The Lost American

Brian Freemantle

I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine.

As You Like It

Shakespeare

Chapter One

Housework had become important, a time-filling ritual, and Ann moved dutifully through the apartment, vacuuming carpets already vacuumed, tidying things already tidied and dusting where no dust had had time to collect, from the previous day. She tried to concentrate upon what she was doing but by now the ritual had become mechanical as well as dutiful, like so much else. She’d expected the uncertainty, of course: the doubts even. For there to have been any other reaction, after what had happened and where they were, would have been more unsettling than the feelings she now had, because it would have been unnatural. But it should have gone by now. Lessened at least. Not got worse. She stopped the vacuum abruptly, the movement a physical correction. Only some things seemed to have got worse. To think everything had would be to exaggerate and it would be wrong – dangerous – to exaggerate: certainly not the way to settle and adjust, imagining things to be worse than they really were. The hostility had definitely gone, from the other wives. Eddie insisted that it had never existed in the first place, dismissing the impression as her confused response to the trauma of the divorce and the reaction of her family and the abruptness of the Moscow posting, but Ann knew she wasn’t confused. They had been hostile. She’d rationalised the attitude, even understood it, now she’d lived in Moscow. The Western diplomatic community in the Soviet capital was an enclosed, insular and – her strong opinion – claustrophobic existence, the same faces at the same receptions and parties with the same small-talk and the same gossip. She’d been a subject of that gossip – maybe she still was, because not everyone had come round and was friendly now – the woman half her husband’s age who’d wrecked a happy marriage. And if she’d done it once, she could do it again. Especially in the unnatural circumstances of where they were and how they lived, crammed together in constant contact. Bloody hypocrites. She’d seen the flirtations and guessed the affairs and those she hadn’t guessed had soon been reported, on the gossip-mill. At least she and Eddie had been honest. Refused to lie and confronted all the consequences: the bitterness and the recriminations and the nastiness – God, the nastiness! – which was more than any of them were doing.

Ann abandoned the unnecessary dusting, sitting in a chair – forward, on the edge, not relaxed – arriving at another ritual, the increasing (daily almost) reflection of what that honesty had cost. She told Eddie and Eddie told her that each had expected to happen what had happened but she knew that wasn’t true. She certainly hadn’t anticipated her family’s reaction. She knew they’d be upset, obviously – they couldn’t be anything else. But she’d thought they would have come round to accepting the situation by now, not gone on behaving like some parody of Victorian rectitude, practically refusing any longer to acknowledge her existence. Whenever her mother wrote, which was only ever in response to her letters, never initiating any correspondence herself, there was always the conclusion involving her father – ‘Daddy sends his regards’ – but Ann knew that was a lie and that her father had done nothing of the sort. And what father sent his regards, for God’s sake! It wasn’t a parody of Victorian rectitude: it was Victorian rectitude. And it was hurtful and unnecessary and cruel and was one of the reasons – one of the main reasons – why she was so miserable.

She looked across the room at the drinks tray and then at her watch and then at the drinks tray again and decided against it, pleased at her control. Quite a lot of the women started cocktails at four, but she hadn’t, not yet. And neither would she, Ann determined. That would be giving in and she didn’t give in. She hadn’t given in to her family nor to the unpleasantness of Eddie’s divorce… Ann stopped, examining the word. Had Eddie’s divorce been unpleasant? Of course it had, on the surface. The tight-lipped meetings with the lawyers and the financial arrangements and the division of property, the dismantling of years together. But there hadn’t been from Ruth anything like the sort of reaction that had come from her family. And from Ruth it could have been expected. She was, after all, the abandoned wife, saddled with two bewildered sons and an empty house and empty memories, wondering where she went wrong which wasn’t a question for her, because Ruth hadn’t gone wrong anywhere. She hadn’t had affairs and she hadn’t drank and she hadn’t failed and she hadn’t, when Eddie announced he’d fallen in love with someone else, railed against him or fought him or hated him. Eddie said he’d imagined her behaving like that, because that was the sort of woman Ruth was, but Ann didn’t believe that, either. She was surprised – another uncertainty – and she knew Eddie was, as well. No sneers and no reproaches. It was Ruth who initiated the letters, more often than not: always chatty, always friendly. And always ‘love to Ann’. The discarded wife could send love to the woman who had replaced her and the best her father could manage was regards and that a lie, Ann thought bitterly.

She returned, to the beginning of the reflection. The honesty had cost a lot, for them both. So had it been worth it? Another part of the ritual. Increasing, too. Of course it had been worth it, she decided, in familiar reassurance. She loved Eddie as much – more – as she ever had and she knew he loved her. It was just Moscow. If it been any other posting to any other embassy, somewhere where they could have had outside friends and outside interests and driven a hundred miles out into the country on Sundays, if they’d felt like it, then Ann was positive everything would have been all right. She made another mental pause. Everything was all right, between her and Eddie. Which was all that mattered. Moscow was important to Eddie’s career, vitally so. All she had to do was endure it and be as philosophical about it as she could and ignore her bloody stupid family, like they were ignoring her, and wait until the next posting. She supposed Langley was a possibility, after Moscow. Ann decided she’d like that. Eddie was almost certain to be upgraded: as high as G-15 was a possibility because he had a lot of experience and was respected because of it. If he got G-15 they’d probably be able to afford something in Georgetown, the district of Washington she liked best. But maybe not, with the support he paid Ruth and the kids. If not Georgetown, Alexandria then. She liked that almost as much. It would be wonderful to be in Washington. There’d be concerts and plays at the Kennedy Centre. And New York was only an hour away on the shuttle so they could see the Broadway shows whenever they wanted. And drive out into the country whenever they wanted to go and out to restaurants and not have to wait three hours for service and make friends with people they wanted to be friendly with, not those forced upon them by some restricted, hemmed-in environment. Moscow was an unnatural existence so it automatically followed that she should feel unnatural in it. Endure it, until the next posting, she thought again; that’s all she had to do.

It was gone five before she took the first drink, while she was preparing dinner and she made it last until Eddie came home, promptly at six, which was another ritual. She was waiting, directly inside the apartment entrance. He kissed her and held her tightly and she held him tightly back, needing his closeness. He did love her and she loved him. Just endure it, she thought.

Ann fixed his drink and made another for herself and said, ‘Steak. That OK?’ At least they were able to eat well, with access to the embassy concessions.

‘Wait until I can teach you how to cook them outside.’ Eddie Blair was a tall, heavy man of casual, almost slow, movements. He spoke slowly, too, the Texas accent pronounced. The slowness and the frequent references to cook-outs and range riding and the tendency to dress in jeans and sports shirts for the more casual parties conveyed to some the impression of country-boy stolidness, which was intentionally misleading. Blair was one of the most highly regarded foreign service officers within the Central Intelligence Agency, already at supervisor rank.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Ann, honestly. ‘How was your day?’

He grimaced. ‘Average. Yours?’

‘Average,’ she said. Liar, she thought. She said, ‘Betty Harrison called, suggesting lunch. But I said no.’

‘Why not?’ said Blair.

Because I lunched with her yesterday and two days before that and I’m lunching with her tomorrow, thought Ann. She said, ‘I was busy, here in the apartment.’

‘Nothing for you in the bag,’ he said. All their overseas correspondence arrived in the diplomatic pouch.

‘I wasn’t expecting anything,’ she said. Father sends his regards, she thought. ‘You?’ she said.

Blair reached into his briefcase and took out the letter, still sealed. ‘From Ruth,’ he said, unnecessarily.

‘Let’s open it,’ said Ann. They’d made each other several promises, when they married. One, practically a cliche, was no secrets and that extended to the letters between him and Ruth. Blair interpreted it by never opening his first wife’s letters at the embassy when they arrived, but always waiting until he got home.

She refilled his glass and decided, after a moment’s hesitation, against having a third herself while he opened the letter and read it. ‘She’s taking the kids to her folks’ place in Maine, for Thanksgiving,’ he reported. There was a few seconds’ silence and then he said, ‘Paul’s grades aren’t good; teacher’s apparently disappointed. John’s either.’

Ann wondered if it was because of the break-up and knew he would, too. It wouldn’t have been possible here in Moscow, of course, but elsewhere he would have taught the boys to cook-out and ride and hunt and fish and have gone camping with them, at week-ends and on vacations. He missed the boys, she knew. His guilt – the guilt he sought to minimise, despite the undertakings about no secrets – was as much for abandoning them as it was for abandoning Ruth.

‘Ruth’s been getting out,’ he said, still reading the letter. ‘Guy called Charlie Rogers. Someone she knew at high school. Friend of the family, apparently.’

‘How do you feel about that?’ she said, wishing immediately she hadn’t.

Blair frowned up at her. ‘Pleased for her, of course,’ he said. ‘What else should I feel?’

‘Nothing,’ she agreed at once. He could have made an argument out of it if he’d wanted to. Thank God he hadn’t. She was still nervous of arguments, in their relationship.

‘She’s sent some pictures,’ said Blair. He looked at the prints for several moments and Ann stared at him, alert for any facial reaction. There wasn’t any. ‘Here,’ he said, offering them to her.

Paul was the older, fourteen in two months’ time. John was nine, dark-haired like Ruth. Paul had his father’s blondness and would be big, too: already he had to be almost five feet. She guessed they’d posed specially for the photographs to be sent to their father: their lips were barely parted, in reluctant indications of a smile. They were standing against Ruth’s car, in the driveway of the Rosslyn house. If Eddie got the headquarters posting he expected, he’d be very near to them, Ann realised. So he would be able to take them on cook-outs and hunting and camping. Would the boys accept her? Ruth had – or appeared to have done, at least – despite the strained tightness of the initial confrontations and the immediate aftermath of the divorce. There’d only been one meeting with the children and they’d treated her then like the enemy she was, which she realistically accepted was all she could expect. She hoped the attitude would change, with time. ‘Is John wearing braces on his teeth?’ she said, passing the pictures back.

Blair stared down and said, ‘Difficult to tell. Ruth doesn’t say anything about it in the letter.’

He held it out to her, for her to read, another part of their no secrets agreement. Ann hesitated, appreciating the gesture but reluctant to take it from him. It was part of the undertaking between them. And he always read her letters, from her mother, although more out of courtesy to her than for any other reason, because they were so bloody stiff and formal. But she always felt the embarrassment of prying when it came to Ruth’s correspondence, which was probably illogical, considering that she’d taken the woman’s husband but it was nevertheless a sensation she always experienced. There was, of course, the other reason. To want to read the letters from his first wife could have indicated a jealousy. Ann was confident she didn’t have anything to be jealous about, not with Ruth. It was only to be expected that Eddie would still have some feeling for her: love, even, of a kind. But not the kind that was any danger to her. So there was no reason for jealousy and no reason, therefore, to do anything that might hint she felt that way. Like reading her letters. ‘Later,’ she avoided. ‘I’ve got dinner to fix first.’

As soon as they started to eat Ann recognised that the steaks were slightly more overdone than he liked, but Blair didn’t complain. ‘Sorry,’ she said, not wanting him to think she didn’t care.

‘It’s fine, really,’ he said. ‘John Ingram has got his posting.’

‘Where?’ she said. Ingram was Blair’s counterpart at the British Embassy, the Resident for Britain’s M16.

‘London,’ said Blair.

Lucky John Ingram, thought Ann. London was where she’d first met Blair, when he’d been attached to the American Embassy there, liaison attache with the British. ‘I’ll miss them,’ she said.

Lucinda Ingram had been one of the few wives to accept her, almost from the start, a bustling, no-nonsense woman, one of the ones who didn’t flirt. She drank a bit, though; but never beyond control. Lucinda’s going would mean she was losing her closest friend.

‘The farewell party is next Saturday.’

Same faces, same small-talk, she thought. ‘When did they hear about the move?’

‘Today, apparently.’

Which was why Lucinda hadn’t called, Ann supposed. She’d only be hearing about it herself tonight. ‘I must buy her something. A farewell gift,’ said Ann.

‘That would be nice.’

‘Maybe something from the gold shop, on Gorky Street.’ There wasn’t much else she could think of in the way of a gift that was obtainable in Moscow.

‘John’s asked me to look out for their new man.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone called Brinkman. Jeremy Brinkman.’

‘Wonder if he knows what to expect,’ said Ann. New arrivals were always lionised, a fresh face initially with fresh stories and news from outside their confines.

‘John doesn’t know him.’

‘Is he pleased to be going?’ Lucinda’s attitude had always been that Moscow was a stepping-stone assignment for her husband and somewhere – like anywhere else – that had to be enjoyed by a careerist’s wife.

‘It’s a promotion, so I think so,’ said Blair. ‘I don’t know that he likes the idea of being stuck in London.’

Dear God, just for the chance, thought Ann. She said, ‘Will he be?’

‘He’s not sure.’

‘How long’s he been here?’

‘Three years,’ said Blair.

Which meant they had a year to go, if three years were the norm, Ann calculated. Endure it, she thought. She said, ‘Thought about where you’d like to go next, apart from back to Langley?’

Instead of answering, Blair said, ‘What about you? Where would you like to go, if you were given the choice?’

Anywhere, so long as it was away from this damned place, Ann thought. She said, ‘I don’t care where I am, just as long as it’s with you.’

He reached across the table for her hand, and she felt out for his. ‘I love you,’ said Blair. ‘I love you very much.’

‘I love you, too,’ said Ann. ‘Very much.’

Pietr Orlov travelled on a diplomatic passport, which meant he was able to bypass the frustrating delays and formalities at Sheremetyevo airport. It meant, too, that his incoming luggage and freight was spared any Customs examination. He stood watching the dour-faced inspector in head-bent consultation with the official from the Foreign Ministry, guessing both would be resentful of his ability to bring so much back from America. Orlov hoped it wasn’t too much but he wanted it to look right. Someone recalled to Moscow after two years in New York would surely bring back the maximum he was allowed?

The check completed, the Foreign Ministry official came back to Orlov with the manifest. ‘Welcome back’, said the man.

Six months, calculated Orlov. Longer, if necessary. Like returning with the maximum allowance, everything had to look exactly right, if Natalia were to be protected. And Orlov was determined she would be. He’d loved her once, even if he didn’t any longer; not in the way that a man should love his wife, anyway. He was going to take every precaution to ensure her safety. Harriet was as insistent about that as he was; dear, wonderful Harriet.

A year then, if it had to be. Orlov hoped it wouldn’t be as long as that. He didn’t think he could exist for a year, without Harriet.

Chapter Two

Jeremy Brinkman entered the Foreign Office from Parliament Square, guessing this, the final meeting before the Moscow posting, would be the waste of time the others had been, self-important officials in mahogany chambers lecturing about dos and don’ts and what was expected and what was not expected. Brinkman knew all about self-important officials who disparaged changing governments and considered themselves – perhaps rightly – the true governors of the country. His father, who was one, had been a good teacher – in all things. But particularly about what was expected from the son of a Permanent Under Secretary whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose family service to the country – to the country and to the king and to the queen, not some passing political fancy with its cant and hollow propaganda – stretched back earlier than that. Brinkman knew, too, that he could fulfil the expectation. But his way. Proving that he didn’t need to rely upon family connections – not unless there wasn’t any other way, in which case it would have been stupid to ignore the advantage – but was able to open his own doors and to achieve his own successes. He’d proved it by getting to Cambridge on a scholarship, so that the family money was unnecessary. And by getting his rowing blue, something else they couldn’t use their influence to obtain. Any more than they could have bought or arranged his Double First in history or the 98% passmark for the required Foreign Office entry examination, although his father had hinted that help was available if the mark were border-line, still not properly aware of his son’s unshakeable intention never to do anything border-line in his entire life. But on his own; his way. Which was why Brinkman had applied to the intelligence service, purposely selecting a division as far away as possible from his father’s sphere of influence but sensibly not so entirely removed from the Foreign Office – to whom MI6 were responsible – that there wasn’t a final safety net if he lost his grip on the high trapeze. Not that he expected to, because Jeremy Brinkman was supremely confident, to the point – not infrequently – of having people misunderstand the attitude as arrogance. Brinkman knew he wasn’t arrogant, because he knew everything about himself. Just determined. And properly, necessarily confident. The selection of the country’s intelligence service had annoyed his father, of course. Sir Richard Brinkman was of the school who found no difficulty in ignoring Britain’s most recent spy scandals and thought the idea preposterous that a chap would read another chap’s mail or that one could doubt the loyalty of anyone who had been to a recognisable handful of good schools and proper universities. He accepted the existence of such a department, but more from the historical precedent of its formation during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I than for its practical necessity. But certainly didn’t consider it something with which the Brinkman family, with all its traditions, should become associated. So they’d argued, repeatedly, not in any gesticulating, shouting manner, but in the level, measured logic of a Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office intent upon persuading someone with less experience the obvious error of a mistaken judgment. Sir Richard hadn’t raised his voice or changed the calm demeanour even when he realised that his son couldn’t – or wouldn’t – accept the logical argument but was determined upon a despised branch of the service. Between them now there existed the sort of unspoken, unannounced truce that sometimes develops between equally strong and equally implacable armies who recognise that continued fighting is pointless, but that fresh strategies are necessary. Brinkman smiled at the analogy as he walked along the now familiar, hushed corridors. Moscow had created the strategy for him: he was regrouping, far away from any intrusion the old man might be able to make. Brinkman’s smiled faded, as he arrived at the designated doorway and proved his identity and handed his appointment chit over to the waiting security guard. At least he hoped he was far enough away.

There wasn’t any formal introduction because that wasn’t the way these sorts of interviews were conducted, but Brinkman knew the man’s name was Maxwell and that he was number three on the Moscow desk and the person who would, after analysis and checking, ultimately receive his report. Maxwell waved him to a chair and offered a round tub of cigarettes which Brinkman, who didn’t smoke, refused. Maxwell took one, coughed lighting it and said, ‘Shouldn’t, I know. Filthy habit.’

Brinkman smiled, politely, but said nothing, waiting for his superior to lead. There was a protocol about everything in the Foreign Office and Brinkman knew every coda of it.

‘Finished the rounds?’ Maxwell had a rough, hello-me-hearties voice. If the tie the man was wearing designated a rugby club then Brinkman guessed he knew all the bar-room songs.

‘I think so, sir,’ said Brinkman. ‘It seems a lot of advice is necessary.’

‘Civil servants, justifying their existence,’ said Maxwell.

Brinkman decided he liked the man. He said, ‘What’s the proper briefing?’

‘If it were thought necessary to give a lecture you wouldn’t have been selected in the first place,’ said Maxwell, gruffly. ‘As it is you’ve jumped over quite a few heads.’

His father’s influence? wondered Brinkman at once. But that didn’t follow, if the man were trying to prevent his joining the department. Unless he’d accepted that persuasion was impossible and decided instead to get the best possible posting for his son. Probing, he said, ‘I’d hoped I’d got it on merit.’

‘Course you have,’ said Maxwell. ‘How else?’

Very early Brinkman had learned the advantage of apparent ingenuous honesty. He said, ‘It doesn’t seem to be any secret within the department that my father is attached to the Foreign Office.’

‘Hasn’t made any sort of approach to me,’ said Maxwell and Brinkman believed the man. Maxwell went on, ‘You got it because of your ability with the language and your pass-marks and your general aptitude, in all the examinations and tests.’

‘Thank you,’ said Brinkman.

‘Which don’t mean a damn, on the streets. Not much, anyway,’ deflated Maxwell. ‘Give me common sense compared with a 98% pass-mark in an examination and I’d choose common sense every time.’

‘I understand,’ said Brinkman, too glibly, regretting it as soon as he spoke.

‘No you don’t,’ said Maxwell, maintaining his directness. ‘There’s no way you can, not yet. But I think you will. Every assessment and aptitude test you’ve taken repeats the same characteristic – you’re fast on your feet. Cunning was one word used, not unkindly. And you don’t make mistakes, not twice.’

Brinkman felt the burn of embarrassment at the public examination. He wished he could think of some proper response. Knowing it was insufficient, he said, ‘I’ll try.’

Maxwell shook his head. ‘You’ve got to do better than that. I don’t want you making any mistakes, not even once. Classrooms and mock-these and mock-thats can never properly equip you for the real thing. You’re going to a sensitive place: the most sensitive place. I know you’re ambitious – that’s another finding of the aptitude tests and psychiatrists’ reports. I’m glad. Someone without ambition isn’t any good to me. But use it properly. I’m not expecting – no-one’s expecting – sensations: no Krushchev-like denunciations of Brezhnev or Andropov at secret Politburo sessions. I want steady, practical work. I want the analysis to be correct and I want the assessments to accord with the facts, as best you can obtain them. Don’t ever take a chance, to impress me or anybody else. You got that?’

‘Yes sir, I’ve got that,’ said Brinkman, knowing he had to. He didn’t intend taking any chances: not stupid ones, anyway. But if one came that wasn’t stupid he was going to grab it like a drowning man snatching at passing driftwood and show everyone – Maxwell and his father and everyone – just how good he was.

‘Ingram’s staying over, to ease you in.’

‘That’s kind,’ said Brinkman. He didn’t want to be eased in by anyone, picking up cast-off contacts like second-hand clothes but it wouldn’t have been politic to say so.

‘He’s done a good job there,’ said Maxwell. ‘He won’t be an easy act to follow.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Brinkman. Modesty, like apparent honesty, was another thing he practised.

‘Do more than that,’ said Maxwell, in his hearty voice. Brinkman wondered if he took the part of Santa Claus at the department Christmas party. ‘This could make or break a career, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Brinkman. Just as he knew it was going to be the former, not the latter.

Maxwell stood, ending the meeting. The man offered his hand and said, ‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Brinkman, modest still. Luck wasn’t going to have anything to do with it.

The love-making was good, like it always was, because he was more experienced and unselfish, knowing how to bring her up and then keep her there, so that she had orgasm after orgasm and even then didn’t want to stop but kept pulling at him, urgently demanding. When they finished Ann still clung to him, wanting his nakedness next to hers. After a long time she said, ‘Eddie?’

‘What?’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not,’ he sighed, confronting the familiar demand.

‘I don’t think it’s a reason.’

‘I do.’

‘Dozens of men your age have kids. You’re only forty-five, for Christ’s sake!’

‘And you’re only twenty-six. And when I’m sixty – if I get to be sixty – you’ll only be forty-one.’

‘So what!’ she demanded, exasperated. ‘If we had a baby now he or she would be eighteen or nineteen when you’re sixty. And of course you’re going to live beyond that.’ Ann wanted a baby, for all the natural, proper reasons but there was another one as well. A child would occupy her, completely; take away the aimlessness of her life in Moscow.

‘We’ll see,’ he said.

‘You’re avoiding it.’

‘I said we’ll see.’

Ann detected the note in his voice and accepted it was time to retreat. ‘I want a baby, Eddie,’ she said, firing the final salvo. ‘I want a baby very much.’

The headquarters of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti is largely a pre-revolutionary building, an ochre-coloured, rococo place dominating the square named after Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the organisation: in 1961, Nikita Krushchev unveiled a statue to commemorate the man whose groundwork makes it possible for the Soviet Politburo to rule the country. Before 1917 the seven-storey building within the long shadows of the Kremlin housed the All Russian Insurance Company. During World War II political and captured German prisoners were conscripted to build a nine-storey extension for the already greatly expanded intelligence service. There was an attempt to maintain the architectural style but it failed and the two buildings look as if they have been stuck together by children given different sets of building bricks for Christmas. Behind the haphazard, uneven facade is Lubyanka, the prison which gained terrifying notoriety under the purges of Stalin and the murderous zeal of intelligence chiefs like Yagoda and Beria. Lubyanka is no longer a prison. The unremitting expansion made it necessary for once bloodstained cells to be refurbished into offices and part of that expansion is occupied by the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB.

There are other directorates and divisions entrusted with the internal control of the Soviet Union but the Second Chief Directorate has the primary responsibility. That responsibility extends to the surveillance of all Western embassies and the identification and monitoring of the intelligence activities within those embassies.

Vasili Sokol was the director, officially designated deputy to the chairman himself, Aleksai Panov. Sokol was a heavily moustached, thick-bodied man of great determination and the focus of that determination was to rise one floor to the chairman’s pine-panelled office. It couldn’t be long, now. Despite the doctors’ warnings about the effect upon his emphysema Panov still chain-smoked those stinking tube-filtered cigarettes and the absences when he couldn’t even leave his bed were increasing to the point of his replacement becoming an open speculation. Sokol knew that all he needed was a coup, to single him out to the Politburo. The difficulty was in finding one.

Sokol was a methodical man, always early in the office to assimilate the overnight reports segregated in a series of In-trays hedged the entire length of his desk, one for each province, with a separate division for Moscow. He devoted particular attention to the reports of the grain shortages. Sokol had succeeded to the position he now occupied because his predecessor failed to anticipate and then quell unrest through food riots and Sokol didn’t intend suffering the same fate. He put the file to one side, for more detailed attention later and went to the reports from the capital.

The Foreign Ministry internal memorandum was on top of the pile, recording the British application for a diplomatic visa in the name of Jeremy Brinkman. Sokol noted that it had been granted and that the designation was cultural attache.

Sokol smiled down, wearily shaking his head. Sometimes he wondered why any of them – Russia included – bothered with the ridiculous pretence. Each side – the professionals at least – invariably knew what the other was doing, who was doing it and what the covers were. Cultural attache was the favourite. So the intelligence replacement for the British was someone named Jeremy Brinkman. Sokol routinely marked it for a file to be opened and went back to the grain reports. They were the important consideration, at the moment: a new intelligence Resident could wait.

Chapter Three

Farewell parties were usually the best. There was a purpose to them, a positive reason for going beyond the customary excuse of escaping from one set of four walls to another set of four walls. There was the official ceremony for Ingram, at the embassy on Morisa Toreza, but the bigger gathering was at the man’s own apartment, in the official diplomatic compound off Kutuzovsky Prospekt. It wasn’t limited to the British but included all Ingram’s friends from the other embassies as well, and this was the one Ingram assured Brinkman he would find the most useful. Ingram was a small, rotund man given to quick, fussy movements; he wore spectacles which Brinkman considered wrongly designed, with large round frames which made the man look like an owl, an owl in an unfamiliar hurry. Towards Brinkman the attitude was clearly that of mentor to pupil; Brinkman resented the patronising attitude but gave no indication of doing so.

Brinkman, who was taking over the Ingram apartment, arrived late from his temporary accommodation at the embassy, looking proprietorially around the smoke-filled, noisy rooms and hoping there wouldn’t be too much damage or too many stains to get repaired, afterwards. He knew – miserably – the smell of smoke would last for days. A temporary bar was set up along a wall directly adjacent to the kitchen, and Ingram stood beside it, urging people to take fresh drinks, eye-flickering around in happy contentment at being the object of so much attention. His wife bustled back and forth from the kitchen, ferrying food to a separate table near the window. Lucinda, remembered Brinkman, from their brief embassy encounter. Taller than her husband and not so obviously excited as he was by all the fuss; short, practical hairstyle and flat-heeled, practical shoes and a practical day dress instead of the cocktail creations all about her. Brinkman identified Lucinda Ingram as the sort of woman whom, at another time in another place, the natives would have instinctively addressed as ‘Mem-sahib’.

It was she who saw Brinkman first, standing just inside the door. She smiled and beckoned through the crush for him to come further in. As he started forward he saw her speak to her husband on the way to the kitchen on another food mission and at once Ingram looked in his direction.

‘Come in, come in,’ urged Ingram, thrusting through the crowd to meet him. The departing intelligence man cupped Brinkman’s arm with his hand and propelled him towards the drinks and Brinkman wished he hadn’t because he didn’t like that sort of physical contact. Brinkman chose scotch, frowning as the other man gushed an overly large measure into a tumbler and gave it to him without ice or water. Brinkman took it but didn’t drink.

‘Quite a crowd,’ he said.

‘More to come yet,’ said Ingram. ‘More to come. Lucky to have made a lot of friends.’

‘Certainly looks like it.’

Briefly the owl settled on a perch. ‘Important that some of them become your friends, too,’ said Ingram.

‘Who, for instance?’ said Brinkman, obediently.

‘Australians are useful, although not for the obvious reason. Get a lot of playback from Canberra on what’s happening in Peking…’ Ingram smiled, a man about to impart a secret. ‘No reason to consider yourself limited by the boundaries of the country you happen to be in, is there?’

‘None at all,’ agreed Brinkman. He decided that as irritating as Ingram might be, he wasn’t a fool.

‘Canada is important, too. By the same token. Ottowa was the first to recognise Mao, way back. So there’s a lot of playback through here: analysis requests on how something or other that appears to be emerging in Peking will be viewed in Moscow. It’s a worthwhile tennis game to watch.’

With China the subject Brinkman thought ping-pong would have been a more appropriate metaphor. He said, ‘Anyone else?’

‘French are pretty good but they’re an awkward bunch of bastards, all give and no take,’ judged Ingram. ‘Always a one-sided affair, dealing with them.’

Only if you let it be so, thought Brinkman. ‘Sounds typically French,’ he said.

‘And there’s the ace,’ said Ingram.

Brinkman followed Ingram’s look. The object of it was on the far side of the room, actually leaning against the wall, a tall, loose-limbed man. He wore an open-necked plaid shirt and jeans and appeared to be feeling the heat, from the flush of his face: the fair hair was already disordered, falling forward over his face.

‘Name’s Blair,’ said Ingram, from his side. ‘Eddie Blair. Been the CIA Resident here for a couple of years. Hell of a guy.’

Brinkman looked back curiously to Ingram at the open admiration. ‘In what way?’

‘Every way,’ said Ingram. ‘Straight as a die, first of all. He’ll help, if he can, but if it interferes with anything he’s doing or he can’t, because of orders from above, then he’ll say so, straight out. There isn’t a member of the Politburo he can’t quote chapter and verse about, going back as far as their grandfathers and his political judgment is superb.’

‘Like you said, a hell of a guy,’ said Brinkman.

‘It doesn’t end there,’ said Ingram, enjoying the lecture. ‘Technology is the name of the game: that’s what the Russians want, to catch up with us. But with America most of all. And technically Blair’s got a mind like a computer. He actually understands all of it. Do you know what the joke is?’

‘What?’ said Brinkman, politely.

‘That Washington doesn’t bother to send in the electronic people any more, to sweep the embassy and the apartment for bugs. Because Eddie Blair knows more about it and can do it better than any of them.’

Brinkman looked idly about him. There were a hundred places where listening devices could be concealed: there always were. The jabber of this crowd would nullify anything tonight.

‘Blair’s the man to watch’, said Ingram.

Brinkman wondered if the Russians were doing just that. ‘I’ll remember,’ he said.

‘Why not meet him now?’

‘Why not?’ agreed Brinkman. Before leaving the drinks table he put as much water as possible into his scotch and sipped it. Still not enough, he thought. Ingram had already opened the introduction by the time Brinkman got across the room and the American was smiling towards him, invitingly.

‘Hi,’ said Blair. ‘Welcome to fun city.’

The handshake was strong but not artificially so. ‘This usual?’ asked Brinkman, gesturing back into the room.

‘Better than usual,’ said Blair. As Ingram, his mission completed, eased back towards the bar, Blair added, ‘How you settling in?’

‘Not at all, at the moment,’ admitted Brinkman. ‘Living out of a suitcase at the embassy and going everywhere with a map in my hand.’

Blair smiled at the self-deprecation, as he was supposed to. ‘Takes time,’ he said. ‘Actually didn’t like the place in the first few months. Thought I’d made a mistake in accepting the posting.’

‘And now?’ said Brinkman.

‘Moscow’s a good place to be,’ said the American. ‘It’s always got the attention of a lot of important people.’

An ambitious cowboy: very rare, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Hope I don’t fail them.’

Blair smiled again, at the practised modesty. ‘Takes time, like I said. It’s a difficult place to get the feel of and put a handle on.’ The American paused and then said, ‘Difficult for the wives, too. Not enough for them to do, really.’

‘Won’t be a problem for me,’ said Brinkman. ‘I’m not married.’

Appearing reminded, Blair looked around the room and said, ‘You must meet Ann.’

He waved and Brinkman turned to see a slim, dark-haired woman coming towards them, smiling uncertainly. She’d taken the trouble with her clothes which her husband hadn’t, the turquoise dress designed to show both the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. She wore no other jewellery but a single strand gold necklace and only a minimum of make-up. She was much younger than Blair, Brinkman realised at once. As the American made the introductions he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and Brinkman wondered if the gesture were one of possession or comfort. He isolated the accent as soon as she spoke.

‘English?’ he said.

‘As roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ confirmed Blair.

‘Berkhamsted, actually,’ said Ann.

Brinkman saw she had small even teeth and the apparent habit of catching her lower lip between them, like a guilty child frightened of being caught out in some mistake.

‘Long way from home,’ said Brinkman.

He thought he detected a momentary pause from the woman. She said, ‘We all are.’ The smile this time was more open than before. ‘It’ll be good to have a new face among us,’ she said. Why was she being like the rest? Ann thought, angry at herself. The answer came at once. Why not? She was like everyone else.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Brinkman. But not to parties like these, where the biggest ambition seemed to be who could get to the bottom of a whisky glass quickest, he thought. His own glass was sail practically full.

‘You must come and eat with us one night,’ said Ann. ‘It’ll be good to be able to talk to someone so recently from home.’

‘I’d like that,’ accepted Brinkman. London thought Ingram good and Ingram eulogised Blair: until he found his own roads to follow the American was obviously the person to travel with.

The arrival of the British ambassador, making his duty visit, was the signal for the presentations, which broke up Brinkman’s contact with the Blairs. There were short speeches, carefully guarded of course, praising Ingram as a colleague and friend whose companionship would be sadly missed and Ingram’s blinking grew more rapid with the praise. Lucinda stood alongside, the expression on her face making it quite clear that she considered it all justified. The ambassador presented the decanter set, with matching glasses, and Ingram assured those who had contributed towards it that he would always treasure it as a reminder of happy times in Moscow, which he was going to miss both as a city and as a place where he’d made many wonderful friends, people whom he and his wife sincerely hoped would remain in contact. There was the predictable attempt at a joke which fell flat and the predictable ribald shout from someone in the crowd and Brinkman wondered why these sorts of things were always inevitably so embarrassing. The presentation broke up, like they normally did, in the uncertainty of people not knowing what to do. Brinkman smiled up at the ambassador’s approach.

‘Sorry I haven’t had time to welcome you properly yet,’ said Sir Oliver Brace.

‘People seem to have been doing almost nothing else,’ said Brinkman. At the embassy gathering there had been the briefest of introductions: the formal interview was arranged for the following week.

‘Son of Sir Richard Brinkman, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Brinkman, feeling the stomach sink of dismay.

‘Harrow together,’ said the ambassador. ‘Damned fine bat. Still play cricket?’

‘Not any longer,’ said Brinkman.

It would have been easy enough for his father to find out; all he had to do was look at the diplomatic list. He supposed there would have been some contact, from the manner of Brace’s approach.

‘Everyone treating you all right?’ demanded the man. ‘No problems?’

‘Everyone has been extremely kind,’ said Brinkman.

In a veiled reference to Brinkman’s true function, the ambassador said, ‘Tricky place to be, sometimes, Moscow.’

‘I was fully briefed before I left London, sir,’ assured Brinkman. Dear God, don’t let this red-faced man with his clipped-speech mannerism adopt the role of surrogate father, thought Brinkman.

‘Any problems, you let me know. You understand?’

‘Of course sir,’ promised Brinkman. There had to have been contact; the Head of Chancery was the diplomat with whom intelligence officers customarily dealt, specifically to remove the ambassador from any difficulty if things went wrong. And that was the person with whom he would continue contact, determined Brinkman. Damn his busy-body, interfering father!

His duty done, the ambassador moved away towards the door and Brinkman looked casually about him, unsure how easy it would be to make his own escape; although it was Ingram’s party, the departing intelligence officer had made it extremely clear Brinkman shared in it, too, for the advantages it might have. Near where Lucinda’s food had been – and which was now a messy, destroyed table – a space had been cleared for dancing and a few couples were making desultory attempts to follow the music. Brinkman was undecided whether the excuse was to support each other, from the effects of the booze, or grope each other, furtively. There were obvious invitations from two women who caught his eye and smiled, hopefully, but Brinkman chose to misunderstand, smiling back but remaining where he was. The cigarette smoke, thicker now, stung his eyes and the long-held drink was warm when he sipped it, not needing a drink but just wanting something to do. He looked around for Blair and his English wife, but they appeared to have left. Because politeness demanded it he asked Lucinda Ingram to dance and because politeness demanded it, she accepted, appearing reluctant to follow his lead and pushing him around instead, like a busy shopper manoeuvring a trolley through a crowded supermarket. There was the formalised conversation about how glad he was to be in Moscow and how much she was looking forward to returning to London, which she hadn’t seen for a long time because before Moscow their posting had been Beirut and before that Lima. Lucinda promised that the apartment would be properly and thoroughly cleaned after the party and asked if he wanted to retain their maid and Brinkman thanked her and said yes, he did. They were both relieved when the dance finished. He walked with her to Ingram, who stood stiff-legged beside the drinks table, pink and smiling. Brinkman decided it wouldn’t be long before the owl fell out of the tree.

‘Thanks for the party. And for everything else,’ said Brinkman.

‘Remember what I said,’ encouraged Ingram. Despite the obvious intake he was still very clear-voiced.

‘I will.’

‘Stay close to Blair and you won’t go far wrong,’ insisted the other man, as if he feared Brinkman hadn’t understood their earlier conversation.

‘I will,’ promised Brinkman, emptily. ‘I will’

‘What do you think?’ asked Ann.

‘About what?’ Blair came from the bathroom wiping the toothpaste residue from his lips.

‘Our new arrival, Jeremy Brinkman?’

‘Seemed OK.’

‘Betty Harrison decided he was gorgeous: absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Betty Harrison’s got hot pants.’

‘Think Brinkman will fill them for her?’

‘Seemed a cautious guy,’ judged Blair. ‘Never touched his drink all night and spent a lot of it looking around, making assessments.’

‘Professional sod!’ accused Ann, lightly. She added, ‘Poor Betty Harrison if you’re right.’

‘I could be wrong,’ admitted Blair.

‘You rarely are,’ said Ann proudly.

‘There’s always the first time,’ said the Texan, switching off the light.

Ann lay hopefully in the darkness but she felt him turn away from her. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

‘Goodnight.’

Chapter Four

Pietr Orlov was fully aware that when it happened there would be far more than the official reaction, the public vilification and accusations and possibly – a growing fear – a relentless physical pursuit. There would be bewilderment, from those who knew him; incredulity that having everything – and well knowing he had everything – he’d abandoned it all. Incredulity, too, at the reason for that abandonment. They’d have understood – just – a deep-seated difficulty with Communist ideology. Or the greed of bribery. But not a woman.

At the time of his departure from New York Orlov had been the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations. But that had been a misleading description, belying his function or regard within Russia. A more correct title would have been Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, because that was the role he properly performed. It was Orlov who was summoned back from New York personally to brief the ailing Brezhnev on the likely Western reaction to the Afghanistan incursion. And Orlov again upon whom Andropov – ailing also – depended for advice in determining the Russian propaganda response to the positioning in Europe of the American Cruise missiles.

So much, reflected Orlov, entering the Kremlin complex and moving, well-accustomed, towards the section of the Foreign Ministry. So much and yet so little. He wanted more; so much more that only he – no one else, perhaps not even Harriet – could or would ever understand. Maybe Harriet would come to comprehend it, in time. Orlov hoped to God or whatever the deity was who controlled the destiny of man that it wouldn’t have to be as long as a year, before he had a chance to start trying to make her understand.

Orlov hesitated at the actual moment of entering the office of Yuri Sevin, conscious – although he’d been aware of it before but not so intently, at the precise act of confrontation – that the deputy minister would be one of the minority, someone who knew him well and therefore whose first thought would not be instinctively nationalistic but personal; one of the ones who would shake his head and find words difficult and when they came be mundane and ill-fitting, like, ‘ Why! Why – how – did he do it!’ Orlov knew he had been chosen by Sevin, from the junior Party position in Tbilisi; nurtured up through the local levels and then brought to Moscow and protected still, every move in the upward programme considered before it was made, every posting chosen for a purpose. Orlov supposed it had to be twenty years. Twenty years during which Sevin had been his constant supporter and advocate, finally protecting him in the jugular-biting jungle of Moscow while he had been far away and exposed, in New York. Exposed to the one thing Sevin had not anticipated and eliminated. Orlov hoped he could protect Natalia; to protect Sevin would not be so easy. Impossible, in fact.

Sevin came forward, arms outstretched in effusive greeting, tears already starting down his face, an elderly bear of a man with the emotions of a rabbit. ‘Pietr!’ he said, a sob in his voice, someone unable to accept the good fortune of seeing again someone he loved. ‘Pietr!’

Orlov allowed the bear hug – what else from a man of Sevin’s size! – and the tear-smeared kisses on either cheek and a further bear hug, as if the first had been insufficient. And then underwent the arms’ length examination, as though he was being searched for physical flaws and blemishes from his prolonged exposure in the West. There is what you would regard as a flaw, dear friend, thought Orlov, but not one that is visible. To anyone.

‘Yuri,’ he responded. ‘Yuri, it’s good to see you!’

Sevin led him away from the desk, impatient – embarrassed almost – at the indication of rank or power; hardly any existed between them anyway. They went instead to a side area, where the windows overlooked the Senate building and where a low table between the chairs and the couch was already set with vodka and caviar. Sevin, the considerate host, had even included a samovar beside the couch; Orlov stared at it, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen one.

‘Pietr!’ said Sevin once more. ‘How good it is to see you. Really good.’

‘And you,’ said Orlov.

There was no doubt or uncertainty about what he intended doing – there couldn’t be, after all the planning – but Orlov knew that when it was all over and he was happily settled with Harriet and the fear had diminished as much as it could ever diminish there would still remain the regret at how he’d had to deceive his friends; this friend in particular. And an even deeper regret that there was no way he could attempt to apologise or explain. To attempt it now – to take someone he considered his closest, dearest friend into his confidence – would be suicidal for him. And to attempt it later, in some guarded, hopefully disguised message, would be as murderous to Sevin. So he could do nothing. Nothing except hope that in some way, somehow, Sevin would come to understand. Orlov doubted that the man would, though. How could he? How could anyone?

‘You return in triumph, Pietr,’ declared the deputy minister at once. ‘Absolute triumph.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Orlov. The discomfort was like a weight, in his stomach.

‘You didn’t need me to tell you that,’ said Sevin, gently. He knew he’d made the right choice, in Orlov. The man was going to fulfil every expectation.

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to judge, from so far away.’

‘You never made a misjudgment, never,’ praised Sevin. ‘It’s an impressive record. One that’s been rightly and properly recognised as such.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said the uncomfortable Orlov. How much easier it had been to consider and plan what he intended to do in New York. And how much more difficult it was to carry it through, once he’d got back here.

‘You will be,’ predicted Sevin. He paused theatrically, pleased with his news and wanting to extract the maximum from it. ‘There’ll need to be formal votes and resolutions, of course. But they’re just formalities. The decision’s unanimous… you’re being elected to the Central Committee Pietr…’ When Orlov, shocked, didn’t respond, Sevin said, ‘Congratulations, my friend. You’ve earned it.’

The Central Committee! The inner sanctum, Orlov realised; the cornucopia of power, with the proper internal committee postings. Except that he didn’t want power any more. Once, maybe, when Sevin first plucked him from the provinces and hinted at what he was finally offering, today. But not any longer. Now he wanted freedom; freedom and Harriet. Sevin was obviously the sponsor, because he was being permitted to be the bearer of good news. In ancient Rome it was the custom to sacrifice the messenger bearing bad news; and this was going to become bad news, soon enough. Orlov said, honestly, ‘It’s difficult to express myself.’

The old man smiled, pleased, with no way of being able to understand Orlov’s problem. ‘It won’t stop there, Pietr. You’re the chosen one, the star. Being groomed. I’m too old and so are at least six of the others on the Politburo. Ivan Serada has been a disaster and everyone recognises it. You’re only forty – which is juvenile by Soviet ageing – but I’ve seen to it that you’ve had more international experience than most of the other contenders put together. All you need now is two years – three at the outside – to be able to show the proper understanding and appreciation of domestic issues and there won’t be anyone to stand in your way.’

Leader! thought Orlov, in a sudden, oblivious-to-everything mental lurch. The euphoria leaked away, as quickly as it came. He didn’t want to be leader and he didn’t want to be a deputy and he didn’t want to be married any longer to Natalia and he didn’t want to be in Moscow. All he wanted was Harriet. He said, ‘It’s an overwhelming prospect. Everything’s overwhelming, in fact.’

Sevin laughed in genuine amusement at the other man’s confusion, pouring large measures of vodka for them both. He raised his glass and said, ‘To you, Pietr Grigorovich Orlov. People are going to know of you; know of you and respect you and fear you. You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country, bury Serada’s mistakes and sweep away the blanket of nepotism that’s smothering our leadership and our progress.’

Ignoring the absurdity of talking of nepotism, Orlov guessed from the hyperbole that the man had practised and rehearsed the speech, like the politician he was. People were going to know of him, Orlov thought sadly. But not for the sort of reason Sevin imagined.

Sundays were always difficult.

Every other day of the week had its boxes and its compartments, regular fixed commitments around which everything properly revolved; even Saturdays. But definitely not Sundays. Sunday was a do-nothing day, without a peg upon which Ruth could hang her coat. She hated Sundays because they were a constant reminder; Eddie had usually been free on Sundays.

She fell back upon the Smithsonian, like so many times before, but halfway around the science exhibition their boredom and lack of interest became too obvious so she decided to cut her losses and run, taking a cab up to the Hill, to the American Cafe.

Paul, maybe because he was the elder of the two and saw it as his role, led the attack, when it came to ordering drinks to go with the hamburgers.

‘Bloody Mary,’ he said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ refused Ruth, too vehemently and in front of the waitress anyway: she could have turned everything aside if she’d treated it as a joke. With no other choice but to continue she said, ‘You know you can’t have a Bloody Mary. Ridiculous!’

The child reddened under the gaze of the patient, amused waitress who’d seen it all before. Shit! thought Ruth.

‘I want a Bloody Mary,’ insisted Paul.

Ruth retreated to the familiar defence of an adult with a recalcitrant child, invoking the support of another adult. To the waitress, she said, ‘My son is not yet fourteen. He’s not allowed alcohol, is he?’

‘No ma’am,’ said the waitress. ‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee.’

‘Assholes!’ said Paul.

Both women heard him but pretended not to have done so.

‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee,’ recited the waitress again.

‘Nothing,’ said Paul, denying himself so as to deny them as well.

‘Coke,’ said John. Belatedly he added ‘Please’ but because of the brace it came out as a lisp.

After the woman had gone away with their order, Ruth said to Paul, ‘OK, what was all that about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, head bent against the table, regretting it now as much as she did.

‘You made a fool of yourself,’ said the woman, nervously aware just how close she’d come to losing control and wanting to reinforce her position, to prevent it happening again. ‘You made a fool of us all.’

Paul said nothing because there was nothing to say.

‘I’m waiting for an apology.’

The elder boy remained silent.

‘I said I’m waiting for an apology.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul, voice soft and his lips barely moving.

‘And you’ll apologise to the waitress when she comes back,’ said Ruth, building upon her advantage.

‘I think she’s a bitch!’ blurted John, coming to the aid of his beleaguered brother.

Ruth turned to the other boy, looking bewildered between him and the departing waitress.

‘Not her!’ said John, with child-like irritation at being misunderstood. ‘The woman Daddy’s with. I think she’s a bitch.’

‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Ruth, which was a mistake because since the divorce they’d both attempted the role of guardians and she realised as she spoke that she was diminishing their efforts.

‘We know everything about it, for God’s sake!’ came in Paul, anxious to recover from his previous defeat.

‘I know that,’ said Ruth, striving to maintain a reasonable tone in her voice. ‘I know you’re affected as much as I am – maybe even more so – and I’m sorry, John, that I said you didn’t know anything about it. That’s not what I meant.’

‘What then?’ said the younger boy.

‘I meant that there are some things that occur between grownup, adult people that are difficult for younger people…’ Ruth hesitated, not wanting to cause further friction ‘… grown-up and adult though those younger people are, that are difficult for young people to understand…’ She trailed to a stop, realising how awful the attempt had been.

‘Like going to bed together, you mean?’ said John, anxious to prove his worldliness.

‘That,’ conceded Ruth cautiously. ‘But that’s not all of it. Even the important part of it. There are lots of other things, as well.’

‘Didn’t you go to bed with Daddy?’ demanded Paul, determined upon vengeance.

Ruth felt herself blushing. ‘That isn’t the sort of question you should ask me,’ she said desperately. ‘But you know the answer anyway: of course I went to bed with Daddy.’

‘Then why did he go to bed with her, as well?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth, an admission as much to herself as to the children. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘I hate her,’ said John, proud at having initiated the discussion. ‘Don’t you hate her?’

‘No,’ said Ruth, carefully rehearsed. ‘No, I don’t hate her. And I don’t hate Daddy.’

‘I don’t understand you!’ protested Paul, exasperated. ‘How can you not hate her!’

Not easily, conceded Ruth to herself. ‘Hate doesn’t achieve anything,’ she said.

‘What will, to get Daddy back?’ implored John, who had tears brimming in his eyes when she looked at him.

‘I don’t know, darling,’ she said soothingly. ‘Not yet I don’t know.’

‘Will you?’ he said, with trusting anxiousness.

‘I don’t know that either,’ said Ruth honestly.

The returning waitress stopped the conversation and Ruth smiled up at her, gratefully. Remembering, she said to Paul, ‘Don’t you have something to say to this lady?’

There was a moment when Ruth thought he would refuse but then he said, ‘Sorry,’ louder the second time.

Why was it, wondered Ruth, that sorry had been the most familiar word in their vocabulary for so long now?

The unrest was centred in Shemkha, which was fortunate because Sokol was not sure he could have contained the protest if it had started in the Azerbaijan capital of Baku. It was from the KGB centre in Baku, of course, that the reports came and because he was so alert to the problem Sokol responded at once, ordering that Shemkha should be sealed and moving extra militia from Tbilisi in bordering Georgia and from Rostov and Donetsk as well. Sealing the town was only the first step, until he could get there himself on the long flight from Moscow. On the way from the airport Sokol gazed out at the parched fields of the tropical part of the Soviet Union, realising how crop failures of this province had been compounded by the grain failures on the Steppes: people were slow moving and actually, in cases, already emaciated. He went immediately to Shemkha and from the car radio system ordered that the leaders of the revolt should be assembled, for his arrival. There were four of them, a city physician and a factory technician and two farmers. The physician, whose name was Bessmertnik, was the reluctant spokesman, a bespectacled, stutteringly hesitant man. Sokol heard the complaints out, a litany of promised but never realised grain deliveries from the chairman of the city committee and spoilation through transport confusion and delays of food that did arrive. He ordered the immediate arrest of the committee chairman and transport authority head and detained Bessmertnik and one of the farmers as well. The hearing was brief- at Sokol’s instructions – in every case the charge of anti-Soviet activity, which covered any and every transgression. They were found guilty, also at Sokol’s instructions, and shot within an hour of the verdict. The official Soviet airline Aeroflot is subordinate to KGB orders and Sokol used fifteen aircraft from their transport fleet to fly in grain and vegetables. The entire operation took only a fortnight and the day after his return to Moscow there was a congratulatory memorandum from Aleksai Panov. Sokol was grateful for the recognition but knew it wasn’t what he wanted for the promotion upon which he was so determined; it wasn’t a coup.

Chapter Five

Brinkman settled in carefully, not because of the repeated advice to do so but because it was obviously the way to proceed, cautiously; to be cautious about his assessments and be cautious about making friends and be cautious about his new colleagues. Realising it was the traditional practice – something upon which they had budgeted, in fact – he bought from the departing Ingrams their car and their specially-adapted stereo unit and a few pieces of kitchen equipment. He moved in the day after they left Moscow. The place was cleaned and tidied, as Lucinda Ingram had promised – she’d even left a vase of flowers as a welcoming gesture in the main room – but it was not clean enough for Brinkman, who made the maid do it all over again while he was there, to ensure she performed the task properly. The maid was a bulging, overflowing woman named Kabalin who muttered something under her breath when he told her to clean again and who appeared surprised when Brinkman, who hadn’t heard what she said, continued the instructions in his perfect Russian, intent upon stopping any insubordination – even whispered protests from a servant – before it began. He knew she would spy upon him, officially, of course; that was one of the standard warnings. Probably steal, too. Which was why it was important to establish the proper relationship from the beginning. It wouldn’t affect the spying but it might lessen the theft if she realised at once that he wasn’t a weak man, prepared to tolerate laxity.

At the embassy Brinkman remained polite, even humble, grateful to people who identified the various departments, courteously introducing himself to the head of each, joining the various clubs and organisations that existed within the building, to relieve the existence of Moscow and – maybe the most important of all – never indicating that because he was an intelligence officer, which most of them knew even though they shouldn’t have done, that he considered himself in any way superior to them or beyond the rules and regulations that they had to obey. During the official welcoming interview the ambassador, who asked to be remembered to his father, repeated the invitation to approach him personally if he encountered any difficulty and as he had done at the Ingrams’ party, Brinkman thanked the man politely. At a subsequent meeting with the Head of Chancery, whose name was Wilcox, Brinkman let the offer be known, apologised for the intrusion of his father and assured Wilcox – quite honestly – that he had no intention ever of going over the man’s head. Like letting everyone else know he didn’t consider himself different, because of the certain dispensations allowed him as a security man, it let Wilcox know he didn’t want any special favours. And by being open about it, Brinkman took out insurance against Sir Oliver mentioning it to Wilcox himself.

Brinkman was as careful making contact with the Westerners whom Ingram recommended he should seek out, wanting always that the approaches should come from them and not from him, which would have put him in the role of a supplicant. It happened first from the Canadians. It was a reception marking some Commonwealth event and Brinkman went to create the opportunity and was picked out of the English contingent by Mark Harrison within thirty minutes of his arrival. His Canadian counterpart was a heavy man, florid through obvious blood pressure: relaxed in his own embassy surroundings, the man wore a string tie secured at the throat by a heavy clasp. There was the settling in conversation which by now Brinkman felt he could recite in his sleep and then the restaurant-delay conversation and then the restriction of travel conversation. Harrison let the talk then drift into apparent generalities and Brinkman allowed the Canadian to lead, suspecting that the man wasn’t dealing in generalities at all. They discussed the apparent relaxation under the new Soviet regime and Harrison asked Brinkman whether in his opinion he considered it a genuine desire for friendship with the West or motivated by some inner Soviet requirement of which they were unaware. The seemingly innocent question sounded the warning bell but Brinkman gave no reaction and said – untruthfully – that the impression within the Foreign Office prior to his departure from London was that there was some desire from Moscow for a relaxation in tension. Harrison’s enquiry whether trade approaches in recent times supported the relaxation theory lit another light but once more Brinkman gave no indication, replying casually that he’d always found it ironical that relationships between East and West had for so long existed on the two apparently contradictory levels, opposing rhetoric at conference tables and necessary trade agreements upon which each side was dependent on a quite separate level. Brinkman discerned Harrison’s disappointment and wondered if it would be possible to impress Maxwell at this early stage. Before they parted Harrison suggested Brinkman dining with him and Betty, not expecting Brinkman’s response. Not knowing if it would be necessary to maintain close contact with Harrison over whatever it was he was talking about – but deciding to take out insurance if it were – Brinkman seized upon the invitation, saying he’d be delighted to accept and asking when. Trapped, Harrison fixed dinner three nights away and Brinkman hoped he would have discovered more by then.

It was easier, in fact, than he expected. The trade counsellor at the British embassy, a man named Street, was immediately forthcoming to Brinkman’s approach, impressed by Brinkman’s earlier, deferring introduction and anxious to help as much as possible a newcomer with the proper manner. There hadn’t been any unexpected trade approaches during the preceding six months; in fact the only thing that had caught his interest was a request a month earlier about the availability among British owners of bulk carrier ships. Brinkman was glad he pressed further, persuading Street to pull the file from records because when they examined it there was a tighter definition; the enquiry had been specifically about bulk containers, not carriers.

