A/N: At long last, here it is: the penultimate chapter of this little tale, with thanks to those loyal readers who have been waiting for the next instalment. I hope you will enjoy it, and please do leave a review if so.
11:25am, Monday 8 August 2006
Cocooned in the relative peace of my makeshift workstation, safely hidden away amongst the server stacks, I attempt to make sense of everything I have learned in the last twenty-four hours. If the Defence Secretary is about to resign I'll have to work fast; from previous experience of such downfalls I know that access to MoD systems is about to get much trickier, and even now GCHQ will be busy throwing up additional firewalls to guard against hacking attempts by foreign governments, the media and anyone else with a grudge against the soon-to-be former Minister.
Information cascades across three monitors as I cross-reference data, starting with the security swipe records from GCHQ I had downloaded during the Korsakov operation, matched against all the known times Ruth claimed to be at Cheltenham for one reason or another. As expected, there are no matches after I gave her the diamond pendant; she must have taken it to Howes almost immediately after the Midsummer Ball. What I find less credible is the idea of Ruth working for Oliver Mace; she loathes him, of that I feel certain, or at least as certain as I can be, where Ruth is concerned. I start by pulling everything I can find about him which is surprisingly little for such a senior member of the security services; or perhaps not, come to think of it. He's a man of limitless ambition, going by the number of committees and working groups, think tanks and advisory associations he is involved with, both at MI6 and in the wider Whitehall community.
I recognise most of these, but when the Waterfall algorithm picks up a reference to an unknown monthly meeting, the location catches my eye immediately: a suite at Claridge's, no less. So it was Ruth I saw there last Christmas… Perhaps she really is Fox, after all, and has been playing us all for fools. This is a deeply upsetting idea, albeit one that I can't quite bring myself to accept. In my mind's eye, I see the look of revulsion on Ruth's face, the stiffness of her posture as Mace forced her into closer proximity on the dance floor at Toad Hall, the anxiety emanating from her as I had approached. I've observed too many subjects for too many years not to know genuine fear when I see it, and I saw it that night; I would wager my beloved Rover on it, if I were a betting man. Unscientific, I know, but the very thought of Ruth working with Mace simply feels like the worst kind of anathema. I ask myself what the other possibilities are, and just as I am about to run a query on a particularly interesting-looking data string, it happens: the cyber-curtain comes down at GCHQ, and I am unceremoniously cut off. Sighing, I flick across to the BBC's broadcast management system, and there it is; the Defence Secretary's shock resignation is about to go to air as the lead story of the midday news bulletin. I get up to find the others, knowing they will want to see this.
Even though Adam earlier found and escorted Mace to Number 10 to face his punishment, the news package makes for oddly unsatisfying viewing: predictably, the Prime Minister is loudly denying all knowledge of the covert committee Mace has been convening, as well as of any wrongdoing on the part of the former Defence Secretary, who is standing sheepishly behind his leader on the steps of Number Ten. "Prats!" Jo mutters, glaring at their images as the newsreader informs us that Mace has resigned along with the other committee members, before ending with, "Commentators say this is the end of dark days for the services." Adam turns the big video-conferencing screen off, and Jo and I glance uncomfortably at each other, before turning to look towards the inner sanctum, where Harry is slumped in his office, one hand over his face. In the rush to catch Mace out, have we lost sight of what's really at stake, I wonder: the prisoners taken from Cotterdam, and the terrible truth of their rendition for 'special interrogation measures', or torture, to use a term which has fallen out of common use in recent times, rather. I know Harry had called in long-standing favours with the CIA and the FSB, asking them to use their spy satellites to search for the unfortunate men; it hadn't taken long before the FSB had come back with an answer. They were in Egypt, and they were still alive, which was a miracle in itself: traditionally, when Western governments rendered undesirables to Egypt, they were never seen or heard from again, which was the entire point. Although we should be thankful for such a good outcome to the whole dreadful affair, my thoughts are running along very different lines. Breaking the story has sealed far more than the fates of just the Defence Minister or of Oliver Mace; it has publicly branded Ruth a traitor and a murderess, and unleashed a full-scale manhunt.
