Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [166]
Kim moved to the side.
“This is your final warning,” Minin said.
Arkady kept the bag cradled to his chest while he opened the refrigerator. Something like moss had grown out the top of the kefir bottle. He shut the door on the smell.
“I’m curious, Minin. How do you think getting this painting will safeguard the Party’s sacred mission?”
“The painting belongs to the Party.”
“So much does. Are you going to pull the trigger or not?”
Minin let the gun hang. “It doesn’t matter whether I shoot you. As of today you’re dead.”
“You’re working with Kim. Aren’t you a little embarrassed to be riding around with a homicidal maniac?” When Minin didn’t answer, Arkady turned to Kim. “Aren’t you embarrassed to be riding with an investigator? One of you ought to be.” Kim smiled, but Minin was actually sweating with hate. “I’ve always wondered, Minin, what do you have against me?”
“Your cynicism.”
“Cynicism?”
“About the Party.”
“Well.” Minin had a point.
“I thought, ‘Senior Investigator Renko, son of General Renko.’ I thought you’d be a hero. I thought it would be a great experience to work shoulder to shoulder with you, until my eyes came clear and I saw the sort of corrupt individual you were.”
“How?”
“We were supposed to be investigating criminals, but you always turned the investigation against the Party.”
“It just worked out that way.”
“I watched to see if you took money from the mafias.”
“I didn’t.”
“No. You were more corrupt because you didn’t care about money.”
Arkady said, “I’ve changed. Now I want money. Call Albov.”
“Who’s Albov?”
“Or I will walk out with the painting and you will have lost five million dollars.”
When Minin said nothing, Arkady shrugged and took a step to the door.
“Wait,” Minin said. He went to the wall phone in the hall, dialed and walked the receiver into the living room. Arkady examined his bookshelf and pulled out Macbeth. The gun that should have been behind Shakespeare was gone.
Minin had a moment of satisfaction. “I was up here while you were in Germany. I searched everything.” Someone came on the line because Minin spoke rapidly into the receiver and explained Arkady’s lack of cooperation. He looked up. “Show me the painting.”
Arkady lifted the painting out of the bag and pulled it halfway out of the plastic wrap.
“There’s been a mistake,” Minin said to the phone. “There’s no painting, just a canvas. It’s red.” His forehead squatted. “That’s it? You’re sure?” He held the phone out to Arkady, who took it only after slipping the painting back into the bag.
“Arkady?”
“Max,” Arkady said, as if they hadn’t seen each other for years.
“I’m glad to hear your voice, and I’m certainly pleased you brought the painting with you. We spoke to Rita, who was upset and sure you were going to turn her over to the German police. You could have stayed in Berlin. What brought you back?”
“I would have stayed in jail. The police were searching for me, not Rita.”
“True. Borya did set you up. I’m sure the Chechens would also love to know where you are. It was very shrewd of you to return.”
Arkady asked, “Where are you?”
Max said, “The situation being what it is, I don’t want to broadcast that. Frankly, I’m worried about Rodionov and his friends. I hope they have the resolve to finish this business quickly, because the longer they wait, the bloodier it will be. Your father would have wiped out the defenders at the White House already, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that you want to make some sort of arrangement about the painting. What?”
“A British Air ticket to London and fifty thousand dollars.”
“A lot of people are trying to leave town. I can give you any amount of rubles, but foreign currency is tight right now.”
“I’m giving the phone back to Minin.”
As soon as he had handed over the phone,