Ingram had been a meticulous keeper of files, better, in fact, than the standard regulations required. And from the ship enquiry Brinkman knew he only had the preceding month to check. Hunched in the intelligence records room in the embassy basement, it took Brinkman less than an hour to find what he thought he was looking for but careful as he was he merely marked it as a possibility and carried on, throughout the remaining rcords. There had been three more messages from Ingram, the last two definite confirmation of what earlier had been little more than supposition from intelligent reading of Soviet publications. Wheat production was the perpetual problem of Soviet agriculture, something that bad weather and inefficiency and succeeding government changes seemed always to conspire to bring hugely below the required norms. No admissions were ever made, of course, but Ingram had picked up the indications from reports that had been allowed into Izvestia and Pravda from the growing areas on the Steppes, a prelude to the personnel shift within the Moscow ministry which Ingram had noted and properly connected.

Brinkman decided from his meeting with Mark Harrison that he was able to make further connections. Predictably, he was cautious. In his message to Maxwell in London he reminded the controller of Ingram’s earlier assessments – cleverly sharing credit if credit had to be given – and said he interpreted an approach to the trade section of the British embassy to be the beginning of a widespread Soviet chartering effort to transport wheat from the West. Indicating that he was in no way politically naive, Brinkman said that he was well aware that such trade was not unusual – in fact that it continued all the time – but that he believed from sources within the Soviet capital that Moscow was spreading its purchasing this time, moving away from the traditional suppliers, the United States and to a lesser extent Argentina. His belief was that a substantial agreement was being negotiated with Ottawa to make Canada a greater trading partner than it was at present. Taking a chance – but not much of a chance – Brinkman wondered if the Canadian agreement didn’t indicate a desire in Moscow to free itself from any possible trade embargo from the United States if relations between the two countries worsened, despite the surface indications of apparent and better friendships. He concluded by saying he believed the Canadian agreement was not yet fully resolved and that Ottawa was concerned about entering a commitment which unquestionably would annoy its neighbour, the United States, to the south unless there was a positive assurance from the Soviet Union that transportation facilities existed to move the wheat.

The congratulatory message arrived from Maxwell two days later. Simply by checking with Lloyds of London they had discovered the Soviet chartering operation, not just of British vessels but of others as well who, although foreign, were being insured for the transportation through the British market. There was a second message from London, from Ingram. It was of congratulation but Brinkman knew it was also one of thanks from the man, for being generous and mentioning his earlier work. And knew, satisfied, that he had an ally in London, where it was always useful to have allies.

The Harrisons’ dinner party was a small affair, the Canadian military attache and his wife, a couple called Bergdoff, and an analyst from the economic division, a hopefully smiling, shy girl named Sharon Berring, who had been invited to balance the numbers. Brinkman was an accomplished raconteur when the occasion demanded – and he decided it did now – and monopolised the conversation, the anecdotes usually deprecatingly against himself, enjoying their enjoyment of his newness in the city, always withdrawing when either Harrison or Bergdoff made a contribution, so that his monopoly did not become irritating to the other men. He was equally attentive to the three women, although, towards the end of die evening, he devoted more time to Betty Harrison, the politeness deserved in her role as hostess. He escorted Sharon back to her own apartment and refused her invitation for a final drink by convincingly pleading pressure of work the following day, so that she was not hurt by lack of interest, and said he hoped, like she said she hoped, that they’d meet again soon. The following day, with his note of thanks to Betty Harrison, he sent flowers, with smaller bouquets to Mrs Bergdoff and Sharon Berring.

Betty Harrison telephoned Ann by midday. ‘Fabulous, darling,’ gushed the Canadian. ‘Absolutely fabulous. There hasn’t been anyone like him in Moscow since the time I got here.’

‘Flowers?’ queried Ann, who knew in Moscow it was neither cheap nor easy to make such a gesture.

‘To all of us: mine was bigger, of course,’ said Betty, who had established a social coup at being the first to have Brinkman at her table.

‘Guess he’s going to be in demand,’ said Ann.

‘Believe me, darling,’ said Betty, ‘I’d like to make a demand any time!’

Brinkman’s invitation to dine with the Blairs arrived two days later.

Orlov found everything about the subterfuge difficult but most difficult of all was Natalia, far worse than he had anticipated and rehearsed for. Natalia had remained in Moscow during his New York posting – frequently, guiltily, he wondered if things would have been different if she hadn’t – so it was to be expected there would be a strangeness between them and he prolonged it as long as he could but always the need was to avoid suspicion, even though he trusted her, so finally it had to end. She was anxiously eager, because she loved him, creating another plateau of guilt and then there was another because although he didn’t love her and although he loved Harriet, he found it surprisingly easy – embarrassingly, shockingly easy – to make love to her. She made it obvious that it had been good for her. It had been good for him, too, a further reason to despise himself.

‘I missed you,’ she said. She was still breathing heavily from the love-making and there was a catch in her voice.

‘I missed you, too, he said, knowing he had to but hating himself for the lie. It seemed so easy to decide and to plan in New York – necessary, if she were to be protected; he hoped, one day, she might come to guess why he was doing it – but it wasn’t easy now. It was degrading and obscene and it wasn’t fair to her. They made love with the light on, because Natalia was a sensuous woman who liked it that way. Orlov looked sideways at her. She detected the movement and turned smiling towards him, too, glad a barrier had been removed and Orlov knew she would expect to make love regularly now. She was an attractive as well as a sensuous woman; beautiful, even, with red hair which she wore long cascaded ever the pillow and freckles that went with the colouring faint upon a diminutive nose and high, refined cheeks. She was careless of – actually pleasured by – nakedness, the covering thrust aside because she wanted him to see her, firm-limbed, her stomach naturally flat, not through some drawn-breathed effort. Her breasts were firm, too, jutting upright despite their weight and Orlov felt a surge of excitement and shifted the bedclothes to cover him, wanting to hide the obvious evidence of it. Was it possible to love two women equally? He’d avoided the obvious way out, running in America where it would have been easy, because of the retribution which would quite illogically have been exacted against Natalia for having married a traitor, wanting to divorce her and distance her from harm. Wasn’t that love? Of a sort, he supposed. Responsibility, he thought, seeking another word. Guilt, the most familiar one. Beautiful, he thought again; more beautiful than Harriet, if he were to make a brutal, honest comparison. Had Sevin been right? Had he been brought back by a powerful, inner caucus to finish some sort of training to emerge as a contender for the ultimate position? ‘ You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country…’ Over-dramatic words, certainly. But Sevin had never been personally over-dramatic. The man wouldn’t have made the promise – disclosed the thinking – if it hadn’t been the truth. Orlov looked again at Natalia and thought how well she would fit and accomplish the role of First Lady and he remembered his arrival that day at the Ministry when Sevin made the announcement and the phrase that throbbed through his head and through his thinking, like some ancient church chant: so much, so much, so much… Stop it! Orlov thought, abruptly. He had to stop it! He was having doubts about going back to America. And there weren’t any. He’d gone through all that; through all the heart-searching and the uncertainties and the recriminations. He was going to divorce Natalia to spare her from any possible harm and he was going to make his contact with someone at the US embassy and he was going to go to America to a new life with a woman who consumed him and for whom he was prepared to make any sacrifice.

‘I love you,’ said Natalia, beside him.

Orlov closed his eyes against the surroundings and what was happening and the dishonesty he hated and said, ‘I love you, very much.’

‘Make love to me again,’ she said. ‘Make love to me a lot.’

Orlov turned towards his wife, aware of how easy that was going to be and hating himself for that most of all.

Sokol succeeded in hiding any personal distate at the fug of tobacco smoke that hung in Panov’s office. The KGB chairman’s chest bellowed out with his difficulty and he didn’t make any gesture of greeting when Sokol entered the room.

‘How widespread is the problem?’ the older man demanded at once.

‘Bad,’ conceded Sokol, aware that Panov would know from other sources within the huge organisation. ‘Azerbaijan is still unsettled. It’s spread to Georgia. Right throughout the Ukraine. Kazakhstan and parts of Lithuania, too.’

‘Organised?’ asked Panov suspiciously.

‘I don’t think so. I’ve issued orders to restrict travel between the provinces, to avoid word-of-mouth circulation. And spread stories that in every place it’s isolated to that particular region. Any obvious leader is arrested, of course.’

‘No more execution,’ instructed Panov, lighting one cigarette from the butt of that which preceded. ‘It was right and proper the first time but I don’t think we should continue it. I don’t want anything in the Western press, through the dissidents…’ The old man coughed. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ he began again. ‘You realise that, don’t you?’

Damn stupid agricultural policies that threatened everything he wanted, thought Sokol. ‘It will be stopped,’ he promised, not knowing how.

Chapter Six

Brinkman was pleased with his initial success but not complacent about it; indeed, with the proper reflection he was actually prepared to accept an element of luck. A very small element. He accepted, too, that improperly created foundations could be washed away in the first rain-storm; and he hadn’t gone as far as creating proper foundations yet, just a minimum impression in London and a minimum impression within his own embassy. The first layer, then. It was essential to build up, to withstand gales as well as rain. Brinkman calculated it precisely, practically with stopwatch finesse, arranging the lunch with Harrison the day he was later to eat with Blair, so that if there were any later comparisons – he didn’t, after all, know just how close the two were – he would be shown to have been scrupulously honest. Brinkman slotted himself into the second place throughout their conversation, as he had at the embassy, when they were conducting business, not socialising, referring in almost an aside to their conversation that day and offering the information about the chartering, as if he were unaware of its dramatic significance. Brinkman admired Harrison’s professional reaction – or rather lack of it – enjoying the encounter he was dominating from an apparently secondary role. It quickly became an exercise in comparative tradecraft, Harrison pecking until he considered he had enough and then withdrawing into some inconsequential small talk to digest the gathered forage and Brinkman setting out the meal, hors d’oeuvre at a time, not wanting the man to glut himself and realise how he was being spoonfed. The encounter ended with invitations – more fulsome than before – to further social gatherings and Brinkman’s vague acceptance, still appearing an over-awed new arrival grateful for the advice from someone more experienced; someone who might – indeed would – more eagerly next time make an approach and drop the hints, confident now of an ingenuous playback.

Brinkman went to the Blairs bearing gifts. Remembering her apparent interest in clothes, in contradiction to her husband, he had freighted from London editions of Vogue and Harpers and the Harrods catalogue – although not quite the current ones, which would have shown he was trying – and apologised for his presumption when he arrived but explained he’d brought them from London and read them and thought perhaps she might be interested. Blair’s gift could wait until later. Ann thanked him sincerely, appreciating the thought and Blair, the cosseting husband, thanked him too, while he was pouring the drinks with Ann in the kitchen, finishing the meal, as grateful as his wife for the consideration. Sharon Berring arrived within fifteen minutes and Brinkman acknowledged the liaison between the Blairs and the Harrisons. He was midly amused, not offended, correctly recognising the effort to which they had gone.

The Canadian economist was more relaxed with him the second time, actually offering stories of her own, some of which were genuinely funny. Brinkman’s newness still enabled him to have anecdotes he hadn’t recounted at the Harrisons’ – enjoying Sharon’s laughter – but he was brought short when he began to talk about university life at Cambridge and Ann cut across him.

‘You were at Cambridge!’

Brinkman nodded, ‘Kings,’ he said.

‘Girton,’ she said, matching colleges like playing cards.

Ann became animated at the link, even more excited when she realised that despite their different periods at the university they had shared three common tutors. The discovery was fortunate, because it further enabled Brinkman to include Blair and Sharon in the conversation, recalling fresh stories about academics he and Ann knew which were amusing, despite their being strangers to the American and the Canadian. Brinkman studied Ann as they talked, aware now of the similarities. The appearance at the Ingrams’ farewell party had been misleading. The blouse was fuller and the skirt longer and although she had taken it off now, during the preparation and the serving, she’d been wearing a shawl around her shoulders when he first arrived. She wore flat-heeled, pump-type shoes, too, like everything else about her the appearance he remembered about the undergraduate style that was emerging just about the time he was leaving the university. It didn’t end with the clothes. The walls of the Blair apartment were draped with carpets – even a shawl in a small alcove – and there were miniature icons and miniature samovars and at least three sets that he could see of matroyshka, the traditional Russian doll, one of which lifts from a replica of the other until a whole family is disclosed. Like a dozen university rooms into which he’d been, festooned with the adventures of foreign explorations. He talked on, the words prepared and easy, his mind quite able to consider something else. He’d been passingly aware of the age difference between Blair and his wife at the Ingram party but closer, his attention undivided, Brinkman considered it again. Blair was in good shape and his size further diminished any difference between them, but there was one, Brinkman recognised. Ten years: maybe longer. The indication wasn’t so much in their physical appearance but in Blair’s attitude towards Ann, the arm-around-the-shoulder protectiveness of which Brinkman had been conscious at the first meeting. It betrayed the newness of the relationship, a period before they had had time to come properly to know each other – like couples know each other in the fullness of years – so that it was, instead, a time of proud possession, like the icons on the wall and the rings on the fingers were possessions. How, wondered Brinkman, had a cowboy-booted Texan – and he’d bet a week’s salary a paid-up Republican – become involved with a shawl-wearing English girl who he’d bet another week’s salary had chanted in crocodile outside the American embassy in Grosvenor Square in protest against the Vietnam war? None of his business, recognised Brinkman. His business was an unimpeded, unobstructed career, not the unnecessary and unimportant intimacies of someone else’s affairs. Unless those affairs affected that career.

Sharon maintained her part of the conversation, her genuinely amusing conversation disclosing a considerable ability as a mimic and mostly about people whom the Blairs knew among the Western community in Moscow. Although they were unknown to him, Brinkman responded politely, deciding she was a pleasant dinner table companion.

Blair was a generous host, another bottle of wine opened and available when the previous one was only half empty and Brinkman quickly appreciated the way to avoid his glass being constantly topped up was not to make room in the first place. By the time the meal ended he thought both Sharon and Blair were drunk, although Ann appeared to be in better control.

Sharon unsteadily helped the other woman clear the table while Blair poured brandy, a brief moment when they were alone.

‘Maybe we should get together soon, by ourselves?’ offered Blair.

‘I’d like that,’ said Brinkman. Had Ingram openly asked the American to protect him? It was unlikely but not unthinkable. Brinkman hoped not.

‘When are you free?’

‘Any time,’ said Brinkman, generously. How could he manoeuvre the conversation to introduce the wheat discovery? He wanted to show the intelligence to be his calculation, which meant it had to be tonight; tomorrow Harrison would be bustling between the Canadian mission on Starokonyushennyr and the United States embassy at Chaykovskovo, eager to impart it as his revelation.

‘What about Thursday?’

‘Thursday’s fine,’ accepted Brinkman.

‘You haven’t been to our embassy yet?’

‘No.’

‘The cafeteria is never going to make the Guide Michelin but occasionally it has its moments.’

‘Sounds fine,’ accepted Brinkman. Seeing the opportunity, he said, ‘Just call, if anything comes up.’

‘Of course,’ said Blair. ‘Can’t imagine anything will though; it all looks pretty quiet at the moment.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ lured Brinkman.

‘Why not?’ demanded Blair at once. The man’s head came up and the relaxation seemed to go from throughout the large body and Brinkman thought that even if Blair were as drunk as he suspected him of being the man had an impressive ability to recover, practically before one’s eyes.

Brinkman told him, not in a chronological disclosure of facts but disjointedly, the way he had recounted it earlier to Harrison, wanting neither man to imagine he had done better than them but rather that he was testing out his impressions and theories. Blair listened expressionlessly and seemingly sleepy-eyed and at the end said, laconically, ‘Interesting: certainly worth thinking about.’

Brinkman knew that the American was doing more than just thinking about it: just as he knew that after he left tonight Blair would take advantage of the time difference between Moscow and Washington and go back to the embassy and send a report. Which meant Ottawa and Washington would hear of things within a time frame which for all intents and purposes was simultaneous and that London – because of their advance knowledge – would be able to offer confirmatory help as soon as the requests came from both capitals. And that Blair and Harrison would be grateful to him. Which is how Brinkman wanted it to be. And wouldn’t hold back from helping him in the future. Which was also how Brinkman wanted it to be.

The coffee was good – imported – and the brandy, too, but Brinkman was conscious of Blair’s impatience. Conscious too, that the American Resident had stopped drinking. To make it easy for the man, Brinkman excused himself, refusing Ann’s insistence upon another coffee or another drink, agreeing to another meeting soon, because there was so much about Cambridge they hadn’t talked about. Brinkman escorted Sharon home again and once more refused her invitation to a final nightcap, risking offence this time by not even pleading pressure of work. He thought she was an amusing girl and an intelligent, witty companion. But he thought she might also become an encumbrance, imagining something more than properly existed in a casual, one-night stand. And Brinkman didn’t want any sort of encumbrance.

Back at the Blairs’ apartment Ann looked bemused at her husband’s announcement that he had to return to the embassy. ‘What for?’

‘Something’s come up.’

She looked at the telephone and then back to him. ‘Nobody called.’

‘Something I forgot to do today: just remembered.’

While the agreement was no secrets in their personal relationships she accepted because of what he did that his work was sacrosanct. It was just that it had never happened this way before. ‘How long?’ she said.

‘Not long,’ he promised. ‘Just a cable to send.’

‘Hurry back.’

‘Sure.’

She tried to remain awake, actually taking another brandy she didn’t want and staying up for an hour. Then she went to bed, intending to wait there but it didn’t work and she fell asleep, so deeply that she wasn’t aware of his return or of his easing in beside her. He could only make out the vaguest outline in the darkness, the jut of her chin and her nose and the bulge of her breasts, rising and falling rhythmically in the darkness. He loved her so much, Blair thought; so very much. Everything that had happened was worth it, to have Ann as his wife, he determined. Just as he determined they would always stay together.

‘How heavy?’ asked the embassy doctor, bent over her case notes.

‘Very heavy,’ insisted Ann determinedly. ‘I’ve flooded, for the last three months.’

He looked up at her. ‘There’s no indication of any blood pressure.’

‘Need there be?’ she asked. She knew the answer, because she had already checked.

‘Not necessarily,’ conceded the doctor. ‘If you’re going to stop using the pill, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. Become pregnant, I hope, she thought.

‘What about a coil?’

‘I tried it in England,’ lied Ann. ‘It hurt: it was always uncomfortable’.

‘A diaphragm then?’

‘I’ve never used one.’

‘It’s your responsibility,’ warned the man. ‘You’ve got to remember to use it.’

‘All right,’ said Ann.

‘You sure about the pill?’ said the doctor, still doubtful.

‘Quite sure,’ said Ann.

Chapter Seven

The cafeteria of the American embassy is an annex building at the rear of the main premises on Chaykovskovo, on the ground floor. The walls are festooned with posters of American scenes, aerial shots of the Grand Canyon and Mickey Mouse at Disneyworld and the Statue of Liberty, all reminders of home. There were some framed pictures, too, outdoor scenes again and around some hung forlorn streamers, forgotten residue of some celebration like Christmas or Thanksgiving. The menu prices and payment, Brinkman saw, were in dollars; another reminder of a far-away home. He chose steak, knowing it would have been flown in. As Blair warned, it would never have achieved the place a listing in the Guide Michelin but it wasn’t bad, either. Both drank coffee.

‘Able to abandon the map yet?’ asked Blair.

Brinkman frowned, momentarily not understanding, then remembered his casual remark the night they first met, at Ingram’s party. ‘Just about,’ he smiled. Blair had a remarkable memory.

‘Like Moscow?’

‘I can see its limitations but they don’t worry me, not yet. So yes, I like it,’ replied Brinkman, honestly. Wanting to match the other man’s recall, he said, ‘I think it’s a worthwhile place to be, professionally: always got the attention of a lot of important people.’

Blair grinned at the other man, awarding him the point. ‘That wheat thing came out right,’ said the American, giving him another.

‘Ingram did the groundwork,’ said Brinkman. The two had been friends and might still be in touch. It was unlikely they would discuss something like that, even if they were, but Brinkman decided it didn’t hurt to be generous.

‘Half an assessment isn’t any good,’ said Blair.

Brinkman began to smile, imagining further praise but then stopped, suspecting that Blair meant something else. ‘What’s yours?’ he said.

‘I think there’s more to switching the wheat purchasing to Canada than finding alternative supplies. That’s too simple.’

Blair was being objective, not critical, Brinkman decided: and he hadn’t committed himself too strongly to London, he remembered, relieved. Wanting to show analysis in his question, Brinkman took a chance and said, ‘You think the shortage is serious?’

Blair nodded and Brinkman was further relieved. ‘We know it is,’ he said. ‘Got a playback from Langley: our spy satellites go over the wheat growing areas. It’s a disaster area.’

‘Famine proportions?’ probed Brinkman, staying on safe ground.

‘Practically, in some areas. The harvest was bad last year, so there isn’t any stock for them to fall back upon.’

It was repayment time, Brinkman realised: he hadn’t expected it so soon. Deciding it wasn’t a naive assumption. Brinkman said, ‘Which puts Serada on the spot?’

‘The whole Politburo,’ expanded Blair. ‘But Serada most of all, I agree. He’s shown bad leadership, from the time of his election. There have been the changes within the ministry, sure, but that’s just cosmetic: doesn’t matter a spit within the Politburo, where Serada’s critics are. And he’s got plenty.’

‘Enough to be purged?’ Brinkman tried to avoid any excitement showing and thought he’d succeeded.

‘Difficult to be positive,’ said Blair cautiously. ‘But it could happen. Serada came from the agricultural ministry: was supposed to know all about it. Agrarian reforms were the first things he introduced, when he got the Politburo chairmanship.’

‘So he’s directly responsible?’ said Brinkman, another safe question. He did not want any more of his meal but continued eating, to disguise his feelings from the other man.

‘Right in the firing line,’ agreed Blair. ‘So we’re going to see some defensive play.’

Brinkman didn’t understand and searched desperately for the right question. ‘Can he manage it?’ he said.

‘Maybe,’ said Blair, pushing his plate away. ‘Maybe not.’

Come on, for Christ’s sake! thought Brinkman. He wanted it all. He said, ‘It’ll have to be something pretty dramatic’

‘I think it will be,’ said Blair. ‘Predictable but dramatic’

But I can’t bloody well predict it, thought Brinkman. Unable to manage anything better he said, ‘Could support swing back to Serada if he gets it right?’

‘ If he gets it right,’ qualified Blair. The American hesitated, appearing unsure whether or not to continue: Brinkman sat with the apprehension burning through him, hoping it wasn’t showing in open perspiration on his face. Then Blair said, ‘The Canadian deal has got two sides, in my opinion. It’s to relieve the shortages here, certainly. And for insurance if the United States uses its supplies as a weapon. Serada’s gesture has got to be dramatic, like I said. It’s got to be dramatic and it’s got to be convincing to everyone here: the Politburo and the committees that matter and those poor sons-of-bitches who are starving out there in the boondocks. So what’s the usual move of a dictatorship when there’s an internal threat?’

Brinkman drank from his coffee cup, to give himself time. Predictable, the man said; what the hell was predictable! ‘Create an external one,’ he risked, stomach knotted at the fear of getting it wrong.

‘Exactly!’ said the American and Brinkman put the cup down, not wanting the shake of his hand to be apparent. Blair said, ‘The Soviets are paranoid about war. They lost twenty million people fighting Hitler and have never forgotten it. Neither should we forget how it affects their thinking. If Serada can stir up a war threat, then he’s home and dry.’

Blair was mad, thought Brinkman. Up to now everything had been logical and acceptible but now the man was running off into fantasyland. And then it came to him and he said, ‘So you’re guessing Geneva?’

‘Right first time,’ congratulated the American. ‘I think Serada is going publicly to put up a whole bunch of proposals to the disarmament conference, proposals he knows damned well will be unacceptable to the United States. Say something like he’s prepared to go there personally to negotiate and sign a treaty and actually invite the President to meet him there. We’ll turn it down, because we’ll have to. And the President will make an announcement saying he’s not going. Serada will be able to tell the Politburo and the Russian people and anyone else who’ll listen to him that he made a genuine gesture for peace but America, the warmongers, rejected it. And then, in protest, he’ll break off the Geneva conference. My guess is that he’ll actually hope we’ll use wheat as a weapon. If we do that he can say it’s America causing the starvation, not his half-assed policies.’

It was good, conceded Brinkman: bloody good. A neat, intricate jig-saw puzzle with all the bits in place, even the awkward ones all the same colour. He said, ‘It’s a fascinating scenario.’

‘It’s the way I’m reading it,’ said Blair.

The American gestured for more coffee and Brinkman took some too, content to let Blair run the encounter. The ace, Ingram had called him, remembered Brinkman. He thought it was a pretty good description. He said, ‘Who succeeds, if Serada goes?’

Blair grinned. ‘The sixty-four thousand dollar question, as they’ve said too many times. It’s Russia’s perennial problem, a gang of old guys at the top. Gushkov is a contender, but he’s seventy-two. Chebrakin has got the support of the military, which is always a factor. But he’s seventy. Didenko is the youngest, at fifty-nine. But he’s spent most of his administrative life out in the provinces and hasn’t got any international experience at all: never even been out of the country. I’d put Yuri Sevin down as an outsider but my guess is he wouldn’t take it. His reputation is that of a behind-the-scenes policymaker.’

‘Anybody’s guess then?’

‘If I were asked to make it, I’d risk a buck on Chebrakin. But only as a caretaker.’

‘Until Didenko gets the experience?’

‘Maybe,’ said Blair, uncommitted. ‘Maybe someone we’ve never heard of. I’ve got a gut feeling that we might see changes that will take us all by surprise…’ Blair grinned again and said, ‘But that’s all it is, a gut feeling. And gut feelings make bad intelligence.’

If Blair were right then he couldn’t have been posted to Moscow at a better time, thought Brinkman. He realised, too, that the American had repaid him in full: with interest. He said, ‘Would America suspend the wheat sales, to get Serada back to the conference table?’

‘Not if we’ve got any sense,’ said Blair. ‘It’s a myth that we supply all that much anyway. And what we do could easily be replaced. As a gesture it would be more to Russia’s propaganda advantage than a serious threat.’

He’d include that in the file to London, Brinkman determined. It would show impressive political acumen: maybe even get transmitted between London and Washington. He experienced a warm feeling of contentment and satisfaction. He said, ‘I’d like to return the other night’s dinner. Have you and Ann over to my place.’ In fact, thought Brinkman, he wanted Blair to be a frequent guest at this rate; very frequent.

‘We’d like that,’ accepted the American. ‘Ann’s got lots more she wants to talk about with you, about England.’ The American paused and said, ‘Found the bugs yet?’

‘I haven’t seriously tried,’ said Brinkman, who had but found no listening devices against which in London he’d been warned to be careful.

‘Light fittings are a favourite,’ said the American. ‘Interior of keyholes, too. When they swept the apartment of our trade attache last time they found one in the flush handle of the John.’

Brinkman laughed and said, ‘What did they do?’

‘Took it out,’ said Blair. ‘The Soviets know from the maids when there’s an official sweep and because it’s official anything found is removed. We don’t touch anything we find ourselves. Indicates we might have something to hide and they’ll only put another one in somewhere else. If you know where they are you can just avoid them.’

Remembering Ingram’s praise of the other man’s electronic ability, Brinkman said, ‘Found all yours?’

‘I think so,’ said Blair, casually. ‘Score’s up to five so far. I play them a lot of Country and Western. Dolly Parton’s a favourite.’

‘I prefer classical,’ said Brinkman.

‘I guess they do, too,’ said Blair.

Brinkman’s report to Maxwell was lengthy and it took a long time to encode, so it was late when he got back from the embassy. Despite the time, he spent three hours making a detailed examination of the apartment, concentrating upon the spots suggested by Blair. He found three devices, two in light fittings.

Four days later the Soviet leader appeared publicly on State television to announce his new disarmament proposals for the Geneva conference. Washington responded not with a rejection but with caution, issuing a communique that they would have to be studied in depth before any proper response could be given. Brinkman got another cable of congratulation from Maxwell.

Ruth accepted that the apology in Blair’s card – that there was nothing really worth buying in Moscow for Paul’s birthday – was probably true but she still wished he’d tried, instead of enclosing an impersonal cheque. Trying for something different she took both boys on one of the cruise trips along the Potomac, on a boat where it was possible to eat. Afterwards they went to the Biograph in Georgetown because a movie was showing she knew Paul particularly wanted to see and even though they had the big tubs of popcorn she took them to eat, afterwards, at the French restaurant on the opposite side of M Street.

‘I’d like you to write to your father when we get back, to thank him.’

‘What for?’ demanded Paul belligerently.

‘Your present,’ Ruth replied carefully. She wouldn’t fight, not on his birthday.

‘Twenty lousy bucks!’

‘Stop it, Paul,’ she said evenly. ‘He’s your father and he loves you and it made more sense for him to send you the money to buy something you really want instead of him guessing.’

‘If he hadn’t run out on us he wouldn’t have had to guess, would he?’ said the boy.

‘He hasn’t run out on you,’ said Ruth, maintaining her control. ‘He divorced me.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ asked John.

‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you he loves you. And he does.’

Paul took his father’s cheque from his pocket, looked at it and said, ‘He can go stick it up his ass.’

‘Stop that!’ said Ruth, her voice rising for the first time. ‘I will not have you use language like that in front of me.’

Paul tore the cheque in half and then in half again, letting the pieces fall into the ashtray between them.

‘That was stupid!’ said Ruth.

The boy looked up at her and said, ‘So’s not having a father.’

Sokol was a bachelor with no outside interests and thought passingly that it was fortunate because his absorption with the problems arising from the famine meant he stayed all the time at Dzerzhinsky Square, frequently sleeping on a collapsible cot in his office. Despite the pressure, he refused to delegate to his subordinates, wanting awareness of everything at the time it happened, not days or weeks later when the advantage might be lost. It was almost midnight and his eyes were drooping with tiredness when he came upon the report on the newly-arrived Englishman. He blinked tightly against the fatigue, concentrating upon the accounts from the permanent observers at the embassy and from the guards and workers in the foreigners’ compound. There appeared to be a friendship with the American Resident, Sokol noticed. But then the previous man, Ingram, had been a friend, so the introduction was obvious. He put aside the report. There was nothing to indicate that Brinkman was doing anything but settling in. There was no cause for any special activity against the man.

Chapter Eight

Orlov was born in Georgia, at the port of Poti. He’d tried, prompted by the urgings of his anxious mother and aided by the blurred, already fading photographs, later to recall his father and said he could, because he knew it was important to the woman, but truthfully he could not. He could remember, however, the anguish. The helpless crying and afterwards – for several months – the long days and the long nights she spent in her room by herself, refusing to emerge and for whole weeks not bothering to eat, although it was not until years later that he came to know what Leningrad meant beyond the name of a city and realised that the desperate mourning had been for his father’s death during the Nazi siege. It resulted in Orlov being brought up almost entirely by his grandfather, a fiercely moustacheod man – and to a lesser extent by his grandmother. Orlov knew now that the bellowed talk and the guffawed laughter and the belly slapping and the drinking – corks were never preserved for replacement, but always discarded on opening – were covers for an inferiority, the man’s inner fear. But as a child he lived in permanent awe of his grandfather, thinking him the bravest man who lived. Certainly that’s how Orlov considered him after that day on the sea although like the realisation about fear Orlov recognised what had happened to have been through stupidity and their survival through luck. The old man was a fisherman, so he should have known better, even though when they sailed there had been no hint of the storm, not the smallest cloud in the sky. He’d taken them too far out for a coastal dory, and ignored the clouds when they appeared, first a bubbled line on the horizon and then, with such frightening quickness, churning out over the sky and completely blackening the sun. The old man reacted then, of course, trying to get them back to safety but the wind was already too strong, tearing at the full sail he first attempted and threatening to overturn the boat, so that he had to trim it practically to the degree of pointlessness. He’d roared and shouted, making his own noise to give him courage over the sound of the storm, and made Orlov take the tiller while he rowed, the effort against the heaving waves as futile as maintaining the sail. The old man had shown some seamanship, Orlov supposed, keeping their constantly-swamped head into the wind and despite his age – he must have been nearly seventy – never flagging throughout the long night baling the water, to keep them afloat. The storm eased by early morning, so that they could put more sail on but when they were actually in sight of the harbour the sea played a trick, like the old man should have known the sea often did, suddenly trapping them in a confluence of converging currents and eddies and tidal shifts. They’d spun, helplessly, tiller and sails and oars useless, caught in a sort of whirlpool that Orlov had thought was going to suck them down with them powerless to prevent it. Which was how he felt now. Everything was happening too quickly – with the unexpected quickness of that childhood storm – and he hadn’t anticipated any of it and felt himself being sucked deeper and deeper and being powerless to do anything about it. He’d known his position and the esteem in which he was held – if it had been less the danger to Natalia would not have been so great – but no way, not in his talks and discussions with Harriet nor in his own, private considerations, had he anticipated how quickly he would be caught up in affairs and events upon his return to Moscow. He’d actually expected a transitional period, a time when he would be spared from the ministry to settle back into the country, which was when he had intended as kindly and as painlessly as possible formally separating and divorcing himself from Natalia. But it hadn’t happened that way. There had been the need constantly to attend the Kremlin, practically from the first day, and now he felt as trapped as inexorably as he had been that day long ago in the spinning water. Trapped by the ambition of a trusted and dear friend and trapped in his relationship with Natalia, from whom he should have been distancing himself and with whom, instead, he was increasingly resuming the complete and normal married life that had been interrupted by his posting to America. That day at sea the spinning had stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the sea flattened into an unnatural calmness, enabling them easily to get back to shore. Now Orlov felt himself caught between two different sorts of tempest and couldn’t imagine a way that either would blow themselves out.

There was a meeting with Sevin the morning before his election, an unnecessary preparation for his appearance before the Central Committee but an indulgence the old man required and which had to be allowed.

‘This is it!’ said Sevin, enthusiastically. ‘This is the beginning.’ At once he corrected himself, given to flamboyance in his speech. ‘No,’ he said, ‘definitely not the beginning. The final, well deserved end.’

Outside the man’s office, in the open gardens, Orlov could see people moving, tourists mostly. He envied them their minimal anxieties of where to eat and where to stay and whether they could afford either. He said, ‘I’ve been surprised, by the quickness.’

‘I didn’t intend it should be so,’ conceded Sevin at once. ‘No one imagined how quickly Serada would fall: not even me and I’ve been here since Stalin.’

‘Serada hasn’t fallen yet,’ qualified Orlov.

Sevin gave a dismissive shake of his hand, a gesture almost of irritation. ‘It’s inevitable. Everyone knows it. Even Serada himself.’

‘I’m not sure I’m ready,’ said Orlov, still looking through the window so that his back was to the room. How could he stop the spinning!

‘Don’t worry,’ placated his friend, from behind. ‘It seems rushed at the moment because of the circumstances: none of us anticipated how bad the famine would be, as I said. Your election today won’t arouse any suspicion. It’ll be as a non-voting member, merely to establish your presence. When Serada goes – as he will – it won’t be you who’s proposed. No one will even consider you.’

‘Who?’ said Orlov, turning back into the room.

‘Chebrakin,’ disclosed the older man. ‘He’s got seven of the Politburo committed and I’m one of them. The military, too. We’ll let them all exhaust themselves this time: make their promises and threats to give an old man his moment of glory. But that’s all it will be, a moment. Chebrakin is a diabetic and there’s a liver malfunction, too, just like there was with Andropov. I’d estimate a year, eighteen months at the outside. That will give us all the time in the world to bring you up to full membership and plan the strategy: and supposedly a supporter of Chebrakin I shall be on the inside, able to forestall any opposition before it has time to become established.’

Faster and faster, thought Orlov desperately; he actually felt dizzy. Hoping maybe to deter the man, Orlov said, ‘What if you can’t forestall the opposition? What if a stronger faction emerges with someone else?’

Sevin laughed at the question, enjoying being able to prove his manipulation. ‘I’m not your only supporter apparently within the Chebrakin camp,’ he said. ‘Afansasiev and Visko have aligned themselves, too. When we switch to the opposition, that gives us the majority. Didenko only has the backing of two, anyway. The rest will come with us, when they see the way it’s running.’

‘It all seems so easy,’ said Orlov emptily. ‘So prosaically easy.’

Sevin shook his head, positively. ‘It hasn’t been and it won’t be. There’ll be a fight, like there always is, but we’re well prepared…’ He paused, smiling. ‘I’ve admired you and your ability from the moment of our first meeting,’ he said. ‘Do you know what my ambition is?’

‘What?’ said Orlov, miserably.

‘This is my final effort,’ said Sevin, in further confession. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime here in government: I’ve survived purges by megalomaniacs and wars by megalomaniacs and I’ve made or unmade scores of ambitious men who espouse Communism and aspire to the crown of the Czar. But no more. This is the last time…’ The old man hesitated at the full revelation. ‘I want to live to see it,’ he said. ‘I want to be there, in the great hall, when the announcement is publicly made and you are declared leader of the Soviet Union, Pietr Orlov. I want to be there and know that this country, after all the mistakes and the stupidities and the disasters, can at last be properly guided at least some way in the right direction.’

Why oh why did the man have to equate it in terms of dying or living? agonised Orlov. Two hours later, Sevin by his side as sponsor, Pietr Orlov was elected a non-voting delegate to the Central Committee, representing the Moscow area.

The letter arrived, as Ann anticipated, exactly three weeks after she despatched her communication to her mother. They always arrived like that, as some strictly controlled calendar notation. Which it probably was. Her mother was that sort of methodical woman, someone who filled her diary with birthdays on 1 January and never forgot to cancel the milk. Ann read the letter intently, more from curiosity than in expectation of any personal news or feeling or interest, deciding as she did so that the information her mother had given could have come from the briefing sections of Newsweek or Time or any of the publications they got from the embassy. It wasn’t a letter at all; it was sheets of widely-spaced writing – to fill those pages – showing nothing else but the performance of a duty, a duty as perfunctory as subscribing to a charity to which her mother’s conscience dictated or putting the cat out at night, so that it wouldn’t pee and stain the carpet. Why did she bother? Ann asked herself. Why did she continue with this ridiculous charade of maintaining contact with a family so stupid and so traditional and so hundreds of years behind the times that they’d probably even discussed cutting her out of their Will, as some sort of disgrace to the family. Fuck their Will, she thought. Fuck their Will and fuck them and fuck bothering to write any more. As programmed as it always was, the last line of the letter was inevitable. ‘Your father sends his regards,’ it said.

Fuck his regards best – or worst – of all, thought Ann.

Chapter Nine

The evening was an undoubted success – genuinely so – not because of the effort Brinkman put into making it so. And he made every effort, bringing in everything through the embassy concessions and cooking the beef to perfection and entering triumphantly with the Yorkshire pudding and enjoying Ann’s obvious delight and Blair’s appreciation of the remark at their introductory meeting, which was why he had made the effort at all. He accepted their praise of his ability as a cook, but dismissed it with some deprecating remark that if he hadn’t learned he would have starved at university. It naturally created a conversation between himself and the woman and able to talk more fully on this occasion they found mutual acquaintances who overlapped at Cambridge, which provided the subject for a fresh round of chatter. Blair sat contentedly on the sidelines, not understanding the talk of the Long Vac or the intricacies of punting or the rituals of picnics beside the Cam. After the meal Brinkman served perfect coffee and left the brandy open between them on the table, playing the overture from Swan Lake on the second-hand stereo. That led the conversation to the ballet, of which Brinkman said he was a fanatic – which he was – and which Blair admitted honestly that he found boring. And a fresh focus of interest was established between Ann and the Englishman.

‘One of the few good things about living here,’ said Ann.

‘Do you often get to the Bolshoi?’ he asked. Her obvious disappointment with the city registered but Brinkman decided against pursuing it.

‘Not as often as I’d like: Eddie’s not keen, as he said.’

‘Let’s choose carefully and take him sometime and educate him,’ said Brinkman. He felt sufficiently comfortable with the American to make such a comment and Blair smiled amiably back, unoffended.

‘I’ll give it a shot if you’ll come to ice hockey and let me educate you about that,’ said Blair.

‘Deal,’ agreed Brinkman, happy with the evening. He hoped he’d made a point they recognised by not inviting anyone to make up the numbers.

Brinkman led the conversation because he was the host and because he liked telling stories at small gatherings but he remained constantly alert and ready to defer if Blair tried to take over. The American contributed sufficient for politeness but no more, appearing quite content to play a subsidiary role. Ann laughed at all the jokes and anecdotes, the smile almost permanently on her lips. They didn’t however overstay, excusing themselves before midnight.

Nothing was very distant in the diplomatic enclave and as they walked back to their own apartment Ann said excitedly, ‘I can’t remember enjoying myself more for a long time.’

‘It was fun,’ agreed Blair, tolerantly.

‘Betty Harrison was right.’

‘What did the font of all social gossip in Moscow decree?’

‘That he was the best thing to arrive for a long time.’

Blair unlocked their apartment door, standing back for her to enter. ‘He’s a clever guy.’

Caught by something she imagined in the tone of her husband’s voice, Ann stopped in the passageway and said, ‘Don’t you like him?’

‘Sure I like him. Why ask that?’

‘Thought maybe you didn’t, from the way you spoke.’

Blair shook his head, continuing on into the apartment. ‘He’s all right.’

‘Wonder why he’s not married?’

Blair pulled a face at her question. ‘How the hell would I know! Guess he doesn’t want to be. Maybe he’s tried and it didn’t work. Perhaps Betty Harrison knows the answer.’

Ann had been waiting for the opportunity and decided they were both sufficiently relaxed tonight; or rather, he was. She was already in bed when he emerged from the bathroom. She said, ‘I went to see the doctor a few days ago.’

Blair stopped, the concern immediate. ‘What!’

‘The doctor: I went to see him.’

‘I heard that,’ said Blair impatiently. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing much. I was having heavy periods so I thought I should talk to him about being on the pill.’

Blair came and sat on her side of the bed, the worry obvious and Ann despised herself for the deceit. ‘It hasn’t caused any problems, has it?’

‘No,’ she said, immediately reassuring. ‘He just thinks I should come off it, that’s all.’

‘Sure,’ said the American, relieved. ‘Whatever he said.’

‘He gave me a very thorough examination: blood pressure, stuff like that,’ said Ann. ‘There’s really nothing wrong.’

Blair got up, going around to his own side of the bed. ‘What are you going to do?’ he said, getting in beside her.

‘Diaphragm,’ said Ann cautiously.

‘Oh.’

‘It’s just a bit more mechanical, that’s all.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed in the darkness. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘I could always use nothing; not bother.’

He was silent for a long time. Finally he said, ‘Does it matter very much to you?’

She turned towards him and said, ‘Yes, darling. It matters very much. I love you and I want to have your baby.’

There was another silence and then Blair said, ‘We’ll talk about it. Not now but we’ll talk about it.’

You didn’t make babies by talking, thought Ann. But he hadn’t said no. It was going to work, she thought, excitedly. It was going to work!

Natalia made the move because he hadn’t, determinedly, for several nights.

‘No,’ he refused.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Coward, he thought. There was never going to be a simple, easy way; never the right time. So why not now?

‘Sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ He knew she was looking at him in the darkness but he didn’t turn towards her.

‘Do you want to talk to me about something?’ Natalia invited.

‘No,’ said Orlov, running away.

Chapter Ten

The response of the American President to the supposed new Soviet initiative was an example of consummate diplomacy and consummate diplomacy is impossible without matching, consummate intelligence. Which was Blair’s intelligence. Washington delayed replying for two weeks, robbing Serada of any chance of achieving a surge of international momentum. And when that reply came it was the result of an intensive fortnight of work, by both State Department officials at Foggy Bottom and US peace negotiators at Geneva, guided by what Blair provided. The Soviet proposals were displayed point by point and their failings and unacceptability listed against those points and that intelligence. The US reply was delivered simultaneously to the Soviet embassy on Washington’s Sixteenth Street and to the Geneva conference.

What followed was further impressive, politically. Before Serada had an opportunity to make a second television appearance in anticipation of a US rejection, the American President made a prime-time TV appearance of his own, with a European hook-up, in which the offer was dealt with more generally – because some of the unacceptable issues were diplomatically esoteric – but from which it was quite clear that America had no alternative other than the stance it was taking and that despite extensive rephrasing, a lot of the Russian offer was old and already dismissed from the negotiations with the proveable agreement of both sides.

The politics continued to be impressive. Nowhere was there the slightest criticism or accusation in the American President’s speech, no apparent attempt to gain an advantage from such obvious Soviet manoeuvring. Throughout the US reply the tone was studiously that of a world statesman, which had precisely the intended effect of diminishing Serada’s stature.

And on it went. The news of the Soviet container ship chartering was leaked – clearly through liaison Brinkman recognised – in London. The Lloyds insurance cover was the key. At once Ottawa confirmed the wheat deal – further liaison, Brinkman guessed – under supposed pressure from diplomatic correspondents.

From the White House the President declared his sympathy – not outrage – at the Russian move, in view of the understood grain shortages within the country, quoting the publicly announced reshuffling within the agricultural ministry as confirmation of an internal difficulty. Humanity overrode ideologies and differences and for that reason the United States offered substantially to increase shipments beyond the already contracted and agreed amounts to relieve any suffering the country was experiencing: the fact that common humanity overrode ideologies and differences was repeated here, in case anyone had missed the point.

Demolishing completely the Russian leader’s ploy, the President said his offer was formally being communicated that day to the Russian leadership not only through their Sixteenth Street residence but also through the US embassy in Moscow and that he looked forward to an early and obvious agreement, because what other responsibility did a government have than to help the people it was in office to serve? In anticipation of that unquestioned acceptance he was allocating special rail transportation from the Mid-West storage hoppers so that wheat would be available immediately at ports, reducing to an absolute minimum any delay in shipments once the formal request came from Moscow. Newsweek carried a cover story, calling him ‘Humanity’s man’ and public opinion polls showed his popularity to be higher than at any time since directly after the election.

Brinkman realised the Central Committee elections were important, avid when the announcement came, isolating Orlov among the three newcomers and identifying him certainly as the youngest. The luncheons between himself and Blair – alternating between the safety of their respective embassies – became regular, weekly affairs and Brinkman learned at the older – and still more experienced – man’s knee. At first he wondered if the advised and recommended indicators weren’t too simplistic but he followed them anyway because he didn’t know any alternative and he acknowledged the American’s expertise in such a closed society.

Absence – explained or otherwise – was identified by Blair as a prime clue which was why Brinkman concentrated upon the arrival of a Cuban delegation which included Raoul Castro and in so doing did not rely upon Soviet television because of the ease with which the coverage could be controlled, but instead actually taking the trouble to go out to the airport for the ceremony, which Tass, the official news agency and Pravda had earlier announced Serada would be heading.

Serada didn’t appear.

And because his unexplained absence was disguised on the television coverage, Brinkman was able to get the message to London in advance of the speculative news stories, speculation which was heightened by the TV manipulation.

Blair hadn’t been at the airport, which enabled Brinkman the feeling of superior satisfaction when the American called seeking confirmation of the Soviet leader’s definite absence before committing himself but Blair had an exchange to offer, unusual and interestingly late-night arrivals and departures of official Zil cars from the Kremlin, another seemingly innocuous indicator but according to Blair an important one. Brinkman messaged London – rigidly restricting himself to the facts, not offering any opinion – and was glad he did because the following day came the brief formal announcement that Ivan Serada was being hospitalised for tests for an undisclosed indisposition. No acting deputy was nominated but at London’s request for advice, Brinkman predicted Chebrakin, because he calculated the military were important. He accompanied the message with as full a profile as possible upon the man and two days later got his confirmation when Chebrakin emerged as the host at a government reception for the still-visiting Cubans. Blair’s later admission – because that was how close they were now – that he’d backed the outsider in Didenko gave Brinkman more satisfaction than the hero-gram from Maxwell. Brinkman conceded it had been a horse-race and no one – not them, at least – had been sufficiently on the inside to back the winner with any certainty. But Blair, the acknowledged pundit had gone for an outsider and Brinkman, the punter, had wagered on the favourite and won. Luck, certainly: but everyone needed luck at the races.

It was for Brinkman a period of exhilaration, not simply – or even predominantly – because he appeared to be so consistently right but because he had the impression of being at the centre of developments he was able to anticipate: he was a surfer on the highest of high rollers, able always perfectly to judge the break and catch it just right and ride it into the shore, close enough for the beach of accuracy to stop off without his feet getting wet.

The ambassador confirmed the reputation he was establishing in London – not offended because Brinkman had usurped the man’s function as the proper political analyst – at the monthly gathering.

The monthly gathering was an innovation of Sir Oliver Brace, the attempt at democracy – where serf could address lord – and be sure that all was well upon the estate.

It was held at the embassy, the only place of convenient size, the atmosphere glued with embarrassment. Brinkman’s existing successes made it easier: and there had been sufficient offers invoking the friendship of his father anyway to make the encounter easier for him than it might have been for most.

‘Gather we follow similar paths in thinking?’ offered Brace, when everyone arrived and the gathering was established giving him a respite from playing party host.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Brinkman had expected the approach before now, the demand why the earlier offers had not been acknowledged and responded to.

‘Get the impression that we’re interpreting certain developments in the same way.’

That wasn’t an impression at all, thought Brinkman. That was the playback from London against his political assessment, compared to the ambassador’s. Had Brace got it wrong and gone for Gushkov or Didenko? Enjoying the taste of the cliche, he said, ‘These are interesting times.’

‘If we get them right.’

‘If we get them right indeed,’ agreed Brinkman. This was going to be an easier game than it ever was with Blair. Despite their now-confirmed friendship, there was always a reserve from the American, a slight holding back. Just – Brinkman conceded – as he always held slightly back. Lie, he thought. His holding back wasn’t slight, at all.

‘Imagine some changes soon?’ pressed the embassador.

‘How do you see the situation?’ said Brinkman, turning the question.

‘I’d like to know whether Serada’s illness is medical or political.’

‘Little doubt about that, is there?’ said Brinkman, continuing the role of questioner without expressing an opinion of his own.

‘That’s the problem with trying to interpret events in the Soviet Union,’ said the ambassador, philosophically. ‘There’s always doubt.’

Brinkman had already filed the opinion to London. Knowing he wasn’t disclosing anything the ambassador might take for his own, Brinkman said ‘Serada’s got to be on his way out. And I think Chebrakin will be the successor.’

‘Chebrakin!’ pounced the ambassador, confirming Brinkman’s guess that the man had suggested somebody else.

‘But like you said,’ reminded Brinkman, ‘there’s always doubt.’

‘Been very impressed the way you’ve settled in here,’ said Brace. ‘Very impressed indeed. An asset to the embassy. Imagine London thinks so too. Heard from your father lately?’

‘Not for some time,’ said Brinkman.

‘Give him my regards’ said the ambassador.

‘I will, sir,’ said Brinkman. ‘And thank you, for what you said.’

‘Nothing but the truth,’ said the ambassador. ‘Nothing but the truth. And don’t forget what I’ve already told you. Always willing to help.’

‘I won’t forget,’ assured Brinkman. He didn’t then anticipate how quickly the occasion would arise.

‘You’ve lionised him!’ said Betty Harrison. The Canadian tried to make it a mock protest but Ann guessed there was an element of feeling in what the woman said. Betty coveted the role of the grande dame of the diplomatic wives and would imagine it was to her salon that Brinkman should pay court.

‘We haven’t,’ she said. ‘He and Eddie just seem to get on well.’ She felt a bubble of satisfaction at the other woman’s jealousy.

‘What about you?’ said Betty archly.

‘We both went to Cambridge, although not at the same time. Seem to have a few mutual acquaintances, though’, said Ann.

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said the other woman.

Ann, who understood fully what the Canadian had meant, laughed dismissively, refusing to become gossip fodder. ‘I think he is very amusing and great company at a party. But he doesn’t attract me in the slightest.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ said Betty. ‘Have you seen those hands?’

Ann had. And wondered idly how Brinkman appeared to be able to stay so apparently hard-bodied when he didn’t take any exercise that she knew of and the boyish way he had of flicking the dark hair back from his forehead. But only in the way of noticing things about a friend with whom she was frequently in close contact. She hadn’t lied to Betty. The thought of any physical attraction had never arisen in her mind.

‘He doesn’t seem too interested in getting involved with anyone, does he?’ said Ann, carelessly.

Betty seized the remark, able to see several meanings in everything. ‘You don’t think he’s strange, do you?’

‘Strange?’ frowned Ann, not immediately understanding.

‘You know, strange,’ prompted Betty.

‘You mean gay!’ said Ann at last. ‘No, of course I don’t think he’s gay!’ Poor man, she thought, it was like being picked over by a hyena.

‘He dropped Sharon Berring like a hot potato,’ said Betty, warming to her theme.

‘He did not drop her like a hot potato,’ said Ann, conscious that she was in at the beginning of what Betty was rapidly formulating into the week’s top story. ‘He just didn’t submit to having the choice made for him.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Betty at once.

Ann sighed, mildly irritated by the interrogation. ‘I don’t know ,’ she said. ‘I just guessed. It seemed obvious.’

Betty stared at her friend with her head cocked artificially, in obvious disbelief. ‘How’s Eddie?’ she said.

This was getting ridiculous, thought Ann. Openly to lose her temper would be a mistake. ‘Fine,’ she said. Was that true? Ann thought, letting her mind slip sideways. He was fine, physically, and she knew sufficient about the government changes to understand that he should be preoccupied but there had been times recently when she felt he had been closing up against her. Not recently, she thought, self-annoyed at the conscious vagueness. She could date precisely the beginning of her impression, from the moment when he agreed they should try for a baby. And they weren’t doing that as often as she had hoped, although the work preoccupation could be a reason for his tiredness. And certainly not with any success. Ann knew her attitude was illogical – you didn’t become pregnant just by wanting to become pregnant – but she’d expected something to have happened, by now. Maybe she should go back to the embassy doctor, to try to discover if there was a problem.

‘Just fine?’ said Betty, still allowing the disbelief.

‘Absolutely and utterly fine,’ said Ann, controlling herself. She was glad now that at the beginning, when she was enjoying the other woman’s jealousy, she had not boasted about the tickets she had particularly got to surprise Brinkman for the new production at the Bolshoi.

That night in bed she said to Blair, ‘You know what I think about Betty Harrison?’

‘What?’

‘I think she poisonous. I don’t think she spreads rumours, I think she makes them up.’

‘What about?’ asked the American.

‘Whatever takes her fancy,’ said Ann.

‘I thought you liked her,’ he said mildly.

‘I do’ said Ann, confusingly. ‘But I don’t think I’d trust her.’

She waited, hopefully, but felt him turn away.

‘Goodnight,’ he said.

‘Goodnight.’

Chapter Eleven

Very occasionally – too occasionally for it to be considered anything more than the most sensational good fortune – it was possible to cultivate and maintain a source with some internal knowledge in Moscow. Some intelligence officers forged links with dissidents but it was dangerous – apart from closely following their illegal zamizdat – because the KGB monitored the activities rigidly and sometimes infiltrated provocateurs, so there was always the risk of seizure and some highly publicised diplomatic incident, usually expulsion. The majority of intelligence came from assessment, from closely studying and analysing official announcements and seeing who was and who was not in official photographs or at official receptions; frequently making conclusions from details like who was standing in relation to whom at those events. Sources for those assessments were usually the approved newspapers or the approved television coverage. Personally able to observe was a bonus, which was why Brinkman went to the airport for the arrival of the Cuban delegation and there he was a long way away, only able to establish Serada’s absence. To get anywhere near close proximity to the Soviet hierarchy practically ranked with managing to establish an internal source. When Brinkman realised his opportunity he went after it with the unwavering determination with which he had passed every examination and every interview and every aptitude test to jump over the heads and get the plum Moscow posting. The care he had taken to establish himself with everyone within the embassy helped. And so, at last, did the offered personal relationship with the ambassador; independence had to make way for necessary advantage, Brinkman decided.

