Sorry for the delay. Many thanks for your patience and particularly thanks to those who reviewed.

Harry's House

Four days later

Life for Harry, as he lay back and wallowed between the crisp sheets in his own spacious comfortable bed, if not precisely good was a definite improvement on the four wasted days spent languishing in hospital. The length of this imprisonment due to the sentence passed by an unfeeling cabal composed of primarily of Nat and Jane, with Malcolm co-opted as an honorary member.

Most of the first full day, Saturday, had vanished into an anaesthetic haze as he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of the watchers around his bed. At some indeterminate point in the morning he'd summoned up enough energy to croakily order the shattered looking Jane home. She'd tried to demur but was eventually persuaded with,

"Jane I'll rest easier if I know you and Catherine are not making yourselves ill."

It was only after they had departed that it had occurred to him to wonder if the absent Graham either knew or cared about the condition he, Harry, was in. A consideration abandoned with the arrival of another doctor to prod, poke and then inject a strong dose of painkiller, despatching him with alacrity back into the land of drug induced Nod.

Sunday had seen him restored to something more akin to his usual self, clamouring that he was okay and demanding, against the united opposition of Nat and Jane, his medical release papers. The first named bluntly pointing out that the specialist needed to check the perilous condition of the injured limb, and threatening nameless consequences if Harry ignored professional advice.

"You've now taken two bullets to that shoulder. We have to assess the extent of the possible long term damage and for that we need you off painkillers. If you insist I'll have them withdrawn from now, but I'm warning you it will hurt."

And it had. By the late Sunday evening his pain wracked consciousness was reincarnating so many vivid recollections of physically damaging field operations he was seriously considering the possibility that his food was being infused with hallucinogenic substances. Drugs or no drugs he was in no condition to argue with Jane who, yielding little to Nat in forthrightness, had informed him that he was staying put on the basis that,

"I've not had enough notice to boil up the chicken soup."

Waking on Monday, determined to ignore all this good advice, his demand to be discharged had been forestalled by the arrival of Malcolm bringing with him not grapes, but welcome tidings from the Grid. Erin's candid approach to Towers had resulted in a major ongoing row between the two great officers of state, with the Foreign Secretary still bleating that it was all a storm in a Transatlantic teacup and the Americans were extremely hurt by all these baseless misinterpretations of their actions in defending the free world. Backed by the DG, who took a very dim view of the activities of their CIA counterparts, Towers had finally won his, or rather Section D's point. No release without a full and proper investigation taking place. The very public nature of Harry's shooting, characterised in an unmuzzled press as, 'an incident arising from a misunderstanding which unfortunately resulted in an attack during which one of the parties suffered life threatening injuries. His condition is currently described as critical', had given Towers considerable leverage. Unfortunately for Harry it also gave the forces of darkness, currently represented by Jane and Nat, impeccable grounds for argument. From an operational perspective Harry's speedy discharge would instantly blast into smithereens the myth that he was fighting for his life; along with the chances of retaining the CIA agents in British custody. Since Harry's overwhelming desire to leave hospital was reluctantly superseded by his thirst to see Jeffries get his he'd finally caved in, on terms: Malcolm kept him updated, and any final decisions relating to the operation reverted to Harry. Forced to relinquish the day to day running of the section to Erin for once Harry found himself thankful for her rule bound mentality. That alone made it highly unlikely that she'd be bamboozled into giving Jeffries special treatment. Confirmation, not that he needed it, came from Malcolm's reporting that when the CIA had complained that the usual prison diet prevailing at Thames House was inadequate in roughage and vitamins Erin had crisply informed them, "At least they're being fed which is rather more than your organisation did for Sir Harry,' before clashing the phone down with a force that had made those in earshot shudder for the longevity of the receiver, while simultaneously wondering if the ions of Harry's lingering presence had transformed Erin into his spiritual doppelganger.

Even with this resolve by Tuesday morning the tedium of inaction was setting in. The promised arrival of the consultant surgeon had been scheduled for the afternoon, a time conveniently organised by the conniving Nat to ensure that the complicated paperwork of Harry's inevitable discharge would delay his release for a further day. Harry seeing through these transparent motives was vocal in unavailing protest, his annoyance at being confined to the institution ameliorated only by the humming and hawing verdict of the examination. While moving his arm and fingers was possible, his shoulder remained agonising, even for one accustomed to pain. It was fortunate that the august medic was out of range when he announced, "Pain is good, it proves the muscles and nerves are all in working order," or he might well have been the unhappy recipient of a nose rearranging punch delivered from Harry's good arm.

