The Lost American

Chapter Four

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.’

Leader! thought Orlov, in a sudden, oblivious-to-everything mental lurch. The euphoria leaked away, as quickly as it came. He didn’t want to be leader and he didn’t want to be a deputy and he didn’t want to be married any longer to Natalia and he didn’t want to be in Moscow. All he wanted was Harriet. He said, ‘It’s an overwhelming prospect. Everything’s overwhelming, in fact.’

Sevin laughed in genuine amusement at the other man’s confusion, pouring large measures of vodka for them both. He raised his glass and said, ‘To you, Pietr Grigorovich Orlov. People are going to know of you; know of you and respect you and fear you. You’re going to break the mould of stagnating, senile leadership in this country, bury Serada’s mistakes and sweep away the blanket of nepotism that’s smothering our leadership and our progress.’

Ignoring the absurdity of talking of nepotism, Orlov guessed from the hyperbole that the man had practised and rehearsed the speech, like the politician he was. People were going to know of him, Orlov thought sadly. But not for the sort of reason Sevin imagined.

Sundays were always difficult.

Every other day of the week had its boxes and its compartments, regular fixed commitments around which everything properly revolved; even Saturdays. But definitely not Sundays. Sunday was a do-nothing day, without a peg upon which Ruth could hang her coat. She hated Sundays because they were a constant reminder; Eddie had usually been free on Sundays.

She fell back upon the Smithsonian, like so many times before, but halfway around the science exhibition their boredom and lack of interest became too obvious so she decided to cut her losses and run, taking a cab up to the Hill, to the American Cafe.

Paul, maybe because he was the elder of the two and saw it as his role, led the attack, when it came to ordering drinks to go with the hamburgers.

‘Bloody Mary,’ he said.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ refused Ruth, too vehemently and in front of the waitress anyway: she could have turned everything aside if she’d treated it as a joke. With no other choice but to continue she said, ‘You know you can’t have a Bloody Mary. Ridiculous!’

The child reddened under the gaze of the patient, amused waitress who’d seen it all before. Shit! thought Ruth.

‘I want a Bloody Mary,’ insisted Paul.

Ruth retreated to the familiar defence of an adult with a recalcitrant child, invoking the support of another adult. To the waitress, she said, ‘My son is not yet fourteen. He’s not allowed alcohol, is he?’

‘No ma’am,’ said the waitress. ‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee.’

‘Assholes!’ said Paul.

Both women heard him but pretended not to have done so.

‘Sodas or shakes, tea or coffee,’ recited the waitress again.

‘Nothing,’ said Paul, denying himself so as to deny them as well.

‘Coke,’ said John. Belatedly he added ‘Please’ but because of the brace it came out as a lisp.

After the woman had gone away with their order, Ruth said to Paul, ‘OK, what was all that about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, head bent against the table, regretting it now as much as she did.

‘You made a fool of yourself,’ said the woman, nervously aware just how close she’d come to losing control and wanting to reinforce her position, to prevent it happening again. ‘You made a fool of us all.’

Paul said nothing because there was nothing to say.

‘I’m waiting for an apology.’

The elder boy remained silent.

‘I said I’m waiting for an apology.’

‘Sorry,’ said Paul, voice soft and his lips barely moving.

‘And you’ll apologise to the waitress when she comes back,’ said Ruth, building upon her advantage.

‘I think she’s a bitch!’ blurted John, coming to the aid of his beleaguered brother.

Ruth turned to the other boy, looking bewildered between him and the departing waitress.

‘Not her!’ said John, with child-like irritation at being misunderstood. ‘The woman Daddy’s with. I think she’s a bitch.’

‘You don’t know anything about it,’ said Ruth, which was a mistake because since the divorce they’d both attempted the role of guardians and she realised as she spoke that she was diminishing their efforts.

‘We know everything about it, for God’s sake!’ came in Paul, anxious to recover from his previous defeat.

