Chapter 16 - Not Here. Not a Word. Ever Again.

With one final thud, the pulse of the Grid ceased. The relentless hum of machines, the endless white noise of venting, all of it descending into an abrupt silence. Alone in his office, Harry was overtaken by the insistent beat of his heart, blood coursing through his veins, the sound of a distant surf in his ears. He licked his lips, the taste of metal in his mouth, the residue of barely contained anger. Americans, Russians, Chinese, all of them reaching with greedy fingers into the intelligence pie, penetrating into the very centre of Thames House. Blasted Cybershell. Harry had thought the worse of the day over having experienced Beecher lording over the Briefing Room. Harry clenched his fist at the memory, Towers snivelling like the fawning diplomat that he was, acquiescing to the demands from the CIA Chief. As revolting as that was, it paled in comparison to the invasion of the Russians and the Chinese. They had hacked the system and stolen his voice. His words now auto generated, macabre orders given to Lucas regarding the cryptographer, Ortiz. The only hope was that Lucas would suspect that the commands were far too heinous for Harry to ever relay. One enemy was a hill, two enemies a mountain. Never had he envisioned the Russians and the Chinese working together. In a pique of anger, he had tipped his hand and acknowledged their surveillance of the Grid, and in retaliation they had locked it down. Harry clenched his fists. There was nothing worse than feeling trapped.

The silence stretched thinner, noises ordinarily hidden beneath detection rising to the surface. The ever present tick normally relegated to the background of his office, grew louder. A reminder that time was running out. The tempo of Harry's breath fell into the rhythm of the ticking, slow and steady, the frustration that roiled within him slowly abating. He needed to focus, channel his rage into corralling the team and spearheading a way out of their predicament. He let out a long, slow breath, and released his fist, stretching out his fingers.

Harry closed his eyes, weary of the lot of them. Would he ever be free of it all. As his anger receded, a wave of exhaustion overcame him. Over the past few weeks, he had done his utmost to fill every waking moment with any sort of task, staying at work late into the night, making it a point to schedule meetings away from Thames House, all of it a strategy to keep his thoughts from straying into dangerous territory. He could run no more, there was nothing to distract him. A faint sigh reached his ears. He opened his eyes with a start. There was no one else in the room. He closed his eyes once again. Nerves on edge, his mind must be playing tricks with him. The soft rustle of clothing sounded followed by the sharp intake of breath. This time he let his eyes remain shut. It was not a trick of his mind, but the bidding of remembrance. As he sat in the stillness of his office, a prisoner of the Grid, his thoughts betrayed him. Helpless, he let them wander, images flashing beneath his lids. The curve of a shoulder, the scent of warm skin, soft beneath his touch, a sigh turning into a moan. Harry groaned and immediately opened his eyes. Without a distraction, he was doomed.

A master in the art of evasion, Harry could easily tell when someone was avoiding him. Only recently, Ruth had accused him of hiding. He could very well say the same of her. In the brief moments when he had returned to the Grid, Ruth had been absent, finding nooks and corners in which to hide herself. He had not gone out of his way to find her, rather he had circled around her, giving her a wide berth. Through an unspoken agreement they had arrived at the mutual understanding that it was better not to be in a room alone together. By following that rule they handily avoided any discussion about their interlude in the hotel room. He was not a coward, he continually assured himself, he was only being prudent. If one asked a question they should be prepared for any answer. Leaving his question unanswered allowed him to live in the precious pocket of hope. It let him believe that he still had some form of control over the situation. His pragmatic side told him to think of the encounter as a one off, let it remain the stuff of fantasy to be unwrapped on cold nights to keep the chill away. After all, he had only given into temptation in the hope that one taste would end his craving. It had been a stunning feat of self deception. In reality, it had only left him wanting more. Intellectually, he knew that they needed to speak about it but he had no idea how to broach the subject. He had thought for a brief, heart stopping moment that she had finally amassed the courage when she had taken his hand in the briefing room but it had only been an excuse to pass along a note alerting him that the Grid had been compromised. At any rate, he could not fathom the next step. A drink? Dinner? Somehow, any ordinary interaction would seem like a step backward. Their relationship was destined to be a helix, winding around but going nowhere.

