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"You don't really need to find out,
What's going on.
You don't really want to know,
Just how far its gone.
Just leave well enough alone,
Eat your dirty laundry."
-Dirty Laundry, Don Henley
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RECD: 5:12 AM
IVY PROTOCOL
0700
URGENT
EYES/EARS CLOSED
M
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He requested that Mike detour to Ruth's, then provided the address as the seconds passed and she unaccountably failed to acknowledge the necessity. He knew the slight stiffening of her body as they exited his was down to the moment she spied his driver waiting beside the car, and very likely why she'd yet to speak a single word, the quick nod of acknowledgment in the vague direction of Mike her single consideration of basic propriety.
Once inside, her body's rigidity gave way rapidly to palpable apprehension during the ride, her fingers nervously fidgeting, teeth absently gnawing her bottom lip, either owing to the presence of Mike, or the thought of reentering her previously compromised home he couldn't be sure, silently assuming it some combination of both, and as there was little left to him to mitigate any of it, he concluded it best to not make any sudden movements if it could be avoided.
The most obvious reason he was loathe to consider fell somewhere between both shame and regret having to do with the past hours spent together, and one he found maddeningly difficult to shake. Despite his reassurances that Malcolm had overseen the removal of surveillance equipment personally, and guaranteed her home was dully free, just one of the ill timed and intrusive messages he'd received thus far, she would not settle, and despite himself, her nervousness was beginning to wear on him, remaining just this side of annoyingly distracting by some miracle inherent to his being besotted in the extreme with a veritable changeling.
He contemplated her behavior presently, and surmised she was, indeed, a changeling having morphed from the naughty librarian he'd lusted for, making love to him loudly, and enthusiastically while covered in soapy lather with a potency so strong he'd completely forgotten his dodgy knee as he thrust into her, violently exploding and seeing nothing but blotches of white behind his closed eyes, to this nervous, inarticulate, and apprehensively silent creature sat next to him as they picked their way through the morning traffic. It had happened almost before he'd thought to blink, coinciding with the ritual of getting dressed, sharing a toothbrush, the incessant overtures emanating from his still unacknowledged cell phone, and she gradually shying away from him in the daylight seeping from behind his bedroom shades.
It had been perfectly predictable, and as he silently mulled it over, he had to admit that had he been less the amorous adolescent, he would have prepared himself for such an eventuality. Still, he soothed himself, regardless the predictability, it had seemed so sudden in effect, he found himself believing that he had imagined the entire evening, had, by some trick of the mind, breathed life into a fantasy defining his morning, and he was forced to glance towards her repeatedly after their shower to counter the effect, his eyes noting the discolored smudges along her arms, drawn to them unconsciously as a tongue is drawn to a missing tooth.
Honestly, he hadn't truly accepted her presence as a reality for a good portion following their shower, during which time he was undeniably antsy, his consciousness hyper-attuned to every sound, every movement from either of them. It was only when he observed her coffee mug placed next to his bearing the stain of her lipstick on the rim that he allowed himself a guarded sense of relief intrinsic to recognizing that it wasn't all a dream. He chuffed at himself, sighing in resignation that his hope in successfully navigating whatever they were together now came down to a half crescent stain marring the surface of an innocuous mug as proof that they were, in truth, something at all.
It occurred to him it had been a long time since he had fallen victim to what he had often callously dismissed as the morning after effect. That predictable adjustment of the eyes and consciousness, hours after the fact, when you unaccountably reprimand yourself inwardly for the masquerade, while suiting your face to give the impression it had been meaningful, not some drunken one off, and, Yes, absolutely, diner would be wonderful. Rarely, if at all, had he stayed until morning's light, his custom accommodating a few hours versus several breaching the dawn, preferring to whisper soft goodbyes into half conscious ears, and dropping the proffered phone number in the nearest waste can after exiting. He had been very careful to guard himself, an almost religiously faithful follower of casual exploitations, and thus the discomfort he felt presently evolved to him rather cumulative in nature, the requisite bite for many year's worth of behavior culminating within him in this single, exact moment.
Worse still, he had never in his life been on the receiving end. Had gone to great lengths and used various subversive measures to avoid exactly that. And yet, despite himself, in this moment, staring out the window at the dulled and tired faces doing exactly the same, he felt, for the first time, what it meant to be aware that your phone number had been discarded despite assurances that previous sexual activities engaged in willingly were meaningful, and something on which hope could hang unreservedly. What the fuck is this woman doing to us, his shadow screamed from the void, and as he had little means to divine an answer, he closed his eyes, allowing his head to drop back against the headrest and pray he was being paranoid at best, insufferably insecure at worst.
Though he couldn't see her fidgeting next to him, he could feel her moving about and thought it quite possible that she felt as he did, confused, unsure, drowning in a sea of indecision, and he knew this feeling...this inability to know the next step, and the next was so contrary to both their inherent remits that it evolved more uncomfortably acute than any hoped for refection of affection's blissful abandon.
He turned to her, just as she turned her head to gaze at him, and the vulnerability present in her eyes nearly broke his heart, though he had little doubt she saw the same in his. He reached slowly towards her, brushing the side of her hand lain palm up with his pinkie, very quiet owing to Mike, and hoped she wouldn't pull away. She didn't, but neither did she immediately move to acknowledge him by touching him in return, instead choosing to watch as he continued to brush her hand, releasing a quiet sigh as he weaved his pinkie around her thumb, and closing her eyes. He felt her lean very slightly towards him before she turned her head to gaze out the window, and he released his own soft sigh as she drew her thumb into her hand, enclosing his pinkie within.
He had no idea the course they were on, the surfaces and bending turns were unidentifiable, despite the considerable portion of time he'd given over to plotting and determining the same as he drove them to his earlier. So too as he had watched her as she slept in the quiet of his bedroom. Were he twenty-five, he'd be content to let it shake out as it was meant to, hitching himself to the cart regardless the consequences, regardless the heartache and pain because that's what you did when you were twenty-five. At that age, there was no love without pain. The pain was love inasmuch as the affection shared became a torturous penalty should you part from your passion, bittersweet and wonderful, forcing you to return again, and again.
If he were honest, he could reconcile that, even at this age, as his affection for Ruth bore all the hallmarks of his younger self, and she had become a bittersweet torture to him, all the more so because she allowed him to see her, to feel and taste her, wonton and bursting with a level of passion that left him gobsmacked. Perhaps, he thought, that was what she meant when she said it was painful to watch him as he hid what she believed beautiful about him? To him, it was as equally painful to watch as she retracted into herself, having experienced this beautiful, newly discovered passionate creature, hidden behind numerous layers of clothing, her need for untenable levels of privacy demanding she hide herself, the scars she carries deeply carving the shell she adopts.
Would he sacrifice her required level of discretion to recapture some fleeting, youthful definition of companionship? Would he, really? No, and with age he had to admit there was a deliciously seductive virtue in remaining subtle, stoking those secret yearnings for another without revealing to all and sundry the nature of their relationship. Having her holding his pinkie, quietly establishing a connection in the daylight, was as seductive to him then as when she had grasped his cock and pulled him to her in the shower. Though, he had to confess, it was the secrecy that fueled his longing presently, the distraction inherent to wanting her to do more, knowing she wouldn't, and yet still anticipating that she might.
Which brought him back to his original concern, voiced silently within him as he drove, and she slept; How was he to work side by side with her, and still allow her to determine the speed, the circumstances, the future? How was he expected to sleep without her next to him, stretching as she awoke, curled against him on those occasions where she had determined to deny him? How could he find it within himself to suffer her denials, her evolving moods and curiosities, and remain only hers? How will he not destroy her as he had Jane? How long could he tame the fancies of his darker shadow before giving in?