The Grid crackles with unexpressed tension; everyone is holding their breath, wondering how Harry is going to save Ruth. When I can endure it no longer, I slip away quietly, back to the server room, and continue my solitary search for answers, hoping against hope to find the thing that will set Ruth free, for her sake, and Harry's, if not my own. He really does love her; the yearning, desperate look in his eyes just before he had shielded them from us with his hand is one I am all too familiar with, and my stomach had clenched tightly at the flicker of raw fear that had crossed his face at the realisation that for once, matters are out of his hands, and Ruth is on her own.
Unlike the others, I have no unrealistic expectations of our section chief, choosing to trust instead to empirical evidence of the sort Waterfall has just identified to find a solution, for Ruth on the run with Scotland Yard, the security services and Interpol hot on her heels simply doesn't bear thinking about. So I don't, turning my attention instead to analysing the data I managed to pull from the GCHQ servers before getting cut off. My plan is to follow the thread of Mace's recorded movements over the last year, and compare them with Ruth's, or what I know of them, and all the while wondering about her current whereabouts, for she's not in any of Five's safe houses or usual boltholes.
Heartsick with anxiety, I watch as Waterfall sorts relentlessly through thousands of pieces of information, bringing order to chaos, building a pattern byte by byte in which Ruth and Mace seem to be inextricably woven together. There are too many connections for them all to be considered mere coincidences; meetings both have attended, buildings they have entered within minutes of each other, places they have travelled to at the same time. Even after cleansing the data by cross-checking against Harry's appointment diaries to eliminate any official meetings which Ruth may have accompanied him to, there are still dozens of parallel events. Next, with fingers that barely tremble, I hack into Claridge's CCTV system, praying they don't wipe their footage regularly; but I'm in luck, and shortly I have assembled images of first Mace, then Ruth, entering the hotel on five separate occasions this year alone. I spot other members of Six, senior military officers and at least one Private Secretary entering within the same timeframe, and make a note of their names for future reference; but my primary goal is uncovering the clandestine activities it would seem Ruth has been engaged in for most of the time she's worked at Five. Of course, I'm perfectly aware that facts without analysis could mean anything, but I'm at a loss to know how to start interpreting what I see on my screens; too many pieces of the puzzle are missing.
I so desperately want to talk to Ruth, to look her in the eye as I lay it all out before her, but I still have no inkling of where to find her; at Mace's instigation, her personal effects, her desktop machine, and even the stationery in the filing cabinet under her workstation were all carried away by Special Branch days ago, in what I now realise was a cleaning of a covert operation, rather than a routine gathering of evidence. There's nothing of hers left on the Grid… but she just might have something of the Grid's in her possession, something so tiny she may have even forgotten about it, given recent events: the Tessina, and the minute GPS transmitter that Colin installed in the shutter button. I may even be able to solve the mystery of the Tessina's comings and goings, if I can match them against the emerging pattern of Ruth's apparent treachery.
Quickly, I log into the GPS portal, and search for active tracking tags; there are the usual bits of field equipment in use and scattered all around Greater London, each one labelled with a red tag when in motion, and a green tag when static. I spot a green tag so far east along the Thames, I have to pan right to read it, blinking in surprise at the location, before smiling to myself in spite of the seriousness of the situation. The Tessina, and therefore presumably Ruth, is at the World's End pub near Tilbury Fort in Essex; avid student of history that she is, she has chosen her hiding spot well, lost amidst coachloads of day-trippers, no doubt with excited children in tow, and within easy reach of a number of conveniently sturdy boltholes in the old fort itself. My smile fades, though, as I overlay the Tessina's tracking records onto the map of Ruth and Mace's movements, and watch the two sets of data coalesce, confirming her presence at almost every point. Oh, Ruth, what have you done, and in Heaven's name, why?
