PART VII

They would expect him to be afraid; for his service pursued traitors as the eye of God followed Cain across the desert.

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

Western compound, Moscow
03 December 1986, early afternoon

Ruth had just settled herself in the weak sunbeam that shone through her sitting room window with a book when there was a knock on her door. It was Saturday and she wasn't expecting anyone, so she carefully opened the door a crack and peeked through - the Russians did not believe in peepholes. To her surprise and delight Harry stood outside her apartment, dressed in jeans, a snug jumper and his long coat. "Are you busy?" he asked with that lovely smile of his, and she shook her head. "Then how about a tour of the Metro stations? I seem to remember making a promise in that regard."
"Er," she began and his face fell, so she hurried on. "I'd love to, but you'll have to give me a few minutes – I wasn't expecting company," she explained, making a vague gesture towards herself. His eyes travelled over her, taking in jeans, boots and her thick woolly jersey, before loitering on her hair that was gathered in a ponytail. They followed the line of her neck and finally came to rest on her face, and everywhere his gaze touched her skin caught fire.
"You look lovely," he blurted, and she could not help the beaming smile that broke out on her face.
"Thanks," she murmured, and they stood looking at each other in mute appreciation as the air became charged with a delicious tension.
Harry cleared his throat. "So, er, grab your coat and we can…" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and she came to life with a start.
"Yes. Okay. Good. Be right back," she babbled before rushing back into the apartment.

He remained on the doorstep, staring after her with a silly smile. After his encounters with Zverev and Connie he had felt the need for something good and pure, and his feet had brought him here, to her apartment, almost without conscious thought. Ruth Evershed was quickly becoming the shining light in his otherwise shadowy life, and he did not have the willpower to fight it. And why should he, now that she knew who he was and still wanted to spend time with him? But she does not yet know everything about you, an insidious little voice reminded him. She does not know about Elena, Sasha and Berlin, or Bill Crombie and Belfast, or the many shady things you have done. Harry tried to suppress the voice, but it would not be silenced. It ruthlessly reminded him of every life he had taken, every woman he had seduced in the name of duty. He recalled the flash of pure joy that had lit her eyes when she'd realised that he was the one knocking on her door and he wondered; did all of that matter? Would it make a difference to the way she looked at him, or would it be enough if he let her see who he really was? Not Harry Pearce - MI-5 intelligence officer, but rather Harry Pearce – man, father, and human being? Or Harry Pearce – lover? She came back outside, smiling at him, and saved him from himself. He shook off these morbid thoughts and steered her away with a hand in the small of her back.

0o0

They started at Shosse Entuziastov station, with its large 'Flame of Freedom' sculpture against one wall. The theme was related to the Revolution and all the pictures and sculptures in the station spoke to it. Whilst Ruth stood in front of the Flame and marvelled at the sheer scale of it, Harry's eyes travelled over their fellow passengers. He had already picked out Igor, but after his meeting with Zverev he was not taking any chances. He was on the alert, looking out for a bigger scale surveillance operation; he could not afford to miss anything at this delicate stage of developments. Ruth's low voice brought his attention back to her. "Are we being followed?" she asked, and he marvelled at her perceptiveness. She had immediately picked up on his distraction. That gave him an idea – two pairs of eyes were better than one.
"What do you think?" he asked equally softly and she looked up at him in surprise. There was a playful challenge in his eyes and she took it up with a small smile of delight.
"Well, there is the one with the shoulder who always follows you around," she commented and he grinned in admiration.
"Yes. Igor is not the pick of the crop – rather easy to spot. And to lose, for that matter." He took a step closer and his arm brushed hers, causing a thrill to run through her. It was intoxicating, playing these spy games with him. It drew her into his world, and there was an intimacy to the situation which she found irresistible. It was the two of them against the might of the KGB, and it sealed them in a cocoon where only they knew the rules of the game. None of the people swirling around them had the faintest idea, and the knowledge was like an aphrodisiac that made desire burn in her blood. "But is there anyone else?" Harry's velvet voice murmured close to her ear. "It could be a strategy to lull us into a false sense of security – put one bumbling shadow on us, so that we don't bother to look for the other more professional ones."

