PART III
Survival, as Jim Prideaux liked to recall, is an infinite capacity for suspicion.
John le Carré, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
Western compound, Moscow
24 November 1986, midday
Harry sat with the note in his hand, unable to believe his luck. She wanted to see him again. A feeling of unadulterated joy enveloped him and he basked in it, trying to remember the last time he had felt like this. Probably three years ago, when he had first held his new-born son in his arms, resolving once again to do better by Jane and the children. That resolution hadn't lasted long, unfortunately, as a year later he was in Elena Gavrik's bed, convincing himself he was in love with her. He sobered, these remembrances bringing his lingering doubts about that operation to the fore once more. Had it been too easy, his recruitment of Ilya Gavrik's wife? He looked down at the note as Ruth's face swam before his eyes, young and open and earnest. Was she, like most foreigners here in Moscow, not quite what she seemed? With a muttered curse he reached for his coat. He would learn from past mistakes, and he would bloody well not repeat them.
0o0
UK Embassy, Moscow
Half an hour later
Jools Siviter eyed his visitor uncharitably. The MI-6 representative had been ordered to render assistance for Operation Renaissance, but that did not mean he had to like it. If the operation was a success, Harry Pearce would get all the credit, and if it failed, it would soil MI-6's backyard and make it all the more difficult for them to operate in Soviet territory. Either way Jools would get nothing out of the deal. "What can I do for my little sister this time?" he enquired snidely, but Harry did not rise to the bait. Siviter never let an opportunity pass by to remind Harry that MI-5 was the inferior Service, the unglamorous one. It was MI-6 who ran around all over the globe, wheeling, dealing, stealing, shagging and buggering their way into the secrets of other countries, whilst MI-5 could only operate in Britain. He knew that it annoyed Siviter that Harry had been involved in some of the bigger and important MI-6 operations in the last few years, and usually he didn't hesitate to remind Jools of that, but today he did not feel like playing these petty power games. He was on a mission.
"I need to use your secure line, Jools. In private."
"Mmm," Jools responded as he studied the man before him. "Not in trouble again, are you Harry old bean?" he asked sweetly, and Harry gritted his teeth. Siviter really was the most frightful pompous arse.
"Today, if you don't mind," he pressed, ignoring the MI-6 man's attempt at fishing.
Jools raised his hands in surrender and stood. "Right. I shall go and get a cup of the horrendous swill they claim to be tea in these parts. Don't take too long, old man."
Harry waited until the door had closed behind him before he moved behind the desk and reached for the red phone. He removed a small gadget from his pocket which he clipped to the mouthpiece, then dialled the number in London. There was a series of clicks on the line as the international connection went through, followed by a faint ringing. He was convinced that the Russians deliberately caused interference on these secure lines, so that one had to shout to make oneself heard at the other end. He had a notion of the KGB sitting in the building across the street with microphones, trying to pick up the raised voices, and hoped that MI-6 had been smart enough to sound-proof the office. Eventually a familiar voice came across the wire to his ear. "Hello?"
"Malcolm," Harry answered and swiftly added, "butterscotch."
"Ah, okay…" Malcolm's faint voice responded, and Harry waited until there was a further series of clicks on the line. The MI-5 techie had devised the little apparatus that Harry had attached to the mouthpiece, and he knew that Malcolm was now doing the same on his end. He understood very little of the technical babble Malcolm sprouted with such enthusiasm; all he had grasped of the explanation about the gadgets was that it put an extra layer of encryption on their discussion. Harry was by nature a suspicious man, and he always worked from the assumption that even people on his own side might want to listen in on his conversations. He suspected that Siviter recorded all calls on this secure line, but Malcolm's device would ensure that MI-6 would only hear gobbledygook.
"Go ahead," Malcolm said, and Harry took a deep breath. He felt slightly guilty about doing this, but it was necessary.
"I need you to run your eye over someone for me. Quietly. Ruth Evershed." He spelled it. It had taken him only ten minutes to find out what her surname was from the Swiss embassy.
"Is that a real name or a nom de plume?" Malcolm asked.
"I don't know. Quick as you can, please," he urged, and Malcolm sighed. Harry could virtually hear the long-suffering eye-roll on the other side.
"Of course. I'll just drop all the other important stuff I'm busy with, shall I?"
"Thank you Malcolm," Harry responded heartlessly and disconnected before the techie could object. He sat for a moment, pondering what he had just done, and was surprised at how fervently he wished that she would come out clean.
0o0
Western compound, Moscow
Early evening
By the time Ruth got home she had tied herself into knots. What had she been thinking, inviting Harry the journalist to go with her to the ballet? She knew almost nothing about him – he could be a mass murderer. Maybe he would say no, she thought as she pushed open her door, and she was worrying about nothing. But then her eye fell on the note lying on the floor, and she knew. Gingerly she picked it up and read:
Dear Ruth
If it takes me going with you to get you to make use of the tickets, I will gladly do so. I'll pick you up at seven on Friday.
Harry
"Oh God," she groaned, "what have I done?"
