send a Special Forces group on standby to one of the German bases, from which within hours they could get to the Finnish border if there had to be an incursion to get Orlov out. Five unmarked CIA helicopters – large capacity Chinooks – were also sent on, in advance, flying with a Boeing 727, also unmarked, which was planned to be the transport vehicle for Orlov’s eventual Atlantic crossing to the United States, however the man got out. Blair addressed the assembled group leaders, self-consciously, standing in front of them like a teacher, baton in hand, identifying Orlov from the hugely enlarged photographs that had been made. There was renewed pressure from Hubble to provide back-up within the Soviet Union and Blair conceded that an effort should be made if the cross- over appeared to be taking longer than they expected, which would enable the applications to be made for entry permission without attracting any special attention. With the number of American diplomats permitted in Moscow strictly limited by the Russians, it meant the Director had to persuade the State Department to surrender some of their allocation and Blair wondered how successful Perelmen would be.
He was away from Langley in good time for the parents’ meeting at the drug programme. Blair couldn’t see that the gathering achieved much practical benefit, apart from showing die kids they had support – which was, he supposed, the practical benefit intended – and afterwards he gave them a choice and they went for the Mexican cafe in the Georgetown mall. Ruth put Charlie Rogers off and Blair wished she hadn’t. Both boys wore their watches and kept looking at them, with the pride of new ownership.
‘Can we really come to Moscow, Dad?’ said John.
‘That’s a deal.’
‘When?’ demanded Paul, forcefully.
Blair remembered the counsellor’s warning about breaking promises and thought how occupied he was going to be by what was happening in Moscow. He said, ‘We’ll plan around the next long vacation. And around Paul’s programme, of course. I’ll fix it, with the counsellors.’
The vacation was close, not more than a few weeks. So much could be changed in a few weeks, he thought.
‘How often do you think you’ll be able to get back like this?’ asked Ruth.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Blair. It would be wrong to make her any false promises, like it would be with the boys.
‘Will I see a spy in Moscow?’ said John, who did not know what his father did.
‘Maybe,’ said Blair.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time Brinkman reached the apartment Harriet had realised her stupidity. She retained the door on its security chain, staring out at him – not just his face but how he was dressed, as if she wanted to establish a complete image – and keeping most of herself hidden behind the door itself.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘I told you, it’s about Pietr,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, pitifully too late.
‘Why did you let me up then?’
‘I misunderstood,’ she said, even more pitifully.
‘I know, Harriet,’ said Brinkman. ‘Let me in, so we can talk.’
‘Who are you?’
Brinkman anticipated the question. He took easily from his pocket his accreditation and identification, designating him a cultural attache at the British Embassy, passing it through the narrow gap to her. She hesitated and took it, reading not just the English but the Russian as well. She was extremely careful, digesting it all. She handed it back to him finally, her throat working.
‘What do you want?’ she repeated.
‘Not like this,’ said Brinkman, sure of himself. ‘Not out here in the corridor.’
There was a further hesitation and she slipped the chain, holding the door open further. Brinkman nodded his thanks and went in. It was a comparatively small apartment, one main room with a bedroom annex, an open kitchen area and beyond a door he presumed led to the bathroom. It was on an actual corner of the building, so there were windows on two sides, but it was not high enough for the view to be truly impressive. She’d obviously been preparing a meal. There was a table near the window half-laid and there were cooking sounds from the kitchen.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘Hadn’t you better turn off the things on the stove?’ said Brinkman. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘Stop being so damned condescending and tell me what it is you have to say!’ she said, in a sudden burst of anger, as much at herself as at him.
He was sure – absolutely convinced – that he was right but at the moment of challenge Brinkman momentarily held back. Just one miscalculation, just one variance in the interpretation, and he would be doing what he told Maxwell, in London. Making a fool of himself. Trying to allow himself the widest margin possible he said, ‘We know all about you and Pietr Orlov. We know what happened here and we know what he’s trying to do in Moscow. And we want to help.’
Harriet had been holding herself stiff, defensively, but suddenly she sagged, not at this confrontation but as the tension of the past months went from her. She actually put out her hand against a chair back, for support. From her photographs and from her appearance at the United Nations Brinkman had thought her quite a tall woman but now she didn’t appear to be. She’d taken off the jacket of the suit she had been wearing, just leaving the white blouse, ruffled and laced at the neck. Her face was drained now but Brinkman guessed she would never have a lot of colour. The whiteness was accentuated by her hair, which was deeply black. She wore it strained back, like Ann had the night at the embassy when Orlov had made his approach.
‘The stove,’ he reminded. ‘You’d better turn off the stove.’
Harriet straightened, trying for her earlier forced demeanour, appeared to consider what he said and then went to the kitchen. As she came back she smiled and said, ‘I’m sorry, for behaving like I did. We thought we knew what it was going to be like but we didn’t. I didn’t at least. These last months have been hell: I don’t feel like I’ve been alive at all. I’ve felt outside of myself, watching a person called Harriet Johnson go through the motions of everyday life but not really being part of it.’
Brinkman smiled, trying for the sympathy. ‘It’ll all be over soon,’ he said. He hadn’t won yet; he hadn’t even drawn level but he was narrowing the gap every minute.
‘I thought he was going to go to the Americans,’ admitted Harriet.
Brinkman knew there was no way to disguise it, to make it pleasant. It had to be brutal and she had to hate him. Just like Orlov would hate him. It was something he had already accepted and that they were going to have to adjust to. He said, ‘He did.’
Harriet’s smile flickered uncertainly, like a faulty light, and then went out. She lowered herself into the chair against which she had earlier leaned for support and said, shaking her head, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Pietr did go to the Americans. Last week, at an embassy reception.’
‘I saw the photograph…’ started Harriet and then stopped. ‘But your documentation…’
‘Is British,’ he finished for her.
‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘Please tell me what’s happening.’
‘Pietr has gone to the Americans, to defect. They’ll be making plans, to bring him across. I know they’ve withdrawn someone from their embassy in Moscow,’ said Brinkman. ‘But we don’t want Pietr to go to America. We want him to defect to Britain.’
Harriet looked up at him warily, with the beginning of suspicion. ‘You’re not working with them? You’re not cooperating with the Americans?
‘No,’ said Brinkman. ‘And we don’t want Pietr to continue doing so. Or you, if any approach is made.’
Harriet jerked up, more aware now, faced flushed. ‘Get out!’ she said. ‘Get out of my apartment. You tricked your way in here. Get out!’
Brinkman made no attempt to move. ‘We’ll match every offer the Americans will make,’ he promised. ‘You
