And the plan was perfect, too. Because it was so simple.
On the final Tuesday Brinkman went through the ritual of clearing his trail, because it was professional to do so, but as he moved around the Russian capital on his way to Kommuny he realised that it didn’t matter if he were under any sort of observation, because there was nothing that could stop it happening any more. He was still, however, careful, like he had been with his evasions: aware that today’s conversation would be longer than any others, he carried with him a small transistor radio, tuning it to a programme relaying some mournful Slavik dirge as he walked towards the kiosk and placing it on the shelf as he moved in to pick up the dutifully ringing telephone precisely on time. The tune was a minimal distraction to him but Brinkman knew it would block any sort of listening apparatus directed at him if he were under surveillance, which he was sure he wasn’t.
There were a total of fifteen KGB men within a hundred yards of him on the street, with a concealed camera operating from an enclosed van and another technician in a separate vehicle directing the pistol microphone that was – as Brinkman unknowingly intended – completely baffled by the radio.
‘It’s arranged?’ demanded Orlov, at once.
From his end of the line, Brinkman was conscious of the Russian’s nervousness. It was understandable, he supposed: dear God, don’t let everything fail through the man’s collapse. He said, trying to infuse the confidence into his voice, ‘Everything. It’s guaranteed and nothing – nothing at all – can go wrong. It’s only two more days. This time on Thursday it’ll all be over. You’ll be safe. With Harriet.’
‘How?’ demanded Orlov.
‘Listen,’ urged Brinkman. ‘Listen very carefully. But don’t take any notes.’
‘I understand,’ said Orlov. Appearing to realise Brinkman’s concern, he added, ‘I’m, all right. Really all right.’
‘The delegation is flying direct to Charles de Gaulle airport by the scheduled Aeroflot service, departing Sheremetyevo at seven,’ began Brinkman, telling the Russian something he already knew but including the detail to show the uncertain man how well everything had been planned. ‘You go along as a normal part of that delegation. You go through all the usual formalities, bothering about nothing. Because everything is being done for you. London are sending a complete contingent to Paris well in advance of the Moscow flight. They’ll all be briefed from the photographs we have of you how to recognise you… they’re professionals, don’t worry. There will be men lingering from incoming international flights within the baggage claim and immigration areas. And more outside. Being an official government party, the normal regulations will be waived. Follow whatever routine the French insist upon. Don’t try to make any identification – or seem to be looking for anyone – until the moment you emerge into the public part of the airport. At the moment you do emerge, there’s going to be a diversion. It will be an incendiary explosion in a washroom. It will cause an instant fire. At the very moment that happens, you’ll be aware of men around you, hurrying you away. Just go. Don’t do or say anything. It doesn’t matter what’s happening to the rest of the Russian party: there’ll be men to intervene and confuse them. A car will be waiting. Three times, you’ll change cars, in fact, transferring until you reached a military airfield near Orly. A British military aircraft will be waiting there, a designated flight plan already filed to a British military airfield at Northolt, near London. The passenger manifest will have you listed under the name entered into a valid British passport that you will be given during the drive to the Orly airstrip, a photograph and a satisfactorily forged signature already in it…’ Brinkman paused, breathlessly. ‘You got all that?’
Orlov did not immediately respond. Then he said, ‘You will not be with me? I’ll be alone?’
Brinkman was very conscious of Orlov’s fear. He said, ‘Not on the flight from Moscow. The men who are going to snatch you are experts. There’s no need – no need at all – for you to be frightened that everything won’t go as I’ve said it will. An hour after the Aeroflot flight, there’s a British Airways service to London. I shall be on it. By the time you get to Northolt, I’ll be there to meet you.’
‘You promise?’ demanded Orlov, urgently.
‘I promise,’ assured Brinkman. It was fortunate they had time to consider everything and recognise Orlov would have the need for someone he knew. He said, ‘I’ll be there to meet you and I’ll stay with you.’ That hadn’t been part of the planning but Brinkman couldn’t imagine Maxwell objecting.
‘What about Harriet?’ said Orlov.
‘We’re doing exactly what you asked,’ said Brinkman. ‘The moment you’re safe people already waiting and ready in New York will bring her to you, in England…’ He allowed the pause. ‘Believe me,’ he said. ‘Everything has been thought of.’
‘I wish there wasn’t so long to wait.’
‘Only two days!’ insisted Brinkman. ‘You’ve waited a long time. You can wait just two more days.’
‘You mean what you say? You won’t try to cheat or trick me?’
He deserved the question, Brinkman accepted, unoffended. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll not cheat you. Everything will happen as I’ve promised it will.’
‘We will not see each other again, until London?’
Brinkman knew there was nothing he could do to allay Orlov’s fear of being left alone. He said, ‘Not until London. But you can do it!’
‘I hope I can,’ said Orlov, honestly.
‘Until London,’ said Brinkman.
‘There’s no way we can get into contact?’ blurted Orlov, not wanting Brinkman to put down the telephone.
‘You know there isn’t,’ said Brinkman sternly, trying to infuse confidence into the other man.
‘Until London,’ accepted Orlov, his voice uneven.
‘I’ll buy the champagne, for you and Harriet,’ said Brinkman, grandiosely.
He replaced the receiver, switched off his radio and hurried away from the kiosk in the direction of the nearest metro station. Everything settled, he thought complacently, settling himself into a seat and watching his own reflection in the darkened glass facing him. Everything except Ann. It was while he was thinking of her that his mind ran on and he realised, worriedly, that his planning might not be as perfect as he thought. Brinkman came slightly forward in his seat at the awareness, worried at the oversight. He had intended going back to the apartment but instead re-routed himself to the embassy, where the files were. It took him two hours of concentrated reading to go through the back copies of Pravda and Izvestia and the smaller publications and the Tass tapes, alert for any disclosure of the delegation. He found it in an issue of Pravda eight days earlier, his apprehension immediate until he read it through. It was an announcement of the delegation and the countries it was visiting but contained no details of its composition. With a date as a guide, Brinkman checked the Tass wires for that day. They’d carried the story but again omitted any names. He’d been lucky, Brinkman decided, relaxing; there was no way Blair could have learned that Orlov was among a group of people going abroad.
Now it really was only Ann. Brinkman risked the call to her apartment – something he didn’t normally do because of the danger of Blair being there – and, intent once more upon omens, decided from the tone in her voice that she was pleased to hear from him.
‘I’m leaving,’ he declared abruptly.
‘What!’
There couldn’t be any mistaking the feeling in her voice that time, thought Brinkman.
‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Everything’s happened very suddenly.’
‘For good?’
‘Yes.’
It was what she wanted, thought Ann, at the other end of the telephone. Or what she imagined she wanted. Now it was happening – happening the way she’d prayed it would, when he was last in London – she wasn’t so sure. ‘Will I see you again?’