PART V

A man who, like Smiley, has lived and worked for years among his country's enemies learns only one prayer: that he may never, never be noticed. Assimilation is his highest aim, he learns to love the crowds who pass him in the street without a glance; he clings to them for his anonymity and his safety.

John le Carré, A Murder of Quality

Ruth's apartment, Moscow
26 November 1986, late night

Harry stared at the paper in his hand, dumbfounded. How? When? Why? The implications were catastrophic – for the operation, for him, and for Connie most of all. Ruth was supposed to be clean, and yet she had got her hands on secret information. Had he made yet another error in judgement? It was Berlin all over again, and the red mist descended. He looked up at her, and her face froze at the sheer anger in his expression. He didn't touch her, but forced her back into the apartment with his bulk, stepping into her personal space until she backed up involuntarily. "Who are you?" he demanded as he pulled the door closed behind them, wondering how both Malcolm and GCHQ could have got it so wrong, how he could have got it so wrong. Her back hit the wall and she stopped, fear flashing in her eyes as he kept advancing. He did not let it soften his heart. "Where did you get this?" He waved the paper in the air, and her eyes flitted between it and his face.
"I don't underst-" she began, but he cut her off.
"Who do you work for?"
"What do you mean?" Confusion was writ large over her features and he could hardly miss it. He was right up in her face, crowding her, intimidating her with his greater size. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered how small she really was.
"Is it the Swiss? The Russians?" he demanded, and she blanched.
"What?! No! I don't-"
"This isn't a game, Ruth." He bit off her name and she flinched. "I have an officer in the field – there are lives at stake. So start talking."

Though he never raised his voice, she was under no illusion of the threat he presented. There was a ruthlessness in his gaze, a coldness that spoke of a heretofore unseen capability for violence, and a shiver ran down her spine. This man was a spy, and she should have realised the implications thereof. She had rather foolishly nurtured a romantic notion of what he did, ignoring the darker side of espionage. She had never imagined him resorting to violence, but she now knew with unwavering certainty – Harry Pearce was capable of aggression when called for. And yet there was something admirable in his actions. Earlier she had been certain that he was interested in her, that he enjoyed her company, but the moment he thought that she was a threat, that she could put his officer in the field in danger, he did what was necessary to protect that officer, despite any personal feelings for her. She took a steadying breath and kept her voice even and calm.
"I do not work for anyone," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I stole Dieter Hoffman's shredding bag because I was curious about you."

0o0

They sat opposite each other in her tiny sitting room, both cradling a stiff measure of whisky. An uneasy truce hung in the air, brittle and on the verge of being shattered by a thoughtless word. Harry had undone his bowtie and it hung loose around his open collar. He watched her wordlessly, waiting for the full explanation, and trying his best to listen objectively. His recent experiences had ingrained a predilection for mistrust in him, and because of that he found it hard to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Like I said, I was curious about you." She gave an embarrassed smile. "I mean, first you warn me about Hoffman, and then Hoffman warns me about you."
Harry tilted his head in a wordless query and she elaborated. "He cornered me in my office that next morning and wanted to know whether I knew you. I didn't give him an answer, and then he said that just because you are also from England it did not mean that I should trust you." She took a sip of the whisky as she gathered her thoughts. "Last night I was in the office late – Hoffman had already left. I saw them collecting the shredding bags, so I got the idea of switching my bag for his." She briefly described how she went about it and Harry was impressed despite himself. It had been good fieldwork, and this was a woman who had not even had any intelligence training. As far as he knew. "This is the only page I have put together so far," she continued. "It was easier to find the pieces because of the picture." Sheepishly, she admitted, "It was simply blind luck that it actually pertained to you."

He kept her pinned in his gaze as he mulled things over. It sounded plausible and he was inclined to believe her. But should he? Could he rely on his judgement? Especially where women were concerned? Elena briefly swam to the front of his mind's eye and he wondered yet again; had she played him? Had the recruitment been just too easy? And was Ruth similarly pulling the wool over his eyes now – playing the innocent? But to what end? He had no option but to push her harder. "What are you going to do with this information?" he asked, his voice flat and accusing.
"Nothing," she protested. "You can have it. Do with it what you will," she added, nodding at the paper he still held in his hand.
"Mmm," he responded, not giving an inch. "Noble of you, but rather meaningless. Even if I destroy it, the knowledge is still in your head, and that is a problem for me." There was a trace of menace behind the words and she flinched.
Fear crept into her eyes but she stood her ground. "Are you threatening me?" she demanded, taking refuge in anger, and he suppressed a tendril of admiration. She had courage.
"Do I need to?" he asked smoothly, putting the ball squarely back in her court.
She took a steadying breath and shook her head wearily. "No. I simply wanted to know more about the man I was about to go to the Bolshoi with. Nothing more, nothing less."

