Kompromat

Popov insisted on his privacy during the rare occasions he managed to get away from Moscow to spend time in his beloved Karelia. Though the local police were aware of his presence, they were under strict instructions not to disturb him. Almost always, he dispensed with his bodyguard, driving his own off-road vehicle: the UAZ-469 or Patriot Jeep.

President Igor Popov was not the only person enjoying the scenery that day. Galina Aslanova had flown down from Moscow with him in his private jet. They had landed at Vyborg, an old once-Swedish town with a magnificent castle which stood barely twenty miles from the Finnish border. They had picked up the UAZ at the airport and driven along the dirt roads to the dacha.

Galina was inside the dacha, unpacking the lunch, so Popov heard the sound of the Rolls first. Not that it made much sound. Rolls Royce engineers prided themselves on their ability to reduce engine noise to a low hum, if that.

‘Good heavens!’ Popov got to his feet. His hand went instinctively to his belt. But his weapon was in the pocket of his leather jacket and the jacket was in the car. So he stepped out into the clearing.

‘Mr President! What a surprise!’ Edward Barnard recovered quickly. ‘I heard somewhere that you had a little place out in the forest in Karelia, but I never imagined we would drive right past your door on our way to visit your brilliant Karelia Nature Reserve.’

‘Mr Barnard, how good to see you again! As I recall, the last time was when we had dinner in Khabarovsk. You’ve been promoted since then, I hear. Congratulations! And is this Mrs Barnard?’

Popov, still bare-chested, bowed and gallantly touched his lips to Melissa Barnard’s outstretched hand.

‘May I present Galina Aslanova?’ Popov continued. ‘I don’t think you have met before. Galina was not with us when we were looking for the Amur tigers. That was some trip, wasn’t it?’

Barnard introduced Jim Connally to the president. ‘That’s quite a car, you have there,’ Popov said. He gazed admiringly at the classic lines of the Rolls Royce Phantom.

‘You don’t do so badly yourself,’ Connally replied. ‘On the right terrain, that UAZ-469 would probably give us a run for our money.’

Of course they stayed for lunch. Spoke about this and that. Barnard hadn’t had a specific briefing before he left. Back in Whitehall, no one imagined he would be having a one-to-one meeting with the president of the Russian Federation in a forest clearing a stone’s throw from the Finnish border. But he improvised as best he could.

They talked about recent events. How could they not? Popov said that, as far as he knew, there was no proof that President Bashar al-Assad had been behind the chemical attack in Syria and what a pity it was that the opportunity of building bridges between Russia and the West was being thrown away.

With his mouth full of pickle, Barnard did his best to stick to the party line. Officially, Britain was all for ratcheting up the sanctions. But there was a strange disconnect between the increasing hoarse language now being used on both sides of the Atlantic and the idyllic pastoral setting in which they now found themselves A few months ago, it had all looked so hopeful.

He decided to strike an upbeat note.

‘Congratulations on the Karelia transnational biosphere reserve,’ Barnard said. ‘That’s a magnificent achievement.’

Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘When we all come to look at the president’s achievements, this Karelia reserve will rate very highly. And we must thank the Finns, too.’

‘Amazing people,’ Popov conceded. ‘A handful of their fighters held up the whole Russian Army for months. On our side, heads rolled, I can tell you.’

Popov had a sudden mischievous idea. ‘Remember that time when I raced you to Khabarovsk? You were in Jack Varese’s Gulfstream 550; I was flying my Ilyushin Il-96.’

‘Of course, I remember. How could I ever forget it?’

‘Let’s have another race now,’ Popov said. ‘All the way to the border. Perhaps Mrs Barnard would like to come with me. Galina can go with you. She knows the way by the back roads in case you get lost. Actually, I’ve had another thought. I’ll drive the Rolls. I’ve always wanted to drive a Rolls Royce Phantom VI. Maybe you’d like to take the UAZ. First one to the border post wins?’

‘OMG!’ thought Barnard. You could hardly make it up. The president of the Russian Federation was about to drive off in the British ambassador’s Rolls Royce to the Finnish border without realizing that he had one of his own FSB agents crammed in the boot, heading for freedom!

Jim Connally asked the obvious question. ‘So Galina’s going to come with us in the UAZ to make sure we find the way. That’s great. But who’s going to drive, sir?’

Barnard thought back to all those years he had driven his Land Rover over the Wiltshire Hills. He had had some pretty good scrapes in his time.

‘I’ll have a go,’ he said quietly. ‘You might have to show me the gears.’