Tatiana: An Arkady Renko Novel (Arkady Renko Novels) (14 page)

He smelled ether.

•  •  •

When Arkady awoke, he was on his back between slabs of concrete covered in slime. He could raise his head halfway and cross one knee over the other. He had nothing but peripheral vision, black on one side and, on the other, the blinding headlights of a car.

He touched a knob that sat in the middle of his forehead from his first attempt to sit up.

“Where am I?”

“I’ll give you a clue,” Alexi said. “You’re not on a yacht.”

“A houseboat?”

“Close enough. A barge. Barge ballast, to be exact.”

It was suspended on straps over another concrete pad where he was laid out like a canapé. Arkady twisted from side to side. He was, in effect, entombed with less room than a coffin.

“What do you want?”

“Very good. Under control. Because we want your full concentration.”

Arkady felt his eyes open wide and found that he was on a level with the other man’s shoes, not the best level to negotiate from. What he needed was a rabbit hole and a white rabbit to lead the way.

“What do you want?” Arkady repeated.

“I want the notebook that Anya gave you.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

“I don’t know.”

The ballast came to life and dropped enough to make a point. Totally without effect, Arkady tried to raise his knees and push back. He didn’t shout. It seemed understood that any call for help would swiftly terminate the conversation. It wasn’t the sort of situation that would end any other way. Only right away or a little later.

Alexi asked, “Do you think this will make an impression on Ape Beledon or Abdul? Maybe they’ll take me more seriously. Make them suck up their balls. No opinion? Very well, I’ll try again. Who has the notebook? I know it’s not Anya. So, who can it be?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

Alexi lowered the ballast again, so that Arkady breathed
directly into it. The question was, what would be crushed first, rib cage or skull?

Thinking rationally in this situation demanded discipline. Nevertheless, Arkady was almost positive he was at the Moscow Marina. In the day some poor deckhand would have to scrape him off the pad. Meanwhile, Alexi had a remote-control wand and would go spotless.

“Tell me about Kaliningrad,” Alexi said.

“Kaliningrad?” Arkady was taken by surprise.

“Kaliningrad. What’s happening there?”

“I didn’t know anything was happening there.”

“It’s all in the notebook.”

“No one can read the notebook.”

“Then give it back.”

“I don’t have the notebook, I can’t read the notebook and I have no idea what’s happening in Kaliningrad.”

“Then there’s no point in keeping you alive.”

“I have a lot of other notebooks.”

“You’re stalling.”

“No.” Not literally, Arkady thought. Stalling involved the hope of rescue. He was only playing the game out.

The remote clicked and the ballast resumed its slow descent.

Alexi said, “I think it’s a sin to kill yourself over a notebook you can’t even read. It’s not even wasteful, it’s immoral.”

“As soon as I tell you, you’ll kill me.”

“That’s a pessimistic point of view. What have you got to lose?”

“I’ll take you there.”

“No expeditions. You tell me where the notebook is here and now.”

“Wait.”

“Too bad. Last chance. Good-bye.”

A small something ran across the headlights. Not a white rabbit with pink eyes, long ears and a watch, but a dog with short ears and expressive eyes. The ballast stopped abruptly as the dog sniffed along its edge. A pug. Once it discovered Arkady, it squirmed with delight and crawled up his chest to lick his face.

Pugs were rare in Moscow. Arkady knew of only one.

Shouts and whistles tried to lure the dog out of his reach, but Arkady called, “Polo,” and the dog came back.

When Alexi reached in, Arkady seized his arm and gave it a counterclockwise twist hard enough to dislocate the shoulder. This posed a dilemma for Alexi. He had the remote, but in a struggle, he could press the wrong button and crush half of himself as well because he was in the ferocious grip of someone who had decided to live.

The two men backed out from under the ballast like crabs locked in combat. Arkady was aware of fetid air lifting, of boats hauled out under the stars, of the dog running off and headlights retreating. For Alexi the pain of a dislocated shoulder left little time for decision making. He broke free but his gun was holstered under his left arm and his right arm hung uselessly.

Alexi said, “This never happened.”

Arkady hit him in the face.

“That happened.”

Hit him again on the same cheek.

“And that happened. Show yourself to Ape Beledon or Abdul now. Tell them any story you want.”

