Tatiana ar-8

by Martin Cruz Smith

  The harbor was a different world. A mirror of itself. A black avenue that reverberated with the passage of larger boats. The far-off lights of harbor cranes. Plan A was that Arkady and Maxim would search for no more than two hours and go nowhere near the naval yard. It was a feather in the air, the sort of promise that absolved everyone of responsibility.

  Maxim tooled along like a man in command, one hand on the tiller. A chill clung to the air. Arkady bailed a week’s accumulation of rain from the bottom of the boat and the water that remained shivered from the vibration of the engine.

  They were running dark, no green light for starboard or red for port. No conversation; voices carried on open water. Engine noise was, at least, mechanical, though there was little river traffic, mainly the rising sounds and lights of the surrounding city and reflections that cupped the surface of the water.

  Arkady thought of Pushkin as he set out to defend the honor of his coquettish wife. How tired the poet must have been. With her taste for costume balls and life at court, Natalya Goncharova had spent him nearly into penury. Forced him to borrow. To spin out inferior poems for dubious occasions. To let the tsar himself cuckold the poet and pretend to be his patron. Finally, to lower himself to a duel with pistols with a soldier of fortune. When Pushkin saw his adversary’s vest of silver buttons, why didn’t he object? Was complaint beneath him, or was he simply tired of beauty and its demands?

  Maxim said that watchmen were not required on the harbor and that police preferred to stay inside on damp nights, but Arkady wasn’t sure that his plans and Maxim’s were the same.

  The Natalya Goncharova had moved down the river in the direction of the fleet. Traced by lanterns, she was an apparition floating on black water. As Maxim circled the yacht at quarter speed, Arkady expected that at any second Alexi would appear on deck.

  However, the interior stayed dark. Nobody showed at the bridge. There was no sound of a crew rushing to their stations. Maxim went four times around the Natalya Goncharova before giving in; no one was aboard.

  Maxim opened the throttle and swung the boat toward deeper water. From east to west the city gave way to the river and the red warning lights of giant cranes stood against the sky. When the banks receded enough, Maxim killed the engine and let the dinghy drift. It was a restful moment, the water lapping against the sides of the boat as it rolled slowly in the wake of a ship they couldn’t even see.

  “Just as I thought,” Maxim said.

  “What did you think?” Arkady asked.

  “There is no meeting.”

  “I’m a little disappointed myself.”

  “That’s not why we came.”

  “There’s another reason?”

  “To kill me.”

  Arkady wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Kill you?”

  “Lure me out here with some fantastic story, shoot me and dump me in the water.”

  In some spots oil lay on the water like marbled paper. Arkady tasted it on his lips.

  “You insisted on coming,” Arkady said.

  “I was manipulated. Tatiana manipulated both of us. That’s what martyrs do.”

  “Why would she?”

  “Martyrs don’t share the glory.”

  “Even if they die?”

  “It’s win-win for them.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “Fortunately, I do. Face me.”

  When Arkady turned he found that Maxim had brought an undersized pistol, probably Spanish or Brazilian, common as coins. All he needed do was shoot Arkady, strip him of any ID and push him overboard. Granted, Maxim should have brought along some cinder blocks to weigh Arkady down, but a man couldn’t think of everything.

  “Did you bring any vodka?” Arkady asked.

  “Ran out.”

  “Too bad. For this sort of work, vodka is usually essential.”

  Maxim looked miserable but determined. “I wrote a poem for Tatiana years ago,” he said. “My best poem, people say. I was a professor and she was the student. There wasn’t that much difference in age, but everyone described me as the seducer and her as the innocent. Lately I’ve come to think it was the other way around.”

  “How does the poem go?” Arkady asked.

  “What poem?”

  “The poem about Tatiana.”

  “You don’t deserve to hear it.”

  “ ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ ”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “This is the third time you’ve tried to kill me. A warning seems superfluous.”

  “I could shake your head until I hear a bullet rattle.”

  “Tell me about your poem.”

  “You’re stalling.”

