Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

Brinkman had been right about warning her of talking on an open line, when she’d called the man at the embassy and told him of their row. And Ann had been so honest. ‘ Oh darling, I’m so unsure of everything.’

Suddenly impatient, Blair stopped reminding himself of the tapes, of the whispered telephone conversations and the bedroom sounds, abruptly discarding one after another into the destruct bag, stopping at one he knew better than all the others, the one he’d replayed over and over again.

‘ Do you love me? ’ Brinkman’s voice.

‘ I don’t know.’ Ann.

‘ Do you love me? ’ Brinkman.

‘ Yes, I suppose so.’ Ann again.

‘ What about Eddie? ’ Brinkman: awful, fucking Brinkman.

‘ That’s it! I love him, too.’

Blair had heard it so often that he didn’t think he could cry now but he did, not breaking down into sobs but feeling the tears move irritatingly down his face.

‘ You can’t love two people at the same time.’ The insistent Brinkman.

‘ Who says? Where are the rules that everyone obeys that say you can’t love two people? ’ A desperate Ann.

‘ You’re going to have to make a choice.’ Cocky, pushing fucking Brinkman.

‘ I don’t want to. I’m frightened.’ Poor, lovely, confused Ann.

Because everything was so carefully annotated, it was something other than a tape next in line for destruction. Blair gazed down at a piece of paper that the sad, nervous, knowingly sacrificed Orlov slipped to him in the Krasnaya Park, with Harriet Johnson’s telephone extension at the United Nations. It had been an impromptu, improperly thought-out decision openly to leave the copy like he had on the apartment desk because by then – what else – he’d known he had to destroy Brinkman. But still wasn’t sure how to hook him. Brinkman must have been desperate: certainly the questions seemed that way, a desperation not to have realised the impossibility of his ever having made a mistake like leaving around the most important part of an emerging intelligence operation. But then, Brinkman had other distractions. What a bastard the man had been!

Blair threw Orlov’s pitiful note into the bag and it was destroyed so swiftly that there wasn’t a wisp of smoke.

The American stretched, aware that he had been sitting at the desk for almost two hours and that it was getting late. Did he need any more reminders? No more. Now the need was to forget. He loved Ann so much; so very much. More than she would ever know.

There was only one tape left, the one that had been made that afternoon. Blair made himself do it, needing to hear of her uncertainty; needing to know of her love.

‘ Don’t pressure me all the time! ’

‘ You know what you want. So do it! ’

‘ Why did you ever have to come to Moscow? If you hadn’t come here everything would have been all right ’

You know that isn’t true.’

‘ I’ll decide.’

‘ When? And don’t say soon; don’t try to run away again.’

‘ A week. I’ll decide in a week. I promise.’

Now she wouldn’t have to decide – to be undecided – thought Blair, taking the final tape from the machine and putting it into the bag. The equipment was extremely efficient and there was only a miniscule amount of detritus. He shook it into the special container and sealed it, along with the remaining, exhausted phosphorus, for collection and disposal the following morning.

Blair rose, stretching again and looked at the telephone, unsure whether to call Ann to tell her he was on his way. No reason any more, he realised: no longer any need for discretion.

He collected his solitary car from the pound and eased out on to the near deserted night streets of Moscow. Where, he wondered, were all the cars with all the observers who had made themselves so obvious, so obvious that he would have aborted the mission anyway if he hadn’t decided to handle it another way.

The recall to Washington was a bonus, something he hadn’t anticipated. But everything else had gone exactly as planned. Until the absolute end, that is. It had been easy, from the intercepted conversations and Brinkman’s hurried return to England to know that the man had correctly interpreted the extension and imagined he could win. Blair wondered if the surveillance team would still be in place in New York and whether they had seen the British make contact. Had it been Brinkman, personally? The man had been away long enough; and was ambitious enough.

Blair guessed Orlov had gained the agricultural delegation he’d read about in Pravda and Brinkman confirmed it by the sudden departure so easily set out upon the tape. The airport message had been impromptu – like leaving the United Nations number in his apartment – once he positively identified Orlov arriving. But it had worked, like everything else. Except the shooting. Blair had not expected that: wanted it. Blair had imagined an arrest: a trial and an imprisonment, until an exchange deal had been worked out, like exchange deals were always worked out. Long enough for Ann to forget. But not that the man should get killed. Panic, thought Blair. It was always fatal to panic.

At the apartment block he put his car in the reserved space and climbed slowly to their apartment. Outside Blair hesitated, remembering the recall to Washington. He’d tell her tomorrow, he determined. Not tonight; tonight was going to be a shock. She’d need something tomorrow: poor Ann. Poor lovely, adorable Ann.

Blair hesitated a few moments longer, preparing himself and finally went in. Ann was sitting in the main room, close to the matroyshka set he hated. Something he shouldn’t forget to clear and pack tomorrow.

‘Darling,’ said Blair, solemn-voiced. ‘I’ve got the most terrible news about Jeremy Brinkman.’

‘Could there have been a connection?’ Panov was ashen-faced and the hand holding the cigarette had a palsied shake. His question was blurred by an outburst of coughing and Sokol waited until the chairman recovered before replying.

‘A possibility. The two were friends,’ he said. It had all been resolved by the most incredible luck but no one apart from himself knew that and Sokol had cleverly orchestrated all the credit.

‘Blair’s gone?’

‘And the man King, whom they drafted in with the cover of temporary archivist,’ confirmed Sokol. ‘We’ve kept Krasnaya under observation for two months now. The new man hasn’t been there once.’

There was another outburst of coughing and Sokol waited patiently. Eventually the KGB chairman said, ‘We’ve been able to mount a very effective propaganda campaign, because of the position of Brinkman’s father. Everything has worked out most satisfactorily.’

Not completely, thought Sokol: I’m still waiting for the announcement. He said, ‘I’m glad.’

‘The congratulations this time don’t just come from me,’ said Panov. ‘I’ve been asked to express them on the part of the Politburo, as well.’

‘That’s extremely gratifying,’ said Sokol, properly modest. Was today going to be the day?

‘It is necessary for me to retire,’ declared Panov, clearing his throat as if to indicate the reason. He smiled across the desk. ‘Of course that will mean changes.’

It was to be today! thought Sokol. He said, hoping the excitement wasn’t obvious in his voice, ‘Of course. I understand.’

‘I’ve already made clear the admiration that the Politburo have for you. Not just for the Brinkman affair; they fully realise how well you contained the disruption following the famine…’ The chairman’s pause this time was for the other man to assimilate the praise. ‘They feel,’ Panov began again, ‘that there is no one else at the required echelon within the organisation who could fulfil as well as yourself the position of Deputy, in charge of the Second Chief Directorate. And I, of course, agree with that assessment. You’re irreplaceable. Again, congratulations. The confidence in you is absolute…’