Stanley Johnson: Kompromat

Yuri Yasonov nodded. ‘That’s right, Mr President.’ Over years of working closely with President Popov, he had learned that it was always safer to say ‘yes’ when Popov was in full flow. You could try to row back later if you had to.

‘If we fought a war with the West, we’d be outgunned. That’s the reality,’ Popov continued. He drummed his fingers on the table to emphasize his next point. ‘America is sixteen times richer than we are in terms of GDP. We’re just a middle-ranking nation. And yet… and yet…’

Barnard could see the man’s eyes misting over. What the hell was coming next, he wondered? Popov was working himself up towards the climax.

‘And yet, this is literally the largest country on earth. Even today in its diminished form, without its satellite states, Russia still covers one-sixth of the earth’s surface. You saw yesterday when you flew out here how vast this land is. Do you know there are nine time zones between here and Moscow? And think of the culture, the history, the literature, the music, the art and architecture. How the hell do they think they can treat us the way they do? For God’s sake this is Russia, the greatest country on earth! How dare they?’

Popov was overcome by a sudden fit of coughing. ‘You take it from here, Yuri,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ve got to go anyway. Goodbye, Edward. I’m leaving you in good hands.’

As Popov stood up, the ‘doughnut’ of security guards closed round him. An armoured car would be outside the hotel to convey him to the airport, Barnard was sure. Back in Moscow, the private lift which served the president’s office in the Kremlin was connected directly to an underground garage. But out here in the boondocks it was a different matter.

Once Popov had gone, Yuri Yasonov took up where he had left off.

‘You should know, Mr Barnard, that I am speaking with the authority of the president when I say we believe there is a better way ahead for all of us. And at this particular moment in time, we believe that you personally have a key role to play.’

Barnard frowned and gave a small shake of his head.

Yasonov’s voice took on a firmer tone. ‘Let me be clear. For the last decade or more, you have been one of the leading lights of the so-called “Eurosceptic wing” of the Conservative Party. As I understand it, you have a lot of support among Conservative MPs. In spite of that, or possibly because of that, the UK prime minister Jeremy Hartley, has given you an important job in the British Cabinet.’

‘I don’t hold one of the “great offices of state”. Being head of DEFRA isn’t the same as being foreign secretary, home secretary or chancellor of the exchequer,’ Barnard countered a trifle nervously.

‘Don’t sell yourself short. Gennadiy Tikhonov, our ambassador in London, rates you very highly. As he puts it, you’re one of the players. What you do matters. It matters a lot.’

Yasonov paused. ‘Please think very carefully before you answer my next question. In all your dealings with Jeremy Hartley, what was the single act, the single decision if you like, that most took you by surprise?’

‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Barnard replied in a more assertive tone. ‘Wednesday January 23rd, 2013. The day Prime Minister Jeremy Hartley promised the country an In-Out Referendum on Europe. He was making a speech at the Bloomberg office in London. I listened to it on the radio. I couldn’t believe my ears. Speaking personally, I was over the moon. As Eurosceptics, we all were. We had been hoping for something like that – giving the country a say on the UK’s membership in the EU after forty years – but we never imagined we’d actually get it. A lot of us went out and got drunk.’

‘Why did the announcement of a Referendum take you by surprise?’

‘Politically speaking, it was quite unnecessary. The government wasn’t under any kind of threat. The prime minister wasn’t under any kind of pressure, and so at the time, however delighted I might have been in a personal sense, I simply couldn’t imagine why he had done it. Of course, Hartley made it clear later on in his speech that he would fight hard – “heart and soul” I think were the very words he used – to ensure that the UK stayed in the EU, but that wasn’t the point. The genie was out of the bottle.’

Yuri Yasonov pushed a flash-drive across the table and after a pause Barnard surreptitiously pocketed it. ‘Take a look at this.’

The eighteenth-century Kharitonenko Mansion at 14 Sofiyskaya Naberezhnaya, situated on the bank of the Neva River directly opposite the Kremlin, serves as the residence of the United Kingdom’s ambassador to Russia, properly known as the Russian Federation. It is probably one of the most important buildings in Moscow, not only because of its fine construction and setting, but also because of its beautifully crafted, ornate interior.

A recent major overhaul and refurbishment had, so the UK security services hoped, removed the listening devices installed in the post-war years by successive Kremlin regimes. Unfortunately, the renovations had taken much longer than originally anticipated, the delay being due – in part at least – to fears that as the old bugs were being ripped out, new bugs were being installed, even though the workforce, comprising mainly ethnic minorities from Central Asia, operated at all times under close supervision. These fears were almost certainly justified. All ambassadors were officially warned before they moved in to assume that all their conversations in the Residence would be routinely bugged.

They were also advised that the residence’s domestic staff – cooks, waiters, chauffeurs and so on – would most likely be in the direct pay of the FSB, the successor to the KGB. Even those not actually on the FSB’s payroll were, it was to be assumed, able and willing to report to the Russian security services.

Sir Andrew Boles, KBE, KCVO, the current ambassador, was not a man to be put off by minor inconveniences. He had served in Laos and Angola, as well as having spent a stint at the United Nations in New York.

So when his old friend, Edward Barnard, MP, arrived for dinner one evening on his way back from the Russian Far East and the now famous tiger encounter, he greeted him with enthusiasm.

‘Great to see you, Edward! It’s been far too long. Julia’s out somewhere playing bridge, and the staff have a night off, but they’ve left dinner for us, I’m glad to say. Let’s go straight up to the small dining room.’

Boles pointed at the ornate ceilings in the entrance hall, and the heavy wood-carvings on the stairs and walls; ideal places for eavesdropping devices of whatever sort.

‘Ah, the small dining room! Yes, of course!’ Barnard took the point quickly.

The two men kept their conversation to the banal as they climbed the stairs to the first floor.

‘Pavel Ivanovich Kharitonenko, the man who built this house, was just a peasant when he started, you know,’ Boles explained. ‘But he became a great sugar magnate. The offices for his sugar factories were here and he decided to build a family mansion here as well.’

As they climbed the grand staircase, Boles continued, ‘This mansion has hosted the British Embassy since 1931. Winston Churchill entertained Stalin here during the War. The Queen stayed here. And Princess Diana too.’

‘Ah, Princess Diana. What a wonderful woman. What a tragic end.’

Barnard spoke loudly and clearly. If the FSB logged his visit as they certainly would, they would note the sympathy he had shown for the late Princess of Wales. Nothing wrong with that.

The two men only got down to business when they reached their destination on the second floor. ‘Small dining room’ was a palpable misnomer, since the term was used to refer to a solid, cube-shaped construction, which sat incongruously in the middle of an otherwise empty reception room. The cube was clad in heavy, green material designed, so Barnard assumed, to foil any penetrating radiation.