The Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘What?’ said Brinkman, politely.

  ‘That Washington doesn’t bother to send in the electronic people any more, to sweep the embassy and the apartment for bugs. Because Eddie Blair knows more about it and can do it better than any of them.’

  Brinkman looked idly about him. There were a hundred places where listening devices could be concealed: there always were. The jabber of this crowd would nullify anything tonight.

  ‘Blair’s the man to watch’, said Ingram.

  Brinkman wondered if the Russians were doing just that. ‘I’ll remember,’ he said.

  ‘Why not meet him now?’

  ‘Why not?’ agreed Brinkman. Before leaving the drinks table he put as much water as possible into his scotch and sipped it. Still not enough, he thought. Ingram had already opened the introduction by the time Brinkman got across the room and the American was smiling towards him, invitingly.

  ‘Hi,’ said Blair. ‘Welcome to fun city.’

  The handshake was strong but not artificially so. ‘This usual?’ asked Brinkman, gesturing back into the room.

  ‘Better than usual,’ said Blair. As Ingram, his mission completed, eased back towards the bar, Blair added, ‘How you settling in?’

  ‘Not at all, at the moment,’ admitted Brinkman. ‘Living out of a suitcase at the embassy and going everywhere with a map in my hand.’

  Blair smiled at the self-deprecation, as he was supposed to. ‘Takes time,’ he said. ‘Actually didn’t like the place in the first few months. Thought I’d made a mistake in accepting the posting.’

  ‘And now?’ said Brinkman.

  ‘Moscow’s a good place to be,’ said the American. ‘It’s always got the attention of a lot of important people.’

  An ambitious cowboy: very rare, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Hope I don’t fail them.’

  Blair smiled again, at the practised modesty. ‘Takes time, like I said. It’s a difficult place to get the feel of and put a handle on.’ The American paused and then said, ‘Difficult for the wives, too. Not enough for them to do, really.’

  ‘Won’t be a problem for me,’ said Brinkman. ‘I’m not married.’

  Appearing reminded, Blair looked around the room and said, ‘You must meet Ann.’

  He waved and Brinkman turned to see a slim, dark-haired woman coming towards them, smiling uncertainly. She’d taken the trouble with her clothes which her husband hadn’t, the turquoise dress designed to show both the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. She wore no other jewellery but a single strand gold necklace and only a minimum of make-up. She was much younger than Blair, Brinkman realised at once. As the American made the introductions he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and Brinkman wondered if the gesture were one of possession or comfort. He isolated the accent as soon as she spoke.

  ‘English?’ he said.

  ‘As roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ confirmed Blair.

  ‘Berkhamsted, actually,’ said Ann.

  Brinkman saw she had small even teeth and the apparent habit of catching her lower lip between them, like a guilty child frightened of being caught out in some mistake.

  ‘Long way from home,’ said Brinkman.

  He thought he detected a momentary pause from the woman. She said, ‘We all are.’ The smile this time was more open than before. ‘It’ll be good to have a new face among us,’ she said. Why was she being like the rest? Ann thought, angry at herself. The answer came at once. Why not? She was like everyone else.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Brinkman. But not to parties like these, where the biggest ambition seemed to be who could get to the bottom of a whisky glass quickest, he thought. His own glass was sail practically full.

  ‘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.

  Orlov hesitated at the actual moment of entering the office of Yuri Sevin, conscious – although he’d been aware of it before but not so intently, at the precise act of confrontation – that the deputy minister would be one of the minority, someone who knew him well and therefore whose first thought would not be instinctively nationalistic but personal; one of the ones who would shake his head and find words difficult and when they came be mundane and ill-fitting, like, ‘ Why! Why – how – did he do it!’ Orlov knew he had been chosen by Sevin, from the junior Party position in Tbilisi; nurtured up through the local levels and then brought to Moscow and protected still, every move in the upward programme considered before it was made, every posting chosen for a purpose. Orlov supposed it had to be twenty years. Twenty years during which Sevin had been his constant supporter and advocate, finally protecting him in the jugular-biting jungle of Moscow while he had been far away and exposed, in New York. Exposed to the one thing Sevin had not anticipated and eliminated. Orlov hoped he could protect Natalia; to protect Sevin would not be so easy. Impossible, in fact.

  Sevin came forward, arms outstretched in effusive greeting, tears already starting down his face, an elderly bear of a man with the emotions of a rabbit. ‘Pietr!’ he said, a sob in his voice, someone unable to accept the good fortune of seeing again someone he loved. ‘Pietr!’

