PART X

The monstrosity of this, reaching Smiley through a thickening wall of spiritual exhaustion, left him momentarily speechless.

John le Carré, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Valtameri Matriarkka, Baltic Sea
15 December 1986, afternoon

Malcolm paused the tape and they all stared at Connie's frozen face in shock. At Connie James, traitor. Harry suddenly turned and swept everything off the table next to him in fury, and the loud crash made Ruth and Malcolm jump. He never made a sound, but when Ruth looked at his face it was flushed and sweat glistened on his upper lip. He stood, breathing hard in an effort to rein in his anger, and she was thankful that it was not directed at her. This silent, broiling rage was frankly more terrifying than a shouting rant, because one didn't know quite how deep it went. It was Malcolm who broke the charged silence, stating venomously, "That duplicitous, traitorous cow."

0o0

The rest of the video did not improve Harry's mood. It consisted of Connie and Popov hammering out the details of the double-cross, and how they would bamboozle Harry in particular. At this point the Russian laughed and sneeringly referred to how they had done the same in Berlin, with great success. He offered Connie money but she refused it, stating that she was not doing it for financial gain, but for ideological reasons. Harry's face darkened even more at that, and Ruth worried that he would have a coronary from sheer unexpressed rage. When it ended, silence once more enveloped them, and the only sound was Harry's harsh breathing. He turned away and walked a circuit of the cavernous room, and the others watched wordlessly as he paced, stewing in fury. Eventually he swung back and came to a stop in front of them. "Zverev's family – are they safe?"
"Er…" It took Malcolm a second to follow the shift in topic. "Yes. Evgeny's people took them to Kaliningrad. This ship is going there next and will pick them up and take them to Britain."
Harry nodded curtly. "I want the very best that we can offer for them," he instructed, his voice brooking no argument. "Zverev has kept his part of the bargain better than we could have hoped. You tell Clive," he urged, and Malcolm nodded. Their Section Head, Clive McTaggart, was an old field man and he would understand.

Malcolm watched his colleague uneasily – his simmering anger was almost palpable, a dangerous and inescapable presence in the room. He glanced towards Ruth before asking carefully, "…What are you going to do?"
Harry's gaze had settled on the frozen screen, where Connie's face was caught in an almost carefree smile, and he said in a deceptively calm voice, "What I have to."
Ruth looked between the two men, unsure what the cryptic answer meant, and saw Malcolm swallow. She did not dare ask, aware that she was not yet one of them, and perhaps there were things she was better off not knowing.

0o0

16:00

It was time to return to the tourist boat, and to Ruth's relief they were lowered down to the water on a platform this time. She had been dreading the prospect of going down that unstable rope ladder. Yuri's boat appeared right on schedule, the two body doubles firmly entrenched on deck. Ruth clung to a cable as they were lowered, and cast a worried look at Harry. He was pre-occupied and she was concerned, but there was not much she could do or say to make things better. She could only imagine how terrible it must be to learn that one of your colleagues, someone you might even regard as a friend, was a traitor. She wondered whether, on some level, the betrayal of that friendship actually weighed more with the man next to her than the professional one. He must have felt her attention on him because he turned his head and smiled at her faintly. "We are happy tourists, yes?" he reminded her, but she knew it was targeted at himself rather than her.
"Yes," she acknowledged and smiled brightly, hoping to lift his spirits. And perhaps it worked, because he stepped over to her and put an arm around her as they stepped onto the deck of the smaller boat.

He stood with her at the rail as they made the journey back to port, and on impulse she reached up and touched his face. "I'm sorry, Harry," she murmured, and his head turned sharply towards her. There was nothing but genuine regret in her face and he sighed deeply, and just for a second he let her see his true feelings; the anguish, the hurt and the devastation he felt.
"So am I," he acknowledged and rested his forehead against hers, letting her presence soothe him. God, how he adored her. "Ruth," he said, "will you come to MI-5? I need-" he checked himself, afraid that it was too much, too soon, and amended, "we need you. We need your dogged brilliance, your ability to find the missing piece of the puzzle." He stared into her eyes, the same colour as the vast water around him, willing her to understand what he was really asking, and her face softened and brightened at the same time.
"Yes, I would love that," she said, and his gloved hand found her cheek as he sealed the agreement between them with a kiss.

