‘Sounds fine,’ accepted Brinkman. Seeing the opportunity, he said, ‘Just call, if anything comes up.’
‘Of course,’ said Blair. ‘Can’t imagine anything will though; it all looks pretty quiet at the moment.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ lured Brinkman.
‘Why not?’ demanded Blair at once. The man’s head came up and the relaxation seemed to go from throughout the large body and Brinkman thought that even if Blair were as drunk as he suspected him of being the man had an impressive ability to recover, practically before one’s eyes.
Brinkman told him, not in a chronological disclosure of facts but disjointedly, the way he had recounted it earlier to Harrison, wanting neither man to imagine he had done better than them but rather that he was testing out his impressions and theories. Blair listened expressionlessly and seemingly sleepy-eyed and at the end said, laconically, ‘Interesting: certainly worth thinking about.’
Brinkman knew that the American was doing more than just thinking about it: just as he knew that after he left tonight Blair would take advantage of the time difference between Moscow and Washington and go back to the embassy and send a report. Which meant Ottawa and Washington would hear of things within a time frame which for all intents and purposes was simultaneous and that London – because of their advance knowledge – would be able to offer confirmatory help as soon as the requests came from both capitals. And that Blair and Harrison would be grateful to him. Which is how Brinkman wanted it to be. And wouldn’t hold back from helping him in the future. Which was also how Brinkman wanted it to be.
The coffee was good – imported – and the brandy, too, but Brinkman was conscious of Blair’s impatience. Conscious too, that the American Resident had stopped drinking. To make it easy for the man, Brinkman excused himself, refusing Ann’s insistence upon another coffee or another drink, agreeing to another meeting soon, because there was so much about Cambridge they hadn’t talked about. Brinkman escorted Sharon home again and once more refused her invitation to a final nightcap, risking offence this time by not even pleading pressure of work. He thought she was an amusing girl and an intelligent, witty companion. But he thought she might also become an encumbrance, imagining something more than properly existed in a casual, one-night stand. And Brinkman didn’t want any sort of encumbrance.
Back at the Blairs’ apartment Ann looked bemused at her husband’s announcement that he had to return to the embassy. ‘What for?’
‘Something’s come up.’
She looked at the telephone and then back to him. ‘Nobody called.’
‘Something I forgot to do today: just remembered.’
While the agreement was no secrets in their personal relationships she accepted because of what he did that his work was sacrosanct. It was just that it had never happened this way before. ‘How long?’ she said.
‘Not long,’ he promised. ‘Just a cable to send.’
‘Hurry back.’
‘Sure.’
She tried to remain awake, actually taking another brandy she didn’t want and staying up for an hour. Then she went to bed, intending to wait there but it didn’t work and she fell asleep, so deeply that she wasn’t aware of his return or of his easing in beside her. He could only make out the vaguest outline in the darkness, the jut of her chin and her nose and the bulge of her breasts, rising and falling rhythmically in the darkness. He loved her so much, Blair thought; so very much. Everything that had happened was worth it, to have Ann as his wife, he determined. Just as he determined they would always stay together.
‘How heavy?’ asked the embassy doctor, bent over her case notes.
‘Very heavy,’ insisted Ann determinedly. ‘I’ve flooded, for the last three months.’
He looked up at her. ‘There’s no indication of any blood pressure.’
‘Need there be?’ she asked. She knew the answer, because she had already checked.
‘Not necessarily,’ conceded the doctor. ‘If you’re going to stop using the pill, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. Become pregnant, I hope, she thought.
‘What about a coil?’
‘I tried it in England,’ lied Ann. ‘It hurt: it was always uncomfortable’.
‘A diaphragm then?’
‘I’ve never used one.’
‘It’s your responsibility,’ warned the man. ‘You’ve got to remember to use it.’
‘All right,’ said Ann.
‘You sure about the pill?’ said the doctor, still doubtful.
‘Quite sure,’ said Ann.
Chapter Seven
The cafeteria of the American embassy is an annex building at the rear of the main premises on Chaykovskovo, on the ground floor. The walls are festooned with posters of American scenes, aerial shots of the Grand Canyon and Mickey Mouse at Disneyworld and the Statue of Liberty, all reminders of home. There were some framed pictures, too, outdoor scenes again and around some hung forlorn streamers, forgotten residue of some celebration like Christmas or Thanksgiving. The menu prices and payment, Brinkman saw, were in dollars; another reminder of a far-away home. He chose steak, knowing it would have been flown in. As Blair warned, it would never have achieved the place a listing in the Guide Michelin but it wasn’t bad, either. Both drank coffee.
‘Able to abandon the map yet?’ asked Blair.
Brinkman frowned, momentarily not understanding, then remembered his casual remark the night they first met, at Ingram’s party. ‘Just about,’ he smiled. Blair had a remarkable memory.
‘Like Moscow?’
‘I can see its limitations but they don’t worry me, not yet. So yes, I like it,’ replied Brinkman, honestly. Wanting to match the other man’s recall, he said, ‘I think it’s a worthwhile place to be, professionally: always got the attention of a lot of important people.’
Blair grinned at the other man, awarding him the point. ‘That wheat thing came out right,’ said the American, giving him another.
‘Ingram did the groundwork,’ said Brinkman. The two had been friends and might still be in touch. It was unlikely they would discuss something like that, even if they were, but Brinkman decided it didn’t hurt to be generous.
‘Half an assessment isn’t any good,’ said Blair.
Brinkman began to smile, imagining further praise but then stopped, suspecting that Blair meant something else. ‘What’s yours?’ he said.
‘I think there’s more to switching the wheat purchasing to Canada than finding alternative supplies. That’s too simple.’
Blair was being objective, not critical, Brinkman decided: and he hadn’t committed himself too strongly to London, he remembered, relieved. Wanting to show analysis in his question, Brinkman took a chance and said, ‘You think the shortage is serious?’
Blair nodded and Brinkman was further relieved. ‘We know it is,’ he said. ‘Got a playback from Langley: our spy satellites go over the wheat growing areas. It’s a disaster area.’
‘Famine proportions?’ probed Brinkman, staying on safe ground.
‘Practically, in some areas. The harvest was bad last year, so there isn’t any stock for them to fall back upon.’
It was repayment time, Brinkman realised: he hadn’t expected it so soon. Deciding it wasn’t a naive assumption. Brinkman said, ‘Which puts Serada on the spot?’
‘The whole Politburo,’ expanded Blair. ‘But Serada most of all, I agree. He’s shown bad leadership, from the time of his election. There have been the changes within the ministry, sure, but that’s just cosmetic: doesn’t matter a spit within the Politburo, where Serada’s critics are. And he’s got plenty.’
‘Enough to be purged?’ Brinkman tried to avoid any excitement showing and thought he’d succeeded.
‘Difficult to be positive,’ said Blair cautiously. ‘But it could happen. Serada came from the agricultural