The overall verdict on the Peace scale of rejoicing was variable:

He could be discharged (good)

Subject to someone looking after him (Jane aargh...)

He would have to take a few days sick leave (Erin would probably have rearranged his chair again)

And just undertake light duties for a fortnight (Plainly the consultant wasn't conversant with Section D, the only light duties there were ones undertaken in daytime hours)

He was forbidden to drive for at least four weeks, possibly longer pending a follow up examination (His loss, his driver's gain in overtime)

But before he was discharged he'd need to see the physiotherapist and arrange some appointments (more pain, in Harry's considered opinion your average physio was an Inquisition torturer reincarnated).

Examination completed he was then confronted with a further obstacle to his departure. Grid security running subtle but thorough checks on the inhabitants of the hospital car park and similar entrance exit environs had detected the presence of would be disguised CIA officers, the inference being that their superiors weren't buying the story of Harry's possible demise. If Harry was going to be discharged, with or without medical approval, his extraction would have to be carefully planned.

Given no real choices he'd grudgingly been a good boy and had finally been smuggled home on Wednesday evening – a pleasant trip consisting of being removed via the mortuary exit in a coffin and then transferred from the premises of the friendly local undertaker into another vehicle, driven around a veritable rabbit warren of streets with two decoy vans to confuse any followers, a further transfer to another nondescript car which eventually, after traversing a circuitous route deposited him at his front steps - all useful preparation for being cosseted by the tender ministrations of Jane, whose sole resemblance to Florence Nightingale began and ended with her determination to put men in their place. In Harry's case this was a straightforward insistence on his heading up the stairs and straight into bed. More drained than he cared to admit by the combination of pain and the exhaustion attendant upon the convoluted process of arriving home he'd complied, with the sardonic reflection that long years ago the prospect of being ordered into bed by Jane would have thrilled him. Now all he could do was stagger across the bedroom and flop onto the mattress. At the sight of Jane, who'd followed him up, entering the room he protested weakly,

"Jane I really don't need a nurse, I'd be fine on my own."

"Harry I'm just checking that you are alright." As she placed a glass of water on the bedside table prior to drawing the curtains she continued, "And you know the conditions of your discharge, someone has to be with you. That's either me or Catherine. I foolishly thought that you might prefer me just in case you needed some intimate help. Not that I'm implying that the task would be any great thrill."

Silenced by that appalling thought, he didn't fancy the prospect of either woman fiddling with his privates - Catherine because she was his daughter, and Jane because... well why blur some of his better memories of married life - he'd flaked out on the basis that tomorrow was another day.

Any illusions he'd retained that on that another day, aka today, he'd be able to ignore the prohibitions imposed – in particular the ones relating to bed rest and not returning to work immediately - were dispelled when he clambered out of the bed. He should have suspected something when Jane docilely agreed to his taking a shower and vanishing while he stripped off his pyjama bottoms in favour of wrapping a towel around himself before hitting the bathroom. He could only attribute this oversight on his part to the lingering effects of medication. On his return, with the definite intention of getting dressed as a precursor to dialling up the Grid and demanding to be sneaked in through the back entrance, he discovered that not only had Jane removed every pair of trousers he possessed plus his underwear and dressing gown, a task presumably accomplished while he'd been malingering in hospital, she'd also, under cover of the noise from the shower, stolen all his pyjama bottoms, including the pair just vacated. He was now the proud owner of just one very ancient pair of cotton shorts - a legacy from the days when he was considerably slimmer - to serve as the figleaf substitute with which to cloth his intimate regions. While the said garment was just legal in terms of coverage his increased girth meant that the gaping waistband stubbornly refused to fasten, while the rest of the outfit was hugging to the point of constriction what in polite terms was known as his gentleman's area. It only took a couple of tentative steps to inform him that he was in danger of revealing all as gravity prevailed upon the perfidious cloth. While it was unlikely that Jane would turn a hair at the sight of his naked form, (pull a face possibly) and in previous decades modesty had certainly not been Harry's most prominent characteristic, he was only too aware that his body was no longer that of the buff, well muscled, youth of yesteryear. Examining himself in the mirror was chastening. What hadn't expanded had dropped south. He'd definitely reached the age at which making love with the lights on was inadvisable. With further horror he found that he was unable to walk more than two steps without having his knees embraced by the downwards slide of the shorts. Still a little wobbly on his feet, with the injured arm trussed up unable to bear any weight, and his other hand permanently needed to ensure that his dignity remained intact, he was effectively stranded upstairs.

