‘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.’
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‘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 Lost American Page 7
