There has been more than enough media coverage about the Shining Dawn attacks, more than enough column inches and newsreel footage devoted to every aspect of those terrible events, some true, some speculation, some outright lies; the point is, I do not feel the need to recount everything which took place following that first explosion, and for reasons of national security, I do not believe it would be wise. So I will restrict myself to the things that most concerned me during those dreadful days.
First and foremost, of course, is Ruth. I barely lay eyes on her after arriving on the Grid, just a glimpse of her disappearing into the briefing room, and then, a short while later I see her back, as Adam chaperones her through the pods, briefing her as they go – I catch him saying, "Professor Stephen Curtis", and "use your natural cunning", but her reply is pitched too low for me to hear. Everywhere I look, there are men in grey and black suits with the look of the CIA about them, extra staff roped in from other sections of Five, and Harry, apparently in five different places at once, directing, cajoling, demanding answers and information and meetings and everything now, now, now!
Catching sight of me, Harry waves me over, and tells me to create log-ins for several of our American guests. I begin to protest, remembering what happened when we gave Forrestal access to our systems. Harry silences me with a look – not now, Malcolm – and I subside, but resolve to only give them access to a copy of our shadow system, the one that we let hackers stumble across every now and then, in order to find them when they crow online about having cracked Five. I can drip-feed whatever intel on Shining Dawn the Americans need from us into this copy, without having them running amok in either the hacker-bait system, or heaven forfend, the real deal. I will not have another security breach, not on my watch. Back at our desks, I explain to Colin what I intend to do, and he smiles approvingly at my subversiveness. He spent weeks rebuilding our servers and redesigning the security protocols after Forrestal, and like me he is an adherent of the old saying, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Where the Americans are concerned, one cannot be too careful nowadays, talk of special relationships notwithstanding, and I am glad that Colin understands.
Colin and I exchange glances – his says Blimey, we're in for a long night, and mine, Yes, I know… as both of us take off our suit jackets and sit down to boot up our systems and begin to pull up everything Five has on this group, which is not much, as it turns out. We are happy to be out of the main line of fire in the briefing room, where Harry, a hard-faced woman called Juliet Shaw, apparently just back from an extended stint in Washington (and someone Harry is far from delighted to see, if his stiffened back and bulldog-set jaw are any indication) Adam and the cousins are hard at it, playing the old spy favourite, You show us yours and we might just possibly consider showing you ours, if the risk is deemed worth taking. Even as information begin to cascade onto my screens concerning Shining Dawn, I open another window and run a search on this Professor Ruth has apparently been sent to tickle for information. I am furious that Harry could be so callous as to send her into the field, not an hour after compelling her to leave Danny's funeral, even as I admit the operational necessity: Danny is gone, Fiona has been stood down on psychiatrist's orders as she deals with her own trauma, Sam is catatonic and lying in a bed at Tring, and Section D is desperately short staffed. I don't know what he said to Ruth, back in the church, but it must have been bloody convincing, I think, as I speed-read several abstracts of Curtis' work, and skim through his college profile, even while surreptitiously rootling around in GCHQ's databases for intel on the terrorists and compiling a briefing for Colin to take in to Adam on what we do know.
I turn my attention back to the page on Curtis, frowning as I read his personal creed: humans are nothing but an evil, all-consuming blight on the planet, other animal species are inherently far nobler and more deserving than us, who are the slaves of technology, therefore we should be wiped out (or at least significantly reduced in numbers). Why do these types never begin with themselves, when they talk about wiping out the entire human race? I wonder, before concluding that Curtis' beliefs are irresponsible academic arrogance on a grand scale, but heady enough stuff, to a certain type of sociopath, the sort that just wants to wreak as much death and destruction as possible, masking their bloodlust behind an apocalyptic creed. I study the picture of Curtis which heads up his faculty profile, and my upper lip curls in disdain as I register his haughty features and hippy clothing (no doubt organically grown hemp hand-woven by some Fairtrade women's co-op somewhere half-way around the globe) and necklace of red beads. In his arms, he holds an even haughtier looking cat, a Burmese, if I don't miss my guess. Well, at least he and Ruth will have something in common to talk about…I feel a sudden uneasiness as I look at the picture of the man she has been sent to speak with, and wish that Harry had chosen anyone else, anyone at all, instead of her. When I think of the way she looked at the funeral, as though she was frozen in time, I cannot imagine how she will deal with this smug, self-satisfied, neo-liberal intellectual…but this is Ruth, I remind myself, and she has shown that she has an enormous capacity for self-control and self-denial, and for meeting whatever challenge Harry throws at her.
