CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
Lucas was grateful that Maria made no sound when she came through the door and saw him sitting on the one chair in her flat. He held up the silver ring with the blue stone, and he saw the immediate recognition in her eyes. A flash of memory crossed her face, then she walked quickly to the radio to switch it on and turn up the volume.
In Russian, Lucas asked in low tones, "Are they listening?"
Maria answered, evenly. "Of course."
Lucas took the plane ticket out of his inside coat pocket. "Harry gave me this for you." Maria opened the envelope and saw that her destination was London. For a moment, she let it sink in. Ah, London. Harry. But he said that he would come himself, so something has gone wrong.
"Are you ready?" Lucas asked.
Maria sighed softly. "I have been ready for fifteen years." She looked up at Lucas. "But poor Harry, this must be serious if it has come to this."
The radio continued its drone of Russian in the background. Lucas remembered Harry's request of him in the early morning hours. "Harry asked me to apologise for not being in touch. He said he hoped you'd understand."
Maria let a good-natured laugh escape. "Kogda vy lyubite kogo-to, vse vse ponimayut."
Lucas translated, "When you love someone, everything is understood." He smiled at the well of memories he saw moving behind her eyes.
"Gorky," she said. Maria could still see Harry stretched across her bed reading aloud from Gorky's A Girl and Death, his voice sonorous and filled with emotion as the snow fell heavily beyond the windows.
Lucas liked Maria immediately. She had a wisdom, a calm about her that was, in many ways, similar to Harry's. The memory of Harry's voice on the phone this morning, and the look he saw now in Maria's eyes, told him that there had been something significant between them. Lucas thought she was a person he would enjoy talking with about Gorky and her views on Russia, and perhaps when she was safely back in London, there would be time. But for now, he had to keep moving. "Do you have all we need?"
Maria gave a small shake of her head. "I had to plant the package. It is one thing if I get picked up, but this is too important to lose."
"Where will I find it?"
"I hope it contains what you need." She turned to the desk, wrote directions on a piece of paper, and handed it to him. "Cafe Bedoin. You will find a friend there. You will have to be on your guard. I intercepted messages to my superior. They are looking for you."
Lucas glanced up quickly from the paper. Any doubts he'd had about Connie now vanished, because he knew that only she could have told them he was in Moscow. He moved toward the window, and looked out, as Maria continued, "They know already that you're not in London. Next thing they'll do is check flight manifests. You cannot leave Moscow under the same name."
He turned to Maria. "Can you get me another identity?"
"I have done that already. My friend will give you the documents you need to get out of Russia."
Maria's voice was unshaken and filled with resolve. With a surge of gratitude and respect, Lucas thought, Of course, this would be a woman that Harry would choose. "Harry said you were formidable."
Without emotion, she stated, "We were well-matched."
Lucas gave her the hint of a smile to let her know he understood, and then he walked to the door of the flat and opened it. Maria said quickly, "Be careful, they will be everywhere."
Lucas stopped and turned. "Maria, you know they'll notice what you've done."
She spoke with defiance, and clearly enjoyed the chance to finally say these words. "I will be on a flight to London."
Lucas felt an urge to stay with her and be certain she got on that plane, but he heard Harry again from this morning: 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. Lucas gave Maria one backwards glance, and said, "Spasibo." Thank you.
"Zabotitʹsya." Take care.
Lucas left quickly, and Maria sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a sense of joy, thinking, I will see Harry again. He wouldn't be alone after all these years, of that she was certain. He would be married again, or in love, as a man with so much passion would have to be. Maria smiled to herself. It's alright. I would like only to see him again, and then, again, I will let him go.
When Lucas had handed her the ring, she'd put it in her pocket, and now she pulled it out and slipped it on her finger. It was a bit tighter, but she moistened her skin and finally, it slid past her knuckle. Closing her eyes, she remembered the moment he'd left, and her fervent request. "Please come back to me." So much had happened since then, but still she loved Harry. She always would.
London. She'd dreamt of this moment. Maria stood and opened the drawers to her armoire, emptying it. She pulled her valise from under the bed and began folding her clothes into it, neatly, methodically.
Suddenly, from behind her, Maria heard a sharp blow to the door, and the metallic sound as the lock gave way. She stopped folding and stood tall, motionless, and her heart fell. No...please, not now. No trip to London after all. And no Harry. She blinked, and there he was in her mind, as Harry always appeared to her: a man of thirty-seven, his blonde curls just grazing the collar of his shirt, his eyes sparkling, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. She had grown older, but in her mind, he never had. And now, he never would.
The door opened behind her, and Maria gave a slight nod. It will have to be later, Harry. I'll see you later. He was still smiling at her, even as she felt the bullets pierce her back. One went through her heart, and Maria's very last thought was of him.
Ruth ran her hands along the wooden stand that held the freshly-caught fish. She pointed to one of them, and said in Greek, "That one, please, Tarasios." Don't forget the wine, she reminded herself. As he wrapped the fish in paper, she checked her bags again. Tomatoes, acorn squash, yellow peppers, lemons, and flat-leaf parsley. Some cakes for Nico for dessert. Now all she needed was the wine.
They tended to go through wine rather quickly these days. George had just brought three of the large bottles from the vineyard on Friday, and Ruth had looked this morning and found none. It will get better, and we won't need it so much. It's just the newness of it, isn't it? Of living together? She took the wrapped fish and placed it in her bag, and then paid for it.
