Jeremy Brinkman entered the Foreign Office from Parliament Square, guessing this, the final meeting before the Moscow posting, would be the waste of time the others had been, self-important officials in mahogany chambers lecturing about dos and don’ts and what was expected and what was not expected. Brinkman knew all about self-important officials who disparaged changing governments and considered themselves – perhaps rightly – the true governors of the country. His father, who was one, had been a good teacher – in all things. But particularly about what was expected from the son of a Permanent Under Secretary whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose father before him had been Permanent Under Secretary and whose family service to the country – to the country and to the king and to the queen, not some passing political fancy with its cant and hollow propaganda – stretched back earlier than that. Brinkman knew, too, that he could fulfil the expectation. But his way. Proving that he didn’t need to rely upon family connections – not unless there wasn’t any other way, in which case it would have been stupid to ignore the advantage – but was able to open his own doors and to achieve his own successes. He’d proved it by getting to Cambridge on a scholarship, so that the family money was unnecessary. And by getting his rowing blue, something else they couldn’t use their influence to obtain. Any more than they could have bought or arranged his Double First in history or the 98% passmark for the required Foreign Office entry examination, although his father had hinted that help was available if the mark were border-line, still not properly aware of his son’s unshakeable intention never to do anything border-line in his entire life. But on his own; his way. Which was why Brinkman had applied to the intelligence service, purposely selecting a division as far away as possible from his father’s sphere of influence but sensibly not so entirely removed from the Foreign Office – to whom MI6 were responsible – that there wasn’t a final safety net if he lost his grip on the high trapeze. Not that he expected to, because Jeremy Brinkman was supremely confident, to the point – not infrequently – of having people misunderstand the attitude as arrogance. Brinkman knew he wasn’t arrogant, because he knew everything about himself. Just determined. And properly, necessarily confident. The selection of the country’s intelligence service had annoyed his father, of course. Sir Richard Brinkman was of the school who found no difficulty in ignoring Britain’s most recent spy scandals and thought the idea preposterous that a chap would read another chap’s mail or that one could doubt the loyalty of anyone who had been to a recognisable handful of good schools and proper universities. He accepted the existence of such a department, but more from the historical precedent of its formation during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I than for its practical necessity. But certainly didn’t consider it something with which the Brinkman family, with all its traditions, should become associated. So they’d argued, repeatedly, not in any gesticulating, shouting manner, but in the level, measured logic of a Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office intent upon persuading someone with less experience the obvious error of a mistaken judgment. Sir Richard hadn’t raised his voice or changed the calm demeanour even when he realised that his son couldn’t – or wouldn’t – accept the logical argument but was determined upon a despised branch of the service. Between them now there existed the sort of unspoken, unannounced truce that sometimes develops between equally strong and equally implacable armies who recognise that continued fighting is pointless, but that fresh strategies are necessary. Brinkman smiled at the analogy as he walked along the now familiar, hushed corridors. Moscow had created the strategy for him: he was regrouping, far away from any intrusion the old man might be able to make. Brinkman’s smiled faded, as he arrived at the designated doorway and proved his identity and handed his appointment chit over to the waiting security guard. At least he hoped he was far enough away.
There wasn’t any formal introduction because that wasn’t the way these sorts of interviews were conducted, but Brinkman knew the man’s name was Maxwell and that he was number three on the Moscow desk and the person who would, after analysis and checking, ultimately receive his report. Maxwell waved him to a chair and offered a round tub of cigarettes which Brinkman, who didn’t smoke, refused. Maxwell took one, coughed lighting it and said, ‘Shouldn’t, I know. Filthy habit.’
Brinkman smiled, politely, but said nothing, waiting for his superior to lead. There was a protocol about everything in the Foreign Office and Brinkman knew every coda of it.
‘Finished the rounds?’ Maxwell had a rough, hello-me-hearties voice. If the tie the man was wearing designated a rugby club then Brinkman guessed he knew all the bar-room songs.
