‘You must come and eat with us one night,’ said Ann. ‘It’ll be good to be able to talk to someone so recently from home.’
‘I’d like that,’ accepted Brinkman. London thought Ingram good and Ingram eulogised Blair: until he found his own roads to follow the American was obviously the person to travel with.
The arrival of the British ambassador, making his duty visit, was the signal for the presentations, which broke up Brinkman’s contact with the Blairs. There were short speeches, carefully guarded of course, praising Ingram as a colleague and friend whose companionship would be sadly missed and Ingram’s blinking grew more rapid with the praise. Lucinda stood alongside, the expression on her face making it quite clear that she considered it all justified. The ambassador presented the decanter set, with matching glasses, and Ingram assured those who had contributed towards it that he would always treasure it as a reminder of happy times in Moscow, which he was going to miss both as a city and as a place where he’d made many wonderful friends, people whom he and his wife sincerely hoped would remain in contact. There was the predictable attempt at a joke which fell flat and the predictable ribald shout from someone in the crowd and Brinkman wondered why these sorts of things were always inevitably so embarrassing. The presentation broke up, like they normally did, in the uncertainty of people not knowing what to do. Brinkman smiled up at the ambassador’s approach.
‘Sorry I haven’t had time to welcome you properly yet,’ said Sir Oliver Brace.
‘People seem to have been doing almost nothing else,’ said Brinkman. At the embassy gathering there had been the briefest of introductions: the formal interview was arranged for the following week.
‘Son of Sir Richard Brinkman, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Brinkman, feeling the stomach sink of dismay.
‘Harrow together,’ said the ambassador. ‘Damned fine bat. Still play cricket?’
‘Not any longer,’ said Brinkman.
It would have been easy enough for his father to find out; all he had to do was look at the diplomatic list. He supposed there would have been some contact, from the manner of Brace’s approach.
‘Everyone treating you all right?’ demanded the man. ‘No problems?’
‘Everyone has been extremely kind,’ said Brinkman.
In a veiled reference to Brinkman’s true function, the ambassador said, ‘Tricky place to be, sometimes, Moscow.’
‘I was fully briefed before I left London, sir,’ assured Brinkman. Dear God, don’t let this red-faced man with his clipped-speech mannerism adopt the role of surrogate father, thought Brinkman.
‘Any problems, you let me know. You understand?’
‘Of course sir,’ promised Brinkman. There had to have been contact; the Head of Chancery was the diplomat with whom intelligence officers customarily dealt, specifically to remove the ambassador from any difficulty if things went wrong. And that was the person with whom he would continue contact, determined Brinkman. Damn his busy-body, interfering father!
His duty done, the ambassador moved away towards the door and Brinkman looked casually about him, unsure how easy it would be to make his own escape; although it was Ingram’s party, the departing intelligence officer had made it extremely clear Brinkman shared in it, too, for the advantages it might have. Near where Lucinda’s food had been – and which was now a messy, destroyed table – a space had been cleared for dancing and a few couples were making desultory attempts to follow the music. Brinkman was undecided whether the excuse was to support each other, from the effects of the booze, or grope each other, furtively. There were obvious invitations from two women who caught his eye and smiled, hopefully, but Brinkman chose to misunderstand, smiling back but remaining where he was. The cigarette smoke, thicker now, stung his eyes and the long-held drink was warm when he sipped it, not needing a drink but just wanting something to do. He looked around for Blair and his English wife, but they appeared to have left. Because politeness demanded it he asked Lucinda Ingram to dance and because politeness demanded it, she accepted, appearing reluctant to follow his lead and pushing him around instead, like a busy shopper manoeuvring a trolley through a crowded supermarket. There was the formalised conversation about how glad he was to be in Moscow and how much she was looking forward to returning to London, which she hadn’t seen for a long time because before Moscow their posting had been Beirut and before that Lima. Lucinda promised that the apartment would be properly and thoroughly cleaned after the party and asked if he wanted to retain their maid and Brinkman thanked her and said yes, he did. They were both relieved when the dance finished. He walked with her to Ingram, who stood stiff-legged beside the drinks table, pink and smiling. Brinkman decided it wouldn’t be long before the owl fell out of the tree.
‘Thanks for the party. And for everything else,’ said Brinkman.
‘Remember what I said,’ encouraged Ingram. Despite the obvious intake he was still very clear-voiced.
‘I will.’
‘Stay close to Blair and you won’t go far wrong,’ insisted the other man, as if he feared Brinkman hadn’t understood their earlier conversation.
‘I will,’ promised Brinkman, emptily. ‘I will’
‘What do you think?’ asked Ann.
‘About what?’ Blair came from the bathroom wiping the toothpaste residue from his lips.
‘Our new arrival, Jeremy Brinkman?’
‘Seemed OK.’
‘Betty Harrison decided he was gorgeous: absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Betty Harrison’s got hot pants.’
‘Think Brinkman will fill them for her?’
‘Seemed a cautious guy,’ judged Blair. ‘Never touched his drink all night and spent a lot of it looking around, making assessments.’
‘Professional sod!’ accused Ann, lightly. She added, ‘Poor Betty Harrison if you’re right.’
‘I could be wrong,’ admitted Blair.
‘You rarely are,’ said Ann proudly.
‘There’s always the first time,’ said the Texan, switching off the light.
Ann lay hopefully in the darkness but she felt him turn away from her. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight.’
Chapter Four
Pietr Orlov was fully aware that when it happened there would be far more than the official reaction, the public vilification and accusations and possibly – a growing fear – a relentless physical pursuit. There would be bewilderment, from those who knew him; incredulity that having everything – and well knowing he had everything – he’d abandoned it all. Incredulity, too, at the reason for that abandonment. They’d have understood – just – a deep-seated difficulty with Communist ideology. Or the greed of bribery. But not a woman.
At the time of his departure from New York Orlov had been the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations. But that had been a misleading description, belying his function or regard within Russia. A more correct title would have been Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, because that was the role he properly performed. It was Orlov who was summoned back from New York personally to brief the ailing Brezhnev on the likely Western reaction to the Afghanistan incursion. And Orlov again upon whom Andropov – ailing also – depended for advice in determining the Russian propaganda response to the positioning in Europe of the American Cruise missiles.
So much, reflected Orlov, entering the Kremlin complex and moving, well-accustomed, towards the section of the Foreign Ministry. So much and yet so little. He wanted more; so much more that only he – no one else, perhaps not even Harriet – could or would ever understand. Maybe Harriet would come to comprehend it, in time. Orlov hoped to God or whatever the deity was who controlled the destiny of man that it wouldn’t have to be as long as a year, before he had a chance to start trying to make her understand.