This time the hear, hears were loud, and not in jest.
Sasha rose again. “If the right honorable gentleman would be kind enough to bring to my attention any particular examples he has in mind, be assured I will look into them. However, members of the House may be interested to know that Mr. Boris Nemtsov, a former vice premier of Russia, is sitting in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, and I’m sure he will have heard the honorable gentleman’s question.”
Sasha glanced up at the gallery and smiled at his friend, who seemed amused by his moment of notoriety.
When questions to the Foreign Secretary came to an end and the Speaker called for the business of the day, Sasha quickly left the chamber and made his way to the Central Lobby, where he had arranged to meet up with Nemtsov.
“Welcome to Westminster, Boris,” he said as he shook his guest warmly by the hand.
“Thank you,” said Nemtsov. “I was delighted to see you more than holding your own against the rabble. Although I have to agree that our record on human rights does not bear close scrutiny, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure to tell my colleagues back home that I heard the subject raised in the British House of Commons.”
“Do you have time to join me for tea on the terrace?” asked Sasha, reverting to his native tongue.
“I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” said Nemtsov. Sasha led his guest down the green-carpeted staircase and out onto the terrace, where they sat at a table overlooking the Thames.
“So what brings you to London,” asked Sasha as a waiter appeared by their side. “Just tea for two, thank you.”
“Officially I’m here to visit the Lord Mayor of London to discuss environmental issues affecting overpopulated cities, but my main purpose is to see you, and bring you up to date on what’s happening on the political front back home.”
Sasha sat back and listened attentively.
“As you know, the presidential election is due to be held in a year’s time.”
“Not long before the next general election in Britain,” said Sasha.
The waiter returned and placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the table.
“Yeltsin has already announced that he won’t be fighting the next election, possibly influenced by his current approval rating, which, according to the opinion polls, is languishing around four percent.”
“That’s quite difficult to achieve,” said Sasha, pouring them both a cup of tea.
“Not if you wake up every morning with a hangover, and are drunk again before lunchtime.”
“Does Yeltsin have an anointed successor?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But even if he did, it would be the kiss of death. No, the only name in the field at the moment is Gennady Zyuganov, the Communist Party leader, and most people accept that it would be a disaster if we were to return to the past, although the possibility can’t be dismissed. Frankly, Sasha, you may never get a better chance to become our next president.”
“But perhaps my approval ratings would also be around four percent.”
“I’m glad you raised that,” said Nemtsov, taking a slip of paper from an inside pocket, “because we’ve conducted some private polling, which showed you are currently on fourteen percent. However, twenty-six percent didn’t even recognize your name, and thirty-one percent haven’t made up their minds yet. So we were encouraged. If you were to come to Saint Petersburg and officially announce your intention to stand, I have no doubt those figures would change overnight.”
“I admit I’m torn,” said Sasha. “Only last week The Times said in a leader that if Labour were to win the next election, which looks highly likely, I could well be the next Foreign Secretary.”
“And after hearing your performance in the House this afternoon, and your grasp of so many subjects, frankly I’m not surprised. However, I would suggest that president of Russia is a far bigger prize for someone who was born and raised in Saint Petersburg.”
“I agree with you,” whispered Sasha, “but I can’t afford to let my colleagues know that. Besides, I’d need to be convinced that I have a realistic chance of success before I’d be willing to give up everything I’ve worked so hard for.”
“That’s understandable,” said Nemtsov, “but we won’t really be able to evaluate your chances until we know who your main rival is.”
“But you were the vice premier,” said Sasha, “why don’t you stand?”
“Because my poll ratings aren’t much better than Yeltsin’s. However, with my backing, I’m convinced you can win.”
“It’s good of you to say so. But Vladimir could still prove a problem. After all, he was deputy mayor of Saint Petersburg, and won’t like the idea of me standing for president.”
“You needn’t worry about Vladimir. He left Saint Petersburg only minutes before he would have been arrested for embezzlement of public funds. He disappeared off to Moscow and was last sighted in the Kremlin.”
“Doing what?”
“Rumor has it that he’s working closely with Yeltsin, but no one’s quite sure in what capacity.”
“Vladimir’s only interested in one thing, and that’s becoming director of the FSB.”
“Who did they think they were kidding when they abolished the KGB and it reemerged later as the Federal Security Service? The same bunch of thugs doing the same job, even in the same building,” Nemtsov mused. “But if Vladimir was to pull that off, you would be wise not to make an enemy of him. In fact if he was on your side, it might even help your cause.”
“But if he was on my side,” said Sasha, “it could only harm my cause. I couldn’t hope to achieve anything worthwhile with him continually looking over my shoulder. In fact the very changes I would want to make as president, he would be vehemently opposed to.”
“But in politics,” said Nemtsov, “you occasionally have to compromise—”
“Compromise is for those who have no courage, no morals, and no principles.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Sasha, that you’re the right man for the job, but first we have to get you elected.”
