Red Square (31 page)

   
Arkady's head snapped up as the archive door slammed open and Michael and Federov entered. Still in tennis shorts, Federov's legs were a fluorescent white. He carried a racquet. Michael held a phone. They were accompanied by the guards from the reception desk and by Ludmilla, who glowered like a vicious pug.

Ludmilla said, 'Use my office. It's next to yours. That way your secretary won't log him in. He just disappears.'

   
Michael liked the suggestion. They crowded into a room with black furniture and ashtrays set out like urns of the recently departed. On the walls were photographs of the famous poet Tsvetayeva, who had emigrated to Paris with her husband, an assassin. Even by Russian standards it had been a troubled marriage.

   
The guards pushed Arkady down on to an ottoman. Federov sank into the sofa and Michael perched on the edge of the desk.

   
'Where's my goddamn phone?'

   
'In your hand?' Arkady asked.

   
Michael let the receiver drop on his desk. 'This is not mine. You know where mine is. You changed the fucking phones.'

   
'How could I change your phone?' Arkady asked.

   
'That's how you got past the front desk.'

   
Arkady said, 'No, they gave me a visitor's pass.'

   
'Because they couldn't reach me on the phone,' Michael said. 'Because they're idiots.'

   
'What does your phone look like?'

   
Michael practised even breathing. 'Renko, Federov and I got together today to talk about you. You seem to cause problems across the board.'

   
'He refused an order from the consul to go home.' Federov was happy to be included. 'He has a friend here at the station named Stanislav Kolotov.'

   
'Stas! I'll interrogate him later. He sent you to the archive?' Michael asked Arkady.

   
'No, I just wanted to see where Tommy worked.'

   
'Why?'

   
'He made his work sound interesting.'

   
'And the files on Max Albov?'

   
'He sounded fascinating.'

   
'But you told the head researcher that you'd come to see me.'

   
'I did come to see you. Yesterday, when you took me to President Gilmartin, you promised me money.'

   
Michael said, 'You fed Gilmartin horseshit.'

   
'Renko does need money,' Federov said.

   
'Of course he needs money. Every Russian needs money,' Ludmilla said.

   
'Are you sure that's not your phone?' Arkady asked.

   
'This is a stolen phone,' Michael said.

   
'The police should check it for prints,' Arkady said.

   
'Well, it's got my fingerprints on it now, naturally. The police will be here soon enough. The point is, Renko, that you like to stir things up. It's my job to keep things smooth. I've come to the decision that things here will run a lot smoother if you're back in Moscow.'

   
Federov said, 'That's the feeling at the consulate, too,'

   
When Arkady shifted, he felt a guard's hand leaning on each shoulder.

   
Michael said, 'We've decided to put you on the plane. Consider that done. The communiqu
é
my friend Sergei here sends to Moscow will depend in large part on your attitude, which so far is piss-poor. He could describe your work here as so successful that you went home early. On the other hand, I would guess that an investigator who's sent back for harming relations between the United States and the Soviet Union, for abusing the hospitality of the German Republic and for stealing the property of this station will get a cold reception. Do you want to clean a latrine in Siberia for the rest of your miserable life? That's your choice.'

   
'I'd like to help,' Arkady said.

   
'That's better. What are you looking for in Munich? Why have you been poking around Radio Liberty? How is Stas helping you? Where's my phone?'

   
'I have an idea,' Arkady suggested.

   
'Tell me,' Michael said.

   
'Call.'

   
'Call who?'

   
'Yourself. Maybe you'll hear a ring.'

   
There was silence for a moment. 'That's it? Renko, you're worse than an asshole, you're a suicide.'

   
Arkady said, 'You can't send me back. This is Germany.'

   
Michael hopped off the edge of the desk. He had the springy step of an athlete, a faint sunglass mask around his eyes and a tarry smell of sweat mixed with aftershave. 'That's why you're going. Renko, you're a refugee. What do you think the Germans do with people like you? I think you know Lieutenant Schiller.'

   
The guards pulled Arkady to his feet. Quick as a dog, Federov jumped up.

   
An ashtray, phone and facsimile machine furnished Ludmilla's desk, and as Michael strode across the room and opened the door for Peter Schiller, Arkady saw that, next to its transmit button, the fax had the number that had called Rudy Rosen and asked, 'Where is Red Square?'

   
Peter said, 'I hear you're going home.'

   
'Look at the fax,' Arkady said.

   
This seemed to be an occasion that the lieutenant had waited for. He bent Arkady's arm behind his back and screwed his wrist so that he rose on to the balls of his feet. 'Everywhere I go, you are making a mess.'

