The Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  Ignoring the absurdity of talking of nepotism, Orlov guessed from the hyperbole that the man had practised and rehearsed the speech, like the politician he was. People were going to know of him, Orlov thought sadly. But not for the sort of reason Sevin imagined.

  Sundays were always difficult.

  Every other day of the week had its boxes and its compartments, regular fixed commitments around which everything properly revolved; even Saturdays. But definitely not Sundays. Sunday was a do-nothing day, without a peg upon which Ruth could hang her coat. She hated Sundays because they were a constant reminder; Eddie had usually been free on Sundays.

  She fell back upon the Smithsonian, like so many times before, but halfway around the science exhibition their boredom and lack of interest became too obvious so she decided to cut her losses and run, taking a cab up to the Hill, to the American Cafe.

  Paul, maybe because he was the elder of the two and saw it as his role, led the attack, when it came to ordering drinks to go with the hamburgers.

  ‘Bloody Mary,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ refused Ruth, too vehemently and in front of the waitress anyway: she could have turned everything aside if she’d treated it as a joke. With no other choice but to continue she said, ‘You know you can’t have a Bloody Mary. Ridiculous!’

  The child reddened under the gaze of the patient, amused waitress who’d seen it all before. Shit! thought Ruth.

  ‘I want a Bloody Mary,’ insisted Paul.

  Ruth retreated to the familiar defence of an adult with a recalcitrant child, invoking the support of another adult. To the waitress, she said, ‘My son is not yet fourteen. He’s not allowed alcohol, is he?’

  ‘No ma’am,’ said the waitress. ‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee.’

  ‘Assholes!’ said Paul.

  Both women heard him but pretended not to have done so.

  ‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee,’ recited the waitress again.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Paul, denying himself so as to deny them as well.

  ‘Coke,’ said John. Belatedly he added ‘Please’ but because of the brace it came out as a lisp.

  After the woman had gone away with their order, Ruth said to Paul, ‘OK, what was all that about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, head bent against the table, regretting it now as much as she did.

  ‘You made a fool of yourself,’ said the woman, nervously aware just how close she’d come to losing control and wanting to reinforce her position, to prevent it happening again. ‘You made a fool of us all.’

  Paul said nothing because there was nothing to say.

  ‘I’m waiting for an apology.’

  The elder boy remained silent.

  ‘I said I’m waiting for an apology.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Paul, voice soft and his lips barely moving.

  ‘And you’ll apologise to the waitress when she comes back,’ said Ruth, building upon her advantage.

  ‘I think she’s a bitch!’ blurted John, coming to the aid of his beleaguered brother.

  Ruth turned to the other boy, looking bewildered between him and the departing waitress.

  ‘Not her!’ said John, with child-like irritation at being misunderstood. ‘The woman Daddy’s with. I think she’s a bitch.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Ruth, which was a mistake because since the divorce they’d both attempted the role of guardians and she realised as she spoke that she was diminishing their efforts.

  ‘We know everything about it, for God’s sake!’ came in Paul, anxious to recover from his previous defeat.

  ‘I know that,’ said Ruth, striving to maintain a reasonable tone in her voice. ‘I know you’re affected as much as I am – maybe even more so – and I’m sorry, John, that I said you didn’t know anything about it. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘What then?’ said the younger boy.

  ‘I meant that there are some things that occur between grownup, adult people that are difficult for younger people…’ Ruth hesitated, not wanting to cause further friction ‘… grown-up and adult though those younger people are, that are difficult for young people to understand…’ She trailed to a stop, realising how awful the attempt had been.

  ‘Like going to bed together, you mean?’ said John, anxious to prove his worldliness.

  ‘That,’ conceded Ruth cautiously. ‘But that’s not all of it. Even the important part of it. There are lots of other things, as well.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to bed with Daddy?’ demanded Paul, determined upon vengeance.

