Chapter 21: Novaya Diplomatiya : The New Diplomacy

Chapter Introduction

Stephen Appleyard leads a powerful expeditionary force to Moscow but can a well chosen word more achieve more than an army?

Rules of Encounter

Neither Grantby nor Ackroyd has ever been to such a hotel. Neither of them. The opulence. The extravagance. The scale. The grandeur — and also the people. Many seem relatively young, younger than either of the policemen. How had they acquired such wealth to be at home in such a hotel at such a modest age?

The two glance at one another as they are swept along by the urbane Stephen Appleyard.

“Our table is reserved for 13:00, but I thought it might be helpful if we took up the table early and spent a moment or two setting out our tactics?”

“There’s going to be tactics, then?” asks Ackroyd.

“Oh absolutely. In diplomacy, there are always tactics. Now ... ah...”

They arrive at the restaurant and Appleyard wastes no time in securing the attention of the Maître d’.

The restaurant is incongruously called The Tattler Club. The name reminds Grantby of some of the more seedy establishments in London’s racy but also vulgar Soho district. The name may spark dreary memories, but the restaurant itself does not. It is a large space with tables on two levels, on the main floor and in a gallery. Graceful white classical columns march across, dividing the space into three: a nave and two aisles. The décor is white, contrasting with the dark mahogany of the tables. To one side, the windows afford a view of the Moskva River. A large modern chandelier dominates the central nave. On the opposite side, the tables are somehow more discreet and less public.

“Good afternoon. Stephen Appleyard, Colin Grantby and Brian Ackroyd. We have a table for five. There will be a further two guests joining us at 13:00.”

The Maître d’ glances nervously at his watch, which confirms that Mr Appleyard and two of his party are early. He smiles and says, “Your dining room is almost ready, sir. Let me...”

Appleyard does not even break step. “Private dining room, you say?”

“Of course, sir. Please accompany me...”

“A private dining room is not acceptable. We prefer the restaurant.”

The restaurant? The Maître d’ has been warned about the identity of the two remaining guests and also knows that the security services like discretion when they are out on business in public — at least, the business that might bring them out in public to a restaurant in a hotel. The Maître d’ is in a corner. He has no instructions in the event that Appleyard and his party would not accept the facilities carefully selected for them. Is the restaurant ready? Is there a suitable table? He decides to trust that all will be well and makes a decision.

“Of course. Please come with me.”

The trio are shown to a table in one corner of the restaurant, discreet but with a view of the room. The table sits beneath a large modern picture. It is hard to tell if it is a photograph or a picture created with photographic realism. The rendering technique of the image may be in doubt but the subject is not: an elegant nude female draped over a piano wearing only a pair of black shiny sling-back heels and a black top hat.

Ackroyd glances at the picture and looks at Grantby.

Appleyard scrutinises the table offered. “No,” he says after a moment or two. “This is still not acceptable. We prefer the centre of the restaurant.”

“The centre?”

“Yes, the centre.”

“I think the tables there are taken.”

Appleyard is not prepared to be deflected. He moves to a table in the centre.

“We are first. The restaurant is quiet. Tables in the centre of the room are unoccupied. This will be very satisfactory. Please, Colin. Brian. Sit down.”

Faced with the three patrons seated and apparently comfortable, the Maître d’ decides that, at the moment, the best thing to do will be to leave them at their chosen place but to keep the table at the side free, to keep at least some options open. He leaves them alone for the present but with the promise of aperitifs.

“One should always try to choose the field of battle, don’t you think?” says Appleyard, with the air of a statement rather than an enquiry.

“Now,” he continues, “we are here to negotiate. This is a public location and I wish to conduct the negotiations in public. We are going to extract compensation from our Russian friends for the inconvenience and disadvantage to the British State and on behalf of one of its citizens.”

“Compensation?” says Grantby, uneasily.

“Precisely. Compensation. My dear Grantby, there is no prospect in hell of extracting Kustensky from the embrace of Mother Russia for him to stand conventional trial in the United Kingdom. You and Brian are here to witness our Russian friends pay up and, in paying up, they will in some measure acknowledge responsibility.”

