A/N - Thank you for continuing to read and for your kind reviews. They are very much appreciated!
It was the same sun that shone all over the world, but this was not her sun. Her sun was not fickle in temperament; it shone with a willingness to warm the entire year. This sun gave only recalcitrant rays, preferring to hide behind clouds, but she still wore her sunglasses, a habit born out of necessity and paranoia. Her black coat hung open, a large bag slung casually over her shoulder, her long dark hair swaying as she walked. Though she tried her best to blend in with the crowd of office workers, she garnered an admiring glance from a passing man. Oh well, she thought, it would never do to be too bland. The secret was to walk at the right speed, so the cameras would not pick you up. She knew the location of all the eyes, aware that at any moment, a car could pull up beside her and spirit her away. The fear of detection had lessened over the years and now she walked with a greater confidence, knowing that in the interim they have forgotten about her, that there were far greater fish to catch than a minnow like her. There were moments when she saw a van, her steps would freeze and she would quickly change her direction. She would catch her reflection in the window, and wonder who was looking back at her, for there were still times when the dark hair still caught her off guard, especially in London, the city where she had been someone else.
A tall tower of steel and concrete loomed before and she slowed down, the glass door revolving on its own internal mechanism, pulling her into the building. She did not stop at the directory but walked purposefully towards the lift, and, as if sensing her resolve, the door opened as she stopped before it.
No one joined her in the lift and she let her mind reflect on their last encounter; a crowded sidewalk, when she had been a young woman, out to prove she could play with the big kids. A taunt about needing to have the last word, and she was left flustered and speechless. A small smile played upon her lips. Who would have the last word now?
She walked off the lift and into a silent corridor, passing the doors of consultants and accountants until she arrived at her destination. Walking into a small foyer, she smiled at the receptionist who sat behind a modern looking counter of wood and chrome. Not bothering to take off her sunglasses, she smiled in greeting.
"Good afternoon, I'm Ms. Phillips' one o'clock."
"Of course," the receptionist answered as she rose from her seat. "If you'll follow me." She led the way to an inner door, opening it with her manicured hand.
Entering the office, her eyes immediately fell on the woman sitting behind the desk. She stood in the middle of the room, taking a moment to assess the changes. A little older (weren't they all), more angles but still possessing the same air of brittle intimidation. The woman looked up at her with a smile of polite anticipation, no hint of recognition. She removed her sunglasses and the woman's look turned to that of dropped jaw of incredulity.
"Zoe?"
"It's Gina Hamilton," Zoe answered, walking towards the desk, confidently holding out her hand. "How have you been, Tessa?"
The older woman took Zoe's hand, her grasp lingering longer than was strictly necessary. "I thought they put you away," she commented, the arched tone of her voice concealing a question and a taunt rolled into one.
"Zoe Reynolds is serving at her Majesty's pleasure. If you want to discuss her, I suggest you contact Prison Services."
Tessa leaned back in her chair, sizing Zoe up, a sly smile on her face. Willing to play along with the charade for curiosity's sake, she motioned for Zoe to take a seat. "You used to have such lovely hair."
"You used to be respected. Times change."
The smile froze on Tessa's lips. "Indeed, they do." She busied herself rearranging the folders lying on her desk, taking a moment to regroup and reclaim control over the situation. Having created a neat pile, she spoke without looking up. "You're not here because of him are you?"
"Who," Zoe asked, innocently.
"Harry Pearce." Tessa gave Zoe a look, hard, unflinching, calculated to uncover any deceit.
Zoe met her gaze. In the past, that look would have caused her stomach to churn and her palms to sweat, but she had been through enough fire to match the likes of Tessa. She let out a huff. "No," she countered, "If you think I would ever do anything for that man after what they did to me, you are greatly mistaken."
The ice visibly melted from Tessa's demeanour. "So much potential. You were totally wasted on that tinpot Pearce."
"I couldn't agree more. You don't know how many times after that trial I wished I had taken your money and kept quiet about the ghost agents you were running."
The confession brought an even greater smile to Tessa's lips. "What can I do for you, Gina?" she asked, emphasising the name.