He needed a cryptographer to decipher the mind of Ruth Evershed.

Frustrated by the circle of his thoughts, Harry heaved himself from his chair. He may not be able to solve the riddle of his fraught relationship with his analyst, but he could most certainly extract his team from their current situation. Harry shunned the usual distraction of liquor, and headed out onto the floor. The sensitive nature of Cybershell had demanded stringent security, and he had whittled the personnel of the Grid down to a skeleton crew. Desks sat empty, the usual chatter and buzz of activity missing. No hum of machines, or clacking keys, or insistently ringing phones. The silence was unnerving. It was reminiscent of the hollow Grid that often haunted his dreams. He walked in the desolate half light, the captain of a ghost ship, doomed to roam the godless seas, searching for something, someone; only able to find redemption in a woman who would sacrifice her life for him. A shiver ran down Harry's spine. It might be wise to reevaluate his subscription to the opera. He shook off his fantastical thoughts and went in search of his team.

In one of the larger technical suites, Harry came across the hunched form of Tariq. The young man was sitting at a station, frantically punching keys. Giving a huff of exasperation, he sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair. Harry approached him.

"Any luck?"

"No. I still can't get around their firewall. They've taken complete control of everything."

"Are they still downloading personnel files?"

"Yeah. It's a bit unnerving to watch your personal details siphoned away and not be able to do anything about it."

Harry leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. He had no doubt regarding the young man's talent. In fact, he held a resounding belief that the techie could do anything. Tariq had risen to the occasion numerous times. It was the duty of a good leader to instil confidence and hope where there may be none.

"If anyone can out manoeuvre them, it's you."

Tariq shook his head. "I've tried everything."

"I'm sure you can come up with something."

"There's always a cricket bat."

"Hmm," Harry nodded. "A solution that has often crossed my mind."

A lopsided grin spread across the young man's face, and a moment of commiseration passed between the two men. A cheeky retort in a dire situation. For a brief moment, Harry was reminded of Colin Welles. An unassuming, brilliant man, always ready with a smart quip. Harry had not thought about Colin in a very long while. He chastised himself for the lapse and vowed to honour the man more often. Such an horrific fate that had befallen the man. The unfairness of it all. Harry consoled himself with the fact that Tariq was safely ensconced behind a desk and would remain so for the foreseeable future, keeping him well away from any sort of danger. Harry pushed himself away from the desk.

"Have you seen Beth?"

Tariq motioned to the mouth of the corridor. "I think she's down that way."

Giving a brief nod, Harry continued on his rounds.

The screech of metal scraping against metal pierced Harry's eardrums. Following the sound, he headed down the corridor and stopped when he located the source. Inside a maintenance room, Beth was softly cursing to herself. She held a screwdriver in one hand, an exhaust cover in the other. The blades of a fan slowly rotated, casting changing stripes over the room. It was the source of their emergency ventilation. Reminded of the lack of circulation, Harry could feel the air pressing down on him, a slight dampness forming between his shoulder blades.

"I remember Malcolm doing the exact same thing."

Surprised by the voice, Beth turned around to Harry. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in." Abandoning her task, she leaned against the wall. "Who's Malcolm?"

"You remember Malcolm. Brilliant technician. A wizard with gadgets. Leonardo of the dustbins."

At the last phrase, Beth raised an eyebrow, obviously considering that the lack of air circulation had affected her boss' mind. "Before my time, I think."

"No. You were here…" Harry trailed off, the passing years ordering themselves in his memory. Malcolm had left when Ruth returned. That would have been well before Beth's tenure. Since everyone had flowed through him, Harry naturally assumed that members past and present all knew each other. He was the only one with memory. He was the constant. "You're right, he was before your time."

Beth lifted the grill. "I don't think we can get out this way. I'm going to put the cover back on. Maybe there is another vent somewhere else."

