Kompromat Page 11

  ‘So that’s why you’re interested in me?’ Rosie pretended to be upset. ‘Because of the politics? Because my dad’s riding the crest of the wave?’

  ‘Hell no, I just like being with you.’

  The previous weekend, they had popped over to the Bahamas in Varese’s Gulfstream 550. Rosie had gone back to Hasta La Vista – there was a campaign to run after all – but Varese had stayed on.

  When he’d got Rosie’s call that morning, he was tickled pink. ‘Great! Fantastic. I’ll be there in an hour.’ You could almost see Florida from the Bahamas. It was that close.

  Was he falling for Rosie? Jack Varese wondered, as he put the phone away. He had been to plenty of parties over the years and had dated myriad lovely ladies – hell, what would he do without them? – but he hadn’t fallen for someone in a long time. Not properly.

  He met Rosie Craig and Ed Barnard that afternoon at Palm Beach International Airport. Rosie gave him a long, passionate kiss.

  ‘So good to see you, darling.’

  ‘You too,’ Varese said.

  After they had disentangled themselves, Varese turned to greet Edward Barnard. ‘Hi, Ed, great to see you again.’

  They completed the formalities, and then walked out onto the tarmac to board the plane. Terry Caruthers came out of the cockpit to greet them.

  ‘Welcome on board, folks.’

  ‘I’ve brought Terry along to do a bit of the flying,’ Varese said. ‘Australia’s a helluva long way away, even with my Gulfstream.’ He pointed to the sleek machine sitting on the tarmac at Palm Beach International’s Private Aviation Facility with its engines running. ‘Besides, it will be fun to chill out with you guys en route.’

  They only broke the journey once, and that was in Easter Island, 2,300 miles west of Santiago, Chile. They disembarked while the plane was being refuelled to make a whirlwind visit to the site of the famous moai, gigantic stone statues, carved out of tuff, the light, porous rock formed by consolidated volcanic ash.

  Standing there, on a wild, windswept headland, with her arm around the man she was pretty sure she loved, and with the moai towering hugely above her, Rosie felt suddenly moved. Nobody yet had fathomed the mystery of Easter Island – or Rapa Nui as it was known to its earliest inhabitants. A civilization had flourished and then it had collapsed, within a space of years. Did they cut down all the trees in order to make rollers to shift the giant stones around? Did they die out because of some sudden, mysterious illness? Nobody knew for sure.

  ‘We could make a film,’ Rosie said. Of course Jack Varese would have the lead role. He looked a bit Polynesian, to be honest. But there might be a part for her too. Something wild and sexy? She hoped Varese wouldn’t give up his movie career too soon. He was so darn good. And besides, the ‘Craig for President’ campaign needed all the allies in Hollywood they could find. Hollywood hadn’t been much help to Ron Craig so far, and that was the understatement of the year.

  ‘So glad you’ve got Jack Varese on board,’ her father had joked. ‘In every sense!’

  ‘That’s gross, Dad,’ she’d responded. She could talk to her father like that. No one else could.

  Terry Caruthers flew the next leg, from Easter Island to Kununurra, while Jack and Rosie snatched a few hours’ sleep in the plane’s master bedroom with its king-size bed. Barnard had some marginally less grand sleeping quarters in the rear of the plane. Way to go, he thought. Funny, wasn’t it? Spend some time in the States and you start talking like a Yank.

  A party of American tourists had just landed as they were about to leave Easter Island. One or two of them recognized Jack Varese. Not surprising, of course, since Jack Varese at this point in his stellar career possessed one of Planet Earth’s more famous faces. As the Gulfstream 550 flew on through the Southern night, the tweets from Rapa Nui came thick and fast:

  # Guess what! Saw Jack Varese with a new blonde on Easter Island? Who is she?

  #Is Jack Varese making a film about the giant statues? And who’s the mystery blonde?

  Varese had fans all over the world, which meant he had fans in the northernmost reaches of Western Australia. Yes, there too. By the time they landed at Kununurra, right on Western Australia’s boundary with the Northern Territory, quite a reception party had gathered. A young Aboriginal female reporter from Kimberley TV thrust a microphone in front of Varese as he strode into the airport building from the plane.

