Heads You Win

41 Sasha

London, 1994

‘Order! Order!’ said the Speaker. ‘Questions to the Foreign Secretary. Mr Sasha Karpenko.’

Sasha rose slowly from his place on the opposition front bench, and asked, ‘Can the Foreign Secretary confirm that Britain will finally be signing the Fifth Protocol of the Geneva Convention, as we are the only European country that has so far failed to do so?’

Mr Douglas Hurd rose to answer the question, as a badge messenger appeared by the Speaker’s chair, and handed a slip of paper to the Labour whip on duty. He read the name before passing it down the front bench to the shadow minister. Sasha unfolded it, read the message, and immediately stood and walked uneasily along the opposition front bench, stepping over and sometimes on his colleagues’ toes, not unlike someone who has to leave a crowded theatre in the middle of a performance. He stopped to have a word with the Speaker to explain his actions. The Speaker smiled.

‘On a point of order, Mr Speaker,’ said the Foreign Secretary, leaping up, ‘shouldn’t the honourable member at least have the courtesy to stay and hear the answer to his own question?’

‘Hear, hear,’ shouted several members from the government benches.

‘Not on this occasion,’ said Mr Speaker without explanation. Members on both sides began to chatter among themselves, wondering why Sasha had left the chamber so abruptly.

‘Question number two,’ said the Speaker, smiling to himself.

Robin Cook was on his feet by the time Sasha had reached the members’ entrance.

‘Taxi, sir?’ asked the doorman.

‘No, thank you,’ said Sasha, who’d already decided to run all the way to St Thomas’s Hospital rather than wait for a taxi that would have to drive around Parliament Square and contend with half a dozen sets of traffic lights before reaching the hospital. He was out of breath by the time he was halfway across Westminster Bridge, having had to dodge in and out of camera-laden tourists. With each step he was made painfully aware just how unfit he had allowed himself to become over the years.

Charlie had suffered two miscarriages since the birth of their daughter, and Dr Radley had advised them that this could well be their last chance of having another child.

When Sasha reached the southern end of the bridge, he ran down the steps and along the Thames until he reached the hospital entrance. He didn’t ask the woman on reception which floor his wife was on, because they had both visited Dr Radley the previous week. Avoiding the overcrowded lift, he continued on up the stairs to the maternity wing. This time he did stop at the desk to give the nurse his name. She checked the computer while he caught his breath.

‘Mrs Karpenko is already in the delivery room. If you take a seat, it shouldn’t be long now.’

Sasha didn’t even look for a seat, but began pacing up and down the corridor, while offering a silent prayer for his unborn son. Elena hadn’t approved of them wanting to know the child’s sex before it was born. He could only wonder why a situation like this always caused him to pray, when he didn’t at any other time. Well, perhaps at Christmas. He certainly neglected to thank the Almighty when things were going well. And they couldn’t have been going much better at the moment. Natasha, whom he adored, had had him obeying her every command for the past fifteen years.

‘Otherwise what’s the point of fathers?’ Charlie had overheard her telling a friend.

Although they’d tightened their belts — another of his mother’s expressions — after the closure of Elena Three, it had taken another four years before the company was back in profit and the taxman had been paid in full. Elena One and Two were now making a comfortable profit, although Sasha was aware that he could have made a lot more money if he hadn’t chosen to follow a political career. The prospect of a second child made him wonder about his future. A minister of the Crown? Or would his constituents dismiss him? After all, Merrifield was still a marginal seat, and only a fool took the electorate for granted. Perhaps they were never going to be rich, but they led a civilized and comfortable life, and had little to complain about. Sasha had long ago accepted that if you decide to pursue a political career, you can’t always expect to travel first class.

He had been delighted by his promotion to shadow Minister of State at the Foreign Office when Tony Blair took over as leader of the opposition. A man who seemed to have an unusual failing for a Labour leader: he actually wanted to govern.

Robin Cook, the shadow Foreign Secretary, was calling for an ethical foreign policy, and told Sasha that he expected him to keep reminding his Russian counterparts that their country’s new-found wealth should be distributed among the people, and not handed out to a group of undeserving oligarchs, many of whom had not only taken up residence in Mayfair, but weren’t paying any tax.

Sasha told Cook privately that not only did he agree with those sentiments, but he had even given some thought to returning to his homeland and contesting the next presidential election if things didn’t improve. Although he had been delighted to see the end of Communism, he didn’t much care for what had replaced it.

Getting any reliable information out of Russia was never easy at the best of times, but Sasha had become a close friend of Boris Nemtsov, who was now a junior minister in the Duma, as well as developing a close circle of friends among the younger diplomats at the embassy. They met regularly at official gatherings, conferences and parties at other embassies, and Sasha quickly discovered that one young second secretary, Ilya Resinev, was even willing to pass on information from his uncle.

When President Gorbachev was replaced by Yeltsin, Ilya let Sasha know that his old school friend Vladimir was among the new president’s inner circle, and was expecting to be promoted. Vladimir had recently resigned as a colonel when the KGB was dissolved, and thrown in his lot with his old university professor Anatoly Sobchak, who had become the first democratically elected mayor of Saint Petersburg. Vladimir was among his early appointments as head of the city’s foreign and economic relations committee. Ilya told Sasha that no oil or gas deal in the province could be closed without Vladimir’s approval, although he rarely put his signature to the final document, and no one seemed surprised when he moved house three times in three years, always into an ever grander establishment, despite being on a government salary.

Ilya warned Sasha that if Sobchak was re-elected, there would be no prizes for guessing who would be his successor as the next mayor of Saint Petersburg. ‘And after that, who knows where Vladimir could end up?’

Sasha stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the delivery room, but the doors remained stubbornly closed. His mind drifted back to Russia, and his upcoming meeting with Boris Nemtsov, who, as a rising minister, was planning to visit London in the autumn, when he would bring Sasha up to date as to whether it was at all credible for him to consider standing as president. Yeltsin had disappointed even his most ardent supporters, who felt he lacked the reforming zeal they had been looking for. And too many world leaders were complaining in private that they couldn’t hold a meeting with the Russian president after four o’clock in the afternoon. By then, he was no longer coherent in any language. During a recent stopover in Dublin, Yeltsin hadn’t even been able to get off the plane, leaving the Irish Taoiseach standing on the runway waiting in vain to greet him.

Sasha checked his watch for the umpteenth time, and could only wonder what was going on behind those closed doors, when suddenly they swung open, and Dr Radley, still in his scrubs, stepped out into the corridor. Sasha walked eagerly towards him, but when the doctor removed his mask, he didn’t need to be told that he would never have a son.

Sasha wondered if he would ever come to terms with Konstantin’s death. He had held the baby in his arms for a few moments before they took him away.

His colleagues in the Commons couldn’t have been more understanding and sympathetic. But even they began to wonder if Sasha had lost his appetite for politics after he missed several three-line whips, and on a couple of occasions failed to turn up for his front bench duties.

The leader of the opposition had a word with the shadow Foreign Secretary, and they agreed to say nothing until the House returned in the autumn following the long summer recess.

Elena suggested that what they both needed was a holiday, and as far away from Westminster as possible.

‘Why not visit Rome, Florence and Milan,’ suggested Gino, ‘where you can indulge yourself in the finest opera houses, art galleries and restaurants on earth. Pavarotti and Bernini, accompanied by endless pasta and Sicilian red. What more could anyone ask for?’

‘New York, New York,’ suggested another Italian from their car radio. Charlie and Sasha decided to take Sinatra’s advice.

‘But what shall we do about Natasha?’

‘She can’t wait to get rid of you,’ Elena assured them. ‘In any case, she was hoping to join her school friends on a trip to Edinburgh to see Kiki Dee.’

‘Then that’s settled.’

Sasha set about planning a holiday Charlie would never forget. They would spend five days on the QE2, and on arrival in New York, take a suite at the Plaza. They would visit the Metropolitan, MoMA and the Frick, and he even managed to get tickets for Liza Minnelli, who was performing at Carnegie Hall.

‘And then we’ll fly home on Concorde.’

‘You’ll bankrupt us,’ said Charlie.

‘Don’t worry, the Conservatives haven’t yet brought back debtors’ prisons.’

‘It will probably be in their next party manifesto,’ suggested Charlie.

The five-day voyage on the QE2 was idyllic, and they made several new friends, one or two who thought the Labour Party might even win the next election. Every morning began with a session in the gym, but they still both managed to put on a pound a day. On the final morning they rose before the sun and stood out on deck to be welcomed by the Statue of Liberty, while the skyscrapers of the Manhattan skyline grew taller by the minute.

Once they’d checked in to their hotel — Charlie had talked him out of the presidential suite in favour of a double room several floors below — they didn’t waste a minute.

The Metropolitan Museum entranced Charlie with its breadth of works from so many cultures. From Byzantine Greece, to Italy’s Caravaggio, to the Dutch masters, Rembrandt and Vermeer, while the French Impressionists demanded a second visit. The Museum of Modern Art also delighted her and surprised Sasha, who couldn’t always tell the difference between Picasso and Braque during their cubist period. But it was the Frick that became their second home, with Bellini, Holbein and Mary Cassatt to draw them back again and again. And Liza Minnelli had them standing on their feet crying ‘Encore!’ after she sang ‘Maybe This Time’.

