Many thanks to my regular readers and reviewers. Apologies for the length of this chapter - I simply couldn't find a suitable point at which to split it.

"A penny for them Harry."

Jane's quiet words cut across his private reverie. For few moments Harry, straying into his memories of the last time he'd escorted a woman to a formal event, had become disengaged from the present. A present in which the woman who'd figured as the centrepiece of his wandering thoughts no longer existed, not in any physical sense, although for him she'd never really died. Instead seated beside him in the government car propelling them through the London streets was reality in the shapely form of Jane, glamorous, intelligent and possessed of an indefinable charm that not even her tongue could detract from. He'd not been joking earlier when he'd commented about having to swat away her admirers. If his heart hadn't have been lock downed for life by an eternal guilt he'd have fought his way to the front of the queue like a shot, using every devious move in his not inconsiderable book of tricks to neutralise each and every rival for her affections. The puzzled concern in Jane's eyes forced him into speech,

"Jeffries the CIA liaison officer will be here. I've been forced into promising not to assault him." So far, so true.

With a sense of alarm, she'd seen Harry in action when he'd irretrievably damaged Robin's cherished classic profile, Jane exclaimed, "Harry I thought this was a black tie event, not a cage fighting contest."

Treading carefully across a battlefield strewn with raw recollections, Harry tried to soothe her understandable apprehensions. "Towers was referring to a previous occasion when I took someone out with my elbow." By way of further explanation he added, "In my defence I did prevent Ilya Gavrik being assassinated."

Jane, while reasonably certain he was telling the truth, after all she could easily check the veracity of that statement with his team, was equally certain that it was only part of a larger truth. That faraway painfully withdrawn look that she'd become accustomed to had been writ large across his face. Even in the eerie half light afforded by the endlessly flickering changes in intensity, created by their passing from streets that were poorly illuminated followed by others that were near floodlit, before the car plunged once more into gloom, it had been obvious that he was trapped in an emotional maze. If travelling to this venue with her was stirring memories it seemed probable that previous similar occasions had seen him escorting the mysterious Ruth, including, Jane was guessing here, the event he'd just mentioned.

Racking her memory for anything she could recall about that highly publicised political about turn she realised that she now had a tentative time frame. The partnership had been signed in the summer, so that implied an occasion that must have taken place a few weeks prior at the outset of negotiations, probably just after the Royal Wedding. Although Elizabeth R Mark Two, being constrained by the demands of democracy, was scarcely in a position to yell 'Off with their heads, ' it was unlikely that the bunch of Eton alumni who infested the elected Government would have deliberately set out to steal the Royal thunder. Ilya, she now had the surname, was the one Harry had called upon in his nightmare, - something they had to do - so what had they been involved with?"

Harry inferred by her unwonted silence that Jane's mind was working overtime. He could swear that he heard the cogs grinding as she attempted to join up whatever disconnected dots he'd inadvertently betrayed. As his thoughts flew back to his earlier suspicions regarding her unconfirmed excavation of his bedroom, he tried to convince himself it might be as well that she was vacating his house on the morrow. A return to a personal privacy that would leave him glad, - relieved - melancholy - lonely and...and as the car was now drawing up outside their destination for the evening, he had no time to ponder further. They'd arrived – as a reconciled couple – for one night only.

Since escorting Jane had awakened his memories of Ruth with a vengeance truly worthy of Chris Coaver, it was with relief that he perceived that the hotel chosen for the event lacked the gothic splendour of Bannan Hall, reducing down the opportunities for inconvenient comparisons to invade his mental peace. Expensively bland, the décor was neutral, almost Scandinavian, in its spareness. The overall impression, one of airy lightness, created by the predominance of cream based shades ranging from the light brown polished wooden flooring to the just off white tones of the drapes cloaking the walls. Boring, unexciting, but in its total lack of character, or anything startling to distract the eye, it would make an ideal backdrop for the planned entertainment. A lack of clutter also contributed to the sense of space. The unobtrusive furnishings, scattered around the outer rim of the room, consisted of circular tables and chairs, displaying the wood carved simplicity that only a really exclusive design could achieve. Some of this seating was already occupied by those early arrivals who were confident enough to sit and let the world come to them, rather than hunt it out via physical room roving networking. The central floor, untouched by such impedimenta and sufficiently spacious to provide the actors with an ample stage was, at present, hosting small knots of chattering guests, men uniformly dressed in dinner jackets accompanied by women arrayed in gowns of jewel bright colours, pecking, like so many exotic birds, at the trays of canapés borne around the room by the perpetually circulating waiting staff. Surveying the disparate nations and interests Harry decided he'd been summoned to partake in a form of cultural Olympics, the gold, silver and bronze medals presumably being awarded to those persons with the jaw bone stamina to out intellectualize the opposition in swapping 'informed?' statements about the arts. For those with little knowledge of Shakespeare, and even less interest, a providentially free bar was situated at the far end of the hall. Its near invisibility indicating that it was already being besieged by a large cohort of individuals requiring the prop of grape or grain, a form of self medication to ensure their survival during the grisly evening of dramatic exposition that lay ahead.