Harry was rarely daunted but his remaining options were limited. One would be to abandon the shorts and wrap himself in either a towel or a sheet, risking the trip or drop/reveal all hazards. The other feasible alternative was to emulate one of the children when they were small -Graham he seemed to remember - and attempt a bottom shuffle down the staircase to the ground floor. After a short assessment he concluded that both possibilities were unworkable. Even if he made it downstairs without losing balance or severely jarring himself he wouldn't bet against Jane having a backup plan. Potentially one involving his ankles and the handcuffs he kept to immobilise intruders in lieu of shooting them. Despite the best efforts of the unspeakable Robin to prove otherwise bondage was not always erotic.

Frustrated he removed the testicle stranglers as a precursor to climbing into his bed naked. If he was trapped he might as well be comfortable. Once settled there he could only admire Jane's ability to second guess him, had Robin realised just how formidable an opponent she could be? Thoughts concerning the accursed Robin made him pause, releasing once more Harry's nagging confusion over Jane's current attitude. She'd been the sole occupant of the house for four nights and while he didn't for a moment doubt her statement that she'd spent most of that time sleeping, or exploring the merchandise in the local supermarket, when she wasn't arguing with him at the hospital, he'd sensed a very gradual change in her. Nothing he could pin down, but despite the warmth in her voice as he recovered she seemed to have retreated from him, becoming ever so slightly remote. Despite its being well tucked away in a corner he found it difficult to believe that she hadn't noticed the memorial bookcase or the titles therein, Jane homed in on anything literary with the speed and accuracy of a racing pigeon. Unlikely though it seemed he could only assume that her full attention had been occupied by the task of stripping out his wardrobe. Having pushed her into unpalatable confessions he could think of no other reason to account for her remaining silent when presented with irrefutable evidence of another woman's presence in his life, unless of course a lack of interest in him as a person rendered her indifferent to that possibility. Without analysing exactly why he found that explanation even more upsetting than his current confinement.

Thoughts of Jane automatically trailed him back to consideration of Graham. When he had finally surfaced sufficiently he'd realised that while Jane and Catherine were continually in attendance around his sick bed Graham was conspicuously absent. Harry was somewhat gratified when informed that the boy had actually turned up, expressing some concern for his mother and sister but wished he could have brought himself to stay. Graham's reasons for leaving were explained in dove tailed statements from Jane and Malcolm. Malcolm's confession to having outlined their plans had been met with the simple comment 'Well at least he knows he's been of help'. Jane's matter of fact recitation of events had been more hurtful, if he was no longer the ogre of his son's fantasy why the precipitate departure? He wasn't expecting an apology; it was enough to know that Graham had recognised his understandable errors. Uttering words to that effect had simply elicited from Jane,

"Give him time Harry."

"He's had nearly thirty years and I won't make it to the next millennium."

Prevented from going to the Grid, bossed around by Jane and denied whisky due to his medication he was forced to turn his mind to other issues, which was why he was now lying back against his pillows, avidly reading the latest headlines.