  Ruth felt herself blushing. ‘That isn’t the sort of question you should ask me,’ she said desperately. ‘But you know the answer anyway: of course I went to bed with Daddy.’

  ‘Then why did he go to bed with her, as well?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth, an admission as much to herself as to the children. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I hate her,’ said John, proud at having initiated the discussion. ‘Don’t you hate her?’

  ‘No,’ said Ruth, carefully rehearsed. ‘No, I don’t hate her. And I don’t hate Daddy.’

  ‘I don’t understand you!’ protested Paul, exasperated. ‘How can you not hate her!’

  Not easily, conceded Ruth to herself. ‘Hate doesn’t achieve anything,’ she said.

  ‘What will, to get Daddy back?’ implored John, who had tears brimming in his eyes when she looked at him.

  ‘I don’t know, darling,’ she said soothingly. ‘Not yet I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you?’ he said, with trusting anxiousness.

  ‘I don’t know that either,’ said Ruth honestly.

  The returning waitress stopped the conversation and Ruth smiled up at her, gratefully. Remembering, she said to Paul, ‘Don’t you have something to say to this lady?’

  There was a moment when Ruth thought he would refuse but then he said, ‘Sorry,’ louder the second time.

  Why was it, wondered Ruth, that sorry had been the most familiar word in their vocabulary for so long now?

  The unrest was centred in Shemkha, which was fortunate because Sokol was not sure he could have contained the protest if it had started in the Azerbaijan capital of Baku. It was from the KGB centre in Baku, of course, that the reports came and because he was so alert to the problem Sokol responded at once, ordering that Shemkha should be sealed and moving extra militia from Tbilisi in bordering Georgia and from Rostov and Donetsk as well. Sealing the town was only the first step, until he could get there himself on the long flight from Moscow. On the way from the airport Sokol gazed out at the parched fields of the tropical part of the Soviet Union, realising how crop failures of this province had been compounded by the grain failures on the Steppes: people were slow moving and actually, in cases, already emaciated. He went immediately to Shemkha and from the car radio system ordered that the leaders of the revolt should be assembled, for his arrival. There were four of them, a city physician and a factory technician and two farmers. The physician, whose name was Bessmertnik, was the reluctant spokesman, a bespectacled, stutteringly hesitant man. Sokol heard the complaints out, a litany of promised but never realised grain deliveries from the chairman of the city committee and spoilation through transport confusion and delays of food that did arrive. He ordered the immediate arrest of the committee chairman and transport authority head and detained Bessmertnik and one of the farmers as well. The hearing was brief- at Sokol’s instructions – in every case the charge of anti-Soviet activity, which covered any and every transgression. They were found guilty, also at Sokol’s instructions, and shot within an hour of the verdict. The official Soviet airline Aeroflot is subordinate to KGB orders and Sokol used fifteen aircraft from their transport fleet to fly in grain and vegetables. The entire operation took only a fortnight and the day after his return to Moscow there was a congratulatory memorandum from Aleksai Panov. Sokol was grateful for the recognition but knew it wasn’t what he wanted for the promotion upon wh
ich he was so determined; it wasn’t a coup.

  Chapter Five

  Brinkman settled in carefully, not because of the repeated advice to do so but because it was obviously the way to proceed, cautiously; to be cautious about his assessments and be cautious about making friends and be cautious about his new colleagues. Realising it was the traditional practice – something upon which they had budgeted, in fact – he bought from the departing Ingrams their car and their specially-adapted stereo unit and a few pieces of kitchen equipment. He moved in the day after they left Moscow. The place was cleaned and tidied, as Lucinda Ingram had promised – she’d even left a vase of flowers as a welcoming gesture in the main room – but it was not clean enough for Brinkman, who made the maid do it all over again while he was there, to ensure she performed the task properly. The maid was a bulging, overflowing woman named Kabalin who muttered something under her breath when he told her to clean again and who appeared surprised when Brinkman, who hadn’t heard what she said, continued the instructions in his perfect Russian, intent upon stopping any insubordination – even whispered protests from a servant – before it began. He knew she would spy upon him, officially, of course; that was one of the standard warnings. Probably steal, too. Which was why it was important to establish the proper relationship from the beginning. It wouldn’t affect the spying but it might lessen the theft if she realised at once that he wasn’t a weak man, prepared to tolerate laxity.