"Yes." Harry agreed. "There is certain to be some other way out."

Placing his hands in his pockets, he turned and left Beth to her task. As he continued his patrol of the Grid, he had the sensation of a general visiting the troops before a doomed battle. It was, he conceded, slightly better than being the captain of a ghost ship.

A soft whistle of an unknown tune drifted through the air . Harry raised an eyebrow. There was nothing to whistle about. Harry followed the tune down to an unused pocket of the corridor, an enclave carved out of the stark cinder blocks. On the floor, surrounded by coated cables and wire cutters, knelt Dmitri. Harry walked toward the officer and then stopped, thinking it better not to stand too close to the man and his contraption.

"How is it coming along?"

"I've diffused my share of these things." Dmitri waved the tip of a soldering gun in the air as he spoke. "You'd think I would be faster at building them."

"Somehow, I find it reassuring that you are not an expert in bomb assembly."

The young man sat back on his haunches. "Have Beth and Tariq come up with anything?"

"Unfortunately, no. This could very well be our last resort."

"Last resort. Only resort."

Harry squinted back down the corridor. "I dread to think of the damage."

"Sometimes you have to blow it all up if you want to get through it."

"Spoken like a true diplomat," Harry observed drolly.

"We're not politicians, Harry. We're spies. It's not in our nature to play it safe."

Harry smiled at Dmitri's bravado. "You sound like Adam Carter." His words garnered a confused look from Dmitri. Harry shook his head. "Never mind. Before your time. Like everyone else." He muttered the last sentence under his breath. "Carry on. Let me know when you've got something."

As the air in the corridor grew warmer, Harry could sense a blanket of defeat. He refused to surrender. Blow the place up if they must. Lifting his head, he straightened his shoulders, taking in his surroundings as he walked. He slowed down. Something had escaped his notice on his earlier patrol. Through a crack in a door, a faint beam of blue light peaked out, a mysterious signal, calling to him. Harry drew up to the door and cast a stealthy eye through the small opening. For a moment he thought it was one of the junior analysts sitting at a desk, the young woman that he had mistaken for Ruth when she had first returned to the Grid. He shook his head, remembering that he had pared down the staff to an absolute minimum. Squinting into the dimness, he realised that it was Ruth. Harry stood transfixed by the scene before him. The surveillance monitors around her remained dark, the only light the faint blue glow of the emergency system. Her face was partially illuminated by the screen of a laptop. It gave her the glimmer of another world, a spirit not quiet present. Completely absorbed in her reading, she possessed the beauty of one unaware of a gazer's eye. She wore a headset, the band sweeping her hair away from her face. Her lips moved, her brow frowned, a soft sigh escaped. Harry contemplated that she may be a ghost, an illusion he had conjured up due to the lack of fresh air. If he were to disturb her, she might vanish, disappear into the diodes of the laptop to be siphoned away with everything else. Ruth's hand moved to rub her neck and she adjusted her headset. No, she was not an illusion. Harry weighed his options. She had obviously sequestered herself in the little office, either to concentrate on whatever was on the laptop or to avoid him. He rocked back on his heels, thinking it better that he continue on. Curiosity tapped his shoulder, urging him to go in and discover what warranted such attention. He assessed the room. It was one of the smaller technical suites, meant only for one occupant. They had not been alone in such a confined space since their encounter. It would be wise to leave well enough alone and concentrate on breaking out of the prison which was now the Grid. But he was her boss, he had a right to know what she was doing, especially during the eye of an emergency. Harry carefully pushed the door open. Deep in concentration, Ruth gave no indication that she was aware of his presence. He quietly walked over and stood for a moment watching her. Her focus remained on the laptop, breaking intermittently to write something down on a pad of paper. The angle of his view left the laptop screen unreadable. It looked like a chart of numbers. What was she doing?

"Catching up on a game of solitaire?" he softly joked.

Ruth jumped in her seat. Harry had attempted to keep his tone light in order not to scare her, but it had been in vain. She snatched off her headset, the earphones clattering on the keys. One hand clutched at her chest, the other hand hastily rose to close the lid of the laptop

"God, Harry, you scared me."