Harry had carefully timed their arrival to avoid attracting the attention given to those who were either noticeably early or fashionably late. He was not here incognito but spying habits stuck, and given his long list of people to avoid, beginning with Gawain, encompassing several politicians, and terminating with Jeffries, he was hoping to remain inconspicuous. Alas for Harry, his appearance with Jane had been duly noted. No sooner had they stepped into the room than a rather distinguished looking, attractively greying gentleman advanced upon them. Harry, whose habit of a life time was too default into instant suspicion when confronted by someone advancing with intent, was spared taking action when the stranger kissed Jane warmly on the cheek while declaring with a frank admiration, "Jane, so lovely to see you, and looking so gorgeous as well, but ..." Noticing Harry for the first time he continued uncertainly. "Er Robin not here tonight?" Suppressing her amusement at the offended Harry, who wasn't accustomed to being reduced to a cipher, Jane leapt into the conversational gap, "Oliver, allow me to introduce Harry, he's a friend from university days." Harry found his hand firmly grasped, followed by a vigorous shaking.

"Good to meet you Harry. Would you mind awfully if I captured Jane, we're trying to put something together for next year and would like her input."

Harry, who actually did mind awfully, was inwardly flaring with a jealousy which, he told himself, was protective instinct. Although in no position to assert ownership claims he was deeply resentful of being deprived of Jane, especially by a someone who so presentable and intelligent. Not asking himself if he'd have been experiencing the same emotions had she been accosted by someone who wafted body odour and conversed in grunts, he contented himself with saying,

"Of course not, but Jane please join me for the performance, I'm relying on you to interpret."

"As if you needed my help, but yes I'll see you later." And with that she was, damn it, borne away on Olivier's arm to the far side of the room.

Bereft of his companion Harry adhered to his original plan and headed towards the bar. Identifying the whisky on offer as taste bud poison he settled for a glass of red wine, vintage dubious but just about drinkable, on which to sip while making his rounds. Checking on his officers and pressing the flesh of various acquaintances kept him fully occupied, particularly when those harmless activities also involved fulfilling his reluctant promise to Towers, which in its turn involved avoiding Jefferies, the gorilla in a dinner jacket. In which last endeavour he was aided with the help of instruction from his officers relayed via his usual earpiece. Any word that 'Yankee Doodle' was at six o'clock, ten o'clock, or any other o'clock, saw Harry proving that despite his not inconsiderable desk created bulk he could still do passable imitation of the Invisible Man. It was about twenty minutes later, when, having completed a weaving circuit he ended up back at the bar seeking a refill practically colliding into Oliver intent on the same mission. While steady on his feet, and by no means drunk, Oliver wore the slightly sprung expression of one who'd had regular recourse to the free bar from his moment of his presumed early arrival. Before Harry could say anything, he was still seething at Jane's casual removal, Oliver greeted him as if they were already friends.

"My apologies for earlier, but I've wanted to talk to Jane on her own for some time, and I'm not the only one, she's in demand." Met with Harry's intimidating silence he went on, "Jane says you go back a long way, so have you ever met Robin Tindall?"

"Briefly a couple of times."

Harry had strived to keep his tone even but the unbidden crisp snap of his reply had spoken volumes. Under the mellowing influence of fermented fluids Oliver seemed to relax as he expanded his theme. "So you'll know what he's like, trying to have a conversation with Jane without him contributing his world view is difficult."

Translating this statement as 'Nigh on bloody impossible' Harry, having detected an incipient hostility to the rampant Robin, reverted to spook mode. Digging for Intel he seemed to unbend a trifle.

"I was under the impression he was highly thought of, especially in view of his giving a keynote address next week."

Oliver, with lack of enthusiasm that matched Harry's own when discussing Robin enlightened his new found chum. "My understanding is that the first choice dropped out and Robin offered himself in a way that made refusal difficult." After a brief pause he commented wryly, "You'll know how skilled he is in the art of self presentation. In this instance by claiming he's some sort of guru on behaviour."

