Beware the fury of a patient man. The briefing room, usually oppressive with memory, was remarkably peaceful, allowing Harry to feel a strange sense of contentment,as he allowed his patience stretch beyond its normal limits. He sat back in his chair, lightly tapping his fingers on the smooth veneer of the table, watching Lucas sift through a file. He needed to make a decision regarding a Section Chief soon or fate would make it for him. Ruth stirred beside him, leaning forward on the table, her head resting in her hand, a fringe of hair hiding her profile as she busily scribbled notes. Her elbow sat enticingly close to his hand and he stretched out his fingers towards her, the hair on his knuckles electric as a delicious spark of frisson flowed through him. In only a few days, he would have her to himself at the Opera. He was on the verge of accidentally brushing her sleeve, when the door to the briefing room clattered open and Tariq hurried inside, a small object concealed in his hand. Attention back on the present moment, Harry motioned for him to take a seat and looked at the young man expectantly.

"Did you breach their defenses?"

"No, the level of encryption is too deep; it would take days to break through it."

"We don't have days."

"That's why we've come up with another plan," said Lucas.

"Do tell." Harry raised an eyebrow at Lucas.

Lucas aimed the remote at the screen and brought up a photo lifted from a corporate identification card; a middle-aged woman, her face framed by lanky brown hair and thick rimmed glasses. "Beatrice Wilson. She works at Romaldi's offices here, as a financial translator."

"And we're going to turn her?" Harry surmised.

"Not exactly. It looks like poor Beatrice has a touch of food poisoning and the agency is going to have to find a replacement."

Harry followed Lucas' gaze to Ruth. He kept his face impassive while his mind raged with the thought that there was no way in hell he would let her out of his sight. He crossed his arms and dipped his chin. "No."

"It would only be for one day," said Lucas.

"That's not enough time to sift through Lindemann's financial web," Harry pointed out.

"That's all we need." Tariq pressed his elbows on the table with excitement. "We get into their servers with a worm and get out before they even know we were there."

"And how do we do that?" Harry's arms remained skeptically crossed.

"With this." Tariq pulled out a ring decorated with an oversized green stone. He popped the stone off and flicked the bottom, revealing a tiny USB drive.

"And when do you propose we do this?" Harry gave a sidelong glance to the woman who sat beside him, assessing Ruth's reaction to the ring. There was nothing revealing in her posture or expression.

"The day of Lawrence's memorial," said Lucas.

"Absolutely not, that's out of the question. We'd be short on backup for Ruth."

Ruth half raised her hand. "Is no one going to ask me what I think?"

Harry ignored her, continuing to address Lucas. "Are you telling me there is no one else in this entire organisation that can translate Italian?"

"You wanted us to keep it contained," Lucas pointed out. "Especially, anything regarding Nightingale."

Harry drew an impatient breath. "It would leave us without a key member on the Grid." He had made up his mind he would not be persuaded.

"I don't think Nightingale is going to make a move at such a high-profile event." Lucas sat back in his chair, giving every indication that he was ready to go toe to toe with Harry.

"They had no qualms about disrupting a peace talk," Harry reminded him.

"What if they planted Romaldi as a decoy?" Ruth leant forward in her seat in an attempt to claim Harry's attention. "Our focus would be on the memorial service while they shuffled the next cache of money."

He refused to look at her. "There must be another way."

"There are no other agents." Lucas lifted his hands in abdication.

His posture stiffened, the tendons of his neck pulled taut, overcome by the suspicion that they had orchestrated the whole operation with Ruth to highlight the deficiencies of the section. They were backing him into a corner. He hated that feeling; it led to bad decisions and knee jerk reactions. If Ros were here, she would decide the whole question with one stingingly astute observation. But she was gone and so was his much-needed sounding board. His equilibrium was off, but what was left of his instinct told him to hold off on any decision. There was a reason he was reluctant to send Ruth out but he could not voice it in front of the team. He uncrossed his arms and shifted in his seat, finally turning to acknowledge the woman beside him.

"Ruth, do you have any details on the service."

She gave him a long look before slowly opening the file in front of her. She knew what he was doing, removing her from the sphere of field agent and placing her decidedly back in the bubble of an intelligence analyst.

"There are no other heads of state in attendance, although there are few ambassadors." She pointedly spoke to Lucas, leaving Harry out of her comments. "As well as a number of acquaintances of Lawrence's from Cambridge. Members from both sides of the House and their spouses." She flipped through the itinerary. "After St. Margaret's there's going to be a private family service."

"I didn't think he was married," said Tariq.

"His parents are still alive," Ruth explained.

Harry grimaced at the information. There was no greater punishment imaginable than to outlive one's children.

"Thankfully, the whole state funeral idea was nothing more than that." Ruth continued as she shuffled through papers. "But they are affording him special honours, having given his life to divert nuclear war between India and Pakistan"

Tariq jerked his head up. "Ros was the hero."

The room fell silent and Harry let the team sit with their thoughts. Only the people in that room would ever know what Ros had sacrificed. His chest tightened. He could not wallow; he could not lose himself to sentiment. Ros would have hated the idea and called him to task for it.

