A/N: Just a heads up - there are a few time shifts in this chapter. Malcolm's memory at work again, I'm afraid - A.

As a small boy, my father would sometimes take me to see one of the local farmers as they herded sheep, working with the fleet, beautiful dogs that I so admired, but which my asthma (and my mother) forbade. He would lift me up onto the grey dry-stone wall, splotched with interestingly-textured patches of pale yellow or rust-coloured lichen, and instruct me to watch quietly. He needn't have bothered; I was mesmerised from the moment the farmer sent his dog winging away across the bright green grass towards the sheep, a black-and-white or brindled streak, moving low to the ground, exquisitely sensitive to its master's guiding chirps and whistles. There was always an instant when the sheep first noticed the dog and began to stir; the farmer would signal it to 'Drop!' and the animal would stop in mid-stride as if shot, then proceed towards the sheep almost on its belly, eyes keenly focused. This was the moment of truth, as far as the dog was concerned, a tipping-point where anything might happen.

I would hold my breath in anticipation; a good dog would gain control of the sheep from the very first second, telegraphing its intent as it worked them from far back in the field, rising fully to its feet only after the flock was in thrall to this swift creature with glowing eyes that compelled them to do its bidding. This delicate manoeuvre was known as 'the lift'. "Ah, there's a beautiful lift, son", Father would say softly, nodding his appreciation as the dog signalled to the sheep that it was the one in charge now, and seemed to gather them in as if they were on invisible strings. A less experienced dog, or one that lacked confidence, could end up with sheep scattered all over the field; a dog that approached too aggressively might find itself challenged by a dominant, bossy ewe, or charged by a ram; it took a dog with a certain calm self-belief, coupled with perfect instincts and complete trust in its master, to achieve a good lift.

My father told me that that the reason why sheep so often featured in Biblical parables was because their behaviour was frequently alarmingly illustrative of human folly and stupidity. He would say, smiling at me encouragingly, 'If you can predict the way that sheepdog, shepherd, and sheep will interact under different circumstances, then you'll be a long way ahead, when it comes to understanding people in general.' I had been too young at the time to fully grasp his meaning, but through observation, I came to realise that the degree of control a dog exerted over its flock was nearly always determined at the moment of the lift. It was as if something larger, emanating from within the dog, moved forward to declare itself to the sheep; over and over again, I witnessed the ancient meeting of predator and prey, refined through millennia of breeding and training into a thrilling display of skill and subtlety, an object lesson in submission and dominance, in taking charge and yielding control.

On one memorable occasion, the dog, a fine-looking Border Collie, had expertly lifted the flock, and was driving it towards the holding pens for veterinary treatment; it darted first left, then right, on the flanks of the herd, keeping them tightly together and headed for the gate where the farmer waited. Such was the rapport between man and dog, that he had only to extend his crook and twitch it this way or that, and the dog, in full flight, would change direction in a heartbeat. Gates are a major obstacle for sheep, and many a sheepdog trial has come to grief at the moment the lead sheep approaches one, and decides it doesn't care for what it sees. The dog has to keep driving the flock forward, exerting constant pressure until the narrow entrance to the pen seems like a blessed escape, instead of a possible trap. This dog was doing everything right, and the flock had passed the gates peaceably enough, until a young wether broke free and went skipping back down the fell; its fellows, seeing it gambolling away towards the sweet grass, had turned in their tracks, poised for flight, and disaster had loomed. I had clutched my father's arm, in agonies of suspense…

Miraculously, that dog had held them back through the sheer force of its presence, its head low and its amber eyes burning, until the farmer had reached over and swung the gate to. Even before the gate had snicked shut, the Collie had spun round and gone after the miscreant, and had chivvied it back to the flock, nipping at its heels if it looked like turning aside, until with a final effort, it too was penned with its flock-mates. I had never seen a sheepdog use its teeth before, and when I asked my father about this, he had explained that while it was the job of a sheepdog to look after the flock, sometimes it had to discipline them, too, for their own good.

