his clipped-speech mannerism adopt the role of surrogate father, thought Brinkman.
‘Any problems, you let me know. You understand?’
‘Of course sir,’ promised Brinkman. There had to have been contact; the Head of Chancery was the diplomat with whom intelligence officers customarily dealt, specifically to remove the ambassador from any difficulty if things went wrong. And that was the person with whom he would continue contact, determined Brinkman. Damn his busy-body, interfering father!
His duty done, the ambassador moved away towards the door and Brinkman looked casually about him, unsure how easy it would be to make his own escape; although it was Ingram’s party, the departing intelligence officer had made it extremely clear Brinkman shared in it, too, for the advantages it might have. Near where Lucinda’s food had been – and which was now a messy, destroyed table – a space had been cleared for dancing and a few couples were making desultory attempts to follow the music. Brinkman was undecided whether the excuse was to support each other, from the effects of the booze, or grope each other, furtively. There were obvious invitations from two women who caught his eye and smiled, hopefully, but Brinkman chose to misunderstand, smiling back but remaining where he was. The cigarette smoke, thicker now, stung his eyes and the long-held drink was warm when he sipped it, not needing a drink but just wanting something to do. He looked around for Blair and his English wife, but they appeared to have left. Because politeness demanded it he asked Lucinda Ingram to dance and because politeness demanded it, she accepted, appearing reluctant to follow his lead and pushing him around instead, like a busy shopper manoeuvring a trolley through a crowded supermarket. There was the formalised conversation about how glad he was to be in Moscow and how much she was looking forward to returning to London, which she hadn’t seen for a long time because before Moscow their posting had been Beirut and before that Lima. Lucinda promised that the apartment would be properly and thoroughly cleaned after the party and asked if he wanted to retain their maid and Brinkman thanked her and said yes, he did. They were both relieved when the dance finished. He walked with her to Ingram, who stood stiff-legged beside the drinks table, pink and smiling. Brinkman decided it wouldn’t be long before the owl fell out of the tree.
‘Thanks for the party. And for everything else,’ said Brinkman.
‘Remember what I said,’ encouraged Ingram. Despite the obvious intake he was still very clear-voiced.
‘I will.’
‘Stay close to Blair and you won’t go far wrong,’ insisted the other man, as if he feared Brinkman hadn’t understood their earlier conversation.
‘I will,’ promised Brinkman, emptily. ‘I will’
‘What do you think?’ asked Ann.
‘About what?’ Blair came from the bathroom wiping the toothpaste residue from his lips.
‘Our new arrival, Jeremy Brinkman?’
‘Seemed OK.’
‘Betty Harrison decided he was gorgeous: absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Betty Harrison’s got hot pants.’
‘Think Brinkman will fill them for her?’
‘Seemed a cautious guy,’ judged Blair. ‘Never touched his drink all night and spent a lot of it looking around, making assessments.’
‘Professional sod!’ accused Ann, lightly. She added, ‘Poor Betty Harrison if you’re right.’
‘I could be wrong,’ admitted Blair.
‘You rarely are,’ said Ann proudly.
‘There’s always the first time,’ said the Texan, switching off the light.
Ann lay hopefully in the darkness but she felt him turn away from her. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight.’
Chapter Four
Pietr Orlov was fully aware that when it happened there would be far more than the official reaction, the public vilification and accusations and possibly – a growing fear – a relentless physical pursuit. There would be bewilderment, from those who knew him; incredulity that having everything – and well knowing he had everything – he’d abandoned it all. Incredulity, too, at the reason for that abandonment. They’d have understood – just – a deep-seated difficulty with Communist ideology. Or the greed of bribery. But not a woman.
At the time of his departure from New York Orlov had been the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations. But that had been a misleading description, belying his function or regard within Russia. A more correct title would have been Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, because that was the role he properly performed. It was Orlov who was summoned back from New York personally to brief the ailing Brezhnev on the likely Western reaction to the Afghanistan incursion. And Orlov again upon whom Andropov – ailing also – depended for advice in determining the Russian propaganda response to the positioning in Europe of the American Cruise missiles.
So much, reflected Orlov, entering the Kremlin complex and moving, well-accustomed, towards the section of the Foreign Ministry. So much and yet so little. He wanted more; so much more that only he – no one else, perhaps not even Harriet – could or would ever understand. Maybe Harriet would come to comprehend it, in time. Orlov hoped to God or whatever the deity was who controlled the destiny of man that it wouldn’t have to be as long as a year, before he had a chance to start trying to make her understand.
Orlov hesitated at the actual moment of entering the office of Yuri Sevin, conscious – although he’d been aware of it before but not so intently, at the precise act of confrontation – that the deputy minister would be one of the minority, someone who knew him well and therefore whose first thought would not be instinctively nationalistic but personal; one of the ones who would shake his head and find words difficult and when they came be mundane and ill-fitting, like, ‘ Why! Why – how – did he do it!’ Orlov knew he had been chosen by Sevin, from the junior Party position in Tbilisi; nurtured up through the local levels and then brought to Moscow and protected still, every move in the upward programme considered before it was made, every posting chosen for a purpose. Orlov supposed it had to be twenty years. Twenty years during which Sevin had been his constant supporter and advocate, finally protecting him in the jugular-biting jungle of Moscow while he had been far away and exposed, in New York. Exposed to the one thing Sevin had not anticipated and eliminated. Orlov hoped he could protect Natalia; to protect Sevin would not be so easy. Impossible, in fact.
Sevin came forward, arms outstretched in effusive greeting, tears already starting down his face, an elderly bear of a man with the emotions of a rabbit. ‘Pietr!’ he said, a sob in his voice, someone unable to accept the good fortune of seeing again someone he loved. ‘Pietr!’
Orlov allowed the bear hug – what else from a man of Sevin’s size! – and the tear-smeared kisses on either cheek and a further bear hug, as if the first had been insufficient. And then underwent the arms’ length examination, as though he was being searched for physical flaws and blemishes from his prolonged exposure in the West. There is what you would regard as a flaw, dear friend, thought Orlov, but not one that is visible. To anyone.
‘Yuri,’ he responded. ‘Yuri, it’s good to see you!’
Sevin led him away from the desk, impatient – embarrassed almost – at the indication of rank or power; hardly any existed between them anyway. They went instead to a side area, where the windows overlooked the Senate building and where a low table between the chairs and the couch was already set with vodka and caviar. Sevin, the considerate host, had even included a samovar beside the couch; Orlov stared at it, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen one.
‘Pietr!’ said Sevin once more. ‘How good it is to see you. Really good.’
‘And you,’ said Orlov.
There was no doubt or uncertainty about what he intended doing – there couldn’t be, after all the planning – but Orlov knew that when it was all over and he was happily settled with Harriet and the fear had diminished as much as it could ever diminish there would still remain the regret at how he’d had to deceive his friends; this friend in particular. And an even deeper regret that there was no way he could attempt to apologise or explain. To attempt it now – to take someone he considered his closest, dearest friend into his confidence – would be suicidal
