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.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Blair started moving when he saw them hit – knowing they were dead – wanting to get out on to the road before the Russians cordoned the airport, because it shouldn’t have happened like this and he was shaking, from the shock of it and he knew he couldn’t withstand or pass any examination. He kept just within the limit to avoid attracting any attention: about a mile towards Moscow a lot of police and military vehicles hurtled past in the opposite direction, sirens blaring, but no one tried to stop him. It was another fives miles before he felt he was safe. The shaking was still as bad. He intended going to the embassy anyway, but it was essential now, for him to recover.
He drove directly to Chaykovskovo, sure that at this time of night the embassy would be deserted apart from the skeleton night staff; certainly Art Blakey and King wouldn’t be there. He wanted the CIA Residency within the embassy to himself. Its innermost room was steel-lined, for security, and it was there he went, sitting at the desk and physically holding himself, trying to quieten the reaction. He stared around the room, willing himself back to normality by the normality of accustomed surroundings. There were duplicate cipher machines for direct contact with Langley if necessary and a radio receiver and transmitter against the far wall. Adjoining that was the special equipment Blair had created and assembled, with his electronic expertise. He’d start to dismantle it tomorrow, thought the American, as he recovered; begin packing everything, in fact. They’d said he could pull out early, so why not? Reminded he called the duty clerk to ensure that the diplomatic pouch hadn’t gone and said he had a letter to enclose in it and could they wait. The clerk said there was plenty of time; there was some sort of flap out at the airport and all the planes were delayed anyway. Writing to Paul would help, Blair decided; something else that was normal. He always typed his letters, because his handwriting was so bad. He apologised to Paul for not replying earlier to his letters but said he had been extremely busy. The Moscow trip didn’t look like coming off now because unexpectedly he was being reassigned but that was great because at the moment it looked like Washington which meant they could see each other all the time. When he and John got to know Ann – and Blair underlined his conviction they were going to like her – they could stay over weekends and things like that. He was sorry about the Moscow vacation but thinking about it they might have found it dull, after a while. Ann didn’t like it all that much: in fact very little. To make up for Moscow, why didn’t they go away for a vacation in America? As a kid his own father had taken him on horseback and by canoe through a lot of the Grand Canyon. Why didn’t they do that, camping and stuff? Something mat hadn’t been available when he was a kid were the special flights out of Las Vegas, flying right along the Canyon. They could do that, if they preferred it. Why didn’t he talk it through with John and let him know as soon as he got back, which wouldn’t be long now? He sent his love to John and to Ruth, read it through and sealed it. As a test, to ensure he had recovered, he took it along to the duty clerk. The man repeated there was no hurry: latest news was that the airport was closed. From the man’s demeanour towards him, Blair was sure he’d passed his own test.
The door leading into the inner, top security room was steel-lined, of course, and fitted with a designation window into which coloured strips could be operated from the inside, indicating the degree of security applicable to whatever was going on inside. Crimson was absolute security, excluding even the ambassador. Blair locked the door – using all the devices – and although the embassy was empty put up the crimson code. He sat for a long time at the desk, staring at the electrical equipment he created but not really aware of the apparatus, deep in thought. Gradually, recovering further, he stirred, reaching back into the cabinet and taking out a burn-bag. He erected it carefully upon its tripod and with more care prepared the phosporus compound which operated upon contact with air and incinerated whatever was put inside. Satisfied, he went to the safe for which – for the last few hours – only he had the combination; they’d change it, after he left, giving Blakey a new one. There were a lot of tapes because as an internal precaution Blair installed nine listening devices in his apartment. Intention – at the time – was to have detected any Soviet entry, when they might have been away from the flat.