Ruth paused. She was so close to the water, and she could never resist the sound of the waves. Just for a moment, she thought. "Tarasios, would you mind putting these on ice as I ..." Tarasios smiled at her and nodded, taking the bag. It wasn't the first time she'd asked him, and it would surely not be the last. He knew that Miss Benson loved the sea, and would be gone for at least an hour. He placed the bag in the shade under his cart, on the ice.
Now free of her purchases, Ruth swung her arms luxuriously at her sides, and walked in long strides toward the beach. It was already a hot morning, and she was glad she had worn her straw hat to come into town. Looking round, she realised again that she missed the bustle of the Square with its sounds and smells of scooters, and cooking, the voices of mothers and their children, and the clatter of the cobblestone streets. It was lovely to have the privacy of the mountains, but now that Ruth no longer worked at the hospital, her life had grown somewhat insular. Unless she came to town regularly, it consisted of George, Nico, Christina's family, and the families in the hills that they saw on George's rounds.
Ruth removed her sandals and felt the pleasure of the sand between her toes. The surface was just beginning to warm in the early morning sun, but digging down, she found the cool underneath where the heat had dissipated through the night. Ruth perched herself on the rock wall and pulled her hat down a bit further against the sun. The sea was beautiful today. It was beautiful every day. And there beyond it, was London.
Her past was always there, ready to be accessed, and it continued to surprise her how easily and quickly it could happen. As if she simply clicked to another channel on the telly. Ruth liked to think she'd forgotten, in fact, she willed herself to forget, but all it took was a brief moment of closing her eyes. She would feel a tickle of memory go down her spine, and she was back in Bath with Harry. At the Moon and Sixpence, nervous, wondering what it was going to be like to touch his skin, feel him all round her, inside her, kissing her ...
Ruth opened her eyes and took a sharp breath. Just like that, and Harry was here. Sitting on this wall alongside her, looking at the sea, holding her hand. Some days, she felt strong enough to think of him, to remember everything, but during her fragile days, it would only take a moment of remembering his touch to begin the swelling of tears that forced her to close off the compartment and concentrate on other things.
Today the sunshine was giving her strength, so she tiptoed into that closed part of her heart. She hadn't heard back from Malcolm yet, and didn't know whether she should even expect a reply. It had only been a day, after all, and she still wasn't completely sure what to make of the news that Isabelle had sent. Ruth had put her best analyst's mind to the task of finding herself from Mani's perspective, and had come up short each time.
But finding Harry might be a bit easier. All they would need to do was to follow him from Thames House to home, or watch for a meeting at Whitehall, or the JIC. If someone like Amish Mani needed to find Harry Pearce, it wouldn't be much of a stretch. And as Ruth gazed out at the lovely, untroubled Mediterranean Sea, she was worried for Harry.
He was no longer hers, but she still needed to know that he was safe somewhere. That he was in his office, pacing. Behind his desk, frowning. Ruth closed her eyes again, and saw him from across the Grid. He looked up at her, and she felt one of their shared moments, with just the hint of a smile on both their faces. That smile was all they had needed to say what was in their hearts.
And as Ruth sat on the rock wall, on an island in the middle of the sea, she squinted into the sun and wondered once more if she would ever see Harry Pearce again.
So hot. And the lights, so bright. Like four, no, five, suns revolving around me. They aren't really moving, I know that. Nor are the walls, nor the ceiling. I looked before, to be sure, didn't I? There's nothing there. Nothing there. The music ... find the music ... find Ruth ... no, not Ruth ... Ruth's a secret ... find the music ...
Harry heard it start again, comforting, steady. He heard the voices singing, his heart began to calm, and he breathed again.
But then he heard something else. First the sound was rather like a fly, then a bee, then the distant echo of drums. It was getting louder, as if Harry had stepped into the middle of a gathering storm, then a hurricane, then louder still. The music couldn't compete with it, it was deafening, the roar of a train, and then a voice, Grady's voice, loud, insistent, accusing. Harry couldn't find the music anymore, he couldn't even hear himself think.
But the voice broke through, as if it were a part of the thunder of noise. It rose, saying, "You've got lots of liars on your team, Harry!" Harry frowned, and thought, yes, that's true. Connie lied, Bernard lied. I trusted Bernard, I trusted Connie. The old team. Now I'm trusting Lucas. Perhaps he's a liar, too.
Harry saw Bernard's face in front of him, and it changed into Lucas, and then back, morphing slowly, bizarrely. Then Connie and Maria, not the Maria in the recent profile he'd seen, but the Maria of twenty years ago, with long, light brown hair, sweet round eyes, and a warm bed. I used her. I use everyone. Then Maria's round eyes changed to Connie's, narrowing, growing old. Now they're using me.
The noise wouldn't stop. "You've got lots of liars on your team, Harry! Do you know why?" No, I don't know why, I don't understand it at all. Why? Tell me. What did I do?
"Because you understand them. Because you're the biggest liar of all. King Liar!" Yes, I am! I know that. I let Maria think I would come to her, and I never did. I told Ruth I would come to her, and I never did that either, did I? Now she's with Graham and Catherine and they're gone ... gone, all gone ...
"LIAR!" The voice raised and joined with the rumble of sound, the train, the drums, the hurricane. Harry didn't think anyone would hear him, so he threw back his head and shouted along with the voice. "LIAR!" It felt good to finally say it, what he'd known for so long ... he said it now for all of them, Ruth, Jane, Graham, Catherine, Maria ...
Suddenly, the sound stopped, and Harry heard only his own voice, hoarse, ragged, distant, still shouting into the silence. The five suns flickered out, and his voice trailed away on his diminishing breath into the darkness.
