PART IX
What do you think spies are: priests, saints and martyrs? They're a squalid procession of vain fools, traitors too, yes; pansies, sadists, and drunkards, people who play cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten lives. Do you think they sit like monks in London balancing the rights and wrongs? ... They need him so that the great moronic mass that you admire can sleep soundly in their beds at night.
John le Carré, The Spy Who Came In From the Cold
Leningrad / St Petersburg
15 December 1986, early morning
Before they left the compartment Harry turned to her. "Are we all right?" he asked hesitantly, and this show of vulnerability warmed her unexpectedly. This was obviously important to him, too.
She smiled, absurdly happy. "Yes, we are. …Aren't we?" It was her turn to become anxious, worried that she was misreading the situation, and he took a step towards her and pulled her into his arms. He gave her that smile – the close-lipped one that barely lifted one corner of his mouth.
"Yes. We are," he said softly, and kissed her.
0o0
As soon as they got off the train Harry was aware of the watchers falling into step behind them. There would be new ones that they hadn't seen before, but it didn't really matter. They could follow him right into the bog for all he cared; they would not learn anything other than the fact that he could not keep his hands off Ruth. He looked down at the woman walking next to him and was once more overcome with gratitude. She had stepped into his world with consummate ease, and now into his bed without hesitation. He could tell that she wasn't terribly experienced in physical relationships, but she had not allowed that to inhibit her. She had let him guide her and teach her, and had given over to the pleasure with abandon. It had been good. It had been the first time in many years that he had not felt like there were ghosts in the bed with him, watching disapprovingly as he tried desperately to satisfy a woman whose affection he was unsure of. And perhaps, because of that, he could not get enough. He wanted to be buried in her heat as often as possible, experiencing those moments of emotional freedom again and again.
"Can we see the Winter Palace?" she asked beside him, her voice bringing him back to reality.
"Yes, we can," he agreed indulgently. "We can see whatever you want." And for the first time he became aware that he would give her anything she asked for, down to his very soul.
They went to the Intourist Hotel first to book in. The room was functional and threadbare – the only furnishings two tattered armchairs and a queen size bed. As far as Harry was concerned that was all that mattered, but he prudently refrained from voicing this to Ruth. At least it was clean; he didn't spot any cockroaches scurrying around as he switched on the light to survey the cramped bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder to Ruth. "It's not much, I'm afraid," he said apologetically, and he could swear that her eyes flicked to the bed and a faint blush spread across her cheeks as she smiled at him.
"It'll do," she responded and he resisted the impulse to take her straight to the aforementioned bed again. She wanted to see the city and he would show it to her.
0o0
St Petersburg used to be one of the most beautiful cities in Russia before the wave of Communism had swept all before it. The Winter Palace had been the brightest jewel in its crown, a symbol of the fabulous wealth of the Russian monarchy. Tsar Nicholas was the last Romanov to reside there, and it stood to reason that it was one of the first places to be attacked once the revolution started. After the Revolution the city had been renamed first to Petrograd and then to Leningrad, and Stalin's men had set to work to remove the symbols of the tsarist era. The Winter Palace had been turned into an administrative building first and then into a museum, but not before all Imperial emblems had been removed, even those chiselled into the stonework. There was not a single gilded, double-headed eagle to be seen anywhere. The Palace's faded grandeur was representative of the rest of the city as they stood and gazed at the exterior of the building. Its immense scale remained mind-boggling, and not even the removal of its golden symbols could detract from it. The extensive courtyard conjured up visions of eras past – of horse-drawn carriages sweeping through the ornate gates and up to the entrance to deposit the fabulously dressed and bejewelled guests for the ball. Ruth's vivid imagination could picture the scene in multi-coloured detail – light blazing from every window, casting their reflections on the snow-covered courtyard and the guests as they moved up the steps and into the hall. "It must have been quite something to behold," she said wistfully, and Harry nodded.
"Yeah. It makes you understand why the Revolution succeeded, though. Imagine having nothing to eat and to see them hold balls here every week, where the caviar and vodka flowed in unimaginable quantities."
She tilted her head and smiled at him. "Harry Pearce, closet revolutionary," she teased and he shrugged unapologetically.
