The Grid, one week later…
She must have been standing in the doorway for some time, watching: I actually jump when she says, "Malcolm," in that clear, cool voice of hers. I spin round to see Fiona leaning against the doorframe of the tech storage cage, watching me with an enigmatic little smile. I have been hiding in here for most of the morning, checking over the inventory and setting aside items to be repaired or replaced. A junior officer should be doing this, by rights, but I welcome this reassuringly routine chore, after what has been a very strange week indeed.
Ruth and I have barely spoken since the morning after my birthday; she has been busily making herself indispensable to Harry at work, sitting in on most of the briefings and meetings he attends, and off-duty, she has been spending most of her time at GCHQ, after having received Harry's blessing to enrol herself in some obscure in-service course, so hush-hush that she can't (or won't) discuss it with the rest of us. Adam has been teasing her about it, but even his easy-going approach gets him nowhere. If we are working together, she is as pleasantly professional as ever, but there is a look in her eyes that sickens me to see; a sort of wary watchfulness, as if expecting me to spring an unwanted proposal on her in the middle of the Grid. Neither of us have spoken of that exquisitely painful moment; instead we had sat downstairs in the kitchen, dressed for work, pretending to eat bacon and eggs and making small talk about the weather, the robins flitting to and from the crumb-laden bird table outside the kitchen window, the day ahead…anything except the subject which was uppermost in both our minds…and then I had dropped her at Hampstead Station, as is our usual pattern, before continuing on into Thames House in the Rover.
I haven't had a moment alone with her since, and for once I am grateful; my heart is far too fragile, my hopes too severely shaken, to endure the agony of hearing her articulate what I have already ascertained from the sadness in her eyes, as she had carefully returned the little blue velvet box to its erstwhile hiding place, seen by the half-light of a midwinter's morning. I have actively been avoiding her, truth be told, as much as possible, ever since, and she hasn't come seeking me out, from which I infer that contact is as uncomfortable for her as it is for me. I had spent New Year's Eve on the Grid, alone, as I have spent it for most of the last fifteen years, monitoring CCTV feeds from prominent London locations and watching others enjoying themselves. Ruth had left the Grid early, supposedly to attend her course at Cheltenham, and I had heard her tell Jo that she had plans to see the New Year in with her mother. I hadn't been going to contact her, given the delicate state of things between us, but then at midnight, as I had watched thousands of revelers kissing and embracing along Victoria Embankment, I had felt such a vast and yearning loneliness that I had sent her an SMS in which I slightly adapted a line from Ovid's Fasti: Midwinter is the beginning of the new sun and the end of the old one; be thou my sun this year. In the morning, I got her reply, probably delayed by the sheer volume of traffic on the telecommunications networks last night: Hi, wishing you all a Happy New Year! Have a great one, Ruth xo.
My heart had plummeted to new depths: she hadn't even thought to send me a personal message. I wondered who else she had sent this insouciant little communication to. Adam, Fiona, Zaf, most definitely. Jo too. Her extended family, old friends from school or university or her former colleagues at GCHQ, probably. Harry? No, I had told myself grimly, if she had sent him a message, it would certainly not have been this one. Harry's increasing reliance on her has not escaped my attention, and it is all I can do to just carry on when he shouts for her from the conference room, and she eagerly gathers up her files and notes to trot happily towards him. And once or twice recently, I have caught Harry gazing at her, thinking himself unobserved; I find the sheer wistfulness of his unspoken longing very unnerving, even as I admire his tenacity: Harry bloody-minded Pearce.
Ruth, by contrast, is as demurely correct in her interactions with him as any lover could wish for. She's just doing her job, I remind myself time and time again, watching anxiously as she joins him in endless briefings, meetings, teleconferences and sudden trips to Whitehall. Besides, would she have done…that…the other night, if she didn't love me? But my doubts refuse to be quelled, and in the shadows of my mind, images flicker and freeze like an old film. The woman in the foyer at Claridge's, so like Ruth that my heart had lurched with shock upon seeing her…the way that Harry's eyes glow, like banked-up coals, whenever she walks into the room…the explanation she gave for being unreachable on Christmas Day…the spring in Harry's step as he had left the Grid that same afternoon… and then there's the Tessina, now waiting patiently, here in its box, for its next clandestine trip... I feel convinced that all these disparate elements are linked, somehow, but I can't see how they all fit together, and I am afraid to speculate. A braver man, one more sure of his ground, would have pursued both her, and the questions hanging unspoken between us; but my heart shrinks from such finality, and craven coward that I am, I flee from the possibility of losing Ruth as the denizens of Pompeii fled from the fearsome and fatal eruption of Mount Vesuvius. On top of all this, there is the niggling worry at the back of my mind about Mother, and what she is doing in Bournemouth, or with whom…I have had only one brief call from her since her arrival there, nearly a fortnight ago, and she had actually been giggling at the time…I had been filled with foreboding at the sound.