The pieces were beginning to fit together for Ros. Alexander Borkhovin, Russia's Foreign Secretary, had been a Sugarhorse asset. It was now clear that his heart attack had not occurred naturally, but that he'd been murdered by the FSB. He was one of Hugo Prince's assets, but had been passed on to Harry upon Hugo's death. So either Hugo had told someone else about Borkhovin, or, what Dolby had said was true, Harry had told the FSB and had Borkhovin killed.
Ben had discovered that Borkhovin's file had been signed out twenty-five times by Hugo Prince, which was not entirely surprising. What caught his eye was that the last time the file was signed out was the day after Hugo Prince's death. Ros knew that if she found out who had signed out the file that day, she would find the mole in Section D. And she knew it could still be Harry. So she sent Ben back down to the Archives to find out who had accessed Borkhovin's file after Prince's death.
Ros still didn't know where Lucas was, but had she known, even more pieces would have fallen into place. Lucas had retrieved the package Maria had hidden, and upon opening it, had found the photo of the MI5 mole. Proof that it was Connie James.
Lucas immediately called Harry's mobile, and got his message. He hung up and dialled Harry's private office phone on the Grid, and heard Richard Dolby's voice, and hung up. The in-laws have rather taken up residence, Connie had said. Next, Lucas had called Ros, but had gotten her message as well, and he was running out of options. So Lucas called Ben, knowing he was more likely to be in the field, and he trusted him.
Ben heard Lucas say, "Connie is the mole. She is the Russian mole!" But it only corroborated what he had just learnt himself. He held the piece of paper that showed Connie was the one who had accessed Borkhovin's file after Hugo Prince's death.
"Luca –," Ben started to respond, but was stopped by the sound of the Archives door opening.
Connie James walked in and closed the door behind her. "Getting short of time. Ros thought you might need some help."
Ben closed his mobile, but he still wore a trace of the surprising news around his eyes. Connie tilted her head at him. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Sure ..." He tucked the Borkhovin file sign-out sheet in his trouser pocket and hoped that Connie hadn't seen. But she had. She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
"What's up?" Connie asked.
"Nothing. I just feel like my eyes are about to pack in." Ben sat back in his chair, feigning exhaustion.
Connie turned to him and said sweetly, "Why don't you take a short break. I'll make us both a cup of tea."
Ben leant forward again, and pulled out another stack of papers. "No, you're alright. You go, I'm fine here."
Connie stood behind him, and she paused for a moment. "Okay. No tea." She moved closer behind him, reaching into her blouse. As she spoke, she withdrew a very thin, very sharp piece of wire. She spoke in the soothing manner that a mother might use to speak to her son. "You're very young. Too young to be wasting your life with this nonsense." She walked quietly up to him and raised the wire over his head.
Ben wanted her to leave, so he didn't turn round to speak to her. He said softly, casually, "It's my duty. I don't mind."
With one quick pull, Connie drew the wire sharply across Ben's neck, being certain to sever both the internal and external jugular veins, and hoping also to cut the carotid artery. She looked quickly at her watch, knowing that death would occur within one minute if all three were cut, within about two minutes if she had missed the carotid. If an air bubble managed to enter the jugular, Ben would also suffer a sudden, lethal embolism.
She stood back and watched him, knowing that now it would simply be a matter of time. Ben stood, and then stumbled, losing copious amounts of blood as he leant across the table covered with papers, struggling toward the door. Connie saw Hugo's signature turn red, then run, and then disappear completely on the sign-out sheets. It seemed only right somehow. The Services had killed Hugo, just as surely as if someone had pulled a trigger. They had made him sick, and she'd lost him.
Now this young man's blood was washing it all clean. It was like a sacrifice of sorts, a ritual cleansing, and Connie gazed on Ben's struggle with a sort of reverence, a gratitude for the gift he was giving of his life to the cause. Her cause. The cause of Mother Russia.
Ben fell to the floor and rolled over on his back, and Connie knew he had only seconds to live. She bent over him, and spoke gently, calmly. "It's alright. It's okay. It'll be over soon. It's okay."
Connie reached into his pocket and took the paper that she had signed so long ago. She stood, threw the wire to the floor, and stepped gingerly around the pool of blood that now surrounded Ben Kaplan's body. Going quickly to the door, she closed and locked it, and then broke the lock with the fire extinguisher from the wall.
Ben's heart was still pumping the blood from his body, but it was quieter now. He struggled for one more breath, and then his heart stopped altogether.
Harry had gotten through the worst of it, for now. He knew the drugs were barbiturate-based, and continued injections would either completely anesthetise him, or they would kill him. Neither of those outcomes would help Charles Grady achieve his goal, so Harry had a reprieve for a time.
But now Harry was thoroughly exhausted. He felt he had encountered every failure, every lost opportunity, every discarded friend and loved one that his fifty-odd years of life could hold. He felt them all acutely. And he knew he would never be the same. It was too much to process, all at once.
On some level, Harry knew he would walk out of this room, and ultimately he would be cleared, even if he had to go to prison for a time. Whether Lucas had gotten the evidence, whether Harry could convince them, no matter what, he knew that Connie would make a move that would expose her. She would attempt to escape to Russia, and with or without any evidence, this would all be behind him.
But he would never forget the revelations of the last sixteen hours, because they had burned themselves onto his soul. He'd seen the faces of Graham and Catherine, of Ruth, of Jane, of Maria, and everyone he had ever hurt or stepped over. They had been unflinching in their accusations, just as he had himself. Harry felt as if he'd passed through the Final Judgement and had been consigned to his own hell.
