77

We get as far as the staircase before the tightness in my chest and the increasing shortness of breath forces me to stop, wheezing. Black spots dance before my eyes as I grope through my pockets for my puffer, while Sally takes my pounding pulse and encourages me to try and take slow, deep breaths. The asthma medication brings some relief, but my stomach is still in knots and I feel as if my heart will burst, it's beating so hard; I gasp like a landed trout, and as if from a very great distance, I hear Sally saying urgently, "Malcolm? Quick, sit on the stairs, before you fall down. You're having a panic attack… just try to breathe slow and deep, from your abdomen." She leaves me for a moment and comes back with her oversized bag, and a glass of water, which she hands me along with a small white pill. "Here, swallow this," she commands, and meekly I obey. Her face swims in and out of focus as she asks me questions: am I nauseous? where am I? can I tell her my full name? what did I have for breakfast this morning? until with a groan, I put my head down, and wish only that the world would stop until I can get my bearings once more. I sense, rather than see, that Sally is sitting beside me on the stair, and her presence is not helping; rather, it is exacerbating my anxiety, and in the innermost recesses of my heart, I know I cannot do this. It's all happening too fast, and besides, I have never considered Sally in this light before. This sudden rush feels too much like the beginning of Ruth and me all over again, and the timing of Sally's approach has aroused my suspicions; it just seems too convenient. Although part of me wants nothing more than to take this very lovely woman to bed and lose myself in her undoubtedly magnificent body, my insecurities about my ability to do just that, or my conscience, or the moral code drummed into me more than forty years ago, or some damnable combination of all three keeps me here, sitting on the stairs, with my head between my knees.

Blessedly, Sally seems to sense that the moment has passed, for she gathers up her bag and rises to her feet. "How are you feeling now?" she asks solicitously, offering me a hand up, and I stand, holding onto the banister for support. "Better, thank you, but…" I can feel myself blushing as I continue, "I'm so sorry, and of course, I'm terribly flattered, and you are very kind, and very beautiful, but I can't do this. Not now; not like this." Now it's her turn to flush with embarrassment, and with an effort, I reach over and take her hand in mine. "Sally, my heart's a poor, battered thing at present, and of no use to anyone else; it would be very wrong of me to pretend otherwise." After a moment, Sally's fingers tighten in mine, conveying her acceptance, and after a moment she rejoins, "Thank you, for being so honest; and for being exactly who you are. Perhaps, one day…" her voice trails off questioningly, and I reply softly, "I would like that very much." Gently removing her hand from mine, she shakes her head, all brisk professionalism now. "Let's leave it at that, then. I really don't know what I was thinking; I don't ordinarily go about propositioning people, you know. Right, you're looking much better and I really do have to be going, I'm flying out tomorrow and I still have to pack." I feel a strange mixture of regret and relief as I realise that she is graciously letting me off the hook. "Besides," she adds, "The pill you took is a very strong sedative, lorazepam; soon you'll be sleeping like a baby." I walk her to the door, somewhat unsteadily; on the threshold, we kiss once more, a wistful embrace on my part, at least, and then she is gone. As she gets into her little red MG roadster, she looks me over once more, one elegant eyebrow arched slightly. "Ah well, you can't blame a girl for trying. Good night, Malcolm, and do take care." I wave at her uncertainly, before turning and slowly making my way upstairs and into my bed, alone. A line of John Greenleaf Whittier's revolves ceaselessly in my weary brain, even as I fall headlong into the bottomless pit of a chemically induced sleep: For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: it might have been.

My dreams are wild and inchoate, thanks to the evening's events: at first, I think I'm back in bed with Ruth, but inexplicably, Harry is lurking in the corner of the room and I can't… it won't… she rolls off me scornfully and crosses to where he is waiting to take her hand and lead her away, still stark naked… Next, I'm faced with Sally, hands on her hips, rolling her eyes in disbelief as I say like a very small boy, "No, thank you, I don't want any," even as she disrobes, leaving me breathless; with her pale pink lingerie and red lipstick, she looks like an old-fashioned pin-up girl. She teases me flirtatiously, running her hands through my hair, the lush curves of her body barely brushing mine, while singing 'Put the Blame on Mame,'…or is it really Rita Hayworth settling herself in my lap with an expectant, unmistakable look; mesmerised, I reach for her, and just as we kiss there is a tiny flash of light. Glancing in its direction, I see Ruth, aiming the Tessina at us, while behind her, Harry waits in the shadows. "Forget them, honey," Sally/Rita whispers in my ear, her hands roaming at will beneath my suit, eliciting a response that makes her smile in anticipation, and makes me catch my breath as a jolt of desire shoots through me. "Pretend it's just us…come on, come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away," she croons in my ear, to my considerable confusion; and then the alarm clock shrills, and reality returns as I awaken to see the first fingers of sunlight illuminating the ceiling. A tumult of emotions floods through me, all overlaid by a mild sense of disorientation, which I attribute to the lorazepam; sadness, frustration and tension, and then, remembering that Mother is in treatment, and Aunt Em has gone home, a great wave of loneliness threatens to mire me in depression if I don't get up.