He was in the midst of meditating that when he heard the door open on her side, watched as a hand offered itself in assistance, and smiled briefly at Mike's solemn, Miss Ruth, as she exited, and stood waiting at the pathway leading to her house. Normally jovial, talkative, and ready to regale him all manner of mischief enacted by his three children, Mike had been curiously silent throughout the drive, owing, no doubt, to the look he received from Harry the moment he spied Ruth exiting with him in the morning. For his part, he had only remembered his driver simultaneous to the ringtone announcing his arrival, and inwardly cursed himself for having forgotten, knowing it too late to cancel, knowing it for the first test in a series of unknown complications set before him involving the state of his relationship with Ruth. Catching his eye as they approached, Mike had raised his eyebrows, and offered a thumb's up gesture, which he was forced to cover by acting as though they shook hands every morning in greeting, and squeezing, admittedly, a bit too firm to be confused for anything other than, Not one fucking word, or I'll surely break it, Mate.
Apparently, Mike had received the unspoken message, and his current determination to show absolutely no emotion one way or the other outside of standard courtesy almost made him burst out laughing. There were benefits, after all, to having a ruthless reputation, and on the rare instances when he and Mike had engaged in an authentic conversation traveling from here to there, he found he rather enjoyed his effusively optimistic outlook, despite his tendency to forget himself somewhat, and stomp his foot in it as he had chosen to do, ill advisedly, earlier.
In truth, he knew it was killing him not to openly recognize Ruth's presence because, once, in an unsolicited jaunt into offering advice, Mike had voiced his thoughts on his impressions of Ruth, which had curiously alined themselves to that image of naughtiness he himself had often pondered, and suggested to him, not too subtly, that she was a woman you hold on to. He hadn't argued or offered comment, rather he simply meditated the curiosity that Mike would think about Ruth at all, let alone form an impression he was willing to give voice to. He came to understand, as Mike continued to offer comment, and he allowed him without complaint, that Mike would not be included in the paltry few who did not in some way or another, in varying degrees, fall in love with Ruth just a little bit. He had born witness to many a dumbstruck smile, innocent flirting, and the circuitous verbal lengths many before him had traveled in the vain effort to gage her availability, if not outright receptiveness, watching as their eyes followed her as she passed, allowing not the first hint of answer.
As he thought on it now, crossing towards her, placing his hand possessively on her lower back and gently guiding her forward, Mike may be, to some innocent degree, sweet on her, but, of the two, only he knew her taste. As they approached her door, he made a mental note to have a conversation immediately with him, just to ensure he didn't get it in his head to open his mouth about anything he'd be well advised to pretend not to have seen. Ever. He watched her face as it grimaced absently while she dug around her bag for keys, smiling as she puffed a lock of hair that had fallen in frustration, and noted the small scrap of paper half hidden beneath her shoe, smirking at Malcolm's dismissal of her chosen security measures. Still having little luck, she dropped her bag with a thump and knelt, rummaging furiously, and he, quite delighted despite her mood, turned to gaze along the street, wondering where she had learned the paper trick, and who had misinformed her that such a security measure was anything but painfully obvious to anyone she should verifiably be afraid of?
Dismissing the thought of asking almost simultaneous to it having formed, his eyes skipped quickly along the street, settling on the dark Audi parked approximately seven abandoned cars from where Mike stood awaiting him his return, and noted the lack of detritus present, while every other presented as having sat idle overnight, the requisite environmental tells present to the most insignificant of cursory observations. He vaguely registered Ruth's cry of triumph, feeling, rather than seeing her stand, the tinkling of keys and the sound as the key found its way home, turning, the bolt snapping, the sounds strangely distant in his periphery as he locked eyes with Mike, the slight, almost imperceptible nod given in return communicating he had noticed the car as well, and a silent affirmation he would keep a keen eye in his absence. Pausing for a moment longer, he stared openly towards the car, unclear if there were an occupant, and the image of Angela filled his mind, his senses telling him that while she had been the most obvious opponent, there were others who maintain control of the invisible strings under which she danced and died.
"Harry? Is something-"
"No. Nothing. I was just thinking what a quiet street this is. Its nice."
Glancing one last time to Mike, he moved quickly to prevent Ruth from joining him, which had the effect of forcing them together, flush, his hands on her arms, leg maneuvering between hers, gently forcing her backwards, his body igniting with the contact, her hands like fire on his chest, and she jumped away from him, stumbling backwards through the half open door. Her sudden movement had the unexpected result of leaving him off balance, and just as she had stumbled backwards, he had fallen forwards leaving both of them grasping at door handles and entryway furniture to regain balance, her wide eyes and 'O' shaped mouth receiving his version of the same, only slightly more tinged with pink.
Given her reserved attitude during the drive over, and her apparent desire not to find her body pressed to his, he found himself quite gratefully surprised when she turned after stepping backwards, and drew his face to hers, lavishing his mouth, cheeks, and throat with her lips before the door had fully closed. As he pushed her back against the bureau in her entryway, trapping her against it and his body, he allowed his tongue to dance along her bottom lip, dipping inside, a quick touch to hers, and then out again, sucking on her as if his life momentarily depended on it, only to repeat the process anew.
"Christ, Ruth, you had me believing you regretted-"
"-No, no, no, never, not in a milli-"
"-Then you do a better than fair impression-"
"Had to...Mmnnn, Mike...Had to prepare...for...Grid."
And despite himself, he was that twenty-five year old youth, desperate to stay there with her, tortured by the taste of her lips, the sounds which rose from her heedlessly, so painfully relieved that she had been preparing inasmuch as he had been, and reduced to half sentences offering the bare minimum of explanations in favor of languid, fervent kisses, her hands running through his hair, and he wanting eat her alive.
"You...distant...before...and the ride...I-"
"Because...trying to control...all I could...wanted you, then...So-"
He pushed every object immediately behind her to the sides of the bureau, and lifted her on to it, bringing her to eye level, and found it impossible to consider that they hadn't time, relishing the feel of her lips. Wrapping her legs around him, drawing him closer, her hands in his hair, he listened to her giggle as objects fell, post fluttered into disorganized heaps at his feet, making a mental note to replace the violet plant he had seen overturn in his periphery, and thought his day couldn't get any better until he opened his eyes, drawing his lips away, and saw the mirror behind her. Oh shag.
"Ruth?"
"Yes. Now."
Pulling her back down, he spun her around to face the mirror with one hand, while his other hand ran up the front inside of her thigh. She was unbuckling and yanking at his pants, backhandedly, and as she ground herself against him, bucking and straining for leverage, his fingers found she was both deliciously wet, and without panties.
"Ahhh...the whole ride?"
"Ummm, and while we had coffee. Its why I was...distant, Harry."
And that marked the end of his control, which resulted in one ripped skirt, an overturned lamp, his cock thrusting rhythmically, his fingers joined by hers in fondling her swollen clit, a guttural groan from the depths of what felt like his toes, a panting, bucking Ruth riding him, crying out as she came, two pairs of eyes watching each other in the wall mirror, two hands joined together against its reflective surface, a sight more erotic it gave the impression of pulsing life, one wall in need of plaster repair, and though they couldn't know it then, one driver so red he appeared purple.
He had rested his face against the back of her bare neck, hunched over her as he attempted to slow his heart rate, and she, reaching behind her to hold his head, her balance secured with the connection, and her other hand still flush against the wall mirror as she came down, and he marveled the peace he felt still nestled within her, warm and pulsing with aftershocks.