"Something important?" he queried innocently, masking his suspicion aroused by her hasty movements.

"No, no," she stuttered, undercutting her denial. "Nothing, really."

Her eyes slid over to the notepad, belying the fact that it was indeed not nothing. Harry reached over for the paper but Ruth was faster. She snatched it up and quickly closed the cover.

"Is it regarding Cybershell?" Harry prodded.

"Um..no. Not exactly."

"You do realise that we are in the middle of a threat to our national security."

"Yes, I know." She inhaled shakily. "It's just with our systems down I'm not sure what sort of role I have to play out there. I'm feeling rather useless."

Harry slid his hands into his pockets and studied her. She could never be, by any sense of the word, useless. Her value was nonpareil.

"But this is the point where you come flying in with some arcane piece of information that changes everything."

She gave him a weak smile and shifted in her seat clearly uncomfortable with his presence. Harry smiled inwardly. She was hiding something. He glanced about the small room. An empty chair sat by the wall. With one fluid movement, he grabbed it by the back and manoeuvred it over to the spot beside his analyst. Her eyes widened. Harry settled into the chair, adjusting his trousers, making himself comfortable. He wasn't going anywhere. The Chinese and the Russians may have weakened his influence in the world at large, but here on the Grid he still held sway. He would wheedle the secret out of her.

"Anything I should know about?"

"It's actually an old asset of Malcolm's. Just catching up on some Intel."

Even after years of practice, she remained a horrible liar. Out in the field or over the phone, she may have developed a talent for skilful improvisation, but with him, she could hide nothing.

"I'm curious about this "asset" of Malcolm's." Harry removed an invisible piece of lint from his trousers. "Maybe I know him."

"Oh, I doubt it. Computer fellow." Ruth gave an elegant, halfhearted wave to the door. "As you pointed out, we're in the middle of an emergency. If you need to be out on the Grid…"

Harry brought his hand up to the desk, resting it beside the notebook, indicating that he had no inclination of leaving. "Rather like you, I feel a bit useless at the moment."

"You're the linchpin," she protested.

"That's debatable."

His eyes rested on her, conveying that she was the one who had often fulfilled the role of linchpin. Acknowledging the compliment, Ruth smiled self consciously and dropped her eyes. As strangely awkward as the situation was, a warmth stole over him, a fleeting moment of contentment at the act of sitting so close to her. He had missed her, the tiny thrill of sharing the same space, breathing the same air. Harry flexed his fingers, the tips coming into contact with the coils of the notebook. Ruth surreptitiously slid it out of his reach. He was reminded of his initial inquiry.

"I would think that as Head of Section I would be privy to whatever Intel my Analyst had uncovered."

"I'm still putting the pieces together."

"I'm even more intrigued."

"It might be better to wait until all this is over."

It was always a waiting game with this woman. Harry tapped his fingers on the desk. His current strategy for ferreting out her secret was proving unsuccessful. Better to come at it from another angle. They sat in silence for a moment while he considered his options. Preempting his next move, Ruth spoke quietly.

"It's like old times, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he frowned.

"Other lock downs we've been through." She shrugged her shoulders. "The Eerie exercise."

"Are you planning on calling me a bastard after this one too?"

"No," she shook her head, adding a gentle smile at the remembrance.

It was the first time she had smiled at him in weeks. His mouth moved slightly in return, his stiff limbs thawing, a sense of ease tentatively surfacing. By the cordial tone of her conversation, it appeared that she had accepted the fact that he was not leaving. It was encouraging. Reminiscing was a good sign. A shared past could indicate a shared future. A moment of wholeness overtook him, the missing piece of him found in her. She was his constant. The only one who remembered. Of course, there was a large chunk of his career that she was not privy to, his earliest days on the Grid, but in respect to the recent past, she was the thread that wove it together. Granted, there was still a gap; she had missed the tenures of Connie and Ben. It was her absence during those years that had hollowed him out. An emptiness that he desperately wanted her to fill.

