Kremlin Conspiracy

by Brian Freemantle

  In the basement garage there was a Zil limousine, with its rota of chauffeurs at press-button readiness. Her salary of six thousand rubles a month was irrelevant because her purchases at the concessionary stores were always charged, never paid for. Nor did she pay for the rent of the apartment. Or for the limousine. And there were other charge accounts, the carefully concealed and re-routed billings from American Express and Diner’s International and Visa which enabled her to have a wardrobe to match that of any $300,000 career executive – male or female – in the West. And necessary for exactly that reason: Lydia Fedorovna Kirov had not just to match but to exceed.

  Unusual among Russians who travelled to the West, to London and Washington, Paris and Tokyo and Frankfurt, she knew that the traditional surveillance, either from the local embassy or from someone in the accompanying subservient financial group, was now practically non-existent.

  Not just unusual: unique. Because she – and her concept – was unique.

  But there had still been sacrifices. It hadn’t been a consideration at first, a thought even. She’d evolved a financial plan and been lucky enough to have it accepted. Which had meant a twenty-four hour, awakening-until-sleep-control. The awareness of that commitment evolved slowly, unconsciously: one moment there had been nothing, the next minute … The next minute, what? The only word that offered itself was resentment. Which was as ridiculous as expecting anyone to believe she had made sacrifices. Ridiculous or not, that was what she felt. Resentment. Illogical, unreasoned, immature, stupid resentment at a consuming involvement in an enterprise which had absorbed her for years: an enterprise which was about to conclude and confirm her power and leave her with … again, what?

  Lydia stared around her pristine, maid-maintained, plant-decorated, concealed-lighted apartment. And then, like a prospective purchaser, she embarked upon a tour. There were plants in the bedrooms, too. And ornaments. All positioned and placed, like essential parts of some elaborate pattern, a pattern that had been arranged by a computer, not by clumsy human hands. The bathroom was a reverberating reflection of images from the surrounding glass, glimmered by polished chrome, and there was more chrome in the kitchen, computer-regimented again, mixers and blenders, utensils and freezers.

  Lydia, one of whose few hobbies was literature, said aloud, ‘Those whom we would destroy, we first copy,’ consciously twisting the quotation.

  Once, she reflected, she would have impressed herself with the pretentious effort: tonight that was what it seemed to be, an effort. Pretentious, too.

  So much, she thought. But so little.

  Within the Finance Ministry and the bank she had acquaintances but no friends. Her social life was not of her choosing, but of official requirement. Which, despite the unmonitored freedom, was what it was in the West. They’d never believe it – understand it even – but she considered herself as much of a robot as her escorts in the Praesidium.

  Depression, like uncertainty, was an unusual feeling for Lydia and she tried to overcome it. At the age of thirty years, five months, two weeks and three days she was one of the luckiest and most favoured women within the Soviet Union.

  She had everything. She paused at the thought. Everything, she told herself again; even her virginity. That was the greatest problem of all.

  Burnham arranged to sit next to Jane on the Concorde flight to Washington, but having done so appeared embarrassed and treated her with an almost ridiculous degree of reserve during the journey.

  At the Jefferson hotel their rooms were on different floors and the corridors and elevators always seemed to be crowded with members of the British delegation. He managed to make love to her on the second night, hurriedly, as if he were constantly aware of the watch he hadn’t bothered to take off, finishing way ahead of her and then saying almost immediately that he’d have to go back to his own room, in case the governor or any of the other directors tried to contact him and wondered at his absence.

  ‘Bastard!’

  He seemed surprised at the outburst. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘If you don’t know what’s the matter, then you’re stupid!’ Jane decided her sexual frustration was about evenly matched with her anger.

  ‘I don’t want to argue about nothing.’

  ‘I know what you want,’ she said. ‘You might as well have masturbated.’

  ‘That’s obscene.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ She was lying rigidly beside him, ready for him at last. God, how much she wished he’d take her. She was privately embarrassed at her sexuality.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What you promised.’

  ‘When the children are able to take it,’ he said. ‘I told you I’d divorce Marion when I thought the children would be able to take it.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I don’t know: they’re still young.’

  ‘So I’m expected to wait around for years, until you decide the time is right?’

  ‘We’ve been through all this.’

  ‘I want to go through it again.’

  He moved and she was sure he’d looked at his watch again. ‘I won’t hurt the children,’ he said.

  ‘Children are convenient, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s a filthy thing to say.’

  ‘Or true.’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘I’m surprised you managed to stay so long.’

  ‘You’re being stupid.’

  She was, she recognized. What the hell did she expect him to do? ‘I don’t want to be your whore,’ she said.

  He swung his legs out of bed, sat hunched on the edge. She hadn’t realized before how much hair was matted on his back. There was a long silence and then he said, ‘I love you,’ and she hated him for not managing something better.

  ‘I said I loved you,’ he repeated.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’d better get back to your room,’ she said. ‘The governor might be trying to get hold of you.’

