Kompromat

The party began to break up. The limousine was waiting to take him back to his hotel. Sinking back into the plush leather seat of the sleek, black 3-litre BMW that the authorities had made available for the VIP guests, Barnard took his phone from his pocket.

Although some of his fellow Cabinet ministers had joshed that his trip to Russia was a mere jolly, there was after all some important news to convey to the authorities back home. He had absolutely no doubt that, in their separate ways, both the Russian president and the German chancellor had hoped that he, Secretary of State for the Environment, would convey a message to London, and he was delighted to be able to do so.

How things had changed in Russia over the last few years, he thought. In the big cities at least, it was all bling and gizmos. Wi-Fi was everywhere. Even in a moving car twenty miles outside St Petersburg you could pick up a signal, which was more than could be said for some of the outlying areas of London. Edward Barnard began to tap out his message.

Not far away, on the FSB control centre on St Petersburg’s Cherniavski Street, Fyodor Stephanov, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar on his right cheek, picked up Barnard’s message almost as soon as it had been sent.

He printed off a flimsy and walked quickly into the next room where his superior took one look at the text.

‘Not even encrypted! Not even the lowest level! What do they take us for?’

He handed the flimsy back to the duty officer. ‘You’d had better get going,’ he said. ‘Pass the word. And make sure the women know what to do.’

Stephanov rubbed his hands and smiled. ‘They know all right.’ In due course, he would be well paid for the video he would offer for sale on the now well-developed market for such material. He always welcomed a little freelance action. He was saving up for that Baltic cruise with his new girlfriend.

CHAPTER TWO

Barnard glanced at his watch as he got out of the car at the Kempinski Hotel. 10:30p.m. St Petersburg time. The night was still young. In London it would be two hours earlier.

He paused for a moment to pick up his key from reception – one of the new-fangled plastic card affairs he rather disliked – and headed for the bar.

Ron Craig, the large, sandy-haired American who sat there with a glass of bourbon in front of him, had one of the most famous faces on American television. He hosted a panel show watched by millions. He was also running for president.

‘Great to see you, Mr Craig,’ Barnard introduced himself. ‘I saw you at the dinner, but you were tied up with President Popov and we didn’t have time to talk.’

Craig laughed. ‘That Popov! He’s quite a guy.’ He heaved himself out of his chair and slapped Barnard on the back. ‘Did you meet Rosie? Rosie’s my daughter. She’s passionate about wildlife. But she’s also my right-hand man, if you see what I mean. Say hello to Rosie.’

Barnard made a gallant little bow in the direction of the slim and lovely young woman sitting in a plush upholstered seat beside her father.

‘Oh, I’m so glad to meet you properly, Mr Barnard,’ she said. ‘I was stuck next to that Chinese gentleman at dinner and I couldn’t understand a word.’

‘Rosie’s flying with us to the Ussuri tomorrow in Jack’s plane,’ her father added. ‘You’re coming too, Jack says. That’s great. God knows where we’re going to land.’

Barnard pulled up a chair. ‘I’m just so pleased we were able to fix this up. I’ve seen tigers in India, I’ve seen tigers in Bangladesh, but it’s been one of my dreams to see a Siberian tiger in the wild. I told the prime minister that I wasn’t coming all the way to Russia to a tiger conference, and then passing up the chance to actually get out in the field to see one.’

‘It’s going to be tough, isn’t it? Cold too?’ Rosie looked a bit glum.

‘Don’t you worry,’ Craig patted his daughter on the arm. ‘They’ll have tents and a campfire. It will do you good. Do us all good.’

Craig slapped his tummy. ‘I could lose a few pounds, and a hike will help. Actually, it’s happening anyway. If you hit the campaign trail in an American presidential election, you’ve got to work your socks off. We’re not over the top yet. The contest may go all the way to the Convention, but I’ll tell you something: there’s no way in hell that this train is going to be stopped.’

Barnard was intrigued. More than intrigued. Impressed. In the UK, even now, when he was virtually home and dry, people were reluctant to take Ronald Craig’s presidential campaign seriously. All that tweeting. All that tub-thumping, the bombast and the rhetoric. They seemed to think the style of the man was wrong. That it wasn’t the way presidential candidates ought to behave. And apart from the style, there was the content of the message. ‘Build the Wall!’ ‘Drain the Swamp!’ ‘Lock her up!’ Strong meat indeed. Too strong for tender stomachs.