A/N: I don't have as much time as I used to for writing, so updates may be a bit slower than usual. This is also the reason why this story will be shorter and less detailed - I will rely on the reader's imagination to fill in the rest.

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November 2012
Jerusalem, Israel

He feels it for the first time in the lobby of the hotel. He stands at the reception desk and asks whether there are any messages for Harry Pearce, when the back of his neck prickles. He is being observed. While he waits for the girl behind the desk to fetch his messages, he half-turns and casually leans against the desk. It gives him a better view of the lobby and his eyes sweep over it in a practiced arc. No-one seems to be overly interested in him, but then, if they were professionals, they won't. A tall, slim figure disappears through the revolving door, and he only gets a glimpse of the back of a dark but greying head.
"Sir?" the girl says and holds out two slips of paper.
He accepts them with an absent thank you, and moves towards the doors himself. He is to meet Catherine outside in a few minutes, and she gets annoyed if he's late. The thought elicits a rush of fond memories, of his little daughter standing at the gate of the crèche, arms akimbo and frowning severely, telling him he's late in picking her up. Outside there is no sign of the dark haired man, and he shakes his head. There is no reason that anyone should be interested in him now. He is here to spend some time with his daughter, nothing more. But as Catherine pulls up in her small car, he makes another sweep of the street before he gets in. Just to be sure.

She chats animatedly as they drive along, scouting locations for her latest documentary. Harry does his best to keep up his end of the conversation, but he is distracted. He repeatedly checks the wing mirror, and once or twice he even twists around in the seat and stares out the rear window. When he does it a third time, Catherine snaps, "Dad!"
He jerks his head back towards her.
"No one is following us." After a beat she adds, with a note of irritation, "You are no longer a spy."
She is right, of course. He is no longer a spook, he reminds himself. It is almost a year since he was forced to take early retirement. Since Albany and Lucas/John and Ruth's life in danger. He quickly stops that train of thought, and forces them in the direction of Catherine's perceptiveness. She is sharp and observant, this daughter of his. She would have made an excellent intelligence officer, he thinks. Or perhaps not. She doesn't have his ruthless streak, and he is eternally grateful for that. She is determined but gentle, persistent but compassionate. Like Ruth. The thought comes to him unbidden, and once again he hastily buries it. She is a wonderful person, his daughter.
"Old habits," he offers in apology, accompanied with a sheepish smile.
Some of the annoyance leaves her face and she glances over at him. "Must be hard," she says pensively. "I mean, I don't know if I could cope with not making films anymore."
He stares at her profile, a sudden surge of melancholy flooding him. She is a beautiful human being, in every way, and he can claim no credit for that. All he did was provide the sperm. Some of the credit must inevitably go to his ex-wife, but most of it belongs to Catherine herself. She has become this exceptional creature despite the failings of her parents. He looks away and blinks rapidly; he seems to become more sentimental with each year that passes. Perhaps the Service was right to get rid of him.
"What about the Via Dolorosa?" he asks, thankful that his voice is steady. "Nothing shows the depravity of making profit from religion more starkly than that stretch of road."
She agrees, and they find a parking spot and make their way there on foot.

Catherine soon finds a suitable spot in amongst the hawkers selling anything that can be linked to Christ, however tenuously. Crosses in gold, silver and wood. Sandals, like Jesus used to wear. Replicas of the shroud he was wrapped in after his death. Holy water. Harry is tempted to ask the seller whether it will turn into wine. Others sell mere pieces of wood, rather ludicrously claiming it to be from the actual cross the Messiah died on. Harry is about to engage the seller in a debate on the authenticity of his wares when he sees a tall, thin figure out of the corner of his eye. He turns quickly, and this time gets a glimpse of the face before the figure disappears around a corner. It is enough. He finds Catherine again, busy calculating angles, light and other cinematic things he understands nothing of.
"You should also visit Mecca during Hajj," he says, surveying the swarming multitudes around them. "Christianity isn't the only religion that exploits its followers."
Catherine shakes her hair out of her eyes. "I plan to do so," she responds. "I'm still looking for a guide, though. Someone who knows their way around and speaks the language. And who isn't prejudiced against women."
"I may be able to help with that," Harry says, scanning the crowds once more for that thin face. "I still have a few contacts."
Catherine beams. "Brilliant. Thanks Dad."
Harry nods, and makes a decision. "Listen, love, you do your thing and I'll meet you later for lunch. I'm tired of the crowds; I think I'll go for a stroll in Gethsemane."
"But we were there yesterday," she frowns, tilting her head and eyeing him somewhat suspiciously.
So very perceptive, his wonderful daughter.
"Yes, and it's about the only quiet place in this whole city," he responds, holding her eyes, knowing it's the only way to persuade her that he isn't up to anything.
After a beat she nods, and they agree a time and place for lunch before he sets off.

Once he is out of her sight, he drops a coin and bends to pick it up. As he does so, he glances behind him, in time to see the tall figure turn away down an alley. He nods to himself, picks up the coin and continues on his way, without looking back.

- 0 –

Thirty minutes later
The Garden of Gethsemane

He strolls between the olive trees, meandering his way towards the Mount of Olives. They explored the place thoroughly yesterday, and he knows each twist in the footpath he is now following. He knows exactly where he will lay his trap, because by now he is convinced that he is being followed. As he walks, he makes a mental inventory of everything he has on him. What can be used to do damage? Not for the first time, he curses the advent of keycards. A solid, serrated key would have been very handy right about now. But he doesn't have one. In fact, he has very little. Not even a pen. He has a cloth handkerchief, some paper receipts, a wrapped mint. No, he doesn't have much at all. Wallet with a handful of coins in it, watch, shoes. That's it. It will have to do.

