He made no move to take the pen. ‘Perhaps there is a reason for us to talk more.’
Natalia felt a warm satisfaction; one of the early ones to collapse, she thought. ‘What reason?’
‘I know a lot of things.’
‘So does everyone else talking to us.’
‘No they don’t. Not what I know.’
‘So tell me.’ The room was becoming filled by the stink from the prison uniform.
‘You can’t show clemency, not yourself, can you? It has to come from the Federal Prosecutor.’
Natalia’s expectation wavered, off balanced by his challenge. Very briefly she considered lying but decided against it. ‘It has to come from the prosecutor.’
‘Get his agreement. I want a positive undertaking before I’ll say anything.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ rejected Natalia. ‘I haven’t got anything to go to the prosecutor with. You’ve got to tell me what you’re talking about first.’
‘No,’ refused Yatisyna.
Unspeaking, Natalia reoffered the charge sheet and the pen.
Yatisyna still didn’t take it. ‘I want to think. I won’t acknowledge the charges until I’ve had time to think.’
She’d lost it, conceded Natalia. Not for ever, but certainly today. She did have things to say at the soon-to-start conference but there was a wash of disappointment at their not being as much – or as dramatic – as she’d hoped: as impressive as Charlie insisted she had to be, in front of higher authority. ‘We can proceed without your signature. It’s only a formality.’
‘I have the right to a lawyer.’
‘At the discretion of the prosecutor.’
‘See if he’s prepared to deal.’
‘Not until I know what I’m talking about.’
Yatisyna nodded towards the tape recorder. ‘Without that next time.’ There was another head gesture, towards the guards at the door. ‘And them.’
She was going to get more, Natalia decided. It would be wrong to abandon her adopted approach. ‘I’m not going to keep coming here for nothing. Make your mind up. When you have, let me know.’ She stood, abruptly, collecting up her mostly contrived file.
‘I have a request!’
The bombast was going: he was an early breaker. ‘What?’
‘This prison overall stinks. I have the right to a clean one.’
Natalia remained standing, smirked as she again examined the man from head to toe. ‘You haven’t any rights that I don’t choose to allow you. You’re not getting any change of uniform and you’re not getting any deal. All you’re getting at the moment is a trial that will be little more than a formality and then a firing squad. No one’s frightened of you any more, Lev Mikhailovich. You haven’t got any power, can’t frighten anyone, not any more.’
The attractive wardress laughed again, exactly on cue, and Natalia decided it had been a good early morning’s work. And there was a whole day left.
In the hills was definitely best. There were a lot of places in Moscow – he personally owned a linked section of houses and apartments on Ulitza Dvorsovaya, in addition to the two mansions where no one would have dared to see or hear anything – but Silin wanted the death of Sobelov and the two shits who’d supported him to be the most dramatic example possible for everyone. Which meant making it last – for as long as Sobelov could survive the torture – so the country estate was where he’d arranged everything. Even announced, when he’d issued the summons, that it was going to be a special occasion.
Silin smiled to himslf, enjoying the irony that no one else yet knew but soon would: a far more special occasion than any of them had ever known. His people – the few Dolgoprudnaya people he knew he could trust, like Petr Markov – had called from the dacha, confirming they were already there, waiting. Confirming, too, that it was all arranged, in readiness.
The rest of the Commission would be setting out soon, Sergei Petrovich Sobelov one of them. With no idea what he was heading for – the most delicious irony of all – in that ridiculous American car, probably with the head of some girl whose name he didn’t even know gurgling in his lap.
Silin rose at the knock on the study door, almost reaching it before it was respectfully opened by Markov.
‘The cars are outside.’
‘Good.’ Silin wanted to be there at least an hour before the rest, to enjoy their unsuspecting arrival, miss nothing.
Marina waited beyond, in the corridor, neat as she always was, attentive as she always was. ‘The kitchen want to know if you’ll be back tonight.’
‘Not to eat,’ said Silin. The dinner at the dacha was going to be the highlight. The boar would probably already be cooking – prepared, certainly – and there was going to be French wine. He’d be at the head of the table and whatever happened he wanted Sobelov to be kept alive to be strapped into a chair to watch them eat what would be for him the last supper. He’d have insisted Bobin and Frolov inflict their torture on Sobelov by then, so they’d be strapped in chairs, too, on either side of the man they’d backed, knowing what was going to happen to them; shitting themselves, crying, begging for mercy, lying. Maybe he should have brought a doctor in, to keep them alive; there were a lot he could have chosen from. Too late now. A minor oversight. Didn’t affect the main objective. That no one else in the Commission – no one else anywhere – would ever dream of challenging him after today.
‘What time then?’ She kept in step with him towards the main entrance.
Silin stopped there, turning towards her, while Markov checked the street outside. He smoothed the greying hair that didn’t need smoothing, just wanting to touch her. ‘It’ll be very late.’
‘I’ll still wait up.’ She raised her face, expectantly, for him to kiss her, which he did, softly.
At Markov’s gesture Silin hurried to his customized Mercedes directly outside. There were escort Mercedes in front and behind, with four guards in each. Markov settled himself in his customary seat, beside the driver of Silin’s car. Without having to be asked, Markov raised the screen between himself and the driver and Silin, in the rear. At the same time Markov took the Uzi from the glove compartment and placed it more conveniently beside him: one of Silin’s modernizing insistences was that the Commission never carried personal weapons themselves, like the American Mafia heads never risked moving around armed. Like all the glass in the Mercedes, the screen was bullet-proof.
The Pizhma robbery had been brilliant, Silin thought. And the best part of all was that there would be more, as big or maybe even bigger. It was going to be difficult counting the money! He’d make the announcement at dinner that night, so Sobelov would hear with everyone else. So the man would die knowing it. Give them all another example of how reliant they were upon him.
The motorway crossed the outer ring road intersection and Silin looked expectantly for the Dolgoprudnaya direction signs, smiling at its familiarity. Which was something he’d have to guard against from now on, comfortable familiarity. There wouldn’t be any more nonsense again, not after today, but Silin admitted to himself that it had still been a lesson well learned. He wouldn’t relax in future, like he had in the immediate past. Today would show them and…
Silin’s mind trailed away, the thought never finished, at the blurred sight of a Mytishchi direction sign which shouldn’t have been on this road at all because it wasn’t the way to his dacha. That realization came with the awareness that this wasn’t his road at all but one he didn’t recognize. He pressed his console button, to bring down the separating screen. Nothing happened. He pressed it harder. When still nothing happened he jabbed at it again and again and then rapped at the glass behind Markov’s head. It was the electrics: something had gone wrong with the electrics. The man in front of him didn’t turn. Neither did the driver. Silin shouted, although the rear of the car was soundproofed by its protection. They still didn’t turn. Silin twisted to see that the escort car was behind, like the one in front remained with him, then hammered and shouted at the screen and tried the button again. It still didn’t work. Neither did the controls for the windows. Nothing worked.