The Harold Palmer Affair Part VIII

[Silktie]

Warning: Contains violence and suggestive situations


Harold vs the Russian


They discussed how to implement Ruth’s plan in minute detail. Harry insisted upon it. When Ruth, after some time, said a little testily that she knew what to do, he curtly reminded her that he was in charge and took her over everything again. And she let him, because she could see his fear for her safety in his eyes. Finally he was satisfied, and after a last comms test Ruth was ready to go. Harry was trying his best to hide his concern and gave her a confident nod as he opened the door for her. She stopped before him, hesitated, then rested her hand against his chest lightly.
“I’ll see you soon,” she murmured, suddenly nervous about what she was about to do.
“Yes.” He’d heard the slight waver in her voice, and spoke again as she went out the door.
“Remember, you’re a born spook, Ruth.”
The door closed softly behind her, and Harry began pacing the room furiously.

Ruth found Sergei and Tasha in the sitting room. She’d loosened an extra button on her shirt after leaving the room, hoping to get the Russian’s attention by showing a little more skin than normal. She plopped down into a chair close to him, and sighed. Tasha barely gave her a glance.
“Where is Harold?” she asked.
“He’s working again.” Ruth managed to sound put out.
Fedorov shook his head. “He brings a beautiful woman on a dirty weekend, and then he works!”
He leered at Ruth’s chest. “Englishmen have no romance in their souls, eh Ruth? Maybe you should look elsewhere.”
“Maybe.” Ruth added disingenuously, “I hear Frenchmen are a good bet.”
Fedorov snorted. “Please. You need a real man. Like a Russian.”
Ruth laughed. “Ah, I see. Do you happen to have any friends available then?”
The Russian gave her a predatory smile. “Tasha, go do your nails,” he ordered dismissively.
She looked between him and Ruth, before getting up and reluctantly stomping out.

The hollow feeling in Harry’s stomach worsened when he heard Fedorov send the other woman away. The man was definitely interested in Ruth. Why had he ever agreed to this ridiculous plan, he fretted. If something were to happen to her… He couldn’t bear thinking about it. Fedorov was now informing Ruth in lurid detail why Russian men were the best. Harry could hear his voice growing louder as he obviously moved closer to Ruth. In order to calm himself, Harry pulled the gun out of his pocket and checked that it was loaded and working properly. Satisfied, he shoved it into his waistband at the back and dropped his shirt over it. Moments later there was a knock at the door, and before he could answer, Tasha opened it and slipped inside.

Harry was not amused, to put it mildly. He tried to keep half his attention on the voices in his ear whilst getting rid of the woman.
“Tasha, if you don’t mind, I’m working.” He gestured to the laptop on the table behind him.
She ignored him, and before he could react, she was unbuttoning her shirt.
Harry hastily averted his eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out!”
Once again she ignored him. “Why don’t we have a little fun? I know you want these.” Proudly displaying her bare chest.
At the same time Harry could hear Ruth’s voice in his ear acquire a strident note, and he knew she was no longer comfortable with the situation. He had to get rid of Tasha as fast as possible.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said in a commanding tone as he stepped towards her, “I do not want those.” He began to button her shirt for her as he continued.
“And I am not interested in you or any other woman. Only Ruth. Now for God’s sake, bugger off!” The last few words were accompanied by a fierce glare.
Tasha finally got the message and stepped back. “You sad bastard. While you’re here working, Sergei is probably shagging her downstairs by now. He doesn’t take no for an answer, you know.”
As if to illustrate her point, Harry could hear Ruth protesting vehemently: “What are you doing? No! Get off me…” The note of distress in her voice was unmistakable.
Oh God, no.
He shoved Tasha out of the way and ran.

Sergei had caught Ruth unawares. One minute he was still talking, the next he had grabbed her by the arm and yanked her onto the sofa. He pinned her there with his body weight, and Ruth struggled frantically. She couldn’t shift him, he was too heavy, so she resorted to scratching at his face, cursing the fact that she had very short nails. He ripped her shirt open as she tried to stab her finger into his eye, and he slapped her across the face for the impertinence.
Where was Harry?
She couldn’t fight him off much longer. Desperately she tried to knee him in the groin as he grabbed roughly at her exposed breast, and she felt tears gathering. What had she gotten herself into?

And then, suddenly Harry was there, grabbing Fedorov by the collar and dragging him off her, his face white with anger and fear. The Russian swung round and viciously punched Harry in the left eye, sending him sprawling over the coffee table. Fedorov started after him but was brought up short when Ruth shot out a leg and tripped him up. It gave Harry the chance to recover and pounce on his opponent. He winded the younger man with a swift punch to the short ribs, before shattering his nose with a hard jab. Fedorov howled and clutched his nose. Harry got up, breathing hard, and couldn’t resist aiming a kick into his ribs for good measure.

“I’m going to report you to the police for attempted rape, you bloody Neanderthal,” he hissed menacingly.
Ruth grabbed his arm and dragged him back. “No Harold, please. I’m all right. Let’s just leave. Let’s just call a taxi and leave.”
Harry looked at her, and saw the vivid mark across her cheek where Fedorov had slapped her. She could literally see the red mist descend as rage took hold of him. He jerked his arm out of her grasp and turned on Fedorov, who had gotten onto all fours. Harry kicked him in the nuts and hit him in the face again, and was reaching for the gun before Ruth’s sharp voice broke through to him.
“Harry, enough!”
She was clutching her torn shirt closed in front of her, her face a study in anxiety and fear. Fear, he realised, that he would kill the Russian. It brought him back to himself. He looked at the man writhing on the floor with contempt.
“We’re leaving. If I ever see you or hear from you again, I’ll go to the police.”
Without waiting for a response, he put an arm around Ruth and guided her back to their room and closed the door behind them.

