I felt bad. You’re being totally unreasonable, I told myself. Take her in your arms and tell her you’ll turn it down. But after a minute or two she emerged with a wan smile and a surprise: ‘Sorry, just got a bit emotional. Nothing you haven’t seen before. Look, I know you really want to do this – newspapers are in your blood. So I won’t stand in your way. But I have two conditions.’
‘Anything,’ I said.
Annie said she wanted to ask our nanny to come with us. Posh – shortened from Porsha as Percy could only manage the one syllable – came to us soon after he was born and had lived with us since. And there was a delicious irony in her nickname: magenta-haired, promiscuously pierced and generously inked, she came from Tumbulgum, a tiny town about 800 kilometres north of Sydney. Posh was, well, anything but.
‘Absolutely. And the other condition?’
‘I want to do something. Go back to work or find a project.’
Annie came back to bed to celebrate. The next morning, I rang up Bolshakov and said: ‘Da, bolshoe spasibo’. Yes, thank you very much. I had looked it up on the internet.
6
‘SO, WHY this Australian, svóloch?’ Varvara arched her thin eyebrows.
‘What do you mean?’ said Bolshakov.
‘I don’t understand why you made him editor of your newspaper.’
‘Because he is a celebrity. It’s good for publicity. And because Minto says he is easy-going, manageable. “Putty in our hands” is what he said.’
‘But why not Bill Todd, the deputy? He will do everything we ask.’
Bolshakov sighed. ‘No, no. Todd is the svóloch. A complete dick. No one likes him, no one believes he would make a good editor. He is not credible. Jonno Bligh has a big reputation as a writer but no experience as an editor. That makes him vulnerable.’
‘I’m not so sure, Borya. When I looked at his hand, I felt something was not right. He is trouble, believe me.’
‘Zatknís! Shut up, Vava. You and your gypsy bullshit! Besides, Minto told me Bligh had a coke problem when he worked in LA. We can use that if he proves difficult.’
It was after the Minto dinner party. They were having a vodka martini nightcap together in their Langham Hotel suite overlooking Sydney Harbour. It was a rare occasion, as they lived mostly separate lives. Varvara worked and resided in New York while Bolshy used his superyacht Ikon as both a floating home and a business base. The arrangement suited them both.
From the yacht, the oligarch ran two different operations: the first was totally global and legit, the second exclusively European and criminal. He largely left the running of the former to a Russian Jew, Efrayim Klein who, along with his Stanford-educated son Alexander, managed Bolshakov’s oil and gas interests on a day-to-day basis along with an extensive worldwide commercial property and shipping portfolio from a Paris base. Bolshy preferred to personally control the drugs, sex trafficking, counterfeiting and arms smuggling elements of his below-the-counter operations from aboard the Ikon, which was mostly moored in the South of France. No one, not his wife, not Macrae, not his father, Leonid – especially not his father! – knew the full extent of his criminal enterprises. To the oligarch it was a hobby. Everybody needs a hobby, he’d chuckle to himself.
‘What is so important that you came so far to see me?’ Bolshakov asked his wife.
‘Because it involves Marvell Manufacturing International.’
‘What about it?’
‘Your father Leonid sent me an encrypted message saying that a newspaper reporter was sniffing around.’
Bolshakov looked up sharply. ‘Why did he not send me the message?’
‘Because, darling, I was the one who handled the original loans arrangement for your precious Banquo. All those years ago. Remember? And that is what the reporter is looking at.’
‘Who is the reporter? What newspaper does he work for?’
‘She. Her name is Barbara Scaife. Business writer for Yorkshire Telegraph. In Leeds. As you know, MMI is also based there.’
Bolshakov snorted. ‘Why should we worry about some small-time hack? The suka will not find anything.’
‘If that were true, darling, I would not have come all way here just for the pleasure of seeing your face.’ She told him that Carlos Macrae had checked Scaife out. ‘He says that she is persistent. Smells a big story. The woman talked to local bank contacts and found out MMI had been in trouble ten years ago. She now has some idea that the bailout money came from Moscow. Macrae believes she is close to writing the story.’
