Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [168]
In Mayakovsky Square, the traffic stopped for tanks moving to the Parliament building by way of the Sadoyava Ring. “The Taman division,” Minin said approvingly. “They’re the toughest. They’ll roll right up the Parliament steps.”
But Moscow was such a big stage that most people seemed unaware of any coup. Couples walked hand in hand toward the Cinema House. A kiosk opened its shutters and, oblivious to the rain, a line of customers formed.
Tracks wove in and out of shining macadam. Tverskaya became Leningrad Prospect, which turned onto the Leningrad Road. Kim raced ahead. At speed, at least, Arkady wasn’t afraid of Minin shooting him. “We’re taking the airport road?” he said.
Minin said, “You’re falling behind. I don’t want to miss the fireworks.”
Along Chimki Lake was a sudden calm, a shadow among the urban-lights, the monotone of drops on the water. A line of slitted headlights appeared, more tanks moving at a walking pace. Beyond them was the horizontal haze of the Ring Road.
The motorcycle began to trail sparks, as if it were dragging its muffler. The can Arkady had wired to the exhaust pipes was one-third propane gas, which expanded twenty-one hundred times. Ignited, it expanded like a blowtorch. Flames fanned up the plastic sides and through the ports and over the rear tire in jets of fire that seemed to drive the bike forward. Arkady saw Kim looking at his rearview mirror, where the light would first appear to be coming from, then from side to side, then finally down, where the entire plastic sheath was igniting like a meteor around his legs and boots. The bike oscillated from lane to lane. That must be an impulse, Arkady thought, to try to outrun fire. Though the road was crossing an arm of the lake and there was no place to turn off, Kim jumped the shoulder of the road.
“Stop! Stop the car!” Minin pushed his gun against Arkady’s head.
The motorcycle touched a side rail and rolled like a tumbling flame. Kim stayed with it through a long slide, then the bike spun again, spewing a helmet from the blaze. As Arkady accelerated by, Minin pulled the trigger. The Stechkin didn’t fire. He remembered the safety and switched hands, but Arkady picked up the Nagant and held it on him.
“Get out.” He slowed to fifteen kilometers, enough to knock Minin off his feet when he landed. “Jump.”
Arkady leaned, opened the passenger door and pushed Minin. But as the door swung wide, Minin swung with it and hung on to the outside of the door, pressed against the glass. He broke the window with the Stechkin, got his elbows in and aimed. Arkady tapped the brake. As Minin fired, the side window behind Arkady exploded. The door swung out and Minin’s hat flew off. The motorcycle burned far behind, the lights of the Ring Road overpass appeared ahead. Arkady kicked the door open again with his right foot and with his left pushed the gas pedal all the way down. Minin’s weight and the force of air resistance forced the door back in. Minin began firing as soon as the door swung inward, spraying the rear and side windows as Arkady steered across the shoulder of the road and hit the corner of the overpass.
The dark under the ramp was enormously quiet. When the Zhiguli came out the other side, the passenger door hung like a broken wing and Minin was gone.
Arkady had no guide left, but he was fairly certain by now that he was returning to a place he knew. He brushed glass off the bag. Air tunneled sideways through the hanging door and out the shattered windows.
Arkady remembered that Soviet cars always evolved, doing with fewer and fewer luxuries.
This was the new model.
The first time Arkady came through