Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

An ambitious cowboy: very rare, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Hope I don’t fail them.’

Blair smiled again, at the practised modesty. ‘Takes time, like I said. It’s a difficult place to get the feel of and put a handle on.’ The American paused and then said, ‘Difficult for the wives, too. Not enough for them to do, really.’

‘Won’t be a problem for me,’ said Brinkman. ‘I’m not married.’

Appearing reminded, Blair looked around the room and said, ‘You must meet Ann.’

He waved and Brinkman turned to see a slim, dark-haired woman coming towards them, smiling uncertainly. She’d taken the trouble with her clothes which her husband hadn’t, the turquoise dress designed to show both the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. She wore no other jewellery but a single strand gold necklace and only a minimum of make-up. She was much younger than Blair, Brinkman realised at once. As the American made the introductions he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and Brinkman wondered if the gesture were one of possession or comfort. He isolated the accent as soon as she spoke.

‘English?’ he said.

‘As roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ confirmed Blair.

‘Berkhamsted, actually,’ said Ann.

Brinkman saw she had small even teeth and the apparent habit of catching her lower lip between them, like a guilty child frightened of being caught out in some mistake.

‘Long way from home,’ said Brinkman.

He thought he detected a momentary pause from the woman. She said, ‘We all are.’ The smile this time was more open than before. ‘It’ll be good to have a new face among us,’ she said. Why was she being like the rest? Ann thought, angry at herself. The answer came at once. Why not? She was like everyone else.

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Brinkman. But not to parties like these, where the biggest ambition seemed to be who could get to the bottom of a whisky glass quickest, he thought. His own glass was sail practically full.

‘You must come and eat with us one night,’ said Ann. ‘It’ll be good to be able to talk to someone so recently from home.’

‘I’d like that,’ accepted Brinkman. London thought Ingram good and Ingram eulogised Blair: until he found his own roads to follow the American was obviously the person to travel with.

The arrival of the British ambassador, making his duty visit, was the signal for the presentations, which broke up Brinkman’s contact with the Blairs. There were short speeches, carefully guarded of course, praising Ingram as a colleague and friend whose companionship would be sadly missed and Ingram’s blinking grew more rapid with the praise. Lucinda stood alongside, the expression on her face making it quite clear that she considered it all justified. The ambassador presented the decanter set, with matching glasses, and Ingram assured those who had contributed towards it that he would always treasure it as a reminder of happy times in Moscow, which he was going to miss both as a city and as a place where he’d made many wonderful friends, people whom he and his wife sincerely hoped would remain in contact. There was the predictable attempt at a joke which fell flat and the predictable ribald shout from someone in the crowd and Brinkman wondered why these sorts of things were always inevitably so embarrassing. The presentation broke up, like they normally did, in the uncertainty of people not knowing what to do. Brinkman smiled up at the ambassador’s approach.

‘Sorry I haven’t had time to welcome you properly yet,’ said Sir Oliver Brace.

‘People seem to have been doing almost nothing else,’ said Brinkman. At the embassy gathering there had been the briefest of introductions: the formal interview was arranged for the following week.

‘Son of Sir Richard Brinkman, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Brinkman, feeling the stomach sink of dismay.

‘Harrow together,’ said the ambassador. ‘Damned fine bat. Still play cricket?’

‘Not any longer,’ said Brinkman.

It would have been easy enough for his father to find out; all he had to do was look at the diplomatic list. He supposed there would have been some contact, from the manner of Brace’s approach.

‘Everyone treating you all right?’ demanded the man. ‘No problems?’

‘Everyone has been extremely kind,’ said Brinkman.

In a veiled reference to Brinkman’s true function, the ambassador said, ‘Tricky place to be, sometimes, Moscow.’

‘I was fully briefed before I left London, sir,’ assured Brinkman. Dear God, don’t let this red-faced man with his clipped-speech mannerism adopt the role of surrogate father, thought Brinkman.

‘Any problems, you let me know. You understand?’

‘Of course sir,’ promised Brinkman. There had to have been contact; the Head of Chancery was the diplomat with whom intelligence officers customarily dealt, specifically to remove the ambassador from any difficulty if things went wrong. And that was the person with whom he would continue contact, determined Brinkman. Damn his busy-body, interfering father!

His duty done, the ambassador moved away towards the door and Brinkman looked casually about him, unsure how easy it would be to make his own escape; although it was Ingram’s party, the departing intelligence officer had made it extremely clear Brinkman shared in it, too, for the advantages it might have. Near where Lucinda’s food had been – and which was now a messy, destroyed table – a space had been cleared for dancing and a few couples were making desultory attempts to follow the music. Brinkman was undecided whether the excuse was to support each other, from the effects of the booze, or grope each other, furtively. There were obvious invitations from two women who caught his eye and smiled, hopefully, but Brinkman chose to misunderstand, smiling back but remaining where he was. The cigarette smoke, thicker now, stung his eyes and the long-held drink was warm when he sipped it, not needing a drink but just wanting something to do. He looked around for Blair and his English wife, but they appeared to have left. Because politeness demanded it he asked Lucinda Ingram to dance and because politeness demanded it, she accepted, appearing reluctant to follow his lead and pushing him around instead, like a busy shopper manoeuvring a trolley through a crowded supermarket. There was the formalised conversation about how glad he was to be in Moscow and how much she was looking forward to returning to London, which she hadn’t seen for a long time because before Moscow their posting had been Beirut and before that Lima. Lucinda promised that the apartment would be properly and thoroughly cleaned after the party and asked if he wanted to retain their maid and Brinkman thanked her and said yes, he did. They were both relieved when the dance finished. He walked with her to Ingram, who stood stiff-legged beside the drinks table, pink and smiling. Brinkman decided it wouldn’t be long before the owl fell out of the tree.

‘Thanks for the party. And for everything else,’ said Brinkman.

‘Remember what I said,’ encouraged Ingram. Despite the obvious intake he was still very clear-voiced.

‘I will.’

‘Stay close to Blair and you won’t go far wrong,’ insisted the other man, as if he feared Brinkman hadn’t understood their earlier conversation.

‘I will,’ promised Brinkman, emptily. ‘I will’

‘What do you think?’ asked Ann.

‘About what?’ Blair came from the bathroom wiping the toothpaste residue from his lips.

‘Our new arrival, Jeremy Brinkman?’

‘Seemed OK.’

‘Betty Harrison decided he was gorgeous: absolutely gorgeous.’

‘Betty Harrison’s got hot pants.’

‘Think Brinkman will fill them for her?’