Tom Quinn's phone rang as he was conducting a section update briefing from his own station, his team gathered around him, perched casually on the edges of nearby desks. He picked up the cell, snapped it open and responded with a curt: 'Quinn', hoping his tone would indicate to Zoe - whose name had flashed up across his display - that he wasn't free to chat. Yet even in that split second, his brain flooded with images and impressions of her. He wondered was she in her office, her home, driving in her car, or still distraught about her wayward son...

"...Hey, stranger, where've you been?" Zoe swivelled around on her chair in the office, slipping off her shoes and curling her legs underneath her body as she heard his terse opener. It was so Tom.

His face softened unconsciously at the sound of her voice; he himself turned away from the office at large, after indicating the briefing was suspended. "I have to take this call. Get back to what you were doing and we'll pick this up later...!", while lowering his voice to continue talking. His people exchanged knowing glances but trudged away as instructed, straining to hear the content of the conversation all the same. It was clear to all who was on the other end of the line; the affair between Quinn and Ms. Costello was the main office gossip these days.

Tom eased back against his chair, metaphorically loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. It had been two days since he had last seen her but it already felt like weeks. "I've not been free. Had a bit of trouble the other night; since then it's been non-stop. I should have called, but I haven't even been home. I slept here last night..."

"What? You have beds there?"

He laughed.  "Yeah, well, a restroom with showers; we always keep a wardrobe here...Sleep, however, was in my chair..."

"What a life, though? Any chance we can touch base, Tom? I miss you - and we're leaving soon for France..." Zoe pleaded unaware that this was hardly her usual style with men. They had done the running in her previous relationships. Even with Nick, she had never made overt moves towards him until much later, but then, she had never much needed to. Most men did not need any encouragement to pursue her. Most men, it appeared, except Tom Quinn.

Tom chewed on his lip, running through the possibilities. He hadn't lied to her. His desk was full and he was juggling a number of new cases. Yet, he wanted to see her, too; needed to see her, as well, both professionally and privately. "I could grab an hour or so this lunchtime. Maybe meet at your place...?"

Her velvety chuckle caused him to catch his breath for a second. She was already affecting his cool just over a phone line. The momentary passing sexual image of an afternoon tryst in her bed had hit him hard, his response worryingly instantaneous. Deep and slow breathing helped to defuse a potential embarrassing biological reaction.

"No can do, ya perve...I came on this morning, so it's not going to happen before I leave, unfortunately. However, you can at least breathe easier, mate..."

It was his turn to chuckle. "Bloody good news. That had been worrying me a little..." he added. They had taken a few chances, totally irresponsible behaviour for people of their experience and maturity. But powerful sexual attraction makes hormonal teenagers of us all at times.

"Bloody being the operative word," she quipped. 

"There's just one thing. I took a bit of a beating the other night. Nothing to worry about but my face is a bit bruised..."

Zoe gasped. "Oh, Tom! Why didn't you let me know? Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Really. Still as pretty as ever," he grinned. So...lunch then?" As much as he would have liked to spend an hour between the sheets with her, seeing her was more important that bedding her. He also realised he wanted to know how she'd coped with Andreas in the aftermath of their tense first meeting.

"I've got a better idea," he heard her say.

"Better than lunch?"

"Better even than sex, some might say. Interested?"

Tom rested his head back lazily in his seat, running a hand through his hair. Several members of his team exchanged glances. He had the look of a man who had just had sex. The inscrutable Quinn was losing his poker face.

"You've got my attention. Go on, then. What do you have in mind?"

"Christmas shopping!" she laughed gaily.

He sat up sharply. "What?"

"You heard me. Oxford Circus, Tube station entrance. Thirteen hundred hours..."

"What about lunch?"

"Eat first. You'll need the energy, boy..." Zoe hung up, imagining his horrified face. Something told her Tom Quinn would rather face a nerve gas attack on the capital city than go shopping. She couldn't wait.