I had nodded – this I understood perfectly - and never one to pass up a teachable moment, Father had asked me what had I learned today? I had looked at the sheep in question, now submitting to the various indignities being visited upon it by the vet, then at the dog, resting contentedly in its master's shadow, and in my six-year-old treble, had solemnly replied, "Don't be a sheep!" My father had laughed so long and hard at this, that he had ended up leaning against the wall for support, while I watched in wide-eyed wonderment. Grown-ups, I decided, are strange: what's so funny? Still laughing, he had scooped me off the wall and into one of his rare hugs, and we had driven home. Just before pulling into the garage, Father had looked across at me, half asleep in the passenger seat of his Rover, and had said in his church voice, the one that the congregation sat still for, "I hope you'll never become one of the sheep, Malcolm. Remember that we all belong to the Good Shepherd, and that it is far better to work for Him, like that clever sheepdog, than against Him, like that silly sheep." I had wholeheartedly agreed, and we had gone inside to supper.

All of this comes back to me now, long-forgotten memories resurfacing as my brain begins to reassert itself and the fog of depression lifts, to be replaced by clarity of thought on a number of matters, particularly Ruth. I am determined, when next I set foot on the Grid, to be my old self; clear-eyed, observant, alert, and objective. This is easier said, than done, so in preparation, I polish my shoes, take my most modern-cut suit to be pressed, and treat myself to a trim and hot shave at my favourite barbers, before heading for Thames House again.

Colin has warned me that the Grid has been reconfigured while I've been away, as part of some sort of well-intentioned, but ill-advised, initiative to get us all working more 'synergistically', whatever that means, and our cosy little workspace has been dismantled in favour of an open floor plan. Harry had apparently announced the changes as a 'trial only', but Colin was despondent about them. "At least the tech suite's still there," he had groused, and I reassured him, "We'll just set up a bolthole in the server room, if need be. No one ever goes there but us." Colin had grinned back, "And they'd better bloody not, either!" before showing me the new schematics for the Grid. My mood deflated, as I realised that my workstation would now be adjacent to Ruth's; Colin had caught the look on my face and said, "I know. But ours not to reason why, etcetera, as you're so fond of saying."

Peering at the plans on Colin's laptop yesterday, I had asked, "Just whose bright idea was this, again?" He rolled his eyes, and growled, "H-bloody-R. Name of Deborah Langham, wants to improve team morale and productivity by interfering with things she doesn't understand. She's been on the Grid a lot lately, what with the current recruitment drive for our section, and was apparently shocked that you and I were sitting in splendid isolation, and she got into Harry's ear about it. The next thing you know, he was sanctioning all this, and now we get to sit somewhere called Information and Analysis," Colin gestured with annoyance at the blueprints on screen. "At least they haven't touched the server room or the storage cage," I acknowledged philosophically, and Colin had twitched at mention of the storage cage. "I meant to tell you, the Tessina's turned up again. Clean as a whistle, no prints anywhere, and no clue as to how it came to be returned, either. I've bunged it into a lockbox coded to my biometrics. I've had enough of it coming and going," he had finished crossly. I sat back, considering. "No, let's put a tracker on it instead, and wait to see what happens next." Colin smiled back wolfishly, "Malcolm, I like how you're thinking today. Leave it to me, I'm still working on the nanotech we were trialling for integrating into clothing… I'll come up with something really good!" I had smiled too, looking forward to seeing the results of his ingenuity.

Taking a steadying breath, I step into the pods, and emerge onto the Grid, carrying myself tall, shoulders back, head up, and almost immediately I see Ruth. She is crossing from her desk towards Harry's office, and when she sees me she stops in her tracks; her mouth moves, soundlessly, and her eyes are round with surprise, as she surveys me from head to foot. She almost drops the dossier she is carrying, and it is only when Harry shouts for her that she begins to move toward the inner sanctum, looking back at me over her shoulder. Colin is already in; his desk is on the other side of mine, so at least we are still seated together. Despite outward appearances, the truth is that I don't feel half as confident as I look. Seeing Ruth so soon has shaken me; but then Colin gives me a tiny thumbs up, as I switch on my machine, and I recall his advice… Step back a bit, stop trying so hard, and see what happens… On with the show, then.