The visit of the British parliamentary party was planned to be a big one, not just the leader of the Opposition but the Shadow Foreign Secretary and the Shadow Trade Secretary and three other MPs who would form part of the Cabinet if they were successful in the next election. The defeat in the last had been extremely narrow and the forecast for the next gave them a more than strong chance, which was undoubtedly a factor in the Russian decision to greet and entertain them at such a high level, scheduling two State banquets and a Kremlin reception, with private talks agreed.

Despite his determination to get what he wanted, Brinkman went about his bid to be appointed official interpreter as properly as he had always conducted himself within the embassy, making the approach first to the Head of Chancery and actually using the meeting to rehearse his arguments, stressing that his official position as cultural attache made him ideally suited for the function and pointing out that his Russian was unquestionably equal to if not superior to the majority of other likely choices. Having started the right way Brinkman took the gamble and approached Sir Oliver Brace directly. The attitude of proper career diplomats to intelligence personnel in embassies varies and is frequently ambivalent: intelligence agents are a necessity, like daily bowel movements, but not usually things to be acknowledged. And certainly not to be allowed into any sort of situation involving ambassadors which might then or later cause problems. Brinkman was immediately aware of Brace’s face closing as he made the request, the older man’s experienced professionalism at once coming to the forefront. Brinkman had anticipated it, making frequent references to his father – of whose best wishes and gratitude at the friendship being shown in Moscow he assured the ambassador – and disclosing the man’s impending promotion to be Permanent Head of the Foreign Office. Brinkman knew Sir Oliver saw a concluding career for himself at the Foreign Office when the Moscow posting finished, a career his father would be in a position to sanction or not. He said he could understand any hesitation Brace might have – because it would have been ridiculous for him not to have acknowledged it – but insisted a personal as well as professional guarantee that nothing would arise which could cause any embarrassment, a guarantee the ambassador would know to be sincere from the man’s knowledge of the Brinkman family. Brace refused initially to commit himself, promising to consider it, and Brinkman endured the most uncertain week he had known since his arrival in Moscow, guessing the discussions would not just be confined to the ambassador and Head of Chancery but extend to London, as well. He wished the diplomatic cable channels were not separate from his own, another precaution against embarrassment. He actually considered making a direct approach to his father, towards the end of the week when he heard nothing, abandoning the idea because he realised the contact would have had to be by telephone, which was not secure – and therefore impossible – and would unquestionably cause the resentment he had so far managed to avoid, from everyone.

He got approval on the Monday.

Brinkman set about preparing himself with the care he devoted to everything. He had full biographies and information details on the MPs with whom he would be working pouched from London and requested – and got – a lot of additional material he considered lacking from the first shipment. He extended the preparation beyond learning about the personalities, finding out the purpose of the visit – creating a statesmen-like impression in Britain, in readiness for the next election – and the expected outcome, communiques of mutual trust and friendship and assurances of close working relationships in the future, another voter lure.

Although it wasn’t his responsibility Brinkman involved himself in every aspect of the tour, checking and rechecking their accommodation and travel arrangements and their sightseeing schedules. Because of his early days’ groundwork he was able to do so without upsetting anyone else in the embassy. In cases there was actually appreciation: a two-day visit to Leningrad was planned and there was underbooking in both hotels and transport there, so his intrusion was correctly seen to have avoided a mistake for which the embassy could have been criticised.

The importance of the visit for Brinkman began from the moment of arrival. It was Serada’s first public appearance since the announcement of his indisposition and Brinkman was not more than ten yards away from the man and closer even than that after the party landed and he moved forward to fulfil his supposed function.

Serada didn’t look ill. He was sallow, certainly, and as close as he was now Brinkman was aware of the man’s hand shaking but he thought the cause of both more external than illness. There were handshakes and traditional hugs and a short, ceremonial walk to inspect the waiting guard of honour. Serada’s welcoming speech was given in a halting, hesitant voice, the prepared notes appearing very necessary for the man. The response from the British Opposition leader, whose name was Birdwood, was robust by comparison, the man alert to where the British newsmen and television crews were penned, the speech verging on pomposity. Birdwood actually arrived with a working-class cap but he stopped short of wearing it, carrying it obviously in his hand instead.

The politicians had brought their wives and on the way into the capital, with Brinkman riding in the same car as Birdwood, it became obvious they saw his role as more than that of a simple translator. Brinkman didn’t mind combining the functions of baby-sitter, nursemaid and general factotum: there was nothing wrong with making himself indispensable to a group of men – and their women – who might within a couple of years emerge as his country’s leaders. Insurance was, after all, what one took out against the unknown.

Because he had immersed himself so fully in everything the arrival at the Metropole and the baggage collection and the room allocations went without a hitch. Brinkman established an immediate advantage from their reliance upon him, able to convince – occasionally almost bully – them into being ready at the times he stipulated at the places he stipulated.

The Kremlin reception the first night was more worthwhile than the airport arrival. Serada headed the Soviet party but only nominally. Brinkman was sure of it. Conscious of his incredible opportunity – but equally conscious how it could be misused – he tried to clear his mind of any preconceptions and was sure he obtained the necessary clarity. Serada had all the appearance of a cast-aside man. Once, on the actual receiving line, Chebrakin practically thrust aside the supposed leader and shortly after that intruded himself again to complete introductions that Serada should, according to protocol, have made. Brinkman was tight with excitement, absorbing everything. He concentrated upon Serada and searched again for any sign of definite illness and he concentrated upon Chebrakin – whom he knew from Blair positively to have disabilities – and studied the man’s appearance and behaviour and he concentrated upon the others in the government who had been assembled. He was particularly eager to locate and study the younger ones. Didenko was the easiest to find, because he was a full member of the Politburo and Brinkman recognised him instantly from the frequent photographs. Didenko was a burly man whose blood-pressured features were heightened by the complete whiteness of his hair. He moved about the gathering with the sort of confidence Chebrakin was showing, according little deference to Serada who at times seemed isolated and completely alone. There had been three newcomers in the most recent Central Committee elections and Brinkman strained about him, wanting to identify them. His supposed purpose helped, calling upon him to communicate the introductions between the two parties, which was how he got the first, Vladimir Isakov. Nervous on his first public outing at such an elevated level, judged Brinkman, a thin, bespectacled man in an ill-fitting suit and a collar that gaped. It was more than thirty minutes after the official greetings had finished and Brinkman was feeling the first stirrings of unease, before he saw another. Viktor Petrov appeared nervous, like Isakov, keeping himself on the periphery of everything, which was how he missed being named to the British group. He was a short, inconspicuous man anyway, better dressed than Isakov but not much, over-awed like the other man at his surroundings. Where was the third? Orlov, he remembered, from his complete preparation. Brinkman found the man almost at once, the identification easier because when the Central Committee elections had been announced there had existed more pictures of the man who had occupied a United Nations posting than of the others. Orlov was a marked contrast to the other two newcomers. He was tall and deeply tanned -Georgian, recalled Brinkman – and very dark haired, impeccably tailored compared to the others – even the Politburo – standing urbanely to one side, appearing to be examining everything around him with the sort of interest that Brinkman was showing. As the Englishman watched, Orlov turned and bent slightly to his left and Brinkman mentally ran the projector, trying to match the high-cheek-boned, full face to the photograph, irritated that it would not immediately come. Sevin! he remembered at last. A big man, stiffly upright despite his age, the cane more for ornamentation than practical use. One of the original Bolsheviks, recalled Brinkman, a youthful contemporary of the older Lenin and Trotsky and then Stalin and Krushchev. And a survivor of them all. There weren’t many such men left. And then Brinkman’s memory served him again and he looked with renewed interest at the old man and the young Russian in head-bent conversation. Blair named Sevin an important policymaker. And the important policymaker was huddled with a complete unknown who had just been brought into the inner circle of Soviet government. Blair had something else, too… We might see changes that will take us all by surprise… The encounter he was witnessing from the other side of the room was insufficient by itself, despite the straw-clutching way they had to operate. But it was worth careful note; very careful note indeed.

Serada made a speech of platitudes and Birdwood made a matching speech of platitudes and then Chebrakin – appearing almost as if he wanted to harden the speculation – made a speech of platitudes and the Shadow Foreign Secretary, a broad-accented Yorkshireman named Moss, rounded everything off the same way. Brinkman devoted his undivided attention to the translation, because that was the most immediate job at hand, but it was hardly necessary.

There were a lot of glass-emptying toasts and the vodka and the champagne was good and by the time the evening ended Moss was straining back from the edge of drunkenness and two of the wives had already fallen over the edge, giggling and then laughing uproariously at some secret joke in the car going back to the hotel and one of them stumbling over the pavement edge when they arrived. Nursemaid now, Brinkman supervised the key allocation and personally escorted Birdwood to his rooms, he one side, the ambassador the other. Birdwood offered them a nightcap which they both declined and within fifteen minutes Brinkman was back in the ambassador’s official car, en route to the diplomatic compound.

‘God knows how many groups like this I’ve had to handle throughout the world,’ said Brace distantly. ‘And I’ve never gone through one without wondering what the British public reaction would be if they knew how their elected leaders conducted themselves.’

The permanent politician’s contempt for the passing amateur, thought Brinkman; it could have been his father talking. He said, ‘I didn’t think they were too bad.’

‘Do you know what those stupid women were laughing at?’ demanded the ambassador.

‘No,’ admitted Brinkman.

‘Breaking wind,’ said Brace disgustedly. ‘One broke wind and the other heard her and they thought it was funny.’

Brinkman smiled too, at the older man’s outrage. ‘At least they didn’t fall over at the reception.’

‘You did very well, incidently,’ said the ambassador. ‘Afraid the demands can become a bit irritating at times.’

‘No problem,’ assured Brinkman. ‘No problem at all.’

It could have become one, if he had allowed it, but Brinkman met every request and every need, from a bath plug where there wasn’t one at the Metropole to souvenir shopping at GUM to simultaneous and superbly accurate transcription of everything that passed between Birdwood’s party and the Russians they met. In addition to that first day there were five more separate occasions when he had the opportunity to be within touching distance of almost every one of the Russian leaders and remove from his mind any doubt about Serada’s decline: at two Orlov was present and briefly Brinkman regretted that his translator status did not permit him to try to get the Russian involved in some sort of discussion.

Although Leningrad took Brinkman away from his immediate focus of interest it was still useful because of the restriction of travel imposed upon embassy personnel. They toured the shipyards – for the visiting Englishmen a necessary chore – and actually went into some of the repair sheds, to which Brinkman would never normally have gained access. What he saw in the yards and the machine shops enabled a whole separate file to London reporting firsthand about apparent disrepair and backward operating methods in the Soviet engineering works, which by itself was sufficient to impress Maxwell. There was no period of Brinkman’s life when he could remember working so consistently hard or so consistently concentrated, intent on catching every crumb that fell from the table. And it did not end, of course, with the conclusion of each day’s chaperoning. After settling the British party he always returned to the embassy to transmit that day’s file. They were always extremely long and always had to be encoded into a secret designated cipher and for over a week Brinkman existed on never more than three hours sleep a night. Returning the final day from the farewells at Sheremetyevo – wondering, greedily, if he would ever again be able to get as close for so long to the Soviet leaders as he had during the past few days – Brinkman allowed himself to relax for the first time and was engulfed in a physical ache of fatigue. Utterly exhausted, he realised; and worth every moment of it. Brinkman knew – confidently, not conceitedly – that in months he had achieved more in Moscow than most other intelligence officers achieved in years. So he’d proved himself again. He’d proved himself to his father and he’d proved himself to those in the department who carped about favouritism and prayed he was going to fall flat on his ass but most important of all – always the most important of all – he’d proved himself to himself.

There wasn’t much time for immediate rest. The intelligence community in Moscow discovered from the first day what he was doing and the approaches began practically before the British aircraft cleared Soviet air space, the professional attitudes those of some envy and some jealousy but predominantly those of admiration for being clever enough to get himself into such a position. He was the most open with Blair – although he held back from disclosing the apparent friendship between Sevin and Orlov – and comparatively helpful to Mark Harrison. The contact from the Canadian coincided with that from the Australians and Brinkman helped them, too. He even offered something to the one-sided French, feeling he could be generous because he had done so well. And he never knew when he might need to call favours in.

There was a personal letter of thanks within weeks from Birdwood and Brinkman was picked out by name in a letter of gratitude the Opposition leader wrote to the ambassador. Maxwell wrote from London, too, enclosing the letter in the safety of the diplomatic bag.

‘An outstanding success,’ the controller called it.

Brinkman wondered how difficult it was going to be maintaining the standard he set himself.

The KGB identified Brinkman as the interpreter on the first day but because of his distraction in the provinces it was several days before Sokol caught up with it. He frowned down, irritated that the leaders had come under such close scrutiny of an intelligence operator. There was nothing, now, that he could do about it: maybe there wouldn’t have been at the time, apart from staging some accident involving the man, physically removing him. Jeremy Brinkman appeared to have progressed beyond the settling-in stage, reflected the Russian. He made a notation to place the man upon the priority Watch List.

Ruth drove Paul back from the court hollowed by what she heard, unspeaking because she didn’t trust herself to speak to the boy and not knowing the words anyway. He remained silent beside her. She couldn’t handle this alone, she determined, taking the car across the Memorial Bridge. She was prepared to do most things – indeed, she’d argued custodial responsibility during the divorce because she considered it was her responsibility – but there had to be a cutoff point and this was it. Paul was Eddie’s son, as much as hers; so his liability was as great as hers, even though he was on the other side of the world. They had established the method of communication through Langley in the event of any emergency, in the overly-polite aftermath of the divorce and Ruth had always determined never to use it, looking upon it as an admission of failure. Which perhaps was the reason Paul had done what he had. So if she failed it was time for Eddie to see if he could do better. The CIA personnel official was courteous and helpful and tried to commiserate by saying it was the most common problem parents had to face in America today which didn’t help Ruth at all because she wasn’t interested in anyone else’s problems. The official promised to get a message to Blair overnight, which he did.

‘Drugs!’ exclaimed Ann, when Blair told her that evening in their Moscow apartment.

‘Marijuana, apparently. And cocaine,’ said Blair. ‘There wasn’t a complete run down, obviously, but it seems to have been going on for quite a long time.’

‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ said Ann. ‘I’m really very sorry.’

‘Yeah,’ said Blair, distantly, and she wondered if he were thinking it might not have happened if he hadn’t become involved with her.

‘What are you going to do?’ she said.

‘They’ve been very good,’ he said. ‘Immediate compassionate leave.’

‘Of course,’ said Ann. Why hadn’t she thought of his going back to Washington? It was the obvious thing for him to do.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She suddenly remembered the coveted tickets to the Bolshoi and realised he’d miss the performance. It was too inconsequential to mention; too inconsequential to think about at a time like this. ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ she said.

Blair looked at her grave-faced. ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ he said. ‘About myself.’

Blair flew on a KLM flight, which enabled a convenient transfer for the Washington flight at Amsterdam. Because of Blair’s listing on the Watch List, the KGB knew of his departure within three hours. It was the same Watch List on which Jeremy Brinkman’s name had been entered.

Chapter Twelve

Blair arrived at Dulles airport unshaven and crumpled. He didn’t enjoy flying and sleep would have been impossible anyway, so he was jetlagged, his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. He went mechanically through the process of renting a car, blinking to concentrate when he reached the Beltway on his way into Washington; Muscovites drove faster than this – often dangerously so – but here there seemed so many more cars and Blair got his first reminder of how long he had been out of the country. He guessed there would be many more; like the reason for his being summoned home. He felt easier when he was able to leave the Beltway for the Memorial route. It took him directly by the CIA headquarters – openly signposted – and he stared in its direction, unable to see the familiar building through the screen of trees. He’d make contact, obviously. But not yet. For the moment the career for which he’d made so many sacrifices could be put on the back burner. Blair halted the slide, recognising the search for excuses and irritated at himself for the weakness. Getting Paul sorted out was the only consideration; the excuses and the who-and-what-was-to-blame recriminations could wait until later. And his commitment to the Agency would be pretty low on the list anyway.

He approached Washington looking for landmarks, the widening thread of the Potomac and by the bridge the topsy turvey canoe club building he always expected to fall down but which never did, the cathedral beyond, proudly grand, and far away, misted by the heat haze, the most familiar markers of all, the wedding cake dome of the Capitol and the exclamation mark of the Washington Memorial. He took the Key Bridge exit to get into Rosslyn, conscious at once of the change. It was really the road system, the huge roundabout directly in front of the Key Bridge leading across into Georgetown, but he got the impression that there where more buildings, too. There never seemed anything being newly built in Moscow.

Ruth was in jeans and a workshirt and without any make-up – actually with a smudge of dust against her nose – when she answered the door to him, frowning when she saw who it was. She looked down at herself in instant embarrassment and said, ‘I thought you’d call, from the airport.’

He should have done, Blair realised. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot: wasn’t thinking.’

They stood momentarily staring at each other, each unsure. Then she stepped back into the house and said, ‘Sorry. You’d better come in.’

Blair entered hesitantly, stopping in the hallway and there was another moment of uncertainty between them. Despite the disarrayed hair and dirt on her nose, Blair thought she was very pretty; it wouldn’t be right to tell her so. He’d had two hours to kill at Schipol, waiting for the Washington connection and spent it in the bar; he should have looked at the airport shops instead and got her a gift. The boys, too, for Christ’s sake! Why the hell hadn’t he thought of doing so!

Ruth broke the moment by going into the living room and he followed. She said, ‘I’m glad you’re here at this time, though. With the boys at school, I mean. We can talk.’

‘Yes,’ said Blair. Everything was extremely neat and tidy. But then Ruth had always been neat and tidy. Ann was always cleaning but… Blair closed his mind against the comparison. That wasn’t what he was here for. He said, unnecessarily polite, ‘Can I sit down?’

‘Sorry. Of course,’ she said.

They each had an eagerness to apologise, thought Blair, and as he did so Ruth said on cue, ‘Sorry. What about some coffee? It must have been a long flight.’

‘Coffee would be good,’ he accepted. As she started to leave the room he said, ‘Can I help?’ and wished he hadn’t, as soon as he spoke.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’

Alone, he looked around the room again. There were fresh flowers in two vases, one on a low table in the middle of the room and another more elaborate display on a stand near the main window. On the mantle was a picture of the two boys that he hadn’t seen before. It was stiffly posed and he guessed it was a school photograph: John was wearing a brace, he saw, remembering Ann’s remark. Ruth returned with the coffee prepared on a cloth-covered tray, in a pot, with the cups and the cream.

‘You haven’t started taking sugar yet, have you?’ she said, pouring.

‘No,’ he said. She had a good memory. Then again, maybe not. They had been married eighteen years.

‘Sorry I had to do it,’ said Ruth, apologising still. ‘Get you back, I mean. It seemed the only thing to do.’ Now the immediate shock of the police interviews and the court appearance was passing she was unsure whether she shouldn’t have tried to handle it herself.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Blair at once. ‘Of course you should have got me back. How bad it is?’

She shrugged, an indication of helplessness, and said, ‘I don’t know, not really. He’s closed right up, after the initial shock. Frightened, I guess.’

‘What happened?’ prompted Blair gently. ‘Tell me what happened from the beginning.’

Ruth hesitated, arranging the story in her mind and Blair saw that while she was in the kitchen she’d cleaned the smudge off her nose. She said simply, ‘He got caught, trying to rob a pharmacy. He and three others, all from the same class. After pills, they said later. Any sort of pills, it didn’t matter. Cocaine, too, if it was there. They didn’t know if it was carried or not but they were trying to find it Intended to set themselves up…’

‘Set themselves up?’ queried Blair.

‘As dealers, in the school.’

‘Jesus!’ said Blair.

Ruth was more comfortable now, still embarrassed at his finding her in workclothes but better than she had been; after getting the house ready she’d wanted to shower and change and be prepared – absolutely – before he arrived. She dismissed the obvious tiredness as the effect of the non-stop flight; he didn’t seem to have changed much. Not at all, in fact. Had it really been eighteen months, since their last meeting? It didn’t seem that long. She went on, ‘Like I said, they were shocked at being arrested by the police…’ She smiled for no reason and said, ‘The cop didn’t know what he was confronting, apparently; actually had his gun out and was threatening to shoot…’

‘And if they’d run he probably would have done,’ said Blair, sick at the thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Ruth. ‘That was when it all came out, when they were scared. Seems they had been doing a lot of stealing, stuff from stores that they could sell on, to get money. Forcing coinboxes on newstands. They even robbed an old man of his welfare money, but Paul wasn’t involved that time, just the others…’ She hesitated and said, ‘I suppose we should get some consolation out of that although I don’t know if I do.’

‘All for drugs?’

Ruth nodded at the question. ‘Marijuana,’ she said. ‘Seems he’s been smoking it for a long time. Now I’ve gone back through it, checked it out with the teachers, it is the most likely reason for the poor grades. Pills, too. And there’s been some cocaine, although I don’t think a lot.’

‘What the hell sort of school is this!’ demanded Blair, needing to be angry at something.

Ruth, who had had longer to recover, said calmly, ‘Your average American school, no worse and no better than any other. The problem is so bad that it runs a drug programme and has a full-time counsellor. He’s a nice guy. Erickson. He wants to meet you.’

‘Sure,’ said Blair automatically, not yet wanting to move on. ‘You said Paul’s been smoking for a long time?’

‘One of the court orders was urinalysis,’ said the woman. ‘He had a high count. I had our own doctor check him out, too. There was some irritation of the nasal membrane, because of the cocaine – or maybe the crap they cut it with, before selling it – but not a lot…’ She stopped and then disclosing her abrupt new education she said, ‘You’ve got to do it for years, apparently, for it to cause real damage. Then it can actually rot your nose away.’

‘They were going to set themselves up as dealers?’ persisted the man, wanting to understand everything.

Ruth swallowed, arriving at the worst part. ‘Paul told the police he’d decided it was dumb to go on as they were. That dealing was where the money was.’

‘ Paul decided.’

Ruth nodded, at the demand for qualification. ‘He was the leader, Eddie. Actually set it up: checked out the pharmacy for the busy and slack times…’ Ruth stopped, lower lip trapped between her teeth, trying to stop herself crying. Of all the resolutions, this was the strongest, the one she’d repeated and repeated to herself, not wanting him to know how lost she felt. The threat passed, although her voice was still unsteady. She said, ‘He’d even planned the getaway, checked the times of the trains on the Metro and worked it out that they could make a connection and be halfway across Washington before the police had time to get there.’

‘Holy shit!’ said Blair, disgusted. ‘What’s happened, since?’

‘There was the initial juvenile court appearance and the remand, for tests and reports. There’s a court-appointed counsellor who wants to see you also, a man called Kemp. And Erickson, from the school, like I told you.’

‘What’s Paul say about it all?’

‘Nothing,’ said the woman. ‘Everything I’ve told you I got from the police.’

‘Didn’t you ask him?’ shouted Blair, immediately regretting it, holding up his hands as if he were physically trying to pull back the anger in his voice. ‘Sorry,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I’m really very sorry.’

Ruth’s face had tightened, at the eruption, but now it relaxed. There was another resolution, almost as important as not crying, which involved not losing her temper or making any accusations. Maybe it was a fantasy but it was a nice fantasy to hope that Eddie’s return might involve more than the immediate problem. ‘Of course I asked him,’ she said. ‘Not at first, not that first night. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to him. But when I did he wouldn’t talk about it. Just said it was something that had happened.’

‘Not even sorry!’

‘Not even sorry,’ she said.

‘Christ, what a mess,’ said Blair. He smiled sadly at her. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth. That you had to handle it by yourself, I mean.’ Apologies after apologies after apologies, he thought.

‘Now I haven’t, not any longer, have I?’ she said, the gratitude obvious. ‘Now you’re back. Thanks for coming.’

‘Was it likely I wouldn’t?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It might have been difficult. There might have been something important happening.’

There was something important happening in Moscow, thought Blair. It pleased him to realise that the leadership uncertainty and the part he was supposed to have analysing it had never occurred to him as a greater priority than returning here. ‘At the moment I don’t think there’s anything more important than this,’ said Blair. Aware of her quick, hopeful smile, he said, ‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to work out OK.’

‘I hope so,’ she said. In so many ways, she thought, allowing herself the continued fantasy.

Blair rubbed his hand over his unshaven face, making a scratching sound. ‘I need to get cleaned up,’ he said. ‘I came straight here, from the airport.’

‘You know where the bathroom is,’ she said.

‘You sure that’s OK?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I didn’t want to make any awkward situations. I was thinking of the Marriott down by the bridge.’ Blair was trying to be considerate but didn’t think he was succeeding very well.

Don’t lose your temper, thought Ruth; whatever you do don’t lose your temper and let him see how upset you are. She said, ‘Wouldn’t that be kind of unneccessary?’

‘You sure it won’t be awkward?’

‘I would have thought it was rather essential, considering why you came all the way back,’ she said, coming as near as she intended to criticism. ‘There’s plenty of room: you know that.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You’ve hardly got to thank me, Eddie.’

‘Thanks anyway,’ he insisted.

‘How’s Ann?’ asked the woman, this part rehearsed.

‘Fine,’ said Blair. ‘You still friendly with…’ His voice trailed, at his inability to remember the name.

‘Charlie,’ supplied Ruth. ‘Charlie Rogers.’ She paused, wondering whether to make the point. Deciding to, she said, ‘That’s what it is. Friendship.’

‘Oh,’ said Blair. Conscious of the difficulty between them he said, ‘You’re looking good, Ruth.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You too.’

‘Apart from this – if there can be anything apart from this – how have you been keeping?’ he said.

‘OK.’

‘How was Thanksgiving, with your folks?’

‘Paul played up,’ she said. ‘Now I probably know why: we stayed over a few days and he wouldn’t have been able to get anything.’

‘Jesus!’ said Blair again, exasperated: there was only going to be one conversation between them, however hard they tried. ‘Everything is going to work out OK,’ he said, another repetition. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I wish I could be sure,’ said Ruth. For a moment her control slipped and before she could stop herself she said, ‘I wish I could be sure of so many things.’

Ann decided that the problem was a personal one. She considered that she was only peripherally involved and it was certainly none of Brinkman’s business, friendly though they were, and so she said simply that Blair had returned to Washington for a sudden family reason.

‘Hope everything’s all right,’ he said. It was feasible but unlikely, Brinkman decided. It was obviously a recall to Langley, for something involving the leadership changes. But what? It would have to be something pretty dramatic, to take him all the way back to America. He was surprised, in passing, that they hadn’t evolved a better excuse, abrupt though the departure had obviously been.

‘I’m sure it will be,’ she said. ‘But it’s meant an upset.’

‘What?’

Ann smiled, pleased with her secret. ‘I know it’s your birthday and I got tickets for the new Bolshoi production and I planned it as a surprise, for the three of us to go.’

‘What a nice thought,’ said Brinkman.

‘Now Eddie won’t be able to make it, of course,’ she said. ‘But there’s no point in wasting all the tickets, is there?’

‘None at all,’ agreed Brinkman. ‘We’ll make a party out of it.’

Ann wondered what Betty Harrison’s reaction would be, when she found out. It would be better if she didn’t.

The rioting that occurred in Emba and in Poltava and Donetsk – which by bitter irony had been quickly stopped by rushing the first arrival of the Canadian and American wheat to both provinces – was published in one of the widest circulating zamizdat in Moscow. Sokol flooded the city, rounding up the known dissidents and seizing as many copies as he could but from his informants he knew he didn’t get them all and that the stories were around the capital. The summons was very quick, coming from Panov.

‘Precisely what we didn’t want,’ declared the KGB chairman, without any preliminaries. ‘Speculation abroad is irrelevant. And inevitable. But the Politburo declared against the stories circulating internally. You knew that.’

Sokol knew many things. He knew that the conversation was being recorded, for Panov’s defence if any purge began. But worst of all Sokol knew that if it had reached Politburo level then he was failing in the very objective towards which he had set out, bringing himself to the notice of the rulers in a favourable light. Conscious of the recording, he said, ‘We’ve quelled the unrest in Kazakhstan. And Ukraine.’

‘I’m not interested for the moment in two of the republics. I’m interested in the famine being known and talked about here, in Moscow. And the fact that it is in two separate republics being known as well. That was another assurance you gave me: that you’d contained the spread, from one to another.’

‘All the best-known dissidents are under detention.’

‘Which the Western press, which feeds off them, will report and because they already know thanks to the American announcement of the famine will interpret correctly as the connection. This is emerging into a full scale crisis. And I don’t mean the crisis of people starving. I mean the crisis here, within this building.’

‘The wheat and grain shipments are on stream now. I believe I can contain it.’

‘If you don’t,’ said Panov, in open threat, ‘others will.’

Chapter Thirteen

Blair showered and shaved and changed but still felt cotton-headed. Ruth suggested he try to sleep but he decided against it, not imagining it would be possible despite the aching tiredness. She prepared meatloaf, needing something quick and knowing it was one of his favourites anyway and he tried to eat it – appreciating her effort – but that wasn’t easy either, because he was full of events and airline food. Each tried to over-compensate, urgently beginning conversations – sometimes in competition with each other – and stumbling either into conversational cul-de-sacs or just as abrupt stops, each urging the other to lead. The only positive talk was how they would proceed when the boys came home, after Ruth confessed she hadn’t warned them of their father’s return, for fear that Paul might run to avoid the confrontation. Like so much else – everything else – Blair found it difficult to conceive that his son might try to run away from him. After the difficult meal Blair called each of the counsellors to arrange the required appointments, putting himself at their schedule convenience and thanking both for the help and consideration they had already shown. Still at the telephone he hesitated about calling Langley and decided against it. Instead, still with time to occupy and not wanting to crowd Ruth by his presence, because he was aware of her discomfort, he strolled into the bedroom that the boys shared, gazing around, trying to remember. Very little seemed the same; he supposed it had to be more than two years, nearer three, since he’d been here, actually in the house. It was bound to have changed. Everything was neat, like the rest of the house and like the rest of the house he guessed that it was Ruth, not the boys. There were a couple of junior pennants against a wall and on another, facing it, some advertising posters of a pop group he’d never heard of. Near the bed he guessed to be John’s, because there was a ratty, dirtied-by-love fur dog on the pillow, guarding whatever secrets were beneath, were what appeared from where Blair stood to be some perfectly made-up model kits. Beside Paul’s bed was a baseball bat and a catcher’s mitt; the mitt seemed new and Blair wondered if that was how the boy had spent the twenty dollars he’d sent for his birthday. On the bureau which divided the two beds there was a picture of them both, with Ruth smiling in between. Blair’s own photograph was framed on the wall, squinting into the sunlight from the open terrace of the Continental Hotel in Saigon, his first overseas posting, when he was still young and the American involvement in Vietnam was comparatively new and no one had realise what sort of war it was going to turn out to be. How was this war going to turn out to be? he wondered.

Blair turned at the sound behind him. Ruth had changed, like he had. It was a severe, businesslike suit, the sort of suit to wear to interviews or special meetings – which he supposed this was – and she was carefully made up, not overly so, but properly, as if she had considered that, too.

‘They’ll be home soon,’ said Ruth. ‘Jane Collins has the car pool today: she lives just opposite.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I’m scared, Eddie.’

‘So am I,’ he confessed.

They walked unspeakingly back into the main room and he said, ‘They’ll see the car I rented.’

‘It won’t mean anything.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Can I get you anything? Coffee or a drink or something?’

‘No thanks.’ There was a silence and then Blair said, ‘Do you really think he might have run rather than face me?’

‘I don’t know, not really,’ admitted Ruth. ‘I just spend my time trying to imagine everything that could happen and then doing things to prevent it.’

Poor Ruth, he thought. Poor innocent, trusting, decent Ruth who’d never deserved anything bad and got shit, from every direction.

The telephone rang and she jumped nervously staring at it as if she were afraid to take the call.

‘Do you want me to?’ he offered.

‘No, it’s all right.’ She darted a look towards Blair the moment she answered, as if she were embarrassed, her replies abruptly curt, just ‘Yes… yes.. he’s here… no… fine… thanks.’ She replaced the receiver and looking away from Blair this time said, ‘That was Charlie. He’s been very good. Calls most days. Wants to do anything he can to help. I can’t think of anything.’

‘That’s good of him,’ said Blair, saddened by Ruth’s difficulty. Did he have one? No, Blair thought honestly; he didn’t feel any jealousy at Ruth seeing another guy. How could he? That part of it – whatever that part of it had ever been – was over now.

She was alert to the sound of the car, more accustomed to it than he was, saying ‘Here they are,’ before he properly heard it. She half-rose towards the window, then changed her mind and sat down again.

Blair remembered a lot of noise about their entry into the house, of slamming doors and dumped satchels and shouts of hello but it wasn’t like that this time. He heard the door – just – and then they were at the entrance to the room, held in the doorway by his presence. No one spoke or moved for what was only seconds but appeared much longer and then John’s face opened in an eye-awash smile and he shouted, ‘Dad! You’ve come home!’

Blair was standing, waiting, as the younger boy began running across the room. Behind him Paul said, ‘Of course he hasn’t, stupid!’ and John halted before he reached his father, the smile a look of suspicion now. ‘You have, haven’t you Dad? You have come home?’ he implored.

Blair felt the emotion lumped in his stomach and intentionally he didn’t look at Ruth because he wasn’t sure it would remain at just that if he did. He said, ‘I’m home, for a while.’

John backed away, as if he had been physically rejected. ‘What’s a while mean?’

‘It means I’m going to stay here for some time but that then I’ve got to go back, to where my job is.’

‘To where she is,’ said John, utterly hostile now.

‘To where my wife is,’ said Blair. One of the agreements with Ruth, during the uncomfortable lunch, was that whatever happened and whatever was said, he wouldn’t lose his temper.

‘Mom’s your wife,’ said John.

‘This wasn’t what I came here to talk about,’ said Blair.

‘It’s what I want to talk about,’ said the boy.

‘Don’t talk like that to your father,’ intruded Ruth, her face red.

‘Is he your husband?’ demanded John.

‘You know the answer to that,’ said Ruth. ‘Don’t be silly. And don’t cheek your elders.’

Undeterred the smaller boy said, ‘If he’s not your husband then he’s not my father.’

‘Shut up!’ said Blair, his voice loud. ‘Shut up and get in here and sit down. Both of you.’ Damn what they’d decided at lunchtime: everything was degenerating into a hopeless mess and he had to stop it. When neither moved from their position just inside the door he said again, still loud, ‘I told you to get in here.’

Blair tensed, knowing that both were considering whether to disobey him and not knowing what to do if they did. John was the first to move, still attempting defiance in a strutting walk and then Paul. He didn’t strut. He slouched forward, shoulders hunched, both hands in his pockets, an attitude of complete lack of interest. Paul’s hair was longer than Blair remembered or liked, practically lank and almost to his shoulders. Blair knew the boy’s shoes would have been cleaned before he left the house that morning – because Ruth always cleaned their shoes – but now they were scuffed and dirty, as if he’d consciously tried to make them so and his shirt was crumpled, half in and half out the waistband of his trousers. He looked scruffy and self-neglected. John looked better – his shoes had been kept cleaner and there wasn’t as much disregard about his clothes – but it wasn’t a very wide margin. As Blair watched he saw John become aware of how his older brother was walking and try to change the strut in mid-stride, to conform. They sat down side by side and Blair supposed that a child psychologist would recommend that he thank them, for their cooperation. He didn’t.

Trying to reduce the barriers that had come up, Ruth said, ‘Can I get anybody anything, root beer, a…’ She stopped, too quickly, just as she tried to recover too quickly by finishing with ‘… a soda…?’

Paul laughed, a mocking sound. ‘Pretty close, Mom. Almost said coke, didn’t you?’

‘Is that funny?’ demanded Blair.

Paul came back to him, in open insolence. ‘Sometimes she’s funnier.’

Blair’s hand tingled with the urge to slap the stupid expression off his son’s face. Instead he said, ‘When? When she’s in a police station, hearing how you planned big, important robberies? When she’s in court, hearing how you show what a great big guy you are, ripping off nickel and dime stores? When she’s in a doctor’s surgery with a bottle of your piss on the table in front of her, hearing how it shows that you’re part of the crowd, not brave enough to be different, passing around butts with everyone else’s spit on them, in some shit-smelling bathroom? Is that when she’s funny? Is that when she’s a laugh-a-minute, full of wise-cracks and unable to believe her luck at having a son like you, someone she can trust and know she can be proud of?’

This wasn’t how he’d intended to handle it – not that he’d had any clear idea how he was going to handle it – but the bravado had gone now and they were paying attention to him, so it would do. ‘Well?’ he said.

Paul looked away, unable to meet his father’s demand. ‘Just a crack,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean anything.’

‘So tell me what means something,’ insisted Blair not letting him get away. ‘Tell me why my son – a son I love, despite your not believing it – wants to become a thief and a drug dealer. I want to know, Paul. Tell me.’

Paul’s head moved with the aimlessness of a cornered animal and his body twitched, too. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘Look at me,’ ordered Blair. ‘Look at me. Stop shuffling like some idiot. And don’t say nothing when I want to know why you stole and why you wanted to sell drugs and why you want to take drugs.’

‘What’s it to you?’ said Paul, trying to recover the insolence.

Blair rubbed one hand against the other, to wipe away the urge. ‘OK,’ he said, extending the gesture to put both hands between them, their own physical barrier. ‘OK, so because of what happened between your mother and me, you can’t believe that I have any more feelings for you. Any more feelings for her, even. So answer me this. If I’d been coming in along the Parkway this morning and I’d seen some perfect stranger, someone I’d never seen in my life before, lay themselves down in front of my car, what would you have expected me to do?’

John looked sideways at his brother and sniggered and Paul sniggered too. ‘Stopped, I guess.’

‘Stopped,’ echoed Blair, glad the boy hadn’t suggested swerving, which would which have taken a lot of the point away. ‘I would have stopped, to have prevented their getting killed. Don’t you think I’m going to try to do something – everything – to stop someone who’s not a stranger – someone I love, despite what you think – killing himself. And not just for yourself. For your mother. And for a younger brother who admires and respects you so much that he actually tries to walk like you, halfway across the room.’

John blushed, at being caught out and sniggered again and Blair wondered desperately if he were penetrating any of the barriers.

‘Not trying to kill myself,’ muttered the older boy.

‘You’ve laid down in the road and invited everyone to run over you,’ insisted Blair, pleased at the way his impromptu analogy was working. ‘You’re not stupid, Paul. Not really. What you’ve done is stupid but you’ve known that it was. Haven’t you known that it is?’

‘Suppose so,’ conceded the boy, reluctantly.

‘Suppose so,’ Blair said relentlessly. ‘You don’t suppose so. You know so.’ There’d been training courses on interrogation at Langley, long lectures on when to be soft and when to be hard. But never in circumstances like these. Was he doing it right? he wondered.

‘Maybe,’ said Paul.

Blair realised he wanted to open the door, not smash it into the kid’s face. Switching from hard to soft – actually softening his voice – he said ‘OK. So why?’

‘Everyone else was doing it: decided to try it.’ Paul was still reluctant, biting the words out.

‘So if anyone else laid down on the Parkway, you’d do it too, to see what it was like?’

Beside his brother John gave a small laugh. Blair hoped the child was laughing with him and not against him. Just as he hoped the roadway analogy wasn’t getting a bit thin.

‘Course not,’ said Paul.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘Lot of difference.’

‘Feel good, when you were stealing? And when you were smoking? Good enough to want to go on doing it until the time when a cop didn’t wait to see you were a kid and didn’t have a gun and blew you away? Or was that the next move, after you’d set yourself up as a dealer, get hold of a Saturday Night Special and become a real hotshot?’ Blair was aware of Ruth turning away, unable to face the onslaught.

‘Didn’t think about it.’

‘What did you think about? Did you think about your mother and breaking her heart? Or me, who loves you? Or John, who looks up to you?’ Blair realised he was risking repetition but he wanted to get more reaction than this out of the kid.

‘When did you think of me!’ blurted the boy.

It had been a long time coming but Blair was glad it finally had. ‘Who are the others, Paul?’ he said.

‘Others?’

‘Arrested with you.’

‘Jimmy Cohn,’ set out the boy, doubtfully. ‘David Hoover… Frank Snaith… Billie Carter.’

‘So tell me about Jimmy Cohn and David Hoover and Frank Snaith and Billie Carter. How many of their parents are divorced?’

‘David Hoover’s,’ said Paul at once.

‘But not Jimmy Cohn and Frank Snaith and Billie Carter?’

‘No.’

‘So what’s their cop-out?’

‘Don’t understand,’ said the boy, who did.

‘It won’t do, Paul,’ said Blair. ‘Don’t try to use what happened between your mother and me as the excuse and expect me and your mother and every counsellor and social worker to sit wringing their hands and sympathising with what a raw deal you got. OK, I’m demanding you to be honest with me so I’ll be honest with you, as far as that honesty need go to be honest. You did get a bad shake. So did your mother. So did John. And I’ve never stopped thinking of you. Or your mother. Or John. Or being aware of what I did and feeling sorry for the way it happened. But it did happen. There’s nothing any of us can do now, to turn the clock back. Life isn’t like that, a place for second chances. Not often anyhow. And don’t try to con me or anyone else by pretending that this was some half-assed attempt to bring your mother and me back together, because I’m not buying that either. You didn’t think of anyone when you stole and robbed and smoked grass and shoved shit up your nose. You just thought about yourself. You made yourself a self-pity blanket and wrapped yourself up in it and decided there was no one else in the world more important than Paul Edward Blair.’ Maybe he shouldn’t have sworn and maybe he’d gone on too long but he hoped some of it was getting through.

Ruth managed to look back into the room. Eddie was being far harsher than she had expected – far harsher than she imagined the juvenile officer would want him to be – but a lot of it needed saying. What had he meant by there not often being an opportunity for second chances? Would he have talked about their getting back together, if he hadn’t obviously thought about it? She stopped herself, guiltily. She and Eddie were not what they were talking about, not directly anyway.

‘You haven’t said much, Paul,’ encouraged his father.

‘Nothing to say,’ said the boy.

‘That’s a kid’s reply,’ said Blair. ‘You a kid?’

‘No,’ said Paul.

‘No what?’ pressured Blair.

Momentarily Paul didn’t comprehend. Then he said ‘No, sir.’

‘So when are you going to stop behaving like one? When are you going to start thinking of someone other than yourself?’

The boy made another of his animal head swings. Or was it something like being punch-drunk? wondered Blair. He’d hit the kid hard.

‘I’ve been out of the country for a long time,’ said Blair. ‘Expressions change but do you know the expression I remember to describe people like you, Paul? It was punk. And before that it was jerk. They meant the same, really. They described people who were small-time but thought they were big-time and went around screwing up their own lives and the lives of a lot of people all around them. I’m not going to let you do that. To yourself. Or anyone else. We’re going to talk it through and we’re going to bring out all the problems – imagined or otherwise – and we’re going to solve them, imagined or otherwise. And you’re going to grow up and stop thinking you need special favours and special treatment.’

Ruth interceded, deciding it had gone on long enough, getting the long-ago offered sodas and Blair took the hint and stopped. Realistically acknowledging that to attempt any sort of family gathering on the first night would be impossible she fed the boys first and put them to bed and Blair stood once more at the bedroom door and watched while she kissed them goodnight but didn’t try to kiss them himself because he knew Paul would resent it and John might be confused and he didn’t want either reaction.

She had steaks and he cooked them outside, remembering his promise to Ann and afterwards he and Ruth sat in the living room where the confrontation had taken place and Blair said, ‘I’m not sure I did it right.’

‘I’m not, either,’ she said. She moved quickly to explain what sounded like criticism but wasn’t. ‘Not that I think you said anything wrong. I just don’t know how it should have been done. Who the hell does?’

‘He used to be a bright kid, able to express himself!’ said Blair, disbelievingly. He looked at his watch, working out the time difference. It was too late to call Ann now.

‘You have to go somewhere?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘It’s good having you here,’ she risked. ‘I agree with everything you said, about the divorce and not being an excuse or a reason or anything like that, but I could never have spoken to them like that. Women can’t kick ass; not this woman, anyway.’

‘We just agreed that we’re not sure kicking ass was the right way.’

Shit, she thought, disappointed at his response. ‘You haven’t said how long you can stay,’ she said.

‘As long as it takes,’ he said. It was an exaggeration and he’d better call Langley tomorrow and see someone to make it possible. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to run out on them again, not until everything was sorted out. And call Ann, too. He hoped she was all right.

Brinkman went back over everything, examining all the clues and all the indicators and then he arranged a meeting with Mark Harrison and offered more from his period as interpreter – glad he’d held something back to bargain with – in the hope of getting from the Canadian some hint of what he might haved missed or overlooked which had taken Blair back to Washington. And found nothing. He’d spent too long ahead of the pack, with the plaintive cries behind him and decided he didn’t like being back there among them, with someone else out in front. He considered making some social approach to Ann before the planned birthday celebrations; not that she would have known anything positive, of course, because that wasn’t the way things were done but there might be a hint of a nuance that would be sufficient to show him where to look. But he decided against it. If she told Blair – which she undoubtedly would – then it would show he was anxious; using the friendship, in fact. Better to wait. It wasn’t long. He’d make it a good celebration, though.

Chapter Fourteen

Blair was still disorientated by the time changes and despite the final head-dropping tiredness as he sat with Ruth he awoke early, while it was dark. Seven in Moscow, he calculated: his normal time. Would Ann be awake? He’d have to call her today. He had to call a lot of people today. Blair lay, feeling the familiarity of his former home wrapped about him, thinking about the previous day and trying to decide whether he had handled it correctly. Unsure, too, about some of the things he’d said to the boy. Maybe thousands of kids stayed straight and all right after their parents divorced but could he dismiss it entirely? No, he thought, honestly. Continuing the honesty Blair realised he’d tried to take the divorce out of any discussion as much for his own conscience as to get through to Paul: maybe more so. The acceptance discomfited him, making him feel guilty. He had given the kid a bad shake. He’d given all of them a bad shake. Ruth worst of all because they were only kids but she’d been able to understand it all. He’d behaved like a shit and she’d behaved like a saint. Like she was still doing. He had to do more, determined Blair: not just now – he was doing all he could now – but later, when this had been settled. She deserved it; the kids deserved it. Conscience again? Sure it was. What else could it be? But proper conscience this time.

Blair reviewed the day ahead, watching the sky gradually lighten outside and listening intently for the sounds of movement elsewhere in the house. When they came, after a further two hours, Blair remained where he was, the earlier feeling of familiarity giving way to another sensation, the awareness that it was no longer his home and that he was a visitor to it and like a polite visitor it was necessary to wait until the people who really lived there got through their established morning routine and cleared bathrooms before he intruded. The boys were at the breakfast bar when he emerged, Ruth cooking the pancakes at the stove. She wore a housecoat but her hair was carefully brushed. The boys appeared tidier than they’d been the previous day; he saw Ruth had cleaned their shoes. The tightness remained between them all but Blair thought it was slightly less strained than yesterday. Awake for so long he had prepared for the encounter. Deciding it was important to create some sort of balance – even if the effort appeared obvious – and not refer constantly to the reason for his being there he asked if there were a team they supported and hesitantly, almost unconvincingly, they said the Orioles and Blair said if there were a game that weekend would they like to go out to Baltimore and take it in? The acceptance was hesitating, too. John made an effort, asking what Moscow was like and Blair snatched at the opening and said it was very different from America and he had a lot to tell them about it and why didn’t they talk about it over dinner? John nodded eagerly, the excitement at having his father again in the house obvious. Paul gave no reaction. Why the hell does he behave all the time like some goddamned dummy! thought Blair, irritably. They were waiting, lunch pails ready and packed, when the car sounded outside. Ruth kissed them both but Blair held back, like he had the previous night. Maybe it would be possible before he finally went back, he thought: but not now.

With the importance of that in mind he telephoned Langley while Ruth was clearing the boys’ breakfast things and setting places for them. He didn’t know whether the division chief would already be in but was glad when Ray Hubble came on to the line. It was insecure, so the conversation was necessarily general. Hubble had been the supervisor in Rome when Blair had been there and they’d worked together at headquarters before Blair’s London posting, so an acquaintanceship at least existed between them. Hubble said he was sorry to hear Blair had a problem and was there anything he could do and Blair said that was what he wanted to talk about. Hubble offered that day but Blair said tomorrow: he wasn’t going to rush the encounters with the counsellors. Blair had thought about them, in the early hours, wanting to get the maximum out of the meeting so he telephoned them both and suggeted a combined rather than separate encounter. Both agreed. Erickson’s office was decided upon.

Ruth had brewed fresh coffee by the time he returned to the kitchen, which was all he wanted. He told her about the altered arrangements with the counsellors and the reason and asked, in afterthought, if she wanted to come.

‘Would it help?’ said the woman at once. ‘I’ve seen them both, several times. But if it would help of course I’ll come.’

‘Maybe better by myself the first time,’ he agreed. He finished his coffee and said, ‘I’d like to make another call.’

‘All local calls are free in Washington,’ she reminded him, imagining he had forgotten.

‘This isn’t a local call,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ she said, realising. She seemed to spend longer than was necessary with her back to him, getting more coffee, and then she said, ‘Sure, go ahead.’

‘Collect calls are difficult in Moscow,’ he said. ‘If you’ll let me know the cost when the bill comes in I’ll send you a cheque.’ Polite visitor, he thought again.

‘No problem,’ said Ruth. She looked down at the housecoat, as if surprised to find herself wearing it. ‘I should get dressed,’ she said.

Blair used the kitchen extension. It was a bad connection and he had to shout over the echo on the line, wishing it hadn’t been necessary. Each agreed they were fine. Ann asked how things were and he said he didn’t know, not yet. He didn’t know, either, when he would be getting back. She told him she was taking Brinkman to the ballet and he agreed it was a good idea.

‘I miss you,’ she shouted.

‘Me too,’ Blair yelled back.

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ he yelled again. He supposed Ruth, who would be able to hear every word, would guess but he’d tried. Polite visitor.

Blair promised to call again and Ann said she hoped everything would turn out all right. She said again that she loved him but Blair didn’t respond this time. He finished the call before Ruth came back into the room.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Seems to be. It was a bad line.’

‘So I gathered. Shall I fix lunch?’

‘Thought we might eat out.’

Ruth smiled, immediately pleased at the invitation. ‘Fine.’

‘Anywhere particular you like?’

‘You choose,’ she said hopefully.

‘Dominiques used to be good.’

She smiled again, glad he’d remembered. Dominiques had been important to them, the place where they’d celebrated special occasions like birthdays and wedding anniversaries and news of his promotions and postings. It would be nice to have another special occasion to celebrate there. ‘Dominiques would be lovely.’

Blair was early for his appointment with the counsellors, at Erickson’s office ahead of the other official. Both men were similar and Blair wondered if it were the job. They dressed uncaringly, pants unpressed and creases concertinaed in the bends of their arms, ties straying from their collars. Kemp was taller and wore spectacles, but both were overweight, stomachs bulging over their belts. Erickson offered coffee which Blair didn’t want but which he took anyway.

‘Thanks for seeing me like this,’ said Blair. ‘I thought it was best.’

‘Makes our schedules easier,’ said Kemp.

‘So you’re busy?’ said Blair, to the school counsellor.

Erickson smiled, an attempt at reassurance. ‘Believe me, Mr Blair, what you’re going through right now isn’t unusual, for American parents today.’

Blair recognised the effort but found the man faintly patronising. Would kids feel the same way? He said, ‘It’s unusual for me. I want to get it sorted out.’

‘That’s what we all want,’ said Erickson.

‘So how do we do it?’

‘I wish I knew,’ admitted the school official. ‘I’ve got seventy kids I’m trying to help and I’d guess that many again I don’t know about yet.’

‘And I’ve stopped bothering to count the number I’m responsible for,’ said Kemp.

Fuck their problems, thought Blair; all he cared about was his own. ‘You’re the experts,’ he said, holding his irritation, if I can’t get answers then I’m looking for advice.’

‘You live abroad?’ said Erickson.

‘Moscow.’ said Blair.

‘Have you had a chance to talk to Paul?’

Blair nodded, ‘I tried, last night.’

‘ Tried? ’ picked up Kemp.

‘I couldn’t get through to him,’ said Blair. ‘Maybe I did, towards the end, but I’m not sure. But he wouldn’t talk to me… say anything. I asked him why he did it and he just sat there, like a dummy!’

‘That’s usually the way,’ said Kemp.

Blair decided the man was definitely annoying him. ‘So you’re the experts,’ he repeated. ‘So you tell me. Why do they do it?’

‘I wish I knew that, too,’ said Kemp. ‘There’s never one single reason. Or a way of assembling all the factors into any understandable answer. There’s peer pressure, being shamed into it by someone they admire, a bigger guy. There’s experimentation, the way most kids have: should have. There’s boredom. There’s the availability of the stuff, all sorts of stuff: it’s easier to buy dope on a street corner than it is to buy bread. Supermarkets close: dealers are always there.’

‘So why aren’t they cleared off the damned streets!’

‘They are,’ said Erickson. ‘And the moment – literally the moment – they go there’s two more to take their places.’

Blair felt the frustration building up inside him. ‘Let’s talk specifics,’ he tried again. ‘Let’s talk about Paul and let’s talk about me and let’s try to find something we can do. I’ll take your word about it being a modern American problem and I’ll take your word about all the reasons it can happen but I want to find a way – will find a way – to stop Paul fucking himself up.’ Blair hadn’t intended to swear but didn’t really give a damn whether they were offended or not. There wasn’t any reason why they should be.

‘How did you talk to him, last night?’ asked Erickson.

‘ How? ’

‘Calmly, trying to understand? Or did you lose your temper?’

Blair conceded it was justified, after his outburst. ‘Calmly, as far as I was concerned,’ he said, i don’t think I shouted and I don’t think I lost my temper. But I let him know how I felt. I let him know I thought what he had done was stupid and weak and that I thought he’d let everyone down and that I wasn’t accepting the fact that my wife and I are divorced to be any excuse. That there wasn’t an excuse…’ Blair paused. Then he said, ‘And I am trying to understand. I keep asking questions but no one seems able to provide any answers.’

Blair saw the two men exchange looks and realised they considered he’d handled it wrongly. Erickson said, ‘You were aggressive?’

‘No,’ refused Blair. ‘I was direct and straight, like I felt a father should be.’ Except, perhaps, that a father should be at home and not a polite visitor.

‘A factor I didn’t mention was that sometimes drug-taking is a rebellion against authority,’ said Kemp, in his lecturing voice.

‘Rebellions against authority get crushed: that’s what law and order means,’ said Blair, impatient at the meaningless cliche. ‘Growing up, becoming an adult…’ He stopped, unsure which way his argument was leading him. ‘… OK,’ he resumed. ‘Making the mistakes that growing up means, that’s all right. That happens… it happens. That I can understand. Accept even. If he got drunk I’d understand it

…’

‘Why?’ demanded Erickson, slightly ahead of the other counsellor.

Blair blinked at the concerted demand. ‘Kids get drunk: it happens,’ he said, badly.

‘Do you know what the worst drug in existence is, Mr Blair?’ said Kemp, who appeared to regard himself as the spokesman. ‘Alcohol is the worst drug. It kills more people and causes more lost work days and more lost school days and more accidents than marijuana and cocaine and heroin and pills put together.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ said Blair, letting the exasperation show.

‘Paul’s side,’ said Kemp. ‘I’m not on your side and I’m not on your wife’s side and I’m not on anybody else’s side. Just Paul’s.’

‘At last!’ said Blair. ‘At last someone’s said something positive.’

‘We always try to be positive, Mr Blair,’ said Erickson. ‘I’ve sat through a hundred meetings like the one I’m having with you now and let me tell you that your reaction is the reaction of practically everyone. You think we’re inconclusive and you think we’re weak and you get impatient but try not to show it, because you love your kid and think you might in some way affect how we’ll try to help him, if you loudmouth us. We’re not interested in making our own points, Mr Blair: in expressing our opinions and our attitudes because our opinions and attitudes are middle-aged and already formed and at the end of every frustrating day we go home to a home where there’s a six-pack in the fridge and if it’s been a bad, particularly frustrating day we might even blow the whole six pack and get drunk and when we’re drunk we might believe that things aren’t really as bad as they are. Which is what taking drugs is all about, Mr Blair. Not wanting to know how things are – not dramatic, major, world-shattering things – but the really important things, things that directly affect you and worry you and wake you up in the middle of the night… those things. Not wanting to face up to how bad – or how easily solved – those things are.’