Across London, in an exclusive - and private - club, Jeremy Cuthbert ordered a bottle of Margaux, fingering the cork, sensuously. Tessa Phillips watched him, a smile of something approaching derision on her imperious face. She had known him too long to find his mannerisms anything but vaguely ridiculous. He acted the upper middle class epicure, but his roots were decidedly less lofty that that. She had first met him when he had been a wet-behind-the-ears army officer, struggling to find his feet amongst other officers of more top drawer origins. Since then, he might have acquired a gloss but it still reeked of mimicry to her. His style was too pronounced, more parody than panache in these casual times. What passed for class in Agatha Christie novels was ludicrously passé these days, even if it still fooled the lower orders.

"I'm taking a risk meeting you. This better be good," Tessa told him bluntly. 

"You'll think of something to cover your tracks, darling. You always do. Enjoy the wine. It's rather a good year..." Cuthbert poured two glasses and set the bottle down carefully before sitting back and contemplating her solemnly. "You're not getting any younger, are you, Tess?"

She stared him out. "Unlike you, I don't keep a portrait in the attic..."

Cuthbert grinned. "Touché, my dear, although I find it hard to believe that you yourself didn't make a pact with the devil years ago. Let's not bugger about, then. Zoe Thorne. You know who she is?"

Tessa gave a slight enigmatic flicker of her mouth that may have been an attempt at a smile, or an attempt to control her amusement. "Yes, I do. On a number of levels," she added obliquely.

Cuthbert picked up his glass and took a sniff of the bouquet. "Ah yes, you had a thing with her father way back when, didn't you? You met on that job in the kibbutz.  I'd almost forgotten. If the cards had fallen a different way, you might have been her mother...Although, I doubt in that case she would be the beauty she now is, and naturally, as she would be about fifteen years older than she is, she would now be highly unlikely to be having the same effect on the male of the species that she is having..."

Tessa pursed her lips, her pique obvious. "You'll have to do better than that, Jeremy. Barely veiled insults about my age? You think that has any affect on me? Especially coming from a florid, porcine little runt like you?" Her sharp retort brought her a satisfaction that she was unable to conceal.

Cuthbert sipped his wine before replying. "I wonder what he'd make of you now, Tess? The brooding Terry Thorne? Would he even recognise you? You should see his wife, darling. Now, there's a beauty.  I shouldn't imagine he's any regrets at how things transpired. If he even remembers at all, that is. But you do, don't you? Tessa Phillips never forgets a thing, does she? Especially when she has been slighted."

Tessa stood up, throwing her napkin onto the table. "If this is all you intend to do, I'm off. You promised me something big, Cuthbert. Something worth sticking my neck out for but I've yet to hear anything other than  your tiresome baiting of me."

"Sit down, Tess, and don't be so hormonal! Let me tell you what I know. Briefly. Terry Thorne has a daughter who was once the mistress of Nicholas Costello; she is the mother of his posthumous son. The poor boy was apparently so taken by the little whore that he gave up the lucrative day job and subsequently went straight, or rather straight-ish. Some years on, he was tragically killed. Miss Thorne was left nicely set up as his heir, lucky bitch. The enigmatic Costello was worth a fortune, so I hear.  Now, five years later, MI5 suddenly decides Miss Thorne is of great interest. I wonder why?"

Tessa sat down and helped herself to wine. "Not my department. Tom Quinn's your man. I head A, he's B."

"Bollocks. You know everything that goes past every damn desk in that place. And you're nurturing a major, major grievance against young Quinn who is senior to you in everything but years. But then he is in possession of a penis and you are not, dear heart. Tough world, ain't it? In the topsy-turvy state of play that is the department of Military Intelligence Five, B outranks A. Thus Quinn is station commander in the absence of Harry Pearce, which, considering Quinn's little act of treason a few years ago, is quite shockingly sexist of them.  Preferring the petulant little prince with his penchant for tiresome moralising, over a grand duchess like yourself? Shame on them!  But then, that's the old boy's club for you, isn't it?"

"Have you quite finished, you tedious little man?" Tessa rasped. 

Lunch was served; they both began to eat. Neither saw any reason to let their dislike for each other spoil their appetites, nor did they disdain the notion of working together as long as there was some clear profit to be made by both sides. The delicate stand off continued.

