A/N: There are a few time-shifts in this chapter – Malcolm's head is a bit all over the place at the moment, I'm afraid, but not without cause…

The heavy ring glints in the bright light radiating from the bank of monitors, as my fingers move rapidly across the keyboard; after nearly a month, I no longer notice its small, yet substantial weight, but the bright gleam of highly polished silver still catches my eye unexpectedly, and I pause in my task to twist it around yet again, uncomfortable with its presence on my person. I have seen the looks that my colleagues exchange when it catches their attention: Zaf, rolling his eyes flamboyantly; Jo, glancing at it briefly, then back at my face, only temporarily distracted; Colin, blinking every time he sees it; Ruth, pretending not to notice it at all; and worst of all, Harry, who regards it with outright suspicion, if not contempt. The first day that I wore it to work was just after Fiona's death, and as far as our illustrious leader was concerned, I was still in the doghouse for issuing weapons without authorisation.

Harry had come barrelling up to my desk, and in a voice that brooked no opposition, had requested "a word" with me; as he had been issuing this terse invitation, his eyes had suddenly dropped from my face to my hand, then had shot back up to meet mine, his annoyance plain to see. "With me, now," had come the brusque command, and meekly, I had trotted behind him across the Grid, resisting the temptation to take the ring off on the way, or to hide my hands in my pockets. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, I had decided stubbornly, taking a discreet puff on my inhaler as I had followed my boss's shoulders, stiff with anger beneath his Savile Row suit, into the inner sanctum. Harry had closed the blinds (a tactic meant to instil fear in the subject, and a remarkably effective one, I must say) and taken his place behind his imposing rosewood desk before he had said anything at all. "Sit down," he had instructed, and to my dismay I had found myself dropping into a low-slung visitor chair which put my eyes on a level with Harry's chin. My God, he's actually brought in a chair designed to make me feel very uncomfortable indeed. I was for it now..

"As you know, we need to have a little chat, Malcolm," Harry had begun in a conversational tone, watching me closely as I shifted nervously in my chair. "I don't think we've ever found ourselves in this position before, have we?" I had forced my words out of a throat drier than a desert. "N…n…never. Not in over fifteen years." He had regarded me thoughtfully for a moment, before replying, a hint of steel in his tone, "So, my Head Prefect has finally blotted his copybook. I'm looking forward to hearing exactly why you took it upon yourself to ignore SOP and issue Fiona with not just one, but two, weapons of lethal force, and a GPS tracker, without so much as a skerrick of paperwork. Enlighten me, if you please." He had clipped his syllables like the Army officer he once was, and settled back in his capacious executive's chair, clasping his hands behind his head as he waited for me to speak.

After what had seemed like an age, but in reality must have been only a couple of seconds, I had heard myself say, in a remarkably steady voice, "I accept that I made an error of judgment, Harry, as we've all done; the consequences this time were tragic, and unforeseen. I believed Fiona when she told me the chits were on Adam's desk; why wouldn't I? She had told me the same thing, many times before, and the chits were always in order. A bit late, perhaps, in making their way to me, but always done. What happened after she left the Grid was beyond the ability of any of us to mitigate or prevent, because we didn't have the full picture. Please don't think I'm trying to shift any part of the blame here – Fiona was an esteemed colleague, and a dear friend – but after a lot of consideration, I've come to the conclusion that she was essentially running her own mission within a legitimate operation, with all the inherent risk involved; and weapons or no weapons, tracker or no tracker – which, incidentally, gave us the only clue as to her whereabouts – the minute Fiona came into contact with Farook, she took her life into her own hands."

I had remained perfectly still as his keen gaze scanned me, and then Harry had lunged forward, slamming his palms down onto his desktop with a thump! as he had glared at me. "What Fiona did or did not say or do, or not do, is not at issue here: let me be perfectly clear on this point. I don't care if she swore on a stack of Bibles, or danced the dance of the seven veils! What I am concerned about is that you knowingly and deliberately chose to act outside of the regulations that exist to prevent exactly this sort of mess. You, of all people: the most reliable, steady member of this section. If you're having some sort of mid-life crisis, Malcolm" – this, while his gaze had flicked to my bright silver ring – "then I need to know. I can't afford to have my STO off with the fairies. Your job is to make sure that the rest of us are kept up to the mark on processes and procedures, and provide whatever technical wizardry the field staff may require to conduct their work successfully. It is not, repeat, NOT, to start making unilateral decisions that affect operational outcomes."

