‘No’. Why wouldn’t he just go away? Go away before she weakened and changed her mind and ended up as confused as she’d been before they both left on their trips.
Should he tell her, about Moscow? Not yet, Brinkman decided. He still hadn’t got Orlov yet: still a lot to do. He’d have to let her know – hint at least – something of what might be happening, to convince her he was telling the truth and it was inevitable she’d challenge Blair about not going back and it would all become confused. And more importantly, dangerous. ‘Think about it some more,’ he urged. ‘Think about what it would be like.’
‘I have,’ she said.
Misunderstanding, he said, ‘So you know it would work out.’
‘Give me more time,’ she pleaded again, her well-worn retreat.
‘I’ve told you,’ reminded Brinkman. ‘There isn’t much. I’m leaving here and I don’t want to go without you.’
Brinkman was slightly late arriving at the American embassy so they didn’t stay in Blair’s office but went immediately to the cafeteria.
‘How was London?’ asked Blair.
‘Good to be back, after so long,’ said Brinkman. The story prepared he said, ‘I had to go before a promotion board and there was some discussion about the next posting.’
‘Must be pleased about the way things have turned out here then?’
‘Seems like it,’ said Brinkman. ‘How was Washington?’
His story prepared, Blair said, ‘It was a personal thing: my first wife is having some problems with our eldest boy.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Brinkman, automatically.
‘It’ll work out,’ said Blair.
‘Wonder how long it’ll be before things start moving here again,’ said Brinkman.
‘There’s no way of telling,’ said the American.
Harriet had considered disobeying the Englishman’s instructions about adding to the message, knowing there was nothing physically he could do to stop her, but then she remembered the threat and the way he had looked when he made it and decided he’d meant it. So she’d done what she was told. Bastard, she thought.
As the days passed, however, she rationalised her attitude, accepting something – the most important thing – that was happening. Pietr was coming! He’d got the divorce to protect Natalia. And the promotions and the acclaim hadn’t meant as much to him as she did and so he was coming! Which made it right. ‘Everything that America would give you,’ the motherfucking son-of-a-bitch had promised. America had seemed obvious, because she was there and Pietr knew the country. But he’d adjust easily enough to England. They both would. The most important thing was that they would be together and she’d happily live in a tent in the middle of a jungle, just to be with him. And he was coming; she knew he was coming.
Harriet was aware she should be patient – God, hadn’t she been patient enough already! – but now that she was sure it was more difficult than before. Coming! she thought, her mind blocked by a single word. She loved him so much.
Brinkman evaded the surveillance by a combination of expertise and luck. The expertise was the adherence – like Blair had earlier adhered – to standard training. The luck came from Sokol’s decision to concentrate upon the American – who was proveably known to have cleared his trail and made two visits to Washington – and withdraw the earlier intended complement assigned to the Englishman to reinforce what the Russian considered more important. Brinkman set out simply to avoid the customary, usually laughed-at foreign observation, utilising the edict that people schooled to watch can be lulled into expectation. Anticipating that those at the compound would prepare for him to leave by car for the embassy on Morisa Toreza, because that was what he always did, he set out on foot, instead. The ridiculously easy ploy created immediate confusion and he increased it by his subsequent action. The depleted surveillance group split, one squad going after him, the other hurrying directly and pointlessly by car to the embassy – another anticipation – to warn those already in place and to supplement them, not at that stage desperately worried because they were still confident Brinkman’s obvious destination was the British legation. It left only seven men in pursuit, two of whom Brinkman lost at the first of the three obligatory metro disembarkations and two more of whom he slipped before regaining street level. By the time Brinkman reached the Ulitza Gor’kova, just before the cinema towards which he was heading, he was quite alone.
He succeeded in getting a seat in the rear of the auditorium, giving himself a view of those coming directly after him, just to be sure and after thirty minutes relaxed, quite satisfied.
It was a typical production from the Soviet Film Institute, an achingly boring parable involving loyal peasants striving against overwhelming odds during an invasion which appeared to be Prussian from the uniforms but was never made quite clear, with much hill-climbing and flag-planting to indicate gained ground. Brinkman allowed the time to pass confidently cocooned and increasingly bored by the repeated saga. He was sure that evening’s ballet would be much more exciting: it was unfortunate he wasn’t going to be able to see it. Would Orlov have received the message, he wondered?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brinkman quit the cinema with several hours to go before his eagerly-hoped encounter with Pietr Orlov, with things to do before actually reaching the Bolshoi: as he walked back down the Ulitza Gor’kova, he reflected that if Orlov didn’t make today’s meeting, the day wouldn’t have been entirely wasted. On impulse he chose a kiosk on Gor’kova, but then spread the contact points, selecting kiosks at random and over a wide area, on Oktyabr’skaya at street level and then in the metro station itself, another at the far end of Leninskiy Prospekt and then allowing a gap, not bothering with any further kiosks until he reached Ulitza Dostoyevskovo. He listed one there and another on Kommuny and decided that was sufficient: he could always add, if it were necessary.
He was still early at the theatre. The performance was a revival of Don Quixote, created in the specialised Soviet narrative form and Brinkman particularly wanted to see it. He supposed he could always apply for tickets through the embassy, if Orlov didn’t make the meeting and there was the need to come again. But Brinkman was reluctant to link attention between himself and the ballet because of the clandestine purpose for which he’d designated it and knew that all official applications were monitored.
Reluctantly it seemed that Don Quixote would have to go on tilting at windmills without his appreciation. It had been a hurried decision in the Manhattan apartment but Brinkman was pleased with it. The crowds were building up, people ebbing and eddying throughout the expansive, ornate foyer, creating a swirl of concealment. Brinkman allowed himself to be moved with the tide, always remaining near the north side but not standing around, as if he were even innocently awaiting someone to join him. Brinkman realised he would be fortunate if it happened soon; if it happened at all. He frowned at the doubt. If Orlov had received the book, then it would happen. He was sure she’d put the message in it. Because of the CIA surveillance he had not been able actually to go through the procedure with her – even to be seen around the United Nations again – but he’d made the same sort of confident entrance the second night as he had the first to her apartment block and they’d talked again and Brinkman was convinced she had done what he’d told her, precisely how he’d told her. So Orlov would definitely come if he’d got the book. So what if he hadn’t? It became a waiting game, to see if the Americans could get their escape organised before he – through Harriet – had the opportunity to screw it all up. Except that at the pace at which he was working and the pace at which he knew the Americans would be moving, it could hardly be described as waiting. Which was what he was doing now. Hopefully.
The tide of people began to flow into the theatre, taking away his cover and Brinkman moved near a pillar. There was still quite a crowd around but Brinkman felt naked and exposed. Perhaps not as good as he had thought. In fifteen minutes they would all be inside and he would be entirely obvious, an actual object of attention, the reverse of what he wanted. He’d have to go before then: certainly if he wanted to use it as a meeting spot again. Which he did, because he had no other.
Orlov came curiously through the foyer, his coat not checked although over his arm in readiness, programme notes already purchased and thoughtfully – cleverly – in his hand. It would have been difficult to imagine the Russian as anything other than a genuine ballet lover, if he were under surveillance.
Orlov had no reason to know – or imagine – why he was there, remembered Brinkman. He moved out,
