“Do you have a son?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what it’s like to lose one.” The words caught in his throat he washed down with vodka. No bread. Deep breaths. He had outpaced Arkady with the vodka and was starting to look sandblasted. “Forgive me, that was inexcusable. What were you talking about? What else?”
“The candidate is protecting his official history, cleaning up loose ends, eliminating anyone who knows what happened at the bridge, including his own men. Kuznetsov and his wife are dead. Borodin and Ginsberg are dead.”
“I’ve taken precautions.”
Arkady had noticed the gun under Agronsky’s sweater, the double-barreled rifle at the door, trees recently felled for a clear field of fire and the comfort of meth lab security on either side. The situation was strangely snug and highly delusional. The major could build a bunker and not keep out Isakov and Urman.
“Ginsberg’s photographs of Sunzha Bridge would be a great help,” Arkady said.
Agronsky said, “I wish they still existed.”
“Maybe if you looked again you’d find them.”
“Sorry, they’re gone.”
Arkady let it drop. After a last round, Arkady made his good-bye and went out and sat on the Ural. Agronsky’s neighbors, a young couple in sheepskin coats, walked by with the soft steps of the truly stoned. To the north a scrim of clouds promised a light dusting of snow. Contradict. Contradicted. Such a small difference, but Arkady had done a thousand interrogations or more. Sometimes he just knew. He killed the engine and returned to Agronsky’s door.
“My friend Renko, another…?” The major lifted an imaginary glass.
“I’m trying to stop two murderers. Ginsberg’s photographs will help.”
“So?”
“You said that Ginsberg’s pictures of the firefight zone ‘contradict’ Isakov. You should have said ‘contradicted.’ Past tense, the photographs are gone. Present tense, they still exist and you have them.”
Agronsky blinked.
“What are you, a schoolteacher? ‘Contradict.’ ‘Contradicted.’ So what? Does that give you the right to come to my house, eat my food, drink my vodka and call me a liar?”
Arkady gave Agronsky a card. “This is my address and cell phone number. Call before you come.”
“I’ll go to hell first.” Agronsky threw the card back and slammed the door.
Returning to the bike, Arkady did not feel completely sober. He had handled the major badly. He should have been tougher or more sympathetic or, if necessary, enlisted the dead son in the argument. Whatever, a golden opportunity had presented itself and he had let it slip through his fingers.
Zhenya was excited. “They’re launching a new expedition at Lake Brosno to find the monster. A casino is the sponsor.”
“Well, that sounds perfectly logical.” Didn’t the children’s shelter have any rules about late calls? Arkady wondered.
“If they find the monster they’ll capture it alive and put it in a giant tank in the casino. Is that fantastic?”
“That qualifies.”
“If we could be on the team that would be so neat. Have you been to the lake yet?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have one or two things to do here first.” He was at the apartment changing out of Rudi’s camos and into a jacket.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to Tahiti.”
“Where’s that?”
“It turns out it’s in Tver.”
“Okay.” Zhenya’s interest returned to minimal.
Arkady asked, “Have they decided how to catch the monster?”
“I think they want to stun it.”
“With what, a torpedo?”
“Something, and then the monster will float to the surface.”
“What if he sinks?”
“I don’t know. How can anyone tell?”
“It’s a matter of buoyancy. The more fat the more buoyancy and mammals are fat and gassy animals. We float.”
“On the water.”
“Or under.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there is a theory that in really deep lakes a body will sink only to a certain zone, at which point water pressure, temperature, weight and buoyancy balance out and the body hangs in the water.”
“There could be dozens of them down there just hanging around. The police could go there in a submarine and solve all sorts of crimes. That is so amazing. What do you call that zone?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a theory,” Arkady said, although he did have a name for it: Memory.
21
T he mural in the bar of the Tahiti Club covered Gauguin’s Polynesian period, faithfully copying the artist’s paintings of phallic idols and natives in sarongs. Everyone wore knockoff Armani and shouted into cell phones, while on a wide television screen two heavyweights pounded each other like bell ringers.
