Eleyekov glanced questioningly at Sheremetev.
‘Just keep going,’ said Sheremetev quietly.
AT THE LAKE, ARTUR jumped out of the Mercedes to make sure the situation was safe before Sheremetev helped Vladimir out. Behind them, the other guards got out of the Range Rover.
‘Where do you want to walk?’ said Artur to Sheremetev.
‘What difference does it make?’ muttered Eleyekov, leaning against the car. He pointed at his watch. ‘No more than an hour, Nikolai Ilyich. Remember what we said.’
‘We’ll go for as long as Vladimir Vladimirovich wants,’ retorted Artur. He turned to Sheremetev. ‘As long as he wants, Nikolai Ilyich. Don’t rush.’
Eleyekov said nothing to that. Sheremetev smiled. At least there was someone else who wasn’t here only to see how much he could extort from the ex-president. Artur was unfailingly polite, concerned only with doing his job and making sure Vladimir was safe. It was a matter of pride for him, Sheremetev knew, and he could tell that the question of money was irrelevant. Having Artur around on the outing did something, at least, to lessen the aftertaste that the previous day’s revelations had left.
‘Which way do you want to go?’ asked Artur again.
Sheremetev looked around. The scenery on both sides of the lake was similar. Here and there a few other people were visible. Either way would do. Randomly, he pointed right.
Artur sent Lyosha off with another guard to move away a few people who were walking there, while the other two men followed a short distance behind once Sheremetev and Vladimir set off with Artur beside them.
The wind was blowing fresh across the water. On the birches, the leaves were just beginning to turn, lighting up the forest along the shore with daubs of flame.
‘I was here last week, you know,’ said Vladimir, after they had gone a hundred metres or so.
‘It’s very pleasant, isn’t it?’ said Sheremetev.
‘Yes. Very. Am I going to swim?’
‘Not today, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Dive?’
‘No.’
Vladimir looked around. ‘No cameras today?’
‘It’s just a walk. Just a chance to get some fresh air.’
Vladimir took a few more steps. ‘This is ridiculous! Did I ask for fresh air? I’m too busy. Where’s Monarov? Did Monarov come?’
‘Just enjoy the walk, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev.
‘Tell me, honestly, do you think he’s plotting against me? I hear things about Monarov. Doesn’t think I’m up to it any more. Lately, he hasn’t been the same. They’re all scared. That’s the problem. They know there’s only me between them and the abyss. As soon as they think the ship’s sinking, they’ll be off, like rats. I should have got rid of them when I could. I still can. It’s not too late. I’ll just —’ He stopped himself, and glanced cunningly at Sheremetev. ‘Get them all together. Monarov, Luschkin, Narzayev, Serensky. Get them in one place. Organise it today.’ Suddenly he glowered at Artur, his eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you? Do I know you? What’s your name?’
‘Artur Artyomovich Lukashvilli, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Lukashvilli? Georgian?’
‘My father’s Georgian.’
‘And the mother?’
‘She’s from Chelyabinsk.’
Vladimir grunted. He watched him suspiciously for a moment longer, then turned his head and gazed along the forested shore of the lake. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and struck a proprietorial pose with his hands on his hips. Thirty metres away in each direction, the two pairs of security guards stood at the ready. Further along the shore, the people who had been shepherded off by the agents were gazing in his direction, perhaps recognising their ex-president, perhaps wondering who it was who was being protected by all these men.
‘When we gave you Georgians a spanking,’ he said suddenly to Artur, ‘President Bush was like a hurt little child. That man, he was an idiot. The minute I met him, I knew I could twist him round my finger. He said he could see into my soul. What a magician! A man who can see what isn’t there. The Americans give themselves a man like that for president – and then they have the gall to blame me when things don’t go the way they want! Well, let’s not forget the promises they made to Mikhail Sergeyevich, and to Boris Nikolayevich, and to me, to my face – and they broke them, one after the other. Didn’t they? Everyone knows it!’ He smiled slyly. ‘If you want to play that game, lads, if you want to play it with Vladimir Vladimirovich, then watch out for what you’ll get back! Isn’t that right? That’s what that idiot Bush should have seen if he had such great eyesight.’ He looked around at the trees fringing the lake. ‘Are there bears in this forest?’
‘I doubt it, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev.
‘Am I hunting today? Where’s the gun?’
‘Not today.’
‘Am I fishing?’
‘No.’
‘Riding?’
‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Then what am I doing here? Where are the cameras? Are they hidden? Why hide them? Shall I take my shirt off?’
‘No.’
‘People love that stuff!’ Vladimir began to pull at his jacket.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich—’
He threw the jacket at Sheremetev. The zipper whipped his cheek viciously, drawing blood.
Now the black turtleneck was coming off.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich!’ said Sheremetev, reaching for him. ‘You don’t need—’
Vladimir threw his elbow as he struggled with the sweater, catching Sheremetev in the face and tearing open the wound from the zipper. Sheremetev stumbled over a stone and ended up flat on his back. Vladimir pulled the sweater over his head and dropped it beside him.
Artur glanced from one man to the other.
‘It’s alright,’ said Sheremetev, clambering to his feet.
‘Here,’ said Artur, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘That cut looks bad.’
Sheremetev pressed the handkerchief to his cheek and it came away red with blood. The two pairs of guards standing on either side along the shore had come closer at the sight of the disturbance. Artur held up his hand to them.
Vladimir pulled off his T shirt. He puffed himself up, the once powerful chest and arms that he had showed off so vainly to the world now scrawny and diminished, the gold cross that his mother had given him hanging in the cleavage of wrinkled skin between his pectorals.
‘Where are the cameras?’ He smiled knowingly. ‘I know! In the trees. Telephoto lens. Ah, yes, now, I can see them.’ He stood proud and turned slowly from one side to the other, giving his phantom photographers time for a shot of him against the background of the lake. Then he walked towards the trees.
Lyosha and the other guards came running from either side.
Artur glanced at Sheremetev. ‘Do you want us to get him?’
Sheremetev didn’t reply, pressing with the handkerchief on his lacerated cheek. They all stood, watching. Vladimir was bending down, trying to lift a fallen trunk. It was too heavy. He tried another and managed to drag it a couple of metres. He stopped and posed with it, one end of the tree raised in his arms, elbows flexed to show his biceps, chin raised.
‘What the fuck is he doing?’ whispered one of the guards.
‘Posing for the camera,’ replied Sheremetev.
‘Where? Which camera?’ said the guard, smoothing down his hair.
‘Bring an axe!’ shouted Vladimir. ‘I’ll show my woodsman’s skills. It’ll make a good picture. Come on! An axe!’
‘I think they forgot to bring it,’ called out Sheremetev, taking a few steps towards him.
‘Idiots! Well they can put it in later. They can say I cut down the tree. I don’t want anyone saying they planted the log here like it was some kind of pot.’ Vladimir dropped the trunk and posed with arms up and hands clenched around an imaginary axe. He struck another couple of manful poses, swinging, chopping, then tossed the invisible implement aside and strode purposefully out of the forest. ‘Okay. Enough! Show me the shots and I’ll choose the ones to use.’