It's not until I'm standing beneath the hottest shower I can bear that I remember something else, and with it a flutter of hope stirs my subdued spirits: the door to a future relationship with Doctor Chapman has been left open. Sally herself had set it ajar, and now I think of it, she actually winked at me as she had gotten into her car, after her gaze had travelled slowly over me once more. She fancies me! She actually fancies me! Such simple words, a schoolboy's turn of phrase, and yet, what happy thoughts they inspire, what a lifting and lightening of the soul I experience as I head into work. Adding to this unexpected, but welcome, optimism is the knowledge that this time, I am not being swept along on some romantic tide; instead, I'm making decisions founded not on yearning, but on self-awareness, and still the door stands unlatched, offering the possibility of future happiness, if I should so choose. If I should so choose… I'm unaccustomed to having a choice of this kind at all, but I quickly decide that I like it, and by the time I'm walking onto the Grid, I'm feeling better than I have for months; since before Colin was killed, since before I broke things off with Ruth and brought about the wreck of my fondest hopes and dreams. Even though my scientist's mind knows that at some level the euphoria I am experiencing is probably the result of chemical intervention upon my overwrought emotions, I can't help myself; I greet my colleagues with enthusiasm, even essaying a smile at the eternally dour Ms Meyers, as I arrive for the morning briefing.

After the events of last night, I had temporarily forgotten about Ruth and Harry, and their supposed first date; but it all comes back to me as soon as I enter the room. They are seated at opposite ends of the conference table, carefully not looking at each other, and yet the air virtually crackles, and I feel as if I have clumsily intruded on a private moment. The other officers in the room seem uncomfortable too. Jo is focused intently on a file, and Adam is going through a stack of surveillance photos; only Ms Meyers appears impervious to the emotional atmosphere as she scrolls through messages on her Blackberry with a bored look on her face. "Ah, Malcolm. Good of you to join us on time this morning. Do sit down," Harry says conversationally, never taking his eyes from where Ruth perches awkwardly on the edge of her chair, looking studiously at the thick dossier in front of her; subdued now, I choose a seat near the door. The strained atmosphere in the room dissipates somewhat as Adam starts the briefing: Ms Meyers is told that she may be needed for backup at short notice, and she makes a little moue of distaste, before going back to her Blackberry. Ruth speaks next about the logistics of getting a dirty bomb into the country, her voice low, never looking up from her notes.

"The entry point is likely to be by sea, possibly Solihull or Poole, with the bomb then transported by road to a major metropolitan centre. London is the obvious target, but GCHQ has been reporting increased chatter in Birmingham, Glasgow and Swansea; it could be a blind, but…" She drones on, and I risk a glance in Harry's direction: those amber eyes are fixed on her like a hunting hawk watching a rabbit in the heather below. Her refusal to look at him, or any of us, only emphasises the unacknowledged tension between them, and in his unconsciously clenched fists and heightened colour, I see the signs of a man unused to being thwarted, experiencing exactly that. I peer cautiously at Ruth, but her hair has swung forward to hide her face; but her hunched shoulders and stiff posture speak volumes to one who knows her as well as I do. It occurs to me to wonder if she is having second thoughts about getting involved with her boss; certainly, she's desperate not to draw anyone's attention this morning.

As is often the way, though, her efforts to go unnoticed are having quite the opposite effect, for I see Ms Meyers watching her covertly, with the sort of vaguely speculative interest that a well-fed lioness might bestow on an unsuspecting gazelle. Her cool green gaze cuts to Harry, then once around the room, before the ostentatious beeping of her Blackberry reclaims her attention. The look she has given us all makes the hair on the back of my neck rise, and more than ever I feel sure that she's the one who went to Sally yesterday. I do not trust her, not one iota, not for one second. When she stalks out of the room as soon as the briefing concludes, there is a collective sigh of relief from everyone but Harry, who seems amused, if anything, by this reaction. He watches her walk off with the air of a connoisseur appreciating a fine wine, and in that moment, I realise just how exactly his type she is; tall, slim, blonde, amoral, fiercely sexy, and utterly ruthless. He might be sleeping with Ruth, or (a far less likely prospect) he might not; but whatever the situation, he's still the same old Harry Pearce at heart, whistling Tom Jones' Delilah as he leaves the briefing room.

Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? I muse as I gather up my papers; the answer to this age old conundrum being, indeed not. Fleetingly, I think of Miss Bennett and her erstwhile lover, Michael Johnson, both mere pawns in the deadly game that Five is trying to win, and hope that for their sake, he can still be turned. My head spins as I stand up, and I lean against the wall, eyes closed, and pray for the room to stand still. A hand comes to rest tentatively on my shoulder, and Jo's voice says, "Malcolm, are you alright?" I open my eyes to see her regarding me with concern. "Oh, yes, I'm fine, thanks. Just got up a bit fast, that's all." I sound convincing enough, but the look in her eyes warns me she's not buying it. "You've gotten awfully thin, lately, you know. Are you eating properly? I know I can get a bit woozy if I've missed a meal or two." Now I feel that I'm on firmer ground, both literally and metaphorically. "I've got a fridge full of food, thanks to my Aunt Emily, who's been up for a visit," I tell her, and she steps back. "OK, then, but I think you should eat something soon; you looked very pale during the briefing." I assure her that I will, and we go our separate ways, she to join Ms Meyers on surveillance for Miss Bennett's next mission, following yesterday's successful interception of her former lover at the local council housing office; and I to the tech suite to prepare for the evening's op with Kallis. Just before she disappears down the corridor, I call her name softly, and she turns round. "Jo…please take care. Don't underestimate Kallis; he's a very dangerous man." She sighs, before smiling, "I'll be fine, really I will. I've done the self-defence training, and you and Adam will be watching." She lopes off, and I'm left with an uneasy sense of foreboding as I watch her go. By one p.m, I'm in the van parked behind the Royal Heights Hotel once more, but this time Adam and Jo are with me, doing a final run-through of their legends before meeting Kallis. Adam is Sam Hunter, a successful mercenary and supposed brother of Gordon Hunter, an even more successful mercenary, and Jo is to be his very fetching assistant, Gill Turner. I don't like this aspect of her legend one bit, but Adam has overruled all my protestations. "Sam Turner is a red-blooded alpha male; of course he's going to have a fit assistant-slash-bit on the side. It's part of the cover. Don't worry, I'll make sure he can look, but can't touch." Still uneasy at the idea, I had opened my mouth to object once more, and Jo had shaken her head. "You're very sweet, but I can look after myself, you know."

A sudden lightheadedness comes over me, and I am only too glad to sink down onto the stool in front of the familiar banks of screens and surveillance equipment. "Ready?" Adam asks me, and I nod, hoping he doesn't look at me too closely, for the van seems to be rocking ever so slightly side to side, and the motion is making me queasy. I force myself to focus on picking up the signals from inside Kallis's suite: audio only, I'm afraid, but for our purposes it should be enough. Kallis is watching one of the hotel's on-demand adult films, judging by the breathy sounds being transmitted by the bug; disgusted, I turn the volume down. "Lovely. He's a real class act," I mutter, and Jo sits down next to me to take off her trainers, exchanging them for stilettos with a grimace. "I've never understood why women wear those things," I observe, watching as she wrestles them onto her feet, "they're impractical, they look very uncomfortable, and surely they can't be good for your bio-mechanics." Jo meets my eye and grins, "That's because you're not like most men," echoing Sally's words; and to my very great surprise, she leans over and gives me a quick peck on the cheek, whispering, "'Let it suffice thee that thou know'st us happy, and without love no happiness.'" With a grin, she's out the door, Adam following hard on her too-high heels, and I have to put all thoughts of Milton aside as I don my headphones: game on.

I'm patched into the hotel's CCTV, and it shows them arriving at the door of Kallis's suite and gaining admission; then I have to rely solely on audio transmissions, both from the bugs I have placed in the room and the tiny personal transmitters in Adam and Jo's clothing. I'm unaccountably nervous when Adam opens with, "There's no danger of this room being bugged, is there?" but Kallis snaps, "I have every hotel room I use swept for listening devices," and I understand that it is all part of his persona, as I settle in to listen. Adam and Kallis fence to and fro over the question of whether or not the South African does in fact have access to a dirty bomb, but Kallis seems more interested in Jo, pressing her to attend a West End show with him. Adam allows her to make her own decision, and to my horror, she accepts. Not only will she have to endure hours of musical mundanity, but she will be doing it in company with a sociopath who deals in mass death: I almost can't decide what's worse.

