‘Tell him then.’
‘I don’t know if I want to.’
‘Don’t tell me again that you’re confused: I’m fed up with hearing it!’
‘Don’t pressure me all the time!’
‘You know what you want to do. So do it!’
‘Why did you ever have to come to Moscow? If you hadn’t come here everything would have been all right.’
‘You know that isn’t true.’
‘I’ll decide,’ she said.
‘When? And don’t say soon: don’t try to run away again.’
‘A week,’ she said. ‘I’ll decide in a week. I promise.’
If she hadn’t intended to do it she would have refused now, here, on the spot, thought Brinkman. She was going to come with him, like he’d known she would all along. He held out his arms and she came to him, her arms tight around him. He wanted to make love to her and knew she wanted it too. There wasn’t time: not for how he wanted to make love. He didn’t want a snatched, illicit screw. That was all over. He wanted her to be his wife and now he knew she was going to be. ‘I must go,’ he said, seeing at once the frown of annoyance that he wasn’t going to do what she expected.
‘I thought you’d have more time.’
‘There’ll be all the time in the world, later,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said distantly. ‘All the time in the world.’
‘A week?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I’ll be waiting. It’s going to be wonderful, Ann. Believe me, everything is going to be wonderful.’ Did Orlov love Harriet as much as he loved Ann? He must do, Brinkman supposed.
The moment of actual parting was difficult for them both, each holding to the other, reluctant to sever the physical contact but Brinkman knew he had to: it would be ludicrously stupid to ruin everything by staying here an extra thirty minutes when they had a whole lifetime ahead of them.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ he reminded her.
‘I know.’
‘I love you.’ He waited but she didn’t respond and he smiled and kissed her, unconcerned. She’d pleaded with him not to pressure her and he wouldn’t.
By his very absence the Soviet authorities would identify him with what happened – so the consideration was really unnecessary but Brinkman didn’t take an embassy vehicle to the airport, deciding instead upon one of the officially approved airport taxis. As the vehicle started to clear the Moscow suburbs a clock-tower suddenly appeared before him. Six, he saw. Orlov would be at Sheremetyevo now, maybe going through the routine of a departure ceremony. Brinkman hoped the man’s nerve held. It was the one uncertainty that remained, whether Orlov would actually be able to go through with it without someone in the party and there would be KGB guardians in the party because there were on every overseas Russian trip – becoming aware of his anxiety. Maybe he should have gone earlier to the airport, to see the man through. But why? There was nothing he could have done. They hadn’t arranged that he should be there, during the last meeting, so his unexpected appearance might have had the reverse of that intended, alarming the man even more.
There was nothing he could do now. Nothing except hope. If Orlov made the plane, then everything would be all right. All he had to do then was wait until Paris and let himself be spirited away by men who would already be in place now, calm and expert and trained and waiting.
They began leaving the city behind and Brinkman strained around, realising it would be his last sight of the Soviet capital. A good memory, he thought again. Now it was time to move on. To what? he wondered.
The day was in the half-light when Brinkman reached the airport. He remained inside the taxi, to pay the driver, and then stepped out on to the wide pavement in front of the departure building. The large car park was filled, as it always appeared to be, and cars and taxis formed a solid line against the pavement edge. Brinkman picked his path through them, making his way towards the identifiable insignia of British Airways which would lead him to the desk inside. It was about five doors ahead and Brinkman thought, in passing, that he should have had the driver bring him nearer.
He’d practically reached it when he heard the shout and at first gave no reaction because there was no one who could be shouting for him. And then he heard it again and stared beyond the door into the British Airways desk. Orlov had been walking, waving to attract his attention, but suddenly the Russian began to run and as he did so Brinkman saw uniformed security guards a long way beyond him but plainclothes men who appeared to be moving with some co-ordination much nearer, fanning out into an embracing movement. Brinkman thought he heard stoitye but wasn’t sure because ordinary passengers were becoming aware of the scene and there were other shouts. Orlov was only about twenty yards away and Brinkman knew everything had gone disastrously wrong and that he should feign ignorance of the man but then Orlov was upon him and Brinkman couldn’t shake the man off.
‘What is it?’ demanded Orlov. ‘What’s the problem?’
Brinkman stared at the man, unable to comprehend what was happening. ‘The plane!’ he shouted. ‘Why aren’t you on the plane?’
‘The message,’ said Orlov. ‘The message at the desk telling me not to board… Why did you leave a message..? It was madness. Insanity ..!’
‘But I didn’t…’ tried Brinkman, but the security police were much nearer now, ordered by the plainclothes men. Brinkman heard stoitye plainly this time and Orlov heard it too, but he didn’t stop, like he was told. All control gone, fear whimpering from him, the Russian pulled himself away from Brinkman and started running mindlessly through the line of parked cars. There were more demands to stop and Orlov’s hand thrust out, a physical gesture of rejection which the later enquiry determined made the security men in the confusion of the moment imagine that the fleeing Russian had a weapon clutched in his hand and intended using it because for them to start shooting was a mistake, against every order. Instinctively Brinkman had snatched out, trying to hold the thrusting-away man and when he missed he began going through the cars, too, so they were both running. The bullets from the first misunderstanding soldiers were wide, warning shots. But other security men believed they were actually being fired at now. With the breath groaning from him Brinkman shouted, too, for Orlov to stop but the Russian was beyond reach, encompassed and completely driven by the fear he’d tried so hard to control. Brinkman was the first to be hit when everyone started firing, an agonising pain in his thigh, like a punch that after the first spurt of pain took all feeling away and he screamed but the sound was cut short because the weapons started firing on automatic and he was caught by the first swathe. The same arc caught Orlov, too, tipping them both over the lip of the car-park perimeter.
It was about a five foot drop and both were dead when they reached the bottom.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Blair started moving when he saw them hit – knowing they were dead – wanting to get out on to the road before the Russians cordoned the airport, because it shouldn’t have happened like this and he was shaking, from the shock of it and he knew he couldn’t withstand or pass any examination. He kept just within the limit to avoid attracting any attention: about a mile towards Moscow a lot of police and military vehicles hurtled past in the opposite direction, sirens blaring, but no one tried to stop him. It was another fives miles before he felt he was safe. The shaking was still as bad. He intended going to the embassy anyway, but it was essential now, for him to recover.
He drove directly to Chaykovskovo, sure that at this time of night the embassy would be deserted apart from the skeleton night staff; certainly Art Blakey and King wouldn’t be there. He wanted the CIA Residency within the embassy to himself. Its innermost room was steel-lined, for security, and it was there he went, sitting at the desk and physically holding himself, trying to quieten the reaction. He stared around the room, willing himself back to normality by the normality of accustomed surroundings. There were duplicate cipher machines for direct contact with Langley if necessary and a radio receiver and transmitter against the far wall. Adjoining that was the special
