Black Knight in Red Square (16 page)

The dark-eyed woman smiled at the young man next to her and nodded in appreciation at his assessment of the film he had seen a few hours ago. She had pleaded a headache, and now she was feigning interest in his infantile explanation of film, audience, and filmmaker.

He had forgotten that it was she who had urged him to see
To the Left
and arranged for him to get the tickets. In fact, she'd done it so skillfully that he'd thought it was his idea. She reached over in the bed and put her hand on his pale leg. She wondered how he would react if she squeezed him like a vise until he begged for release. Instead, she pretended that what he said was not only interesting but profound.

“And you had a drink with him?” she encouraged.

“He is brilliant,” said the young man, looking at her with drunken dancing eyes. “His grasp of the need for destruction of structure is so pure, so clear. No wonder he is rejected and scorned.”

“And,” she said, letting her hand move away when she realized he was too drunk to respond, “he seemed in a good mood even after what happened?”

“Distracted, perhaps, but brave. He was laughing,” said the young man with admiration. “They all sat there feeling so superior, neo-capitalists every one, and they couldn't face a true act of artistic revolution. He laughed at them. He has an inner strength, that man.”

He will need it, she thought as the young man's eyes closed and he fell asleep repeating “that man.”

She got up, then turned off the light, and climbed back into the narrow bed. She pushed the young man over, and he grunted petulantly.

The links were weak, perhaps, she thought. One or both might even break, but the job would be done. Of that she was quite sure.

She was asleep, as always, within minutes, a light sleep always on the edge of cautious consciousness. She had learned to sleep this way from the one who had taught her, who was now dead. She told herself that it was the sleep of the professional. She did not acknowledge that it was also the sleep of one who fears dreams.

From time to time, in spite of her training, she did fall into deep sleep for a few minutes, and the dream did come, the dream of circles within circles that turned to a spiral of wire on which she was skewered. She twisted downward on that spiral toward the ever narrowing center hidden in darkness, below which she would fall off the wire and plummet into the void.

She ground her teeth furiously, awakening herself. She sat up breathing deeply; it seemed she had a weight on her chest. The void surrounded her. She willed it away.

Beside her, she heard him snoring. It was reassuring for an instant, and then she hated having felt any reassurance in his presence. She got out of bed and went to the window, wishing it were Sunday.

Rostnikov's mouth was inches from Sarah's ear as they lay in darkness well after midnight.

“It will be,” he said so softly that even the most sensitive microphone could not pick it up.

She turned to look at his stubbly, dark face with its knowing smile. She smiled back. He had managed to carry them this far, she thought; perhaps he could do it. There was much about it she didn't like, but if he could do it, it would be beyond what she had ever really expected.

If he failed, however, she knew quite well that neither of them would see another Moscow winter.

Osip Stock lived near Druzhbin, not far from the Moscow Ring Road, which encircles the city, marking its perimeter beyond which it is exceedingly difficult to travel without private transportation. Osip Stock had no private transportation.

Osip was almost thirty years old and looked rather like a tubercular bird. In spite of his dry appearance, with his thin chest and a hacking cough from too much smoking, Osip was a passionate man. In his free time he would take to the roads near his home, winter or summer, and in his precious running shoes, one of his few extravagances, take flight, losing himself in distance, not knowing how far he ran, returning sometimes hours later. Osip was well aware that his primary reason for running was to escape from the three-room apartment he shared with his parents, his aunt Sophie, and his cousin Svetlana, a grotesque creature.

But Osip had a plan to end this lifestyle, which was the reason he arose so early this day. He was up by seven in the evening. He slept alone in the bed during the day. Usually when he arose, his parents were ready for sleep, and would take over the bed, occasionally changing the sheet. Aunt Sophie and Svetlana slept in the large room, which was not so large, in which they shared meals, conversation, battles, and comforts.

“You are up so early,” said his mother. Cousin Svetlana made her familiar gurgling sound and agreed that he was indeed up early. Osip grinned, showing his silver teeth, and searched for his cigarettes. He couldn't immediately find them and nearly panicked. But his mother, to head off his grumbling, joined the search and found half a packet.

