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The Grid. 11.00 approx
Harry was instantly aware of Malcolm's worried eyes flying from the computer screen to survey his face. Hoping that Malcolm hadn't noticed that he'd been temporarily paralysed with shock he recovered quickly, managing to adopt an even, almost casual tone that he trusted would conceal the sudden plummeting of his stomach.
"We already knew the CIA was involved. This merely confirms it."
It was lie, he knew it and so did Malcolm. If that phone was held by someone in the embassy it indicated a black operation authorised at the highest level of diplomatic denial. Neither man would admit to this verbally, a truth not spoken could be denied, pushed away, left in limbo, unacknowledged, placed just about anywhere other than dragged into the relentless light of day. Except of course, even unspoken, unadmitted, that truth existed. Harry began to wonder anew what the hell his daughter had got herself involved with. Special relationship with the Cousins! Harry's foot, leg and arm. While the political classes persisted in regarding themselves as junior partners in a Transatlantic bromance Harry was more often reminded of an occasion years ago when he'd accompanied Jane to a performance of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' He had distinct memories of one of the female characters, recalled because of her striking resemblance to Jane, begging an uncaring male 'to use me as your spaniel'. That, he'd long since believed, was the key to the so called special relationship, the psyche of the historic slave owning South translated into the modern day CIA taking the British security services for walkies. Well Harry was neither spaniel nor poodle. As an unashamedly British bulldog over the years he'd taken an inordinate delight in peeing copiously up Uncle Sam's leg.
It was Malcolm who broke the thickening silence, "We'll see what Erin returns with."
Grateful for the minor distraction and aware of Erin's earlier attempt to bridge build Harry felt obliged to comment , "I'm not excusing her but..."
Malcolm dismissed Harry's words with a slight wave of his hand. "Harry, I've endured worse in the past. And it's Calum I have to work with most of the time." He didn't elaborate further, from which Harry divined that as long as Erin didn't repeat her behaviour all, if not forgotten, might be forgiven. Relieved that the two techies at least seemed to have found a rapport, and recognising that he could little more at this juncture, after casting one more apprehensive glance at the computer he retired to the sanctuary of his own office.
Harry was not fundamentally a patient man, he'd acquired the patina of that so called virtue over the years but in times of crisis he found it difficult to maintain. Being out, running about, stalking suspects and wheeling dealing to defeat the enemies of the state was his impetus, and he frequently found it impossible to believe that he could do that just as effectively from a desk. Today, for example, he was possessed of an intense urge to seize a pump action gun and descend upon the embassy spraying bullets in an unsubtle attempt to make its inhabitants disgorge their secrets. Instead, frustratingly, he was seated in his office chair looking balefully at the pyramid of papers and folders that constituted his in tray. With sigh he pulled the top set of files toward himself. His world was falling around his ears but the ever present paperwork still remained, staring reproachfully at him, as if his signature made any real difference save that of a parasitic endorsement of the officers who'd done the real work, the field work, the ones who died and were subsequently enshrined in their own special filing cabinet. He'd spent years in the field despising the bureaucrats and their dictates, now he'd descended to the level of becoming one of them. Harry's statement at his post Albany tribunal that he served his country in any way he was asked had not been a lie. If he was called upon to wield the pen rather than the gun, then wield the pen he would. That did not, however, prevent him from repeatedly cursing the circumstances that had so damaged his knee that he'd become a liability in the field. With a stoicism borne of experience he opened the first file and began read.
The next couple of hours passed gainfully, if not pleasantly, as he ploughed though the various reports and documents. As he scrawled his name on each individual paper he was becoming increasingly irate; statements from officers, no problem; Intel assessments on which actions had been based, necessary; record of official debriefs, yes; recommendations for improvements in the future, that could save lives. Never again did he want to sign the order to request that yet another name be engraved upon the weeping wall. These requirements he could cope with. It was the health and safety assessments that pushed the iron into his soul while simultaneously launching his blood pressure into the stratosphere. Was he really supposed to instruct Erin, 'Before you enter a building occupied by a mad terrorist bent on sending us to Armageddon can you just check everyone has access to clearly indicated exits and just in case of an accident with a gun please ensure that you are carrying a first aid kit with sticking plasters that haven't passed their use by date.' Fools. Dolts. Idiots. Time serving buck passers incapable of understanding the field, or of making a sensible decision.