"This is likely to be complicated, Harry."
Truer words had never been spoken.
"I wouldn't have it any other way, my Ruth."
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"I trust you understand you didn't observe anything you think you did this morning. Nothing out of the ordinary, or unusual in the least. Tell me I'm correct on that score, Mike."
"Absolutely. You are correct, Sir."
"Of course, you do realize I can see you smiling in the rearview, right?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Dare I ask?"
"I didn't hear anything I think I did, either. Sir."
"Good man."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"We've another detour. You'll need to speed it up as I was...unavoidably detained earlier. The Kingpin, as close to seven as possible, please."
"I'll do what I can, Sir."
"I've little doubt. And the Audi? Still following, I take it?"
"Not that I can observe, Sir."
"Keep an eye out. I trust your skills of evasion are as keen as ever?"
"Managed to take out only one mailbox, and half a sidewalk cafe of tables when last tested. No casualties, of course. I'm told it some kind of record. The wife made a cake to celebrate. Still, you'll want to buckle up, Sir."
"I can confirm any occurrence of casualties is likely to come up in your yearly evaluation, and feel it my duty to encourage you to make an effort to avoid anything unduly fatal or destructive. That said, you will lose them by any means necessary."
"Absolutely, Sir."
"Now that we've covered the Human Resources bit, go on and tell me something about your boys."
In truth, he was only half listening, as Mike spoke with obvious devotion about his sons, as his eyes darted expertly the available mirrors in search of tails. Settling comfortably for the ride that would put him late by half an hour, he brought his hand to his lips, inhaling the scent of her still present, as though tattooed beneath his skin, and wondered how he would get through this day, or any following, without molesting her at every opportunity. As it was, he had barely made it out the door before they had ignited again, and he still felt the heat of her surrounding his cock, leaving him to believe that he would, hereafter, remain in a constant state of semi-erect arousal, a flushing picture of urgent adolescence, were she sitting next to him or elsewhere.
Drawing close to The Kingpin, he spotted Malcolm's rover secreted on a side street, and began rehearsing the excuse he would offer to explain away his considerable tardiness silently. Instructing Mike to go on, he stood outside the building, his thoughts traveling back to when both he and Malcolm were younger, and frequented the forgotten hideaway years before. In that time, it had been as much a safe house as any other, but for the benefit of constant luxuries allowed, its virtues known by numerous intelligence operatives and enjoyed in excess. Leave it to Malcolm to determine this place, of all the places known between the them, as appropriate for this hour of the morning.
He was amused to note the building itself remained an architectural eyesore, deliberately run down, a state of distress its owner, Ivy Thibodaux, carefully and deliberately cultivated. She was an English citizen by marriage, but American by birth, whose family line could be traced back to the merest hint of The States. It was said her French ancestry landed along the American Gulf, during a time of infancy when that portion of swampland was still owned by France, and once acquired, eventually became known as Louisiana. She had, years later, cut her teeth in the bayous of Lafourche Parish, in a town named for her ancestors, and was both wise and cagey, owing to years of experience with the American facet of Cosa Nostra, its shadowy influences within the region rife, and within which her family, it was widely rumored, figured rather prominently.
She was, and remained, one of the select few Americans he found himself able to tolerate, owing, though he had to admit wholly superficially, to her deep seated accent which she herself had admitted to using to great effect when in need of an extra bit of sweet to temper the bitter. Her ability to talk anyone into doing exactly as she originally intended was legendary to those fortunate enough to know her, and he had fallen victim to her lilting cadence on more than a few occasions, as had Malcolm.
However run down it looked superficially, Ivy had spared no expense designing the interior which was appropriately lavish, deliciously decadent in the vein of what she referred to as Storyville Chic. Once inside, you felt as though you had stepped back in time, immediately comfortable with the anything goes ambience, and the clear understanding that what happened within these walls, stayed within these walls, or you'd find yourself summarily shut out for talking out of turn. She was, without necessarily meaning to be, a spook's spook, and many nights had been spent working the details of one op or another, frequented by all manner of security people populating every echelon of the services.
Ivy was discrete, trustworthy, and had an enviable selection of liquors which had been consumed frequently between he and Malcolm, and it had not been unusual to share their first cup of coffee with Ivy after sleeping one off on one of the many overstuffed, comfortably worn couches which littered the main rooms. Her childhood lessons put her in good stead, and the similarities between the underworld of American based adjuncts navigating Mafioso traditions mirroring those considered just this side of legal within the Intelligence Security Services was understood, if not spoken of in detail.
He wondered absently, as he entered, if he should share with Ruth this secret hideaway, this bit of history, as he remembered one, quite possibly two occasions when her father had stitched him up in one of the rooms available upstairs, and decided best to leave that unaddressed as the rooms were rather designed to act as the brothel adjunct to Storyville's more seemly traditions. Something about her father in a brothel posed more potential for questions, and given he had, on occasion, taken advantage of said tradition, he dismissed the thought quickly, mentally filing it under the category of the less said, the better. The women, in keeping with the luxury and decadent beauty of the interior, and the origins of Ivy herself, were much the same, exotic, hard to resist, and even now a memory which made him smile, however briefly. He ignored the gleaming teeth of the smile bestowed earlier by his shadow tugging at him, finding the memories of that time, and those particular women more appealing to the darkened creature struggling within him, closing his eyes with the effort, and replacing the vision with one of Ruth as she looked out onto the water.
Glancing around, his eyes immediately read the biographical testament provided all who entered the details of the place. It was fashioned inside an alter of sorts, and never had he entered where he did not stop to read it, nor fail to notice the lit candles with pictures of various saints present. Neither had he been able to refrain from genuflecting before it, a curious habit which was repeated by anyone who had entered before, or subsequent his arrivals through the years despite the state of faith held within each heart and soul. Perhaps it was an unconscious nod to her father, the kingpin for whom the place was named, a well meaning derivation of gratitude sent up towards the Heavens for having created this creature name Ivy, and thus, allowing this place to exist in the present. If Thames hid a weeping wall for the fallen in its belly, The Kingpin provided the infinitely more accommodating alter, and bless, liquor served by women with legs a kilometer in length.
He moved unconsciously to complete the ritual, genuflecting as was required. As he did so, he watched the candle of Saint Jude flicker delicately, holding pride of place, with a feeling of mild discomfort. Frowning, he turned, registering a single bartender, and locating Malcolm, returning his smile knowing without being told that he had done exactly the same upon his arrival. Wondering, too, if Malcolm had noticed old Jude at the ready, and if he had, whether the effect had been similar to his, or easily dismissed as superstitious paranoia. Noting the two mugs placed before him, he considered the absence of alcohol suggested caution, despite the hour not having yet past eight, and he meditated the need for urgency as indicated by his early morning missive, concluding it not a good omen when taken as a whole.
"Good morning. Coffee, is it?"
"And to you. Tea, actually. Ivy's brewed up a pot. She'll be delighted to see you."
"Ah, she's here, then? Good. I'm sorry-"
As if sensing his presence, the woman herself appeared, her face breaking into a grin the moment her eyes caught his, and sauntered over with the characteristic roll of her hips he remembered so clearly. Time, he observed, had been good to her. The lines decorating her deep green eyes more a testament to joy than age, and while she had lost the lean, panther-esque qualities inherent to her earlier years, she still remained a strikingly attractive woman, nevertheless. Wrapping her arms around him, he returned the hug as she squeezed him, refusing to stop until he returned the favor. Stepping back, she looked him up and down, squinting her eyes as she assessed him, pursing her lips, and then dropped her arms from his sides. Her eyes, he discovered, were as sharp as ever. As was her tongue.
