‘Shit!’ she said, in sudden anger. ‘Shit! shit! shit!’ And then, at last, she started crying.
It took eight days to complete the Polish agreement.
‘It’s a brilliant scenario,’ congratulated Malik. ‘There’s practically an automatic impetus to it.’
Lydia accepted the vodka he offered, feeling the liquor warm through her.
‘There’s no automatic impetus,’ she said. ‘There never will be. It will only work because we make it work. And there are still some tests to be made.’
‘You must be encouraged, at least,’ pressed the man.
‘Encouraged,’ she agreed. ‘But not complacent.’
‘What about the Argentinians?’
‘They arrive tomorrow.’
‘You’ve no doubt the Americans will try to use wheat as a weapon?’ asked Malik.
‘They’ll have to in the last resort,’ she said, ‘Although in actual fact it isn’t much of a threat: at seventeen per cent of our overall consumption, it’s a myth that we’re so dependent upon American grain for our food.’
‘It’s still wise to take precautions,’ said Malik.
‘I’m taking all that are available,’ assured Lydia.
Chapter 8
The objective was Western awareness and reaction. Accordingly there were three members of the Soviet Politburo among the band-accompanied welcoming party for the Argentinian delegation at Sheremetyevo airport, with the usually controlled Western media permitted every facility. Making allowances for the fatigue of the journey, the first evening was confined to a performance of Swan Lake at the Bolshoi, but to ensure newspaper and television coverage seven members of the Politburo were among the Soviet party and once again reporters were allowed every facility. The first working day was allocated to subsidiary meetings between the permanent officials of the Soviet and Argentinian Finance Ministries, which allowed for continued reportage of the sightseeing of the Latin American Finance Minister, Manuel Lopez, and his immediate entourage, accompanied throughout by the deputy Soviet Finance Minister, Mikhail Paramov. In the evening there was a State banquet within the Kremlin, at which the First Secretary himself was the host: after the meal the Russian insisted on walking to every Argentinian place setting and toasting the finance delegation personally.
By choice and planning Lydia occupied a subsidiary position at the first proper negotiating session, with Paramov heading the Russian party. As with everything that had preceded it, the opening formalities were thrown open to newspaper and television coverage. There was a theatricality about the actual beginning of the conference, after the room had been cleared of journalists – a diplomatic minuet of inferred hand-touching and bows and curtsies, the words as formalized as the attitudes. Only at the very end, when Lopez concluded a speech asserting continued friendships between the two countries, did Paramov appear to depart from the recognized ritual and disclose it was the hope of the Soviet government that such friendship could be increased and strengthened. He heightened the impression of indiscretion by retreating immediately into platitudes when Lopez seized upon the remark, moving out of step himself by inviting the Russian to explain the hope more fully.
Because he had been instructed to do so, Paramov approached Lydia at the end of the session and resentfully asked her opinion of the proceedings.
‘Very good,’ said Lydia, who had rehearsed the man the previous day.
‘I don’t enjoy being a puppet.’
‘That isn’t your function,’ said Lydia. Of the officials to be purged, he was the only one with whom she was likely to come into contact.
‘It seems like it to me,’ said Paramov. He was a fat, indulged man whom she suspected took more advantages than most of the favoured life of the Soviet élite. It didn’t make what was going to happen to the man any easier for her to accept. She wondered if he were married, with children who would suffer too. She felt more for any family than for the man.
‘Then you haven’t properly understood the preparations in which you’ve been involved for the meeting,’ she said.
Paramov seemed startled by the response from someone who by rank and title was far his inferior. He recovered with the quickness of the Kremlin politician he’d always tried to be and said stiffly, ‘I am aware of your rather special status, Comrade Kirov, but I think you should also be conscious of my position.’
