Gorky Park

by Martin Cruz Smith

  ‘Will I see the KGB?’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  The car stopped at the corner of Twenty-ninth and Madison in front of the glass doors of a hotel. Imitation gas torches flanked a marquee that said THE BARCELONA. Wesley handed Arkady a key attached to a plastic plaque bearing the hotel’s name, but held on to it for a moment when Arkady took it. ‘Her room number is on the key.’ Wesley let go. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  Arkady felt a strange dizziness as he got out of the car. Wesley didn’t follow. Arkady pushed open the glass doors. The hotel lobby had a maroon carpet, pink marble columns and brass chandeliers with electric candles. A man with dark pouches under his eyes rose from a chair to wave a newspaper at Wesley outside, then glanced at Arkady and sat back down. Arkady rode up alone in a self-service elevator with the message ‘Fuck You’ carved into the door.

  Room 518 was at the end of the fifth-floor hall. The door to 513 opened a crack as Arkady went by, and as he turned, furious, the door shut. He went on to 518, unlocked it and entered.

  She was sitting on the bed in the dark. He couldn’t tell what kind of dress she had on, Russian or American. Her feet were bare.

  ‘I made them bring you,’ Irina said. ‘I cooperated at the start, because they told me that they were going to kill you. Finally I decided you were as good as dead as long as you were over there. I wouldn’t even leave the room until they brought you . . .’

  She lifted her face to him, showing the tears in her eyes. This is finally all we have to offer each other, Arkady thought. He touched her lips and she said his name against his hand. Then he saw the telephone on a side table. Iamskoy was listening to them, he thought irrationally – Wesley, he corrected himself. He tore the telephone cord from the wall.

  ‘You never told them,’ she whispered as he returned. ‘You never told them who really killed Iamskoy.’

  Her face was changed, thinner, making her eyes larger. Was she even more beautiful?

  ‘How did they ever think you were one of them?’ she asked.

  Here, floors were softer, beds harder. She toppled to one side, carrying him in her. ‘And here you are.’ She kissed him.

  ‘Here we are.’ Arkady felt a manic force building inside him.

  ‘Almost free,’ she whispered.

  ‘Alive.’ He laughed.

  Chapter Two

  Wesley and three other FBI agents brought a paper-bag breakfast of coffee and doughnuts to the hotel room. Arkady had a cup. Irina was changing in the bathroom.

  ‘I understand the NYPD liaison is a Lieutenant Kirwill,’ Ray said. A small, natty man of Mexican background, Ray was the only agent who didn’t put his feet on the coffee table. ‘A problem?’

  ‘No problem,’ Wesley said. ‘A little personal involvement.’

  ‘Mental case from what I hear,’ George said. George was the man with angry circles under the eyes that Arkady had seen in the lobby the night before. Sometimes the others called him ‘the Greek.’ He picked his teeth with a matchbook.

  The English that Wesley spoke seemed to be some new form of Latin, mechanically double-faced, limpid to the point of transparency and open to infinite interpretation.

  ‘You have to understand the history of socialist radicalism in New York City, as well as the fascinating tradition of Irish-Americans on the police force. Or you don’t have to understand anything,’ Wesley said, ‘because all that’s important is that Kirwill wants to save the Red Squad.’

  ‘What is the Red Squad?’ Arkady asked.

  There was an uncomfortable moment until Wesley graciously said, ‘The New York Police Department has a Red Squad. They change the name every ten years or so – Radical Bureau, Public Relations, Public Security. Right now they call it the Security Investigation, but it’s always the Red Squad. Lieutenant Kirwill has the Russian desk on the Red Squad. And you are the Red.’

  ‘What are you?’ Arkady asked the agents. ‘What did you bring us to America for? How long are we going to be here?’

  Al broke the silence by changing the subject. The oldest agent, he had skin as freckled as a lily’s and an avuncular manner. ‘There was some stink about his brother, and Kirwill got bounced off the squad. Now his brother’s dead in Moscow and Kirwill’s back on the squad.’

  ‘Kirwill will try to make his comeback at our expense,’ Wesley said. ‘We have excellent relations with the Police Department, but they’ll stab us in the back if we give them the chance – the same as we’d do to them.’