Normally his perusal of the morning papers was a cursory exercise in admiring the euphemism or downright lies to which the service and political spin doctors resorted when shrouding various events with obfuscation. Today however he had other concerns. To Malcolm's horror the papers had initially failed to pickup his plant, which had been promptly buried under the more titillating news that a premiership footballer, in a spirit of celebration after a local derby, had been papped dogging with the long term girlfriend of a fellow team member. A couple of days later however luck had chosen to smile on Harry, with the solemn proclamation from a government spokesman on education to the effect that allowing head teachers and their governing bodies full control of budgets was the most efficient method of ensuring a high quality, value for money school system. A wide wake reporter picking up the leaked information relating to Rogerson's cavortings, personal and financial, had successfully splashed the unexpurgated story across the front page of one of the tabloids. From there it had been adopted by the quality dailies, publications that while laying claim to what passed in the press for the intellectual high ground were far from adverse to weaving in the odd piece of scandal to spice up the serious commentary. Now Harry's unreasonably – by his standards - prolonged convalescence was being enlivened by an unabashed chortle over the various headlines, 'Randy Rogers All', "Cash and Carry On' "Hands on Head." along a couple of more thoughtful articles on the advisability of allowing schools free control of finances, one containing a quotation from the discomfited Robin that was guaranteed to have Jane shrieking with indignation. "I am utterly shocked by this. It is my opinion that those of us entrusted with the education of children should set an example of moral and financial probity in all aspects of our lives.' He wouldn't blame her for steaming over those comments. Even Harry, accustomed as he was to concealing the unadvertised shenanigans of the political class felt a little queasy in the face of such blatant hypocrisy, and that was despite the accompanying glee of knowing that Robin was digging not so such a hole as a hell pit for himself. Overall Malcolm had exceeded expectations and he really must remember to thank him properly during their scheduled catch up later today.

Jane entering the room carrying a wooden tray bearing two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits, obviously she intended to share his elevenses, enquired curiously, "What's so funny" In reply he held out the papers which she'd brought up earlier but not scanned. Speed reading the headlines she turned to Harry, her eyes sparkling with fury but restrained her comments to, "No need to ask who released this I suppose..." Followed by a puzzled, "But why..."

"Because it destroys any credibility old Randy has and raises serious questions concerning Robin's judgement. If the assault accusation does resurface who will they believe?" Seeing her look dubious he continued, "By the time we've finished Robin won't have any credibility left either, which reminds me Malcolm is visiting this afternoon so I want my trousers back...please."

Jane, ignoring his plea, enquired, "Do I want to know what you are plotting?"

"It would be better if Robin's lawyers can't accuse you of collusion."

"Meaning you're afraid I'll ask you to call the dogs off. Don't worry Harry, after what he tried to do to Catherine I just want him out of our lives." She added mournfully with a shrug, "When I think of my reasons for marrying him I probably deserve some punishment for being such an idiot."

Seeing the pain in her eyes, but not entirely understanding her reasoning he responded lightly,

"And you say I've got a guilt complex but..." Realising he was on the point of asking a question too far he petered off into, "...never mind."

"Never mind what?"

"I was wondering if you could bring yourself to enlighten me on one point that's always intrigued me."

Jane sighed, confession time again she supposed, "Was I shagging him while I was still married to you. I presume."

"Actually no, I've always taken that as a given. It was why you took about eight years after we divorced to get around to marrying him."

For what felt like the umpteenth time, Jane was cornered yet again. This was becoming tedious. Here they were situated in a bedroom featuring a hidden away bookcase that she was studiously avoiding looking towards, stuffed as it was with the literary relics of another woman with whom Harry had some probably disastrous history, and once again it was her secrets that were to be subjected to an emotional striptease.

Reluctantly, slowly, she began to fill the gaps trying not to sound too apologetic – after all it wasn't as if Harry was a shining exemplar of sexual probity.

"The nose breaking incident created quite a scandal, especially since Robin's wife was quite as unbelieving as you were. With our divorce in train we reverted to just being friends."

"Meaning Robin's ex and myself were correct in our assumptions."

Jane winced as she admitted, "Not entirely - on that old game of one to ten on the fumble index we'd stopped at round nine. Now if we could avoid that particular post mortem..."

"Willingly, I've seen enough photos of him in action. I can do without further visuals."

"Yes well I felt the same about Juliet and would probably have done so about a few others, if I'd been able to put a face to them. Anyway, with the divorce and the fact I was on anti depressants – your legacy along with the children – I wasn't keen on any involvement so we cooled it for about a year. After that well, shall we say ..."

"The odd occasional encounter reaching number ten."

