Smiley’s People, John Le Carré’s 1979 novel about a Soviet defector bumped off on Hampstead Heath by Moscow Central, is suddenly looking remarkably relevant.
The narrative around the poisoning of former Russian spy Sergei Skripal in Salisbury has some eerie similarities to the fictional assassination of the Gauloises-smoking Estonian émigré General Vladimir. Meanwhile, Le Carré’s tale was a story about a retired spy returning to work, just as Kremlin-watchers in London speculate that MI6 did not need any intelligence to establish a motive for the Skripal poisoning: they simply needed to take a look at their current payroll.
However, while there are differences in the methods used in each of the tales, there is also a stark contrast in the public exposure generated by the real-life version. In the novel, Smiley quietly slips away from the murder scene, having been warned by a superintendent that the press were heading his way. Smiley’s boss is also keen to keep the whole incident under wraps, and the rest of the story says little about the interest the public might have had in the murder of a former Soviet agent.
Back in the real world and things haven’t quite turned out like that. Skripal and his daughter Yulia obviously remain big news. But any connection between the UK and Russia is now topical, especially a financial one.
The City will no doubt be braced for more of this scrutiny this week, as we have results from a couple of those Russian companies whose shares have turned out to be a natural fit for the London stock exchange.
You know the sorts of firms: Globaltrans, a freight logistics firm that specialises in “Russia, the CIS and the Baltic states”; RusHydro PJSC, “one of Russia’s largest power-generating companies”.
People are suddenly taking an interest in this type of outfit, but one wonders if the barracking will actually have any lasting effect. As a general rule, Russians aren’t known for succumbing to hecklers, while the Brits they have chosen to upholster their boardrooms seem to have an almost heroic capacity for absorbing embarrassment – especially in their well-paid second careers.
For example, Oleg Deripaska’s metals company En+ Group floated in 2017 (partly to repay a debt owed to a bank sanctioned by both the US and European Union) and installed Lord (Greg) Barker of Battle as its chairman.
Barker’s Whitehall career as a Tory energy minister is perhaps best remembered for a story about him using the office microwave to heat a cushion for his pet dachshund Otto, although if his touch with the soft furnishings secured him the En+ gig, he appears to be losing it: Deripaska surprisingly resigned from the board in February.
Meanwhile, Deripaska’s old pal Lord Mandelson, who memorably once shared a banya with the Russian and the banking scion Nat Rothschild, stepped down as a director of Russian conglomerate Sistema last year, but is thought to still be doing a good trade in advising its compatriots.
Lord Browne of Madingley, whose career as boss of BP came to a dramatic halt in 2007 when he got caught lying to a court about his private life, remains a director of the feared Mikhail Fridman’s L1 Energy, while at Evraz, the creation of Chelsea owner Roman Abramovich, we find Sir Michael Peat, who spent nine years dealing with the eccentricities of the heir to the throne as principal private secretary to the Prince of Wales.
None, it seems, appear too keen to apply Smiley’s first rule of retirement: when it’s over, it’s over. Pull down the shutters, go home.
