<![CDATA[Spooks Forum - Fan Fiction]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/ Sun, 03 May 2026 11:28:42 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[The Proxy]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2142.html Fri, 09 Mar 2012 10:06:17 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2142.html Warning: Language
Spoilers for season 10

This is for A Cousin, who provided the prompt.

- 0 -

Proxy: A person authorised to act for another; an agent or substitute


- 0 -

Nothing.

He feels nothing. He wonders if he were actually the one who died. Not her. It should not have been her. A wave of grief washes over him; an indication that, cruelly, he is still alive. His eyes burn, but for now he has no more tears. The car goes through a dip and he blinks in surprise; he has no recollection how he got here. On the backseat. Erin and Dimitri in front. The last thing he remembers is lying in the grass with her, her blood on his hand and her cooling cheek wet with his tears. He looks at his right hand. It is shaking, but there is no blood on it. Irrational hope flares in his heart until he examines it more closely. There are minute traces still under his nails and along his cuticles, and if that weren’t enough, the crimson stains on his cuff provide further proof. He knows.

Ruth is dead.

The rage wells up in his chest until he wants to scream. He works through everything - the cursed partnership with their former enemies, which he never did buy into but is obligated to protect. The nationalist Russian group that wants to scupper it. Elena, Ilya, Sasha. And the shadowy man who pulls the strings behind it all. His rage finds a focus.

Mikhail Levrov.

“We need to take care of Levrov.”
It is the first words he has spoken since Ruth died, and it catches Erin and Dimitri off-guard. Dimitri’s eyes flick to him in the rear-view mirror, concerned and watchful. Harry stares back.
“Now’s not the time-“ Erin begins, but he cuts her off brusquely.
“Then when, Erin? When she’s buried? When we’ve dutifully mourned her for a few weeks and life just goes on? When everyone has forgotten her and she’s nothing more than a name on a wall?”
“Harry,” Dimitri says gently, sadly.
Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Levrov remains a threat to the partnership. As long as he is alive, he will attempt to scupper it.”
Erin turns in her seat and looks at him. “That’s not why you want to eliminate him though, is it?”
Harry’s jaw clenches and he swallows against the grief. “No. It is not. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
Erin sighs, looks away. Dimitri glances at her. “He’s right,” he says, and from the look on her face it’s clear she knows it as well.
She says grudgingly, “I’ll speak to Special Forces-“
“No.” Harry holds her eyes. “She was my-… I’ll take care of it.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “That is a terrible idea. Levrov knows who you are, and you are too close to this.”

Too close.
The words mock him. Too close? No, he thinks. Not ever close enough. And that has always been his problem.
“You leave it to me,” he says stubbornly. “That’s an order. I will get it done.”
He stares her down when she wants to object again. “Precisely because I’m too close, I will get it done.”

They drive on in uncomfortable silence. His mind fills with images of her, once so vibrant, then so serious when she came back from exile, and now…. He can’t breathe.
“Stop the car,” he croaks desperately, and Dimitri obeys after a quick look in the mirror. The drawn, pale face of his boss leaves no room for argument.
Harry stumbles out, takes a few lungsful of air, and fights down the nausea.
“I’ll walk from here,” he announces over his shoulder.
“What? Harry, we’re miles from your house,” Erin objects, but he sets off without a backward glance.
He picks up his tempo and ignores the car that keeps pace with him until they give up and drive off.

He walks, alone with his thoughts, oblivious to the curious looks from those he passes. Alone. The word cuts through him and he has to fight the urge to break into a run, to run until he collapses. Mile after mile he walks as fast as he can. His feet start to hurt and sweat runs down his spine, so he takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. He perversely centres all his attention on his aching feet, uses the physical discomfort to focus his thoughts.
Levrov.
The name is a refrain with every step he takes.
Erin is right, he knows on some level. No matter how desperately he wants to look the man in the eye while he dies, the chances of getting close enough are miniscule. And yet he can’t accept it. He wishes he still had Adam or Ros to call on. Only the best will suffice if he can’t do it himself. But they are no longer there-. He hastily forces his thoughts away from all the people he’s lost. The rest of his solitary, painful walk home, he ponders possible strategies to achieve the thing that has now become his only goal – the death of the Russian nationalist.

By the time he reaches his house, hours later, he is bone-weary. He suppresses the impulse to head straight for the whisky and instead fills a glass with water at the sink, and gulps it down thirstily. His eye falls on the kettle and he switches it on as if on autopilot. Sweet tea. That’s what one was supposed to take for shock. He collects mug, teabag and sugar without really being aware of it, and opens the fridge and reaches inside before he remembers.
There is no milk.
Everything that’s happened on this most tragic of days comes rushing back and he has to grasp at the sink to keep upright. It hits home with crushing finality: Ruth is dead.
Gone forever from this world her impish dimpled smile, her demure beauty, her fierce brilliance. Her compassion and her kindness. Her courage.
“Oh, God,” he moans softly as the tears come again. “Ruth…”

He sinks to the floor, his back against the fridge, and buries his head in his hands. Alone and unobserved for the first time since it happened, he lets go of his emotions. He mourns her unabashedly and unreservedly until he is empty and exhausted. When he finally lifts his head, he becomes aware of the cold seeping into his limbs from the floor, of his numb buttocks. He hauls himself upright and moves into the sitting room. This time he does not stop himself from pouring a stiff measure of Scotch before settling wearily into an armchair. His thoughts wander unchecked, and they jump from memory to memory, lingering on the good ones he has of her, all the time aware of his love for her still burning brightly. He wonders idly when his heart so irrevocably bound itself to hers. Was it on a late night bus ride, when their fingers touched and caressed? Or perhaps on that awful day when he watched her cry over Danny’s body? He remembers how tempted he was to fold her into his embrace and to never let go. Does that mean he was in love with her even then? Maybe, he muses, he lost his heart to her the day she so unquestioningly agreed to stand by him during the unpleasant business with Tom Quinn, despite her own admiration for the man. He can still hear her voice, saying “Not Tom. He’s your best and brightest-”

He sits up suddenly, sloshing some of the Scotch over his hand.
No more Adam and no more Ros.
Tom Quinn, once his best and brightest, and still alive.
Yes.

- 0 –
Two days later
Birmingham

Tom sits back in his chair and observes the client across the conference table. He has just completed his report on the weaknesses in the security systems of the man’s company, of which there are many. The client looks stunned and worried. Tom leans forward.
“Here’s what I suggest you do,” he says, and lays out a number of measures which would solve the majority of these problems.
The client quickly agrees and signs a contract for Tom to facilitate these upgrades. When it is done, he lingers uncertainly.
“Was there something else?” Tom asks encouragingly.
“Uh, yeah. My son in law is a partner in the company, and I suspect he’s stealing from us. I don’t want to involve the Police, because if I’m wrong, my daughter will never forgive me. Is there anything you can do?”
Tom smiles. “I’ll look into it. Quietly.”
The client heaves a sigh of relief, pumps Tom’s hand gratefully and goes on his merry way.
Tom watches from the window, but he is really looking for something else.
The car is still there. It has changed location a few times, but it has been there the whole day – always parked somewhere that gives the occupant a clear sightline to his office. The uneasy feeling that settled in his stomach the moment he noticed it the first time returns in full force, and his mouth sets in a grim line. He’s had enough. Time to take action. He takes his gun from the safe and leaves down the back stairway.

Tom takes the long way around and emerges from a narrow alley two cars behind the one that’s caught his interest. He crouches down and creeps forward, feeling for the electronic lock overriding device in his pocket. When he reaches the rear door of the nondescript sedan, he pushes the button and hears the central locking click open. He yanks open the door, slides into the backseat, and presses the barrel of the gun behind the occupant’s ear.
“Hands on the wheel, friend,” he orders evenly.
The man obeys, slowly raising his hands and putting them on the steering wheel. Tom registers two things simultaneously: the black leather gloves, and a pair of very familiar brown eyes watching him in the mirror.
“Hullo, Tom,” Harry says laconically.

- 0 –

They walk. There is a small park nearby and they stroll along its paths. Tom is in turmoil. Harry Pearce is the last person he expected to see, and possibly also the last person he wanted to see. He’s not sure on that last point yet – it will all depend on the reason for his former boss’s sudden appearance.
“How are Christine and the girls?” Harry asks, as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about him looking up a former employee like this.
“They’re fine,” Tom responds, somehow not surprised that Harry knows these details, and glances at his watch. “In fact, they’ll be expecting me home soon,” he adds, recognising an avenue of escape should he need one.
Harry glances at him. “They’re visiting your mother this week.”
Tom looks up sharply. “Do you have me under surveillance, Harry?”
He sounds accusing, uneasy, rattled.
Harry shakes his head. “No, Tom. Just made a few general enquiries, nothing more.”
Tom absorbs that, and then stops walking. He looks at Harry closely, and notes for the first time the air of melancholy that cloaks the other man.
“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly.
There is a long silence before Harry nods to a nearby bench. “Let’s sit.”

Once they are settled, Harry takes a deep breath and says, “I want to engage your services.”
Tom stares at him in astonishment. He is more confused than ever – does this mean Harry no longer works for MI5?
“Don’t you have a whole section at your beck and call any more?” he asks carefully.
Harry smiles fleetingly. “I prefer to keep this away from the Grid.”
Tom processes this. “So it’s a private matter.”
“...Yes and no,” Harry says enigmatically, and Tom huffs out an exasperated laugh.
“Same old Harry,” he remarks.
A shadow crosses the other man’s face and Tom watches him, perplexed by the whole thing.
“All right, I’ll play. What do you want me to do?”
There is a beat, and then Harry says, “I want you to assassinate a man.”

Tom begins to laugh, but there is not the slightest flicker of amusement in Harry’s expression. He sobers rapidly.
“You’re serious?!”
Harry just looks at him. It is plain that he is deadly serious.
“You’re out of your mind, Harry. Forget it,” Tom snaps and begins to get up.
Harry doesn’t move. He says softly, “Please Tom, it’s important.”
Something in Harry’s voice makes Tom hesitate. “To you or to the country?” he asks harshly.
“Both. That’s why I need the best man available.”
“So use Adam.”
Harry looks away. “You’re the best man available, Tom,” he says, sadness seeping through every word, and Tom understands the implication immediately.
“When?” he asks gruffly.
“A few years ago,” Harry says vaguely, unable to overcome his innate reluctance to share any details with an outsider.

Tom lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good officer.” After a moment he adds, “I guess Zoe and I are the lucky ones.”
Harry frowns, alarmed, and Tom knows what he’s thinking. “Sam let me know about Zoe and Danny. Don’t worry,” he adds with a hint of bitterness, “it was after you moved her back to GCHQ. So none of your ducklings broke the rules.”
Harry‘s gaze drops to his hands and he is quiet for a long time. “Yes,” he eventually agrees, “you and Zoe are the lucky ones.”
And there it is again; a plaintive note in his voice that Tom has never heard before.

They watch as a mother passes by, pushing a pram along the path. She glances at them and Tom wonders what she thinks of the two men sitting on the bench. Can she sense the turmoil surrounding them? The dark corners in their souls where they bury the questionable things they’ve done in the name of Regnum Defende? Probably not.
When she is out of earshot, he asks simply, “Target?”
“His name is Mikhail Levrov. Russian, former KGB. I’m sure you’ve read about our partnership with Russia in the papers. He is a nationalist fanatic that wants to scupper that partnership. He’s already made one attempt on the life of the Home Secretary.”
Tom waits, but Harry says nothing more. “Okay, that’s the professional reason. Why do you personally want him dead?”
Harry hesitates, and then asks, “Do you remember when Helen was killed? You told me that we look after our own. You pushed me to have the man who did it assassinated - not that I needed any persuasion.”
He looks at Tom. “It is for one of our own. That’s why it’s personal.”

Tom can’t remember ever seeing Harry like this; he can sense the emotions lying shallow beneath the surface. There has to be more to it, so he pushes.
“Who?” he demands.
“Not important,” Harry snaps curtly, and Tom loses it.
“Not important? Fuck you, Harry! You are asking me to murder a man – of course it’s important.”
Harry shakes his head desperately. “Tom…” he pleads, but Tom will not be deflected.
“Who, Harry?”
Harry takes a few ragged breaths, and finally chokes out her name.
“Ruth.”

The word is infused with immeasurable grief, and the desolate expression on Harry’s face makes Tom realise that she must have been much more than a colleague to him. His heart goes out to Harry and he immediately regrets pushing so hard for a name, but it can’t be undone.
He sighs. “You and Ruth...? I didn’t know.”
Harry wipes a hand over his eyes. He can hear the remorse in Tom’s voice, so he says, “We were going to leave the Service after this operation. Together.”

Tom says nothing. What can he say? Harry has probably heard more than enough empty condolences already. He thinks about the Harry he used to know, and wonders how Ruth ever managed to break through that man’s barriers. But break through she clearly did, and Tom does not for one second doubt that Harry must have loved her deeply to react like this. His thoughts turn to Ruth; eager, brilliant, slightly clumsy Ruth with the wonderful smile, who was so happy to join MI5. He remembers Danny, and Adam, and so many others that paid the ultimate price. The anger flares up inside, and he knows. Had he been in Harry’s position, he would have done exactly the same.
We look after our own.
It is still true for him despite the many years he’s been on the outside.
He turns to Harry, and holds out his hand.
He says only one word.
“Yes.”

- 0 –

Five Ways to Kill a Man
By Edwin Brock

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it.
To do this properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no-one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways to kill a man.
Simpler, direct, and much more neat is to see
that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.



Fin]]> Warning: Language
Spoilers for season 10

This is for A Cousin, who provided the prompt.

- 0 -

Proxy: A person authorised to act for another; an agent or substitute


- 0 -

Nothing.

He feels nothing. He wonders if he were actually the one who died. Not her. It should not have been her. A wave of grief washes over him; an indication that, cruelly, he is still alive. His eyes burn, but for now he has no more tears. The car goes through a dip and he blinks in surprise; he has no recollection how he got here. On the backseat. Erin and Dimitri in front. The last thing he remembers is lying in the grass with her, her blood on his hand and her cooling cheek wet with his tears. He looks at his right hand. It is shaking, but there is no blood on it. Irrational hope flares in his heart until he examines it more closely. There are minute traces still under his nails and along his cuticles, and if that weren’t enough, the crimson stains on his cuff provide further proof. He knows.

Ruth is dead.

The rage wells up in his chest until he wants to scream. He works through everything - the cursed partnership with their former enemies, which he never did buy into but is obligated to protect. The nationalist Russian group that wants to scupper it. Elena, Ilya, Sasha. And the shadowy man who pulls the strings behind it all. His rage finds a focus.

Mikhail Levrov.

“We need to take care of Levrov.”
It is the first words he has spoken since Ruth died, and it catches Erin and Dimitri off-guard. Dimitri’s eyes flick to him in the rear-view mirror, concerned and watchful. Harry stares back.
“Now’s not the time-“ Erin begins, but he cuts her off brusquely.
“Then when, Erin? When she’s buried? When we’ve dutifully mourned her for a few weeks and life just goes on? When everyone has forgotten her and she’s nothing more than a name on a wall?”
“Harry,” Dimitri says gently, sadly.
Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Levrov remains a threat to the partnership. As long as he is alive, he will attempt to scupper it.”
Erin turns in her seat and looks at him. “That’s not why you want to eliminate him though, is it?”
Harry’s jaw clenches and he swallows against the grief. “No. It is not. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
Erin sighs, looks away. Dimitri glances at her. “He’s right,” he says, and from the look on her face it’s clear she knows it as well.
She says grudgingly, “I’ll speak to Special Forces-“
“No.” Harry holds her eyes. “She was my-… I’ll take care of it.”
She shakes her head vehemently. “That is a terrible idea. Levrov knows who you are, and you are too close to this.”

Too close.
The words mock him. Too close? No, he thinks. Not ever close enough. And that has always been his problem.
“You leave it to me,” he says stubbornly. “That’s an order. I will get it done.”
He stares her down when she wants to object again. “Precisely because I’m too close, I will get it done.”

They drive on in uncomfortable silence. His mind fills with images of her, once so vibrant, then so serious when she came back from exile, and now…. He can’t breathe.
“Stop the car,” he croaks desperately, and Dimitri obeys after a quick look in the mirror. The drawn, pale face of his boss leaves no room for argument.
Harry stumbles out, takes a few lungsful of air, and fights down the nausea.
“I’ll walk from here,” he announces over his shoulder.
“What? Harry, we’re miles from your house,” Erin objects, but he sets off without a backward glance.
He picks up his tempo and ignores the car that keeps pace with him until they give up and drive off.

He walks, alone with his thoughts, oblivious to the curious looks from those he passes. Alone. The word cuts through him and he has to fight the urge to break into a run, to run until he collapses. Mile after mile he walks as fast as he can. His feet start to hurt and sweat runs down his spine, so he takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. He perversely centres all his attention on his aching feet, uses the physical discomfort to focus his thoughts.
Levrov.
The name is a refrain with every step he takes.
Erin is right, he knows on some level. No matter how desperately he wants to look the man in the eye while he dies, the chances of getting close enough are miniscule. And yet he can’t accept it. He wishes he still had Adam or Ros to call on. Only the best will suffice if he can’t do it himself. But they are no longer there-. He hastily forces his thoughts away from all the people he’s lost. The rest of his solitary, painful walk home, he ponders possible strategies to achieve the thing that has now become his only goal – the death of the Russian nationalist.

By the time he reaches his house, hours later, he is bone-weary. He suppresses the impulse to head straight for the whisky and instead fills a glass with water at the sink, and gulps it down thirstily. His eye falls on the kettle and he switches it on as if on autopilot. Sweet tea. That’s what one was supposed to take for shock. He collects mug, teabag and sugar without really being aware of it, and opens the fridge and reaches inside before he remembers.
There is no milk.
Everything that’s happened on this most tragic of days comes rushing back and he has to grasp at the sink to keep upright. It hits home with crushing finality: Ruth is dead.
Gone forever from this world her impish dimpled smile, her demure beauty, her fierce brilliance. Her compassion and her kindness. Her courage.
“Oh, God,” he moans softly as the tears come again. “Ruth…”

He sinks to the floor, his back against the fridge, and buries his head in his hands. Alone and unobserved for the first time since it happened, he lets go of his emotions. He mourns her unabashedly and unreservedly until he is empty and exhausted. When he finally lifts his head, he becomes aware of the cold seeping into his limbs from the floor, of his numb buttocks. He hauls himself upright and moves into the sitting room. This time he does not stop himself from pouring a stiff measure of Scotch before settling wearily into an armchair. His thoughts wander unchecked, and they jump from memory to memory, lingering on the good ones he has of her, all the time aware of his love for her still burning brightly. He wonders idly when his heart so irrevocably bound itself to hers. Was it on a late night bus ride, when their fingers touched and caressed? Or perhaps on that awful day when he watched her cry over Danny’s body? He remembers how tempted he was to fold her into his embrace and to never let go. Does that mean he was in love with her even then? Maybe, he muses, he lost his heart to her the day she so unquestioningly agreed to stand by him during the unpleasant business with Tom Quinn, despite her own admiration for the man. He can still hear her voice, saying “Not Tom. He’s your best and brightest-”

He sits up suddenly, sloshing some of the Scotch over his hand.
No more Adam and no more Ros.
Tom Quinn, once his best and brightest, and still alive.
Yes.

- 0 –
Two days later
Birmingham

Tom sits back in his chair and observes the client across the conference table. He has just completed his report on the weaknesses in the security systems of the man’s company, of which there are many. The client looks stunned and worried. Tom leans forward.
“Here’s what I suggest you do,” he says, and lays out a number of measures which would solve the majority of these problems.
The client quickly agrees and signs a contract for Tom to facilitate these upgrades. When it is done, he lingers uncertainly.
“Was there something else?” Tom asks encouragingly.
“Uh, yeah. My son in law is a partner in the company, and I suspect he’s stealing from us. I don’t want to involve the Police, because if I’m wrong, my daughter will never forgive me. Is there anything you can do?”
Tom smiles. “I’ll look into it. Quietly.”
The client heaves a sigh of relief, pumps Tom’s hand gratefully and goes on his merry way.
Tom watches from the window, but he is really looking for something else.
The car is still there. It has changed location a few times, but it has been there the whole day – always parked somewhere that gives the occupant a clear sightline to his office. The uneasy feeling that settled in his stomach the moment he noticed it the first time returns in full force, and his mouth sets in a grim line. He’s had enough. Time to take action. He takes his gun from the safe and leaves down the back stairway.

Tom takes the long way around and emerges from a narrow alley two cars behind the one that’s caught his interest. He crouches down and creeps forward, feeling for the electronic lock overriding device in his pocket. When he reaches the rear door of the nondescript sedan, he pushes the button and hears the central locking click open. He yanks open the door, slides into the backseat, and presses the barrel of the gun behind the occupant’s ear.
“Hands on the wheel, friend,” he orders evenly.
The man obeys, slowly raising his hands and putting them on the steering wheel. Tom registers two things simultaneously: the black leather gloves, and a pair of very familiar brown eyes watching him in the mirror.
“Hullo, Tom,” Harry says laconically.

- 0 –

They walk. There is a small park nearby and they stroll along its paths. Tom is in turmoil. Harry Pearce is the last person he expected to see, and possibly also the last person he wanted to see. He’s not sure on that last point yet – it will all depend on the reason for his former boss’s sudden appearance.
“How are Christine and the girls?” Harry asks, as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about him looking up a former employee like this.
“They’re fine,” Tom responds, somehow not surprised that Harry knows these details, and glances at his watch. “In fact, they’ll be expecting me home soon,” he adds, recognising an avenue of escape should he need one.
Harry glances at him. “They’re visiting your mother this week.”
Tom looks up sharply. “Do you have me under surveillance, Harry?”
He sounds accusing, uneasy, rattled.
Harry shakes his head. “No, Tom. Just made a few general enquiries, nothing more.”
Tom absorbs that, and then stops walking. He looks at Harry closely, and notes for the first time the air of melancholy that cloaks the other man.
“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly.
There is a long silence before Harry nods to a nearby bench. “Let’s sit.”

Once they are settled, Harry takes a deep breath and says, “I want to engage your services.”
Tom stares at him in astonishment. He is more confused than ever – does this mean Harry no longer works for MI5?
“Don’t you have a whole section at your beck and call any more?” he asks carefully.
Harry smiles fleetingly. “I prefer to keep this away from the Grid.”
Tom processes this. “So it’s a private matter.”
“...Yes and no,” Harry says enigmatically, and Tom huffs out an exasperated laugh.
“Same old Harry,” he remarks.
A shadow crosses the other man’s face and Tom watches him, perplexed by the whole thing.
“All right, I’ll play. What do you want me to do?”
There is a beat, and then Harry says, “I want you to assassinate a man.”

Tom begins to laugh, but there is not the slightest flicker of amusement in Harry’s expression. He sobers rapidly.
“You’re serious?!”
Harry just looks at him. It is plain that he is deadly serious.
“You’re out of your mind, Harry. Forget it,” Tom snaps and begins to get up.
Harry doesn’t move. He says softly, “Please Tom, it’s important.”
Something in Harry’s voice makes Tom hesitate. “To you or to the country?” he asks harshly.
“Both. That’s why I need the best man available.”
“So use Adam.”
Harry looks away. “You’re the best man available, Tom,” he says, sadness seeping through every word, and Tom understands the implication immediately.
“When?” he asks gruffly.
“A few years ago,” Harry says vaguely, unable to overcome his innate reluctance to share any details with an outsider.

Tom lets out a slow breath. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good officer.” After a moment he adds, “I guess Zoe and I are the lucky ones.”
Harry frowns, alarmed, and Tom knows what he’s thinking. “Sam let me know about Zoe and Danny. Don’t worry,” he adds with a hint of bitterness, “it was after you moved her back to GCHQ. So none of your ducklings broke the rules.”
Harry‘s gaze drops to his hands and he is quiet for a long time. “Yes,” he eventually agrees, “you and Zoe are the lucky ones.”
And there it is again; a plaintive note in his voice that Tom has never heard before.

They watch as a mother passes by, pushing a pram along the path. She glances at them and Tom wonders what she thinks of the two men sitting on the bench. Can she sense the turmoil surrounding them? The dark corners in their souls where they bury the questionable things they’ve done in the name of Regnum Defende? Probably not.
When she is out of earshot, he asks simply, “Target?”
“His name is Mikhail Levrov. Russian, former KGB. I’m sure you’ve read about our partnership with Russia in the papers. He is a nationalist fanatic that wants to scupper that partnership. He’s already made one attempt on the life of the Home Secretary.”
Tom waits, but Harry says nothing more. “Okay, that’s the professional reason. Why do you personally want him dead?”
Harry hesitates, and then asks, “Do you remember when Helen was killed? You told me that we look after our own. You pushed me to have the man who did it assassinated - not that I needed any persuasion.”
He looks at Tom. “It is for one of our own. That’s why it’s personal.”

Tom can’t remember ever seeing Harry like this; he can sense the emotions lying shallow beneath the surface. There has to be more to it, so he pushes.
“Who?” he demands.
“Not important,” Harry snaps curtly, and Tom loses it.
“Not important? Fuck you, Harry! You are asking me to murder a man – of course it’s important.”
Harry shakes his head desperately. “Tom…” he pleads, but Tom will not be deflected.
“Who, Harry?”
Harry takes a few ragged breaths, and finally chokes out her name.
“Ruth.”

The word is infused with immeasurable grief, and the desolate expression on Harry’s face makes Tom realise that she must have been much more than a colleague to him. His heart goes out to Harry and he immediately regrets pushing so hard for a name, but it can’t be undone.
He sighs. “You and Ruth...? I didn’t know.”
Harry wipes a hand over his eyes. He can hear the remorse in Tom’s voice, so he says, “We were going to leave the Service after this operation. Together.”

Tom says nothing. What can he say? Harry has probably heard more than enough empty condolences already. He thinks about the Harry he used to know, and wonders how Ruth ever managed to break through that man’s barriers. But break through she clearly did, and Tom does not for one second doubt that Harry must have loved her deeply to react like this. His thoughts turn to Ruth; eager, brilliant, slightly clumsy Ruth with the wonderful smile, who was so happy to join MI5. He remembers Danny, and Adam, and so many others that paid the ultimate price. The anger flares up inside, and he knows. Had he been in Harry’s position, he would have done exactly the same.
We look after our own.
It is still true for him despite the many years he’s been on the outside.
He turns to Harry, and holds out his hand.
He says only one word.
“Yes.”

- 0 –

Five Ways to Kill a Man
By Edwin Brock

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it.
To do this properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation's scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no-one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways to kill a man.
Simpler, direct, and much more neat is to see
that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.



Fin]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie Part VI]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2141.html Mon, 05 Mar 2012 17:00:59 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2141.html PART VI

Saturday 26 March 2011
Percy farm near Masai Mara

Harry stood on the veranda. The view over the valley was spectacular. Morning mist was gathered in the lowest hollows, and the savannah, dotted with acacia trees, stretched as far as the eye could see. He called Tim, who had stayed behind in Nairobi, and organised for him to receive the money and to leave it in the place dictated by the kidnappers.
“They want you to leave it in the trash bin outside the entrance of the Makina market. It’s in Kibera. Will you do it?”
“Of course.”
“No funny tricks, Tim. Just leave the money and walk away.”
“You trust them to keep their word and release the poor bugger?” Tim asked dubiously.
Harry watched a line of zebras walk down to a waterhole. “Yes, I do. They got the wrong man – they just want to recoup what they can out of this whole mess. However… Do you still run that group of stringers in Kibera?”
“Yeah.”
“See if they can follow whoever picks up the money. If the kidnappers do renege, I want to know where they are.”
“Right. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Harry snapped shut his mobile and braced his hands on the low wall. Ruth appeared at his side and placed another cup of coffee in front of him. He smiled at her gratefully and they stood quietly, gazing out over the Masai Mara. Both were mindful that this was a rare moment of shared peace in their turbulent lives. Harry turned his head and watched as the morning sun lit one cheek, eye and nose of his companion, and his heart missed a beat.
“Ruth,” he breathed, his voice low and hoarse with yearning.
He saw her swallow, and then she said, “I was thinking-“
“Don’t think,” he pleaded, reaching out a hand to turn her face to his. “For this one moment, let’s not think.”
The longing in his eyes dried up her words of protest and her gaze dipped to his lips. That was all it took. He leaned towards her and kissed her, slow and soft, a promise for the future. His stubble scraped lightly against her skin and she knew with sudden clarity that this was what she would like to experience every morning for the rest of her life. When he pulled away she kept her eyes closed for a few seconds, a warm smile spreading across her face. He waited for her to open them before he spoke.
“If I survive the Inquiry, perhaps we could…?”
She nodded happily. “I’d like that. Very much.”
David appeared behind them. “Your man has picked up the money. He’s on his way.”

When he’d gone back into the house, Harry said, “He was in those photographs on Brent’s desk.”
When she frowned in confusion, he elaborated. “Nathan. I thought he looked familiar. He was part of that group that posed with every new car of David’s. I should have made the connection sooner.”
Ruth sighed and folded her arms. She leaned a hip against the wall and let her eyes sweep over the valley before coming back to Harry’s face.
“Just when I think that people can’t surprise me anymore, something like this happens,” she said.
Harry watched her, saw the little frown etched on her brow.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
“Something David said has been bothering me. He said he’d sent Nathan out to impersonate him to keep his parents off his back. Harry, he expected them to know he came here.”
Harry stared at her. “You think Lady Agnes has known all along?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe, I don’t know. You said she was hiding something. But if that were the case, I can’t figure out why she would hire us to look for him.”
Harry looked troubled. He had an inkling, and it was too awful to contemplate.

- 0 –
One hour later

Tim called. “I’ve dropped the money. My people are in place, they’ll follow whoever collects it. If we find their hidey hole, do you want me to tip off the police?”
“No,” Harry responded. “I want to talk to them personally.” There was an ominous note in his voice that didn’t brook any argument.
He looked at Ruth. “Now we wait.”

- 0 –

The kidnappers kept their word. Forty minutes later Tim got an SMS with a location. When he reached it he found Nathan, blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, sitting on the kerb. Tim took him to hospital and waited while he was checked out. He was about to inform Harry that Nathan had not sustained any serious damage when he received another message.

- 0 –
Late that night
Abandoned warehouse, Nairobi

Uhuru sat in the darkness and listened to his own breathing. It was fast and ragged with fear. He could not hear any sound from the men who had grabbed him from his house and brought him here. Once again he tested the binds that tied him to the chair, but they did not budge. He wondered if he would die here – live by the sword, die by the sword, was that not the saying? He had failed to deliver on the agreement, and perhaps this was the price he had to pay. Not for the first time he cursed his own greed – if he had allowed them to shoot the Englishman on the spot perhaps he would not be in this predicament. There was a faint sound, and he held his breath and pricked his ears. It grew louder and he realised a vehicle was approaching. A heavy door slid open and he was momentarily blinded by the headlights of a car that swept into the warehouse. By the time he was able to focus, two men and a woman had alighted. One of the men walked towards him whilst the others stayed near the car.

Harry came to a stop a few feet in front of the prisoner and regarded him without expression.
“Hello,” he said mildly after a few seconds. “You made rather a hash of the whole thing, didn’t you? Not only did you decide against orders to kidnap David Percy rather than kill him, you didn’t even get the right man.”
He added, “What is your name?”
After a long pause the prisoner responded sullenly, “Uhuru”.
“Well, Uhuru, I think we can help each other,” Harry stated. “I’m sure you would prefer not to go to prison, and I can keep you out of it. In return I require some information: I would very much like to know who paid you to kill David Percy.“ He took a step closer and leaned forward. “The truth shall set you free,” he promised.
Uhuru stared at the unknown man before him, who so assuredly talked about freedom. He did not particularly trust this man, but he could see no other option. He began to talk.

- 0 –
Tuseday 29 March 2011, late night
London, Percy mansion

As Lady Agnes and her youngest son Edward entered her private sitting room, the light was off. She frowned and tried to remember whether she had switched it off when she’d left the room for dinner. Since the unpleasant developments in Kenya, they were all on edge. It was with a sense of apprehension that she flicked on the switch. Light flooded the room and she could see nothing out of place. Then, suddenly, the television came to life. On it was the face of a young black man and she heard Edward draw in a sharp breath.
“My name is Uhuru,” the man on the television said. “A few weeks ago I was approached by Edward Percy, the youngest son of the Duke of Suffolk. He offered me ten thousand dollars to kill his older brother David. He knew that his father had fired me two months ago. So not only did I need the money; I also felt resentment towards the family-“

Edward dived for the remote on the table, but another hand got there before him. Harry moved swiftly out of the shadows where he’d stood unnoticed and snatched it up.
“Harry!” Lady Agnes gasped. She was as white as a sheet. “You gave me a fright,” she added lamely.
Harry regarded the two people in front of him with contempt.
“Your devious little plan to pretend that your son was missing so that any investigation into his death would not be connected to you and Edward has backfired, I’m afraid. I should have discovered your nefarious intentions sooner,” he mused, “but regrettably I was blinded by your rather convincing display of concern for your eldest.”
Her eyes slid away from his and she licked her suddenly dry lips as she contemplated denying everything, but when she looked back at his forbidding expression she knew it would be pointless. She decided on another approach.
“It was not a decision I took lightly, you have to understand that. But my husband refuses to see David for what he is. He will be the ruin of this family, and given our social and economic standing, it would also do great damage to the country,” she said, trying to play on Harry’s patriotism.
“Oh please,” he said coldly. “You don’t care one iota about the implications for the country – none of you. All you care about is your comfortable life.”
Edward stepped forward aggressively. “Who do you think you are to come into our house and threaten us?”
“Edward,” his mother warned.
Harry stared the young man down. “Better listen to your mother, boy. Believe me when I tell you that I’m the last person you would want to make an enemy of. There are still some things in this world that money cannot save you from.”
Edward wavered, unwilling to back down, but one look at the fear on his mother’s face persuaded him otherwise. She obviously knew who this mysterious man was and was afraid of what he could do to them. He slumped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
“I should never have listened to you,” he mumbled in his mother’s direction.

“What are you going to do?” Lady Agnes asked Harry.
He let the silence stretch uncomfortably. “First of all you will find you no longer have your pick of the rich and powerful to warm your bed. I don’t think it a good idea that a murderous sociopath should have sexual relations with men in influential positions, and I will make sure it’s known in the relevant circles.”
Lady Agnes closed her eyes in despair.
“Don’t worry,” he said caustically, “the streets are teeming with commoners, so you don’t have to become a nun.”
Her eyes flashed with something close to hatred, but she said nothing.
Harry continued, “And secondly, you better hope David lives to a ripe old age, because that tape will find its way to the Police in the event of his untimely demise. Even if he were struck by lightning, you can rest assured you and your youngest offspring will be the subject of intense police scrutiny.”
He gave them a last good long stare before making for the door.
“Oh,” he turned back and gestured toward the television, “you can keep that copy. There are plenty of others.”

- 0 –

Ruth’s car was parked half a mile from the gate of the Percy residence. She had insisted on coming along (and on driving, but that was a whole other story), but Harry had drawn the line at her accompanying him into the house. She had, therefore, kept vigil in front of the gate for the last hour. It was with immense relief that she saw his shape materialise out of the darkness. Her eyes stayed on him until he slid into the passenger seat next to her safely.
“How did it go?”
He grunted. “Lady Agnes was somewhat put-out by the idea that she would now have to associate with the unwashed masses if she wants to have a sex life.”
Ruth smiled weakly, unable to be as flippant about the situation as Harry was. When she didn’t say anything, he turned to look at her face properly.
“You don’t like it.” It was not a question.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re not angered by it. They should be prosecuted.”
His eyes never left her face. “Look at me, Ruth,” he commanded, and waited until she did. “You think this whole sordid mess doesn’t anger me?”
She scanned his face, noting for the first time the lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, the hard look in his eyes, and the stern set of his mouth. Her shoulders sagged and she raised a hand to briefly touch his chest.
“No. I don’t know why I said that.”
He relaxed fractionally. “Prosecuting them would solve nothing. It is their word against that of a young black man from Kenya who had recently been fired by the Duke. They would attain the services of the best lawyer money can buy, and Uhuru wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Harry,” she said, touching his chest again, “I honestly don’t blame you. It was just my frustration talking. I know how the game works.”
He nodded. “Then I think you’d better take me home, Miss Evershed. Now that we have found Bertie you’re no longer supposed to fraternise with me.”
She smiled, but it could not hide the hint of sadness in her eyes.

- 0 –

She parked in front of Harry’s house and switched off the engine. They sat in silence; there was so much that they both wanted to say, but neither knew where to start.
Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’d ask you in, but…”
He lifted his chin in the direction of the two men watching from a car parked on the opposite side of the street.
She looked at him, and there was something in her expression that made his heart beat faster. “And I would have accepted,” she murmured, and he almost kissed her.
They just looked at each other for a long, long time.
“All right,” Harry said in the end and reached for the door.
“Harry.” Ruth grabbed his arm and held him back. “I’ll see you at the Inquiry,” she promised.
He began to shake his head. “No, Ruth, you don’t have to-“
“Yes I do,” she said determinedly, and he had to fight down a wave of emotion.
“Thank you.”

He stood on the pavement and watched until her taillights disappeared around the corner, an idea beginning to form in the back of his head. He might just survive the Inquiry with some indirect help from Ruth’s brilliance. Without sparing a glance for the watchers across the street, he turned and walked inside, already composing the first paragraph of the report that would outline Ruth’s value to MI5. His heart beat warmly in his chest, and for the first time since she had come back from Cyprus, he began to believe that they might have a future.
Together.

Fin


Thank you for reading, and if you were one of those who took the time to leave a comment, double the thanks!]]> PART VI

Saturday 26 March 2011
Percy farm near Masai Mara

Harry stood on the veranda. The view over the valley was spectacular. Morning mist was gathered in the lowest hollows, and the savannah, dotted with acacia trees, stretched as far as the eye could see. He called Tim, who had stayed behind in Nairobi, and organised for him to receive the money and to leave it in the place dictated by the kidnappers.
“They want you to leave it in the trash bin outside the entrance of the Makina market. It’s in Kibera. Will you do it?”
“Of course.”
“No funny tricks, Tim. Just leave the money and walk away.”
“You trust them to keep their word and release the poor bugger?” Tim asked dubiously.
Harry watched a line of zebras walk down to a waterhole. “Yes, I do. They got the wrong man – they just want to recoup what they can out of this whole mess. However… Do you still run that group of stringers in Kibera?”
“Yeah.”
“See if they can follow whoever picks up the money. If the kidnappers do renege, I want to know where they are.”
“Right. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

Harry snapped shut his mobile and braced his hands on the low wall. Ruth appeared at his side and placed another cup of coffee in front of him. He smiled at her gratefully and they stood quietly, gazing out over the Masai Mara. Both were mindful that this was a rare moment of shared peace in their turbulent lives. Harry turned his head and watched as the morning sun lit one cheek, eye and nose of his companion, and his heart missed a beat.
“Ruth,” he breathed, his voice low and hoarse with yearning.
He saw her swallow, and then she said, “I was thinking-“
“Don’t think,” he pleaded, reaching out a hand to turn her face to his. “For this one moment, let’s not think.”
The longing in his eyes dried up her words of protest and her gaze dipped to his lips. That was all it took. He leaned towards her and kissed her, slow and soft, a promise for the future. His stubble scraped lightly against her skin and she knew with sudden clarity that this was what she would like to experience every morning for the rest of her life. When he pulled away she kept her eyes closed for a few seconds, a warm smile spreading across her face. He waited for her to open them before he spoke.
“If I survive the Inquiry, perhaps we could…?”
She nodded happily. “I’d like that. Very much.”
David appeared behind them. “Your man has picked up the money. He’s on his way.”

When he’d gone back into the house, Harry said, “He was in those photographs on Brent’s desk.”
When she frowned in confusion, he elaborated. “Nathan. I thought he looked familiar. He was part of that group that posed with every new car of David’s. I should have made the connection sooner.”
Ruth sighed and folded her arms. She leaned a hip against the wall and let her eyes sweep over the valley before coming back to Harry’s face.
“Just when I think that people can’t surprise me anymore, something like this happens,” she said.
Harry watched her, saw the little frown etched on her brow.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
“Something David said has been bothering me. He said he’d sent Nathan out to impersonate him to keep his parents off his back. Harry, he expected them to know he came here.”
Harry stared at her. “You think Lady Agnes has known all along?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Maybe, I don’t know. You said she was hiding something. But if that were the case, I can’t figure out why she would hire us to look for him.”
Harry looked troubled. He had an inkling, and it was too awful to contemplate.

- 0 –
One hour later

Tim called. “I’ve dropped the money. My people are in place, they’ll follow whoever collects it. If we find their hidey hole, do you want me to tip off the police?”
“No,” Harry responded. “I want to talk to them personally.” There was an ominous note in his voice that didn’t brook any argument.
He looked at Ruth. “Now we wait.”

- 0 –

The kidnappers kept their word. Forty minutes later Tim got an SMS with a location. When he reached it he found Nathan, blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, sitting on the kerb. Tim took him to hospital and waited while he was checked out. He was about to inform Harry that Nathan had not sustained any serious damage when he received another message.

- 0 –
Late that night
Abandoned warehouse, Nairobi

Uhuru sat in the darkness and listened to his own breathing. It was fast and ragged with fear. He could not hear any sound from the men who had grabbed him from his house and brought him here. Once again he tested the binds that tied him to the chair, but they did not budge. He wondered if he would die here – live by the sword, die by the sword, was that not the saying? He had failed to deliver on the agreement, and perhaps this was the price he had to pay. Not for the first time he cursed his own greed – if he had allowed them to shoot the Englishman on the spot perhaps he would not be in this predicament. There was a faint sound, and he held his breath and pricked his ears. It grew louder and he realised a vehicle was approaching. A heavy door slid open and he was momentarily blinded by the headlights of a car that swept into the warehouse. By the time he was able to focus, two men and a woman had alighted. One of the men walked towards him whilst the others stayed near the car.

Harry came to a stop a few feet in front of the prisoner and regarded him without expression.
“Hello,” he said mildly after a few seconds. “You made rather a hash of the whole thing, didn’t you? Not only did you decide against orders to kidnap David Percy rather than kill him, you didn’t even get the right man.”
He added, “What is your name?”
After a long pause the prisoner responded sullenly, “Uhuru”.
“Well, Uhuru, I think we can help each other,” Harry stated. “I’m sure you would prefer not to go to prison, and I can keep you out of it. In return I require some information: I would very much like to know who paid you to kill David Percy.“ He took a step closer and leaned forward. “The truth shall set you free,” he promised.
Uhuru stared at the unknown man before him, who so assuredly talked about freedom. He did not particularly trust this man, but he could see no other option. He began to talk.

- 0 –
Tuseday 29 March 2011, late night
London, Percy mansion

As Lady Agnes and her youngest son Edward entered her private sitting room, the light was off. She frowned and tried to remember whether she had switched it off when she’d left the room for dinner. Since the unpleasant developments in Kenya, they were all on edge. It was with a sense of apprehension that she flicked on the switch. Light flooded the room and she could see nothing out of place. Then, suddenly, the television came to life. On it was the face of a young black man and she heard Edward draw in a sharp breath.
“My name is Uhuru,” the man on the television said. “A few weeks ago I was approached by Edward Percy, the youngest son of the Duke of Suffolk. He offered me ten thousand dollars to kill his older brother David. He knew that his father had fired me two months ago. So not only did I need the money; I also felt resentment towards the family-“

Edward dived for the remote on the table, but another hand got there before him. Harry moved swiftly out of the shadows where he’d stood unnoticed and snatched it up.
“Harry!” Lady Agnes gasped. She was as white as a sheet. “You gave me a fright,” she added lamely.
Harry regarded the two people in front of him with contempt.
“Your devious little plan to pretend that your son was missing so that any investigation into his death would not be connected to you and Edward has backfired, I’m afraid. I should have discovered your nefarious intentions sooner,” he mused, “but regrettably I was blinded by your rather convincing display of concern for your eldest.”
Her eyes slid away from his and she licked her suddenly dry lips as she contemplated denying everything, but when she looked back at his forbidding expression she knew it would be pointless. She decided on another approach.
“It was not a decision I took lightly, you have to understand that. But my husband refuses to see David for what he is. He will be the ruin of this family, and given our social and economic standing, it would also do great damage to the country,” she said, trying to play on Harry’s patriotism.
“Oh please,” he said coldly. “You don’t care one iota about the implications for the country – none of you. All you care about is your comfortable life.”
Edward stepped forward aggressively. “Who do you think you are to come into our house and threaten us?”
“Edward,” his mother warned.
Harry stared the young man down. “Better listen to your mother, boy. Believe me when I tell you that I’m the last person you would want to make an enemy of. There are still some things in this world that money cannot save you from.”
Edward wavered, unwilling to back down, but one look at the fear on his mother’s face persuaded him otherwise. She obviously knew who this mysterious man was and was afraid of what he could do to them. He slumped onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.
“I should never have listened to you,” he mumbled in his mother’s direction.

“What are you going to do?” Lady Agnes asked Harry.
He let the silence stretch uncomfortably. “First of all you will find you no longer have your pick of the rich and powerful to warm your bed. I don’t think it a good idea that a murderous sociopath should have sexual relations with men in influential positions, and I will make sure it’s known in the relevant circles.”
Lady Agnes closed her eyes in despair.
“Don’t worry,” he said caustically, “the streets are teeming with commoners, so you don’t have to become a nun.”
Her eyes flashed with something close to hatred, but she said nothing.
Harry continued, “And secondly, you better hope David lives to a ripe old age, because that tape will find its way to the Police in the event of his untimely demise. Even if he were struck by lightning, you can rest assured you and your youngest offspring will be the subject of intense police scrutiny.”
He gave them a last good long stare before making for the door.
“Oh,” he turned back and gestured toward the television, “you can keep that copy. There are plenty of others.”

- 0 –

Ruth’s car was parked half a mile from the gate of the Percy residence. She had insisted on coming along (and on driving, but that was a whole other story), but Harry had drawn the line at her accompanying him into the house. She had, therefore, kept vigil in front of the gate for the last hour. It was with immense relief that she saw his shape materialise out of the darkness. Her eyes stayed on him until he slid into the passenger seat next to her safely.
“How did it go?”
He grunted. “Lady Agnes was somewhat put-out by the idea that she would now have to associate with the unwashed masses if she wants to have a sex life.”
Ruth smiled weakly, unable to be as flippant about the situation as Harry was. When she didn’t say anything, he turned to look at her face properly.
“You don’t like it.” It was not a question.
“No, I don’t. And I don’t understand why you’re not angered by it. They should be prosecuted.”
His eyes never left her face. “Look at me, Ruth,” he commanded, and waited until she did. “You think this whole sordid mess doesn’t anger me?”
She scanned his face, noting for the first time the lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth, the hard look in his eyes, and the stern set of his mouth. Her shoulders sagged and she raised a hand to briefly touch his chest.
“No. I don’t know why I said that.”
He relaxed fractionally. “Prosecuting them would solve nothing. It is their word against that of a young black man from Kenya who had recently been fired by the Duke. They would attain the services of the best lawyer money can buy, and Uhuru wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Harry,” she said, touching his chest again, “I honestly don’t blame you. It was just my frustration talking. I know how the game works.”
He nodded. “Then I think you’d better take me home, Miss Evershed. Now that we have found Bertie you’re no longer supposed to fraternise with me.”
She smiled, but it could not hide the hint of sadness in her eyes.

- 0 –

She parked in front of Harry’s house and switched off the engine. They sat in silence; there was so much that they both wanted to say, but neither knew where to start.
Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’d ask you in, but…”
He lifted his chin in the direction of the two men watching from a car parked on the opposite side of the street.
She looked at him, and there was something in her expression that made his heart beat faster. “And I would have accepted,” she murmured, and he almost kissed her.
They just looked at each other for a long, long time.
“All right,” Harry said in the end and reached for the door.
“Harry.” Ruth grabbed his arm and held him back. “I’ll see you at the Inquiry,” she promised.
He began to shake his head. “No, Ruth, you don’t have to-“
“Yes I do,” she said determinedly, and he had to fight down a wave of emotion.
“Thank you.”

He stood on the pavement and watched until her taillights disappeared around the corner, an idea beginning to form in the back of his head. He might just survive the Inquiry with some indirect help from Ruth’s brilliance. Without sparing a glance for the watchers across the street, he turned and walked inside, already composing the first paragraph of the report that would outline Ruth’s value to MI5. His heart beat warmly in his chest, and for the first time since she had come back from Cyprus, he began to believe that they might have a future.
Together.

Fin


Thank you for reading, and if you were one of those who took the time to leave a comment, double the thanks!]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie Part V]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2140.html Fri, 02 Mar 2012 08:59:16 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2140.html PART V

Friday 24 March 2011
Windsor Golf and Country Club, Nairobi

For the next few seconds, Ruth registered flashes of sensation that her mind would only later assemble into a coherent whole. There was a glimpse of men in dark clothes, their faces hidden by balaclavas. There was the deafening sound of gunfire and the smell of cordite. And there was Harry’s weight pressing her into the floor as his body covered hers. She heard harsh voices arguing in a language she didn’t know. Harry’s head was turned towards the melee. He moved as if to get up and Ruth realised that he intended to intervene. Panic flooded her and she gripped the lapels of his jacket with a strength she didn’t know she possessed and yanked him down again. He looked at her, startled, and everything she felt for him was plainly written in her eyes, including her fear for his life. He stopped moving and one of his hands found its way to her cheek, cupping it reassuringly.
“No-one move!” One of the masked men called loudly.
Harry slowly turned his head and watched them drag the blonde impersonator off through the trees. Two of the men stayed until they heard a vehicle start up in the distance. Only when its sound had faded into the night, did they turn and disappear into the trees themselves.

Harry was the first to move. He scrambled to his feet and pulled Ruth upright. His hands framed her face as he asked urgently, “Are you all right?”
She nodded, still somewhat stunned by events, and the relief in his eyes matched that in hers.
He turned away and pulled out his mobile.
“What’s the local emergency number?” he asked in the general direction of the frozen group of people still cowering on the ground.
When no-one responded, he marched over and hauled one of the local men to his feet.
“What’s the emergency number for the police?” he repeated urgently.
The man stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.
“Come on! Time is of the essence,” Harry snapped irritably, and the man stammered out the number.

Ruth watched on as Harry took control of the situation with practised ease. He phoned the police, kept everyone together and made sure none of the evidence was disturbed, and organised for the first-aid personnel of the club to come down and tend to the shocked guests. This was who Harry Pearce was, she realised. He was a man tailor-made for times of crisis. He did not bother with attempts to reassure the frightened group of people – he left that to her. Ruth moved among them with comforting words and touches and made certain that the most serious cases of shock were attended to first. When the police arrived, the group of people listened in amazement at the details Harry was able to provide:
“There were eight assailants, all black men. They all had handguns. Four had Glocks, while two of the others had Berettas. I couldn’t see the other two weapons clearly. They came through the trees, four from the left and four from the right. It was obvious that they had only one target in mind – the man they thought was David Percy.”
A representative from one of the local charities interrupted, “But it is Mr Percy that they took. He’s been here for-“
Harry cut him off impatiently. “No, it is not. The man they took is an impostor who looks a lot like the real David Percy, but it’s not him.”
The other guests shared confused looks as Harry continued. “The four assailants that were closest to him went straight for him, while the others fired in the air to distract us. One man was about to shoot the target when two of the others interfered and an argument broke out.”
He turned back to the group. “Did anyone here understand what was said?”
One of the waiters, a young local man, stepped forward. “Yes Sir. One man told the second not to shoot Mr Percy – he was worth more alive. The second man said that their instructions were to kill him, but the first man said the old man would pay more to get his son back alive.”
Harry glanced at Ruth with a grim expression.

- 0 –
One hour later

They were back at the hotel. Harry paced Ruth’s room whilst she sat on the bed and tried not to be distracted by his dishevelled appearance. His jacket was off – he’d draped it around her shoulders at some stage during the aftermath – and he’d loosened his bowtie and a few buttons. There were streaks of dirt on his sleeve and trousers. They were soon joined by Tim, who had a bottle of Scotch under his arm. Harry was not overly impressed by the label, but needs must. He poured both Ruth and himself generous measures before briefly relating the evening’s developments to the journalist. With Tim’s added bulk the room felt overcrowded and claustrophobic, and Ruth moved over to the window and opened it as wide as it could. The sounds of the evening traffic drifted in along with the aroma of roasting meat from the restaurant across the street.
“But why would someone impersonate David Percy?” Tim asked when Harry finished his account.
None of them had an answer to that.
Harry moved on. “It is now imperative that we find the real David Percy as soon as possible. Once these people realise their mistake, they could come after him. We need to get to him first.”
“Sure. But how?” Tim wanted to know.
Harry turned to Ruth. “Ruth?”