“This is very unsatisfactory, Mr Appleyard.”

“Well, is it? There may be no public humiliation but, in this way, I believe there will come restoration. In any case, if we were able to send Kustensky to prison, think what further expense the British taxpayer would be put to, to keep him there. I think they have spent enough money already, don’t you?”

Ackroyd replies: “Yes, but a guilty verdict demonstrates that certain standards are maintained. It shows that no one is above the law. It shows that rules of conduct are of more value than money or any other sort of ‘compensation.’”

“I agree, but such a process must be attainable and, in the circumstances we find ourselves, I just do not think that it is. That is the lesson of recent history. However, I do think that loss of blood can be staunched, a wound closed, and some level of repair can be achieved. Yet, I agree, it will not be perfect and there will always be a scar.

“And who is paying for lunch if we are now worrying about cash?”

“The Foreign Office, but we are setting a sprat to catch a mackerel.

“Now, as to lunch. This is a ‘business lunch, ‘ which is a sort of new concept in Russia. It would be normal to have an appetiser, then soup, then a main course of meat or fish, and then dessert with tea or coffee. We need to keep our wits about us, so I suggest we all choose a salad as first course, a vegetable soup to follow, and then fish or steak for mains. The Russians are great tea-drinkers just like us, so I will propose tea at that point. Agreed?”

“Maybe,” says Grantby, carefully. “How do you know the Russians are prepared even to think about negotiating? I have to say that it is not hard to imagine us being packed off back to London with nothing.”

“That’s a good point and you are quite right. I do not know how far we will get. On the other hand, I have a diplomatic passport and you two have had to apply for visas — which you received. That means the Russians know who you are. They will also know you are closely connected with the McEwan investigation. If they are not prepared to enter into any sort of dialogue whatsoever, it would be easy to send a very strong signal to that effect by merely refusing your visa applications. They have not refused. We are here in Moscow. They know exactly why. I think they want to deal. I think there is a chance of progress.”

Ackroyd notices that two other men are being ushered across the restaurant towards them by the anxious Maître d’.

One is tall and fit-looking. Erect, strong and unmistakably handsome. He walks behind. The other is older, smaller, wearing his elegant clothes with just a touch less accomplishment and panache. He looks like someone who has come to refinement and affluence rather later in life. He walks in front. He also does not look particularly happy.

It is the smaller man whom Appleyard greets warmly.

“Mikhail Barysovitch! So nice to see you again! How is Daria Ilyinichna and ... forgive me ... your daughter? Polina?”

“Ha, you remembered? They are well, thank you.”

“Mikhail Barysovitch, allow me to introduce Colin Grantby and Brian Ackroyd, colleagues from London.”

Mikhail smiles and nods and in his turn introduces the handsome man. He says “And my companion today is, of course, Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky.” For just a moment, the policemen are wrong-footed. Anatoly is not what they expected. He is not an over-weight, over-dressed crime boss wearing too much jewellery, but looks like someone you would be pleased to sit next to on an aircraft or have as a neighbour, across the fence at home. Very much so. He smiles in a perfectly calm and relaxed way, shaking hands with Appleyard, Grantby and Ackroyd. Grantby is used to plausible villains and returns Anatoly’s smile with a serious frown. Ackroyd is used to less refined miscreants and finds himself returning Anatoly’s smile with a smile of his own.

Appleyard, now the pleasantries are over, says, “Shall we all sit? I am told lunch here is very good. I have ordered champagne to begin. Pol Roger, from France. Please forgive me, Mikhail, but ‘Sovyetskoye’ (1) was always rather too sweet for me.

“I thought we could talk in a more relaxed way over tea and coffee afterwards? Ah, and here are the menus.”

Ackroyd is for a moment completely fazed by the swirling Cyrillic. The “Times New Roman” font conspires to make it look yet more alien — and then he is reassured to see an English translation beneath. He follows the lead given by Appleyard who chooses Caesar Salad with shrimp, followed by cream of cauliflower soup with tempura artichoke and, for his main course, black cod and honey marinade. (2)

The New Diplomacy

The meal proceeds, peppered by small talk and the remembrance of times past from Appleyard and Antonov. Anatoly, to the surprise of Grantby and Ackroyd, proves to be affable and knowledgeable about Britain and British institutions, even cricket, but presently the meal is over...