"You're hair is longer, cher. Leettle cur-els. I like it, me."
Her voice was deep and throaty, each word drawn as if carrying multiple syllables, the cadence of her people, melodic to his ears still in all the intervening years. Try as he might to detail the origins, her voice struck him as one part island, one part French, and the rest some amalgam of American English vernacular specific to a region requiring 'TH' to be softened to 'D' or 'T,' and the periodic reference to oneself using the third person 'Me.' In all, it had the disarming affect he imagined inherent to being petted into a position of complete, supine submission, particularly when she reached to touch the curls adorning the nape of his neck, just above his collar.
"You've filled out a bit, no? Sof-dah. Not dat hard boy from so long a-go. Still hard, yes, but not so mush whid de angles. Its good, no? So, how is your Jane, then?"
"Fine, I guess. No longer mine. She kicked me several years ago, I'm afraid."
"Ah, yes. Did I not say as much? As it should be. You were a bad boy, Hair-ree. A very bad boy, no?"
"Yes, very bad to hear her tell it."
"No, thank you, no. Not for my ears deese tales from your Jane. Dis ha-pens. I know e-nough alreah-dee."
"Did you verbally accost Malcolm here, or am I the only recipient of special early morning oral scoldings?"
"Oh, oui, I did."
"She did. Sarah."
"Oh! Sarah! So in love wid you. Foolish girl, ev-en more fool, dis man. Don't get me star-ted again. We've alrea-dee set-tulled dat. Jus look at his face, dere! Sit, Hair-ree, have your tea. Talk. I leave you to it, den."
She had reached to touch Malcolm's cheek, having always been a physically demonstrative person, each of them knew she would interrupt them periodically throughout their stay, wordlessly, a hand on a shoulder as she passed, a fingertip on top of their resting hands. Despite their hardwired sense of English reserve, each had grown comfortable with the physical displays of affection, as well as the knowledge that though she may be hearing everything they said, she might well be considered deaf and mute.
Moving to leave, she hesitated, as he sat himself, sighing as he settled, tilting her head as she regarded him, her mouth dropping slightly as an idea formed, began to evolve on her face, and the crinkling lines around her eyes began to deepen as she gradually smiled at him.
"You have a wo-man, Hair-ree, no? Don't lie to me. No. You do, I can sense it. Oh dear, cher, you are in love, no?"
And for the second time in less than four hours he was certain that his face looked for all appearances as having been slapped hard, and he left dumbstruck, awash with ten-second delay. That both situations were at the hands of women who were both adored by, and adoring of, devoted paternal figures did not escape him.
Oh, shag.
"I'm certain your radar is mistaken, Ivy."
"And I'm ee-quaal-ly cer-tain it would be de firs time, Hair-ree."
Hands firmly on her hips, her liquid emerald eyes bore into him, and he was left at a loss of method by which to obfuscate his way around her. God save him from women and their bloody senses.
"That happens, you know."
"I do. Juss not to me. Be in love, Hair-ree. You wear it well."
Before he could comment, she had tapped him lightly on the nose, then gently tugged his earlobe, turned and walked away. Turning to Malcolm, he noticed a clear look of discomfort decorating his face, and while he knew that his love life was hardly a topic for which Malcolm would willingly subject himself to conversationally, the look itself carried a rather heightened level of alarm that struck him as problematic, placing his internal mechanisms of subterfuge and distraction on ready alert, ignoring they had failed miserably on task with Madame Thibodaux.
"I take it from your text you've handled Ruth's House?"
"From top to bottom, all clear. Eyes and ears effectively closed. I signed off early this morning. As for the recordings, I'm afraid we've hit a wall. If they exist, I'm at a complete loss where. Or, with whom, quite honestly. I think it might be too optimistic to think Angela destroyed them, in any case. Quite a significant amount of hardware, Harry. I'll admit, I was a bit baffled as to the reason."
"So...I'm to understand we have no clear understanding why her house was chosen? No hint to that effect based on types of devices used? Nothing illuminating, from a technical standpoint?"
"Not that I should be confident suggesting, no."
"What about in theory? Understanding it all guessing, of course. What, or who would you be inclined to suggest without...ahh, confidence?"
"Harry, you are very well aware I don't like to cast aspersions-"
"Lets assume that admirable quality of yours we do not share took an unscheduled runner for the moment. Humor me, Malcolm. I'm drinking tea, in a brothel, at your early morning request."
"Guessing? Unavoidable to ignore Ms. Shaw. Angela confirmed herself responsible for placement. Had they known each other that well? Seemed a curious set of circumstances from the get. So, obviously, if forced to theorize, Juliet Shaw, and...well, whomever she's currently petting to advance herself. Single minded, that one. Just my impression, you understand, but she strikes me a more feminine version of one Oliver Mace, don't you find?"
Juliet. Her edges were plentiful, some brash and abrasive, others sharp enough to draw blood. It had been what drew him, and when they were done, she retained her anger, and he his grief despite the numerous couplings in which each attempted to excise both from within themselves individually. In total, she was not unattractively hard, and his considerable familiarity with her allowed him the present ability to extend any benefit associated with doubts as to her motivations towards suborning any act intrinsic to undermining civilization as they knew it. Had she been involved? Doubtful, and yet he found himself setting the thought aside to meditate later, his face allowing nothing of his internal indecisions, and Malcolm, sensing he was not likely to receive any acknowledgement, or answer, regarding the question, settled himself, without further comment or queries as to his personal assessment.
"Then, there's the equipment, of course. Had to come from somewhere, though there isn't a single trace of requisition, and I can always fetter that out. Without fail, Harry. Not a trace to be found in this case. At a guess, one could assume each item acquired by way of individual broker. Black market means. Which...Well, you can well imagine the inflated costs to something like that, not simply just the equipment, but the price for silence. There has to be some exceptionally deep pockets there. It really just comes down to determining who Five pissed off. Which is to say, who you pissed off, I would assume?"
"That's a rather lengthy list of options. Best we try to narrow it down a bit. I have to admit, Malcolm, I'm not sold on Juliet's involvement. At least, not beyond being the rube instructed to grant Angela entry into Thames. It's not her...She's many things, but disloyal to our very foundations? The Royal Family? No. She couldn't have known about the bunker. As for Angela, well..."
"I don't believe she was committed...to the act...as a whole. You?"
He laced his fingers around the mug, feeling the warmth against his palms, wondering how to answer, how much to reveal? He had offered his thoughts to Ruth unreservedly, or so it had seemed, but now, strangely, felt the innate need to remain obtuse with this long time friend and colleague patiently waiting for him to reply.
"Who can say? I've seen some of the best break, as have you. It's terribly individualized, when they do. Ultimately, she had a clean line of sight on both Adam and me. Could have taken us both out, and chose not to. I think she went out the way she decided to go out, as do they all. We'll never know for a certainty, regardless."
"And, Ruth?"
"And Ruth, what?"
"Harry. Surely you see that there was a specific reason Ruth-"
"What I saw, Malcolm, was an agent on the blink, and Ruth caught in the crossfire. Could happen to any one of us. As one of them is cooling in the morgue at the moment, I don't imagine an explanation will be forthcoming."
"That's were we differ, then. I think Angela provided an explanation. I think she wanted something from Ruth...the truth, an explanation, call it whatever you want, but I believe she wanted to die, just not without confronting Ruth first. Odd way to go about it, I'll grant you, but she did alert us to the missing file. She knew Ruth would discover it missing in time. She used whomever was using her, in the end. Quite brilliant when you examine it at a distance, really."
