Sheremetev didn’t reply, wondering glumly if the times they were living in were really no better than those of the two terrible autocrats Eleyekov had mentioned.
The driver stole a glance at him. ‘Tell me something, Nikolai Ilyich. Seriously . . . Vladimir Vladimirovich . . . How long do you think he’ll live?’
Sheremetev closed his eyes, revolted by the question. They were all the same, every single person in the dacha. The only thing they cared about was how long the feast would go on, like fish gorging themselves on a whale’s flesh even while the whale was still alive.
Then Sheremetev thought of why he was in this car and what he carried in his pocket and of his thoughts last night: week by week, sell a watch, build up a nest egg . . . How much better was he?
‘You’re a nurse, Nikolai Ilyich. You’ve seen this before. How much longer? What do you think? Six months? A year?’
‘You never know,’ murmured Sheremetev. ‘He could go on for a long time.’
‘Really?’ said Eleyekov, a note of relief in his voice. ‘Because I had a friend who told me, once they lose their marbles, it’s quick after that.’
‘No. It’s all about how strong the heart is.’
‘And how strong is his heart?’
Sheremetev shrugged. ‘Any one of us could go at any time, Vadim Sergeyevich. You or me included. That’s all I know.’
Eleyekov glanced at him for a moment, then laughed.
Sheremetev gazed out the window. Already they were at the outskirts of the town. He watched the first apartment blocks pass by on either side.
He really was amazed that Stepanin had given in. But in the end, what else could he do?
Well, the feud between the cook and the housekeeper was over, and in another couple of hours, he would have the money to set Pasha free.
THE RITUAL OF PRESSING the bell, hearing the click of the lock and then pushing open the door was becoming familiar now. From the back of the shop emerged Rostkhenkovskaya, this time wearing a black pinafore dress and a silver brooch in the shape of a bird of some sort.
‘Good evening, Nikolai Ilyich,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’
Sheremetev reached into his pocket, produced the usual handkerchief-wrapped bundle, and laid it on the counter.
Rostkhenkovskaya unwrapped it. A smile played on her lips as she examined the Patek Philippe. ‘Just wait a moment please.’
She left the watch on the counter and disappeared into the back of the shop. When she returned she was accompanied by a large man with brown eyes and wavy dark hair in a well-cut, pinstriped suit.
‘Nikolai Ilyich, this is Aleksandr Semyonovich Belkin. He’s an expert in Patek Philippes. Given the sum of money we’re talking about, I felt I needed a second opinion. I hope that’s alright.’
‘Yes,’ replied Sheremetev. ‘It’s alright.’
‘Good evening, Nikolai Ilyich.’ Belkin extended a fleshy hand, but his eye was already on the watch. ‘Is this it?’ Without waiting for an answer, Belkin dropped Sheremetev’s hand and picked up the watch. He adroitly slotted a loupe in his right eye socket and proceeded to examine the Patek Philippe minutely, handling it as gently as if it was a newborn child. ‘Hmmm . . .’ he said. Then another ‘Hmmm . . .’ in a slightly higher register.
The expert put the watch down. He disposed of the eyepiece by releasing the contraction of his facial muscles and letting it drop, neatly catching it in the palm of his hand and secreting it in a pocket. Then he glanced at Rostkhenkovskaya and gave her a nod. He turned to Sheremetev. ‘A beautiful watch, Nikolai Ilyich. You know, there are very few of this particular watch known to be made. We’re talking about fewer than forty. Of those, I know who owns probably fifty percent – in Russia, probably all of them. If any of the owners wanted to sell, I’d be the first person they’d consult. But you, Nikolai Ilyich, I don’t know.’
‘It was my uncle’s,’ said Sheremetev.
‘So I must know your uncle.’
Sheremetev didn’t reply.
The expert watched him closely, a half smile on his face. ‘Anna says you sold her three more watches. Not quite in this class, but not bad ones. That’s quite a collection, Nikolai Ilyich.’