Sitting back from my screens, I rub my tired eyes, but when I look again, Ruth, Mace, and the Tessina are still inextricably and inexplicably intertwined. Feeling my chest tightening and my breath coming shorter and shorter, I deploy my inhaler, hoping to stave off a full-blown asthma attack, and try yet another line of enquiry: searching the Grid server for the last backup of Ruth's computer. All of Section D's machines are imaged each night, so even though Special Branch has carried the hardware away, I still have access to a virtual version of Ruth's hard drive. Waterfall makes short work of searching through her files, compressing a task that would require hundreds of man-hours into a few minutes. There's nothing unusual; neatly labelled files for each operation, the contents of her inbox, a folder for the intel briefing that she compiles each day, another for the current security risk ratings. I check her internet search history, which is varied and diverse, as is to be expected for an intelligence analyst, but I find nothing incriminating. I look for online aliases, but find only a handful, all of which I recognise; she uses them to keep tabs on different radical forums and internet gatherings of the disgruntled. I look for unsanctioned webmail accounts or dropboxes, and find nothing. But I still keep rummaging, looking for something that doesn't belong, something out of place, some clue as to what Ruth has been doing all this time. The image of her computer is too clean, too textbook, and it sets my teeth on edge. I know Ruth is methodical and tidy in her work habits, but this is ridiculous.
Pushing my chair back, I get up and take a quick turn around the server room, rolling my shoulders in a futile attempt to rid myself of the fierce tension gripping my trapezoid muscles, stopping here and there to reseat a loose connection or flick a speck of dust off an interface, seeking respite in simple tasks as my mind races, going over everything that has happened, seeking meaning in things I had previously dismissed as unimportant or irrelevant. Ruth has already turned a beautiful diamond pendant into an actual G&J key; what else might she have done? I feel queasy at the thought, and hurry around to the tech cage with fear gnawing at my innards. Automatically, I look at the log to see if Ruth has signed anything out recently, before remembering she can come and go as she likes without a trace. Hastily, I check the contents of the shelves, looking for anything that seems different, or anything that is out of place. All seems to be in order, though, and after a scan for bugs and transmitters other than our own, and a quick stocktake of the more valuable items, I race back to the server room, hoping to avoid the rest of Section D, but there's no such luck to be had, and I nearly run into Harry as I round the corridor that bypasses the Grid, in exactly the same stretch in which I once saw them locked in each other's gaze, oblivious to everything around them, even to the danger posed by the mad Miss Wells and her handbag full of Concentrate 34.
"What's the hurry, Malcolm? Op's over, you know," he says quietly, as he scrutinises me like a hawk spotting a mouse scurrying through the grass below. "Oh, Harry…I…I was just checking something," I mutter, dropping my gaze to the polished concrete floor. Maybe he'll just walk away, if I stand here motionless for long enough… "Yes, I imagine you were. What, exactly?" The conversational tone has given way to something edgier, and I glance at him uneasily; his colour is bad, his eyes bloodshot, and I can't help wondering when he last changed his shirt. "I…I thought something might be missing from the tech cage," I begin nervously, watching a muscle twitching in his unshaven cheek, "But everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion." Harry snorts, "Except for a Type 67 pistol, that is, and whatever else that pair of pirates have made off with." I look up, startled: Pirates? "Adam and Zaf," he clarifies, "You don't suppose Ruth broke in and took that weapon herself, do you? She's never been near a gun, apart from basic training." Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, I think but tactfully do not say, opting instead for, "Erm, yes, well, I'd better get back, then. Lots of filing to catch up on." There's an odd pause; it feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the corridor as Harry's eyes bore into mine, pain flaring in their dark amber depths, and the words are out before I can catch myself. "Harry, are you alright?"