And yet, at the back of her mind, she was unexpectedly happy that he had accepted. The realisation brought her up short. Where had that come from?
0o0
UK Embassy, Moscow
25 November 1986, early afternoon
Harry stepped into Jools Siviter's lair with trepidation. He had been summoned, and he wasn't sure why. It was too soon for Malcolm to report back, so it had to be something else. Worry churned his stomach – had something happened to Connie? Was the operation blown? He could not afford another disaster like the one in Berlin; surely his career would not survive that.
Jools looked up as Harry entered. "Ah, the prodigal son," he smirked and Harry's heart sank. If it pleased Siviter this much, it could only be bad news for him. The MI-6 officer stood and rounded his desk. He only spoke when he was uncomfortably close, taking pleasure in towering over the other man and looking down on him. "The powers that be in London want a word," he announced with relish. "They will call on the secure blower in-" he drew back an elegant cuff and peered at his watch, "three minutes exactly." He stared down at Harry for a few seconds more, reluctant to stop gloating, before he moved towards the door. As he walked away he purred, "Methinks Harry has been naughty again, tsk-tsk…" His laughter drifted down the corridor as he ambled away.
"Insufferable shite," Harry grumbled and slammed the door none too gently. Christ, what had he done now? Had Connie reported his drinking? He could think of nothing else that would require a dressing-down from London. The red phone chirped and he snatched it up. "Pearce," he barked, determined not to give an inch. But instead of the DG's voice yelling at him, it was Malcolm's that said calmly, "Butterscotch."
Once Harry had the device in place, he said, "Malcolm? Jools implied the DG wanted to speak with me."
There was a satisfied chuckle from the other end. "Ah yes, our Mister Siviter is too easily fooled." Harry shook his head and smiled as Malcolm continued. "I have your report on Ruth Evershed."
Harry's smile disappeared. "That was quick."
"Yes well," Malcolm explained, "most of the work has already been done for me. GCHQ has had a look at her."
A weight settled on Harry's shoulders. Was she a plant? Was that why she had asked him to go with her – was she working for the Swiss? Or even the Russians? Or was she here because she was hiding from the authorities, a common criminal perhaps? Steeling himself, he asked, "What has she done?"
There was a startled silence before Malcolm responded. "Oh! Er, nothing actually. They're interested in recruiting her, and I can see why. A very impressive young woman, highly intelligent. Speaks five languages and is learning three more. No skeletons in the closet, apart from a step-brother with a drinking problem. They approached her under one of their cover corporations, and she's already done all the psychometric tests. She scored extremely well in the analytical categories. They wanted her to start straight away, but she asked for a gap year to improve her Russian before she takes up their offer." He paused, then added, "She still has no idea that's who she'll be working for – she thinks it's a translation firm that approached her."
The weight lifted from Harry's shoulders and he could breathe again. She really was exactly who she had claimed to be. Careful not to let his elation simmer through he asked briskly, "You're sure they didn't miss anything?"
"Positive," Malcolm answered immediately. "In fact, I am so sure that I think you should try to do a bit of poaching. We desperately need an analyst, and her talents would be wasted on GCHQ."
That was high praise indeed from the techie and Harry closed his eyes in relief. Ruth was clean. "I'll see what I can do, thank you Malcolm."
As he walked back to the compound, he couldn't help but whistle all the way.
0o0
Swiss embassy
Late evening
Ruth sat behind her desk, trying to convince herself that it was time to go home. The last bus to the compound would leave in half an hour and if she weren't on it, she would have to take a taxi. The embassy discouraged its employees from using the local transport, claiming safety issues. But Ruth secretly wondered whether they were rather concerned that the KGB would steal someone's briefcase on the Metro or something even more sinister. She shook her head at the direction her thoughts had taken; when had she started to see spies lurking behind every bush? It was ridiculous, surely; the KGB had no reason to spy on the Swiss. Just like the Swiss had no reason to put intelligence personnel in their Soviet Embassy, right? Harry's voice came into her head then, admonishing her not to be naïve, and she knew who had put all these fanciful ideas about spies in her head. She sighed; tomorrow evening she would go to the ballet with this man who talked so glibly of spies and international espionage, as though these things were an everyday occurrence. How did a journalist know so much? Surely the whole idea of espionage, the raison d'etre one might say, was to keep such matters secret. It had become a matter of urgency to her to find out more about the journalist, but she had no idea how to go about it. She didn't even know his surname. The whole day she had toyed with the idea to confront Dieter Hoffman and ask him about Harry, but something stopped her – some instinct that told her this would be a very bad idea. But what other avenues did she have?
At that moment she saw the cleaner come out of Hoffman's office, carrying a striped plastic bag, and inspiration struck. She swiftly removed her own striped bag from the shredding machine and moved towards the cleaner. It was a lady she had spoken to on a number of occasions and she engaged her now as she dropped her bag onto Hoffman's. They chatted for a while until Ruth suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! Goodness." She hopped from foot to foot in agitation and the cleaning lady looked at her in concern.
"What's wrong?" the elderly woman enquired, and Ruth smiled in embarrassment.