"I have no problem with those who make their fortunes honestly in a free market economy. But these people kept themselves in luxury on the backs of the population – taxing them to death and forcing them to work in unconscionable conditions for peanuts. It is unsustainable."
They moved on to the Neva River and strolled down its banks, admiring the buildings that adorned both sides. They leant against the parapet and watched the boats go by for a while when Harry suddenly said, "How about a boat trip? They run day-trips out of the harbour into the Baltic." He glanced at his watch and added, "It's still early – if we go there now we can still catch one." His voice was deliberately casual and it raised her antennae immediately. She had wondered how he proposed to escape the surveillance for the meeting they were really here for, and now she began to understand.
"That would be lovely," she agreed enthusiastically and his eyes twinkled at her. He knew that she knew, and he adored her for it. On impulse he pulled her to him and kissed her, not caring whether anyone saw.
0o0
The taxi deposited them at the door of a small wooden office. The sign above the door read: Baltic Boat trips 50 Roubles. Harry led the way inside and the woman behind the counter straightened up in anticipation. She had peroxided blonde hair and too much make-up, and the air of someone disappointed with how her life had turned out. She seemed surprised; perhaps she had not expected any customers on this winter's day. When Ruth addressed her in Russian, though, her face lit up. Yes, there was a boat available, she said eagerly, and yes, they would be honoured to take the happy couple out for the day. The weather should hold, there should not be any problems. She collected their money and led the way out the back to where an ugly but sturdy mid-sized boat was fastened and led them aboard. With a muttered apology she left them on the deck and disappeared below, and the rumble of voices drifted up from beneath their feet. A male voice joined the woman's and it did not sound best pleased. Harry lifted an eyebrow at Ruth. "Let's hope the Captain isn't drunk," he observed dryly before he turned to look back to shore. Two men lingered at the corner of the office and Harry smiled to himself. He imagined that right about then the third shadow was making a frantic call to Moscow for instructions. Finally the receptionist re-appeared, followed by a sturdy, bearded man, whom she only introduced as Captain Yuri. He seemed sober enough, to Ruth's relief, and his strong grip nearly crushed her hand when he shook it. Within minutes they shoved off and headed out towards the Baltic.
Harry moved behind Ruth and put his arms around her, nuzzling her neck, and she leant back against him, grateful for his extra warmth. They had dressed warmly but the wind quickly numbed any exposed skin. Only once they were well clear of the port did he lift his mouth to her ear. "Yuri is one of our assets. He will take us out to a tanker sitting in Finnish waters, where we will meet Malcolm. The Soviets will have the Coast Guard track this boat all the way, so when we reach the tanker we will have only a few seconds to transfer over. All right?" She nodded, impressed by the contingencies he had put in place for this operation and she couldn't help but wonder: What else had he planned for? "Until we reach the tanker, we should pretend to be having a good time," his velvet voice continued in her ear as his teeth closed over her earlobe and nipped gently, before his mouth enveloped it and suckled enthusiastically. The sensation shot straight to her core and she suppressed a moan before turning in his arms.
"Only pretend?" she asked boldly and kissed him ardently.
0o0
The Captain veered towards the right-hand shore and Ruth watched the frozen landscape slide by. The swells were gentle and the boat rode them easily, creating a small bow-wave as it picked up speed once clear of the harbour. Harry moved up to the wheelhouse and spoke to the Captain. "You brought the people I asked for?" he enquired, and Ruth looked at him quizzically. What people? The Captain raked his eyes over his two passengers critically, then beamed. "Da," he responded. "I think we chose well – they'll never know the difference." Before Ruth could ask, the Russian pointed through the windscreen to the horizon. "There she is, the Valtameri Matriarkka. You'll disembark on the starboard side."
Harry nodded and steered Ruth towards the right hand rail. "What people?" she asked as they watched the ship grow steadily bigger.
"The Russian Coast Guard will be watching this boat. If we just disappear off it, they will know something is up. But if there are still two people on board, with our height and hair colour, they'll be none the wiser."
She nodded, impressed. "You really did think of everything," she praised, and felt him shrug against her shoulder.
