PART VI

They would know that inconsistency in human decision can make nonsense of the best-planned espionage approach; that cheats, liars and criminals may resist every blandishment while respectable gentlemen have been moved to appalling treasons by watery cabbage in a Departmental canteen.

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

Swiss Intelligence Service safe house, Moscow
03 December 1986, late morning

It took three days to set up the meeting. Hoffman had agreed to it eventually, and they had decided that it would be best not to inform the asset beforehand. He would think that he was going to have his usual meeting with his Swiss handler, only to find MI-5 also represented. Hoffman had reluctantly provided the address of the safe house and said shortly, "For God's sake make sure you lose your KGB tail before you go there; I would like to continue using it after this meeting."
So Harry had spent three hours that morning leading Igor a merry dance. The men they had put on him was not their finest, something else which arose his suspicion. It could, of course, simply be because they believed that Connie was their asset and that she would inform them of Harry's activities, but he knew that he would have approached things differently. If he were in charge of the KGB operation to run Connie, he would have kept a close eye on his opposite number for two reasons: to ensure that his asset was not in danger, and to monitor that the asset was not playing a double game. Unless, perhaps, he was completely convinced of the loyalty of the asset… He did not want to entertain the thought. But the suspicion was like a cancer, spreading with each passing day, and soon Connie would pick up on it. That was why he was here; he had to know one way or the other before that happened.

He sat quietly in an armchair whilst Hoffman moved around the apartment to prepare it for the meeting. Safe houses were the same the world over, he reflected; gloomy, shabby furniture, a stale smell and a neglected air. It was the place where people betrayed their countries and in the process sold their souls. And not only the assets. The handlers often sold theirs as well to get the information they wanted. It had always fascinated him; what drove people to betrayal? In his experience it was mostly for money, and occasionally for ideological reasons. That was increasingly rare, though. The Soviet Union was close to collapse and by extension so was the Communist ideology, and most assets that offered their services nowadays were motivated by a desire to get themselves and their families to the West before the whole façade came crashing down.

Hoffman placed a plate piled with sliced sausage, pickles and black bread on the table, then added a bottle of vodka and three glasses. A carton of American cigarettes came last and Harry sniffed in derision – he did not understand the Russians' fascination with all things Uncle Sam. The Swiss settled in the chair opposite Harry and regarded the Englishman steadily. The MI-5 spook had a desolate air about him, and Hoffman could only guess at the reason behind it. "His name is Misha Zverev," he revealed unsolicited. "General Misha Zverev," he added meaningfully and Harry lifted his gaze to Hoffman's face. He knew that name well.
"From the K Directorate of the KGB," he said, not bothering to hide his admiration. "That's a big fish. Congratulations." Britain and the US had been trying to penetrate that most secretive of directorates for years, without any success. It was responsible for counter-espionage, and in the line of this duty could demand access to any person, document or organisation to fulfil its function.
Hoffman smiled stiffly. "Thank you. But I can't claim any credit for it. He approached me – at that big economic conference in Turkey last year."
"Why did he choose you?" Harry asked curiously, before adding belatedly, "No offence intended."
The Swiss waved it away. "None taken. It's a reasonable question. We Swiss are not exactly at the cutting edge of espionage. And I think that is exactly why he chose us." Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. Hoffman continued: "If he went to you or the Yanks, he would spend years being passed from one debrief to the next as you tried to get every last piece of valuable information out of him. By the time he was free to settle somewhere and pursue his business interests, the Soviet Union pie will already have been divided between the politicians, crooks and KGB officers. There would be nothing left for him."

Hoffman was right; that was exactly what would happen if such a senior KGB officer defected. This was useful information that Harry could use to his advantage. "So Zverev is hoping to benefit from the collapse of his country?" he queried, and Hoffman murmured assent.
"As you know, there are criminal organisations operating all over the Soviet Union, and each of them has the patronage of one or more politicians and KGB officers. Zverev has aligned himself with one of the biggest, the Ukranian outfit known as Serp. He has helped them to get control of oil production in Western Siberia."
"Ah, another aspiring oligarch," Harry commented, his voice laced with cynicism. There were many of those in the West as well, and it was always a danger to stability when the economic interests of one man became bigger than those of most countries. Before Hoffman could respond there was a knock at the door, and with a slight nod at Harry the Swiss rose and moved towards it.

