Kompromat

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Harriet Marshall sat at a corner table in the Metropole Hotel’s Chaliapin Bar waiting for Yuri Yasonov to arrive.

Because this was a very special occasion – a US election night party – the hotel management had erected a huge television screen which contrasted incongruously with the bar’s famous Art Nouveau fittings and decor.

On the TV Simon Henley, leader of the United Kingdom Independence Party, was holding forth from New York.

Strange, wasn’t it, Harriet Marshall thought, how Henley had been shunted aside after the Brexit vote in Britain? Whatever you thought about UKIP and Simon Henley, they had certainly played a part in the Leave campaign’s stupendous victory in the June 23rd Referendum. And after the coup – for what was it except a coup? – Henley hadn’t even been offered a knighthood. No wonder he was over there in the US most of the time, cosying up to the Craig campaign team and even to Craig himself, if his frequent tweets were to be believed.

She listened more closely to what Henley was saying.

‘Do you know? It feels just like Brexit day to me.’ Henley beamed at the camera, holding a pint of Budweiser in his hand.

‘All the smart money, all of the commentators, all of the foreign-exchange dealers, the bookmakers, they all think that Caroline Mann is going to do it.

‘Well, I’m not sure they’re right. Yes, Ronald Craig has got to win these swing states – he’s got to win Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Florida. There’s a mountain to climb. I get that, and yet I have a feeling the world could be in for a very big shock tomorrow morning.’

Harriet Marshall was so absorbed in Simon Henley’s Victory-for-Craig predictions that she didn’t notice Yuri Yasonov’s arrival until he tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘The president called me. If things continue to look good for Craig, Popov wants to celebrate at his dacha. Says he’s got some special guests too. We should give it an hour or two while the results come in, then head on over.’

‘Am I invited?’ Harriet Marshall asked.

‘What do you think?’ Yasonov replied. ‘You were one of the lynchpins.’

While Ronald Craig’s tally of votes mounted and state after state declared for him, rather than for Caroline Mann, the two old friends and lovers sat in the Metropole’s Chaliapin Bar enjoying the moment.

‘You know, Harriet, I fancied you even at Oxford, when you were still a man.’

‘And do you continue to fancy me, now I’m a woman?’ Harriet Marshall fluttered her eyelashes.

‘More than ever,’ Yasonov replied.

Yasonov fetched himself a drink at the bar. When he came back, he said, ‘I’m sorry if the police gave you a hard time when they picked you up after that Oxford Union debate.’

‘Nothing like school,’ said Harriet. ‘I think they knew I was gay even then. They hunted in packs.’

Yasonov put his arm round her. ‘Poor darling. Anyway, they had nothing on you. That’s why they let you go. You, personally, had no idea what was going to happen that night. Barnard was never going to be hurt anyway. It just had to look like a serious attempt on his life by the Remainers. The only thing to suffer any damage was that bust of Gladstone. Serve him right. Dirty old hypocrite. He used to wander round the East End at night rescuing fallen women. Or so he said. He wouldn’t get away with it nowadays.’

Harriet Marshall gave Yasonov a long, lingering kiss. Their affair had really begun when she went to Moscow after leaving Oxford. She came to the Russian capital as Harriet, not Howard. The transformation had been achieved a few months earlier in Bogota, Colombia, the world centre for plastic surgery, including sex-change operations. When Yuri Yasonov had got over the shock, he welcomed her with open arms.

‘No need to tell anyone about the operation,’ Harriet had said, when they met for a drink in Jean-Jacques, a short walk from the Old Arbat.

‘Why should I?’ Yuri had replied.

Later that night they took a taxi out to the presidential dacha. By then it was clear that Roland C. Craig was home and dry. He would indeed be the 45th president of the United States.

President Igor Popov had summoned all the key players in Operation Tectonic Plate. Along with Yuri Yasonov and Galina Aslanova, Popov had invited Lyudmila Markova, the FSB’s enforcer, and her all-female SWAT team, to join him at the presidential dacha.

Popov raised his glass and made a little speech.

‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce Martine Le Grand, the next president of France,’ he began. ‘Martine is on an unofficial visit. She is travelling incognito!’

Like any practised orator, Popov knew when to pause.

‘It’s a bit like Peter the Great,’ he said. ‘Peter travelled incognito when he visited Europe. Called himself “Peter Mikhailov”. Of course Peter the Great was over two metres tall, so he was quite easy to recognize. Martine Le Grand may not be as tall as Peter the Great, but already she is a figure of international stature. Martine, it is a great pleasure to have you with us today. Be assured we will give you all the help we can, including,’ and here he paused again to make sure they got the joke, ‘that large, no-interest bank loan you’re looking for to help you fund your campaign!’

Popov’s audience laughed and clapped. What a man Popov was, they thought. Where would he stop? At this moment, the whole world seemed to be his oyster.