  ‘You heading for El Questro, Mr Varese? Are you going to be meeting Nicole Kidman there? She likes to go to El Questro.’

  Varese put his arm round Rosie Craig. ‘I’m just fine as I am. Can a man hire a helicopter round here?’

  He turned to Caruthers. ‘Take a couple of days off, Terry. We’ll pick you up on the way back. Why don’t you head down to the coast? Catch some barramundi for your dinner!’

  One hundred miles west of Kununurra, sitting in the living room of the farmhouse in the Kimberley that his family had owned for the best part of a century, Mickey Selkirk watched the TV coverage of Jack Varese’s arrival with interest. He could remember a time when there was no TV at all up in the outback. Jamie Selkirk, Mickey’s father, one of the most brilliant newsmen of his generation, had built up the Selkirk TV network station by station. Kimberley TV was one of the first to go on air, way back in the 1950s, in the vast empty spaces of Western Australia’s Kimberley region.

  ‘Don’t just concentrate on the cities: Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and so on,’ Jamie had told his son. ‘You’ve got to get out in the outback too. That’s where they really need TV. You can’t just go down to the shop and buy a paper. There won’t be a bloody shop. Not for miles. Probably not at all.’

  By the time Mickey took over, Selkirk Media Pty Ltd covered most of Australia. Mickey’s mission had been to build on his father’s legacy. And he succeeded. Under his leadership, Selkirk Media had changed its name to Selkirk Global. Mickey had opened offices in New York. London, Hong Kong, Jakarta and a score of other cities around the world.

  By then, the great Jamie Selkirk had been dead a long time. And now Mickey himself was no longer a young man. In fact, he was over eighty – would you believe it? But his lust for power was as strong as ever.

  As he saw it, there were still huge gaps in Selkirk Global’s empire. Okay, he had more or less wrapped Australia up, but he couldn’t truthfully say the same of the US or the UK. Selkirk Global was just one of the players there. An important player, yes, but not necessarily dominant.

  And that went for other parts of the world too. He hadn’t cracked Russia, for a start. And they still had a long way to go in China.

  He heard the thud-thud of the helicopter coming in to land on the pad. You didn’t own and run a million-acre cattle station in the Kimberley without your own helipad and airstrip.

  Mickey left his drink on the bar. He called out to his wife, ‘Melanie, they’re here!’

  Melanie Selkirk, a tall blonde, who had once been married to a famous pop-star, and who herself had appeared on the cover of several bestselling albums, hastened to join her husband on the helipad.

  Jack Varese, toting his flight bag over his shoulder, climbed out of the cockpit via the pilot’s door, then walked round to open the side door for the others.

  ‘Glad to see you found some transport at Kununurra, Jack. Welcome to Lazy-T station.’ Selkirk gave the Hollywood movie-star an all-embracing hug. That’s what they all did nowadays, he thought. Hug each other. In the old days, you just shook hands. Most often not even that. Just tipped your hat, if you were wearing one, and said ‘Gday’mate.’ Never mind. Go with the flow. No harm in that.

  Mickey Selkirk turned to greet Rosie Craig. Christ, he had known her since she was a baby. And look at her now! What a gorgeous creature.

  ‘Rosie, you look wonderful. Melanie, doesn’t Rosie look wonderful? Come on in, everyone. Let’s have a drink.’

  Mickey Selkirk gave them all a great beaming smile. This was the moment he had been waiting for. How did that rhyme go? Wil
l you come into my parlour said the spider to the fly?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  They had drinks before dinner on the homestead’s terrace, with its splendid view of the Pentecost River, as it ran through the Lazy-T cattle station on its way to the Indian Ocean.

  Mickey Selkirk introduced them to the staff, a middle-aged Chinese couple.

  ‘Meet Ching and Fung,’ he said. ‘They look after the place. They do the cooking too, I’m glad to say. They’ve been in this country for years. Go over to Broome and you’ll find a whole Chinatown. The Chinese ran the pearl-fishing industry there. Bloody hard work that must have been. They didn’t have any health and safety regulations then. Lost a lot of divers. Lost your father like that, didn’t you, Ching?’

