“I’d be honored,” said Sasha, wondering if he would draw a bigger crowd in Moscow than he managed at the Roxton Working Men’s Club.
During the journey into the city in a car that neither looked nor sounded as if it could possibly reach its destination, Fyodor told Sasha that his speeches were often reported in Pravda, and he even occasionally appeared on Soviet television, all part of the new regime’s outreach policy.
Sasha was surprised, although he knew only too well that if the authorities thought there was the slightest chance of him returning to Russia to contest an election, the tap would be quickly turned off. In any case, Gorbachev didn’t seem to be doing a bad job. While Sasha remained a novelty that the Communist Party could use as a propaganda tool to show how their philosophy was spreading across the globe, he was in no danger. He could hear them saying, Don’t forget Karpenko came from the docks of Leningrad, won a scholarship to Cambridge University, and became an English Member of Parliament—isn’t that proof enough that our system works?
When they arrived at the hotel there was another group standing outside waiting in the bitter cold. Sasha shook many more outstretched hands, and answered several questions. He finally checked in, and took the lift to his room. It may not have been the Savoy, but it was clear that his countrymen had finally embraced the concept that if foreigners were going to come to Moscow they would have to be provided with at least some of the facilities they took for granted in the West. He showered and changed into his other suit, a fresh shirt, and a red tie before going downstairs, where the same car and driver were waiting for him.
Sasha climbed into the front seat, once again wondering if they would make it. He gazed out of the window as they passed the Kremlin.
“You’ll live there one day,” said Fyodor as they left Red Square behind them and drove on through the empty streets.
“How many people are you expecting this evening?” Sasha asked.
“We have no way of knowing, because we’ve never done anything like this before.”
Sasha couldn’t help wondering if the Russian Alf would be able to muster more than a dozen men and a sleeping dog. He turned his thoughts to what he might say to his audience. If the gathering was small, he decided, after a few opening remarks he’d just take questions, and be back at the hotel in time for dinner.
By the time the car drew up outside the workers’ hall, he had a few remarks prepared in his mind. He stepped out onto the pavement to be greeted by a woman dressed in Russian national costume, who presented him with a basket of bread and salt. He thanked her and bowed low, before following Fyodor down a narrow alley and through a back door. When he entered the building he could hear cries of “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!” As he was led up onto a stage, over three thousand people rose as one and continued to chant, “Kar-pen-ko, Kar-pen-ko!”
Sasha stared down at the packed gathering and realized that his youthful boast, meant only for the ears of his friend Vladimir, had become a rallying cry for countless people he had never met, who, for generations, had remained silent about how they really felt.
His speech lasted for over an hour, though because it was interrupted so often by chanting and applause he only actually spoke for about fifteen minutes. When he finally left the stage, the building echoed to the repeated cries of “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”
Out on the street, his car was mobbed, and it was almost a mile before Fyodor was able to shift into second gear. Sasha suspected that if he tried to describe what had just taken place to Charlie or Elena, neither would believe him.
Sasha had always hoped that he might be able to play some part, however small, in bringing down Communism and ushering in perestroika, but now, for the first time, he believed that he might live to see that day. Would he regret not remaining in his homeland and standing for the Duma? He was still preoccupied by these thoughts when he entered the hotel lobby, and quickly returned to his old world. The first person he saw in the lobby was Fiona.
“Have you had an interesting evening?” he asked.
“The embassy got us tickets for the Bolshoi,” she replied. “We called your room, but you were nowhere to be found. Where were you?”
Someone else who wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told her, and perhaps more important, wouldn’t have wanted to.
“Visiting old friends,” he said, picking up his key and joining Fiona as she walked toward the lift.
“Which floor?” he asked as they stepped inside.
“Top.”
He thought about telling her that was always the worst floor in the Soviet Union, but decided she wouldn’t have understood. He pressed two buttons, and neither of them spoke again until they reached the fourth floor when he said good night.
“Don’t be late for the bus in the morning. Nine fifteen sharp,” said Fiona as the doors opened. Sasha smiled. Once a head girl, always a head girl.
“The Russians are famous for keeping you waiting,” he said as he stepped out into the corridor.
He placed his key in the door of a room that was probably half the size of Fiona’s. The only compensation was that it would have half as many bugs. Suddenly he realized he hadn’t eaten, and for a moment he thought about room service, but only for a moment. He put on his pajamas and climbed into bed, still hearing the chants of Kar-pen-ko as he placed his head on the pillow, pulled the blankets over himself, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.
Was the persistent banging all part of his dream, he wondered, but when it didn’t stop, he finally woke. He glanced at his watch: 3:07. Surely it couldn’t be Fiona? He dragged himself out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and reluctantly padded across to the door.
“Who is it?”
“Room service,” said a sultry voice.
“I didn’t order room service,” said Sasha as he opened the door.
