Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [152]
When the door opened behind him, Arkady pushed home a clip and turned to fire.
Irina was in the doorway, so frozen in place she balanced between the light of the hall and the dark of the room. Arkady looked to see whether anyone else was in the hall, then pulled her in by the wrist and shut the door.
“I thought I heard you,” she said. Her voice came out as small as a prerecorded tape.
“Where’s Max?”
“Why do you have a gun?”
“Where is Max?”
“Dinner was over early. The Americans had to catch a plane. Max went to the gallery to see Rita. I came here to see you.” She pulled her wrist free. “Why is it dark in here?”
When she tried to reach the switch, he pushed her hand away. She tried to open the door and he kicked it shut.
“I can’t believe this, Arkady. It’s happening again. You didn’t come back for me, you came for someone else. You used me again.”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. Who are you after?”
Arkady was silent.
“Who else?” she asked.
He said, “Max. Rita. Boris Benz, except that his real name is Borya Gubenko.”
He felt her pull away. She said, “I used to think that the day I left you was the worst day of my life. This is worse, though. You’ve come back and outdone yourself. I’ve wasted my life on these two days.”
“You—”
“Five minutes ago I was yours. I ran down here. What do I see? Investigator Renko.”
“They killed a money dealer in Moscow.”
“What do I care about Soviet laws?”
“They murdered my partner.”
“Why should I care about Soviet police?”
“They killed Tommy.”
“People around you get killed. Max wouldn’t hurt me. He loves me.”
“I love you.”
She hit him. First with the flat of her hand as hard as she could, then with her fists. He stood like a man leaning into the wind and let the pistol hang. He let it slide down his leg to the floor.
“I want to see your face,” Irina said.
She found the switch and turned it on. At once he could see something was wrong from the shock in her eyes. He put his hand up and felt a tender swelling from his temple to his brow. It had ballooned since he had left the bathhouse.
She looked at Ali’s shirt on the floor. The back was soaked through, red as a flag. She unbuttoned the shirt he was wearing. He pulled it off and she turned him around to look. He heard her breath stop. “You’re cut.”
“It’s not deep.”
“You’re still bleeding.”
They turned on the bathroom light. In the cabinet mirror Arkady saw that Ali had slashed him from the right shoulder blade down to his belt. Irina tried to swab the blood from his back, but a washcloth was inadequate. Arkady set the pistol in the basin of the sink, undressed and stepped into the shower. She set the water on cool and cleaned him around the long red slice.
His muscles bunched and shook from the temperature of the water, then eased at the touch of her hand on his back. Her fingers found a scar on his rib, and as if tactilely remembering, went to a puckered mark on his leg and then up to a slick ridge in the middle of his stomach, as if he were a map with four limbs.
Arkady turned off the water. He emerged from the shower while she pulled off her skirt and slipped in two steps from her pants. He lifted her up. She held on to his neck, wrapped her legs around his waist and arched herself so he could enter.
She opened herself even as she held him tight. Her mouth was hot. Her eyes were wide, as if afraid to close. Outside they were locked. Inside he traveled to the heart of her. They rocked, his back against the wall.
She cried with sharp intakes of breath. In the mirror, he saw the wall wiped with his blood. They looked as if they were climbing together from a black pit to the light, on one pair of legs that had never been so strong before. She held on, her fingers curling in his hair.
“Arkasha!” She leaned back while inside he drove closer to a yielding core. She held on as desperately, her mouth on his again, on his cheek and against his ear whispering with a voice as hoarse as his until the last inner resistance dissolved.
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