She sat down on the bed again and mulled over the facts available to them. Harry nursed his Scotch and watched her brain work, confident that if anyone could come up with an idea, it was Ruth.
“Okay, we know David visited Kenya with his father a few months ago,” she began. “We also know that he enjoyed the services of some of the high class prostitutes whilst here. It seems a reasonable assumption that, if he is in Kenya at the moment, he is shacked up somewhere with one of the ladies he met on his previous visit.”
“One of the upmarket hotels?” Tim suggested, but Harry shook his head.
“Too public. Ruth, do we have a list of properties owned by the Percys?”
“Yea.” She leaned across to her suitcase and pulled out a folder.
He sat down next to her to look through the list together. “Tim, why don’t you work your contacts and see if you can find out whether any of the more expensive prostitutes has dropped out of circulation the last few weeks.”
He handed over a key. “Use my room. Across the corridor.”

Once they were alone, they went through the list of properties, identifying the ones in Kenya. Harry was very conscious of Ruth’s bare shoulder pressing against his. He could see a bruise forming on her shoulder-blade, and it reminded him of her softness under him as he’d pressed her into the floor. He swallowed hard and concentrated on the list. Ruth pointed at one of the properties.
“This one looks promising, Harry. It’s a secluded farm on the border of the Masai Mara game reserve, not too far from the Percys’ tea plantations. It’s apparently used as a sort of lodge to impress business contacts.”
“That does sound promising.”
Tim burst back into the room. “I think I’ve identified the woman, Harry. She’s known in the trade as Brown Honey, and she’s been out of circulation for the last ten days. She told a friend she’s going south with a client.”
Ruth said, “That farm is to the south,” and Harry made up his mind.
“We need a helicopter,” he told Tim, and then he looked at Ruth. “Care for a trip south?”

- 0 –

By the time Tim succeeded in rustling up a helicopter and pilot, Ruth had found a nearby game lodge with a helipad that would provide them with a vehicle to drive around the area. Even Harry was impressed by this, and said so. As he moved toward the door, Tim turned to Ruth with a look of disbelief.
“Bloody hell, did I just hear Harry Pearce compliment you? I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Shall we go?” Harry said caustically and stalked out. Tim laughed and gave Ruth a wink as they followed.

- 0 –
Saturday 26 March 2011
Percy farm near Masai Mara

Harry let the car coast to a stop outside the gate and doused the lights. The first daylight began to streak the sky in the east, turning the low clouds pink.
“I think we’ll walk from here,” he told Ruth, resolutely ignoring the weariness seeping through his limbs. He wanted the element of surprise.
They made their way up to the house quietly. A long paved drive took them through clumps of trees which eventually opened onto an expansive lawn dotted with flowerbeds. Birds were singing lustily, celebrating the new day with no apparent concern for the two people walking past. There was no other sound to be heard. Harry took in a lungful of the clean air and enjoyed the earthy scents that came with it – wet grass, decaying plant matter and something sweet which he couldn’t identify.

They reached the house without incident and stepped onto the veranda. Harry tried the screen door, but it was latched on the inside. He took out a pocketknife and slid the blade between door and jamb, then lifted the latch. He was aware of Ruth’s quiet breath behind his shoulder as he eased the door open. She handed him the torch she was carrying and he shone it around the room before stepping inside. They slowly made their way from room to room, and encountered no-one until they came to what appeared to be the master bedroom. The door was pulled to and Harry pushed it open slowly. In the gloom he could make out the shape of two bodies in the huge bed. As he reached for the light switch, he fervently hoped that they’d got this right, otherwise the next few seconds would be a tad embarrassing.

He flipped the light on as he stepped into the room and watched as the two figures began to squirm and waken. He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the heads turned to the door and revealed the features of David Percy. As soon as the young man’s eyes blinked open, Harry said pleasantly, “Good morning, David.”
David stared at the two strangers in befuddlement. “Who the fuck are you?” he croaked blearily.
“We were hired by your mother to find you. She hasn’t heard from you for two weeks. She was worried.”
David’s answer was a snort of derision. “I find that hard to believe.”
He was fully awake by now and sat up in the bed. Harry’s attention shifted to the woman next to David. Her head was shaved and dark eyes stared at him from an oval face with high cheekbones. She was beautiful.
He said to her, “Why don’t you go and get a cup of coffee? I need to have a few words with young David.”
She looked to the man next to her, and he nodded at her. “Go take a shower, Honey.”
Without a word she got out of bed, her lithe limbs moving gracefully. She walked past them, naked, her dark skin glowing in the early morning light. To Ruth’s amusement Harry kept his eyes on David, but the tips of his ears turned red at the woman’s unselfconscious display of her body. When the bathroom door closed behind her, Harry said tersely, “Get dressed. We’ll be in the kitchen. I need some coffee.” He turned on his heel and shepherded Ruth out of the room.

- 0 –

When David finally joined them, a pot of coffee stood on the table and Harry and Ruth cradled steaming mugs. He poured himself one as well and slouched down in a chair, his bare feet stretched out before him. Harry regarded the young man steadily. David clearly wanted to convey an air of nonchalance, but there was something underneath – not quite fear, but a wariness he was trying to hide. Harry took another sip of coffee. He desperately needed the caffeine to revive his flagging energy levels.
He said, “Someone has been traipsing around Kenya pretending to be you.” He paused and added, “You have an impostor.”
David blinked, and then he laughed.

It was not quite the reaction they were expecting, and Harry and Ruth exchanged a puzzled glance.
“You find that amusing?” Harry enquired.
“Yeah. That would be Nate. He’s not an impostor, mate.”
“Oh? What would you call him?”
“A… representative.” He smirked at them.
His attitude ground on Harry’s nerves, and he took a deep breath before retorting icily, “We have not had the best of nights. This is not the time to play your silly little games, and I don’t have the inclination to listen to any of your bullshit. So give us the facts: who is Nate, and why is he going around pretending to be you?”
David held up a hand. “All right. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Nathan is my valet. We look a lot alike, and I saw an opportunity to have some fun. At first it was just for a bit of amusement – I trained him to be me. I would send him into a room full of acquaintances and see how long it took them to notice.”
He broke off and laughed. “Mind you, he proved to be bloody good at it. The little runt’s got ambition, and he took to the role of nobleman like a duck to water. When I got to university, I had a thought. Why should I attend all those boring classes if I have Nate? Unfortunately I haven’t yet found a way to let him write the exams. Once I do, we may finally pass.”
He nattered on, too wrapped up in his own cleverness to notice the darkening expressions of the two people across the table.
“When I decided to come to Kenya for a little R&R with Honey, I hit upon the idea of sending Nate around to do some community work. I thought that if it looked like I was out here doing some charity stuff it would keep my parents off my back for a while. Apparently I was wrong.”

There was an ominous silence. Then Harry said, “Nathan was kidnapped last night.”
David sat up straight, momentarily shocked, but then shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap a valet?”
“Someone who thought they were kidnapping the son of the Duke of Suffolk,” Ruth snapped.
Harry added, “Don’t be obtuse. You sent Nathan to impersonate you at a gala for one of your family’s community projects in Nairobi, during which he was snatched by armed men and dragged off to God knows where.”
“What? I didn’t send him there. I told that useless bastard to stay away from Nairobi. Too many people there had met me when I accompanied my father on his last business trip here.”
He shrugged and added snidely, “I did think he was becoming too big for his boots.”
Harry glared at him. “Oh yes, it’s all Nathan’s fault.” The sarcasm dripped from every word. “I expect you to get a phone call from the kidnappers soon, demanding money for the return of your valet.”
David opened his mouth to object but Harry overrode him. “Because you can be damn sure the first thing Nathan did was to convince them that he is, alas, not David Percy V.”
As if by prior arrangement, David’s mobile began to vibrate at that very moment.

All eyes turned to it. David sat frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening.
“Answer it,” Harry commanded, and the young man snatched it up.
“Yes?... Who the fuck is thi-... You can’t order me around, do you know who I am?!... What? Wait-“
He slowly put the phone down, and Harry looked ready to strangle him. Ruth put a restraining hand on his arm and could feel his muscles bunched tensely through his shirt.
“They demanded ten thousand dollars, said they are sending me a picture as incentive,” the young man announced. His phone pinged and he glanced at the image before getting up to pace the floor. Harry took the phone and he and Ruth looked at the picture of Nathan, who had obviously been beaten severely.
Harry said, “Ten thousand isn’t much. You should be able to get that together quickly-“
“I’m not bloody paying!” David shouted. “If he’d listened-“
“Harry!” Ruth said sharply, but it was too late. He was on his feet in a flash and grabbed the other man by the collar. He dragged him over to the table and snatched the mobile off it, holding it a few inches in front of David’s nose.
“Look at him! That should have been you. He is there because you found it amusing to train him like a performing monkey, to impersonate you. Just so that you could shirk your responsibilities and shack up with a prostitute. And now you have the bloody nerve to blame him for it.”
He shoved David away in disgust, his chest heaving. After a few deep breaths he continued more calmly. “It’s time to grow up, David. A title and money is not enough to earn you respect. A man does that by taking responsibility for his actions. You got Nathan into this mess, and you must get him out of it.”
David had backed away from Harry and stood with his back pressed against the wall. His eyes focussed on the mobile and he wiped a hand over his face. Eventually he nodded, all the bravado knocked out of him.
“I’ll get the money together,” he said softly.

tbc]]> PART V

Friday 24 March 2011
Windsor Golf and Country Club, Nairobi

For the next few seconds, Ruth registered flashes of sensation that her mind would only later assemble into a coherent whole. There was a glimpse of men in dark clothes, their faces hidden by balaclavas. There was the deafening sound of gunfire and the smell of cordite. And there was Harry’s weight pressing her into the floor as his body covered hers. She heard harsh voices arguing in a language she didn’t know. Harry’s head was turned towards the melee. He moved as if to get up and Ruth realised that he intended to intervene. Panic flooded her and she gripped the lapels of his jacket with a strength she didn’t know she possessed and yanked him down again. He looked at her, startled, and everything she felt for him was plainly written in her eyes, including her fear for his life. He stopped moving and one of his hands found its way to her cheek, cupping it reassuringly.
“No-one move!” One of the masked men called loudly.
Harry slowly turned his head and watched them drag the blonde impersonator off through the trees. Two of the men stayed until they heard a vehicle start up in the distance. Only when its sound had faded into the night, did they turn and disappear into the trees themselves.

Harry was the first to move. He scrambled to his feet and pulled Ruth upright. His hands framed her face as he asked urgently, “Are you all right?”
She nodded, still somewhat stunned by events, and the relief in his eyes matched that in hers.
He turned away and pulled out his mobile.
“What’s the local emergency number?” he asked in the general direction of the frozen group of people still cowering on the ground.
When no-one responded, he marched over and hauled one of the local men to his feet.
“What’s the emergency number for the police?” he repeated urgently.
The man stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.
“Come on! Time is of the essence,” Harry snapped irritably, and the man stammered out the number.

Ruth watched on as Harry took control of the situation with practised ease. He phoned the police, kept everyone together and made sure none of the evidence was disturbed, and organised for the first-aid personnel of the club to come down and tend to the shocked guests. This was who Harry Pearce was, she realised. He was a man tailor-made for times of crisis. He did not bother with attempts to reassure the frightened group of people – he left that to her. Ruth moved among them with comforting words and touches and made certain that the most serious cases of shock were attended to first. When the police arrived, the group of people listened in amazement at the details Harry was able to provide:
“There were eight assailants, all black men. They all had handguns. Four had Glocks, while two of the others had Berettas. I couldn’t see the other two weapons clearly. They came through the trees, four from the left and four from the right. It was obvious that they had only one target in mind – the man they thought was David Percy.”
A representative from one of the local charities interrupted, “But it is Mr Percy that they took. He’s been here for-“
Harry cut him off impatiently. “No, it is not. The man they took is an impostor who looks a lot like the real David Percy, but it’s not him.”
The other guests shared confused looks as Harry continued. “The four assailants that were closest to him went straight for him, while the others fired in the air to distract us. One man was about to shoot the target when two of the others interfered and an argument broke out.”
He turned back to the group. “Did anyone here understand what was said?”
One of the waiters, a young local man, stepped forward. “Yes Sir. One man told the second not to shoot Mr Percy – he was worth more alive. The second man said that their instructions were to kill him, but the first man said the old man would pay more to get his son back alive.”
Harry glanced at Ruth with a grim expression.

- 0 –
One hour later

They were back at the hotel. Harry paced Ruth’s room whilst she sat on the bed and tried not to be distracted by his dishevelled appearance. His jacket was off – he’d draped it around her shoulders at some stage during the aftermath – and he’d loosened his bowtie and a few buttons. There were streaks of dirt on his sleeve and trousers. They were soon joined by Tim, who had a bottle of Scotch under his arm. Harry was not overly impressed by the label, but needs must. He poured both Ruth and himself generous measures before briefly relating the evening’s developments to the journalist. With Tim’s added bulk the room felt overcrowded and claustrophobic, and Ruth moved over to the window and opened it as wide as it could. The sounds of the evening traffic drifted in along with the aroma of roasting meat from the restaurant across the street.
“But why would someone impersonate David Percy?” Tim asked when Harry finished his account.
None of them had an answer to that.
Harry moved on. “It is now imperative that we find the real David Percy as soon as possible. Once these people realise their mistake, they could come after him. We need to get to him first.”
“Sure. But how?” Tim wanted to know.
Harry turned to Ruth. “Ruth?”

She sat down on the bed again and mulled over the facts available to them. Harry nursed his Scotch and watched her brain work, confident that if anyone could come up with an idea, it was Ruth.
“Okay, we know David visited Kenya with his father a few months ago,” she began. “We also know that he enjoyed the services of some of the high class prostitutes whilst here. It seems a reasonable assumption that, if he is in Kenya at the moment, he is shacked up somewhere with one of the ladies he met on his previous visit.”
“One of the upmarket hotels?” Tim suggested, but Harry shook his head.
“Too public. Ruth, do we have a list of properties owned by the Percys?”
“Yea.” She leaned across to her suitcase and pulled out a folder.
He sat down next to her to look through the list together. “Tim, why don’t you work your contacts and see if you can find out whether any of the more expensive prostitutes has dropped out of circulation the last few weeks.”
He handed over a key. “Use my room. Across the corridor.”

Once they were alone, they went through the list of properties, identifying the ones in Kenya. Harry was very conscious of Ruth’s bare shoulder pressing against his. He could see a bruise forming on her shoulder-blade, and it reminded him of her softness under him as he’d pressed her into the floor. He swallowed hard and concentrated on the list. Ruth pointed at one of the properties.
“This one looks promising, Harry. It’s a secluded farm on the border of the Masai Mara game reserve, not too far from the Percys’ tea plantations. It’s apparently used as a sort of lodge to impress business contacts.”
“That does sound promising.”
Tim burst back into the room. “I think I’ve identified the woman, Harry. She’s known in the trade as Brown Honey, and she’s been out of circulation for the last ten days. She told a friend she’s going south with a client.”
Ruth said, “That farm is to the south,” and Harry made up his mind.
“We need a helicopter,” he told Tim, and then he looked at Ruth. “Care for a trip south?”

- 0 –

By the time Tim succeeded in rustling up a helicopter and pilot, Ruth had found a nearby game lodge with a helipad that would provide them with a vehicle to drive around the area. Even Harry was impressed by this, and said so. As he moved toward the door, Tim turned to Ruth with a look of disbelief.
“Bloody hell, did I just hear Harry Pearce compliment you? I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Shall we go?” Harry said caustically and stalked out. Tim laughed and gave Ruth a wink as they followed.

- 0 –
Saturday 26 March 2011
Percy farm near Masai Mara

Harry let the car coast to a stop outside the gate and doused the lights. The first daylight began to streak the sky in the east, turning the low clouds pink.
“I think we’ll walk from here,” he told Ruth, resolutely ignoring the weariness seeping through his limbs. He wanted the element of surprise.
They made their way up to the house quietly. A long paved drive took them through clumps of trees which eventually opened onto an expansive lawn dotted with flowerbeds. Birds were singing lustily, celebrating the new day with no apparent concern for the two people walking past. There was no other sound to be heard. Harry took in a lungful of the clean air and enjoyed the earthy scents that came with it – wet grass, decaying plant matter and something sweet which he couldn’t identify.

They reached the house without incident and stepped onto the veranda. Harry tried the screen door, but it was latched on the inside. He took out a pocketknife and slid the blade between door and jamb, then lifted the latch. He was aware of Ruth’s quiet breath behind his shoulder as he eased the door open. She handed him the torch she was carrying and he shone it around the room before stepping inside. They slowly made their way from room to room, and encountered no-one until they came to what appeared to be the master bedroom. The door was pulled to and Harry pushed it open slowly. In the gloom he could make out the shape of two bodies in the huge bed. As he reached for the light switch, he fervently hoped that they’d got this right, otherwise the next few seconds would be a tad embarrassing.

He flipped the light on as he stepped into the room and watched as the two figures began to squirm and waken. He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the heads turned to the door and revealed the features of David Percy. As soon as the young man’s eyes blinked open, Harry said pleasantly, “Good morning, David.”
David stared at the two strangers in befuddlement. “Who the fuck are you?” he croaked blearily.
“We were hired by your mother to find you. She hasn’t heard from you for two weeks. She was worried.”
David’s answer was a snort of derision. “I find that hard to believe.”
He was fully awake by now and sat up in the bed. Harry’s attention shifted to the woman next to David. Her head was shaved and dark eyes stared at him from an oval face with high cheekbones. She was beautiful.
He said to her, “Why don’t you go and get a cup of coffee? I need to have a few words with young David.”
She looked to the man next to her, and he nodded at her. “Go take a shower, Honey.”
Without a word she got out of bed, her lithe limbs moving gracefully. She walked past them, naked, her dark skin glowing in the early morning light. To Ruth’s amusement Harry kept his eyes on David, but the tips of his ears turned red at the woman’s unselfconscious display of her body. When the bathroom door closed behind her, Harry said tersely, “Get dressed. We’ll be in the kitchen. I need some coffee.” He turned on his heel and shepherded Ruth out of the room.

- 0 –

When David finally joined them, a pot of coffee stood on the table and Harry and Ruth cradled steaming mugs. He poured himself one as well and slouched down in a chair, his bare feet stretched out before him. Harry regarded the young man steadily. David clearly wanted to convey an air of nonchalance, but there was something underneath – not quite fear, but a wariness he was trying to hide. Harry took another sip of coffee. He desperately needed the caffeine to revive his flagging energy levels.
He said, “Someone has been traipsing around Kenya pretending to be you.” He paused and added, “You have an impostor.”
David blinked, and then he laughed.

It was not quite the reaction they were expecting, and Harry and Ruth exchanged a puzzled glance.
“You find that amusing?” Harry enquired.
“Yeah. That would be Nate. He’s not an impostor, mate.”
“Oh? What would you call him?”
“A… representative.” He smirked at them.
His attitude ground on Harry’s nerves, and he took a deep breath before retorting icily, “We have not had the best of nights. This is not the time to play your silly little games, and I don’t have the inclination to listen to any of your bullshit. So give us the facts: who is Nate, and why is he going around pretending to be you?”
David held up a hand. “All right. No need to get your knickers in a twist. Nathan is my valet. We look a lot alike, and I saw an opportunity to have some fun. At first it was just for a bit of amusement – I trained him to be me. I would send him into a room full of acquaintances and see how long it took them to notice.”
He broke off and laughed. “Mind you, he proved to be bloody good at it. The little runt’s got ambition, and he took to the role of nobleman like a duck to water. When I got to university, I had a thought. Why should I attend all those boring classes if I have Nate? Unfortunately I haven’t yet found a way to let him write the exams. Once I do, we may finally pass.”
He nattered on, too wrapped up in his own cleverness to notice the darkening expressions of the two people across the table.
“When I decided to come to Kenya for a little R&R with Honey, I hit upon the idea of sending Nate around to do some community work. I thought that if it looked like I was out here doing some charity stuff it would keep my parents off my back for a while. Apparently I was wrong.”

There was an ominous silence. Then Harry said, “Nathan was kidnapped last night.”
David sat up straight, momentarily shocked, but then shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would want to kidnap a valet?”
“Someone who thought they were kidnapping the son of the Duke of Suffolk,” Ruth snapped.
Harry added, “Don’t be obtuse. You sent Nathan to impersonate you at a gala for one of your family’s community projects in Nairobi, during which he was snatched by armed men and dragged off to God knows where.”
“What? I didn’t send him there. I told that useless bastard to stay away from Nairobi. Too many people there had met me when I accompanied my father on his last business trip here.”
He shrugged and added snidely, “I did think he was becoming too big for his boots.”
Harry glared at him. “Oh yes, it’s all Nathan’s fault.” The sarcasm dripped from every word. “I expect you to get a phone call from the kidnappers soon, demanding money for the return of your valet.”
David opened his mouth to object but Harry overrode him. “Because you can be damn sure the first thing Nathan did was to convince them that he is, alas, not David Percy V.”
As if by prior arrangement, David’s mobile began to vibrate at that very moment.

All eyes turned to it. David sat frozen, unable to comprehend what was happening.
“Answer it,” Harry commanded, and the young man snatched it up.
“Yes?... Who the fuck is thi-... You can’t order me around, do you know who I am?!... What? Wait-“
He slowly put the phone down, and Harry looked ready to strangle him. Ruth put a restraining hand on his arm and could feel his muscles bunched tensely through his shirt.
“They demanded ten thousand dollars, said they are sending me a picture as incentive,” the young man announced. His phone pinged and he glanced at the image before getting up to pace the floor. Harry took the phone and he and Ruth looked at the picture of Nathan, who had obviously been beaten severely.
Harry said, “Ten thousand isn’t much. You should be able to get that together quickly-“
“I’m not bloody paying!” David shouted. “If he’d listened-“
“Harry!” Ruth said sharply, but it was too late. He was on his feet in a flash and grabbed the other man by the collar. He dragged him over to the table and snatched the mobile off it, holding it a few inches in front of David’s nose.
“Look at him! That should have been you. He is there because you found it amusing to train him like a performing monkey, to impersonate you. Just so that you could shirk your responsibilities and shack up with a prostitute. And now you have the bloody nerve to blame him for it.”
He shoved David away in disgust, his chest heaving. After a few deep breaths he continued more calmly. “It’s time to grow up, David. A title and money is not enough to earn you respect. A man does that by taking responsibility for his actions. You got Nathan into this mess, and you must get him out of it.”
David had backed away from Harry and stood with his back pressed against the wall. His eyes focussed on the mobile and he wiped a hand over his face. Eventually he nodded, all the bravado knocked out of him.
“I’ll get the money together,” he said softly.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie Part IV]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2137.html Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:02:46 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2137.html PART IV

Thursday 24 March 2011
Nairobi, Kenya

Ruth woke up as the plane circled over Kenya’s capital, to find her head resting on Harry’s shoulder. It felt good. Natural. His linen shirt was soft under her cheek. She sat up slowly and lifted her eyes to his. His gaze was soft and content, and something else that she preferred not to name just yet. Suddenly her eyes widened and shot back to his shoulder, but to her relief there was no wet patch. When she met his eyes again there was a hint of amusement in them, and she smiled sheepishly.
“Sorry.” Her hand brushed over his shirt before she could stop it. “I’ve wrinkled it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and meant it.
Their eyes held until the weight of it became too much for Ruth and she turned away to look out the window. The city sprawled below them and she took in the enormity of the informal settlement that had sprouted up along the southwest side. Kibera was one of the biggest slums in the world, and Ruth studied it in horrified fascination. Its mosaic of narrow alleys, tin shacks and mud dwellings stretched far and wide. She vaguely recalled once seeing a documentary about it, and her mind effortlessly supplied some facts it had stored away. No-one really knew how many people lived in Kibera, and estimates put the number anywhere between two hundred thousand and over a million. There was no water, sanitation or electricity and the soil was said to consist almost entirely of refuse. She compared it to her own life, the material comfort of her existence, and suddenly her problems didn’t seem all that big. She thought, ‘I have no understanding what real, crushing poverty is like, and what it does to the dignity of those suffering through it.’ She turned back to Harry, the despair she felt on behalf of these people evident in her face. He hesitated, then reached out and touched the back of her hand briefly.
“Rather puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
Ruth smiled wanly. “If Bertie’s somewhere in there, Harry… How will we ever find him?”
“He won’t be there of his own accord – too used to the comforts of the high life. But if he were... To the people living there, that maze is as familiar as London’s streets are to a cabbie. It can be done with the help of local knowledge.”
He smiled. “And I know just the man.”

- 0 –

They emerged from the terminal into a cloudy, pleasant day. Nairobi’s higher altitude and the fact that it was moving towards autumn meant that temperatures weren’t too high. A large man stepped out of a SUV parked illegally on the pavement and waved. Harry guided Ruth towards him. The two men regarded each other, unconsciously mapping the change intervening years had made. Then the man grinned widely and clapped Harry on the shoulder.
“Harry bloody Pearce, in the flesh. My God.”
Harry smiled. “Hello, Tim.”

Tim Warner was an investigative journalist who had been living in Nairobi for many years. He was the type of man that the Security Services found useful to have on their books – well known around the city and with extensive contacts among the ruling class. His main use was to introduce other agents to the targets they wanted to infiltrate, but he would also pass on the occasional titbit of information. During the investigation into the bombing of the US embassy in Nairobi, which MI5 had assisted with, Harry found him of great value.

As he drove through the chaotic traffic confidently, he brought them up to date with what he knew.
“I’ve made discreet enquiries about your missing man.”
He glanced at Harry. “Are you having me on, old boy? I mean, if this is just a jaunt with the little lady, I’m the last one to judge-“
“What are you talking about?” Harry asked sharply, ignoring Ruth’s affronted intake of breath from the back.
“Well, he’s not really missing, is he?” Tim looked at Harry again and noted that his confusion was swiftly being replaced by annoyance. He hastened on.
“He’s been out and about in Kenya for the last month.”
Harry turned to look at Ruth, but she appeared to be as baffled as he was.
“You’ve seen him?” he asked Tim, who shook his head.
“Not personally, no. But I’ve been told that he visited one or two of the community upliftment projects the family is running in the areas surrounding their tea plantations.”
There was a hint of scorn as he continued, “They’re very keen to be seen to do their bit for charity, but of course the money they spend on that isn’t even a drop in the bucket of the profit they make out of exploiting these people.”
“So there was press coverage of these visits?” Harry asked, still trying to make sense of it.
“No, no, it was just your man and the locals,” Tim said as he drew up in front of a modest hotel.
“So how did they know it was him?” Harry persisted.
Tim gave him a pitiful look and said, carefully enunciating every syllable, “Because he introduced himself.” The ‘you idiot’ remained unspoken.
“Hmm,” Harry responded and reached for the door.
“Apparently there’s a charity do for one of the projects tomorrow night, and your man promised to attend.”
“Where?”
“Here in Nairobi.”

They agreed a time for Tim to pick them up for dinner and checked into their rooms. It was basic, but at least it was clean. Half an hour later there was a knock at Ruth’s door, and she opened it to let Harry in. He settled on the threadbare chair whilst she perched on the foot of the bed.
“Amenities satisfactory?” he asked.
“Yes.” She didn’t mention her staring contest with the transparent gecko that seemed to live in her shower.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Harry said, and she assumed he wasn’t talking about geckos in showers, or the fact that they were in a hotel room. Alone.
“Someone is impersonating David Percy,” she ventured, and Harry nodded.
He said, “I want to go to that function tomorrow night. The Duchess will organise an invitation for us, I’m sure.”
He looked uncomfortable as he asked, “Do you have something to wear? It’s formal.”
Ruth shook her head.
“Me neither,” Harry stated with a small smile. “Tim will sort us out on that front tomorrow.”
He fell silent, suddenly acutely aware of the bed behind her. All it would take was two steps, and he’d be able to lean over her, kiss her mouth, her neck, and lay her back on the mattress… He cleared his throat and stood suddenly.
“Ill let you get some rest before dinner.”
She nodded, and watched him walk out of the room with a knowing look.

- 0 –

For dinner Tim took them to a restaurant situated on the edge of the city. The old colonial house had a wide veranda from which the candles on the tables winked at them invitingly. Bougainvilleas tumbled over the perimeter wall in riotous colour. The journalist seemed to know everyone in the restaurant, and introduced the two spooks as friends visiting from the old country. They settled at a secluded table in the corner of the veranda. The food was good, the ambience relaxing, and Tim kept the conversation flowing effortlessly. Ruth looked wonderful and smiled at him often, and Harry felt himself relax for perhaps the first time since Ros’ funeral.

Tim filled them in on the political situation (mostly calm) and the incidence of crime (not too bad), and now moved on to discussing the expat community in Nairobi.
“There’s quite a lot of us still around. Most of them tend to cluster together and create little pockets of Britain. There are golf clubs, for instance, where you’d be hard pressed to recognise you’re on another continent, apart from the better weather. You’ll find the women sitting around the lounge sipping their G and Ts, while the men play golf poorly and discuss that morning’s Times newspaper.” He paused disdainfully. “And at the other end of the scale, you get the expats that go completely native – shack up with a local woman who they then try to turn into a darker version of their mother, and walk around in ridiculous ethnic outfits.”
Ruth rested her chin in her palm and studied him. “And in which camp do you fall?”
Tim threw back his head and laughed. “Neither, I’m afraid. I think it’s best to remember who you are and where you come from, but to also learn everything you can about the place and its people.”
“And which camp does the Duke of Suffolk fit into?” Harry asked.
“Oh, definitely the former. He’s not often in Nairobi, though. When he visits Kenya, he spends most of his time on their tea plantation estate near Mount Kenya. You should visit – you can see the Masai Mara from the veranda.”

Tim excused himself for a while, and Harry and Ruth were left alone with each other. She could feel his eyes on her, could sense them caress her face. His hand twitched on the tablecloth and for a split-second she thought he would reach out and take her hand, but his fingers curled inward to form a loose fist instead.
“Harry,” she found herself saying as she looked up and lost herself in his gentle gaze, “...I’m glad I volunteered.”
He breathed deeply and smiled. “So am I, Ruth. I-“
Tim returned, and Harry never finished what he was about to say.

- 0 –
Friday 24 March 2011
Windsor Golf and Country Club, Nairobi

Harry circulated among the other guests with Ruth on his arm. It was a struggle to keep his focus on the matter at hand rather than the alluring woman next to him. When she’d opened her door to him earlier that evening, he’d openly stared. Even now his eyes often strayed to her bare shoulders or the demure contours of her breasts and hips. He could still feel the warmth of her palms against his chest - she had helped him with his bowtie, and afterwards her hands lingered on his chest whilst she didn’t dare look at his face. It had taken all his willpower not to kiss her. He snagged two champagne glasses and led her to the outer fringes of the gathering. The setting was beautiful; a deck overlooking a lake and flanked by towering, lush trees. Harry leaned his back against the railing and Ruth settled next to him, close enough for their arms to touch. Not for the first time that evening a frisson ran through his nerve-ends.
“Anything?” he murmured, thankful that his voice did not give away his reaction to her proximity.
She began to shake her head, and then spotted a tall young man striding towards them, his blonde hair shining under the lights along the path.
“Here’s something,” she said, turning sideways so that she could study the man unobtrusively. Ruth took a good look before leaning past Harry to put down her champagne glass.
“It looks a lot like David, but it’s not him,” she reported in a low voice. “I think we’ve found our impersonator.”

Harry could now see the man over her shoulder. He moved into the throngs of people confidently, and they heard him introduce himself as ‘David Percy’.
Harry frowned; something about the man was familiar, and not because he looked like the missing heir. Before he could pursue that train of thought, his brain registered something that was out of place. He froze and scanned the trees to their right, and saw it again. Dark shapes slipping from tree to tree. There was a momentary glint of moonlight on what he was sure was the barrel of a gun. He grabbed Ruth’s wrist and pulled her against him as he scanned their surroundings. He was vaguely aware of her eyes on his face, luminous in the low light, as she looked at him questioningly. Before he had a chance to explain, all hell broke loose.

tbc]]> PART IV

Thursday 24 March 2011
Nairobi, Kenya

Ruth woke up as the plane circled over Kenya’s capital, to find her head resting on Harry’s shoulder. It felt good. Natural. His linen shirt was soft under her cheek. She sat up slowly and lifted her eyes to his. His gaze was soft and content, and something else that she preferred not to name just yet. Suddenly her eyes widened and shot back to his shoulder, but to her relief there was no wet patch. When she met his eyes again there was a hint of amusement in them, and she smiled sheepishly.
“Sorry.” Her hand brushed over his shirt before she could stop it. “I’ve wrinkled it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and meant it.
Their eyes held until the weight of it became too much for Ruth and she turned away to look out the window. The city sprawled below them and she took in the enormity of the informal settlement that had sprouted up along the southwest side. Kibera was one of the biggest slums in the world, and Ruth studied it in horrified fascination. Its mosaic of narrow alleys, tin shacks and mud dwellings stretched far and wide. She vaguely recalled once seeing a documentary about it, and her mind effortlessly supplied some facts it had stored away. No-one really knew how many people lived in Kibera, and estimates put the number anywhere between two hundred thousand and over a million. There was no water, sanitation or electricity and the soil was said to consist almost entirely of refuse. She compared it to her own life, the material comfort of her existence, and suddenly her problems didn’t seem all that big. She thought, ‘I have no understanding what real, crushing poverty is like, and what it does to the dignity of those suffering through it.’ She turned back to Harry, the despair she felt on behalf of these people evident in her face. He hesitated, then reached out and touched the back of her hand briefly.
“Rather puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”
Ruth smiled wanly. “If Bertie’s somewhere in there, Harry… How will we ever find him?”
“He won’t be there of his own accord – too used to the comforts of the high life. But if he were... To the people living there, that maze is as familiar as London’s streets are to a cabbie. It can be done with the help of local knowledge.”
He smiled. “And I know just the man.”

- 0 –

They emerged from the terminal into a cloudy, pleasant day. Nairobi’s higher altitude and the fact that it was moving towards autumn meant that temperatures weren’t too high. A large man stepped out of a SUV parked illegally on the pavement and waved. Harry guided Ruth towards him. The two men regarded each other, unconsciously mapping the change intervening years had made. Then the man grinned widely and clapped Harry on the shoulder.
“Harry bloody Pearce, in the flesh. My God.”
Harry smiled. “Hello, Tim.”

Tim Warner was an investigative journalist who had been living in Nairobi for many years. He was the type of man that the Security Services found useful to have on their books – well known around the city and with extensive contacts among the ruling class. His main use was to introduce other agents to the targets they wanted to infiltrate, but he would also pass on the occasional titbit of information. During the investigation into the bombing of the US embassy in Nairobi, which MI5 had assisted with, Harry found him of great value.

As he drove through the chaotic traffic confidently, he brought them up to date with what he knew.
“I’ve made discreet enquiries about your missing man.”
He glanced at Harry. “Are you having me on, old boy? I mean, if this is just a jaunt with the little lady, I’m the last one to judge-“
“What are you talking about?” Harry asked sharply, ignoring Ruth’s affronted intake of breath from the back.
“Well, he’s not really missing, is he?” Tim looked at Harry again and noted that his confusion was swiftly being replaced by annoyance. He hastened on.
“He’s been out and about in Kenya for the last month.”
Harry turned to look at Ruth, but she appeared to be as baffled as he was.
“You’ve seen him?” he asked Tim, who shook his head.
“Not personally, no. But I’ve been told that he visited one or two of the community upliftment projects the family is running in the areas surrounding their tea plantations.”
There was a hint of scorn as he continued, “They’re very keen to be seen to do their bit for charity, but of course the money they spend on that isn’t even a drop in the bucket of the profit they make out of exploiting these people.”
“So there was press coverage of these visits?” Harry asked, still trying to make sense of it.
“No, no, it was just your man and the locals,” Tim said as he drew up in front of a modest hotel.
“So how did they know it was him?” Harry persisted.
Tim gave him a pitiful look and said, carefully enunciating every syllable, “Because he introduced himself.” The ‘you idiot’ remained unspoken.
“Hmm,” Harry responded and reached for the door.
“Apparently there’s a charity do for one of the projects tomorrow night, and your man promised to attend.”
“Where?”
“Here in Nairobi.”

They agreed a time for Tim to pick them up for dinner and checked into their rooms. It was basic, but at least it was clean. Half an hour later there was a knock at Ruth’s door, and she opened it to let Harry in. He settled on the threadbare chair whilst she perched on the foot of the bed.
“Amenities satisfactory?” he asked.
“Yes.” She didn’t mention her staring contest with the transparent gecko that seemed to live in her shower.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Harry said, and she assumed he wasn’t talking about geckos in showers, or the fact that they were in a hotel room. Alone.
“Someone is impersonating David Percy,” she ventured, and Harry nodded.
He said, “I want to go to that function tomorrow night. The Duchess will organise an invitation for us, I’m sure.”
He looked uncomfortable as he asked, “Do you have something to wear? It’s formal.”
Ruth shook her head.
“Me neither,” Harry stated with a small smile. “Tim will sort us out on that front tomorrow.”
He fell silent, suddenly acutely aware of the bed behind her. All it would take was two steps, and he’d be able to lean over her, kiss her mouth, her neck, and lay her back on the mattress… He cleared his throat and stood suddenly.
“Ill let you get some rest before dinner.”
She nodded, and watched him walk out of the room with a knowing look.

- 0 –

For dinner Tim took them to a restaurant situated on the edge of the city. The old colonial house had a wide veranda from which the candles on the tables winked at them invitingly. Bougainvilleas tumbled over the perimeter wall in riotous colour. The journalist seemed to know everyone in the restaurant, and introduced the two spooks as friends visiting from the old country. They settled at a secluded table in the corner of the veranda. The food was good, the ambience relaxing, and Tim kept the conversation flowing effortlessly. Ruth looked wonderful and smiled at him often, and Harry felt himself relax for perhaps the first time since Ros’ funeral.

Tim filled them in on the political situation (mostly calm) and the incidence of crime (not too bad), and now moved on to discussing the expat community in Nairobi.
“There’s quite a lot of us still around. Most of them tend to cluster together and create little pockets of Britain. There are golf clubs, for instance, where you’d be hard pressed to recognise you’re on another continent, apart from the better weather. You’ll find the women sitting around the lounge sipping their G and Ts, while the men play golf poorly and discuss that morning’s Times newspaper.” He paused disdainfully. “And at the other end of the scale, you get the expats that go completely native – shack up with a local woman who they then try to turn into a darker version of their mother, and walk around in ridiculous ethnic outfits.”
Ruth rested her chin in her palm and studied him. “And in which camp do you fall?”
Tim threw back his head and laughed. “Neither, I’m afraid. I think it’s best to remember who you are and where you come from, but to also learn everything you can about the place and its people.”
“And which camp does the Duke of Suffolk fit into?” Harry asked.
“Oh, definitely the former. He’s not often in Nairobi, though. When he visits Kenya, he spends most of his time on their tea plantation estate near Mount Kenya. You should visit – you can see the Masai Mara from the veranda.”

Tim excused himself for a while, and Harry and Ruth were left alone with each other. She could feel his eyes on her, could sense them caress her face. His hand twitched on the tablecloth and for a split-second she thought he would reach out and take her hand, but his fingers curled inward to form a loose fist instead.
“Harry,” she found herself saying as she looked up and lost herself in his gentle gaze, “...I’m glad I volunteered.”
He breathed deeply and smiled. “So am I, Ruth. I-“
Tim returned, and Harry never finished what he was about to say.

- 0 –
Friday 24 March 2011
Windsor Golf and Country Club, Nairobi

Harry circulated among the other guests with Ruth on his arm. It was a struggle to keep his focus on the matter at hand rather than the alluring woman next to him. When she’d opened her door to him earlier that evening, he’d openly stared. Even now his eyes often strayed to her bare shoulders or the demure contours of her breasts and hips. He could still feel the warmth of her palms against his chest - she had helped him with his bowtie, and afterwards her hands lingered on his chest whilst she didn’t dare look at his face. It had taken all his willpower not to kiss her. He snagged two champagne glasses and led her to the outer fringes of the gathering. The setting was beautiful; a deck overlooking a lake and flanked by towering, lush trees. Harry leaned his back against the railing and Ruth settled next to him, close enough for their arms to touch. Not for the first time that evening a frisson ran through his nerve-ends.
“Anything?” he murmured, thankful that his voice did not give away his reaction to her proximity.
She began to shake her head, and then spotted a tall young man striding towards them, his blonde hair shining under the lights along the path.
“Here’s something,” she said, turning sideways so that she could study the man unobtrusively. Ruth took a good look before leaning past Harry to put down her champagne glass.
“It looks a lot like David, but it’s not him,” she reported in a low voice. “I think we’ve found our impersonator.”

Harry could now see the man over her shoulder. He moved into the throngs of people confidently, and they heard him introduce himself as ‘David Percy’.
Harry frowned; something about the man was familiar, and not because he looked like the missing heir. Before he could pursue that train of thought, his brain registered something that was out of place. He froze and scanned the trees to their right, and saw it again. Dark shapes slipping from tree to tree. There was a momentary glint of moonlight on what he was sure was the barrel of a gun. He grabbed Ruth’s wrist and pulled her against him as he scanned their surroundings. He was vaguely aware of her eyes on his face, luminous in the low light, as she looked at him questioningly. Before he had a chance to explain, all hell broke loose.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie Part III]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2136.html Sat, 25 Feb 2012 11:33:11 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2136.html PART III

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London, Percy mansion

Harry was the first to break the silence. “When did you see your son last?”
“A month ago,” Lady Agnes replied, her voice carefully even.
Harry looked to Ruth. “I thought he’s been missing for two weeks?”
“He was at university until two weeks ago,” Lady Agnes clarified. “Then he suddenly took off, in the middle of term, and no-one has seen him since.”
She turned to Ruth. “Being part of the rich and famous is like living in a village – everyone else tends to know your business. One learns not to show too much to the rest of the world.” She stated with some defiance, “I may not show it, Miss Evershed, but I am deeply worried about David.”
After a slight hesitation she added almost resignedly, “He and his father had a serious falling-out before David left home about a month ago.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Ruth opened her mouth to ask the reason behind the argument, but Harry caught her eye and shook his head once. She closed her mouth again and silence enveloped the room. After a while it seemed to get on the Duchess’ nerves and she continued.
“David was supposed to accompany his father on a business trip to Sri Lanka, but instead he went to Bangkok with some of his university friends. I think my husband has finally lost patience. He used to excuse David’s behaviour as a young man having his fun before he settles down, but I suspect he is beginning to realise that David has no intention of settling down. Ever.”

Harry watched her hands smooth her dress over her thighs and asked, “Does he have a girlfriend?”
The Duchess looked pained. “He has several. Nary a month goes by without some little trollop knocking on the door and claiming she is carrying the next heir.”
Her lip curled in contempt, and Ruth wondered whether it was meant for her son or for the women.
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” she asked.
Lady Agnes shook her head. “My son does not confide in me. I should ask his friends if I were you.”
“And where would we find said friends?” Harry inquired.
“At Cambridge. David has been studying there for the last seven years.”

As they took their leave, Ruth lagged behind to study one of the paintings. She turned around in time to see Lady Agnes step up to Harry and place her hand on his arm.
“Thank you, Harry,” she murmured. “Perhaps you’d like to come for drinks one evening?”
Harry gently removed his arm from under her hand. “I’m afraid I have no spare time,” he said, and Ruth could have kissed him.
Lady Agnes took the rejection with a slight shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile. The butler showed them out and Ruth could see the Duchess watch them from the window as they drove off.

- 0 –

They reached the main road and Harry stopped, his fingers tapping on the wheel reflexively.
“There’s something she wasn’t telling us,” he said.
“What makes you think that?”
“She displayed all the signs of someone who is lying: tense posture, sweating, fidgety hands.”
He looked at her. “You didn’t notice?”
Ruth shook her head, embarrassed. She wasn’t about to tell him that she had been too busy watching him watch the other woman to notice these signs.
Harry thought for a moment and sighed. “I suppose there’s no alternative… We’ll have to go to Cambridge,” he announced gloomily.
He might as well have announced the end of the world as he turned the car north and set off, positively morose. His resulting pout amused Ruth no end. Her heart still light and warm now that she was certain that he wasn’t interested in Lady Agnes, she couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Just because you went to Oxford doesn’t mean that Cambridge is inferior, Harry.”
The pout intensified but he didn’t reply.
She continued to needle him. “Why, lots of famous people went to Cambridge-“
“Oh of course,” he interjected acerbically, “Kim Philby for instance.“
“-like Isaac Newton,“ she persisted, before she was once again interrupted.
“Anthony Blunt,“ he offered, but Ruth was not to be defeated.
“Alan Turing.“
“Burgess.”
“Wordsworth.”
“Maclean.”
“Byron, Tennyson.”
“Bilal Abdullah.”
“Stephen Hawking.”
“Er…” Harry faltered, unable to come up with another infamous Cambridge alumnus. He glared briefly at Ruth but couldn’t hold back a smile.
“At least we won the last boat race,” he grumbled, and she laughed.
“Yes, we certainly did,” she agreed, and diplomatically refrained from pointing out that Cambridge still held the overall honours. They settled into easy conversation for the rest of the trip.

- 0 –

His name was Brent, and he had tousled dark hair and a cheeky smile. One of David’s lecturers had pointed him out as a close friend of the missing man. The lecturer himself had displayed weary despair of ever getting rid of David Percy V and had made it plain that he did not expect the young man to amount to anything. Now Harry and Ruth were squashed uncomfortably into Brent’s small room amid the carelessly scattered books and clothes, facing the student as he sat on his bed. Harry disliked him on principle and suspected that it had taken Brent considerable time to get the tousled look just right that morning. There was, of course, the added irritation that the young man had succeeded within minutes of their arrival in winning a warm smile from Ruth with his announcement that he was studying Classics. He watched glumly as Ruth enthusiastically compared Brent’s curriculum with the one she had completed at Oxford. When they paused in their discussion, he stepped in with authority.
“When did you last see Bertie?”
Ruth gave him a curious look, wondering at his short manner.
Brent looked confused. “Who?”
“He means David,” she clarified.
“Oh. About two weeks ago.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Is that unusual?”
Brent thought about it. “Not especially.”
Harry studied him closely. “You don’t seem particularly worried about your friend.”
Brent stared at him, but didn’t respond. Ruth kept quiet and let the silence do its work.
“David’s a big boy, he can look after himself,” Brent said after a while.
Harry changed tack. “Is he popular?”
The young man turned to Ruth. “Is he serious?” he asked, jerking a thumb in Harry’s direction. “He’s the son of a Duke, he’s rich and he’s good-looking. Of course he’s bloody popular.”
“Hmm. Does well with the ladies too?” Harry probed, unperturbed by Brent’s reaction.
The student snorted. “Not sure they classify as ‘ladies’, mate.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “What would you call the women he associates with then, mate?”
Brent tossed his hair out of his eyes and grinned at Ruth. “I’d call them ‘exotic’, since I’m in polite company.”
Ruth smiled slightly and lifted her eyebrows. Harry said, annoyed, “Care to be a little blunter?”
“Not in front of a real lady,” Brent responded cheekily, still grinning at Ruth.
When he finally looked at Harry, the older man’s expression wiped the smile off his face and he sat up straighter.
“Okay… He likes prostitutes, specifically those of other nationalities, the darker the better. When we went to Thailand, I think he frequented every high class whore in town. And a few months ago he accompanied Daddy on a business trip to Kenya. When he returned – let’s just say he was like a man who’d discovered the Promised Land.”
Harry pursed his lips and frowned. “Does he flaunt his money?”
“Well, if you call a new flashy car every few months and bringing his valet to university with him flaunting it.”
He gestured to his desk, where photographs showed the same group of carefree young men clustered around an array of different cars.

Ruth leaned forward. “Brent. Does David talk about his family?”
“Sometimes. His father’s gone a lot, and he isn’t close to his mother. His younger brother is an over-achiever – he has a chance of making the Olympic team. Rowing. And he does well academically. David thinks his mom is pushing Daddy to hand over the business to Ed rather than to him, but David’s always been his father’s favourite as far as I can tell.”
He paused, then asked, “Do you think he’s in trouble?”
Harry stood. “No, not at this time. But his family would like to know that he’s safe. So if you hear from him, you let them know, yes?”
Brent nodded, and they took their leave.

- 0 –

“What do you think?” Harry asked as he weaved his way out of Cambridge.
“I found him rather charming,” Ruth answered with a sideways glance at him.
Harry scowled, and she relented with a soft laugh. “The Percys don’t appear to be the happiest of families.”
“No,” Harry agreed thoughtfully.
“And I think David’s reaction to the delights of Kenya may be significant.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you said that.”
She cocked her head at him.
“I think we should go to Kenya,” he announced.
Ruth was caught off-guard. “I’m sorry?”
“I think he’s in Kenya,” Harry explained patiently. “Hence if we go there, we will find him.”
“Harry, you’re suspended. We can’t just go to Kenya.”
“Towers said I have freedom of movement for the next two weeks.”
“Somehow I don’t think that includes leaving the country,” she muttered, but he could sense her wavering.
“Look, why don’t you go back to the office and check the passport records – if we know he left the country we are fully entitled to go after him.”
“I’m supposed to stay with you at all times,” she said uncertainly.
Harry kept his eyes on the road and mumbled to himself, “That could make bath time rather awkward,” but apparently not softly enough, as her head whipped round in astonishment.
He sighed. “Just go to the bloody office, Ruth. I won’t put a foot outside my house like a good boy until you’re back.”
She didn’t miss the tone of weary resentment underlying the words, and it brought her up short. For a few blissful hours she had forgotten about the situation he found himself in, and his reaction served as a reminder that it must be weighing on him; even if she could temporarily forget that he was on the brink of losing his job, he could not. She gave in.
“All right.”
He let out his breath slowly and nodded. “Thank you.”

- 0 –

Back at his house, Harry wandered into the sitting room. He stood for a moment where Towers had stood earlier and surveyed his unkempt garden. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from dwelling once again on his uncertain future. It was ironic, he realised, that now that he was in danger of losing his job, he so desperately wanted to keep it. He’d spent most of the last year wishing those responsibilities that weighed so heavily on his shoulders were no longer his to bear, only to miss it desperately once he had been suspended. He’d often worried that he would not adapt to a normal life once he was forced out or retired, and perhaps that was still true, but he now knew that it went deeper than that for him. The work was his calling, and he was suited to it perfectly – the proverbial round peg fitting snugly in his round hole. He was meant to serve his country, and he could not comprehend a life in which that was no longer his purpose.

With a sigh he turned around and his gaze fell on the stack of LPs, and with the best will in the world he could not stop his thoughts from going to her. Ruth. The one person he was willing to give up everything for – even leave the Service if that’s what she wanted. But, after he’d made such a hash of the proposal and, in her eyes at least, Albany, he had begun to doubt whether the time would ever be right for them. She had certainly given the impression that she thought their chance had passed and that it was time for them to move on, but he could not do it. God knows he tried, even asked her to keep their interactions to work only, but it didn’t work. In the end there was nothing complicated about it: he loved her, and he would never give up hope. For the first time in his life he loved a woman enough to sacrifice everything for her, and she probably realised it as well after he’d traded a state secret to save her life. That knowledge scared and exhilarated him simultaneously, and sometimes he found it hard to maintain his equilibrium when she was around him. It was such hard work to keep his distance from her, and the only reason he kept it up was because he didn’t want to put the additional burden of his own happiness on her. She’d suffered enough. He’d resigned himself to an existence where she was constantly in his orbit but always out of reach, but then she’d turned up on his doorstep this morning. He replayed the way she’d watched him as he knotted his tie and her gentle teasing over Cambridge, and he wondered. Maybe…?

His mobile buzzed and he jerked back to reality. It was Ruth.
“You were right,” she said without preamble. “Better start packing the sunscreen and insect repellent.”


tbc]]> PART III

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London, Percy mansion

Harry was the first to break the silence. “When did you see your son last?”
“A month ago,” Lady Agnes replied, her voice carefully even.
Harry looked to Ruth. “I thought he’s been missing for two weeks?”
“He was at university until two weeks ago,” Lady Agnes clarified. “Then he suddenly took off, in the middle of term, and no-one has seen him since.”
She turned to Ruth. “Being part of the rich and famous is like living in a village – everyone else tends to know your business. One learns not to show too much to the rest of the world.” She stated with some defiance, “I may not show it, Miss Evershed, but I am deeply worried about David.”
After a slight hesitation she added almost resignedly, “He and his father had a serious falling-out before David left home about a month ago.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Ruth opened her mouth to ask the reason behind the argument, but Harry caught her eye and shook his head once. She closed her mouth again and silence enveloped the room. After a while it seemed to get on the Duchess’ nerves and she continued.
“David was supposed to accompany his father on a business trip to Sri Lanka, but instead he went to Bangkok with some of his university friends. I think my husband has finally lost patience. He used to excuse David’s behaviour as a young man having his fun before he settles down, but I suspect he is beginning to realise that David has no intention of settling down. Ever.”

Harry watched her hands smooth her dress over her thighs and asked, “Does he have a girlfriend?”
The Duchess looked pained. “He has several. Nary a month goes by without some little trollop knocking on the door and claiming she is carrying the next heir.”
Her lip curled in contempt, and Ruth wondered whether it was meant for her son or for the women.
“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” she asked.
Lady Agnes shook her head. “My son does not confide in me. I should ask his friends if I were you.”
“And where would we find said friends?” Harry inquired.
“At Cambridge. David has been studying there for the last seven years.”

