“As an act of spite, he also ordered it blown up, and those Kremlin churches burned when he began his retreat. Fortunately, the officer to whom he gave that order was too busy saving his own skin.”
“Yeah, well... thank God, right?”
Belkin glared at him. “What is that? Sarcasm?”
Lesko blinked.
“Your God-fearing West, Lesko, has had more than its share of monsters. Hitler would have turned Moscow into a wheatfield and Russians into fertilizer.”
Now what? thought Lesko.
“We did not invent despotism. The curse of this country, however, is that for eight hundred years it has known almost nothing else. That, and invasion by foreigners. Lenin was not the first of our people to say that enough was enough and to lead a revolution. He was merely the first to survive one.”
“Leo… ”
“Our grandparents would have followed the devil himself if he could feed them and give them some measure of pride. But Lenin was not a devil. He was a decent man who made mistakes.”
Lesko cleared his throat.
“If you doubt that,” Belkin snapped, ”I suggest that you read a book.”
“Hey ” Lesko raised a hand. “All I asked was who put the horses in St. Basil's.”
Belkin took a breath. He glanced self-consciously at Valentin, who was studying the cobblestones. “My apologies,” he murmured. “That was totally inexcusable.”
“No offense.” Lesko shrugged. “You're right. I should read a book.”
Lesko felt Elena at his arm. He sensed, rather than saw, that her eyes were on Belkin. More vibrations between them. She was telling him to let it go. Lesko was getting a little tired of this. He decided to push.
“You still a Communist, Leo? I mean, can anyone still believe in that crap?”
He felt a hard pinch from Elena but from Belkin only a rueful smile.
”A belief in anything, Lesko, is better than a belief in nothing. Lenin, to us, was our George Washington, our Lin-
coin, and our Jesus all rolled into one. Now we learn that everything he tried to build has been corrupted and was, in any case, a house of cards. Stalin, the corrupter, built us into a world power nevertheless. He made us proud to be Russians. Now, for all the tanks and rockets, we are fast becoming a second-rate power with a third-world economy. If that happened in your country, my friend, what would be left for you? What would you believe in?”
“Myself, Leo.”
“Ah, but you see, there is no self here. For seventy-five-years, the self has been nothing. There has only been the state, the dream, and the enemy, all of which united us and gave our lives purpose. If the dream is gone and the state has collapsed of its own weight, if the enemy has demeaned us by offering us charity, all the while picking at our bones, what is left to us?”
Lesko still wasn't sure what had set Belkin off. If Elena knew, he'd get it out of her later. Maybe it was those bozos at the Savoy or maybe it was just being home. Here, he thought, is a basically upbeat guy, life of the party back in Zurich, who's in Moscow one hour and all of a sudden he's the Volga Boatman. The lights of GUM caught Lesko's eye.
“Any place in there to buy a beer?” he asked.
“There are juice bars,” said Valentin quietly. ‘They sell champagne.”
“What do you say we lighten up?” He put a hand on Belkin's back, steering him in that direction. Belkin planted his foot.
“My question was not rhetorical, Lesko.”
“Leo . . . give me a break.”
”I insist. I would very much like to hear some street-cop wisdom from my former enemy.”
“Street-cop wisdom? Why didn't you say so?” He started walking, pulling Belkin with him. “This street cop says stop your whining, Leo. Stop your whining and get off your ass.”
18
Viktor Podolsk stood at the concierge desk in the lobby of the Savoy, a phone at his ear, waiting for his call to be put through to General Borovik.
The desk amused him. It was still only the service bureau, as in any Intourist hotel, but the Finns who managed the Savoy chose to mount a brass plaque with the word Concierge on it.
A harmless enough pretension. And he supposed that a concierge desk was to be expected in any hotel that charged 300 dollars American for a single night's stay, hard currency only. And which had spent 2 million, they say, on gold leaf alone. Statues of nude women everywhere you turn.