With this twaddle finally signed off for now he felt he had earned the right to a touch of self indulgence. Bizarrely, considering his attitude to paperwork, he rewarded himself for being a good boy by contacting Debra Langham's office, informing the hapless minion who answered that when he asked for details of Ruth's putative replacement he required a full unexpurgated file, not a brief résumé omitting details that might appear later on Facebook to the embarrassment of the entire service. A CV drafted under the guidance of some overpaid careers advisor accentuating the positive told him nothing about the candidate and everything about the likelihood of them accepting Harry's management style. As a maverick himself, whose successful career had been distinguished by his uncanny ability to judge when it was necessary to kick over the traces, Harry had no interest in party line candidates espousing politically correct platitudes combined with an adherence to iron clad protocol. He was more intrigued by those who had the potential to wriggle out of tight corners via plausible lies, or were capable of taking a bold independent decision when required. These days he'd not have survived the screening process, and neither would Adam Carter or Ros Myers, two of the finest officers he'd ever had the privilege to serve with. Erin Watts was still a trifle too rule bound for his taste, although he had to admit she was coming along rather nicely under his influence. She'd recently been complicit in more than one unblushing lie in the successful furtherance of their aims and he'd also noted that despite her earlier distress at the turn her personal life had taken neither she nor Dimitri had submitted the dreaded 'Permission to Socialise' form, a document that Harry personally thought should more bear a more accurate title, such as 'The Permit to Shag.'
As the clock crept beyond one o'clock he began to fight down an impending twitchiness. No Jane, Dimitri and Laura, 'Don't worry Jane is probably reducing the director to a quivering wreck, with luck.' No Calum: 'he needs some sleep, I suppose.' No Erin: 'I hope this augurs nothing more ominous than being distracted by a shoe shop.' And crucially no appearance from Malcolm whose beavering away had produced no wondrous revelations from the computer. Having completed his penance of paperwork Harry, considering that any action was better than pacing around his office like a moody lion, had half risen from his chair as a precursor to politely tackling Malcolm as to his progress, or lack of it, when the telephone rang.
The voice of the operator reflected the nervousness implicit in approaching Sir Harry vis a vis an unsolicited caller. "Sorry Sir. A woman needs to speak to you, she was most insistent. I tried to tell her you weren't available but..."
Hope sprang: Catherine!
"Very well, give me her name."
Hope died: Mrs Rebecca Smythe.
Oh God, as if he hadn't had enough GBH of the earhole from Jane. And as Rebecca was not residing under his roof it was unlikely that she would exercise the restraint of Jane had shown over the past couple of days. A random series of clicks heard through the receiver indicated that the caller had been successfully transferred and was all his. 'Lucky him'. Before Harry could even murmur a polite and totally meaningless greeting his ears were assailed by a testy voice similar to Jane's, although Rebecca's utterances were totally lacking the flavour of caustic wit that formed the base note for many of her sister's comments.
"Is that you Harry? Because I need a word with you." The pitch at which this was stated made Harry think that 'a shout with you' might have been a more appropriate phrase. Resolved to be as determindly polite as possible, for as long as possible, which, in the light of their previous exchanges, was a time period that would probably be measured in seconds, he greeted her.
"Good afternoon Rebecca. I assume that this isn't a social call to inquire after my health. What can I do for you?"
Her reply didn't disappoint, brusque, direct and uncivil.
"No it isn't. You can tell me where my sister is."
