CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Harry still sat in his most comfortable chair, but he was now running on adrenaline, the tiredness gone. He calculated that he had, at most, a half hour of freedom, and that this might be one of the most important half hours of his life. He still held the file in his hands, and although his body was motionless, his mind was racing. He reached out for the remote and the Requiem suddenly ceased to fill the room. Harry needed the quiet to think about what he was going to do.

He was experiencing the "fight or flee" response, and he knew he had to make a decision. One half of him could clearly visualise standing up, going to the heart-shaped box on Ruth's side of the bed, and retrieving her necklace and promise ring. He saw himself change into a button-down shirt and jeans, imagined stowing the girls quickly into his car and driving to St Pancras, where he had a locker with William Arden's papers, an untraceable mobile phone, a large sum of cash, and a sidearm.

Right after Harry had received the postcard from Katerina, he'd followed the instinct to get the locker at the St Pancras Station. His senses had given him that slight but very familiar prickle that had moved down the back of his neck. It came from the times he'd been stranded, alone, with no money and few options, when he'd stood in only the clothes on his back, with no mobile, no papers, no way to run. When that had happened early in his career, he'd thought how easy it would have been to simply put things aside for an emergency, in a place that required no key but only a combination that he kept in his memory.

He always had emergency supplies available to him at his Sunstrike safe house as well, but Connie had full knowledge of that building's location. No, St Pancras was his best option. From there, he could board the Eurostar to Paris, and then, somehow, he would fly to Cyprus. He would find Ruth, and they would disappear into oblivion. Harry looked down at the file in his hands and tried to decipher if it was a sign. Ruth might say it was, and for a fleeting moment, Harry wanted very much to believe that going to Cyprus was what he was meant to do.

But then the other half of Harry Pearce intruded, the one with a responsibility to Britain and to his MI5 assets in Moscow. Harry held so many names in his head, the names of Sugarhorse assets who had given the last nineteen years of their lives to a cause in which they believed. He held them gently in his hands, and ultimately, he couldn't be selfish.

So he sat forward in his chair, and wrestled his "flee" response into submission. He determined to stay and fight. He was certain that Connie and Bernard had put copies of the faked dossier into the hands of others by now. Dolby was the most likely possibility, and from there, it would make its way up the hierarchy. It was a thorough hatchet job, and although his superiors wouldn't want to believe it at first, ultimately the evidence would convince them. Harry knew that CO-19 would be here soon, and he had a very clear idea of where he would be taken, so he had to act quickly. The first thing to do was to call Lucas.

Whilst Lucas was on the run with Dean Mitchell, Harry had taken another precaution and let himself into Lucas' flat to hide an envelope in his bedside table. He'd trusted Lucas years ago, and he instinctively trusted him now. Harry had known he would need an ally in the field at some point, although he hadn't thought it would be this soon.

And, being a great believer in back up plans, Harry had done one more thing after receiving the postcard from Katerina. He'd sent a return postcard through the same winding path to Maria Korachevsky in Moscow, instructing her to hide a duplicate of the dossier she had sent with Asset K. In code, he'd used the name Gorky, which told her that if something went amiss, he would come personally to pick up the file. That wouldn't be possible now, but he could send Lucas.

Harry looked at his watch. Half past midnight. The last time Harry had seen him, Lucas was exhausted and devastated by Dean Mitchell's death. He would be home in bed, because Harry had ordered him to go there.

Harry picked up his mobile and dialled. As it rang, he stood and walked to the windows, looking out. No activity, but he knew that would soon change. He heard the phone pick up. "Lucas."

Lucas' voice was rough with sleep. "Harry."

"Look in your bedside drawer."

Lucas heard the urgency in Harry's voice, and leant over to pull out the drawer. Feeling around, he found a large manila envelope taped to the underside of the bed table. He pulled it out, as Harry continued. "I'm being set up. We've got a mole in Section D. I need you to meet a contact in Moscow. Maria Korachevsky."

"I'm sorry Lucas." Harry was pacing now, to the window, and back toward the centre of the room. He knew that ordering Lucas to go back to Russia so soon was like asking him to revisit a nightmare, but he had no other options at present. "By the time you get there, she'll have all the information we need to pinpoint the mole."

Lucas didn't hesitate. "I'm on my way." Harry felt a rush of gratitude, and exhaled softly. Then he remembered what else was in the envelope. Maria's ring, the blue stone set in silver that she'd placed in his pocket as they'd said goodbye. Harry could still hear her words, "Please come back to me." He wasn't returning to Maria, and again he was putting her in danger, but it couldn't be helped.

The least Harry could do was get a message to her. "One more thing," he said to Lucas, "When you see Maria, tell her I'm sorry it took this for me to get in touch. " Lucas could clearly hear the emotion in Harry's voice. "She'll understand."

"And the ring?" Lucas asked.

Harry's voice grew softer. "It'll prove to her that you've come on my behalf." He paused, then continued, "Obviously, the plane ticket is for her to get back to London. She must leave Moscow and come here as soon as possible. Do your best to keep her from danger, but your priority must be the package that exposes the mole. Maria's a formidable woman. She will care for herself."

