‘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.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Spring comes late in Moscow. There were still piles of slushy snow on the streets that morning in April 2017, when President Igor Popov summoned Yuri Yasonov and Galina Aslanova to his private den in the Kremlin to hear their latest reports on Operation Tectonic Plate.
‘Let’s look at Europe first,’ he said. ‘Yuri, please give us your summary of events to date.’
‘I’d say we are totally on track, Mr President,’ Yuri Yasonov replied. ‘Britain’s new prime minister, Mabel Killick, wasn’t a Leaver during the Referendum campaign. She wasn’t very active as a Remainer either. She kept her powder dry. Then, when David Cole, the former justice minister, stabbed Harry Stokes in the back before committing hara-kiri himself, Mrs Killick seized her opportunity. She threw her hat in the ring and was elected by the Conservative Party as their new leader. That meant she became prime minister too, since the British Constitution doesn’t require the prime minister to be actually elected by the people before taking on the job.’
Popov was puzzled. ‘I thought Britain was the “cradle of democracy”.’
‘Basically not!’ Yasonov explained. ‘In the old days, Conservative Party leaders would emerge from smoke-filled rooms. They do better nowadays. Actually, no one in the end stood against Mrs Killick, so she didn’t have to fight an election of any kind.’
‘As prime minister,’ Yasonov continued, ‘Mabel Killick has been an out-and-out Brexiteer. We couldn’t have asked for more.’
Popov nodded. ‘Wasn’t there a bad moment when that wild woman – what was her name?– managed to get the UK Supreme Court to rule that if the Brexit campaign had been about “taking back sovereignty” then at the very least the UK government should consult Parliament before making the formal application to Leave?’
Yuri Yasonov laughed. ‘Tina Moller – what a brilliant woman! She had the Supreme Court eating out of her hand. Mrs Killick caved in and agreed to a parliamentary vote. What else could she do once the Supreme Court had ruled? Luckily, the British Parliament is a bit like our Duma. They’ll do what they’re told if you slap them around a bit. They call it the “whipping system”.’
‘In the good old days we had the knout,’ Popov mused. ‘So two years from now Britain’s out of the EU?’
‘Exactly,’ Yuri Yasonov replied. ‘March 29th, 2019 is Brexit Day. Article 50 has been triggered. It’s a non-recallable missile.’
‘What about the rest of Europe? How are we doing?’ Popov asked.
‘The Dutch result was a bit disappointing. Our man, Geert Donkers, did well, but not well enough. We have high hopes in France, though. Martine Le Grand is bound to make it through to the run-off in the presidential election. Too early to say what’s going to happen in Germany. That’s the big one of course, from our point of view.’
Popov turned to Galina Aslanova, Head of the FSB’s Special Operations Unit.
‘What about the US, Galina? Why isn’t President Craig playing the game?’ he asked. ‘I thought we had a clear understanding with Craig. Lay off Assad. That’s what we told him. And what does he do? He fires off sixty Tomahawk missiles. Why did we push so hard to get Craig elected, if he’s going to kick us in the teeth at the first opportunity? It’s a pity, isn’t it, that the Golden Shower tape turned out to be fake? We could have used that now, couldn’t we?’
Of course, Galina Aslanova knew that President Popov was joking. By now she had learned to read the telltale signs: the slight twitch in the left eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile in the upper lip. But his remark about the Golden Shower tape set her thinking nonetheless.
Back in her office in the FSB’s Lubyanka building, she summoned Lyudmila Markova.
‘There’s something fishy, Lyudmila,’ she began. ‘When you and your team were beating up on Fyodor Stephanov that day in St Petersburg, looking for the Golden Shower video, why didn’t Stephanov cry foul? Why didn’t he say he was an old mucker of Popov’s, going way back?’
‘Maybe he didn’t want the president to know he had been freelancing?’ Lyudmila Markova replied. ‘As a matter of fact, Popov still doesn’t know that Stephanov was freelancing, does he? Of course, the FSB has been happy to claim the credit, happy to see Stephanov given the Golden Shower Award and elevated to the rank of full colonel. It reflects well on all of us, but still I think there’s something that doesn’t smell right.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Lyudmila Markova Sokolovna was quite adept at the heavy stuff, but she sometimes found it difficult to follow her more intellectual colleagues when they started talking about zero-sum games and so forth.
Galina Aslanova opened her desk drawer and brought out the Ronald C. Craig wig which Fyodor Stephanov had been wearing at the election night party in the Popov’s presidential dacha.
‘If Stephanov was freelancing, where did he get this?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think he could have got it in Russia. I’ve had it examined by wig-makers here in Moscow. This is a very high-quality hairpiece. It’s made out of real human hair, expertly crafted and totally realistic, as we saw when Stephanov was wearing it that night at the dacha. Here, watch this.’
She flipped open the lid of her laptop and pressed a button. ‘This is Craig talking at a black-tie dinner the evening before his inauguration in January, just a few weeks ago!’
On the screen before them they saw the unmistakable figure of the soon-to-be-inaugurated President of the United States. He was standing on the stage in evening dress, microphone in hand, radiating confidence.
