Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [157]
Arkady said, “If we go to Savigny Platz, I might be able to show it to you.”
While Arkady sat on an arbor bench, his back tightened. He needed aspirin or nicotine, but he had no pills and didn’t indulge the telltale glow of a cigarette because the hedges around him stayed dark as the sky slowly lightened to gray. From the bench he couldn’t see Peter and Irina, parked a block away. He could see the lights of the gallery, which looked as if they had burned through the night.
In Moscow, under the same roof of clouds, tanks were rolling through the streets. Was it a military putsch? Was the Party reclaiming its role as the vanguard of the people? Had the work of national salvation begun in earnest, with both hands? Just as the Party had protected Prague, Budapest and East Berlin before? There should at least be a rumble of distant thunder.
Except on Friedrichstrasse, the Germans seemed to have slept soundly through the night. German television had closed its eyes at its accustomed time. Arkady assumed that the planners of the coup would, at minimum, detain a round thousand of the leading reformers, take control of Soviet television and radio, close the airports and telephone lines. He had no doubt that City Prosecutor Rodionov deplored the necessity of a coup, but as every Russian knew, grim tasks were best done quickly. What Arkady did not understand was why Max and Gubenko had rushed back. How could an international flight land if the airports were closed? This would be a good time to listen to Radio Liberty. He wondered what Stas was saying.
A fine sprinkling of rain arrived. Then the rustling of unseen birds in the hedges, like the excitement of extras in the wings. Over the hedges spread the window lights of early risers, a sea sound of traffic, the browsing of street cleaners.
The two/two time of high heels passed on the other side of the hedge. Rita came into view, in matching poppy-red slicker and hat, walking briskly between the garden squares that made up the plaza, hand in her right pocket. Arkady had seen her at least start to sign a dinner check; he knew she was right-handed. When she unlocked the ground-floor door, she kept her hand in the pocket and looked back at the street before she entered.
Ten minutes later an armed guard came out, yawned and stretched and went off with loggy steps in the opposite direction.
After another ten minutes, the gallery lights went out. Rita reappeared, locked the door and started back across the plaza, holding a canvas bag by the handles with her left hand.
Arkady caught up with her on the bag side in the middle of the plaza and said, “That’s no way to treat a five-million-dollar painting.”
She was startled enough to stop. He appreciated the purity of her first reaction, which was fury. The contents of the bag were wrapped in plastic. “I hope that’s waterproof,” he said.
When Rita started walking again, he grabbed a handle of the bag. “I’ll shout for the police,” she said.
“Shout. I hear the life of the German policeman is incredibly boring—at least it would be without Russians. The police would love to hear a story about you and Rudy Rosen, though the details might not help your business much. So Max and Borya left you all alone?”
Arkady liked Rita’s resilience. She was used to dealing with men. A softer, more reasonable expression came over her. “I’m not going to wait around for Chechens to show up.” She offered a neutral smile. “Can we talk out of the rain?”
He thought of slipping into an arbor, but Rita led him across the street to patio tables sheltered by an awning. It was the same restaurant as in the videotape, and she went to the same table at which she had raised her glass and said, “I love you.” The inside of the restaurant was black. They had the patio and plaza to themselves.
Despite the early hour, Rita’s face was made up in a mask that was ferocious and exotic. The red slicker she wore had an oily quality that went well with her lips. Arkady unzipped her coat.
Rita asked, “Why did you do that?”
“Let’s say