Harry paused, weighing whether or not to share his suspicions with Lucas. Finally, he thought about what he was asking Lucas to do, and Harry knew he had to trust him completely. "And Lucas?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Since I've been set up, I've a feeling I'll be unavailable. If you need the assistance of the Grid, trust only Ros or Malcolm. Under no circumstances are you to share any of this with Connie, nor should you let her know where you are."

Lucas was quiet for a moment, and then said, "Connie."

Harry could hear that Lucas was putting the pieces together. "Yes, Connie. But we must have proof."

"You can count on me, Harry."

"Thanks, Lucas. Be careful." Harry clicked off his mobile. He barely had time to sit back in his chair and begin to collect his thoughts, when his phone rang. At first he thought it might be Lucas with a question, but the name on his screen was BLAKE.

Harry sat forward again, pressing the button on his mobile. "Yes."

The Home Secretary's voice was tinged with concern, but not with blame or suspicion. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least Nicholas Blake had yet to see the faked dossier.

"Sorry for the late night call, Harry, but I need to brief you on something that can't wait till morning. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Good. Have you heard of a Polish village called Wylolszawa? It's five miles from the old Soviet border, and the Americans have decided it's the perfect spot for their missile defence shield. When the news breaks they'll go ballistic. Literally, for all we know. We have no choice. I've just seen the latest U.S. intelligence on the Syrian nuclear weapons program. The missile defence shield could be the only thing between us and an airborne strike. "

Harry could feel where this was going, but he truly had no idea if Nicholas Blake had been briefed on Sugarhorse by the DG. He was saved any further speculation by the Home Secretary himself. "If the situation escalates, I need to know your assets are in place, and that none of your Russian networks have been compromised. I need to know that you still have Sugarhorse."

At first, Harry couldn't answer. Was this a test? Did Blake, in fact, know about the dossier, and was this simply a way to get Harry to tip his hand? In the face of Harry's silence, Blake asked the question again. "Is Sugarhorse secure?"

Harry found his voice. "I can assure you ... I can assure you our position is just as strong as it ever was." He spoke with a conviction he didn't entirely feel, but even if Connie and Bernard had found a way to trick Richard Dolby out of the names of his assets, Harry would never reveal his own. That meant that there were at least fifty Sugarhorse agents still working for Britain, and Harry was determined it would stay that way.

"Thank you, Harry." There was a gratitude, an openness in the Home Secretary's voice as he rang off. Harry placed his mobile on the table next to him. Blake's information about the new American base had given Harry the final piece of the puzzle. Now he understood why the Sugarhorse operation was in the sights of the FSB. This was what had brought Connie and Qualtrough out of their deep cover. They'd been tasked to dismantle Sugarhorse before the American base was built.

Harry looked at his watch, and saw that fifteen minutes had passed. He had very little time. He'd done everything he could do, so he let go of the details, and he put his trust in Lucas to bring the evidence he needed. He reached for his glass and took a long swallow, knowing it might be his last for awhile. The work he had to do now, before they came, would require music, but no Requiem this time. Harry wanted the power and inspiration of the Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, the music he had listened to on that last weekend with Ruth, with her head on his lap as she stroked Fidget, her eyes closed.

Tonight, the music took on added significance. Those singing were slaves, in bondage, but not beaten. They sang to be inspired, to endure their suffering, and their thoughts drifted to their "country, so lovely and lost." For a moment, Harry let the music wash over him, and it gave him strength.

Putting down his glass, he leant back in the leather chair. There was only one thing more that Harry had to do, and it was to steel himself against what was to come. He knew they were coming to arrest him, and he knew where he'd be taken. Harry also knew that the questioning of the Head of Section D would require the best, and the best was Charles Grady.

His interrogation would involve truth serum, a psychoactive medication, scopolamine, temazepam or perhaps sodium thiopental. Harry had seen each of them used a number of times. Charles had a way of combining them, and then gazing at his subject with a face that could come only from a child's nightmare. Grady created a world so frightening that Harry had seen even the most hardened of double agents broken.

Harry's advantage was that he knew the process, and could go through it now, step-by-step, to prepare himself. He would ingrain the magnificent music of Verdi's Nabucco in his memory, and then, later, when he had no strength of his own left, he would draw on the strength of the music. Harry listened to the voices of the Chorus as they rose and fell, and he formed the notes in front of his eyes. He breathed them in, storing them, making them a part of him.

The first questioning would happen without the drugs, in a reasonable and rational fashion, giving Harry the chance to voluntarily break before any hard interrogation. Of course, that seldom worked, but it set the scene for what was to come.

Then the injection of the drugs, and the real test would begin. Family history first, personal failures, weaknesses, disappointments and shortcomings, in marriage, or with children. Grady would have Harry's entire psychological assessment, and Harry knew there was plenty there to draw from. Harry would hold out through that assault, and then would come the professional attack, suspicions of his team, lack of cohesiveness and loyalty, a steady stripping down of defences, of distinction, of dignity.