‘What shall we do on our last day?’ asked Sasha as they enjoyed a late breakfast in the garden room.

‘Let’s go window shopping.’

‘Why don’t we stroll into Tiffany’s and buy everything in sight?’

‘Because we’ve already gone over our budget.’

‘I feel sure we’ve still got enough to buy something for both grandmothers and Natasha.’

‘Then we’ll window shop on Fifth Avenue, but buy everything from Macy’s.’

‘Compromise,’ said Sasha, folding his newspaper. ‘Bloomingdale’s.’

Charlie selected a pair of leather gloves for her mother, while Sasha chose a Swatch for Elena that she’d hinted about more than once. And such a reasonable price, she’d reminded him.

‘And Natasha?’ asked Sasha.

‘A pair of these Levi’s. They’ll be the envy of her friends.’

‘But they’re faded and ripped before you even buy them,’ said Sasha when he first saw them in a shop window.

‘And you claim to be a man of the people.’

They were on their way back to the Plaza laden down with bags when Charlie stopped to admire a painting in a gallery window on Lexington Avenue. ‘That’s what I want,’ she said, admiring the mesmerizing colours and brushwork.

‘Then you married the wrong man.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ said Charlie. ‘But I still intend to find out how much it’s going to cost you,’ she added before going in.

The walls of the gallery were crowded with abstract works, and Charlie was admiring a Jackson Pollock when an elderly gentleman approached her.

‘A magnificent painting, madam.’

‘Yes, but so sad.’

‘Sad, madam?’

‘That he died at such a young age, when he still hadn’t fulfilled his promise.’

‘Indeed. We had the privilege of representing him when he was alive, and this painting has been through my hands three times in the past thirty years.’

‘Death, divorce and taxes?’

The old man smiled. ‘You’re not in the art world, by any chance?’

‘I work as a conservator for the Turner Collection.’

‘Ah, then please give my regards to Nicholas Serota,’ he said, handing her his card.

Sasha walked across to join them. ‘Dare I ask the price of the painting in the window?’

‘The Rothko?’ said Mr Rosenthal, turning to face his customer. ‘Alex, I had no idea you were in town. But you must know that your wife has already purchased the painting for the collection.’

‘My wife has already bought it?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Not on a Member of Parliament’s salary, she didn’t.’

Rosenthal adjusted his glasses, took a closer look at the customer and said, ‘I do apologize. I should have realized my mistake the moment you spoke.’

‘You said “the collection”,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes, the Lowell Collection in Boston.’

‘Now that’s a collection I’ve always wanted to see,’ said Charlie, ‘but I understood that it was locked up in a bank vault.’

‘Not any longer,’ said Rosenthal. ‘The paintings were all returned to their original home in Boston some time ago. I’d be happy to arrange a private view for you, madam. The curator of the collection used to work here, and I know she’d enjoy meeting you.’

‘I’m afraid we’re booked on a flight back to London later this evening,’ said Charlie.

‘What a pity. Next time, perhaps,’ said Rosenthal, giving them both a slight bow.

‘Strange,’ said Charlie once they were back on Lexington. ‘He obviously mistook you for someone else.’

‘And someone who could afford a Rothko.’

‘Come on, we’d better get moving if we’re going to make it to JFK by five,’ said Charlie. She took one last look at the painting in the window. ‘Can you imagine what it must be like to own a Rothko?’

‘I know, I know,’ said Sasha. ‘If God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.’

‘Don’t mock,’ said Charlie. ‘This plane is going far too fast.’

‘It was built to travel at this speed. So just sit back, relax and enjoy your champagne.’

‘But the whole plane is shuddering. Can’t you feel it?’

‘That will stop the moment we break the sound barrier, and then it will feel just like any other aircraft, except you’ll be travelling at over a thousand miles per hour.’

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ said Charlie, closing her eyes.

‘And don’t go to sleep.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because this will be the first and last time you’ll ever travel on Concorde.’

‘Unless you become prime minister.’

‘That’s not going to happen, but—’

Charlie gripped his hand. ‘Thank you, darling, for the most wonderful holiday I’ve ever had. Though I must confess, I can’t wait to get back home.’

‘Me too,’ admitted Sasha. ‘Did you read the leader in the New York Times this morning? It seems that even the Americans are beginning to believe we’re going to win the next election.’ Sasha glanced down to see that Charlie had fallen asleep. How he wished he could do that. He turned and looked across the aisle, to see someone he recognized immediately. He would have liked to introduce himself, but didn’t want to disturb him. The man turned and looked in his direction.

‘This is most fortuitous, Mr Karpenko,’ said David Frost. ‘I was only saying to my producer this morning, we ought to get you on our breakfast show as soon as possible. I’m particularly interested in your views on Russia, and how long you think Yeltsin will last.’

For the first time, Sasha really did believe it might be only a matter of time before he was a minister.

Sasha enjoyed the party conference in Blackpool for the first time in years. No longer was there speech after speech from the platform demanding changes the government ought to make, because this time the shadow ministers were spelling out the changes they would be making once the Tories had the guts to call an election.

Whenever he left his hotel to stroll down to the conference centre, passers-by waved and shouted, ‘Good luck, Sasha!’ Several journalists who in the past didn’t have time for a drink in Annie’s Bar were now inviting him to lunch or dinner that he couldn’t always fit into his diary. The stark message of the leader’s closing speech couldn’t have been clearer. Prepare for government with New Labour. Like everyone else in the packed hall, Sasha couldn’t wait for John Major to call a general election.

Sasha felt guilty that he hadn’t visited the countess for some time. His mother had tea with her once a week, and over the years they had become close friends. Elena regularly reminded him that it was the countess’s Fabergé egg that had changed all their fortunes. However, it was months since the old lady had attended a board meeting, despite still owning fifty per cent of the company.

When Sasha knocked on the door of her flat in Lowndes Square, the same faithful retainer answered, and for the first time, led him through to her mistress’s bedroom. Sasha was shocked to see how much the countess had aged since he’d last seen her. Her thinning white hair and deeply lined face suggested to him the harbingers of death. She gave him a weak smile.

‘Come and sit by me, Sasha,’ she said, tapping the edge of the bed. ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you. I know how busy you must be, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Sasha as he sat down beside her, ‘so please take your time. I’m only sorry it’s been so long since I last saw you.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Your mother keeps me up to date on everything you’ve been up to. The company’s back making a handsome profit, and I just hope I’ll live long enough to see you become a minister of the Crown.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘Dearest Sasha, I’ve reached the age when death is my next-door neighbour, which is the reason I asked to see you. You and I have so many things in common, not least a devotion and love for the country of our birth. We owe a great deal to our British hosts for being so civilized and tolerant, but it’s still Russian blood that runs in our veins. When I die—’

‘Which let us hope will not be for some time,’ said Sasha, taking her hand.

‘My only wish,’ she said, ignoring the interruption, ‘is to be buried next to my father and grandfather in the church of St Nicholas in Saint Petersburg.’

‘Then your wish will be granted. So please don’t give it another thought.’

‘That’s so kind of you, and I will be forever grateful. Now, on a lighter note, dear boy, a little piece of history that I thought might amuse you. When I was a child, Tsar Nicholas II visited me in my nursery and just like you sat on the edge of my bed.’ Sasha smiled as he continued to hold her hand. ‘I suspect that I will be the only person in the history of our country who’s had both a Tsar and a future president of Russia sit on her bed.’

42 Sasha

Westminster, 1997

John Major held out until the last moment, finally going to the country on the last day of the fifth year of the parliament. But by then, no one was discussing whether Labour would win the general election, only how large their majority would be.

Sasha’s seat of Merrifield was no longer considered marginal, so he was deployed across the country to address gatherings in constituencies which up until then had seldom seen anyone wearing a red rosette. Even Fiona Hunter, with her 11,328 majority in the next-door constituency, was knocking on doors and holding public meetings as if she were defending a key marginal.

Sasha spent the final week of the campaign among friends and supporters in Merrifield as they waited to learn the nation’s verdict. In the early hours of the morning of Friday, 2 May, the returning officer for the Merrifield constituency declared that Mr Sasha Karpenko had won the seat with a 9,741 majority. Alf reminded him of the days when it had been in double figures, and then only after three recounts.

That morning he read the same, one-word headline on the front page of almost every national newspaper: ‘LANDSLIDE’.

When the final seat was declared in Northern Ireland, the Labour Party had won an overall majority of 179 seats. Sasha was disappointed that Ben Cohen had lost his seat, but had to admit, if only to himself, that he was pleased Fiona had survived by a couple of thousand votes. He would call Ben later that day to commiserate.

He switched on the television while Charlie boiled a couple of eggs.

‘No television until you’ve finished your prep,’ scolded Natasha, wagging her finger.

