"I'm about to hang up," she said quickly, "and then I'll ring you back. Wait for my call."
And then the line went dead. Harry stared at the phone in his hand. He knew without her saying so, that Ruth was in danger; he could read it in her voice. Almost a half hour passed before his phone again rang, by which time he was about ready to call a taxi, and take the next flight to Livorno.
"Yes?" He knew his voice was clipped and tense. He was afraid for her.
"I had to use a different phone," she said quickly, "and I have to leave …... this place …... today."
"Tell me what you need."
And she did. Quickly and efficiently, she told him that she would be flying to Paris, and then taking the Eurostar to London, where, from St Pancras, she would take a taxi to a safe address, which he should text her from his safe phone to her own.
What Ruth had not had time to tell him was that her Iranian neighbour, Azar, had knocked on her door the evening before, informing her that Sergio's internet café had closed, the sign on the door saying that closure would be indefinite. Azar used the café every other day, to contact her Italian born husband, who worked in Iran. Ruth knew then that she had to be gone from Livorno as soon as it could be arranged.
Once Harry's phone conversation with Ruth ended, he rang Ros, giving her a list of instructions.
"You have this on good authority?" she said.
"None but the very best."
"Which you're not about to tell me."
"No, I'm not."
"To protect the source."
"Yes. You know how this works, Ros."
"Unfortunately, I do."
"You have to be the one to do this. Adam is in quarantine, and I need Jo to stay in London. You'd best take a couple of junior officers – Matt and Nadeem fit the bill – and make sure you're all armed and ready, just in case things get out of hand."
"We'll need a helicopter, Harry."
"I'll arrange it."
He did, and once that call ended, he rang the private line of Dr Gregor Campbell, at Porton Down in Wiltshire.
"Just don't let those cowboys at Boscombe Down shoot down the helicopter carrying my agents," Harry had said, after he'd outlined his plan to Campbell. "And I would appreciate it were you to have all vials of the vaccine, and Farrin Parsi ready when my agents land."
"What do you plan to do with Farrin?"
"What do you think?"
"You can't kill her. She's brilliant."
"Of course we won't kill her," Harry replied irritably. "That would be murder ... but brilliant or not, she's overseen the development of the vaccine for a pathogen developed by the US, and then sold on to Iran, where it was modified, and she's done this right under MoD noses. I suggest there's enough evidence to implicate you, Gregor."
"Hang on a minute, Harry. You, of all people, should know about plausible deniability."
"So long as you allow her and her vaccine to be handed over to my officers, you can call it whatever you like."
"Just take care of her, Harry. She's one of our best."
"She'll be treated according to MI-5 procedure. She'll be questioned. That's all you need know. You may like to re-advertise her position. I doubt she'll be back."
It was only once he was driving to work, cocooned from the temporary madness of the panic on the streets of London, that he was again free to think about Ruth. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't give top priority to her safety. There was a more immediate threat – a threat to the population of this island, each person equally as innocent as Ruth. And yet …... and yet, he couldn't not take care of her. As important as she was to him, she had once also been important to the nation, as he was sure she could be again.
Before he made his way to Thames House, Harry called in on the Home Secretary, to inform him of the latest developments. The airborne haemorrhagic plague would be halted in its tracks, but relations between the UK and Iran may take longer to heal.
As soon as Harry stepped on to the Grid, he headed to his office to make more phone calls, and to check progress with Jo. It was close to lunchtime when he called Malcolm Wynn-Jones into his office, and what he said had Malcolm packing his desk, and handing over the remainder of his tasks for the day to Jo.
"Keep in touch," he said to Jo. "Just to be on the safe side, you might like to bring up the CCTV system at Porton Down – both inside, and outside the facility. Harry will fill you in on the details."
And then Malcolm left the Grid. He would return when his off-Grid task was complete.
When Ruth stepped off the Eurostar at St Pancras, she wore a hijab given her by Azar Amadio, her neighbour in Livorno.
"If you want to be anonymous, what better way is there?" Azar had said, handing Ruth the black garment. "We all look the same while wearing one of these."