He couldn't hear the music anymore. All he could hear was his own voice, droning in the distance. I am a man of limitations. I have fallen short in every possible area of my life, and I don't even know what it's all been for. And in this profound moment of self-realisation, another voice droned on. Charles Grady was still asking the same infuriatingly repetitive question. He was single-mindedly unaware of the personal agony Harry was experiencing, and the epiphany this interrogation had caused in him.
"You've not given me any names, Harry."
Harry had nothing left to give, so he fell back on his memorisation from his first studies in the military. His voice was a monotone, flat, emotionless. "Hard interrogation is singularly ineffective against those who have nothing to hide." He propped his head on his hands, in large part to get his hands to stop shaking.
The light was still bright overhead, and it was doing nothing to help Harry's excruciating headache. At least Charles was no longer shouting. He was speaking softly, almost kindly, "You know what they've already worked out on your floor? That Borkhovin was murdered. You ordered it didn't you ? As a first step to dismantling the network the West depends upon to neutralise Russia?"
"I did not order it." Harry kept his eyes closed, hoping to move the sharp pain in his head down to a manageable throb.
"Come on Harry, it was only you and Richard Dolby knew he was an asset. It doesn't matter how much you lie. Your own team is already piecing it together. You know how smart they are. You know how quickly they'll get to the truth. I'll tell you something else. They want to nail you even more than I do. Because of the way you've betrayed us."
Harry uncovered his face and leant back in the chair, gazing at his tormentor with a look of unmitigated hatred. He was hungry, he was thirsty, his head was splitting, and he hadn't slept more than three hours in the last thirty-six. He thought if he had an ounce of energy, he would simply reach across the table and snap Charles Grady's neck.
Connie was getting desperate. Lucas had already called once, and for all she knew, he would call again. Richard Dolby had made certain every call was being recorded, so once they found Ben's body, they would likely discover the call, and she was certain Lucas knew by now that she was an double agent.
She'd already gone to the roof and called Bernard in Moscow, asking to be pulled out immediately. He'd refused, telling her to hold her nerve and wait until she got Harry's list of assets. As she walked across the Grid, she knew that it was time to use her relationship with Richard Dolby. She walked directly to Harry's office and stepped inside the door.
"What is it?" Dolby asked.
Her first step was to discredit Lucas. Connie spoke softly, conspiratorially. "I have something that might interest you. I know Lucas North is in Moscow."
"What's he doing there?"
And Connie also needed to make sure Dolby mistrusted Ros. "I'm not sure, but Ros Myers knows he's there. She's not telling you because she expects him to make contact. They're playing a very complex game. If you want to find out what they're up to, you'd better catch them in the act.
"And how can I do that?"
Good God, but Dolby is slow, Connie thought. I'll have to lead him to it, then. "I think I need to hear what's on that listening device. I was just with Ben Kaplan. He got a call from outside. I'm convinced it was Lucas." Dolby said nothing, but sighed. Connie was getting impatient. "Richard, you and I have worked together for more than thirty years. Unless you find out what Harry's team is up to, everything that you and Hugo worked for is at stake. You don't want them to destroy that."
Dolby didn't take more than a few seconds to decide. "I'll take you to the listening suite."
Oh, no you won't. Connie put a hand out to stop him. "No, you stay here and keep and eye on them. I'll go. I'll tell you what I find."
Richard wrote some numbers on a piece of paper. "Right. This code will open the sound files."
Connie strode down the hall toward the listening suite. Well, she thought, smiling, That was easier than I thought. It's a blessing that Dolby is such an idiot. Now all she had to do was to find and destroy Lucas' call to Ben.
Amish Mani liked London quite a lot. It was a cosmopolitan city, with a large number of sophisticated people who appreciated good manners and fine breeding, both of which he felt he exemplified.
Mani had put the word out to his network in London that anyone who delivered Harry Pearce to him alive would receive an extremely large sum of money. The money would never change hands, of course, because Mani had no intention of paying, but Harry would be in his control soon enough. So now he, McCall and Hillier would wait. Harry had double-crossed them all, and Mani was determined that he would feel the pain of that betrayal.
And Mani's plans were all coming together. Just yesterday, his head of operations, Ojas, had brought him some welcome news. He'd placed Sophie Persan's Paris driving licence photo next to a picture of a sombre-looking woman with her hair pulled back. They were clearly the same woman, and when told to turn the second picture over, Mani had smiled as he'd read the label: Ruth Evershed, Senior Analyst, MI5. The word below her name had been equally interesting: Deceased. Even more fascinating was the date of death. Over three months before Mani had sat next to this same lovely lady at dinner.
After some digging by McCall and especially Hillier at MI6, Mani had discovered that Miss Evershed had a bit of a chequered past. Murder, assault, treason, and now it seemed she had faked her death and fled from England to avoid prosecution.
Tut tut, Mani thought, Harry had undoubtedly helped her in the deception. There was no advantage to letting the Security Services know about any of this, but it was just another piece of the puzzle that Mani held in his back pocket. This would be a most interesting interrogation indeed, and Mani had to admit, he was quite looking forward to it.
So after seeing the photos, Mani had nodded to Ojas, indicating that the search on Cyprus would now include two names, Sophie Persan, and Ruth Evershed. The townspeople had been suspicious so far of the men asking questions, but there had been three visibly drunk young men last night whose eyes had flickered at the photo, and one had laughed.