Harry knew that at some point, the Sugarhorse names wouldn't seem to matter to him anymore, and he knew that was the most dangerous phase of the interrogation. Charles Grady's goal would be to target Harry's feeling of disconnection and disorientation, to ask him who his contacts were, who his assets were, how he had betrayed his country.

Harry had been interrogated before, and he felt he had the strength to withstand the questioning about his Sugarhorse assets. But now, as he sat waiting, listening to the strains of Verdi's chorus, Harry was harbouring a worry about something entirely different, about someone he held in his heart.

He was thinking about Ruth.

She was his greatest secret. Harry was terrified that he might say something about Ruth. He knew that when he was under stress, in extremis, Ruth filled his mind. She was his comfort, his balm, his loveliest memory, and she often came unbidden, unwished for. He knew that as he sat in that interrogation room, his mind addled with drugs, she would come into his thoughts to offer him reassurance.

Harry focused his eyes on the empty space in front of him, listening. To the music, for it's strength. To the walls and ceiling, for his approaching captors. And to his heart, for Ruth. He begged her to stay away, implored her to leave him alone, just for the time it took to set this all to rights. Her presence would soften him, bring him regret and longing, open his heart. Harry thought he mightn't be able to bear those feelings under the influence of Charles Grady's chemicals. And if Grady saw his weakness for even a moment, he would lunge for it.

As the time ticked by, Harry felt a panic begin to rise in his chest. What if Lucas was unable to get the evidence he needed? If Lucas was unsuccessful, Harry would need to enlist help from elsewhere, and his next choice would be Ros. Harry puzzled for a moment about when and where Connie could have been turned, and how he could lead Ros to discover it.

And suddenly, it hit him. Renaissance. But before the thought had fully formed to pick up his mobile and call Ros, a movement caught Harry's eye, and he knew it was too late. Either Lucas would have to come through, or Harry would need to find a way to get a message to Ros later. He looked up to the ceiling. The lamp there was swaying, gently, as if it was caught in just a whisper of a breeze. Through the floor, Harry felt a slight rumble vibrate into his feet, and then, finally, he heard the rustle of the air as the helicopter blades moved through it.

They're coming. He consciously relaxed his grip on the arm of the chair, and tried to submerge the fear that rose in his throat. Every cell in his body was calling out for him to stand, to run, but he sat, breathing, waiting.

Then the blue flash, as Verdi's slave voices moved toward crescendo, the score pulsing beneath the shift that was about to take place in Harry's world. The study lights flickered and failed, and now there was only the blue light from the windows, and the sudden shadows of the men beyond. Harry flinched against the simultaneous shower of glass, as both windows shattered with the power of the men rushing though them. As he was pulled to his knees, Harry raised his hands in submission before they were immobilised behind his back.

Then the hood. And then darkness. And as the music scratched and stopped, Harry hoped he had absorbed enough strength from it to get him through this night and whatever lay beyond it.

Ruth clicked, and the email opened. Not from Harry, or even Malcolm, as she had expected. It was from Isabelle.

I hope this reaches you. A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today. I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again.

And just like that, it all came flooding back to her. In only five simple sentences. In their wake came the fear, the helplessness, and the cornered, trapped feeling. Frantically, Ruth worked at calming her heart and her breathing, but she couldn't stop her mind. She suspected it wasn't the Redbacks again, nor Yalta, but someone new, different. A fresh adversary, but who?

A very tall man, Indian I believe... Ruth read the sentence again, and a chord was suddenly struck in her. She closed her eyes, and she was back at the dinner table in Baghdad. She saw the lascivious look around Amish Mani's mouth as he asked her about her relationship with Harry. Ruth's frown deepened and she pushed the memory away.

Opening her eyes again, Ruth looked around her at the dark of the house, now gone so quiet with George and Nico asleep. She heard the soft whisk of palm leaves sweeping the outside walls in the breeze, and suddenly, a sound that had seemed so normal, almost comforting just minutes ago, became ominous. It had seemed as if no one in the world knew she was here, but now the peace and security she'd been feeling on Cyprus began to falter. Ruth took a deep breath and again tried to calm herself. They still don't know where I am, she thought. It's a long way from Paris to Polis.

But then, Ruth wondered miserably whether anyone really leaves the Services, as she remembered putting her carry-all on the highest shelf in the closet when she'd moved into this house. In essence, it was still packed, just as it had been when she'd gone to Bath with Harry, and as it had been when Adam had brought it to her from her flat on the Rue du Banquier. Not with the same things, certainly, but packed in the same way. For a week-end, or for an emergency.

And it still held Harry's shirt with the sandalwood soap tucked neatly inside. Ruth had been afraid that George would discover a man's shirt in her drawer, and she couldn't stand the look she knew he would give her. She'd managed to convince herself that it was out of care and concern for George that she'd hidden it away. But she was aware enough to know that the best care and concern she could show would be to discard it. She couldn't bring herself to do that, so she hid it.