As they took their leave, Ruth lagged behind to study one of the paintings. She turned around in time to see Lady Agnes step up to Harry and place her hand on his arm.
“Thank you, Harry,” she murmured. “Perhaps you’d like to come for drinks one evening?”
Harry gently removed his arm from under her hand. “I’m afraid I have no spare time,” he said, and Ruth could have kissed him.
Lady Agnes took the rejection with a slight shrug of the shoulders and a rueful smile. The butler showed them out and Ruth could see the Duchess watch them from the window as they drove off.

- 0 –

They reached the main road and Harry stopped, his fingers tapping on the wheel reflexively.
“There’s something she wasn’t telling us,” he said.
“What makes you think that?”
“She displayed all the signs of someone who is lying: tense posture, sweating, fidgety hands.”
He looked at her. “You didn’t notice?”
Ruth shook her head, embarrassed. She wasn’t about to tell him that she had been too busy watching him watch the other woman to notice these signs.
Harry thought for a moment and sighed. “I suppose there’s no alternative… We’ll have to go to Cambridge,” he announced gloomily.
He might as well have announced the end of the world as he turned the car north and set off, positively morose. His resulting pout amused Ruth no end. Her heart still light and warm now that she was certain that he wasn’t interested in Lady Agnes, she couldn’t resist teasing him.
“Just because you went to Oxford doesn’t mean that Cambridge is inferior, Harry.”
The pout intensified but he didn’t reply.
She continued to needle him. “Why, lots of famous people went to Cambridge-“
“Oh of course,” he interjected acerbically, “Kim Philby for instance.“
“-like Isaac Newton,“ she persisted, before she was once again interrupted.
“Anthony Blunt,“ he offered, but Ruth was not to be defeated.
“Alan Turing.“
“Burgess.”
“Wordsworth.”
“Maclean.”
“Byron, Tennyson.”
“Bilal Abdullah.”
“Stephen Hawking.”
“Er…” Harry faltered, unable to come up with another infamous Cambridge alumnus. He glared briefly at Ruth but couldn’t hold back a smile.
“At least we won the last boat race,” he grumbled, and she laughed.
“Yes, we certainly did,” she agreed, and diplomatically refrained from pointing out that Cambridge still held the overall honours. They settled into easy conversation for the rest of the trip.

- 0 –

His name was Brent, and he had tousled dark hair and a cheeky smile. One of David’s lecturers had pointed him out as a close friend of the missing man. The lecturer himself had displayed weary despair of ever getting rid of David Percy V and had made it plain that he did not expect the young man to amount to anything. Now Harry and Ruth were squashed uncomfortably into Brent’s small room amid the carelessly scattered books and clothes, facing the student as he sat on his bed. Harry disliked him on principle and suspected that it had taken Brent considerable time to get the tousled look just right that morning. There was, of course, the added irritation that the young man had succeeded within minutes of their arrival in winning a warm smile from Ruth with his announcement that he was studying Classics. He watched glumly as Ruth enthusiastically compared Brent’s curriculum with the one she had completed at Oxford. When they paused in their discussion, he stepped in with authority.
“When did you last see Bertie?”
Ruth gave him a curious look, wondering at his short manner.
Brent looked confused. “Who?”
“He means David,” she clarified.
“Oh. About two weeks ago.”
“And you haven’t heard from him since?” Harry asked.
“No.”
“Is that unusual?”
Brent thought about it. “Not especially.”
Harry studied him closely. “You don’t seem particularly worried about your friend.”
Brent stared at him, but didn’t respond. Ruth kept quiet and let the silence do its work.
“David’s a big boy, he can look after himself,” Brent said after a while.
Harry changed tack. “Is he popular?”
The young man turned to Ruth. “Is he serious?” he asked, jerking a thumb in Harry’s direction. “He’s the son of a Duke, he’s rich and he’s good-looking. Of course he’s bloody popular.”
“Hmm. Does well with the ladies too?” Harry probed, unperturbed by Brent’s reaction.
The student snorted. “Not sure they classify as ‘ladies’, mate.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “What would you call the women he associates with then, mate?”
Brent tossed his hair out of his eyes and grinned at Ruth. “I’d call them ‘exotic’, since I’m in polite company.”
Ruth smiled slightly and lifted her eyebrows. Harry said, annoyed, “Care to be a little blunter?”
“Not in front of a real lady,” Brent responded cheekily, still grinning at Ruth.
When he finally looked at Harry, the older man’s expression wiped the smile off his face and he sat up straighter.
“Okay… He likes prostitutes, specifically those of other nationalities, the darker the better. When we went to Thailand, I think he frequented every high class whore in town. And a few months ago he accompanied Daddy on a business trip to Kenya. When he returned – let’s just say he was like a man who’d discovered the Promised Land.”
Harry pursed his lips and frowned. “Does he flaunt his money?”
“Well, if you call a new flashy car every few months and bringing his valet to university with him flaunting it.”
He gestured to his desk, where photographs showed the same group of carefree young men clustered around an array of different cars.

Ruth leaned forward. “Brent. Does David talk about his family?”
“Sometimes. His father’s gone a lot, and he isn’t close to his mother. His younger brother is an over-achiever – he has a chance of making the Olympic team. Rowing. And he does well academically. David thinks his mom is pushing Daddy to hand over the business to Ed rather than to him, but David’s always been his father’s favourite as far as I can tell.”
He paused, then asked, “Do you think he’s in trouble?”
Harry stood. “No, not at this time. But his family would like to know that he’s safe. So if you hear from him, you let them know, yes?”
Brent nodded, and they took their leave.

- 0 –

“What do you think?” Harry asked as he weaved his way out of Cambridge.
“I found him rather charming,” Ruth answered with a sideways glance at him.
Harry scowled, and she relented with a soft laugh. “The Percys don’t appear to be the happiest of families.”
“No,” Harry agreed thoughtfully.
“And I think David’s reaction to the delights of Kenya may be significant.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you said that.”
She cocked her head at him.
“I think we should go to Kenya,” he announced.
Ruth was caught off-guard. “I’m sorry?”
“I think he’s in Kenya,” Harry explained patiently. “Hence if we go there, we will find him.”
“Harry, you’re suspended. We can’t just go to Kenya.”
“Towers said I have freedom of movement for the next two weeks.”
“Somehow I don’t think that includes leaving the country,” she muttered, but he could sense her wavering.
“Look, why don’t you go back to the office and check the passport records – if we know he left the country we are fully entitled to go after him.”
“I’m supposed to stay with you at all times,” she said uncertainly.
Harry kept his eyes on the road and mumbled to himself, “That could make bath time rather awkward,” but apparently not softly enough, as her head whipped round in astonishment.
He sighed. “Just go to the bloody office, Ruth. I won’t put a foot outside my house like a good boy until you’re back.”
She didn’t miss the tone of weary resentment underlying the words, and it brought her up short. For a few blissful hours she had forgotten about the situation he found himself in, and his reaction served as a reminder that it must be weighing on him; even if she could temporarily forget that he was on the brink of losing his job, he could not. She gave in.
“All right.”
He let out his breath slowly and nodded. “Thank you.”

- 0 –

Back at his house, Harry wandered into the sitting room. He stood for a moment where Towers had stood earlier and surveyed his unkempt garden. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from dwelling once again on his uncertain future. It was ironic, he realised, that now that he was in danger of losing his job, he so desperately wanted to keep it. He’d spent most of the last year wishing those responsibilities that weighed so heavily on his shoulders were no longer his to bear, only to miss it desperately once he had been suspended. He’d often worried that he would not adapt to a normal life once he was forced out or retired, and perhaps that was still true, but he now knew that it went deeper than that for him. The work was his calling, and he was suited to it perfectly – the proverbial round peg fitting snugly in his round hole. He was meant to serve his country, and he could not comprehend a life in which that was no longer his purpose.

With a sigh he turned around and his gaze fell on the stack of LPs, and with the best will in the world he could not stop his thoughts from going to her. Ruth. The one person he was willing to give up everything for – even leave the Service if that’s what she wanted. But, after he’d made such a hash of the proposal and, in her eyes at least, Albany, he had begun to doubt whether the time would ever be right for them. She had certainly given the impression that she thought their chance had passed and that it was time for them to move on, but he could not do it. God knows he tried, even asked her to keep their interactions to work only, but it didn’t work. In the end there was nothing complicated about it: he loved her, and he would never give up hope. For the first time in his life he loved a woman enough to sacrifice everything for her, and she probably realised it as well after he’d traded a state secret to save her life. That knowledge scared and exhilarated him simultaneously, and sometimes he found it hard to maintain his equilibrium when she was around him. It was such hard work to keep his distance from her, and the only reason he kept it up was because he didn’t want to put the additional burden of his own happiness on her. She’d suffered enough. He’d resigned himself to an existence where she was constantly in his orbit but always out of reach, but then she’d turned up on his doorstep this morning. He replayed the way she’d watched him as he knotted his tie and her gentle teasing over Cambridge, and he wondered. Maybe…?

His mobile buzzed and he jerked back to reality. It was Ruth.
“You were right,” she said without preamble. “Better start packing the sunscreen and insect repellent.”


tbc]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie Part II]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2133.html Wed, 22 Feb 2012 16:51:14 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2133.html PART II

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London, Harry’s house

Ruth turned away from her perusal of his bookcase when he entered a few minutes later. He was in shirtsleeves, a tie draped loosely around his neck, and laid his suit jacket neatly over the back of a chair before he addressed her.
“We’re going to make a detour to my club first.”
His hands busied themselves knotting the tie, and she watched their deft movements with enthralment. The rich red silk flowed smoothly through his fingers as he slid the knot into place with practised precision. He fastened the collar buttons and reached for his jacket – a modern day knight donning his armour for the coming battle.
“Ruth?” he said with a puzzled look, interrupting her fanciful thoughts.
“Hmm? …Oh, er, yes, your club.”
She fumbled around for the thread of the conversation, and his gaze became intense and interested in a heartbeat. Ruth feared that her ogling might have been noticed, and hurried on to distract him.
“Why are we going there?”
“We need to see a man about some gossip,” he responded enigmatically, and escorted her out of the house.

- 0 –

“Dickie is quite a character,” he informed her as he steered the Land Rover haphazardly through the traffic. Ruth was reminded that for years he’d seldom driven himself anywhere, and secretly thought that a good thing as he cut in front of a lorry, causing the driver to blare his horn at them angrily.
“He is the best source of gossip about the nobility of our beloved Realm. I’d like to be prepared when we meet her Ladyship, so I’ve asked him to see us for a few minutes.”
“Right,” Ruth said, and braced herself against the dashboard as they swerved around a corner much too fast.
“At your club… Will I even be allowed inside?” she asked, whilst praying that they would reach it before she died of a heart attack.
“Of course you will,” he stated, somewhat offended. “We have galloped into the era of enlightenment along with the rest of the world – women are free to enter the Ladies Lounge.”
Her head snapped round and she stared at him incredulously. She was about to make a snarky comment about how the allowance of a Ladies Lounge did not equal enlightenment when she noticed the mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“We’re here,” he said, and she was so relieved to still be in one piece that she forgot all about enlightenment.

He led her inside and she blinked in the muted lighting of the foyer. A small, slim man rushed over to them, his hand stretched out in greeting.
“Harry, old man!” he said and wrung Harry’s hand enthusiastically before his gaze moved to Ruth in frank curiosity. Harry made the introductions and Dickie gave her a limp-wristed handshake. He led them into a room to the left, which was indeed identified as the Ladies Lounge by a sign above the door. Ruth gave Harry a look and he suppressed a smile.

As they settled around a table and ordered tea, Ruth studied the little man. He was sharply dressed, down to the handkerchief peeking out of his suit’s top pocket. It was impossible to guess his age other than that he must be over seventy. His gestures tended towards campiness, but the eyes shone with intelligence and excitement. He looked at Harry almost dotingly.
“Well, here we are,” Dickie said, straightening the sugar pot in the middle of the table primly.
“It was a nice surprise to hear from you, Harry. Haven’t seen you around the club much recently?”
Harry said, “I’ve been otherwise occupied.” Then he added, with a knowing look at the other man, “You know how it is, Dickie.”
“Oh indeed. Indeed, yes,” Dickie gabbled. He reached out and patted Harry’s hand. “The security of the nation is a heavy burden to have on one’s shoulders. Yes, indeed,” he said solemnly.

Harry merely nodded, equally solemnly, and they all silently contemplated the heavy burden that was the nation’s security for a few moments before Harry leaned towards the other man. He made a show of checking that no-one was in earshot before murmuring, “I need your assistance, Dickie. I can’t tell you what it’s about, unfortunately.”
Ruth watched in fascination as Harry played up his Man of Mystery persona and Dickie swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
“My dear man,” Dickie cried. “Don’t give it a second thought. Now, what can I do for you?”
“The Duke of Suffolk and his family – what do you know about them?”
Dickie’s eyes widened and Ruth could see his mind try to fit the Duke into any of the current known threats to security.
“Frightfully rich, of course,” he began slowly, and Harry interjected.
“Legitimate gains?”
“Oh, yes,” Dickie said confidently, then added, “unless you count the exploitation of the noble savages in the former colonies as illegal. Which we didn’t, in those days. The Duke’s father was a shrewd businessman, and he did better than most in positioning his companies to survive decolonisation.”
“What about the marriage? Happy or a matter of convenience?”
Dickie’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to share the more salacious gossip in his possession.
“Ah, astute question, Harry. Definitely a matter of convenience.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “Lady Agnes is a Neville, you see.”
He looked between them triumphantly. Harry frowned, perplexed, and looked to Ruth.
“The Nevilles were Yorkists, while the Percys were Lancastrans,” she explained. “They were on opposite sides during the Wars of the Roses.”
“Exactly!” Dickie barked, delighted by her grasp of the finer details of that conflict. “Hundreds of years have passed, and still the families feel the need to cement their ties through marriage. Extraordinary,” he marvelled.
Harry pondered the information, then mused, “Since we have moved out of the dark ages-” his mouth twitched and he avoided Ruth’s eye, “-I assume it was not done for political reasons. Nowadays the only empires being built are business empires. What line of business is Lady Agnes’ family in?”
Dickie smiled, and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “They’re shipping magnates.”

Harry leaned back and glanced at Ruth before speaking again. “A business betrothal then. Are they faithful to each other?”
“Good heavens, no,” the dapper little man exclaimed. “Soon after she dutifully produced two male heirs, they ceased to share a bed. Both have discreet affairs. I think he’s currently sleeping with one of the senior executives in his company. Young enough to be his daughter, predictably enough, although I suppose one should be thankful that he steered clear of the clichéd affair with the secretary. She’s not seeing anyone at the moment, as far as I know.”
He dropped his voice even lower. “She has a taste for powerful men, apparently. It is rumoured, for instance, that she had a liaison with our current Home Secretary ten years or so ago.”
Neither Harry nor Ruth showed any reaction to this titbit, and Dickie’s sharp features sagged in disappointment. Harry did not give him time to wallow in it.
“What do you know about the two sons?”
Dickie gave it some thought. “The eldest, David, is a playboy. He’s a good looking lad,” he said wistfully, “and he likes the ladies. They like him too, of course. Always has the latest sports car, and has been trying to complete his business degree for seven years now. If his father weren’t such a large benefactor to the university, he would probably have been kicked out long ago. Thus far he has shown little interest and zero aptitude for running the family business. But he is his father’s favourite – the first-born that can do no wrong. The younger one, Edward, is a whole different kettle of fish. Smart, responsible, and a gifted sportsman. But the best he can hope for is a managing post in one of the outposts of the business.”
He shook his head sadly. “A waste. David will in all likelihood run the family fortune into the ground, and everyone except his father realises it.”

- 0 –

They were back in the car, heading out to the Percy family home on the outskirts of the city. Harry’s driving had not improved, but Ruth was mentally prepared for it this time. She gradually relaxed as she realised that the risks he took were calculated rather than reckless. She stared out the window as she processed everything Dickie had told them.
“Do you believe him about Towers and Lady Agnes?” she asked.
Harry pursed his lips, then said with a trace of amusement, “People tend to discard Dickie as a ridiculous little dandy, but he knows things that could bring the Royal family and most of the upper classes to its knees.”
There was a knowing note in his voice, and she tilted her head at him and stated accusingly, “You already knew about it.”
When he didn’t deny it, she shook her head and looked out the window again.
He glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road.
“It came out in the vetting.”

Ruth focused on the scenery outside and wondered what other secrets he knew that she never would. It was a sobering thought and she pushed it away determinedly.
Instead she commented, “Dickie’s information seems to confirm your view that we’ll find ‘Bertie’ tucked away with a woman somewhere.”
He smiled at her use of the nickname he’d given the missing man.
“We should try to keep an open mind, though,” he suggested. “And by ‘we’ I obviously mean ‘you’,” he added, his eyes twinkling.
Before she had time to respond, he swung the car through an open gate fast enough to leave her clutching at the armrest. He parked in front of the imposing mansion in a spurt of gravel that made the butler waiting on the doorstep frown in disapproval. The man’s demeanour only improved when he learnt that the male visitor was a Knight of the Realm.

They were shown into what the butler called the ‘drawing room’, to Harry’s annoyance. It was tastefully decorated with what appeared to be expensive antique furniture, but it was too formal for Ruth’s taste. A woman rose from one of the chairs, drawing their attention. She was about Harry’s age, elegantly dressed, and beautiful in the classic English Rose sort of way. A set of violet blue eyes appraised them as the butler announced their names.
“Sir Harry Pearce and Miss Ruth Evershed to see you, m’lady.” His voice had turned deferential when announcing Harry’s name. Ruth glanced at Harry and detected a hint of irritation in the set of his mouth.
“Sir Harry, I am most thankful for your assistance,” Lady Agnes said gravely when they were all seated. “I would not want our affairs splashed all over the tabloids like some tawdry gossip story, which is why I asked William Towers for help.”
Harry regarded her wordlessly, then said, “To be frank, I think you should go to the Police. It is their area of expertise, finding missing persons.” After a beat he added, “And they are discreet.”
Lady Agnes’ mouth tightened. “Discreet? Such as when they turned a blind eye to the tabloids hacking into the phones of the famous?”
She flicked a dismissive hand. “Our family is quite prominent, Sir Harry, and has always been a target for the red-tops. Believe me, PC Plod would not have resisted a whisper into the right ear, had I gone to them.”
Next to Harry, Ruth bristled. “So your family’s reputation is more important than the safety of your own son?”

There was a shocked silence during which Lady Agnes stared at Ruth. She had gone quite pale but her expression remained carefully controlled. Harry lifted an eyebrow at Ruth’s forthrightness but said nothing.
When Lady Agnes responded, her voice was tight and harsh. “I will not have my love for my son questioned by a common spook who clearly does not understand the intricacies of upper class life-“
Harry’s face hardened and he cut her off. “You’ll do well not to antagonise us with your ludicrous condescension and over-inflated views of your own importance. We all know the real reason you don’t want to involve the Police is because you expect us to find your son in a whorehouse or shacked up with an inappropriate woman somewhere, is it not?”
Lady Agnes turned even paler, but did not respond.
Harry continued mercilessly, “Do not for one moment think that this investigation will be done on your terms. This visit is nothing more than a courtesy and to get some details of your son’s last known movements. So shall we get on?”
The two of them glared at each other; neither appeared willing to give an inch. Ruth involuntarily held her breath. Then Lady Agnes suddenly threw back her head and laughed – a deep throaty laugh that was in stark contrast to the self-contained image she had projected thus far.
“William said I would like you, Sir Harry,” she said, her gaze on him now one of frank and open interest.
Harry relaxed as well and smiled slightly. “Call me Harry,” he said. He got up and moved to the tall windows, and Ruth couldn’t help but notice that he seemed very much at home in this milieu. She glanced at Lady Agnes and saw that she had noticed it too, and that knowledge gave Ruth pause.

For the first time in a long while she allowed herself to look at Harry and see him as other women were likely to - a self-assured, successful and powerful man with a lot to offer. She watched his gaze linger on Lady Agnes, and wondered morbidly whether she might have left it too late.

tbc]]> PART II

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London, Harry’s house

Ruth turned away from her perusal of his bookcase when he entered a few minutes later. He was in shirtsleeves, a tie draped loosely around his neck, and laid his suit jacket neatly over the back of a chair before he addressed her.
“We’re going to make a detour to my club first.”
His hands busied themselves knotting the tie, and she watched their deft movements with enthralment. The rich red silk flowed smoothly through his fingers as he slid the knot into place with practised precision. He fastened the collar buttons and reached for his jacket – a modern day knight donning his armour for the coming battle.
“Ruth?” he said with a puzzled look, interrupting her fanciful thoughts.
“Hmm? …Oh, er, yes, your club.”
She fumbled around for the thread of the conversation, and his gaze became intense and interested in a heartbeat. Ruth feared that her ogling might have been noticed, and hurried on to distract him.
“Why are we going there?”
“We need to see a man about some gossip,” he responded enigmatically, and escorted her out of the house.

- 0 –

“Dickie is quite a character,” he informed her as he steered the Land Rover haphazardly through the traffic. Ruth was reminded that for years he’d seldom driven himself anywhere, and secretly thought that a good thing as he cut in front of a lorry, causing the driver to blare his horn at them angrily.
“He is the best source of gossip about the nobility of our beloved Realm. I’d like to be prepared when we meet her Ladyship, so I’ve asked him to see us for a few minutes.”
“Right,” Ruth said, and braced herself against the dashboard as they swerved around a corner much too fast.
“At your club… Will I even be allowed inside?” she asked, whilst praying that they would reach it before she died of a heart attack.
“Of course you will,” he stated, somewhat offended. “We have galloped into the era of enlightenment along with the rest of the world – women are free to enter the Ladies Lounge.”
Her head snapped round and she stared at him incredulously. She was about to make a snarky comment about how the allowance of a Ladies Lounge did not equal enlightenment when she noticed the mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“We’re here,” he said, and she was so relieved to still be in one piece that she forgot all about enlightenment.

He led her inside and she blinked in the muted lighting of the foyer. A small, slim man rushed over to them, his hand stretched out in greeting.
“Harry, old man!” he said and wrung Harry’s hand enthusiastically before his gaze moved to Ruth in frank curiosity. Harry made the introductions and Dickie gave her a limp-wristed handshake. He led them into a room to the left, which was indeed identified as the Ladies Lounge by a sign above the door. Ruth gave Harry a look and he suppressed a smile.

As they settled around a table and ordered tea, Ruth studied the little man. He was sharply dressed, down to the handkerchief peeking out of his suit’s top pocket. It was impossible to guess his age other than that he must be over seventy. His gestures tended towards campiness, but the eyes shone with intelligence and excitement. He looked at Harry almost dotingly.
“Well, here we are,” Dickie said, straightening the sugar pot in the middle of the table primly.
“It was a nice surprise to hear from you, Harry. Haven’t seen you around the club much recently?”
Harry said, “I’ve been otherwise occupied.” Then he added, with a knowing look at the other man, “You know how it is, Dickie.”
“Oh indeed. Indeed, yes,” Dickie gabbled. He reached out and patted Harry’s hand. “The security of the nation is a heavy burden to have on one’s shoulders. Yes, indeed,” he said solemnly.

Harry merely nodded, equally solemnly, and they all silently contemplated the heavy burden that was the nation’s security for a few moments before Harry leaned towards the other man. He made a show of checking that no-one was in earshot before murmuring, “I need your assistance, Dickie. I can’t tell you what it’s about, unfortunately.”
Ruth watched in fascination as Harry played up his Man of Mystery persona and Dickie swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
“My dear man,” Dickie cried. “Don’t give it a second thought. Now, what can I do for you?”
“The Duke of Suffolk and his family – what do you know about them?”
Dickie’s eyes widened and Ruth could see his mind try to fit the Duke into any of the current known threats to security.
“Frightfully rich, of course,” he began slowly, and Harry interjected.
“Legitimate gains?”
“Oh, yes,” Dickie said confidently, then added, “unless you count the exploitation of the noble savages in the former colonies as illegal. Which we didn’t, in those days. The Duke’s father was a shrewd businessman, and he did better than most in positioning his companies to survive decolonisation.”
“What about the marriage? Happy or a matter of convenience?”
Dickie’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to share the more salacious gossip in his possession.
“Ah, astute question, Harry. Definitely a matter of convenience.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “Lady Agnes is a Neville, you see.”
He looked between them triumphantly. Harry frowned, perplexed, and looked to Ruth.
“The Nevilles were Yorkists, while the Percys were Lancastrans,” she explained. “They were on opposite sides during the Wars of the Roses.”
“Exactly!” Dickie barked, delighted by her grasp of the finer details of that conflict. “Hundreds of years have passed, and still the families feel the need to cement their ties through marriage. Extraordinary,” he marvelled.
Harry pondered the information, then mused, “Since we have moved out of the dark ages-” his mouth twitched and he avoided Ruth’s eye, “-I assume it was not done for political reasons. Nowadays the only empires being built are business empires. What line of business is Lady Agnes’ family in?”
Dickie smiled, and tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “They’re shipping magnates.”

Harry leaned back and glanced at Ruth before speaking again. “A business betrothal then. Are they faithful to each other?”
“Good heavens, no,” the dapper little man exclaimed. “Soon after she dutifully produced two male heirs, they ceased to share a bed. Both have discreet affairs. I think he’s currently sleeping with one of the senior executives in his company. Young enough to be his daughter, predictably enough, although I suppose one should be thankful that he steered clear of the clichéd affair with the secretary. She’s not seeing anyone at the moment, as far as I know.”
He dropped his voice even lower. “She has a taste for powerful men, apparently. It is rumoured, for instance, that she had a liaison with our current Home Secretary ten years or so ago.”
Neither Harry nor Ruth showed any reaction to this titbit, and Dickie’s sharp features sagged in disappointment. Harry did not give him time to wallow in it.
“What do you know about the two sons?”
Dickie gave it some thought. “The eldest, David, is a playboy. He’s a good looking lad,” he said wistfully, “and he likes the ladies. They like him too, of course. Always has the latest sports car, and has been trying to complete his business degree for seven years now. If his father weren’t such a large benefactor to the university, he would probably have been kicked out long ago. Thus far he has shown little interest and zero aptitude for running the family business. But he is his father’s favourite – the first-born that can do no wrong. The younger one, Edward, is a whole different kettle of fish. Smart, responsible, and a gifted sportsman. But the best he can hope for is a managing post in one of the outposts of the business.”
He shook his head sadly. “A waste. David will in all likelihood run the family fortune into the ground, and everyone except his father realises it.”

- 0 –

They were back in the car, heading out to the Percy family home on the outskirts of the city. Harry’s driving had not improved, but Ruth was mentally prepared for it this time. She gradually relaxed as she realised that the risks he took were calculated rather than reckless. She stared out the window as she processed everything Dickie had told them.
“Do you believe him about Towers and Lady Agnes?” she asked.
Harry pursed his lips, then said with a trace of amusement, “People tend to discard Dickie as a ridiculous little dandy, but he knows things that could bring the Royal family and most of the upper classes to its knees.”
There was a knowing note in his voice, and she tilted her head at him and stated accusingly, “You already knew about it.”
When he didn’t deny it, she shook her head and looked out the window again.
He glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road.
“It came out in the vetting.”

Ruth focused on the scenery outside and wondered what other secrets he knew that she never would. It was a sobering thought and she pushed it away determinedly.
Instead she commented, “Dickie’s information seems to confirm your view that we’ll find ‘Bertie’ tucked away with a woman somewhere.”
He smiled at her use of the nickname he’d given the missing man.
“We should try to keep an open mind, though,” he suggested. “And by ‘we’ I obviously mean ‘you’,” he added, his eyes twinkling.
Before she had time to respond, he swung the car through an open gate fast enough to leave her clutching at the armrest. He parked in front of the imposing mansion in a spurt of gravel that made the butler waiting on the doorstep frown in disapproval. The man’s demeanour only improved when he learnt that the male visitor was a Knight of the Realm.

They were shown into what the butler called the ‘drawing room’, to Harry’s annoyance. It was tastefully decorated with what appeared to be expensive antique furniture, but it was too formal for Ruth’s taste. A woman rose from one of the chairs, drawing their attention. She was about Harry’s age, elegantly dressed, and beautiful in the classic English Rose sort of way. A set of violet blue eyes appraised them as the butler announced their names.
“Sir Harry Pearce and Miss Ruth Evershed to see you, m’lady.” His voice had turned deferential when announcing Harry’s name. Ruth glanced at Harry and detected a hint of irritation in the set of his mouth.
“Sir Harry, I am most thankful for your assistance,” Lady Agnes said gravely when they were all seated. “I would not want our affairs splashed all over the tabloids like some tawdry gossip story, which is why I asked William Towers for help.”
Harry regarded her wordlessly, then said, “To be frank, I think you should go to the Police. It is their area of expertise, finding missing persons.” After a beat he added, “And they are discreet.”
Lady Agnes’ mouth tightened. “Discreet? Such as when they turned a blind eye to the tabloids hacking into the phones of the famous?”
She flicked a dismissive hand. “Our family is quite prominent, Sir Harry, and has always been a target for the red-tops. Believe me, PC Plod would not have resisted a whisper into the right ear, had I gone to them.”
Next to Harry, Ruth bristled. “So your family’s reputation is more important than the safety of your own son?”

There was a shocked silence during which Lady Agnes stared at Ruth. She had gone quite pale but her expression remained carefully controlled. Harry lifted an eyebrow at Ruth’s forthrightness but said nothing.
When Lady Agnes responded, her voice was tight and harsh. “I will not have my love for my son questioned by a common spook who clearly does not understand the intricacies of upper class life-“
Harry’s face hardened and he cut her off. “You’ll do well not to antagonise us with your ludicrous condescension and over-inflated views of your own importance. We all know the real reason you don’t want to involve the Police is because you expect us to find your son in a whorehouse or shacked up with an inappropriate woman somewhere, is it not?”
Lady Agnes turned even paler, but did not respond.
Harry continued mercilessly, “Do not for one moment think that this investigation will be done on your terms. This visit is nothing more than a courtesy and to get some details of your son’s last known movements. So shall we get on?”
The two of them glared at each other; neither appeared willing to give an inch. Ruth involuntarily held her breath. Then Lady Agnes suddenly threw back her head and laughed – a deep throaty laugh that was in stark contrast to the self-contained image she had projected thus far.
“William said I would like you, Sir Harry,” she said, her gaze on him now one of frank and open interest.
Harry relaxed as well and smiled slightly. “Call me Harry,” he said. He got up and moved to the tall windows, and Ruth couldn’t help but notice that he seemed very much at home in this milieu. She glanced at Lady Agnes and saw that she had noticed it too, and that knowledge gave Ruth pause.

For the first time in a long while she allowed herself to look at Harry and see him as other women were likely to - a self-assured, successful and powerful man with a lot to offer. She watched his gaze linger on Lady Agnes, and wondered morbidly whether she might have left it too late.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Looking for Bertie]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2129.html Sun, 19 Feb 2012 13:35:13 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2129.html Spoilers for season 9, mention of new characters for season 10.

Takes place between seasons 9 and 10. Harry and Ruth.

PART I

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London

It was a typical late March day in London; crisp, cold air that misted her breath, and a weak sun trying valiantly, but in vain, to break through the low clouds. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the streets that slid past her window. They bustled and teemed with the morning rush hour traffic, eventually thinning out as the car moved further from the city centre. Just a normal, average March day, she reflected. Except that it wasn’t. It was the day that marked the first step she was taking after The Decision, the first step towards what she hoped would be something wonderful.

The man next to her turned a page and it rustled in the silence. He was totally absorbed in his reading, and she turned her eyes back to the window, to the bare trees lining the street now moving slowly past. The car ghosted to a stop and for a moment she panicked. She had never been to his house – unless one counted the miserable hour she’d spent indecisively loitering across the street, wanting to take back the rejection of a second date many years ago – and her mind filled with doubt. Would he want her here, in his house, after everything that had happened? After everything she’d said?
“We’re here,” she announced, and her voice sounded high and anxious to her ears.
The Home Secretary looked up and surveyed the house for a few moments.
“Not too shabby for a civil servant, eh?” he remarked, then got out without waiting for a response.
Ruth got out as well. She followed him to the front door, the anxiety knotting tighter and tighter in her stomach.

Towers rang the bell and they could hear its stringent echo inside. The seconds ticked by, and when they’d stretched into a minute he leaned on the button again, longer this time. He’d barely taken his finger off it when the door swung open to reveal Harry, who regarded them in silence. There was no hint of surprise in his expression and Ruth surmised that he’d made use of the spyhole.
“Hello, Harry,” Towers said breezily. “How have you b-... What’s that?”
He pointed to the implement in Harry’s left hand.
Harry looked down at it, almost baffled by its presence.
“They’re pruning shears,” he said, wiggling them slightly.
The two people on the doorstep stared at him, and he apparently felt that some sort of explanation was necessary, because he added, “I was, erm...” He faltered, then lifted his chin and looked at them challengingly. “I was thinking of doing some gardening.”
“Good God!” Towers exclaimed, horrified by the thought. “We’re just in time, evidently,” and walked inside without waiting for an invitation.
Harry’s gaze shifted to Ruth and they looked at each other for long seconds. When she stayed rooted to the spot, he asked drily, “Would you like to come in as well?”
He tried to sound casual but was not quite able to hide his uneasiness at her presence.
Her heart sank, and she took care not to brush against him as he stood aside to let her in.

They found Towers in the living room, planted in front of the window and surveying the unkempt shrubbery outside with a slight air of distaste. Harry’s garden could obviously do with some attention. Heaven knew what could be hidden in that tangled mess... His attention snapped back to the situation at hand and he turned towards the room.
“So. How are you, Harry?”
“Fine.”
The curt response did not invite further discussion. He was a month into his suspension and climbing the walls. Hence the gardening implement he still clutched in his hand. He became aware of its presence and dropped it onto the paper scattered over the coffee table.
“To what do I owe this visit?” he enquired, deciding it was time to take control of the situation.
Towers looked around him and moved towards the nearest chair.
“May I?”
At Harry’s nod he lowered himself onto it.
Ruth had wandered over to the far corner, her attention caught by a stack of vinyl LPs. Harry wondered what she made of the fact that he still had them. Luddite? Couldn’t let go of things he loved? He was guilty on both counts, of course. He leant back against the wall and slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for Towers to explain.

“I have a little project for you,” the Home Secretary announced.
Ruth turned around, her focus now on Harry, carefully observing his reaction.
He kept his eyes on Towers, although he was fully aware of her scrutiny.
“I’m suspended; you’re not allowed to give me any projects.”
“Ah, but this is a private enterprise,” Towers stated smugly.
When Harry merely lifted an eyebrow, he leaned forward and continued.
“A certain young nobleman of my acquaintance has disappeared. His mother approached me for help; she wants the matter handled discreetly. Naturally I thought of you. What better way to while away the time than to engage in a spot of amateur sleuthing?”
His eyes moved to the pruning shears and he added meaningfully, “I had a hunch you wouldn’t cope well with enforced idleness.”
Harry glared half-heartedly; Towers had him there.
He pointed out, “They have surveillance on me. My movements are limited, so I’m not sure how much use I’d be.”
Both Towers and Ruth noticed that he didn’t refuse right off the bat.
“Not to worry old chap,” the Home Secretary said. “I’ve arranged everything. You’ll have complete freedom of movement for the next two weeks. The only caveat is that someone from the Service should be with you at all times.”
Harry’s gaze flicked to Ruth, and she looked back steadily.
“Now, Harry,” Towers continued sternly, “I am standing surety for you, because I don’t believe you are the type of man that would abscond at the first opportunity. For God’s sake don’t prove me wrong.”
He stood up. “Ruth here will babysit and fill you in on the details. Your expenses will be covered by the family of the missing man, and I’m sure there’ll be something in it for you, especially if you should find him. These people aren’t exactly poor.”

Harry showed him out, and Ruth remained where she was. She could hear them talking, their voices an unintelligible low rumble before the door opened and closed. It was strange to be in his house like this. The butterflies in her stomach returned in full force now that she was alone with him, now that there was no-one else to take their focus off each other. Harry came back into the room and took up station behind a chair, his hands resting lightly on its back. He watched her for a moment before he spoke.
“So you drew the short straw?”
He seemed unimpressed by the whole idea, even somewhat aggrieved. She wasn’t sure whether it was because his integrity was being called into question, or whether she was the one that would do the babysitting. The second option disturbed her more than she would like to admit.
“No,” she said calmly.
Her answer surprised him and he cocked his head at her.
“I volunteered,” she clarified with the ghost of a smile.
It took him a few seconds to process the implications of her statement, and his eyes softened. The set of his shoulders relaxed fractionally and he moved around the chair and sat down. When she didn’t follow suit, he looked pointedly at the chair opposite him and back at her again. She got the hint and sat.

He decided to open with a safe topic.
“How are things on the Grid?”
“There have been some changes.” She hesitated. “The acting Section Head-“
“Erin Watts,” Harry supplied, and she shook her head in admiration.
“She’s made some changes.”
“What changes?” he asked sharply.
“She decommissioned Beth, and brought in a new techie. Calum Reed.”
He absorbed the information without comment, a frown etched on his face. She could tell he was not exactly happy with these developments.
“She must be confident of her position,” he remarked offhand, and Ruth knew he understood what it meant: Erin Watts had been told that she would be his replacement if the Inquiry found him guilty.
“Yes. She’s a big fan of yours, though,” Ruth revealed, wanting him to know that Erin was not working against him.
He pondered this bit of news, then said, straight-faced, “She’s obviously never met me.”
Ruth couldn’t smother her smile.
“Obviously,” she agreed.
He smiled, and with that the last lingering unease between them melted away.

“So. What have we got?” Harry asked and leaned forward.
Ruth rummaged in her bag and produced a slim file which she handed across. He flicked it open and was confronted with a photograph paper-clipped to the first page. The man in it looked to be in his mid-twenties, blonde and lanky. He reclined against an Aston Martin with an insouciant smile.
“David William Percy V,” Ruth informed him.
Harry rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh, the fifth.”
“Heir apparent to the Duke of Suffolk and his large business empire.”
“How large?”
“Multi-millionaire large. Mining concessions in Australia, South Africa and Chile, tea and coffee plantations in Sri Lanka and Kenya, and so on.”
He flipped up the photo and perused the list of companies on the first page.
“Was daddy recently ennobled, then, perhaps after a not-so-modest financial contribution into the right coffers?”
“Actually, no. The family traces right back to the War of the Roses. They were on the Lancastran side of things and were eventually rewarded for that with a Dukedom during the Tudor era.”
Harry pursed his lips. “Ah. So instead of the vulgarities of the nouveau riche we’ll have to contend with good old-fashioned baseless entitlement.”
He was not a fan of the nobility, irrespective of their ilk.
She gave him a look and bit back the urge to call him Sir Harry.
He ignored it and pointed at the photograph. “How long has Bertie Wooster here been missing?”
“Two weeks,” she said, her disapproval evident in her tone. She found it hard to understand how parents could wait two weeks before they start to worry about their children, and it showed in her expression.

Harry watched the play of emotion on her face and sighed inwardly. They were so very different in some ways. Despite her more jaded view of the world since her return from Cyprus, she still, in essence, believed in the goodness of humankind, whereas he had a more cynical outlook. These days he tended to be more surprised to encounter common decency than its opposite. He wondered, not for the first time, what she really thought of his abject failure as a father; whether she knew about Graham and the fact that, for years, he’d had no idea where his son was.
Her voice brought him back to the matter at hand.
“The Duchess, Lady Agnes, is willing to speak to us.”
“How generous,” he murmured.
When he didn’t move, she added pointedly, “Today, Harry.”
His mouth twitched in amusement at her firm tone. Not many people dared to speak to him in this way, but she had always been different. He had always allowed her more liberties than most.
“Right. I’ll go and dress for the occasion, shall I?”
Her eyes slid away from him, the thought of him undressing under the same roof as her enticing and embarrassing in equal measure. When she looked back at him his gaze was on her, curious and contemplative. She wondered what he read in her face, but whatever it was, it seemed to remove any doubts he might have had about taking on this project.
“Ruth,” he said, his voice warm and reassuring. “The odds are better than even that we’ll find him in a house of ill repute or an opium den somewhere, wasting daddy’s money. If it were something more serious, like kidnapping, they’d have heard from the perpetrators by now.”
She nodded, moved by his attempt to ease her concerns, and watched him walk from the room. He was going to do it, and she would accompany him every step of the way. The thought ignited a spark of excitement in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. For the first time since she’d taken the decision to stop pushing him away, to allow herself a chance at happiness, she began to believe that there was hope for them.

tbc]]> Spoilers for season 9, mention of new characters for season 10.

Takes place between seasons 9 and 10. Harry and Ruth.

PART I

Wednesday 23 March 2011
London

It was a typical late March day in London; crisp, cold air that misted her breath, and a weak sun trying valiantly, but in vain, to break through the low clouds. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the streets that slid past her window. They bustled and teemed with the morning rush hour traffic, eventually thinning out as the car moved further from the city centre. Just a normal, average March day, she reflected. Except that it wasn’t. It was the day that marked the first step she was taking after The Decision, the first step towards what she hoped would be something wonderful.

The man next to her turned a page and it rustled in the silence. He was totally absorbed in his reading, and she turned her eyes back to the window, to the bare trees lining the street now moving slowly past. The car ghosted to a stop and for a moment she panicked. She had never been to his house – unless one counted the miserable hour she’d spent indecisively loitering across the street, wanting to take back the rejection of a second date many years ago – and her mind filled with doubt. Would he want her here, in his house, after everything that had happened? After everything she’d said?
“We’re here,” she announced, and her voice sounded high and anxious to her ears.
The Home Secretary looked up and surveyed the house for a few moments.
“Not too shabby for a civil servant, eh?” he remarked, then got out without waiting for a response.
Ruth got out as well. She followed him to the front door, the anxiety knotting tighter and tighter in her stomach.

Towers rang the bell and they could hear its stringent echo inside. The seconds ticked by, and when they’d stretched into a minute he leaned on the button again, longer this time. He’d barely taken his finger off it when the door swung open to reveal Harry, who regarded them in silence. There was no hint of surprise in his expression and Ruth surmised that he’d made use of the spyhole.
“Hello, Harry,” Towers said breezily. “How have you b-... What’s that?”
He pointed to the implement in Harry’s left hand.
Harry looked down at it, almost baffled by its presence.
“They’re pruning shears,” he said, wiggling them slightly.
The two people on the doorstep stared at him, and he apparently felt that some sort of explanation was necessary, because he added, “I was, erm...” He faltered, then lifted his chin and looked at them challengingly. “I was thinking of doing some gardening.”
“Good God!” Towers exclaimed, horrified by the thought. “We’re just in time, evidently,” and walked inside without waiting for an invitation.
Harry’s gaze shifted to Ruth and they looked at each other for long seconds. When she stayed rooted to the spot, he asked drily, “Would you like to come in as well?”
He tried to sound casual but was not quite able to hide his uneasiness at her presence.
Her heart sank, and she took care not to brush against him as he stood aside to let her in.

They found Towers in the living room, planted in front of the window and surveying the unkempt shrubbery outside with a slight air of distaste. Harry’s garden could obviously do with some attention. Heaven knew what could be hidden in that tangled mess... His attention snapped back to the situation at hand and he turned towards the room.
“So. How are you, Harry?”
“Fine.”
The curt response did not invite further discussion. He was a month into his suspension and climbing the walls. Hence the gardening implement he still clutched in his hand. He became aware of its presence and dropped it onto the paper scattered over the coffee table.
“To what do I owe this visit?” he enquired, deciding it was time to take control of the situation.
Towers looked around him and moved towards the nearest chair.
“May I?”
At Harry’s nod he lowered himself onto it.
Ruth had wandered over to the far corner, her attention caught by a stack of vinyl LPs. Harry wondered what she made of the fact that he still had them. Luddite? Couldn’t let go of things he loved? He was guilty on both counts, of course. He leant back against the wall and slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting for Towers to explain.

“I have a little project for you,” the Home Secretary announced.
Ruth turned around, her focus now on Harry, carefully observing his reaction.
He kept his eyes on Towers, although he was fully aware of her scrutiny.
“I’m suspended; you’re not allowed to give me any projects.”
“Ah, but this is a private enterprise,” Towers stated smugly.
When Harry merely lifted an eyebrow, he leaned forward and continued.
“A certain young nobleman of my acquaintance has disappeared. His mother approached me for help; she wants the matter handled discreetly. Naturally I thought of you. What better way to while away the time than to engage in a spot of amateur sleuthing?”
His eyes moved to the pruning shears and he added meaningfully, “I had a hunch you wouldn’t cope well with enforced idleness.”
Harry glared half-heartedly; Towers had him there.
He pointed out, “They have surveillance on me. My movements are limited, so I’m not sure how much use I’d be.”
Both Towers and Ruth noticed that he didn’t refuse right off the bat.
“Not to worry old chap,” the Home Secretary said. “I’ve arranged everything. You’ll have complete freedom of movement for the next two weeks. The only caveat is that someone from the Service should be with you at all times.”
Harry’s gaze flicked to Ruth, and she looked back steadily.
“Now, Harry,” Towers continued sternly, “I am standing surety for you, because I don’t believe you are the type of man that would abscond at the first opportunity. For God’s sake don’t prove me wrong.”
He stood up. “Ruth here will babysit and fill you in on the details. Your expenses will be covered by the family of the missing man, and I’m sure there’ll be something in it for you, especially if you should find him. These people aren’t exactly poor.”

Harry showed him out, and Ruth remained where she was. She could hear them talking, their voices an unintelligible low rumble before the door opened and closed. It was strange to be in his house like this. The butterflies in her stomach returned in full force now that she was alone with him, now that there was no-one else to take their focus off each other. Harry came back into the room and took up station behind a chair, his hands resting lightly on its back. He watched her for a moment before he spoke.
“So you drew the short straw?”
He seemed unimpressed by the whole idea, even somewhat aggrieved. She wasn’t sure whether it was because his integrity was being called into question, or whether she was the one that would do the babysitting. The second option disturbed her more than she would like to admit.
“No,” she said calmly.
Her answer surprised him and he cocked his head at her.
“I volunteered,” she clarified with the ghost of a smile.
It took him a few seconds to process the implications of her statement, and his eyes softened. The set of his shoulders relaxed fractionally and he moved around the chair and sat down. When she didn’t follow suit, he looked pointedly at the chair opposite him and back at her again. She got the hint and sat.

He decided to open with a safe topic.
“How are things on the Grid?”
“There have been some changes.” She hesitated. “The acting Section Head-“
“Erin Watts,” Harry supplied, and she shook her head in admiration.
“She’s made some changes.”
“What changes?” he asked sharply.
“She decommissioned Beth, and brought in a new techie. Calum Reed.”
He absorbed the information without comment, a frown etched on his face. She could tell he was not exactly happy with these developments.
“She must be confident of her position,” he remarked offhand, and Ruth knew he understood what it meant: Erin Watts had been told that she would be his replacement if the Inquiry found him guilty.
“Yes. She’s a big fan of yours, though,” Ruth revealed, wanting him to know that Erin was not working against him.
He pondered this bit of news, then said, straight-faced, “She’s obviously never met me.”
Ruth couldn’t smother her smile.
“Obviously,” she agreed.
He smiled, and with that the last lingering unease between them melted away.

“So. What have we got?” Harry asked and leaned forward.
Ruth rummaged in her bag and produced a slim file which she handed across. He flicked it open and was confronted with a photograph paper-clipped to the first page. The man in it looked to be in his mid-twenties, blonde and lanky. He reclined against an Aston Martin with an insouciant smile.
“David William Percy V,” Ruth informed him.
Harry rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh, the fifth.”
“Heir apparent to the Duke of Suffolk and his large business empire.”
“How large?”
“Multi-millionaire large. Mining concessions in Australia, South Africa and Chile, tea and coffee plantations in Sri Lanka and Kenya, and so on.”
He flipped up the photo and perused the list of companies on the first page.
“Was daddy recently ennobled, then, perhaps after a not-so-modest financial contribution into the right coffers?”
“Actually, no. The family traces right back to the War of the Roses. They were on the Lancastran side of things and were eventually rewarded for that with a Dukedom during the Tudor era.”
Harry pursed his lips. “Ah. So instead of the vulgarities of the nouveau riche we’ll have to contend with good old-fashioned baseless entitlement.”
He was not a fan of the nobility, irrespective of their ilk.
She gave him a look and bit back the urge to call him Sir Harry.
He ignored it and pointed at the photograph. “How long has Bertie Wooster here been missing?”
“Two weeks,” she said, her disapproval evident in her tone. She found it hard to understand how parents could wait two weeks before they start to worry about their children, and it showed in her expression.

Harry watched the play of emotion on her face and sighed inwardly. They were so very different in some ways. Despite her more jaded view of the world since her return from Cyprus, she still, in essence, believed in the goodness of humankind, whereas he had a more cynical outlook. These days he tended to be more surprised to encounter common decency than its opposite. He wondered, not for the first time, what she really thought of his abject failure as a father; whether she knew about Graham and the fact that, for years, he’d had no idea where his son was.
Her voice brought him back to the matter at hand.
“The Duchess, Lady Agnes, is willing to speak to us.”
“How generous,” he murmured.
When he didn’t move, she added pointedly, “Today, Harry.”
His mouth twitched in amusement at her firm tone. Not many people dared to speak to him in this way, but she had always been different. He had always allowed her more liberties than most.
“Right. I’ll go and dress for the occasion, shall I?”
Her eyes slid away from him, the thought of him undressing under the same roof as her enticing and embarrassing in equal measure. When she looked back at him his gaze was on her, curious and contemplative. She wondered what he read in her face, but whatever it was, it seemed to remove any doubts he might have had about taking on this project.
“Ruth,” he said, his voice warm and reassuring. “The odds are better than even that we’ll find him in a house of ill repute or an opium den somewhere, wasting daddy’s money. If it were something more serious, like kidnapping, they’d have heard from the perpetrators by now.”
She nodded, moved by his attempt to ease her concerns, and watched him walk from the room. He was going to do it, and she would accompany him every step of the way. The thought ignited a spark of excitement in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. For the first time since she’d taken the decision to stop pushing him away, to allow herself a chance at happiness, she began to believe that there was hope for them.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Thicker Than Water]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2066.html Fri, 06 Jan 2012 10:31:24 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2066.html Spoilers for season 10

This is an alternate ending fic. It starts at the beginning of episode 10.6, and stays as close as possible to the real episode. As a result, you’ll recognise a lot of the dialogue. It’s quite long as I couldn’t find a way to split it into different parts without interrupting the flow.

-*-

London, Home Office

A ripple of applause breaks out as the Home Secretary and Ilya Gavrik shake hands. Ruth watches from the doorway. She should feel relief that it is done, but all she can think about at that moment is the man she said goodbye to a few hours earlier. The words she said to him keep swirling around in her head – this can’t be the end. Nine years of struggle and strife, and of mutual admiration, respect, friendship and adoration ended with a brief kiss by the Thames. At least the location was fitting, she thinks bitterly. As the river ebbs and flows, so do their connection to each other. Sometimes flowing strong, an irresistible force dragging them towards or away from each other, other times a gentle trickle that allows them to float along peacefully, together.

She wonders where he is, whether the Americans are treating him well. It’s ironic that a man who’s done so many dark deeds in a lifetime of service to his country, should be made to pay for the one thing he actually didn’t do. She has been wracking her brain for a way out of this mess ever since he walked away from her and her heart broke at the thought of never seeing him again. He told her not to do anything, not to come and see him, and in that moment she understood for the first time, with certain clarity, how much of what he does is aimed at protecting her. Not only from the shady world they inhabit, but also from himself and the demons he lives with everyday. Sometimes she thinks it is all they ever do – try to protect the other at the cost of personal happiness.

Elena Gavrik gets up and walks towards her, and she feels a sudden flash of envy for all that this woman once got to share with Harry. She envies the emotional courage of acting upon feelings, the intimacy, and the act of love that brought forth a son. Yes, she thinks, what she envies this elegant woman most of all is the child she got to have with Harry. But she no longer fears that Elena still has his love, not after the events by the Thames this morning. Elena reaches her and starts to speak, and Ruth realises that nothing is what it seems. And that Elena may just have afforded her the opportunity of seeing Harry again.

* * *

As the two women go down in the lift together, Elena addresses her. “You understand the guilt Harry has always felt about me; about Sasha… Do you think it’s what kept you from being together?”
She pauses and allows the thought to sink in. “Don’t worry – Harry will see things differently soon.”

Ruth doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing. She stands behind Elena and thinks back over the last nine years. She remembers a clumsy dinner invitation and dancing bread rolls; gossip and sad desirous eyes in a hotel corridor; a glassing in a men’s club and a faked death; a farewell on a cold dock and Something wonderful that was never said; a man shot dead, the loss of a boy and I’m trying, with all my limitations; There will always be something else; an ill-timed proposal and a rejection, and You think I haven’t forgiven you for George, but the truth is much worse; the handing over of a state secret and In that moment it was unfair of you to love me; and It’s my turn and tears.

And she thinks, no, it’s about so much more than guilt over a long-lost son, so much more complicated than Elena Gavrik could ever conceive. This thought, and the knowledge that the Russian does not understand Harry quite as well as she thinks she does, almost makes Ruth smile.

