The Ice Curtain Read Online Free PDF Page A

carpet had once been red. It was now stained to an Oriental complexity of yellows, purples, browns, and whites. It seemed less a carpet, more like something that once was alive and might be still. “It’s almost four. You’ve got some time. What will you do?”
    Nowek carried his own bag and one of Volsky’s. “There’s a record shop called
Melodiya
that stocks old recordings. My father thinks they have some of his. I also want to check my mail.”
    â€œMail?”
    â€œ
Elektronka.
I can connect by phone to the Internet.”
    â€œIs it expensive?”
    â€œIt’s free.”
    Volsky looked puzzled. “How is that possible?”
    â€œTo be honest, I don’t think anyone knows.”
    They opened the fire door to their floor and hunted for the
dezhurnaya,
the keeper of the keys, the minder of everyone’s business. The Rossiya might be owned by
mafiya,
but the fifth floor was hers. They found her in an empty room, passed out on the bed, the television on. They claimed their keys from her desk.
    Nowek’s room was reassuringly normal. The window had glass, triple-paned and with a tiny operable portion caulked shut. The bed was monkishly narrow. He hoped the bathtub stains were rust.
    Nowek unpacked his laptop computer. A Pentium, so it elicited sighs and substantial offers whenever it was seen. Nowek tried to keep those occasions to a minimum, for of all sins, envy was the most Russian. He switched it on. The screen glowed soft, cool blue. He picked up the telephone. There was no dial tone. He tapped the receiver a few times. Nothing.
    He put the machine away and knocked on the communicating door to Volsky’s room. It was unlocked. The room reeked of cologne. Volsky was taking a shower. “Arkasha!”
    â€œ. . . believe it? There’s no fucking hot water.”
    â€œThe phone doesn’t work, either. I’m going out.”
    â€œThe car arrives at five-thirty. Don’t be late.”
    â€œArkasha, why are you going to war over diamonds? What about coal miners? Teachers? None of them have been paid, either.”
    The water splashed a steady
sshhh,
then Volsky said, “They’re killing them. It has to stop. I’ll tell you more after we beat up Petrov.”
    Killing them?
“If I’m not back in time, I’ll meet you at the club.”
    â€œThere’s a business card by the phone. Read it.”
    Nowek found it. On the back was a telephone number with a 095 prefix, followed by 661-18-94, and a word.
Buran.
Blizzard.
    â€œIf you need help, call that number and use the code word.”
    Yeltsin’s private number was easy enough to remember;
661
was June 1961, Nowek’s birthday.
18
was Galena’s age. And
94
? The year his wife, Nina, had died.
    â€œDon’t get lost. I need you there tonight, Grisha,” Volsky called out.
    Nowek slipped the card into his jacket. “I’ll be there.”
    The music store
Melodiya
was on Nikitinskaya Street. The rain had stopped and it wasn’t far, so Nowek walked. He spotted it beyond a dour brick building that proclaimed itself the Soviet Home for Working Artists. A small jewelry shop called
Eleganza
had been carved into a corner of its first floor.
    Nowek was drawn to the golden light of its window. Beyond the thick glass were coiled heaps of necklaces executed in thick, heavy gold. Just the thing for a warrior princess, or a
mafiya
’s girlfriend. Behind them, under a hot spotlight, were the diamonds. A small sign shouted A DIAMOND FOR EVERY WALLET!
    Maybe they were diamonds, maybe not. It took serious science to tell the difference between a cubic crystal of silicon carbide and a cubic crystal of pure diamond. Both were clear, colorless gems. Both superbly hard. Both filled with brilliant, refractive fire. One was industrial waste, the other a priceless gem signifying eternal love. But that was psychology.
    Eleganza
was closing. The shopkeeper peered