of the Soviet intelligence service.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Panov.
‘I don’t know,’ conceded Sokol, reluctantly. ‘But I’m certain that something is.’
‘Set it out,’ insisted the chairman.
Sokol recounted everything, wishing he had more positive evidence to support his convictions, intent for any reaction from the other man. Panov smoked steadily, lighting fresh cigarettes from the stubs of those he exhausted, face expressionless.
When Sokol stopped talking, Panov said, ‘You assembled a large body of men. A lot of equipment, too?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol, unsure of the point.
‘Yet they lost them? Both of them?’
Sokol wondered if there were recordings being made of the meeting, for some later disciplinary action; he thought it probable. He said, ‘There have been mistakes. I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ said Panov, unhelpfully. ‘If you’re right in believing there are two definite operations underway here in Moscow you should have maintained personal control from the beginning.’
To plead the pressure that had arisen in the provinces wouldn’t be accepted as an excuse, Sokol knew. ‘It was a miscalculation,’ he conceded, with no alternative.
‘The Americans are sending in more people?’
‘It would appear so,’ said Sokol. ‘The Foreign Ministry have advised me of the visa applications. Described as an archivist and a trade counsellor.’
‘Anything known, from the names?’
Sokol shook his head. ‘There’s no file on either.’
‘Whatever it is – the American situation at least – could be coming to a head if they’re sending in reinforcements.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol.
‘Why don’t we move against both of them, the American and the Englishman?’ demanded Panov. ‘Some sort of technical entrapment could be easily arranged: an allegation of simple lawbreaking would be enough. All that’s necessary is to frighten them. If we want something more elaborate, why not lure them into an espionage situation and we can formally expel them?’
‘If we did that we wouldn’t know what it was that either of them were doing,’ pointed out Sokol, simply.
Panov looked intently at the glowing end of a fresh cigarette, admiring the professionalism. He said, ‘True. But can we risk letting it run? Each day that passes can mean the damage is worsening. Shouldn’t that be the consideration, minimising any unknown damage?’
Sokol decided the question was phrased for whatever recording was being made. He said, ‘They’d pass it on – both of them – to whoever it was succeeded them here. That’s what we’d have our people do, in similar circumstances. So we wouldn’t be closing anything down.’
Panov nodded in further admiration. ‘We’d be gaining some time, though. So far you’ve discovered remarkably little.’
Sokol gave no reaction to the criticism. He said, ‘At the moment I know the people. I’m sure, in the case of the American, that Kr as nay a is the contact point. If we move now and get them expelled I’ll have to identify their replacements and discover the new routines, because the existing ones would be scrapped, for obvious protection. The time that would take would extend rather than limit the period of potential damage.’
Panov frowned, irritated at being out-argued but unable to confront the other man with a better alternative view. He said, ‘It can’t be open-ended. I don’t want the Americans allowed the opportunity of getting themselves organised…’
‘… How long?’ asked Sokol, risking the rudeness of interruption to obtain a positive instruction from his superior.
‘A month,’ determined Panov. ‘If we don’t get results in a month, I want entrapment operations against Blair and Brinkman and we’ll expel them…’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Brinkman had consciously to suppress the euphoria, realistically knowing the danger of over-confidence that the excitement could bring, but it wasn’t easy. Perfect, he thought; everything was perfect. There was an intervening Tuesday before the departure of the delegation, a full seven days before his next telephone link with Orlov, which enabled London to make and then double-check every conceivable part of their snatch plan and actually discuss and refine it with Brinkman over the secure embassy communication wires before he made his final contact with the Russian.
And the plan was perfect, too. Because it was so simple.
On the final Tuesday Brinkman went through the ritual of clearing his trail, because it was professional to do so, but as he moved around the Russian capital on his way to Kommuny he realised that it didn’t matter if he were under any sort of observation, because there was nothing that could stop it happening any more. He was still, however, careful, like he had been with his evasions: aware that today’s conversation would be longer than any others, he carried with him a small transistor radio, tuning it to a programme relaying some mournful Slavik dirge as he walked towards the kiosk and placing it on the shelf as he moved in to pick up the dutifully ringing telephone precisely on time. The tune was a minimal distraction to him but Brinkman knew it would block any sort of listening apparatus directed at him if he were under surveillance, which he was sure he wasn’t.
There were a total of fifteen KGB men within a hundred yards of him on the street, with a concealed camera operating from an enclosed van and another technician in a separate vehicle directing the pistol microphone that was – as Brinkman unknowingly intended – completely baffled by the radio.
‘It’s arranged?’ demanded Orlov, at once.
From his end of the line, Brinkman was conscious of the Russian’s nervousness. It was understandable, he supposed: dear God, don’t let everything fail through the man’s collapse. He said, trying to infuse the confidence into his voice, ‘Everything. It’s guaranteed and nothing – nothing at all – can go wrong. It’s only two more days. This time on Thursday it’ll all be over. You’ll be safe. With Harriet.’
‘How?’ demanded Orlov.
‘Listen,’ urged Brinkman. ‘Listen very carefully. But don’t take any notes.’
‘I understand,’ said Orlov. Appearing to realise Brinkman’s concern, he added, ‘I’m, all right. Really all right.’
‘The delegation is flying direct to Charles de Gaulle airport by the scheduled Aeroflot service, departing Sheremetyevo at seven,’ began Brinkman, telling the Russian something he already knew but including the detail to show the uncertain man how well everything had been planned. ‘You go along as a normal part of that delegation. You go through all the usual formalities, bothering about nothing. Because everything is being done for you. London are sending a complete contingent to Paris well in advance of the Moscow flight. They’ll all be briefed from the photographs we have of you how to recognise you… they’re professionals, don’t worry. There will be men lingering from incoming international flights within the baggage claim and immigration areas. And more outside. Being an official government party, the normal regulations will be waived. Follow whatever routine the French insist upon. Don’t try to make any identification – or seem to be looking for anyone – until the moment you emerge into the public part of the airport. At the moment you do emerge, there’s going to be a diversion. It will be an incendiary explosion in a washroom. It will cause an instant fire. At the very moment that happens, you’ll be aware of men around you, hurrying you away. Just go. Don’t do or say anything. It doesn’t matter what’s happening to the rest of the Russian party: there’ll be men to intervene and confuse them. A car will be waiting. Three times, you’ll change cars, in fact, transferring until you reached a military airfield near Orly. A British military aircraft will be waiting there, a designated flight plan already filed to a British military airfield at Northolt, near London. The passenger manifest will have you listed under the name entered into a valid British passport that you will be given during the drive to the Orly airstrip, a photograph and a satisfactorily forged signature already in it…’ Brinkman paused, breathlessly. ‘You got all that?’
Orlov did not immediately respond. Then he said, ‘You will not be with me? I’ll be alone?’