  “I’ve got all night. Do you mind?” Arkady took out a cigarette and lit it. “You? No? Well, you only have so many hands. Did you forget your poem? Recite anything. ‘You are my song, my dark blue dream of winter’s drowsy drone, and sleighs that slow and golden go through gray blue shadows on the snow.’”

  “That’s not mine.”

  “I know, but it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Stand up.”

  “You’re not a murderer.”

  “I can kill you all the same.”

  Arkady stood. He flipped his cigarette into the water and braced himself to dive when he heard a hum in the pocket of his jacket. While Maxim hesitated, Arkady took out his cell phone and put it on speaker.

  Zhenya sounded triumphant. He said, “You’re looking for the wrong boat. There’s another Natalya Goncharova.”

  32

  Grisha’s Natalya Goncharova was a yacht with a Cayman Islands registry. The Natalya Goncharova they needed to find was an oil tanker out of Kaliningrad.

  The port handled grain and coal, but mainly it handled oil, a viscous sludge for domestic use and diesel for export. Every ship was enormous compared to the dinghy, every sound produced an echo, every rope that rode slack with the tide had reason to creak.

  Arkady read by flashlight the name of each ship they passed. Some were nearly derelict, others ready to sail. He understood that for Maxim this was only a pause and unless they found the meeting of Ape Beledon and his partners, Maxim would resume where he’d left off.

  Finally there were lights on a ship ahead and the Natalya Goncharova appeared through the mist. Whoever named her had a sense of humor. Instead of Grisha’s elegant yacht, this Natalya was a tramp, a stubby coastal tanker ringed with tire bumpers. A mood of mutual congratulation hung in the air. Although Arkady couldn’t make out what was being said, Alexi’s laugh was unmistakable. Arkady looked back at Maxim, who followed Arkady up a rusty ladder and over the side.

  The tanker’s deck was an intricate maze of valves painted red. Squeezed against the deckhouse was a table and ice buckets of Champagne.

  Arkady recognized Abdul, the Shagelmans, Ape and his two sons. Abdul was dressed in black Chechen chic, as if he might drive a Porsche during the week and a tank on weekends. The Shagelmans looked like old folks staying up late. Arkady couldn’t put names to the coterie of deputy ministers and naval officers gathered around the table but he knew their types. A pair of Chinese businessmen in stovepipe suits played at being invisible. They all froze as Arkady and Maxim stepped into the open.

  Alexi recovered nimbly, as cool as a croupier. “I guess this means your friends figured out the notebook. It doesn’t matter. As you can see, everything is going ahead.”

  Bodyguards who had been stationed at a respectful distance on the dock came running. Ape motioned for them to slow down. In the notebook, Grisha had been the first among equals, the Man in the Hat with a Line Underneath. That title would have gone to Ape by seniority now.

  Arkady could see that Alexi wished for nothing more than to have him and Maxim shot where they stood. However, for the moment at least, it might have seemed a breach of good manners. A little pushy. Premature. With his hairy wrists and single brow, Ape might have seemed primitive and bent by age but he was a stickler for manner
s. Waiting for a cue, the navy brass held their Champagne glasses at half-mast, ready to be raised as soon as this hiccup was over. It was a simple ceremony. No caviar. More like a first shovel breaking ground for a new enterprise.

  “Welcome,” Ape said. He skipped introductions except to add, “And this must be the famous poet Maxim Dal.” Maxim was flattered. What greater recognition than a nod from a legendary criminal? “Do you think you could write a poem about this? Obviously, you can’t write with a gun in your hand. See, this is an amicable meeting of friends from far and wide. Give me that. It’s a pop gun, anyway. Please.” Ape took the pistol.

  “Let me handle them,” Alexi said.

  “Why? We’re not doing anything illegal,” Ape said.

  “They know about Curonian Amber,” Alexi said in a stage whisper to help the old man along.

  “Let them.”

  Arkady said, “The notebook left behind by your interpreter wasn’t as impossible to decode as people thought. We know that a Russian nuclear submarine that failed its sea tests is going to be refitted in China.”

