Kompromat Read online

  ‘Well, who is he then anyway?’ Barnard persisted. ‘I know who was in the penthouse at the Kempinski that evening.’

  Mark Cooper raised a warning hand.

  ‘I think we had better leave that question for the time being.’

  The meeting went on for another hour. These were Britain’s top security officials. They couldn’t afford to leave stones unturned or avenues unexplored.

  Eventually Mark Cooper summed things up. ‘We need to consider how the Chinese acquired that tape. If the tape was made by the Russians officially, as it were, say by the KGB/FSB, then why would they have passed it to the Chinese? Why would they help the Chinese discredit our friend, Edward Barnard, when Edward’s actions, namely to help the Leave campaign, appear to be in Russia’s interest? Isn’t it more probable that the Chinese spy network in Russia – and that is a very substantial network indeed – got hold of the tapes from some freelance source and then spliced it all together with a view to persuading Barnard here to jump ship of his own accord and ditch the Leave campaign? Which by any reckoning could be a fatal blow for that campaign and very good news for China. So they try a little gentle persuasion instead. Does that make sense? It does to me.’

  Barnard had had enough. They could speculate as much as they liked. It wouldn’t make any difference. Whatever the Chinese thought they might be doing by making that tape, they had picked the wrong man.

  If he had been sure, when he was talking to Minister Zhang in Xian that he was on the right path, he was doubly sure now. A line from Shakespeare came to mind. Macbeth, surely? ‘Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going.’

  Good old Shakespeare, he thought, as he picked up his notes, you could always rely on the Bard for a pertinent quote.

  Mark Cooper walked out with him.

  ‘We’re taking another look at the Kempinski,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to track down those two Russian women. Whatever they put in your drink could have been very dangerous. Glad it wasn’t polonium, anyway.’ Cooper put out his hand. ‘By the way, I wanted to tell you we haven’t made much progress with that other file you brought back. The home secretary’s rather sitting on it. Some of the emails to and from Number 10 seem to be genuine, not fakes, as we supposed. We’ve got a bit more digging to do.’

  ‘Dig away,’ Barnard urged. ‘But please let me know when and if you turn something up.’

  ‘Your car’s waiting for you in the underground car park,’ Cooper said. ‘We can’t have you leaving through the front door. The opposition keeps very close tabs on the comings and goings here.’

  ‘And who’s the opposition in this particular case?’

  ‘Good question. We’re still trying to work that one out.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bud Hollingsworth leaned back in his upholstered chair in the director’s private viewing-room in CIA in Langley, Virginia, with the remote control unit in his hand.

  ‘All set?’ he inquired.

  Wilbur Brown, director of the FBI, who had driven out to Langley earlier that afternoon for a meeting with his counterpart, nodded. ‘Good to go,’ he said.

  Hollingsworth pressed the button on the remote.

  ‘I won’t tell you how we acquired the footage we are about to see. I’ll just say that the FSB is a bit more porous than its predecessor, the KGB, used to be.’

  Wilbur Brown nodded. If Hollingsworth wanted to protect his sources, he had no problem with that. In spite of all the changes in the organization of US security in recent years, the broad lines of demarcation between the CIA and the FBI remained fairly clear. The CIA concentrated on gathering, analysing and reporting on intelligence from abroad; the FBI devoted itself to counter-intelligence, notably the threats arising on home turf. So how the CIA went about its job in, say, the Russian Far East was, as far as Wilbur Brown understood the ground rules, their job, not his.

  The first couple of minutes of the film showed the Russian president Igor Popov’s helicopter landing in a cleared area in the forest. The next shots showed Popov in combat gear moving through the trees.

  ‘The Russians call this the “taiga” or boreal forest,’ Hollingsworth explained. ‘Mile upon mile of pine, spruce, larch and birch. You can see Ronald Craig walking fairly closely behind Popov. Behind Craig, there’s that Brit, I believe his name’s Barnard. Ed Barnard, or something like that.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about Barnard,’ Wilbur Brown said. ‘Used to be environment minister in the UK government. Met up with both Popov and Craig at Popov’s World Tiger Summit. Then they all went off to the Russian Far East to try to see the Amur tigers in the wild. We’re not sure quite what Barnard’s relationship with the Russians is. Some kind of “useful idiot” I suspect. We’re looking into that. So is MI5, I hear.’