Their passports were in the top drawer in the bedroom, easily found. She kept the car keys in the sunshade on the driver's side so she never had to look for them. She told herself these were just commonsense ways to be organised, but she knew they came from her training. She was ready on a moment's notice to escape, and really had been, no matter where she'd lived, from the moment she'd left England. Ruth put her head in her hands and sighed. George had no idea who she was, really.

Ruth read the email over again, and found herself wishing Isabelle had been just a bit more specific. And then she realised that perhaps this was all the information Isabelle had. Now that her heart had calmed a bit, Ruth had to admit that it wasn't that much, and in fact, it wasn't a lot to be afraid of. If Amish Mani was looking for Sophie Persan, it had to do with the uranium, and if that was the case, Harry would be a much easier person to find. Ruth knew only that the uranium was hidden in Norfolk, but so did both Harry and Libby McCall. Mani wouldn't have to come all the way to Cyprus to get that information.

But that meant Harry was in danger, and now Ruth had a dilemma -- to write to Malcolm with this knowledge, or not? Suddenly, Ruth felt bone-tired, and looked at the clock on her laptop. 2:40 in the morning. As it always did, her mind calculated London time. 12:40 a.m. Where was Harry? What was he doing? Sleeping, she supposed, as she should be. Ruth copied the email over to her computer and closed her laptop. This can wait until I'm more coherent, she thought. The last thing she wanted to do was to send a hasty and reactive message to Harry.

She would let him have one more night of peace.

"There were angry scenes in Moscow this morning as Russian leaders reacted to the announcement of U.S. plans to place missile defence bases in eastern Poland. One senior minister called it the greatest act of aggression since the end of the cold war. Meanwhile the Prime Minister backed the White House's statement that the U.S. plans are purely defensive, and to offer protection from rogue states. The Prime Minister also paid tribute to Alexander Borkhovin, the Russian Foreign Minister who died overnight, following his collapse yesterday from a suspected heart attack."

Ros stood watching the BBC broadcast with her arms crossed in front of her, whilst she also kept her eyes on the technicians installing listening devices to the walls of the Grid. Considering Richard Dolby had also taken over Harry's office, she felt a few questions were in order.

Dolby had responded that Harry had been arrested under suspicion of being an FSB mole, to which she had characteristically replied, "That's impossible."

Dolby was also annoyingly in character. "That is entirely possible. And in his absence, I'm taking control of this section. I expect all officers to observe protocol. You work as normal, and you report directly to me. And while we continue investigations, all your communications will be recorded and analysed by Internal Security."

Ros lowered her voice, not believing what she was hearing. "This team is absolutely loyal to Harry Pearce. You cannot expect them to hear that information and carry on as if nothing's happened."

Dolby snapped out his answer. "I do not believe that Alexander Borkhovin died of a heart attack. I think the Russians are up to something, and until you find out what it is, and how it relates to this crisis, I don't want to hear another word."

Ros had dispatched the team with her usual efficiency. Alexander Borkhovin seemed to hold the key to what was happening to Harry, and Ros had everyone mobilised to find out how Borkhovin actually died. To top it all off, Lucas was missing, and no one had any idea where he was.

If everyone hadn't been quite so busy, they might have noticed that Connie was acting very strangely, almost as if she walked in a dream state. Before sitting down to listen to the chatter on the wires as Ros had instructed her to do, Connie watched Dolby as he talked on the phone to the Home Secretary. She had a fair talent for reading lips, a skill she'd picked up in Russia many years ago.

I'm afraid that might not be true anymore, Sir. I believe Harry Pearce has been passing secrets to the FSB. I've sent you a dossier. I think you'll agree the evidence is irrefutable. Connie put the headphones on, but kept her eyes riveted on Richard Dolby's lips. Isolate him, identify and pull back his assets. I'm going to see him now, but I believe it will take more than asking. If I may, Sir, it would help if you would visit Harry later, after we've had a go at him. You may be a more convincing presence. Yes, thank you, Sir.

Connie watched as Dolby hung up the phone, exited Harry's office, and moved toward the pods. She smiled, knowing that Richard would be her greatest ally here on the Grid. They had, after all, worked together for over thirty years.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Harry knew where he was, as he sat alone in the cavernous room. He had certainly been here often enough, albeit sitting on the other side of the table. This was the special interrogations room, deep in the catacombs below Thames House, and it was reserved for singular guests – officers who stood charged with betrayal of the realm.

Harry had no idea how long he'd been here, or what time it was. He'd been cuffed and hooded whilst in his study, his knees sinking uncomfortably into the shattered glass on his recently acquired Persian rug, and then he'd been roughly thrown into a van and driven here.

The hood was an absurd, almost comical touch, of course, as Harry knew this building nearly as well as he knew his own home. He'd mentioned it once during the drive, but it seemed the current members of CO-19 had misplaced their senses of humour. Then it was on to the holding room, where he'd been summarily stripped and searched, which was always an unpleasant and humiliating process, and finally to the interrogation room with its one table and two chairs.