Jane preferred not to comment. "I got the usual line of course, loved me, didn't want a divorce as that would upset his daughter's education, then it was wait until she'd graduated, then it was the work experience gap year in America followed by the post graduate course. Then his daughter went back to America, his wife went out to visit her – had a whirlwind romance and filed for divorce." She paused again, "With that he had no excuses to avoid proposing and of course I accepted. I'd invested a huge amount of time in him and felt that the children especially Graham needed a male role model as you were never around."

Harry lay back with a pained expression replying in an equally pained voice, "First of all I was around but you wouldn't let me have access. And your reasoning Jane, honestly, he'd only be useful as a role model for a snake oil salesman."

Thankful for such a mild rebuke in place of the severe explosion she knew she'd earned Jane hurried on with her tale. The sooner this was over with the better. "I know that now, but with having to be discreet until we were officially an item I never really got to see beyond the veneer. I thought it was working, and it seemed to for several years but now...

Reliving her various humiliations and Robin's calculated bullying, with hindsight so much worse than Harry's inadvertent abuse that had sprung primarily from a brash youthful lack of consideration, she found herself swallowing down tears that sprang from anger and despair in equal proportions.

"I don't suppose Smoochie Babe was the first. And ever since Catherine told me about Robin's approach to her I've been worrying, and wondering if his partners were of age."

Harry could at least reassure her on that one, "We didn't dig out much in the way of infidelity before the times you indicated. Unless he was incredibly circumspect it seems to have been a case of the ten year itch. As for your other worry he appears to have stuck rigidly..." Seeing her revived glare he hastily apologised, "Sorry not intended as a double entendre – he seems to have abided by the age sixteen watershed, and after he moved away from formal classroom teaching."

Jane, although glad to have that nightmare recede, still wasn't too happy, "The element of calculation you're implying almost makes it worse. The image of him sitting there with a calendar, until he could release his urges..."

Harry nearly choked on the biscuit he was nibbling. Coughing up the crumbs he wheezed, "Thank you. Robin and his urges are not something I want to think about."

"Neither did I when we married. Foolishly I forgot one major piece of advice."

Harry thought she'd forgotten several things at that precise juncture in time, beginning with taste in men and ending with her failure to assess properly what was going on in her own household, but settled for asking, "What?"

"The old saw, when a man marries his mistress..."

"He creates a vacancy." Wanting to lighten the mood a little Harry ruminated, "That could be interesting – will Smoochie Babe be the next lucky woman I wonder. What could I send them as wedding present – condoms lubricated with sand perhaps?"

Jane wasn't to be comforted, "Not funny Harry. Looking back I really wonder why I was so blind. And that I should have to ask you of all people to help me ditch him is just bizarre and embarrassing."

Harry could have responded with several cutting remarks. It wasn't the thought that offending his nurse was a very very bad idea that halted him. He'd cope, providing she threw his trousers at him before flouncing off. What stayed his tongue was the fact that she wasn't the only person in the room lashing herself for mental stupidity. Referencing to his long term failure to suss out Elena meant he could go head to head with her when it came to long term misjudgements, and at least no one had ended up dead due to Jane's misplaced trust in Robin – although Robin was running his acquaintanceship with the reverse side of mortality close. Choosing his words very carefully Harry tried to excuse her lamentable lapse in judgement.

"The answer to that Jane is simple. With a covert affair you avoid being plunged into the minutiae of everyday existence. You're so absorbed in the excitement, the thrill if you like, you just don't consider the mundane, you exist on a different plain. As for me helping you – I'm used to bizarre alliances, I often have to work with people who for preference I'd only sup with when in possession of twelve foot spoon." 'Ilya Gavrik for one– he wanted revenge on me, I distrusted him and we ended up working together to conceal the truth surrounding Elena's death from the world.

Arresting words which Jane, fighting down her own guilt, found puzzling. Harry's latter statement seemed to originate less from a desire to comfort and more from a hard felt, heart breaking reality that was reminding her of how little she really knew about the post divorce model. It was also added a spare dimension to the puzzle surrounding Ruth Evershed. After hearing his words uttered at the hospital, of which he remained oblivious, she'd assumed that this Ruth was dead, and Harry somehow felt responsible. That in itself was no surprise, he felt responsible for everything, no doubt if Graham fell off his motor bike roaring around London Harry would find some way to blame himself. What did intrigue her was the thought that if he'd found himself mistaken in Ruth, why then was he housing an array of her books in his bedroom?

