Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [113]
“You can go down the stairs from here,” Arkady said.
Rikki said, “I told them to wait a minute. I can’t simply disappear. I have to open the door sometime.”
Stas asked, “Then, why come here?”
“Do you have any brandy?” Rikki examined his hand, which was already starting to swell.
“No. Vodka,” Stas offered.
“It will have to do.” He allowed himself to be helped to a chair and given a glass. “This is my plan: let her take a different car.”
Stas said, “You picked her up at the airport. She knows your car. She loves your car.”
“I’ll say it’s yours—that I borrowed it from you to impress her.”
“Ah. And what car are you going to let her take?” Stas asked.
“Stas.” Rikki batted his eyes. “Stas, we’re close friends. Your Mercedes is ten years old, bought used—a dog bed, if I may speak frankly. My daughter is a woman of some taste. She’ll take one look at your car and will refuse to touch it. I was hoping we could trade keys.”
Stas poured two more vodkas and said to Arkady, “You wouldn’t know it now, but Rikki once swam the Black Sea. He had a wet suit and a compass. He dove through nets and swam under patrol boats. It was a heroic escape. Now here he is, hiding from his daughter.”
“You won’t trade?” Rikki asked.
“Life has caught up with you. I think your daughter’s going to make you pay for years,” Stas said. “The car is only a beginning.”
The vodka seemed to stick in Rikki’s throat. He drew himself up with dignity, walked out to the balcony and spat over the rail. “Damn her! And you!” he told Stas. He set the glass on the balcony table and hoisted himself up on the waterpipe that ran down the front of the building. For a man his size he was still agile. Arkady saw his legs swing to the upper balcony. As he thrashed, geranium petals rained.
Arkady awoke on the sofa. It was two A.M. by his watch. There is no hole deeper than two in the morning, the hour when fear rules the world. Stas had avoided the question twice. Where was Max staying?
By nature, Russians did not like hotels. Visitors stayed with friends. Other friends knew where. The idea that Max was lying beside Irina made Arkady stare into the bluish dark of the room. He could almost see them in bed, as if it were just on the other side of the living-room table. See Max’s arm locked around her; hear Max breathe the perfume of her hair.
He lit a match. Chairs, desk and bookshelves crept out of the dark and toward the flame. He threw off his blanket. On the desk he had seen the telephone. Feeling around the top, he found a small address book. He lit another match clumsily with one hand, opened the front of the book and found “Irina Asanova” and her number. The flame was at his fingers. He pinched it out and picked up the phone. Would he say he was sorry to wake her, but they had to talk? She’d already made it clear she had nothing to say to him, especially if Max was lying next to her. Arkady could warn her. How jealous and inept that would sound, with Max right there.
Or when she answered he could ask for Max. That would let her know he was aware of how things stood. Or if she asked who was calling, he could say, “Boris,” then see how she reacted to that.
Arkady punched her number, but when he started to lift the phone to his ear, his wrist was clamped. Damp teeth held the hand and phone down. When he made the slightest effort to raise the phone, the jaws tightened. He moved his other hand to the phone and a growl resonated through his arm.
On the other end of the line he heard the characteristic two rings of a German phone. “Hello?” Irina said.
Arkady tried to wrench his arm free and the jaws closed.
“Who is this?” Irina asked.
The whole weight of the dog hung from his arm.
A click was followed by a dial tone.
As Arkady let his arm fall, the jaws relaxed. When he replaced the phone on the cradle, the teeth let go. He felt the dog waiting to make sure he left the phone alone.
Save me, Arkady thought. Save me from myself.
The secret was that Stas did all his eating at breakfast: liver, smoked salmon, potato