Ruth looked around her as she was jostled by the other passengers, all hurrying towards the exit. Azar was right. No-one noticed her, and those who did soon averted their eyes, or looked at her with fear, and then averted their eyes. Once she had settled in the back seat of a taxi, she gave the driver Malcolm Wynn-Jones' home address.
"You must have heard of this plague," the driver said to her, once he'd entered the stream of traffic on Euston Road.
"I have, yes."
"You're English, then?" the driver replied, eye-balling her in the rear view mirror.
Ruth internally kicked herself. How hard would it have been to fake an Iranian accent, especially since she'd been living next door to an Iranian woman for the past four months. "My husband is from Syria," she said, breaking eye contact.
"Mmm, tricky people, Syrians."
Ruth nodded, and for the remainder of the journey, she stared out the window at the London streetscape. Other than fewer people on the streets, there was no indication that days ago, a deadly pathogen had been released in London.
Malcolm's face, once he realised the woman on his doorstep wearing a hijab was Ruth, was definitely worth the price of her plane ticket to London.
"Ruth! Sorry, where are my manners?" he said, grasping her elbow with one hand, and her bag with the other, as he drew her through the door, and into his house. "It's wonderful to see you," he added.
Ruth stood in front of him, and quickly removed the hijab, revealling her usual clothing of skirt and jacket. "Phew," she said, "I don't know how they wear this every day, but it does have its advantages." Relieved of her extra layer of clothing, Ruth smiled up at Malcolm. "It's lovely to see you, too."
"I've made us a cuppa."
"Lovely. Thank you."
For the first fifteen minutes they sat at the dining table over their cups of tea, exchanging small talk, and then Ruth asked the question she'd wanted to ask ever since she first saw the BBC News reporting the outbreak of the illness in London.
"How is he, Malcolm? How is he really? The casualties in Iran, and then this …. this plague …... that level of tragedy ... it always ….. hurt him deeply."
Malcolm nodded. "He's coping …... but only just. It will help him …... your being here."
"Good," Ruth replied, looking up at Malcolm, an unspoken question in her eyes.
"There's a safe house being prepared for you. It's one which MI-6 no longer use, and it's been left empty for a while, so the cleaners are spending the day there."
"The electronic cleaners, you mean?"
"Those – yes – and the other kind. It needs some TLC, and a lick of paint here and a nail or two there, plus it has to be kitted out. I'm to deliver you there after 8 tonight."
"Why after 8?"
"Well," Malcolm said, smiling across the table at her, "it will be dark, and also, hopefully, the vaccine will be in the hands of the immunology team at St Edwin's Hospital, and …..."
"The crisis will be over."
"Hopefully, and Harry …... well, Harry wants to be there to greet you."
Ruth shared a roast dinner with Malcolm and his mother. It was an easy, relaxed meal, and Ruth enjoyed listening to Malcolm's mother share stories about the early days of her marriage to Malcolm's father. When, at 8.30, Malcolm indicated they should leave, Ruth gave the elderly woman a hug, and kissed her cheek. "It was lovely to meet you, Ruth," Mrs Wynn-Jones said.
"She won't natter to the neighbours about me, will she?" Ruth said, as Malcolm turned his car south-west, towards Holland Park.
"No. She gets people's stories all muddled, anyway. By tomorrow, she'll be telling Shirley – that's our neighbour – that I brought my cousin around to see her. She loved meeting you, Ruth, but by this time next week, it will have slipped her mind."
"Maida Vale! I thought the secret service was broke."
"MI-6 have had this house since the 1950's. It was run down then, and it's never been returned to its original glory. Here we are," Malcolm said, as he drew his car into a space in front of a narrow home of three stories on Elgin Crescent, it's metal gate standing open, and a short pathway leading to a series of painted concrete steps to a front door, painted black. "I'm told it's better inside than out."
"There are lights on," Ruth observed.
"That means Harry is already here."
