"SECRETS - PART FOUR"

Again, warm hugs and huge thanks to my beta readers: Isa and Sarah. Thanks for your insight and encouragement.

"Spooks," its characters and scripts are the property of Kudos Film & Television and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended by the author of this story.

CHAPTER NINETY

The car finally stopped. Harry heard two doors slam, and the key in the lock on the boot. There was a low creaking of the hinges opening, and then the metallic sound of the zip before the light assaulted his eyes and blinded him for a moment. He squinted against it and saw Viktor Sarkiisian looking down at him.

Two dark figures moved to either side of Viktor, and the light turned them into enormous silhouettes. Harry could see the blades of a helicopter turning in the distance, intermittently blocking out the sun. Viktor had to speak loudly to be heard over the motors. "Can I trust you?" he asked. Harry thought it a rather odd question to be asking of a person who was trussed up like a holiday roast, but he realised that Viktor was wanting to free him, so Harry nodded as vigorously as he could manage.

Within moments, Harry had been pulled unceremoniously from the bag, and he now stood with his mouth stinging from having the gaffer tape ripped from his skin. But, Christ, I can breathe again, he thought, thankfully taking in even the stale air of the abandoned field.

Viktor tilted his head at Harry, and narrowed his eyes. "Don't try anything," he said, and then he nodded to one of the men to cut the straps around Harry's ankles. They also cut the straps holding his hands behind his back, and allowed him to have new ones put on, much less constricting than the others had been, with his hands in the front. All in all, Harry's level of comfort increased exponentially. He was grateful, and he said a hoarse, "Thank you," to Viktor.

Harry was helped into the back of the helicopter, and they rose up, flying to the north. As he looked out the window, Harry quickly got his bearings. They'd been in a field south of London, and now they were crossing the river. He could even see Thames House below him, and for a moment he imagined the activity there.

They would be looking for him, checking Sarkiisian's associates, his haunts, his connections, but as Harry gazed, exhausted, down on the Embankment, he wondered at the futility of it all. Harry had to assume that he was now on a circuitous route to Moscow. He had to be realistic. He also had to assume that he was as good as dead.

He was on his way to the place that Lucas had just left, and was in all likelihood facing the same fate. Lucas' haunted eyes returned to him, saying, I was tortured for seventeen days, continuously. Lucas had accused Harry of being insensitive in asking him to recall his experience in Russia, and now, amidst the deafening noise of the helicopter, Harry had to acknowledge that Lucas had been right.

But I was only doing my job, said the voice in Harry's head. Bullshit! he said back to the voice. Every mistake I've ever made, everything I've ever done. Every life I've taken. They're all coming back to haunt me. Kachimov, the Russian in the underground, the Tehran train, and how many others?

Harry still hadn't begun to recover from Charles Grady's questioning, not really, and he didn't honestly know if he could survive another round. He remembered the moment he'd stood in the boiler suit, feeling vulnerable, open, and so grateful that he was being interrogated by Grady in England. All bets were off now. His body belonged to the FSB. He'd given it to them in a moment of desperation. His act of sacrifice had achieved his goal, but now, the payment was due.

Looking down at Central London, Harry allowed himself a melancholy smile. Had it been worth it? Below him, life went on as always in the city that he loved, with all its dramas and banality. And it would continue to go on without him. Yes, it was worth it.

And Ruth? Harry sighed and placed his cheek against the cold window. I love you so completely, my Ruth. Always and forever, but we are clearly not meant to be. Now I can only hope to see you on the other side of whatever awaits me. There are no atheists in foxholes, my love. I will have faith, and will believe that after this life, you and I will finally be together.

Harry said a silent thank you to Malcolm. He knew that his friend would do everything he'd asked. Ruth would get the letters that told of his unwavering love for her. Even if she no longer loved him, he thought the letters would be a comfort, but more than that, right now, Harry needed his heart to be known. He hoped that Malcolm would also make sure that Catherine and Graham saw the letters if they felt they wanted to read them. As he was facing this uncertain future, Harry felt a need to have those he'd loved -- Catherine, Graham, and most especially Ruth – know that as he had walked through his days on the Grid, coldly barking orders and dispensing justice, his heart was full, alive and well, and loving an extraordinary woman. It felt like a legacy of sorts, for his children, and for Ruth.

The helicopter dropped down and flew toward Hertfordshire. Of course, Harry thought. A mansion came into view, and Harry looked at Sarkiisian in the front seat. For a moment, Harry felt an infinitesimal glimmer of hope.

Malcolm will surely find a connection between Viktor Sarkiisian and a Moscow-on-Thames mansion.

"Harry Pearce. Leave a message."

No, not another one, Lucas thought. He'd already left two of them, and now he was sure Harry was in trouble. Directly after leaving the first message, Lucas had called Malcolm on the Grid and found out that Harry had gone to speak with Sarkiisian at FSB Headquarters. Lucas looked at his watch. It had been three-quarters of an hour since the bomb had detonated, and if Harry was free of Sarkiisian, he would have called by now.

The FSB agents that had been following them in the tunnels had not only suddenly stopped shooting, but they'd made it possible for Connie to defuse the bomb. Lucas had learned from Malcolm that Harry was appealing to Sarkiisian to save his own family, and the families of all of his people in London. And Lucas thought that Harry might have offered himself as a substitute for Connie. To give Sarkiisian a way to save face, and to placate his superiors.

So Harry had managed to keep them all alive, and was now missing, or worse.

Lucas drove quickly back to the Grid. For all these years, Lucas had thought it was Harry who had sold him out. All these years, when the nightmares came at 3:00 am and wouldn't cease, just as Connie had said, he'd blamed Harry. And all these years, Lucas had been wrong.