Harry remained in the chair and listened to the murmur of voices as Hoffman greeted the Russian. Anticipation and dread mingled and formed a lead ball in his stomach. For once in his life he would gladly be proven wrong – he fervently hoped that the Russian would tell him that Connie was not a traitor, that it was his judgement instead that was shot to hell. But he was determined that he would not leave here today without answers. The voices moved closer and the Russian laughed, but it was cut off abruptly when he rounded the corner and saw the man sitting in the chair. Zverev was in his fifties, large and broad-shouldered with a fleshy face that spoke of someone used to the good life. Harry could not help but compare that to the often gaunt faces of the Russians in the countryside; so much for equality in distribution of resources. These men - the stalwarts of the Party and the higher echelons of the KGB - were no different from their counterparts in the free world and corruption was rife. Just like almost every politician Harry had ever known, they had been seduced by the power.

Zverev swung round and glared at Hoffman. "What is this?" he demanded, but Harry did not give the Swiss a chance to respond.
"You know who I am," he interjected, and the Russian's head swivelled back to him. The eyes were wary but not afraid. Zverev was in his own backyard, and apparently confident enough of his position not to fear the presence of a British intelligence officer. Harry noted that with some trepidation.
"'Arry Pearce," Zverev acknowledged with a hint of contempt before turning back to Hoffman. "What is this?" he reiterated angrily. "We had an agreement."
Once again Harry answered on behalf of the other man. "Yes you did, but I forced him to renege on it." He wanted the Russian's focus on him, and his statement had the desired effect. Cold blue eyes moved back to him and stayed there. A sneer settled on the fleshy lips.
"You English do love your blackmail. You no longer have anything to offer potential agents – your famed democracy and 'free' economy is a failure. Ask the miners that your Prime Minister is laying off by the thousands-"
"Spare me the lecture," Harry interrupted. "If Communism is such a raging success, why are you selling your country's secrets to the Swiss in return for a new life in the West?" The Russian glared at him and Harry continued. "And I can offer you something Hoffman can't – proven success in getting our assets and their families out of this godforsaken dump of a country. Alive."

All three men contemplated each other in thoughtful silence. Hoffman had a wry smile on his face – he knew that the English spy had just spoken the magic words. The Swiss were virgins where the extraction of agents from enemy territory was concerned, whilst the British had been doing it for decades. Not always successfully, admittedly, but it had been done. Zverev looked between the two men calculatingly and Harry said nothing more, careful not to overplay his hand. He did not want to appear desperate; the Russian would pick up on it and exploit it shamelessly.
"You will help me settle in the country of my choosing," the Russian stated eventually, and Harry knew that he had won.
"Within reason," he agreed, settling in for the negotiations. "We might find it difficult to help if you wished to settle in Afghanistan, say."
The Russian did not smile at the joke. He watched Harry carefully as he pressed, "And you will provide me with enough to live comfortably."
Harry cocked his head in disbelief. "Of course," he said sarcastically. "Why not give you the crown jewels while we're at it?" Zverev's face darkened in anger as Harry continued. "By all accounts you are a rather rich man, Misha. You've already stolen enough to live comfortably for two lifetimes. I don't see why the British tax payer should contribute more than the normal going rate for defectors towards your comfort."