Harry's questioning stare served him well, keen to continue the conversation Oliver vouchsafed, "And I can't say I'm convinced of that, given what I've seen of Robin's own conduct."

"The mote and the plank."

"He's definitely a plank. I don't understand how Jane puts up with his constant patronising."

Offered an opening Harry took it, even if his next statement almost made him gag, "Love is blind and all that." Uttered in a neutral tone with just a slight hint of interest it encouraged Oliver to open up further.

"You said it. It does make you wonder why such an intelligent woman makes such a disastrous choice of husband. That's assuming of course that Robin's correct in his assertion that Jane's ex was a violent thug who once broke Robin's nose when he, Robin was remonstrating with the ex about his treatment of her. I'm not sure I believe that in its entirety but..." With the hint of a grin Oliver added, "Personally if I ever meet the guy I'll shake his hand for having done what I'd love to do myself." Despite the engrained habit of not breaking cover Harry restrained himself with difficulty from proffering the said limb.

Reining back, as if aware that he might have lapsed discretion wise Oliver collected his drinks, "Well I'd better rejoin my wife." With that he set off in search of his neglected spouse, two drinks Harry noticed, so Jane must have moved on to discuss arty topics with others of her acquaintance.

The information that Oliver wasn't a free agent had cheered Harry enormously, as did the realisation that Malcolm had been correct on two counts, Robin was not as universally admired as his CV might suggest, and may well be jealous of Jane's rising profile in the world he sought to dominate. Good news indeed, but carrying with it the implication that the footwork of damaging Robin without Jane suffering collateral damage would be tricky.

He had little time to ruminate upon these issues since Oliver's departure was the signal for Towers arrival, another press ganged attendee seeking the oasis of alcoholic succour. "I need to circulate but I assume everything is in order."

"Indeed. I believe the performance is due to commence in around fifteen minutes Home Secretary."

From somewhere just behind Harry rose a high pitched whinny of complaint, "Not a performance, a travesty – the glorious Bard traduced to a historic irrelevance."

Harry had an unpleasant presentiment that he knew who the speaker was. 'By the pricking of my thumbs something pretentious this way comes.' Turning around while grasping his glass, he had a feeling that he'd need to swig the contents to give him strength, he was confronted by a thin individual of around his own height. He restrained a gulp as he took in the vision of long flowing locks brushing the shoulders that were clad in a red velvet dinner jacket – worn - dear God - with a pale blue shirt, sans tie, but adorned with a compensatory frill, topping off legs encased in denim jeans. And could that possibly be a hint of blusher and mascara cunningly highlighting the self satisfied ratty features that Harry thought better suited to the concealment of a paper bag? The whole look seemed self consciously designed to imply Bohemian and creative. The actual impression shrieked effeminate pantomime dame caught half way through preparing for a performance.

Unabashed the person, accompanied by a more conventionally attired companion whose handsome features and physique could have put the word beef into beef cake, introduced himself with an ostentatious flourish. "I'm Gawain."

His voice implied that the self important use of just his forename said it all, which for Harry it did. Evenly he replied, very carefully not offering his hand or an introduction to himself, Towers was of course instantly recognisable, "I think I've heard the name mentioned. I believe you are responsible for the drama tonight."

"I should have been, a showcase, an opportunity to reveal the relevance of the Bard to modern day sensibilities – traduced, ruined by that woman someone thought fit to approve. Tweedy with a voice like a horse, no vision, no imagination, infused with a commonplace mind smothered by convention."

Towers, hard put to imagine Harry married to a female who even remotely matched Gawain's hyperbolic description, didn't think the flush on Harry's face was attributable to either alcohol or the heat of the room. Gawain entranced by his own eloquence continued his soliloquy, under the sadly misplaced illusion that it attained the poetic levels of the Bard.

"Shakespeare so vital, stifled by the inhibitions of the middle class, it's a tragedy I've not been able to accurately bring forth his voice."

Harry had finally managed to recover his, "I was rather under the impression that his voice had survived quite well up until today."

"Ah yes but how, so inadequate, so clichéd, stifled by centuries of tradition, he needs sympathic interpretation, a fresh vibrant thrill, to bring forth his vital messages."

A sardonic Towers, enjoying tremendously the sight of Harry forced to restrain his temper, in a spirit of sly enquiry asked, "Which are precisely what?

