The Lost American

Chapter Thirty-Seven

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.

He snatched at the telephone when it rang and promised Ann he would be with her in fifteen minutes. He made it in ten. She didn’t hold back when he kissed her and he thought her eyes were wet and wondered if she’d been crying at the thought of his going.

‘I never really thought you meant it,’ she said. ‘About leaving, I mean. I just thought it was something you said, to try to make me make a decision.’

‘Now you know it wasn’t,’ he said. He paused and said, ‘But I want you to make up your mind.’

She shook her head, not in refusal but in perpetual uncertainty, looking away from him. If it had to be it had to be, thought Brinkman. He said, ‘Eddie lied to you, Ann. About how long you’re likely to be here. I can’t tell you how I know: all I ask is that you trust me. But there are going to be a lot of things happening here. Things which are going to upset a lot of forecasts. Eddie’s going to be kept on here not just for months but for years. Which means – if you stay – that you’ll be here for years. You’re going to become the den mother of the diplomatic wives, like Betty Harrison. You’re going to see them come and you’re going to see them go and you’ll still be here.’

‘No!’ she said. ‘Eddie’s never lied to me. He told me that and I believe him. He said it wouldn’t be as bad as I first thought.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he said, his anger slipping. ‘Bugger all, and you know it. He was trying to squeeze out of a corner and so he said something that sounded OK, to get you off his back. But it doesn’t mean anything. Can’t you see that?’

Ann nodded, dumbly. It was vague, just like he said it was. ‘I’m not brave enough,’ she said.

‘I’ll make you brave,’ said Brinkman urgently, seeing the crack widen. ‘Just leave. Just leave Moscow – use whatever excuse you like – and then let him know you’re not coming back.’

‘I couldn’t do it like that,’ she said at once. ‘That wouldn’t be

…’ she hesitated at the word ‘I know it doesn’t sound right, but that wouldn’t be honest. If I’m going to leave then I’ll tell him to his face.’

‘Tell him then.’

‘I don’t know if I want to.’

‘Don’t tell me again that you’re confused: I’m fed up with hearing it!’

‘Don’t pressure me all the time!’

‘You know what you want to do. 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,’ she said.

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

‘A week,’ she said. ‘I’ll decide in a week. I promise.’

If she hadn’t intended to do it she would have refused now, here, on the spot, thought Brinkman. She was going to come with him, like he’d known she would all along. He held out his arms and she came to him, her arms tight around him. He wanted to make love to her and knew she wanted it too. There wasn’t time: not for how he wanted to make love. He didn’t want a snatched, illicit screw. That was all over. He wanted her to be his wife and now he knew she was going to be. ‘I must go,’ he said, seeing at once the frown of annoyance that he wasn’t going to do what she expected.

‘I thought you’d have more time.’

‘There’ll be all the time in the world, later,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said distantly. ‘All the time in the world.’

‘A week?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I’ll be waiting. It’s going to be wonderful, Ann. Believe me, everything is going to be wonderful.’ Did Orlov love Harriet as much as he loved Ann? He must do, Brinkman supposed.

The moment of actual parting was difficult for them both, each holding to the other, reluctant to sever the physical contact but Brinkman knew he had to: it would be ludicrously stupid to ruin everything by staying here an extra thirty minutes when they had a whole lifetime ahead of them.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ he reminded her.

‘I know.’

‘I love you.’ He waited but she didn’t respond and he smiled and kissed her, unconcerned. She’d pleaded with him not to pressure her and he wouldn’t.

By his very absence the Soviet authorities would identify him with what happened – so the consideration was really unnecessary but Brinkman didn’t take an embassy vehicle to the airport, deciding instead upon one of the officially approved airport taxis. As the vehicle started to clear the Moscow suburbs a clock-tower suddenly appeared before him. Six, he saw. Orlov would be at Sheremetyevo now, maybe going through the routine of a departure ceremony. Brinkman hoped the man’s nerve held. It was the one uncertainty that remained, whether Orlov would actually be able to go through with it without someone in the party and there would be KGB guardians in the party because there were on every overseas Russian trip – becoming aware of his anxiety. Maybe he should have gone earlier to the airport, to see the man through. But why? There was nothing he could have done. They hadn’t arranged that he should be there, during the last meeting, so his unexpected appearance might have had the reverse of that intended, alarming the man even more.

There was nothing he could do now. Nothing except hope. If Orlov made the plane, then everything would be all right. All he had to do then was wait until Paris and let himself be spirited away by men who would already be in place now, calm and expert and trained and waiting.

They began leaving the city behind and Brinkman strained around, realising it would be his last sight of the Soviet capital. A good memory, he thought again. Now it was time to move on. To what? he wondered.

The day was in the half-light when Brinkman reached the airport. He remained inside the taxi, to pay the driver, and then stepped out on to the wide pavement in front of the departure building. The large car park was filled, as it always appeared to be, and cars and taxis formed a solid line against the pavement edge. Brinkman picked his path through them, making his way towards the identifiable insignia of British Airways which would lead him to the desk inside. It was about five doors ahead and Brinkman thought, in passing, that he should have had the driver bring him nearer.

He’d practically reached it when he heard the shout and at first gave no reaction because there was no one who could be shouting for him. And then he heard it again and stared beyond the door into the British Airways desk. Orlov had been walking, waving to attract his attention, but suddenly the Russian began to run and as he did so Brinkman saw uniformed security guards a long way beyond him but plainclothes men who appeared to be moving with some co-ordination much nearer, fanning out into an embracing movement. Brinkman thought he heard stoitye but wasn’t sure because ordinary passengers were becoming aware of the scene and there were other shouts. Orlov was only about twenty yards away and Brinkman knew everything had gone disastrously wrong and that he should feign ignorance of the man but then Orlov was upon him and Brinkman couldn’t shake the man off.

‘What is it?’ demanded Orlov. ‘What’s the problem?’

Brinkman stared at the man, unable to comprehend what was happening. ‘The plane!’ he shouted. ‘Why aren’t you on the plane?’

‘The message,’ said Orlov. ‘The message at the desk telling me not to board… Why did you leave a message..? It was madness. Insanity ..!’

‘But I didn’t…’ tried Brinkman, but the security police were much nearer now, ordered by the plainclothes men. Brinkman heard stoitye plainly this time and Orlov heard it too, but he didn’t stop, like he was told. All control gone, fear whimpering from him, the Russian pulled himself away from Brinkman and started running mindlessly through the line of parked cars. There were more demands to stop and Orlov’s hand thrust out, a physical gesture of rejection which the later enquiry determined made the security men in the confusion of the moment imagine that the fleeing Russian had a weapon clutched in his hand and intended using it because for them to start shooting was a mistake, against every order. Instinctively Brinkman had snatched out, trying to hold the thrusting-away man and when he missed he began going through the cars, too, so they were both running. The bullets from the first misunderstanding soldiers were wide, warning shots. But other security men believed they were actually being fired at now. With the breath groaning from him Brinkman shouted, too, for Orlov to stop but the Russian was beyond reach, encompassed and completely driven by the fear he’d tried so hard to control. Brinkman was the first to be hit when everyone started firing, an agonising pain in his thigh, like a punch that after the first spurt of pain took all feeling away and he screamed but the sound was cut short because the weapons started firing on automatic and he was caught by the first swathe. The same arc caught Orlov, too, tipping them both over the lip of the car-park perimeter.

It was about a five foot drop and both were dead when they reached the bottom.