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 don’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?’