Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

‘He’s not sure.’

‘How long’s he been here?’

‘Three years,’ said Blair.

Which meant they had a year to go, if three years were the norm, Ann calculated. Endure it, she thought. She said, ‘Thought about where you’d like to go next, apart from back to Langley?’

Instead of answering, Blair said, ‘What about you? Where would you like to go, if you were given the choice?’

Anywhere, so long as it was away from this damned place, Ann thought. She said, ‘I don’t care where I am, just as long as it’s with you.’

He reached across the table for her hand, and she felt out for his. ‘I love you,’ said Blair. ‘I love you very much.’

‘I love you, too,’ said Ann. ‘Very much.’

Pietr Orlov travelled on a diplomatic passport, which meant he was able to bypass the frustrating delays and formalities at Sheremetyevo airport. It meant, too, that his incoming luggage and freight was spared any Customs examination. He stood watching the dour-faced inspector in head-bent consultation with the official from the Foreign Ministry, guessing both would be resentful of his ability to bring so much back from America. Orlov hoped it wasn’t too much but he wanted it to look right. Someone recalled to Moscow after two years in New York would surely bring back the maximum he was allowed?

The check completed, the Foreign Ministry official came back to Orlov with the manifest. ‘Welcome back’, said the man.

Six months, calculated Orlov. Longer, if necessary. Like returning with the maximum allowance, everything had to look exactly right, if Natalia were to be protected. And Orlov was determined she would be. He’d loved her once, even if he didn’t any longer; not in the way that a man should love his wife, anyway. He was going to take every precaution to ensure her safety. Harriet was as insistent about that as he was; dear, wonderful Harriet.

A year then, if it had to be. Orlov hoped it wouldn’t be as long as that. He didn’t think he could exist for a year, without Harriet.

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.’