‘Are you kidding me? Why did Carlos not tell me this? This Scaife could ruin everything – not just our sanctions strategy but she could also kill our plan to make Banquo Russia’s greatest ever secret-intelligence asset.’ He picked up his phone. ‘Wait, I’ll call Carlos now.’
Varvara told him to put it down. ‘I told Macrae not to worry you until we found out more information. We need to make some decisions before you talk to him. First, we have to discuss Banquo. Your father does not believe your Bligh strategy will work. I’m not sure I do either.’
‘What has Papa said?’
‘He believes it will take too long and is doomed to failure. He says you should force Banquo to move now. Before it is too late.’
‘He worries too much.’
‘Nyet! He knows, as I do, that Russia is in peril. Low oil prices and the West’s economic sanctions are bringing us to our knees. You’ll know the rouble is in the toilet. That is why your father has many operations in play to fix these problems, including mine.’
‘We’ve survived before. Like in 1998.’
‘Things are worse now. The people are getting restless. Wages are frozen, there’s less food and businesses are closing. There have even been riots in the street.’
‘So what? The fucking proletariat is never happy.’
‘Because it puts President Rodchenko at risk. Already there are moves against him. The military are pissed off at reduced budgets and that arms sanctions means fighter planes and spy ships lack vital electronics. And guess what, darling, if Rodchenko goes, we do too – you, me and Leonid. We know where too many bodies are buried.’
‘What do you and Papa want me to do?’
‘Move things up. Put pressure on Bligh to deliver. And you must give an ultimatum to Banquo – do this thing we ask or else we’ll bankrupt your family firm and expose you as traitor.’
‘Okay, okay! I’ll do it. What else?’
‘The journalist. Barbara Scaife.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s big trouble. You need to do something quick.’
The oligarch took a long pull of his cocktail before thumping the glass down on the side table. He smiled, his tombstone teeth menacing. ‘Okay, Varushka. We will get rid of her. Immediately. Macrae will use the Kazakh brothers to take care of this crazy blyat.’
Vava sat back and nodded. ‘Klëvo. Cool. I thought that would be your decision.
7
THE MEETING Martha Fry had suggested to me over dinner at the Dorchester took place a few days later. It started badly and went downhill from there. Entering the UKT boardroom I found the MD flanked by Black Mac, who had a coffee in his hand and a Rafael Nadal sneer on his face, and Harvey Finkelstein, the self-styled digital guru.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I asked Martha, indicating Macrae. ‘I thought he was just the PR guy. Why is he sitting in on a meeting about editorial matters?’
Martha’s face pinked; I could see it even under the heavy make-up. ‘Well, Bolshy wanted him here in case there were any issues or decisions that required … careful communication. In particular, there is a matter we will discuss later that is, um, a tad delicate.’
‘Okay, what is this “delicate matter” you want to talk about?’ I said.
Martha smiled. ‘As I said, we’ll get to that later. First there are a couple of business issues that we need to discuss. As well as print, they involve UKT.com which is why I asked Harve to join us.’
Finkelstein was another bloke I was wary of. A wiry, fidgety Californian with a wispy, whiskery beard, and a long nose, reminded me of the meerkat in the TV ads for an insurance company. ‘Harve’ embodied the nerdy hipster species with his man bun and black-rimmed glasses. He never seemed to have any socks and his jacket looked as if it had shrunk in the wash. He attended our editorial news meetings, interfered in decisions and ceaselessly demanded first dibs on every major story. So far, I’d found him a constant pain in the arse.
‘We’ll start with circulation.’ Martha pushed a report across the boardroom table.
‘As you can see, the paper has been suffering. We got a slight kick yesterday thanks to the front page but the long-term trend shows we are way down. Just to be clear – these figures are confidential. If the advertisers get wind of them, they’ll head for the hills.’
