A/N – Thank you for continuing to read and following along with this tangled plot. This is the penultimate chapter. It's a bit longer and packed with obligatory Spooks plot holes. Enjoy!
He couldn't breathe. A fissure slowly expanded through his chest, pieces of his heart falling away, leaving him hollow. A thousand shards of ice pierced his lungs. What had he done?
Harry stood suspended in the alcove, unable to tear his eyes from Ruth's retreating back. A string unravelled from the emptiness of his chest pulling him towards her, but his legs refused to move. By her side, he saw Zoe confidently cutting her way through the crowd. His old anger resurfaced at the loss of an agent that had held potential, a victim of pandering politicians showing that the Service was not above the law. She had looked magnificent standing there waiting for Ruth. He saw Tom's dark head, focused and assured, clearing the way for them. They were all of them safer for having left him. He had too many enemies. Anyone within his orbit was sure to be burned. He had deceived himself into thinking they could ever have a life together, a marriage, a home. There would always be something waiting to cleave them apart. He saw one last glimpse of the black dress and then nothing. It was his penance to be alone.
He jerked his head away from the door, his body following. Ruminating on the loss would accomplish nothing. He wedged his way through the last of the crowd, one thought in mind; if he had given up everything, it would not be in vain. He would obliterate Mace once and for all or die trying. The crowd thinned out as he neared the backstage stairs. He had to find his way down to the rehearsal hall. As he approached, a CO19 officer blocked his path.
"Sorry Sir, we're evacuating the building."
"Security Services," Harry responded gruffly.
"Orders are no one is allowed backstage."
"On whose authority?" Harry asked suspiciously, knowing it was somehow tied to Mace.
"Security Services," the officer responded with an ironic look.
Harry let out a huff and pushed past the man.
"Sir," the officer yelled after him, "if you do not stop immediately, I will report you."
"You do that." Harry walked on despite the warning, calling over his shoulder. "Tell them that Harry Pearce is back."
...
The crowd spilled out through the theatre doors, lost souls clogging up the road and sidewalk. Intermittent drops of rain sent people scattering for cover, umbrellas sprouting up like black flowers. Controlled chaos, Ruth thought. She was thankful for Zoe's firm grip on her hand. If they were separated, she would surely float away on the sea of people, not caring which way the current took her. All she could see was Harry. She should have tried harder to convince him, at the very least followed him to find Mace. It was too late. She felt a damp spot on her cheek. It wasn't a tear, she had not cried. Drops of rain spattered her face and she blinked, still lost in her stupor. Logically, she knew that the numbness was a damn and that once it had eroded away, the tears would flow unabated.
The two women walked along as fast as their high heels would let them, Ruth acknowledging that Zoe was far more adept in the footwear. She faintly heard Zoe cursing the fact that there were never any parking spots close to theatres. As they walked past the obo van on the opposite side of the street, Ruth pulled back on Zoe's hand; she should speak with Callum, make sure they were aware of Harry and everything that had transpired. Zoe sensed her hesitancy and dragged her forward. Zoe knew the secret to leaving; don't look back. They stopped beside a small car, Zoe opening the door and pushing Ruth into the back before she jumped in herself.
"Where's Harry?" asked Malcolm, ready at the wheel, the car engine humming in anticipation.
"He's not coming," Zoe answered briskly.
"What do you mean? This was all for him. What's he doing?"
"Being Harry." Zoe shook her head in exasperation.
Malcolm frowned not quite believing her. "What about Tom?"
"He's cleaning up." She settled herself into her seat and turned to Ruth. "What do you want to do now?"
Ruth kept her head bowed and inhaled a shaky breath. The whole purpose of the exercise had been to get Harry away from the CIA, but in her heart, she knew that she had wanted to free him from the clutches of the Service. She balled her hand into a fist and hit it against her thigh.
"He chose the Service, just like she said he would."
Zoe took Ruth's hand and unfurled her fingers from the fist she had made. She covered it with her fingers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Their entwined hands lay on the seat and Ruth looked down at them, thinking how often she had missed having a friend to share the burdens of her life. She hoped that she would not lose Zoe to wilds of the world again.
"Ruth," Zoe coaxed in a gentle tone, "You have to make a decision."
There was only one thing to do.
"We stick with the plan."
