PART XII
I have destroyed him with the weapons I abhorred, and they are his. We have crossed each other's frontiers, we are the no-men of this no-man's land.
- John le Carre, Smiley's People
Minsk
18 December 1986
He held onto her until all sound from the office had ceased, and the moment he released her she retreated, putting as much distance as possible between them. Her face was a ghostly white and the horror in her eyes nearly killed him, but he didn't say anything. He just stood there, watching her with infinite sadness, aware that this was the end of the road for them. She had seen first-hand what he was capable of and she would never forgive him for it. Of that he was certain. But now, at least, she would be free. She would not want to work for MI-5 and she would have a normal life, whatever that meant. He no longer had any idea what that was. At last he scraped together the will to move and as he turned away from her, her voice came to him, dull, low and soft, but still the words cut him to the quick. "How could you?"
He closed his eyes and breathed, knowing those words would haunt him for the rest of his days. It was on the tip of his tongue to defend himself, to try to explain, but he knew it was pointless. How could one explain what he had done to a person from the normal world? So when he answered he did not look at her, but said over his shoulder, "She was a traitor."
He heard her gasp as he opened the door and moved inside, and knew that she did not understand. How could she – this young woman that represented everything that was good and pure to him? He lifted his eyes and forced himself to look at the body dangling from the barred window – at Connie James, traitor. And also colleague and yes, friend. The bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, then moved forward to release her as gently as he could with only one working arm. He laid her on the floor and closed the unseeing eyes, before he sat back on his haunches. She looked so peaceful, almost as though she was only asleep, and the futility of it, the sheer waste, rushed onto him like a wave. Tears sprang to his eyes and he lifted a hand to pinch them away, before he rose stiffly and fetched a blanket to cover her. He stood over the body, head bowed, as images of his years working with Connie flashed through his mind, unaware that Ruth was watching his every move from the door. Eventually he squared his shoulders and turned away. There had been no choice; he knew that, but that didn't make it any easier. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life; another layer on the callus over his heart. It was necessary, that callus, otherwise he would be crushed by the sheer weight of the things he had done. Vaguely he wondered if it would ever become so thick that he would no longer be capable of feeling anything; no joy, no sorrow. No love. For a second he thought that would not be a bad thing, but he swiftly suppressed it. No. He would fight, with every ounce of his considerable will, to hang onto his humanity. Even if that meant it hurt so much more to lose the regard of someone like Ruth. He would bear that, and be thankful that he could still feel that pain.
0o0
Ruth watched mutely as Harry laid down the body and crouched down next to it, and pressed closed the staring eyes. She was in shock; she had never been in such close proximity to death, and she was convinced those choking sounds would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Someone had died in the room right next to her, and she had done nothing. No – that wasn't strictly true; she had tried, but Harry had stopped her. This death was squarely on his shoulders, and she believed, in that moment, that she would never forgive him for it. What kind of a man so casually suggested to another that their only option was to kill themselves? It was hideous. It was inhuman. How could she have got it so wrong? She could not believe that she had fallen for such a man; that she had believed herself to be in love with him. And death seemed to follow him around – there had also been the Soviet agent, Misha Zverev. And she could very well be next. The KGB was after them, and she was convinced that she would be killed alongside Harry should the Soviets catch up with them. She suppressed a laugh – hysteria was close to the surface and she was barely in control of her emotions – and to think that she had thought the spying game so wonderfully exciting at the beginning. Dear God, how naïve had that been? She was about to turn away when she noticed him pinch tears from the corners of his eyes, and it involuntarily gave her pause. At least he was not unaffected by the episode, even though he had done a pretty good job of hiding his emotions from her. But was that enough for her to forgive him? The answer was no. It was not.
