And Washington might be unacceptable for other reasons, he thought. Ann had been given enough time to decide. And Brinkman knew she loved him. As much as he loved her. Consciously Brinkman stemmed the growing belief, remembering her agonised outburst about loving them both. Brinkman was sure she no longer loved Eddie Blair. What she felt for Blair was a mixture of loyalty and kindness and dependence; and a reluctance, too, to break everything apart having gone through the traumatic divorce. But not love. Brinkman knew how to tilt the balance, to make her reach the right decision. When he got Orlov out of Russia, the leadership after Chebrakin became the biggest guessing game in town. Blair would be kept in Moscow for years, sticking pins into a list of names. Brinkman was convinced it wouldn’t take Ann more than minutes to make up her mind when he told her how long she was likely to remain there if she stayed with Blair.
Brinkman wanted to call her the moment he got to his apartment but he controlled the impatience, not knowing if Blair had returned from Washington ahead of him and unwilling to get involved in a probing conversation with the man if he answered the telephone. Instead he waited until the following day, reaching Blair at the embassy and arranging to have lunch with him there. Having placed Blair at the embassy, and knowing he would remain there to keep their appointment, Brinkman called Ann and said he wanted to see her. Her attempted objection, that she was going out, surprised him but he bulldozed over her, insisting that it was important and that he could only remain a few moments anyway.
She kissed him when he entered her apartment but Brinkman thought he detected a reservation about that, too.
‘What’s so important?’ she said.
‘I thought you would have known that.’
‘Please!’ she said. ‘Let’s have a rest from that for a moment.’
‘There isn’t time.’
Ann had been looking away, refusing to meet his gaze. She turned to him now, curiously. ‘Why not?’
‘I might be leaving Moscow; being withdrawn.’
Ann felt the relief move through her. Without him here everything would be so much easier. There would only be one problem – the big problem – if Jeremy weren’t here. ‘Wonderful!’ she said, a reaction to her own feelings.
‘I want you to come with me.’
Ann shook her head. ‘I can’t. I’ve thought about it and I can’t.’
‘You can,’ insisted Brinkman, refusing her refusal. ‘I know how you feel about Eddie: what it would mean to you. But in the end, when it was all over, you know you’d be happier with me.’
‘No’. Why wouldn’t he just go away? Go away before she weakened and changed her mind and ended up as confused as she’d been before they both left on their trips.
Should he tell her, about Moscow? Not yet, Brinkman decided. He still hadn’t got Orlov yet: still a lot to do. He’d have to let her know – hint at least – something of what might be happening, to convince her he was telling the truth and it was inevitable she’d challenge Blair about not going back and it would all become confused. And more importantly, dangerous. ‘Think about it some more,’ he urged. ‘Think about what it would be like.’
‘I have,’ she said.
Misunderstanding, he said, ‘So you know it would work out.’
‘Give me more time,’ she pleaded again, her well-worn retreat.
‘I’ve told you,’ reminded Brinkman. ‘There isn’t much. I’m leaving here and I don’t want to go without you.’
Brinkman was slightly late arriving at the American embassy so they didn’t stay in Blair’s office but went immediately to the cafeteria.
‘How was London?’ asked Blair.
‘Good to be back, after so long,’ said Brinkman. The story prepared he said, ‘I had to go before a promotion board and there was some discussion about the next posting.’
‘Must be pleased about the way things have turned out here then?’
‘Seems like it,’ said Brinkman. ‘How was Washington?’
His story prepared, Blair said, ‘It was a personal thing: my first wife is having some problems with our eldest boy.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Brinkman, automatically.
‘It’ll work out,’ said Blair.
‘Wonder how long it’ll be before things start moving here again,’ said Brinkman.
‘There’s no way of telling,’ said the American.
Harriet had considered disobeying the Englishman’s instructions about adding to the message, knowing there was nothing physically he could do to stop her, but then she remembered the threat and the way he had looked when he made it and decided he’d meant it. So she’d done what she was told. Bastard, she thought.
As the days passed, however, she rationalised her attitude, accepting something – the most important thing – that was happening. Pietr was coming! He’d got the divorce to protect Natalia. And the promotions and the acclaim hadn’t meant as much to him as she did and so he was coming! Which made it right. ‘Everything that America would give you,’ the motherfucking son-of-a-bitch had promised. America had seemed obvious, because she was there and Pietr knew the country. But he’d adjust easily enough to England. They both would. The most important thing was that they would be together and she’d happily live in a tent in the middle of a jungle, just to be with him. And he was coming; she knew he was coming.
Harriet was aware she should be patient – God, hadn’t she been patient enough already! – but now that she was sure it was more difficult than before. Coming! she thought, her mind blocked by a single word. She loved him so much.