She had not considered that and resisted the urge to look around. Harry continued and the realisation came to her – he was training her in counter-surveillance techniques. It was all done playfully, but there was an undertone of urgency to his actions that reminded her that none of this was a game. He was a spy in the middle of an operation where lives were at stake. She had now been drawn into that operation and he was making sure that she knew what to look for, to not endanger either the operation or herself. "Don't look at the obvious stuff, like a coat or a hat or hair," he was saying. "That can be changed quickly and easily. Always focus on the less obvious – shoes, a belt buckle. If you're close enough, look at the nails, for instance. Are they dirty? Is one chipped? Or moles or freckles on the face." She nodded, absorbing the instruction with focussed concentration, determined not to let him down. He smiled and his eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, "If you spot another tail before the end of the day, I'll buy you dinner."
"Ooh, dinner! You're on," she responded, playing along, and he threw back his head and laughed. God, she was wonderful.

0o0

Their next stop was the glorious Mayakovskaya station. It was considered one of the most beautiful stations, although it was not Harry's favourite. Alexander Deyneka's 34 ceiling mosaics with the theme of '24-Hour Soviet Sky' was lit above their heads, proclaiming to passengers the bright Soviet future as they moved along the cavernous hall. Whilst Ruth admired the mosaics Harry admired the shoes of his fellow travellers, noting every scuff, run-down heel or frayed lace. "All of this must have cost a fortune," Ruth commented as she surveyed the patterned pink and white marble floor. The opulence of these stations was in stark contrast to the drabness of Soviet life above their heads, and she struggled to make sense of it.
"Yes," Harry agreed, "but most of these were built in the early years of Stalin's rule. He was anxious to show the world that the Soviet Union had untold riches, even though the people chose to live in poverty. Of course, for most of them it was not a choice, but a directive forced down upon them from above."

They moved on to the Komsomolskaya station with its yellow Baroque ceiling, through the Kiyevskaya station with its portrait of Lenin, and by the time they reached Ploshchad Revolyutsii with its 76 sculptures cut into the corner of each column, he was certain. They were the object of an extensive and professional surveillance operation. He was equally certain that this had not been the case yesterday, or even this morning, so what had changed? He had spoken to Zverev – could the man be a double agent, dangling intelligence in front of Harry's nose to find out what he knew of the Soviets' information about Operation Renaissance? It was possible, yet the KGB officer had provided the Swiss with that highly classified report on the petroleum sector. Would the Soviets be willing to sacrifice such valuable information just to fool the Western intelligence services about the trustworthiness of Zverev? He did not know the answer to that. Of course, he had also spoken to Connie about his suspicions… He did not want to think about that.

They reached the sculpture of the frontier guard with his dog and on impulse Harry took Ruth's hand and placed it on the dog's nose. Her eyes flew to his and stayed there, and the air crackled with tension around them. Fire ran up his arm and ignited desire in his belly as he felt her soft skin against his. "You're supposed to rub the dog's nose," he explained, "for good luck."
She nodded dazedly and her hand moved under his, and he let his hand slide along the smooth surface of the sculpture along with hers. He was transfixed in the moment, unable to break the contact, and they stood for endless seconds, his hand covering hers, staring at each other. Her eyes had turned a very dark, stormy grey and he wondered – would that be the colour he would see when he was joined with her, buried in her heat? She took a shaky breath and without breaking eye contact slowly turned her hand under his, and their fingers entwined. He was lost, unable to move, overcome by gratitude for this opportunity that had come so closely on the heels of his divorce, this chance to show that he was capable of a healthy relationship with a woman. And perhaps he was, if she agreed to join his shadowy world, to become a colleague in MI-5, and much, much more. It was Ruth who brought them back to reality in the end. She stepped close to him, still clutching his hand, and murmured in a low voice, "There are two other men following us."

0o0

As they sat in the train on their way to the next station, he still held her hand, and it was wonderful. She sat close to him, her arm and leg pressed against his, and he was deliriously happy. She wanted this too, wanted him with the same fire he wanted her. He slanted his head close to hers so that he could speak into her ear, certain that those around them would not be able to pick up the words over the rumble of the train. "Where are they now?" he asked softly.
Her eyes flicked to their left, where a man was sitting close by the doors, apparently absorbed in a paper. "The one with the scuff on the left toe of his black shoes," she hazarded and looked at him for confirmation, and he could not keep the proud smile from his face. "And the other is by the doors to the right, with the three freckles on the left of his neck."
He nodded. "Well done. Dinner is on me tonight," he murmured, buoyed by the prospect of spending more time with her, and she glowed at the praise. He debated momentarily before he spoke again, unwilling to burst her bubble, but he could not lose sight of the importance of training her properly in counter-surveillance techniques. So he added almost apologetically, "You missed someone, though."
She looked at him questioningly, but he would not give her the answer so easily. "Remember that they don't use men only," he prompted, and saw her eyes widen in realisation.
"Of course," she responded, annoyed with herself for the oversight, and he squeezed her hand to bring her attention back to him.
"Don't feel bad," he said with a sardonic smile, "she's the best of the lot."