Back on the Grid again, Adam reports that Harry has agreed to this new development. Of course he has, I note cynically, before reminding myself what's at stake. Not just Jo's safety, but thousands of lives; this is the reality of the choices we make on a daily basis in this job. Calling a quick meeting, Adam runs through the plan for tonight's operation with Jo and Kallis, allocating tasks as he goes: Ms Meyers is to be backup, and my heart sinks at the thought of spending several hours with her at close quarters in the surveillance van. Needs must, I tell myself, so buck up, Wynn-Jones. Adam will run the op, and Jo will never be out of our sight, to safeguard against Kallis's predilection for suddenly turning violent with women. On her part, Jo is contemptuous of the man, sure she will be able to manage him. "He's not much of a human being," I observe, having read his very criminal curriculum vitae, and Jo snorts disdainfully, "He's not much of anything." Adam turns to me. "We won't need you for this one, Malcolm; Ros and I will be fine, I think." I blink in surprise; I'm always on duty for this sort of operation, but just as I'm about to say something, I catch sight of Ms Meyers' face, her thin-lipped mouth curled up humourlessly, her green eyes gleaming as she contemplates my confusion, and it all becomes clear: she has requested this arrangement, and Adam, for whatever reason, has agreed. "I…I'll stay back on the Grid, then: there are things I need to do in the server room, I'm a bit behind with some of the scheduled maintenance. And if you should need me, then I'm here."

Ms Meyers rolls her eyes to indicate her disinterest, rudely turning away before I've even finished speaking, and any remaining uncertainty I may have had about her crystallises into active dislike. She is a thoroughly unpleasant individual, as well as a devious and manipulative one; but then I'd expect no less from someone who is closely linked to Colin's murder, at least as far as I'm concerned. As they leave the room, Adam and Ms Meyers together, Jo a step or two behind, I reach out to touch her lightly on the arm, and she pauses beside me. "Do be careful, Jo," I say earnestly, and she smiles at me. "What do you say? 'I'm always all right'? Why can't you believe that of the rest of us?" Ah, Jo. How I wish I could, but I've been in the Service too long, and lost too many colleagues… "Just promise me you'll take no unnecessary risks; Kallis is a nasty piece of work." She looks straight at me then, so I can see the steel glinting behind the limpid blue of her eyes. "He's the one who'd better watch out," she says evenly, and unaccountably nervous, I watch her leave. Perhaps it's my Celtic blood, but I cannot shake the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen, and I won't be there to watch over her, the youngest and most inexperienced member of the team. When she is out of sight, I head towards the server room, and there immerse myself in mind-numbingly routine work in the hope of distracting myself.

It doesn't work, and when I have done all I can do, I wander back out onto the Grid; my eye falls on Ruth, still huddled over her desk, her back resolutely towards Harry's office. It's odd, but for the first time since we parted ways, I feel able to look on her with equanimity, rather than heartbreak and pain: the little yellow pills must be working. I rather suspect that Sally's visit last night might have something to do with it, too, and on a courageous impulse, I decide to go over and talk to Ruth. Well, and why shouldn't I? I ask myself, glancing in her direction, we're still colleagues, after all, and perhaps it's time to let bygones be bygones…she's certainly moved on, and I should show her that I have, too. That I don't care one jot that she has gotten her heart's desire, even at such a steep cost to my own heart's wishes. In fact, I should do what Harry himself would do, and act as if I don't care at all. Thus resolved, I step across to her desk and say, as lightly as possible, "Well, you are a dark horse." She looks up, her countenance brightening, until she sees who it is. "Sorry?" she asks, striving for nonchalance, and not quite achieving it. Rather more nervously, now those aquamarine eyes are meeting my own, I stammer, "No, no, no, I mean best of luck to you. I think it's wonderful." Ruth looks at me, confused, and taking a deep breath, I rush on, "I suppose it was staring us in the face all along." I have to give it to her, she's a superb actress. "Sorry, Malcolm, I've got no idea what you're talking about," she replies in puzzled tones, so I bite the bullet. "You and Harry." In an instant, the colour drains out of her face as she says faintly, "What?" Valiantly, I continue, "It's pretty impossible to keep a secret in this place. Candlelit dinners for two, eh?"

