Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [165]
Back in his car, Arkady returned to the avenue and cruised until he picked up the motorcycle again outside Dynamo Stadium. Traffic was becoming more difficult. When the Sadoyava Ring was blocked by a procession of armored personnel carriers, he made a left and followed them until he could slip through at Fadayeva. First he smelled, then saw, the black exhaust of tanks idling in Manege Square along the west wall of the Kremlin. Crossing Tverskaya, he had a glimpse of Red Square, its brow of cobblestones blocked by lines of Internal troops spaced like hedgerows.
Shoppers emerged from Children’s World bearing stuffed animals. On the sidewalk women held up pantyhose and used shoes for sale. A coup? It might be happening in Burma, darkest Africa, the moon. The majority of people were too exhausted. If there was shooting in the streets, they would still stand in line. They were sleepwalkers, and at this sunset Moscow was the center of sleep.
Across the square from the toy shop, the Lubyanka looked equally somnolent. However, in the back of the building, a line of vans rolled out of the truck bay.
Arkady drove into his courtyard, squeezed the Zhiguli between the vodka cases around the church and opened the gate to the wood-cart alley that ended on a bluff overlooking the canal. Carrying Rita’s bag, he entered the back door of an apartment house and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, where he had a view of the courtyard and the blue motorcycle lurking behind a delivery truck a block away.
Arkady sympathized with Minin. On any other day, he would have cars and radio communications. What did he remember about his assistant? Impatience, a tendency to rush ahead. Minin got off the motorcycle, his face folded with doubt. He was followed by the driver, who pulled off his helmet to release long black hair. It was Kim, looking for Arkady now.
He went out the back door and across an overgrown lot that dwindled down to a dirt path threading between the back walls of workshops and brought him to the street on the far side of the motorcycle. Looking toward his house, he saw Minin push the buttons of the code box.
The Suzuki leaned on its kickstand, front wheel at an angle. The motorcycle had a blue plastic body that swept from the windshield to the exhaust like the cowling of a jet engine. Access to the exhaust pipes was tight; on the other hand, anything added wouldn’t easily be seen. Arkady got on his back and felt the long scab on his back crack under his weight. The Suzuki had a four-into-two-into-one exhaust system running from header pipes to muffler. When he shook the water bottle and sprayed them, the pipes spat back. Although he emptied the bottle on the pipes first, he still burned his fingers when he reached in, ran the wires around them and attached the deodorant can. Nevertheless, he twisted the wires tight. Jaak would have been proud.
By the time Arkady got to his feet, Minin and Kim had disappeared. He wiped his hands on his jacket, shouldered the canvas bag and followed their trail to the house. He saw the curtains in his window shift.
Minin had composed a grin. He let Arkady enter the apartment and close the door before popping out of the bedroom hall with the huge Stechkin he had waved outside Rudy’s apartment. A Stechkin was a machine pistol like a Skorpion but not as ugly. In fact, it was the best-looking part of Minin.
The closet opened at Arkady’s back and Kim stepped out. He had a face as flat as a jack of spades, and he had a Malysh, the same weapon he had carried to protect Rudy so long ago. He must have had it tucked inside his leather jacket. Arkady was impressed. It was like facing artillery.
Minin said, “Give me the bag.”
“No.”
Minin said, “Give it to me or I’ll kill you.”
Arkady held the bag to his chest. “The painting inside is worth millions of dollars. You don’t want to put