‘This is my prep, young lady,’ said her father, as they watched a black Jaguar being driven slowly along the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, carrying a passenger who had an appointment with the monarch. Everyone knew that Her Majesty would ask Mr Blair if he could form a government, and he would assure her that he could.

When the car re-emerged through the Palace gates some forty minutes later, it travelled straight to number 10 Downing Street, where the passenger would take up residence for the next five years, along with the titles of Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury.

‘So what happens next?’ asked Charlie.

‘Like so many of my colleagues, I’ll be sitting by the phone, hoping to receive a call from the PM.’

‘And if he doesn’t call?’ said Natasha.

‘I’ll be sitting on the back benches for the next five years.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie. ‘Meanwhile, some of us have to do a day’s work. Be sure to call me the moment you hear anything. And don’t forget you’re taking Natasha to school this morning,’ she added before leaving to catch the Underground to Victoria.

Sasha topped his egg to find it had already gone hard. When Natasha left the room to collect her bag, he tried to read the morning papers. History. How he wanted to read tomorrow’s papers and discover if he’d been offered a job.

Natasha stuck her head around the door. ‘Come on, Dad, it’s time to go. I can’t afford to be late.’

Sasha abandoned his half-finished egg, grabbed the car keys from the sideboard and quickly followed his daughter out onto the street.

‘Did I tell you I’ll be playing Portia in the school play this year, Papa?’ said Natasha as she fastened her seat belt.

‘Which Portia?’ asked Sasha as he drove off.

‘Julius Caesar.’

‘You are a true and honourable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my sad heart.’

Natasha paused, before she delivered the next line. ‘If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal a woman that Lord Brutus took to wife.’

‘Not bad,’ said Sasha.

‘We’re still looking for a Brutus, Papa, just in case you’ve got nothing better to do,’ Natasha said as they drew up outside the school gates.

‘Not a bad offer. I’ll let you know this evening if I get a better one.’

‘By the way,’ Natasha said as she got out of the car, ‘you made a one-word mistake.’

‘Which word?’

‘Haven’t you always told me don’t be lazy, child, look it up? Have a good day, Papa, and the best of luck!’

Sasha let the phone ring three times before he picked it up.

‘Sasha, it’s Ben. Just calling to wish you luck.’

‘I’m sorry you lost your seat, old friend. But I’m sure you’ll be back.’

‘I doubt it. I have a feeling your party will be sitting on the government benches for some time.’

‘Perhaps they’ll send you to the Lords?’

‘Too young. And in any case, there’s likely to be a fairly long queue in front of me.’

‘Let’s keep in touch,’ said Sasha, aware that that was no longer going to be quite as easy.

‘I’ll get off the line,’ said Ben. ‘I know you must be waiting for a call from Number Ten. Good luck.’

Sasha hadn’t even sat back down before the phone rang again. He grabbed it before it could ring a second time.

‘This is Number Ten,’ said a switchboard voice. ‘The Prime Minister wondered if you could see him at three-twenty this afternoon.’

I’ll check my diary and see if that’s convenient, Sasha was tempted to say. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

For the next hour he pretended to watch the news, read the papers, and even eat lunch. He took calls from several colleagues who had already received the summons, or were still anxiously waiting, and from many others, including Alf Rycroft, to wish him luck. In between, he fed the cat, who was fast asleep, and read the second act of Julius Caesar to discover his one-word mistake.

He drove to the Commons just after 2.30 p.m., and parked in the members’ car park. The policeman on the gate saluted the moment he saw him. Did he know something Sasha didn’t? He left the Palace of Westminster just after three, and walked slowly across Parliament Square and up Whitehall past the Foreign Office. Were the mandarins inside waiting for him? The policeman on duty at Downing Street didn’t need to check his clipboard.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko,’ he said, and opened the gate to let him through.

‘Good afternoon,’ Sasha replied, as he began the long gallows walk up Downing Street to discover his fate.

He was surprised when the door to number 10 opened while he was still a few paces away. He stepped inside for the first time, to find a young woman waiting for him.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko. Would you be kind enough to follow me?’ She led him up a flight of stairs, past the portraits of former prime ministers. John Major was already in place.

When they reached the first floor, she stopped outside a door and knocked quietly, opened it and stood aside. Sasha walked in to find the Prime Minister sitting opposite an empty chair in which it looked as if several people had already sat. A secretary, pen poised, was seated behind him.

‘I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise,’ said the Prime Minister once Sasha had sat down, ‘but I’d like you to join Robin at the Foreign Office as his Minister of State. I hope you’ll feel able to accept the post.’

‘I’d be honoured,’ said Sasha. ‘And delighted to serve in your first administration.’

‘I’d also like you to keep me briefed on what’s happening in Russia,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘particularly if your personal situation should change.’

‘My personal situation, Prime Minister?’

‘Our ambassador in Moscow tells me that if you were to return to Russia and stand against Yeltsin, you’d end up with an even bigger majority than I have. In which case it will be me trying to get an appointment with you.’

‘But Yeltsin doesn’t come up for election for another three years.’

‘Yes, but the polls currently show his approval rating is in single figures, and still falling.’

‘The polls are irrelevant, Prime Minister. What matters in Russia is how many voting slips end up in the ballot box, who put them there, and even more important, who counts them.’

‘So much for glasnost,’ said Blair. ‘But I have a feeling your time may well come, Sasha, so please keep me informed, and in the meantime, good luck in your new job.’

The secretary leant forward and whispered in the Prime Minister’s ear. Sasha didn’t need to be told the meeting was over, and was about to leave when the PM added, ‘Your name is also on the list of ministers who will be invited to join the Privy Council.’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Sasha as he rose, and the two men shook hands.

When Sasha left the PM’s office, he found the same young woman still standing in the corridor. ‘If you come with me, minister, you’ll find a car outside waiting to take you to the Foreign Office.’

Denis Healey had once told Sasha that you never forget the first person who calls you minister. But within a week, you’ll think it’s your Christian name.

As Sasha left number 10 he passed Chris Smith on his way in, and wondered what job he was about to be offered. He stepped out onto the pavement, and a burly man who looked as if he might play in the front row of his local rugby team introduced himself. ‘Good afternoon, minister, my name is Arthur, and I’m your driver,’ he said, holding open the back door of the waiting car.

‘I’d prefer to sit in the front,’ said Sasha.

‘I’m afraid not, sir. Security reasons.’

Sasha climbed into the back. He couldn’t help wondering why he even needed a car, as the Foreign Office was only a few hundred yards away. ‘Security reasons,’ he could hear Arthur assuring him.

‘Can I make a phone call?’

‘It’s in the armrest, minister. Just pick it up and you’ll be straight through to the FO’s switchboard. Tell them who you want and they’ll connect you immediately.’

‘Presumably I’ll need to give them the number?’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’

Sasha lifted the armrest and picked up the phone. ‘Good afternoon, minister,’ said a voice, ‘how can I help?’

‘I’d like to speak to my wife.’

‘Of course, sir, I’ll put you through.’

Fiona had once told him it takes a little time to get used to the sudden change of lifestyle from opposition to government.

‘Hello?’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

‘Good afternoon, this is the Right Honourable Sasha Karpenko, Her Majesty’s Minister of State at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’

He waited for Charlie to burst out laughing. ‘I’m so sorry, minister,’ said the voice, ‘but your wife is away from her desk at the moment. I’ll let her know that you called.’

‘I do apologize—’ began Sasha, but the phone had already gone dead.

‘I’ve just made my first gaffe, Arthur.’

‘And I feel sure it won’t be your last. But I must admit, you’re the first of my ministers who managed it even before he’d reached the Foreign Office.’

43 Alex

Boston and Davos, 1999

The board meeting had gone smoothly enough until Jake raised the final item on the agenda, ‘Any other business.’

‘Evelyn wants what?’ asked the chairman, staring in disbelief at his chief executive.

‘To sell her fifty per cent stake in the bank. She’s offering us first refusal.’

‘How much would her shares fetch on the open market?’ asked Bob Underwood.

‘Four, possibly five hundred million.’

‘And how much is she asking for?’ asked Mitch Blake.

‘A billion.’

A group of men who were capable of playing poker for hours without moving a facial muscle gasped in disbelief.

‘Evelyn’s well aware that while she owns fifty per cent of the company’s stock, she can put a gun to our head.’

‘Then she may as well pull the trigger,’ said Alex, ‘because we don’t have that sort of money available.’

‘As George Soros once said, if you own fifty-one per cent of a company you are its master, if you own forty-nine or less, you are its servant.’

‘Anyone got any ideas?’ asked Alex, looking around the boardroom table.

‘Kill her,’ said Bob Underwood.

‘That wouldn’t solve the problem,’ said Jake matter-of-factly, ‘because her husband, Todd Halliday, would inherit her estate, and then we’d have to deal with him.’

‘We could call her bluff,’ said Underwood. ‘She’d soon find out that no one else is willing to pay her such a ridiculous sum.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Jake. ‘The Bank of Boston would love to get their hands on our Russian portfolio, which is now outperforming all our rivals, and I suspect they’d be willing to pay well above the asking price.’

