Goroviev put down his tools. ‘Good morning, Vladimir Vladimirovich. How are you today?’
Vladimir didn’t answer.
‘We’re going for a walk,’ said Sheremetev.
Goroviev smiled. ‘I can see. And yourself, Nikolai Ilyich? All is well with you?’
‘All well, thank you. Yourself, Arkady Maksimovich?’
‘All well. We have some flowers in the next greenhouse. Roses. They’re in wonderful shape – tomorrow we’ll cut them. Would Vladimir Vladimirovich care to see?’
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ said Sheremetev.
Vladimir was frowning, as if in concentration, but he didn’t reply.
‘Let’s go and see,’ said Sheremetev.
He gave Vladimir a nudge and they walked with Goroviev out of a door beside the incoming shaft of one of the heaters. For a moment there was a shock of fresh air – not at all cool for October, but momentarily bracing after the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse – and then Goroviev opened another door and they were inside again. Warmth and humidity hit them. Sheremetev wondered if Vladimir was too hot in the suit in which he had dressed him, but the ex-president ignored the question when Sheremetev asked him.
An enveloping scent of flowers filled the greenhouse, almost too heady. Roses bloomed. Down the length of the tunnel, sections of one type of flower followed another in banks of colour.
‘These are Empress Josephines, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ explained Goroviev as he led them past fragrant buds of deep pink. ‘A very classical rose. They were first cultivated for the wife of the emperor Napoleon in the nineteenth century. They’re much in demand again.’ He stopped, pulled out a pair of small secateurs, snipped off a stem with a perfect bud and expertly removed the thorns before handing the bud to Vladimir.
‘I’ll give this to Marishka,’ said Vladimir.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Goroviev. ‘Come, Vladimir Vladimirovich, let’s look at some others.’
The gardener led them past other beds of roses, each time patiently explaining the provenance of the variety and stopping to select a prime bud for Vladimir.
‘Would Vladimir Vladimirovich care to see something else?’ asked the gardener when they came to the end of the greenhouse.
Sheremetev glanced at Vladimir to see if he was getting tired. If Vladimir reached a certain point of fatigue, he might decide that he needed a nap and would simply refuse to go on. There had been times when he had simply dropped to the ground and Sheremetev had had to call a contingent of security men to carry him back – which Vladimir usually resisted. Then it would be a question of giving him an injection of tranquilliser or letting him sleep where he had dropped for an hour or two. That wasn’t such a bad thing in the summer, but it was a different matter if they were out for a walk in January with the snow a metre high on either side of the path.
Vladimir didn’t look tired yet, but it had been a turbulent night, and the doctors’ visit had meant that they had started their walk later than normal. Sheremetev checked his watch. Lunch wasn’t far away. Hunger was another thing he had to watch out for.
‘I think we might go back,’ said Sheremetev. ‘Do you want to go back now, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Vladimir shrugged.
‘I think we’d better go.’
‘Goodbye, then, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Goroviev.
Suddenly Vladimir looked at him probingly. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a gardener, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir stared at Goroviev a moment longer. Then the energy went out of his gaze and he grunted and turned away.
Sheremetev led Vladimir back towards the dacha. As they came in sight of the house, he saw Stepanin pacing around on the grass behind the kitchen. Even from a distance, the cook looked agitated. He marched up and down like a caged animal, head bowed, one fist clenched, a cigarette clutched in the other. Suddenly he stopped and kicked out at a branch that lay on the ground, sending it flying.
The cook was given to explosions of rage, Sheremetev knew, but normally a good shout at one of the potwashers was enough to mollify him.
Suddenly Sheremetev looked around. Vladimir had kept walking. He hurried to catch up.
UPSTAIRS, THEY WENT BACK to the sitting room, where Vladimir’s lunch would soon be brought.
‘Shall we get changed out of your suit?’ said Sheremetev.
‘Why?’ demanded Vladimir. ‘I won an election in this suit.’
‘I know, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Do you think the election was rigged? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No.’
‘Seventy-two percent!’ said Vladimir, his voice rising. ‘On a turnout of seventy.’
‘Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir gazed at him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Get Monarov.’
‘I don’t think Monarov’s —’
‘Get him! I’m waiting.’ He tapped on his watch portentously.
‘Would you like to sit at the table, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ said Sheremetev. ‘It’s almost time for lunch.’
‘Good. Here he is.’
‘There’s no one else here, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Monarov, have you eaten?’
‘No,’ said Monarov.
Vladimir laughed, rubbing his hands.
Dishes of caviar, herring, roe and pickles were laid out on the table. Monarov took a spoonful of caviar and ate it neat, chasing it with a glass of vodka, as he liked to do. Vladimir did likewise, spilling a little of the caviar on his jacket sleeve as he raised the spoon. He brushed it away. ‘Shit!’ he said, looking at the stain it had left.
Monarov laughed.
‘Caviar never comes out,’ muttered Vladimir.
‘It’s good luck.’ Monarov filled their glasses again. ‘To another election! To all those who voted again . . . and again . . . and again . . .’
Vladimir pretended to still be angry for a moment, then they both roared with laughter.
