Stanley Johnson: 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.

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.