There were two such statues flanking the interior entrance. One had a hand cupped to her ear and the other had an arm outstretched, fingers down in a sort of sweeping motion. The first seems to ask, “You say you're a Russian?” The second says, “In that case, go away.” To the Finns, this must have seemed more subtle than to hang a sign that said “No Russians or dogs allowed.”
The concierge desk, apparently, was a source of additional profit. A fat German salesman, taking him for one of the Finns, had just pressed a five-Deutschmark note into his hand and asked him to keep an eye on the mound of luggage he had stacked near the desk. The German had barged off before he could protest, crossing to the Detsky Mir children's store for some last-minute shopping.
It occurred to Podolsk that there might be no need to stay in his room when the Belkin party arrived. His dark Italian suit, his Nordic features, seemed a perfect disguise in this hotel.
But perhaps not.
The bumbler, Kerensky, was certain to address him as “Comrade Major” at the worst possible moment. He doubted that there were a hundred people in all of Moscow who still used “comrade” as a form of address, or a single one who knew less about Marxism than did Kerensky.
Kerensky sat on a lobby chair nearby, perspiring in a heavy, fleece-lined coat that by the look of it had never been cleaned. His expression, sullen and resentful only moments ago, when he wasn't leering at the statues, now had a certain slyness to it. Perhaps, thought Podolsk, that expression was Kerensky's idea of alertness. More likely he was wondering how much a few strips of that gold leaf might fetch.
Podolsk drummed his fingers impatiently. Come on, Borovik. Pick up.
The Finn at the desk caught his eye and, glaring, motioned toward Kerensky with his head. Please, his look was saying. Get that creature out of here. Any longer and we'll have to halve our rates.
Podolsk turned his back on Kerensky. He could not stand the sight of him either.
Kerensky welcomed the change in posture.
One eye on the major, the other on the front desk, he eased his chair nearer the fat German's luggage.
Only when the major bent over the telephone did he allow both eyes to caress the unmistakable shape of a laptop computer which that soon-to-be-departing guest had left among his suitcases and sample kits.
Kerensky was looking at a million rubles, at least.
Forget rubles.
Thirty thousand dollars, American, or the equivalent amount in any hard currency. Perhaps twice that much depending on the software packed with it. But worth nothing at all unless he could get rid of Viktor Podolsk for two minutes.
If only General Borovik would snap his fingers and tell him to come running. Podolsk and his snotty advice with him. His hopes rose when he saw the major straighten and begin speaking into the telephone.
“Yes,” Podolsk said wearily. ”I signaled Zurich before I left the building.”
“Yes, the Sicilian has acknowledged. Even now, he is looking for Barca . . . Yes, Kerensky's people have been redeployed . . . No, I have seen no sign of General Belkin or his party.”
Borovik snorted into his ear.
“Must I do everything, Podolsk? They are in Red Square. What is more, they are making sure that I know it.”
“Ah . . . what are they doing, General?”
No answer at first. Just Borovik's mumbled voice to someone else, a question followed by silence. Podolsk understood. A militiaman or a Kremlin guard was reporting on another of the general's four telephones. Could Borovik, he wondered, be so indiscreet that he had spread those phot
ographs all over the city?
Borovik came back on.
“It is as you said, Podolsk.” His voice now dripped of sarcasm. “Just some innocent sightseeing. They have paid their respects to our departed leaders and they are now standing in the middle of Red Square having a nice innocent chat for all the world to see.”
And there you have it, thought Podolsk. He had argued that they might indeed be in Moscow as tourists. Since they are now in Red Square, behaving as the most typical of tourists, only a fool, in General Borovik's view, could fail to see that they cannot, therefore, be tourists.
Borovik was speaking into the other phone again, his voice rising slightly. Podolsk waited, certain that more damning revelations were imminent.