0o0
19 December 1986, early evening
Evgeny's people came for them in the early evening, and Harry's relief knew no bounds. The last day had been excruciating; he and Ruth had barely exchanged a word since the incident. He did not blame her; he understood his culpability in all of this and knew it was no less than he deserved. He had pursued her when he should have known better, had drawn her into his world, selfishly believing that the fact that he cared for her would be enough to shield her from the horrors of his work. It was a pipe-dream, of course. He could not shield her any more than he could any of his assets and colleagues. It was the nature of intelligence work – it was inherently dangerous and it had been foolhardy to think he could change that. That was why it was so important that entry into this world should be by personal choice – if one did it for any other reason than the desire to serve your country it would eat you alive. And he wondered; was that what had happened to Connie? Many people were drawn into Intelligence almost by accident and then simply carried on – had Connie been one of them? He would never know, now.
They were back on a train, but at least it wasn't a refrigerated container this time. He was infinitely grateful for that, as his shoulder tended to ache excruciatingly in freezing temperatures. The container was dark inside, something else he was thankful for, as it spared him from her disapproving gaze. He felt it weighing on him every time he caught her looking at him, but he did not know what to say in defence. And anyway, was there any defence for what he'd done? He felt a spear of anger and despair at the whole situation. She made him strive to be a better person, and now he would lose that. Was he strong enough to pursue that noble goal without her in his life? He didn't know the answer. The last three years had been awful, what with the events of Berlin and his crumbling marriage, and he suspected that he did not yet know the full extent of the damage it had done to him. He fleetingly wondered whether he should walk away while he still could, while he still recognised himself in the mirror each morning. But he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came up. He never quit, and to do so now would be especially cowardly. There were people to protect, the Realm's interests to defend, and he was ideally suited to this task. And besides, it was the only way he knew to honour the sacrifices of those who had served with him – Bill Crombie and all the others that had given their lives.
He heard a scuffling noise in the darkness as she shifted her position, and then she sighed deeply. The sound was weary and forlorn and made his heart ache. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the desire to reach out to her, to comfort her in some way. Regret washed over him - they could have been so good together; side by side in both their professional and personal capacities. And before he could stop himself he was speaking. "Ruth?" he asked into the darkness, tentatively, and felt her attention focus on him. She did not say anything, but he could sense her anticipation, and it encouraged him. But what to say? He wanted her to know that he still loved her, that he wished more than anything to have a future with her, but he couldn't exactly blurt that out without preamble. That would be too much after Connie's death. So instead he said, "If you still wish to join MI-5 I'll-"
"Oh my God!" she interrupted, incredulous, and he stopped talking, finally defeated.
There would be no future for them.
0o0
Kaliningrad harbour
20 December 1986, early morning hours
The container was offloaded and they waited, not daring to speak, for what felt like hours. Harry strained his ears and after a while all activity around the container seemed to cease. A couple of minutes later footsteps approached and he tensed, ready for any eventuality. The door swung open to reveal a pitch-black sky. There were no stars; it was overcast again and there was a definite bite in the air. Yet more snow awaited the country. It was turning out to be one of the coldest winters in recent memory. The man shone a torchlight into the container, aiming it at the floor so as not to blind them. "Let's go," he instructed in a soft voice and Harry stepped out carefully, alert for any hidden danger. Ruth followed on his heels, her face a pale oval in the weak light. The man produced a sheet from his pocket and shone his torch on it. "This is a map of the harbour. We are here, in the container depo," he said pointing a gloved finger at a red X on the map. "The Valtameri Matriarkka is berthed at quay 17, here." A route was mapped out from one cross to the other, and Harry studied it. "You'll have to find it on your own," the man said, "I need to get back to my post. Be careful," he added, "the KGB has been making surprise security sweeps the last few days, so there might be agents wandering about in the dark." He smiled, a brief white flash of teeth in the darkness, and handed Harry the map. "Good luck." With that he vanished and they stood alone, listening to his receding footsteps.
Ruth looked around – they were in the midst of a city of containers, with narrow alleys running between the stacks.