   
'Take a look.'

   
'Theft, trespass, resisting police. Another Russian tourist.' Peter swung Arkady towards the door. 'Bring the phone you found, please,' he told Michael.

   
'We're dropping charges to speed the repatriation process,' Michael said.

   
Federov followed. 'The consulate rearranged his visa. We have a seat for him on the flight today. This can all be done quietly.'

   
'Oh, no,' Peter said. He held Arkady like a prize. 'If he has broken German law, he's in my hands.'

Chapter Twenty-Five

The cell was like a Finnish bathroom; fifteen square metres of white tiled floor, blue tiled walls, a bed facing a bench, a toilet in the corner. For cleanliness' sake, on the other side of the stainless-steel bars lay a coiled hose. Arkady's belt and shoelaces were in a box by the hose. A uniformed policeman little older than a Young Pioneer came by every ten minutes to make sure Arkady wasn't hanging himself by his jacket.

   
A pack of cigarettes arrived in mid-afternoon. Oddly enough, Arkady wasn't smoking as much as usual, as if food had cut down the appetite of his lungs.

   
Dinner came on a compartmentalized plastic tray: beef in brown sauce, dumplings, carrots with dill, vanilla pudding, plastic utensils.

   
Ludmilla had been the voice on the other end when he called the fax number from the train station. Even if she had known Rudy, though, she didn't know he was dead when she asked, 'Where is Red Square?'

   
The Soviet quota of living space was five square metres, so this holding cell was a veritable suite. Also, a Soviet cell was manuscript. Plaster walls were scribbled with personal messages and public announcements. 'The Party Drinks the People's Blood!' 'Dima Will Kill the Rats Who Turned Him In!' 'Dima Loves Zeta Forever!' And drawings: tigers, daggers, angels, full-bodied women, free-standing cocks, head of Christ. But the tiles here were glazed, highly fired and unscratchable.

   
Aeroflot had taken off by now, he was sure. Did Lufthansa have an evening flight?

   
As he made a pillow of his jacket, Arkady found a wadded envelope in ah inner pocket and recognized the shaky, needle-fine writing of his own name. It was the letter from his father that Belov had given him and that he had carried around for more than a week, from a Russian grave to a German cell, like a forgotten poison capsule. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it towards the bars. Instead of passing through, it hit one and rolled to the drain in the middle of the floor. He tossed it again, and again it bounced back and rolled to his feet.

   
The paper rustled. What would the parting words of General Kyril Renko be? After a lifetime of curses, what final curse? In the war between father and son, what last blow?

   
Arkady remembered his father's favourite phrases. 'Titcalf' when Arkady was a small boy. 'Poet, queer, shitpants and eunuch' were heaped upon the student. 'Coward', naturally, when Arkady refused officers' school. 'Failure', of course, from then on. What extra accolade had been saved? The dead had a certain advantage.

   
He hadn't talked to his father for years. At this low point in his career, in this tiled hole, was this the right time to allow his father a posthumous stab? There was something funny about the situation. Even dead, the general still had the instincts of an executioner.

   
Arkady flattened the envelope on the floor. He tugged open the corner of the flap, inserted a finger and cautiously tore open the end, because he wouldn't have been surprised if his father had left a razor. No, the letter itself would be the razor. What were the most hateful, damaging words he could hear? What was worth hissing from the grave?

   
Arkady blew into the envelope and his breath lifted a half-sheet of onionskin. He smoothed the paper and held it to the light.

   
The handwriting was so faint and palsied that it was more a wave from the deathbed than a letter, written with a hand that could barely hold a pen. The general had managed only one word: 'Irina'.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Night traffic on Leopoldstrasse was a sinuous flow of headlights, glass, pavement cafes, chrome.

   
Peter lit a cigarette while he drove. 'Sorry about the cell. I had to put you somewhere where Michael and Federov couldn't get at you. Anyway, you really screwed them. You should be proud. They can't figure out how you switched phones. They kept showing me: car, tennis court, car.'

   
He shifted down a gear and snaked in front of other cars. Sometimes Arkady got the impression that Peter barely controlled the urge to drive on the pavement to get ahead.

   
'Apparently Michael's phone is special. It has a scrambler for security. He was upset because he would have to get a new one from Washington.'

   
'He found his phone?' Arkady asked.

   
'This is wonderful. This is the
Schlag
, the whipped cream on the cake. He took your advice. After Federov left, Michael put on trousers and called his own number and walked up and down the street until he found his phone ringing just so softly inside a rubbish bin. Like finding a kitten.'

