The Ice Curtain by Robin White Page A

eiderdown. He stepped outside. The door locked behind him. Where was Nowek?
He’d better have a good reason.
For that matter, where was his fucking car and driver?
    There.
The Chaika’s engine turned, turned, then caught in a roar and a cloud of steam. The headlights switched on. The tires spun in slush, the car approached.
    Volsky held out his hand and caught a flake in his palm, really a cluster of flakes welded together. Neither one thing or another. A dishonest snow, perfect for Moscow.
    The Chaika pulled up. Volsky got in back and slammed the door. “Forget the hotel,” he said. “We’re going to the Kremlin.”
    The old limo began to roll.
    Volsky looked at the back of the driver’s neck. There was no ponytail. “Where’s Gavril?”
    â€œthis is as far as I can go,” the cabdriver said. They were outside the iron gates to Club
Ekipazh.
The windshield went opaque with snow. The wipers struggled to keep it clear.
    Nowek saw two headlights turn in their direction. He paid the driver off, tucked the fragile record under his coat, and got out. The pavement was slick and treacherous. The cab spun its wheels as it backed up. It swung around, disappearing down the narrow lane.
    Nowek took one step, then stopped. He heard the engine. BMWs, a row of Mercedes. One Chaika. It had to be Volsky’s car.
Don’t be late.
He’d let Volsky down for an old recording. He stepped into its headlights and waved for Gavril to stop.
    Volsky could feel the springs in the Chaika’s seat poking his thigh. He leaned forward. “Where is my driver?”
    â€œHe had another passenger to meet.”
    You’re my only customer tonight. . . .
    They were almost to the gate.
    Volsky saw a figure standing in the headlights. Finally. Nowek. “Stop here.”
    The driver jammed his boot down on the accelerator.
    Volsky lunged for the handle and pulled. It didn’t budge.
    The Chaika’s threadbare tires began to lose their grip. The car slid through the gate sideways. Nowek jumped a half second late.
    The rear bumper caught him on the knee. A light brush for the old limousine, a caress, but enough to send him tumbling to the street. The Dvo(breve)rák A Minor went flying.
    The Chaika was halfway down the narrow lane when the red brake lights flashed. It swerved to one side and stopped.
    Nowek saw one of the rear doors fly open.
    Volsky landed hard, slid and scraped to a stop on wet concrete. He struggled to his feet. He could see traffic passing by at one end of the street. He could see the luminous wall of
Ekipazh
at the other. And Nowek.
    â€œArkasha!”
    The driver jumped out of the Chaika with a shotgun. Its short double barrel rose. Volsky slipped, fell, then struggled to his knees.
    â€œNo!”
    Volsky heard Nowek cry out, and then something swept his legs out from under him. He flew back against a brick wall.
    The blast reverberated, echoing like thunder.
    Volsky gasped for air. He was on his back. Snowflakes fell on his face, melting, running down his cheeks. Something warm was spreading across his chest. One shell. He could survive that so long as the man didn’t shoot again. He heard Nowek shout. A barking dog. The warble of a distant siren. The driver was standing over him with the gun. Two barrels.
Don’t shoot again and I’ll live. I’ll live.
    â€œArkasha!”
    It was Nowek, and the sound of running feet was unmistakable.
Fuck.
Volsky saw the shotgun rise, level, point at his friend.
Fuck.
He lunged and grabbed hold of the hot barrel, using all his strength, all his determination, to pull it down.
    His world. Endless Siberia, Moscow, his friends, his work. Everything narrowing, narrowing. All he had to do was hold on to those two barrels for another moment. A lifetime.
    A blast. The barrel flew out of his grip like a rocket on a tail of fire, and Volsky was moving again, swept up in a wave of pure light. A
buran,
a blizzard, not of