Red Square (18 page)

   
'There's a direct flight to Munich at seven forty-five tomorrow morning,' Arkady said.

   
'You truly believe the prosecutor's office will let you leave the country?' Albov asked.

   
'I'm absolutely sure,' Arkady said. He was, as soon as he had seen Rodionov's reaction to Boris Benz's name, an instinctive flinch that had expressed the anger and fear of a stuck pig. Until then, the name could have meant nothing, but in an instant Arkady had ascertained, as Rudy might have put it, the high market value of Boris Benz.

   
'Even if the Ministry wanted to, it's not up to us,' Rodionov said. 'Foreign investigation is the responsibility of State Security.'

   
'You were saying at Petrovka the other day that, now we're members of Interpol, we work directly with foreign colleagues. I'll only have a holdall bag. No inspection.'

   
'I couldn't go tomorrow, if I wanted to,' Rodionov said. 'There's arranging an external passport and Ministry orders. It would take weeks.'

   
'There are twelve rooms at the Central Committee. All they do is make up passports and visas on the spot. Lufthansa flight 84,' Arkady said. 'Remember, Germans are punctual.'

   
'There
is
a way,' Albov said. 'If you don't travel as an investigator, as an official of the prosecutor's office, but as a private individual. If the Ministry can generate a passport and if you have the American dollars or German marks, then you simply buy a seat on the plane and take off. In fact, we've just opened a consulate in Munich; you could make contact and receive travel expenses there. The question is only where you'd get hard currency for the ticket.'

   
'The answer is . . . ?' Arkady asked.

   
'I could lend it to you. In Munich you could pay me back.'

   
Arkady said, 'The money has to come from the prosecutor.'

   
Albov said, 'Then that's the way it will be done.'

   
'Why?' Rodionov protested.

   
'Because this is a more delicate investigation than we were first aware of,' Albov said. 'Foreign investors, especially Germans, are sensitive to the messy scandals of the new Soviet capitalism. We want to clear everybody's names, even the names of people we've never heard of. Because, even though the investigator may be chasing phantoms, we don't want to place obstacles in his path. Besides, we don't know everything the investigator knows or what rash steps he thinks he has to take to preserve his independence.'

   
'He never said what he knew.'

   
'Because he's only desperate, he's not an utter fool. He stuffed your pocket with telegrams and you didn't even notice. I support Renko. More and more, I'm impressed by his adaptability. Still, I wonder,' Albov said, turning towards Arkady, 'I wonder if you've considered the fact that as soon as you step on to the plane you lose your authority. In Germany you'll be a common citizen - less, a Soviet citizen. To Germans you'll be nothing but a refugee, because to them all Russians are refugees. Secondly, you will lose your credibility here. You won't be a hero to your friends any more. No one will believe any warnings, alarms or information that you left behind, because here too you will be regarded as a refugee. And refugees lie; refugees will say anything to get out. Nothing they say is considered the truth anywhere. The one thing I can promise you is you'll be sorry you ever went.'

   
'I'm only going for this case,' Arkady said.

   
'See, already you're lying.' Albov's eyes rested on Arkady sympathetically. He seemed to have to force himself to remember a less interesting man. 'Rodionov, you'd better get to it. You have a great deal to do to make sure your investigator doesn't miss his flight. Necessary papers, funds, whatever, in a day.' Turning to Arkady again, he asked, 'What about flying Aeroflot?'

   
'Lufthansa.'

   
'You want an airline where the seat belts work. I completely agree,' Albov said.

   
Rodionov backed away, excluded, stealing glances, sail watching for some other signal from Albov. Far down the road, Minin and his men had reassembled into a confused, forlorn group.

   
'Go,' Albov said.

   
He opened a pack of Camel Lights and lit a match for himself and Arkady. He had a fastidious manner, saving the last lick of the flame for the cellophane, which he let burn and blow away on the morning breeze. Then he returned his attention to the gate. As the sun rose, the trees on either side seemed to grow, come into focus, turn ever more green, shift through stages of ornate light and shade. The light that crept around the guardwalk was white, as if on fire. Simultaneously, the gate itself fell into more shadow and by contrast loomed darker, reflecting the two men.

   
It occurred to Arkady what Albov had meant about being paid back. 'You will be in Munich?'

   
'Some of my best friends are in Munich,' Albov said.

Part Two

MUNICH

12 August - 18 August 1991

Chapter Fifteen

Federov, the consular aide who picked Arkady up at the airport, pointed out sights as if he had personally built Munich, poured the Isar river, gilded the Peace Angel and balanced the domes on the twin church spires of the Frauenkirche.

   
'The consulate here is new, but I was in Bonn, so this is pretty much old hat to me,' Federov said.

   
It wasn't to Arkady. The world seemed to be spinning around him, full of traffic and unintelligible signs. Streets were so clean that they looked plastic. Bikers in shorts and summer tans shared the road without being mangled under the wheels of every passing bus. Windows were glass instead of crusted dirt. There were no-queues anywhere. Women in short skirts carried not string bags, but colourful carrier bags emblazoned with the names of shops; in full stride, legs and bags moved with a purposeful, integrated rhythm.