“I’m sorry to be so negative, but I wouldn’t want to become president only to find that someone else was pulling the strings.”
“I understand. But once you get the job you can cut those strings. Remember, there is no power without office.”
“Of course you’re right,” said Sasha. “And I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made my decision.”
“Do you have any idea when that might be?”
“It won’t be much longer, Boris. But there are one or two people I still have to consult before I can make a final decision.”
“Surely your mother must be pressing you to stand? After all, your father certainly would have wanted you to be president.”
“She’s the only one in the family who’s one hundred percent against the idea,” said Sasha. “She’s a great believer in a ‘bird in the hand’…”
“I don’t know the expression,” said Nemtsov. “And what about your wife?”
“Charlie’s sitting on the fence.”
“Now that’s an expression every politician in the world is familiar with.”
Sasha laughed. “But she would back me if she felt I really wanted the job, and believed I could win.”
“What about your daughter?”
“Natasha’s only interest at the moment is someone called Brad Pitt.”
“An aspiring politician?”
“No, an American actor who Natasha is convinced would fall in love with her, if only they could meet. And she doesn’t understand why a foreign office minister can’t arrange it. Just how important are you, Dad? she keeps asking.”
Nemtsov laughed. “It’s no different in our home. My son wants to be a drummer in a local jazz band, and has absolutely no interest in going to university.”
Big Ben struck four times in the background.
“I’d better get back and join my colleagues,” said Nemtsov, “before they work out why
I really came to London.”
“Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Boris, and your continued support,” said Sasha, as they walked back up to the Central Lobby together.
“Every time I see you, Sasha, I become more convinced that you’re the right man to be our next president.”
“I’m grateful for your backing, and I’ll let you know the moment I’ve made up my mind.”
“If you were to return to Saint Petersburg,” said Boris, “you might be surprised by the welcome you would receive.”
* * *
“I’m glad I don’t have to make the decision,” said Charlie.
“But you do, my darling,” said Sasha. “Because I wouldn’t even consider taking on such a risky enterprise without your blessing.”
“Have you taken into consideration how much you have to lose?”
“Of course I have. And as Labour look almost certain to win the next election, it would be easy for me to just sit back and hope I become Foreign Secretary. The far bigger risk would be to resign from the Commons, return to Russia, and spend a year campaigning to become president, only to see someone else snatch the prize.”
“Especially if that someone else turned out to be your old friend Vladimir.”
“As long as he’s Yeltsin’s bag carrier, he’s more likely to end up in prison than the Kremlin.”
“Then let me ask you a simple question,” said Charlie. “If I were to offer you both of those positions on a plate, president of Russia or British Foreign Secretary, which one would you choose?”
“President of Russia,” said Sasha without hesitation.
“Then you have your answer,” said Charlie, “and mine. Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering, ‘What if?’”
“Do you think there’s anyone else I should consult before making such an irrevocable decision?”
Charlie thought long and hard before she said, “No point in asking your mother, because we both know exactly where she stands. Or your daughter, who is otherwise preoccupied. But I’d be fascinated to hear Alf Rycroft’s opinion. He’s a shrewd old buzzard, who’s known you for over twenty years, and he has that rare ability to think outside the box. And probably even more important, he’ll only have your best interests at heart.”
* * *
“And to what do I owe this great honor, minister?” asked Alf, as he accompanied Sasha through to the sitting room.
“I need your advice, Alf.”
“Then have a seat. We’re unlikely to be disturbed, as my wife, Millicent, is out doing good works. I think it’s her day at the hospital as library monitor.”
“She’s a saint.”
“As is Charlie. Truth is, we both got lucky in the lottery of marriage. So how can I help you, young man?”
“I’m forty-six,” said Sasha. “You used to call me young man when I first came to the constituency over twenty years ago. Now, nobody does.”
“Wait till you reach my age,” said Alf, “you’ll be only too grateful if anyone calls you young man. Now, when you called to say you wanted to discuss a private matter, it wasn’t difficult to work out what was troubling you.”
“And what conclusion did you come to?”
“Naturally I’d like you to become Foreign Secretary, then I could spend the rest of my days telling the lads at the bowls club that I was the first to spot your potential.”
“No more than the truth,” said Sasha.
“I knew you were a bit special the day we interviewed you for Merrifield. So what I’m about to say, Sasha, may come as a bit of a surprise. I think you should resign from the Commons, return to Russia, and, if it’s not too dramatic a statement, fulfill your destiny.”
“But that would mean risking everything, when there’s an easy option still open to me.”
“Agreed, but then it’s never been your style to take the easy option. When you had the opportunity to represent a safe London seat, you chose instead to return to Merrifield and fight a marginal.”
“There’s a lot more at stake this time,” said Sasha.
“As there was for Winston Churchill, when he crossed the floor of the House to join the Conservatives, because he certainly would never have become Prime Minister if he’d remained on the Liberal benches.”
“But I’ve spent the last thirty years in this country,” said Sasha. “So compared to crossing the floor of the House, it would be some walk to Moscow.”