Sensing an audience, but not the underlying sarcasm, Gawain switched into full throttle, "That the human spirit is free and untrammelled – the concept, think of Hamlet so confined by conventional religious tradition, Macbeth tied to a wife who failed to understand his inner torment – the demonic possession signalled by his seeing the witches in an out of body experience, his Kings their character confined within the mortal temples of a crown unable to express themselves fully,... I ask you did Shakespeare care about conventions."

Gawain's further flights of fantasy were promptly punctured by Harry interpolating, "Probably, since I suspect he cared deeply about eating, he was after all a working playwright.

Gawain unused to begin challenged, normally his audience was dumbstruck by his erudition, or just plain dumbstruck, surveyed Harry with a sorrowing eye before a retreat into the world of his own unadmitted prejudices brought forth a further drama laden declamation.

"So immersed in the Establishment values that are the death of creativity – how could you understand the life of the mind, the subtleties that pervade every part of the Bard. It is my destiny in life to rearrange the common perceptions of William for a new and enlightened generation and re educate the hide bound Philistines."

Towers observing, thought that Gawain in his turn was failing to appreciate the subtleties and perceptions that pervaded every part of a Sandhurst training. Harry's face was stamped with the authoritative glare characteristic of every commanding officer when confronted by a belligerent recruit in crying need of a severe haircut, succeeded by an interactive discovery of the enlightment contained within the firm application of a military booted toe to backside. Was that steam he could see emerging from the ears of his head of Counter Terrorism?

Gawain unconcerned about the offence he was causing, and oblivious to the danger he stood in as a result, having glimpsed an acquaintance across the room decided his immediate destiny called him elsewhere, "Excuse me I must go and prepare the actors, poor souls being forced to follow convention instead of fulfilling very actor's desire, to be brave, to experiment...to..."

As words failed him Harry supplied them, "Perform with their clothes on – I'm sure they're upset."

Gawain was not to be deflected by this interpolation from Harry, "So typical, so inhibited," and from him, the ultimate insult, "so heterosexual and secure... safe in your conventional little world that never challenges you. Mentally, sexually and physically hidebound, just look at darling Dmitri, so handsome but ruined, never to truly fulfil himself. Come Crispin, I must give the actors their notes, attempt to resurrect my vision and restore the shards of the evening."

With that he minced away. His companion had the grace to look embarrassed as he muttered, "I'm Crispin by the way." Slighted through Gawain's failure to introduce him, Crispin, attuned to the vibes emanating from Harry, made an apologetic attempt to excuse his partner's behaviour. "I do hope you aren't offended. I'm afraid Gawain can get rather carried away."

Eschewing the temptation to reply 'I'll arrange it', in fairness the beefcake was trying to atone for a passage in which he'd been a mere spectator, Harry reassured him. "Not at all, but do tell him that I've nothing against the gay community. Over the years I've owed them a great deal."

As a glum Crispin disappeared in the direction of the magnetic Gawain, now making an obvious play for Dmitri who, if Harry was any judge, was just as determinedly ignoring his advances. Having battened onto the Mr Universe of the Grid Gawain was frantically attempting to detach Dmitri from Erin. Erin in her turn was doggedly clutching Dmitri's arm as if fearing for his virtue, while the newly arrived Crispin, as befitted his status as Gawain's declared partner, was trying to break into the would be love triangle to reclaim Gawain. Watching this byplay it occurred to Harry that here was a comedy worthy of the 'Glorious Bard' himself.

Leaving the two couples to fight out their couplings Harry, feeling the need to recover from this shattering encounter with culture, indicated to the barman that he required another, very large, drink. Towers still nursing his own glass was ruminating, "Harry I'm wondering if I should nominate Jane for the next Honours list, citing Services to Sanity'"

Harry acknowledged this by indulging deeply in his own citation to sanity, alcohol, "I'm sure she enjoyed taking Gawain down several pegs, quite an achievement really given that he has an ego the size of a marquee."

Towers bound by Cabinet collectivism, and the knowledge that anything you said to Harry would be mentally filed for future use, refrained from stating that compared to some of his colleagues Gawain seemed positively humble. Instead he asked the question that was really intriguing him, "Harry what did you mean by being indebted to the gay community?" Surely Harry hadn't ever actually...he knew Harry would do most things in defence of the realm...but that!...the mind truly boggled with vague unwanted unsavoury images.

Not unaware of Towers' speculations Harry hurriedly explained. "In a far less PC era the mere suggestion that someone was gay combined with the threat that it would be publicised was enough to turn them, or make them sing." Reflectively he continued, "From Security Services point of view when most of the population thought like George the Fifth life was much easier. Now after we've had an MP posing on a gay dating site in his underpants, and another cottaging on the Hampstead Heath, homosexual outing has ceased to be a viable threat in several parts of the community." With a groan he concluded, "Liberalism can be very inhibiting."

