Chapter Nine: A New Career in a New Town

Ruth Evershed was dead. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In her place was Lisa Denning. She wasn't a real person, not a whole one. Just scraps left of someone who had once been, gathered together under a name that was meaningless. Lisa Denning.

Lisa Denning had not given up her entire life for a principle. Lisa had not loved with a frightening passion. She had not denied herself the thing that would have brought her the greatest happiness, even if it had only lasted a week, a day.

If she had realised the strength of his feelings earlier, would it have been different? Would she have allowed them even a little time? Realisation had come too late and the knowledge of it had been almost unbearable. But she had felt it; she felt it still. Not in the chaste kiss on her cheek after their dinner, but there in the fierce possessiveness of his arms that morning. Wind raw against her face, nothing to the pain of leaving him. It had clawed at her until she wanted to crawl out of her own skin. She had done that. Her life as it was, who she had been, was gone.

Ruth Evershed was dead.

If she tried to remember the first few days they were a blur. The barge and then a boat to Ostend. A car left for her and she would never know exactly who had arranged it for her. Her invisible guardian angels who would remain unnamed and unthanked. Switzerland was the logical destination for finances. The land of lakes and mountains was the easiest and most discreet place in which to arrange an anonymous and impenetrable bank account.

What was it Harry had said? Something about how annoyed Graham Greene must have been after writing the screenplay and the only lines anyone ever remembered were the ones Orson Welles had made up; the ones about Switzerland and the cuckoo clocks-

She stopped herself. The person she was now had never known him. It was a past that couldn't belong to her anymore.

She had sat in a cafe, staring across the lake. It was a clear day, sunlight broken on the water like diamonds. She tried to find some clarity. Her brain, usually so analytical in the service of others, seemed useless for herself. They said depression was rage turned inwards. She felt both. Depression, rage, the utter loss of all hope.

He might try to find her. The thought was giddying and terrifying. It was the sort of thing he would do. Turn up one day just to say his piece, even if he turned around and walked away again straight after. A romantic daydream that she allowed herself to enjoy for a few moments; and when a man in a heavy overcoat walked past her, a firm, familiar step, her heart pounded and she turned-

A romantic daydream.

From Geneva to Vienna. She had watched this sort of thing from the outside for long enough to know how these things worked. It was almost laughably easy. The package of passport and papers Adam had given her were the forgery suite's finest work. Malcolm had done her proud. But they would know the name on the documents. And so- He could never know. If he looked, he must not find her. The skills of a Viennese forger matched those of her former colleague. She remembered his blue-grey eyes and appalling jokes with a smile. Her second new name in as many weeks.

Ruth was dead. She was now Lisa Denning.

ooOoo

One of the many benefits of a private museum was that privacy and eccentricity were not only tolerated, they were almost prerequisites of employment. The Museo Vincenzo di Gianotti had been founded by a nobleman who wished to preserve the extraordinary miscellany his aristocratic family had accumulated and it was a task his descendant presided over with all due gravity and enthusiasm. A dapper man with a great mane of silvered hair who paid her florid and heartfelt compliments daily. Conte Salvatore – Salvo, as they all called him – believed in standing when a lady entered the room and kissing her hand in deference. He made his daily circuit of his little empire, long moustache drooping, and reminded Ruth of the Prince of Salina, transplanted to contemporary Rome.

Her forged references had been more than adequate; Salvo asked only that his staff do their jobs and it was a job for which Ruth was more than equipped.

While Salvo epitomised a certain gallant Italian melancholia, his countryman, Andreas, looked the picture of vivaciousness. Small, swarthy, his dark eyes shining, he looked as though he would be the initiator and centre of any party going. He was, in fact, a shy, softly spoken man who seemed more comfortable watching those around him than taking part.

Never judge a book, Ruth thought.

The same went for Anton, who looked like every German mother's ideal son – close-cut fair curls, chiselled face and perfect manners. He also had an unending supply of terrible jokes that would have him, at least, doubled-up with laughter if no-one else. Madeleine was the only other permanent member: a quiet woman with a young son. And a very bad marriage she was trying to escape, from what Ruth could gather. They had been guarded with each other at first, but when they had both realised that each had secrets that neither wished to reveal – and were happy to leave it that way – they became friends.

The silent agreement never to ask any questions kept the five of them bonded.

And Rome was a good place in which to lose oneself. Everything was alien – the language, the climate, the temperament, the smells, the feel of the air. Adjusting to it took up all her time until she found that that miraculous thing had happened and she had got through a day without even trying.

This was it, Ruth thought. Her new life. For the rest of her life.

They were neither big enough nor famous enough to attract many tourists, although some of the more adventurous would seek them out on their way to or from the Trevi Fountain and wander through the high-ceilinged rooms. Most of their visitors were scholars from assorted institutions who wished to consult documents or the obscure objects on display.

'Here is one for you, Lisa.' Anton escorted their latest arrival to her. 'She's here for the Borgias.' He shuddered. 'Do not let it give you any ideas, please. I do not like the broken glass in my coffee.'

Ruth laughed in spite of herself.

A postgraduate student, who was introduced as Sarah. Not young – Ruth had always admired the people who went back to academe later in life. That took courage, she thought. Her hair pulled back, face luminous, Sarah seemed very bright and a little nervous. Slightly clumsy, juggling her oversized bag and glancing up self-consciously. Ruth felt an immediate affinity with her.

'I have a letter from my, uh, supervisor.' She was scrabbling frantically. 'I really do. Um-'

'Why don't we just get started?' Ruth asked kindly.