As they leave the hotel and head towards the waiting car, a blonde woman suddenly steps in front of them and says, “Mrs Gavrik?”
Ruth’s heart stops when she sees the familiar face.
“Yes?” Elena says with a charming smile.
“Catherine Townsend. You contacted me about a possible documentary?”
Elena’s smile widens as she studies the woman in front of her. “Ye-es,” she says, and the way she draws out the word alarms Ruth immeasurably. Not for the first time, a niggling doubt worms into her mind about Elena Gavrik.
“I want her to come with us,” Elena says, and Ruth realises that she knows exactly who Catherine Townsend is.
“No, absolutely not,” Ruth declares resolutely. She ignores Catherine and addresses the Russian. “This is not a game, Elena. It’s a matter of national security. If you think I’m going to allow press anywhere near this-“
“She comes,” Elena persists, “or I give Harry nothing.”
Catherine, who has been listening to their conversation in some confusion, now asks sharply, “Harry?”
Ruth abandons all pretence and turns to Catherine. “Yes. She lied to you, Catherine. This has nothing to do with a documentary, and everything to do with your father and his work. Please, walk away, and stay away from Elena Gavrik, for your own good.”
Catherine hesitates and looks uncertainly between the two women, unsure who to trust.
And then Elena says, “I have information about a terror attack on London, planned for today. If you don’t come, I won’t give your father the information, and hundreds of people will die.”
They stare at her in horror, and Ruth knows that the battle is lost. Catherine is too much her father’s daughter to walk away now.

When they are joined in the car by Sasha Gavrik holding a gun, Ruth begins to understand that today could well become the worst day of her life. But more than that, it will almost certainly turn out to be the worst of Harry’s life, and for that she resents Elena Gavrik deeply.

* * *

He is jostled from side to side as the SUV leaves the tarmac and speeds over a gravel road. They are either taking him to the Welford Air Force base, or they are about to shoot him in the head and dump his body in the woods, he thinks dispassionately. Harry knows he should care more about which of the two options are the correct one, but he is numb. Perhaps he has finally reached critical mass in terms of the amount of pain that one person can reasonably endure before they shut down emotionally. He sees her face in front of him again, her eyes bright with tears as she tells him about the house she made an offer on, and lets himself believe for one moment that she was trying to tell him she wants to live there with him before he squashes the thought. Too late now. Perhaps it has been too late since the day he chose his particular career path. His jaw aches and as he lifts his hands to gingerly probe the spot where the Marine punched him, he feels the car coming to a stop. The back door opens and he is confronted with a masked man holding a gun, and for a split-second he thinks they are going to shoot him in the head after all. But then he recognises the eyes and Dimitri removes his mask.
“This is likely to come up in your pay review,” he tells his officer gratefully before getting out stiffly.

Later, in the car, as they fill him in on what is going on, his heart soars at the thought of seeing Ruth again, and he thinks that perhaps he hasn’t quite reached his critical mass of emotional pain after all.

* * *

He walks towards her, Erin and Dimitri in tow, and she can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. Ruth wants to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his neck, tell him so many things, but she doesn’t. She restrains herself to drinking him in, because she still has to inform him that his daughter is here. Somehow it didn’t feel right to let Erin do that.
“I hear Sasha’s joined us,” he says, his voice full of light and his eyes soft on her, and she wishes she didn’t have to tell him about Catherine.
“Hm,” she responds, “he wouldn’t give up his gun. But I think he just wants to know what’s going on.”
She stops walking and holds him back with a hand on his sleeve. “Harry, there’s something else. Catherine is here too.”
He stares at her uncomprehendingly. “What? But how…”
She explains succinctly, and sees the anger rising in him with every word she utters.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I couldn’t stop her.”
“Where’s Catherine now?” he asks through clenched teeth, and beneath the anger she detects his fear.
“I kept everyone separate. I’ll take you to her.”
She moves past him but his voice stops her.
“No,” he says, all the light gone from his tone. “There’s no time. I have to see Elena first.”

* * *

As it turns out Sasha Gavrik is the first person he talks to. They stand in front of each other knowingly as father and son for the first time, and he is surprised how easily his heart fills with love for this boy. His son. And he is saddened by his inability to express what he is feeling, to say anything at all. Sasha seems similarly inhibited, which is not surprising seeing as he’s had only a day to process the information. So they stand in awkward silence, feeling so much, until Sasha’s mobile breaks the spell.
“It’s my f-… It’s… Ilya Gavrik.”
Harry makes an instant decision. “Let me speak to him.”
He tells Ilya to come and sends him their coordinates. He does not investigate his motives for doing so too closely. If pressed he will say that it is because he still suspects Ilya Gavrik of masterminding the attempts to scupper the partnership and wants him close, but he knows, deep down, that it is also retribution for having to sit and listen to Gavrik extolling his perfect life with his perfect family and his bloody tortoise in the garden. And it is insurance against Elena bringing Catherine into this, a development which makes him exceedingly apprehensive.

* * *

Elena tells him there is an attack planned on London and gives him a telephone number. He stands and looks at her, more aware than ever how true his words to Ruth were: this woman, the mother of his son, is a stranger to him. He is no longer sure what her role in all of this is. The only reason she could want Catherine here is to unsettle him, and he wonders why she would want that. He is also aware that he can’t depend on his own judgement alone in this situation, that he is emotionally compromised. The next time he talks to her, he decides, he will have a second pair of eyes and ears with him.

* * *

In the end it is Ruth he takes with him when he goes back to Elena to look for answers. Not only because Erin and Dimitri are not there, but because he trusts her judgement above all others. It makes no difference, as he loses control of the situation almost immediately. He asks Elena who is behind the attacks on the partnership and she looks at him coolly, with a hint of a smile, before saying, “Bring your daughter into the room and I’ll tell you.”
Ruth, horrified, blurts out, “No!”
He is unspeakably grateful for her concern. But he doesn’t deserve it – not after what he did to Elena and his son. He thinks he knows why Elena is doing this; she wants to hurt him for abandoning her and Sasha in Treptower Park. And because he knows that he did so much worse to her, that perhaps he never deserved Catherine’s regard in the first place, he has no right to put it above the safety of the nation.
“Ruth,” he says gently, “It’s all right. Will you please fetch Catherine?”
Ruth looks at him for long seconds, and reads his surrender in his eyes. She understands that he is doing this as some sort of penance for failing Elena and Sasha, so she does his bidding without another word.

* * *

They are gathered in an absurd tableau: Harry, the asset he convinced himself he loved after she became pregnant with his child, the woman he truly does love, and his daughter – the apple of his eye - standing uncertainly in the corner. And of course, the son he never knew watching from outside. Harry knows that what is about to happen will irrevocably change his relationship with the two most important people in his life; that when this is all over he will probably have lost everything that has meaning for him just as surely as if he’d been taken to the US and thrown in prison. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and asks Elena again.
“Who is behind the attacks on the partnership?”
Her eyes move between him, and Ruth, and Catherine, and there is something calculating and cold in them that makes his stomach clench. And then she speaks the words that change everything.
“It was me, Harry.”

He finally realises that he has got it wrong, that Ilya is innocent in all of this. His guilt over Elena and Sasha blinded him, and Elena used it ruthlessly to outmanoeuvre him. He has barely processed this thought when she hammers another nail into the coffin.
”Have you ever told anyone the truth about how you recruited me?” she asks, and his world implodes.
”You know?” he responds weakly, aware of Ruth’s and his daughter’s eyes on him.
”Yes,” Elena says, with a hint of malice, before she turns her attention to Ruth. “I can see from your face he never told you. Too ashamed…”
Harry sinks into a chair and can’t bring himself to look at Ruth. ”Yes,” he admits hoarsely.

Ruth glances between Harry and Elena, trying to figure out what Elena’s true intentions are. She feels an overwhelming need to spare Harry this, especially in front of his daughter, so she tries to steer Elena back to the attacks.
But the Russian will not be deflected. ”Harry and I were in love,” she continues remorselessly. “Or at least we thought we were. But Harry had to choose between being a good man or a good spy.”
Elena pauses, and when she continues she is talking directly to Ruth and Catherine. She explains how Harry lied to her about her parents’ deaths, and used the lie to turn her.
“He asked me to spy on my country, my husband, to risk my life every day, to risk the safety of his own son,” she adds casually.
Catherine draws in a sharp, shocked breath that spears straight through Harry’s heart.
Elena’s eyes flick to the young woman and she smiles, before looking back at Harry. “It was the making of him,” she states with conviction, and Harry wants to laugh.
He understands what she means; that his actions towards her and Sasha and the resultant guilt turned him into the emotionally repressed man he is now. Not quite, he wants to say. By the time you came along I had already sacrificed my best friend to the cause. You and Sasha are just one of many things that have made me the man I am.

Elena turns her attention to Ruth, and to Catherine, eager to twist the knife.
“Do you see him differently now?” she asks with relish.
Harry can’t bring himself to look at the two women he loves most in this world, afraid of what he will read in their faces. If he had, he would have seen the tears gathered in Ruth’s eyes as she looks at him with infinite empathy.
”Yes,” she says, willing him to look at her, to see her acceptance and forgiveness. When he doesn’t, she spells it out.
“I see he’s given more than I thought possible.”
Harry’s heart leaps at her words, but he is also painfully aware of the deafening silence from his daughter. It hurts more than he cares to admit. He tries to ignore the pain, focussing instead on the professional aspects of the situation by asking Elena how she found out. But instead of the professional offering a distraction, her answer only drags him deeper into emotional turmoil as he learns that she was never his asset to begin with.

“Poor, sweet Harry,” Elena mocks him, as she exposes the extent of his folly and naivety. She mercilessly strips back the layers of her duplicitous role, and the stark exposure of his professional failure hurts almost as much as the personal pain. And on top of it all, the growing doubt about Sasha. Elena seems to sense this.
”Ask me, Harry. Be brave,” she challenges.
He is not a coward, so he glances at Ruth, steeling himself for this final humiliation, and asks. ”Is Sasha my son?”
She waits a beat, enjoying her ultimate triumph, before confirming what he already knows to be true. ”No. He is Ilya’s.”

Later, he will examine his feelings over this revelation. He will try to figure out whether he is relieved that there is no longer a third child that he has failed, or whether he is disappointed that the young man he has come to love so easily is not his. But for now he takes refuge in his anger.
”It was a lie designed to bond me to you. To compromise me. You let me believe for almost thirty years that he was my son.”
He can’t quite keep the note of accusation out of his voice and Elena pounces on it. For the first time her composure slips and she betrays her bitterness.
“What about your lie?!” she hisses. “You told me my parents were tortured, died in fear and pain, shot in the head, like dogs!”
Almost immediately she reins herself in and delivers the final blow. “The only difference is my lie was believed.”

* * *

After that, things develop quickly. He tries to talk to Catherine but she avoids him, and he can’t blame her. Instead he throws himself into resolving this crisis, to at least get something right. He almost messes that up as well, almost makes the same mistake of taking Elena Gavrik at her word. The truth is that he needs to believe her – needs to believe that there is some good in her, that he didn’t read her so very wrong all those years ago. It is only Ruth’s stubbornness to ferret out the truth, and her ability to change his mind, that saves him from making a horrible mistake. He is forced to slap around the boy who, just a short while ago, he was willing to love as a son. When he threatens to shoot Sasha and Elena doesn’t break, he finally sees her for what she is.
“You’re ten times the spy I ever was,” he tells her in disgust, and he is glad of it. He never wants to be like her – likes to think that he never could be. If the roles had been reserved, he knows for certain, he would not be able to sacrifice either Catherine or Ruth for the cause. That is his line, and he clings to it for all that he’s worth.

* * *

Catherine stays in the background and watches everything unfold. She is by nature observant and notices a number of things. She sees that her father is all at sea emotionally, that he no longer trusts his own judgement, that he is deeply shocked at how thoroughly he was played by the Russian. And she sees how hurt he is by her refusal to talk to him. Then there is the woman, Ruth, and her fierce desire to protect and comfort her father, her intelligence and perceptiveness as she sees the duplicitous game Elena is playing, and her ability to sway her father’s decision. And finally, she recognises the utter confusion of Sasha Gavrik as he realises, just like her, that he doesn’t really know who his parents are at all. When Ruth walks out of the bunker Catherine follows her, unaware of the drama unfolding behind her between Ilya and Elena Gavrik. Ruth walks up to her father and Catherine hangs back, unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation.

Ruth watches him as he talks on his mobile. He looks tired and world-weary, and she wants to take him in her arms and sooth away his cares.
”You all right?” she asks somewhat needlessly, as the answer is so obviously ‘no’.
”I don’t know,” he says honestly. There is one thought running through his head: I made Elena what she is.
He tries to explain the depth of his self-loathing to Ruth, not sure she will understand what he is trying to say. “She talked about the line we don’t cross…”
She does. Of course she does.
”I think you can stop hating yourself for the lies you told her,” Ruth tells him, and he looks away, rubs his eyes. He doesn’t believe her, doesn’t believe that he deserves forgiveness, from her or himself, and she is not surprised – mere days ago she told him that he has too many secrets for her to accept, that she doesn’t know him at all. But now, she knows that he was right. She does know him, even if she does not know everything about him. And the rest is just so much noise. All that matters is that he is a good man, and she respects and loves him, and he loves her in his own limited way.
“I always thought that with every lie we tell, our true selves get buried that little bit deeper,” she says, knowing she owes him an explanation. “And I worry that one day I’ll wake up and look for it - look for me - and I won’t be there anymore.”
He looks at her, concern and understanding written across his face, and it encourages her to continue. “But that hasn’t happened, Harry, to either of us.”
He sighs deeply. ”Not yet,” he acknowledges, and she forges ahead with what she really wants to say.
”I left because I thought there’d always be too many secrets between us. Stupid really, because… You and I, we’re made of secrets.”
He picks up on her warm tone of voice, and hope flares brightly in his chest. Could it not be too late for them, even after today’s revelations? He hardly dares believe it. She must know what he’s thinking, because she runs her hand down his arm and grasps his hand, conveying her message in the clearest possible terms.
Ruth needs to say it. She finally knows exactly what she wants, and she will be the brave one this time. It is her turn.
“So leave the Service… with me,” she says, squeezing his hand, “while we still know who we are.”

He stares at her, speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment. Yes, he wants to say, yesyesyes. Please, yes. But effusive displays of emotion are not their way, and the smile he can’t suppress is answer enough as he allows himself to believe at last. He wants, more than anything, to kiss her, and he is about to lean in and do so when he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

When Sasha Gavrik strides past her, Catherine notices the piece of glass in his hand and follows him. She is close behind him as she calls out a warning to her father, and the man that could have been her brother whirls around in surprise. She feels a hot spear of pain and stumbles back, clutching her side. Sasha stares at her in shock and time slows down.

Harry sees a drop of his daughter’s blood falling from the shard to the grass, and then he moves, catching her as she crumples to the ground.
“Can’t… breathe,” she gasps, her eyes fixed on him.
A fear colder than he’s ever known grips his heart. “No, you’re all right,” he says desperately as he lays her down carefully and presses a hand to her side.
He is vaguely aware of a shot ringing out and Ruth kneeling next to him, but it pales into insignificance at the feeling of Catherine’s warm blood pulsing through his fingers. When Calum says that the Medivac is twelve minutes away, he knows instinctively that it is too long. Ruth prompts him gently to talk to Catherine, to keep her face warm, but her blood is on his hand and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He asks Catherine to tell him about her latest film and holds up his end of the most banal conversation of his life in a haze. In that moment, he would give anything to swap places with her. His child, whom he loves unconditionally, is dying in his arms and there is nothing he can do about it. He wants to rail against the universe, to scream and shout at the unfairness of it, but he stays strong and calm for her. Catherine’s frightened eyes never leave his face.
“Dad,” she says, “I always hoped that we could go to Berlin again. Remember when you took me to see the fall of the Wall?”
He almost chokes on his answer. “Of course I remember. It was one of the happiest times of my life. And we will go again, do you hear me Catherine? We’ll go to Berlin, just you and me.”
She smiles wistfully, gasping for breath. “Daddy,” she whispers, “it wasn’t meant to be. You belong to the country... you always have.”
And she closes her eyes and slips away from him.

* * *

He shuts down all emotion, doesn’t allow himself to feel anything. Instead he focuses on what needs to be done. He organises her funeral with clinical efficiency, and on the day itself he remains determinedly dispassionate. His ex-wife disintegrates at the gravesite, pummelling his chest with her fists and screaming, “Feel something, you cold bastard!”
He doesn’t allow himself to do so. He knows, if he does, he will fall apart, and this time he will not be able to put himself back together again. His daughter is dead, and it is his fault. If he allowed any emotion into his heart, it will fill with self-loathing and guilt of such magnitude that it will crush him.

He hasn’t spoken to Ruth since it happened, because she is the one person that could pierce the armour he’s erected, and he can’t afford that. After the funeral he makes contact with Tom Quinn and orders the death of Mikhael Levrov. He forces himself to tidy up Catherine’s affairs and pack up her flat. As he does so, he finds a picture of the two of them in front of the Berlin Wall, and he almost breaks. He gets into his car and simply drives, but the bleak void in his soul stays with him. He finds himself in Suffolk, in front of the cottage Ruth talked about buying. The sign states ‘Sold’ in big letters, and when he glances up to the first floor window she is standing there, watching him. She did it, he thinks, and is inordinately proud of her. He almost goes in, but Catherine’s words come back to him: It wasn’t meant to be.
So he turns his back on the cottage and drives back to London, back to the Service. It is the only way he knows to honour his daughter’s sacrifice; the only means of penance so that, perhaps, one day he will be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

The day he goes back to work, he visits the Memorial Wall. He knows too many of the names etched there for eternity. For a moment he imagines his own name on there, wishing desperately for it to be so instead of Catherine’s name on a headstone in a distant graveyard. But it is not, so he goes back to the Grid and sits behind his desk. It is there, the place where he’s had to make so many terrible decisions, that his resolve almost cracks. The emotion threatens to overwhelm him, and when his door opens he looks up in relief, welcoming the distraction. Until he registers who it is.

Ruth.

He can’t speak, doesn’t trust himself to do so. She comes forward and smiles nervously, toying with something in her hands. A key.
“I am going back to work for the Home Secretary,” she says into the silence.
He frowns; he thought she’d moved to Suffolk permanently after buying the cottage, to start her normal life. She senses his confusion.
“I told you that I couldn’t picture myself living in the cottage, but the truth is… I can’t picture myself living there without you. I bought it as an investment in the future and… it will be there when you’re ready.”
She lays the key on his desk, and adds, “I will be there when you’re ready, and we’ll go and live there together.”
He stares at the key for a long time and tries not to cry, and when he looks up again she is gone. His phone starts to ring and he sits motionless, wondering if he is strong enough to pick it up. He thinks of Catherine’s blood on his hands and knows that he has no choice, and snatches up the receiver.
“Harry Pearce.”
As he says the words, his other hand closes around the key.

* * *
Epilogue

Ruth is curled on the sofa, staring into the flames of the fire crackling in the hearth. It is Christmas Eve and she is spending it at the cottage, as she does with most of her time off. As always when she is here, her thoughts are dominated by Harry. And it is because of this that she thinks it is her imagination when she hears the door open – many months have passed since Catherine’s death and he is still locked in his self-imposed emotional isolation. After the loss of George and Nico, she sees it for what it is – a survival mechanism, and continues to give him the space he needs. But she is beginning to doubt whether he will ever use the key she gave him, ever take her up on the offer of sharing their lives, in London until the day they are both ready to retire, and then here. She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns her head to see him stand in the doorway, snowflakes on his coat and his hair. He is real; she is not imagining him. His eyes are on her, soft and sad and… hopeful.
“Ruth?” he says, so many questions encapsulated in her name.
“Harry,” she breathes, just as many answers given in his.
When they embrace, she knows they are finally home.

Fin


Comment: I was challenged to think about whether it was possible to get Harry to where the Powers That Be wanted him at the end, and to achieve the same emotional impact of the ending without Ruth dying. This is the best scenario I’ve come up with thus far. Of course, had this been the episode, we would not have seen the epilogue. That would have been left to the viewer’s imagination. Thanks for reading.]]> Spoilers for season 10

This is an alternate ending fic. It starts at the beginning of episode 10.6, and stays as close as possible to the real episode. As a result, you’ll recognise a lot of the dialogue. It’s quite long as I couldn’t find a way to split it into different parts without interrupting the flow.

-*-

London, Home Office

A ripple of applause breaks out as the Home Secretary and Ilya Gavrik shake hands. Ruth watches from the doorway. She should feel relief that it is done, but all she can think about at that moment is the man she said goodbye to a few hours earlier. The words she said to him keep swirling around in her head – this can’t be the end. Nine years of struggle and strife, and of mutual admiration, respect, friendship and adoration ended with a brief kiss by the Thames. At least the location was fitting, she thinks bitterly. As the river ebbs and flows, so do their connection to each other. Sometimes flowing strong, an irresistible force dragging them towards or away from each other, other times a gentle trickle that allows them to float along peacefully, together.

She wonders where he is, whether the Americans are treating him well. It’s ironic that a man who’s done so many dark deeds in a lifetime of service to his country, should be made to pay for the one thing he actually didn’t do. She has been wracking her brain for a way out of this mess ever since he walked away from her and her heart broke at the thought of never seeing him again. He told her not to do anything, not to come and see him, and in that moment she understood for the first time, with certain clarity, how much of what he does is aimed at protecting her. Not only from the shady world they inhabit, but also from himself and the demons he lives with everyday. Sometimes she thinks it is all they ever do – try to protect the other at the cost of personal happiness.

Elena Gavrik gets up and walks towards her, and she feels a sudden flash of envy for all that this woman once got to share with Harry. She envies the emotional courage of acting upon feelings, the intimacy, and the act of love that brought forth a son. Yes, she thinks, what she envies this elegant woman most of all is the child she got to have with Harry. But she no longer fears that Elena still has his love, not after the events by the Thames this morning. Elena reaches her and starts to speak, and Ruth realises that nothing is what it seems. And that Elena may just have afforded her the opportunity of seeing Harry again.

* * *

As the two women go down in the lift together, Elena addresses her. “You understand the guilt Harry has always felt about me; about Sasha… Do you think it’s what kept you from being together?”
She pauses and allows the thought to sink in. “Don’t worry – Harry will see things differently soon.”

Ruth doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing. She stands behind Elena and thinks back over the last nine years. She remembers a clumsy dinner invitation and dancing bread rolls; gossip and sad desirous eyes in a hotel corridor; a glassing in a men’s club and a faked death; a farewell on a cold dock and Something wonderful that was never said; a man shot dead, the loss of a boy and I’m trying, with all my limitations; There will always be something else; an ill-timed proposal and a rejection, and You think I haven’t forgiven you for George, but the truth is much worse; the handing over of a state secret and In that moment it was unfair of you to love me; and It’s my turn and tears.

And she thinks, no, it’s about so much more than guilt over a long-lost son, so much more complicated than Elena Gavrik could ever conceive. This thought, and the knowledge that the Russian does not understand Harry quite as well as she thinks she does, almost makes Ruth smile.

As they leave the hotel and head towards the waiting car, a blonde woman suddenly steps in front of them and says, “Mrs Gavrik?”
Ruth’s heart stops when she sees the familiar face.
“Yes?” Elena says with a charming smile.
“Catherine Townsend. You contacted me about a possible documentary?”
Elena’s smile widens as she studies the woman in front of her. “Ye-es,” she says, and the way she draws out the word alarms Ruth immeasurably. Not for the first time, a niggling doubt worms into her mind about Elena Gavrik.
“I want her to come with us,” Elena says, and Ruth realises that she knows exactly who Catherine Townsend is.
“No, absolutely not,” Ruth declares resolutely. She ignores Catherine and addresses the Russian. “This is not a game, Elena. It’s a matter of national security. If you think I’m going to allow press anywhere near this-“
“She comes,” Elena persists, “or I give Harry nothing.”
Catherine, who has been listening to their conversation in some confusion, now asks sharply, “Harry?”
Ruth abandons all pretence and turns to Catherine. “Yes. She lied to you, Catherine. This has nothing to do with a documentary, and everything to do with your father and his work. Please, walk away, and stay away from Elena Gavrik, for your own good.”
Catherine hesitates and looks uncertainly between the two women, unsure who to trust.
And then Elena says, “I have information about a terror attack on London, planned for today. If you don’t come, I won’t give your father the information, and hundreds of people will die.”
They stare at her in horror, and Ruth knows that the battle is lost. Catherine is too much her father’s daughter to walk away now.

When they are joined in the car by Sasha Gavrik holding a gun, Ruth begins to understand that today could well become the worst day of her life. But more than that, it will almost certainly turn out to be the worst of Harry’s life, and for that she resents Elena Gavrik deeply.

* * *

He is jostled from side to side as the SUV leaves the tarmac and speeds over a gravel road. They are either taking him to the Welford Air Force base, or they are about to shoot him in the head and dump his body in the woods, he thinks dispassionately. Harry knows he should care more about which of the two options are the correct one, but he is numb. Perhaps he has finally reached critical mass in terms of the amount of pain that one person can reasonably endure before they shut down emotionally. He sees her face in front of him again, her eyes bright with tears as she tells him about the house she made an offer on, and lets himself believe for one moment that she was trying to tell him she wants to live there with him before he squashes the thought. Too late now. Perhaps it has been too late since the day he chose his particular career path. His jaw aches and as he lifts his hands to gingerly probe the spot where the Marine punched him, he feels the car coming to a stop. The back door opens and he is confronted with a masked man holding a gun, and for a split-second he thinks they are going to shoot him in the head after all. But then he recognises the eyes and Dimitri removes his mask.
“This is likely to come up in your pay review,” he tells his officer gratefully before getting out stiffly.

Later, in the car, as they fill him in on what is going on, his heart soars at the thought of seeing Ruth again, and he thinks that perhaps he hasn’t quite reached his critical mass of emotional pain after all.

* * *

He walks towards her, Erin and Dimitri in tow, and she can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. Ruth wants to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his neck, tell him so many things, but she doesn’t. She restrains herself to drinking him in, because she still has to inform him that his daughter is here. Somehow it didn’t feel right to let Erin do that.
“I hear Sasha’s joined us,” he says, his voice full of light and his eyes soft on her, and she wishes she didn’t have to tell him about Catherine.
“Hm,” she responds, “he wouldn’t give up his gun. But I think he just wants to know what’s going on.”
She stops walking and holds him back with a hand on his sleeve. “Harry, there’s something else. Catherine is here too.”
He stares at her uncomprehendingly. “What? But how…”
She explains succinctly, and sees the anger rising in him with every word she utters.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I couldn’t stop her.”
“Where’s Catherine now?” he asks through clenched teeth, and beneath the anger she detects his fear.
“I kept everyone separate. I’ll take you to her.”
She moves past him but his voice stops her.
“No,” he says, all the light gone from his tone. “There’s no time. I have to see Elena first.”

* * *

As it turns out Sasha Gavrik is the first person he talks to. They stand in front of each other knowingly as father and son for the first time, and he is surprised how easily his heart fills with love for this boy. His son. And he is saddened by his inability to express what he is feeling, to say anything at all. Sasha seems similarly inhibited, which is not surprising seeing as he’s had only a day to process the information. So they stand in awkward silence, feeling so much, until Sasha’s mobile breaks the spell.
“It’s my f-… It’s… Ilya Gavrik.”
Harry makes an instant decision. “Let me speak to him.”
He tells Ilya to come and sends him their coordinates. He does not investigate his motives for doing so too closely. If pressed he will say that it is because he still suspects Ilya Gavrik of masterminding the attempts to scupper the partnership and wants him close, but he knows, deep down, that it is also retribution for having to sit and listen to Gavrik extolling his perfect life with his perfect family and his bloody tortoise in the garden. And it is insurance against Elena bringing Catherine into this, a development which makes him exceedingly apprehensive.

* * *

Elena tells him there is an attack planned on London and gives him a telephone number. He stands and looks at her, more aware than ever how true his words to Ruth were: this woman, the mother of his son, is a stranger to him. He is no longer sure what her role in all of this is. The only reason she could want Catherine here is to unsettle him, and he wonders why she would want that. He is also aware that he can’t depend on his own judgement alone in this situation, that he is emotionally compromised. The next time he talks to her, he decides, he will have a second pair of eyes and ears with him.

* * *

In the end it is Ruth he takes with him when he goes back to Elena to look for answers. Not only because Erin and Dimitri are not there, but because he trusts her judgement above all others. It makes no difference, as he loses control of the situation almost immediately. He asks Elena who is behind the attacks on the partnership and she looks at him coolly, with a hint of a smile, before saying, “Bring your daughter into the room and I’ll tell you.”
Ruth, horrified, blurts out, “No!”
He is unspeakably grateful for her concern. But he doesn’t deserve it – not after what he did to Elena and his son. He thinks he knows why Elena is doing this; she wants to hurt him for abandoning her and Sasha in Treptower Park. And because he knows that he did so much worse to her, that perhaps he never deserved Catherine’s regard in the first place, he has no right to put it above the safety of the nation.
“Ruth,” he says gently, “It’s all right. Will you please fetch Catherine?”
Ruth looks at him for long seconds, and reads his surrender in his eyes. She understands that he is doing this as some sort of penance for failing Elena and Sasha, so she does his bidding without another word.

* * *

They are gathered in an absurd tableau: Harry, the asset he convinced himself he loved after she became pregnant with his child, the woman he truly does love, and his daughter – the apple of his eye - standing uncertainly in the corner. And of course, the son he never knew watching from outside. Harry knows that what is about to happen will irrevocably change his relationship with the two most important people in his life; that when this is all over he will probably have lost everything that has meaning for him just as surely as if he’d been taken to the US and thrown in prison. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and asks Elena again.
“Who is behind the attacks on the partnership?”
Her eyes move between him, and Ruth, and Catherine, and there is something calculating and cold in them that makes his stomach clench. And then she speaks the words that change everything.
“It was me, Harry.”

He finally realises that he has got it wrong, that Ilya is innocent in all of this. His guilt over Elena and Sasha blinded him, and Elena used it ruthlessly to outmanoeuvre him. He has barely processed this thought when she hammers another nail into the coffin.
”Have you ever told anyone the truth about how you recruited me?” she asks, and his world implodes.
”You know?” he responds weakly, aware of Ruth’s and his daughter’s eyes on him.
”Yes,” Elena says, with a hint of malice, before she turns her attention to Ruth. “I can see from your face he never told you. Too ashamed…”
Harry sinks into a chair and can’t bring himself to look at Ruth. ”Yes,” he admits hoarsely.

Ruth glances between Harry and Elena, trying to figure out what Elena’s true intentions are. She feels an overwhelming need to spare Harry this, especially in front of his daughter, so she tries to steer Elena back to the attacks.
But the Russian will not be deflected. ”Harry and I were in love,” she continues remorselessly. “Or at least we thought we were. But Harry had to choose between being a good man or a good spy.”
Elena pauses, and when she continues she is talking directly to Ruth and Catherine. She explains how Harry lied to her about her parents’ deaths, and used the lie to turn her.
“He asked me to spy on my country, my husband, to risk my life every day, to risk the safety of his own son,” she adds casually.
Catherine draws in a sharp, shocked breath that spears straight through Harry’s heart.
Elena’s eyes flick to the young woman and she smiles, before looking back at Harry. “It was the making of him,” she states with conviction, and Harry wants to laugh.
He understands what she means; that his actions towards her and Sasha and the resultant guilt turned him into the emotionally repressed man he is now. Not quite, he wants to say. By the time you came along I had already sacrificed my best friend to the cause. You and Sasha are just one of many things that have made me the man I am.

Elena turns her attention to Ruth, and to Catherine, eager to twist the knife.
“Do you see him differently now?” she asks with relish.
Harry can’t bring himself to look at the two women he loves most in this world, afraid of what he will read in their faces. If he had, he would have seen the tears gathered in Ruth’s eyes as she looks at him with infinite empathy.
”Yes,” she says, willing him to look at her, to see her acceptance and forgiveness. When he doesn’t, she spells it out.
“I see he’s given more than I thought possible.”
Harry’s heart leaps at her words, but he is also painfully aware of the deafening silence from his daughter. It hurts more than he cares to admit. He tries to ignore the pain, focussing instead on the professional aspects of the situation by asking Elena how she found out. But instead of the professional offering a distraction, her answer only drags him deeper into emotional turmoil as he learns that she was never his asset to begin with.

“Poor, sweet Harry,” Elena mocks him, as she exposes the extent of his folly and naivety. She mercilessly strips back the layers of her duplicitous role, and the stark exposure of his professional failure hurts almost as much as the personal pain. And on top of it all, the growing doubt about Sasha. Elena seems to sense this.
”Ask me, Harry. Be brave,” she challenges.
He is not a coward, so he glances at Ruth, steeling himself for this final humiliation, and asks. ”Is Sasha my son?”
She waits a beat, enjoying her ultimate triumph, before confirming what he already knows to be true. ”No. He is Ilya’s.”

Later, he will examine his feelings over this revelation. He will try to figure out whether he is relieved that there is no longer a third child that he has failed, or whether he is disappointed that the young man he has come to love so easily is not his. But for now he takes refuge in his anger.
”It was a lie designed to bond me to you. To compromise me. You let me believe for almost thirty years that he was my son.”
He can’t quite keep the note of accusation out of his voice and Elena pounces on it. For the first time her composure slips and she betrays her bitterness.
“What about your lie?!” she hisses. “You told me my parents were tortured, died in fear and pain, shot in the head, like dogs!”
Almost immediately she reins herself in and delivers the final blow. “The only difference is my lie was believed.”

* * *

After that, things develop quickly. He tries to talk to Catherine but she avoids him, and he can’t blame her. Instead he throws himself into resolving this crisis, to at least get something right. He almost messes that up as well, almost makes the same mistake of taking Elena Gavrik at her word. The truth is that he needs to believe her – needs to believe that there is some good in her, that he didn’t read her so very wrong all those years ago. It is only Ruth’s stubbornness to ferret out the truth, and her ability to change his mind, that saves him from making a horrible mistake. He is forced to slap around the boy who, just a short while ago, he was willing to love as a son. When he threatens to shoot Sasha and Elena doesn’t break, he finally sees her for what she is.
“You’re ten times the spy I ever was,” he tells her in disgust, and he is glad of it. He never wants to be like her – likes to think that he never could be. If the roles had been reserved, he knows for certain, he would not be able to sacrifice either Catherine or Ruth for the cause. That is his line, and he clings to it for all that he’s worth.

* * *

Catherine stays in the background and watches everything unfold. She is by nature observant and notices a number of things. She sees that her father is all at sea emotionally, that he no longer trusts his own judgement, that he is deeply shocked at how thoroughly he was played by the Russian. And she sees how hurt he is by her refusal to talk to him. Then there is the woman, Ruth, and her fierce desire to protect and comfort her father, her intelligence and perceptiveness as she sees the duplicitous game Elena is playing, and her ability to sway her father’s decision. And finally, she recognises the utter confusion of Sasha Gavrik as he realises, just like her, that he doesn’t really know who his parents are at all. When Ruth walks out of the bunker Catherine follows her, unaware of the drama unfolding behind her between Ilya and Elena Gavrik. Ruth walks up to her father and Catherine hangs back, unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation.

Ruth watches him as he talks on his mobile. He looks tired and world-weary, and she wants to take him in her arms and sooth away his cares.
”You all right?” she asks somewhat needlessly, as the answer is so obviously ‘no’.
”I don’t know,” he says honestly. There is one thought running through his head: I made Elena what she is.
He tries to explain the depth of his self-loathing to Ruth, not sure she will understand what he is trying to say. “She talked about the line we don’t cross…”
She does. Of course she does.
”I think you can stop hating yourself for the lies you told her,” Ruth tells him, and he looks away, rubs his eyes. He doesn’t believe her, doesn’t believe that he deserves forgiveness, from her or himself, and she is not surprised – mere days ago she told him that he has too many secrets for her to accept, that she doesn’t know him at all. But now, she knows that he was right. She does know him, even if she does not know everything about him. And the rest is just so much noise. All that matters is that he is a good man, and she respects and loves him, and he loves her in his own limited way.
“I always thought that with every lie we tell, our true selves get buried that little bit deeper,” she says, knowing she owes him an explanation. “And I worry that one day I’ll wake up and look for it - look for me - and I won’t be there anymore.”
He looks at her, concern and understanding written across his face, and it encourages her to continue. “But that hasn’t happened, Harry, to either of us.”
He sighs deeply. ”Not yet,” he acknowledges, and she forges ahead with what she really wants to say.
”I left because I thought there’d always be too many secrets between us. Stupid really, because… You and I, we’re made of secrets.”
He picks up on her warm tone of voice, and hope flares brightly in his chest. Could it not be too late for them, even after today’s revelations? He hardly dares believe it. She must know what he’s thinking, because she runs her hand down his arm and grasps his hand, conveying her message in the clearest possible terms.
Ruth needs to say it. She finally knows exactly what she wants, and she will be the brave one this time. It is her turn.
“So leave the Service… with me,” she says, squeezing his hand, “while we still know who we are.”

He stares at her, speechless, overwhelmed by the enormity of the moment. Yes, he wants to say, yesyesyes. Please, yes. But effusive displays of emotion are not their way, and the smile he can’t suppress is answer enough as he allows himself to believe at last. He wants, more than anything, to kiss her, and he is about to lean in and do so when he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

When Sasha Gavrik strides past her, Catherine notices the piece of glass in his hand and follows him. She is close behind him as she calls out a warning to her father, and the man that could have been her brother whirls around in surprise. She feels a hot spear of pain and stumbles back, clutching her side. Sasha stares at her in shock and time slows down.

Harry sees a drop of his daughter’s blood falling from the shard to the grass, and then he moves, catching her as she crumples to the ground.
“Can’t… breathe,” she gasps, her eyes fixed on him.
A fear colder than he’s ever known grips his heart. “No, you’re all right,” he says desperately as he lays her down carefully and presses a hand to her side.
He is vaguely aware of a shot ringing out and Ruth kneeling next to him, but it pales into insignificance at the feeling of Catherine’s warm blood pulsing through his fingers. When Calum says that the Medivac is twelve minutes away, he knows instinctively that it is too long. Ruth prompts him gently to talk to Catherine, to keep her face warm, but her blood is on his hand and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He asks Catherine to tell him about her latest film and holds up his end of the most banal conversation of his life in a haze. In that moment, he would give anything to swap places with her. His child, whom he loves unconditionally, is dying in his arms and there is nothing he can do about it. He wants to rail against the universe, to scream and shout at the unfairness of it, but he stays strong and calm for her. Catherine’s frightened eyes never leave his face.
“Dad,” she says, “I always hoped that we could go to Berlin again. Remember when you took me to see the fall of the Wall?”
He almost chokes on his answer. “Of course I remember. It was one of the happiest times of my life. And we will go again, do you hear me Catherine? We’ll go to Berlin, just you and me.”
She smiles wistfully, gasping for breath. “Daddy,” she whispers, “it wasn’t meant to be. You belong to the country... you always have.”
And she closes her eyes and slips away from him.

* * *

He shuts down all emotion, doesn’t allow himself to feel anything. Instead he focuses on what needs to be done. He organises her funeral with clinical efficiency, and on the day itself he remains determinedly dispassionate. His ex-wife disintegrates at the gravesite, pummelling his chest with her fists and screaming, “Feel something, you cold bastard!”
He doesn’t allow himself to do so. He knows, if he does, he will fall apart, and this time he will not be able to put himself back together again. His daughter is dead, and it is his fault. If he allowed any emotion into his heart, it will fill with self-loathing and guilt of such magnitude that it will crush him.

He hasn’t spoken to Ruth since it happened, because she is the one person that could pierce the armour he’s erected, and he can’t afford that. After the funeral he makes contact with Tom Quinn and orders the death of Mikhael Levrov. He forces himself to tidy up Catherine’s affairs and pack up her flat. As he does so, he finds a picture of the two of them in front of the Berlin Wall, and he almost breaks. He gets into his car and simply drives, but the bleak void in his soul stays with him. He finds himself in Suffolk, in front of the cottage Ruth talked about buying. The sign states ‘Sold’ in big letters, and when he glances up to the first floor window she is standing there, watching him. She did it, he thinks, and is inordinately proud of her. He almost goes in, but Catherine’s words come back to him: It wasn’t meant to be.
So he turns his back on the cottage and drives back to London, back to the Service. It is the only way he knows to honour his daughter’s sacrifice; the only means of penance so that, perhaps, one day he will be able to look at himself in the mirror again.

The day he goes back to work, he visits the Memorial Wall. He knows too many of the names etched there for eternity. For a moment he imagines his own name on there, wishing desperately for it to be so instead of Catherine’s name on a headstone in a distant graveyard. But it is not, so he goes back to the Grid and sits behind his desk. It is there, the place where he’s had to make so many terrible decisions, that his resolve almost cracks. The emotion threatens to overwhelm him, and when his door opens he looks up in relief, welcoming the distraction. Until he registers who it is.

Ruth.

He can’t speak, doesn’t trust himself to do so. She comes forward and smiles nervously, toying with something in her hands. A key.
“I am going back to work for the Home Secretary,” she says into the silence.
He frowns; he thought she’d moved to Suffolk permanently after buying the cottage, to start her normal life. She senses his confusion.
“I told you that I couldn’t picture myself living in the cottage, but the truth is… I can’t picture myself living there without you. I bought it as an investment in the future and… it will be there when you’re ready.”
She lays the key on his desk, and adds, “I will be there when you’re ready, and we’ll go and live there together.”
He stares at the key for a long time and tries not to cry, and when he looks up again she is gone. His phone starts to ring and he sits motionless, wondering if he is strong enough to pick it up. He thinks of Catherine’s blood on his hands and knows that he has no choice, and snatches up the receiver.
“Harry Pearce.”
As he says the words, his other hand closes around the key.

* * *
Epilogue

Ruth is curled on the sofa, staring into the flames of the fire crackling in the hearth. It is Christmas Eve and she is spending it at the cottage, as she does with most of her time off. As always when she is here, her thoughts are dominated by Harry. And it is because of this that she thinks it is her imagination when she hears the door open – many months have passed since Catherine’s death and he is still locked in his self-imposed emotional isolation. After the loss of George and Nico, she sees it for what it is – a survival mechanism, and continues to give him the space he needs. But she is beginning to doubt whether he will ever use the key she gave him, ever take her up on the offer of sharing their lives, in London until the day they are both ready to retire, and then here. She sees movement out of the corner of her eye, and turns her head to see him stand in the doorway, snowflakes on his coat and his hair. He is real; she is not imagining him. His eyes are on her, soft and sad and… hopeful.
“Ruth?” he says, so many questions encapsulated in her name.
“Harry,” she breathes, just as many answers given in his.
When they embrace, she knows they are finally home.

Fin


Comment: I was challenged to think about whether it was possible to get Harry to where the Powers That Be wanted him at the end, and to achieve the same emotional impact of the ending without Ruth dying. This is the best scenario I’ve come up with thus far. Of course, had this been the episode, we would not have seen the epilogue. That would have been left to the viewer’s imagination. Thanks for reading.]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part VIII]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2062.html Tue, 03 Jan 2012 06:30:25 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2062.html PART VIII

20 July 2012, late night
Stables outside London

They sat in the car, each lost in his own thoughts.
“Do you think he’ll come?” Malcolm asked after another glance at the clock.
“He’ll come,” Harry said quietly and with complete certainty.
They could see the Obbo van a few hundred metres down the lane and some of the CO19 officers were visible, but otherwise there wasn’t a soul in sight. Ten minutes later a car’s headlights turned into the lane and crawled towards them.
Harry followed its progress intently. “Comms check,” he said into the stillness of the car and Malcolm jumped slightly at the unexpected sound.
“Loud and clear,” Calum confirmed.

The car came to a stop about twenty metres away, but no-one got out. Harry waited a few seconds more, then reached for the door handle.
“Wait, Harry. You told him we know everything and that we’ve found the explosives. He has nothing left to lose - what if he shoots you as soon as you’re out of the car?” Malcolm said suddenly, anxiously.
Harry shook his head. “He won’t. At heart Smithy is too much of a coward to kill me himself. He’ll try and get someone else to do it.”
He got out before Malcolm could reply and began walking towards the other vehicle.
“I hope you’re right,” Malcolm mumbled as the old familiar clutch of fear returned to his stomach in full force, reminding him once again why he’d retired.

Harry came to a stop halfway between the two cars and waited. He kept his hands well in sight. The night was unnaturally silent, as if even nature itself was holding its breath. The door of the other car opened and the interior was illuminated, revealing the tense features of Melvyn Smith. He got out of the car and approached slowly until the two men were only a few feet apart. His eyes darted around as he tried to take in everything around him, before they settled on Harry. The two men stared at each other, their mutual revulsion crackling between them.
“Thank you for coming,” Harry said, carefully hiding his distaste at having to talk to the man who’d betrayed Bill. “It’ll count in your favour later.”
When Smithy didn’t respond, Harry continued. “Shall we go in?”
He turned towards the darkened stable block.
“Aren’t you going to search me for a weapon?” Smithy asked, surprised.
“It would be a pointless gesture. I understand your accomplices have a whole arsenal in there.”
Smithy stared at Harry. “Why are you doing this?” he asked in bewilderment.
Harry sighed. “Because I’d prefer this stand-off to end without bloodshed. I want to save my officer, and I’m sure you’d like to save your men as well. So shall we?”

They walked up to the door. Harry was aware of dark figures scurrying into position behind them, hoping to get a clear shot when the door opened.
“Only fire on my command,” he ordered sharply.
Smithy looked at him in alarm and began to turn around, but Harry grabbed his arm.
“Keep walking.”
When they reached the door he nodded at Smithy and the other man stepped forward and knocked. “Ronan, it’s Smithy. I have Harry Pearce with me. He has offered to exchange himself for his officer.”
There was no response.
“Come on, Ronan,” Smithy pleaded, “let us in.”
The door didn’t budge.
“What now?” Smithy asked helplessly.
Harry hesitated momentarily before he began to speak in a clear voice. “This is Harry Pearce. Are you going to be a coward and kill an innocent man, whilst at the same time letting the person responsible for your sister’s death walk away unharmed?”
They waited, and finally some muffled sounds could be heard from behind the door.

It began to open slowly, revealing a bloodied Dimitri with a gun held to his temple.
“Get in and close the door,” a disembodied voice ordered.
They did as they were told and as the door closed behind them the darkness was complete.
“Turn on the light,” Harry said calmly into the inky blackness, “before someone trips and accidentally shoots a priceless horse.”
A switch was flipped behind them and the room flooded with light.
Harry swiftly appraised his surroundings. They were in the large walkway in front of the stables and he could hear the horses move around, stamping their feet and whinnying softly.
His eyes moved to Dimitri. “You all right?”
“Yes. Harry, you shouldn’t have-“
Flannery pressed the gun barrel harder into his flesh. “Shut. Up.”
Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously as Dimitri grimaced in pain.
“If we all stay calm, no-one needs to die today. But if you do further harm to my officer, you will regret it,” he promised the Irishman.
The threatening edge to his voice did not go unnoticed by Smithy, who took a few steps away from Harry.
Without taking his eyes off Flannery, Harry addressed the gathering.
“We have found the explosives. Hiding them in those fake granite blocks was a nice plan, but not quite smart enough to fool us. We have removed everything. It’s over, so stop this now before you get yourselves killed.”
Flannery’s face flushed and he glared at Harry. “It’s over?! My sister is dead! Someone has to pay for that.”
Harry looked into his eyes and saw his desperation and pain. It was a dangerous combination. He spread his hands. “Fine. But I’m the one you really want, aren’t I? So let my officer go, and you can take me wherever you want and do with me whatever you wish.”
“Or I could just shoot you now and be done with it,” Flannery said hotly, lifting his gun and pointing it at Harry.
“You could, but we all know that will not end well for you. You’re surrounded. If you shoot me now, you will be gunned down in a matter of seconds.”

In the Obbo van Erin shook her head. “I don’t like this.”
She reached for the comms but Calum grabbed her hand. “Harry said to wait for his command. You need to trust him.”

Flannery hesitated and his gaze flicked to Smithy uncertainly. Harry saw it and pressed harder.
“Is this what Andrea would have wanted? You think you’re honouring her by causing the deaths of untold innocent people?”
The blood drained from Smithy’s face and he stepped forward aggressively.
“How dare you. How dare you even mention her name! You can’t know what she’d want. You have no idea what it feels like to hold the woman you love in your arms and watch her die!”

The last few words were screamed directly into Harry’s face, a drop of spittle hitting him on the cheek. The words fell like hammer blows and the world stopped turning for him. Suddenly he was back on the estuary, watching Ruth die. He closed his eyes against the memories flooding his mind.
The green grass, her red blood, the grey sky, her beautiful blue eyes. The chilly air, her pale, cold skin against his cheek. Her words: “We were never meant to have those things.”
When he opened them again, the agony and rage radiating from them forced Smithy to take a step back.
“Yes I do,” Harry said in a strained voice, “I know what it’s like. Her name was Ruth Evershed and I loved her. She was stabbed in front of me, because of me, and she died. Her blood was on my hands, and I couldn’t save her.”
He took a deep breath and blinked against the emotion, and when he continued his voice was cold and dead. “Like you I craved vengeance. I ordered men killed to avenge her, but only those responsible. Never the innocent. But don’t kid yourselves that such actions are for the dead; the vengeance is for us that are left behind, for closure. It means nothing to Ruth, and I don’t want to honour her with violence and death. My requiem to her is the good I try to do. This, here, offering myself for my officer – that is an act worthy of her.”

For the longest time nobody moved. Harry was aware of Dimitri’s sorrowful gaze on him and of the other men in the room looking at each other uncertainly. Then Ronan Flannery slowly lowered his weapon. After some hesitation the other four men followed suit. Smithy was staring at Harry as if seeing him for the first time, and maybe he was. The man before him was not the brash, arrogant intelligence officer he had always known him as, but a man scarred and bloodied by a lifetime of service, violence and loss. A man for whom death would probably hold little meaning.

Flannery pulled Dimitri to his feet and freed his hands. “Tell them we’re surrendering. We’re coming out.”
Dimitri relayed the message and squeezed Harry’s shoulder in gratitude and support as he walked past him to the door.
Harry didn’t move; he was watching Smithy closely. He saw the exact moment the will to live was extinguished in the other man’s eyes. Smithy stooped and picked up a gun from the floor, and Harry said nothing, did nothing. He continued to watch quietly, thinking of Bill, as Smithy pressed the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot froze everyone in their tracks momentarily. Dimitri and one of the men with Flannery reacted first. Both swung round simultaneously and too late Dimitri saw the gun in the other man’s hand.
“No!” he yelled as he launched himself at the man. His shoulder impacted with the arm holding the gun a split-second after the shot went off.

The bullet hit Harry square in the chest and flung him backwards. He landed hard on the concrete floor and for a second everything was numb. In that moment of nothingness he knew that this was the end. The shock and pain hit and he couldn’t breathe. His vision darkened and he lost all sense of time. He was vaguely aware of people crowding around him, of Dimitri’s white face above him, of pressure on his chest. He felt cold and thought of Ruth, his heart filling with the love he still held for her. Other faces swam into vision – Erin, Calum, other men he did not know.
From afar he heard someone say: “I thought he’d shot Mr Smith.”
His eyes began to close when a warm hand gripped his and Malcolm’s voice said, “Harry.”
He fought them open again and looked at his friend, and tried to speak, but it was difficult because of the blood filling his mouth.
“...Po...pocket...” he managed.
Malcolm frowned, momentarily confused, before understanding spread across his features. He pulled the journal out of Harry’s coat pocket and pressed it into his hand before lifting both and resting them on Harry’s heart.
Harry smiled gratefully and his eyes began to close again. Malcolm still held his other hand and the human contact comforted him. A final thought occurred to him and he squeezed the hand in his. He fought to turn his head and looked into Malcolm’s face.
“I know who I am,” he said clearly, and moments later his hand went limp and his eyes closed forever.

* * *
One week later

Malcolm was at Thames House for the last time. He had wrapped up his involvement in the Melvyn Smith case and he knew that there was no longer anything at Thames House to come back for. There was only one more thing he needed to do. His feet took him down the stairs almost unconsciously, and when he reached the door he looked up at the camera solemnly. The door unlocked and he entered the Memorial Room quietly. He passed by the names, his eyes caressing each familiar one reverently, pausing longer on C Wells. He reached the final row and read the names silently:
T Masood
J Wright
C Thacker
R Evershed
H Pearce

To his biased eye the last two names appeared closer together than the rest, and he was glad that there weren’t any others between them. It was as it should be.

He stood for a moment longer, looking at the two names, together on the Memorial Wall for posterity. As he turned and walked away, he smiled.

Fin

The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.
- Baron Pierre de Coubertin: The Olympic Creed

-*-

Thank you for reading. A special thanks to those committed souls who found the time to leave a comment - you are most kind and it's much appreciated.]]> PART VIII

20 July 2012, late night
Stables outside London

They sat in the car, each lost in his own thoughts.
“Do you think he’ll come?” Malcolm asked after another glance at the clock.
“He’ll come,” Harry said quietly and with complete certainty.
They could see the Obbo van a few hundred metres down the lane and some of the CO19 officers were visible, but otherwise there wasn’t a soul in sight. Ten minutes later a car’s headlights turned into the lane and crawled towards them.
Harry followed its progress intently. “Comms check,” he said into the stillness of the car and Malcolm jumped slightly at the unexpected sound.
“Loud and clear,” Calum confirmed.

