from the ship enquiry Brinkman knew he only had the preceding month to check. Hunched in the intelligence records room in the embassy basement, it took Brinkman less than an hour to find what he thought he was looking for but careful as he was he merely marked it as a possibility and carried on, throughout the remaining rcords. There had been three more messages from Ingram, the last two definite confirmation of what earlier had been little more than supposition from intelligent reading of Soviet publications. Wheat production was the perpetual problem of Soviet agriculture, something that bad weather and inefficiency and succeeding government changes seemed always to conspire to bring hugely below the required norms. No admissions were ever made, of course, but Ingram had picked up the indications from reports that had been allowed into Izvestia and Pravda from the growing areas on the Steppes, a prelude to the personnel shift within the Moscow ministry which Ingram had noted and properly connected.
Brinkman decided from his meeting with Mark Harrison that he was able to make further connections. Predictably, he was cautious. In his message to Maxwell in London he reminded the controller of Ingram’s earlier assessments – cleverly sharing credit if credit had to be given – and said he interpreted an approach to the trade section of the British embassy to be the beginning of a widespread Soviet chartering effort to transport wheat from the West. Indicating that he was in no way politically naive, Brinkman said that he was well aware that such trade was not unusual – in fact that it continued all the time – but that he believed from sources within the Soviet capital that Moscow was spreading its purchasing this time, moving away from the traditional suppliers, the United States and to a lesser extent Argentina. His belief was that a substantial agreement was being negotiated with Ottawa to make Canada a greater trading partner than it was at present. Taking a chance – but not much of a chance – Brinkman wondered if the Canadian agreement didn’t indicate a desire in Moscow to free itself from any possible trade embargo from the United States if relations between the two countries worsened, despite the surface indications of apparent and better friendships. He concluded by saying he believed the Canadian agreement was not yet fully resolved and that Ottawa was concerned about entering a commitment which unquestionably would annoy its neighbour, the United States, to the south unless there was a positive assurance from the Soviet Union that transportation facilities existed to move the wheat.
The congratulatory message arrived from Maxwell two days later. Simply by checking with Lloyds of London they had discovered the Soviet chartering operation, not just of British vessels but of others as well who, although foreign, were being insured for the transportation through the British market. There was a second message from London, from Ingram. It was of congratulation but Brinkman knew it was also one of thanks from the man, for being generous and mentioning his earlier work. And knew, satisfied, that he had an ally in London, where it was always useful to have allies.
The Harrisons’ dinner party was a small affair, the Canadian military attache and his wife, a couple called Bergdoff, and an analyst from the economic division, a hopefully smiling, shy girl named Sharon Berring, who had been invited to balance the numbers. Brinkman was an accomplished raconteur when the occasion demanded – and he decided it did now – and monopolised the conversation, the anecdotes usually deprecatingly against himself, enjoying their enjoyment of his newness in the city, always withdrawing when either Harrison or Bergdoff made a contribution, so that his monopoly did not become irritating to the other men. He was equally attentive to the three women, although, towards the end of die evening, he devoted more time to Betty Harrison, the politeness deserved in her role as hostess. He escorted Sharon back to her own apartment and refused her invitation for a final drink by convincingly pleading pressure of work the following day, so that she was not hurt by lack of interest, and said he hoped, like she said she hoped, that they’d meet again soon. The following day, with his note of thanks to Betty Harrison, he sent flowers, with smaller bouquets to Mrs Bergdoff and Sharon Berring.
Betty Harrison telephoned Ann by midday. ‘Fabulous, darling,’ gushed the Canadian. ‘Absolutely fabulous. There hasn’t been anyone like him in Moscow since the time I got here.’
‘Flowers?’ queried Ann, who knew in Moscow it was neither cheap nor easy to make such a gesture.
‘To all of us: mine was bigger, of course,’ said Betty, who had established a social coup at being the first to have Brinkman at her table.
‘Guess he’s going to be in demand,’ said Ann.
‘Believe me, darling,’ said Betty, ‘I’d like to make a demand any time!’