   
'That's all you brought?' Federov looked at Arkady's holdall. 'You'll have two suitcases on the way back. How long are you staying?'

   
'I don't know.'

   
'Your visa's only good for two weeks.'

   
He searched for some sign from his passenger, but Arkady was looking at walls of Bavarian yellow as smooth as butter, with balconies that had no weepy stains, stucco that was not cracked on bricklines, doors that did not wear graffiti and scars of abuse. In a pastry-shop window, marzipan pigs gambolled around chocolate cakes.

   
One moment Federov had the cautious attitude of a young man who had been sent to take delivery of dubious goods. The next he was consumed by curiosity. 'Generally when someone like you arrives there's a welcoming committee and an official programme. I want to warn you there's nothing laid on for you at all.'

   
'Good.'

   
Pedestrians waited like troops at red lights, whether traffic was coming or not. On green, cars swarmed ahead; it was like being in a hive of BMWs. The street spread into an avenue of stone mansions with steps that were guarded by iron gates and marble lions. Signs announced art galleries and Arab banks. The next square was lined by a row of medieval banners with corporate logos. Arkady watched a walking man who was dressed in lederhosen and high socks despite the heat.

   
'I just don't understand how you got a visa so fast,' Federov said.

   
'Friends.'

   
Federov glanced over again because Arkady didn't look like a man who had friends.

   
'Well, however you did it, you landed in whipped cream,' he said.

   
The consulate was an eight-storey building on Seidlstrasse. A wood-panelled waiting room had chairs of bright chrome and black leather. Behind bulletproof glass was a reception desk with three television monitors. Federov slid Arkady's passport on a tray under the glass to a receptionist who looked Russian almost to her fingertips, which were long and polished like mother of pearl. When she started to push a book out, Federov blocked the tray and said, 'He doesn't have to sign.'

   
He led Arkady on to the lift and up to the third floor, down a corridor of small offices, past a conference room with boxes and chairs still wrapped in blocks of plastic packing, and showed him through a metal door with a plaque that said in German
cultural affairs.
Inside was a man with grey hair, a good Western suit and a frown. There were only two chairs in the room and he nodded for Arkady to take the other one.

   
'I'm Vice-Consul Platonov. I know who you are,' he told Arkady. He didn't offer to shake hands. 'That's all,' he said to Federov, who could have been smoke he was gone so fast.

   
Platonov had the forward hunch of a chess player. He looked like a man with a problem, something nasty but not too large, something he could resolve in a day or two. Arkady doubted this was his usual office. The walls still gave off the tang of fresh paint. An unhung, wideangle photograph of Moscow at sunset leaned against the near wall. Against the far wall were posters: dancers of the Bolshoi and Kirov, treasures of the Kremlin Armoury, a cruiser on the Volga. The only other furnishings were a folding table, a phone and an ashtray.

   
'What do you think of Munich?' Platonov asked.

   
'It's beautiful. It's very rich,' Arkady said.

   
'It was rubble after the war, worse than Moscow. That says a great deal about the Germans. You speak German?'

   
'A little.'

   
'But you do speak German?' Platonov seemed to think he had a confession.

   
'In the Army I was stationed for two years in Berlin. I was monitoring Americans, but I did pick up some German.'

   
'German and English.'

   
'Not well.'

   
Platonov was in his mid-sixties, Arkady guessed. A diplomat since Brezhnev? That took a man of both rubber and steel.

   
'Not well?' Platonov folded his arms. 'Do you know how many years it has taken us to open a Soviet consulate here? This is the industrial capital of Germany. These are the investors we need to reassure. We've not even finished moving in and we have an investigator from Moscow? Are you after someone on the consulate staff?'

   
'No.'

   
'I didn't think so. Usually we're ordered back to Moscow before we get bad news,' Platonov said. 'I asked if you were actually KGB, but they don't even want to see you. On the other hand, they're not stopping you.'

   
'That's decent of them.'

   
'No, that's suspicious. The last thing anyone wants is an investigator who is out of control.'

   
'That's been my experience, too,' Arkady had to admit.

   
'Aside from our staff, there aren't that many Soviets in Munich. Factory directors and bankers training with the Germans, a dance troupe from Georgia. Who are you interested in?'

   
'I can't say.'

   
Arkady supposed that representatives of the Foreign Ministry were taught a wide stock of encouraging expressions and public grins, those little gestures that signified they were still human. Platonov, however, seemed content with a direct, hostile stare that never wavered while he opened a case and took out a cigarette for himself.

   
'Just so we understand each other, I don't care who you're after. I don't care if there's a family lying slaughtered in its blood back in Moscow. No murderer is as important as the success of this consulate. The German people will not give hundreds of millions of Deutsch-marks to murderers. We have fifty years of bad history to make up for. We want quiet, normal relations leading to loans and commercial agreements that will rescue all the families in Moscow. The last thing we want is Russians chasing each other through the streets of Munich.'

   
'I can see that.' Arkady tried to be agreeable.

   
'You have no official standing here. If you contact the German police, they will immediately call us and we will tell them you're simply here as a tourist.'

