Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  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.

&nb
sp; ‘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 confirmati
on – 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.