Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

Serada didn’t appear.

And because his unexplained absence was disguised on the television coverage, Brinkman was able to get the message to London in advance of the speculative news stories, speculation which was heightened by the TV manipulation.

Blair hadn’t been at the airport, which enabled Brinkman the feeling of superior satisfaction when the American called seeking confirmation of the Soviet leader’s definite absence before committing himself but Blair had an exchange to offer, unusual and interestingly late-night arrivals and departures of official Zil cars from the Kremlin, another seemingly innocuous indicator but according to Blair an important one. Brinkman messaged London – rigidly restricting himself to the facts, not offering any opinion – and was glad he did because the following day came the brief formal announcement that Ivan Serada was being hospitalised for tests for an undisclosed indisposition. No acting deputy was nominated but at London’s request for advice, Brinkman predicted Chebrakin, because he calculated the military were important. He accompanied the message with as full a profile as possible upon the man and two days later got his confirmation when Chebrakin emerged as the host at a government reception for the still-visiting Cubans. Blair’s later admission – because that was how close they were now – that he’d backed the outsider in Didenko gave Brinkman more satisfaction than the hero-gram from Maxwell. Brinkman conceded it had been a horse-race and no one – not them, at least – had been sufficiently on the inside to back the winner with any certainty. But Blair, the acknowledged pundit had gone for an outsider and Brinkman, the punter, had wagered on the favourite and won. Luck, certainly: but everyone needed luck at the races.

It was for Brinkman a period of exhilaration, not simply – or even predominantly – because he appeared to be so consistently right but because he had the impression of being at the centre of developments he was able to anticipate: he was a surfer on the highest of high rollers, able always perfectly to judge the break and catch it just right and ride it into the shore, close enough for the beach of accuracy to stop off without his feet getting wet.

The ambassador confirmed the reputation he was establishing in London – not offended because Brinkman had usurped the man’s function as the proper political analyst – at the monthly gathering.

The monthly gathering was an innovation of Sir Oliver Brace, the attempt at democracy – where serf could address lord – and be sure that all was well upon the estate.

It was held at the embassy, the only place of convenient size, the atmosphere glued with embarrassment. Brinkman’s existing successes made it easier: and there had been sufficient offers invoking the friendship of his father anyway to make the encounter easier for him than it might have been for most.

‘Gather we follow similar paths in thinking?’ offered Brace, when everyone arrived and the gathering was established giving him a respite from playing party host.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Brinkman had expected the approach before now, the demand why the earlier offers had not been acknowledged and responded to.

‘Get the impression that we’re interpreting certain developments in the same way.’

That wasn’t an impression at all, thought Brinkman. That was the playback from London against his political assessment, compared to the ambassador’s. Had Brace got it wrong and gone for Gushkov or Didenko? Enjoying the taste of the cliche, he said, ‘These are interesting times.’

‘If we get them right.’

‘If we get them right indeed,’ agreed Brinkman. This was going to be an easier game than it ever was with Blair. Despite their now-confirmed friendship, there was always a reserve from the American, a slight holding back. Just – Brinkman conceded – as he always held slightly back. Lie, he thought. His holding back wasn’t slight, at all.

‘Imagine some changes soon?’ pressed the embassador.

‘How do you see the situation?’ said Brinkman, turning the question.

‘I’d like to know whether Serada’s illness is medical or political.’

‘Little doubt about that, is there?’ said Brinkman, continuing the role of questioner without expressing an opinion of his own.

‘That’s the problem with trying to interpret events in the Soviet Union,’ said the ambassador, philosophically. ‘There’s always doubt.’

Brinkman had already filed the opinion to London. Knowing he wasn’t disclosing anything the ambassador might take for his own, Brinkman said ‘Serada’s got to be on his way out. And I think Chebrakin will be the successor.’

‘Chebrakin!’ pounced the ambassador, confirming Brinkman’s guess that the man had suggested somebody else.

‘But like you said,’ reminded Brinkman, ‘there’s always doubt.’

‘Been very impressed the way you’ve settled in here,’ said Brace. ‘Very impressed indeed. An asset to the embassy. Imagine London thinks so too. Heard from your father lately?’

‘Not for some time,’ said Brinkman.

‘Give him my regards’ said the ambassador.

‘I will, sir,’ said Brinkman. ‘And thank you, for what you said.’

‘Nothing but the truth,’ said the ambassador. ‘Nothing but the truth. And don’t forget what I’ve already told you. Always willing to help.’

‘I won’t forget,’ assured Brinkman. He didn’t then anticipate how quickly the occasion would arise.

‘You’ve lionised him!’ said Betty Harrison. The Canadian tried to make it a mock protest but Ann guessed there was an element of feeling in what the woman said. Betty coveted the role of the grande dame of the diplomatic wives and would imagine it was to her salon that Brinkman should pay court.

‘We haven’t,’ she said. ‘He and Eddie just seem to get on well.’ She felt a bubble of satisfaction at the other woman’s jealousy.

‘What about you?’ said Betty archly.

‘We both went to Cambridge, although not at the same time. Seem to have a few mutual acquaintances, though’, said Ann.

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ said the other woman.

Ann, who understood fully what the Canadian had meant, laughed dismissively, refusing to become gossip fodder. ‘I think he is very amusing and great company at a party. But he doesn’t attract me in the slightest.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ said Betty. ‘Have you seen those hands?’

Ann had. And wondered idly how Brinkman appeared to be able to stay so apparently hard-bodied when he didn’t take any exercise that she knew of and the boyish way he had of flicking the dark hair back from his forehead. But only in the way of noticing things about a friend with whom she was frequently in close contact. She hadn’t lied to Betty. The thought of any physical attraction had never arisen in her mind.

‘He doesn’t seem too interested in getting involved with anyone, does he?’ said Ann, carelessly.

Betty seized the remark, able to see several meanings in everything. ‘You don’t think he’s strange, do you?’

‘Strange?’ frowned Ann, not immediately understanding.

‘You know, strange,’ prompted Betty.

‘You mean gay!’ said Ann at last. ‘No, of course I don’t think he’s gay!’ Poor man, she thought, it was like being picked over by a hyena.

‘He dropped Sharon Berring like a hot potato,’ said Betty, warming to her theme.

‘He did not drop her like a hot potato,’ said Ann, conscious that she was in at the beginning of what Betty was rapidly formulating into the week’s top story. ‘He just didn’t submit to having the choice made for him.’

‘How do you know?’ demanded Betty at once.

Ann sighed, mildly irritated by the interrogation. ‘I don’t know ,’ she said. ‘I just guessed. It seemed obvious.’