A long pause followed her admission, in which Harry watched her carefully. She looked tired and deflated, in stark contrast to her earlier euphoria, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He had done this to her, spoiling her idyllic evening. But there had been no choice. There was so much at stake here – the operation, which was aimed at protecting MI-5 from continued KGB attempts to penetrate it; embarrassment to Britain if their activities were exposed, and most important of all, Connie's life. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, increasingly aware that his profession called for a constant struggle between his conscience and the greater good. He wondered how long he could keep it up before he broke. "I believe you," he said at length. When he looked at her she looked wary and not exactly forgiving, and he could not blame her. "I had to be certain. I'm sure you understand," he added even though it was pretty damn clear that she did not. "You will have to sign the Official Secrets Act. And that will mean if you ever tell anyone about me you will be prosecuted for treason." All these things had to be said but he took no joy from doing so, knowing that it was probably the final nail in the coffin of possibility, of any chance he might have had of wooing her.
Her eyes flashed mutinously at the implication that she could only be trusted once she had signed a piece of paper as she snapped, "Fine." And he could not help but think that that was that.

He tossed back the rest of the drink. "What happened to the bag of shredding?" he asked, thinking he might as well get everything he could out of the whole mess, professionally speaking.
Her eyes lifted to his in surprise. "I still have it," she admitted and he smiled. Malcolm had been right – she would be wasted on GCHQ.
"Can I have it?"
She hesitated. "Why?"
He was aware that she had not yet signed the Official Secrets Act and that he shouldn't really be telling her anything, but he had been honest about believing her. And it would be good to have access to the Swiss embassy should it prove necessary. "Dieter Hoffman is a senior member of Swiss Intelligence – too senior to be a mere Head of Station in an embassy," he explained. "His presence makes me curious. Perhaps there will be an indication of what the Swiss are up to in that bag."

Ruth processed this. She was aware that she was at a crossroads – if she handed over the bag she would become, in essence, an agent for MI-5. For Harry Pearce. And she was not exactly feeling magnanimous towards him at the moment. But then he was only doing his job, protecting his officer in the field. She might not like the fact that he could suspect her of working for a foreign power, but she had to admire his commitment on some level. Besides, she was awfully curious herself about Dieter Hoffman now. "You can have it on one condition," she said boldly. "That you let me help you with it."
He lifted an eyebrow in surprise and she thought he would refuse, but after a slight hesitation he nodded. "All right," he agreed, and they smiled at each other tentatively, feeling their way across this new ground in their association with considerate care.

0o0

Ruth's apartment, Moscow
29 November 1986

Harry found what he was looking for three days later. They had spent every available free moment in Ruth's apartment, sorting through the thin strips of paper and painstakingly fitting them together. It had been awkward at first. There had been little conversation, and what there was could only be described as stilted, but things had gradually improved. She had learnt that he was a highly intelligent man with a wide ranging general knowledge and a shrewd understanding of global politics, and that he had a sharp, dry wit that could make her laugh at the most unexpected of times. Most important of all to her, though, was a realisation that he had a sure moral code, something she suspected to be rare in the murky world of spies. She liked him, enjoyed spending time with him, and her admiration continued to grow. For Harry's part, he was increasingly impressed by her ability to knuckle down to this menial, time-consuming, fiddling task. Her powers of concentration proved superior to his, and she had a flair for finding links between apparently disparate pieces of information. He could see why she had scored high on the analytical tests. Ruth was ideally suited to be an intelligence analyst, and he resolved to recruit her for MI-5 before his time in Moscow came to an end.

She had just handed him another sheet that she had put together, and as he read it the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. "Hoffman has an asset in the KGB," he declared, and Ruth stopped what she was busy with and stared at him.
"How do you know?"
He waved the sheet. "This page is from a report on the state's slipping control over its petroleum resources, and the growing influence of criminal groups in that sector."
Ruth frowned. "What does that have to do with the KGB?"
"Only the KGB has the authority to do such investigations, and the clout to criticise the state and even mention the existence of criminal elements." He smiled wryly. "The Soviet Union has always proclaimed that Communism prevents criminality, because everyone is equal, economically speaking. Obviously they failed to take human nature into account – especially that pesky little trait known as greed."
She suppressed a smile – these last few days she had become well acquainted with Harry's disdain for Communism. As she did so, her mind was already computing the veracity of his conclusion. "Even if the KGB compiled that report, Hoffman could have got it from someone else," she argued. "The Ministry of Oil Refining and Petrochemical Industry, for instance – I assume the report would have gone to them?"
"Ah, but that's where you would be wrong," Harry responded, enjoying the intellectual sparring. It was invigorating to work with someone of such extraordinary reasoning ability. "The KGB never submitted this report to the Ministry, or to anyone else for that matter. I know that because we have been trying very hard to get our hands on it, without success. And seeing how leaky the Ministries have become, that could only mean that the KGB is holding onto the report."
"Why would the KGB hold on to the report?" she asked.
"Because most of these criminal groups have links to the organisation," Harry said simply, and Ruth looked surprised. "Think about it," he continued. "How else are these elements able to move around with such freedom? It is only possible if you have a patron amongst the higher echelons of the KGB, the very organisation that is supposed to keep an eye on such activities."