  ‘Grandfather too,’ the man, Ching, said.

  After drinks, they had dinner by the pool.

  Mickey Selkirk, overcoming his natural aversion to Limeys, did his best to be polite to Barnard.

  ‘Been to the Kimberley before, Ed?’ he asked,

  ‘Been to Perth and Albany but never to the Kimberley. Great time of year, isn’t it?’ Barnard waved in the direction of the river. ‘Can we swim in the river?’

  ‘Course you can, if you don’t mind the crocs,’ Selkirk replied. ‘Mind you, the freshwater crocs aren’t as dangerous as the salties. The salties can come quite a way upstream. Fella got taken by a saltie a few days back at Pentecost River crossing and that’s a long way inland. Came too close to the bank in his boat. You think they’re asleep on the bank there but they’re not. They can spend days watching. Not moving. Then, bang, you’re gone. They spin you round and round and drown you, unless you can manage to jab a knife in their eye. Lull you into a false sense of security, that’s what they do.’

  Was that Selkirk’s preferred modus operandi, Barnard wondered? Lulling the opposition into a false sense of security, before striking, suddenly and ruthlessly?

  When Ching and Fung had cleared the table, Selkirk tapped on the rim of his glass. It was time to get down to business.

  ‘Melanie and I just want to say how much we appreciate the effort you guys have made to get here. I remember when Tony Blair flew out to the Whitsundays back in 1995. “Mickey, I need your support,” he said. “Your newspapers. Your TV. We can’t do it without you?” Well, I gave him that support. We pulled out all the stops. And the Labour Party won with the largest Labour majority ever.

  ‘So you don’t need to tell me why you’re here,’ Selkirk added. ‘But let me say one thing. I want to be perfectly clear about this. I can’t be bought, but I can possibly be persuaded.’

  They all laughed dutifully. When you come to see a king, you first pay homage. Listening to the fella, laughing at his jokes, even when they are shit-awful, is part of the deal.

  After that, they got down to business.

  Later that evening, sitting with his laptop on the patio outside his room – no mozzies, thank heavens – Barnard skyped Harriet Marshall.

  ‘Harriet, is that you? Look at the screen. I can only see the top of your head.’

  ‘I can’t see you at all. Turn the camera on.’

  When they had sorted out the technicalities, Barnard explained, ‘We’ve done the deal. Nothing in writing, of course. That’s not the way Selkirk works but it’s in the bag. Rosie Craig said she had the full authority of her father. If they win the election, they’ll rip up the regulator, the FCC, the Federal Communications Commission. If they don’t abolish it, they’ll bring it to heel. Appoint a new commissioner. And as far as Russia’s concerned, an incoming Craig administration will press President Popov to allow Selkirk Global to expand throughout the whole of the territory.’

  ‘Why would Popov agree to that?’ Harriet asked.

  Barnard leaned into the screen. He pressed his right forefinger to the side of his nose. ‘President Popov didn’t become one of the richest men in Russia just by sitting around scratching his bum.’

  ‘What about the UK?’ Harriet asked. ‘Did Selkirk have some specific “asks” there too?’

  ‘He certainly did. He wants a post-Brexit government in Britain to dismember the BBC. To break it up, like we broke up British Rail. He believes the tax-payer-funded Beeb totally distorts the market-place in Britain. He wants a level playing field as far as the media are concerned.’

  ‘And what did you say? Did you stick to the script we agreed?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t give him what he wanted. I told him that even a radical post-Brexit government in Britain couldn’t sacrifice a sacred cow like the BBC, not overnight anyway. But I did point out that the BBC’s Charter was up for renewal at the end of the year and that having a new Brexit-led government in power in Britain could make quite a difference.’

  ‘I like it.’ Harriet Marshall’s leering face was hugely distorted by the camera angle. ‘Did you fill in the details?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. Mickey Selkirk may be over eighty but he doesn’t miss a trick. He just said, “Good on ya, mate.” Then we shook hands on it.’

  Before turning in, Barnard Skyped his wife as well. He hadn’t spoken to Melissa for days.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  When Barnard told her that he was staying at Mickey Selkirk’s million-acre cattle station in the Kimberley, Western Australia, Melissa Barnard asked, ‘What about the mosquitos?’