"We need to head north," Harry said in a low voice and she looked at him blankly. She could barely tell which way was up in the dark - north was a definite impossibility. So she merely nodded and followed him when he set off in a particular direction, making sure she stuck to him closely enough not to lose him. Her heart was beating fast and her muscles tensed; the situation was fraught with danger, and they were as good as rats in a maze among these containers. She looked at the silhouette of the man in front of her; his movement was sure and light-footed in the gloom, and he radiated a focussed calm. It served to ease her own nerves. Harry thrived in situations like these – he rarely panicked, and that gave them a chance. No matter how much she might despise what he did to his colleague, she could not help but admire his assuredness under pressure, his braveness in the face of danger.
Suddenly a voice laughed close to them, and Ruth froze and swung sharply towards it. Whoever it had been could be no more than two or three rows of containers away from them and she waited, tuning her ears for movement from that direction. There was nothing and she relaxed, but when she turned back in the direction they had been moving, Harry was gone. She was alone. Panic flooded her and she strained to pierce the darkness, to spot any movement ahead of her. But there was nothing. She did not dare to call out and hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Should she continue on, hoping he had not turned down any of the alleys that crossed their path at regular intervals? No, she decided; she would be hopelessly lost within minutes. Better to stay put and let Harry find her. She heard a soft footfall behind her and spun around, a smile of relief on her face. "I thought I'd lost you-" she began, but then she realised that the shape in front of her was all wrong. It was too tall and too broad. It was not Harry. Oh, Christ. She barely had time to formulate that thought when a hand clamped across her mouth and she was dragged down a side-alley.
0o0
Harry heard the laugh and instinctively sped up. It took him a few seconds to realise that he could no longer hear Ruth behind him, and glanced round. Nothing. Then, to his horror, he heard a scuffle and a choked-off cry of alarm. Oh, no. Ruth. He hastened back to where he had last seen her, every sense sharpened. A dull metallic sound rang out somewhere to his right, and he veered towards it. He was certain she would put up a fight – Ruth was no quitter, and he gambled on the sound being the result of a kick-out by her. He kept his eyes open for a possible weapon, but he could not spot anything useful in the gloom. He heard grunts up ahead, and then a choked-off groan of pain. Good. She was keeping her assailant busy; that would give him a better chance. He crept forward cautiously and peered around the corner, and his heart nearly stopped. Ruth was in the clutches of a large man, who had one hand clamped over her mouth whilst he tried to pinion her flailing arms to her sides with the other arm. She was struggling mightily, kicking out violently even though she wasn't really impacting on him. Harry was overwhelmed by a surge of affection for her, by a need to protect her, and he did not hesitate. As he rushed forward he yanked off the make-shift sling, ignoring the resultant stab of pain in his shoulder. The man's back was half-turned to him as he wrestled with the struggling woman and he did not notice Harry until it was too late. With a strength borne of desperation Harry jumped him from behind, slinging his good arm around the man's neck and pulling it backwards. He simultaneously clamped his other hand over the mouth to prevent any call for help and it was a good thing, too, because he felt the rush of air against his palm as the man roared in surprise.
Ruth heard the muffled scream in her ear and then she was suddenly released, and she jumped away. Her foot caught in the snow and she stumbled to her knees, and looked up to see the two men locked in a desperate struggle. Harry had come for her, and in her gratitude she momentarily forgot about Connie and her anger towards him. He had risked his own safety to save her – he could have left without her, but he did not. And she realised again; he was an honourable man, for the most part. Her assailant was bigger than Harry, but he was forcing the man's head ever further back to keep him off-balance. As soon as he felt the man was sufficiently unbalanced for the manoeuvre to work, he swept his legs from under him. As they went down in a heap he used the second of surprise to turn them, so that he fell on top of the man, and he heard the breath whoosh out of him. Only then did he remove the hand he still had clamped over the mouth, and instead used it to force the man's face into the snow. He could feel the blood running down his arm and knew that he had torn open the gunshot wound again, but he ignored it. All his energy was focussed on keeping Ruth's assailant pinned down, to keep his face buried in the snow. After what felt like an eternity the body below him began to convulse, and he tried not to think about Ruth watching him kill yet another human being. Eventually all movement ceased and he slowly released his grip. He was shaking from the effort and, he realised belatedly, the pain in his shoulder, and began to struggle to his feet wearily. And then, to his surprise, Ruth was there, heaving a shoulder underneath his arm and helping him up.
