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Southwark

2.30pm approx

Time, that previously seemed to have sped by so rapidly, now seemed to move in slow motion as dust and debris first flowered upwards in nuclear style clouds and then, succumbing slowly to gravity, began to sink and settle onto the ground. The air gradually cleared to reveal, through the hanging haze of dust motes, a hole like a gaping mouth, the result of a substantial part of the building's wall having been ripped away by the blast. As flames and smoke flared outwards in angry tongues of dark grey and orange an ominous maze of cracks zig zagged their way across the masonry giving a clear indication that the dangers to life and limb remained. The fragility of the building was confirmed when, with a warning rumble, a further section of wall collapsed leaving the damaged interiors of various offices exposed, resembling a corporate version of an open doll's house. As one large boulder of reinforced concrete and plaster descended smack into the centre of the workman's tent, Calum was mentally calculating the money he'd saved the service a couple of minutes ago during his death defying rescue of various expensive pieces of kit. He knew better than to voice that thought at present, instead he'd store it up for discussion against his next appraisal cum pay review. At this juncture the prevailing concern was the ultimate fate of the now unseen threesome who'd been smothered by the explosion.

The crash landing of the substandard architecture seemed to jolt the group into action, forcing them to shake off the numbed disbelief that had succeeded their short moment of rejoicing. While the fire brigade personnel were arming themselves with breathing equipment and the various forms of foam chemicals required to dowse the flames, Nat was picking up his medical bag and demanding a hard hat. The police reluctance to let him advance beyond the safety cordon being brushed aside with the phrase, "It's my job and those people are my patients." Sensing that Jane was about to make a move to follow Erin placed a restraining hand on the older woman's arm, "Let Nat go Jane, that building is unsafe. Harry would be furious if you took the risk."

Jane was about to protest, especially at the unfortunate use of the past tense, but as Erin's eyes flicked automatically to the area where the trio had last been seen, still ominously devoid of any movement that suggested life, she realised that the younger woman was equally conflicted. A second's consideration also reminded her that after all the effort Harry had expended on keeping her safe it would be a poor gratitude that saw her throwing her life away. Choked at the thought that Harry might even now be a cooling corpse she didn't reply to Erin's advice, instead she just strained her eyes, staring fixedly at Nat delicately picking his way across the rubble, seemingly unfazed by the odd pieces of furniture that having been dislodged by the force of the fire brigade's hoses were crash landing out of the building like product designed raindrops. Having reached the point 'last seen at' he dropped onto his knees. Head down, seemingly absorbed in some mysterious task Nat's subsequent movements were agonisingly indistinct until suddenly his arm shot into the air, a pre-arranged signal for the paramedics to advance with a stretcher. At almost the same moment Dimitri could be seen easing himself up from the ground, producing a sudden gasp of thankfulness from Erin. As the stretcher bearers reached the small party a second, more substantial figure finally sat up, then with a helping hand from Dimitri struggled to his feet, his face still turned towards the ground as slowly and carefully the paramedics made movements consistent with lifting and strapping a body onto the stretcher, finally covering it with a blanket. A small parade began to move slowly towards of the watchers, headed by Nat obviously checking the ground for obstacles, followed by the paramedics with their burden, and finally Dimitri in the rear guard hovering solicitously over a limping Harry. Jane, as they approached found herself swallowing convulsively; Harry had survived but what of Catherine?

As the party, bearing an ominous resemblance to a cortege, moved ever nearer it was the car crash syndrome. She didn't want to look but couldn't avoid doing so anyway. Her heart thumping, her mouth going dry, her breath coming in small rasps, she almost fainted with relief when the group drew level and she could see that while Catherine lay like the dead her face remained uncovered. Frighteningly pale but alive. As the stretcher passed her, heading in a straight line towards the waiting ambulance Jane suddenly realised that Harry and Dimitri must have peeled away from the rest of the group. Turning around she drew yet another gasp. Harry looked dreadful, two bumps on opposite sides of his head, suggestive that he was actually growing horns to match his devilish reputation, nose and lips that bore signs of recent bleeding and a half closed angry red eye. To complete the picture he was peppered with patches of plaster frosting and grit, the legacy of the bomb. Tongue tied by shock the best greeting she could manage was, "God Harry you look like a mauled wedding cake."