Ruth had stuffed the hijab into her suitcase, but had tied her hair back into a ponytail, to change her appearance, just in case anyone was observing her. Malcolm carried her suitcase to the door, and he pressed the doorbell. The door was opened almost immediately, and when Malcolm saw how Harry and Ruth each looked at the other, he said a quiet goodnight, and retreated to his car.
"Come in, Daniela," Harry said, standing aside for her to pass him.
Once they were both inside the house, they stood in the narrow hallway, awkwardly watching one another.
"I think it's alright to call me Ruth while we're inside," she said, chiefly because she needed to speak before the silence became like a living thing.
"It's …... so very good to see you again," Harry said quietly. "I have a bottle of white wine I'm about to crack open, and I need someone to help me drink it."
Ruth smiled, and followed Harry into the spacious kitchen at the back of the house, where she was attacked by two bundles of fur. Ruth bent down to pat Harry's little dog, and then she affectionately greeted her cat, Fidget, picking him up, and holding him under her chin.
"Harry, you brought them with you."
"I thought I'd stay here for a few days …... with you," he said, unable to look her in the eye. "I think it would be …."
"Safer," Ruth said. She had been in his presence for less than two minutes, and already she was finishing his sentences.
"Yes. I can sleep in the room at the top of the stairs. My things are already in there. You can have the bedroom just along the hall. It has the biggest window, and it appears to have the most comfortable bed."
They each experienced a moment of discomfort at the mention of Ruth's comfortable bed. Once the moment had passed, Ruth looked across the table at Harry, watching him for signs that all was not as it seemed to be. She had to ask.
"What's wrong, Harry? Something is wrong, isn't it?"
Harry finished pouring them each a glass of wine, reached out to hand Ruth her glass, and then sat in a chair just across the corner of the table from her.
"Here's to us, Ruth. The world has conspired to destroy MI-5, and to tear us apart, and yet here we are."
They each sipped their wine, but Ruth noticed Harry had difficulty maintaining eye contact with her.
"How did today go?" she asked. "Did you manage to get the vaccine from Porton Down? Is Ros alright? Adam? How is he now?"
"The vaccine is safely in the hands of immunology staff at St Edwin's. Adam has been inoculated, and will soon be on the mend, and it will take more than a stroppy Iranian scientist to bring down Ros. The two women hated each other on sight."
Ruth smiled, and then took another sip of her wine. "And Jo?"
"Jo is tougher than she appears."
"I always knew she was strong, Harry. I take it she's well."
"Yes. Jo is well. She's looking forward to seeing you."
"And Zaf? Is he …... is he alright?"
Ruth knew Harry well enough to see the hesitation in his movements once she mentioned Zaf's name.
"Harry …... I'm much tougher than I was eight months ago when I had to leave. I've had to fend for myself."
"I know you have."
"Then tell me about Zaf. You can't protect me from the truth. Was it the virus? Did he succumb?"
At last, Harry looked her in the eye, and he told her everything he knew about Zaf, finishing with, "We don't know for sure, Ruth, but it's unlikely he's still alive."
That was when Ruth's steely restraint cracked, and she rested her elbows on the table top, and put her face in her hands, while her shoulders shook with her sobs. Harry struggled within himself, but then decided it was unfair to continue keeping her at a safe distance. He quickly stood, and reached for her, lifting her into his arms, where she crumpled against him, her face pressed against his white shirt. Harry held her tightly against him, while she cried for Zaf, for Danny and all the others they had lost, but most of all, she cried for herself and Harry, forced to part just as they were on the brink of something wonderful. They were different people now, and perhaps their time for finding happiness together had already passed them by.
He held her until she quietened, and then slowly he pulled away, and went searching for tissues. In the midst of her grief, all Ruth could think was how warm she felt while being held by Harry, and how much she'd missed the unique smell of him. Despite Zaf's tragic and senseless loss, and the uncertainty of life for an agent, Ruth had never felt safer than she did when Harry returned to the kitchen, a box of tissues in his hand, and a comforting smile softening his features ... a smile just for her.