Kompromat Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 THREE

  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.’

  Varese was sitting on the left, so Craig took the right-hand seat in the cockpit. He gazed out at white expanses below.

  ‘By God, look at that ice! Stretches as far as the eye can see, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not half as far as it used to,’ Varese replied. ‘The ice-free area is getting bigger and bigger.’

  Craig pricked up his ears. ‘Does that mean commercial ships will soon be able to use these waters year round? Heck, that could be terrific business, couldn’t it? You could run cargo from Europe to the Far East without going round Africa and half of Asia. What kind of time frame are we talking about? Roll on global warming! Let’s make it happen. I reckon there’s a deal to be made here. Did you ever read my book, Jack? The Real Deal. A bestseller in six continents, if you count Antarctica.’

  ‘I didn’t know penguins can read, Dad,’ Rosie piped up from her seat in the rear of the cockpit.

  ‘My kind of penguins can. Here, Rosie, you take my seat. I want to go finish my drink.’ He got up and Rosie joined Varese.

  ‘It’s hard to know whether to take your father seriously, isn’t it?’ Varese said after a short silence.

  ‘My father’s always serious,’ Rosie replied. ‘If he says he’s going to do something, he does it.’

  ‘Like doing a deal with the Russians to open up the Arctic with a spot more global warming?’

  ‘Never underestimate my Dad,’ Rosie said.

  Jack was intrigued. Rumour had it that Rosie Craig was one of the key assets in the vast Ron Craig business. Apparently, Craig listened to her as much as he listened to anyone, and whole sectors of Craig’s empire were under her direct control. The Craig name was blazoned on hotels and skyscrapers, and Rosie had a decisive say in the management. Ronald Craig’s media interests were large and constantly expanding as he purchased newspapers and TV stations around the world.

  The plane was flying on autopilot, and would continue so for the next few hours. There was a theory that planes actually flew better without human intervention. You had pilotless cars and so why not pilotless planes, Jack had thought to himself on more than one occasion.

  He took off his headphones and turned to the young woman sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. As the spring sunlight glinted through the window, highlighting the streaks in her expensively styled hair, and catching the shine of her lip gloss, he could only think to himself that, Christ, she was beautiful! The full lips, the swept-back blonde hair, the flawless, pure-marble skin. Something Slavic in the cheekbones surely?

  ‘Here, let me take the head-piece from you, Rosie. It’ll get in the way,’ he said.

  The cabin door behind them was shut. The Gulfstream 550 had a battery of mechanisms to bar unauthorized entry into the cockpit. You would have to literally break the door down to get in from the outside.

  Rosie Craig knew what was about to happen. She had known it all along. Was it destiny? Karma? Some mystic happening long preordained?

  She – and thousands of young women no doubt – had lusted after Jack Varese for years. None of them had got to within a stone’s throw of their target. Poor them. Lucky her! Here she was, daughter of one of the richest men in the world, alone, forty thousand feet in the air and right beside her was Jack Varese, probably the world’s most famous actor.

  It was a script made in heaven. ‘Are we allowed to do this, Jack?’

  ‘It’s my plane. I have control,’ Jack Varese said.

  With the plane on auto-pilot and the cabin door locked, he leaned over to kiss her. He had kissed enough women in his time but oddly enough he had never kissed one in the cockpit of his own plane flying high over Russia.

  Just at that moment, as though on cue, the cabin alarm rang. An automated voice said, ‘You are being followed by an unidentified aircraft.’

  Jack quickly sat up straight and put his headphones back on. Rosie did the same. The Gulfstream was fitted with cameras angled all around outside. Jack switched on the display in front of him.

  The automated voice said insistently, ‘Closing, closing.’

  Although all looked normal and he couldn’t see anything untoward, Jack Varese felt the first stirrings of alarm. What was happening?

  He switched on the intercom. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have quite a situation here. It appears that we are being followed by someone and that this someone is closing on us fairly fast.’

  He turned to face Rosie. ‘You need to return to your seat, but could you ask Terry to come up?’