When they reached the port again their tail was waiting for them and trailed them all the way back to the hotel. They ate in the dining room; the fare bland and uninspiring, but neither really noticed. They were chatting brightly, keeping up the pretence, but their hearts weren't in it. All the time Connie James and her treachery hung over them, dampening the atmosphere. Ruth tried not to think about the look on Harry's face when he'd said he'd do what he had to; tried not to think what that meant, and she was thankful when he took her to their room and made love to her with unwavering devotion, reminding her again that he was a man with a good and tender heart.

0o0

Leningrad / St Petersburg
16 December 1986, morning

They dutifully played the happy tourist couple the next day as well. Their first stop was the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, its iconic coloured onions reaching into a leaden sky that threatened to dump more snow at any minute. The Soviets had turned it into a museum and they went in and admired the mosaics and other pieces on display. Harry seemed to be his normal self, erudite and witty as he commented on the displays, but Ruth could sense an undercurrent of tension as she followed him around. It was carefully banked, hidden behind a façade of relaxed enjoyment, and she was aware that only those who knew him well would pick up on it. The realisation that she now counted among those chosen few sent a frisson through her, and she wanted nothing more than to remove the shadows that lurked behind his eyes – that had been there ever since they got confirmation of Connie James' treachery. The surveillance was still there, dogging their every step and probably listening in on their conversation with direction microphones. So she weighed her words carefully, never straying into anything remotely personal or professional.

They moved on to the Bronze Horseman, the equestrian statue of Peter the Great that dominated the Decembrists Square. As they stood admiring it, Harry tried to decide whether he was more impressed by the statue itself, or by the enormous Thunder Stone on which it was mounted.
"Did you know this was the largest stone ever moved by humans?" Ruth asked excitedly, momentarily forgetting herself and the perilous situation they found themselves in, and Harry smiled. He did, actually.
"Was it?" he responded, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm. He could listen to her telling him things he already knew all day and not get tired of it. God, he really was hopelessly enamoured with this brilliant, dark-haired young woman.
"Mm," she continued, eyes bright with eagerness to share her knowledge. "Catherine the Great had it brought here for the statue; it originally weighed 1500 tonnes."
"Amazing," he agreed, his eyes on her, but she was so caught up in her story that she didn't notice.
"Have you read the poem by Alexander Pushkin?" she asked eagerly, "The one that gave the statue its popular name?"
"'Over Neva's unending wildness, stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, the idol on his brazen horse,'" he quoted, no longer able to feign ignorance, but rather wanting to delight in shared knowledge with her. She beamed in delight at this reminder that Harry was probably as well-read as she herself was. It was wonderful, knowing that they could have a whole conversation consisting solely of quotes out of classic works of literature, and never be lost for words. A snowflake fluttered down and settled on her cheek, and he reached up and brushed it away. His leather glove was cold on her skin, and yet it left a trail of fire that travelled straight to her core. "It's beginning to snow – what do you want to do now?" he asked, and the words tumbled from her lips without thought, without hesitation.
"I want to go back to the hotel."

0o0

They barely made it through the door before he began wrenching the many layers of clothes from her with an urgency that stoked the flames of desire to an uncontrollable blaze. He only took the time to remove their coats and pull down her tights, and she helped to pull up her skirt until it was bundled at her waist, before he lifted her and pinned her against the door. She locked her legs around him and grabbed hold of his shoulders as she heard the sound of his zipper being yanked down, and then he was nudging against her heat and she gasped. It was heady – this ability she had to make him lose complete control, and she revelled in it. She had never before experienced anything remotely like it, to be desired with such intensity. She could not get enough of it, could not conceive of ever getting tired of it. But then he buried himself inside her with one hard thrust and all conscious thought flew out the door he was thumping her against with such abandon. The only thing she was aware of, besides the unbearable pleasure, was that there were no shadows in his eyes whilst he made love to her.