The car came to a stop about twenty metres away, but no-one got out. Harry waited a few seconds more, then reached for the door handle.
“Wait, Harry. You told him we know everything and that we’ve found the explosives. He has nothing left to lose - what if he shoots you as soon as you’re out of the car?” Malcolm said suddenly, anxiously.
Harry shook his head. “He won’t. At heart Smithy is too much of a coward to kill me himself. He’ll try and get someone else to do it.”
He got out before Malcolm could reply and began walking towards the other vehicle.
“I hope you’re right,” Malcolm mumbled as the old familiar clutch of fear returned to his stomach in full force, reminding him once again why he’d retired.

Harry came to a stop halfway between the two cars and waited. He kept his hands well in sight. The night was unnaturally silent, as if even nature itself was holding its breath. The door of the other car opened and the interior was illuminated, revealing the tense features of Melvyn Smith. He got out of the car and approached slowly until the two men were only a few feet apart. His eyes darted around as he tried to take in everything around him, before they settled on Harry. The two men stared at each other, their mutual revulsion crackling between them.
“Thank you for coming,” Harry said, carefully hiding his distaste at having to talk to the man who’d betrayed Bill. “It’ll count in your favour later.”
When Smithy didn’t respond, Harry continued. “Shall we go in?”
He turned towards the darkened stable block.
“Aren’t you going to search me for a weapon?” Smithy asked, surprised.
“It would be a pointless gesture. I understand your accomplices have a whole arsenal in there.”
Smithy stared at Harry. “Why are you doing this?” he asked in bewilderment.
Harry sighed. “Because I’d prefer this stand-off to end without bloodshed. I want to save my officer, and I’m sure you’d like to save your men as well. So shall we?”

They walked up to the door. Harry was aware of dark figures scurrying into position behind them, hoping to get a clear shot when the door opened.
“Only fire on my command,” he ordered sharply.
Smithy looked at him in alarm and began to turn around, but Harry grabbed his arm.
“Keep walking.”
When they reached the door he nodded at Smithy and the other man stepped forward and knocked. “Ronan, it’s Smithy. I have Harry Pearce with me. He has offered to exchange himself for his officer.”
There was no response.
“Come on, Ronan,” Smithy pleaded, “let us in.”
The door didn’t budge.
“What now?” Smithy asked helplessly.
Harry hesitated momentarily before he began to speak in a clear voice. “This is Harry Pearce. Are you going to be a coward and kill an innocent man, whilst at the same time letting the person responsible for your sister’s death walk away unharmed?”
They waited, and finally some muffled sounds could be heard from behind the door.

It began to open slowly, revealing a bloodied Dimitri with a gun held to his temple.
“Get in and close the door,” a disembodied voice ordered.
They did as they were told and as the door closed behind them the darkness was complete.
“Turn on the light,” Harry said calmly into the inky blackness, “before someone trips and accidentally shoots a priceless horse.”
A switch was flipped behind them and the room flooded with light.
Harry swiftly appraised his surroundings. They were in the large walkway in front of the stables and he could hear the horses move around, stamping their feet and whinnying softly.
His eyes moved to Dimitri. “You all right?”
“Yes. Harry, you shouldn’t have-“
Flannery pressed the gun barrel harder into his flesh. “Shut. Up.”
Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously as Dimitri grimaced in pain.
“If we all stay calm, no-one needs to die today. But if you do further harm to my officer, you will regret it,” he promised the Irishman.
The threatening edge to his voice did not go unnoticed by Smithy, who took a few steps away from Harry.
Without taking his eyes off Flannery, Harry addressed the gathering.
“We have found the explosives. Hiding them in those fake granite blocks was a nice plan, but not quite smart enough to fool us. We have removed everything. It’s over, so stop this now before you get yourselves killed.”
Flannery’s face flushed and he glared at Harry. “It’s over?! My sister is dead! Someone has to pay for that.”
Harry looked into his eyes and saw his desperation and pain. It was a dangerous combination. He spread his hands. “Fine. But I’m the one you really want, aren’t I? So let my officer go, and you can take me wherever you want and do with me whatever you wish.”
“Or I could just shoot you now and be done with it,” Flannery said hotly, lifting his gun and pointing it at Harry.
“You could, but we all know that will not end well for you. You’re surrounded. If you shoot me now, you will be gunned down in a matter of seconds.”

In the Obbo van Erin shook her head. “I don’t like this.”
She reached for the comms but Calum grabbed her hand. “Harry said to wait for his command. You need to trust him.”

Flannery hesitated and his gaze flicked to Smithy uncertainly. Harry saw it and pressed harder.
“Is this what Andrea would have wanted? You think you’re honouring her by causing the deaths of untold innocent people?”
The blood drained from Smithy’s face and he stepped forward aggressively.
“How dare you. How dare you even mention her name! You can’t know what she’d want. You have no idea what it feels like to hold the woman you love in your arms and watch her die!”

The last few words were screamed directly into Harry’s face, a drop of spittle hitting him on the cheek. The words fell like hammer blows and the world stopped turning for him. Suddenly he was back on the estuary, watching Ruth die. He closed his eyes against the memories flooding his mind.
The green grass, her red blood, the grey sky, her beautiful blue eyes. The chilly air, her pale, cold skin against his cheek. Her words: “We were never meant to have those things.”
When he opened them again, the agony and rage radiating from them forced Smithy to take a step back.
“Yes I do,” Harry said in a strained voice, “I know what it’s like. Her name was Ruth Evershed and I loved her. She was stabbed in front of me, because of me, and she died. Her blood was on my hands, and I couldn’t save her.”
He took a deep breath and blinked against the emotion, and when he continued his voice was cold and dead. “Like you I craved vengeance. I ordered men killed to avenge her, but only those responsible. Never the innocent. But don’t kid yourselves that such actions are for the dead; the vengeance is for us that are left behind, for closure. It means nothing to Ruth, and I don’t want to honour her with violence and death. My requiem to her is the good I try to do. This, here, offering myself for my officer – that is an act worthy of her.”

For the longest time nobody moved. Harry was aware of Dimitri’s sorrowful gaze on him and of the other men in the room looking at each other uncertainly. Then Ronan Flannery slowly lowered his weapon. After some hesitation the other four men followed suit. Smithy was staring at Harry as if seeing him for the first time, and maybe he was. The man before him was not the brash, arrogant intelligence officer he had always known him as, but a man scarred and bloodied by a lifetime of service, violence and loss. A man for whom death would probably hold little meaning.

Flannery pulled Dimitri to his feet and freed his hands. “Tell them we’re surrendering. We’re coming out.”
Dimitri relayed the message and squeezed Harry’s shoulder in gratitude and support as he walked past him to the door.
Harry didn’t move; he was watching Smithy closely. He saw the exact moment the will to live was extinguished in the other man’s eyes. Smithy stooped and picked up a gun from the floor, and Harry said nothing, did nothing. He continued to watch quietly, thinking of Bill, as Smithy pressed the gun to his own head and pulled the trigger.

The crack of the gunshot froze everyone in their tracks momentarily. Dimitri and one of the men with Flannery reacted first. Both swung round simultaneously and too late Dimitri saw the gun in the other man’s hand.
“No!” he yelled as he launched himself at the man. His shoulder impacted with the arm holding the gun a split-second after the shot went off.

The bullet hit Harry square in the chest and flung him backwards. He landed hard on the concrete floor and for a second everything was numb. In that moment of nothingness he knew that this was the end. The shock and pain hit and he couldn’t breathe. His vision darkened and he lost all sense of time. He was vaguely aware of people crowding around him, of Dimitri’s white face above him, of pressure on his chest. He felt cold and thought of Ruth, his heart filling with the love he still held for her. Other faces swam into vision – Erin, Calum, other men he did not know.
From afar he heard someone say: “I thought he’d shot Mr Smith.”
His eyes began to close when a warm hand gripped his and Malcolm’s voice said, “Harry.”
He fought them open again and looked at his friend, and tried to speak, but it was difficult because of the blood filling his mouth.
“...Po...pocket...” he managed.
Malcolm frowned, momentarily confused, before understanding spread across his features. He pulled the journal out of Harry’s coat pocket and pressed it into his hand before lifting both and resting them on Harry’s heart.
Harry smiled gratefully and his eyes began to close again. Malcolm still held his other hand and the human contact comforted him. A final thought occurred to him and he squeezed the hand in his. He fought to turn his head and looked into Malcolm’s face.
“I know who I am,” he said clearly, and moments later his hand went limp and his eyes closed forever.

* * *
One week later

Malcolm was at Thames House for the last time. He had wrapped up his involvement in the Melvyn Smith case and he knew that there was no longer anything at Thames House to come back for. There was only one more thing he needed to do. His feet took him down the stairs almost unconsciously, and when he reached the door he looked up at the camera solemnly. The door unlocked and he entered the Memorial Room quietly. He passed by the names, his eyes caressing each familiar one reverently, pausing longer on C Wells. He reached the final row and read the names silently:
T Masood
J Wright
C Thacker
R Evershed
H Pearce

To his biased eye the last two names appeared closer together than the rest, and he was glad that there weren’t any others between them. It was as it should be.

He stood for a moment longer, looking at the two names, together on the Memorial Wall for posterity. As he turned and walked away, he smiled.

Fin

The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.
- Baron Pierre de Coubertin: The Olympic Creed

-*-

Thank you for reading. A special thanks to those committed souls who found the time to leave a comment - you are most kind and it's much appreciated.]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part VII]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2061.html Sat, 31 Dec 2011 06:23:13 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2061.html PART VII

20 July 2012
London, the Grid

It was late and he knew he should have gone home some time ago. At least he wasn’t the only one still there; the light was on in Harry’s office and his boss was bent over some paperwork, the red wall behind him glowing warmly in the darkness. Rory sighed and picked up his phone.
“Ellen, how are you darling? You promised me that information about the Flannery family tree today. There’s only about three hours of the day left.”
He listened briefly to the response. “Okay, good. Yes, I’ll be here.”
The call was disconnected and he stared at the heap of files on his desk resignedly. Everything there was to be known about Ronan Flannery was contained in them. A whole life reduced to these reams of paper; birth certificate, ID papers, school reports, university results, employment records, even medical records. Once MI5 started digging through someone’s life, very little escaped their attention. So the answer as to how Flannery intended to get hold of explosives or other weapons had to be somewhere on his desk. There had to be a connection, whether personal or professional, to a company or another person with access and the ability to move the goods. One of these innocent looking documents held the key, he just hadn’t realised it yet.

Rory had been through all the files more than once. He had almost perfect recall and leaned his head back and closed his eyes, systematically running through all of it in his mind again. Young Ronan’s life had been unremarkable until the age of ten and that fateful day when his big sister was killed in the O’Mally’s bomb. After that he’d struggled at school for a few years before straightening himself out. He’d applied himself academically and finished with very good marks, which allowed him to attend university. During his time there he was active in the students’ peace movement and vocally anti-IRA. He’d studied Classics and whilst he didn’t end top of his class or anything, his results were nothing to be ashamed of. After university he’d gone into teaching first before moving on-

Hold on.

Rory sat up and reached for the photographs of Flannery’s room that Dimitri had taken when he was in there to plant their bugs. He shoved a few piles of paper out of the way and spread the photos across the cleared space. As he pored over them Malcolm walked in and called a greeting. The analyst didn’t even hear him or notice as he went into Harry’s office. His focus on the photos was total; the rest of the world around him faded into nothing. Fifteen minutes later he sat up slowly, a tingle of excitement running down his spine.
“Virgil.”
He turned to his computer and accessed the Flannery family tree he had pestered the unfortunate Ellen for, then went through the names meticulously, checking them against another list he’d already compiled. It took him half an hour to find it and when he did, he sat back, the tingle turning into a current. That had to be it.

In Harry’s office the Section Head and his old friend chatted quietly. Harry’s eyes often strayed to the only other light still burning out on the Grid and he struggled to suppress the memories its presence brought to the surface. He tried to ignore the light and the dark head bent under it, but it was a losing battle. Because of this he noticed the moment the analyst jumped up and hurried toward his office with long strides.
“I think Rory has something,” he informed Malcolm.
He’d barely finished speaking when the analyst burst in. Harry lifted an eyebrow and Rory stopped suddenly.
“Oh, sorry!” He retreated to the door and knocked, bright, expectant eyes fixed on his boss.
Harry suppressed his amusement and said gravely, “Come in.”

Rory started speaking as he moved forward. “The explosives are already at the stadium. It’s always been there.”
Harry tilted his head. “How do you know?”
“Flannery studied Classics at university, so you would expect a few of those books to be lying around his flat, wouldn’t you?” Rory responded. “But there isn’t – there’s only one. The Complete Works of Virgil.”
He handed Harry the photograph showing the book lying next to Flannery’s bed.
“Virgil... You’re thinking about his Aeneid and the Trojan Horse?”
Rory smiled, delighted that Harry had caught on so quickly. “I did some checking. Flannery has a second cousin who works for the Irish company that supplied granite blocks for the building of the Olympic stadium – as a driver. Harry, he drove the truck that transported those granite blocks down to London. I’m thinking one or two got replaced on the way down with fake ones which contain the explosives.”
Harry suddenly remembered the stadium manager kicking one of the blocks during their visit.
“Christ,” he muttered and reached for the phone.

* * *
Olympic Stadium

Calum ran the portable scanner over the last of the granite blocks and turned to Erin. “Nothing. As I said from the start, I think Rory’s pissing into the wind.”
Erin turned to the stadium manager. “Are you sure that’s all of them?”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, still irritated that he’d been dragged out of bed for this. “Yes, I’m sure. You have checked all the blocks we used in the stadium.”
“Okay, thank you,” she said and followed Calum towards the exit.
The techie stopped suddenly and she almost walked into him. “What-“
She followed his gaze and turned to the station manager. “How about those two pieces underneath that statue?”
He looked to where she was pointing and she saw realisation spread across his face. “I’d forgotten about those,” he said sheepishly.

* * *
The Grid

Harry snatched up the phone as soon as it rang. “Yes?”
“Harry, we found it,” Erin reported. “Here’s Calum with the details.”
He heard her hand the phone off and the techie’s voice took over. “The tartan prince was right. Two of the blocks were replaced with replicas. They contain enough explosives to bring down the section of the pavilion they’re under. The Bomb Squad says it’s best to remove them as they are rather than trying to get the explosives out here. It’s most likely that we’re looking at remote detonation, so we’re jamming all signals in the area until it’s been disarmed.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at Rory. He nodded and smiled, his appreciation for the analyst’s deductive work evident. Rory tried his best not to look too pleased.
“Now we can pick up Flannery and his friends,” Harry said and punched in Dimitri’s number.

* * *
One hour later
Stables outside London

Dimitri was crouched behind a wall, keeping an eye on the stable block into which Flannery and the other four men had disappeared earlier. The stables housed some of the horses that would compete in the Olympics, and Fortress Inc had been assigned to secure the property. Harry had put his foot down about allowing the private security company to take charge of any of the main venues, and in the end the Mayor had to be content with letting them safeguard lesser venues and storage areas. There was a soft footfall behind Dimitri and he swung round to see the black-clad figure of the CO19 Team Leader crouched behind him.
“About time,” the spook grouched good-naturedly and the other man smiled.
“Are your guys in position?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Okay. I’ll go in and see if I can talk them out of there. We don’t want to endanger the horses unnecessarily. You monitor my comms; if it becomes clear they won’t come peacefully you come and get us.”
The man nodded his understanding and Dimitri vaulted lightly over the wall.

He walked towards the stables, banking on the fact that the men inside knew him as a fellow guard to get him in the door safely. His guard outfit came with bulletproof vest and a gun, and he loosened the weapon in the holster to ensure it would come out smoothly and quickly if needed. He brazenly walked through the front door and knew immediately that it had been a mistake. There was time to notice the array of automatic weapons spread out on the floor and the fact that there were only four men in the room, before something hit him hard behind the left ear and everything went black.

* * *
The Grid

“Harry!” Calum beckoned urgently and Harry and Malcolm made their way swiftly to his side.
The techie and Erin had returned from the Olympic Stadium in time to take charge of Dimitri’s operation, but it was clear from their tense faces that something had gone wrong.
“The CO19 Team Leader is on the line. There’s a bugger-up at the stables. Dimitri has been captured and Flannery and his men have barricaded themselves in. Apparently they’re armed to the teeth. Flannery is threatening to shoot Dimitri in the head if CO19 tries to storm the building.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly. “What are our options?”
It was Erin that answered. “We have none. We’ll have to take the building by force and trust Dimitri to look out for himself.” Erin’s voice was calm and belied the turmoil in her eyes. She was terrified for Dimitri, but tried her best to hide it.
Harry looked at her for a long time, his face soft and filled with empathy. He thought about Dimitri, so young, so enthusiastic, so promising.
“There is another option,” he said and took out his mobile.

* * *

Malcolm followed Harry into his office. “I don’t think this is the best plan you’ve ever had, Harry.”
“It’ll be fine,” Harry said without looking up.
“Will it? You’re taking a huge risk. You’re offering yourself to a man who hates you and wants nothing more than for you to be dead.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t plan to die today.”
Malcolm looked unconvinced. “Are you sure about that? Perhaps, subconsciously-“
Harry’s head snapped up and Malcolm stopped talking, the anger in the other man’s eyes telling him in no uncertain terms that he had stepped over the line. They stared at each other until Harry took a deep breath and looked at his team out on the Grid.
“I know what everyone’s thinking.” His eyes went to the journal lying on his desk and he was quiet for a beat before meeting Malcolm’s gaze resolutely.
“But they’re wrong. I don’t have a death wish. For once I have an opportunity to save one of my officers and I’m going to take it. I think it has a good chance to work.”
Malcolm watched him carefully and could see the sincerity of the statement.
He nodded solemnly. “Fine. I’ll drive you.”
He turned and walked out before Harry could argue. Harry smiled slightly, warmed by Malcolm’s support. He picked up the journal and ran his hand over its leather exterior, thinking about sacrifice, before he slipped it into his coat pocket and followed Malcolm out.

tbc]]> PART VII

20 July 2012
London, the Grid

It was late and he knew he should have gone home some time ago. At least he wasn’t the only one still there; the light was on in Harry’s office and his boss was bent over some paperwork, the red wall behind him glowing warmly in the darkness. Rory sighed and picked up his phone.
“Ellen, how are you darling? You promised me that information about the Flannery family tree today. There’s only about three hours of the day left.”
He listened briefly to the response. “Okay, good. Yes, I’ll be here.”
The call was disconnected and he stared at the heap of files on his desk resignedly. Everything there was to be known about Ronan Flannery was contained in them. A whole life reduced to these reams of paper; birth certificate, ID papers, school reports, university results, employment records, even medical records. Once MI5 started digging through someone’s life, very little escaped their attention. So the answer as to how Flannery intended to get hold of explosives or other weapons had to be somewhere on his desk. There had to be a connection, whether personal or professional, to a company or another person with access and the ability to move the goods. One of these innocent looking documents held the key, he just hadn’t realised it yet.

Rory had been through all the files more than once. He had almost perfect recall and leaned his head back and closed his eyes, systematically running through all of it in his mind again. Young Ronan’s life had been unremarkable until the age of ten and that fateful day when his big sister was killed in the O’Mally’s bomb. After that he’d struggled at school for a few years before straightening himself out. He’d applied himself academically and finished with very good marks, which allowed him to attend university. During his time there he was active in the students’ peace movement and vocally anti-IRA. He’d studied Classics and whilst he didn’t end top of his class or anything, his results were nothing to be ashamed of. After university he’d gone into teaching first before moving on-

Hold on.

Rory sat up and reached for the photographs of Flannery’s room that Dimitri had taken when he was in there to plant their bugs. He shoved a few piles of paper out of the way and spread the photos across the cleared space. As he pored over them Malcolm walked in and called a greeting. The analyst didn’t even hear him or notice as he went into Harry’s office. His focus on the photos was total; the rest of the world around him faded into nothing. Fifteen minutes later he sat up slowly, a tingle of excitement running down his spine.
“Virgil.”
He turned to his computer and accessed the Flannery family tree he had pestered the unfortunate Ellen for, then went through the names meticulously, checking them against another list he’d already compiled. It took him half an hour to find it and when he did, he sat back, the tingle turning into a current. That had to be it.

In Harry’s office the Section Head and his old friend chatted quietly. Harry’s eyes often strayed to the only other light still burning out on the Grid and he struggled to suppress the memories its presence brought to the surface. He tried to ignore the light and the dark head bent under it, but it was a losing battle. Because of this he noticed the moment the analyst jumped up and hurried toward his office with long strides.
“I think Rory has something,” he informed Malcolm.
He’d barely finished speaking when the analyst burst in. Harry lifted an eyebrow and Rory stopped suddenly.
“Oh, sorry!” He retreated to the door and knocked, bright, expectant eyes fixed on his boss.
Harry suppressed his amusement and said gravely, “Come in.”

Rory started speaking as he moved forward. “The explosives are already at the stadium. It’s always been there.”
Harry tilted his head. “How do you know?”
“Flannery studied Classics at university, so you would expect a few of those books to be lying around his flat, wouldn’t you?” Rory responded. “But there isn’t – there’s only one. The Complete Works of Virgil.”
He handed Harry the photograph showing the book lying next to Flannery’s bed.
“Virgil... You’re thinking about his Aeneid and the Trojan Horse?”
Rory smiled, delighted that Harry had caught on so quickly. “I did some checking. Flannery has a second cousin who works for the Irish company that supplied granite blocks for the building of the Olympic stadium – as a driver. Harry, he drove the truck that transported those granite blocks down to London. I’m thinking one or two got replaced on the way down with fake ones which contain the explosives.”
Harry suddenly remembered the stadium manager kicking one of the blocks during their visit.
“Christ,” he muttered and reached for the phone.

* * *
Olympic Stadium

Calum ran the portable scanner over the last of the granite blocks and turned to Erin. “Nothing. As I said from the start, I think Rory’s pissing into the wind.”
Erin turned to the stadium manager. “Are you sure that’s all of them?”
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes, still irritated that he’d been dragged out of bed for this. “Yes, I’m sure. You have checked all the blocks we used in the stadium.”
“Okay, thank you,” she said and followed Calum towards the exit.
The techie stopped suddenly and she almost walked into him. “What-“
She followed his gaze and turned to the station manager. “How about those two pieces underneath that statue?”
He looked to where she was pointing and she saw realisation spread across his face. “I’d forgotten about those,” he said sheepishly.

* * *
The Grid

Harry snatched up the phone as soon as it rang. “Yes?”
“Harry, we found it,” Erin reported. “Here’s Calum with the details.”
He heard her hand the phone off and the techie’s voice took over. “The tartan prince was right. Two of the blocks were replaced with replicas. They contain enough explosives to bring down the section of the pavilion they’re under. The Bomb Squad says it’s best to remove them as they are rather than trying to get the explosives out here. It’s most likely that we’re looking at remote detonation, so we’re jamming all signals in the area until it’s been disarmed.”
Harry breathed a sigh of relief and looked up at Rory. He nodded and smiled, his appreciation for the analyst’s deductive work evident. Rory tried his best not to look too pleased.
“Now we can pick up Flannery and his friends,” Harry said and punched in Dimitri’s number.

* * *
One hour later
Stables outside London

Dimitri was crouched behind a wall, keeping an eye on the stable block into which Flannery and the other four men had disappeared earlier. The stables housed some of the horses that would compete in the Olympics, and Fortress Inc had been assigned to secure the property. Harry had put his foot down about allowing the private security company to take charge of any of the main venues, and in the end the Mayor had to be content with letting them safeguard lesser venues and storage areas. There was a soft footfall behind Dimitri and he swung round to see the black-clad figure of the CO19 Team Leader crouched behind him.
“About time,” the spook grouched good-naturedly and the other man smiled.
“Are your guys in position?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Okay. I’ll go in and see if I can talk them out of there. We don’t want to endanger the horses unnecessarily. You monitor my comms; if it becomes clear they won’t come peacefully you come and get us.”
The man nodded his understanding and Dimitri vaulted lightly over the wall.

He walked towards the stables, banking on the fact that the men inside knew him as a fellow guard to get him in the door safely. His guard outfit came with bulletproof vest and a gun, and he loosened the weapon in the holster to ensure it would come out smoothly and quickly if needed. He brazenly walked through the front door and knew immediately that it had been a mistake. There was time to notice the array of automatic weapons spread out on the floor and the fact that there were only four men in the room, before something hit him hard behind the left ear and everything went black.

* * *
The Grid

“Harry!” Calum beckoned urgently and Harry and Malcolm made their way swiftly to his side.
The techie and Erin had returned from the Olympic Stadium in time to take charge of Dimitri’s operation, but it was clear from their tense faces that something had gone wrong.
“The CO19 Team Leader is on the line. There’s a bugger-up at the stables. Dimitri has been captured and Flannery and his men have barricaded themselves in. Apparently they’re armed to the teeth. Flannery is threatening to shoot Dimitri in the head if CO19 tries to storm the building.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly. “What are our options?”
It was Erin that answered. “We have none. We’ll have to take the building by force and trust Dimitri to look out for himself.” Erin’s voice was calm and belied the turmoil in her eyes. She was terrified for Dimitri, but tried her best to hide it.
Harry looked at her for a long time, his face soft and filled with empathy. He thought about Dimitri, so young, so enthusiastic, so promising.
“There is another option,” he said and took out his mobile.

* * *

Malcolm followed Harry into his office. “I don’t think this is the best plan you’ve ever had, Harry.”
“It’ll be fine,” Harry said without looking up.
“Will it? You’re taking a huge risk. You’re offering yourself to a man who hates you and wants nothing more than for you to be dead.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t plan to die today.”
Malcolm looked unconvinced. “Are you sure about that? Perhaps, subconsciously-“
Harry’s head snapped up and Malcolm stopped talking, the anger in the other man’s eyes telling him in no uncertain terms that he had stepped over the line. They stared at each other until Harry took a deep breath and looked at his team out on the Grid.
“I know what everyone’s thinking.” His eyes went to the journal lying on his desk and he was quiet for a beat before meeting Malcolm’s gaze resolutely.
“But they’re wrong. I don’t have a death wish. For once I have an opportunity to save one of my officers and I’m going to take it. I think it has a good chance to work.”
Malcolm watched him carefully and could see the sincerity of the statement.
He nodded solemnly. “Fine. I’ll drive you.”
He turned and walked out before Harry could argue. Harry smiled slightly, warmed by Malcolm’s support. He picked up the journal and ran his hand over its leather exterior, thinking about sacrifice, before he slipped it into his coat pocket and followed Malcolm out.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part VI]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2059.html Tue, 27 Dec 2011 08:49:32 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2059.html PART VI

16 July 2012
London, the Grid

“Let me get this straight – you’re proposing to break into the safe only the DG is allowed to access and steal some of the files?” Jenny asked, looking between Harry and Malcolm.
They were gathered in the meeting room and Malcolm had just presented his plan for breaking into the Registry safe.
“Yes,” Harry replied.
“Wow, awesome.”
Her boss winced at her choice of words but she didn’t even notice, too tickled by the idea of it all. It appealed to the anarchistic streak in her. She did not realise it at the time, but that was the precise moment in which Harry earned her undying loyalty and respect.
Calum was somewhat more circumspect. “That’s a big risk to take on the off-chance that there might be something of interest in there.”
Harry nodded. “Calum’s right. Which is why this operation is strictly on a voluntary basis.”
“I’m in,” Jenny said immediately and all eyes turned to Calum. Malcolm looked anxious; he really needed both of them if they were to pull this off undetected.
Calum pondered for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Sure - I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to go down in Five folklore.”
There was a general release of tension in the room and Harry smiled. “All right.” He turned to Malcolm. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Once they were alone, Jenny addressed Malcolm. “You honestly think it can be done?”
“Are you as good as everyone says you are?” he asked in response.
“You bet your arse I am,” she responded swiftly.
Malcolm blanched but quickly recovered. “Er, right. Then it should be a dawdle.”
He began to explain his plan in detail.

* * *
18 July 2012
London, Thames House

Malcolm had been down in the registry for an hour, his nose buried in a file. He glanced at his watch. Time to go. He got up, stretched, and began to walk through the aisles. To any observer he appeared to be simply stretching his legs. What he was in fact doing, was making a thorough check that there was no-one else in there but him and the clerk.

Upstairs on the Grid, Calum and Jenny were poised at their stations, eyes glued to the old style walkie-talkie positioned between them. Calum was drumming his fingers on the desk and Jenny glared at him in irritation.
“Will you stop that? As if Harry’s pacing isn’t bad enough,” she grumbled as her boss’ figure once again crossed her field of vision when he passed by the glass panels of his office.
Calum snorted. “Hello Pot, this is Kettle. If you chew that gum any harder you’ll break a molar.”
She opened her mouth to respond, and at that moment there was a clear ‘click’ from the walkie-talkie.
“There it is!”
Calum straightened up. “Right. Watch and learn, Jenny, watch and learn.”
He attacked his keyboard with gusto.

Minutes earlier Malcolm had wandered up to the clerk, empty mug in hand.
“I could do with a tea break,” he declared. “Can I make you one as well?”
The clerk was an old hand that knew Malcolm from way back and regarded him as a sweet helpless man where domestic matters were concerned. On the previous occasions he’d made tea for her, it had been awful. She wasn’t supposed to leave anyone in the Registry unattended, but… It was sweet, harmless Malcolm. And she could kill for a decent cup of tea.
“Why don’t I make the tea?” she offered with a smile. “I can rely on you to keep an eye on things while I’m gone, can’t I?”
“Oh, of course. It’s very kind of you,” Malcolm said bashfully and handed over his mug.
He watched her walk off, aware that timing was now of the essence. As she neared the first set of automatic doors he clicked the walkie-talkie once. The seconds ticked by and she was nearing the outer doors.

“Come on, Calum,” Jenny urged, just as everything suddenly turned dark. Only the computer screens on the Grid continued to glow, powered by the emergency power supply.
“Yes!” Calum exclaimed, unable to hide his relief. “I’ve slowed down the back-up generator; it’ll take ten minutes to come online.”
Jenny wasn’t listening; she was focussed on her screen and what she had to do.
As Harry joined them in the darkness, Calum sighed dramatically. “These localised power failures are getting out of hand,” he smirked. “The mayor really ought to do something about it.”
He was not bothered in the least that they were inconveniencing a couple of blocks of London.
“Just make sure it doesn’t unexpectedly come back on,” Harry said impatiently behind him.
“I’m in,” Jenny announced as MI5’s electronic surveillance system opened on her screen. She expertly manoeuvred to the section monitoring the Registry and set to work.

The power went off, sealing the doors and trapping the clerk in the outer office. Malcolm moved swiftly, finding his way by touch to the aisle where he’d earlier left his holdall. He fumbled inside until his fingers found the infrared nightsight goggles and pulled it over his head. Everything turned an eerie green and he rooted in the bag for the electronic device the three techies had built over the last few days. Once he had it in hand he moved down the aisle to the big safe and glanced at his watch.

Upstairs, Harry did the same. “Three minutes elapsed,” he murmured and glanced at Jenny.
She frantically typed codes into her computer and selected certain areas of the Thames House floor plan displayed on her screen. Green lights began to flash in the areas she’d chosen and she nodded at Calum. He picked up the walkie-talkie and gave Malcolm two clicks.
“Up to Malcolm and his gadget now,” Calum said over his shoulder, then added under his breath, “Let’s hope it works.”
“It’ll work,” Jenny said confidently. “The old guy is a genius.”
Behind her, Harry smiled.
“Start overlaying the fake surveillance footage, Calum,” he instructed.

Malcolm attached his device to the code panel and activated it. He took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against the locking mechanism and listened carefully. As his device ran through the numbers he could hear the tiny beeps when it ran over the correct ones. When he had them all, he detached his device, punched in the code, and held his breath.

On Jenny’s screen another light suddenly turned green.
“He’s done it!” she exclaimed and let out an exuberant whoop. By now Erin and Rory had also gathered round and they shared relieved smiles.
Calum’s computer bleeped a warning and the smiles disappeared quickly. The techie sprang into action.
“Oh no you don’t,” he mumbled as he typed furiously.
“Calum?” Erin probed, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice.
“Nothing to worry about – just some bright spark from the power company trying to turn it back on.”

Malcolm swung the safe door shut behind him, pulled off the goggles and switched on a small flashlight. It revealed rows of boxes, neatly ordered by date, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. He hurriedly located the box he wanted and swapped the files inside with random ones he’d collected from the shelves outside. After he’d shoved the files into his bag, he made sure that everything looked neat and undisturbed before killing the torch and preparing to leave.

Harry glanced at his watch again. Their ten minutes were almost up. Once the back-up generator kicked in the clerk would be able to enter and Malcolm could be caught red-handed. Calum was furiously jiggling his leg as he replaced the actual security surveillance with the recording they’d made earlier, showing Malcolm sitting at the clerk’s desk for the whole ten minutes. When the ‘click’ from the walkie-talkie finally came, indicating that Malcolm was out and back in position, it sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence.
Jenny glanced at Calum. “Ready?”
He nodded, and she turned the surveillance systems back on. As soon as she was done he turned the power back on as well. They blinked at each other in the sudden brightness.
“Well, that was fun,” Calum declared, and relieved laughter broke out. Even Harry smiled as he went back to his office.

* * *
One hour later

Malcolm was slowly working his way through the files he had purloined, searching for the ones pertaining to Melvyn Smith.
“Bloody Nora!” he exclaimed softly as one interesting file caught his eye. Apparently it had been British Intelligence that had assassinated communist activist Henri Curiel in Paris on 4 May 1978. For a moment he was tempted to read the whole file until he remembered that it would probably be better for him to get out of there sooner rather than later. He put it aside reluctantly and moved on to the documents covering June 1978. Towards the end of the pile his eye caught Melvyn Smith’s name in a lengthy report, and he began to read it from the start. His face grew grimmer as he progressed and by the time he finished, he knew it was what they were looking for.

Twenty minutes later he walked into Harry’s office and wordlessly laid the report in front of him. Harry looked up at Malcolm and his troubled expression made him pause. He slowly drew the report to him and gave it his undivided attention. The heading stated in bold lettering:

MI5 INVOLVEMENT IN KIDNAPPING OF OFFICER BILL CROMBIE

* * *
Late that night
London, Harry’s house

He drifted aimlessly through the house, restlessly picking up random objects and placing them down again. A statue of a horse, an ornamental ashtray (he didn’t like people smoking in his house), a well-thumbed book (Shakespeare’s Hamlet). He gravitated back to his favourite armchair and sat down, all the time aware of his blood roaring through his veins, throbbing in his temples. The desire to take action - cold, calculated, vengeful action - was overwhelming and it was only the possible impact on the operation that held him back. Instead he paced the house like a caged animal and allowed the hatred to permeate every cell in his body. His eyes fell on the book again and he reached for his journal.

18/07/12
Dear Ruth,
‘Tis now the very witching time of night,
when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
and do such bitter business, as the day
would quake to look on.’

Hamlet knew a thing or two about the desire for revenge. Revenge: somehow such a passive word to describe something so dark. I prefer vengeance – to me it encapsulates the emotions behind the act better. Tonight it is all I can think about. Everything that is happening can be explained by it. Malcolm found a secret report that indicates that Smithy had sold Bill out to the IRA. The Service covered it up to spare itself embarrassment and quietly fired him. He told the IRA exactly who Bill was and gave our position in the pub to them on the day that Bill was snatched. It was an act of vengeance for the death of a girl he was in love with. Her name was Andrea Flannery and she died in the O’Mally’s bomb blast. So you see how it is all connected by a desire for vengeance: Davie King bombs the pub to avenge his father’s death and kills the Flannery girl in the process, so in turn Smithy betrays Bill and I to the IRA to avenge Andrea’s death. Unfortunately for him the IRA didn’t take us both – how that must have grated, as I’m sure he blamed me more than anyone else in MI5.

But Bill’s death is apparently not sufficient. His hatred seems to have grown over the years to now encompass everyone in England and even the world. How else does one explain the plan to attack the Olympic Games with the help of the girl’s brother? Not that I don’t understand the desire to avenge the death of the woman one loves, of course I do. My biggest regret is that I did not get to kill Levrov personally – if he hadn’t known who I was I could and would have. It’s the sheer scale of Smithy’s plan, the willingness to kill hundreds of innocent people in this cause that baffles me. It’s unfathomable.

Well, I will have my vengeance too. For my friend, who died the sort of death that haunts one’s dreams. My God, what agony he must have endured as they systematically disfigured him. With a blowtorch of all things, Ruth. I searched for him, and one time I reached an abandoned farmhouse just after they’d left. The stench of burnt flesh still hung in that stuffy room. It turned my stomach. The thought of it still does.

Apart from you and my children, my friendship with Bill was probably the relationship I cherished most in my life. His death was an early lesson in the need for self control and self denial if I wanted to survive as an intelligence officer. I had become quite good at it, I think. But then you came along and suddenly it wasn’t so easy anymore. Often I question if part of the reason you refused my proposal and kept me at arms length afterwards was your belief that the Service would always come first for me. I don’t blame you; I didn’t do a very good job of convincing you otherwise. It wasn’t true though. I wonder if you truly understood how deeply in love with you I was. Am. And since we started off talking about Hamlet, did you have any idea how often I looked at you and thought of these words:
‘Doubt thou the stars are fire,
doubt that the sun doth move,
doubt truth be a liar,
but never doubt I love.’

Enough of these maudlin thoughts. I have a feeling this operation is going to come to a head soon. There’s a symmetry to events then and now that makes me uncomfortable. Will the first morally questionable decision I ever made lead to my last one – my vengeance for Bill? Will there be this link between the start of my career and the end of it? Or perhaps a more permanent end for me? It would be fitting in a sense.

Whatever happens, I don’t intend to go quietly into that good night.

tbc]]> PART VI

16 July 2012
London, the Grid

“Let me get this straight – you’re proposing to break into the safe only the DG is allowed to access and steal some of the files?” Jenny asked, looking between Harry and Malcolm.
They were gathered in the meeting room and Malcolm had just presented his plan for breaking into the Registry safe.
“Yes,” Harry replied.
“Wow, awesome.”
Her boss winced at her choice of words but she didn’t even notice, too tickled by the idea of it all. It appealed to the anarchistic streak in her. She did not realise it at the time, but that was the precise moment in which Harry earned her undying loyalty and respect.
Calum was somewhat more circumspect. “That’s a big risk to take on the off-chance that there might be something of interest in there.”
Harry nodded. “Calum’s right. Which is why this operation is strictly on a voluntary basis.”
“I’m in,” Jenny said immediately and all eyes turned to Calum. Malcolm looked anxious; he really needed both of them if they were to pull this off undetected.
Calum pondered for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Sure - I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to go down in Five folklore.”
There was a general release of tension in the room and Harry smiled. “All right.” He turned to Malcolm. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Once they were alone, Jenny addressed Malcolm. “You honestly think it can be done?”
“Are you as good as everyone says you are?” he asked in response.
“You bet your arse I am,” she responded swiftly.
Malcolm blanched but quickly recovered. “Er, right. Then it should be a dawdle.”
He began to explain his plan in detail.

* * *
18 July 2012
London, Thames House

Malcolm had been down in the registry for an hour, his nose buried in a file. He glanced at his watch. Time to go. He got up, stretched, and began to walk through the aisles. To any observer he appeared to be simply stretching his legs. What he was in fact doing, was making a thorough check that there was no-one else in there but him and the clerk.

Upstairs on the Grid, Calum and Jenny were poised at their stations, eyes glued to the old style walkie-talkie positioned between them. Calum was drumming his fingers on the desk and Jenny glared at him in irritation.
“Will you stop that? As if Harry’s pacing isn’t bad enough,” she grumbled as her boss’ figure once again crossed her field of vision when he passed by the glass panels of his office.
Calum snorted. “Hello Pot, this is Kettle. If you chew that gum any harder you’ll break a molar.”
She opened her mouth to respond, and at that moment there was a clear ‘click’ from the walkie-talkie.
“There it is!”
Calum straightened up. “Right. Watch and learn, Jenny, watch and learn.”
He attacked his keyboard with gusto.

Minutes earlier Malcolm had wandered up to the clerk, empty mug in hand.
“I could do with a tea break,” he declared. “Can I make you one as well?”
The clerk was an old hand that knew Malcolm from way back and regarded him as a sweet helpless man where domestic matters were concerned. On the previous occasions he’d made tea for her, it had been awful. She wasn’t supposed to leave anyone in the Registry unattended, but… It was sweet, harmless Malcolm. And she could kill for a decent cup of tea.
“Why don’t I make the tea?” she offered with a smile. “I can rely on you to keep an eye on things while I’m gone, can’t I?”
“Oh, of course. It’s very kind of you,” Malcolm said bashfully and handed over his mug.
He watched her walk off, aware that timing was now of the essence. As she neared the first set of automatic doors he clicked the walkie-talkie once. The seconds ticked by and she was nearing the outer doors.

“Come on, Calum,” Jenny urged, just as everything suddenly turned dark. Only the computer screens on the Grid continued to glow, powered by the emergency power supply.
“Yes!” Calum exclaimed, unable to hide his relief. “I’ve slowed down the back-up generator; it’ll take ten minutes to come online.”
Jenny wasn’t listening; she was focussed on her screen and what she had to do.
As Harry joined them in the darkness, Calum sighed dramatically. “These localised power failures are getting out of hand,” he smirked. “The mayor really ought to do something about it.”
He was not bothered in the least that they were inconveniencing a couple of blocks of London.
“Just make sure it doesn’t unexpectedly come back on,” Harry said impatiently behind him.
“I’m in,” Jenny announced as MI5’s electronic surveillance system opened on her screen. She expertly manoeuvred to the section monitoring the Registry and set to work.

The power went off, sealing the doors and trapping the clerk in the outer office. Malcolm moved swiftly, finding his way by touch to the aisle where he’d earlier left his holdall. He fumbled inside until his fingers found the infrared nightsight goggles and pulled it over his head. Everything turned an eerie green and he rooted in the bag for the electronic device the three techies had built over the last few days. Once he had it in hand he moved down the aisle to the big safe and glanced at his watch.

Upstairs, Harry did the same. “Three minutes elapsed,” he murmured and glanced at Jenny.
She frantically typed codes into her computer and selected certain areas of the Thames House floor plan displayed on her screen. Green lights began to flash in the areas she’d chosen and she nodded at Calum. He picked up the walkie-talkie and gave Malcolm two clicks.
“Up to Malcolm and his gadget now,” Calum said over his shoulder, then added under his breath, “Let’s hope it works.”
“It’ll work,” Jenny said confidently. “The old guy is a genius.”
Behind her, Harry smiled.
“Start overlaying the fake surveillance footage, Calum,” he instructed.

Malcolm attached his device to the code panel and activated it. He took a stethoscope out of his pocket and pressed it against the locking mechanism and listened carefully. As his device ran through the numbers he could hear the tiny beeps when it ran over the correct ones. When he had them all, he detached his device, punched in the code, and held his breath.

On Jenny’s screen another light suddenly turned green.
“He’s done it!” she exclaimed and let out an exuberant whoop. By now Erin and Rory had also gathered round and they shared relieved smiles.
Calum’s computer bleeped a warning and the smiles disappeared quickly. The techie sprang into action.
“Oh no you don’t,” he mumbled as he typed furiously.
“Calum?” Erin probed, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice.
“Nothing to worry about – just some bright spark from the power company trying to turn it back on.”

Malcolm swung the safe door shut behind him, pulled off the goggles and switched on a small flashlight. It revealed rows of boxes, neatly ordered by date, a fact for which he was extremely grateful. He hurriedly located the box he wanted and swapped the files inside with random ones he’d collected from the shelves outside. After he’d shoved the files into his bag, he made sure that everything looked neat and undisturbed before killing the torch and preparing to leave.

Harry glanced at his watch again. Their ten minutes were almost up. Once the back-up generator kicked in the clerk would be able to enter and Malcolm could be caught red-handed. Calum was furiously jiggling his leg as he replaced the actual security surveillance with the recording they’d made earlier, showing Malcolm sitting at the clerk’s desk for the whole ten minutes. When the ‘click’ from the walkie-talkie finally came, indicating that Malcolm was out and back in position, it sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence.
Jenny glanced at Calum. “Ready?”
He nodded, and she turned the surveillance systems back on. As soon as she was done he turned the power back on as well. They blinked at each other in the sudden brightness.
“Well, that was fun,” Calum declared, and relieved laughter broke out. Even Harry smiled as he went back to his office.

* * *
One hour later

Malcolm was slowly working his way through the files he had purloined, searching for the ones pertaining to Melvyn Smith.
“Bloody Nora!” he exclaimed softly as one interesting file caught his eye. Apparently it had been British Intelligence that had assassinated communist activist Henri Curiel in Paris on 4 May 1978. For a moment he was tempted to read the whole file until he remembered that it would probably be better for him to get out of there sooner rather than later. He put it aside reluctantly and moved on to the documents covering June 1978. Towards the end of the pile his eye caught Melvyn Smith’s name in a lengthy report, and he began to read it from the start. His face grew grimmer as he progressed and by the time he finished, he knew it was what they were looking for.

Twenty minutes later he walked into Harry’s office and wordlessly laid the report in front of him. Harry looked up at Malcolm and his troubled expression made him pause. He slowly drew the report to him and gave it his undivided attention. The heading stated in bold lettering:

MI5 INVOLVEMENT IN KIDNAPPING OF OFFICER BILL CROMBIE

* * *
Late that night
London, Harry’s house

He drifted aimlessly through the house, restlessly picking up random objects and placing them down again. A statue of a horse, an ornamental ashtray (he didn’t like people smoking in his house), a well-thumbed book (Shakespeare’s Hamlet). He gravitated back to his favourite armchair and sat down, all the time aware of his blood roaring through his veins, throbbing in his temples. The desire to take action - cold, calculated, vengeful action - was overwhelming and it was only the possible impact on the operation that held him back. Instead he paced the house like a caged animal and allowed the hatred to permeate every cell in his body. His eyes fell on the book again and he reached for his journal.

18/07/12
Dear Ruth,
‘Tis now the very witching time of night,
when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
and do such bitter business, as the day
would quake to look on.’

Hamlet knew a thing or two about the desire for revenge. Revenge: somehow such a passive word to describe something so dark. I prefer vengeance – to me it encapsulates the emotions behind the act better. Tonight it is all I can think about. Everything that is happening can be explained by it. Malcolm found a secret report that indicates that Smithy had sold Bill out to the IRA. The Service covered it up to spare itself embarrassment and quietly fired him. He told the IRA exactly who Bill was and gave our position in the pub to them on the day that Bill was snatched. It was an act of vengeance for the death of a girl he was in love with. Her name was Andrea Flannery and she died in the O’Mally’s bomb blast. So you see how it is all connected by a desire for vengeance: Davie King bombs the pub to avenge his father’s death and kills the Flannery girl in the process, so in turn Smithy betrays Bill and I to the IRA to avenge Andrea’s death. Unfortunately for him the IRA didn’t take us both – how that must have grated, as I’m sure he blamed me more than anyone else in MI5.

But Bill’s death is apparently not sufficient. His hatred seems to have grown over the years to now encompass everyone in England and even the world. How else does one explain the plan to attack the Olympic Games with the help of the girl’s brother? Not that I don’t understand the desire to avenge the death of the woman one loves, of course I do. My biggest regret is that I did not get to kill Levrov personally – if he hadn’t known who I was I could and would have. It’s the sheer scale of Smithy’s plan, the willingness to kill hundreds of innocent people in this cause that baffles me. It’s unfathomable.

Well, I will have my vengeance too. For my friend, who died the sort of death that haunts one’s dreams. My God, what agony he must have endured as they systematically disfigured him. With a blowtorch of all things, Ruth. I searched for him, and one time I reached an abandoned farmhouse just after they’d left. The stench of burnt flesh still hung in that stuffy room. It turned my stomach. The thought of it still does.

Apart from you and my children, my friendship with Bill was probably the relationship I cherished most in my life. His death was an early lesson in the need for self control and self denial if I wanted to survive as an intelligence officer. I had become quite good at it, I think. But then you came along and suddenly it wasn’t so easy anymore. Often I question if part of the reason you refused my proposal and kept me at arms length afterwards was your belief that the Service would always come first for me. I don’t blame you; I didn’t do a very good job of convincing you otherwise. It wasn’t true though. I wonder if you truly understood how deeply in love with you I was. Am. And since we started off talking about Hamlet, did you have any idea how often I looked at you and thought of these words:
‘Doubt thou the stars are fire,
doubt that the sun doth move,
doubt truth be a liar,
but never doubt I love.’

Enough of these maudlin thoughts. I have a feeling this operation is going to come to a head soon. There’s a symmetry to events then and now that makes me uncomfortable. Will the first morally questionable decision I ever made lead to my last one – my vengeance for Bill? Will there be this link between the start of my career and the end of it? Or perhaps a more permanent end for me? It would be fitting in a sense.

Whatever happens, I don’t intend to go quietly into that good night.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part V]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2058.html Fri, 23 Dec 2011 07:16:37 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2058.html PART V

19 June 2012
London, the Grid

“Harry,” Erin appeared in his door. “Dimitri’s report has come in.”
He followed her over to Calum’s station and settled himself against the desk.
“Let’s hear it.”
Dimitri had been undercover a little over two weeks now and sent daily reports via an encrypted cellphone. Calum opened the audio file and Dimitri’s voice filled the room.
“Flannery continues to keep to himself, with only his four mates for company. He doesn’t socialise with the rest of the guards. I’ve made careful enquiries, and it’s clear he’s not a popular man with the others. He’s a relatively recent addition to Fortress; apparently he was brought in once they tendered for the Olympics gig. He mostly goes to work and back home again and shares his flat with two of the blokes who are always with him. As they seldom work the same shifts, I’ve not yet had a chance to bug the place. Yesterday he met Melvyn Smith in a pub, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying. The police is scheduled to give a general briefing on procedures to be followed during the Olympics tomorrow – it might afford me the opportunity to get into their flat.”

Harry pursed his lips. He was frustrated by the slow progress they’d made and could tell that his team was beginning to doubt whether an attack was planned.
“Okay,” he said. “Are we monitoring the black market for movement of large quantities of explosives or weapons?”
Calum nodded. “If he tries to buy anything, we’ll know.”
It was Rory who voiced Harry’s biggest fear. “We know the IRA still has weapons caches all over the old Emerald Isle. What if he doesn’t have to buy any?”
Harry rubbed his forehead. “Then we make sure we have all other avenues covered. They still have to get the explosives into one of the Olympic venues. Let’s think about ways it could be done and pre-empt any attempt to do so.”
Calum’s eyes lit up. “Maybe they’ll hide it in the athletic equipment - the javelins, discuses, or the shot put and hammer-throw stuff. It could give a whole new meaning to the term ‘explosive release’.”
A few of the others smiled but Harry remained impassive.
He said archly, “Then we will scan every piece of equipment if needs be, down to the running spikes of Usain bloody Bolt. And I don’t care who complains about it.”

* * *
29 June 2012, late night
London, private club

William Towers was settled in a secluded corner and observed his companion through the cigar smoke drifting between them. They had been to the opera and had come to the club for a nightcap afterwards. Harry’s bowtie hung loose around his neck and the first two buttons of his shirt was undone. As Towers watched, he blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and picked up his glass.
“Something on your mind, William?” he asked mildly, aware of the other man’s scrutiny.
“I hear you’ve commissioned a book on the history of Section D,” Towers said.
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “You’re rather well-informed about internal matters of the Security Services.”
“Well, I do have the JIC and Directors General on speed dial, Harry. You’re not my only source of intelligence you know,” Towers responded dryly.
“So you keep saying,” Harry grumbled good-naturedly. He continued after a brief pause. “Don’t worry, the book’s for internal consumption only.”
“Of course,” Towers said but continued to eye Harry speculatively. “I also hear you have Malcolm Wynn-Jones rooting around the archives to gather information for the book.”
“Yes,” Harry responded, unruffled, “I thought it best to use someone that had intimate experience of the Section.”
The Home Secretary put down his drink and leaned forward. “Harry. You’re up to something, and I’d like to know what it is.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. Even though William Towers had become a friend in the dark months after Ruth’s death, Harry never forgot that the man was also his boss and a politician. Some things were better kept hidden from him, and this was one of them. He was not about to advertise the fact that he was digging deep into Melvyn Smith’s background and his activities during his deployment in Belfast. It was possible that Smithy still had friends within the Service and Harry did not want word of the investigation to reach him. The fewer people that knew what Malcolm was really doing, the better.
“I’m not up to anything,” he lied smoothly.
William stared at him, unconvinced, but it was obvious that Harry would not give him anything. He let it go with a sigh.

* * *
10 July 2012
London, Thames House

Down in the registry Malcolm was buried behind a mountain of files. He’d been at it for close to three weeks and had not found anything of significance. The files covering events in Belfast in June 1978 were somewhat sketchy and as he closed the last one he wondered what he was going to tell Harry. Malcolm could sense that the rest of the team thought their boss was chasing shadows where Melvyn Smith was concerned, and the lack of substance in the files seemed to support that. But he was not so quick to dismiss Harry’s instincts. He had been there the last time these events came back to haunt them in the form of Davie King, and it was that experience which made him give his friend and former boss the benefit of the doubt.