“Well, gentlemen,” Appleyard begins, “I am hoping that, together and with good will, we can resolve a tricky situation. Let us all introduce ourselves and break the ice, so to speak, and to confirm who is who. I am Stephen Appleyard, British Foreign Office.” Appleyard then turns to Grantby.

“Detective Chief Inspector Colin Grantby, Serious Organised Crime Directorate, Metropolitan Police, London.”

“Inspector Brian Ackroyd, Criminal Investigation Division, Worcestershire Constabulary.”

Anatoly, the handsome man, came to be seated beside Ackroyd. He had noticed that he was not introduced originally by Mikhail Barysovitch and had wondered if the negotiations would take place between Mikhail and the British diplomat Appleyard, with the three remaining, including himself, as “observers.” With this simple device, Appleyard had brought them all onto the stage and given each one a speaking part.

“Anatoly Sergeyevitch Kustensky, Group Chief Executive, Anatoly Kustensky Enterprises.”

“Mikhail Barysovitch Antonov, Russian Federal Security Service.”

Appleyard is speaking again: “I often find, with ‘situations, ‘ it is a question of seeing matters in the right light, from a helpful perspective? Today, I suggest we deal with the problem of unpaid wages and perhaps agree on suitable consultancy and transfer fees for staff unexpectedly moved between employers?”

Whilst Ackroyd seems completely puzzled at whatever it is that Appleyard is talking about, Grantby finds himself smiling broadly at Appleyard’s sophistry. This, he supposes, this is diplomacy in action. The description of events in such a way that all the parties can be at ease and are able to make a resolution of the problem. Abduction and slavery represented as an unexpected secondment of staff and unpaid wages. He wants to laugh out loud but the urge passes as he pays attention to the landscape Appleyard is creating.

“ ... so I was saying. The British Government is keen to see British academics work at prestigious institutions abroad and we recognise Moscow State University as an out-standing international institution. Anyone who has worked and studied there has every right to be proud of his, or her, achievement. We also understand that opportunities may arise unexpectedly, out of the blue, so to speak?

“I was searching for a precedent we might all know and understand and I thought of football and the transfer of players between teams. The clubs have to agree to a transfer fee or, in this case, a loan fee. I expect this happens just the same way in Russia. Don’t you agree, Mikhail?

“Now, concerning the transfer I had in mind, when Mrs Jennifer McEwan left the University of Warwick for MSU, I don’t think there were any contractual arrangements made beforehand, so we will have to look at the situation ourselves and agree a suitable fee...”

“Mrs Jennifer McEwan. Excuse me, but who is this?” interjects Mikhail. “I do not believe we have spoken of or encountered her before.”

“That is correct, Mikhail, but it is really a matter of attribution. The Russian State and MSU and, in particular, Anatoly Sergeyevitch here are aware of Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova.”

“We have established, beyond reasonable doubt,” says Grantby, his slow deliberate policeman’s voice cutting across the machinations, “that Jennifer Karin McEwan is Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova and that Miss Kuznetsova is Mrs McEwan.

“There are two reasons. First, a friend and colleague of Mrs McEwan identified work published in a Russian technical journal which cited VA Kuznetsova as author. This was work definitely written by Jennifer McEwan, and her colleague was definite because she had a copy of exactly the same work done by Mrs McEwan when she was working at the University of Warwick.

“Second, in July this year, a motor boat called the Andrei Tupolev — which I believe you own, Mr Kustensky — left the port of Stockholm...

“It is a yacht! The Tupolev is a yacht, “ says Anatoly, for clarification

Grantby slowly clears his throat and re-commences his recitation of the evidence: “The Swedish Coast Guard have a list — which I have seen — of the crew and passengers travelling on the Tupolev. The arrival list and the departure list both say that you and Vyera Kuznetsova arrived and left on the Tupolev. Afterwards, Jennifer McEwan — as identified by her husband and parents — swam ashore from Stockholm Harbour after an absence of almost two years.