"My employer wishes me to find out the background on these people." Zoe reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a large manila envelope.
"And who would your employer be?"
"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. Let's just say, my client has interests in military procurement.
Tessa nodded with approval. "Government or private?"
"Private sector. That's where the money is, isn't it? It's not as if the Public Service ever thanked us."
The women shared another knowing smile.
"Who are these people you need information on?" Tessa asked.
"Possible mercenaries."
"I'm shocked that you would think I would have information on mercenaries." Tessa took the envelope from Zoe's hand and pulled out three grainy pictures. "I prefer to call them independent contractors." She laid the pictures down on the desk and studied the faces. "Are these the only photos?"
"It not as though I have access to CCTV."
At the mention of CCTV, Tessa straightened up and dropped the pictures on her desk, sitting back once again and crossing her arms over her chest. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't quite trust your motives."
"There's only one thing you can trust, isn't there?" Zoe pulled a smaller envelope out of her purse. She laid it on the desk and slid it over Tessa. "The balance will be paid on receipt of the information."
Tessa took the envelope, looking inside, deftly counting the bills with a finesse that made Zoe's brow rise. She waited for Tessa to respond, remembering the older woman's penchant for drawn out silences, a bid to control the room. It was always about power. Finally, she responded.
"This seems satisfactory. How should a contact you?"
I'm on a deadline."
"Within a week?"
"Today."
A harsh laugh escaped from Tessa's mouth but she quickly sobered when she saw Zoe's expression. "You're serious."
Zoe sat back in her chair. "I thought you were the best?" She had done it, a question and a taunt rolled into one.
"I am."
"Then prove it."
...
It had taken Ruth mere hours into her job at the Home Office to realise that her government computer was nothing more than an expensive paperweight. To her frustration, all the back doors and codes that she had accessed through the Grid's system were now unavailable. She bristled knowing she could not research threats herself, that having moved up through the ranks, she was now dependent on others for information. It all added to the niggling thought that the purpose of her move was to keep her away from information, especially in the light of Mace's return. It did not stop her from deftly clicking through the files Erin had sent her regarding that evening's reception. Her eyes ran down the list and she quickly siphoned off names into columns - knowns, unknowns, and flags. She knew the Service, knew how they operated, and that the vetting was most likely thorough, but she needed to know for herself.
A figure moved in her peripheral vision. It was Towers, crossing from his office to her workstation.
"You have the itinerary?" he asked.
"Yes." Her eyes remained focused on her monitor. "Cocktails before the performance. Reception at intermission. And larger gathering post-show."
"I'll pick you up at seven then."
Ruth stopped, her attention now fully claimed by the man. "Excuse me?"
"You'll be attending tonight. It only makes sense. Professionally speaking."
"Of course."
She gave him a wane smile, her fingers gravitating towards her pen, her standard outlet for nervous thinking and conflict avoidance. As much as she had enjoyed her dinner with him, she couldn't help but remember the intimate atmosphere of the restaurant and the look on his face when he commented about not wanting to be a home wrecker. Ruth gave her head a shake. Surely, this man was not interested in her that way.
Towers moved closer, speaking in a confidential tone. "Then maybe you can tell me why you are so skittish around Mace."
Ruth looked at him. He was not a stupid man; he could not have reached one of the highest offices in the land without a modicum of awareness. Obviously, she had not hidden her reactions to Mace as well as she thought. She was marginally relieved that he had no ulterior motive except information gathering.
Towers turned towards the sound of approaching footsteps. "Ah Mace, wonderful. Shall we convene, go over the finer points of you take over."
At the words 'take over', Ruth's finger tightened on the pen. She looked down, not wanting to betray her thoughts, resisting the urge to impale Mace in the eye with the instrument in her hand. A mobile chirped and Towers retrieved his phone from his pocket, turning away to answer the call. He held up his hand to Mace, signalling for him to wait as he walked into his office for privacy. Ruth hastily dropped her pen; her fingers gravitated to her keyboard in an attempt to look absorbed in her work and avoid any further conversation with Mace. The ruse proved futile, as the man casually walked around to her side of the desk.
