Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  Robin Cook, the Shadow Foreign Secretary, was calling for an ethical foreign policy, and told Sasha that he expected him to keep reminding his Russian counterparts that their country’s newfound wealth should be distributed among the people, and not handed out to a group of undeserving oligarchs, many of whom had not only taken up residence in Mayfair, but weren’t paying any tax.

  Sasha told Cook privately that not only did he agree with those sentiments, but he had even given some thought to returning to his homeland and contesting the next presidential election if things didn’t improve. Although he had been delighted to see the end of Communism, he didn’t much care for what had replaced it.

  Getting any reliable information out of Russia was never easy at the best of times, but Sasha had become a close friend of Boris Nemtsov, who was now a junior minister in the Duma, as well as developing a close circle of friends among the younger diplomats at the embassy. They met regularly at official gatherings, conferences, and parties at other embassies, and Sasha quickly discovered that one young second secretary, Ilya Resinev, was even willing to pass on information from his uncle.

  When President Gorbachev was replaced by Yeltsin, Ilya let Sasha know that his old school friend Vladimir was among the new president’s inner circle, and was expecting to be promoted. Vladimir had recently resigned as a colonel when the KGB was dissolved, and thrown in his lot with his old university professor Anatoly Sobchak, who had become the first democratically elected mayor of Saint Petersburg. Vladimir was among his early appointments as head of the city’s foreign and economic relations committee. Ilya told Sasha that no oil or gas deal in the province could be closed without Vladimir’s approval, although he rarely put his signature to the final document, and no one seemed surprised when he moved house three times in three years, always into an ever grander establishment, despite being on a government salary.

  Ilya warned Sasha that if Sobchak was reelected, there would be no prizes for guessing who would be his successor as the next mayor of Saint Petersburg. “And after that, who knows where Vladimir would end up?”

  Sasha stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the delivery room, but the doors remained stubbornly closed. His mind drifted back to Russia, and his upcoming meeting with Boris Nemtsov, who, as a rising minister was planning to visit London in the autumn, when he would bring Sasha up to date as to whether it was at all credible for him to consider standing as president. Yeltsin had disappointed even his most ardent supporters, who felt he lacked the reforming zeal they had been looking for. And too many world leaders were complaining in private that they couldn’t hold a meeting with the Russian president after four o’clock in the afternoon. By then, he was no longer coherent in any language. During a recent stopover in Dublin, Yeltsin hadn’t even been able to get off the plane, leaving the Irish Taoiseach standing on the runway waiting in vain to greet him.

  Sasha checked his watch for the umpteenth time, and could only wonder what was going on behind those closed doors, when suddenly they swung open, and Dr. Radley, still in his scrubs, stepped out into the corridor. Sasha walked eagerly toward him, but when the doctor removed his mask, he didn’t need to be told that he would never have a son.

  * * *

  Sasha wondered if he would ever come to terms with Konstantin’s death. He had held the baby in his arms for a few moments before they took him away.

  His colleagues in the Commons couldn’t have been more understanding and sympathetic. But even they began to wonder if Sasha had lost his appetite for politics after he missed several three-line whips, and on a couple of occasions failed to turn up for his front-bench duties.

  The leader of the opposition had a word with the Shadow Foreign Secretary, and they agreed to say nothing until the House returned in the autumn following the long summer recess.

  Elena suggested that what they both needed was a holiday, and as far away from Westminster as possible.

  “Why not visit Rome, Florence, and Milan,” suggested Gino, “where you can indulge yourself in the finest opera houses, art galleries, and restaurants on earth. Pavarotti and Bernini, accompanied by endless pasta and Sicilian red. What more could anyone ask for?”

  “New York, New York,” suggested another Italian from their car radio. Charlie and Sasha decided to take Sinatra’s advice.

  “But what shall we do about Natasha?”

  “She can’t wait to get rid of you,” Elena assured them. “In any case, she was hoping to join her school friends on a trip to Edinburgh to see Kiki Dee.”

  “Then that’s settled.”

  * * *

  Sasha set about planning a holiday Charlie would never forget. They would spend five days on the QE2, and on arrival in New York, take a suite at the Plaza. They would visit the Metropolitan, MoMA, and the Frick, and he even managed to get tickets for Liza Minnelli, who was performing at Carnegie Hall.

  “And then we’ll fly home on Concorde.”

  “You’ll bankrupt us,” said Charlie.

  “Don’t worry, the Conservatives haven’t yet brought back debtors’ prisons.”

  “It will probably be in their next party manifesto,” suggested Charlie.

  The five-day voyage on the QE2 was idyllic, and they made several new friends, one or two who thought the Labour Party might even win the next election. Every morning began with a session in the gym, but they still both managed to put on a pound a day. On the final morning they rose before the sun and stood out on deck to be welcomed by the Statue of Liberty, while the skyscrapers of the Manhattan skyline grew taller by the minute.

  Once they’d checked into their hotel—Charlie had talked him out of the presidential suite in favor of a double room several floors below—they didn’t waste a minute.

