Heads You Win

“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

I really came to London.”

“Thank you for giving me so much of your time, Boris, and your continued support,” said Sasha, as they walked back up to the Central Lobby together.

“Every time I see you, Sasha, I become more convinced that you’re the right man to be our next president.”

“I’m grateful for your backing, and I’ll let you know the moment I’ve made up my mind.”

“If you were to return to Saint Petersburg,” said Boris, “you might be surprised by the welcome you would receive.”

* * *

“I’m glad I don’t have to make the decision,” said Charlie.

“But you do, my darling,” said Sasha. “Because I wouldn’t even consider taking on such a risky enterprise without your blessing.”

“Have you taken into consideration how much you have to lose?”

“Of course I have. And as Labour look almost certain to win the next election, it would be easy for me to just sit back and hope I become Foreign Secretary. The far bigger risk would be to resign from the Commons, return to Russia, and spend a year campaigning to become president, only to see someone else snatch the prize.”

“Especially if that someone else turned out to be your old friend Vladimir.”

“As long as he’s Yeltsin’s bag carrier, he’s more likely to end up in prison than the Kremlin.”

“Then let me ask you a simple question,” said Charlie. “If I were to offer you both of those positions on a plate, president of Russia or British Foreign Secretary, which one would you choose?”

“President of Russia,” said Sasha without hesitation.

“Then you have your answer,” said Charlie, “and mine. Otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering, ‘What if?’”

“Do you think there’s anyone else I should consult before making such an irrevocable decision?”

Charlie thought long and hard before she said, “No point in asking your mother, because we both know exactly where she stands. Or your daughter, who is otherwise preoccupied. But I’d be fascinated to hear Alf Rycroft’s opinion. He’s a shrewd old buzzard, who’s known you for over twenty years, and he has that rare ability to think outside the box. And probably even more important, he’ll only have your best interests at heart.”

* * *

“And to what do I owe this great honor, minister?” asked Alf, as he accompanied Sasha through to the sitting room.

“I need your advice, Alf.”

“Then have a seat. We’re unlikely to be disturbed, as my wife, Millicent, is out doing good works. I think it’s her day at the hospital as library monitor.”

“She’s a saint.”

“As is Charlie. Truth is, we both got lucky in the lottery of marriage. So how can I help you, young man?”

“I’m forty-six,” said Sasha. “You used to call me young man when I first came to the constituency over twenty years ago. Now, nobody does.”