Martin Smith - Stalin’s Ghost

As the crowd grew, Arkady moved to the side so that he could see backstage as well. Two trailers, the kind afforded actors on a movie set, stood on either side of the video truck. One was for the lesser candidates; the Russian Patriots had a score of them to present to the public, decoys chosen to fill a slate. The party’s only genuine candidate was Isakov, who stood outside the opposite trailer with Urman and two figures that Arkady hadn’t seen since the Metropol Hotel, the American political wizards, Wiley and Pacheco. Isakov was entirely in black. Black was New Russia’s favorite color for German cars and Italian suits, but he also possessed the stillness of a movie actor resting with his entourage. Wiley’s fine comb-over lifted in the breeze.

Arkady wondered why the men were outside. Why didn’t they take advantage of the trailer?

He called Eva’s cell phone and watched the group.

At the first ring, Urman and Isakov looked at the trailer.

On the second they looked at each other.

“Hullo.”

“It’s me,” Arkady said.

“Are you in Moscow?” Eva asked. “Tell me that you are back in Moscow.”

“Not quite. Are you all right?” That seemed to Arkady a question apropos for a woman living with a murderer.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I just need time to sort this out.”

“You said we would talk.”

“After the election.”

At that moment the stage sound system emitted a squawk. Eva appeared at the trailer window. She had heard what he heard.

“You’re here?”

“This is better than the circus.”

“Go home. You’re safe if you go home.”

“Who told you that?”

As Isakov climbed in the trailer, Eva moved out of sight. Words were murmured. Arkady heard Isakov’s “please” and felt the surrender of the cell phone from Eva’s hand.

“Renko?”

“Yes.”

“Stay where you are,” Isakov said.

Arkady watched Isakov open the door to speak to Urman, who opened his cell phone and punched in a number. Arkady knew whose when Zelensky’s telephoto lens sorted through the crowd and locked on him like the scope of a rifle.

Arkady’s image leapt onto the video screen, only for a second because Isakov came onstage.

“You know me. I am Nikolai Sergeevich Isakov from Tver, and I stand for Russia.”

Fervent applause, as they used to say, Arkady thought.

Isakov described a nation under siege by religious fanatics and shadowy alliances. Out in the world were nuclear warheads, human bombs, and fair-weather friends. Closer to home was a circle of vampires that had stripped Russia of its treasure and, worse, subverted its values and traditions. It was an ordinary rant, but what did people actually take away from such an event? Arkady wondered. That Nikolai Isakov withstood magnification on a large screen. That he was handsome in a hard-used way. That he was accustomed to command. That he was one of their own, a son of Tver. That they had reached up and touched a hero.

Urman stood next to Arkady. “I think that bullet must have really addled your brain. You should be as far from here as you can get.”

“That occurred to me, but I wanted to hear Isakov in person.”

“So, what do you think?” Urman asked.

“He’s going from murder to politics. Is that a step up or down? What do the Americans think?”

“They’re happy. I told them you were harmless. Are you harmless?”

“As a babe.”

“Were you a babe at the Boatman last night? Are you fucking with me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare fuck with you. I don’t want to swallow my tongue.”

“Because I could take care of you now.”

“I doubt that. No, not at a rally days before the election. Wiley is an expert. He can explain to you the negative effect murder has on a rally. In fact, I think I have a little breathing room here.” Arkady had tuned out Isakov’s speech, but he contributed a polite clap. “What a perfect day for an event like this. You are a lucky man. But what exactly are you? In Chechnya you were second in command to Isakov. You’re partners with him in the detective squad. Now you’re his campaign manager? What’s next? Footstool? Bootlick?”

Urman half laughed, half sighed. “You’re trying to provoke me?”

“Well, Mongols do have a history of violence, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane and all.”

“You’ve gone mental.”

“Maybe. A funny thing about being shot in the head is-”

“You should be dead.”

“That’s it, I should be.”

“Did you get a glimpse of the other side? Did you see a tunnel and a light?”

“I saw a grave.”

“You know, that’s what I always figured.”

People swarmed by. Eighty-year-old farmers in forty-year-old suits were followed at a quick march by men and boys in military camos and by babushkas at full hobble. A teenage boy rushed by with his father and grandfather. They made a heartwarming picture, three generations in camos with identical shoulder patches of a red star, a helmet and a rose.

“An outdoor club?”

“Diggers.”

“Why are they called that?”

Urman shrugged. “They dig. They dig and they love Nikolai; they’re what Wiley calls Nikolai’s base. They need someone like him.”

“A serial killer?”

“That is an unsubstantiated accusation by a brain-damaged man. Prosecutor Zurin will say so, Prosecutor Sarkisian will say so and so will we.”

On stage Isakov built to a climax. “Russia’s blood sacrifice of twenty million lives stemmed the Fascist invaders. Reminders of that struggle can be found around Tver even today.”

Overwhelming applause.

“Why are the Americans here?” Arkady asked.

“Nikolai has momentum. The Americans say momentum is very important in politics. They thought they were setting up a paper candidate to fuck up the opposition. They’re taking a second look at Nikolai now.”

The real and the projected Isakovs said together, “It is our moral duty to protect Russia’s security, rationalize her economic gains, uproot corruption, identify the thieves and connivers who stole the assets of the people, ruthlessly stamp out terrorism, rebuild her defenses with apologies to no one, reject the meddling by foreign hypocrites in our internal affairs, promote traditional Russian customs and values, protect our environment and leave a better world for our children. And I will always remember that I am one of you.” He wasn’t done. A girl came out on stage bearing the obligatory bouquet and something that Isakov pinned to his jacket lapel. On the video screen the camera closed in on an emblem of the star, helmet and rose. Isakov was a Digger too.

Rapturous, passionate applause. A standing ovation. Shouts of “Isakov! Isakov!”

“What the devil was that about?” Arkady asked.

“It’s a good windup to the campaign,” Urman said. “It’s got everything.”

“Like a fruit salad. You really think Isakov has a chance?”

“He’s been a winner ever since I’ve known him. Since we joined the Black Berets. There are twelve candidates. He only needs a plurality.”

Isakov had not left the stage. He carried the girl from one side to the other while roses landed at his feet. Urman joined in the rhythmic applause.

“Why did he drop out?” Arkady asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you and Isakov met in OMON, he had just left the university.”

“He was bored. He was sick of books. They taught us something useful in OMON. Hit first, keep hitting.”

“Good advice. But he was a five-point student, at the top of his class, and in his last week, he threw away all that hard work. That doesn’t strike me as boredom. Something happened.”

“You never let up,” Urman said.