In this satirical thriller, Stanley Johnson, former MEP and father to Prime Minister Boris Johnson, just might have.
‘Perfect beach material.’ Independent
In Britain, Prime Minister Jeremy Hartley is fighting a referendum nobody thinks he will lose.
In the USA, brash showman Ronald Craig is fighting a Presidential Election nobody thinks he can win.
In the USSR, Igor Popov, the Russian President, is using both events to achieve his own malevolent ends.
Together, these three men will change the course of the world forever.
In his brilliant new thriller, Stanley Johnson, environmentalist and former politician, has written an alternative account of the seismic events that took place on both sides of the Atlantic. There's greed, corruption, lies... what could possibly go wrong?
'Brilliant.' The Sunday Times
In this satirical thriller, Stanley Johnson, former MEP and father to Prime Minister Boris Johnson, just might have.
‘Perfect beach material.’ Independent
In Britain, Prime Minister Jeremy Hartley is fighting a referendum nobody thinks he will lose.
In the USA, brash showman Ronald Craig is fighting a Presidential Election nobody thinks he can win.
In the USSR, Igor Popov, the Russian President, is using both events to achieve his own malevolent ends.
Together, these three men will change the course of the world forever.
In his brilliant new thriller, Stanley Johnson, environmentalist and former politician, has written an alternative account of the seismic events that took place on both sides of the Atlantic. There's greed, corruption, lies... what could possibly go wrong?
'Brilliant.' The Sunday Times
eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
In this satirical thriller, Stanley Johnson, former MEP and father to Prime Minister Boris Johnson, just might have.
‘Perfect beach material.’ Independent
In Britain, Prime Minister Jeremy Hartley is fighting a referendum nobody thinks he will lose.
In the USA, brash showman Ronald Craig is fighting a Presidential Election nobody thinks he can win.
In the USSR, Igor Popov, the Russian President, is using both events to achieve his own malevolent ends.
Together, these three men will change the course of the world forever.
In his brilliant new thriller, Stanley Johnson, environmentalist and former politician, has written an alternative account of the seismic events that took place on both sides of the Atlantic. There's greed, corruption, lies... what could possibly go wrong?
'Brilliant.' The Sunday Times
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781786072474 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Oneworld Publications |
| Publication date: | 07/13/2017 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Stanley Johnson recently starred in ITV’s I’m a Celebrity...Get Me Out of Here! and is taking part in the second reality series of The Real Marigold Hotel. He was one of the first presenters of More 4’s The Last Word, and has appeared on Have I Got News For You, The One Show, Pointless and The Fake News Programme.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Jack Varese, winner of the most recent Best Actor Oscar, was late. Very late. Sitting in the front row of the celebrity audience in St Petersburg's famous Mariisnky Theatre, Russia's long-serving president, Igor Popov, muttered to an aide, 'Where the devil is he? We're going to have to start without him.'
Popov glanced across the aisle to where the German chancellor, Helga Brun, stared stony-faced at the empty stage in front of her. Next to her was China's prime minister, Liu Wang-Ji, and next to him in the VIP line-up came India's prime minister, Nawab Singh.
President Popov was about to go up onto the stage himself to explain the delay when there was a sudden commotion in the wings.
The loud speakers burst into life. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, the guest of honour, Jack Varese, has arrived and will address the gathering.'
'So sorry,' the American began. 'We were delayed by headwinds on the way over from New York so we had to refuel in Helsinki. Guess I should have flown Aeroflot after all! Or else Ron Craig here could have brought me in his Boeing. But, hell, I like to fly my own plane!'
Varese beckoned Ron Craig up onto the stage. 'This is a man who wants to help save the world's tigers. So I said to him. "Welcome aboard, Ron. Your help is sorely needed. President Popov needs your help." So that's why we're all here. To support the World Tiger Conservation Action Plan, which President Popov has launched tonight.'
Within a few moments Varese had them eating out of his hand. Popov sat back in his chair and relaxed.