They'd called her the Angliká ómorfi gynaíka, the "beautiful English woman," and they'd said it with a sneer. They thought she'd had a flat in town for a time, but they had no idea where she was now. Perhaps she'd moved off-island.
That was enough for Mani to go on, and now he was sure that Sophie was still there. But it was no longer Sophie Persan that Mani was looking for. Now, when he thought of her, he called her Ruth.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Finally, Charles Grady had left him alone. But Harry wasn't sure which was worse, Grady's haranguing or his own stabbing shame. He could hardly manage to hold his head up, or to keep his eyes open. The drugs had left him drained and now slightly nauseated, and it was taking every bit of his strength to stay upright.
Lucas had to be back in London soon, or at the very least, he would have passed the information about Connie on to Ros. Harry knew they wouldn't leave him here for long. To pass the time, he worked out how it would all happen. Lucas would get the proof to Ros, and Ros would disregard Dolby and go directly to the Home Secretary. Connie would be arrested, and Dolby, who Harry was sure had been sitting in his chair all this time, would be relieved of his self-appointed duties on the Grid.
And what would happen next? An apology, certainly, which Harry would accept with the good grace and dignity of his office. A glass of cold water, a hot shower, some decent clothes, a fine English meal, beef and potatoes, perhaps, with a large tumbler of single malt, and yes, leave the bottle, if you please. And then, finally, blessed sleep. Harry could see it, he could taste it, all of it. Soon. It would certainly have to be soon.
Harry heard the door again, and looked up. Oh, Christ, yes. The Home Secretary. Harry released a sigh of infinite relief as he watched Nicholas Blake move through the doors and into the interrogation room. Finally, it's over.
Harry was almost too weak to stand, and when he pushed his chair back he saw flashes of light dancing in front of his eyes. But he would stand. Not so much for the entrance of the Home Secretary, but to show Blake that he still understood the dignity of his own office as the Head of Section D, Security Services of Her Majesty the Queen. To show that no matter how he looked, no matter what humiliations he'd been through, Sir Harry Pearce was still, and would always be, a gentleman.
Harry would have put his hand out to shake the Home Secretary's, just as if he were standing behind his own desk on the Grid, but unfortunately, he had to steady himself against the table to keep from toppling over. It couldn't be helped. And his voice was feeble and out of breath, but Harry summoned what little strength he had left to address Blake.
"Home Secretary. I apologise for being out of contact today. A little local misunderstanding has arisen." Harry could no longer stand, as he was afraid he might pass out. He fell back into the chair just in time. But even through the haze of his exhaustion, Harry had to admit to himself that the Home Secretary didn't look like a man who was intending to apologise. He looked quite angry, actually, and what was worse, he had a look about him that seemed to indicate a sort of personal disappointment.
Blake's flat, cold voice did nothing to dispel Harry's increasing fear. "I've seen the dossier, Harry."
Ah, yes, he just needs to hear it from me. He'll believe it's been faked once he hears it from me. "The dossier. It's a forgery. There's not a single word of it is true." Harry's breath was coming in short bursts now, and he was more than a little worried that he might lose consciousness. He focused his eyes on Nicholas Blake and the rest of the room began to disappear, as if they both stood in a narrow tunnel. I have to stay present. I have to focus.
Blake started speaking, eloquently, with magnitude. "The world is on the edge of an abyss." Harry thought for a moment that they might be on the floor of Parliament. Ah, he's giving a speech. I'll just listen, and soon he'll take me out of here. "The Americans will do everything to complete their missile defence program. And the Russians will do everything to stop it. The ace up our sleeve was Sugarhorse."
Was? Not was. I still have my names. I never told them. "It still is." I can assure you our position is just as strong as it ever was. How long ago did I say that? Was it only last night?
"I've been through the dossier with Richard Dolby. Alexander Borkhovin is mentioned. Maria Korachevsky is mentioned. All your communication with the FSB is documented."
"Sir." Harry wanted so much to stand and look Blake in the eye, but he knew he wouldn't stand for long. So he sat, looking up, trying to catch his breath. He knew how he sounded, he sounded weak, desperate, and guilty, but he felt he must convince him. "You have to understand this is an orchestrated attack on me and my network. A network that ... that still protects us and will still allow us to call Russia's bluff."
"It's time for you to give up those names." It was an order. A direct order from the Home Secretary.
Harry's vision was starting to cloud. No, this can't be happening. I've lost my family, I've lost Ruth. All gone, because of my job, my duty to my country and to this man. I have to make him understand. "Home Secretary, I would never betray this country, you know that. I have given ... my life, I have given... everything I have, in its service."
"And you were very good, Harry. I trusted you completely." Blake wouldn't sit, but he leant forward on the back of the chair in front of him. "And I'll never forgive you for the damage your actions have inflicted."
The words hit Harry with the force of a blow to the chest. He felt not only his hands, but his arms shaking now, and he gripped his knees to try and stop the trembling that he knew Nicholas Blake could see. Harry felt broken, lost, and completely alone, and now, to his horror, he felt tears welling in his eyes, and he was powerless to stop them. What he felt a need to do, and what he fought with every fibre of his being, was to lay his head on the table in front of him and allow the excruciatingly powerful emotion to exit his body. To cry, to sob, to release.
But on sheer instinct and without clear thought, Harry kept his eyes focused squarely on Nicholas Blake's as the Home Secretary spoke. Harry heard the disgust, the acid in the voice of the man he had thought of not only as a colleague, but as a friend. Every word stung as if a whip was meeting his skin, tender, raw. "So, when this is over, you will be stripped of everything, do you understand? The knighthood, the pension. You will die in the most obscure and impoverished ignominy that we are capable of heaping on anyone."