The words sounded frivolous, but registering the emotion lurking in the depths of Jane's eyes Harry wasn't fooled as he replied in like form.

"Better that than a funeral baked meat."

Any further exchange was terminated by Nat emerging from the back of the ambulance, "I've stabilised Catherine as best I can but we need to get her to hospital asap." Fixing Harry with a gimlet eye he continued, all trace of his normal joviality gone, "And you Harry need to be checked over as well." In response to the predictable, "I'll be fine, Nat," the exasperated medic all but shouted with a threatening intensity, "Harry you've been bashed around the head. I need to check for concussion and brain bleeds, that knee needs an X ray, you've friction burns from the ties and at least two wounds that need stitches.

Harry's bulldog set of jaw suggested that he was digging in for an argument, an event delayed by Erin's approaching, - her timing good or bad, depending on whether you were Harry or Nat –"Harry the police need to speak with you."

"Very well, I'll be over in a moment." With that issue parked he turned to Nat, "I have to deal with this..." his final words drowned by Jane's, "For God's sake Harry – are you intending to be only person to say on their death bed I wish I'd spent more time at the office?"

Jane's initial relief was giving way to anger as yet again Harry appeared to be putting his family last. Harry for whom time had not diminished memories of endless vicious rows moved to head her off with the firm reply, "No, but I really want to ensure that those bastards who nearly killed Catherine get everything that's coming to them."

Nat intervened in this exchange, "If we don't get moving they could still be facing a murder charge." Giving up on Harry he addressed Erin, "No more than ten minutes max and then you get him to hospital, at gunpoint if necessary." With that he stalked back towards the already revving ambulance leaving Harry and Jane staring at one another. Jane was torn, she wanted to bawl him out but seeing him standing in front of her, tattered and battered, blood barely clotted, she could only guess at the level of physical abuse he'd received. That and the recollection as to how she'd felt four minutes ago when she'd thought the gruesome task of arranging a double funeral might fall to her, forced her to bite on her tongue. Harry, who regarded being beaten up as part of the job, was simply relieved that she wasn't ringing a peel over him, he was still suffering from what he trusted would be a temporary tinnitus from the explosion. Before she could say anything he ploughed on with his action plan. "Go with Catherine, I'll follow," continuing in a softer voice, "I promise."

Knowing that rowing with him was useless, and with Nat ostentatiously staring at his watch Jane gave in. Harry was at least conscious and functioning which was more than could be said for Catherine. Nat impatient to proceed snapped, "Jane, you go into the back. Unlike the obbo van we have seat belts." As Jane moved he reminded Erin, "Ten minutes, and bring Dimitri in as well."

As the ambulance departed at speed with the emergency siren blaring, Harry surveying the general scene of devastation caught sight of the ruined tent, now a tattered plastic flag waving in the slight breeze. Rasping, his throat was still semi choked with dust he enquired, "And where exactly is the third musketeer?" a question answered by the appearance of Batman and Jason, who in a bizarre reprise of Catherine's rescue, were dragging an insensible body between them, although with considerably less care than Harry and Dimitri had expended. Dropping the bloke at Harry's feet in roughly the manner of Fluffy dumping an unsatisfactory bone the question changed to a "Well?" this time directed at Erin. Mindful of Nat's timeframe, Harry's temper, and an interested audience consisting of police and the remaining paramedics, Erin was as succinct as possible. Even so at the conclusion of her bald narration she decided that it was fortunate that Nat wasn't present. She didn't need a medical opinion to inform her that the recitation of the CIA's arrogance and inference was the catalyst currently sending Harry's blood pressure straight into the stratosphere of 'light the blue touchpaper and retire'. The presence of several interested policemen lamely pretending that their attention was focussed elsewhere – they'd make terrible spies - forced Harry to rein himself in. Ignoring the plods he instructed Jason and Batman, "Pick him up, put him in the ambulance and get him to hospital. Jason stay with him and his colleagues until you are relieved. Batman get your dogs kennelled. Some quarters of the service will take a dim view of biting chunks out of the CIA, but give them an extra chew treat as a thank you from me." In an inflection of genuine regret he added, "I'm sorry I missed it." Viewing his remaining troops he reverted to his usual brisk voice, "Malcolm, Calum, get our equipment back to base, and send some officers to relieve Jason. " His own staff deployed Harry turned to focus his attention towards the uniform in nominal charge, whose offended expression indicated that he objected to being placed in the same visual bracket as wallpaper. Harry recognised the symptoms. Time to deploy the tactic he rarely bothered to use these days, the charm offensive.

