Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [36]
Boris Sergeyevich was different. He had been Sergeant Belov, his father’s driver, the very same bodyguard who had escorted the boy Arkady to Gorky Park. Later Boris became Investigator Belov, though his gift was less for legal scholarship than for devotion to orders and ironclad loyalty. His attitude toward Arkady had never been less than adoration. Arkady’s arrest and exile was something Belov had never grasped—like, say, French or quantum mechanics.
Belov removed his cap and placed it under his left arm as if reporting for duty. “Arkady Kirilovich, it is my painful task to inform you that your father, General Kiril Ilyich Renko, has died.”
The generals advanced and shook Arkady’s hand.
“He should have been marshal of the army,” Ivanov said.
Shuksin said, “We were comrades in arms. I marched into Berlin with your father.”
Gul waved a rusty arm. “I marched here in this same square with your father and laid a thousand fascist flags at Stalin’s feet.”
“Our most sincere condolences for this immeasurable loss.” Kuznetsov sobbed like an aunt.
Belov said, “The funeral is already arranged for Saturday. That’s soon, but your father left instructions for everything, as usual. He wanted me to give you this letter.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I have no idea of the contents.” Belov tried to push an envelope inside Arkady’s jacket. “Father to son.”
Arkady knocked Belov’s hand away. He was surprised by his own brusqueness to a good friend and by the depth of his revulsion for the others. “No, thanks.”
Shuksin took a wobbly step toward the Kremlin. “Then the army was appreciated. Soviet power meant something. Then the Fascists shit their pants whenever we blew our nose.”
Gul picked up the theme. “Now we crawl to Germany to kiss their ass. That’s what we get for letting them get off their knees.”
“And what do we get for saving Hungarians and Czechs and Poles except the spit on our face?” The passion of his question was too much for Ivanov; the ancient bearer of the field case slumped against the fender of the car. They were all so thoroughly soaked with vodka, Arkady realized, that a match would set them off like rags.
“We saved the world, remember?” Shuksin demanded. “We saved the world!”
Belov pleaded, “Why?”
“He was a killer,” Arkady said.
“That was war.”
Gul asked, “Do you think we would have lost Afghanistan? Or Europe? Or a single republic?”
“I’m not talking about the war,” Arkady said.
“Read the letter,” Belov begged.
“I’m talking about murder,” Arkady said.
“Arkasha, please!” Belov’s eyes were as pleading as a dog’s. “For me. He’s going to read the letter!”
The generals rallied, regrouped and crowded round. One push and they would probably collapse and turn to piles of dust, Arkady thought. Who did they see, he wondered? Him, his father, who? This could be his moment of vindictive triumph, a child’s long-awaited fantasy. But it was too pathetic, and the generals, grotesque as they were, also were at their most human in this last stage of fangless dotage. He took the letter. It had a luminous quality and his name printed in spidery letters. It felt light, as if empty, to the hand.
“I’ll read it later,” Arkady said and walked away.
“The Vagankovskoye Cemetery,” Belov called after him. “Ten A.M.”
Or I’ll throw it away, Arkady thought. Or burn it.
The following day was the final one of so-called “hot investigation,” the last day of official alerts at travel points, a peak time for frustration and argument. Arkady and Jaak chased false sightings of Kim north, west and south at all three Moscow airports. On the fourth tip, they headed east toward the dead end known as Lyubertsy.
“A new informant?” Arkady asked. He was driving, which was always a sign of bad humor.
“Totally new,” Jaak insisted.
“Not Julya,” Arkady said.
“Not Julya,” Jaak maintained.
“Borrow