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 his example until both were stark naked facing each other. Krymov’s body sagged with age: the bags under his eyes, and his flabby male breasts. His stomach hung down over his crotch and his skinny legs stuck out under the mass. Sergey was also rotund but slightly better built; his hair looked particularly dishevelled and ridiculous after his fall in the snow. The only thing he was wearing now was his diamond earring.
Krymov ignored the servant, thrust his chest out and looked Sergey straight in the eye. A moment of understanding passed between them before Krymov flung open the sauna door and they both strode into its swirling steam.
Krymov’s sweating face leered up close to Sergey’s.
Sergey could see that the pores in the President’s vodka-raddled skin had opened up like moon craters. He was out of breath and his eyes were crinkled up with pleasure.
Sergey was retelling a scene from Peculiarities of the National Hunt —a cult Russian comedy film—in which the pilot of a nuclear bomber is trying to explain to his squadron leader why he has a smuggled cow strapped into the bomb bay of his aircraft.
‘We’ve been infiltrated!’ shouted Sergey with just the right note of defensive indignation in his voice.
Krymov screamed with
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 his example until both were stark naked facing each other. Krymov’s body sagged with age: the bags under his eyes, and his flabby male breasts. His stomach hung down over his crotch and his skinny legs stuck out under the mass. Sergey was also rotund but slightly better built; his hair looked particularly dishevelled and ridiculous after his fall in the snow. The only thing he was wearing now was his diamond earring.
Krymov ignored the servant, thrust his chest out and looked Sergey straight in the eye. A moment of understanding passed between them before Krymov flung open the sauna door and they both strode into its swirling steam.
Krymov’s sweating face leered up close to Sergey’s.
Sergey could see that the pores in the President’s vodka-raddled skin had opened up like moon craters. He was out of breath and his eyes were crinkled up with pleasure.
Sergey was retelling a scene from Peculiarities of the National Hunt —a cult Russian comedy film—in which the pilot of a nuclear bomber is trying to explain to his squadron leader why he has a smuggled cow strapped into the bomb bay of his aircraft.
‘We’ve been infiltrated!’ shouted Sergey with just the right note of defensive indignation in his voice.
Krymov screamed with
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