Brinkman’s invitation to dine with the Blairs arrived two days later.
Orlov found everything about the subterfuge difficult but most difficult of all was Natalia, far worse than he had anticipated and rehearsed for. Natalia had remained in Moscow during his New York posting – frequently, guiltily, he wondered if things would have been different if she hadn’t – so it was to be expected there would be a strangeness between them and he prolonged it as long as he could but always the need was to avoid suspicion, even though he trusted her, so finally it had to end. She was anxiously eager, because she loved him, creating another plateau of guilt and then there was another because although he didn’t love her and although he loved Harriet, he found it surprisingly easy – embarrassingly, shockingly easy – to make love to her. She made it obvious that it had been good for her. It had been good for him, too, a further reason to despise himself.
‘I missed you,’ she said. She was still breathing heavily from the love-making and there was a catch in her voice.
‘I missed you, too, he said, knowing he had to but hating himself for the lie. It seemed so easy to decide and to plan in New York – necessary, if she were to be protected; he hoped, one day, she might come to guess why he was doing it – but it wasn’t easy now. It was degrading and obscene and it wasn’t fair to her. They made love with the light on, because Natalia was a sensuous woman who liked it that way. Orlov looked sideways at her. She detected the movement and turned smiling towards him, too, glad a barrier had been removed and Orlov knew she would expect to make love regularly now. She was an attractive as well as a sensuous woman; beautiful, even, with red hair which she wore long cascaded ever the pillow and freckles that went with the colouring faint upon a diminutive nose and high, refined cheeks. She was careless of – actually pleasured by – nakedness, the covering thrust aside because she wanted him to see her, firm-limbed, her stomach naturally flat, not through some drawn- breathed effort. Her breasts were firm, too, jutting upright despite their weight and Orlov felt a surge of excitement and shifted the bedclothes to cover him, wanting to hide the obvious evidence of it. Was it possible to love two women equally? He’d avoided the obvious way out, running in America where it would have been easy, because of the retribution which would quite illogically have been exacted against Natalia for having married a traitor, wanting to divorce her and distance her from harm. Wasn’t that love? Of a sort, he supposed. Responsibility, he thought, seeking another word. Guilt, the most familiar one. Beautiful, he thought again; more beautiful than Harriet, if he were to make a brutal, honest comparison. Had Sevin been right? Had he been brought back by a powerful, inner caucus to finish some sort of training to emerge as a contender for the ultimate position? ‘ You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country…’ Over-dramatic words, certainly. But Sevin had never been personally over-dramatic. The man wouldn’t have made the promise – disclosed the thinking – if it hadn’t been the truth. Orlov looked again at Natalia and thought how well she would fit and accomplish the role of First Lady and he remembered his arrival that day at the Ministry when Sevin made the announcement and the phrase that throbbed through his head and through his thinking, like some ancient church chant: so much, so much, so much… Stop it! Orlov thought, abruptly. He had to stop it! He was having doubts about going back to America. And there weren’t any. He’d gone through all that; through all the heart-searching and the uncertainties and the recriminations. He was going to divorce Natalia to spare her from any possible harm and he was going to make his contact with someone at the US embassy and he was going to go to America to a new life with a woman who consumed him and for whom he was prepared to make any sacrifice.
‘I love you,’ said Natalia, beside him.
Orlov closed his eyes against the surroundings and what was happening and the dishonesty he hated and said, ‘I love you, very much.’
‘Make love to me again,’ she said. ‘Make love to me a lot.’
Orlov turned towards his wife, aware of how easy that was going to be and hating himself for that most of all.
Sokol succeeded in hiding any personal distate at the fug of tobacco smoke that hung in Panov’s office. The KGB chairman’s chest bellowed out with his difficulty and he didn’t make any gesture of greeting when Sokol entered the room.
‘How widespread is the problem?’ the older man demanded at once.
‘Bad,’ conceded Sokol, aware that Panov would know from other sources within the huge organisation. ‘Azerbaijan is still unsettled. It’s spread to Georgia. Right throughout the Ukraine. Kazakhstan and parts of
