Heads You Win
Page 47
“I suspect Polyakov made sure he couldn’t get a visa,” said Alex. “Elena’s always said she would happily have gone home to attend that man’s funeral.”
“After all these years, she still thinks of Saint Petersburg as home,” said Anna. “Do you feel the same way?”
Alex didn’t reply.
“Please fasten your seatbelts,” said the captain, “we’ll be landing in Amsterdam in about twenty minutes.”
“What a pity we don’t have enough time to visit the Rijksmuseum,” said Anna as the plane began its descent through the clouds.
“The last time we did something like that,” said Alex, “was after we flew back from Davos and visited the Tate.”
“That was before Davos, not after,” Anna reminded him. “My abiding memory of that visit is you lying in the hotel bath rehearsing your speech.”
“When I dropped the script in the water and you had to retype it.”
“And you fell asleep,” teased Anna, “while I carried on typing.”
“Seems a fair division of labor to me,” said Alex.
“So what are we expected to do now, O master,” said Anna as the plane touched down. “Check out the airport pizzeria and see what our competitors have to offer?”
“No, I’ve already discovered there’s nothing to rival Elena’s in Amsterdam. However, when we get off the plane there’ll be a car waiting to take us to the Rijks and then on to the Van Gogh museum. But we can only spend an hour in each as we can’t risk missing our take-off slot.”
Anna threw her arms around him. “Thank you, darling, two of Mr. Rosenthal’s must-see-before-you-die galleries.”
“I wasn’t planning on dying for some time,” said Alex, as the plane taxied to a halt beside a waiting limousine.
* * *
Sasha and his family boarded Aeroflot flight 109 to Saint Petersburg just after midday. The captain came out of the cockpit to welcome them.
“I just wanted to say what an honor it is to have you on board, Mr. Karpenko, and I, along with my crew, would like to wish you luck at the election. I will certainly be voting for you.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha, as an attentive stewardess showed them to their seats and offered them all a drink. Even Elena was impressed.
The aircraft took off at 12:21, and while the rest of the family dozed, Sasha went over the speech he would deliver on arrival at the airport. He also needed to prepare a eulogy for his uncle’s funeral, but that would have to wait until they checked into their hotel.
“Let me begin by thanking you all for this overwhelming welcome…” Sasha leaned back in his seat and wondered what Nemtsov had meant by a large turnout. He looked back down at his notes.
“I may have been away for some time, but my heart has always…”
* * *
Alex and his family were driven back to the airport just after 11:30 in the morning, having visited both the Rijks and the Van Gogh museums.
“The Night Watch and the Sunflowers in under two hours,” said Anna, as she began looking through all the postcards she’d bought.
Captain Fullerton had secured a take-off slot that would allow them to land in Saint Petersburg around five thirty that afternoon local time. He was relieved to see Mr. Karpenko’s limousine driving through the security gate with a few minutes to spare.
Once the family were safely on board, the captain taxied slowly out to the east runway, where he came to a halt and waited for an Aeroflot flight ahead of him to depart, before air traffic control gave him clearance for take-off.
BOOK SEVEN
46
ALEXANDER
En route to Saint Petersburg
They were about a hundred kilometers from their destination when the plane began to shudder. Only a little to begin with, and then more violently. At first Alexander assumed it was no more than heavy turbulence, but when he looked out of the cabin window he could see they were losing altitude fairly rapidly. He turned to check on how the rest of his family were coping, to find they were all fast asleep, seemingly oblivious to any problem. He would have gone up front to speak to the captain, but just clung on to his armrest and prayed.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday. Alpha Foxtrot four zero nine. Number two engine failure, unable to maintain altitude, descending to three thousand meters, request radar vectors to Pulkovo.”
“Roger, Alpha Foxtrot four zero nine. Make your heading three three zero degrees, the airfield is six zero kilometers ahead, runway ten left is being cleared for landing, three thousand meters available. Will you require emergency services?”
“Stand by. I am unable to maintain heading or altitude. I can see a range of hills ahead of me.”
“You’re just about forty-two kilometers away. You are cleared to land runway ten left. Surface wind easterly at five meters per second.”
“Four zero nine, number one engine failure,” said the captain, trying not to sound desperate. “Unable to reignite either engine. I am now gliding.”
“You’re now thirty kilometers from the field. Once you’ve cleared those hills, there’s nothing but flat grassland ahead of you. Emergency services are on standby.”
