Tatiana: An Arkady Renko Novel (Arkady Renko Novels) (28 page)

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said, although she didn’t mean it. Not really, Maxim thought.

“They’ve been here already, Alexi’s men and the police.”

“Good, maybe they won’t be back so soon,” Arkady said.

“How is your boy, Zhenya?” Maxim asked. “Has he deciphered the notebook yet?”

“Most of it. The ‘what’ and the ‘where.’ But not exactly ‘when.’ We think there will be another meeting.”

“All this sound and fury for a notebook of incomprehensible symbols. This calls for a drink, only I haven’t got a bottle in the
house.” Maxim poked around in an empty liquor cabinet. “And they’ll hold the meeting without Grisha?”

“It’s still a good plan,” Tatiana said. “The Defense Ministry provides two billion dollars for a submarine refit. Half will actually go to the shipyard that does the work. Curonian Amber will take the other half and carve it up like a wedding cake. Everybody gets a piece. Friends in the Kremlin, the Defense Ministry, the banks and the Mafia. That was Grisha’s genius. He was generous as well as inventive.”

Maxim said, “So it’s one more rip-off. What’s so unusual about that?”

“Actually, it’s a Chinese refit of a practically new Russian nuclear submarine, the
Kaliningrad,
” Tatiana said. “It’s new but in such poor condition it’s never actually gone into service. So now they’re going to fix it on the cheap in China.”

Maxim shrugged. “ ‘Made in China.’ What isn’t these days?”

“This is different. Hold back that much money and the
Kaliningrad
could be a disaster on the scale of the
Kursk
. If so, the public won’t stand for it. If anything could bring down these crooks, this is it.”

“Sit, please,” Maxim said. “I apologize about the heaps of clothes. Creative people are messy. I must have something to drink here. I should be a better host. Tea? Coffee?” Maxim wandered in and out of the kitchen searching for clean cups. In the living room, some bookshelves were bare, not carefully removed but swept aside. Shakespeare, Neruda, Mandelstam commingled on the floor, and it occurred to Arkady that Maxim probably had not left the apartment for days.

Tatiana saw that she was not penetrating. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.” Maxim slapped his hands together and studied
them. “So, the two of you have been on the run. That’s always romantic.”

“Do you want us to go?”

“No, no. You’re my guests. I told myself not to be bitter or vituperative. I should have known better than to have set you up with someone as long-suffering as Investigator Renko. Tell me, Renko, have you noticed that our Tatiana likes the sound of bullets? Has she done anything you would consider a little reckless, like stand in front of a moving train? Does she inoculate herself with fear on a regular basis? I see you have a mark on your ear. Has it occurred to you that it’s not safe to stand next to a martyr? Unlike Anya. Have you been in touch with her?”

“We talked,” Arkady said. Days ago, he realized.

“She was one of the also-rans, like me,” Maxim said.

“I don’t think she cared one way or the other.”

“Surprise.”

It occurred to Arkady that Anya may not have betrayed him. She had delivered the notebook to him, not to Alexi, and had not told him where Arkady was. What else could he have misread?

“Where is she?”

“Moscow, I suppose. Moscow suddenly seems sane. Ah, here we are.” Maxim pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka from under the couch. “And where is this meeting going to take place?”

“The
Natalya Goncharova,
Grisha’s yacht.”

“Pushkin’s whore,” Maxim said. “As a literary man, I can appreciate that. When?”

“Tonight, we think.”

“How do you know that?”

“Last night Abdul gave a concert of hate here in Kaliningrad.
Tomorrow night he’ll be in Riga, but tonight he’s still here, as are Ape Beledon and the Shagelmans.”

“There’s not much you can do about it, is there?”

“I think there is, but we need your help.”

Maxim transferred his gaze from Arkady to Tatiana. “This is rich. Help you ascend to martyrdom? First, your friend is going to get himself killed. Second, I’m not a fucking Sancho Panza. Not even a Pushkin. Now I really do need a drink.”

Tatiana said, “It’s simple. Arkady will go to the meeting with a cell phone. You will be waiting on the other end here, listening with a tape recorder.”

“And where will you be?”

“We’ll need a witness.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll be with Arkady.”