Cuthbert chuckled. He was enjoying this. They simply did not make women like Miss Phillips anymore. "Bear with me a while longer, dearie. Let me spell this one out. I want information from you. And then I'm going to offer you a cut of what might be the most important piece of counter-intelligence in the post Cold War era..."

With her fork poised halfway to her mouth, Tessa stopped. "If I know so much and you need the information, why don't I just profit from it myself? Then this great treasure will be all mine..."

"You know you can't. But working through me, you take no risks and can sit back waiting for payday..."

"They would trace it back."

"You'd be long gone. This way you have time to mastermind it and then make your getaway when you're ready.  You need me - and I need someone on the inside."

Tessa set down her cutlery precisely, resting them on either side of her plate, dabbing at her mouth and then returning the napkin to her lap. "Why should I betray my country after thirty years of service carried out without a single blemish on my reputation?"

This time Cuthbert laughed loudly. "Without a single blemish? You mean you've never been caught, darling! I know what you've been doing for years: running scores of fictitious agents, claiming their salaries and expenses, and supplying the intelligence from god knows which sewer you dig it up from...Darling, you're corrupt through and through. But far too clever for them. Yet despite it all, they still promote jumped up arrogant little public school boys like Quinn over your head. You know you've been waiting for the big one for years. Don't waste my time pretending to be virtuous. The offer's on the table for a very short while only. If you don't take it, too bad, I'll get my answers somewhere else. And don't even think of double crossing me. This conversation has been taped...."

"I know. By me." Tessa indicated a small device hidden beneath her lapel. "So far, Jeremy my lad, I have done nothing but lead you on. I haven't said anything. It could all be explained away as an undercover sting to entrap you. However, you've said plenty, darling."

"...Are you in or out?"

Tessa paused before taking out the pin, tossing it to the floor - and crushing it underfoot. "Of course I'm in! But I do so love jousting with you, Jeremy, mostly because I'm so much better at it. Right, let's review this one....Costello claimed to have a top secret document that would bring down a few governments. It purported to have the juicy private goodies on a series of very public figures from several western democracies. As well as that, and some say, potentially more devastating as the years go on because many of the politicians and heads of state have now retired, is the detailed information he allegedly had acquired on most of the agents and officers of intelligence agencies across the globe. He may very well not have been bluffing, either. Costello was a formidable assassin but an even better computer nerd, it seems. No one knows for sure if he had the information, but the money is on that he did. Only one person could possible have access to his private documents. Miss Thorne, who quite touchingly mostly calls herself Miss Costello these days."

Cuthbert raised his glass. "Eureka!"

Tessa joined him. "Quinn's screwing her, officially on Her Majesty's service, but unofficially getting his own little rocks off into the bargain. He's besotted with the little madam and on the brink of doing something very foolish..."

"...That I know. They have an officer planted in Siphos... Zoe Reynolds? But I also have my own chappie in there watching them all. We've got the jump on them, Tess. Use Quinn and Reynolds to do the work for us, sit back and roll it all up. We'll be gone before they know anything even happened. What say you?"

A triumphant smile curled Tessa's mouth. "I think we're in business, you little rat. But this needs some careful thought. My apartment. Tonight. Eleven. We'll talk more. Plus I want to meet your man. I'm not working with anyone unless he checks out..."

"He checks out. You'll meet him. But not tonight, though. Three's a crowd, eh, Tess? And surely you want to seal the deal in more than champagne?"

She chuckled throatily. "You filthy little bugger! So, old bags like me all you can get nowadays? Luckily for you, I have the same problem...And you've wanted to fuck Terry Thorne ever since you first met him. I suppose I'm the nearest you're going to get, hey?" They clinked glasses again. Tessa suddenly felt kindly disposed towards the odious Cuthbert. And she hadn't been laid for a long time.

Zoe stood waiting, leaning back on the iron railing on the pavement of the famous Oxford Circus just in front of the Nike department store, scanning the dense crowds even more hectic this lunchtime than unusual in the run up to Christmas. Suddenly the throng parted as Tom threaded his way through, his overcoat flapping open, sharp-suited as ever, already smiling as he approached. "You came!" she exclaimed in delight.

"You expected me to stand you up?" he teased.