Various frivolous replies ran through his mind but he rejected them. Only the extreme edges of worry would have pushed Rebecca into contacting him and Jane wouldn't be pleased if he was rude to her sister. Now was not the time for petty point scoring, or for analysing why Jane's wishes had suddenly assumed a paramount importance. Contemplating how best to answer her it occurred to Harry that Rebecca could have an ulterior motive. Had Robin persuaded her to act as his agent in an attempt to track Jane down? Jane, at long last, may be wise to her current husband's devious ploys, she'd sussed those of husband number one years ago, but did Rebecca know the full story? When last heard screeching at him Harry had received the distinct impression that Rebecca was of the opinion that Robin irradiated enough light from his backside to enable the sun to take a short break in summer.
"Why do think she's missing?" The oldest trick in the manual of spy self preservation, find out how much the enemy – not an inappropriate appellation for Rebecca – knew by answering a question with a question.
An exasperated Rebecca exhaled loudly down the receiver before yelling at a volume that would have negated the need for him to place the call on speaker phone.
"Because I had that piece of work she's married to ringing me up demanding to speak to her."
"And she isn't there?" Although attempting to sound innocent but concerned, it appeared to Harry that Erin wasn't the only person to have had problems with her fan club today.
Rebecca finally lost her temper, "First of all I got a peculiar phone call yesterday from Jane saying she'd touring around, something she never does, so not to worry. Then I get Robert yelling at me that Jane's walked out and he wants her back by the time he gets home. If not..." her voice halted, uncertainty and loyalty to her sister must be preventing her from repeating Robin's words in full, especially to Harry. He heard her sucking breath into her lungs before she continued in a more normal tone. "He sounded out of control and then just before he rang off he shouted something about bloody Pearce interfering."
"I thought he'd know I was the last person Jane would run to." 'True, I found her. No mention of Catherine I notice, and yet he knew she was missing if Laura's report was accurate.' Harry could feel his anger with the man beginning to surface yet again as he recalled past unpleasant communications to the effect that as he was such an uncaring father he should butt out and leave the parenting to the solicitous Robin. Now Catherine's welfare didn't even rate a mention in the bastard's lexicon. Harry was peculiarly relieved that Jane had vetoed murdering the shit; it had left him free to plan a much more artistic revenge. Rebecca, meanwhile, was continuing to bray down the phone.
"Harry, just stop playing games. If you do know where she is just tell her that she's welcome to stay with me and damn Robin and his threats. You can also add that she hasn't fooled me over the last two years or so."
"I'd do no such thing..." he was interrupted by Rebecca screaming, "you uncaring bastard."
Harry was keeping a firm and increasingly shaky grip on his temper. Honestly, for years Rebecca had made it plain that the world in general, and his family's lives in particular, would be much pleasanter if his existence could somehow have been obliterated from history. Now he was suddenly expected to act as a superannuated goffer at the immediate clack of Rebecca's tongue. In attitude it put her on a par with the DG, the CIA and certain politicians. Much worse of everyone he could not say, other than the lovely Robin, Snuggle Bunny that was, not Batman's little chum.
"Rebecca, please listen to me. If I knew where Jane was 'True I don't know her exact whereabouts at present' "I'd refuse to have any part in dispatching her back to a husband she may have left and who, judging by what you've just told me, sounds deranged. "
The lack of response alarmed him. Rebecca rarely shut up. The statement that silence was golden having long since been translated by her as silence being the equivalent of pyrite. He hadn't heard any click to indicate that she'd hung up but why the brooding taciturnity?
"Rebecca, are you still there?"
The savage reply reassured him that she was still connected, "I shouldn't have bothered ringing. I knew you'd be no help."
"If you can stop shouting for a minute answer me one simple question. Was Robin threatening just Jane or you as well?
The reply was halting but clear. "Both. I doubt he really meant it though, he was just very angry. Anyway Jane's my sister, I'll take the risk."
Much as Harry loathed Rebecca he admired her courage. "No Rebecca you will not."
"Don't you dare tell me what to do you arrogant swine – have you any idea what you put Jane through. Not to mention your children."
