Kompromat

Before he acquired his own private jet, Varese, as an ordinary, if much cosseted, passenger had flown over Russia a good many times. Scudding high over the vast expanses of the former Soviet Union was often by far the quickest route from A to B where, for example, A was London and B was Tokyo. In fact, if you took the polar route between those two cities you could spend a large proportion of your journey time over Russia, staring down at those vast expanses of forest, snow and ice.

The Gulfstream 550 comfortably accommodated eight passengers and four crew. Two hours into the flight, with the plane on autopilot, Varese clicked on the tannoy.

‘Hello, everyone. I hope you’re all enjoying this as much as I am. We’re taking a modified, great circle route to our destination today, which means we’re actually going north as well as east. In fact, if you look out now on the port side of the aircraft you can see the Arctic Ocean. Don’t all rush at once or you may tip the plane over! Anyone want to come up front? I’ve got a spare seat here, although I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your drinks behind.’

Craig, sitting in the spacious lounge, immediately beckoned to one of the stewards. ‘I’d like to go up front for a while. Can you ask Jack if Rosie can come too?’

‘I’m sure that won’t be a problem, sir, but I’ll check.’

Moments later, the steward returned. ‘Mr Varese says to go on up.’

Varese was sitting on the left, so Craig took the right-hand seat in the cockpit. He gazed out at white expanses below.

‘By God, look at that ice! Stretches as far as the eye can see, doesn’t it?’

‘Not half as far as it used to,’ Varese replied. ‘The ice-free area is getting bigger and bigger.’

Craig pricked up his ears. ‘Does that mean commercial ships will soon be able to use these waters year round? Heck, that could be terrific business, couldn’t it? You could run cargo from Europe to the Far East without going round Africa and half of Asia. What kind of time frame are we talking about? Roll on global warming! Let’s make it happen. I reckon there’s a deal to be made here. Did you ever read my book, Jack? The Real Deal. A bestseller in six continents, if you count Antarctica.’

‘I didn’t know penguins can read, Dad,’ Rosie piped up from her seat in the rear of the cockpit.

‘My kind of penguins can. Here, Rosie, you take my seat. I want to go finish my drink.’ He got up and Rosie joined Varese.

‘It’s hard to know whether to take your father seriously, isn’t it?’ Varese said after a short silence.

‘My father’s always serious,’ Rosie replied. ‘If he says he’s going to do something, he does it.’

‘Like doing a deal with the Russians to open up the Arctic with a spot more global warming?’

‘Never underestimate my Dad,’ Rosie said.

Jack was intrigued. Rumour had it that Rosie Craig was one of the key assets in the vast Ron Craig business. Apparently, Craig listened to her as much as he listened to anyone, and whole sectors of Craig’s empire were under her direct control. The Craig name was blazoned on hotels and skyscrapers, and Rosie had a decisive say in the management. Ronald Craig’s media interests were large and constantly expanding as he purchased newspapers and TV stations around the world.

The plane was flying on autopilot, and would continue so for the next few hours. There was a theory that planes actually flew better without human intervention. You had pilotless cars and so why not pilotless planes, Jack had thought to himself on more than one occasion.

He took off his headphones and turned to the young woman sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. As the spring sunlight glinted through the window, highlighting the streaks in her expensively styled hair, and catching the shine of her lip gloss, he could only think to himself that, Christ, she was beautiful! The full lips, the swept-back blonde hair, the flawless, pure-marble skin. Something Slavic in the cheekbones surely?

‘Here, let me take the head-piece from you, Rosie. It’ll get in the way,’ he said.

The cabin door behind them was shut. The Gulfstream 550 had a battery of mechanisms to bar unauthorized entry into the cockpit. You would have to literally break the door down to get in from the outside.

Rosie Craig knew what was about to happen. She had known it all along. Was it destiny? Karma? Some mystic happening long preordained?

She – and thousands of young women no doubt – had lusted after Jack Varese for years. None of them had got to within a stone’s throw of their target. Poor them. Lucky her! Here she was, daughter of one of the richest men in the world, alone, forty thousand feet in the air and right beside her was Jack Varese, probably the world’s most famous actor.

It was a script made in heaven. ‘Are we allowed to do this, Jack?’

‘It’s my plane. I have control,’ Jack Varese said.