   
'So there are no charges?'

   
'You were seen leaving the garage where the first phone was stolen, but by the time I'd finished with him, the attendant didn't know if you were short or tall, white or black. With better prompting, he might give a more accurate description. The main thing is, you're still here and you have me to thank.'

   
'Thank you.'

   
Peter showed a crescent smile. 'See, that wasn't hard. Russians are so touchy.'

   
'You feel unappreciated?'

   
'Ignored. It's nice that Russians and Americans get along so well, but that doesn't mean they can ship you back to Moscow when they want.'

   
'Why didn't you look at Michael's fax when I told you to?'

   
'I already knew. After your friend Tommy died, I called the number. The woman answered herself. I'm that way, when someone is killed I become more curious, not less.' He handed Arkady the pack of cigarettes. 'You know, I enjoyed your game with the phones. We must be alike. If you weren't such a liar, we could be a good team.'

On the motorway, Peter shifted into overdrive, where he was happiest. 'You admit you made up the story about Bayern-Franconia and Benz. Why did you choose my grandfather's bank? Why call
him
'

   
'I saw a letter he wrote to Benz.'

   
'Do you have the letter?'

   
'No.'

   
'Did you read the letter?'

   
'No.'

 
  
Kilometre signs flashed by. Flyovers roared above them.

   
'Don't you have a partner back in Moscow? Couldn't you give him a call?' Peter asked.

   
'He's dead.'

   
'Renko, do you ever feel like the plague?'

   
Peter must have been keeping track of where they were because suddenly he shifted gear and braked to the footing of a black ramp shaded into ash white. Tommy's Trabant was gone.

   
Peter let the BMW roll back slowly. 'You can see the concrete is not just burned, it's chipped. I asked myself, how could a feeble little Trabi hit with that kind offeree? Doors folded, locked shut. Steering wheel bent. There are only the Trabi's tyre marks and no sign of any broken glass or rear lights. But as we come back on to the road, see the skidmarks.'

   
Two dark apostrophes tailed away from the road towards the ramp.

   
'Did you test them?'

   
'Yes. Poor-quality carbon rubber. You can't even recap tyres like that, can't burn them or recycle them. Trabi tyres. The investigators think Tommy fell asleep and lost control. Fatal one-man, one-car accidents are always the most difficult to reconstruct. Unless it was a two-car accident and a larger vehicle came from behind and smashed the Trabi into the ramp. If Tommy had any family or any enemies, the investigation would still be open.'

   
'It's closed?'

   
'Germany has so many road accidents, terrible accidents on the autobahn, we can't investigate them all. If you want to kill a German, do it on the road.'

   
'Were there any flash marks in the car, any sign of arson?'

   
'No.'

   
Peter raced in reverse, and with no more than a tap of the brake snapped the car around so that it followed its nose. Arkady remembered that he had flown jets. In Texas, where there was less to hit.

   
'When Tommy was burning you shouted that you saw a fire like that before. Who?'

   
'A racketeer.' Arkady corrected himself. 'A banker named Rudik Rosen. He burned up in an Audi. Audis burn well, too. After Rudy died he got a fax from the machine that we saw at the station.'

   
'The sender thought he was alive?'

   
'Yes.'

   
'What kind of car fire was it? Electrical? Collision?'

   
'Different from this. It was arson. A bomb.'

   
'Different? I have another question. Before this Rosen died, were you in his car with him?'

   
'Yes.'

 
  
'Why is that the first thing I completely believe? Renko, you're still lying about everything else. There's more than Benz involved. Who else? Remember, there's a plane leaving for Moscow tomorrow. You could still be on it.'

   
'Tommy and I were looking for something.'

   
'What?'

   
'A red Bronco.'

   
Ahead, rear lights lined the shoulder of the road. On the turnout were the taller outlines of off-the-road vehicles. Peter swerved up among them and coasted to a stop. Figures jumped out of the way, arms shielding their eyes. From the dashboard he took torches for Arkady and himself. When they got out, they were accosted by men angry about the intrusion into turnout privacy. Peter straight-armed one and snarled convincingly enough at another to send him backpedalling between fenders. There seemed to be two sides of Peter Schiller, Arkady thought: the Aryan ideal and the werewolf - nothing in between.

   
Peter worked through the women waiting for customers while Arkady moved along vehicles that had pulled back to the far side of the turnout to consummate business. Since he didn't know what a Bronco looked like, he had to read the name on each vehicle. Wasn't a bronco a bucking horse? No, that wasn't the sound. It was more like the beating of a damp drum or, in the shells of the vehicles, the mating of turtles.

