Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [169]
On the road, water was pooling in tread tracks. Tanks had kneaded mud to a soft consistency, and where they had moved two abreast, they had rolled over fences and fruit trees. The Zhiguli had front-wheel drive, and Arkady plowed ahead in low gear as if he were steering a boat.
The fields on the other side of the village were flatter and the way was straighter, though more chewed up. Half a kilometer on, the right shoulder of the road was crushed by tracks emerging from a field. Mud stood stacked like bricks, showing how the tanks had maneuvered onto the road, advancing one tread to pivot on the other. It would have looked like a military parade, Arkady thought, except that it had started from a potato field, with as few witnesses as possible.
The rest of the way was smooth enough for him to use only running lights. Fields stretched in rows from gray to black, and with the rain the road looked like a causeway between bodies of water.
There were no bonfires this time to guide him. Coasting between animal pens into the yard of the Lenin’s Path Collective, he saw the rusting tractors and reapers waiting like so many theatrical props, the garage where he had discovered General Penyagin’s car, the butchering house, the shed full of consumer goods. In the middle of the yard the lime pit in which he had found Jaak and Penyagin was swollen by the rain.
Arkady got out, pushed the revolver under his jacket into the back of his belt and held the bag chest-high. With every step, milk that was a combination of rainwater and septic lime filled his shoes.
On the far side of the yard, past the barn and shed, were headlights. Closer, he saw the car was a Mercedes and that the lights were aimed at a figure climbing out of one of the command bunkers, the one that had been locked during his first visit. Borya Gubenko struggled under the weight of a flat, rectangular wooden case. His shoes were encased in mud, his camel’s-hair coat was hemmed with mud. He lifted the case up to the back end of a Lenin’s Path truck, the same one that had sold Jaak a shortwave radio.
On the truck bed, Max arranged the case against others standing on end. “You almost missed us,” he called to Arkady. “We were packing to go.”
Borya seemed less pleased. He was drenched, his hair stuck to his brow, as if he’d played a full day of goal in foul weather. He looked past Arkady. “Where’s Kim?”
“Kim and Minin had road problems,” Arkady said.
Max said, “I’m sure. I would have been disappointed if they had made it. Anyway, I knew you’d come.”
“I have to get more.” Borya gave both Max and Arkady a hard look and trudged back to the bunker. The case that had just been loaded bore fading stamps: FOR REFERENCE ONLY and CONFIDENTIAL MATERIALS OF THE ARCHIVES OF THE USSR MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR.
“How is Irina?” Max asked.
“She’s happy.”
“What I’d forgotten about Irina was her impulse for martyrdom. How could she resist you?” Max seemed bemused, a little distracted. “I didn’t get a chance to say a proper good-bye in Berlin because Borya was in a rush. He’s unromantic. Once a pimp, always a pimp. He’s still hanging on to his prostitutes and slot machines. He wants to change, but the criminal mind is so limited. Russians don’t change.”
“Where is Rodionov?” Arkady asked.
“He’s keeping the prosecutor’s office in line for the Emergency Committee. The Committee is such a collection of Party hacks and all-out drunks that Rodionov shines by comparison. Of course the Committee will win because people always recognize the crack of a whip. The trouble is that the coup is so unnecessary. Everyone could have been rich. Now we’re going to go back to a system of counting crumbs.”
Arkady nodded at the crates. “Those aren’t crumbs. Why are you moving them if the Committee will win?”
“In the wildly remote unlikelihood that the