The Lost American

Chapter Twenty-One

At the end Blair was reluctant to leave Washington. He thought he’d allowed himself sufficient time and decided he hadn’t and the day before his departure, after he’d confirmed his reservation back to Moscow, he fleetingly considered asking Hubble for a further extension. But only fleetingly. He’d got his concessions and he intended to invoke them – every one of them – if and when it pleased him. And there wasn’t anything left undone; it was just that he enjoyed Washington.

The after-court sessions with the counsellors took all day, because he couldn’t be conveniently reached on the end of a telephone like the others so they had to get everything right first time. They arranged hurried interviews for him at the rehabilitation centre and he went there with Paul and studied the schedule and Blair was impressed. Still with the counsellors Blair saw the school principal, to satisfy himself there was no need for the boy’s school grades to suffer and left convinced they wouldn’t. There wasn’t sufficient time for him to go into what social work the boy would be required to do, because that had to be coordinated into the drugs programme and the school curriculum but Blair had enough confidence in both Erickson and Kemp – and in their knowing how he felt – to leave that to them. He was confident – no, hopeful – too that by the time Paul got finished with school and finished with the drug programme and finished with whatever social requirements were imposed, the kid would be so bushed he wouldn’t be able to get into trouble if he wanted to.

He involved himself with the family to the exclusion of everything else – not that there was anything else – taking in an Orioles game and boating on the Potomac and getting to movies and eating at McDonalds and setting himself up in competition the following night, grilling the hamburgers over their own barbecue and being declared the winner. Ruth passed on the Orioles game but did everything else with them.

He kept the last night to themselves but the night before that he met Charlie Rogers. He thought Ruth might want him to and there was no reason why he shouldn’t after all. Rogers worked in the control tower at National. Blair guessed Rogers was about five years younger than he was, maybe even younger, an open-faced, easily smiling man. Blair liked him. There was the understandable uncertainty at first, which Blair worked hard to get out of the way, the smiles and the laughs just a little too anxious. Rogers served in Vietnam although later than Blair, which gave them something in common. Rogers talked about the airport but didn’t ask what Blair did in Moscow, so Blair guessed Ruth had told him. So what the hell? To parade the usual explanation – ‘working for the government’ – was so well understood in Washington that it was like wearing in the middle of your forehead a sign like the one along the Parkway. It was as difficult for the boys to relax as it was for Rogers, but Blair insisted they eat with them – cooking out again because it was less formal – feeling it important that Paul and John saw there was no atmosphere. After the kids went to bed and Ruth was still with them Rogers said he hoped Blair didn’t consider he was presumptuous but with Blair away he was willing to do anything and everything he could to help Paul. Blair said he didn’t consider it presumptuous but that he very much appreciated the offer. He thought he’d seen everyone and done everything but if something came up he’d remember the offer and certainly take advantage of it.

When Rogers left Blair remained discreetly in the main room, letting Ruth see the man off and when she came back he said he thought Charlie was a terrific guy and Ruth said she thought so too.

They all came with him out to Dulles, which seemed a good idea at the house but about which Blair was less certain when they got to the airport. He bought them coke in the cocktail bar from which they could see a lot of aircraft and consciously forced the conversation. He told Paul to keep out of trouble now, you hear, and Paul said he would. He told them as soon as he got back he’d establish his schedule and liaise with the school principal and the counsellors and the drug programme organisers about a Moscow trip and when they went down the concourse to look at some of the shops Blair made Ruth promise, needlessly, that she’d get in touch with him the moment she didn’t think things were going right.

At the actual moment of departure, when the final calls were being made for the flight, Blair decided he’d swept away any barriers between them by the way Paul and John clung to him, as if they were physically trying to hold him back, John’s tears wet against his cheek and Paul trying hard not to break up too. He kissed Ruth, as well, and she held him tighter than Blair expected, saying, ‘Thanks again’ and seeming to have the same difficulty as Paul.