‘Why don’t we just ignore the damned woman,’ suggested Blake, ‘and perhaps she’ll go away.’

‘She’s already anticipated that,’ said Jake, ‘and decided to park her tanks on our front lawn.’

‘And what does she plan to use as ammunition?’ asked Alex.

‘The company statutes.’

‘Which one in particular?’ asked Andy Harbottle, who thought he knew them all off by heart.

‘Number ninety-two.’

The rest of the board waited while Harbottle thumbed through a well-worn leather-bound book. When he came to the relevant statute, he read it out loud. ‘Should one shareholder or group of shareholders own fifty per cent or more of the company stock, they would be entitled to hold up any board decision for six months.’

‘She’s listed eleven decisions we’ve made during the past year that she intends to challenge,’ said Jake. ‘That would bring the bank to a standstill for six months, and she says that if we don’t pay up, she’ll come to the AGM next month and carry out her threat in person.’

‘Who put her up to this?’ said Underwood.

‘Ackroyd would be my bet,’ said Jake. ‘But as he’s got a criminal record, he can’t risk putting his head above the parapet. So we’re going to have to deal with Evelyn personally.’

‘But in view of her past relationship with Ackroyd,’ said Underwood, ‘why don’t we offer her four hundred million and see how she responds?’

‘We could try,’ said Jake. ‘But have I got any room to manoeuvre?’

‘Six hundred, and even that’s extortionate,’ said Alex.

‘I think, as a board, we’ll have to assume that she’ll carry out her threat,’ said Jake. ‘In which case Ackroyd will advise her to offer her shares to the Bank of Boston for seven hundred million.’

‘She should be hanged from the nearest gibbet, as many of her English ancestors were,’ said Underwood.

‘It’s me who should be hanged,’ said Alex. ‘Don’t forget, she once offered me her fifty per cent for a million dollars, and I turned her down.’

‘Drawn and quartered,’ said Underwood.

‘Not quite yet,’ said Jake. ‘We still have one ace up our sleeve.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Anna. ‘It’s always a bit special to be recognized by your peers.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alex. ‘Especially as Davos is attended by all the players who really matter in the financial world.’

‘What do they want you to speak about?’

‘Russia’s role in the new world order. The only problem is, it couldn’t have come at a worse time for the bank.’

‘Evelyn causing trouble again?’

‘She’s threatening to hijack the AGM if we don’t agree to her outrageous demands.’

‘Perhaps we should cancel our weekend in London and fly straight to Davos?’

‘No, we both need a break, and you’ve been looking forward to the trip for months.’

‘Years,’ said Anna, ‘ever since Mr Rosenthal told me I’d never really understand the significance of the English watercolour until I’d seen the Turners at the Tate.’

After paying a discreet visit to Boston’s most exclusive wig-maker he booked a return flight to Nice, and paid with cash. The travel agent also reserved him a room at the Hotel de Paris, open-ended, as he couldn’t be sure how long it would take him to carry out his plan.

By training he was a micro-manager, obsessed with detail. His hero, General Eisenhower, had written in his memoirs that all things being equal, planning and preparation are what will decide who wins the battle. By the time he boarded the plane for Nice, he was more than ready to confront her on any battlefield she chose.

Miss Robbins had booked them into the Connaught, Lawrence’s favourite hotel in London. As they only had a long weekend before flying on to Davos, every minute of their stay had to be accounted for.

The National Gallery, the Wallace Collection and the Royal Academy were compulsory viewing, and didn’t disappoint. Henry Goodman’s haunting Shylock made them want to extend their visit and see every other production at the National Theatre. And how did one decide between the Natural History Museum, the V&A and the Science Museum, unless you did all three of them on the run?

Anna saved the Turner Collection at the Tate for their last morning, and both of them were standing outside the entrance even before the gallery had opened its doors. A View of the Archbishop’s Palace, painted when the artist was only fifteen, could not have left anyone in any doubt of Turner’s genius. But after seeing The Shipwreck and Venice, Anna wanted to say to Alex, why don’t you go on to Davos without me?

She turned to see him chatting to a woman who didn’t look like a tourist, and her lapel badge suggested she might work at the Tate. Anna had for some time wanted to ask someone about Turner’s fractious relationship with Constable, his great contemporary and rival, so she strolled across to join them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ the woman was saying. ‘I thought for a moment you were my... How stupid of me.’ She hurried away, looking embarrassed.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Anna.

‘I’m not sure, but I think she mistook me for someone else.’

‘Leading a double life are you, my darling?’ she teased. ‘Because she’s just your type, dark eyes, dark hair, and she looked highly intelligent.’

‘I found one of those some time ago,’ said Alex, putting his arm around his wife, ‘and frankly, one is quite enough.’

‘Do I sense that you’re beginning to feel a little nervous about your speech?’

‘You could be right.’

‘Then let’s go back to the hotel and we can go over it one more time.’

Neither of them noticed the gallery’s head conservator watching them from her office window as they made their way out onto Millbank and hailed a black cab. If it hadn’t been for the Brooks Brothers suit and his American accent, Charlie could have sworn... and then she remembered. Could it possibly be the woman who’d worked at the Rosenthal gallery, and was now the curator of the Lowell Collection?

He took his seat in first class, and was relieved to find he didn’t recognize any of the other passengers. He used the long flight across the Atlantic to go over his strategy again and again, although he knew he would need to look surprised when they first met. As with any seasoned orator, even the ad libs had to be rehearsed.

He turned to her personal file, suspecting that by now he knew more about her than even her closest friends. By the time the plane touched down, he was wondering what could go wrong. Because there would always be something you hadn’t anticipated. Eisenhower.

Once he’d passed through passport control and retrieved his two large leather cases, he took a taxi to the Hotel de Paris, checked in, and was accompanied to his suite. He gave the porter a large tip, all part of the plan. He needed to be remembered. He could never sleep on planes, so he went straight to bed and didn’t wake until eight the following morning.

He spent the day acquainting himself with the layout of the hotel as well as the casino on the other side of the square, not that he ever gambled. It was important for him to look and sound like a regular before they bumped into each other. And most important of all, it was the evenings that needed to be rehearsed to a split second.

On Monday night, he dined alone in the hotel restaurant, and took his time gaining the confidence of Jacques, the maître d’, helped by leaving another extravagant tip before he returned to his room. By Tuesday, Jacques had confirmed that she and her husband dined at the hotel restaurant every Friday, before walking across the square where they would remain at the gaming tables until the early hours.

On Wednesday, Jacques moved him to the table next to the one they always sat at, and he selected a seat that would place him with his back to her. By Thursday, Jacques was well aware of the part he was expected to play. But then, monsieur had left him several large incentives, and he anticipated that if he played his part, there was still more where that came from.

On Friday evening he was seated in his place thirty minutes before the curtain was due to rise. He placed his order, but told Jacques he wasn’t in a hurry.

The two of them entered the dining room just after eight o’clock, and Jacques didn’t even look in his direction as he accompanied his guests to their usual table. He continued to read the international Wall Street Journal, as he needed her to be aware that he was alone.

Jacques waited until their main courses had been cleared before the curtain rose for the second act, when Jacques walked back on stage to play his cameo role. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

‘Did you notice who’s sitting at the next table, madam?’

‘If you mean the elderly gentleman with his back to me, I can’t say I did.’

‘It’s George Soros. He always gives me a share tip whenever he stays, and it usually doubles in value by the time he returns.’

‘He’s a regular then?’

‘He stays with us once a year, madam, just for the week. A chance to relax, somewhere no one will recognize him.’

‘I won’t have a dessert tonight, Jacques,’ she said. ‘And neither will my husband.’

Todd looked disappointed, because he always enjoyed the bitter chocolate roulade, but he knew that look.

‘As you wish, madam,’ said Jacques. As he passed the next table, he filled the guest’s glass with water, the sign that he had performed his role and was leaving the stage.

A few moments later, Todd got up and discreetly left the dining room. The diner at the next table turned a page of his paper, and continued reading. Evelyn stood up, pushing her chair back until it bumped into his.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said as he turned round.

‘Not at all,’ he said, rising from his place and giving her a slight bow.

‘Good heavens, are you who I think you are?’

‘That would depend on who you want me to be,’ he said, smiling warmly.

‘Mr Soros?’

‘Then my cover is blown, madam.’

‘Evelyn Lowell,’ she said, returning his smile.

He bowed again. ‘I had the privilege of knowing your father,’ he said. ‘A fine man, from whom I learnt a great deal.’

‘Yes, dear Papa. I wish he was still alive so I could seek his advice on a problem I have.’

‘Perhaps I might be of assistance?’

‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to impose...’

‘My dear lady, it would be an honour to advise the daughter of James Lowell, and perhaps in some small way repay his kindness over the years. Please, join me,’ he said, pulling back the chair next to his.

‘How kind of you,’ said Evelyn as she sat down.

‘Jacques, a glass of champagne for the lady, and I’ll have my usual.’ The maître d’ hurried away. ‘Now, how can I help, Ms Lowell?’