  “Yes. It’s called outsourcing,” Ape said.

  “And we know that half the money for the refit will be raked off the top by you and your cronies in the Defense Ministry and the Kremlin. It’s criminal.”

  “Business costs. Totally normal. Administration of a task of this magnitude is often fifty percent of a budget. Anything else?” Ape asked.

  “Murder.”

  Signs of anxiety started to appear among the guests. No introductions had been made, but Arkady had seen them and their species in newspaper photos standing at attention or adorned by military caps. The two Chinese gentlemen traded significant glances.

  Alexi said, “That’s a lie.”

  Arkady shook his head and said, “The correct response is ‘Who?’ ”

  “That’s true,” Ape said. “But, Investigator Renko, you’re playing a dangerous game. My partners in Curonian Amber have already invested time and money.”

  “You have great expectations?”

  “You could say that.”

  That was good but not enough, Arkady thought. He needed a clear admission of a crime recorded on tape.

  “What if the Kaliningrad becomes another Kursk? That would be a disaster for you and the Kremlin.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “But you’re loading the odds when a nuclear submarine is built by thieves at a cut rate. The downside, as they say, would be enormous.”

  “There’s a risk.”

  “Would Grisha have taken it?”

  “Grisha was a risk taker,” Abdul said.

  “Now he’s dead.” Arkady turned to Ape. “Didn’t you once advise me to ask, ‘Whose ox is gored?’ ”

  “Circumstances are different. In Moscow you were a man with authority. Now you’re away from home.”

  Again, good to have on tape, but not enough.

  Alexi said, “I’m not going to listen to this bullshit anymore. What are we waiting for?”

  “We want to hear more,” one of the Chinese said.

  Doubt had been raised. In the eyes of the visitors from the Red Dawn Shipyard, Arkady could practically see the beads of an abacus sliding on a rack calculating the risks one way and the other. Isaac Shagelman looked toward his wife, Valentina, for a decision, as if the question were about putting down a dog. She looked at the ship’s ladder and gasped.

  Tatiana appeared from nowhere, shining from the water that dripped off her. She climbed onto the deck but she could as well have landed like a Valkyrie. She had come in the second dinghy and must have swum to collect its oars. Arkady thought he should have anticipated this. She had warned him that she was not the sort of woman to miss the fun.

  “It’s not so simple,” she said.

  Ape said to Alexi, “You led us to believe that Tatiana Petrovna was dead.”

  “It was my sister that Alexi killed,” Tatiana said.

  “And your sons killed Maxim’s ZIL,” Arkady added. “Maxim and I happened to be inside it at the time. They like to play Scarface. Did they do that on your orders or are they taking orders from somebody else?”

  Ape shook his head. “A classic car. I would never do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter who ordered it,” Alexi said. “Our plan is still good.”

  Arkady said, “You weren’t even in the plan while your father was alive.”

  “I’ve been watching you for years,” Tatiana said to Ape. “I’ve been following your corruption of the state.”

  “And I’ve read your articles,” Ape said. “They’re very good but they’re all in the past.”

  “Not Curonian Amber. Not building a deathtrap of a nuclear submarine. We’ll print it, and if you try to stop us we will see you in court.”

  Alexi said, “So what? We’ll buy the court. We’ll buy the Kremlin if need be.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Arkady asked. “Who killed Grisha?”

  The deck was like a chessboard, Arkady thought, except that all the pieces were moving at the same time. The partners from the ministry set down their glasses and rose to their toes. The Chinese were no longer playing invisible; they were gone.

  Ape turned to Maxim. “I liked your poem.”

  “What?”

  “That poem. It was years ago. ‘F Is for Fool.’ ”

  “Yeah.” Maxim had to laugh.

  “I don’t remember all of it. Something like, ‘F is for fool, the man who returns home early and finds himself replaced. Another man is in his bed, folded like a jackknife around his wife.’ Is that it?”

  “Close enough.”