Fully cognizant with Harry's views on the damage inflicted on Security Service operations by the raging tides of liberalisation, and not wishing to even vaguely compromise himself with a hint of agreement, Towers, the political adept, made the correct response. He changed the subject.

"Well Harry after listening to Gawain's masterly description I'm agog to meet Jane, I assume she's here somewhere?"

It was a good question. Scanning the room Harry spied Jane seated about halfway down the room. Her back was towards him, but from its rigid set he suspected that she was not enjoying herself. Making his excuses to Towers Harry tacked around various groups towards her. Seated at one of the circular tables, like all the others embellished with an artistic centrepiece of cream scented candles and a few white roses, velvet petals were wilting in the heat, Jane was bravely attempting to converse with a couple whose piercing Transatlantic twang proclaimed them to be natives of Harry's current least favourite country.

With his forensic spook eye Harry was assessing the pair as he approached. The male: salient features - a puffy red face, generous fat padded body, eyes on stalks - was gazing with an undisguised inebriated lust at Jane, despite the presence of his Barbie doll companion. The woman: bottle blonde, fake orange tan, industrial length eyelashes, her most prominent feature a pair of pineapple shaped double E breasts, the latter only just confined by the bodice of a strapless gown created in an eye watering shade of shocking pink. Given the strain imposed upon the upper reaches of the garment, Harry, while acknowledging the feat of engineering support, worried that if she accidentally trod on the hem of her dress Gawain would acquire an unscheduled display of nudity from the waist up. Indeed she might as well have been naked since the clinging nature of the fabric suggested that underwear was an optional extra that she'd skimped on. The contrast with Jane's quiet understated elegance was almost painful. The one retained an air of mystery, a hint of hidden depths that promised to challenge and intrigue. The only mystique appertaining to Barbie was how much of her embonpoint was the product of cosmetic enhancements, the low cut neckline being an open invitation to manually explore the subject, or rather subjects on open display. Harry decided to pass on that one. When he was in a position to exercise personal choice he preferred his woman attractive, but top heavy only in the brain cell department. Any lingering suspicions that he might just be thinking in stereotypes – it was not an automatic given that an incisive mind and a WAG wannbe appearance were mutually exclusive - were dispelled the instant he tuned into the conversation that was under way.

From the utterly bizarre proclamation Harry overheard as he reached the table it was apparent that Miss America was not going to be troubling MENSA any time soon. Discussing the forthcoming performance the utterance tripping from her tongue confirmed that it was not only her heaving breasts that were pumped full of silicone.

"Gee I just love family sagas but I like to see them in order. I wish they'd been doing Richard I first rather than this one about his son."

Jane's look of bafflement was total until Harry, ever the gentleman, came to the rescue, "Jane she's referring to Richard II."

Barbie, with no sense of irony, confirmed his suspicion, "That's right. Sorry I thought you'd know the history of your own country – so do you know the play?"

Her air of patronage at Jane's exposed stupidity found Harry, usually so deadpan, struggling to keep his face straight. Jane's expression alone - a combination of irritation at being patronised by the archetypical dumb blonde, combined with mystification at the woman's self satisfaction - was enough to set him off, but since in approximately two seconds time she'd begin to correct Barbie, he hastily and smoothly intervened,

"With its subject matter about fighting Islam anything extolling Richard I could be a little politically sensitive."

Barbie nodded sagely, "Ah I see."

Before a mercifully speechless Jane could rediscover her vocal cords Harry closed down any further discussion , "Please excuse us, the Home Secretary would like me to introduce Ms Townsend to him." Not waiting for a reply he offered Jane his arm "Shall we."

Rising from her chair with an alacrity that bordered on the impolite Jane allowed him to steer her towards the bar. Feeling a tremor running through the arm she was grasping, she turned her head, catching him now openly bubbling with laughter. "Sorry Jane but your face!" Choking he found himself unable to continue.

Jane stung, made good the silence "How can anyone be so ignorant..." and then she also began to shake with amusement, "And Harry stringing her along like that. You really really are dreadful."

"So you've always told me."