‘Evelyn, please.’

‘George,’ he said, as he sat back and allowed Evelyn to take her time telling him everything he already knew between sips of champagne, while he enjoyed a brandy.

‘Not an uncommon problem when it comes to inheritance,’ he said once she’d come to the end of her tale. ‘Especially when rival siblings are involved. It’s known as the fifty-fifty dilemma.’

‘How interesting,’ she said, hanging on his every word.

‘There is a simple solution, of course.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘First, I must ask you, Evelyn, can you keep a secret?’

‘Most certainly I can,’ she said, placing a hand on his thigh.

‘Because we’ll need to work closely together over the next few days, and I wouldn’t want anyone, and I mean anyone, to know the source of what I’m about to divulge, even your husband.’

‘Then perhaps it might be wiser to go up to your room where we won’t be disturbed,’ she said, moving her hand a little further up his thigh.

This certainly wasn’t something Bob had anticipated, but if that’s what it took...

The last time Alex had been this nervous was on the battlefield in Vietnam. And just as then, the waiting was the worst part.

His first anxiety was that no one would turn up to hear him speak. When Nelson Mandela, George Soros and Henry Kissinger are also on the menu, you have to accept that at best you’re the dessert. However, the organizers assured him that ‘Russia’s Role in the New World Order’ was the dish of the day, and that most of the delegates had been ordering it.

When an attendant knocked on the door of the speakers’ room and told him it was time to make his way backstage, Alex didn’t even have the nerve to ask how the house was looking. When he could finally bear it no longer, he peeked through a gap in the curtain, to find that the organizers hadn’t exaggerated. The hall was so packed that some of the delegates were sitting in the aisles.

Klaus Schwab rose to introduce him, and opened his remarks by telling the delegates that Alex Karpenko had been among the leading investment bankers in the burgeoning Russian republic for the past decade, closing deals that had stunned his more cautious rivals who’d been left in his wake. Lowell’s had brought a new meaning to the words ‘risk reward ratio’, having secured at least one deal that had made a thousand per cent profit in its first year, while at the same time raising the wages of every one of the company’s workers.

‘In the days of the gold rush,’ said Schwab, ‘you needed to climb on the bandwagon and head west. In today’s Russia, it’s a private jet, and you have to head east.’

Alex was relieved that Schwab didn’t also mention that he had once escaped from Saint Petersburg in an ambulance, but not before his wallet had been emptied by a rent boy and an off-duty paramedic.

The applause was friendly when he emerged from behind the curtain to take Schwab’s place at the podium. The kind of reception that hints, we’ll wait and see how the speech goes before we pass judgement.

Alex looked down at row upon row of expectant faces and made them wait for a moment before delivering his opening line.

‘Whenever I address my local Lions club, a student forum, or even a business conference, I’m usually fairly confident that I’ll be better informed than anyone else in the room. I accepted this invitation without realizing that everyone else in the room would be far better informed than me.’

The laughter that followed allowed him to relax a little.

‘Lowell’s Bank has been working in Russia with the local people for the past ten years, and Mr Schwab kindly described us as one of the leaders in the field. The same bank has been doing business in Boston for over a century, and we are still thought of as upstarts. However, in the context of Russian investment banking, we are regarded as part of the establishment after only a decade. How can that be possible?

‘Less than fifty years ago, Stalin ruled over one of the largest empires on earth. When he died in 1953, he was mourned as a national hero and statues of him were erected in even the smallest of towns. The people referred to him affectionately as Uncle Joe, and around the world his name was mentioned in the same breath as those of Roosevelt and Churchill. But today you will be hard-pressed to find a statue of Stalin anywhere in the former Soviet Union, other than in his home town.

‘After Stalin, there followed a series of unelected despots who had sheltered in his shadow for years: Khrushchev, Kosygin, Brezhnev, Andropov and Chernenko, who all clung on to power until they died or were forcibly removed from office. And then suddenly, almost without warning, that all changed overnight when Mikhail Gorbachev appeared on the scene and announced the birth of glasnost. A simple translation being, the policy or practice of more open consultative government and a wider dissemination of information.

‘From March 1990, when Gorbachev became the first elected president of the Soviet Union, the country began to change rapidly, and for the first time entrepreneurs were able to operate without the restrictions of a centralized command economy.

‘However, the people who oversaw this transformation were the same gang of thugs who’d run the old regime. How would you feel if the leader of the Communist Party in America was handed the keys to Fort Knox? And this despite the fact that the Soviet Union had one of the finest educational systems in the world, that is, if you wanted to be a philosopher, or a poet, but not if you wanted to be a businessman. In those days you had a better chance of studying Sanskrit at Moscow University than of finding your way around a balancesheet.

‘Russia has twenty-four per cent of the world’s gas reserves, twelve per cent of its oil, and more timber than any other nation on earth. But while the average worker may no longer consider himself a comrade, he is still earning less than the equivalent of fifteen dollars a week, and few people are paid more than fifty thousand a year. Less than my secretary. So the transition from Communism to capitalism was never going to be easy.

‘We are all aware that first impressions tend to linger, so I should not have been surprised when, after I had been back in my homeland for only a few hours, some of Russia’s problems were brought home to me. I was standing on a street corner trying to get a taxi, and I couldn’t help noticing that while there was no shortage of BMWs, Mercedes and Jaguars, there was almost no sign of a Ford Fiesta or a VW Polo. The disparity between rich and poor is starker in Russia than in any other nation on earth. Two per cent of Russians own ninety-eight per cent of the national wealth, so who can blame ordinary citizens for rejecting capitalism and wanting to return to what they now regard as the good old days of Communism? If Western values are to prevail, what Russia most needs is a middle class who, through hard work and diligence, can benefit from their country’s staggering wealth and natural resources.

‘This doesn’t mean that there aren’t great opportunities to do business in Russia. Of course there are. However, if you’re thinking of going east, young man, be warned — it’s not for the faint-hearted.

‘Mr Schwab told you that Lowell’s had closed a deal that made my bank a thousand per cent profit in a year. But what he didn’t tell you was that we also signed three other contracts where we lost every penny of our investment, and in one case even before the ink was dry on the paper. So the golden rule for any company considering opening a branch in Russia is to choose your partner wisely. When there’s the potential for a thousand per cent profit in a year, the stupid, the greedy and the downright dishonest will appear like cockroaches from under the floorboards. And should your partner breach a contract, don’t bother to sue, because the judge will almost certainly be on their payroll.

‘Could this all change for the better? Yes. In the year 2000, the Russian people will go to the polls to choose a new president. We can safely assume they won’t re-elect Boris Yeltsin, who by now would have been impeached in Washington and banished to the Tower in London.’

Laughter followed, humour often emphasizing the truth. Alex turned a page.

‘The Communist Party, which appeared to be dead and buried a decade ago, has once again raised its head, and is now comfortably ahead in the polls. But if a candidate were to stand for president whose first interest was in democracy, and not in lining their own pockets, who knows what could be achieved?

‘You see before you a Russian who escaped to America some thirty years ago, but who in recent years has regularly returned to his homeland, because Lowell’s Bank takes the long view. I hope that in a hundred years’ time, America will still be Russia’s greatest rival. Not on the battlefield, but in the boardroom. Not in the nuclear arms race, but in the race to cure disease. Not on the streets, but in the classrooms. But that can only be achieved if every Russian vote is of equal weight.’

A long round of applause followed, as Alex turned another page.

‘Two hundred years ago, America was at war with Britain. In the past century, the two nations have twice united to fight a common enemy. Why shouldn’t America and Russia have a similar aim?’ Alex lowered his voice almost to a whisper. ‘I hope there are those among you who will join me, and try to make that ideal possible by building bridges and not destroying them, and by believing, as any civilized society should, that all men and women are born equal, whatever country they are born in. I can only hope that the next generation of Russians will, like the next generation of Americans, take that for granted.’

An audience that had decided to wait and hear Alex’s words before they passed judgement, rose as one, and caused him to wonder, not for the first time, if he should have taken Lawrence’s place not in the boardroom, but in the political arena.

‘You were magnificent, my darling,’ said Anna when he walked off the stage. ‘But I don’t remember those last couple of paragraphs when you were rehearsing your speech in the bathroom this morning.’

Alex didn’t comment. And it didn’t help, during the next couple of days, that whenever he was stopped in the conference hall, in his hotel, in the street, and even at the airport, delegates suggested, ‘Perhaps you are the man who should be standing for president in your country?’ And they didn’t mean America.

‘You did what?’ said Doug Ackroyd.

‘I sold one per cent of my shares in Lowell’s for twenty million dollars,’ said Evelyn proudly.

‘Why would you do something as stupid as that?’

‘Because by letting go of one per cent for twenty million, I established that the true value of my fifty per cent was a billion dollars.’

‘While at the same time you handed over control of the bank to Karpenko,’ said Ackroyd, spitting out the words. ‘They now have fifty-one per cent of the company, while you only have forty-nine.’

‘No,’ protested Evelyn, ‘I didn’t sell my one per cent to the bank.’

