to escape looking at each other.
‘He’s back now,’ said Betty, taking over her role 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