The rain was miserable. The mud was miserable. Tomorrow would probably be miserable.

“Kaliningrad.” Maxim spread his arms to welcome Arkady. “A fantasy gone wrong.”

Starting with its Third World airport, Arkady thought. Construction and aspirations had each halted midway. Much of the roof had collapsed and what remained revealed twisted rebar and streaks of rust. Road barriers forced traffic to approach in a zigzag manner. Black BMW sedans queued to pick up officialdom, but Maxim trumped them all with his majestic ZIL.

“You drove from Moscow?” Arkady asked.

“Do you think I would leave my most valuable possession behind?”

“How did you know I would be on the plane?”

“Anya told me. I decided that like Dante in the inferno, you
would need a guide. ‘All hope abandon, ye who enter here.’ ” Maxim loaded Arkady’s bag. He actually seemed cheery. “Remember, I taught here for years. If anyone can lead you safely through the dangers in this land of contradiction, it’s me.” He showed Arkady a bottle of twelve-year-old Hennessy in a paper bag. “For special parking privileges. In fact, I’m showcasing the ZIL to promote a class car rally from Moscow to Kaliningrad. Get in and I’ll be back in a minute.”

Maxim bounded through the rain, bag and cognac tucked under one arm.

Arkady understood that, basically, Maxim Dal had volunteered in order to protect his Ancient Poet’s Prize and its windfall of $50,000. So why would he endanger the prize by going to a demonstration? The prize was American, but the relevant authorities in Moscow might take away his passport. Hard to say. Maxim was skilled at playing both sides. The old boy also had flair, as did the ZIL with its push-button controls, leather interior and swing-out ashtrays. Arkady lit a cigarette and immediately twisted it out. Ever since he had escaped being crushed, he was giving in to good habits.

“You look like hell,” Maxim said on return. “Just an observation.”

“Many have made it.”

Bleak fields lay on either side of the highway but the surface of the road was as smooth as the felt of a billiard table, and the streetlights sported fanciful galleon designs.

“We are now riding on the most expensive highway in Europe. In other words, the mayor’s wife has a road construction company. That’s the way things are done here. See, you need somebody to show you what’s what.” Maxim looked over. “You’re not happy. You don’t think we can work together?”

“You’re not a detective or an investigator.”

“I’m a poet. Same thing. Even more, I’m a Koenig.”

“What’s a Koenig?”

“A Koenig is a native of Kaliningrad. I can help you. We’ll be partners, as close as pickles in a jar.”

Kaliningrad had none of the sweep and power of Moscow or the elegance of Petersburg. Pickles sounded right.

“How can you help me?”

“Show you around.”

“Why?”

“I loved Tatiana,” Maxim said. “At least tell me what you came here for. If there’s no body and no case, what’s left?”

“A ghost. As a poet you should know that much.”

That was an arrow that found its mark; Maxim was always accused of being a one-song poet, just as Arkady was becoming a one-note investigator. If Ludmila Petrovna didn’t have any new information about her sister, Arkady could have saved himself the trip.

“Is it true what they say, that you’re finished?” Maxim asked. “Some people say you have a little piece of lead rattling around inside your skull, a time bomb that surgeons can’t remove.”

“Are you finished?” Arkady asked.

“Poets aren’t finished. They just babble on.”

“Well, there is an element of risk. I couldn’t let you help me if I wanted to.”

“That’s my problem.”

“No, it’s mine. Russia can’t afford to lose another beloved poet.”

Arkady glanced over. Maxim’s face was red as if slapped. As they approached the city, the architecture changed from the
cement five-story horrors of the Khrushchev era to the cement eight-story horrors of the Brezhnev era.

“You visited my school,” Arkady said.

“Did I?”

“I was in third grade. It was a cultural outreach by members of the Writers’ Union to boys with runny noses.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it had a great effect.”

“I remember one poem in particular, ‘All Horses Are Aristocrats.’ ”

Rain settled into a pace of steady drumming. Pedestrians gathered on the corners and crossed in opposite tides of umbrellas. Maxim allowed himself a smile.

“So you liked that poem?”