  ‘Ten years ago, the Red Squad was the elite of the detectives.’ Al brushed doughnut sugar from his stomach. ‘They were investigating everyone. Remember the Jews shooting at the Soviet Mission? The Red Squad stopped them. The Hispanics who wanted to blow up the Statue of Liberty? The squad infiltrated them.’

  ‘They were very successful,’ Wesley agreed. ‘The squad was there when Malcolm X was assassinated. Malcolm’s bodyguard was a squad agent.’

  ‘What happened to the Red Squad?’ Ray asked.

  ‘Watergate,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Shit, them too,’ George muttered.

  There was a silent moment of sympathy before Al explained. ‘During the Watergate hearings, it turned out that Nixon’s special assistant for security, a guy responsible for hiring other guys for dirty work, was a John Caulfield. Caulfield was from the Red Squad; he used to bodyguard Nixon when he lived in New York before he became President. When Caulfield was in the White House, he brought in another old friend from the Red Squad, a guy named Tony Ulasewicz.’

  ‘The fat guy who spied on Muskie?’ George asked.

  ‘For CREEP,’ Wesley said.

  ‘He was a funny guy?’ George asked. ‘Kept a coin changer on his belt for public phones? Sure!’

  ‘Well, Watergate was the end of the Red Squad’s glory days,’ Al said. ‘The political climate changed after that.’

  ‘Political climate’ll fuck you every time,’ George said.

  ‘Are we prisoners? Are you afraid of us?’ Arkady asked.

  ‘What does the Red Squad do now?’ Ray filled the pause.

  ‘They chase illegal aliens.’ Wesley looked at Arkady. ‘Haitians, Jamaicans, whatever they can get.’

  ‘Haitians and Jamaicans? Pretty pathetic,’ George said.

  ‘When you consider what the squad used to be.’ Wesley sighed. ‘When you consider they used to have millions of names on file, had their own special headquarters on Park Avenue, went into secret training with the CIA.’

  ‘The CIA?’ George asked. ‘Now, that’s illegal.’

  Nicky and Rurik, the two men from the Soviet Mission, insisted on seeing Arkady. They were unlike any KGB agents he had ever seen before. They had good suits, better than those of the FBI men who greeted them, had excellent manners, spoke well, had American informality. They were more American than the Americans. Only a thickness through the waist, a childhood of potatoes, gave them away.

  ‘I’ll speak in English’ – Nicky lit a cigarette for Arkady – ‘so everything will be in the open. Because this is détente in action. Our two nations have joined, through the appropriate agencies, to bring to justice a heinous murderer. This madman will be brought to justice and you can help.’

  ‘Why did you bring her here?’ Arkady asked in Russian. Irina was still out of earshot.

  ‘In English, please,’ Rurik said. He was taller than Nicky and his red hair was cut full, American style. The FBI agents called him ‘Rick.’ ‘She was brought at the request of our friends here in the bureau. They have many questions. You have to understand, Americans are not used to tales of corrupt Communists and Siberian bandits. Extradition is a delicate matter.’

  ‘Especially the extradition of a wealthy and well-connected man.’ Nicky looked at Wesley. ‘Isn’t that right, Wes?’

  ‘I think he has almost as many friends here as he had over there.’ Wesley provoked a laugh from all the agents, Soviet and American.

  ‘Let’s assume you’re happy,’ Rurik told Arkad
y. ‘Our counterparts here are treating you well? You have a lovely room off a fashionable avenue. I can just see the top of the Empire State Building from your window. Excellent. So let’s assume you will make the girl happy. Calmer, easier to deal with? It should be pleasant work.’

  ‘You’re very lucky to get this second chance,’ Nicky said. ‘This will make all the difference in your reception when you go home. In a couple of days you can have your apartment back, a job – maybe even something from the Central Committee. You’re a very lucky man.’

  ‘What do I do for all this?’ Arkady asked.

  ‘What I said,’ Rurik answered. ‘Make her happy.’

  ‘And stop asking questions,’ Wesley added.

  ‘Yes,’ Rurik agreed, ‘stop asking questions.’

