Kompromat

CHAPTER FIFTY

Friday June 9th, 2017. 3:00a.m. Moscow time.

Igor Popov, president of the Russian Federation, and Galina Aslanova, newly appointed Director of the FSB, sat side by side on the sofa watching television in the den of the President’s dacha outside Moscow. Though it was well after midnight, neither had the slightest intention of going to bed. The news that night was simply too riveting.

Over in London, Louise Hitchcock, the BBC’s star political reporter, was assessing the results of the UK General Election where the polls had closed just hours earlier.

‘Though all the votes have not yet been counted, Prime Minister Mabel Killick’s election gamble looks to have backfired,’ she said. ‘It seems clear that the Conservatives’ hope of a landslide victory, or even a substantially increased majority, have evaporated, leaving the party scrabbling to hold on to power. Though the Conservatives are set to emerge as the largest party, the UK is heading for a hung parliament with no single party having an overall majority.’

‘What does she mean by “hung parliament?”’ President Popov asked. ‘Who are they going to hang?’

‘They’ll probably want to hang Mrs Killick,’ Galina Aslanova said. ‘They may not do it straight away, but sooner or later the knives will come out.’

‘And will Miles Pomfrey, the Labour leader, take over? He seems to have done much better than expected,’ Popov asked.

‘Not necessarily,’ Galina replied. ‘There may have to be another election later in the year, but for the time being it looks as though Mrs Killick will try to cling on to power.’

President Popov poured himself another glass of Glenmorangie. ‘You know, Galina, I rather like what I’m hearing. Of course, I would have preferred Mrs Killick to win. Achieving Brexit was one of the main goals of Operation Tectonic Plate, as we know, and she was very determined to do it. But there are different ways of skinning a cat.’

He walked across the room and took down one of the hunting rifles from the rack on the wall. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he took aim at the priceless Gobelin tapestry, which hung over the hearth. He pulled the trigger and loosed off an imaginary round.

‘The exit wound often causes the most damage, doesn’t it? Last night’s election results in Britain, as I understand them, will help us ensure that the Brexit process does indeed cause the maximum possible damage. Remainers, like Tom Milbourne, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer, will be encouraged by last night’s ambiguous election results to put a spoke in the Brexit wheel whenever they can. That is fine by me. The chaos and confusion will last for months, if not for years, and it will not be limited to Britain. Europe will be thrown into turmoil too.’

While Popov had been speaking, Galina Aslanova’s mood had sensibly lightened. She had been worried that Popov would be angry that his crucial Brexit scheme had, momentarily at least, been thrown into doubt. But the reverse seemed to be the case.

‘Do we have any preferred candidates as possible successors to Mabel Killick?’ Popov mused. ‘What about our friend Edward Barnard? He’s a safe pair of hands, surely. Much cleverer than he lets on. I think he knew right from the start I never darted that tiger. Or what about Harry Stokes? That would be fun!’

Popov pointed the remote at the TV to switch channels.

If June 8th had been a big day in Britain, with its startling General Election, it had been a big day in the United States too.

The huge TV on the oak table beside the fire showed Jack Varese addressing a rally in Pittsburgh, with Eddie Turner, Pittsburgh’s Mayor, standing next to him.

‘President Craig,’ Varese’s voice boomed across the crowd, ‘has just pulled out of the vital Paris Agreement on Global Warming. He says he was elected to represent the people of Pittsburgh, not Paris. But Eddie here tells me the people of Pittsburgh want to stick to the Global Warming Treaty, not torpedo it. Is that right, Eddie?’

When the Mayor shouted, ‘Darn right!’ the crowd erupted in approval.

‘Well, we’re going to impeach him, aren’t we, for endangering the planet?’ Varese shouted.

The crowd erupted again. ‘Lock him up! Lock him up!’

‘That won’t make any difference,’ Popov commented as he watched the screen. ‘Craig’s not going to listen to Jack Varese or Eddie Turner.’

‘What about Rosie Craig? Won’t he listen to his daughter?’ Galina said.

Popov shook his head. ‘There’s too much at stake. Craig wants an ice-free Arctic as much as we do.’

While Jack Varese worked up a head of steam sufficient to drive a small turbine, Popov switched channels again.

CBS’s Eric Longhurst was commenting on developments, not in Pittsburgh, but in Washington. ‘At a hearing that riveted Washington and millions across America, FBI Director Wilbur Brown, branded President Craig a liar. He said he believed he had been sacked because of the FBI’s investigation into Moscow’s meddling in last year’s presidential election. Brown’s explosive testimony lasted over three hours.’

Popov turned the TV off. ‘Pah! Fake News! God, how I hate it!’ he exclaimed. ‘They’ll be writing Fake Books next!’