"Security Advisor, my, my. But then, you were always more than just an Analyst."
She did not look up as he leaned against the desk, his body encroaching on her personal space. At that moment, she would have given anything to be back on the Grid, to have it be Harry standing beside her instead of this odious man. With one hand, she motioned to her monitor.
"I'm very busy with tonight's reception ..." She let the sentence trail off, hoping he would take the hint.
"I'm sure you are. Nothing gets past you, does it?" His fingers found the pen on her desk and he picked it up, rolling it around in his fingers, examining it. "Such a valuable mind. We must make sure not to lose you again."
Ruth's eyes remained fixed on her monitor as she suppressed the urge to react to his allusions.
"The American's have their eyes on you," Mace continued.
"I'd expect nothing less," she responded, realising that her silence only served to empower the man.
"Not only regarding Harry. It seems that a CIA laptop has found its way into Russian hands."
Her breath stopped. How did he know? She was about to retort that she had not given away any secrets, that the laptop had been stolen from her, when she realised he was baiting her, waiting for her to incriminate herself. She swallowed. What would Harry do? He would come back with a pithy remark, cutting Mace off at the knees. She, on the other hand, could think of nothing, feeling as though she had jumped into a pool only to surface and realise that she was in the deep end. The silence hung between them and she knew he was watching her, waiting for her to stumble. The air around them grew heavy, she wanted desperately to walk away and breathe. One of his hands came to rest on her desk, his fingers splayed out like web, the other hand still holding her pen, gripped the back of her chair. He leaned down to her.
"Which do you think carries the higher penalty: helping a fugitive escape from the CIA or handing over secrets to the Russians?"
His face was uncomfortably close and she stared down at his hand, willing herself not to move a muscle but pulling back as far as she could internally. She could feel his breath on her cheek. She was a mouse sitting between the paws of a cat, waiting for that one final bite. He was playing with her, biding his time until the kill. Knowing Mace, this was part of his plan; remove Harry and leave her trapped in this purgatory where he could toy with her and she couldn't strike back.
"Tread carefully, Miss Evershed. Harry's not here to protect you this time."
Mace straightened up and backed away from her desk, his body language suddenly changing. Ruth looked up to see Callum walking through the door. Someone from the home team. She gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Towers chose that moment to re-enter from his office, alleviating Ruth's anxiety and she sat up, giving no indication that anything untoward had transpired. She motioned over to Callum.
"Home Secretary, you remember Callum Reid."
"Sir." Callum greeted Towers.
Towers sized the young man up and nodded at him. "Any news on Harry?"
Ruth intercepted the question. "Callum is here to assist with the vetting of the invitees. Then we're doing a sweep of the venue."
"Good. I feel much safer knowing that you're overseeing this side." He turned to Mace. "Nasty incident with a van the other day. Lost my driver, damn near lost my life."
"Such unfortunate lapses of security will be a thing of the past," Mace responded.
Callum gave Ruth a questioning look. She rose from her desk, giving an imperceptible shake of her head. She grabbed her mobile and looked up to see Towers observing her with a critical eye.
"Seven tonight." he reminded her.
"Yes, Home Secretary."
"And didn't we talk about you calling me William?"
Ruth nodded.
Towers turned to Mace. "Come into my office and we'll sink our teeth into this, shall we?" He moved off and into his office.
Before following the Home Secretary, Mace turned to Callum, speaking with a cordiality that hid the true nature of the man. "Keep your eye on Miss Evershed. She has been known to disappear." He moved to leave but stopped, turning to Ruth. "I almost forgot; here's your pen." He offered the pen up to her, retaining his hold on it even as she grasped it. "We wouldn't want to be accused of stealing now, would we?" He released the pen to her and walked away.
Callum gave Ruth a curious look. "What was that all about?"
"I'll tell you later," she answered, dropping the pen on the desk as if it were poisoned. "Let's go." She walked towards the outer door of the office, hurrying to distance herself from Mace and his calculated innuendo.