"My apologies officer. You did a magnificent job in clearing the area with no civilian casualties in such a short time. I'll make sure your superiors know that." The subject of this praise instantly began to thaw under the sunshine of Harry's approval, moving from bristling resentment to a more conciliatory, "Sir Harry with the CIA being..."

"Exactly. Thank you for being so aware of the possible implications. My officers will liaise with you regarding the paperwork and any formal press statements. Officially the CIA involvement is not to be mentioned. Informally I'm advising you that the possibility of criminal charges later does exist."

With the police satisfactorily smoothed over and out of earshot Harry gave Erin her next order, a simple, "Get me to the hospital."

Erin was unable to conceal her shock, "You obeying orders." Accompanied by the sort of joke that was usually inadvisable, "Afraid of Nat!"

"No, but Jane is a different proposition."

The subject of Harry's different proposition was at that moment seated in an ambulance looking more terrified than terrifying. While her body was firmly confined by a seatbelt her mind was roaming freely through a dark forest of looming dreads. Harry had kept his word and got Catherine out alive but looking at her condition the question remained, for how long? Two days ago Jane would have been relieved to know that her daughter was alive, now she realised that 'and well' were also operative words. She'd been nearly paralysed with worry when she climbed into the ambulance and nothing Nat had said since had been particularly reassuring.

When she'd finally struggled up the steps into the back she'd been presented with the sight of Nat and the paramedic fiddling with various pieces of equipment. Without turning his head Nat informed the paramedic, "I'll takeover, you travel with the driver, and I want the emergency siren used. Jane you belt up."

Jane bridled at this comment before realising he was referring to the seatbelts. Doing as instructed she enquired, "Has anyone suggested your bedside manner is wanting?" Nat, while not ignoring the rebuke, replied honestly. "I work in Thames House not Harley Street, and spend my life rowing with irascible buggers like Harry who always know best." Touché. That, she thought, was almost certainly inarguable.

As the ambulance jerked into movement Nat, after a final check on his patient, sat down and strapped himself in. Now he'd shifted his position Jane could see Catherine clearly for the first time since she'd entered. If anything Catherine looked even more alarming than she had done earlier on the stretcher. Her skin wasn't just pale it had a waxen, clammy appearance, not unlike the plastic mannequins that Jane remembered using to practice the kiss of life during various First aid courses. With the two key differences, the mannequin wasn't wearing an oxygen mask or covered with a blanket. Even without the sound of the siren demanding swift passage through the congested uncaring London roads Jane would have known that Catherine was still in deep trouble.

Nat, having given her time to digest the sight, headed off the inevitable questions. "Harry was right, her breathing is shallow so the mask is to help with that and to get oxygen to her brain." Jane's shudder told him that she'd processed the implication of brain damage. "At present she is unconscious and her pulse is both weak and rapid. Basically she is presenting with some symptoms of overdose."

"How bad is it?"

"We won't know until we run some tests. She's not in a coma and hasn't deteriorated in the last ten minutes or so, which is a good sign, also her general health is okay. That said Jane I have to ask, has Catherine ever been addicted to any form of drug?"

"Not Catherine as far as I know but..." Nat instantly detected the faltering note. "Jane."

"It's just, well Graham, our son, you know..."

Nat just repressed a grin, "The young man with the bruised balls, I remember."

"Graham was an addict for several years and ..." God this was hard but she had to fess up for Catherine's sake, "Before Harry and I split up and for some years afterwards I was on antidepressants and got addicted."

