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 Lithuania, too.’
‘Organised?’ asked Panov suspiciously.
‘I don’t think so. I’ve issued orders to restrict travel between the provinces, to avoid word-of-mouth circulation. And spread stories that in every place it’s isolated to that particular region. Any obvious leader is arrested, of course.’
‘No more execution,’ instructed Panov, lighting one cigarette from the butt of that which preceded. ‘It was right and proper the first time but I don’t think we should continue it. I don’t want anything in the Western press, through the dissidents…’ The old man coughed. ‘You’ve got to stop this,’ he began again. ‘You realise that, don’t you?’
Damn stupid agricultural policies that threatened everything he wanted, thought Sokol. ‘It will be stopped,’ he promised, not knowing how.
Chapter Six
Brinkman was pleased with his initial success but not complacent about it; indeed, with the proper reflection he was actually prepared to accept an element of luck. A very small element. He accepted, too, that improperly created foundations could be washed away in the first rain-storm; and he hadn’t gone as far as creating proper foundations yet, just a minimum impression in London and a minimum impression within his own embassy. The first layer, then. It was essential to build up, to withstand gales as well as rain. Brinkman calculated it precisely, practically with stopwatch finesse, arranging the lunch with Harrison the day he was later to eat with Blair, so that if there were any later comparisons – he didn’t, after all, know just how close the two were – he would be shown to have been scrupulously honest. Brinkman slotted himself into the second place throughout their conversation, as he had at the embassy, when they were conducting business, not socialising, referring in almost an aside to their conversation that day and offering the information about the chartering, as if he were unaware of its dramatic significance. Brinkman admired Harrison’s professional reaction – or rather lack of it – enjoying the encounter he was dominating from an apparently secondary role. It quickly became an exercise in comparative tradecraft, Harrison pecking until he considered he had enough and then withdrawing into some inconsequential small talk to digest the gathered forage and Brinkman setting out the meal, hors d’oeuvre at a time, not wanting the man to glut himself and realise how he was being spoonfed. The encounter ended with invitations – more fulsome than before – to further social gatherings and Brinkman’s vague acceptance, still appearing an over-awed new arrival grateful for the advice from someone more experienced; someone who might – indeed would – more eagerly next time make an approach and drop the hints, confident now of an ingenuous playback.