Vladimir stopped at the pile of clothes he had dropped on the shore. He put on his T shirt, but left the sweater and jacket on the ground. When Sheremetev tried to put them on him, he brushed him off. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. He marched back to the Mercedes in his T shirt and settled impatiently into his seat. Everyone else scrambled into the two cars.
‘To the airport,’ commanded Vladimir. ‘These fucking Siberian woods. Honestly, why can’t we do this somewhere closer? It’s not as if we don’t have trees outside Moscow!’
Eleyekov glanced at Sheremetev. ‘Are we going to the airport now?’ he whispered. ‘You said we’d be finished by four-thirty!’
Sheremetev shook his head. ‘Back to the dacha,’ he murmured.
‘Come on!’ shouted Vladimir. ‘And call ahead. Make sure the plane’s ready to go. I don’t want to wait for some idiot of a pilot who hasn’t had the plane refuelled.’
For the first half of the drive back to the dacha, Vladimir kept shouting about getting to the airport and getting out of Siberia and making sure they scheduled these photoshoots so it didn’t take three days of his time to do them. He was getting more and more agitated. Every time Sheremetev looked back, Artur gave him a questioning glance. Sheremetev sat with the handkerchief pressed to the cut on his cheek, wondering how much more excited Vladimir was going to get and wishing he had brought an injection of tranquilliser with him in case things got out of hand. But then, for no apparent reason, Vladimir began to calm down. By the time they got back to the dacha he was sitting happily, confidentially telling Artur about various dealings he had had with foreign leaders and affectionately calling him Fedya. ‘They thought they could push me,’ he was telling him as they headed up the drive to the dacha, ‘but we knew better, didn’t we, Fedya? I was the one who pushed them! Just press the right button – a little bit of pressure in Ukraine, heat up the romance with China – and watch the westerners snarl and snap at each other as they try to organise a response.’ He chuckled. ‘Like dogs! First and foremost, Fedya, I’m a specialist in human relations. That’s what you have to be, not only if you’re a Chekist, but if you’re a politician too.’ Vladimir chuckled again. ‘Not that there’s much difference now that the undercover boys who were sent to work in the federal government have completed their mission!’
Eleyekov pulled up.
‘We’re here, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev.
‘About time!’
Sheremetev took Vladimir inside. Eleyekov and his son immediately drove off in their two armour-plated cars towards an appointment with a visiting Azeri mining billionaire who didn’t dare step into the street without a dozen uzi-wielding henchmen to protect him.
‘Do you want a hand getting Vladimir Vladimirovich upstairs?’ asked Artur.
‘Thank you, Artyusha,’ said Sheremetev. ‘He’s fine. It was just the change of scenery. It excited him a little, I think. I can manage.’
Lyosha and the other security men dispersed. Artur stayed, feeling, it seemed, that his mission wasn’t complete until he had personally seen Vladimir back to his suite. ‘You don’t want me to come with you?’
‘Thank you, Artyusha. We’re fine.’
‘It’s no trouble, Nikolai Ilyich. Being responsible for the safety of Vladimir Vladimirovich isn’t a job, it’s a privilege.’
Sheremetev smiled. ‘He’s safe, Artyusha.’
‘Well, that cut on your face, Nikolai Ilyich, make sure you get it seen to.’
‘I’ve got your handkerchief, I know. I’ll return it to you as soon as I’ve had it washed.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Just get your face seen to. It doesn’t look good.’
Sheremetev turned to Vladimir. ‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Let’s go up.’
Vladimir started up the stairs but stopped after a couple of steps.
‘Are you tired?’
Vladimir nodded.
‘Come. I’ll help you.’ Sheremetev took Vladimir’s arm and gently pulled him up.
Vladimir took a weary step.
‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. One step at a time.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want some help?’ called up Artur.
Sheremetev glanced down at him. ‘No. We’re fine. Vladimir Vladimirovich is strong, but he’s not a young man, after all.’
‘Maybe we should have an elevator installed.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sheremetev. There would be no shortage of people in the dacha who would be in favour of the idea, he thought, each hoping to take a cut of the cost. He turned back to Vladimir. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we, Vladimir Vladimirovich? One step at a time…That’s it. Another step… After such an outing, it’s natural to be tired. We’ll have a rest when we get to your room… That’s it… Another one…’
The security man watched them ascend the staircase. The old man who had stood bare-chested in the forest with his arms raised in the mime of holding an axe, giving orders, telling everyone what to do, just like the head of state he had once been – suddenly he was reduced to this. A step, then a rest… A step, then a rest…
Sheremetev and the ex-president got to the top and slowly disappeared from view.
Artur felt a tug on his arm. He looked around to find Stepanin standing beside him.
The cook glanced right and left, then leaned closer. ‘A word in your ear, Artyusha.’
The cut on Sheremetev’s face continued to bleed. When he finally got a chance to take a look in a mirror, he saw a gash about five centimetres long running over his cheekbone. He washed it clean. The edges of the skin were ragged and gaping. Every time he managed to staunch the bleeding, a facial movement would open the wound and restart it. When Vladimir’s dinner arrived, he sat feeding him with one hand while pressing a piece of gauze on the cut with the other.
He needed stitches. Sheremetev phoned Dr Rospov, the local doctor who was contracted to provide day-to-day care to Vladimir between the visits of the grand professors from Moscow, and told him that there had been a minor accident and some stitches were required. When he arrived, the doctor wasn’t too pleased to discover that it was Sheremetev who needed attention. Sheremetev took him to a suite on the upper floor, adjacent to his bedroom, explaining that he had had an accident.
‘You should have gone to the hospital,’ said the doctor brusquely, rubbing at Sheremetev’s cheek with an iodine-soaked swab.
‘I can’t leave Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ replied Sheremetev through teeth gritted against the pain of the doctor’s cleansing.
Rospov grunted. He finished cleaning the wound and then drew out from his bag the implements he would need to suture it. He pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘This’ll hurt,’ he announced, and injected the skin around the cut with local anaesthetic.
Sheremetev winced at the sting.
‘Hold still! There. I’ll give it a minute to let it work.’
The doctor looked around the room as he waited for the anaesthetic to take effect. Rospov was a plump, generally amenable type. He wasn’t often needed at the dacha, but Sheremetev had got to know him over the years. Already, Sheremetev could see, his irritation at being called out was dissipating. Besides, he would probably be charging a hefty fee.
‘How’s that?’ said the doctor, touching Sheremetev’s cheek with the tip of a pair of scissors. ‘Feel anything? Numb?’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘Okay. I’ll tidy it up first.’
He trimmed the ragged flaps of the wound with a pair of scissors, leaving the edges straight and clean. Then he sat back, examining his handiwork, made another couple of snips, and put the scissor down.