A grateful smile. 'Thanks.'

ooOoo

After the guided tour around the museum, Sarah asked if she could buy her a coffee by way of thank you. It was a considerate offer that Ruth found touching. Most people wouldn't bother. And so she accepted, and so they came to be sitting opposite each other at a tiny table in an old-fashioned cafe. It was popular with both locals and tourists but everyone was too busy admiring the surroundings to pay any attention to anyone else there.

'I think I spend most of my time in museums thinking about the people behind the objects,' Sarah said, studying her coffee thoughtfully. 'Who made them, who loved them... Although, I tend to make everything into a love-story.'

Ruth smiled. Wistful. 'All the best love-stories are tragedies.'

Sarah's green eyes gleamed in the semi-gloom. 'Perhaps. But one of the best love-stories I know happened to a friend of mine.'

Ruth roused herself. 'Did it end happily?'

'I don't know – you could say that it's a work in progress.'

A waiter flapped past them, still in the formal black attire of a bygone era.

'What happened?' She was in the mood for melancholic romance. It was her speciality, after all.

'Oh, it started quietly enough. He – my friend, that is – he's ... well, he's a high-powered sort. Very admired, very respected. And respectable.' A sudden smile that transformed her face. 'I've never been sure what that means exactly. And then he fell in love. And it happened so gradually that he didn't even realise it. She worked for him...'

When was the moment, she wondered? What were the exact words when she knew? When the tale this stranger told suddenly and with painful clarity became her own. She should run. Stand up, head for the light and the air. Disappear, again. But she couldn't move and the words washed over her like some horrible spell.

'...And one day he got a letter and realised that she – that you - were in danger.'

Ruth met her eyes. Sarah had become a different person. She recognised the look in her eyes, the set of shoulders. She knew what she was. Or what she had been. There was a shadow behind that vivid green.

'My name is Mia Kenton; and Harry sent me to find you. Ruth.'

No-one had called her that – not since him, that morning. Ruth Evershed was dead. She was-

She was numb. She tried to speak and the words were lost to the knot in her throat that strangled her. 'How...'

'Did I find you? The underworld of Vienna is very small – especially when you know whom to ask.'

Ruth shook her head. 'How-how is he?'

She started, silent for a moment. 'Harry is-' Her eyes softened a little. 'Harry is Harry. He's like St Paul's – he never changes.'

Only someone who knew him – and knew him well – could come up with a description like that. Ruth's fingers played ceaselessly with a napkin, tearing it to shreds.

Mia leant across the table. 'He wouldn't have asked me to find you if this wasn't important, Ruth, and it is. You could be in terrible danger. And as I'm being paid to keep you out of it, that's what I'm going to do whether you like it or not.'

'Did he tell you I'd be stubborn?'

Mia frowned. 'No, why?'

She smiled. 'It doesn't matter. I- Is Harry in danger?'

'I'd say so.'

Ruth nodded. She was hunched, arms held tight; she looked frozen, her face pale. 'So. Now that you've found me, what happens next?'

'I get you out of here.'

'Where to?'

'Back to Britain. But we have to make a bit of a detour first. To Budapest. There's some information that I need to get.'

'For Harry?'

'Yes.'

'And what is this information about?'

'Oliver Mace.'

There had been no hesitation before she spoke the name. Ruth had been half-expecting it, but she still felt slightly sick hearing it again. He was the Bogey-man, the stuff of nightmares.

And this was the time for the exorcism.

'I can help you.'

Mia leaned back, scrutinising her dispassionately.

'Getting information,' Ruth insisted, 'that's what I do. I'm good at it.'

'Dear God, Ruth, is any institution in this country safe from you?'

'All right, then.' Mia glanced around. 'We'd better go.'

ooOoo

Zaf sat next to her on the sofa and looked at her as though he thought she might evaporate at any moment. She was still wearing the same necklace. Like she'd never been away.

'We arrived back this morning,' Ruth concluded her story. The look of shock on his face during those moments after she had first spoken would have been comical if it hadn't been so heartbreaking. He had caught her in a crushing embrace until Mia had pushed both of them into the flat. Now he watched her intently. 'What?'

'I was just thinking I should pinch myself to see if this is real. Although,' he touched his lip tenderly, 'I think that this confirms it.'

Mia had been unrepentant. She had handed him an ice-pack and studied him with suspicion. 'You all right?'

He had returned her gaze flatly. 'Fine. No thanks to you.'

'Should've told me who you are, then, shouldn't you?' she said heartlessly. ' "I'm a friend of Harry's" would have done.'

Mia had pointedly left them alone for a while, ostentatiously rattling crockery in the kitchen while they talked.

Zaf had forgotten that Ruth's eyes were that particular shade of grey; they reflected the light like mirrors. She was smiling slightly and looked like she was trying not to. 'You were supposed to stop Harry from doing something stupid.'

Zaf grinned at her and winced, his lip oozing again. 'In retrospect, Ruth, trying to stop Harry doing anything is pretty impossible.' He took hold of her hand. 'And I don't think that getting you back here is stupid.'

She twisted her hand, twining her fingers through his.

ooOoo

The room was in darkness; he didn't bother putting on the lights. He never did. Things were moving quickly now, and he was getting so close...

He passed a hand over his face. Exhaustion was catching up with him. He sat at his desk, heavy in the chair; a few minutes more and then he flicked on the lamp and- A glitter. His hand hovered in mid-air. A gun lay in the middle of the desk. He stared at it and then looked up as there was a sudden movement and a man sat in the chair opposite. He must have been there in the shadows, waiting, all this time.

'Hello, Oliver.' His eyes glittered.

Mace's hand lowered slowly; his mouth dry.

'Harry.'

TBC