  ‘Let us remind you,’ Nicky said, ‘that you are no longer a chief investigator. You are a Soviet criminal who is alive only because of our favor, and that we are your only friends.’

  ‘Where’s Kirwill?’ Arkady asked.

  The conversation stopped as Irina emerged from the bathroom wearing a black gaberdine skirt and a silk blouse open to an amber necklace. Her brown hair was up on one side in a gold clasp and she wore a gold bracelet. Arkady suffered two shocks: first, that Irina should be in such rich clothes; second, that they should look so right on her. Then he noticed that the mark on her right cheek, that faint blue vein of pain, was gone, lightly covered by makeup. She was perfect.

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ Wesley rose, and all the men gathered their overcoats and hats from where they’d thrown them on the bed. Al took from the closet a full-length black fur coat and helped Irina into it. It was a sable coat, Arkady realized.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Irina mouthed to Arkady as she was being led out.

  ‘We’re sending someone to fix that.’ George pointed to the phone. ‘Keep your hands off it. That’s hotel property.’

  ‘Private property’ – Nicky slipped his arm through Wesley’s as they left – ‘is what I love about a free country.’

  Alone, Arkady inspected the room, which was like a dream in which everything was a little askew. His feet sank into the carpet. The bed had a padded headboard. The coffee table was a wood-grained plastic that yielded under the fingers.

  Ray returned and repaired the telephone. When Ray was gone Arkady discovered that the phone would only take incoming calls. He found another microphone in the ceiling fixture of the bathroom. The television was on a stand that was bolted to the floor so he couldn’t steal it. The door to the hall was locked from the outside.

  The door burst open as the FBI agent called George backed through, propelled by a hand.

  ‘This man is under federal protection,’ George protested.

  ‘I’m police liaison, I have to check you got the right Russian.’ Kirwill filled the doorway.

  ‘Hello,’ Arkady said from the other side of the room.

  ‘This is a bureau operation, Lieutenant,’ George warned.

  ‘This is New York, asshole.’ He brushed George aside. Kirwill was dressed exactly the same as the first time Arkady saw him at the Metropole Hotel, except that now his raincoat was black instead of tan. The same short-brimmed hat was tilted back from the broad, creased forehead and gray hair. The tie was loose at his neck. Closer, Arkady saw stains on the raincoat. Kirwill’s face had a red flush of alcohol and excitement. He clapped his big hands together with satisfaction, beaming at the same time his blue eyes darted around the room. Compared with the FBI men, he was disheveled and out of control. He rewarded Arkady with a malicious grin. ‘Son of a bitch, it’s you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kirwill wore a comic expression of amusement and woe. ‘Admit it, Renko, you fucked up. All you had to do was tell me it was Osborne. I’d have taken care of him in Moscow. An accident – no one would have known. He’d be dead, I’d be happy and you’d still be chief investigator.’

  ‘I admit it.’

  George spoke on the room phone without dialing.

  ‘They think you’re a very dangerous man.’ Kirwill jerked his thumb in George’s direction. ‘You shot your own boss. You stabbed Unmann. They think you killed the guy out at the lake, too. They think you’re just about a homicidal maniac. Watch out, they’re triggerhappy.’

  ‘But I’m being guarded by the FBI.’

  ‘That’s who I’m talking about. It’s sort of like getting together with the Rotary, only they kill you.’

  ‘Rotary?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Kirwill kept moving, walking around the room. ‘Christ, look where they put you. This is a whore’s nest. Look at the cigarette burns in the carpet by the bed. Feel the flowers on this wallpaper. I think they’re giving you a message, Renko.’

  ‘You said you were liaison?’ Arkady switched to Russian. ‘You have what you asked for, you’re in control.’

  ‘I’m liaison so they can keep an eye on me.’ Kirwill stuck to English. ‘See, you never gave me Osborne’s name, but you gave my name to everyone else. You fucked me.’ He enunciated precisely. ‘You fuck me. She fucks you. Who do you think fucks her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m a little disappointed in you,’ Kirwill went on. ‘I didn’t think you’d go along with this, even to get here.’

