He got Leonid Zebin first, a frail, uncertain-looking man. Then Okulov, whose first name he couldn’t remember, which annoyed him, more assured than Zebin, looking around him almost with the arrogance matching Didenko. Brinkman knew that Yevgeni Aistov had been most recently attached to the agricultural ministry, so his appearance was clearly to indicate he had survived any purge and should therefore be interpreted as an emerging strongman. He had a full file for Maxwell in the morning, thought Brinkman, confidently. He blinked at the last man in the line, immediately recognising him from the same parliamentary trip where he’d first seen Didenko. Pietr Orlov was as imposing as he’d appeared then, the impeccable tailoring that Brinkman had admired on that occasion obvious again here. Brinkman strained, positively to ensure there were no more in the Soviet party and then looked back to Orlov, who was just coming to the end of the official receiving line. Maybe a fuller file than he had imagined, thought Brinkman. Orlov’s identification during the British visit had been important because he was one of the youngest members ever. But there had been two others; Vladimir Isakov and Viktor Petrov, remembered Brinkman. But they weren’t here. So why Orlov? Why, with dozens of other more senior figures available, had there come to an important foreign embassy reception a man so newly promoted he probably didn’t know himself all the names of the people with whom he was now daily sitting at meetings.
Brinkman decided that things were picking up. He looked attentively as the Russians formed themselves into a group. Orlov was next to Didenko, a marked contrast to the red-faced Russian. Beyond Brinkman saw Blair gazing at the Russians, too, and wondered if the man realised the significance of Orlov’s presence. He recalled telling the American of the attendance of all three newcomers at the English function. But unless Blair had studied the photographs as intently as he had – and then backed the study up by being able personally to see the man – then he might miss it. Doubtful, because Blair was so good. But just a possibility. He’d always regarded himself in competition with the man but Brinkman realised he now regarded the competition as even greater. It had always been silly to imagine a separation between his professional and private life was possible anyway.
Brinkman pushed the distracting reflection from his mind, concentrating upon what was most important. What other meaning could Orlov’s appearance be than that he was more important than the other two newly-elected members? And much more important than some who were there ahead of him? Brinkman watched eagerly, seeking any indication of deference towards Orlov from the others in the party and trying to establish if there were any discernable attitude towards the man from Didenko. There wasn’t. There were some photographs and Brinkman knew, miserably, that they would provide Blair with a comparison and that the American would now find it easy to identify everyone in the group. Shit, he thought bitterly. After the photographs Didenko remained talking to the US ambassador but the remainder moved away. They still stayed in a loosely knit group, however, all socially ill at ease, except for Orlov, with his recent overseas experience. The immaculate Russian engaged almost immediately in conversation with the French diplomats. Irritably, Brinkman saw that Henri Baton, the French intelligence Resident, was in the party.
Brinkman maintained a desultory conversation with the sentence-lapsing Street, using the man as a cover, trying to encompass all the Russians. Other people had joined the Soviet visitors. Didenko was making his way towards them, so Brinkman decided to stay where he was. Orlov continued on, apparently towards the Canadians. Didenko joined the people with whom Brinkman was standing, nodding cursorily to everyone except the ambassador. They all politely stopped talking while the Russian and Sir Oliver made their exchanges. The conversation between Didenko and Sir Oliver was meaningless – cocktail party regulations – but Brinkman recorded the fact that Didenko spoke good enough English not to need an interpreter. Brinkman had hoped one might have been necessary. With his own excellent Russian it might have been possible to pick up a tidbit between what was actually said and what was actually translated. The stop, like the talk, was regimented and as Didenko went off Brinkman moved too, remembering his regret at not being able to talk to Orlov during the parliamentary visit and wondering if he could make up for it now.
At once Brinkman felt a stab of anxiety. He saw, far ahead, that Orlov was in conversation with Blair. And that the two appeared momentarily alone. Brinkman thrust as quickly through the crowd as possible, not wanting the American to gain any advantage. Had Brinkman not been concentrating so entirely and been in the position he was he would not have seen what happened. The two were against a wall, at a point where an ornate curtain swept out, in a flamboyant drape. It created a wedge, obscuring them completely on two sides from everyone else in the room. Orlov had his back to the salon, restricting the view from where the main body of the guests were, so that the only clear visibility was directly parallel with the wall. Which was the direction from which Brinkman was approaching. Blair’s expression of surprise would have been too brief for anyone but Brinkman, as close and as intent as he was. And intent as he was Brinkman saw the exchange, the merest brushing of hands. Brinkman was sure it had been an exchange. And with that conviction all the others came tumbling in. He knew now what was important enough for Blair to be recalled to Washington. He knew what was important enough for Blair to regard his marriage as dispensible. He knew why Blair had extended and he knew, too, that the man would go on extending and why Ann had better reconcile herself to a lifetime in Moscow, if she wanted to stay married to the man. And he knew who Blair’s source was.
There was not the slightest sign of either Orlov or Blair being disconcerted by Brinkman’s arrival.
‘I don’t believe you’ve met the cultural attache at the British embassy, Mr Jeremy Brinkman?’
‘No,’ said Orlov. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’
The envy surged through Brinkman, a physical sensation that actually made him feel weak, so that his legs trembled, just briefly. He wanted Orlov! And if he couldn’t have him, then neither would Blair.
‘You’re late,’ challenged Ruth.
‘I’ve just left the programme, for God’s sake!’
‘Don’t be truculent with me, Paul. Or evasive. You leave the programme at five. If you don’t pick up the five-ten metro there’s another at five-twenty. Mr Erickson allowed for that. From the metro station it’s a seven minute walk, eight at the outside. You’re an hour out.’
‘He timed the whole journey?’
‘Yes, Paul, he did. And it seems a good idea that he bothered, doesn’t it?’
The boy stubbed his toe into the carpet, lower lip between his teeth.
‘So OK,’ demanded his mother. ‘Where were you?’
‘Talking to some guys.’
‘What guys?’
‘Just guys.’
‘What guys?’ she repeated.
‘Just guys,’ insisted Paul, just as determinedly.
‘It’s not yet a month,’ said Ruth. ‘Not yet a month since you stood in court and heard what would happen if you did it again.’
‘I haven’t done anything again!’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘Just talking. That’s all. Just talking. Honest.’
‘I can’t expect you to be honest any more, can I?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘No, it’s not up to me. It’s up to you. That’s been made perfectly clear by everyone; it’s all up to you.’
Paul made the groove in the carpet and was worrying it into a wider gap, spreading the pile apart.
‘Stop that!’ shouted Ruth. ‘And stop being such a stupid little child.’
‘Just talking,’ insisted the boy.
‘I’m going to call Mr Erickson. And Mr Kemp. And the programme director. I’m going to tell them what happened and let them decide what to do.’