Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [90]
“They’re still Communists; they just play a new flute,” Rikki said.
Arkady asked, “Was it an emotional moment for you, seeing your father after all this time?”
“I almost didn’t recognize his car.” She hugged Rikki. “Aren’t there American bases around here? Don’t they have malls?” Her eyes lit at the approach of a young, athletic American in a button-down shirt, bow tie and red suspenders, who included Arkady and Stas in an incriminating gaze. Ludmilla hovered at his back.
“This must be the surprise guest we had at the station today,” he said. He gave Arkady a firm, democratic handshake. “I’m Michael Healey, the deputy director in charge of security. You know, your boss, Prosecutor Rodionov, visited the station. We gave him the red carpet.”
“Michael is also the deputy director in charge of carpets,” Stas said.
“That reminds me, Stas, isn’t there a security directive that says official Soviet guests have to be cleared in advance?”
Stas laughed. “Station security is so thoroughly compromised that one more spy could hardly make a difference. Isn’t tonight the perfect example of that?”
Michael said, “I love your sense of humor, Stas. Renko, if you want to visit the station again, just be sure to give me a call.” He wandered off in search of white wine.
Stas and Arkady had scotch. “What’s so special about tonight?” Arkady asked.
“Besides the first anniversary of the tearing down of the Wall? Rumor has it that tonight we will be joined by the former head of the Russian section. My former friend. Even the Americans loved him.”
“This is the one who redefected to Moscow?”
“The same.”
“Where’s Irina?”
“You’ll see.”
“Ta-da!” The host of the party entered from the kitchen bearing a cake iced in black chocolate, with a candy Berlin Wall surrounded by burning red candles. He set the cake down. “Happy birthday, end of the Wall!”
“Tommy, you’ve outdone yourself this time,” Stas said.
“I’m a sentimental fool.” Tommy was the sort of fat man who had to keep tucking in his shirt. “Did I show you my Wall memorabilia?”
“The candles,” Stas reminded him.
But the first note of the birthday song was interrupted by a commotion on the stairs, a wave of excitement that spread through the apartment, and a general movement to greet new arrivals. The first in the door was the professor that Irina had interviewed at the station. He unwrapped a scarf that looked like a hair shirt and kept the door wide for Irina, who seemed to float in on a bubble. Arkady could tell that she’d had good food and good wine at a good restaurant. Champagne and something better than borscht. She had probably gone straight from the station, which explained how overdressed she had seemed there. If her eyes noticed Arkady, they registered no interest or surprise. Following her was Max Albov, loose on his shoulders the same elegant jacket he had worn when Arkady had first met him at Petrovka. The three of them were laughing at a joke that had carried them up the stairs.
“Something Max said,” Irina explained.
Everyone leaned toward them, wanting to share.
Max shrugged modestly. “All I said was, ‘I feel like the Prodigal Son.’ ”
Immediately came protests of “No,” explosive laughs, appreciative applause. Max’s cheeks glowed from the exertion of the climb and the warmth of the reception. He put Irina’s arm through his.
Someone remembered. “The cake!”
The birthday candles had burned themselves out. The candy Wall sank into a pool of wax.
The cake tasted like ashes and tar. The party, however, took on fresh life and became an event with Max Albov settled onto a sofa with Irina at the center. They reigned together, beautiful queen and cosmopolitan king.
“When I was here, people said I was CIA. When I went to Moscow, people said I was KGB. For some minds those are the only conceivable answers.”
Tommy said, “Maybe you’re an American television star now, but you’re still the best damn head of the Russian section we ever had.”
“Thanks.” Max accepted a whiskey as a small token of esteem. “But those days are gone. I’d done