Brinkman evaded the surveillance by a combination of expertise and luck. The expertise was the adherence – like Blair had earlier adhered – to standard training. The luck came from Sokol’s decision to concentrate upon the American – who was proveably known to have cleared his trail and made two visits to Washington – and withdraw the earlier intended complement assigned to the Englishman to reinforce what the Russian considered more important. Brinkman set out simply to avoid the customary, usually laughed-at foreign observation, utilising the edict that people schooled to watch can be lulled into expectation. Anticipating that those at the compound would prepare for him to leave by car for the embassy on Morisa Toreza, because that was what he always did, he set out on foot, instead. The ridiculously easy ploy created immediate confusion and he increased it by his subsequent action. The depleted surveillance group split, one squad going after him, the other hurrying directly and pointlessly by car to the embassy – another anticipation – to warn those already in place and to supplement them, not at that stage desperately worried because they were still confident Brinkman’s obvious destination was the British legation. It left only seven men in pursuit, two of whom Brinkman lost at the first of the three obligatory metro disembarkations and two more of whom he slipped before regaining street level. By the time Brinkman reached the Ulitza Gor’kova, just before the cinema towards which he was heading, he was quite alone.
He succeeded in getting a seat in the rear of the auditorium, giving himself a view of those coming directly after him, just to be sure and after thirty minutes relaxed, quite satisfied.
It was a typical production from the Soviet Film Institute, an achingly boring parable involving loyal peasants striving against overwhelming odds during an invasion which appeared to be Prussian from the uniforms but was never made quite clear, with much hill-climbing and flag-planting to indicate gained ground. Brinkman allowed the time to pass confidently cocooned and increasingly bored by the repeated saga. He was sure that evening’s ballet would be much more exciting: it was unfortunate he wasn’t going to be able to see it. Would Orlov have received the message, he wondered?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Brinkman quit the cinema with several hours to go before his eagerly-hoped encounter with Pietr Orlov, with things to do before actually reaching the Bolshoi: as he walked back down the Ulitza Gor’kova, he reflected that if Orlov didn’t make today’s meeting, the day wouldn’t ha
ve been entirely wasted. On impulse he chose a kiosk on Gor’kova, but then spread the contact points, selecting kiosks at random and over a wide area, on Oktyabr’skaya at street level and then in the metro station itself, another at the far end of Leninskiy Prospekt and then allowing a gap, not bothering with any further kiosks until he reached Ulitza Dostoyevskovo. He listed one there and another on Kommuny and decided that was sufficient: he could always add, if it were necessary.
He was still early at the theatre. The performance was a revival of Don Quixote, created in the specialised Soviet narrative form and Brinkman particularly wanted to see it. He supposed he could always apply for tickets through the embassy, if Orlov didn’t make the meeting and there was the need to come again. But Brinkman was reluctant to link attention between himself and the ballet because of the clandestine purpose for which he’d designated it and knew that all official applications were monitored.
Reluctantly it seemed that Don Quixote would have to go on tilting at windmills without his appreciation. It had been a hurried decision in the Manhattan apartment but Brinkman was pleased with it. The crowds were building up, people ebbing and eddying throughout the expansive, ornate foyer, creating a swirl of concealment. Brinkman allowed himself to be moved with the tide, always remaining near the north side but not standing around, as if he were even innocently awaiting someone to join him. Brinkman realised he would be fortunate if it happened soon; if it happened at all. He frowned at the doubt. If Orlov had received the book, then it would happen. He was sure she’d put the message in it. Because of the CIA surveillance he had not been able actually to go through the procedure with her – even to be seen around the United Nations again – but he’d made the same sort of confident entrance the second night as he had the first to her apartment block and they’d talked again and Brinkman was convinced she had done what he’d told her, precisely how he’d told her. So Orlov would definitely come if he’d got the book. So what if he hadn’t? It became a waiting game, to see if the Americans could get their escape organised before he – through Harriet – had the opportunity to screw it all up. Except that at the pace at which he was working and the pace at which he knew the Americans would be moving, it could hardly be described as waiting. Which was what he was doing now. Hopefully.
The tide of people began to flow into the theatre, taking away his cover and Brinkman moved near a pillar. There was still quite a crowd around but Brinkman felt naked and exposed. Perhaps not as good as he had thought. In fifteen minutes they would all be inside and he would be entirely obvious, an actual object of attention, the reverse of what he wanted. He’d have to go before then: certainly if he wanted to use it as a meeting spot again. Which he did, because he had no other.
Orlov came curiously through the foyer, his coat not checked although over his arm in readiness, programme notes already purchased and thoughtfully – cleverly – in his hand. It would have been difficult to imagine the Russian as anything other than a genuine ballet lover, if he were under surveillance.
Orlov had no reason to know – or imagine – why he was there, remembered Brinkman. He moved out, through the rapidly thinning crowd, not to intercept the Russian but to move parallel and just slightly ahead of him, so that Orlov would see him approaching. Orlov gave no sign of recognition until just before Brinkman spoke, a frown of half-recollection, deepening at full memory as soon as he heard the words.
‘The American embassy,’ said Brinkman. With only seconds and therefore the need immediately to snare the other man, he went on, ‘The night you made the approach to Blair. I’ve seen Harriet, Comrade Orlov. I spoke to her a few days ago, in New York. She’s very anxious to see you again. I’ve promised her I’ll make that possible.’