Distractedly, he stretched the cord in order to see the street outside. Kerensky's thug cousin, Yakov, was sitting behind the wheel of a taxi whose owner had been encouraged to take the evening off. His brother, Sasha, the ponderous oaf who had been loitering outside and had witlessly shouted and pointed when the Chaika appeared, was now safely deployed in the dim light of the Hermitage Bar. Kerensky, whom he had just lectured on the subject of calling attention to oneself, was now doing it again. He was making a show of being hot. Wiping his brow, opening his jacket, and fanning his shirt. Podolsk grimaced as the aroma of sweat and rancid pork reached him. Kerensky shrugged helplessly. He stripped off his fleece jacket and looked about him for a place to drape it, finally choosing the German's stand of luggage.
“Podolsk?”
”I am here, General.”
“They seem to have made a contact. There was a second woman. She took their picture, or pretended to, and then engaged them in conversation. The Brugg woman slipped something into her hand.”
A contact, sighed Podolsk. In the middle of Red Square.
Perhaps this woman held up a sign saying, Here I am. Your co-conspirator. Perhaps that German boy, Mathias Rust, flew her in with his Cessna again.
“Purple coat, no hat.” Borovik was repeating words spoken by the other caller. “Brown hair tied back, coat is to her ankles, green slacks with bell bottoms.”
A good inconspicuous choice of garment, thought Podolsk, rolling his eyes. Clearly a professional. “We will…watch for her, General.”
“The others are now walking toward GUM. Send someone to Red Square. Watch them as well.”
“At once, General.”
The line made a clattering sound and went dead.
For a useless task, a useless man, thought Podolsk. He hooked a finger in the direction of the bar, summoning the obese, crew-cut Sasha Kerensky, who managed to knock over an ashtray as he entered the lobby.
Speaking as if to a child, Podolsk instructed him to take a taxi—not Yakov's, please—to Red Square, locate the Belkin party, keep an eye on them, break off at once if they seem to notice him and, if they do, do not, repeat not, return to this hotel. Go to the Metropole next door. Call from there.
Kerensky intercepted his brother at the inner door of the entrance. He carried his thick fleece jacket bundled against his chest.
“Change with me,” Podolsk heard him say. “Mine is warmer, too warm for indoors.” Sasha seemed confused, but he did not resist as his brother pulled the lighter jacket from his shoulders and guided him toward the street.
Podolsk watched as he climbed into a taxi without first speaking to the driver. The driver turned to protest. Sasha Kerensky smacked his cap off. Podolsk could watch no longer.
The driver made no move toward his gear shift. He had folded his arms.
“To GUM,” commanded the sausage-maker. “The October entrance.”
“From you,” the angry driver sputtered, ”I don't need a sixty-kopek fare. You can walk to GUM in three minutes.”
Sasha seized him by the hair. “To GUM,” he barked. “This is KGB business.” He shoved the head forward, releasing it. The driver, red-faced, put the car in gear.
That matter settled, Sasha Kerensky unfolded the fleece jacket and sat back. A grin split his face. With his fingers he traced the Toshiba brand name and caressed the textured surface of the laptop's case. A Toshiba, no less. And his brother had stolen it right under the nose of that major who thinks he knows everything.
The driver placed a hand over his tender scalp and smoothed his hair. He replaced his cap. Sasha took no notice. He did not see the fury that burned from those eyes in the rearview mirror. If he had, he might have smacked him again for good measure.
But Sasha was thinking. He could not very well wander through GUM carrying a computer worth more than its weight in gold. One of his brother's storage rooms was only ten more minutes in the Shelepikha district. A nice dark little street where people mind their business. Except this driver would never wait for him there. It is a bad part of town. Besides, he is indignant.
Sasha knew what he would do. The driver had a Marlboro box on his dashboard. It was a signal, these days, that in his trunk he had something worth buying. These drivers set up shop behind the hotels when it is dark.
“What do you have to sell?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You don't have to lie. Tell me.”
The driver shrugged. “Maybe some smoked fish. Tangerines. Mostly tea.”
“Turkish or Georgian?”
“Turkish. But good.”
Sasha sneered. Turkish tea is bird shit.
”I have a friend who will take all you have. Drive out to Kalinin. I will show you where to turn.”
The driver hesitated. “No GUM?”