Malcolm craned his head around from the front seat. "But if Harry doesn't know..."
Ruth clenched her jaw, the muscles on her neck pulled taught as she fought the competing feelings of anger and heartbreak. "He'll just have to deal with the fallout."
Malcolm gave her a moment, a chance to change her mind. She had been through so much; the least he could do was support whatever she decided to do. Her face remained resolute. Nodding to her, he shifted into drive and slowly navigated the car through the pedestrian traffic.
Ruth shook the pins free of her hair instantly feeling more like herself. She unclasped the earrings and deposited them in the small purse, handing it all over to Zoe. Looking out through the window, she saw giant raindrops splattering the glass, morphing the passing lights into hazy, glowing orbs. A tear rolled down her cheek and she raised the heel of her palm to rub it away. She looked intently at the sleeve of her dress, imprinted with the communication device, and felt the threads seeping into her pores, just as the Service had done. She wanted to rip off the dress, her own skin if need be, anything it took to leave this twisted life behind. Stupid woman. They were never meant to be together. If they had not managed to sort themselves out in all these years, how could they have hoped to do it in a few stolen moments? She continued to stare out the window, her fingers searching to find Zoe's hand once more, the connection keeping her tethered to a sense of reality.
"I've always hated the damp," she mused, keeping her head turned away as she spoke. "I had a life once, in the sun."
"You'll l have it again," Zoe assured her.
"I hear it's 22 degrees in Santiago," Malcolm piped in.
"Yes, I'm sure it will be lovely." Ruth looked at Zoe and gave her a tremulous smile. The young woman smiled back at her.
"I've sent the boxes on ahead and your suitcase is in the back," Malcolm assured her.
Ruth nodded and took a deep breath. She had done all that she could.
The car reached a clearing in the traffic and Malcolm opened up the engine as they sped off into the London night.
...
White tiles and white lights; a hallway devoid of character. The nightmare scenario that frequented Harry's dreams. Running down a sterile hall, not knowing which door to open, unable to reach the target, out of time before disaster struck. He headed through the backstage corridor, eerily quiet, all non-essential personnel having left the building. He should look for Elena. He shook his head at the thought. Why would he feel any responsibility towards that woman? He was becoming soft. Emotionally compromised, Ruth had said. In a matter of weeks, he had found and lost a son, and learned that everything Elena had told him was a lie. It was all too much to comprehend. Later, he told himself. This was about Mace.
He came to a double door, surmising what lay behind it must be the rehearsal hall. He peered through the slit of a window. He pressed his ear against the metal door, listening for familiar voices. Stepping back, he looked around the hallway for a weapon, a steel pipe, a chair leg, anything. There was nothing. What he wouldn't do for a tie. It briefly crossed his mind that he should wait for backup. His Section Head voice said yes, the field agent in him said no, this was his battle and he would fight it on his own terms. Patting his coat pocket, he took a bracing breath and concluded that his wits would have to be his weapon.
He slowly opened the door, a blast of stale air rushing out to meet him and silently slid through the crack. Inside was a small vestibule, an antechamber to deaden the sound. Pressing himself against the wall, he inched towards the mouth of the rehearsal hall. He could hear voices. Gavrik. He was alive, that was a good sign. He waited, unable to distinguish the conversation. With half of an eye, he peered around the corner and followed a large bank of mirrors, coming to rest on Gavrik. He eased out another inch and realised that the man was talking to Sasha. One step further in and Harry could see the whole scene. Sasha stood facing Gavirk, a gun trained on the older man. Was Sasha the assassin? Shit, he thought, what nest of vipers was this? He heard the tiny click of the gun's safety trigger and he instinctually moved into the open.
"Sasha! Stop!
The young man turned to him, the barrel of the gun still pointing at Gavrik. "Pearce! What are you doing here?"
Harry met the young man's look, impressed that in the distraction he had not pulled his gun away from the intended target. He took a step closer and stopped when he saw Sasha's grip tighten on the gun. "What are you doing?"
"This man is a traitor to Russia."
"That man is your father."
"No. You are my father."
Unbalanced by the revelation, Gavirk stepped back and turned to look at Harry. Sasha moved in closer, his gun still raised, the bank of mirrors reflecting their distorted dance.
Harry took the opportunity to steal closer. "No, it's not true."
