The Barnards enjoyed the joke. A bit of humour always helped relieve the tension, Edward Barnard thought.
‘How are you getting back to Moscow?’ Barnard asked.
‘I’ll fly back tomorrow. Keep an eye on things from there.’
‘What about Catfish?’ Barnard murmured.
‘Officially,’ Martha Goodchild said, ‘you’re making a detour at lunchtime to visit the site of the proposed new transnational biosphere reserve linking the Russian and Finnish parts of Karelia. Just enjoy the scenery. And remember, the car’s almost certainly bugged.’
If the Kempinski Hotel porters were surprised how little luggage the Barnards had brought with them for their two night stay in St Petersburg, they gave no sign of it.
Jim Connally, the Embassy driver, supervised the stacking of the two small cases. ‘Room for plenty more, if you want to do some last-minute shopping,’ he said.
They made good time in spite of the poor condition of the road. Heeding the ambassador’s warning, the Barnards limited their conversation to the banal or innocuous.
‘These transnational biosphere reserves are an important development,’ Edward Barnard said. ‘At the beginning of World War II the Finns fought the Russians almost to a standstill in this part of the world. Now the Russians and the Finns together are going to set up a joint nature park. That’s progress.’
‘It certainly is,’ Melissa agreed. She caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror. Was he employed by MI6 as well, she wondered?
Jim Connally winked, as though he read her mind. Yes, he bloody well was one of ‘them’, and proud of it. He checked his satnav. Pretty soon, they would have to turn off the highway onto a local road, then onto a track though the forest where Catfish was meant to be waiting. He had memorized the GPS coordinates and he double-checked to make sure he had entered them correctly.
Fyodor Stephanov had driven his old Lada deep into the undergrowth. He had changed out of his FSB uniform into civilian clothes. A small backpack, a toothbrush and a passport was all he needed to start a new life, though he was confident that he could always count on a little help from his ‘friends’. And his girlfriend, Natasha, was already in Helsinki, waiting for him.
The huge silver-grey Rolls Royce nosed its way down the track. Connally had the boot open, almost as soon as the car came to a stop.
‘Hop in,’ he said.
Even though Stephanov was a large man himself, there was plenty of room in the boot.
Connally eased the vehicle back onto the track. His finger hovered over the walnut-finish console. ‘Anyone want some music? “Karelia Suite”?’ he enquired.
President Igor Popov stretched out bare-chested on the grass in front of the dacha, enjoying the spring sunshine. This was as close to heaven as he was likely to get. Born and bred in St Petersburg, Karelia was his second home. As a student at St Petersburg University, he had led scientific expeditions into the forest, studying the wildlife and, occasionally, shooting a deer for the pot. For the last twenty years, he had owned this little dacha among the trees, not far from the Finland-Russia border. Indeed, the fact that Popov was a seasonal visitor, and even had a little place there, had done much to ensure that plans for the transnational biosphere reserve didn’t get bogged down in bureaucratic detail.
Popov insisted on his privacy during the rare occasions he managed to get away from Moscow to spend time in his beloved Karelia. Though the local police were aware of his presence, they were under strict instructions not to disturb him. Almost always, he dispensed with his bodyguard, driving his own off-road vehicle: the UAZ-469 or Patriot Jeep.
President Igor Popov was not the only person enjoying the scenery that day. Galina Aslanova had flown down from Moscow with him in his private jet. They had landed at Vyborg, an old once-Swedish town with a magnificent castle which stood barely twenty miles from the Finnish border. They had picked up the UAZ at the airport and driven along the dirt roads to the dacha.
Galina was inside the dacha, unpacking the lunch, so Popov heard the sound of the Rolls first. Not that it made much sound. Rolls Royce engineers prided themselves on their ability to reduce engine noise to a low hum, if that.
‘Good heavens!’ Popov got to his feet. His hand went instinctively to his belt. But his weapon was in the pocket of his leather jacket and the jacket was in the car. So he stepped out into the clearing.