After settling her on the bed, he draped his jacket around her shoulders gently. He didn’t speak, but his face was a picture of barely controlled fury, distress and self-recrimination. Ruth opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, and she understood.
Let’s get away from this cursed house first of all.
He called a taxi and moved around the room packing up. Ruth watched him silently. She was in a state of shock; it had been a close call, and her cheek burned where she’d been slapped. All she wanted was for Harry to hold her, but he was doing what had to be done to get them away from there as soon as possible.

Within minutes, headlights swept up the drive and Harry gathered their bags.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice harsh with the strain.
She followed him down mutely, huddling in his jacket, which smelt so comfortingly of him.
He didn’t spare a glance in the direction of the two people gathered in the sitting room, Tasha bending over Sergei, trying to stem the bloodflow from his nose.
Outside, Ruth stopped and stared at the waiting car.
“It’s not a taxi,” she noted with concern.
Harry took her arm and propelled her toward it.
“DGSE,” he explained shortly before opening the door and bundling her in. He got in next to her and nodded to the man behind the wheel, who sped off in a spray of gravel.

Harry realised for the first time that his hands were shaking. His eye was throbbing and he knew he’d have a spectacular black eye tomorrow. But that was the least of his worries. How much damage had the Russian done to Ruth before he’d intervened? They’d only barely got together, and already he’d let her down. Fear gripped him, and he reached out a tentative hand to cover both of hers that she was wringing in her lap. Ruth immediately enfolded his hand in hers, then lay her head on his shoulder, seeking out his warmth, and he buried his face in her hair, letting the relief flow through him.

The DGSE officer took them straight to the safehouse. Whilst they took their bags inside, he had a brief conversation on his mobile.
“You are booked on a flight out of Marseille tomorrow afternoon,” he informed them when they returned to the kitchen. “I’ll pick you up here at noon. We’ll watch the Russian’s house tonight, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid like try to report what happened.”
He looked between the two spooks. “This house is fully stocked. You rest and don’t worry about anything.”
Harry walked him out and shook his hand warmly, thanking him for the assistance.

Upon his return he found Ruth rummaging through the cupboards in the kitchen. She had already found a bottle of Scotch, and it stood on the counter alongside two glasses.
“Thank God,” Harry murmured. He’d rarely needed a drink more than he did right then. He poured them both a stiff measure, before handing one to Ruth.
“Sit down for a moment,” he commanded softly and led her into the sitting room and onto the sofa. He sat down next to her.
“Ruth, did he hurt you? Did he-” he swallowed, unable to say it.
“No. Nothing happened. He grabbed my breast, but that’s as far as it got. I’m all right.” She was still rattled, but the thought that it could have been much worse was a source of comfort to her.
“I doubt that. You were almost violated! Of course you’re not all right,” he said in anguish. “I am so, so sorry.”
Ruth frowned at him. “For what?”
“Oh, take your pick,” he said wearily. “For agreeing to this plan in the first place, for my inability to keep the personal out of it, for not getting there soon enough, for losing control and nearly killing him and scaring you.” Then he added, with regret, “For not being the man you deserve.”

Ruth was lost for words. She wasn’t sure which aspect to address first.
“That’s not true. It’s not your fault,” she said urgently. He shook his head and didn’t respond.
She sat forward and took his hands in hers. “Look, Harry. I know that since you proposed I’ve been all over the place, and I’ve said some things that even I’m not sure what I meant. But I know, now, that I was angry with myself, I blamed myself. I didn’t deserve all the things I said we didn’t deserve. It’s the impact of doing this job, living in this world, and you being part of that world. I wasn’t able to make a distinction between you and it. But now I can. I made my own decisions, and I have to live with that. It’s not your fault. None of it.”
Harry was listening carefully, aware that they were no longer talking only about the evening’s events. His response, when it came, was slow and measured.
“But when all is said and done, Ruth, once we get back to London, I’ll still be the man that can sacrifice people for the greater good. The man that didn’t save George, and was willing to sacrifice the boy. I’ll always be that man; the man with blood on his hands.”

She was silent for a long time, before sighing softly. “And I’ll always be the woman that stood next to you for many of those decisions, who admired you for being able to make them. For saving many more than you’ve sacrificed. That hasn’t changed. I may have forgotten that for a while, but it’s still true.”

Her gaze stayed on his face earnestly. “We are, all of us, shaped by everything we’ve ever done. If I thought that you weren’t affected by the choices you’ve made, I wouldn’t be here. As long as I can understand why you do what you do, I can forgive.”
Harry’s eyes were soft as they rested on her. “You can forgive me, but not yourself? Why is that?”
“Harry,” she shook her head and looked away.
He turned her face back to his. “From my extensive, painful experience, we don’t forgive ourselves because the guilt we carry is a sign of our humanity. A sign that we haven’t turned into psychopaths quite yet. We fear if we let go of the guilt, we will let go of our humanity. That is a good thing. But we have to learn to live with it, to not wallow in it, even though we never forget what we have done.”
He stroked her cheek. “That’s how I cope with it. I can help you cope with yours, if you’ll let me. We can help each other.”
Ruth took a shaky breath, and nodded. “Yes. We help each other.”
Their eyes held in a solemn, wordless promise.

His gaze never leaving hers, Harry leaned forward and tenderly kissed the angry red mark on her cheek. He kissed every inch of it lovingly, before his lips slowly moved towards hers, finding them at last. Blindly she stuck out an arm and put her glass down on the table before winding her arms around his neck and concentrating on the kiss. It was different from the way Harold used to kiss her; this one was slightly hesitant, and filled with wonder. This was Harry finally kissing the woman he’d loved for so long, and she was bowled over by it. She never wanted it to stop.

tbc