Blair felt the words dump over him, like a wave at the very moment of hitting the shore, when it’s like a punch and stronger than any resistance and knocks you over and sends you sprawling on the sand, looking a fool. They’d had their shots and he’d had his and they were still at either end of a hugely wide bridge. He said, ‘You’ve seen Paul, both of you? Talked to him?’

‘Yes,’ said Kemp.

‘So what’s his problem? What wakes him up in the middle of the night and seems insoluble?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Erickson. ‘Because he doesn’t know. That’s the problem, because it’s the problem with so many of the kids, not just Paul. Why he sat like a dummy with you last night and when you asked him why he did it said something stupid, like he didn’t know. Is that what he said, that he didn’t know?’

‘About that,’ agreed Blair. Wanting to air the doubt, he said, ‘ Could the divorce, the fact that I’m thousands of miles away and his mother’s got to cope by herself, could that be it?’

‘Maybe,’ said Kemp unhelpfully. ‘Or maybe his problem is not being able to hack his school work or pimples or how much or how little pubic hair he has or how a girl he’d like to show that pubic hair to is more interested in someone else’s.’

‘I didn’t smoke dope or snort coke and hold up stores to do either because I couldn’t hack my school work or had pimples or was worried about getting laid!’ said Blair.

‘Because that was thirty years ago,’ said Erickson. ‘Didn’t you drink a beer, occasionally?’

Yes, thought Blair, giddy on the carousel. Determined to achieve something, he started, ‘My problem…’ and at once stopped. ‘Paul’s problem,’ he began again, ‘is that he lives in Washington and I live in Moscow. I’m here now – will be here now – to see him through whatever needs to be done but then I’ll have to go back and I won’t be around to follow up what the court decides and whatever you guys try to do. I know I should be but I can’t be.’

‘What about visiting?’ asked Kemp. ‘Not just for Paul: I know there’s John, as well. What are the visitation arrangements?’

‘Whatever, whenever,’ said Blair. ‘My wife and I remain extremely friendly. But I’ve been in Moscow for two years and it isn’t easy, bringing kids there…’ He hesitated. ‘And if there’s one thing I’m certain about, about my kids, it’s their resentment against my second wife.’

‘You haven’t seen the kids for two years!’ said Erickson.

Blair took the rebuke, knowing now – no, not now, knowing as he had for too long – that it was justified. ‘Eighteen months,’ he said, in desperate qualification, ‘I came back eighteen months ago to sort some things out.’ For two days and didn’t stay at the house, he remembered.

‘Divorce things?’ said Kemp, refusing him an escape.

‘Yes,’ said Blair, trapped.

‘Thirty years ago, when I was a kid too,’ said Kemp, ‘I think I might have taken a drink – maybe two – if I hadn’t thought I was important enough for my father to bother about, for eighteen months at a time.’

‘How was it?’ asked Ruth, when Blair got to Dominiques: he was late and she was already in the small side bar, nursing a whisky sour.

Blair didn’t answer, not at once, still not through with stripping away the self-protective attitudes, a process which had started at the end of his encounter with the counsellors and continued in the cab on his way to the restaurant. ‘Good,’ he said, self-reflective. Expanding more forcefully he went on, ‘I’m not sure – because nobody’s sure about anything – but I think it was good and I think I’ve found a way to help Paul.’

Now it was Ruth’s turn to hesitate. ‘How?’ she said at last.

‘I’ve been wrong, Ruth,’ said Blair, intent upon a complete catharsis. ‘I abandoned Paul. John too. I’ve got to work out some way to be their father again. Their proper father.’

Ruth sipped the whisky, needing it and wishing it were stronger. ‘How?’ she managed.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Blair, still self-enclosed and not fully aware of how intently Ruth was waiting. ‘Find some way of getting them into Moscow… of liking Ann. And if that isn’t possible, then making Ann understand there have got to be times I have to spend with my kids.’

Ruth’s drink became really sour, curdling in her stomach and coming back into her throat, so that she had to swallow against it and she actually coughed, to clear the sensation. If it helped Paul – please God, cured Paul – then it was a special occasion, more special than any before. But not special like she’d wanted it to be.

Natalia sat awkwardly before him, cowed but slightly bent to one side, like a beloved pet who’d always obeyed and done every trick suddenly brutally beaten for some misdemeanour it didn’t understand. ‘Why?’ The question came out as a wail.

‘I just don’t feel anything any more.’ Orlov was wet with perspiration, forcing himself on, feeling like a man trying to wade a swamp without knowing where the safe ground was, the mud dragging him down deeper and deeper.

‘But why?’ said the woman again. ‘You haven’t given a proper reason.’

‘Apart too long,’ said Orlov. ‘Not the same any more.’ Where were the rehearsed sentences and the balanced arguments, points carefully anticipated against points, everything arranged so there wouldn’t be a scene like this?

‘It can be the same,’ she pleaded desperately. ‘We can learn to love each other again. I love you!’

‘No!’ he said. Orlov wished the mud were real and he could be engulfed by it.

‘ Please! ’

‘No!’

She fell physically sideways, against the edge of the chair, once trying to raise her head for another protest but being swept away by tears before the words formed, staying huddled there with the sobs shuddering through her. This hadn’t worked as it should have done, thought Orlov. Not at all. Would the rest?

The dissident arrests in Moscow were reported in the Western media, as Panov predicted, and it was linked with the famine in the regions, which Panov also predicted. The practice of rushing the Western supplies in their entirety to the areas of worst unrest, which Sokol organised initially, became unworkable because it denied anything to other suffering districts and caused rioting to break out there. Whenever there was trouble, Sokol had any obvious leaders immediately arrested and jailed in penal institutions as far away from their homes and regions as possible. The internal militia worked always on orders to open fire on any mob violence. Five people were killed and twenty wounded in Rovno, in the Ukraine, and three died in Gomel. Sokol, the methodical man, evolved a regime, working from six in the morning through until mid-afternoon monitoring the shortages and guaranteeing the transportation of the relief shipments and from then working until near midnight on other material moving through the Second Chief Directorate. More alert to fresh, undermining danger than the now scarcely thought-of need for an impressive coup, he stared down at the report of Blair’s return to Washington. What, he thought worriedly, did that mean?

Chapter Fifteen

It was not a sudden idea. It had been with Ann for some time but she refused to acknowledge it. Then she realised how ridiculous she was being and determined there was nothing wrong with it. Jeremy Brinkman was a friend – just a friend – and she was by herself and almost climbing the wall with boredom so what was wrong with seeing a friend? She’d even discussed it with Eddie. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She’d told Eddie about the Bolshoi and that hadn’t happened yet. But there wasn’t a lot of difference. Eddie wouldn’t see anything wrong with it. How could he? There wasn’t anything wrong with it. She just wanted to talk to someone else before she started talking to herself. Nothing wrong with that at all. Nothing that any sensible adult would find. Betty Harrison would probably make it into something rivalling War and Peace but sod Betty Harrison. Gossiping old cow.

Brinkman, who was growing increasingly frustrated because everything had gone quiet but he knew – was absolutely convinced – that Blair was involved in something big, was delighted to get Ann’s call. Despite the previous decision not to, he was approaching the point of calling her. He told her dinner sounded like a good idea and no he wasn’t doing anything and she had no reason to apologise in advance for her cooking and he’d be there at seven. Which he was, as the hour struck. With a bottle of wine – French, not Russian – and a gift-wrapped box of Floris soaps and bath preparations he’d had freighted from London in the pouch to thank her for the Bolshoi but decided to invest earlier. Hopefully.

Ann wasn’t, in fact, a particularly good cook and she’d tried too hard, which made it worse. She hadn’t marinated the meat sufficiently and it had obviously been tough before she started and she added the cream to the stroganoff too soon and it was on the point of turning.

‘Fabulous!’ said Brinkman. ‘Next time show me how to do it!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said.

‘Would I lie?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Would you?’

He laughed. ‘If I had to. But here I don’t’

‘How often, elsewhere?’

‘All the time,’ he parried. She was in a funny mood and he wondered why. ‘How’s Eddie?’ he asked. It wasn’t too soon; it was an obvious question.

‘He called me today,’ she said, immediately brightening. ‘But it wasn’t a good line. He seems OK.’

‘How long’s he going to be away?’ That was another obvious question.

‘He’s not sure,’ she said. ‘Not yet.’

Big, thought Brinkman. Eddie Blair was on to something big. ‘Wouldn’t have thought he’d stay away for too long,’ coaxed Brinkman.

‘The embassy have been very good,’ she said. ‘I think he can have as long as he likes.’

What the hell did that mean? She’d have been given a cover story, of course. He’d already decided that. ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ he tried.

Ann smiled at him, sadly. She was using him, she decided: so he deserved some sort of explanation. ‘I don’t think it would have been a very good idea for the wife of the second marriage to go back and get involved with the wife of the first, do you?’

Brinkman knew about the divorce, of course. They’d made no secret of it, during the increasing friendship, and he’d guessed it anyway because of the obvious age differences. It would have made an easy cover for Blair to get back to Langley. He said, ‘Battlefield, eh?’

‘Oh no,’ said Ann. ‘Ruth’s super.’

Brinkman thought that if the circles got much tighter he’d disappear up his own ass. ‘So why didn’t you go back with him?’ he persisted. In an effort to make it seem a casual remark he picked up the bottle, adding to her wine.

‘It just wouldn’t have been a good idea,’ she said positively.

Time to lean forward and time to lean back, he thought. So now it was time to lean back. Instead he said, ‘Even if Ruth’s super, it can’t have been easy.’

Important things – like wars and history changing events and the revelation of secrets that shouldn’t be revealed – never have important beginnings. When they are looked at and examined impartially, later, the trigger is invariably inconsequential, so inconsequential it’s difficult – sometimes impossible – to believe something so insignificant could cause such a reaction. Brinkman had been pressing, certainly, but it wasn’t a considered question; he was filling in, actually, keeping the talk on the same track while he tried to determine upon another route to take him to the destination he sought.

‘Christ, it hasn’t been bloody easy!’ erupted Ann and with the floodgates abruptly opened everything poured out. She told him about her first meeting with Blair in London, when he was attached to the Grosvenor Square embassy and she had been a junior research assistant at the Foreign Office, just six months down from Cambridge. How she’d liked Ruth and initially actually been amused at Blair’s Texas mannerisms – ‘all John Wayne and howdy’ – and how he’d been the only friendly face she’d known at another reception, British this time and without Ruth, within a month. How it had been a boring event she intended to leave early and when he said he was going, too, it had seemed a good idea to have another drink at a bar he knew just off Sloane Street, which was on her way home anyway. How that’s all it had been, a friendly drink but how he’d called her, to suggest lunch, and she’d agreed, curious and flattered – but positively not interested – even though she found him worldly and comfortable to be with. Funny, too. He’d always been very funny, in those days. The realisation came as she talked, more an internal reverie than a conversation: he wasn’t funny any more, not like he had been then, not like the time when he’d been telling stories so interesting and so amusing that she’d driven herself up rather than go to the bathroom when she should have done and he’d suddenly made her laugh so much that she couldn’t stop it happening and peed her pants. Brinkman sat unspeaking and receptive, like a fisherman who’d put himself in precisely the right spot on the running tide that would bring the fish in, trawling with a net so fine that not even a minnow would get through. He topped her glass again and Ann talked on. About the guilt of the affair and the decision to be honest and how Ruth had behaved -’super’ was a frequent word – and how guilt wasn’t easy to get used to, ever. Any more than Moscow was easy to get used to, ever. Brinkman had known about her irritations, because she’d hinted at them before and they were the sort of irritations that a lot of Western embassy staff had and he hadn’t considered them any more important than that, frustrated anecdotes of frustrated problems of frustrated people, the normal cocktail party conversation. At cocktail parties there was always exaggeration, no one willing to concede their disappointment was less than anyone else’s but as he listened Brinkman became aware that what Ann was saying wasn’t cocktail party – or dinner party – Smalltalk but something causing her genuine unhappiness. He let her purge herself, trying to see the catch as it went into the net, not sure he wasn’t wasting his time but conceding that fishing was a time-wasting exercise anyway. He tried throwing in a lure occasionally, but she didn’t bite.

‘It’s Moscow,’ she said. ‘I know it’s Moscow. Anywhere else wouldn’t have been so difficult.’

‘Doesn’t Eddie like it?’ said Brinkman, attempting a brighter bait.

‘It’s very important for him here: it’s his career. He’s very good at what he does.’

So what’s he doing now! thought Brinkman. ‘Maybe it’ll be better when he gets back,’ said Brinkman, more direct than he had so far been.

She frowned at him, confused. ‘Why should it be?’

Tangled in his own line Brinkman said, ‘I thought maybe he might have gone back to discuss what happens next.’

Ann’s frown stayed. ‘I told you, it’s a family thing.’

‘So you did,’ said Brinkman. ‘Wasn’t thinking.’

‘It would be wonderful, though, to know there was another posting,’ said Ann, retreating into the reverie.

‘Where would you like?’ said Brinkman.

‘Anywhere but here!’ she said, suddenly vehement. ‘If there were an embassy at the North Pole I’d happily swop it for here.’

Momentarily – but only just – putting aside his personal interest, Brinkman decided that Ann was one very unhappy lady. Because of their professional contact he supposed he was closer to Blair than to his wife and thought Blair might have mentioned it at some time, because they didn’t always talk shop. Maybe Blair didn’t know. Brinkman thought that unlikely: he was a perceptive guy. ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said.

‘Not for a man,’ she said, still intense. ‘Not for you. You’ve got something to do.’

Brinkman hadn’t thought about it until now but he conceded things couldn’t be all that good for her, stuck here with nothing to do. Maybe he was lucky, not being married. He said, ‘You won’t be here forever.’

‘That’s what I tell myelf every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to sleep.’

Was it Moscow? he wondered. Or had she made it Moscow, transferring the pain of other things and blaming a difficult city? What other things? He’d never been aware of any strain between her and Eddie and he’d been with them enough times to think he would have noticed, if there had been. Had he got it wrong then? Had Eddie genuinely gone back to Washington for something to do with his first wife? What was it she’d said? – I don’t think it would have been a very good idea for the wife of the second marriage to get involved with the wife of the first, do you? Something like that. Things like that had happened before. But she’d said something else. Ruth’s super . She wouldn’t have said that – certainly not in her present mood – if anything like that was happening. The circle was getting tighter and tighter, he thought. ‘What does Eddie say?’ he asked outright.

‘He’s busy,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be right to bother him.’

‘You told me! ’ said Brinkman, throwing the inconsistency at her.

Ann looked at him in sudden surprise. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ she said. She actually blushed and Brinkman thought she looked very pretty and very vulnerable. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was unforgivable.’

He felt across for her hand and she let him take it. ‘You’re forgiven,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what friends are for, to have convenient shoulders?’

‘I’m not sure that other friends are supposed so openly to cry upon them,’ she said, still embarrassed.

‘It’s allowed, for special friends.’

‘Thanks, for being a special friend,’ she said.

After the meal – which he praised again – they left the table and drank brandy sitting in easy chairs. They listened to some Verdi and he promised to let her have the latest Graham Greene novel which he’d had sent from London and which he’d almost finished. Refusing – absolutely – to give up he told her to give his regards to Eddie when they next spoke and she said she would and then stopped, so he failed again. But she’d opened up to him about a lot of other things, Brinkman realised. Maybe he was expecting too much, too soon, in his impatience. There was the Bolshoi yet. Maybe he’d get a clue when they went to the Bolshoi.

‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ he said, making to go. ‘And it was a super meal. Really.’

‘You said you lied all the time,’ she remembered, happier now the confession was over.

‘Not to you,’ he said. He extended his hand in invitation, little finger crooked. Joining in the game she linked her finger with his, in a child-like handshake. ‘I promise never to lie to you and if I break it the witches will see that all my teeth fall out.’

She laughed at the nonsense of it and said, ‘Eddie used to say things like that,’ and wished she hadn’t the moment she spoke.

Brinkman disentangled their fingers and said, ‘Thanks again.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

He leaned forward to kiss her goodnight and she offered her cheek, allowing it.

He hadn’t learned a thing – not a thing he wanted to learn – and the meal had given him indigestion, thought Brinkman, on his way home through the foreign enclave.

It had been a wonderful evening, decided Ann. She didn’t feel as uptight or miserable or lonely as she had. And it had been a comforting shoulder to cry upon. Jeremy Brinkman was very nice. She liked him.

That night they ate as a family, together, because Blair insisted upon it. Barriers were bullshit and he determined to bulldoze them, like you’d bulldoze barriers. Or bullshit. He thought he’d come close to losing the kids – in every meaning of the word losing. And he thought he’d been lucky, if it were possible to imagine luck emerging from what had happened to Paul, because it had brought him back and made him see what he was doing. Or not doing. It was their barriers that needing bulldozing. And his bullshit. Blair ignored their silences and their resentments, insisting they help him prepare the barbecue even though he knew they didn’t want to and he didn’t need them, deputing John to fan the coals into life and Paul to put on the hickory chips when the time was ready. He hadn’t discussed it with Ruth but she got a sense of what was happening and joined in as well, an actress enjoying the play, setting the table outside and bringing Blair beer which he drank from the can. John found it easier and because the child had tried in the morning, asking about Moscow, it was easier for Blair, too, because it looked initially as if he were fulfilling a promise. Which was how he started, intentionally, talking about the 1917 revolution and how Moscow hadn’t been immediately important, but St Petersburg. They didn’t know what his job was but he knew they’d be interested in spies because kids were always interested in spies and so he told them about Dzerzhinsky and the statue in front of the KGB headquarters. He could have lectured about all the others, of course, but he missed out the dull ones and concentrated upon those involved in the better anecdotes, like Yagoda who started as a pharmacist and who assassinated using his pharmacist’s expertise and Yezhov who epitomised the terror the like of which they could never imagine and Beria who came within an inch – maybe less than an inch – of seizing power after Stalin’s death. He told them about the decay of the Romanovs and of a monk called Rasputin and how – although a lot of people didn’t believe it – he was sure a woman called Anna Anderson who’d died within the last few years was genuinely Princess Anastasia, who had survived in a way no one knew from the Bolshevik massacre at Ekaterinburg. And he got them. Blair worked hard – physically worked hard so he ached – but he got them. He said, ‘You’ll like it.’

Blair had talked continuously, dominating everything, presenting a monologue. So when he stopped they didn’t at first realise it. It was John – more responsive throughout – who reacted first. ‘Like it?’ he said.

‘When you come,’ said Blair.

‘Come…’ started the younger boy and then jerking to a halt, remembering the obstruction.

The final stripping time, realised Blair. It was like exposing himself, nakedly, and he didn’t like the idea. But he disliked the idea of losing the kids more. ‘I wasn’t honest yesterday,’ he admitted. ‘I used the word but I wasn’t honest…’ Blair looked at Ruth. She was sitting not looking at anyone, both hands cupped around a can of beer which she was drinking just like he was, without a glass. Their drug, thought Blair. He said, ‘I got near to something, when I talked about your mother and I not being together any more. What I didn’t get to say – get to admit – was that only your mother, who’s a very special lady, has fully adjusted to it. I hadn’t – haven’t – and you certainly haven’t. But it’s mostly my fault. Nearly all my fault. You can’t accept that I love you because I haven’t given you any reason for believing me. But I do love you. Now I want to say sorry and show how I feel. Your very special mother and I agreed when we divorced that we should each spend as much time with you as we could…’ Blair stopped, looking at Paul. If you were naked then everyone automatically looked at your private parts, so what the hell! He went on, ‘I accused you last night of copping out. Because you have. You’ve copped out. But so have I. More than you. I’ve known -understood – how you feel about Ann and instead of trying to find a solution for that I’ve used the difficulty of Moscow as an excuse…’ He stopped again. Paul and John were important, not his own stupid fucking pride. He said, ‘I ran away, Paul, I ran away from you and I ran away from John just like you tried to run away from whatever it was you didn’t want to confront. Which was probably the thought of me not wanting you any more, which was never the case but which I can understand you thinking…’

Ruth hadn’t moved and the boys were not looking at him either, embarrassed at the admission that Superman couldn’t really fly. He said, ‘I can understand why you hate Ann…’ Blair paused, qualifying himself again, unhappy at the exaggeration of hatred against someone he loved ‘… why you dislike her,’ he resumed. ‘I want that – am determined – that should stop.’ Blair slapped the table, to maintain their attention. ‘I’ve told you tonight about Moscow and I want you to come to see it. See it with me. And that means meeting Ann and understanding what things are like – not what you’d like them to be instead – and learning to accept that I have a new wife who won’t intrude into your life but would like to be part of it, if you’d let her. It means us becoming friends again – I’d like to be your best friend, the person you come to when you’ve got a problem instead of running away from it to some street corner. And it means that I’m going to come out of Moscow whenever I can – with or without Ann, while you’re learning to adjust to the fact that she’s now my wife – and be with you, as often as I can.’

Blair stopped, all the words used up, needing to gulp from the can. He didn’t – couldn’t remember – how it had sounded but it was the best he could do. He said, ‘As things are – as you know things are, not perhaps as you’d like them to be – let me come back. The track record so far isn’t particularly impressive and I’m ashamed of it, but let me start being a proper father again.’

The sort of silence developed when there seemed to be sounds when really there weren’t any. He’d taken control and now he had to exercise it, decided Blair. ‘Well?’ he said.

John, predictably, responded first. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. Then, hurriedly, ‘Dad.’

There was a further loud silence. ‘Paul?’ prompted Blair.

The key turned and the dam burst. The boy had tried to hold back so when he couldn’t, any longer, the tears burst from him and Blair felt forward for Paul’s hands – to have got up to move to comfort him would have been wrong and Blair was still measuring everything with a slide rule – and Paul felt forward for his and Blair started to cry, too, unashamedly, wanting to weep if it would help Paul, which was after all what he was trying to do.

‘Please, Dad,’ said the sobbing child. ‘Please!’

‘Sure,’ soothed Blair, ‘Sure.’

Ruth was crying, too. The reconciliation between Eddie and the boys was the excuse, not the reason.

Chapter Sixteen

Blair glanced at the statue of Nathan Hale, the American patriot hanged as a spy by the British during the American War of Independence, in its imposing setting in front of the CIA headquarters and then, while his ID was being checked at the entrance, at the inscription in the marble hallway. ‘And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.’ Did he know the truth yet? He thought so, after the soul-baring with the kids. It seemed to have helped. He realised that it was too early to attach over-importance to omens, but the signs were good. John had made it very clear the previous night he wanted to be kissed and that morning’s breakfast had been like Blair remembered, actually some noise and the boys talking between themselves and then initiating some kind of conversation with him and Ruth. Blair’s thoughts stayed with the woman. He believed it was a breakthrough – of sorts – and would have imagined she would, as well. Yet she seemed strangley subdued. He supposed it was understandable. She’d gone through a lot more than he had; maybe knew the apparent signs weren’t what he thought they were at all.

The division chief’s office was on the fifth floor, high enough at the back for there to be a silver thread of Potomac just beyond the tree line; if there weren’t an Orioles game at the weekend maybe he’d take them out on the river. Ray Hubble strode across the room to meet him, confirming the acquaintanceship, hand outstretched. There were the predictable assurances of how good each other looked and had London really been that long ago and then Hubble said, ‘Sorry to hear about Paul.’

‘Seems a common problem, from what I’ve been told since I got back.’

‘Hope everything works out OK.’

‘I’ve got to see it has, haven’t I?’ said Blair. ‘Appreciate the understanding everyone’s shown here.’

‘No problem,’ said Hubble. He was a polished man, polished cheeks and oiled, polished hair and polished shoes; the sort of man to gleam in the dark. Having given the reassurance he immediately contradicted it by saying, ‘When do you think you’ll be able to go back?’

‘As soon as possible, obviously,’ said Blair, discerning the other man’s tone. ‘But I’ve got to make sure everything is settled here. There’s still the court appearance and I don’t know when that’s going to be. I’ll have to make sure the kid gets into some remedial programme, if the court doesn’t order it. So I can’t make positive dates.’

Hubble made an upward movement with his head, towards the sixth and seventh floors, where the Director and the deputies were quartered, to indicate that the pressure was not his doing and said, ‘You know how they are.’

‘I’ll let you know, as soon as I know myself,’ said Blair.

‘Just a bitch of a time to be away, that’s all,’ said Hubble. ‘Everything is popping over there and you’ve confirmed quite a reputation for yourself from it’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Blair. At least his professional life wasn’t screwed up, he thought, in brief self-pity.

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Hubble enthusiastically. ‘State were telling the President to behave quite differently over the Geneva offer but it was our counsel that prevailed. And when everything was examined the Soviet thing turned out to be a bunch of bullshit, just like you said it was…’ Hubble extended his hand, one finger crossed over the other. ‘That’s how the Agency and the President are at the moment. Hugger Mugger. And the Director likes it very much indeed. Which makes you a pretty important guy around here because although he’s a funny bastard in some ways, he doesn’t deny anyone the credit they’re due. Getting it as completely right as we did was down to you and he’s letting everyone know it.’

Blair felt the satisfaction stir through him. It seemed that his professional life was anything but screwed up. ‘That’s pretty decent of him,’ he said.

‘But he wants everything to stay that way…’ Hubble put out a finger-crossed hand again ‘… him and the President. Which means he’s nervous having you off base. Because it’s known to be so important, of course, I had to tell him. He said OK but he’s pressing to know just how quick you can get back.’

Blair was vaguely discomfited at the Director personally knowing why he’d had to return from Moscow. Would it have any effect upon his career? wondered Blair. The swirl of guilt was immediate. Of course not: and if it did, so what? The Agency could take their job and stuff it up their ass. That wasn’t true, he corrected at once. He loved the job – couldn’t imagine any other – and the ability that he seemed to have to do it. ‘As soon as possible, like I said,’ he reminded his immediate superior.

‘How long before Serada officially gets dumped?’ asked Hubble.

There might have been hints over the last few days, indications from something in Pravda or on Tass. Or a clue he could have got from some photograph. Or the way a proclamation was issued and signed. Or not signed. But he needed to be in Moscow – like they knew he needed to be in Moscow – to be able to detect the signals and the signs. ‘Difficult to say,’ avoided Blair. Aware how bad that sounded, Blair went on, ‘Maybe not yet awhile.’ That wasn’t much better. And it was an over-assessment, as well. He didn’t know – had no way of knowing – whether Serada would go tomorrow or next week or next month. To indicate that there would be some time was just trying to give them a reassurance and take the pressure off for him to get back. He wouldn’t be pressured, determined Blair. All right, so he liked the job and he liked the praise and he wouldn’t stay longer than he had to – he’d never intended that in the first place – but he was damned if he’d cut anything short, either.

‘Bitch of a time to be away,’ repeated Hubble, who’d seen the attempted reassurance as the snow job it was.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Blair, not quite sure what he was apologising for but unable to think of anything else.

‘It’s not just the immediate situation,’ said Hubble.

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ frowned Blair.

‘You’ve been in Moscow two years?’ said Hubble.

‘A little over,’ agreed Blair.

Hubble nodded, the minimal correction unnecessary anyway because he had Blair’s personnel file in the desk drawer on his left and knew everything about the man’s career. He said, ‘Normally we’d be thinking of some reassignment now; three years is the term, as you know.’

‘ Normally? ’ said Blair, picking out the important word.

‘Like I said, Eddie, the Director’s impressed; impressed as hell. He thinks you’ve got the handle on Moscow for a period that is going to turn out important. So he says – and the logic is difficult to argue with – why put someone else into bat when you’re scoring all the home runs? If we pull you out as we would normally do, after three years, it means someone has got to go in there cold and learn the tricks. The Director thinks – and again the logic is difficult to argue with – that at a time like this we should stay just as we are, ahead of the game.’

‘You want me to remain in Moscow?’ said Blair, irritated by all the other man’s awkward metaphors.

‘Just that,’ said Hubble.

‘How long for?’

‘As long as it takes,’ said Hubble expansively. ‘Then you can go wherever you like in full glory.’

‘What’s that mean?’ said Blair.

‘It means – and the Director has personally asked me to make this clear to you – that if you agree to stay on then when you finally move you can call the shots. You choose what you want and you get it. You can have another overseas posting. Or you can come here, to Langley. And if you come to Langley it won’t be for the doorman’s job. You’ll get a division at least. What do you say?’

During all his thoughts and discussions with the boys and with everyone else Blair had always calculated, without consciously counting the months or considering it too definitely, that he’d be out of Moscow according to the normal custom, in three years. That was why he’d been so forceful in the talk of their being together more because if it had proven difficult to get them into Moscow – or for them to accept Ann – then he knew it would have only been months, not even a year, before he was somewhere else that would have been more convenient. Would it be difficult, to get them in, if he stayed on? He could make it a condition of his agreeing that the Agency – through the State Department – made damned sure they could get in, whenever he wanted them to. And impose another condition, too: that he be allowed to come out whenever he wanted, to be with them. What about Ann? She said she hated Moscow but he’d always thought that was an exaggeration. So she disliked it. But so did a lot of people, at first. Two years was hardly at first, so maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough. She’d understand, when he explained it; she knew how important the job was to him. And it was a pretty impressive promise, anything he wanted afterwards. He could let her choose. That wouldn’t be bad, telling her that for her understanding this time she could pick anywhere in the world where they would go next. And why should it be such a long time anyway? Serada could be dumped tomorrow and everything nicely packaged and compartmented before the normal three years were up. And then he’d be holding the basket with all the promises and it wouldn’t have cost him anything. Except that he was going for whoever succeeded Serada to be a caretaker for a younger man and it could be two or three years – maybe longer – before whoever that younger man was to emerge and become identified. He was sure Ann would understand.

‘Well?’ urged Hubble, uncomfortable with the long silence.

‘I’d like to think about it,’ hedged Blair.

‘Sure,’ conceded Hubble. ‘But not too long, eh?’

‘A couple of days,’ said Blair carelessly. ‘Just give me a couple of days.’

‘That’ll be good,’ said Hubble. Maintaining the earlier pressure, he said, ‘You might have a clearer idea then when you can go back, as well. And Eddie?’

‘What?’

‘You know what we want and you know how much we want it. How much the Director wants it. But there’s no catch. If you say no then we’ll understand. It won’t be held against you, later.’

Crap, thought Blair. The supposed guarantee had come out exactly as the man had intended, a threat. So much for friendship, he thought. Maybe that was unfair. Blair believed the other man that the pressure was coming from the seventh floor so Hubble couldn’t do much else but watch his own back. If the place were as political as this, maybe Langley wasn’t the place to come back to. Blair braked the thought. That reflection indicated he had a choice and he only had a choice if he accepted their offer. He said, ‘I understand.’

‘I know a lot of guys who’d sacrifice a lot of things to be in the position you are, Eddie,’ said Hubble.

‘Yes,’ agreed Blair. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘A couple of days, eh?’

‘A couple of days,’ promised Blair, unhappy now at the self-imposed time limit.

It was only when he was driving back down the Parkway that Blair fully realised that if he kept the schedule he had agreed with Hubble it would mean making the decision without any opportunity of talking it through properly with Ann. Of talking it through at all, really, because he didn’t think it was something he could discuss with her by telephone. Which reminded him. He should call her again. But not yet; not today. He had too much to think about and decide. In the event he didn’t call Moscow for two days – still undecided and having earlier talked to Hubble and got a reluctant extension on their time limit – arguing Paul’s impending court appearance as the need for him to delay. The line was better than it had been the first time. He said he thought things were going better than they were when he’d spoken before and that there was a date for the court hearing and because Ruth was out, taking her turn with the car pool he was able openly to say he loved and missed her. Ann asked when he was coming back and he said he didn’t know and she said she was looking forward to the Bolshoi with Brinkman, which he’d momentarily forgotten she was going to do. From Moscow Ann thought how limited her news was – nothing bloody well ever happened anyway – and from Washington Blair put down the telephone without mentioning the request to extend his posting in the Soviet capital.

Brinkman arrived promptly, which he invariably did, and insisted upon their drinking the champagne he’d brought, because it was his birthday. So she insisted on giving him the present she’d bought, an icon she had been assured was a genuine antique. He’d promised to stage the birthday party when he’d telephoned earlier, to confirm the arrangements and when she asked where they were going he said to his apartment because he didn’t want anything about the evening to be spoiled and therefore didn’t want to sit for hours in a Russian restaurant waiting for food he could prepare and cook better at home. Ann was glad. The Bolshoi was risk enough but she didn’t want to extend that risk by going somewhere public afterwards. There were a limited number of places that were embassy favourites and there would have been a possibility of their being seen and she didn’t want any stupid stories to begin when there was no basis for their existence.

‘Eddie called,’ she said, as they left the apartment.

‘When?’ asked Brinkman, at once attentive.

‘Day before yesterday.’

‘How is he?’

‘Fine.’

‘When’s he coming back?’

‘He still doesn’t know.’

What the bloody hell was it? thought Brinkman, in frustrated irritation.

Chapter Seventeen

The new production was superb. Ann did not think she had ever heard Tchaikovsky’s music sound so wonderful nor seen dancers appear so weightless and so synchronised. During the break there was more champagne and on their way to the bar they passed an exhibition of the history of the Imperial School, with prints and photographs of legendary figures like Marius Petipa and Enrico Cecchetti and of principal dancers like Mathilde Kschessinka and Olga Preobrazhenska and Anna Pavlova and Tamara Karsavina. Ann succeeded in identifying them all without having to see the notations and as she talked she became aware she knew more about ballet than Brinkman. The knowledge excited her because in the cloistered, formalised embassy life into which she had been thrust directly after her marriage she found she rarely knew anything more than anyone. She showed off, on purpose, and Brinkman let her, isolating another indication of her unhappiness by the thrown-away admission, as she talked, that because of her interest in dancing she’d studied the Russian art soon after she arrived in Moscow, ‘to fill the days’. She chattered on about the Summer Gardens performances in St Petersburg and the origin of the Moscow school based on children from the city’s orphanages and Brinkman recognised he was enjoying himself. There was still the ulterior motive in cultivating the friendship with the couple in the first place, getting himself next to someone whom Ingram designated the best. But it had moved on from the initial reason: he genuinely liked them now, better than he liked the Harrisons or anyone else in the Western enclave. And he liked Ann. He guessed Betty Harrison and her intimates might think Ann was gauche and he supposed she was, which was her charm. Despite what he now knew to be her inner feelings at being in Moscow, she had about her a freshness, of being genuinely interested and wanting to be involved with everything she did and everyone with whom she came into contact doing it. She held his arm as they wandered through the theatre, an unthinking gesture for her and Brinkman decided he liked the touch. Not only a freshness but a softness, he thought.

The conclusion surpassed the commencement. He stood, matching her enthusiasm and the enthusiasm of everyone else, clapping as loudly as anyone for the succession of curtain calls that went on and on. When the curtain finally came down they left the Bolshoi unhurriedly, as if reluctant to sever the moment absolutely by leaving the place.

‘Wasn’t that exquisite!’ said Ann. ‘I actually feel I’m floating, just like the chorus.’

‘Why the chorus?’ he said. ‘Why not a prima ballerina?’

She giggled, pleased with his lightness. ‘I could never be the lead; only ever the support.’

‘You can be my prima ballerina.’ Wasn’t he being gauche now?

‘I accept,’ she said.

She still had her arm in his. Immediately outside the Bolshoi they stopped together, not sure what to do and she said, ‘Let’s not go home straight away; let’s walk.’

‘OK,’ he said.

They went without positive direction, along Sverdlova, slowed by the crush of people near the metro entrance but almost inevitably went towards the Kremlin. Ann strained up at the huge illuminated red stars on top of the towers and said, ‘I’ve never been able to understand why they’ve done that.’

‘It is sort of odd,’ agreed Brinkman.

‘Looks like the biggest circus attraction in the whole world.’

‘Sometimes a good description,’ said Brinkman.

‘Want to know something?’

Damned right I do, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’

‘Tonight I like Moscow.’

‘About time.’

‘ Tonight I said,’ insisted Ann. ‘Just tonight.’

They returned in the direction of the theatre, near which his car was parked, as slowly as they had set off on the outing and Brinkman even drove slowly back to the complex. Brinkman had left wine on ice, flat this time because he felt there was a limit to the amount of champagne it was possible to drink, particularly before a meal. He’d arranged cold food, fish which was good in the concessionary places and caviar because, as he kept reminding her, it was his birthday. With the caviar he served vodka, deeply chilled, taking it the Russian way, down in one. She obeyed the instructions and laughed and coughed at the same time, protesting that she would get drunk. While they ate he tried to guide the conversation to Blair but Ann appeared reluctant to bring her husband into any conversation, insisting instead of talking about the Cambridge they had known, most of which they had already talked about. For Ann it was part of the evening, still gripped by the beauty of the performance and edging into reverie, wanting to find other, special memories. For Brinkman it was a confirmation of something by now he didn’t need confirming. He didn’t think, either, that Ann could help him, even inadvertently: consummate professional that he was, Blair wouldn’t have allowed Ann the mistaken opportunity of letting anything drop. There was a small but unexpected feeling, the thought that he could now relax and be completely comfortable with her, not forever alert for openings. He was finding Ann very comfortable to be with. After the meal they left the table uncleared and Brinkman played more Tchaikovsky, not Swan Lake because that wouldn’t have been right, but The Sleeping Beauty, which he thought would compliment Ann’s mood. He sat beside her on the couch, his arm stretched behind her along its back. Ann settled into the crook of his arm as unthinkingly as she had earlier held him walking from the theatre.

‘This is heavenly,’ she said, her voice distant. ‘Heavenly.’

Brinkman put his face into her hair and kissed her, very lightly, hardly making any contact. ‘Wake up, princess,’ he said.

She didn’t react against his gesture. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I want to go on sleeping for a hundred years, just like the story says I’ve got to.’

‘It’s a fairy story,’ he said.

She settled against him more comfortably and said, ‘I want to stay in the fairy story.’

He kissed her hair again, more positively this time, thinking how clean it smelled. Everything fresh, he thought. He said, ‘Thank you for tonight; for the icon and for getting the tickets, too.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it as much as you,’ she said. ‘Maybe more.’

The side ended. There was a slight distortion on the record arm, so that it made a loud sound clicking off. He said, ‘Do you want to hear the second half?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to move.’

‘It’ll only take a moment.’

Ann had to raise herself, for Brinkman to move his arm and when he did, making to stand, they were very close to each other. Briefly they stayed just inches apart, faces unmoving, eyes held.

‘I’d better change the record,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Brinkman turned the disc over quickly, fumbling so that he almost dropped it, glad that his back was to her and that she wouldn’t have seen his nervousness. He was reluctant, when the record dropped, to turn back to confront her. When he did her expression hadn’t changed. He went back to the couch, holding her eyes, and she had to move again, slightly, to let him sit where he had before. The settling back against him wasn’t as unthinking as it had earlier been and it wasn’t the same, either. This time her face was nearer his, not her hair. ‘Still a fairy story,’ she said.

He kissed her, high on the cheek this time, and she turned her head, bringing her lips up. There was a bird-peck hesitancy about them, each unsure of the other, each nervous and ready to pull back from danger. But the pecking became more fervent and they stopped being nervous. Brinkman twisted from how he sat, so that she lay back the full length of the couch and he knelt beside her, looking down, kissing not just her lips now but her face and her neck and her throat where her dress was open. He plucked at the buttons, trying to open it more and she made a token protest, whispering ‘No, no,’ several times but he didn’t stop and she gave up trying to stop him, actually twisting for the bra to become unclasped and then whimpering at the delicious pain when his teeth trapped her nipple. He played a long time and then she felt his hands move and she made another token protest, as ineffective as the first. He tried to make love to her actually on the couch but there wasn’t room enough so she rolled off on to him and they made love first on the floor, encumbered by clothes and as nervously as they had started kissing. It didn’t work, because of the awkwardness and the nervousness and he got up to go to the bedroom and she said ‘No’ again and again she did. The second time was much better. She was an experimental lover, more so than he was although he tried to match her, not wanting to be shown the more inexperienced. He thought, anxiously, towards the end that he was going to fail her but he managed to hold back just long enough and they came together, a mutual explosion. Ann didn’t let him move away from her. Instead she held him with an almost desperate tightness, fingers pressed into his back, legs encompassing his.

‘What have we done?’ she said, after a long silence. ‘What the hell have we done?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

She relaxed slightly, letting go her hold on him. ‘It never happened,’ she said. ‘It was all part of the fairy story.’

Could they sustain it, in the claustrophobia of their lives? ‘All right,’ he said. Feeling he should go further Brinkman said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I suppose I should be.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so, yes. But I don’t know, not really.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Brinkman, changing the earlier automatic apology.

‘I wish I could sleep for a hundred years.’

‘With me?’ he said, trying to lift her depression. It wasn’t the end of the world, not yet. A mistake and an embarrassment, but not the end of the world.

‘That’s something else I don’t know.’ said Ann. ‘I think the answer might be yes.’

Blair tried to anticipate everything, determined against any oversight. He went to see the parents of all the other boys who had been involved with Paul and found them as resentful and confused and bewildered as he had felt. Had felt. Blair left each meeting growing more and more convinced that he’d crossed more bridges with Paul than any of the others had with their kids. David Hoover, who was divorced like Blair was and had returned like Blair had done was convinced that the marriage break-up was the only cause and wouldn’t consider any other discussion. As well as all the other parents Blair saw again the two counsellors, knowing that Erickson was submitting a report to the court – and guessing maybe Kemp would as well – and wanting them to know all about his talks with the boy. Both seemed impressed and Blair was glad, not because of their praise but because they were supposed to be experts – more expert than him at least – and if they approved then maybe it was some sort of indication that he’d got it right.

He talked things through with Ruth at every stage and the day before the court hearing went over it all again, insisting that she try to find something he’d forgotten, while there was still time to put it right. She couldn’t.

‘I know I’ve said it before, but thanks for coming back, Eddie. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’

‘I mean what I said, about staying as close as possible to the boys,’ said Blair. ‘I fouled up. Badly.’

‘We found out in time,’ said Ruth.

‘Let’s hope it’s in time.’

‘You were the one who used to reassure me, remember?’

She deserved the honesty, thought Blair: that was the new, inviolate resolution. ‘Something’s come up,’ he said.

‘Come up?’

Blair told her about the meeting with Hubble, not everything about the encounter because he was experienced enough to recognise the sensitivity about disclosing too much of what had happened as a result of his Moscow assessments but enough for her to understand why he was being asked to extend.

‘But there’s one thing,’ he said. ‘One paramount, overriding thing. If I accept then it’s only going to be when I’m completely satisfied it’ll enable the new situation with Paul and John.’

‘ Are you going to accept?’ she said.

‘I haven’t decided,’ ducked Blair. Invoking the convenient excuse he said, ‘I’m not even going to think about it until after the court case.’ He paused and said, ‘What do you think I should do, Ruth?’

‘I can only talk as far as the boys are concerned,’ she said. ‘And about them I think you should do whatever makes it possible for you to keep your promise. I sincerely believe that if we stand any chance of getting Paul back in line and preventing John going the same way then the most important thing is not letting them think – suspect even – that you’re not going to come through, like you’ve said. But that’s where my responsibility ends now, Eddie. Ann’s the person with whom you’ve got to talk the rest through. And then you’re the person who’s got to make the final decision.’

‘Yes,’ said Blair miserably. ‘I know.’

The instruction that he should personally address the Politburo came from Panov and Sokol realised at once how the KGB chairman was manoeuvring himself cleverly away from any position of direct responsibility. Sokol’s immediate reaction was apprehension but he quickly rationalised the attitude. He hadn’t caused the food shortages in the first place; they – and their policies – had. All he’d had to do was to try to clear up and contain the mess. So it would be quite wrong to appear apologetic, which was clearly Panov’s response. Sokol prepared carefully, personally visiting every affected area to see the situation for himself – well knowing that the Politburo would get separate, independent reports anyway – and satisfying himself that in every region but the Ukraine itself the famine was controlled if not solved. He prepared his address with equal care, writing and rewriting and actually rehearsing it, in the privacy of his own apartment. His demeanour in front of the Soviet rulers was respectful but forceful, the inference always there that he was attempting to correct the mistakes of others. His treatment of the various leadership attempts at revolt had effectively splintered any organised situation in any province and providing the transportation was maintained at its present level – and the foreign imports continued to arrive – he believed any further difficulties could be avoided. It was an impressive evaluation and Sokol knew it, as he spoke. And the Politburo accepted it as such. At the end Chebrakin thanked him for the depth of detail and said, ‘You are to be congratulated, Comrade Sokol.’

Sokol was happy at the thought that the KGB chairman would have his informants and hear what had been said. Sokol knew he had gained more than he had lost by the confrontation.

Chapter Eighteen

The surroundings of the Family Court were not the sort that Blair expected and he regretted it. He guessed the design was based upon long experience and that it worked but he would have preferred more formality and the presiding judge to have been a man, not a woman, because he thought it would have had a stronger effect upon the boys. Frightened them. Because Blair felt they needed frightening, Paul and the others who stood bowed-headed before the bench, their hair cut and their pants pressed and their shoes shining, muttering that they understood what was happening. If they understood it now – which they undoubtedly did – then they understood it when they’d ripped off stores and mugged an old guy and planned to rob a pharmacy. Despite the new accord with Paul and the hopeful new relationship and all the promises and hopes Blair was still realistic enough to accept that his kid knowingly set out to become a criminal and a drug dealer. They’d employed counsel to represent them because it was the system, but Blair knew there wasn’t anything the lawyer could really do. Paul should be taught a lesson – frightened – against ever doing anything like it again, irrespective of new relationships or new anythings that had been privately reached between them.

The parents sat behind where the children and the counsel were, all pressed and barbered and polished too, tightly enclosed in angry embarrassment at what they were hearing about their offspring. The evidence was not lengthy and the lawyers’ questions were nothing more than a formality, men trying to appear to earn their fees. The pharmacist and an assistant spoke of the suspicious behaviour of a group of young boys – Paul emerging at once as the leader – and of an apparent attempt by one section to distract by a feigned bid to steal in the main part of the shop while two others – Paul one of them again – tried to get into the restricted area, where the dangerous and controlled drugs were. The pharmacist had already called the police and gave evidence of one of the boys – thank God not Paul this time but David Hoover – pulling a knife which he dropped in his nervousness. The patrolman spoke of being despatched to a robbery by a person or persons unknown, of entering prepared to shoot and of the children’s immediate surrender when they realised who he was. Counsel tried to make something of the surrender but Blair wasn’t impressed and he didn’t think the court was. It was from the patrolman that the evidence came of the previous, undetected shoplifting, which the kids admitted in statements at the station house. Every child, in separate interviews, confessed the purpose was to buy drugs, their taking of which was confirmed by later medical examination. The two drug counsellors, Kemp and Erickson, were the two witnesses upon whom the lawyers concentrated most, seeking something in mitigation or excuse but Blair didn’t think much of that, either. He was impressed, however, by the main body of their evidence – not the questioning – and felt privately embarrassed at his impression of them at their first interview. Both talked of the boys individually, attesting unasked their previous good character and apparently genuine remorse now.

‘So what have you got to say for yourselves?’ The demand from the woman was sharp, unexpected, and Blair started like the kids in front. Her name was Bateson, he remembered, from the formalities at the commencement of the hearing. She was grey-haired and rosy-cheeked and motherly and Blair definitely regretted it hadn’t been a man.

‘And I don’t want any “sorrys” or “don’t knows” or “nothings”,’ she went on. ‘I want to know why you did what you did. And why I shouldn’t send you all away for a long custodial period to protect shopkeepers and old people on the streets.’

Maybe he’d been wrong, thought Blair. Again. Maybe it was as effective as having a male judge after all. She appeared very aware of her authority and there was a humiliation – why not, they deserved it – at being hectored by a woman.

One of the boys, Cohn, Blair thought, tried to mumble something but she cut the boy short, demanding that he speak up. When he did it was to say he was sorry and she said, ‘Of course you are. You’re sorry that you got caught and you’re in court here today. But you wouldn’t be sorry if you hadn’t been caught, would you? All you’d be worrying about was getting more drugs, to sell and to use… She hesitated, jabbing a finger out. ‘You!’ she said. ‘You talk to me.’

Paul, Blair saw.

Paul was standing shame-faced, like them all. He shifted under the demand, his shoulders humping and Blair thought, Come on! Come on for God’s sake boy!

‘Well!’ she persisted.

‘Made a mistake,’ started Paul, trying. ‘A stupid mistake. I know that now. And I am sorry and not for being here today… not just for being here today. I’m sorry for what I stole and I’m sorry I tried to rob the pharmacy.’

‘What about the marijuana and the cocaine?’ said the judge relentlessly. ‘How sorry are you about that?’

‘Very,’ said Paul.

‘Why?’

She was very good, conceded Blair.

‘Because it’s wrong. Dangerous,’ he said.

‘You knew that when you were doing it.’

‘Everyone was doing it,’ said Paul. ‘I knew it was wrong but it didn’t seem to hurt anybody, not really hurt them. I thought the stories about it being dangerous were exaggerated.’

‘Do you still think that?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Paul.

Blair wished the boy hadn’t fallen back upon the cliche at the end but the rest hadn’t been bad.

Judge Bateson kept on at the other boys, forcing reaction from them all and Blair decided that even though it didn’t have the appearance of the adult court they weren’t getting off as lightly as he imagined they might. And they hadn’t been sentenced yet. As he thought it, she reached it.

‘You’ve been taking drugs,’ she said. ‘You’ve been stealing and mugging to buy those drugs and you planned a robbery to set yourselves up as dealers. Is that right…?’

When there was no response she repeated the question to each child, forcing each to admit it.

The woman said, ‘Which requires a custodial sentence…’ and stopped again, for an unspoken reaction from them this time.

Blair felt Ruth stiffen at his side. She reached out for his arm and he covered her hand. A positive attitude wouldn’t form in his mind. He’d wanted Paul frightened into not doing it – any of it – again and he wanted some sort of day-to-day control that he couldn’t personally provide but he hadn’t actually considered imprisonment, although it had been discussed during his second meeting with the counsellors. Would it be imprisonment at Paul’s age? Reformatory then. He didn’t know if they were officially called that – he had a recollection of something cosmetic like corrective farms – but that’s what they were, reformatories. Would a period in a reformatory mean a permanent record, when he tried to get a job? And what about his schooling, before that? There couldn’t be the natural progression to high school if he were in a reformatory. The questions crowded in and he couldn’t answer them. The awareness angered him. The counsellors could have told him if he’d had the commonsense to ask the questions.

‘Do you know what a custodial sentence is? What it would mean?’ demanded the woman.

Again they were forced to reply. They were scared, Blair knew. He felt the beginning of pity and then he thought of the old guy who’d been robbed of his welfare payments. OK, so maybe Paul hadn’t been involved, but Blair didn’t think that mattered. He bet the old guy had been pretty scared, as well.

‘It means going somewhere where you’re not free any more,’ lectured the judge. ‘Free to steal or to frighten other people or sell drugs. Somewhere where people – other kids and other, decent people – can be protected from you. Which I think is necessary.’

Blair felt Ruth’s hand tighten. Further along the line of parents he heard the sound of another mother – he didn’t know who – starting to cry and in front of him the shoulders of Cohn were beginning to heave, too.

‘But I want to achieve more than that,’ said Judge Bateson. ‘I want to protect other people and I want to reform you and I want to ensure that you make proper, fitting restitution for what you’ve done, so that you’ll be reminded just what you’ve done and tried to do not just today but for a long time afterwards. I am going to sentence you all to a custodial sentence. A period of two years each. Upon David Hoover, who pulled a knife during the attempted pharmacy robbery, there will be a further term of six months. And upon you, Paul Blair, who emerged during the evidence I have heard to be the ringleader of that attempt, there will also be an additional period of six months…’

Beside Blair, Ruth began to shake and he pressed against her hand, trying to comfort her but knowing there was no way he could.

‘But I am going to suspend it,’ announced the judge. ‘Which means that you can continue living with your families and going to your schools. Getting a chance that many would argue you don’t deserve, for the things you’ve done. But you’re not going to get that chance easily. You will enter a drug rehabilitation and reeducation programme, to which you will be directed by your counsellors. Another condition is that you will, during the period of your sentence, enter some voluntary assistance scheme, again directed by your counsellors, for old people or for disabled or for the less fortunate than yourselves. I will have both those conditions devised by your counsellors in such a way that there is absolutely no interference with your school work, so don’t think I’m giving you any excuse whatsoever for dropping out. I’ll require your counsellors to monitor your grades and if those grades drop for any reason that isn’t entirely satisfactory to either of them then I’ll have them back to discuss it with me…’

Judge Bateson paused, sipping from the water glass in front of her on the bench. ‘And understand one thing,’ she resumed. ‘ The most important thing. If, at any time during the period of your sentence, you fail to meet any of these conditions, or if you involve yourselves again with drugs or get into any sort of trouble whatsoever you’ll return to this court and whatever custodial sentence remains will be custodial. And added to whatever new sentence is imposed upon you.’

A lot had been taken out of his hands, Blair realised. Perhaps deservedly so. It didn’t alter the resolve, though: his own intentions could be adjusted to coordinate with those of the court. It was a harsh and fitting sentence: and could be the making – and saving – of the kid. Providing Paul didn’t screw it up.

The last thought was uppermost in his mind as they emerged from the court and Ruth, who hadn’t properly assimilated all that was said, asked him, ‘What does it mean?’

‘That he can’t make another mistake,’ said Blair. ‘Not one.’

Hubble’s greeting at Langley was as effusive as before. Maybe even more so, thought Blair; this time it was Hubble seeking concessions. Hubble politely entered into a discussion about the court hearing but Blair sensed the other man’s impatience to get to the point of the second meeting, his decision over Moscow.

Hubble delayed the demand to the absolute point at which he could not be suspected of a lack of interest about Blair’s personal problems and then reminded, ‘You said you’d let me know.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Blair.

‘So what’s it to be?’

Blair refused his superior’s anxiousness. He went carefully – actually irritatingly – through the court sentence and conditions and after that listed his own decisions involving Paul. He said he wanted further time in Washington, completely to set everything up with the counsellors and that then – if he agreed to stay on – he needed an absolute guarantee that he would be allowed out of the Russian capital to fit in wherever and as often as the counsellors – and Paul – considered it necessary. He also said that although he knew the American State Department had no control or pressure they could bring against the Soviet immigration authorities, he wanted a further absolute guarantee that whenever he needed the boys to visit him in Moscow, State would make sure there was no hitch in the arrangements. Coming finally to Ann, whom circumstances had thrust into the background but whom he didn’t consider deserved second place or second consideration, he said if he agreed he wouldn’t accept a completely unlimited period, spending the rest of his operational life in Moscow but required an undertaking that someone else would be appointed whom he could introduce and train up.

‘That’s a bunch of reservations,’ said Hubble at once.

‘They’re not reservations,’ argued Blair. ‘They’re reasonable concessions to which I consider I’m entitled, in exchange for what you’re asking me to do.’

‘If we agree, you’ll stay?’

‘If you agree to every one, in every respect, I’ll stay,’ said Blair.

‘I should discuss this with the Director,’ hedged Hubble.

‘Then do so,’ agreed Blair. ‘I told you I want to stay for a few more days yet, to make the final arrangements. There’s time enough.’

Hubble smiled, shaking his head. ‘I was told to negotiate and try to reach agreement. So I’ve negotiated and we’ve reached an agreement.’

Crap, thought Blair. They’d been prepared to let him have this from the start; he wished he could have thought of something else to his advantage. ‘Every point?’ he said. This was the time it had to be set out, without any misunderstandings or caveats.

‘Every point,’ assured Hubble. ‘Guaranteed.’

‘Then OK,’ said Blair. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll stay.’

Because he owed it to her – because he owed her far more – Blair told Ruth, of course, as soon as he got back to Rosslyn.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Is that all? Just yes?’

