Speaking for Myself (44 page)

I had done my homework. From ambassadors’ wives to the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, nobody else carried the burden of having to dress well for official duties without financial help and under such constant media scrutiny. As for other leaders’ wives, they expressed total disbelief that I didn’t have a budget for formal occasions. A report was apparently written and presented, but in spite of several requests, I never got a glimpse of it.

While all this nonsense was going on, the situation in Iraq was becoming increasingly tense, involving Tony not only in telephone calls round the clock but also in an endless series of bilateral talks, some of which I had to attend.

On October 11 we had flown to Moscow for Tony to see Vladimir Putin. We had first met the Putins in February 2000. Putin was then the heir apparent, and this was a getting-to-know-you trip to St. Petersburg, his hometown and power base. After a whistle-stop tour of the Hermitage, we were taken to
War and Peace,
a four-hour opera by Prokofiev. Refreshments during the two intervals had consisted solely of champagne and caviar. As I was then six months pregnant with Leo the trip wasn’t easy, and although the hotel was like an oven, outside it was bitterly cold.

My next visit couldn’t have been more different. It was the three hundredth anniversary of the founding of the city. In the short time since assuming the presidency, Putin had poured money into St. Petersburg and totally transformed it, or so it appeared. Much of it, we later discovered, was no more substantial than a film set: the facades of some of the houses had been painted and others disguised to make them look totally restored. It was the end of May, and the weather was lovely. (A few years later they actually sent up airplanes to disperse the clouds so that the sun could shine for the G8.)

The idea was to show St. Petersburg in all its former magnificence, and in that Putin certainly succeeded. The most extraordinary of the reconstructions I saw was the amber room in Catherine Palace. The original had dated from the early eighteenth century — a room completely lined with amber and semiprecious stones — but it had been looted by the Germans during World War II, and no trace of the contents has ever been found. In terms of the entertainment, expense was no object — ballet, fireworks, vodka and caviar wherever you looked. Rather surprisingly, I found I liked caviar. When our host saw me spooning some up, he hastened over. “You don’t want this stuff,” he said, removing my plate and bringing me some beluga.

It was a mind-boggling display of Russian power. Once again I was grateful and amazed to have been granted a ringside seat to history, to incredible people and incredible events.

Three weeks later the Putins arrived on their first state visit to Britain, and I was down to entertain Lyudmila one afternoon. As we had been taken to
War and Peace
in St. Petersburg, I arranged to visit the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, where we would be joined by an array of cultural people for lunch. On the Putins’ arrival in London, however, I was informed through an aide that Mrs. Putina would really like to go shopping. From what I knew of her, I judged that Burberry’s might hit the spot, so I arranged a discreet visit to their showroom just off Piccadilly Circus immediately after the lunch. Unfortunately this being a state visit, transport had been provided by Buckingham Palace, and Lyudmila arrived at Downing Street in the royal Bentley, glass everywhere, designed to provide an unrestricted view of the occupants. Discreet it was not.

The aide had been right, however; the opera wasn’t her thing. But she perked up immediately when we got to Burberry’s. No sooner had we arrived in the showroom than she stripped off down to her underwear. In the interests of diplomacy, I decided I had better keep her company. As she didn’t have any money on her, I put her considerable purchases on my credit card. The next day I was informed that a large packet had arrived from Mrs. Putina. She was repaying me in cash. I had never seen so many £50 notes. Our friendship was undoubtedly consolidated that afternoon in our knickers.

In those early days Lyudmila Putina was very unsure of herself. Her husband had fairly chauvinistic views about the role of a wife. He had two basic rules, she confided: “A woman must do everything at home” and “Never praise a woman; it will only spoil her.” Language was important to her; she had studied modern languages at Leningrad University’s philology department and spoke fluent German, the Putins having lived in Germany for several years.

