Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [73]
“Hello,” a woman answered in Russian.
Arkady said, “I’m calling about Rudy.”
After a pause, “Rudy who?”
“Rosen.”
“I don’t know any Rudy Rosen.” There was something slovenly about the voice, as if she wouldn’t take a cigarette from her mouth.
“He said you were interested in Red Square,” Arkady said.
“We’re all interested in Red Square. So what?”
“I thought you wanted to know where it was.”
“What is this, a joke?”
She hung up. In fact, she did what any normal person would, given such a stupid riddle, Arkady thought. Because he had failed was no reason to blame her.
On the same floor, he found a bank of self-operated luggage lockers for two Deutsche marks a day. He made another circuit of the hall before returning, putting coins in the slot, placing the cassette in an empty locker and pocketing the key. Now he could return to the flat or go back out on the street without fear of losing the evidence, which seemed a great accomplishment considering his state of confusion. Or a pitiful achievement considering how little time he had—according to Platonov, one day.
He returned to the phone-book counter, opened the Munich book, flipped to “R” and to “Radio Liberty-Radio Free Europe.” When he called the number an operator answered only, “RL-RFE.”
Arkady asked in Russian to speak to Irina Asanova, then waited for what seemed forever for her to come on the line.
“Hello?”
He had thought he was prepared, but he was so startled to actually hear her that he couldn’t speak.
“Hello, who is this?”
“Arkady.”
He recognized her voice, but, after all, he had been listening to her broadcasts. There was no reason for her to remember his.
“Arkady who?”
“Arkady Renko. From Moscow,” he added.
“You’re calling from Moscow?”
“No, I’m here in Munich.”
The phone was so quiet, he thought that he might have lost the connection.
“Amazing,” Irina said finally.
“Could I see you?”
“I heard they’d rehabilitated you. You’re still an investigator?” She sounded as if her surprise was rapidly evaporating into irritation.
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“A case.”
“Congratulations. If they let you travel, they must have a lot of faith in you.”
“I’ve been listening to you in Moscow.”
“Then, you know I have a broadcast in two hours.” Papers rustled in the background to emphasize how busy she was.
“I’d like to see you,” Arkady said.
“Maybe in a week. Give me a call.”
“I mean soon. I won’t be here long.”
“This is a bad time.”
“Today,” Arkady said. “Please.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Irina.”
“Ten minutes,” she said, once she had made it clear that he was the last man on earth she wanted to see.
A taxi took Arkady to a park where the driver pointed out a path that led him to long tables, chestnut trees and a pagoda-shaped five-story wooden pavilion. “The Chinese Tower,” Irina had told him to say.
In the shade of beech trees, diners carried giant steins of beer and paper plates that sagged under roast chicken, ribs, potato salad. Even the litter the breeze blew his way smelled good enough to eat. The lapping of the conversation and the steady pace of consumption had an unanticipated, sensual languor. Munich was still unreal to him. He had the sudden apprehension not that he was walking in a dream, but that he was someone’s nightmare visiting the real world.
He had feared he might not recognize Irina, but there was no mistaking her. Her eyes were a little larger, seemingly darker, and she still possessed a quality that selfishly gathered light only for her. Her brown hair was redder and cut shorter, a starker frame to her face. She wore a gold cross over a black, short-sleeved sweater. No wedding ring showed.
“You’re late.” She gave Arkady a handshake.
“I wanted to shave,” he said.