Ruth's eyes move swiftly about the room before flitting back to me; a virtuoso performance, indeed, I decide, as she protests disingenuously, "No, no, it…" Surely she can't seriously think that no-one knows? Smiling, I say,"Good for you, I think you'd make a smashing couple." Her eyes go as wide as a hunted hare's, and her voice holds a note of genuine panic as she insists, "Malcolm, it was nothing, it was to do with work." I look at her knowingly, but she beseeches me anxiously, "Please don't say anything." Belatedly, I recall that she has an absolute horror of being talked about, a fear bordering on the paranoid, as she asks in a near whisper, while wringing her hands in her lap, "Who else knows?" I shrug and she lets out a long, tense sigh, her eyes still darting wildly. She looks at me directly at last. "Go away and leave me alone," she says in an undertone, her voice flat. Her eyes are no longer light aquamarine, but grey and opaque as she withdraws into herself; recognising the signs, I nod awkwardly, and take myself off to the tech storage cage, where I find that the Tessina has reappeared once more.

I take it down, nestled in its box as if it hasn't been touched in years, a camera that fits neatly in the hollow of my palm. As ever, it's clean as a whistle – not a print on it – and empty of film, a tiny silver enigma. I slip it into the inside breast pocket of my suit jacket, before returning to the server room, and my makeshift desk between the stacks. Setting the Tessina down next to the keyboard, I open up its tracking program: it's been to Claridge's twice in the last fortnight, commuted to and fro from Kennington daily with Ruth, made one trip to GCHQ at Cheltenham – nothing I haven't seen before – and then there's the activity log for yesterday: into Thames House at seven-thirty a.m. and then, back out at eight p.m., and not straight to Kennington, either, but to Marylebone. Of course: Harry's favourite restaurant, an elegant and expensive French establishment, is just off the Marylebone High Street. It seems that they really did go to dinner together, then, and my heart gives a painful little squeeze: it's one thing to suspect that something is happening, but quite another to be presented with proof positive.

Ruth and Harry, Harry and Ruth… the words chase round my tired brain as I stare at the screen, and wonder once more if anything was ever real, all the time that we were together. For the thousandth time, I wonder what in heaven's name Ruth is doing with the Tessina, before my thoughts return to the extraordinary events of last night, and what might have been, if only I had possessed the courage. It's better this way, I tell myself. She was just acting impulsively, looking for a bit of fun before heading overseas for six months...any other man would have been happy to oblige. Only I'm not like other men. I will never be like other men, and the only wonder is that it's taken me over thirty years to not only know this truth about myself, but to accept it. I think then of Zaf, who most certainly is like other men, and wonder if he's climbing the walls yet, with celibacy forced upon him and denied unfettered access to the internet, or even so much as one of his dirty DVDs to while away the endless hours of waiting. He'll make up for it after the operation though, if I know him: no female staff member under forty will be safe from his relentless charm, up to and including Jo. Best not to think about it, I decide, and closing the Tessina tracker program, I launch the official GPS tracking system to see what's happening, at the same time checking my IM and email for operational status updates. No flashes of any colour, red or otherwise, which means that things are proceeding as planned.

The two little green blips moving slowly through Wandsworth are Ms Meyers and Miss Bennett, who is no doubt being told in no uncertain terms that Michael Johnson is ours to do with as we see fit, rather than hers to fly off into the sunset with. I briefly wonder how that conversation is unfolding, given the personalities involved, before looking at the other active trackers onscreen. The one in the West End is Jo, at the theatre with the repulsive Kallis; in close proximity to her blip there are two others – Foxtrot One and Foxtrot Two – belonging to field officers who have been told not to let her out of their sight. Slightly further off is Adam's tracker – he'll be in the surveillance van, and I realise he must be in there alone. Frowning at this flagrant disregard for protocol, which quite clearly states that there must be at least two officers on any stationary surveillance operation, I call him. "Adam? Are you by yourself in the van? Should I head over?" Adam's voice sounds more than a little impatient as he replies, "It's all right, Malcolm, I've got this one. There's nothing more to do at Challis's hotel for now, and Ros is going to join me after she's dropped Leigh Bennett off. Why don't you head home? You've already done a long day, and this is shaping up to be a pretty bog-standard obbo." I open my mouth to remind him of Section 73 (d) of the Field Officer's Manual, Chapter 45, Standard Operating Procedures: Surveillance from a Stationary Observation Post, which stipulates that a technical officer be on duty at all times, but he has already rung off, and I know from previous experience that calling him back will only result in being put through to his voicemail. Once Adam has made an operational decision, he doesn't like to be questioned, especially not by middle-aged technical officers who have never been in the field. Obediently, I log off from my systems, and go home, the Tessina safely in my pocket: I'm not in the mood for any more of Ruth's clandestine games.

