Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [32]
Borya asked, “Remember unpolluted fish?”
“Not well enough, thanks.” Arkady dug a last cigarette from the pack. “Where do you get the fish?”
“Like anyone else. I trade this, barter that.”
“On the black market?”
Borya shook his head. “Direct. Rudy said there wasn’t a farm or fishing collective that wasn’t willing to do business if you could offer more than rubles.”
“Rudy told you what to offer?”
Borya held Arkady’s eyes with his. “Rudy started out as a football fan. He ended up as an older brother. He simply wanted to see me happy. He gave me advice. That doesn’t sound like a crime to me.”
“It depends on the advice.” Arkady wanted to provoke a reaction.
Borya’s eyes were clear as water, without a ripple. “Rudy always said there was no need to break the law, just to rewrite it. He looked ahead.”
“Do you know an Apollonia Gubenko?” Arkady asked.
“My wife. I know her well.”
“Where was she the night Rudy died?”
“What does it matter?”
“There was a Mercedes registered in her name at the black market about thirty meters from where Rudy died.”
Borya took a little longer to answer. He glanced at the television, where an American tank was rolling through a desert. “She was with me. We were here.”
“At two in the morning?”
“I often close after midnight. I remember we went home in my car because Polly’s was in the garage being repaired.”
“You have two cars?”
“Between Polly and me, two Mercedeses, two BMWs, two Volgas and a Lada. In the West people can invest in stocks and bonds. We have cars. The trouble is, as soon as a nice car goes to the garage, someone borrows it. I can try to find out who.”
“You’re sure she was with you, because a woman was seen in it.”
“I treat women with respect. Polly is her own person, she doesn’t have to answer to me for every second of her time, but that night she was with me.”
“Did anyone else see you here?”
“No. The secret of business is, you stay close to the cash register and lock up yourself.”
“There are a lot of secrets in business,” Arkady said.
Borya leaned forward and spread his hands. Although Arkady knew he was a big man, he was surprised at the wingspan. He remembered how Borya the player used to roar out of the Central Army goal to stop penalty kicks. Gubenko let his hands fall. His voice was soft. “Renko?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not going to kill Kim. That’s your job.”
Arkady looked at his watch. It was eight P.M. He had already missed the first broadcast and his mind was starting to wander. “I have to go.”
Borya steered Arkady through the bar. Another discreet signal had been sent because the waitress caught up to them with two packs of cigarettes which Borya stuffed into Arkady’s jacket.
The mother and daughter made their way around the tables. They shared the same fine features and gray eyes. When the woman spoke, she had a faint lisp; Arkady was relieved to hear an imperfection.
“Borya, the teacher’s waiting for you.”
“The pro, Polly. The pro.”
“Armenian nationalists attacked Soviet internal troops again yesterday, inflicting ten deaths and as many wounded,” Irina said. “The object of the Armenian attack was a Soviet Army depot, which they ransacked, removing small arms, assault rifles, mines, a tank, a personnel carrier, mortars and antitank guns. The Moldavian Supreme Soviet yesterday declared its sovereignty, three days after the Georgian Supreme Soviet did the same.”
Arkady set a table of brown bread, cheese, tea and cigarettes and sat facing the radio as if it had come to dinner. He should have returned to Rudy’s apartment; yet here he was, a man with no will, in time for her broadcast. What apocalyptic news she had, but it didn’t matter.
“Rioting continued in Kirghizia between Kirghiz and Uzbeks for the third straight day. Armored personnel carriers patrolled the streets of Osh after Uzbeks took control of the downtown tourist hotels and directed automatic fire at the local offices of the