Sheremetev listened to himself. The idea of what he was saying revolted him. Thank God, he thought, that he hadn’t had to make this choice back then. But he had, hadn’t he? He did make a choice, not even thinking as he did it, when Karinka was dying. He had been paying the bribe-takers, but hadn’t considered becoming one himself when the money ran out. Not even for Karinka’s sake. What had been wrong with him?
‘Kolya? Kolya! Are you still there?’
‘Sorry. Yes, I’m here.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘This watch, Olik, where would I go to sell it? Who would give me a good price?’
‘You don’t know anyone?’
‘Do I go around selling watches all day?’
‘You want me to help you? You definitely want to sell this thing?’
‘Yes! I dont know how much we’ll get, but whatever it is, it’s yours.’
Oleg laughed. ‘Kolya, I don’t know what to say!’
‘Don’t say anything. We’re brothers. Can you find me someone to buy the watch?’
‘Why don’t you to talk to Vasya? I would have thought this would be his kind of thing.’
‘I don’t want to get Vasya involved.’
‘But Kolya —’
‘No, not Vasya!’ Sheremetev found himself reacting viscerally against the suggestion. ‘Can you find me someone?’
‘I’ll try. If you’re prepared to sell, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Good. Give me a call when you know.’
Sheremetev put his phone away. Suddenly he found that he was shaking. He had done it – and you don’t give up fifty years of honesty just like that. But that wasn’t the thing that had sent a chill through him. It was his immediate, instinctive reaction to Oleg’s suggestion to call Vasya. No, not Vasya! What did it mean, that he felt like that? Sheremetev realised that he didn’t trust his own son.
SHEREMETEV STAYED OUTSIDE FOR a few minutes more, delaying the moment of going back inside. Two of Stepanin’s potwashers come out, carrying a big black tub between them. They stopped beside the chicken pit, put the tub on the ground, and then raised the wooden lid that covered the hole. Even from a distance, Sheremetev could smell the fetid air that immediately wafted out of it. As he watched, the two potwashers upended the tub and a spillage of fresh pink carcases tumbled in.
He went a little closer. ‘What’s going on?’
The potwashers were putting the lid back on the pit, each holding it with one hand and their nose with the other. One of them glanced at him and shrugged.
In the kitchen, Stepanin sat glumly at one of his steel benches, a glass of vodka in his hand and the bottle in front of him.
‘What happened?’ asked Sheremetev. ‘You’re throwing chickens out again.’
The cook swallowed the vodka and poured another glass without saying a word.
‘Vitya?’
‘They firebombed my supplier,’ muttered Stepanin.
‘They firebombed . . . ?’ Sheremetev was aghast. ‘Who firebombed?’
‘Barkovskaya.’
‘Barkovskaya firebombed your supplier? When? Last night? But I saw her here —’
Stepanin turned to him. ‘Not Barkovskaya herself! Someone did it for her, obviously.’
‘And they told you they were doing it for her?’
‘They didn’t need to.’ Stepanin threw back the vodka and winced at the liquor’s ferocity. ‘There are some things you don’t need to say.’ He shook his head. ‘What fuckery!’
‘Vitya,’ said Sheremetev slowly, ‘what did you do to make Barkovskaya’s cousin stop delivering chickens?’
The cook shrugged.
‘Vitya?’
‘Let’s just say someone taught him a lesson.’
‘What kind of lesson?’
‘The kind of lesson where you break a leg or two.’
‘You broke his legs?’ demanded Sheremetev in disbelief.
‘Not me personally!’
‘You got someone to do it? Are you insane? What were you thinking?’
‘What do you mean, what was I thinking? This is my future, Kolya! My dream! Everything depends on it. You understand? And that bitch Barkovskaya isn’t going to stop me!’ Stepanin picked up the vodka bottle and angrily poured again, sloshing some of the liquor on the steel bench. ‘You want some?’
‘No.’
Stepanin drank. ‘It’s simpler to be like you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Take your salary and that’s it. No complications. Of course, you live a miserable life and die in poverty, but that’s not so bad, I suppose.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sheremetev, feeling like bashing the cook over the head with the bottle.
