Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [163]
“I suppose it would be, a fax between two Russians.”
“That’s what fooled me,” Arkady said. “Thinking that it was between two Russians and that it was about Red Square.”
Michael seemed to have found something to chew on. His dark glasses maintained a smooth gaze, but his jaw was busy.
Arkady said, “But just when you least expect it, Russians can be exact. For example, the fax asked where was ‘Krassny Ploschad’? Now, in English a square can be a place or a geometric figure, but in Russian, the geometric figure is a kvadrat. In the English language, Malevich painted ‘Red Square.’ In Russian, he painted ‘Krassny Kvadrat.’ I didn’t understand the message until I saw the painting.”
“What are you getting at?”
“ ‘Where is Red Square the place?’ makes no sense. ‘Where is “Red Square” the painting?’ makes a great deal of sense when you’re asking a man who thinks he will have the painting to sell. Ludmilla couldn’t use the wrong word, no Russian could. Her office is next to yours, as I remember. In fact, she works for you. How is your Russian, Michael?”
Siberians killed rabbits at night with flashlights and clubs. The rabbits would sit up and stare red-eyed at the beam until the club came down. Even through glasses, Michael had the transfixed attention of a rabbit. He said, “All that proves is that whoever sent the fax thought the person on the other end was alive.”
“Absolutely,” Arkady agreed. “It also proves that they were trying to deal with Rudy. Did Max put you and Rudy together?”
“There’s nothing illegal about sending a fax.”
“No, but in your first message you asked Rudy about a finder’s fee. You were trying to cut out Max completely.”
“It doesn’t prove anything,” Michael said.
“Let’s leave that up to Max. I’ll show him the fax. It has Ludmilla’s number on it.”
The customs line shuffled forward again and Stas Kolotov, state criminal, stared directly through the glass at the officer, who compared eyes, ears, hairline, height to the picture in the passport, then riffled through the pages.
Arkady said, “You know what happened to Rudy. It’s not as if you’d be safer in Germany. Look what happened to Tommy.”
Stas got his passport back. Irina pushed her passport through the slot and presented a glare so defiant it invited arrest. The officer never noticed. After a professional frisk of the pages, her passport was returned and the line moved forward.
“Michael, I don’t think this is a time to call attention to yourself,” Arkady said. “This is a time to ask, ‘What can I do for Renko, so that he won’t tell Max?’ ”
Despite Stas’s urging, Irina stopped at the far side of the booths. Arkady mouthed the word “Go,” and he and Michael watched Stas lead her through the exit.
It turned out that Michael did have something to say. “Congratulations. Now that you got her in, she’ll probably be killed. Just remember, you brought her back.”
“I know.”
A German television crew was negotiating the price of bringing in a video camera. The Emergency Committee, a colonel of customs informed them, had only that morning banned the transmission of video images by foreign reporters. The colonel accepted an informal bond of a hundred Deutsche marks to ensure that the crew didn’t violate the Committee’s laws. The other camera crews ahead of Arkady all had to make their own financial arrangements with customs and then race to their cars. Arkady’s Soviet passport was a disappointment, a no-sale. Like a cashier, the customs officer just waved him through.
An open double door led to the waiting hall and a reception line of emotional families waving cellophane-wrapped bouquets. Arkady watched for dry-eyed men with heavy athletic bags. Since Sheremetyevo’s metal detectors were haphazardly manned, the only persons sure to be unarmed and unprotected were arriving passengers. He held the canvas bag to his chest and hoped that Rita’s call saying that he had the painting had gotten through.
Arkady recognized a small figure in a raincoat sitting alone in a row of chairs halfway down the waiting hall. Polina was reading a newspaper