“First the tea, then GUM.”
“One American dollar for each ten grams.”
“We charge my friend two dollars. I keep one.”
“Out of two dollars, I give you half of one dollar,” the driver countered, “but I don't charge for the fare.”
“Good. I agree.”
Disgusting, thought Sasha Kerensky. A man sees a chance to rob his fellow citizen and the rest of his mind goes dead. In five minutes, this man will be in his trunk with his tea. Best way to make sure he waits. Best way to make sure he does not see where the Toshiba goes.
19
Yuri had prepared a bubble bath for her.
It smelled of fresh lemons. Very clean. He did this because in the elevator she began to cry again. He reached for her, holding her, letting her bury her face against his chest. But then she pushed him away.
“Don't,” she said. “I'm disgusting.”
This was not true. To show it, he scooped her up in his arms and he kissed her. He kissed every part of her head and shoulders that he could reach.
“What part is disgusting?” he asked her. “Is it this? Or this? Or am I on the wrong parts?” With that, he kissed each of her knees. When he did so, she laughed. But the laugh became a sob and she hid her face again. Laughter and tears. So alike. He did not put her down until they were inside his flat, not even when he dropped his keys, not even as he closed his blinds, not even as he fumbled with the door of his freezer and pulled out a bottle of iced vodka.
Her remark, he felt sure, was not one of self-abasement. It was Aldo Corsini. She still felt him on her skin. At the boathouse he had cleaned her as well as he could, but it was not the same as a good soaking.
She would not drink the vodka. She would only wash her mouth with it, cleaning the cut inside her cheek, spitting blood into his kitchen sink until its color faded to pink. Meanwhile, he prepared her bath. To do so had required some deception.
As she was bent over his sink, Yuri palmed a bottle of dishwashing liquid. It was called Brio. The detergent
smelled strongly of lemons, and he remembered that the television commercials for it gave assurance that Brio was gentle to the skin. Also on television, he had noticed that many Western women were fond of taking bubble baths. The total effect seemed both soothing and modest. An additional advantage was that in such a circumstance, it seemed acceptable for him to sit in a chair by the tub and talk to her.
From his bathroom cabinet he
took one tablet of Demerol and one of Seconal. A Swiss doctor had prescribed these to help ease his discomfort after the operations that had restored his face and also to help him sleep. They would do the same for Carla. Upon reflection, he realized that she might refuse them as she had refused the vodka. Best to take two more of each pill, he decided, and put them in his pocket. One way or the other, he would get her to take them.
She was in bubbles up to her chin. She looked up at him.
“You're a sweet guy, Yuri. You know that?”
“Thank you. Open, please.”
He sat by the tub, spooning tomato soup into her mouth. She had, as he had anticipated, refused the medication. Only two aspirin and a fresh ice pack. The Demerol and Seconal, therefore, were in the soup. The sleeping pill had not had time to take effect, but she seemed drowsy nonetheless. With the kind of day she'd had, and now the hot bath, this was not so surprising.
The tub was of normal length, but like many Swiss tubs, it was several inches deeper than was typical elsewhere. It was deep enough that even Yuri could submerge his whole body except for his knees. For a small woman like Carla, however, this could be a problem, especially if the tub was slick. She had to brace herself to keep from sliding under the water. But she did not seem to mind.
“You even put bath oil in the water, didn't you.” She felt the texture between her fingers. A smile of appreciation.
“Um . . . you like it?”
”I like it. It's just a little slippery.”
The label of the detergent bottle listed two kinds of ”surfactants” among the ingredients. He did not know this word, but the German root suggested some sort of lubricating effect.
Carla blew a hole through a cloud of bubbles. Some of them danced in the air.
“Yuri?” She closed one eye. A look of confusion. “Do you take bubble baths?”
“Me? Well... I mean, ah . . ”
“Oh. It's Maria's, right? She left it here ”
Yuri shrugged ambiguously, gratefully. His deception had gone undiscovered. He scraped at the soup bowl. “Drink,” he said. “One more spoonful.”
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