After the Berlin Wall came down, she told me, she had feared for the future of Russian literature and language. In 2002 she had visited the United States to take part in the second annual National Book Festival hosted by Laura Bush, and she decided to replicate the idea. I promised that I would support her, and I did, going over with Laura for the launch and on two further occasions, when I met the First Lady of Armenia, Bella Kocharian, and the First Lady of Bulgaria, Zorka Purvanova. Without my support, Lyudmila later admitted, she probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. There’s no doubt that her book festival gave a huge boost to her confidence and, I think, her status. As a thank-you she gave us lunch in the state rooms of the Kremlin and an extraordinary private tour. By “us” I mean my “entourage”: to wit, André and Sue Geddes. (To his credit, our ambassador, who was also invited, did not balk at this unusual arrangement.) We were taken high up onto the roof by the famous golden domes, from which we could look down at the cathedral. Having been razed by Communist apparatchiks because they didn’t want to look out on it, the cathedral had been restored by Boris Yeltsin in the 1990s after its ignominious decades as a public swimming pool.

The aim of Tony’s current meeting with Putin was to persuade him that the UN needed to demonstrate unity so that America did not feel it would have to act unilaterally. It was a chance, Tony said, to show that in the new world order, the UN did have power and could make things happen. We met at Putin’s private dacha. That evening, I remember, he was at pains to point out that far from being a convinced communist, he had always been a man of religious faith with a strong attachment to the Orthodox Church. I was not entirely convinced. I sensed that the former KGB chief was still there under the surface. (He has a very powerful presence — he’s broad-shouldered and keeps himself fit with judo. He puts a lot of value on physical strength, his own and Russia’s. This is not a man you would want to cross.)

The invitation to his private cottage was a sign of favor, and that night, apart from the interpreter, there were just the four of us. The dacha was, in fact, a hunting lodge, and Lyudmila had never even been there before, their main dacha being outside St. Petersburg. The meal was heavy in the traditional Russian manner: meat and no vegetables, unless you count pickles. When it was over, Putin stood up and stretched. “And now,” he said, “I want to take you wild boar hunting.”

By this time it was about half-past ten. No one had said anything about hunting wild boars or anything else. I was dressed for dinner in high heels and a dress, and the temperature outside was well below freezing. Tony came to help me on with my coat. “Buckle down, girl,” he said, “and stop complaining.”

Lyudmila gave me a look: this wasn’t her idea of fun either. Outside it was pitch-dark, and there was nothing I could do to prevent my heels from click-clacking on the concrete path while everyone else was creeping along with exaggerated stealth. I was petrified. The machine-gun-toting Russian bodyguards were behind us, while our own protection officers were presumably somewhere behind them — at least I hoped so, in case we were about to be ceremonially assassinated. I didn’t know whether to be more frightened of the guns or the wild boars, which I’d seen pictures of and which I knew to be particularly vicious creatures.

Putin led us down to a hide and was explaining the finer points of boar hunting as he peered down the sights of a night-vision rifle.
One day,
I thought,
I will tell my grandchildren about this.
No doubt to their disappointment (but not mine), there would be no violent denouement to the evening. Not one wild boar was seen, let alone killed.

Russian hospitality is not for the fainthearted. The next day we were told we were going on a picnic. Again the temperature was subzero, but the area was very beautiful, with a huge lake and waterbirds everywhere; everything glistened with hoarfrost. A wild boar was being roasted over a roaring fire, next to which, in a kind of bower, a table had been laid, complete with white tablecloth and silver cutlery. Seeing that I was shivering, Putin ordered one of his soldiers to give me his greatcoat, which was not very different from the ones in
Dr. Zhivago
. I was faced with one further practical problem. In order to cut the meat, I had to take off my gloves, but if I took off my gloves, the cutlery stuck to my hands. The wild boar was delicious, but the cold was so overwhelming that I can’t say I really enjoyed it.

The meeting was generally deemed a success. Tony felt that Putin had an understanding of where he was coming from and that he wasn’t just doing this as an acolyte of the American President, but because he wanted to make the UN work.

