Red Square

by Martin Cruz Smith

  Arkady walked up the hall, took the seat she had left and looked at the newspaper, which said, 'The measures that are being taken are temporary. They in no way signal a renunciation of the course aimed at profound reforms...'

  Under the newspaper were car keys and a note that said, 'White Zhiguli licence X65523MO. You shouldn't have come back.' Translated from Polinaese, this meant, 'Welcome home'

  The Zhiguli was parked in the front rank of the terminal car park. On its floor was a square canvas covered in red paint. Arkady removed the beer tray from the plastic wrap, replaced it with the painting and put it into Margarita's bag.

  He took the motorway south to Moscow. As he reached the dark of an underpass, he rolled down the passenger window and sailed the beer tray out.

  At first the road seemed normal. The same unrepaired cars rolled at high speed over the same potholes, as if he had been gone for a single morning. Then, set back from the motorway behind a row of alders, he saw the dark outline of a tank; once he'd spotted one, he saw more tanks like dark watermarks on a screen of green.

  There were no tanks on the road itself, in fact no sign of the military at all until the side road at Kurkino, where an endless line of armoured personnel carriers filled the slow lane. Soldiers wearing campaign caps rode in open hatches. They were boys with eyes streaming in the wind. Where the main road crossed the ring road and became the Leningrad Road, the caravan exited and headed into the city.

  Arkady sped up and slowed down while a sleek, metallic-blue motorcycle with two riders stayed a steady hundred metres behind him. They could simply put a bullet in his head as they drove by. Except for the painting, on which they wouldn't want a scratch.

  A light rain cleaned the street. Arkady looked on the dashboard. No wipers. He turned on the radio and after Tchaikovsky heard instructions on how to remain calm. 'Report the agitation of provocateurs. Allow responsible organs to carry out their sacred duty. Remember the tragic events of Tiananmen Square, when pseudo-democratic agents provoked unnecessary bloodshed.' The accent seemed to be on unnecessary. He also found a station operating from the House of Soviets that denounced the coup.

  At a red light, the motorcycle pulled up behind him. It was a Suzuki, the same model he and Jaak had admired outside a cellar in Lyubertsy. The driver wore a black helmet, leather jacket and trousers sculpted like armour. When Minin hopped off the back, raincoat flapping, hand on hat, Arkady floored the accelerator, raced through the cross-traffic and left the bike behind.

  The Voikovskaya metro station was surrounded by Muscovites who had emerged from rush-hour trains to study the clouds, arrange their raincoats and gather resolve for the dash home. Calmer souls loitered at the entrance to buy roses, ice cream, piroshki. The scene was surreal because it was so normal. Arkady began to wonder whether the coup was taking place in another city.

  Cooperatives no bigger than shacks had set up business behind the station. He queued at one that sold Gauloises, razor blades, Pepsi, canned pineapple, and bought himself a bottle of carbonated mineral water and a tall lavender aerosol can of 'Romantic' deodorant. He went on to a secondhand shop that sold watches without hands and forks without tines and bought two collections of odd keys on wire loops. He tossed away the keys and kept the wires, which he added with the water and deodorant to the canvas bag.

  Back in his car, Arkady returned to the avenue and cruised until he picked up the motorcycle again outside Dynamo Stadium. Traffic was becoming more congested. When the Sadoyava Ring was blocked by a procession of armoured personnel carriers, he made a left and followed them until he could slip through at Fadayeva. He first smelled, then saw the black exhaust of tanks idling in Manege Square along the west wall of the Kremlin. Crossing Tverskaya, he had a glimpse of Red Square, its brow of cobblestones blocked by lines of Internal troops spaced like hedgerows.

  Shoppers emerged from Children's World bearing stuffed animals. On the pavement women held up stockings and used shoes for sale. A coup? It might be happening in Burma, darkest Africa, the moon. The majority of people were too exhausted. If there was shooting in the streets, they would still queue. They were sleepwalkers, and at this sunset Moscow was the centre of sleep.

  Across the square from the toy shop, the Lubyanka looked equally somnolent. However, at the back of the building, a line of vans rolled out of the bay.

