‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Lyudmila Markova Sokolovna was quite adept at the heavy stuff, but she sometimes found it difficult to follow her more intellectual colleagues when they started talking about zero-sum games and so forth.
Galina Aslanova opened her desk drawer and brought out the Ronald C. Craig wig which Fyodor Stephanov had been wearing at the election night party in the Popov’s presidential dacha.
‘If Stephanov was freelancing, where did he get this?’ she asked. ‘I don’t think he could have got it in Russia. I’ve had it examined by wig-makers here in Moscow. This is a very high-quality hairpiece. It’s made out of real human hair, expertly crafted and totally realistic, as we saw when Stephanov was wearing it that night at the dacha. Here, watch this.’
She flipped open the lid of her laptop and pressed a button. ‘This is Craig talking at a black-tie dinner the evening before his inauguration in January, just a few weeks ago!’
On the screen before them they saw the unmistakable figure of the soon-to-be-inaugurated President of the United States. He was standing on the stage in evening dress, microphone in hand, radiating confidence.
‘Some of you have been wondering about my hair,’ Craig told the crowd. ‘Well, just take a look. If it rains tomorrow, my hair won’t turn a hair, if you follow me. It’s all my own!’
As the clip came to an end, Galina passed the hairpiece to Lyudmila.
‘Just think about the timing, Lyudmila, of that Kempinski scenario. Imagine the sequence of events. Stephanov is in his office when he gets word that Barnard is on his way back to the hotel after that dinner in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. He has the US-flag boxer shorts and the Ronald C. Craig hairpiece with him. The cameras are already set up in the room. But still Stephanov has to move quickly. He has to get to the hotel, then up to the room, get the wig and the underpants on, so as to be primed and ready for action when the girls arrive. He has outside help, Lyudmila. I’m sure of it.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Just bear with me,’ Galina said.
She picked up a paper from her desk. ‘Did you read Ambassador Tikhonov’s report of his morning at London Zoo? Tikhonov obviously had our new Earwig phone in his pocket, the one that can pick up even whispered conversation fifty yards away. Actually, he wasn’t fifty yards away, I believe. More like twenty. They were all looking at the tigers in the new enclosure.’
On the podcast, they heard Harry Stokes’ unmistakable voice:
‘Apart from the fact that we don’t get involved in other people’s elections – officially, at least – all the “strong and credible evidence”– to use your words – we have indicates that Ronald Craig was absolutely not the man on the bed in the Kempinski. On the contrary, we think the culprit’s a fellow from the FSB St Petersburg office, called Fyodor Stephanov. Your people ought to check that out before you finger Ronald Craig.’
Galina switched the recording off. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you?’ she asked. ‘When we sent them the tapes, we simply wanted them to confirm that the man on the bed wasn’t Craig. But they go one further and actually recognize our old friend Fyodor Stephanov. How did they do that?’
‘Well, maybe they’ve got his face on file,’ Lyudmila replied. ‘They could have ID’d him through a facial recognition system.’
‘Of course they could,’ Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘Particularly if Fyodor Stephanov is already working for MI6! I feel convinced the Brits helped Stephanov set this one up. The Ronald C. Craig hairpiece probably came in via the diplomatic bag.’
She held the wig up. The fluffy, blond hair positively glowed in the spring sunshine which flooded Galina’s office. ‘See how beautiful it is!’
She Googled ‘best wig-makers in London’. Less than a millisecond later the answer flew back. ‘Archibalds of Bond Street have been making high-quality wigs for more than four centuries. Satisfied clients include King George II and the Lord Chief Justice.’
Another thought struck her. ‘And where did he get the boxer shorts? Did MI6 buy those in Bond Street too, or did they send off to New York for them? I wonder what happened to those shorts. I bet Stephanov’s still got them.’
‘If he has, we’ll find them.’ Lyudmila Markova felt suddenly cheerful. She rather fancied having another go at Stephanov. The team wouldn’t let him off so easily this time.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It was one of those delicate diplomatic compromises. Harry Stokes, the UK’s foreign secretary, had cancelled his visit to Moscow at short notice. Officially, Britain’s position was that it was sick and tired of the way the Russians were supporting President Assad’s ghastly regime in Syria. The Americans had launched their Tomahawk missiles after Assad’s chemical gas attack in Khan Sheikhoun. The least the UK could do was cancel the scheduled bilateral talks. Or at least postpone them.
Unofficially, of course, the government decided that some contacts should be maintained at ministerial level. It wasn’t just a question of not being seen as ‘America’s poodle’. There was more to it than that. Brexit had not been won by the Brexiteers alone. Debts one day might have to be repaid. President Craig might feel he could turn on a dime. Befriend Russia one moment, revile them the next. But Craig had options which were not open to Britain.
Mrs Killick rang Edward Barnard at home on Palm Sunday. The Wilshire countryside was at its most glorious. Barnard’s Ministerial Red Boxes were stacked unopened on the kitchen dresser.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Melissa said. ‘He’s out with Jemima again.’
Later that day, Barnard rang the PM back.
‘I’ve arranged a little trip for you and Melissa,’ Mabel Killick said. ‘I want you to go to St Petersburg – but on holiday this time. You’ve earned it. Drive across the border into Finland. Fly back from Helsinki. Perfect time of year. So much to see. Also, apart from the holiday aspect, we want the Russians to know that even though we’re officially cross with them, life goes on, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Barnard said. Would anyone ever say that to him, he wondered? He shuddered. What an idea!
Next day, he met Mark Cooper, head of MI6, at Whites in St James’s. They sat in two leather armchairs in the far corner of the library.
‘The PM would have liked to join us,’ Cooper began, ‘but I’m afraid women are not allowed here. Except the Queen. We made an exception for the Queen once at the time of the Jubilee celebrations. We invited her to dinner and she very sportingly accepted. But the PM sends her best. She hopes you have a successful trip.’
‘You’d better fill me in,’ Barnard said.
‘I’ve supposed you’ve realized by now,’ Cooper continued, ‘that Jeremy Hartley was always a Leaver, not a Remainer. Did you read what he said in Kiev the other day: how he’s been a Eurosceptic since birth or even before? Or, if you like, think back to that speech he made to the Conservative Party Conference in 2005, when the party first elected him. That was the speech of a Leaver if ever there was one. Hartley wanted to get Britain out of the EU and with the Referendum he found a way to do it. But a lot of people helped him. I was one of them.’
‘Are you sure you want me to hear this?’ Barnard asked.
‘Quite sure. You’ve an important job to do for us.’
‘Us? You mean MI6, SIS, the firm or whatever you call yourselves nowadays?’
A white-coated waiter stopped by to offer them more champagne but Cooper waved him away.
‘That’s exactly what I do mean. There’s nothing in the rule book which says I can’t recruit the chancellor of the exchequer, and that’s what I’m proposing to do. Strictly speaking you should be PV’d – positively vetted – but there’s no time for that. Odd, isn’t it, that civil servants are PV’d, but politicians who – in theory at least – wield so much more power and influence are let through on the nod? Where was I?’