Red Square by Martin Cruz Smith Page A

speak Hebrew?' Arkady asked Polina.
        'Why in the world would I speak Hebrew?'
        The second tape showed in rapid succession the white city of Cairo, pyramids and camels, Mediterranean beach, sailing boats on the Nile, muezzin on a minaret, date grove, high-rise hotels, Egyptair.
        'Arabic?' Arkady asked.
        'No.'
        The third travelogue opened in a beer garden and raced through etchings of medieval Munich, aerial views of rebuilt Munich, shoppers on the Marienplatz, beer cellar, polka bands in lederhosen, Olympic stadium, Oktoberfest, rococo theatre, gilded angel of peace, autobahn, another beer garden, nearby Alps, vapour trail of Lufthansa. He rewound to the Alps to listen to a narration that was both ponderous and exuberant.
        'You speak German?' Polina asked. The dusted mirror was starting to look like a collection of moth wings, each one an oval of whorls.
        'A little.' Arkady had spent his Army years in Berlin listening to Americans and had picked up some German in the truculent fashion that Russians approach the Language of Bismarck, Marx and Hitler. It wasn't only that Germans were a traditional foe; it was because the tsars for centuries had imported Germans as taskmasters, not to mention that the Nazis had regarded all Slavs as subhuman. There was a certain accretion of national ill will.
        'Auf wiedersehen,' said the television.
        'Auf wiedersehen.' Arkady turned the set off. 'Polina, auf wiedersehen. Go home, see your boyfriend, go to a film.'
        'I'm almost done.'
        So far, Polina seemed to have sensed more about the flat than Arkady had. He knew he was missing not so much clues as essence. Rudy's phobia about physical contact had created a flat that was solitary and sterile. No ashtrays, not even dog-ends. He craved a cigarette, but didn't dare upset the flat's hygienic balance.
        Rudy's single weakness of the flesh appeared to be food. Arkady opened the refrigerator. Ham, fish and Dutch cheese were still cool, in place and overwhelming even to a man who had just eaten an appetizer of Makhmud's grapes. The food was probably from Stockmann's, the Helsinki department store that delivered complete., smorgasbords, office furniture and Japanese cars for hard currency to Moscow's foreign community; God forbid they should have to live like Russians. In its rind of wax, the cheese shone like a mushroom cap.
        Polina stepped into the bedroom doorway, one arm already thrust into her raincoat. 'Are you examining the evidence or consuming it?'
        'Admiring it, actually. Here is cheese from cows who graze on grass that grows on dykes a thousand miles away, and it's not as rare as Russian cheese. Wax is a good medium of prints, isn't it?'
        'Humidity is not the best atmosphere.'
        'It's too humid for you?'
        'I didn't say I couldn't do it, I just didn't want to get your hopes up.'
        'Do I look like a man with high hopes?'
        'I don't know; you're different today.' It was not characteristic of Polina to be uncertain about anything. 'You - '
        Arkady put a finger to his lips. He heard a barely audible noise, like the fan of a refrigerator, except that he was standing by the refrigerator.
        'A toilet,' Polina said. 'Someone's relieving themselves on the hour.'
        Arkady went to the water closet and touched the pipes. Usually pipes banged and rang like chains. This sound was fainter, more mechanical than liquid, and inside Rosen's flat, not out. It stopped.
        'On the hour?' Arkady asked.
        'On the dot. I looked, but I didn't find anything.'
        Arkady went into Rudy's office. The desk was undisturbed, phone and fax silent. He tapped the fax and a red 'alert' light blinked. Tapped harder and the button winked as regularly as a beacon. The volume had been turned all the way down. He pulled the desk forward and found facsimile paper that had scrolled between the desk and the wall. 'First rule