‘Anna Mikhailovna!’
She shrugged. ‘Aleksandr Semyonovich is right. That was yesterday.’
Sheremetev stared at her in disbelief.
‘Things change, Nikolai Ilyich.’
Sheremetev hesitated, but nothing in Rostkhenkovskaya’s expression changed, and he finally understood that no help was going to come to him from her. Suddenly he lunged across the counter for the watch. Belkin batted him away with ease.
‘Well, Nikolai Ilyich, what do you say?’
Sheremetev was red-faced with anger. ‘Give me the watch back and I’ll think about it.’
Belkin laughed. ‘Give you the watch back, and we’ll never see you again. You need to decide now, Nikolai Ilyich. You need to decide now, and then we need to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the watches.’
Sheremetev stared for a moment, then shook his head.
‘Yes, Nikolai Ilyich. We need to go there now.’
Sheremetev glanced around the room, hurriedly considering his options. Taking these horological gangsters to the watches meant taking them to the dacha – which was impossible. Getting the watch out of Belkin’s grasp also seemed impossible, or at least unlikely. All he could do, it seemed to Sheremetev, was walk out, leave the watch and let Belkin and Rostkhenkovskaya do what they wanted with it. The idea was offensive – but in the end, what difference would it make to him? True, that would leave Rostkhenkovskaya and this reptile holding a watch they had stolen and would presumably sell for many hundreds of thousands of dollars, but so what? Personally, he would have lost nothing, since he had never had that money to start with, and more importantly, there were another three hundred watches in Vladimir’s cabinet, and surely in amongst all those others must be one or two more as valuable as this. Next time he might even look on the internet to see how much they were worth, as he should have done, he realised, from the start. And there must be other watch buyers in Moscow, and he wouldn’t make the mistake again of letting anyone think he had more than he proposed to sell them. Or perhaps he would go to St Petersburg. He was supposed to be able to take four weeks holiday each year but he hadn’t taken a single day since moving to the dacha three years previously. He could leave Vera in charge and head off for a week with a bag full of watches.
Rostkhenkovskaya had seemed such a sweet, sympathetic girl. Well, she had taken him in completely.
Sheremetev looked at her. ‘Keep it,’ he said, and went to the door.
It was locked.
‘It wasn’t a question, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Belkin. ‘We need to go to the watches tonight.’
‘I can’t take you.’
‘I think you can.’
‘Keep that one. Isn’t it enough for you?’
‘No. Nowhere near enough.’
Sheremetev tried the door again. Behind him, Belkin was laughing. Sheremetev looked desperately around. A wooden mantle clock stood at the end of the counter. He grabbed it and hurled it through the glass door, shattering the pane and leaving razor-sharp shards hanging from the frame. He began to kick at them.
Suddenly he felt hands on his shoulders dragging him away from the door. They dumped him on the ground.
Sheremetev looked up. Above him stood five thugs in leather jackets who had materialised from the back of the shop, and behind them were Belkin and Rostkhenkovskaya. He got to his feet, angrily straightening his clothes.
‘Vasya!’ called Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘What are you doing? Come out!’
From the back of the shop, sheepishly, came a sixth man.
Sheremetev’s mouth dropped.
Vasily looked down in embarrassment. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Papa? Why don’t you just do what they tell you?’
‘Papa?’ said Rostkhenkovskaya.
‘You didn’t tell me his name!’ snapped Vasya. ‘You think if I knew who he is I’d be here?’
‘I didn’t know his name!’ replied Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘All he told me was that he’s called Nikolai Ilyich.’
‘You could have told me that!’
‘Would that have helped? How many Nikolai Ilyich’s do you think there are in Moscow?’
Vasya shook his head angrily. ‘Papa, what have you done to your face?’
‘It’s a cut,’ said Sheremetev.
‘How did you get it?’
‘What difference does it make? What are you doing, Vasya?’
‘Who gives a fuck?’ shouted Belkin. ‘I don’t care if he’s your father or your brother or your fucking mother. Nothing’s changed. We’re going! You,’ he said, pointing at Sheremetev, ‘are going to take us to the watches, or the consequences are going to be very painful.’
‘Papa,’ said Vasya, ‘whose watches are they?’
Sheremetev glared at him angrily. ‘Whose do you think?’
Vasya frowned for a moment, then his eyes widened. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Belkin turned to Vasya. ‘Do you know whose they are?’
Vasya didn’t reply. He raised an eyebrow at his father.
‘The ex-president’s,’ muttered Sheremetev guiltily.
There was a stunned silence. For several seconds, nobody did anything. Then Belkin began to laugh. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Sheremetev nodded miserably. At least that would be an end of it now. They weren’t going to go and steal the watches from the ex-president of Russia.
But Belkin showed no sign of discouragement. He glanced excitedly at Rostkhenkovskaya. ‘I should have known. What quality! They say not a contract was signed in Russia without our President Vova getting a little watch as a gift. Tell me,’ he said to Sheremetev, ‘is he as senile as they all say?’
Sheremetev nodded again.
‘And how do you happen to—’
‘I’m his nurse,’ blurted out Sheremetev, overcome with shame.
‘His nurse! How long have you looked after him?’
‘Six years.’
Belkin tutted. ‘Nikolai Ilyich! What a betrayal – six years, and all this time you’ve been stealing from your patient!’
‘I have not!’ he replied indignantly. ‘I’ve never taken a thing before this. Now I… I have a reason. Vasya knows.’
‘Yes, there’s always a reason,’ remarked Belkin airily. ‘Well, if he’s as senile as you say, he won’t notice if his watches are gone, will he?’
‘You still want to go?’ demanded Sheremetev in disbelief. ‘He’s surrounded by guards. You’re crazy!’
‘Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Rostkhenkovskaya, ‘how many watches are there? Tell us the truth.’
‘I haven’t counted them.’
‘Roughly.’
‘Another half dozen, perhaps.’
Belkin threw a glance at one of the thugs. He moved closer to Sheremetev, menacingly cupping the fist of one hand in the palm of the other.
Sheremetev glanced at Vasya, but his son had averted his eyes.
‘How many, Nikolai Ilyich?’ repeated Rostkhenkovskaya.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘A couple of hundred, maybe.’
Belkin grinned. ‘That sounds more like it. A couple of hundred, probably the best couple of hundred in Russia. And no record of ownership, because every one of them was a bribe. What could be better? Be honest. How long have you been selling them?’
‘I’ve only sold the ones I brought here.’
‘Come on, Nikolai Ilyich. Really?’
‘My father’s very honest,’ said Vasya.
‘Obviously,’ observed Belkin.
‘I’ve never stolen a thing in my life! I need the money for my nephew.’
‘Pasha’s an idiot, Papa. I told you—’
‘How much do you need?’ said Rostkhenkovskaya to Sheremetev.
‘Three hund— Five hundred thousand.’
‘Five hundred thousand? Dollars?’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘Yesterday you seemed to be happy with three hundred thousand.’