I have barely finished making an assessment of the work to be done after C Department has cavorted recklessly throughout my hitherto pristine systems, just as I knew they would, when Colin and I are summoned to the meeting room. Harry inclines his head briefly in acknowledgment of my return, before resuming the briefing at full spate; he is clearly annoyed about something, which becomes clear when he asks where a certain Prince from one of the Gulf States is staying; upon hearing the answer, I'm fairly sure I know what's coming. "Malcolm, bug the suite!" Harry barks. And there it is. First day back, and I've been tasked with one of the most distasteful jobs in Section D: surveillance with the intention of compromising the subject sexually, morally, or any way that we can. This is Five's version of the Dirty Squad, only we're making the blue movies ourselves, and the potential audience is vast, thanks to the wonders of the Internet.

I know it's all done in the interests of protecting the British state, but I have never quite been able to reconcile myself to some of our more sordid activities. The end justifies the means, our political masters might proselytise, but my father would have said that was the Devil's teaching. And for all I know, he could very well be right. I look quickly through the briefing dossier Ruth has prepared; another extremist Islamic splinter group led by another fanatic, hell-bent on jihad, murdering on a whim, despite his previous training – in England (ah yes, of course) – as a doctor. Sometimes it seems as if all the world has turned insane… whatever happened to first, do no harm? I doubt very much that Hippocrates would agree with Adam's unusual assessment of this Yazdi creature, that as a doctor he sees terrorism as just another means of healing the human race. That kind of intuition, though, is what makes Adam superb in the field, and I know he is a rare judge of human character. Harry concludes the briefing with a series of orders; he wants hard intel on this diamond-ingesting Prince, believed to be sponsoring the terrorist group through a people-smuggling operation that originates in Turkey, and Colin and I leave the room as Adam begins to put the case to Harry for him to go undercover and join the illegals' truck, hopefully with Yazdi on board.

As I get up to leave, I catch a glimpse of Fiona, listening to her husband arguing with Harry, and my heart goes out to her at the sight of her white, worried face. It takes nerves of steel, and a certain fatalism, to be married to a field officer, and while Fiona is herself a redoubtable field operative, Danny's death has affected her deeply, and she has changed. Quite how much still remains to be seen, but I know that she is no longer the fiercely independent, frankly terrifying woman she once was, and that the idea of Adam putting himself in danger is no longer one she can face with complete equanimity. The Grid is no place for faint hearts…which is why I am still frequently amazed that I have lasted so long in the job, coward that I am.

Shortly afterwards, as per Harry's orders, Colin and I find ourselves once more trundling a room service trolley through the plush halls of one of London's great hotels, albeit a trolley laden with the best of Five's technical wizardry rather than gourmet delicacies, both of us dressed in the hotel's rather ostentatious uniform. Colin had snorted at the sight of it, as we changed hurriedly in the observation van parked around the back; earlier, Zaf had simply strolled through the staff entrance, into the uniform store, and bold as brass, had absconded with two white, gold-braid encrusted jackets, and wandered out again, unchallenged, with breathtaking nonchalance. There are times when I almost envy him his natural courage and fearlessness What must it be like, to be so self-possessed, so confident in oneself? Even when he is rejected, Zaf just moves right on to the next pretty girl he sees… amazing. For a second, I wonder what he had whispered into Ruth's ear during the briefing this morning; whatever it was, it had caused her cheeks to colour like a ripe peach, before she rebuffed him coolly with, "I'm sure I wouldn't like to find out". Ruth, it would seem, has admirers throughout the age spectrum: Zaf is no more than a boy, though, and the least of my worries, where she is concerned. I had noticed Harry watching their little interplay with more than a casual interest… Taking a deep breath, I focus again on the task at hand.

