The Lost American

Chapter Eleven

Very occasionally – too occasionally for it to be considered anything more than the most sensational good fortune – it was possible to cultivate and maintain a source with some internal knowledge in Moscow. Some intelligence officers forged links with dissidents but it was dangerous – apart from closely following their illegal zamizdat – because the KGB monitored the activities rigidly and sometimes infiltrated provocateurs, so there was always the risk of seizure and some highly publicised diplomatic incident, usually expulsion. The majority of intelligence came from assessment, from closely studying and analysing official announcements and seeing who was and who was not in official photographs or at official receptions; frequently making conclusions from details like who was standing in relation to whom at those events. Sources for those assessments were usually the approved newspapers or the approved television coverage. Personally able to observe was a bonus, which was why Brinkman went to the airport for the arrival of the Cuban delegation and there he was a long way away, only able to establish Serada’s absence. To get anywhere near close proximity to the Soviet hierarchy practically ranked with managing to establish an internal source. When Brinkman realised his opportunity he went after it with the unwavering determination with which he had passed every examination and every interview and every aptitude test to jump over the heads and get the plum Moscow posting. The care he had taken to establish himself with everyone within the embassy helped. And so, at last, did the offered personal relationship with the ambassador; independence had to make way for necessary advantage, Brinkman decided.

The visit of the British parliamentary party was planned to be a big one, not just the leader of the Opposition but the Shadow Foreign Secretary and the Shadow Trade Secretary and three other MPs who would form part of the Cabinet if they were successful in the next election. The defeat in the last had been extremely narrow and the forecast for the next gave them a more than strong chance, which was undoubtedly a factor in the Russian decision to greet and entertain them at such a high level, scheduling two State banquets and a Kremlin reception, with private talks agreed.

Despite his determination to get what he wanted, Brinkman went about his bid to be appointed official interpreter as properly as he had always conducted himself within the embassy, making the approach first to the Head of Chancery and actually using the meeting to rehearse his arguments, stressing that his official position as cultural attache made him ideally suited for the function and pointing out that his Russian was unquestionably equal to if not superior to the majority of other likely choices. Having started the right way Brinkman took the gamble and approached Sir Oliver Brace directly. The attitude of proper career diplomats to intelligence personnel in embassies varies and is frequently ambivalent: intelligence agents are a necessity, like daily bowel movements, but not usually things to be acknowledged. And certainly not to be allowed into any sort of situation involving ambassadors which might then or later cause problems. Brinkman was immediately aware of Brace’s face closing as he made the request, the older man’s experienced professionalism at once coming to the forefront. Brinkman had anticipated it, making frequent references to his father – of whose best wishes and gratitude at the friendship being shown in Moscow he assured the ambassador – and disclosing the man’s impending promotion to be Permanent Head of the Foreign Office. Brinkman knew Sir Oliver saw a concluding career for himself at the Foreign Office when the Moscow posting finished, a career his father would be in a position to sanction or not. He said he could understand any hesitation Brace might have – because it would have been ridiculous for him not to have acknowledged it – but insisted a personal as well as professional guarantee that nothing would arise which could cause any embarrassment, a guarantee the ambassador would know to be sincere from the man’s knowledge of the Brinkman family. Brace refused initially to commit himself, promising to consider it, and Brinkman endured the most uncertain week he had known since his arrival in Moscow, guessing the discussions would not just be confined to the ambassador and Head of Chancery but extend to London, as well. He wished the diplomatic cable channels were not separate from his own, another precaution against embarrassment. He actually considered making a direct approach to his father, towards the end of the week when he heard nothing, abandoning the idea because he realised the contact would have had to be by telephone, which was not secure – and therefore impossible – and would unquestionably cause the resentment he had so far managed to avoid, from everyone.

He got approval on the Monday.

Brinkman set about preparing himself with the care he devoted to everything. He had full biographies and information details on the MPs with whom he would be working pouched from London and requested – and got – a lot of additional material he considered lacking from the first shipment. He extended the preparation beyond learning about the personalities, finding out the purpose of the visit – creating a statesmen-like impression in Britain, in readiness for the next election – and the expected outcome, communiques of mutual trust and friendship and assurances of close working relationships in the future, another voter lure.

