The Lost American

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Bitch of a time to be away,’ repeated Hubble, who’d seen the attempted reassurance as the snow job it was.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Blair, not quite sure what he was apologising for but unable to think of anything else.

  ‘It’s not just the immediate situation,’ said Hubble.

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ frowned Blair.

  ‘You’ve been in Moscow two years?’ said Hubble.

  ‘A little over,’ agreed Blair.

  Hubble nodded, the minimal correction unnecessary anyway because he had Blair’s personnel file in the desk drawer on his left and knew everything about the man’s career. He said, ‘Normally we’d be thinking of some reassignment now; three years is the term, as you know.’

  ‘ Normally? ’ said Blair, picking out the important word.

  ‘Like I said, Eddie, the Director’s impressed; impressed as hell. He thinks you’ve got the handle on Moscow for a period that is going to turn out important. So he says – and the logic is difficult to argue with – why put someone else into bat when you’re scoring all the home runs? If we pull you out as we would normally do, after three years, it means someone has got to go in there cold and learn the tricks. The Director thinks – and again the logic is difficult to argue with – that at a time like this we should stay just as we are, ahead of the game.’

  ‘You want me to remain in Moscow?’ said Blair, irritated by all the other man’s awkward metaphors.

  ‘Just that,’ said Hubble.

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ said Hubble expansively. ‘Then you can go wherever you like in full glory.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ said Blair.

  ‘It means – and the Director has personally asked me to make this clear to you – that if you agree to stay on then when you finally move you can call the shots. You choose what you want and you get it. You can have another overseas posting. Or you can come here, to Langley. And if you come to Langley it won’t be for the doorman’s job. You’ll get a division at least. What do you say?’

  During all his thoughts and discussions with the boys and with everyone else Blair had always calculated, without consciously counting the months or considering it too definitely, that he’d be out of Moscow according to the normal custom, in three years. That was why he’d been so forceful in the talk of their being together more because if it had proven difficult to get them into Moscow – or for them to accept Ann – then he knew it would have only been months, not even a year, before he was somewhere else that would have been more convenient. Would it be difficult, to get them in, if he stayed on? He could make it a condition of his agreeing that the Agency – through the State Department – made damned sure they could get in, whenever he wanted them to. And impose another condition, too: that he be allowed to come out whenever he wanted, to be with them. What about Ann? She said she hated Moscow but he’d always thought that was an exaggeration. So she disliked it. But so did a lot of people, at first. Two years was hardly at first, so maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough. She’d understand, when he explained it; she knew how important the job was to him. And it was a pretty impressive promise, anything he wanted afterwards. He could let her choose. That wouldn’t be bad, telling her that for her understanding this time she could pick anywhere in the world where they would go next. And why should it be such a long time anyway? Serada could be dumped tomorrow and everything nicely packaged and compartmented before the normal three years were up. And then he’d be holding the basket with all the promises and it wouldn’t have cost him anything. Except that he was going for whoever succeeded Serada to be a caretaker for a younger man and it could be two or three years – maybe longer – before whoever that younger man was to emerge and become identified. He was sure Ann would understand.

  ‘Well?’ urged Hubble, uncomfortable with the long silence.

  ‘I’d like to think about it,’ hedged Blair.

  ‘Sure,’ conceded Hubble. ‘But not too long, eh?’

  ‘A couple of days,’ said Blair carelessly. ‘Just give me a couple of days.’

  ‘That’ll be good,’ said Hubble. Maintaining the earlier pressure, he said, ‘You might have a clearer idea then when you can go back, as well. And Eddie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what we want and you know how much we want it. How much the Director wants it. But there’s no catch. If you say no then we’ll understand. It won’t be held against you, later.’

  Crap, thought Blair. The supposed guarantee had come out exactly as the man had intended, a threat. So much for friendship, he thought. Maybe that was unfair. Blair believed the other man that the pressure was coming from the seventh floor so Hubble couldn’t do much else but watch his own back. If the place were as political as this, maybe Langley wasn’t the place to come back to. Blair braked the thought. That reflection indicated he had a choice and he only had a choice if he accepted their offer. He said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘I know a lot of guys who’d sacrifice a lot of things to be in the position you are, Eddie,’ said Hubble.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Blair. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘A couple of days, eh?’

  ‘A couple of days,’ promised Blair, unhappy now at the self-imposed time limit.

