PART II

He met failure as one day he would probably meet death: with cynical resentment and the courage of a solitary.

John le Carré, The Spy Who Came In From the Cold

Western compound, Moscow
23 November 1986, late night

Ruth stared at him, aghast. "What?"
Harry rubbed his forehead. He really did not want to repeat it. It had been a monumental breach of security and he did not want to compound his mistake. "Just be careful," he repeated as he began to retreat.
But she would have none of it. She grabbed his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong. "No. You don't drop a bomb like that and then simply walk away! Why do you think Hoffman is a spy?"
Now he was in quite a pickle, and he had only himself to blame. Connie had been right again, to his chagrin; he really should pull himself together and stop drinking so much. "It doesn't matter," he evaded, "just take my word for it, okay?"
"You're kidding, right?" she exclaimed, and her grip did not relax. "What proof do you have?"
He wished she would keep her voice down. The world was beginning to spin again and, desperate to get away, he snapped, "For God's sake, I'm an int-" Some distant remnant of self-preservation kicked in and he shut his mouth, mortified by his growing indiscretion. He'd almost blurted out that he was an intelligence officer, and that he had sat across the table from Hoffman during liaison meetings between the Swiss and MI-5. What the hell was wrong with him? He took a deep breath and counted to five before he dared speak again. "I'm an investigative journalist," he amended, rather proud of the save, "and it is my job to know these things. So please-"
She overrode him, her gaze locked on his face. "Switzerland is neutral; why would they place a spy in their embassy-"
It was his turn to interrupt her with a bark of derision. "Oh please, Switzerland hasn't been neutral since they helped the Nazis hide away their ill-gotten gains during the Second World War. And don't be naïve; every country in the world has interests to protect, neutral or not, and they all resort to spooks to do so."

There was a flash of anger in the grey eyes that watched him so intently. "I'm not naïve," she said in precise syllables, and he was aware that, just like he always used to do with Jane, he had once again managed to say exactly the wrong thing. It really was a talent – he barely knew the woman and already he'd succeeded in insulting her. He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.
"Sorry. I didn't mean-" He gestured vaguely and sighed again in helpless surrender. "I think it's best I leave now, don't you?" He tugged his arm gently, and this time she let him go. He began to back away once more. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask whether he could see her again, but he didn't. The expression on her face made it quite clear what the answer would be, and he honestly couldn't blame her. He had made the worst possible first impression, and all that was left to do was crawl home, curl up on the sofa and feel sorry for himself. Without another word she turned and disappeared into her apartment, and he was left standing alone, staring after her as the snow began to fall from the sky.

0o0

24 November 1986, morning

He struggled through the fog to wakefulness, and the first thing he became aware of was a splitting headache. Served him right, he thought morosely. The second thing he registered was that he was freezing, and that his back and neck were stiff. The events of the previous night came back to him gradually and he groaned in embarrassment. After leaving Ruth's, he had made it to his own apartment without incident and collapsed on the sofa. He was still there, his overcoat drawn over him in lieu of a blanket, but it did not cover all of him and his extremities were icy. He needed a hot shower, but he was afraid to move, all too aware that it would only increase the pounding in his head. Eventually he scraped together the necessary courage and gingerly swung his feet to the floor. After another long pause he heaved himself upright and headed to the bathroom. On the way there he passed the bottle of vodka sitting on the kitchen counter, and it was still half-full. That, at least, was a minor victory. On the previous occasions he'd given over to the desire for oblivion he had polished the bottle.

He turned up the water as hot as he could handle and stood under it for an eternity, pondering his many sins. He would have to apologise to Ruth, of course. It felt like that was all he did, of late – apologise to some woman or another that he had disappointed. Jane, little Catherine, Elena, even Juliet, who had not been best pleased when he'd broken off the short-lived affair. And now Ruth. He was sick of it. It was time for the vicious circle to end. He could not change the past, but he could fare better in future and, as the scalding water flowed over his head he vowed to do just that. He would continue to mourn the end of his marriage for a long time to come, but he would take the lessons to be learnt from it to heart and move on. It was time to stop wallowing in self-pity.

He was chewing on a piece of black bread along with his coffee when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door a scruffy, shifty-looking youth stood outside, and Harry belatedly remembered that he had ordered something from the black market. "Evgeny," he acknowledged his contact. "Did you get it?"
"Da," the youngster said, holding out an envelope as he surveyed the man before him. His face split into a grin. "You look like shit."
Harry grumbled something unintelligible in response, and as he took the envelope an idea came to him. He told Evgeny to wait, then found a piece of paper and scribbled a message on it. He slipped it into the envelope and handed it back to the young man along with a fistful of roubles. "Take that to the Swiss embassy, and deliver it to a woman named Ruth. She works there as a translator."