"Coaver's laptop. It said-"
"It was a ruse designed to bind me to you so I would bring your mother here."
"Sasha," Gavrik cautioned. "Whatever they have told you, it is a lie."
Harry echoed Gavrik. "Whatever she has told you to convince you to do this is a lie." He took another step forward, his hands raised. "If you must shoot someone, shoot me."
"Pearce what are you doing?" Gavrik asked, his voice remarkably calm for a man with a gun in his face.
Harry asked himself the same question, wondering what had possessed him to step in and save his old enemy. "I'm saving your life. Or more to the point, I'm averting a diplomatic implosion that could lead to a possible war."
A long, slow clap resonated throughout the hall.
"Oh, Harry, always the hero."
Harry's head snapped around. Hidden in the shadows, sitting by a grand piano, was Mace, his elbow resting on the keyboard, taking it all in as if he were watching a pantomime.
"Don't you know the world doesn't want heroes anymore?" Mace rose from the bench and walked across the floor, his dress shoes smartly tapping on the polished tiles. "Coaver's laptop was full intelligence on members of the FSB meeting with Transnistria. That's why we took it. The file indicating your paternity was a merely a bonus."
Sasha looked at Mace, confusion and hurt playing across his face. "I don't understand."
"Does it matter which man is your father?" Mace asked callously. He pointed at Gavrik "All that matters is that man is a traitor. He was willing to give up your country's secrets. His death is a small price to pay to reclaim what is rightfully Russia's."
"Sasha, you don't have to do this," Harry intervened.
"Look at the bigger picture, Harry," Mace scolded. "We don't want to share our secrets either."
"Why go through all this?" Harry asked.
"It was all a piece of theatre, everyone basking in the spirit of international cooperation to score political points. Come on Harry, you of all people don't believe we should give our intel to the Russians, you were balking at the bit the entire time."
"But to have a son kill his father? This makes us no better than our enemy."
"Get out of the Cold War, Harry. The enemy today is everywhere and nowhere. All our wars are fought by proxy. We need pawns like Transnistria. We give it up to Russia so they can monitor the arms trade. We need an eye on them to control even smaller pawns."
"We can't sacrifice up a piece of a country to protect intelligence."
"It's the way the game is played. Sometimes we lie with the bear sometimes we lie with the eagle."
"It's one more step on a slippery slope and then we have no moral ground to stand on."
"You were a far better agent when your morality was fluid. Or was that only in Ireland and Berlin?"
Harry looked at Mace, time tunneling on itself. This would be the last confrontation with this man. "I can't let this happen."
"It's already been decided by powers far greater than you or I. The assassination of a Russian minister on British soil by a Moldovan national. It will derail the process intelligence sharing and give Russian the reason to invade.."
"What Moldovan? I only see us."
"Don't worry, the service will find a suitable scapegoat. Let the boy get on with his patriotic duty."
"Sasha, don't do this."
Mace stepped in front of Harry, the same supercilious smirk on his face, and pulled out a mobile phone. "Did your little mouse tell you there wasn't a bomb? It's a lie. Elena played her part so well."
The mention of Elena's name stirred Gavrik from his role as bystander. "What have you done to her?"
"Did we both sacrifice our Queen's Harry?" asked Mace.
"Where is my mother?" Sasha's eyes flitted with anger between Mace and Harry.
Harry felt a ribbon of compassion for the young man, his sense of self so corrupted that he still cared for a Medea of a mother. "Your arm is tired, Sasha, put down the gun."
"It seems Elena and I both had a common cause in seeing you suffer." Mace drew Harry's attention back. "Of course, you're quite adept at ruining your personal life without our help. Such a touching goodbye in the lobby. This time for good, I hope."
"Some people are willing to make sacrifices for their country."
Mace waved his phone at Harry. "Gavrik dies, or I make the call and the bomb goes off, taking us all with it. But then, we're all prepared to make sacrifices for our country, aren't we?"
A deep voice spoke from the rehearsal room door. "No one needs to die today."
Tom stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand aimed straight at Mace.
Mace looked over at Harry with an arched brow. "Your agents have this annoying habit of not staying dead."
"He also has a habit of shooting his superior officers," Harry added. His eyes ran over the tableau before him. Tom holding his gun at Mace, Sasha holding his gun at Gavrik, Mace standing with his fingers poised on his mobile. As unobtrusively as possible, Harry slipped his hand into his pocket.