He shudders, before replying dully, "She's gone, Malcolm. Ruth's gone. She went off from Tilbury at first light. I couldn't stop her, and now she's gone…" His whisky-laden voice cracks on the last syllable, and instinctively I take half a step towards him, shaken, even though I have been dreading this since I first learned of her plan to leave, or to escape. Harry, though, is made of sterner stuff than I, his face carefully blank as he straightens his back, stiffening against my well-meant concern and unwanted sympathy, and steps sideways, wincing as his dicky knee protests at the lateral movement. I can't help it; clumsily, I say, "I'm so sorry, Harry," but he has already turned to stump off towards his office, leaving me leaning against the wall as I fumble for my inhaler, the blunt force of his words making me gasp; my legs feel like jelly, and I slide down to the floor, to sit with my knees drawn up and my forehead pressed against them as I fight for control. So she's done it, then. I wonder what the circumstances of her going were; for once in my life of constant surveillance and prying, I wasn't looking, and I send a silent prayer of gratitude heavenward that I have been spared the exquisite torment of being obliged to witness the moment of their parting. It would have gone against every standard of decency I hold dear, for one thing, and I'm not at all sure I could have borne it, for another. I suppose I'll find out eventually from the others, but there are some things better left unknown and unseen; as my Nairn used to say, what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't grieve over, and my heart has grieved enough already, where Ruth is concerned, to last a lifetime.
It is not until I am safely back in the sterile, cool surrounds of the server room that I am able to breathe easily again. I haven't seen Harry in such a state since the time he sent Tom to extract his daughter from a life-threatening situation in Iraq over three years ago. The haunted look in his eyes is the same, as is the knife-edge balancing act between professional obligation and personal involvement. Only now, there's no Tom to send to the rescue, and it's not his daughter, but his lover who is in a dangerous situation of her own making. Not that I'd mention this to Harry; as far as I know, he sees Ruth as a helpless victim, an innocent bystander who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And perhaps she is, at that. I still don't know what is, and what isn't, real, where she's concerned; it's why I am so desperately searching for anything, anything at all which will throw a light on the truth.
Resuming my seat between the server stacks, I prepare to comb through Ruth's computer's directories one more time; I can't shake the faint conviction that if only I look closer at the meticulously organised files, the carefully backed up emails, there will be something, some clue or lead to follow. I consider running the Waterfall cascade again using different search parameters, but in the end I decide to do things the old-fashioned way, and begin a manual audit of each and every file. About an hour into this process, I finally find something, something that Waterfall would never have picked up, because Waterfall, while very, very good at what it does, isn't a human being who has visited Ruth's house, and met her cats.
Saved in a folder labelled "Home" is a small group of files pertaining to Ruth's rented house in Kennington; a copy of the lease, and the legend she used to obtain it, a scanned list of tradesmen on the estate agent's letterhead, a vaccination reminder email from the Kennington Cat Vets, dated in March this year, and two JPEG images of her cats, one labelled Gidget, and the other Fidget. The labels are incorrect: Gidget is a small black and white female, not a large tortoiseshell male. Frowning, I check the metadata for each image, discovering they were created several months ago, but only saved on Ruth's machine last Wednesday, the day Mik Maudsley died. It's a drop; it must be, but I can't work out the meaning of the message. Oh, Ruth, what am I supposed to do with this? What are you trying to tell us? I can't go to Harry, or Adam, with nothing more than two mislabelled cat photos, but after hours of the most sophisticated data interrogation, it's all I have. A beastly headache is making my temples throb, and I drop my head into my hands, pressing my palms against my eyes, seeking relief from the dull pain, and respite from the Byzantine labyrinth of lies and deception that Ruth appears to have built so painstakingly over the last three years.
Opening my eyes, I peer again at the images on my screens, but I can glean nothing more; they appear to be hastily taken, no thought given to composition or even to framing the animals' faces, almost as though they were taken by accident. The photo of Gidget captures her from above, crouching on the landing, one of her favourite perches from which to survey the world, but the image is slightly blurred, as if either she or the photographer had moved at the critical moment. Fidget's is even worse; he's just a brownish furry streak against the red tile of the kitchen floor, plumed tail streaming behind him like a comet's trail. I examine the metadata, blow up the photographs and go over them pixel by pixel, but no matter how much I look, they are nothing more than two badly executed snapshots taken on a very mediocre digital camera. And yet there is something compelling about them, a sense of urgency, or of desperation; perhaps it's the sheer wrongness of them that fascinates me. I stare at them until the screens waver and dance before my tired eyes, and when Jo calls out to me I have to blink several times before I can focus on her slim form, silhouetted in the entrance.
