Stanley Johnson: Kompromat

‘How would Tina Moller ever get to hear about the Referendum dossier?’ the PM mused. ‘Well, I suppose someone would have to tell her? Or else there could be a break-in at my home. We’d have to make sure the police weren’t on duty. We do have break-ins, you know, from time to time, even in leafy Surrey.’

As her aides made ready to leave, Mabel Killick asked Holly Percy to stay behind for a second.

‘My scarves are in the chest of drawers in the dressing room,’ she said. ‘Third drawer down.’

Holly made a note on her pad. ‘Scarves. Third drawer down.’

It wasn’t President Igor Popov’s first visit to Australia. He had been to Sydney in 2005 and Brisbane in 2014. But that had been official G20 business. They might have kicked Russia out of the G8, but they could hardly expel her from the G20!

But this visit, in the early summer of 2017 (late autumn ‘down under’), was different. Popov was on holiday. He flew into Kununurra in Western Australia in the presidential plane, the sleek, dark Ilyushin Il-96, with Galina Aslanova in the co-pilot’s seat.

‘I’ve sacked Pavel Golov. Useless fuck,’ Popov had told her on their way south. ‘Golov couldn’t see what was going on in St Petersburg. It wasn’t just our good friend Fyodor Stephanov. The FSB office there was rotten through and through. As the new director of the FSB, you’ll have to clear things up there. That will be one of your first priorities. Still, a few days’ break won’t hurt either of us.’

Mickey Selkirk had sent a helicopter to Kununurra airport.

When Popov and Galina Aslanova landed at the Lazy-T ranch thirty minutes later, both Mickey and Melanie Selkirk came out to the helipad to meet them. The Selkirks had invited plenty of distinguished guests to the Lazy-T ranch in their time but it wasn’t every day they entertained the president of the Russian Federation.

‘Please don’t keep calling me “Mr President”,’ Popov insisted, as they sat down to dinner that evening beneath the stars. ‘I’m here as a private citizen. We’re on holiday.’

He leant forward to sniff the aroma of the fine, red wine the Selkirk were serving that night.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s a Grange Hermitage, 1952, the year you were born. Penfold’s vineyard, just outside Adelaide. One of the oldest wineries in the country. Your good health!’ Mickey Selkirk raised his glass.

He had really pushed the boat out that evening. If you were lucky enough to find one, a 1952 Grange Hermitage would cost you at auction around $AUS16,000, that was about around $US14,500. But, hell, Selkirk thought, better hung for a sheep than a lamb.

He drained his glass.

‘Igor,’ he began, taking Popov at his word, ‘I can’t tell you how glad Melanie and I are to welcome you and Galina to our humble home. We’ve only got a million acres here at Lazy-T and I know that’s nothing when you consider the size of your vast country. But still it’s a real privilege to have you both here as our guests. Tomorrow we are going to do some mustering. Can you fly an R22?’

‘I can fly anything!’ Popov said.

He too drained his glass. Selkirk’s Chinese manservant, Ching Ze-Gong, refilled it. As this rate, he reckoned, he’d have to open a second bottle even before the main course had been served. Selkirk must really want something from this guy, he thought. He made sure he kept as close to the table as he could.

Mickey Selkirk, he noticed, had been a bit cool since his return from New York to the Lazy-T ranch.

‘I gather the police paid you a visit while I was gone,’ his boss had said. ‘Anything I need to know?’

‘Just checking papers, sir,’ Ching had replied. ‘All in order. Illegal immigrants – big problem now.’

‘You can say that again,’ Selkirk said. ‘Ron Craig’s building a wall to keep them out. Like the Great Wall of China. You guys thought of it first, didn’t you?’

Truth to tell, both Ching and Fung had been alarmed by that visit from the constabulary. It was clear the authorities were looking for something, but whatever it was they didn’t find it.

Since then, things had settled down nicely. He was still filing his reports to Hu Wong-Fu, the owner of the Kimberley Asian Cuisine restaurant in Kununurra. There might be something to report on tonight, he thought.

Ching Ze-Gong was right about that.

‘We’ve got elections next year,’ Popov said, as Ching served the dessert. ‘I’m thinking about whether to stand again for president of the Russian Federation. Maybe the time has come to make way for a younger man. I’ve been around a long time.’

‘Oh, come on! Born in 1952. You’re just a stripling!’ Selkirk protested.

The old man was suddenly serious.

‘The reason I invited you down here this weekend, Igor,’ he said, ‘is because I’ve got a proposition to put to you. I don’t want to influence your decision about your political future. That’s entirely your business, but if you did decide to step down at or even before the end of your current term of office, I would like you to consider taking over from me as president of Selkirk Global. With you as the leader and inspiration, Selkirk Global will span the world. I hope you will think about it, at least.’

Popov had already thought about it, of course. As soon as he had received Selkirk’s invitation, he had guessed what the old man had in mind. The Russian economy nowadays was about the same size as California’s. Being president of Russia wasn’t really such a big deal.

To run Selkirk Global, with a whole world still to conquer, that was something else again. He could take over the BBC for starters.

‘Yes, I’ll definitely think about it,’ President Popov said.

Next day, while Mickey Selkirk, game as ever, took his guests on a five-mile hike up the rugged Kimberley Gorge, with the Pentecost River cascading through the rocks, President Popov reported for duty at the helipad.

Jim Jackson, the pilot on duty that morning, was already waiting for him. Two R22s were parked side-by-side, ready to go.

Jackson pointed to the nearest machine. ‘This one’s yours,’ he said. ‘Jack Varese flew it when he was here. The left skid’s a bit bent. He was using the skids to herd the cattle. But it’s quite safe.’

Popov gazed admiringly at the little R22 helicopter. ‘I’ve herded reindeer in Siberia with one of these,’ he said. ‘Piece of cake.’

The mustering went well. Popov had seldom enjoyed himself more. He nipped in and out of the trees, turning the cattle this way and that, until he had massed a bunch and they really started to move, throwing up clouds of dust.

‘This is the life,’ Popov thought. If he took up Selkirk’s offer of the top job at Selkirk Global, maybe he’d move the headquarters back to Australia from New York. That would be one in the eye for the Yanks. And the Aussies would love it.

They brought upwards of a thousand head to the holding area, and were going back for more, when Jim Jackson received a message on the RT.

‘The old man has slipped on some rocks five miles up the gorge,’ he told Popov. ‘Hurt his leg. He can’t walk. We’ll have to pick him up. Could be tricky. The gorge is steep and narrow and there can be a hell of a wind. Depends where he is, but in some places you’ve only got a few feet clearance on either side, so you’ve got to keep dead centre otherwise you’re done for.’

They took off together, flying about 1000 feet above ground level. Below them they could see the gorge and the foaming river.

‘There they are!’ Jackson caught sight of Selkirk’s party far below, waving hats and handkerchiefs.

‘Why don’t you hover here?’ Jackson said. ‘Call into base and tell them what’s happening. I’ll go down. Looks pretty tight but I think I’ll make it.’