Not calling him back turns out to be a grave error in judgement, for that night, we almost lose Jo, lovely, kind Jo, Jo with the ready smile and the big blue eyes that shine with energy and life. Jo, who is viciously assaulted and almost killed by that despicable monster, Kallis. Jo, who they very nearly don't find in time, because Kallis had changed rooms – something I should have anticipated he would do, based on records of his past hotel stays – and so even though Adam had augmented the audio bugs I had placed in Kallis's suite with fibre optic cameras, none of it matters, because they're in a different room, and on a different floor. By the time Adam and Ros come bursting through the door, he's choking the life out of her, destroying the tiny transmitter sewn into the collar of her jacket in the process, grinning sadistically as she scrabbles feebly at the vise-like hands clamped round her neck.

She tells me all this the next morning in a matter of fact, if hoarse, voice, the livid fingerprints on the pale skin of her throat a dreadful corroboration of her words; her eyes are big and blue and empty as a china doll's, and try as I might, I can't bring myself to meet them. I knew something was going to happen… I should have been in the van, watching over her… "But Ros, Ros was just incredible. She saved my life, and Adam, of course." Glancing up, I force myself to look at her, perched on the edge of her chair in the tech suite. "Jo, I'm so sorry for what happened, and for not anticipating that he'd switch rooms. I feel absolutely terrible." Her gaze softens at this, and I see her come back to herself a little. "Thanks, Malcolm, but what Kallis did… it's not your fault, all right?" she says, before turning her attention back to the time-consuming and tedious task before us. Even with the search algorithms I have programmed, there is still a certain manual element to such work which I find oddly soothing, and I am soon caught up in the myriad intricacies of ships' paperwork.

It is Jo who finds the anomaly we have been looking for: the freighter Hercules, docking at Tilbury from Vladivostok, and completing the journey in half the usual time, either because it's unusually lightly laden for a working container vessel, or because the captain has been paid extra to expedite the delivery of a deadly cargo. Tilbury is the main port for London, with access straight into the heart of the city by road or by water, and the Hercules arrived last night, according to the records. Jo leaves the room at a dead run, looking for Adam and Harry, while I hack the harbour's CCTV and traffic cameras, my fingers surprisingly steady as they move rapidly across the keyboard and my monitors fill with black and white images from half a dozen live feeds; two more minutes, and I'm into the shipping terminal access logs for the last twenty-four hours, scrolling through the details of lorries and vans, trying to make sense of a vast amount of data. It's no good, though: the bomb could have left the port by any one of more than a hundred different vehicles, or even gone upriver by boat, and it's just one of thousands of pieces of cargo offloaded in the last day. Harry's not going to like it, but the only thing we know for certain is that a thermobaric bomb is headed for central London.

Harry doesn't like it: for the next several hours he's like a bear with a sore head, growling in his den, until a message arrives from Zaf and Adam calls us together for a quick briefing: the terrorists' operation will commence in ninety minutes' time, just before the start of the evening peak hour. A van will be delivered to them at the flat, along with directions to the chosen location; they will have just enough time to get out of range before detonating it, creating such intense pressure and heat that the very air will be sucked out of the lungs of its victims before they die in searing agony. I feel a bit breathless myself, contemplating such barbarity, but then I remember that we, or at least our major allies in this endless war against terror, against ideology, against fanaticism, against those who would tear our very civilisation apart, have been using just such weapons for years, and hot shame washes over me. A dirty bomb for a dirty war, indeed, I sigh inwardly, before hastening back to the tech suite to prepare; even with the access codes quite literally at my fingertips, it still takes time to pull the live traffic camera feeds from all of central London and get them into some sort of logical order onscreen. I spend a busy half-hour doing just that, and then things go horribly, terribly wrong.