"You all right?" he gasped and she nodded, then realised he couldn't see the movement in the dark.
"Yes. You?"
He grimaced in pain. "Dandy. Never better," he said laconically and began to steer her away. "We need to hurry now. Once they find him…" There was no need to finish the thought – she could picture it all too clearly. There would be men swarming all over the harbour, hunting them in every nook and cranny. And dogs. Somehow she was certain there would be dogs, and she could practically already hear the baying behind her. So they hurried on, supporting each other, only intent on survival. The other things between them could wait, and hopefully there would be time later.
0o0
They reached the ship without further incident, and Ruth had never been so happy in her life to see a rusting hulk of steel towering above her. The gangplank was down, but there was a man standing next to it, and he had a gun at his side. She hung back but Harry pulled her forward. "He should be one of ours," he murmured as they stepped into the pool of light in which the man stood.
"Should?" Ruth said, alarmed, but by then it was too late. He had seen them and whipped the gun up into a shooting position.
"Jelly babies," Harry announced out of the blue and she stared at him, wondering whether the exertion and the blood loss was beginning to affect his mental faculties, but then the man lowered his gun and waved them up the plank. He followed them up, moving backwards with the gun at the ready to cover the rear.
"What is it with you guys and the sweets?" Ruth couldn't help but ask, and Harry shrugged and grinned.
"Ask Malcolm – he's the one who chose the codes."
And then they were on the ship and surrounded by people, and moments later she felt the deck begin to throb beneath her feet as the engines rumbled into life. They had made it, she thought giddily; they had made it out alive against all the odds.
0o0
Valtameri Matriarkka
21 December 1986
They had rounded Denmark and were well into the North Sea by the time she found a moment alone with Malcolm. Until then there had been debriefings with men she did not know, and she had not seen Harry since their arrival on the ship. He had been ushered away by the ship's doctor and, Malcolm now informed her, sedated to repair the damage to his shoulder. "He's going to have a nasty scar," he said, and just for a moment Harry's naked torso flashed before her eyes, painted silver by magical moonlight and glistening with sweat as he towered above her. She swallowed and the images were replaced by his face, an expressionless mask, as he dropped his belt on the chair in front of Connie.
"He forced her to kill herself," she blurted, grateful to finally get the words out and off her chest. All through the debriefings she had refrained from saying it, had claimed no knowledge of what had happened in that room between the two intelligence officers. She wasn't sure why – perhaps, despite everything, she wanted to protect him.
Malcolm watched her knowingly, not saying anything at first. "You're angry with him for that?" he asked, and she looked at him in shock.
"Of course! And so should you," she insisted angrily, and Malcom smiled. The girl had spirit, and he could see why Harry had been attracted to her.
"No," he said, as gently as he could, and she stared at him in confusion. When he continued he looked her squarely in the eye. "Connie and I were friends. I knew her well. She wasn't afraid of many things, but one thing she could simply not abide was confined spaces." He watched her to see if she understood, and when she said nothing he continued. "What do you think would have happened to her if he'd brought her out with him? Life imprisonment, that's what. She would have gone mad. No, he didn't force her to kill herself – he gave her a chance to be free."
Ruth absorbed that. She wasn't sure she understood a world in which you were set free through death, but obviously it made perfect sense to the man standing before her. It was the world he and Harry lived in every day, and in which she had shared for a few weeks. A few exhilarating, horrifying weeks, and she knew on some level that the experience had changed her forever. She wasn't quite sure, yet, whether it was for better or for worse. Only time and distance would tell.
"What will you do now?" Malcolm asked, as though he had read her thoughts, and she looked at him and smiled sadly.
"I don't know."
tbc