   
'I've always been curious about Bavaria, the land of beer.'

   
'We'll keep your passport. That means you can't travel somewhere else or register at a hotel. We have accommodation for you at a pension. In the meantime I will be working hard to have you recalled to Moscow -tomorrow, if possible. My suggestion is that you forget about any investigation. See the museums, buy some gifts, have your beer. Enjoy yourself.'

The pension was above a Turkish travel agency half a block from the train station. The accommodation comprised two rooms with bed, bare mattress, chest of drawers, chair, two tables and a cabinet that opened to reveal a miniature kitchen. The toilet and shower were down the hall.

   
'Turks on the third floor,' Federov said and pointed up. He pointed down. 'Yugoslavs on the first. They all work at BMW. You could go and join them.'

   
The lights worked. The refrigerator light went on when Arkady opened the door and there were no cockroach eggs in the corners. Even the closet had a light, and he noticed when they came into the building that the halls smelled of disinfectant instead of piss.

   
'So this is paradise. It's not all quite as great as you thought, is it?' Federov asked.

   
'It's been a while since you were in Moscow,' Arkady said.

   
He opened the rear window. The view was of the back of the train station and the tracks, steel ribbons shining in the sun. What was odd was that he felt as disoriented as if he were in a different time zone halfway around the world, when he had made only a four-hour flight.

   
Federov lingered at the door. 'It occurs to me that you couldn't have a more inappropriate name than "Renko" - for a visitor to Germany, I mean. I've heard about your father. He may have been a hero at home, he was a butcher here.'

   
'No, he was a butcher at home, too.'

   
'All I mean is that, with a name like yours, maybe it would be wiser to stay right here and not go out at all.'

   
'Key?' Arkady put his hand out when Federov started to leave.

   
With a shrug, Federov gave it to him. 'I wouldn't worry, Investigator. One thing a Russian doesn't have to worry about in Germany is being robbed.'

Alone, Arkady sat on the windowsill and had a solitary cigarette. It was a Russian custom to sit before embarking on a trip, so why not on arrival? To take formal possession of a bare, unlocked room. Especially with a filthy Russian cigarette. Down on the tracks he saw a sleek red and black train inching towards the station. In the locomotive an engineer wore the grey cap of a general. He remembered the train he saw in Kazan Station, with the man in the locomotive stripped to his waist and the way the forearm of the woman with him rested on his shoulder. He wondered where they were now. Pulling carriages around Moscow? Rolling across the steppe?

   
He returned to the bed and opened his holdall. From the pockets of his rumpled trousers he disinterred Penyagin's handwritten list of three phone numbers, Rudy's fax and the identified still of Rita Benz. From a rolled jacket he took the videotape. The clothes, which represented his complete and travelling wardrobe, fitted on two hangers and in one cupboard drawer. He slipped the numbers, fax and photo into the videotape case with the cassette. They were his treasure and shield. Then he counted the money he had squeezed out of Rodionov. One hundred Deutschmarks. How far would that take the usual tourist in Germany? A day? A week? It would take thrift and paranoia to survive much longer.

   
The cassette inside his shirt, Arkady went out and ran across a boulevard to the train station, which had the mammoth scale of a modern museum on the outside. Light filtered through frosted glass and pigeon netting on the inside. No gangs of Kazans in black jackets, no somnolently flipping television screen, no Dream Bar. Instead, bookshops, restaurants, wine shops, a theatre with erotic films. A kiosk sold maps with translations in French, English, Italian, none in Russian. With the English version, Arkady headed back for the street and followed a crowd out of the main entrance.

   
The smell of a caf
é
's good coffee and chocolate almost dropped him to his knees, but he was so unused to restaurants or even to eating at all that he kept moving forward in the hope of seeing an approachable ice-cream van. He focused not on shop windows, but on the reflections in their glass. Twice he entered shops and immediately came out to see if anyone was waiting for him. A tourist sees the sights. Arkady, however, had a tunnel vision that excluded crowds, fountains and statues for the sake of spotting a telltale Soviet face, rolling walk or habit, like wearing the wedding ring on the right hand. The sound of German around him was a babble of surf. It was like waking up to notice that he had arrived in a wide plaza surrounded by handsome buildings patterned in brick, with stepped gables that climbed to spires of red tile. On one side of the square was a town hall of grey Gothic stone. Hundreds of people strolled or rested at tables with steins of beer or stared up at the hall's carillon of lifesize clockwork dancers and musicians. Arkady turned around. Businessmen wore muted suits and silk ties. Women wore a stylish, not a grieving black. Boys sported the T-shirts, shorts and backpacks of summer holidays. The volume of their voices swelled. There was a bookshop on a corner with three floors of books. Another shop had the sweet reek of tobacco. The yeasty bouquet of beer issued from this doorway and that. A golden madonna looked down from a marble column.

   
He bought ice cream in a cone, pantomiming his choice rather than testing his command of German. The ice cream was so rich that it tasted like frosting. He spent four marks on cigarettes. All the same, he had engaged with Munich now. He ran down into the plaza's underground station, bought a ticket and jumped on the first train returning the way he had come.