‘Some of you have been wondering about my hair,’ Craig told the crowd. ‘Well, just take a look. If it rains tomorrow, my hair won’t turn a hair, if you follow me. It’s all my own!’
As the clip came to an end, Galina passed the hairpiece to Lyudmila.
‘Just think about the timing, Lyudmila, of that Kempinski scenario. Imagine the sequence of events. Stephanov is in his office when he gets word that Barnard is on his way back to the hotel after that dinner in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. He has the US-flag boxer shorts and the Ronald C. Craig hairpiece with him. The cameras are already set up in the room. But still Stephanov has to move quickly. He has to get to the hotel, then up to the room, get the wig and the underpants on, so as to be primed and ready for action when the girls arrive. He has outside help, Lyudmila. I’m sure of it.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Just bear with me,’ Galina said.
She picked up a paper from her desk. ‘Did you read Ambassador Tikhonov’s report of his morning at London Zoo? Tikhonov obviously had our new Earwig phone in his pocket, the one that can pick up even whispered conversation fifty yards away. Actually, he wasn’t fifty yards away, I believe. More like twenty. They were all looking at the tigers in the new enclo
sure.’
On the podcast, they heard Harry Stokes’ unmistakable voice:
‘Apart from the fact that we don’t get involved in other people’s elections – officially, at least – all the “strong and credible evidence”– to use your words – we have indicates that Ronald Craig was absolutely not the man on the bed in the Kempinski. On the contrary, we think the culprit’s a fellow from the FSB St Petersburg office, called Fyodor Stephanov. Your people ought to check that out before you finger Ronald Craig.’
Galina switched the recording off. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you?’ she asked. ‘When we sent them the tapes, we simply wanted them to confirm that the man on the bed wasn’t Craig. But they go one further and actually recognize our old friend Fyodor Stephanov. How did they do that?’
‘Well, maybe they’ve got his face on file,’ Lyudmila replied. ‘They could have ID’d him through a facial recognition system.’
‘Of course they could,’ Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘Particularly if Fyodor Stephanov is already working for MI6! I feel convinced the Brits helped Stephanov set this one up. The Ronald C. Craig hairpiece probably came in via the diplomatic bag.’
She held the wig up. The fluffy, blond hair positively glowed in the spring sunshine which flooded Galina’s office. ‘See how beautiful it is!’
She Googled ‘best wig-makers in London’. Less than a millisecond later the answer flew back. ‘Archibalds of Bond Street have been making high-quality wigs for more than four centuries. Satisfied clients include King George II and the Lord Chief Justice.’
Another thought struck her. ‘And where did he get the boxer shorts? Did MI6 buy those in Bond Street too, or did they send off to New York for them? I wonder what happened to those shorts. I bet Stephanov’s still got them.’
‘If he has, we’ll find them.’ Lyudmila Markova felt suddenly cheerful. She rather fancied having another go at Stephanov. The team wouldn’t let him off so easily this time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It was one of those delicate diplomatic compromises. Harry Stokes, the UK’s foreign secretary, had cancelled his visit to Moscow at short notice. Officially, Britain’s position was that it was sick and tired of the way the Russians were supporting President Assad’s ghastly regime in Syria. The Americans had launched their Tomahawk missiles after Assad’s chemical gas attack in Khan Sheikhoun. The least the UK could do was cancel the scheduled bilateral talks. Or at least postpone them.
Unofficially, of course, the government decided that some contacts should be maintained at ministerial level. It wasn’t just a question of not being seen as ‘America’s poodle’. There was more to it than that. Brexit had not been won by the Brexiteers alone. Debts one day might have to be repaid. President Craig might feel he could turn on a dime. Befriend Russia one moment, revile them the next. But Craig had options which were not open to Britain.
Mrs Killick rang Edward Barnard at home on Palm Sunday. The Wilshire countryside was at its most glorious. Barnard’s Ministerial Red Boxes were stacked unopened on the kitchen dresser.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Melissa said. ‘He’s out with Jemima again.’
Later that day, Barnard rang the PM back.
‘I’ve arranged a little trip for you and Melissa,’ Mabel Killick said. ‘I want you to go to St Petersburg – but on holiday this time. You’ve earned it. Drive across the border into Finland. Fly back from Helsinki. Perfect time of year. So much to see. Also, apart from the holiday aspect, we want the Russians to know that even though we’re officially cross with them, life goes on, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Barnard said. Would anyone ever say that to him, he wondered? He shuddered. What an idea!
Next day, he met Mark Cooper, head of MI6, at Whites in St James’s. They sat in two leather armchairs in the far corner of the library.
‘The PM would have liked to join us,’ Cooper began, ‘but I’m afraid women are not allowed here. Except the Queen. We made an exception for the Queen once at the time of the Jubilee celebrations. We invited her to dinner and she very sportingly accepted. But the PM sends her best. She hopes you have a successful trip.’
‘You’d better fill me in,’ Barnard said.