Arkady followed a disco beat up the stairs, past the scrutiny of body builders in black tie and entered a cabaret where the speakers were so loud that the hovering layers of cigarette smoke seemed to shudder with the beat. He caught a glimpse of two pole dancers on stage before a waitress sized him up.
“You want a stool? A ringside stool down where the action is. The action, you know.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for much action.”
“A table?”
“A booth. I’m expecting friends.”
He ordered a beer and asked whether Zelensky or Petya were around. Isakov and Urman were probably at a Russian Patriot event, but word would get back to them that he hadn’t left Tver. He couldn’t provoke Isakov and Urman if all he did was hide.
The waitress asked, “You know Vlad Zelensky? Are you a film producer?”
“A critic,” Arkady said.
Spotlights made the dancers bright and blurry. They strutted up and down the stage in platform shoes and thongs, keeping in constant motion like fish in a tank while an audience of men hung in suspended animation. When a dancer paused and sprawled on the runway, ringside aficionados tucked money in the thong. Otherwise, as a sign said, No Touching.
Arkady settled into a leather booth the color of arterial blood. The table had two menus. A food menu featured tropical cocktails, egg rolls, and sushi. A “Crazy” menu offered a lap dance in the Sportsman’s Lounge, a personal chat with a naked woman, “an intimate hour with a lovely companion in the VIP Jacuzzi or an entire evening with an anything-goes beauty (or beauties!!!) in the luxurious Peter the Great Bedroom.” The price of a royal romp was a thousand euros, cut-rate compared to Moscow clubs.
The waitress brought his Baltika. “It really ought to be the Catherine the Great Bedroom. She built the palace here and she did a lot more fucking than Peter ever did. Food?”
“Just some black bread and cheese.”
“But you’ll be drinking?”
“Naturally.”
The “Crazy” text informed Arkady that “the women of Tver are legendary for their beauty. Today, some of Russia’s top models are daughters of Tver. Their fame has grown worldwide and bachelors from the United States, Germany, Britain, and Australia, to name but a few, travel to Tver seeking the aid of Cupid.”
Tanya and a peppy little dancer were up next. The first time he had seen Tanya she was in a white evening gown strumming the harp at the Metropol. In little more than the flesh she was even more in control, with a cool smile and long strides that prompted rhythmic clapping at ringside.
Across the room Arkady saw his waitress lead Wiley and Pacheco to an opposite booth. Pacheco adjusted his tie while Wiley tried hard not to look at Tanya. They couldn’t have found the Tahiti on their own, Arkady thought and, soon enough, Marat Urman joined them. His canary yellow jacket brought style to the scene; a Tatar could wear colors that made a Russian quail. Urman blew Tanya a kiss, but her eyes tracked Arkady as he changed booths.
“Look what the cat drug in.”
Pacheco made room for Arkady.
Urman said, “You can’t be serious.”
“Tanya looks good,” Arkady said.
“She looks magnificent,” Pacheco corrected him. “Milky skin, a dancer’s body, fabulous tits.”
“Her nose looks good,” Arkady said.
The music started, a throbbing bass that made the room reverberate, and the dancers climbed the poles.
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I love this song,” Pacheco said.
Arkady said, “Somehow I think they missed the point.”
“It’s the beat that matters,” Pacheco said. “Got any good Mongolian love songs? Like to your favorite horse?”
Urman said, “You should take off your wedding ring.”
“Why?”
“It promotes impotence. It’s a Slavic tradition to wear a wedding ring no more than four hours a day for reasons of health. Ask Renko.”
“Is that true?” Wiley asked.
“Some men believe it. Some believe they shouldn’t wear a ring at all.”
“It’s scientific fact,” Urman said. “The ring is like a closed circuit and the finger is an electric conductor.”