‘My uncle was very generous.’
‘And still is, it seems.’
Sheremetev didn’t say anything to that.
‘Listen, Nikolai Ilyich, what else do you have . . . or should I say, what else might he be inclined to give you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. I thought you were going to bring more.’
‘No.’
‘Your uncle has no more?’
‘He has more but they’re —’
‘But he has more?’
Sheremetev didn’t like the look in the expert’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. This is what I’ve got. This is what I’d like to sell. That’s it.’ He glanced at Rostkhenkovskaya.
She smiled slightly.
‘The thing is,’ said Belkin, ‘what you bring is of such high quality, and of such demand amongst our customers, that we’d like a little more.’
We, thought Sheremetev, increasingly uneasy. Who was we?
‘I only have what I have,’ he said.
‘We could give you a commission,’ continued Belkin, as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘Say, ten percent.’
‘They’re not my watches to sell.’
‘And this is?’ Belkin looked at him pointedly.
Sheremetev reached for the Patek Philippe, but the other man’s hand was quicker. He snatched the watch up and held it away from Sheremetev.
Sheremetev looked at Rostkhenkovskaya again. ‘Anna Mikhailovna, you told me you would pay three hundred thousand dollars for this watch. We had an agreement. All I’m asking for is what you promised.’
‘That was yesterday,’ replied Belkin.
‘Anna Mikhailovna!’
She shrugged. ‘Aleksandr Semyonovich is right. That was yesterday.’
Sheremetev stared at her in disbelief.
‘Things change, Nikolai Ilyich.’
Sheremetev hesitated, but nothing in Rostkhenkovskaya’s expression changed, and he finally understood that no help was going to come to him from her. Suddenly he lunged across the counter for the watch. Belkin batted him away with ease.
‘Well, Nikolai Ilyich, what do you say?’
Sheremetev was red-faced with anger. ‘Give me the watch back and I’ll think about it.’
Belkin laughed. ‘Give you the watch back, and we’ll never see you again. You need to decide now, Nikolai Ilyich. You need to decide now, and then we need to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the watches.’
Sheremetev stared for a moment, then shook his head.
‘Yes, Nikolai Ilyich. We need to go there now.’
Sheremetev glanced around the room, hurriedly considering his options. Taking these horological gangsters to the watches meant taking them to the dacha – which was impossible. Getting the watch out of Belkin’s grasp also seemed impossible, or at least unlikely. All he could do, it seemed to Sheremetev, was walk out, leave the watch and let Belkin and Rostkhenkovskaya do what they wanted with it. The idea was offensive – but in the end, what difference would it make to him? True, that would leave Rostkhenkovskaya and this reptile holding a watch they had stolen and would presumably sell for many hundreds of thousands of dollars, but so what? Personally, he would have lost nothing, since he had never had that money to start with, and more importantly, there were another three hundred watches in Vladimir’s cabinet, and surely in amongst all those others must be one or two more as valuable as this. Next time he might even look on the internet to see how much they were worth, as he should have done, he realised, from the start. And there must be other watch buyers in Moscow, and he wouldn’t make the mistake again of letting anyone think he had more than he proposed to sell them. Or perhaps he would go to St Petersburg. He was supposed to be
able to take four weeks holiday each year but he hadn’t taken a single day since moving to the dacha three years previously. He could leave Vera in charge and head off for a week with a bag full of watches.
Rostkhenkovskaya had seemed such a sweet, sympathetic girl. Well, she had taken him in completely.
Sheremetev looked at her. ‘Keep it,’ he said, and went to the door.
It was locked.
‘It wasn’t a question, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Belkin. ‘We need to go to the watches tonight.’
‘I can’t take you.’
‘I think you can.’
‘Keep that one. Isn’t it enough for you?’
‘No. Nowhere near enough.’
Sheremetev tried the door again. Behind him, Belkin was laughing. Sheremetev looked desperately around. A wooden mantle clock stood at the end of the counter. He grabbed it and hurled it through the glass door, shattering the pane and leaving razor-sharp shards hanging from the frame. He began to kick at them.