"Check and check again. Well played, Harry."
"I didn't set it up."
"Ah, your little mouse. Such a shame I had to feed her to the Americans. Was she that good, that you would have given up your freedom all those years ago? That you would give up a state secret for her. The actions of a desperate old man, she would never have you."
Harry regarded Mace; the invocation of Ruth's name served only to confirm that he had made the right decision in letting her go. "She's gone Mace; you can't use her against me."
Tom stirred in the background. "What do you want me to do, Harry?"
"End this charade Mace, walk away. Grasping at power doesn't suit you."
"Trying to appeal to my vanity, Harry? I have nothing to lose."
"None of us do. We're all desperate old men now. Nothing more than reflections of what we used to be." Harry kept his eyes trained on Mace but his voice signalled to Tom. "Do it."
"You wouldn't dare," Mace taunted.
"Go for the heart," Harry commanded.
Tom pulled the trigger. The shot echoed throughout the tiled room, as the bullet hit the wall of mirrors, glass shattering, shards flying through the air, slivers falling to the floor, cascading in a clinking symphony. All reaction slowed down, stretching out into infinite time. Gavrik bending over, his hands covering his head, Sasha raising his arms to protect himself. Mace stood stunned, certain that the bullet had been meant for him, amazed that he was not shot. Harry moved quickly, his speed a counterpoint to the slowed reactions of the other men. He retrieved the pen from his pocket and crossed to Mace in three steps. He pulled Mace into him, plunging the pen into the soft flesh of the other man's neck, feeling the release of whatever chemical was inside. With every fibre of his being, he hoped it was poison. Mace turned to Harry, his eyes wide in disbelief. Harry held the man in a half embrace, as Mace's muscle contracted and he began to slip. Harry leaned into his ear.
"Ruth says good-bye."
Harry removed his hold and stepped back, looking impassively at Mace. Confused, Mace raised his hand to the injection, his knees buckling under him as his mind raced through all the substances that could have possibly been in the needle. He gasped as his head began to swim, the rest of his body falling to the floor, the mobile falling from his hand as his arm stretched out to break his descent. He collapsed on the ground and saw the device slowly slide across the tiles. Muscles and mind unable to work together, he reached for the phone, his fingers grasping.
Harry's foot came down on Mace's wrist. "I'll be holding onto that." He bent over and picked up the mobile. "Whatever did we do without burner phones and sim cards?"
The crunch of broken glass underfoot caused Harry to turn. Gavrik was bleeding from a cut to the temple, while Sasha stood in shock, his gun hanging limply by his side. Harry held out his hand to take the side arm.
"Give me the gun Sasha, it's all over. Go find your Mother. She's in a dressing room."
The young man looked between Harry and Gavrik, his eyes finally settling on Tom. Harry knew what the he was thinking; he could deal with the older men, but Tom was a ringer, an unknown quantity. Rather than surrender his sidearm, he put it back in his belt and walked out of the room.
Gavrik spoke to Harry. "What do we do now?"
Harry felt a flicker of regret that he did not have another syringe to inject into the man's neck. What would be the point now? Their war was long over. "Go home to your tortoise, Ilya. It is my sincerest hope that we never meet again." Harry walked toward the door, stopping for one last comment. "And you might want to call an ambulance. It's entirely up to you." Harry strode out of the room, Tom following close behind.
Charged with exhilaration, Harry flew down the hall, Tom at his side. As in days gone by, their steps rang with a matching intensity. He felt invigorated, alive; this was what he was meant to do. He needed to find Erin, someone in charge, apprise them of the developments. The sim card on the burner phone would be enough to indict Mace and put him away for good. When it all came to light, he would be exonerated from Coaver's death and hopefully it would be enough to have him reinstated.
Harry carried on for a few more paces and then paused, feeling the absence of Tom at his shoulder. He turned around to see the man standing in the middle of the corridor.
"What is the cost, Harry?" Tom asked.
Harry looked at him, confused by the nature of the question.
"The cost of being a spy?" Tom elaborated. "Who decides when you've paid the price? Hmm?" He tilted his head as he waited for Harry to answer. "Some bureaucrat? A bullet?" He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "The fate of the western world doesn't rest on your shoulders alone. None of us is indispensable. There are other people willing to step up and make sacrifices for this country."