Ros' words were echoing through Lucas' head. Harry sweated blood to get you back here, he'd rather die than anything happen to you.

Lucas needed to tell Harry that he'd been wrong to doubt him. He really hoped that it wasn't too late.

Harry wanted to keep his sense of time and orientation. He thought it must be nearly 5:00 p.m., and he'd last eaten a quick sandwich at about 1:00 in the car on the way to Ottawa Bravo. Has this all been only one day? This was the day I awakened and packed a bag to go to Ruth. He shook his head slightly, and pushed the plate away, unable to eat. He did drink all of the water, though. Dehydration and interrogation, hand in glove.

Viktor stood looking out of the huge upstairs window. Harry wondered again at the propensity of people in questionable lines of work to choose these huge estates for their dramas to play out. Of course, the estates were usually in the country and surrounded by land, but it also seemed to Harry that there was some sense of entitlement, of needing to feel powerful, that drove their choices.

Harry looked up at Sarkiisian, who was dwarfed by the tall window. Strange as it seemed, Harry didn't think Viktor was a bad sort. He would certainly have turned out to be easier to work with than Kachimov had been. Viktor was the "new KGB," a talker, a thinker, a man with a young family and a young sensibility, an eye toward the future instead of a foot in the past. Despite their differences, Harry thought they might have worked well together.

Viktor turned to him. "You should eat. This is as good as it gets."

Well, Harry thought, Might as well try to find out what he's up to. "What are you going to do with me?" He hadn't spoken in quite a while and his voice was hoarse, rough.

Viktor looked at Harry with a measure of respect. "I will sell you on, of course. You should be proud of the price you command."

Harry felt as if he was simply making conversation, but he thought he might point out the obvious. "There are some people who will be concerned as to my whereabouts."

"This place is heavily guarded. Your people have no idea where you are." Viktor said, confidently. Harry looked away. Unfortunately, he had to agree.

"In the meantime, I will stroll around the gardens and reflect on my new-found independence from Moscow and the wealth that you will bring me and my men." Viktor walked toward the door to the marble staircase outside. "Feel free to try and escape. It will provide us all with some entertainment." Maybe not all bad, but a bit too smug, Harry thought.

Before Viktor could go through the door to the stairway, they both heard something. A sound from the hallway, and then another from beyond the terrace door behind Harry. Then sharp noises, followed by silence, that indicated a scuffle. Harry and Viktor both turned as the door to the terrace opened, and a black-clad figure walked through. Then the hall door opened, and to Harry's astonishment, Amish Mani stepped into the room.

Sarkiisian slowly put his hands on his head, and Harry's mind raced. So, Viktor and Mani aren't working together. In a split second, Harry made the assumption that Mani had rejoined the Indian Intelligence Bureau, and that he had dangled the high price in front of Sarkiisian in order to get Harry back. In any case, Harry thought he mightn't be shipped off to Moscow after all, and he felt a well of gratitude for Mani, no matter how unpleasant a person he remembered him to be.

Mani was dressed exactly as he had been in Baghdad, down to the cufflinks and polished shoes, and he looked at Harry and smiled. "Hello, old chap." Sarkiisian was being roughly handled, and was forced to kneel between two of Mani's men. Mani was speaking as if he and Harry were old and dear friends, in a tone that belied the anxiety that had begun as a tiny ball in Harry's stomach. "It's been a long time. I hope they haven't treated you too badly." Mani turned to Viktor, nodding, and said in the same tone, "Mr Sarkiisian?"

Harry thought this might not be a perfect way of gaining his freedom, but at least it looked better than the situation he'd been in a few minutes ago. He turned to Viktor, wanting somewhat to repay his smug talk earlier. "I told you I'd be missed." But Viktor laughed, which was not at all the reaction Harry was expecting.

"What is it?" Harry asked him.

Viktor looked up at Mani. "He thinks you've come to rescue him."

Now Mani offered a smile to Viktor. Mani's voice was smooth, low. "It's true. He does." The ball in Harry's stomach had enlarged to a knot, and it was growing.

Viktor turned to Harry, and said, "You're a fool, Harry. This is the man who offered such a high price for you. He just doesn't want to pay it."

"True again," Mani said, as he produced a handgun from his jacket and pulled back the slide in one graceful motion.

Viktor saw what was about to happen, and he tilted his head slightly at Mani. "Wait."

But Mani had no intention of waiting. He had a plan, and this was only the beginning of it. Sarkiisian said it again. "Wait!" but Mani simply raised the pistol, levelled it at Viktor's head, and pulled the trigger.

Harry had known that Amish Mani was not what he seemed in Baghdad, but this cold-hearted execution surprised even him. And Mani wasn't finished. "Cut off his ring finger and send it to Colonel Basukov at the Russian embassy."

Mani nodded to his men. They began to prepare for something, and Harry was terrifyingly certain that it was another execution. Those behind him were pulling black ski hoods over their faces, and wrapping armbands with the very-recognisable SARV insignia around their sleeves. One of the men was preparing a mobile phone, holding it up to frame Harry in the screen.

Ah, Christ, no. An internet video. And all Harry could think of was that this was how he would be remembered. He'd seen enough of them to know what it would look like. He'd been a ghost nearly his whole life, and now he'd be famous for a gruesome, public death. A death that his children would see, that Ruth would see. Oh, Ruth, remember the letters, remember Bath, please don't remember this...

Mani was waving the gun around, looking calmly at him. "Look around you, Harry. This is the room in which you are about to die."

Throughout the room, men began to chant in Arabic, rhythmic, low, as in a ritual. The phone's camera was pointed at him, its green light glowing. Viktor's body was being dragged to a corner, the blood collecting in a pool on the plastic cover.