"There you are, I've been looking all over for you!" she informs me as I come towards her, surprised at how stiff I am – I must have been in this cold environment for longer than I thought – and at how tired I feel. "Jo. What is it?" I ask, and my voice comes out as a hoarse croak. She takes a couple of steps towards me, before recollecting my dislike of visitors in the server room. "Malcolm, are you OK?" she wants to know, and I smile weakly. "Oh, I'm always all right, Jo, I'm just a bit tired, that's all." Jo gives me a raised-eyebrow look of pure scepticism as she tells me, "We're all wanted in Harry's office. Adam has something to tell us." My heart sinks at these words, uttered with such casualness; Jo cannot know what is coming, if we're to be told in the sanctum sanctorum, and not in the conference room. My fears are confirmed when Jo says brightly, "It must be about getting Ruth back. Adam and Zaf have hardly been on the Grid at all today, so my guess is they've been laying the groundwork. I haven't seen Ros either. Maybe she's been helping them." Well, that's highly unlikely, I rejoin silently. "Jo," I begin uneasily, but I get no further, for we are at Harry's office, where the others are waiting for us.
Jo takes the last chair, just inside the doorway, while I lean up against the doorjamb, taking comfort in feeling something solid to anchor me in the unseen currents swirling all about us. Harry is in his accustomed chair, hands tented over his eyes, while Adam is propped against the front of the desk, arms akimbo, shielding his chief; Zaf is slouched in the chair next to Jo, and to my considerable surprise, Ms Meyers glowers malevolently from the furthest corner of the room. Adam glances round the gathering, his eyes deeply shadowed with fatigue, but his voice is steady as he says, "What I'm about to tell you goes no further than these four walls, no matter what happens, no matter who asks what questions. Do I make myself clear?" After everyone has assented, except for Harry, whose eyes are now fixed on some spot in the mid-distance, Adam continues, "As you're aware, some very serious charges have been brought against Ruth. While these charges are of course groundless, the current situation with Mace means it will be very difficult to prove this without bringing a lot of unwanted scrutiny to bear on the Service, and on Harry in particular, because of Cotterdam. Ruth, understanding this, has come up with what I consider to be the only workable solution; and Harry agrees." Harry gives no sign of having heard, gazing instead at something only he can see. Jo leans forward eagerly; Miss Meyers folds her arms and stares straight at Harry, her narrow face expressionless, her green eyes glinting like glass. Zaf studies his trainers minutely, as if he had never seen them before, and I brace myself against the steel of the doorframe for the storm I know is coming. "Ruth left the country secretly, early this morning. The cover story is suicide; a body has been found in the Thames, and Harry has identified it as hers. Now, is everyone clear on what this means?"
The silence in the little room is absolute; Jo's face is stark white with shock, and she sways in her seat for a moment, before sitting up very straight and still. I don't want to look at Miss Meyers at all, but I feel her watching me, and when I glance in her direction, I catch the tiniest hint of a smile playing around the corners of her cruel, thin-lipped mouth. Her eyes cut to Harry, slumped in his chair like a badly filled sack of grain, and an expression of vindictive triumph blazes across her bony features for an instant, before she schools her face into a perfect blank once more. I could almost believe I had seen nothing at all, if not for the trembling of my hand on the doorjamb and the horrible hollowness in the pit of my stomach. Although no words had passed between us, we had understood each other perfectly, and for the first time in my life, I know what how it feels to truly hate another human being: choking in its intensity, terrifyingly violent in its intent. If not for her… I grip the doorframe hard and tell myself, I will not give in to it, I will not become like her, and force my attention back to the others. Zaf is comforting Jo, an arm laid casually across her shoulders, while Adam looks as though he wants nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him. Harry has still not spoken, but he stirs himself now. "Ruth made her decision, and she has gone." He peers round at us with bloodshot eyes. "There will be no further discussion. Dismissed." His voice is like a cold wind blowing through an ancient ruin, and Section D files out in silence. Just as I am about to follow the others, Harry clears his throat. "Malcolm."
