Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

The importance of the visit for Brinkman began from the moment of arrival. It was Serada’s first public appearance since the announcement of his indisposition and Brinkman was not more than ten yards away from the man and closer even than that after the party landed and he moved forward to fulfil his supposed function.

Serada didn’t look ill. He was sallow, certainly, and as close as he was now Brinkman was aware of the man’s hand shaking but he thought the cause of both more external than illness. There were handshakes and traditional hugs and a short, ceremonial walk to inspect the waiting guard of honour. Serada’s welcoming speech was given in a halting, hesitant voice, the prepared notes appearing very necessary for the man. The response from the British Opposition leader, whose name was Birdwood, was robust by comparison, the man alert to where the British newsmen and television crews were penned, the speech verging on pomposity. Birdwood actually arrived with a working-class cap but he stopped short of wearing it, carrying it obviously in his hand instead.

The politicians had brought their wives and on the way into the capital, with Brinkman riding in the same car as Birdwood, it became obvious they saw his role as more than that of a simple translator. Brinkman didn’t mind combining the functions of baby-sitter, nursemaid and general factotum: there was nothing wrong with making himself indispensable to a group of men – and their women – who might within a couple of years emerge as his country’s leaders. Insurance was, after all, what one took out against the unknown.

Because he had immersed himself so fully in everything the arrival at the Metropole and the baggage collection and the room allocations went without a hitch. Brinkman established an immediate advantage from their reliance upon him, able to convince – occasionally almost bully – them into being ready at the times he stipulated at the places he stipulated.

The Kremlin reception the first night was more worthwhile than the airport arrival. Serada headed the Soviet party but only nominally. Brinkman was sure of it. Conscious of his incredible opportunity – but equally conscious how it could be misused – he tried to clear his mind of any preconceptions and was sure he obtained the necessary clarity. Serada had all the appearance of a cast-aside man. Once, on the actual receiving line, Chebrakin practically thrust aside the supposed leader and shortly after that intruded himself again to complete introductions that Serada should, according to protocol, have made. Brinkman was tight with excitement, absorbing everything. He concentrated upon Serada and searched again for any sign of definite illness and he concentrated upon Chebrakin – whom he knew from Blair positively to have disabilities – and studied the man’s appearance and behaviour and he concentrated upon the others in the government who had been assembled. He was particularly eager to locate and study the younger ones. Didenko was the easiest to find, because he was a full member of the Politburo and Brinkman recognised him instantly from the frequent photographs. Didenko was a burly man whose blood-pressured features were heightened by the complete whiteness of his hair. He moved about the gathering with the sort of confidence Chebrakin was showing, according little deference to Serada who at times seemed isolated and completely alone. There had been three newcomers in the most recent Central Committee elections and Brinkman strained about him, wanting to identify them. His supposed purpose helped, calling upon him to communicate the introductions between the two parties, which was how he got the first, Vladimir Isakov. Nervous on his first public outing at such an elevated level, judged Brinkman, a thin, bespectacled man in an ill-fitting suit and a collar that gaped. It was more than thirty minutes after the official greetings had finished and Brinkman was feeling the first stirrings of unease, before he saw another. Viktor Petrov appeared nervous, like Isakov, keeping himself on the periphery of everything, which was how he missed being named to the British group. He was a short, inconspicuous man anyway, better dressed than Isakov but not much, over-awed like the other man at his surroundings. Where was the third? Orlov, he remembered, from his complete preparation. Brinkman found the man almost at once, the identification easier because when the Central Committee elections had been announced there had existed more pictures of the man who had occupied a United Nations posting than of the others. Orlov was a marked contrast to the other two newcomers. He was tall and deeply tanned -Georgian, recalled Brinkman – and very dark haired, impeccably tailored compared to the others – even the Politburo – standing urbanely to one side, appearing to be examining everything around him with the sort of interest that Brinkman was showing. As the Englishman watched, Orlov turned and bent slightly to his left and Brinkman mentally ran the projector, trying to match the high-cheek-boned, full face to the photograph, irritated that it would not immediately come. Sevin! he remembered at last. A big man, stiffly upright despite his age, the cane more for ornamentation than practical use. One of the original Bolsheviks, recalled Brinkman, a youthful contemporary of the older Lenin and Trotsky and then Stalin and Krushchev. And a survivor of them all. There weren’t many such men left. And then Brinkman’s memory served him again and he looked with renewed interest at the old man and the young Russian in head-bent conversation. Blair named Sevin an important policymaker. And the important policymaker was huddled with a complete unknown who had just been brought into the inner circle of Soviet government. Blair had something else, too… We might see changes that will take us all by surprise… The encounter he was witnessing from the other side of the room was insufficient by itself, despite the straw-clutching way they had to operate. But it was worth careful note; very careful note indeed.

Serada made a speech of platitudes and Birdwood made a matching speech of platitudes and then Chebrakin – appearing almost as if he wanted to harden the speculation – made a speech of platitudes and the Shadow Foreign Secretary, a broad-accented Yorkshireman named Moss, rounded everything off the same way. Brinkman devoted his undivided attention to the translation, because that was the most immediate job at hand, but it was hardly necessary.

There were a lot of glass-emptying toasts and the vodka and the champagne was good and by the time the evening ended Moss was straining back from the edge of drunkenness and two of the wives had already fallen over the edge, giggling and then laughing uproariously at some secret joke in the car going back to the hotel and one of them stumbling over the pavement edge when they arrived. Nursemaid now, Brinkman supervised the key allocation and personally escorted Birdwood to his rooms, he one side, the ambassador the other. Birdwood offered them a nightcap which they both declined and within fifteen minutes Brinkman was back in the ambassador’s official car, en route to the diplomatic compound.

‘God knows how many groups like this I’ve had to handle throughout the world,’ said Brace distantly. ‘And I’ve never gone through one without wondering what the British public reaction would be if they knew how their elected leaders conducted themselves.’

The permanent politician’s contempt for the passing amateur, thought Brinkman; it could have been his father talking. He said, ‘I didn’t think they were too bad.’

‘Do you know what those stupid women were laughing at?’ demanded the ambassador.

‘No,’ admitted Brinkman.

‘Breaking wind,’ said Brace disgustedly. ‘One broke wind and the other heard her and they thought it was funny.’