  At the embassy Brinkman remained polite, even humble, grateful to people who identified the various departments, courteously introducing himself to the head of each, joining the various clubs and organisations that existed within the building, to relieve the existence of Moscow and – maybe the most important of all – never indicating that because he was an intelligence officer, which most of them knew even though they shouldn’t have done, that he considered himself in any way superior to them or beyond the rules and regulations that they had to obey. During the official welcoming interview the ambassador, who asked to be remembered to his father, repeated the invitation to approach him personally if he encountered any difficulty and as he had done at the Ingrams’ party, Brinkman thanked the man politely. At a subsequent meeting with the Head of Chancery, whose name was Wilcox, Brinkman let the offer be known, apologised for the intrusion of his father and assured Wilcox – quite honestly – that he had no intention ever of going over the man’s head. Like letting everyone else know he didn’t consider himself different, because of the certain dispensations allowed him as a security man, it let Wilcox know he didn’t want any special favours. And by being open about it, Brinkman took out insurance against Sir Oliver mentioning it to Wilcox himself.

  Brinkman was as careful making contact with the Westerners whom Ingram recommended he should seek out, wanting always that the approaches should come from them and not from him, which would have put him in the role of a supplicant. It happened first from the Canadians. It was a reception marking some Commonwealth event and Brinkman went to create the opportunity and was picked out of the English contingent by Mark Harrison within thirty minutes of his arrival. His Canadian counterpart was a heavy man, florid through obvious blood pressure: relaxed in his own embassy surroundings, the man wore a string tie secured at the throat by a heavy clasp. There was the settling in conversation which by now Brinkman felt he could recite in his sleep and then the restaurant-delay conversation and then the restriction of travel conversation. Harrison let the talk then drift into apparent generalities and Brinkman allowed the Canadian to lead, suspecting that the man wasn’t dealing in generalities at all. They discussed the apparent relaxation under the new Soviet regime and Harrison asked Brinkman whether in his opinion he considered it a genuine desire for friendship with the West or motivated by some inner Soviet requirement of which they were unaware. The seemingly innocent question sounded the warning bell but Brinkman gave no reaction and said – untruthfully – that the impression within the Foreign Office prior to his departure from London was that there was some desire from Moscow for a relaxation in tension. Harrison’s enquiry whether trade approaches in recent times supported the relaxation theory lit another light but once more Brinkman gave no indication, replying casually that he’d always found it ironical that relationships between East and West had for so long existed on the two apparently contradictory levels, opposing rhetoric at conference tables and necessary trade agreements upon which each side was dependent on a quite separate level. Brinkman discerned Harrison’s disappointment and wondered if it would be possible to impress Maxwell at this early stage. Before they parted Harrison suggested Brinkman dining with him and Betty, not expecting Brinkman’s response. Not knowing if it would be necessary to maintain close contact with Harrison over whatever it was he was talking about – but deciding to take out insurance if it were – Brinkman seized upon the invitation, saying he’d be delighted to accept and asking when. Trapped, Harrison fixed dinner three nights away and Brinkman hoped he would have discovered more by then.

  It was easier, in fact, than he expected. The trade counsellor at the British embassy, a man named Street, was immediately forthcoming to Brinkman’s approach, impressed by Brinkman’s earlier, deferring introduction and anxious to help as much as possible a newcomer with the proper manner. There hadn’t been any unexpected trade approaches during the preceding six months; in fact the only thing that had caught his interest was a request a month earlier about the availability among British owners of bulk carrier ships. Brinkman was glad he pressed further, persuading Street to pull the file from records because when they examined it there was a tighter definition; the enquiry had been specifically about bulk containers, not carriers.