This World Tiger Summit had been very much Popov's own initiative. A passionate outdoors man, he liked nothing better than to be photographed bare-chested in field and forest, preferably with a hunting rifle in his hand. Of course, there were some animals he didn't shoot and the fabled Amur tiger was one of them. There were still a good number of these magnificent beasts left in the wild, way out there in the Russian Far East. Some of them indeed were so far to the east that they sometimes crossed the Ussuri River and strayed into Chinese territory. The previous day, in a tête a tête with China's president, Liu Wang-Ji, Popov had said, 'You may have killed and skinned all your own tigers, Mr President, but kindly keep your hands off ours!'
When it was Popov's turn to speak he kept his remarks short.
'Today, ladies and gentlemen, we are adopting a World Tiger Action Plan. Yes, there are 450 Amur tigers left in Russian Siberia; yes, there are maybe 3,000 tigers in India; yes, there are tigers in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Myanmar, Bangladesh and so on. But, believe me, those tiger populations will be extinct unless we take action now.'
Later that evening the presidents and prime ministers of the tiger 'range states', whom Popov had personally invited to St Petersburg, gathered for dinner in the glittering splendour of the Winter Palace.
Edward Barnard, MP and Secretary of State for the Environment, found himself, by some quirk of protocol, sitting next to Helga Brun, the German chancellor.
Barnard, an outdoor man himself, was full of praise for the way Popov had handled the event. 'I thought he would just look in and out of the meeting, but he put in three full days. He must really care. And he had some kind words for Europe; he acknowledged the help we have given with his tigers' cause.'
Helga Brun laughed. 'Don't believe everything he says. Our people in Moscow tell me that he's absolutely furious. He thinks we've backed Russia into a corner. From Popov's point of view, we've been running after the Ukraine the way a dog runs after a bitch on heat. We've been expanding NATO right up to Russia's border. We've imposed sanctions over Crimea. I admit we have seen one side of President Popov tonight, the rather pleasant side, but I can't help feeling we are going to see another side very soon. Popov is planning something big. Very big. You mark my words.'
The guests all rose to their feet as President Popov left the splendid dining-hall to the sound of trumpets.
Jack Varese, very much recovered from the long journey and its various mishaps, worked the room glass in hand, moving from table to table like a politician running for office.
It wasn't long before he took Barnard's hand and shook it warmly. When Barnard introduced himself, Varese commented: 'So you're the leader of the UK delegation. Secretary of State for the Environment. That's a great handle to have.'
'We may not have any tigers. But the British government wants to make it clear we fully approve of President Popov's initiative.'
Varese laughed. 'Maybe that'll distract him and he'll forget about invading the Baltic States.'
Seconds later, President Popov himself stopped at Barnard's table. He was, Barnard guessed, around five eight in height, a trifle less perhaps. Thinning hair, carefully brushed back to cover a bald spot.
Barnard bowed his head instinctively. This was the Russian head of state. Whatever you might feel about the man, you had to respect the office he held.
A lavishly decorated aide hovered at Popov's side. The president had obviously been well-briefed.
'Please thank your government for the support they are giving to the World Tiger Action Plan,' Popov told Barnard. 'We very much appreciate it. I hope one day soon to come to London to show my appreciation in person.'
As the presidential party moved on, Barnard muttered to himself, 'Dream on!' Reaching for another drink, he found it hard to imagine that Popov would be making a state visit to Britain any time soon. Not in the current climate.
The party began to break up. The limousine was waiting to take him back to his hotel. Sinking back into the plush leather seat of the sleek, black 3-litre BMW that the authorities had made available for the VIP guests, Barnard took his phone from his pocket.
Although some of his fellow Cabinet ministers had joshed that his trip to Russia was a mere jolly, there was after all some important news to convey to the authorities back home. He had absolutely no doubt that, in their separate ways, both the Russian president and the German chancellor had hoped that he, Secretary of State for the Environment, would convey a message to London, and he was delighted to be able to do so.
How things had changed in Russia over the last few years, he thought. In the big cities at least, it was all bling and gizmos. Wi-Fi was everywhere. Even in a moving car twenty miles outside St Petersburg you could pick up a signal, which was more than could be said for some of the outlying areas of London. Edward Barnard began to tap out his message.
Not far away, on the FSB control centre on St Petersburg's Cherniavski Street, Fyodor Stephanov, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar on his right cheek, picked up Barnard's message almost as soon as it had been sent.
He printed off a flimsy and walked quickly into the next room where his superior took one look at the text.
'Not even encrypted! Not even the lowest level! What do they take us for?'