‘Then to whom, dare I ask?’

‘To George Soros, who I’m sure you’ll agree knows a damn sight more about banking and investments than either of us.’

‘Indeed he does,’ said Ackroyd. ‘But how, may I ask, did you happen to bump into the great man?’

‘I met him two weeks ago in Monte Carlo. A happy coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘No, I do not think it was a happy coincidence, Evelyn. It was a well-planned set-up, and you fell for it.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘Because two weeks ago George Soros was in Davos, giving a lecture on the Exchange Rate Mechanism. I know, because I was sitting in the audience.’

Evelyn’s legs gave way and she collapsed into the nearest chair. She was silent for some time before saying, ‘So what do I do now?’

‘Accept the bank’s offer of six hundred million dollars before they change their mind.’

‘Mrs Lowell-Halliday has accepted the bank’s offer of six hundred million dollars for her shares,’ said the company secretary. ‘But I’ll need the board’s approval before I can sign off on it.’

‘But that was when she owned fifty per cent of the bank’s stock,’ said Jake. ‘Thanks to Bob’s brilliant coup, she now only has forty-nine per cent, and we’re in control.’

‘Offer her three hundred million,’ said Alex, ‘and settle for four.’

‘Do you think she’ll agree to that?’ asked Mitch Blake.

‘Without a doubt,’ said Alex. ‘Ackroyd will advise her that she won’t get a better offer anywhere else, and if she agrees, the good news is that the bank will end up not having to pay her a penny.’

‘How come?’ said Alan Gates.

‘Simple really, but perhaps the time has come for Jake to tell the board a little more about the ace that we’ve always had up our sleeve.’

Jake opened a file and turned several pages before he came to the signed agreement. ‘Mrs Lowell-Halliday took out several loans over the years when her brother Lawrence was chairman of the bank. Ackroyd, as CEO, approved the transactions, and in order to give the deal some legitimacy, Evelyn agreed to pay an interest rate of five per cent per annum until the loans were repaid. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for the bank, she hasn’t returned one red cent, but then, she never intended to.’ Jake turned a page before he continued. ‘The result is that after more than twenty years of debt and accumulated interest, she currently owes the bank just over 451 million dollars.’ Jake closed the file. A long silence was followed by a round of applause.

‘But she will still owe the bank over fifty million,’ said Bob, ‘even if she accepts the offer.’

‘Which we will agree to write off in exchange for her forty-nine per cent shareholding in the bank,’ said Jake.

‘Bravo,’ said Alex, before looking around the boardroom table. ‘However, I still can’t wait to hear the details of how Bob managed to make it all possible?’

The rest of the directors turned their attention to the longest-serving member of the board, who no longer had a shock of white hair.

‘A gentleman should never be indiscreet where a lady is concerned,’ said Bob, ‘but I can report to the board that Mrs Evelyn Lowell-Halliday doesn’t know the difference between being laid and being screwed. By the way, chairman, can I now resign?’

44 Sasha

London, 1999

‘Does the right honourable gentleman plan to visit his other constituency in the near future?’

Sasha smiled, while some laughed at the jibe, but then he had his answer well prepared.

‘I can tell the right honourable member that I have no plans to visit Russia in the near future. But I am looking forward to seeing the opening night of Swan Lake at the Royal Opera House, danced by the Bolshoi Ballet.’ He was about to add, the greatest ballet company on earth, but thought better of it.

‘Mr Kenneth Clarke,’ said the Speaker.

‘When the right honourable gentleman does next visit Moscow, could he point out to President Yeltsin that for a nation now posturing as a democracy, his country’s human rights record leaves much to be desired.’

This time the hear, hears were loud, and not in jest.

Sasha rose again. ‘If the right honourable gentleman would be kind enough to bring to my attention any particular examples he has in mind, be assured I will look into them. However, members of the House may be interested to know that Mr Boris Nemtsov, a former vice premier of Russia, is sitting in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, and I’m sure he will have heard the honourable gentleman’s question.’

Sasha glanced up at the gallery and smiled at his friend, who seemed amused by his moment of notoriety.

When questions to the Foreign Secretary came to an end and the Speaker called for the business of the day, Sasha quickly left the chamber and made his way to the Central Lobby, where he had arranged to meet up with Nemtsov.

‘Welcome to Westminster, Boris,’ he said as he shook his guest warmly by the hand.

‘Thank you,’ said Nemtsov. ‘I was delighted to see you more than holding your own against the rabble. Although I have to agree that our record on human rights does not bear close scrutiny, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure to tell my colleagues back home that I heard the subject raised in the British House of Commons.’

‘Do you have time to join me for tea on the terrace?’ asked Sasha, reverting to his native tongue.

‘I’ve been looking forward to it all day,’ said Nemtsov. Sasha led his guest down the green-carpeted staircase and out onto the terrace, where they sat at a table overlooking the Thames.

‘So what brings you to London?’ asked Sasha as a waiter appeared by their side. ‘Just tea for two, thank you.’

‘Officially I’m here to visit the Lord Mayor of London to discuss environmental issues affecting over-populated cities, but my main purpose is to see you, and bring you up to date on what’s happening on the political front back home.’

Sasha sat back and listened attentively.

‘As you know, the presidential election is due to be held in a year’s time.’

‘Not long before the next general election in Britain,’ said Sasha.

The waiter returned and placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the table.

‘Yeltsin has already announced that he won’t be fighting the next election, possibly influenced by his current approval rating which, according to the opinion polls, is languishing around four per cent.’

‘That’s quite difficult to achieve,’ said Sasha, pouring them both a cup of tea.

‘Not if you wake up every morning with a hangover, and are drunk again before lunchtime.’

‘Does Yeltsin have an anointed successor?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. But even if he did, it would be the kiss of death. No, the only name in the field at the moment is Gennady Zyuganov, the Communist Party leader, and most people accept that it would be a disaster if we were to return to the past, although the possibility can’t be dismissed. Frankly, Sasha, you may never get a better chance to become our next president.’

‘But perhaps my approval ratings would also be around four per cent.’

‘I’m glad you raised that,’ said Nemtsov, taking a slip of paper from an inside pocket, ‘because we’ve conducted some private polling, which showed you are currently on fourteen per cent. However, twenty-six per cent didn’t even recognize your name, and thirty-one per cent haven’t made up their minds yet. So we were encouraged. If you were to come to Saint Petersburg and officially announce your intention to stand, I have no doubt those figures would change overnight.’

‘I admit I’m torn,’ said Sasha. ‘Only last week The Times said in a leader that if Labour were to win the next election, which looks highly likely, I could well be the next foreign secretary.’

‘And after hearing your performance in the House this afternoon, and your grasp of so many subjects, frankly I’m not surprised. However, I would suggest that president of Russia is a far bigger prize for someone who was born and raised in Saint Petersburg.’

‘I agree with you,’ whispered Sasha, ‘but I can’t afford to let my colleagues know that. Besides, I’d need to be convinced that I have a realistic chance of success before I’d be willing to give up everything I’ve worked so hard for.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Nemtsov, ‘but we won’t really be able to evaluate your chances until we know who your main rival is.’

‘But you were the vice premier,’ said Sasha, ‘why don’t you stand?’

‘Because my poll ratings aren’t much better than Yeltsin’s. However, with my backing, I’m convinced you can win.’

‘It’s good of you to say so. But Vladimir could still prove a problem. After all, he was deputy mayor of Saint Petersburg, and won’t like the idea of me standing for president.’

‘You needn’t worry about Vladimir. He left Saint Petersburg only minutes before he would have been arrested for embezzlement of public funds. He disappeared off to Moscow and was last sighted in the Kremlin.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Rumour has it that he’s working closely with Yeltsin, but no one’s quite sure in what capacity.’

‘Vladimir’s only interested in one thing, and that’s becoming director of the FSB.’

‘Who did they think they were kidding when they abolished the KGB and it re-emerged later as the Federal Security Service? The same bunch of thugs doing the same job, even in the same building,’ Nemtsov mused. ‘But if Vladimir was to pull that off, you would be wise not to make an enemy of him. In fact if he was on your side, it might even help your cause.’

‘But if he was on my side,’ said Sasha, ‘it could only harm my cause. I couldn’t hope to achieve anything worthwhile with him continually looking over my shoulder. In fact the very changes I would want to make as president, he would be vehemently opposed to.’

‘But in politics,’ said Nemtsov, ‘you occasionally have to compromise—’

‘Compromise is for those who have no courage, no morals and no principles.’

‘You don’t have to convince me, Sasha, that you’re the right man for the job, but first we have to get you elected.’

‘I’m sorry to be so negative, but I wouldn’t want to become president only to find that someone else was pulling the strings.’

‘I understand. But once you get the job you can cut those strings. Remember, there is no power without office.’

‘Of course you’re right,’ said Sasha. ‘And I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made my decision.’

‘Do you have any idea when that might be?’

‘It won’t be much longer, Boris. But there are one or two people I still have to consult before I can make a final decision.’