Harry listened, but finally, he had to lower his eyes from the torment of what Blake was saying. "The only thing you can possibly salvage is your self-respect. So, if you have an atom of that left, you will give us those names. At the very least we can save those involved and make this a fair fight with Russia." The tears were truly threatening now, and Harry wasn't sure he cared. Nothing. It's all been for nothing. Everything I've lost has been for nothing.
Blake straightened, and said with absolute finality, "Goodbye, Harry." He turned without another word, and walked out of the door.
Nothing. That's what I have left. Nothing. His head was still down, and now, mercifully, the tears seemed to retreat, as an unspeakable emptiness descended upon him. Harry suddenly found he was wishing the drugs were still in his body, because Ruth would be here. She would sit across the table from him and take his hand, just as she had at the restaurant in Bath. Her hand would stroke his, and somehow she would let him know that everything would be alright.
I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so sorry. Why hadn't he gone to her, all those times, all those nights he'd sat on the couch with the girls, dreaming of flights to Cyprus? Now, he would go, and he would hope against hope that she was there and would still have him. Right now, in this room, Ruth was all that mattered to Harry. Not the job, not the Russians, not the safety of the whole bloody world, but Ruth. His Ruth. My dearest love, my wife. My Ruth.
Harry promised himself that if he had another chance with her, he wouldn't make the same mistake as he had with Jane and Graham and Catherine. He would change. He would value the gift he had been given, and he would love Ruth in the way that every cell in his body was crying out to do now. He had given up their wedding for the knighthood that had meant nothing to him, and now he'd been told it was being taken from him. Nothing left. He'd given up so much. And now, this job, this thing that had been so important was just so much dust running through his fingers.
Then, just as Harry thought he was truly lost, the music returned. It rose softly at first, then stronger, until it seemed to fill the now-quiet room. Charles Grady stood off to the side, revelling silently in what Harry assumed he was seeing as his final victory. Grady had played his part well, orchestrating a combination of drugs and mental anguish, finishing with the ultimate degradation of the Home Secretary's disavowal. But Charles Grady hadn't taken the music into account, and more importantly, he hadn't known about Ruth.
Slowly, Harry began to pull himself back to sanity. On some level, he knew that in order to fulfil the promises he was now making to Ruth and to himself, he had to get out of this room. Harry knew what would come next. He would have to give names. He'd been given an order by the Home Secretary, and yes, Harry would give Charles Grady names.
But the names were still his only bargaining chip, and now the music recalled the thought he'd had last night, sitting in his study. Renaissance. The operation that he assumed had been the beginning of Connie's betrayal, where she had been turned. He couldn't come right out and tell Ros. Although he knew where all the cameras were located in the room, he had no idea who was presently watching him. Richard Dolby came to mind, and considering their thirty-year relationship, Connie could be another. He wouldn't give them a head-start on this information.
So he had to trust that he could let Ros know, whilst not tipping off anyone who could be listening. Ros was a very smart and intuitive woman, and she knew Harry well. She would have to know that he would never have done this. She would have to understand. He was counting on her to understand.
Charles Grady sat down across from him at the table. His voice held a peculiar combination of weariness and triumph. "Let's go home."
Harry's eyes were still glistening from the tears that had never fallen. He looked directly at Charles, and heard the slaves voices reach crescendo, as he spoke. "Before I give you anything, I want to speak to Ros Myers. I want my team to know why I acted the way I did."
Ruth opened her eyes and squinted into the sun. She thought she'd been sitting on the rock wall for a long time, remembering. Without meaning to, she'd gone through almost the entire last weekend with Harry at his house, recalling every touch, every word that she could. She realised that she'd been trying to find him somehow by connecting with him this way. She wanted to be sure he was safe. She didn't know whether she had accomplished that, but she knew she felt better. As if she'd read a wonderful book, and had lived in that reality for a time.
She hopped off the wall and picked up her sandals. The sand was warmer now, and Ruth felt a tingle on her legs from the strong rays of the sun. Idly, she wondered if she might have gotten a slight burn from sitting so long without any lotion. Ruth stepped off of the sand and onto the cobblestones, and began to make her way back to Tarasio's stall to retrieve her packages.
Ruth had a curious moment of déjà vu as she passed three young men walking toward the sea. With a growing sense of discomfort, she realised that they were the ones George had rescued her from so long ago. They were slightly older, and the youngest had grown to a size more like the other two. She looked away, but she felt their eyes on her as they passed, and heard them whispering excitedly once they were behind her.
What Ruth didn't see was the sharp turn the three made, away from the sea. They were going to find the two men who had offered them money for any more information about the English woman. They were laughing, and thinking that this was going to be a very good weekend for drinking at the club.
Ros watched as Harry struggled to stand as she walked in. Always the gentleman, she thought, although she felt she wanted to help him back to his seat. Ros was certainly no stranger to hard interrogation, but the shock of seeing Harry Pearce in this condition registered immediately on her face.
"Hello, Ros," he said, wavering a bit on his feet.
Ros immediately felt the heat in the room, like midsummer heat. She turned to Charles Grady and said archly, "Can you at least give him a glass of water?"
Grady stood with his arms folded. "I'm afraid not."
The look she gave Charles Grady managed to give even him a moment of pause. But then she turned to Harry and walked over to the table to sit with him. He'd asked to see her, and she was anxious to hear him say that he was innocent of all this nonsense. Harry waited until she began to sit down, before he fell unsteadily into his own chair.