Harry could think of nothing to say, nothing to do. The adrenaline was rushing through his body, cancelling his exhaustion but making him slightly lightheaded. His breath was coming in short bursts, and he shifted his weight from one knee to the other, ineffectually, without purpose. After everything, this is the moment I die.

I must say something that will make this better, this horrible thing they're going to see. I must tell Catherine and Graham, my children, my Ruth, that I love them, that I'm not in pain, that it will be fast, it won't hurt me, they're not to be sad, or worried, or grieve... Harry looked up at Mani, and asked, "Can I leave a message for my family?"

Mani held the gun level, just as he had moments ago when he'd pointed it at Viktor. When he had killed Viktor. "No messages."

Harry looked down the barrel of the pistol, and he heard the shot. His eyes were open, but then, involuntarily, he squeezed them shut, as though to protect them from what was coming. And in a split second, he heard the shot as it whizzed past his right ear, so close that he thought he felt a slight puff of air from its speed. But it hadn't entered his body. Harry was confused, but not for very long, as a sharp pain cracked just behind his left ear, and he saw stars explode across his field of vision. Not a bullet, but the grip of another gun had struck him.

Then everything went black.

One hour later, Lucas, Ros, Malcolm and Jo sat in the meeting room and watched the same events play out on the large wall screen. Except that instead of going black after the shot, what they saw ended with Harry lying on the floor, his head surrounded by a pool of blood, his eyes closed, his body seemingly lifeless. And as they watched in various states of horror, grief and disbelief, each of them had the clear memory of Harry himself standing in front of the screen here in the meeting room, talking, listening, shouting, smiling. Alive.

Lucas clicked the remote and froze the screen. "Posted on the internet. But we pulled it, straight away. If it does get back into the public domain, the official line is that we're studying it for authenticity."

Ros asked the question that was in everyone's mind. "What do we think on its authenticity?"

Pulling up a section of the tape, Lucas said, "The insignia on the gunman belongs to the Sacred Army of Righteous Vengeance."

Ros' mind was beginning to engage again. "Okay, so let's say Sarkiisian did a deal with an extreme Islamic group like SARV. They certainly have the cash it would require. Still doesn't mean the execution is real."

Jo looked up. "What do you think, Malcolm?"

Malcolm's voice had an edge to it. He was trying to remain professional, but he had been deeply affected by seeing Harry in what were probably the last few seconds of his life. "It could be a sophisticated cut and paste job. But the big question is, why would they go to all that trouble?"

Ros said, "Well, if the SARV have got him, I'd expect them to milk it for ages. He's a massive trophy."

Malcolm couldn't take his eyes off of the screen, and Harry lying in the pool of blood. It was as if Harry had known, this afternoon, and Malcolm kept playing their last conversation over and over in a loop in his head. But he had to admit that this looked real to him. "You're just talking yourselves into optimism."

Ros sighed, and the helplessness she was feeling began to creep into her voice. "Well, what do you suggest, Malcolm? Should we start discussing the poem for his memorial service?"

In a flash, it was all too much for Malcolm. There on the screen was his friend, the man he had shook hands with not four hours ago, the man to whom he had said, Come back. And that man, his friend Harry, was dead. Ros was making it sound as if he were just anyone. Malcolm turned on her with a fury that none of them had seen since Colin was killed. "Don't you dare patronise me! I've known him for far longer than you have!" Malcolm proceeded to stare Ros down, which everyone in the room knew was not a thing that was easily done.

Ros looked away first, just for a split second, and when she answered, her voice held none of the edge it had just moments ago. Her apology was sincere, and heartfelt. "Sorry, Malcolm. I was rude and my comment was uncalled for."

They all tried to calculate the last time they'd heard Ros Myers apologise, as Lucas continued. "All right, look. Going back to Harry's trophy status, surely they'd want to interrogate him. "

Jo agreed, but only to a degree, as she answered Lucas. "Very quickly. They'd know we'd have red-flashed our assets and changed everything around within a matter of hours. They'd also know we'd be on the hunt." Jo turned to Ros. "It's dangerous holding on to a prize asset for too long."

Everyone in the room, apart from Malcolm, had personal experience in the finer points of interrogation. And Lucas, specifically, understood the Russian variety. They needed to act fast. Before leaving the room, Lucas said, "All right, despite our personal involvement, we treat Harry just like any missing asset. And remember, we still don't have a body."

Ros followed him out, leaving Jo and Malcolm still watching the video. Jo asked, "What do you think, Malcolm, really?"

Malcolm turned to her, and he told her the truth, although it gave him an actual, physical pain to do so. "I think it's genuine."

Harry opened his eyes, slowly, as the pain began to spread from the back of his head, around and into his eyes. His hands were still bound, but he managed to reach both of them up to feel the large lump that had swelled quite magnificently just behind his left ear. He was on a cold, hard floor, but it was still light outside. So it must still be earlier than 8:00 p.m., when the sun usually set at this time of year.

He managed to pull himself to a sitting position and leant his back against the wall. His head was splitting, but he paused for a moment and controlled the pain, hoping to get his wits back. The right side of his face felt sticky, and he reached a finger up to touch it. Whatever it was had dried, so he wet his finger on his tongue and touched it again, this time bringing away a reddish-brown substance that he recognised immediately as blood. He wondered idly if it was his own. The pain in his head was so acute that it was impossible to tell.

The room he was in seemed to be a service room, with two large sinks, so he brought himself slowly to a standing position and made his way there. Above the sinks was a filthy mirror, but he wet the sleeve of his shirt, cleared a small circle, and peered at his face. Not only was the blood on the entire right side of his face, but his hair on that side was matted, congealed, sticking out in hard spikes. He frowned, touching it, and began to understand what had probably happened.