"You didn't exactly do cartwheels at the thought of an afternoon in the shops with me," she retorted. 

Tom grinned, tilted up her chin and kissed her on the mouth.

"...But nor would I miss an opportunity to spend some time with the loveliest girl in London," he replied with an unexpected gallantry.

Zoe found herself blushing. She reached out a hand to caress the yellowing bruises on his cheek and brow. "Ouch," she whispered softly. He lowered his eyes, smiling bashfully, but resting his face sensuously in her cupped palm. Her touch felt like a healing balm.

"I'm okay, really I am. Just superficial bruising. I gave as good as I got." Tom tried to brush her concern away but found himself responding to her tenderness, even unconsciously introducing an element of male posturing into the subject. He wanted her to know he had fought back and done damage although he had no idea why that mattered so much to him.

"I just get scared, Tom. Your job is dangerous. I know what can happen to men in that world," she added without embellishment, but he read her implicit meaning. She had already lost one lover in brutal circumstances. It was not surprising she lived in fear of such things reoccurring. Bizarrely, the notion made him feel good. She was placing his safety on a similar ground to Costello's. That said so much about her true emotions, far more than words could ever do. He took her hand from his face and kissed it; the subject was closed, but her comment noted.

"So, you started without me, huh?" he went on, indicating the bags she was already carrying, a suitable change of subject. 

"Just a few stocking fillers for my boys. Rugby shirts for the big ones and a little football kit for Andreas, who has suddenly decided he supports Chelsea, mostly because his cousins told him he had to. Not that he really gets soccer yet. Or rugby either, except he's more used to the scrum than the offside rule." She pointed up to the sports' department store nearby.

Tom shuddered.

"Hate those places. Damn noisy and those dreadful kids wishing you a nice bloody day. Like they give a damn? I prefer my shopkeepers suitably English and miserable, like the weather. You know where you are then," he commented, tongue-in-cheek.

"So where do you buy your Rugby shirts?" He wore them casually at weekends; he had to get them from somewhere.

"The manly way. At a game."

She pulled a face, sticking her tongue out at him. He took her parcels in his left hand and her hand in his right; they strolled forward aimlessly.

"Where to?"

"Follow me!" Zoe pulled on his hand and he let her lead him. He soon realised where she was heading when she left the main thoroughfare. 

"Bond Street? Good God, girl, you are so spoilt!" His remark merely gained him a patronisingly smug look from his companion. 

Wandering down that Mecca to wealth and privilege, Tom joined her in window shopping. Nothing had a price. That said it all. He had suspicions that the lady knew exactly where she was heading. His supposition was proved right moments later when she dragged him towards the store.

"Come on! Armani?" he moaned. "Surely you don't buy Andreas' clothes there?"

"It's not for him, doh! It's for you! I want to buy you a Christmas present." While Nick had been made for Zegna, Tom was definitely Armani.

"You don't have to buy me anything!" he groaned as she pushed on the door. A supercilious young assistant gave them the once over, apparently deciding that they were suitable clientele. Tom was hardly surprised. Zoe looked the part, even if he didn't.

For a man who purported to hate shopping, Tom rather enjoyed himself in the boutique. Zoe made him try on a selection of suits and casual wear, throwing together combinations he would never have considered, yet he found looked surprisingly good. He rarely took much notice of himself in mirrors other than to check nothing was amiss, that he hadn't cut himself shaving and his tie was straight. But, he found himself almost admiring himself now, stopping a few times just short of a preen.

"You look amazing. You know you do! You've got the height and the shoulders. Not to mention you're lean but have great pecs..."

Tom tutted - because he felt obliged to - although he enjoyed her compliment. He was strangely enjoying the whole experience of being fussed over, letting her take control, treat him like a wayward child. Women had that way about that when they were in nurturing mode - and men just let it happen.

"Go change while I buy your present and they wrap it up," Zoe whispered, patting his rear and sending him back into the dressing room. He had no idea what she was buying. But something had obviously caught her interest. She shouldn't be spending so much money on him, he thought to himself. It was quite obscene. It would be better if he suggested she donate the amount to some worthy charity. Yet he didn't, already imagining how it might feel to have a gift from her on Christmas morning. There would be the usual sober book from his mother and cricket almanac from his father. And a piece of indulgence in a fancy box from Armani? Tom found himself almost looking forward to it.

