Even the vegetable dishes had meat. Barkovskaya took one look and walked out of the dining room.
Meanwhile, Sheremetev ruminated about what he should do, conscious that every day that passed was another day for Pasha in jail. The money he had under his bed was a bigger sum than he had ever physically held before, but it wasn’t enough. A drop in the ocean.
Heavy rain had fallen through the morning. In the afternoon, the clouds cleared and Sheremetev took Vladimir out for his walk. The plastic of the greenhouses, normally so drab and ugly, sparkled with sunlight refracting through the raindrops. Vladimir headed for them enthusiastically.
Sheremetev followed. He had no desire to run into Goroviev again. Sheremetev still couldn’t work out what had happened the night Vladimir disappeared from his room. How was it that he had ended up sitting with Goroviev on the exact same bench where they had sat before? He had begun to wonder whether the gardener had taken Vladimir from his suite, although how he would have got up there and then smuggled Vladimir out past the guard in the lobby, Sheremetev didn’t know. Unless the guard was asleep. That wasn’t unlikely, to judge from the length of time it took him to answer the phone, but would the gardener still have been able to get the ex-president up and out without being detected, not least by Sheremetev himself, who would surely have been woken by noise from the baby monitor? And why would he take him? To talk? Something worse? Had Sheremetev, by finding them, interrupted some long-planned act of revenge? Or had the gardener really just happened to find him, calm him, warm him with his coat, wait with him until he was found? This same gardener who had confessed that there was a time when, if he could have got his hands on Vladimir, he would have strangled him.
They went into a greenhouse full of tomatoes and strawberries. There was no sign of Goroviev, but half a dozen labourers were at work. Vladimir smiled at them approvingly and encouraged them to keep at it. They stared back at him solemnly.
The next greenhouse, full of cucumbers just beginning to swell below yellow flowers, was deserted. Vladimir moved slowly along the beds, occasionally putting out a hand to brush at the blooms.
Sheremetev’s mind went back to his dilemma. Was there an inventory of the watches? If he took more, would he be caught?
There was no one else here, just him, the flowers and Vladimir, and Vladimir was no more likely than the flowers to remember anything he said.
They walked on, past plant after plant.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ Sheremetev blurted out, ‘who knows about your watches?’
Vladimir said nothing.
‘Your watches!’
‘My mother gave me a watch when I was ten,’ murmured Vladimir. ‘Not a bad watch. Sometimes I still wear it when I see her. Mother likes to see it on me. Do you know my mother?’
‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘That’s a shame. Next time she comes, I’ll make sure you meet her.’
‘What about your other watches? The ones you have in the cabinet?’
‘A man only needs one watch, you know. One watch is enough for a man for his whole life, if it’s a good one, and if he looks after it.’
Sheremetev raised an eyebrow. Could there be a more incongruous philosophy, coming from a man who had a cabinet such as the one in Vladimir’s dressing room. ‘I mean the other watches, Vladimir Vladimirovich. The Rolexes, the Hublots . . .’
Vladimir laughed. ‘Just by looking at a watch, I can have it. Have I ever told you about the time Dima Kolyakov came to get my permission for the new ring road? That was the best one! In he comes and he’s sitting there with a Vacheron Tour de l’Ile, and he’s playing with it smugly – it’s obvious he just got it – and I just look at it, and a minute later, he’s trying to get it off his wrist!’ Vladimir chortled. ‘He’s shitting himself to get it off his wrist, so I say, don’t worry, Dima, I’ve got two already. You should have seen his face! Anyway, the next day, he sends it to me, with a note that says: Why have two when you can have three? Huh? What do you think of that?’
‘What is that worth, such a watch?’
‘Which watch?’
‘The one you just talked about.’
Vladimir looked at him blankly.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, you mentioned a Vacheron something.’
‘A Vacheron something? What Vacheron something?’
‘You gave it a name.’
‘Did I?’ Vladimir peered at him suspiciously. ‘A name? What name are you talking about?’
Sheremetev wondered if this was mischief or dementia. Sometimes it was hard to tell. ‘A Vacheron watch, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘What about it?’