When I turn round, to my very great amazement, the Tessina is lying on Harry's desk, and he is watching me with an interrogatory air. "I want answers, and you're going to supply me with them." I look from him to the Tessina in mute enquiry, although my heart is hammering against my ribs. "It was in my coat pocket after I… after we…she must have slipped it in there when she…" He shrugs, his expression bleak, his eyes like burnt-out coals. "It doesn't matter how it got there. I want to know why she had it in the first place. What the fuck has Ruth been up to?" he bellows, putting me in mind of a wounded animal, a boar perhaps, or a stag at bay. And like a wounded animal, he is dangerously unpredictable, maddened with pain and ready to lash out at the first creature that approaches; I must be very careful. Before I realise what's happening, he lunges out of his chair to seize my right elbow in an iron grip. "I mean to find out what's been going on, starting right bloody now. Do you know where she went on that wretched little boat? Adam and Zaf say they don't, and Jo plainly hasn't a clue." His fingers dig in hard as he speaks, and I flinch as I reply, "No, I don't. Those plans were made without my knowledge. Please, I'm telling you the truth." He releases me, subsiding onto the edge of his desk, and I take a step back, cradling my hotly throbbing elbow, and with a new appreciation for how Howes must have felt when I lost my temper with him… was it really only yesterday? Harry looks like hell, and I choose my next words carefully.
"We'll work it out, but look at us, Harry. We're exhausted, in need of a hot shower, a decent meal and a few hours' sleep. I should go home and check on Mother. She hasn't been well, and there have been some funny goings-on in my garden. Mace's people, I should think." My chief treats me to the sight of his tonsils as he suddenly yawns widely, scrubs his hands through what's left of his hair, and straightens his shoulders in a semblance of his old military bearing. "What's that you're saying about Mace?" I repeat the statement and Harry's whole demeanour sharpens immediately. "Did they find anything?" I shake my head and he barks, "You're sure?" I realise Harry is running through a list of alarming possibilities in his head, and hasten to assuage his concerns. "Absolutely. I went over the grounds myself." Harry frowns, "Still, they knew where to look." I realise that he doesn't know what Mace's men were searching for; he's worried about the other plants we've put in over the years. It's very odd to realise I know something important that Harry doesn't; I'm the only officer at Five who is aware of the J&G key hidden in Ruth's diamond, but this is not the time to explain. "Mace knows I've worked with you longest, I suppose. Come on, Harry, let's get out of here. There's a little place nearby that makes the best egg and bacon rolls in London; when was the last time you ate?"
Harry heaves himself to his feet with a groan. "Do they have HP sauce, these purveyors of exemplary egg and bacon rolls?" he asks, and I nod. As we walk through the deserted Grid, Harry adds offhandedly, "When I was very small, I thought HP sauce was named after me. Extraordinary hubris, wouldn't you say, for one so young?" And just for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Harry: the quick, dry wit, the unexpected flash of humour, the wry twist of his mouth that in anyone else would be a smile. Caught off-guard by this unexpected confidence, I allow myself the tiniest of chuckles at the thought of the juvenile Harry solemnly perusing the label of the famous square bottle depicting the Houses of Parliament. "It's perfectly understandable; when I was five or six, for a time I had the idea that I had been named after King Malcolm in Macbeth, because of something my grandfather once said. Silly of me, of course, but I rather liked the thought while it lasted." Harry's face falls slightly, and on the other side of the pods, he mutters, "Did you know she was Lady Macbeth in the school play?" I do, as it happens, but I think it wiser not to mention this to Harry in his current volatile state, and merely make a noise of polite enquiry as we head towards the side stairs leading out to the Embankment. "She told me only recently, and I couldn't imagine her as that steely creature; now I don't know how I could have missed it." Squinting as we step out into the bright afternoon sunlight, I say only, "Perhaps we never know others as well as we think we do," as we set off across the Golden Jubilee footbridge. "That's almost certainly true," Harry observes drily, "But I'm sure you know more than most." and with that pointed comment, we bend our steps towards the Airstream café in an uncomfortable silence.