"Malcolm?" Fiona says again, her voice tinged now with impatience, and I realise that I have been standing, lost in thought. "Are you all right?" she continues, her expressive brown eyes showing her concern. I drag my mind back from its gloomy contemplations, and look at her enquiringly. "Fiona, do forgive me. I'm afraid I was miles away…" She steps into the room and smiles fleetingly. "Yes, you were. Is everything OK?" Her manner is as brisk as usual, but her eyes are kind, and for the tiniest moment, I actually contemplate unburdening myself; but I haven't even been able to bring myself to talk to Colin, and the temptation passes as I see Fiona look around the dimly lit room, evidently in search of something.
I blink, mildly disconcerted, and say, "Fiona…was there something you needed?" I haven't received a tech requisition from her, and so I am surprised when she nods. I stare at her for a moment, my mind a blank; and then it comes. "Ah, yes. Your meeting with the Syrians?" Fiona smiles again. "That's right. I'm going in my usual capacity as a PR manager, but I'd prefer to have some…backup…on hand, in case their paranoia gets the better of them. I've lived with these people, Malcolm, I know how they think, and what they're capable of. I'd like to be prepared for any eventuality, so what do you suggest?" I turn to my shelves, my mind already running through possible scenarios in which Fiona may suddenly find herself obliged to use extreme measures. After a moment, I choose an aluminium attaché case containing a very large, very powerful semi-automatic .45 pistol. "Just what every successful young PR executive needs," I say, giving her the case. She takes it carefully, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Are you sure you remember how to use one of these?" I ask, as a cold wave of anxiety passes through me: something feels off here, but I don't know what.
Fiona nods, before replying, "You know, this could be a bit cumbersome. Do you think I could also have something a bit more discreet?" I hesitate, uncomfortable with what she is asking me; her eyes beseech me, and I am reminded of the dreadful time she had last year, and realise that she probably just wants to feel absolutely certain that nothing that bad will happen to her again. I go back to the shelves and after a moment, pick up a gun in the shape of a car's keyless entry remote control unit. It's small, light, won't look out of place in her handbag or pocket, and when fired, is surprisingly lethal at close quarters, if not exactly a model of precision weaponry. Well, one can't have everything…out loud, I tell her, "It's got cupro-nickel hollow point bullets, for maximum effect," handing it to her. "It's not the most accurate gun on the planet, I know," she notes, and I reply, in an attempt to reassure her, "At least it won't trip the Embassy's metal detectors," as I click a dummy set of keys into place. Fiona observes, "How thrilled do you think the Serbian mafia would be if they knew we were using their little invention?" She takes the assembled unit, and I dig my hands into my pockets as I add, "Theirs tend to go off unintentionally." Fiona glances at me, slightly perturbed, and enquires, "But ours don't, right?" I grimace in reply – best not to commit oneself when the answer could be both Yes and No – and say brightly, "Can I interest you in anything else?" by way of distraction.
"Actually, I could use one of those little trackers, if it isn't too much trouble," she replies, and I feel another twinge of misgiving: Fiona knows perfectly well that nothing is meant to leave the tech cage without a requisition being signed off by the section chief, or in this case, Adam. "Erm, Fiona, I'm so sorry to ask, but have you done a chit for all this?" I ask as I search for the right device, flushing slightly at my temerity, but with all my most punctilious instincts rising at the idea of flouting the proper process. Fiona calls back, "It's in Adam's in-tray now, you know what he's like about doing paperwork." I sigh; I really shouldn't issue anything without the proper forms, but unfortunately I do know what Adam's like where the some of the less exciting aspects of the job are concerned. Well, after all he's her husband, as well as her team leader. Surely he'd know what she is likely to need on this operation… I find what I'm looking for, and walk back towards her, tall and slim in her closely fitted suit. Oh yes, Adam is a very lucky man indeed…all this, and brains, too.