‘I am conscious of your position, Comrade Minister,’ she responded, with matching stiffness. ‘I hope you are.’ Why was she behaving like other career women whom she knew within the Soviet system – soured, over-aggressive women, needing to prove themselves at every opportunity in encounters with men whom they suspected considered them inferior. She should feel pity for this stupid, manipulated man, not arrogance.
Colour suffused Paramov’s face and a vein on his forehead throbbed with anger. ‘I will not tolerate insubordination!’ he exclaimed pompously.
Lydia was conscious of the attention of other Russians who had remained with them in the conference chamber, too far away to hear the exchanges but knowing that an argument was erupting between them. ‘Then don’t tolerate it, Comrade Paramov,’ she said, turning to leave the room on her own terms.
Lydia’s anger remained, not at Paramov but at herself. It had all been so pointless! Insecure people were bullies and she wasn’t insecure. She had no reason to be. For sixty-six years the politicians of the Soviet Union had prattled and postured about world domination and failed to achieve it with every attempt. Now she, Lydia Fedorovna Kirov, was going to give it to them.
Could anyone in her position feel – imagine even – insecurity?
An official car took her back to her official apartment. She took the papers from her briefcase to prepare for the following day’s meeting and very soon decided there was no need to refresh her memory any further. She walked, without purpose or direction, around the apartment, halting finally at the expansive lounge window. It was completely dark now, the lights of Moscow yellowing the capital; to the left the colour was tinged red, changed by the theatrical stars surmounting the towers of the Kremlin. Lydia had no religion but she knew the Bible because of her love of reading; she wondered if the designers of that bizarre badge of communism ever considered the parody of the signal that had guided the three wise men to the birthplace of the supposed saviour of the world. Perhaps they had: perhaps that’s why there was more than one star, indicating their uncertainty about where in the fortress salvation lay.
Her bookshelves dominated one entire wall of the apartment, spilling over into other racks which she kept telling herself were temporary but which she hadn’t bothered to replace. She went to the existing shelves and took at random Griboyedov’s Woe from Wit. She leafed casually through the satirical play about a Moscow she couldn’t imagine, finding the style leaden and the humour difficult. There were more Western than Russian novels and books, all in English which Lydia spoke perfectly. She opened a Tom Sharpe novel at random, remembering the pleasure it had given her the first time. She wasn’t attracted now: it seemed forced, unnatural.
She stared at the last line on the page at which she’d opened the book.
‘Mr Jipson slept easily,’ it said.
Lucky Mr Jipson, Lydia thought.
The Argentinian curiosity was obvious as soon as they entered the conference room and saw the different composition of the Soviet side, with Lydia occupying the chief negotiator’s chair and Paramov in a subsidiary role. Unlike the previous sessions, no photographers were permïtted from either the Soviet or Argentinian media. The Argentinian delegation seated themselves amid hurried consultation, attempting to get from their back-up advisers the identity of the woman they were now facing.
‘My name is Lydia Fedorovna Kirov,’ she said helpfully.
‘We had hoped to continue discussion about expanding trade between our two countries,’ said Lopez.
The Latin American machismo was offended at having to talk with a woman, thought Lydia. Why were men so arrogant
! ‘We hope that too, on our side,’ said Lydia.
Lopez looked pointedly from the woman to Paramov. The obese Russian was hunched over the table, apparently engrossed in some document before him. Fools, thought Lydia: all of them.
‘There is a great need for your trade expansion,’ said Lydia.
‘Between all countries,’ said Lopez, lapsing into platitudes.
‘Argentina’s external debt is $40,000,000,000,’ pressed Lydia at once. ‘Since the Falklands war with the United Kingdom, your inflation has been practically incontrollable: within world banking there is a fear of a repetition of 1828.’
Lopez’s face blazed red in immediate annoyance. ‘I don’t regard that remark as being within the spirit of friendship so far shown between our two countries,’ he said. ‘You’re referring to history over one hundred years ago: Argentina does not intend to default as it did then. It would be unthinkable!’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Lydia. ‘But speculation of this kind surrounds the current economy of Argentina. From our studies we do not consider it possible for you to complete by 1985 the $10,000,000,000 plan to make your country self-sufficient in oil, which will therefore continue to impose a huge import burden. Your natural gas development can’t be completed either. And your wheat exportation is half of what it was less than six years ago.’