Lighting up, Osip leaned back in his chair at the wooden table, adjusted the buttons on his uniform, and drank some coffee to wash down the chunk of bread that was his meal. There was more food, but Osip was not much of an eater.

“Why are you looking so happy?” asked his mother, a red-cheeked little woman.

“Why?” he answered, grinning more broadly. “Because it is a fine evening. I have a good job and a secret.”

“A secret?” asked his mother, looking at Aunt Sophie and Cousin Svetlana for an explanation. They had none. Svetlana made her gurgling sound again.

“Nothing important,” said Osip, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “We must have some privacy if only on the open road and in our own heads.”

“It would be better if when you talked you made sense,” his mother said, again looking at Sophie. This time Sophie nodded in agreement. Svetlana seemed to be dozing.

Osip looked at all of them with great tolerance. Soon he would be rid of them. Soon he would be a man of means, a respected man with his own apartment, far from this. Privacy. Oh, how he longed for it.

His mother seemed about to pursue the subject of his secrecy, but he said, “I'm off,” and grabbing the small sack that contained his midnight meal, he hurried out the door. In the dark corridor, his father approached, moving slowly and wearily, returning from his job on a road repair crew.

Father and son grunted at each other as they passed, and Osip hurried out into the light. He wanted to run or at least jog to the metro station, but the sweat would ruin his uniform. So he walked slowly, planning. There weren't many people going to the heart of town at that hour, so there were plenty of seats when he got to the metro.

It was almost nine when he got off at the Novokuznekskaya metro station and headed for number 10 Lavrushinsky Pereulok, a quiet side street across the Moskva River not far from the Kremlin. When he arrived, he paused in front of the low metal fence with the fancy repeated design of circles and pointed stars and stared at the building beyond. Yes, it was something from an old fairy tale, this gingerbread building, complete with its second-story frieze of Saint George slaying the dragon. He looked up at Saint George and smiled.

He had taken the job at the Tretyakov Gallery more than five years ago. His main reason then was the privacy. He would be alone for many hours in the mansion, though other guards would be wandering about on their rounds. But soon after he took the job he began to grow interested in the thousands of sculptures, drawings, watercolors, and engravings that covered the walls and filled the rooms.

More than four thousand people visited the gallery every day, plunking down thirty kopecks each and waiting in long lines, but Osip paid nothing and had the rooms to himself. He could pause and carry on a conversation with Kiprensky's portrait of Pushkin or sit on the bench, his feet planted firmly on the inlaid wooden floor, and lecture to Rublev's larger-than-life nine-hundred-year-old saints.

Tonight, however, would be special. It had all been arranged. It would be his last trip through the gallery, and he would say good-bye to almost all of his iconic acquaintances. Osip checked in at the side door, trying to control his grin as he said hello to old Victor and put his sack on the ledge in the small guards' room.

“Quiet so far,” said old Victor, looking up from the chessboard over which he sat slumped for hours. It was what Victor always said. Osip would miss that. He wondered what old Victor would be saying about him tomorrow.

In ten minutes, Osip began his rounds. In the past four years, he had slowly, carefully, and systematically stolen eighty-five paintings from these walls, carefully replacing them with others of about the same size and shape from various storage rooms of the collection.

The thefts, in fact, had been discovered only recently, and only a few of them, because of a complaint from a Belgian art student who could not locate a small canvas by Ilya Repin. He had been most careful since then and had cooperated fully and enthusiastically with the police investigators, who found that Osip Stock lived most frugally, did not have the paintings hidden in his home, and seemed most eager to find the missing artworks. He was confident that he was very low on the list of suspects, but after tonight he would be quite well known and very far away.

None of the thefts had been his idea. Well, a few of the later ones were at his suggestion. He had been recruited by the Dutchman, who had invited him for a drink. It had seemed that the two had met accidentally, but it did not take long for Osip to figure out that it had been well planned. Van der Vale had dined and befriended Osip for three weeks before he brought up the possibility of taking some paintings. Osip had been most receptive, and the partnership had begun.

