Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

‘Seems pretty shitty,’ said King, coming back from his examination of the Russian capital.

‘Believe me,’ said Blakey. ‘I’m right.’

Just how right was proven by the message awaiting Blair when they got back to the embassy that afternoon. After further consideration, cabled Hubble, it had been decided there would be no purpose in Blair’s tour being extended longer than originally scheduled. Blakey was to remain, as acting intelligence Resident.

Blair smiled wanly down at the decision, remembering it was what he’d told Ann to fob her off after his most recent return from Washington. She should be pleased: everything was turning out as she wanted it to.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Blakey, when Blair showed him the recall cable. ‘I didn’t try for this, you know?’

‘I know you didn’t,’ assured Blair. ‘Things could still turn out for the good.’

‘Reconnaissance?’ said Panov.

‘Unquestionably,’ said Sokol, recognising that Panov was speaking for the benefit of the record, to show his awareness. The KGB chairman’s attitude was remarkably changed. He’d stood smiling to greet him when he entered, directly from the control room, and within minutes of their conference beginning the vodka had been served. He went on, ‘From what we heard we know positively that there’s a meeting and we know it’s to be Friday.’

‘Congratulations,’ allowed Panov. ‘You’ve been proven right…’

‘Thank you,’ said Sokol, knowing the required modesty.

‘… About one man,’ balanced the chairman. ‘Nothing’s been resolved about the Englishman.’

‘It will be,’ undertook Sokol.

It was not until he returned to his own department that Sokol reflected on the extent of the exaggeration. At the moment he only had half a success; and that was still positively to materialise.

He cleared his desk of everything except the files on Jeremy Brinkman, right back to the first entry of the man’s arrival, looking for anything he might have missed. He stopped, curiously, going to Blair’s file for comparison and then calculating from the guard reports that the Englishman appeared to have visited the Blair apartment on more than one – several, in fact – occasions when the American was back in Washington. He made a note and put a genuine question mark after it, unsure if there was any significance. It was a pity that Blair was so good at cleansing his apartment of the listening devices so regularly planted and equally regularly found and jammed by the man.

It took Sokol two hours to exhaust the written dossiers and then – exhausted himself – he lowered the lights and started on the videos and the attempted eavesdropping with the pistol microphones that had already proved so effective that day upon Blair as he moved about the city. He saw it, on the last film. At first he wasn’t sure, stopping and rewinding the film and then stopping it again on a freeze frame, at the actual moment of Brinkman putting the transistor on the kiosk edge. With the frame held, Sokol found the independent sound tape, coordinating it by date and time to the attempt to overhear the Tuesday conversation when Brinkman and Orlov had arranged the Russian’s escape. There was just the meaningless snarl of interfering static that Brinkman intended.

Sokol picked out all the Tuesday films, looking for the kiosks now – all so brief they had been missed, until the latest, longer conversation – isolating the contact every time. He watched the most recent tape through again and then put the lights up, confident he’d found the method and the dating of liaison. And depressed by it. From the reports it was always a different kiosk. And so because they could never know in advance what the next box was going to be, they couldn’t put a tape on it, for next Tuesday. There was never any evidence of his dialling out. So it was always an incoming call, from another untraceable telephone. The Englishman had been clever; cleverer, in fact, than Blair. Next Tuesday the watch upon the Englishman would be very different and very concentrated and before it happened Sokol knew he needed an intensive session with the electronic experts. He had to have a listening van capable of connecting at once -within seconds – to the call if he were to be as successful here as he had been in Krasnaya Park. Sokol decided – until he talked to the experts – to keep this from Panov. The man had had sufficient with which to be impressed in one day.

‘He promised!’ protested Paul. ‘He promised he’d write and fix the trip.’

‘Your father’s a busy man, darling,’ said Ruth. ‘If he made a promise he’ll keep it.’

‘The vacation is soon now.’

‘Why not write again to remind him.’

‘I’ve written twice already. He hasn’t bothered to reply.’

‘That’s not fair,’ defended Ruth. ‘He always replies.’

‘You know what I think?’ said Paul. ‘I think he’s dumped us, just like before.’

Brinkman had acquired few possessions in Moscow. Wanting to travel lightly he bothered only with an overnight shoulder-bag – and that more for effect at the airport than for necessity – and left everything else to be shipped out as diplomatic luggage, by the embassy. He took particular care packing the icon that Ann gave him on his birthday, sure it was going to have special meaning for both of them. He was cleared up and ready early in the day, like a deprived child anxious for its first holiday. He remained careful, in everything. He paid Kabalin, the muttering maid, three weeks’ salary and said he looked forward to returning, to ensure that her inevitable report wouldn’t cause any uncertainty before he was able to leave, although he knew that in the few hours remaining it would be unlikely that any report would be properly channelled or assessed. She thanked him and promised to come in as she always did while he was away and Brinkman said he would appreciate it, knowing that she was lying. She hadn’t stolen as much as he expected and Brinkman reckoned he’d been lucky. He guessed she’d come under some severe investigation, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.

Brinkman moved aimlessly around the apartment, impatient for Ann’s call, idly looking around to impress it upon his memory. It would be a good memory, he decided. He’d achieved everything he set out to do, on the posting; more, in fact. And no one could detract from that. He’d proved himself, to everyone. It didn’t matter what credit Maxwell attempted to claim; his reputation had been established before this. What was happening today was just planting the flag on top of the mountain, like the flags had been planted in that preposterous film he’d watched, waiting for contact with Orlov.

He looked at his watch, calculating against the time difference. It would have already started by now, in London. The aircraft would have probably gone to France overnight. Maybe the snatch squads who were going to work outside the restricted areas, too. He wondered where those who were going to be on the inside picked up the international flight, to put them in the right terminal area. There’ll be a hell of a row, of course. France protesting – because they had to – about violation and invasion of sovereignty and Russia denouncing everything and everybody. All because of him, thought Brinkman, in private, gloating triumph. He pitied everyone he was leaving behind in Moscow. Life was going to be unbearable for a long time after this. He guessed Russia would insist upon some expulsions from the British embassy here and wondered who it would be. Someone senior, if they tried to equate the action against Orlov’s rank. Properly to do that would mean the ambassador, he supposed. All because of me, he thought again.