I had been very relieved that my suit trousers just happen to be black, unlike Colin's; he was obliged to borrow a pair from our props department prior to leaving for the hotel, and then complained bitterly that they were two inches too short; and what was he meant to do about his socks, their garish stripes now displayed for all to see? Eventually, I had reached into the bottom drawer of my desk, and flicked him a pair of plain black socks, neatly rolled. Like most officers on the Grid, I have long had the habit of keeping a few spare essentials at work, as well as in my car. "Here. These will do. They're better than the alternative, which is going with none, and that would draw attention as surely as wearing those…things. Where do you even find orange and blue, or green and purple striped socks?" Colin had caught the socks neatly, beaming his thanks as he put them on, and replying succinctly, "Online. And what are these, anyway? Silk?" I had blushed slightly, and turned away without replying, to gather the various devices and tools we would need.

Once we were correctly attired, and Colin had grumbled under his breath for the hundredth time about his too-short trousers and the hotel uniform, to which the words organ, grinder's, and monkey have been applied at least a dozen times, we had set off on the route Zaf had reconnoitred previously. As we arrive at the door of the Imperial Suite, in which our subject has been enjoying the typically decadent lifestyle of his kind when away from their rigidly controlled kingdoms, I feel a sense of déjà vu, and as we enter the enormous, lavishly appointed room, I know why. Colin evidently feels the same, and he is the one who identifies the cause: we had last bugged this suite during a Presidential visit, and it had proven a fertile hunting ground indeed. Such a nice man, yet so constitutionally incapable of anything approaching sexual continence… "Happy days," Colin grins at me now, interrupting my reminiscing, and with that, we get to work.

There's something to be said for the better class of hotel, which furnishes its guest rooms with large paintings and other objets d'art: it makes concealing surveillance devices child's play. So many lovely hiding places…we move quickly, with Colin installing a fibre-optic camera on the central chandelier, angled towards the palatial bed, while I place a number of other devices throughout the suite. Colin climbs down from the compact, lightweight stepladder we brought in on the trolley, and I look around the room, pleased with our efforts. "C'mon, let's get out of here," he says, and I concur silently. "If it was up to me, VIP suites would look like padded cells – nowhere to hide anything!" With this final observation, Colin packs up our gear, and we slip out unobserved. The trap is set; now we have only to bait it, and wait. Safely in the van once more, and out of the hated uniform jackets, we run through the usual battery of tests and checks, before I pronounce myself satisfied with everything, and we head back to the Grid. It will be a late night, and I have some other business to attend to…business that makes my stomach clench with nerves and my hands slick on the steering wheel.

Walking through the pods this time, I make eye contact immediately with Ruth, fixing her with my gaze; she looks away, looks back up, and then gets to her feet, watching me coming closer… Ah, there's a lovely lift, son, I seem to hear my father whisper... she starts toward me, but I walk past her, and sit down at my desk. I can feel her moving behind me; the hairs on the back of my neck tingle at her approach, so I am not startled when she leans in over my shoulder, ostensibly looking at something on my screen, and whispers, "Malcolm, what's going on?" Just as quietly, I say the dreaded words. "We need to talk, my love, but not here or now." She takes a startled breath, close to my ear, and in that sound I hear surprise, not the guilt I had been dreading. Out loud, she says, "Yes, I can see that now, thanks. When will these images be ready?" I look over the top of my monitor, to find Harry standing not five paces away, watching us quizzically. Ruth is nothing if not quick off the mark, I'll give her that. His gaze is like a raptor's, darting from her to me and back.

Ruth walks around to the front of my desk, putting distance between us, and rests her bottom casually on its edge. I don't know quite where to look: at Harry, or at my screens… I know I mustn't look at Ruth, or her neat little derriere, tantalisingly parked within arm's reach… blushing, I look up at Harry in confusion. "Malcolm. Settling into your new digs, then? Ms…" "Langham," Ruth supplies helpfully as Harry falters on the wretched woman's name. "Yes, thank you, Ruth… Ms Langham assures me that these new seating arrangements will facilitate an unprecedented degree of collaboration amongst my desk staff…and so it would seem." Before I can reply, Ruth jumps in with, "I'm certainly finding it helpful to have Malcolm and Colin nearby…I always used to feel a bit isolated, before – the field staff were doing their own thing, and the boys here," – she gestures airily at myself and Colin – "were squirrelled away in the geek suite, and you were in your office...this is a better arrangement, don't you think?" I sense, rather than see, Colin rolling his eyes, safe behind his own screens, and then I am completely distracted, as Ruth slowly shifts her weight from one foot to the other, tilting her hips in an all-too-familiar movement as she does so. There's a word my grandmamma would have used to describe Ruth, had she seen that particular move: Minx.