"Turn around," I instruct her, and she does, presenting me with the back of her slender neck. With fingers that shake slightly, as they always do when I come into physical contact with female colleagues, especially one as beautiful as Fiona, I use both hands to carefully tape the tiny tracker, not even half the size of her smallest fingernail, just below her hairline. "I'll put it here for now, but make sure you hide it properly later," I remind her, before checking to see that the device is live. I smile as her tracker's icon blinks into existence, superimposed over a map which is currently showing her location as being Thames House. Pleased with the elegance of this technology, I tell her, "Brad Parkinson should be sainted…he invented GPS. You know you can always swallow it, if it's compromised…it'll still work." Fiona looks archly at me, before saying, "Yummy", with an ironic inflection that catches me off-guard and makes me chuckle involuntarily, smiling properly for the first time in days. That's something that not everyone knows about Fiona: she has a wicked sense of humour. "Thanks, Malcolm," she continues; and thus kitted out, Fiona picks up the attaché case and walks out of the tech cage.
Just as she reaches the door, she looks back, sets the case on the floor, takes two long steps towards me, and leans in to brush a quick kiss on my cheek. She rests her hand for a moment on the same place her lips have touched, and says, looking me straight in the eye, "Malcolm, thank you for being so sweet to me, ever since… ever since Danny died. You're a good friend." Her voice quivers, towards the end; I stand stock still in astonishment, as my face turns bright red and my heart skips a beat or two. She gathers herself, then, and adroitly turns the subject as she adds with a wink, "I just hope she knows how lucky she is!" Before I can think of an appropriate response, she is gone, striding out the door without a backwards look. I hear the sharp click of her heels fade away down the corridor, and after a moment I shake my head in amazement, and turn back to my nice, safe little task, feeling lighter in my heart than I have all week. That's something else not everyone knows about Fiona: she's kind, in that no-nonsense way of hers. Somehow, I don't mind that she seems to know, or thinks she knows, (but then, who doesn't?) about us: Fiona keeps deeper secrets of her own.
I inspect a few more items, but the sense of well-being that Fiona's visit instilled quickly dissipates, as I begin to feel uncomfortable about having issued her with not only one, but two firearms for what I had understood would be a straightforward operation, and without a chit, as the field officers refer to the technical requisition form that must be filled out…and now that I think about it, it seems that this operation may not have originated in the usual way, either…I don't remember seeing anything about it in Ruth's weekly threat assessment, nor do I recall any discussion about it the last few daily briefings. Not that this is unusual; things move can fast on the Grid, but on the surface, this shouldn't be any more than a routine surveillance and information-gathering exercise, albeit involving diplomats from one of the more paranoid and trigger-happy Islamic nations. And yet…and yet…there was something, a certain look in Fiona's eyes, a steely determination that I had glimpsed as she had leant towards towards me. My gut begins to churn; something is off here, something is not right; I feel like a schoolboy who has inadvertently gone out of bounds, only for his innocent trespass to be witnessed by none other than the headmaster. Finally, I set the box of earwigs that I have been mechanically sorting through back on the shelf, take a deep breath, fighting against the growing tightness in my chest, and head for Harry's office.
I pause at Adam's desk on my way to the inner sanctum, and glance at his in-tray; I can't see any of the distinctive pink tech requisition forms reposing there. My stomach clenches with apprehension, but I continue towards Harry. When I get there, the door is closed: I knock, tentatively, and after a few seconds comes the familiar rumble, "Yes?" I slide the door open, and there he is: Harry Pearce, head of Section D sitting behind his desk, head bent over a pile of paperwork; all should be right with the world, but I find that I have to shove my hands in my trouser pockets to disguise the trembling that began in the tech cage and has only increased with each step across the Grid. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for Harry to look up; his pen continues to move across the page. An interrogatory "Hmmm?" is issued impatiently after a few moments, so I begin to speak, choosing my words carefully.
"Harry, about this operation with the Syrians…I have to say, I'm a bit concerned about it. And Fiona…well, I'm rather surprised that she's involved, given her background." The pen stops writing, and Harry looks up at me, his eyes as remote as a raptor's, watching a rabbit far below; my chest feels even tighter, but I say it anyway. "Is it really wise, do you think?" Harry points to the chair in front of his desk. "Come in, Malcolm, and do shut the door." His voice is neutral, but I quake inside as I comply. Once I am perched nervously before him, Harry steeples his hands and regards me over them, saying nothing for a moment. I stumble on, "Fiona…she's got Wes to think of. He's only seven…" Harry continues to stare silently at me; it is a most unsettling, and very effective, technique. "Surely Zaf, or, or Adam, would be a better choice?" I blurt out, unable to bear this wordless scrutiny. Harry blinks once, slowly, deliberately, and says bluntly, "Thank you for your opinion, Malcolm; I wasn't aware that the role of Senior Technical Officer was now concerned with the deployment of field staff. I must not have received that memo." His voice is dry, but danger lurks just beneath the surface, if the slowly tapping fingers are any indication.