Zoe was waiting for him, wearing a pleased-with-herself look. Moments later the assistant handed her a fussily wrapped froth of silver and gold. She took it smugly and they exited, still laughing. "You little style god, you! You loved every minute of it, didn't you?"

Tom would not give her the benefit of a positive reply. "Drink? I bloody need one after that..." he complained, indicating a pricy bar on the opposite side of the street, quieter now that the lunchtime rush had subsided. They settled down with a glass of wine.  "What happened the other day with Andreas?" he asked as they began to relax in the warm and soothing atmosphere, soft jazz playing and the conversation of a few groups of people who had lingered over a late seasonal lunch wafting over.

"I feel a little bit better now. The next day I took him to work, deciding not to go to the school right off until I had thought it out. Andreas was so different: happy, well-behaved, trying so hard. He even asked when he would see you again, almost as if he hadn't been such a little bugger the night before! He chummed up with Gil in the office straight off - he's one of our guys from Oz who's over to give me a hand. They know each other already. And he has totally fallen for our auditor. She's lovely. Catherine Harmison. Andreas always likes pretty women...He's going to be as bad as his dad one day..."

"...Where is he now?" Tom interrupted. Costello was back in the conversation; Tom was not in the mood to tolerate the interloper.

"Oh, he's with his new girl! She took him to the London Aquarium and for a burger so I could get a few hours' shopping. She's so great. I wish she was with us full time.  Anyway, I had time to think about school. Called up that old battle axe and told her Andy was not coming back. I apologised and everything, but I have to be realistic. Andreas just hates the place and they dislike him. It's not a recipe for future success. He needs a clean start with some fresh boundaries. So yesterday afternoon, we drove around looking at a few nearby schools.  I told him the choice was his but when he made it, he had to work at it and make it count this time. Andy took the decision seriously. Finally he chose Woodgrove Primary, a little state school in walking distance to our place. It's a good area. Anyone living round there has to be on a decent income. So why not state education? All good parents want the same for their kids. So what if he mixes with the kids of the lower middle classes: teachers, health professionals, social workers, government officers..." she added cheekily.

He rolled his eyes. She tripped on merrily. "There's a damn sight more moral fibre there than in the children of the spoilt rich, for starters. So, we saw the head, who was this really crazy guy with curly red hair. Andreas loved him immediately and can't wait for the new term. They don't wear uniform and they even asked him to come in tomorrow to join in their Christmas parties and stuff. When they found he was an Aussie, Mr. Reardon, the head,  said: 'Come dressed in shorts and a cork hat and tell us about Christmas Day in Sydney...!' So we spent last night putting his cossie together; he's even preparing a little bit of a thing to say. And he's going to sing Waltzing Matilda. The kid is such a ham. Waltzing bloody Matilda? Some Christmas carol, hey?" Zoe laughed.

She was overjoyed at Andreas' turnabout. He grinned, too. "Maybe Andreas got it right in the end, hey? He solved his own problem. One day you may look back on this and review your opinion of what he did."

"I might indeed. Which reminds me. I probably should drink up and go back to the office. I don't want to be late for him." 

Tom agreed, already long overdue himself from his desk. Gathering up their outer clothing and wrapping up well for the cold streets, they emerged back into the shopping thoroughfare, light already fading mid-afternoon, Christmas illuminations switched on.

Tom had his car but was due back at the Grid for a meeting. He offered her a lift. She declined; heading into the City would only snarl him up in traffic and make him more late. Finally, he left her at the Tube station where he had met her a few hours before.  They stopped, suddenly aware all at once that the time had come to part. It would be a few weeks before they met again.

"Have a good Christmas...safe trip, thanks for the present," he began, somewhat formally. She sighed. He leaned over and placed a quick kiss on her lips. "I'll miss you. More than you know..."

"I'll miss you too!" she exclaimed. "But I'll call you. Every day..."