  Arkady drove into his courtyard, squeezed the Zhiguli between the vodka cases around the church and opened the gate to a woodcart alley that ended on a bluff overlooking the canal. Carrying Rita's bag, he entered the back door of an apartment house and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where he had a view of the courtyard and the blue motorcycle lurking behind a delivery van a block away.

  Arkady sympathized with Minin. On any other day, he would have cars and radio communications. What did he remember about his assistant? Impatience, a tendency to rush ahead. Minin got off the motorcycle, his face folded with doubt. He was followed by the driver, who pulled off his helmet to release long black hair. It was Kim, looking for Arkady now.

  He went out of the back door and across an overgrown area that dwindled down to a dirt path threading between the back walls of workshops and brought him to the street on the far side of the motorcycle. Looking towards his house, he saw Minin push the buttons of the code box.

  The Suzuki leaned on its kickstand, front wheel at an angle. The motorcycle had a blue plastic body that swept from windscreen to the exhaust like the cowling of a jet engine. Access to the exhaust pipes was tight; on the other hand, anything added wouldn't easily be seen. Arkady lay flat on the ground and felt the long scab on his back crack under his weight. The Suzuki had a four-into-two-into-one exhaust system running from header pipes to the silencer. When he shook the water bottle and sprayed them, the pipes spat back. Although he emptied the bottle on the pipes first, he still burned his fingers when he reached in, ran the wires around them and attached the deodorant can. Nevertheless, he twisted the wires tight. Jaak would have been proud.

  By the time Arkady got to his feet, Minin and Kim had disappeared. He wiped his hands on his jacket, shouldered the canvas bag and followed their trail to the house. He saw the curtains in his window shift.

  Minin had composed a grin. He let Arkady enter the flat and close the door before popping out of the bedroom hall with the huge Stechkin he had waved outside Rudy's flat. A Stechkin was a machine pistol like a Skorpion but not as ugly. In fact, it was the best-looking part of Minin.

  The cupboard opened at Arkady's back and Kim stepped out. He had a face as flat as a jack of spades, and he held a Malysh, the same weapon he had carried to protect Rudy so long ago. He must have had it tucked inside his leather jacket. Arkady was impressed. It was like facing artillery.

  Minin said, 'Give me the bag.'

  'No.'

  Minin said, 'Give it to me or I'll kill you.'

  Arkady held the bag to his chest. 'The painting inside is worth millions of dollars. You don't want to put holes in it. It's fragile. If I even fall on it, it will be junk. How would you like to explain that to the city prosecutor? Also, I don't want to undermine your authority, Minin, but I can't think of anything more stupid than putting a target between two automatic weapons.' He asked Kim, 'Can you?'

  Kim moved to the side.

  'This is your final warning,' Minin said.

  Arkady kept the bag cradled to his chest while he opened the refrigerator. Something like moss had grown out of the top of the kefir bottle. He shut the door on the smell.

  'I'm curious, Minin. How do you think getting this painting will safeguard the Party's sacred mission?'

  'The painting belongs to the Party.'

  'So much does. Are you going to pull the trigger or not?'

  Minin let the gun hang. 'It doesn't matter whether I shoot you. As of today, you're dead.'

  'You're working with Kim. Aren't you a little embarrassed to be riding around with a homicidal maniac?' When Minin didn't answer, Arkady turned to Kim. 'Aren't you embar
rassed to be riding with an investigator? One of you ought to be.' Kim smiled, but Minin was actually sweating with hate. 'I've always wondered, Minin, what do you have against me?'

  'Your cynicism.'

  'Cynicism?'

  'About the Party.'

  'Well.' Minin had a point.

  'I thought, "Senior Investigator Renko, son of General Renko". I thought you'd be a hero. I thought it would be a great experience to work shoulder to shoulder with you, until my eyes came clear and I saw the sort of corrupt individual you were.'

  'How?'

  'We were supposed to be investigating criminals, but you always turned the investigation against the Party.'

  'It just worked out that way.'

  'I watched to see if you took money from the mafias.'

  'I didn't.'

  'No. You were more corrupt because you didn't care about money.'

  Arkady said, 'I've changed. Now I want money. Call Albov.'

  'Who's Albov?'