“I wasn’t on the menu, darling,” said a long-legged redhead, who was also dressed in pajamas and a dressing gown, but hers were in shimmering black silk, and unbuttoned. “I’m tonight’s special,” she said, holding up a bottle of vodka in one hand, and two glasses in the other. “I did come to the right room, didn’t I, darling?” she purred in perfect English.
“No, I’m afraid you didn’t,” replied Sasha in perfect Russian. “But do come back again at seven thirty, because I forgot to ask the front desk to give me a wake-up call.” He gave her a warm smile, said, “Good night, darling,” and quietly closed the door.
He climbed back into bed, thinking the KGB’s research left a little to be desired. Someone should have told them he’d never cared for redheads. Although they were right about the vodka.
* * *
Sasha was among the first to be seated on the bus the following morning, and to his surprise, when Fiona climbed on board, she deserted her minders and sat down next to him.
“Good morning, comrade minister,” he teased. “I hope you had a good night’s sleep.”
“I had rather a bad night, in fact,” whispered Fiona. “I met a charming young man in the lounge called Gerald, who told me he worked at the embassy. He came up to my room just after midnight and I should have slammed the door in his face. But I’m afraid I’d drunk a little too much champagne.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said Sasha. “You’re an attractive single woman, so why shouldn’t you enjoy the company of a colleague outside working hours? I can’t imagine it would excite much interest beyond a few perverts in the Kremlin recording center.”
“It’s not the sex I’m worried about,” said Fiona, “it’s what I might have said après sex.”
“Like what?” asked Sasha, enjoying every moment.
Fiona buried her head in her hands and whispered, “Thatcher is a dictator with no sense of humor. Geoffrey Howe is so wet you could wring him out, and I may have told him the names of two or three members of the Cabinet who are having affairs with their secretaries.”
“How unlike you, Fiona, to be quite so indiscreet. But I’d hardly describ
e any of that as front-page news.”
“It is when you’re lying in the arms of a KGB officer.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But I do know there’s no one called Gerald working at the British Embassy. If the story was to get into the hands of the press, I’d be finished.”
“Perhaps not finished,” said Sasha, “although it might put off the much-heralded promotion that the press keep hinting at. But only until the Blessed Margaret is finally deposed, which I confess doesn’t look too imminent. But why tell me all this?”
“Oh, come on, Sasha. Everyone knows you have excellent contacts in the Soviet Union. Do you imagine for one moment that your meeting last night went unnoticed? You must have some influential friends in the KGB.”
“Sadly not. You may not have noticed, Fiona, but they’re the bad guys.”
“Minister?” said the voice of a civil servant, hovering over them.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Gus,” said Fiona. Turning back to Sasha, she whispered, “If you could do anything to help, I’d be eternally grateful.”
And we all know what your idea of eternity is, thought Sasha as the bus came to a halt in Red Square.
Fiona led her little troop out to be greeted by her opposite number, who would never have guessed from the minister’s demeanor that anything was troubling her. Impressive, thought Sasha as he followed in her wake.
The delegation was accompanied through a set of vast iron doors sculpted with images of the Siege of Moscow. Two uniformed guards sprang to attention as they passed. The delegation was then led up a wide red-carpeted staircase to the second floor, where they were ushered into a huge, ornately decorated room that was dominated by a long oak table surrounded by high-backed red leather chairs that would have graced a palace, and probably once had. They were invited to take their places along one side of the table, where Sasha found his name card three from the far end. Once the British delegation were seated, they were kept waiting for some time before the Russians made their entrance, taking their places on the opposite side of the table.
Their host made a long and predictable speech, which didn’t need translating. Sasha felt that Fiona’s reply was not up to her usual standard. Not that it mattered much. The final communiqués had already been drafted by the mandarins, and would be released on the last afternoon of the conference, whatever anyone said during the next couple of days.
For the morning session they broke up into smaller groups to discuss student exchanges, visa restrictions, and the loan of the Walpole Collection from the Hermitage that was to be exhibited at Houghton Hall. The Russians only seemed to be worried about whether they’d get their paintings back.
It was during the lunch break that Sasha spotted him standing alone on the other side of the room. He was dressed in a bottle-green uniform that boasted a row of campaign medals, while his gold epaulets suggested that he had risen swiftly through the ranks. Sasha would have known those calculating cold blue eyes anywhere. Vladimir smiled and walked purposefully across to join him. When he was a couple of feet away he came to a halt, not unlike a boxer facing his opponent in the middle of the ring, waiting to see which one of them would throw the first punch.
Sasha had already prepared his opening gambit, although he suspected Vladimir had been working on his for some time, as the meeting clearly wasn’t taking place by chance.
“I must say, Vladimir,” he said in Russian, “I’m surprised you found the time to attend such an unimportant gathering.”
“I wouldn’t normally bother,” said Vladimir, “but I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for some time, Sasha.”
“I’m touched that Ares found time to come down from Olympus.”
“First, allow me to congratulate you on your success since you fled our country,” said Vladimir, ignoring the allusion. “However, I must advise you not to visit Leningrad. Your old friend Colonel Polyakov just might be waiting for you. Not a man who believes in forgiving and forgetting.”