Although it wasn’t his responsibility Brinkman involved himself in every aspect of the tour, checking and rechecking their accommodation and travel arrangements and their sightseeing schedules. Because of his early days’ groundwork he was able to do so without upsetting anyone else in the embassy. In cases there was actually appreciation: a two-day visit to Leningrad was planned and there was underbooking in both hotels and transport there, so his intrusion was correctly seen to have avoided a mistake for which the embassy could have been criticised.

The importance of the visit for Brinkman began from the moment of arrival. It was Serada’s first public appearance since the announcement of his indisposition and Brinkman was not more than ten yards away from the man and closer even than that after the party landed and he moved forward to fulfil his supposed function.

Serada didn’t look ill. He was sallow, certainly, and as close as he was now Brinkman was aware of the man’s hand shaking but he thought the cause of both more external than illness. There were handshakes and traditional hugs and a short, ceremonial walk to inspect the waiting guard of honour. Serada’s welcoming speech was given in a halting, hesitant voice, the prepared notes appearing very necessary for the man. The response from the British Opposition leader, whose name was Birdwood, was robust by comparison, the man alert to where the British newsmen and television crews were penned, the speech verging on pomposity. Birdwood actually arrived with a working-class cap but he stopped short of wearing it, carrying it obviously in his hand instead.

The politicians had brought their wives and on the way into the capital, with Brinkman riding in the same car as Birdwood, it became obvious they saw his role as more than that of a simple translator. Brinkman didn’t mind combining the functions of baby-sitter, nursemaid and general factotum: there was nothing wrong with making himself indispensable to a group of men – and their women – who might within a couple of years emerge as his country’s leaders. Insurance was, after all, what one took out against the unknown.

Because he had immersed himself so fully in everything the arrival at the Metropole and the baggage collection and the room allocations went without a hitch. Brinkman established an immediate advantage from their reliance upon him, able to convince – occasionally almost bully – them into being ready at the times he stipulated at the places he stipulated.

The Kremlin reception the first night was more worthwhile than the airport arrival. Serada headed the Soviet party but only nominally. Brinkman was sure of it. Conscious of his incredible opportunity – but equally conscious how it could be misused – he tried to clear his mind of any preconceptions and was sure he obtained the necessary clarity. Serada had all the appearance of a cast-aside man. Once, on the actual receiving line, Chebrakin practically thrust aside the supposed leader and shortly after that intruded himself again to complete introductions that Serada should, according to protocol, have made. Brinkman was tight with excitement, absorbing everything. He concentrated upon Serada and searched again for any sign of definite illness and he concentrated upon Chebrakin – whom he knew from Blair positively to have disabilities – and studied the man’s appearance and behaviour and he concentrated upon the others in the government who had been assembled. He was particularly eager to locate and study the younger ones. Didenko was the easiest to find, because he was a full member of the Politburo and Brinkman recognised him instantly from the frequent photographs. Didenko was a burly man whose blood-pressured features were heightened by the complete whiteness of his hair. He moved about the gathering with the sort of confidence Chebrakin was showing, according little deference to Serada who at times seemed isolated and completely alone. There had been three newcomers in the most recent Central Committee elections and Brinkman strained about him, wanting to identify them. His supposed purpose helped, calling upon him to communicate the introductions between the two parties, which was how he got the first, Vladimir Isakov. Nervous on his first public outing at such an elevated level, judged Brinkman, a thin, bespectacled man in an ill-fitting suit and a collar that gaped. It was more than thirty minutes after the official greetings had finished and Brinkman was feeling the first stirrings of unease, before he saw another. Viktor Petrov appeared nervous, like Isakov, keeping himself on the periphery of everything, which was how he missed being named to the British group. He was a short, inconspicuous man anyway, better dressed than Isakov but not much, over-awed like the other man at his surroundings. Where was the third? Orlov, he remembered, from his complete preparation. Brinkman found the man almost at once, the identification easier because when the Central Committee elections had been announced there had existed more pictures of the man who had occupied a United Nations posting than of the others. Orlov was a marked contrast to the other two newcomers. He was tall and deeply tanned -Georgian, recalled Brinkman – and very dark haired, impeccably tailored compared to the others – even the Politburo – standing urbanely to one side, appearing to be examining everything around him with the sort of interest that Brinkman was showing. As the Englishman watched, Orlov turned and bent slightly to his left and Brinkman mentally ran the projector, trying to match the high-cheek-boned, full face to the photograph, irritated that it would not immediately come. Sevin! he remembered at last. A big man, stiffly upright despite his age, the cane more for ornamentation than practical use. One of the original Bolsheviks, recalled Brinkman, a youthful contemporary of the older Lenin and Trotsky and then Stalin and Krushchev. And a survivor of them all. There weren’t many such men left. And then Brinkman’s memory served him again and he looked with renewed interest at the old man and the young Russian in head-bent conversation. Blair named Sevin an important policymaker. And the important policymaker was huddled with a complete unknown who had just been brought into the inner circle of Soviet government. Blair had something else, too… We might see changes that will take us all by surprise… The encounter he was witnessing from the other side of the room was insufficient by itself, despite the straw-clutching way they had to operate. But it was worth careful note; very careful note indeed.

