Cambridge eight with the cultural attaché who had been his senior at Kingâs and had got a rowing blue, and then edged away, to be alone. Being disliked had its advantages, he thought: no one bothered to follow.
The American contingent arrived early and there were more of them than Snare had expected. What an appalling life, sympathised Snare, playing follow-my-leader from one embassy gathering to another, repeating the same conversations like a litany and attempting to keep sane. Almost immediately behind the Americans, the rest of the diplomatic corps arrived, crushing into the entrance and slowly funnelling past the hosts towards the drinks tray and tables of canapés. Whatever did these people, all of whom had seen each other in the last week and to which absolutely nothing had happened in the interim, find to talk about? wondered the Briton.
At the far end of the chandeliered room, an orchestra was attempting Gilbert and Sullivan and Snare was reminded of the amateur musical society at his prep school.
âHi.â
Snare turned to the fat man who had appeared at his elbow. He seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in his breathing.
âBraley,â the man introduced. âAmerican embassy.â
Another C.I.A. man? wondered the Briton.
âHello,â he returned, minimally.
âCould be a good party.â
Snare looked at him, but didnât bother to reply.
âNot seen you before. Been in Washington on leave, myself.â
âI envy you,â said Snare, with feeling.
âDonât you like Moscow?â
âNo.â
âHow long will you be stationed here?â
âAs briefly as possible,â said Snare.
Christ, thought Braley. And the man was supposed to have diplomatic cover: hadnât anyone briefed him?
âBelieve youâve met my colleague, Jim Cox?â said Braley, brightly.
Snare looked at the second American and nodded. He wasnât practising his basket approach tonight, Snare saw. What had really offended him about Cox, a thin-faced, urgent-demeanoured man who did callisthenics every morning and jogged, according to his own confession, for an hour in the U.S. embassy compound in the afternoon, was the discovery that the price he was offering Snare for the duty-free, embassy-issued Scotch would have only allowed a profit of twenty pence a bottle. The offence was not monetary, but the knowledge that others in the embassy would have learned about it and laughed at him for being gullible, particularly after the apparent well-travelled act of bringing in the beans and sausages. Everyone would know now that it wasnât his idea, but somebody elseâs. Theyâd probably guess Charlie Muffin, he thought; in his first few days in the Soviet capital, there had been several friendly enquiries about the bloody man.
Snare looked back to Braley. So he was an Agency man, too. Best not to encourage them.
âExcuse me,â said Snare, edging away. âIâve just seen somebody I must talk to.â
âAn idiot,â judged Braley, watching the Englishman disappear through the crowd.
âI told you he wasnât liked,â reminded Cox. Apart from the invisible basket-ball practice, Cox had the habit of rising and falling on the balls of his feet, to strengthen his calf muscles. He did it now and Braley frowned with annoyance. Cox would probably die of a heart attack when he was forty, thought the unfit operative.
âI thought you were exaggerating,â confessed Braley. âHeâs unbelievable.â
âItâs been like this all the time.â
âThe Director said there had been changes. I wasnât aware how bad their service had got. They certainly need our involvement.â
Cox dropped an imagined ball perfectly through the shade of a wall light, nodding seriously to his superior.
âThe Russians must have spotted him,â he predicted.
Braley looked at him, sadly.
âThey know us
The American contingent arrived early and there were more of them than Snare had expected. What an appalling life, sympathised Snare, playing follow-my-leader from one embassy gathering to another, repeating the same conversations like a litany and attempting to keep sane. Almost immediately behind the Americans, the rest of the diplomatic corps arrived, crushing into the entrance and slowly funnelling past the hosts towards the drinks tray and tables of canapés. Whatever did these people, all of whom had seen each other in the last week and to which absolutely nothing had happened in the interim, find to talk about? wondered the Briton.
At the far end of the chandeliered room, an orchestra was attempting Gilbert and Sullivan and Snare was reminded of the amateur musical society at his prep school.
âHi.â
Snare turned to the fat man who had appeared at his elbow. He seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in his breathing.
âBraley,â the man introduced. âAmerican embassy.â
Another C.I.A. man? wondered the Briton.
âHello,â he returned, minimally.
âCould be a good party.â
Snare looked at him, but didnât bother to reply.
âNot seen you before. Been in Washington on leave, myself.â
âI envy you,â said Snare, with feeling.
âDonât you like Moscow?â
âNo.â
âHow long will you be stationed here?â
âAs briefly as possible,â said Snare.
Christ, thought Braley. And the man was supposed to have diplomatic cover: hadnât anyone briefed him?
âBelieve youâve met my colleague, Jim Cox?â said Braley, brightly.
Snare looked at the second American and nodded. He wasnât practising his basket approach tonight, Snare saw. What had really offended him about Cox, a thin-faced, urgent-demeanoured man who did callisthenics every morning and jogged, according to his own confession, for an hour in the U.S. embassy compound in the afternoon, was the discovery that the price he was offering Snare for the duty-free, embassy-issued Scotch would have only allowed a profit of twenty pence a bottle. The offence was not monetary, but the knowledge that others in the embassy would have learned about it and laughed at him for being gullible, particularly after the apparent well-travelled act of bringing in the beans and sausages. Everyone would know now that it wasnât his idea, but somebody elseâs. Theyâd probably guess Charlie Muffin, he thought; in his first few days in the Soviet capital, there had been several friendly enquiries about the bloody man.
Snare looked back to Braley. So he was an Agency man, too. Best not to encourage them.
âExcuse me,â said Snare, edging away. âIâve just seen somebody I must talk to.â
âAn idiot,â judged Braley, watching the Englishman disappear through the crowd.
âI told you he wasnât liked,â reminded Cox. Apart from the invisible basket-ball practice, Cox had the habit of rising and falling on the balls of his feet, to strengthen his calf muscles. He did it now and Braley frowned with annoyance. Cox would probably die of a heart attack when he was forty, thought the unfit operative.
âI thought you were exaggerating,â confessed Braley. âHeâs unbelievable.â
âItâs been like this all the time.â
âThe Director said there had been changes. I wasnât aware how bad their service had got. They certainly need our involvement.â
Cox dropped an imagined ball perfectly through the shade of a wall light, nodding seriously to his superior.
âThe Russians must have spotted him,â he predicted.
Braley looked at him, sadly.
âThey know us
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