfounded.

Harry was still standing, and now he began to pace. "You want to know what's on my mind, Connie? You and Hugo Prince." He stopped pacing and looked down at her, sarcasm in his voice. "Well, then you barely knew him, did you?" He kept his eyes on her, willing her to continue to lie to him. Again the picture of Ruth came into his head, and he pushed it away, trying to convince himself, This is completely different.

And surprisingly, Connie broke. She looked down, and said more softly, "If I lied to you about Hugo Prince, it was because it was private."

"Then you don't deny that you had a long-standing affair with him?" Harry walked around so that he was even closer to her. This was the time for him to come in for the kill, but Harry didn't quite have the stomach for it.

Connie let out a loud sigh, and leant back in her chair. "I know what you're implying." She looked up at Harry with fresh venom in her voice. "But unlike you, Hugo knew when to stop." Now she spoke more softly again, with a hint of tenderness, "Whatever time we had, he didn't spend it talking about work."

"How sweet." He'd meant it to come out ominously, threatening, but he suddenly had a vision of Ruth surrounded by white sheets, laughing as they'd talked about travel, and food, and a wedding. He remembered how far away the Grid had seemed, how incongruous it would have been for him to inject Sugarhorse into that scene. He couldn't look at Connie anymore, so he turned away, and began to pace again. Get hold of yourself, Harry. It's not the same. You need to do this.

"It's true." Connie's voice was low, resigned. He almost heard her thoughts. How can I explain real love to someone like you?

Harry was committed now, and he wasn't leaving this flat without an answer. There would need to be shouting and anger for the truth to come out. He began to work his way up to it. "I might even believe it, if it weren't the case that there's no other explanation."

"For what?" Now Connie sounded truly angry.

"What did he tell you, Connie, about operations he and I worked on together?" Harry's voice was still soft, but it had taken on a menacing quality.

"Nothing, Harry. Nothing!"

"What did he pass to you?" Stronger now, and louder.

Connie now began to get indignant. "Harry, I don't deserve to be talked to like this."

"What did he pass to you?" Harry walked around the table, moving closer to her.

"Harry!"

"Don't!" Harry stood over Connie now, and leant down, threatening. "Because whatever it was, I will not allow you to jeopardise the operation he and I worked on!"

Connie's hand came down hard on the table, and she stood. There were tears in her eyes, mixed with the anger and the hurt. "Fine. Do you want to see it?" She hurried over to a pile made up of the contents of her upside-down shelves. "Do you want to see the only thing Hugo Prince ever gave me?" She looked through the papers at the top of the pile, and found what she was looking for. A ceramic replica of Big Ben.

"I was summoned to his hospital bed. I thought it might be for some declaration of love, or meaningful token by which I could remember what we had," Connie handed it to Harry, still overcome with emotion. "Of course that wasn't Hugo's way. All I got was a pat on the bum and this tacky souvenir."

Harry trained his eyes on Connie from under his brows, trying to read her. He could usually tell when people were lying, but she was so full of emotion, it was hard for him to discern. She had certainly loved Hugo Prince, that much was clear, but whether her profession of innocence was simply an act was still up for debate in Harry's mind.

There was one thing Harry knew, and that was the reason Hugo had given this to Connie. It was a favourite trick of Hugo's, one he'd used many times. He'd known a man who created these cheap pieces of art, and had often hidden things inside them.

Harry threw the piece to the floor and hit it hard with the heel of his shoe. Connie cried out, seemingly suddenly aware of how precious it had become to her. Harry looked down amongst the pieces of broken ceramic, and there it was, a small cassette tape, appropriately old-school. On it was a typed label that read: HARRY PEARCE.

Now he knew Connie had no idea the tape was hidden, as there was no one who could act the surprise he saw on her face. She couldn't take her eyes off it. "I promise you I've never seen that before in my life."

"Get me a player," Harry said, his voice low and uncompromising. As Connie rummaged around for the mini-cassette player, Harry's heart was pounding. Was this to be a confession? Hugo telling him he was sorry, but yes, he'd told Connie everything? What would Harry do then?

Harry sat back down, and Connie joined him. They were both in the same chairs as earlier, but neither spoke a word. With shaking hands, Connie placed the tape in the recorder. She was so distraught, Harry knew this was as much a surprise to her as it was to him. She pushed the button to play the tape, and Hugo's voice, immediately recognizable and eerily disembodied, rose from the player.