"I suppose this time it's different," she continued. "The Grid isn't a refuge from a chemical attack. We actually want to escape."

If he had his way she would never escape.

"Ah, yes." Harry concurred. "More like the Angela Wells debacle."

"Yes," Ruth whispered, looking down at her lap. "Angela Wells."

Harry silently kicked himself. Obviously, that was not the best subject for a reminiscence. He searched for a safer topic. Prudence prompted him; he needed to get back to the Grid proper. Surely, the world could spare them for a few more minutes. He was enjoying this small respite from the current dilemma. The crisis would still be there when he stepped out the door. For the moment, he was a traveller who had found an oasis, wanting to savour cool water before heading back out into the desert. He sensed that she felt the same. As long as he steered clear of any sensitive topics, she seemed willing to spare a few moments for him. She studied him in return, watching the watcher. The corner of her mouth crinkled, and she gestured to the laptop.

"You know, there's nothing wrong with playing a game once in awhile."

Harry raised a brow in mock surprise. "The incomparable Ruth Evershed tempted by diversions."

It was a teasing remark, a small dig at her industrious work habits, a bid to augment the rapport that was growing between them, but she eyed him warily. Harry shifted in his seat, realising that the word diversion could take on a wholly different meaning. He must be careful. He stretched his leg, his foot accidentally brushing against her calf. A move that only added to any perceived innuendo that he may have inadvertently cast. She pulled away but in the confines of the small space it was almost impossible. Her feet tangled with his. She looked away, murmuring an apology. Unbidden memories tumbled into his mind, midnight thoughts that he had taken pains to wall up, his current proximity to Ruth challenging his fortitude. Trapped on the Grid, ensconced in a room. The door almost closed. The temptation of a diversion. He took a deep breath. The blue light cast shadows around her features softening her face. Why did she have to look so lovely? She cleared her throat, trying to keep the tone light.

"What about you, Harry? Do you play games?"

Her question was as ripe with innuendo as his, should he care to interpret it as such. He suspected that it was an innocent query carrying no ulterior motives. Yes, he played games. All sorts of games which she fully knew. A life of lies invited deceit. Everything was a game to him. Not some wondrous trick of childlike wonder, but a world darker and more insidious, the belief that everyone wore a mask, and the currency of choice was always deception. But he was not here for some sort of psychological introspection. He would keep the conversation above board in an effort to assure her he was not playing a game. At least not in regard to her feelings. He absently drew a circle on the top of the desk.

"I have on occasion partaken in a heated round of Minesweeper."

It was an unexpected answer, and Ruth gave a little laugh. "Things have come a long way since Minesweeper."

"What about Solitaire?" he countered. "Not exactly cutting edge."

"It's timeless. Besides, I play Spider Solitaire."

Of course, she did. His very own Arachne, weaving at her loom. Once he had thought of her as a spider, drawing on unknown threads of information. Now she spun a different web, not necessarily from conscious design but intricate enough to ensnare him.

"I never understood the appeal of Minesweeper," she continued.

"If a bomb detonates, you can start all over again."

"Yes, that is a definite plus."

A slow ticking sound filtered into his ear. Harry moved his head. He could see no source in the room; it was the sound from his office, following him to this tiny room. A sigh floated on the air. He looked at Ruth. It had not come from her. It must be the ventilation, he concluded, the room, and his senses, suffering from lack of circulation.

"Dmitri is building a bomb."

"What?" Ruth shook her head in disbelief. "I saw him tinkering with a deactivated one earlier, I thought he was just playing around."

"It's looking to be our last option."

"You can't be serious, Harry. What about the damage to the Grid?

The corner of Harry's mouth turned up as he remembered Dmitri's words. Harry considered his personal impasse. Not all obstacles were made of brick and mortar. Perhaps he had stumbled upon her sanctuary for a reason. Did they exist outside of these walls? Was it time to break it all apart? The air grew denser, and his skin prickled beneath his suit jacket. Harry raised his fingers to adjust his tie, loosening it slightly to allow a little circulation around his neck. Ruth's eyes followed his hand, resting on his fingers, staying at his throat. His chest rose as he inhaled deeply, and he let out a long slow breath, adding to the warmth of the room. Her eyes rose to his and he hooked onto them, locking onto her gaze. The ticking grew louder, time was running out. All his efforts to avoid innuendo collapsed.

