“Wait, wait. Why are you calling me? You work in Tver in Prosecutor Sarkisian’s office.”
“Sarkisian was involved with Bogolovo. Also with Moscow detectives Isakov and Urman in murder, war crimes and receiving stolen goods. I have Isakov’s confession on tape.”
“Christ.”
“It’s shocking. Who knows where this may lead?”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Only that this investigation can’t be left to Tver. It must be led by an outside prosecutor whose reputation is above reproach. I left you a key above the apartment door.”
“You son of a bitch, are you taping this conversation? Where are you?”
Arkady clicked off. That was enough for a start.
He felt refreshed by the call. He rested his arms against the parapet, took a deep breath and let a shudder of relief roll through him.
From the hospital roof he took in the black course of the Volga and the sinuous light of traffic along the river road. Lenin Square was a pool of light, but away from the center streetlamps were softly overwhelmed. As snow fell the city sank and rose. There was a rhythm to the snow as surely as there were waves at sea, and the illusion, as snow fell, that Tver was rising.
“Not so bad,” said Arkady.
Snow settled. Snow settled on a hero at a gate on Sovietskaya Street, immobilized, still thinking of his next move. Snow settled on bones that had come out of hiding. It settled on Tanya and Russian brides. It settled on Sofia Andreyeva’s panache.
He thought the doctor had it wrong about a miracle. The real miracle was that the people of Tver would wake to find their city transformed into someplace pure and white.
As for ghosts, they filled the streets.
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Stalin’s Ghost ar-6 Page 29