0o0

They stayed in bed for the rest of the afternoon, canoodling like teenagers and simply enjoying each other. Harry insisted on keeping the curtains open; they were high enough that peeping toms would not get an inadvertent show, and it allowed them to watch the snow fall on the forest of roofs below them. He made love to her again, and if she turned her head slightly she could watch the snow fall outside as he filled her again and again, the warmth radiating from the place they were joined to heat up her whole body, until she believed she could lie naked in that abundant snow outside and never be cold. By the time they left the bed to prepare to catch the midnight train back to Moscow, he was imprinted on every inch of her skin, and on every part of her heart.

0o0

"I need to make a call," he said as they moved through the lobby and veered towards the public phone in the corner. There was no booth – the Soviets did not encourage privacy; in fact, there was not even a specific equivalent to the word in the Russian language. He was aware of the man that sat in a chair close by the phone, reading a newspaper, and knew that he would take careful note of every word that was said. It was a bit of overkill, as he was certain that the KGB bugged all the telephones in these hotels where foreigners were encouraged to stay. Still, he lifted the receiver and dialled a number from memory. A female voice answered and he used his limited Russian to book two tickets for the opera on Friday. "It's a surprise for my girl," he confided, playing the giddy new lover, and it sounded like the woman on the other end actually cracked a smile. When he joined Ruth again, she lifted an eyebrow.
"What was that about?"
"It's a surprise," he stated with a cheeky grin and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, before guiding her out to the waiting taxi.

0o0

Once the train was underway and they were safely cocooned in their private compartment, he drew her into his arms and spoke softly into her ear. "I believe I will have to leave Moscow in the next few days." He felt her stiffen and tightened his embrace. "I think you should come with me," he continued and she looked up at him with a relieved smile, but then he added, "You will be in danger once I go." She tried to pull away but he held her fast and put a finger to his lips, and she understood – he suspected that the compartment had been bugged. So she put her mouth next to his ear.
"Why?" she asked and the confused look in her eyes nearly broke his heart. He had done it again – contaminated the thing that was most important in the world to him.
"Because they know I care about you. If you stay, they will use you to force me to come back."
He could literally see the penny drop, the moment she realised the implications of being involved with a spook. With him. She no longer had value only equivalent to her own abilities; she now also had value as a pawn in this big, dangerous game he played with such élan. Perhaps 'game' was not the right word, she realised; this was deadly serious, it was life on the edge, where each day was a gamble with death. Was this what she wanted to commit her future to?
"Ruth," he prodded, and she knew for now there was no choice. If she stayed, she would only endanger both of them.
"All right." As she gave her answer she tried not to think about what he might soon do that would require this sudden departure.

0o0

Western compound, Moscow
17 December 1986, pre-dawn

Evgeny waited in the shadows outside the woman's apartment, with two other men at his back. They were all dressed in dark clothes, and the car was waiting just outside the gate. She would have to leave soon if she was to make her meeting with the KGB officer, and he shuffled his feet to get the blood flowing. He needed to be ready. The Englishman had approached him a few days ago, and offered him a small fortune to kidnap his colleague. At first Evgeny had thought that it was a joke – that he wanted to play a prank on her. But it had soon become evident that it was not, and the young Russian had refused at first. But Harry Pearce was a persuasive man who knew what buttons to push, and he had simply asked, "Do you want to live under the yoke of Communism for the rest of your life, Evgeny? Because if you don't help me, that's exactly what you will be contributing to. But if you do, you might just hasten its fall. And we both know your family is better placed than most to take advantage of the chaos that will follow the collapse." So here he was, about to kidnap a British citizen, and the butterflies fluttered in his stomach. If they fucked this up, they would disappear into the Lubyanka and never be seen again. He fervently hoped that the girls he had paid to distract the KGB men that routinely watched the compound gates were doing their job properly, or this would all be for nought. One of his men nudged him and he saw the door open and the woman step out. Behind him he heard a bottle being screwed open and a sharp scent reached his nostrils. He took a breath and stepped out of the shadows. "Miss James?" he called softly, and she swung sharply towards him. He made sure to hold his hands in plain sight – one of them clutching an envelope. "Our mutual friend wanted me to give you these." He fluttered the envelope. "It's circus tickets, he thought you might have use for them."
Connie relaxed momentarily, and that was all they needed. By the time she registered that Harry had forbidden all contact with Popov, and that he would therefore not have any need to give her anything she could use on the Russian, an arm had snaked around her neck and a cloth clamped across her mouth and nose. The stench of chloroform was overpowering, and within seconds she went limp. The man scooped her up in his arms and they hurried towards the car and bundled her into the backseat. "Go," he ordered, and only relaxed once they were well clear.

