‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Dark,’ said Sasha. ‘I accept your terms, and am most grateful to you for giving me a second chance.’
‘I applaud your decision. So many of my clients go bankrupt, and then open a new business the following day, not bothering about their debts, or anyone else’s problems.’ Mr Dark opened a second file and extracted another document. ‘Then all that is left for you to do, Mr Karpenko, is to sign here, here and here.’ He even offered Sasha a biro.
‘Thank you,’ said Sasha, wondering if he was about to wake up.
Once Sasha had signed the agreement, Mr Dark rose from behind his desk and shook hands with him for a second time.
‘I have no politics, Mr Karpenko,’ said Dark as he accompanied Sasha out of the room and back down the corridor to the lift, ‘but if I lived in Merrifield, I would vote for you, and although I have only dined at Elena’s on one occasion, I enjoyed the experience immensely.’
‘You must come again,’ said Sasha, as the lift door opened and he stepped inside.
‘Not until you’ve paid off your debt in full, Mr Karpenko.’
The lift door closed.
Sasha’s prospects of retaining his seat didn’t improve following Mrs Thatcher’s much vaunted triumph in the Falklands, and Michael Foot’s stubborn refusal to occupy the centre ground.
But then he had a stroke of luck that can change the career of any politician. Sir Michael Forrester died of a heart attack, triggering a by-election in the neighbouring constituency of Endlesby. The chance of representing a safe Tory seat for the rest of her life was too tempting for Fiona Hunter, and few people were surprised when she allowed her name to go forward as the prospective candidate. After all, she claimed, Endlesby was half of her old constituency.
Fiona won the by-election by over ten thousand votes, and returned to take her place on the green benches, where Sasha assumed their rivalry would continue. Sasha’s second piece of luck came when the Merrifield Conservative Association quarrelled among themselves as to who should be their candidate at the next general election, and ended up selecting a local councillor who divided opinion even in his own party.
After the general election, Margaret Thatcher returned to the Commons with an overwhelming majority, despite being spurned by the voters of Merrifield, who decided to hold on to their member, if only by a majority of ninety-one. But as Alf pointed out to Sasha, it was Winston Churchill who said, ‘One is quite enough, dear boy.’
Neil Kinnock, the new leader of the Labour Party, invited Sasha to join the opposition front bench as a junior spokesman in the foreign affairs team, with special responsibilities for the Eastern Bloc countries.
Sasha’s reputation inside and outside Parliament grew, and members on both sides of the House became aware that whenever he rose to take his place at the despatch box, the ill-prepared lived to regret it.
Fiona was made an under-secretary of state at the Foreign Office, and looked set for a long parliamentary career. However, it was another newly elected Conservative member who caused Sasha to jump with joy — if only in the privacy of his own home.
Sasha accepted that there would be no love lost when they faced each other across the floor of the House, but that wouldn’t stop him sharing the occasional half pint in Annie’s Bar with the Hon. Member Ben Cohen MP.
37
Sasha
London and Moscow
When the government announced they would be sending an all-party delegation to Moscow to discuss Anglo — Russian relations following the election of Mikhail Gorbachev as General Secretary, no one was surprised that Sasha was chosen to represent the Labour Party.
However, Sasha was not amused to discover that the Conservatives had invited Fiona Hunter to lead the delegation. Was it simply because nothing gave her greater pleasure than to oppose Sasha given any opportunity?
‘How long will you be away with that dreadful woman?’ Charlie asked when Sasha told her the news.
‘Three, four days at most, and we won’t exactly have any time for socializing.’
‘Don’t relax, even for a moment, because nothing would give Fiona greater pleasure than to derail your career.’
‘I think she’s more interested in promoting her own at the moment. She’s hoping to become a minister of state in the next reshuffle,’ Sasha said as he came out of the bathroom.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Charlie. ‘And before you desert me, have you given any more thought to names for our child, who should be joining us in about six weeks’ time?’
‘If it’s a boy, I’ve already chosen his name,’ said Sasha, placing his ear against Charlie’s stomach.
‘Do I get a vote, or is this a three-line whip?’ she asked.
‘One line. You can choose between Konstantin, Sergei and Nicholas.’
‘Konstantin,’ said Charlie without hesitation.
Fiona boarded the BA jet bound for Moscow accompanied by a small cadre of civil servants. They took their places at the front of the aircraft while Sasha sat alone near the back. He wished he was leading the delegation, and not just a shadow.
Once the seat-belt signs had been switched off, he leant back, closed his eyes and began to think about returning to the Soviet Union for the first time in nearly twenty years. How would the country have changed? Was Vladimir now a senior officer in the KGB? Was Polyakov still stationed in Leningrad? Was his Uncle Kolya the docks convener, and would he be allowed to see him?
When the plane touched down at Sheremetyevo airport four hours later, Sasha glanced out of the window to see a small delegation waiting on the runway to greet them. Fiona was first off the plane, making the most of the photo opportunity she hoped would be picked up by the press back home.
She walked slowly down the steps, waving at a group of local people gathered behind a metal barrier, but they didn’t return her greeting. It wasn’t until Sasha appeared that they suddenly burst into spontaneous applause and began waving. He walked uncertainly towards them, unable to believe the welcome was meant for him until one of them held up a placard with the word Karpenko scrawled on it. Fiona couldn’t hide her displeasure as an embassy official stepped forward to greet her.
Several bunches of flowers were thrust into Sasha’s arms, as he walked across to join them. He then tried to answer the multitude of questions being thrown at him in his native tongue.
‘Will you come back to lead our country?’
‘When will we be allowed contested elections?’
‘What chance of a free and fair election next time?’
‘I’m flattered you even know my name,’ said Sasha to a young woman who couldn’t have been born when he’d escaped from the Soviet Union.
He glanced around to see Fiona being whisked away in the ambassador’s limousine, a Union Jack fluttering from its front wing.
‘Can I get a bus into the city?’ he asked.
‘Any one of us would be proud to drive you to your hotel,’ said a young man standing at the front of the crowd. ‘My name is Fyodor,’ he said, ‘and we wondered if you’d be willing to address a meeting this evening. That seems to be the only time you’ll be free before the conference opens tomorrow.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ said Sasha, wondering if he would draw a bigger crowd in Moscow than he managed at the Roxton Working Men’s Club.
During the journey into the city in a car that neither looked nor sounded as if it could possibly reach its destination, Fyodor told Sasha that his speeches were often reported in Pravda, and he even occasionally appeared on Soviet television, all part of the new regime’s outreach policy.