I picked up the report. Coloured charts and sombre looking black and white tables with red figures glared up at me. Even a numerical dyslexic like me could figure out that the UKT circulation was in the toilet. ‘I knew all newspapers were doing it tough, but not as badly as this,’ I said. ‘The serious slide started what, nearly three years ago?’ I said. ‘Says here it suddenly fell off a cliff in 2013. What happened then to cause that?’
Martha looked first at Finkelstein and then Macrae. His crocodile grin appeared again. ‘Well, mate, you can work it out for yourself. That was when we completely revamped the website and started loading a lot more live content. You should also know that some of the recent figures are a little inflated … artificially.’
‘You mean bulk sales?’ These were tens of thousands of free or heavily discounted copies given away at airports, hotels and other venues to help ‘bulk’ up circulation. I’d researched UKT’s circulation figures after accepting Bolshakov’s offer, but they looked respectable because the bulks had been disguised.
‘Something like that.’
‘But this is madness.’ I brandished the report. ‘This shows that less than ten per cent of ALL revenue comes from online. The rest still comes from print. Why give away the content free via the website? Then there’s no need for readers to buy the paper. That’s what’s destroying us.’ Finkelstein may look like a prick but he’s obviously good at his job, I thought.
Macrae said: ‘Bolshy sees it as a transitional process. We grow the digital audience and ad revenue until it overtakes the contribution made by the paper. At that point, we can stop using dead trees to make money.’
I was stunned. ‘You mean you’ll kill off UK Today?’
‘Relax, it won’t happen overnight,’ Martha said. ‘And the brand will live on via the web. Every paper is in similar trouble and will do the same. But, in the meantime, we have to cut costs in order to maintain profits.’
Black Mac looked at me with malice. ‘There must be areas in editorial you can chop. I could take a look at your operation and suggest some savings.’
‘Not a chance,’ I snapped. ‘You keep your nose out of my newsroom.’ I turned back to Martha. ‘Look, this is a total shock. Bolshakov didn’t mention any of this when he offered me the job. Let me take this stuff away and study it before I comment.’
‘Sure, Jonno,’ said Martha. ‘We’ll pick this up again once you’ve had a chance to settle in properly. Now, before we adjourn, there is that other delicate matter I mentioned? Harve, I don’t think we need your input on this one.’
* * *
Once the Meerkat left, things sailed further south at a rate of knots. First, Martha explained that our proprietor was a good friend of the Russian president and saw himself as a potential high-level intermediary between his homeland and the West.
I laughed. ‘Like a mini Henry Kissinger?’
‘Not exactly. But these sanctions are hurting everybody. Not just Russia. And Bolshy believes he can be a kind of circuit-breaker by creating shall we say … a more positive appetite for negotiation between the two sides. After all, he also has the ear of the Prime Minister, James Marvell.’
‘I don’t understand. Where do I figure in this?’
Martha indicated that Macrae should take over. He put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands under his stubbled chin and looked at me with a reptilian gaze: ‘The boss believes the paper could do more to bring both sides together. UK Today still has immense influence with the powers that be, thanks to our combined audience of more than six million from print and online. If you started a newspaper campaign to lift EU sanctions, perhaps the PM would be more persuasive with his US and European counterparts.’
This was another shock. I knew about the sanctions that Macrae referred to – they followed a UN General Assembly Resolution in response to the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014. Now, nearly three years on, the whole sanctions shitfest was costing several countries, not just Russia, billions.
‘Are you kidding? A campaign? To achieve what exactly?’
Martha said UKT’s initiative would provide a platform for the Prime Minister, James Marvell, to change tack. And, if he did it would have a domino effect on the other EU members.
I shook my head. ‘Well, guys, I’m not sure I can do that. That would represent a major shift in our editorial position. Besides, Marvell might not be so easily turned.’
Macrae smirked. ‘The Boss can be very persuasive.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Before Macrae could reply, Martha put a hand up and said: ‘Okay, guys, that’s enough for now. Bolshy will be here in a few days’ time and he’ll want to know your thoughts on this. We’ll meet again then.’
