Zerimski stroked his thick moustache as he looked in turn at each of the men seated round the table. ‘When I am President,’ he said, rising from his place at the head of the table, ‘I’ll throw those Mafya bastards in jail one by one. Then the only thing they’ll count for the rest of their lives will be rocks.’ The members of the Central Council had heard their leader lambast the Mafya many times before, though he never mentioned them by name in public.
The short, muscle-bound man thumped the table. ‘Russia needs to return to the old-fashioned values the rest of the world used to respect us for.’ The twenty-
one men facing him nodded, despite having heard these words repeatedly over the past few months.
‘For ten years we have done nothing but import the worst America has to offer.’
They continued to nod, and kept their eyes firmly fixed on him.
Zerimski ran a hand through his thick black hair, sighed, and slumped back into his chair. He looked across at his Chief of Staff. ‘What am I doing this morning?’
‘You’re paying a visit to the Pushkin Museum,’ said Titov. ‘They’re expecting you at ten o’clock.’
‘Cancel it. A complete waste of time when there are only eight days until the election.’ He banged the table again. ‘I should be out on the streets where the people can see me.’
‘But the director of the museum has applied for a grant from the government to restore the works of leading Russian artists,’ said Titov.
‘A waste of the people’s money,’ said Zerimski.
‘And Chernopov has been criticised for cutting the arts subsidy,’ continued the Chief of Staff.
‘All right. I’ll give them fifteen minutes.’
‘Twenty thousand Russians visit the Pushkin every week,’ Titov added, looking down at the typewritten notes in front of him.
‘Make it thirty minutes.’
‘And Chernopov accused you on television last week of being an uneducated thug.’
‘He did what?’ bellowed Zerimski. ‘I was studying law at Moscow University when Chernopov was still a farm labourer.’
‘That is of course true, Chairman,’ said Titov, ‘but our internal polls show that it is not the public perception, and that Chernopov is getting his message across.’
‘Internal polls? Something else we have to thank the Americans for.’
‘They put Tom Lawrence in office.’
‘Once I’m elected, I won’t need polls to keep me in office.’
Connor’s love of art had begun when Maggie had dragged him around galleries while they were still at college. At first he had gone along just so he could spend more time in her company, but within weeks he became a convert. Whenever they travelled out of town together he would happily accompany her to any gallery she chose, and as soon as they moved to Washington they had become Friends of the Corcoran and Members of the Phillips. While Zerimski was being guided around the Pushkin by its director, Connor had to be careful not to become distracted by the many masterpieces, and to concentrate on observing the Communist leader.
When Connor had first been sent to Russia back in the 1980s, the nearest any senior politician got to the people was to stare down at them from the Praesidium during May Day parades. But now that the masses could make a choice on a ballot paper, it had suddenly become necessary for those who hoped to be elected to move among them, even to listen to their views.
The gallery was as crowded as Cooke Stadium for a Redskins game, and wherever Zerimski appeared, the crowds parted as if he were Moses approaching the Red Sea. The candidate moved slowly among the Muscovites, ignoring the paintings and sculptures in favour of their outstretched hands.
Zerimski was shorter than he looked in his photographs, and had surrounded himself with an entourage of even smaller aides so as not to emphasise the fact. Connor recalled President Truman’s comment about size: ‘When it comes down to inches, my boy, you should only consider the forehead,’ he once told a Missouri student. ‘Better to have a spare inch between the top of your nose and the hairline than between the ankle and the kneecap.’ Connor noticed that Zerimski’s vanity hadn’t affected his dress-sense. His suit was badly cut, and his shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs. Connor wondered if it was wise for the director of the Pushkin to be wearing a hand-tailored suit that obviously hadn’t been made in Moscow.
Although Connor was aware that Victor Zerimski was a shrewd and educated man, it soon became clear that his visits to art galleries over the years must have been infrequent. As he bustled through the crowd he occasionally jabbed a finger in the direction of a canvas and informed the onlookers of the name of the artist in a loud voice. He managed to get it wrong on several occasions, but the crowd still nodded their agreement. He ignored a magnificent Rubens, showing more interest in a mother standing in the crowd clinging to her child than in the genius with which the same scene was depicted behind her. When he picked up the child and posed for a picture with the mother, Titov suggested he should take a pace to the right. That way they would get the Virgin Mary into the photograph as well. No front page would be able to resist it.
Once he had walked through half a dozen galleries, and was sure that everyone visiting the Pushkin was aware of his presence, Zerimski became bored and switched his attention to the journalists following closely behind him. On the first-floor landing he began to hold an impromptu press conference.
‘Go on, ask me anything you like,’ he said, glowering at the pack.
‘What is your reaction to the latest opinion polls, Mr Zerimski?’ asked the Moscow correspondent of The Times.
‘Heading in the right direction.’
‘You now appear to be in second place, and therefore Mr Chernopov’s only real rival,’ shouted another journalist.