‘What else is there?’

‘It won’t affect whatever I arranged with Paul,’ assured Blair. ‘That’s inviolable.’

‘Sure,’ she said, sounding unconvinced.

‘They won’t renege on me: I know they won’t renege.’

‘Good.’

‘You think I made the wrong decision?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I don’t think you have to.’

‘My only consideration – my only worry now – is Paul. As long as Paul’s all right, then nothing else is my business, is it?’

‘I just thought you might have had something else to say about it.’

‘Ann’s the person who’s got to have something more to say about it, not me, don’t you think?’

Chapter Nineteen

They had known, of course, that it wouldn’t be easy. They’d even tried to rehearse the problems and the uncertainties in the last few weeks, when Orlov’s recall had been confirmed, imagining they already had all the training necessary in avoiding a lot of difficulties because their affair had existed for more than a year and that hadn’t been easy either because Russians at the United Nations, even at Orlov’s rank, exist under severe restrictions and surveillance. But Harriet knew now how ill-equipped they’d been. How ill-equipped, at least, she’d been. She didn’t know about Pietr. Which was the problem. Not knowing. Naturally they’d considered it, with everything else. There’d been a long conversation about it on one of their last nights, when Orlov had managed to slip away from the Soviet compound and come to the Second Avenue apartment. Harriet looked around the apartment now, trying to recapture the evening, because memories were important, the things she lived by. They’d eaten in, as they did almost always because to go out was dangerous, and then they’d made love, with the anxiousness of lovers soon to be parted and then he’d talked about their not being able to make contact – except in the most extreme and dire emergency – and told her not to make monsters out of shadows. His words, she remembered; ‘Don’t make monsters out of shadows.’ Christ, she’d tried hard enough! It hadn’t been too bad in the early weeks; months even. There’d been an unreality about most things – practically a lightheadedness when she wasn’t working, when she was never lightheaded – but she was initially prepared for the parting and the loneliness and the not knowing. Ironically – the stupidity of it – the problem of not knowing had started, insidiously, by knowing!

Harriet Johnson was unusual – freak had been a friendly jibe at Oxford – someone with an outstanding talent for languages. Her Russian was impeccable – she was actually able to be colloquial – and extended to tongues within the country, Georgian – which she spoke always with Orlov – and Estonian. She was fluent, too, in Czechoslovakian and Hungarian and German, again with a mastery of some internal dialects. The natural outlet of such ability was interpreting and Harriet was outstandingly able at that, too, within three years of her joining already at senior, supervisor grade. And as a senior, supervising translator, reading – alert for variations in usage or some new, technical term – was as essential as talking the languages. And so she read whatever she could from the countries she was called upon to interpret. Predominantly it was Russian, one of the official languages of the Assembly. Which meant she read not only the yawningly boring handouts and communiques and the officially-issued booklets but daily Izvestia and Pravda. Which was where – in greater detail in Pravda than in Izvestia – she read about Orlov’s promotion.

That possibility had never entered any of their preparing conversations. They had expected his United Nations ranking – and the unquestionable successes he’d achieved there during his posting – to be adequately rewarded but never speculated beyond perhaps a deputy role within the Foreign Ministry. But he’d been elevated way beyond that. Harriet – who was conscientious – read far more than the controlled Soviet newspapers, the English as well as American publications. So she’d seen the speculation about Serada and the Politburo jostling and knew from her own interpretation of Soviet politics – apart from the long, political conversations she’d had with Orlov – that there definitely was a power struggle going on. A power struggle into which her beloved, adored Pietr had unexpectedly been thrust.

So what difference did it make? He loved her – she was sure he loved her – here in New York. But he wasn’t in New York any more. He was in Moscow at the very centre of things and his election could only mean that he’d been picked out to go even higher. And he was an ambitious man. He denied it – insisted she was wrong – but Harriet had never been able to convince herself that if everything worked as they planned it would work the greatest agony later for Orlov would not be that he had abandoned his country and abandoned Natalia but that he had abandoned his ambitions. Would it be as easy for him to choose now as he’d said it was, months ago? Months ago he hadn’t realised the opportunities with which he would be presented. Or seen Natalia. Harriet believed his argument for going back – loved him the more for it – but didn’t the fact that he’d insisted on returning officially to divorce and distance himself from the woman, to spare her any retribution, mean that he still loved her, too? Felt strongly for her, at least. Strongly enough to consider what he had – and might have – against what he would be giving up.

Harriet had taken the apartment specifically for its convenience to the United Nations building. She emerged promptly at ten, as she did every morning when she was on day duty, turned left, and began walking down Second Avenue, another habit, a tightly-coiffeured, tightly-suited career woman. Was she prepared to give everything up? she asked herself. They’d tried to imagine that – like they’d tried to imagine the parting – but were either of them prepared for an existence as official criminals, hiding under assumed names and supposedly guarded by strangers? She was, decided Harriet. She knew it wouldn’t be anything like they thought because being apart wasn’t anything like they thought – like she thought at least – but she was prepared to go through with it, no matter how bad it became. Harriet turned at Forty-Second Street. But was Pietr? If only she knew!

Harriet reached the top of the incline, able to see the green-glassed skyscraper of the United Nations building jutting upwards from the side of the East River. What about the plans they’d made to establish contact, giggling at the theatricality of everything, and not really sure if it would work? Only in the most extreme and dire emergency, she remembered. This wasn’t an extreme and dire emergency. This was Harriet Johnson not having properly prepared herself and making monsters out of shadows.

Harriet showed her identification at the security check and walked familiarly into the building. If only, she thought, everything wasn’t so damned difficult.

Which was precisely the reflection of Pietr Orlov, 6,500 miles away in Moscow. Natalia appeared resigned to the divorce – reluctantly agreeable even – and the guilt was lessening, but everything else was developing into a nightmare. Every week – every day – he was being inexorably drawn deeper and deeper into the inner workings of the government. Realistically Orlov accepted it would make his acceptance easier in the West, when he chose the moment, but his reputation from the United Nations would have been sufficient for that. More realistically he recognised what it would mean to Yuri Sevin when that moment came. Orlov suspected that it was becoming accepted by others now that Sevin regarded the grooming and eventual election of his protege to be his final achievement, the triumphant swansong of one of the last of the true Bolsheviks. And Yuri Sevin was a true Bolshevik, reflected Orlov, another guilt growing. The man had embraced and fought for the revolution, believing in it and in the true philosophy of Marx and Trotsky and Lenin and then seen Lenin and Stalin and Krushchev and Brezhnev and Andropov ignore any other sort of philosophy than that practised by the Czars, the right of the select few to rule. Orlov knew – without conceit – that Sevin saw him as someone who might, after far too long, initiate the change. He knew it because since his return he and Sevin had engaged in enough discussions, sweeping debates and arguments deep into many nights. Just as he knew that Sevin, a pragmatic realist after so long and so many disappointments, didn’t expect that change to be anything than simply initiated, for others to follow, like a major river eventually changes course because of the first, chipping erosion of an existing bank.

Already Sevin’s influence had manoeuvred him on to two committees, one the prestigious – and reputation-making – central planning body. And already – always – there was the preparation, the rehearsal and advice, the influential members identified, the fading ones pointed out, the recommended stances to take and the stances to avoid. Orlov thought he was a puppet and he felt like it: he felt that his arms and legs and head were tethered, so that he had to jerk and twist when someone else pulled the strings. He had to cut those strings soon. He had to cut them and escape before everything engulfed him.

There had been a committee meeting in the morning, where he had recited his lines and backed those he should have backed, and in the afternoon he tried to concentrate upon a policy paper on the agricultural difficulties that were going to bring Serada down. Orlov knew it was regarded as the most pressing difficulty of the moment and that while whole groups – in cases entire committees – of agronomists and experts were also trying to evolve fresh approaches, his appointment should have gone to someone more senior and more experienced. Sevin again, he thought.

His contact with the man had become predictable, summonses most evenings, about which he was ambivalent: while it enmeshed him deeper and deeper into things of which he wanted no knowledge, it created reasons to delay his return to the tense unnaturalness of life with Natalia.

The call came, that evening, and Orlov made his accustomed way through the corridors to reach the old man’s office, recognised now by the secretaries and attendants. They’d gossip, Orlov knew: had done already.

Sevin greeted him with the self-satisfied smile of a man in a position to know all that was going on below and around him.

‘The decision has been made,’ he announced, at once.

‘When?’ said Orlov.

‘This afternoon.’

‘Is there to be an announcement?’

Sevin nodded. ‘Within the week. It will be that Serada has been replaced, to be succeeded by Chebrakin.’

Orlov frowned. ‘What about ill-health?’

‘No,’ said Sevin. ‘Just that’

‘Publicly disgraced, like Krushchev,’ remembered Orlov.

‘He doesn’t deserve anything more,’ said Sevin. Impatiently he brought his hands together, in a tiny clapping gesture. ‘But Serada and his fate aren’t important, not any more. What’s important is you and the next two or three years.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Orlov, anguished at the repeated game.

‘How’s the agricultural policy shaping?’

‘It’s going to take a long time,’ avoided Orlov. ‘This time it’s got to be right.’

‘Exactly!’ said Sevin, someone seizing the truth. ‘It’s got to be right and it’s got to be seen to be right. It’s going to be the first step for you, Pietr.’

But not in the direction in which I want to walk, thought Orlov. Orlov had done nothing about getting another place to live, accepting the difficulty that it created between himself and Natalia because although the whole purpose of returning was to spare her later, he did not want to draw any wrong attention to himself and he feared trying to get separate accommodation might have created some curiosity. The guards and attendants and secretaries by whom he was now surrounded had other functions than to make his life easier, Orlov knew.

He and Natalia had settled into a formal existence, an attitude of acquaintances temporarily brought together beneath the same roof but knowing it would only be for a limited period. They were considerate to each other, in the way of acquaintances, neither irritated nor happy at anything the other did.

But they were very conscious of each other and immediately Orlov entered the apartment, late after the discussion with Sevin which had become a detailed examination of the agricultural options, Orlov was aware of a difference in Natalia’s demeanour.

‘I’ve been waiting,’ she said. ‘Waiting to see if you would change your mind. I still love you, you know.’

‘No,’ said Orlov, tightly. ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’

‘Then to go on like this is pointless, isn’t it? We might as well get the divorce.’

‘Yes,’ he said. He’d imagined a feeling of relief at the agreement. Instead he felt a deep sadness.

‘Will you make the arrangements?’

‘Yes,’ said Orlov. He looked around the apartment. ‘You’ll have this, of course.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It shouldn’t be difficult,’ he said.

‘Accepting it and not understanding why is going to be difficult,’ said the woman.

Chapter Twenty

The letter from home was as sterile as all the others that had preceded it, about as fascinating as a report of a meeting of the Mothers’ Union, her mother’s appointment as the secretary of which was the highlight of the note. Ann guessed her mother would have written the Mothers’ Union report first; and put more effort into it. Her father sent the usual regards. What would he have sent if he knew what she had done? Maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d called her a whore, when he learned of her involvement with Blair. Other words, too. Slut was one. She hadn’t felt like a whore or a slut then. She’d felt like someone who’d fallen in love with a married man – despite trying not to – and wanted the understanding she felt she deserved but which they felt unable to provide. Had she proven herself to be a whore and a slut now? Yes, she answered herself honestly. She didn’t feel like either, any more than she had the first time. She felt ashamed and remorseful and she wished it hadn’t happened but it had and so she had to face it. Face what exactly? All right, she’d cheated. She’d built up too much unhappiness – about Moscow and about not being pregnant although she’d tried and about not knowing how Blair really felt about Ruth – and she’d had too much to drink and it had been a beautiful, really wonderful evening and she’d let go emotions she shouldn’t have let go. That didn’t make her a whore. Or a slut. It made her a stupid woman who should have known better – known better about all of it – but who hadn’t. A stupid woman who’d made a mistake. Surely the important thing – the adult thing – was recognising it for that, a mistake? And nothing else. Was it nothing else? Ann tried to analyse it dispassionately – which was ridiculous as passion was what it had all been about – because it was important to get it all into the proper perspective. What had happened with Jeremy hadn’t in any way affected her love for Eddie. The opposite, in fact. It made her realise just how much she did love him. No danger then. No reason for making a bitterly regretted mistake into anything more important than it was. What about Jeremy then? Of course she didn’t love him. How could she? He was charming and made her laugh like Eddie used to make her laugh and was unquestionably more socially able than Eddie and if she were to be brutally frank, in bed… Ann jarred to a stop. Of course she didn’t love him, she thought again. You didn’t fall in love after sleeping with someone once. There had to be other feelings, feelings she had for Eddie and certainly not for Jeremy. Christ, why couldn’t she have stayed inside the fairy tale! Fairy tales had nice endings with everyone living happily ever after. She’d shared the fairy tale with the wrong man, she recognised, coming out of the fantasy.

How would it have been for Eddie, in Washington? It would have drawn he and Ruth together, because things like that always did. But together was what? Adjusted, properly accepting former husband and wife; friends, in fact. Or a couple who realised they had made a mistake. Mistakes, after all, weren’t difficult to make. That wasn’t fair, Ann recognised. She was creating a scenario like those cheap TV soap operas at which she’d sneered in England and imagining situations she had no reason to believe to exist to assuage her own feelings.

She jumped at the sound of the telephone, staring at it as if she were frightened and not answering for several moments.

‘I was just going to ring off; I didn’t think you were in.’

Ann felt a jump of excitement at Brinkman’s voice. Was that what it was? she wondered still searching for definitions. Had she done it for excitement, just for a moment to lift herself from the unexciting awfulness of Moscow? A slut’s attitude, she thought. She said, ‘Hello.’

‘How are you?’

‘OK.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing much. Nothing at all, in fact. Just sitting, thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘Sorry,’ said Blair. ‘Stupid question.’

‘What are you doing?’ This wasn’t the right sort of conversation, Ann thought. This was the inconsequential, almost intimate talk, of two people who didn’t recognise they’d made any mistake at all.

‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘Just sitting, thinking.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry I phoned you?’

Ann saw the chance. It had happened because they’d allowed things to drift and things that were allowed to drift ended up on the rocks. This was the moment to talk about it – why not, it had happened and they were adults, not children – and label it for what it was and try, as best they could, to forget it ever occurred. She said, ‘No, I’m not sorry you phoned.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. What a hell of a resistance, she thought.

‘If this were Cambridge we could go out for a drink’, he said. ‘Remember the wine bar opposite Kings?’

‘Very much,’ said Ann. A million years and a million happenings ago.

‘I got a new shipment of books today,’ he said. ‘There’s an Anthony Burgess and a couple I haven’t read by Paul Scott. And Updike’s latest.’

‘Maybe I could borrow something, when you’ve finished?’

‘I can’t read them all at once.’

Were they adults? This was kids’ stuff, first-kiss-and-fumble behaviour, she thought. ‘Why not come over?’ she said.

‘You sure?’

No, she thought. She wasn’t sure about anything except perhaps that she was out of her mind. ‘Why not?’ she said.

She realised he must have been waiting for the invitation because he arrived within fifteen minutes, with no indication of any hurried preparation. He’d made an effort at the pretence, bringing a book. Updike, she saw. She would have preferred Burgess. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘That’s all right.’

They stood facing each other in the short corridor leading into the living area. He went to kiss her but abruptly she turned, presenting only her cheek. He hesitated and then finished, his lips briefly touching her. She backed away and turned into the room. ‘I started without you,’ she said, indicating the glass. It was vodka and already her glass was half empty in her sudden need for courage.

‘The same,’ he accepted.

He sat on the couch – a couch much like the one in his apartment where it had begun – and Ann began going positively towards a bordering chair and decided that was ridiculous and so she sat beside him.

‘What were the thoughts?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘When I telephoned you said you’d been sitting, thinking.’

‘And you agreed it was a stupid question.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Of course I’m sorry! Aren’t you!’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You haven’t got so much to be sorry about.’

‘I don’t think I would be, even if I had.’

‘That’s stupid, too,’ she said. ‘It’s also the most appalling syntax I’ve ever heard.’

He put his arm along the back of the couch, like he had before, but this time he didn’t let it stay there but played his finger through a coil of her hair.

‘Don’t,’ she said. She only pulled away fractionally. Determinedly she said, ‘It was a mistake.’

‘Was it?’

‘Of course it was,’ she said. ‘Please don’t be so difficult.’

‘I’m not trying to be difficult.’

‘Well you are! It was a mistake and I think we should regard it as such.’

‘OK,’ he said.

‘Just that? OK?’

‘What else do you expect me to say?’

‘That you’re sorry.’

‘I said I didn’t think I was. Maybe it was my bad syntax.’

‘It’s not a joke!’

‘I wasn’t joking.’

‘Do you realise what we’ve done!’

‘Is it a capital offence?’

‘Yes,’ she came back at once. ‘In some countries it is.’

‘Only if you get caught. And this is Russia, not the Middle East.’

‘We should recognise it as the mistake it was.’ Ann set out again, positively. ‘Recognise it and then try to forget about it.’

‘Now you’re being stupid.’

‘Why!’

‘We’re not going to be able to forget about it, are we?’

‘We’re going to have to,’ she insisted.

‘Put our heads in the sand and wait until it goes away!’

‘Stop treating it as if it weren’t important!

He teased her hair again and this time she didn’t pull away. ‘Jokes are forgotten,’ he said. ‘You’re the one making it important.’

‘Wasn’t it, to you?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

It was like wandering in the desert, thought Ann, desperately; they’d lost direction and were coming back upon themselves. ‘What are we going to do?’ she said, pleadingly.

Instead of replying Brinkman put his hand further around her head and drew her to him. There wasn’t the fumbling of the first time. They kissed, a lot, and then Brinkman stood, pulling her up, not wanting the clumsiness of the couch. The thought of making love to somebody else in her own bed halted her momentarily, at the point of entering the bedroom, and then she continued on, recognising the hesitation as hypocrisy. If she was going to do it, did it matter where? The betrayal was just as great. The lovemaking was better than before, because they were more used to each other and Brinkman didn’t feel as inadequate as he had then. Brinkman went on longer than he ever had before and when he finally had to stop, exhausted, he said, ‘You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.’

‘Don’t you think I’m a whore?’

‘What!’

‘A whore.’

‘Of course I don’t think you’re a whore.’

‘What then?’

Brinkman thought a long time before replying, wanting to get it right. ‘I think you’re very lonely. I think you’re very unhappy. I think you’re looking for something you haven’t got: maybe can’t have. I think you are very beautiful. And I think you are a fantastic lover.’

The remark about wanting something she couldn’t have didn’t refer to a baby, thought Ann: there was no way he could have known. Unless Eddie had told him and she didn’t think that was likely. ‘What about you?’ she said.

‘I think we should stop trying to follow the principles of Freud and analysing everything,’ he said.

‘So it’s a casual fuck?’

‘No,’ said Brinkman. ‘It isn’t a casual fuck. And it isn’t Romeo and Juliet, either. What’s wrong with you?’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘For being honest, at least.’

‘Wasn’t that what you were insisting upon?’

‘Oh Christ!’ she said hopelessly. ‘I don’t know what I want!’

The telephone sounded from the other room, startling them both. Ann hesitated and then got up, walking naked from the room, conscious of his watching her. She had to raise her voice and so Brinkman knew who it was and because he could hear her side of the conversation he knew, too, what it was about before she came back into the bedroom.

‘It was Eddie,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘He’s coming home.’ Whore, she thought; whore and slut.

The feeling of relief that Orlov had expected finally came, when he initiated the divorce. From the curt, almost dismissive attitude of officials it was obvious that it was not going to be difficult and there was the impression, too, of at last doing something positive, of making the moves he’d come back to Moscow to make. Now the divorce was underway – promised quickly – there were other moves to make. His newly-established status, with so many people in constant attendance, was going to make that more difficult than he’d anticipated. He’d need an embassy reception as a cover for the approach: so maybe the status had a balancing advantage. When, he wondered, was the next function at the American embassy? And how easy would it be for him to attend? It didn’t matter. Whatever the difficulties, he’d overcome them. He wished he were able to let Harriet know.

Sokol wondered if there would be any personal summons from Panov but none came and the deputy guessed that the sick old man had decided to suffer his miscalculation without a meeting between them. Sokol didn’t relax. He maintained a constant monitor upon all the arrival shipments and the rail transportation throughout the country to the stricken areas, actually installing his own officers in some cases to ensure there was no interruption. He’d survived, Sokol decided. And impressed those who mattered. What he needed now was that damned coup.

Chapter Twenty-One

At the end Blair was reluctant to leave Washington. He thought he’d allowed himself sufficient time and decided he hadn’t and the day before his departure, after he’d confirmed his reservation back to Moscow, he fleetingly considered asking Hubble for a further extension. But only fleetingly. He’d got his concessions and he intended to invoke them – every one of them – if and when it pleased him. And there wasn’t anything left undone; it was just that he enjoyed Washington.

The after-court sessions with the counsellors took all day, because he couldn’t be conveniently reached on the end of a telephone like the others so they had to get everything right first time. They arranged hurried interviews for him at the rehabilitation centre and he went there with Paul and studied the schedule and Blair was impressed. Still with the counsellors Blair saw the school principal, to satisfy himself there was no need for the boy’s school grades to suffer and left convinced they wouldn’t. There wasn’t sufficient time for him to go into what social work the boy would be required to do, because that had to be coordinated into the drugs programme and the school curriculum but Blair had enough confidence in both Erickson and Kemp – and in their knowing how he felt – to leave that to them. He was confident – no, hopeful – too that by the time Paul got finished with school and finished with the drug programme and finished with whatever social requirements were imposed, the kid would be so bushed he wouldn’t be able to get into trouble if he wanted to.

He involved himself with the family to the exclusion of everything else – not that there was anything else – taking in an Orioles game and boating on the Potomac and getting to movies and eating at McDonalds and setting himself up in competition the following night, grilling the hamburgers over their own barbecue and being declared the winner. Ruth passed on the Orioles game but did everything else with them.

He kept the last night to themselves but the night before that he met Charlie Rogers. He thought Ruth might want him to and there was no reason why he shouldn’t after all. Rogers worked in the control tower at National. Blair guessed Rogers was about five years younger than he was, maybe even younger, an open-faced, easily smiling man. Blair liked him. There was the understandable uncertainty at first, which Blair worked hard to get out of the way, the smiles and the laughs just a little too anxious. Rogers served in Vietnam although later than Blair, which gave them something in common. Rogers talked about the airport but didn’t ask what Blair did in Moscow, so Blair guessed Ruth had told him. So what the hell? To parade the usual explanation – ‘working for the government’ – was so well understood in Washington that it was like wearing in the middle of your forehead a sign like the one along the Parkway. It was as difficult for the boys to relax as it was for Rogers, but Blair insisted they eat with them – cooking out again because it was less formal – feeling it important that Paul and John saw there was no atmosphere. After the kids went to bed and Ruth was still with them Rogers said he hoped Blair didn’t consider he was presumptuous but with Blair away he was willing to do anything and everything he could to help Paul. Blair said he didn’t consider it presumptuous but that he very much appreciated the offer. He thought he’d seen everyone and done everything but if something came up he’d remember the offer and certainly take advantage of it.

When Rogers left Blair remained discreetly in the main room, letting Ruth see the man off and when she came back he said he thought Charlie was a terrific guy and Ruth said she thought so too.

They all came with him out to Dulles, which seemed a good idea at the house but about which Blair was less certain when they got to the airport. He bought them coke in the cocktail bar from which they could see a lot of aircraft and consciously forced the conversation. He told Paul to keep out of trouble now, you hear, and Paul said he would. He told them as soon as he got back he’d establish his schedule and liaise with the school principal and the counsellors and the drug programme organisers about a Moscow trip and when they went down the concourse to look at some of the shops Blair made Ruth promise, needlessly, that she’d get in touch with him the moment she didn’t think things were going right.

At the actual moment of departure, when the final calls were being made for the flight, Blair decided he’d swept away any barriers between them by the way Paul and John clung to him, as if they were physically trying to hold him back, John’s tears wet against his cheek and Paul trying hard not to break up too. He kissed Ruth, as well, and she held him tighter than Blair expected, saying, ‘Thanks again’ and seeming to have the same difficulty as Paul.

After he’d got his drink and refused the earphones for the in-flight movie, Blair put his seat back and considered the visit. Good, he decided. Better, upon analysis, than he could have expected. He’d done everything he could and the court had done everything it could and he was sure the counsellors and everyone else were going to do everything they could. And most important of all – no, not most important; equally important – he’d got to know the kids again. A lot achieved, but still not all. Getting Ann together with the kids wouldn’t be a problem: she’d always been eager, actually criticising him for not doing more before this had blown up. It could only be difficult if the kids made it so. And he thought he’d crossed sufficient bridges on this trip to make that unlikely. Getting Ann to understand the extension in Moscow might be more awkward. He’d have to explain it properly, setting out all the advantages. And when they called them in, he decided he’d take a Washington posting. Ann would still have a say, like he’d decided already, but he’d make it clear what he wanted, to guide her.

Blair slept better on the return trip, less preoccupied with uncertainties than on the outward journey. They staged again at Amsterdam and remembering the omission of his departing flight Blair bought Ann perfume and a diminutive cross and chain with a written guarantee of 14-carat gold in the duty free shop. Still with time to spare before the Moscow connection he bought her a watch, too, inexpensive but quite stylish, which she could interchange with the one she already had and throw away without any qualms when it went wrong.

It was late afternoon before Blair got into Sheremetyevo, still feeling tired despite the earlier sleep. His usual dislike of flying, he decided. He called Ann from the airport and frowned at her obvious quietness, guessing the reason and apologising for being away for so long. She said it was all right and she was looking forward to his getting home.

Blair thought she looked beautiful when he entered the apartment. She kissed him anxiously and held him tightly and Blair thought maybe he’d misconstrued the telephone conversation. She’d gone to the trouble of welcome-home champagne and after they opened it he made a performance of giving her the gifts. He expected her to show more enthusiasm than she did but recognised he was apprehensive of making the announcement, now that the moment had come, and decided against reading too much into small things; it could be him, not her.

Ann had wondered what her feelings would be, at the actual moment of confrontation and realised it was embarrassment. Deep, numbing embarrassment. Did whores feel embarrassed? Or was it something they got used to, with practice? The embarrassment made it difficult to respond properly to the gifts – which actually increased the feeling – but she tried, dabbing on the perfume and twisting to let him put the necklace on her and replacing her existing watch with the new one and assuring him it was lovely.

She was naturally – and sincerely – interested so she asked him about Paul but there was a personal reason, too, because she wanted him to talk rather than respond to a lot of questions about what she had been doing. It took a long time and she was grateful. Blair went into every detail and with the newly-decided honesty confessed the awareness of his own failings and how he believed those failings had contributed to what happened. When he set out the promises and the resolutions, to stay closer to the boys and have them here in Moscow she felt out for his hand – the reluctance until now her own embarrassment, not any hesitation at physical contact – and said she’d do everything she could to make it work, like he’d always known she would.

‘I went to Langley a couple of times,’ he said finally.

‘I thought you would.’

‘Talked about a lot of things.’

‘Like what?’ she said, suddenly attentive.

‘They’ve asked me to stay on.’

‘They’ve what?’ The question was asked quietly, the voice neutral, someone who thought they’d misheard.

‘Stay on, after the normal three years,’ said Blair. He knew he hadn’t done it right and so he hurriedly continued, trying to improve, enumerating all the concessions and the promises, wanting her to see how much to their advantage it would be.

‘You mean you’ve already agreed!’ The outrage was there now, the anger rising.

‘They wanted a decision on the spot.’

‘Without discussing it with me! Asking me how I felt!’

‘That wasn’t possible. You know that.’

‘And you know how I feel about this fucking place! How I hate and loathe it.’

‘Because you haven’t given it a chance.’

‘I’ve given it two years!’ she shouted. ‘Two years that have been like a fucking prison sentence.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Blair hadn’t expected her to welcome the decision but he hadn’t anticipated this sort of tirade, either.

It was a valid question, Ann accepted. She was angry – furious – but mixed up in the emotion was her own guilt and embarrassment and feeling of being a whore: being able to shout at him as if everything were his fault slightly lessened it all. Only very slightly. ‘What sort of question is that?’ she said, in controlled rage. ‘You know damned well how I hate it here. How I’ve always hated it. How I’ve been counting off the days and the weeks and the months – like a prison sentence – and hardly been able to wait until the time was up and we could be released…’ She laughed, a jeering sound. ‘That was actually the first word that came into my head, believe me,’ she said. ‘Released.’

Blair sat silent under the onslaught. He had misunderstood. He’d had some idea of her unhappiness but not that it was as bad as this. Not the obvious, bulging-eyed, nostril-flared hatred. Or had he? Hadn’t he known it all along and chosen to ignore or minimise it? Wasn’t it another cop out, like it had been with the boys, a refusal to let anything interfere with what he, Eddie Blair, ultimately wanted to happen? ‘It might not be any longer than three years,’ he said, in an attempt at recovery, remembering the search for his own reassurances. ‘You know the uncertainty that exists here. That’s why they want me to stay. If the leadership is settled we’d hold the aces and the kings…’ Abandoning the aircraft resolution, he said, ‘And you get to choose. Wherever you want, we’ll go.’

‘Christ!’ said Ann, striding without direction around the room. ‘I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! What if everything isn’t settled? We could be stuck here for years…’

‘No,’ said Blair, at once. ‘I made that clear. It’s not an open ticket.’

She stopped abruptly in front of him, staring down. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So how long? How long if it’s not an open ticket?’

‘Not more than another three years,’ promised Blair, the first figure that came into his head.

‘Three years!’ echoed Ann, the outrage flooding back. ‘You mean you expect me to stay here for another three fucking years?’

‘No,’ said Blair, his own temper finally giving way. ‘I don’t expect you to stay here for another three fucking years. If Moscow and your dislike of it – OK, your hatred of it – is the biggest thing in your life then I don’t expect you to stay.’

His reaction quietened her at once, the thrust striking the rawest and most exposed nerve. She felt her face burn red and hoped Blair would believe it was her anger. ‘You’re telling me to get out?’ she demanded.

‘No,’ he said. ‘And you know I’m not. I love you and I want you to stay. It’s for you to decide whether you love me enough to stay.’

He sat, waiting. For several moments she stared down at him and then she burst into tears.

Brinkman responsed at once to Blair’s invitation, knowing of course that the American wanted an update on anything that had happened while he’d been away and hoping he might get a lead to what Blair had been doing from the man’s questions. Because it was Blair’s invitation, the meeting was at the American embassy, at their usual table in the cafeteria. Brinkman felt the briefest spurt of embarrassment at the moment of shaking hands but almost at once it went. Private life was private life but this was business and quite separate. If that made him a cunt – if cuckolding Blair made him a cunt – then OK, he was a cunt. Successful men often were.

There was the customary shadow boxing, the inconsequential smalltalk and then realistic enough to know he wouldn’t get anything unless he gave something, Blair said, ‘May be staying here longer than I planned.’

‘What?’ said Brinkman.

‘Been asked to extend. Feeling is that the current leadership uncertainty makes this an important place to be.’

Bollocks, thought Brinkman. They’d discussed the leadership a dozen times. Blair’s disclosure about extending meant he was on to something but he was bloody sure it wasn’t on something as unfocussed as leadership interpretation. They’d interpreted that already, both of them. Was the suspicion true? Did Blair have a source, buried deep? ‘How long for?’

‘No specified time.’

How would Ann react to that? he thought suddenly. Private, he thought, quickly shutting the door. Deciding he wouldn’t get anything by direct questioning, Brinkman tried to offer something that had occurred – professionally – while the man had been away, discomfited at once because he knew the gesture was pointless because bugger all had happened. Chebrakin had appeared publicly ahead of Serada at a photographed session of the Central Committee – which confirmed what they already guessed – and there had been increasing criticism in Pravda of food shortages, which was a rare admission but an indication that someone was soon publicly to be blamed for them.

‘Not much then,’ discerned Blair, when Brinkman finished.

‘Not really,’ conceded Brinkman. ‘Still not the slightest indication of what’s happening beyond Chebrakin.’

‘That’s the kicker,’ said Blair. ‘That’s what everybody wants to know.’

And Blair did, decided Brinkman. Somehow – he didn’t know how – Blair had a lead on what the other moves were and that’s why he’d been recalled to Washington. But that wouldn’t have been enough, to be recalled. That could have been covered in a normal cable. Something about the leadership but important enough to go back to Washington personally to discuss it. But what? What in the name of Christ was it?

‘Thanks, incidentally, for looking after Ann while I was away,’ said Blair.

Brinkman met the American’s gaze across the table. ‘I enjoyed doing it,’ he said easily.

Two days later Serada was removed from the Politburo and the leadership of the Soviet Union. Anatoli Chebrakin was named as successor.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ann telephoned him at the embassy, which she hadn’t done before, and Brinkman was momentarily irritated because it blurred the divisions he’d created. And then he accepted divisions were an infantile effort on his part somehow to ease his conscience and that there couldn’t be any divide.

‘I’ve got to see you,’ she announced.

‘That’s not going to be easy any more, is it?’

‘Do you know what’s happened?’

‘Yes’, said Brinkman. ‘And we shouldn’t be talking on an open line.’

‘Damn an open line!’

‘I’ll try to think of something.’

‘I want to see you now! We had the most terrible row.’

People who had terrible rows sometimes said things they didn’t mean to say. It was still only eleven o’clock. ‘No chance of Eddie coming home to lunch?’

‘He never does. He’d phone if he decided to.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Thank you, darling. There isn’t anybody else I can talk to.’

As Brinkman drove back to the compound he determined his initial reaction to her call had been the right one. Now Blair was back in Moscow it wasn’t going to be easy to see Ann any more. To attempt to was virtual madness. Did he want to anyway? Although he’d disguised it better, Brinkman had been as bewildered and confused as Ann by what occurred after the Bolshoi and made the same resolutions about mistakes and forgetting them. So why had it been he who made the first approach, afterwards? He’d told her it wasn’t a casual fuck and it wasn’t Romeo and Juliet either, so OK, what was it? A personal involvement hadn’t featured in his plans for Moscow. Without thinking positively about it he’d imagined affairs, pleasant conclusions to pleasant evenings – which is how this had started, he remembered – but he hadn’t wanted telephone-at-work, see-me-at-once situations. And not with the wife of a man doing the same job as he was doing at the American embassy. So what was he doing driving across Moscow for lunchtime assignations? It wasn’t an assignation, he thought, in immediate correction. And there was a purpose – what about the divisions now? – if Blair had inadvertently said something during their argument. Which was an excuse for what? Brinkman couldn’t decide and Brinkman didn’t like being unable to decide anything: certainly not about himself.

There was no hesitation any more. As soon as she let him into the apartment Ann clung to him and kissed him and Brinkman held her and kissed her back and realised he was even more undecided.

‘When did he tell you?’ she asked.

‘We had lunch at the embassy.’

‘Can you believe it!’

‘Professionally, yes,’ said Brinkman. He was trying to be fair as well as guide the conversation.

‘But he knew how I felt!’

‘It’s a very important time here, just now,’ said Brinkman, steering still.

‘That all I bloody well hear! I couldn’t give a damn about how important situations are here at the moment. I came willingly here because I knew how much it mattered to Eddie’s career and I’ve endured it here, for the same reason. To be with him I’ve been virtually cut off by my family and I abandoned all my friends and until now I’ve tried not to complain too much…’ Ann held up her hand, a physical correction. ‘I let him know, clearly enough. But I tried not to go on about it, like some spoilt brat. And all right, I know that’s how I might sound now, to you and to him. But at least we could have discussed it! Didn’t I deserve that, at least?’

Brinkman supposed she did. She appeared to have lobotomised herself to what had happened between them while Blair was away in her equations about who had let whom down. Maybe he wasn’t the only one to try to create divisions. ‘It wouldn’t have been easy, talking on the telephone from Washington, would it?’

‘Why not! What’s all this crap about open lines and secure lines? We wouldn’t have been talking about anything secret. We’d have been talking about our future. And why was it so important to get a decision there and then? Why couldn’t he have come back here to Moscow so we could have talked it through?’

No reason at all, conceded Brinkman. Except that wasn’t how these things were done. He wouldn’t be able to make her understand. It was time to try to get the conversation back on course again. He said, ‘How long’s the extension?’

She snorted a laugh. ‘He says no longer than three years but I don’t believe him. Or that it could be sooner: maybe that we’d be able to keep to the original schedule if the leadership thing is sorted out.’

When the hell was he going to get a lead he could understand and follow? He said, ‘So you could be getting upset about nothing?’

‘Will it be?’

‘Chebrakin has been declared the new leader,’ he said.

She smiled up, in sudden hope. ‘So it is sorted out!’

‘What does Eddie say?’ he asked, directly and hopefully.

‘We haven’t talked about it. We haven’t talked about anything much since he came back,’ she confessed.

Seeing a route to follow Brinkman said, ‘Knowing – as he does now – how you feel about staying on I would have thought he would have said something if everything had been solved by Chebrakin’s election.’

‘So would I,’ she agreed.

Come on! thought Brinkman, the exasperation practically constant now. He said, ‘Hasn’t he?’

‘No’, she said, shortly.

Brinkman knew his conjecture in the embassy cafeteria was right. But what in the name of God was sufficiently important beyond Chebrakin personally to go back to Washington? And likely to keep Blair here longer than his scheduled posting, as much as three years longer? Ann hadn’t believed that, remembered Brinkman. Maybe longer then. It had been worth the risk, coming here today. Wanting more and remembering his earlier thoughts about what happened during arguments, Brinkman said, ‘So it was a bad row?’

‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘The worst ever.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Brinkman, another direct question.

Ann looked away. ‘That if I didn’t like it, I could leave.’

Not only important enough to go back to Washington; important enough to consider sacrificing his marriage. Jesus! thought Brinkman. Trying for still more he said, ‘People say things they don’t mean when they’re shouting at each other.’

Ann came against him once more and knowing her need he reached out and held her. ‘Oh darling,’ she said. ‘I’m so unsure of everything!’

So am I, thought Brinkman. So am I.

Until now Orlov’s deception of the old man had been unavoidable; Sevin led and Orlov had no alternative but to follow. Today it was going to have to become calculated and deliberate. Orlov had wanted it otherwise. He’d tried to think of every other way, every alternative avenue, but there was none he could attempt without the risk of arousing curiosity. He waited for the customary summons and entered Sevin’s suite with the approach carefully prepared. There was the progress discussion on the agricultural project and when the conversation began to flag Orlov said, ‘There’s something I think you should know.’

Sevin smiled at him, waiting.

‘Natalia and I have decided to divorce,’ announced Orlov. ‘Everything is well advanced, actually.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Sevin, curtly. There was no stigma to divorce within the Soviet Union but the news unsettled Sevin. He’d wanted Pietr Orlov perfect in every way and this was a blemish and an unnecessary blemish. Why couldn’t the man have maintained a pretence, aware as he was of the future that was planned for him! A lot of other people did.

Orlov knew that Sevin, a widower now, had been married for forty years. He said, ‘I thought you should know… in case of any embarrassment.’ Orlov had no religion but he knew the book. Judas, he thought.

Sevin’s mind was way ahead of the immediate discussion. People got divorced for a lot of different reasons but often because of some outside liaison but nowhere in the checks that he’d made was there a suggestion of Orlov being involved in any sort of extra-marital activity. Feeling he had the right, Sevin asked directly, ‘Is there anybody else?’

Orlov was stiff-faced with control: double Judas, he thought. He said, ‘No. Not on either side.’

‘Why then?’ persisted Sevin.

Prepared, Orlov said, ‘I suppose we were too long apart. We’re strangers to each other. There are constant arguments.’

‘Married people argue,’ said Sevin.

‘You’ve made it clear to me what you intend. How important it is for all appearances to be right. I did not consider the relationship between Natalia and myself sufficient to maintain that sort of public appearance, when the time comes.’ Judas, hypocrite, liar and cheat, he thought, miserably.

Sevin nodded at the explanation. Orlov had never done anything to create the slightest suspicion. Objectively Sevin decided it was an honest explanation and it was a completely acceptable – politically acceptable – explanation at that. He said, ‘I think you made the right decision. Divorce is one of the few things in this society that doesn’t cause problems.’

‘I just thought you should know,’ said the relieved Orlov, discerning the old man’s acceptance. Moving to further deceit, Orlov said, ‘I realise from what I’ve learned since I’ve been back how important it is for things properly to be seen to be right, by those who matter.’

Sevin smiled, taking the bait. ‘It is astonishing,’ he agreed, ‘how puerile things like positioning at conference tables and arrangements of photographs are considered to matter by men who are supposed to be making decisions that can affect the world.’

Orlov hesitated before the final move and said, ‘Who will be attending the reception at the American embassy?’

‘It’s important,’ insisted the old man. ‘First outing since Chebrakin’s accession. Chebrakin himself doesn’t plan to attend, of course. Didenko is definitely going but then he’s a man under pressure anxious to prove himself still a viable figure. I’ve been proposed but I think I’ll decline. Zebin will go. Okulov, too. There’ll be others, of course.’

Orlov hadn’t expected the advantage of one of the men about whom there had already been speculation in the West, in advance of Chebrakin’s appointment. He said, ‘There’ll be a lot of concentration upon Didenko: there were forecasts that he had a better chance than Chebrakin on this occasion.’

Sevin grew serious. ‘That’s a good point,’ he said. ‘An extremely good point.’

Delicately, not wanting the line to break, Orlov said, ‘Would it matter?’

‘Like I said,’ reminded Sevin, the educator. ‘Positioning at tables and in photographs and at public functions are considered important.’ The old man stopped, for a moment’s further reflection and then he said, ‘I think you should go.’

‘Me!’ said Orlov, as if the proposal startled him.

‘The first outing since Chebrakin’s accession,’ repeated Sevin. ‘It might seem premature but sides will be taken – contenders considered or dismissed as unimportant – as early as now. And Pietr?’

‘Yes?’ said Orlov.

‘Don’t make it obvious but try to stay as close as possible to Didenko. Let’s get the idea established now among the uncommitted on the Central Committee and actually within the Politburo that there’s an equality in stature between the two of you.’

What was he doing to this man? thought Orlov, agonised. Despising himself, he said, ‘If you think it’s important.’

‘Yes,’ insisted Sevin. ‘I think it’s important.’

Sokol accepted objectively that the cause of Blair’s return to Washington could be absolutely innocent but with matching objectivity never regarded anything a known and identified intelligence agent did as absolutely innocent. He annotated Blair’s file for the man to be subjected to surveillance tighter than normally imposed, even on someone named on the special Watch List.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They had not met all together, either on any public occasions or privately, since Blair’s return from Washington and Brinkman was glad. The telephone calls from Ann – always her to him because he could never know when Blair would be at home – were quite frequent and Brinkman knew that Ann was glad, too, neither sure how they would handle the moment when Blair was included. It had to happen eventually, of course – for it not to have done, after their earlier closeness, would have made Blair suspicious – and Brinkman was grateful it was going to be at a reception, crowded with people and distraction, so that any awkwardness wouldn’t be obvious.

It was an official affair, with protocol to be observed, which meant Brinkman had to arrive earlier than he would have liked. He didn’t see Blair or Ann immediately. The first face he recognised was that of Wilcox, the British Head of Chancery. They had a strained conversation about cricket, about which Wilcox was an acknowledged fanatic and Brinkman almost entirely ignorant apart from the basic principles. Eventually he moved on to the buffet table, not hungry but using it to occupy the time. Brinkman hadn’t expected the number of people who were there. His attendance was logical because the guest list contained the names of at least eight members of the inner Soviet government and if they accepted it would not only be an opportunity of seeing them in close proximity, like the visit of the British delegation, but also of watching them on parade on the first occasion after Chebrakin’s election. He hadn’t anticipated the interest would be as great from everyone else.

He heard a shout and smiled at the approach of the Harrisons. Brinkman had returned their hospitality and accepted it again – without the enforced accompaniment of Sharon Berring – and there had also been occasional encounters at official functions like this but it hadn’t become a positive friendship.

‘Stranger!’ accused Betty Harrison.

‘Busy,’ said Brinkman. It was true after a fashion, he supposed. He and Ann had played games about Betty’s reaction if she’d known. Playing one now he said to the woman, ‘What’s all the news?’

‘Is there ever any news, in Moscow?’

‘If there is, you always know about it, Betty.’

She gave a mew of feigned offence but Brinkman knew she was pleased at the acknowledgement. ‘I do hear that the wife of a certain someone at the Australian embassy is becoming well known to the Moscow authorities for her liking of the local brew.’

‘Drinking is Australia’s national sport,’ said Brinkman. To Harrison Brinkman said, ‘How are things in the wheatfields?’

The Canadian grinned. ‘Things seem to have gone quiet, don’t they?’

‘Tonight might be interesting,’ said Brinkman.

‘I sometimes think you people would be better off reading tealeaves in cups,’ said the woman.

Harrison frowned and Brinkman was surprised she said it, innocuous though it was. Appearing to realise the offence Betty tried to recover, smiling over Brinkman’s shoulder. ‘More strangers,’ she said, beckoning.

Brinkman turned, as the Blairs walked up to them. Because of the level of the reception – ambassadorial rank – dress was formal and Blair was wearing a black tie. It was the first time Brinkman had seen the American in a dinner suit. He thought the man looked ill at ease. And he thought Ann looked stunning. She wore a black evening dress, one shoulder bare, with a single diamond clip the only jewellery apart from earrings. She had her hair up, in a chignon, a style she hadn’t adopted before. She smiled at them all, appearing quite controlled and said, ‘Hi.’

‘Hello,’ said Brinkman, relieved she wasn’t finding it difficult. He searched for his own feelings and was surprised by them. He was jealous, he realised. He resented the proprietorial way Blair cupped his wife’s elbow and the man’s closeness to her and everyone’s acceptance that Ann belonged to him. Brinkman stopped the rush of impressions, astonished at himself. What possible, conceivable justifiable right did he have to feel jealous? Presenting himself with the question, Brinkman tried to answer it. Did he love her? He didn’t know – not honestly know – any more than he knew if Ann loved him. It was a word they avoided, like they were avoiding actually looking at each other now. Jealousy wasn’t love; it was coveting something belonging to someone else. Did Ann belong to Blair any more? Another thing they avoided but he thought he knew the answer. Blair had offered her the way out – although he had no way of telling if the man had been serious – and Ann hadn’t taken it. There wasn’t a furtive telephone call or a hurried, snatched meeting when there wasn’t some reference to how much she was going to hate staying on, after the scheduled time. And there could only be one obvious inference from that.

Ann was talking animatedly to Betty Harrison, using the woman as he tried to use her earlier, and Blair was discussing something with the Canadian. As a waiter passed Brinkman said to Ann, ‘Can I get you a drink?’ aware the moment he spoke that he was being overly solicitous and that Blair was turning towards the man anyway. Committed, Brinkman said hurriedly, ‘Both of you,’ and Betty saved the moment by saying, ‘Always the perfect gentleman.’ Brinkman handed glasses to both of them, wondering if the flush he felt burning his face were obvious.

‘I was just saying to Ann that we haven’t seen nearly enough of each other.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ agreed Brinkman, glad to be taken over by the woman.

‘Things have been a bit disorganised, with Eddie being away,’ said Ann.

Soon, thought Brinkman, Betty Harrison was going to realise how steadfastly he and Ann were looking at her to escape looking at each other.

‘He’s back now,’ said Betty, taking over her role as social leader. ‘Let’s make a definite date. Here! Now!’

‘Not clear what I’m doing in the next few weeks,’ said Brinkman, too quickly. He wasn’t sure how well he was coming out of this tonight; he certainly didn’t think he could sustain an enclosed evening, with only six or eight people.

‘Nonsense,’ rejected Betty. ‘Whatever is there to do in Moscow?’

‘We’ll talk on the telephone,’ said Brinkman, still retreating.

‘Tomorrow,’ persisted the woman. ‘I’ll fix things up with Ann and then we’ll make contact with you.’ She turned brightly to the other men and said, ‘I’m fixing up a party.’

Her husband, resigned, said ‘Fine,’ and Blair said, ‘That’ll be swell.’

It was becoming ridiculous and if they didn’t do something soon – right now – it would be seen to be. To Ann, Brinkman said, ‘There are more people here than I thought there would be,’ the only thing he could think of.

She looked at him finally, the rigid set of her face the only indication of difficulty. ‘You haven’t been before,’ she said. ‘There usually are.’

She risked a smile, quickly, on and off, for him. What the hell was there to talk about? Brinkman thought. Taking the chance that his voice would not carry in the hubbub, he said softly, ‘You look fabulous.’

Ann blushed only slightly and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘Russians are late,’ said Harrison, from his right and Brinkman positively turned away from Ann, snatching at the interruption.

‘Maybe they’re planning to make a big entrance,’ said Blair.

‘I would have thought they were assured of that anyway,’ said Brinkman. He had to escape! He’d stayed with them long enough – too long – so it wouldn’t look out of place. To the group generally he said, ‘I think I’ll mingle,’ and moved away as he spoke, so there couldn’t be any delaying discussion with Betty about any damned dinner party. He couldn’t think of an excuse for not going but he’d find one, before she called tomorrow. He’d behaved like an idiot, Brinkman acknowledged. A stumbling, first-time-allowed-out idiot. Thank God there had been so many people, jostling and crowding them. Anything less and someone would certainly have noticed. Maybe they had. Betty Harrison was an irritating, constantly tittle-tattling nuisance and she’d got that way by seeing what went on about her. He was less worried about Betty Harrison than he was about Blair. The American was the acknowledged leader of the pack and he’d achieved the position by seeing what went on around him, too.

Risking the presumption Brinkman tacked himself on to the edge of the group surrounding the British ambassador and was allowed to get away with it because of Sir Oliver Brace’s awareness of who his father was. Brinkman endured Wilcox and more cricket and then managed to buffer himself with the trade counsellor who had helped him initiate the wheat success. Street, remembered Brinkman, with some difficulty. The trade official was a vague, wisp-haired man with a habit of letting his conversation drift away in mid-sentence, as if he suddenly lost conviction in the views he first started to express. Brinkman small-talked, only half-concentrating, alert for the Russian arrival and alert, too, for any movement that might bring him close again to the Blairs.

He’d been close enough, for one night.

There was the briefest dip in the level of sound when the Russians arrived, as if everyone had stopped talking at the same time to draw breath, and Brinkman was happy at the positioning of the ambassador’s group because it was near the main entrance and gave him the opportunity of studying the Russians all together, while they were being greeted by the American ambassador and senior officials, before they had time to disperse.

Vasili Didenko led, the acknowledged leader, the red-faced forceful appearance Brinkman remembered from the British parliamentary visit. The man marched rather than walked and from the briefest expressions from some of the people to whom he was introduced he appeared to have a hard handshake. Like a projector throwing up holiday stills against a screen, Brinkman ran through his mind the memorised images of all the people who had been pictured and identified during the recent elections.

He got Leonid Zebin first, a frail, uncertain-looking man. Then Okulov, whose first name he couldn’t remember, which annoyed him, more assured than Zebin, looking around him almost with the arrogance matching Didenko. Brinkman knew that Yevgeni Aistov had been most recently attached to the agricultural ministry, so his appearance was clearly to indicate he had survived any purge and should therefore be interpreted as an emerging strongman. He had a full file for Maxwell in the morning, thought Brinkman, confidently. He blinked at the last man in the line, immediately recognising him from the same parliamentary trip where he’d first seen Didenko. Pietr Orlov was as imposing as he’d appeared then, the impeccable tailoring that Brinkman had admired on that occasion obvious again here. Brinkman strained, positively to ensure there were no more in the Soviet party and then looked back to Orlov, who was just coming to the end of the official receiving line. Maybe a fuller file than he had imagined, thought Brinkman. Orlov’s identification during the British visit had been important because he was one of the youngest members ever. But there had been two others; Vladimir Isakov and Viktor Petrov, remembered Brinkman. But they weren’t here. So why Orlov? Why, with dozens of other more senior figures available, had there come to an important foreign embassy reception a man so newly promoted he probably didn’t know himself all the names of the people with whom he was now daily sitting at meetings.

Brinkman decided that things were picking up. He looked attentively as the Russians formed themselves into a group. Orlov was next to Didenko, a marked contrast to the red-faced Russian. Beyond Brinkman saw Blair gazing at the Russians, too, and wondered if the man realised the significance of Orlov’s presence. He recalled telling the American of the attendance of all three newcomers at the English function. But unless Blair had studied the photographs as intently as he had – and then backed the study up by being able personally to see the man – then he might miss it. Doubtful, because Blair was so good. But just a possibility. He’d always regarded himself in competition with the man but Brinkman realised he now regarded the competition as even greater. It had always been silly to imagine a separation between his professional and private life was possible anyway.

Brinkman pushed the distracting reflection from his mind, concentrating upon what was most important. What other meaning could Orlov’s appearance be than that he was more important than the other two newly-elected members? And much more important than some who were there ahead of him? Brinkman watched eagerly, seeking any indication of deference towards Orlov from the others in the party and trying to establish if there were any discernable attitude towards the man from Didenko. There wasn’t. There were some photographs and Brinkman knew, miserably, that they would provide Blair with a comparison and that the American would now find it easy to identify everyone in the group. Shit, he thought bitterly. After the photographs Didenko remained talking to the US ambassador but the remainder moved away. They still stayed in a loosely knit group, however, all socially ill at ease, except for Orlov, with his recent overseas experience. The immaculate Russian engaged almost immediately in conversation with the French diplomats. Irritably, Brinkman saw that Henri Baton, the French intelligence Resident, was in the party.

Brinkman maintained a desultory conversation with the sentence-lapsing Street, using the man as a cover, trying to encompass all the Russians. Other people had joined the Soviet visitors. Didenko was making his way towards them, so Brinkman decided to stay where he was. Orlov continued on, apparently towards the Canadians. Didenko joined the people with whom Brinkman was standing, nodding cursorily to everyone except the ambassador. They all politely stopped talking while the Russian and Sir Oliver made their exchanges. The conversation between Didenko and Sir Oliver was meaningless – cocktail party regulations – but Brinkman recorded the fact that Didenko spoke good enough English not to need an interpreter. Brinkman had hoped one might have been necessary. With his own excellent Russian it might have been possible to pick up a tidbit between what was actually said and what was actually translated. The stop, like the talk, was regimented and as Didenko went off Brinkman moved too, remembering his regret at not being able to talk to Orlov during the parliamentary visit and wondering if he could make up for it now.

At once Brinkman felt a stab of anxiety. He saw, far ahead, that Orlov was in conversation with Blair. And that the two appeared momentarily alone. Brinkman thrust as quickly through the crowd as possible, not wanting the American to gain any advantage. Had Brinkman not been concentrating so entirely and been in the position he was he would not have seen what happened. The two were against a wall, at a point where an ornate curtain swept out, in a flamboyant drape. It created a wedge, obscuring them completely on two sides from everyone else in the room. Orlov had his back to the salon, restricting the view from where the main body of the guests were, so that the only clear visibility was directly parallel with the wall. Which was the direction from which Brinkman was approaching. Blair’s expression of surprise would have been too brief for anyone but Brinkman, as close and as intent as he was. And intent as he was Brinkman saw the exchange, the merest brushing of hands. Brinkman was sure it had been an exchange. And with that conviction all the others came tumbling in. He knew now what was important enough for Blair to be recalled to Washington. He knew what was important enough for Blair to regard his marriage as dispensible. He knew why Blair had extended and he knew, too, that the man would go on extending and why Ann had better reconcile herself to a lifetime in Moscow, if she wanted to stay married to the man. And he knew who Blair’s source was.

There was not the slightest sign of either Orlov or Blair being disconcerted by Brinkman’s arrival.

‘I don’t believe you’ve met the cultural attache at the British embassy, Mr Jeremy Brinkman?’

‘No,’ said Orlov. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’

The envy surged through Brinkman, a physical sensation that actually made him feel weak, so that his legs trembled, just briefly. He wanted Orlov! And if he couldn’t have him, then neither would Blair.

‘You’re late,’ challenged Ruth.

‘I’ve just left the programme, for God’s sake!’