Gathering my courage, I add earnestly, "Harry, please. You know I don't interfere with operational decisions, I just do what I'm asked, even if I find it reprehensible at times, but I truly am worried about Fiona. She hasn't been herself lately, and I can't believe that we are sending her in to work with people from a country that very nearly killed Adam and would have killed her too, given half a chance. It's not right, Harry, and I think you know it." Harry continues to stare at, or rather through, me, as I stop speaking. After a thoroughly unsettling silence, he says curtly, "Your quite frankly unsolicited views are noted, but I know my field officers rather better than you appear to think. Not that it's any of your business, but Fiona happened to ask for this assignment, and Adam has agreed to it, so that's good enough for me." And it had better be good enough for you, too, his tone warns. I stare at him in dismay; Harry doesn't usually speak to me like this, and I can't understand it. It's almost as if he is angry with me…his eyes are hooded, giving nothing away, but there is a tiny tic in his right cheek that I have never noticed before, and his posture is a more dominant one than he usually adopts towards me. Anger can easily disguise so many other emotions, like fear, or guilt… With an effort, I force myself to focus on the present: while Harry doesn't like to have his judgement questioned in front of other officers, he usually listens if I seek him out for a confidential discussion; and although Ruth certainly doesn't shrink from telling him what she thinks, like me, she prefers to speak to him in private, out of deference and natural courtesy.
Ruth… my mind drifts for a moment, and then I nearly bolt off my seat in shock as a horrifying thought occurs to me: what if Harry's strange demeanour is not due to anger, but to jealousy? What if he knows about us, or worse, what if they…oh, but he's speaking again… 'If that's all, Malcolm, you can go." Harry is dismissing me like a junior officer; even so, I obediently get up, and he turns back to his paperwork. Just as I reach the doorway, he grunts and I turn back to see him holding out a pink tech requisition form, his signature sprawled across the bottom right hand corner. "Yours, I think." I turn back to take the paper from him, and as I do our eyes meet for a moment, and I catch the briefest glimpse of the awesome burden of responsibility he bears towards us all, before he looks away again. I practically slink from the room like a chastised dog, feeling thoroughly discombobulated.
As I walk away, I glance over the chit Harry has handed me, and sigh. Surveillance specs for tonight's reception at the brand new Syrian Cultural Centre… brand new, as in we have never bugged it before, or run obs in it…I don't know anything about the building's layout, its dead spots or its architectural quirks…what a nightmare! Still reading the tech requisition, I trudge towards the tech suite in search of Colin. We are going to be busier than usual, setting up in the Centre, and we will have to start with the blueprints. I know all the embassies like the back of my hand, as well as most of the five-star hotels in London, and all the major venues, but it is a very long time since I have had to work in a completely new building, and a growing sense of unease surges within me. We can't afford for anything to go wrong, not with these people, and not with Fiona. Sometimes I wonder what on earth possessed the Service to begin recruiting female field officers… yes, I know I am being old-fashioned and would be roundly accused of being a paternalistic, if not chauvinistic, male, by my female colleagues, but there are times when I rather suspect that women's liberation has not turned out for the best. Fiona is more than capable of dealing with whatever exigencies might arise in the field, but part of me very much wishes that she, or indeed any of her sex, didn't have to.
Colin flicks me a glance as I enter the tech suite, his face bathed in the blue light from the bank of monitors he is perusing. "Malcolm. I've downloaded the building plans from the London Development Database…" – for 'downloaded', I automatically substitute 'hacked', and give him a half smile in acknowledgement of his peerless skill in that area – "and we are going to have a hell of a job with comms; the place is steel-framed, for a start, and you'd think they almost expected to be subjected to surveillance – see here, and here… the place is almost as well-shielded as one of our own installations." I lean over his shoulder, peering at the blueprints, and make a disgruntled noise in my throat. "It'll have to be done the old-fashioned way, relying on wires, then. Who's going in?" Colin grins, "The catering corps, of course: Zaf and Jo, and a couple of officers Harry has wangled; Yasmine from Section G, and Nazeem from Section C – he'll be our technical expert on the inside tonight, as neither you nor I would ever get past the front door under any of our usual guises; Adam says they'd suss us out the moment they saw us." I can't argue with that; neither of us look as if we are from a hospitality staffing service, nor as if we would have been the first choice of said service for a job at the new Syrian Cultural Centre. Young, sleek, shiny, skilled, and preferably of the right ethnicity: that would be their brief for tonight. I nod in agreement, and then Colin and I make our arrangements, chatting with each other in that shorthand which, as friends and colleagues of long standing and similar turns of mind, we often fall into when no-one else is around.
