to be.’
Brinkman tried to curb any reaction and knew he succeeded because Ann appeared in some sort of reverie. ‘What did he mean by that? That things wouldn’t be as bad as you thought they were going to be?’
‘He wouldn’t say. I even asked if it meant he wouldn’t have to stay here in Moscow but he wouldn’t say.’
Brinkman risked looking over his shoulder. The desk top was still jumbled, which was unusual in an apartment as reasonably kept as this. He stood, with accustomed familiarity in her home and said, ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Not really.’
Neither did Brinkman but the drinks tray was next to the desk. He made the pretence of examining the selection, lifting and putting down bottles, looking back to see if she were paying any particular attention, which she wasn’t. He poured scotch but put the glass back not on the tray but alongside on the desk, jostling what lay there. He turned back to her, his body screening her from what he was doing, spreading what Blair had left further, so that it would only take one look. ‘You sure?’ he said.
‘Maybe vodka then.’
He turned back, glad of the extra few seconds, looking not at the drinks but sideways on the desk. There were some official government passes, the sort they all carried, for use within Moscow and some small change Blair clearly felt he wouldn’t need. And a single sheet of paper, half hidden by a car parking permit. Brinkman shifted the permit, making to pick up his own glass. There was only a single, printed line. UNXT 481.
Brinkman carried the drinks back and said ‘Cheers’ and she smiled back at him, a sad expression.
‘How long is he going to be away?’
‘I don’t know. Not as long as last time, he said.’
‘At least that’ll make some things easier,’ he said.
She smiled, sad again. ‘Not tonight, darling.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t want to.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t, darling.’
‘How do you expect me to feel!’
‘How do you expect me to feel? I’m the one who has to choose, eventually.’
Did Blair’s remark mean he was getting out of Moscow on time? Or even quicker. If it did it would mean Ann would go with him. Unless she chose. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’ It would be wrong to push her.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘How about tomorrow night?’
‘We’ll see.’ Aware of his wince, she said, ‘We’ll talk tomorrow. We’ll try to make it tomorrow night.’
Brinkman went angrily from the apartment. His first inclination was to go to his own place but then he changed his mind, driving back to the embassy and shutting himself again in his room, gazing down at the pictures of Orlov. He wasn’t going to lose, he determined. Wouldn’t lose. He smiled, suddenly, looking down at the top photograph. It couldn’t be as easy as that? As simple? But why not? He’d spent hours trying to evolve convoluted scenarios and it could all be childishly, ridiculously easy. He prefaced the lengthy cable to Maxwell with the assurance that he would not be making the request unless he considered what he was asking for to be absolutely essential. And absolutely urgent. Before he encoded it, Brinkman stared again at the message, deciding that the queries looked like some rather complicated crossword puzzle. Which, he supposed, was exactly what they were.
Ruth was embarrassed, seeking reassurance now. ‘So I overreacted then?’
‘No, Mrs Blair,’ said Kemp at once. ‘OK, so this time it seems that Paul was telling the truth. The urinalysis is clear and the other boys we finally located said all they did was talk. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you himself who they were: three were from the same programme. They just hung around outside for a while. The point is that he could have been doing something stupid. And the most important thing is that he knows now how you’d react if he were. It’s taught him a lesson.’
‘It’s not going to be easy, is it?’ said Ruth, wearily.
‘I never thought it would be, Mrs Blair,’ said the counsellor.
This time the inadequate surveillance was reported and it arrived on Sokol’s desk within two hours of the notification from Sheremetyevo of Blair’s abrupt and second departure to Washington. Sokol recognised at once he had stumbled across an operation. The efforts to which Blair went to slip any cover indicated that: and so did the return to America. Sokol further decided that because of the crass incompetence of men specifically assigned to watch the American – an instruction which should have alerted them to its importance – he was way behind in trying to discover what it was. To find out, he thought, might give him the long sought-after coup. To fail might mean a disaster sufficient to bring him down, like the receding famine almost had. He summoned the watch squad from the airport, for congratulation and a personal briefing on the importance of identifying Blair’s return. And issued arrest and disciplinary hearing orders against the idiots around Blair’s apartment and the US embassy, who had failed. Mistakes had to stop, Sokol realised.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hubble came personally to the airport to meet him. Customs clearance was arranged so they bypassed the formalities and were in the limousine within fifteen minutes of Blair emerging from the aircraft. The division chief waited until they were in the security of the vehicle, with the dividing partition raised to separate them from the driver and his escort and said, ‘You’ve done it, Eddie. The jackpot. Every bell is ringing.’
Blair was suffering his customary fatigue and found Hubble’s enthusiasm difficult. He wondered if the man talked like that all the time. He said, ‘We’ve got to get him across first.’
‘We’re not going to let this one go, buddy. Believe me we’re not.’
Blair did believe him, from the reaction so far. He looked out at the Beltway, remembering his initial difficulty last time with all the cars. He’d have to call Ruth when he got the opportunity. He’d remembered a gift in Amsterdam, the same sort of perfume he’d bought Ann. He’d been undecided about the boys and copied the homeward journey again, buying them both watches, the heavy calibrated sort that divers were supposed to wear. They’d be surprised, to have him home again so soon. He said, ‘What’s been set up here?’
‘Everything,’ assured Hubble. ‘All the details can wait until we get to Langley but believe me there isn’t anything that hasn’t been thought of…’ The man paused and Blair waited for the announcement. ‘Guess who’s going to chair this afternoon’s meeting!’
It was obvious but Blair gave the man the moment he wanted. ‘Who?’ he said.
‘The Director himself!’
Blair thought Hubble would have enjoyed the announcement having some sort of band accompaniment. ‘Jackpot, like you said.’
Despite it being an official Agency car with a recognisable division chief as a passenger they still had to go through the formal security procedures. Once inside the main building Hubble took over the role as guide. When they entered the elevator he pressed the button for the seventh floor and Blair guessed there had been some arrangement to advise the Director of their arrival. He was crumpled and stubble-chinned again and wished he’d had the opportunity to clean up.
The Director’s office was a lavish suite, personally designed by Allen Dulles but never occupied by him because he was fired as Director by President Kennedy after the Bay of Pigs disaster. I hope this isn’t a disaster, thought Blair, entering behind his immediate superior.
Rupert Perelmen was a tall, dome-headed man wearing rimless spectacles and a suit as crumpled as Blair’s. He looked precisely the academic he had been until his appointment as Director by a President who decided the Agency needed a political scientist as its head. The man got up as they entered, coming forward with his hand outstretched to greet Blair and personally to guide him to a chair. When Perelmen returned to his own seat he beamed professorially and said, ‘Well done. Very well done indeed!’
Blair thought it sounded like he’d got good marks in an examination, which perhaps he had. He was aware of
