There was a personal letter of thanks within weeks from Birdwood and Brinkman was picked out by name in a letter of gratitude the Opposition leader wrote to the ambassador. Maxwell wrote from London, too, enclosing the letter in the safety of the diplomatic bag.
‘An outstanding success,’ the controller called it.
Brinkman wondered how difficult it was going to be maintaining the standard he set himself.
The KGB identified Brinkman as the interpreter on the first day but because of his distraction in the provinces it was several days before Sokol caught up with it. He frowned down, irritated that the leaders had come under such close scrutiny of an intelligence operator. There was nothing, now, that he could do about it: maybe there wouldn’t have been at the time, apart from staging some accident involving the man, physically removing him. Jeremy Brinkman appeared to have progressed beyond the settling-in stage, reflected the Russian. He made a notation to place the man upon the priority Watch List.
Ruth drove Paul back from the court hollowed by what she heard, unspeaking because she didn’t trust herself to speak to the boy and not knowing the words anyway. He remained silent beside her. She couldn’t handle this alone, she determined, taking the car across the Memorial Bridge. She was prepared to do most things – indeed, she’d argued custodial responsibility during the divorce because she considered it was her responsibility – but there had to be a cutoff point and this was it. Paul was Eddie’s son, as much as hers; so his liability was as great as hers, even though he was on the other side of the world. They had established the method of communication through Langley in the event of any emergency, in the overly-polite aftermath of the divorce and Ruth had always determined never to use it, looking upon it as an admission of failure. Which perhaps was the reason Paul had done what he had. So if she failed it was time for Eddie to see if he could do better. The CIA personnel official was courteous and helpful and tried to commiserate by saying it was the most common problem parents had to face in America today which didn’t help Ruth at all because she wasn’t interested in anyone else’s problems. The official promised to get a message to Blair overnight, which he did.
‘Drugs!’ exclaimed Ann, when Blair told her that evening in their Moscow apartment.
‘Marijuana, apparently. And cocaine,’ said Blair. ‘There wasn’t a complete run down, obviously, but it seems to have been going on for quite a long time.’
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ said Ann. ‘I’m really very sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ said Blair, distantly, and she wondered if he were thinking it might not have happened if he hadn’t become involved with her.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said.
‘They’ve been very good,’ he said. ‘Immediate compassionate leave.’
‘Of course,’ said Ann. Why hadn’t she thought of his going back to Washington? It was the obvious thing for him to do.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She suddenly remembered the coveted tickets to the Bolshoi and realised he’d miss the performance. It was too inconsequential to mention; too inconsequential to think about at a time like this. ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ she said.
Blair looked at her grave-faced. ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ he said. ‘About myself.’
Blair flew on a KLM flight, which enabled a convenient transfer for the Washington flight at Amsterdam. Because of Blair’s listing on the Watch List, the KGB knew of his departure within three hours. It was the same Watch List on which Jeremy Brinkman’s name had been entered.
Chapter Twelve
Blair arrived at Dulles airport unshaven and crumpled. He didn’t enjoy flying and sleep would have been impossible anyway, so he was jetlagged, his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. He went mechanically through the process of renting a car, blinking to concentrate when he reached the Beltway on his way into Washington; Muscovites drove faster than this – often dangerously so – but here there seemed so many more cars and Blair got his first reminder of how long he had been out of the country. He guessed there would be many more; like the reason for his being summoned home. He felt easier when he was able to leave the Beltway for the Memorial route. It took him directly by the CIA headquarters – openly signposted – and he stared in its direction, unable to see the familiar building through the screen of trees. He’d make contact, obviously. But not yet. For the moment the career for which he’d made so many sacrifices could be put on the back burner. Blair halted the slide, recognising the search for excuses and irritated at himself for the weakness. Getting Paul sorted out was the only consideration; the excuses and the who-and-what-was-to-blame recriminations could wait until later. And his commitment to the Agency would be pretty low on the list anyway.
He approached Washington looking for landmarks, the widening thread of the Potomac and by the bridge the topsy turvey canoe club building he always expected to fall down but which never did, the cathedral beyond, proudly grand, and far away, misted by the heat haze, the most familiar markers of all, the wedding cake dome of the Capitol and the exclamation mark of the Washington Memorial. He took the Key Bridge exit to get into Rosslyn, conscious at once of the change. It was really the road system, the huge roundabout directly in front of the Key Bridge leading across into Georgetown, but he got the impression that there where more buildings, too. There never seemed anything being newly built in Moscow.
Ruth was in jeans and a workshirt and without any make-up – actually with a smudge of dust against her nose – when she answered the door to him, frowning when she saw who it was. She looked down at herself in instant embarrassment and said, ‘I thought you’d call, from the airport.’
He should have done, Blair realised. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot: wasn’t thinking.’
They stood momentarily staring at each other, each unsure. Then she stepped back into the house and said, ‘Sorry. You’d better come in.’
Blair entered hesitantly, stopping in the hallway and there was another moment of uncertainty between them. Despite the disarrayed hair and dirt on her nose, Blair thought she was very pretty; it wouldn’t be right to tell her so. He’d had two hours to kill at Schipol, waiting for the Washington connection and spent it in the bar; he should have looked at the airport shops instead and got her a gift. The boys, too, for Christ’s sake! Why the hell hadn’t he thought of doing so!
Ruth broke the moment by going into the living room and he followed. She said, ‘I’m glad you’re here at this time, though. With the boys at school, I mean. We can talk.’
‘Yes,’ said Blair. Everything was extremely neat and tidy. But then Ruth had always been neat and tidy. Ann was always cleaning but… Blair closed his mind against the comparison. That wasn’t what he was here for. He said, unnecessarily polite, ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Sorry. Of course,’ she said.
They each had an eagerness to apologise, thought Blair, and as he did so Ruth said on cue, ‘Sorry. What about some coffee? It must have been a long flight.’
‘Coffee would be good,’ he accepted. As she started to leave the room he said, ‘Can I help?’ and wished he hadn’t, as soon as he spoke.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it.’
Alone, he looked around the room again. There were fresh flowers in two vases, one on a low table in the middle of the room and another more elaborate display on a stand near the main window. On the mantle was a picture of the two boys that he hadn’t seen before. It was stiffly posed and he guessed it was a school photograph: John was wearing a brace, he saw, remembering Ann’s remark. Ruth returned with the coffee prepared on a cloth-covered tray, in a pot, with the cups and the cream.