There were few people with whom Vladimir allowed himself to be at ease – actually, no one – but with Evgeny Monarov he came closest. Monarov was a true Chekist, one of the old boys from the Leningrad KGB. He had been with Vladimir ever since he came to Moscow, filling various roles, from chief of the president’s staff to chairman of a state oil company to finance minister to head of homeland security. But whatever he was nominally doing, there was one role he had always had: handling the money. The arrangement was that he kept for himself twenty percent of Vladimir’s share, building his own not inconsiderable fortune, and, as far as Vladimir could ascertain from the various secret investigations he had ordered into him, doing it with scrupulous honesty.
Monarov took another spoonful of caviar, then stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re not happy, Vova? I can see that look on your face.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy. Thoughtful.’
‘About?’
Vladimir sighed. ‘I can’t go on forever. One more election victory, yes, but when I go, who follows? Where are the great men, Evgeny? Only a strong man can rule Russia. Where’s the next Czar?’
‘In jail,’ said Monarov, smiling. ‘Or in London. Or dead. You should know that better than anyone, Vova.’
‘Very funny.’
Monarov put the caviar in his mouth.
‘They’re in jail or in London or dead,’ said Vladimir, ‘precisely because they were not great. One way or another, they had a poor conception of the reality of Russia. Look at the oligarchs. For them, it was only about money.’
‘Kolyakov, yes. He’d do anything you said if it would get him another contract. But the others? Trikovsky? What about him?’
‘Trikovsky more than any of them! The hypocrite. A democrat, sure – a democrat once he had a television station to broadcast his propaganda and the money to buy an election. Before that, Zhenya, where was his love of democracy then? Let him rot in Switzerland, issuing his manifestoes. Wate
r off a duck’s back. Okay, then look at the liberals. They’d take us back to the days of Boris Nikolayevich. Do you remember what it was like? People forget, they have a rosy view. Chaos! Another year of it and the whole country would have been down the pan. The only smart decision the Old Man made was to get out when he did, the bloated pig.’
‘And to appoint you.’
‘And to appoint me. True. Alright, two smart decisions. At the end I couldn’t bear to look at him. I’d think: what have you done to Russia, you fucking pig? Look at the chance you had and what you did with it! I knew then it would take me years to get us back. And it did. Years! And now what’s going to happen?’
Monarov shook his head.
Vladimir noticed that others were at the table as well, Luschkin, Narzayev, Serensky, all boys from the KGB who had been with him in the Kremlin for years. Not everyone from the agencies had supported him. His old supervisor from the KGB, Grisha Rastchev, had joined the refounded communist party and had turned into a real thorn in his side, even ending up in jail on various charges over the years. That was a shame. Rastchev had helped him in his early career and Vladimir would have liked to make him rich – but you can only do so much. What can you do if the horse won’t even go near the water, let alone drink it? And not only that, but keeps yelling to the other horses that you’ve poisoned it? But the ones who had come with him, the loyal ones, they were the rocks on which his governments were erected, from whom shot out the iron fists needed to keep the opponents at bay. They had reaped the rewards. And why not? In every country, someone has to be rich. Why should Russia be an exception?
Yet none of them had the strength and the vision that he had, none of them were capable of taking his place. And besides, the boys were old now, older than him. Only Narzayev was younger.
They all agreed that there was no one. It didn’t even need to be said.
‘What can we do, Vova?’ said Serensky. ‘No one lives for ever.’
‘Who knows what our Vova can do?’ said Luschkin. ‘Maybe he’ll never die!’
Vladimir glanced at him, wondering how someone could say something so stupid. Oleg Luschkin was a big man with strong, Slavic cheekbones of which, as a fierce Russian nationalist, he was inordinately proud. A face lift had stretched his skin tight. It was almost painful to watch him smile, so close did the skin seem to be to the point of tearing across those bones of which he was so vain. He was loyal, or always had been, and had served in a series of roles for which Vladimir required someone safe, solid and unimaginative. But when people started saying things so stupid to prove their loyalty, it was time to be careful of them.
‘What about Gena Sverkov?’ suggested Narzayev.
‘Lightweight,’ muttered Vladimir dismissively, amidst chuckles from his cronies, Narzayev included. Vladimir considered that all his prime ministers, including those with whom he had alternated the presidency, were lightweights – which was the reason he had chosen them.
‘Seriously, though, Vova, Sverkov’s someone we can control. That way we can preserve your legacy.’
Vladimir knew what Narzayev meant by that – their interests. And it was no small thing. If the wrong person got his hands on the Kremlin after he was gone, there was no telling what might happen. It wasn’t just a matter of losing influence or money. In Russia, anyone could end up in jail, no matter how high they had flown, once the political wind changed. Vladimir knew that better than anyone. The most important thing was to make sure that whoever came after you wouldn’t allow any investigations to be made, as he had guaranteed to Boris Nikolayevich and his family when he had taken the throne. The difficulty in ensuring this was one of the reasons Vladimir had never dared to retire, not after the third presidency, nor even after the fourth, when he had certainly considered it.
‘Fedorov?’ said Serensky.