Listening to her shrieking Harry began to understand anew why his ex brother in law worked away from home so frequently. Had James also acquired an equivalent to Smoochie Babe? Reckoning that even his eardrums had their tolerance limit Harry cut firmly across her rant.
"Working on the assumption that your sole brain cell is not taking a well deserved holiday, and since you're the one who wanted to talk to me perhaps you would do me the courtesy of shutting up for a minute and listen."
The affronted gasp at the other end of the receiver advised him to talk quickly. "Rebecca you will not take that risk because Jane would not want you to. You will do the following. Firstly you will consent to me to putting you on the MI5 family alert list. With Snugg..." ...oops ...he'd nearly said Snuggle Bunny..."Er... Robin threatening the ex wife of a Senior MI5 officer this is a potentially dangerous situation. You will also contact the number I'm about to give you in the event of Robin or anyone else making threats or acting suspiciously. Finally you also contact me if Robin gets in touch again."
Rebecca, while sounding slightly more placating didn't soften easily, he'd give her that. He also remembered that she'd been fighting serious illness recently. She was no doubt trying to return Jane's support and Jane might need her, which meant, inevitably, that he had to protect Rebecca as well. For years he'd wanted family contact, within the last few hours he'd acquired it with a vengeance. What was that saying about being careful what you wish for... But he was, at present, on better terms with Jane. For the first time in months his life held some small chink of personal hope. He'd walk a long way barefoot to preserve that precarious alliance. On balance helping Rebecca was the marginally less painful option.
Rebecca had revived sufficiently to ask a pertinent question. "Why the hell should I do what you want and why are you offering anyway? I'm not your ex and we've never liked each other."
"Personally I'd be happy if I never heard or saw you again Rebecca, but Jane no doubt feels differently and you've always been there for her. The fact we're having this conversation at all suggests that you still are." With an honesty that might just disarm her he added. "You want to help Jane and since through helping you to do that I can annoy the other idiot she married it's no contest. Now will you do as I ask, please?"
There was a few minutes silence as Rebecca was plainly weighing up the odds. Finally with grudge in every syllable she concluded, "Very well, you haven't fooled me. I know you know where Jane is but if you can get Robin off our backs okay. Give me that number."
Harry pinged his way through a few files and read off the number. "Got that? Good. I'll send an alert to them."
He didn't expect thanks, which was just as well since she rang off with, "And when you do see Jane tell her she makes a crap choice of husband." 'I love you too Rebecca.'
The whole conversation left Harry reflecting that when you married you didn't just marry the person, you married their family. On that basis it seemed unlikely that Catherine and Graham would ever hit the altar, registry office or any one of the various peculiar venues in which people chose to tie the hangman's knot these days. The son of one of Harry's old army acquaintances had recently celebrated his nuptials in a football club...football!...now Lord's cricket ground,... that might have been more like it. Unbidden and quickly suppressed was the thought, 'If she'd said, yes, if their lives had turned out otherwise what would Ruth have opted for, something Greek and classical? A simple ceremony with just two witnesses? Or would she have thought a ring and certificate superfluous?' Might have beens. Should have beens. Never would be. Never meant. He simply couldn't afford, at this moment, to brood on such thoughts. Especially when the whoosh of the pods was proclaiming that Erin had just returned, sporting a bag from, if he was not mistaken, a rather expensive dress shop. Time to question her about her priorities; especially after her exhibition this morning.
As Harry approached he saw Erin was talking to Malcolm. She'd obviously noticed his scowl as she hurriedly explained, "This is not what you think Harry. Yes I went shopping but I was shaking a potential tail."
His face dared her to elucidate. "I contacted the asset as promised giving the code word Ros had left in her file. She agreed to meet at a small coffee bar about ten minutes from the embassy. Anyone listening in would think we were old friends meeting up for lunch. Robin was to shadow and, I hope you don't mind, but I also asked another junior officer to go to the cafe a few minutes before me, witness and handy if things got rough. That way Robin could keep his cover."
"Very well continue."