  It was only when he was driving back down the Parkway that Blair fully realised that if he kept the schedule he had agreed with Hubble it would mean making the decision without any opportunity of talking it through properly with Ann. Of talking it through at all, really, because he didn’t think it was something he could discuss with her by telephone. Which reminded him. He should call her again. But not yet; not today. He had too much to think about and decide. In the event he didn’t call Moscow for two days – still undecided and having earlier talked to Hubble and got a reluctant extension on their time limit – arguing Paul’s impending court appearance as the need for him to delay. The line was better than it had been the first time. He said he thought things were going better than they were when he’d spoken before and that there was a date for the court hearing and because Ruth was out, taking her turn with the car pool he was able openly to say he loved and missed her. Ann asked when he was coming back and he said he didn’t know and she said she was looking forward to the Bolshoi with Brinkman, which he’d momentarily forgotten she was going to do. From Moscow Ann thought how limited her news was – nothing bloody well ever happened anyway – and from Washington Blair put down the telephone without mentioning the request to extend his posting in the Soviet capital.

  Brinkman arrived promptly, which he invariably did, and insisted upon their drinking the champagne he’d brought, because it was his birthday. So she insisted on giving him the present she’d bought, an icon she had been assured was a genuine antique. He’d promised to stage the birthday party when he’d telephoned earlier, to confirm the arrangements and when she asked where they were going he said to his apartment because he didn’t want anything about the evening to be spoiled and therefore didn’t want to sit for hours in a Russian restaurant waiting for food he could prepare and cook better at home. Ann was glad. The Bolshoi was risk enough but she didn’t want to extend that risk by going somewhere public afterwards. There were a limited number of places that were embassy favourites and there would have been a possibility of their being seen and she didn’t want any stupid stories to begin when there was no basis for their existence.

  ‘Eddie called,’ she said, as they left the apartment.

  ‘When?’ asked Brinkman, at once attentive.

  ‘Day before yesterday.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘He still doesn’t know.’

  What the bloody hell was it? thought Brinkman, in frustrated irritation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The new production was superb. Ann did not think she had ever heard Tchaikovsky’s music sound so wonderful nor seen
dancers appear so weightless and so synchronised. During the break there was more champagne and on their way to the bar they passed an exhibition of the history of the Imperial School, with prints and photographs of legendary figures like Marius Petipa and Enrico Cecchetti and of principal dancers like Mathilde Kschessinka and Olga Preobrazhenska and Anna Pavlova and Tamara Karsavina. Ann succeeded in identifying them all without having to see the notations and as she talked she became aware she knew more about ballet than Brinkman. The knowledge excited her because in the cloistered, formalised embassy life into which she had been thrust directly after her marriage she found she rarely knew anything more than anyone. She showed off, on purpose, and Brinkman let her, isolating another indication of her unhappiness by the thrown-away admission, as she talked, that because of her interest in dancing she’d studied the Russian art soon after she arrived in Moscow, ‘to fill the days’. She chattered on about the Summer Gardens performances in St Petersburg and the origin of the Moscow school based on children from the city’s orphanages and Brinkman recognised he was enjoying himself. There was still the ulterior motive in cultivating the friendship with the couple in the first place, getting himself next to someone whom Ingram designated the best. But it had moved on from the initial reason: he genuinely liked them now, better than he liked the Harrisons or anyone else in the Western enclave. And he liked Ann. He guessed Betty Harrison and her intimates might think Ann was gauche and he supposed she was, which was her charm. Despite what he now knew to be her inner feelings at being in Moscow, she had about her a freshness, of being genuinely interested and wanting to be involved with everything she did and everyone with whom she came into contact doing it. She held his arm as they wandered through the theatre, an unthinking gesture for her and Brinkman decided he liked the touch. Not only a freshness but a softness, he thought.

  The conclusion surpassed the commencement. He stood, matching her enthusiasm and the enthusiasm of everyone else, clapping as loudly as anyone for the succession of curtain calls that went on and on. When the curtain finally came down they left the Bolshoi unhurriedly, as if reluctant to sever the moment absolutely by leaving the place.

  ‘Wasn’t that exquisite!’ said Ann. ‘I actually feel I’m floating, just like the chorus.’

  ‘Why the chorus?’ he said. ‘Why not a prima ballerina?’

  She giggled, pleased with his lightness. ‘I could never be the lead; only ever the support.’

  ‘You can be my prima ballerina.’ Wasn’t he being gauche now?

  ‘I accept,’ she said.

  She still had her arm in his. Immediately outside the Bolshoi they stopped together, not sure what to do and she said, ‘Let’s not go home straight away; let’s walk.’

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  They went without positive direction, along Sverdlova, slowed by the crush of people near the metro entrance but almost inevitably went towards the Kremlin. Ann strained up at the huge illuminated red stars on top of the towers and said, ‘I’ve never been able to understand why they’ve done that.’

  ‘It is sort of odd,’ agreed Brinkman.

  ‘Looks like the biggest circus attraction in the whole world.’

  ‘Sometimes a good description,’ said Brinkman.

  ‘Want to know something?’

  Damned right I do, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’

  ‘Tonight I like Moscow.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘ Tonight I said,’ insisted Ann. ‘Just tonight.’

