PART VIII

…he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion…

John le Carré, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

British embassy, Moscow
10 December 1986, mid-morning

Harry did not falter. He kept on running forward and reached the fallen man barely two seconds later. He skidded to a stop and dropped down to his knees beside him. "Misha," he said, forgetting any enmity there might have been between them, and gently turned the man over. There was so much blood, and the Russian's face had already turned grey. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to focus on the face above him.
"…Family…?" he gasped, and Harry placed a calming hand against the cold cheek. From far off he registered shouts and running feet, but he ignored it.
"I will get them out. I swear it," he vowed to the dying man, who closed his eyes in relief.
"…lighter…" he gasped out on his last breath as his right hand twitched in the snow, and Harry noticed the cheap plastic lighter clasped between the convulsing fingers. Something slapped into the ground next to him, followed a split-second later by the crack of the gunshot, and as he ducked instinctively he plucked the lighter out of the now lifeless hand and scrambled to his feet.
"Harry, for God's sake!" he heard Jools shout anxiously as another bullet smacked into the wall above his head, and he turned and ran for the gate. The white Lada had sped up and was bearing down on him, and Harry strained to get every possible ounce of speed out of his sinews. One of the guards had stepped through the gate to level his gun at the car, but Jools yanked him back with a curse. Harry registered the pale faces behind the windscreen of the car, the determined expression of the driver, before he turned his focus to the gate. So close… But so was the Lada. It jumped onto the pavement and kept coming and Harry swerved to hug the wall without breaking stride. Those years playing rugby now came in handy as he executed a neat sidestep and then jumped over the bonnet as the driver yanked the steering wheel over and the bumper scraped along the wall, sending sparks flying. The back of the car fishtailed violently on the snow and the left side slammed into the wall, but by then Harry was clear and through the gate. But it was a close-cut thing – too close for comfort, and when he came to a halt he was shaking with adrenaline.

The gate slammed closed behind him and the guards lined up behind it, weapons at the ready. But no-one came. The Lada was pulling away down the street, an ugly scrape running down the length of the left side, and disappeared around the corner. Nothing else moved. Jools rounded on Harry. "What the fuck is the matter with you?!" He was irate, it was the angriest Harry had ever seen him, but he was in no mood to be scolded right then. He pushed past the MI-6 man, his shoulder bumping into him, and stepped up to the gate. Out in the street Misha Zverev lay motionless, the red stain slowly spreading around him, and Harry gritted his teeth in anger. Such a bloody stupid waste, and for what? Deep down he knew the answer – for democracy, for freedom, for the western way of life – but it wasn't much consolation in times like these. He played the game, moved his pieces around on the chess board, but you didn't win without sacrificing some of them along the way. And he wondered – how many would he have sacrificed by the end of his career? And what would it cost him in the end? Would he still have some semblance of humanity left?

A black Volga pulled up to the body and a man got out. He stood over it and looked at the face, before he lifted his gaze towards the embassy gate. Vasily Popov, Connie's contact. Harry stared back, not bothering to hide his anger, his hate, and the two men stood locked in a silent battle for long seconds. Eventually another man got out and began to search the body, and Harry saw him remove a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of the coat. He flicked through them and said something to Popov, and the KGB officer turned on his heel and moved back to the car. Harry felt a final wave of admiration for Zverev; he must have suspected that they would be waiting for him and had had the good sense to have decoy papers on him. He could feel the insignificant weight of the lighter in his pocket, and knew that whatever information it contained would be priceless. He turned to Jools. "I need to use the secure line."

0o0

When he got back to the second floor Ruth stood waiting. She had seen everything from her vantage point, knew what a close call it had been. When he looked into her eyes he could see the realisation there that she could have lost him. Perhaps she had always known, theoretically, that what he did was dangerous, but now it had become a reality, and it scared her. This was what he had tried to protect Jane from – from worrying every minute of every day that her husband would be killed, and it had cost him his marriage. But now he couldn't help but wonder – would the opposite cost him any chance of a relationship with this remarkable young woman, who he was beginning to fall hopelessly in love with? She took a step towards him but froze when Siviter steamed up the stairs behind him, still complaining loudly about Harry's reckless behaviour. "You have just put us back years in our relations with the Soviet Union!" Jools bleated indignantly and Harry lost patience.
"Oh do shut up, Jools. We have never had any kind of relationship worth mentioning with the Soviets – they have been screwing us every chance they get. Now, give me some privacy to make a call to London."
Siviter looked between the two of them, fuming, before turning on his heel and stalking away without a word.