Each word was enunciated with the laser precision of a high-ranking officer dressing down a subordinate, and I had shrunk even lower in my ridiculous seat, as I wished that the floor would open up and swallow me. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" he had barked, and suddenly, anger had risen up, forcing me to my feet as my head swirled with a myriad of unfamiliar sensations: foremost amongst them, a keen sense of injustice at the way Harry was choosing to approach this, followed closely by indignation and wrath.

"I have this to say, for a start. I object to the way you are conducting this interview. I am offended at the aspersions you are casting upon my judgment and upon my ability to carry out my prescribed duties. And I am outraged at your attempts to pry into my personal life in this distasteful manner. I have been your STO, your colleague, and dare I say it, your friend, for whatever it's worth, for years, and in all the time that we have been associated, you've never had cause to question my actions, until now. Doesn't that count for anything? God, Harry, it's not as if you've never made a mistake that's led to disaster, so why are you stringing me up over this?" In my fury, I had placed my hands on the edge of his desk and leaned towards him, using the advantage of height to drive home the depth of my displeasure. Once more, Harry's eyes had slid towards my left hand, and in exasperation I had banged it on the polished surface, leaving a tiny indentation where the ring had bruised the wood. "Yes, I'm wearing a ring, and no, it's not against regulations: I've already checked. If it was a wedding band, you'd hardly give it a second glance, so why does it bother you so much?"

Harry had climbed to his feet, then, and had locked eyes with me: molten amber met icy blue as he had said quietly, but in a voice that could cut diamond, "That will do, Malcolm. Right now, you are so close to being suspended, I can almost see the ink drying on the form. You're behaving in a completely uncharacteristic manner. When an officer – any officer - under my command starts to make irrational decisions and flagrantly break the rules, while suddenly sporting something as significant as a ring, where none has ever been seen before, I naturally become very interested in all aspects of that officer's life. I need to know if they're about to go off piste on an operation, or go off the rails altogether. It's one of the reasons I've managed to survive so long in this game…so, out with it. What's going on?" We had glared at each other, head to head across the desk; just then, we had heard a fast, light knock on the door, before it slid open and Ruth's face had appeared.

"Oh, erm, am I interrupting? Sorry, Harry, but you said you wanted this as soon as it came up from the archives… and just a reminder, your ten a.m. appointment is waiting for you." She holds up a thick dossier, an old one by the look of it, and he breaks off eye contact with me to acknowledge her. "Ruth. Thank you. Leave it there on the table, would you? And get me the latest from HM Prisons on the subject." Without so much as a glance in my direction, she had done as directed, before disappearing again behind the closing door. Harry's attention had returned slowly to me, and the faraway look that I had glimpsed in his eyes before the watchful hawk's gaze had returned, had made my stomach flip over with fear. "Time and tide wait for no man, and neither does my ten o'clock, apparently," Harry had muttered, shooting his cuffs and straightening his tie, our confrontation apparently forgotten; then he had levelled a stony stare at me. "Right. Consider this discussion an unofficial warning, but if you step out of line again, I won't hesitate to take formal disciplinary action. That means every chit must be signed and in your possession before you issue so much as an earwig, in future, and your technical work had better be beyond reproach. A model of operational efficiency, Malcolm: that's what I want to see whenever I look in your direction. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," I had snapped back as he began to walk towards the door, then, regretting the words almost before they were spoken, I had added in a slightly more conciliatory tone, "Harry? Where does this leave us?" He had turned around, fingers already on the door-handle, and had replied offhandedly, "You're still my STO, if that's what you're asking," and then he had stepped out into the corridor and left me in the plush crimson surrounds of his office, leaning on the edge of the desk to compensate for the unsteadiness of my knees as the adrenaline started to drain away, and the impact of his final words began to sink in. I have never had so much as a ticking off from Harry in all the time we have worked together: there had never been any need, as we had always worked together harmoniously. And now this… I replayed our confrontation, and time and again, I kept coming back to that look of Harry's, as Ruth's footsteps had faded away… shuddering, I had gotten to my feet and crossed to the door. As I slid it open to leave, my eye had fallen upon the dossier that Ruth had slipped onto the table nearby, and I had noted that it was indeed an old file, going by the outdated MI5 insignia and old Registry call-number. The subject's name, in large, black, bold type, had leapt out at me from the dirty beige background: ROSS, Hugo. Not a current operation, or not so far as I knew, but somewhere in the outer recesses of my mind, an old memory had stirred…and then I had dismissed it, and gone in search of Ruth.