Harry is waiting for me to respond, one eyebrow slightly cocked, a sardonic little smile playing around his mouth. With an effort, I refocus my thoughts, and say, "Erm... you know me, Harry, I'm not a fan of sudden change, but I daresay I'll adapt eventually. Mutantur omnia, nos et mutamur in illis…" Harry's Latin is rusty, so Ruth quickly translates, "All things change, and we change with them…it's from Ovid." Harry looks straight at her then, and my heart clenches as I see his eyes; there is such longing there, so carefully hidden – but none sees the signs of love in another, like one who is in love themselves. "Ovid, is it? Thank you, Ruth, for yet another piece of erudition, here in the rough and tumble of Section D…and I think Malcolm would thank you to stop leaning against his desk…he looks positively terrified for the safety of his screens." He speaks drily, but his eyes are twinkling with suppressed amusement, and Ruth immediately stands up as if she were sitting on hot coals. She gives a tiny, defiant twitch of her hips as she does so, and it dawns on me that this performance was not merely for my benefit, but to gauge Harry's reaction, too. "I need you in my office, if you please. We have to analyse the risks of sending Adam into Turkey." And once more, he lifts her as effortlessly as a champion sheepdog lifts a flock, and leads her away. I blink, watching her go, and then an email pings into my inbox. It is from Colin.

Now do you see what I mean? And that was a dirty move, on her part.

I don't think it was intentional. She just wanted to put some space between us, so it wouldn't look odd, the two of us, heads together, whispering.

My arse, or rather, hers, it wasn't intentional! She doesn't do anything that's not intentional. She was looking for a reaction from Harry, and she got one. She got one from you, too, and Harry saw it.

I defy any heterosexual man not to lose track of his thoughts somewhat, when an attractive woman perches on the desk in front of him like that. It's basic biology, unfortunately.

Each to his own, mate. Me, I couldn't care less if she perched right on my lap, but then I'm not the one who's gone for all money over her. BTW, if we're talking attractive women, I hear they're using Caroline tonight… she is seriously hot!

I frown, and look over at him reprovingly; he simply grins back unrepentantly, before raising his eyes heavenwards in silent appreciation of the lovely Caroline. He knows I am conflicted on this subject, as with many of the less savoury aspects of our work. It has long been Five's habit to recruit agents amongst the upper echelons of escorts, rather than asking our female colleagues to put themselves in a situation which is intended to end in sexual congress with a subject, during which every moment, every act, every sound, is recorded for our purposes.

We have access to a small roster of high class call girls, for want of a better description, that are paid a retainer by Her Majesty's government (oh, how the taxpayer would love that!) and are used for what Harry calls 'Cold War honey trapping', unlike the modern equivalent of entrapment at which Zoe was expert, but which did not involve sex per se. The girls who work for us are beautiful, intelligent, and completely shameless when it comes to gratifying the subject's every wish and fantasy. Most of them see it as nothing more than another night's work, only better paid, but it is still difficult, when I know as much as I do about the men they are sent to compromise, not to feel anxious for their safety when they are alone with killers, terrorists, madmen and sociopaths. They are not trained field officers, after all, and even though we are watching everything that takes place, I am always doubly relieved when the woman slips out of bed, leaving the subject snoring, collects her things, and leaves. Firstly, because she is safe, and no longer my responsibility, and secondly, because the thoroughly objectionable task of having to watch people at their most intimate and vulnerable, performing acts that I still cannot quite believe one human being would consent to do with, or to, another, is over for another night. Colin, while he understands my moral qualms, has no such reservations, and is usually the one who scrolls through the footage later, selecting the best images to use. He is much more down to earth and robust than me, the product of a hearty upbringing with three older brothers, and if anything, I suspect he considers this aspect of our work to be a bit of a perk. Certainly, as we sit in the van and observe Caroline disrobing in front of the Prince, I don't hear any complaints.

