‘What happens now?’ asked Orlov, seeking guidance.
‘That depends upon you,’ said Blair. ‘You must try to get on a delegation.’
Orlov nodded, as if reminded. ‘We will keep these meetings?’
‘Yes,’ said Blair. They’d have to change the venue soon but he decided Krasnaya was still safe, for the moment.
‘I’ll risk Finland if it looks like taking too long. I don’t think I can go on, for a lengthy period,’ confessed Orlov.
Blair looked worriedly at the Russian, aware for the first time of the strain etched into the man’s face. He might outwardly appear confident but it was egg-shell thin, Blair decided. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, trying to placate Orlov. ‘It’s all going to work. Finland won’t be as easy as a delegation but there’s a huge back-up. We’ll get you out.’
‘I so much want that,’ said Orlov distantly. ‘I so much want to get out.’
When Orlov returned to his office that afternoon the consignment of books he was allowed from the West, as part of his privileges, were unpacked and neatly arranged on a side table beside his main desk. There was one he hadn’t ordered.
Chapter Thirty-One
In his belated excitement Maxwell talked too fast and was uncoordinated and smoked haphazardly. Once, remembered Brinkman, he’d liked and admired the man. It was difficult, now.
‘Fantastic!’ enthused Maxwell. ‘Absolutely fantastic. I knew it was going to work!’
Asshole, thought Brinkman. He hadn’t done all that he had and got this far to have an asshole like Maxwell take the credit. And he’d make bloody sure it didn’t happen. He said, ‘Nothing’s worked, yet. He’s still got to make contact and we’ve still got to get him across.’
‘There’s a lot to be done,’ agreed Maxwell. ‘You’ll need help.’
‘Not in Moscow,’ refused Brinkman at once. The accolades were going to be all his there, unshared by anyone. He wondered if Blair had been put under the same sort of pressure. He argued against an attempt to get more people into Russia – ironically using the same reasoning as Blair – but Maxwell wasn’t so easily dissuaded.
‘It may be necessary,’ the deskman insisted. ‘We’ll start the formalities, as a precaution. If the need arises, we’ll be in a position to move.’
He couldn’t dispute the commonsense of that, Brinkman realised. He said, ‘I’ll want full back-up outside.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ assured Maxwell.
And ensure that he would be seen by everyone to have provided it, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’
‘Depends how it goes between you and Orlov,’ pointed out Maxwell. ‘SAS snatch squads, I would have thought. Full logistical support. I’ll do a complete memorandum to the Director today. He’ll probably want to raise it before the Security Committee. Maybe the Cabinet.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’ asked Brinkman. Maxwell’s name would be on every damned thing, he knew: initiator, planner, organiser and genius. Bloody asshole.
‘No, no,’ said Maxwell, quickly. ‘The message might be quite quick in reaching Orlov: it’s one of the uncertainties. I want you back there as soon as possible. Tonight.’
‘I was thinking of seeing my father,’ said Brinkman. The reminder might curb some of the other man’s extravagant claims.
‘No time for social gatherings; come on Jeremy! Don’t you realise how important this is!’
If he hadn’t witnessed it himself Brinkman thought he would have had difficulty believing the transformation in the other man’s attitudes. ‘All right,’ he said. He’d made no plans to see the old man.
Maxwell had smiled a lot, in anticipation, but now he became serious-faced. ‘You’re going to be at the sharp end all the time,’ he warned. ‘We’ll do everything we can, of course, but it all depends on you…’ The division chief paused for the familiar injunction. ‘So be careful. Be very, very careful. Don’t forget what I said before. If anything goes wrong we’ve got a major international incident.’
Maybe Maxwell wouldn’t try to take everything for himself; not at this stage anyway. Brinkman guessed the man would lay the groundwork for later glory, but involve him, too, in case there were the need to apportion blame. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Get back there, Jeremy,’ said Maxwell, like the rugby cheerleader Brinkman suspected him of being on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Get back there and make it work for all of us.’
Maxwell wasn’t a serious threat, Brinkman reasoned, on the flight back to Moscow. He’d try for that glory, of course – although taking out the necessary protection – but he wouldn’t be able to disguise who made it work. Like Maxwell himself said, there was only going to be one man at the sharp end, taking all the risks. Jeremy Brinkman. And everyone – the important ones at least – would recognise that soon enough. Maybe better to let Maxwell make the effort, laying out sufficient rope with which to hang himself. He wouldn’t be able to remain in Moscow. So why not head of the Russian desk? He’d proved himself able, a dozen times over. Getting Orlov out would be the culmination – and confirmation – of brilliant Soviet expertise. He hadn’t imagined headquarters, quite so soon: traditionally he was much too young. But what else was there? Washington was a recognised stepping stone but he certainly wouldn’t be acceptable there if it all worked out. And there was nowhere else that particularly attracted him; anywhere else would be marking time and Brinkman had never had any intention of marking time.
And Washington might be unacceptable for other reasons, he thought. Ann had been given enough time to decide. And Brinkman knew she loved him. As much as he loved her. Consciously Brinkman stemmed the growing belief, remembering her agonised outburst about loving them both. Brinkman was sure she no longer loved Eddie Blair. What she felt for Blair was a mixture of loyalty and kindness and dependence; and a reluctance, too, to break everything apart having gone through the traumatic divorce. But not love. Brinkman knew how to tilt the balance, to make her reach the right decision. When he got Orlov out of Russia, the leadership after Chebrakin became the biggest guessing game in town. Blair would be kept in Moscow for years, sticking pins into a list of names. Brinkman was convinced it wouldn’t take Ann more than minutes to make up her mind when he told her how long she was likely to remain there if she stayed with Blair.
Brinkman wanted to call her the moment he got to his apartment but he controlled the impatience, not knowing if Blair had returned from Washington ahead of him and unwilling to get involved in a probing conversation with the man if he answered the telephone. Instead he waited until the following day, reaching Blair at the embassy and arranging to have lunch with him there. Having placed Blair at the embassy, and knowing he would remain there to keep their appointment, Brinkman called Ann and said he wanted to see her. Her attempted objection, that she was going out, surprised him but he bulldozed over her, insisting that it was important and that he could only remain a few moments anyway.
She kissed him when he entered her apartment but Brinkman thought he detected a reservation about that, too.
‘What’s so important?’ she said.
‘I thought you would have known that.’
‘Please!’ she said. ‘Let’s have a rest from that for a moment.’
‘There isn’t time.’
Ann had been looking away, refusing to meet his gaze. She turned to him now, curiously. ‘Why not?’
‘I might be leaving Moscow; being withdrawn.’
Ann felt the relief move through her. Without him here everything would be so much easier. There would only be one problem – the big problem – if Jeremy weren’t here. ‘Wonderful!’ she said, a reaction to her own feelings.
‘I want you to come with me.’
Ann shook her head. ‘I can’t. I’ve thought about it and I can’t.’
‘You can,’ insisted Brinkman, refusing her refusal. ‘I know how you feel about Eddie: what it would mean to you. But in the end, when it was all over, you know you’d be happier with me.’