There was a bright light above the table, and Harry squinted up at it. He'd always felt that this room was like an operating theatre, with its surgeon's light overhead. He knew what was done in this room was very much like surgery. What was accomplished here was the extraction of information, not unlike the removal of a cancer, or some tainted, offending organ from the body politic.

In fact, although it looked like a simple cement-floored basement room, everything about it was calculated. Even the placement of the light itself was intentional, as it tended to transform anyone under it into a ghoul or something of another world. The dark shadows under the eyes, the nose and at the base of the lips to the chin, in stark contrast to the bright forehead and cheeks. It drew every feature down into macabre lines, rendering faces into the stuff of bad dreams.

And Harry knew that would come into play. Oh, how he wished he'd gotten more sleep in the last few days. He knew the script that had to be followed. He would tell them he's not the mole, and they wouldn't believe him. He would want to tell them the mole was Connie James, but he wouldn't, because he had no proof. Lucas would get him that proof, but until then, he wouldn't tip his hand about Connie. For now, he would talk only about Bernard, but he held out little hope that they would believe that, either.

Oh, Connie. Harry put his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead roughly. He had fallen for it all. Her tears, her years of service, her love for Hugo Prince, the wounded look in her eyes when he'd accused her. It was straight from the textbook, and he'd fallen for it. He remembered the way she had stared at him as she'd handed him the dossier, and now, with his new knowledge of her, he could recognise the triumph and the taste for blood in her eyes.

Harry put the heels of his hands on his eyes and pressed hard. Bernard and Connie. The two of them had been playing him for a long time, he supposed, and aside from the embarrassment of having fallen into that trap, Harry felt a sharp stab of something from his memory. He'd looked up to Connie and Bernard as older, wiser spies. He'd admired them, listened to them, tried to learn from them. But now Harry was feeling like a child again, naive, impressionable, gullible, remembering tricks played on him by the older boys in school.

This won't do. Harry inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. This was a night he would need every ounce of strength and training at his disposal. He looked around, seeing the silky darkness of the corners, and now, as he was alone, he stood, and walked the perimeter of the room. Later, when the drugs took effect, he would need this benign memory of the emptiness of these corners. He would be imagining every terror that still resided in the recesses of his brain, and they would all be living in this room. He needed to see now that they weren't really here.

He ran his hands across the firm, solid walls. They wouldn't be solid later, they would breathe and seem liquid, as if they were poised to drown him, to choke the life from him. Harry knew that he would want to say anything, admit anything, just to escape from this room, so now, he made it his ally. He peered up into the ceiling, far above, and saw that there was nothing there. And he gave himself a memory of comfort, of the unyielding protection of this room. In his mind, he made it a safe place, a warm place.

Warm. Yes, the heat was rising, as he expected, just another part of the process. As he felt the cool cement of the walls under his fingertips, Harry felt a trickle of sweat as it travelled from the back of his neck and down his spine to his bare buttocks below. He was naked under the thin, itchy material of the boiler suit, stripped bare, his genitals untethered, loose, vulnerable. And he said a silent prayer that he was in England, for at least Harry knew that this would be a brutal interrogation of the mind, but not of the body.

Harry sat again in the chair, and thought of Lucas, tortured for seventeen days without rest in the most vicious way possible. And now Lucas was his only hope. Lucas and Maria. After all these years of service to Britain, Harry was depending upon a man who had spent eight of the last nine years in a Russian prison, and a woman he hadn't seen in nearly nineteen years. It had all come down to this.

Now, before it all began in earnest, Harry closed his eyes and recalled the music. He began to hum softly, and the memory swelled in his head, almost as if he were still sitting in his study, in the most comfortable chair he owned. He heard the voices of Nabucco's Hebrew slaves as they gained power from each other, their strength coming from their sheer numbers.

And as the music took hold inside him, he saw Ruth, her head in his lap, but this time, her eyes were open, and she was gazing up at him. "You're strong, Harry," she said, softly. "You're very strong." Then she reached her hand up to his cheek, and whispered, "I love you." The music enveloped them both, and Harry felt he could withstand anything.

Harry opened his eyes at the sound of the tumblers of the lock on the door. He looked up and saw Richard Dolby step into the room. Just behind Dolby, in the shadows, Harry could just make out the large and ominous form of Charles Grady.

Ruth woke with a start to find George gone. She looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was 10:15, hours later than she usually slept. George would have gotten Nico up, taken him to school, and then gone on to the hospital. It was a testament to how exhausted Ruth had been that she hadn't heard any part of that activity.

She ran her hand across her eyes, squinting at the early-summer sunshine that spilled into the room. Throwing back the covers, she sat up, and then stood and walked in her nightgown to the double doors that led out to the patio. They were open, and a soft breeze blew the sheer curtains inward. For a moment, she closed her eyes and remembered the bed at the Hotel Anassa, the feel of Harry's back as she snuggled against it, both of them fully clothed, napping peacefully.