Stepanin raised his glass in a mock tribute to Sheremetev.
Sheremetev snatched the bottle away from him. ‘It’s nine o’clock and you’re already drunk. You’re not going to be able to cook.’
Stepanin waved a hand. ‘Who gives a fuck?’ He glared at the potwashers. ‘Clean that fucking stove down, I told you! What are you waiting for? I’m going to start in a minute. And you,’ he yelled, turning his ire on one of his assistants, ‘where’s the stock, you fucking idiot?’
‘We used it yesterday, Chef!’
‘And you didn’t make more? I have to tell you every time? You moron!’ Stepanin looked back at Sheremetev. ‘See? Look what I have to work with here. A cook of my talents! Classically trained!’
‘Who did you get to teach Barkovskaya’s cousin a lesson?’ asked Sheremetev.
‘What?’
‘Who did you get to break Barkovskaya’s cousin’s legs?’
‘I don’t know if he broke his legs. It might have been his arms.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Artyusha.’
‘Artyusha? Our Artyusha? The security guy?’
‘Who else?’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Sheremetev stared, utterly lost for words.
Stepanin laughed. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you, Kolya? Have you seen the BMWs he drives? Every six months he changes it – the latest model! Even if you knew nothing, if you saw that, you’d realise something was going on. The Lukashvillis run the biggest protection racket in Odintsovo. It started with Artur’s cousin, who was shot dead in his car a few years ago by another group of gangsters. After that, Artyusha took over. When he was finished with the other gang, no one but the Lukashvillis was left in the town.’
‘But he told me he was studying to be an electrical engineer!’
‘Maybe he was. Who cares? You want to run a business in Odintsovo, you want to have a restaurant – shit, you want to take your kid for a walk – you pay Lukashvilli. In return, he keeps the cops off your backs.’
‘How does he —’
‘What do you think all these security guards are doing here, Kolya? Last night, when you needed them to find Vladimir Vladimirovich, how many of them were actually here? And they’re only some of his foot soldiers. He has plenty more. Artyusha’s got them hired out as bouncers, bodyguards, anything you like. You want security in Odintsovo, you come to Lukashvilli. You should talk to your son – he knows all about it.’
‘My son?’
‘Yes. What’s his name again?’
‘Vasya,’ whispered Sheremetev.
‘Vasya! That’s it. Vasya.’
‘He works with Artur?’ asked Sheremetev in horror.
‘No. Artur told me he talked to him one time. Sheremetev’s son, he said. Apparently he had to organise some protection for someone, down here in Odintsovo. If you do that, you have to talk to Artur.’
Sheremetev shook his head, fighting a losing battle to comprehend what he was hearing.
Stepanin laughed. ‘The ex-presidential dacha! Who would imagine that you would run a protection operation from here? But think about it. Lukashvilli’s smart. Blanket surveillance, electrified fences, a legitimate security business in case anyone ever asks why you’ve got so many thugs on your payroll . . . not that they would. You co
uldn’t ask for more.’
‘What else does he do, my son?’ whispered Sheremetev.
‘How should I know? Ask him yourself, Kolya.’ The cook paused – the look on Sheremetev’s face was almost pleading. ‘Look, from what Artur said, he sounds like he’s just one of these guys who helps people.’
‘What does that mean?’ implored Sheremetev. ‘I don’t understand.’
Stepanin sighed. ‘Say you’ve got a restaurant. Say you’ve got a really important person who’s coming to dine. This person is obviously going to have enemies. He’ll turn up with his bodyguards, of course. Fine. But you don’t want trouble. You don’t want the bodyguards to actually have to do anything. It won’t help your restaurant if something happens, and if the police somehow end up getting involved, you’ll never stop having to pay them. So you might decide you want to get some people yourself for the night just to keep away anyone who might have ideas. For that, you might turn to someone who can help you.’
‘Help you what? Find some people?’
‘Exactly. The sort of people to keep things quiet.’
