Heads You Win Read online

  This time the hear, hears were loud, and not in jest.

  Sasha rose again. “If the right honorable gentleman would be kind enough to bring to my attention any particular examples he has in mind, be assured I will look into them. However, members of the House may be interested to know that Mr. Boris Nemtsov, a former vice premier of Russia, is sitting in the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, and I’m sure he will have heard the honorable gentleman’s question.”

  Sasha glanced up at the gallery and smiled at his friend, who seemed amused by his moment of notoriety.

  When questions to the Foreign Secretary came to an end and the Speaker called for the business of the day, Sasha quickly left the chamber and made his way to the Central Lobby, where he had arranged to meet up with Nemtsov.

  “Welcome to Westminster, Boris,” he said as he shook his guest warmly by the hand.

  “Thank you,” said Nemtsov. “I was delighted to see you more than holding your own against the rabble. Although I have to agree that our record on human rights does not bear close scrutiny, and it will give me a great deal of pleasure to tell my colleagues back home that I heard the subject raised in the British House of Commons.”

  “Do you have time to join me for tea on the terrace?” asked Sasha, reverting to his native tongue.

  “I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” said Nemtsov. Sasha led his guest down the green-carpeted staircase and out onto the terrace, where they sat at a table overlooking the Thames.

  “So what brings you to London,” asked Sasha as a waiter appeared by their side. “Just tea for two, thank you.”

  “Officially I’m here to visit the Lord Mayor of London to discuss environmental issues affecting overpopulated cities, but my main purpose is to see you, and bring you up to date on what’s happening on the political front back home.”

  Sasha sat back and listened attentively.

  “As you know, the presidential election is due to be held in a year’s time.”

  “Not long before the next general election in Britain,” said Sasha.

  The waiter returned and placed a tray of tea and biscuits on the table.

  “Yeltsin has already announced that he won’t be fighting the next election, possibly influenced by his current approval rating, which, according to the opinion polls, is languishing around four percent.”

  “That’s quite difficult to achieve,” said Sasha, pouring them both a cup of tea.

  “Not if you wake up every morning with a hangover, and are drunk again before lunchtime.”

  “Does Yeltsin have an anointed successor?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But even if he did, it would be the kiss of death. No, the only name in the field at the moment is Gennady Zyuganov, the Communist Party leader, and most people accept that it would be a disaster if we were to return to the past, although the possibility can’t be dismissed. Frankly, Sasha, you may never get a better chance to become our next president.”

  “But perhaps my approval ratings would also be around four percent.”

  “I’m glad you raised that,” said Nemtsov, taking a slip of paper from an inside pocket, “because we’ve conducted some private polling, which showed you are currently on fourteen percent. However, twenty-six percent didn’t even recognize your name, and thirty-one percent haven’t made up their minds yet. So we were encouraged. If you were to come to Saint Petersburg and officially announce your intention to stand, I have no doubt those figures would change overnight.”

  “I admit I’m torn,” said Sasha. “Only last week The Times said in a leader that if Labour were to win the next election, which looks highly likely, I could well be the next Foreign Secretary.”

  “And after hearing your performance in the House this afternoon, and your grasp of so many subjects, frankly I’m not surprised. However, I would suggest that president of Russia is a far bigger prize for someone who was born and raised in Saint Petersburg.”

  “I agree with you,” whispered Sasha, “but I can’t afford to let my colleagues know that. Besides, I’d need to be convinced that I have a realistic chance of success before I’d be willing to give up everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Nemtsov, “but we won’t really be able to evaluate your chances until we know who your main rival is.”

  “But you were the vice premier,” said Sasha, “why don’t you stand?”

  “Because my poll ratings aren’t much better than Yeltsin’s. However, with my backing, I’m convinced you can win.”

  “It’s good of you to say so. But Vladimir could still prove a problem. After all, he was deputy mayor of Saint Petersburg, and won’t like the idea of me standing for president.”

  “You needn’t worry about Vladimir. He left Saint Petersburg only minutes before he would have been arrested for embezzlement of public funds. He disappeared off to Moscow and was last sighted in the Kremlin.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Rumor has it that he’s working closely with Yeltsin, but no one’s quite sure in what capacity.”

  “Vladimir’s only interested in one thing, and that’s becoming director of the FSB.”

  “Who did they think they were kidding when they abolished the KGB and it reemerged later as the Federal Security Service? The same bunch of thugs doing the same job, even in the same building,” Nemtsov mused. “But if Vladimir was to pull that off, you would be wise not to make an enemy of him. In fact if he was on your side, it might even help your cause.”

  “But if he was on my side,” said Sasha, “it could only harm my cause. I couldn’t hope to achieve anything worthwhile with him continually looking over my shoulder. In fact the very changes I would want to make as president, he would be vehemently opposed to.”

  “But in politics,” said Nemtsov, “you occasionally have to compromise—”

  “Compromise is for those who have no courage, no morals, and no principles.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, Sasha, that you’re the right man for the job, but first we have to get you elected.”

  “I’m sorry to be so negative, but I wouldn’t want to become president only to find that someone else was pulling the strings.”

  “I understand. But once you get the job you can cut those strings. Remember, there is no power without office.”

  “Of course you’re right,” said Sasha. “And I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made my decision.”

  “Do you have any idea when that might be?”

  “It won’t be much longer, Boris. But there are one or two people I still have to consult before I can make a final decision.”

  “Surely your mother must be pressing you to stand? After all, your father certainly would have wanted you to be president.”

  “She’s the only one in the family who’s one hundred percent against the idea,” said Sasha. “She’s a great believer in a ‘bird in the hand’…”

  “I don’t know the expression,” said Nemtsov. “And what about your wife?”

  “Charlie’s sitting on the fence.”

  “Now that’s an expression every politician in the world is familiar with.”

  Sasha laughed. “But she would back me if she felt I really wanted the job, and believed I could win.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “Natasha’s only interest at the moment is someone called Brad Pitt.”

  “An aspiring politician?”

  “No, an American actor who Natasha is convinced would fall in love with her, if only they could meet. And she doesn’t understand why a foreign office minister can’t arrange it. Just how important are you, Dad? she keeps asking.”

  Nemtsov laughed. “It’s no different in our home. My son wants to be a drummer in a local jazz band, and has absolutely no interest in going to university.”

  Big Ben struck four times in the background.

  “I’d better get back and join my colleagues,” said Nemtsov, “before they work out why