Tatiana

27

Arkady and Tatiana stole away from the slumbering bikers before dawn and picked up the road with their headlights. The air carried the taste of salt and made the birches bow and sigh. She led and he followed.

As the sun rose the resort town of Zelenogradsk began materializing out of the dark with an array of fish-and-chips stands, video arcades and, along a promenade, the silhouettes of prewar hotels with spiked German roofs. On the beach a few early risers watched waves march in and die on the sand.

“It’s out of season now,” Tatiana said as they rode. “The only ones who come are birders. It’s a flyway for hawks and eagles. Ludmila and I used to come here all the time.”

Zelenogradsk dwindled down. Arkady recognized the kiosk and tattoo posters he had seen with Maxim. The same beachcomber dragged his sledge along the shoulder of the road. Headed north, the road itself became a single lane. Cottages turned to fishing shacks and became fewer and fewer, while the beach narrowed to a spit of sand with a lagoon on one side and ocean on the other. Not a single car. Only the sound of surf.

“It’s still magic.” Tatiana sounded refreshed in spite of herself.

When the cottages were truly far apart, she stopped at one with weathered paint and gingerbread trim, like the home of an indigent witch. Arkady recognized it from a photo he had seen in Ludmila’s kitchen.

“Sometimes nobody comes out here for months at a time. Ludmila had the only key.”

She searched under an array of gnomes, starfish and abalone shells. Arkady watched for a minute, then found a beachcombing rake and jimmied open a window.

“This is your cabin, isn’t it?” he said.

The cabin had a living room with a fireplace, a kitchen with a wood-burning stove, a water closet, two bedrooms and a screened sleeping porch. Water for bathing came from a pump. Board games filled a chest, paperback novels overflowed a bookshelf and the pantry was down to canned sausages and pickled herring. A ring with more keys than seemed necessary hung on the wall.

“There is a storage shed too,” Tatiana said.

She led him outside and unlocked a wooden structure not much larger than a sauna. Bicycles hung from a central rack. Security cables ran through their wheels. The bikes were serviceable, nothing special, an intelligent choice, Arkady thought, considering the cottage was unoccupied for months at a time. Shelves were stocked with everyday hammers and saws, jars of nails and screws arranged by size, hand-labeled cans of caulking and paint and the sort of esoteric hardware that only a handyman could appreciate. Outdoor furniture tied together by cable gathered dust in the corner. There wasn’t much in the way of fishing gear.

When they returned to the cabin, Arkady dropped into a wicker chair. His legs told him it had been years since he had bicycled.

Tatiana ducked from room to room.

“My father loved this place.”

“What was he like?”

“He was a historian. He used to say, ‘Sometimes, the less you know the better.’ ”

“What kind of historian is that?”

“A Russian historian. He said that in a normal country, history moves forward. History evolves. But in Russia it can go in any direction or disappear completely, which makes us the envy of the world. Imagine a Kaliningrad anywhere else.”

“Was your father depressed?”

“Totally.” She returned and dropped into a rocking chair. “That was all he wanted Russia to be. Not perfect, just normal. What about your father?”

“More murderous than depressed. You could say that the war allowed him to vent.”

Light framed her. Arkady thought she wasn’t beautiful in a conventional way. Her forehead was too broad, her eyes too gray and her attitude far too provocative.

He said, “Maxim claims you would rather be a bright meteor than a steady little moon.”

“Maxim says a lot of stupid things.”

“Does he know about this place?”

“I brought him here once.”

“Perfect.”

“He wants to do something grandiose.”

“He’s still in love with you, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. He was willing to watch Alexi crush me under a ton of ballast at the marina in Moscow.”

“You’re lying.”

Arkady described the scene. “I have a witness. Polo. He saved my life. Maxim probably thought they were just going to throw a scare into me and he could call Alexi off. Old poets lose their timing. I suppose that goes first, like the legs of a fighter. Anyway, I don’t think Maxim was doing it to get at me. He was trying to protect you, to prevent me from finding out you were alive.”

“Now he wants to risk his life. I told him that at his age it no longer matters.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you are a difficult person to be in love with.”

“And you?” Tatiana asked. He didn’t know what she meant by that, and she changed the subject as if she sensed they were approaching an abyss. “Ludmila and I used to run up and down the dunes. Every day they were different. Different place, different shape. And, of course, our father taught us how to search for amber. He thought the only real history was geology; everything else was opinion. Did you know that the youngest ocean in the world is the Baltic Sea?”

“Is that why we’re here, to watch the sea grow old?”

“Not quite.” She rocked forward to offer him a cigarette.

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

She tapped the pack and caught a computer memory stick as it dropped out. It was plastic, about the size of a restaurant matchbook.

“What’s on there?” Arkady asked.

“What do you want? The murder of journalists, the beating of protesters, corruption at the top, the rape of natural resources by a circle of cronies, a fraudulent democracy, the erection of palaces, a hollow military. If you had been a source, the mention of any of this could earn you or someone close to you a bullet in the head. It’s all here in single-spaced articles.”

“But they’ve all been published, haven’t they? There’s nothing new?”

“The notebook. The notebook is new. Only I don’t have it. I have all this data leading to the top of a pyramid but I can’t reach it without knowing what Grisha was doing, and that’s in the notebook. I know who but I don’t know what. Your experts may know what but they won’t know who. Tell me about the people working on it. They’re linguistic experts or military analysts?”

“They’re two kids who play chess.”

She sat back. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. They’re good at games.”

“They’re children?”

Arkady nodded.

“Joseph. .” She had to laugh, stunned. “Joseph was sure the notebook would be impossible to decipher because you would have to live his life to understand his personal vocabulary. His sophisticated music, books, films and so on.”

“To be a middle-aged Swiss male who probably doted on Mozart? No. He’s lucky to have these two.”

“Poor Joseph. He got in over his head.”

“Where you led him.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she said after a moment. “Do you think I have led you in over your head?”

“Without a doubt.”

• • •

Victor maneuvered an easy chair to face the front door of Arkady’s apartment. Anyone coming in would have to go through him. Every few minutes he checked his cell phone in case Arkady had texted or left a message. Victor hated the Internet.

“Tell him,” Lotte said.

“There’s a nautical theme,” Zhenya said. “Navy, ship, submarine, torpedo, water, sea.”

“I’ll tell you what’s a theme,” Victor said. “A lot of money changing hands and every crook watching every other crook. Nobody trusts anybody else. That’s why they’re meeting.”

“Explain it to him,” Lotte said.

“Please,” said Victor.

“This is what I think the notebook says: ‘The Red Dawn Shipyard in China agrees to pay Russia two billion to repair and refit a submarine to seaworthiness. Maybe fifty percent to the Russian Ministry of Defense and fifty percent to certain anonymous partners of. .”

“Amber something,” Lotte said. “It has to be.”

Zhenya was disconcerted but he continued. “And there will be no public accounting. The parties will meet on the Natalya Goncharova.”

“You mean Grisha’s yacht.”

“I guess so.”

“Only Grisha is dead and the notes are two weeks old.”

“Then they’re meeting again, everyone but Grisha,” Zhenya said.

“Who is meeting?” Victor asked.

“We don’t know,” Lotte admitted.

Victor opened a fresh bottle of Fanta. “Amateurs.”