‘Don’t be truculent with me, Paul. Or evasive. You leave the programme at five. If you don’t pick up the five-ten metro there’s another at five-twenty. Mr Erickson allowed for that. From the metro station it’s a seven minute walk, eight at the outside. You’re an hour out.’

‘He timed the whole journey?’

‘Yes, Paul, he did. And it seems a good idea that he bothered, doesn’t it?’

The boy stubbed his toe into the carpet, lower lip between his teeth.

‘So OK,’ demanded his mother. ‘Where were you?’

‘Talking to some guys.’

‘What guys?’

‘Just guys.’

‘What guys?’ she repeated.

‘Just guys,’ insisted Paul, just as determinedly.

‘It’s not yet a month,’ said Ruth. ‘Not yet a month since you stood in court and heard what would happen if you did it again.’

‘I haven’t done anything again!’

‘So what were you doing?’

‘Just talking. That’s all. Just talking. Honest.’

‘I can’t expect you to be honest any more, can I?’

‘That’s up to you.’

‘No, it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. That’s been made perfectly clear by everyone; it’s all up to you.’

Paul made the groove in the carpet and was worrying it into a wider gap, spreading the pile apart.

‘Stop that!’ shouted Ruth. ‘And stop being such a stupid little child.’

‘Just talking,’ insisted the boy.

‘I’m going to call Mr Erickson. And Mr Kemp. And the programme director. I’m going to tell them what happened and let them decide what to do.’

‘Give me a break, Mom!’

‘That’s exactly what I am trying to give you,’ said the woman.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Blair left the apartment early the following morning – earlier than he ever had – careless of Ann imagining it some continuation of the coldness which had existed between them since his return from Washington; careless of everything in his eagerness to get to the secure-doored isolation of his office at the embassy. He needed such absolute isolation, without the slightest distraction or interruption, properly to assimilate what had happened at the reception the previous night. Just five words – words he had been convinced at first that he had misheard – which must have showed, because Orlov had repeated them urgently: ‘I would like to meet.’ And the paper, slipped into his hand, the paper he had spread now on his desk and was staring down at, willing the neat, sterile letters to tell him more. ‘Kuntsevo. Fili Park. 1900. 11 June.’ Today was 11 June. So Pietr Orlov, recently returned Plenipotentiary Ambassador for the USSR at the United Nations, recently elected and youngest member of the central governing body, wanted to meet him at seven o’clock tonight at the last pier for the Moscow river boats, where the vessels change for the trip further north. Which was just beyond Fili Park. Dare he go? There were standard lectures about provocateur entrapment – not just for people like him but for all diplomatic staff – before any Moscow posting. But they weren’t about anything like this. The entrapments were crude affairs by KGB groundmen. They didn’t involve people like Pietr Orlov. It had to be genuine. Genuine what? That was an impossible speculation. He could absorb all the available file material that he’d already pulled and imagine half a dozen possibilities and still be a million miles from guessing right. He’d have to go. Unthinkable, of course, that he wouldn’t once he’d considered everything. He’d have to go to the pier and remain as inconspicuous as possible and let Orlov make the running. If the man showed then whatever it was he would be involved in the most spectacular moment in his career. He should tell Langley. It was common sense – apart from inviolate instructions – that he shouldn’t try to climb a greasy pole like this without at least trying to establish some form of padding if he fell backwards. Not that there was much they’d be able to do if it were a set-up, inconceivable though that might be. But he was reluctant to contact Washington. It was so little and so inconclusive. Shaking up the bees’ nest without knowing where the honey was. He postponed it, poring over the material that existed in the files. So little, he thought again. Married, no children, comparatively rapid rise through the diplomatic channel, culminating in the most recent election. Flat and empty, a Who’s Who entry; except that a Who’s Who entry gave hobbies and pastimes and what he had in front of him didn’t even provide that.

He had to contact Langley about other things from last night, Blair knew, coming back to his uncertainty. Aistov’s appearance, after the crop disaster, was important. The sort of thing he would have considerd very important indeed, before Orlov. He wrote the message and encoded it and then sat where he was instead of taking it to the cipher room. This was stupid. No matter what the uproar when he shook the nest, he had to tell them. Not to do so – for fear of making himself look a fool – would be abandoning his expertise as an intelligence officer and he prided that expertise above all else.

It took him an hour to write and encode and he had the Orlov message transmitted first and then sat, waiting. The response came within a hour, which, considering the procedural channels at Langley was practically at the speed of light. He responded patiently that he couldn’t amplify because he had included everything in his first message and when they asked for interpretation he said that was impossible, glad he’d thought it through before the request came. Langley said a special desk was being established, inside the existing 24-hour Watch Room and that he was to communicate immediately after the meeting – if it occurred – took place. There was the injunction to take all possible care and to avoid anything which might lead to an incident embarrassing to the United States and then, as an apparent afterthought, Hubble personally signed a message wishing him good luck.

The two-way exchanges meant he missed lunch but Blair was too excited to eat anyway. He telephoned Ann to say he would be late home – probably very late – and that she wasn’t to wait dinner and to go to bed without him. She’d been in bed that morning when he’d left so he asked her how she was and she said OK and how was he and he said OK, anxious to get off the telephone. Ann appeared to sense it and ended the conversation.

Blair realised he would be behaving like an amateur if he didn’t carry out a reconnaissance. He wasn’t an amateur: he was an extremely experienced professional who knew entrapments weren’t set up instantly: entrapments required planning and Blair was pretty sure that if he made a practice run early he would be professional enough to identify any preparation.

From the embassy on Ulitza Chaykovskovo Blair walked without haste to the nearest metro, wanting to pick up the watchers. He emerged from the underground at the Sverdlova station, only starting to hurry when he was almost across Red Square and approaching the gigantic GUM department store, enjoying himself with the thought that he was going to clear his trail actually in view of the KGB headquarters. Once through the doors he really hurried, burying himself in the largest department store in the Soviet Union and reflecting as he did so that it was an ideal place in which to lose a tail. He emerged from one of the side-doors, away from the Lenin Mausoleum, hurrying this time to the Ploshchad metro terminal. The essential of identifying any surveillance is obviously to identify your pursuers and throughout Blair was alert to people close around and when he boarded the train he checked and decided that no one in the immediate carriage had been with him earlier. Which didn’t preclude the following carriage, which was the one he would have chosen if he were conducting the surveillance. To avoid that, he disembarked after two stations, remaining where he was on the platform, so that any follower would have had to get off with him and remain obviously on the station, like he was. No one did. Blair caught the next train to come along, disembarked for the necessary change and still necessary further check and emerged comparatively satisfied at Kiev station, in front of the ferry pier. Blair allowed himself to be carried aboard by the crush of people, not shouldering forward in a way that would have attracted any attention. It was full of trippers and Blair decided if it were to be a genuine meet then Orlov had chosen his protection well. Intentionally Blair set himself on the deck, near a bend in the rail which meant he only had two directions in which to look, still alert for surveillance. As the ferry made its way up river, Blair gazed up at the thrusting colonnades and obelisks commemorating the Battle of Borodino as they passed under the Borodinskiy bridge, and decided it was the most attractive of the river crossing points. The buildings were too tall – not skyscrapers like he knew them but still tall – near the Kalininskiy Bridge. Blair turned away from the bridges, gazing instead across at the Krasnaya Presnya Park, using the movement still to watch everyone around him. He employed the long stretch of the river before the twist under the railway bridge to continue the search and by the time they neared his destination Blair was sure he was clean. He thought the factories along the last section were uniform and depressive but he thought Fili Park looked attractive. Just how attractive, he wondered, would it prove to be for him?

Blair let himself be carried off the ferry as he had boarded it, by the pressure of people around, detaching himself gradually at the end of the pier and staring around. Ahead he could see the larger boats taking the trippers further north, to the beaches at Plyazh. This was the junction point, people and boats going in both directions, a pushing and shoving melee of a place. Good for an ambush as well as an unobserved meeting. Blair wandered, with apparent aimlessness, in reality aware of everything around him. It was chaotic but the proper sort of chaos: there was no artifice, of people put on stage to play their part in a performance in which he was going to become a lead player. Very slightly he relaxed.

There were refreshment stalls and snack bars, under cover and open air. Blair chose one in the open, where he could see everyone around him. Hungry at last he ordered sausage and beer, eating unhurriedly with time to kill. Around him Russians worked hard in their determination to relax and enjoy not working and Blair thought that at this level it was difficult to understand why Russians and Americans each believed the other wanted to annihilate them. OK, the fashions and the accents and the amusements were different – very different – but Blair could see a similarity between this and Coney Island. Or the pier from which he’d taken the kids boating, during the trip home. He wondered how Paul was shaping up, under the programme. He’d averaged a letter a week since he got back and hoped that whatever was going to happen this afternoon would not affect the regularity he’d established. He’d been lectured both by Kemp and Erickson how essential it was for kids to have stability and for things not suddenly to start and just as suddenly to end.

Blair took another beer – just time killing – and left the stall with some still to spare before the scheduled seven o’clock. Everything was normal, he determined, when he got back to Kuntsevo. He was sure of it. Where? he wondered, looking around. As well chosen as it was, the pierhead was still a big area. It was ridiculous his attempting to find Orlov, Blair realised. Orlov would have to find him. Near the onward ticket office there was bench and Blair sat on it, waiting. Back at Langley, station staff would be bitching at having their nights screwed up because some half-assed bigshot in Moscow imagined he was on to something hot, reflected Blair. He wondered if his waiting and their hurried formation would all be a waste of time.

No, realised Blair.

Orlov came enquiringly through the crowd from the just-arrived river boat, staring first towards the refreshment stalls and then, when he looked back, seeing the American. There was no recognition. Orlov did not approach at once but moved to his left, as if unsure in which direction to continue having left the first stage of his journey. A signal or caution? wondered Blair. His concentration was beyond the Russian, watching for any followers. If there were any they were very good, because he couldn’t isolate any. Orlov had dressed down from his usual elegance, which showed thought, but even in the sports jacket and slacks he was noticeable among the other trippers. The approach remained casual and Blair considered the man’s control was good because if the approach were genuine he would be under enormous tension. Orlov sat finally on the bench, not directly beside the American but with space between them. The moves had to start from the Russian, decided Blair, keeping to training.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Orlov. He spoke looking out towards the river.

Remembering his internal debate at the embassy, Blair said, ‘Did you imagine I wouldn’t?’

‘I didn’t know. I wasn’t certain.’

‘You approached me,’ reminded Blair. Always he had to be extremely careful.

‘I want to go back,’ blurted Orlov.

‘Back?’

‘To America.’

‘You mean you want to defect, Mr Orlov?’ Blair spoke looking out towards the river, too, hoping he was disguising his reaction as well as the Russian had covered his emotions at the moment of approach. He hadn’t been wrong back at the embassy, he thought. Under-estimating, in fact. This would be doubly the most spectacular moment of his career.

Orlov didn’t respond at once, appearing unwilling to confirm the word. ‘I do not consider myself a traitor to my country,’ he said.

‘The Soviet Union will consider you to be.’

Orlov was silent again for several moments and then he said, ‘I will be asked to cooperate? Provide information?’

Like you wouldn’t believe, thought Blair. He said, ‘If you want the United States government to assist you and provide you with protection, which will be necessary, then they would expect cooperation in return.’

‘How much?’ demanded Orlov.

Now it was Blair’s turn to hesitate. He’d never handled a defection before but there were enough records. Usually, in their eagerness to escape, defectors fell over themselves to show what a good catch they’d be. Frequently they boasted an ability to provide information they didn’t have. He said, ‘You can’t expect me to know that.’

‘Considerable?’ persisted Orlov.

‘You are a man of great experience and prestige,’ hedged Blair. ‘I would imagine my government would be extremely interested in having the benefit of that experience.’

‘I am not a traitor,’ repeated Orlov.

‘My country would not consider you one,’ said Blair. Liar, he thought. Defectors were always feted and rewarded and usually looked after but always – deep down – they were despised, as well.

‘Will it be possible?’

‘Of course,’ assured Blair, at once. More than double spectacular, in fact. If he got Orlov out, his own position in Moscow would be untenable. Which meant that he could leave – more importantly, that Ann could leave – well in advance of the minimal period they had expected to be here. But the coup Orlov’s defection would mean for Langley would ensure that all the promises they’d made him would stand. Out before they were due and anything they chose, he thought.

‘When? It must be soon,’ said Orlov, giving the first hint of desperation.

Blair chanced a sideways look and saw that the Russian was sweating, despite his determination for control. He was sweating too, Blair realised. Blair said, ‘I will have to contact Washington, of course. Let them know fully what has happened. I will make all the arrangements.’

‘Good,’ said Orlov, the relief obvious. ‘But soon.’

‘I need to know more, Mr Orlov.’

‘More?’

‘Why do you want to defect?’

Again the word caused the Russian difficulty. He said, ‘It is a personal thing.’

What the hell did that mean? thought Blair. He said, ‘I’m afraid that if we’re going to work together as closely as will be necessary to get you out of the country, there can’t be anything personal.’

‘I don’t want her put under any pressure.’

Her! Surely Orlov wasn’t thinking of abandoning everything for a woman! Would he, for Ann? He’d abandoned his first marriage and two kids, he realised. But told her she could leave, if she didn’t like the idea of backing him in Moscow. Except that he hadn’t meant it and been terrified she might call his bluff. Blair looked quickly at the Russian again. The man was supposed to be married, he remembered, from the file.

‘Who?’ he said.

‘There is someone in New York,’ said Orlov awkwardly.

‘She’ll need to be contacted,’ said Blair. ‘Protected.’

‘Not yet,’ insisted Orlov. ‘I don’t want her alarmed until everything is settled and confirmed.’

Could he give such a positive assurance? Langley were going to go apeshit over something like this and he couldn’t predict what promises they’d keep. He said, ‘Is that a condition?’

‘Yes,’ said Orlov at once.

‘Do you have any others?’ asked the American, avoiding the commitment.

The question seemed to surprise Orlov. ‘Just to be got safely out,’ he said.

In contradiction to what Orlov had done and the echelon he’d reached, Blair decided there was almost a naivety about the man. The records were full of cases of defectors demanding millions of dollars, houses with three-car garages and every car a Cadillac. ‘We’ll need to know the name of the person in New York,’ said Blair.

‘She will not be pressured?’ demanded Orlov.

‘I will let my people know fully how you feel,’ said Blair. It was the best he could do.

‘I’ll want their assurance, before I will consider going any further.’

Naive or not he was a pretty good negotiator. ‘Of course,’ accepted Blair. ‘I need the name.’

‘Johnson,’ said Orlov shortly. ‘Harriet Johnson. She is a senior translator at the United Nations.’

Wanting to move the Russian on and knowing the man’s needs, he said, ‘I will contact Washington tonight. But it will be necessary for us to meet again, obviously.’

‘Of course,’ said Orlov. ‘Where?’

Blair looked around him and said, ‘Public places are good. But not here again.’ Remembering the trip up river he said, ‘Do you know the Krasnaya Park?’

‘Of course.’

‘There is a statue, near the central walkway. An archer. There.’

‘When?’

‘It isn’t possible now to fix times. So we’ll make floating arrangements.’

‘Floating arrangements?’

‘Which is best, day or evening?’

‘Day,’ replied Orlov at once. It had been difficult tonight avoiding the meeting with Sevin.

‘Noon then, every Friday. This week it is only two days away, by which time I’ll have a full reaction from Washington.’

‘Everything will be arranged quickly?’

‘As quickly as possible,’ said Blair, giving the repeated assurance. It would understandably be the man’s main preoccupation.

‘It isn’t easy,’ said Orlov.

‘No.’

‘I’m very frightened.’

‘Everything will be all right,’ promised Blair.

‘I will be accused of being a traitor, won’t I?’

Blair was unsure what response the man wanted. Orlov wasn’t a fool, he thought. He said, ‘Yes, you will be labelled a traitor.’

Momentarily Orlov’s head went forward on to his chest. He said, his voice muffled, ‘I won’t betray my country. I will talk to your people because I know I must give something but I won’t betray my country, not completely.’

He would, thought Blair. He might set out not intending to – have assurances that it wasn’t expected – but the debriefings would go on and on, chipping and prodding until Orlov had been picked clean, like a skeleton after the vultures had left. ‘I understand,’ said Blair. It wasn’t a discussion – or even a consideration-for him.

‘Noon, at Krasnaya,’ confirmed Orlov.

‘And let neither of us panic, if for any reason it’s impossible. It won’t be for me, I can assure you. But it might be for you. If you can’t make it, then I’ll be there again the same time the following Friday. That’s what floating arrangement means.’

‘I’m not sure I could wait that long,’ said Orlov.

‘Don’t take any chances,’ warned Blair. ‘If you panic everything could be destroyed.’

‘I won’t panic,’ promised Orlov.

‘It’s important,’ stressed Blair.

‘It’s a strange feeling,’ said Orlov. ‘Frightened, like I said. I can’t imagine how my life is going to change, not really.’

I know just how mine is going to change, thought Blair.

Washington’s reaction was as frantic as Blair expected it to be. It took a long time to make the exchanges, because they used the highest security ciphers and during a lull in transmission Blair telephoned Ann to tell her not to wait up and she said she wouldn’t. Langley cabled for him to give any undertaking Orlov required and to assure the man of their complete and absolute protection. Halfway through the exchanges the cables started to be signed by the Director himself, congratulations first, then demands for clarification on points Blair felt he had already made clear. One of the last messages was the demand that he return personally to Washington, which Blair agreed to do but successfully argued against immediate recall, to enable him to make the Friday meeting with Orlov.

It was late, almost four in the morning, before Blair eased himself as carefully as possible beside Ann, into a bed that Brinkman had vacated five hours before.

Brinkman was awake, in another part of the foreign complex. Ann hadn’t known anything – he hadn’t expected her to – but Blair’s earlier-than-ever departure and later-than-ever return meant something important was happening; vitally important. He’d requested a lot from London without giving any reason – because he didn’t know any reason – and he expected it to arrive during the day in the diplomatic pouch, because he’d designated it fullest priority. But Brinkman had no idea of what he was looking for. Like trying to find the right road in a thick fog, he thought; Brinkman hated the feeling of helplessness.

The KGB surveillance squad who lost Blair before he got to the Ploshchad Metro knew something of the same discomfort. But they were street operators who spent all the time in apparently meaningless pursuits which always produced nothing and their feeling was fleeting. Just like their uncertainty about what to do. To report the loss would create an inquest – even a charge and an enquiry – and it wasn’t worth it. Among themselves they agreed to be more careful in future and not report this time their failing.

Pravda named Orlov as being one of the Russians who attended the American embassy reception and because it was the first public occasion since die elections and had been a quiet day for foreign news, the New York Times carried a small picture from which she was able to identify him, unsmiling and upright alongside Didenko. Harriet read both reports several times and then stared at the picture, wanting it to tell her something. They’d agreed, during their innocent, grossly incomplete planning that because she was in New York, the approach when he made it would have to be to the Americans. So this had to be it! It had to mean that all her doubts and uncertainties had been stupid and that Pietr was coming, as he’d always promised he would. Harriet felt embarrassed now, at not trusting him. A contradiction came into her mind, the first small cloud that indicates a storm. The picture could also mean that he was being groomed for greater promotion; he was, after all, directly next to Didenko. And that he might be finding the choice difficult. No, she thought, positively. It didn’t mean that at all. It meant he was coming, like she’d always known he would.

‘Hurry,’ she whispered aloud. ‘Please hurry, my darling.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

Wednesday – the day they met – ran into Thursday because of the length of time Blair spent linked to Langley, so there were only twenty-four hours before his scheduled second meeting with Orlov, but the pressure from Washington was unremitting. The same questions were asked a dozen different ways and Blair gave the same answers, recognising the headquarters’ excitement. They offered back-up, which he refused because of the difficulty of obtaining accreditation and visas and sensibly arguing that the sudden applications might arouse the curiosity they certainly didn’t want. They said they would maintain the emergency desk in the Watch Room and although Blair couldn’t see any purpose he didn’t bother to argue against that because it couldn’t cause him any personal inconvenience and he accepted it gave them the impression of actively doing something, which was what all the repeated cables were really about. Blair was instructed, first by Hubble and then by the Director, to make a booking on the late Friday plane and when he pointed out that there was no guarantee that Orlov would make the meeting was told it didn’t matter and that reservations could always be cancelled.

Blair hated the atmosphere that existed between himself and Ann since his return from Washington from the earlier trip and the temptation to tell her something – anything – about how it all might be put right was strong. But he resisted it, the professionalism subjugating the personal desire. But only just. He made the reservation and realised he should tell her about that at least but held back from doing so. If he told her he was going back to America and then cancelled because Orlov didn’t – or couldn’t – show then she’d be further confused.

Blair’s initial precautions to avoid observation, which in intelligence circles is called clearing your path, had been basic care, as instinctive as fastening a safety belt in an airplane. Now that he knew – possibly – that he was going to the biggest meeting of his life, he employed every iota of tradecraft and expertise. The beginning, however, was still basic; the hunted must always become the hunter, reversing the roles. Which meant identifying any pursuit. Blair began hours before his appointment with Pietr Orlov, wanting all the time available. He left the embassy on foot, setting out without any apparent hurry along the Ulitza Chaykovskovo and managed – incredibly – to locate two foot followers and their back-up car, a battered Lada, after only three hundred yards. He confirmed it by jumping a bus, suddenly, actually looking backwards from the platform to see their hurried scramble to get into the vehicle and keep up. He timed the disembarkation for a metro, trying to cover himself with departing passengers, hurrying down the brilliantly lit subway and wondered, as he did so, why the subways of New York were covered in graffiti and shit and muggers and those of Moscow were pristine and danger-free and then answered his own unthinking question, because the answer was the people attempting to follow him. He thought he detected attention from a man in an overly large and too distinctive green topcoat and got a further confirmation when the man followed him up on from the Marksa metro and then – too close and why that obviously noticeable coat! – on to Ulitza Gor’kovo. Blair headed for the Intourist Hotel and its beriozka: one day, he thought, he’d discover why the literal translation of Soviet hard currency tourist shops was ‘little birch tree’. He was lucky with the flood of Americans, easily able to mix. The man in the green coat stationed himself near the main door and Blair feigned the ritual of selecting something to buy, alert for a call to any tourist bus or gathering. It came – and it was American – and he was out of the shop and among the crowd before green coat moved. There was a confusion of assembly in the huge foyer and Blair hurried on, not from the hotel but to a basement washroom, hurrying the last few yards because he wanted to detect the sound of footsteps on the hard surface. Inside the lavatory he hurried to a cubicle but pushed the door closed with a discernible gap and stood upon the pedestal, so that his feet and legs would not be visible. It was part of the training, Blair recognised, but he felt theatrically absurd. There was no obvious pursuit and for the benefit of anyone at the stalls he needlessly flushed the toilet before he left. There were four men in the larger room but none of them was wearing a green coat. Blair marked exactly what they were wearing and ascended to ground level cautiously, seeking another obscuring tourist party. There weren’t any obvious ones but the vast foyer was comparatively busy.

He emerged from a different door from that through which he entered, heading back to the Marksa underground. He isolated one hurrying man and a possible back-up car, managed to get his ticket way ahead and dodged platforms by jumping a barrier unseen and had the satisfaction of seeing the pursuer feverishly depart on a train upon which the quarry wasn’t travelling. Blair hurried now, believing the entrance unguarded. He mumbled an explanation for his unused ticket at the kiosk and re-emerged on to the highway at the very moment that a vacant taxi was passing. He strained behind him, looking for any obvious pursuit. There wasn’t any. He still didn’t take chances. This time he avoided GUM, going instead – and with unknowing irony – to the huge department store of TsUM, which is on the Ulitza Petrovska and directly behind the Bolshoi Theatre from which Brinkman and Ann had gone to begin their affair.

He moved hurriedly here, going from floor to floor in hopefully confusing speed and made the final test on a seat outside: the arrangements were made for Orlov’s convenience – and possible cancellation – but they applied equally to Blair and he obviously decided that if he believed there to be the slightest risk he would abort the meeting. He waited for an hour, conscious of everyone around him, before deciding he was clean. Which he was.

Blair still arrived early, reflecting as he sat waiting on the bench that he hoped it had all been worth it and that something quite understandable hadn’t kept Orlov from the meeting. Again his luck held. It was just before noon when he saw the Russian picking his way along a side pathway, towards the statue of the archer. There had been another effort to dress unobtrusively. This time Orlov chose a bench of his own and Blair – still careful – waited fifteen minutes past the appointed hour before moving to join the Russian, wanting to be completely sure he was alone.

‘Is everything arranged?’ asked Orlov at once, in his immediate anxiety.

‘I have had a long discussion with Washington, about everything,’ said Blair, thinking what an understatement that was. ‘I have been told to pass on to you the guaranteed undertaking that you will be welcomed to my country and that we will do everything possible to get you safely there. That we can get you safely there.’

It sounded formal, as if he were reading from a prepared speech. And not quite the sort of assurance he’d wanted to give anyway. Trying to improve it he said, ‘I am flying to America tonight, to make all the arrangements.’

Orlov nodded his head. ‘That is good,’ he said. ‘So it will be soon?’

‘When I return I will have everything settled at the American end. All that will have to be planned is your actual exit, from Moscow.’

Beside him Orlov sighed, in audible relief. ‘It will be so good, when it is all over,’ he said.

It’s only just starting for you, thought Blair, momentarily sad for the man. He said, ‘I won’t be in Washington long but I can’t be definite. We’ll maintain this as a method of contact.’

‘I understand,’ said Orlov. He looked at the American and said, ‘Harriet is not to be involved?’

‘I’ve made that quite clear,’ said Blair. Would they have stayed away from the woman? They’d probably avoid direct contact but he was damned sure she’d be under the tightest sort of surveillance. Like establishing emergency desks, it was something active that Langley could do.

‘I want her to know, but not yet,’ said Orlov.

‘It’s going to be a very unsettled time,’ warned Blair. ‘You’ll have to be careful.’

Orlov smiled, a resigned expression, ‘I’ve been unsettled for a very long time,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been careful.’

‘We’ll get you out, as soon as possible,’ said Blair. He’d be able to make the evening connection; it would be tight but he could make it.

‘You might need this,’ said Orlov. ‘Not yet but later. It’s Harriet’s direct extension at the United Nations.’

‘Thank you,’ said Blair, accepting it. Naive, he thought again. By now the Agency would know more about the girl than she knew herself. He wondered what she looked like.

‘And thank you,’ said the Russian, ‘For everything you’re doing.’

It is as much for me as it is for you, thought Blair; maybe even more.

He returned directly from the meeting to the embassy, to alert Langley that everything had gone as they’d hoped and that he was on his way back, telephoning Ann from there to say that something had come up and that he was making another trip to America. He talked over her surprise, emptily promising to explain when he got there. What could he tell her? thought Blair, during the drive to the apartment. Nothing. Officially he had to worsen the already-strained relationship between them, use the easy excuse of his family again and make the amends and explanation later.

Ann was red-faced when he entered the apartment, the anger obvious. ‘You’ve only just come back!’ she said, picking up the telephone conversation.

‘I know. I didn’t expect it,’ said Blair.

‘But what is it?’

‘Paul again,’ he said. ‘Something about the sentence.’

‘Or is it Ruth?’ demanded the woman, openly expressing her fear.

Blair was at his desk, turning out from his pockets things he didn’t need on the journey. He stopped, turning to her, face creased with puzzlement. ‘What?’

‘I said is it Ruth? Is that why you’re hurrying back?’

Idiotic though her fears were Blair realised he should have taken more care with the story. Despite his hurry he walked calmly back to her and put both hands on her shoulders, looking directly at her. ‘That is stupid and you know it,’ he said, quietly, refusing to let it develop into an argument. ‘I told you how things were between Ruth and me. I told you about the guy she’s with and how I liked him. And if you look at it sensibly you’d realise that if I were going back to try and make up my first marriage to Ruth – which I’m definitely not – that I wouldn’t do it like this, with panicked, last-minute flights. I’ve never lied to you and I’ve never cheated on you. We’ve had a row and it’s gone on for a long time – too long – but if I’d thought our problems were as big as you seem to think they are then I would have talked them through with you. I didn’t run away from anything before, when I fell in love with you, and I wouldn’t run away now.’

Her colour deepened and her lip trembled. ‘What is it with Paul?’ she said.

‘I won’t know, until I get back.’ From her distress it was obvious she still wasn’t completely sure. ‘It won’t be as long this time as it was before,’ he said.

‘How can you be sure, if you don’t know what the problem is?’

He was being careless, in his concern for her. ‘I just don’t think it will be,’ he said. He owed her more, Blair thought: just something more. He felt out for her shoulders again. ‘I know it’s been difficult for you darling,’ he said. ‘More difficult than I thought it was. But everything is going to work out OK, you see. It isn’t going to work out as bad as you were frightened it would.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. Her lip had stopped trembling now and the colour was going.

‘You won’t, not yet. Trust me.’

‘When?’

‘Just trust me.’

‘You mean we won’t be staying in Moscow after all!’ The hope was obvious, in her face.

‘It’s vital that I catch a plane and I’m already late,’ said Blair, knowing he’d let the conversation go on too long already. ‘Just believe me. Everything is going to work out fine.’

Blair ran to pack, using it as an excuse to break away from her, conscious of her standing in the door, watching him. Thank God she didn’t try to continue the discussion.

‘I love you,’ he said, brushing her cheek with a kiss on the way to the door.

‘I love you, too,’ she said.

Brinkman knew he loved Ann. Just as he knew that the embassy jealousy had been love and not covetousness. But despite the feeling, the readiness now to jump whenever she telephoned, he would still have avoided going to the apartment if she hadn’t disclosed Blair’s flight to Washington. Not that he would achieve anything by remaining at the embassy. For eight hours he’d bent over his desk, searching through the material that had been sent at his request from London, trying to find a clue and reluctantly coming to the conclusion that no clue existed. Maxwell had been very thorough, conceded Brinkman. Not only had he sent the London file but all the material that had been available from Orlov’s period in New York. It still didn’t amount to much. Maybe a hundred sheets which by now he knew by heart and twenty photographs of Orlov at the United Nations, mostly standard glass-in-hand reception stuff but some of him in the chamber, taking part in debates.

So he’d failed and Blair was succeeding even further, thought Brinkman, as he entered the apartment block. Why the sudden Washington recall, for the second time in just over a month? This wasn’t a competition any more, he decided: he was practically out of the race.

He was immediately aware of Ann’s reserve as he entered the apartment, a holding back when he went to kiss her. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I know there’s something. Another row?’

‘Not really.’

‘What then?’

‘He said he loved me,’ she said distantly. ‘He hasn’t said that for a long time but he said it tonight, as he left.’

‘Oh,’ said Brinkman, emptily. Blair was winning in everything, he thought, ignoring the illogicality of it. ‘What happened?’

Ann shrugged, as if she had difficulty in recalling. ‘Everything was so rushed,’ she said. ‘He called from the embassy to say he had to go back on the night plane, threw some things into a bag and dashed off.’

‘But stopped long enough to say that he loved you.’

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Please don’t.’

‘ I love you,’ said Brinkman. It was the first admission, the commitment he’d held back from giving.

‘Don’t,’ she said again, desperately.

‘I told you once before we couldn’t ignore it,’ said Brinkman.

‘You weren’t talking about love then.’

‘I am now. Why don’t you?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Ostriches in the sand,’ he said, another reminder.

‘I’m so confused,’ said Ann. ‘Completely confused.’

‘Do you love me?’ demanded Brinkman, determined she should make the commitment now.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you love me?’ he insisted.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘What about Eddie?’

‘That’s it!’ she said, pleadingly. ‘I love him, too.’

‘You can’t love two people at the same time.’

‘Who says?’ she asked, a demand of her own. ‘Where are the rules that everyone obeys that say you can’t love two people?’

‘You’re going to have to make a choice.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened.’

Should he tell her what he’d already concluded, that Orlov was Blair’s source and that Blair would stay in Moscow until hell froze over? He wasn’t so certain of that, not any more. There was definitely a link but he wasn’t sure he’d interpreted it correctly. ‘Why’s Eddie gone back, so unexpectedly?’

‘He said it was something to do with Paul.’

‘There wasn’t this panic last time.’

‘No,’ she said heavily. ‘I know.’

Conscious of the tone, Brinkman said, ‘What do you think it is?’

‘I told him I thought it was Ruth.’

‘What about Ruth?’ he said, momentarily not understanding.

‘Wouldn’t the affair with Paul have brought them together again?’

‘There still wouldn’t have been this panic’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Not much,’ said Ann. ‘Burst in, like I told you. Emptied his pockets on the desk…’ She gestured over his shoulder. ‘Packed a case and went off to the airport.’

‘But he told you he loved you?’

‘There was a kind of a row,’ Ann confessed. ‘When I said I thought he was going back to see Ruth he said I was stupid and that everything was going to work out. That things wouldn’t be as bad as I thought they were going to be.’

Brinkman tried to curb any reaction and knew he succeeded because Ann appeared in some sort of reverie. ‘What did he mean by that? That things wouldn’t be as bad as you thought they were going to be?’

‘He wouldn’t say. I even asked if it meant he wouldn’t have to stay here in Moscow but he wouldn’t say.’

Brinkman risked looking over his shoulder. The desk top was still jumbled, which was unusual in an apartment as reasonably kept as this. He stood, with accustomed familiarity in her home and said, ‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Not really.’

Neither did Brinkman but the drinks tray was next to the desk. He made the pretence of examining the selection, lifting and putting down bottles, looking back to see if she were paying any particular attention, which she wasn’t. He poured scotch but put the glass back not on the tray but alongside on the desk, jostling what lay there. He turned back to her, his body screening her from what he was doing, spreading what Blair had left further, so that it would only take one look. ‘You sure?’ he said.

‘Maybe vodka then.’

He turned back, glad of the extra few seconds, looking not at the drinks but sideways on the desk. There were some official government passes, the sort they all carried, for use within Moscow and some small change Blair clearly felt he wouldn’t need. And a single sheet of paper, half hidden by a car parking permit. Brinkman shifted the permit, making to pick up his own glass. There was only a single, printed line. UNXT 481.

Brinkman carried the drinks back and said ‘Cheers’ and she smiled back at him, a sad expression.

‘How long is he going to be away?’

‘I don’t know. Not as long as last time, he said.’

‘At least that’ll make some things easier,’ he said.

She smiled, sad again. ‘Not tonight, darling.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just don’t want to.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t, darling.’

‘How do you expect me to feel!’

‘How do you expect me to feel? I’m the one who has to choose, eventually.’

Did Blair’s remark mean he was getting out of Moscow on time? Or even quicker. If it did it would mean Ann would go with him. Unless she chose. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’ It would be wrong to push her.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘How about tomorrow night?’

‘We’ll see.’ Aware of his wince, she said, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. We’ll try to make it tomorrow night.’

Brinkman went angrily from the apartment. His first inclination was to go to his own place but then he changed his mind, driving back to the embassy and shutting himself again in his room, gazing down at the pictures of Orlov. He wasn’t going to lose, he determined. Wouldn’t lose. He smiled, suddenly, looking down at the top photograph. It couldn’t be as easy as that? As simple? But why not? He’d spent hours trying to evolve convoluted scenarios and it could all be childishly, ridiculously easy. He prefaced the lengthy cable to Maxwell with the assurance that he would not be making the request unless he considered what he was asking for to be absolutely essential. And absolutely urgent. Before he encoded it, Brinkman stared again at the message, deciding that the queries looked like some rather complicated crossword puzzle. Which, he supposed, was exactly what they were.

Ruth was embarrassed, seeking reassurance now. ‘So I overreacted then?’

‘No, Mrs Blair,’ said Kemp at once. ‘OK, so this time it seems that Paul was telling the truth. The urinalysis is clear and the other boys we finally located said all they did was talk. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you himself who they were: three were from the same programme. They just hung around outside for a while. The point is that he could have been doing something stupid. And the most important thing is that he knows now how you’d react if he were. It’s taught him a lesson.’

‘It’s not going to be easy, is it?’ said Ruth, wearily.

‘I never thought it would be, Mrs Blair,’ said the counsellor.

This time the inadequate surveillance was reported and it arrived on Sokol’s desk within two hours of the notification from Sheremetyevo of Blair’s abrupt and second departure to Washington. Sokol recognised at once he had stumbled across an operation. The efforts to which Blair went to slip any cover indicated that: and so did the return to America. Sokol further decided that because of the crass incompetence of men specifically assigned to watch the American – an instruction which should have alerted them to its importance – he was way behind in trying to discover what it was. To find out, he thought, might give him the long sought-after coup. To fail might mean a disaster sufficient to bring him down, like the receding famine almost had. He summoned the watch squad from the airport, for congratulation and a personal briefing on the importance of identifying Blair’s return. And issued arrest and disciplinary hearing orders against the idiots around Blair’s apartment and the US embassy, who had failed. Mistakes had to stop, Sokol realised.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hubble came personally to the airport to meet him. Customs clearance was arranged so they bypassed the formalities and were in the limousine within fifteen minutes of Blair emerging from the aircraft. The division chief waited until they were in the security of the vehicle, with the dividing partition raised to separate them from the driver and his escort and said, ‘You’ve done it, Eddie. The jackpot. Every bell is ringing.’

Blair was suffering his customary fatigue and found Hubble’s enthusiasm difficult. He wondered if the man talked like that all the time. He said, ‘We’ve got to get him across first.’

‘We’re not going to let this one go, buddy. Believe me we’re not.’

Blair did believe him, from the reaction so far. He looked out at the Beltway, remembering his initial difficulty last time with all the cars. He’d have to call Ruth when he got the opportunity. He’d remembered a gift in Amsterdam, the same sort of perfume he’d bought Ann. He’d been undecided about the boys and copied the homeward journey again, buying them both watches, the heavy calibrated sort that divers were supposed to wear. They’d be surprised, to have him home again so soon. He said, ‘What’s been set up here?’

‘Everything,’ assured Hubble. ‘All the details can wait until we get to Langley but believe me there isn’t anything that hasn’t been thought of…’ The man paused and Blair waited for the announcement. ‘Guess who’s going to chair this afternoon’s meeting!’

It was obvious but Blair gave the man the moment he wanted. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘The Director himself!’

Blair thought Hubble would have enjoyed the announcement having some sort of band accompaniment. ‘Jackpot, like you said.’

Despite it being an official Agency car with a recognisable division chief as a passenger they still had to go through the formal security procedures. Once inside the main building Hubble took over the role as guide. When they entered the elevator he pressed the button for the seventh floor and Blair guessed there had been some arrangement to advise the Director of their arrival. He was crumpled and stubble-chinned again and wished he’d had the opportunity to clean up.

The Director’s office was a lavish suite, personally designed by Allen Dulles but never occupied by him because he was fired as Director by President Kennedy after the Bay of Pigs disaster. I hope this isn’t a disaster, thought Blair, entering behind his immediate superior.

Rupert Perelmen was a tall, dome-headed man wearing rimless spectacles and a suit as crumpled as Blair’s. He looked precisely the academic he had been until his appointment as Director by a President who decided the Agency needed a political scientist as its head. The man got up as they entered, coming forward with his hand outstretched to greet Blair and personally to guide him to a chair. When Perelmen returned to his own seat he beamed professorially and said, ‘Well done. Very well done indeed!’

Blair thought it sounded like he’d got good marks in an examination, which perhaps he had. He was aware of the continued sense of over-enthusiasm. He said ‘It’s got a long way to go yet, sir.’

‘I know, I know,’ said Perelmen. ‘But I’m confident. We’ve already made a lot of contingency plans. Now I’d like you to run through it for me, right from the start.’

They’d already had it in at least four variations, thought Blair. Obediently he recounted the events from the time of Orlov’s approach at the reception to their first meeting and then the previous night’s encounter at the ferry head.

‘No demands at all?’ intruded Hubble.

‘Only about the woman,’ said Blair. ‘What about her?’

The Director raised his hand, reassuringly. ‘Exactly what he wanted. No approach whatsoever.’

‘She’s on a lead, of course,’ elaborated Hubble. ‘Round-the-clock watch. Cover on everything she does. She doesn’t know how safe she is.’

‘He doesn’t want her to know,’ reminded Blair.

‘They’re not amateurs,’ said Hubble, as if imagining criticism.

‘Would Orlov run, if he found out?’ asked Perelmen.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Blair, at once. ‘I don’t know why it’s something he’s so adamant about.’

‘When does he want her involved?’ asked Hubble.

‘He hasn’t made that clear, not properly. He just talked about when everything is arranged. Maybe when we actually have him on the move. My guess is he’s frightened something will happen to her before they get together.’

‘It wouldn’t, if she were under our protection,’ said Perelmen.

‘I’ll make the point,’ promised Blair.

‘You imagine he doesn’t want to talk to us, not completely?’

‘I don’t imagine,’ he said. ‘I know.’

‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ dismissed Perelmen, hurriedly. ‘Let’s get him here, first. Everything else will unfold naturally enough.’

Poor bastard, thought Blair. He said, ‘We haven’t discussed at all how to get him out. It’ll have to be during some overseas visit, to be safe.’

‘Can he fix that?’

‘He’s got the authority,’ said Blair. ‘I didn’t raise it until I had the opportunity to talk to you here: wanted to know the countries in which we were best placed.’

‘Europe, obviously,’ said Perelmen. ‘Anywhere really, although England and Germany would be best. We’ve a lot of secure airbases in Germany. If it’s got to be anywhere in Eastern Europe then OK, but it’ll be more difficult. Too many things can go wrong trying a border crossing like that.’

Blair supposed Perelmen would have met the traditional opposition within the Agency from professionals having an amateur put in control over them. He seemed to have adjusted very well. He said, ‘How much warning would you need?’

‘We’ve expanded the emergency desk in the Watch Room,’ said the Director. ‘We established a complete contingency unit, specifically for Orlov’s crossing. I’ve already moved twenty men into Europe. Germany. Like I said, that’s where we’re best placed, if there’s a choice. Every sort of necessary transportation, too. We’ll only need hours.’

‘If we can make it an overseas visit we’ll have days,’ said Blair. He hesitated and then said, ‘What if we can’t fix something that will officially get him across the border?’

‘Then it’s Action Man stuff,’ said Hubble. ‘And you’ll really be earning your salary. The favourite would be to try for the Finnish border and cross there.’

Christ, Hubble irritated him, thought Blair. Action Man! He said, it won’t be easy, crossing the distance to Finland. Unless we could get aboard an aircraft in some way it’ll take two days to get there: maybe more. And at the first hint that Orlov had made a run for it they’d try to seal that country like a drum.’

‘I’d risk a crossing, to come in to get you,’ disclosed Perelmen. ‘Not to Moscow, of course. As far into Karelia as we could get.’

‘That would require a pick-up coordinate I couldn’t give any guarantee to make, on time.’

‘Then we’d keep crossing until you did,’ said Hubble. ‘We’ll ship homing devices and the sort of radios you’ll need in the diplomatic pouch: that’s part of the contingency.’

Blair hoped there would be some other way. He said, ‘What about here?’

‘Everything’s set,’ assured the Director. ‘We’ve got three “safe” houses, two in Maryland and one in Virginia. We’ll use them all, of course, but he can make his choice. Tell him that after we’ve talked things out he’ll be given a completely new identity… social security number, bank account, stuff like that. And a government pension that we can negotiate when he gets here.’

After we’ve talked things out, reflected Blair. He wondered if it would be as obvious to Orlov as it was to him that the promised pension depended upon how much he was prepared to talk things out. If they debriefed the Russian as extensively as Blair guessed, Orlov would be a white-haired old guy of pensionable age anyway. ‘I’ll set it out,’ Blair promised.

‘And a house, of course,’ added Perelmen, in an afterthought.

‘How long do you want me to stay? There’s no scheduled contact for another week, even if he’s able to make that.’

‘This is just a preliminary meeting,’ said Perelmen. ‘Chance for me to express my personal thanks. Tomorrow I want you to go through everything with the leaders of the groups we’ve established, see whether you can think of anything else.’

‘Sure,’ said Blair. It meant the weekend at least with the kids. And Ruth.

‘And Eddie?’

Christian name terms, realised Blair. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I was impressed before,’ reminded the Director. ‘Everything said then stands now. Doubly so.’

‘Did I or did I not say jackpot!’ demanded Hubble, as they walked along the corridor outside the Director’s office.

Hubble was the sort of talking doll you actually got for winning a jackpot, thought Blair.

It was a race again, decided Brinkman, exultantly. And now he knew what the medal was, he was going to win it. It was still interpretation, of course, but then everything in Moscow was interpretation. He gazed down, tired-eyed, at the second batch of material he’d requested from London, comparing it with the first. He knew he was right. What’s more, he knew how he could prove it. It meant expecting Maxwell and maybe someone higher bending the rules but when they realised what the prize was he expected them to do so. He sent the requests and waited for the predictable query, assuring Maxwell it was essential he return personally to London. Anticipating the initial response he kept the name for the second message, but had he not already established the sort of reputation he had Brinkman doubted permission would have been given.

‘Going away!’ said Ann.

‘Just a quick trip.’

‘Where?’

‘London.’

She closed her eyes in envy. Opening them again she said, ‘How long for?’

‘Not more than a few days. Quick, like I said.’ Blair had more than a head started so everything was going to have to be quick.

‘I’ll miss you,’ she said.

‘Will you?’ said Brinkman, eagerly.

‘You know I will.’

‘It’ll give you time to think,’ he said.

‘About what?’

‘I want you to make the choice, darling. I want you to choose between Eddie and me. I’m saying I want to marry you.’

‘No!’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Brinkman. ‘While we’re both away it’ll give you time to make up your mind.’

Brinkman didn’t want to win just part of it; he wanted to win it all. That’s what he’d always wanted. And always intended to get.

‘Why didn’t you call from Moscow?’ said Ruth.

‘There wasn’t time: everything was too quick.’

‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘And you.’

‘The boys will be glad: delighted, in fact.’

‘How’s Paul making out?’

Ruth told him about the scare and how she’d reacted and Blair’s reaction was the same as the counsellors’, which relieved her. Kemp and the school principal were keeping a close eye on his grades and they hadn’t dropped and as part of the programme she’d joined a parents’ group. There was a meeting the following night.

‘I’ll come too,’ announced Blair.

She hesitated. ‘Charlie said he’d come with me.’

‘Can’t we all go?’

Ruth hesitated further. ‘Won’t it look a bit unusual?’

‘If you don’t want me…’

‘… Oh no!’ she stopped him. ‘Maybe I’ll ask Charlie not to bother.’

‘We should not use him as a stop-gap,’ said Blair.

‘I’ll talk to him about it,’ she said.

The greeting from the boys this time was different from the earlier visit. John ran at Blair and threw himself into his father’s arms and although he didn’t run Paul allowed himself to be picked up, as well. Blair had to put them down quickly because together they were heavy. He gave them their gifts and both children strapped them on, their delight obvious.

‘Is this really what proper divers wear, Dad?’ asked John.

‘All the time,’ assured Blair.

‘It’s terrific having you back home,’ said Paul.

‘It’s terrific to be home,’ said Blair.

Brinkman was on the Watch List and the encouraged and congratulated surveillance squad at the airport responded the moment that the Englishman was identified, boarding the London-bound plane. There was a telephone alert – upon which Sokol now insisted – in advance of the report and the photographs. Sokol studied the dossier, comparing photographs of the other passengers against the names and agreeing with the airport assessment that Brinkman’s departure was not connected with anybody else on the same flight. So why should the American intelligence Resident, whom he regarded as one of the – if not the – best operators in Moscow leave just ahead of the British intelligence Resident, whom he regarded as a close second in ability? Coincidence? Not to be discounted but unlikely, decided Sokol. A joint operation? Another possibility, conceded the KGB deputy. Certainly it had happened before. But rarely. And they’d been successful over the last few years, actually publicising their infiltration of the British service to sow distrust in any cooperation with America. So the conclusion was that there could be not one but two separate operations, being run at the same time. Sokol was a self-confident man, sure of his ability. Despite which he felt a sink of despair and it took a long time for his normal attitude to predominate: and even then it wasn’t a complete recovery.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brinkman was disappointed – actually worried – that Maxwell didn’t appear to share his convictions. The division chief’s office was in the inner quadrangle, away from any traffic. It was possible to hear the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle-shelf and Maxwell’s sighed uncertainty as he looked down at the evidence Brinkman placed before him.

‘It’s very circumstantial,’ judged Maxwell.

‘No,’ disputed Brinkman, risking the impertinence of coming around to the side of the desk to argue his case. ‘Orlov has returned within months from the United Nations, in New York…’ He isolated three of the pictures that had been airfreighted to him in Moscow, each showing Orlov at UN receptions. ‘At the United States embassy I positively saw Orlov make an approach to the CIA Resident, Edward Blair. I’m quite definite about it. Blair has made two visits to Washington: he’s there now and this time it was a panicked recall. On his desk was this…’ Brinkman paused again, producing a piece of paper upon which he’d written UNXT 481. ‘You know from the checks that I asked you to make that extension 481 at the United Nations is the direct line to a woman called Harriet Johnson, a British-born senior translator…’ There was another break while Brinkman selected two photographs of Harriet that had been sent with the second batch of material. ‘Harriet Johnson,’ he identified, unnecessarily dramatic. One was a posed, full-faced picture, taken for her official accreditation. There was another, obviously at a UN party, and a third of her at the point of leaving the skyscraper building. Brinkman made another selection, placing the picures of the girl by herself against two of Orlov, both at UN receptions. ‘Pietr Orlov,’ went on Brinkman, still dramatic. He moved his finger, to someone in the immediate background of both prints. ‘Harriet Johnson,’ he said.

‘I don’t dispute it’s the woman,’ said Maxwell. ‘So Harriet Johnson attended UN functions and was photographed with a senior Soviet official. Russian is her predominant language: we know that from the files.’

‘What is the private extension of a senior Soviet translator doing on the desk of a CIA Resident in Moscow?’ said Brinkman.

‘How did you get that?’

Brinkman hesitated. ‘I’m a friend,’ he said. ‘I went to the apartment the night Blair left: within an hour or two.’

‘He left something like that on the desk of his apartment?’

Brinkman paused again, remembering Ann’s account of the row. Remembering, too, the part of it she recalled best. He said he laved me. Brinkman said, ‘There was a lot of panic. Some personal confusion too, I think.’

‘There must have been,’ said Maxwell. He looked back to the display before him. ‘So what is it, in your opinion?’

‘I don’t know, not definitely,’ conceded Brinkman. ‘At the moment I think it’s a defection.’

Maxwell frowned up. ‘Someone of Orlov’s rank?’

‘Which was why I judged it important enough to come back here personally.’ said Brinkman. Maxwell was moving, he guessed. Very slightly but moving.

Maxwell opened the tub on his desk, lighted the cigarette and coughed. ‘So what do you want to do about it?’ he asked, directly.

‘Make him come to us, instead,’ said Brinkman, just as direct.

A smile, vaguely patronising, touched Maxwell’s mouth. ‘Just like that!’ he said.

‘No, not just like that,’ said Brinkman, irritated at his superior. ‘I think I could make it happen.’

‘How?’

Brinkman told him, setting out the proposal he had carefully formulated on the flight from Moscow, intent upon Maxwell’s facial reaction. There was none. When he finished Maxwell, who had served at the embassy in Washington before his promotion said, ‘Do you know the American expression “dirty pool”?’

‘No,’ said Brinkman.

‘Loosely translated, it means shitting on someone from a great height. What you’re planning is dirty pool.’

‘I’m suggesting we get Orlov for ourselves!’

‘I know what you’re suggesting,’ said Maxwell. ‘But why? There’s liaison, between us and Washington. We’ll get what Orlov has to say, in time. If they get him across it’s a coup but if they make a mistake it’s an international incident. What’s wrong with letting America take the risk?’

Chair-bound bloody beaurocrat, interested only in lunches at the club and whether his pension was index-linked, thought Brinkman. The departure lecture about taking chances hadn’t anything to do with his safety: Maxwell was only interested in his own back. As forcefully as he dared he said, ‘We won’t get what Orlov has to say. We’ll get what Washington condescends to let us have, sanitised and packaged, like processed cheese. And about as tasteless. And I agree, in time: their time. Which will be years from now, when any usefulness will have long gone. Why must we wait around all the time, cap in hand, grateful for American handouts? What’s wrong with their coming to us for a change?’

Instead of answering, Maxwell persisted, ‘What about the risk?’

Fuck the man, thought Brinkman. He wouldn’t be blocked. He said, ‘My father says repeatedly that knowing when to take risks in diplomacy – intelligent risks – is a finer part of the art.’

Maxwell stubbed out his cigarette, the force with which he did it his only reaction to the threat. ‘You’d be appallingly exposed,’ he said. ‘In New York and in Moscow.’

‘I know the difficulties,’ assured Brinkman.

‘What if you’re wrong, about Orlov and the girl?’ said Maxwell.

‘Then I’ll realise that in New York, where I’ll do nothing more harmful than make a fool of myself, and any danger in Moscow won’t exist any more,’ said Brinkman, the argument prepared.

‘Be careful,’ said Maxwell, predictably. ‘Be very careful indeed.’

Brinkman went directly from his meeting with Maxwell to the airport, with no reason for remaining any longer in London and anxious to close the gap between himself and Blair as quickly as possible. Maxwell would take out insurance, Brinkman knew. He couldn’t guess what or how, but the bloody man would evolve something to get himself as far back from the spray as possible if anything hit the fan. Maybe he wouldn’t let the threat invoking his father remain as empty as he intended it to be. It was a late flight from London but Brinkman benefited from the time difference for his arrival in New York. Wanting to maximise that benefit he refused everything on the flight, determined only upon sleeping. The necessity of booking into an hotel was an irritating delay but he was still at the United Nations building by eight in the evening. The Assembly was in session, so Harriet Johnson was working split shifts. According to the information he’d already assembled, that meant the woman had another two hours of duty. He tried, from the public gallery, to detect her in the line of translation booths but the glass was smoked and he was too far away anyway. He listened to a debate about Third World starvation, knowing it would not alleviate that starvation in the slightest and reflecting what a useless world forum it was. He left the chamber with an hour to spare, with more to find than the door through which she would emerge into the corridor. There was a lot of movement in the passageway, which offered him concealment but made more difficult finding those he guessed would already be in place because of Blair’s head start. He guessed at a man in a fawn seersucker suit but wasn’t sure about another in a blue sports jacket. Brinkman bought Newsweek from a bookstand and managed to get a bench near a wall support, which furthered his concealment. If he were mistaken about the fawn seersucker and the sports jacket – if she weren’t under some sort of protective surveillance – then it could mean that he was completely wrong, Brinkman realised. If she were still here at all. If it was what he thought it was, Harriet Johnson would already be under wraps. The uncertainties irritated him, nibbling away at his absolute conviction. Harriet Johnson was the essential key – the only key – for everything to work out as he wanted it to. If they already had her, then everything changed. To a dirtier pool than even Maxwell suspected.

