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

What’s important, the messenger or the message?”
    “What’s the message?”
    “You’ve no idea what you’re getting into.”
    “Will there be special effects?”
    “We don’t need special effects. We have the secret.”
    “Share it with me.”
    “You’ll see what you’ll see.”
    Zelensky let his smile hang in the air and returned to his seat. As the train slowed, passengers seated on the left side of the aisle migrated to the right. Instead of displaying the usual subway torpor they were increasingly excited, as if they were in a theater and the curtain about to rise.
    Platonov cleared his throat. “Renko, I apologize for not backing you up a minute ago.”
    “Don’t worry about it. You’re a chess player, not a policeman.”
    The train went black and from black to yellow.
    “Stalin!”
    “It’s him.”
    “Stalin!”
    Full lights returned as the doors opened. All Arkady saw was an empty platform and marble columns. Platonov rose from his seat, drawn to the open door. The violinist had exchanged his book for a mini video camera and was taping the scene. Arkady recognized the camera because the prosecutor’s office had one similar.
    Arkady followed Platonov onto the platform. “Did you see anything?”
    “I…don’t know,” Platonov said.
    Everyone filed out of the carriage and their numbers grew as curiosity attracted passengers disembarking from forward cars, some with vodka-sloppy steps, bottles tucked inside their coats. Where there had been fifteen people, fifty milled about. The doors closed and the train pulled away. Shorter people on the platform were tiptoe with excitement. Arkady saw no one carrying anything big enough to manufacture special effects, like a strobe light and battery. He also did not see any platform conductors, although they generally allowed no lingering from the last train. Every Metro station had a militia post at street level, but Arkady didn’t feel he had time to go up the escalator, wake the officer on duty and tell him…what?
    “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Arkady asked Platonov.
    “I…don’t know.”
    Arkady turned to a babushka who looked as sweet as the Virgin’s mother and asked if she saw anything.
    “I saw Stalin as plain as day. He asked me to get him a bowl of hot soup.”
    Two men in fur hats and parkas hung back on the platform. They hadn’t been on the train or boarded it. They weren’t Russian. In winter Russians in general just added another layer of clothing, Arkady thought. It was Americans who wore parkas as round and bright as hot-air balloons.
    “Friends, fellow Russians, brothers and sisters,” Zelensky said. “Please give us room.” He indicated how much platform space he needed and where his cameraman should stand, acting the role of a director very much in charge, moving slowly to intensify the moment. From his duffel bag he took a framed photograph of Stalin that he set against the base of a platform pillar. Bora relieved the children of parkas to show off their embroidered peasant shirts. Zelensky dug into his bag again and came out with a spindly votive candle and a candleholder he placed in the boy’s hands. While Bora lit the candle, Zelensky looked toward the men in parkas. The shorter one pantomimed holding something. Zelensky arranged the flowers in the girl’s hands. The cameraman went on taping. From the flesh trade to Stalin’s ghost, it was all the same to Zelensky, Arkady thought, but Zelensky was not even directing, he was taking his cues from the American. The children made a short procession and placed the candle and flowers before the photo. Stalin wore a white uniform in the picture. His vigorous mustache and hair were unmistakable, and the shifting flames of the candles brought his eyes to life.
    In singsong, the children chirped, “Dear Comrade Stalin, thank you for making the Soviet Union a mighty nation respected by the world. Thank you for defeating the Fascist invaders and imperialist