0o0

When they disembarked at Novoslobodskaya Metro station, Harry pulled her along to the central hall by the hand. "This is my favourite one," he confided and his delight was infectious. When they entered she stopped and stared in wordless wonder at the 32 stained glass panels set into the sides of the pylons. They were lit from behind and the colours danced and popped, a veritable feast for the eyes. They took their time, wandering from one to the next, slowly working their way to the mosaic at the end of the platform, where they lingered even longer. "It's called 'Peace throughout the World," Harry informed her, and she smiled at the irony.
She turned to look back along the hall, where the stained glass reflected its patterns on the marble floor, and sighed in contentment. "It is wonderful," she agreed and smiled at him, "I think it might be my favourite as well." And that's when she saw her, the woman turning casually away when she looked in her direction, and realised that she had seen her before. In different clothes, with different hair, but the strange shape of the earlobe was unmistakable. She drew in a sharp breath and Harry glanced at her.
"You've got her now?" he asked, "Dumbo?", and when she nodded he slid an arm around her and drew her close to him. His lips brushed her hair when he said, "You're a natural, Ruth. A born spook."

And she thought it the most wonderful compliment anyone had ever given her.

0o0

He took her to dinner that night, to Praga, one of the most expensive restaurants in Moscow, and she was aware that most of the Russians there that mingled so freely with the foreigners were probably KGB officers. They talked about everything but the operation; their favourite cities, their dreams and future plans, and he even told her a little bit about his children. He never mentioned his wife, and she couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong. It was the perfect dinner date until, over dessert, he remarked out of the blue: "Would you like to come and work for MI-5?"
She stared at him in surprise, her spoon frozen midway between the plate and her mouth, and blurted, "I'm sorry?"
"MI-5," he reiterated, watching her intently, "as an intelligence analyst."
"Er…" she fumbled, the sudden change in topic catching her off-guard. "I already have a job lined up."
Harry smiled. "Yes, I know. With International Translations."
"Yes," she said, looking at him curiously now. There was something knowing in that smile.
"I'll let you in on a little secret," he confided, tilting his head close to her ear, "seeing as you have signed the Official Secrets Act. International Translations is a front company for GCHQ." He drew back so that he could see her face. "That's why you had to do all those tests before they offered you the position."

She was dumb-struck. All this time, she had already been part of the British Intelligence community without even knowing it. Her first reaction was affront – she had been lied to, drawn into a secret world without her knowledge. "Bastards," she breathed, and Harry grinned. "What if I don't want to work for them?" she queried and he shrugged.
"They will inform you before you start and give you the option not to take the job," he explained. "They did the same with me – not GCHQ, obviously. MI-5." Then he turned serious. "But I honestly believe that you would be wasted at GCHQ. Like I said, you're a born spook. So come and work for us. Our section is in serious need of an intelligence analyst." Prudently he did not add what else was in his mind – that he could then see her every day, and there would be no need for lies and ghosts in the relationship.
She was watching him, and perhaps she had read some of those thoughts in his expression, because her eyes darkened and she took a steadying breath. "I'll think about it," she agreed, and he nodded.

When he took her home, he kissed her at the door, a slow, chaste kiss that promised much for the future, and she knew as she closed it behind her that her mind was already made up – she would take up his offer and join MI-5.

0o0

British embassy, Moscow
10 December 1986, mid-morning

Harry stood at one of the front windows on the second floor of the building and watched the street intently. Behind him he could hear Jools and Ruth's voices murmuring softly. The MI-6 man was turning on the charm but Ruth was not falling for it – she evaded any questions about her personal life or her relationship with Harry, and he smiled to himself.

Two days ago Zverev had got word to him that he had the information Harry wanted, and that he was ready to defect. Since then Harry had put numerous wheels in motion – he had organised with Siviter to be ready to receive the Russian at the embassy and spirit him out of the country, and he had paid Evgeny to use his extensive network to simultaneously collect Zverev's wife and two children at their home and get them out of Moscow. He knew how the Russians worked – the first thing they would do upon learning of the defection would be to arrest the man's family and try to force him to give himself up in order to save them. He had asked Ruth to be here in case they needed a translator; he did not want to miss any subtleties in the Russian's words. So now he was waiting; he had instructed Zverev to come to the embassy and simply walk in the front door. It was bold and risky, and that was exactly why he had chosen this route. The KGB would not expect it, which gave it a better than even chance of success.