‘I think so, sir,’ said Brinkman. ‘It seems a lot of advice is necessary.’
‘Civil servants, justifying their existence,’ said Maxwell.
Brinkman decided he liked the man. He said, ‘What’s the proper briefing?’
‘If it were thought necessary to give a lecture you wouldn’t have been selected in the first place,’ said Maxwell, gruffly. ‘As it is you’ve jumped over quite a few heads.’
His father’s influence? wondered Brinkman at once. But that didn’t follow, if the man were trying to prevent his joining the department. Unless he’d accepted that persuasion was impossible and decided instead to get the best possible posting for his son. Probing, he said, ‘I’d hoped I’d got it on merit.’
‘Course you have,’ said Maxwell. ‘How else?’
Very early Brinkman had learned the advantage of apparent ingenuous honesty. He said, ‘It doesn’t seem to be any secret within the department that my father is attached to the Foreign Office.’
‘Hasn’t made any sort of approach to me,’ said Maxwell and Brinkman believed the man. Maxwell went on, ‘You got it because of your ability with the language and your pass-marks and your general aptitude, in all the examinations and tests.’
‘Thank you,’ said Brinkman.
‘Which don’t mean a damn, on the streets. Not much, anyway,’ deflated Maxwell. ‘Give me common sense compared with a 98% pass-mark in an examination and I’d choose common sense every time.’
‘I understand,’ said Brinkman, too glibly, regretting it as soon as he spoke.
‘No you don’t,’ said Maxwell, maintaining his directness. ‘There’s no way you can, not yet. But I think you will. Every assessment and aptitude test you’ve taken repeats the same characteristic – you’re fast on your feet. Cunning was one word used, not unkindly. And you don’t make mistakes, not twice.’
Brinkman felt the burn of embarrassment at the public examination. He wished he could think of some proper response. Knowing it was insufficient, he said, ‘I’ll try.’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘You’ve got to do better than that. I don’t want you making any mistakes, not even once. Classrooms and mock-these and mock-thats can never properly equip you for the real thing. You’re going to a sensitive place: the most sensitive place. I know you’re ambitious – that’s another finding of the aptitude tests and psychiatrists’ reports. I’m glad. Someone without ambition isn’t any good to me. But use it properly. I’m not expecting – no-one’s expecting – sensations: no Krushchev-like denunciations of Brezhnev or Andropov at secret Politburo sessions. I want steady, practical work. I want the analysis to be correct and I want the assessments to accord with the facts, as best you can obtain them. Don’t ever take a chance, to impress me or anybody else. You got that?’
‘Yes sir, I’ve got that,’ said Brinkman, knowing he had to. He didn’t intend taking any chances: not stupid ones, anyway. But if one came that wasn’t stupid he was going to grab it like a drowning man snatching at passing driftwood and show everyone – Maxwell and his father and everyone – just how good he was.
‘Ingram’s staying over, to ease you in.’
‘That’s kind,’ said Brinkman. He didn’t want to be eased in by anyone, picking up cast-off contacts like second-hand clothes but it wouldn’t have been politic to say so.
‘He’s done a good job there,’ said Maxwell. ‘He won’t be an easy act to follow.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Brinkman. Modesty, like apparent honesty, was another thing he practised.
‘Do more than that,’ said Maxwell, in his hearty voice. Brinkman wondered if he took the part of Santa Claus at the department Christmas party. ‘This could make or break a career, you know.’
‘I know,’ said Brinkman. Just as he knew it was going to be the former, not the latter.
Maxwell stood, ending the meeting. The man offered his hand and said, ‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Brinkman, modest still. Luck wasn’t going to have anything to do with it.
The love-making was good, like it always was, because he was more experienced and unselfish, knowing how to bring her up and then keep her there, so that she had orgasm after orgasm and even then didn’t want to stop but kept pulling at him, urgently demanding. When they finished Ann still clung to him, wanting his nakedness next to hers. After a long time she said, ‘Eddie?’