"Let's hope so. The Russians aren't stupid. If they get the slightest sniff that I might have got anything from Zverev, the consequences would be…severe." He had chosen the word diplomatically, but she could read between the lines well enough. The Russians weren't playing around – if they suspected that Harry was in a position to wreck their counter-Renaissance operation, they would kill him without hesitation. That's how high the stakes were. She shuddered and Harry slid an arm around her. "Get ready," he instructed and when she looked up, the tanker loomed in front of them.
It was huge, towering many stories above them, its hull painted a faded red. The name was painted on the stern as they rounded it, in huge white letters. The anchor chain stretched down into the water, the links as big as cars, a rusty brown. As soon as they were into the lee of the ship, blocked from view of any following ship or observers from shore, Harry moved behind Ruth and gripped her by the waist. She saw a rope ladder dangling down the side a few metres ahead, and it looked flimsy and untrustworthy against the scale of the ship. She looked at Harry in horror. "You don't expect-" she protested, but she never got to finish the sentence. They had reached the ladder and the boat throttled right back, and Harry lifted her and threw her upwards unceremoniously. She grabbed at the ladder and thankfully held on, as Harry's voice urged from below: "Move! Up!" Her feet scrabbled for purchase and the ladder jerked as he jumped onto it beneath her. She closed her eyes and clung on, suddenly aware of the vast ocean underneath them, its icy depths ready to become her silent tomb forever. "Oh, God…" she mumbled, and Harry's voice came to her again, strained and urgent. "Come on, Ruth, move." She looked down to see him dangling precariously from the lowest rung, his feet swaying a few metres above the water, and it shocked her into movement. Her feet found a rung and she breathed a sigh of relief, and began to haul herself upwards. When she looked towards Yuri's boat again, two people had appeared on deck and stood in the wheelhouse behind the Captain, and from this distance they looked exactly like her and Harry.
It felt like an eternity before she reached the deck, her arms and legs numb from exertion and tension, and willing hands grabbed her and dragged her over the side. She stood, hands on knees, gulping in air and trying to still her trembling legs when Harry dropped over the side next to her. "Well done," he praised, grinning at her, his face flushed from the physical activity and the danger of the situation. He looked exhilarated, vibrantly alive, and she realised again – this man thrived on action, on danger. It was a sobering thought, as she pictured living in constant fear that he would not come back. Was that a price worth paying? Then again, was any price too high for happiness? Another, unknown voice interrupted these thoughts.
"Harry!"
She looked up to see a man of about Harry's age approach them, thin as a rake and with sandy hair that was neatly trimmed. Harry straightened and gripped the newcomer's hand.
"Malcolm." So this was the man they had come to meet, the 'techie' as Harry rather fondly called him. "This is Ruth," Harry said as he briefly laid his hand in the small of her back, and she saw the techie note the gesture with considerable interest.
"Hello," he said with a friendly smile, "I'm Malcolm."
She shook his hand and couldn't help but smile back; he seemed warm and genuine and she took an instant liking to him. Before they could continue the conversation Harry said crisply, "Let's get off the deck, shall we? Wouldn't want any curious onlookers to spot you." And with that Malcolm led them down into the bowels of the ship, and into a cavernous space that had obviously been an oil repository in a previous life. The smell of petroleum hung heavy in the air, but now it was brightly lit and equipped with a dazzling array of electronic equipment. "So has Harry asked you-" Malcolm began towards Ruth but Harry swiftly interrupted.
"We don't have much time. Only a few hours," he stated and handed over the lighter.
"Right," Malcolm said without rancour and headed to a large magnifying glass with an excited glint in his eye. He was in his element here, amongst all this technology, Ruth realised, and she smiled. Like Harry, he seemed ideally suited to his occupation, and her thoughts went back to Harry's assertion some days ago – that she was a born spook. She could feel the sense of purpose in the air, the anticipation that something important was about to happen, and it was exhilarating. Those working for the Intelligence Services must experience this regularly, and how wonderful that must be. The sense of achievement must be immense, she thought, and she realised with a start: she wanted to be part of it. She wanted to be a spy.
"I say, that's nifty," Malcolm said and they moved closer to peer over his shoulder. He had opened the casing and removed the little canister that held the lighting fluid, and beneath it was a tightly sealed package. They watched in silence as he carefully slid it open, taking care not to damage the contents, and exposed a tiny roll of film and something else.
