In his belated excitement Maxwell talked too fast and was uncoordinated and smoked haphazardly. Once, remembered Brinkman, he’d liked and admired the man. It was difficult, now.
‘Fantastic!’ enthused Maxwell. ‘Absolutely fantastic. I knew it was going to work!’
Asshole, thought Brinkman. He hadn’t done all that he had and got this far to have an asshole like Maxwell take the credit. And he’d make bloody sure it didn’t happen. He said, ‘Nothing’s worked, yet. He’s still got to make contact and we’ve still got to get him across.’
‘There’s a lot to be done,’ agreed Maxwell. ‘You’ll need help.’
‘Not in Moscow,’ refused Brinkman at once. The accolades were going to be all his there, unshared by anyone. He wondered if Blair had been put under the same sort of pressure. He argued against an attempt to get more people into Russia – ironically using the same reasoning as Blair – but Maxwell wasn’t so easily dissuaded.
‘It may be necessary,’ the deskman insisted. ‘We’ll start the formalities, as a precaution. If the need arises, we’ll be in a position to move.’
He couldn’t dispute the commonsense of that, Brinkman realised. He said, ‘I’ll want full back-up outside.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ assured Maxwell.
And ensure that he would be seen by everyone to have provided it, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘What?’
‘Depends how it goes between you and Orlov,’ pointed out Maxwell. ‘SAS snatch squads, I would have thought. Full logistical support. I’ll do a complete memorandum to the Director today. He’ll probably want to raise it before the Security Committee. Maybe the Cabinet.’
‘Do you want me to stay?’ asked Brinkman. Maxwell’s name would be on every damned thing, he knew: initiator, planner, organiser and genius. Bloody asshole.
‘No, no,’ said Maxwell, quickly. ‘The message might be quite quick in reaching Orlov: it’s one of the uncertainties. I want you back there as soon as possible. Tonight.’
‘I was thinking of seeing my father,’ said Brinkman. The reminder might curb some of the other man’s extravagant claims.
‘No time for social gatherings; come on Jeremy! Don’t you realise how important this is!’
If he hadn’t witnessed it himself Brinkman thought he would have had difficulty believing the transformation in the other man’s attitudes. ‘All right,’ he said. He’d made no plans to see the old man.
Maxwell had smiled a lot, in anticipation, but now he became serious-faced. ‘You’re going to be at the sharp end all the time,’ he warned. ‘We’ll do everything we can, of course, but it all depends on you…’ The division chief paused for the familiar injunction. ‘So be careful. Be very, very careful. Don’t forget what I said before. If anything goes wrong we’ve got a major international incident.’
Maybe Maxwell wouldn’t try to take everything for himself; not at this stage anyway. Brinkman guessed the man would lay the groundwork for later glory, but involve him, too, in case there were the need to apportion blame. ‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Get back there, Jeremy,’ said Maxwell, like the rugby cheerleader Brinkman suspected him of being on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Get back there and make it work for all of us.’
Maxwell wasn’t a serious threat, Brinkman reasoned, on the flight back to Moscow. He’d try for that glory, of course – although taking out the necessary protection – but he wouldn’t be able to disguise who made it work. Like Maxwell himself said, there was only going to be one man at the sharp end, taking all the risks. Jeremy Brinkman. And everyone – the important ones at least – would recognise that soon enough. Maybe better to let Maxwell make the effort, laying out sufficient rope with which to hang himself. He wouldn’t be able to remain in Moscow. So why not head of the Russian desk? He’d proved himself able, a dozen times over. Getting Orlov out would be the culmination – and confirmation – of brilliant Soviet expertise. He hadn’t imagined headquarters, quite so soon: traditionally he was much too young. But what else was there? Washington was a recognised stepping stone but he certainly wouldn’t be acceptable there if it all worked out. And there was nowhere else that particularly attracted him; anywhere else would be marking time and Brinkman had never had any intention of marking time.
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?