But they didn’t have her. Harriet Johnson emerged from the translation area at ten past ten, a crisply-suited, crisply-mannered woman he recognised immediately from the photographs. She paused to speak to an attendant and then set off in the direction of the elevators that would take her from the building, not towards the secretariat offices to which he thought she might go first. Brinkman made no effort to follow at once, waiting to see what would happen. He was wrong about the fawn seersucker but right about the sports jacket. There was also a man in a brown suit and a woman, which he should have anticipated but hadn’t. Brinkman allowed them to get expertly in position, the man in the brown suit actually preceding Harriet to enter the elevator ahead of her and guarantee cover at all times. Brinkman slotted himself comfortably behind them, admiring their professionalism. Halfway along the corridor brown suit allowed himself to be overtaken and the woman took his place. Had he not been trained – and then positively expecting it – Brinkman didn’t think he would have isolated the surveillance. He didn’t try for the same elevator – knowing they would register faces in such an enclosed area – but caught one sufficiently quickly to reach ground level before she went through the revolving doors. Brinkman followed the followers at an easy pace. Did she have a car or would she take a taxi? Neither, he saw, surprised. Harriet Johnson walked through the waiting vehicles and across the forecourt, passing almost directly beneath the statue of a man supposedly beating a sword into a ploughshare presented to the United Nations by the Soviet Union. She went to the left, to the break with FDR Drive, where it was easier to cross and Brinkman realised, further surprised, that she intended to walk the four blocks to where she lived. Harriet Johnson must be a very assured woman to walk four blocks in Manhattan after ten o’clock at night, reflected Brinkman. With that reflection came another. He wondered if the attacker would know what hit him if there were an attempt to mug her. She wasn’t entirely uncaring. Having crossed the difficult expanse of road right outside the United Nations she backtracked, to get to Second Avenue along the broad, well-lighted Forty-Second Street. Brinkman didn’t turn immediately right, as she did from practice, but continued across to the Sam Goody side of the avenue, keeping parallel but about ten yards behind. The American surveillance was practically choreographed, he thought admiringly. They obviously hadn’t been sure how she would travel, as he hadn’t been, so there were several vehicles, three at least that he identified. Although they didn’t need them for a driven observation, the Americans still utilised them, and cleverly, too, never keeping their people in the street around Harriet for more than one block but chopping and changing with the car occupants. They even bothered with the people ahead of him, walking parallel like he was.

Harriet Johnson’s apartment block was on Second and Forty-Sixth Street, a modern, obviously new building. From across the avenue, Brinkman watched, easily able to see through the expansive clear glass as the woman went in, smiled in recognition to the guard, collected her mail from the deskman and then disappeared towards what had to be the elevators.

Employing his own tradecraft Brinkman went into a bar on the opposite corner, the first requirement to get himself off the street with so much other surveillance in operation. There was a table strip arranged directly beneath the window looking out over the apartment block and Brinkman took his drink there, standing with the glass held lightly between both hands, gazing out towards it. Six sixty-seven, he knew, from the already obtained information. It was easy enough to count up but with no way of knowing which way the numbering went from there it was impossible to isolate which of the lighted windows belonged to the woman. The CIA would have done so, by now. So why didn’t they have her under open protection, if not away from the UN completely? It was obvious, from the homeward journey, that she didn’t have any idea of what had been going on all about her. It didn’t make sense. There were cars lining either side of Forty-Sixth but it was too far away and too dark for him to see how many were occupied. There would be several, he knew. Would they have managed to get an apartment, within the building? It would have been an obvious move, if they intended to continue the cover they seemed to be employing now. And putting their own people in, as desk staff. And installing a monitor on her telephone. Brinkman stopped mentally turning the pages of the manual. Blair was barely forty-eight hours ahead of him, if the panicked return had been the beginning. He flicked the pages back, for another look. The street cover was in place because he’d seen it, but that took little preparation. Not enough time to get themselves an apartment. Or install themselves as desk staff. What about the telephone? he wondered, looking to where the bar booth was, at the end by the restrooms. It would have been quick, but not impossible. Too uncertain to take the risk, though. He looked back across the road, towards the apartment block. Hundreds of people lived there, he thought. Hundreds they might try to identify, one by one, if they considered the operation important enough and if they had the time. But they wouldn’t have had the time yet.

The decision made, Brinkman left the bar and purposefully crossed the road, not a stranger to the area but someone approaching his own home. He thrust through the doors, nodding to the guard but not slowing his momentum until he got to the desk and here he maintained the demeanour of confidence which would have confused anyone watching from outside.

‘This the housephone?’ he said to the desk, lifting the white receiver.

‘Yes sir,’ said the man.

The woman answered on the second ring.

‘I need to see you,’ said Brinkman, without introduction. ‘It’s about Pietr.’

There was silence from the other end of the line. Then she said, ‘Give me the deskman.’

Brinkman handed the guard the receiver. The man smiled up, putting it almost at once back on to the cradle. ‘She says you’re to go up.’

The surveillance had been confirmation that he was right, decided Brinkman, going towards the elevators. Harriet Johnson’s reaction doubly confirmed it. He was drawing level.

The contingency planning was far more extensive than Blair envisaged. Overnight the Director decided to send a Special Forces group on standby to one of the German bases, from which within hours they could get to the Finnish border if there had to be an incursion to get Orlov out. Five unmarked CIA helicopters – large capacity Chinooks – were also sent on, in advance, flying with a Boeing 727, also unmarked, which was planned to be the transport vehicle for Orlov’s eventual Atlantic crossing to the United States, however the man got out. Blair addressed the assembled group leaders, self-consciously, standing in front of them like a teacher, baton in hand, identifying Orlov from the hugely enlarged photographs that had been made. There was renewed pressure from Hubble to provide back-up within the Soviet Union and Blair conceded that an effort should be made if the cross-over appeared to be taking longer than they expected, which would enable the applications to be made for entry permission without attracting any special attention. With the number of American diplomats permitted in Moscow strictly limited by the Russians, it meant the Director had to persuade the State Department to surrender some of their allocation and Blair wondered how successful Perelmen would be.

He was away from Langley in good time for the parents’ meeting at the drug programme. Blair couldn’t see that the gathering achieved much practical benefit, apart from showing die kids they had support – which was, he supposed, the practical benefit intended – and afterwards he gave them a choice and they went for the Mexican cafe in the Georgetown mall. Ruth put Charlie Rogers off and Blair wished she hadn’t. Both boys wore their watches and kept looking at them, with the pride of new ownership.

‘Can we really come to Moscow, Dad?’ said John.

‘That’s a deal.’

‘When?’ demanded Paul, forcefully.

Blair remembered the counsellor’s warning about breaking promises and thought how occupied he was going to be by what was happening in Moscow. He said, ‘We’ll plan around the next long vacation. And around Paul’s programme, of course. I’ll fix it, with the counsellors.’

The vacation was close, not more than a few weeks. So much could be changed in a few weeks, he thought.

‘How often do you think you’ll be able to get back like this?’ asked Ruth.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Blair. It would be wrong to make her any false promises, like it would be with the boys.

‘Will I see a spy in Moscow?’ said John, who did not know what his father did.

‘Maybe,’ said Blair.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

By the time Brinkman reached the apartment Harriet had realised her stupidity. She retained the door on its security chain, staring out at him – not just his face but how he was dressed, as if she wanted to establish a complete image – and keeping most of herself hidden behind the door itself.

‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘I told you, it’s about Pietr,’ he said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, pitifully too late.

‘Why did you let me up then?’

‘I misunderstood,’ she said, even more pitifully.

‘I know, Harriet,’ said Brinkman. ‘Let me in, so we can talk.’

‘Who are you?’

Brinkman anticipated the question. He took easily from his pocket his accreditation and identification, designating him a cultural attache at the British Embassy, passing it through the narrow gap to her. She hesitated and took it, reading not just the English but the Russian as well. She was extremely careful, digesting it all. She handed it back to him finally, her throat working.

‘What do you want?’ she repeated.

‘Not like this,’ said Brinkman, sure of himself. ‘Not out here in the corridor.’

There was a further hesitation and she slipped the chain, holding the door open further. Brinkman nodded his thanks and went in. It was a comparatively small apartment, one main room with a bedroom annex, an open kitchen area and beyond a door he presumed led to the bathroom. It was on an actual corner of the building, so there were windows on two sides, but it was not high enough for the view to be truly impressive. She’d obviously been preparing a meal. There was a table near the window half-laid and there were cooking sounds from the kitchen.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Hadn’t you better turn off the things on the stove?’ said Brinkman. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

‘Stop being so damned condescending and tell me what it is you have to say!’ she said, in a sudden burst of anger, as much at herself as at him.

He was sure – absolutely convinced – that he was right but at the moment of challenge Brinkman momentarily held back. Just one miscalculation, just one variance in the interpretation, and he would be doing what he told Maxwell, in London. Making a fool of himself. Trying to allow himself the widest margin possible he said, ‘We know all about you and Pietr Orlov. We know what happened here and we know what he’s trying to do in Moscow. And we want to help.’

Harriet had been holding herself stiff, defensively, but suddenly she sagged, not at this confrontation but as the tension of the past months went from her. She actually put out her hand against a chair back, for support. From her photographs and from her appearance at the United Nations Brinkman had thought her quite a tall woman but now she didn’t appear to be. She’d taken off the jacket of the suit she had been wearing, just leaving the white blouse, ruffled and laced at the neck. Her face was drained now but Brinkman guessed she would never have a lot of colour. The whiteness was accentuated by her hair, which was deeply black. She wore it strained back, like Ann had the night at the embassy when Orlov had made his approach.

‘The stove,’ he reminded. ‘You’d better turn off the stove.’

Harriet straightened, trying for her earlier forced demeanour, appeared to consider what he said and then went to the kitchen. As she came back she smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry, for behaving like I did. We thought we knew what it was going to be like but we didn’t. I didn’t at least. These last months have been hell: I don’t feel like I’ve been alive at all. I’ve felt outside of myself, watching a person called Harriet Johnson go through the motions of everyday life but not really being part of it.’

Brinkman smiled, trying for the sympathy. ‘It’ll all be over soon,’ he said. He hadn’t won yet; he hadn’t even drawn level but he was narrowing the gap every minute.

‘I thought he was going to go to the Americans,’ admitted Harriet.

Brinkman knew there was no way to disguise it, to make it pleasant. It had to be brutal and she had to hate him. Just like Orlov would hate him. It was something he had already accepted and that they were going to have to adjust to. He said, ‘He did.’

Harriet’s smile flickered uncertainly, like a faulty light, and then went out. She lowered herself into the chair against which she had earlier leaned for support and said, shaking her head, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

‘Pietr did go to the Americans. Last week, at an embassy reception.’

‘I saw the photograph…’ started Harriet and then stopped. ‘But your documentation…’

‘Is British,’ he finished for her.

‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘Please tell me what’s happening.’

‘Pietr has gone to the Americans, to defect. They’ll be making plans, to bring him across. I know they’ve withdrawn someone from their embassy in Moscow,’ said Brinkman. ‘But we don’t want Pietr to go to America. We want him to defect to Britain.’

Harriet looked up at him warily, with the beginning of suspicion. ‘You’re not working with them? You’re not cooperating with the Americans?

‘No,’ said Brinkman. ‘And we don’t want Pietr to continue doing so. Or you, if any approach is made.’

Harriet jerked up, more aware now, faced flushed. ‘Get out!’ she said. ‘Get out of my apartment. You tricked your way in here. Get out!’

Brinkman made no attempt to move. ‘We’ll match every offer the Americans will make,’ he promised. ‘You and Pietr will be completely protected. There’ll be accommodation and whatever money you want, for as long as you want. In time you’ll be set up with new identities… new everything…’

‘Why?’ she said, unable to sustain the outburst, the plea coming back into her voice. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ said Brinkman. ‘ We want Pietr.’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head more determinedly this time. ‘No. Not until I’ve had a chance to talk it over with Pietr. I won’t do anything until I know what he wants.’

‘That can’t happen,’ said Brinkman. ‘Isn’t possible.’

‘Why not?’ she demanded defiantly.

‘Because if Pietr doesn’t come to us he’s not going anywhere. You’re never going to see him again.’

‘What!’

‘You heard what I said.’

‘No,’ she said again, holding her hands together before her, as if she were praying. ‘No. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe any of this. I don’t know what you want or what you’re doing but it’s some sort of trick.’

‘It isn’t, Harriet,’ said Brinkman evenly. ‘This is the way – the only way – that you’ll ever get Pietr out of Moscow. Our way.’

She leaned forward, determined to concentrate. ‘Tell me what you mean,’ she said. ‘Tell me exactly what you mean.’

One of the highest hurdles of them all, thought Brinkman. ‘You’ve a way to contact Pietr?’ he said.

Her uncertainty was just a moment too long. ‘No,’ she said.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Pietr said it would be dangerous; too dangerous. That I had to trust him.’

‘Pity,’ said Brinkman.

‘Why?’

‘Like I said, if we can’t have him, no one’s going to.’

‘How can you stop it?’

Brinkman laughed at the innocence of her question. ‘By ensuring that the Soviet authorities come to know what’s happening, before Pietr has a chance to get out.’

‘What!’ erupted the woman.

‘You haven’t listened to me,’ remonstrated Brinkman. ‘I’ve already told you – several times – that if he doesn’t come to the British he isn’t going anywhere.’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘You prepared to take that chance?’ said Brinkman. ‘Please don’t. Because I would. Really I would.’

‘Mother-fucker!’ she shouted, the worst abscenity she could find.

‘Yes,’ agreed Brinkman, unoffended, his voice conversational.

‘But… but… I can’t believe you. I just can’t believe that anyone would think…’ Her voice trailed as her mind blocked, refusing the words to express her disgust.

‘I would,’ said Brinkman. ‘Really I would. Now, what’s the way of contacting Pietr?’

Harriet started to cry and Brinkman sat back easily, letting her. She seemed suddenly aware of his calmly being there, watching her and brought herself to a snuffling halt. She blew her nose and scrubbed her hands across her eyes. ‘Mother-fucker,’ she repeated, broken-voiced.

Brinkman let her have the last moment of defiance. ‘The system,’ he said. ‘What’s the system?’

She blew her nose a second time, composing herself. ‘Pietr knew he was going back to a favoured position…’ she began, haltingly. ‘I don’t think he anticipated what would happen – he never said so and I know he would have done – but he expected the privileges. He was allowed some here. One was books. He was allowed to keep a book account here, through the UN service. And to let it stay open, when he went back to Moscow. If there were an emergency – but only the most extreme emergency – I was to get myself a book… it didn’t matter what because if he hadn’t ordered it himself he’d know it was from me… and go through my own copy picking out letters in the third chapter that spelled out what I wanted to say. Under the letters I had to put a tiny pin-prick. When the book reached him, he’d search the third chapter and pick out the message.’

Not brilliant but not bad either, conceded Brinkman. He said, ‘How could you get the marked book back into the UN system?’

‘It had to be one with several copies in the bookshop there,’ she explained. ‘Having made my message, I had to go back and switch. Take an unmarked one for myself – for which I’d have the purchase ticket anyway – and personally hand the marked copy to the desk clerk and tell her it had to be charged to Pietr Orlov’s account.’

‘Send him a book tomorrow,’ ordered Brinkman. He wished there were something more guaranteed.

‘Saying what?’

It was a good question and he hadn’t worked it out, realised Brinkman. For safety, it had to be kept to the minimum. Just a meeting then; knowing it was from Harriet, Orlov would make a meeting. And if the KGB intercepted it, they’d keep it too. As Maxwell said, the risk was appalling. ‘Have you a paper and pen?’ he said.

While she fetched it, Brinkman tried to think of a meeting place. It had to be somewhere public, with as many people as possible. A place where Orlov could explainably be, if he were seen. Himself, too. He smiled, when it came to him. Appropriate, too. The Bolshoi was one of his favourite places, after all. When Harriet returned he printed out the name in block capitals, then paused. The place. What about the date and time? A date was impossible, because he didn’t know how long it would take the book to reach the Russian. Every Tuesday, he wrote. Then, seven-thirty, north entrance. Anything else? He looked up at the woman and said, ‘Only in an emergency?’

‘That was the arrangement,’ she said. ‘I’ve never used it.’

To the message Brinkman added ‘urgent’. Orlov would come, if he got it, Brinkman decided. It was still uncertain; too uncertain. ‘There was no other way?’ he said.

‘No,’ said the woman.

What about Harriet? thought Brinkman. Was there any need to get her out of New York? Not really. Orlov was the one who mattered. If they got him, arrangements for a reunion could be made anywhere, anywhen. Suddenly for her to disappear would only alarm the CIA and cause unnecessary ripples. What if the Agency changed the operation and made a direct approach? And she told them? A gamble, Brinkman recognised. He said, ‘You want to see Pietr again?’

‘That’s a ridiculous question.’

‘Then do what I’ve told you and we’ll get him out and he’ll be with you, for good. But try anything else… adding something extra to the message, for instance. Or imagining some protection if you make a direct approach to the Americans and I guarantee – I absolutely guarantee – that you’ll never see him again.’

Brinkman didn’t enjoy the bullying but decided it was necessary. In front of him the woman’s lip quivered, briefly, but she managed to hold back from actually breaking down.

‘What happens, when he gets out?’ she said.

‘We’ll put you together,’ said Brinkman. ‘I’ve promised you that.’

‘I meant about Pietr. Do you imagine he’ll cooperate with you – and that’s why you’re doing all this, I know, in the hope that he’ll cooperate – after what you’ve done!’

Brinkman smiled sympathetically at her attempted threat. ‘Of course he will,’ he said.

‘Don’t be a bloody fool!’ she said.

‘Don’t you be a bloody fool, Harriet. The houses in which you’ll live for the rest of your lives and the money you’ll have and the protection you’ll have will all depend on the degree of cooperation that Pietr provides. You should know what the Russians are like. How long do you think he’d survive – you’d survive – if your whereabouts became known and there was no protection?’

Harriet looked at him, eyes bulged with a combination of astonishment and horror. ‘You are,’ she said, as if she still couldn’t believe it, ‘you are an absolute fucking bastard.’

‘Don’t let me have to prove just how much of one,’ said Brinkman.

The strain was showing and because he was aware of it Orlov became further unsettled, discourteous to secretaries and chauffeurs – which he’d never been before – and unnecessarily critical to assistants and aides, blaming them for his own oversights and mistakes.

Habits had grown within habits for his regular meetings with Sevin. Determined that the agricultural policy paper should be the document firmly to establish Orlov’s ascendancy, Sevin had initiated the practice of Orlov taking for their nightly encounters draft pages for the old man to criticise and improve, until he was entirely satisfied with them.

Orlov was conscious of an attitude as soon as he entered Sevin’s quarters. The old man remained as his desk, which he normally left for the more comfortable conference area near the window. As he approached Orlov saw the last ten pages he had presented spread out in front of the other man, heavily annotated with margin notes and corrections.

‘What is it, Pietr?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘The document began so well. Clear and concise, honestly confronting the stupidity of a system of insisting upon norms from antiquated methods and machinery, without a sensible decision to suffer for two years while everything is reequipped and more land put over for private, peasant cultivation. We’ve talked it through, night after night…’ Sevin gestured disparagingly to the sheets before him. ‘This is terrible, Pietr. Your arguments ramble and are inconclusive. In at least three instances I have found your figures demonstrably wrong. What is supposed to be a treatise that will revolutionise Soviet agriculture is lapsing into the sort of meaningless polemic we’ve had and suffered from for the last fifty years.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Orlov humbly.

‘So am I,’ said Sevin. ‘Deeply sorry. This isn’t going to establish a reputation for you. It’s going to destroy one.’ Sevin left unsaid that it could destroy him, too. What the hell was wrong with the man!

‘I’ll rework it.’

‘Don’t rework it,’ refused Sevin. ‘Scrap it and start again. Which is what we’ve got to do with our agriculture.’

‘All right,’ agreed Orlov.

‘So what is it?’ prompted the old man again. ‘Is there a problem?’

Orlov searched desperately for an excuse, hating himself for it when it came. ‘The divorce,’ he said. ‘It’s amicable, to a degree. But it’s always upsetting. You said so yourself.’

Upsetting, thought Sevin: but not to this degree. And if it were true, what sort of leader would Orlov make if a simple thing like a divorce anyway so distressed the man. Had he missed something? worried Sevin. If he had, then it was too late; his sponsorship was known now, to those who mattered. It was impossible to withdraw without losing his position of influence on the Politburo and that was all Sevin lived for any more. He said urgently, ‘The marriage is over. Accept it. Put it behind you and start concentrating upon the important thing. Your future.’

‘That’s what I am thinking of,’ said Orlov. ‘My future.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Ann’s affair with Jeremy Brinkman created claustrophobia within claustrophobia: she hadn’t felt able to breathe or think or move. So he had been right, about his absence giving her time to think. She’d accustomed if not adjusted to the greater claustrophobia – Moscow – but without Jeremy and without Eddie the tighter feeling had gone. She’d been able to examine things – everything – calmly and clearly. She thought. She did love both. If that wasn’t usual then it wasn’t usual but for her it was possible. And real love; not dependence upon Eddie and the excitement of the illicit with Jeremy. So it came down to whom she loved better. Which it always had, she supposed. She’d been wrong – so very wrong – treating Eddie as she had. He should have discussed staying on – she did deserve that – but she’d been unjustified raging as she had. Remorse, for what else was happening. And she deserved to feel remorseful. He was kind and gentle and he did love her, like he’d said just before he left for Washington. And she believed he’d never cheated on her and never told her a lie; not an important, mattering-between-them sort of lie. It served her right, after the way she’d been behaving, if he were being drawn back to Ruth. Had she tried hard enough, with Moscow? She thought she had – she didn’t know what else she could have done but she wasn’t completely sure. Maybe what she hadn’t done was talk it through enough with Eddie. She thought he’d known but he clearly hadn’t. If she’d talked it out with him then maybe he wouldn’t have made the commitment in Washington, last time. But he had and now she had to live with it. Or did she? He’d told her she didn’t have to. Which had frightened her, she admitted. The thought of being alone frightened her and the told-you-it-wouldn’t-work attitude of her family frightened her. Like her love for Jeremy frightened her. If only he hadn’t come to Moscow in the first place! And hadn’t been so much fun and been to Cambridge like she had and known the city like she did and liked ballet like she did and that night they hadn’t… Ann halted the torrent, confronting the effort to avoid the responsibility. He had come to Moscow and he had done all those things and they had done all those things and now she loved him, too. Did he love her, like he said he did? She had no way of knowing. He was funnier than Eddie – even when Eddie was trying, which he didn’t very often any more – and more comfortable at dinner parties and wonderful in bed but if she were comparing- which was what she had to do, surely? – she felt that Jeremy was the harder of the two. Ann tried to make the equation a different way. Given the choice, between her and his career, which would Jeremy choose? As she posed the question she realised she already knew how Eddie would choose and then decided that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t completely known. Jeremy did. Ann suspected it would still be the career for Jeremy. But wasn’t that how it should be? No. Or maybe yes. She didn’t know. Dear God, she thought desperately, why did every hopeful answer produce two more unanswerable questions?

Maybe alone in Moscow with Eddie would help resolve everything. She was glad he was coming back today and she was glad Jeremy was still away, so there wouldn’t be any pressure. Maybe she’d have the chance to show Eddie she was sorry and he’d be able to tell her what he’d meant by that strange conversation, the evening he left.

She made an effort, for Blair’s homecoming. The apartment never needed much preparation but she arranged fresh flowers and set the meal after his airport call, so it was ready by the time he arrived. She kissed him, trying to show him how she felt, and said she’d missed him, which she had. He kissed her back and said he’d missed her, too, which in truth he hadn’t because he had been too busy.

Having brought her so much returning from the last trip he had not been able to think of anything better than an assortment of the sort of chocolates which were unavailable in Moscow and she was delighted and said they were super.

When they sat down to eat she said, ‘So how was Paul?’

‘OK,’ said Blair, prepared during the homeward flight. ‘He started getting careless, staying out so that his mother didn’t know where he was and so she asked the counsellors for help. There was a thought that he’d have to go back before the court but we managed to scare him against doing it again.’ Practically all true and it sounded better than last time, he thought.

‘Eddie?’

‘What?’

‘What did you mean, the night you went away? About things not being as bad as I thought they were.’

Blair had guessed she’d come back to it: Christ she must hate Moscow. ‘The leadership’s settled,’ he said, prepared for this too. ‘Chebrakin’s in charge and all the indications are that he’s a strong man who’ll make changes and stay there. I talked things through this time and everyone agreed with me. My agreement to stay on stands, if necessary, but the fresh thought is that we won’t have to. That we’ll leave on time.’

Ann’s face was set, in her disappointment. By herself, able to fantasise and conjecture, she’d imagined something far more positive. ‘So we could still stay?’

Blair shook his head, wishing he could give her more but knowing he’d given her too much already. ‘I told you, there’s been a change of mind.’

‘And could be again?’ Stop it, she told herself.

‘I don’t think there will be,’ he said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. Knowing the downward spiral of the subject and wanting to change it he said, ‘What happened, while I was away?’

‘Jeremy’s gone back to London.’

Blair looked intently up from his food, frowning. ‘Recalled?’

She nodded.

‘When?’ asked Blair.

‘Day or two after you went to Washington,’ she said carelessly.

‘Did he say why?’ It was a too eager question, he knew, but the man might have said something.

‘Not a thing,’ said the woman. ‘Just that it was going to be a quick trip.’

‘But he’s not back yet?’

‘Not as far as I know…’ She hesitated, smiling. ‘Betty Harrison hasn’t reported in, so I guess he hasn’t.’

‘Not much of a quick trip then?’

‘No,’ said Ann. Thank God, she thought. What had she decided; really decided? Nothing, she realised. She said, ‘It’s good to have you home.’ She paused and added, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘About what?’ he said, knowing but guessing she’d rehearsed the apology and wanting to give her the opportunity.

‘Being such a bitch. I know I have been and I’m really sorry.’

‘Let’s forget it,’ he said.

‘Can you forget it?’

‘For you I can do most things,’ he said.

That night they made love, better than it had been for a long time, Ann’s passion a part of her saying sorry. She made more demands than she knew she should have done, considering his tiredness after the flight and could have gone on but finally she let him sleep, which he did, heavily. She lay awake beside him, wet from his wetness, knowing that she loved him. Please, she thought, refusing to confront reality again, please let Jeremy Brinkman never come back to Moscow.

The pick-up and the surveillance from Sheremetyevo was smooth and efficient. Sokol was informed by one of the following radio cars into the capital, so he was able to build up the ground force around the foreigners’ enclave in advance of Blair’s actual arrival, which was twice radioed into Dzerzhinsky Square, once from the pursuit car and again from the transmission vehicle already in place and anxious to prove itself. News had already filtered through, of what had happened to the others that failed. Sokol sat contentedly, gazing down at the proof of his personally devised observation, a spider assured that all the flies would settle where he wanted, to be trapped.

Chapter Thirty

And still Blair beat the surveillance, because that was how good he was. He emerged on to Chaykovskovo on foot, in apparent determination, imagining he located two cars in addition to the usual embassy observation but not being absolutely sure and uncaring, because it wasn’t necessary for him to bother. He made his way towards the inevitable Red Square and actually stopped to watch the perpetual line of visitors patiently queuing to view the supposed mummified remains of Lenin, went in one door of GUM and straight out of another and caught the first taxi that stopped back to the embassy. His passage through the building was as quick as it had been through the department store, observedly in through one of the front entrances, directly through to the back which had already been cleared of any imposed Soviet cleaning staff and into the rear of a waiting car driven by one of the CIA-cleared secretaries. Blair lay prostrated, covered by his own topcoat and then a blanket and actually emerged through the gates again while the accounts of his safe and unencountered return were being radioed to Sokol in Dzerzhinsky Square. Blair remained crouched for almost a mile – ignoring the first encouragement from the driver that it was all right to get up – finally leaving the vehicle near Pushkinskaya Metro. Still careful, he went three times through the ritual of route disembarkation and reboarding. Despite the precautions, Blair permitted himself more than sufficient time and reached Krasnaya early, taking that day’s issue of Pravda and settling himself on a different bench than before, hoping that he was unobtrusive and would merge into the surroundings of the park. There was no assurance that Orlov would be able to make the meeting – which was why they’d made the elastic arrangements they had – but the American knew that if he had to report a non-appearance to Langley, they’d fall out of their tree. In the intervening two days since his return from Washington, the unanswerable queries and messages had been pointlessly irritating. He’d expected them to have more control than they were showing and guessed he was the shuttlecock in the game of headquarters politics. He wondered what plans were being made in Washington – plans he had no need to know – to gain the maximum advantage out of Orlov’s defection. There’d been someone of Orlov’s ambassadorial rank to defect – once – but never someone actually on the Central Committee. They’d drain the defection – and the man – until there was nothing else to get. Blair hoped Harriet Johnson was worth it.

Blair saw the Russian coming, although he gave no reaction, detecting just the slightest sign of increased confidence, as if Orlov were becoming accustomed to the subterfuge. It was right that the man shouldn’t be quite so nervous but Blair hoped his emotions didn’t swing too far the other way, into over-confidence.

Orlov seated himself and started to read from the same newspaper. Blair realised at once that it looked obvious and closed and folded his own edition.

‘Is everything arranged?’ demanded Orlov, always the first edgy question.

‘Yes,’ assured Blair. Perhaps the man was still as nervous, after all.

‘When? How?’

The American set out the contingencies in detail, wanting to impress Orlov with the importance they attached to his defection and the care they were taking to ensure it would succeed.

‘I do not like the idea of trying to make a crossing into Finland,’ said Orlov, at once.

‘Neither do we,’ said Blair. ‘It’s a fall back if it can’t be done any other way.’

‘To form part of an overseas delegation would be best,’ agreed Orlov.

‘Is it possible for you to arrange?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted the Russian. ‘It would have to be done carefully: not hurried. So it would mean a greater delay than I wanted.’

‘Surely the important thing is to make the crossing safely?’ said Blair. ‘We don’t gain anything by trying to hurry and risking interception.’ Blair was conscious of the other man physically shuddering beside him, at the prospect of arrest.

‘Yes,’ said Orlov. ‘The important thing is safety.’

‘So you will try to get on to an overseas delegation?’

‘Yes,’ said Orlov.

Sensing the doubt in the Russian’s voice, Blair said, ‘If it looks difficult…’ Remembering Langley’s anxiety, he added ‘… or that it will take too long, then maybe we should consider a border incursion.’

‘That would be extremely dangerous, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ replied Blair honestly.

‘It must be a delegation,’ said Orlov, more to himself than to the American. He looked briefly sideways and said, ‘Nothing has been done to involve Harriet?’

Blair was glad it was Orlov who raised the subject of the girl. He said, ‘No. We’re doing exactly as you asked. But why? Tell me why you are so adamant against our putting her under some of kind of protection.’

‘At the end, towards the very end, I suspected I was under some sort of surveillance: that our relationship had become known…’ Orlov looked quickly sideways again. ‘You know how the Soviet delegations are watched, of course?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know how they’re watched.’ Shit, he thought, why hadn’t the damned man told him this before? But then, why hadn’t he asked?

‘If they did suspect… and Harriet were unaccountably to disappear from where she should be… I might be put under surveillance here. So nothing would work.’

Automatically Blair gazed around the midday park. He said, ‘If there had been any reason to doubt you then you would not have got the promotion, would you?’

‘I try to convince myself by the same reasoning,’ said Orlov. ‘As I said, I only suspected. Once a strange conversation with a man whom I knew to be KGB. Maybe it was nothing. I just don’t want to take the slightest chance.’

His own people would have detected any Soviet surveillance on the woman, Blair thought, in attempted reassurance. And would the Soviets have considered it necessary anyway, with Orlov back in Moscow? It created an added uncertainty. Definitely one about which Langley should be warned. It would make the temperature go up a few more degrees, he thought. He said, ‘There isn’t a risk. We’ve made no approach to the woman.’

‘What happens now?’ asked Orlov, seeking guidance.

‘That depends upon you,’ said Blair. ‘You must try to get on a delegation.’

Orlov nodded, as if reminded. ‘We will keep these meetings?’

‘Yes,’ said Blair. They’d have to change the venue soon but he decided Krasnaya was still safe, for the moment.

‘I’ll risk Finland if it looks like taking too long. I don’t think I can go on, for a lengthy period,’ confessed Orlov.

Blair looked worriedly at the Russian, aware for the first time of the strain etched into the man’s face. He might outwardly appear confident but it was egg-shell thin, Blair decided. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying to placate Orlov. ‘It’s all going to work. Finland won’t be as easy as a delegation but there’s a huge back-up. We’ll get you out.’

‘I so much want that,’ said Orlov distantly. ‘I so much want to get out.’

When Orlov returned to his office that afternoon the consignment of books he was allowed from the West, as part of his privileges, were unpacked and neatly arranged on a side table beside his main desk. There was one he hadn’t ordered.

Chapter Thirty-One

In his belated excitement Maxwell talked too fast and was uncoordinated and smoked haphazardly. Once, remembered Brinkman, he’d liked and admired the man. It was difficult, now.

‘Fantastic!’ enthused Maxwell. ‘Absolutely fantastic. I knew it was going to work!’

Asshole, thought Brinkman. He hadn’t done all that he had and got this far to have an asshole like Maxwell take the credit. And he’d make bloody sure it didn’t happen. He said, ‘Nothing’s worked, yet. He’s still got to make contact and we’ve still got to get him across.’

‘There’s a lot to be done,’ agreed Maxwell. ‘You’ll need help.’

‘Not in Moscow,’ refused Brinkman at once. The accolades were going to be all his there, unshared by anyone. He wondered if Blair had been put under the same sort of pressure. He argued against an attempt to get more people into Russia – ironically using the same reasoning as Blair – but Maxwell wasn’t so easily dissuaded.

‘It may be necessary,’ the deskman insisted. ‘We’ll start the formalities, as a precaution. If the need arises, we’ll be in a position to move.’

He couldn’t dispute the commonsense of that, Brinkman realised. He said, ‘I’ll want full back-up outside.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ assured Maxwell.

And ensure that he would be seen by everyone to have provided it, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’

‘Depends how it goes between you and Orlov,’ pointed out Maxwell. ‘SAS snatch squads, I would have thought. Full logistical support. I’ll do a complete memorandum to the Director today. He’ll probably want to raise it before the Security Committee. Maybe the Cabinet.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’ asked Brinkman. Maxwell’s name would be on every damned thing, he knew: initiator, planner, organiser and genius. Bloody asshole.

‘No, no,’ said Maxwell, quickly. ‘The message might be quite quick in reaching Orlov: it’s one of the uncertainties. I want you back there as soon as possible. Tonight.’

‘I was thinking of seeing my father,’ said Brinkman. The reminder might curb some of the other man’s extravagant claims.

‘No time for social gatherings; come on Jeremy! Don’t you realise how important this is!’

If he hadn’t witnessed it himself Brinkman thought he would have had difficulty believing the transformation in the other man’s attitudes. ‘All right,’ he said. He’d made no plans to see the old man.

Maxwell had smiled a lot, in anticipation, but now he became serious-faced. ‘You’re going to be at the sharp end all the time,’ he warned. ‘We’ll do everything we can, of course, but it all depends on you…’ The division chief paused for the familiar injunction. ‘So be careful. Be very, very careful. Don’t forget what I said before. If anything goes wrong we’ve got a major international incident.’

Maybe Maxwell wouldn’t try to take everything for himself; not at this stage anyway. Brinkman guessed the man would lay the groundwork for later glory, but involve him, too, in case there were the need to apportion blame. ‘I understand,’ he said.

‘Get back there, Jeremy,’ said Maxwell, like the rugby cheerleader Brinkman suspected him of being on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Get back there and make it work for all of us.’

Maxwell wasn’t a serious threat, Brinkman reasoned, on the flight back to Moscow. He’d try for that glory, of course – although taking out the necessary protection – but he wouldn’t be able to disguise who made it work. Like Maxwell himself said, there was only going to be one man at the sharp end, taking all the risks. Jeremy Brinkman. And everyone – the important ones at least – would recognise that soon enough. Maybe better to let Maxwell make the effort, laying out sufficient rope with which to hang himself. He wouldn’t be able to remain in Moscow. So why not head of the Russian desk? He’d proved himself able, a dozen times over. Getting Orlov out would be the culmination – and confirmation – of brilliant Soviet expertise. He hadn’t imagined headquarters, quite so soon: traditionally he was much too young. But what else was there? Washington was a recognised stepping stone but he certainly wouldn’t be acceptable there if it all worked out. And there was nowhere else that particularly attracted him; anywhere else would be marking time and Brinkman had never had any intention of marking time.

And Washington might be unacceptable for other reasons, he thought. Ann had been given enough time to decide. And Brinkman knew she loved him. As much as he loved her. Consciously Brinkman stemmed the growing belief, remembering her agonised outburst about loving them both. Brinkman was sure she no longer loved Eddie Blair. What she felt for Blair was a mixture of loyalty and kindness and dependence; and a reluctance, too, to break everything apart having gone through the traumatic divorce. But not love. Brinkman knew how to tilt the balance, to make her reach the right decision. When he got Orlov out of Russia, the leadership after Chebrakin became the biggest guessing game in town. Blair would be kept in Moscow for years, sticking pins into a list of names. Brinkman was convinced it wouldn’t take Ann more than minutes to make up her mind when he told her how long she was likely to remain there if she stayed with Blair.

Brinkman wanted to call her the moment he got to his apartment but he controlled the impatience, not knowing if Blair had returned from Washington ahead of him and unwilling to get involved in a probing conversation with the man if he answered the telephone. Instead he waited until the following day, reaching Blair at the embassy and arranging to have lunch with him there. Having placed Blair at the embassy, and knowing he would remain there to keep their appointment, Brinkman called Ann and said he wanted to see her. Her attempted objection, that she was going out, surprised him but he bulldozed over her, insisting that it was important and that he could only remain a few moments anyway.

She kissed him when he entered her apartment but Brinkman thought he detected a reservation about that, too.

‘What’s so important?’ she said.

‘I thought you would have known that.’

‘Please!’ she said. ‘Let’s have a rest from that for a moment.’

‘There isn’t time.’

Ann had been looking away, refusing to meet his gaze. She turned to him now, curiously. ‘Why not?’

‘I might be leaving Moscow; being withdrawn.’

Ann felt the relief move through her. Without him here everything would be so much easier. There would only be one problem – the big problem – if Jeremy weren’t here. ‘Wonderful!’ she said, a reaction to her own feelings.

‘I want you to come with me.’

Ann shook her head. ‘I can’t. I’ve thought about it and I can’t.’

‘You can,’ insisted Brinkman, refusing her refusal. ‘I know how you feel about Eddie: what it would mean to you. But in the end, when it was all over, you know you’d be happier with me.’

‘No’. Why wouldn’t he just go away? Go away before she weakened and changed her mind and ended up as confused as she’d been before they both left on their trips.

Should he tell her, about Moscow? Not yet, Brinkman decided. He still hadn’t got Orlov yet: still a lot to do. He’d have to let her know – hint at least – something of what might be happening, to convince her he was telling the truth and it was inevitable she’d challenge Blair about not going back and it would all become confused. And more importantly, dangerous. ‘Think about it some more,’ he urged. ‘Think about what it would be like.’

‘I have,’ she said.

Misunderstanding, he said, ‘So you know it would work out.’

‘Give me more time,’ she pleaded again, her well-worn retreat.

‘I’ve told you,’ reminded Brinkman. ‘There isn’t much. I’m leaving here and I don’t want to go without you.’

Brinkman was slightly late arriving at the American embassy so they didn’t stay in Blair’s office but went immediately to the cafeteria.

‘How was London?’ asked Blair.

‘Good to be back, after so long,’ said Brinkman. The story prepared he said, ‘I had to go before a promotion board and there was some discussion about the next posting.’

‘Must be pleased about the way things have turned out here then?’

‘Seems like it,’ said Brinkman. ‘How was Washington?’

His story prepared, Blair said, ‘It was a personal thing: my first wife is having some problems with our eldest boy.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Brinkman, automatically.

‘It’ll work out,’ said Blair.

‘Wonder how long it’ll be before things start moving here again,’ said Brinkman.

‘There’s no way of telling,’ said the American.

Harriet had considered disobeying the Englishman’s instructions about adding to the message, knowing there was nothing physically he could do to stop her, but then she remembered the threat and the way he had looked when he made it and decided he’d meant it. So she’d done what she was told. Bastard, she thought.

As the days passed, however, she rationalised her attitude, accepting something – the most important thing – that was happening. Pietr was coming! He’d got the divorce to protect Natalia. And the promotions and the acclaim hadn’t meant as much to him as she did and so he was coming! Which made it right. ‘Everything that America would give you,’ the motherfucking son-of-a-bitch had promised. America had seemed obvious, because she was there and Pietr knew the country. But he’d adjust easily enough to England. They both would. The most important thing was that they would be together and she’d happily live in a tent in the middle of a jungle, just to be with him. And he was coming; she knew he was coming.

Harriet was aware she should be patient – God, hadn’t she been patient enough already! – but now that she was sure it was more difficult than before. Coming! she thought, her mind blocked by a single word. She loved him so much.

Brinkman evaded the surveillance by a combination of expertise and luck. The expertise was the adherence – like Blair had earlier adhered – to standard training. The luck came from Sokol’s decision to concentrate upon the American – who was proveably known to have cleared his trail and made two visits to Washington – and withdraw the earlier intended complement assigned to the Englishman to reinforce what the Russian considered more important. Brinkman set out simply to avoid the customary, usually laughed-at foreign observation, utilising the edict that people schooled to watch can be lulled into expectation. Anticipating that those at the compound would prepare for him to leave by car for the embassy on Morisa Toreza, because that was what he always did, he set out on foot, instead. The ridiculously easy ploy created immediate confusion and he increased it by his subsequent action. The depleted surveillance group split, one squad going after him, the other hurrying directly and pointlessly by car to the embassy – another anticipation – to warn those already in place and to supplement them, not at that stage desperately worried because they were still confident Brinkman’s obvious destination was the British legation. It left only seven men in pursuit, two of whom Brinkman lost at the first of the three obligatory metro disembarkations and two more of whom he slipped before regaining street level. By the time Brinkman reached the Ulitza Gor’kova, just before the cinema towards which he was heading, he was quite alone.

He succeeded in getting a seat in the rear of the auditorium, giving himself a view of those coming directly after him, just to be sure and after thirty minutes relaxed, quite satisfied.

It was a typical production from the Soviet Film Institute, an achingly boring parable involving loyal peasants striving against overwhelming odds during an invasion which appeared to be Prussian from the uniforms but was never made quite clear, with much hill-climbing and flag-planting to indicate gained ground. Brinkman allowed the time to pass confidently cocooned and increasingly bored by the repeated saga. He was sure that evening’s ballet would be much more exciting: it was unfortunate he wasn’t going to be able to see it. Would Orlov have received the message, he wondered?

Chapter Thirty-Two

Brinkman quit the cinema with several hours to go before his eagerly-hoped encounter with Pietr Orlov, with things to do before actually reaching the Bolshoi: as he walked back down the Ulitza Gor’kova, he reflected that if Orlov didn’t make today’s meeting, the day wouldn’t have been entirely wasted. On impulse he chose a kiosk on Gor’kova, but then spread the contact points, selecting kiosks at random and over a wide area, on Oktyabr’skaya at street level and then in the metro station itself, another at the far end of Leninskiy Prospekt and then allowing a gap, not bothering with any further kiosks until he reached Ulitza Dostoyevskovo. He listed one there and another on Kommuny and decided that was sufficient: he could always add, if it were necessary.

He was still early at the theatre. The performance was a revival of Don Quixote, created in the specialised Soviet narrative form and Brinkman particularly wanted to see it. He supposed he could always apply for tickets through the embassy, if Orlov didn’t make the meeting and there was the need to come again. But Brinkman was reluctant to link attention between himself and the ballet because of the clandestine purpose for which he’d designated it and knew that all official applications were monitored.

Reluctantly it seemed that Don Quixote would have to go on tilting at windmills without his appreciation. It had been a hurried decision in the Manhattan apartment but Brinkman was pleased with it. The crowds were building up, people ebbing and eddying throughout the expansive, ornate foyer, creating a swirl of concealment. Brinkman allowed himself to be moved with the tide, always remaining near the north side but not standing around, as if he were even innocently awaiting someone to join him. Brinkman realised he would be fortunate if it happened soon; if it happened at all. He frowned at the doubt. If Orlov had received the book, then it would happen. He was sure she’d put the message in it. Because of the CIA surveillance he had not been able actually to go through the procedure with her – even to be seen around the United Nations again – but he’d made the same sort of confident entrance the second night as he had the first to her apartment block and they’d talked again and Brinkman was convinced she had done what he’d told her, precisely how he’d told her. So Orlov would definitely come if he’d got the book. So what if he hadn’t? It became a waiting game, to see if the Americans could get their escape organised before he – through Harriet – had the opportunity to screw it all up. Except that at the pace at which he was working and the pace at which he knew the Americans would be moving, it could hardly be described as waiting. Which was what he was doing now. Hopefully.

The tide of people began to flow into the theatre, taking away his cover and Brinkman moved near a pillar. There was still quite a crowd around but Brinkman felt naked and exposed. Perhaps not as good as he had thought. In fifteen minutes they would all be inside and he would be entirely obvious, an actual object of attention, the reverse of what he wanted. He’d have to go before then: certainly if he wanted to use it as a meeting spot again. Which he did, because he had no other.

Orlov came curiously through the foyer, his coat not checked although over his arm in readiness, programme notes already purchased and thoughtfully – cleverly – in his hand. It would have been difficult to imagine the Russian as anything other than a genuine ballet lover, if he were under surveillance.

Orlov had no reason to know – or imagine – why he was there, remembered Brinkman. He moved out, through the rapidly thinning crowd, not to intercept the Russian but to move parallel and just slightly ahead of him, so that Orlov would see him approaching. Orlov gave no sign of recognition until just before Brinkman spoke, a frown of half-recollection, deepening at full memory as soon as he heard the words.

‘The American embassy,’ said Brinkman. With only seconds and therefore the need immediately to snare the other man, he went on, ‘The night you made the approach to Blair. I’ve seen Harriet, Comrade Orlov. I spoke to her a few days ago, in New York. She’s very anxious to see you again. I’ve promised her I’ll make that possible.’

Brinkman broke away without waiting for a reaction, moving not towards the body of the theatre, the direction in which the latecomers were going, but through the last exit door out on to Sverdlova, anxious for the sudden darkness. It should have worked but he didn’t know if it would. He’d been quite sure until the actual moment of approach but now he wasn’t. He didn’t know what he would do – what he could do – if Orlov didn’t follow.

But he did.

Brinkman was conscious of the footsteps – if it were an arrest there would be more than one man, surely! – and then the Russian drew level and reached out, to stop him.

‘What is it? What does it mean?’ demanded Orlov.

He’d made the catch, thought Brinkman. Was this exhausted but triumphant feeling the sensation that fishermen felt landing a game fish after a battle that seemed as if it would never end? It was an intrusive, indulgently dramatic thought and Brinkman put it irritably aside, knowing that he had to establish control from the outset. ‘We’re going towards Red Square,’ he pointed out. ‘I think we should walk the other way don’t you?’

Obediently Orlov turned. Practically gaffed, thought Brinkman. ‘It means that the British want to offer you everything that the Americans have,’ he said. ‘I know it all. Why you want to defect… that you intend to defect. We want you to change your plans. Come with us. Not the Americans.’

‘That is not possible… there are already preparations…’ started Orlov but Brinkman cut him off, determined for supremacy. ‘It is possible. The preparations you’ve already made must be broken. If they’re not, you’ll never see Harriet again.’

Orlov stopped, turning to him. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Brinkman told him. He knew the words now, because he’d set it out to Maxwell and to Harriet and to Maxwell again and Orlov listened in complete silence. ‘I’m not interested in your telling me what you think of me personally,’ concluded Brinkman. ‘Harriet did that… used all the words. I actually agreed with her. It’s just the way it’s got to be.’

Orlov didn’t waste his time on unnecessary anger and Brinkman was grateful. ‘Who says it’s the way it’s got to be?’ the Russian demanded.

‘We do,’ said Brinkman. ‘Please don’t be resentful. I know it’s going to be difficult, at first. But I mean what I say. We’ll provide everything that the Americans would have done. Maybe more. You will be safe and Harriet will be safe. Eventually, if you decide you don’t like England, it would probably be possible for you to go on to America.’

‘After you think you’ve got everything from me that it’s possible to get?’ said Orlov.

‘Yes,’ said Brinkman at once, maintaining brutal honesty. ‘After we think we’ve got every last thing it’s possible to get from you. I’ve been utterly and completely truthful with you. I don’t know – or care – what the Americans have told you. You know what you’re doing and you know what we want for helping you… for making it possible. I want you to believe me. And I want you to believe me when I say that if you don’t come with me then you won’t go with anyone.’

‘Do you enjoy what you do, Mr Brinkman?’

‘I’m prepared to argue philosophy and morals if you want to,’ said Brinkman, easily. ‘Would you like to argue the morality of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan? Or the psychiatric prisons in which you incarcerate and make mindless your dissidents? Or the Siberian gulags? All right, you are not personally involved. Governments and members of those governments never are. In America there’s even an accepted phrase, freeing the President from any culpability for anything that goes wrong and becomes public knowledge. It’s called plausible denial. I’m the sort of person who’s denied and cast aside, if anything does go wrong. Despite knowing which, yes, I like it. I’m not doing you any harm, Comrade Orlov. You want to cross to the West to be with someone you love and I’m making that possible for you. I don’t see anything to be ashamed of in that.’

‘You evaded the criticism and you know it,’ said Orlov. ‘I was talking about your threats, if I don’t agree to cooperate with you.’

‘What are you prepared to do, to get to the West? demanded Brinkman.

Orlov considered the question. ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘I am quite determined.’

‘Which is what I am, professionally determined,’ said Brinkman. ‘So I am prepared to do what needs to be done, to achieve the objective.’

‘Do you know what would happen to me, if you exposed me to the authorities?’

The last time he’d walked along this road it had been with Ann, remembered Brinkman. He said, ‘Yes, I know what would happen to you. And so do you. Which is why I know, after you’ve made the protests and the arguments, you’ll do exactly as I say.’

‘Yes,’ conceded Orlov, sag-shouldered. ‘I suppose I will, won’t I? There’s really no alternative, is there?’

‘Not now, no,’ said Brinkman. ‘But it isn’t as if you aren’t achieving what you want, is it?’

‘Should I be comforted by that?’

‘I don’t see why not.’ Brinkman paused, then demanded, ‘Tell me all the arrangements you’ve so far reached with the Americans. All the plans that have been made.’

It took a long time and before Orlov had finished they had walked a considerable distance from the centre of the city and actually turned back upon themselves. When Orlov finished Brinkman said, ‘What about a delegation?’

‘It hasn’t been possible, not yet. The occasion hasn’t occurred even to make discussing it possible.’

‘It’s the best way, so try for that if you can,’ said Brinkman. ‘Somewhere in the East if actually getting out into Western Europe isn’t possible. I’ll ensure that London create an incursion operation to get you out, if a delegation is not possible.’

‘You are so similar, to the American,’ said Orlov.

We even share the same wife, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘You must break all contact, of course. No more meetings.’

‘What if his response is to do what you threaten?’

‘It won’t be,’ said Brinkman, confidently. ‘He won’t know you’re with me. He’ll imagine some internal difficulty.’

‘Which could arise,’ said Orlov.

‘How?’ asked Brinkman, his confidence dipping.

Orlov recounted the fears of his affair with Harriet being suspected and a danger arising if she were contacted and in the darkness Brinkman smiled to himself, the reason why the Americans had not put the woman under agreed protection finally explained. He wasn’t behind in the race any more, he thought. He was way out ahead and could actually see the finishing line, with the white tape stretched out invitingly. He said, ‘No one was aware of my approaching her. If the KGB had known, they wouldn’t have let the book reach you. And if they had, we’d have both been arrested by now.’

Orlov stared abruptly around him, at the realisation. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right.’

‘So there’s no danger to Harriet and there’s no danger to you. You’re going to get out, like you want to.’

‘I suppose you’ll want to maintain this sort of contact?’ said Orlov wearily.

‘Contact,’ agreed Brinkman. ‘But not personal meetings, like Blair wanted. They’re too dangerous…’ He took the Russian’s hand and placed in it a list of the public telephone numbers he’d laboriously copied after leaving the cinema. ‘They’re all street kiosks,’ Brinkman explained. ‘All untraceable. We’ll keep Tuesdays. Every Tuesday, at three o’clock precisely, you telephone me, starting with the number at the top of the list I’ve given you. If there’s a problem, wait until the succeeding Tuesday, at the same time, and move one number down. There’ll be no proveable connection between us: you’ll be quite safe.’

Brinkman was conscious of the other man nodding, in the darkness. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘That’s very good. I was getting extremely frightened, having to make personal meetings.’

‘The only purpose of the calls will be for you to tell me that you’ve succeeded in getting on a delegation. Once you do, I’ll set everything up.’

Orlov sighed. ‘I understand,’ he said.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ said Brinkman, trying to encourage the other man.

Orlov stopped walking again and turned to confront the Englishman. ‘I’m sick of hearing that,’ he said. ‘And phrases like that. Shall I tell you something, Mr Brinkman? I know I’m trapped now. Trapped without any possibility of going back. But if I had that opportunity I think I would. I think I’d abandon Harriet and remain in Russia.’

It was difficult – almost impossible in the first, gut-churning hours – for Sokol to subdue his fear-driven fury. But he did. It would have been easy but pointless to punish the street men, like he’d punished the others. It was his fault, for not taking personal charge to the point of face-to-face briefings and control room command, leaving it instead to subordinates who in turn left it to the ground personnel. Embassy surveillance was regarded within the serice as the most menial – although it shouldn’t have been -the place for rejects from other departments. Which was an attitude he’s also known and disregarded. No mistakes, Sokol remembered. And he’d gone on making them. Would it be possible to catch up?

Chapter Thirty-Three

With Sokol in personal control, the surveillance was complete. There were rotating squads attached to Blair and Brinkman, the schedule devised so that at no time, day or night, did the number in those squads fall below thirty men. Each group was supported – again on a twenty-four hour basis – by a fleet of radio cars which were linked through individual studio vans. There were disguised television vehicles employed whenever possible, picturing the Englishman and the American as they moved openly about the city. On the first Friday Blair tried to leave the embassy by the same method as before but this time every vehicle was followed and he was seen getting out on the Ulitza Neglinnaya. Before the American successfully crossed and entered the foyer of the Metropole Hotel, going into his avoidance pattern, the alarm had been raised. The central control room in Dzerzhinsky Square was the centrepiece of the voice traffic and Sokol worked from there, a map spread out before him to coordinate the operation. He swamped the Sverdlova area, bringing in all his prepared units. The vast building was surrounded, twenty people in place and more en route, when Blair emerged from the west door on to the Marksa Prospekt and started north, towards Ostankino. He was identified immediately and around him formed a phalanx of unseen, unrealised watchers. By the time Blair reached the main metro station serving Dzerzhinsky Square a television van was in place but it was useless because Blair ducked down into the underground system.

From his command post ironically less than half a mile from where Blair was moving Sokol muttered to the attentive technicians. ‘Got him! This time we’ve got him!’

The Russian snapped his fingers expectantly and was obediently handed another map, this time of the underground system. Sokol gave his instructions over the radio crisply and concisely, identifying the interchange points from which Blair might try to switch, moving cars and men to them to be ready above and below ground: within minutes one of the men who had descended into Dzerzhinskaya emerged to report through the waiting radio the direction in which Blair caught the underground train and Sokol began to track the American’s route on the map, with a wax pencil.

Blair was vaguely aware that for the time of the day the carriages seemed more crowded than normal and he wrinkled his nose at the cabbage smell that seemed so pervasive in the city. The seeming indigenous smell had worried him when he first arrived but now – apart from rare occasions like this – he ceased to notice it. Ann still smelled it, of course. Poor Ann; Blair reckoned that she could recite every disadvantage of the Soviet capital, without missing one. Blair made his first move at Kropotkinskaya, alert for anyone who followed. Three people did but only one remained on the platform and Blair hung back, letting the man take the next train without attempting to board it himself. He got confidently on to the second connection, unaware that the two who had hurried up the stairs had done so to alert four more at ground level who came down in time to follow the American on to the train. Blair disembarked again at Arbatskaya and climbed to street level, setting off down Suvorovskiy Boulevard and abruptly hailing a taxi, which would have worked had the surveillance been less complete. As it was there were two radio-linked cars able to alternate the pursuit and give -literally-a running commentary back to Sokol at the KGB headquarters. Sokol moved his pencil from the underground to the street map.

‘Staying close to the river,’ he realised. At once to the people around him, he said, ‘Get a boat.’

Blair paid his cab off on the Ulitza Bol’shiye Kamenshchiki, going at once underground again but only for a short journey this time, emerging once again at Kiyevskaya and walking the remaining distance to the park.