"Hello, Harry, it's Hugo. If you're listening to this, it's because there's been a breach. I think you'll know what I'm talking about. And if that's happened, then I know my relationship with Connie would have placed her under suspicion. That's why I've left you this message. Because I want you to be sure that at no time did I ever mention to Connie or pass on to her anything relating to the matters we worked on. Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all, and I know my selfishness has caused her enough harm when I was alive, and I couldn't bear to leave her vulnerable now that I'm going. I hope you understand."

The sound of his old friend's voice, the tears making their way slowly down Connie's cheeks, and the sickness he felt in his heart, combined to nearly take Harry's breath away. He looked across at her, and now it was Ruth he saw. The memories that must be going through Connie's mind right now, listening to Hugo's words, Though I never told her, Connie was the most precious thing to me, maybe the most precious thing of all. Another love unexpressed, another loss of two people who might have found happiness together except for the bloody job.

Suddenly all of Connie's cynicism, her sardonic nature, the flippant way she dealt with most affairs of the heart, came into clear focus. Is this how Ruth would end her days? Remembering a love that had meant so much, but now came down to only a voice on a tape? And a voice that didn't even speak to her, but spoke instead to Harry, and spoke about the work. Though I never told her. Well, you still haven't told her, you coward, you've only told me, and she just got to listen.

Harry looked across at Connie, and thought, What have I done? A woman who has given so many years to the Services. A woman who was peacefully finding her way in the world until I dragged her back on to the Grid. A woman who lost the love of her life to a disease, but only after losing him many times over to his country. And here I sit, amongst her ravaged possessions, and accuse her of treason. I, who should know better.

Connie put her head in her hands as Harry reached out and turned off the player. And then, he too, raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing his eyes, feeling so completely like a bastard that he wondered how he would ever regain Connie's respect. He wondered if he even deserved it.

Tear-stained, Connie looked up at him, and she graciously let him off the hook. "It's all right Harry, I understand. I know you had to do it."

He still couldn't meet her eyes, and he had no idea what to say to her. Everything he could think of sounded hollow after the voice they had both just heard. He wondered what his friend and colleague Hugo Prince would think about the way Harry had treated Connie. He wasn't sure, but what he could do now was to trust her, and Harry promised himself he would put this suspicion behind him. He would tell Bernard that he had been wrong. Connie James was not the mole on the Grid.

Harry was saved from having to formulate a reply by the feel of his mobile in his coat pocket, vibrating. He had felt it earlier as well, but hadn't wanted to stop his interrogation. Now, as much to cover his awkwardness as out of curiosity, he pulled it from his pocket and pressed the button to view the screen.

Seven missed calls, all from Francis Denham. Connie was still crying, and Harry still felt like a son-of-a-bitch, but now he had to go and find out what this was about. He was essentially still in the middle of an operation, and as he hadn't shared his suspicions about Connie with anyone else, no one knew where he was. He grimaced, and speed-dialled his voicemail. The first message sent a chill through him.

Harry, it's Francis. I need to see you. Usual place. The situation is worse than I admitted. A lot worse. I'm afraid I may have destroyed everything.

Harry clicked off, and set down his phone. He could listen to the rest of them later, but he looked at Connie, his face somewhat stricken. She looked across at him, the tears subsiding, but still evident in her red-rimmed eyes. He shrugged slightly, and sighed, his look apologetic.

Connie shook her head and managed a sorrowful laugh. She put her hand up and waved him away. "Go. I know that look. Duty calls, Harry." Connie stood up. "I think I will have that cup of tea, if I can bloody well find it."

Harry also stood, and put his mobile in his pocket. He surveyed the disaster of Connie's flat, and said, half-heartedly, "I wish I could..."

She cut him off with a laugh, "Oh, I just bet you do, Harry. Go!" she said good-naturedly. "Get the hell out of here and go do your job." As Harry went out the door, he saw Connie making her way slowly through the debris toward the kitchen.

While Harry walked the two blocks back to his car, he listened to the other six messages from Francis. They all said much the same thing, Please. I need to see you, now Harry. Please call. The usual place. Situation worse. Harry, please return my call.

It was lucky that their usual place was not far from Connie's. It was a section of the car park under a mall, and Harry was there within ten minutes. There was Francis' car, and Harry gave an inward sigh of relief. Now they could talk, and he could try to find some assurances to give his old friend that they would work this out.