“We conclude that Jennifer McEwan is Vyera Anatolyevna Kuznetsova and that she had come from your ... er... yacht.”

“As I understand matters,” interjects Mikhail, “you are talking about a rather junior member of staff, so any loan fee would be modest, if there was one at all. Also, academics move between institutions. If Jennifer is Vyera, what reason is there to prevent her from accepting an offer of a position at MSU, which I must add is a far more prestigious institution than the University of ... where did you say?... Warwick?”

“Well, you would think so,” Appleyard replies, smoothly, “but the main issue for the British Government is the unexpected — I could say peremptory — nature of the transfer. This is the main issue for us. If there had been the normal negotiations, I agree that we would be talking about quite modest sums, perhaps no sums at all, but matters were handled completely outside the normal framework.”

“We are saying that Mrs McEwan was abducted by Mr Kustensky and his agents,” says Ackroyd, to make the position clear.

“Abducted?” echoes Mikhail. “Abducted? Why on earth would anyone involved with MSU or AKE want to abduct a British academic? Why, even in the Stalin period, the Soviet State did not abduct foreign academics, nor during the cold war did the Soviet Government abduct scientists or technicians working on sensitive projects! What is Mrs McEwan’s area of expertise and what was she working on?”

“She is a psychologist writing a doctorate thesis,” replies Grantby.

“On what?”

“On how adult sexual play behaviour affects how adults handle stress.”

Mikhail continues. “So, not research on aerodynamics? Munitions? Submarine nuclear reactors? Cyber warfare? Nuclear weapons? Germ and Chemical Warfare. Not on any of these which a military power like the Russian Republic might have an interest in but in fact she is studying adult sexual behaviour?”

By now, Mikhail Barysovitch and Anatoly Sergeyevitch are both smiling broadly and they chuckle as Mikhail goes through his list of the sort of technical knowledge it might be worth staging a kidnap to find out more about.

Anatoly picks up the thread, to drive their argument home.

“Nowadays in Russia, we have the internet, which is not censored as regards sexual material. We now know as much as you do in the West, so why do we need to stage a kidnap to discover more?”

When Grantby had made the accusation to the two Russians and had quoted the evidence which supported the contention, Ackroyd felt Grantby had made a strong case but, in the wake of the Russians’ reaction, Ackroyd begins to see how unlikely the idea could look in a court of law being tested by a clever advocate in front of a neutral jury.

Appleyard easily picks up the negotiation once more. “Thank you, Mikhail, and that is exactly what we would like to know: why was Mrs McEwan abducted? Some interesting facts have emerged. Mrs McEwan’s research supervisor was Professor Angela Dawney. Mrs McEwan’s research project was first proposed by Dr Igor Mendeleyev. Professor Dawney is well-acquainted with Dr Mendeleyev. We wonder if Mrs McEwan was used as an experimental animal to test a protocol, devised by Dr Mendeleyev, for the psychological conditioning of people who are in some ways vulnerable to it, and then goodness knows what they might be programmed to do?

Grantby notices that the mention of Dr Mendeleyev has a curious effect on Mikhail Antonov. His eyes and his lips tighten. He places his teaspoon rather noisily down on his saucer. Mikhail Antonov says “I hope we are not here to put right the unexpected consequences of Dr Mendeleyev’s futilities?”

It occurs to Grantby that this is quite a different evaluation of Dr Mendeleyev from the one recently given by Dr Elmer.

Appleyard continues, “You might remember, in South Africa there was a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to try to heal wounds between the various communities as an alternative to the legal process. I think that might a good example for us to follow?”

“But what would be our interest in accepting this proposal?” asks Mikhail recovering his composure.

“As I understand the position,” Anatoly says, “there are some events which are obviously criminal, such as bank robbery or murder. There are other events which are not. You mention ‘abduction.’ If there is no complaint, surely there is no crime? Has Mrs McEwan made a complaint against anyone?”

“Anatoly Sergeyevitch, I think we both know that she has not — so far. Meanwhile, we have some very awkward circumstances to deal with and some very curious happenings we would like to have explained. Our interest is to resolve matters. On the other hand, your interest is to be free to conduct your business in the UK, the EU, and other nations allied to us, specifically the US and Canada,” replies Appleyard.