We meet with Harry early the next morning to present him with the fruits of our labour: over 400 high-resolution, explicit photographs of the Prince in flagrante delicto, and nearly six hours of video footage. Apparently, ground diamonds do work to increase one's potency… I lay out a number of prints before Harry, and he signals his approval. "Send them, and let's see if we can rattle his cage." Once that has been done, he despatches Colin to go home and get some sleep, and me, to join Ruth in the tech suite, where she is working on back-stocking Adam's legend. I was surprised to hear that he was successful in convincing Harry, and say as much to Ruth as I sit down. She looks up, scanning me closely, before explaining that TE Lawrence had successfully passed himself off as a blond, blue-eyed Circassian from Syria, and that Adam was confident he could do the same. "Hold on a moment," she tells me, getting up, and left alone in the dimly lit room, I rest my head in my hands for a moment and close my eyes, which feel gritty from a long night resignedly watching the monitors in the observation van.

She returns a few minutes later, and my nostrils twitch appreciatively at the aromas which precede her into the room: freshly brewed coffee, with a bacon and egg roll. I had forgotten how hungry I was, until now, my last meal an uninspired Chinese takeaway eaten around midnight. This is comfort food, good, honest British food; for once I ignore my own strict policy of no food or drink in the tech suite, and wolf it down, brown sauce and all. "Thank you, but where did you get it from? The cafeteria's not yet open…" She shrugs, "From across the river. There's an old-fashioned caravan over there, we've gone past it once or twice? Anyway, it's a caff, and it does what I think are the best bacon and egg rolls in London." I vaguely recall walking along the Embankment and seeing a sleek silver Airstream caravan there, but I hadn't realised it served food. I nod, mouth full of bacon and egg, and she smiles at me, a real smile, one that makes her beautiful eyes shine, and crinkles their corners. "I'm not all bad, you know," she says softly, and my heart performs a slow flip, as I realise how much I have missed her. We still have to talk, I remind myself, and with that I swallow the last bite of my roll, and wash it down with the rest of the coffee, past the hot, tight lump that has just appeared in my throat. Oh, Ruth…what are you doing to me? Wiping my fingers fastidiously with the handful of paper napkins Ruth had brought with the food, I smile back at her resolutely and ask, "How may I be of assistance?"

She pushes a file across the table to me, her face serious. "Adam's going to pose as a construction engineer, he 's got enough knowledge in that field to pass. He'll be from Aleppo in northern Syria, middle-class, aspires to what the West has to offer, little m Muslim, but has a family connection with radical Islam – a cousin, executed in Kuwait, who was in the same organisation as Yazdi. I'm still sorting out some of the details with Adam, but if you could get started on the ID docs that would be great. Everything you need is in here." I read the profile, making a list of everything Adam will need – Syrian ID card, drivers' licence, credit cards, professional papers, plus wallet litter – receipts, ticket stubs, change, photographs – all the usual bits and pieces of ephemera upon which his life may very well depend – and stand up, ready to head back to my desk. She looks up in consternation. "Where are you going? I thought we could work in here, together." Tucking the file under my arm, I calmly reply, "I don't think that's the best idea, do you? Not if you want to avoid drawing attention to us. Besides, I need to be alone, to think, if I'm to do decent work on all this… You can understand, I'm sure." And with that I turn on my heel, and leave. How can I love her to distraction, and want her as I have never wanted any woman, and yet be so unsure of her that it physically hurts to be near her?

By early evening, Adam has set out for Istanbul, armed only with his legend, a GPS tracker, and short-range comms, hidden inside a Zippo lighter; Zaf goes with him to shadow the truck, once Adam has talked his way on board. After a short sleep on a camp bed tucked into the corner where Colin and I used to sit, which has now been designated by Zaf, with much hilarity, as 'the dogbox', after the sleeper cabin of trans-Continental lorries, I have a quick shower, change into a clean shirt, and return to the tech suite to commence the round-the-clock monitoring which will be required until Adam concludes the operation. Ruth and Fiona are already there, Fiona looking tired and haunted, Ruth focusing on reports coming in from the café chatter in Istanbul, forwarded by our esteemed comrades at Six.

