Джеффри Арчер - Heads You Win

Sasha spent the final week of the campaign among friends and supporters in Merrifield as they waited to learn the nation’s verdict. In the early hours of the morning of Friday, 2 May, the returning officer for the Merrifield constituency declared that Mr Sasha Karpenko had won the seat with a 9,741 majority. Alf reminded him of the days when it had been in double figures, and then only after three recounts.

That morning he read the same, one-word headline on the front page of almost every national newspaper: ‘LANDSLIDE’.

When the final seat was declared in Northern Ireland, the Labour Party had won an overall majority of 179 seats. Sasha was disappointed that Ben Cohen had lost his seat, but had to admit, if only to himself, that he was pleased Fiona had survived by a couple of thousand votes. He would call Ben later that day to commiserate.

He switched on the television while Charlie boiled a couple of eggs.

‘No television until you’ve finished your prep,’ scolded Natasha, wagging her finger.

‘This is my prep, young lady,’ said her father, as they watched a black Jaguar being driven slowly along the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, carrying a passenger who had an appointment with the monarch. Everyone knew that Her Majesty would ask Mr Blair if he could form a government, and he would assure her that he could.

When the car re-emerged through the Palace gates some forty minutes later, it travelled straight to number 10 Downing Street, where the passenger would take up residence for the next five years, along with the titles of Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury.

‘So what happens next?’ asked Charlie.

‘Like so many of my colleagues, I’ll be sitting by the phone, hoping to receive a call from the PM.’

‘And if he doesn’t call?’ said Natasha.

‘I’ll be sitting on the back benches for the next five years.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Charlie. ‘Meanwhile, some of us have to do a day’s work. Be sure to call me the moment you hear anything. And don’t forget you’re taking Natasha to school this morning,’ she added before leaving to catch the Underground to Victoria.

Sasha topped his egg to find it had already gone hard. When Natasha left the room to collect her bag, he tried to read the morning papers. History. How he wanted to read tomorrow’s papers and discover if he’d been offered a job.

Natasha stuck her head around the door. ‘Come on, Dad, it’s time to go. I can’t afford to be late.’

Sasha abandoned his half-finished egg, grabbed the car keys from the sideboard and quickly followed his daughter out onto the street.

‘Did I tell you I’ll be playing Portia in the school play this year, Papa?’ said Natasha as she fastened her seat belt.

‘Which Portia?’ asked Sasha as he drove off.

‘Julius Caesar.’

‘ You are a true and honourable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my sad heart. ’

Natasha paused, before she delivered the next line. ‘ If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal a woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. ’

‘Not bad,’ said Sasha.

‘We’re still looking for a Brutus, Papa, just in case you’ve got nothing better to do,’ Natasha said as they drew up outside the school gates.

‘Not a bad offer. I’ll let you know this evening if I get a better one.’

‘By the way,’ Natasha said as she got out of the car, ‘you made a one-word mistake.’

‘Which word?’

‘Haven’t you always told me don’t be lazy, child, look it up? Have a good day, Papa, and the best of luck!’

Sasha let the phone ring three times before he picked it up.

‘Sasha, it’s Ben. Just calling to wish you luck.’

‘I’m sorry you lost your seat, old friend. But I’m sure you’ll be back.’

‘I doubt it. I have a feeling your party will be sitting on the government benches for some time.’

‘Perhaps they’ll send you to the Lords?’

‘Too young. And in any case, there’s likely to be a fairly long queue in front of me.’

‘Let’s keep in touch,’ said Sasha, aware that that was no longer going to be quite as easy.

‘I’ll get off the line,’ said Ben. ‘I know you must be waiting for a call from Number Ten. Good luck.’

Sasha hadn’t even sat back down before the phone rang again. He grabbed it before it could ring a second time.

‘This is Number Ten,’ said a switchboard voice. ‘The Prime Minister wondered if you could see him at three-twenty this afternoon.’

I’ll check my diary and see if that’s convenient, Sasha was tempted to say. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

For the next hour he pretended to watch the news, read the papers, and even eat lunch. He took calls from several colleagues who had already received the summons, or were still anxiously waiting, and from many others, including Alf Rycroft, to wish him luck. In between, he fed the cat, who was fast asleep, and read the second act of Julius Caesar to discover his one-word mistake.

He drove to the Commons just after 2.30 p.m., and parked in the members’ car park. The policeman on the gate saluted the moment he saw him. Did he know something Sasha didn’t? He left the Palace of Westminster just after three, and walked slowly across Parliament Square and up Whitehall past the Foreign Office. Were the mandarins inside waiting for him? The policeman on duty at Downing Street didn’t need to check his clipboard.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko,’ he said, and opened the gate to let him through.

‘Good afternoon,’ Sasha replied, as he began the long gallows walk up Downing Street to discover his fate.

He was surprised when the door to number 10 opened while he was still a few paces away. He stepped inside for the first time, to find a young woman waiting for him.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Karpenko. Would you be kind enough to follow me?’ She led him up a flight of stairs, past the portraits of former prime ministers. John Major was already in place.

When they reached the first floor, she stopped outside a door and knocked quietly, opened it and stood aside. Sasha walked in to find the Prime Minister sitting opposite an empty chair in which it looked as if several people had already sat. A secretary, pen poised, was seated behind him.

‘I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise,’ said the Prime Minister once Sasha had sat down, ‘but I’d like you to join Robin at the Foreign Office as his Minister of State. I hope you’ll feel able to accept the post.’

‘I’d be honoured,’ said Sasha. ‘And delighted to serve in your first administration.’

‘I’d also like you to keep me briefed on what’s happening in Russia,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘particularly if your personal situation should change.’

‘My personal situation, Prime Minister?’

‘Our ambassador in Moscow tells me that if you were to return to Russia and stand against Yeltsin, you’d end up with an even bigger majority than I have. In which case it will be me trying to get an appointment with you.’

‘But Yeltsin doesn’t come up for election for another three years.’

‘Yes, but the polls currently show his approval rating is in single figures, and still falling.’

‘The polls are irrelevant, Prime Minister. What matters in Russia is how many voting slips end up in the ballot box, who put them there, and even more important, who counts them.’

‘So much for glasnost,’ said Blair. ‘But I have a feeling your time may well come, Sasha, so please keep me informed, and in the meantime, good luck in your new job.’

The secretary leant forward and whispered in the Prime Minister’s ear. Sasha didn’t need to be told the meeting was over, and was about to leave when the PM added, ‘Your name is also on the list of ministers who will be invited to join the Privy Council.’