Tatiana: An Arkady Renko Novel (Arkady Renko Novels) (30 page)

Arkady woke and sat up, and although his teeth chattered from the cold, he staggered to the front door and opened it to find that the wind had, in fact, died down and the waves had retreated to the sea.

He wondered how anyone dared sleep. Tatiana hadn’t returned. Just as well, he thought.

The sea grew still. Clouds parted and revealed a moon balanced on the water. The off-season was soon to be the season; birders would be leaving and tourists would be pouring in.

Arkady boiled some instant coffee and took the key ring and lamp to the shed. What was it that Tatiana’s father wanted? A normal country? This little space with its simple tools must have been a refuge for the man.

The security cables that ran through the bikes were vinyl-coated steel with heavy-duty eyelets connected by padlocks, each cable about five meters long. Not long enough. Arkady sorted out the collapsible chairs in the corner of the shed and disentangled them from two more cables. He rummaged through overstocked shelves and found cables still in their plastic cases. Maybe not as many as he wished, but they would have to do.

Because he would have to get close. His only weapon was Tatiana’s pistol. Anything that Piggy carried would be bigger. It
helped that Piggy was a conversationalist; that would draw him in. And he craved recognition, something for his own life list.

When Arkady was ready, he put on his poncho, blew out the lamp, slipped out the back door and circled to a patch of sea grass and waited. In summertime, music would be drifting from cabin to cabin. People would exclaim at shooting stars. Now the world was as black as a tunnel and the only sound was the idle lapping of water.

From a distance, he saw an ember that became a bouncing ball, which turned into a glowing pig dancing on the beach. Headlights off, the van rolled to a stop directly in front of the cabin and Piggy swung out to open the back door of the van. One by one, he tossed out Vova and his sisters like freshly caught fish. They were trussed hands and feet and crying hysterically, appealing to be saved.

There was a touch of the ham actor in Piggy; his hair was long and topped by a bowler and his gestures with a gun were exaggerated as he stood over Vova and shot into the sand. The sound mingled with the waves.

He called out, “Did that get your attention?”

The children were stunned into silence. Arkady cradled the Spanish pistol under his poncho.

“Don’t be shy,” Piggy said. “Come on out or I really will put a bullet in boychik’s brain. That’s better,” he said as Arkady stood.

“Let them go. You want me, not them.”

“Such egotism. How do you know what I want?”

“I don’t. What do you want?”

“Horror.”

Arkady did not have an answer for that but didn’t particularly
care. From here on it was logistics. He was about twenty paces from Piggy. He hoped to cut that to five.

“What about the biker? Was he on your list?”

“I would say he was on Alexi’s list.”

“How did you know to target him?”

“I watch people in hotels. Butchers go in and out. No one sees us.”

“That’s clever. Your name’s not Boris, is it? And you’ve never been to Mexico, have you?” Arkady started to approach. “I wouldn’t even say you were a bird person.”

“They’re idiots. Get up at five in the morning to see a fucking sandpiper?”

“People do crazy things.”

“Well, you’re the craziest.”

“Did you know I have a bullet in my brain? Do you know what that does to you? Can you imagine? Like a second hand on a watch, just waiting to make one last tick. One tick and everything goes black. That’s how I live my life. Moment to moment.”

Arkady continued moving forward. It was unnerving; a man about to die should retreat, not approach.

“The strange thing is that having a bullet in the brain makes me feel invulnerable,” Arkady said.

“Stay where you are.” Piggy raised his gun.

Arkady took another quick two paces, even forcing Piggy back a step.

“Try it.”

Piggy fired. The shot knocked Arkady to the ground. It felt like being hit with a spike but he rose and Piggy fired a second time, dropping Arkady again. For a second time, Arkady got to his feet.
Hesitation showed in Piggy’s eyes and in that moment, Arkady pulled his poncho aside, revealing an armature of steel cables that were coiled in double layers around his chest. In two places the cables were mangled. In his free hand he held the Spanish pistol and at a distance of four paces he couldn’t miss.

Seawater and sand were a bicycle’s worst enemies. Arkady and Zhenya disassembled the Pantera and spread the parts like a puzzle on a plastic sheet that covered Arkady’s living room floor. The steel frame and aluminum gears had not been damaged, but the drivetrain had suffered from being thrown around and buried.