  Terry was the co-pilot. However much Jack Varese liked flying the plane himself, it made a lot of sense to have a co-pilot on board, particularly on these long flights. As a matter of fact, having a co-pilot was probably a requirement of the US aviation authority, though he hadn’t checked this recently.

  Moments later Terry Caruthers slipped into the co-pilot seat. Jack Varese jabbed the screen in front of him with his finger.

  ‘Whatever plane that is, it’s about twenty miles behind us right now, but it’s going a lot faster than we are.’

  The blob on the screen was obvious.

  ‘Course seems to be precisely the same as ours, doesn’t it?’ Jack said. ‘Shall I push up the speed a bit?’

  ‘Why not?’ Caruthers drawled. ‘Seems like we have a race on our hands. This should be fun, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Mach 0.85?’

  ‘We can do better than that,’ Caruthers said.

  They felt the engine surge. The Gulfstream 550 could cruise comfortably at 600 miles or 0.8 Mach but the specifications clearly indicated that speeds right up to 0.9 Mach or around 700 mph were possible.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Jack Varese turned his head to the right a minute or so later. Flying alongside less than a hundred yards away was the sleek, dark Ilyushin Il-96 which he had noted earlier that day at St Petersburg Pulkovo airport.

  The other plane was close enough for him to see the pilot. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Varese exclaimed. ‘I think it’s Popov. What’s he playing at?’

  ‘When you’re president of Russia, you can break all the rules you like, I guess,’ Terry replied. ‘You make ’em, you break ’em!’

  Varese pressed the zoom switch. The huge grinning face of President Popov suddenly appeared on the screen in front of them.

  ‘You guys oughta get yourselves a faster plane,’ the president’s voice came over the intercom.

  Even though the two planes were still 200 yards apart, they could feel the shockwave of the Ilyushin’s afterburners.

  Varese grasped the joy-stick, disconnecting the autopilot. He eased back the throttle.

  This was a race he clearly wasn’t going to win.

  Speaking into the intercom, he said, ‘I think President Popov is having some fun with his latest toy, ladies and gentlemen. You had better make sure your seat belts are fastened. If our friend decides to take it up to Mach One, we’re likely to experience some buffeting.’

  And that exactly was what President Igor Popov d
id. The Ilyushin’s precise performance data were not described, not least in any publication that Jack Varese knew of. But it was perfectly obvious that breaking the sound barrier was well within its capabilities.

  Over the tannoy, they heard the president’s cheerful comment, ‘See you when you arrive. I’ll make sure the drinks are waiting!’

  Varese could imagine the president giving them a mock salute as he roared ahead and away from them.

  It took a while for buffeting to subside.

  Terry Caruthers, who had served ten years with the USAF before taking up a career as a civilian pilot, broke the silence. ‘There are people in Washington who will be quite intrigued to hear about what we saw today.’

  There was a knock on the door. Ron Craig poked his head into the cockpit.

  ‘You guys all right?’ he said cheerily. ‘That was quite something, wasn’t it?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was dark when they landed in Khabarovsk after the long flight from St Petersburg. A helicopter waited on the runway to transport them to the camp at the junction of the Amur and Ussuri Rivers.

  The accommodation was not luxurious, but the huts that had been built in a clearing in the forest were sturdy and clean.

  ‘This is a research facility, not a tourist site,’ the bearded official who greeted them had explained gruffly. ‘We are monitoring tiger movements. We also safeguard the tigers. We will leave tomorrow morning at 8:00a.m. Please have your breakfast first.’

  Someone banged on Barnard’s door as dawn was breaking.

  He dressed quickly. Thick trousers and a tough jacket. Strong boots. They might start off in vehicles, but if they were following tiger spore he reckoned they would probably spend most of the day on foot. At least the Russian taiga – those vast birch forests which covered so much the country out here in the Russian Far East – weren’t as thick and impenetrable as, say, some of the rainforests in the Congo or Southeast Asia.