  Orlov allowed the bear hug – what else from a man of Sevin’s size! – and the tear-smeared kisses on either cheek and a further bear hug, as if the first had been insufficient. And then underwent the arms’ length examination, as though he was being searched for physical flaws and blemishes from his prolonged exposure in the West. There is what you would regard as a flaw, dear friend, thought Orlov, but not one that is visible. To anyone.

  ‘Yuri,’ he responded. ‘Yuri, it’s good to see you!’

  Sevin led him away from the desk, impatient – embarrassed almost – at the indication of rank or power; hardly any existed between them anyway. They went instead to a side area, where the windows overlooked the Senate building and where a low table between the chairs and the couch was already set with vodka and caviar. Sevin, the considerate host, had even included a samovar beside the couch; Orlov stared at it, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen one.

  ‘Pietr!’ said Sevin once more. ‘How good it is to see you. Really good.’

  ‘And you,’ said Orlov.

  There was no doubt or uncertainty about what he intended doing – there couldn’t be, after all the planning – but Orlov knew that when it was all over and he was happily settled with Harriet and the fear had diminished as much as it could ever diminish there would still remain the regret at how he’d had to deceive his friends; this friend in particular. And an even deeper regret that there was no way he could attempt to apologise or explain. To attempt it now – to take someone he considered his closest, dearest friend into his confidence – would be suicidal for him. And to attempt it later, in some guarded, hopefully disguised message, would be as murderous to Sevin. So he could do nothing. Nothing except hope that in some way, somehow, Sevin would come to understand. Orlov doubted that the man would, though. How could he? How could anyone?

  ‘You return in triumph, Pietr,’ declared the deputy minister at once. ‘Absolute triumph.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Orlov. The discomfort was like a weight, in his stomach.

  ‘You didn’t need me to tell you that,’ said Sevin, gently. He knew he’d made the right choice, in Orlov. The man was going to fulfil every expectation.

  ‘Sometimes it’s difficult to judge, from so far away.’

  ‘You never made a misjudgment, never,’ praised Sevin. ‘It’s an impressive record. One that’s been rightly and properly recognised as such.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said the uncomfortable Orlov. How much easier it had been to consider and plan what he intended to do in New York. And how much more difficult it was to carry it through, once he’d got back here.

  ‘You will be,’ predicted Sevin. He paused theatrically, pleased with his news and wanting to extract the maximum from it. ‘There’ll need to be formal votes and resolutions, of course. But they’re just formalities. The decision’s unanimous… you’re being elected to the Central Committee Pietr…’ When Orlov, shocked, didn’t respond, Sevin said, ‘Congratulations, my friend. You’ve earned it.’

  The Central Committee!
The inner sanctum, Orlov realised; the cornucopia of power, with the proper internal committee postings. Except that he didn’t want power any more. Once, maybe, when Sevin first plucked him from the provinces and hinted at what he was finally offering, today. But not any longer. Now he wanted freedom; freedom and Harriet. Sevin was obviously the sponsor, because he was being permitted to be the bearer of good news. In ancient Rome it was the custom to sacrifice the messenger bearing bad news; and this was going to become bad news, soon enough. Orlov said, honestly, ‘It’s difficult to express myself.’

  The old man smiled, pleased, with no way of being able to understand Orlov’s problem. ‘It won’t stop there, Pietr. You’re the chosen one, the star. Being groomed. I’m too old and so are at least six of the others on the Politburo. Ivan Serada has been a disaster and everyone recognises it. You’re only forty – which is juvenile by Soviet ageing – but I’ve seen to it that you’ve had more international experience than most of the other contenders put together. All you need now is two years – three at the outside – to be able to show the proper understanding and appreciation of domestic issues and there won’t be anyone to stand in your way.’

  Leader! thought Orlov, in a sudden, oblivious-to-everything mental lurch. The euphoria leaked away, as quickly as it came. He didn’t want to be leader and he didn’t want to be a deputy and he didn’t want to be married any longer to Natalia and he didn’t want to be in Moscow. All he wanted was Harriet. He said, ‘It’s an overwhelming prospect. Everything’s overwhelming, in fact.’

  Sevin laughed in genuine amusement at the other man’s confusion, pouring large measures of vodka for them both. He raised his glass and said, ‘To you, Pietr Grigorovich Orlov. People are going to know of you; know of you and respect you and fear you. You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country, bury Serada’s mistakes and sweep away the blanket of nepotism that’s smothering our leadership and our progress.’