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

match on Friday. That fraud across the aisle pretends he’ll show up. He won’t.”
    At the Okhotny Row station two babushkas from the night before joined the car, bringing with them the scent of boiled cabbage to vie with Platonov’s cologne. The prostitutes briefly flirted with Arkady before deciding that he was a cold engine. Three were in the death grip of tight Italian skirts. The apparent leader, a redhead in snakeskin pants, seemed to listen to private music without the aid of an iPod. The others gasped when the lights of the car flickered and sparks shot up between the tunnel and the train. This was the oldest section of the entire system. Rails were worn. Insulation frayed. Blue imps danced around the switches.
    Platonov asked, “Do you know the sad thing?”
    “What is the sad thing?”
    “That Stalin was able to enjoy the Metro as a passenger once only. On that occasion he was so loved by the public he was mobbed and the security forces never let him do it again. To think, we’re riding where he rode.”
    The train approached the stop for Lubyanka, the legendary factory of woe, where men were beaten like metal into more useful shapes: collaborators, confessors, victims eager to accuse themselves. They were delivered by car or, in Stalin’s day, what seemed an innocent baker’s van, but never via the Metro.
    Next station, Chistye Prudy. In spite of his skepticism, Platonov removed his cap and made other small adjustments to appear presentable, and Arkady noticed a general stir among the riders: coughs, straightened backs, attention to shoes. Medals suddenly appeared. Antipenko wore the gold star of a Hero of Labor. The babushkas were Heroine Mothers. Zelensky let his earbuds drop around his neck. The violinist dog-eared a page and slipped the book into his violin case. At a depth of seventy meters the train descended further and its breath grew cooler.
    The door to the next carriage opened and a man in a warm-up suit entered with a boy and girl in parkas. The man had broad shoulders and a heavy brow, but his physical menace was undercut by his stumbling from pole to pole as he followed the children. They were about ten years old, with blue eyes and golden hair that could have come right out of an artist’s tube of paint. The girl held roses wrapped in cellophane. Zelensky took charge of her and the boy and marched them through the carriage to Arkady.
    “What a coincidence. I said to myself that looks like Investigator Renko over there, and it is. Two nights in a row, is that coincidence or fate? Which is it?”
    “So far, just a ride on the Metro.”
    “We’re going to be on television,” said the girl. She raised the flowers for Arkady. “Smell.”
    “Very nice. Who is the posy for?”
    “You’ll see,” Zelensky said. “Okay, kiddies, go back to Bora. Uncle Vlad has to talk.”
    Zelensky rocked like a sailor to the motion of the train while the boy and girl returned.
    “Is Bora a filmmaker, too?” Arkady asked.
    “Bora is protection.”
    “You must need protection pretty badly.”
    “Don’t underestimate Bora. Bora is a pit bull. But what are you doing here?” Zelensky grinned with bewilderment. “According to the television, you said there was no investigation, that no one saw Stalin. You changed your mind?”
    “I thought it over and decided that maybe there was a chance that Stalin had been in hibernation for fifty years.”
    Zelensky noticed Platonov’s interest in the conversation. “Getting nosy?”
    “No.” Platonov shook his head vigorously.
    Arkady asked, “Is this the first time on the Metro for Bora? He looks a little lost.”
    “He’s new to Moscow, but he’ll catch on. He’s a handy man to have around.”
    “For crossword puzzles?”
    “Things are changing. I’ve had a bad patch, but I’m coming out of it. I admit I did some adult films. To you that might make me a pornographer.”
    “That would do it.”
    “That’s because you’re concentrating on me.