"Shooting Adam was an act of brilliance? Czech bombs are sweet? Quite a bit of bloody distance you've got there, Malcolm."
"That's...Not what I mean, and you bloody well know it! Stop spooking me, Harry."
"Well, what do you mean?"
"I mean Angela all but told us there was something much more dangerous going on! Why do that if she didn't mean to help in some way? Harry, who is pulling these strings? We're going to be forced to look at it sometime. Maybe not now, exactly, but the kind of money we're talking about? Harry, its people breathing very rare air who are infinitely well connected in the upper echelons. No doubt at all, on that score. Those people are your people, Harry."
He shouldn't have found himself surprised that Malcolm had drawn the same conclusions as he, and yet he found himself at a complete loss for response. His mind had fixated on the use of strings, the pulling and connections inherent, and naturally found its way to Ruth's demonstration earlier as they neared his, his mind envisioning her hand pulling from his, and his fingers feeling the tug of something invisible yearning for him to follow. He was left to contemplate the two images side by side, one menacing, the other benevolent, and thought the yin-yang imagery disturbing, though not altogether unpredictable. Perhaps it was the natural balance between good and evil which demanded the previous liaison with Ruth, falling, as it had, subsequent a grievously malicious act attempted against the Realm? Then again, perhaps the belief was his own need to validate their actions, his and Ruth's, manifesting thrush and demanding, wanting to expel any hint of untoward selfishness on his part, wanting them to remain clean and genuine amongst the debris of malevolent unknowns.
"My people. I'm loathe to consider it, Malcolm, but I fear you are correct. Certainly neither Angela nor Juliet possessed individually, or in combination, the...ahhh, connections necessary. I think, possibly, Multinationals...Big oil. So the cousins, no shortage of money, there. Quite likely, Malcolm, as relates those closer to home, I think, perhaps, some examination of the ennobled class is in order? Particularly those involved in the areas of World Finance enjoying the comforts of the beknighted class? That should cull the options down to a manageable number. If one were inclined to investigate, that is."
"I should think a cursory glance into certain governmental officials warranted?"
"Yes, well one can never underestimate the power inherent to a dangling brass ring. I can think of several current officials who would consider selling their own mothers for a shot at vaulting several rungs up the ladder. Power can make despots of us all as easily as not."
"Have you anyone in mind, particularly, or-"
"Myers. Gas and Stream. Ennobled. Ex-Ambassador to Russia. Enjoys a better than average measure of power, particularly with the PM. Stevenson. Saudi Ambassador. Real affinity for the cousins, that one. And, he's landed gentry, to boot. I'll look into the services, myself. Mace, of course. His position as JIC Chair leaves little chance for plausible deniability, in any case. Siviter, possibly. He's admirably regarded, plays very close to the chest. I have to admit, I rather enjoy him. Still, I'll look into it. As for the whole of Six, Hugo mentioned something to me, just after Tom...blinked. And there's Clive's velvet fascism. I think Collingswood would be ripe for the right price. And appropriately patriotic, fanatical rhetoric, of course. Militant to a fault, curious lack of gray area. If I was forced to provide interpretations of character, I'd have to conclude Michael by far exceeds even Oliver's reach and dedication to goals. Stunning, his relative lack of empathy, really. Borderline Imperialist. I shudder to think who in Five, but it seems inevitable, regardless. Angela navigated both Five and Six, so it shouldn't come as a shock were we to find someone currently active participating."
"I'll look into funds transfers, off shore accounts, unusual financial windfalls, and the like."
"Yes, of course. For now, let's keep this between us, what with Adam recuperating. If the goal was to render us lame by one, I think it advisable to continue as such, for appearance sake, at least."
"Agreed. I rather like the idea of a project for the wee hours. Prime housekeeping hours, I've always found."
Unable to shake the image of Ruth's magical strings, he wondered if it wouldn't be wise to discuss this meeting with her, include her particularly unconventional cerebral skills to the task given Malcolm, despite his voiced intention to exclude everyone. Doubtless as he was the subject of Angela Wells remained an open wound, he couldn't rid himself of the idea that there was no better person suited to divining Angela's associations within the maze before them than Ruth. If done carefully, it would allow for a faster resolution, as well as provide him more opportunity to spend time with her under the auspices of work related tasks, and given he'd little opportunity to provide himself some measure of framework in which to categorize his relationship with her beyond something falling somewhere in the area of personal, but not yet a recognized couple, he found himself indelicately anxious to grasp at any straw afforded him. Which reminded him of Malcolm's earlier statement, and found him expelling a deeply held breath he hadn't known he was holding as the thought took shape in his mind, and the anxious anticipation of working closely with Ruth evolved into outright apprehension. Squinting his eyes, he allowed himself another calming breath before directing his full attention to the man sat opposite, knowing the answer before the words were allowed to pass his lips.
"Was?"
"Humm?"
"You said was. Earlier. Having to do with why anyone would surveil Ruth. Past tense. Which would infer you understand now what you didn't before?"
"Did I?"
"Yes. You did."
"Huh. Chalk it up to lack of sleep, shall we?"
He watched as the discomfort washed across Malcolm's face, morphing quickly into impassivity, and he felt his right eye twitch once as he continued to stare, and Malcolm continued to meditate the third space floating before him. His mind had begun silently joining the dangling threads, Ruth's house surveillance, joining to Malcolm's preexisting knowledge of his affection, his present obvious discomfort, and his less than subtle deflection of details inherent to theory becoming fact, he counted himself three-quarters certain this safe house meeting was likely not going to provide Intel he would find himself at ease with. Oddly anxious, he chose the lesser travelled path, preferring the head on collision to any futile machinations designed to delay hearing what Malcolm had determined required this stroll into their shared past, which he was now certain had little to do with Angela Wells, or some as yet unidentified band of treasonous miscreants pulling the strings in search of chaos and anarchy.
"Right. What's the urgency?"
"Well, two things, really. The first is Grid related, to an extent. Seems there's a bit of uranium juggling in Bagdad with the cousins."
"What do you mean juggling?"
"I mean, factions within the intelligence community worldwide have been less than subtle, and the idea that uranium is up for grabs, weapons grade uranium, mind you, is a very poorly held secret. I've been watching it, and I think it might be something that the Americans will use to support the WMD accusation, having found nothing thus far, and support is, well, wavering with the allies, to be blunt."
"So...The idea is plant it, discover it, decimate a country?"
"Put simply, yes. Well, decimate what's left, really."
"Fuck me. Who knows?"
"Well, that's the thing, Harry. I suspect, and its really only suspicion, but I believe there is someone, at least one, from Six, perhaps several over at Grosvenor, various sundry intelligence agents in the area, Baghdad is rife with all sorts presently. Its anybody's guess really. Point is, I believe it a bit more than strictly fantasy if forced to evaluate merits."
"Point is, if it is true, it has to be stopped. On the quiet."
"Indeed."
"Looks like that vacation to sunny Baghdad I've been pining for just became a reality. And this is, of course, in addition to, but not related to yesterday's bomb scare?"
"I'm afraid so. I've already worked out the details, a suitable legend if needed, but, honestly, I'm certain everyone knows the players, so a legend would become rather moot. On the upside, I think it a fairly easy prospect to float the idea you've decided to take a bit of time, you know, to the others."
"Oh, you think so? Simple as an unscheduled breather? Right."
"Well, its not ideal, I'll grant you, but it will have to work, in any event."