“I am authorised, on behalf of the British Government, to tell you that legal proceedings will not be taken forward if we can agree to suitable terms of compensation and if satisfactory explanations of certain events can be given — unless, of course, Mrs McEwan starts to make complaints about you.”

“We are always happy to help our British friends if circumstances allow,” responds Mikhail cautiously, “but, of course, we would expect that there would be no friends of our British friends, waiting in the wings, poised to make trouble themselves?”

“Agreed,” responds Appleyard, “and I can say that there are no other parties waiting in the wings to make trouble or take out proceedings against Mr Kustensky that we know of.”

Mikhail continues, “but we are still not happy about simply accepting your suggestion that Mrs McEwan was abducted. We agree that the project she worked on was originally thought of by II Mendeleyev, who is a senior academic at MSU. We also agree that Mendeleyev is known to Professor Dawney. We categorically reject the notion that Mrs McEwan was used as an experimental animal to test any kind of military protocol. Also, I think it is beyond dispute that Mrs McEwan had a much higher degree of support from academic colleagues when she was at MSU than she had when she was at Warwick. And, in addition, any assurance from the British Government shall have to be in writing, not merely a verbal assurance.”

Anatoly sits back in his chair and sucks thoughtfully on his lower lip. Without anyone else around the table moving their chairs, he seems to have taken centre stage.

What would his father, the General, the Heroic Soldier, the Hero of the Soviet Union, what would he do now? Reflecting, Anatoly knows that his father would have been ruthless in Stockholm, but he was fighting a war; Anatoly was looking after his own interests. All events cast shadows into the future, sometimes short, sometimes long, and the results of any decision, ruthless or gentle, can be very hard to anticipate.

He says, “My daughter spent time as a student at the London School of Economics. Towards the end of her time in London, she herself was abducted. I was able to discover who her abductors were and I was able to conduct successful negotiations for her return. It seemed that my daughter had been mistaken for someone else.”

“You did tell the police at the time?” asks Grantby.

“No, I did not. I thought it might be better to deal direct.”

“That was a very unhelpful decision, Mr Kustensky, if I may say, because you have left these criminal elements free to cause more trouble and no doubt more distress to other families.”

“Yes, Mr Grantby, I agree that it was not a good decision but, at the time, I felt it was correct.

“Some time after, an old friend of mine met me for dinner in Moscow. She was at an academic conference. She told me that she had been arrested and interrogated by the CIA and that the CIA were particularly interested in me. I understood that one of her research students, a Mrs Jennifer McEwan, was also arrested and interrogated.”

“And would this friend be Professor Angela Dawney?” asks Grantby.

“May I go on?”

“Of course, Mr Kustensky, please go on.”

“I was formerly an officer in the Soviet KGB and I am fully aware of the methods used by the CIA. Angela’s account of her ordeal did not sound like the CIA, but it sounded very much more like the organisation which had abducted my own daughter, so I became... concerned ... for the safety of my family and, of course, myself when we travelled abroad. It seemed prudent to arrange for Mrs McEwan to have the opportunity to complete her research in safety in Moscow and for us to discover more about what was going on.”

Both Grantby and Ackroyd sit back in their chairs and then glance at one another. The curious case of the “CIA interrogation” had raised its head once more. How critical this event had proven! Once Clegg had decided to indulge in amateur dramatics to find out if Kustensky was interested in Inward Bound, the ball did not stop rolling until Jennifer McEwan, the innocent party, had been abducted into slavery. Finally, they had an explanation for it. At least one mystery had been solved.

“I see,” says Grantby after some moments, “but the important point for me as a police officer is to know whether Mrs McEwan was at liberty when she left the UK, when she was living in Russia, and when she made her journey to Stockholm?”

Anatoly replies. “Mrs McEwan has returned to her family. She also has another language, has citizenship of another country, and has a PhD degree. I do not think you can say that Mrs McEwan has returned home empty-handed and those accomplishments do not make her sound like a victim of an abduction to me.”

Anatoly’s response is a politician’s answer, not the accurate reply a policeman would want, but before Grantby or Ackroyd can begin again, Mikhail Barysovitch joins in.

