Джеффри Арчер - Heads You Win

‘Death, divorce and taxes?’

The old man smiled. ‘You’re not in the art world, by any chance?’

‘I work as a conservator for the Turner Collection.’

‘Ah, then please give my regards to Nicholas Serota,’ he said, handing her his card.

Sasha walked across to join them. ‘Dare I ask the price of the painting in the window?’

‘The Rothko?’ said Mr Rosenthal, turning to face his customer. ‘Alex, I had no idea you were in town. But you must know that your wife has already purchased the painting for the collection.’

‘My wife has already bought it?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Not on a Member of Parliament’s salary, she didn’t.’

Rosenthal adjusted his glasses, took a closer look at the customer and said, ‘I do apologize. I should have realized my mistake the moment you spoke.’

‘You said “the collection”,’ said Charlie.

‘Yes, the Lowell Collection in Boston.’

‘Now that’s a collection I’ve always wanted to see,’ said Charlie, ‘but I understood that it was locked up in a bank vault.’

‘Not any longer,’ said Rosenthal. ‘The paintings were all returned to their original home in Boston some time ago. I’d be happy to arrange a private view for you, madam. The curator of the collection used to work here, and I know she’d enjoy meeting you.’

‘I’m afraid we’re booked on a flight back to London later this evening,’ said Charlie.

‘What a pity. Next time, perhaps,’ said Rosenthal, giving them both a slight bow.

‘Strange,’ said Charlie once they were back on Lexington. ‘He obviously mistook you for someone else.’

‘And someone who could afford a Rothko.’

‘Come on, we’d better get moving if we’re going to make it to JFK by five,’ said Charlie. She took one last look at the painting in the window. ‘Can you imagine what it must be like to own a Rothko?’

‘I know, I know,’ said Sasha. ‘If God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.’

‘Don’t mock,’ said Charlie. ‘This plane is going far too fast.’

‘It was built to travel at this speed. So just sit back, relax and enjoy your champagne.’

‘But the whole plane is shuddering. Can’t you feel it?’

‘That will stop the moment we break the sound barrier, and then it will feel just like any other aircraft, except you’ll be travelling at over a thousand miles per hour.’

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ said Charlie, closing her eyes.

‘And don’t go to sleep.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because this will be the first and last time you’ll ever travel on Concorde.’

‘Unless you become prime minister.’

‘That’s not going to happen, but—’

Charlie gripped his hand. ‘Thank you, darling, for the most wonderful holiday I’ve ever had. Though I must confess, I can’t wait to get back home.’

‘Me too,’ admitted Sasha. ‘Did you read the leader in the New York Times this morning? It seems that even the Americans are beginning to believe we’re going to win the next election.’ Sasha glanced down to see that Charlie had fallen asleep. How he wished he could do that. He turned and looked across the aisle, to see someone he recognized immediately. He would have liked to introduce himself, but didn’t want to disturb him. The man turned and looked in his direction.

‘This is most fortuitous, Mr Karpenko,’ said David Frost. ‘I was only saying to my producer this morning, we ought to get you on our breakfast show as soon as possible. I’m particularly interested in your views on Russia, and how long you think Yeltsin will last.’

For the first time, Sasha really did believe it might be only a matter of time before he was a minister.

Sasha enjoyed the party conference in Blackpool for the first time in years. No longer was there speech after speech from the platform demanding changes the government ought to make, because this time the shadow ministers were spelling out the changes they would be making once the Tories had the guts to call an election.

Whenever he left his hotel to stroll down to the conference centre, passers-by waved and shouted, ‘Good luck, Sasha!’ Several journalists who in the past didn’t have time for a drink in Annie’s Bar were now inviting him to lunch or dinner that he couldn’t always fit into his diary. The stark message of the leader’s closing speech couldn’t have been clearer. Prepare for government with New Labour. Like everyone else in the packed hall, Sasha couldn’t wait for John Major to call a general election.

Sasha felt guilty that he hadn’t visited the countess for some time. His mother had tea with her once a week, and over the years they had become close friends. Elena regularly reminded him that it was the countess’s Fabergé egg that had changed all their fortunes. However, it was months since the old lady had attended a board meeting, despite still owning fifty per cent of the company.

When Sasha knocked on the door of her flat in Lowndes Square, the same faithful retainer answered, and for the first time, led him through to her mistress’s bedroom. Sasha was shocked to see how much the countess had aged since he’d last seen her. Her thinning white hair and deeply lined face suggested to him the harbingers of death. She gave him a weak smile.

‘Come and sit by me, Sasha,’ she said, tapping the edge of the bed. ‘There’s something I need to discuss with you. I know how busy you must be, so I’ll try not to waste too much of your time.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Sasha as he sat down beside her, ‘so please take your time. I’m only sorry it’s been so long since I last saw you.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Your mother keeps me up to date on everything you’ve been up to. The company’s back making a handsome profit, and I just hope I’ll live long enough to see you become a minister of the Crown.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘Dearest Sasha, I’ve reached the age when death is my next-door neighbour, which is the reason I asked to see you. You and I have so many things in common, not least a devotion and love for the country of our birth. We owe a great deal to our British hosts for being so civilized and tolerant, but it’s still Russian blood that runs in our veins. When I die—’

‘Which let us hope will not be for some time,’ said Sasha, taking her hand.

‘My only wish,’ she said, ignoring the interruption, ‘is to be buried next to my father and grandfather in the church of St Nicholas in Saint Petersburg.’

‘Then your wish will be granted. So please don’t give it another thought.’

‘That’s so kind of you, and I will be forever grateful. Now, on a lighter note, dear boy, a little piece of history that I thought might amuse you. When I was a child, Tsar Nicholas II visited me in my nursery and just like you sat on the edge of my bed.’ Sasha smiled as he continued to hold her hand. ‘I suspect that I will be the only person in the history of our country who’s had both a Tsar and a future president of Russia sit on her bed.’

Westminster, 1997

John Major held out until the last moment, finally going to the country on the last day of the fifth year of the parliament. But by then, no one was discussing whether Labour would win the general election, only how large their majority would be.

Sasha’s seat of Merrifield was no longer considered marginal, so he was deployed across the country to address gatherings in constituencies which up until then had seldom seen anyone wearing a red rosette. Even Fiona Hunter, with her 11,328 majority in the next-door constituency, was knocking on doors and holding public meetings as if she were defending a key marginal.