‘And that’s what Vasya would do?’
‘I’m guessing, Kolya. From what Artyusha said, it sounded like it. They’re everywhere, these guys. You want one – you’ll find a dozen of them buzzing around, all stabbing each other in the back to get your business, all telling you they can find better people than the others.’ The cook grinned. ‘Your boy wasn’t involved in any of this business with Barkovskaya’s cousin, anyway, so don’t worry. He’s not in that league. That was strictly Artyusha and his boys. Of course, I had to pay, but I got a big discount, on account of the fact that I cook for him. Anything he wants, I’ll make him. He told me he had his guys smash up Barkovskaya’s cousin’s delivery van as well. An extra. I didn’t ask him to do it. He said it was on the house. That’s very decent, don’t you think?’
‘Does Barkovskaya know?’
‘Do I care? What’s she going to do about it? Fight the Lukashvillis?’
‘Well, someone firebombed your supplier.’
‘Yeah, well, I think . . . he owed Artur a bit of money.’
‘So Artur firebombed him?’
‘No, the situation wasn’t that bad. I just don’t think Artur was protecting him. If he was protecting him, no one would have touched him. Still, Artyusha won’t be happy. If anyone gets punished in Odintsovo, it’s the Lukashvillis who do it. It’s their patch.’
Sheremetev put his head in his hands. ‘Vitya, this is out of control! You have to talk to Barkovskaya.’
‘And say what? Thank you for taking away my chickens – please tell me what else you would like? In Russia, Kolya, if you show weakness in one thing, you show weakness in all.’
‘What’s your supplier going to do? Has he gone to the police?’
‘Over a firebombing? Are you crazy? Do you know how much he’d have to give them to get them on his side? Once they know there’s a feud on, for the cops, it’s like Easter and Christmas have come at once. A Dutch auction. Whoever has more money wins. They’re experts at driving up the price.’
‘I think you drive the price down in a Dutch auction.’
‘Well, then, it’s the opposite. What is that? A French auction? Hey, you fucker!’ he yelled, suddenly noticing one of the potwashers taking apart the gas burners on the stove. ‘Only I do that! I’ve told you before!’
‘So what are you going to do, Vitya?’
‘Last time, they fucked the burner up so bad I couldn’t cook on it for a week.’
‘Viktor! What are you going to do?’
Stepanin was silent, then he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t let this go. In two years, if I can keep going, I’ll have enough to open a restaurant in Moscow. Do you know how much that costs? I mean a restaurant like the one I’m thinking of. We’re talking half a million dollars, Kolya. I get that, and I’m out of here. I’m over halfway. Tell me, honestly, do you think Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to live another two years? Can you make sure of that for me?’
Sheremetev wondered if he had heard right. Stepanin needed half a million dollars – and he was over halfway! That was enough to get Pasha out. ‘You know, my nephew is still in jail.’
‘Well, if you do something so stupid, what do you think is going to happen?’ remarked Stepanin, apparently too drunk now to get the hint or to feel any embarrassment if he did.
Sheremetev watched the cook, who sat fingering his empty vodka glass in frustration. Suddenly, Stepanin reached for the bottle that Sheremetev had taken from him. Sheremetev let him have it. Drink, he said to himself. Drink yourself to death, you pig.
Everyone in Russia was selfish, thought Sheremetev. Selfish for themselves and, at best, for their family.
He felt weary and demoralised. He had always liked Stepanin, but suddenly he couldn’t care less about them. Let the cook and the housekeeper fight themselves to the death in their envy and greed. It would serve them both right.
Sheremetev stood up.
‘Tell Vladimir Vladimirovich there might not be any chicken for a while,’ muttered Stepanin. ‘I’ll try to make it up to him.’
Sheremetev had no interest in maintaining the pretence any longer for the cook’s sake. ‘Who cares? He doesn’t know what you cook him. Between mouthfuls, he forgets.’
Stepanin gazed at Sheremetev with real in pain in his expression. Good, thought Sheremetev.
