The two men stood together for a moment watching the clubs playing.
‘I see you were talking to our good friend Warren Fletcher,’ Tikhonov said. ‘I am sure we will all be sorry to see him go. I imagine Mr Craig has already picked his successor.’
‘What makes you so sure Craig is going to win the election?’ Stokes asked.
‘Some little bird told me.’ Tikhonov smiled.
CHAPTER FORTY
Wilbur Brown, director of the FBI, had the television on in the corner of his office.
Gina Paulson, Vixen TV’s star presenter, was asking her nationwide audience: ‘Will Caroline Mann lose the election because the FBI has decided to make a further investigation into the way she handled her emails?
‘Back in July,’ Gina Paulson continued, ‘the FBI undertook a major investigation of the way Caroline Mann used a personal email server to handle top-secret and confidential messages. After examining some 30,000 messages, FBI analysts concluded that a large number of top-secret and confidential messages from and to several departments of government, including the State department, had indeed been handled on Mann’s private email server. But instead of pursuing criminal charges, Wilbur Brown, the director of the FBI, let Mrs Mann off with a rap on the knuckles but not much else. All he said was that Mann and her aides had been – and I quote – “extremely careless” – but not criminal with their email practices. But he also told Congress that he would reopen the investigation if – and I quote again – “relevant and substantial” information was uncovered. That now seems to be the case.
‘The FBI has sought and obtained a court warrant to search a computer used both by former congressman Julius Lomax and his wife Sandra, an aide to Caroline Mann. Having received the warrant, the director of the FBI has told Congress that the FBI is indeed reopening the enquiry into Caroline Mann’s emails.’
Gina Paulson paused to allow the full weight of her next pronouncement to have the effect she intended. ‘Today Caroline Mann’s ratings are in free fall.’
Wilbur Brown switched to another channel. It had become increasingly plain in the course of this election campaign that Vixen TV, the crown jewel in Mickey Selkirk’s global media empire, had long since cast aside any pretence of impartiality. It was totally dedicated to promoting Ronald C. Craig as the next president of the United States. How much money, Brown, wondered, had changed hands? What promises had been made? The truth would come out in the end, he supposed. The FCC would get its act together and ask questions. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would be abolished or neutered by the incoming administration and Selkirk Global would take an ever bigger share of the market.
On CBS, Eric Longhurst, the revered anchor of Good Morning America, was putting another slant on the Caroline Mann email story. Brown used the remote to turn the volume up. He had known as soon as he authorized the second investigation that there would be fight back by the Mann campaign.
‘A series of Democratic congressmen,’ Eric Longhurst said, ‘have been taking to the air today to complain about the FBI’s “blatant favouritism” in the presidential race.
‘Here’s congressman Bill Whitelaw, the ranking member of the House Judiciary Constitution and Civil Justice Subcommittee.’
Wilbur Brown knew and respected Bill Whitelaw. He winced involuntarily at the personal nature of Whitelaw’s attack.
‘FBI Director Wilbur Brown’s recent comments on former secretary of state, Caroline Mann, and her emails, apparently before seeing any evidence, and against the advice of the Justice Department, according to press reports, and even, some have suggested, in violation of the Hatch Act, make it clear that for the good of the FBI and the Justice Department, he should resign immediately.’
Longhurst chipped in for the benefit of viewers who might not be familiar with the finer details of the US Constitution:
‘The Hatch Act limits the political activity of federal employees, for instance barring them from seeking public office or influence to interfere with or affect the result of an election’.
Congressman Whitelaw was followed almost immediately by Larry Kinder, outgoing Senate minority leader, who also called for Wilbur Brown’s resignation, comparing Brown to the FBI’s notorious founder, J. Edgar Hoover.
Like Whitelaw, Kinder didn’t mince his words. ‘The director of the FBI’s actions in recent months,’ he thundered, ‘have demonstrated a disturbing double standard for the treatment of sensitive information, with what appears to be a clear intent to aid one political party over another.’
Finally, Eric Longhurst took back the mike.
‘The FBI’s action in reopening the email enquiry,’ he said, ‘less than two weeks before the presidential election, has stunned former and current law enforcement officials and rocked Caroline Mann’s campaign, which appeared to be coasting to victory. The Bureau’s director, Wilbur Brown, said in a memo to FBI employees he felt obligated to update lawmakers after testifying under oath – back in July – that the investigation into Mann’s private email server was complete. And he feared that word of the newly discovered emails – found in the course of a separate investigation into former US congressman Julius Lomax – would leak to the media and suggest a cover-up.’
Wilbur Brown turned the TV off. He had known, when he had authorized that second investigation, that he might be stirring up a hornet’s nest. But he hadn’t realized just how much damage this might do to Caroline Mann’s prospects of winning the election.
What an amazing coincidence, he thought, that the story about that sex-obsessed idiot from Boston had appeared in Mickey Selkirk’s Daily Clarion precisely when it did. The timing, from the Craig campaign’s point of view, could not have been more perfect.
His mobile pinged. A Google Alert had just come in. ‘Craig jumps into lead in two out of three national polls.’
And then a text message came on his personal number, caller ID withheld: ‘Hope you can live with yourself after what you’ve done, you ***t!’
As Wilbur Brown stood there, his secretary came in with an envelope.
‘Here’s an eyes-only for you, Director,’ she said. ‘Couriered overnight from London.’
Brown opened the envelope. It was a handwritten note from Warren Fletcher, US ambassador to the Court of St James’s:
‘Dear Wilbur, I have heard from a totally reliable source that RC is not, repeat not, in any way connected with Golden Shower scenario. I am writing this by hand to avoid the possibility of adding yet another juicy email to the WikiLeaks treasury. I am sure you will know what action to take.
Very best wishes, Warren Fletcher.’
As Wilbur Brown returned to his desk, a wave of relief came over him. Over the months, that Golden Shower rumour had proved remarkably persistent. He had faced accusations, sometimes not too polite, from Caroline Mann’s people that he was sitting on the file for reasons of his own. Only that morning congressman Terry Harman had called on him to set up an enquiry.
‘If the FBI can reopen the file on Caroline Mann,’ Harman had challenged, ‘why can’t they investigate the possibly illegal behaviour of Ronald Craig? Who knows whether minors were involved in the Golden Shower scene?’
Wilbur Brown passed a hand over his forehead. Slime and innuendo. That’s what politics boiled down to nowadays. Was there any depth they wouldn’t sink to?
What a narrow escape, he thought. If Warren Fletcher’s note had not arrived in the nick of time, he might have succumbed to the mounting pressure and announced the Golden Shower enquiry that people like Terry Harman were calling for. And that might have allowed Caroline Mann to pull ahead again in the tightly fought race.
In the end, Wilbur Brown decided to do nothing. In view of Warren Fletcher’s letter, he felt confident that announcing an enquiry into the Golden Shower episode would be totally unjustified. But he also he saw no need to announce that the Republican presidential candidate was not involved in the shenanigans in the Hotel Kempinski. Caroline Mann was cross enough with him as
it was. If he came out now with a statement exonerating Craig, that would only add fuel to the flames.
He folded Warren Fletcher’s letter and put it in his wallet.
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 per
formed 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.
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