‘Temporary difficulties,’ said Lopez. ‘World recession has affected every country, including your own.’
‘Which is why this meeting between us is so fortunate,’ said Lydia, her attitude changing from one of force to conciliation. ‘The Soviet Union has an oil surplus. But we need wheat: our harvests have consistently failed. There would seem to be room for an amicable arrangement.’
There was a movement of interest among the Argentinian group: Lopez was leaning forward intently. ‘What sort of an arrangement?’ he demanded.
‘Oil for wheat,’ she said. ‘Fixed prices for both, which would relieve our countries from the uncertainties of fluctuation.’ Wanting to show which side was getting the better bargain, Lydia added, ‘If you had a contractual guarantee over five years, at a fixed posted price for oil, that would represent a foreign currency saving to Argentina of $1,000,000,000. Currently you have 52,000,000 acres of land under cultivation: that’s 22,000,000 short of what was under plough six years ago. With the pledged market we are offering, that land could be put back into production and reduce your unemployment through farming and the subsidiary industries by at least twelve per cent.’
And if they entered that sort of expansion and became dependent upon it, then they would be dependent upon Russia to maintain it, thought Lydia. She didn’t think that was a consideration in the minds of any of the people facing her. ‘It would be an extremely popular government that could achieve such a thing,’ she said, nudging them forward.
‘It is an interesting proposal,’ said Lopez, trying to conceal his interest behind the diplomatic cliché.
‘There would further be the need for transportation,’ said Lydia. ‘We would be prepared to contract with you for shipment.’
‘Argentinian shipment?’pounced Lopez at once.
‘Either owned or leased,’ accepted the woman. If Argentina acted as carriers, then payment would have to be made in foreign currency, predominantly dollars. It meant that as well as being freed of a $1,000,000,000 oil purchase necessity, the country would be earning millions from their shipping.
‘I’m not sure that our storage and conveyor capacity would be sufficient for the quantity this outline conversation indicates,’ said Lopez.
Greedy bastard, thought Lydia. It was unfortunate that the man would never know how the trap had clamped shut around his leg. ‘This trade agreement would be made public, of course,’ said Lydia. ‘With the obvious advantages to your economy, I would anticipate you wouldn’t find it difficult to increase your immediate loans.’
‘You yourself pointed out that our external debt is $40,000,000,000,’ said Lopez.
Precisely for this moment, thought Lydia. ‘Yes,’ she said encouragingly.
‘I don’t think I would share your complete optimism if we sought to increase it, despite our trade agreement.’
‘I suppose there could be a balanced pledge,’ said Lydia, as if the idea had just occurred to her.
‘How much of a balanced pledge?’
‘I would imagine we could offer half of whatever expansion loan you sought. Surely you could get the remaining fifty per cent from Western banks?’
‘Your commitment would act as a guarantee,’ said Lopez. ‘I’m sure they’d find that acceptable.’
‘Then we would seem to have a framework for negotiation,’ said Lydia.
‘Could there be a signing, in principle at least?’ pressed the Argentinian.
‘I would think it possible,’ said Lydia. ‘Could you extend your visit here, if it proved necessary?’
‘Easily,’ said Lopez, showing his eagerness.
With the Soviet Union appearing to concede so much and the Argentinian anxiety to conclude, the negotiations only took a further week, so there was no need for them to extend their stay. The Russians gave another reception to mark the official signing, which was televised and filmed as well as being photographed, because of the continued need for Western publicity. To guarantee it, this time five members of the Politburo attended.
Malik was with Lydia when the Argentinian trade minister approached, champagne glass in hand. ‘Our own private toast,’ proposed Lopez. ‘To a most successful negotiation.’
