Martin Smith - Stalin’s Ghost

Yura backed up the television truck to the pathology tent. Lydia dove in and shook her hair. A Mercedes eased its way to Wiley and Pacheco.

“That’s it? You’re quitting?” Arkady asked.

Wiley said, “The son of a bitch said he was afraid of this. He knew something.”

“Who?”

“Detective Nikolai Isakov, our candidate. He said he’d been waiting years for this.”

“This what?”

“Something about his father. Believe me, it no longer matters.”

Pacheco said, “No one is going to put on the air what we just saw. A Russian atrocity? They’d hang us by our heels first.”

“Say good-bye to Nikolai for us,” Wiley said.

“We had fun,” said Pacheco. “If Stalin shows up, say hello for me.”

Zhenya’s wet hair was plastered to his forehead because he refused to pull up his hood no matter what Arkady said. Together, they helped Sofia Andreyeva put a skeleton in a body bag. She was laughing and crying at the same time.

“Did you see them run? Poof, the mighty encampment is gone. Stuffed into their cars with someone, I hope, feeling nauseous. What a shame. They came to glorify the past and the past serves up the wrong victim. Some days I curse God for letting me live so long, but today it was worth it. Everybody has a fantasy. Professor Golovanov dreams of a beautiful Frenchman. I dream of a Polish boy, a medical student.”

The rain fell heavier. Arkady was on the verge of shouting just to be heard.

“Do you have a ride back to the city?”

“I borrowed a car, thank you. I’m just going to sit here for a while with my compatriots. I have a camp chair. I have cigarettes. I even…” She allowed him a glimpse of a silver flask. “In case of a chill.”

“The road will be mud soon, don’t wait too long.”

“It will turn to snow. I much prefer snow; it has panache.”

“Where is Isakov?”

“I don’t know. His friend headed back to the fir trees for more bodies. He claims that there are Russian remains and that you didn’t dig deep enough or in the right place.”

Zhenya said, “I bet he’s right. Marat’s a soldier; he should know. I don’t see why we couldn’t help.”

Arkady said, “Stumbling around explosives in the dark is not a good idea.”

“If you’re afraid to get into the dig yourself, you could hold a flashlight for someone else. I have a flashlight in my backpack.”

“You’ve come prepared for anything.”

“Someone has to.”

“No. We’re going home. We’re going to Moscow tonight.”

It felt to Arkady as if it had been night for days. Nothing had worked out as expected. Instead of winning Eva he had lost her. And in Tver there was no way he could escape Marat and Isakov.

Zhenya said, “I’m going to Lake Brosno with Nikolai and then we’re going to Swan Lake.”

“Swan Lake? Like the ballet?”

Sofia Andreyeva said, “It’s a local myth, a haven that does not exist for swans that do not exist.”

“Swans, monsters, weeping virgins. And dragons.”

“I’m sorry, no dragons,” Sofia Andreyeva said.

“You said there were dragons when I took the apartment.”

“So you take your shoes off, yes. You walk on an old dragon softly.”

It took Arkady a moment. “It’s a rug.”

A shadow moved across the campground, levitating over paper wrappers and empty bottles left in the Diggers’ hasty departure. Closer, the figure became a black and shiny ghost that billowed and snapped in the rain. Arkady watched for Stalin’s bristling mustache, greatcoat, yellow eyes. Instead it was Big Rudi in a plastic bag with holes for his head and arms and his cap jammed on his head. Rudi followed with the sort of box flashlight a mechanic might set on a fender. The beam was off.

“Granddad is still looking for Stalin. He’s in his own world.”

Sofia Andreyeva allowed Big Rudi a sip of brandy using the cap of her flask as a cup. “I don’t want to see him in the morning on a slab.”

“Any vodka?” Big Rudi inquired.

“I think he’s back in our world.” She said to Rudi, “I noticed you when I was describing the remains. You stood out.”

“Thank you.” Rudi was flattered.

“You are a Black Digger, a professional.”

“Yes.”

“You dig to make money.”

“I’m a businessman, yes.”

“I wonder how much money would you demand to go into those trees tonight?”

“You couldn’t give me enough.”

“Why not?” Arkady asked. “Don’t you think the mines are harmless?”

“Every year a ‘harmless’ mine blows off someone’s leg.”

“But a professional like you would see the mine.”

“Maybe.”

Arkady looked to see Zhenya’s reaction, but the boy was gone. A flap at the back of the tent was untied.

“May I borrow your flashlight for a moment?”

Arkady stepped out into the rain, turned on the beam and did a 360-degree sweep of trenches, smoldering campfires, beer cans, mound of skulls, piles of soil. Zhenya was on the field at the edge of the beam’s reach, halfway to the trees. He had his hood up and in his black anorak he would have been invisible except for the reflective trim on his backpack. The reflection got weaker and weaker.

It occurred to Arkady that when he had so abruptly left Moscow for Tver, Zhenya may have felt abandoned. All the conversations on the phone about monsters may have been a boy hanging on for an invitation that was never issued. Arkady hadn’t even said when he was coming back. And when Zhenya came to Tver was he appreciated or treated like excess baggage? Valuable insights but a little late.

At night the pines were a solid wall rising from the field, and though the rain eased up the boughs dripped and with every step Arkady sank ankle-deep in damp needles. He followed winks of yellow light to a lamp set in the center of the stand, a clearing five meters across where Urman dug like a stoker while Zhenya sifted. The detective was stripped to the waist and looked like a muscular Buddha except for his shoulder holster and gun. He had already dug a fair-sized hole.

“Any luck?” Arkady asked.

“Not yet,” Urman said. “But things will go a lot faster now that I have a partner.”

Zhenya kept his face a blank. Arkady noticed Urman’s shirt and leather coat neatly folded on a tree root next to Zhenya’s backpack.

Arkady asked, “Zhenya, have you ever noticed how much a pine forest smells like a car freshener?”

Zhenya shrugged, not in a mood for humor.

Arkady asked Urman, “Where is your partner?”

“Nikolai is going to get the Americans back. I’ll dig up the right remains and we’ll tape for television.”

“The Americans are gone. In fact, so is Isakov.”

“He’ll be back and then he’ll get them back.”

“What do you think, Zhenya?”

“Like Marat says, if we find the right remains…”

Urman said, “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Renko, there are a lot of bodies here. It’s a mass grave.”

A grave where the dead came up for air, Arkady thought. A skull, half-submerged, stared up from the dirt. In the glow of the lamp leg bones resembled candlesticks.

“It’s also a minefield,” Arkady said. “I don’t see a metal detector or a probe.”

“We don’t have time for all that. Anyway, there’s nothing left to blow here.”

“You just didn’t find it.”

“You’re trying to scare the kid.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t be here. I’ll stay. If you want, I’ll dig for you.”

“I’m going to give you a shovel to swing at my head?”

“Whatever you want, as long as Zhenya goes back.”

“He doesn’t want to go.”

Arkady lost patience. “There’s no reason to be afraid of me. Granted, you killed some people, but no one particularly cares about the murders except Ginsberg and me. He’s dead and I’m in Tver, which is much the same thing. Why the urgency?”