Harry regarded him, his eyes boring into the younger man, unwilling to admit he had a point. "The Service is my life."
"It's not a life, Harry. You know that. Step down"
"Are you decommissioning me?" Harry asked wryly, wondering if the world had come full circle.
"Sometimes it takes a greater courage to leave than to stay."
"Thank you for the platitudes."
"You told me once, as I was leaving, that you envied me. I thought you were crazy but I found a better life. I have to go home now, Harry. My family is waiting for me." With that, Tom turned and walked away.
"Tom!" Harry yelled after him. The younger man turned back around to face him. "Thank you." Harry stated simply. Tom nodded and then was gone.
A stinging sensation pricked at the back of Harry's hand and he looked down to see a thin trail of blood winding its way toward his knuckles. Embedded in the flesh was a small sliver from the mirror. He had not noticed it before, the adrenaline rush masking any pain. With a small wince, he pulled the splinter free and examined it. While the other men had turned away to protect themselves, he had watched as the crack from the bullet snake over the mirror, large chunks falling away, his own reflection coming apart piece by piece. All that remained was a tiny shard. After all this time, what was left of himself? Was this now his destiny; a constant need for adrenaline in order to avoid feeling pain?
He let the fragment from the mirror drop from his hand and followed Tom's footsteps.
...
The rain gently tapped on the windshield as Harry sat in the rental car. He knew the blind spot in the camera field; he was parked far enough away. The doors of Thames House stood oblivious to the comings and goings of its agents. Death and betrayal meant nothing to its unfeeling exterior.
What would he be leaving behind, should he never step through those doors again? A bottle of decent scotch? A career of narrow escapes, having been shot, tortured, kidnapped, left for dead. It should have ended years ago, after Albany, after Coaver. He should be rotting in an American prison. How many times could he dodge the bullet? He had given his life to the service. Many lives. Given his marriage, his family, Ruth. That was the cost and he had paid it, ten times over. Now his time was up. The end would not be nicely wrapped up with a bow. No gold watch at the end of a stellar career. It was messy and complicated.
He ran his thumb over the steering wheel and remembered the last words she had said to him. A lovely night out. Sentimental words, he thought, the emotion of the moment causing her to espouse words that only they had shared.
He rotated his shoulder, one of the many parts of him that ached in the dampness. Perhaps the sight of Tom had caused the ghost of the wound to flare up. When he had lain in the hospital, recovering, she had come to him, saying she was his lover, a ploy to pass on a coded message about Mace.
A lovely night out.
His thumb froze on the steering wheel and he straightened his shoulders. What if she wasn't being sentimental? What if she was being Ruth?
He started the ignition and rolled quietly out into the street.
...
The cobblestones were slick with rain and Harry carefully trod on them, winding his way between the trash bins. The smell of rotting food lingered in the damp air, all the previous allure of the alley now missing. He heard the sizzle of the exit sign before he came upon it, the whir of the exhaust fan stirring up just as he stood underneath it. He took a step deeper into the darkness of the alley, to the spot where he had pressed into her, under the guise of protection. Where he had held her in his arms and felt the softness of her lips. He closed his eyes, remembering it all, a warmth flickering in his belly and then quickly extinguished.
He opened his eyes and scanned the wall, searching, his fingers moving across the rough brick until he came across a protruding piece of plastic. He wriggled it to free it from its hiding spot and held it in his palm. A small grey flash drive. He rolled it around in his fingers and wondered where he could find an internet cafe open at that hour. No, that wasn't it, she wouldn't do that. He fished his car keys from his pocket and slipped the jagged metal between the seams of the plastic. It broke apart. The message was inside.
...
The red wall looked down on them as they sat around the desk, eyeing up the decanter of scotch. Erin, still in her evening gown, Dimitri across from her, the tie from his tuxedo dangling around his neck. Callum leaned forward from his chair, gave a quick glance to the pods, and then looked back at Erin.
"He's going to walk through that door any minute and give us hell for breaking into his stash," Callum warned.
Erin looked at him. "I feel like I've lived ten days in one." A soft pop sounded as she pulled out the stopper, clinking the edge of the tumblers as she poured them each a measure of scotch. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Dimitri. "Report?"
