Major Ustinov climbed to his feet; barking into the radio, he ordered: ‘Someone call an ambulance. Now!’
Ustinov and his men struggled to lift the lifeless form of Mrs Baryshnikov out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Repeated attempts were made to speak to the old woman, but she wasn’t responding.
‘Is she going to be okay?’ asked one of the men.
‘We’d better fucking hope so,’ replied Ustinov.
A few minutes later a distant siren could be heard.
‘Thank fuck,’ said Major Ustinov as he proceeded to shout new orders into the radio: ‘Hello Alpha – Hello Alpha. Ambulance inbound. Ambulance inbound. Open the gates. Let it in – immediately!’
Ustinov's command was acknowledged.
He looked down at the still inanimate Mrs Baryshnikov. His only relief came from hearing the siren grow louder. It then became deafening, as it closed in on the house. Ustinov ran to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and stepped out onto the balcony. He could see the ambulance coming to a stop at the foot of the main steps. Two paramedics climbed out.
‘Up here,’ he shouted, ‘quickly – you’ll need a stretcher.’
He was pleased to see an urgent reaction from the two medics. In a matter of seconds they were climbing the front steps and charging towards the main entrance into the mansion.
Inside, Major Ustinov had run to the top of the staircase. He shouted: ‘Up here,’ his commands echoing around the spacious hall.
The paramedics ran on up the stairs. Major Ustinov turned to lead the arrivals along the landing, and showed them into the private apartment.
Wasting no time, the paramedics – carrying the stretcher between them – made directly for the bed. One of them pulled out a stethoscope and listened to Mrs Baryshnikov's heart. The other looked at her face, lifting the woman's eyelids.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘how long has she been like this?’
‘About ten minutes.’
The first paramedic looked up, as if to say any such estimate was wildly out.
‘She looks uraemic,’ said the second medic. ‘She's clearly gone into shock. Does this woman have a kidney problem?’
‘Yes,’ said Major Ustinov.
‘We’ve got to get her to dialysis – and fast.’
‘She's got a dialysis machine – in there. Next door.’
‘Show me!’
The police major led him into the bathroom. As the medic entered, he said: ‘Urgh, it should not be smelling like that in here. Where's the machine?’
‘Over there.’ Ustinov pointed to the trolley-borne artificial kidney against the wall.
Bending down to check it over, the medic said: ‘How long's it been smelling like this?’
Ustinov couldn’t admit they didn’t know; that they didn’t check it.
‘This thing must have sprung a leak,’ said the paramedic from almost underneath the machine. ‘Yes, look,’ he said, sticking his finger under one of the pipes. ‘This has come loose. That poor woman must have been recycling her own urine.’
‘How bad is that?’ asked the major.
‘Well it's not good. We’ve got to get her to the hospital.’
The medic dived out of the bathroom, back to the patient's bedside. The other had set up an oxygen line and placed a mask over Mrs Baryshnikov's mouth. Without a word of command, the paramedics manoeuvred the stretcher in beside the woman and lifted her onto its canvas. Her oxygen supply was also loaded and secured. Grabbing each end of the stretcher, the medics lifted her clear. One of them barked to the policemen: ‘Get the door!’ as they headed across the bedroom.
‘Where are you taking her?’ asked Ustinov.
‘It's obviously her kidneys, so the Moscow Nephrology Unit.’
Fewer than three minutes later the doors of the ambulance were being closed. One of the medics remained in the back with the patient, while the other climbed into the cab. As he fired the engine, he hit the siren and lights. Dropping the clutch, he accelerated the ambulance away down the drive, and out through the gate. Turning left, towards the centre of Barvikha, the ambulance sped away heading in the direction of the main road to Moscow.
SIXTY-SIX
Pudovkin listened to the report from Major Ustinov at the mansion.
‘Christ, that's all we need – another death,’ said the police colonel. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘The medics said she was in a bad way. But never said she was critical.’
‘Where have they taken her?’ he asked.
‘The Moscow Nephrology Unit.’
‘Find out which ward she's in, will you – and how she is. Gazdanov will have our balls if we don’t know.’
Discreetly, Pudovkin retook his seat behind the prosecutor general in the courtroom.
