He put the tapes and recorder back the way he had found them, stretched out on the mattress and closed his eyes. For just ten minutes. Just to keep going.
Snow pecked at the window. When the wind was stiff the window stirred in its sash. The grinding of plows seemed everywhere.
Arkady was on a frozen lake. Between the fringe of trees and gray clouds was a stillness and a pleasant nip in the air, and the length of the lake were dark dots, fishermen at their holes. The gear for ice fishing was simple: an auger, a hook, a line, a box to sit on and vodka to drink.
There was no better fishing companion than Sergeant Belov. He was insulated by layers of clothing, a fur hat and felt boots, but his red hands were bare, the better to jiggle the lure just so and feel any tug on the hook. The temperature could drop to minus ten, minus twenty, Belov never wore gloves. His prize, smelts the size of silver coins, lay frozen on the ice. “
The sergeant was usually full of good stories about tanks and trucks falling through the ice, or an entire company of troops who drifted away on ice floes never to be seen again. This time Belov was so silent that Arkady wandered off on a private dare toward the middle of the lake.
Only one fisherman had drilled his hole so far out. Arkady told himself that a word of conversation with the man would cap his achievement, although when Arkady looked back the sky was darker and all the other fishermen, including Belov, had picked up and gone. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the ice, but since the fisherman ahead seemed so busy and content Arkady pressed on.
The fisherman was wrapped and hooded in tattered coats and blankets, his face lost in shadow, his hands manipulating many strings simultaneously. Arkady couldn’t put a name to him, although he had seen the man many times before. Then the sun tunneled beneath the clouds and cast a sudden light. Under the ice Arkady saw Marfa, Eva and Zhenya. He hadn’t saved a single one.
7
The harpist onstage in the Metropol dining room played in languid, circular strokes, eyes closed, apparently oblivious of the Americans having breakfast at the nearest table. Wiley had a full face and fine hair like a six-foot baby in a business suit. He filled his bowl with cereal; here was a man, Arkady guessed, who planned to die healthy. Pacheco looked like his protection. In his forties with a bald spot and a bull neck, Pacheco was starting his day with steak and a stack of blini.
Why, Arkady had asked himself, would a scruffy character like Petya Petrov write the Metropol telephone number in a book of matches for a “gentlemen’s club” called Tahiti? What members of the Metropol’s international set might Petya know? Arkady could only think of the two Americans on the Metro platform at Chistye Prudy, and he recognized them as he entered the dining room. The maitre d’ surrendered their names from a buffet sign-in sheet and Arkady waited for the Americans to begin eating before he wended his way between pink tablecloths and red banquettes.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Arkady showed his ID as he sat. Socially, it was a little awkward, like pushing into a rowboat already occupied.
The Americans were unfazed. Wiley handed the ID back. “Not a bit. Cup of coffee? Breakfast? Load up.”
“Just don’t kick everything over like you did last night.” Pacheco had a voice deepened by a lifetime of cigarettes.
“Coffee at the very least.” Wiley waved to the waiter.
“So you do remember last night? Stalin on the Metro?”
“The way you broke it up? How can I forget?”
“I apologize.”
Pacheco had a rough face and small black eyes. “The man speaks English better than me.”
“Ernie is from Texas.” Wiley said. “He’s a cowboy.”
“Shh.” Pacheco put up a finger as the harpist drifted from “Fur Elise” to “Lara’s Theme.” “Ever see
Wiley said, “There’s a chance that Investigator Renko has even read the book.”
“Two Americans show up at a Metro platform in the middle of the night. They don’t get off or board the train. Instead, they participate in the illegal videotaping of a ceremony in honor of Stalin. Do you both speak Russian?”
Wiley said, “I minored in Russian.”
“I was a marine sergeant at the embassy.” Pacheco sawed his meat and corralled it. “Back in the Cold War.”
“All I can tell you is that we were doing our job.”
“In Moscow? What would that job be?”
“I’m in marketing. I help people sell things. They can be soda pop, faster automobiles, fresher detergents, whatever and anywhere, Moscow, New York, Mexico City.”
“You want to sell Stalin in America?”
“No. In the States, Stalin is dead. Now, Hitler’s different. In America, Hitler continues to be hot. History Channel, street fashion, video games. But here in Russia, Stalin is the king. Long story short, we’re using nostalgia for Stalin to publicize the Russian Patriot political party. It’s a start-up party with only three weeks left before the election; it needs an instant identity and an attractive candidate. A good-looking war hero, if possible.”
“Brandy?” Pacheco asked Arkady.
“For breakfast?”
“It’s not over yet.”
Arkady tried to get back on track. “But Russian elections are Russian business. You are Americans.”
Wiley said, “Remember Boris Yeltsin’s return from the dead? He had an approval rating of two percent-he was a drunk, he was a clown, you name it-but American political consultants like me came on board, ran an American-style campaign and Yeltsin won, thirty-six percent to thirty-four percent for the Communists. Nikolai Isakov’s favorable rating is at least that. He will make an impact.”
“You do this for anyone? For either side?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a mercenary.”
“A professional. The main thing is-and I want to stress this-what I do is perfectly legitimate.”
“How is the campaign for Isakov going?”
Wiley paused. “Better than expected.”
“My questions aren’t offensive, I hope.”
“No, we’ve been expecting them. To be honest, Arkady, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Me?”
“You see, with any candidate we do a kind of questionnaire. Pluses and minuses. Mainly minuses because we need to anticipate any potential line of attack the opposition may take: drugs, assault, corruption, sexual orientation. We need to see the client naked, so to speak, because you never know when personal issues are going to go public. So far it looks like the only thing we have to worry about is you.”
“Me?”
Pacheco had twisted in his chair to watch the harpist. “Isn’t she an angel? Golden hair, white skin, white gown. All she needs is a pair of wings. Imagine what it’s like for her, getting up at five in the morning, dressing, riding the subway from God knows where to waste beautiful music on a crowd with their faces in their shredded wheat.”
Wiley hunched closer to Arkady. “Your wife ran off with Isakov. Are you going to make a stink about that?”
“She’s not my wife.”
Wiley’s face lit up. “Oh, I misunderstood. That’s a huge relief.”