The devil's in the details, the officers who trained me used to say. Check, double check, and then check again. You can't afford to miss anything, because that's when it can all go pear-shaped, very fast indeed. In the hubbub around Jo and Kallis, we've forgotten someone; we've taken our eye off the ball. And now it has come rolling back into view in the shape of Miss Bennett, arriving unexpectedly at Michael Johnson's flat with a portable heater tucked under one arm. Adam reports it, from the surveillance van parked opposite, and I feel my stomach drop like a stone when he adds that the girl has been pulled inside the flat by one of the men. It's all over in a few minutes, the outcome utterly, tragically predictable, and I feel ill as I think of that bright, pretty girl, so full of hope for a future with the man who has now inadvertently been the cause of her death. She's just one of many more who will die if the bomb is allowed to go off, but still. I sat in a room with her and breathed the same air: I spoke with her and she smiled at me. She's a real person to me, not a faceless statistic, but someone who had dreams, who aspired to a better life. Someone who managed to fly under the radar, and in doing so very nearly jeopardised our entire operation. Someone who should never have been allowed to get so close: I recall Jo saying that she had been concerned that Ms Meyers had allowed Leigh to go back to Michael's flat, that she had spoken of the girl as if she were a field officer, a trained spy, and not a civilian. There's no time to ruminate though, for Foxtrot Three, our surveillance officer in a flat a few doors down the road, is calling in. "Charlie One," she tells Adam, "they're arriving," and on my monitor, I see a dark-coloured Honda sedan drive up, followed by a white Ford Transit van. A stocky, bald man gets out of the Honda and goes into the flat where Zaf and Michael Johnson are waiting, and so it begins.

Not long after Zaf and his new recruit set off towards the City, that square mile which is the nation's financial heart, GCHQ intercepts a call to Ibrahim's superiors. It is to be a suicide mission after all, but the operatives don't know it: apparently, a third man on the ground will detonate the bomb on arrival at the site. Ruth runs into the tech suite, and in admirably few words, she explains the situation to me, her eyes wide with suppressed fear. It's odd how seeing someone else's reaction can influence your own, for better or for worse. I don't know if it's a lifetime of living with Mother, or more than fifteen years in the Service, but I feel myself becoming very calm and focused as she speaks. "We can't get onto Zaf, Lima team is caught up behind them in traffic, and…" I hold up a hand, stopping her mid-flow. "I've got it, Ruth. Adam's nearest. Tell him the situation, and then put him through to me." She blinks, whether in surprise or annoyance that I have interrupted her, I can't tell and don't care, before she turns on her heel to go back to her desk on the Grid. Thirty seconds later, I'm calling out directions to Adam like Colin McRae's navigator. "Target turning left into Farringdon Road," I inform him, watching as he sprints down a flight of stairs near the NatWest building, and then cold fear clutches at my heart. "Oh my God, we just picked up an infrared signal from the bridge. The van is nearly in range…"

Adam demands, "How long?" Striving to remain calm, I reply, "Depending on the traffic lights, between forty-five seconds and a minute." I sense rather than see Ruth come back into the room, so I don't jump in surprise when she says urgently from behind my shoulder, "Adam, I've just spoken to Special Branch. They have armed police en route with orders to stop that van by any means necessary." That sounds ominous… "Meaning?" I query, concern evident in my tone. She doesn't look at me as she clarifies, "They'll shoot Zaf to prevent the van entering the City." In our earpieces, Adam shouts "No! Tell them to hold off, I'm going to get there," and I note, "Another signal, the van is only just out of range." I can practically hear the thumping of Adam's heart as he races through the narrow laneways of the City, and belatedly I recall that he is only six weeks back at work after major surgery after being shot by the murderous Miss Wells; the strain he is putting his body through must be immense. Within seconds I hear the shriek of the tyres and brakes – thank God, he's made it! – and I listen closely as first he gets Michael out, then tells Zaf there's a human detonator in the area.

Zaf's instant response, so like his team leader in so many ways, is "I'll get the van out of here," but Adam barks, "No time. Give me a report on the armed units." Recognising that he is addressing me, I answer quickly, "Armed police are moving to intercept…" as I patch SO19's comms through to Adam… "We're following the suspect, we think it's him. Awaiting orders, Alpha One. Adam, the remote detonator is on the move towards you, the armed units are right behind him." On the screen before me, I can see Adam, half a head taller than most of the people around him, scanning the street for the suspect; on another monitor, there are two Special Branch officers, walking purposefully towards him. I look desperately at all the faces in between, but I can't make out which one the suspect is – they all look perfectly normal, just ordinary people living their lives. Somewhere behind me I can hear Ruth speaking in a low voice to the Special Branch command, and in my earpiece one of the SO19 officers suddenly says, "I can take the shot." Adam immediately responds, "Stand by," his eyes still searching the crowded footpath, and the officer adds, "Suspect in range, Alpha One, we can take the shot now."