Ros wanted to say he looked like hell, but instead she said softly, "None of this is true, is it?"
Harry was looking at her strangely. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it didn't seem to be simply the result of what he'd been through. The only way she could describe it to herself was that it was as if he was playing a part, acting as if he was someone else, as if he was reading words that someone else had written down for him. "I'm afraid it is. I've betrayed you and the entire team. I gave the names of my Sugarhorse assets to the FSB."
Although she couldn't quite believe them, Harry's words shook Ros to her core. He was telling her that he was not the man she'd known, and he was telling her with virtually no emotion. "I can understand how you must feel, but in mitigation, my priority has been the Renaissance...Renaissance of something I believe in, profoundly." Harry looked directly into her eyes, and now she saw something flicker there. She didn't know what it was, but it was something.
Harry looked away from her, down to his lap, in what seemed an act of contrition. "I'm very sorry, Ros."
She continued to look at him, waiting for something, anything, from him. She nearly expected he would look up, smiling, and make a joke of some kind, but he kept his eyes down. He had asked her down here for this? For a confession that told her that everything she had ever believed to be true of Harry Pearce was a lie?
As the time passed and he made no move to explain himself, Ros realised that he was going to say no more to her. She was so saddened by what she was seeing and hearing that she actually felt the sting of tears begin. The last thing she wanted was to cry in this place, in front of this Harry, this man she didn't know.
Ros turned to Charles Grady, and said simply, "Can you let me out now?"
Harry didn't look up until she had left the room. When Charles Grady walked over to the table and handed him a pencil and paper, Harry began to write the names, quickly, and with purpose. They were Russian names, to be sure, but they weren't the names of Sugarhorse assets. He'd been formulating the list in his head ever since he began to come down from Grady's drugs.
What he wrote was a list of the names of high-level Russian civil servants that were known to be working for the FSB. They were the thorns in Harry's side.
It was Harry Pearce's own personal wish-list of Russian enemies to be eliminated.
Ros couldn't believe it. Literally couldn't believe it. Harry Pearce an FSB mole? She stood in the lift and shook her head, though no one was there to see her do it. It wasn't possible, and if it wasn't possible, why had she been summoned to see him?
She stepped out of the lift and walked back onto the Grid. Malcolm looked up and saw in her face a combination of disbelief and distraction as she closed her eyes and tried to puzzle it out.
"Ros? How's Harry? Did he say anything?"
Ros opened her eyes. What did he say? What did he say that might mean something? Ah, yes. The word he had emphasised, had even said twice. Renaissance. Ros looked at Malcolm, and said quietly, "Renaissance. Come."
Malcolm stood and followed her as she walked swiftly to Harry's office. As soon as they were through the door, Ros said, "Pull up everything you can, related to the codename Renaissance."
Grateful that Harry hadn't yet changed his password although Malcolm had repeatedly counselled him to, Malcolm went through only a few keystrokes before the electronic dossier appeared on the screen. "Renaissance," he told Ros. "It's a retired operation. Run by Harry during the 1980's. It's object was to persuade the KGB that they had a mole inside MI5."
Ros' stood watching coolly, although her heart was beating faster. "Who was the officer used to dupe them?"
Malcolm read silently down the file, and then got to the piece of information Ros was looking for. "Connie James. Traitor."
Richard Dolby came up behind Ros. "It doesn't matter what you try. I've got the names of Harry's assets, and I've already passed them on to a trustworthy officer. Within twenty minutes they'll all be on their way to tell us what they know."
Ros finally had the chance to say what she'd been wanting to say since she first set eyes on Richard Dolby. "You are a fool. I know why Harry wanted to see me. Connie James was turned during Operation Renaissance."
And at that very moment, Connie was on the roof, talking with Bernard Qualtrough in Moscow. She was nearing the end of the list of names that Richard Dolby had given her.
"Ilya Silvashko," she said without emotion, knowing that every name she read belonged to a person who was receiving a death sentence.
Bernard sounded surprised, as took down the names. "The Undersecretary for Arms Procurement."
Connie finished up the list. "Misha Sormonov. Porto Bloch."
Taken aback again, Bernard said, "The Kremlin's Head of Internal Security. You and I never thought Sugarhorse could have corrupted him. But don't worry, he'll soon find out his part in all this is over."
Connie folded the piece of paper into her pocket, where it now rested with the sign-out sheet that Ben had found. "What about me?" she asked Bernard.
Bernard spoke grandly. "When you reach Moscow, you can expect the full gratitude of the Motherland. Thanks to you, Russia can finally fulfil its destiny to stop and turn back the spread of American imperialism."
"Do svidanya, Bernard."
"Do svidanya, Connie. Come home."
Connie hurried downstairs and stepped back onto the Grid with her mobile to her ear. She was talking to her London FSB contact. "Call for the car, I need to get out of here. Get the driver to leave the ID in Locker 416. I'll contact you when I get out through airport security."
Quickly, she grabbed her purse and walked toward the exit. Suddenly, she looked to her right, where Ros stood, looking particularly icy.
"Step away from the pods," Ros said.
Connie took a step back, and gave her best approximation of a pleasant smile. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Operation Renaissance." Ros actually managed to give Connie a bit of a smile back, although it was of the sardonic variety. "That's where they turned you, isn't it? You and Harry working to persuade the Russians they had a mole. He came back from Moscow the same." Ros lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. "You didn't."
Connie heard footsteps from behind Ros, although she couldn't see to whom they belonged. Oh, well, so it's over, but in any case, Connie thought, Sugarhorse has been blown wide open. She gave Ros a self-satisfied look. "You realise it's too late, I've already sent the names?"