‘Mr President! What a surprise!’ Edward Barnard recovered quickly. ‘I heard somewhere that you had a little place out in the forest in Karelia, but I never imagined we would drive right past your door on our way to visit your brilliant Karelia Nature Reserve.’
‘Mr Barnard, how good to see you again! As I recall, the last time was when we had dinner in Khabarovsk. You’ve been promoted since then, I hear. Congratulations! And is this Mrs Barnard?’
Popov, still bare-chested, bowed and gallantly touched his lips to Melissa Barnard’s outstretched hand.
‘May I present Galina Aslanova?’ Popov continued. ‘I don’t think you have met before. Galina was not with us when we were looking for the Amur tigers. That was some trip, wasn’t it?’
Barnard introduced Jim Connally to the president. ‘That’s quite a car, you have there,’ Popov said. He gazed admiringly at the classic lines of the Rolls Royce Phantom.
‘You don’t do so badly yourself,’ Connally replied. ‘On the right terrain, that UAZ-469 would probably give us a run for our money.’
Of course they stayed for lunch. Spoke about this and that. Barnard hadn’t had a specific briefing before he left. Back in Whitehall, no one imagined he would be having a one-to-one meeting with the president of the Russian Federation in a forest clearing a stone’s throw from the Finnish border. But he improvised as best he could.
They talked about recent events. How could they not? Popov said that, as far as he knew, there was no proof that President Bashar al-Assad had been behind the chemical attack in Syria and what a pity it was that the opportunity of building bridges between Russia and the West was being thrown away.
With his mouth full of pickle, Barnard did his best to stick to the party line. Officially, Britain was all for ratcheting up the sanctions. But there was a strange disconnect between the increasing hoarse language now being used on both sides of the Atlantic and the idyllic pastoral setting in which they now found themselves A few months ago, it had all looked so hopeful.
He decided to strike an upbeat note.
‘Congratulations on the Karelia transnational biosphere reserve,’ Barnard said. ‘That’s a magnificent achievement.’
Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘When we all come to look at the president’s achievements, this Karelia reserve will rate very highly. And we must thank the Finns, too.’
‘Amazing people,’ Popov conceded. ‘A handful of their fighters held up the whole Russian Army for months. On our side, heads rolled, I can tell you.’
Popov had a sudden mischievous idea. ‘Remember that time when I raced you to Khabarovsk? You were in Jack Varese’s Gulfstream 550; I was flying my Ilyushin Il-96.’
‘Of course, I remember. How could I ever forget it?’
‘Let’s have another race now,’ Popov said. ‘All the way to the border. Perhaps Mrs Barnard would like to come with me. Galina can go with you. She knows the way by the back roads in case you get lost. Actually, I’ve had another thought. I’ll drive the Rolls. I’ve always wanted to drive a Rolls Royce Phantom VI. Maybe you’d like to take the UAZ. First one to the border post wins?’
‘OMG!’ thought Barnard. You could hardly make it up. The president of the Russian Federation was about to drive off in the British ambassador’s Rolls Royce to the Finnish border without realizing that he had one of his own FSB agents crammed in the boot, heading for freedom!
Jim Connally asked the obvious question. ‘So Galina’s going to come with us in the UAZ to make sure we find the way. That’s great. But who’s going to drive, sir?’
Barnard thought back to all thos
e years he had driven his Land Rover over the Wiltshire Hills. He had had some pretty good scrapes in his time.
‘I’ll have a go,’ he said quietly. ‘You might have to show me the gears.’
It wasn’t so much a question of engine capacity, though the Rolls-Royce Phantom VI’s 6.75 litre engine certainly outgunned the UAZ’s 2.5 litre engine. Given the terrain, there was never a moment when the Phantom could go flat out. No, what distinguished Popov’s driving from Barnard’s was the sheer determination the Russian President showed to gain and hold the lead.
‘God knows what the ambassador’s going to say when I bring the car back to her,’ Connally said as he watched the Rolls accelerate away from them, hurling itself over ruts, potholes, and fallen branches.
‘Has Popov been a rally driver too, Galina?’ Barnard asked, doing his damnedest to keep up.
