PART XI

"The ground on which you once stood is cut away. You have become a citizen of No Man's Land. I send you my greetings."
Closing lines of Smiley's letter to Karla

- John le Carré, Smiley's People

Oktyabrskaya Station, Moscow
17 December 1986, morning

Time seemed to slow down. She was aware of the sensation of falling, of slamming into the pavement and having the breath knocked out of her, and of Harry's weight pressing down on her. Sound appeared to be sucked out of the world and there was only the impression of rushing air in her ears, but then it came back with a vengeance. It was chaotic; there were squealing tyres, running feet, voices yelling, a woman screaming (and she did not know whether that was her or someone else), and Harry's voice, grunting in pain in her ear. Oh God, the gunshot! "Harry," she gasped, but before she could say anything else a familiar voice broke through the melee and yelled at them: "Get in! Quick!" There were feet next to her face and hands hauled Harry off her roughly, and she heard him exclaim in agony. She registered a battered Lada in the street and Evgeny at the wheel, and then she was also yanked upright and bundled into the back of the car. It shot down the street as a bullet shattered the windscreen and everyone ducked, but then Evgeny flung it round the corner and they were momentarily clear. He floored it and the car fish-tailed around another corner and shot into an open garage, where a large black Volga was idling. Ruth inanely registered the vapour trailing from the exhaust as they were rushed from the Lada and into the bigger car, and both shot out again and veered in different directions. Only then did she get a chance to take a breath and look at Harry properly, and notice the blood seeping through his shirt.

0o0

"Oh God, Harry's been shot!" she exclaimed, and Evgeny looked round from the front passenger seat.
"How bad?" he asked, and Harry took a ragged breath. He was pale and his face was covered in sweat.
"Could be worse," he ground out as his eyes clouded with the pain, "I don't think it hit anything important."
"You need to go to hospital-" Ruth began, but both men interrupted her at once.
"No!" they said together, and Harry smiled faintly and left the explanation to Evgeny.
"They'll be watching the hospitals. Put some pressure on the wound, and I'll get somebody to look at it once we're clear."
Ruth shook her head in exasperation, but she did not argue. She knew there was no use – they would not be moved. Harry would not be moved. So instead she shuffled closer to him and removed her scarf, and pressed it to his left shoulder. He inhaled sharply and she mumbled, "Sorry," and her eyes were big with worry for him. He lifted a hand and traced her cheek.
"It'll be all right – it's just a flesh wound," he said valiantly, doing his best to ease her worries, and she smiled fleetingly, unconvinced. Dear God, was it always like this, she wondered? Lurching from one life-threatening incident to the next, and never any peace? How could anyone live like this?

0o0

They changed cars three more times and she no longer had any idea where they were. Still somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow, she thought, but she couldn't be sure. Evgeny had explained that the KGB would close off the city in an attempt to trap them inside, and they had to get outside the circle before the organisation had a chance to do so.
"Can't we hide somewhere and get out later?" she had asked, and Evgeny had smirked cynically.
"Miss," he had said laconically, "the Russians are the most patient people in the world. If you wrong them, they can wait a lifetime to get their revenge. The KGB will lock down Moscow for years if they have to, if they believed you were still somewhere in there."
Through all of this Harry remained stoically brave and never complained, but she could tell that he was in considerable pain.

Eventually they were transferred to a refrigerated cargo container on a truck, filled with frozen carcasses. Pigs, she thought, but she wasn't sure. A man she had never seen before stepped in behind Evgeny, who grinned and said, "Very good doctor. He's never lost a horse yet."
Ruth looked at him in horror. "He's a veterinarian?!" she asked in disbelief as he stripped Harry's clothes from him.
"Sure," Evgeny agreed cheerfully, "but he's good with gunshot wounds. Lots of experience," he added cryptically, and she watched in concern as the horse doctor jabbed a needle into Harry's shoulder and began to dig out the bullet. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his jaws together, but even so he could not prevent a groan of agony from escaping. After a few minutes the man held up the bullet in triumph, before he proceeded to disinfect and stitch up the wound. Evgeny appeared with a clean shirt which Harry put on after the shoulder had been bandaged, and Ruth used Harry's clean scarf to fashion a sling for the arm.

