Stanley Johnson: Kompromat

‘My name is Ivan. I’m the head ranger here. Our plan today is to shoot a tiger. Of course, we are not going to kill it. We’re going to dart it. We are happy that President Popov himself is here with us this morning. He is a very good shot.’

‘He better be,’ Ronald Craig muttered. ‘I’m not sure I could outrun a tiger, not nowadays. Though there was a time when I could do a hundred yards in almost ten seconds!’

Popov laughed. ‘We don’t doubt it, Ron. And I can do a thousand push-ups!’

The president was in a jovial mood. ‘How’s the campaign going?’

‘They’re gagging for me. By the time we get to the convention, it’s going to be a coronation, not a contest.’ Craig laughed.

Edward Barnard listened to this brief exchange with some interest. It was obvious that there was a strong rapport between Popov and Ronald Craig. What was it based on? he wondered. Was it just friendly, good fellowship, mutual camaraderie, or was there something more? He knew that Craig had huge assets in Russia and he imagined that his ambitions were wider still. Why else should he be spending so much time in this country?

However, if Craig had huge assets in Russia, did he have huge liabilities too? Barnard had heard on the grapevine that US banks were a bit wary of Craig, having been burned once or twice before in their dealings with the famous showman-cum-entrepreneur. Some of the key European banks had been similarly reluctant to lend large sums. But the Russians had stepped into the breach in a big way, or so it seemed. Maybe they were trying to hug Craig close, to make sure he didn’t do the dirty on them.

It was time to go. Popov stubbed out his cigarette.

Thirty minutes later, as they followed the track deeper into the forest, Ronald Craig wasn’t feeling quite so light-hearted. The tiger, he knew, is basically one of nature’s finest killing machines and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be within spitting distance.

Two rangers, armed with rifles, led the way, with Popov half a step behind them. They were followed by the small party of non-Russians: Ronald Craig and his daughter Rosie, Jack Varese, and Edward Barnard. Two more rangers, guns at the ready, brought up the rear.

If a tiger was going to hunt them, he or she would attack from any direction. There was no way of telling. The undergrowth was thick, so it would be easy for the hunters to become the hunted.

They proceeded in total silence. Once or twice, a ranger gestured. ‘Pugmark,’ he would whisper. ‘Quite fresh. Less than hour old.’

‘Oh ho!’ Craig said to himself. ‘This is where the fun begins.’

He reached for his daughter’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

If her father was already wishing he was anywhere else but there – preferably back in New York in his glittering 40th-floor penthouse – his daughter was in a very different frame of mind. The smells and sounds of the forest were intoxicating. She cared passionately about wild animals. And to be out in the wilds of Siberia tracking an Amur tiger was one of the most exciting things she had done for a long time. The feeling of pure joy she experienced was all the more acute because she sensed that her hero, Jack Varese, felt just the same way.

When they were less than two hundred years from the site of the kill, the lead ranger held up a warning hand, motioning for them to stay back while he went ahead to reconnoitre. If the tiger was there, still feasting on the dead deer, he would give a signal. This would be the moment for Popov to move forward with a tranquillizer gun, closely escorted by two armed rangers, while the fourth stayed behind with the VIPs.

Once the tiger had been darted, the VIPs would be allowed to approach. The rangers would examine the unconscious animal and record their findings on their hand-held computers. This was the way biologists built up crucial data on wildlife populations. The animal would be collared and fitted with a transmitting device which not only recorded and reported the animal’s vital functions but also communicated with overhead satellites. In theory the precise location of the collared animal could be ascertained from then on.

Given the propensity of the Amur tiger to cross the border into China, the ability to keep track of precisely where the tigers were and where they might be heading was particularly important. The Russian rangers hadn’t yet devised a system of ensuring that the tigers stayed on Russian soil, but they were working on it.

The previous generation of radio collars had been cumbersome. However carefully they had been fitted, they could be knocked off, or damaged or destroyed, as a tiger went about its day-to-day business. If you were a killing machine, sometimes you had to jump through the air to seize your prey. You might have to crash through the forest in hot pursuit of a deer or even a wolf. The miniaturization of the radio collar into a small subcutaneous implant that sent radio signals on a 24/7 basis into the stratosphere for retransmission to a terrestrial monitoring system had transformed conservation field science.

President Popov had a pocket full of miniature transmitters and he was determined, once he had fired the dart, to do the ‘collaring’ as well.

Naturally the photographers were primed. Video and stills footage of the president ‘shooting’ and ‘collaring’ a tiger would be transmitted worldwide within minutes of the event. If there was any delay, that would probably be because Popov’s people back in Moscow needed a chance to check that the material to be transmitted conformed to, and indeed promoted, the image they wanted to convey of a young, dynamic, daring, adventurous and scientifically up-to-the-minute world leader.

In the event, things didn’t go entirely to plan. When the lead ranger went forward to the scene of the kill, he found – as he thought he would – the tiger with its head buried inside the Siberian musk deer’s ribcage. From time to time, the tiger raised its muzzle, dripping with blood, before returning to the task of crunching through half an animal in the shortest possible time.

In retrospect, it wasn’t clear whether the tiger saw or heard the ranger. Either way, before the ranger had time to signal to Popov to come forward to take his shot, the tiger with a growl backed away from the kill.

The ranger raised his rifle.

‘Don’t shoot!’ Popov uttered a short, sharp command. He didn’t want a dead tiger on his hands. This was not the kind of publicity he was seeking. Better a dead ranger!

Popov raised the darting gun and as he did so the tiger crashed up the path towards them.

Quite how Ronald Craig ended up on the ground with a tranquillizing dart sticking out of his backside while the tiger escaped into the forest none the worse for wear was, in the confusion of the moment, never totally clear.

One thing which was clear was that Ronald Craig, showman and businessman, not to say possible or indeed probable presidential candidate, was decidedly unhappy.

‘What the fu—!’ His voice boomed loud in the silence of the forest, hastening the speed of tiger’s retreat.

He groaned and slumped to the ground as the dart’s concentrated load of ketamine took hold.

The rangers, trained to deal with just such an eventuality, moved rapidly into action. They couldn’t wait for the effect of the drug to wear off. The risk of damage to the heart and sensory systems was very real. A dose of ketamine that could knock out a tiger would very likely be lethal for a man, even a man as large as Ronald Craig.

‘Mr President, pass me the yellow vial, please,’ said one of the rangers.

Taking the vial from Popov’s outstretched hand, the ranger looked down at Craig’s now prostrate and motionless body, much as a butcher might examine a large side of beef. He made a rapid calculation. No point in injecting the whole dose. More like half the dose, or even a third. Though hefty, Ron Craig certainly didn’t weigh as much as a fully grown male Amur tiger.