Ruth opened her eyes again and sighed. So many memories that wouldn't go away, and she'd all but given up trying. Ruth walked out on to the patio and leant on the rail, looking out at the sea. Now she was remembering Isabelle's email from early this morning, and her dilemma about whether or not to answer it. She needed to understand if her answer would be truly necessary, or if she only wanted to write in order to make contact, to touch Harry somehow.

Her decision wasn't made any easier by the fact that all of her senses were telling her there was something wrong. She was getting better at compartmentalising, and for the most part, Harry now resided quietly in a corner of her heart that she didn't use often. He would always be there, but if she didn't open up that part of her and look at it, she found she could get on rather reasonably with her life. But as she stood now, gazing out at the blue of the sea, Harry's corner of her heart wasn't quiet. She couldn't isolate it, but there was a disturbance there.

Somehow it seemed to be connected to the message from Isabelle. If she were to send Harry the information, it would need to be cryptic, because the Baghdad operation had been as close to a black op as possible. It was entirely under the radar, and Ruth had to assume it had been kept from everyone, even from Malcolm.

Ruth turned and walked back into the house. For a moment she stood in the middle of the bedroom, undecided. Then she walked to the closet and put on her dressing robe. She would tell Harry, and let him decide from there. In the furthest recesses of her mind, Ruth realised that she hoped Harry might be afraid for her, and that he might want to protect her after reading Isabelle's note. She felt that thought drift by, and released it, unanalysed.

Ruth walked downstairs and went straight to the office, without even the cup of tea she was craving. By the time she had opened up the server, Ruth had determined what she would do. She simply copied Isabelle's message, and wrote her own brief introduction in French as well: This arrived today from a friend. Thought you would like to know. R. Before she could lose her nerve, she sent it on to Martin Wingate. She sat back, and thought, Well, that's done, then. It will be what it will be.

What Ruth didn't know was that Martin Wingate's email account had been temporarily disabled by Malcolm just a hour before she sent her message. When Ros came out to the Grid and explained that Richard Dolby was now monitoring all communications in and out of MI5, Malcolm had thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

Harry was trying extremely hard to retain his dignity as he looked across the table at the smug face of Richard Dolby. It wasn't helping that beneath Dolby's understandable concern for the Sugarhorse Operation was a self-righteousness, a sense of something Harry would almost classify as Dolby's delight at Harry's present predicament.

"You've betrayed Sugarhorse to the Russians." Not even a question, Harry thought. Richard said it as a statement.

Harry kept his anger in check, and answered evenly, "You must know, I would never do such a thing."

Richard spoke as matter-of-factly as if Harry were being briefed in his office. "Alexander Borkhovin is dead." This was distressing news to Harry, but he managed to keep his face passive as Richard continued. "The Russians claim he had a heart attack. What really happened to him?"

"I know as little as you do."

"Only three people knew that Borkhovin was a Sugarhorse asset. Me, you, and Hugo Prince."

Ah, yes, Harry wanted to say, and Connie James, and now Bernard Qualtrough. But he answered calmly, "I have done nothing except protect and cultivate Borkhovin for our use."

The forged dossier sat on the table between them, where Dolby had put it when he first walked into the room. Pushing the file closer to Harry, Dolby now gave him an infuriatingly superior look. Harry's anger began to surface, and he raised his voice for a moment before he managed to gain control again. "That dossier was faked, probably by Bernard Qualtrough. It's part of the same attempt to attack Sugarhorse just at the point we need it most."

Dolby wasn't listening. "Look Harry, I want the names of all the Sugarhorse assets that you passed to the FSB."

Although it felt futile, Harry had to keep trying to convince him. "Can't you see you're being manipulated into demanding my names, because they know once they go into circulation, the FSB will be able to get their hands on them?"

Richard leant forward slightly. "Give me the names of your assets." A bloody broken record, Harry thought, rubbing his forehead in exasperation, but Richard was still talking and getting more dramatic by the minute, "You've already made your betrayal. You've already destroyed the network. If you have a shred of humanity, you'll let me pull out your assets with my own and debrief whatever intelligence we can from them."

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. How can I make him understand that this is all we have left? "Sugarhorse is our only insurance against a resurgent Russia. If things escalate over the missile shield, the fact that my network is still in place may be our only hope."

Not only was Richard not listening, Harry saw him incline his head toward the door, as someone stepped out of the shadows. Softly, Richard said, "I think you know Charles Grady." Harry looked over at Grady and exhaled, closing his eyes. Now it begins. Richard said, patronizingly, "At least you're familiar with his work."

Richard stood and walked toward the door, but as he passed Harry, he bent down and spoke in nearly a whisper. "I want those names."

Richard left the room, and Harry now looked across the table into the very familiar eyes of Charles Grady. Charles smiled benevolently and said, "So, perhaps you'll give me a different response." Grady straightened the dossier on the table between them. "Betrayal is a lonely business, isn't it, Harry?"

"I wouldn't know." Harry was starting to prepare himself for what was to come. He was beginning to hear the first strains of the music in his head.