  The images ran on. ‘Who’s that coming after Barnard?’ Wilbur Brown asked. ‘Is that Ron Craig’s daughter, Rosie? Good-looking girl, eh? And who’s that with her? That’s not Jack Varese, for God’s sake, is it? What’s he doing out there?’

  As they watched the screen, they saw the tiger coming down the path towards the presidential party. Shouting and confusion ensued. The microphone clearly picked up Popov’s command. ‘Don’t shoot.’

  It also picked up Ronald Craig’s anguished yell: ‘What the fu—!’

  ‘I’m going to play that again in slow motion,’ Hollingsworth said. ‘Keep an eye on Popov. What do you see?’

  Hollingsworth ran the tape again. When it had finished, the Director of the FBI gave a long, low whistle.

  ‘Popov didn’t aim at the tiger at all, did he? He picks up his gun, points it at the tiger, then as the tiger runs off into the forest, he quickly turns, aims and shoots the dart into Ron Craig’s backside. Dead shot! Bullseye! Don’t tell me that was an accident?’

  ‘It didn’t look much like an accident to me,’ Hollingsworth agreed.

  Hollingsworth paused the tape, freezing the frame. A ranger knelt beside the prostrate form of Ronald Craig. Next to him stood President Popov with a yellow vial in his hand.

  Hollingsworth picked up the phone. Minutes later, a tall grey-faced man with thinning hair joined them.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, John. We need some technical advice here.’

  John Hulley, one of the CIA’s top boffins, nodded. ‘Happy to oblige.’

  The CIA director ran the film again. When it was over, he asked Hulley a simple question. ‘John, you technical people are always talking about the advances in surveillance techniques. Recording devices no thicker than a human hair. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But, yes, the new bugging devices are very small indeed. They can be recharged through solar radiation. Look at what they’re doing with wildlife monitoring nowadays. Once you’ve tagged them, you can track high-flying birds, like the Canada geese or Berwick swans, literally for years. The higher they fly, the more solar energy that little transmitter absorbs.’

  ‘Okay, fine, I’ve got it,’ Hollingsworth said. ‘But what I want to know is whether you could use a tranquillizing dart to insert one of these new, highly miniaturized transmitters into a human target.’

  Jim Hulley thought for a long moment. ‘I’d say it would depend what part of the body you were aiming at? The needle needs to go in at least five millimetres. Okay, the buttocks are a promising target. That’s why we inject people in the ass. Plenty of flesh for a needle to sink into. But frankly, I’d say that would have been a lucky shot indeed. Remember, the dart Popov fired would have had to carry the narcoleptic dose, enough to render the target insensible for the desired period of time, as well as the bugging device.’

  They mulled it over for a while.

  ‘What about the hospital in Khabarovsk?’ Wilbur Brown had a sudden thought. ‘As I understand it, they took Craig into the hospital after the incident. If they put him under again there, or even gave him a local anaesthetic when they were tending the wound from the dart, they could have planted the bug, couldn’t the
y?’

  Hulley nodded. ‘Now you’re talking.’

  It took a while for the full implications to sink in. At last Hollingsworth spoke. ‘If that device is working, then any time Craig goes anywhere or sees anyone, the Russians could be listening in. Is that right?’

  Two days later, President Brandon Matlock sat in the Oval Office waiting for the attorney general to arrive. Normally, the White House legal officers would have drafted some language, having cleared it around town through the normal channels. But these weren’t normal times.

  In any case, as far as President Matlock was concerned, it wasn’t just a question of keeping down the number of people who knew what was going on because of security issues. There was an element of retribution involved too. He could never forget that Craig had been the moving spirit behind the ‘birthers’: that group of bitter and twisted individuals who argued that Matlock hadn’t been born in the US and therefore was not eligible, under the Constitution, to be president.