Seated on a bench looking across to HMS Belfast, we watch the wide brown Thames sliding slowly between its muddy banks as we eat our rolls, our thoughts following the ebbing tide, as Harry soon confirms. "I'll never look at this wretched river in the same way again," he tells me through a mouthful. "She just stepped onto that boat, and then she was gone." His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly, and I wonder just how much he has been drinking lately. "Ruth's leaving was her own idea, you know. She was determined to do it as soon as she knew you'd been arrested." In a low voice, Harry answers, "So Adam told me. It seems she had some grand plan to throw them off my scent. What a waste." Clearing my throat, I venture delicately, "I believe she thought she was doing it for the best." Harry turns toward me. "One of her tutors at Corpus Christi wrote her the most extraordinary reference. Said she was bonkers and brilliant. I presume this must be what he meant."
Unexpectedly, my heart twists with pity for him, but as there doesn't seem to be anything to say in response, I change the subject instead, taking a deep breath for courage as I begin, "About the Tessina, Harry," but he doesn't seem to be listening; instead, he is gazing at the old naval vessel. "Look at her, stranded there in midstream forever, a relic of a past that's mostly been forgotten." He speaks softly, as if to himself. "Perhaps I've been playing at this game too long; would it really have mattered if Mace had won?" I can't bear hearing him talk in this uncharacteristically defeatist manner; whatever Ruth's other motives for getting out of the country may have been, I know she was sincere when she told Adam and Zaf that Harry was the only one who could take on the powers that be to prevent further renditions. "Well, Ruth certainly thought so. And I think she would have been furious to hear you say that about Mace, it's like flinging her sacrifice back in her face." My pulse is racing at speaking so frankly, but there's no help for it now. The truth will out, as my father so often said.
Harry eyes me unnervingly before saying in an approximation of his normal tone, "I've always admired that about you, Malcolm, that willingness to do and say what you believe to be right even though it scares you half to death. It's a hallmark of true integrity, and God only knows how you've managed to hang onto yours for so long in this trade." A hot rush of blood suffuses my cheeks as I blush with embarrassment at this unexpected praise; before I can mumble an awkward reply, he goes on, "Now, how are you with cats? I hate the damn things myself, but it seems all that is about to change: Ruth has asked me to look after hers. It seems the least I can do, considering." I blink at the sudden change of mood and subject, but seeing his professional mask fall back into place, I find myself saying, "I like cats – I like most animals – but I'm afraid I'm allergic to them. I do have something I can take for it though." He nods, "Good. I'll need some help catching them. If we could go along and do that now, then you can go home and we can talk about the Tessina tomorrow."
Which is how I come to be standing here in the achingly familiar hallway of Ruth's house, two cat carriers at the ready and everything around me reminding me of her, from the faint traces of perfume still hanging in the air, to the piles of books untidily heaped on the hall table, to the long white coat thrown carelessly over the banister, presumably by Ms Meyers; she will be cross, if Ruth's gone off with hers. Good, I think with a certain degree of satisfaction, and just then, my eye falls on a small brown volume lying on the tiles next to the stairs. I stoop to retrieve it with a little start of recognition, for it is my missing Aeneid. Just as I slip it into the breast pocket of my suit jacket, a thudding noise comes from upstairs and Harry swears, before appearing at the top of the landing, holding a hissing, struggling Fidget at arm's length. "Quickly, Malcolm!" We thrust the big tortoiseshell into the carrier and only just manage to get the door latched; a low growling emanates from the interior, and Harry dabs at three long scratches on the back of his hand. "Hell's bells, I've had less trouble arresting anarchists. Now, where'd the other one go?" I cough politely, and nudge the carrier at my feet, which mews plaintively in response. "I found her in the sitting room, curled up on the couch, so I just scooped her up and popped her in here." Harry asks, "How do you know it's a her?" Erm… "Ruth used to talk about her cats all the time," I feint, "and she mentioned she had an older black and white female called Gidget, and a tortoiseshell male called Fidget." If they're together, surely he must know about her cats…