  'Or I will walk out with the painting and you will have lost five million dollars.'

  When Minin said nothing, Arkady shrugged and took a step to the door.

  'Wait,' Minin said. He went to the wall phone in the hall, dialled and walked the receiver into the living room. Arkady examined his bookshelf and pulled out Macbeth. The gun that should have been behind Shakespeare was gone.

  Minin had a moment of satisfaction. 'I was up here while you were in Germany. I searched everything.' Someone came on the line because Minin spoke rapidly into the receiver and explained Arkady's lack of cooperation. He looked up. 'Show me the painting.'

  Arkady lifted the painting out of the bag and pulled it halfway out of the plastic wrap.

  'There's been a mistake,' Minin said into the phone. 'There's no painting, just a canvas. It's red.' His forehead squatted. 'That's it? You're sure?' He held the phone out to Arkady, who took it only after slipping the painting back into the bag.

  'Arkady?'

  'Max,' Arkady said, as if they hadn't seen each other for years.

  'I'm glad to hear your voice, and I'm certainly pleased you brought the painting with you. We spoke to Rita, who was upset and sure you were going to turn her over to the German police. You could have stayed in Berlin. What brought you back?'

  'I would have stayed in jail. The police were searching for me, not Rita.'

  'True. Borya did set you up. I'm sure the Chechens would also love to know where you are. It was very shrewd of you to return.'

  Arkady asked, 'Where are you?'

  Max said, 'The situation being what it is, I don't want to broadcast that. Frankly, I'm worried about Rodionov and his friends. I hope they have the resolve to finish this business quickly, because the longer they wait, the bloodier it will be. Your father would have wiped out the defenders at the White House already, wouldn't he?'

  'Yes.'

  'I understand that you want to make some sort of arrangement about the painting. What?'

  'A British Airways ticket to London and fifty thousand dollars.'

  'A lot of people are trying to leave town. I can give you any amount of rubles, but foreign currency is tight right now.'

  'I'm giving the phone back to Minin.'

  As soon as he had handed over the phone, Arkady took a serrated knife from a drawer by the sink. While each act was reported by Minin, he opened the window and pulled the wrapped painting out of the bag. The wrap's plastic bubbles started popping as Arkady sawed.

  'Wait!' Minin said and offered the phone to Arkady again.

  Max was laughing. 'I get the point. You win.'

  'Where are you?'

  'Minin will bring you.'

  'He can lead me. I have a car.'

  'I'd better talk to him,' Max said.

  Minin listened grimly before he returned the receiver to the hall. 'You don't have to lead me,' Arkady said. 'Just tell me where he is.'

  'There's going to be a curfew tonight. In case there are any road blocks, it's better if we all go.'

  Kim broke into a grin bursting with personality. 'Hurry up. I want to come back and find the girl on the scooter.' It was the first time he had opened his mouth and it wasn't what Arkady wanted to hear.

  'We saw Polina,' Minin said. His tone was judicial, though his tongue left a brief dab on his lips. 'You look like shit. You look like you've been rolling on the ground. They didn't treat you too well in Germany.'

  'Travel is wearing,' Arkady said. Switching the bag from hand to hand, he slipped out of the soiled jacket. The back of his shirt was black with old blood and red with new. Kim sucked in an audible breath. From the cupboard, Arkady selected a wrinkled but cleaner jacket, the one he had worn to the cemetery. From its pocket, he pulled his heirloom, his father's revolver, the Nagant, an ancient firearm with a hammer and wooden grip as curved as apostrophes. The four rounds, thick as silver nuggets, were in the pocket too. One arm through the handle of the bag, he swung open the cylinder and loaded it. He said, 'How many times have I told you, Minin? Don't just check the cupboards, check the clothes too.'

  Minin and Arkady waited in the courtyard while Kim went for the motorcycle. The sky was dark. Lamplight and rain intensified the blue of the church and lent the windows of the house a pastel oiliness.

  Arkady wondered whether the television hypnotist was on tonight. He said, 'I have a neighbour who collects my mail and puts food in my refrigerator. There was no mail and no food.'

  Minin said, 'Maybe she knew you were away.'