She was nowhere to be found, and eventually Colin had texted me:

Better get back to your desk, mate, you're becoming conspicuous by your absence.

Roger wilco, I had typed back quickly from the tech suite, where I had been sifting through Thames House internal CCTV footage from this morning.

I mean NOW. H is looking this way and he's not happy.

OK. Over and out, I had responded, rapidly routing the cached footage from the main foyer cameras to my own machine, and getting to my feet.

Once back at my own desk, I had opened a window to run the footage in and minimised it, while pulling up a long list of server performance reports and opening the service inbox, where tech support requests arrive. A couple of password resets, a new log-in to set up for a relief staff officer brought in to assist while Adam was on compassionate leave, several equipment requisitions… I forwarded the requisitions to Colin to double check, flew through the access issues, and then settled back to scan through the performance reports on one screen, while keeping an eye on the CCTV footage on my secondary monitor. Shortly afterwards, a PM pinged into view.

So, you're still in one piece, then.

I don't want to talk about it, but yes. Still in one piece.

I don't want to hear about it, so that works out well all round, then.(Cricketers' for lunch?)

Thanks, but no thanks. I don't think I'll be eating anywhere except the staff canteen for the foreseeable future.

Wow, it was that bad?

Almost. I'm on notice to pull my socks up and show extra willing. I daren't leave Thames House while I'm on duty, unless for operational reasons. Big Brother is watching, and all that…

Ah, right. Just checked the intranet, and for today's special in Café Crud, you have the choice of either Toad in the Hole, or Shepherd's Pie. I don't know about you, but I haven't had a really good toad in ages. I'm not so keen on shepherds though, too tough and wiry for me.

I had chuckled, despite the direness of the situation: Colin's sense of humour isn't for everyone, but it resonates perfectly with mine. Fine. Toads it is then. Does 1 p.m. suit?

Sure. Hey, have you seen this? I had opened the JPEG attachment warily: Colin has been known to send some fairly unorthodox items through the PM feature, and the last thing I needed right now was for Harry to see my screen plastered with something Colin had culled from the Internet. He would never send any of those images, of course, but still, I didn't need to see a meme featuring cranky cats right now. Instead, the image that came into high-definition focus was something far less amusing: a photograph of a wall, decorated with a spray-painted slogan in tall, spiky red lettering: DJKARTA IS COMING.

My skin had crawled at the very sight of it. No, never. What is it?

Dunno. It's been popping up around the city a bit lately, usually on government buildings or monuments. Probably just a bomber with a new tag, but this one was spotted at the base of Nelson's Column this morning, and the Met's had enough. They've asked us to run it and see if it cross-matches with anything in our image archives. So far, nothing, though.

Well, good luck with that, is all I can say. Don't they think we've got anything better to do?

Obviously not…

I was just about to reply, when an all-too-familiar image on the CCTV footage caught my eye: Ruth, in her long white coat, crossing the foyer and leaving Thames House, and a couple of minutes later, Harry in overcoat and scarf, hurrying in the same direction. With a sick sense of dread rising in my gullet, I stopped and backed up to the moment that Ruth appeared, checking the time code: 10:01. In slow motion, I advanced the footage until Harry came into sight: 10:05. He had left me in his office at just after ten o'clock…and had returned to the Grid an hour later, if I went by the timing of Colin's warning message. So, where was Ruth, and had his ten o'clock appointment been with her? If so, why hadn't she just said that? Or didn't she want to mention it in front of me? I had stared at the images on a repeating loop for quite some time, before Colin had broken into my thoughts.

You've gone very quiet over there, is everything OK? And speaking of, how did things go the other night?

Sorry, yes. I'm fine, just absorbing these performance reports. I think we'll have to replace stacks 3 through 6 before the end of this financial year, by the looks of it. Harry will be SO pleased to have to ask the DG for money he doesn't have, to fix something he doesn't understand. Any bright ideas on how we might put it to him?

You're avoiding the question, but I can live with that for now. As for the stacks, why not put it to him as simply as possible: if those particular servers go BOOM, our firewalls will be severely compromised. We already repel over 10,000 attempted hacks a day; what are the odds that one of them will be successful if our central security system is compromised? Compromised system = end of MI5 as we know it. Even a technophobe like Harry can't argue with that. And what's a few hundred thousand for servers, when the security of the nation is at stake?