"I thought we were vetting," said Callum.
" Eventually," Ruth called back, leaving Callum to catch up as he followed her out the door.
...
The light of one dim bulb illuminated the corridor, the other fixtures having been broken or stolen. It gave an even sicklier hue to the green walls and green carpet. The smell of bygone meals permeated the air, adding nothing to the appeal of the building. Harry massaged his wrists as he walked behind Tom and Christine, their treads making faint sounds on the carpet. He could overhear bits of their conversation, family matters he thought, catching snippets referring to the girls. He felt a tinge of jealousy and imagined what his life could have been like if he had married someone inside the Service. Discussing mundane matters with his wife while on an op, what colour to paint the kitchen, who should pay the tax bill, instead of hiding behind the loneliness of a legend.
They stopped in front of the door, painted with the same green, Harry concluding that it must have been on sale in large quantities and that he would never paint his kitchen this colour.
"Are you going to be okay with him?" Christine asked Tom.
Tom nodded. "I just have to wait for the pickup."
She leaned into Tom, kissing him on the cheek. Harry slouched against the wall and looked away from them, his eyes travelling down the corridor. Christine stepped away from her husband and brushed past Harry.
"A pleasure as always, Ms. Dale," Harry quipped as she walked away.
"Stay out of trouble, Harry," she threw back over her shoulder as she moved down the hall.
Tom opened the door to the flat and motioned for Harry enter. As he stepped through, he looked around the flat. A fine layer of dust covered every surface, the sunlight through the lone window reflecting motes they had stirred with their presence. He gingerly touched a spring poking through a ratty plaid couch. The overall neglect of the place and lack of any garbage indicated that squatters or dealers had not used it. He turned and gave Tom a blank look.
"This is the safe house?"
"Sorry Harry, they were full up at Claridge's."
"It's not one of mine," Harry said more to himself than to Tom. "Is it Ruth's?"
"I have no idea."
A frown creased over Harry's face. He thought he had been clever, devising an exit strategy for her, when it turned out she had one of her own. Had she felt so unsafe, so insecure that she needed to have a get out clause in case something like Cotterdam ever happened again? A kernel of illogical rage formed in his stomach. He should have protected her; kept her from harm, but he knew that his protection only went so far; she had been used against more than once.
"Where is she?" Harry asked. "I thought she'd be here."
"Why?"
"This is her plan."
"The plan was to get you out. Why do you think she's joining you?"
Harry stopped and looked intently at Tom. He tried to read the other man's neutral expression, looking for meaning in the one raised brow. He couldn't figure out if his former agent was having him on, or if indeed, he really knew nothing. Apparently, he had schooled Tom all too well in the art of evasion. It would serve him right for the mind games he had played on Tom, exercises in the name of creating a better agent when in fact all they did was numb one's conscience. Harry shoulder's sagged. If Ruth was not there, what was happening? Harry was too busy lost in his thoughts to notice Tom leave the room and return with a large black duffle bag. The sound of the bag dropping onto the couch drew Harry's attention back to the present.
"This is for you," said Tom.
"What is it?" asked Harry.
"Clothes and a passport."
"What for?"
"To change into, I presume."
"No, the passport." Harry looked at him in exasperation. "Does she expect me to run?"
"You can keep asking me, but I really have no idea. You know that the players in successful ops only know their own role. That way there's no blowback."
"I told her I wasn't going to hide. That I was going to face this." Somehow, his anger at not being able to protect Ruth morphed into anger at the woman herself for thinking he would just slink away.
"As far as I could see, the only thing you were facing was a spare tyre in the boot of a car. Once the CIA had you in America, you would disappear. If they were taking you stateside."
The level of Harry's frustration grew exponentially with each passing minute. He hated being in the dark. The only thing he knew was that they had thwarted his original intent with the idea of shunting him off, rendering him helpless without the use of his own resources. He balled his fingers into a fist, his ire claiming Tom's attention.
"Believe it or not, I know how you feel," the younger man offered.
"You have no idea how I feel," Harry responded through gritted teeth.