Just then, Colin returns, and I minimise that particular window as he looks over at me. "So, how was she, then?" he wants to know, and I answer with a long sigh, understanding that he is asking after Ruth at the funeral. "Sad, withdrawn…she's really taking it hard," I reply, careful to say only the obvious, the sort of thing that any of her colleagues might notice. Colin shakes his head, and sighs himself. "She tried so hard, we all did. We're not psychics though, and none of us could have seen that coming. Why is she beating herself up about it, d'you think?" I shrug, unwilling to be drawn any further into a discussion about the woman I love, even with my best friend, and say simply, "Because that's Ruth. She takes her work very seriously, and her friendships, even more so." Colin nods, "Well, you know her better than I do…I think," he adds with a teasing glint in his eye, but before the conversation turns into the minefield it is giving every indication of becoming, we are summoned to the tech suite to assist our American cousins log in.
I know when Adam sends out for food that we will be here all night, and my thoughts automatically turn towards Mother…Mother! She will be worried sick, having by now heard the news, even in Bournemouth. I quickly step off the Grid to find a quiet corner in a service corridor, and dial my aunt's number. She answers in two rings, a new record, and I can hear my mother's voice, high with anxiety in the background, before I even say Hello. My Aunt Emily is as sensible and calm by nature as my mother is, well, not, and for a moment I wish I could just give her my message and ring off; but I know that Mother won't be placated until she hears my voice, and so I brace myself as the receiver is handed over from one to the other. I close my eyes, leaning against the cool concrete wall of the corridor as a frightened torrent of words pours into my ear. After a minute or two, I have to break in to her rapid monologue – I can't afford to spend a lot of time off the Grid right now – and I speak reassuringly to her – Yes, I'm alright, no, Hampstead has not been bombed, yes, I'll be working through the night to catch them – and finally convince her to put Aunt Emily back on the line. "Malcolm, dear, don't you worry about anything, we'll be fine together, won't we, Amelia?" her soft Welsh accent undiminished even after many years living in England. I smile, listening to her steady voice, and tell her where I have stashed Mother's pills, tucked away in the false bottom I installed in her beauty case, and she makes an understanding noise. "Yes, of course, I'll take care of that, dear," she says, and rings off. She has her work cut out for her tonight, calming Mother down, but a little Valium in her night-time cocoa works wonders at times like this, or so I have found…
I look down at the phone in my hand, longing to call Ruth, but aware that she is still in the field, and that any unsanctioned contact could jeopardise the operation. I know that even if I did get through to her, that she would say nothing of any significance, partly out of caution, but partly because of her stoicism, so different from my mother's hysteria-prone personality. Ruth is usually the most calming person to be around that I know, and it would seem, from Harry's behaviour today, that I am not the only one to have noticed this particular quality in her… I give in to a moment of speculation about what he could possibly have told her, to get her out of her seat and following him out of the church like an obedient sleep-walker, against all odds, before realising that it is an unproductive and rather unnerving activity. Pocketing the phone reluctantly, I walk back onto the Grid, steeling myself for the long night ahead.
It proves to be a very long night indeed, at the end of which I find myself face to face with a real, live member of what the media calls Generation Y, and she is not impressed, to say the least. She's young, chippy, ticked off with what she calls our "well out of order" behaviour in bringing her in to assist us in identifying a suspect, and beautiful, I suppose, if tight clothes, painful looking shoes, and a lot of makeup on a woman appeals. Certainly, it doesn't do much for me, but Colin lights up when he sees her, and becomes positively animated as we talk her through the process of building a face with our sophisticated feature-matching software. She is appallingly badly informed on the subject of her country's current security and terrorism policies, so I take it upon myself to educate her, and succumb somewhat to her charms, as contrary to appearances, she shows herself to be both bright and curious, two rather endearing qualities. Colin is practically dancing attendance on her, so I happily yield the field to him – I have Ruth, after all, and this girl is less than half my age – and nod permission for him to show her our latest bit of kit, the second micro-tracker jacket he has been working on (the first is out on a field trial). That turns out to be a life-saving decision for our young friend, as it happens…what are things coming to, when even our allies are infiltrated by the enemy, who has no compunction about attempting to abduct, from Thames House itself, a brave and engaging young woman whose only crime was, quite by chance, to see the face of a terrorist?
As our second straight day on the Grid wears on in a relentless race against the clock – set in ten hour increments by the terrorists as they call in bomb threats and cryptic communiqués – I become increasingly worried about Ruth. I guess that Adam must be her handler for this operation, and finally I can bear it no longer. Spotting an opportunity to talk to him alone, I take my courage in both hands and approach him, sitting at his desk near Ruth's empty one. "Malcolm, mate. What can I do for you?" Adam's voice is as bright as ever, even if the dark circles around his eyes and his unshaven face tell a different story. Be casual, don't attract any undue attention, I remind myself, before saying in as light a tone as I can manage, "Oh, I was just wondering if we'd heard anything from Ruth?" I shove my hands in my pockets, aiming for nonchalance, but also to hide their slight trembling. Adam looks up at me, his blue eyes sharp at the question, before he leans back in his chair, hands behind his head, and regards me with a long, steady gaze; I blush slightly under his scrutiny, but my breathing remains steady, and with an effort, I meet his eyes.