"What's that?" Harry asked and Malcolm picked it up gingerly with tweezers and studied it beneath the magnifying glass.
"I believe it is a tape cassette," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I've never seen one so small."
"That's amazing," Ruth breathed, also impressed by the tiny scale of the apparatus.
Harry, though, was not in the mood to admire the technological wizardry of the Soviets at that particular moment, and looked about him at the array of instruments. "Do you have anything here that could play it?"
Malcolm rolled his eyes at Ruth and she suppressed a smile, knowing that she was witnessing a dance as old as the history between the two men. "Maybe. I'd have to tweak it somewhat, though. It'll take some time. You can look at the microfilm in the meantime," he said hastily as Harry bristled at the prospect of having to wait. "There's a microreader over there."
Harry and Ruth moved over to the machine as Malcolm began tinkering with another. "Have you ever used one of these?" Harry asked and she shook her head. He showed her how to insert the film and adjust the resolution and focus, until the first photograph sprang to life in front of their eyes. She looked up at him and smiled in delight as Harry pulled out the chair for her and leaned over her shoulder to read the document. Both were unaware that Malcolm was observing their interaction out of the corner of his eye; that he noted their familiarity and ease with each other, Harry's uncharacteristic patience and gentleness whilst instructing her in the use of the machine, and the way her eyes lit up when she looked at him. He nodded to himself knowingly before returning his full attention to his own task.
"Let's see what we've got," Harry said next to her ear and she shifted her focus to the document. It was written in Russian and she realised that Harry was waiting for her to translate.
"It's from K Directorate, Special Operations Division," she responded, tracing her finger along the screen as she translated so that he could follow her progress. "Report from Berlin, 1983."
Unease balled in Harry's stomach and it was on the tip of his tongue to stop her from continuing, to send her away so that she would not know of his shame. But in the end he did not. If she came to work for MI-5 she would find out eventually, and he would rather get it over and done with. Before the loss of her regard would hurt too greatly. Too late for that. The realisation made him close his eyes.
"Reporting officer: Comrade Elena Gavrik," Ruth's voice continued and he steeled himself. "Report on first contact with MI-5 officer Harry Pearce-" She cut herself off and looked at him sharply, and he nodded in resignation.
"Continue."
She was aware that behind them Malcolm had ceased all movement, and she had to resist the urge to look to him for guidance. Tension radiated from Harry and he gripped the back of her chair so hard that his knuckles had turned white. He feared what was coming, and she wished with all her heart that she could spare him from it, whatever it was, but there was no way out. So she swallowed and continued. "'Target made contact today'," she read on reluctantly. "'He is unaware that I am a KGB officer, and hopes to get to Ilya Gavrik through me. I was receptive to his advances. The situation holds promise; I believe I can ensnare him and turn the situation to our advantage.'" The next report was dated a few months later, and was even worse. "'Today I informed the target that I am pregnant,'" Ruth read, and paused in horror. Harry did not move, did not breathe behind her. "'His honour will not allow him to abandon a child; I am of the opinion that he will convince himself that he is in love with me and will take us with him when he goes back to England. All is going according to plan. I believe it will be best not to inform Ilya of any of this until after we have left – he will not let his child go to the enemy willingly. He is not as committed to the Fatherland as I am.'"
She looked up at Harry, shocked by the cold calculation behind the words, and his face was white and strained. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she knew that now was not the time. So she moved on to the next report. It was dated March 1984. "The target is convinced that the boy is his, and today sent me instruction for our extraction. He will take myself and the boy with him to England. I am to meet him in Treptower Park on the 12th, and he will get us out of Berlin. Once in England I will eventually convince them to give me a job with my new husband in MI-5, and we will once again have access to British Intelligence. The plan has worked.'" Ruth stopped reading, and silence settled on the room, heavy and oppressive. Somewhere she could hear water drip. She did not dare look at him this time, and without a word he turned and strode out of the room. She watched him go helplessly.