Brinkman broke away without waiting for a reaction, moving not towards the body of the theatre, the direction in which the latecomers were going, but through the last exit door out on to Sverdlova, anxious for the sudden darkness. It should have worked but he didn’t know if it would. He’d been quite sure until the actual moment of approach but now he wasn’t. He didn’t know what he would do – what he could do – if Orlov didn’t follow.
But he did.
Brinkman was conscious of the footsteps – if it were an arrest there would be more than one man, surely! – and then the Russian drew level and reached out, to stop him.
‘What is it? What does it mean?’ demanded Orlov.
He’d made the catch, thought Brinkman. Was this exhausted but triumphant feeling the sensation that fishermen felt landing a game fish after a battle that seemed as if it would never end? It was an intrusive, indulgently dramatic thought and Brinkman put it irritably aside, knowing that he had to establish control from the outset. ‘We’re going towards Red Square,’ he pointed out. ‘I think we should walk the other way don’t you?’
Obediently Orlov turned. Practically gaffed, thought Brinkman. ‘It means that the British want to offer you everything that the Americans have,’ he said. ‘I know it all. Why you want to defect… that you intend to defect. We want you to change your plans. Come with us. Not the Americans.’
‘That is not possible… there are already preparations…’ started Orlov but Brinkman cut him off, determined for supremacy. ‘It is possible. The preparations you’ve already made must be broken. If they’re not, you’ll never see Harriet again.’
Orlov stopped, turning to him. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Brinkman told him. He knew the words now, because he’d set it out to Maxwell and to Harriet and to Maxwell again and Orlov listened in complete silence. ‘I’m not interested in your telling me what you think of me personally,’ concluded Brinkman. ‘Harriet did that… used all the words. I actually agreed with her. It’s just the way it’s got to be.’
Orlov didn’t waste his time on unnecessary anger and Brinkman was grateful. ‘Who says it’s the way it’s got to be?’ the Russian demanded.
‘We do,’ said Brinkman. ‘Please don’t be resentful. I know it’s going to be difficult, at first. But I mean what I say. We’ll provide everything that the Americans would have done. Maybe more. You will be safe and Harriet will be safe. Eventually, if you decide you don’t like England, it would probably be possible for you to go on to America.’
‘After you think you’ve got everything from me that it’s possible to get?’ said Orlov.
‘Yes,’ said Brinkman at once, maintaining brutal honesty. ‘After we think we’ve got every last thing it’s possible to get from you. I’ve been utterly and completely truthful with you. I don’t know – or care – what the Americans have told you. You know what you’re doing and you know what we want for helping you… for making it possible. I want you to believe me. And I want you to believe me when I say that if you don’t come with me then you won’t go with anyone.’
‘Do you enjoy what you do, Mr Brinkman?’
‘I’m prepared to argue philosophy and morals if you want to,’ said Brinkman, easily. ‘Would you like to argue the morality of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan? Or the psychiatric prisons in which you incarcerate and make mindless your dissidents? Or the Siberian gulags? All right, you are not personally involved. Governments and members of those governments never are. In America there’s even an accepted phrase, freeing the President from any culpability for anything that goes wrong and becomes public knowledge. It’s called plausible denial. I’m the sort of person who’s denied and cast aside, if anything does go wrong. Despite knowing which, yes, I like it. I’m not doing you any harm, Comrade Orlov. You want to cross to the West to be with someone you love and I’m making that possible for you. I don’t see anything to be ashamed of in that.’
‘You evaded the criticism and you know it,’ said Orlov. ‘I was talking about your threats, if I don’t agree to cooperate with you.’
‘What are you prepared to do, to get to the West? demanded Brinkman.
Orlov considered the question. ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘I am quite determined.’
; ‘Which is what I am, professionally determined,’ said Brinkman. ‘So I am prepared to do what needs to be done, to achieve the objective.’
‘Do you know what would happen to me, if you exposed me to the authorities?’
The last time he’d walked along this road it had been with Ann, remembered Brinkman. He said, ‘Yes, I know what would happen to you. And so do you. Which is why I know, after you’ve made the protests and the arguments, you’ll do exactly as I say.’
‘Yes,’ conceded Orlov, sag-shouldered. ‘I suppose I will, won’t I? There’s really no alternative, is there?’
‘Not now, no,’ said Brinkman. ‘But it isn’t as if you aren’t achieving what you want, is it?’
‘Should I be comforted by that?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Brinkman paused, then demanded, ‘Tell me all the arrangements you’ve so far reached with the Americans. All the plans that have been made.’
It took a long time and before Orlov had finished they had walked a considerable distance from the centre of the city and actually turned back upon themselves. When Orlov finished Brinkman said, ‘What about a delegation?’
‘It hasn’t been possible, not yet. The occasion hasn’t occurred even to make discussing it possible.’
‘It’s the best way, so try for that if you can,’ said Brinkman. ‘Somewhere in the East if actually getting out into Western Europe isn’t possible. I’ll ensure that London create an incursion operation to get you out, if a delegation is not possible.’
‘You are so similar, to the American,’ said Orlov.
We even share the same wife, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘You must break all contact, of course. No more meetings.’
The Lost American Page 26