‘He’s done everything,’ Galina shouted. ‘Try a shortcut here. We can run though the bog. The president won’t risk it with the Rolls. Too heavy.’
‘So you know this part of the world as well as the president, do you?’ Jim Connally asked.
‘This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed at the dacha,’ Galina replied.
Connally pressed her. Too good an opportunity to miss. Personal details were often the most important. She might be a good lead to cultivate for the future. Rumour had it she was going to step up a rank soon in the FSB, so getting close to Aslanova would be a real coup.’
‘Are you in a relationship with the president then?’ Connally asked.
‘What does it look like?’ Galina laughed. ‘But I won’t be much longer, if Popov loses today, I can tell you. The president doesn’t like losing.’
Of course, Popov won. He was already at the border post, standing next to the Rolls with Melissa by his side, when Barnard drove up in the UAZ-469.
Popov beamed. ‘Great car, your Rolls Royce! Fantastic race! Mrs Barnard was tremendous. We were bouncing all over the place but she hung on in there. Hate to think what it would be like for someone in the boot!’
The Russian border guards saluted. ‘Good afternoon, Mr President.’
Popov mopped the sweat from his brow. ‘No formalities, please. These are high-level guests of the Russian Federation. Rolls Royce. CD plates. Whatever.’
They shook hands all round. The president, no longer shirtless, once again kissed Melissa Barnard’s hand.
Galina Aslanova winked at Barnard. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
Then she gave him big hug. ‘Come back soon,’ she said.
The Finnish border guards, tipped off in advance by MI6, waved the Rolls Royce Phantom VI and its cargo on through.
Once they were safely on the Finnish side of the border, Edward Barnard got out of the car, followed by his wife. He walked round to the boot. As he did so, Connally pressed the button to raise the lid.
Moments later, a pale and sweating Fyodor Stephanov staggered out. ‘Never been bounced around so much in my life,’ he said. ‘Not since that evening in the Kempinski anyway!’
They had less than a hundred miles to travel from the border to Helsinki. Stephanov sat up front, next to the driver. The Barnards sat in the back.
The road ran along the coast. ‘It’s motorway all the way now,’ Connally said. ‘We take the E18, then join up with the E75 outside Helsinki. You’ll be okay to talk if I put some music on. Shall we stick to Sibelius? We had the “Karelia Suite” already. What about “Finlandia”? You can’t beat “Finlandia”, can you?’
The Rolls Royce Phantom had a brilliant sound system. Since the car retailed at over £300,000 you’d expect a pretty good sound system, thought Barnard. What he didn’t expect was to hear Ronald Craig’s distinctive voice: ‘Are you telling me, General,’ the president was saying, ‘that at this moment in time we don’t actually know whether President Assad was responsible for gassing those poor innocent kids or not? You’re the National Security Adviser. If you don’t know, who the hell does?’
Then they heard the sound of a toilet flushing, and another voice, deeper than the president’s but with a southern twang: ‘Hang on a moment, sir. I’ll be right out.’
Oh my God, Barnard thought. They’re still bugging the president. This is Popov’s way of letting us know.
‘Shall I turn it off, sir?’ Connally asked.
‘No, let’s hear a bit more,’ Barnard replied. ‘They must have picked this up last week, when Liu Wang-Ji, the Chinese president, was making a state visit to the Florida White House as they call it: Hasta La Vista. They had to interrupt their dinner, as I understand it, so that the president could go into a huddle with his advisers. Looks like they met in the loo. That’s got to be the national security adviser, General Ian Wright.’
‘What I mean, sir,’ they heard General Wright say, against the sound of running water, ‘is that it’s quite possible that ISIS or Daish or whatever was responsible for the chemical attack, rather than Assad.’
‘Then why the hell am I about to authorize a Tomahawk strike on a Syrian Government Air Base?’
‘People will expect you to do something, sir. Provided it’s an appropriate and proportionate response, of course.’
Then they heard Craig say, ‘Those little kids! Goddammit, I can’t stop thinking about them.’
That evening, while Jim Connally took Stephanov off to the British Embassy in Helsinki for the first debriefing of many, the Barnards had a quiet dinner on the waterfront.