He smiled, touching her face; she reached up to touch his. With the other hand still full of parcels, he kissed her properly, jostled and pushed by the people streaming in and out of the underground station stairway. As he broke away, he reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a slim gift box, wrapped in red paper. "Mustn't forget this..." he murmured.

"You bought me a gift?" Zoe was amazed; she hadn't expected it, although she wondered why she was shocked. Men gave gifts to women. She had always been on the receiving end of grand gestures.  But, somehow, Tom had still blindsided her.

"Well, of course I have! It's Christmas. You're my girl...I think..." he added almost shyly.

Zoe blushed, accepted it, shook it and laughed. He warned her not to open it until Christmas day. "When did you buy this?" 

He tapped her nose. "Never you mind! Suffice it to say that I have used up all my shopping hours for the next year already. It's not much compared to the beautiful things other men have given you, I know, but it's from my heart. For what that's worth to any woman..." he added sheepishly.

She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. "When I get back, we're going to sort out your problem with self-esteem, Thomas Quinn. This is the best present anyone has given to me in a very long time. Thank you so much! And I am your girl...if you want me to be... I better go...or I never will...Take care....! Merry Christmas!"

She took back the parcels he had been carrying and was off, tapping down the steps to disappear out of sight. Tom looked up at the sky while his eyes dried. He bit his lip, unused to the signs of distress that seemed so uncharacteristic of him. Then, shoving one hand in his pocket, and swinging the parcel she had given him in the other, he set off to retrieve his car. He wasn't lying to her. Every word was true. Omission was quite another matter.

He returned to the Grid. All hell had broken loose over a serious government leakage of personal information into the public domain that seemed to have implications of a possible act of urban terrorism. Tom got no sleep that night and was still in the office the following evening, combing through personnel files with a team of others, looking for a likely source. It seemed forever since he had slept in a bed. Mostly because it was.

"Cuppa?" Ruth Evershed stopped at his station, put down a steaming mug of freshly brewed Darjeeling, not the usual tea bag. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "You should call it a night. You're exhausted, Tom..."

He looked up at her with a weary smile. "I'm okay. Nearly finished here. Why not take your own advice? You've been at it almost as long as I have."

Ruth parked herself at the edge of his desk. "I will. Soon. My cat will eat the furniture if I leave it much longer..." They both grinned. She reached out and touched the elegantly wrapped gift box that Tom had set on his computer terminal the day before - and all but forgotten in the high stress emergency they had been dealing with since. "What's this?"

Tom glanced over. "Christmas present."

"Who's the lucky woman?"

"My present. I mean, someone gave it to me..."

Ruth gave him a shrewd study. "Someone called Zoe Costello?"

Tom exhaled sharply and banged down the mug he'd been sipping. "Christ, you as well? I'm doing my job and I'm doing it bloody well. Is that some sort of problem?"

Ruth placed a hand out and touched his arm. "I'm sorry, Tom. You misunderstand. I wasn't trying to criticise. Actually the opposite. I'm jealous. I wish I was Zoe Costello at this moment. You're a very attractive man, intelligent, full of integrity, someone I respect very much. I don't blame either of you. Why shouldn't you feel something for her? She's a beautiful woman. If she hadn't got a lot going for her, she wouldn't have won the hearts of so many fascinating men, would she? I was trying to show a little solidarity actually. And concern, too. Because this is going to make it hard for both of you..."

Tom nodded, his anger dissipating as he realised she was not there to lecture him on his behaviour. "I can do my job. I will do my job. But, she's innocent, Ruth. She's a beautiful girl who has been through so much and deserves so much better. What the bloody hell am I doing?" He sank his head into his hands and rocked back and forth.

Ruth caressed his back absently, her hand moving in circles, feeling the strong muscle and the impressive frame of this man whom she had always looked up to. He had protected her when she had risked being sacked, offering her a second chance. Now she wanted to reach out to him and offer him some consolation. It wasn't just a matter of Zoe Costello not deserving this. Neither did he.