It is infinitely soothing and welcome after the upsetting morning I have had; Colin has said nothing about Ruth, recently, but I know that if I needed to talk, he would be the first one out the door to the Cricketers'. "Hearing you two talk is like listening to a particularly technical episode of Blue Peter, all enthusiasm and "Here's one I made earlier!" suddenly comes from the doorway, and we both start at the sound of Ruth's voice. She walks into the room, and adds, "There's a briefing in five minutes. Harry's keen to make sure we've got this one covered from every angle; I think we have, but still, we should have your input, too." Colin straightens up and says, "Sure, I'll go, if that's alright with you, Malcolm?" Still working out the optimal radio frequencies to use tonight, I nod distractedly, and wave him away, not even looking up. I sense Ruth hesitating, and from my vantage point behind my monitors, I see her, clad in a long skirt and her favourite black boots, approaching me. Before she reaches me, though, Colin calls from the corridor, "Ruth? Aren't you coming?" and the boots stop, turn slowly, and then beat a brisk retreat.
Silently, I bless Colin, and get up to retrieve some gear from the tech cage. Out of habit, I reach up to check on the Tessina, nestled in its box: it is still there, reassuringly, and I quickly gather what I need; tiny, nearly invisible earwigs, wires to tape under our operatives' clothing, a handful of tiny fibre-optic devices to incorporate into their uniforms, thereby giving us eyes as well as ears on the scene; and finally, a number of static recording devices for Zaf and Nazeem to secrete around the room as they set up for the function tonight, undercover as part of the catering staff. Then, I will have to run some discreet AV checks from the obbo van, and pray that the Cultural Centre does not contain the same kind of frequency-jamming technology currently in vogue with so many embassies from that part of the world… we can get round it, of course, but not in the tight timeframe we are working to. That's something that Harry has never understood: he seems to think that, Q-like, all I have to do is push a button or flick a switch, and the problem will be magically overcome. The reality is that all too often, we only just find a solution in the nick of time…and I dread the day when an insurmountable problem presents itself, and I fail. Today cannot be that day, though, not when Fiona is going into a potentially dangerous situation. I check and double check the equipment, my plans, and the blueprints, while apprehension clutches at my heart, and a vague sense of dread swirls around me; I put it down to the unresolved situation with Ruth, and concentrate with even more focus than usual on my preparations for tonight.
As the operation unfolds over the next few days, it reveals some interesting aspects; among other things, for example, I am tasked with finding a way to nobble the Syrian Foreign Minister over lunch, but not his assiduous and unpleasant bodyguard; and then I get to indulge in a bit of robotics inside a hot beverage machine, in order to take out said bodyguard for a short time, which is a nice little challenge, and very satisfying when it works as planned. These are the small victories which make the job bearable, and I carefully file the design of that particular bit of kit in the "for further development" file, smiling to myself: sometimes (well, most of the time, really) we manage to get it right…
And then it all goes horribly wrong.
The reception on the first night of the operation had gone as well as could be expected; in other words, not without a few hitches. Not all of the AV surveillance was as clear as I would have liked; and at Adam's request, Ruth has been sifting through it again, trying to glean any intel not immediately apparent whenever she has a spare moment. A couple of days later, she spots something on the video footage of the reception, and consults with Colin, who offers to see if he can isolate a mobile phone conversation that takes place in Fiona's vicinity, shortly after her arrival. Fortunately for us, Jo had been stationed close enough for most of the conversation in question to have been recorded by her wire, and the new building didn't seem to have any significant counter-surveillance technology, as I had initially feared, to disrupt our transmissions.
The day after this discovery, I realise that something has gone badly amiss when I catch the tail-end of an urgent exchange between Ruth and Adam as I walk back onto the Grid from attending to an issue with one of the server stacks. Colin had mentioned to me earlier that he had managed to successfully isolate the conversation Ruth was so interested in, but as it had been conducted in a Syrian dialect of Arabic, he hadn't known what was being said; so Ruth, with her superior language skills and intuitive grasp of abstract concepts, had been working on translating it; she must have been successful, from the expression on Adam's face. "Jo said that Fiona told her that she wanted to be recognised," Adam replies, puzzled, and in that moment, I have an epiphany: Of course, that's why she wanted a tracker…oh, no. Fiona, what are you up to? My heart begins to beat a little faster as I speak up, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the second.