  They returned in the direction of the theatre, near which his car was parked, as slowly as they had set off on the outing and Brinkman even drove slowly back to the complex. Brinkman had left wine on ice, flat this time because he felt there was a limit to the amount of champagne it was possible to drink, particularly before a meal. He’d arranged cold food, fish which was good in the concessionary places and caviar because, as he kept reminding her, it was his birthday. With the caviar he served vodka, deeply chilled, taking it the Russian way, down in one. She obeyed the instructions and laughed and coughed at the same time, protesting that she would get drunk. While they ate he tried to guide the conversation to Blair but Ann appeared reluctant to bring her husband into any conversation, insisting instead of talking about the Cambridge they had known, most of which they had already talked about. For Ann it was part of the evening, still gripped by the beauty of the performance and edging into reverie, wanting to find other, special memories. For Brinkman it was a confirmation of something by now he didn’t need confirming. He didn’t think, either, that Ann could help him, even inadvertently: consummate professional that he was, Blair wouldn’t have allowed Ann the mistaken opportunity of letting anything drop. There was a small but unexpected feeling, the thought that he could now relax and be completely comfortable with her, not forever alert for openings. He was finding Ann very comfortable to be with. After the meal they left the table uncleared and Brinkman played more Tchaikovsky, not Swan Lake because that wouldn’t have been right, but The Sleeping Beauty, which he thought would compliment Ann’s mood. He sat beside her on the couch, his arm stretched behind her along its back. Ann settled into the crook of his arm as unthinkingly as she had earlier held him walking from the theatre.

  ‘This is heavenly,’ she said, her voice distant. ‘Heavenly.’

  Brinkman put his face into her hair and kissed her, very lightly, hardly making any contact. ‘Wake up, princess,’ he said.

  She didn’t react against his gesture. ‘I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I want to go on sleeping for a hundred years, just like the story says I’ve got to.’

  ‘It’s a fairy story,’ he said.

  She settled against him more comfortably and said, ‘I want to stay in the fairy story.’

  He kissed her hair again, more positively this time, thinking how clean it smelled. Everything fresh, he thought. He said, ‘Thank you for tonight; for the icon and for getting the tickets, too.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it as much as you,’ she said. ‘Maybe more.’

  The side ended. There was a slight distortion on the record arm, so that it made a loud sound clicking off. He said, ‘Do you want to hear the second half?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to move.’

  ‘It’ll only take a moment.’

  Ann had to raise herself, for Brinkman to move his arm and when he did, making to stand, they were very close to each other. Briefly they stayed just inches apart, faces unmoving, eyes held.

  ‘I’d better change the record,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Brinkman turned the disc over quickly, fumbling so that he almost dropped it, glad that his back was to her and that she wouldn’t have seen his nervousness. He was reluctant, when the record dropped, to turn back to confront her. When he did her expression hadn’t changed. He went back to the couch, holding her eyes, and she had to move again, slightly, to let him sit where he had before. The settling back against him wasn’t as unthinking as it had earlier been and it wasn’t the same, either. This time her face was nearer his, not her hair. ‘Still a fairy story,’ she said.

  He kissed her, high on the cheek this time, and she turned her head, bringing her lips up. There was a bird-peck hesitancy about them, each unsure of the other, each nervous and ready to pull back from danger. But the pecking became more fervent and they stopped being nervous. Brinkman twisted from how he sat, so that she lay back the full length of the couch and he knelt beside her, looking down, kissing not just her lips now but her face and her neck and her throat where her dress was open. He plucked at the buttons, trying to open it more and she made a token protest, whispering ‘No, no,’ several times but he didn’t stop and she gave up trying to stop him, actually twisting for the bra to become unclasped and then whimpering at the delicious pain when his teeth trapped her nipple. He played a long time and then she felt his hands move and she made another token protest, as ineffective as the first. He tried to make love to her actually on the cou
ch but there wasn’t room enough so she rolled off on to him and they made love first on the floor, encumbered by clothes and as nervously as they had started kissing. It didn’t work, because of the awkwardness and the nervousness and he got up to go to the bedroom and she said ‘No’ again and again she did. The second time was much better. She was an experimental lover, more so than he was although he tried to match her, not wanting to be shown the more inexperienced. He thought, anxiously, towards the end that he was going to fail her but he managed to hold back just long enough and they came together, a mutual explosion. Ann didn’t let him move away from her. Instead she held him with an almost desperate tightness, fingers pressed into his back, legs encompassing his.

  ‘What have we done?’ she said, after a long silence. ‘What the hell have we done?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  She relaxed slightly, letting go her hold on him. ‘It never happened,’ she said. ‘It was all part of the fairy story.’

  Could they sustain it, in the claustrophobia of their lives? ‘All right,’ he said. Feeling he should go further Brinkman said, ‘I’m sorry.’