Edward Barnard raised his glass. ‘Hyvä terveys!’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’ Melissa asked.
‘It means “good health” in Finnish. Years ago I had a Finnish girlfriend.’
He looked at his wife fondly. They were growing old together. That was how things were meant to be.
‘You did brilliantly today, darling,’ he said. ‘I guess Popov knew we were planning to visit the Karelia transnational biosphere reserve. It was on the schedule. That was our cover for the detour into the forest in case anyone asked. Popov just seized the opportunity for some back-channel diplomacy. Did you talk to him?’
‘Of course I talked to him. He’s a human being, isn’t he, not some kind of ogre?’
‘I mean when he was driving. That was tricky terrain.’
‘I don’t think Popov had any problems,’ Melissa said. ‘Most of the time he was driving one-handed.’
‘What was he doing with his other hand?’
‘Had it on my knee. Just for reassurance, of course.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Both Wilbur Brown, director of the FBI, and Bud Hollingsworth, director of the CIA, had made time in their busy schedules to respond to the US attorney general’s urgent request.
‘This came in the post today,’ Dirk Goddard, the former Senator for Mississippi explained. ‘Brown-paper envelope. Posted in Washington yesterday.’
They sat round a table in Goddard’s office to listen to the tape.
‘Okay guys,’ they heard Craig say. ‘This is what we’re offering if I’m elected president. Number One, the US is going to drop the current sanctions against Russia, as regards Crimea and the Ukraine. We would hope that NATO will follow us in this, but even if they don’t, we will act unilaterally.
‘Number Two: if I’m elected president, the United States will not challenge the deployment by Russia of the ground-based, nuclear-capable 9M729 missiles, even though possession of these missiles is a violation of the terms of the INF . . . Bert, what the hell does INF stand for?’
‘INF means the Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, Ron.’
‘I guess that’s Bert Rumbold,’ Wilbur Brown commented. ‘Sounds like he’s still on six packs a day.’
‘Thanks, Bert,’ they heard Craig say. ‘We understand the 9M729s have a range of 620 to 3240 miles. Apparently they hit Syria from the Caspian the other day. So if we agree that their use is compatible with the INF, then Russia can legally hit every capital in Europe. More to the point, perhaps, Russia will be able t
o blast the living daylights out of every city in China.
‘Let’s take China’s build-up in the South China seas. I believe the United States must be ready to go to war with China over these illegal bases. But it would be better still if Russia and the US could take a coordinated approach. We can say to China “Pull back from the Spratlys or the Russians will whack Chengdu or Xian or wherever with their 9M729 missiles can reach.” ’
‘Now we’re going to hear the Russian ambassador to Washington, Georgiy Reznikov,’ Goddard said.
They listened right to the end of the tape, until they reached Reznikov’s damning conclusion.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. This has been a most productive meeting. I can assure you that President Popov will be pleased. In view of what I have heard today I am authorized to tell you that between now and Election Day we will make sure that our cache of emails from the Democratic National Committee, including those from Caroline Mann, the Democratic Presidential candidate, is deployed to the fullest possible extent. We further undertake to offer Craig Shipping and Craig Oil the most favourable terms possible as far as their operations in the Russian Arctic are concerned.’
There was a pause. Then they heard Reznikov say, ‘Of course we will, I hope, have further conversations, many further conversations when Ron – may I call you Ron? – is elected. But perhaps our discussions today will do for starters.’
There was one last intervention from Ronald Craig, the presidential Candidate. ‘Don’t forget about my old friend Mickey Selkirk. Selkirk Global is planning a major expansion in Russia. I think he has his eyes on Pravda and Izvestia as well as RT, Russian television!’
Goddard switched the tape off. ‘So my first questions, gentlemen, are: did this conversation really happen and is this an accurate recording?’
He looked at them expectantly. They were the experts; he wasn’t.
Bud Hollingsworth raised his hand. ‘Hold on a moment, Dirk. Let’s assume for a moment this isn’t a fake. It’s a real recording of a real conversation. What would you say the implications are?’
Kompromat Page 26