   
There were no red Broncos, but Peter returned from the other side of the turnout to say that one had just left with a driver named Tima. He didn't seem discouraged. Maybe he drove a little faster getting back on to the motorway.

   
Arkady imagined the night trailing behind them like a scarf. The rest of Munich lived quietly to a schedule, ate its muesli, hiked to work, paid for sex. Peter moved as if he lived at a higher r.p.m.

   
'I think when you were in the Trabi waiting for Tommy, somebody saw you. Then poor Tommy started home and someone followed him. It wasn't an accident. It was murder, but they thought they were killing you.'

   
'You want to drive around until someone tries to kill us?'

 
  
'To clear my head. Are you following someone from Moscow? Or has someone followed you?'

   
'At this point I'd follow anything. I'd pick out one star and aim at that.'

   
'Like my grandfather?'

   
'Maybe your grandfather is connected and maybe he's not. I honestly don't know.'

   
'Have you ever met Benz?'

   
'No.'

   
'Have you talked to anyone who's met Benz?'

   
'Tommy. Slow down,' Arkady said. Walking on the shoulder of the road was a girl in a red leather jacket and boots, and as they went by he saw that she had black hair and a round Uzbek face. 'Stop!'

   
She was angry and not in the mood for a lift. Her German was a dialect of Russian.

   
'That
Arschloch
threw me out of my car. I'll kill him.'

   
'What did your car look like?' Arkady asked.

   
She stamped her boot. '
Scheisse
, everything I have is in there.'

   
'Maybe we can find it.'

   
'Pictures and personal letters.'

   
'We'll look for it. What kind is it?'

   
She looked off towards the dark and reconsidered. Uzbekistan is a long way off, Arkady thought. Her legs looked thin and cold. She said, 'Never mind. I'll take care of it myself.'

   
Peter said, 'If someone stole your car, you should report it to the police.'

   
She studied him and the BMW, with its extra aerial and spotlight. 'No.'

   
'What's Tima short for?' Arkady asked.

   
'Fatima.' Immediately she added, 'I never said my name was Tima.'

   
'Did he take the car two nights ago?'

   
She crossed her arms. 'Have you been watching me?'

   
'Do you come from Samarkand or Tashkent?'

   
'Tashkent. How do you know so much? I'm not talking to you.'

   
'How long ago tonight did he take the car?'

   
She set her face and started walking again, wobbling on her heels. Uzbeks had once been the Golden Horde of Tamerlane that had swept from Mongolia to Moscow. This was the end, stumbling on the autobahn.

They drove into the Red Square car park and cruised through. There was no red Bronco. A contingent of business-men were trooping loudly from vans into the sex club.

   
'Slumming,' Peter said. 'The Stuttgart set. They'll only touch the beer here and then they'll go home and fuck their wives silly.' He shot a little gravel at them as he swung by.

   
Back on the road, Peter was calmer, as if he had reached some internal decision. Arkady relaxed, too, more in tune with the speed.

   
The city spread as they approached, not like wildfire, more like a battlefield of moths.

A red Bronco sat in front of Benz's flat. The windows were dark. They drove by twice, parked on the next block and returned on foot.

   
Peter stayed in the shadow of a tree while Arkady walked up the steps and pushed the button to the flat. No voice came over the intercom. No window lit upstairs.

   
Peter joined him. 'He's gone.'

   
'The car is here.'

   
'Maybe he went for a walk.'

   
'A midnight walk?'

   
Peter said, 'He's an Ossie, how many cars can he have? Renko, let's act like detectives and see what we can find.'

   
He gave Arkady a torch, led him to the Bronco and opened the tweezers of a combination knife. The chrome on the front bumper was untouched, but its rubber guard sparkled in the torch's beam. Peter squatted and teased from the rubber what looked like threads of glass.

   
'One reason it's almost impossible to reprocess a Trabi is that the fibreglass body breaks up into such sharp splinters.' He dropped pieces into a paper envelope. 'Dead or alive, a Trabi is very difficult to handle.'

Peter radioed in the Bronco's numberplate. While they waited for an answer he shook pieces from the envelope into the ashtray, then turned the flame of his lighter directly on the threads. They lit like yellow kindling; strings of black ash rose on brown smoke, and a familiar, noxious aroma filled the car.

   
'Pure Trabi.' Peter blew out the flame. 'Proving nothing. There's not enough left of Tommy's Trabi to match to this, but even a lawyer would have to say the Bronco hit something.'

   
The radio spoke rapid German. Peter wrote on a pad 'Fantasy Tours' and the address of Boris Benz.