There was a silence as they looked at each other, both aware how lucky they were to still be able to do so.
"You could have been killed," she said quietly. It was not an accusation or a reprimand, exactly; she spoke like someone who had learnt a home truth – something she should have known, but that had not quite been a reality until now.
He shook his head. "No. If they had wanted to kill me, I would be dead. The sniper had enough time. They merely wanted to prevent me from getting any information Zverev might have been carrying."
She laughed in exasperation. "But you didn't know that for certain." The grey eyes were on him intently and there was nowhere to hide from them. She did not want platitudes or glib deflections, only the truth. He became aware of the importance of the moment, so he took his time before answering.
"It's my job, Ruth," he said gently, "to take calculated risks. The country's interests must take preference over my own safety, otherwise I might just as well resign right now." As he spoke he moved closer to her and she reached out and took his hand, and relief flooded him.
"Yes I know," she murmured. "But that doesn't make it easier to live with."

He closed his eyes, and Jane and the children's faces floated behind his eyelids, silent and accusing. He should set her free now, before she was also damaged by his world. All he had to do was tell her that she was only an asset, that he had been cultivating her all this time. She would be hurt and she would leave him, but in time she would heal and have the chance for a normal, happy life. Before he could open his mouth, though, he felt her fingers feather across his cheek and his eyes flew open. What he saw in her face made him want to shout for joy, and he did not say anything. He could not. In a short time she had taken over his mind, invaded his heart, and he was not strong enough to give that up. The irony was not lost on him. A few minutes ago he had put himself in the firing line of a sniper without a second thought, and yet he did not have the courage to give her up.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning his head and kissing her palm, and she smiled crookedly in return.
"I chose to be here," she said obliquely, and he wondered whether some of those same thoughts had gone through her mind as well. It was something to ponder, but not now. Now, he needed to focus on the operation.
He straightened determinedly. "Come with me," he said and strode into the MI-6 office.

0o0

As he settled himself behind Jools' desk and attached the gadget to the phone she looked around curiously, and he was once again reminded that she was a novice in the intelligence world. Sometimes he forgot that, because she was so accomplished already. She really was a natural, and it would be a shame for the Intelligence Services to lose her. There were going to be difficult times ahead and Britain would need its best and brightest to stand up and be counted. He lifted the receiver and dialled the familiar number, his eyes on her as listened to the clicks and scratches on the line as the call went through. Eventually Malcolm's voice was on the other end, tinny and distant. "Hello?"
"Butterscotch," Harry responded as Ruth watched on in fascination.
"Harry," Malcolm said after a slight pause, "we're getting reports of a shooting outside the embassy?"
"They shot the defector," Harry explained shortly, and Malcolm's voice was sombre when he spoke again.
"I see. …How did they know?"
"That is the question," Harry responded, his eyes on Ruth, who had a little frown etched between her eyes. By now he knew that it signified that she had figured something out, and that she didn't like the implications. He knew how she felt. But it was time to get to the reason for the call. "Listen, Malcolm. Can you please remind Peter of the gift he needs to deliver for my daughter on the fifteenth?"
"…Oh, okay," Malcolm responded, and Harry was aware of Ruth's gaze on him. He rang off and sat back.

Ruth smiled at him. "Is it your daughter's birthday?" she asked, but he ignored the question.
Instead he said, "How would you like to go to St Petersburg, Ruth?"
It took her a moment to catch up with the change in topic. "You mean Leningrad," she corrected automatically, using that city's new name under the Soviet regime, but Harry pursed his lips in distaste.
"I prefer St Petersburg," he said, stubbornly sticking to the name that beautiful city had had under the tsars, and her smile widened. There was something old-fashioned about Harry, even though he was only thirty-three. He put value in tradition and history and disliked modernisation, and she suspected he would have been much happier living in the era of knights and tsars than this current reality. He was a man that should have been born a generation or two earlier, perhaps. It was whilst she was contemplating this that her brain put together what was going on, and her eyes flew to his. He was looking at her meaningfully and put a finger to his lips, and she nodded in understanding. She did not say anything, but he saw that she had figured it out – that what he had told Malcolm was a code for a meeting in Leningrad on the fifteenth. He removed the plastic lighter from his pocket and held it up for her to see, and the gesture was enough for her to understand the reason behind the meeting.

As they left the office he put a hand in the small of her back, feeling closer to her than he had to anyone for many years. There was a connection between them that only deepened with each passing day, each incident and development in the operation, and he relished it. It allowed them to communicate less with words than gestures and looks, and for a man immersed in this secret world that was a wonderful thing.