  The Metropolitan Museum entranced Charlie with its breadth of works from so many cultures. From Byzantine Greece, to Italy’s Caravaggio, to the Dutch masters, Rembrandt and Vermeer, while the French Impressionists demanded a second visit. The Museum of Modern Art also delighted her and surprised Sasha, who couldn’t always tell the difference between Picasso and Braque during their cubist period. But it was the Frick that became their second home, with Bellini, Holbein, and Mary Cassatt to draw them back again and again. And Liza Minnelli had them standing on their feet crying “Encore!” after she sang “Maybe This Time.”

  “What shall we do on our last day?” asked Sasha as they enjoyed a late breakfast in the garden room.

  “Let’s go window-shopping.”

  “Why don’t we stroll into Tiffany’s and buy everything in sight?”

  “Because we’ve already gone over our budget.”

  “I feel sure we’ve still got enough to buy something for both grandmothers and Natasha.”

  “Then we’ll window-shop on Fifth Avenue, but buy everything from Macy’s.”

  “Compromise,” said Sasha, folding his newspaper. “Bloomingdale’s.”

  Charlie selected a pair of leather gloves for her mother, while Sasha chose a Swatch for Elena that she’d hinted about more than once. And such a reasonable price, she’d reminded him.

  “And Natasha?” asked Sasha.

  “A pair of these Levi’s. They’ll be the envy of her friends.”

  “But they’re faded and ripped before you even buy them,” said Sasha when he first saw them in a shop window.

  “And you claim to be a man of the people.”

  They were on their way back to the Plaza laden down with bags when Charlie stopped to admire a painting in a gallery window on Lexington Avenue. “That’s what I want,” she said, admiring the mesmerizing colors and brushwork.

  “Then you married the wrong man.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” said Charlie. “But I still intend to find out how much it’s going to cost you,” she added before going in.

  The walls of the gallery were crowded with abstract works, and Charlie was admiring a Jackson Pollock when an elderly gentleman approached her.

  “A magnific
ent painting, madam.”

  “Yes, but so sad.”

  “Sad, madam?”

  “That he died at such a young age, when he still hadn’t fulfilled his promise.”

  “Indeed. We had the privilege of representing him when he was alive, and this painting has been through my hands three times in the past thirty years.”

  “Death, divorce, and taxes?”

  The old man smiled. “You’re not in the art world, by any chance?”

  “I work as a conservator for the Turner Collection.”

  “Ah, then please give my regards to Nicholas Serota,” he said, handing her his card.

  Sasha walked across to join them. “Dare I ask the price of the painting in the window?”

  “The Rothko?” said Mr. Rosenthal, turning to face his customer. “Alex, I had no idea you were in town. But you must know that your wife has already purchased the painting for the collection.”

  “My wife has already bought it?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “Not on a Member of Parliament’s salary, she didn’t.”

  Rosenthal adjusted his glasses, took a closer look at the customer, and said, “I do apologize. I should have realized my mistake the moment you spoke.”

  “You said ‘the collection,’” said Charlie.

  “Yes, the Lowell Collection in Boston.”

  “Now that’s a collection I’ve always wanted to see,” said Charlie, “but I understood that it was locked up in a bank vault.”

  “Not any longer,” said Rosenthal. “The paintings were all returned to their original home in Boston some time ago. I’d be happy to arrange a private view for you, madam. The curator of the collection used to work here, and I know she’d enjoy meeting you.”

  “I’m afraid we’re booked on a flight back to London later this evening,” said Charlie.

  “What a pity. Next time, perhaps,” said Rosenthal, giving them both a slight bow.

  “Strange,” said Charlie once they were back on Lexington. “He obviously mistook you for someone else.”

  “And someone who could afford a Rothko.”

  “Come on, we’d better get moving if we’re going to make it to JFK by five,” said Charlie. She took one last look at the painting in the window. “Can you imagine what it must be like to own a Rothko?”

  * * *

  “I know, I know,” said Sasha. “If God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.”

  “Don’t mock,” said Charlie. “This plane is going far too fast.”

  “It was built to travel at this speed. So just sit back, relax, and enjoy your champagne.”

  “But the whole plane is shuddering. Can’t you feel it?”

  “That will stop the moment we break the sound barrier, and then it will feel just like any other aircraft, except you’ll be traveling at over a thousand miles per hour.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” said Charlie, closing her eyes.

  “And don’t go to sleep.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this will be the first and last time you’ll ever travel on Concorde.”

  “Unless you become Prime Minister.”

  “That’s not going to happen, but—”

  Charlie gripped his hand. “Thank you, darling, for the most wonderful holiday I’ve ever had. Though I must confess, I can’t wait to get back home.”

  “Me too,” admitted Sasha. “Did you read the leader in The New York Times this morning? It seems that even the Americans are beginning to believe we’re going to win the next election.” Sasha glanced down to see that Charlie had fallen asleep. How he wished he could do that. He turned and looked across the aisle, to see someone he recognized immediately. He would have liked to introduce himself, but didn’t want to disturb him. The man turned and looked in his direction.