"Both Mace and Elena are in hospital. Each of them claiming they were attacked by Harry and Ruth."
Erin shook her head in disbelief. "How do we get them out of that?
"I'm glad you asked," said Callum. From his pocket, he produced a burner phone wrapped in a plastic bag. "One mobile, belonging to Oliver Mace. It will give us the answer to why Harry attacked him. And this..." He pulled out a flash drive. "Is a handy little recording that will tell us why Ruth attacked Elena."
"Do I want to know how you got those?" Erin asked.
"Best not to ask those questions."
"There was a small explosive device in a dressing room,"Dimitri continued. "It was rigged to go off by mobile detonation."
Callum raised his eyebrows and gestured at the mobile in the plastic bag.
The ringing of the desk phone startled them and Erin looked between her two colleagues. Picking up the receiver, she answered brusquely, "Erin Watts." Her brows furrowed together as she listened to the caller. "What?" Her eyes flew to Callum and she gave him a questioning stare. "Yes," she continued, "Yes, I understand. Of course." She replaced the receiver on the cradle, keeping her eyes on Callum.
"Harry and Ruth have been spotted. Their passports were flagged at Heathrow."
Callum's eyes shifted over to the safe beside Harry's desk. So that's why Ruth had wanted Harry's passport.
Dimitri sat up in his chair. "Did they catch them?"
"No," Erin continued. "Apparently the hold on Harry's passport had been terminated and he was free to leave the country." She looked pointedly at Callum.
The young man raised his free hand in the air. "Don't look at me." He smiled to himself, knowing that somehow, Malcolm had used Ruth's security clearance to deactivate the hold.
"Where are they headed?" Dimitri asked.
"South America." She narrowed her eyes at Dimitri as he sat back in his chair nodding his head, a tiny smile on his face. Erin took a large gulp of her scotch. "You know what? I don't want to know."
"What are we going to do?"
"Unless they give us tickets to South America to track them down, we'll just keep doing what we do best," said Erin. "Until the find another person to realign our priorities, Dimitri, I'm making you Section Chief."
"What about me?" asked Callum.
"You can be everything else," Erin smiled at him over the rim of her glass as she took a drink.
Dimitri tapped his fingers on his glass. "He told me to save enough money to retire some place warm and never drink a scotch less than ten years old."
Callum raised his glass. "Retirement and a decent scotch."
...
The bell softly dinged as the overhead light on the passenger icon change. The dulcet tone of the flight attendant came over the address system, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. You are now free to move about the cabin."
Taking her gaze away from the window, she hurriedly unclasped the seatbelt, hating the restriction of the belt across her stomach. She badly needed to stretch her legs and wasn't sure if she could handle the fourteen hour flight time. She heard the squeak of trolley wheels as the flight attendant moved down the aisle with the refreshment cart and couldn't decide which she needed more; food or a stiff drink. She felt her companion stirring beside her, his fingers still tensely gripping the armrest as he softly chewed gum in an effort to stop his ears from popping.
"I do hope Mother remembers to take her Ciclosporin."
She placed her hand on his. "You can take off your seat belt, Malcolm."
"Aviation statistics indicate that leaving your seatbelt on while sitting reduces injury in the event of sudden turbulence." He leaned his head into her. "And we had better use the right names if we are to keep up the cover."
"You might have to nudge me if I don't answer. I have a hard enough time remembering Gina." Zoe raised her head as the refreshment trolley neared. "You'll have to order a scotch then though I've no idea what Ruth drinks."
"I hope she'll be alright," Malcolm whispered.
"She's is quite brilliant," Zoe reminded him.
"Sometimes it's thinking that gets one in trouble."
"I never would have thought of them together. Maybe there were signs that I missed all those years ago. I was a bit absorbed in my own drama at the time."
"I put my foot in it once. And when she returned it wasn't under the best of circumstances."
"There's nothing we can do now. They'll have to sort it out themselves."
That's what I'm afraid of," sighed Malcolm.
She smiled at him affectionately, thinking how nice it was to take back a piece of her old life. She couldn't think of a better soul than Malcolm. She would show him the sights, help him relax, maybe he would find the woman that he deserved. She looked out the window, a blanket of blackness surrounding them as the plane hurtled through the night and made a fervent wish that not all their work had been in vain.