0o0

Connie came to woozily, and the first thing she registered was swaying movement. At first she thought it was an after-effect of the chloroform, but she soon realised that it was not. She was in a moving car, and she was not alone. There were others present, apart from the obvious driver – men. She could smell them; the cheap Russian aftershave, the underlying hint of sweat. And onions. Why did so many of them stink of onions? She shifted and pain shot through her shoulders, and she realised that her hands were tightly bound behind her back. And so were her feet. She was trussed up like a turkey, and when she tested the binds they did not budge. She was helpless. Desperation threatened to overwhelm her but she fought it down; she would not panic. Defiantly she opened her eyes.

The young man who had approached her earlier was seated next to her and regarded her with a sardonic smile. "Hello, Connie James," he said, and then she knew. This was Harry's doing.
"You stupid little idiot," she said calmly, "you better let me out on the next corner before the KGB finds out about this." The words did not have the desired effect. Normally the mere mention of that security apparatus was enough to put the fear of God into any Russian, but the smile did not waver.
"Now why would they care about you?" he asked, and she hesitated. Was this a test from Harry? Did he do this to see whether she would play her trump card and give away the fact that she was a Russian asset? But then she remembered Popov's words, and decided that soon it would not matter. Harry Pearce would not be alive long enough to learn the truth. She settled back and tried to relax, but couldn't help a last dig at the little snot-nose.
"Harry is good at that, you know – to get other people to do his bidding like little lap-dogs. But let me tell you; he will drop you like a hot potato the moment you are no longer useful to him. Besides, he will soon not be around anymore, so you better find another sugar daddy to line your pockets."
Evgeny's expression became inscrutable, and he regarded her through narrowed eyes as he considered her words. Then he sat forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and instructed, "Pull over at the next corner."

0o0

Oktyabrskaya Metro station, Moscow
09:15

The train arrived back in Moscow three quarters of an hour behind schedule, due to heavy snow on the tracks. Harry hefted their bags and followed Ruth onto the platform. She had been subdued and withdrawn since their earlier conversation, and he could feel the tension in his own shoulders as a result. Was he about to lose her? Was the Service about to lose her? She was beginning to feel the personal cost this job exacted; that it was not all glamour and excitement. It was often squalid, and the dirt was wont to stick to one's soul and darken it bit by inexorable bit. Would she be willing to pay that price? He didn't know the answer and neither, he suspected, did she. So he did not press her. She needed to make the decision on her own; if he tried to influence her she would only resent him for it later on. Better that she figure it out now before she was too ensnared in the intelligence world – with him – to make a clean break. He knew that for him it was too late; he was a part of this world now, and it was too much a part of him to get out. He honestly believed he could make a difference, and had long ago made peace with the cost attached to it. Still, ever since she had entered the picture he had begun to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have some semblance of a normal home life with someone like her – someone who shared the burdens of this secret world, who understood that sometimes a man had to sell his soul to keep his country safe.

They emerged from the station and he turned to her. "I'll get a taxi-" he began, when they were interrupted by the squeal of tyres. Harry acted on instinct; he flung himself in front of Ruth and almost simultaneously there was the report of a gunshot, and she saw him jerk before he smashed into her and took them both down to the pavement.

tbc