Suddenly he felt hands on his shoulders dragging him away from the door. They dumped him on the ground.
Sheremetev looked up. Above him stood five thugs in leather jackets who had materialised from the back of the shop, and behind them were Belkin and Rostkhenkovskaya. He got to his feet, angrily straightening his clothes.
‘Vasya!’ called Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘What are you doing? Come out!’
From the back of the shop, sheepishly, came a sixth man.
Sheremetev’s mouth dropped.
Vasily looked down in embarrassment. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Papa? Why don’t you just do what they tell you?’
‘Papa?’ said Rostkhenkovskaya.
‘You didn’t tell me his name!’ snapped Vasya. ‘You think if I knew who he is I’d be here?’
‘I didn’t know his name!’ replied Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘All he told me was that he’s called Nikolai Ilyich.’
‘You could have told me that!’
‘Would that have helped? How many Nikolai Ilyich’s do you think there are in Moscow?’
Vasya shook his head angrily. ‘Papa, what have you done to your face?’
‘It’s a cut,’ said Sheremetev.
‘How did you get it?’
‘What difference does it make? What are you doing, Vasya?’
‘Who gives a fuck?’ shouted Belkin. ‘I don’t care if he’s your father or your brother or your fucking mother. Nothing’s changed. We’re going! You,’ he said, pointing at Sheremetev, ‘are going to take us to the watches, or the consequences are going to be very painful.’
‘Papa,’ said Vasya, ‘whose watches are they?’
Sheremetev glared at him angrily. ‘Whose do you think?’
Vasya frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Belkin turned to Vasya. ‘Do you know whose they are?’
Vasya didn’t reply. He raised an eyebrow at his father.
‘The ex-president’s,’ muttered Sheremetev guiltily.
There was a stunned silence. For several seconds, nobody did anything. Then Belkin began to laugh. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Sheremetev nodded miserably. At least that would be an end of it now. They weren’t going to go and steal the watches from the ex-president of Russia.
But Belkin showed no sign of discouragement. He glanced excitedly at Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘I should have known. What quality! They say not a contract was signed in Russia without our President Vova getting a little watch as a gift. Tell me,’ he said to Sheremetev, ‘is he as senile as they all say?’
Sheremetev nodded again.
‘And how do you happen to —’
‘I’m his nurse,’ blurted out Sheremetev, overcome with shame.
‘His nurse! How long have you looked after him?’
‘Six years.’
Belkin tutted. ‘Nikolai Ilyich! What a betrayal – six years, and all this time you’ve been stealing from your patient!’
‘I have not!’ he replied indignantly. ‘I’ve never taken a thing before this. Now I . . . I have a reason. Vasya knows.’
‘Yes, there’s always a reason,’ remarked Belkin airily. ‘Well, if he’s as senile as you say, he won’t notice if his watches are gone, will he?’
‘You still want to go?’ demanded Sheremetev in disbelief. ‘He’s surrounded by guards. You’re crazy!’
‘Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Rostkhenkovskaya, ‘how many watches are there? Tell us the truth.’
‘I haven’t counted them.’
‘Roughly.’
‘Another half dozen, perhaps.’
Belkin threw a glance at one of the thugs. He moved closer to Sheremetev, menacingly cupping the fist of one hand in the palm of the other.
Sheremetev glanced at Vasya, but his son had averted his eyes.
‘How many, Nikolai Ilyich?’ repeated Rostkhenkovskaya.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘A couple of hundred, maybe.’
Belkin grinned. ‘That sounds more like it. A couple of hundred, probably the best couple of hundred in Russia. And no record of ownership, because every one of them was a bribe. What could be better? Be honest. How long have you been selling them?’
‘I’ve only sold the ones I brought here.’
‘Come on, Nikolai Ilyich. Really?’
‘My father’s very honest,’ said Vasya.
‘Obviously,’ observed Belkin.