While Harry had been occupied with Jane Towers had been indulging in a quiet conversation with Erin. Every bit as prone as the next man to the joys of gossip he was curious about the relationship pertaining between Harry and Jane. The Whitehall village grapevine had it that their marriage had learnt from the errors that had made the Cold War look warm and friendly. Towers could appreciate that Harry, ever one to exploit anything and anyone, would have happily pressed Jane in service over the Reception details, but offering her houseroom! Accompanying her to the Reception! Initially refusing to attend as he was concerned about her! Erin had provided little enlightenment beyond, "We're learning to live with their bickering." His attention was instantly attracted by the sound of a man and woman laughing. Watching this small scene Towers turned a questioning eye onto the Section Chief.

"Humm Miss Watts I thought you said they didn't get on."

Erin was saved from replying by the arrival of Harry and Jane; able to make her escape in obedience to the unwritten rule that the members of the service when on duty did not bunch together in a huddle, but remained apart in pairs as they scanned the assembly for potential trouble.

As the couple moved towards him Towers had been eyeing Jane with a well concealed interest. Personable he'd anticipated but taking in the tall slim frame, the cool glamour of her appearance, she formed an interesting contrast to Ruth that only added to his sense of intrigue concerning Harry's current relationship with his ex. Knowing he'd not get a straight answer from Harry on such a very personal matter Towers settled for a straightforward open question.

"And what were you up to over there Harry?"

With a sparkle of laughter that Towers had never heard before in Harry's voice the answer came. "Preventing a diplomatic incident."

As Jane indignantly stated, "I was just going to ..."

"Point out that she was an idiot, I know." Said with a glowing smile directed at Jane., Before she could start arguing that she'd simply have been educating the woman he performed the necessary introductions. Towers shaking her offered hand commented, "Having just met Gawain I really must thank you for your Herculean efforts in producing an entertainment that will not cause instant offence."

Jane as forthright as ever, not even slightly abashed by the august presence suggested, "Perhaps you ought to wait until we've seen the performance – I'm haunted by what Gawain might have shoehorned in at the last minute."

At that moment the overhead lights began to dim, an indication that the show was about to begin. From the small table reserved for Towers and his party, which apparently included Harry and Jane, it was possible In the candlelight radiating from the tables to observe those who were still on their feet abandoning the raucous gossip in favour of a mad dash to secure seats. An activity reminiscent of a game of musical chairs in which, Harry noticed sardonically, the crestfallen losers ended up well away from the bar. Then with a musical flourish the first actor moved to centre floor, waiting for silence to establish itself before he began to declaim.

"This royal throne of Kings, this sceptre isle,

This earth of majesty...

As the speech proceeded onwards Harry was reflecting that while Walsingham et al had their security worries over the threats uttered by the Pope, the Scots, the Irish, and various scheming European monarchies at least they could rely on the fact that,

This precious stone set in a silver sea,

Which serves it in the office of a wall,

Or as a moat defensive to a house

Against the envy of less happier lands

Those, he brooded, were the days. In terms of defence the English Channel had now acquired the status of a small puddle thanks to the ever present threat of cyber warfare and dirty bombs; although he'd admit that his spymaster predecessors did have to cope with the threatening shadow of the Inquisition – Europe's sixteenth century version of Al Qaeda.

From there the performance flowed far more smoothly that Jane had anticipated, either Gawain had given up, or Harry's back up threats to the career of anyone who diverted from what Jane had set in stone had been effective. The excerpts were well chosen, superbly acted, and in interpretation blessedly uncontroversial. Then they reached 'The Winter's Tale'. Harry, while vaguely aware of the planned content, having finally begun to relax, with his personal defences lowered, suddenly found himself a victim of the poignancy...

You perceive she stirs.

Start no: her actions shall be as holy as

You hear my speech in lawful

Do not shun her

Until you see her die again, for then

You kill her double

Those the skilfully delivered words encapsulated the living breathing embodiment of a dream that sometimes came to him unbidden, occupying those momentary seconds between sleep and waking when he awoke to the hope that she'd miraculously survived, only to weep with desperation as reality bit afresh. The sheer emotional impact of seeing this played out before him forced him to bite his underlip, as the agony that formed the permanent background to his existence re emerged, sweeping across him with an intensity he'd not experienced since those few terrible minutes in the immediate aftermath of Ruth's last breath. Swallowing hard he fought back as tears threatened to swamp him, displaying his private torture to public view.

...for I saw her

As I thought dead; and have in vain said many

A prayer upon her grave.