  Determined to produce an absolute zinger of an executive order, elegantly drafted as well as legally watertight, the president had called in Joe Silcock. Silcock, an African-American who in his time had graduated top of Harvard Law School and was now the youngest attorney general since Bobby Kennedy, was generally thought to be one of the smartest lawyers in town.

  ‘Let’s get some good language here, Joe, shall we?’ the president said. ‘What about something along the lines of, “The President of the United States hereby desires and commands Ronald C. Craig to attend forthwith the Walter Reed Army Centre in Bethesda, Maryland, with a view to submitting his . . .” ’ The president paused. ‘What’s the Latin term for “posterior”?’

  ‘ “Posterior” is the Latin term.’

  ‘Well, try something else. What about “gluteus maximus”?’

  ‘The “gluteus maximus” is in the buttocks, I believe. Actually, there are two of them, one on each side. I believe Mr Craig was darted on the left side.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to bring them both in, won’t he? Would that be “glutei maximi”?’

  ‘Why not just put “backside” or even “ass”?’

  ‘You mean as in, “Just get your ass over to Walter Reed”?’

  Even though his term still had a few months to run, Silcock could sense that President Matlock was already demob-happy.

  ‘That will do fine, I’m sure,’ he said.

  The president signed the executive order with a flourish. He handed the pen to the Attorney General.

  ‘Probably the last executive order I’ll sign. Hang on to the pen. It might be worth something one day.’

  When Silcock had gone, President Matlock picked up the phone. ‘Could you get hold of Wilbur Brown, please, at the FBI? Ask him to step over here if he has a moment.’

  When Brown arrived, the president said, ‘I’ve signed the executive order. Walter Reed is on standby. You’ll do the necessary, won’t you?’

  Brown replied simply, ‘The FBI’s mission is to protect the American people and uphold the Constitution of the United States.’

  Years ago, President Matlock recalled, US President Richard Nixon – about to resign his great office in disgrace – had asked the then secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, to pray with him in this very room. What a lot of history the place had seen. He hoped he wouldn’t leave with a cloud over his head. But what would happen to his legacy, he wondered?

  He stood up from his desk and walked over to the window to look out at the rose garden. ‘I’m going, Wilbur, but people like you must carry on the good work.’

  ‘We will, sir.’ Wilbur Brown, seventh director of the FBI, felt strangely moved. ‘We will carry on the good work. Till hell freezes over. Whatever it takes.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Craig had reached Barnard by phone earlier in the week. ‘Come over for my speech in Fort Lauderdale,’ Craig had urged him. ‘I’m sure you need a break and I could use your help.’

  Barnard had checked it out with Harriet Marshall. Nowadays, he didn’t move without Harriet’s say-so. He, Barnard, was officially chairman of the Leave campaign but Barnard was under no illusions as to where the power truly lay. It lay with Harriet. No doubt about that. Sometimes he murmured ‘Take back control’ when Marshall laid down the law – who was to do what and when – but he never kicked up a fuss. When you had a political genius on your side, you didn’t quibble.

  Harriet Marshall had been totally enthusiastic about the proposed trip to Florida.

  ‘Genius!’ she exclaimed. ‘Just what we need. A bit of international exposure just at the right time. Make sure Craig mentions Brexit in his speech.’

  Barnard needn’t have had any worries on that score.

  Less than three hours after landing in Florida he watched Ronald Craig, the presumptive Republican presidential candidate, come to the podium in front of the cheering, flag-waving, trumpet-parping crowds in the Fort Lauderdale stadium.

  Craig’s rhetorical style, consisting of short, declaratory sentences, was precisely what his audience was looking for.

  ‘Thank you. I am so thrilled to be in Fort Lauderdale today,’ Craig began. ‘Florida is my second home. This is such an amazing state, and filled with so many incredible people.

  ‘We are all going to have to work hard together to win the White House on November 8th. Our victory on November 8th will be a victory for the people.

  ‘It won’t be a victory for the pundits, the special interests, the failed politicians. It will be a victory for YOU – for your family, for your country.

