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-panelled 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 his 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.’
‘Gudanov was magnificent,’ said Sasha.
‘We’ve got a problem with him that I may need to discuss with you, but now is not the time. What I would like to know, Sasha, is have you made a decision yet?’
‘Before I answer that question, Yuri, I’d be fascinated to hear what you think of my chances.’
‘As you well know, minister, I am not allowed to express an opinion. I’m but a humble mouthpiece for the government I serve. But,’ said Yuri, switching languages, ‘if I were a betting man, which of course I’m not, I would place a small wager on you being my boss by this time next year.’
‘Only a small wager?’
‘Ambassadors always have to hedge their bets,’ said Yuri, without even the suggestion of a smile.
Sasha laughed, and wondered how many other politicians he’d delivered those same words to in the past six months.
‘And could I make a small request,’ said Yuri. ‘It would be helpful if I could be briefed before you make any official announcement.’
‘If I do decide to stand, I’ll make sure you see any statement long before I release it to the press.’
‘Thank you,’ said Yuri. ‘There’s one more thing I need to ask you before—’
‘Ambassador, what a fantastic party,’ said a man who seemed not to have noticed they were deep in conversation and might not have wanted to be interrupted.
‘Thank you, Piers,’ said the ambassador. ‘It was good of you to come.’ The moment had passed, and Sasha slipped away, as the editor of the Daily Mirror wasn’t one of the four people he needed to speak to. He began to make his way slowly towards the exit, stopping to exchange a few words with several other guests, paying particular attention to those who spoke to him in Russian, as his constituency boundaries might be about to change. As he glanced back into the drawing room, he saw the man he had avoided staring at him.
The clock in the hall chimed once, reminding Sasha he had a vote in the Commons in thirty minutes’ time. Within moments the party would be denuded of politicians of every colour as they made their way back to the House for a three-line whip, not that Sasha had any idea which bill they would be voting on.
As he stepped out of the front entrance of the embassy, his car appeared from nowhere, and Arthur leapt out to open the back door. Sasha was just about to get in, when a voice he recognized called out his name.
‘Sasha!’ He turned to see Fiona running down the steps. ‘Can I cadge a lift?’
‘Of course,’ said Sasha, standing aside to allow his old nemesis to join him in the back seat.
‘Good evening, Arthur.’
‘Good evening, Miss Hunter.’
‘I would have liked to stay a bit longer,’ Fiona said as the car moved off, ‘but the chief wouldn’t appreciate it if I missed a three-liner. But more important, Sasha, when are you going to answer the only question that was on everybody’s lips at the party?’
‘And what were they saying about my chances?’ asked Sasha, falling back on the old political trick of answering a question with a question, although he knew Fiona wouldn’t be fooled.
‘Everyone who spoke English was in favour of you standing, as were half of the Russians, although one of them,’ she said, taking a card out of her bag, ‘Ivan Donokov, is certainly no friend of yours. He asked me the strangest question: had you ever lived in America?’ Sasha looked puzzled. ‘I told him not that I was aware of. I then pressed him on what he thought of your chances should you throw your hat in the ring.’
‘And how did he respond?’
‘He acknowledged you were probably the front runner, but said there was a dark horse coming up on the rails.’
‘Did he name the horse?’ asked Sasha, trying not to sound anxious.
‘He thought that an old friend of yours called Vladimir—’
‘He’s no friend of mine,’ said Sasha. ‘In any case, that man’s only interest was becoming head of the FSB, and now he’s achieved that, he won’t be looking further afield, just making sure he clings on to his job.’
‘That wasn’t Donokov’s opinion. In fact he was fairly sure Vladimir was also gazing across Red Square, his eyes now fixed on the Kremlin.’
‘But that’s not realistic.’
‘Why not, if he’s got Yeltsin backing him?’
‘But why would Yeltsin even consider backing such a flawed individual?’