As he walked toward the car, Harry's mobile beeped, but this time with a text message. He stopped walking and pressed the button. Another from Francis Denham, but this time, just a one-word message: SORRY.

Harry frowned, and looked at the car in front of him, not 20 metres away. And then he saw the hose. The one that snaked from the exhaust pipe, around the side of the car, and into a window, just barely open. And then he heard the engine running.

"Francis!" Harry started running. He saw him in the backseat, and felt the acrid sting of carbon monoxide as it wafted through the small space above the window. "Francis!" Doors locked. Harry ran around to the other side, and jerked the hose violently out of the window.

"Francis!" Harry knew he was dead. He knew that he was too late, and it was because he had been accusing Connie, a woman who was innocent. Ah, Christ, another one lost because I was facing the wrong direction. Harry felt suddenly that he'd lost his instincts, his spook sense. He peered in at Francis, who looked so old in the final peace of death, the deep lines etched in his face. Harry suddenly felt he was looking in a mirror, and thought, Am I that old?

He walked wearily over to the cement wall and slumped against it. Now the smell of the exhaust from the still-running car was reaching his nostrils, so he walked further away into an area with fresh air, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He pressed in a number.

"Lucas? We have a problem. Francis Denham is dead. Suicide."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

"Lucas. My office." Harry walked from the pods toward the hallway. A productive morning so far, he thought darkly. Ransacked the flat of a thirty-year Security Services veteran, and allowed another good friend of many years to feel so alone that he took his own life.

Harry had decided on the way from the car park that he had better start trusting the people around him and stop thinking of everyone as the enemy. He'd realised he'd been suspicious of Lucas too, ever since his arrival from Moscow, really, and that would stop now. He couldn't tell him everything, but he could at least let him know what was going on. If Harry was going to keep Sugarhorse on track, he was going to need allies.

He'd realised, as he was driving back to the Grid, that he couldn't do this alone. He thought of Francis' face again, of how alone he looked in the backseat of that car. He thought of Connie's face, bereft at the sound of Hugo's voice. And finally, Harry had a good long talk with Ruth in the car, asking her what he should do. He knew what she would say if she were really here, and her sweet voice came back to him, telling him to stop trying to go it alone, and to allow those around him to help him. She told him to trust someone.

Harry hung up his coat and jacket, and sat down at his desk, as Lucas followed him into his office. He opened his top right drawer and dropped Hugo Prince's tape into it, and then began, without preliminaries. "I have a confession to make. I'm afraid that when I told you I'd never heard of Sugarhorse, I was lying." Harry paused, and then continued, "And I need you to remember everything that happened at the time that it was mentioned.

Lucas' voice had a hint of suspicion in it. "Why?"

"All I can tell you is that Sugarhorse is the most important network in the history of MI5. And now it's been compromised."

Lucas turned his back, and walked a few steps away from Harry. His voice was low, measured. "Do you know what they were doing to me when it was mentioned?"

"Yes." Harry knew this would be hard for Lucas, but it had to be done. Now that Connie was cleared, he needed to get a grip on this problem, determine some way to find out who the mole was. "And I still need you to put yourself back there. Who was present? Any detail that might ..."

Lucas was clearly already putting himself back there. His voice quavered as he remembered. "I was tortured for seventeen days, continuously."

Now Harry could see how affected Lucas was just by talking about this. The pain was visible on his face. He felt for him, but still he needed to know, and Lucas was the only one who could tell him. "Lucas, I..."

"Was Sugarhorse the reason?"

Harry almost said, I don't know. He nearly spoke it, but stopped himself. If Lucas could survive seventeen days of waterboarding, then the least Harry could do was tell him the truth as he knew it. "I'm certain it was."

Lucas looked at Harry with contempt. His voice was angry, low. "But now you want me to just put myself back there without telling me anything about what I was tortured for?"

"Lucas..." This was not going the way Harry had intended, certainly not the way he had imagined it in the car.

His voice rising, Lucas turned on Harry. "Don't you dare try any of your sanctimonious, good-of-the-nation crap on me!" Now Lucas smiled cynically, and shook his head, "There are limits to what you can ask of people, Harry. Even in our business." Lucas went to the door and opened it, stepping out into the hallway.