  Arkady let the inadvertent admission gape for a while. The church gutters were stopped up, as usual, and the overflow fell in bright threads. He said, 'She lived right below me. She always heard me walking around, and she probably heard you.'

  Minin's face played in and out of the shadow of his hat.

  'Why don't you just say you're sorry?' Arkady asked. 'She had a bad heart. Maybe you didn't mean to scare her.'

  'She interfered.'

  'Pardon?'

  'She overstepped. She knew she was sick, I didn't. I take no responsibility for the consequences of her actions.'

  'You mean you're sorry?'

  Minin put the barrel of the Stechkin where the bag covered Arkady's heart. 'I mean shut up.'

  'Do you feel left out?' Arkady asked more softly. 'That I'm depriving you? That they're having a revolution without us, you or me?'

  Minin tried to be silent, but he shifted with the feet of an ardent spear-carrier. 'I'll be there when the action starts.'

  Kim arrived on his motorcycle and followed them through the low arch of the alley. At the car, Minin jumped in on the passenger side. 'I'm not going to let you slip away again. And I'm not going to ride with that lunatic any more.'

  Arkady considered compromises. If he refused to go, he wouldn't find Albov. Also he had pressed Minin about as far as he could. 'Put the gun in your left hand,' he said.

  When Minin did as he was told, the selector catch of the Stechkin was above his top knuckle. Arkady reached across and turned the catch down from automatic to safe. He said, 'Keep your left hand where I can see it.'

  The Zhiguli had a manual gear lever. Arkady rested the canvas bag by his left foot and laid the Nagant on his lap.

  Kim led the way up Tverskaya in the central, official lane. Rain had chased most shoppers off the pavement. At Pushkin Square, a crowd carried banners in the direction of the parliament building. Many were kids, of course, but an unusual number were Arkady's age or older, men and women who had been children during the Khrushchev era, been allowed the heady oxygen of that short-lived reform, but had said nothing when Soviet tanks invaded Prague, and had lived in shame ever since. That was the essence of collaboration. Silence. They wore woollen caps over thinning hair, but miraculously they had discovered their voices.

  In Mayakovsky Square, the traffic stopped for tanks moving to the parliament building by way of the Sadoyava Ring. 'The Taman division,' Minin said approvingly. 'They're the toughest. They'll roll right up the Parliament steps.'
>
  But Moscow was such a big stage that most people seemed unaware of any coup. Couples walked hand in hand towards the cinema house. A kiosk opened its shutters and, oblivious to the rain, a queue of customers formed.

  Tracks wove in and out of shining macadam. Tverskaya became Leningrad Prospect, which turned on to the Leningrad Road. Kim raced ahead. At speed, at least, Arkady wasn't afraid of Minin shooting him. 'We're taking the airport road?' he said.

  Minin said, 'You're falling behind. I don't want to miss the fireworks.'

  Along Chimki Lake there was a sudden calm, a shadow among the urban lights, the monotone of drops on the water. A line of slitted headlights appeared, more tanks moving at a walking pace. Beyond them was the horizontal haze of the ring road.

  The motorcycle began to trail sparks, as if it were dragging its silencer. The can Arkady had wired to the exhaust pipes was one-third propane gas, which expanded two thousand one hundred times. Ignited, it expanded like a blowtorch. Flames fanned up the plastic sides and through the ports and over the rear tyre in jets of fire that seemed to drive the bike forward. Arkady saw Kim looking at his rearview mirror, where the light would first appear to be coming from, then from side to side, then finally down, where the entire plastic sheath was igniting like a meteor around his legs and boots. The bike oscillated from lane to lane. That must be an impulse, Arkady thought, to try to outrun fire. Though the road was crossing an arm of the lake and there was no place to turn off, Kim jumped the shoulder of the road.

  'Stop! Stop the car!' Minin pushed his gun against Arkady's head.

  The motorcycle touched a side rail and rolled as a tumbling flame. Kim stayed with it through a long slide, then the bike spun again, spewing a helmet from the blaze. As Arkady accelerated by, Minin pulled the trigger. The Stechkin didn't fire. He remembered the safety and switched hands, but Arkady picked up the Nagant and held it on him.