‘Krasnaya!’ identified Sokol triumphantly, as the pencil stopped its movement. ‘Encircle it,’ he ordered. ‘I want people moved in carefully, replacing any staff there. Attendants, sweepers. Everyone.’

In the park Blair settled himself near the archer statue, feigning to read his copy of Pravda. How long would it all take? he wondered. It could be weeks – months possibly – before Orlov could get on to a delegation. He hoped it wasn’t months. He wanted to resolve things with Ann quicker than that. And the problems could be resolved. He knew they could. Everything could be resolved and they could be happy again, if they had the chance. It was only Moscow. He’d be glad to get out, now. Once he’d regarded it as the most important posting of his career – which it undoubtedly was – but now he regarded settling things with Ann as more important.

Blair checked his watch, seeing there were only fifteen minutes to go before the appointed meeting, idly watching a park attendant emerge from a side path, stabbing at leaves with a spiked stick. From another path a couple came hand in hand, appearing unaware of anyone or anything, and sat on a bench facing him from across the circle. Blair hoped their presence wouldn’t disturb Orlov, if the Russian kept today’s meeting. There was no reason why it should; from their absorption in each other, which was getting increasingly intimate, it was more likely that the presence of the two men would eventually disturb the lovers.

‘Noon,’ guessed Sokol, aloud, as the information about the American’s watch check was radioed into the control room.

Sokol was tensed in anticipation of what was going to happen. It would be a coup to trap Blair actually in the act of proveable espionage. If he could do the same with Brinkman – and he was determined to do the same with Brinkman – Sokol knew it would be the coup to make everything possible. Sokol stayed crouched forward over his maps table but not looking at them, concentrating instead upon the slow moving clock mounted against the far wall, watching the quarter, half and then three quarters eventually pass with no news from the now completely occupied park.

On his seat in that park, Blair decided to allow more time. There were a dozen reasons why Orlov could be late, although he’d never been late on the previous occasions. And a dozen more reasons why he wouldn’t be able to keep the appointment at all, this Friday or several Fridays after. Blair was still unsettled by Orlov’s non-appearance; although Blair knew all the reasons and all the difficulties he’d still unprofessionally convinced himself of the Russian’s appearance and was disappointed that it hadn’t happened. It still could, he thought, checking the time once more; it was still only one-thirty.

The park attendant completed his leaf collection and the lovers stopped short of positive intercourse and Blair actually read the Soviet newspaper, from cover to cover. At three o’clock he finally quit, rising slump-shouldered and catching the first taxi he managed to stop. Blair’s expertise was still such to prevent his being ordinarily careless, although his hop-scotch from car to metro to bus was always monitored, because the surveillance was extraordinary.

In the Dzerzhinsky Square radio room an equally dejected Sokol stared down at the scrawled pencil lines losing interest momentarily in the crackled requests for further instructions from the radio.

‘It was supposed to be a meeting,’ Sokol said, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. ‘I know it was intended to be a meeting.’

When he got back to his own office, Sokol found waiting for him the request to contact the chairman of the KGB, for a personal interview. Sokol threw down the memorandum, sighing. He was surprised it had taken so long in coming.

The reaction from Washington came close to hysteria. Blair factually reported that he had attended, as arranged, but that Orlov failed to appear and then emphasised that from the beginning he’d anticipated a quite understandable interruption to any regular, weekly meetings and arranged the fallback with the man. His attempted assurance – with which Blair was unhappy anyway – failed entirely to placate Langley headquarters. Blair’s attempts to maintain an open line of communication were constantly broken, with a flurry of questions some of which his messages had already answered and some of which were beyond answer at all. Aware, despite being so far away, of the growing inquest, Blair repeated Orlov’s concern about any approach to Harriet being made and asked for a categoric assurance that the agreement had been kept and that no KGB watch squad could have themselves become aware of the American surveillance. The apparent guarantee came but Blair thought it was muted and decided he’d made a telling point. He bet that Harriet Johnson was as sanitised and isolated as any goldfish-bowled astronaut on a moonwalk. And bet further that any intelligence operator worth his salt could have picked the observation up in five seconds flat, allowing for natural blinking.

Brinkman timed perfectly his arrival at the public kiosk on the Ulitza Gor’kova, its possible use the only uncertainty. It was empty, so even that wasn’t a problem. Brinkman hadn’t bothered to evade what he still believed to be only the normal embassy personnel attention, because having established his undetectable contact routine, evasion simply wasn’t necessary. Professional to the letter, he made the pretence of seeking a coin at the moment of entry and snatched the telephone from the rest at the beginning of the first ring, so successfully that Sokol’s radio van, with its directional pistol microphone, failed to pick up that it was an incoming call. Orlov hadn’t managed to get a delegation and Brinkman had nothing to say except that he would be at the subsequent kiosk at exactly the same time the following week. Brinkman succeeded in covering the exchange against any outside interest by fumbling with the rare and tattered directory until Orlov disengaged and then calling his own number, coin ready in the slot, finally – again for external observation if there was any – slamming down the headpiece, a man frustrated at being unable to make a connection.

Although outwardly Brinkman maintained the annoyed pretence, he left the telephone box hot with excitement, seeing Orlov’s contact the proof that the Russian had come over to the British and that he’d snatched the prize right from beneath Blair’s nose. The first prize, Brinkman told himself. There was another to follow, when Ann made her decision.

The telephone visit was recorded in the account of the observation upon Brinkman but so casual and quick was it that no specific importance was attached and Sokol did not single it out as anything of relevance, either.

Chapter Thirty-Four

It took every extreme of will-power and concentration that Pietr Orlov possessed – and then some the Russian didn’t know he had – but knowing that everything he wanted depended upon it he cleared his mind of a woman he loved called Harriet Johnson and an American he tolerated called Blair and an Englishman he despised called Brinkman and devoted himself entirely to the agricultural policy he recognised to be the passport for what he wanted. He rewrote and re-worked and then rewrote again the passages that had offended Sevin – rightly offended the man, Orlov acknowledged, because they were careless. – and when he got them right he started again until finally he was confident they were perfect.

Which Sevin assured him they were, accepting them practically without correction. Still Orlov forced himself, determined to maintain the standard, and Sevin remained congratulatory, angry at himself for displaying an old man’s lack of judgement and reflecting a lifetime’s suspicion, accepting the temporary distraction had after all been the disruption of a broken marriage.

The chance came – sooner than he expected it to – on the fourth week. Orlov evolved from the beginning a system of monitoring everything that was happening elsewhere – the work of the other committees and the other groups – involved in the agronomy review and into the net in exactly a month the system brought the memorandum from the central working committee discussing the delegation visit to Europe.

Orlov felt hollowed by the initial flood of excitement: at the quickness of its happening and his luck in discovering it and the thought of it all – everything – being settled. There was fear, too. As great as excitement. He hoped so much that he wouldn’t fail. He’d be all right, naturally, if things went smoothly. It was of the unexpected that Orlov was frightened. On the day the memorandum reached him, his hand positively trembled, so that he had difficulty in reading the words and had to put it down upon the unmoving desk and bend over it. France first – the inviting country – and then Denmark, to study their dairy system. A full fifteen days’ tour: starting in just three and a half weeks’ time.

Orlov prepared his approach to Sevin with the consummate care that he knew everything now required – the sort of care he’d taken over the embassy visit when he’d made contact with the American – getting approval for his latest section of his report first and then letting the conversation between them ramble into generalities before mentioning, in an apparent aside, the proposed European visit. When Sevin seized upon it, as Orlov guessed – and hoped – he would, the younger Russian said, more direct than before, ‘I thought I should be part of the delegation…’ He nodded towards the papers on Sevin’s desk. ‘All that is being written and compiled from previous reports and statistics. I’d be better able to argue innovations and change if I’d personally seen the methods of other, more advanced countries.’ What right had he had to question morality with Brinkman? thought Orlov.

‘The names will have already been selected,’ pointed out Sevin.

‘I realise that,’ said Orlov, increasingly an astute Kremlin operator. ‘I wonder why the visit wasn’t made generally known in the first place?’

The reaction of Sevin, who had lived through a lifetime of plot and counter-plot, was as predictable as Orlov expected it to be. ‘You think it was kept from us!’

‘I’ve no way of knowing that,’ said Orlov, honestly but prepared. ‘Was it ever brought up at any meeting you attended?’

‘No,’ said the old man.

‘Nor at any in which I’ve sat,’ said Orlov. Playing the best card last he said, ‘Comrade Didenko is on the central working committee.’

Sevin’s face tightened. ‘You think he is trying to exclude us!’

‘I’ve no way of knowing that, either,’ said Orlov.

Four days later Sevin announced to Orlov that he would be forming part of the Soviet delegation to France and to Denmark.

The pressure from Washington upon Eddie Blair was of a ridiculous degree, so ridiculous that Blair recognised it and tried as best he could to stop it spreading over into his already strained private life. But that was difficult because the demands kept him late at the embassy and required his early attendance in the morning and the workload created greater tension between himself and Ann. He studiously kept the Friday assignations and when Orlov failed to show up on the fourth occasion, three of the insistent questions came from the Washington headquarters signed personally by the Director, which was practically unheard of, and Blair recognised his replies clearly showed his contempt. He sent them anyway, irritated by the panic. He was as uncertain as they were – more so, because they were safe and protected back at Langley and it was still his ass displayed and waiting to be shot off – but it was still only four weeks and there could be the simplest of explanations why Orlov needed to keep away. This wasn’t Sunday brunch at the Mayflower, for Christ’s sake! As the thought came to Blair the cipher machine stuttered into life again and he transcribed as it printed, reading that Langley had succeeded in getting visas for two men who would be arriving in advance of the next scheduled meeting. There was nothing whatsoever they could do – less now that Orlov had severed contact – but Blair realised it enabled Langley once more to be able to imagine they were doing something active and positive. Blair realised, too, that it indicated their belief in his inability successfully to continue with the operation. So maybe it would be he who was brunching soon at the Mayflower in Washington; he hadn’t thought it was possible for things to develop as they had, quite so quickly.

It was the following Tuesday that Brinkman took the telephone call at the public kiosk on Leninskiy Prospekt and Orlov told him of the place on the delegation to France.

‘You’re free!’ promised Brinkman, at once.

‘I wish I were,’ said the Russian. ‘You’ve no idea how I wish I were.’

The breathing of Aleksai Panov seemed more difficult than usual, his shoulders lifting and falling with the effort, but despite his illness the inevitable tubed cigarette was in his hand when Sokol entered the chairman’s office, on the seventh floor of Dzerzhinsky Square. The wheezing man indicated a chair, without any greeting and Sokol took it. From where he sat he could look out over the huge piazza and actually see the statue to the founder of the Soviet intelligence service.

‘What’s happening?’ demanded Panov.

‘I don’t know,’ conceded Sokol, reluctantly. ‘But I’m certain that something is.’

‘Set it out,’ insisted the chairman.

Sokol recounted everything, wishing he had more positive evidence to support his convictions, intent for any reaction from the other man. Panov smoked steadily, lighting fresh cigarettes from the stubs of those he exhausted, face expressionless.

When Sokol stopped talking, Panov said, ‘You assembled a large body of men. A lot of equipment, too?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol, unsure of the point.

‘Yet they lost them? Both of them?’

Sokol wondered if there were recordings being made of the meeting, for some later disciplinary action; he thought it probable. He said, ‘There have been mistakes. I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ said Panov, unhelpfully. ‘If you’re right in believing there are two definite operations underway here in Moscow you should have maintained personal control from the beginning.’

To plead the pressure that had arisen in the provinces wouldn’t be accepted as an excuse, Sokol knew. ‘It was a miscalculation,’ he conceded, with no alternative.

‘The Americans are sending in more people?’

‘It would appear so,’ said Sokol. ‘The Foreign Ministry have advised me of the visa applications. Described as an archivist and a trade counsellor.’

‘Anything known, from the names?’

Sokol shook his head. ‘There’s no file on either.’

‘Whatever it is – the American situation at least – could be coming to a head if they’re sending in reinforcements.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol.

‘Why don’t we move against both of them, the American and the Englishman?’ demanded Panov. ‘Some sort of technical entrapment could be easily arranged: an allegation of simple lawbreaking would be enough. All that’s necessary is to frighten them. If we want something more elaborate, why not lure them into an espionage situation and we can formally expel them?’

‘If we did that we wouldn’t know what it was that either of them were doing,’ pointed out Sokol, simply.

Panov looked intently at the glowing end of a fresh cigarette, admiring the professionalism. He said, ‘True. But can we risk letting it run? Each day that passes can mean the damage is worsening. Shouldn’t that be the consideration, minimising any unknown damage?’

Sokol decided the question was phrased for whatever recording was being made. He said, ‘They’d pass it on – both of them – to whoever it was succeeded them here. That’s what we’d have our people do, in similar circumstances. So we wouldn’t be closing anything down.’

Panov nodded in further admiration. ‘We’d be gaining some time, though. So far you’ve discovered remarkably little.’

Sokol gave no reaction to the criticism. He said, ‘At the moment I know the people. I’m sure, in the case of the American, that Kr as nay a is the contact point. If we move now and get them expelled I’ll have to identify their replacements and discover the new routines, because the existing ones would be scrapped, for obvious protection. The time that would take would extend rather than limit the period of potential damage.’

Panov frowned, irritated at being out-argued but unable to confront the other man with a better alternative view. He said, ‘It can’t be open-ended. I don’t want the Americans allowed the opportunity of getting themselves organised…’

‘… How long?’ asked Sokol, risking the rudeness of interruption to obtain a positive instruction from his superior.

‘A month,’ determined Panov. ‘If we don’t get results in a month, I want entrapment operations against Blair and Brinkman and we’ll expel them…’

Chapter Thirty-Five

Brinkman had consciously to suppress the euphoria, realistically knowing the danger of over-confidence that the excitement could bring, but it wasn’t easy. Perfect, he thought; everything was perfect. There was an intervening Tuesday before the departure of the delegation, a full seven days before his next telephone link with Orlov, which enabled London to make and then double-check every conceivable part of their snatch plan and actually discuss and refine it with Brinkman over the secure embassy communication wires before he made his final contact with the Russian.

And the plan was perfect, too. Because it was so simple.

On the final Tuesday Brinkman went through the ritual of clearing his trail, because it was professional to do so, but as he moved around the Russian capital on his way to Kommuny he realised that it didn’t matter if he were under any sort of observation, because there was nothing that could stop it happening any more. He was still, however, careful, like he had been with his evasions: aware that today’s conversation would be longer than any others, he carried with him a small transistor radio, tuning it to a programme relaying some mournful Slavik dirge as he walked towards the kiosk and placing it on the shelf as he moved in to pick up the dutifully ringing telephone precisely on time. The tune was a minimal distraction to him but Brinkman knew it would block any sort of listening apparatus directed at him if he were under surveillance, which he was sure he wasn’t.

There were a total of fifteen KGB men within a hundred yards of him on the street, with a concealed camera operating from an enclosed van and another technician in a separate vehicle directing the pistol microphone that was – as Brinkman unknowingly intended – completely baffled by the radio.

‘It’s arranged?’ demanded Orlov, at once.

From his end of the line, Brinkman was conscious of the Russian’s nervousness. It was understandable, he supposed: dear God, don’t let everything fail through the man’s collapse. He said, trying to infuse the confidence into his voice, ‘Everything. It’s guaranteed and nothing – nothing at all – can go wrong. It’s only two more days. This time on Thursday it’ll all be over. You’ll be safe. With Harriet.’

‘How?’ demanded Orlov.

‘Listen,’ urged Brinkman. ‘Listen very carefully. But don’t take any notes.’

‘I understand,’ said Orlov. Appearing to realise Brinkman’s concern, he added, ‘I’m, all right. Really all right.’

‘The delegation is flying direct to Charles de Gaulle airport by the scheduled Aeroflot service, departing Sheremetyevo at seven,’ began Brinkman, telling the Russian something he already knew but including the detail to show the uncertain man how well everything had been planned. ‘You go along as a normal part of that delegation. You go through all the usual formalities, bothering about nothing. Because everything is being done for you. London are sending a complete contingent to Paris well in advance of the Moscow flight. They’ll all be briefed from the photographs we have of you how to recognise you… they’re professionals, don’t worry. There will be men lingering from incoming international flights within the baggage claim and immigration areas. And more outside. Being an official government party, the normal regulations will be waived. Follow whatever routine the French insist upon. Don’t try to make any identification – or seem to be looking for anyone – until the moment you emerge into the public part of the airport. At the moment you do emerge, there’s going to be a diversion. It will be an incendiary explosion in a washroom. It will cause an instant fire. At the very moment that happens, you’ll be aware of men around you, hurrying you away. Just go. Don’t do or say anything. It doesn’t matter what’s happening to the rest of the Russian party: there’ll be men to intervene and confuse them. A car will be waiting. Three times, you’ll change cars, in fact, transferring until you reached a military airfield near Orly. A British military aircraft will be waiting there, a designated flight plan already filed to a British military airfield at Northolt, near London. The passenger manifest will have you listed under the name entered into a valid British passport that you will be given during the drive to the Orly airstrip, a photograph and a satisfactorily forged signature already in it…’ Brinkman paused, breathlessly. ‘You got all that?’

Orlov did not immediately respond. Then he said, ‘You will not be with me? I’ll be alone?’

Brinkman was very conscious of Orlov’s fear. He said, ‘Not on the flight from Moscow. The men who are going to snatch you are experts. There’s no need – no need at all – for you to be frightened that everything won’t go as I’ve said it will. An hour after the Aeroflot flight, there’s a British Airways service to London. I shall be on it. By the time you get to Northolt, I’ll be there to meet you.’

‘You promise?’ demanded Orlov, urgently.

‘I promise,’ assured Brinkman. It was fortunate they had time to consider everything and recognise Orlov would have the need for someone he knew. He said, ‘I’ll be there to meet you and I’ll stay with you.’ That hadn’t been part of the planning but Brinkman couldn’t imagine Maxwell objecting.

‘What about Harriet?’ said Orlov.

‘We’re doing exactly what you asked,’ said Brinkman. ‘The moment you’re safe people already waiting and ready in New York will bring her to you, in England…’ He allowed the pause. ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘Everything has been thought of.’

‘I wish there wasn’t so long to wait.’

‘Only two days!’ insisted Brinkman. ‘You’ve waited a long time. You can wait just two more days.’

‘You mean what you say? You won’t try to cheat or trick me?’

He deserved the question, Brinkman accepted, unoffended. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll not cheat you. Everything will happen as I’ve promised it will.’

‘We will not see each other again, until London?’

Brinkman knew there was nothing he could do to allay Orlov’s fear of being left alone. He said, ‘Not until London. But you can do it!’

‘I hope I can,’ said Orlov, honestly.

‘Until London,’ said Brinkman.

‘There’s no way we can get into contact?’ blurted Orlov, not wanting Brinkman to put down the telephone.

‘You know there isn’t,’ said Brinkman sternly, trying to infuse confidence into the other man.

‘Until London,’ accepted Orlov, his voice uneven.

‘I’ll buy the champagne, for you and Harriet,’ said Brinkman, grandiosely.

He replaced the receiver, switched off his radio and hurried away from the kiosk in the direction of the nearest metro station. Everything settled, he thought complacently, settling himself into a seat and watching his own reflection in the darkened glass facing him. Everything except Ann. It was while he was thinking of her that his mind ran on and he realised, worriedly, that his planning might not be as perfect as he thought. Brinkman came slightly forward in his seat at the awareness, worried at the oversight. He had intended going back to the apartment but instead re-routed himself to the embassy, where the files were. It took him two hours of concentrated reading to go through the back copies of Pravda and Izvestia and the smaller publications and the Tass tapes, alert for any disclosure of the delegation. He found it in an issue of Pravda eight days earlier, his apprehension immediate until he read it through. It was an announcement of the delegation and the countries it was visiting but contained no details of its composition. With a date as a guide, Brinkman checked the Tass wires for that day. They’d carried the story but again omitted any names. He’d been lucky, Brinkman decided, relaxing; there was no way Blair could have learned that Orlov was among a group of people going abroad.

Now it really was only Ann. Brinkman risked the call to her apartment – something he didn’t normally do because of the danger of Blair being there – and, intent once more upon omens, decided from the tone in her voice that she was pleased to hear from him.

‘I’m leaving,’ he declared abruptly.

‘What!’

There couldn’t be any mistaking the feeling in her voice that time, thought Brinkman.

‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Everything’s happened very suddenly.’

‘For good?’

‘Yes.’

It was what she wanted, thought Ann, at the other end of the telephone. Or what she imagined she wanted. Now it was happening – happening the way she’d prayed it would, when he was last in London – she wasn’t so sure. ‘Will I see you again?’

‘That’s the decision I’ve been asking you to make, for weeks.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘I’m not going until Thursday night.’

‘I think Eddie is going to be at the embassy all day. I could telephone.’

‘I’ll wait for your call. And Ann?’

‘Yes?’

‘I want a decision.’

And he knew how to get it, Brinkman decided. He’d held back, until now, but he couldn’t any longer. He’d spell out to her how long she’d have to stay in Moscow – exaggerate if he had to – and tell her if she doubted him directly to challenge Blair to try to get a definite time. Brinkman was sure that would sway it. He wished he hadn’t had to use it, as the final pressure; that she’d found it easier to choose between them. But she hadn’t; so there it was.

He intended to leave Moscow with everything he wanted. Everything.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The senior of the two men whom Langley sent was a supervisor -the same grade as Blair – named Art Blakey. The younger man was Harry King who said please call him Hank: everybody did. There was an understandable embarrassment between them, more for the newcomers than for Blair. Blakey said they were sons of bitches at Langley, stretching the metaphor by saying all they did was piss up each other’s legs and that he was sorry they’d been sent and he knew damned well Blair didn’t need any help on anything. Blair said it didn’t matter, but thanks. He suggested they carry out a full reconnaissance of Krasnaya and they both agreed at once, deferring to him and making it quite clear they expected him to act as the leader of the group. It was obvious, of course, that they couldn’t go together. Blair identified Krasnaya on a map and explained the subway system and how the buses worked and what the route numbers were and isolated the hotels and the stores – GUM naturally first – which he thought best to clear their trail.

They let King go ahead. It was his first foreign assignment and the better experienced men realised he might need more time to find his way around an unfamiliar city. Paradoxically it was King who managed to evade the surveillance, cleverly mingling with a group of American tourists leaving the Druzhba Hotel on Vernadskovo Prospekt and managing to reach Red Square on their coach before the Intourist guide discovered him. King disembarked pleading confusion and spent more time losing himself among other visitors around Lenin’s tomb before setting out for the destination where they were to rendezvous.

The KGB observation team located Art Blakey as he left the embassy and by the time Sokol gained the communication centre the news had already been received of Blair’s departure. Sokol hunched over the now familiar table, unnecessarily reciting the coordinates of the two men’s movements around the capital as they were radioed in, marking fresh route marks on his map. Both were making obvious attempts at evasion. So could this be it, whatever it was? Sokol checked his duty roster, reminding himself that he had forty men assigned to the surveillance, deciding at once to increase the cover. He snapped out a series of orders to the men grouped around in the control room, ordering mobilisation of the street reserves and demanding access to every vehicle and operator in the basement motor-pool. As he issued the instructions Sokol realised that the information of such an assembly would naturally be communicated to the chairman four floors above so having made his dispositions he called Panov on the internal telephone. The KGB chairman listened without any interruption until Sokol finished and then said, ‘I think you’re right to take the precaution.’

It was obviously unthinkable that the chairman of the KGB should descend to the control room but he had the technicians activate the switching apparatus that enabled him to listen simultaneously to the information that was being relayed in and to Sokol’s instructions, on the outward channel.

It meant, Sokol realised, that he was under as much observation as the Americans he was following. It wouldn’t be necessary for Panov to turn on the recording machinery in his office. All traffic into the communication centre was automatically taped.

Sokol bent over his maps in absolute concentration, becoming more and more convinced of the destination as he traced the route Blair and Blakey were independently taking. It had to be Krasnaya. He hesitated momentarily, unsure whether to consult Panov and then deciding against it, aware it would indicate his uncertainty. Through the transmitters linked to Panov’s monitoring apparatus, Sokol called up half of the waiting reserves of street and mobile personnel and despatched them to the park, in advance of the Americans’ arrival. Sokol would have liked the time to brief them in one of the lecture rooms but decided speed was more important. So he isolated himself briefly from the constantly incoming surveillance information and withdrew to another radio installation, although still one to which the listening chairman above had simultaneous access. Over a separate wavelength he specifically instructed every car, identifying by name the men in each and insisting upon a response so that everyone understood what he was demanding.

Photographs had been taken of Blakey and King on their arrival at the airport and copies issued to every surveillance vehicle. It was from the photograph in the first car to arrive at Krasnaya that the occupants identified the undetected younger American already there, attempting to appear inconspicuous by the archer statue and when the information was relayed Sokol felt a warmth of satisfaction, at being right. The feeling grew with the news from the followers that both Blair and Blakey were approaching the park, as well. By the time the two older Americans entered Krasnaya it was completely under the control of- and sealed by -the KGB. All the attendants and staff- even staff at the solitary refreshment stall – were intelligence personnel and the apparently innocent pedestrians and users were KGB officers. There were radio-controlled pursuit cars in all of the five main approach routes, with extra men concealed in closed vans.

Blair didn’t need to study any further the lay-out of the intended meeting place, so by arrangement he went directly to the bench where he’d sat before with Orlov, leaving Blakey and King to orientate themselves.

At Sokol’s insistence there was a running commentary now being sent into the control room from four separate observers concealed within the park, operating mobile apparatus. There was no other sound whatsoever in the room; Sokol and the technicians all stared at the receivers through which the voices were coming, as if they expected to see as well as hear.

In the park Blair saw Art Blakey approaching and rose, before the American reached him.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Good a place as any,’ judged Blakey.

The remark was picked up by a directional microphone aimed from about twenty-five yards away, by an operator hidden in dense shrubbery and Sokol couldn’t suppress the smile of triumph. He was glad Panov was listening to everything.

King came into the area, smiling.

‘OK?’ said Blair.

‘Tell you on Friday,’ said the younger man.

The second remark came clearly into the radio room and Sokol turned away from the technicians, not wanting the gossip to spread of his reaction to the absolute confirmation of everything.

‘Anything more you want to see?’ Blair asked both men.

Blakey shook his head. King said, ‘Can’t think of anything. This looks like an ordinary park.’

‘What else should it look like?’ asked Blair, curiously.

King shrugged, embarrassed at disclosing an idle thought. ‘Just felt it might somehow be different, really. You know what I thought, on my way here?’

‘What?’

‘That the people physically seem different.’

‘Different how?’ asked Blakey, leading the way out of Krasnaya.

King laughed dismissively, further embarrassment. ‘Square, somehow,’ he said. ‘Physically square.’

‘There’s a revolving restaurant on the top of the Ostankino TV tower,’ said Blair. ‘You can see something of Moscow.’

They were beyond the range of the directional eavesdroppers now, so the remark was missed by the listening Russians.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said Blakey. ‘We’ve been going round and round for quite a while anyway.’

On the Ulitza Akademika Korolyova, Blair led the way into the Sed’moye Nebo restaurant and in his fluent Russian engaged in the ritual of negotiating a favoured table with the head waiter and because those on either side of the window location were already occupied it meant that the pursuing KGB men were unable to get near enough to hear any conversation and long boomed microphones were impossible in such public surroundings.

As they sat Blair warned, ‘I hope you’re not in a hurry. Or hungry. These things take quite a long time. It’s something you have to get accustomed to, in Moscow.’

‘You know what I’d like?’ demanded Blakey. ‘I’d like Orlov to turn up this week with a perfectly sensibly explanation of why he hasn’t been able to make the contacts. So that all those pricks at headquarters can realise they’d been just that. Pricks.’

‘It would be good,’ agreed Blair. He added, ‘Somehow I can’t see it happening. I’ve got a gut feeling that it’s gone cold.’

‘You think it was the watch upon the woman in New York?’ asked the other supervisor.

‘I don’t know,’ said Blair. ‘I warned them as strongly as I could. I would have expected our people to have recognised any Soviet surveillance, if there’d been any.’

‘Wouldn’t there have been some sort of announcement, naming Orlov, if they’d moved against him because of what we were doing in New York?’ asked King, acknowledging Blair’s experience.

‘Not yet,’ said Blair. ‘Maybe not at all. Just something in a few months’ time saying that he’d been voted off a committee and then later dismissed from the Central Committee itself. He’ll be in jail by then, of course.’

‘Creepy country,’ said the inexperienced King. He stared out over the slowly revolving panorama of the Soviet capital and said, ‘That’s something else that occurred to me this morning. Everything’s grey: actually coloured grey, I mean.’

‘It’s not, really,’ said Blair. ‘But it’s a pretty common first impression.’

‘You know how it happened, don’t you?’ said Blakey to the CIA Resident. ‘How your balls got caught in the vice?’

‘How?’ said Blair.

‘Perelmen,’ disclosed Blakey. ‘George Bush was a CIA Director and made vice President. Perelmen thought the pathway looked pretty attractive. Set out to portray himself as the indispensible foreign affairs expert, better than State and better than anyone.’

‘Sorry I let him down,’ said Blair bitterly.

‘You didn’t,’ said Blatkey. ‘He let himself down announcing coups before they happened. This thing should have been kept under wraps so tight an Egyptian mummy would have looked naked.’

‘Pity it wasn’t,’ said Blair. He pulled back for the arrival of the tardy waiter, giving their order for bortsch in Russian.

‘Sure it’s a pity,’ agreed Blakey. ‘Now it’s blame time and you’re right at the end of the line. I’ve been at Langley for the last three years; know how the system works. You’re the one who fouled up, according to the book. All the panic and all the bullshit will be justified, the proper reaction to what seemed to be happening. You’re the one left carrying the can.’

‘Seems pretty shitty,’ said King, coming back from his examination of the Russian capital.

‘Believe me,’ said Blakey. ‘I’m right.’

Just how right was proven by the message awaiting Blair when they got back to the embassy that afternoon. After further consideration, cabled Hubble, it had been decided there would be no purpose in Blair’s tour being extended longer than originally scheduled. Blakey was to remain, as acting intelligence Resident.

Blair smiled wanly down at the decision, remembering it was what he’d told Ann to fob her off after his most recent return from Washington. She should be pleased: everything was turning out as she wanted it to.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Blakey, when Blair showed him the recall cable. ‘I didn’t try for this, you know?’

‘I know you didn’t,’ assured Blair. ‘Things could still turn out for the good.’

‘Reconnaissance?’ said Panov.

‘Unquestionably,’ said Sokol, recognising that Panov was speaking for the benefit of the record, to show his awareness. The KGB chairman’s attitude was remarkably changed. He’d stood smiling to greet him when he entered, directly from the control room, and within minutes of their conference beginning the vodka had been served. He went on, ‘From what we heard we know positively that there’s a meeting and we know it’s to be Friday.’

‘Congratulations,’ allowed Panov. ‘You’ve been proven right…’

‘Thank you,’ said Sokol, knowing the required modesty.

‘… About one man,’ balanced the chairman. ‘Nothing’s been resolved about the Englishman.’

‘It will be,’ undertook Sokol.

It was not until he returned to his own department that Sokol reflected on the extent of the exaggeration. At the moment he only had half a success; and that was still positively to materialise.

He cleared his desk of everything except the files on Jeremy Brinkman, right back to the first entry of the man’s arrival, looking for anything he might have missed. He stopped, curiously, going to Blair’s file for comparison and then calculating from the guard reports that the Englishman appeared to have visited the Blair apartment on more than one – several, in fact – occasions when the American was back in Washington. He made a note and put a genuine question mark after it, unsure if there was any significance. It was a pity that Blair was so good at cleansing his apartment of the listening devices so regularly planted and equally regularly found and jammed by the man.

It took Sokol two hours to exhaust the written dossiers and then – exhausted himself – he lowered the lights and started on the videos and the attempted eavesdropping with the pistol microphones that had already proved so effective that day upon Blair as he moved about the city. He saw it, on the last film. At first he wasn’t sure, stopping and rewinding the film and then stopping it again on a freeze frame, at the actual moment of Brinkman putting the transistor on the kiosk edge. With the frame held, Sokol found the independent sound tape, coordinating it by date and time to the attempt to overhear the Tuesday conversation when Brinkman and Orlov had arranged the Russian’s escape. There was just the meaningless snarl of interfering static that Brinkman intended.

Sokol picked out all the Tuesday films, looking for the kiosks now – all so brief they had been missed, until the latest, longer conversation – isolating the contact every time. He watched the most recent tape through again and then put the lights up, confident he’d found the method and the dating of liaison. And depressed by it. From the reports it was always a different kiosk. And so because they could never know in advance what the next box was going to be, they couldn’t put a tape on it, for next Tuesday. There was never any evidence of his dialling out. So it was always an incoming call, from another untraceable telephone. The Englishman had been clever; cleverer, in fact, than Blair. Next Tuesday the watch upon the Englishman would be very different and very concentrated and before it happened Sokol knew he needed an intensive session with the electronic experts. He had to have a listening van capable of connecting at once -within seconds – to the call if he were to be as successful here as he had been in Krasnaya Park. Sokol decided – until he talked to the experts – to keep this from Panov. The man had had sufficient with which to be impressed in one day.

‘He promised!’ protested Paul. ‘He promised he’d write and fix the trip.’

‘Your father’s a busy man, darling,’ said Ruth. ‘If he made a promise he’ll keep it.’

‘The vacation is soon now.’

‘Why not write again to remind him.’

‘I’ve written twice already. He hasn’t bothered to reply.’

‘That’s not fair,’ defended Ruth. ‘He always replies.’

‘You know what I think?’ said Paul. ‘I think he’s dumped us, just like before.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Brinkman had acquired few possessions in Moscow. Wanting to travel lightly he bothered only with an overnight shoulder-bag – and that more for effect at the airport than for necessity – and left everything else to be shipped out as diplomatic luggage, by the embassy. He took particular care packing the icon that Ann gave him on his birthday, sure it was going to have special meaning for both of them. He was cleared up and ready early in the day, like a deprived child anxious for its first holiday. He remained careful, in everything. He paid Kabalin, the muttering maid, three weeks’ salary and said he looked forward to returning, to ensure that her inevitable report wouldn’t cause any uncertainty before he was able to leave, although he knew that in the few hours remaining it would be unlikely that any report would be properly channelled or assessed. She thanked him and promised to come in as she always did while he was away and Brinkman said he would appreciate it, knowing that she was lying. She hadn’t stolen as much as he expected and Brinkman reckoned he’d been lucky. He guessed she’d come under some severe investigation, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.

Brinkman moved aimlessly around the apartment, impatient for Ann’s call, idly looking around to impress it upon his memory. It would be a good memory, he decided. He’d achieved everything he set out to do, on the posting; more, in fact. And no one could detract from that. He’d proved himself, to everyone. It didn’t matter what credit Maxwell attempted to claim; his reputation had been established before this. What was happening today was just planting the flag on top of the mountain, like the flags had been planted in that preposterous film he’d watched, waiting for contact with Orlov.

He looked at his watch, calculating against the time difference. It would have already started by now, in London. The aircraft would have probably gone to France overnight. Maybe the snatch squads who were going to work outside the restricted areas, too. He wondered where those who were going to be on the inside picked up the international flight, to put them in the right terminal area. There’ll be a hell of a row, of course. France protesting – because they had to – about violation and invasion of sovereignty and Russia denouncing everything and everybody. All because of him, thought Brinkman, in private, gloating triumph. He pitied everyone he was leaving behind in Moscow. Life was going to be unbearable for a long time after this. He guessed Russia would insist upon some expulsions from the British embassy here and wondered who it would be. Someone senior, if they tried to equate the action against Orlov’s rank. Properly to do that would mean the ambassador, he supposed. All because of me, he thought again.

He snatched at the telephone when it rang and promised Ann he would be with her in fifteen minutes. He made it in ten. She didn’t hold back when he kissed her and he thought her eyes were wet and wondered if she’d been crying at the thought of his going.

‘I never really thought you meant it,’ she said. ‘About leaving, I mean. I just thought it was something you said, to try to make me make a decision.’

‘Now you know it wasn’t,’ he said. He paused and said, ‘But I want you to make up your mind.’

She shook her head, not in refusal but in perpetual uncertainty, looking away from him. If it had to be it had to be, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Eddie lied to you, Ann. About how long you’re likely to be here. I can’t tell you how I know: all I ask is that you trust me. But there are going to be a lot of things happening here. Things which are going to upset a lot of forecasts. Eddie’s going to be kept on here not just for months but for years. Which means – if you stay – that you’ll be here for years. You’re going to become the den mother of the diplomatic wives, like Betty Harrison. You’re going to see them come and you’re going to see them go and you’ll still be here.’

‘No!’ she said. ‘Eddie’s never lied to me. He told me that and I believe him. He said it wouldn’t be as bad as I first thought.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he said, his anger slipping. ‘Bugger all, and you know it. He was trying to squeeze out of a corner and so he said something that sounded OK, to get you off his back. But it doesn’t mean anything. Can’t you see that?’

Ann nodded, dumbly. It was vague, just like he said it was. ‘I’m not brave enough,’ she said.

‘I’ll make you brave,’ said Brinkman urgently, seeing the crack widen. ‘Just leave. Just leave Moscow – use whatever excuse you like – and then let him know you’re not coming back.’

‘I couldn’t do it like that,’ she said at once. ‘That wouldn’t be

…’ she hesitated at the word ‘I know it doesn’t sound right, but that wouldn’t be honest. If I’m going to leave then I’ll tell him to his face.’

‘Tell him then.’

‘I don’t know if I want to.’

‘Don’t tell me again that you’re confused: I’m fed up with hearing it!’

‘Don’t pressure me all the time!’

‘You know what you want to do. So do it!’

‘Why did you ever have to come to Moscow? If you hadn’t come here everything would have been all right.’

‘You know that isn’t true.’

‘I’ll decide,’ she said.

‘When? And don’t say soon: don’t try to run away again.’

‘A week,’ she said. ‘I’ll decide in a week. I promise.’

If she hadn’t intended to do it she would have refused now, here, on the spot, thought Brinkman. She was going to come with him, like he’d known she would all along. He held out his arms and she came to him, her arms tight around him. He wanted to make love to her and knew she wanted it too. There wasn’t time: not for how he wanted to make love. He didn’t want a snatched, illicit screw. That was all over. He wanted her to be his wife and now he knew she was going to be. ‘I must go,’ he said, seeing at once the frown of annoyance that he wasn’t going to do what she expected.

‘I thought you’d have more time.’

‘There’ll be all the time in the world, later,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said distantly. ‘All the time in the world.’

‘A week?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I’ll be waiting. It’s going to be wonderful, Ann. Believe me, everything is going to be wonderful.’ Did Orlov love Harriet as much as he loved Ann? He must do, Brinkman supposed.

The moment of actual parting was difficult for them both, each holding to the other, reluctant to sever the physical contact but Brinkman knew he had to: it would be ludicrously stupid to ruin everything by staying here an extra thirty minutes when they had a whole lifetime ahead of them.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ he reminded her.

‘I know.’

‘I love you.’ He waited but she didn’t respond and he smiled and kissed her, unconcerned. She’d pleaded with him not to pressure her and he wouldn’t.

By his very absence the Soviet authorities would identify him with what happened – so the consideration was really unnecessary but Brinkman didn’t take an embassy vehicle to the airport, deciding instead upon one of the officially approved airport taxis. As the vehicle started to clear the Moscow suburbs a clock-tower suddenly appeared before him. Six, he saw. Orlov would be at Sheremetyevo now, maybe going through the routine of a departure ceremony. Brinkman hoped the man’s nerve held. It was the one uncertainty that remained, whether Orlov would actually be able to go through with it without someone in the party and there would be KGB guardians in the party because there were on every overseas Russian trip – becoming aware of his anxiety. Maybe he should have gone earlier to the airport, to see the man through. But why? There was nothing he could have done. They hadn’t arranged that he should be there, during the last meeting, so his unexpected appearance might have had the reverse of that intended, alarming the man even more.

There was nothing he could do now. Nothing except hope. If Orlov made the plane, then everything would be all right. All he had to do then was wait until Paris and let himself be spirited away by men who would already be in place now, calm and expert and trained and waiting.

They began leaving the city behind and Brinkman strained around, realising it would be his last sight of the Soviet capital. A good memory, he thought again. Now it was time to move on. To what? he wondered.

The day was in the half-light when Brinkman reached the airport. He remained inside the taxi, to pay the driver, and then stepped out on to the wide pavement in front of the departure building. The large car park was filled, as it always appeared to be, and cars and taxis formed a solid line against the pavement edge. Brinkman picked his path through them, making his way towards the identifiable insignia of British Airways which would lead him to the desk inside. It was about five doors ahead and Brinkman thought, in passing, that he should have had the driver bring him nearer.

He’d practically reached it when he heard the shout and at first gave no reaction because there was no one who could be shouting for him. And then he heard it again and stared beyond the door into the British Airways desk. Orlov had been walking, waving to attract his attention, but suddenly the Russian began to run and as he did so Brinkman saw uniformed security guards a long way beyond him but plainclothes men who appeared to be moving with some co-ordination much nearer, fanning out into an embracing movement. Brinkman thought he heard stoitye but wasn’t sure because ordinary passengers were becoming aware of the scene and there were other shouts. Orlov was only about twenty yards away and Brinkman knew everything had gone disastrously wrong and that he should feign ignorance of the man but then Orlov was upon him and Brinkman couldn’t shake the man off.

‘What is it?’ demanded Orlov. ‘What’s the problem?’

Brinkman stared at the man, unable to comprehend what was happening. ‘The plane!’ he shouted. ‘Why aren’t you on the plane?’

‘The message,’ said Orlov. ‘The message at the desk telling me not to board… Why did you leave a message..? It was madness. Insanity ..!’

‘But I didn’t…’ tried Brinkman, but the security police were much nearer now, ordered by the plainclothes men. Brinkman heard stoitye plainly this time and Orlov heard it too, but he didn’t stop, like he was told. All control gone, fear whimpering from him, the Russian pulled himself away from Brinkman and started running mindlessly through the line of parked cars. There were more demands to stop and Orlov’s hand thrust out, a physical gesture of rejection which the later enquiry determined made the security men in the confusion of the moment imagine that the fleeing Russian had a weapon clutched in his hand and intended using it because for them to start shooting was a mistake, against every order. Instinctively Brinkman had snatched out, trying to hold the thrusting-away man and when he missed he began going through the cars, too, so they were both running. The bullets from the first misunderstanding soldiers were wide, warning shots. But other security men believed they were actually being fired at now. With the breath groaning from him Brinkman shouted, too, for Orlov to stop but the Russian was beyond reach, encompassed and completely driven by the fear he’d tried so hard to control. Brinkman was the first to be hit when everyone started firing, an agonising pain in his thigh, like a punch that after the first spurt of pain took all feeling away and he screamed but the sound was cut short because the weapons started firing on automatic and he was caught by the first swathe. The same arc caught Orlov, too, tipping them both over the lip of the car-park perimeter.

It was about a five foot drop and both were dead when they reached the bottom.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Blair started moving when he saw them hit – knowing they were dead – wanting to get out on to the road before the Russians cordoned the airport, because it shouldn’t have happened like this and he was shaking, from the shock of it and he knew he couldn’t withstand or pass any examination. He kept just within the limit to avoid attracting any attention: about a mile towards Moscow a lot of police and military vehicles hurtled past in the opposite direction, sirens blaring, but no one tried to stop him. It was another fives miles before he felt he was safe. The shaking was still as bad. He intended going to the embassy anyway, but it was essential now, for him to recover.

He drove directly to Chaykovskovo, sure that at this time of night the embassy would be deserted apart from the skeleton night staff; certainly Art Blakey and King wouldn’t be there. He wanted the CIA Residency within the embassy to himself. Its innermost room was steel-lined, for security, and it was there he went, sitting at the desk and physically holding himself, trying to quieten the reaction. He stared around the room, willing himself back to normality by the normality of accustomed surroundings. There were duplicate cipher machines for direct contact with Langley if necessary and a radio receiver and transmitter against the far wall. Adjoining that was the special equipment Blair had created and assembled, with his electronic expertise. He’d start to dismantle it tomorrow, thought the American, as he recovered; begin packing everything, in fact. They’d said he could pull out early, so why not? Reminded he called the duty clerk to ensure that the diplomatic pouch hadn’t gone and said he had a letter to enclose in it and could they wait. The clerk said there was plenty of time; there was some sort of flap out at the airport and all the planes were delayed anyway. Writing to Paul would help, Blair decided; something else that was normal. He always typed his letters, because his handwriting was so bad. He apologised to Paul for not replying earlier to his letters but said he had been extremely busy. The Moscow trip didn’t look like coming off now because unexpectedly he was being reassigned but that was great because at the moment it looked like Washington which meant they could see each other all the time. When he and John got to know Ann – and Blair underlined his conviction they were going to like her – they could stay over weekends and things like that. He was sorry about the Moscow vacation but thinking about it they might have found it dull, after a while. Ann didn’t like it all that much: in fact very little. To make up for Moscow, why didn’t they go away for a vacation in America? As a kid his own father had taken him on horseback and by canoe through a lot of the Grand Canyon. Why didn’t they do that, camping and stuff? Something mat hadn’t been available when he was a kid were the special flights out of Las Vegas, flying right along the Canyon. They could do that, if they preferred it. Why didn’t he talk it through with John and let him know as soon as he got back, which wouldn’t be long now? He sent his love to John and to Ruth, read it through and sealed it. As a test, to ensure he had recovered, he took it along to the duty clerk. The man repeated there was no hurry: latest news was that the airport was closed. From the man’s demeanour towards him, Blair was sure he’d passed his own test.

The door leading into the inner, top security room was steel-lined, of course, and fitted with a designation window into which coloured strips could be operated from the inside, indicating the degree of security applicable to whatever was going on inside. Crimson was absolute security, excluding even the ambassador. Blair locked the door – using all the devices – and although the embassy was empty put up the crimson code. He sat for a long time at the desk, staring at the electrical equipment he created but not really aware of the apparatus, deep in thought. Gradually, recovering further, he stirred, reaching back into the cabinet and taking out a burn-bag. He erected it carefully upon its tripod and with more care prepared the phosporus compound which operated upon contact with air and incinerated whatever was put inside. Satisfied, he went to the safe for which – for the last few hours – only he had the combination; they’d change it, after he left, giving Blakey a new one. There were a lot of tapes because as an internal precaution Blair installed nine listening devices in his apartment. Intention – at the time – was to have detected any Soviet entry, when they might have been away from the flat.

They were in those ridiculous matroyshka dolls sets that Ann seemed to like so much and in the light socket by the bed and again in the living room and every telephone was monitored, not in the instrument itself – which the Russians would have discovered attempting the inevitable bug – but back along the connecting wire. All were voice and noise activated, so the installation was automatic, feeding directly into the electronic equipment that Blair put into the office and which he intended to dismantle the following day.

The tapes were numbered and dated, because Blair was a ruthlessly methodical man. Tape one was recorded while he was in America the first time, when he’d been recalled for Paul’s initial problem. Blair picked it up and was moving towards the bag when he hesitated, changing his mind. Instead he slotted it into the machine and depressed the button, listening to the first dinner party that Ann and Brinkman had in the apartment. ‘ Christ, it hasn’t been bloody easy! ’ he heard Ann say. Then their meeting and their love – did she really think of him as all John Wayne and howdy? – ‘ Anywhere but here! If there were an embassy at the North Pole I’d happily swop it for here .’ Blair ran the tape on, sadly knowing the stop points. It was Brinkman’s voice. ‘ It’s allowed, for special friends.’ Blair snatched the tape from the machine and dropped it into the burn bag. There was a faint skein of black smoke and a brief acrid smell. The next tape was from the telephone, where the installation was better and the quality clearer.

‘ What are you doing? ’

‘ Nothing much. Nothing at all, in fact. Just sitting here. Thinking.’

‘ What about? ’

‘ I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘ Sorry. Stupid question.’

There’d been a lot of talk about regret upon the tape, Blair thought; he wondered if it were genuine.

‘ Sorry? ’

‘ Of course I’m sorry! Aren’t you? ’

‘ I don’t think so.’

‘ You haven’t got so much to be sorry about.’

‘ I don‘t think I would be, even if I had.’

The quality was slightly lower on the second section, because he’d been in the apartment then. The living room first: elsewhere later. Blair winced, in physical pain, at the bedroom sounds. And at the conversation.

‘ Don’t you think I’m a whore? ’

‘ What! ’

‘ A whore! ’

‘ Of course I don’t think you’re a whore.’

‘ What then? ’

‘ I think you’re lonely. I think you’re very unhappy. I think you’re looking for something you haven’t got: maybe can’t have. I think you’re very beautiful. And I think you are a fantastic lover.’

And more: hatefully – except that he couldn’t hate, only love – more.

‘ No, it isn’t a casual fuck. And it isn’t Romeo and Juliet, either. What’s wrong with you?’ and then quality improved, from her end at least, because it was the telephone again.

‘ It was Eddie. He’s coming home.’

Blair realised just how upset Ann had been, during that homecoming argument, when he’d announced he was staying on – ‘ You know damned well how I hate it here. How I’ve always hated it.’ But then, he’d lost his temper, as well. ‘ I don’t expect you to stay.’ Thank God she had: he loved her so much. So very much.

Brinkman had been right about warning her of talking on an open line, when she’d called the man at the embassy and told him of their row. And Ann had been so honest. ‘ Oh darling, I’m so unsure of everything.’

Suddenly impatient, Blair stopped reminding himself of the tapes, of the whispered telephone conversations and the bedroom sounds, abruptly discarding one after another into the destruct bag, stopping at one he knew better than all the others, the one he’d replayed over and over again.

‘ Do you love me? ’ Brinkman’s voice.

‘ I don’t know.’ Ann.

‘ Do you love me? ’ Brinkman.

‘ Yes, I suppose so.’ Ann again.

‘ What about Eddie? ’ Brinkman: awful, fucking Brinkman.

‘ That’s it! I love him, too.’

Blair had heard it so often that he didn’t think he could cry now but he did, not breaking down into sobs but feeling the tears move irritatingly down his face.

‘ You can’t love two people at the same time.’ The insistent Brinkman.

‘ Who says? Where are the rules that everyone obeys that say you can’t love two people? ’ A desperate Ann.

‘ You’re going to have to make a choice.’ Cocky, pushing fucking Brinkman.

‘ I don’t want to. I’m frightened.’ Poor, lovely, confused Ann.

Because everything was so carefully annotated, it was something other than a tape next in line for destruction. Blair gazed down at a piece of paper that the sad, nervous, knowingly sacrificed Orlov slipped to him in the Krasnaya Park, with Harriet Johnson’s telephone extension at the United Nations. It had been an impromptu, improperly thought-out decision openly to leave the copy like he had on the apartment desk because by then – what else – he’d known he had to destroy Brinkman. But still wasn’t sure how to hook him. Brinkman must have been desperate: certainly the questions seemed that way, a desperation not to have realised the impossibility of his ever having made a mistake like leaving around the most important part of an emerging intelligence operation. But then, Brinkman had other distractions. What a bastard the man had been!

Blair threw Orlov’s pitiful note into the bag and it was destroyed so swiftly that there wasn’t a wisp of smoke.

The American stretched, aware that he had been sitting at the desk for almost two hours and that it was getting late. Did he need any more reminders? No more. Now the need was to forget. He loved Ann so much; so very much. More than she would ever know.

There was only one tape left, the one that had been made that afternoon. Blair made himself do it, needing to hear of her uncertainty; needing to know of her love.

‘ Don’t pressure me all the time! ’

‘ You know what you want. So do it! ’

‘ Why did you ever have to come to Moscow? If you hadn’t come here everything would have been all right ’

You know that isn’t true.’

‘ I’ll decide.’

‘ When? And don’t say soon; don’t try to run away again.’

‘ A week. I’ll decide in a week. I promise.’

Now she wouldn’t have to decide – to be undecided – thought Blair, taking the final tape from the machine and putting it into the bag. The equipment was extremely efficient and there was only a miniscule amount of detritus. He shook it into the special container and sealed it, along with the remaining, exhausted phosphorus, for collection and disposal the following morning.

Blair rose, stretching again and looked at the telephone, unsure whether to call Ann to tell her he was on his way. No reason any more, he realised: no longer any need for discretion.

He collected his solitary car from the pound and eased out on to the near deserted night streets of Moscow. Where, he wondered, were all the cars with all the observers who had made themselves so obvious, so obvious that he would have aborted the mission anyway if he hadn’t decided to handle it another way.

The recall to Washington was a bonus, something he hadn’t anticipated. But everything else had gone exactly as planned. Until the absolute end, that is. It had been easy, from the intercepted conversations and Brinkman’s hurried return to England to know that the man had correctly interpreted the extension and imagined he could win. Blair wondered if the surveillance team would still be in place in New York and whether they had seen the British make contact. Had it been Brinkman, personally? The man had been away long enough; and was ambitious enough.

Blair guessed Orlov had gained the agricultural delegation he’d read about in Pravda and Brinkman confirmed it by the sudden departure so easily set out upon the tape. The airport message had been impromptu – like leaving the United Nations number in his apartment – once he positively identified Orlov arriving. But it had worked, like everything else. Except the shooting. Blair had not expected that: wanted it. Blair had imagined an arrest: a trial and an imprisonment, until an exchange deal had been worked out, like exchange deals were always worked out. Long enough for Ann to forget. But not that the man should get killed. Panic, thought Blair. It was always fatal to panic.

At the apartment block he put his car in the reserved space and climbed slowly to their apartment. Outside Blair hesitated, remembering the recall to Washington. He’d tell her tomorrow, he determined. Not tonight; tonight was going to be a shock. She’d need something tomorrow: poor Ann. Poor lovely, adorable Ann.

Blair hesitated a few moments longer, preparing himself and finally went in. Ann was sitting in the main room, close to the matroyshka set he hated. Something he shouldn’t forget to clear and pack tomorrow.

‘Darling,’ said Blair, solemn-voiced. ‘I’ve got the most terrible news about Jeremy Brinkman.’

Epilogue

‘Could there have been a connection?’ Panov was ashen-faced and the hand holding the cigarette had a palsied shake. His question was blurred by an outburst of coughing and Sokol waited until the chairman recovered before replying.

‘A possibility. The two were friends,’ he said. It had all been resolved by the most incredible luck but no one apart from himself knew that and Sokol had cleverly orchestrated all the credit.

‘Blair’s gone?’

‘And the man King, whom they drafted in with the cover of temporary archivist,’ confirmed Sokol. ‘We’ve kept Krasnaya under observation for two months now. The new man hasn’t been there once.’

There was another outburst of coughing and Sokol waited patiently. Eventually the KGB chairman said, ‘We’ve been able to mount a very effective propaganda campaign, because of the position of Brinkman’s father. Everything has worked out most satisfactorily.’

Not completely, thought Sokol: I’m still waiting for the announcement. He said, ‘I’m glad.’

‘The congratulations this time don’t just come from me,’ said Panov. ‘I’ve been asked to express them on the part of the Politburo, as well.’

‘That’s extremely gratifying,’ said Sokol, properly modest. Was today going to be the day?

‘It is necessary for me to retire,’ declared Panov, clearing his throat as if to indicate the reason. He smiled across the desk. ‘Of course that will mean changes.’

It was to be today! thought Sokol. He said, hoping the excitement wasn’t obvious in his voice, ‘Of course. I understand.’

‘I’ve already made clear the admiration that the Politburo have for you. Not just for the Brinkman affair; they fully realise how well you contained the disruption following the famine…’ The chairman’s pause this time was for the other man to assimilate the praise. ‘They feel,’ Panov began again, ‘that there is no one else at the required echelon within the organisation who could fulfil as well as yourself the position of Deputy, in charge of the Second Chief Directorate. And I, of course, agree with that assessment. You’re irreplaceable. Again, congratulations. The confidence in you is absolute…’

‘But…’ tried Sokol.

‘The chairmanship, by the way, is going to the Deputy of the First Chief Directorate, Sergei Golvbev…’

Content

The Lost American

Brian Freemantle

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Epilogue