As he stood at the window he checked every car, every person walking past in the street. He had taken care to lose his expanded surveillance team before coming here, but he knew that the KGB watched the embassy as a matter of routine and was probably aware that he was inside. The day was cold and grey, with low clouds that threatened more snow at any minute. Most of the pedestrians were swaddled in dark coats, and from this distance it was difficult to make out the small things that would give a watcher away. So he concentrated on gait; the way a man walked could be just as individual as a face. And he took careful note of the cars – dents, colour, aerials.

He saw a man stroll casually down the street, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. He was sturdily built and the scarf could not hide the fleshiness of his face. Zverev. This was it. "He's coming," he said quietly, and immediately Jools was next to him at the window. Harry nodded at the man just as Zverev paused and knelt down to fasten a shoelace.
"Crafty bugger," Jools commented approvingly, aware that the manoeuvre was a feint to give the Russian an opportunity to check whether he was being followed. There was no-one in the street behind him, so he straightened up and continued forward at the same leisurely pace. Harry took the episode as a good sign – if Zverev was a plant, aimed at deceiving the British, he would not be so concerned about possible surveillance on him. A white Lada turned into the street and drove down the block, and Harry's eyes flicked to it. It was utterly nondescript, except for the scratch on the front left bumper. He had seen it before. He lifted his gaze and scanned the opposite windows anxiously, and they were all empty. That in itself was highly unusual, so he snatched up the binoculars from the windowsill in front of him and looked more carefully. He found it in a corner office on the third floor – the thin black barrel poking through an open slit in the window. His adrenaline spiked and he tossed the binoculars to the floor unceremoniously. "It's a trap," he called over his shoulder, already running full-tilt for the stairs.

Ruth watched him go in confusion. "What's going on?" she asked Jools, who had retrieved the binoculars and trained them on the advancing defector.
"The Russians are watching the embassy entrance." He glanced at her with a wry smile. "With more fire-power than usual. They know something is up." He pointed to the window on the third floor. "There's a sniper with his weapon trained on our front gate."
Concern gripped her as she saw Harry's blond head dash across the courtyard to the gate. "What's he going to do?" she asked anxiously, and Jools shrugged.
"God knows. Harry Pearce is a law unto himself," he sniped, and she could not miss the resentment behind that statement.

Harry reached the gate and snapped at the guard, "Open the gate."
The young man stared at him uncertainly. "I can only open it on the orders of-" he began, when Harry lunged forward and yanked the guard's side-arm out of its holster. The guard swallowed the rest of his words as he stared down the black hole of the barrel pointed squarely between his eyes. "Open the gate," Harry reiterated, and when the man still didn't move he yelled, "NOW!"
The guard reached for the button with a shaky finger and pushed it.
From up above Jools and Ruth watched in fascinated horror. "Christ! Bloody idiot," Jools exclaimed, "he'll get himself killed!"
Ruth tended to agree, but she could not help a stab of admiration for the boldness of the action.

Harry was through the gate as soon as there was a wide enough gap to allow a man through. He had had the good sense to drop the gun before doing so – if the watchers saw a weapon they would shoot on sight. Zverev saw him emerge and his eyes widened in surprise, and Harry shook his head once, emphatically. The Russian immediately understood. He was about twenty yards away from the gate, close enough for Harry to see the flash of desperation in his eyes, and Harry knew what he was going to do even before he took the first step. And he also knew the futility of it. So the moment Zverev broke into a run, Harry did exactly the same, without hesitation and without thought.
"Oh no," Ruth exclaimed up above, gripping the windowsill until her knuckles turned white, instinctively knowing that this was a very bad idea. She did not even register Jools muttering "Fuck" beside her, or that he turned and ran for the stairs.

Zverev had taken only three steps when the shot rang out, the report echoing hollowly between the buildings lining the street. Harry saw the Russian fling up his arms and pitch forward a split-second before he heard it, and fury boiled up inside. In that moment he did not think about the information that was now lost to him, but about the human life sacrificed. The Russian collapsed onto the pavement, and a red stain spread across the snow as the life began to ebb out of him.

tbc