Quickly, he turned on the water and rinsed not only his face, but his hair, and the cool water eased the pain in his head a bit as well. He took a drink of clean water and then put his head under the tap again, watching the pink rivers make their way down the drain. Once he was finished, he stood and felt the water drip on to the collar and shoulders of his shirt, which seemed miraculously free of blood, except for one sleeve. He took another drink and sat down again with his back against the wall.

It must have been Viktor's blood, he thought, remembering the Russian's body as it was dragged across the room on the plastic tarpaulin. And after asking himself why he would have been soaked in Sarkiisian's blood, the answer came quickly. Mani had faked the video to make it look as if they'd killed him. They didn't want Harry's team coming after him, but for some reason, they needed to keep him alive. From there, even through the throbbing of his head, it wasn't much of a leap to sort out why.

The uranium. He and Libby McCall had hidden it together in Norfolk. And then Harry had gone back and hidden it again. He knew that McCall, Mani and Hillier would cross him, so he double-crossed them first. And now they wanted it. So Mani had offered a high price on Harry's head, and they thought they could ask and he would simply tell.

What they hadn't bargained for was that right now, Harry Pearce felt he had very little to lose. And as Connie James had so eloquently put it recently, Threats don't work on people with nothing to lose. To allow Mani, McCall and Ronnie to sell the uranium on to the next highest bidder, to be made into a dirty bomb or worse, was simply out of the question.

Harry had spent the last few weeks staring into the abyss of his own conscience. There was nothing, and no one, that could force him to add more guilt to the mountain that already existed.

There was a sound outside the door, and Harry clambered to his feet to be ready for whatever, or whomever, was coming through it. Two men that he recognised from earlier took him by the arms and led him down a long hallway and into another room that was empty except for what looked to be rubbish along one of the walls, and two folding chairs in the middle of the room. Without a word, he was pushed into one of them, and the men left, closing the door behind them.

Harry inhaled deeply, and collected his wits as best he could. His head was still pounding, but less now. What would I do if I were Mani? Does he really think there's anything he can do or say that would compel me to put weapons-grade uranium into the hands of whatever terrorists have the money to buy? Mani's only choice would be torture. Physical pain would be his only course of action.

After Harry's time with Charles Grady, he thought he might prefer physical pain to the emotional type he was still enduring. Harry wasn't young and strong like Zaf. His body would give out faster, and his mind would be more willing to let go of life. Of course, there was also the chance that Harry could use his intelligence and his experience to cut a deal with Mani. He didn't know what deal would be enticing enough, but Harry would listen, and Mani would give him a clue. They usually did.

Harry looked up sharply as the other door in the room opened, the one he assumed went down to the stairwell. One of Mani's men came through first, and then Mani himself, slamming the door loudly behind him. Harry looked down to the floor, steeling himself for whatever was to come.

Mani turned the second chair around until it faced Harry, and stood behind it. "Hello again, Harry."

Harry's best bet was to show Mani that he was still able to think, to work things through. Harry's voice was weary, almost as if he was bored by this whole process. "You really think my team will believe a faked execution?"

Mani thought Harry might sort that part out, but he was still fairly impressed. "I think they'll entertain the thought, but I agree they'll probably discover that you're alive." He began to walk toward the grimy window. "We'll keep tossing them curveballs though. The SARV video will keep them looking for the wrong people in all the wrong places."

Harry had to fight through the pain in his head. All he wanted to do was to lie down and sleep, to let the throbbing go away, but he gave his voice as much power as he possibly could. "Posing as a group of Islamic terrorists must have been hard for a dyed-in-the-wool Indian nationalist like yourself."

Mani shook his head lightly. "Omelettes and eggs, Harry. But I have to admit, it didn't come easily." Mani stepped around the chair and sat down. "What have you done with it, Harry?"

Just in case it wasn't the uranium, Harry didn't want to give Mani any ideas. "Done with what?"

"The very large quantity of weapons-grade uranium that you were supposed to be safeguarding."

Harry dropped the pretence. "Doing exactly that, safeguarding it."

Mani leant forward in the chair, and spoke softly, slowly, as if they were sharing a wonderful confidence. "Come on, Harry, we both know that everybody breaks in the end. It's only a question of ... when?" Mani abruptly pushed his chair back, creating a scraping noise that sent another painful echo through Harry's head.

Mani stood behind the chair, and again, he spoke softly, kindly. "More than one way to skin a cat, of course." Mani turned and went out the door.

After a quarter of an hour sitting in the chair and wondering what would happen next, Harry stood and walked the perimeter of the room. With his hands still bound, he tested doors and windows, but found them all locked. On the floor in a heap were a broken chair, an old wooden door, some empty window frames, and a set of curtains. There was nothing, really, that could be used as a weapon, and in any case, Harry was feeling himself losing touch with reality. He thought it might be the blow he'd taken to the head, and as he saw the sun travelling lower in the west, he could only think of lying down and closing his eyes.

Harry bent down and moved the door slightly away from the pile of rubbish, and then he arranged the heavy damask curtains across the door. He sat, and then lay down. It was hard to find a comfortable position on his side because his hands were still bound, so he rolled over onto his back and gazed at the badly damaged plaster on the ceiling far above him.

It was remarkably quiet, except for the occasional car going by, or the distant wail of an ambulance. As Harry watched the light change outside the window, he remembered another warehouse, and another bed. He imagined Sunstrike, and suddenly he had Ruth there with him.