A sheaf of roubles changed hand and the veterinarian disappeared again. Evgeny turned to Harry. "The first part of your journey will be a bit uncomfortable. The KGB has developed a rudimentary heat detecting device to check the containers. If there is a live body in there, the device registers the body heat. So you will travel in this refrigerated container to the train yard, and stay in it until the train is clear of Moscow."
Ruth frowned and looked at Harry in concern. "Will we withstand the cold temperatures that long?"
It was Harry that answered. "Yes. The human body can last in -1 degrees Celsius for up to four hours. If we keep our extremities well covered to prevent frost-bite, we should be fine."
"Da," Evgeny agreed and stuck out his hand. "Good luck, 'Arry old friend. One day when the Soviet Union falls, I'll come and visit you in England," he said with a cheeky grin and Harry smiled.
"I look forward to it," he said dryly before turning serious. "The package – where is it now?"
"It is waiting for you in Minsk. My colleagues there will take you to her."
Harry nodded, and Ruth thought she saw a shadow crossing his face. Then he handed a piece of paper over to the young Russian. "I need you to do one more thing for me. Call this number, and say this: 'Patrick went home for Christmas'."

0o0

They sat quietly, wrapped in foil sheets, as the truck trundled along. Harry was lost in thought, sunk into himself, and she did not try to coax him out of it. What could she say, in any case? She had no experience of this; of learning that a colleague and a friend is a traitor. It must be shattering. Besides, she had her own problems to consider. The last few weeks had been unlike anything she had ever experienced. There had been incredible highs and crushing lows – a veritable roller-coaster ride of emotion. She had told Harry that she would join him at MI-5, but maybe she had been too hasty. She had made the decision with her heart rather than her head, and in her experience that was never a good thing. Her gaze lifted to the man sitting opposite her, his back propped against the padded wall, and at last admitted to herself: for perhaps the first time in her life, she was head-over-heels in love. And like they say, love is blind. She had been refusing to think further than the chance to see Harry every day, to make love to him, to share his world. She had not entertained the wider implications of a life in the Intelligence Service. The secrets, the lies, the constant danger. The grime and shadiness. What would that do to her soul, if she was immersed in it day after day, year after year? Would she be able to hang onto her true self, or would she lose a piece of her identity each time she told a lie, sanctioned the death of another human being? She did not know the answer. But, God, could she give him up? Could she give up this delirious happiness, the thrill when his eyes devoured her, when he reached for her, when his need for her - yes, for her - consumed him and overwhelmed that considerable self-control of his? It was something rare and special, to be desired with such intensity, and she knew that not many people got to experience it. Her mother never did, she knew, and felt a flash of compassion for the woman she had been angry with ever since her father's death. She also knew, without a doubt, that the relationship would not survive if she left the intelligence world behind. Like Malcolm had said, Harry took the Official Secrets Act seriously and they would lose the right to share everything if she was not a part of this world.

Harry shifted and grimaced, and cradled his left arm more securely with the right. He was in considerable pain, and she wondered whether his weakened body would be able to withstand the cold for as long as necessary. She didn't have time to ponder that as the container suddenly jerked and began to sway, and their eyes met wordlessly. The container was being loaded onto the train, and soon the moment of truth would arrive. Harry lifted a finger to his lips and she nodded in understanding – for the next hour or so they would keep as still as possible, let their body temperatures drop as low as they could stand.

0o0

British Embassy, Moscow
Same time

Jools Siviter shifted papers around his desk, wondering what the hell was going on. The embassy had received reports of a shooting incident at one of the Metro stations but had been unable to ascertain the details thereof. It was being kept under wraps, which meant it was probably government sanctioned. Or rather, KGB sanctioned. He wondered if Harry might know more – he had Connnie James in place as the "mole", after all, so perhaps she could milk her contact for information. His phone chirped and he snatched it up. "Siviter," he barked, and to his surprise a voice with a strong Russian accent simply said, "Patrick went home for Christmas." The line went dead before he could respond, and it took him a few seconds to compute the implications of the words. The moment he did so, he began to swear; creatively and colourfully, for minutes on end. Operation Renaissance had gone tits-up, and Harry Pearce was on the run.

0o0

Twenty minutes later

They heard the voices from some way off, and the clanging of steel doors being opened and closed. Ruth's eyes flew to Harry's, alarmed, and he tried to smile reassuringly. "They're checking random containers, not all of them," he murmured before falling silent again. They were depending on the luck of the draw, and he didn't like that at all. He preferred to be in control, to manipulate events to his best possible advantage. But when you were on the run in enemy territory, you ceded control to your adversary. It was the nature of the beast, unfortunately.

The voices moved to their container, and Harry heard a deep, rough voice booming loudly: "This one carries pigs. They are from Comrade Shevchenko's stock." The name was that of a senior party member, and Harry silently congratulated Evgeny on his farsightedness. Even the KGB would be loath to interfere with such a senior man's goods. But then another, more cultured voice said, "Open it up." Ruth closed her eyes and Harry tensed. This was it, then. His luck had finally run out. He accepted that with mild resentment – it happened to most field officers sooner or later – but he felt a spear of hot anger all the same. He had dragged Ruth down with him, and what did she have to look forward to now? Years in the Lubyanka, with the KGB interrogators taking turns at her. And once they had got all they could from her, they would try to turn her and send her back into the bosom of her own country. And if she refused to be turned, they would probably kill her. He had done this to her; he should have had the courage to let her go the moment he realised he was in love with her. But no, selfishly he had held on, and now she was in this mess. He wanted to jump up and rail at the unfairness of it, to scream his self-disgust to the heavens. But he did not. Harry Pearce did not panic – it was simply not in his armoury. He would, until his very last breath, remain calm and look for a way out.

