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

that he would slit the throat of anyone who touched me.”
    “I’m grateful.”
    She watched him for a flinch. “And I expressed my gratitude in the traditional manner.”
    “Well earned, I’m sure. So Isakov is a hero in bed and out.”
    “Everyone had a scheme. Tank commanders sold fuel, quartermasters sold food, soldiers traded the ammunition for vodka and they went home in coffins stuffed with drugs. Nikolai was different.”
    “Then why are you wasting your time with me?”
    “I wanted to be with you.”
    “It’s getting a bit crowded, don’t you think? Two is company and all that. But I appreciate the farewell salute.” It was the meanest thing he could think of to say and he had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes sting.
    The phone rang again and a voice—not Zurin’s—said to the answering machine, “Eva, pick up, it’s Nikolai.”
    It was Arkady’s turn to burn.
    “Eva,” the man said, “can you talk? Did you tell him?”
    “Is it Isakov?” Arkady asked.
    “I have to take this,” Eva said.
    She wrapped a sheet around herself before picking up the phone. The cord only stretched so far and she turned away to whisper. Suddenly nakedness seemed ridiculous to Arkady and the scent of sex cloyed.
    What was the etiquette of cuckoldry? Should he leave them to their privacy, allow himself to be chased from his own bivouac? It wasn’t as if he and Eva were married. It was clear that she could still physically act as if they were lovers and, from time to time, banter cheerfully enough to raise his hopes, at least until tonight, but the performances took more effort all the time. It was rare that their work shifts coincided because she scheduled her hours more to avoid Arkady than to see him. Betrayal was exhausting, weighting every word with double meaning. Even when they made love he would spend the rest of the night examining everything Eva had said or done, watching her as if she were going to slip away and watching every word he said so as not to jar the mutually constructed house of cards. It had collapsed now, of course.
    The funny thing was that Arkady had brought them back together by bringing Eva to Moscow, strolling with her around Patriarch’s Pond on an autumn day and not understanding her shock when Isakov called her name.
    “Keep walking,” Eva had said.
    Arkady said, “If it’s a friend, I can wait.”
    “Not yet,” Eva whispered to the phone, while her eyes stayed on Arkady. “I will, I will, I promise…. I do, too,” she said and set the receiver down.
    Everything but a kiss, Arkady thought.
    It wasn’t by chance that Isakov called when Arkady was likely to be home. Isakov was rubbing his face in it.
    The phone rang again, jarring him. Arkady felt his breathing build. Eva backed away.
    “I know you’re there, Renko. Turn on your television. Congratulations, you’re on the news,” Zurin said and hung up.
    Arkady turned on the set. There were only six channels. The first showed the president laying a wreath, his eyes twisted one way, mouth another. Soccer. Patriotic films. Chechen atrocities. Finally, Prosecutor Leonid Zurin himself on a snowy street corner with a female reporter. Zurin’s white hair whipped back and forth and his cheeks were apple red. He smiled indulgently, a natural actor. After his desperate phone calls to Arkady, Zurin seemed to have regained himself.
    “…a long winter, and sometimes winter is like the doldrums of summer, when all sorts of strange stories seem to be news, only to be forgotten a week later.”
    “So the rumors of Moscow citizens encountering Stalin in the Metro are fabrications?”
    Zurin spent a moment in consideration. “I wouldn’t say ‘fabrications.’ There was a report of a disturbance at a station last night. I sent a senior investigator who was particularly familiar with Stalin issues to the scene and he determined, after interviewing all the so-called witnesses, that no such event had, in fact, taken place. What had