Finally, he nods. "She's fine, she's been checking in regularly." My face must betray my relief, as I return his nod, turning away, and then I hear him say softly, "She'll be all right, you know. She's tougher than she looks," and there's something in the tone of his voice that alarms me…he knows! Dreading what I might see in his face, I glance back at him, and of all things, he winks at me, before refocusing his attention on his screen, face carefully blank. Thoroughly disconcerted now, I walk quickly back to my workstation, wondering all the way just what, or how much, Adam knows, or thinks he knows. Strangely enough, after the initial shock, I find that the idea is not as terrifying as I first thought; perhaps because I know that Ruth trusts Adam as she once trusted Tom, or because I sense that he is a man who knows many secrets, and keeps them all. Whichever it is, I decide not to pursue it any further at present. It is enough to know that she is safe, and that Adam recognises that she is important to me – in what way, or how much, doesn't concern me as much as the simple fact that he understands. Danny knew too, but I don't think he was ever reconciled with the idea of Ruth and me. I resolve to talk to her about coming clean with regards to the existence of our relationship; now, more than ever, I feel the need to declare it on the Grid, if not to our families yet. Even as I scroll through the screeds of information shared with us by the CIA, trying to make sense of documents so heavily redacted that they resemble old-fashioned computer punch cards, a part of my mind is occupied with the delicate problem of what, and when, to tell Mother.
I doubt that she will be delighted, if her reaction to the announcement of my engagement, over twenty years ago, was to take herself to bed with a migraine for three days. Mother doesn't think the woman exists who is good enough for me, or at least, that's what she says – I suspect, rather, that she lives in fear that one day I will actually meet, and leave her for, another woman. I feel drained at the mere thought of that discussion, especially as Mother has become more dependent on me since coming to live with me some years back, after her heart surgery, and in the last couple of years I have begun to detect some further signs of deterioration in what is already a nervous and overwrought disposition. Mother never quite got over marrying my father; the spoilt, pretty younger child of the village bobby, she had set her sights on marrying well, and accordingly had pursued my shy, bookish father with a rare zeal, until he had gone up to Cambridge. After a very lonely first term, he had come back to Dunvant at Christmas, and returned to college an engaged man, much to his surprise.
My mother at eighteen, according to Aunt Emily, had been cock-a-hoop at securing one of the two scions of the oldest and most respectable family in Dunvant, imagining herself as the future, well-to-do mistress of a fine house, until the reality of the situation was explained to her; while my grandfather was indeed a baronet, my father, as the second son, was destined for nothing higher than the very small living afforded by the Dunvant parish church, and that his elder brother would inherit nothing more than the title; my grandfather had invested heavily, and unwisely, in shipping, and the family money had sunk, along with a string of vessels lost in U-boat attacks in the Atlantic during the Second World War. It had taken no time at all for Mother to realise that, far from living in the lap of luxury, she now faced the much quieter life of a country parson's wife, and at first she had been inconsolable. Her parents, however, had refused to allow her to break the engagement on such frivolous grounds, and in her own way she had loved my father, and had been too proud, besides, to endure the humiliation she would have been exposed to in county society. And so, a year after my father was ordained and took up the hereditary living, he married my mother, and brought her home to the small Georgian parsonage next to the church, in which I grew up.
I am no fool; I know my mother is a vain, insecure, difficult woman, prone to histrionics, and as unpopular with the parishioners as my father was beloved, but I also know that she is my mother, and I love her. The thought of introducing her to Ruth is one that I cannot contemplate without trepidation; all she will be able to see, I fear, is that she is being supplanted. I am grateful that Ruth seems to understand that the situation is somewhat fraught; she has never once mentioned meeting my mother, nor introducing me to hers. "I like having you all to myself," she has told me, more than once. Besides, I remind myself as I come to the end of this train of thought, decisions about our relationship are not mine to make alone; I must wait until Ruth is ready. I feel a surge of longing for her so strong it physically hurts; it is more than two days since I last saw her, and almost two weeks since we were last alone together, and at the back of my mind, I still hold the image of her as I last saw her, standing small and still and silent on the footpath next to Harry as his car drew alongside, and he opened the door for her to get in. I wonder how she is coping, caught between grief and duty, I wonder when I will see her again, and with these anxious thoughts circling like carrion crows, I drag my full attention back to the screens in front of me. The only way out is through, sometimes, and as finding Shining Dawn is the only foreseeable way that I will be together with Ruth again, I reapply myself to the CIA reports with renewed vigour and determination.