Quickly, before Lucas could get away, Harry said, "I'm sorry." He couldn't look at Lucas as he said it, but he truly was sorry. At this moment, Harry was having a great deal of trouble understanding where things had gone so terribly wrong on the Grid, and his overwhelming feeling was that of having lost control. Of his people, of his emotions, and of arguably the most important operation of his entire career.

Lucas didn't acknowledge Harry's apology. In fact, far from absolving him, Lucas stepped angrily back into the office and said, "And by the way, if I were you, I'd talk to Jo. You probably haven't noticed, but she's in trouble over what happened. A lot of trouble." Lucas walked out the door again, and down the hall, leaving Harry alone.

You probably haven't noticed. Another indictment, and now about Jo. Harry had noticed, he'd just had no bloody idea how to handle it. He knew that after an experience like Jo's, it wasn't unusual for a woman to see her rapist's face. But Jo was seeing Boscard everywhere, even during ops, and Harry was afraid that she'd been traumatised more than anyone knew. Harry had been holding off, but now he thought it was time to use the only solution he could think of. He reached into his drawer and pulled out the Redbacks file.

Opening it, he touched the photos that lay at the top. Adam had filed his usual report on Jo's abduction and time in captivity with the Redbacks, but had then brought these photos and a secondary eyewitness report in to Harry for safekeeping. At the time, Adam was unsure about which report would function best to help Jo heal.

The two sets of reports told the same story: Boscard was dead. How he died was where the official report differed from the one Harry held in his hands. Jo, in her blind rage, had turned on Boscard with her fists. Adam had known that she needed to express that rage, and he'd closed the door and allowed her to take her revenge.

What Adam hadn't counted on was the extent of Jo's power in the throes of that rage. With her bare fists, Jo had killed Boscard, and then she had promptly blocked it from her memory. Harry took the photos and placed them in an envelope. As soon as they had Meynell safely where they wanted him, Harry would take Jo aside and show them to her.

Yes, Lucas, I've noticed. I notice everything. I just don't always know what to do.

Ruth waited until the breathing next to her was rhythmic and even, and she quietly pulled the covers back and slipped out of bed. She walked naked to the closet and felt her way until she found her cotton t-shirts where she had just this afternoon put them on the shelf. Everything was new and strange, as if she were in a dark and foreign hotel room. She pulled the t-shirt over her head and made her way out of the bedroom. She walked past Nico's empty bedroom, remembering the sparkle in Christina's eyes as she'd offered to keep him for their first night together in the new house.

It was a pleasantly warm night, as Cyprus was starting its rise toward the hot summer she remembered from last year. Ruth tiptoed her way down the stairs and across the tile floors, and now she could move more by sight than by feel, as the doorway to the patio was illuminated by a bright moon, not full, but waxing toward it. She stepped out onto the smooth rock floor of the patio, and full into the moonlight.

She could see the water from here, the vast black Mediterranean with its dark blue flecks where the moon traced a line that led straight to the horizon. The blue of the Mediterranean. That's all it took, and Harry's arms were around her again. He stood behind her and whispered, "Aquamarine" in her ear, and she pushed him resolutely away, whispering back, "No, not on this night."

Ruth walked down the four steps to the pool, and then pulled her t-shirt over her head, standing openly nude in the moonlight for a moment. She could feel the slight breeze that came off the sea, and it was cooler than it had been in the house. Ruth relished the privacy and the beauty of this place as she listened to the soft rustle of the leaves and the hushed chirp of the night birds. She felt she might be the only person in the world right now.

Her skin rose in tiny goose bumps as she steeled herself to step into the water, knowing that the unheated pool would be a shock, but she was looking forward to it. She wanted the freshness, the cleansing that it offered, and she walked down the steps without pausing, letting it take her breath away, until she was completely immersed, and swimming. She pulled herself under the sparkling moonlit water with strong arms all the way from one end to the other, and rose noiselessly. The flagstone around the pool was still warm from today's sun, and she crossed her arms under her head, feeling the welcome warmth rise up to her cheeks.

Ruth lay there, letting her legs dangle weightless, and listened to the light lapping of the water, and to her own breath. Now in the chemicals of the pool, she could feel the slight rawness of her face where George's beard had scraped, so rough, so different from ... No, Ruth. Don't compare. That way madness lies, let me shun that. Ruth's face moved into an incredulous smile even as her forehead wrinkled into a frown. Quoting King Lear, just as Harry would.

