“That reminds me,” Lotte said.
“Yes?”
“I was at a tournament in Warsaw, playing a Chinese girl. It’s amazing how many good players they’re producing.”
“And?”
“Her name was on a plaque that had the box kite symbol. Actually, it stands for China.”
“Oh.” So to keep things in perspective, while he had been hustling in railway stations, Lotte had been traveling the international chess tournament circuit. “That’s a pretty big detail. How did you do?”
“Second place.”
“That’s great. Do you remember anything else?”
“One of the sponsors of the tournament was a Chinese bank, the Red Dawn Bank of Shanghai.”
“Not Sunrise or Sunset?”
“No, in China, the dawn is always red.”
“Probably because of all the pollution there. So, we’re making progress. What do you think Natalya Goncharova stands for?”
“Beauty,” said Lotte.
“Or adultery.” He spread index cards across the kitchen table. “Everything is open to interpretation. It could be, ‘Due to a Chinese spy ring, a torpedo sank a damaged nuclear submarine and left the victims in a vast oil slick, for which the Russian defense minister awarded himself the Order of Lenin.’ ”
“Or?” Lotte asked.
Zhenya rearranged the cards. “ ‘The great Russian poet Pushkin and his unfaithful wife, Natalya, were sailing off the coast of China when she was fatally stung by a wasp. The music at her funeral brought tears. Fish and figs were served after the ceremony.’ ”
• • •
They drove around the parks and lantern-lit paths in the center of the city, to what purpose, Arkady did not know. To escape the Monster? To impress a tourist?
“Here’s the future,” Maxim said. “The so-called Fishing Village, a facsimile of old Koenigsberg.”
“It looks like a theme park,” Arkady said.
“The future will be a theme park.”
The village’s half-timbered buildings and lighthouse were a disguise for expensive shops and upper-class housing. Where were the bustling of fishmongers, barrows of herring, nets hung to dry and glistening like a bright arras of silver scales? Not even a single true fishing boat, only a pair of dinghies kept for maintenance and only one of them with an outboard engine.
“Sometimes, to complete the scene, a friend and I take out one of the boats and fish for perch. It’s relaxing.”
“Did Tatiana go with you?”
“Tatiana? No. She never relaxed. She knew she was in danger every time she left her door. Even in her own home. But she welcomed danger. Her life was a waltz with danger. Only Kaliningrad could have bred a woman like her. She told me once that she preferred a short life, a dash across the sky.”
“A dash or a waltz?” Arkady asked.
“Somehow both, my dear Renko.”
“As long as she could take her dog with her? That’s what Obolensky told me. A little pug, isn’t it?”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I’m not sure. What was its name?”
“Polo.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Arkady asked. “Tatiana, I mean.”
“The day she died.”
“You were over her by then?”
“I was still fond of her. We respected each other, but we were long past the white-hot stage of a relationship.”
“She confided in you?”
“To a degree. I’d say she was closer to her sister, Ludmila, and Obolensky.”
“Did she mention any Mafia?”
“No one in particular.”
“What about Abdul? The Shagelmans? Ape Beledon? They each had a grievance, as they saw it.”
“Criminals always have a grievance,” Maxim said. “The fact is they want Kaliningrad. There’s much more here than amber. Auto plants, shipping, the Baltic Fleet and soon, maybe, casinos. Under the rough surface, a handsome principality.”
“All of which Alexi Grigorenko wants as his inheritance.”
A Mercedes slowed out of respect, it seemed, to let the ZIL go by. BMWs built in Kaliningrad seemed to jump directly to Moscow; Nissans and Isuzus made the reverse trek from Pacific ports and had the look of secondhand shoes.
“Are you looking for somebody?” Arkady asked. Maxim kept glancing at his wing mirrors.
“Acquaintances.”
“Maybe your old fishing companion? There’s nothing like old friends to keep you on your toes.”
A bridge led to a small island and the sharp spire of a cathedral.
“Tatiana will have a statue here one day when we are long forgotten. People will ask why we did nothing while she was murdered. You carry the weight for all of us.”
“I wouldn’t count much on that,” Arkady said.
“Then we’re in trouble.”
The church spire stood in its own bed of lights. Maxim approached at a crawl.
“Our cathedral.” Maxim pointed at a tomb that was tucked into a corner. “Our philosopher.”
The tomb was rough stone surrounded by a portico and a wrought iron gate. The headlights of the ZIL brushed along a plaque that read IMMANUEL KANT.
“Is this a midnight cultural tour?” Arkady asked. “Or are we simply adrift?”
“Come, come, you must have studied Kant at the university,” Maxim said. “The greatest mind of his age? Perhaps the most famous philosopher of any age? ‘Rational beings.’ ‘Categorical imperative.’ ”
Maxim kept the car moving slowly, weaving between trees, making a turn at the narrow end of the island.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Arkady said.
“Or ‘the inquiring murderer.’ Even if a murderer asks the whereabouts of someone he intends to kill, honesty requires you to tell the truth.”
“I’m afraid that went over my head.”
“But the old boy may have been sick,” Maxim added. “Now doctors think it’s possible Kant had a brain tumor. He displayed all the signs. Loss of vision, loss of social inhibition, fainting spells. We may have been taking our moral cues from a man who was going crazy.”
“It wouldn’t be the last time.”
A bright light was followed by a shove. Arkady twisted around to see a black Mercedes SUV ride the ZIL’s rear bumper. The ZIL leapt forward and plowed through a flower bed to a walkway by the river. As the SUV pulled alongside, Arkady saw one man at the wheel and two in back. Maxim shouted and pointed at the glove compartment. Arkady pulled on it, punched and kicked it, but the compartment stuck. The SUV inched ahead, gaining enough angle to steer the ZIL off the walkway and toward the water. Maxim had no choice but to stop. Two men emerged from the Mercedes, each with a semiautomatic pistol. They stood side by side along the ZIL, illuminating the car with muzzle flashes, punching holes in its doors, planting star patterns on its windshield and windows and shouting, “You want to fuck with me? Say hello to my little friend.”
The work was over in a matter of seconds. Their pistol clips were empty. They shared a moment of satisfaction until the ZIL came back to life. No rounds had penetrated the bulletproof interior of the car. The windows were starred but not shattered. Heavy as a tank, the ZIL backed onto the path and broadsided the other car even as the would-be assassins piled into it. While it could, the Mercedes sped off past the philosopher’s