"I notice that you use the word was."

"Yes, but with Harry's alcohol consumption, which I'm sure is above the recommended limits, it seems that addiction runs in the family."

Seeing her wriggle with embarrassment Nat took pity on her, "Anyone can get addicted to anything. The main point is that Catherine is clean, as for yourself and Graham, if you've both managed to break the addiction it suggests to me that the strong mindness and determination gene also runs in the family. Harry, despite everything he's seen and experienced, still has his drinking under control." 'If Ruth's death didn't drive him into alcohol dependency nothing will.'

With that the conversation ended, leaving Jane to indulge in her own not very comforting thoughts and to stare at her daughter, as if by exerting her own willpower she could force Catherine to keep breathing.

On arrival at the hospital Jane was escorted into what she recognised was a secure unit and thrust into the relatives' room, accompanied by an assurance from Nat that someone would be along shortly. The room wasn't designed to cheer, institutional dun coloured easy clean canvas flooring blending in with equally dull cream walls. Embellished with unpleasantly bright florescent strip lighting and thin cheap curtains, plus the usual buttock numbing plastic chairs placed around a low small table whose surface held a scattering of various pamphlets and dog eared magazines. Any residual optimism was squashed by the NHS posters blu tacked around the walls like plague spots, hectoring and nosey in equal measure. Preferring not to think about the symptoms pertaining to irritable bowel syndrome, or incontinence, her eye toured the walls absorbing in sequence a piece advising her to breastfeed 'A bit late for that', an enquiry as to whether she was suffering from erectile dysfunction, 'only by association', and finally a document outlining the pointers purporting to indicate stress. The latter making her want to scream out loud to the effect that considering this was decorating a hospital waiting room who the hell reading this wouldn't be stressed up to the eyeballs and beyond? From the outside corridor she could hear the vague indeterminate hum of passing conversations and the occasional swish of a body heading towards destination unknown, but no one arrived to relieve her loneliness. After three quarters of an hour waiting she could only assume that the NHS interpretation of 'shortly' was the medical equivalent of a country mile. The longer she was immured here in ignorance the more nightmares and worry began to prevail, reducing her to the status of a quivering wreck. When the door eventually swung open it was to reveal not a doctor but Harry carrying two paper cups.

Her first response wasn't exactly calculated to welcome him. "Oh it's only you."

"Thanks."

After the experiences of the day he had a right to expect more warmth so she apologised instantly, "Sorry Harry, it's just that with no information about Catherine I'm climbing the walls with worry."

"How about this coffee to while away the time?"

Reaching out to grasp it she replied gratefully, "In the absence of crampons, thank you."

As Harry sat down heavily she was able to look at him properly. What she saw distracted her from her own troubles. The dust and grime that had previously encrusted him had been cleaned away, with some form of antiseptic judging by the whiff floating up her nostrils. Now dirt free the full glory of the various bruises was revealed, adding a colourful tinge to his face that owed nothing to cosmetics. To be blunt with the two lumps on either side of his head, his right eye half closed and his swollen upper lip Harry looked a mess. It was a theme continued in his clothing. Normally so pristine it bore even more witness to the events of the afternoon. Harry had either removed his tie or had it removed for him, either way its formality would have seemed garish when teamed with the oil stained trousers, still shedding the odd lingering granule of cement, and the ragged shirt destined to be converted into a duster. Both sleeves of the latter were rolled up to the elbow, affording her the sight of pieces of sticking plaster applied to various parts of his wrists and forearms. Knowing just how fastidious Harry was about his personal appearance, he'd never been one for the sweat stained tee shirt and five days worn underwear, or the alternative of designer stubble chic, she began to ferret in the depths of her capacious handbag, eventually extracting her comb.

"Here I can't do anything about your clothes but at least get the grit out of your hair."

Catching her eye Harry's lips quirked in encouragement, "Go on, say it."

"If you insist; what remains of it." Softening the sarcasm with seriousness she added, "If you've had many days like today I'm amazed you've any hair left."