A wolfish grin spread on Maxim’s face. “You two. You two are too much. Every time I think I’ve got you topped, you come up with something better. A witness? You mean a floating body. Two floating bodies, and I’m supposed to be on the other end with a phone up my ass. This is fucking moral blackmail.”

“You should be safe,” Arkady said.

“Exactly, and that’s all people will remember me for, staying safe while you get your throats cut.”

“You don’t have to do it.”

“Right.” Maxim took a long pull on the bottle and exhaled a cold cloud of vodka. “What makes you so sure the partners of Curonian Amber will be there?”

“Because these are the sort of partners that keep an eye on each other. We don’t want to get into a violent confrontation. We just want to threaten to take their plans public.”

“Will Alexi be there?”

“Apparently Grisha didn’t tell him about the first meeting, but he knows where this one is.”

“No, no, no, no. I won’t do it.”

“I understand,” Arkady said.

“No you don’t. I’m going with you.” He pointed at Tatiana. “She can stay with the tape recorder.”

“That’s not what we’re asking,” Tatiana said.

“It’s that or nothing. I’m not going to be a butt of contempt and derision the rest of my life. Besides, you don’t know anything about the harbor. The
Natalya Goncharova
doesn’t mix with lesser craft. She’s anchored in deeper water and you’ll need a boat to get to her. I happen to know where one can be found.”

“We’ll find another,” Tatiana said.

Maxim said, “I doubt it. Kaliningrad harbor is closed to personal craft. Soon it will be evening and you’ll be searching in the dark in an active harbor of ships moving back and forth. Not to mention, it’s the port of the Baltic Fleet. They’ll shoot us dead and our bodies will be swept out to sea.”

“Then I’m going too,” Tatiana said.

“You’re staying here,” Maxim said. “That’s the deal.”

“Do you know what to look for?” Arkady asked.

Maxim had the smile of a poet whose words had finally fallen into place. “Of course: the most beautiful boat in the harbor. A true Natalya Goncharova.”

•  •  •

There were two boats at the dock of the Fishing Village, only one with an outboard engine. While Maxim drew it alongside the dock, Tatiana pressed her face against Arkady’s and whispered, “As soon as I have everything on tape, I’ll catch up.”

“Don’t. It will be confusing enough.”

“Maxim is acting very strange.”

“What is he going to do? He’s not a killer even if he thinks he is.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive.”

Maxim pulled a cord and jerked the engine to life. “Are you coming or not?”

“Coming.” Arkady kissed Tatiana lightly on the cheek as if he were going on an evening cruise.

The dinghy was a tin tub with an outboard engine that rattled and spewed fumes. Before leaving, Maxim leaned into the other boat and slipped its oars into the water. Arkady watched their outlines float away.

“Why did you do that?” Arkady asked.

“So nobody gets any ideas. I’m the captain now.”

There was nothing Arkady could do about it. It was done. He kept his eyes on Tatiana until she faded into the evening’s haze.

The harbor was a different world. A mirror of itself. A black avenue that reverberated with the passage of larger boats. The far-off lights of harbor cranes. Plan A was that Arkady and Maxim would search for no more than two hours and go nowhere near the naval yard. It was a feather in the air, the sort of promise that absolved everyone of responsibility.

Maxim tooled along like a man in command, one hand on the tiller. A chill clung to the air. Arkady bailed a week’s accumulation of rain from the bottom of the boat and the water that remained shivered from the vibration of the engine.

They were running dark, no green light for starboard or red for port. No conversation; voices carried on open water. Engine
noise was, at least, mechanical, though there was little river traffic, mainly the rising sounds and lights of the surrounding city and reflections that cupped the surface of the water.

Arkady thought of Pushkin as he set out to defend the honor of his coquettish wife. How tired the poet must have been. With her taste for costume balls and life at court, Natalya Goncharova had spent him nearly into penury. Forced him to borrow. To spin out inferior poems for dubious occasions. To let the tsar himself cuckold the poet and pretend to be his patron. Finally, to lower himself to a duel with pistols with a soldier of fortune. When Pushkin saw his adversary’s vest of silver buttons, why didn’t he object? Was complaint beneath him, or was he simply tired of beauty and its demands?

Maxim said that watchmen were not required on the harbor and that police preferred to stay inside on damp nights, but Arkady wasn’t sure that his plans and Maxim’s were the same.

