Kompromat

The previous generation of radio collars had been cumbersome. However carefully they had been fitted, they could be knocked off, or damaged or destroyed, as a tiger went about its day-to-day business. If you were a killing machine, sometimes you had to jump through the air to seize your prey. You might have to crash through the forest in hot pursuit of a deer or even a wolf. The miniaturization of the radio collar into a small subcutaneous implant that sent radio signals on a 24/7 basis into the stratosphere for retransmission to a terrestrial monitoring system had transformed conservation field science.

President Popov had a pocket full of miniature transmitters and he was determined, once he had fired the dart, to do the ‘collaring’ as well.

Naturally the photographers were primed. Video and stills footage of the president ‘shooting’ and ‘collaring’ a tiger would be transmitted worldwide within minutes of the event. If there was any delay, that would probably be because Popov’s people back in Moscow needed a chance to check that the material to be transmitted conformed to, and indeed promoted, the image they wanted to convey of a young, dynamic, daring, adventurous and scientifically up-to-the-minute world leader.

In the event, things didn’t go entirely to plan. When the lead ranger went forward to the scene of the kill, he found – as he thought he would – the tiger with its head buried inside the Siberian musk deer’s ribcage. From time to time, the tiger raised its muzzle, dripping with blood, before returning to the task of crunching through half an animal in the shortest possible time.

In retrospect, it wasn’t clear whether the tiger saw or heard the ranger. Either way, before the ranger had time to signal to Popov to come forward to take his shot, the tiger with a growl backed away from the kill.

The ranger raised his rifle.

‘Don’t shoot!’ Popov uttered a short, sharp command. He didn’t want a dead tiger on his hands. This was not the kind of publicity he was seeking. Better a dead ranger!

Popov raised the darting gun and as he did so the tiger crashed up the path towards them.

Quite how Ronald Craig ended up on the ground with a tranquillizing dart sticking out of his backside while the tiger escaped into the forest none the worse for wear was, in the confusion of the moment, never totally clear.

One thing which was clear was that Ronald Craig, showman and businessman, not to say possible or indeed probable presidential candidate, was decidedly unhappy.

‘What the fu—!’ His voice boomed loud in the silence of the forest, hastening the speed of tiger’s retreat.

He groaned and slumped to the ground as the dart’s concentrated load of ketamine took hold.

The rangers, trained to deal with just such an eventuality, moved rapidly into action. They couldn’t wait for the effect of the drug to wear off. The risk of damage to the heart and sensory systems was very real. A dose of ketamine that could knock out a tiger would very likely be lethal for a man, even a man as large as Ronald Craig.

‘Mr President, pass me the yellow vial, please,’ said one of the rangers.

Taking the vial from Popov’s outstretched hand, the ranger looked down at Craig’s now prostrate and motionless body, much as a butcher might examine a large side of beef. He made a rapid calculation. No point in injecting the whole dose. More like half the dose, or even a third. Though hefty, Ron Craig certainly didn’t weigh as much as a fully grown male Amur tiger.

The ranger squirted a shot of the liquid into the air, to make sure the plunger was properly loaded and ready to go. He shuddered to think of the fate that might befall him if by some freak accident he injected a fatal air bubble into the bloodstream of a man who was one of President Popov’s honoured guests.

Removing the hunting jacket from the comatose man, the ranger rolled up Craig’s right shirt sleeve so that the upper arm was exposed. He felt for and found the vein. Then, with quick professionalism, he injected a 200mg dose of Tolazoline.

While the rangers kept guard – God only knew where the tiger had gone, although everyone hoped it had gone as far away as it possibly could – Ronald Craig gradually regained consciousness.

‘Christ, my ass feels sore,’ he complained. ‘Did someone Taser me?’

‘Not exactly.’ Popov helped the American to his feet. ‘There was a small mishap. We’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’

Khabarovsk General Hospital was surprisingly clean and well equipped. Roland Craig was wheeled straight away into the theatre. Seconds later, he was lying face down on the table.

‘This will only take a minute. The dart’s made quite a wound. We’re going to have to swab and disinfect just to be on the safe side. Give you an anti-tetanus too. You’d be surprised how many germs there are out there in the forest.’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Craig mumbled, still drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘I’m a germaphobe. You go right ahead.’