Kompromat

His audience did not seem to be very interested in what the Chinese were doing north of Watford. They seemed to prefer Mayfair or Belgravia.

The Barnards spent the Friday sightseeing. Melissa, who had never been to St Petersburg before, was fascinated by the Imperial Tombs in the Cathedral of St Peter and St Paul. She stood in front of the marble memorial marking the much-delayed burial of Czar Nicholas II and his family in St Catherine’s chapel.

‘Shameful, wasn’t it,’ she commented, ‘how our own Royal Family refused to give them asylum? And King George V was a first cousin of Tsar Nicholas II, too. They could have made more of an effort. Still, we’re going to be making an effort, aren’t we?’

Barnard shot her a warning look. Even cathedrals had ears.

That evening, Martha Goodchild, Britain’s new ambassador to Russia and Sir Andrew Boles’ successor, arrived at the Kempinski in time to have dinner with the Barnards in the Bellevue Brasserie, with its panoramic view over the city.

Martha Goodchild, one of the Foreign Service’s high-flyers, talked them through the menu.

‘I was the British consul in St Petersburg, ages ago. Used to eat here often. Top-class food, though a touch on the heavy side.’

Martha Goodchild was a touch on the heavy side herself. Over coffee and pastries, she went through the details:

‘My driver will come round to the front of the hotel at nine tomorrow morning. You can’t miss him. Tall, burly fellow. Serves as my bodyguard too. The car’s still the same one Sir Andrew had, a silver-grey Rolls Royce Phantom with CD plates bearing the designation UK-1. Mind you, if we lose Scotland and Northern Ireland, we’ll be Former-UK. I’m not sure FUK-1 would look so good.’

The Barnards enjoyed the joke. A bit of humour always helped relieve the tension, Edward Barnard thought.

‘How are you getting back to Moscow?’ Barnard asked.

‘I’ll fly back tomorrow. Keep an eye on things from there.’

‘What about Catfish?’ Barnard murmured.

‘Officially,’ Martha Goodchild said, ‘you’re making a detour at lunchtime to visit the site of the proposed new transnational biosphere reserve linking the Russian and Finnish parts of Karelia. Just enjoy the scenery. And remember, the car’s almost certainly bugged.’

If the Kempinski Hotel porters were surprised how little luggage the Barnards had brought with them for their two night stay in St Petersburg, they gave no sign of it.

Jim Connally, the Embassy driver, supervised the stacking of the two small cases. ‘Room for plenty more, if you want to do some last-minute shopping,’ he said.

They made good time in spite of the poor condition of the road. Heeding the ambassador’s warning, the Barnards limited their conversation to the banal or innocuous.

‘These transnational biosphere reserves are an important development,’ Edward Barnard said. ‘At the beginning of World War II the Finns fought the Russians almost to a standstill in this part of the world. Now the Russians and the Finns together are going to set up a joint nature park. That’s progress.’

‘It certainly is,’ Melissa agreed. She caught the driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror. Was he employed by MI6 as well, she wondered?

Jim Connally winked, as though he read her mind. Yes, he bloody well was one of ‘them’, and proud of it. He checked his satnav. Pretty soon, they would have to turn off the highway onto a local road, then onto a track though the forest where Catfish was meant to be waiting. He had memorized the GPS coordinates and he double-checked to make sure he had entered them correctly.

Fyodor Stephanov had driven his old Lada deep into the undergrowth. He had changed out of his FSB uniform into civilian clothes. A small backpack, a toothbrush and a passport was all he needed to start a new life, though he was confident that he could always count on a little help from his ‘friends’. And his girlfriend, Natasha, was already in Helsinki, waiting for him.

The huge silver-grey Rolls Royce nosed its way down the track. Connally had the boot open, almost as soon as the car came to a stop.

‘Hop in,’ he said.

Even though Stephanov was a large man himself, there was plenty of room in the boot.

Connally eased the vehicle back onto the track. His finger hovered over the walnut-finish console. ‘Anyone want some music? “Karelia Suite”?’ he enquired.

President Igor Popov stretched out bare-chested on the grass in front of the dacha, enjoying the spring sunshine. This was as close to heaven as he was likely to get. Born and bred in St Petersburg, Karelia was his second home. As a student at St Petersburg University, he had led scientific expeditions into the forest, studying the wildlife and, occasionally, shooting a deer for the pot. For the last twenty years, he had owned this little dacha among the trees, not far from the Finland-Russia border. Indeed, the fact that Popov was a seasonal visitor, and even had a little place there, had done much to ensure that plans for the transnational biosphere reserve didn’t get bogged down in bureaucratic detail.