Red Square by Martin Cruz Smith Page B

of investigation: pick things up,' he said.
        'I hadn't dusted here yet.'
        The paper was still warm. On top was the transmission date and time, one minute ago. The message, typed in Russian, read: 'Where is Red Square?'
        Anyone with a map could answer that. He read the previous message. The transmission time on it was sixty-one minutes ago: 'Where is Red Square?'
        You didn't need a map. Ask anyone in the world - up the Nile, in the Andes or even in Gorky Park.
        There were five messages in all, each sent on the hour, with the same insistent demand: 'Where is Red Square?'
        The first also said, 'If you know where Red Square is, I can offer contacts with international society for ten per cent finder's fee.'
        A finder's fee for Red Square sounded like easy money. The machine had automatically printed a long transmitting phone number across the top. Arkady called the international operator, who identified the country code as Germany and the city as Munich. 'Do you have one of these?' he asked Polina.
        'I know a boy who does.'
        Close enough. Arkady wrote on Rudy's stationery, 'Need more information.' Polina inserted the page, picked up the receiver and dialled the number, which answered with a ping. A light flashed over a button that said 'Transmit' and when she pushed the button the paper started to roll.
        Polina said, 'If they're trying to reach Rudy, they don't know he's dead.'
        'That's the idea.'
         'So you'll get pointless information or find yourself in an embarrassing social situation. I can't wait.'
     
    They waited an hour without an answer. Finally Arkady went downstairs and visited the garage, where Minin was tapping the floor with the butt end of a shovel. The hanging light bulb had been replaced by one with greater wattage. Tyres had been moved to the side and stacked according to size, rubber belts and oil cans enumerated and tagged. Minin's only concession to the heat had been to remove his coat and jacket; his hat stayed on his head, casting an umbra across the middle of his face. The man in the moon, Arkady thought. When he saw his superior, Minin came to sullen attention.
        Arkady thought the problem was that Minin was the classic dwarf child. Not that he was small, but Minin was the unloved creature, the sort who always felt despised. Arkady could have him removed from the team - an investigator didn't have to accept everyone assigned to him - but he didn't want to justify Minin's attitude. Also, he hated to see an ugly man pout.
        'Investigator Renko, when Chechens are on the loose, I think I would be of better use on the street than in this garage.'
        'We don't know if we're after Chechens, and I need a good man doing this. Some people would slip the tyres under their coat.'
        Humour seemed to give Minin a wide berth. He said, 'Do you want me to go upstairs and watch Polina?'
        'No.' Arkady tried human interest. 'There's something new about you, Minin. What is it?'
        'I don't know.'
        'That's it.' On Minin's sweat-darkened shirt was the enamel pin of a red flag. Arkady would never have noticed it if he hadn't taken off his jacket. 'A membership pin?'
        'Of a patriotic organization,' Minin said.
        'Very stylish.'
        'We stand for the defence of Russia, for the repeal of so-called laws that steal the people's wealth and give it to a narrow group of vultures and money-changers, for a cleansing of society and an end to chaos and anarchy. You don't mind?' It was a challenge as much as a question.
        'Oh, no. On you it looks right.'
     
    Driving to Borya Gubenko's, it seemed to Arkady that the summer evening had fallen like a silence. Streets vacant, taxis camped outside hotels, refusing to carry anyone but tourists. One shop was besieged with shoppers, while those on either side were so empty they seemed deserted. Moscow looked like a cannibalized city, without food, petrol