The question was quivering on her lips, was this the opportunity she'd been waiting for? She'd even begun to open her mouth, but before she could articulate an opening syllable the land line by Harry's bed sprang into action. Another time then.

"Yes Malcolm, that'll be fine, about an hour – good."

Resetting the phone on its cradle Harry turned to Jane, "That was Malcolm."

"Yes the clue was in the name, and he's coming in an hour to visit you."

"And he's bringing Tom Quinn with him for a final chat about dealing with Robin. So Jane can I please have my trousers back, I'd rather meet them downstairs."

"Very well, who's Tom Quinn?"

"One of my ex Section Chiefs. Left the service, got married, set up privately." Mischievously keen to see her reaction to another bizarre alliance he informed her, "He was the person who previously shot me in the shoulder."

Jane was equal to the revelation, "And you still employ him! That proves what I've always known – the reason you're nicknamed spooks is because you're so entrenched in your own invisible world no one in the real one can believe in what goes on there." Recognising that yet again he was about to get his own way she added less fancifully, "But I suppose greeting your guests in the nude - yes I had noticed the shorts on the floor - won't help you to preserve a necessary gravitas, so providing you agree to just sit when you make it downstairs I'll disinter your trousers."

As she departed Harry was impelled to yell after her retreating form, "And my underpants – I don't fancy going commando either."

About an hour later Harry was ensconced in his sitting room, noticing with horror that Jane had introduced an unwelcome renovation, namely the removal of his whisky decanter and glasses. When the door bell rang he made an effort to rise only to be prevented by her exhorting, "Remember our agreement. I'll get it," as she moved speedily towards the front door.

Opening it she greeted Malcolm with the pleasure she reserved for old and trusted friends, and then turned to take possession of the outdoor coat held by the tall man who accompanied him, around forty she guessed, with incredibly piercing grey eyes. Even on an instant acquaintance she could only imagine how good he must have been at interrogation. When Harry had first mentioned his name it had sounded familiar, now meeting him she realised that he was the employee sent by Harry to rescue Catherine from her own folly, despite her objections to Harry's interfering in their daughter's life.

Holding out her hand she smiled, "Hello you must be Tom and I think you are due some very delayed thanks from a few years ago." Seeing him look astonished she added. "Oh and congratulations on shooting Harry – I never actually managed it myself."

Tom assessing at the woman in front of him saw at once what had surprised Malcolm, the warmth of tone and smile was wholly at variance with the image he'd developed over the years, as he responded.

"And you must be Jane. How's the invalid?"

"Cranky, impatient, demanding."

Tom's lips twitched at the corners. "Nearly back to his normal self then."

"It's like looking after a toddler. So if you'll excuse me, while he has two reliable minders to stop him being stupid I'm going to leave the three of you with a coffee pot and some cake while I disappear in the direction of the dry cleaners, and then try to catch up with our daughter."

Malcolm, with his recently acquired knowledge of Jane's mental processes, decoded this as, 'I'd rather not listen into whatever you plan for Robin." A decision that he could only applaud. Ever the gentleman he saw her out the house without protesting her plans. There was no need to do so, not when Harry's first, private instruction on regaining consciousness had been to confirm his previous deployment of agents to secretly shadow the two women in his life. Closing the front door behind Jane he arrived in the sitting room in time to hear Tom declaim.

"Hello Harry, I see you're in excellent hands."

"I've spent my entire life fighting dictators – now I end up being stuck under one." Tom, while assuming that this statement was not to be taken literally, having noted the attractiveness of Harry's jailer was tempted to suggest that he could meet with worse fates, but settled for reminding him, "She's rather more decorative than Putin or Kim Jong-il."

The whisky deprived Harry was still feeling grumpy as he moaned disconsolately. "More like holding on to nurse. For fear of finding something worse."

Rolling his eyes in the direction of Malcolm Tom changed the subject, returning to the main matter in hand, which was bound to appeal to his ex boss.

"Never mind Harry here's something to cheer you up –the final cut of our plan, so Lights. Camera. Action. Laptop."

Thanks for reading and if you have a moment a review would be appreciated. The next chapter featuring the revenge on Robin will be up asap but real life may occasion a longer delay than I would like.