He called on the music, bringing it into his head softly at first, testing it to be sure it wouldn't make the headache worsen. When it didn't, he closed his eyes and Ruth was stroking his forehead, the pale yellow light bathing her face and shoulders as if she were made of gold. Harry's head gradually ceased its pounding, and he drifted off to sleep.

Ros knew they had to proceed as if Harry were alive, but she also understood that their time was limited, so she'd put out a request to their sister service to see if they had anything on SARV. They'd then spent the evening following up on a SARV lead that had come from an MI6 officer named Stephen Hillier. The lead was Abdul Hussein, and Ros planned to get hold of the psychiatric notes from his trauma counselling sessions in the morning. She hoped they would give them something to go on.

Soon after their meeting on the Grid, they'd gotten word that Viktor Sarkiisian's body had been found, minus one finger, which had presumably been sent to the Russians as an insult from SARV. Lucas went to the morgue in hopes of finding something that the examiners had missed, and whilst he was there, he met Sarah Caulfield from the CIA, who was Libby McCall's replacement at Grosvenor Square. She left Lucas with a promise, "I hear anything at all, you'll be the first to know."

Lucas knew better, and said with a smile, "I doubt that. Keep me high on the list, at least."

At midnight, Ros told the team to go home and get some rest. She knew they had to hold out hope.

"Right now, Harry's either dead or facing death. I know we're scraping the barrel, but it's all we can do."

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

Lucas stepped back onto the Grid at 5:30 a.m., only to find Jo already there. She looked up from her SARV research to wave him toward the Communications Suite. "Malcolm said to catch you or Ros when you came in. He wants you to hear something." She turned back to her computer screen.

"Malcolm's already here?" Lucas was headed toward the coffee, which he badly needed.

"Been here all night," was all he heard from Jo before he was out of earshot. Lucas quickly got his coffee, silently thanking whomever had brewed it, and walked back toward Communications.

"Jo said you had something." Lucas put down his coffee and stood behind Malcolm's chair. He not only had the video of Harry up on the screen, but also the sound data.

Malcolm had been trying to discover if the video had been edited, spliced together. "The video is inconclusive. I've done a frame-link analysis and there are some stutters but it was done on a mobile phone so that proves nothing."

Lucas had to agree with Harry that most of the time he understood about half of what Malcolm said. But he knew that sooner or later he would get to a bit that he could track, so he simply said, "All right."

Lucas gratefully took another sip of the strong, hot coffee, and set it down again. Malcolm hadn't even looked up yet, but he was continuing to explain, "The interesting thing is in the sounds, the jeering. Now, we've done some sound-splitting and redub to isolate each separate noise item."

Lucas smiled. Still no light at the end of the techno-speak tunnel, but he was a patient man. "No wonder you've been here all night, Malcolm."

"Most of it's just incoherent cat-calling, but we got one word, pulled it right out of the sequence and put wave-enhancement treatment on it."

Now Lucas' attention was commanded, as he listened to a very clear word being spoken in a male voice. The word was playing over and over. Lucas frowned and asked, "What is that?"

Malcolm spoke with obvious pride at having discovered it. "It's an insult. If these people are SARV, you'd expect to hear Arabic, English, perhaps Punjabi, right?"

"Uh-huh." Lucas was trying to place the language he was hearing, but couldn't quite get it.

Malcolm already had. "But this is Malayalam. The official language of Kerala. In India."

Lucas asked, "Just one word?"

"Well, somebody forgot himself in the excitement, but I'd be very surprised ... I'd be amazed ... if a foot soldier in SARV was recruited in Kerala." Malcolm turned finally, and looked at Lucas.

Lucas looked back at Malcolm as he continued to listen to the voice on the recorder. "So why would someone from India be involved in Harry's disappearance?"

Malcolm flipped off the recorder, and simply looked at Lucas, trying to decide what to do. Lucas could see that there was something more, but Malcolm still hadn't spoken. Lucas decided to give him just a bit of space, so he walked over to his coffee cup and picked it up. He raised it to Malcolm and said, "Would you like a cup? I'm going to freshen mine."

Malcolm nodded, still looking rather like a deer in the headlights. As Lucas walked toward the door, he said with a crooked smile, "That'll give you a chance to decide if you want to tell me the rest of what you know."

When Lucas returned, Malcolm was just retrieving something from the printer. Malcolm handed Lucas the paper, as Lucas handed the coffee to him. Sitting down to read it, Lucas saw immediately that it was in French, and he tilted his head at Malcolm, handing it back. "I'm sorry to admit I never made it through my O levels. What does it say?"

Malcolm smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Well, there's so much more to the story, actually, and I've been trusted with it. I'm strongly hoping I can trust you with it as well, at least the parts I need to tell you. Because I think this is relevant, and it may be useful to you."

Malcolm began to read. "It says: 'This arrived today from a friend. Thought you would like to know.' And it's signed, 'R.'"

Lucas asked, "And who is 'R'?"

"Her name is Ruth. She's a former officer who was forced into exile. She made a great sacrifice for Harry in order to save him from being imprisoned for something he didn't do."

Lucas thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Ruth Evershed. I've seen her name, and her analyst skills are somewhat legendary around here. But her records say she drowned."

Malcolm was silent. He simply kept his eyes on Lucas, his look betraying nothing.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "Exile. Ah." Then Lucas broke into a smile, and said, "I knew there was something different about Harry." He looked directly at Malcolm. "He cared for her, didn't he?" When Malcolm didn't answer, Lucas laughed softly, "I know, that's not a relevant question, but that's alright. I've seen it. It's like he's here, but he's also somewhere else. That actually helps to explain quite a lot." He took a long sip of his coffee, and then said, "Go on."