  ‘Go along with what? This extradition—’

  ‘Extradition? Is that what they told you?’ Kirwill guffawed, a great gape of amazement.

  Three FBI agents Arkady hadn’t seen before rushed in, and together with George they had the courage to shoulder Kirwill into the hall. The detective was too busy wiping tears of laughter from his eyes to resist.

  Arkady tried the door again. It was still locked, and this time two voices from the hall told him to leave the knob alone.

  He paced around the room. From the southwest corner one step to the bathroom, one step from the bathroom to the bed and night table, one step from the table to the northwest corner, two steps to a pair of single-paned windows looking out on Twenty-ninth Street, three steps across the windows to the side table with the phone, half a step to the northeast corner, one step to the hall door, one step from the door to the sofa, two steps from the other end of the sofa to the southwest corner, half a step to the closet door, half a step from the door to the bureau and another step from the bureau back to the southwest corner. In the room were two wooden chairs and the plastic wood-grained coffee table, the television set, a wastepaper basket and a cracked ice bucket. The bathroom had a toilet, a sink and a shower-bath that suggested that a very small person could stretch out in great comfort. All the fixtures were pink. The carpet was olive green. Pastel blue wallpaper sprouted flowers of pink fuzz. The bureau and chairs were painted cream and smudged by cigarette burns. The bedspread was mauve.

  Arkady didn’t know what he’d expected from Kirwill. He thought they’d reached something approaching human understanding in Moscow, yet here they seemed to be enemies all over again. Even so, Kirwill was real in a way that Wesley was not. Arkady had the sense that at any moment the hotel room would sag and collapse like the props on a stage. He was furious with Kirwill and wanted Kirwill to come back.

  He paced the room more nervously than before. The closet had only two dresses, not even an extra pair of shoes. A blouse was redolent with Irina’s scent. He crushed it against his face.

  The day had a yellow light, brittle with filaments and cracks.

  Looking right, the farthest he could see was across Madison Avenue to a sign that said THE HAPPY HOUR. Directly across from the hotel was a store that sold oil-paper umbrellas from China. Above the store were thirteen floors of offices. Looking left, he made out the worn-out grass and sepia stones of a churchyard. Dried leaves drifted like soot through the streets.

  Secretaries typed and men in shirt sleeves and ties talked on phones in the office windows across the street. The offices had ivy plants and paintings. A steel pushcart served coffee in the halls. A pair of black men painted the office directly across from Arkady. What looke
d like a portable radio the size of a suitcase stood in their window.

  A nimbus of condensation outlined his fingers on the glass.

  I am here.

  ‘Do you like game shows?’ Al turned on the television when he brought a sandwich for Arkady.

  ‘I don’t particularly like games.’

  ‘This one is great, though,’ Al said.

  Arkady didn’t understand the show at first. There was no game; all the contestants did was guess how much money the prizes – toasters, stoves, vacations, houses – were worth. Everything – knowledge, physical ability, luck – was eliminated except avarice. The simplicity of the concept was stunning.

  ‘You’re a real Party member, aren’t you?’ Al said.

  The shadows outside moved only when his eyes were looking elsewhere. Then they would shift from one side of a window ledge to the other, or leap en masse to another building. Who knew which way they would go next?

  At dusk Irina returned, throwing packages onto the bed and laughing. Arkady’s anxieties vanished. She made the room come to life; it even seemed attractive again. The most banal words rose from the dead.

  ‘I missed you, Arkasha.’

  She’d brought cartons of spaghetti with meat, clam and white sauces. The sun set while they ate their exotic fare with plastic forks. It occurred to him that for the first time in his life he was living in a building that did not smell, however faintly, of cabbage.

  She opened the packages and proudly displayed the wardrobe she had bought for him. Like her clothes in the closet, these were of colors and cuts and a quality of manufacture new to Arkady. There were pants, shirts, socks, ties, a sports jacket, pajamas, an overcoat and a hat. They examined the stitching, the linings, the French labels. Irina tied her hair up in a bun and modeled everything for him with a grave face.

  ‘Is that supposed to be me?’ Arkady asked.

  ‘No, no. An American Arkady,’ she decided, parading with an insouciant swagger, the hat pulled low over one eye.