As he stretched his back muscles wearily, his thoughts went back to the night three weeks ago when he’d opened the door to find Harry standing there. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Ruth’s funeral and Malcolm had been relieved to note that Harry looked much better than he had on that occasion. The waxen complexion and the rigid posture had gone, but the shadows behind the eyes were still there if one looked closely enough. Perhaps that was the reason he had agreed to undertake the investigation; it would allow him to see Harry on a regular basis. Once he’d started, it soon became their habit to end the day with a chat in Harry’s office. They shared a drink and talked about everything and nothing, trying to ignore the ghosts as the rest of the Grid lay in darkness around them. Harry seemed grateful to have someone to talk to other than that journal he was always writing in and Malcolm, in return, was happy to support Harry in this small way.

As he walked down the long, dusty aisle to return some of the files to their place his eyes once again fell on the new walk-in safe at the end of the room. On his first day here he had asked the registry clerk what was in it, and she’d informed him that it held the files that only the DG was allowed access to. He glanced around, but there was no-one else in sight. After a moment’s hesitation he walked up to the door and inspected the locking mechanism carefully. He nodded to himself; he was sure that he could beat it. But he would need help to pull it off.

* * *

That night he mooted his plan to Harry, who looked hesitant.
“It’s risky. What makes you think there will be anything in there pertaining to Smithy?”
Malcolm trod carefully, solicitous of Harry’s feelings. “Because I also looked into the files surrounding Bill Crombie’s death.”
Harry’s eyes flashed and Malcolm continued hurriedly. “Basic paperwork is missing, Harry. When I compared it to the paperwork in other files where officers had been killed, it was obvious that the ones for the time period you are interested in have been sanitised. I think the stuff they removed is in that vault. And if it’s sensitive enough to be put in there, then it might just hold the answer to this whole riddle.”
“Christ, Malcolm,” Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t bring you back to get you in trouble.”
“But you brought me back to find the information you need to safeguard the Olympics,” Malcolm said emphatically. “It’s the only way.”
His conviction was evident, but there was also something else in his look: a hint of excitement. It was that which decided Harry.
“All right. Use Calum and Jennifer to help you. But let us be clear about one thing. You’re doing it on my orders, and any repercussions will be mine to endure.”
Malcolm nodded and they lapsed into amicable silence, contemplating the possible fallout if things should go wrong.

Eventually Harry spoke. “It’s good to have you back here, Malcolm.”
The other man smiled. “It’s good to be back,” he said as his eyes roamed around the empty Grid fondly.
“Do you miss it?” Harry asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Malcolm considered the question carefully. “Some days. But then I open the paper and read about another attempted terrorist attack and I get that familiar clutch of fear in my stomach, and the feeling passes.”
He paused, then added with quiet certainty, “I left at the right time.”
Harry acknowledged the answer with a slight nod as his eyes drifted to Ruth’s old station. “Ruth once told me that we’d forfeited the chance for a normal life. Perhaps she was right, but…” his voice broke slightly, “I wanted to try. With her.”
And suddenly the tears came. Malcolm looked away delicately as Harry covered his eyes with a hand, and for a few minutes the only sound was his quiet sobbing.

Malcolm waited until he’d once again composed himself before speaking. “I suspect you would have made it work, you know. You’d have to search far and wide for two more stubborn people than the two of you.”
Harry laughed softly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“You’ll know when the time is right, Harry. To retire,” Malcolm said gently.
When Harry stared at him in surprise, he added, “You’ll know when you’ve paid your dues. As I did. When that time comes, have the courage to walk away. You’ve earned it.”
He watched as Harry breathed deeply, and merely nodded once.

* * *
13 July 2012
London

Dimitri sat in his car two blocks away from Flannery’s flat and watched on a small monitor as the little green dot began to move.
“So where are we off to today, mate?” he muttered quietly to himself. The dot was moving slowly; the Irishman was obviously on foot. Dimitri let him get a healthy lead before starting the car and following.

As he kept an eye on the dot, his mind wandered. He was not enjoying this assignment. He missed Erin and Rosie, and he loathed these men he was now forced to work with every day. In his view most of them were simply playing at being soldiers, but did not have the discipline required to be a good soldier. They were frankly a menace to society.

The dot had stopped just around the corner and Dimitri pulled into the kerb. He got out of the car, moved to the corner and peered around cautiously. Flannery was in a public phone booth halfway down the block. Dimitri fished out his mobile.
“Calum, our man is making a call from a public phone booth.” He gave the location before moving back to the car. With any luck GCHQ will pick up the call and they could finally get some worthwhile information.

Ten minutes later, back at Thames House, Calum received a recording of the conversation from GCHQ.
“Harry!” he called, and the older man swiftly made his way out of his office, Erin and Rory in tow.
“We got something.”
He played back the recording:

Flannery: I think we should bring things forward to the opening ceremony.
2nd man: No. We stick to the plan as agreed, damn it.
Flannery: Are you losing your bottle? Are you going to weaken on me?
2nd man: No! I think we have a better chance of succeeding if we wait till the closing ceremony, that’s all. Everyone will be relaxed, including the Security Services. They’ll think they’ve pulled it off, security-wise; that they got to the end without incident. Their guard will be down and that’s when we strike.
Flannery: Fine. I’ll see to it. And what will you be doing?
2nd man: Oh, I’ll be making sure that Harry Pearce is right in the middle of it.

All eyes turned to Harry, who stood motionless, lips pursed.
Calum cleared his throat. “The, er, second man...”
“Melvyn Smith,” Harry supplied evenly.
“Harry-“ Erin started, but he cut her off.
“We now know when the attack will take place. Let them run until we have more information. Tell Dimitri to stick with Flannery – we still don’t know what they’re planning, and where.”
He began to walk away when Erin spoke. “What about Smith?”
Harry turned back to her, a steely glint in his eyes. “Leave him to me.”

Back in his office Harry sat down behind the desk and fiddled with his pen, thinking things over.
“You and me, Smithy,” he said softly, “time to finish this. It’s always been between us anyway.”

tbc]]> PART V

19 June 2012
London, the Grid

“Harry,” Erin appeared in his door. “Dimitri’s report has come in.”
He followed her over to Calum’s station and settled himself against the desk.
“Let’s hear it.”
Dimitri had been undercover a little over two weeks now and sent daily reports via an encrypted cellphone. Calum opened the audio file and Dimitri’s voice filled the room.
“Flannery continues to keep to himself, with only his four mates for company. He doesn’t socialise with the rest of the guards. I’ve made careful enquiries, and it’s clear he’s not a popular man with the others. He’s a relatively recent addition to Fortress; apparently he was brought in once they tendered for the Olympics gig. He mostly goes to work and back home again and shares his flat with two of the blokes who are always with him. As they seldom work the same shifts, I’ve not yet had a chance to bug the place. Yesterday he met Melvyn Smith in a pub, but I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying. The police is scheduled to give a general briefing on procedures to be followed during the Olympics tomorrow – it might afford me the opportunity to get into their flat.”

Harry pursed his lips. He was frustrated by the slow progress they’d made and could tell that his team was beginning to doubt whether an attack was planned.
“Okay,” he said. “Are we monitoring the black market for movement of large quantities of explosives or weapons?”
Calum nodded. “If he tries to buy anything, we’ll know.”
It was Rory who voiced Harry’s biggest fear. “We know the IRA still has weapons caches all over the old Emerald Isle. What if he doesn’t have to buy any?”
Harry rubbed his forehead. “Then we make sure we have all other avenues covered. They still have to get the explosives into one of the Olympic venues. Let’s think about ways it could be done and pre-empt any attempt to do so.”
Calum’s eyes lit up. “Maybe they’ll hide it in the athletic equipment - the javelins, discuses, or the shot put and hammer-throw stuff. It could give a whole new meaning to the term ‘explosive release’.”
A few of the others smiled but Harry remained impassive.
He said archly, “Then we will scan every piece of equipment if needs be, down to the running spikes of Usain bloody Bolt. And I don’t care who complains about it.”

* * *
29 June 2012, late night
London, private club

William Towers was settled in a secluded corner and observed his companion through the cigar smoke drifting between them. They had been to the opera and had come to the club for a nightcap afterwards. Harry’s bowtie hung loose around his neck and the first two buttons of his shirt was undone. As Towers watched, he blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and picked up his glass.
“Something on your mind, William?” he asked mildly, aware of the other man’s scrutiny.
“I hear you’ve commissioned a book on the history of Section D,” Towers said.
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “You’re rather well-informed about internal matters of the Security Services.”
“Well, I do have the JIC and Directors General on speed dial, Harry. You’re not my only source of intelligence you know,” Towers responded dryly.
“So you keep saying,” Harry grumbled good-naturedly. He continued after a brief pause. “Don’t worry, the book’s for internal consumption only.”
“Of course,” Towers said but continued to eye Harry speculatively. “I also hear you have Malcolm Wynn-Jones rooting around the archives to gather information for the book.”
“Yes,” Harry responded, unruffled, “I thought it best to use someone that had intimate experience of the Section.”
The Home Secretary put down his drink and leaned forward. “Harry. You’re up to something, and I’d like to know what it is.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. Even though William Towers had become a friend in the dark months after Ruth’s death, Harry never forgot that the man was also his boss and a politician. Some things were better kept hidden from him, and this was one of them. He was not about to advertise the fact that he was digging deep into Melvyn Smith’s background and his activities during his deployment in Belfast. It was possible that Smithy still had friends within the Service and Harry did not want word of the investigation to reach him. The fewer people that knew what Malcolm was really doing, the better.
“I’m not up to anything,” he lied smoothly.
William stared at him, unconvinced, but it was obvious that Harry would not give him anything. He let it go with a sigh.

* * *
10 July 2012
London, Thames House

Down in the registry Malcolm was buried behind a mountain of files. He’d been at it for close to three weeks and had not found anything of significance. The files covering events in Belfast in June 1978 were somewhat sketchy and as he closed the last one he wondered what he was going to tell Harry. Malcolm could sense that the rest of the team thought their boss was chasing shadows where Melvyn Smith was concerned, and the lack of substance in the files seemed to support that. But he was not so quick to dismiss Harry’s instincts. He had been there the last time these events came back to haunt them in the form of Davie King, and it was that experience which made him give his friend and former boss the benefit of the doubt.

As he stretched his back muscles wearily, his thoughts went back to the night three weeks ago when he’d opened the door to find Harry standing there. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Ruth’s funeral and Malcolm had been relieved to note that Harry looked much better than he had on that occasion. The waxen complexion and the rigid posture had gone, but the shadows behind the eyes were still there if one looked closely enough. Perhaps that was the reason he had agreed to undertake the investigation; it would allow him to see Harry on a regular basis. Once he’d started, it soon became their habit to end the day with a chat in Harry’s office. They shared a drink and talked about everything and nothing, trying to ignore the ghosts as the rest of the Grid lay in darkness around them. Harry seemed grateful to have someone to talk to other than that journal he was always writing in and Malcolm, in return, was happy to support Harry in this small way.

As he walked down the long, dusty aisle to return some of the files to their place his eyes once again fell on the new walk-in safe at the end of the room. On his first day here he had asked the registry clerk what was in it, and she’d informed him that it held the files that only the DG was allowed access to. He glanced around, but there was no-one else in sight. After a moment’s hesitation he walked up to the door and inspected the locking mechanism carefully. He nodded to himself; he was sure that he could beat it. But he would need help to pull it off.

* * *

That night he mooted his plan to Harry, who looked hesitant.
“It’s risky. What makes you think there will be anything in there pertaining to Smithy?”
Malcolm trod carefully, solicitous of Harry’s feelings. “Because I also looked into the files surrounding Bill Crombie’s death.”
Harry’s eyes flashed and Malcolm continued hurriedly. “Basic paperwork is missing, Harry. When I compared it to the paperwork in other files where officers had been killed, it was obvious that the ones for the time period you are interested in have been sanitised. I think the stuff they removed is in that vault. And if it’s sensitive enough to be put in there, then it might just hold the answer to this whole riddle.”
“Christ, Malcolm,” Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t bring you back to get you in trouble.”
“But you brought me back to find the information you need to safeguard the Olympics,” Malcolm said emphatically. “It’s the only way.”
His conviction was evident, but there was also something else in his look: a hint of excitement. It was that which decided Harry.
“All right. Use Calum and Jennifer to help you. But let us be clear about one thing. You’re doing it on my orders, and any repercussions will be mine to endure.”
Malcolm nodded and they lapsed into amicable silence, contemplating the possible fallout if things should go wrong.

Eventually Harry spoke. “It’s good to have you back here, Malcolm.”
The other man smiled. “It’s good to be back,” he said as his eyes roamed around the empty Grid fondly.
“Do you miss it?” Harry asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Malcolm considered the question carefully. “Some days. But then I open the paper and read about another attempted terrorist attack and I get that familiar clutch of fear in my stomach, and the feeling passes.”
He paused, then added with quiet certainty, “I left at the right time.”
Harry acknowledged the answer with a slight nod as his eyes drifted to Ruth’s old station. “Ruth once told me that we’d forfeited the chance for a normal life. Perhaps she was right, but…” his voice broke slightly, “I wanted to try. With her.”
And suddenly the tears came. Malcolm looked away delicately as Harry covered his eyes with a hand, and for a few minutes the only sound was his quiet sobbing.

Malcolm waited until he’d once again composed himself before speaking. “I suspect you would have made it work, you know. You’d have to search far and wide for two more stubborn people than the two of you.”
Harry laughed softly. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“You’ll know when the time is right, Harry. To retire,” Malcolm said gently.
When Harry stared at him in surprise, he added, “You’ll know when you’ve paid your dues. As I did. When that time comes, have the courage to walk away. You’ve earned it.”
He watched as Harry breathed deeply, and merely nodded once.

* * *
13 July 2012
London

Dimitri sat in his car two blocks away from Flannery’s flat and watched on a small monitor as the little green dot began to move.
“So where are we off to today, mate?” he muttered quietly to himself. The dot was moving slowly; the Irishman was obviously on foot. Dimitri let him get a healthy lead before starting the car and following.

As he kept an eye on the dot, his mind wandered. He was not enjoying this assignment. He missed Erin and Rosie, and he loathed these men he was now forced to work with every day. In his view most of them were simply playing at being soldiers, but did not have the discipline required to be a good soldier. They were frankly a menace to society.

The dot had stopped just around the corner and Dimitri pulled into the kerb. He got out of the car, moved to the corner and peered around cautiously. Flannery was in a public phone booth halfway down the block. Dimitri fished out his mobile.
“Calum, our man is making a call from a public phone booth.” He gave the location before moving back to the car. With any luck GCHQ will pick up the call and they could finally get some worthwhile information.

Ten minutes later, back at Thames House, Calum received a recording of the conversation from GCHQ.
“Harry!” he called, and the older man swiftly made his way out of his office, Erin and Rory in tow.
“We got something.”
He played back the recording:

Flannery: I think we should bring things forward to the opening ceremony.
2nd man: No. We stick to the plan as agreed, damn it.
Flannery: Are you losing your bottle? Are you going to weaken on me?
2nd man: No! I think we have a better chance of succeeding if we wait till the closing ceremony, that’s all. Everyone will be relaxed, including the Security Services. They’ll think they’ve pulled it off, security-wise; that they got to the end without incident. Their guard will be down and that’s when we strike.
Flannery: Fine. I’ll see to it. And what will you be doing?
2nd man: Oh, I’ll be making sure that Harry Pearce is right in the middle of it.

All eyes turned to Harry, who stood motionless, lips pursed.
Calum cleared his throat. “The, er, second man...”
“Melvyn Smith,” Harry supplied evenly.
“Harry-“ Erin started, but he cut her off.
“We now know when the attack will take place. Let them run until we have more information. Tell Dimitri to stick with Flannery – we still don’t know what they’re planning, and where.”
He began to walk away when Erin spoke. “What about Smith?”
Harry turned back to her, a steely glint in his eyes. “Leave him to me.”

Back in his office Harry sat down behind the desk and fiddled with his pen, thinking things over.
“You and me, Smithy,” he said softly, “time to finish this. It’s always been between us anyway.”

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part IV]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2057.html Tue, 20 Dec 2011 08:50:43 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2057.html PART IV

31 May 2012, early evening
London, Cricketers Pub

Harry sat in a booth, keeping an eye on the door. He’d considered meeting Smithy at his club but feared that the ostentatious setting would inhibit the man and put him on his guard. He needed to be relaxed if he was going to let anything slip. The subject of his thoughts entered and Harry stood up.
“Smithy,” he greeted and held out his hand.
Smithy shook it. “Harry. Or should I say Sir Harry?”
Harry laughed, embarrassed, and moved on swiftly. “What would you like?” He nodded towards the bar.
The other man’s gaze dropped to Harry’s scotch. “Same.”
He settled into the booth and waited for Harry to come back.
“They do a decent steak, egg and chips if you’re hungry?” Harry said as he placed the drink on the table.
Smithy considered briefly. “Sure, why not. Medium all round.”
Harry waved the barmaid over. “Two steak egg and chips, one medium all round, the usual for me.”

He waited until she had left before lifting his glass. “To old times.”
Smithy smiled. “Old times,” he repeated.
Harry observed him as he took a sip and noticed a muscle twitching in the other man’s cheek. There was an awkward silence as Smithy looked around the pub, trying to think of something to say.
“So, a Knight, huh?” he offered finally. “Who’d have thought that cocky young whippersnapper I met in Belfast would get this far?”
Was that a note of resentment in his voice? Harry couldn’t be sure.
He shrugged. “They dole them out like candy nowadays,” he said self-deprecatingly.
“Oh, I’m sure you deserve it,” Smithy responded and smiled. “I’ve heard you’ve had quite the career.”
And there it was again, a hint of venom underlying the innocent words.

Harry did not want to spend the evening talking about himself and changed tack. “And what about you? Who would have thought you’d turn into Mr Big Business? Winning this tender for the Olympics is quite a feat.”
Harry’s voice was warm, complimentary. “Did you go straight into private security after leaving the Service?”
“Come on,” his companion laughed, “don’t pretend you haven’t looked into every nook and cranny of my company. I know how these things work. I used to be a spook too, remember?”
Harry smiled slightly and conceded the point. Before he could say anything Smithy continued. “And? Did you find anything of concern?”
Harry was aware of the other man’s keen, probing gaze.
“Why do you ask?” he responded lightly. “Is there something you want to confess, Smithy?”
They stared at each other until Smithy suddenly laughed and shook his head. “Same old Harry,” he chuckled. “Always on the job.”
The comment stabbed at Harry and he looked away, but was spared the need for a response when the food arrived.

They made small-talk while they ate, feeling each other out all the time. As he dipped another chip into the runny egg yolk Harry nudged the conversation back to the topic he was most interested in.
“Have you ever been back to Belfast?”
Smithy put his fork down and took a long swallow of Scotch. “No,” he said shortly.
Harry watched the play of emotions on the other man’s face, intrigued by what he read there. He changed direction.
“I was wrong to punch you in that meeting. You had every right to say what you did,” he conceded.
Smithy stared at him in surprise; he had never pegged Harry Pearce as someone who apologised for anything, and he wondered whether the man sitting opposite him was sincere.
He responded cautiously, “Maybe. But I admit that I could have been more tactful – you’d just lost your best friend, after all.”
They fell quiet, both thinking back to that harrowing period in their lives. The expression on Harry’s face left Smithy in no doubt that Bill’s death still weighed heavily on him.
“Why did you leave the Service, Smithy?” Harry asked suddenly into the silence.

The question caught the other man off-guard and he looked up sharply. Harry appeared genuinely interested in the answer, as though he was baffled by the concept of anyone not wanting to serve their country. It angered Smithy and caused him to snap, “That business with Davie King’s father showed me that I didn’t have what it takes to be an intelligence officer. I could never have done that. You need a heart of stone to do that.”
He glared at Harry, all pretence of civility gone. Harry’s mouth twitched as he gazed back steadily. He said nothing. Smithy reined himself in with difficulty and dropped his gaze to the table.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
When Harry spoke his voice was carefully controlled. “You never married?”
“Er, no.” Smithy’s eyes slid away from Harry’s unwavering attention. “Never met the right girl,” he added lamely.
“Hmm,” was all Harry said.
Desperate to shift the focus off himself, Smithy looked at Harry’s left hand. “Divorced?” he enquired with a note of relish.
“Yes. Jane shared your view of me – said she’d married a nightmare.” There was a note of anger underlying the words which somehow scared Smithy. He feared, for a second, that Harry would physically attack him, but then the spook leaned back against his seat and smiled.
“Maybe you were smarter than me – staying away from marriage all these years. You spared yourself a lot of trouble, my friend.”
Harry signalled to the bar for another round of drinks, and Smithy knew he was in for a long night.

* * *
1 June 2012, morning
London, the Grid

When Jenny entered, Harry was already in. She wondered sometimes whether he actually went home. He seemed to always be there. She poked her head around his door and called a cheerful greeting.
“Morning, Boss.”
It was only when he lifted bloodshot eyes to hers and mumbled a reply that she noticed how terrible he looked. If she wasn’t mistaken, her stuffy superior was suffering from a hangover. And she should know. She smirked to herself and left him to suffer in peace.

Harry wasn’t sure how much time passed between her leaving and Erin walking in, lost as he was in his thumping headache, raging thirst and sluggish brain. He looked up to find her regarding him with concern and he knew what she was thinking. He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t as if there weren’t precedent for it.
“It’s not what you think,” he stated firmly.
“I had dinner with Melvyn Smith last night. There is definitely something underhanded going on, and it is somehow linked to events in Belfast in 1978.”
Erin looked dubious. “I just don’t see it, Harry. Are you saying that Flannery blames the English for what happened to his sister? It was an IRA bomb that killed her. Why would he blame us? And why would Smith help him achieve his objective?”
Harry considered, unsure how much he would have to reveal to convince her. In the end he settled for some of the truth.
“The O’Mally’s bomb was revenge for the Security Services framing an innocent man and causing him to be killed by the IRA. Two Military Intelligence officers were killed in that blast. I have no doubt that they were the real targets – the rest were just collateral damage.”
He met Erin’s eyes. “Someone blames us for that bomb, and I would wager good money that someone is Ronan Flannery. And Melvyn Smith was there when the decision was taken to frame that innocent man, so perhaps this is his way of atoning for his sins.”
He paused and took a breath. “The threat is real, Erin. Get Dimitri into Fortress as soon as humanly possible.”
She nodded. “Okay. We’ve found a way. He can be in place by Monday.”

* * *
Same day, late night
Harry’s house

01/06/12
Dear Ruth,
It’s been a while since I’ve had to sacrifice my liver in the defence of the realm. It takes me back to the days of Jools Siviter, when this sort of thing was a somewhat regular occurrence. At least Jools was a worthy opponent. Clearly Smithy does not have my experience in consuming large amounts of alcohol. I feel terrible today, but for a change it is not accompanied by the usual guilt. Thankfully it wasn’t all for nothing – I now know that Smithy is definitely up to something. What, I don’t yet know. One thing is for sure – he hates me. It all seems connected to the O’Mally’s bombing somehow. I’m convinced that Smithy is helping Flannery and that they are planning an attack on the Olympics. Smithy must have told Flannery his sister died in an act of revenge on British Security Service personnel. It is less clear to me why Smithy would go to the lengths of targeting the Olympics. Is it simply to atone for his involvement in the death of Davie King’s father? If so, it is a little extreme. It was my order, my decision. He merely helped spread the rumours. Is there something more personal at play here? I have requested a full audit of Smithy’s time in Belfast.

At least Erin and Dimitri have sorted out their differences. I saw them kiss in the corridor before Dimitri left to start his undercover stint. I am happy for them. And I envy them as well. I can’t help thinking about what could have been at times like these. But that way madness lies. I’ll have to try harder to focus on the many good memories I have of you and let go of the if-only’s.

* * *
4 June 2012
London, Fortress Inc Headquarters

Dimitri stood at the back of the room, surveying the hundreds of guards assembled. They had found out that Melvyn Smith had a cooperation agreement with another private security company by which the other company would provide replacement personnel to Fortress Inc if needed. As providence would have it, four of Smith’s regular personnel were in an accident and he had requested replacements from the other company. It had taken one phone call from Harry, after which the somewhat pale CEO of the other company accommodated Dimitri among the replacements he’d sent.

The spook located Flannery near the front and unobtrusively made his way towards him. The Irishman was surrounded by four other men and none of the other guards attempted to talk to them. Dimitri placed himself within easy reach of the little group. He reached into his pocket and located the small tracking device Calum had supplied him with, then scanned the man in front of him for possible locations for it. Slipping it under the collar of his jacket seemed the best option; it was the piece of clothing the target would wear most often. Now all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity.

Melvyn Smith came onto the podium and addressed the assembly. He wasn’t a particularly good orator and Dimitri watched the men around him fidget and shuffle around in boredom. What he needed was a diversion. He took a pen and paper out of his pocket and flipped the cap off the pen, dropping it. As he stooped to pick it up, he pricked the man next to him in the leg with the tiny needle at the back of the pen. His neighbour didn’t even feel it. He waited. It took five minutes before the man suddenly swayed on his feet and collapsed unceremoniously. During the hubbub that ensued Dimitri managed to slip the tracking device under Flannery’s collar unnoticed.

* * *
6 June 2012
London, the Grid

Harry stalked out of his office and came to a stop in front of the two techies.
“What’s this?” he demanded, waving a folder about.
Jenny apprehensively looked to Calum for guidance.
“That’s the information on Melvyn Smith you asked for,” Calum said, unperturbed by his boss’ evident displeasure.
Harry scowled. “No, in fact the information I asked for is conspicuously absent from this abject effort.” He flung the folder down on Calum’s desk.
“I asked for details of his service and life in Belfast, and you give me his date of appointment and resignation?”
He gave Jenny a baleful look. “I thought you were supposed to be the best hacker of your generation.”
She bristled. “I can’t find information that’s not there, Harry.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry demanded.
“It means,” Calum intervened, “that the events you are interested in happened back in the Stone Age. We can’t find it if it’s not on a computer.”
Harry processed this. “So you’re saying it’s not available anywhere?”
“I’m saying it’s not available in a digital format, yes.”
“But it should be in the paper archives.” Rory, who had watched the exchange with interest, came over and explained, “MI5 has not yet digitised all the old files, but they’re all kept in the Registry. Someone with enough patience and time should be able to find what you’re looking for.”
He turned to Harry and said hopefully, “I don’t mind doing it. I love rooting through all those old files.”
But Harry shook his head. “I can’t spare you. I need you on the main thrust of the operation full time. No,” he added thoughtfully, “I have someone else in mind.”

He walked off without further explanation. It was time to visit an old friend.

tbc]]> PART IV

31 May 2012, early evening
London, Cricketers Pub

Harry sat in a booth, keeping an eye on the door. He’d considered meeting Smithy at his club but feared that the ostentatious setting would inhibit the man and put him on his guard. He needed to be relaxed if he was going to let anything slip. The subject of his thoughts entered and Harry stood up.
“Smithy,” he greeted and held out his hand.
Smithy shook it. “Harry. Or should I say Sir Harry?”
Harry laughed, embarrassed, and moved on swiftly. “What would you like?” He nodded towards the bar.
The other man’s gaze dropped to Harry’s scotch. “Same.”
He settled into the booth and waited for Harry to come back.
“They do a decent steak, egg and chips if you’re hungry?” Harry said as he placed the drink on the table.
Smithy considered briefly. “Sure, why not. Medium all round.”
Harry waved the barmaid over. “Two steak egg and chips, one medium all round, the usual for me.”

He waited until she had left before lifting his glass. “To old times.”
Smithy smiled. “Old times,” he repeated.
Harry observed him as he took a sip and noticed a muscle twitching in the other man’s cheek. There was an awkward silence as Smithy looked around the pub, trying to think of something to say.
“So, a Knight, huh?” he offered finally. “Who’d have thought that cocky young whippersnapper I met in Belfast would get this far?”
Was that a note of resentment in his voice? Harry couldn’t be sure.
He shrugged. “They dole them out like candy nowadays,” he said self-deprecatingly.
“Oh, I’m sure you deserve it,” Smithy responded and smiled. “I’ve heard you’ve had quite the career.”
And there it was again, a hint of venom underlying the innocent words.

Harry did not want to spend the evening talking about himself and changed tack. “And what about you? Who would have thought you’d turn into Mr Big Business? Winning this tender for the Olympics is quite a feat.”
Harry’s voice was warm, complimentary. “Did you go straight into private security after leaving the Service?”
“Come on,” his companion laughed, “don’t pretend you haven’t looked into every nook and cranny of my company. I know how these things work. I used to be a spook too, remember?”
Harry smiled slightly and conceded the point. Before he could say anything Smithy continued. “And? Did you find anything of concern?”
Harry was aware of the other man’s keen, probing gaze.
“Why do you ask?” he responded lightly. “Is there something you want to confess, Smithy?”
They stared at each other until Smithy suddenly laughed and shook his head. “Same old Harry,” he chuckled. “Always on the job.”
The comment stabbed at Harry and he looked away, but was spared the need for a response when the food arrived.

They made small-talk while they ate, feeling each other out all the time. As he dipped another chip into the runny egg yolk Harry nudged the conversation back to the topic he was most interested in.
“Have you ever been back to Belfast?”
Smithy put his fork down and took a long swallow of Scotch. “No,” he said shortly.
Harry watched the play of emotions on the other man’s face, intrigued by what he read there. He changed direction.
“I was wrong to punch you in that meeting. You had every right to say what you did,” he conceded.
Smithy stared at him in surprise; he had never pegged Harry Pearce as someone who apologised for anything, and he wondered whether the man sitting opposite him was sincere.
He responded cautiously, “Maybe. But I admit that I could have been more tactful – you’d just lost your best friend, after all.”
They fell quiet, both thinking back to that harrowing period in their lives. The expression on Harry’s face left Smithy in no doubt that Bill’s death still weighed heavily on him.
“Why did you leave the Service, Smithy?” Harry asked suddenly into the silence.

The question caught the other man off-guard and he looked up sharply. Harry appeared genuinely interested in the answer, as though he was baffled by the concept of anyone not wanting to serve their country. It angered Smithy and caused him to snap, “That business with Davie King’s father showed me that I didn’t have what it takes to be an intelligence officer. I could never have done that. You need a heart of stone to do that.”
He glared at Harry, all pretence of civility gone. Harry’s mouth twitched as he gazed back steadily. He said nothing. Smithy reined himself in with difficulty and dropped his gaze to the table.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
When Harry spoke his voice was carefully controlled. “You never married?”
“Er, no.” Smithy’s eyes slid away from Harry’s unwavering attention. “Never met the right girl,” he added lamely.
“Hmm,” was all Harry said.
Desperate to shift the focus off himself, Smithy looked at Harry’s left hand. “Divorced?” he enquired with a note of relish.
“Yes. Jane shared your view of me – said she’d married a nightmare.” There was a note of anger underlying the words which somehow scared Smithy. He feared, for a second, that Harry would physically attack him, but then the spook leaned back against his seat and smiled.
“Maybe you were smarter than me – staying away from marriage all these years. You spared yourself a lot of trouble, my friend.”
Harry signalled to the bar for another round of drinks, and Smithy knew he was in for a long night.

* * *
1 June 2012, morning
London, the Grid

When Jenny entered, Harry was already in. She wondered sometimes whether he actually went home. He seemed to always be there. She poked her head around his door and called a cheerful greeting.
“Morning, Boss.”
It was only when he lifted bloodshot eyes to hers and mumbled a reply that she noticed how terrible he looked. If she wasn’t mistaken, her stuffy superior was suffering from a hangover. And she should know. She smirked to herself and left him to suffer in peace.

Harry wasn’t sure how much time passed between her leaving and Erin walking in, lost as he was in his thumping headache, raging thirst and sluggish brain. He looked up to find her regarding him with concern and he knew what she was thinking. He didn’t blame her. It wasn’t as if there weren’t precedent for it.
“It’s not what you think,” he stated firmly.
“I had dinner with Melvyn Smith last night. There is definitely something underhanded going on, and it is somehow linked to events in Belfast in 1978.”
Erin looked dubious. “I just don’t see it, Harry. Are you saying that Flannery blames the English for what happened to his sister? It was an IRA bomb that killed her. Why would he blame us? And why would Smith help him achieve his objective?”
Harry considered, unsure how much he would have to reveal to convince her. In the end he settled for some of the truth.
“The O’Mally’s bomb was revenge for the Security Services framing an innocent man and causing him to be killed by the IRA. Two Military Intelligence officers were killed in that blast. I have no doubt that they were the real targets – the rest were just collateral damage.”
He met Erin’s eyes. “Someone blames us for that bomb, and I would wager good money that someone is Ronan Flannery. And Melvyn Smith was there when the decision was taken to frame that innocent man, so perhaps this is his way of atoning for his sins.”
He paused and took a breath. “The threat is real, Erin. Get Dimitri into Fortress as soon as humanly possible.”
She nodded. “Okay. We’ve found a way. He can be in place by Monday.”

* * *
Same day, late night
Harry’s house

01/06/12
Dear Ruth,
It’s been a while since I’ve had to sacrifice my liver in the defence of the realm. It takes me back to the days of Jools Siviter, when this sort of thing was a somewhat regular occurrence. At least Jools was a worthy opponent. Clearly Smithy does not have my experience in consuming large amounts of alcohol. I feel terrible today, but for a change it is not accompanied by the usual guilt. Thankfully it wasn’t all for nothing – I now know that Smithy is definitely up to something. What, I don’t yet know. One thing is for sure – he hates me. It all seems connected to the O’Mally’s bombing somehow. I’m convinced that Smithy is helping Flannery and that they are planning an attack on the Olympics. Smithy must have told Flannery his sister died in an act of revenge on British Security Service personnel. It is less clear to me why Smithy would go to the lengths of targeting the Olympics. Is it simply to atone for his involvement in the death of Davie King’s father? If so, it is a little extreme. It was my order, my decision. He merely helped spread the rumours. Is there something more personal at play here? I have requested a full audit of Smithy’s time in Belfast.

At least Erin and Dimitri have sorted out their differences. I saw them kiss in the corridor before Dimitri left to start his undercover stint. I am happy for them. And I envy them as well. I can’t help thinking about what could have been at times like these. But that way madness lies. I’ll have to try harder to focus on the many good memories I have of you and let go of the if-only’s.

* * *
4 June 2012
London, Fortress Inc Headquarters

Dimitri stood at the back of the room, surveying the hundreds of guards assembled. They had found out that Melvyn Smith had a cooperation agreement with another private security company by which the other company would provide replacement personnel to Fortress Inc if needed. As providence would have it, four of Smith’s regular personnel were in an accident and he had requested replacements from the other company. It had taken one phone call from Harry, after which the somewhat pale CEO of the other company accommodated Dimitri among the replacements he’d sent.

The spook located Flannery near the front and unobtrusively made his way towards him. The Irishman was surrounded by four other men and none of the other guards attempted to talk to them. Dimitri placed himself within easy reach of the little group. He reached into his pocket and located the small tracking device Calum had supplied him with, then scanned the man in front of him for possible locations for it. Slipping it under the collar of his jacket seemed the best option; it was the piece of clothing the target would wear most often. Now all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity.

Melvyn Smith came onto the podium and addressed the assembly. He wasn’t a particularly good orator and Dimitri watched the men around him fidget and shuffle around in boredom. What he needed was a diversion. He took a pen and paper out of his pocket and flipped the cap off the pen, dropping it. As he stooped to pick it up, he pricked the man next to him in the leg with the tiny needle at the back of the pen. His neighbour didn’t even feel it. He waited. It took five minutes before the man suddenly swayed on his feet and collapsed unceremoniously. During the hubbub that ensued Dimitri managed to slip the tracking device under Flannery’s collar unnoticed.

* * *
6 June 2012
London, the Grid

Harry stalked out of his office and came to a stop in front of the two techies.
“What’s this?” he demanded, waving a folder about.
Jenny apprehensively looked to Calum for guidance.
“That’s the information on Melvyn Smith you asked for,” Calum said, unperturbed by his boss’ evident displeasure.
Harry scowled. “No, in fact the information I asked for is conspicuously absent from this abject effort.” He flung the folder down on Calum’s desk.
“I asked for details of his service and life in Belfast, and you give me his date of appointment and resignation?”
He gave Jenny a baleful look. “I thought you were supposed to be the best hacker of your generation.”
She bristled. “I can’t find information that’s not there, Harry.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry demanded.
“It means,” Calum intervened, “that the events you are interested in happened back in the Stone Age. We can’t find it if it’s not on a computer.”
Harry processed this. “So you’re saying it’s not available anywhere?”
“I’m saying it’s not available in a digital format, yes.”
“But it should be in the paper archives.” Rory, who had watched the exchange with interest, came over and explained, “MI5 has not yet digitised all the old files, but they’re all kept in the Registry. Someone with enough patience and time should be able to find what you’re looking for.”
He turned to Harry and said hopefully, “I don’t mind doing it. I love rooting through all those old files.”
But Harry shook his head. “I can’t spare you. I need you on the main thrust of the operation full time. No,” he added thoughtfully, “I have someone else in mind.”

He walked off without further explanation. It was time to visit an old friend.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part III]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2056.html Sat, 17 Dec 2011 06:32:32 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2056.html PART III

21 May 2012
London, the Grid

It was just after seven and the Grid was quietly awaiting the start of another day. Harry was in his office, catching up on paperwork, a coffee at his elbow. The doors swished open and a tall, thin man in his late thirties stepped through. Harry took in the neat suit, the dark brown hair, the look of curiosity on his face as he looked around the space. His gaze reached the Section Head’s office and Harry found himself looking into a pair of vibrant green eyes. Intelligent eyes. He beckoned to the man. Once he entered the office Harry stood and held out a hand.
“You’re early,” he commented as they shook hands.
“Sir Harry,” the man acknowledged. “Och, first day nerves I suppose. I wanted to get going as soon as possible.”
The Scottish accent was heavy, but not impenetrable.
Won’t need that translator after all, Harry thought wryly.
“Call me Harry,” he said instead.

The doors opened again and Erin came in.
“Ah, come along.” Harry strode out of the office.
“Erin, our new senior analyst has arrived. Rory Ferguson, meet Erin Watts, Section Chief. She’ll get you settled.”
Erin looked at Harry with a brief smile and nodded. It was the first time since their argument that she smiled at him and he recognised its significance. She had thought about what he’d said and had made her peace with it. Harry nodded back solemnly before returning to his office, and Erin turned her attention to the new arrival.
“Rory, welcome. You’ll have to hit the ground running I’m afraid. The Olympics is fast approaching and-“
She stopped talking as he smirked.
“What?”
“Nice pun,” he said.
She frowned in confusion.
“The Olympics?” he prompted, but she remained blank.
“Fast approaching, hit the ground running,” he explained, and she rolled her eyes.
“Not another one,” she said, exasperated.
When it was Rory’s turn to look confused she added, “You’ll understand when you meet Calum. Now, this is your station. And these,” she waved at the mountain of files covering it, “are the personnel files of the private security company the Mayor has engaged for the Olympics. Harry’s not happy about that so we need to make sure we have all the bases covered.”
Rory’s gaze drifted back to the man in the glass office. “Not the most gregarious man, is he? Word is that he’s hard to please.”
Erin looked at Harry and her face softened. “He’s a good man,” she responded after a beat. “And yes, he has high standards. But he’s fair. All he asks is that you do the best you can.”
The Scot watched her carefully as she spoke. Her affection and admiration for their boss was obvious. She thought for a moment, then continued.
“Listen, Rory. Harry recently lost someone he cared for very much. She was your predecessor, so… If he’s a little hard on you sometimes, just remember that, okay?”
Rory nodded slowly. “I will.” He looked at his desk and smiled slightly. “Better get stuck in.”

* * *
25 May 2012
London, Olympic Stadium

Harry had requested a tour of the Olympic stadium; he liked to know exactly what he was dealing with in terms of security concerns. As a result, he and Erin found themselves trailing along as the stadium manager explained the ins and outs of building it. He spent an inordinate amount of time explaining to them how the upper tier could be dismantled afterwards, making the stadium a shining example of future sustainable use by decreasing the cost of its upkeep after the Olympics.
“Fascinating,” Harry murmured, straight-faced, and only Erin picked up on the sardonic note in his voice. She turned her face away to hide her smile.
“Did you use any foreign contractors?” he asked, getting down to business.
The manager looked affronted. “No, sir. Only the best England can offer. Even the materials used were all sourced locally. And what we couldn’t find locally we got from Ireland and Wales, like some of these granite blocks.”
He kicked at one of the blocks anchoring a pillar deep in the bowels of the stadium.
“Oh! I haven’t shown you the change rooms yet. State of the art.”
He scurried off. Harry looked at Erin with a pained expression before following.

* * *
28 May 2012
London, the Grid

The doors slid open and the new techie stepped through. It was her fourth day on the team and she was beginning to feel more at ease with the job and her colleagues. In fact, she finally felt confident enough to come to work as she most preferred to look for the first time. However, some of that confidence evaporated when her entrance was greeted by a stunned silence. Calum was staring at her, shock written all over his face. Moments later he was on his feet and bearing down on her.
“Holy shit Jenny, do you want to get fired?” he demanded, taking in her purple hair, nose-stud and black make-up.
“If Harry sees you like this he’ll go ballistic.”
Jenny shrugged. “Come on, what does he care what I look like, as long as I do my job?”
Rory had now joined them and shook his head at her naivety. “Have you met Harry?” he enquired dryly. “He can be pretty persnickety.”

Both Jenny and Calum turned to stare at the analyst.
“Persnickety?” Jenny snorted. “Is that even a word?”
“Yes it is, Miss Palmer.”
Harry’s unexpected voice behind them made the other three jump.
“Oh crap,” Calum mumbled under his breath, earning a glare from Harry before he turned his attention back to the young woman.
“It describes someone who is fussy about small details or demands great precision,” he explained helpfully.
“It can also,” he said as his glare turned to Rory, “be used to describe someone who has the characteristics of a snob.”
The analyst shifted uncomfortably but kept quiet.
“Oh,” Jenny said feebly, drawing his attention back to her.
“Most erudite, Jennifer,” Harry retorted as he looked her up and down.
“Have you been, or are you about to go undercover at a rave?” he inquired mildly, but there was a dangerous glint in his eye.
Jenny glanced at Calum beseechingly and he shook his head imperceptibly at her, trying to warn her that this was not a good time to be a smart-mouth.
“No, sir,” she responded softly, dropping her eyes to stare at Harry’s immaculately polished shoes.
“Look at me,” he said sharply, and her head snapped up.
“I don’t care what you look like when you’re not at work, but when you step through those doors,” he swept an arm behind him, “you will look like a normal human being and not something that escaped from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, Harry.”
“Good.” He disappeared into his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

Jenny stared after him, trying to unpick her feelings about her new boss. By rights she should find him annoying; an irritating old fogy that was way behind the times. She should resent the stentorian manner in which he spoke to her, and yet… She found herself wondering what it would have been like to have someone like him as her father rather than the drinking, womanising bastard she had the misfortune to get. Someone who called her Jennifer, who didn’t let her get away with anything, but who she could sense, underneath it all, truly cared about her well-being. She sighed and trudged off towards the Ladies.

* * *
One hour later

They were gathered in the meeting room for a routine update briefing. Jenny’s face was scrubbed clean, her hair was back to its normal colour and the stud was gone. It made her look absurdly young and Harry’s heart clenched. She reminded him of his daughter when Catherine was twenty-two and he sighed morosely. His first reaction when Calum had brought her file to him was to protest that she was too young, but Calum insisted that she was the most talented hacker of her generation and they should bring her into the fold before she turned to ‘the dark side’.

Rory burst into the room, interrupting his rumination, and waved a file around excitedly.
“I’ve found something.” He was triumphant and started speaking rapidly, the Scottish accent thicker than ever. The team frowned at each other in confusion as they struggled to figure out what their analyst was on about. Calum was the first to lose patience.
“Hey, William Wallace. Calm down, and repeat in the Queen’s English.”
Rory smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He took a deep breath and spoke more slowly. “I’ve been working through the personnel files of the private security company and I found something. One of the senior guards,” he picked up the remote and brought up a photograph of a man in his early forties, “is not who he claims to be. He is not from Wales, and his name is not Mark Jones. He is, in fact, from Northern Ireland. And his name is Ronan Flannery.”
Dimitri studied the face on the screen. “Any links to one of the radical Republican groups?”
“Er, no. Not that I could find. But there is this: his sister died in an IRA bomb blast in Belfast in ’78.”
Erin frowned. “That’s hardly a reason to assume a false identity. And surely his sister’s death would turn him against the IRA, if anything?”

Before the analyst could respond, Harry spoke. “Rory.”
There was a focused stillness to their boss and all eyes turned to him.
“The bomb blast; when in ’78?”
Rory consulted his notes. “June.”
“The O’Mally’s bomb?” Harry asked again.
“Yes,” Rory responded, his curiosity piqued. “How did you know?”
Harry took a beat before responding. “I was stationed in Belfast at the time.”
He seemed to gather himself and looked around the table. “In that war things were seldom black and white. It is quite possible that his sister’s death could have radicalised him. So I want you to pull this man’s life apart. I want to know everything there is to know about him, down to his favourite breakfast cereal.”
He looked at Erin. “And I want you to find a way to get Dimitri into this private security company undercover. You’ll have to make it bloody convincing – the Head is a former intelligence officer and won’t be fooled easily.”
As they filed out Erin turned back to look at Harry. He was staring at the photo of Flannery, deep in thought.

* * *
Same day, late night
Harry’s house

He was ensconced in his favourite armchair. A CD of cello concertos was playing softly in the background, but otherwise the house was quiet. It was late, close to midnight, and he was tired, but there were too many thoughts running through his head to allow for sleep. He reached for the journal.

28/05/12
Dear Ruth,
Jung’s concept of synchronicity. We once discussed it during one of those late night chats in my office, when it was just you, me and the ghosts still on the Grid. I loved those nights and can remember them all in detail. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Synchronicity, I mean. ‘The experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance and that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner.’ So how about this: The mayor insists on using a private security company for the Olympics, and it happens to be headed by a man who worked with me when Davie King bombed O’Mally’s to revenge the death of his father. And an Irish man, who lost his sister in that very same bombing, is one of the senior guards in this company, under an assumed name. Are these events causally unrelated? I wonder.

You would have known, I suspect.

I miss you, Ruth. In these nights when sleep is elusive in particular. I try not to wallow in it, but it’s hard not to in the quiet of midnight. Last night I dreamt of you – the same dream I’ve had quite a few times now. It always amazes me that one can dream so vividly about something that you’ve never experienced. The feel of your skin sliding against mine is so real that I forget for a moment we never made love. I experience a few minutes of true happiness, but then reality intrudes. The dream always ends with your blood staining my hands, and then I wake up. Sometimes I think it would be better to never have the dream again, but other days I think it’s worth it for those few minutes of bliss. I wonder what the psychologist would say about that.

She did get one aspect right though. I do feel better writing these things down, as if I’m talking to you. It helps me order my thoughts – you never were impressed by a poorly structured argument. I think I’ll take Smithy out for a drink, get him to reminisce about old times. See if I can find out whether synchronicity is, in fact, at play here.

Harry went upstairs, stripped and lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. He wished sleep would come but at the same time feared what dreams it would bring with it. Would there ever come a time when he would dream about her without it ending with her blood on his hands, his clothes; so bright red, so vivid? He fervently hoped so.

tbc]]> PART III

21 May 2012
London, the Grid

It was just after seven and the Grid was quietly awaiting the start of another day. Harry was in his office, catching up on paperwork, a coffee at his elbow. The doors swished open and a tall, thin man in his late thirties stepped through. Harry took in the neat suit, the dark brown hair, the look of curiosity on his face as he looked around the space. His gaze reached the Section Head’s office and Harry found himself looking into a pair of vibrant green eyes. Intelligent eyes. He beckoned to the man. Once he entered the office Harry stood and held out a hand.
“You’re early,” he commented as they shook hands.
“Sir Harry,” the man acknowledged. “Och, first day nerves I suppose. I wanted to get going as soon as possible.”
The Scottish accent was heavy, but not impenetrable.
Won’t need that translator after all, Harry thought wryly.
“Call me Harry,” he said instead.

The doors opened again and Erin came in.
“Ah, come along.” Harry strode out of the office.
“Erin, our new senior analyst has arrived. Rory Ferguson, meet Erin Watts, Section Chief. She’ll get you settled.”
Erin looked at Harry with a brief smile and nodded. It was the first time since their argument that she smiled at him and he recognised its significance. She had thought about what he’d said and had made her peace with it. Harry nodded back solemnly before returning to his office, and Erin turned her attention to the new arrival.
“Rory, welcome. You’ll have to hit the ground running I’m afraid. The Olympics is fast approaching and-“
She stopped talking as he smirked.
“What?”
“Nice pun,” he said.
She frowned in confusion.
“The Olympics?” he prompted, but she remained blank.
“Fast approaching, hit the ground running,” he explained, and she rolled her eyes.
“Not another one,” she said, exasperated.
When it was Rory’s turn to look confused she added, “You’ll understand when you meet Calum. Now, this is your station. And these,” she waved at the mountain of files covering it, “are the personnel files of the private security company the Mayor has engaged for the Olympics. Harry’s not happy about that so we need to make sure we have all the bases covered.”
Rory’s gaze drifted back to the man in the glass office. “Not the most gregarious man, is he? Word is that he’s hard to please.”
Erin looked at Harry and her face softened. “He’s a good man,” she responded after a beat. “And yes, he has high standards. But he’s fair. All he asks is that you do the best you can.”
The Scot watched her carefully as she spoke. Her affection and admiration for their boss was obvious. She thought for a moment, then continued.
“Listen, Rory. Harry recently lost someone he cared for very much. She was your predecessor, so… If he’s a little hard on you sometimes, just remember that, okay?”
Rory nodded slowly. “I will.” He looked at his desk and smiled slightly. “Better get stuck in.”

* * *
25 May 2012
London, Olympic Stadium

Harry had requested a tour of the Olympic stadium; he liked to know exactly what he was dealing with in terms of security concerns. As a result, he and Erin found themselves trailing along as the stadium manager explained the ins and outs of building it. He spent an inordinate amount of time explaining to them how the upper tier could be dismantled afterwards, making the stadium a shining example of future sustainable use by decreasing the cost of its upkeep after the Olympics.
“Fascinating,” Harry murmured, straight-faced, and only Erin picked up on the sardonic note in his voice. She turned her face away to hide her smile.
“Did you use any foreign contractors?” he asked, getting down to business.
The manager looked affronted. “No, sir. Only the best England can offer. Even the materials used were all sourced locally. And what we couldn’t find locally we got from Ireland and Wales, like some of these granite blocks.”
He kicked at one of the blocks anchoring a pillar deep in the bowels of the stadium.
“Oh! I haven’t shown you the change rooms yet. State of the art.”
He scurried off. Harry looked at Erin with a pained expression before following.

* * *
28 May 2012
London, the Grid

The doors slid open and the new techie stepped through. It was her fourth day on the team and she was beginning to feel more at ease with the job and her colleagues. In fact, she finally felt confident enough to come to work as she most preferred to look for the first time. However, some of that confidence evaporated when her entrance was greeted by a stunned silence. Calum was staring at her, shock written all over his face. Moments later he was on his feet and bearing down on her.
“Holy shit Jenny, do you want to get fired?” he demanded, taking in her purple hair, nose-stud and black make-up.
“If Harry sees you like this he’ll go ballistic.”
Jenny shrugged. “Come on, what does he care what I look like, as long as I do my job?”
Rory had now joined them and shook his head at her naivety. “Have you met Harry?” he enquired dryly. “He can be pretty persnickety.”

Both Jenny and Calum turned to stare at the analyst.
“Persnickety?” Jenny snorted. “Is that even a word?”
“Yes it is, Miss Palmer.”
Harry’s unexpected voice behind them made the other three jump.
“Oh crap,” Calum mumbled under his breath, earning a glare from Harry before he turned his attention back to the young woman.
“It describes someone who is fussy about small details or demands great precision,” he explained helpfully.
“It can also,” he said as his glare turned to Rory, “be used to describe someone who has the characteristics of a snob.”
The analyst shifted uncomfortably but kept quiet.
“Oh,” Jenny said feebly, drawing his attention back to her.
“Most erudite, Jennifer,” Harry retorted as he looked her up and down.
“Have you been, or are you about to go undercover at a rave?” he inquired mildly, but there was a dangerous glint in his eye.
Jenny glanced at Calum beseechingly and he shook his head imperceptibly at her, trying to warn her that this was not a good time to be a smart-mouth.
“No, sir,” she responded softly, dropping her eyes to stare at Harry’s immaculately polished shoes.
“Look at me,” he said sharply, and her head snapped up.
“I don’t care what you look like when you’re not at work, but when you step through those doors,” he swept an arm behind him, “you will look like a normal human being and not something that escaped from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Yes?”
She nodded. “Yes, Harry.”
“Good.” He disappeared into his office and shut the door firmly behind him.