‘What?’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not,’ he sighed, confronting the familiar demand.
‘I don’t think it’s a reason.’
‘I do.’
‘Dozens of men your age have kids. You’re only forty-five, for Christ’s sake!’
‘And you’re only twenty-six. And when I’m sixty – if I get to be sixty – you’ll only be forty-one.’
‘So what!’ she demanded, exasperated. ‘If we had a baby now he or she would be eighteen or nineteen when you’re sixty. And of course you’re going to live beyond that.’ Ann wanted a baby, for all the natural, proper reasons but there was another one as well. A child would occupy her, completely; take away the aimlessness of her life in Moscow.
‘We’ll see,’ he said.
‘You’re avoiding it.’
‘I said we’ll see.’
Ann detected the note in his voice and accepted it was time to retreat. ‘I want a baby, Eddie,’ she said, firing the final salvo. ‘I want a baby very much.’
The headquarters of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti is largely a pre-revolutionary building, an ochre-coloured, rococo place dominating the square named after Feliks Edmundovich Dzerzhinsky, the founder of the organisation: in 1961, Nikita Krushchev unveiled a statue to commemorate the man whose groundwork makes it possible for the Soviet Politburo to rule the country. Before 1917 the seven-storey building within the long shadows of the Kremlin housed the All Russian Insurance Company. During World War II political and captured German prisoners were conscripted to build a nine-storey extension for the already greatly expanded intelligence service. There was an attempt to maintain the architectural style but it failed and the two buildings look as if they have been stuck together by children given different sets of building bricks for Christmas. Behind the haphazard, uneven facade is Lubyanka, the prison which gained terrifying notoriety under the purges of Stalin and the murderous zeal of intelligence chiefs like Yagoda and Beria. Lubyanka is no longer a prison. The unremitting expansion made it necessary for once bloodstained cells to be refurbished into offices and part of that expansion is occupied by the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB.
There are other directorates and divisions entrusted with the internal control of the Soviet Union but the Second Chief Directorate has the primary responsibility. That responsibility extends to the surveillance of all Western embassies and the identification and monitoring of the intelligence activities within those embassies.
Vasili Sokol was the director, officially designated deputy to the chairman himself, Aleksai Panov. Sokol was a heavily moustached, thick-bodied man of great determination and the focus of that determination was to rise one floor to the chairman’s pine-panelled office. It couldn’t be long, now. Despite the doctors’ warnings about the effect upon his emphysema Panov still chain-smoked those stinking tube-filtered cigarettes and the absences when he couldn’t even leave his bed were increasing to the point of his replacement becoming an open speculation. Sokol knew that all he needed was a coup, to single him out to the Politburo. The difficulty was in finding one.
Sokol was a methodical man, always early in the office to assimilate the overnight reports segregated in a series of In-trays hedged the entire length of his desk, one for each province, with a separate division for Moscow. He devoted particular attention to the reports of the grain shortages. Sokol had succeeded to the position he now occupied because his predecessor failed to anticipate and then quell unrest through food riots and Sokol didn’t intend suffering the same fate. He put the file to one side, for more detailed attention later and went to the reports from the capital.
The Foreign Ministry internal memorandum was on top of the pile, recording the British application for a diplomatic visa in the name of Jeremy Brinkman. Sokol noted that it had been granted and that the designation was cultural attache.
Sokol smiled down, wearily shaking his head. Sometimes he wondered why any of them – Russia included – bothered with the ridiculous pretence. Each side – the professionals at least – invariably knew what the other was doing, who was doing it and what the covers were. Cultural attache was the favourite. So the intelligence replacement for the British was someone named Jeremy Brinkman. Sokol routinely marked it for a file to be opened and went back to the grain reports. They were the important consideration, at the moment: a new intelligence Resident could wait.