Jane attuned to Harry's slightest movement sensed an infinitesimal quiver, so slight she might have imagined it. Recalling the sudden silence that had descended like a blanket upon the Grid when this play was first mentioned a couple of days ago curiosity could not be resisted. Unaccompanied by any giveaway shift of her body, in the semi darkness the quick flick of her eyes towards his profile was imperceptible. Restraining a gasp Jane quickly refocused her ostensible attention upon the performance. Expecting to see the frozen expression that had become the norm, instead, even in the shadows thrown out by the guttering candlelight, she'd seen a look of such torment and yearning etched upon his normal impassive face that she'd felt like an emotional voyeur. The sight of so much naked pain was almost obscene, trespassing into his unguarded private moment even more so. It told her that Harry was perilously poised on the threshold of a depression and self hatred that she could only describe as 'accidie', that word used by the medieval chroniclers when writing of despair so deep, so wretched that existence seemed worthless. Despair that was such a negation of the gift of life that it plumbed the depths of mortal sin. The pity she felt was, conversely, accompanied by a splurge of anger. He'd spoken on several occasions over the past few days of truth and trust, had gradually wormed out her own secrets, and yet remained stubbornly silent about whatever was tormenting him. He'd made it plain he wanted to remain on good terms with her - was he tired of loneliness – heaven knew she'd had enough of that herself. Work was fine but the moment came when even the most confirmed of lone wolves craved company as they slammed the front door shut. Was that the reason? That Harry, who was a byword for bravery, was terrified that the revelation of his secret would cause her to turn on her heel and walk away. And having guessed some of it, but not knowing the full story was he right? Considering their past, considering especially that she was privy to some limited knowledge of his professional activities, what could possibly be so awful, so vile that he couldn't share it with her?

Seated well away from this private drama Erin and Dmitri were holding hands, and apparently gazing lovingly into one another's eyes. Personal desire masquerading as a necessary cover, designed to inform a lascivious Gawain that 'Darling Dmitri' was not about to become one of his acolytes. Due to their apparent absorption in one another they remained unaware of that their boss's ongoing emotional turmoils had resurfaced, or of the resulting angst of his current arm caddy cum ex partner in life. What they were doing was listening with close attention as 'The Winter's Tale' morphed into 'Much Ado about Nothing.' The joyfully depicted bewilderment at the revival of Hermione being replaced by the sound of Beatrice and Benedict's fiesty sparring.

(Beatrice) But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

(Benedict) 'Suffer' a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for

I love thee against my will.

(Beatrice) In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart!

If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours,

For I will never love that which my friend hates.

(Benedict) Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably

At which declamation by the character of Benedict Dmitri nudged Erin, "Remind you of anyone we know?"

Erin was for once thoroughly shocked, "D, you're not suggesting – "

"She's good for him – when did you last see him laugh as he did earlier?"

Turning her attention to that very pertinent question Erin could only recall Harry's smile on the day he returned to the Grid upon his temporary reinstatement by the enquiry. After some form of post Albany reconciliation with Ruth and before the disastrous resurfacing of the poisonous Elena. Even so she was moved to protest,

"But surely after Ruth it's too soon..."

"And women say men have one track minds. I'm not suggesting that they hit the sack together but Harry could do with someone in his life."

Erin, although she thought this was still a dubious proposition, was silenced not by Dmitri, but by the annoyed shhing from their neighbours. Drawing attention to themselves was not part of the agreed security brief.

The end was in sight as they reached what, Dmitri having sat through several rehearsals – not to mention the continual rows between Jane and Gawain – recognised as the final speech exhorting the audience to

Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises

Sounds, and sweet airs...

With which whimsy the performance finished bang on the time limit Jane had set. 'Reasonable bladder length' Dmitri recalled her saying. While the concluding stanzas were being greeted by an appreciative applause Harry turned to Jane, 'Thank you Jane." Leaning over he kissed her gently on the cheek, "I knew you wouldn't let me down." Seeing him smile so affectionately made her doubt for a second what she knew she'd seen with her own eyes. Inwardly she was sighing. She really didn't know where she was with him, but then had she ever?

While they were thus occupied, the one in concealing his secrets and the other in trying to uncover them, the actors had been summoned forth to take their final bow in the makeshift spotlight. Inevitably, despite a complete absence of calls for the director, Gawain also strutted forward, thrusting himself with a total lack of humility to the forefront.

"Please, many thanks for your attention, this was a very conventional interpretation of Shakespeare, if you wish to open your minds, and it is my mission to encourage you to look beyond the conventions imposed upon us tonight, into the deeper messages that Shakespeare left for us. It would my pleasure to take you by the hand..."