In December, immediately after the Peter Foster nightmare, we went on a similar mission to visit the Schröders in Berlin. Gerhard Schröder had come to power in 1998, and as he was a social democrat and a modernizer, there was a natural affinity with him. His wife, Doris, had been a journalist, although she looked very fragile, with short blond hair. Unusually, we were invited to their home, where we met her daughter from a previous marriage. Again the meeting was very convivial, with just the four of us. Gerhard assured Tony that while he had to tread carefully because of his own political position, he wasn’t going to cause difficulties for the Americans in the UN. In the event, however, Schröder, Jacques Chirac, and Putin formed an alliance that torpedoed Tony’s attempts for unity. On February 24, 2003, the United States, the UK, and Spain sponsored another UN resolution. France said that it would veto the resolution “whatever the circumstances,” and it was thus never ratified.

Following that evening with the Schröders, Tony gave an interview with British Forces Radio in Germany, just before Christmas. They, more than anybody else, knew that preparations were well under way for an invasion of Iraq. When asked about the final decision about whether to go to war and how difficult it would be to make, Tony replied, “These are the hardest decisions because you are aware that you are putting people’s lives at risk and that is why we should never undertake conflict unless we have exhausted all other options and possibilities.”

And that is truly how he felt and what he had done for months and months. At the same time as Tony was trying to make an alliance with the European leaders, he was also talking with Chile, Cameroon, and Angola, all of which were then on the Security Council. Having conversations late into the night, Tony desperately sought to keep a united front, in order that Saddam Hussein would back down. That was the message. That’s why when Chirac said that he would not support the second resolution “whatever the circumstances,” Tony knew that all his careful negotiating had come to nothing. He also knew that if Saddam Hussein didn’t back down, the Americans were going to go in anyway. And that, of course, is exactly what happened. George Bush did offer Tony a way out. Via the U.S. embassy in London, the President had been told that the controversy over Iraq risked bringing Tony down. He called Tony and said that Britain did not need to be part of the invasion, that he would find a lesser role for us to play. But Tony was not going to back out. He was determined that we would support America, because he thought it was the right thing to do. He could not let Saddam Hussein get away with defying the international community and making his own people’s lives a misery. So the die was cast. After that it was only a matter of time.

On the evening of March 10, 2003, the secure phone line rang in the flat. It was the call Tony had been expecting. The Americans were going in.

Chapter 29

Family Matters

N
ext came the storm. Criticism of the impending Iraq War reached its peak on February 15, 2003, when thousands of people took to the streets of London in opposition to the military action. According to the police, it was the largest demonstration the UK has ever known. Criticism of Tony flooded in, and there were anti-Blair slogans everywhere. The kids were badly affected. To see their father portrayed as “B-Liar” every time they left the house was upsetting, to say the least. We shielded them as much as we could, but it was difficult. They couldn’t be wrapped in cotton wool. As all this was happening, we had a warning about a threat against Euan in Bristol. I had arranged to go down to see him for lunch on his nineteenth birthday, and I remember having to ring him up and needing to be very vague. There was a change of plans, I said. He should bring some clothes and meet me at a hotel in Bristol. Once he got there, I told him what the situation was, that there had been a threat, and that he had to go to a safe house until we found out whether the threat was real.

“But what about my party?”

“I’m sorry, but the police are insisting.”

Gary was the protection officer designated to stay with him. For the first few days the two of them were cooped up in the safe house, unable to go anywhere. After that Gary went round with him until things quieted down.

The prohibition on my seeing Carole had lapsed, largely because I rarely saw her anymore outside the gym. Alastair and Fiona wanted her cast into the outer darkness, but Tony agreed that I could still exercise with her, as long as it was done well away from the public eye. Carole had recently participated in the making of a documentary film with Peter Foster. As the woman making it was one of her clients, she thought this would be her vindication. It wasn’t. Alastair was, rightly, dead against it.

The Conman, His Lover and the Prime Minister’s Wife
was broadcast in February. Watching this man who had created so much havoc in our lives was oddly gripping. On the screen he came over as a complete shyster.