Red Square by Martin Cruz Smith

or basic goods. Arkady felt like a cannibalized man, as if he might be missing a rib, a lung, some part of his heart.
        It was oddly reassuring that someone in Germany had asked a Soviet speculator about Red Square in English. It was confirmation that Red Square still existed.
     
    Borya Gubenko picked a ball from a pail, set it on his tee, cautioned Arkady about the backswing, concentrated, drew the dub back so that it seemed to encircle his body, uncoiled and lashed the ball on a line.
        'Want to try it?' he asked
        'No, thanks. I’ll   just watch,' Arkady said.
        A dozen Japanese teed up on squares of plastic grass, drew back their clubs and drove golf balls that sailed as diminishing white dots the interior length of the factory. The irregular pop of balls sounded like small-arms fire - appropriately since the factor used to turn out bullet casings. During the White Terror, Patriotic War and Warsaw Pact, workers had manufactured millions of brass and steel-core cartridges. To convert to a golf range, assembly lines had been scrapped and the floor painted a pastoral green. A couple of immovable metal presses were screened by cut-out trees, a touch appreciated by the Japanese, who wore golf caps even indoors. Besides Borya, the only Russian players Arkady could see were a mother and daughter in matching short skirts taking a lesson.
        On the far wall, halls thudded against a green canvas marked in ascending distances: two hundred, two hundred and fifty, three hundred metres.
        Borya said, 'I confess, I overestimated a little bit. A happy customer is the secret of business.' He posed for Arkady. 'What do you think?' The first Russian amateur champion?'
        'At least.'
        Borya's big frame was tamed by a plush pastel sweater, his unruly hair wetted into sleek golden wings around a watchful, angular face with eyes of crystal blue.
        'Look at it this way.' Borya plucked another ball from the pail. 'I spent ten years playing football for Central Army. You know the life: terrific money, flat, car, as long as you can perform. You get injured, you start to slip and suddenly you're on the street. You go right from the top straight to the, bottom. Everyone wants to buy you a beer, but that's it. That's the payoff for ten years and your busted knees. Old boxers, wrestlers, hockey players, same story. No wonder they go into the mafia. Or worse, start playing American-style football. Anyway, I was lucky.'
        More than lucky. Borya seemed to have crystallized into a new, successful persona. In the New Moscow, no one was as transcendentally popular and prosperous as Borya Gubenko.
        Behind the driving range, slot machines sang beside a bar decorated with Marlboro posters, Marlboro ashtrays and Marlboro lamps. Borya lined up his shot. If possible, he looked more robust than in his playing days. Also sleek, like a well-groomed lion. He swung and froze, studying a drive that faded at it rose.
        'Tell me about this club,' Arkady said.
        'It's hard-currency, members only. The more exclusive you make it, the more foreigners want in. I'll tell you the secret,' Borya said.
        'Another secret?'
        'Location. The Swedes have poured millions into an eighteen-hole resort outside town. It's going to have conference facilities, communications centre, super security so that businessmen and tourists can come without ever really staying in Moscow. But that sounds stupid to me. If it was going to invest money somewhere, I'd want to see what it's really like. Anyway, the Swedes are way out of town. In comparison, we're central, right on the river, practically across from the Kremlin. Look what it took - a little paint, Astroturf, clubs and balls. We're in guidebooks and foreign magazines. And all of it was Rudy's idea.' He looked Arkady up and down. 'What sport did you play?'
        'Football in school.'
        'Position?'
        'Mainly goal.' Arkady wasn't going to