The deep voice hesitated and then said, "Comrade Shevchenko will not be happy. These are meant for export, and if the seals on the door have been broken they would fetch a much lower price."
Cultured Voice answered coldly, "That is regrettable. But there is a fugitive on the run, and I'm sure the Comrade will want to do his patriotic duty."
"Of course," Deep Voice responded hastily. "But you do have the option of using your fancy gadget, don't you? If it picks up anything, we'll open it. Then, at least, we can report that there was cause for suspicion. Come on, it's my job on the line here. And probably yours, too, not to put too fine a point on it."
A long silence followed, in which neither Harry nor Ruth dared to breathe. Eventually Cultured Voice ordered, "Fine. Use the device." Their eyes met and the relief in both was unmistakable. They kept absolutely still as the footsteps circled the container – things could still go horribly wrong. After endless minutes a third, unknown voice said, "Nothing. Not a flicker on the needle," and the voices moved off. Harry closed his eyes and a sudden exhaustion swept over him. That had been too close for comfort, and all he wanted to do was get up and touch Ruth, assure himself that she was unscathed. But he did not. Crippled by guilt, he remained frozen in place, promising himself he would set her free at the first opportunity.

0o0

Minsk
18 December 1986, early morning hours

Once the train had been well clear of Moscow, Deep Voice had opened the container and ushered them out and into the adjacent one, which was packed half-full with mattresses and blankets. "You should be comfortable in here," he had commented with twinkling eyes. There had been little communication. Harry had suggested that they get what sleep they could, and they had settled down for the night.

When the train reached the outskirts of Minsk it slowed down to walking pace and the man opened the container again and informed them, "You get off here." They waited until there was an even piece of ground and hopped off. Harry stumbled, unable to keep his balance with only one free arm and Ruth put out a hand to steady him. It was the first physical contact between them for many hours and sent a shock-wave through him. God, how was he going to give her up, this woman who made him feel so alive?
"Thanks," he mumbled as a car appeared, bumping along over the snow-covered ground. Ruth froze and watched worriedly as a man got out and walked towards them. He kept his hands well away from his body as he approached.
"Evgeny sends his greetings," he announced as soon as he was in earshot, and Ruth sighed in relief. They followed him to the car and he turned it back towards the city, the chained tyres slipping in the snow. The sun was rising over the city, the ice crystals sparkling in its rays, and she wondered what this day would bring.

0o0

Industrial sector, Minsk
Half an hour later

They were somewhere in the industrial sector of the city, driving between enormous warehouses and billowing smoke-stacks. Men in working clothes trudged along the side of the road but no-one paid the car any attention. It halted in front of a gate in a chain-link fence and the driver briefly spoke to the guard, and the gate swung open. They drove through and straight into a cavernous warehouse, and the huge rolling door closed behind them. Once the car was shut off there was silence; nothing seemed to move. What seemed like empty crates were stacked in row upon row, creating narrow alleys that seemed to run the length of the warehouse. The driver led them along one of these, to what Harry surmised was the back-left corner of the place, and produced a key to open a heavily padlocked door. As he did so he explained to them: "You will stay here two days, then we will take you to Kaliningrad and the ship that will take you home. There is water, a toilet, some clean clothes. Someone will bring food every day."
Harry nodded his thanks and the man handed him another key. "Your friend is in the corner office – she hasn't had any food or water as you instructed." Ruth's head whipped towards Harry and she stared at him, and he could see her horror at this mistreatment of another person. He sighed inwardly – things were only going to get worse. She was about to see the darkest part of him, and he was beginning to realise that she would not be able to accept that, to reconcile herself with being in a relationship with someone like him. He might not have to let her go after all; she would probably walk away from him of her own volition. Just for a second the knowledge hit him squarely in the solar plexus and knocked the breath from him, and his future stretched before him, bleak and solitary. Then he squared his shoulders and looked at her, and said, "I have to go and speak to Connie."

0o0

Ruth followed him into the office with some trepidation; she simply did not know what to expect. What would Harry do? How far would he go to get the information he wanted? He had already let this woman go without water and food; what else was he capable of? She had never witnessed anyone being tortured, although she was aware that it was done, and not only by the bad guys. But never in her wildest dreams did she think she would become a part of this inhuman practice, and she wasn't sure she would be able to handle it. Harry had picked up a bottle of water on the way to the office and held it out for her to open, and now he held it in his good hand as he entered.