0o0

Gorky Park, Moscow
12 December 1986

He managed to meet with Connie two days later. As they sat on the bench light snowflakes filtered down on them from a low, leaden sky that seemed to reflect the mood between them. Or perhaps it was the cause for it. They did not waste time on niceties, and Harry was aware of a suppressed tension running through the woman next to him. That was understandable – it was her life on the line, after all, but he couldn't help but wonder; was there another reason for it? A darker, treasonous one? He still did not want to believe it, but the evidence was beginning to mount, and hopefully that cheap plastic lighter held the definitive answer. Until then he had to stall and to cover all possible contingencies.

He briefly described what had happened and Connie watched his face carefully as he spoke. He returned her gaze unflinchingly. "I think they knew that there would be an attempted defection," he stated bluntly. Connie was a smart intelligence operative, and he knew it would arouse her suspicions if he did not consider this option. "And I have to ask myself, Connie – how did they know?" It was a veiled accusation and she smiled mirthlessly.
"And naturally you immediately assumed it must be me?" she asked. She was calm; she did not give him anything. If the situation wasn't so serious, he would have admired that.
"I told you that I expected to have more information in a few days. I didn't tell anyone else, so what am I supposed to think?" he persisted and for a moment her composure slipped and she glared at him. There was real venom in that look and he filed it away for further analysis later. But then she took a deep breath and reined in her anger.
"Yes, I was one of the people who could have told the Soviets," she conceded, "but I am certainly not the only one. And as the one whose neck is on the line I am grateful that you are considering all the options. I understand," she said with a small smile, "as long as you are also investigating the other possibilities."

It was a convincing performance and he relaxed slightly. She was right – there were other ways they could have known, and he fervently hoped that would turn out to be the case. "Of course I am," he promised, and some of the tension between them dissipated. She reached out and squeezed his knee.
"Good. So what now?"
"We should lie low for a while. Put everything on hold until I'm sure you're not in any danger. Can you manage that without arising Popov's suspicions?"
Connie thought about it, then nodded. "I can use the incident at the embassy – tell them I want to be careful until the dust has settled."
"All right. I'm going to try and take the heat off you by enticing their surveillance out of Moscow for a few days. I'll let it drop that I need a break after the failed defection attempt and go to Leningrad for a holiday."
She tilted her head and watched him knowingly. "Hmm. And might the nubile young translator be joining you?" she teased and he felt his face flush. She laughed, delighted that she still had the ability to put him off-balance and his irritation with her flared up anew.
"For God's sake," he muttered and stood, intent on marching away, and Connie relented and grabbed his arm.
"Oh come on, Harry. Lighten up, will you?" She stood too and looked at him kindly. "I happen to think she's good for you. You're more like your old self and I'm glad about that." She squeezed his arm and added, "Welcome back."

0o0

Oktyabrskaya Metro station, Moscow
14 December 1986, 23:30

They boarded the Krasnya Streia overnight train to Leningrad and made their way to their deluxe two-berth en suite compartment. The KGB watchers stayed on the platform until the train pulled out of the station, making sure he did not disembark again, and he suspected there would be at least four or more of them on the train. He didn't care – he knew that they would be followed and he had contingencies in place. But at least they would be unobserved as long as they remained in the compartment, and it afforded them a night of relaxation.

Once they left Moscow and its artificial light behind, Harry opened the screen that covered the window and looked out. The sky was clear and crisp, allowing them to view the millions of stars that flickered above. Everything was covered in a new layer of snow, virgin and undisturbed and pristinely white. A full moon was rising and Harry turned to Ruth. "Look at this," he said and flicked off the light in the compartment, and from the darkness inside they gazed upon a fairy tale. The snow amplified the light of the moon and it was almost as bright as day, allowing them to make out features such as snow-covered trees and the occasional isolated dwelling.
"Oh my God," Ruth breathed, enchanted, "it's beautiful." The silver light streamed in through the window and turned her skin to marble, and when she looked at him her eyes were the colour of a stormy ocean.
"Yes," he murmured, similarly enchanted, not once taking his gaze off her. Their eyes locked and held, and in a single breath the attraction between them flamed and caught fire. Conscious thought dissolved in its heat and instinct took over, and he lowered his head to hers and kissed her.

It was not a chaste kiss, this time. He was overwhelmed by desire and his lips were demanding on hers, needing more than the mere caress of skin against skin. When his tongue flickered against her lips she opened up to him instantly, meeting the invasion of her mouth stroke for stroke with her own. He groaned and his hand tangled in her hair, holding her locked to him, and she pressed the length of her body against his. Her hands linked behind his neck and everywhere her skin touched his the fire ignited and spread. There would be no backing off, this night, no nod to prudence. They would slake the deep want they harboured for each other, and bugger the consequences.