  ‘It will be a victory for jobs. For security. For prosperity. It will be a victory for American Independence.

  ‘We will reject the failures of the past and create a New American Future where every child – African-American, Hispanic, and all children – can live out their dreams.

  ‘We will bring back our jobs.

  ‘Rebuild our depleted military.

  ‘Take care of our veterans.

  ‘Unleash American energy.

  ‘Restore law and order.

  ‘And we will make government honest once again.’

  Towards the end of his speech, Craig turned to Barnard, sitting on the dais behind the lectern:

  ‘Come up here, Ed,’ Craig commanded. Then, lowering his voice as though imparting some confidential information, he added, ‘This is the man who’s helping to set Britain free. He has started this incredible movement. You’re all part of this movement. This movement that we talk about so much. That’s been written about on the cover of every magazine all over the world. It’s a movement that is just sweeping. It’s sweeping across our country. It’s sweeping frankly across the globe.’

  Craig strode over and hoisted Barnard’s arm into the air.

  For the moment the two of them stood there, arms held high, like the golden arches of McDonalds, as the crowd went wild.

  ‘Let’s hear it for Britain!’ Craig trumpeted. ‘Let’s hear it for Ed Barnard and all who are working with him! They’re doing it over there. We can do it over here! Look at Brexit! Much smaller example, but it’s still something you can look at. People want to take back control of their countries and they want to take back control of their lives and the lives of their family.’

  When Ronald Craig said that Florida was his second home, he hadn’t been exaggerating. He truly loved the enormous jazz-age mansion, set in its own fifteen acres of land on the narrow strip of land between the Atlantic Ocean and Worth Lake. He had owned it for the last thirty years as part of the Craig empire. Most of the property was now part of the Hasta La Vista private club, with 128 luxurious bedrooms, though Ronald Craig and his family still had their exclusive family quarters.

  They had a late candlelit supper after the rally, looking out over the ocean. Malvina Craig, Ronald’s wife, sat – suavely beautiful – at one end of the table. Craig himself sat at the other end, with daughter Rosie on his right, and Barnard on his left.

  ‘So good to see you again,
Ed!’ Craig gushed. ‘That expedition to Russia’s Far East was some trip, wasn’t it? We got to see a tiger too. You know my backside’s still sore. Godammit, I thought Popov was meant to be a crack shot and he ends up by shooting me in the ass! How’s the Brexit campaign going, Ed? Are you on course for victory?’

  Barnard saw no point in pretending things were better than they were. ‘We’re not there yet,’ he confessed. ‘The government’s committed itself to Project Fear. The prime minister and the chancellor of the exchequer are stressing the downside if we leave. And we’re not getting the groundswell of support we need. Not yet anyway. I think we’ve got to raise our game, otherwise we’re going to be crushed on June 23rd – that’s our Referendum day.’

  ‘Don’t for a moment think we’ve got it in the bag either on this side of the ocean,’ Craig countered ‘We’ve got a long way to go too. I may win the nomination, but I still need to win the election. Never underestimate Caroline Mann. She’s tricky as hell. Did you know the FBI has 30,000 of her unauthorized emails? God knows what she was up to. But are they releasing them? Are they hell? They’re terrified that releasing the emails will damage her chances. And the press! Vipers, turncoats, hypocrites. Fake news, that’s all they’re good for. Lock them up, I say. Lock them all up!’

  As Ronald Craig worked himself up into a lather of righteous indignation, a uniformed butler entered the room. ‘Please forgive me interrupting, Mr Craig. There’s a posse of federal marshals here.’

  ‘What the devil’s going on?’ Ronald Craig tossed his napkin onto the table and strode to the door.

  The two federal marshals waiting outside the door greeted him politely.

  Craig recognized both of them at once. If you were a politician, you made a point of getting to know the local gendarmerie. ‘Pedro, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake, what’s all this about?’

  Pedro Gonzales was more than a little anxious. He’d had a run-in or two with Ronald Craig in the past and had not come off best. He certainly didn’t want to piss the man off. He might be president one day. He turned to the man at his side, Jimmy Redmond.