The operation is an intense one for Colin and me, relying heavily as it does on satellite surveillance, and once it is confirmed that Adam has made it onto the truck, the stakes go up, and Fiona hardly leaves the tech suite, sitting next to me, her eyes never leaving the tiny bright dot onscreen which represents Adam's GPS signal. Ordinarily I would feel uncomfortable with such close scrutiny, but I have grown rather fond of Fiona, and I can certainly understand her need to keep vigil until Adam is safe. Harry tries to persuade her to go home at one point, and she almost pins him to the wall with her basilisk stare. "I'm only going to say this once, Harry: until Adam has been extracted, alive and well, from this operation, I am not going anywhere, so don't waste your breath." Her voice is icy, and Harry, met with such determined resistance, backs down. He walks away, muttering something about having to call Juliet Shaw, and Ruth follows him out, at the mention of our beloved National Security Coordinator's name. Fiona and I are left alone, monitoring Adam and Zaf's progress towards Bulgaria.

It is very late, and when Fiona nods off for a moment, her head comes to rest against my left shoulder. I freeze, not wanting to disturb her, and soon enough she starts awake. Oddly, she doesn't sit up immediately, but instead murmurs, very softly, "I'm afraid for him, Malcolm… I need to hear that he's going to be OK." Shifting slightly in my chair, I look into her anxious brown eyes, and attempt a reassuring smile. "I assure you that we are doing everything possible to ensure the success of this operation…and the safety of your husband." She watches me, unconvinced; I try again. "I'm quite sure he'll be all right, Fiona." At this, Fiona straightens up; suddenly, she brushes the faintest of kisses on my cheek, saying, "You really are a very sweet man, you know." Before I can think, or react, or even blush, at this astonishing occurrence, the satellite phone buzzes. Zaf, with a status report; and Harry comes back into the tech suite at that point, Ruth close behind him. "Put it on speaker phone," he instructs, and the operation rolls on…

In the end, things get very messy, thanks to Juliet's over-zealous intervention, despite Adam and Harry's misgivings, and Colin and I are kept busy putting a cover story out to the media to explain away the sudden death of a man in the prime of his life, and an Arab Prince, at that. Yazdi has played us all as only a psychopath can, and Harry is furious. Curiously, he seems unable to control or overrule Juliet Shaw; she must have some deep dirt on him, as only a former colleague in the field can, and the idea of it worries me. My instincts tell me she is not to be trusted; there is something in her fine-boned face which frightens me, and the cavalier way in which she disregards Harry's judgement is, not to put too fine a point on it, disgraceful. Sometimes I wonder where the Service is headed…

Throughout the entire week, Ruth and I maintain our professionalism; we work as well together as we always have, but there is awkwardness between us now, a hesitation when one of us walks into the tech suite and sees the other, a pause before speaking. Sometimes I catch her watching me covertly, her eyes reflecting her puzzlement at the change in my comportment towards her. She chooses to sit next to me in briefings, brings me coffee from the Airstream café across the river, and stays back to assist me with surveillance. She doesn't make it easy, in other words, for me to keep my distance; in fact, I find it excruciatingly hard. Colin is encouraging, though, and while I hate to admit it, my new standpoint has provided me with some illuminating, and very upsetting, insights.

That Harry is in love with her, is nothing new; what is somewhat more of a revelation, now that I know what I am looking for, is the way she responds to him, a multitude of tiny signals that convey her interest. Most of them are unconscious; the way she runs her fingers through her hair while reading a briefing document in the meeting room, or how she tilts her head towards him, or her eyes, as they light up when he appears unexpectedly at her desk…each look and gesture reveals her attraction. But at the length, the truth will out…and so it would seem.

The day after the Yazdi operation concludes, I decide it is time to talk to Ruth; I have reached the tipping point, where anything might happen…the moment of truth.

A/N: Malcolm is quoting from The Merchant of Venice, in the final paragraph. By Shakespeare.