One hand skimmed down her back, lingered briefly on her hip, before dropping to her buttock and pressing her against him. His hardness was trapped between them, proud and unmistakable and she tore her mouth from his to gasp in anticipation. There was no hesitation from her, no holding back, and in that magical light he undressed her and worshipped every inch of her supple skin with his mouth. His lips glided over the column of her throat, traced a clavicle and finally ghosted over the rise of a breast to envelop the peak. She had somehow managed to remove his clothes at the same time and he sat down on the narrow bunk and coaxed her onto his lap, straddling him. With a few murmured words he encouraged her to take him deep within, to abandon any inhibition she might have felt, and to take her pleasure at will. And all the time he watched, entranced, as she moved above him, as the sweat on her skin glistened in the moonlight, and not once did thoughts of Jane, of Elena, or of guilt intrude.

0o0

He was insatiable. They had pulled the mattresses from the narrow bunks and made a bed on the floor, and lay spooned together when she was woken by a nip of her shoulder blade and a gentle tweak of a nipple. She was still surfacing when his hand travelled south and set to work, his nimble fingers stoking the embers of desire back to a blaze until she was begging him for more. He nudged a knee between her legs and entered her from behind, and made love to her with leisurely thrusts that made her moan in approval.

Afterwards they dozed again, and the second time he woke her there was a glint in his eye that had nothing to do with the moonlight. He lifted her onto the small table and pressed her back until she was half-reclined against the window, and the silvery light that streamed past her accentuated the planes and angles of his body, his muscles, as he towered above her like some flaxen-haired mystical Nordic god. This time it was not gentle; he abandoned any semblance of control and pounded into her. The last coherent thought she had was: So this is what it feels like to be thoroughly shagged, swiftly followed by Oh God yes, more. More. She was not aware that she had spoken the last words out loud, but she must have because his eyes darkened dangerously and he buried himself deeper, harder until she spiralled into oblivion.

0o0

The next time she woke the moonlight had been replaced by weak sunlight. They were back on their makeshift bed and he was sprawled on his stomach beside her, snoring lightly. His head was next to her breast, and with every exhalation a gentle puff of air slid across the sensitive skin. Her arm was slung across his shoulders, holding him to her, and she took a moment to marvel at how comfortable she felt waking up with him like this. She knew, though, that they would soon arrive in Leningrad and reluctantly nudged him awake. He went off to the small bathroom grumblingly and she shamelessly admired his naked behind as he walked away from her. Yes, she thought, she could become used to waking up like this every day.

0o0

Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow
15 December 1986

Simultaneously, in that same weak sunlight, Connie stood waiting by Chekhov's grave. She had been summoned by Popov, and even though Harry had ordered her to avoid contact with the Russians for the time being, she had immediately accepted. Besides, Harry was off to Leningrad with his new young plaything and would be none the wiser. But Connie was worried, and she could not afford to miss this meeting. Popov came striding towards her, a tall and imposing dark figure against the white snow, and the now almost familiar thrill ran through her. He reached her side and observed her keenly. "How are you?" he asked and she smiled briefly.
"Fine. But we may have a problem."
"Yes." Popov looked away briefly, towards the horizon, towards Leningrad. "What did Pearce say during your last meeting?" Connie briefly related the conversation and Popov absorbed every word thoughtfully. "So he did not get anything definite from the defector," he asserted slowly.
"Doesn't seem like it," Connie confirmed. "But he is no longer in his emotional funk, and he is suspicious. He will continue to dig until he finds the answers."
There was a long silence as the Russian thought about this, and eventually he said, "Then I think it is time to remove him. Permanently."
Connie balked. Harry was a colleague, a man whose abilities as an intelligence officer she grudgingly admired, who had saved her bacon once in Belfast. "Is that necessary? Can't you just have him deported?"
Popov shook his head decisively. "He is like a dog with a bone. He will not let it go, even back in London. We cannot afford that." He tilted his head and watched her shrewdly. "He will not come back from Leningrad," he added simply, and she knew that the decision had been made.

Connie the colleague wanted to scream at the sky, to walk away from the whole sordid business, but Connie the KGB mole knew that there was no choice. She nodded once, stiffly, but couldn't help one last gesture of mercy. "All right. But give him his naughty weekend with the girl. You can do it when he's back in Moscow."

tbc