Availing himself of the implement silence fell for a moment while Harry vigorously combined his scalp, sending a minor shower of grit onto the canvas flooring. Handing the comb back, with the apology, "Sorry nothing to clean it on."

"I doubt you need a nit search. But have they checked you out in other areas?"

"X rayed to the point of radiation sickness plus blood tests, breathing tests, the full medical monty."

"Ahh and I bet you didn't even get a sweetie. Any results?" Noticing him wince as he attempted the impossible task of making himself comfortable on one of the chairs she enquired, "And what about your knee and back?"

"They'll let me know about the tests although nothing can be done about the knee, that's why I ended up behind a desk. My back, just age, rest will sort it out" Having dismissed his own health as a matter of minor importance, as indeed it was to him, he asked the more pertinent question, "What's happening about Catherine?"

"Not a clue. She was stable, whatever that means, before they bundled me in here to fester, but with what Nat had to say earlier I've been haunted by worry."

Harry's eyes lighted upon the selection of glossy magazines Jane had previously ignored, seemingly dedicated to a lifestyle that would be light years away from the experience of most of those immured in this room. "Well you can't say you haven't been given a chance to extend your literary education, who needs Fielding, Dickens et al when you can thrill to this?"

Jane, noting automatically that Jane Austen, the author lurking in his bedroom hadn't featured on that list, read the proffered front cover emblazoned with the banner headline, 'Jordan and her latest man. Are they really happy?" - 'Do I really care?

"No thanks, I'll just shortcut to reading the information on depression which is roughly how the celb culture affects me. If the authorities must paper the walls with such dour posters you'd think they'd have the courtesy to put up one for the Samaritans while they're about it. How are you proposing to while away the time?"

"I could try the literature on alcoholism I suppose."

Having read all the wall admonitions exhaustively Jane had an alternative suggestion, "Or examine yourself for prostate cancer."

"Not necessary Jane, we've just given him a thorough testing in all departments. I must say the underpants created some comment." The door had opened to reveal Nat. Sitting down between them, with a face that could have graced a hanging judge, he delivered the verdict.

"Catherine is in a side ward. She's on a ventilator to help with the breathing. From the blood tests it would seem that Coaver did give her an overdose." Watching Harry start to seethe he added, "As he intended to hand her over to the CIA it probably wasn't intentional. Unfortunately these drugs are classified because the difference between a safe dose and an overdose is wafer thin and varies from person to person."

His pause implied that this was the end of the health bulletin but Harry wasn't deceived, "And the rest Nat."

"Because of the amount of the drug we've given her a liquid form of charcoal through a tube via her nose to bind it, it's a precaution to stop it spreading into the rest of her system. Tell me Harry is it at all possible that she's had any alcohol?"

Harry frowned trying to recall the minutiae of his recent faceoff with Coaver Junr, "He didn't say but there were some beer cans in the room,"...suddenly it hit him, "God no, did her give her some of that before the injections."

"Possibly. The blood test shows a very small amount. Normally that volume would be insignificant but the liver processes the alcohol first which means the drug saturates the system, making it much more serious."

"Can we see her?" This was from Jane.

"Of course, follow me. And do remember at present she's still stable. Basically we have to wait until the drug clears from her system."

Harry, who knew him of old, recognised the note of fatalism in Nat's voice expressing the unspoken addendum, "or until her body gives up." Harry appreciated that Nat was trying to spare Jane but thought, given her prior experience of drugs in their various guises, that it was unlikely she'd been fooled.

Two of Harry's junior officers were on guard outside the small ward Nat led them into. Catherine, lying as still in the bed as she had in Coaver's retreat and then later in the ambulance, was a sight to scare anyone. Wired up to a variety of machines monitoring pulse, heartbeat and breathing, attached to a drip and ventilator she resembled a twenty first experiment to create a benign version of Frankinstein's monster. As they moved around the foot of the bed Harry recognised amongst the other medical ironmongery the emergency response tray. He'd seen that regularly in his career, not infrequently at the end of a bed he'd been occupying himself. Nat having made a couple of final checks disappeared with the remark, "Any change press the alert button." As he vanished Harry reflected that Nat was not one for the bromide that everything would be well. He didn't have long to consider the issue as a sound from Jane drew his attention.