  Ingram had been a meticulous keeper of files, better, in fact, than the standard regulations required. And from the ship enquiry Brinkman knew he only had the preceding month to check. Hunched in the intelligence records room in the embassy basement, it took Brinkman less than an hour to find what he thought he was looking for but careful as he was he merely marked it as a possibility and carried on, throughout the remaining rcords. There had been three more messages from Ingram, the last two definite confirmation of what earlier had been little more than supposition from intelligent reading of Soviet publications. Wheat production was the perpetual problem of Soviet agriculture, something that bad weather and inefficiency and succeeding government changes seemed always to conspire to bring hugely below the required norms. No admissions were ever made, of course, but Ingram had picked up the indications from reports that had been allowed into Izvestia and Pravda from the growing areas on the Steppes, a prelude to the personnel shift within the Moscow ministry which Ingram had noted and properly connected.

  Brinkman decided from his meeting with Mark Harrison that he was able to make further connections. Predictably, he was cautious. In his message to Maxwell in London he reminded the controller of Ingram’s earlier assessments – cleverly sharing credit if credit had to be given – and said he interpreted an approach to the trade section of the British embassy to be the beginning of a widespread Soviet chartering effort to transport wheat from the West. Indicating that he was in no way politically naive, Brinkman said that he was well aware that such trade was not unusual – in fact that it continued all the time – but that he believed from sources within the Soviet capital that Moscow was spreading its purchasing this time, moving away from the traditional suppliers, the United States and to a lesser extent Argentina. His belief was that a substantial agreement was being negotiated with Ottawa to make Canada a greater trading partner than it was at present. Taking a chance – but not much of a chance – Brinkman wondered if the Canadian agreement didn’t indicate a desire in Moscow to free itself from any possible trade embargo from the United States if relations between the two countries worsened, despite the surface indications of apparent and better friendships. He concluded by saying he believed the Canadian agreement was not yet fully resolved and that Ottawa was concerned about entering a commitment which un
questionably would annoy its neighbour, the United States, to the south unless there was a positive assurance from the Soviet Union that transportation facilities existed to move the wheat.

  The congratulatory message arrived from Maxwell two days later. Simply by checking with Lloyds of London they had discovered the Soviet chartering operation, not just of British vessels but of others as well who, although foreign, were being insured for the transportation through the British market. There was a second message from London, from Ingram. It was of congratulation but Brinkman knew it was also one of thanks from the man, for being generous and mentioning his earlier work. And knew, satisfied, that he had an ally in London, where it was always useful to have allies.

  The Harrisons’ dinner party was a small affair, the Canadian military attache and his wife, a couple called Bergdoff, and an analyst from the economic division, a hopefully smiling, shy girl named Sharon Berring, who had been invited to balance the numbers. Brinkman was an accomplished raconteur when the occasion demanded – and he decided it did now – and monopolised the conversation, the anecdotes usually deprecatingly against himself, enjoying their enjoyment of his newness in the city, always withdrawing when either Harrison or Bergdoff made a contribution, so that his monopoly did not become irritating to the other men. He was equally attentive to the three women, although, towards the end of die evening, he devoted more time to Betty Harrison, the politeness deserved in her role as hostess. He escorted Sharon back to her own apartment and refused her invitation for a final drink by convincingly pleading pressure of work the following day, so that she was not hurt by lack of interest, and said he hoped, like she said she hoped, that they’d meet again soon. The following day, with his note of thanks to Betty Harrison, he sent flowers, with smaller bouquets to Mrs Bergdoff and Sharon Berring.

  Betty Harrison telephoned Ann by midday. ‘Fabulous, darling,’ gushed the Canadian. ‘Absolutely fabulous. There hasn’t been anyone like him in Moscow since the time I got here.’