Malcolm translated the rest of the letter. "'I hope this reaches you. A very tall man, Indian I believe, was here asking for S.P. today. I told the truth -- that you left a year ago and I do not know where you are. Be safe. I still pray to see you again.'" He looked up at Lucas. "S.P. was her legend in Paris, and the person who wrote this was a friend of hers there."

"She left Paris a year ago? And where is she now?"

Malcolm hesitated, but then shrugged. He'd already said so much, and he did trust Lucas. If it could make a difference in finding Harry, Malcolm would do anything right now. "She's on Cyprus. In Polis."

"And when did you get this?" Lucas asked.

"Yesterday, right before 3:00 p.m." Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Didn't know then whether it would make any difference or not."

Lucas looked back at him, remembering Connie, and the tunnel, and the bomb blast. "I can understand that. I think a lot of us were wondering that right about then."

Malcolm put down the paper and sipped at his coffee. "I thought you should know."

Lucas nodded. "Thanks, Malcolm." He rubbed his forehead. "So we have an Indian voice on the tape, and an Indian man looking for Ruth. Without any obvious ties to either Russia or SARV." He stood to go back out to the Grid, and then turned back. "Malcolm, may I tell Ros? I wouldn't feel comfortable keeping this from her if it did become relevant."

Malcolm grimaced slightly. "If you have to, certainly you should. But you should also be aware," Malcolm looked at Lucas over the rim of his coffee cup, "That Ruth and Ros weren't the greatest of chums."

Lucas smiled and nodded. "Understood."

Harry had awakened to a sharp kick in the side, coincidentally directly on the spot that the tyre iron had dug into and left a bruise yesterday. He jumped from the pain, and from the heavily-accented voice saying, "Get up!"

It was light outside, and Harry had slept fitfully. At some point, he'd wrapped himself in the dust-ridden curtains for warmth, but the night on the hard wooden door had left him aching and still exhausted.

The same two men from yesterday took him under the arms and lifted, raising him to his feet. They pulled him back to the same chair and dropped him in it, before walking to the door.

"May I ..." Harry's voice was rough, ragged, and his mouth felt parched and full of dust. He cleared his throat quickly and finished, "May I have some water, please?"

The men turned and laughed, and then speaking in an Indian dialect Harry didn't understand, walked out of the door.

Harry sat hunched on the chair, and if he hadn't been so thirsty, he might have fallen asleep right there. His could hear his own breathing, somewhat laboured and rough, and wondered how long they would leave him alone here. He didn't have to wonder for long.

The door across from him opened again, and Mani stepped through. He was carrying a bottle of water, and for a moment, Harry thought he might offer it to him. But Mani sat in the chair across from him, and simply looked at him for a time. He knew that Mani was sizing up his weakness. Harry didn't even have the energy to pretend.

Mani reached down and twisted the cap on the bottle of water, slowly, taking his time. Then he raised it to his lips, deliberately letting the sound of the water fill the silent room. Harry knew exactly what Mani was doing, as he remembered his own training in interrogation. Drink the water as if you're making love to it. Harry concentrated on controlling his own breath, and he tried again to find the music.

After nearly finishing the bottle, and a final, satisfied ahh, Mani spoke. "I'm not a psychopath, Harry. The sound of screaming actually sets my teeth on edge. Especially women." Harry very much doubted that, but instead of responding, he kept his eyes trained on the floor, and concentrated on remaining upright in the chair. Mani continued, "There is a woman, though, who also knows what I want. The one who was with you in Baghdad."

Now Harry looked up, incredulous. Ruth? No, not Ruth! The adrenaline was beginning to course through him at the thought of this animal being anywhere near his Ruth. He gave as much of a laugh as was possible in his condition. "She's dead. You can't get to her."

Mani kept his eyes on Harry, and said softly, confidently, "She's very much alive, as both you and I know."

A terror suddenly gripped Harry. Could Mani find her? Oh, God, why did I ever take her to Baghdad? I've put her in danger. Again. Please no, not Ruth. You can't. Harry looked up at Mani, and he heard the sound of pleading in his own voice. Harry shook his head, and said softly, "She doesn't know."

Smiling, Mani said, "I think she does. But even if I'm wrong, sometimes it's the pain of others that can make people break." Mani brought the bottle to his mouth again, and took another sip. He watched Harry trying to control his distress, and he could see that he had found the way to Harry Pearce. He pushed his chair away again, scraping the floor, and he saw Harry flinch.

Mani smiled as he walked through the door. Ruth was Harry's weakness, his Achilles Heel. All he had to do was to put them in the same room together, and he would have his uranium.

"Are you coming in?" Nico emerged from the water through the centre of the tube and asked Ruth the same question he'd asked three times already. Earlier she'd said she would swim with him, but she was trying a new salad recipe with poached sea bass and summer vegetables, and it was more complicated than she'd thought. They were going to spend the afternoon and evening at the beach, and would have their dinner there, so she needed not only to poach the fish and chill it, but also to pack it all up to keep until supper time.

So, no, Ruth didn't think she could swim this morning. "Not if you want to eat tonight," she called back to Nico.

Ruth loved the beach, and though she had much to do, she was feeling a sense of well-being, a happiness, at the day they had planned. All three of them enjoyed the sea, the endless play that the water offered, the sounds of other families, and the peace that came with the waves and the wind.

Even George seemed to be looking forward to an entire day off from the hospital. He stepped out onto the porch and watched as Ruth diced the vegetables. "Looks good."

Ruth turned around. She had just remembered that she'd forgotten to buy the wine when she was in town. "We need wine."

"That's OK, I got a few bottles in on Friday."

Ruth thought that if he spent any time at all on shopping or in the kitchen, he would know a bit about what was actually in the house. But she only said, "And we finished them on Monday." She was clearly too busy to go, and she knew George was anxious to get to the beach, so he was really the only option.