Looking at Jane he saw tears falling from her face as she leaned over Catherine, brushing her hair aside. Half jokingly he muttered, "Hey don't drown the girl, she can do without pneumonia as an addition problem." Jane was too upset to reply in her normal combative mode. Gently he put his arm around her and guided her to the standard plastic seat, sitting himself beside her. "You heard what Nat said, she's stable and it's a waiting game."

Jane's choking reply proved that what passed as tact from Nat had been in vain. "Nat also thinks it looks bad. If she dies you'll have risked your life for nothing."

"I'd do it again Jane even knowing that would be the outcome. And you forget the Townsend Pearce clan are a tough bunch, Catherine survived the Lebanon, Graham drugs, you two lousy marriages, as for me, well various vicious parties have tried to finish me off for years. What did you say the other night about Pandora's box and hope? Focus on that."

"I want to but when I see her like that, and Nat thinks even if she recovers she could have brain damage."

"Three possibilities then, she recovers completely, she is incapacitated in some way, in which case she'll need us to support her or..."

Jane completed the sentence for him. "She dies."

A gut wrenching reality he didn't want to face, "Then at least she'll die with us both beside her, loving her, not flickering out in a grubby room on her own, or with her murderer looking on."

'Was that really true...did Ruth die feeling loved...did she even believe what I said about a life together...was it really better for her or me?' Seeing his daughter supine and struggling for survival, hovering on the brink of extinction he could feel the cold grip of despair seizing his brain, identical to the feeling that he'd experienced a three nights ago when he'd entered the same hospital not knowing how badly injured his daughter was, and been greeted instead by Jane...Jane. Temporarily wrapped up in this own grief, flavoured with his own special brand of guilt ridden memories he'd forgotten her for a moment. Facing her he sensed her brittle desperation combined with a total lack of conviction at his words.

With Jane to consider he was unable to give way to his own emotions, and that moment had passed anyway as he dug deep into another memory, the one he'd eventually adopted as an emotional crutch when his self disgust at his actions in the immediate aftermath of Ruth's death had receded sufficiently to allow him to start rationalising for the sake of his mental survival.

"Remember I told you about Wes's parents, Fiona, his mother, was killed trying to escape from her ex husband. She died in Adam's arms. He was distraught for months but when he could finally bring himself to talk he did say that as Fiona had died knowing she was with him and loved, that made the loss easier to bear."

Jane was meditating very carefully. Harry was brilliant at many things but articulating emotions wasn't one of them. That this most private of men could at least attempt to comfort her by doing so spoke volumes for his desire to make amends for the past. But was it their past...? His words implied that the events he was describing were vicarious, but the note of sadness in his voice, the sorrow in his face was making her wonder afresh, even at this moment when her thoughts should centred on their daughter. Malcolm's words about Harry having experienced a great deal of loss came back to her, so exactly whose personal experiences were informing those words? And did it really matter when he was here beside her, finally attempting to offer the comfort and support she'd craved years ago. This was not the time for interrogation. Instead she took his hand and squeezed it, a gesture of thanks, solidarity, mutual solace? She didn't know that either, and again did it really matter? All she knew was that for the first time in years they were truly trying to support one another in a time of family crisis.

"Thank you Harry, I'll try to hang onto hope and that thought." If Harry was intending to say anything as a chaser to his answering hand squeeze it remained stillborn as the officer outside the door, after a hesitant knock entered and virtually stood to attention at Harry's testy, "I said I wasn't to be interrupted."

"Sorry Sir but Ms Watts has sent a car for you. The Home Secretary wants to see both of you at once."

"Towers can wait. Tell her that." When the junior stood his ground Harry's eyebrows drew together in a threatening scowl.

"Sir, she said to inform you that the Home Secretary apologises but he's got the DG, Foreign Secretary and Head of CIA liaison insisting that the Head of Counter Terrorism attends to answer questions concerning the unjustified assault and detention of CIA agents."

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