It took every extreme of will-power and concentration that Pietr Orlov possessed – and then some the Russian didn’t know he had – but knowing that everything he wanted depended upon it he cleared his mind of a woman he loved called Harriet Johnson and an American he tolerated called Blair and an Englishman he despised called Brinkman and devoted himself entirely to the agricultural policy he recognised to be the passport for what he wanted. He rewrote and re-worked and then rewrote again the passages that had offended Sevin – rightly offended the man, Orlov acknowledged, because they were careless. – and when he got them right he started again until finally he was confident they were perfect.
Which Sevin assured him they were, accepting them practically without correction. Still Orlov forced himself, determined to maintain the standard, and Sevin remained congratulatory, angry at himself for displaying an old man’s lack of judgement and reflecting a lifetime’s suspicion, accepting the temporary distraction had after all been the disruption of a broken marriage.
The chance came – sooner than he expected it to – on the fourth week. Orlov evolved from the beginning a system of monitoring everything that was happening elsewhere – the work of the other committees and the other groups – involved in the agronomy review and into the net in exactly a month the system brought the memorandum from the central working committee discussing the delegation visit to Europe.
Orlov felt hollowed by the initial flood of excitement: at the quickness of its happening and his luck in discovering it and the thought of it all – everything – being settled. There was fear, too. As great as excitement. He hoped so much that he wouldn’t fail. He’d be all right, naturally, if things went smoothly. It was of the unexpected that Orlov was frightened. On the day the memorandum reached him, his hand positively trembled, so that he had difficulty in reading the words and had to put it down upon the unmoving desk and bend over it. France first – the inviting country – and then Denmark, to study their dairy system. A full fifteen days’ tour: starting in just three and a half weeks’ time.
Orlov prepared his approach to Sevin with the consummate care that he knew everything now required – the sort of care he’d taken over the embassy visit when he’d made contact with the American – getting approval for his latest section of his report first and then letting the conversation between them ramble into generalities before mentioning, in an apparent aside, the proposed European visit. When Sevin seized upon it, as Orlov guessed – and hoped – he would, the younger Russian said, more direct than before, ‘I thought I should be part of the delegation…’ He nodded towards the papers on Sevin’s desk. ‘All that is being written and compiled from previous reports and statistics. I’d be better able to argue innovations and change if I’d personally seen the methods of other, more advanced countries.’ What right had he had to question morality with Brinkman? thought Orlov.
‘The names will have already been selected,’ pointed out Sevin.
‘I realise that,’ said Orlov, increasingly an astute Kremlin operator. ‘I wonder why the visit wasn’t made generally known in the first place?’
The reaction of Sevin, who had lived through a lifetime of plot and counter-plot, was as predictable as Orlov expected it to be. ‘You think it was kept from us!’
‘I’ve no way of knowing that,’ said Orlov, honestly but prepared. ‘Was it ever brought up at any meeting you attended?’
‘No,’ said the old man.
‘Nor at any in which I’ve sat,’ said Orlov. Playing the best card last he said, ‘Comrade Didenko is on the central working committee.’
Sevin’s face tightened. ‘You think he is trying to exclude us!’
‘I’ve no way of knowing that, either,’ said Orlov.
Four days later Sevin announced to Orlov that he would be forming part of the Soviet delegation to France and to Denmark.
The pressure from Washington upon Eddie Blair was of a ridiculous degree, so ridiculous that Blair recognised it and tried as best he could to stop it spreading over into his already strained private life. But that was difficult because the demands kept him late at the embassy and required his early attendance in the morning and the workload created greater tension between himself and Ann. He studiously kept the Friday assignations and when Orlov failed to show up on the fourth occasion, three of the insistent questions came from the Washington headquarters signed personally by the Director, which was practically unheard of, and Blair recognised his replies clearly showed his contempt. He sent them anyway, irritated by the panic. He was as uncertain as they were – more so, because they were safe and protected back at Langley and it was still his ass displayed and waiting to be shot off – but it was still only four weeks and there could be the simplest of explanations why Orlov needed to keep away. This wasn’t Sunday brunch at the Mayflower, for Christ’s sake! As the thought came to Blair the cipher machine stuttered into life again and he transcribed as it printed, reading that Langley had succeeded in getting visas for two men who would be arriving in advance of the next scheduled meeting. There was nothing whatsoever they could do – less now that Orlov had severed contact – but Blair realised it enabled Langley once more to be able to imagine they were doing something active and positive. Blair realised, too, that it indicated their belief in his inability successfully to continue with the operation. So maybe it would be he who was brunching soon at the Mayflower in Washington; he hadn’t thought it was possible for things to develop as they had, quite so quickly.
