‘Vladimir Vladimirovich has disappeared,’ said Sheremetev.
She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Mother of God! Has someone taken him?’
It hadn’t occurred to Sheremetev that Vladimir might have been kidnapped.
‘Shall we call the police?’
Sheremetev reacted strongly against the idea. ‘He’s probably wandered, Galina Ivanovna. Let’s see if we find him. I’ve been through the upper floor. We’ve got the security detail – I mean, what there is of it – looking outside. Can you check down here? And get some of the others to go outside. Eleyekov, Stepanin…’ Sheremetev paused at the look of distaste that crossed the housekeeper’s face. ‘Anyone you can rouse.’
‘What about you?’ said the housekeeper.
‘I’m going out as well!’
Sheremetev ran back upstairs, threw on a coat, slipped his feet into a pair of boots, and ran down again.
‘Here, Nikolai Ilyich!’ called the guard at the door, holding out a torch to him.
Sheremetev grabbed it. ‘Get one for yourself and follow me!’ He ran out, the security guard close behind. In the direction of the main drive, he saw the light of a torch poking into the darkness.
‘That’ll be Gorya,’ said the guard behind him.
‘Then let’s go that way.’ Sheremetev ran around to the other side of the house. Immediately he sniffed the charnel pit. He had a horrible thought. ‘Check in there,’ he called out to the guard.
‘Inthere?’
‘In case he’s fallen in. I’ll go that way.’
The gigantic grotesque sausages of the greenhouses loomed at him out of the darkness. Sheremetev ran into the nearest one. Warm, humid air hit him. The beam of his torch pried into lines of plants stretching off into the shadows, ripe aubergines hanging plump and black in the darkness.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ He ran along the lines of plants, leaves brushing at his arms, calling out his name. At the end of the greenhouse he ran out the door and headed for the next one.
Sheremetev stopped. There was a glow in the darkness, some distance away on his right. A lantern was on the ground, and two figures sat on a bench, lit from below, as in a picture out of a children’s storybook.
Sheremetev went closer, still breathing heavily from his run.
Goroviev, the gardener, was on the bench. And beside him sat Vladimir in his pyjamas, a coat thrown over his shoulders.
‘Nikolai Ilyich!’ called out the gardener.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev when he reached them. ‘Are you alright?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Goroviev.
Sheremetev peered at the gardener suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here with him?’
‘I found him sitting on this bench.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. I was trying to get him to come back, wasn’t I, Vladimir Vladimirovich? Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s too cold for you to be out like this.’
‘What were you doing here?’ asked Sheremetev.
‘I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go and do a bit of work with the tomatoes.’
Sheremetev gazed at him disbelievingly.
Goroviev smiled. ‘I’m often up at night. Ask the security guys. They’ve seen me many times.’
‘Is that your coat he’s wearing?’
Goroviev nodded.
Sheremetev made to take his own coat off with the intention of replacing the gardener’s.
‘It’s okay,’ said Goroviev. ‘Leave it with the guard in the hall. I’ll pick it up in the morning.’
‘But you’ll be cold.’
‘No. I think I’ll go back to the lodge now. The tomatoes can wait until morning.’ The gardener got up. ‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir looked at him. ‘Goodnight.’
The gardener picked up his lantern. ‘Goodnight, Nikolai Ilyich,’ he said, and walked away.
Sheremetev watched him go, dumbfounded. Was it really possible that the gardener had just happened to find Vladimir sitting here, in this place, on the exact same bench where they had all sat the previous day? That the two of them should by chance converge here at three in the morning? But otherwise, what? How else had it happened?
The gardener, who had confessed that there was a time when he would have strangled the ex-president, could have done anything he wanted to him in the time that they were sitting there. Vladimir was entirely at his mercy.
‘Are you alright, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Vladimir nodded.
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Praskoveevka.’
‘And what are you doing, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
‘What am I doing?’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Did that man who was here… did he do anything?’
‘Who was here?’
‘A gardener. Goroviev.’
Vladimir frowned. ‘You mean Boroviev, that bastard?’
‘No, Goroviev. Arkady Maksimovich.’
‘He changed his name?’
‘No.’
‘He ran away to London, the coward. If we could have got him back here, the place I would have put him would have made the gulag look like a holiday camp!’
‘Let’s go back, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s too cold to be sitting here.’
‘Do you think so? Who are you, anyway?’
‘Sheremetev.’
‘Oh. I thought you were talking about Boroviev. Do you know Boroviev?’
‘No.’
‘Boy-fucking bastard. Traitor! Pig!’
Sheremetev sighed. ‘Come, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘Still, he didn’t last long, did he? People have a habit of dying in London if they’re not careful.’ Vladimir laughed. ‘It’s that English tea they’re always drinking. There’s more than one way to make it hot!’
‘Please, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev, who had no idea what Vladimir found so funny in what he had just said. He pulled gently at his arm. ‘It’s cold. You’ll get ill. Please stand up.’
Vladimir stood. Sheremetev took one last look around the bench, shining his torch on it, then they started walking back.
Barkovskaya was waiting in the hall. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered, fingering a crucifix at her neck, as the ex-president appeared.
‘It’s okay,’ said Sheremetev. ‘Everything’s okay.’
‘Are you sure?’ Barkovskaya peered anxiously at Vladimir.
‘I’m taking him upstairs. Please let the others know that he’s safe, Galina Ivanovna.’
He guided Vladimir up the stairs and into the bedroom. Now Sheremetev took a good look at the ex-president. His pyjamas were wet and muddy, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Sheremetev took a new pair of pyjamas from the dressing room and helped Vladimir into them. Vladimir cooperated, as docile as a lamb. Sheremetev took him to the toilet, then brought him back to the bed.
The old man looked at him and smiled.
‘Are you tired, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Vladimir nodded.
Sheremetev went to the bathroom, unlocked the cabinet in which he kept Vladimir’s tablets, and came back with a sedative. After what had happened, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt for Vladimir to have an extra one. He took a glass of water off the bedside table and gave it to him. ‘Here,’ he said, turning over Vladimir’s other hand and pressing the pill into his palm. ‘Take this.’
Vladimir put it in his mouth and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of water. His Adam’s apple worked up and down noisily in his throat.
Sheremetev took back the glass and set it down. He helped Vladimir into bed and turned off the light, leaving only the night light glowing.
‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
There was no response.
At the door, Sheremetev stopped and looked back at the old man lying in the bed. Vladimir’s eyes were already closed. In another moment, a light, rasping snoring began.