‘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 practising 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 afterwards.
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 onto 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-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.