It was the following Tuesday that Brinkman took the telephone call at the public kiosk on Leninskiy Prospekt and Orlov told him of the place on the delegation to France.
‘You’re free!’ promised Brinkman, at once.
‘I wish I were,’ said the Russian. ‘You’ve no idea how I wish I were.’
The breathing of Aleksai Panov seemed more difficult than usual, his shoulders lifting and falling with the effort, but despite his illness the inevitable tubed cigarette was in his hand when Sokol entered the chairman’s office, on the seventh floor of Dzerzhinsky Square. The wheezing man indicated a chair, without any greeting and Sokol took it. From where he sat he could look out over the huge piazza and actually see the statue to the founder of the Soviet intelligence service.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Panov.
‘I don’t know,’ conceded Sokol, reluctantly. ‘But I’m certain that something is.’
‘Set it out,’ insisted the chairman.
Sokol recounted everything, wishing he had more positive evidence to support his convictions, intent for any reaction from the other man. Panov smoked steadily, lighting fresh cigarettes from the stubs of those he exhausted, face expressionless.
When Sokol stopped talking, Panov said, ‘You assembled a large body of men. A lot of equipment, too?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol, unsure of the point.
‘Yet they lost them? Both of them?’
Sokol wondered if there were recordings being made of the meeting, for some later disciplinary action; he thought it probable. He said, ‘There have been mistakes. I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ said Panov, unhelpfully. ‘If you’re right in believing there are two definite operations underway here in Moscow you should have maintained personal control from the beginning.’
To plead the pressure that had arisen in the provinces wouldn’t be accepted as an excuse, Sokol knew. ‘It was a miscalculation,’ he conceded, with no alternative.
‘The Americans are sending in more people?’
‘It would appear so,’ said Sokol. ‘The Foreign Ministry have advised me of the visa applications. Described as an archivist and a trade counsellor.’
‘Anything known, from the names?’
Sokol shook his head. ‘There’s no file on either.’
‘Whatever it is – the American situation at least – could be coming to a head if they’re sending in reinforcements.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sokol.
‘Why don’t we move against both of them, the American and the Englishman?’ demanded Panov. ‘Some sort of technical entrapment could be easily arranged: an allegation of simple lawbreaking would be enough. All that’s necessary is to frighten them. If we want something more elaborate, why not lure them into an espionage situation and we can formally expel them?’
‘If we did that we wouldn’t know what it was that either of them were doing,’ pointed out Sokol, simply.
Panov looked intently at the glowing end of a fresh cigarette, admiring the professionalism. He said, ‘True. But can we risk letting it run? Each day that passes can mean the damage is worsening. Shouldn’t that be the consideration, minimising any unknown damage?’
Sokol decided the question was phrased for whatever recording was being made. He said, ‘They’d pass it on – both of them – to whoever it was succeeded them here. That’s what we’d have our people do, in similar circumstances. So we wouldn’t be closing anything down.’
Panov nodded in further admiration. ‘We’d be gaining some time, though. So far you’ve discovered remarkably little.’
Sokol gave no reaction to the criticism. He said, ‘At the moment I know the people. I’m sure, in the case of the American, that Kr as nay a is the contact point. If we move now and get them expelled I’ll have to identify their replacements and discover the new routines, because the existing ones would be scrapped, for obvious protection. The time that would take would extend rather than limit the period of potential damage.’
Panov frowned, irritated at being out-argued but unable to confront the other man with a better alternative view. He said, ‘It can’t be open-ended. I don’t want the Americans allowed the opportunity of getting themselves organised…’
‘… How long?’ asked Sokol, risking the rudeness of interruption to obtain a positive instruction from his superior.
‘A month,’ determined Panov. ‘If we don’t get results in a month, I want entrapment operations against Blair and Brinkman and we’ll expel them…’