That afternoon, Stepanin received a note from Barkovskaya telling him that from tomorrow he would be receiving meat from a new supplier, and if his old supplier made a delivery, he would not be paid for it. Stepanin, mincing pork and liver at the moment one of the house attendants delivered the note, tore it up in a rage and threw it in, feeding it back to Barkovskaya that evening in a terrine he made just for her.
For the rest of the household, he prepared a beef stroganoff with rice, letting everyone know it might be the last time they had meat for a while. The attendant carried a tray upstairs for Vladimir and set it out on the table in his sitting room.
Sheremetev was there when the tray arrived. He asked Vladimir if he was ready for dinner. Vladimir shrugged him off. He was too busy to be disturbed. He had just been listening to Dima Kolyakov, the billionaire, who had a plan to build a ring road for Moscow, which, frankly, the city needed like a hole in the head, as everyone knew, but which had certain benefits to recommend it, to himself at least. At a commission of twenty percent out of a cost of billions, it would be hard to say no. And then Kolyakov had to go, because Vladimir’s secretly married wife wanted to talk with the businessman about some kind of charity gala for which he and she were joint patrons, and suddenly, Grigory Rastchev was there, the KGB colonel who had commanded Vladimir when he was stationed as an agent in East Germany. After the end of the Soviet Union, Rastchev had become a member of the Russian duma for the born-again communist party and had turned into that rarest of creatures, an ex-KGB officer who wouldn’t keep his mouth shut but seemed to want no place at the Kremlin trough. One or the other, alright, but not both. In particular, he had a habit of making unwelcome remarks – many of them in print – about Vladimir’s time in the agency, some of which could be indisputably verified. Consequently – and not with any sense of pleasure – Vladimir had had to have him jailed a number of times on various charges, some of which were arguably justified. In the last instance he had been behind bars for three years.
Now Rastchev had asked to see him. Vladimir agreed. He didn’t regard himself as a sentimental man, but he thought that after all Rastchev had been through at his hands, as a fellow KGB officer he deserved at least the chance to talk to him.
And why not? Rastchev was broken. Tall, always on the lean side, he was now bald, thin and pale, like a stick of white asparagus. His nose took a leftward angle about halfway down the bridge, which hadn’t been a feature of his proboscis the last time Vladimir had seen him, and he doubted it had been put there by a plastic surgeon. Rastchev had obviously served real jail time.
‘So?’ said Vladimir. ‘What can I do for you, Grigory Markovich?’
‘I’m finished, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ replied Rastchev. ‘I can’t take any more. From now on, you don’t have to worry about Rastchev.’
Tactfully, Vladimir didn’t point out that he had never really worried about Rastchev, only found him an irritant, the more so because Rastchev had never seemed to take a hint and had forced Vladimir to have him incarcerated, which was the last thing he wanted to do to a man who had mentored him through his early days as a foreign agent.
‘Why do you say you’re finished?’
‘I’m weak . . . this last spell inside . . . I couldn’t take that again.’
‘Did they treat you badly?’
‘Don’t you know, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ asked Rastchev insinuatingly.
‘I only know what I’m told. If anyone mistreated you, give me their names and I’ll personally see to it that they answer for any irregularities according to the strictest dictates of the law. You have my word as the president of Russia.’
Rastchev gazed at him, one old Chekist to another, knowing exactly what that pledge was worth.
Vladimir smiled. ‘Grisha, what can I tell you? You’re on the wrong side of history. You chose to look backwards – I choose to look forward.’
‘Is it wrong to want the best for the people?’ demanded Rastchev, with a little of the old fire showing in his eyes. ‘Is that what you call looking backwards? Is it wrong to renounce corruption, graft, embezzlement, propaganda, lies, deception and outright intimidation?’
‘Renounce? Of course – privately renounce what you want. But denounce? No. Besides, what kind of a communist do you call yourself if you renounce those things?’
‘A communist like Lenin! Everything that came after him was gimmickry and distortion.’
‘That’s a lot of distortion,’ mused Vladimir. ‘Seventy years. And I’m not sure if I’d call the gulags gimmickry.’
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 19