December. James Steel

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ out of the side of his head, giving him a weird, lopsided look.

      The major clenched his fists at his side, knowing that this was going to be another of those sessions when some poor subordinate was dragged into the office and shredded. Krymov would probe them to start off with; they would then be terrified, which encouraged him to bully them more so the whole thing would end with the President in a screaming fit and Batyuk having to beat someone senseless and then drag their battered body out of the office. He looked at Sergey now, waiting for him to sweat and start pleading for his life.

      Sergey swaggered forward right up to the desk, looking straight at Krymov.

      ‘I’ve hired him to go hunting elephants, comrade.’

      Krymov sat up and frowned. ‘Hunting elephants? What shit are you coming out with now, Shaposhnikov?’ he shouted, unsure whether to be angry or confused.

      ‘Yes, Devereux’s worked in Africa a lot. He’s an expert tracker to help me track down the Russian elephant.’

      ‘What? The Russian elephant! Shaposhnikov, you’re a head-fucker!’

      ‘Ah! Comrade President, you know me.’ Sergey waved a hand.

      The overly familiar tone made Major Batyuk grind his teeth.

      ‘Yes, you know, the Russian elephant. It has a trunk and two ears. Yes, like this, you see, it has one ear on one side of its head,’ Sergey paused and pulled out the lining of his left-hand trouser pocket, ‘and one ear on the other side of its head.’ He pulled out the lining of his right-hand trouser pocket. ‘And then it has a trunk. Yes, a trunk, like this.’ Sergey paused again.

      Krymov stared at him, not comprehending what was happening.

      Sergey then unzipped his trousers.

      Major Batyuk could not believe it. He knew that Shaposhnikov was a joker, but to come out with this in the face of an accusation of treason by the President was too much. He was going to have to shoot this guy here and now.

      Sergey pulled his shirt tail out through his fly and started waving it around and laughing manically.

      Krymov gave a weird sound, halfway between a scream and a wheeze. His face went bright red and he creased up, bent over his desk and banged it with his fist.

      ‘Shaposhnikov!’ he wheezed. ‘I embrace you!’ Tears of laughter streamed down his face. ‘Russian elephant!’ He staggered round the desk and embraced Sergey, both of them laughing hysterically now. ‘Russian elephant!’

      Krymov got hold of Sergey’s shirt tail and pulled him around the office. ‘Off to the circus!’ he shouted, making trumpeting noises.

      They pranced around Stalin’s office until they collapsed on a pair of chairs to one side.

      ‘Shaposhnikov, you make me laugh!’ Krymov eventually wheezed. He looked with loathing at the pile of work on his desk. ‘This job does my head in, I tell you. But you make me laugh. Come on! Batyuk, get the car! Fuck work! Let’s go and drink vodka!’

      The heavily armoured black Zil limousine swept west along Kutuzovskiy Prospekt. Using the central lane in the road reserved for government vehicles they were able to maintain a steady eighty miles an hour despite the snowy conditions.

      The two Russian tricolours fluttered on its bonnet, another Zil followed behind with the nuclear launch codes and two large Ural military vehicles travelled in front and behind, loaded with Major Batyuk and two squads of heavily armed Echelon 25 troops.

      In the back of the Zil, Sergey and Krymov sat facing each other, reclining in the black leather seats with their feet stretched out in front of them. They bantered and picked at a plate of pickled fish, mushrooms, salamis and other delicacies, occasionally breaking off to toast each other with shots of vodka when a good idea came to mind.

      Krymov held up a pickled mushroom. ‘That’s the problem with the West, you know. Whenever I go there I can never get a good pickled mushroom.’

      Sergey looked at him blankly. It wasn’t one of the main issues he faced in London. He nodded sagely, though. ‘Yes, that is the legacy of capitalism. You see,’ he pointed a finger knowingly at the President, ‘under capitalism, man exploits man.’ He paused and they both nodded wisely. ‘But under communism,’ Sergey continued, ‘it was the other way round.’

      Krymov continued nodding and looked out of the tinted window. He then glanced back at Sergey, who was grinning at him. Krymov wheezed with laughter and slapped his leg. ‘The other way round! Ah! Shaposhnikov!’

      They continued eating, drinking and bantering and the MKAD, Moscow’s main ring road, shot past unnoticed behind the black tinted glass.

      After a while Sergey shouted, ‘Here’s to those British fuckers, to keep ’em warm tonight!’

      ‘Yes! Fuck ’em! Do ’em good to get the cold up ’em!’

      Soon they were heading down the long drive of Novo-Ogaryovo, the country estate that Krymov had taken over from Putin.

      The President’s official residence was an imposing nineteenth-century classical house set amidst snow-covered pine woods. Ice and gravel crunched as the convoy drew up outside the colonnaded porch. Golden light shone from carefully polished lanterns, and soldiers and uniformed servants stood at attention lining the steps up to the grand front door.

      The convoy swept up and Krymov’s limousine parked neatly in front of the steps. The Echelon 25 troops debussed and took up positions around the convoy to cover the President’s movement up the steps.

      There was a long pause as they all waited in the cold. After two minutes nothing had happened and eyes darted to and fro across the lines of attendants. Had something happened to His Excellency? Major Batyuk walked up to the Zil, anxiously trying to see in through the tinted glass.

      The door burst open and Krymov fell out of the limo, laughing. Guards darted forward anxiously and then backed off. He rolled over in the snow and lay on his back shouting: ‘The British are a bunch of pussies! Bunch of pussies!’

      Sergey staggered out of the car, tripped over Krymov’s outstretched foot and fell face down next to him. He shouted in anger and thrashed around trying to get the snow off his face.

      Krymov hooted with laughter. He crawled over to him on his hands and knees and then staggered to his feet and helped Sergey up.

      ‘Come on, comrade! You see, this is what living in Britain does to you! You can’t take your vodka!’

      Servants came forward to help but Krymov waved them away angrily and continued supporting Sergey on his shoulder up the steps.

      Once inside they lurched down a series of long corridors to the banya complex overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. Saunas are to Russian male culture what the pub is in Britain: a place for men to be together and talk in private. Krymov’s major-domo hurried along nervously behind them, fearing his boss’s unpredictability in these sessions.

      The President entered the changing room first, clapped his hands and ordered more vodka and food before stripping off his overcoat and suit and dumping them on the floor. The major-domo scurried about picking them up.

      Sergey followed СКАЧАТЬ