‘I’ve never stolen a thing in my life! I need the money for my nephew.’
‘Pasha’s an idiot, Papa. I told you —’
‘How much do you need?’ said Rostkhenkovskaya to Sheremetev.
‘Three hund— Five hundred thousand.’
‘Five hundred thousand? Dollars?’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘Yesterday you seemed to be happy with three hundred thousand.’
‘You said you were going to give me another fifty thousand for the first one and twenty-five for the others. And I was going to sell more elsewhere. I didn’t want everything in one place.’
‘Tell us the truth. Can you take us to the watches?’
‘No. It’s impossible.’
Rostkhenkovskaya glanced at Belkin.
The expert sighed, as if what he was about to say troubled him deeply. ‘Well, in that case, Nikolai Ilyich, here’s how things are going to work. Anna is going to take the three watches you sold her to the police and tell them that you brought them and how much she paid for them, and then the police are going to come and arrest you. We, in the meantime, will keep this lovely little Patek Philippe, which Anna of course won’t mention. So the upshot is, Anna will have paid you what has she given you so far, which is how much?’
‘Thirty-two and a half thousand dollars,’ said Rostkhenkovskaya coolly.
‘Thirty-two and a half thousand dollars. The police will take that from you when they arrest you, and we’ll get some of it back after they deduct their commission. Not much, it’s true, but on the other hand, we’ll have a watch we got for free and that we’ll sell for a million dollars, which is a pretty good profit. Oh, and I forgot. You’re going to spend ten years in jail. Or . . .’ Belkin paused. ‘It could work out differently. You could find a way to take us to the watches and we could give you five hundred thousand dollars and you could do whatever you want with it, including getting this idiot Pasha out of whatever trouble he’s in, if that’s what you want.’
‘He’s my nephew,’ said Sheremetev, his voice barely more than a whisper. ‘And he’s not an idiot.’
‘Idiot . . . not an idiot . . . Who cares? What do you think of my proposal, Nikolai Ilyich? It’s your choice. Let me ask you once more: Can you take us to the watches or can’t you?’
Sheremetev tried to catch Vasya’s eye again, but his son seemed remarkably interested in scrutinising the old rings and necklaces in the nearest display case.
‘What are you going to do with the watches if I take you to them?’ asked Sheremetev at last, delaying the inevitable rather t
han really expecting an answer that would help him decide.
‘Really, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Belkin knowingly. ‘What do you think we’re going to do?’
There was silence in the shop. Belkin, Rostkhenkovskaya, the five thugs and even Vasya – surreptitiously sneaking a glance at his father – watched Sheremetev as he thought over the choice. As if he really had one.
‘When can I have the money?’ he asked quietly.
‘As soon as we’ve got the watches,’ replied Belkin.
‘Tonight?’
‘We’ve got two briefcases full of cash in the back of the shop.’
‘Five hundred thousand? I thought you were going to give me three hundred for the Patek Philippe.’
‘We thought you might bring some more,’ said Rostkhenkovskaya.
‘So now you can get us to the watches, can you?’ said Belkin. ‘Well, let me warn you. If you’ve got some plan in your head that you’re going to take us there and somehow turn us over to these guards you told us about, the story will be the same. You sold us three watches, which we’ll hand over, and you asked us to come out to value the others. Us? We bought the watches in good faith. We drove with you to wherever you were taking us without knowing where we were going. We’ve done nothing wrong. So don’t play games with us, Nikolai Ilyich, or it will end badly for you, I promise.’
Sheremetev closed his eyes. He didn’t want to play games. He just wanted this to be over. He wanted to get the money for Pasha and then . . . then get away from the dacha and the filth and corruption that seemed to ooze out of its very pores to infect everything around them and which now seemed to be oozing out of his.
He opened his eyes. Again, everyone in the room was watching him. His gaze rested on Vasya. This time Vasya met his eyes. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug.
Sheremetev turned back to Belkin. ‘Okay.’
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 25