Heads You Win

“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 seatbelt signs had been switched off, he leaned 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 toward 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 honored,” 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.

Sasha was surprised, although he knew only too well that if the authorities thought there was the slightest chance of him returning to Russia to contest an election, the tap would be quickly turned off. In any case, Gorbachev didn’t seem to be doing a bad job. While Sasha remained a novelty that the Communist Party could use as a propaganda tool to show how their philosophy was spreading across the globe, he was in no danger. He could hear them saying, Don’t forget Karpenko came from the docks of Leningrad, won a scholarship to Cambridge University, and became an English Member of Parliament—isn’t that proof enough that our system works?

When they arrived at the hotel there was another group standing outside waiting in the bitter cold. Sasha shook many more outstretched hands, and answered several questions. He finally checked in, and took the lift to his room. It may not have been the Savoy, but it was clear that his countrymen had finally embraced the concept that if foreigners were going to come to Moscow they would have to be provided with at least some of the facilities they took for granted in the West. He showered and changed into his other suit, a fresh shirt, and a red tie before going downstairs, where the same car and driver were waiting for him.