From that moment on, Ruth is my first thought as I wake and my last as I fall asleep, I count the hours until we are back on the Grid together if we are working on different shifts, and I die a little inside, every time I see her light up in Harry's presence. She's nearly incandescent around him, and at first I can't believe how cool his behaviour continues towards her, until I look closer, painful though it may be. And yes, there it is. I can see it now, in the look in his eyes, as she leaves his office or the briefing room, in the way he stands a little taller and pulls in his stomach when they pass in the corridor, or how he hovers behind her chair peering over her shoulder as she pieces another intelligence jigsaw together, or the little quirk of his mouth as he listens to her during a briefing. It's his eyes, though, that really give it away. Normally, they are as fierce and as watchful as a hawk's, carefully hooded under his eyelids. Now, when he steals a glance at her, they burn, just the briefest of flashes, illuminating the green and gold flecks in his bright hazel irises, his pupils dilated as he drinks her in. If you blinked you'd miss it. I come to wish that I had, many times over. Harry might be the acknowledged spymaster, but I am every bit his equal when it comes to surveillance, and I have spent most of my professional life observing other people, working out their motives and intentions. Harry's intentions towards Ruth are unmistakable, even if he hasn't admitted them to himself yet.
For months I watch them waltzing blindly around each other, locked in a spiralling fascination with each other, but neither willing to make the first move. Ruth continues to be kindness itself to me, and even though I know her heart has been captured by the sheer force and charisma that is Harry, I live in hope that one or the other of them will grow tired of their slow dance, and that I might somehow be able to kindle her interest. Over time, I become her friend, even her confidante. She trusts me, enough to ask me to drop off some Registry files she wants to look over one weekend off the Grid. It's a rainy Saturday afternoon in November, the first time I visit Ruth's house. Surprisingly, her front door is off the latch, and she doesn't come to the door, just calls out, "It's open," from within, when I arrive. I step into the hall, and breathe in the scent of Ruth for a moment, before tracing her voice to the parlour on the right hand side of the hall. Her house is cold, and I think for a moment of my own comfortable, perfectly temperature-controlled residence. Ruth's salary is nothing to write home about, I know, but I find myself hoping that she will make sure her house is properly heated come winter. I knock timidly on the sitting room door, which is slightly ajar. I hear whimsical music playing faintly from within, so I push the door open cautiously, and am greeted with a charming sight.
Ruth is sitting on a long, old fashioned couch with her feet tucked beneath her and a rug thrown across her lap. This room is noticeably warmer than the rest of the house, and I can hear the radiator ticking quietly along the wall. A small black and white cat is curled blissfully into the crook of her knees, while another, larger tortoiseshell cat is sitting on the back of the couch and rubbing its head lovingly against Ruth's. Lucky things, I think, as my gaze flicks to the television screen, which appears to be completely engrossing Ruth's attention. I recognise the scene as being from the old French classic, The Red Shoes, and I smile to myself as I see that Ruth has turned the BBC's foreign language captioning off. She doesn't need it; Ruth's French is perfect. Her head turns in acknowledgment of my presence, and I hold out the files to her; she takes them quickly, without ever meeting my eyes, and much as I wish she would invite me to stay, to join her in this snug room, her thanks is also a polite dismissal. I allow myself one last, longing look at the cosy scene, and silently slip out of the room. Ruth doesn't notice my departure; she has already opened one of the files and is perusing it avidly. There is something slightly furtive about her actions, something odd in the way that she didn't meet my eyes, and I feel a slight misgiving about having signed the files out for her. Ruth, what are you up to? I wonder, as I slide back into the Rover and pull away from the kerb.