Jenny stared after him, trying to unpick her feelings about her new boss. By rights she should find him annoying; an irritating old fogy that was way behind the times. She should resent the stentorian manner in which he spoke to her, and yet… She found herself wondering what it would have been like to have someone like him as her father rather than the drinking, womanising bastard she had the misfortune to get. Someone who called her Jennifer, who didn’t let her get away with anything, but who she could sense, underneath it all, truly cared about her well-being. She sighed and trudged off towards the Ladies.

* * *
One hour later

They were gathered in the meeting room for a routine update briefing. Jenny’s face was scrubbed clean, her hair was back to its normal colour and the stud was gone. It made her look absurdly young and Harry’s heart clenched. She reminded him of his daughter when Catherine was twenty-two and he sighed morosely. His first reaction when Calum had brought her file to him was to protest that she was too young, but Calum insisted that she was the most talented hacker of her generation and they should bring her into the fold before she turned to ‘the dark side’.

Rory burst into the room, interrupting his rumination, and waved a file around excitedly.
“I’ve found something.” He was triumphant and started speaking rapidly, the Scottish accent thicker than ever. The team frowned at each other in confusion as they struggled to figure out what their analyst was on about. Calum was the first to lose patience.
“Hey, William Wallace. Calm down, and repeat in the Queen’s English.”
Rory smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.”
He took a deep breath and spoke more slowly. “I’ve been working through the personnel files of the private security company and I found something. One of the senior guards,” he picked up the remote and brought up a photograph of a man in his early forties, “is not who he claims to be. He is not from Wales, and his name is not Mark Jones. He is, in fact, from Northern Ireland. And his name is Ronan Flannery.”
Dimitri studied the face on the screen. “Any links to one of the radical Republican groups?”
“Er, no. Not that I could find. But there is this: his sister died in an IRA bomb blast in Belfast in ’78.”
Erin frowned. “That’s hardly a reason to assume a false identity. And surely his sister’s death would turn him against the IRA, if anything?”

Before the analyst could respond, Harry spoke. “Rory.”
There was a focused stillness to their boss and all eyes turned to him.
“The bomb blast; when in ’78?”
Rory consulted his notes. “June.”
“The O’Mally’s bomb?” Harry asked again.
“Yes,” Rory responded, his curiosity piqued. “How did you know?”
Harry took a beat before responding. “I was stationed in Belfast at the time.”
He seemed to gather himself and looked around the table. “In that war things were seldom black and white. It is quite possible that his sister’s death could have radicalised him. So I want you to pull this man’s life apart. I want to know everything there is to know about him, down to his favourite breakfast cereal.”
He looked at Erin. “And I want you to find a way to get Dimitri into this private security company undercover. You’ll have to make it bloody convincing – the Head is a former intelligence officer and won’t be fooled easily.”
As they filed out Erin turned back to look at Harry. He was staring at the photo of Flannery, deep in thought.

* * *
Same day, late night
Harry’s house

He was ensconced in his favourite armchair. A CD of cello concertos was playing softly in the background, but otherwise the house was quiet. It was late, close to midnight, and he was tired, but there were too many thoughts running through his head to allow for sleep. He reached for the journal.

28/05/12
Dear Ruth,
Jung’s concept of synchronicity. We once discussed it during one of those late night chats in my office, when it was just you, me and the ghosts still on the Grid. I loved those nights and can remember them all in detail. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Synchronicity, I mean. ‘The experience of two or more events that are apparently causally unrelated or unlikely to occur together by chance and that are observed to occur together in a meaningful manner.’ So how about this: The mayor insists on using a private security company for the Olympics, and it happens to be headed by a man who worked with me when Davie King bombed O’Mally’s to revenge the death of his father. And an Irish man, who lost his sister in that very same bombing, is one of the senior guards in this company, under an assumed name. Are these events causally unrelated? I wonder.

You would have known, I suspect.

I miss you, Ruth. In these nights when sleep is elusive in particular. I try not to wallow in it, but it’s hard not to in the quiet of midnight. Last night I dreamt of you – the same dream I’ve had quite a few times now. It always amazes me that one can dream so vividly about something that you’ve never experienced. The feel of your skin sliding against mine is so real that I forget for a moment we never made love. I experience a few minutes of true happiness, but then reality intrudes. The dream always ends with your blood staining my hands, and then I wake up. Sometimes I think it would be better to never have the dream again, but other days I think it’s worth it for those few minutes of bliss. I wonder what the psychologist would say about that.

She did get one aspect right though. I do feel better writing these things down, as if I’m talking to you. It helps me order my thoughts – you never were impressed by a poorly structured argument. I think I’ll take Smithy out for a drink, get him to reminisce about old times. See if I can find out whether synchronicity is, in fact, at play here.

Harry went upstairs, stripped and lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. He wished sleep would come but at the same time feared what dreams it would bring with it. Would there ever come a time when he would dream about her without it ending with her blood on his hands, his clothes; so bright red, so vivid? He fervently hoped so.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part II]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2051.html Wed, 14 Dec 2011 09:57:10 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2051.html PART II

29 April 2012
London, the Grid

Erin came to a stop in front of Harry’s desk and they stared at each other wordlessly. Neither blinked.
“Don’t you ever ask me to use a child like that again,” she ground out.
Harry pursed his lips. “I will give you any order I deem to be the most effective at that particular moment, and you will carry them out,” he responded icily. “Lives depend upon you doing so.”
Her face flushed. “Screw you, Harry! There is a line we don’t cross. Or at least, there is one that I won’t cross. You on the other hand-”
She stopped herself, breathing heavily, before plunging on. “What if it had been Rosie, for God’s sake? Would you have ordered Rosie tied to that bomb?”

And there it was; the crux of the matter. Harry held her glare and his silence was all the answer she needed. Her eyes flashed mutinously and suddenly he was so, so tired. He stood up and collected his coat, brushing past his Section Chief as he did so. After shrugging it on he turned to her.
“But it wasn’t Rosie, Erin.”
He stepped back behind the desk. “Imaginative compassion is a liability in this job. You can’t afford to play the ‘what if’ game, not when there are so many lives at stake. The best you can hope for is that the day that it turns out to be Rosie you will not be the one that will have to make the decisions.”
Harry held her eyes, making sure the message sank in, before he reached for his glass, the gesture a dismissal. Erin stood a moment longer, then turned abruptly and stalked out. Harry rubbed his forehead wearily and nudged the file out of the way to stare at the words he had written.
Dear Ruth
Pain engulfed him and he sucked in a ragged breath.

Out on the Grid, Calum watched the man in the office toss back the Scotch, then pick up the leatherbound journal from his desk and slip it into his pocket. He left without a word. As soon as the doors closed behind him, Calum picked up the phone.

* * *
Twenty minutes later
London, South Bank

Harry sat on the bench and stared across the river unseeingly. It was early evening on a Spring day and the setting sun gave all it touched a golden glow. He didn’t notice the beauty of the day; his focus was inward. After an eternity he reached into his pocket and pulled out the journal. It fell open on the last page he had written on.

29/04/12
Dear Ruth,

He pulled out his pen and resumed.

Today I ordered that a four year old boy be tied to a bomb. He had dark hair, and dark eyes. Today of all days, Ruth. Just as I think that life can’t get any more wretched, it gives me a day like today. The universe is a cruel taskmaster, isn’t it?

All turned out well in the end, although I think the episode may have put a strain on Erin and Dimitri’s relationship. She refused to carry out my order, and Dimitri stepped up. I am more impressed with him every day. He is turning into a top class officer – brave, clear-headed, with good judgement. Erin, though… I worry about her sometimes. She hasn’t yet found the right balance between compassion and ruthlessness that is so crucial in this job. But then, she probably thinks the same about me. I can see it in her eyes when I make decisions such as the one I made today. She thinks I’m harder because I lost you.

A shadow fell across the page and Harry looked up to see William Towers stand in front of him. The Home Secretary’s eyes rested on the journal and Harry closed it gently.
“Hello, Harry.”
“Home Secretary.”
Towers settled himself on the bench next to Harry. “I’m off the clock,” he stated amiably, as if that explained his presence adequately, and half turned to observe the man next to him.
Harry nodded but didn’t respond, so Towers pressed on.
“I was on my way to get a drink and dinner when I saw you. Do you want to join me?”
Harry’s mouth twitched, whether in derision or amusement his companion wasn’t quite sure.
“You’re terrible at this,” he stated bluntly.
“Am I?” Towers shrugged. “I thought I was being quite subtle, myself.”
He watched Harry closely and was gratified to see the smile stretch a tad wider.
“Oh, you’re a paragon of understatement, William,” Harry said dryly and finally turned to face the other man. “Why are you really here?”
Towers sighed and looked out over the river. “Because of the date,” he responded softly and somewhat uncomfortably. “I… thought you might appreciate some company tonight.”
Harry was quiet for a while, his gaze on the journal in his hands.
“No,” he said eventually. “No thank you.”

The Home Secretary accepted the rebuff in good grace. Truth be told, he hadn’t really expected a different answer. He leaned back and stretched out his legs, watching the few people dotted around the Embankment. It was too early for the evening rush, it seemed. A red bus crawling along on the opposite bank caught his attention.
“Only three months to the Olympics, Harry. How are we doing on the security arrangements?”
The spook lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were off the clock,” he murmured.
Towers smiled ruefully. “You’re right, you’re right,” he conceded. “You’re a bad influence on me.”
Harry smiled and relented. “I have a meeting with the honourable mayor of London next week to finalise everything.”
A note of distaste crept into his voice. “He’s contracted a private security company to assist.”
The Home Secretary rolled his eyes. “Good God.”
“Indeed. I’ve tried to argue against it, but you know what he’s like.”
“Yes. Well, good luck, and keep me updated.”

Towers stood, and looked at the man who had become a friend in the last few months with compassion. He noted the way his thumb absently traced over the journal in his hand and the faraway look in his eyes.
“Harry,” he said gently. “You need to fill the vacant positions in your section soon. You’re going to need all the hands you can get for the Olympics.”
Harry’s jaw clenched and he blinked, then nodded. “I know.”
Towers waited but Harry said nothing more. He sighed inaudibly.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it. If you change your mind about dinner...”
Harry nodded mutely, gratefully, but they both knew he wouldn’t.
Towers walked away. He looked back once and saw Harry busily writing. He hoped there weren’t too many state secrets in that journal.

* * *

He wrote:
Erin’s wrong though. I would have done the same had you been there. In fact, I like to think that you would have understood the need for the order, even though you would have hated it.

Harry paused, a niggling thought fighting its way to the front of his mind.
Or perhaps I’m turning you into something you never were – a yes-man (all right, yes-woman). A way to salve my conscience, to justify my actions. How could I truly claim to know how you would have reacted? Is it possible for people to know each other so well, that they could always predict the other’s reaction? I’m not so sure about that any more. Time passes and we remember things from our own perspective, rather than objectively. How could it be otherwise? Life is subjective.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Three months until the Olympics and Towers just reminded me that I need to find a second techie. And the hardest of all, a new analyst. Life must go on, even if I should wish it not to today.

Harry looked up, took a deep breath, and wrote a final few words.

Happy birthday, Ruth.

He closed the journal and slowly made his way home.

* * *
8 May 2012
Office of the Mayor, London

Harry was shown into the office by an efficient woman who regarded him with ill-disguised curiosity. He was used to the reaction; people who didn’t often meet members of the Security Services tended to find the experience quite exciting, until they realised that the spies were normal people like anyone else. He declined her offer of coffee and shifted his attention to the man behind the desk. The Mayor rose and came forward to shake his hand.
“Sir Harry. Thank you for coming. Getting excited about the Olympics yet, are we?”
“No,” Harry said acerbically. “The day they recognise cricket as an Olympic sport is the day I’ll get excited about it.”
The Mayor faltered momentarily. “Er, right. Well. I called this meeting to introduce you to the Head of the private security firm I’ve hired-“
“About that, Mayor,” Harry interrupted. “Let me reiterate once again that I find it highly irregular and, frankly, irresponsible. I cannot stress strongly enough how concerned I am about the involvement of this private security firm.”
The Mayor laughed. “Oh, relax. Must you take everything so seriously?”
He failed to notice Harry’s face darken ominously and blithely sailed on. “I didn’t rake in a firm willy-nilly from the street. There was a tender process, all above board.”
“Oh, a tender process. Well, thank God, we can now all sleep easy in our beds at night,” Harry retorted scathingly.
The Mayor frowned, taken aback. “I fail to see the problem-“
“Did you do a security audit on this firm? Background checks on every single guard to be used, every executive, every person who’s ever sold them equipment?”
“Well no, but it’s hardly necessary.” He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. “You see, the Head of the firm used to be one of you chaps. He assured me that he only employs the most trustworthy personnel.”
Harry stared at him, aghast. “You simply took his word for it? You imbec-“
The door opened at that opportune moment, preventing Harry from insulting the Mayor of London’s mental faculties. He turned away, trying to check his anger.
Behind him the secretary said, “Mr Smith from Fortress Inc is here, Mayor,” and ushered another man in.
Harry swung around and was met with an old face from the past.

* * *
Same day, late evening
The Grid

Harry sat in his office, jacket off and tie loosened. The rest of the Grid was shrouded in darkness. He nursed his second whisky of the night carefully, making it last. The journal lay open before him and he thought for a moment before beginning.

08/05/12
Dear Ruth,
The mayor remains adamant about using a private security firm to protect some of the Olympic venues. Have you ever heard such poppycock? I appealed to Towers, but even he couldn’t sway the man. I’m not sure what lies behind it – normally with politicians I would put my money on, well, money, but I have set Calum onto it and he can’t find any whiff of corruption or irregularity about the tender process. And then today I walk into his office to learn he’d done no background checks before awarding the tender, because the Head of the firm that won it used to be ‘one of us chaps’. The sheer stupidity of it is astounding. I know, I know; I should have expected something like this from a politician. Maybe I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security by William’s competence.

Anyway. The Head of the firm is Melvyn Smith. Smithy, of all people. I used to work with him way back in Belfast. He was an agent handler, but I lost touch with him after Bill’s death and my subsequent transfer to Six. I vaguely recall that he left the Service shortly after. I’m not surprised – I remember him as a cautious man, unwilling to take the risks that are sometimes needed to get things done. These are not good traits for an intelligence officer to have. He seemed happy enough to see me, even though we didn’t part on the best of terms. After Bill’s death, he made a comment in a meeting that we’d brought it upon ourselves because of the ‘bad things’ we’d done. I was sure that it was a not-so-subtle reference to Davie King’s father and I didn’t take kindly to it. I punched him. Shortly after that I was transferred and I never saw him again.

Something is bothering me about the whole situation, Ruth, but I don’t know why. I have this sense of unease, which is growing stronger as the Olympics get closer. I wish that I were more sure of my instincts, but after everything that’s happened I can’t help but doubt myself. Elena played me and I never suspected, never had the slightest inkling. Am I now seeing monsters under the bed that aren’t there? I intend to find out.

Perhaps your replacement, which arrives in two weeks’ time, can figure it out. I hope I don’t need a translator.

I hope I can cope with someone else in your post.

tbc]]> PART II

29 April 2012
London, the Grid

Erin came to a stop in front of Harry’s desk and they stared at each other wordlessly. Neither blinked.
“Don’t you ever ask me to use a child like that again,” she ground out.
Harry pursed his lips. “I will give you any order I deem to be the most effective at that particular moment, and you will carry them out,” he responded icily. “Lives depend upon you doing so.”
Her face flushed. “Screw you, Harry! There is a line we don’t cross. Or at least, there is one that I won’t cross. You on the other hand-”
She stopped herself, breathing heavily, before plunging on. “What if it had been Rosie, for God’s sake? Would you have ordered Rosie tied to that bomb?”

And there it was; the crux of the matter. Harry held her glare and his silence was all the answer she needed. Her eyes flashed mutinously and suddenly he was so, so tired. He stood up and collected his coat, brushing past his Section Chief as he did so. After shrugging it on he turned to her.
“But it wasn’t Rosie, Erin.”
He stepped back behind the desk. “Imaginative compassion is a liability in this job. You can’t afford to play the ‘what if’ game, not when there are so many lives at stake. The best you can hope for is that the day that it turns out to be Rosie you will not be the one that will have to make the decisions.”
Harry held her eyes, making sure the message sank in, before he reached for his glass, the gesture a dismissal. Erin stood a moment longer, then turned abruptly and stalked out. Harry rubbed his forehead wearily and nudged the file out of the way to stare at the words he had written.
Dear Ruth
Pain engulfed him and he sucked in a ragged breath.

Out on the Grid, Calum watched the man in the office toss back the Scotch, then pick up the leatherbound journal from his desk and slip it into his pocket. He left without a word. As soon as the doors closed behind him, Calum picked up the phone.

* * *
Twenty minutes later
London, South Bank

Harry sat on the bench and stared across the river unseeingly. It was early evening on a Spring day and the setting sun gave all it touched a golden glow. He didn’t notice the beauty of the day; his focus was inward. After an eternity he reached into his pocket and pulled out the journal. It fell open on the last page he had written on.

29/04/12
Dear Ruth,

He pulled out his pen and resumed.

Today I ordered that a four year old boy be tied to a bomb. He had dark hair, and dark eyes. Today of all days, Ruth. Just as I think that life can’t get any more wretched, it gives me a day like today. The universe is a cruel taskmaster, isn’t it?

All turned out well in the end, although I think the episode may have put a strain on Erin and Dimitri’s relationship. She refused to carry out my order, and Dimitri stepped up. I am more impressed with him every day. He is turning into a top class officer – brave, clear-headed, with good judgement. Erin, though… I worry about her sometimes. She hasn’t yet found the right balance between compassion and ruthlessness that is so crucial in this job. But then, she probably thinks the same about me. I can see it in her eyes when I make decisions such as the one I made today. She thinks I’m harder because I lost you.

A shadow fell across the page and Harry looked up to see William Towers stand in front of him. The Home Secretary’s eyes rested on the journal and Harry closed it gently.
“Hello, Harry.”
“Home Secretary.”
Towers settled himself on the bench next to Harry. “I’m off the clock,” he stated amiably, as if that explained his presence adequately, and half turned to observe the man next to him.
Harry nodded but didn’t respond, so Towers pressed on.
“I was on my way to get a drink and dinner when I saw you. Do you want to join me?”
Harry’s mouth twitched, whether in derision or amusement his companion wasn’t quite sure.
“You’re terrible at this,” he stated bluntly.
“Am I?” Towers shrugged. “I thought I was being quite subtle, myself.”
He watched Harry closely and was gratified to see the smile stretch a tad wider.
“Oh, you’re a paragon of understatement, William,” Harry said dryly and finally turned to face the other man. “Why are you really here?”
Towers sighed and looked out over the river. “Because of the date,” he responded softly and somewhat uncomfortably. “I… thought you might appreciate some company tonight.”
Harry was quiet for a while, his gaze on the journal in his hands.
“No,” he said eventually. “No thank you.”

The Home Secretary accepted the rebuff in good grace. Truth be told, he hadn’t really expected a different answer. He leaned back and stretched out his legs, watching the few people dotted around the Embankment. It was too early for the evening rush, it seemed. A red bus crawling along on the opposite bank caught his attention.
“Only three months to the Olympics, Harry. How are we doing on the security arrangements?”
The spook lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were off the clock,” he murmured.
Towers smiled ruefully. “You’re right, you’re right,” he conceded. “You’re a bad influence on me.”
Harry smiled and relented. “I have a meeting with the honourable mayor of London next week to finalise everything.”
A note of distaste crept into his voice. “He’s contracted a private security company to assist.”
The Home Secretary rolled his eyes. “Good God.”
“Indeed. I’ve tried to argue against it, but you know what he’s like.”
“Yes. Well, good luck, and keep me updated.”

Towers stood, and looked at the man who had become a friend in the last few months with compassion. He noted the way his thumb absently traced over the journal in his hand and the faraway look in his eyes.
“Harry,” he said gently. “You need to fill the vacant positions in your section soon. You’re going to need all the hands you can get for the Olympics.”
Harry’s jaw clenched and he blinked, then nodded. “I know.”
Towers waited but Harry said nothing more. He sighed inaudibly.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it. If you change your mind about dinner...”
Harry nodded mutely, gratefully, but they both knew he wouldn’t.
Towers walked away. He looked back once and saw Harry busily writing. He hoped there weren’t too many state secrets in that journal.

* * *

He wrote:
Erin’s wrong though. I would have done the same had you been there. In fact, I like to think that you would have understood the need for the order, even though you would have hated it.

Harry paused, a niggling thought fighting its way to the front of his mind.
Or perhaps I’m turning you into something you never were – a yes-man (all right, yes-woman). A way to salve my conscience, to justify my actions. How could I truly claim to know how you would have reacted? Is it possible for people to know each other so well, that they could always predict the other’s reaction? I’m not so sure about that any more. Time passes and we remember things from our own perspective, rather than objectively. How could it be otherwise? Life is subjective.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Three months until the Olympics and Towers just reminded me that I need to find a second techie. And the hardest of all, a new analyst. Life must go on, even if I should wish it not to today.

Harry looked up, took a deep breath, and wrote a final few words.

Happy birthday, Ruth.

He closed the journal and slowly made his way home.

* * *
8 May 2012
Office of the Mayor, London

Harry was shown into the office by an efficient woman who regarded him with ill-disguised curiosity. He was used to the reaction; people who didn’t often meet members of the Security Services tended to find the experience quite exciting, until they realised that the spies were normal people like anyone else. He declined her offer of coffee and shifted his attention to the man behind the desk. The Mayor rose and came forward to shake his hand.
“Sir Harry. Thank you for coming. Getting excited about the Olympics yet, are we?”
“No,” Harry said acerbically. “The day they recognise cricket as an Olympic sport is the day I’ll get excited about it.”
The Mayor faltered momentarily. “Er, right. Well. I called this meeting to introduce you to the Head of the private security firm I’ve hired-“
“About that, Mayor,” Harry interrupted. “Let me reiterate once again that I find it highly irregular and, frankly, irresponsible. I cannot stress strongly enough how concerned I am about the involvement of this private security firm.”
The Mayor laughed. “Oh, relax. Must you take everything so seriously?”
He failed to notice Harry’s face darken ominously and blithely sailed on. “I didn’t rake in a firm willy-nilly from the street. There was a tender process, all above board.”
“Oh, a tender process. Well, thank God, we can now all sleep easy in our beds at night,” Harry retorted scathingly.
The Mayor frowned, taken aback. “I fail to see the problem-“
“Did you do a security audit on this firm? Background checks on every single guard to be used, every executive, every person who’s ever sold them equipment?”
“Well no, but it’s hardly necessary.” He smiled broadly, pleased with himself. “You see, the Head of the firm used to be one of you chaps. He assured me that he only employs the most trustworthy personnel.”
Harry stared at him, aghast. “You simply took his word for it? You imbec-“
The door opened at that opportune moment, preventing Harry from insulting the Mayor of London’s mental faculties. He turned away, trying to check his anger.
Behind him the secretary said, “Mr Smith from Fortress Inc is here, Mayor,” and ushered another man in.
Harry swung around and was met with an old face from the past.

* * *
Same day, late evening
The Grid

Harry sat in his office, jacket off and tie loosened. The rest of the Grid was shrouded in darkness. He nursed his second whisky of the night carefully, making it last. The journal lay open before him and he thought for a moment before beginning.

08/05/12
Dear Ruth,
The mayor remains adamant about using a private security firm to protect some of the Olympic venues. Have you ever heard such poppycock? I appealed to Towers, but even he couldn’t sway the man. I’m not sure what lies behind it – normally with politicians I would put my money on, well, money, but I have set Calum onto it and he can’t find any whiff of corruption or irregularity about the tender process. And then today I walk into his office to learn he’d done no background checks before awarding the tender, because the Head of the firm that won it used to be ‘one of us chaps’. The sheer stupidity of it is astounding. I know, I know; I should have expected something like this from a politician. Maybe I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security by William’s competence.

Anyway. The Head of the firm is Melvyn Smith. Smithy, of all people. I used to work with him way back in Belfast. He was an agent handler, but I lost touch with him after Bill’s death and my subsequent transfer to Six. I vaguely recall that he left the Service shortly after. I’m not surprised – I remember him as a cautious man, unwilling to take the risks that are sometimes needed to get things done. These are not good traits for an intelligence officer to have. He seemed happy enough to see me, even though we didn’t part on the best of terms. After Bill’s death, he made a comment in a meeting that we’d brought it upon ourselves because of the ‘bad things’ we’d done. I was sure that it was a not-so-subtle reference to Davie King’s father and I didn’t take kindly to it. I punched him. Shortly after that I was transferred and I never saw him again.

Something is bothering me about the whole situation, Ruth, but I don’t know why. I have this sense of unease, which is growing stronger as the Olympics get closer. I wish that I were more sure of my instincts, but after everything that’s happened I can’t help but doubt myself. Elena played me and I never suspected, never had the slightest inkling. Am I now seeing monsters under the bed that aren’t there? I intend to find out.

Perhaps your replacement, which arrives in two weeks’ time, can figure it out. I hope I don’t need a translator.

I hope I can cope with someone else in your post.

tbc]]> <![CDATA[Requiem for the Dead Part I]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2050.html Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:17:43 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-2050.html Spoilers for season 10

Warning: Language


I have a lot of work to do today:
I need to slaughter memory,
turn my living soul to stone
then teach myself to live again...
- Anna Akhmatova: Requiem


PART I

June 1978
MI5 Office, Belfast

Connie James burst into the meeting room and the three men gathered around the table looked up in surprise. Her eyes went to the blond, younger man at the head of the table. His face still bore the evidence of his very recent kidnap and beating by the IRA Nutting Squad and the cuts and bruises made him appear faintly sinister. Harry Pearce, firmly on his way to becoming the next big thing in British Intelligence, regarded her quizzically.
“Such urgency - is there a bomb somewhere, Connie?” he enquired with a smile. It was a standing joke in the MI5 station in Belfast, belying the tension they all lived with: when would the next one go off? It raised a smirk from the man next to Harry, his best friend and trusted lieutenant, Bill Crombie. Connie thought Bill rather more attractive than his friend, and she was strangely annoyed that he found the tired old joke this funny. Well, her news would soon wipe those smiles off their faces.
“They just found the body of Davie King’s father,” she announced. “Dumped naked in the street in front of a police station.”

A shocked silence greeted her statement. Harry closed his eyes and fleetingly she read shame and self-disgust in his expression, but it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“Jesus, they killed him?” It was the other agent handler at the table, Melvyn Smith, who spoke first.
Connie sat down. “Yes. And they took their time to do it, according to the plods.” Her voice stayed calm; only the darkening of the striking blue eyes betrayed her inner turmoil.
She watched Harry intently. What would the golden boy do now? It was on his orders that they had spread the rumours after all, and she half expected him to shift the blame.

Her thoughts went back to that fateful meeting four days ago when she’d informed Harry that her asset in the IRA had gone rogue. Davie King had taken all that Connie had taught him about the art of making bombs and had begun using it on unofficial targets according to his own desire. They had created a monster and now they had to deal with the fall-out.

* * *
Four days earlier

“Can we kill him?” Harry asked, surprising Connie with his bluntness. None of the usual euphemisms for assassination for him, apparently.
She shook her head. “We have no other assets who can get to him, and he’ll be on his guard against outsiders.”
They both pondered for a moment.
“Unless…” Connie said.
“What?”
“Unless your new high grade source in the Nutting Squad could get to him. Steak Knife.”
Harry blinked as the mention of Steak Knife brought suppressed memories rushing back to the surface.

The smell of blood, and fear, and piss, as he watched Patrick McCann move down the line of men across from him.
“Which of these bastards are your spies, you limey fucker? This one?” He slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s face and watched Harry carefully for a reaction. He got none. “No? How about this one?” McCann casually shot the man in the kneecap. His screams reverberated around Harry’s skull.

Harry forced his mind back to the present. “We can’t risk exposing Steak Knife for this. He’s too important.”
He was right, and Connie knew it. They would have to find another way to stop King.
“Down to Finances, Family and Friends then,” Melvyn suggested.
Harry nodded. “Smithy is right. But we don’t have time to pussyfoot around with finances and friends. We need to shut Davie down fast. What’s his family situation like, Connie?”
“It’s only him and his father. The father is a good man. A taxi driver. He’s not involved in the IRA.”
They all watched Harry mull this over. He lifted his head and looked around the table.
“Right, this is what I want you to do. Put out word on the street that Davie’s father is one of our informants. Connie, you leave a message for Davie that if he comes in, we’ll clear his father’s name. If he doesn’t – well, he should know better than anyone what his mates in the IRA do to informants.”
Smithy stared at Harry in disbelief. “You’re going to put an innocent man at risk to achieve our aims?”
Harry straightened his shoulders, his jaw clenched. “Do you have a better solution?”
When no response was forthcoming, he nodded, his resolve strengthened. “Unpleasant though it may be, this is the only option on the table. So that’s what we’ll do.”
The others filed slowly out of the room but Connie lingered behind. When Harry looked at her he saw admiration and a hint of envy in her eyes.
She spoke, a sardonic smile on her lips. “You’ll go far in this place, young Harry Pearce. You have ice water in those veins.”

* * *
Four days later

Harry stood up, his face unreadable. “We have to up the alert level and warn all intelligence officers. Davie King will be out for revenge. I’ll go tell Simon.”
Simon Cooper was the Head of Station and a man who didn’t like it when his officers went off-piste. Connie wondered whether this incident would put the brakes on that meteoric rise Harry seemed destined for. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she did not find the thought unpleasant. Even as her admiration grew for the manner in which he was taking responsibility for his own actions, so her jealousy at his instant success continued to fester.

* * *
One week later

The young man strode down the street, eagerly looking forward to seeing the girl he was in love with for the first time in ten days. Work had been busy and he’d only managed a few snatched conversations on the phone with her. He rounded the corner and there she was, waiting in front of O’Mally’s for him. She was so beautiful that he stopped for a moment to gaze at her. The hesitation saved his life. There was a bright flash behind her and the windows of the pub blew outward, enveloping her. The boom of the explosion reached him a split-second later and his heart stopped. He ran forward, hurling himself into the thick dust cloud hanging over the pub with no thought to his own safety, only to stumble over a chunk of the wall. As he fell to his knees the dust lifted momentarily and he saw her. A spar of wood was sticking out of her chest and her dress was turning a bright red. He scrambled closer, a sob tearing from his throat.
“Oh no, oh Jesus no. Andrea…”
He cradled her to his chest, and she looked into his eyes briefly before her own closed for good.

* * *
MI5 Office, one hour later

Harry walked into the tea room with a heavy tread. Connie looked up and the expression on his face told her everything she needed to know.
“It was Davie’s work, then?”
Harry nodded wearily. “Twelve dead, including two Army Intelligence guys,” he said, before turning on his heel and walking away.
Connie turned back to her tea and somehow knew that those twelve lives would lie on Harry’s soul as heavily as they would on hers. She felt the anger build up inside. How much longer would this dirty war drag on? England couldn’t even keep its own house in order, yet it still wanted to throw its weight around on the world stage. What a pathetic little empire they had become.

* * * * *
29 April 2012
London, the Grid

Harry paced the floor behind Calum, hands in pockets. He glanced at the counter again. Twenty minutes. The comms crackled and grainy footage flickered into life on the techie’s monitor.
“They’re in,” he announced unnecessarily.
Harry leaned over his shoulder. “Report,” he ordered.
Erin’s voice came through. “The bomb is real. Big enough to bring the whole building down. It needs a code to stop it.”
Images of the bomb fed back to the Grid as Dimitri circled the device with the camera.
Calum whistled. “That’s going to make a big bang. This guy clearly has a God complex.”
Harry ignored the comment. “Can we bypass the code in some way?”
Calum’s fingers danced over the keyboard. He could feel the impatience radiating from his boss behind him.
“Nope,” he said finally. “We need to get that code.”

Harry straightened up and turned away, weighing up options. He glanced at the clock again and made his decision. No time to waste.
“Does CO19 have the boy?”
Calum nodded. “They have him outside the building.”
“Alpha One,” Harry said evenly, “CO19 has our bomber’s son outside. Fetch him and tie him to that bomb.”
There was a stunned pause, before Erin responded sharply.
“What?!”
Harry frowned. “You heard me.”
“No,” she shook her head at the camera. “I won’t tie an innocent child to a bomb. I refuse!” Her voice rose dangerously.
Harry glanced at the counter again. “I am not debating this with you, Erin. It is not a request, it is an order. Now do your bloody job.” Harry didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have to.
“Erin-“ they heard Dimitri say before she overrode him.
“No. I won’t do it.”
A heavy silence settled, in which the ticking of the clock counting inexorably down to zero sounded like hammer blows.
“Then you have just condemned five hundred innocent people to death,” Harry responded brusquely and turned away, trying to rein in his anger.
Another voice broke in.
“I’ll do it,” Dimitri said.
Erin started to protest but he cut her off. “Harry’s right. Five hundred people, Erin. There is no choice here.”
He turned to the camera. “I’ll have him in position in ten minutes.”
“Good,” Harry responded. He looked at Calum. “Put the feed through to the interrogation room,” he ordered, and strode off.

Outside the interrogation room Harry stood for a minute, watching the smug, disturbed man sitting bound to the chair inside. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“I want the code,” he said without preamble.
The man lifted his eyes and smiled mirthlessly.
“Piss off.”
Harry didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “No, I don’t think I will.”
He moved to the monitor mounted against the wall and switched it on.
It took the man a few seconds to process what he was seeing. He tried to jump to his feet but the restraints held him in place. Struggling violently against them, he spluttered, “Get him out of there! Get my son out of there now!”
Harry watched him, expressionless. “Give me the code.”
The man tore his eyes from the screen and for the first time properly looked at the spook who had just turned his world upside down. He saw no sympathy, no spark of emotion in the forbidding face, and a cold fear gripped his heart.
“What kind of a man are you? What kind of man would tie a little boy to a bomb?”
Harry actually smiled. “The code,” he demanded again.
“You fucking heartless bastard! You’re a monster-“
He didn’t get any further. Harry took two steps forward and loomed over him menacingly.
“I’m not the one who planted a bomb in a building because I got fired. The code.”

On the monitor behind him, a four year old boy sat alone in a room, tied to a bomb, crying.

* * *
One hour later

It took an hour to tie all the loose ends and to persuade the powers that be that it was simply one crazy man with a grudge, not a terror threat. Finally alone in his office, Harry loosened his tie and poured a drink. He sank into his chair wearily and sat still, inhaling the peaty aroma of the Scotch.
Just one, he promised silently.
After a few sips he put the glass aside and picked up his pen. He began to write:

29/04/12
Dear Ruth,

The Grid’s doors slid open, breaking his train of thought. He glanced up to see Erin and Dimitri step through, back from supervising the dismantling of the bomb. The tension lay thick between them and Erin’s face was pale and set. She turned toward his office immediately, only to be intercepted by Calum.
“Come on, Erin, give him a break,” he heard the techie say, and then he added more quietly, “especially today.”
She paid him no heed; merely stepped around him and marched on.
Harry put down his pen and drew a file over his writing, then sat back and waited for the coming storm.

tbc


Note: The part about events in Belfast is based on combined information from episode 6.9 and Harry's Diary.]]> Spoilers for season 10

Warning: Language


I have a lot of work to do today:
I need to slaughter memory,
turn my living soul to stone
then teach myself to live again...
- Anna Akhmatova: Requiem


PART I

June 1978
MI5 Office, Belfast

Connie James burst into the meeting room and the three men gathered around the table looked up in surprise. Her eyes went to the blond, younger man at the head of the table. His face still bore the evidence of his very recent kidnap and beating by the IRA Nutting Squad and the cuts and bruises made him appear faintly sinister. Harry Pearce, firmly on his way to becoming the next big thing in British Intelligence, regarded her quizzically.
“Such urgency - is there a bomb somewhere, Connie?” he enquired with a smile. It was a standing joke in the MI5 station in Belfast, belying the tension they all lived with: when would the next one go off? It raised a smirk from the man next to Harry, his best friend and trusted lieutenant, Bill Crombie. Connie thought Bill rather more attractive than his friend, and she was strangely annoyed that he found the tired old joke this funny. Well, her news would soon wipe those smiles off their faces.
“They just found the body of Davie King’s father,” she announced. “Dumped naked in the street in front of a police station.”

A shocked silence greeted her statement. Harry closed his eyes and fleetingly she read shame and self-disgust in his expression, but it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“Jesus, they killed him?” It was the other agent handler at the table, Melvyn Smith, who spoke first.
Connie sat down. “Yes. And they took their time to do it, according to the plods.” Her voice stayed calm; only the darkening of the striking blue eyes betrayed her inner turmoil.
She watched Harry intently. What would the golden boy do now? It was on his orders that they had spread the rumours after all, and she half expected him to shift the blame.

Her thoughts went back to that fateful meeting four days ago when she’d informed Harry that her asset in the IRA had gone rogue. Davie King had taken all that Connie had taught him about the art of making bombs and had begun using it on unofficial targets according to his own desire. They had created a monster and now they had to deal with the fall-out.

* * *
Four days earlier

“Can we kill him?” Harry asked, surprising Connie with his bluntness. None of the usual euphemisms for assassination for him, apparently.
She shook her head. “We have no other assets who can get to him, and he’ll be on his guard against outsiders.”
They both pondered for a moment.
“Unless…” Connie said.
“What?”
“Unless your new high grade source in the Nutting Squad could get to him. Steak Knife.”
Harry blinked as the mention of Steak Knife brought suppressed memories rushing back to the surface.

The smell of blood, and fear, and piss, as he watched Patrick McCann move down the line of men across from him.
“Which of these bastards are your spies, you limey fucker? This one?” He slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s face and watched Harry carefully for a reaction. He got none. “No? How about this one?” McCann casually shot the man in the kneecap. His screams reverberated around Harry’s skull.

Harry forced his mind back to the present. “We can’t risk exposing Steak Knife for this. He’s too important.”
He was right, and Connie knew it. They would have to find another way to stop King.
“Down to Finances, Family and Friends then,” Melvyn suggested.
Harry nodded. “Smithy is right. But we don’t have time to pussyfoot around with finances and friends. We need to shut Davie down fast. What’s his family situation like, Connie?”
“It’s only him and his father. The father is a good man. A taxi driver. He’s not involved in the IRA.”
They all watched Harry mull this over. He lifted his head and looked around the table.
“Right, this is what I want you to do. Put out word on the street that Davie’s father is one of our informants. Connie, you leave a message for Davie that if he comes in, we’ll clear his father’s name. If he doesn’t – well, he should know better than anyone what his mates in the IRA do to informants.”
Smithy stared at Harry in disbelief. “You’re going to put an innocent man at risk to achieve our aims?”
Harry straightened his shoulders, his jaw clenched. “Do you have a better solution?”
When no response was forthcoming, he nodded, his resolve strengthened. “Unpleasant though it may be, this is the only option on the table. So that’s what we’ll do.”
The others filed slowly out of the room but Connie lingered behind. When Harry looked at her he saw admiration and a hint of envy in her eyes.
She spoke, a sardonic smile on her lips. “You’ll go far in this place, young Harry Pearce. You have ice water in those veins.”

* * *
Four days later

Harry stood up, his face unreadable. “We have to up the alert level and warn all intelligence officers. Davie King will be out for revenge. I’ll go tell Simon.”
Simon Cooper was the Head of Station and a man who didn’t like it when his officers went off-piste. Connie wondered whether this incident would put the brakes on that meteoric rise Harry seemed destined for. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she did not find the thought unpleasant. Even as her admiration grew for the manner in which he was taking responsibility for his own actions, so her jealousy at his instant success continued to fester.

* * *
One week later

The young man strode down the street, eagerly looking forward to seeing the girl he was in love with for the first time in ten days. Work had been busy and he’d only managed a few snatched conversations on the phone with her. He rounded the corner and there she was, waiting in front of O’Mally’s for him. She was so beautiful that he stopped for a moment to gaze at her. The hesitation saved his life. There was a bright flash behind her and the windows of the pub blew outward, enveloping her. The boom of the explosion reached him a split-second later and his heart stopped. He ran forward, hurling himself into the thick dust cloud hanging over the pub with no thought to his own safety, only to stumble over a chunk of the wall. As he fell to his knees the dust lifted momentarily and he saw her. A spar of wood was sticking out of her chest and her dress was turning a bright red. He scrambled closer, a sob tearing from his throat.
“Oh no, oh Jesus no. Andrea…”
He cradled her to his chest, and she looked into his eyes briefly before her own closed for good.

* * *
MI5 Office, one hour later

Harry walked into the tea room with a heavy tread. Connie looked up and the expression on his face told her everything she needed to know.
“It was Davie’s work, then?”
Harry nodded wearily. “Twelve dead, including two Army Intelligence guys,” he said, before turning on his heel and walking away.
Connie turned back to her tea and somehow knew that those twelve lives would lie on Harry’s soul as heavily as they would on hers. She felt the anger build up inside. How much longer would this dirty war drag on? England couldn’t even keep its own house in order, yet it still wanted to throw its weight around on the world stage. What a pathetic little empire they had become.

* * * * *
29 April 2012
London, the Grid

Harry paced the floor behind Calum, hands in pockets. He glanced at the counter again. Twenty minutes. The comms crackled and grainy footage flickered into life on the techie’s monitor.
“They’re in,” he announced unnecessarily.
Harry leaned over his shoulder. “Report,” he ordered.
Erin’s voice came through. “The bomb is real. Big enough to bring the whole building down. It needs a code to stop it.”
Images of the bomb fed back to the Grid as Dimitri circled the device with the camera.
Calum whistled. “That’s going to make a big bang. This guy clearly has a God complex.”
Harry ignored the comment. “Can we bypass the code in some way?”
Calum’s fingers danced over the keyboard. He could feel the impatience radiating from his boss behind him.
“Nope,” he said finally. “We need to get that code.”

Harry straightened up and turned away, weighing up options. He glanced at the clock again and made his decision. No time to waste.
“Does CO19 have the boy?”
Calum nodded. “They have him outside the building.”
“Alpha One,” Harry said evenly, “CO19 has our bomber’s son outside. Fetch him and tie him to that bomb.”
There was a stunned pause, before Erin responded sharply.
“What?!”
Harry frowned. “You heard me.”
“No,” she shook her head at the camera. “I won’t tie an innocent child to a bomb. I refuse!” Her voice rose dangerously.
Harry glanced at the counter again. “I am not debating this with you, Erin. It is not a request, it is an order. Now do your bloody job.” Harry didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have to.
“Erin-“ they heard Dimitri say before she overrode him.
“No. I won’t do it.”
A heavy silence settled, in which the ticking of the clock counting inexorably down to zero sounded like hammer blows.
“Then you have just condemned five hundred innocent people to death,” Harry responded brusquely and turned away, trying to rein in his anger.
Another voice broke in.
“I’ll do it,” Dimitri said.
Erin started to protest but he cut her off. “Harry’s right. Five hundred people, Erin. There is no choice here.”
He turned to the camera. “I’ll have him in position in ten minutes.”
“Good,” Harry responded. He looked at Calum. “Put the feed through to the interrogation room,” he ordered, and strode off.

Outside the interrogation room Harry stood for a minute, watching the smug, disturbed man sitting bound to the chair inside. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“I want the code,” he said without preamble.
The man lifted his eyes and smiled mirthlessly.
“Piss off.”
Harry didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “No, I don’t think I will.”
He moved to the monitor mounted against the wall and switched it on.
It took the man a few seconds to process what he was seeing. He tried to jump to his feet but the restraints held him in place. Struggling violently against them, he spluttered, “Get him out of there! Get my son out of there now!”
Harry watched him, expressionless. “Give me the code.”
The man tore his eyes from the screen and for the first time properly looked at the spook who had just turned his world upside down. He saw no sympathy, no spark of emotion in the forbidding face, and a cold fear gripped his heart.
“What kind of a man are you? What kind of man would tie a little boy to a bomb?”
Harry actually smiled. “The code,” he demanded again.
“You fucking heartless bastard! You’re a monster-“
He didn’t get any further. Harry took two steps forward and loomed over him menacingly.
“I’m not the one who planted a bomb in a building because I got fired. The code.”

On the monitor behind him, a four year old boy sat alone in a room, tied to a bomb, crying.

* * *
One hour later

It took an hour to tie all the loose ends and to persuade the powers that be that it was simply one crazy man with a grudge, not a terror threat. Finally alone in his office, Harry loosened his tie and poured a drink. He sank into his chair wearily and sat still, inhaling the peaty aroma of the Scotch.
Just one, he promised silently.
After a few sips he put the glass aside and picked up his pen. He began to write:

29/04/12
Dear Ruth,

The Grid’s doors slid open, breaking his train of thought. He glanced up to see Erin and Dimitri step through, back from supervising the dismantling of the bomb. The tension lay thick between them and Erin’s face was pale and set. She turned toward his office immediately, only to be intercepted by Calum.
“Come on, Erin, give him a break,” he heard the techie say, and then he added more quietly, “especially today.”
She paid him no heed; merely stepped around him and marched on.
Harry put down his pen and drew a file over his writing, then sat back and waited for the coming storm.

tbc


Note: The part about events in Belfast is based on combined information from episode 6.9 and Harry's Diary.]]> <![CDATA[The Shadow Man]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1916.html Fri, 07 Oct 2011 19:38:46 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1916.html Spoilers up to episode 10.3.

This won't make much sense if you haven't seen season 10.

I know no spoilers or the rest of season 10, so this is just a bit of wishful thinking.

- * -

He came for the first time on a blustery Thursday in October. The bell above the door tinkled and Meg looked up to see a man in a crumpled beige raincoat enter. His eyes swept around the empty little tea shop before settling on her.
“Table for one?” she asked brightly.
The man nodded, and though his expression didn’t change his shoulders hunched a little. He ignored her attempts to shepherd him to a table by the front window, instead heading for the one in the corner at the back.
She placed a menu in front of him, chatting about the weather, but he didn’t respond. As soon as he was seated, his eyes moved to the promenade outside and stayed there. He placed that day’s paper next to his fork carefully, before finally speaking.
“Just a pot of English Breakfast, please.”
He had a nice voice.

Meg surreptitiously observed him whilst she brewed the tea. He sat quietly, the paper unopened, his eyes following every person that walked by outside. She often sat where he was now when the shop was empty, because she could watch life pass by without being seen herself from outside. Today there wasn’t much to see, though. The promenade was deserted. His gaze suddenly turned to her and she looked away hurriedly, but she knew that he had noticed her staring. She kept her back to him until the tea was done, embarrassed, and when she brought it over he was seemingly engrossed in the paper. But he missed nothing, she was certain. At the slightest movement outside his eyes would flick over the paper momentarily before going back to the words in front of him. LONDON: RUSSIAN MINISTER DIES OF HEART ATTACK, the headline proclaimed. There was a picture of the deceased and his red-headed wife. Meg put down the tea and left him in peace; he was clearly not one of those customers looking for company. He stayed for two hours, then left as unobtrusively as he had arrived. He left a generous tip.

* * *

After that, he came every Thursday. Always at the same time, and always staying precisely two hours. He always sat at the same table, apart from the one time when her shop was busy and the table already occupied. That day he was forced to sit close to the front window, and she could tell he did not like it. Normally he sat almost abnormally still, observing the promenade with fierce intensity. But that day, sitting by the window, he was fidgety and uneasy.

Meg found him fascinating. Even though she knew nothing about him, she liked him. On his third visit he unexpectedly smiled at her when she brought his tea, and it transformed his face. But not the eyes; they were always so watchful and sad. He seemed, to her fanciful imagination, to be hopelessly waiting for something. In some ways he reminded her of her brother, who had suffered from a terminal illness, and who in his last days had sat like this man, waiting for death. His body had been there, with them, but his spirit had not. It had already melted away into the shadows of death. She sensed that the man’s spirit was also somewhere else, and wondered whether he was dying as well. Until one day, when a petite, dark-haired woman walked by, and his face lit up for a second, before it fell in disappointment moments later, and she understood that he was not waiting for something, but for someone.

* * *

Four weeks after the Shadow Man started coming to her shop, the Police came. It was on a Friday, and later she would be thankful that it had not been a Thursday. She saw the local constable standing on the pavement outside, talking to two men in nondescript suits. Meg did not like the look of them. The constable was an old customer, and he came in alone.
“How are you, Meg?” he asked in a friendly voice, and took one of her freshly baked scones.
“Still the best in town,” he said admiringly, before pulling a photo out of a manila envelope and showing it to her.
It was the Shadow Man, but different somehow. He stared straight into the camera, shoulders squared in an immaculate suit, and looked commanding, powerful, forbidding. He was an enemy of the state, the policeman informed her in a serious voice. Meg’s gaze went back to the two men out on the pavement as her mind conjured up the Shadow Man’s sad eyes, and without hesitation she lied. No, she said, she’d never seen him before. Yes, of course she would inform the Police immediately if she did.

She could not explain why she lied.

* * *

He came back the next Thursday, right on time. She put the tea in front of him, and told him about the Police.
“They said you were an enemy of the state,” she stated boldly.
He smiled, a bitter, tight smile, and for a moment the forbidding, ruthless expression of the photo was back. Meg realised, then, that they were alone in the shop, and for a moment she was afraid. But then he looked at her.
“I’m not,” he said softly. “I’ve defended it all my life. I still do.”
She believed him, and placed a scone in front of him. On the house, she told him, and was touched by the gratitude in his eyes.

The paper was lying on the table.
HOME OFFICE EMPLOYEE BLOWS WHISTLE ON GOVT DEALS WITH RUSSIAN MAFIA, the headline read, and she shook her head, wishing that there were more people like the Shadow Man and this whistle-blower to defend the country.

* * *

The next Thursday, she was discussing the resignation of the Home Secretary the day before with her friend Betty when the Shadow Man walked in. He took his usual table, ordered his usual pot of tea. But something was different. There was a current of anticipation running through him, and this time he didn’t even pretend to read the paper. His eyes never left the promenade.
“He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?” Betty said, shaking her head.
Before Meg could reply, her attention was caught by a dark-haired woman walking down the promenade, anxiously looking around her. She turned to the Shadow Man to see him staring at the woman with the softest expression, the teacup shaking in his hand. And she knew, this was the woman for whom he had been waiting.

And then he was moving; shoving money into her hands and kissing her on the cheek before moving out the door with long strides, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired woman. He reached her, and they stood for long seconds, drinking each other in. The Shadow Man said something and lifted a hesitant hand to stroke her cheek, and she laughed, and cried, and stepped into his arms.

Meg became aware that Betty was staring at her.
“Why are you crying?”
She wiped at her cheeks and laughed.
“Just being an old, romantic fool,” she said, and watched as the Shadow Man cradled the woman’s face in his hands and kissed her.

Fin]]> Spoilers up to episode 10.3.

This won't make much sense if you haven't seen season 10.

I know no spoilers or the rest of season 10, so this is just a bit of wishful thinking.

- * -

He came for the first time on a blustery Thursday in October. The bell above the door tinkled and Meg looked up to see a man in a crumpled beige raincoat enter. His eyes swept around the empty little tea shop before settling on her.
“Table for one?” she asked brightly.
The man nodded, and though his expression didn’t change his shoulders hunched a little. He ignored her attempts to shepherd him to a table by the front window, instead heading for the one in the corner at the back.
She placed a menu in front of him, chatting about the weather, but he didn’t respond. As soon as he was seated, his eyes moved to the promenade outside and stayed there. He placed that day’s paper next to his fork carefully, before finally speaking.
“Just a pot of English Breakfast, please.”
He had a nice voice.

Meg surreptitiously observed him whilst she brewed the tea. He sat quietly, the paper unopened, his eyes following every person that walked by outside. She often sat where he was now when the shop was empty, because she could watch life pass by without being seen herself from outside. Today there wasn’t much to see, though. The promenade was deserted. His gaze suddenly turned to her and she looked away hurriedly, but she knew that he had noticed her staring. She kept her back to him until the tea was done, embarrassed, and when she brought it over he was seemingly engrossed in the paper. But he missed nothing, she was certain. At the slightest movement outside his eyes would flick over the paper momentarily before going back to the words in front of him. LONDON: RUSSIAN MINISTER DIES OF HEART ATTACK, the headline proclaimed. There was a picture of the deceased and his red-headed wife. Meg put down the tea and left him in peace; he was clearly not one of those customers looking for company. He stayed for two hours, then left as unobtrusively as he had arrived. He left a generous tip.

* * *

After that, he came every Thursday. Always at the same time, and always staying precisely two hours. He always sat at the same table, apart from the one time when her shop was busy and the table already occupied. That day he was forced to sit close to the front window, and she could tell he did not like it. Normally he sat almost abnormally still, observing the promenade with fierce intensity. But that day, sitting by the window, he was fidgety and uneasy.

Meg found him fascinating. Even though she knew nothing about him, she liked him. On his third visit he unexpectedly smiled at her when she brought his tea, and it transformed his face. But not the eyes; they were always so watchful and sad. He seemed, to her fanciful imagination, to be hopelessly waiting for something. In some ways he reminded her of her brother, who had suffered from a terminal illness, and who in his last days had sat like this man, waiting for death. His body had been there, with them, but his spirit had not. It had already melted away into the shadows of death. She sensed that the man’s spirit was also somewhere else, and wondered whether he was dying as well. Until one day, when a petite, dark-haired woman walked by, and his face lit up for a second, before it fell in disappointment moments later, and she understood that he was not waiting for something, but for someone.

