ministry: was supposed to know all about it. Agrarian reforms were the first things he introduced, when he got the Politburo chairmanship.’
‘So he’s directly responsible?’ said Brinkman, another safe question. He did not want any more of his meal but continued eating, to disguise his feelings from the other man.
‘Right in the firing line,’ agreed Blair. ‘So we’re going to see some defensive play.’
Brinkman didn’t understand and searched desperately for the right question. ‘Can he manage it?’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ said Blair, pushing his plate away. ‘Maybe not.’
Come on, for Christ’s sake! thought Brinkman. He wanted it all. He said, ‘It’ll have to be something pretty dramatic’
‘I think it will be,’ said Blair. ‘Predictable but dramatic’
But I can’t bloody well predict it, thought Brinkman. Unable to manage anything better he said, ‘Could support swing back to Serada if he gets it right?’
‘ If he gets it right,’ qualified Blair. The American hesitated, appearing unsure whether or not to continue: Brinkman sat with the apprehension burning through him, hoping it wasn’t showing in open perspiration on his face. Then Blair said, ‘The Canadian deal has got two sides, in my opinion. It’s to relieve the shortages here, certainly. And for insurance if the United States uses its supplies as a weapon. Serada’s gesture has got to be dramatic, like I said. It’s got to be dramatic and it’s got to be convincing to everyone here: the Politburo and the committees that matter and those poor sons-of-bitches who are starving out there in the boondocks. So what’s the usual move of a dictatorship when there’s an internal threat?’
Brinkman drank from his coffee cup, to give himself time. Predictable, the man said; what the hell was predictable! ‘Create an external one,’ he risked, stomach knotted at the fear of getting it wrong.
‘Exactly!’ said the American and Brinkman put the cup down, not wanting the shake of his hand to be apparent. Blair said, ‘The Soviets are paranoid about war. They lost twenty million people fighting Hitler and have never forgotten it. Neither should we forget how it affects their thinking. If Serada can stir up a war threat, then he’s home and dry.’
Blair was mad, thought Brinkman. Up to now everything had been logical and acceptible but now the man was running off into fantasyland. And then it came to him and he said, ‘So you’re guessing Geneva?’
‘Right first time,’ congratulated the American. ‘I think Serada is going publicly to put up a whole bunch of proposals to the disarmament conference, proposals he knows damned well will be unacceptable to the United States. Say something like he’s prepared to go there personally to negotiate and sign a treaty and actually invite the President to meet him there. We’ll turn it down, because we’ll have to. And the President will make an announcement saying he’s not going. Serada will be able to tell the Politburo and the Russian people and anyone else who’ll listen to him that he made a genuine gesture for peace but America, the warmongers, rejected it. And then, in protest, he’ll break off the Geneva conference. My guess is that he’ll actually hope we’ll use wheat as a weapon. If we do that he can say it’s America causing the starvation, not his half-assed policies.’
It was good, conceded Brinkman: bloody good. A neat, intricate jig-saw puzzle with all the bits in place, even the awkward ones all the same colour. He said, ‘It’s a fascinating scenario.’
‘It’s the way I’m reading it,’ said Blair.
The American gestured for more coffee and Brinkman took some too, content to let Blair run the encounter. The ace, Ingram had called him, remembered Brinkman. He thought it was a pretty good description. He said, ‘Who succeeds, if Serada goes?’
Blair grinned. ‘The sixty-four thousand dollar question, as they’ve said too many times. It’s Russia’s perennial problem, a gang of old guys at the top. Gushkov is a contender, but he’s seventy-two. Chebrakin has got the support of the military, which is always a factor. But he’s seventy. Didenko is the youngest, at fifty-nine. But he’s spent most of his administrative life out in the provinces and hasn’t got any international experience at all: never even been out of the country. I’d put Yuri Sevin down as an outsider but my guess is he wouldn’t take it. His reputation is that of a behind-the-scenes policymaker.’
‘Anybody’s guess then?’
‘If I were asked to make it, I’d risk a buck on Chebrakin. But only as a caretaker.’
‘Until Didenko gets the experience?’
‘Maybe,’ said Blair, uncommitted. ‘Maybe someone we’ve never heard of. I’ve got a gut feeling that we might see changes that will take us all by surprise…’ Blair grinned again and said, ‘But that’s all it is, a gut feeling. And gut feelings make bad intelligence.’
If Blair were right then he couldn’t have been posted to Moscow at a better time, thought Brinkman. He realised, too, that the American had repaid him in full: with interest. He said, ‘Would America suspend the wheat sales, to get Serada back to the conference table?’
‘Not if we’ve got any sense,’ said Blair. ‘It’s a myth that we supply all that much anyway. And what we do could easily be replaced. As a gesture it would be more to Russia’s propaganda advantage than a serious threat.’
He’d include that in the file to London, Brinkman determined. It would show impressive political acumen: maybe even get transmitted between London and Washington. He experienced a warm feeling of contentment and satisfaction. He said, ‘I’d like to return the other night’s dinner. Have you and Ann over to my place.’ In fact, thought Brinkman, he wanted Blair to be a frequent guest at this rate; very frequent.
‘We’d like that,’ accepted the American. ‘Ann’s got lots more she wants to talk about with you, about England.’ The American paused and said, ‘Found the bugs yet?’
‘I haven’t seriously tried,’ said Brinkman, who had but found no listening devices against which in London he’d been warned to be careful.
‘Light fittings are a favourite,’ said the American. ‘Interior of keyholes, too. When they swept the apartment of our trade attache last time they found one in the flush handle of the John.’
Brinkman laughed and said, ‘What did they do?’
‘Took it out,’ said Blair. ‘The Soviets know from the maids when there’s an official sweep and because it’s official anything found is removed. We don’t touch anything we find ourselves. Indicates we might have something to hide and they’ll only put another one in somewhere else. If you know where they are you can just avoid them.’
Remembering Ingram’s praise of the other man’s electronic ability, Brinkman said, ‘Found all yours?’
‘I think so,’ said Blair, casually. ‘Score’s up to five so far. I play them a lot of Country and Western. Dolly Parton’s a favourite.’
‘I prefer classical,’ said Brinkman.
‘I guess they do, too,’ said Blair.
Brinkman’s report to Maxwell was lengthy and it took a long time to encode, so it was late when he got back from the embassy. Despite the time, he spent three hours making a detailed examination of the apartment, concentrating upon the spots suggested by Blair. He found three devices, two in light fittings.
Four days later the Soviet leader appeared publicly on State television to announce his new disarmament proposals for the Geneva conference. Washington responded not with a rejection but with caution, issuing a communique that they would have to be studied in depth before any proper response could be given. Brinkman got another cable of congratulation from Maxwell.
Ruth accepted that the apology in Blair’s card – that there was nothing really worth buying in Moscow for Paul’s birthday – was probably true but she still wished he’d tried, instead of enclosing an impersonal cheque. Trying for something different she took both boys on one of the cruise trips along the Potomac, on a boat where it was possible to eat. Afterwards they went to the Biograph in Georgetown because a movie was showing she knew Paul particularly wanted to see and even though they had the big tubs of popcorn she took them to eat, afterwards, at the French restaurant on the opposite side of M Street.
‘I’d like you to write to your father when we get back, to thank him.’
‘What for?’ demanded Paul belligerently.
‘Your present,’ Ruth replied carefully. She wouldn’t fight, not on his birthday.
‘Twenty lousy bucks!’
‘Stop it, Paul,’ she said evenly. ‘He’s your father and he loves you and it made more sense for him to send you the money to buy something you really want instead of him guessing.’