What, indeed. You'd think they'd be happy to spend it, when you put it like that. I'm afraid that won't be the case, though. Sometimes I think I should just pay for it myself…

You're joking, right?! Tell you what, though, you can pay for lunch today – I just realised I'm skint unless I go to a cashpoint first ;-)

Oh, I think I can stretch to that. I'd better get on with these reports now, though. And I had closed the PM application, and applied myself to developing a business case for six hundred and fifty thousand pounds of Her Majesty's Government's money, until Colin had reminded me about lunch, and we had set off to the aptly nicknamed staff canteen for an abysmal meal. Colin had tried to ask again about what had happened with Ruth, but I had demurred; I didn't want to talk about it within these walls, for a start, and then my thoughts had been preoccupied with what I had just seen on the CCTV footage, and what it might mean.

Eventually, Colin had given up on trying to draw me out of my reticence, and told me about the most recent Arsenal match, against their arch rivals, Tottenham Hotspur: it had been a tense match, which the Gunners had finally taken on penalty shootouts. The stadium had erupted, with Colin and his brothers roaring in delight from their box seats. "You should have seen it, mate, the place went totally berserk! Thanks again for the season tickets, they're brilliant," he had beamed, the warm sincerity of his smile dragging my attention back from my fearful prognostications. "You're very welcome, and I'm glad you're getting to make use of them," I had replied, before turning back to my almost inedible meal; I had managed only a few more stodgy forkfuls before pushing my plate away, appetite gone.

Colin, the concern in his eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, had cleared his own plate, and then gone back for pudding – a very ordinary looking slice of banoffee pie– before making one last attempt. "Can you at least tell me if you got to ask…you know?" I had shaken my head almost imperceptibly, and he had said, trying to make light "Better luck next time, perhaps?" I had lifted my eyes from the close study I was making of the yellowish sausage fat congealing on the rim of my plate, and had said softly, "There won't be a next time, Colin. She's made it perfectly clear that she's not interested in marrying me, or indeed anyone, as far as I understand it. She told me she's 'not marriage material', whatever that means." Colin had laid his spoon down, mid-pie, and had said simply, "I'm sorry." I had looked away, unable to hold his sympathetic gaze, and had muttered something about my lunch hour being up; I was feeling shaken enough by the events of the morning, without getting into the emotional quagmire of my relationship with Ruth. To his credit, he had taken the hint, and no more had been said on the subject from that day to this…

Sighing, I look back at my array, and clench my teeth as I re-read the email Harry has just forwarded me, with 'Sort this ASAP' in the subject line; I get a lot of these, nowadays. It is from the Head of Finance, declining the business case I had submitted weeks ago for funding to replace the servers, "on the grounds that the allocation of such funding was above and beyond the approval limit for a one-off capital expenditure of this nature in the current financial climate" and advising that we would have to approach the Cabinet Special Appropriations Committee for their blessing, instead. C-SAC, as it is unaffectionately known around Whitehall, is legendary for refusing the most logical and sensible of pecuniary requests. I may as well get out my own chequebook, as expect C-SAC to, but instead I begin drafting a brief explaining the situation, for Harry to take to the weekly department heads' meeting with the DG this afternoon. I've spent more time on purely administrative matters in the last month than I have done since leaving the Home Office, more than twenty years ago, but I know that this is Harry's way of testing me, seeing if I am capable of taking his criticism on board and making something of it; it is also his way of reminding me that I'm not out of the woods yet, as far as he's concerned. He's a big believer in letting the punishment fit the crime, and in this line of work, we sometimes forget that we aren't just the watchers on the wall, or the first line of defence against terrorism for the nation: we are, first and foremost, civil servants, and accountable as such, a fact that I would do well to keep in the forefront of my mind, given the short, sharp reminder I have received.