"Sometimes you have to blow something up to work through it."

Inhaling sharply, Ruth pulled back, tension overtaking her body. The atmosphere of congenial conversation drained away, and the wariness returned to her eyes. She knew that she was in his sights, the target of whatever missive he was about to deliver. Her eyes darted to the door, the laptop, the desk, focusing on anything except on Harry. His eyes zeroed in on her, refusing to let her escape. Within the confines of the four walls lay a door of opportunity. He took it.

"Will we ever talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" The cadence of her voice rose a note and she cleared her throat to bring it back down.

"What we can't talk about here. Ever."

"I don't know what you mean."

Harry leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I think you do."

Ruth cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, looking for escape. Or rescue. Neither was at hand. Her hand rose to her throat, fingers playing with the silver chain that nestled there.

"Harry," she pleaded softly. "This isn't the place."

"I know. It's never the right place. Or the right time. I was just wondering when it will be. So I could pencil it into my diary." He was being facetious. Uncalled for under the circumstance but it underlined his point.

"We're in the middle of an emergency," she reminded him.

"Ah, so now you acknowledge the emergency when it suits your purpose. Convenient that you should hide behind work."

"Don't you," she countered tartly.

Meeting her eyes, Harry raised a brow. Touche. She had called him out, like she always did. Perhaps the only one who could. Regretting the impertinence of her reply, Ruth looked away and ran an uneasy finger over the coil of her notebook. The metal rings made a soft twang as she played with them.

"Sometimes things can't always be solved by talking," she offered enigmatically.

Indeed, he could think of other ways in which to solve their problem. Unfortunately, they had already tried that solution, the outcome being another set of problems. Admittedly, it had been a most gratifying way to create a mess. And he would do it again in a heartbeat. Harry inhaled, aware that he was walking the fine line between almost lover and boss. He needed to watch over her in both respects.

"I gathered you thought as much, since you haven't been to see the psychologist."

Eyes snapping up to him, Ruth creased her brow with consternation. "Do you think all I need is a couple of sessions with a psychologist? Then I'll be whole enough to have a relationship?"

Harry paused for a moment absorbing the fact that she had said relationship. Puzzled by her words, he frowned at her, taken aback that she would think that was the reason he had recommended more counselling.

"No, that's not what I think. I understand that it's a process."

She turned away from him focusing on the notepad. Far easier to talk to inanimate paper than the man sitting beside her.

"Yes, it's a process. None of it linear. One step forward, two steps back."

His hand lay on the desk, near the notepad, achingly close to her fingers, and yet, unable to touch them. "Are we taking two steps back, Ruth?"

The coils gave a final twang beneath her fingers. "My reach may have exceeded my grasp."

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp or what is heaven for?"

Her answer was no more than a faint whisper. "It's not for me, Harry."

Harry's eyes narrowed as he telegraphed his thoughts to her. Yes, she was entitled to a piece of heaven. She need only reach out and touch it. He was beset by the need to find out why she had done it. Allowed herself a slice of heaven with him only to deny herself any more. His fingers stretch wider, gracing along the spiral coil of the notebook. Never ask a question if you fear the answer. Harry swallowed, mustering his courage. He looked down at the notebook.

"Did it mean nothing to you?"

Instantly, her hand moved and came to rest on top of his. "Of course it meant something. How could you think otherwise?" Her voice was breath, a ball of emotion caught in her throat.

His skin sang with the unexpectedness of her touch. There was a split second of wonder, the same emotion he had felt when she had grasped his hand in the briefing room for it only to be a means of passing on a message. He would not feel that disappointment again. In a flash, his other hand rose to cover hers, trapping it. He would not let her go. Her arm tensed, and she made a weak attempt to extract her hand. He curled his fingers around her palm, gripping it tighter. He leaned in, his action drawing a reciprocal motion from her.