Charles was speaking in the soothing tones of a friend, and was still smiling. "That secret feeling of power fades so quickly. And the only thing that can bring it back is more betrayal. The irony is that each betrayal can only lead deeper into the loneliness you were trying to escape from in the first place." Harry had heard this speech before, many times. It was the prelude, the overture to Charles Grady's performance. And now, Grady spoke the words Harry had known would be next, "I'm here to help you. To release you from your loneliness."

As Grady stood and walked to another table now in the room, Harry still tried to convince him, although he knew he might as well be talking to himself. "The only help I need is in apprehending Qualtrough and working out how he framed me."

"I did make some inquiries after you mentioned him earlier." Harry heard the clink of glass against steel. He kept his eyes forward, although he might as well have been watching. Harry knew that now Grady would be selecting just the right weapon from his arsenal while he spoke, "I learnt Bernard Qualtrough has been a permanent resident of Bangkok for the last twelve years. Apparently he loves the climate. Either way, he hasn't set foot in the UK since 1996."

Harry shook his head. "No, he's in this country now. He's in this country because he forged this dossier you've been reading." Harry pointed with thinly veiled anger to the file on the table.

"Give me the names of your assets, Harry, and this can all be over very quickly."

Harry heard Charles tap on the glass of the hypodermic. He was trying to keep calm, but the heat was rising in the room, and he was beginning to feel the sweat slide down his chest under the boiler suit. "Y-you have to go to his bookshop."

"There is no bookshop." Another clink of glass.

Harry wiped the sweat from his upper lip. "It's in Greenwich." Although Grady was still standing at his worktable, Harry could almost feel the needle at his neck. He imagined the sharp stab of pain as it entered him, and the burn as the drugs moved into his bloodstream.

"The names, Harry." Grady's footsteps now, coming closer.

Harry's voice rose higher, louder. "Listen to me! I can't give you the names. If I give you the names, it will destroy the network. It will just lead the FSB straight to them!"

And now it wasn't simply imagination as Grady's hand clutched at Harry's shoulder to keep him still, and then within a split second, the needle broke through the skin on his neck. Harry felt the anger surge through him, but he waited to express it, not wanting to break off the slender piece of metal whilst it was still in his body.

The moment he felt Charles withdraw the needle, Harry pounded the table with his fists in frustration. He knew the sudden rush of blood would circulate the drugs quickly, and now he felt it, the lightheadedness, the loss of contact with his extremities, the disturbing disorientation. Then mild euphoria, a floating sensation, an urge not to care what was happening to him, a fragile peace.

This is when Harry would find out if the work he had done earlier had taken hold. He reached back through the rapidly narrowing tunnel and tried to remember, what? Ah, yes, the music. It came as if from a long way away, faintly, but gaining strength. Echoing now, first one voice, then another, the Hebrew Slaves, joining together until Harry's whole head was filled with them.

But there was one voice that stood out, a woman's voice humming, and then he saw her. My Ruth. And he thought, No, you can't be here, shhhhhhhh, you're a secret. He didn't want her to go away, because he loved her so much and she looked so beautiful, but he thought, Go now, because they can't know about you.

Harry shook his head again, hard, and she was gone. Only the music remained. He looked up and Charles Grady was sitting across from him. His voice seemed to come from the furthest corner of the room, and he spoke as a parent might speak to a frightened child.

"Now. Let's begin, shall we?"

After arriving at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow, Lucas took a taxi to Maria Korachevsky's flat, where he now stood on the street outside. He knew Ros would be wondering where he was, so finally he dialled her mobile. He couldn't have known it was on the charger, and that Ros was away from her desk. He also couldn't have known that at that moment, Connie was standing behind Ros' computer screen, trying to determine what new intel Ros had found on Borkhovin.

When Ros' mobile rang, Connie looked at it, and saw that the calling number was being withheld. She thought it might be Lucas, so she looked around to make sure no one was watching her, and she picked up. "Hello?" In the silence that followed, Connie was listening for any ambient noise, any clue as to where Lucas was, although she already had a fairly good idea.

Lucas was startled to hear the voice he least expected. "Where's Ros?"

Connie looked across the Grid at Ros in Harry's office, talking to Dolby, and she said, "I'm afraid she's with the in-laws. They've rather taken up residence. Where are you, Lucas?" When he didn't answer, Connie repeated the question. "Lucas, where are you?"

Although Connie was doing a competent job of hiding it, Lucas could hear the desperation in her voice. He needed to get off this line. Ros would have to be in the dark for just a while longer. "I'm on a little antiques buying jaunt."

Connie was quick with her answer. "Would you like me to get you some assistance getting all the purchases back?"

Lucas was still on the street outside Maria's flat. "No." Suddenly, a woman in front of him broke a heel as she called for a taxi, and shouted, Chert eto novye botinki! Connie clearly heard the female voice cursing her new shoes, and her heart began to race.

"I'll be fine. Bye." Lucas rang off quickly.

Connie hung up, and then deleted the received call. So Lucas was in Russia, and Harry had probably sent him there for another dossier from Maria Korachevsky. Connie quickly went to the roof of Thames House and made a call to Bernard Qualtrough.

