‘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. Water 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?