  “I could never get over the image of the jackknife. Would you say the poem is about betrayal?”

  “I was inspired.”

  “I can believe it. We’re all betrayed at one time or another and we never forget.” Ape asked Arkady, “Scarface, huh?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The old man said, “Renko, remember how we talked about Grisha? We couldn’t understand how he let his killer get so close. There’s a word for it. It’s a big one.”

  “Patricide.”

  Ape whispered and nodded to his sons. “Let one boy get away with it and you encourage the others.”

  Tatiana was on her own tangent. She aimed a pistol at Alexi and asked, “Remember my sister?”

  It was her moment, but the trigger pull of a cheaply manufactured pistol could be stiff and hard to gauge. So Alexi shot first. Maxim, who had seemed adrift, stepped in between and took a bullet in the shoulder. Ape fired. Alexi’s head rang like a cracked bell. He dropped facedown and Ape stood over him and shot him twice more in the back.

  “You crazy Russians,” said Abdul. The Wolf of the Caucasus bolted to the gangway ramp and the Shagelmans hustled after him.

  Ape turned the gun on Arkady. “Why shouldn’t I shoot you too?”

  “Because we’re still recording.” With elaborate care, Arkady brought out his cell phone.

  “Are you? Well, maybe you are and maybe you aren’t.” After consideration, Ape let his gun hang. “As it is, all you can charge us with is saving your miserable lives. Get out of here. Next time, you may not be so lucky. Sometimes it’s more important to teach my boys a lesson than to make another hundred million dollars. We’ll pack away the Champagne for another day.”

  As Maxim struggled to his elbows Ape pressed his gun into Maxim’s hands. “Congratulations. By the evidence, you just killed your first man. Now that’s something to write about.”

  33

  Sand.

  Arkady let it pour from his fist to the valley of her back and when she turned over Arkady let it run off her stomach to the hollow of her hip, scattering over her skin like grains of salt. It got in every crevice, into her hair and into the corners of his mouth.

  Wind.

  Constant breezes played like spirits on the cabin’s steps. There were dead dunes and live dunes, according to Tatiana.

  Time.<
br />
  A live dune remade itself and changed from day to day. The entire spit moved like the sweep hand on a watch.

  “Have you ever looked at sand through a magnifying glass?” Tatiana asked. “It’s many different things. Quartz, seashells, miniature worm tubes, spines.”

  The cabin had its small discomforts-the thin mattress and rough wooden floor-but they lent a sharpness to the senses. The heat within her made up for a cold stove. The cabin creaked agreeably like an ancient ship.

  A few birders came their way. All in all, however, the beach belonged to Arkady and Tatiana. Their sand castle.

  Insomnia arrived in the middle of the night like a tardy guest. Arkady saw a lantern moving through the trees. He chased the light to the road, where it moved too fast to follow. In the morning he found a pair of footprints circling the cabin. The wind had erased them by the time Tatiana woke.

  • • •

  Arkady watched Tatiana walk down the road trying to get a cell phone signal. It was like ice fishing, he thought, not a sport for the impatient, but a hundred meters away, she waved her arm, and when she returned it was with a flush of excitement.

  “I talked to Obolensky. He’s coming to Kaliningrad to do a special edition of the magazine about Russia’s most corrupt city.”

  “Well, that’s a kind of honor.” Arkady paused in the task of hammering a plank in the cabin’s porch. “Written by you?”

  “The main article, yes.”

  “I would think so. It’s not every day his favorite journalist comes back from the dead. When?”

  “It’s a rush job. I’ll be gone one day, maybe two. What do you think?”

  It was the first anxious note he’d heard in her voice.

  “I think you’ve got to do it.”

  “I told Obolensky I would.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “Can you come with me?”

  “I’ll find things to do around the cabin.” Arkady tried to sound like a handyman.

  He wondered what they looked like from a distance: a man and woman seesawing over something as innocent as a day apart. In fact, Obolensky had done him a great favor. Ever since Arkady had felt Piggy’s presence, he had wanted to remove her from the scene.