Osip would remove a painting from the wall, hide the frame, wrap the canvas around his body, replace the stolen painting with a similar one from the storage rooms, and walk out. He would meet van der Vale in an alley not far from the gallery where they would make the transfer.

The agreement was that van der Vale would bank Osip's money in Amsterdam and, when the right moment came, would supply Osip with a forged German passport and a ticket to Zurich. Tonight was the right time. Osip would take the most valuable painting available. At first they had tried to figure out a way to take the Rublev
Trinity
or Dionisii's icon of the Metropolitan Alexis, for which Osip had particular affection, but getting the wood blocks out would have been impossible. They settled on a series of eighteenth-century paintings which, when wrapped around Osip, would make him a bit stocky, but not enough for any of the guards to notice. By the time the theft was discovered in the morning, if it was, Stock would already be in Zurich. He had been preparing for this for almost five years, right down to learning enough German to carry him past the airport inspectors if necessary.

Osip was most patient. He made his rounds, chatted with the other two guards, ate with them and encouraged them to hold a mini chess tournament. Each guard would patrol while the other two played. Osip got in the first game and lost. He couldn't have beaten Victor no matter how hard he tried, but he did not want to win. When Vasily sat down to play what Osip knew would be a long game, Osip ambled slowly out of the room. Once out of sight, he moved quickly down the hall and up the stairs. Within ten minutes, he had removed the six canvases and piled their frames in a closet. He juggled the remaining paintings around to cover the loss, knowing that it would not take a careful inspection the next day to discover the theft.

By the time he was finished, Osip was sweating heavily, something he had not counted on, but there was no help for it. He had to move quickly. The chess game should go on for an hour, but what if Vasily made a stupid move?

He had wrapped the small canvases around his waist and tied them neatly to his chest. He felt a bit awkward, but reasonably confident that he could carry it off. He was buttoning the final button on his jacket just as Vasily stepped into the room.

“Victor won,” he announced as if there had been any doubt of the outcome. “What's wrong with you?”

“Me?” said Osip. “Nothing.”

“You are sweating and walking strangely,” said Vasily.

“Maybe I'm ill,” admitted Osip. “I've been feeling strange since I ate.”

“You ate something bad,” Vasily said wisely, his words echoing off the ancient figures that looked down at them. “Maybe you should go home.”

“Maybe,” Osip said, reaching for a cigarette. “I'll go talk to Victor.”

It was even better than he had thought. He could get out even earlier. The Dutchman would be waiting. He always arrived early and checked the alleyway to be sure it was safe. Maybe Osip could get an even greater head start, catch an earlier flight, and get out of Russia even faster. It was worth discussing with the Dutchman.

Victor agreed that Osip looked terrible, but then, he thought that Osip always looked terrible. Tonight he looked a little stiff and was sweating through his uniform.

“Go home, Stock,” he said, flushed with his double chess victory. “We'll take care.”

Osip feigned reluctance but accepted finally, moved slowly to the door and stepped out into the star-filled night. He took a deep breath and, after a final look back at the gallery, started down the street. Five minutes later, he entered the alley and waited. Ten minutes later, the little Dutchman, whose name was not van der Vale and who was not Dutch, decided it was safe to enter the alley. He followed the glowing tip of Stock's cigarette and moved forward cautiously.

“Stock?” he said in accented Russian.

“Yes.”

“You are early,” said the Dutchman, looking around. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” whispered Stock, moving forward, where he could make out the slight form. “I said I was sick and got away early. You have the clothes for me and the suitcase?”

“Yes,” said the Dutchman, thinking that it would have been much better if this fool had gone through the night on the job. Perhaps it did not matter. He did not, in fact, have clothes for Stock, nor did he have a suitcase or a passport. The Dutchman planned to take the remaining paintings and bludgeon Osip Stock to death with the metal bar he now held behind his back. In spite of his open face and slight body, the Dutchman had done such things before. “The paintings, quick.”