I’ll check my diary and see if that’s convenient, Sasha was tempted to say. ‘Of course,’ he replied.
For the next hour he pretended to watch the news, read the papers, and even eat lunch. He took calls from several colleagues who had already received the summons, or were still anxiously waiting, and from many others, including Alf Rycroft, to wish him luck. In between, he fed the cat, who was fast asleep, and read the second act of Julius Caesar to discover his one-word mistake.
He drove to the Commons just after 2.30 p.m., and parked in the members’ car park. The policeman on the gate saluted the moment he saw him. Did he know something Sasha didn’t? He left the Palace of Westminster just after three, and walked slowly across Parliament Square and up Whitehall past the Foreign Office. Were the mandarins inside waiting for him? The policeman on duty at Downing Street didn’t need to check his clipboard.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko,’ he said, and opened the gate to let him through.
‘Good afternoon,’ Sasha replied, as he began the long gallows walk up Downing Street to discover his fate.
He was surprised when the door to number 10 opened while he was still a few paces away. He stepped inside for the first time, to find a young woman waiting for him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko. Would you be kind enough to follow me?’ She led him up a flight of stairs, past the portraits of former prime ministers. John Major was already in place.
When they reached the first floor, she stopped outside a door and knocked quietly, opened it and stood aside. Sasha walked in to find the Prime Minister sitting opposite an empty chair in which it looked as if several people had already sat. A secretary, pen poised, was seated behind him.
‘I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise,’ said the Prime Minister once Sasha had sat down, ‘but I’d like you to join Robin at the Foreign Office as his Minister of State. I hope you’ll feel able to accept the post.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ said Sasha. ‘And delighted to serve in your first administration.’
‘I’d also like you to keep me briefed on what’s happening in Russia,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘particularly if your personal situation should change.’
‘My personal situation, Prime Minister?’
‘Our ambassador in Moscow tells me that if you were to return to Russia and stand against Yeltsin, you’d end up with an even bigger majority than I have. In which case it will be me trying to get an appointment with you.’
‘But Yeltsin doesn’t come up for election for another three years.’
‘Yes, but the polls currently show his approval rating is in single figures, and still falling.’
‘The polls are irrelevant, Prime Minister. What matters in Russia is how many voting slips end up in the ballot box, who put them there, and even more important, who counts them.’
‘So much for glasnost,’ said Blair. ‘But I have a feeling your time may well come, Sasha, so please keep me informed, and in the meantime, good luck in your new job.’
The secretary leant forward and whispered in the Prime Minister’s ear. Sasha didn’t need to be told the meeting was over, and was about to leave when the PM added, ‘Your name is also on the list of ministers who will be invited to join the Privy Council.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Sasha as he rose, and the two men shook hands.
When Sasha left the PM’s office, he found the same young woman still standing in the corridor. ‘If you come with me, minister, you’ll find a car outside waiting to take you to the Foreign Office.’
Denis Healey had once told Sasha that you never forget the first person who calls you minister. But within a week, you’ll think it’s your Christian name.
As Sasha left number 10 he passed Chris Smith on his way in, and wondered what job he was about to be offered. He stepped out onto the pavement, and a burly man who looked as if he might play in the front row of his local rugby team introduced himself. ‘Good afternoon, minister, my name is Arthur, and I’m your driver,’ he said, holding open the back door of the waiting car.
‘I’d prefer to sit in the front,’ said Sasha.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Security reasons.’
Sasha climbed into the back. He couldn’t help wondering why he even needed a car, as the Foreign Office was only a few hundred yards away. ‘Security reasons,’ he could hear Arthur assuring him.
‘Can I make a phone call?’
‘It’s in the armrest, minister. Just pick it up and you’ll be straight through to the FO’s switchboard. Tell them who you want and they’ll connect you immediately.’
‘Presumably I’ll need to give them the number?’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’
Sasha lifted the armrest and picked up the phone. ‘Good afternoon, minister,’ said a voice, ‘how can I help?’
‘I’d like to speak to my wife.’
‘Of course, sir, I’ll put you through.’
Fiona had once told him it takes a little time to get used to the sudden change of lifestyle from opposition to government.
‘Hello?’ said the voice on the other end of the line.
‘Good afternoon, this is the Right Honourable Sasha Karpenko, Her Majesty’s Minister of State at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.’
He waited for Charlie to burst out laughing. ‘I’m so sorry, minister,’ said the voice, ‘but your wife is away from her desk at the moment. I’ll let her know that you called.’
‘I do apologize—’ began Sasha, but the phone had already gone dead.
‘I’ve just made my first gaffe, Arthur.’
‘And I feel sure it won’t be your last. But I must admit, you’re the first of my ministers who managed it even before he’d reached the Foreign Office.’
43
ALEX
Boston and Davos, 1999
The board meeting had gone smoothly enough until Jake raised the final item on the agenda, ‘Any other business.’
‘Evelyn wants what?’ asked the chairman, staring in disbelief at his chief executive.
‘To sell her fifty per cent stake in the bank. She’s offering us first refusal.’
‘How much would her shares fetch on the open market?’ asked Bob Underwood.
‘Four, possibly five hundred million.’
‘And how much is she asking for?’ asked Mitch Blake.
‘A billion.’
A group of men who were capable of playing poker for hours without moving a facial muscle gasped in disbelief.
‘Evelyn’s well aware that while she owns fifty per cent of the company’s stock, she can put a gun to our head.’
‘Then she may as well pull the trigger,’ said Alex, ‘because we don’t have that sort of money available.’
‘As George Soros once said, if you own fifty-one per cent of a company you are its master, if you own forty-nine or less, you are its servant.’
‘Anyone got any ideas?’ asked Alex, looking around the boardroom table.
‘Kill her,’ said Bob Underwood.
‘That wouldn’t solve the problem,’ said Jake matter-of-factly, ‘because her husband, Todd Halliday, would inherit her estate, and then we’d have to deal with him.’
‘We could call her bluff,’ said Underwood. ‘She’d soon find out that no one else is willing to pay her such a ridiculous sum.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Jake. ‘The Bank of Boston would love to get their hands on our Russian portfolio, which is now outperforming all our rivals, and I suspect they’d be willing to pay well above the asking price.’
‘Why don’t we just ignore the damned woman,’ suggested Blake, ‘and perhaps she’ll go away.’
‘She’s already anticipated that,’ said Jake, ‘and decided to park her tanks on our front lawn.’
‘And what does she plan to use as ammunition?’ asked Alex.
‘The company statutes.’
‘Which one in particular?’ asked Andy Harbottle, who thought he knew them all off by heart.
‘Number ninety-two.’