The two men stared at each other, and there was a hint of derision in the Russian's gaze. It made Harry uncomfortable; he got the distinct impression that Zverev knew something about him that he believed would give him the upper hand in any negotiations. So he added, "Of course, your worth to us will very much depend on the information you can provide. If it is valuable enough, we might yet give you the crown jewels."
That seemed to be what the Russian wanted to hear, as he smirked arrogantly and his shoulders relaxed. "In that case, 'Arry Pearce, I am willing to negotiate a deal."
Hoffman had watched the exchange with interest, and now stepped forward and shook the Russian's hand. "I will leave you to it. Good luck, Misha. If the British renege on their promises, I will do what I can for you. I regard our agreement as valid still." And with a final look at Harry, he walked out the door.

0o0

Finally alone, the two men regarded each other with barely hidden animosity. Their two countries had been locked in the Cold War for almost forty years and trust did not come easy. Zverev sat down in the chair earlier occupied by Hoffman and was the first to break the silence. "When can you get me out?"
Harry shook his head. "You know it doesn't work like that. We don't give something for nothing."
"No, that's right. Nothing is free in a democracy, is it?" Zverev sneered.
"Mmm," Harry agreed, curbing his annoyance. "But on the other hand, when you pay for something, you usually get value for your money. Which is more than I can say for the Soviet Union. The service is simply appalling."
The Russian's eyes flashed, and then he laughed. "Maybe we should leave the ideological debates and get down to business. What do you want?"

This was it, the moment of truth. In only a few seconds he would know whether his operation was blown. "I want to know," he said slowly, "whether the KGB knows about Operation Renaissance."
The Russian smiled condescendingly. "Yes," he said, and Harry's world tilted.
"How?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
Zverev shrugged. "I had assumed that you were indiscreet again. Like in Berlin," he tossed in as an afterthought, and Harry could feel sweat begin to form on his upper lip despite the cold temperatures. Christ. Bloody Berlin again.
"Is that what Ilya Gavrik told you?" he probed, managing to infuse some contempt into his voice.
"Ilya?" Zverev exclaimed in surprise. "No, not Ilya." He regarded Harry calculatingly. Harry knew the game – the Russian would try to figure out how little intelligence he had to give away to win his extraction. And he would start with information he thought the British already possessed. "The KGB is divided into two factions," Zverev explained, "and has been for some years. There are the hard-liners who want the status quo to remain, to keep the Cold War going and the Soviet Union intact. Then there are the realists, who accept that the Soviet Union is in its dying throes and that it needs to change, to progress." He leant forward and poured some vodka into a glass. "The hard-liners currently have control of the KGB, and they are the ones who handle the important operations – like the one in Berlin and your current operation here." He tossed back the alcohol before he added, "Ilya Gavrik is not a hard-liner."
"Then how…?" Harry queried, although deep down he already knew. Knew that it was the one explanation he had not wanted to admit to himself.
"Because Elena, his wife, is," Zverev said, confirming Harry's worst fears.

"She played you beautifully," the Russian smirked, unable not to gloat. He might be about to betray his country for money, but he still enjoyed it when they got one over on the old enemy. Harry concentrated on his breathing, the Russian's voice coming from far off as he struggled to compute the implications of the revelation. In. Out. Elena Gavrik was a KGB officer, and a hard-liner to boot. A fanatic. In. Out. And he had damn near brought her to England with him when the operation in Berlin collapsed. If his CIA counterpart hadn't stopped him at gunpoint, he would have. And he would probably have married her, too, once he was free to do so, out of a sense of obligation to the boy. Sasha. His son…
As though reading his mind, Zverev continued, "She's a cold one, Elena. Not above using her child to ensnare you. Poor Ilya. Just like you, he has no idea what she really is." He shook his head. "Imagine what that must be like – not to know that your wife was using your son as a pawn in her spying games. She would have gone with you, you know, with the boy in tow, and set up house with you in England. And you would have sheltered the enemy in your bosom for God knows how long before you figured it out."