He handed the flimsy back to the duty officer. 'You'd had better get going,' he said. 'Pass the word. And make sure the women know what to do.'
Stephanov rubbed his hands and smiled. 'They know all right.' In due course, he would be well paid for the video he would offer for sale on the now well-developed market for such material. He always welcomed a little freelance action. He was saving up for that Baltic cruise with his new girlfriend.
CHAPTER 2
Barnard glanced at his watch as he got out of the car at the Kempinski Hotel. 10:30p.m. St Petersburg time. The night was still young. In London it would be two hours earlier.
He paused for a moment to pick up his key from reception – one of the new-fangled plastic card affairs he rather disliked – and headed for the bar.
Ron Craig, the large, sandy-haired American who sat there with a glass of bourbon in front of him, had one of the most famous faces on American television. He hosted a panel show watched by millions. He was also running for president.
'Great to see you, Mr Craig,' Barnard introduced himself. 'I saw you at the dinner, but you were tied up with President Popov and we didn't have time to talk.'
Craig laughed. 'That Popov! He's quite a guy.' He heaved himself out of his chair and slapped Barnard on the back. 'Did you meet Rosie? Rosie's my daughter. She's passionate about wildlife. But she's also my right-hand man, if you see what I mean. Say hello to Rosie.'
Barnard made a gallant little bow in the direction of the slim and lovely young woman sitting in a plush upholstered seat beside her father.
'Oh, I'm so glad to meet you properly, Mr Barnard,' she said. 'I was stuck next to that Chinese gentleman at dinner and I couldn't understand a word.'
'Rosie's flying with us to the Ussuri tomorrow in Jack's plane,' her father added. 'You're coming too, Jack says. That's great. God knows where we're going to land.'
Barnard pulled up a chair. 'I'm just so pleased we were able to fix this up. I've seen tigers in India, I've seen tigers in Bangladesh, but it's been one of my dreams to see a Siberian tiger in the wild. I told the prime minister that I wasn't coming all the way to Russia to a tiger conference, and then passing up the chance to actually get out in the field to see one.'
'It's going to be tough, isn't it? Cold too?' Rosie looked a bit glum.
'Don't you worry,' Craig patted his daughter on the arm. 'They'll have tents and a campfire. It will do you good. Do us all good.'
Craig slapped his tummy. 'I could lose a few pounds, and a hike will help. Actually, it's happening anyway. If you hit the campaign trail in an American presidential election, you've got to work your socks off. We're not over the top yet. The contest may go all the way to the Convention, but I'll tell you something: there's no way in hell that this train is going to be stopped.'
Barnard was intrigued. More than intrigued. Impressed. In the UK, even now, when he was virtually home and dry, people were reluctant to take Ronald Craig's presidential campaign seriously. All that tweeting. All that tub-thumping, the bombast and the rhetoric. They seemed to think the style of the man was wrong. That it wasn't the way presidential candidates ought to behave. And apart from the style, there was the content of the message. 'Build the Wall!' 'Drain the Swamp!' 'Lock her up!' Strong meat indeed. Too strong for tender stomachs.
But with Craig standing proud and manly before him, haloed in a swirl of feral testosterone, Barnard could see how charismatic he might be to a certain type of voter.
But how had Craig found the time to come to St Petersburg? Barnard found himself wondering a few minutes later, once the aura of the powerful man had dropped a notch or two. What kind of business did he have with President Popov that was important enough for him to take a break from campaigning at this crucial stage?
Twenty minutes later, Barnard headed for the lift. He felt decidedly woozy. Don't mix the grain and the grape, his father had always told him. Well, he'd had a lot of wine at the dinner, and several large tots of whisky sitting there in the Kempinski Bar. They were heading for the airport early the next morning for the long flight to Russia's Far East. He hoped to hell his head had cleared by then.
Two young and glamorous Russian women dressed to the nines and wafting clouds of expensive perfume drifted across the hotel foyer to join him as he waited for the lift.
Barnard had noticed them earlier, sitting at a neighbouring table in the bar.
'Good evening, ladies,' Barnard said in what he hoped was a debonair manner. 'Going up too? I'm heading for the eighth floor.'
The two Russian women allowed their lips to curve into what – in this dim light – might almost pass for a smile. 'Eighth floor. Yes, that is good floor for us too,' they purred.
