In July 1986, James Birch, a young London gallerist with vague designs on global domination, set offfor the Soviet Union. It was his first visit and he had no idea what to expect. Mikhail Gorbachev had been general secretary of the Communist party for one year: perestroika and glasnost were in the air (or, at any rate, in the British newspapers). But still, Moscow was a world apart. On the advice of his travelling companion, a “cultural entrepreneur” whose carpet business often took him to the USSR, Birch packed chocolate digestives, in case he found himself short of food, and cartons of Camel cigarettes, to pay the drivers he would have to flag down for a lift, there being virtually no taxis in the city.
At this point, Birch hoped…