‘Dima Kolyakov gave it to you.’
‘How do you know? Were you there? That’s a slander, do you understand me! No one ever gave me anything!’
Sheremetev clenched his fists in exasperation. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, who knows about the watches?’
‘Now, it’s true my mother gave me a watch. Did I ever tell you about that? I was ten, and I came home and —’
‘The watches!’ yelled Sheremetev, his frustration bursting out of him. He grabbed the old man by the shoulders. ‘Who knows about the watches? Is there a register? Is there an inventory? Does anyone have it? Barkovskaya?’
Vladimir looked at him in confusion.
‘Does she? Does Barkovskaya have it?’
Vladimir kept staring at him with the same fearful look.
Sheremetev let his hands drop. He gazed down at them for a moment, appalled at what he was doing. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s go back, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
THAT NIGHT, AFTER VLADIMIR was asleep, Sheremetev stood in front of the open doors of the watch cabinet. He felt clammy and nauseated, unable to move, as if in the presence of some sacred altar or relic imbued with a majestic, ineffable power. Eventually he reached forward and pulled out one of the trays. Three rows of faces stared back at him, mostly white or silver. Amongst them was one green one. Sheremetev stared at it, mesmerised.
He had no idea of the value of any of these watches. The only one about which he had even the slightest sense was the one Dr Rospov had seen on Vladimir’s wrist, but Sheremetev didn’t dare take that one to the shop off the Arbat, for fear that, if anyone suspected that he had stolen the watches, Rospov would be able to testify that that one, at least, had still been in Vladimir’s possession as recently as this last week. Sheremetev certainly had no awareness of the true difference in the price of the watches in the cabinet, the fact that some, from the early days of Vladimir’s rule, were worth mere tens of thousands of dollars, and others a million. In his mind they all fell into the same category, objects that had fallen into his path out of an alien realm of barely imaginable wealth.
He heard a noise from Vladimir’s bedroom. Sheremetev switched off the light in the dressing room and listened. Vladimir was murmuring, but not aggressively. Sheremetev poked his head around the doorway. Vladimir was sitting up in the bed, gazing ahead. The glow from the night light was yellowish and low.
‘Yes, Mama.’
As Sherememtev watched, Vladimir frowned slightly.
‘Of course, Mama.’
His mother looked at him seriously. ‘Vova, Papa and I have decided that you’re old enough. But a watch isn’t a toy, do you understand?’
‘I understand, Mama.’
‘You have to look after it. You have to take care of it. If you break it, there won’t be another one. It’s very expensive, Vova. Papa and I have saved and saved to get it for you, because you make us very proud, and we love you. But you have to take care of it, Vova. Will you do that?’
‘Yes, Mama. Can I put it on now?’
His mother smiled. ‘Of course. Let me help you.’
She unclipped the clasp of the linked metal band and slid it over his wrist, then clipped it fast.
‘Papa shortened it for you. See? It fits just right. When you get bigger, he’ll make it bigger again. Now, you have to learn
how to open and close it.’
She showed him how to use the clasp, and he practised it a couple of times. He looked up at her with a smile.
She ruffled his hair. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it, Mamochka! A Poljot! They’re the best!’
He gazed at the watch in delight, taking in every detail. It had a white face and slender gold hour and minute hands. Twelve and six were marked in gold numbers, and the other hours by narrow gold rhomboids. The second hand was an almost impossibly thin reed, and around the outside of the dial the seconds were marked and divided into fifths, and every fifth second was marked with its number. Two other timer dials were set into the face. Just under the number twelve, in slender black letters, was the word Poljot.
‘This is the best watch in the world, Mama! I won’t break it ever! And I won’t lose it, I promise. I’ll always have it.’
Vladimir’s mother smiled. ‘That’s good, Vova. My father, your grandfather, only ever had one watch. His papa gave it to him when he was a boy, and he kept it all those years. He still had it the last time I saw him. That was before the siege. He used to say, a man only needs one watch for his life, if it’s a good one, and if he looks after it.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘And your papa’s father, did you know he cooked for Lenin? And not only Lenin, Stalin. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘That’s something to be proud of. To be able to serve a great man, that’s something, Vova. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t forget, Mama.’
