‘None at all,’ agreed Brinkman. He decided that as irritating as Ingram might be, he wasn’t a fool.
‘Canada is important, too. By the same token. Ottowa was the first to recognise Mao, way back. So there’s a lot of playback through here: analysis requests on how something or other that appears to be emerging in Peking will be viewed in Moscow. It’s a worthwhile tennis game to watch.’
With China the subject Brinkman thought ping-pong would have been a more appropriate metaphor. He said, ‘Anyone else?’
‘French are pretty good but they’re an awkward bunch of bastards, all give and no take,’ judged Ingram. ‘Always a one-sided affair, dealing with them.’
Only if you let it be so, thought Brinkman. ‘Sounds typically French,’ he said.
‘And there’s the ace,’ said Ingram.
Brinkman followed Ingram’s look. The object of it was on the far side of the room, actually leaning against the wall, a tall, loose-limbed man. He wore an open-necked plaid shirt and jeans and appeared to be feeling the heat, from the flush of his face: the fair hair was already disordered, falling forward over his face.
‘Name’s Blair,’ said Ingram, from his side. ‘Eddie Blair. Been the CIA Resident here for a couple of years. Hell of a guy.’
Brinkman looked back curiously to Ingram at the open admiration. ‘In what way?’
‘Every way,’ said Ingram. ‘Straight as a die, first of all. He’ll help, if he can, but if it interferes with anything he’s doing or he can’t, because of orders from above, then he’ll say so, straight out. There isn’t a member of the Politburo he can’t quote chapter and verse about, going back as far as their grandfathers and his political judgment is superb.’
‘Like you said, a hell of a guy,’ said Brinkman.
‘It doesn’t end there,’ said Ingram, enjoying the lecture. ‘Technology is the name of the game: that’s what the Russians want, to catch up with us. But with America most of all. And technically Blair’s got a mind like a computer. He actually understands all of it. Do you know what the joke is?’
‘What?’ said Brinkman, politely.
‘That Washington doesn’t bother to send in the electronic people any more, to sweep the embassy and the apartment for bugs. Because Eddie Blair knows more about it and can do it better than any of them.’
Brinkman looked idly about him. There were a hundred places where listening devices could be concealed: there always were. The jabber of this crowd would nullify anything tonight.
‘Blair’s the man to watch’, said Ingram.
Brinkman wondered if the Russians were doing just that. ‘I’ll remember,’ he said.
‘Why not meet him now?’
‘Why not?’ agreed Brinkman. Before leaving the drinks table he put as much water as possible into his scotch and sipped it. Still not enough, he thought. Ingram had already opened the introduction by the time Brinkman got across the room and the American was smiling towards him, invitingly.
‘Hi,’ said Blair. ‘Welcome to fun city.’
The handshake was strong but not artificially so. ‘This usual?’ asked Brinkman, gesturing back into the room.
‘Better than usual,’ said Blair. As Ingram, his mission completed, eased back towards the bar, Blair added, ‘How you settling in?’
‘Not at all, at the moment,’ admitted Brinkman. ‘Living out of a suitcase at the embassy and going everywhere with a map in my hand.’
Blair smiled at the self-deprecation, as he was supposed to. ‘Takes time,’ he said. ‘Actually didn’t like the place in the first few months. Thought I’d made a mistake in accepting the posting.’
‘And now?’ said Brinkman.
‘Moscow’s a good place to be,’ said the American. ‘It’s always got the attention of a lot of important people.’
An ambitious cowboy: very rare, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Hope I don’t fail them.’
Blair smiled again, at the practised modesty. ‘Takes time, like I said. It’s a difficult place to get the feel of and put a handle on.’ The American paused and then said, ‘Difficult for the wives, too. Not enough for them to do, really.’
‘Won’t be a problem for me,’ said Brinkman. ‘I’m not married.’
Appearing reminded, Blair looked around the room and said, ‘You must meet Ann.’
He waved and Brinkman turned to see a slim, dark-haired woman coming towards them, smiling uncertainly. She’d taken the trouble with her clothes which her husband hadn’t, the turquoise dress designed to show both the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. She wore no other jewellery but a single strand gold necklace and only a minimum of make-up. She was much younger than Blair, Brinkman realised at once. As the American made the introductions he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and Brinkman wondered if the gesture were one of possession or comfort. He isolated the accent as soon as she spoke.
‘English?’ he said.
‘As roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ confirmed Blair.
‘Berkhamsted, actually,’ said Ann.
Brinkman saw she had small even teeth and the apparent habit of catching her lower lip between them, like a guilty child frightened of being caught out in some mistake.
‘Long way from home,’ said Brinkman.
He thought he detected a momentary pause from the woman. She said, ‘We all are.’ The smile this time was more open than before. ‘It’ll be good to have a new face among us,’ she said. Why was she being like the rest? Ann thought, angry at herself. The answer came at once. Why not? She was like everyone else.
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Brinkman. But not to parties like these, where the biggest ambition seemed to be who could get to the bottom of a whisky glass quickest, he thought. His own glass was sail practically full.
‘You must come and eat with us one night,’ said Ann. ‘It’ll be good to be able to talk to someone so recently from home.’
‘I’d like that,’ accepted Brinkman. London thought Ingram good and Ingram eulogised Blair: until he found his own roads to follow the American was obviously the person to travel with.
The arrival of the British ambassador, making his duty visit, was the signal for the presentations, which broke up Brinkman’s contact with the Blairs. There were short speeches, carefully guarded of course, praising Ingram as a colleague and friend whose companionship would be sadly missed and Ingram’s blinking grew more rapid with the praise. Lucinda stood alongside, the expression on her face making it quite clear that she considered it all justified. The ambassador presented the decanter set, with matching glasses, and Ingram assured those who had contributed towards it that he would always treasure it as a reminder of happy times in Moscow, which he was going to miss both as a city and as a place where he’d made many wonderful friends, people whom he and his wife sincerely hoped would remain in contact. There was the predictable attempt at a joke which fell flat and the predictable ribald shout from someone in the crowd and Brinkman wondered why these sorts of things were always inevitably so embarrassing. The presentation broke up, like they normally did, in the uncertainty of people not knowing what to do. Brinkman smiled up at the ambassador’s approach.
‘Sorry I haven’t had time to welcome you properly yet,’ said Sir Oliver Brace.
‘People seem to have been doing almost nothing else,’ said Brinkman. At the embassy gathering there had been the briefest of introductions: the formal interview was arranged for the following week.
‘Son of Sir Richard Brinkman, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Brinkman, feeling the stomach sink of dismay.
‘Harrow together,’ said the ambassador. ‘Damned fine bat. Still play cricket?’
‘Not any longer,’ said Brinkman.
It would have been easy enough for his father to find out; all he had to do was look at the diplomatic list. He supposed there would have been some contact, from the manner of Brace’s approach.
‘Everyone treating you all right?’ demanded the man. ‘No problems?’
‘Everyone has been extremely kind,’ said Brinkman.
In a veiled reference to Brinkman’s true function, the ambassador said, ‘Tricky place to be, sometimes, Moscow.’
‘I was fully briefed before I left London, sir,’ assured Brinkman. Dear God, don’t let this red-faced man with