“Mrs McEwan was given citizenship very shortly after her arrival in Russia. It is for the Russian State to protect and to look after the interests of its own citizens when they are in Russia. In the circumstances, I do not understand why the British State has an interest in the welfare of one of our own citizens?”

Stephen Appleyard replies. “Mikhail Barysovitch, you and Anatoly Sergeyevitch have described events from interesting perspectives; you have spoken of the responsibility of the state to its citizens and he has spoken of the nature of the interpersonal relationships Mrs McEwan enjoyed when she was here. From my perspective, I am unable to accept your proposal without more knowledge of exactly why and perhaps how citizenship was offered to Mrs McEwan and to have her corroboration of the description you have given.

“But, let me suggest a way of approaching this. AKE is a civil engineering concern active in both of our countries. Jennifer McEwan was apparently sponsored by AKE. Coincidentally, certain building works are needed at our Moscow Embassy. Perhaps AKE would be able to contribute to the financing of the project? As a recognition of the hospitality given to their activity in the UK and as compensation for the absent contractual arrangements? I suggest we start thinking at five million pounds?”

“Five million pounds? That is far too much. It is grotesque,” replies Mikhail, “even David Beckham would not be as expensive.”

“That is where I have to disagree,” counters Appleyard. “When someone of the stature of Beckham is involved, five million pounds is well within the envelope of negotiation. However, in Beckham’s case, there would have been careful exploratory talks beforehand. Here — well, quite frankly, no one has been able to show me what the original contract was, so I am tempted to think that proper contractual negotiations were never conducted. In those circumstances, there is less constraint on negotiations. We think, bearing in mind your desire for continuing hospitality for AKE in the UK as well as in and Canada and in the United States, with all this in mind, we think five million pounds may be too modest!”

Mikhail Barysovitch replies: “I cannot see how the Russian Government could be seen to or would wish to provide five million pounds. We would cut a very awkward figure on the world stage. What sort of precedent would this set for us? This figure of yours almost sounds like punitive damages. Anatoly Sergeyevitch has said earlier that Mrs McEwan returned to Great Britain with a new language, a new citizenship, a university doctorate, and in peak physical condition; in other words, she is beautiful. You will have to make a more realistic proposal if these negotiations are to progress.”

“I think we have moved on from the Eighteenth Century and the world of Count Sheremetev,” replies Appleyard (3) “and, perhaps I should mention for the benefit of Colin and Brian that Count Nicolai Petrovitch Sheremetev was a Russian aristocrat and opera buff who would take the children of his serfs if they were beautiful and talented and give them an education and training, to appear in his opera productions.

“This reminds me strongly of Mrs McEwan’s adventures in Russia, except in her case it was a citizenship, a new language, and a PhD instead of a place in the opera chorus? What is it that the French say about this? Everything is different but nothing has changed?”

The history lesson over, Appleyard continues: “But did I mention a contribution from the Russian Government? As far as I understand, the Russian Government had no part in the arrangements made for Mrs McEwan. I propose that the resolution should come from AKE. Part of the negotiation is to deal with the British Government interest on behalf of one of its citizens and part is to provide tangible compensation to the McEwans.”

“Ah,” replies Mikhail, “ah well, in that case ... yes, in that case I can see that progress might be possible. A commercial organisation such as AKE which has an excellent reputation would not like to be seen to be involved in irregular contractual arrangements and I believe that in commercial, the financial settlement for a contract may mature after the contract has ended.”

At this point, Anatoly begins to wonder if the diplomat Appleyard and Mikhail Barysovitch (who are quite clearly well-acquainted with each other) have rehearsed the negotiation first, between themselves, and Mikhail is happy to see Anatoly paying large sums of money to the British and to Vyera herself as a punishment for letting Vyera escape from his custody in the first place. If this was true, he would make sure that Pavea, the American girl, would be kept on a very short strong leash so lightning could not strike twice in the same place!

“Thank you Mikhail, that is my understanding too, which is why I suggest that AKE may wish to make a donation to repay hospitality? In those circumstances, the financial payments made will seem to be completely understandable and nothing will be out of place,”