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

aggression. Thank you for making the world safe for its children. We will never forget.”
    The American pointed and Zelensky beckoned Mrs. Astrakhan Cap closer to the photo. She daubed her tears with her shawl.
    “What did you see, Grandmother?” he asked.
    “A miracle. When my husband and I came into the station we saw our beloved Stalin surrounded by radiant light.”
    Other voices answered that they, too, had seen Stalin. It was contagious, despite their different versions.
    “He was writing at a desk!”
    “He was studying war plans!”
    “He was reading Tolstoy!”
    “Pushkin!” claimed another.
    “Marx!”
    The American drew circles with his finger. Speed it up.
    Zelensky addressed the camera. “We Patriots declare this Metro station sacred ground. We demand a memorial to the military genius who, from this very site, victoriously defended the motherland. How can any Russian government deny us that? Where is Russian pride?”
    The American lifted both hands.
    Zelensky held up a red-on-white T-shirt that said, “I am a Russian Patriot.” Bora began to circulate through the crowd to distribute similar shirts. An interesting group, Arkady thought: the elderly joined by the mildly curious, the seriously drunk, four cold prostitutes and American puppet masters.
    “‘I am a Russian Patriot,’” Zelensky read the shirt aloud. “If you are not a Russian Patriot, what are you?”
    The pensioners Mendeleyev and Antipenko each took a shirt. The American waved, and the camera found the photogenic Marfa Bourdenova. Until now the schoolgirl had hidden in the crowd like a dove on a bough. She looked likely, by the way she hung on Zelensky’s every word, to miss her curfew once again. Arkady felt a rush of anger at the filmmaker, at the willing believers and the make-believe shrine, because in Moscow this was enough to summon the past. The videotape might be even more effective for being clumsily staged and poorly lit, the sort of documentary that was the stuff of rumors. And all of it stage-managed by Americans. Arkady asked himself, what would Stalin do?
    Zelensky caught Arkady’s approach and began to rush his delivery.
    “Russian Patriots honor the past. We will return to the visionary and humanitarian—”
    Arkady walked behind Zelensky and kicked the candle and holder across the track. He took a step back and did the same with the flowers.
    “Are you crazy?” Zelensky said.
    Arkady held up his ID for all to see and announced, “Filming in the Metro is prohibited. Also this gathering is delaying the scheduled cleaning and maintenance of the Metro, putting the public safety at risk. It’s now over. Go home.”
    Zelensky said, “I don’t see any cleaning women or maintenance men.”
    “A schedule is a schedule.” Arkady picked up the Stalin photograph.
    “No!” A dozen voices protested.
    “Then we’ll trade.” Arkady shoved the photo into the cameraman’s free hand and relieved his other of the camera. Arkady popped out a mini cassette and slipped it into his coat.
    “That’s my property,” Zelensky said.
    “It’s evidence now,” Arkady announced and gave back the camera. He went into the crowd to grab Marfa Bourdenova by the wrist and started for the escalator. She screamed. Platonov padded alongside. Uncertainty froze everyone else except the two Americans. They had disappeared.
    Ahead, Bora set down the duffel bag. No longer on the rolling deck of a subway car, he seemed more sure-footed. Arkady headed straight at him.
    Zelensky shouted after, “We’ll just shoot a new tape tomorrow. We don’t even need to do it in Chistye Prudy Station. We’ll just say it’s Chistye Prudy.”
    “Each station is individual,” Platonov shouted back. “People will know.”
    “Please, don’t help,” Arkady said.
    Bora waited for a signal from Zelensky.
    “Let me go, you bastard!” Marfa Bourdenova tried hitting Arkady but he dragged her too fast for her to connect solidly.
    Bora reluctantly gave