Except that George managed to come up with another choice. At least he was smiling when he said it. "Would it be so wrong to send Nico to get more?" Ruth laughed, and looked out toward the pool, as George said, "Well, why bother having children if you can't make them do stuff for you?"

Ruth thought she would try another tack. George was very attached to his nightly wine, so she backed off. "Well, I'm quite happy without it."

George knew exactly what she was doing. "Me too, obviously."

"Good, so we'll just have ... water," Ruth said.

George grimaced, knowing she'd won. "All right, I'm going. See you in ten." He began the short walk down the driveway toward the mountain shop, where he knew he could find two good bottles of white to go with the fish.

Ruth watched him, thinking, Today is a good day. This is a day that makes me believe I can do this. George had been nicer to her since they'd made love again, especially so, given that she'd been the one who had suggested it. He'd been much like the George she'd known in the early days of their friendship, but underneath her optimism was a realist who wondered how long it would last.

She saw him turn the corner and go into the house to get his wallet, and Ruth smiled. She'd tried to imagine a new life for herself, and here it was. Not the perfect life, by any means, but a good one. Today, she was happy. It wasn't a life with Harry, but she thought it might be second best. Ruth looked at Nico in the pool, and realised again how much she loved the boy. She couldn't seem to fall in love with his father, but she loved Nico. Ruth sighed. Maybe that can be enough.

She returned to her chopping. Dill. That's what I need for the fish. Ruth walked out toward the herb garden by the fence, and watched Nico swim across the pool under the water. Just as I like to do, she thought, remembering their races. Nico could always hold his breath longer than she could, and he loved to win. She smiled as he popped up at the other end, and then she bent to her knees in the garden. She found just the right sprigs of dill weed, and then brought the broken end to her nose to breathe in the rich, spicy aroma.

When she looked up, George was beginning his walk, and she waved as he disappeared down the driveway. At just that moment a car pulled in, one that Ruth had never seen before. As she looked closer, she could see that it was a black rental car, bright and shiny, unlike the usual vehicles seen in the mountains.

Ruth frowned, and the fear began to rise in her chest. They're Indian. The two men in the car were definitely Indian. And standing at the edge of the mountain house, with fresh dill in her hands, feeling the Cyprus sun on her skin, Ruth knew that her prayers to Aphrodite had been answered.

Change is here, Ruth thought.

Ruth walked quickly back to the side of the pool. "Nico, get out and go and wait by the car."

He was sitting in the tube floating, and he was understandably reluctant. "What, now?"

Her voice was more strident than she meant it to be. "Yes, now!"

She had started to walk back toward the house, when Nico asked, "Why?"

Ruth didn't have time for this, and she most certainly couldn't explain why. So she lied, keeping her voice light. "Because I ... I ... feel bad about making your dad walk on such a hot day. Come on, we'll surprise him." She looked back, and Nico wasn't moving. "Come on!"

Ruth reached the inside of the porch doors and stopped. In her mind, she mapped out exactly where she would go, and what she would get. And she did something else as well, without even knowing it. In a split second, she changed from Faith Ruth Benson into Ruth Elizabeth Evershed. It was almost frightening to her how quickly and easily the transition happened, and when she would think about it afterwards, countless times, she would understand that the born spook, Ruth Evershed, had never really been far away.

Ruth tried to think where they could go to be safe, and she knew that although she'd already put George and Nico in danger, she refused to involve anyone else. Her first thought was to go to Christina's, but she knew that if they had found her here at George's house, they would find her at Christina's. Ruth knew there was only one place to go, and only one group of people who could protect her and her family. England, and MI5. And her heart added, and Harry.

She took a deep breath and ran up the stairs to the bedroom, retrieving their passports from the top drawer. Then to the hall closet, where her carry-all was packed and ready to go on the top shelf. Ruth jumped and caught it as it fell, and was outside near the car in just seconds. But Nico wasn't waiting by the car as she'd told him.

Ruth's heart was racing. She knew the men would be coming around the back any moment now, and she absolutely would not leave her boy in their hands. She looked quickly toward the pool, dropped her bag, and ran to find him. He wasn't there, but she looked up and the two men were walking around the side of the house. Then, as she looked frantically at the car again, she saw Nico there, wrapped in a towel, looking bewildered.

She took off at a full run toward him, her voice high-pitched, screaming, "Get in the car!" The men heard her, as she'd known they would, but she had no choice. They began to run also, and now it was a race. Nico saw her panic, and jumped quickly into the back seat of the car, his usual place. Ruth picked up the bag as she ran by it, and threw it in the front seat, getting in, and closing and locking the doors. She hit the sun visor and the keys fell into her waiting hands.

Within moments, they were speeding down the driveway, with the men pounding on the windows as they ran alongside. Ruth called back to Nico, "You all right?" and he nodded, his face full of terror and confusion. Ruth finally had the speed to shift into third gear, and they rapidly pulled away. Their attackers would now have to run back to their own car before they could get on the road, and Ruth thought that would buy them enough time to get away.

But first she had to pick up George. She took the turn toward the mountain shop, and saw him walking with the two bottles of wine in a paper bag at his side. He looked up and frowned at the sight of the car, and when Ruth turned sharply, he stepped back and put his arm up to protect his eyes from the spray of dust and stones that were thrown up by the wheels. "What the hell are you ..." he shouted, when she opened the passenger door.

"Get in!" Her voice was shrill, sharp, and he stood dumbfounded for a moment. "Now!" she said, and he got quickly into the front seat. She floored the gas pedal before he had the door closed, and he turned to her, angrily, and said, "What's got into you? What the hell are you doing?"