Pacheco said, “Well, the Slavic dick is a more delicate instrument than I would have thought.”
“Where is Isakov?” Arkady asked.
Wiley said, “A visit to an erotic club is not an appropriate image for a candidate of reform.”
“Does he have momentum?” Arkady asked. “I understand that’s important.”
Wiley was happy to avert his gaze from the stage and take refuge in politics. “Momentum is all he’s got. He’s got no genuine party machine behind him, so one misstep and his campaign is over.”
“But he does have momentum,” Urman said.
“He was only chosen to steal votes from the opposition,” Wiley said. “Nobody expected his candidacy to come alive.”
“He has a chance,” Urman insisted.
“If he finishes with a bang.”
“In the States pole dancing is the new workout,” said Pacheco. “Honest.”
Tanya was sex wrapped around a pole, with a slow head-down slither that seemed to swallow brass. The other dancer swung around her pole like a dynamo, which seemed quaintly Soviet.
“Tanya had classical training for the ballet, but she grew too big for the men to catch.” Urman turned to Arkady. “Well, you’ve wrestled her, you know.”
Pacheco’s ears perked up. “Wrestled? That sounds interesting.”
“We had a special moment,” Arkady said.
“We need a bang.” Wiley concentrated on the table top. “A long-shot campaign has to end with a visceral, explosive climax.”
“Like what?” Arkady asked.
Wiley looked up. “There’s a statue of the Virgin Mary in Tver. The people here swear she cries. They sincerely believe they see it.”
“You’re going to have the Virgin appear at the dig?”
“Do you have Diet Coke?” Wiley asked the waitress.
Pacheco said, “She plays the harp and she strips. This is a talented young lady.”
“If not the Virgin, who?” Arkady asked. “Anyone in mind?”
“People see what they want to see,” Wiley said. The smaller dancer peeked at Wiley from between her legs. She had short dark hair and a beauty mark. Her name was Julia; she was twenty-three, spiritually advanced, looking for a man with his feet on the ground. Arkady knew because he had seen her photograph and description in the Cupid album of marriageable women.
“Renko can’t do anything,” Urman reassured Pacheco. “He’s hiding from the prosecutor here and disowned by the prosecutor in Moscow. Besides, he’s a dead man.”
“You mean, he will soon be a dead man?”
“No, I mean he’s dead now. He got shot in the head. If that’s not dead, what is?”
“I’ve noticed that Isakov never actually says Stalin’s name,” Arkady said.
“Why should he?” Wiley said. “Right now all anyone knows about Nikolai Isakov is that he’s a good-looking war hero. Everything stays vague and generally patriotic. Once he actually uses Stalin’s name, Stalin is an issue, which has some negatives. Our job is to connect Isakov and Stalin without saying so out loud.”
“How do you do that?”
“Visuals.”
“At the new dig? As I understand it, a mass grave of Russian soldiers has been discovered. That’s a strong visual, isn’t it? Any chance that a patriot named Isakov will be there, shovel in hand, when the television cameras arrive?”
Pacheco said, “The son of a bitch doesn’t sound that dead to me.”
Aretha Franklin sang, “R-E-S-…”
Tanya slid off the runway, ignored her ringside regulars and climbed onto Arkady’s lap, where she breathed heavily and stamped him with sweat and powder. She kissed him as if they were lovers reunited and when he tried to ease her off she clung to his neck.
“Where is this hole I hear about? Is it the size of a bottle cap?”
She pressed herself against his face while she felt his scalp. All that remained of his operation were drain scars, but she found them. If Arkady had humiliated her, she would humiliate him. On stage Julia spun at half speed.
Pacheco reached across the table and gathered Tanya’s golden hair in his hand. “Darling, if money is your object, you are humping the wrong man. My friend here is as poor as a church mouse, whereas I am slipping a hundred-dollar bill in your G-string. Am I getting your attention?”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Wiley said.