"I imagine so. All communication must be exclusive to you. I'm assuming the DG and the Home Secretary remain unaware?"
"As to your involvement, yes. Overall? Honestly, its a crap shoot, either, or both, could be completely aware, and siding with the cousins according to PM directive, our 'special relationship' being what it is. Who knows?"
"Unsanctioned black op it is, then."
"It would appear so, yes."
"And the other?"
"Other?"
"You said two things. The first was Baghdad. What's the other?"
Again, he watched as Malcolm's face displayed a level of discomfort that had the effect of unnerving him insofar as he understood instantly whatever additional information Malcolm was secreting was more, unlikely as it would appear, disruptive than conformation of a deliberate act of planting weapons grade uranium to support the American cause for war.
"Ivy? Can we...Would you mind bringing us a bottle and glasses?"
Shit.
"Malcolm. Its barely eight-thirty in the morning, surely it can't be as bad as all that? I'll not turn down a drink, of course, but given we've just decided on embarking on a black op to submarine our Nation's closest ally, I find it hard to imagine anything-"
"Its about Ruth."
Well, he had to hand it to him, he hadn't imagined the unusually blunt nature which accompanied the statement, nor the fact that he'd not even been allowed to toss one back prior to his stating it outright. More's the pity, it would seem as he was left little recourse but to adopt what he hoped appeared to Malcolm as a forbidding enough glare he would tread carefully with any forthcoming details. Glancing at his watch he surmised it took somewhere in the area of fifteen hours for the bubble of them to burst wide open. God Damn it. As if it weren't already bad enough Malcolm had fettered them out before, now it seems he knew something that had him unaccountably in need of a drink at eight-bloody-thirty in the morning.
"I'm in no mood for a lecture about my intentions or anything else as relates Ruth, Malcolm. You would be well advised to stop now."
"Right. Understood, of course. Just...It...shit."
Watching Malcolm meditating the contents of his glass, there began a gradual creeping feeling of dread within him, forming flush throughout his abdomen, and his heart rate increased proportionately the stronger the feeling emerged. His mind cast back to her beginnings on the Grid, her status as a mole, and wondered, albeit with some amount of skepticism, if Ruth remained some manner of mole, for whom he wouldn't guess, but had he, in his fantasies, literally walked head first into a trap? Had it all been a meticulously charted setup she had played so well as to be confused for entirely, painfully genuine? While his heart told him no, his shadow had covered the ground left to him in banishment these few hours, and whispered foul, nurturing his latent insecurities, stoking the fires of suspicion and threat, and he was quite unable to erase the scowl that decorated his face for something a bit less formidable to anyone observing them.
"I wonder, Harry, do you know why I chose this place, after so much time?"
"No, Malcolm, and I should warn you I'm hardly of a mind to play at guessing games at the moment. Perhaps, as it happens to be a place with which we are both familiar?"
"Yes, of course. But, more to the immediate point, Harry, its a place where I believe we forged a…Well, a bond of sorts, and the inherent rules are understood and clear."
"Those being..."
"What happens here, stays here."
"Okay. Agreed. It stays here. Out with it."
"Her necklace."
"Who's necklace? Ruth's? The charm thing?"
He had taken the first few fingers in one go, and fluttered his hand around his neck, waving it in the air away from him, wanting, if it were at all possible, to appear dismissive. Grasping the bottle, he poured another two fingers and wondered inwardly how many alcoholics started their mornings by telling themselves, Its just a couple, no cause for alarm.
"Yes, the...charm thing...she wears habitually. In which was secreted a listening device, you may remember?"
"What about it?"
"A listening device, Harry."
Inwardly, he concentrated on resisting the urge to physically hurt Malcolm in some manner, and used the burning liquid to temper his uncharacteristic yearning to erase the irritating look of hesitation presently decorating his colleague's face. She couldn't be a mole, it was simply inconceivable to him. Had his morning started any other way, perhaps he could find a way to countenance the thought, but he wasn't such a fool as to not be able to identify the difference between genuine and counterfeit physical responses. If she had faked anything, which he sincerely doubted, she had missed her calling on the stage, and he'd be well advised to tender his resignation immediately. Still, apart from that menacing bra, and the mole resting on her hip, perfectly highlighting the rise of her bum, he couldn't deny that the presence of that necklace had gone unnoticed by him, habitual as it may be.
"Yeah, got that. A listening device, and here's me asking for a second time, what about it?"
"She's still wearing it."
"How the hell would I know, Malcolm? You seem to be the one obsessed with her jewelry selections. Habitual, I believe it was, not five bloody seconds ago-"
"It wasn't a question, Harry. She's wearing it now."
"What if she is? Fine. Is this really more important than weapons grade uranium? Ruth's selection of necklaces?"
"And she was wearing it last night. After she left the Grid. With you."
"Malcolm, I swear I'm moments away from coming across the table-"
"Harry! The device is still active in the necklace!"
The words floated in his consciousness, active taking pride of place, red neon flashing in his mind's eye, and he found he couldn't stop the curl of his upper lip, the clenching of his hand, tight around the empty tumbler sat before him. Active. He felt his lips form the word, silently, the ringing in his ears blurring his ability to comprehend anything of his immediate environment, save Malcolm's passive, quiet face.
"You're not...Are you telling me everything she did after she left the Grid, including what she may or may not be doing at this very moment has been, no, is being, recorded somewhere? Tell me that is categorically not what you are telling me!"
"That's what I'm telling you, Harry. All recorded."
"Where, for Christ's sake?"
"Well, that's the good news. Somewhat. Only I have access to it, and only I know about it. Which is why I asked to meet here, frankly."
"Just for the sake of argument, you know this for a fact how, exactly?"
"Right. Well, after clearing Ruth's house, quite honestly, I found I couldn't sleep. And, infrequently mind you, when I can't sleep I'll...umm, hack into the Five mainframe, just to, you know, perform a bit of...well, lets just call it general housekeeping. Which is what I was doing when it occurred to me the file size for the period covering Ruth's interaction with Angela was exponentially larger than what would be considered necessary, and it was about then that I discovered the file was accumulating Intel as I was observing it. Which, well, I don't have to tell you, was curious. And curiosity being what it is, I opened it and discovered two things. First, I had, in the confusion, Angela, the bomb, Adam, completely forgotten to remove the listening device from Ruth's necklace, and clearly, in the confusion, mind you, so had both Ruth, and Colin."
"And, second?"
"Second, and this is…Well, it seems that I initially mistook what we attached to Ruth for the PRS22, and not the newer model, the PRSX5. Now the PRS22, it has limited range and life span, good for a quick close job, but not for those periods in the field where an agent has no time frame, or designated point of contact. In effect, the newer PRSX5 carries unlimited range and longer life span, I think twenty-five hours minimum before it begins to fade, and we added a tracker mechanism which identifies where an agent is at all times, as well as maps where they have been. Its really a fine piece of kit, and the enhancements have really benefitted-"
"For fuck's sake Malcolm, if its not too much to ask could you just simply-"
If he were being honest, he rather relished Malcolm's simultaneous flinching away from him the moment his fist came firmly, violently in contact with the table's surface, watching him as his eyes skittered towards Ivy, then the soiled table top, finally coming to rest again on his.
"Right. Sorry. Umm, so, essentially, Ruth's device never stopped recording. There is documented proof of Angela's actions, as well as the secreted bunker diagrams, some interactions with...you, the entire official debriefing. Everyone she interacted with was recorded, all of which you are perfectly aware."
"And?"
