Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [153]
There was a moment of softness. She pulled her blouse up over her head. Her breasts were bare, the tips dark and hard. He felt himself grow large again.
He filled his mouth with her breast. Her hair hung in a curtain around her face. Her tears sluiced down her neck and between her breasts to him, a mixed taste of salt and sweet. And forgiveness. This was the absolution from and for herself. When she threw her head back, he saw below her right eye a delicate blue flaw, her own Moscow scar. As she rode, her eyes closed as if he were rising inside along her spine up to her throat.
She twisted to be beneath him and spread to take him even farther in, her legs high, in flight. He drove her along the tiles. Inside, she carried him deeper, as if they could shed their bodies, shed the lost years, shed the pain. Save each other. Two persons in one skin.
They lay on the bathroom floor as if in bed, her head pillowed on his chest, her leg resting over his so that he felt her brush of hair against his thigh, a subtle contract of trust. So what if their flanks were red from the blood on the tiles? If Orpheus and Eurydice had emerged intact from hell, what would they look like?
Even in shadow, Irina looked exhausted. “I think you’re wrong. Max isn’t a killer. He’s smart. As soon as reforms started in Russia, he said it wasn’t reform, it was collapse. He was unhappy because our relationship hadn’t developed the way he’d hoped. He wanted to come back a hero.”
“By defecting again?”
“By making money. He said the people in Moscow needed him more than he needed them.”
“He must have been right.” If he had been wrong, Max never could have returned to Germany.
“He wants to prove he’s smarter than you.”
“He is.”
“Oh, no, you’re brilliant. I said I’d never let you be close to me again, yet here I am.”
“You think Max and I can work out our misunderstanding?”
“He helped you get to Munich, he helped you get to Berlin. He’d help again if I asked. Just wait.”
They Sat on floor by the living-room window with the lights off. They were classic refugees, Arkady thought, he in pants, Irina in his shirt. Dried, the cut on his back looked like a zipper.
Where could they go? The police were searching for Makhmud and Ali’s killer. Assuming their guidelines were like the militia’s, the Germans would broadcast his description, watch the airport and train stations, alert hospitals and pharmacies. Meanwhile, Borya’s people and the Chechens would search the streets. Of course the Chechens would also be hunting Borya.
After midnight there was little traffic. Before Arkady saw cars down on the street he could identify their voices. The asthmatic rattle of Trabis, the clockwork ticking of diesel cabs. A white Mercedes went by at the speed of a trolling boat.
“Do you want to help?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Get dressed and go up to your floor.” He gave her Peter’s telephone number. “Tell the person who answers where we are, then stay there until I come up.”
“Why don’t we go up together? You can call.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute. Just keep calling until you get an answer. Sometimes he doesn’t pick up right away.”
Irina didn’t argue. She pulled on her skirt and went barefoot into the hall. The brief glimpse of light was blinding.
Below, the white Mercedes passed by again. Arkady heard the organ note of the Daimler before he saw it slowly approaching from the other direction. Max and Borya had to protect each other from Chechens as much as hunt for him. Max would be the one coming up, but Irina was right, he wouldn’t hurt her.
The two cars passed each other in front of the building and drove on.
In a few years, when developers were done, Friedrichstrasse would be pulsing like a regular artery with department stores, fast-food outlets and espresso bars. Arkady felt he was keeping watch in the graveyard of the old East Berlin.
The two cars appeared again from the same directions as before. They must have circled the block. The Mercedes