‘Maybe you’ll be able to serve a great man one day, too, Vova.’
Vladimir nodded, his eyes stealing back to the wonderful watch on his wrist. ‘This is a good one, Mama! A Poljot! They’re better even than the western watches.’
‘So you’ll look after it? Do you promise?’
‘Yes, Mama. This is the only watch I’ll ever have. I’ll look after it every day.’
Vladimir’s mother leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Keep it safe, Vova. May you have it for as long as you live.’
As Sheremetev watched, Vladimir continued to sit for a minute or so, looking up slightly, then lay down again and pulled up the covers.
Sheremetev turned and went back into the dressing room, where the cabinet still stood open.
14
THE NEXT MORNING, SOON after he got up, Sheremetev called Vera. She was on a hospital shift but agreed to come to the dacha when she was finished. By three o’clock he had handed Vladimir over to her and was downstairs, with three small bundles hidden in his jacket, waiting for Eleyekov, who was off to pick up a client in Vladimir’s Mercedes and had offered to drop Sheremetev at the station.
Eleyekov drove silently down the drive. ‘Have you heard about Artur?’ he asked as they turned out of the dacha gate and onto the road.
Sheremetev nodded glumly. ‘He’s a gangster. Like everyone else here, it seems.’
‘No, I mean about what happened last night.’ Eleyekov glanced at him questioningly. ‘You don’t know, do you? Someone shot him.’
‘Artur?’
‘He wasn’t killed, but it’s not good. He’s in hospital. According to what I heard, they took three bullets out of him.’
Sheremetev was dumbstruck. This was madness. It was as if the dacha and all who lived in it were dragging themselves deeper and deeper into some kind of living hell.
‘Yeah. It’s gone too far,’ said Eleyekov. ‘Shooting Artyusha Lukashvilli! I don’t know who would have had the balls. Must be some gang from Moscow. Khazakhs . . . Chechens . . . Maybe another bunch of Georgians. Who would have thought Barkovskaya would even know such people? And what’s going to happen now?’ Eleyekov shook his head. ‘I suppose if you’re in a business like Artyusha’s, you can almost expect that something like this will happen sooner or later. But it’s only the start, Kolya. It’s going to be war. The security boys, they all work for Lukashvilli. They’re already planning something, I’m sure. If I was Barkovskaya, I’d sleep with a gun tonight.’
‘Are you sure she had something to do with it?’
‘Well, we had meat for dinner yesterday, and it came from Stepanin’s man. Someone firebombed her cousin, or whoever her supplier was. I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just an excuse. Who would go to war with the Lukashvillis for some housekeeper? Maybe some other gang has been waiting for an excuse to muscle in on Artyusha’s territory.’ Eleyekov shrugged to himself, eyes on the road. ‘Well, whether Barkovskaya’s involved in it or not, there’s going to be a war. And we’re going to be in the middle of it.’
Sheremetev sat dejectedly beside Eleyekov. There seemed to be nothing solid or wholesome left in his life at the dacha, and what he was doing – his little mission to the shop off the Arbat with more watches in his pockets – only added to his sense of misery. He wished he had never come to this dacha. He wished he never had to go back.
He thought about it. Seriously. Get on the train to Moscow and not come back. Stay with Oleg, perhaps, while he found a new job and got on his feet again.
But then he imagined the reality of it. He had told Vera he would be back by nine. Say he didn’t come back. She would have to go home to look after her children. Who would put Vladimir to bed? Barkovskaya? One of the maids? One of the security guards? Who would be there if he woke in the night? Who would know what to do with him or how to calm him? He imagined the confusion and fear in Vladimir’s eyes, no one able to take it away.
‘Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Eleyekov. ‘Did you say we’re going to the station?’
Sheremetev looked around. ‘What?’
‘The station? Is that where you said we’re going? The station?’
‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev. ‘To the station.’