Now from behind Ros came a voice. Harry Pearce's voice. "Not the right names, I'm afraid. Names I gave to Richard because I knew you'd be working hard to get him to trust you." Ros stepped aside, and there he was. Connie knew he'd been in interrogation for nearly twenty hours. He looked tired, but he was dressed in a crisp white shirt, suit and tie. And with a look that Connie could only describe as filled with revulsion.
She remembered his apology, as she had stood in his doorway just yesterday. It had been the only moment that had given her the slightest regret. They might be on different sides, but Connie and Harry had quite a lot of history, and she knew that he offered apologies sparingly, if at all. She looked into his face and took a deep breath. His feelings for her were etched there, not only from the last twenty hours, but from the last twenty years.
Connie could only manage an arch tilt of the head and a slightly playful tone. "Almost made it."
"Almost," Harry replied with a decided absence of playfulness.
She didn't even know where it came from, but Connie felt something well up in her, an anger, a repugnance of these small people and their small ideas. And the smallest of them all was the self-righteously superior Sir Harry Pearce, who now stood in front of her. Connie put her teeth together and let her vitriol spew as a snake would, as the Devil himself would, in a long and evil hiss.
Harry was unmoved. He'd seen worse. But he did need to ask her one question, the one that had been nagging at him through all of the long hours in the cement room below them. "Why? Why did you do it?"
"I don't have to explain my actions..." Connie started to say.
Harry cut her off, his tone ominous, low. "Yes, you do. To me." After what he'd been through, and with the knowledge that he would probably never be the same, Harry felt she owed him any number of explanations.
Connie nearly spat her answer at him. "I did what I thought was right. We're a pathetic little country. Putting a fig leaf of British democracy over the actions of a monster."
Jo stepped forward, still broken-hearted from the vision of Ben lying in his own blood on the floor of the Archive Room where they had found him less than an hour ago. "What about Ben?" she asked Connie.
"I had no choice." Connie turned and said it to Jo, but then quickly returned her eyes to Harry. His was the reaction she wanted to see, and his eyes were still focused, boring into her. In a sense, Connie had waited many years for this, the moment of truth. The moment when Harry realised that he was no longer the still point of the turning world. That the world had gone and left him behind. That he was a dinosaur, antiquated, obsolete.
Jo now crossed the room to Connie, her voice rising. "You had a choice." Connie refused to look at Jo. Her eyes were on Harry, absorbing the sight of him, relishing what she saw there. She saw that Harry knew his time in this new world of spies was coming to an end, just as hers was.
Jo was still speaking, "Connie. He was worth more than that."
Finally, Harry spoke. "Get her out of my sight." His only consolation was that she was headed for the very hell he'd just left. He watched until she was safely off the Grid, and then he turned to go to his office.
Ros followed Harry down the hall to his door. "I'm assuming none of this makes any difference to immediate American plans for missile defence?"
Harry shook his head. "None whatsoever. We remain at a state of heightened alert, ready for imminent Russian reprisals."
Ros handed Harry a sheet of paper. "Then we need to deal with this. Using your password, we were reassuring Sugarhorse assets. One of them sent this back."
Harry read what was written there. "Beware, Tiresias wakes, three p.m. tomorrow." He looked up at Ros. "What the hell is Tiresias?"
Ros sighed. "We don't know yet. But Lucas is on his way back from Moscow, and he's bringing a film canister from Maria Korachevsky. We hope we'll know more once we've had a chance to analyse it."
Harry nodded. "Stay on it. And let me know as soon as Lucas arrives."
Ros walked back down the hall, and Harry closed his door against the noise of the Grid. His light was off, and the murky shadows allowed him the privacy to lean his forehead against the door and close his eyes for a moment. He still hadn't slept, and he almost felt as if he could doze off right here, standing up. The change of clothes he always kept in his office had been brought down to him so that he could face Connie with dignity, but he hadn't showered or eaten yet. Harry was as exhausted as he'd ever been in his life.
I'm getting too old for this.
With his eyes closed and his head still against the door, Harry said a heartfelt thank you to Maria. He'd only learned of her death moments before he'd confronted Connie, and he was still reeling a bit. They'd been apart for nearly twenty years, but he could still see her face clearly. He could only hope that Lucas had been able to deliver his message to her, and that she hadn't remembered him too harshly at the end.
Harry walked over to his cabinet and pulled the bottle of Ardbeg from the lower shelf. The irony was not lost on him that the last time he'd poured from this bottle, it had been to offer a drink to Connie. He poured it now because he needed it more than he could ever remember, except perhaps on the night he'd waited here for news of Ruth after she'd been taken by Yalta.
Ruth. Harry fell heavily into his chair. He sat in the dark and took a long swallow as he watched the activity on the Grid. Ruth had been with him every minute he'd been in the interrogation room, for the greater part of it as a steadfast, trusting, and loving presence that had given him the strength he needed to hold his confidence and retain his sanity.
He'd made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it. One more day, after he'd slept and could think clearly. Tomorrow, after three p.m., after this Tiresias business, whatever it was, had been dispensed with, Harry would take Ros aside and give her his codes. He would force Malcolm to give him the information about Ruth, he would pack up the girls, and Harry Pearce would fly to Cyprus.
He wasn't worried about Ruth's safety any longer, because he would take her somewhere safe. They would find a beach and he would marry her, a real marriage this time.
She would wear the white flowing dress and the flowers in her hair, and Harry would never let go of his Ruth again.