Heads You Win Read online

  Robin Cook, the Shadow Foreign Secretary, was calling for an ethical foreign policy, and told Sasha that he expected him to keep reminding his Russian counterparts that their country’s newfound wealth should be distributed among the people, and not handed out to a group of undeserving oligarchs, many of whom had not only taken up residence in Mayfair, but weren’t paying any tax.

  Sasha told Cook privately that not only did he agree with those sentiments, but he had even given some thought to returning to his homeland and contesting the next presidential election if things didn’t improve. Although he had been delighted to see the end of Communism, he didn’t much care for what had replaced it.

  Getting any reliable information out of Russia was never easy at the best of times, but Sasha had become a close friend of Boris Nemtsov, who was now a junior minister in the Duma, as well as developing a close circle of friends among the younger diplomats at the embassy. They met regularly at official gatherings, conferences, and parties at other embassies, and Sasha quickly discovered that one young second secretary, Ilya Resinev, was even willing to pass on information from his uncle.

  When President Gorbachev was replaced by Yeltsin, Ilya let Sasha know that his old school friend Vladimir was among the new president’s inner circle, and was expecting to be promoted. Vladimir had recently resigned as a colonel when the KGB was dissolved, and thrown in his lot with his old university professor Anatoly Sobchak, who had become the first democratically elected mayor of Saint Petersburg. Vladimir was among his early appointments as head of the city’s foreign and economic relations committee. Ilya told Sasha that no oil or gas deal in the province could be closed without Vladimir’s approval, although he rarely put his signature to the final document, and no one seemed surprised when he moved house three times in three years, always into an ever grander establishment, despite being on a government salary.

  Ilya warned Sasha that if Sobchak was reelected, there would be no prizes for guessing who would be his successor as the next mayor of Saint Petersburg. “And after that, who knows where Vladimir would end up?”

  Sasha stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the delivery room, but the doors remained stubbornly closed. His mind drifted back to Russia, and his upcoming meeting with Boris Nemtsov, who, as a rising minister was planning to visit London in the autumn, when he would bring Sasha up to date as to whether it was at all credible for him to consider standing as president. Yeltsin had disappointed even his most ardent supporters, who felt he lacked the reforming zeal they had been looking for. And too many world leaders were complaining in private that they couldn’t hold a meeting with the Russian president after four o’clock in the afternoon. By then, he was no longer coherent in any language. During a recent stopover in Dublin, Yeltsin hadn’t even been able to get off the plane, leaving the Irish Taoiseach standing on the runway waiting in vain to greet him.

  Sasha checked his watch for the umpteenth time, and could only wonder what was going on behind those closed doors, when suddenly they swung open, and Dr. Radley, still in his scrubs, stepped out into the corridor. Sasha walked eagerly toward him, but when the doctor removed his mask, he didn’t need to be told that he would never have a son.

  * * *

  Sasha wondered if he would ever come to terms with Konstantin’s death. He had held the baby in his arms for a few moments before they took him away.

  His colleagues in the Commons couldn’t have been more understanding and sympathetic. But even they began to wonder if Sasha had lost his appetite for politics after he missed several three-line whips, and on a couple of occasions failed to turn up for his front-bench duties.

  The leader of the opposition had a word with the Shadow Foreign Secretary, and they agreed to say nothing until the House returned in the autumn following the long summer recess.

  Elena suggested that what they both needed was a holiday, and as far away from Westminster as possible.

  “Why not visit Rome, Florence, and Milan,” suggested Gino, “where you can indulge yourself in the finest opera houses, art galleries, and restaurants on earth. Pavarotti and Bernini, accompanied by endless pasta and Sicilian red. What more could anyone ask for?”

  “New York, New York,” suggested another Italian from their car radio. Charlie and Sasha decided to take Sinatra’s advice.

  “But what shall we do about Natasha?”

  “She can’t wait to get rid of you,” Elena assured them. “In any case, she was hoping to join her school friends on a trip to Edinburgh to see Kiki Dee.”

  “Then that’s settled.”

  * * *

  Sasha set about planning a holiday Charlie would never forget. They would spend five days on the QE2, and on arrival in New York, take a suite at the Plaza. They would visit the Metropolitan, MoMA, and the Frick, and he even managed to get tickets for Liza Minnelli, who was performing at Carnegie Hall.

  “And then we’ll fly home on Concorde.”

  “You’ll bankrupt us,” said Charlie.

  “Don’t worry, the Conservatives haven’t yet brought back debtors’ prisons.”

  “It will probably be in their next party manifesto,” suggested Charlie.

  The five-day voyage on the QE2 was idyllic, and they made several new friends, one or two who thought the Labour Party might even win the next election. Every morning began with a session in the gym, but they still both managed to put on a pound a day. On the final morning they rose before the sun and stood out on deck to be welcomed by the Statue of Liberty, while the skyscrapers of the Manhattan skyline grew taller by the minute.

  Once they’d checked into their hotel—Charlie had talked him out of the presidential suite in favor of a double room several floors below—they didn’t waste a minute.

  The Metropolitan Museum entranced Charlie with its breadth of works from so many cultures. From Byzantine Greece, to Italy’s Caravaggio, to the Dutch masters, Rembrandt and Vermeer, while the French Impressionists demanded a second visit. The Museum of Modern Art also delighted her and surprised Sasha, who couldn’t always tell the difference between Picasso and Braque during their cubist period. But it was the Frick that became their second home, with Bellini, Holbein, and Mary Cassatt to draw them back again and again. And Liza Minnelli had them standing on their feet crying “Encore!” after she sang “Maybe This Time.”

  “What shall we do on our last day?” asked Sasha as they enjoyed a late breakfast in the garden room.

  “Let’s go window-shopping.”

  “Why don’t we stroll into Tiffany’s and buy everything in sight?”

  “Because we’ve already gone over our budget.”

  “I feel sure we’ve still got enough to buy something for both grandmothers and Natasha.”

  “Then we’ll window-shop on Fifth Avenue, but buy everything from Macy’s.”

  “Compromise,” said Sasha, folding his newspaper. “Bloomingdale’s.”

  Charlie selected a pair of leather gloves for her mother, while Sasha chose a Swatch for Elena that she’d hinted about more than once. And such a reasonable price, she’d reminded him.

  “And Natasha?” asked Sasha.

  “A pair of these Levi’s. They’ll be the envy of her friends.”

  “But they’re faded and ripped before you even buy them,” said Sasha when he first saw them in a shop window.

  “And you claim to be a man of the people.”

  They were on their way back to the Plaza laden down with bags when Charlie stopped to admire a painting in a gallery window on Lexington Avenue. “That’s what I want,” she said, admiring the mesmerizing colors and brushwork.

  “Then you married the wrong man.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” said Charlie. “But I still intend to find out how much it’s going to cost you,” she added before going in.

  The walls of the gallery were crowded with abstract works, and Charlie was admiring a Jackson Pollock when an elderly gentleman approached her.

  “A magnific