you broke it up? How can I forget?”
“I apologize.”
Pacheco had a rough face and small black eyes. “The man speaks English better than me.”
“Ernie is from Texas.” Wiley said. “He’s a cowboy.”
“Shh.” Pacheco put up a finger as the harpist drifted from “Für Elise” to “Lara’s Theme.” “Ever see Doctor Zhivago ?”
Wiley said, “There’s a chance that Investigator Renko has even read the book.”
“Two Americans show up at a Metro platform in the middle of the night. They don’t get off or board the train. Instead, they participate in the illegal videotaping of a ceremony in honor of Stalin. Do you both speak Russian?”
Wiley said, “I minored in Russian.”
“I was a marine sergeant at the embassy.” Pacheco sawed his meat and corralled it. “Back in the Cold War.”
“All I can tell you is that we were doing our job.”
“In Moscow? What would that job be?”
“I’m in marketing. I help people sell things. They can be soda pop, faster automobiles, fresher detergents, whatever and anywhere, Moscow, New York, Mexico City.”
“You want to sell Stalin in America?”
“No. In the States, Stalin is dead. Now, Hitler’s different. In America, Hitler continues to be hot. History Channel, street fashion, video games. But here in Russia, Stalin is the king. Long story short, we’re using nostalgia for Stalin to publicize the Russian Patriot political party. It’s a start-up party with only three weeks left before the election; it needs an instant identity and an attractive candidate. A good-looking war hero, if possible.”
“Brandy?” Pacheco asked Arkady.
“For breakfast?”
“It’s not over yet.”
Arkady tried to get back on track. “But Russian elections are Russian business. You are Americans.”
Wiley said, “Remember Boris Yeltsin’s return from the dead? He had an approval rating of two percent—he was a drunk, he was a clown, you name it—but American political consultants like me came on board, ran an American-style campaign and Yeltsin won, thirty-six percent to thirty-four percent for the Communists. Nikolai Isakov’s favorable rating is at least that. He will make an impact.”
“You do this for anyone? For either side?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a mercenary.”
“A professional. The main thing is—and I want to stress this—what I do is perfectly legitimate.”
“How is the campaign for Isakov going?”
Wiley paused. “Better than expected.”
“My questions aren’t offensive, I hope.”
“No, we’ve been expecting them. To be honest, Arkady, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Me?”
“You see, with any candidate we do a kind of questionnaire. Pluses and minuses. Mainly minuses because we need to anticipate any potential line of attack the opposition may take: drugs, assault, corruption, sexual orientation. We need to see the client naked, so to speak, because you never know when personal issues are going to go public. So far it looks like the only thing we have to worry about is you.”
“Me?”
Pacheco had twisted in his chair to watch the harpist. “Isn’t she an angel? Golden hair, white skin, white gown. All she needs is a pair of wings. Imagine what it’s like for her, getting up at five in the morning, dressing, riding the subway from God knows where to waste beautiful music on a crowd with their faces in their shredded wheat.”
Wiley hunched closer to Arkady. “Your wife ran off with Isakov. Are you going to make a stink about that?”
“She’s not my wife.”
Wiley’s face lit up. “Oh, I misunderstood. That’s a huge relief.”
The brandy came and Arkady drank half a snifter in one hot swallow.
“See, you did want it,” Pacheco said.
“What was the trick?” Arkady asked.
“Pardon?”
“Getting people to say they saw Stalin. What was the trick?”
Wiley smiled. “That’s simple. Create the right conditions and people will do the rest.”
“What do you mean?”
“People create their
“I apologize.”
Pacheco had a rough face and small black eyes. “The man speaks English better than me.”
“Ernie is from Texas.” Wiley said. “He’s a cowboy.”
“Shh.” Pacheco put up a finger as the harpist drifted from “Für Elise” to “Lara’s Theme.” “Ever see Doctor Zhivago ?”
Wiley said, “There’s a chance that Investigator Renko has even read the book.”
“Two Americans show up at a Metro platform in the middle of the night. They don’t get off or board the train. Instead, they participate in the illegal videotaping of a ceremony in honor of Stalin. Do you both speak Russian?”
Wiley said, “I minored in Russian.”
“I was a marine sergeant at the embassy.” Pacheco sawed his meat and corralled it. “Back in the Cold War.”
“All I can tell you is that we were doing our job.”
“In Moscow? What would that job be?”
“I’m in marketing. I help people sell things. They can be soda pop, faster automobiles, fresher detergents, whatever and anywhere, Moscow, New York, Mexico City.”
“You want to sell Stalin in America?”
“No. In the States, Stalin is dead. Now, Hitler’s different. In America, Hitler continues to be hot. History Channel, street fashion, video games. But here in Russia, Stalin is the king. Long story short, we’re using nostalgia for Stalin to publicize the Russian Patriot political party. It’s a start-up party with only three weeks left before the election; it needs an instant identity and an attractive candidate. A good-looking war hero, if possible.”
“Brandy?” Pacheco asked Arkady.
“For breakfast?”
“It’s not over yet.”
Arkady tried to get back on track. “But Russian elections are Russian business. You are Americans.”
Wiley said, “Remember Boris Yeltsin’s return from the dead? He had an approval rating of two percent—he was a drunk, he was a clown, you name it—but American political consultants like me came on board, ran an American-style campaign and Yeltsin won, thirty-six percent to thirty-four percent for the Communists. Nikolai Isakov’s favorable rating is at least that. He will make an impact.”
“You do this for anyone? For either side?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a mercenary.”
“A professional. The main thing is—and I want to stress this—what I do is perfectly legitimate.”
“How is the campaign for Isakov going?”
Wiley paused. “Better than expected.”
“My questions aren’t offensive, I hope.”
“No, we’ve been expecting them. To be honest, Arkady, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Me?”
“You see, with any candidate we do a kind of questionnaire. Pluses and minuses. Mainly minuses because we need to anticipate any potential line of attack the opposition may take: drugs, assault, corruption, sexual orientation. We need to see the client naked, so to speak, because you never know when personal issues are going to go public. So far it looks like the only thing we have to worry about is you.”
“Me?”
Pacheco had twisted in his chair to watch the harpist. “Isn’t she an angel? Golden hair, white skin, white gown. All she needs is a pair of wings. Imagine what it’s like for her, getting up at five in the morning, dressing, riding the subway from God knows where to waste beautiful music on a crowd with their faces in their shredded wheat.”
Wiley hunched closer to Arkady. “Your wife ran off with Isakov. Are you going to make a stink about that?”
“She’s not my wife.”
Wiley’s face lit up. “Oh, I misunderstood. That’s a huge relief.”
The brandy came and Arkady drank half a snifter in one hot swallow.
“See, you did want it,” Pacheco said.
“What was the trick?” Arkady asked.
“Pardon?”
“Getting people to say they saw Stalin. What was the trick?”
Wiley smiled. “That’s simple. Create the right conditions and people will do the rest.”
“What do you mean?”
“People create their
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