The contents of that envelope had been meant to help Connie further ensnare her target, and now he had given it away as an apology to a woman he barely knew. Even so, he did not feel too guilty about it. Connie would not have appreciated it anyway – she detested ballet. He would get her tickets to the circus instead.

0o0

Ruth stared out of the window of the bus transporting them to the embassy, but she did not notice the drab streets. The snow had been replaced by grey sleet and the pavements were devoid of pedestrians. There was the occasional vehicle passing them from the other direction, the tyres throwing up dirty sludge onto the side of the bus. She had not slept well. Who would, after the night she'd had? The man named Harry had planted a seed in her mind and she worried at it from every perceivable angle. Could it really be true that Hoffman was a spy? And how did this Harry know? He had not answered that question to her satisfaction, not by a long way. The more she thought about their weird conversation, the more she was convinced that he had lied to her. Yes, he'd been drunk, but not to the point of incoherence. So why had he been so evasive? And what exactly was the lie he'd told: was it the accusation against Hoffman, or was it about himself? She was inclined to lean towards the latter. But which part of his life story had he lied about? She was certain that it was not the divorce – his devastation when he had confessed that had been raw and real. His job, then? He had hesitated when he'd told her that he was an investigative reporter…

Harry the English journalist. She couldn't quite decide what to make of him. He'd come to her rescue, and he hadn't made any advances of his own. Chivalrous, then. A gentleman. Except for the fact that he'd been drunk. Was that a regular occurrence, she wondered, or a temporary one because of his divorce? He hadn't shown any signs of alcoholism, and she was well versed in those. Her step-brother, Peter, was an alcoholic, and she knew what to look for: the shaking hands, the bloodshot eyes, the fine veins in the cheeks, the red skin. This man had shown none of these, so perhaps it had been an occasional indulgence. His eyes had been incredibly sad when he'd confessed about missing his children, and she could only imagine how painful that must be. To be honest, she had found him an endearingly bumbling rather than an irritating drunk, and wondered what he would be like under normal circumstances. Maybe she would get the opportunity to find out, seeing as they were housed in the same compound.

The bus turned through the embassy gates and she directed her thoughts to a more pressing problem – Dieter Hoffman. She had no idea how to act towards him. Until the previous night he had not shown the slightest interest in her, so what was she to make of the sudden attempt to kiss her? And how far would he have tried to push things if they had not been interrupted? It was a scary thought. She was not one of those women who were regularly accosted by men – too shy and not beautiful enough for that. Or perhaps they were intimidated by her intelligence. Either way, it meant that she had virtually no experience with men to draw on. As she got off the bus she resolved to take care never to be alone with Hoffman again.

0o0

One hour later

She was immersed in the translation of a Russian directive towards foreign embassy staff when her telephone chirped. "There is a package for you at Reception," the security guard informed her and she frowned. She was not expecting anything.
"Can you sign on my behalf and I'll fetch it later?" she asked, loath to interrupt her work.
"The messenger insists that he must deliver it to you in person. Sorry."
Her curiosity piqued, she took herself downstairs to the public area of the embassy. As usual, there were quite a few people milling around, but the security guard caught her eye and waved her over. A scruffy youth stood in front of the Reception counter and the guard pointed to him. He had an envelope in his hands and she approached him apprehensively.
"Ruth?" he enquired, the Russian accent strong, and she nodded. He thrust the envelope at her. "Please to read message inside," he instructed in broken English. "I wait."
She eyed the envelope suspiciously. "Who sent you?" she asked, but he merely grinned insolently and pointed at the envelope. "You read. I wait." It was clear that no amount of arguing would move him, so she lifted the flap gingerly and peeked inside. There were two tickets, and a slip of paper, which she drew out and folded open.
Dear Ruth, it began, and she did not recognise the handwriting, please accept these in apology for last night. I fear I made a bit of an arse of myself. I hope that you enjoy them. It was signed simply, Harry.

She smiled, her mind conjuring up his lovely voice as she re-read the note. Finally she turned to the tickets, and her mouth fell open when she realised what they were. Tickets to the Bolshoi ballet, for the opening night of Giselle. With the legendary Irek Mukhamedov dancing the main male part. And not just any tickets – these were in one of the private boxes. They must be worth a fortune, and she was overwhelmed by the gesture. She couldn't possibly accept them. Could she? She adored ballet, and it was one of her dreams to see the Bolshoi perform. But it was too much and besides, she hadn't really made any friends here yet, so who would she take along? At that moment she became aware of the messenger hovering at her elbow, and a solution came to her. Suppressing her misgivings that this might be a very bad idea, she took out a pen and scribbled a return message on the slip of paper. She slipped it back into the envelope and gave it to the youngster again, who looked at her in astonishment. In order to avoid any confusion, she addressed him in Russian: "Please take it back to the man who sent you."
He shook his head in disbelief. "You're crazy, lady," he scoffed. "Those are the hottest tickets in town."
Ruth glared at him in annoyance. "Just take it back, will you?"
He sighed and nodded sorrowfully, feeling sorry for Harry. The poor bugger was about to get another kick in the balls.