"You decommissioned me in the middle of an op. I was the only one who knew what was right and I was hell bent on doing things my way. No thought to compromising the team or risking lives. If you can tell me that you're not operating from the same sense of myopic justice, then by all means walk out that door and turn yourself over."
Harry stood looking at Tom, his face a rigid mask, the flare of his nostril the telltale sign that he was trying to control his anger. He wanted to lash out at Tom, lash out at Ruth, both of them for taking the control out of his hands. Of course, he bloody well knew what was right; he was Harry Pearce for God's sake.
"Harry," Tom cautioned in a steady voice, "What will you accomplish in the hands of the CIA?" He looked at Harry, waiting for an answer. "The only way to get back control is to give it up."
Harry blinked as Tom's words sank through the indignation. He had to admit a begrudging pride in his former agent, that he had turned the argument around on the man who had sacked him. He had missed every section chief, but Tom was the one who saw right through him.
A knock on the door diverted Harry's attention.
"Who's that?"
Tom crossed to the door and looked through the peephole. "The babysitter." He pulled back the deadbolt and let a man in.
"Dimitri?" Harry turned to look incredulously at Tom. "He's the babysitter?"
Unruffled by the comment, Dimitri turned to Tom and held out his hand. "Dimitri Levendis."
Tom took the younger man's hand and shook it. "Tom. Tom Quinn."
"I've heard about you."
"All bad, I'm sure."
"I don't need a handler," Harry grumbled, "What I need is a drink."
He crossed to the small kitchenette and started rifling through the cupboards. Tuna, soup, beans; banging each can in protest. He opened one door and was surprised to see a bottle of single malt sitting on the shelf next to a tumbler. Maybe he wasn't so mad at Ruth after all.
"You know what to do?" Tom asked Dimitri. The young man nodded. "Right. Better watch out for him, he's tricky."
"I know." Dimitri gave Tom a crooked smile. "He gassed me to keep me off an op."
"He tried to stop me once. I shot him in the arm," Tom confessed. "The left one. So go for that side if you need to."
Harry stood looking down at his glass, swirling the liquid. "Gentlemen, I am in the same room."
"I'm leaving you in the care of Mr Levendis, Harry. I want to hear that you've behaved yourself because if I find out otherwise I'll have to tell my wife and trust me, you don't want that to happen."
With that, Tom strode to the door and exited, leaving Harry to silently curse him.
Dimitri gave his boss a crooked grin. "Looks like it's you and me."
Harry polished off the glass of scotch and walked over to the bag. The passport sat on top and he opened it to see his face looking back at him. Geoffrey Inness. Not one of his aliases. It wasn't the worst name he had to carry. He pulled out a black T-shirt, jeans, dark blue shirt, and a navy Anorak. All blacks and blue. He wondered if Ruth had picked out the clothes, for she never wore bright colours anymore. In the beginning, she had worn red. He remembered one top, the colour of raspberry sherbet. It wasn't particularly sexy or revealing, but it clung to her in all the right places, the scoop of the neckline showing a hint of cleavage. His eyes would wander down towards it as she spoke, her words becoming lost as he wondered what colour... he stopped his thoughts; best keep that distraction for another time. He noticed his kit bag and unzipped it to find a toothbrush and razor. He rubbed his chin and realised how gritty he felt after spending the night in the American holding cell. If nothing else, he would take advantage of the clothes and kit. Hopefully, this flat afforded hot water.
He looked over at Dimitri. "Where are we going?"
"That's on a need to know basis."
"Well, I need to know," retorted Harry.
"Sorry, I can't tell you."
Harry looked away and sighed. People don't love each other on a need to know basis. He couldn't help but feel she was trying to get back at him, withholding information. She would never do that; she was neither petty nor vengeful, that was his purview. He had told Ruth not to give up her life for him again, and perhaps, for once, she had listened. She was sending him off, releasing him to the world. His heart constricted at the thought that this time he would be the one sailing off on a barge while she remained behind a desk. No, she would not send him off, there must be something else. He decided to go along with this unknown plan. At this point, what did he have to lose?