Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [97]
He dropped onto his bed, and at once fell into a black sleep. He dreamed he was in a locomotive. He was the engineer, stripped to the waist and sitting at a cockpit of gauges and controls. Blue sky sped by the window. A woman’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t look back for fear that she might not be there. They were running along the seashore. Somehow, without tracks, the engine plowed through the beach. Faraway waves reflected rows of sunlight, nearer waves curled lazily over each other and collapsed on the sand, perfect gulls plunged into the water. Was it her hand or the memory of her hand? He was happy not to look and keep the train moving by sheer will if necessary. But the wheels ground to a stop. The sun was sinking. Waves mounted in towering black walls that carried along dachas, cars, militiamen, generals, Chinese lanterns and birthday cakes.
In panic, Arkady opened his eyes. He was in bed in the dark. He looked at his watch. Ten P.M. He had slept ten hours, right through the call to the booth from Peter Schiller—if he had ever called.
Someone was knocking at the door. Getting up, he brushed aside the drying shirts and pants hanging in his way.
He didn’t recognize the visitor, a heavyset American with stringy hair and a tentative smile.
“I’m Tommy, remember? You came to a party at my place last night.”
“The man in the helmet, yes. How did you know where to find me?”
“Stas. I bugged him until he told me; then I just knocked on every door here until I found you. Can we talk?”
Arkady let him in and searched for a shirt and cigarettes.
Tommy wore a corduroy jacket stressed at the buttons. He bounced on his toes and his hands hung in soft fists. “I told you last night that I was a student of World War Two. ‘The Great Patriotic War’ to you. Your father was one of the outstanding generals on the Soviet side. Naturally I’d like to talk some more about him with you.”
“I don’t think we talked about him at all.” Arkady sat down to pull on socks.
“That’s what I mean. The truth is, I’m writing a book about the war from the Soviet side. I don’t have to tell you about the sacrifices the Soviet people made. Anyway, that’s one reason I work at Radio Liberty—for the information. When someone interesting comes through, I interview them. I heard you might be leaving Munich pretty soon, so I came over.”
Arkady searched for his shoes. He wasn’t following Tommy closely. “You interview them for the station?”
“No, just for me, for the book. I’m interested in more than military tactics; I’m also interested in the clash of personalities. I was hoping you could give me some insight into your father.”
Out the window, the rail yard was a field of signal lights. Arkady saw flashlights running around flatcars and heard the heavy grip of couplers engaging. “Who told you I was leaving soon?” he asked.
“People said.”
“Who?”
Tommy rose on his toes. “Max.”
“Max Albov. You know him well?”
“Max was head of the Russian section. I’m in the Red Archives. We worked together for years.”
“The Red Archives?”
“The greatest library of Soviet studies in the West. It’s at Radio Liberty.”
“You were friends with Max?”
“I’d like to think we’re still friends.” Tommy held up a tape recorder. “Anyway, what I wanted to cover to begin with was your father’s decision, despite being overrun, to stay behind the German lines and wage guerrilla warfare.”
Arkady asked, “Do you know Boris Benz?”
Tommy leaned backward and said, “We met once.”
“How?”
“Right before Max went to Moscow. Of course no one knew he was going. He was with Benz.”
“You haven’t seen Benz since?”
“No. It was purely by chance.