Harry felt sick. It was too much – he was struggling to process all the information. "So Sasha… He's Ilya's son?" he queried faintly, aware that he was losing control of the conversation. He was here to get information on his current operation, and all he could think about was the events in Berlin. On some level he was aware that this was exactly what the Russian intended.
"Yes, he is Ilya's son," Zverev confirmed, and Harry briefly closed his eyes. If he could believe the Russian, that at least was one less thing for him to feel guilty about. Or was there? He needed to get a grip, to think clearly. The Russian could be lying through his teeth. Proof. He needed proof. And he needed the information he had actually come to get.
He leant forward and pinned the Russian in his gaze. "All of that is old news," he rallied. "What about Operation Renaissance? What does the KGB know about it?"
Zverev smiled wryly. He had hoped to misdirect the English spook with the explosive revelations about Elena Gavrik, but apparently Harry Pearce was made of sterner stuff. Most men would have been too shocked by their fallibility to concentrate on anything else, but the MI-5 officer would not be diverted. Reluctantly he explained, "They know that it is an attempt to make the KGB believe that they have a mole within MI-5."

Harry sat back slowly, never taking his eyes off the other man. It was a disaster of unimaginable proportions. His instincts had been right all along –about both Berlin and Operation Renaissance. At least he could take some solace from that. "Can you prove any of this?" he asked bluntly, and the Russian blanched. He had probably hoped to buy his extraction at a much lower price than this, but unfortunately the man before him was no fool. He would not be fobbed off with
hearsay.
The Russian sighed. "Yes, I can prove it. I can photograph documents and bring you the microfilm."
Harry nodded, outwardly calm but roiling inside. "All right; this is the price for your extraction: you bring me proof that Operation Renaissance is blown and identify the leak. And you bring me proof that Elena Gavrik is a KGB hard-liner. Can you do that?"
There was a pregnant silence as Zverev considered. Then he simply said, "Yes."

0o0

Gorky Park, Moscow
Two hours later

Harry hurried along the icy path. This time it was he who was late, and Connie would not appreciate being left waiting in the cold. He attached himself loosely to a group of tourists who were led around by a disinterested guide, who droned out his well-practiced spiel without the slightest hint of enthusiasm. This was Communism at work: in a free economy he wouldn't last a week. When the group reached the southern end he slipped away down a small, overgrown path. As he headed down the vegetative tunnel he could see her sitting on the bench, huddled in a dark blue coat, fur hat and fur-lined boots. She hadn't noticed him yet and he paused to study her. He liked Connie despite her sometimes acerbic tongue, and he certainly respected her professional abilities. Could it be…? Surely not. Not Connie. There had to be another explanation, another leak. In a few days he would know, but until then he was determined to give her the benefit of the doubt. To protect her at all costs.

She looked up at his soft footsteps, dampened by the snow, and huddled deeper into her coat. "About time," she grumbled, and he smiled in apology.
"Sorry. I lost track of time."
Her shrewd gaze fastened on him. "Hm. Finding it difficult to tear yourself away from your new young plaything?"
He looked at her sharply, unease prickling the back of his neck at the venom behind the words. Not much got past Connie James, so he was not surprised that she had noticed the time he had spent with Ruth. But why the bitterness? "She's not my plaything," he responded irritably. "She's new here and I'm showing her around a bit, that's all."
"Oh, I see. And is she showing you around her bedroom in return?" Connie needled, and Harry gritted his teeth and gave her an annoyed look. This woman had an unerring ability to get under his skin, to keep him off-balance. It seemed like she enjoyed winding him up, but was it really just for her personal entertainment, as he had always believed, or was there something darker behind it? He didn't know any more.
"Let's get on, shall we?" he changed the subject and she grinned unapologetically.
"Fine." She held out her hand. "Just give me the latest bait and I'll be on my way."
But he did not move, and she looked at him questioningly. He chose his words carefully. "I'm putting everything on hold," he informed her, and she frowned in confusion.
"Why?"
"Something is off about this operation," he said slowly, watching every shift in her expression. She did not respond and her eyes became guarded, and he marvelled again at how good she was. "I'm not putting you in danger until I know more," he continued, "which I should in a few days. So stay away from Popov until I tell you otherwise."

With that warning he rose and walked away, and her gaze stayed on him until he was out of sight.

tbc