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  Dick returned to the hotel that morning after his final meeting with the minister, having seen him every day for the past week, sometimes publicly, more often privately. It was no different when Chenkov visited London. Neither man trusted the other, but then Dick never felt at ease with anyone who was willing to take a bribe because there was always someone else happy to offer him another percentage point. However, Dick felt more confident this time, as both of them seemed to have signed up for the same retirement policy.

  Dick also helped to cement the relationship with a few added extras that Chenkov quickly became accustomed to. A Rolls-Royce would always pick him up at Heathrow and drive him to the Savoy Hotel. On arrival, he would be shown to his usual riverside suite, and women appeared every evening as regularly as the morning papers. He preferred two of both, one broadsheet, one tabloid.

  When Dick checked out of the St Petersburg hotel half an hour later, the minister’s BMW was parked outside the front door waiting to take him to the airport. As he climbed into the back seat, he was surprised to find Chenkov waiting for him. They had parted after their morning meeting just an hour before.

  ‘Is there a problem, Anatol?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Chenkov. ‘I have just had a call from the Kremlin which I didn’t feel we should discuss over the phone, or even in my office. The President will be visiting St Petersburg on the sixteenth of May and has made it clear that he wishes to preside over the signing ceremony.’

  ‘But that gives us less than three weeks to complete the contract,’ said Dick.

  ‘You assured me at our meeting this morning,’ Chenkov reminded him, ‘that there were only a few is to dot and ts to cross – an expression I’d not come across before – before you’d be able to finalize the contract.’ The minister paused and lit his first cigar of the day before adding, ‘With that in mind, my dear friend, I look forward to seeing you back in St Petersburg in three weeks’ time.’ Chenkov’s statement sounded casual, whereas, in truth, it had taken almost three years for the two men to reach this stage, and now it would only be another three weeks before the deal was finally sealed.

  Dick didn’t respond as he was already thinking about what needed to be done the moment his plane touched down at Heathrow.

  ‘What’s the first thing you’ll do after the deal has been signed?’ asked Chenkov, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Put in a tender for the sanitation contract in this city, because whoever gets it would surely make an even larger fortune.’

  The minister looked round sharply. ‘Never raise that subject in public,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s a very sensitive issue.’

  Dick remained silent.

  ‘And take my advice, don’t drink the water. Last year we lost countless numbers of our citizens who contracted . . .’ the minister hesitated, unwilling to add credence to a story that had been splashed across the front pages of every Western paper.

  ‘How many is countless?’ enquired Dick.

  ‘None,’ replied the minister. ‘Or at least that’s the official statistic released by the Ministry of Tourism,’ he added as the car came to a halt on a double red line outside the entrance of Pulkovo II airport. He leant forward. ‘Karl, take Mr Barnsley’s bags to check-in, while I wait here.’

  Dick leant across and shook hands with the minister for the second time that morning. ‘Thank you, Anatol, for everything,’ he said. ‘See you in three weeks’ time.’

  ‘Long life and happiness, my friend,’ said Chenkov as Dick stepped out of the car.

  Dick checked in at the departure desk an hour before boarding was scheduled for his flight to London.

  ‘This is the last call for Flight 902 to London Heathrow,’ came crackling over the tannoy.

  ‘Is there another flight going to London right now?’ asked Dick.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the man behind the check-in desk. ‘Flight 902 has been delayed, but they’re just about to close the gate.’

  ‘Can you get me on it?’ asked Dick, as he slid a thousand-rouble note across the counter.

  Dick’s plane touched down at Heathrow three and a half hours later. Once he’d retrieved his case from the carousel, he pushed his trolley through the Nothing to Declare channel and emerged into the arrivals hall.

  Stan, his driver, was already waiting among a group of chauffeurs, most of whom were holding up name cards. As soon as Stan spotted his boss, he walked quickly across and relieved him of his suitcase and overnight bag.

  ‘Home or the office?’ Stan asked as they walked towards the short-stay carpark.

  Dick checked his watch: just after four. ‘Home,’ he said. ‘I’ll work in the back of the car.’

  Once Dick’s Jaguar had emerged from the carpark to begin the journey to Virginia Water, Dick immediately called his office.

  ‘Richard Barnsley’s office,’ said a voice.

  ‘Hi, Jill, it’s me. I managed to catch an earlier flight, and I’m on my way home. Is there anything I should be worrying about?’

  ‘No, everything’s running smoothly this end,’ Jill replied. ‘We’re all just waiting to find out how things went in St Petersburg.’

  ‘Couldn’t have gone better. The minister wants me back on May sixteenth to sign the contract.’

  ‘But that’s less than three weeks away.’

  ‘Which means we’ll all have to get a move on. So set up a board meeting for early next week, and then make an appointment for me to see Sam Cohen first thing tomorrow morning. I can’t afford any slip-ups at this stage.’

  ‘Can I come to St Petersburg with you?’

  ‘Not this time, Jill, but once the contract has been signed block out ten days in the diary. Then I’ll take you somewhere a little warmer than St Petersburg.’

  Dick sat silently in the back of the car, going over everything that needed to be covered before he returned to St Petersburg. By the time Stan drove through the wrought-iron gates and came to a halt outside the neo-Georgian mansion, Dick knew what had to be done. He jumped out of the car and ran into the house. He left Stan to unload the bags, and his housekeeper to unpack them. Dick was surprised not to find his wife standing on the top step, waiting to greet him, but then he remembered that he’d caught an earlier flight, and Maureen wouldn’t be expecting him back for at least another couple of hours.

  Dick ran upstairs to his bedroom, and quickly stripped off his clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, allowing the warm jets of water to slowly remove the grime of St Petersburg and Aeroflot.

  After he’d put on some casual clothes, Dick checked his appearance in the mirror. At fifty-three, his hair was turning prematurely grey, and although he tried to hold his stomach in, he knew he ought to lose a few pounds, just a couple of notches on his belt – once the deal was signed and he had a little more time, he promised himself.

  He left the bedroom and went down to the kitchen. He asked the cook to prepare him a salad, and then strolled into the drawing room, picked up The Times, and glanced at the headlines. A new leader of the Tory Party, a new leader of the Liberal Democrats, and now Gordon Brown had been elected leader of the Labour Party. None of the major political parties would be fighting the next election under the same leader.

  Dick looked up when the phone began to ring. He walked across to his wife’s writing desk and picked up the receiver, to hear Jill’s voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘The board meeting is fixed for next Thursday at ten o’clock, and I’ve also arranged for you to see Sam Cohen in his office at eight tomorrow morning.’ Dick removed a pen from an inside pocket of his blazer. ‘I’ve emailed every member of the board to warn them that it’s a priority,’ she added.

  ‘What time did you say my meeting was with Sam?’

  ‘Eight o’clock at his office. He has to be in court by ten for another client.’

  ‘Fine.’ Dick opened his wife’s drawer and grabbed the first piece of paper a