always intended to get.
‘Why didn’t you call from Moscow?’ said Ruth.
‘There wasn’t time: everything was too quick.’
‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘And you.’
‘The boys will be glad: delighted, in fact.’
‘How’s Paul making out?’
Ruth told him about the scare and how she’d reacted and Blair’s reaction was the same as the counsellors’, which relieved her. Kemp and the school principal were keeping a close eye on his grades and they hadn’t dropped and as part of the programme she’d joined a parents’ group. There was a meeting the following night.
‘I’ll come too,’ announced Blair.
She hesitated. ‘Charlie said he’d come with me.’
‘Can’t we all go?’
Ruth hesitated further. ‘Won’t it look a bit unusual?’
‘If you don’t want me…’
‘… Oh no!’ she stopped him. ‘Maybe I’ll ask Charlie not to bother.’
‘We should not use him as a stop-gap,’ said Blair.
‘I’ll talk to him about it,’ she said.
The greeting from the boys this time was different from the earlier visit. John ran at Blair and threw himself into his father’s arms and although he didn’t run Paul allowed himself to be picked up, as well. Blair had to put them down quickly because together they were heavy. He gave them their gifts and both children strapped them on, their delight obvious.
‘Is this really what proper divers wear, Dad?’ asked John.
‘All the time,’ assured Blair.
‘It’s terrific having you back home,’ said Paul.
‘It’s terrific to be home,’ said Blair.
Brinkman was on the Watch List and the encouraged and congratulated surveillance squad at the airport responded the moment that the Englishman was identified, boarding the London-bound plane. There was a telephone alert – upon which Sokol now insisted – in advance of the report and the photographs. Sokol studied the dossier, comparing photographs of the other passengers against the names and agreeing with the airport assessment that Brinkman’s departure was not connected with anybody else on the same flight. So why should the American intelligence Resident, whom he regarded as one of the – if not the – best operators in Moscow leave just ahead of the British intelligence Resident, whom he regarded as a close second in ability? Coincidence? Not to be discounted but unlikely, decided Sokol. A joint operation? Another possibility, conceded the KGB deputy. Certainly it had happened before. But rarely. And they’d been successful over the last few years, actually publicising their infiltration of the British service to sow distrust in any cooperation with America. So the conclusion was that there could be not one but two separate operations, being run at the same time. Sokol was a self-confident man, sure of his ability. Despite which he felt a sink of despair and it took a long time for his normal attitude to predominate: and even then it wasn’t a complete recovery.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brinkman was disappointed – actually worried – that Maxwell didn’t appear to share his convictions. The division chief’s office was in the inner quadrangle, away from any traffic. It was possible to hear the ticking of the antique clock on the mantle-shelf and Maxwell’s sighed uncertainty as he looked down at the evidence Brinkman placed before him.
‘It’s very circumstantial,’ judged Maxwell.
‘No,’ disputed Brinkman, risking the impertinence of coming around to the side of the desk to argue his case. ‘Orlov has returned within months from the United Nations, in New York…’ He isolated three of the pictures that had been airfreighted to him in Moscow, each showing Orlov at UN receptions. ‘At the United States embassy I positively saw Orlov make an approach to the CIA Resident, Edward Blair. I’m quite definite about it. Blair has made two visits to Washington: he’s there now and this time it was a panicked recall. On his desk was this…’ Brinkman paused again, producing a piece of paper upon which he’d written UNXT 481. ‘You know from the checks that I asked you to make that extension 481 at the United Nations is the direct line to a woman called Harriet Johnson, a British-born senior translator…’ There was another break while Brinkman selected two photographs of Harriet that had been sent with the second batch of material. ‘Harriet Johnson,’ he identified, unnecessarily dramatic. One was a posed, full-faced picture, taken for her official accreditation. There was another, obviously at a UN party, and a third of her at the point of leaving the skyscraper building. Brinkman made another selection, placing the picures of the girl by herself against two of Orlov, both at UN receptions. ‘Pietr Orlov,’ went on Brinkman, still dramatic. He moved his finger, to someone in the immediate background of both prints. ‘Harriet Johnson,’ he said.
‘I don’t dispute it’s the woman,’ said Maxwell. ‘So Harriet Johnson attended UN functions and was photographed with a senior Soviet official. Russian is her predominant language: we know that from the files.’
‘What is the private extension of a senior Soviet translator doing on the desk of a CIA Resident in Moscow?’ said Brinkman.
‘How did you get that?’
Brinkman hesitated. ‘I’m a friend,’ he said. ‘I went to the apartment the night Blair left: within an hour or two.’
‘He left something like that on the desk of his apartment?’
Brinkman paused again, remembering Ann’s account of the row. Remembering, too, the part of it she recalled best. He said he laved me. Brinkman said, ‘There was a lot of panic. Some personal confusion too, I think.’
‘There must have been,’ said Maxwell. He looked back to the display before him. ‘So what is it, in your opinion?’
‘I don’t know, not definitely,’ conceded Brinkman. ‘At the moment I think it’s a defection.’
Maxwell frowned up. ‘Someone of Orlov’s rank?’
‘Which was why I judged it important enough to come back here personally.’ said Brinkman. Maxwell was moving, he guessed. Very slightly but moving.
Maxwell opened the tub on his desk, lighted the cigarette and coughed. ‘So what do you want to do about it?’ he asked, directly.
‘Make him come to us, instead,’ said Brinkman, just as direct.
A smile, vaguely patronising, touched Maxwell’s mouth. ‘Just like that!’ he said.
‘No, not just like that,’ said Brinkman, irritated at his superior. ‘I think I could make it happen.’
‘How?’
Brinkman told him, setting out the proposal he had carefully formulated on the flight from Moscow, intent upon Maxwell’s facial reaction. There was none. When he finished Maxwell, who had served at the embassy in Washington before his promotion said, ‘Do you know the American expression “dirty pool”?’
‘No,’ said Brinkman.
‘Loosely translated, it means shitting on someone from a great height. What you’re planning is dirty pool.’
‘I’m suggesting we get Orlov for ourselves!’
‘I know what you’re suggesting,’ said Maxwell. ‘But why? There’s liaison, between us and Washington. We’ll get what Orlov has to say, in time. If they get him across it’s a coup but if they make a mistake it’s an international incident. What’s wrong with letting America take the risk?’
Chair-bound bloody beaurocrat, interested only in lunches at the club and whether his pension was index- linked, thought Brinkman. The departure lecture about taking chances hadn’t anything to do with his safety: Maxwell was only interested in his own back. As forcefully as he dared he said, ‘We won’t get what Orlov has to say. We’ll get what Washington condescends to let us have, sanitised and packaged, like processed cheese. And about as tasteless. And I agree, in time: their time. Which will be years from now, when any usefulness will have
