‘And what about this business with Artur?’
‘Ah, that’s something else. If I was Barkovskaya… I told you yesterday, I’d be shitting in my pants. But maybe she knows something we don’t know. Maybe she has protection. You know, Stepanin’s lucky it’s Artyusha in the hospital and not him.’
‘How is he?’
‘Artyusha?’ Eleyekov let out a long breath, shaking his head. He took his eyes off the road for a moment and glanced at Sheremetev. ‘Not good. They’re not sure if he’ll walk again. From what I understand, one of the bullets hit his spine. That’s not good, is it?’
‘They’re saying he might end up in a wheelchair?’
‘I think so.’
Sheremetev still didn’t know quite how to think about Artur. On the one hand, personally, he had always found him polite and thoughtful, by far the most amenable of the security contingent, and he couldn’t deny that he had taken a liking to him. On the other hand, he ran a protection racket that apparently had all of Odintsovo quaking in its boots, and although Sheremetev was no expert in the arts of intimidation and punishment, he knew enough to imagine that this must involve a fair helping of violence, as the breaking of the arms of Barkovskaya’s cousin demonstrated. Still, somehow, the idea of Artur being in a wheelchair for the rest of his life was appalling.
‘What are things coming to?’ murmured Sheremetev.
Eleyekov laughed. ‘That’s what each generation says as it gets older. Do you think things were better when we were young? They’ve always been shit. Shit piled on shit piled on shit. That’s Russia, Nikolai Ilyich. It was the same in the days of Ivan the Terrible and it was the same in the days of Stalin and it’s the same now. What do you expect? Every so often you get your head above the surface for a second and that’s when you realise it, there’s nothing around you but shit. After that – you’re in again.’
Sheremetev didn’t reply, wondering glumly if the times they were living in were really no better than those of the two terrible autocrats Eleyekov had mentioned.
The driver stole a glance at him. ‘Tell me something, Nikolai Ilyich. Seriously… Vladimir Vladimirovich… How long do you think he’ll live?’
Sheremetev closed his eyes, revolted by the question. They were all the same, every single person in the dacha. The only thing they cared about was how long the feast would go on, like fish gorging themselves on a whale’s flesh even while the whale was still alive.
Then Sheremetev thought of why he was in this car and what he carried in his pocket and of his thoughts last night: week by week, sell a watch, build up a nest egg… How much better was he?
‘You’re a nurse, Nikolai Ilyich. You’ve seen this before. How much longer? What do you think? Six months? A year?’
‘You never know,’ murmured Sheremetev. ‘He could go on for a long time.’
‘Really?’ said Eleyekov, a note of relief in his voice. ‘Because I had a friend who told me, once they lose their marbles, it’s quick after that.’
‘No. It’s all about how strong the heart is.’
‘And how strong is his heart?’
Sheremetev shrugged. ‘Any one of us could go at any time, Vadim Sergeyevich. You or me included. That’s all I know.’
Eleyekov glanced at him for a moment, then laughed.
Sheremetev gazed out the window. Already they were at the outskirts of the town. He watched the first apartment blocks pass by on either side.
He really was amazed that Stepanin had given in. But in the end, what else could he do?
Well, the feud between the cook and the housekeeper was over, and in another couple of hours, he would have the money to set Pasha free.
THE RITUAL OF PRESSING the bell, hearing the click of the lock and then pushing open the door was becoming familiar now. From the back of the shop emerged Rostkhenkovskaya, this time wearing a black pinafore dress and a silver brooch in the shape of a bird of some sort.
‘Good evening, Nikolai Ilyich,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’
Sheremetev reached into his pocket, produced the usual handkerchief-wrapped bundle, and laid it on the counter.
Rostkhenkovskaya unwrapped it. A smile played on her lips as she examined the Patek Philippe. ‘Just wait a moment please.’
She left the watch on the counter and disappeared into the back of the shop. When she returned she was accompanied by a large man with brown eyes and wavy dark hair in a well-cut, pinstriped suit.
‘Nikolai Ilyich, this is Aleksandr Semyonovich Belkin. He’s an expert in Patek Philippes. Given the sum of money we’re talking about, I felt I needed a second opinion. I hope that’s alright.’
‘Yes,’ replied Sheremetev. ‘It’s alright.’
‘Good evening, Nikolai Ilyich.’ Belkin extended a fleshy hand, but his eye was already on the watch. ‘Is this it?’ Without waiting for an answer, Belkin dropped Sheremetev’s hand and picked up the watch. He adroitly slotted a loupe in his right eye socket and proceeded to examine the Patek Philippe minutely, handling it as gently as if it was a newborn child. ‘Hmmm…’ he said. Then another ‘Hmmm…’ in a slightly higher register.
The expert put the watch down. He disposed of the eyepiece by releasing the contraction of his facial muscles and letting it drop, neatly catching it in the palm of his hand and secreting it in a pocket. Then he glanced at Rostkhenkovskaya and gave her a nod. He turned to Sheremetev. ‘A beautiful watch, Nikolai Ilyich. You know, there are very few of this particular watch known to be made. We’re talking about fewer than forty. Of those, I know who owns probably fifty percent – in Russia, probably all of them. If any of the owners wanted to sell, I’d be the first person they’d consult. But you, Nikolai Ilyich, I don’t know.’
‘It was my uncle’s,’ said Sheremetev.
‘So I must know your uncle.’
Sheremetev didn’t reply.
The expert watched him closely, a half smile on his face. ‘Anna says you sold her three more watches. Not quite in this class, but not bad ones. That’s quite a collection, Nikolai Ilyich.’
‘My uncle was very generous.’
‘And still is, it seems.’
Sheremetev didn’t say anything to that.
‘Listen, Nikolai Ilyich, what else do you have… or should I say, what else might he be inclined to give you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah. I thought you were going to bring more.’
‘No.’
‘Your uncle has no more?’
‘He has more but they’re—’
‘But he has more?’
Sheremetev didn’t like the look in the expert’s eyes. ‘I don’t know. This is what I’ve got. This is what I’d like to sell. That’s it.’ He glanced at Rostkhenkovskaya.
She smiled slightly.
‘The thing is,’ said Belkin, ‘what you bring is of such high quality, and of such demand amongst our customers, that we’d like a little more.’
We, thought Sheremetev, increasingly uneasy. Who was we?
‘I only have what I have,’ he said.
‘We could give you a commission,’ continued Belkin, as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘Say, ten percent.’
‘They’re not my watches to sell.’
‘And this is?’ Belkin looked at him pointedly.
Sheremetev reached for the Patek Philippe, but the other man’s hand was quicker. He snatched the watch up and held it away from Sheremetev.
Sheremetev looked at Rostkhenkovskaya again. ‘Anna Mikhailovna, you told me you would pay three hundred thousand dollars for this watch. We had an agreement. All I’m asking for is what you promised.’
‘That was yesterday,’ replied Belkin.