He heard a noise from Vladimir’s bedroom. Sheremetev switched off the light in the dressing room and listened. Vladimir was murmuring, but not aggressively. Sheremetev poked his head around the doorway. Vladimir was sitting up in the bed, gazing ahead. The glow from the night light was yellowish and low.
‘Yes, Mama.’
As Sherememtev watched, Vladimir frowned slightly.
‘Of course, Mama.’
His mother looked at him seriously. ‘Vova, Papa and I have decided that you’re old enough. But a watch isn’t a toy, do you understand?’
‘I understand, Mama.’
‘You have to look after it. You have to take care of it. If you break it, there won’t be another one. It’s very expensive, Vova. Papa and I have saved and saved to get it for you, because you make us very proud, and we love you. But you have to take care of it, Vova. Will you do that?’
‘Yes, Mama. Can I put it on now?’
His mother smiled. ‘Of course. Let me help you.’
She unclipped the clasp of the linked metal band and slid it over his wrist, then clipped it fast.
‘Papa shortened it for you. See? It fits just right. When you get bigger, he’ll make it bigger again. Now, you have to learn how to open and close it.’
She showed him how to use the clasp, and he practised it a couple of times. He looked up at her with a smile.
She ruffled his hair. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I love it, Mamochka! A Poljot! They’re the best!’
He gazed at the watch in delight, taking in every detail. It had a white face and slender gold hour and minute hands. Twelve and six were marked in gold numbers, and the other hours by narrow gold rhomboids. The second hand was an almost impossibly thin reed, and around the outside of the dial the seconds were marked and divided into fifths, and every fifth second was marked with its number. Two other timer dials were set into the face. Just under the number twelve, in slender black letters, was the word Poljot.
‘This is the best watch in the world, Mama! I won’t break it ever! And I won’t lose it, I promise. I’ll always have it.’
Vladimir’s mother smiled. ‘That’s good, Vova. My father, your grandfather, only ever had one watch. His papa gave it to him when he was a boy, and he kept it all those years. He still had it the last time I saw him. That was before the siege. He used to say, a man only needs one watch for his life, if it’s a good one, and if he looks after it.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘And your papa’s father, did you know he cooked for Lenin? And not only Lenin, Stalin. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘That’s something to be proud of. To be able to serve a great man, that’s something, Vova. Don’t forget.’
‘I won’t forget, Mama.’
‘Maybe you’ll be able to serve a great man one day, too, Vova.’
Vladimir nodded, his eyes stealing back to the wonderful watch on his wrist. ‘This is a good one, Mama! A Poljot! They’re better even than the western watches.’
‘So you’ll look after it? Do you promise?’
‘Yes, Mama. This is the only watch I’ll ever have. I’ll look after it every day.’
Vladimir’s mother leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Keep it safe, Vova. May you have it for as long as you live.’
As Sheremetev watched, Vladimir continued to sit for a minute or so, looking up slightly, then lay down again and pulled up the covers.
Sheremetev turned and went back into the dressing room, where the cabinet still stood open.
14
THE NEXT MORNING, SOON after he got up, Sheremetev called Vera. She was on a hospital shift but agreed to come to the dacha when she was finished. By three o’clock he had handed Vladimir over to her and was downstairs, with three small bundles hidden in his jacket, waiting for Eleyekov, who was off to pick up a client in Vladimir’s Mercedes and had offered to drop Sheremetev at the station.
Eleyekov drove silently down the drive. ‘Have you heard about Artur?’ he asked as they turned out of the dacha gate and onto the road.
Sheremetev nodded glumly. ‘He’s a gangster. Like everyone else here, it seems.’
‘No, I mean about what happened last night.’ Eleyekov glanced at him questioningly. ‘You don’t know, do you? Someone shot him.’
‘Artur?’
‘He wasn’t killed, but it’s not good. He’s in hospital. According to what I heard, they took three bullets out of him.’
Sheremetev was dumbstruck. This was madness. It was as if the dacha and all who lived in it were dragging themselves deeper and deeper into some kind of living hell.
‘Yeah. It’s gone too far,’ said Eleyekov. ‘Shooting Artyusha Lukashvilli! I don’t know who would have had the balls. Must be some gang from Moscow. Khazakhs… Chechens… Maybe another bunch of Georgians. Who would have thought Barkovskaya would even know such people? And what’s going to happen now?’ Eleyekov shook his head. ‘I suppose if you’re in a business like Artyusha’s, you can almost expect that something like this will happen sooner or later. But it’s only the start, Kolya. It’s going to be war. The security boys, they all work for Lukashvilli. They’re already planning something, I’m sure. If I was Barkovskaya, I’d sleep with a gun tonight.’
‘Are you sure she had something to do with it?’
‘Well, we had meat for dinner yesterday, and it came from Stepanin’s man. Someone firebombed her cousin, or whoever her supplier was. I don’t know, maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all just an excuse. Who would go to war with the Lukashvillis for some housekeeper? Maybe some other gang has been waiting for an excuse to muscle in on Artyusha’s territory.’ Eleyekov shrugged to himself, eyes on the road. ‘Well, whether Barkovskaya’s involved in it or not, there’s going to be a war. And we’re going to be in the middle of it.’
Sheremetev sat dejectedly beside Eleyekov. There seemed to be nothing solid or wholesome left in his life at the dacha, and what he was doing – his little mission to the shop off the Arbat with more watches in his pockets – only added to his sense of misery. He wished he had never come to this dacha. He wished he never had to go back.
He thought about it. Seriously. Get on the train to Moscow and not come back. Stay with Oleg, perhaps, while he found a new job and got on his feet again.
But then he imagined the reality of it. He had told Vera he would be back by nine. Say he didn’t come back. She would have to go home to look after her children. Who would put Vladimir to bed? Barkovskaya? One of the maids? One of the security guards? Who would be there if he woke in the night? Who would know what to do with him or how to calm him? He imagined the confusion and fear in Vladimir’s eyes, no one able to take it away.
‘Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Eleyekov. ‘Did you say we’re going to the station?’
Sheremetev looked around. ‘What?’
‘The station? Is that where you said we’re going? The station?’
‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev. ‘To the station.’
THE TRAIN RIDE INTO Belorusskaya took forty minutes. It was a heavy day, the sky grey and low. The birch forests blazed with autumn fire. Normally, the sight would have lifted Sheremetev’s spirits, but not today.