"I'm thirty seven. I have two degrees, both firsts, and a PhD from Oxford..." Ruth sat down in a chair, pulling herself up straight, her face betraying the same bitterness that was suddenly reflected in her tone of voice. This was not the way government officers talked to each other. Tom looked across sharply, recognising the real person peeking out from inside the cool, efficient professional career woman. "I'm not unattractive, although hardly a great beauty. I own my own home in a decent part of London, have a dry sense of humour, good career prospects, a reasonable singing voice, fluent grasp of eight languages, including Arabic, Russian, Mandarin, and Ancient and Modern Greek. And all that is waiting for me at home this festive season is a cat and a Marks and Spencer's Christmas selection."

She paused to stare almost defiantly at Tom. He, too, was one of the many men to whom she had been attracted, who had never given her so much as a second glance. Even as he sympathised with her plight, Tom squirmed under her censure. Men were all the same, she seemed to be saying, threatened by women who were intellectually on par with them, turned on only by the usual conventional physical responses. "I tell you, Tom, if love came knocking at my door, I'd bloody well sell this country down the river to get it...Go for it. Get the girl. Bugger this crazy world of ours..."

He sank back in his chair, giving her the benefit of one of his supercilious gazes. "That statement is tantamount to admitting you're a security risk and might be open to infiltration from hostile elements..." he challenged.

"...what are you going to do? Arrest me? Send me back to GCHQ?"

He grinned. "I should put you in the field as our next honey trap. At least you'd get some..." They both burst out laughing. "Ruth, this place would grind to a halt without you. I can't send you back. And the truth of the matter is we're all potential security risks. As long as we're forced to live this absurdly clinical, detached existence, it's only a matter of time before each and every one of us implodes into a sad little stain of wasted matter. I'm in love with her, Ruth. She's the most important thing in my life. Without her, I have nothing.  But I will betray her as I have been instructed. There is no doubt in my mind about that... How irredeemably fucked is that?"

It was Ruth's turn to sigh. She wasn't sure how to respond to his declaration. Tom was the best of men and just because he was, he would do the worst act of betrayal possible. What twisted rationale demanded that of its best?

"See? That shut you up, didn't it? You tell me this, Ruth - as an intelligent woman who, by her own admission, is desperate for love - what you would do if you finally found that elusive gift and the man then let you down in the worst of ways? What would it do you? How would you feel about him?"

There was no answer. Logic was one things but emotion another. Ruth - like any woman - would never accept such behaviour, no matter if it was done for the sake of duty or integrity. "Tom, it's a no- win situation. Let it go. You have only two choices. Step down from this mission and leave it to someone else - or go through with it and lose her. Give it up, Tom. Let someone else take over..."

"Adam Carter? That sadistic bastard? You ever watched him interrogate someone? That's the bloody point, Ruth! I would walk away without a second thought if I could, walk away from this case, this damn job, even the country that I have tried to serve...but I can't! If I do, she will suffer. It's only because I'm here to be the bulwark between them and her, that saves Zoe from being another sacrificial victim to this vaguely defined cause we call duty."

"Do you love her enough to lose her? Because you will if you pursue this..."

"As long as she's safe..." he muttered. "She is all that counts..."

"Lucky woman to be loved like that," was Ruth's passionate response. "Go to her.  Now. You may only have a little while. Don't waste a moment, Tom. The rest of your life's a long time to pay the price for your integrity..."  She eased off the desk and walked away without another word.

And on a sudden impulse so unlike his normal controlled and rational self, he picked up his gift box, his coat and his keys - and made a beeline for the pod exit.

"Who lit the fire?" Danny Hunter muttered as he stormed past.

Ruth watched him go with a dreamy smile on her face. Who indeed?

The windscreen wipers set up their monotonous metronome as Tom pushed his car faster through the driving rain than he should have done, all caution finally thrown to the winds. The CD player belted out a pulsing rock whose insistent beat seemed to urge his speed and whose desperate lyrics seemed to speak directly to his need. At the final count, what else did he have that remotely would ever compare to this woman who had so completely stolen his heart? Yet, he would go through with this because he was a good man and had the interests of others placed firmly before his own. Because he loved her so much that just to have known her for a little while was enough to carry him through - along with the knowledge that his sacrifice this time actually did some good to someone whose happiness meant so much to him. Tonight he would be with her and all the rest could go to hell and back for all he cared.

