Heads You Win

“But the whole plane is shuddering. Can’t you feel it?”

“That will stop the moment we break the sound barrier, and then it will feel just like any other aircraft, except you’ll be traveling at over a thousand miles per hour.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” said Charlie, closing her eyes.

“And don’t go to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Because this will be the first and last time you’ll ever travel on Concorde.”

“Unless you become Prime Minister.”

“That’s not going to happen, but—”

Charlie gripped his hand. “Thank you, darling, for the most wonderful holiday I’ve ever had. Though I must confess, I can’t wait to get back home.”

“Me too,” admitted Sasha. “Did you read the leader in The New York Times this morning? It seems that even the Americans are beginning to believe we’re going to win the next election.” Sasha glanced down to see that Charlie had fallen asleep. How he wished he could do that. He turned and looked across the aisle, to see someone he recognized immediately. He would have liked to introduce himself, but didn’t want to disturb him. The man turned and looked in his direction.

“This is most fortuitous, Mr. Karpenko,” said David Frost. “I was only saying to my producer this morning, we ought to get you on our breakfast show as soon as possible. I’m particularly interested in your views on Russia, and how long you think Yeltsin will last.”

For the first time, Sasha really did believe it might be only a matter of time before he was a minister.

*   *   *

Sasha enjoyed the party conference in Blackpool for the first time in years. No longer was there speech after speech from the platform demanding changes the government ought to make, because this time the shadow ministers were spelling out the changes they would be making once the Tories had the guts to call an election.

Whenever he left his hotel to stroll down to the conference center, passersby waved and shouted, “Good luck, Sasha!” Several journalists who in the past didn’t have time for a drink in Annie’s Bar were now inviting him to lunch or dinner that he couldn’t always fit into his diary. The stark message of the leader’s closing speech couldn’t have been clearer. Prepare for government with New Labour. Like everyone else in the packed hall, Sasha couldn’t wait for John Major to call a general election.

*   *   *

Sasha felt guilty that he hadn’t visited the countess for some time. His mother had tea with her once a week, and over the years they had become close friends. Elena regularly reminded him that it was the countess’s Fabergé egg that had changed all their fortunes. However, it was months since the old lady had attended a board meeting, despite still owning fifty percent of the company.

When Sasha knocked on the door of her flat in Lowndes Square, the same faithful retainer answered, and for the first time, led him through to her mistress’s bedroom. Sasha was shocked to see how much the countess had aged since he’d last seen her. Her thinning white hair and deeply lined face suggested to him the harbingers of death. She gave him a weak smile.

“Come and sit by me, Sasha,” she said, tapping the edge of the bed. “There’s something I need to discuss with you. I know how busy you must be, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time.”

“I’m in no hurry,” said Sasha as he sat down beside her, “so please take your time. I’m only sorry it’s been so long since I last saw you.”

“That doesn’t matter. Your mother keeps me up to date on everything you’ve been up to. The company’s back making a handsome profit, and I just hope I’ll live long enough to see you become a minister of the Crown.”

“Of course you will.”

“Dearest Sasha, I’ve reached the age when death is my next-door neighbor, which is the reason I asked to see you. You and I have so many things in common, not least a devotion to and love for the country of our birth. We owe a great deal to our British hosts for being so civilized and tolerant, but it’s still Russian blood that runs in our veins. When I die—”

“Which let us hope will not be for some time,” said Sasha, taking her hand.

“My only wish,” she said, ignoring the interruption, “is to be buried next to my father and grandfather in the church of Saint Nicholas in Saint Petersburg.”

“Then your wish will be granted. So please don’t give it another thought.”

“That’s so kind of you, and I will be forever grateful. Now, on a lighter note, dear boy, a little piece of history that I thought might amuse you. When I was a child, Tsar Nicholas the Second visited me in my nursery and just like you sat on the edge of my bed.” Sasha smiled as he continued to hold her hand. “I suspect that I will be the only person in the history of our country who’s had both a Tsar and a future president of Russia sit on her bed.”

42

SASHA

Westminster, 1997