It was hard to say whether the bike was salvageable or what it was worth. Lorenzo, on the phone from Bicicletta Ercolo, groaned at the news they were going to attempt to resurrect the bike themselves. He sent instructions and washed his hands of the operation. Arkady went ahead. It mainly demanded patience and a steady stream of obscenities. And rags. He and Zhenya and everything they touched were covered in grease.

Zhenya had asked one question: “Have you ever done this before?”

“No.”

Zhenya was impressed.

They washed sand from the crank and the bearings of the derailleurs, adjusted the tension of the cables and wiped every surface with solvent and oil. Arkady tightened the gear screws until the derailleurs shifted smoothly. He thought that perhaps when they were done, the result would look more like a tricycle, but whatever money Arkady could get for it, he intended to give to Vova and his sisters. The bicycle’s provenance and pedigree were issues; who ever heard of a Pantera in Kaliningrad? In any case, if he had left the bike it would most likely have been claimed by the police.

Tatiana was in Belgium receiving another prize for journalism. Then to Rome for more honors while Arkady took care of her dog. He considered retiring from the prosecutor’s office and taking up golf. The game looked pretty simple.

Zhenya adjusted the brakes, tightening and twisting a holding bolt so the pads made full contact with the rim of the bike, testing the bolt to be sure it wouldn’t slip or break.

Lotte was in a women’s chess tournament in Cairo. She called Zhenya twice a day. There was no more talk about the army.

Anya covered fashion.

Maxim finally had a poem published.

Svetlana and Snowflake had disappeared.

Zhenya corrected bent spokes, squeezing them like harp strings. He and Arkady cleaned the shifters and brake levers. Pumped the tires, polished the bike’s frame until it had the sheen of black satin and the logo of a red panther seemed to leap off the frame. When Arkady spun the wheels, they sang.

The sort of novel I write is populated by real people who lend their expertise and character to my slim story. Over and over I am amazed by their generosity. The interpreter Paolo Maria Noseda introduced me to the mysteries of his trade. In Moscow, no one could have been more generous than Dmitri Muratov and his staff at the
Novaya Gazeta.
The Moscow correspondents Ellen Barry and Sergei Loiko shared their valuable insights. The writer Yulia Latynina pointed me in the right direction and Yegor Tolstyakov was, once again, my thoughtful guide. In America Nelson Branco and Neil Benowitz led me to fast bikes, Drs. Kenneth Sack and Michael Weiner to a wandering bullet, and Jim and Martha Robinson to a burned-out houseboat. Ellen Irish Branco and Luisa Cruz Smith afforded important critical readings. Don Sanders and Sam Smith offered significant moral support, and my editor Jofie Ferrari-Adler offered only brilliant advice.

Then there is Andrew Nurnberg, who, book after book, has been agent, wizard and boon companion.

© DOUG MENUEZ

MARTIN CRUZ SMITH’S
novels include
Stalin’s Ghost, Gorky Park, Rose, December 6, Polar Star
, and
Stallion Gate.
A two-time winner of the Hammett Prize from the International Association of Crime Writers and a recipient of Britain’s Golden Dagger Award, he lives in California.

WWW.MARTINCRUZSMITH.COM

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ALSO BY MARTIN CRUZ SMITH

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Stalin’s Ghost

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December 6

Havana Bay

Rose

Red Square

Night Wing

Polar Star

Stallion Gate

Gorky Park

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

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First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition November 2013

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Endpaper map by Jeffrey L. Ward

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Smith, Martin Cruz.

Tatiana : an Arkady Renko novel / Martin Cruz Smith. — First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Renko, Arkady (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—Russia (Federation)—Moscow—Fiction. 3. Women journalists—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Political corruption—Fiction. 5. Mafia—Fiction. 6. Kaliningrad (Kaliningradskaia oblast, Russia)—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Arkady Renko novel.

PS3569.M5377T38 2013

813'.54—dc23  2013026426

ISBN 978-1-4391-4021-5

ISBN 978-1-4391-5318-5 (ebook)

Prologue