‘I know that,’ said Ruth, striving to maintain a reasonable tone in her voice. ‘I know you’re affected as much as I am – maybe even more so – and I’m sorry, John, that I said you didn’t know anything about it. That’s not what I meant.’

‘What then?’ said the younger boy.

‘I meant that there are some things that occur between grownup, adult people that are difficult for younger people…’ Ruth hesitated, not wanting to cause further friction ‘… grown-up and adult though those younger people are, that are difficult for young people to understand…’ She trailed to a stop, realising how awful the attempt had been.

‘Like going to bed together, you mean?’ said John, anxious to prove his worldliness.

‘That,’ conceded Ruth cautiously. ‘But that’s not all of it. Even the important part of it. There are lots of other things, as well.’

‘Didn’t you go to bed with Daddy?’ demanded Paul, determined upon vengeance.

Ruth felt herself blushing. ‘That isn’t the sort of question you should ask me,’ she said desperately. ‘But you know the answer anyway: of course I went to bed with Daddy.’

‘Then why did he go to bed with her, as well?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth, an admission as much to herself as to the children. ‘I really don’t know.’

‘I hate her,’ said John, proud at having initiated the discussion. ‘Don’t you hate her?’

‘No,’ said Ruth, carefully rehearsed. ‘No, I don’t hate her. And I don’t hate Daddy.’

‘I don’t understand you!’ protested Paul, exasperated. ‘How can you not hate her!’

Not easily, conceded Ruth to herself. ‘Hate doesn’t achieve anything,’ she said.

‘What will, to get Daddy back?’ implored John, who had tears brimming in his eyes when she looked at him.

‘I don’t know, darling,’ she said soothingly. ‘Not yet I don’t know.’

‘Will you?’ he said, with trusting anxiousness.

‘I don’t know that either,’ said Ruth honestly.

The returning waitress stopped the conversation and Ruth smiled up at her, gratefully. Remembering, she said to Paul, ‘Don’t you have something to say to this lady?’

There was a moment when Ruth thought he would refuse but then he said, ‘Sorry,’ louder the second time.

Why was it, wondered Ruth, that sorry had been the most familiar word in their vocabulary for so long now?

The unrest was centred in Shemkha, which was fortunate because Sokol was not sure he could have contained the protest if it had started in the Azerbaijan capital of Baku. It was from the KGB centre in Baku, of course, that the reports came and because he was so alert to the problem Sokol responded at once, ordering that Shemkha should be sealed and moving extra militia from Tbilisi in bordering Georgia and from Rostov and Donetsk as well. Sealing the town was only the first step, until he could get there himself on the long flight from Moscow. On the way from the airport Sokol gazed out at the parched fields of the tropical part of the Soviet Union, realising how crop failures of this province had been compounded by the grain failures on the Steppes: people were slow moving and actually, in cases, already emaciated. He went immediately to Shemkha and from the car radio system ordered that the leaders of the revolt should be assembled, for his arrival. There were four of them, a city physician and a factory technician and two farmers. The physician, whose name was Bessmertnik, was the reluctant spokesman, a bespectacled, stutteringly hesitant man. Sokol heard the complaints out, a litany of promised but never realised grain deliveries from the chairman of the city committee and spoilation through transport confusion and delays of food that did arrive. He ordered the immediate arrest of the committee chairman and transport authority head and detained Bessmertnik and one of the farmers as well. The hearing was brief- at Sokol’s instructions – in every case the charge of anti-Soviet activity, which covered any and every transgression. They were found guilty, also at Sokol’s instructions, and shot within an hour of the verdict. The official Soviet airline Aeroflot is subordinate to KGB orders and Sokol used fifteen aircraft from their transport fleet to fly in grain and vegetables. The entire operation took only a fortnight and the day after his return to Moscow there was a congratulatory memorandum from Aleksai Panov. Sokol was grateful for the recognition but knew it wasn’t what he wanted for the promotion upon which he was so determined; it wasn’t a coup.