Kompromat

‘You won’t feel a thing,’ the surgeon said, ‘but we’ll give you a little local anaesthetic as well.’

When President Popov visited Ronald Craig in Khabarovsk General Hospital that evening, the American was well on the way to total recovery. Happily, he was also ready to see the funny side of things.

‘Shot in the ass by the president of Russia. I’m going to tweet.’

‘Actually, I’d rather you didn’t,’ Popov said. When he switched on the television, Craig took the point at once.

In the few hours that had intervened since that unfortunate event in the forest, Russian news channels had been running a brilliantly concocted story. All over the country, viewers had been enjoying the footage of a crouching, then leaping tiger, followed by shots of a bare-chested President Popov firing a hunting rifle with deadly accuracy.

‘President Popov saves US politician-tycoon’s life in Ussuri hunting incident,’ the newsreader proclaimed. The fate of the tiger was not specified, but the video was interspersed with a series of clips of Ron Craig and his glamorous family in full campaign mode.

One Russian commentator went so far as to suggest that Craig would not only be chosen as the Republican candidate in July. ‘There is a high probability that he will win the presidency itself in the presidential election this November, particularly since Mrs Caroline Mann, the likely Democratic nominee, is immersed in scandal owing to her misuse of official communications facilities while serving as Secretary of State.’

When the broadcast finished, Craig said, ‘I’m impressed. It’s almost like they had all that in the can and were just waiting to run it. And thanks for the plug.’

‘Our journalists are very professional,’ Popov said with a straight face. ‘They have very high standards of accuracy and objectivity.’

Craig sighed. ‘I wish our media was like that. They’re all over the place. They lie through their teeth, most of the time. Distort the news. Actually make things up! It’s so sad!’

Before he left, Popov turned to Rosie Craig, who was sitting at her father’s bedside. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie. Your father will be all right.’

Rosie Craig didn’t quite know what to say. She wasn’t angry with Popov. How could you be angry with a man who was trying to save the world’s tigers?

‘I’m sure Dad will be fine,’ she said. ‘It would take more than a dart to put him out of action.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Popov sighed. He’d been dealing with Ronald Craig in one way or another for the best part of a decade. There were times when even he felt he had met his match.

CHAPTER FIVE

Barnard hadn’t expected to find himself having dinner with President Popov that evening, but when the message was brought to him in his hotel room overlooking the Amur River in the heart of Khabarovsk, he responded immediately.

‘Please tell the president I will be delighted.’

What a peculiar day it had been, Barnard reflected. It had started with the tiger hunt; it was going to end in a tête-a-tête encounter with one of the most powerful men in the world.

Actually, it wasn’t quite a one-on-one. Barnard was already sitting at a corner table in the hotel dining room when Popov entered, accompanied by a slim, dark-haired man around forty years of age.

‘Let me introduce you to Yuri,’ Popov said without preamble. ‘Yuri Yasonov. Yuri’s been with me a long time. He speaks English better than I do. Went to Oxford. Very classy!’

Popov was clearly in a good mood, and he’d possibly already had a shot of vodka or two. Shooting Ronald Craig in the backside with a tranquilizing dart might also have had something to do with it, Barnard reflected.

The restaurant manager quickly came over to take their orders, bowing and scraping. It wasn’t every day that the Russian President dropped by. Security men hovered by the door. What the hell was going on, Barnard wondered?

The waiter brought over a large jar of caviar. ‘No shortage of caviar in this part of the world.’ Popov laughed. ‘The rivers in Kamchatka are positively leaping with sturgeon.’ He waved his hand at Barnard’s empty glass. ‘More vodka please for my British friend here.’

Back in London, before he left for St Petersburg – how long ago it seemed! – Barnard had had a security briefing.

‘Get alongside Popov, if you can,’ the MI6 man had said. ‘This is a unique opportunity. You’re going to be in a totally informal setting. But watch out. Popov served for years as the head of the KGB in East Germany. Recruiting agents, running agents, that’s meat and drink to him. Once a spy-master, always a spy-master. He’ll never get that out of his system. He may try to recruit you. A British Cabinet minister would be a big fish to land. Be sure to keep us posted.’

Popov didn’t beat about the bush. He was a busy man. He would be flying back to Moscow later that night.

‘May I call you Edward? You may call me Igor.’