Once the door had closed behind him she sighed, then became aware of Malcolm's gaze on her. Her burning need to know, to understand, surfaced again. "Do you know what happened?" she asked, and he shrugged. "Some of it. I didn't know about the boy, though." He hesitated and looked at the door. "He can't know that you heard any of this from me – he is ashamed of it, I think." She murmured assent and he continued. "Harry was seconded to MI-6 at the time, and he was sent to entrap the wife of the senior KGB officer in Berlin, Ilya Gavrik. It was a joint operation with the CIA. Neither they nor us were aware that Elena Gavrik was also a KGB officer. No wonder, because from that report it seems neither were her husband." He shook his head in wonder.
"So she used her child as a pawn to ensnare Harry?" Ruth asked, horrified, and Malcolm nodded.
"Apparently so."
Ruth could not fathom it. She was pretty certain that should she ever have a child, she would not sacrifice it for any country or ideology. How could a mother be that cold, that calculating? "…And did he bring them out? To England?" she asked apprehensively, filled with visions of this Russian woman waiting for Harry back home. Or was that who he had divorced recently?
"No," Malcolm responded to her great relief, but then added: "But not for want of trying." He smiled at her sympathetically, sensing her distress and confusion. "His CIA counterpart found out what he was planning to do and stopped him. At gunpoint." She stared at him uncomprehendingly so he continued, "Harry was married at the time, to Jane. They have two children." He paused before adding, "The marriage did not survive after that. I suspect Harry was consumed by guilt and in the end Jane could not cope with it anymore."
Ruth thought about it, everything that she had learnt about Harry in the last few weeks. No matter the façade he presented to the world, she knew that he was indeed an honourable man, who would want to do the right thing by the woman and the boy he believed to be his. And yes, she was certain it would eat away at him, the fact that he had abandoned them and left them behind in Berlin. "Is Jane – does she work with you guys?" she asked, and Malcolm shook his head. "No, she's a teacher."
"That must be hard – if you're married to someone outside of the Intelligence community," she mused.
"Yes," Malcolm agreed. "We're not supposed to tell even our spouses any secret details. I suspect many break that rule – but Harry would not. He is serious about the Official Secrets Act." This last bit was said almost fondly, and Ruth realised – this man, Harry's colleague of many years, admired him. She found that comforting.
"Yes, I imagine he would be," she smiled, and Malcolm observed her closely.
"He's a good man, you know," he said anxiously, worried that she might think badly of his friend after these revelations, and she reached out and squeezed his arm.
"Yes, Malcolm, I know." He smiled in relief and she asked, "So what do we do now?", just as the door flew open and Harry walked in.
He looked between the two of them, almost challenging them to say anything about Berlin, but both wisely kept their mouths shut. So he answered Ruth's question, shortly and definitively: "We do our jobs."
0o0
"I've got it!" Malcolm exclaimed half an hour later, and they crowded around him as he carefully inserted the miniature tape into the machine he had been tinkering with. The documents on the microfilm had provided nothing more significant, apart from Elena Gavrik's final report, in which she expressed the opinion that Harry Pearce remained ignorant of her status as a KGB officer, and that they could exploit that, should the opportunity ever present itself. "Let me switch on that screen," Malcolm said and leaned over to a television set. "It's actually a video."
Harry shifted slightly so that Ruth could have a better view, acutely aware of her presence at his side. He wondered what she thought of the Elena Gavrik affair, conscious that it painted him in the worst possible light. Would it mean the end of something wonderful – something that had barely had the opportunity to begin? He simply didn't know. Only time would tell.
"Here we go," Malcolm said, and pressed a switch.
The screen flickered to life with the following typed statement:
Video report of first meeting between Comrade Vasily Popov and Agent Romashka
The image briefly flickered and then stabilised, and from the blurred edges it was clear that it was a surveillance video, taken from a distance. Harry realised that Popov must have been wired, and that the boffins had reconciled the audio and visual images afterwards. MI-5 often used the same procedure. It showed Connie approaching Popov in the graveyard and introducing herself. And then, straight off the bat, she said: "I am here on an operation code-named Renaissance. It is run by Harry Pearce, and the aim is to trick the KGB into thinking that you have a mole inside MI-5. Me." She handed over something to the KGB officer at that point, and added, "I want to be a double agent for you."
tbc