"She's wearing a tracker," I tell him as innocently as I can, and the look that Adam gives me is blood-curdling as he snaps, "What?!" Off-balance now, I continue, "She asked for one; I thought you knew?" He looks back at Ruth, visibly struggling for control, and orders her to run it, and keep him posted, as the word ripples around the Grid: Fiona has been abducted by her Syrian spook of an ex-husband, until recently believed executed for treason by his own country, but now back from the dead and out for revenge on Fiona, on Adam, on anyone who has crossed him. I have made a monumental error, but there is no time now for recriminations: we must find her, and soon. I go to Ruth's desk, sit down and bring up the GPS program to see Fiona's tracker icon superimposed on a map of London: it is on the move, and fast. Adam is like a wild man, tearing across the Grid and through the pods with Zaf hard on his heels, and I feel sick as the little icon bleeps across the screen in front of us and events begin to escalate out of control at a truly frightening rate. Ruth on comms is keeping Adam and Zaf updated to the second; unexpectedly, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder, my heart lurches, and I look up to see Harry glaring at me. "Colin will take over now," he says implacably, and I get up, knees suddenly shaky, and follow him out into the corridor, while Colin slides into my seat; I walk away without so much as a word or a glance from either Ruth, or my best friend.
As soon as I join him in the corridor leading to his office, Harry says, "What the bloody hell d'you think you're playing at?" His voice is as cold and distant as the North Pole, but his eyes blaze as he bites out each word. I stare at him, unable to speak, my throat painfully tight, but before I can muster my courage, he turns his back on me, about to return to the Grid. Looking angrily over his shoulder, he growls, "I haven't got time for this now, but I'm marking your card, Malcolm. Once we find Fiona, you and I are going to have a little chat. Issuing materiel like that… now get back in there and make yourself useful!" I am left alone as the blood drains from my face and my chest claps shut like a door slamming, forcing me to gasp and struggle for air. I dig frantically through my pockets for my inhaler, collapsing against the cold concrete wall as my legs refuse to support my weight any longer. My hands quake as they bring the puffer to my lips, and I close my eyes as the medication inches its way into my lungs, bringing the relief I so desperately need.
When I can finally draw breath again, I creep back onto the Grid and to my desk, where I meekly do whatever I can to assist. Adam calls in a frantic report, talking about private jets and small airports: I pull up the national air traffic control system and begin searching for outbound flights from local airfields, looking through hundreds of flight plans and manifests for the right combination of port of origin, present location, and stated destination; my fingers, still shaking, nevertheless fly across the keyboard as I run my sorting algorithms and finally spot a possibility. "It's got to be Wiltsborough," I tell Adam, my voice steadier than I have any right to expect under the circumstances. For the first time in my professional life, I am in the doghouse, and I am not entirely sure why, although I have a fairly good idea: issuing weapons without an approved requisition is a serious breach, as is equipping a field officer with a tracker without the knowledge of their section chief. In my concern for, and eagerness to help Fiona, I see now that I may have unwittingly compromised the whole operation, and brought my own career with the Service crashing to an end, all in one fell swoop…
The next six minutes are unbearably tense as Adam races to intercept Fiona's murderous, traitorous ex-husband, and rescue his wife. All Ruth's attempts to contact him on his mobile fail after he tears into the airfield, and it is only when Colin spots the 999 call being logged from Wiltsborough airfield that we begin to get an inkling of the outcome; and then Adam calls in, his voice so thick with tears that he is incomprehensible, except for the words "No," and "Fiona", spoken over and over again; finally, even those words are lost, as he weeps uncontrollably for his beautiful, dead, wife. I cannot bear to listen: I silently make my way to a cubicle in the men's bathroom, where I lock the door, and am very nearly physically sick, wracked as I am with guilt and anxiety, and still weak from the asthma attack. Eventually, the dry heaving stops, and I slump, exhausted, onto the heavy black lid of the lavatory, as tears leak hotly onto my cheeks and roll under the collar of my dark grey shirt.
My God, my God, what have I done? I am so sorry, Fiona… Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…I should never have let you have those weapons, or that damn tracker…
Oh, Fiona…
A/N – Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa is Latin for "through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault." Ruth is not the only one who can get her guilt on…