•  •  •

Zhenya hadn’t played chess for weeks, but he was low on money, and an outdoor tournament at Moscow State University promised easy pickings. One or two club members recognized Zhenya and tried to escape his draw, but in general, confidence reigned among the students. Online gamers who usually tracked flashing lights sat at outdoor tables and chairs. The fashion among graduate students was torn denim and sweaters from Milan. Zhenya arrived in rumpled camo looking like a prisoner of war.

The university embodied everything he hated, which was what he didn’t have. Access, money, a future. He had no future and no past, only a circle. His father had shot Arkady and Victor had killed his father. Who knew what Arkady might have become without a bullet in his brain? A great pianist? A profound philosopher? At least prosecutor general. Zhenya imagined that nine grams of lead had lit up his brain like a Catherine wheel. The
man had his limits. What was he chasing in Kaliningrad? Tatiana was dead and gone. The magazine,
Now,
was promoting a new cast of heroes. The prosecutor was targeting new agents of social disruption.

Zhenya recognized Stanford, the graduate student who had beleaguered him at Patriarch’s Ponds, and almost went dizzy trying to keep his head low. There were twenty contestants, including the girl with red hair who had been part of his humiliation. She probably screwed Mr. Stanford, Zhenya thought. They made a pair.

Stanford was Zhenya’s first opponent. Most of the students had kept their game sharp by playing electronic chess. Suckers. Taking away a face from the other side of the board eliminated tempo, psychology and the threat of violence.

A clinking of beer bottles drew his attention. Stanford stood opposite Zhenya and made an announcement. “It’s the Chess Creep. He’s back among us. ‘
Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
’ ”

It was his last laugh. Zhenya feigned the Dutch Opening, sucked in Stanford’s pieces and spat them out to dry. Zhenya had to inform him it was “mate in three.”

The rest of Zhenya’s matches went much the same way. He didn’t realize the girl had maintained the same pace until she sat across the board from him for the final match.

“We’ve played before,” she said.

“I doubt it. I remember good matches.”

“Years ago at a casino. We were kids.”

Zhenya remembered now. It was an exhibition. He had barely escaped with his skin.

“Why do you and your friend call me a creep?”

“That was his word, not mine. I said
genius
.”

The faint down on her cheek was illuminated by the afternoon sun. Her brows were thoughtful wisps of hair, her eyes a crystal green, and Zhenya was a dozen moves into the game before he realized that he was about to lose a pawn.

The cottage of Ludmila Petrovna had, perhaps, been a carriage house before the war. Although bricks had half disintegrated to rust-colored sand and tape crisscrossed the windows, the house preserved a faint imprint of Koenigsberg style in a neighborhood of grim architecture and small shops selling CDs and cut-rate travel. Arkady and Maxim opened the gate to a vegetable garden where sunflowers peered over the wall, fat tomatoes drooped from wooden stakes and eggplants lay fat and lazy on the ground.

When Ludmila didn’t answer her doorbell, Maxim tossed pebbles up against a window. Arkady saw no lights inside but the window creaked open and a woman hung a cage with a canary. She wore a scarf babushka style, gardening gloves and wraparound dark glasses, and she teased the bird for fluffing up in the cold.

“Always complaining, always looking for sympathy. Just like our old friend Maxim. Always the center of attention.”

“Hello, Ludmila,” Maxim said.

“And with a disreputable friend,” she added when Arkady introduced himself.

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Then I’m sure you have some scheme to make money out of her death. You and Obolensky, so ready to make her a martyr.”

“Did you identify Tatiana Petrovna’s body?” Arkady asked.

“From a photograph. There was no use going to Moscow.”

Maxim said, “Ludmila is sensitive to light. It makes traveling difficult.”

“Didn’t you want to identify her body?”

“The picture was enough.”

“Weren’t you concerned with what happened to her body?”

“Frankly, I’m more concerned about my body.”

“Did you ask to have her cremated?”

A minute before the rain had almost stopped; now it was drumming. Arkady heard the bustle of the market beyond the garden wall as racks were pulled under cover. Anyone else would have invited Arkady and Maxim in.

“Poor Juliet is getting wet.” She stroked the canary under its beak. “They don’t sing, you know, after they’ve lost their mate.”

“You don’t remember whether you asked to have your own sister cremated?”