* * *

Four weeks after the Shadow Man started coming to her shop, the Police came. It was on a Friday, and later she would be thankful that it had not been a Thursday. She saw the local constable standing on the pavement outside, talking to two men in nondescript suits. Meg did not like the look of them. The constable was an old customer, and he came in alone.
“How are you, Meg?” he asked in a friendly voice, and took one of her freshly baked scones.
“Still the best in town,” he said admiringly, before pulling a photo out of a manila envelope and showing it to her.
It was the Shadow Man, but different somehow. He stared straight into the camera, shoulders squared in an immaculate suit, and looked commanding, powerful, forbidding. He was an enemy of the state, the policeman informed her in a serious voice. Meg’s gaze went back to the two men out on the pavement as her mind conjured up the Shadow Man’s sad eyes, and without hesitation she lied. No, she said, she’d never seen him before. Yes, of course she would inform the Police immediately if she did.

She could not explain why she lied.

* * *

He came back the next Thursday, right on time. She put the tea in front of him, and told him about the Police.
“They said you were an enemy of the state,” she stated boldly.
He smiled, a bitter, tight smile, and for a moment the forbidding, ruthless expression of the photo was back. Meg realised, then, that they were alone in the shop, and for a moment she was afraid. But then he looked at her.
“I’m not,” he said softly. “I’ve defended it all my life. I still do.”
She believed him, and placed a scone in front of him. On the house, she told him, and was touched by the gratitude in his eyes.

The paper was lying on the table.
HOME OFFICE EMPLOYEE BLOWS WHISTLE ON GOVT DEALS WITH RUSSIAN MAFIA, the headline read, and she shook her head, wishing that there were more people like the Shadow Man and this whistle-blower to defend the country.

* * *

The next Thursday, she was discussing the resignation of the Home Secretary the day before with her friend Betty when the Shadow Man walked in. He took his usual table, ordered his usual pot of tea. But something was different. There was a current of anticipation running through him, and this time he didn’t even pretend to read the paper. His eyes never left the promenade.
“He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?” Betty said, shaking her head.
Before Meg could reply, her attention was caught by a dark-haired woman walking down the promenade, anxiously looking around her. She turned to the Shadow Man to see him staring at the woman with the softest expression, the teacup shaking in his hand. And she knew, this was the woman for whom he had been waiting.

And then he was moving; shoving money into her hands and kissing her on the cheek before moving out the door with long strides, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired woman. He reached her, and they stood for long seconds, drinking each other in. The Shadow Man said something and lifted a hesitant hand to stroke her cheek, and she laughed, and cried, and stepped into his arms.

Meg became aware that Betty was staring at her.
“Why are you crying?”
She wiped at her cheeks and laughed.
“Just being an old, romantic fool,” she said, and watched as the Shadow Man cradled the woman’s face in his hands and kissed her.

Fin]]> <![CDATA[A Retreat of Truths, Part 6 - Epilogue]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1862.html Sat, 17 Sep 2011 11:58:32 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1862.html Saturday, 9th December 2006
Oxford

The afternoon held a slight chill in the air as Ruth and Harry walked along High Street and down Oriel Street towards Ruth's alma mater, Corpus Christie College. They'd spent much of the day playing as tourists, venturing through a few shops and cafes, taking a walk amongst the various colleges that made up Oxford University.

They'd finally managed to take some time away from the daily grind in London. Harry had left Ros and Adam in charge of Section D, with strict instruction that Juliet was to get nowhere near Harry's office. Adam had healed well from his recent injuries and was slowly starting back into the routine of active duty. While there was plenty of work to do, the team worked smoothly, and Harry had felt it time to take a break while it was relatively quiet.

Harry had kept his promise to Ruth to take her back to Oxford once there were no pressing attacks to counter. He was enjoying taking the time to, as he put it, properly court her. He missed doing that with his ex-wife. Harry looked down briefly and gently laced his fingers through Ruth's. He glanced up to see her smile. After they'd arrived at the college, Harry found a park bench to sit on and he guided Ruth to sit down next to him.

After a few moments of quiet, Ruth prodded Harry. "Harry, what are you thinking?"

"That I don't want this to end."

Ruth thought Harry seemed the most unsure of anything that she'd ever seen. It threw her a little off balance. She wasn't used to seeing him this unsettled. "Why should it?"

"Given the track record of relationships of the security services members, including my own history, it's less than stellar. I don't want to mess this up."

"Harry, we're two grown adults. We've had good and bad past experiences. That's bound to happen. What we do with this relationship is up to both of us."

"Very true." Harry quickly smiled. Tilting his head, he asked her, "Forgive me for being an old fool?"

"Harry, you're hardly old. And yes, you're forgiven."

"Now, I tried to tell you something the last time we were in Oxford, but I was interrupted." Harry smiled, and continued, "I almost lost you once. I do not intend to let that happen again. I love you, Ruth. I don't take such things lightly."

"What are you saying, Harry?"

"This might sound rather silly, but I would like to court you."

"Court me?" Ruth asked, with a quirked smile. After a moment, she nodded. "That actually sounds rather nice. Who would have thought Harry Pearce was a romantic soul?"

A wind picked up through the buildings and the heavy grey clouds threatened rain. Making notice of the changing weather, Harry and Ruth stood up to make their way back to Malmaison Oxford where they were staying. A quiet meal and a night in were looking very good at the moment to both of them. Ruth stopped rather suddenly. Their linked hands meant that Harry soon stopped as well.

"I love you, too, Harry." She leaned up to capture his face in her gloved hands and laid a gentle kiss to his lips.]]> Saturday, 9th December 2006
Oxford

The afternoon held a slight chill in the air as Ruth and Harry walked along High Street and down Oriel Street towards Ruth's alma mater, Corpus Christie College. They'd spent much of the day playing as tourists, venturing through a few shops and cafes, taking a walk amongst the various colleges that made up Oxford University.

They'd finally managed to take some time away from the daily grind in London. Harry had left Ros and Adam in charge of Section D, with strict instruction that Juliet was to get nowhere near Harry's office. Adam had healed well from his recent injuries and was slowly starting back into the routine of active duty. While there was plenty of work to do, the team worked smoothly, and Harry had felt it time to take a break while it was relatively quiet.

Harry had kept his promise to Ruth to take her back to Oxford once there were no pressing attacks to counter. He was enjoying taking the time to, as he put it, properly court her. He missed doing that with his ex-wife. Harry looked down briefly and gently laced his fingers through Ruth's. He glanced up to see her smile. After they'd arrived at the college, Harry found a park bench to sit on and he guided Ruth to sit down next to him.

After a few moments of quiet, Ruth prodded Harry. "Harry, what are you thinking?"

"That I don't want this to end."

Ruth thought Harry seemed the most unsure of anything that she'd ever seen. It threw her a little off balance. She wasn't used to seeing him this unsettled. "Why should it?"

"Given the track record of relationships of the security services members, including my own history, it's less than stellar. I don't want to mess this up."

"Harry, we're two grown adults. We've had good and bad past experiences. That's bound to happen. What we do with this relationship is up to both of us."

"Very true." Harry quickly smiled. Tilting his head, he asked her, "Forgive me for being an old fool?"

"Harry, you're hardly old. And yes, you're forgiven."

"Now, I tried to tell you something the last time we were in Oxford, but I was interrupted." Harry smiled, and continued, "I almost lost you once. I do not intend to let that happen again. I love you, Ruth. I don't take such things lightly."

"What are you saying, Harry?"

"This might sound rather silly, but I would like to court you."

"Court me?" Ruth asked, with a quirked smile. After a moment, she nodded. "That actually sounds rather nice. Who would have thought Harry Pearce was a romantic soul?"

A wind picked up through the buildings and the heavy grey clouds threatened rain. Making notice of the changing weather, Harry and Ruth stood up to make their way back to Malmaison Oxford where they were staying. A quiet meal and a night in were looking very good at the moment to both of them. Ruth stopped rather suddenly. Their linked hands meant that Harry soon stopped as well.

"I love you, too, Harry." She leaned up to capture his face in her gloved hands and laid a gentle kiss to his lips.]]> <![CDATA[A Retreat of Truths, Part 5]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1861.html Sat, 17 Sep 2011 11:21:30 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1861.html Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0145hrs
St. Thomas's Hospital, Central London

Harry and Ruth stood at the intake desk of the hospital's Accident & Emergency Unit. When the communications clerk returned to the desk, Harry asked to find out information on his officers.

"And you are?"

"Next of Kin. Harry Pearce."

"Mr. Pearce, the doctor will be out to see you as soon as he can. Mr. Carter is still unconscious, and they're still working on him. Further than that, the doctors will fill you in."

"And Ms Myers?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine, Harry," Ros said emerging from behind the enclosed A&E department. She was wearing a nursing scrub shirt as they'd had to destroy the shirt she had on in order to get at her injury. Ros shivered. "Just a small cut." She downplayed her own condition, and briefly winced as she pulled on a sweater that Ruth gave her. "How's Adam?"

"We're still waiting."

"How? When did you get here?" Ros directed them to a side room so they could talk freely.

"Ken Moffatt, the Special Branch officer that was on scene, called in his report to his department. They called me. We just got here."

"It just happened so fast. Moffatt called the van telling us there was movement, two men entering the community center. It went quiet. Next thing I heard was gun shots and then the explosion. What happened?"

"Moffatt said that he and his team went in. Hassan and two others were putting the explosive devices together. When they tried to apprehend them, weapons fire was exchanged between Special Branch and Hassan's companions. One of the ammunitions containers was hit. Set off a chain reaction explosion, which blew out the building. From what Moffatt gathered, three of Hassan's men were injured with gunfire as well as one of his own officers. That was before the explosion. Only two of Moffatt's officers survived the explosion, in addition to Adam. All the bodies have been accounted for. Neither Hassan nor his men survived."

"Is there any indication that tomorrow's planned attack is completely cleared?" The three of them moved over to the chair and couch.

"Unknown yet," Ruth spoke up. "Zaf and Jo are still back at the office, checking additional surveillance Intel."

"Has anyone called Jenny yet to let Wes know?" Ros asked. She and Adam may have had their differences on work issues, but she respected and admired his relationship with his son.

"I'll do that in the morning. No sense worrying her and scaring him. We'll wait until we have more information on his condition." Despite Harry's outwardly calm demeanor, he was worried for Adam. Two serious injuries in the past year. Especially when he had a young son to look after. When Adam's wife, Fiona, had died a couple years ago, Adam had, with Harry's agreement placed Harry as his next of kin and guardian for Wes should anything happen to him.

They'd briefly talked of other things before weariness overtook them all. Ros curled up in the plush chair, while Ruth fell asleep sitting up, her head resting on Harry's chest. He'd curled his arm around her back and placed a gentle kiss on her head before tilting his head back against the rear of the couch and closing his eyes.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0230hrs
St. Thomas's Hospital, Central London

"Excuse me, Mr. Pearce?" The young nursing sister stood in front of a sleeping Harry Pearce.

Harry quickly blinked himself into wakefulness. "Yes?"

"Mr. Carter's surgeon will see you now."

"Thank you." Harry looked down gently at Ruth who had maintained her position snuggled into his shoulder. Quietly he leaned down and whispered into her ear. "Ruth, I have to go meet with Adam's doctor."

"Hmm?" Ruth barely stirred.

"Ruth, I need to go meet Adam's doctor." Gently, he dislodged himself from the couch and settled her lying on the couch, her head resting on the cushioned low arm-rest. He took his coat off and wrapped it over her shoulders, and in doing so placed a quick kiss on her forehead.

The nursing sister looked back at Ruth. "Is your wife all right?"

Harry paused. "She's just tired." He hadn't much thought to correct her misassumption, "It's been a long day." He followed her down a series of corridors, until they arrived at a consultant's office. "Thank you." Harry knocked on the door.

"Come in," called out the surgeon from inside. When Harry came in the doctor stood and introduced himself. "I'm Dr. Macey, Mr. Carter's surgeon."

Harry proceeded through the door. "Thank you for seeing me. I'm Harry Pearce, Adam Carter's next of kin. How is he?"

"He's got a rather severe concussion, a couple of cracked ribs and some internal bleeding. The latter of which we've been able to relieve for the most part with drainage tubes. His ribs have been wrapped to limit movement. The primary worry at the moment is the concussion. We're keeping close watch on him for the next thirty-six hours. I noticed some relatively recent scar tissue on his chest."

"He was shot in the line of duty last year."

"Pretty dangerous profession you have there," Dr. Macey replied.

"Security of the nation can be that, indeed. What is Mr. Carter's prognosis?"

"At the moment, that depends on his concussion. He'll be admitted to one of the medical wards this morning."

"Thank you. I'd like to check on him before I return home."

"Yes, but briefly. I'll have one of the nurses show you to his room." Dr. Macey called the Nurse Administrator to have someone take Harry to Adam's emergency ward.

Harry briefly checked in on Adam just to assure himself of the younger man's condition. The cardiac monitor's leads were attached to his chest; the monitor itself displaying a regular rhythm. He looked pale, and as such the bruising marks that covered portions of his torso stood out in marked comparison. There was a sizable bandage on the left side of his head, presumably where mortar and stone had impacted causing his unconscious state. Harry felt for the younger man. He'd been through a lot in the past couple years. In general, the security services took its toll on its officers, but when families were involved, it made it much more painful for all concerned. While Harry hated to lose a well-trained senior operative, however, he was certain if Adam remained in the active service Wes would certainly be orphaned. But that conversation would have to wait until another day. Quietly, Harry removed himself from the room to return to the sitting room where Ros and Ruth were resting.

Ros felt a heavy hand on her arm and she jerked awake. Taking a deep sigh on seeing that it was Harry who'd woke her then took a deep breath. He then moved over to the couch where Ruth was sleeping. Gently, he lifted her head and shoulders and moved to sit down.

"Ruth," Harry leaned over to her. "We have to leave shortly. You need to wake up."

Ruth murmured but began to stir. "Harry?"

"Yes, I'm here. So is Ros. We're at the hospital."

"How's Adam?" she asked slightly slurred, as she was still a big groggy.

"Alive. He's got quite a severe concussion that's left him unconscious." Harry relayed the rest of the information that the surgeon had told him.

"He's a lucky sod," Ros replied.

Harry ran his hands over his face, and then to rub the back of his neck; the days events taking their toll on his system, and yet he realised there was still much to do. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but we do need to get back to Thames House to see if all threats for today's planned bombings have been neutralized."

"What about Adam?" Ruth asked, concerned.

"There's nothing we can do here," Harry responded. "Adam's unconscious and the surgeon has said the hospital will notify me of any changes." The three of them bundled themselves up in their coats and left the hospital for the familiar surroundings of the Grid.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0340hrs
Thames House, London

The muted blue and grey tones of the Grid's night time lighting cast interesting shadows over everything. The occasional light from computer monitors and desk lamps brightened the area somewhat. The main area of the Grid itself was quiet, as Jo, Zaf and Malcolm had gathered in the meeting room to review some of the transcripts sent over from GCHQ. They were discussing the latest intelligence information when the door to the meeting room was pulled open.

"What's the news?" Harry asked without much aplomb. Ruth and Ros piled in behind them and stood behind their usual seats.

"DSI Michael Cuilhain, Moffatt's supervisor at Special Branch, called over about half an hour ago. The Fire Brigade and the SOCOs have sorted through the wreckage. They're going to send you over the initial report in the morning. The Forensics team is still autopsying the bodies recovered from the scene. Their report will be included in the packet being sent over."

"Malcolm, has there been anything from GCHQ to indicate whether Hassan had any back-up for the attacks today if something went wrong?

"Nothing so far. We've been monitoring their transcripts from the past few days and all the data thus far just indicates Hassan and four other of his team were all killed tonight. There's been no further communication made in regards to today's planned attack."

"That sounds good. If Cuilhain does call back, I still want a security detail around Westminster and Charing Cross Hospital as a precaution."

"Not a problem. I'll let them know," Zaf responded.

"How's Adam?" Jo asked once the initial business was taken care of.

Harry repeated what the doctor had told him. There was quiet among the team members as they took in the news. The seriousness of their profession in protecting the nation created a bond between them. It was always difficult when team members were injured, even more so when they died. The amount of time that they worked together created an extended family.

"Look, it's late. We need to be back on board for nine o'clock. Go upstairs to the residential rooms and grab a few hours sleep. There's not much more needs to be done at the moment. We're just going to be running in circles."

Resigned nods came from all. Zaf returned to his desk and placed a call to Cuilhain's office of Harry's instructions, then gathered a few things and headed off the Grid. Most of the others had followed suit, only too happy to be able to grab some sleep. They were exhausted.

Some time later, the Grid was in near darkness. A low lit lamp and a computer monitor illuminated Ruth's face. A concentrated expression crossed her face, as if she was trying too hard to focus.

"I thought I told you to go lie down for some sleep, Ruth."

"I just had to..."

"Just had to nothing," Harry responded with a smile.

"I could ask you the same thing. Why didn't you go get some sleep," Ruth countered.

"I can't. Too much to do, too much to think about."

"Do you want me to put on a pot of tea?" she asked.

"That sounds lovely. Though I will retrieve the mugs this time," he said amusedly, remembering the last time Ruth attempted to get the mugs off the upper shelf.

"Fine." Ruth disappeared into the little kitchenette and put the kettle on.

As they sat at the small table they spoke of inane things, mostly to keep themselves awake despite their protestations of not being tired. Both of them yawning. After fixing themselves some sweet tea, they'd retreated to Harry's office and sat on the couch. It wasn't long before the conversation died off and the sweet tea abandoned that they'd fallen asleep, leaning against each other.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0830hrs
Thames House

The sound of Harry's phone ringing loudly gave Harry a rather rude awakening. He was loathe to get up and answer it as he was rather comfortable where he was. At some point during the past few hours he and Ruth had shifted positions. Or rather he'd remained sitting and she had lain across the couch and used Harry's lap as a pillow, her face towards Harry's desk. His own hand had rested partially on her shoulder and her back. She looked so calm. It was only when the blasted phone rang for the second time did Harry dislodge himself. Ruth woke to Harry exclaiming over the phone.

"Damn it, Juliet, of course I'm sounding tired. I've had all of two hours sleep in the past thirty six...," Harry updated her on the situation the previous night. "Look I don't care if the news reporters are beating down my doors, all they'll get is the official line from the security services. No, there has been no indication that Hassan had any other operatives in on this little plan of his... Yes, security forces are set up around Westminster and Charing Cross Hospital as a precaution. Good bye, Juliet."

"What did the wicked witch want now?" Ruth asked as she had righted herself and stood near Harry.

"Oh, the usual."

"I should get going. Get cleaned up before calling the rest of the team down." Ruth stiffly got herself to a standing position. She ran her fingers through her hair. "Oh, God. I hesitate to think what I look like at the moment. I feel like I've been run over by a lorry."

"I happen to think you're rather beautiful."

"You need your eyes checked, Harry." Ruth was prevented from saying anything else at the moment when the phone rang again.

"Yes, this is Harry Pearce...How is he this morning?...That's wonderful news. Thank you, Doctor Macey. How soon might you expect to release him? Yes, that will be looked after. Thank you, again."

"Harry?"

"Adam's awake. Tests done so far indicate no lasting effects as a result of the concussion. He'll be in hospital a few more days until his ribs heal some more and to monitor him for any further internal bleeding. Otherwise, things look good."

"That's fantastic news, Harry."

"Yes, it is. I need to call Jenny to let her know what's going on. I'm going to go over to see Wes this afternoon. Care to join me?"

"That sounds good. Now, back to the here and now. I've got to go get cleaned up, then I'll call up to the rooms and get the other team members back to the Grid."

"Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry?" Ruth stopped at the doorway and turned back.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For being here." Harry smiled at her.

"Anytime. I've got to get going. See you soon." Flashing a returned smile, Ruth headed off to her desk and grabbed a few things before heading towards the staff locker room.

Forty-five minutes later, Harry greeted his team as they piled into the meeting room. Despite having little sleep, they were all alert and ready to discuss any new information that had come in. Harry had received the Forensics Report and Special Branch Report on the explosion at the community centre and had a brief chance to review it before relaying the news to his staff. He'd also passed on the good news with regards to Adam's condition.

The overall atmosphere on the Grid for the rest of the day had improved immeasurably despite the continued heightened watch for terrorist activity. Special Branch officers had been covering both Westminster and Charing Cross hospital all day and no suspicious movement observed. For all intents and purposes the present terror plot had been foiled, though with some casualties. The MI5 team plodded onwards with their usual routine of intelligence gathering on suspected terror plots, piling through yet more Special Branch and CIA reports. Harry looked out the glass windows of his office at the usual hustle and bustle of the Grid and smiled. Normalcy or whatever passed for normalcy had returned.

________________
One more chapter...]]> Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0145hrs
St. Thomas's Hospital, Central London

Harry and Ruth stood at the intake desk of the hospital's Accident & Emergency Unit. When the communications clerk returned to the desk, Harry asked to find out information on his officers.

"And you are?"

"Next of Kin. Harry Pearce."

"Mr. Pearce, the doctor will be out to see you as soon as he can. Mr. Carter is still unconscious, and they're still working on him. Further than that, the doctors will fill you in."

"And Ms Myers?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine, Harry," Ros said emerging from behind the enclosed A&E department. She was wearing a nursing scrub shirt as they'd had to destroy the shirt she had on in order to get at her injury. Ros shivered. "Just a small cut." She downplayed her own condition, and briefly winced as she pulled on a sweater that Ruth gave her. "How's Adam?"

"We're still waiting."

"How? When did you get here?" Ros directed them to a side room so they could talk freely.

"Ken Moffatt, the Special Branch officer that was on scene, called in his report to his department. They called me. We just got here."

"It just happened so fast. Moffatt called the van telling us there was movement, two men entering the community center. It went quiet. Next thing I heard was gun shots and then the explosion. What happened?"

"Moffatt said that he and his team went in. Hassan and two others were putting the explosive devices together. When they tried to apprehend them, weapons fire was exchanged between Special Branch and Hassan's companions. One of the ammunitions containers was hit. Set off a chain reaction explosion, which blew out the building. From what Moffatt gathered, three of Hassan's men were injured with gunfire as well as one of his own officers. That was before the explosion. Only two of Moffatt's officers survived the explosion, in addition to Adam. All the bodies have been accounted for. Neither Hassan nor his men survived."

"Is there any indication that tomorrow's planned attack is completely cleared?" The three of them moved over to the chair and couch.

"Unknown yet," Ruth spoke up. "Zaf and Jo are still back at the office, checking additional surveillance Intel."

"Has anyone called Jenny yet to let Wes know?" Ros asked. She and Adam may have had their differences on work issues, but she respected and admired his relationship with his son.

"I'll do that in the morning. No sense worrying her and scaring him. We'll wait until we have more information on his condition." Despite Harry's outwardly calm demeanor, he was worried for Adam. Two serious injuries in the past year. Especially when he had a young son to look after. When Adam's wife, Fiona, had died a couple years ago, Adam had, with Harry's agreement placed Harry as his next of kin and guardian for Wes should anything happen to him.

They'd briefly talked of other things before weariness overtook them all. Ros curled up in the plush chair, while Ruth fell asleep sitting up, her head resting on Harry's chest. He'd curled his arm around her back and placed a gentle kiss on her head before tilting his head back against the rear of the couch and closing his eyes.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0230hrs
St. Thomas's Hospital, Central London

"Excuse me, Mr. Pearce?" The young nursing sister stood in front of a sleeping Harry Pearce.

Harry quickly blinked himself into wakefulness. "Yes?"

"Mr. Carter's surgeon will see you now."

"Thank you." Harry looked down gently at Ruth who had maintained her position snuggled into his shoulder. Quietly he leaned down and whispered into her ear. "Ruth, I have to go meet with Adam's doctor."

"Hmm?" Ruth barely stirred.

"Ruth, I need to go meet Adam's doctor." Gently, he dislodged himself from the couch and settled her lying on the couch, her head resting on the cushioned low arm-rest. He took his coat off and wrapped it over her shoulders, and in doing so placed a quick kiss on her forehead.

The nursing sister looked back at Ruth. "Is your wife all right?"

Harry paused. "She's just tired." He hadn't much thought to correct her misassumption, "It's been a long day." He followed her down a series of corridors, until they arrived at a consultant's office. "Thank you." Harry knocked on the door.

"Come in," called out the surgeon from inside. When Harry came in the doctor stood and introduced himself. "I'm Dr. Macey, Mr. Carter's surgeon."

Harry proceeded through the door. "Thank you for seeing me. I'm Harry Pearce, Adam Carter's next of kin. How is he?"

"He's got a rather severe concussion, a couple of cracked ribs and some internal bleeding. The latter of which we've been able to relieve for the most part with drainage tubes. His ribs have been wrapped to limit movement. The primary worry at the moment is the concussion. We're keeping close watch on him for the next thirty-six hours. I noticed some relatively recent scar tissue on his chest."

"He was shot in the line of duty last year."

"Pretty dangerous profession you have there," Dr. Macey replied.

"Security of the nation can be that, indeed. What is Mr. Carter's prognosis?"

"At the moment, that depends on his concussion. He'll be admitted to one of the medical wards this morning."

"Thank you. I'd like to check on him before I return home."

"Yes, but briefly. I'll have one of the nurses show you to his room." Dr. Macey called the Nurse Administrator to have someone take Harry to Adam's emergency ward.

Harry briefly checked in on Adam just to assure himself of the younger man's condition. The cardiac monitor's leads were attached to his chest; the monitor itself displaying a regular rhythm. He looked pale, and as such the bruising marks that covered portions of his torso stood out in marked comparison. There was a sizable bandage on the left side of his head, presumably where mortar and stone had impacted causing his unconscious state. Harry felt for the younger man. He'd been through a lot in the past couple years. In general, the security services took its toll on its officers, but when families were involved, it made it much more painful for all concerned. While Harry hated to lose a well-trained senior operative, however, he was certain if Adam remained in the active service Wes would certainly be orphaned. But that conversation would have to wait until another day. Quietly, Harry removed himself from the room to return to the sitting room where Ros and Ruth were resting.

Ros felt a heavy hand on her arm and she jerked awake. Taking a deep sigh on seeing that it was Harry who'd woke her then took a deep breath. He then moved over to the couch where Ruth was sleeping. Gently, he lifted her head and shoulders and moved to sit down.

"Ruth," Harry leaned over to her. "We have to leave shortly. You need to wake up."

Ruth murmured but began to stir. "Harry?"

"Yes, I'm here. So is Ros. We're at the hospital."

"How's Adam?" she asked slightly slurred, as she was still a big groggy.

"Alive. He's got quite a severe concussion that's left him unconscious." Harry relayed the rest of the information that the surgeon had told him.

"He's a lucky sod," Ros replied.

Harry ran his hands over his face, and then to rub the back of his neck; the days events taking their toll on his system, and yet he realised there was still much to do. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but we do need to get back to Thames House to see if all threats for today's planned bombings have been neutralized."

"What about Adam?" Ruth asked, concerned.

"There's nothing we can do here," Harry responded. "Adam's unconscious and the surgeon has said the hospital will notify me of any changes." The three of them bundled themselves up in their coats and left the hospital for the familiar surroundings of the Grid.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0340hrs
Thames House, London

The muted blue and grey tones of the Grid's night time lighting cast interesting shadows over everything. The occasional light from computer monitors and desk lamps brightened the area somewhat. The main area of the Grid itself was quiet, as Jo, Zaf and Malcolm had gathered in the meeting room to review some of the transcripts sent over from GCHQ. They were discussing the latest intelligence information when the door to the meeting room was pulled open.

"What's the news?" Harry asked without much aplomb. Ruth and Ros piled in behind them and stood behind their usual seats.

"DSI Michael Cuilhain, Moffatt's supervisor at Special Branch, called over about half an hour ago. The Fire Brigade and the SOCOs have sorted through the wreckage. They're going to send you over the initial report in the morning. The Forensics team is still autopsying the bodies recovered from the scene. Their report will be included in the packet being sent over."

"Malcolm, has there been anything from GCHQ to indicate whether Hassan had any back-up for the attacks today if something went wrong?

"Nothing so far. We've been monitoring their transcripts from the past few days and all the data thus far just indicates Hassan and four other of his team were all killed tonight. There's been no further communication made in regards to today's planned attack."

"That sounds good. If Cuilhain does call back, I still want a security detail around Westminster and Charing Cross Hospital as a precaution."

"Not a problem. I'll let them know," Zaf responded.

"How's Adam?" Jo asked once the initial business was taken care of.

Harry repeated what the doctor had told him. There was quiet among the team members as they took in the news. The seriousness of their profession in protecting the nation created a bond between them. It was always difficult when team members were injured, even more so when they died. The amount of time that they worked together created an extended family.

"Look, it's late. We need to be back on board for nine o'clock. Go upstairs to the residential rooms and grab a few hours sleep. There's not much more needs to be done at the moment. We're just going to be running in circles."

Resigned nods came from all. Zaf returned to his desk and placed a call to Cuilhain's office of Harry's instructions, then gathered a few things and headed off the Grid. Most of the others had followed suit, only too happy to be able to grab some sleep. They were exhausted.

Some time later, the Grid was in near darkness. A low lit lamp and a computer monitor illuminated Ruth's face. A concentrated expression crossed her face, as if she was trying too hard to focus.

"I thought I told you to go lie down for some sleep, Ruth."

"I just had to..."

"Just had to nothing," Harry responded with a smile.

"I could ask you the same thing. Why didn't you go get some sleep," Ruth countered.

"I can't. Too much to do, too much to think about."

"Do you want me to put on a pot of tea?" she asked.

"That sounds lovely. Though I will retrieve the mugs this time," he said amusedly, remembering the last time Ruth attempted to get the mugs off the upper shelf.

"Fine." Ruth disappeared into the little kitchenette and put the kettle on.

As they sat at the small table they spoke of inane things, mostly to keep themselves awake despite their protestations of not being tired. Both of them yawning. After fixing themselves some sweet tea, they'd retreated to Harry's office and sat on the couch. It wasn't long before the conversation died off and the sweet tea abandoned that they'd fallen asleep, leaning against each other.

Sunday, 12th November 2006, 0830hrs
Thames House

The sound of Harry's phone ringing loudly gave Harry a rather rude awakening. He was loathe to get up and answer it as he was rather comfortable where he was. At some point during the past few hours he and Ruth had shifted positions. Or rather he'd remained sitting and she had lain across the couch and used Harry's lap as a pillow, her face towards Harry's desk. His own hand had rested partially on her shoulder and her back. She looked so calm. It was only when the blasted phone rang for the second time did Harry dislodge himself. Ruth woke to Harry exclaiming over the phone.

"Damn it, Juliet, of course I'm sounding tired. I've had all of two hours sleep in the past thirty six...," Harry updated her on the situation the previous night. "Look I don't care if the news reporters are beating down my doors, all they'll get is the official line from the security services. No, there has been no indication that Hassan had any other operatives in on this little plan of his... Yes, security forces are set up around Westminster and Charing Cross Hospital as a precaution. Good bye, Juliet."

"What did the wicked witch want now?" Ruth asked as she had righted herself and stood near Harry.

"Oh, the usual."

"I should get going. Get cleaned up before calling the rest of the team down." Ruth stiffly got herself to a standing position. She ran her fingers through her hair. "Oh, God. I hesitate to think what I look like at the moment. I feel like I've been run over by a lorry."

"I happen to think you're rather beautiful."

"You need your eyes checked, Harry." Ruth was prevented from saying anything else at the moment when the phone rang again.

"Yes, this is Harry Pearce...How is he this morning?...That's wonderful news. Thank you, Doctor Macey. How soon might you expect to release him? Yes, that will be looked after. Thank you, again."

"Harry?"

"Adam's awake. Tests done so far indicate no lasting effects as a result of the concussion. He'll be in hospital a few more days until his ribs heal some more and to monitor him for any further internal bleeding. Otherwise, things look good."

"That's fantastic news, Harry."

"Yes, it is. I need to call Jenny to let her know what's going on. I'm going to go over to see Wes this afternoon. Care to join me?"

"That sounds good. Now, back to the here and now. I've got to go get cleaned up, then I'll call up to the rooms and get the other team members back to the Grid."

"Ruth?"

"Yes, Harry?" Ruth stopped at the doorway and turned back.

"Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For being here." Harry smiled at her.

"Anytime. I've got to get going. See you soon." Flashing a returned smile, Ruth headed off to her desk and grabbed a few things before heading towards the staff locker room.

Forty-five minutes later, Harry greeted his team as they piled into the meeting room. Despite having little sleep, they were all alert and ready to discuss any new information that had come in. Harry had received the Forensics Report and Special Branch Report on the explosion at the community centre and had a brief chance to review it before relaying the news to his staff. He'd also passed on the good news with regards to Adam's condition.

The overall atmosphere on the Grid for the rest of the day had improved immeasurably despite the continued heightened watch for terrorist activity. Special Branch officers had been covering both Westminster and Charing Cross hospital all day and no suspicious movement observed. For all intents and purposes the present terror plot had been foiled, though with some casualties. The MI5 team plodded onwards with their usual routine of intelligence gathering on suspected terror plots, piling through yet more Special Branch and CIA reports. Harry looked out the glass windows of his office at the usual hustle and bustle of the Grid and smiled. Normalcy or whatever passed for normalcy had returned.

________________
One more chapter...]]> <![CDATA[A Retreat of Truths, Part 4]]> http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1860.html Sat, 17 Sep 2011 10:57:31 +0000 http://www.spooksforum.co.uk/thread-1860.html WARNING: LANGUAGE

Saturday, 11 November 2006, 1830hrs
Thames House, Meeting Room, London

The tension in the air of the room was palpable. There was nothing so urgent as an imminent threat to national security to focus the anti-terrorism division of MI5. Folders were piled up on the table in front of each of them. They'd been working on collecting as much information as they could since their return from Oxford. Harry as usual took his place at the fore of the table, whilst down the sides were Ruth, Ros, Zaf on the left and Adam, Jo and Juliet down the other, and Malcolm at the other end, opposite Harry.

"All right, I need information. Adam."

"We've got audio feeds coming in from the community center. From what we've gathered so far is that there is a two-pronged simultaneous attack scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 1500hrs. The first of the sites targeted is Westminster. As of yet, there has been no mention of suicide bombers, so we need to assume that the bombs will be attempted to be placed shortly before the attack. We've had Bomb Squad all over the Parliament building so far and no explosives devices have turned up. We have ordered increased surveillance around the parliament, but so far it's quiet. CCTV coverage showing nothing out of the ordinary at present. We have more teams to go in tomorrow. The second prong of the attack is a hospital, but we're still awaiting confirmation on which one.

"Has there been any mention of a motive for the attacks?" Juliet asked.

"Do you think this is some kind of retaliation or point to be made following the DG's speech yesterday?" Jo questioned.

"Nothing specific has been mentioned aside from the usual rhetoric of the continued UK presence in the middle east, interfering in policies of Iraq," Ruth started. "GCHQ has been receiving Intel from this cell for a while now, but there'd been no movement until Hassan arrived in the UK. Since then there's been covert communications between this cell and a source in Northern Iraq. They've got analysts reviewing the transcripts as we speak. As soon as they have confirmed translation, I will have it."

"Malcolm, I want you and Ruth all over this, in addition to the feeds coming in from the community center. Ruth, I want you to also keep me apprised of our cousins over at GCHQ. Adam, I want you to liaise with our friends at Special Branch. See what they're not telling us. Zaf and Jo, work with Adam and Ros for the time being then I want you to get home and get some sleep for a few hours. We'll need you on deck early, once we have some more concrete information."

"If I might ask, why would they plan the bombings for a Sunday? It doesn't make any sense. Parliament's not even in session until Wednesday. If they're looking for maximum casualty, you'd think they'd plan it for a day when there'd be more people present. In addition, there are no tours of Parliament on the weekend. Even if there were, visitors are heavily monitored and searched by security," Ros remarked.

"Unless it's an anniversary attack of some sort." Zaf responded. A look from Harry and Zaf continued, "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"And why a hospital?"

"Hassan's previous bombing attack a month ago in Northern Iraq was a civilian hospital. We have to assume that he's got reason, whatever that might be. We need to find out which hospital, and sharpish," Harry spoke with conviction.

The team members slowly piled out of the meeting room and retreated to their workstations to gather more information. Juliet spent a few more minutes talking with Harry, then she, too, left the Grid for her own office. As there was going to be an indefinite period of time left in the office doing work, Adam checked in with Jenny to make sure Wes was okay, and then placed orders of soups & sandwiches and caffeine for all of them.

The overall atmosphere of the Grid remained tense as it usually did previous to a probable terrorist threat.

A little past 2000hrs, Ruth and Malcolm emerged from Malcolm's technical support section with printouts and an audio recording. While Malcolm stayed out on the Grid, Ruth quickly headed for Harry's office. She poked her head in this office.

"We've got it!" Ruth noted with some excitement.

"You've got what, Ruth?"

"Harry, look at this," she pointed to a specific section of the printout. "The hospital target in question is Charing Cross on Fulham Palace Road. No word on why that hospital but we have been able to piece together some Intel that his brother, who had been severely injured in an air raid, had been treated at that hospital in Northern Iraq. The brother had subsequently died, and Hassan blamed the doctors for not working hard enough to save him. The doctors, some of whom were British, were shot in the head and chest, before Hassan had the hospital bombed. Over six hundred people lost their lives in that attack." Ruth appeared to have run out of steam. During which time Harry called for Adam to come to his office.

"Ruth, any information on type of explosives used in the Northern Iraq bombing?"

"IED's. Specifically pipe bombs. Charges placed in specific areas in the base of the building. There's possible links to the anti-British protests earlier in October down in Basra. But so far Hassan hasn't been connected with those. The timetable would be tight - given his flight into Syria following the northern bombing, but possible. The passport that he entered the UK with, under the name Mihyar al-Basri, puts Basra as his place of birth."

"Adam, what were you able to get out of Special Branch?"

"Nothing useful so far as the hospital attack. However, they were able to nail down some information with regards to the attack at Westminster. The plods have been going over every inch of the place with a fine tooth comb. Nothing yet, but security measures have been tightened. A joint Special Branch / Security Service raid has been planned on the community center tonight. Ros and I will be in charge of that."

"Good. Get back onto Special Branch. The hospital attack is aimed at Charing Cross. Get them to check out the building for explosive devices, and keep monitor. Hopefully we can get these bastards long before the attack will occur. The hospital will need to be notified for contingency measures."

"Done." Adam said quickly before heading back to his workstation.

"Thank you, Ruth." While it was a dismissal, Harry had smiled. A crinkling around his eyes belied the seriousness of the matter at hand. Now it was a waiting game as things were coming together. And with any luck there'd be no casualties. When Harry looked up again through the glass windows of his office out onto the Grid, his eyes briefly met Ruth's. A mutual smile before they returned to their duties.

Saturday, 11th November 2006, 2300hrs
Islamic Community Center, Central London

On one side of the community center was an abandoned building and a vacant lot, on the other side a small park. On the far side of the park was a shaded alley, where Ros and Adam were set up in a dark surveillance van. They'd been monitoring communications from the center for the past hour and a half. It had been mostly quiet, its occupants playing cards, and there were sounds of music playing in the room. There hadn't been any conversation regarding the attacks thus far. A crackling on the mobile communications unit sounded.

"Alpha 2 to Alpha 1. We have movement. Two men carrying duffel bags entering the community center," the Special Branch officer called. The plods had fixed themselves up in unmarked vehicles.

"Either of them look like Hassan?" Ros asked

"Unconfirmed. Unable to see their faces clearly. Do we move?"

"Hang on a minute. Let's wait until they get inside," Adam responded.

A few moments later, Ros could hear over the surveillance bugs that they'd entered the center meeting room. Words in Arabic flew fast and furious, then silence.

"Fuck!" Ros shouted. To Adam, she quickly noted, "Tell them to get in there, NOW! Hassan's in there. They're wiring up the community center with explosives."

Adam immediately pulled on his ear-piece that would link him to Ros and the Special Branch team. Relaying the information to the Special Branch, he took off out the back of the surveillance van. In the meantime, Ros contacted Harry back at the Grid to let them know of the current situation. There wasn't much that Harry could do at the scene, but he could get the Explosive Ordnance Personnel team on site as soon as possible.

All was quiet on the communications line for a few minutes as the team got in place. Then there was nothing. What's taking them so long? It's too quiet. Ros was anxious. Then from inside the van, Ros could hear gunfire, and then a deafening explosion. The van rocked slightly. The reverberation from explosion had taken out one of the rear window panels. Once she'd gathered her senses, she barely made sure she was okay. A few scratches from glass were all she noted. She put on a communications device over her ear and packed her gun to her side then she pulled open the back of the van. Quickly shutting it, she took off to see what was going on.

The front of the community center had a large gaping hole in it, where fire whipped through. Concrete, glass and stone debris scattered over the ground and a heavy dust hung in the air as she neared the building she could see bodies lain in and around the debris.

"Adam!" Ros called out, getting closer. Nothing but an eerie silence. She looked around frantically. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she spotted movement. A black-and-grey covered body moved from beneath some rubble. She identified him as one of the Special Branch officers, then returned her sites to trying to find her fellow security officer. "Adam!" Still nothing. Her conscious SB partner started checking for his fellow officers. They began picking through the rubble. A body. A shock of short blond hair standing out against the soot and ash covering most of the head. Ros dropped to her knees and quickly checked the body out, identifying it as Adam's. A quick check of his pulse revealed he was still alive. Unconscious, but alive. Within a few more minutes, the sounds of sirens could be heard. Ros leaned back on her legs and dropped her head, whispering a quiet prayer of thanks that Adam was alive. A few more minutes and the emergency service vehicles pulled up as close as they could. Backboards came out and supplies as they went to retrieve the conscious survivors.

Ros pointed Adam out to them. "He's alive. Barely. He hasn't regained consciousness."

Quickly two of the emergency service personnel checked out Adam, while another attended to Ros.

"Come with me, miss," the young attendant tried guiding her to the back of the ambulance.

"Never mind me, just make sure he's okay."

"Miss..." she tried again.

"Myers. Just do your job," Ros said, irritated.

"I'm trying to," the attendant stated, just as frustrated. "You've got a large gash on the back of your shoulder. Let me take a look at it."

"What?" Ros was puzzled. She hadn't even noticed that she was injured. She stopped to think. Then she realized that when the glass panel in the van broke, a shard must have dug into her shoulder. She sighed, then allowed herself to be led to the ambulance. While she sat in the open ambulance she could see more and more emergency service personnel sort through the debris and rubble for other bodies, alive or dead. She noticed the ambulance that they'd piled Adam's injured body into take off, sirens blaring.

"Where are they taking him?"

"St. Thomas's Hospital. Sit still." The attendant took her scissors and cut away the material from around the wound. The steady pour of blood had slowed to a sludge as it had begun to congeal. "I need you to lie face down on the gurney there." She then worked on cleaning around the site.

A moderate piece of glass was still embedded into Ros's shoulder. She dressed the wound until they got to the hospital. The other attendant closed up the back of the ambulance and started to move the vehicle off to the hospital.

"Where are we going?"

"St. Thomas's. Hospital. You need to have that removed."

"But I..." Ros started.

"Need to stay still." The attendant looked down at Ros, "Are you always this stubborn?"

Ros was frustrated. She needed to know what was happening. Furthermore, she needed to inform Harry.]]> WARNING: LANGUAGE

Saturday, 11 November 2006, 1830hrs
Thames House, Meeting Room, London

The tension in the air of the room was palpable. There was nothing so urgent as an imminent threat to national security to focus the anti-terrorism division of MI5. Folders were piled up on the table in front of each of them. They'd been working on collecting as much information as they could since their return from Oxford. Harry as usual took his place at the fore of the table, whilst down the sides were Ruth, Ros, Zaf on the left and Adam, Jo and Juliet down the other, and Malcolm at the other end, opposite Harry.

"All right, I need information. Adam."

"We've got audio feeds coming in from the community center. From what we've gathered so far is that there is a two-pronged simultaneous attack scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 1500hrs. The first of the sites targeted is Westminster. As of yet, there has been no mention of suicide bombers, so we need to assume that the bombs will be attempted to be placed shortly before the attack. We've had Bomb Squad all over the Parliament building so far and no explosives devices have turned up. We have ordered increased surveillance around the parliament, but so far it's quiet. CCTV coverage showing nothing out of the ordinary at present. We have more teams to go in tomorrow. The second prong of the attack is a hospital, but we're still awaiting confirmation on which one.

"Has there been any mention of a motive for the attacks?" Juliet asked.

"Do you think this is some kind of retaliation or point to be made following the DG's speech yesterday?" Jo questioned.

"Nothing specific has been mentioned aside from the usual rhetoric of the continued UK presence in the middle east, interfering in policies of Iraq," Ruth started. "GCHQ has been receiving Intel from this cell for a while now, but there'd been no movement until Hassan arrived in the UK. Since then there's been covert communications between this cell and a source in Northern Iraq. They've got analysts reviewing the transcripts as we speak. As soon as they have confirmed translation, I will have it."

"Malcolm, I want you and Ruth all over this, in addition to the feeds coming in from the community center. Ruth, I want you to also keep me apprised of our cousins over at GCHQ. Adam, I want you to liaise with our friends at Special Branch. See what they're not telling us. Zaf and Jo, work with Adam and Ros for the time being then I want you to get home and get some sleep for a few hours. We'll need you on deck early, once we have some more concrete information."

"If I might ask, why would they plan the bombings for a Sunday? It doesn't make any sense. Parliament's not even in session until Wednesday. If they're looking for maximum casualty, you'd think they'd plan it for a day when there'd be more people present. In addition, there are no tours of Parliament on the weekend. Even if there were, visitors are heavily monitored and searched by security," Ros remarked.

"Unless it's an anniversary attack of some sort." Zaf responded. A look from Harry and Zaf continued, "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

"And why a hospital?"

"Hassan's previous bombing attack a month ago in Northern Iraq was a civilian hospital. We have to assume that he's got reason, whatever that might be. We need to find out which hospital, and sharpish," Harry spoke with conviction.

The team members slowly piled out of the meeting room and retreated to their workstations to gather more information. Juliet spent a few more minutes talking with Harry, then she, too, left the Grid for her own office. As there was going to be an indefinite period of time left in the office doing work, Adam checked in with Jenny to make sure Wes was okay, and then placed orders of soups & sandwiches and caffeine for all of them.

The overall atmosphere of the Grid remained tense as it usually did previous to a probable terrorist threat.

A little past 2000hrs, Ruth and Malcolm emerged from Malcolm's technical support section with printouts and an audio recording. While Malcolm stayed out on the Grid, Ruth quickly headed for Harry's office. She poked her head in this office.

"We've got it!" Ruth noted with some excitement.

"You've got what, Ruth?"

"Harry, look at this," she pointed to a specific section of the printout. "The hospital target in question is Charing Cross on Fulham Palace Road. No word on why that hospital but we have been able to piece together some Intel that his brother, who had been severely injured in an air raid, had been treated at that hospital in Northern Iraq. The brother had subsequently died, and Hassan blamed the doctors for not working hard enough to save him. The doctors, some of whom were British, were shot in the head and chest, before Hassan had the hospital bombed. Over six hundred people lost their lives in that attack." Ruth appeared to have run out of steam. During which time Harry called for Adam to come to his office.

"Ruth, any information on type of explosives used in the Northern Iraq bombing?"

"IED's. Specifically pipe bombs. Charges placed in specific areas in the base of the building. There's possible links to the anti-British protests earlier in October down in Basra. But so far Hassan hasn't been connected with those. The timetable would be tight - given his flight into Syria following the northern bombing, but possible. The passport that he entered the UK with, under the name Mihyar al-Basri, puts Basra as his place of birth."

"Adam, what were you able to get out of Special Branch?"

"Nothing useful so far as the hospital attack. However, they were able to nail down some information with regards to the attack at Westminster. The plods have been going over every inch of the place with a fine tooth comb. Nothing yet, but security measures have been tightened. A joint Special Branch / Security Service raid has been planned on the community center tonight. Ros and I will be in charge of that."

"Good. Get back onto Special Branch. The hospital attack is aimed at Charing Cross. Get them to check out the building for explosive devices, and keep monitor. Hopefully we can get these bastards long before the attack will occur. The hospital will need to be notified for contingency measures."

"Done." Adam said quickly before heading back to his workstation.

"Thank you, Ruth." While it was a dismissal, Harry had smiled. A crinkling around his eyes belied the seriousness of the matter at hand. Now it was a waiting game as things were coming together. And with any luck there'd be no casualties. When Harry looked up again through the glass windows of his office out onto the Grid, his eyes briefly met Ruth's. A mutual smile before they returned to their duties.

Saturday, 11th November 2006, 2300hrs
Islamic Community Center, Central London

On one side of the community center was an abandoned building and a vacant lot, on the other side a small park. On the far side of the park was a shaded alley, where Ros and Adam were set up in a dark surveillance van. They'd been monitoring communications from the center for the past hour and a half. It had been mostly quiet, its occupants playing cards, and there were sounds of music playing in the room. There hadn't been any conversation regarding the attacks thus far. A crackling on the mobile communications unit sounded.

"Alpha 2 to Alpha 1. We have movement. Two men carrying duffel bags entering the community center," the Special Branch officer called. The plods had fixed themselves up in unmarked vehicles.

"Either of them look like Hassan?" Ros asked

"Unconfirmed. Unable to see their faces clearly. Do we move?"

"Hang on a minute. Let's wait until they get inside," Adam responded.

A few moments later, Ros could hear over the surveillance bugs that they'd entered the center meeting room. Words in Arabic flew fast and furious, then silence.

"Fuck!" Ros shouted. To Adam, she quickly noted, "Tell them to get in there, NOW! Hassan's in there. They're wiring up the community center with explosives."

Adam immediately pulled on his ear-piece that would link him to Ros and the Special Branch team. Relaying the information to the Special Branch, he took off out the back of the surveillance van. In the meantime, Ros contacted Harry back at the Grid to let them know of the current situation. There wasn't much that Harry could do at the scene, but he could get the Explosive Ordnance Personnel team on site as soon as possible.

All was quiet on the communications line for a few minutes as the team got in place. Then there was nothing. What's taking them so long? It's too quiet. Ros was anxious. Then from inside the van, Ros could hear gunfire, and then a deafening explosion. The van rocked slightly. The reverberation from explosion had taken out one of the rear window panels. Once she'd gathered her senses, she barely made sure she was okay. A few scratches from glass were all she noted. She put on a communications device over her ear and packed her gun to her side then she pulled open the back of the van. Quickly shutting it, she took off to see what was going on.

The front of the community center had a large gaping hole in it, where fire whipped through. Concrete, glass and stone debris scattered over the ground and a heavy dust hung in the air as she neared the building she could see bodies lain in and around the debris.

"Adam!" Ros called out, getting closer. Nothing but an eerie silence. She looked around frantically. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she spotted movement. A black-and-grey covered body moved from beneath some rubble. She identified him as one of the Special Branch officers, then returned her sites to trying to find her fellow security officer. "Adam!" Still nothing. Her conscious SB partner started checking for his fellow officers. They began picking through the rubble. A body. A shock of short blond hair standing out against the soot and ash covering most of the head. Ros dropped to her knees and quickly checked the body out, identifying it as Adam's. A quick check of his pulse revealed he was still alive. Unconscious, but alive. Within a few more minutes, the sounds of sirens could be heard. Ros leaned back on her legs and dropped her head, whispering a quiet prayer of thanks that Adam was alive. A few more minutes and the emergency service vehicles pulled up as close as they could. Backboards came out and supplies as they went to retrieve the conscious survivors.

Ros pointed Adam out to them. "He's alive. Barely. He hasn't regained consciousness."

Quickly two of the emergency service personnel checked out Adam, while another attended to Ros.

"Come with me, miss," the young attendant tried guiding her to the back of the ambulance.

"Never mind me, just make sure he's okay."

"Miss..." she tried again.

"Myers. Just do your job," Ros said, irritated.

"I'm trying to," the attendant stated, just as frustrated. "You've got a large gash on the back of your shoulder. Let me take a look at it."

"What?" Ros was puzzled. She hadn't even noticed that she was injured. She stopped to think. Then she realized that when the glass panel in the van broke, a shard must have dug into her shoulder. She sighed, then allowed herself to be led to the ambulance. While she sat in the open ambulance she could see more and more emergency service personnel sort through the debris and rubble for other bodies, alive or dead. She noticed the ambulance that they'd piled Adam's injured body into take off, sirens blaring.

"Where are they taking him?"

"St. Thomas's Hospital. Sit still." The attendant took her scissors and cut away the material from around the wound. The steady pour of blood had slowed to a sludge as it had begun to congeal. "I need you to lie face down on the gurney there." She then worked on cleaning around the site.

A moderate piece of glass was still embedded into Ros's shoulder. She dressed the wound until they got to the hospital. The other attendant closed up the back of the ambulance and started to move the vehicle off to the hospital.

"Where are we going?"

"St. Thomas's. Hospital. You need to have that removed."

"But I..." Ros started.

"Need to stay still." The attendant looked down at Ros, "Are you always this stubborn?"

Ros was frustrated. She needed to know what was happening. Furthermore, she needed to inform Harry.]]>