Popov handed the microphone to the blonde lady, with strong, handsome features, who stood next to him on the stand.

‘Yes, this is an extraordinary day, isn’t it?’ Martine Le Grand began, sensing the mood. ‘First Britain, then the United States. Will the dominoes keep falling? Will France be next? Who can say? But one thing I do know: nothing is more powerful than the will of the people. Even if we don’t succeed this time round, our time will certainly come soon.’

After a while, she passed the microphone back to President Popov.

‘I have a few more people to thank,’ Popov said. ‘First, my good friend Galina Aslanova, and her wonderful team, who are so brilliantly executing Operation Tectonic Plate. Please step forward, Galina, to receive the Hero of the Russian Federation medal.’

Popov kissed Galina gallantly on both cheeks as she came forward to receive the award. ‘You’re looking wonderful!’ he whispered.

When Galina had resumed her place, Popov continued. ‘I would also like to thank Harriet Marshall, without whose help I can honestly say we would not have achieved that splendid victory in Britain. It gives me great pleasure to bestow on Harriet Marshall the Order of St Catherine the Great.’

Harriet Marshall blushed as she stepped toward. ‘Thank you so much, Mr President. This is indeed a great honour.’

Yuri Yasonov led the clapping, the others joining in enthusiastically. They all knew how much of the success of the Brexit campaign in Britain had been due to the tireless activity and attention to detail of Harriet Marshall.

Finally, President Igor Popov turned to the last of his specially invited guests. ‘Please step forward, sir,’ he called.

From the back of the room a tall, broad-shouldered figure with a shock of blond hair made his way to the stage, with a slow ponderous gait. For half a second, Harriet Marshall thought: ‘This is absurd. How can president-elect Ronald C. Craig be here when at this very moment he is giving his victory speech in New York?’

‘Fyodor Stephanov Molotovsky,’ President Popov said. ‘Please remove your wig!’

Fyodor Stephanov bowed low, and as he did so he swept the distinctive hairpiece from his head.

Popov gave Stephanov a huge bear hug.

‘Fyodor Stephanov and I go back a long way,’ he said. ‘We were in Dresden together that evening in December 1989, when the crowds came to sack the KGB office. We fought them off, didn’t we? Now Fyodor Stephanov has performed an even greater service to the state. Without hesitation or deviation he has exposed himself in the line of duty! So it gives me great pleasure to award him the FSB’s specially created Golden Shower Medal.’

The Kremlin goldsmiths had excelled themselves. One side of the golden medal depicted Titian’s famous image of Danaë Receiving The Golden Rain. The other side of the medal was inscribed simply: ‘For Services Rendered.’

As he pinned the medal to Stephanov’s uniform (it hung from a pentagonal mount covered by an overlapping scarlet ribbon), Popov continued, ‘And I hereby promote this gallant officer to the rank of full colonel.’

As the applause died down, President Popov noticed Lyudmila Markova and her SWAT team looking more than a little disgruntled.

‘Come up here, Lyudmila Markova Sokolovna,’ he urged, ‘and please bring your team too. I believe our good friend, Fyodor Stephanov, has something to give you.’

FSB Colonel Fyodor Stephanov Molotovsky drew himself up to his full height.

‘Dear ladies,’ he said, ‘I bear you no grudge. You were doing your job; I was doing mine. No hard feelings. I’d just like to give you something you overlooked that day you trashed my office and beat me up.’

Stephanov still had the Ronald C. Craig hairpiece in his hand. Once again, he bowed low, and then handed it over to Lyudmila Markova.

Wild applause. The vodka continued to flow.

Lyudmila stood there, holding the hairpiece. ‘Where the hell were you hiding it?’ she asked.

‘In the fridge, at home,’ Stephanov said. ‘If you had looked there behind the pickles, you would have found the US-flag boxer briefs as well!’

Moments later, the president entered the dacha’s press room, where the journalists were waiting. Holding a glass of champagne in his hand, and conscious that the eyes of the world were upon him, Popov made a solemn and statesmanlike speech.

‘A few hours ago, Presidential elections finished in the United States of America. We have been following this event with attention and I would like to congratulate the American people on the exemplary conduct of their electoral process. I would also like to congratulate Mr Ronald Craig on his victory. We have heard his electoral program when he was still a candidate. He spoke about resuming and restoring relations between Russia and the United States. We are ready to play our part in this, and to do everything in our power to return Russia–America relations to a stable development track. This would serve the wellbeing of both the Russian and the American people. And it would have a positive effect on the general climate of global affairs, taking into account the special responsibility of Russia and the US to sustain global responsibility and security.’

Christine Amadore, CNN’s dashing, raven-haired star reporter, anchoring CNN’s all-night coverage of Russia’s reactions to the unfolding events, was the first to ask a question.

‘You just congratulated the US on the exemplary conduct of their electoral process, Mr President. Do you really believe that?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ President Popov replied solemnly. ‘Elections must always be free and fair.’