Vladimir snorted. ‘Too liberal.’
‘Repov?’
‘He hasn’t been the same since the plane crash.’
‘Well, if we can’t find someone, the risk is it’ll be Lebedev.’
Vladimir was silent.
‘He’s so corrupt himself he couldn’t come after any of us,’ said Serensky. ‘At least that’s one thing. Every pie there is, he’s had his finger in it.’
‘Lebedev has rotten values,’ said Vladimir. ‘He turns the order of things on its head. Lebedev’s only after money and power, and the greatness and stability of Russia is merely a means to that end. In that situation, chaos follows. Why is there no chaos now? Because I’m dedicated to the greatness and stability of Russia, and money and power – if there is any – follow from that.’
There was quiet for a moment, then Luschkin burst out laughing. Vladimir silenced him with a glance.
Yet Vladimir had a haunting, taunting feeling that it would be Lebedev who would succeed him, this man who, alone amongst all the others, he had somehow failed to cut off at the knees, that somehow it was inevitable, just as it had been inevitable in the last days of the Soviet era that Boris Nikolayevich would somehow rise up and overthrow Mikhail Sergeyevich once Mikhail Sergeyevich had turned him out of his government. That was why Vladimir kept bringing Lebedev into the Kremlin, loathe him though he did. But that wasn’t a solution. Deep in his gut, Vladimir had a horrible premonition that somehow Lebedev would find a way up after he had gone. Maybe not at once. Maybe Vladimir would be able to determine who succeeded him at first, but after that, he knew, his grip on the Kremlin would loosen. At the first election, Lebedev probably wouldn’t even run. Another few years of putting more money away, buying more supporters, strutting the stage as Uncle Kostya, everyone’s favourite relative . . . and then he would strike.
‘I should write a testament,’ said Vladimir grimly. ‘Like Lenin. “Anyone but Lebedev.”’
‘Didn’t do much to keep Stalin out,’ observed Narzayev.
Vladimir looked around disconsolately. ‘Lebedev will drag Russia into the mud. After me we need . . .’
The four men watched him, wondering what he was going to say. But he had no words for it. After him, he wanted to say, Russia needed another him.
‘Well, you’ve got another six years before you need to worry about that,’ said Monarov. ‘Tonight, let’s enjoy what you’ve achieved.’ He raised his glass. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, our president for the fifth time: To your health!’
They drank.
Then they put down their glasses. Suddenly they looked older, greyer, anxious. Vladimir knew there was something wrong. What was it? Why had they all come to see him?
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Monarov. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘I’m the elected president! I have another year to serve!’
‘Yes. And now it’s time to go.’
He looked around at the others. Luschkin, Narzayev, Serensky, they all stared back at him, faces grim.
‘Vova, we came to see you together, so you wouldn’t suspect that any one of us was plotting. We all agree. You can’t go on. People are noticing.’
‘What?’ demanded Vladimir. ‘What are they noticing?’
‘I just told you.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I did. See, you can’t remember.’
‘I can! I can remember everything!’
‘You’re forgetting things all the time.’
Was he? There seemed to be words in his head, something that he had just been told, floating somewhere in there, but he couldn’t quite grasp them. ‘That’s a lie!’ he shouted. ‘You just want to get me out!’
‘Vova, we’re your friends. Your most loyal friends. Resign now. Put in Sverkov —’
‘Sverkov’s nothing. Sverkov’s a piece of stuffing you put here, you put there, wherever there’s a hole you want to fill.’
‘Put in Sverkov, Vova, and he’ll win us the next election. That way we keep Lebedev out for at least the next six years.’
‘No.’
‘Every day you stay, Lebedev gets stronger.’
‘I d
on’t care. I control Russia. I control the money, I control the agencies —’
‘Actually, Vova, that’s not quite true. You remember the decrees you signed?’
‘What decrees?’
‘The decrees,’ said Monarov.
Vladimir looked around. Luschkin, Narzayev and Serensky were gone. ‘What decrees?’ he cried.
‘The decrees,’ said Monarov.
‘What decrees?’ he cried in panic. ‘Zhenya? What did I sign? I can’t remember! What decrees?’
Monarov was gone too now. Then Vladimir remembered that Monarov was dead. Yes, he had been to his funeral. And yet there he had been sitting in the chair, eating caviar by the spoonful!
He frowned in confusion.
‘What is it, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ asked Sheremetev, who had come back from the dressing room with a set of casual clothes in case he could persuade Vladimir to change.
‘Who are you?’
‘Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Are you hungry?’
Vladimir looked at him suspiciously. ‘Yes, I’m hungry.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Here’s lunch,’ said Sheremetev.
He went to the door. One of the house attendants was standing outside with Vladimir’s lunch.
‘Is everything alright in the kitchen?’ asked Sheremetev, taking the tray, still struck by the glimpse he had caught of Stepanin pacing around on the grass outside the dacha.
The attendant shrugged.
‘With the cook? Is he alright?’
‘I didn’t see the cook,’ muttered the attendant. ‘They just gave me the food.’ He stood for a moment longer. ‘Can I go now?’
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 6