There was a certain logic to the argument, and the more Ruth thought about it, the more sense it made. She took it a step further. "And if you have the report, you can position yourself better to get access to the Soviet Union's resources when it finally implodes."
"Exactly."
She looked around her at the piles of shredding spread over the carpet. "The whole report must be in here." For the first time she sounded a bit disconsolate and Harry did not blame her. It was tedious, pain-staking work, and he knew that he lacked the willpower to continue with it. Especially now that he had what he wanted.
"Yes. It would be quite a coup if we could deliver the report to London," he acknowledged, and a frisson ran through her at his casual use of the word 'we'. "But luckily I know a man for whom piles of shredding is manna from heaven," he continued with some relief. "Gather all this stuff together – I'm going to send it off to London."
"Right," she said, and was surprised at the disappointment she suddenly felt. Mostly it was because she would have liked to see this thing through, and to be in the know as to the outcome. But there was also the knowledge that there would be no further excuse to spend so much time with the man opposite her.
He tilted his head and said, "I will keep you informed about developments, Ruth. You have earned the right to know what happens. I'll make sure they know who they have to thank for this priceless information."
She smiled and dipped her head, embarrassed that he had read her so easily. At least he hadn't seemed to pick up on the second reason behind her disappointment, and for that she was grateful. Another thought struck her and she looked up at him. "Does this mean that your business here in Moscow is concluded?" she asked miserably, and as he stood looking down into her eyes a moment passed between them; a realisation that the attraction arcing between them was entirely mutual, and when he answered his voice was lower than normal.
"No. Obtaining the report was only a secondary objective. I'll be here for a while yet."
She nodded and mumbled a response, and he could almost have sworn that she had said, "Good."

0o0

Dieter Hoffman's apartment
30 November 1986, late night

When Dieter Hoffman stepped through his door and switched on the light, he nearly had a heart attack. As the light flooded the room it illuminated a man sitting on his sofa, one ankle casually crossed over a knee.
Hello, Dieter," Harry said and lifted the glass he held in his hand. "I hope you don't mind; I've been waiting a while. You have excellent taste in whisky."
The Swiss' face darkened in anger. "Of course I mind!" he snapped in precise syllables. "What is the meaning of this?"
Harry's amiable expression hardened at the hostile reception, but his voice remained even. "Take a guess, old man."
There was a flash of fear in the other man's eyes before he hedged, "I have no idea."
"Really?" Harry said incredulously. "Then let your mind wander back to that night a week ago, when you forced yourself on a young English woman next to the Moskva."
The words hung in the air between them, the menace behind them unmistakable. Few countries were more committed to proper social conduct than the Swiss, and any hint of sexual impropriety could seriously damage a career. Hoffman wiped a hand wearily across his face. "I was merely trying-" he began, then stopped, deflated. After a beat he moved forward and settled in the chair opposite Harry.
He said nothing more, so Harry guessed, "Trying to what, Dieter? Seduce her and use her as an asset?"
Hoffman's hand twitched on his knee and Harry knew that he had guessed right. He laughed. "You weren't getting very far, from what I could tell. What did you want to use her for?"
Hoffman lifted his gaze to the English spook, and his resentment was obvious. "That is none of your concern."
"No?" Harry snapped. "You were trying to recruit a British citizen. That makes it very much my concern."
Hoffman didn't say anything and Harry leant forward. "Do not be under any illusion, Dieter. I can destroy you. Your service does not condone sexual peccadilloes, even when they are done in the name of duty. You are at my mercy."
The two men stared at each other for long, tense seconds. Harry did not blink and eventually Hoffman was the first to back down. "What do you want?" he asked woodenly, and Harry sat back and smiled thinly. "I want a meeting with your KGB asset."

The Swiss almost succeeded in hiding his shock. But not quite. He could not suppress the slight widening of the eyes or the blood draining from his face, and because Harry was paying close attention he noticed those signs. In an effort to keep his opponent off-balance, he immediately dropped his next bombshell. "You have already got what you wanted from this asset – the petroleum industry report the KGB had compiled. So you have nothing to lose."
Hoffman looked at him sharply. And suspiciously. "You seem to think you know an awful lot," he hedged, and Harry shrugged laconically.
"We British have always been rather good at intercepting communications and breaking codes." Better to let Switzerland think their communications have been breached than drop Ruth in it unnecessarily.
The Swiss smiled ruefully and conceded the argument with a curt nod. "What do you want with my KGB asset?" he asked resignedly.
Harry was about to lie, but then reconsidered. He was asking an awful lot of the Swiss intelligence officer – perhaps the man deserved to know the truth. So he said: "I suspect my current operation here has been compromised. I want confirmation of my suspicions."

tbc