Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “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 toward 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 color 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 leaped 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 favor of your 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 honored.”

  “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 Rt Hon. Sasha Karpenko resigned this morning as Minister of State at the F
oreign Office. He will also step down as the Member of Parliament for Merrifield with immediate effect, as he intends to return to his homeland of Russia and stand for president in the forthcoming election.

  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 percent.”

  “And how’s Vladimir faring?” asked Sasha.

  “Two percent, and he was on four percent 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 percent 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.”

  BOOK SIX

  45

  ALEX AND SASHA

  En route to Amsterdam, 1999

  Alex picked up the phone on his desk.

  “There’s someone on the line called Dimitri,” said Miss Robbins. “He says he’s an old friend, and that he wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t urgent.”

  “He goes back even further than you, Pamela, and is indeed an old friend. Put him through.”

  “Is that you, Alex?”

  “Dimitri, it’s good to hear from you after all this time. Are you calling from New York?”

  “No, Saint Petersburg. I thought you’d want to know the sad news that your uncle Kolya has died.” Alex was speechless. He felt guilty that he hadn’t been able to see his uncle when he’d last visited Saint Petersburg. “I would have called Elena, and not bothered you,” continued Dimitri, “but I didn’t know how to get in touch with her at work.”

  “You can bother me whenever you want to, Dimitri. I’ll let my mother know, because she’ll want to go to the funeral. Do you know when it is?”

  “Next Friday, at the Church of the Apostle Andrew. I know it’s short notice, but if you were able to come, the family are hoping that you might deliver one of the tributes.”

  “It isn’t short notice for someone who saved my life,” said Alex. “Tell them I’ll be honored.”

  “The family will be so pleased. You’re a bit of a hero in this city, so be prepared for quite a homecoming.”

  “Thank you, Dimitri. I look forward to seeing you.”

  Alex put the phone down and pressed the button under his desk. Miss Robbins appeared moments later, pad in hand, biro poised. “Clear the diary. I’m going to Saint Petersburg.”

  * * *

  “It’s at times like this,” said Charlie with an exaggerated sigh, “that I wish you had a private jet, so we didn’t have to bother with endless queues and hold-ups.”

  “Would you please open your bag, madam?”

  “Were you put through all this hassle when you were a minister, Dad?” asked Natasha as she unzipped her bag.

  “No, but then it’s always in the back of your mind that you’ll only be in government for a limited period. Margaret Thatcher once said, only the Queen can afford to get used to it.”

  “But if you became president…”

  “Even that has a statutory limit of eight years,” said Sasha as he retrieved his bag. “The Duma recently decreed that a president can only serve two consecutive four-year terms, and who can blame the Russians after suffering centuries of dictatorship. Besides, frankly, eight years is more than enough for any sane person.”

  “Grandma’s looking a bit down,” whispered Natasha, as they strolled through duty-free. “I didn’t realize she’s never been on a plane before.”

  Sasha turned around and his mother gave him a weak smile. “I don’t think that’s the real reason she’s so nervous,” he said. “Don’t forget, she hasn’t been back to Russia for more than thirty years, and it was her brother who made it possible for us to escape and begin a new life in England.”

  “Do you sometimes wish you’d got into the other crate, Dad,” asked Natasha, “and ended up living in America?”

  “Certainly not,” said Sasha, placing an arm around her shoulders. “If that had happened, I wouldn’t have had you to brighten up my life. Although I have to admit, it has crossed my mind from time to time.”

  “You might have been a congressman by now. Even a senator.”

  “Or perhaps my life would have gone in a totally different direction and I wouldn’t even have been involved in politics. Who knows?”

  “You might have ended up with that private jet Mum so yearns for.”

  “I’m not complaining,” said Charlie, linking her arm in Sasha’s. “By selecting that crate he also changed my whole life.”

  “Will all passengers traveling on BA flight 017 to Amsterdam please make their way to gate number fourteen, where boarding is about to commence.”

  * * *

  Anna looked out of the little cabin window to see Alex striding across the tarmac, the inevitable phone nestled on his shoulder as if it were a third arm.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said as he entered the cabin. “I sometimes wish the cell phone had never been invented.”

  “But not that often,” said Anna as he took his seat next to her. No sooner had he fastened his seatbelt than the heavy door was closed and a few moments later the plane began to taxi toward the south runway, exclusively reserved for private aircraft.

  “Your mother’s hardly spoken since she got on the plane,” whispered Anna.

  Alex looked back to see Elena sitting next to Konstantin, who was holding her hand. She gave him a weak smile as the Gulfstream jet began to accelerate down the runway.

  “Don’t forget my uncle was her only sibling, and she would have gone back to see him a long time ago if it hadn’t been for the thought of Major Polyakov standing on the tarmac waiting to welcome her.”

  “But she must be excited about returning to Russia after so many years?”

  “And apprehensive at the same time, I expect. She’s probably torn between fear and excitement, a toxic combination.”

  “How different your life would have been if Polyakov had gone to the football match that afternoon,” said Anna, “and you’d decided to stay in Saint Petersburg.”

  “All of us can point to a moment in our lives when something happens that causes us to go in a totally different direction. It can be as simple as that time you stepped onto a train and decided to sit n
ext to me.”

  “Actually, it was you who stepped onto the train and decided to sit next to me,” said Anna as the plane took off.

  “Or choosing which crate to get into,” said Alex. “I often wonder—”

  “Dad, where will we stop to refuel?” asked Konstantin.

  Alex looked over his shoulder and said to his son, “Amsterdam. We’ll have a short break there before flying on to Saint Petersburg.”

  * * *

  “How long will we be in Amsterdam?” asked Natasha as they strolled into the transit lounge.

  “A couple of hours before we have to make the connection with our Aeroflot flight.”

  “Will there be enough time for us to take a taxi to the Rijksmuseum?” asked Charlie. “I’ve always wanted to see The Night Watch.”

  “I’d rather not risk it,” said Sasha. “The mayor of Saint Petersburg told me he’s expecting a large turnout at the airport, and if we were to miss the plane…”

  “Of course,” said Charlie, once again reminded just how nervous her husband was. “In any case, I can always visit the Hermitage while you’re electioneering, and we can do the Rijks another time.”

  “On the way home, perhaps,” said Natasha, grinning.

  “In eight years’ time, you mean,” said Charlie.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Sasha. “If I become president, we’ll all go on holiday to Amsterdam, when we can do the Van Gogh museum as well as the Rijks.”

  “Russian presidents don’t go on holiday,” said Elena. “Because if they did, when they returned, they’d find that someone else was sitting behind their desk, and they’d been left in the out-tray.”

  Sasha laughed. “I think you’ll find that’s all changed, Mama.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, while your old friend Vladimir is still around.”

  * * *

  “How’s Elena feeling?” asked Anna when Alex returned to his seat.

  “She wishes she’d gone back to Saint Petersburg years ago, and thanked Kolya properly for risking his life to help us escape.”

  “She invited him to visit Boston several times,” Anna reminded him, “but he never took up the offer.”