"Right," said Harry, steering them all back into the present. "The Home Office has been oddly reluctant to share information with us, keep an eye on them."

"Should we be suspicious?" asked Lucas.

"We should be suspicious of everyone." He gave a nod, dismissing the team.

Lucas and Tariq rose from their chairs and left the room. As he had anticipated, Ruth remained. She turned in her seat to face him. He had never been one to avoid confrontation but he would have given his eyeteeth to avoid this one.

"I can do it, Harry."

A small gust of air escaped his lips as he desperately searched for words that did not sound dismissive or patronising. "It's not that I don't believe in your skill..."

"If it were any other agent, you wouldn't hesitate to send them out."

"You haven't been in the field since ..." He halted the flow of his words, slowly placing his hand on the table, his fingers fanning out over the wood as he left her to fill in the rest of the sentence. She remained silent. He looked for another point to bolster his argument. "I only just got you back." She stiffened with a sharp intake of breath, and he curled his fingers into a fist, regretting the possessive quality of his words. "That is to say, you've only been back a short while and you're not ready."

"Do you mean not ready politically? Emotionally?"

The words were light, holding a faint hint of the camaraderie they had exchanged a few days before but he could not respond in kind; they hung before him like bait. He kept is attention focused on his hand, leaving the question unanswered.

"You're worried about me psychologically then?"

She was too clever by half. The air between them cooled as she folded her arms across her stomach, her head tilted in defiance, daring him to contradict her.

He bent towards her, his voice lowered in order to impart the sensitivity she deserved. "The other night at dinner, when you saw the fish-"

The change in her demeanour was instantaneous, his words having the effect of a slap. She sat back her eyes wide with disbelief. "That moment was private," she whispered.

"Nothing in this business is private." The observation fell from his mouth before his mind had time to calculate which way the words would slice.

"So we're just business then?"

Shit. What had he done? His last words the final knot in the noose, threatening to strangle whatever burgeoning feelings she might hold for him. He clenched his fist, vainly grasping for any thread that would stop their conversation from falling into an abyss from whence he could not recover. His nails dug into the palm of his hand. He was her superior; he had a duty of care towards her.

"You would be alone, there might be memories..."

"You've been reading my psych eval."

Her voice held that eerily flat quality she had displayed at the restaurant. On that night, he had secretly commended her ability to cleave off emotion but now that he was on the receiving end, it sent a chill down his spine. He looked at her with the full authority of his position. She held his eyes, hard and unyielding, waiting for him to back down. He had no idea how to handle this woman, this Ruth of flint and steel. He opened and closed his fist. He could not give in.

"I'm your boss, Ruth."

"Yes, you are." She delivered her words with a jarring finality.

She stood up with a regality befitting a queen, as he sat head bowed, the knave of despair. With no other, words she exited, leaving him to sit with his hollow victory. His fist drove down on the table. Damn. What was he supposed to do? On paper, she was cleared for duty but reality was a far harsher arena. She was right, he was biased. How many other agents had he willingly sent into the field, knowing that their psyches were one-step away from dissolving? Tom? Adam? How many others had he pushed beyond endurance? By all accounts, none of them was truly well and whole. They were all broken, held together with string and paste, cracks covered with plasters, building shells for protection that in the end only served to keep others out. They were boss and employee, nothing more. He sighed. If only they were that simple. The problem being that what was between them had no name. He tapped his knuckles on the table. He could not lose her again but there was no one else. In the past, there had been a seamless ebb a flow of personnel, a pool of prospective agents waiting in the wings, familiar with the Grid and the team. Others brought on by fortuitous circumstance. Where were they now? The Section had become too insular. He had become too insular. He had to put the operation first.

He rose from his chair, his jacket pulling across his back, restricting his movements. He flexed his shoulders as he moved across the Grid, trying to alleviate the tension. He caught Lucas' eye as he passed the agent's desk and the younger man followed him into the office. He did not offer up a seat but quickly spoke before he had a chance to change his mind.

"Prepare an airtight legend, get her up to speed and then we'll see about sending her out."

Lucas nodded.

"And she needs a get out clause," Harry added.

"Of course."

Harry dropped heavily into his chair, the weight of his coat dragging him down. He waited for Lucas to leave.

"Listen, Harry, I know what she means to you."

Harry tilted his head, mouth parted with incredulity, stunned that Lucas would ever broach such a sensitive subject. The agent was undaunted by Harry's reaction.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," Lucas said quietly, "To finally have them back only to find they are out of reach."

Harry closed his eyes, grimacing as though a bandage and been ripped off an unhealed wound. A bead of anger coiled in his stomach and he opened his eyes, intending to take a strip off the other man. Lucas looked back at him, eyes unwavering; there was no malice in his gaze, no intent to harm. They were two men who bore the scars of lost love. Perhaps Lucas had the grit to be section chief after all. He certainly had intuition.

"The legend goes through me." Harry turned away dismissively. Admit nothing.

...

