Stalin’s Ghost by Martin Cruz Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

president himself called homeless kids a threat to national security. Now that Georgy had a gun, maybe the president was right.
    “Arkasha, open your eyes. Your little Zhenya wins more money playing chess than you earn risking your life. You think he’s like you, a sweet, agreeable soul. He’s not.”
    “He’s twelve years old.”
    “He’s somewhere between twelve and a hundred years old. Have you seen him play chess?”
    “Hundreds of times.”
    “He squeezes his opponent like a python, eats him and digests him alive.”
    “He’s good.”
    “And you are not responsible for him.”
    Arkady had looked into adopting Zhenya. However, with no information about his parents, even whether they were dead or alive, legal adoption was out of the question and an arrangement had evolved. Officially, Zhenya was on the rolls of the shelter where Arkady had first met him. In fact, Zhenya slept on the apartment sofa, as if he had happened by and nodded off. Zhenya was Pluto, a dark object detectable more by its effect on the planets than by direct observation.
    “Consider me a python.” Arkady slipped into bed.
     
    They ate in bed. Brown bread, mushrooms, pickles, sausage and vodka.
    Eva filled his glass. “Last night at the clinic, one of the other doctors, a woman, asked me, ‘Do you know the curse of Russian men? Vodka! Do you know the curse of Russian women? Russian men!’”
    “Cheers.”
    They touched glasses and downed the vodka in one go.
    “Perhaps I am your curse,” Eva said.
    “Probably.”
    “Zhenya and I complicate your life.”
    “I hope so. What kind of life do you think I had?”
    “No, you’re a saint. I don’t deny it.”
    Arkady sensed a slide in Eva’s mood and changed the subject. “Zhenya said, ‘He’s here.’ That’s all?”
    “He said it as he went out the door.”
    “He didn’t say where he’d been or where he was headed?”
    “No.”
    “He could have seen anyone. A famous chess player, his favorite soccer star. Maybe Stalin. Can we talk about us?” Eva leaned forward and laid her head on Arkady’s shoulder. “Arkasha, I can’t compete with a wife who died young and beautiful and totally normal. Who could compete with that?”
    “She’s not here.”
    “But you wish she were, is what I mean. You know, you never showed me a picture of Irina; I had to find one on my own. Irina was lovely. If you could, wouldn’t you want her back?”
    “It’s not a competition.”
    “Oh, it is.”
    He set the tray aside and pulled her close. Her breasts were tender from making love but they stiffened again. Her mouth sought out his even though their lips were sore and slightly bruised. This time the rhythm was slow. With each stroke a soft expulsion of air escaped her lips, so much easier than words. They could go on forever, Arkady thought, as long as they never left the bed.
     
    But they were going someplace. The bed was a magical carpet that took an unfortunate plunge into an abyss when he said, “Don’t act as if this is about Irina. It’s a lie to pretend it’s just Irina. A highly skilled investigator notices such things as strange phone calls and mysterious absences.” Well, this is exciting, he thought. They had touched down in the abyss, where the air was thin and the heart bounced around the rib cage.
    “It’s not what you think,” Eva said.
    “I’m fascinated. What is it?”
    “It’s unfinished business.”
    “You can’t finish it?”
    “It’s not that simple.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “When I was in Chechnya Nikolai Isakov saved me.”
    “Tell me again why you were there. You’re not Chechen or in the Russian Army.”
    “Someone had to be there. Doctors had to be there. There were international medical organizations.”
    “But you were on your own.”
    “I don’t like organizations. Besides, on my trusty motorcycle I was a moving target.”
    “Were you trying to be killed?”
    “You forget that I’m a survivor. Besides, Nikolai let it be known