I scratched my head. ‘So, let me see if I’ve got this right: you want me to pour a bucket of shit over the PM’s head thus enabling him to do a U-turn and support the lifting of sanctions.’
Martha glanced at Macrae and nodded. ‘Yup, that’s about right, sweetheart.’
8
SHIV O’SHEA loved the streets of London. Loved pounding the pavements in search of a lead or a new contact who might be useful in the future. Loved the raw energy and excitement that came from not knowing what or who might be around the corner.
Danger suited the experienced UK Today reporter, whether it came from pin-striped politicians or camo-clad guerrillas. She was equally comfortable navigating the corridors of power at home or picking her way through the minefields of far-off war zones. Must have some sort of death wish, her old mum had told her often enough.
Right now she was in her element. It was a Sunday and she was working. That suited her fine. She had no family and no life outside the office. Not even a cat. Her job was everything. ‘But, let’s be honest, I am fecking great at it,’ she told herself for the millionth time.
Shiv was in Waxy O’Connor’s around the corner from the Prince of Wales Theatre in Coventry Street, not far from Leicester Square, waiting for a guy who claimed he had actual video footage of the Morgan murder. He was ready to sell it to the highest bidder. God, she hated these ‘buy-ups’. Usually involved dealing with greedy scumbags who wanted to profit from someone else’s grief. The irony of that thought did not elude her. Sometimes I guess that’s what we do, she admitted to herself with a wry smile. But at least we’re trying to do it in the public interest, not for pure personal gain.
The Irish pub was busy. Lots of noisy tourists and theatre-goers, by the look of them. Their modern, bright clothes and jovial banter contrasted with the dark Gothic décor’s ornately-tiled floors, heavy-beamed ceiling and heavy wrought iron chandeliers. Taking a hearty slug out of her merlot, Shiv glanced at the flyer for the Book of Mormon she had picked up on her way past the theatre. She had heard it was good. Must drag Juggs along to that some time, she thought. But then, she told herself, that’ll never happen, and she crumpled the paper up in her hand.
Just then her phoned pinged. A message from her mate Barbara. Some big story she was working on for her local rag. The message said there was an attachment. But, when Shiv looked, it wasn’t there. Silly cow must have forgotten to attach it. She started
to text her friend back, to ask her to send it again. But a figure suddenly loomed above her. ‘Are you the reporter?’ it said.
Shiv looked up and nodded. ‘You Cornelius?’ She patted the scuffed leather seat beside her.
‘Call me Corny. Everyone does.’
She gave him the once-over: mid-to-late fifties, Hawaiian shirt, black jeans and red baseball boots. A grey trilby adorned his head, tufts of grey-white hair protruding below it. Clean-shaven, friendly face with jowls and chin beginning to head south.
‘I’m Shiv. From UK Today. Before we start, can I get you a drink?’
He asked for a glass of bubbly. Standing at the bar waiting to order, she watched a big American guy the size of Hulk Hogan eating from a bowl of fat chips the size of sausages slathered in brown gravy. She was mightily tempted to order some but somehow summoned the willpower to resist. Back at the table, Corny waved the crumpled flyer at her. ‘Have you seen this show, dearie? That’s where I’m working. It’s fantastic, if I say so myself.’ If he calls me dearie again, I’ll slap him, Shiv thought. But, instead, remembering why she was here, she smiled.
‘Cheers,’ he raised his glass in salute and then took a sip.
‘So, Corny, what do you do?’
‘I’m a make-up artist, love.’ That made sense. Corny was wearing a little bit of foundation himself. Maybe he could give her a few tips.
‘Must be interesting work.’ Shiv usually had a hard time getting people to talk but she figured Cornelius Van der Meer would be the exception. She was right.
‘It’s lovely. Me and the other girls have the best time.’ Then, without drawing breath, he proceeded to tell a succession of tales about stage and screen actors who were household names but who’d performed all sorts of other acts behind the scenes. He was just about to launch into a story about Laurence Olivier and a one-legged scene shifter when she interrupted him.
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