Ruth kept her eyes riveted to the long, straight road ahead of them. "I'll tell you when we get there." She quickly looked at her watch and calculated. It was 10:00 a.m., and the flight to London left from Paphos at 11:30. She had known the flights that left for London from her first days on Cyprus, and they never changed. They couldn't take the main highway, but her weekends with George on the mountain roads had taught her the shortcuts, the back way to Paphos in the south.

Mystified, George looked at the determined, resolute woman sitting beside him. Her mouth was fixed, her eyes were narrowed, and she no longer even looked like Ruth. In fact, he suddenly felt he had not the slightest idea who she was.

It was taking every ounce of Harry's energy to stay calm, and still, he wasn't having much success. Mani had come back in to the room with another bottle of water, and was taunting him with it again. But that wasn't the worst of it. Mani was talking about Ruth at the dinner table in Baghdad, and what a wonderful conversationalist she had been.

He turned to Harry, and said, "It will be nice to have her here with us again, won't it, Harry? Just like three old friends."

Harry took a deep breath, and looked at Mani with all the loathing he felt. "You don't know where she is."

Mani took a long sip of the water, and then licked his lips. He looked out of the dirty window as if he were seeing the sea in the distance. He spoke softly, dreamily, "Ah, Cyprus. So beautiful at this time of the year." He turned to Harry. "Did you enjoy your stay at the Hotel Anassa?"

When Harry didn't react, Mani turned again to the window. "But she seems to have forgotten you. Pity. Did you know she's married?"

Mani looked back to Harry just in time to see the shock flicker across his face, and he smiled. So he didn't know. "Yes, Harry, and with a little boy, it seems. A whole new family." Mani walked back to Harry, put his mouth close to his ear, and whispered. "So whatever happened between you must not have been very memorable." Mani stood and gave Harry a look of mock concern. "Poor Harry."

Mani's mobile rang, and he pulled it from his inside jacket pocket. With his back toward Harry, he listened for a moment, and then said, coldly, "You'd better hope she returns to Britain now. If you're lucky, she'll turn for help to the only place she really knows."

Mani walked toward the door, and without another word to Harry, left the room.

Harry hardly even saw him go. He was trying to control his racing heart. Married. A little boy. A whole new family. The words sliced through him as if each one were a newly sharpened blade. In his exhaustion, he felt the emotion begin to rise in his chest. No wonder Malcolm didn't want to tell me. Well, what did I expect? I left her completely alone. I sent her no word that I still loved her. What did I think would happen?

But through the shock, the grief of this news, he heard what Mani had last said, and he realised Ruth had gotten away. Don't come to London, Ruth. Please stay away. If you can still hear me, my psychic love, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction. With your husband, and your son.

Just thinking the words caused Harry a pain so sharp that his next breath was a gasp. I was her husband.

Charles Grady's face looked back at him. Everyone, Harry. You push everyone away. Grady laughed, his mouth twisted. Indeed, what did you expect?

There hadn't been three seats together on the plane, and Ruth was extremely grateful. She'd had no idea what to say to George, but it was Nico's eyes that were haunting her now. He'd looked so hurt, and even though he didn't know what it was that had caused this change in their lives, he knew he was travelling to London, a place that he despised, and that his father was very, very angry with Ruth.

She thought she might be in a sort of shock, but when she searched inside her heart, she couldn't find George there anywhere. His contempt was transparent on his face as he looked at her. At first he'd refused to go to London, but finally she'd told him his life was in danger, and that he must. He'd still said no, and she'd said, "Then think of Nico. They'll come after him, George. And they'll hurt him. Do you want that?"

He'd nearly spat the words at her. "They? Who is they, Ruth? Who are you??"

Finally, she had released a loud sigh, and said, softly, "Before I came to Cyprus, I worked for the British Security Services."

George had simply stood, slack-jawed, his forehead creasing slowly into a frown. Then, he'd done something she would never have expected. He let a short, disparaging laugh escape. "A spy? You?" And she realised his reaction was less a matter of his shock at the fact of it, and more his unwillingness to believe she had it in her to do the job.

The announcement had come over the loudspeaker then, and they'd boarded the plane and found their seats without another word. It was a five-hour flight, and with the two hour-time difference, they would reach London at 2:30 p.m. BST. In a little over five hours, Ruth would call the Grid and ask to be brought in. Within six hours, it was possible that Ruth would be standing across from Harry Pearce.

At that thought, the conflicting emotions that coursed through her were impossible to sort out. She was so angry that this had happened. On a day that had started so well, with her happiness, with a feeling of possibilities. Now, not only was she in danger, but she had dragged two good and innocent people with her. Everything had changed. She was angry with Harry for his silence for the last year, but she was even angrier at being pulled back into the life that had abandoned her.

She'd made her way, found another life, and asked nothing of the Services. Yet here she was right in the middle of it again, in the nightmare of fear, and running, of confusion, and lies. And the worst part, the absolute icing on the bloody cake, was that deep in her heart there was a part of her that was grateful that this would allow her to see Harry again. Grateful! Oh, the heart is a foolish beast.

Ruth sighed and lay her head back on the seat. She would sleep, she knew that. She always slept on aeroplanes, no matter what was going on. But as she waited for sleep to claim her, there was one more thing that was preying on her mind.

They'd just made it before the plane had taken off, and although Ruth had lost the two men on the road, she couldn't help wondering why there weren't others watching the only real airport on the island. It was sloppy tradecraft, and these men didn't seem to be the sloppy sort. Amish Mani hadn't seemed the type to let someone slip through his fingers quite this easily.

So in addition to thinking about Nico, George, Harry and herself, Ruth was wondering why Mani's men had made it so easy for her to get back to London.