Serada made a speech of platitudes and Birdwood made a matching speech of platitudes and then Chebrakin – appearing almost as if he wanted to harden the speculation – made a speech of platitudes and the Shadow Foreign Secretary, a broad-accented Yorkshireman named Moss, rounded everything off the same way. Brinkman devoted his undivided attention to the translation, because that was the most immediate job at hand, but it was hardly necessary.

There were a lot of glass-emptying toasts and the vodka and the champagne was good and by the time the evening ended Moss was straining back from the edge of drunkenness and two of the wives had already fallen over the edge, giggling and then laughing uproariously at some secret joke in the car going back to the hotel and one of them stumbling over the pavement edge when they arrived. Nursemaid now, Brinkman supervised the key allocation and personally escorted Birdwood to his rooms, he one side, the ambassador the other. Birdwood offered them a nightcap which they both declined and within fifteen minutes Brinkman was back in the ambassador’s official car, en route to the diplomatic compound.

‘God knows how many groups like this I’ve had to handle throughout the world,’ said Brace distantly. ‘And I’ve never gone through one without wondering what the British public reaction would be if they knew how their elected leaders conducted themselves.’

The permanent politician’s contempt for the passing amateur, thought Brinkman; it could have been his father talking. He said, ‘I didn’t think they were too bad.’

‘Do you know what those stupid women were laughing at?’ demanded the ambassador.

‘No,’ admitted Brinkman.

‘Breaking wind,’ said Brace disgustedly. ‘One broke wind and the other heard her and they thought it was funny.’

Brinkman smiled too, at the older man’s outrage. ‘At least they didn’t fall over at the reception.’

‘You did very well, incidently,’ said the ambassador. ‘Afraid the demands can become a bit irritating at times.’

‘No problem,’ assured Brinkman. ‘No problem at all.’

It could have become one, if he had allowed it, but Brinkman met every request and every need, from a bath plug where there wasn’t one at the Metropole to souvenir shopping at GUM to simultaneous and superbly accurate transcription of everything that passed between Birdwood’s party and the Russians they met. In addition to that first day there were five more separate occasions when he had the opportunity to be within touching distance of almost every one of the Russian leaders and remove from his mind any doubt about Serada’s decline: at two Orlov was present and briefly Brinkman regretted that his translator status did not permit him to try to get the Russian involved in some sort of discussion.

Although Leningrad took Brinkman away from his immediate focus of interest it was still useful because of the restriction of travel imposed upon embassy personnel. They toured the shipyards – for the visiting Englishmen a necessary chore – and actually went into some of the repair sheds, to which Brinkman would never normally have gained access. What he saw in the yards and the machine shops enabled a whole separate file to London reporting firsthand about apparent disrepair and backward operating methods in the Soviet engineering works, which by itself was sufficient to impress Maxwell. There was no period of Brinkman’s life when he could remember working so consistently hard or so consistently concentrated, intent on catching every crumb that fell from the table. And it did not end, of course, with the conclusion of each day’s chaperoning. After settling the British party he always returned to the embassy to transmit that day’s file. They were always extremely long and always had to be encoded into a secret designated cipher and for over a week Brinkman existed on never more than three hours sleep a night. Returning the final day from the farewells at Sheremetyevo – wondering, greedily, if he would ever again be able to get as close for so long to the Soviet leaders as he had during the past few days – Brinkman allowed himself to relax for the first time and was engulfed in a physical ache of fatigue. Utterly exhausted, he realised; and worth every moment of it. Brinkman knew – confidently, not conceitedly – that in months he had achieved more in Moscow than most other intelligence officers achieved in years. So he’d proved himself again. He’d proved himself to his father and he’d proved himself to those in the department who carped about favouritism and prayed he was going to fall flat on his ass but most important of all – always the most important of all – he’d proved himself to himself.