The pods swish open, and without looking up, I know that Adam has arrived: the whole atmosphere of the Grid changes as he strides towards Harry's office, ignoring his colleagues and leaving a distinct whiff of clothes worn too long behind him. His emotional state is highly questionable, to say the least, but after the first week of leave, he had arrived back demanding that Harry put him to work: 'anything, give me anything at all to take my mind off what's happened', he had said, and Harry had ordered him home again. He had stayed there for another week, before turning up once more at the daily staff meeting, and begging for occupation. Harry had finally relented and handed him the Hugo Ross dossier, explaining that the man had been serving a long sentence for espionage, but was due to be released in a fortnight; at that point, Adam was to run a spot of standard surveillance on Ross to see how the old spy was reintegrating into a society he would hardly recognise. He had taken the dossier ungraciously and sneered, "Surveillance? Really?" Harry, flinty-eyed, had said evenly, "That, or Tring. Your choice. And by the way, have you spoken to Fiona's parents?" Adam had turned blank blue eyes on him, eyes so empty they had chilled me to the core, and had replied blandly, "No, not yet." And don't ask me again, was the unspoken coda. Since then, he has come and gone from the Grid like a ghost, one haunted by its own unresolved grief and sorrow… it is a fearsome thing to see, and I wish I didn't notice people quite so much, at times like this; I feel so powerless to do anything to help.

None of us know quite what to say to him: he doesn't mention Fiona, and so neither nor do we, afraid of blundering into his carefully constructed semblance of calm and setting him off. He has had a number of robust conversations with Harry; the raised voices and glowering expressions that have resulted on both sides have been a most effective deterrent to all but the most foolhardy, and Ruth, of course. She seems to positively thrive on calming down first one, and then the other, going between them as a peace-broker, and all the while maintaining the kind of careful neutrality that would do Switzerland credit. At the thought of Ruth, my mind wanders once more from the tedious administrative task before me…

Since the night that she told me she wasn't interested in marriage (the night of Harry's Game, as I think of it), we have seen very little of each other, except at work; it is as if, by unspoken agreement, each of us has retreated: I to lick my wounds, and Ruth, apparently, to distance herself from the sight of my distress over the turn events have taken. The shock of realising that we have such different views and expectations of our relationship has deeply unsettled me, and for the first week I had actually been relieved that she wasn't seeking to visit, nor inviting me to stay with her; and then I had begun to miss her desperately, as night after night I slept fitfully, alone and unable to settle without her warm, soft presence beside me. I would wake, reaching for her, only to encounter empty space instead.

There is an inexpressible sweetness in lying entwined and asleep with one's love, a deep sense of physical comfort and security that goes to the core of what it means to be human, and yet is almost animal in its primal appeal. It is the contact that each one of us craves most, I believe, with all the unspoken acceptance and affection that is implied in this most intimate of embraces; even more so than the sexual act itself, for the courage needed to trust another while asleep comes from a different part of the psyche altogether, the childlike part that never quite grows up, whether one is eight, or forty-eight. The part that generates hope and forgiveness, the part that allows us to believe in things beyond our ken… the part that carries the deepest hurts of our lives. My father would have named it the soul; and so, I suppose, must I. Quite simply, my soul yearns for that connection, even while my rational mind presents me with a hundred reasons why our relationship is no longer viable, in spite of all my fondest dreams: it is an excruciating dichotomy, summed up neatly in the conflict I feel over the ring. I wear it to make her happy, to show that I am willing to change for her, perhaps even to embrace a more… modern… aesthetic, but none of that eradicates the slight sense of unease I feel every time I notice it on the middle finger of my left hand; it is simply so unlike me… as for Ruth herself, she has been busy, between her course at Cheltenham and her work here. As always, we maintain a professional working relationship; after all, we have had more than our share of practice at that.

Adam, who has somehow materialised before my desk, clears his throat impatiently and brings me back to the present. "When you've finished wool-gathering, d'you think you might fetch me a couple of things from the tech cage? Here's the chit," almost throwing it at me. I can't help it: I say, "Adam, I'm terribly sorry about Fi…"but he is gone before I can finish forming her name, striding away from me as if I carried a contagion to be avoided at all costs. I watch him go, feeling as if I will never get it right, where people are concerned, and almost instantly, I think of Mother, who is yet another unsolvable mystery at present.

