Blair slept better on the return trip, less preoccupied with uncertainties than on the outward journey. They staged again at Amsterdam and remembering the omission of his departing flight Blair bought Ann perfume and a diminutive cross and chain with a written guarantee of 14-carat gold in the duty free shop. Still with time to spare before the Moscow connection he bought her a watch, too, inexpensive but quite stylish, which she could interchange with the one she already had and throw away without any qualms when it went wrong.
It was late afternoon before Blair got into Sheremetyevo, still feeling tired despite the earlier sleep. His usual dislike of flying, he decided. He called Ann from the airport and frowned at her obvious quietness, guessing the reason and apologising for being away for so long. She said it was all right and she was looking forward to his getting home.
Blair thought she looked beautiful when he entered the apartment. She kissed him anxiously and held him tightly and Blair thought maybe he’d misconstrued the telephone conversation. She’d gone to the trouble of welcome-home champagne and after they opened it he made a performance of giving her the gifts. He expected her to show more enthusiasm than she did but recognised he was apprehensive of making the announcement, now that the moment had come, and decided against reading too much into small things; it could be him, not her.
Ann had wondered what her feelings would be, at the actual moment of confrontation and realised it was embarrassment. Deep, numbing embarrassment. Did whores feel embarrassed? Or was it something they got used to, with practice? The embarrassment made it difficult to respond properly to the gifts – which actually increased the feeling – but she tried, dabbing on the perfume and twisting to let him put the necklace on her and replacing her existing watch with the new one and assuring him it was lovely.
She was naturally – and sincerely – interested so she asked him about Paul but there was a personal reason, too, because she wanted him to talk rather than respond to a lot of questions about what she had been doing. It took a long time and she was grateful. Blair went into every detail and with the newly-decided honesty confessed the awareness of his own failings and how he believed those failings had contributed to what happened. When he set out the promises and the resolutions, to stay closer to the boys and have them here in Moscow she felt out for his hand – the reluctance until now her own embarrassment, not any hesitation at physical contact – and said she’d do everything she could to make it work, like he’d always known she would.
‘I went to Langley a couple of times,’ he said finally.
‘I thought you would.’
‘Talked about a lot of things.’
‘Like what?’ she said, suddenly attentive.
‘They’ve asked me to stay on.’
‘They’ve what?’ The question was asked quietly, the voice neutral, someone who thought they’d misheard.
‘Stay on, after the normal three years,’ said Blair. He knew he hadn’t done it right and so he hurriedly continued, trying to improve, enumerating all the concessions and the promises, wanting her to see how much to their advantage it would be.
‘You mean you’ve already agreed!’ The outrage was there now, the anger rising.
‘They wanted a decision on the spot.’
‘Without discussing it with me! Asking me how I felt!’
‘That wasn’t possible. You know that.’
‘And you know how I feel about this fucking place! How I hate and loathe it.’
‘Because you haven’t given it a chance.’
‘I’ve given it two years!’ she shouted. ‘Two years that have been like a fucking prison sentence.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Blair hadn’t expected her to welcome the decision but he hadn’t anticipated this sort of tirade, either.
It was a valid question, Ann accepted. She was angry – furious – but mixed up in the emotion was her own guilt and embarrassment and feeling of being a whore: being able to shout at him as if everything were his fault slightly lessened it all. Only very slightly. ‘What sort of question is that?’ she said, in controlled rage. ‘You know damned well how I hate it here. How I’ve always hated it. How I’ve been counting off the days and the weeks and the months – like a prison sentence – and hardly been able to wait until the time was up and we could be released…’ She laughed, a jeering sound. ‘That was actually the first word that came into my head, believe me,’ she said. ‘Released.’
Blair sat silent under the onslaught. He had misunderstood. He’d had some idea of her unhappiness but not that it was as bad as this. Not the obvious, bulging-eyed, nostril-flared hatred. Or had he? Hadn’t he known it all along and chosen to ignore or minimise it? Wasn’t it another cop out, like it had been with the boys, a refusal to let anything interfere with what he, Eddie Blair, ultimately wanted to happen? ‘It might not be any longer than three years,’ he said, in an attempt at recovery, remembering the search for his own reassurances. ‘You know the uncertainty that exists here. That’s why they want me to stay. If the leadership is settled we’d hold the aces and the kings…’ Abandoning the aircraft resolution, he said, ‘And you get to choose. Wherever you want, we’ll go.’
‘Christ!’ said Ann, striding without direction around the room. ‘I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! What if everything isn’t settled? We could be stuck here for years…’
‘No,’ said Blair, at once. ‘I made that clear. It’s not an open ticket.’
She stopped abruptly in front of him, staring down. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So how long? How long if it’s not an open ticket?’
‘Not more than another three years,’ promised Blair, the first figure that came into his head.
‘Three years!’ echoed Ann, the outrage flooding back. ‘You mean you expect me to stay here for another three fucking years?’
‘No,’ said Blair, his own temper finally giving way. ‘I don’t expect you to stay here for another three fucking years. If Moscow and your dislike of it – OK, your hatred of it – is the biggest thing in your life then I don’t expect you to stay.’
His reaction quietened her at once, the thrust striking the rawest and most exposed nerve. She felt her face burn red and hoped Blair would believe it was her anger. ‘You’re telling me to get out?’ she demanded.
‘No,’ he said. ‘And you know I’m not. I love you and I want you to stay. It’s for you to decide whether you love me enough to stay.’
He sat, waiting. For several moments she stared down at him and then she burst into tears.
Brinkman responsed at once to Blair’s invitation, knowing of course that the American wanted an update on anything that had happened while he’d been away and hoping he might get a lead to what Blair had been doing from the man’s questions. Because it was Blair’s invitation, the meeting was at the American embassy, at their usual table in the cafeteria. Brinkman felt the briefest spurt of embarrassment at the moment of shaking hands but almost at once it went. Private life was private life but this was business and quite separate. If that made him a cunt – if cuckolding Blair made him a cunt – then OK, he was a cunt. Successful men often were.
There was the customary shadow boxing, the inconsequential smalltalk and then realistic enough to know he wouldn’t get anything unless he gave something, Blair said, ‘May be staying here longer than I planned.’