Harry picks up one of the carriers, and turns in a slow circle, taking in the surroundings as if for the first time. I have to admire his attention to detail: even under these trying circumstances, he's scrupulously maintaining the subterfuge of their relationship. "Big place, for one person. We'll have to sweep it clean and warehouse everything except her personal effects. I'll arrange for those to be sent to the family. I don't mind saying, this is a damnable business we're in, Malcolm. Well, I'd better get this pair home and give Scarlet the good news." I pick up the other carrier and follow Harry out to my Rover, taking care to lock the front door behind me. We install the cats on the back seat, and they howl in protest as the engine starts. "What a din!" Harry grumbles, but my sharp hearing has picked up another sound altogether, and I switch off the ignition, the better to listen. Yes, there it is, all right, but where is it coming from? "What's the problem?" Harry asks, and I signal for silence as I reach across to the glovebox to extract a small, rectangular device which is emitting regular pinging noises; I point it at the back seat and the pinging increases. "Isn't that…" Harry begins, and I nod. "It's the EMP scanner I use when I'm sweeping for tech and bugs, and it's going mad." Harry twists round awkwardly. "On the carriers, d'you think?" Just as he speaks, a slender black and white paw emerges through the grille; Gidget, exploring her options. In my mind's eye, I see the mislabelled photo of Gidget, peering between the banisters on the landing, and then the blue diamond pendant as Howes fitted it into TURING… I just know there's a connection here, but what? I wind up the window on my side, nodding to Harry to do the same, and retrieve the old tartan travel rug from beneath the driver's seat before reaching back between the seats to lift Gidget's carrier onto Harry's lap and open the door cautiously.
She emerges like a shot: I only just manage to get hold of her, and she cries out loudly as I seize her by the scruff, before attempting to sink her teeth into my hand as her tail lashes furiously. I'm too quick for her, though, as I wrap her tightly, and in a few seconds she is secured, only her small head emerging from her woollen wrapping. She miaows unhappily as I run the scanner over her swaddled form, and pause between her shoulder blades. Oh, Ruth, tell me you haven't… but in my heart, I know she has; it's all falling into place. To Harry, I say only, "Scarlett will have to wait a bit longer, I'm afraid." He looks from me to the cat tucked under my arm. "What's wrong?" he wants to know. There's nothing for it except to reply, "This cat's got two microchips, Harry, and I'm pretty sure Fidget does, too." He frowns, puzzled. "What are you not saying?" I give him a one-sided shrug as I decant Gidget back into her carrier with the greatest of care. "I'm saying there's one more microchip in this cat than the RSPCA recommends, and it's modulated to one of our own frequencies. I think Ruth's left us something so secret, she's gone to unimaginable lengths to hide it." Harry looks from me to the cat carriers in disbelief; but he's been a spook for far too long to dismiss even the most lurid and unlikely scenarios out of hand. "Christ almighty, Ruth, what have you done?" I turn the key in the ignition again and the Rover purrs into life; as I swing her elegant nose out into the street, I mutter under my breath, "I hate to think."
Harry makes no reply, instead staring straight ahead, the fingers of his right hand flexing and unflexing as we drive the only sign that he might, or might not, have heard. A line or two of Shakespeare drifts through my weary mind, from Macbeth, if I'm not much mistaken.
Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:
The flighty purpose never is o'ertook
Unless the deed go with it…
Oh, Ruth. What dread exploits have you wrought, and why have you fled?
Despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun blazing through the windscreen, I shiver as we
drive towards the consulting rooms of an ex-RAVC acquaintance of Harry's, now in private practice. The car is filled with an oppressive atmosphere like the buildup of thunder before a summer storm; it's apprehension, I suppose, as to what we might be about to find out. "What is it that Wilde said about there being only two tragedies in life?" Harry says finally, over the cats' unhappy travelling duet, and with an effort, I dredge the words up out of the cool, dark recesses of memory. "Erm, something about one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it, I think."
"I wonder which is worse," he muses to himself, and falls silent again.
Ah now, that is the great question; I wish I had the answer, but I don't. Does anyone?
A/N: RAVC stands for Royal Army Veterinary Corps. To whom else would a spook entrust his dog?