Tanya held on.
Pacheco said, “I like you and I am a great admirer of the harp, but you have to let go of my friend’s head.”
Tanya turned enough to say, “Make it two hundred.”
“Damn, this is a fine woman. Two hundred it is.”
Pacheco gave Tanya a chivalrous boost back onto the runway. Patrons applauded her return.
“Would you like some sushi?” Urman said.
“No.” Wiley threw money on the table. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
Outside, the Americans piled into a black Pathfinder and waited while Urman followed Arkady to the other end of the parking lot. Arkady had come in the Zhiguli because he had intended to be seen.
Pacheco hit the horn.
“I would love to kill that cowboy,” Urman said. “Threatening to drag Tanya by the hair? What kind of behavior is that? I appreciate the fact that you restrained yourself.”
“No problem.”
“Look, do us all a favor. Leave Tver. Go away and we can forget our paths ever crossed. Or did she call already?”
“Who?”
“Eva. She was going to tell you she was coming back.”
“But she isn’t, really?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“But she is going to call?”
“You think I’m just trying to fuck up your mind?” Urman had a soft laugh. “Frankly, I wish you would take her with you. I’m sick of the radioactive bitch.”
Arkady was taking a long route to the apartment, looking for any car following him, when he saw Isakov on Sovietskaya Street. It was two a.m., the hour between sweet dreams and black despair, a time to pace the floor, not the sidewalk. Arkady went around the block, turned off his headlamps and coasted to the corner.
A light snow melted on the ground. Isakov could have continued down Sovietskaya and taken shelter in the portico of the Drama Theater, instead he walked back and forth along a wrought iron fence. He wore a poncho with the hood back and by the dampness of his hair he had been outside for some time. Arkady thought Isakov might be waiting for someone, but he showed no signs of looking up and down the street.
The buildings behind the fence were obscured by trees, but they seemed to be typical pre-revolutionary mansion turned municipal office. Walls maybe yellow, white trim. The gate had a guard post, but the night guard had been replaced by closed circuit surveillance cameras. Nothing special, except that it was the same
gate that Sofia Andreyeva had spit at.
The cell phone rang. Arkady snatched it up. Across the street, in his own world, Isakov didn’t appear to hear.
On the phone Eva said, “I want to see you.”
He had imagined there would be conversation, explanation, expressions of regret.
Instead, when she came through the door of the apartment, he removed her jacket and pressed her against the wall and found the hook of her skirt, a voluminous Gypsy affair, while she unbuckled his belt. In a moment he was in her, past the cool skin to the heat within. Eva’s eyes were huge, as if she were in a car that was rolling over and over in slow motion.
“Take off your blouse.”
Just the way she lifted the blouse over her head was graceful, Arkady thought. Her Chernobyl scars melted and every line of her was perfect. He pulled her to the floor. She managed to pull out the lamp plug and in the dark she hung onto the cord as if it were a lifeline. The back of her head hit the floor with every thrust, and when his anger was spent she kept him inside until he was hard again, so that the second time he could be gentle.
22
A rkady said, “I think Napoleon slept here. This bed is about his size.”
“It’s perfect,” said Eva. “I slept like a cat.”
He was always struck by her smoothness. In comparison, he was wood, bark and all.
“How is your head?” she asked.
“Improved.”
“But you haven’t seen Stalin?”
“No.”
“Or his ghost?”
“No.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Not flying through the air, but waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Eva asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe political consultants.” He reached to the floor and refilled two glasses of the professor’s Bordeaux. “Today is the last day of the campaign. Is Isakov confident?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, but I don’t want to talk about him. This is good wine.”
“French. Everything here is French. In fact, even our situation is extraordinarily French. Until someone dies, then it’s Russian. Pushkin had over a hundred lovers and then died in a duel defending his wife’s honor. She was a flirt. Is that irony or justice?”
Stalin s Ghost Page 23