0o0

By the time she got back to her office she was in a panic, convinced that she had made a big mistake. But she had no way of reaching the messenger, to call him back. "Idiot," she scolded herself. She was so pre-occupied that she failed to notice the man standing outside her door until she was almost on top of him. "Oh!" she exclaimed involuntarily, her heart leaping into her throat and making any further conversation impossible.
"Miss Evershed," Dieter Hoffman said calmly, "I would like a word." He stepped into her office and waited for her to follow suit, then closed the door behind her. So much for her resolution not to be alone with him. She sought refuge behind her desk in the hope that the solid barrier would dissuade him from making any advances. He could hardly fail to see her apprehension, so he got straight to the point. "I wish to apologise for last night," he stated, then added after a beat, "it won't happen again."
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, but she still eyed him warily. He showed no sign of leaving, so obviously there was more to this visit than the apology. She nodded, her throat still closed by fear, and he continued. "The man from last night, do you know him?"

It took her a second to follow the shift in the conversation, but when she did the alarm bells clanged loudly in her head. Harry's voice came to her, earnest and urgent: Ruth, be careful. Dieter Hoffman is a spy.
"What's it to you?" she hedged, seeking refuge in belligerence.
Hoffman smiled disarmingly. "I just wondered. You're new here, and I wanted to ensure that you understand that just because a man is from your home-country, that doesn't necessarily make him trustworthy." He took a step closer and dropped his voice. "Here in Moscow, Ruth, most people aren't what they appear to be." He stared at her to make sure she had absorbed the warning, before turning on his heel and walking out of the office.
She stood frozen in place, her gaze locked on the door he had closed behind him, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. First Harry had warned her about Hoffman, and now the Swiss had warned her against Harry. What the hell was going on?

0o0

Harry got back to his apartment just before 12:00 after another fruitless morning spent at the Ministry of Oil Refining and Petrochemical Industry. It was the same every day – he went to request an interview with the Minister, the administrators stalled, jerked him around and sent him from pillar to post, only to eventually inform him regretfully that the Minister could not see him today after all. He didn't mind as much as the real journalists who joined him every morning – he was only there to justify his cover. Still, the ability of the Russians to hinder and impede was maddening.

He had just closed his door when there was a knock, and he opened it again to find Evgeny leaning against the wall. Wordlessly the Russian offered him an envelope, and Harry frowned. Deep down he knew what it was, but even so he queried, "Is it the circus tickets?"
"No," the youngster said simply, and disappointment overwhelmed Harry. She had rejected his apology. He was caught by surprise at the wave of regret that rolled over him; why did her opinion matter so much?
"Did she say anything?" he asked, and Evgeny shook his head.
"She wrote a message," he explained, nodding at the envelope in Harry's hands.
"Right," Harry said a touch forlornly, and the Russian smiled in sympathy. He liked the Englishman, enjoyed working with him, and he was good for business. Unlike the one at the embassy, who sometimes asked Evgeny to supply things the Russian was not entirely comfortable with.
"My uncle has many women," he informed Harry with a sly wink. "I can organise one for you-"
Harry balked. He was well aware of Evgeny's extended family, most of whom were involved in one or other illegal activity. "I'm not interested in your uncle's mangy prostitutes, Evgeny," he said firmly, and the youngster shrugged, not in the least offended.
"Fine, but it wouldn't cost you anything. None of those women will refuse a chance to go to the Bolshoi. And there are some very pretty ones – good enough for Central Committee members…" He looked at Harry hopefully, who shook his head again.
"Piss off, will you? And get me those circus tickets. I want them by tomorrow." With that he closed the door resolutely in the young man's face.

He walked over to the sofa slowly and sank down on it, feeling strangely empty. With a sigh he extracted the slip of paper from the envelope and read her message.
Dear Harry, she began, and he was thankful that she would at least be polite in her rejection. He reluctantly read on and stopped breathing. Fearful that he had misread, he ran his eyes over the words again, slowly and meticulously this time. When he realised that he had not made a mistake, that the note said exactly what he thought it did, a slow smile spread across his face. He re-read it one more time, purely for the pleasure of it:
I can only accept if you will agree to accompany me?
Regards, Ruth

tbc