'All aboard then,' Barnard hiccoughed as the doors opened. 'Eighth it is!'
CHAPTER 3
One of the reasons – indeed possibly the principal reason – Jack Varese had bought the Gulfstream 550 was that he liked to fly it himself. It wasn't just a question of keeping up his flying hours, though with the hectic schedule he led that was always a consideration.
What he loved above all was being alone with his thoughts. Okay, his was one of the world's most famous faces. Quite apart from his latest Oscar, he had starred in a score of movies that had been box-office successes. Women threw themselves at him. Over the years the glamour magazines had speculated about the possible outcome of the many 'relationships' with beautiful women that Varese had had pursued, but none of them, so far as the Hollywood gossip-mill knew, had come to anything.
The truth of the matter was that Varese liked to keep his private life private. Was he looking for a soulmate? Someone who, like him, believed that the world's wild places needed to be preserved? If he was, he wasn't saying, not even to himself.
On that particular late April morning, as the Gulfstream 550 took off from St Petersburg's Pulkovo Airport, Jack Varese was looking forward to some uninterrupted 'quality time' at the controls. In fact, since the distance, airport to airport, between St Petersburg and Khabarovsk in Russia's Far East was around 4,000 miles, and since the Gulfstream 550 could cruise comfortably at 40,000 feet at around 600 mph, Varese reckoned that he had at least seven hours ahead of him to reflect on the state of Planet Earth.
And they wouldn't have to refuel. The Gulfstream 550 had a range of 6,700 nautical miles. Hell, Varese thought, if the airport at Khabarovsk was closed in by fog or snow or by storm conditions, as it sometimes was apparently, they would have easily enough fuel to head for Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky or even Vladivostok.
As it happened, the weather that morning was perfect. Sometimes when you are flying at 40,000 ft. all Varese could see were the clouds below, but the control tower at Pulkova gave the forecast as they cleared the plane for take-off.
'You've got good weather all the way to Khabarovsk, Mr Varese,' the tower said.
As he taxied to the end of the runway Varese noted that the Russian presidential plane, an Ilyushin Il-96, and Russia's own equivalent of Air Force One, was still parked on the tarmac, surrounded by armed guards. There was a bowser next to the plane. It looked as though they had just finished refuelling. Was President Popov still in St Petersburg? Was he about to depart? If so, where was he heading? Moscow? Somewhere else? Did the presidential plane have to file a flight plan? And if someone did file a flight plan, would anyone seriously believe them?
Nowadays, Varese reflected, there was no way of telling what was true and what was false. There were facts and there were 'alternative facts'. Take your pick. In fact, he was often amazed at what was reported about himself, always with the 'collaboration' of a mysterious 'friend' or 'close confidante'. Apparently, so Varese had heard, the Russians had whole cities out there somewhere in the tundra inventing stories, which they then leaked to the media, or somehow planted in the Twittersphere. Black could quite literally become white, and sometimes without even any intervening shades of grey.
Before he acquired his own private jet, Varese, as an ordinary, if much cosseted, passenger had flown over Russia a good many times. Scudding high over the vast expanses of the former Soviet Union was often by far the quickest route from A to B where, for example, A was London and B was Tokyo. In fact, if you took the polar route between those two cities you could spend a large proportion of your journey time over Russia, staring down at those vast expanses of forest, snow and ice.
The Gulfstream 550 comfortably accommodated eight passengers and four crew. Two hours into the flight, with the plane on autopilot, Varese clicked on the tannoy.
'Hello, everyone. I hope you're all enjoying this as much as I am. We're taking a modified, great circle route to our destination today, which means we're actually going north as well as east. In fact, if you look out now on the port side of the aircraft you can see the Arctic Ocean. Don't all rush at once or you may tip the plane over! Anyone want to come up front? I've got a spare seat here, although I'm afraid you'll have to leave your drinks behind.'
Craig, sitting in the spacious lounge, immediately beckoned to one of the stewards. 'I'd like to go up front for a while. Can you ask Jack if Rosie can come too?' 'I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir, but I'll check.'
Moments later, the steward returned. 'Mr Varese says to go on up.'
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Kompromat"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Stanley Johnson.
Excerpted by permission of Oneworld Publications.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.