Connie sat on a chair in the middle of the floor, her hands shackled together, and her gaze landed on them contemptuously as soon as they entered. Then it moved to the water and lingered there longingly. "Hello Harry," she said, her tongue thick with thirst, and Ruth had to fight the impulse to snatch the bottle from Harry's hand and give it to her. Harry did not respond immediately; first he took a swallow from the bottle as he took up position in front of her. Connie surveyed him – the arm in the sling, the grey pallor of his face, and smiled thinly. "What happened to you?"
"I tripped over a shoelace," he stated flatly and she laughed, the sound hoarse and grating. Her eyes moved to Ruth as she spoke again.
"Good old Harry – always good for a laugh." Something vindictive flashed across her face as she added, "Is that what you young things see in him?"
Harry never took his eyes off Connie, and Ruth took her cue from him. She didn't say anything, even though she was taken aback by the venom behind the words.
Connie continued: "I must say, she's a bit plain compared to your usual taste, Harry." She watched Ruth carefully, who had to use all the self-control she possessed not to react. But Ruth knew, deep down, that these comments would fester. "Better be careful," Connie said, directly to Ruth this time, "Harry has the tendency to destroy those who get close to him." Ruth stared back; unwilling to give this woman, this traitor, any satisfaction, but she could feel the heat push up her neck and saw a flicker of satisfaction in the bright blue eyes of the other woman.

Harry saw it too, and snapped his fingers to bring Connie's attention back to him. He took another sip of the water before he asked, "What have you done, Connie?" Ruth was aware, suddenly, of the weight of history between the two people before her. They had worked together, suffered together, and for all she knew killed together in the name of their country. That must create a deep bond between people, something to be valued and treasured. She had, perhaps, she realised, underestimated the magnitude of Connie's betrayal. The two intelligence officers stared at each other and something wordless seemed to pass between them, something that she was not a part of and could not understand.
Connie said archly, "I got on with the operation while you moped and drowned your sorrows in a vodka bottle. That's what I've done."
Harry waited a beat, then said with infinite sadness, "Yes. But that's not all you did, is it?" Before she could deny it, he pulled a tape recorder from his pocket and switched it on, and Connie's voice filled the room, betraying the operation to Vasily Popov. When he switched it off, the silence hung heavy in the air, and Ruth did not dare breathe. Eventually Connie shrugged, the gesture filled with fatalistic surrender.
"So that fat worm managed to give you something, after all." It was a tacit confession of guilt, and it was as though a valve had been opened somewhere and the tension released from the office. Harry briefly closed his eyes and Ruth realised – he had hoped right up to the last that there was some other explanation. She expected to see anger, but instead there was just weary resignation. Wordlessly he handed Connie the water and turned away to collect a chair from the corner.

0o0

They sat opposite each other, and Harry did not say anything until Connie had drained the bottle. Then, once it was empty, he simply asked, "Why?"
The water seemed to fortify Connie and she squared her shoulders. "I don't have to explain my actions," she said defiantly and at last Harry's anger flared.
"Yes you do!" he snapped, then added more calmly, the words almost a plea, "You do to me."
Connie glared at him and the tension was back in the room, thick and heavy. "I did what I thought was right," she said eventually, and there was no remorse. Her words gathered strength and conviction as she continued, "We're a pathetic little country, putting a fig-leaf of British democracy on the actions of a monster. We're letting the Americans ride rough-shod over the globe and we're clinging desperately to their coattails, hoping for some scraps off the table. It's pitiful."
Harry shook his head in disbelief and she pushed on urgently, "There needs to be a counter-balancing power to Uncle Sam, you know there has to be. And we can't do it. The Soviets can."
Harry just stared at her with a sorrow that seemed to come from the deepest part of his soul, before he replied, "You are done, Connie. There is nothing left for you now but life-long imprisonment." He stood and looked down at her for a long time before adding, curiously formally, "You are no longer a citizen of the United Kingdom," and then he took off his belt. Ruth watched in confusion as he dropped it on the chair and walked towards the door, gathering her on the way and ushering her out.

"What's going on?" she asked the moment he closed the door and locked it, but he did not reply. There was a dead look in his eyes that scared her, but before she could say anything more there were scuffling noises inside the room and then a crash, as that of a chair being kicked over. The penny dropped and her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. No, Harry. No!" she shouted and rattled the doorknob desperately. "You can't let this happen – open the door!"
He grabbed her and pinned her to him, and even with only one arm he was too strong for her. She struggled mightily, aware of the choking sounds coming from inside the office as she beat ineffectually at his chest. "No! Let go! You bastard, open that door!" Tears were streaming down her face but she didn't care – she had never hated anyone as much as she hated him in that moment.

tbc