She let go of the edge of the pool and slipped under the water again, swimming silently so as not to wake George. She needed this time alone to process the change that had just happened. And she wanted to deal with the slender feeling of betrayal that had nagged at her from the very moment George had set down his glass of wine, taken the glass from her, and led her gently by the hand to the bedroom.

Gentle. That would be the word she would use to describe how George made love. As if she might break, and with a reverence that made her feel like a virgin again, almost pure, like a girl. It was nearly ... charming ... if one could use that word to describe sex, and Ruth was grateful that it had served to remove her from the process, as if she wasn't expected to know how, or was even expected to participate. As if she were simply being worshipped. She knew that being worshipped could be lovely, but it also detached her from the worshipper. It created a separation between the two of them that she knew she would have to try to bridge someday.

Ruth stepped up to the stone surface around the pool and allowed the water to drip down her skin and collect around her feet. Now the air felt much cooler, and she shivered just a bit, moving toward the stack of towels on the rock wall. She pulled one around her, and its fluffy softness and fresh-washed smell was luxurious. She leant back against the wall and looked again at the sea. What a life I have fallen into, she thought. And fast on the heels of that thought came, Ungrateful wretch.

How many women in the world could never even dream of having this life? A beautiful house, exquisite nature around her, the richness of the pool with its cool water and privacy. It felt like living at a resort on an ongoing holiday. George had even told her she could stop working if that was what she wanted. She could stay here and plant her herb garden, tend the house, walk the fifteen minutes through lush trees on the road to the market, swim with Nico, cook, read books, and be loved by a man who had no other desire than to make her gloriously happy.

What a species we are. The words slipped unbidden into her head, but in quite a different context than the last time she had said them, sitting across from Harry and drinking white burgundy. Then she had meant that spooks were quite a species, combining the menacing talk of thermobaric bombs with the elegance of a refined evening over a glass of wine. Now the phrase took on a new meaning for Ruth.

This time she was chastising herself for wanting more. She was cursing the trait of human nature that takes for granted what it's given, and struggles after what's not. Ruth had everything here she could possibly want, and, desolately, she knew in this moment that she would trade it all for a life with Harry in the lowliest hovel anywhere in the world.

Moving to sit in the chair on the patio, Ruth sighed, and she felt the tears begin to come. She knew this would never stop, that Harry would never leave her. She'd known it for a long time, but she'd held out a desperate hope that making love with George would surprise her, and that the thread that held her to Harry would transfer to George miraculously in that most intimate act. But it hadn't, and now she knew for certain that it never would.

Making love with George had reminded her of Jonathan, the man at GCHQ. It was a strangely sterile blending of mind and body. She'd enjoyed the way Jonathon thought, and had wrongly assumed that the thrill she felt in his ideas would carry over to their lovemaking. Instead, although the closeness was always nice, she'd found herself going through the motions somewhat, and had felt a bit guilty each time about being glad it was over.

Ruth held the towel up to catch the tears that continued to fall soundlessly, trickling and blending with the chlorinated water that was still evaporating from her cheeks. That had been the revelation of making love with Harry. She'd thought she knew what lay ahead of her, even with him, but she'd quickly learned that anything she'd known before Harry had been a pale imitation.

As she'd done so many times, Ruth closed her eyes and relived those moments with Harry of climbing the mountain and then flinging herself off it with him. The weightless trusting, the split second where she lost complete awareness and could have been on any planet in the universe, as time stopped. Even now, sitting in the Cyprus moonlight, just thinking about it sent a chill down her neck and caused her thighs to tingle deliciously. And then the tears fell faster, as she realised she was feeling more, just thinking about Harry, than she'd felt an hour ago with the reality of George.

Ruth put her face down into the towel now, as she felt a sob rise in her throat. Oh, Harry. No matter what I do, I can't stop loving you. However I try to wish it away, it's as strong as it was in Bath. Where are you right now? How do you feel? Do you miss me? Have you done what I've done and tried to move on? Ruth remembered Harry's story of taking his legends out to the bars in order to find women to sleep with him, and she wondered if he'd dusted off those boxes and tried it again. And Ruth knew that she wasn't very different. Wasn't it nearly what she was doing?

