‘Day or two after you went to Washington,’ she said carelessly.
‘Did he say why?’ It was a too eager question, he knew, but the man might have said something.
‘Not a thing,’ said the woman. ‘Just that it was going to be a quick trip.’
‘But he’s not back yet?’
‘Not as far as I know…’ She hesitated, smiling. ‘Betty Harrison hasn’t reported in, so I guess he hasn’t.’
‘Not much of a quick trip then?’
‘No,’ said Ann. Thank God, she thought. What had she decided; really decided? Nothing, she realised. She said, ‘It’s good to have you home.’ She paused and added, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘About what?’ he said, knowing but guessing she’d rehearsed the apology and wanting to give her the opportunity.
‘Being such a bitch. I know I have been and I’m really sorry.’
‘Let’s forget it,’ he said.
‘Can you forget it?’
‘For you I can do most things,’ he said.
That night they made love, better than it had been for a long time, Ann’s passion a part of her saying sorry. She made more demands than she knew she should have done, considering his tiredness after the flight and could have gone on but finally she let him sleep, which he did, heavily. She lay awake beside him, wet from his wetness, knowing that she loved him. Please, she thought, refusing to confront reality again, please let Jeremy Brinkman never come back to Moscow.
The pick-up and the surveillance from Sheremetyevo was smooth and efficient. Sokol was informed by one of the following radio cars into the capital, so he was able to build up the ground force around the foreigners’ enclave in advance of Blair’s actual arrival, which was twice radioed into Dzerzhinsky Square, once from the pursuit car and again from the transmission vehicle already in place and anxious to prove itself. News had already filtered through, of what had happened to the others that failed. Sokol sat contentedly, gazing down at the proof of his personally devised observation, a spider assured that all the flies would settle where he wanted, to be trapped.
Chapter Thirty
And still Blair beat the surveillance, because that was how good he was. He emerged on to Chaykovskovo on foot, in apparent determination, imagining he located two cars in addition to the usual embassy observation but not being absolutely sure and uncaring, because it wasn’t necessary for him to bother. He made his way towards the inevitable Red Square and actually stopped to watch the perpetual line of visitors patiently queuing to view the supposed mummified remains of Lenin, went in one door of GUM and straight out of another and caught the first taxi that stopped back to the embassy. His passage through the building was as quick as it had been through the department store, observedly in through one of the front entrances, directly through to the back which had already been cleared of any imposed Soviet cleaning staff and into the rear of a waiting car driven by one of the CIA-cleared secretaries. Blair lay prostrated, covered by his own topcoat and then a blanket and actually emerged through the gates again while the accounts of his safe and unencountered return were being radioed to Sokol in Dzerzhinsky Square. Blair remained crouched for almost a mile – ignoring the first encouragement from the driver that it was all right to get up – finally leaving the vehicle near Pushkinskaya Metro. Still careful, he went three times through the ritual of route disembarkation and reboarding. Despite the precautions, Blair permitted himself more than sufficient time and reached Krasnaya early, taking that day’s issue of Pravda and settling himself on a different bench than before, hoping that he was unobtrusive and would merge into the surroundings of the park. There was no assurance that Orlov would be able to make the meeting – which was why they’d made the elastic arrangements they had – but the American knew that if he had to report a non-appearance to Langley, they’d fall out of their tree. In the intervening two days since his return from Washington, the unanswerable queries and messages had been pointlessly irritating. He’d expected them to have more control than they were showing and guessed he was the shuttlecock in the game of headquarters politics. He wondered what plans were being made in Washington – plans he had no need to know – to gain the maximum advantage out of Orlov’s defection. There’d been someone of Orlov’s ambassadorial rank to defect – once – but never someone actually on the Central Committee. They’d drain the defection – and the man – until there was nothing else to get. Blair hoped Harriet Johnson was worth it.
Blair saw the Russian coming, although he gave no reaction, detecting just the slightest sign of increased confidence, as if Orlov were becoming accustomed to the subterfuge. It was right that the man shouldn’t be quite so nervous but Blair hoped his emotions didn’t swing too far the other way, into over-confidence.
Orlov seated himself and started to read from the same newspaper. Blair realised at once that it looked obvious and closed and folded his own edition.
‘Is everything arranged?’ demanded Orlov, always the first edgy question.
‘Yes,’ assured Blair. Perhaps the man was still as nervous, after all.
‘When? How?’
The American set out the contingencies in detail, wanting to impress Orlov with the importance they attached to his defection and the care they were taking to ensure it would succeed.
‘I do not like the idea of trying to make a crossing into Finland,’ said Orlov, at once.
‘Neither do we,’ said Blair. ‘It’s a fall back if it can’t be done any other way.’
‘To form part of an overseas delegation would be best,’ agreed Orlov.
‘Is it possible for you to arrange?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the Russian. ‘It would have to be done carefully: not hurried. So it would mean a greater delay than I wanted.’
‘Surely the important thing is to make the crossing safely?’ said Blair. ‘We don’t gain anything by trying to hurry and risking interception.’ Blair was conscious of the other man physically shuddering beside him, at the prospect of arrest.
‘Yes,’ said Orlov. ‘The important thing is safety.’
‘So you will try to get on to an overseas delegation?’
‘Yes,’ said Orlov.
Sensing the doubt in the Russian’s voice, Blair said, ‘If it looks difficult…’ Remembering Langley’s anxiety, he added ‘… or that it will take too long, then maybe we should consider a border incursion.’
‘That would be extremely dangerous, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ replied Blair honestly.
‘It must be a delegation,’ said Orlov, more to himself than to the American. He looked briefly sideways and said, ‘Nothing has been done to involve Harriet?’
Blair was glad it was Orlov who raised the subject of the girl. He said, ‘No. We’re doing exactly as you asked. But why? Tell me why you are so adamant against our putting her under some of kind of protection.’
‘At the end, towards the very end, I suspected I was under some sort of surveillance: that our relationship had become known…’ Orlov looked quickly sideways again. ‘You know how the Soviet delegations are watched, of course?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know how they’re watched.’ Shit, he thought, why hadn’t the damned man told him this before? But then, why hadn’t he asked?
‘If they did suspect… and Harriet were unaccountably to disappear from where she should be… I might be put under surveillance here. So nothing would work.’
Automatically Blair gazed around the midday park. He said, ‘If there had been any reason to doubt you then you would not have got the promotion, would you?’
‘I try to convince myself by the same reasoning,’ said Orlov. ‘As I said, I only suspected. Once a strange conversation with a man whom I knew to be KGB. Maybe it was nothing. I just don’t want to take the slightest chance.’
His own people would have detected any Soviet surveillance on the woman, Blair thought, in attempted reassurance. And would the Soviets have considered it necessary anyway, with Orlov back in Moscow? It created an added uncertainty. Definitely one about which Langley should be warned. It would make the temperature go up a few more degrees, he thought. He said, ‘There isn’t a risk. We’ve made no approach to the woman.’