"I believe Lucas North is in Moscow, obtaining another of my files. He needs to be stopped. And I know it's sooner than we thought, but while we're at it, we might as well eliminate Harry's asset as well."

The table was gone, and Harry couldn't remember how. Oh, yes, he thought, narrowing his eyes, it had been pulled, its metal legs screeching across the cement, setting his teeth on edge, disturbing the music. Now he sat alone in the middle of the room, with no protection, his arms paralysed. He wiggled his fingers. No, not paralysed, but tied. The pressure of the straps pulled against him, and he stilled.

Harry watched as Grady walked about the room, tall, imposing, powerful. Who is he? Yes, Charles something. I know who he is, and what he does. He wants the names. No matter what Harry said or did, it all came back to that. The names. And every time Charles asked, Harry heard the music, beautiful, thunderous, and magnificent, in his head.

But suddenly, Harry gasped. Graham. He just asked about Graham. The music stopped, and Harry turned, "My son has nothing to do with this."

"Hasn't he? What about your wife?"

My wife? Ruth? Ruth is my wife, but he can't know about Ruth. Shhhhhhhhhh, Ruth is a secret. Go away, Ruth! Harry was confused, but then he realised that Charles was talking about Jane, Graham's mother, his ex-wife. Not my wife. My ex-wife.

"My ex-wife has nothing to do with this. My family ... family have nothing to do with my work." The music was coming back, but not the slaves singing, it was carousel music, and there was Graham on a brown horse with red ears, going round and round.

Daddy! Daddy, look at me! Graham is laughing. When did I last hear Graham laugh? He never laughs now. Did I make him stop? He's wearing the blue shirt, the one I got in Paris, with Juliet, and gave him for Christmas ... That was wrong, wasn't it? Graham never knew Juliet, I shouldn't have...

Too loud, too hot in this room. Harry felt another drip of sweat as it tickled its way down his chest. The man was still speaking. "Of course, that's right, given that your work is your life, that's meant that your family's had nothing to do with you."

"I had to keep them apart. I had to protect them." You don't understand, you couldn't understand ... it was dangerous, there were guns, and vicious people, everyone wanted to get to me...they would have hurt them. Catherine ...

Charles Grady wasn't listening. "And what protection you gave. The kind of protection that meant that you would never be available, you would never be there, you would always be more involved with things that were more important to you. The kind of protection that meant that you betrayed every single ideal and demand they had of you as a husband and a father."

Graham was calling now ... Daddy ... Daddy ... and Catherine, too. Their faces, so open, wanting only to be loved. They only wanted me to love them. And now, as he watched the carousel turn, Ruth was there. My wife, my Ruth. You only wanted me to love you, too, didn't you? To turn away from the job and come to you. Ruth rode the carousel, unsmiling, with her hand on Graham's shoulder, standing next to him, keeping him safe. Her other hand held Catherine's tiny one, so firm, so trusting.

I've lost it all. It's all gone.

"You're right." Harry stared at the visions only he could see, his eyes wide, his breath coming fast now.

"Betrayal is a pathology, Harry. Just like your son's drug addiction, just like your wife's depression. There are symptoms, mmm? Failed relationships, a tendency to anger quickly, a preference for heavy alcohol consumption."

That's me. He's describing me. But not only me ... all of us. It was all so absurd, that Harry couldn't stifle a laugh. "You're describing half the people in this organisation!"

"I'm describing a profile that many people share features with, but for which you provide the perfect match." Now it was Jane speaking, saying the same words to him. They were shouting at each other. He saw Graham and Catherine crouched on the stairs, their faces pale, gripping the finely-turned newel posts, afraid of him. Don't be afraid, it's Daddy, I love ... I love ... Harry shook his head to erase the vision, and watched the sweat fly, sparkling in front of his eyes.

Now Jane was Ruth, shouting at him, angry, her features distorted, but she was saying, I loved you! Loved, past tense. He started to say No, Ruth, you love me still, but he stopped himself, Shhhhhh, Ruth is a secret, can't say her name ... So Harry turned and focused on him again, the man who was shouting...

"Give me those names, Harry. Give me the names of all the assets you have betrayed. You know that you want to do it. You know you want to tell me."

Graham is gone. Catherine is gone. Jane is gone. Harry felt himself beginning to disappear. Ruth is gone. There's nothing left. Nothing but my job. Slowly the music started again, as if he were coming late into the opera, moving into the high-ceilinged, ornate theatre, and there they were, the slaves, as exhausted as he was, but singing nonetheless. Their voices grew louder, and Harry felt his strength returning. He walked down the aisle to the stage, and now they all turned and were singing to him. He closed his eyes and felt their life, their determination, flow through him.

Harry opened his eyes, and there she was, his Ruth. She was smiling up at him, and she said again, "You're strong, Harry."

Harry turned to Charles Grady and said, "I want to reassure the Home Secretary ..."

Charles opened his mouth, but Harry could only hear the music. That and Ruth's sweet voice, repeating, "I love you, Harry. You're strong. Don't tell them. Don't ever tell them."