"One might think that if something happened between two people and it was never talked about that there may have been some regret afterwards. That it may have happened only out of a moment of jealousy."

Eyes lowered, her breath came in tiny puffs, her chest moving rapidly, as if she were fighting for control. She spoke quietly.

"Some might think that one party is only interested in the other party because they can't have them."

Air seeped from his lungs, leaving him with only the capacity for shallow breaths. How could she ever entertain such a notion? She was not a conquest to be won and then tossed away. She must know her value to him. She was the air that filled his lungs. Could it be that their weeks of dancing around each other was a result of misunderstandings brought about by stubborn silence on both their parts. His hand tightened around hers. Silly woman. His thumb moved over the ridge of her knuckles, caressing the tiny bumps. He glanced at her face, but her eyes were lowered, mesmerised by his hands. His fingers moved up, sliding beneath the cuff of her jacket, circling the delicate bones of her wrist, hard beneath the soft skin. He paused, the pulse on the underside of her wrist thrumming against the tips of his fingers. Memory grew, thoughts of fingers trailing to other places beneath her clothes. Her arm relaxed, shoulders falling, and he gave a slight tug to her wrist. She leaned forward, his head bent towards her.

"But I have had you," he whispered. "And that's the problem."

Even in the dimness of the little room he could see the flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks. Her breath quickened. "Do you…" She licked her lips. "Do you regret it?"

"Never," he answered with a quiet fierceness.

Drawn by his quick assurance, her head dipped closer to his. Once again his leg brushed against hers, this time there was no pulling back. Her cheek so close, air growing warmer between them.

"Do you?" he asked hoarsely. "Do you regret it?"

"No."

That fact that she did not regret being with him released a wave of desire within him, one he would act on if not for their current location. His foot shifted as he wondered if he could reach the door and close it properly. Wanting to touch more her, resisting, his lips drew near her ear.

"What do we do about it?"

"I don't know what should happen between us. I don't know if there is a word for it."

"Then we'll have to invent one."

The door flew open. Air rushed into the room. Ruth gasped and quickly pulled back, snatching her hand from between Harry's. Aware of the scene they presented, Harry remained in his original position, slightly hunched, hands on the desk. He was not about to telegraph anything to whoever the unlucky person was who had barged in on them. He clenched his fist, frustrated by the interruption.

"Yes," he growled through gritted teeth.

Harry slowly turned. Beth stood in the doorway. Her eyes darted back and forth between her boss and his analyst. Observant, the young woman had probably deduced that she had stumbled upon a private moment. Sudden movements always telegraphed guilt. Ruth should know that by now. He would have to remind her. But then she had reacted with the same swiftness when he had entered the room and he was reminded that he had not found out what was on the laptop or in her notebook.

"It's Dmitri," said Beth. "He says he's ready to detonate the device.

"Understood."

Beth hovered near the door. There would be no privacy on the Grid. Harry looked at Ruth. She acknowledged him with a sidelong glance.

"Ready to knock down some walls?" he asked.

Ruth nodded. Harry stood, his face partly shielded from Beth. He gave Ruth a conspiratorial smile. Yes, they were both ready to knock down some walls.

.

Once again, the call was shunted to voicemail. No answer. Harry pressed the edge of his mobile against his forehead, as if the action would somehow illicit a response. Where was his Section Chief? Why wasn't he responding to any of the messages? Harry closed his eyes. He refused to entertain any nefarious motives until he had conducted a proper conversation with Lucas. There must be a perfectly rational explanation for the man's behaviour. Harry had always given his Section Chiefs a certain degree of latitude, and Lucas was no exception. It was always about trust.

"You know I'm right, Harry."

Harry looked up from his phone. Ruth stood in the doorway, the silhouette of truth, casting a shadow on his denial.

"No," he drew his mouth into a grim line. "I don't know that."

"Is he answering his phone?"