There wasn’t much time for immediate rest. The intelligence community in Moscow discovered from the first day what he was doing and the approaches began practically before the British aircraft cleared Soviet air space, the professional attitudes those of some envy and some jealousy but predominantly those of admiration for being clever enough to get himself into such a position. He was the most open with Blair – although he held back from disclosing the apparent friendship between Sevin and Orlov – and comparatively helpful to Mark Harrison. The contact from the Canadian coincided with that from the Australians and Brinkman helped them, too. He even offered something to the one-sided French, feeling he could be generous because he had done so well. And he never knew when he might need to call favours in.

There was a personal letter of thanks within weeks from Birdwood and Brinkman was picked out by name in a letter of gratitude the Opposition leader wrote to the ambassador. Maxwell wrote from London, too, enclosing the letter in the safety of the diplomatic bag.

‘An outstanding success,’ the controller called it.

Brinkman wondered how difficult it was going to be maintaining the standard he set himself.

The KGB identified Brinkman as the interpreter on the first day but because of his distraction in the provinces it was several days before Sokol caught up with it. He frowned down, irritated that the leaders had come under such close scrutiny of an intelligence operator. There was nothing, now, that he could do about it: maybe there wouldn’t have been at the time, apart from staging some accident involving the man, physically removing him. Jeremy Brinkman appeared to have progressed beyond the settling-in stage, reflected the Russian. He made a notation to place the man upon the priority Watch List.

Ruth drove Paul back from the court hollowed by what she heard, unspeaking because she didn’t trust herself to speak to the boy and not knowing the words anyway. He remained silent beside her. She couldn’t handle this alone, she determined, taking the car across the Memorial Bridge. She was prepared to do most things – indeed, she’d argued custodial responsibility during the divorce because she considered it was her responsibility – but there had to be a cutoff point and this was it. Paul was Eddie’s son, as much as hers; so his liability was as great as hers, even though he was on the other side of the world. They had established the method of communication through Langley in the event of any emergency, in the overly-polite aftermath of the divorce and Ruth had always determined never to use it, looking upon it as an admission of failure. Which perhaps was the reason Paul had done what he had. So if she failed it was time for Eddie to see if he could do better. The CIA personnel official was courteous and helpful and tried to commiserate by saying it was the most common problem parents had to face in America today which didn’t help Ruth at all because she wasn’t interested in anyone else’s problems. The official promised to get a message to Blair overnight, which he did.

‘Drugs!’ exclaimed Ann, when Blair told her that evening in their Moscow apartment.

‘Marijuana, apparently. And cocaine,’ said Blair. ‘There wasn’t a complete run down, obviously, but it seems to have been going on for quite a long time.’

‘Oh darling, I’m sorry,’ said Ann. ‘I’m really very sorry.’

‘Yeah,’ said Blair, distantly, and she wondered if he were thinking it might not have happened if he hadn’t become involved with her.

‘What are you going to do?’ she said.

‘They’ve been very good,’ he said. ‘Immediate compassionate leave.’

‘Of course,’ said Ann. Why hadn’t she thought of his going back to Washington? It was the obvious thing for him to do.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She suddenly remembered the coveted tickets to the Bolshoi and realised he’d miss the performance. It was too inconsequential to mention; too inconsequential to think about at a time like this. ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ she said.

Blair looked at her grave-faced. ‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ he said. ‘About myself.’

Blair flew on a KLM flight, which enabled a convenient transfer for the Washington flight at Amsterdam. Because of Blair’s listing on the Watch List, the KGB knew of his departure within three hours. It was the same Watch List on which Jeremy Brinkman’s name had been entered.