“Roger. I can see a gap in the hills. If I can’t reach the runway, I’ll make an emergency landing.” He pressed a button to lower the landing gear, but the wheels didn’t respond. He hit the button again, but they remained stubbornly in place. He flicked another switch as the plane continued to descend.
“Attention, this is the captain speaking. We are about to make an emergency landing. Fasten your seatbelts and assume the brace position now.”
Alexander turned to look at his family, and felt guilty that he’d allowed his ambition to override their safety. But even he hadn’t realized just how far Vladimir would go to ensure he had no serious rivals for the presidency.
The plane was now spinning out of control, down, down, down, in ever decreasing circles, until it finally smashed into the side of the hill, and burst into flames, killing the crew and all its passengers.
An elite team of Russian paratroopers were on the scene within minutes, but then they’d been on standby for several hours. Once they had located the black box, they disappeared back into the forest.
Another aircraft continued on its flight to Saint Petersburg, unaware of the tragedy.
* * *
When the plane touched down at Pulkovo airport, Alexander peered out of the cabin window to see acres of flat grassland. In the distance, tall gray concrete blocks dominated the skyline.
The plane swung around and came to a halt in front of the terminal, but it wasn’t until the engines had been turned off that he heard the chanting, “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”
He looked back at his family, and gave them a reassuring smile which Elena didn’t return. The cabin door was opened, and the steps lowered into place. Alexander emerged into the pale fading sunlight. Nothing could have prepared him for what was about to happen.
He was greeted by a mass of people, stretching as far as the eye could see, all chanting, “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!” He instinctively raised an arm in acknowledgment, and a sea of hands waved back.
At the bottom of the steps stood a reception party, led by the mayor and his senior staff. As Alexander began to walk down the steps, the noise reached a crescendo, and he wasn’t sure how to react to such unbridled enthusiasm. He looked back to see his family following him down the steps, his mother apprehensive, his wife bemused, while his only child seemed to be enjoying every moment.
As he set foot on the tarmac, a roar went up that no Russian president had ever experienced. The mayor stepped forward and shook hands warmly with the prodigal son.
“Welcome back to Saint Petersburg, Alexander. Even in our wildest dreams, we didn’t anticipate this. The chief of police estimates that over a hundred thousand of your fellow countrymen have come out to welcome you back to your homeland. This show of support should leave you in no doubt how many people want you to be our next presid
ent.”
“Thank you,” said Alexander, unable to find the words to express how he felt at that moment.
“Perhaps you would like to say a few words to your loyal supporters,” suggested the mayor. “Most of whom have been waiting for several hours.”
“I wasn’t prepared for such a welcome,” admitted Alexander, but his words couldn’t be heard above the chants of “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”
The mayor led him toward a small rostrum that had been erected on the edge of the runway. Although he was surrounded by a hundred thousand people all chanting his name, Alexander had never felt more alone in his life. He had to wait several minutes before the crowd had settled enough to make it possible for him to address them, which at least allowed him a little time to gather his thoughts.
“My fellow countrymen,” he began, “how do I begin to thank you for such an overwhelming welcome? A welcome that has inspired me to dream on your behalf. But for that dream to become a reality, I will need every one of you to also work on my behalf.”
Once again, the chanting and cries erupted, confirming their willingness to do so. He made no attempt to continue until the crowd had fallen silent again.
“I have long believed that Russia is capable of taking its rightful place among the leading nations of the world, but to achieve this, we must finally remove the shackles of dictatorship, and ensure that the nation’s great wealth is shared among the many, rather than being allowed to line the pockets of the few. Let us at last release our latent genius so the world is no longer fearful of our military might, but instead is in awe of our peacetime achievements. Why are the British described as world leaders when they are smaller than our smallest state? Because they box above their weight. Why is America always described as the leader of the free world? Because we are not free. That freedom is now within our grasp, so let us embrace it together.” He raised his arms high in the air, and once again it was several minutes before he was able to continue.
As he looked down at the expectant faces gazing up at him, he tried not to let their adulation sway his judgment, although he knew that an opportunity like this might never happen again, and that he needed to take advantage of it. He leaned forward until his lips were almost touching the microphone, and there followed a stillness he realized could only last for a few moments before the spell would be broken.
“It is my father, not I, who should be standing here receiving your acclamation. He risked his life defending this city against our common enemy, for which a grateful nation awarded him the Defence of Leningrad. But now we face a more insidious enemy, who has no morals, no scruples, and whose only interest is self-interest. These were the men who murdered my father because he wanted to set up a union to protect the rights of his fellow workers. Greedy, selfish men who represent no one other than themselves.”