  Chapter 3

  Tom Pike arrived purposely late at the Chase Manhattan reception to avoid the official receiving line. His father, who had gone to the IMF from the chairmanship of the Chase, was on the far side of the room with the usual coterie of IMF officials, making a gradual triumphal tour among his former colleagues. Pike waited to see the direction in which it was moving and went the opposite way, not wanting to encounter it immediately.

  It was the biggest reception during the International Monetary Fund’s annual meeting, this time in Washington, and the Chase Manhattan had taken over one of the larger banqueting suites at the Mayflower; it was already crowded and difficult to move.

  Pike decided he’d stay just long enough to be recognised by some of his father’s entourage and for his presence to be officially recorded. George Shearing was appearing at Blues Alley and he was looking forward to an evening in Georgetown. But not alone. Perhaps he should have brought Loraine along, as she had suggested. Then again, perhaps not. It would have been a political mistake and Pike didn’t make mistakes, of any sort.

  He looked around at the crush of people. There were a lot of women so it wouldn’t be difficult. It rarely was. Another way of proving himself, Pike accepted. And he knew he was very good at proving himself that way.

  He took a drink from a passing tray, sniffed and realised it was scotch. The ice had melted. Maybe that was why it seemed weak. He nodded and smiled to several bankers he knew and located the Federal Reserve group on the far side of the room, awaiting the arrival of his father. Richard Volger, the chairman, gave a beckoning wave and Pike intentionally misunderstood, waving back as if merely responding to a greeting and then looking away. If he was going to find company for the evening he couldn’t afford to waste time with people he saw every day.

  He saw her at the edge of the British delegation, nearer than she’d been at the opening ceremony two days earlier, and decided t
hat his initial impression had been the right one: the standard of the British contingent was improving.

  Why not? he thought. Conscious of his chairman’s continued attention, he manoeuvred himself close enough to read the name tag directly below the green badge signifying that she was part of an official delegation, then went up and said, ‘Hello, Jane Rosen.’

  She turned towards him, smiling in an uncertain attempt at recollection. He said at once, ‘I confess: I read the name-tag.’ Pike was practised at the art of mockery.

  She continued to smile and he was glad: she was a good reason for not fighting his way across the room to go through the dutiful son-greets-father routine. She wore very little make-up, just lipgloss and a small amount of eye colouring, and her blonde hair was cut short in a cowl around her face. Despite the severe tailoring of the suit, there was still sufficient movement beneath it for him to enjoy a second look at the identification pinned on her left breast.

  ‘Hello, Tom Pike,’ she said, reading the name from his tag. At once she frowned and looked beyond him to the procession. ‘Are you …?’ she began, but Pike interrupted.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He’s my father.’

  ‘I met him when we arrived,’ she said.

  ‘And he held your hand between each of his, looked directly at you as if there wasn’t anyone else in the room and said what a pleasure it was to meet you,’ Pike predicted.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened. I thought he was a nice man.’

  ‘People do,’ said Pike.

  ‘Don’t you?’ she demanded.

  The directness off-balanced him. He stopped with the drink halfway to his mouth and said, ‘Of course.’

  ‘It didn’t seem like it,’ she said.

  ‘He’s a man of mannerisms,’ said Pike. And ambition, he thought; they both were.

  ‘I thought he seemed sincere.’

  ‘That’s the best mannerism of all.’

  ‘Do you practise it?’

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to go: he had to get back on course. ‘Are you always like this?’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’

  Seizing the chance to escape from discussing his father, Pike lowered his voice in a parody of a sonorous television commercial and intoned, ‘Jane Rosen is a forceful, dynamic woman of today, someone who speaks her mind.’

  She laughed and Pike relaxed. Humour was always important, in the beginning. And later, too, to avoid it becoming serious; he didn’t like serious morning scenes. Or evening scenes, come to that.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. Jane was conscious of Burnham’s undivided attention from the other side of their assembled group, but intentionally didn’t respond. There wasn’t any harm in momentarily using this American: he’d made the first approach, after all. And she was flattered, she admitted to herself. Pike was too sure of himself by half but that was supposed to be a national characteristic. He certainly didn’t seem a characteristic banker: it was expensive – mohair she guessed – but he was wearing a sports jacket among a sartorial sea of suits and even during this brief encounter he seemed more irreverent than anyone else she’d met since she’d been in Washington. She didn’t like the heavy, drooped moustache which hardly seemed part of the banker’s image, either: or the way – an affectation almost – he had of staring directly into her eyes, as if he were positively trying to embarrass.

  ‘Why now then?’ he said. This was going to be fun, he thought.

  She shrugged, slightly uncomfortable under the gaze and said, ‘I don’t know.’ Despite her determination not to, she looked towards the British group: Paul had very positively turned away from her. She thought it was childish.

  ‘Am I keeping you?’ said Pike, intercepting the look.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘It’s my first time and I don’t want to make any mistakes: I might have been wanted.’ Hypocrite, she thought: hopeful hypocrite.

  ‘Enjoying it?’

  A waiter intruded before she could reply. Pike exchanged glasses but Jane shook her head. She gestured as the man walked away and said, ‘I didn’t expect all this. A reception or two, certainly. And a couple of dinners. But this has been like the longest party in the world. When does the business start?’

