intent as he was. And intent as he was Brinkman saw the exchange, the merest brushing of hands. Brinkman was sure it had been an exchange. And with that conviction all the others came tumbling in. He knew now what was important enough for Blair to be recalled to Washington. He knew what was important enough for Blair to regard his marriage as dispensible. He knew why Blair had extended and he knew, too, that the man would go on extending and why Ann had better reconcile herself to a lifetime in Moscow, if she wanted to stay married to the man. And he knew who Blair’s source was.
There was not the slightest sign of either Orlov or Blair being disconcerted by Brinkman’s arrival.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met the cultural attache at the British embassy, Mr Jeremy Brinkman?’
‘No,’ said Orlov. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’
The envy surged through Brinkman, a physical sensation that actually made him feel weak, so that his legs trembled, just briefly. He wanted Orlov! And if he couldn’t have him, then neither would Blair.
‘You’re late,’ challenged Ruth.
‘I’ve just left the programme, for God’s sake!’
‘Don’t be truculent with me, Paul. Or evasive. You leave the programme at five. If you don’t pick up the five- ten metro there’s another at five-twenty. Mr Erickson allowed for that. From the metro station it’s a seven minute walk, eight at the outside. You’re an hour out.’
‘He timed the whole journey?’
‘Yes, Paul, he did. And it seems a good idea that he bothered, doesn’t it?’
The boy stubbed his toe into the carpet, lower lip between his teeth.
‘So OK,’ demanded his mother. ‘Where were you?’
‘Talking to some guys.’
‘What guys?’
‘Just guys.’
‘What guys?’ she repeated.
‘Just guys,’ insisted Paul, just as determinedly.
‘It’s not yet a month,’ said Ruth. ‘Not yet a month since you stood in court and heard what would happen if you did it again.’
‘I haven’t done anything again!’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘Just talking. That’s all. Just talking. Honest.’
‘I can’t expect you to be honest any more, can I?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘No, it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. That’s been made perfectly clear by everyone; it’s all up to you.’
Paul made the groove in the carpet and was worrying it into a wider gap, spreading the pile apart.
‘Stop that!’ shouted Ruth. ‘And stop being such a stupid little child.’
‘Just talking,’ insisted the boy.
‘I’m going to call Mr Erickson. And Mr Kemp. And the programme director. I’m going to tell them what happened and let them decide what to do.’
‘Give me a break, Mom!’
‘That’s exactly what I am trying to give you,’ said the woman.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blair left the apartment early the following morning – earlier than he ever had – careless of Ann imagining it some continuation of the coldness which had existed between them since his return from Washington; careless of everything in his eagerness to get to the secure-doored isolation of his office at the embassy. He needed such absolute isolation, without the slightest distraction or interruption, properly to assimilate what had happened at the reception the previous night. Just five words – words he had been convinced at first that he had misheard – which must have showed, because Orlov had repeated them urgently: ‘I would like to meet.’ And the paper, slipped into his hand, the paper he had spread now on his desk and was staring down at, willing the neat, sterile letters to tell him more. ‘Kuntsevo. Fili Park. 1900. 11 June.’ Today was 11 June. So Pietr Orlov, recently returned Plenipotentiary Ambassador for the USSR at the United Nations, recently elected and youngest member of the central governing body, wanted to meet him at seven o’clock tonight at the last pier for the Moscow river boats, where the vessels change for the trip further north. Which was just beyond Fili Park. Dare he go? There were standard lectures about provocateur entrapment – not just for people like him but for all diplomatic staff – before any Moscow posting. But they weren’t about anything like this. The entrapments were crude affairs by KGB groundmen. They didn’t involve people like Pietr Orlov. It had to be genuine. Genuine what? That was an impossible speculation. He could absorb all the available file material that he’d already pulled and imagine half a dozen possibilities and still be a million miles from guessing right. He’d have to go. Unthinkable, of course, that he wouldn’t once he’d considered everything. He’d have to go to the pier and remain as inconspicuous as possible and let Orlov make the running. If the man showed then whatever it was he would be involved in the most spectacular moment in his career. He should tell Langley. It was common sense – apart from inviolate instructions – that he shouldn’t try to climb a greasy pole like this without at least trying to establish some form of padding if he fell backwards. Not that there was much they’d be able to do if it were a set-up, inconceivable though that might be. But he was reluctant to contact Washington. It was so little and so inconclusive. Shaking up the bees’ nest without knowing where the honey was. He postponed it, poring over the material that existed in the files. So little, he thought again. Married, no children, comparatively rapid rise through the diplomatic channel, culminating in the most recent election. Flat and empty, a Who’s Who entry; except that a Who’s Who entry gave hobbies and pastimes and what he had in front of him didn’t even provide that.
He had to contact Langley about other things from last night, Blair knew, coming back to his uncertainty. Aistov’s appearance, after the crop disaster, was important. The sort of thing he would have considerd very important indeed, before Orlov. He wrote the message and encoded it and then sat where he was instead of taking it to the cipher room. This was stupid. No matter what the uproar when he shook the nest, he had to tell them. Not to do so – for fear of making himself look a fool – would be abandoning his expertise as an intelligence officer and he prided that expertise above all else.
It took him an hour to write and encode and he had the Orlov message transmitted first and then sat, waiting. The response came within a hour, which, considering the procedural channels at Langley was practically at the speed of light. He responded patiently that he couldn’t amplify because he had included everything in his first message and when they asked for interpretation he said that was impossible, glad he’d thought it through before the request came. Langley said a special desk was being established, inside the existing 24-hour Watch Room and that he was to communicate immediately after the meeting – if it occurred – took place. There was the injunction to take all possible care and to avoid anything which might lead to an incident embarrassing to the United States and then, as an apparent afterthought, Hubble personally signed a message wishing him good luck.
The two-way exchanges meant he missed lunch but Blair was too excited to eat anyway. He telephoned Ann to say he would be late home – probably very late – and that she wasn’t to wait dinner and to go to bed without him. She’d been in bed that morning when he’d left so he asked her how she was and she said OK and how was he and he said OK, anxious to get off the telephone. Ann appeared to sense it and ended the conversation.
Blair realised he would be behaving like an amateur if he didn’t carry out a reconnaissance. He wasn’t an amateur: he was an extremely experienced professional who knew entrapments weren’t set up instantly: entrapments required planning and Blair was pretty sure that if he made a practice run early he would be professional enough to identify any preparation.
From the embassy on Ulitza Chaykovskovo Blair walked without haste to the nearest metro, wanting to pick up the watchers. He emerged from the underground at the Sverdlova station, only starting to hurry when he was almost across Red Square and approaching the gigantic GUM department store, enjoying himself with the thought that he was going to clear his trail actually in view of the KGB headquarters. Once through the doors he really hurried, burying himself in the largest department store in the Soviet Union and reflecting as he did so that it was an ideal place in which to lose a tail. He emerged from one of the side-doors, away from the Lenin Mausoleum, hurrying this time to the Ploshchad metro terminal. The essential of identifying any surveillance is obviously to
