Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  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 rôle 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 attaché 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?’ sh
e 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.