"All the rest. All of it, I'm afraid. Everything in perfect audible detail, really."
"The rest?"
"Yes, err, everything. Right up until you left her this morning. Its recording as we speak, in fact."
What the actual fuck is he telling me? There is no possible way these words are emanating from that mouth, not now, absolutely not happening. No.
"And you didn't think to turn the damned thing off!"
"Of course I did! The problem is I can't! Not while she's wearing it. It was designed for any eventuality! It is performing exactly as designed, Harry! Exactly. The fact that its presently recording Ruth is…Its simply a situation that couldn't be accounted for. We couldn't have predicted that she would have cause to even wear it, Harry! She's a desk spook! That she happened to be wearing it while spending a considerable portion of time with you...and the...interactions…Completely unforeseeable from a tech standpoint."
"Why!"
"Why...what? Why was it unforeseeable? That's a bit myopic, Harry-"
"Why can't you turn the bloody thing off, Malcolm!"
"Oh, yes, of course. Well, see, without getting too detailed, the newer model, Ruth's model, can't be disarmed at a distance. We designed it that way in the event the agent was...killed, or Five was compromised in some way. It records events, regardless. It can't be interrupted except by literally entering a code, which refreshes every quarter hour, and is known only to one person. Me. And it has to be in my hands, physically for that to happen. So, while I thought about it, Harry, there was very little that could be done."
"Supposing you're killed?"
"Wha...Well, yes, I see your point. That would be a problem. In which case, it would record until it exhausted its ability to do so. Or was discovered. Either case, the Intel recorded would still be available should someone wish to access it. If they knew to access it. Well, if they knew it was accessible at all, really. And knew the codes, of course."
"And you've accessed this Intel? Is that what you're saying?"
"No! Well, yes, but not...I didn't listen to all of it. Well, most of it, I did. But I skipped forward...When it became more personal...Of an intimate nature. I didn't wish to intrude, is all."
"Bloody generous of you. And you know I was...with her...until this morning how, exactly?"
"As I said, the PRSX5 comes equipped with a tracker. The tracker told me where she was. Then, you were late, which is obviously uncharacteristic, so it wasn't hard to make the leap you were still...in her company before arriving here. She's only just arrived at Thames. See?"
Punching a few numbers into his phone, he waited until Malcolm captured the information he wanted, holding it for him to observe the blinking red dot which was, apparently, proof that Ruth was at Thames, which naturally lent credence to the understanding it was both presently active, as well as having preformed as designed in recording her whereabouts for the last twenty some odd hours, much of that time spent with him.
"And I'm here, specifically, for you to tell me this? For it to remain within these walls hereafter, owing to house rules?"
"Yes, in part. Also, the Baghdad situation. Two birds, if you will. And, well, we're the only ones that know, at the moment. I would like to keep it that way, as I'm certain you would also prefer. Problem is, I can erase everything. Wipe it clean, never happened, no problem. But, we have to get the device back, and I can't figure a way to do so without alerting Ruth, and then I don't want to imagine the fallout from that, quite honestly. I was hoping you'd have some...idea that would be...useful in that regard? You know, handle it, while still keeping her sweet and completely unaware?"
"We can't just ask for it back?"
"Well, yes, obviously, but this is Ruth, and..."
"She'll fixate, and then surmise you shit the bed."
"Well, not how I would have phrased it, but essentially correct, yes."
Running his finger along the rim of his tumbler, he ignored the flashing two birds pulsing in his mind's eye, knowing inherently, Malcolm had little understanding of the reference, the suggestion that killing two birds, while generally an ideal situation, carried with it the corollary suggestion that Ruth, the little bird loved by her father with abandon, would find herself one of the two birds meeting some designed and fatal end.
"How could you have forgotten such a crucial simplicity, Malcolm? I know you were fond of Angela, but we've been through worse and I've never known you to blink?"
"It wasn't Angela. Not entirely, no. It was shocking, yes, but...You might as well know, I've told Ruth already, so trust me when I tell you, I want this wiped as badly as you do. Well, not really as bad, per say, but...The bomb. I wasn't the one who disarmed it. I froze, Harry. It was Adam. I know he let everyone believe it was me, and I let him. That's true enough. But I told Ruth the truth. Quite honestly, I find it impossible to lie to that woman."
"Likely because it is near impossible."
"Yes, that's it exactly. So I told her, confessed that I'm sorely lacking in the bravery department, and she told me to just let it lie, allow everyone to believe something that wasn't true about myself. And I did. That's the inexcusable shame of it. I did. I couldn't sleep for the guilt. Recorded in its entirety, nevertheless. I'm sorry, Harry. I truly am."
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on every breath in and out, calming himself, reminding himself that the man sat before him was not his opponent, but simply a man, perhaps even one who had breached the wall into friendship, understandably hesitant with the thankless task of revealing what he understood, in his moment of first discovery, would not be received favorably. Despite him, the image of Ruth's bruised arms floated into consciousness, at points both hidden and revealed as the lather streamed away less than two hours ago, and he knew his hold on self control was a dangerously pliable lie reiterated to himself. His hands had marked her, even now, hidden beneath whatever she was wearing, but present, discolored and tender, regardless. These hands, as he regarded them, not satisfied with damage to Ruth, but wanting more, wanting Malcolm.
"Malcolm. Your bravery is measured in different ways. I'm certain that is what Ruth had in mind when she told you to keep quiet. While I wish it had been different, I'm inclined to suggest by that time, all of us were running on empty. Finding the coatings altered? Who could even imagine the time spent doing that enough to be prepared for such a situation? The point is, you didn't run, you stayed next to Adam, and there's a certain bravery in that, too. You won't freeze next time, if we're unfortunate enough to face a next time."
"That's just it, Harry. There will be a next time, you and I both know it. At times, I really question the purpose of what we do. All the years, you and I, and the threats are greater, the faces have changed, but threats continue to mount. Its all so very Sisyphean when you allow yourself to examine it."
"Best not to, then."
"Indeed."
"As to...Ruth. Did you...you know that she is aware you've...twigged, yes?"
"Afraid so, yes. I'll confess she was rather more calm than I would have guessed. I'd have thought her more...obviously distressed given her, um, temperament."
"As would I. Had that been the only thing...I think it best to assume she had heard enough by that point...Well, let's assume she heard everything, but has yet to reconcile it entirely. In which case, I wouldn't be too quick to rule out some measure of predictable...fallout. I wouldn't be surprised if she approached you in some way, some not altogether obvious Ruth way to take your temperature?"
"Agreed. If so, I'll be as delicate as bone china, Harry. You can trust in that. I've already...when I heard that...Well, suffice to say I've already determined that eventuality, and prepared for it."
"And the rest? I can trust it remains between you and me? Everything that was...spoken about? She confessed some things, as did I. I'll need your word that all of it remains...confidential? If she were to get even a hint that...I really am loathe to think about it, to be honest."
"Absolutely, Harry. I'm loathe that you should feel the need to even ask. We've been at this game too long if you've a mind to believe I'm capable of that measure of indiscretion. If I'm honest, it rather disappoints on both a professional and personal level. Perhaps I shouldn't have said that, but owing to house rules, well, I am a bit disappointed."
"No, that's fine. Understandable, even. And I...its not that I question your loyalty, Malcolm, either to myself, or the service. God knows we've fulfilled our portions of sacrifice to duty. I'm not questioning your...Its...I'm...Best just to have out with it. I'm navigating waters I'd not thought to consider, Malcolm. I'm...The feeling is...Uncertainty. I've relinquished a fair amount of control to another person in the last twenty-four hours, and I'm...Ahhh, the absence is alarmingly keen, I guess you could say. Hanging on tender hooks comes to mind."