"I met this man in the discotheque the other night, and he gave me his phone number. I fear I've shredded it inadvertently." She looked at the bags glumly, before suddenly brightening. "Maybe I can paste it together again?" she mused aloud.
The cleaning lady looked dubious, but nodded all the same. "Worth a try," she agreed, and watched indulgently as Ruth took back her bag and retreated to her office. Such a nice young girl, she thought with a smile; never too busy to have a chat. She hoped that she'd find what she was looking for.
0o0
Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow
26 November 1986, early morning
Harry stamped his feet against the cold and rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously. His breath misted in the watery light as he glanced at his watch again. They were late and worry began to germinate in the back of his mind. He suppressed it – there were a number of reasons why they could be late. The most obvious was that it was winter in Moscow, and the transport infrastructure was notoriously bad at coping with it. He turned his thoughts to that evening instead, and warmth and anticipation spread through his chest. He was going to the Bolshoi with Ruth Evershed. She intrigued him, this young woman who had taken a gap year after university, but instead of going to one of the sunny former colonial outposts to lie on the beach and serve drinks in a bar, she came to Moscow to improve her Russian. It was unusual. Different. And he had always liked people who swam against the tide, who did not conform. Perhaps because he was wont to do that himself. She was clean. His relief at that news had not yet dissipated – it had somewhat restored his confidence in his own judgement. In the wake of the Berlin fiasco he had begun to question his professional decisions, and that was dangerous. A hesitation in the field could bring disaster, and he was determined to provide better support to Connie from now on. The previous night he had carefully gone through everything he knew about the current operation, to make sure he hadn't missed anything that would endanger her. And his unease had only increased. Hence his presence in this freezing tomb.
Connie was scheduled to meet with Vasily Popov at seven this morning, and Harry had decided to eavesdrop. It wasn't that he did not trust Connie, but sometimes one was too close to notice the danger signs, as he had found out to his cost in Berlin. He would have to do that for her. The Novodevichy cemetery was home to a number of famous dead Russians and was also, as Evgeny had informed him cheerfully, often used for nefarious purposes, such as smuggling, and meetings between the perpetrators of these activities. And of course the young man had yet another 'uncle' who worked at the cemetery and could show Harry the best hiding places. So early this morning the 'uncle' had led him to this empty mausoleum. It was set on a slight rise and from here he had a clear line of sight to the grave of Anton Chekhov, where Connie was set to meet Popov. He had planted a listening device in the snow next to the headstone, and now held a receiver in his hand. Earphones were slung around his neck and a tape recorder waited at his feet, ready to capture the conversation for later analysis. He was thankful that he had lost his minders a few times before for fun; the fact that he had done so this morning would hopefully not raise any red flags as a result.
Movement out in the cemetery caught his eye and he watched as Popov strolled towards the meeting place. He was clad in a long black coat and fur hat, and his hands were tucked into his pockets. He seemed unconcerned, unwary, and Harry's unease grew. Normally assets were skittish when approaching a meeting spot; there was inherent danger in being seen with an intelligence officer from another country. Popov reached the grave and lit a cigarette, looking around idly. Harry held his breath, even though he knew Popov could not see him through the tiny slit the smugglers had made in the marble wall of the mausoleum. Minutes later Connie approached from the opposite direction, and Harry slipped on the earphones before carefully pointing the long, thin receiver through the slit.
Popov straightened and his eyes raked the path behind Connie cursorily. "Any problems?" he asked without preamble, and Connie shook her head with a hint of irritation.
"Relax, will you? No-one suspects a thing."
She was good, and Harry watched in admiration as she gazed at the Russian with a flirty smile and squeezed his arm.
But Popov was not so easily placated, and he looked at her warningly. "You underestimate your own side at your peril," he cautioned, and Connie's gaze hardened instantly.
"Believe me, that is the last thing I'll do. It's my neck on the line, after all. But I'm telling you, no-one is suspicious."
The Russian tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "How can you be so sure? Harry Pearce is not a fool," he asserted, and Connie snorted derisively.
"Harry Pearce is a wreck. He might be brilliant under normal circumstances, but the sad bastard is useless since his wife left him. He wouldn't notice if I photo-copied the secret documents right in front of him and handed them to you."
Harry smiled wryly. The words stung, but he could not dispute their veracity. At least the end of his marriage had been good for something – it had made it easier to bamboozle the Russians.
"Besides," Connie continued, "we have history, and he trusts me. That is his one weakness – he wants to trust his close colleagues implicitly, and that makes him blind to any treachery within his own team."
There was something in her voice that gave Harry pause, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was.
Popov, though, smiled down at his 'asset'. "You don't like him much, do you?"
There was a silence before Connie shrugged in lieu of an answer. "What do you care?" She cocked her head and a sly little smile curled the corners of her mouth. "You're not jealous, are you darling?"
The Russian threw back his head and laughed. "You're magnificent, Connie James. Magnificent."
In the mausoleum, Harry frowned thoughtfully. He increasingly got the impression that there was another level to the scene he was witnessing; a level he had no understanding of. And that alarmed him immeasurably.
tbc