Heads You Win

“I’ll get off the line,” said Ben. “I know you must be waiting for a call from Number 10. Good luck.”

Sasha hadn’t even sat back down before the phone rang again. He grabbed it before it could ring a second time.

“This is Number 10,” said a switchboard voice. “The Prime Minister wondered if you could see him at three twenty this afternoon.”

I’ll check my diary and see if that’s convenient, Sasha was tempted to say. “Of course,” he replied.

For the next hour he pretended to watch the news, read the papers, and even eat lunch. He took calls from several colleagues who had already received the summons, or were still anxiously waiting, and from many others, including Alf Rycroft, to wish him luck. In between, he fed the cat, who was fast asleep, and read the second act of Julius Caesar to discover his one-word mistake.

He drove to the Commons just after 2:30 p.m., and parked in the members’ car park. The policeman on the gate saluted the moment he saw him. Did he know something Sasha didn’t? He left the Palace of Westminster just after three, and walked slowly across Parliament Square and up Whitehall past the Foreign Office. Were the mandarins inside waiting for him? The policeman on duty at Downing Street didn’t need to check his clipboard.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Karpenko,” he said, and opened the gate to let him through.

“Good afternoon,” Sasha replied, as he began the long gallows walk up Downing Street to discover his fate.

He was surprised when the door to number 10 opened while he was still a few paces away. He stepped inside for the first time, to find a young woman waiting for him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Karpenko. Would you be kind enough to follow me?” She led him up a flight of stairs, past the portraits of former Prime Ministers. John Major was already in place.

When they reached the first floor, she stopped outside a door and knocked quietly, opened it, and stood aside. Sasha walked in to find the Prime Minister sitting opposite an empty chair in which it looked as if several people had already sat. A secretary, pen poised, was seated behind him.

“I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise,” said the Prime Minister once Sasha had sat down, “but I’d like you to join Robin at the Foreign Office as his Minister of State. I hope you’ll feel able to accept the post.”

“I’d be honored,” said Sasha. “And delighted to serve in your first administration.”

“I’d also like you to keep me briefed on what’s happening in Russia,” said the Prime Minister, “particularly if your personal situation should change.”

“My personal situation, Prime Minister?”

“Our ambassador in Moscow tells me that if you were to return to Russia and stand against Yeltsin, you’d end up with an even bigger majority than I have. In which case it will be me trying to get an appointment with you.”

“But Yeltsin doesn’t come up for election for another three years.”

“Yes, but the polls currently show his approval rating is in single figures, and still falling.”

“The polls are irrelevant, Prime Minister. What matters in Russia is how many voting slips end up in the ballot box, who put them there, and even more important, who counts them.”

“So much for glasnost,” said Blair. “But I have a feeling your time may well come, Sasha, so please keep me informed, and in the meantime, good luck in your new job.”

The secretary leaned forward and whispered in the Prime Minister’s ear. Sasha didn’t need to be told the meeting was over, and was about to leave when the PM added, “Your name is also on the list of ministers who will be invited to join the Privy Council.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” said Sasha as he rose, and the two men shook hands.

When Sasha left the PM’s office, he found the same young woman still standing in the corridor. “If you come with me, minister, you’ll find a car outside waiting to take you to the Foreign Office.”

Denis Healey had once told Sasha that you never forget the first person who calls you minister. But within a week, you’ll think it’s your Christian name.

As Sasha left number 10 he passed Chris Smith on his way in, and wondered what job he was about to be offered. He stepped out onto the pavement, and a burly man who looked as if he might play in the front row of his local rugby team introduced himself. “Good afternoon, minister, my name is Arthur, and I’m your driver,” he said, holding open the back door of the waiting car.

“I’d prefer to sit in the front,” said Sasha.

“I’m afraid not, sir. Security reasons.”

Sasha climbed into the back. He couldn’t help wondering why he even needed a car, as the Foreign Office was only a few hundred yards away. “Security reasons,” he could hear Arthur assuring him.

“Can I make a phone call?”

“It’s in the armrest, minister. Just pick it up and you’ll be straight through to the FO’s switchboard. Tell them who you want and they’ll connect you immediately.”