EIGHT

      I

      The log fire threw flickering light around the castle’s great hall, tinting the stone walls orange-grey. It burned so strongly that Sandro Nergadze could feel its warmth on his back through his shirt and jacket. Yet he felt a distinct chill all the same. ‘Would you care to repeat that,’ he said tightly.

      ‘You’ve got to understand something,’ said General Iosep Khundadze. ‘What you’re talking about is a situation where the normal army command will break down.’ He nodded at the two media magnates seated further along the oak table, who’d just outlined their plans. ‘Even if these two can make their vote-rigging charges stick—’

      ‘We can make them stick,’ said the newspaper tycoon named Merab. ‘If we get the exit-poll data we’ve been promised, at least.’

      ‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Levan Kitesovi, head of Georgia’s largest independent polling agency, angrily. ‘Isn’t my word good enough now?’

      ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Sandro. ‘We have to trust each other. That’s why we’re all here.’ Everyone was a little on edge. Rumours were swirling of a new intelligence department set up specifically to investigate the Nergadze campaign. Their security arrangements had been duly tightened, because it could be awkward for their guests to explain what they were doing here this weekend. They’d swept all the rooms for bugs, had taken additional precautions against aerial surveillance, had hired more guards. But such security measures were a double-edged sword: they always made people feel more nervous.

      He turned back to the general. ‘Can we please assume that the first part of our plan has worked. Otherwise, there’s really no point us discussing it. It’s election day. The media use the exit polls to announce a come-from-behind Ilya Nergadze victory. But then the government declares victory. We flood the radios with stories of government lackeys carting off ballot boxes in mysterious vans. Our sources inside the ministries leak corroboration. Our friends across the world denounce the president as corrupt. The Supreme Court, Church and police…’ he leaned forward to acknowledge their representatives ‘…will speak out on our behalf, or at least remain deadlocked. And so everyone will look to the ultimate arbiters of power in such situations: the army. Last month you assured us that you could bring your colleagues with you; enough of them to make the difference, at least. What’s happened to change your mind?’

      A faint sheen had appeared on the general’s brow. When he’d made his promises, Ilya Nergadze’s cause had still seemed hopeless. ‘As I was saying,’ he growled. ‘Even if you can make all this happen, even if it looks like the president is stealing victory, the whole army won’t suddenly switch sides. At best, what you’ll get is factions. I can certainly help you exploit those factions.’

      ‘I should hope so,’ muttered Sandro, sitting back in his chair, looking up at the family portraits that liberally decorated the walls of the great hall, dating from the reign of Erekle II right down to the present day. All had the characteristic Nergadze features; all were shown as noble and brave and powerful; all were signed by one or other of the great masters of Georgian art. And all were fakes he’d commissioned over the past few years, to give their family a necessary patina of heritage and respectability. The whole world was a fraud; some people knew it, but most didn’t.

      ‘But that’s not enough,’ continued the general. ‘You need to understand how the army works. When the usual chain of command breaks down, as it will in this situation, you become dependent upon other factors. In particular, you become dependent upon the will of the soldiers themselves. They’ll no longer have to obey orders so much as choose which orders to obey. And they’ll follow the officers they admire and trust, not the ones with the most pips and stripes. Those are the people we need on our side; and it may surprise you to know that bribes will only go so far with such men. It may surprise you to know that men like this, the soldiers that other soldiers most look up to, actually value notions like honour and courage and patriotism.’

      ‘Spare us the sermon,’ said Ilya. ‘Get to the point.’

      ‘Very well,’ said the general, meeting Ilya’s gaze. ‘The point is this. They won’t do it. Not for you, at least. They don’t like you enough.’

      ‘Why not?’ asked Ilya.

      ‘Because they think you’re corrupt. And they won’t risk civil war just to replace one corrupt politician with another.’

      There was a shocked silence. No one spoke to or about Ilya Nergadze that way. ‘How dare you?’ burst out Sandro. ‘My father’s not corrupt.’

      ‘Really?’ replied the general dryly. ‘Then why the fuck does he pay me a hundred thousand dollars every month?’

      A ripple of laughter, evident admiration for such blunt talk, was quickly stifled. ‘Very well,’ said Ilya, who knew when to bully and when to listen. ‘What do you suggest?’

      ‘Our country is still bleeding from the Russian fiasco,’ said the general. ‘People are desperate for change, but not just any change. They want change with hope. They want change with honour. Convince them that you’re the man of destiny Georgia is crying out for, and the army will flock to you like to a saviour, I won’t need to persuade anyone. At the moment you’re head of a political party; you need to become head of a movement. You need to inspire people. You need to hold up a flag for them to follow. Until then…’ He shook his head.

      Silence fell around the table following this sober assessment. Everyone knew in their hearts it was true, not just for the army, but for Georgia as a whole. Ilya leaned forward. ‘A flag for them to follow,’ he murmured. ‘There is something.’

      ‘What?’

      He glanced at Sandro. ‘My son is working on it as we speak.’

      Everyone looked Sandro’s way. He felt his gut clench. Surely it was too early to float the idea of the golden fleece. If nothing came of it, they’d be a joke. He looked up, seeking inspiration, at the great shield on the wall opposite. It was so brightly polished that he could see the blur of his own reflection, and the orange glow of the fire like a halo behind him. It carried the Nergadze family crest, a lion rampant holding a spear. He’d commissioned that too, along with all the other weaponry and suits of armour that bedecked the walls. Curious about how convincing these fakes were, he’d taken several to Tbilisi where he’d arranged for Edouard, their tame historian, to come across them as if by accident. How the great expert had drooled! How they’d laughed at him once he’d gone! But if Gurieli could fool someone like him…‘I need to