She had returned, now almost a fortnight since, arriving unannounced in a black cab from Waterloo, with more glossy carrier bags than Oxford Street in December, and a new fur coat: a sleekly expensive, full length, champagne-coloured mink. I had stared at it in astonishment as I had brought her things inside and paid off the cabbie. She couldn't possibly have bought it herself – she only has a Barclaycard in her own name, with a very modest limit – and for a minute I had wondered if she had been availing herself somewhat too freely of the secondary card on my Visa account that she had insisted I give her 'for household expenses', before reasoning that the bank would – or should – have called me if she had attempted to make such an outrageous purchase. She had draped it lovingly over the newel post of the staircase, before heading straight for the kitchen to put the kettle on. What she had found there had not pleased her: no food in the fridge, only a handful of tea left in the caddy, and a smidgin of sugar in the sugar bowl. "Honestly, Malcolm, doesn't it ever occur to you to do a shop? It's not that hard, you know. And you're so thin… Oh, what's this nasty stuff?" – spoken as she sniffed suspiciously at Ruth's half-finished caviar – "Pooh. That can go out!" And she had scraped the lot into the garbage disposal unit before I could stop her, followed by a pint of curdled milk. Fifty pounds' worth of little black fish eggs had swirled around the sink, and then disappeared, gurgling, into its whirring mechanical maw. I had winced in protest, but Mother had been oblivious, as she had taken stock of the pantry with a disapproving eye.

Surreptitiously twisting my ring off, and stashing it in my pocket, before lifting the kettle from the hob as it started to sing, I had made tea and put a few of my favourite Fortnum's Golden Crunch biscuits on a plate, before setting teacups, saucers, sugar bowl and teapot on the kitchen table, and trying unsuccessfully to banish the memory of the last conversation held over (and very nearly on) that sturdy article of furniture. Mother had settled down in her usual spot (not, thankfully, either of the chairs that Ruth and I had occupied) and had dunked a biscuit in her tea with a little sigh of pleasure. I had smiled to myself at this; you might take the village bobby's daughter out of Dunvant, and transplant her to Hampstead, but it's another thing altogether to take Dunvant out of the village bobby's daughter. When Mother had made her way through two cups, and five biscuits, I had judged it time to speak.

"It's lovely to see you, Mother. Have you had a nice time in Bournemouth?" She had looked down into the depths of her bone china cup and smiled. "Oh yes, dear. I think the sea air's done me the world of good." I had sat back and regarded her curiously: she did look very well, her hair freshly blue-rinsed and set, wearing a new burgundy dress, her nails manicured and painted a frankly alarming shade of mauve, with what appeared to be matching lipstick. "Did you see much of Aunt Emily?" was my next question. "A few times. She was busy with the decorators, so she wasn't going out very much." I had asked this to see how truthful she was being; so far, so good. Aunt Emily had seen her only three times in the month that she had been in town, and she had indeed had her spare room decorated during that time. "I suppose you did a lot of shopping, if the weather wasn't very nice?"

Mother had set her cup down and fixed me with a look that reminded me uncomfortably of Harry. "I wasn't aware that we were playing Twenty Questions. Yes, I did a bit of shopping. Why shouldn't I?" she had answered belligerently. "Sorry, I was just wondering what you could possibly have found to do there for so long in the off-season, that's all. And I suppose I'm a bit curious about the mink coat out in the hall…" Mother had blushed slightly at this. "Oh, do you like it? I've always wanted a mink." I pause, aware that my next question is highly unlikely to be well-received. "And, erm…" I stop, defeated by my own innate sense of propriety, and by the look my mother is directing at me. "I think I'm going to go up and have a bath. Bring up my bags, would you, dear?" And she had left the kitchen with alacrity, leaving me to ponder women in general, and the two in my own life in particular, with a growing sense of my own inadequacy to ever fathom the workings of the feminine mind.

When I had judged that a decent interval had passed, I got up, cleared away the tea things, and went out into the hall to lug Mother's goods and chattels upstairs. She had left the mink on the banister, so I had thrown it over one shoulder, as both hands were fully occupied, to take it up to her as well. When I reached the door of her room, I had set everything but the mink down, and knocked. "Entrez-vous!" she had fluted in atrocious French, and I had opened the door cautiously. French? Since when did Mother speak…Oh, merciful heavens, what's THAT?