‘Surely your mother must be pressing you to stand? After all, your father certainly would have wanted you to be president.’

‘She’s the only one in the family who’s one hundred per cent against the idea,’ said Sasha. ‘She’s a great believer in a “bird in the hand”...’

‘I don’t know the expression,’ said Nemtsov. ‘And what about your wife?’

‘Charlie’s sitting on the fence.’

‘Now that’s an expression every politician in the world is familiar with.’

Sasha laughed. ‘But she would back me if she felt I really wanted the job, and believed I could win.’

‘What about your daughter?’

‘Natasha’s only interest at the moment is someone called Brad Pitt.’

‘An aspiring politician?’

‘No, an American actor who Natasha is convinced would fall in love with her, if only they could meet. And she doesn’t understand why a foreign office minister can’t arrange it. Just how important are you, Dad? she keeps asking.’

Nemtsov laughed. ‘It’s no different in our home. My son wants to be a drummer in a local jazz band, and has absolutely no interest in going to university.’

Big Ben struck four times in the background.

‘I’d better get back and join my colleagues,’ said Nemtsov, ‘before they work out why I really came to London.’

‘Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Boris, and your continued support,’ said Sasha, as they walked back up to the Central Lobby together.

‘Every time I see you, Sasha, I become more convinced that you’re the right man to be our next president.’

‘I’m grateful for your backing, and I’ll let you know the moment I’ve made up my mind.’

‘If you were to return to Saint Petersburg,’ said Boris, ‘you might be surprised by the welcome you would receive.’

‘I’m glad I don’t have to make the decision,’ said Charlie.

‘But you do, my darling,’ said Sasha. ‘Because I wouldn’t even consider taking on such a risky enterprise without your blessing.’

‘Have you taken into consideration how much you have to lose?’

‘Of course I have. And as Labour look almost certain to win the next election, it would be easy for me to just sit back and hope I become foreign secretary. The far bigger risk would be to resign from the Commons, return to Russia and spend a year campaigning to become president, only to see someone else snatch the prize.’

‘Especially if that someone else turned out to be your old friend Vladimir.’

‘As long as he’s Yeltsin’s bag carrier, he’s more likely to end up in prison than the Kremlin.’

‘Then let me ask you a simple question,’ said Charlie. ‘If I were to offer you both of those positions on a plate, president of Russia or British foreign secretary, which one would you choose?’

‘President of Russia,’ said Sasha without hesitation.

‘Then you have your answer,’ said Charlie, ‘and mine. Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering, “what if?” ’

‘Do you think there’s anyone else I should consult before making such an irrevocable decision?’

Charlie thought long and hard before she said, ‘No point in asking your mother, because we both know exactly where she stands. Or your daughter, who is otherwise preoccupied. But I’d be fascinated to hear Alf Rycroft’s opinion. He’s a shrewd old buzzard, who’s known you for over twenty years, and he has that rare ability to think outside the box. And probably even more important, he’ll only have your best interests at heart.’

‘And to what do I owe this great honour, minister?’ asked Alf, as he accompanied Sasha through to the sitting room.

‘I need your advice, Alf.’

‘Then have a seat. We’re unlikely to be disturbed, as my wife, Millicent, is out doing good works. I think it’s her day at the hospital as library monitor.’

‘She’s a saint.’

‘As is Charlie. Truth is, we both got lucky in the lottery of marriage. So how can I help you, young man?’

‘I’m forty-six,’ said Sasha. ‘You used to call me young man when I first came to the constituency over twenty years ago. Now, nobody does.’

‘Wait till you reach my age,’ said Alf, ‘you’ll be only too grateful if anyone calls you young man. Now, when you called to say you wanted to discuss a private matter, it wasn’t difficult to work out what was troubling you.’

‘And what conclusion did you come to?’

‘Naturally I’d like you to become foreign secretary, then I could spend the rest of my days telling the lads at the bowls club that I was the first to spot your potential.’

‘No more than the truth,’ said Sasha.

‘I knew you were a bit special the day we interviewed you for Merrifield. So what I’m about to say, Sasha, may come as a bit of a surprise. I think you should resign from the Commons, return to Russia, and, if it’s not too dramatic a statement, fulfil your destiny.’

‘But that would mean risking everything, when there’s an easy option still open to me.’

‘Agreed, but then it’s never been your style to take the easy option. When you had the opportunity to represent a safe London seat, you chose instead to return to Merrifield and fight a marginal.’

‘There’s a lot more at stake this time,’ said Sasha.

‘As there was for Winston Churchill, when he crossed the floor of the House to join the Conservatives, because he certainly would never have become prime minister if he’d remained on the Liberal benches.’

‘But I’ve spent the last thirty years in this country,’ said Sasha. ‘So compared to crossing the floor of the House, it would be some walk to Moscow.’

‘Lenin didn’t think so, and don’t forget he was stuck in Switzerland when the Revolution began.’

‘Can’t you think of a better example?’ said Sasha, laughing.

‘Gandhi was a practising lawyer in South Africa when he sensed revolution in the air and returned to India to become its spiritual leader. So my advice, Sasha, is to go back home, because your people will see in you what I spotted over twenty years ago, a decent, honest man, with unwavering convictions. And they will embrace those convictions with relief and enthusiasm. But my opinion is no more than the ramblings of an old man.’

‘Made all the more powerful,’ said Sasha, ‘because it wasn’t what I expected.’

Sasha always enjoyed his visits to the Russian Embassy, not least because no one threw a better party than their ambassador, Yuri Fokin. Gone were the days when the building was surrounded by impenetrable barriers, and few people knew what went on behind its closed doors.

Sasha could remember when, if you asked a Russian diplomat what the time was, he would tell you the time in Moscow. Now, the ambassador would happily answer any question you put to him. All you had to decide was when he was telling the truth.

On this occasion, however, Sasha wasn’t visiting the embassy to enjoy a relaxed and convivial evening. This would be his last opportunity to gauge his chances should he decide to stand for the presidency. Among the guests would be half a dozen Russians who could influence his decision one way or the other, and he needed to make sure he spoke to every one of them. The other guests would be the usual mixture of politicians, businessmen and hangers-on, who would attend any party as long as the drinks were flowing and there were enough canapés to ensure they didn’t need to go to dinner afterwards.

Sasha’s driver took a right off Kensington High Street, and came to a halt in front of a barrier that led into Kensington Palace Gardens, more commonly known as Embassy Row. A long straight road lined with elegant town houses that rarely came onto the market.

A guard saluted, and the barrier was raised the moment he saw the minister’s car. They passed India, Nepal and France before they reached Russia. A valet rushed forward to open the back door of the limousine. The minister stepped out, thanked him, and made his way into the embassy.

The embassy could have been an English country house at the turn of the century, with its oak-panelled entrance hall, grandfather clock and portraits of historical figures. It always amused Sasha that there was no sign of a tsar, or even Lenin or Stalin. History seemed to have begun, for one of the oldest empires on earth, in 1991.

When Sasha walked into the drawing room, he noticed that some of the guests broke off their conversations, and turned to look at him; something he still hadn’t got used to and wondered if he ever would.

He looked around the packed room, and soon identified four of his targets. One of them, Anatoly Savnikov — diplomatic attaché his official title, head of the Russian secret services in London his real job — was chatting to Fiona. If this hadn’t been the Russian Embassy, Sasha might have thought he was chatting her up. No doubt there were a dozen other spies in the room who would be far more difficult to identify. The Foreign Office rule was simple enough: assume everyone is a spy.

As Sasha turned, he noticed the ambassador was deep in conversation with Charles Moore, editor of the Daily Telegraph. Sasha would have to bide his time before he had a few words with Yuri, words that had already been carefully scripted.

He made his way across to Leonid Bubka, the trade minister, hoping he might show his hand, but Bubka changed the subject every time the word ‘election’ came up in conversation. Sasha didn’t give up easily, but Bubka continued to block every attempt to score with the skill of Lev Yashin. When his old friend Ilya Resinev, the second secretary at the embassy, touched his elbow, Sasha moved discreetly to one side and listened intently to what he had to say.

‘Have you heard who’s been appointed director of the FSB?’ whispered Ilya.

‘Don’t tell me Vladimir finally made it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Ilya.

‘The old KGB by any other name,’ said Sasha, ‘being run by the same bunch of thugs, dressed in suits instead of uniforms. Who did he have to blackmail this time?’

‘Yeltsin, it seems,’ said Ilya. ‘Vladimir promised him that no matter who succeeded him as president after the next election, he would make sure that he and his family wouldn’t face any charges of corruption or fraud.’

‘Then the first thing I’d do as president,’ said Sasha, ‘would be to sack Vladimir and make it clear that no one who’s committed a serious crime against the state will be granted immunity.’

‘If you do that, Sasha, you’re going to have to build a lot more prisons.’

‘So be it.’

‘But be careful who you say that to, because his deputy is here tonight.’

‘Which one?’

‘The tall, heavyset man talking to Fiona Hunter.’