“Lenin didn’t think so, and don’t forget he was stuck in Switzerland when the Revolution began.”
“Can’t you think of a better example?” said Sasha, laughing.
“Gandhi was a practicing lawyer in South Africa when he sensed revolution in the air and returned to India to become its spiritual leader. So my advice, Sasha, is to go back home, because your people will see in you what I spotted over twenty years ago, a decent, honest man, with unwavering convictions. And they will embrace those convictions with relief and enthusiasm. But my opinion is no more than the ramblings of an old man.”
“Made all the more powerful,” said Sasha, “because it wasn’t what I expected.”
* * *
Sasha always enjoyed his visits to the Russian Embassy, not least because no one threw a better party than their ambassador, Yuri Fokin. Gone were the days when the building was surrounded by impenetrable barriers, and few people knew what went on behind its closed doors.
Sasha could remember when, if you asked a Russian diplomat what the time was, he would tell you the time in Moscow. Now, the ambassador would happily answer any question you put to him. All you had to decide was when he was telling the truth.
On this occasion, however, Sasha wasn’t visiting the embassy to enjoy a relaxed and convivial evening. This would be his last opportunity to gauge his chances should he decide to stand for the presidency. Among the guests would be half a dozen Russians who could influence his decision one way or the other, and he needed to make sure he spoke to every one of them. The other guests would be the usual mixture of politicians, businessmen, and hangers-on, who would attend any party as long as the drinks were flowing and there were enough canapés to ensure they didn’t need to go to dinner afterward.
Sasha’s driver took a right off Kensington High Street, and came to a halt in front of a barrier that led into Kensington Palace Gardens, more commonly known as Embassy Row. A long straight road lined with elegant town houses that rarely came on the market.
A guard saluted, and the barrier was raised the moment he saw the minister’s car. They passed India, Nepal, and France before they reached Russia. A valet rushed forward to open the back door of the limousine. The minister stepped out, thanked him, and made his way into the embassy.
The embassy could have been an English country house at the turn of the century, with its oak-paneled entrance hall, grandfather clock, and portraits of historical figures. It always amused Sasha that there was no sign of a tsar, or even Lenin or Stalin. History seemed to have begun, for one of the oldest empires on earth, in 1991.
When Sasha walked into the drawing room, he noticed that some of the guests broke off their conversations, and turned to look at him; something he still hadn’t got used to and wondered if he ever would.
He looked around the packed room, and soon identified four of his targets. One of them, Anatoly Savnikov—diplomatic attaché his official title, head of the Russian secret services in London his real job—was chatting to Fiona. If this hadn’t been the Russian Embassy, Sasha might have thought he was chatting her up. No doubt there were a dozen other spies in the room who would be far more difficult to identify. The Foreign Office rule was simple enough: assume everyone is a spy.
As Sasha turned, he noticed the ambassador was deep in conversation with Charles Moore, editor of the Daily Telegraph. Sasha would have to bide his time before he had a few words with Yuri, words that had already been carefully scripted.
He made his way across to Leonid Bubka, the trade minister, hoping he might show h
is hand, but Bubka changed the subject every time the word “election” came up in conversation. Sasha didn’t give up easily, but Bubka continued to block every attempt to score with the skill of Lev Yashin. When his old friend Ilya Resinev, the second secretary at the embassy, touched his elbow, Sasha moved discreetly to one side and listened intently to what he had to say.
“Have you heard who’s been appointed director of the FSB?” whispered Ilya.
“Don’t tell me Vladimir finally made it?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Ilya.
“The old KGB by any other name,” said Sasha, “being run by the same bunch of thugs, dressed in suits instead of uniforms. Who did he have to blackmail this time?”
“Yeltsin, it seems,” said Ilya. “Vladimir promised him that no matter who succeeded him as president after the next election, he would make sure that he and his family wouldn’t face any charges of corruption or fraud.”
“Then the first thing I’d do as president,” said Sasha, “would be to sack Vladimir and make it clear that no one who’s committed a serious crime against the state will be granted immunity.”
“If you do that, Sasha, you’re going to have to build a lot more prisons.”
“So be it.”
“But be careful who you say that to, because his deputy is here tonight.”
“Which one?”
“The tall, heavyset man talking to Fiona Hunter.”
Sasha glanced over Ilya’s shoulder to see a man handing Fiona his card. Someone he would be avoiding. As he turned back, he noticed the ambassador was standing alone by the mantelpiece, lighting a cigar.
“Forgive me, Ilya. I need to have a private word with your boss. But thank you for the information, most valuable.” Sasha moved swiftly across the room.
“Good evening, Yuri,” he said. “Another memorable party.” Sasha positioned himself with his back to the wall to make sure the ambassador had to turn away from his guests, so that only the most determined, or tactless, would consider interrupting them.
“I spotted you at the Bolshoi last week,” said the ambassador. “Still one of our finest exports.”
Heads You Win Page 45