After he’d got his drink and refused the earphones for the in-flight movie, Blair put his seat back and considered the visit. Good, he decided. Better, upon analysis, than he could have expected. He’d done everything he could and the court had done everything it could and he was sure the counsellors and everyone else were going to do everything they could. And most important of all – no, not most important; equally important – he’d got to know the kids again. A lot achieved, but still not all. Getting Ann together with the kids wouldn’t be a problem: she’d always been eager, actually criticising him for not doing more before this had blown up. It could only be difficult if the kids made it so. And he thought he’d crossed sufficient bridges on this trip to make that unlikely. Getting Ann to understand the extension in Moscow might be more awkward. He’d have to explain it properly, setting out all the advantages. And when they called them in, he decided he’d take a Washington posting. Ann would still have a say, like he’d decided already, but he’d make it clear what he wanted, to guide her.

Blair slept better on the return trip, less preoccupied with uncertainties than on the outward journey. They staged again at Amsterdam and remembering the omission of his departing flight Blair bought Ann perfume and a diminutive cross and chain with a written guarantee of 14-carat gold in the duty free shop. Still with time to spare before the Moscow connection he bought her a watch, too, inexpensive but quite stylish, which she could interchange with the one she already had and throw away without any qualms when it went wrong.

It was late afternoon before Blair got into Sheremetyevo, still feeling tired despite the earlier sleep. His usual dislike of flying, he decided. He called Ann from the airport and frowned at her obvious quietness, guessing the reason and apologising for being away for so long. She said it was all right and she was looking forward to his getting home.

Blair thought she looked beautiful when he entered the apartment. She kissed him anxiously and held him tightly and Blair thought maybe he’d misconstrued the telephone conversation. She’d gone to the trouble of welcome-home champagne and after they opened it he made a performance of giving her the gifts. He expected her to show more enthusiasm than she did but recognised he was apprehensive of making the announcement, now that the moment had come, and decided against reading too much into small things; it could be him, not her.

Ann had wondered what her feelings would be, at the actual moment of confrontation and realised it was embarrassment. Deep, numbing embarrassment. Did whores feel embarrassed? Or was it something they got used to, with practice? The embarrassment made it difficult to respond properly to the gifts – which actually increased the feeling – but she tried, dabbing on the perfume and twisting to let him put the necklace on her and replacing her existing watch with the new one and assuring him it was lovely.

She was naturally – and sincerely – interested so she asked him about Paul but there was a personal reason, too, because she wanted him to talk rather than respond to a lot of questions about what she had been doing. It took a long time and she was grateful. Blair went into every detail and with the newly-decided honesty confessed the awareness of his own failings and how he believed those failings had contributed to what happened. When he set out the promises and the resolutions, to stay closer to the boys and have them here in Moscow she felt out for his hand – the reluctance until now her own embarrassment, not any hesitation at physical contact – and said she’d do everything she could to make it work, like he’d always known she would.

‘I went to Langley a couple of times,’ he said finally.

‘I thought you would.’

‘Talked about a lot of things.’

‘Like what?’ she said, suddenly attentive.

‘They’ve asked me to stay on.’

‘They’ve what?’ The question was asked quietly, the voice neutral, someone who thought they’d misheard.

‘Stay on, after the normal three years,’ said Blair. He knew he hadn’t done it right and so he hurriedly continued, trying to improve, enumerating all the concessions and the promises, wanting her to see how much to their advantage it would be.

‘You mean you’ve already agreed!’ The outrage was there now, the anger rising.

‘They wanted a decision on the spot.’

‘Without discussing it with me! Asking me how I felt!’

‘That wasn’t possible. You know that.’

‘And you know how I feel about this fucking place! How I hate and loathe it.’

‘Because you haven’t given it a chance.’

‘I’ve given it two years!’ she shouted. ‘Two years that have been like a fucking prison sentence.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Blair hadn’t expected her to welcome the decision but he hadn’t anticipated this sort of tirade, either.

It was a valid question, Ann accepted. She was angry – furious – but mixed up in the emotion was her own guilt and embarrassment and feeling of being a whore: being able to shout at him as if everything were his fault slightly lessened it all. Only very slightly. ‘What sort of question is that?’ she said, in controlled rage. ‘You know damned well how I hate it here. How I’ve always hated it. How I’ve been counting off the days and the weeks and the months – like a prison sentence – and hardly been able to wait until the time was up and we could be released…’ She laughed, a jeering sound. ‘That was actually the first word that came into my head, believe me,’ she said. ‘Released.’