Sasha glanced over Ilya’s shoulder to see a man handing Fiona his card. Someone he would be avoiding. As he turned back, he noticed the ambassador was standing alone by the mantelpiece, lighting a cigar.

‘Forgive me, Ilya. I need to have a private word with your boss. But thank you for the information, most valuable.’ Sasha moved swiftly across the room.

‘Good evening, Yuri,’ he said. ‘Another memorable party.’ Sasha positioned himself with his back to the wall to make sure the ambassador had to turn away from his guests, so that only the most determined, or tactless, would consider interrupting them.

‘I spotted you at the Bolshoi last week,’ said the ambassador. ‘Still one of our finest exports.’

‘Gudanov was magnificent,’ said Sasha.

‘We’ve got a problem with him that I may need to discuss with you, but now is not the time. What I would like to know, Sasha, is have you made a decision yet?’

‘Before I answer that question, Yuri, I’d be fascinated to hear what you think of my chances.’

‘As you well know, minister, I am not allowed to express an opinion. I’m but a humble mouthpiece for the government I serve. But,’ said Yuri, switching languages, ‘if I were a betting man, which of course I’m not, I would place a small wager on you being my boss by this time next year.’

‘Only a small wager?’

‘Ambassadors always have to hedge their bets,’ said Yuri, without even the suggestion of a smile.

Sasha laughed, and wondered how many other politicians he’d delivered those same words to in the past six months.

‘And could I make a small request,’ said Yuri. ‘It would be helpful if I could be briefed before you make any official announcement.’

‘If I do decide to stand, I’ll make sure you see any statement long before I release it to the press.’

‘Thank you,’ said Yuri. ‘There’s one more thing I need to ask you before—’

‘Ambassador, what a fantastic party,’ said a man who seemed not to have noticed they were deep in conversation and might not have wanted to be interrupted.

‘Thank you, Piers,’ said the ambassador. ‘It was good of you to come.’ The moment had passed, and Sasha slipped away, as the editor of the Daily Mirror wasn’t one of the four people he needed to speak to. He began to make his way slowly towards the exit, stopping to exchange a few words with several other guests, paying particular attention to those who spoke to him in Russian, as his constituency boundaries might be about to change. As he glanced back into the drawing room, he saw the man he had avoided staring at him.

The clock in the hall chimed once, reminding Sasha he had a vote in the Commons in thirty minutes’ time. Within moments the party would be denuded of politicians of every colour as they made their way back to the House for a three-line whip, not that Sasha had any idea which bill they would be voting on.

As he stepped out of the front entrance of the embassy, his car appeared from nowhere, and Arthur leapt out to open the back door. Sasha was just about to get in, when a voice he recognized called out his name.

‘Sasha!’ He turned to see Fiona running down the steps. ‘Can I cadge a lift?’

‘Of course,’ said Sasha, standing aside to allow his old nemesis to join him in the back seat.

‘Good evening, Arthur.’

‘Good evening, Miss Hunter.’

‘I would have liked to stay a bit longer,’ Fiona said as the car moved off, ‘but the chief wouldn’t appreciate it if I missed a three-liner. But more important, Sasha, when are you going to answer the only question that was on everybody’s lips at the party?’

‘And what were they saying about my chances?’ asked Sasha, falling back on the old political trick of answering a question with a question, although he knew Fiona wouldn’t be fooled.

‘Everyone who spoke English was in favour of you standing, as were half of the Russians, although one of them,’ she said, taking a card out of her bag, ‘Ivan Donokov, is certainly no friend of yours. He asked me the strangest question: had you ever lived in America?’ Sasha looked puzzled. ‘I told him not that I was aware of. I then pressed him on what he thought of your chances should you throw your hat in the ring.’

‘And how did he respond?’

‘He acknowledged you were probably the front runner, but said there was a dark horse coming up on the rails.’

‘Did he name the horse?’ asked Sasha, trying not to sound anxious.

‘He thought that an old friend of yours called Vladimir—’

‘He’s no friend of mine,’ said Sasha. ‘In any case, that man’s only interest was becoming head of the FSB, and now he’s achieved that, he won’t be looking further afield, just making sure he clings on to his job.’

‘That wasn’t Donokov’s opinion. In fact he was fairly sure Vladimir was also gazing across Red Square, his eyes now fixed on the Kremlin.’

‘But that’s not realistic.’

‘Why not, if he’s got Yeltsin backing him?’

‘But why would Yeltsin even consider backing such a flawed individual?’

‘It seems Yeltsin’s daughter and son-in-law were about to be arrested and charged with fraud, and Vladimir somehow managed to make the problem disappear. I’m told the video of a call girl caught performing her particular special services on the desk of the prosecutor general’s office is well worth watching.’

‘But that’s no reason to back someone for president who’s totally unsuitable for the job.’

‘How would you feel, Sasha, if you were president and your daughter was likely to end up in prison for several years?’

‘I’d allow the law to take its course.’

‘I do believe you would,’ said Fiona, ‘which only proves how lucky they’d be to get you. But are you also willing to sacrifice the Foreign Office, when you could end up with nothing?’

‘Did Donokov let you know where he stood?’ asked Sasha, once again not answering her question.

‘No. But surely if he’s the deputy director of the FSB, he’ll be backing his boss.’

‘It doesn’t always work that way in Russia. So did he offer an opinion on my chances?’ repeated Sasha, still gnawing at the same bone.

‘No, but he did say that if you don’t stand, he wasn’t in any doubt who would be the next president.’

‘I can’t think of a better reason to stand,’ said Sasha, lowering his guard. He’d never thought for one moment that Vladimir could be a serious candidate, but accepted that if he did stand, it would be a no-holds barred contest, because wrestling was the one sport Vladimir had excelled in.

‘If you do decide to stand,’ said Fiona, interrupting his reverie, ‘I can only hope you win. You’d be sorely missed in the House, and would have made a damned good foreign secretary. But Russia is a far greater challenge. And if you were to become president, relations with the West would improve overnight, which can only be good for everyone concerned, including the Russian people.’

‘That’s kind of you to say so, Fiona. And now that I know who I’m likely to be up against, I could do with one or two of your particular political skills.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ said Fiona, as the car swept through the members’ entrance and into Old Palace Yard. As Sasha climbed out of the car, the division bell began to ring, so they parted and went their separate ways.

Ironic, thought Sasha as he entered the ‘Ayes’ lobby, that it wasn’t what he’d gleaned at the embassy party that had helped him to finally make up his mind, but a piece of information picked up in the back of a car from the most unlikely source.

When Sasha told Elena that he would be returning to their homeland to run for president, it was as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

‘Of course, Mama, I’d understand if you felt you didn’t want to come with me.’

‘I will be going with you,’ she said quietly.

Sasha was at first surprised, then delighted, and finally sad when she told him the reason for her change of heart. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, embracing his mother. ‘Uncle Kolya was such a fine man, and we both owe him so much.’

‘The family have asked me if you would be kind enough to deliver one of the tributes at his funeral.’

‘Of course I will. Please tell them I’d be honoured.’

‘His wife told me Kolya’s last words,’ said Elena. ‘ “Tell Sasha, if he’s the son of his father, he’ll make a great president.” ’

Sasha issued a brief press statement to the lobby journalists at ten o’clock the following morning.

The Prime Minister, speaking from Downing Street, responded. ‘The government has lost a quite outstanding minister and a formidable parliamentarian. I hope and believe that those same skills will be put to good use when he returns to the country of his birth. And should he be elected to the high office to which he aspires, we can all look forward to a positive new era of Anglo-Russian relations.’

Lord Cohen was among the first to call. ‘If you’re looking for a campaign manager, Sasha, I’m still available.’

‘I won’t get a better one, Ben, that’s for sure.’

The former deputy prime minister of Russia called the following morning while he was shaving.

‘I couldn’t be more delighted by the news,’ said Nemtsov. ‘The media have gone into meltdown, and the first poll published in the morning papers has you on twenty-nine per cent.’

‘And how’s Vladimir faring?’ asked Sasha.

‘Two per cent, and he was on four per cent only a week ago.’

Perhaps the biggest shock for Sasha was how many heads of state and prime ministers called from all around the world during the next forty-eight hours to say, in less than coded language, I only wish I had a vote.

The night before Sasha was due to fly to Saint Petersburg, the Russian ambassador called.

‘Sasha, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the past couple of days, but your phone’s constantly engaged. Have I missed something?’ Sasha laughed. ‘My masters have instructed me to make sure that your journey back to Saint Petersburg is as smooth as possible. We’ll lay on a car to take you and your family to the airport, and I’ve instructed Aeroflot that the first-class cabin should be cordoned off from the rest of the passengers so you won’t be disturbed.’

‘Thank you, Yuri, that’s most considerate, as I’ll have two important speeches to work on.’

‘So do you want to hear the good news first, or the bad news?’

‘The good news,’ said Sasha, playing along.

‘Over fifty per cent of Russian women think you’re better-looking than George Clooney.’

Sasha laughed. ‘And the bad news?’

‘You’re not going to be pleased to learn who Yeltsin has appointed as his new prime minister.’