For three days, nothing untoward happens. I begin to hope against hope that the whole incident has blown over, that the relentless cycle of life on the Grid has moved us all along on the endless tide of crises, ops, briefings and debriefings, meetings and technical challenges. Colin has been asking to take the lead more often on tech requests, and I am happy to let him. He doesn't get enough credit for the brilliant work he does, in my view, primarily because our fearless leader is a self-confessed Luddite; the finer points of the increasingly technical world we live in are lost on Harry Pearce, old Oxonian that he is. For the moment, I am content to fade into the background of the Grid, avoiding attention, doing the tedious IT jobs no-one else wants, but which leave me free to think. And there is plenty of thinking to be done…
If there's one thing I know for certain about Harry, it's that he always gets to the truth in the end. His methods sometimes make me feel squeamish, and as if the moral centre of the world has suddenly vanished; but they are effective, I'll give him that. Every time I see those hooded eyes, watching Ruth, glancing at me, my faint sense of hope that we have somehow navigated past the tricky shoals of the Fortescue affair (as I have rather ironically begun to think of it) founders on the rocks of deception and deceit – stock in trade for real spies, but rather new, and unwelcome, for someone like me. I have always been guided by my own sense of integrity, often to my detriment where others with a more….morally ambiguous view of life are concerned, but damn it, I believe that some things are completely wrong, plain and simple, and that others are just as absolutely right. I know that sounds awfully simple, but it's just how things are for me. Or at least, it's how they used to be. Before Ruth.
As for Ruth, well, we greet each other on arrival at work, and say goodnight at the end of the day; when necessary, we collaborate on briefings or operations, and we maintain a polite distance otherwise. Truth be told, I am relieved to have some breathing space after the fierce intensity of the last week; I need to sort through things in my head, and put my world back to rights, after the topsy-turvy emotional rollercoaster ride I have been on. I think Ruth is relieved, too, that after her carefully coded message, I understand without the need for further discussion that we have been pitted against each other by our master. Harry is out for blood, and I have never known Harry to fail where meting out his particular idea of justice is concerned. And with his fondness for history and literature, he is well aware that vengeance is a dish best served cold…
Of course, underneath all the confusion and mixed messages, beyond the anxious apprehension of each day that passes where nothing happens, I still love her. How could I not? She is brilliant, the only other person I know who can crack jokes with me in Latin (or ancient Greek); she is beautiful, even though in the last few days the bones of her face seem to have become more pronounced – I do hope she's eating properly – and a wariness has come into her eyes which I have never noticed before. And she is Ruth; perhaps I am just a foolish old romantic at heart, but I would like to think that the weekend we spent together actually meant something beyond two colleagues reaching for each other in a moment of loneliness. I know, though, that the problem is bigger than both of us, and hath name Harry bloody Pearce.
On the fourth day after our strange encounter in the Archive, the axe falls. Mid-morning, Ruth finds me in my lair, tucked away in the far corner of the main server room, away from prying eyes. I am hard at work reverse-engineering a rather cunningly configured Chinese router (intended for military use, I suspect) which Colin has somehow obtained from eBay, of all places, when I hear her footstep on the reinforced concrete floor behind me. I would have known it was Ruth anyway – the light, garden-after-rain floral fragrance she sometimes wears wafts ahead of her when she steps from the human-temperature environment of the Grid, to the still, chill air which keeps computer servers happy, and their end users happier still. She walks into the room, pulling closed the double-glazed door behind her in an attempt to preserve the optimum operating temperature for the millions of pounds of high-spec machinery that keeps the Grid functioning, and makes her way through the stacks quickly.
As soon as I look up at her from my disassembling, my heart lurches in fear. "When?" I ask her, and through white lips she says, "Now." I nod and run a hand back through my hair, thinking fast. "Where? In his office?" is my next question, and Ruth replies, "Yes, I think so." She folds her arms protectively across her chest and I see a sort of desperate resolve settle over her face. I want to be sure I understand what is going on, so I clarify with "It's only a disciplinary hearing, then?" and the expression on her face at the word 'only' tells me both that very rarely in her life has Ruth ever been in any kind of official trouble, and that she has not yet glimpsed the bigger picture here. Getting a verbal dressing-down from Harry is the least of her worries, and the least she can expect, too. "Yes, it's only a disciplinary hearing!" she repeats in wonder at my insouciance, "Malcolm, I could lose everything – my job, my reputation in the security community, the lot. Harry's on the warpath about Fortescue!" We'll be lucky if that's all he's on the warpath about, I think, but refrain from saying.
Sighing, I get up from the little workspace I have improvised amongst the stacks, and dig my hands into my pockets, adding, "Well, better not keep him waiting, then. No point in aggravating him any further." I sound a lot calmer than I feel; having spent a good part of my working life around people whose job it is to deceive and mislead must be starting to rub off on me somewhat. Or perhaps it's just that I don't want to give her any more cause to worry … Ruth studies my face for a few heartbeats, and I can't tell if she finds what she is looking for there or not.
Next moment, she has turned for the door with a softly spoken, "Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant…" and in spite of myself, I find the corner of my mouth quirking up into a half smile. Only Ruth would quote Suetonius at a time like this…I reach out and give her what is meant to be a reassuring pat on the back, and reply with, "Aut non" – or not. Ruth takes a deep, steadying breath, sets her shoulders, and steps out of the server room with both our fates in her hands. I have to sit down quickly as soon as she is out of sight, and apply my puffer to alleviate the oncoming asthma attack now coiling iron bands about my chest. I would not, could not, ask her what her answers to Harry will be, and whether they will implicate me. Regard others' consciences, as I would my own be regarded in the power of others, as Milton would have put it. As for my own conscience, well, I suppose that's a matter between me and my God…once a clergyman's son, always a clergyman's son. Now, I think, would be a very good time to pray…