Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  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 cliché, 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 rôle 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 rôle 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 attaché 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, communiqués 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 rôle 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-pres
sured 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.