‘But he told me he was studying to be an electrical engineer!’
‘Maybe he was. Who cares? You want to run a business in Odintsovo, you want to have a restaurant – shit, you want to take your kid for a walk – you pay Lukashvilli. In return, he keeps the cops off your backs.’
‘How does he—’
‘What do you think all these security guards are doing here, Kolya? Last night, when you needed them to find Vladimir Vladimirovich, how many of them were actually here? And they’re only some of his foot soldiers. He has plenty more. Artyusha’s got them hired out as bouncers, bodyguards, anything you like. You want security in Odintsovo, you come to Lukashvilli. You should talk to your son – he knows all about it.’
‘My son?’
‘Yes. What’s his name again?’
‘Vasya,’ whispered Sheremetev.
‘Vasya! That’s it. Vasya.’
‘He works with Artur?’ asked Sheremetev in horror.
‘No. Artur told me he talked to him one time. Sheremetev’s son, he said. Apparently he had to organise some protection for someone, down here in Odintsovo. If you do that, you have to talk to Artur.’
Sheremetev shook his head, fighting a losing battle to comprehend what he was hearing.
Stepanin laughed. ‘The ex-presidential dacha! Who would imagine that you would run a protection operation from here? But think about it. Lukashvilli’s smart. Blanket surveillance, electrified fences, a legitimate security business in case anyone ever asks why you’ve got so many thugs on your payroll… not that they would. You couldn’t ask for more.’
‘What else does he do, my son?’ whispered Sheremetev.
‘How should I know? Ask him yourself, Kolya.’ The cook paused – the look on Sheremetev’s face was almost pleading. ‘Look, from what Artur said, he sounds like he’s just one of these guys who helps people.’
‘What does that mean?’ implored Sheremetev. ‘I don’t understand.’
Stepanin sighed. ‘Say you’ve got a restaurant. Say you’ve got a really important person who’s coming to dine. This person is obviously going to have enemies. He’ll turn up with his bodyguards, of course. Fine. But you don’t want trouble. You don’t want the bodyguards to actually have to do anything. It won’t help your restaurant if something happens, and if the police somehow end up getting involved, you’ll never stop having to pay them. So you might decide you want to get some people yourself for the night just to keep away anyone who might have ideas. For that, you might turn to someone who can help you.’
‘Help you what? Find some people?’
‘Exactly. The sort of people to keep things quiet.’
‘And that’s what Vasya would do?’
‘I’m guessing, Kolya. From what Artyusha said, it sounded like it. They’re everywhere, these guys. You want one – you’ll find a dozen of them buzzing around, all stabbing each other in the back to get your business, all telling you they can find better people than the others.’ The cook grinned. ‘Your boy wasn’t involved in any of this business with Barkovskaya’s cousin, anyway, so don’t worry. He’s not in that league. That was strictly Artyusha and his boys. Of course, I had to pay, but I got a big discount, on account of the fact that I cook for him. Anything he wants, I’ll make him. He told me he had his guys smash up Barkovskaya’s cousin’s delivery van as well. An extra. I didn’t ask him to do it. He said it was on the house. That’s very decent, don’t you think?’
‘Does Barkovskaya know?’
‘Do I care? What’s she going to do about it? Fight the Lukashvillis?’
‘Well, someone firebombed your supplier.’
‘Yeah, well, I think… he owed Artur a bit of money.’
‘So Artur firebombed him?’
‘No, the situation wasn’t that bad. I just don’t think Artur was protecting him. If he was protecting him, no one would have touched him. Still, Artyusha won’t be happy. If anyone gets punished in Odintsovo, it’s the Lukashvillis who do it. It’s their patch.’
Sheremetev put his head in his hands. ‘Vitya, this is out of control! You have to talk to Barkovskaya.’
‘And say what? Thank you for taking away my chickens – please tell me what else you would like? In Russia, Kolya, if you show weakness in one thing, you show weakness in all.’
‘What’s your supplier going to do? Has he gone to the police?’
‘Over a firebombing? Are you crazy? Do you know how much he’d have to give them to get them on his side? Once they know there’s a feud on, for the cops, it’s like Easter and Christmas have come at once. A Dutch auction. Whoever has more money wins. They’re experts at driving up the price.’
‘I think you drive the price down in a Dutch auction.’
‘Well, then, it’s the opposite. What is that? A French auction? Hey, you fucker!’ he yelled, suddenly noticing one of the potwashers taking apart the gas burners on the stove. ‘Only I do that! I’ve told you before!’
‘So what are you going to do, Vitya?’
‘Last time, they fucked the burner up so bad I couldn’t cook on it for a week.’
‘Viktor! What are you going to do?’
Stepanin was silent, then he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I can’t let this go. In two years, if I can keep going, I’ll have enough to open a restaurant in Moscow. Do you know how much that costs? I mean a restaurant like the one I’m thinking of. We’re talking half a million dollars, Kolya. I get that, and I’m out of here. I’m over halfway. Tell me, honestly, do you think Vladimir Vladimirovich is going to live another two years? Can you make sure of that for me?’
Sheremetev wondered if he had heard right. Stepanin needed half a million dollars – and he was over halfway! That was enough to get Pasha out. ‘You know, my nephew is still in jail.’
‘Well, if you do something so stupid, what do you think is going to happen?’ remarked Stepanin, apparently too drunk now to get the hint or to feel any embarrassment if he did.
Sheremetev watched the cook, who sat fingering his empty vodka glass in frustration. Suddenly, Stepanin reached for the bottle that Sheremetev had taken from him. Sheremetev let him have it. Drink, he said to himself. Drink yourself to death, you pig.
Everyone in Russia was selfish, thought Sheremetev. Selfish for themselves and, at best, for their family.
He felt weary and demoralised. He had always liked Stepanin, but suddenly he couldn’t care less about them. Let the cook and the housekeeper fight themselves to the death in their envy and greed. It would serve them both right.
Sheremetev stood up.
‘Tell Vladimir Vladimirovich there might not be any chicken for a while,’ muttered Stepanin. ‘I’ll try to make it up to him.’
Sheremetev had no interest in maintaining the pretence any longer for the cook’s sake. ‘Who cares? He doesn’t know what you cook him. Between mouthfuls, he forgets.’
Stepanin gazed at Sheremetev with real in pain in his expression. Good, thought Sheremetev.
That afternoon, Stepanin received a note from Barkovskaya telling him that from tomorrow he would be receiving meat from a new supplier, and if his old supplier made a delivery, he would not be paid for it. Stepanin, mincing pork and liver at the moment one of the house attendants delivered the note, tore it up in a rage and threw it in, feeding it back to Barkovskaya that evening in a terrine he made just for her.
For the rest of the household, he prepared a beef stroganoff with rice, letting everyone know it might be the last time they had meat for a while. The attendant carried a tray upstairs for Vladimir and set it out on the table in his sitting room.