Brian Freemantle - The Lost American

‘Seemed a cautious guy,’ judged Blair. ‘Never touched his drink all night and spent a lot of it looking around, making assessments.’

‘Professional sod!’ accused Ann, lightly. She added, ‘Poor Betty Harrison if you’re right.’

‘I could be wrong,’ admitted Blair.

‘You rarely are,’ said Ann proudly.

‘There’s always the first time,’ said the Texan, switching off the light.

Ann lay hopefully in the darkness but she felt him turn away from her. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.

‘Goodnight.’

Pietr Orlov was fully aware that when it happened there would be far more than the official reaction, the public vilification and accusations and possibly – a growing fear – a relentless physical pursuit. There would be bewilderment, from those who knew him; incredulity that having everything – and well knowing he had everything – he’d abandoned it all. Incredulity, too, at the reason for that abandonment. They’d have understood – just – a deep-seated difficulty with Communist ideology. Or the greed of bribery. But not a woman.

At the time of his departure from New York Orlov had been the Soviet Ambassador to the United Nations. But that had been a misleading description, belying his function or regard within Russia. A more correct title would have been Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, because that was the role he properly performed. It was Orlov who was summoned back from New York personally to brief the ailing Brezhnev on the likely Western reaction to the Afghanistan incursion. And Orlov again upon whom Andropov – ailing also – depended for advice in determining the Russian propaganda response to the positioning in Europe of the American Cruise missiles.

So much, reflected Orlov, entering the Kremlin complex and moving, well-accustomed, towards the section of the Foreign Ministry. So much and yet so little. He wanted more; so much more that only he – no one else, perhaps not even Harriet – could or would ever understand. Maybe Harriet would come to comprehend it, in time. Orlov hoped to God or whatever the deity was who controlled the destiny of man that it wouldn’t have to be as long as a year, before he had a chance to start trying to make her understand.

Orlov hesitated at the actual moment of entering the office of Yuri Sevin, conscious – although he’d been aware of it before but not so intently, at the precise act of confrontation – that the deputy minister would be one of the minority, someone who knew him well and therefore whose first thought would not be instinctively nationalistic but personal; one of the ones who would shake his head and find words difficult and when they came be mundane and ill-fitting, like, ‘ Why! Why – how – did he do it!’ Orlov knew he had been chosen by Sevin, from the junior Party position in Tbilisi; nurtured up through the local levels and then brought to Moscow and protected still, every move in the upward programme considered before it was made, every posting chosen for a purpose. Orlov supposed it had to be twenty years. Twenty years during which Sevin had been his constant supporter and advocate, finally protecting him in the jugular-biting jungle of Moscow while he had been far away and exposed, in New York. Exposed to the one thing Sevin had not anticipated and eliminated. Orlov hoped he could protect Natalia; to protect Sevin would not be so easy. Impossible, in fact.

Sevin came forward, arms outstretched in effusive greeting, tears already starting down his face, an elderly bear of a man with the emotions of a rabbit. ‘Pietr!’ he said, a sob in his voice, someone unable to accept the good fortune of seeing again someone he loved. ‘Pietr!’

Orlov allowed the bear hug – what else from a man of Sevin’s size! – and the tear-smeared kisses on either cheek and a further bear hug, as if the first had been insufficient. And then underwent the arms’ length examination, as though he was being searched for physical flaws and blemishes from his prolonged exposure in the West. There is what you would regard as a flaw, dear friend, thought Orlov, but not one that is visible. To anyone.

‘Yuri,’ he responded. ‘Yuri, it’s good to see you!’

Sevin led him away from the desk, impatient – embarrassed almost – at the indication of rank or power; hardly any existed between them anyway. They went instead to a side area, where the windows overlooked the Senate building and where a low table between the chairs and the couch was already set with vodka and caviar. Sevin, the considerate host, had even included a samovar beside the couch; Orlov stared at it, wondering how long it had been since he’d seen one.

‘Pietr!’ said Sevin once more. ‘How good it is to see you. Really good.’

‘And you,’ said Orlov.

There was no doubt or uncertainty about what he intended doing – there couldn’t be, after all the planning – but Orlov knew that when it was all over and he was happily settled with Harriet and the fear had diminished as much as it could ever diminish there would still remain the regret at how he’d had to deceive his friends; this friend in particular. And an even deeper regret that there was no way he could attempt to apologise or explain. To attempt it now – to take someone he considered his closest, dearest friend into his confidence – would be suicidal for him. And to attempt it later, in some guarded, hopefully disguised message, would be as murderous to Sevin. So he could do nothing. Nothing except hope that in some way, somehow, Sevin would come to understand. Orlov doubted that the man would, though. How could he? How could anyone?

‘You return in triumph, Pietr,’ declared the deputy minister at once. ‘Absolute triumph.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Orlov. The discomfort was like a weight, in his stomach.

‘You didn’t need me to tell you that,’ said Sevin, gently. He knew he’d made the right choice, in Orlov. The man was going to fulfil every expectation.

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to judge, from so far away.’

‘You never made a misjudgment, never,’ praised Sevin. ‘It’s an impressive record. One that’s been rightly and properly recognised as such.’

‘I’m flattered,’ said the uncomfortable Orlov. How much easier it had been to consider and plan what he intended to do in New York. And how much more difficult it was to carry it through, once he’d got back here.

‘You will be,’ predicted Sevin. He paused theatrically, pleased with his news and wanting to extract the maximum from it. ‘There’ll need to be formal votes and resolutions, of course. But they’re just formalities. The decision’s unanimous… you’re being elected to the Central Committee Pietr…’ When Orlov, shocked, didn’t respond, Sevin said, ‘Congratulations, my friend. You’ve earned it.’

The Central Committee! The inner sanctum, Orlov realised; the cornucopia of power, with the proper internal committee postings. Except that he didn’t want power any more. Once, maybe, when Sevin first plucked him from the provinces and hinted at what he was finally offering, today. But not any longer. Now he wanted freedom; freedom and Harriet. Sevin was obviously the sponsor, because he was being permitted to be the bearer of good news. In ancient Rome it was the custom to sacrifice the messenger bearing bad news; and this was going to become bad news, soon enough. Orlov said, honestly, ‘It’s difficult to express myself.’

The old man smiled, pleased, with no way of being able to understand Orlov’s problem. ‘It won’t stop there, Pietr. You’re the chosen one, the star. Being groomed. I’m too old and so are at least six of the others on the Politburo. Ivan Serada has been a disaster and everyone recognises it. You’re only forty – which is juvenile by Soviet ageing – but I’ve seen to it that you’ve had more international experience than most of the other contenders put together. All you need now is two years – three at the outside – to be able to show the proper understanding and appreciation of domestic issues and there won’t be anyone to stand in your way.’