That, as it turned out, was Mother's new night attire: a long peach-coloured nightdress in some sort of shimmery fabric, with a dressing gown in the same material; bemused, I had noticed that she was wearing white, fluffy, heeled slippers of the sort favoured by movie starlets in the Golden Age of cinema. She had forgone her nightly rollers-and-cold-cream ritual for a layer of green, viscous goop smeared thickly over her entire visage; the whole effect was thoroughly frightening, and I had nearly dropped the mink in shock. "Malcolm! Do be careful, you'll ruin the nap…oh, give it here to me. Men don't know anything about fur." I held the coat out to her, speechless, and she took it in her arms like a new-born baby, before wafting towards her walk-in wardrobe with it. Or that was the effect I imagine she was aiming for, but then managed to spoil by treading on the hem of her too-long negligee (for such it was) and stumbling instead. While she was thus occupied, I had quickly brought the rest of her baggage in, and then turned to leave; she had returned from the wardrobe, and asked, "Well? What do you think?" as she had given a coquettish little pirouette, and the outfit had swirled around her. "I'm…lost for words," I had replied truthfully, and then, unable to help myself, "What IS that on your face?" She had taken my answer as a compliment, fortunately, before smiling, "It's La Mer. Terribly expensive, of course, but it's done wonders for my skin…taken years off, wouldn't you say? And my ensemble is from Ann Summers…it's just like the one that Kim Novak wore in that film…you know the one." The only film of Miss Novak's that came to mind was Vertigo; feeling rather giddy myself, I had bid her goodnight and retired to my own quarters… as long as I live, I will never, ever, understand my mother, I think despondently. Love her, yes, put up with her idiosyncrasies, certainly, but understand her? That's too much to ask. As I had walked back out onto the landing, I spotted a small white rectangle on the carpet. Curious, I had picked it up, turning it over as I gleaned information from it. It was a business card: the words House of Hyde, Fine Furs and Leathergoods, Bournemouth, were engraved in gold upon the expensively heavy card stock; French or Italian, no doubt. On the back, a mobile number was written in a bold hand, and with a broad nibbed fountain pen, by the look of it. It must have dropped out of a pocket in the mink…I had tucked it away in my cufflinks box, safe in my dressing room, and fell to wondering, before falling into bed for another night alone.

I glance at the crumpled piece of paper Adam has dropped into my in-tray, and getting up, head into the tech cage to retrieve the items: a digital SLR camera, a high-powered telephoto lens, and an earwig. Standard static surveillance kit, in other words. On impulse, I reach up and feel for the little box containing the Tessina: it is still there, and for that I am grateful. Since Colin fitted the tracker inside the shutter button, the camera has made no more impromptu trips. I fervently hope that the whole strange episode is over, and that whatever Ruth was doing, there will be no more of it. Gathering up Adam's kit, I leave the cage and walk back out onto the Grid, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I just want to lie low, do my job and go home; but as I make my way back to my desk, I sense, with the benefit of my years in the Service, that something has come up: something big. The air is electric with suppressed speculation, and one after the other, Section members drop whatever they are doing and head towards the briefing room. I hastily put the camera and comms gear on Adam's desk, and hurry to join them.

I am the last to arrive, and Harry regards me with a jaundiced eye as I take a seat at the far end of the room. "Ruth, shut the door," he orders quietly, then, "Colin. When was this room last cleaned?" Colin blinks in surprise at the question, and then answers, glancing at me for confirmation, "Last Tuesday. Why?" Harry says, "Then just take the rubbish out, would you?" and Colin slips out to fetch the scanning equipment to sweep the room again, while Harry places a finger on his lips to indicate that the rest of us are to remain silent until the room is cleared. Colin is thorough, but fast, and a couple of minutes later, he gives the thumbs up. Harry takes his place at the head of the table, and fixes us all with his most businesslike gaze: Colin, Ruth, Jo, Zaf, and me, before clearing his throat and beginning.

"I want everyone in this room to be clear on this: the information I am about to divulge is ears-only Alpha. If anyone is uncomfortable with that, I suggest they leave now." He pauses for a moment, but no-one moves. "This information cannot be shared with anyone outside this room, up to and including God. Anyone who disobeys this order will find themselves unemployed and standing on Horseferry Road so fast their heads will spin. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" Nods and murmurs of assent come from around the room. "Right, then let's proceed, shall we?" And then he outlines the most extraordinary scenario, one that seems to come straight from a conspiracy movie.

That venerable bastion of British social policy, the National Health Service, is in such dire financial straits that the Government, strapped for cash and desperate to relieve itself of both the fiscal and moral responsibility, has been making a top-secret deal to sell it, lock, stock, and barrel, to one of the new breed of billionaire Russian oligarchs that emerged from the wreck of the Soviet Union: relentless, rapacious and ready to stop at nothing. Cabinet itself has forbidden any intervention, and at those words my chest begins to feel tight. To contravene Cabinet is to go against the will of the Government of the day…in other words, treason. Surely Harry cannot be proposing this? "Ruth," Harry invites her to begin, and she briefs us in her usual succinct style. Oleg Korsakov has the backstory of a character in a classic Russian novel – a famous KGB officer for a father, but raised in a State orphanage, finally emerging triumphant from the ruins to rise like the phoenix on golden wings, while scorching anyone who crosses his path. He has been on Six watchlists for some time; and now he is our problem, amidst fears that he is going to asset-strip the nation's public health system, selling it off piecemeal. Murmurs of disapprobation come from around the room: love it or hate it, the NHS is a British institution, and the idea of foreigners destroying it is a terrifying one.