The two Russians drank and Malik said, ‘It’s been remarkably satisfactory.’
‘The final agreement shouldn’t differ greatly from this draft document,’ said Lopez.
‘The terms appear satisfactory upon our part,’ said Lydia.
‘So we should be able to enter contractual commitment very quickly?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Malik.
Disclosing his impatience, Lopez said. ‘Weeks?’
‘The Soviet delegation are assembling now,’ said Malik. ‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be in Buenos Aires within a few days.’
‘They’ll be warmly welcomed,’ promised Lopez. Believing he’d learned of another concession, he became anxious to return to his own party, to pass on the news. There was a brief, surface conversation for another few minutes and then the Argentinian excused himself, leaving them alone again.
‘He honestly believes he outwitted you at every stage,’ said Malik.
‘Yes,’ said Lydia. ‘He’ll never know otherwise.’
‘He’s not the sort of victory you want, is he?’
‘Of course not,’ she said.
‘There’s been some criticism,’ disclosed Malik.
‘Official?’
He shook his head. ‘Rumours and innuendo.’
‘Paramovthen?’
‘Obviously.’
‘The fool.’
‘The accusation is that you were unnecessarily aggressive and that the negotiations were put into jeopardy.’
‘How does that reconcile with what’s happening here, now?’
‘With embarrassment, for him.’
‘So it doesn’t matter.’
Malik looked at her, almost sadly. ‘You’re not being asked to defend yourself,’ he said patiently. ‘You’re entering an echelon where it’s important to know of everything that’s happening.’
She realized that at last he was going beyond the official barrier he always maintained. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, too hurriedly in her surprise. ‘And thank you for telling me.’
‘I thought it important that you should know, although there was no personal danger.’
‘When will the political moves start?’
‘Soon,’ said Malik. He hesitated and then said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘Why don’t you behave more like a woman?’
‘Why don’t you give me the opportunity?’ she invited.
&nb
sp; Chapter 9
There is a mythical hypnotism to gold, a metal as beguiling to bankers as it is to beneath-the-mattress hoarders, and it was with gold, of which they are the world’s second largest producers, that the Soviet Union extended its first lure. The most detailed planning – and Soviet planning was exhaustively detailed – gains or loses by the unexpected, and it was Vladimir Malik who saw the potential advantage as soon as it was announced from Pretoria that the balance of payments deficit of South Africa – the world’s biggest producer – necessitated the government applying for a standby loan of $100,000,000 from the International Monetary Fund.
Now that their offices were so close it took the Finance Minister only minutes to discuss it with Lydia and for them to agree that the fortuitous South African application made the timing right.
The Moscow announcement that the Soviet stockpile of gold had been under-estimated missed the European markets, but caught the last hour of Wall Street and the opening in Hong Kong. The American reaction was one of uncertainty. From $420 an ounce the price automatically jerked upwards, to $430. There was some speculative profit-taking, followed by concern that the size of the amount might lead to some dumping, so it dipped to $400. Asia had the advantage of a Moscow announcement – purposely delayed because it was precisely the sort of detailed planning that was being utilized – that the Russian government did not intend any abrupt disposals. The nervous overhang from New York only lasted an hour before the traditional confidence in metal established itself, so by the time London opened, in its pivotal position astride the time changes between East and West, prices on the Hong Kong market were hard at $450. Throughout the day London confirmed that confidence, closing at $453, with the Paris Bourse showing $450, because of the traditional French affection for gold, and the more conservative German exchange in Frankfurt registering $442.
New York opened on the second day with the sort of controlled excitement that follows enough bulls getting into the pen in the first day, expectation of the prices rising to confront investors anxious to recover positions their faint-heartedness had prevented them taking up when they first had the chance. By midday, gold was being traded at $470. It was too high, fuelled by auction fever, and by the close it had levelled at $450.
Kremlin Conspiracy Page 8