‘I’ve supposed you’ve realized by now,’ Cooper continued, ‘that Jeremy Hartley was always a Leaver, not a Remainer. Did you read what he said in Kiev the other day: how he’s been a Eurosceptic since birth or even before? Or, if you like, think back to that speech he made to the Conservative Party Conference in 2005, when the party first elected him. That was the speech of a Leaver if ever there was one. Hartley wanted to get Britain out of the EU and with the Referendum he found a way to do it. But a lot of people helped him. I was one of them.’
‘Are you sure you want me to hear this?’ Barnard asked.
‘Quite sure. You’ve an important job to do for us.’
‘Us? You mean MI6, SIS, the firm or whatever you call yourselves nowadays?’
A white-coated waiter stopped by to offer them more champagne but Cooper waved him away.
‘That’s exactly what I do mean. There’s nothing in the rule book which says I can’t recruit the chancellor of the exchequer, and that’s what I’m proposing to do. Strictly speaking you should be PV’d – positively vetted – but there’s no time for that. Odd, isn’t it, that civil servants are PV’d, but politicians who – in theory at least – wield so much more power and influence are let through on the nod? Where was I?’
‘In some fantasy land of your own,’ Barnard wanted to answer. Instead he said, ‘You’re probably going to tell me you’ve known Hartley all your life, or at least since you were in the Bullingdon together at Oxford.’
‘All of that’s true,’ Cooper admitted. ‘But that wasn’t the only reason I helped him. I helped him because I thought he was right about us leaving the EU and I could see a way to make it happen. You were the way!
‘That whole Kempinski scenario, the Brexit dossier and so on – Hartley and I dreamed all that up as a way of luring you out into the open. The Leave campaign needed a Leader, and, by Jove, did we get one! But the problem now is that Catfish has been blown.’
‘Catfish?’
‘Our codename for Fyodor Stephanov, the man on the bed in the Kempinski. He worked with Popov years ago in Dresden, in former East Germany, when Popov was head of the KGB office there. Catfish is one of MI6’s assets in St Petersburg and he has turned in a lot of good stuff. But now his life is in danger.’
‘If Catfish has been “blown”, don’t you need to extricate him? How are you going to do that?’
‘That’s where you come in,’ Cooper replied. ‘We’re relying on you. We’ll give you a full briefing later today, but basically you’ll bung Stephanov in the boot of your car and drive him across the border into Finland.’
‘I’ve never met the man,’ Barnard protested. ‘Why should I risk my life and Melissa’s?’
‘He has risked his,’ Cooper replied icily. ‘Without him, Brexit might never have happened.’
‘So you’re appealing to my patriotic spirit?’
‘You should have some fun too. The ambassador’s sending his Rolls Royce down from Moscow. Then you’ll leg it for the border. Top speed 150mph. Nought to sixty in less than five seconds.’
‘We’ll need a big boot.’
‘Plenty of room in the Phantom’s boot, I can assure you,’ Mark Cooper told him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Edward and Melissa Barnard arrived in St Petersburg, ostensibly in vacation mode, although Melissa had taken a lot of persuading that she wanted to go, leaving quite a dent on several credit cards on the Thursday before Easter. That same evening Barnard hosted a small reception for well-heeled Russian businessmen, and their blingy wives, who seemed mainly interested in finding out the chancellor of the exchequer’s views on the London property market in a Brexit situation.
Barnard wisely refused to be drawn. ‘The price of property may go up or down. In London, it
has a tendency to go up. But in percentage terms price rises are often higher in the north of England than they are in London. A lot of Chinese money is flowing north.’
His audience did not seem to be very interested in what the Chinese were doing north of Watford. They seemed to prefer Mayfair or Belgravia.
The Barnards spent the Friday sightseeing. Melissa, who had never been to St Petersburg before, was fascinated by the Imperial Tombs in the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul. She stood in front of the marble memorial marking the much-delayed burial of Czar Nicholas II and his family in St Catherine’s chapel.
‘Shameful, wasn’t it,’ she commented, ‘how our own Royal Family refused to give them asylum? And King George V was a first cousin of Tsar Nicholas II, too. They could have made more of an effort. Still, we’re going to be making an effort, aren’t we?’
Barnard shot her a warning look. Even cathedrals had ears.
That evening, Martha Goodchild, Britain’s new ambassador to Russia and Sir Andrew Boles’ successor, arrived at the Kempinski in time to have dinner with the Barnards in the Bellevue Brasserie, with its panoramic view over the city.
Martha Goodchild, one of the Foreign Service’s high-flyers, talked them through the menu.
‘I was the British consul in St Petersburg, ages ago. Used to eat here often. Top-class food, though a touch on the heavy side.’
Martha Goodchild was a touch on the heavy side herself. Over coffee and pastries, she went through the details:
‘My driver will come round to the front of the hotel at nine tomorrow morning. You can’t miss him. Tall, burly fellow. Serves as my bodyguard too. The car’s still the same one Sir Andrew had, a silver-grey Rolls Royce Phantom with CD plates bearing the designation UK-1. Mind you, if we lose Scotland and Northern Ireland, we’ll be Former-UK. I’m not sure FUK-1 would look so good.’
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