“So what dizzy heights have you reached, Vladimir?” asked Sasha, trying to land a blow of his own.
“I’m a lowly colonel with the KGB, stationed in Dresden.”
“A staging post no doubt on the way to higher things.”
“Which is why I wanted to see you. Some of my men were at your meeting last night. It seems that if you were to return and stand for president, you could be a serious contender, which is, after all, what you’ve always wanted.”
“But Mr. Gorbachev has already beaten me to the punch, so there’s no reason to return. In any case, I’m an Englishman now.”
Vladimir laughed. “You’re Russian, Alexander, and you always will be. Just as you told your adoring public last night. And in any case, Gorbachev won’t last forever. In fact he may be going far sooner than he realizes.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That we should keep in touch. No one knows better than you that timing is everything in politics. All I ask in return is to be appointed head of the KGB. Which is no more than you promised me all those years ago.”
“I made no such promise, Vladimir, as you well know. And in any case, my views on nepotism haven’t changed since the last time we discussed the subject,” said Sasha. “And that was when we were still friends.”
“We may no longer be friends, Alexander, but that doesn’t stop us having mutual interests.”
“I’ll take you at your word,” said Sasha, “and even give you a chance to prove it.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Your boys taped my minister last night.”
“Yes, the stupid bitch was very indiscreet.”
“She’s only a junior minister, and she might be much more useful at a later date.”
“But she’s not even a member of your party.”
“I realize, Vladimir, that’s a concept you must find difficult to come to terms with.”
Vladimir didn’t reply immediately, then shrugged his shoulders. “The tape will be in your hotel room within the hour.”
“Thank you. And do tell your operatives to get their files up to date. I’ve never cared for redheads.”
“I told them they were wasting their time with you. You’re incorruptible, which will make my job so much easier when you appoint me as head of the KGB.” Vladimir walked away without the suggestion of a good-bye, and Sasha would have returned to his little group, if someone else hadn’t walked across to join him.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Karpenko,” said a man who must have been about his own age, and was wearing a suit that hadn’t been tailored in Moscow, “but I’ve been following your career with some considerable interest.”
In England, Sasha would have smiled and taken the man at his word, but in Russia … he remained silent, and suspicious.
“My name is Boris Nemtsov, and I think you’ll find we have several things in common.” Sasha still didn’t respond. “I am a member of the Duma, and I believe we both share the same high opinion of one particular man,” said Nemtsov, glancing in the direction of Vladimir.
“My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” said Sasha, shaking Nemtsov by the hand.
“I hope in time we will be friends. After all, there will be other conferences and official meetings where we can casually meet and exchange confidences, without someone opening a file.”
“I think you will find that someone’s already opened a file,” said Sasha. “So let’s give him the first entry. I don’t agree with you,” he shouted, loudly enough to ensure that all those around him turned to listen to the exchange.
“Then there’s nothing more to discuss,” said Nemtsov, who stormed off without another word.
Sasha would have liked to smile as Nemtsov marched away, but resisted the temptation.
Vladimir was staring at both of them, but Sasha doubted that he had been fooled.
38
ALEX
Boston, 1988
When Alex entered the bank on Monday morn
ing, he didn’t notice the man sitting in the corner of the lobby. On Tuesday, he registered the lone figure for a moment, but as he had a meeting with Alan Greenspan, the chairman of the Federal Reserve, to discuss OPEC’s latest demands on oil prices and the strengthening of the dollar against the pound, the lone figure didn’t remain uppermost in his mind. On Wednesday, he looked more closely at the man before stepping into the elevator. Could it be possible he’d been sitting there for three days? Pamela would know.
“Who’s my first appointment, Pamela?” he asked, even before he’d taken off his overcoat.
“Sheldon Woods, the new chairman of the local Democratic Party.”
“How much did we give them last year?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, chairman, but it’s an election year.”
“Election time always brings back memories of Lawrence. So let’s make it a hundred thousand this year.”
“Of course, chairman.”
“Anyone else this morning?”
“No, but you’re having lunch with Bob Underwood at the Algonquin, and don’t forget, he’s always on time.”
Alex nodded. “Do you know what he wants?”
“To resign. ‘Time to hang up my boots,’ if I remember his exact words.”
“Never. He remains on board until he drops dead.”
“I think that’s what he’s afraid of, chairman.”
“And this afternoon?”
“You’re clear until your session at the gym at five. Your coach tells me you’ve missed the last two workouts.”
“But he still charges me even if I don’t turn up.”
“That’s not the point, chairman.”
“Anything else?”
“Just to remind you it’s your wedding anniversary, and you’re taking your wife to dinner tonight.”
“Of course it is. I’d better go downtown after lunch and get her a present.”
“Anna’s already chosen the present she wants,” said Miss Robbins.
“Am I allowed to know what it is?”
Heads You Win Page 38