"I told you earlier that I would deal with it." Harry waved his hand in dismissal. "Shut the door if you please."

Ruth did as he commanded and closed the door, but she did not leave. With a purposeful stride that he knew only too well, she approached his desk. Sighing, Harry sat back in his chair, preparing himself for the onslaught of her argument. She stood before him, notebook in hand.

"You said it yourself that it's my job to come in with a salient piece of information that changes everything.

"This changes nothing. It's conjecture at the very best."

"No, it's not. I've documented the times when he was unreachable. Tracked his erratic moves, mapped the locations."

As a buttress to her argument, she opened the notebook and flipped through a number of pages. His pulse quickened, the beat of his heart pounded in his ears drowning out her words. The same notebook where their hands had rested on. Beneath his palm had lain a secret, one she had chosen to keep from him. It all came down to trust.

"I don't have time for this,' he blurted gruffly.

"What about Ortiz, Harry?

"What about her?"

"She's dead. A young woman is dead."

Harry leaned his elbows on the desk and looked at Ruth with disbelief. "You're not saying he killed her?"

"I'm saying he didn't protect her. Changing cars, going out of range."

"Standard dry cleaning manoeuvres."

"Why do you refuse to admit what's happening?

"Why do you?" he asked pointedly.

The air swirled with their combined accusations. Hers professional, his personal. Harry had made it a point to compartmentalise the different aspects of his life but it was always a struggle with this woman. He pulled back.

"You seem intent on hanging Lucas out to dry."

"I am merely pointing out the concerning irregularities in his behaviour.

"Is that the standard that we are going to judge each other on now?" he asked pointedly. "Irregular behaviour?"

The look in her eyes held a warning. In the darker corners of an intimate setting he may have held the upper hand, but in the light of the fully functioning Grid she was buffered by the weapon of intelligence.

"Who benefited by the delay of Ortiz?" she asked.

"The hackers," Harry relied offhandedly. "The Chinese. The Russians." It dawned on him where her argument was leading. "You think Lucas is being run by the Russians?

"What other explanation is there?"

"I still see no proof."

"It's connecting the dots."

"To make a picture that you want."

"He spent years in a Russian prison. He may be compromised. Emotionally, psychologically-"

"He would never betray us!" Harry shouted.

A huff of exasperation escaped as he tried to reign in his anger. Could she not see that any aspersion against his Section Chief was also a mark against him. It went to the heart of his merit as a leader. A captain was only as strong as his crew.

Ruth to her credit, did not back down. Years of sparring with Harry over their conflicting interpretation of intelligence had inured her to his more caustic responses. She soldiered on.

"My intuition tells me there is a woman involved in this."

"A woman?"

"Isn't there always?"

"Indeed."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"Nor the last I'm sure." Harry's words dripped with barely contained sarcasm and the uselessness of spent energy arguing with this woman.

"You know that I'm right, Harry."

His eyes landed on her with the weight of his displeasure. "It must be comforting to always think that you're right."

"Not really. Often it's horrible, and sometimes it's very, very lonely."

At her words, the anger drained from Harry's system. She was an intelligent woman. Perhaps was aware of how personally he would take any accusations against his Section Chief. That by bringing the information forward she ran the risk of putting Harry in a position where he would have to choose between her and Lucas. A choice that he was not willing to make.

Ruth closed up her notebook, fingers gravitating to the coils. Winding, circling, coming back but never joined.

"Would it really be so surprising that something from Lucas' past was dictating his present behaviour?"

Knowing that she had a point, Harry refused to respond. Ruth sighed and continued to speak.

"We're never truly free, Harry. None of us. The past is like quicksand. The harder you try to pull yourself away, the more it pulls you back."

With her parting words Ruth turned and walked away, sliding open the door and slipping out of the office. Harry tossed his mobile onto the desk. How had this happened? He could feel two members of his team slipping through his fingers. He had no idea what to do about Lucas. And whatever he had accomplished with Ruth in that little room seemed at risk of being buried beneath rubble. Breaking down walls was one thing, fighting quicksand quite another.