THE TRAIN RIDE INTO Belorusskaya took forty minutes. It was a heavy day, the sky grey and low. The birch forests blazed with autumn fire. Normally, the sight would have lifted Sheremetev’s spirits, but not today.
From Belorusskaya, he took the metro to Arbatskaya station and came up into the Moscow evening as dusk fell. He walked quickly down the Arbat towards the alley where Rostkhenkovskaya had her shop.
He rang the bell. The door clicked and he pushed it open. Rostkhenkovskaya greeted him with a smile. Sheremetev was struck, again, by her youth, so unexpected in this mausoleum of trinkets and watches.
‘Good evening, Nikolai Ilyich. I wondered if I would see you again.’
‘Good evening, Anna Mikhailovna,’ he murmured.
‘So what have you brought me? Something interesting?’
Sheremetev reached into one of his jacket pockets and extracted two hankerchief-wrapped watches, which he laid down on the counter. He took a third out of another pocket.
Rostkhenkovskaya tried to still the slight, expectant tremble that suddenly shook her hands. ‘May I?’
Sheremetev nodded.
It wasn’t logical for Sheremetev to have brought only three watches from Vladimir’s cabinet, because he knew that three would not be enough to get Pasha out of jail, but if someone did have an inventory, perhaps they wouldn’t look too hard if only a few watches were missing. He lacked the courage to take more, and despised himself for it.
Rostkhenkovskaya unwrapped the first watch and set it on the glass of the counter. She unwrapped the second. As the third came out of its handkerchief, her heart gave a thump.
The first one that she had unwrapped was a Hublot, although not the one that Dr Rospov had seen. As Rostkhenkovskaya looked at it lying on the glass of the counter in front of her, she estimated that it was worth around seventy thousand dollars. Another, the one with the emerald face that had so mesmerised Sheremetev, was the least valuable of the three, a Bruguet worth around forty thousand. But he had hit the jackpot with the third one, a Patek Philippe by Tiffany in mint condition. It was one of the more valuable in Vladimir’s collection, given to him during his later years in office when those who could still get access t
o him knew – and if they didn’t, Zhenya Monarov soon made sure they did – that if they were going to give him a watch, it had to be something truly extraordinary. Rostkhenkovskaya knew of Patek Philippes by Tiffany, but had never actually held one. She couldn’t price it at a glance, but it would be no less than half a million dollars, and possibly more.
‘These were given to you by your uncle?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev, or thought he did – somehow the word didn’t come out. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you have more?’
‘Possibly.’
Rostkhenkovskaya didn’t point out the absurdity of such an answer. Either he had more or he didn’t, and surely he would have known what his uncle had given him – assuming there was such an uncle, or that an act of giving had actually taken place, both of which, by now, Rostkhenkovskaya doubted.
‘And if there were any more,’ asked Rostkhenkovskaya, ‘would you want to sell them too?’
‘That depends,’ said Sheremetev.
‘On what?’
‘On how much I get for these.’
‘Okay.’ Rostkhenkovskaya drew a deep breath. ‘These two,’ she said, pointing to the Hublot and the Bruguet, ‘ten thousand dollars for the pair.’ She paused for a moment. ‘This one . . .’
Rostkhenkovskaya picked up the Patek Philippe again, as if examining it once more and trying to determine a price for it. She stole a surreptitious glance at Sheremetev. Could this funny little man – could anyone – really come into possession of a Patek Philippe by Tiffany – by whatever means – and have no idea of its worth? If so, she could offer him a few thousand, as for the others, and end up with a profit in her pocket in the many hundreds of thousands. If not, and she made such an offer, he might walk away and it would be out of her hands forever – this watch and the others that he might ‘possibly’ have.
From the minute he had appeared in her shop two days earlier, Rostkhenkovskaya had believed that he knew nothing about watches. Now she doubted herself. What if he really had a collection that he – or his uncle – wanted to get rid of, very quietly, for reasons of his own, and without public notice? What if he – or the uncle – was testing her? Perhaps he could afford to give away the Rolex at the ridiculous price she had paid him. Bring her a couple more – nice watches, but not extraordinary watches – and then throw in a real prize, to see what she would do.
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 22