  ‘It started on the opening day, in upstairs suites and lobbies,’ said Pike. ‘That’s where the loans are agreed and the deals done. You’re supposed to be filmed and photographed at the public sessions and agree with the speeches that are made to assure Mr and Mrs Public that the world’s financial structure remains sound and that everything is glued together.’

  She tried to match his mockery, lowering her voice and saying, ‘Mr Thomas Pike Junior is a world-weary, cynical banker, suspicious of a collapsing system,’ but halfway through she couldn’t sustain it and ended giggling.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said. She had a crooked front tooth of which she didn’t appear embarrassed: he wondered why she hadn’t had it fixed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m just a lowly supervisor being allowed out of a cell in Threadneedle Street as a reward for good works.’ And to be laid, when my lover can manage it, she thought. Sometimes not very well.

  ‘Lowly regarded people aren’t brought to IMF meetings,’ Pike said. Across the room he saw that his father had passed the Federal Reserve group: he supposed he would have to go across soon. Everything had to be timed to perfection.

  ‘I’d still like to be learning and doing more,’ she said.

  Remembering the purpose of his approach in the first place, he ignored her comment and said, ‘How much of Washington have you seen?’

  ‘The pretty drive in from the airport, the top of the Washington monument and the Capitol building from inside the same car and so many crowded rooms in so many hotels that I’ve lost count.’

  ‘I’m getting out of here in a moment,’ he said. ‘I’m going to eat in a part of the city called Georgetown, which is terrific. Why not come along?’

  The invitation surprised her. Burnham was still ignoring her pointedly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. There was no reason why she shouldn’t go. At once came the contradiction. There was every reason why she shouldn’t go and she knew it.

  If he didn’t speak to his father soon, Pike realized the rudeness would appear obvious: he wished he hadn’t had to rush it with her. ‘I’ll wait for you in the lobby until nine,’ he said.

  Jane recognized her escape, if Burnham stopped being stupid and ignoring her. ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Promise,’ he pressed, instantly noticing her reluctance to commit herself.

  ‘Providing it’s all right,’ she said, nodding towards the British group.

  ‘Don’t ask them.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Worried that he had wasted his time, Pike eased his way through the crush, aware of one of the IMF aides alerting his father of his approach.

  ‘Tom!’

  His father greeted him warmly, as if they hadn’t encountered each other for years. ‘Tom!’ There was the encompassing, extended handshake and Pike wondered if Jane was watching from behind. He hoped not.

  ‘Hello father,’ he said.

  ‘Missed you at the beginning of the evening,’ said the IMF controller.

  Pike knew that only he among the group would properly recognize the rebuke: his father showed discretion in everything. ‘I was delayed,’ he said, avoiding a direct apology.

  His father stared at him for several seconds, then turned to the waiting men. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet my son, Tom.’

  Pike went through the ritual handshaking, glad of the opportunity to move away from his father, identifying most of the men before the formal introductions. ‘Going to be one of the world’s great bankers,’ said the older man. ‘Isn’t that what Volger said? One of the great bankers!’

  There were nods and smiles of agreement from the group and Pike felt like he had done as a child, forced to stand in front of a cigar-swirled crowd at the
family’s annual Christmas party and recite the purposely unlearned Civil War poetry that the old man had tried to inculcate into him, to perpetuate a passing hobby. ‘Meeting going well?’ he asked.

  ‘No reason why it shouldn’t,’ said his father. ‘No reason at all.’

  Pike wondered if his father’s tendency to repeat himself was a new mannerism: he hadn’t been aware of it before. ‘There certainly seems to be a lot of people with money to sell,’ he said, looking around the room.

  ‘Grease to the wheels,’ said the older man. ‘Haven’t I always told you that: grease to the wheels.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Pike patiently. ‘That’s what you always told me.’

  His father turned to his assembled officials and said, ‘Taught him all he knows: all he knows. Now he’s leaving me behind.’

  You’d better believe it, thought Pike. He was going to be the best – always – at the Fed and no one was going to say he’d done it clutching the coat-tails of this over-indulgent, constantly hand-holding old man. ‘I’ve still got some way to go,’ he said. Pike practised deference like everything else.

  ‘There’s an official dinner after this reception,’ said his father. ‘There is a place kept for you.’

  ‘I replied saying I couldn’t make it: prior engagement,’ said Pike.

  ‘Thought your plans might have changed.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Coming to the house at the weekend? Your mother’s expecting you.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘Wanted to be sure.’

  ‘I’ll call.’

  ‘Make sure you do, now.’

  One of his father’s aides was indicating the Bank of England delegation and the group moved on again.

  ‘I’ll tell your mother you’re coming then,’ said his father insistently.

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Pike looked after the IMF people, in the direction of the British, but he couldn’t see Jane. It had been a rushed encounter, he thought again: too rushed. There was no guarantee that she would show up in the lobby. The sensible thing to do would be to abandon her and try someone else but Pike suddenly wanted to get away from the jostling, thronged room. He made a brief courtesy stop among his own Federal Reserve contingent, grateful that Volger was heavily involved with some German bankers, then edged towards the door.