Yasonov had gone to Oxford’s upper-class Christ Church College while Harriet had enrolled at brainier Balliol. But they had both been on the university chess team. Early on in their acquaintance, Yasonov had come to appreciate Harriet’s sheer intellectual brilliance. He was a highly competent chess player himself, but Harriet simply wiped the floor with him.
They had also both played a part in the affairs of the Oxford Union. Yuri Yasonov had been President of the Union in his last year at Oxford and Harriet Marshall had succeeded him. Though the outgoing President normally gets to select the motion to be debated at the Farewell Debate, Harriet had good-humouredly suggested to her friend that a suitable topic would be: ‘This House believes that the power of the Russian Federation has increased, is increasing and ought to be diminished’.
Yasonov had gamely agreed and had been delighted when the motion was resoundingly defeated.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Yasonov suggested.
They left the Rijksmuseum to stride along the canal. How beautiful Amsterdam was, Harriet thought, as the late evening sun caught the roofs of the tall buildings which lined each side of the waterway. They called it the ‘Venice of the North’ and they were not far wrong. She watched the sightseeing boats pass under the bridges, cameras at the ready. Instinctively she turned her head to one side. She didn’t want her face to appear, by accident or design, on someone’s Instagram account. Officially, she wasn’t in Amsterdam at all. She was taking a bit of time off in Wales, recharging her batteries before the big push. She certainly didn’t want to be photographed in the company of a senior FSB official, especially if the said official was chief of staff to the president of the Russian Federation.
They talked as they walked. As they approached the Stadhous, the City Hall, Yuri Yasonov said, ‘Our information is that the British government is throwing everything they have at this one. Jeremy Hartley, the prime minister, has really gone out on a limb. He’s convinced he’s brought back a winning package from Europe with the so-called “renegotiation”. And the chancellor, Tom Milbourne, is pushing Project Fear for all its worth.’
‘I don’t think it’s worth very much,’ Harriet countered. ‘Scare tactics by the Treasury. That’s how I see it.’
‘I’m afraid our people in the UK see things differently. Our ambassador sent in a report two days ago. He’s convinced the Leave campaign is going to lose. Frankly, Popov is rattled. I don’t often see him rattled but he is now. You’re one of us, otherwise I wouldn’t speak like this, but I’m telling you that as far as Popov’s key foreign policy objectives go, Brexit is top of the list.’
‘Ahead of Ronald Craig winning the US election?’ Harriet interjected.
‘I stand corrected. Let’s give both objectives equal billing.’
‘So what does Popov think we can do that we’re not already doing?’ Harriet was nettled. She’d been working her socks off.
Yasonov paused, picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water.
‘That was just a little splash,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a much bigger splash in prospect. President Popov is on his way to Berlin as I speak. Tomorrow he’s having informal meetings with the chancellor, then on Friday he is going to give a speech in the Bundestag at the invitation of the German government. I need hardly say that this is a great honour.’
‘And he’s going to make some key announcement in his speech, is that it?’ Harriet asked. ‘Something we can seize on, ammunition for our big guns as D-Day approaches?’
‘Helga Brun is the one who is going to make the big announcement, not Popov. After Popov’s speech to the Bundestag, Brun’s going to reply. Mark her words carefully. She’s going to give you the opening you need. A great wide-open goal. You’ll be able to drive a coach and horses through it.’
‘I’ve got to run,’ Yasonov said. ‘The plane to Berlin leaves in 90 minutes and I want to be on it. I’ve got to brief Popov at the Russian Embassy tonight.’
He tapped his nose with his finger. ‘We’re still working on Helga Brun’s speech!’
‘Don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Yasonov smiled. He stepped off the pavement into the road to hail a passing cab.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
German chancellor Helga Brun cradled the tiger cub in her arms. ‘She’s so sweet, isn’t she? I can’t believe she’s so beautiful.’
She lowered her head and nuzzled the young cub. ‘Thank you, Mr President. Germany thanks you from the heart.’
She handed the animal back to President Popov, before stepping up to the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Brun began. ‘This is a wonderful moment for the Berlin Zoo, the most famous zoo in the world. Today, thanks to the generosity of President Popov and the Russian people, we are the proud possessors of our first Siberian tiger, truly one of the most beautiful animals in the world. A few weeks ago, I was in Moscow, at the World Tiger Summit organized by President Popov, and I learned then about the tremendous efforts which are being made worldwide to protect tigers. I learned in particular about the work which is being done to save the Siberian or Amur tiger. Am I right, Mr President, that there are around 450 such tigers in the wild?’
President Popov, still cuddling the little tiger, smiled. ‘Sometimes they cross over into China, but they quickly come back. They know it’s safer for them in Russia.’
Helga Brun laughed; the audience laughed. The TV cameras caught the moment and broadcast it to the world. The image of the Russian president standing next to the chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany, with an extremely photogenic tiger cub in his arms, was one of the defining moments of President Popov’s visit that summer to Berlin, the capital of the Federal Republic of Germany. The Chinese government, back in the 1970s, had famously presented the Berlin Zoo with a baby panda, but Bao-Bao had recently died (of old age, nothing more sinister), leaving a gaping hole in an animal-loving nation’s hearts.
‘We must think of a name for our new guest,’ Helga Brun continued. ‘We should launch a nation-wide consultation. A referendum like our friends, the British, do.’
The audience laughed again. This was the Chancellor at her warmest, most human.
‘Perhaps they’ll decide to name her Helga!’ Popov quipped.
Berlin Zoo is situated at the western end of the Tiergarten, the great park which extends all the way to the Brandenburg Gate. On the north-eastern edge of the Tiergarten stands the Federal Chancellery building.
‘Let’s walk back across the park,’ Helga Brun suggested. ‘Some exercise will do us good.’
If Helga Brun had deliberately intended to throw her security detail into confusion, she certainly succeeded. The German chancellor and the Russian president set off on foot across the Tiergarten while a phalanx of special agents trotted along behind them at a respectful distance.
‘Such a brilliant idea, bringing us that little tiger cub, Igor,’ Helga Brun said. ‘Not taken from the wild, surely?’
‘No, born in Moscow Zoo. Her mother had a litter of five. Too many really. I’m sure she was glad to give one up in the interests of international diplomacy.’
‘Her loss is our gain,’ Helga said.
Popov took her arm. There was no way anyone could overhear them. ‘Quite like old times, isn’t it, Mina?’
He used her codename deliberately.
Growing up in East Germany, in the German Democratic Republic or GDR, at a time when East Germany was still part of the Soviet Empire, Helga Brun – from the KGB’s point of view – had obvious potential as a possible agent. She was young; she was pretty; she was phenomenally intelligent. She spoke Russian fluently. She had not only studied the language, she had visited Moscow twice on state-sponsored trips. She had come to Popov’s attention when he was head of the KGB office in Dresden and she was one of the youngest ever professors at Leipzig University, where she specialized in modern languages.