Blair sat silent under the onslaught. He had misunderstood. He’d had some idea of her unhappiness but not that it was as bad as this. Not the obvious, bulging-eyed, nostril-flared hatred. Or had he? Hadn’t he known it all along and chosen to ignore or minimise it? Wasn’t it another cop out, like it had been with the boys, a refusal to let anything interfere with what he, Eddie Blair, ultimately wanted to happen? ‘It might not be any longer than three years,’ he said, in an attempt at recovery, remembering the search for his own reassurances. ‘You know the uncertainty that exists here. That’s why they want me to stay. If the leadership is settled we’d hold the aces and the kings…’ Abandoning the aircraft resolution, he said, ‘And you get to choose. Wherever you want, we’ll go.’

‘Christ!’ said Ann, striding without direction around the room. ‘I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! What if everything isn’t settled? We could be stuck here for years…’

‘No,’ said Blair, at once. ‘I made that clear. It’s not an open ticket.’

She stopped abruptly in front of him, staring down. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘So how long? How long if it’s not an open ticket?’

‘Not more than another three years,’ promised Blair, the first figure that came into his head.

‘Three years!’ echoed Ann, the outrage flooding back. ‘You mean you expect me to stay here for another three fucking years?’

‘No,’ said Blair, his own temper finally giving way. ‘I don’t expect you to stay here for another three fucking years. If Moscow and your dislike of it – OK, your hatred of it – is the biggest thing in your life then I don’t expect you to stay.’

His reaction quietened her at once, the thrust striking the rawest and most exposed nerve. She felt her face burn red and hoped Blair would believe it was her anger. ‘You’re telling me to get out?’ she demanded.

‘No,’ he said. ‘And you know I’m not. I love you and I want you to stay. It’s for you to decide whether you love me enough to stay.’

He sat, waiting. For several moments she stared down at him and then she burst into tears.

Brinkman responsed at once to Blair’s invitation, knowing of course that the American wanted an update on anything that had happened while he’d been away and hoping he might get a lead to what Blair had been doing from the man’s questions. Because it was Blair’s invitation, the meeting was at the American embassy, at their usual table in the cafeteria. Brinkman felt the briefest spurt of embarrassment at the moment of shaking hands but almost at once it went. Private life was private life but this was business and quite separate. If that made him a cunt – if cuckolding Blair made him a cunt – then OK, he was a cunt. Successful men often were.

There was the customary shadow boxing, the inconsequential smalltalk and then realistic enough to know he wouldn’t get anything unless he gave something, Blair said, ‘May be staying here longer than I planned.’

‘What?’ said Brinkman.

‘Been asked to extend. Feeling is that the current leadership uncertainty makes this an important place to be.’

Bollocks, thought Brinkman. They’d discussed the leadership a dozen times. Blair’s disclosure about extending meant he was on to something but he was bloody sure it wasn’t on something as unfocussed as leadership interpretation. They’d interpreted that already, both of them. Was the suspicion true? Did Blair have a source, buried deep? ‘How long for?’

‘No specified time.’

How would Ann react to that? he thought suddenly. Private, he thought, quickly shutting the door. Deciding he wouldn’t get anything by direct questioning, Brinkman tried to offer something that had occurred – professionally – while the man had been away, discomfited at once because he knew the gesture was pointless because bugger all had happened. Chebrakin had appeared publicly ahead of Serada at a photographed session of the Central Committee – which confirmed what they already guessed – and there had been increasing criticism in Pravda of food shortages, which was a rare admission but an indication that someone was soon publicly to be blamed for them.

‘Not much then,’ discerned Blair, when Brinkman finished.

‘Not really,’ conceded Brinkman. ‘Still not the slightest indication of what’s happening beyond Chebrakin.’

‘That’s the kicker,’ said Blair. ‘That’s what everybody wants to know.’

And Blair did, decided Brinkman. Somehow – he didn’t know how – Blair had a lead on what the other moves were and that’s why he’d been recalled to Washington. But that wouldn’t have been enough, to be recalled. That could have been covered in a normal cable. Something about the leadership but important enough to go back to Washington personally to discuss it. But what? What in the name of Christ was it?

‘Thanks, incidentally, for looking after Ann while I was away,’ said Blair.

Brinkman met the American’s gaze across the table. ‘I enjoyed doing it,’ he said easily.

Two days later Serada was removed from the Politburo and the leadership of the Soviet Union. Anatoli Chebrakin was named as successor.