The
Natalya Goncharova
had moved down the river in the direction of the fleet. Traced by lanterns, she was an apparition floating on black water. As Maxim circled the yacht at quarter speed, Arkady expected that at any second Alexi would appear on deck.

However, the interior stayed dark. Nobody showed at the bridge. There was no sound of a crew rushing to their stations. Maxim went four times around the
Natalya Goncharova
before giving in; no one was aboard.

Maxim opened the throttle and swung the boat toward deeper water. From east to west the city gave way to the river and the red warning lights of giant cranes stood against the sky. When the banks receded enough, Maxim killed the engine and let the dinghy drift. It was a restful moment, the water lapping against
the sides of the boat as it rolled slowly in the wake of a ship they couldn’t even see.

“Just as I thought,” Maxim said.

“What did you think?” Arkady asked.

“There is no meeting.”

“I’m a little disappointed myself.”

“That’s not why we came.”

“There’s another reason?”

“To kill me.”

Arkady wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Kill you?”

“Lure me out here with some fantastic story, shoot me and dump me in the water.”

In some spots oil lay on the water like marbled paper. Arkady tasted it on his lips.

“You insisted on coming,” Arkady said.

“I was manipulated. Tatiana manipulated both of us. That’s what martyrs do.”

“Why would she?”

“Martyrs don’t share the glory.”

“Even if they die?”

“It’s win-win for them.”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“Fortunately, I do. Face me.”

When Arkady turned he found that Maxim had brought an undersized pistol, probably Spanish or Brazilian, common as coins. All he needed do was shoot Arkady, strip him of any ID and push him overboard. Granted, Maxim should have brought along some cinder blocks to weigh Arkady down, but a man couldn’t think of everything.

“Did you bring any vodka?” Arkady asked.

“Ran out.”

“Too bad. For this sort of work, vodka is usually essential.”

Maxim looked miserable but determined. “I wrote a poem for Tatiana years ago,” he said. “My best poem, people say. I was a professor and she was the student. There wasn’t that much difference in age, but everyone described me as the seducer and her as the innocent. Lately I’ve come to think it was the other way around.”

“How does the poem go?” Arkady asked.

“What poem?”

“The poem about Tatiana.”

“You don’t deserve to hear it.”

“ 
‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’
 ”

“I’m warning you.”

“This is the third time you’ve tried to kill me. A warning seems superfluous.”

“I could shake your head until I hear a bullet rattle.”

“Tell me about your poem.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’ve got all night. Do you mind?” Arkady took out a cigarette and lit it. “You? No? Well, you only have so many hands. Did you forget your poem? Recite anything.
‘You are my song, my dark blue dream of winter’s drowsy drone, and sleighs that slow and golden go through gray blue shadows on the snow.’
”

“That’s not mine.”

“I know, but it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Stand up.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

“I can kill you all the same.”

Arkady stood. He flipped his cigarette into the water and
braced himself to dive when he heard a hum in the pocket of his jacket. While Maxim hesitated, Arkady took out his cell phone and put it on speaker.

Zhenya sounded triumphant. He said, “You’re looking for the wrong boat. There’s another
Natalya Goncharova
.”

Grisha’s
Natalya Goncharova
was a yacht with a Cayman Islands registry. The
Natalya Goncharova
they needed to find was an oil tanker out of Kaliningrad.

The port handled grain and coal, but mainly it handled oil, a viscous sludge for domestic use and diesel for export. Every ship was enormous compared to the dinghy, every sound produced an echo, every rope that rode slack with the tide had reason to creak.

Arkady read by flashlight the name of each ship they passed. Some were nearly derelict, others ready to sail. He understood that for Maxim this was only a pause and unless they found the meeting of Ape Beledon and his partners, Maxim would resume where he’d left off.

Finally there were lights on a ship ahead and the
Natalya Goncharova
appeared through the mist. Whoever named her had
a sense of humor. Instead of Grisha’s elegant yacht, this
Natalya
was a tramp, a stubby coastal tanker ringed with tire bumpers. A mood of mutual congratulation hung in the air. Although Arkady couldn’t make out what was being said, Alexi’s laugh was unmistakable. Arkady looked back at Maxim, who followed Arkady up a rusty ladder and over the side.