Stanley Johnson: Kompromat

The ranger squirted a shot of the liquid into the air, to make sure the plunger was properly loaded and ready to go. He shuddered to think of the fate that might befall him if by some freak accident he injected a fatal air bubble into the bloodstream of a man who was one of President Popov’s honoured guests.

Removing the hunting jacket from the comatose man, the ranger rolled up Craig’s right shirt sleeve so that the upper arm was exposed. He felt for and found the vein. Then, with quick professionalism, he injected a 200mg dose of Tolazoline.

While the rangers kept guard – God only knew where the tiger had gone, although everyone hoped it had gone as far away as it possibly could – Ronald Craig gradually regained consciousness.

‘Christ, my ass feels sore,’ he complained. ‘Did someone Taser me?’

‘Not exactly.’ Popov helped the American to his feet. ‘There was a small mishap. We’re going to get you to hospital as soon as we can.’

Khabarovsk General Hospital was surprisingly clean and well equipped. Roland Craig was wheeled straight away into the theatre. Seconds later, he was lying face down on the table.

‘This will only take a minute. The dart’s made quite a wound. We’re going to have to swab and disinfect just to be on the safe side. Give you an anti-tetanus too. You’d be surprised how many germs there are out there in the forest.’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Craig mumbled, still drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘I’m a germaphobe. You go right ahead.’

‘You won’t feel a thing,’ the surgeon said, ‘but we’ll give you a little local anaesthetic as well.’

When President Popov visited Ronald Craig in Khabarovsk General Hospital that evening, the American was well on the way to total recovery. Happily, he was also ready to see the funny side of things.

‘Shot in the ass by the president of Russia. I’m going to tweet.’

‘Actually, I’d rather you didn’t,’ Popov said. When he switched on the television, Craig took the point at once.

In the few hours that had intervened since that unfortunate event in the forest, Russian news channels had been running a brilliantly concocted story. All over the country, viewers had been enjoying the footage of a crouching, then leaping tiger, followed by shots of a bare-chested President Popov firing a hunting rifle with deadly accuracy.

‘ President Popov saves US politician-tycoon’s life in Ussuri hunting incident ,’ the newsreader proclaimed. The fate of the tiger was not specified, but the video was interspersed with a series of clips of Ron Craig and his glamorous family in full campaign mode.

One Russian commentator went so far as to suggest that Craig would not only be chosen as the Republican candidate in July. ‘There is a high probability that he will win the presidency itself in the presidential election this November, particularly since Mrs Caroline Mann, the likely Democratic nominee, is immersed in scandal owing to her misuse of official communications facilities while serving as Secretary of State.’

When the broadcast finished, Craig said, ‘I’m impressed. It’s almost like they had all that in the can and were just waiting to run it. And thanks for the plug.’

‘Our journalists are very professional,’ Popov said with a straight face. ‘They have very high standards of accuracy and objectivity.’

Craig sighed. ‘I wish our media was like that. They’re all over the place. They lie through their teeth, most of the time. Distort the news. Actually make things up! It’s so sad!’

Before he left, Popov turned to Rosie Craig, who was sitting at her father’s bedside. ‘Don’t worry, Rosie. Your father will be all right.’

Rosie Craig didn’t quite know what to say. She wasn’t angry with Popov. How could you be angry with a man who was trying to save the world’s tigers?

‘I’m sure Dad will be fine,’ she said. ‘It would take more than a dart to put him out of action.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Popov sighed. He’d been dealing with Ronald Craig in one way or another for the best part of a decade. There were times when even he felt he had met his match.

Barnard hadn’t expected to find himself having dinner with President Popov that evening, but when the message was brought to him in his hotel room overlooking the Amur River in the heart of Khabarovsk, he responded immediately.

‘Please tell the president I will be delighted.’

What a peculiar day it had been, Barnard reflected. It had started with the tiger hunt; it was going to end in a tête-a-tête encounter with one of the most powerful men in the world.

Actually, it wasn’t quite a one-on-one. Barnard was already sitting at a corner table in the hotel dining room when Popov entered, accompanied by a slim, dark-haired man around forty years of age.

‘Let me introduce you to Yuri,’ Popov said without preamble. ‘Yuri Yasonov. Yuri’s been with me a long time. He speaks English better than I do. Went to Oxford. Very classy!’

Popov was clearly in a good mood, and he’d possibly already had a shot of vodka or two. Shooting Ronald Craig in the backside with a tranquilizing dart might also have had something to do with it, Barnard reflected.

The restaurant manager quickly came over to take their orders, bowing and scraping. It wasn’t every day that the Russian President dropped by. Security men hovered by the door. What the hell was going on, Barnard wondered?

The waiter brought over a large jar of caviar. ‘No shortage of caviar in this part of the world.’ Popov laughed. ‘The rivers in Kamchatka are positively leaping with sturgeon.’ He waved his hand at Barnard’s empty glass. ‘More vodka please for my British friend here.’

Back in London, before he left for St Petersburg – how long ago it seemed! – Barnard had had a security briefing.

‘Get alongside Popov, if you can,’ the MI6 man had said. ‘This is a unique opportunity. You’re going to be in a totally informal setting. But watch out. Popov served for years as the head of the KGB in East Germany. Recruiting agents, running agents, that’s meat and drink to him. Once a spy-master, always a spy-master. He’ll never get that out of his system. He may try to recruit you. A British Cabinet minister would be a big fish to land. Be sure to keep us posted.’

Popov didn’t beat about the bush. He was a busy man. He would be flying back to Moscow later that night.

‘May I call you Edward? You may call me Igor.’

‘Thank you,’ Barnard replied. ‘But I’d feel more comfortable sticking to Mr President. We British are pretty conscious of this sort of thing, and you are a Head of State after all.’

‘As you wish.’ Popov seemed mildly put out, but he rallied quickly. ‘Let me put something to you, Edward. When I’ve finished, you can say yes, you can say no or you can say maybe. But if I were you, I’d say yes.’

For the next half-hour Barnard sat there as Popov outlined his proposal. Of course, he didn’t come to the punch line – the money shot, as it were – straight away. He put the whole thing in context.

‘Frankly, Edward, Russia at this point in time feels very aggrieved. I feel aggrieved. We went along with the break-up of the former Soviet Empire, and what did the West do? It tried to ram NATO down our throat. The European Union wooed Ukraine shamelessly. Did you ever look at the so-called EU–Ukraine Treaty? Garbage. Total garbage. For many Russians, Ukraine is still part of our motherland. Can we just sit there while they fire missiles at us from just across the border? But of course we don’t want a war. Not with anyone.’ Popov laughed. ‘Russia’s not rich enough to fight a war with the West. That’s right, isn’t it, Yuri?’