  “This is most fortuitous, Mr. Karpenko,” said David Frost. “I was only saying to my producer this morning, we ought to get you on our breakfast show as soon as possible. I’m particularly interested in your views on Russia, and how long you think Yeltsin will last.”

  For the first time, Sasha really did believe it might be only a matter of time before he was a minister.

  * * *

  Sasha enjoyed the party conference in Blackpool for the first time in years. No longer was there speech after speech from the platform demanding changes the government ought to make, because this time the shadow ministers were spelling out the changes they would be making once the Tories had the guts to call an election.

  Whenever he left his hotel to stroll down to the conference center, passersby waved and shouted, “Good luck, Sasha!” Several journalists who in the past didn’t have time for a drink in Annie’s Bar were now inviting him to lunch or dinner that he couldn’t always fit into his diary. The stark message of the leader’s closing speech couldn’t have been clearer. Prepare for government with New Labour. Like everyone else in the packed hall, Sasha couldn’t wait for John Major to call a general election.

  * * *

  Sasha felt guilty that he hadn’t visited the countess for some time. His mother had tea with her once a week, and over the years they had become close friends. Elena regularly reminded him that it was the countess’s Fabergé egg that had changed all their fortunes. However, it was months since the old lady had attended a board meeting, despite still owning fifty percent of the company.

  When Sasha knocked on the door of her flat in Lowndes Square, the same faithful retainer answered, and for the first time, led him through to her mistress’s bedroom. Sasha was shocked to see how much the countess had aged since he’d last seen her. Her thinning white hair and deeply lined face suggested to him the harbingers of death. She gave him a weak smile.

  “Come and sit by me, Sasha,” she said, tapping the edge of the bed. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. I know how busy you must be, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” said Sasha as he sat down beside her, “so please take your time. I’m only sorry it’s been so long since I last saw you.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Your mother keeps me up to date on everything you’ve been up to. The company’s back making a handsome profit, and I just hope I’ll live long enough to see you become a minister of the Crown.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Dearest Sasha, I’ve reached the age when death is my next-door neighbor, which is the reason I asked to see you. You and I have so many things in common, not least a devotion to and love for the country of our birth. We owe a great deal to our British hosts for being so civilized and tolerant, but it’s still Russian blood that runs in our veins. When I die—”

  “Which let us hope will not be for some time,” said Sasha, taking her hand.

  “My only wish,” she said, ignoring the interruption, “is to be buried next to my father and grandfather in the church of Saint Nicholas in Saint Petersburg.”

  “Then your wish will be granted. So please don’t give it another thought.”

  “That’s so kind of you, and I will be forever grateful. Now, on a lighter note, dear boy, a little piece of history that I thought might amuse you. When I was a child, Tsar Nicholas the Second visited me in my nursery and just like you sat on the edge of my bed.” Sasha smiled as he continued to hold her hand. “I suspect that I will be the only person in the history of our country who’s had both a Tsar and a future president of Russia sit on her bed.”

  42

  SASHA

  Westminster, 1997

  John Major held out until the last moment, finally going to the country on the last day of the fifth year of the Parliament. But by then, no one was discussing whether Labour would win the general election, only how large their majority would be.

  Sasha’s seat of Merrifield was no longer considered marginal, so he was deployed across the country to address gatherings in constituencies which up until then had seldom seen anyone wearing a red rosette. Even F
iona Hunter, with her 11,328 majority in the next-door constituency, was knocking on doors and holding public meetings as if she were defending a key marginal.

  Sasha spent the final week of the campaign among friends and supporters in Merrifield as they waited to learn the nation’s verdict. In the early hours of the morning of Friday, May 2, the returning officer for the Merrifield constituency declared that Mr. Sasha Karpenko had won the seat with a 9,741 majority. Alf reminded him of the days when it had been in double figures, and then only after three recounts.

  That morning he read the same one-word headline on the front page of almost every national newspaper: LANDSLIDE.

  When the final seat was declared in Northern Ireland, the Labour Party had won an overall majority of 179 seats. Sasha was disappointed that Ben Cohen had lost his seat, but had to admit, if only to himself, that he was pleased Fiona had survived by a couple of thousand votes. He would call Ben later that day to commiserate.

  He switched on the television while Charlie boiled a couple of eggs.

  “No television until you’ve finished your prep,” scolded Natasha, wagging her finger.

  “This is my prep, young lady,” said her father, as they watched a black Jaguar being driven slowly along the Mall toward Buckingham Palace, carrying a passenger who had an appointment with the monarch. Everyone knew that Her Majesty would ask Mr. Blair if he could form a government, and he would assure her that he could.

  When the car reemerged through the Palace gates some forty minutes later, it traveled straight to number 10 Downing Street, where the passenger would take up residence for the next five years, along with the titles of Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury.

  “So what happens next?” asked Charlie.

  “Like so many of my colleagues, I’ll be sitting by the phone, hoping to receive a call from the PM.”

  “And if he doesn’t call?” said Natasha.

  “I’ll be sitting on the back benches for the next five years.”