Undeterred by considerations of time Gawain burbled onwards with his monologue, ignoring the restive movements from the actors behind him. Having been subjected to more than enough of Gawain's vision over the past few weeks they were clearly desirous of collecting their fee and departing. Insulated in his bubble of self proclaimed intellectual superiority, drunk on his words, which lethally meant no chance of an alcoholic stupor taking him out, Gawain continued his pretentious prattle. Hampered by good manners the equally bored audience was feasting its thirsty eyes not upon the speaker but longingly upon the still open bar. Four minutes in, with no sign of the anyone approaching Gawain with a sock, accompanied by an explicit suggestion as to where precisely to stick it, Harry was on the cusp of giving Dmitri a nod to remove Gawain by gentle force when suddenly someone situated in the group behind Gawain did it for them. Shoving Gawain aside roughly, his protesting 'yawp' music to several ears, a dinner jacketed individual, previously concealed by the solid phalanx of actors now stood directly before the table occupied by Towers' party. Anyone inclined to quote another of the glorious Bard's lines 'For this relief much thanks' was halted instantly by the realisation that the newcomer was flourishing a very unpoetic gun, standard CIA issue Harry noted automatically. He'd recognised the face, last seen gloating when leaving Harry tied to chair in the company of a drugged Catherine and a ticking bomb.

In a grandiose style worthy of Gawain, although the National Theatre would have classified it as over the top and down the other side, he declaimed. "Ahhh you recognise me and now I've become Hamlet avenging a tragedy, the death of my father at the hands of one who trusted him."

With that he raised the gun. Harry noting that Dmitri was creeping slowly and silently towards Coaver, the actors equally trained in the art of stealthy movement swaying aside to allow him passage, attempted to buy time, "Don't do anything foolish..."

"No, you are the fool if to think you could hoodwink us. Like Richard Third, who was unloved and loathed, 'Think on Jim Coaver; despair and die.'"

As he proceeded to lift the gun whose barrel was now menacingly aimed at Harry's chest Jane, with a swift unexpected movement stepped protectively in front of the target, "You're wrong young man... just give..."

And then she was only conscious of a confusing rainbow of simultaneous events as the world exploded with gunfire. Dimly she registered the sound of screams as a firm shove in her back sent her plummeting sideways, crashing into another body that in turn slammed into the bar. Feeling a pair of male arms enclosing her, steadying her, she straightened herself up. Hauled into a vertical position, rubbing her badly jarred shoulder as she did so, she identified a badly winded Towers disengaging himself from the mess of glasses and wine strewn across the bar surface and now dripping steadily onto the floor. Unusually self conscious, she stammeringly began to thank the holder of one of the great offices of state for acting as her air cushion.

Wheezing, Towers managed to exhale, "Think nothing of it Jane. But we really must stop asking Harry to these events. My cardiologist tells me I can't take the excitement."

Which statement, along with the dull ache in her back recalled where her thanks really lay. Still shuddering due to her personal aftershock she turned, eyes and ears assaulted by a sea of movement, a blurry mosaic of confusion. What little she could distinguish in her dazed state was disjointed. A few images picked out by a brain on autopilot.

A shocked, grim faced looking Erin talking frantically into her mobile.

Jason trying valiantly to chivvy the reception guests into vacating the Hall in an orderly manner.

Coaver on the ground with Dmitri standing over him, gun pointed at the American's head. The normally pleasant young man wearing a murderous expression suggesting that the slightest movement on Coaver's part would activate a very twitchy trigger finger.

The screams of some women still in the throes of hysteria. And not just women. From above the general hubbub she could distinguish Laura asking, 'Contemporary enough for you Gawain?' in a tone of biting contempt, worthy of Harry himself.

Harry. She needed to thank him for pushing her out of the line of Coaver's fire. She'd expected to see him directly behind her but was confronted by a gap. Puzzled as to his whereabouts, a low groan from the direction of her feet forced her to her look downwards.

There on the polished wooden flooring, stained with rich red blood, an overflow from that oozing over his white shirt, lay Harry, flat on his back and barely conscious as he appeared to be rapidly bleeding to death.

A/N George V on being informed that a courtier was homosexual was reputed to have said, "I thought men like that shoot themselves."

WAG - for those who are happily not inflicted with the British celb culture stands for Wives and Girlfriends - specially of footballers, a grouping associated with obvious glamour and money spent on excessive bling.

Finally to my American readers apologies. I know none of you are as stupid as the aforementioned trainee WAG. Neither for that matter are most WAGs.

To everyone thanks for reading and if you have a second feel free to review