"When I got to the cafe there was no sign of her. I waited, looked as if I was reading a book." Harry's impatience was beginning to mount, he knew all about remaining unobtrusive in the field, how else had he survived to be standing here snorting with irritation. Erin may have noticed the familiar signs as she hastened onwards, "Anyway after fifteen minutes I thought I'd lingered long enough. I was about to pay my bill when she arrived."
"What had kept her?"
"I couldn't ask as she sat down apologising. It was clear she was rattled. We had a conversation, the type you have with old friends you've not seen for ages but she began by including a code sentence that told me she was possibly being watched, Ros had left some code keys to trigger phrases, they sound innocent but have hidden meaning." 'And next week Erin I'll be tasking you with teaching your Grandmother to suck eggs.'
He managed to confine his response to, "So you weren't able to acquire any Intel?"
Erin hadn't finished. "Eventually she suggested, casually in case anyone was listening in, that we departed to the Ladies. From which I assume she thought it was a man who might be following her."
Harry reflected that this would look natural. Like most men he'd frequently wondered why women had to go to the toilet in pairs. It was one of those mysteries that came under the general heading of feminine mystique; as puzzle it was right up there with why did women like pink, not understand the beauty of cricket and complain that sex might spoil a relationship.
Erin was now describing the hidden activities that had taken place in the temple sacred to womanhood. "Once we were in there she put a finger on her lips, obviously worried about being bugged, but pulled a piece of paper out of her bag. The flushing of the loos disguised the rustle. We went out, sat down, finished our coffee, kissed affectionately and left."
"So why go shopping?"
"That was my cover story if we were overheard. Out for the day, needing to buy a dress for an evening party. Just in case I was being followed..."
"And were you?" 'What a convenient cover, a shopping trip in work hours –were you purchasing a post row man trap for Dimitri?"
"According to the signal Robin gave me when I left the cafe the asset hadn't been followed but I didn't want to take the risk as he may have missed something. Just in case I was being watched I stuck to the story, went shopping for long enough to either convince a tail or make it so obvious they were following they had to give up. I returned here via a combination of tube routes to make sure. I hope our asset is safe. "
"Very well, what did you get?"
"A rather nice dress for the Reception. I've worn my other..."
God give him patience. "Erin from the asset. Dimitri can admire the dress on the night." 'And in his position, if I was in a relationship with you I'd be surveying the fastenings with a view to striping it off you later.'
Malcolm who, unlike Harry, had never had much interest in women's clothing beyond the purely professional, intervened as this point waving a small piece of writing paper under his nose.
"She brought us this."
Malcolm was regarding the paper with a thrilled expression, the one that a hunter might have worn when a kill was in his sights. Harry sensing Malcolm's excitement stared at the jumble of letters that made no sense whatsoever to him before remonstrating, "Malcolm."
"Onto it. It's a code. Fortunately this asset is so cautious Ros had several codes. Thankfully she also left us the keys to them, encrypted in her notes, but recoverable."
Harry blessed the shade of Ros Myers. His life held many regrets for actions taken, but the vengeance he'd taken on Nicholas Blake for her death wasn't among them. He only wished he could have avenged Ruth personally. Tom Quinn had been an efficient but second best option. Ultimately though, the person who bore the primary responsibility for her death was himself. Sasha Gavrik may have been the one to stab her but Harry had been the intended victim. If only he'd been more insistent that she returned to the bunker...a moment or two quicker to grab her and pull her out of the way...hadn't fallen for Elena's lies...trusted his old buddy Jim Coaver... 'Pearce stop it you can't afford depression, your family needs you. '
After few minutes he heard Malcolm exclaim, "Got it."
"Well." He didn't like the apprehensive look on Malcolm's face. Harry knew what bad news looked like, the natural result of rarely receiving the opposite.
The grave response was to thrust a decoded sentence into his hand. Harry squinted at the phrases written in Malcolm's old fashioned script with mounting horror.
'Operation Rambo. Close down. Kill order confirmed.'
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