Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [155]
He put his ear to the floor. See, he could live like an Indian. He heard the easing of shoes in the hallway.
Irina stood against a wall, not trying to hide or get small.
Around his carry-on bag, Arkady saw the light at the bottom of the door, a white bar fading at one end.
He pressed his stomach into the floorboards. If he were any flatter he could slide under the door himself. He glanced at Irina. Her eyes watched him like hands keeping a man from falling off a cliff.
The door swung open. Light fanned in and a familiar bulk stepped across the threshold.
“You could get killed that way, Peter,” Arkady said.
Peter Schiller kicked the bag aside. He snorted at the sight of Arkady. “Is this a shooting range?”
“We were expecting other people.”
“I’m sure you were.” Peter saw Irina, who returned his stare undiminished. “Renko, we have Russians running all over Berlin. We have two dead mafiosos at the Europa Center, cut up by someone who looked like you. What happened to your back?”
“I slipped.” Arkady got to his feet and shut the door.
“Arkady was with me,” Irina said.
“How long?” Peter asked.
“All day.”
“Lies,” Peter said. “This is a gang war, isn’t it? Benz is connected to one of them. The more I know about the Soviet Union, the more it sounds like one endless gang war.”
“In a way,” Arkady conceded.
“This afternoon you said you didn’t even know this woman. Tonight she’s your witness.” Peter walked around the room. He had the size and vigor of a Borya, but more Wagnerian, Arkady thought. A Lohengrin who had stumbled into the wrong opera.
“Where is Benz?” Arkady asked.
“Gone,” Peter said. “He boarded a plane to Moscow an hour ago.”
It wasn’t a bad time to leave Berlin. Maybe Borya was abandoning the entire Benz identity, Arkady thought. After this Boris Benz might never be seen again. Eliminating Makhmud was certainly a more important accomplishment than hanging on to the German asset of Fantasy Tours. All the same, he was surprised; Borya wasn’t the type who settled for less than everything.
Peter said, “Benz boarded the plane with Max Albov. They’re both gone.”
“Max was coming here,” Irina said.
Arkady remembered how the elevator had paused on his floor before continuing to the sixth. Max must have been packing. “Why would he go to Moscow?”
“They got on a charter flight,” Peter said.
“How could they get on a late-night charter flight at the last minute?”
“There were lots of seats available at the last minute,” Peter said. “Why?”
Peter looked at both Arkady and Irina. “You haven’t heard? You don’t have a radio or a television here? You must be the only ones in the world who don’t know. There’s been a coup in Moscow.”
Irina laughed softly. “It finally happened.”
“Who took over?” Arkady asked.
“A so-called Emergency Committee. The army rolled in. That’s all anyone knows.”
A coup was the predicted catastrophe, the long-due sum of Russian fears, the Moscow night that followed day, yet Arkady was stunned. Stunned to find himself stunned. Max and Borya must have been surprised, too.
“With all that confusion, why would Max go back?” Arkady asked.
Irina said, “It doesn’t matter as long as they aren’t coming here.”
“So you don’t need this anymore.” Peter took the machine pistol away from Arkady, scooped the clips off the floor and stuffed them in his belt.
“We’re safe,” Irina said.
“Not quite,” Peter said. He motioned with the pistol for them to move to a corner. Arkady had put the safety on; now Peter pushed it off.
The room was still dark. Peter could see them against the glow of the glass better than they could see him, but Arkady caught the gesture for them not to move. In the hall the elevator door opened. Irina took Arkady’s hand. Peter motioned for them to lie down, then turned around and fired through the wall.
The Skorpion wasn’t a particularly loud weapon,