Adam replies steadily, "But I can't see who it is. Wait." The officer insists, "You have to make a decision on this, Alpha One, it's now or never." I'm holding my breath in suspense, but Adam goes up immeasurably in my estimation when he asks, "How d'you know it's him?" With a little sigh of impatience, Ruth chimes in with, "Adam, they can't absolutely confirm his identity, but you must make this call. Adam, make the call!" I hope she knows what she's doing, what she is priming him to do… Whether due to Ruth's urging, or because he's reached certainty himself, Adam orders, "Take the shot!" Next, I hear the swift stutter of automatic gunfire, while Adam swears copiously under his breath. A man lies face down in the street; Adam approaches him, carefully turns him over. "Suspect confirmed dead, and he's carrying a detonator." The look on Adam's face is neither sad, nor glad, but exhaustion is evident in every line of his body even as Ruth hurries away, eager to tell Harry the news.

Left alone, I embark on the tedious task of backing out of the live traffic feeds and relinquishing control of the City's CCTV cameras, my hands shaking slightly from adrenaline withdrawal, my mind full of conflicting thoughts and feelings. Where Ruth is involved, nothing is simple or straightforward, and I can't understand why she is being so oddly furtive about going to dinner with Harry. It's almost as if she's ashamed, rather than exultant, as I would have expected her to be. My thoughts shift to Dr Chapman – Sally – and I wonder despondently if I have had, and lost, my chance with her. It was all so…surprising, so completely out of the blue…surely she couldn't have been serious? My mood, already low, spirals downwards as I ponder the inscrutability of women in general, and two in particular, and my heart is heavy with loneliness as I contemplate going home to an empty house. Just as I have resolved to pay Mother a visit first, and see how she's getting on, Jo pops her head around the door. "Malcolm, you are not going to believe what Ros has done to Kallis!" Her eyes shine fiercely, and with deep misgiving, I observe, "I could believe just about anything, where Ms Meyers is concerned." She looks at me more closely. "Hey, are you all right?" I give her a lopsided smile, but she's not fooled. "How about you finish packing up here, meet me at the pods in five minutes, and we'll go across to the pub? Adam and Zaf are going straight there from the City. Zaf's celebrating not being a fanatical jihadi any more, and Adam…well, let's just say he doesn't want to have a quiet night at home with Wes and the nanny. Wait until I tell Zaf about Ruth and Harry; he's going to freak out! He and Adam have had a bet on will they or won't they for ages, and I think he just lost, so rounds will be on him." The idea of being immersed in the noisy cheerfulness and conviviality of the Cricketers Arms with my colleagues is a very appealing one, but then I think of Mother, alone in the sterile environs of the clinic, anxiously waiting…

Forty minutes later, I find myself looking at a plain black door, set into a red brick wall, as I speak into a brass-plated intercom. "Hello? Yes, I'm here to see a patient who was admitted two mornings ago, Mrs Amelia Wynn-Jones. You don't have anyone of that name? How about a Lady Angela Anglesey? Oh, that's most kind, thank you." The door unlocks with a soft click, and I step inside with a sigh. Mother, it would seem, is up to her old tricks: Lady Angela Anglesey, indeed.

"Malcolm? Malcolm, is that you? Where on earth have you been? Why hasn't Emily come to see me? I thought you'd all forgotten me, and I've been calling and calling the house, but no-one ever picks up…what's the point of having staff if they won't even answer the phone?" Mother, wearing her favourite floor-length champagne mink coat over a satin nightgown in a frankly alarming shade of pink, starts talking from the top of the stair, and her voice increases in volume as she descends towards me. Behind her is a tall, patrician looking man in a white coat, regarding me with the imperturbable expression of a Sphinx, or a treating psychiatrist. "Ah, Mr Wynn-Jones, do come in. We've been expecting you." Mother adds fractiously, "I've been waiting and waiting…you're very thoughtless, you know."

Stepping forward, I kiss the powdered cheek she briefly proffers. "It's good to see you, Mother," and in spite of everything, it is. Mother is the one woman I find utterly predictable, and with whom I never have to second-guess myself. Looking me up and down with a critical eye, she sniffs, "And you didn't bring so much as a bunch of flowers, either. Really, Malcolm, I wonder why you even bother." "Because you're my mother," I tell her, and offering my arm, I gently guide her back up the stairs.

But the human character, however it may be exalted or depressed by a temporary enthusiasm, will return by degrees to its proper and natural level, and will resume those passions that seem the most adapted to its present condition – Edward Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

A/N: Malcolm is thinking of Jeremiah 13:23 (KJV) when he is musing about the leopard's spots.