What she is up to, as it turns out, is nurturing a hopeless little crush on one of her routine surveillance subjects, a shy but accomplished man who sits on several important boards in the City. The following Monday, back on the Grid, young Sam, for heaven knows what reason, takes it upon herself to play Cupid, and using her not inconsiderable powers of persuasion, manages to convince Ruth to actually meet this man. I am appalled to learn that Ruth has actually shadowed him at lunch, booking herself a table next to his at Julie's (he does have good taste, I grudgingly admit) and even striking up some sort of conversation with him. Ruth would make a terrible field officer – she's too naïve, too direct, too lacking in the serpentine cunning and street smarts needed to survive. I am glad of it, because she wouldn't be Ruth, otherwise. The upshot of all this skulking about (as if Ruth could ever truly skulk!) is the discovery that the object of her interest has been invited to attend a scratch Requiem at St Martin's in the Fields, and armed with this intel, Sam is not taking no for an answer. If Harry Pearce used the same sort of high-pressure tactics with Ruth that Sam is employing, she would flee the Grid, never to return. The younger woman has feminine intuition on her side, however, and she finally, triumphantly prevails, producing a bound copy of Mozart's extraordinary choral score with a flourish and presenting it to Ruth.
When I see Ruth's hesitation dissolving, my heart sinks – what if I lose her to this man with a bad knee and a passion for singing? and then, inspiration strikes – if you can't beat them, join them, as the saying goes. As it happens, I'm a passable tenor – I even sang in my College choir. With some rather overenthusiastic help from Sam, I offer to accompany Ruth to the Requiem in the guise of her brother, Giles, providing her with the perfect legend should the gentleman in question wonder how it is possible that he could run across the same woman twice in one day in a city the size of London. She agrees quite quickly, eyes sparkling with excitement, and I am both cheered and disheartened by her rapid acceptance of this mad proposal. Cheered at the thought of having a perfectly legitimate reason to spend time with her, off the Grid, and disheartened when I recollect the reason for the reason, so to speak. Harry once called her a born spook – high praise indeed from the master – and once she has the right cover, the right pretext, the right…backup, her whole demeanour shifts, and by the time I arrive at her home to collect her, she has thrown herself wholeheartedly into the spirit of things.
Ruth descends the staircase in a dress I have never seen her wear at work – white silk with a high collar, scattered with a print of scarlet roses, and a coat of ivory wool which makes her creamy skin glow in the soft hall lighting. She is breathtaking, and for a moment my powers of speech desert me altogether, as I watch her move down the stairs. Sam (why is she here? a tiny part of my brain wonders) finally rescues me with her incessant chatter, talking over my awkward silence until I recover enough to compliment Ruth on her ensemble, in my best big-brotherly fashion. Finally, I gather my wits enough to escort her out of the house and into my car. I hadn't expected her to look like this, and I hadn't thought that this would feel so much like a date - a long awaited, much anticipated date. Well, one can dream, I tell myself grimly as I hand her into the passenger seat, smiling in response to her thanks, then I fold myself into the driver's seat and we set off for an evening with Mozart and one unsuspecting subject.
All week I have been wondering why she is doing this, when she is so obviously infatuated with Harry, and I wonder, too, what on earth has possessed me not only to convince her to pursue this foolhardy scheme, but also to agree to accompany her, in white tie, no less, to the lovely old church of St Martin's in the Fields. We arrive just in time to take our places in the makeshift choir – Ruth with the altos, me with the tenors. What's-his-name (Ffoulkes, Fortinbras, Fortescue – what difference does it make?) is already prominent amongst the baritones, but when he begins to sing I realise that he could easily pass for a bass, so resonant and rich is his voice in the lower registers. Mozart's music is glorious, swelling and soaring around and through us, and I see the shimmer of tears in Ruth's eyes during the Lacrimosa, that unbearably sad passage in which the ageless tragedy of human mortality is firstly defined, then transcended, and finally redeemed, through one man's infinite genius. I surreptitiously brush moisture from my own eyes as we sing on, through the Offertorium, the Sanctus, and at last, the Lux Aeterna. Eternal light, I think, and glance again at Ruth, marvelling at how the music has transformed her face. Her normally solemn expression has vanished, and she looks radiant, her eyes shining, as she steals a glance of her own at what's-his-name. Finally, the last note is sung, the conductor thanks us and is thanked in turn, and the impromptu choir filters out towards the refreshment table. I collect a cup of tea, a damp-looking piece of cake with pink icing, which reminds me irresistibly of the church teas put on by the Ladies' Auxiliary of my father's parish, and retreat into a corner to wait, and watch. It's what I do, after all. Watch over the field staff.