Kompromat

‘Just think about the timing, Lyudmila, of that Kempinski scenario. Imagine the sequence of events. Stephanov is in his office when he gets word that Barnard is on his way back to the hotel after that dinner in the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. He has the US-flag boxer shorts and the Ronald C. Craig hairpiece with him. The cameras are already set up in the room. But still Stephanov has to move quickly. He has to get to the hotel, then up to the room, get the wig and the underpants on, so as to be primed and ready for action when the girls arrive. He has outside help, Lyudmila. I’m sure of it.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Just bear with me,’ Galina said.

She picked up a paper from her desk. ‘Did you read Ambassador Tikhonov’s report of his morning at London Zoo? Tikhonov obviously had our new Earwig phone in his pocket, the one that can pick up even whispered conversation fifty yards away. Actually, he wasn’t fifty yards away, I believe. More like twenty. They were all looking at the tigers in the new enclosure.’

On the podcast, they heard Harry Stokes’ unmistakable voice:

‘Apart from the fact that we don’t get involved in other people’s elections – officially, at least – all the “strong and credible evidence”– to use your words – we have indicates that Ronald Craig was absolutely not the man on the bed in the Kempinski. On the contrary, we think the culprit’s a fellow from the FSB St Petersburg office, called Fyodor Stephanov. Your people ought to check that out before you finger Ronald Craig.’

Galina switched the recording off. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you?’ she asked. ‘When we sent them the tapes, we simply wanted them to confirm that the man on the bed wasn’t Craig. But they go one further and actually recognize our old friend Fyodor Stephanov. How did they do that?’

‘Well, maybe they’ve got his face on file,’ Lyudmila replied. ‘They could have ID’d him through a facial recognition system.’

‘Of course they could,’ Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘Particularly if Fyodor Stephanov is already working for MI6! I feel convinced the Brits helped Stephanov set this one up. The Ronald C. Craig hairpiece probably came in via the diplomatic bag.’

She held the wig up. The fluffy, blond hair positively glowed in the spring sunshine which flooded Galina’s office. ‘See how beautiful it is!’

She Googled ‘best wig-makers in London’. Less than a millisecond later the answer flew back. ‘Archibalds of Bond Street have been making high-quality wigs for more than four centuries. Satisfied clients include King George II and the Lord Chief Justice.’

Another thought struck her. ‘And where did he get the boxer shorts? Did MI6 buy those in Bond Street too, or did they send off to New York for them? I wonder what happened to those shorts. I bet Stephanov’s still got them.’

‘If he has, we’ll find them.’ Lyudmila Markova felt suddenly cheerful. She rather fancied having another go at Stephanov. The team wouldn’t let him off so easily this time.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

It was one of those delicate diplomatic compromises. Harry Stokes, the UK’s foreign secretary, had cancelled his visit to Moscow at short notice. Officially, Britain’s position was that it was sick and tired of the way the Russians were supporting President Assad’s ghastly regime in Syria. The Americans had launched their Tomahawk missiles after Assad’s chemical gas attack in Khan Sheikhoun. The least the UK could do was cancel the scheduled bilateral talks. Or at least postpone them.

Unofficially, of course, the government decided that some contacts should be maintained at ministerial level. It wasn’t just a question of not being seen as ‘America’s poodle’. There was more to it than that. Brexit had not been won by the Brexiteers alone. Debts one day might have to be repaid. President Craig might feel he could turn on a dime. Befriend Russia one moment, revile them the next. But Craig had options which were not open to Britain.

Mrs Killick rang Edward Barnard at home on Palm Sunday. The Wilshire countryside was at its most glorious. Barnard’s Ministerial Red Boxes were stacked unopened on the kitchen dresser.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Melissa said. ‘He’s out with Jemima again.’

Later that day, Barnard rang the PM back.