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 rôles. 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, reflect
ing 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. ‘H
e 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.’
Lost American Page 21