He heads towards the ablutions, and once inside he works swiftly. He quickly checks that he is alone, before putting down the lid on one of the loos and spreading the handkerchief open on it. Next he pours the coins from his wallet in the centre, and ties the corners together. Holding it by the knot, he tests its weight. Swung hard enough, it will do sufficient damage to give him a chance. He drops it into his pocket, flushes and washes his hands. While he does so, he studies himself in the mirror. The cold focus he used to see in his own face each morning for more years than he cares to remember, is back. He is good at this, no matter what the Service has said. He allows a momentary flash of anger, before bringing his focus back to the present. The ball of coins lies snugly against his thigh, and he walks back into the sunlight. It is getting towards midday and the heat is building up. The sharp light bleeds the colour from the landscape and he narrows his eyes against it. He heads for the farthest corner of the garden, where the olive trees are older and bigger. He is thankful for the shade they offer. There is no-one else around; most visitors are drawn towards the parts where there are restaurants and play areas. He soon reaches his destination – a long, head-high hedge that runs parallel to the perimeter of the garden. About halfway down there is a small gap in the hedge, and he squeezes into it, the ball of coins in his hand. Now he waits.

For long minutes there is nothing. He strains his ears for any sound that does not fit into the far-off drone of traffic, the birdsong or the buzz of insects that form the natural audio backdrop. Sweat trickles down his spine and his nose itches, but he does not move. And then he hears it – the crunch of a foot on the gravel path. And another. They are slow and careful, circumspect as they move down the lane. He takes hold of the knot in the handkerchief so that the ball of coins dangles from his fingers, like a very short club. The footsteps pull abreast of him and he slowly turns his head to see the tall, thin man walk past, his eyes scanning forwards anxiously. He has a short beard, much greyer than his hair, and hawk-like features. He does not see Harry. Once he is two strides past, Harry steps out behind him, swinging the coins in a downward arc. The man begins to turn, but he is too slow, and Harry catches him smartly behind the right ear. He staggers, grunts in surprise, and then his knees buckle and he crumples to the ground. Harry stands over him, breathing fast in an effort to control the rush of adrenaline. He looks around, but there are no witnesses. Crouching down, he checks the man's pulse, and is relieved to find it strong and regular. A quick but thorough pat-down produces a long dagger and a stiletto. Taking the slumped form under the armpits, he pulls him off the path and behind some shrubs, and sits down on a nearby stone to wait, the dagger dangling from his hand.

- 0 –

Two days later
London, Home Office

Ruth is putting the finishing touches to the Home Secretary's briefing notes for the JIC meeting later that morning when Towers appears in his door.
"Ruth, can I have a word?"
She follows him into his office, and is surprised to find Erin Watts there already. Usually when Towers meets with Harry's successor, she is briefed and included in the discussions.

It is a strange set of circumstances that saw her leave the Grid. After Harry was forced out she initially stayed on, braving the looks she received in the corridors. She understood; she was after all the reason Harry found himself out in the cold. But she didn't like it, didn't like being on the Grid when he was no longer there. This last part came as a surprise to her. After telling herself for so long that they were only meant to have a close relationship at work, she now finds herself wishing for more. Wondering if she has made a terrible mistake in keeping him at arms length all these years. She misses him terribly. Which is why she grabbed the opportunity to leave with both hands. Not long after Harry left, The Home Secretary approached her and offered her the position of Intelligence Advisor in his office. She has been here for nine months, and she is good at it. There is a lot less pressure than on the Grid, even though Towers demands high standards. She no longer feels that crushing responsibility for the safety of the country, and at first she was thankful for that. But in all honesty, she has begun to miss even that of late. She finds that she also misses the rush of elation that accompanied each success, when she knew she had played her part in saving lives. The impact she can have from her new position is much less direct, but she is determined to make the best of it.

Erin greets her civilly, and Ruth smiles back. She has no issues with Harry's replacement. She does her job well, although she is still searching for the correct balance between toeing the line and doing what needs to be done to stop the bad people.
Towers gets straight to the point. "Ruth. Your old crowd has requested your assistance for an operation, and I have reluctantly agreed to lend you back to them for the duration."
The old, familiar mix of dread and excitement settles deep in her stomach as she absorbs the news. "What's it about?" she asks Erin, not without some apprehension.
"Does the name Imad Mughniyah mean anything to you?" Erin responds, and Ruth feels cold.
"He was the Osama bin Laden of the 1980s, responsible for numerous terror acts and kidnappings against Western targets in Lebanon. He bombed the American embassy in Beirut in 1983."
Erin smiles, pleased by the extent of Ruth's knowledge. "That's correct. He simply vanished in the late eighties, and neither we nor the Americans could find him." She pauses briefly. "We've had an offer of information about his whereabouts."
Ruth looks between Erin and Towers. "I'm sorry, but I don't see what you would need me for?"
"The problem is that we don't quite trust the source of the information," Erin explains. "We need you to meet with him and evaluate the situation."
It still doesn't make sense to Ruth – surely there are serving officers more suited to this task?
Frowning, she asks, "Who's the source?"
Erin glances at Towers before she says carefully, "Harry Pearce."

tbc