  ‘The mozzies are fine. I’m sitting here on the terrace outside my room with the doors open.’

  They chatted on.

  ‘If you’re going to be jetting around the world for the next few days,’ Melissa said, ‘I think I’ll go to visit Fiona and Michael in Ireland. They’ve got such a lovely place there. So calming.’

  Fiona, their daughter, was a marine biologist. Her boyfriend – partner might be the better word, because they seemed quite seriously taken with each other – was a young Irish lawyer called Michael Kennedy, who specialized in Arctic environmental issues.

  ‘The Arctic’s done for, Mrs Barnard, unless we act now’, is what he’d told her on her last visit.

  ‘Yes, do go to Ireland,’ Barnard urged her. ‘God’s own country, isn’t it? Please give my love to Fiona and say hi to Michael too.’

  Melissa was about to disconnect, when she suddenly remembered something she had been meaning to say all along.

  ‘And, Edward, I was thinking about that that disgusting film. I knew all along the man on the bed wasn’t you.’

  ‘You told me that already,’ Barnard mildly reminded her. ‘You said I wouldn’t have been up for the rumpy pumpy, not that kind of rumpy pumpy anyway!’

  ‘Oh, Edward. Don’t take things so literally. You’re fine in that department, I promise you. Quite fine enough, anyway, so far as I’m concerned. No, there’s something else. Do you still have the film?’

  ‘No, I handed it in to MI5.’

  ‘Can you manage to contact them?’

  ‘I could try. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m thinking about the boxer shorts.’

  ‘I didn’t see any boxer shorts. The man who wasn’t me was stark bollock naked as far as I could see.’

  ‘ “The Man Who Wasn’t Me” could be the title of a film!’ Melissa wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Please get on with it.’

  Melissa managed to stifle her laughter before continuing. ‘Remember when the man who wasn’t you pulls the two blondes onto the bed, and one of them sucks his cock and I can’t remember what the other does . . . pees on him, I think. Well, just as all that’s going on, I’m pretty sure I glimpsed a pair of boxer shorts on the far side of the enormous bed, which the man had obviously taken off in his hurry to get cracking.’

  ‘And I don’t wear boxer shorts. Have I got that right?’

  ‘Well, you might wear boxer shorts on rare occasion,’ Melissa conceded. ‘But not these shorts. They were red, white and blue, sprinkled with silver stars, so they looked like the US flag!’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Barnard exclaimed. ‘You may just have said
something important, tremendously important. Ring up Jane Porter, head of MI5, on her private number. Tell her everything you’ve told me. They’ve got to check that film again.’

  Melissa Barnard was thrilled. Helping her husband out with his constituency work was one thing, but this was something else again.

  ‘What’s Jane Porter’s private number?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll text it to you,’ he said. ‘You never know who’s listening.’

  Sitting at her desk in the FSB’s Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow, Galina Aslanova, the tall, strikingly pretty, head of the Special Operations Unit, picked up the phone.

  ‘I need to see the Director at once,’ she said. ‘This is urgent.’

  Pavel Golov had been the director of the FSB – the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation – for the last five years. Galina Aslanova was one of his most important operatives. As soon as he heard that Galina wanted to see him urgently, he switched off the television where he had been watching Dynamo playing Spartak (he didn’t normally watch TV at work but this was an historic clash).

  ‘Send her in, please.’

  Galina had recorded both of Barnard’s recent Skyped conversations and she brought the flash-drive with her.

  ‘Probably best if we see it on the wide screen, Director,’ Galina suggested.

  When the first tape ended, which showed Barnard reporting to Harriet Marshall, Golov was enthusiastic in his praise.

  ‘Superb! So it’s all going to plan?’

  Galina Aslanova agreed. ‘You are right, Director. We are quite confident that, as soon as we give the signal, Selkirk Global will – as requested – unleash a mighty barrage of news and comment.’

  Golov gazed at Galina with undisguised lust.

  ‘Please call me Pavel.’ He wondered how long it might be before he could get her into bed.

  ‘Let’s look at the second tape, the one where Barnard talks to his wife,’ Galina continued.