Operation Songbird is the closest thing to a black operation that I have ever heard of in Section D, in short, and while I understand the stakes we are playing for perfectly, I feel terribly conflicted, and not just at the prospect of committing treason. How can Harry rake me so savagely across the coals for a relatively minor infraction, and yet gamble with his career – with all our careers – like this? Obviously it's one rule for him, and one for me…I can't believe that this doesn't have something to do with Ruth. He must know about us…it's the only explanation that makes sense…I still don't know where we're at, after that last night together… "Malcolm? Are you actually going to share your no doubt scintillating thoughts on how we might best run surveillance?" I start at the sound of my name; guiltily, I realise Harry is watching me with an opaque look. I had been so deep in my own head that I had stopped listening to Ruth somewhere during her rundown of Korsakov's current business dealings, but fortunately Colin and Zaf step into the breach: Zaf, it seems, is going to run this op in Adam's absence, and he is both thorough and cautious in his preparations, rather to my surprise. He has come a long way, these last few weeks, and shows every sign of becoming an excellent team leader.

The rest of the day moves quickly, now that we have an operation to prepare for, and it is very late by the time I walk wearily towards the Rover. As I unlock the driver's side door, I sense that someone is standing behind me; the chill night air carries the scent of flowers after rain, and without turning around, I say her name. "Ruth. What do you want?" She exhales audibly, and says, "Oh, sweetheart, need you ask? But I'd settle for a lift home, if you don't mind." I look at her, then, at the look in her eyes as she smiles at me: a year ago, I would have rejoiced to see her there; now, I don't know quite how I feel, but it is very far from rejoicing. Her face falls as I stand there silently, and her hand goes to her mouth, her eyes changing from clear blue to grey-green in an instant. "Malcolm, what's wrong?" she wants to know, and my heart contracts painfully, even as I realise that I cannot be alone with her right now; there is too much between us, and not enough, at the same time. My mind's eye replays the loop of footage from a couple of weeks ago; first Ruth, and then Harry, walking briskly through the foyer, on exactly the same trajectory… I fish out my wallet from the breast pocket of my overcoat and extract twenty pounds. "I'm sorry, but I really don't think it would be a good idea tonight. I'm very tired, Ruth. Here's some money for a cab; it's far too late for the bus." And I hold out the note in a hand that shakes from exhaustion as much as from nerves and fear.

She stares at it, and then at me. "I can afford my own cab, thank you very much!" she says indignantly. "I'm sorry, I thought that…" I begin, as she glares at me, and I stumble to a stop. "I know we haven't seen each other since…that night…and I thought this would be a good opportunity to talk. We can't just ignore this, Malcolm, we have to sort it out." I open the car door, and get in, feeling too tired to stand any longer. " I can't talk about this now, Ruth. I have to go. Please, take it, and make sure you get home safely," and once again I proffer the note through the half-closed door. She shakes her head stubbornly, and stands back as I start the engine and let it idle while I awkwardly pull on my driving gloves – an essential for classic motoring in winter, but which catch annoyingly on the ring – do up my seatbelt, and finally shut the door, before reversing out of the parking bay. Ruth watches all the while, her arms folded tightly, a peculiar expression on her face, before turning on her heel and making her way back to the lifts. I make a note of the time – that'll be another ten minutes of footage to wipe from the record, first thing tomorrow – and drive away before I can change my mind.

It is, I think, the first time I have ever told her No, outright, and then suited actions to words, and my hands tremble on the walnut steering wheel, despite my warm leather gloves, all the way home. A poem I had found on the internet when I had first fallen for Ruth, and liked so much that I memorised it, haunts me as I drive home through a thick fog, tinted an otherworldly orange by the streetlights of London: the lines I had learnt, filled with tremulous hope, more than two years ago, have taken on such a different meaning now...

Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,

What I'd like to be able to say,

What for survival I need to say

But what I can't say...

A/N: the poem is Please Hear What I'm Not Saying, by Charles C. Finn. A STO is of course a Senior Technical Officer, which is Malcolm's rank in the Service.