The younger American hesitated, nervous of the wrong reply. ‘None at all.’
‘Let’s hope we all stay on the same side,’ said Charlie.
‘Can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t,’ said Lyneham, knowing Charlie’s remark had been aimed directly at him.
Charlie judged Lyneham’s outburst to be the sort of irrational upset that arose for no good reason in the constricted environment of overseas embassies, particularly somewhere like Moscow.
Charlie strove at maintaining the special influence pretence and was mostly successful, although the Head of Chancellery remained aloofly unimpressed, which suited Charlie just fine because he didn’t want any more contact with the man than was absolutely necessary. The ambassador, a white-haired career diplomat named Sir William Wilkes, personally welcomed him with the hope that he’d be happy and that everything would work out well, making Charlie wonder if the man really knew what he was there for, and Thomas Bowyer and his wife hosted a party to introduce him to more legation people. Their compound apartment of plywood and formica convinced Charlie he’d made the right decision by living outside. Fiona was a bustling, rosy-cheeked woman who shunned make-up, wore hand-knitted cardigans and taught elementary English at the embassy school. She also matched Charlie’s whisky intake, glass for glass and without any noticeable affect, and Charlie liked her. Paul Smythe had obviously been the chief grinder at the rumour mill and Charlie found himself under as much scrutiny for imagined roles as he did for what he was officially supposed to be doing. To keep the personal mystique simmering, Charlie deflected both the outright questions and the heavy innuendo by saying he couldn’t, of course, talk about his work and left people believing they’d come close to a secret.
He welcomed Bowyer’s suggestion of their going together to two foreign embassy receptions and at both, the first French, the second German, he was sought out by the respective intelligence heads, both of whom announced they wanted close working relationships. He was additionally button-holed at the German party by Israeli and Italian rezidentura officers saying the same thing. After a lifetime of being the left-in-the-cold outsider with his nose pressed to the window, Charlie found the sudden popularity as curiously amusing as it was unusual. With absolutely nothing to lose but everything to gain, Charlie assured each he wanted the contact to be as close as they did, particularly the German, Jurgen Balg, from whom he anticipated the most benefit.
Charlie followed up the German encounter with lunch the following day, exchanging private and direct line telephone numbers and fixed luncheon appointments with the others over the course of the succeeding fortnight. Although Charlie considered the contacts, at this early stage, little more than finger touching, it gave a semblance of activity to report back to London, which he did methodically. He also wrote fuller memoranda to himself about the men and their discussions, which he left in the unlocked cabinets in his office for Bowyer to discover and use as he felt fit. Charlie also logged daily a much-inflated expenditure, particularly out-of-pocket items like taxi fares, phone calls, gratuities and casual, bar-level hospitality for Bowyer to find. He knew it wouldn’t allay the inevitable challenge from Gerald Williams, but it gave Bowyer and the financial director something to talk about.
And most of all he waited for the hoped-for call from Colonel Aleksai Semenovich Popov. Which never came. Charlie accepted in hindsight he’d invested far too much in what had, considered objectively, been little more than a diplomatic response that avoided outright rejection. But he had thought there was a chance. Maybe Popov had suggested it and been turned down. But Charlie would have still expected the man to come back to him, to tell him one way or the other. It would not, after all, have reflected upon him personally. Lyneham had even predicted such an outcome.
Charlie had to wait, with increasing frustration, until the beginning of the second week before he got an excuse to go against the imposed system and make a call to the Russian instead of waiting for Popov to contact him. It was scarcely sufficient and Charlie didn’t doubt Kestler had the same information as he did, because the Bundeskriminalamt was clearly the source, but the impatient Charlie judged it reason enough. The British station in Bonn, with what looked like corroborative rumours in Berlin, picked up the suggestion of a nuclear shipment transiting Leipzig in the coming month. There was no indication of destination or source, although there was a hint it would originate from the Ukraine.
Popov’s direct line rang interminably unanswered and the girl who finally responded didn’t speak English and appeared unable to understand Charlie’s groping Russian, just as he didn’t get everything she tried to tell him. Despite the language difficulty Charlie attempted the main Interior Ministry switchboard, several times being plugged through to further unanswered infinity and twice reaching whom he thought to be the same secretary, on the second occasion understanding from her near-impatient insistence that Popov wouldn’t be available ‘for a long time’.
‘The good old Russian runaround. I told you that earlier stuff was just so much bullshit,’ insisted Lyneham, when Charlie finally confessed the failure. Charlie had developed the habit of practically daily visits to Ulitza Chaykovskovo, as much to get out of the British embassy and appear to the watchful Bowyer to be doing something as in the hope of gaining even a scrap of information from the Americans. That day Kestler confirmed they had virtually the same information about the possible Ukraine shipment and admitted that he, too, had been unable to locate the Russian colonel.
‘You ever had difficulty like this before?’ Charlie asked Kestler.
‘A couple of times,’ conceded the younger American. ‘You leave a name and a number?’
‘Finally, yesterday.’ The atmosphere between the two Americans seemed easier.
‘He’s normally pretty good at calling back.’
The thought of a continuing delay depressed Charlie: having provided even limited information London would anticipate a Russian response. And wouldn’t be impressed at his inability to reach the operational chief with whom he’d already told them he’d formed precisely the liaison he’d been sent to Moscow to establish.
Charlie accepted Lyneham’s Happy Hour invitation – once it was extended to and accepted as well by Kestler, with the promise to join them later – because the alternative was another lonely evening in the echoing Lesnaya apartment. And he was passingly curious to see if the American mess was better than that at the British embassy.
It wasn’t, but then the British building was far superior to that of the United States, which Charlie had always thought of as a bunker barriered by shutters and bars. Befitting such architecture, the American recreation facility was in the basement. The attempts to brighten it up with wall posters of American tourist scenes hadn’t worked and the polished-leaf plants had lost their gloss in the struggle beneath the harsh strip lights that whitened everything, giving everyone a sickly pallor. A sign promising an extension of the cheap drink period was propped against a jukebox dispensing muzak and an occasional soul lyric. At the far end a white-coated black steward dispensed drinks with the conjuring skill exclusive to American bartenders. At the edge of the bar furthest from the music centre a hotplate and dishes steamed gently, offering complimentary snacks. Charlie declined any food and was relieved to spot Macallan among the bourbons and ryes. Lyneham had to make two trips to the hotplate to assemble a sufficient supply of buffalo wings, chicken legs and meat balls.
‘Sure you don’t want any?’ pressed the FBI man, gravy speckling his chin.
‘Quite sure.’
Lyneham emptied his mouth. ‘Guess I was a little out of line the other day.’ He hated the humiliation but after a lot of thought he’d decided he’d gain more brownie points clearing the nonsense up than by letting it drift. He’d made another decision, too.