Harry planted himself squarely in front of Ruth's desk, leaving no doubt as to his presence. She slowly raised her eyes to him, her expression containing no trace of her usual warmth. He cocked his head towards his office and walked away. She got up and followed him. As he slid the door closed, he motioned for her to take a seat and then crossed to his own chair. He sat, studying her, letting the silence grow between them, waiting to see if she would fill it with nervous babble. He didn't know why he was using interrogation techniques on her - putting on a persona perhaps, in order to distance him from any emotional connection. She did not succumb to the pressure of the silence but remained quiet. That was a good sign.

"Lucas tells me they've created a legend for you."

She nodded.

"Do you have it down?" He opened the folder containing the paperwork for her identity.

"I think so."

"You think so?" He would not go easy on her.

"Yes, I know it."

Tell me a bit about yourself," he traced his finger over the information in front of him. "Alison."

"We're not seriously doing this?" She gave him a puzzled look as if he were playing a joke.

"I'm giving you a chance to prove me wrong. And you know I don't like to be wrong." This time, his words were baited.

"Alison Chambers." She sat up straight in her chair. "I'm thirty-eight, divorced, no children, Masters from Cambridge in translation-"

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good." Harry closed the file with a dramatic sweep. "But those are facts and I know you have a good memory."

"I'm only going in for a day, Harry."

He slapped his palm on top of the folder. "That's exactly the kind of flippant thinking that will get you in trouble. It has to be part of you, under your skin. So ingrained that no one can peel it away. Live it, think it, breathe it." He paused to let his words sink in. "Let's start again, shall we." He canted his head, his eyes boring straight into hers, each word delivered with deliberate intent. "Who are you?"

Her eyes held his, but instead of the frostiness he expected, they grew soft and surprisingly defenceless. Her gaze fell and she bit her bottom lip, her chest moving quickly at the shallowness of her breath, her entire demeanour exuding a vulnerability that surprised him. There was no hardness, no shell. He sat back in his chair, disconcerted by the effect his words had on her. In his effort to poke holes in her legend, he had inadvertently struck a wound. Had she asked herself the same question? She had given up her identity twice, lost everything, everyone. Who was she? He wanted to reach out and bring her back from the edge of whatever precipice his question had pushed her toward but he stopped. He would not allow himself to be pulled into the emotion of the moment. If she wanted to be a field agent, she had to face these questions. Better that it happen now than when she was in Romaldi's office. He cleared his throat, resetting the conversation.

"Why did you get divorced?"

"Who's going to ask that?" She roused herself, an edge of combativeness to her voice.

"Arthur from accounting."

"So you're now you're Arthur from accounting?"

"This is a pretty thin legend." He lifted the folder and waved it in the air.

Her eyes darted out to the Grid and then back. "We met in school and grew apart."

"Don't look away. It tells me you're thinking." He tapped the desk to bring her attention back. "Why didn't you have children?"

"I wanted a career."

He nodded, pleased that the mention of children had not caused a reaction.

"Why financial translation?"

"My father was an accountant and I wanted to study languages. It was a good compromise."

"Do you always compromise?"

"No, that's why I'm divorced."

She held his eyes in challenge, one eyebrow slightly raised. His heartbeat accelerated, excited by the speed of her wit. He stepped it up a notch.

"Are you seeing anyone now?"

"It's very new."

"What does he do?"

"Civil servant."

"What department?

"Environment, Food and Rural Affairs."

His heart stopped. Her expression remained neutral. This time, it was her eyes that drilled into him. He blinked first.

"It's new, you say?"

"But we've known each other a long time."

He had the distinct feeling that she was playing with him. Always make the cover story as close to reality as possible. She was talking about him, of that he was certain. They had crossed a boundary in the conversation, the business and the personal intertwined in such a manner that he could not untangle it. Was she talking to him as Ruth or Alison? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was still going to the Opera with him when she spoke.

"Is that everything?"

He sat for a moment, re-evaluating her determination, begrudgingly admitting to himself that perhaps she had the potential to hold her own out in the field.

"Yes, thank you for humouring me."

She stood up, and out of a sense of outdated chivalry, he rose with her. He crossed over to the door and reached across the panel to open it but stopped, leaving her to stand corralled in the crook of his arm. He kept her there, waiting, the chrome of the handle smooth beneath his fingers. Her gaze remained focused on his sleeve. He closed his eyes. The cloud of perfume that followed her throughout the day, now muted by the lateness of the hour, a baser scent seeping into his consciousness. His fingertips rubbed along the metal handle, his hand itching to move the short distance to her hip and pull her around into him. He wanted to hold her, tell her that everything would be all right, that he would protect her. He knew he couldn't, he had to let her be her own person. He stood, wanting to ask her if everything was all right between them but he didn't know how to phrase it, the question would leave him too vulnerable. Endless minutes ticked on.

"You have to let me go sometime," she told him quietly.

What kind of relationship could he ever expect to have with a woman whom he had twice in one day drawn through an emotional gristmill? If they were involved, how could he ever knowingly send her into danger? His grip tightened on the door handle. Her weight shifted but her eyes remained fixed on his arm.

"I'm a spy, Harry," she whispered. "That's who I am.

He opened the door and let her go.