The hush that had fallen over the crowd was almost palpable.
“My fellow countrymen, I have not returned to the land of my birth to seek revenge, but to follow in my father’s footsteps. Inspired by your belief in me, my only wish is to serve you. I will therefore allow my name to go forward for the highest office in the land, and seek to become your president.”
The storm of applause and cheering that followed must have been heard in the center of Saint Petersburg. But like Mark Antony, Alexander knew there was nothing more he could say, as the time had come for him to march onto the battlefield. He had sown the seeds of revolution, and would now have to wait for them to take root. As he quietly left the stage his followers continued to chant, “Kar-pen-ko! Kar-pen-ko!”
Standing alone at the back of the crowd was a smartly dressed, heavily built man who didn’t join in the applause. The recently appointed head of the secret service dialed a number on his mobile phone, but had to wait for some time before he heard a voice on the other end of the line.
Donokov held his phone high in the air so his boss could better hear the acclamation of the crowd.
“I was about to issue a press release,” said the Prime Minister, “expressing my deep sorrow on learning of the tragic deaths of Alexander Karpenko and his family. A heroic figure, who would surely have become our next president, and played a major role in the building of a new Russia, if I recall my exact words.”
“A little premature, I would suggest,” said Donokov. “But be assured, Prime Minister, it is under control. I shall not make the same mistake a second time.”
“Let’s hope so for your sake,” said the Prime Minister as he continued to listen to the exuberant crowd in the background.
“I am confident,” said Donokov, “that it shouldn’t be too long before you are able to issue a more up-to-date press statement.”
“That’s good to hear. But I shall still wait until after I’ve delivered the eulogy at the funeral of my old school friend, before I announce I will be standing for president,” said Vladimir Putin.
ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER
THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES
Only Time Will Tell
The Sins of the Father
Best Kept Secret
Be Careful What You Wish For
Mightier Than the Sword
Cometh the Hour
This Was a Man
NOVELS
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell the President?
Kane & Abel
The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals
A Matter of Honor
As the Crow Flies
Honor Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate
The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune
False Impression
The Gospel According to Judas
(with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)
A Prisoner of Birth
Paths of Glory
SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows
A Twist in the Tale
Twelve Red Herrings
The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short
Cat O’ Nine Tales
And Thereby Hangs a Tale
Tell Tale
PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Exclusive
The Accused
PRISON DIARIES
Volume One—Belmarsh: Hell
Volume Two—Wayland: Purgatory
Volume Three—North Sea Camp: Heaven
SCREENPLAYS
Mallory: Walking Off the Map
False Impression
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFFREY ARCHER was educated at Oxford University. He served five years as a Member of Parliament in the House of Commons and has served twenty-six years as a Member of the House of Lords. Now published in 97 countries and more than 37 languages, all of his novels and short story collections—including Kane & Abel, Only Time Will Tell and This Was a Man—have been international bestsellers. Jeffrey is married with two sons and three grandchildren, and lives in London, Cambridge and Majorca. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Book One
1. Alexander
2. Alexander
3. Alexander
Book Two
4. Sasha
5. Alex
6. Sasha
7. Alex
8. Sasha
9. Alex
10. Sasha
11. Alex
12. Sasha
13. Alex
14. Sasha
16. Sasha
Book Three
17. Alex
18. Sasha
19. Alex
20. Sasha
21. Alex
22. Sasha
23. Alex
24. Alex
25. Sasha
26. Sasha
27. Sasha
28. Alex
29. Alex
30. Alex
31. Sasha
32. Alex
33. Sasha
34. Alex
35. Alex
Book Four
36. Sasha
37. Sasha
38. Alex
39. Alex
40. Alex
Book Five
41. Sasha
42. Sasha
43. Alex
44. Sasha
Book Six
45. Alex and Sasha
Book Seven
46. Alexander
Also by Jeffrey Archer
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HEADS YOU WIN. Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photographs: Flatiron Building © Snap Decision/Getty
Images; London © Caroline Purser/Getty Images;
Manhattan skyline © Byelikova Oksana/Shutterstock.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Archer, Jeffrey, 1940– author.
Title: Heads you win / Jeffrey Archer.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018036308 | ISBN 9781250172501 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250172518 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PR6051.R285 H43 2018 | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018036308
eISBN 9781250172518