Strain this chaos turn it into light,
I've gotta see you one last night,
Before the lions take their share,
Leave us in pieces, scattered everywhere...

Just give me a chance to hold on
Just give me something to hold onto.
It's so clear now that you are all that I have,
I have no fear 'cause you are all that I have. 

You're cinematic razor sharp,
A welcome arrow through the heart,
Under your skin feels like home,
Electric shocks on aching bone...

Give me a chance to hold on...
Just give me something to hold onto.

It's so clear now that you are all that I have,
I have no fear cause you are all that I have.

There is a darkness deep in you,
A frightening magic I cling to,
Give me a chance to hold on,
Just give me something hold onto,

It's so clear now that you are all that I have,
I have no fear now you are all that I have...

Zoe sat at the window of her bedroom, the cases all packed. Tomorrow afternoon, she would fly with Andreas to France. Part of her couldn't wait, longing to be back inside the warm comfort of her family once again. What else could compare to that feeling of being able to set the burden down and become a child again, knowing that even if her parents could not actually solve her problems anymore, just being with them still made her feel secure, and loved? How easily we accept those gifts when young, and how hard they are to find in any other place.

Yet, another part of her was reluctant, even dreading leaving. Somewhere out there on this filthy night, Tom was alone. For him there would be no warm family to retreat inside. The little she knew of them, it was evident that he did not find any solace in their company. His life was spent waging some private battle alone against his forces of darkness while those same forces were closing him in. She knew little of his past, apart from odd random scraps revealed almost by mistake, before the wall had again descended. He was an enigma even now. She might know every inch of his body, but the contents of his head were still a carefully guarded secret it would seem.

Her forehead was pressed against the window, raindrops spattering like icy pellets, streams of water in haphazard darting fashion running down the freezing pane. The street lamps cast a dull yellowish glow that diffused into a blurry haze of night. The sense of abandoning Tom was strong. Or was she beginning to find existence without his comfort hard to tolerate? In his remote cool way, he was mending her broken pieces, building in her a new set of needs. This man, so very different from the only other man she had ever loved, was breaching her defences and shoring them up all at the same time. Closing her eyes she wished he could be here now, even for a little while. Andreas had been in bed for hours. Hers was a lonely vigil.

Outside the small apartment block, a car pulled too fast into the side of the road, screeching to a halt, a jarring intrusion on the wintry solitude of the late night residential area. The lights were snapped off, the door opened - and there was Tom, his heavy jacket pulled up against the force of the rain and wind, slamming the door, and jogging towards the entrance. The red eye of his remote alarm winked in almost friendly acknowledgement as she observed his arrival.

Zoe jumped up, ran to the mirror, shook out her hair, moistened her lips, laughing at her shapeless pyjamas. Tom was here because he couldn't bear not to be. It didn't matter a hoot to him what she looked like.

Dashing through the apartment, she wrenched open the door. He was already exiting the lift, running towards her. 

"...I know I should have waited until you rang the bell and checked but I saw you from the window... Don't start on me...!" she exclaimed, all in one breathless rush.

He caught her and dragged her into his arms, stopping any further protests while she jumped and wrapped her legs around him to give her better access to his searching kiss. Walking them both back, he kicked the door closed.

"You're wet...!" she gasped.

"You, too," he murmured, burrowing his lips into the crevice of her neck, his gravelly tone heavily laced with sexual innuendo.

"You bet," she giggled, covering his face with even more frantic kisses. "Why are you here?"

"I know it's that time of the month... and your son's asleep in bed... and I should have called... and you're leaving tomorrow, but...Zoe, I had to tell you. Before you go. You have to understand...You're all I have in the world. You're all I want in this life. I love you... Frankly, I don't know where to begin ...you mean so much to me..." he rambled, his words broken by their constant tasting of each other and the efforts each were making to rip away the sodden outer clothes - and begin on the inner.

"Stay! Sleep with me...until the dawn...Stay with me, Tom! I don't want to sleep alone..."

"God, yes...God, yes...no sex...just sleep...I need to sleep in your arms...I'm so damned tired..."