George still knew nothing of her past or her life at MI5, and now Ruth knew she wouldn't tell him. She had never uttered the name Evershed to him. He knew nothing of her parents, and little of her childhood. Hadn't she pulled the legend of Faith Benson off a shelf and put it on? Hadn't George just made love to a shadow?

Ruth's tears slowed, and then stopped. She pulled the towel across her face and opened her eyes to the moon. It was the same moon that had smiled down on London and Paris, Calais and Baghdad, Havensworth and Bath. It was timeless and non-judgemental, and unconcerned with the dramas going on beneath its brilliant light.

Again, the thought came, Harry could be looking at that moon right now. And Ruth wondered if their memories could be enough to sustain them. She inhaled sharply and thought, resigned, Well, they'll have to be, won't they?

Standing, Ruth rubbed her hair dry in the moonlight, and then pulled the towel more tightly around her. She walked soundlessly back through the house, her new house, and padded up the stairs to the bedroom. Dropping the towel, she slipped between the cool sheets without waking George. In sleep, his arm went round her.

Closing her eyes with a sigh, Ruth allowed herself to be held.

Harry sat in his office, going over the final reports on Meynell and Highland Life. It had all turned out perfectly, with two glaring exceptions. The first was Francis' death, which continued to haunt Harry with "what ifs." What if he had left Connie's just a bit earlier, what if he had picked up his messages, what if, what if. Harry was feeling stretched to his limit, and utterly responsible. Not only for Francis, but for all of them. His team, Ruth, Connie, Jo, and now, for Ros.

She was the second part of the Meynell operation that was weighing on Harry's mind tonight. Ros had been forced into a corner with Meynell, and the only way out of it was to allow him to have sex with her. Not only allow it, but initiate it, ask for it, pretend to want it. Harry recognised the look in her eyes the moment she'd walked back through the pods. It was filled with the conflicting emotions of disgust, of triumph, of self-loathing, of pride.

Harry saw the look, and he understood the feeling, but he couldn't feel it from a woman's point of view and he knew it. And he still had to talk to Jo. Although Harry hoped somehow that Ros would choose to have that talk with her junior officer, and that she could bring some of her own understanding to Jo's pain.

Just as Harry tucked the Meynell reports into the folder, he heard a knock at his door, and looked up to see Lucas.

"Lucas. Come in."

"Harry, I was angry last night." Lucas' voice was much softer than it had been the last time he'd been in Harry's office. Harry was glad to hear it.

"That's understandable."

Lucas walked slowly across Harry's office, until he stood in front of his desk. "When I got home, I couldn't sleep, so I wrote down a few things, and it prompted a memory." Harry leant back in his chair, his attention now fully on Lucas, who continued, "When I was meant to be out cold, I kept hearing a word repeated. Polomnik."

Harry tilted his head in a question, and Lucas answered, "It's Russian for Pilgrim. I thought it might be the name of an operation or an asset that betrayed me. So I checked it out and..." Lucas opened up the file he had carried in, and pulled out a sheet of paper, "... the only link seems to be to an MI5 officer. He's quite senior but he seems to have been retired for a while."

Harry frowned slightly, and leant forward, putting out his hand. "May I see the file?"

"I think he runs some sort of second-hand shop in South London now." Lucas watched Harry's eyes as he handed him the file, but it seemed the only thing Harry could focus on was the profile sheet on top, the one with the photo and name of the retired MI5 officer. Harry's face had gone somewhat white, and his mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but words wouldn't come.

"Harry?" Lucas frowned. "You alright?"

In that moment, it all made sense. The accusation of Connie. The veiled questions, asking for more information. The face that stared back at Harry told the whole story. Much younger, less gray, but undeniably Harry's teacher, mentor, and friend. Bernard Qualtrough.

Bernard was Polomnik, an operative for the FSB, and the link from Sugarhorse to the Russians. Right now, the one thing Harry could be exceedingly grateful for was the fact that he hadn't given Qualtrough anything meaningful about Sugarhorse. He'd told him it was an important operation and that it had possibly been compromised. When he and Bernard had suspected Dolby, Harry had given Qualtrough files of other operations that had been compromised, but no information on Sugarhorse itself.

Of course, the primary thing Harry had given Bernard was his trust, and this news was a sharp blow to the gut. Harry suddenly realised that he hadn't breathed properly since Lucas had handed him the file.

What had Bernard called them? The old team.