Neither spoke for a time, each meditating the contents of their glasses, and he didn't need to be told the situation before them left Malcolm as ill prepared as he was. He was not unaware that revealing their relationship would be a requirement, he and Ruth's. Far from it, in truth. He simply had failed to account for the speed with which they would be forced to, rather finding a false sense of security in envisioning a manageable period of time prior, there's alone, allowing Ruth the time to gradually acclimate to the eventuality necessary for her to agree. Willingly, that is. Now? Now, he was firmly on the back foot, at cross purposes, his shadow counseling continued subterfuge, his heart screaming for him to come clean with the truth of them the moment he arrived at the Grid, regardless her hesitations or concerns. Neither scenario, in any case, would leave her sweet. Likely, it would mark the end of them should she find out, should she grasp the merest hint that they have been compromised so unexpectedly.
Two people now, he mused. Malcolm and Mike. Trusted though they were, it remained two people too many for comfort, for her at least. Malcolm's earlier admission that he'd little idea where the surveillance in Ruth's house was located, or with whom, more importantly, made the feeling of being exposed exponentially keen, festering with the possibility of more than two identifiable persons, his pulse increasing with the mere thought of uncontrollable factors currently unidentified, yet still in play. Time, his mind counseled, you need time.
"This Baghdad thing...It might work to our advantage...With Ruth."
"Harry, I can't say that I follow-"
"Just, for argument's sake, bear with me. This Angela thing, it could be useful. She was visibly strained, I don't think you could argue that everyone saw that, yes? So, what's to stop us from...suggesting she's opted a short visit, say to her mother's. To, I don't know, take a breather, collect herself?"
"Apart from the fact that she is estranged from her mother, and the suggestion she's weakened in some way?"
"Right. Fair point. Okay, not her mother's. Maybe, we could float the story she's needed at GCHQ, a seminar, or something, and I've signed her out for the duration. No weakness suggested there. Perfectly explainable absence."
"And we're needing her absent, why?"
"Because she's going to Baghdad. With me."
"Ahhh...With...Okay, but...How does that handle our immediate problem? That is, besides the obvious additional problem of having to develop a legend for her in, well, no time at all, and then telling her, of course, we're still left with the device problem?"
"I'll think of something. Wait...does she know the details of the device? I mean, we could be looking at this the wrong way, Malcolm. Does she even know how it works? The range, the life span?"
"Huh. That is interesting. I hadn't considered...I'm inclined to say it unlikely. I mean, given that its Ruth, it could happen, but still, I think it unlikely. As you say, she was distressed, so possibly she didn't notice much of anything. Which would, of course be ideal. You could just ask for it."
"Or, you could."
"Ahhh, well, yeah, but...I'm afraid I'll give the whole thing away, Harry. Best if you do it."
"You're that certain I won't give it away, are you?"
"No, not exactly. Just that, well, you've more opportunity for distraction, if you take my meaning. I'm not...as familiar...with her, I should say."
Understanding his meaning was not the problem, uncomfortable as the suggestion was. Not exactly, and if he were honest, he'd admit Malcolm had a point, a valid point, and he allowed himself to nod his agreement, looking away as Malcolm's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, the heat coloring his own as he pictured her again with him in the shower.
"I'll handle it, then."
"Good. Thank you."
"I suspect this could take several days. Baghdad, that is."
"At least. As to that...for her legend, I'm to make her your...PA?"
"Fine. It works."
"And...I've one room...should I reserve-"
"One is sufficient, I think."
"That will...be noticed...It could-"
"It will be noticed, and appear exactly as intended, Malcolm."
"Okay. Its just, Ruth is...I don't mean to cast aspersions, Harry, but she's proven a bit of a wild card when in the field. And that's within the security of the UK. Are you certain that...Are you certain she's the best choice to accompany you, given your-"
"What? You think I'll veer off piste because we're in Baghdad together? Its a black op, Malcolm. I can assure you, I'll not be losing any threads. Both Adam and Zaf are out. I need Zaf here while Adam recuperates. I'm looking to you to keep everything smooth, and to be my, well, our eyes and ears contact, trusted while we're left to operate despite being gamed, manipulated, lied to, and subject to all manner of subterfuge by any number of willing participants already well established in a game we're only just entering. It simply can't be any other way. Ruth is, however much a magnet for things going tits up, fluent in the language, familiar with the area, skilled with tech babble and the like, and easily blends into her environment. Its effortless, really, the way she does that, and that ability, specifically, is what I will need if I'm to hold any hope for a successful resolution."
"Well, I can't argue the point, so-"
"Just get to work on it, I'll handle the rest."
"Immediately, yes."
"And...as to the...other...thing. She's skittish to a fault, I trust you've had opportunity to notice? Wipe everything, Malcolm. I mean every last bloody bit. Are we clear? I'll not suffer this...with her...getting mucked about in the halls. I'll not risk...losing...her...to that. You understand?"
"Very clear, Harry. There's just one...If I may offer...I know I voiced...concerns...before, about...Well, I think it quite wonderful, really. I just want you...to know...You've my complete support. Both of you, that is."
"That's...Thank you."
"You are most welcome, Harry."
"In the interim, I think...Well, this would be useful in allowing things to settle a bit. The distance between here and there. The number of days. I'll...By the time we return, things should be...a bit more...understood, I think. Likely she'll appreciate the distraction, I'm afraid to say. Best to hope for a timely resolution. To everything, that is. And, of course, plan for the worst. Obviously, best laid plans are not our particular strong suit."
"Man plans, God laughs, as they say."
"Quite comedic, the human race."
"Sadly, yes. Although we do have our virtues. Mired as they are in vice, still there, when the devil drives."
"Much as I enjoy this, Malcolm, I could do with one more drink, and less speaking in bumper stickers."
"Agreed. Shall we bid a fond adieu to our Ivy, then?"
"Perish the thought it in any way avoidable, Malcolm. I shouldn't like to entertain the idea she would close the doors of this overdecorated, garishly opulent dive against us."
"Indeed."
"Gird yourself, she's likely to mention Sarah."
"Saints give me strength."
True to form, she did, and allowed him a tight hug, the whispered, Love dis woman left to tickle his ear in parting.
As they exited into the sunlight, he deliberately ignored the omen cast as the flame of Saint Jude stood unaccountably extinguished, distracting himself with thoughts of love and Ruth, and the musical birds aloft in the trees above them.
He did not find himself so distracted, however, that he could ignore the Audi.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
A/N: Saint Jude, for those of you unaware, is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, often given to law enforcement officials in the States, and worn as a charm, frequently by persons involved professionally at great risk to themselves for the assumed duty inherent to protecting the greater whole. It remains a personal favorite of mine, if forced to chose. Danny Thomas also started a children's hospital you may have had occasion to hear about named St. Jude's. Fortunately, that legacy continues, and something for which I donate regularly. Thus concludes this portion of our scheduled Public Service Announcement...
A/N2: I couldn't find a time within the proper series in which to drop any twosome in Baghdad, and thus concluded that somewhere before Series Five would have to suffice. I've taken liberties with both cannon and timelines to that effect, and would encourage willing suspensions. Also, RL is primed to be a bit tricky in the forthcoming month's, and thus updates will be less frequent. Nothing to be done about it, and I beg your both patience and continued attentions for the duration. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, it is the nectar that keeps a writer on task and sated. Additionally, thank you to the three adventuresome enough to favorite this piece. It continues to warm my heart. :)