Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [104]
Federov unzipped Arkady’s carry-on into a yawning mouth and tossed in the shirt. “Germans deport foreign vagrants, especially Russian vagrants.”
“It’s a matter of economics,” Platonov said. “It’s bad enough, they think, taking care of East Germans.”
“If you’re thinking about political asylum, forget it.” Federov emptied the bureau drawers and bustled around the room like the energetic assistant he was. “That’s out of date. No one wants defectors from a democratic Soviet Union.”
Arkady hadn’t seen the vice-consul since his first welcome to Munich, but Platonov had not forgotten him. “What did I tell you? See the museums, buy some gifts. You could have made a year’s salary just buying here and selling when you got back. I warned you that you had no official status, and not to contact the German police. So what did you do? You not only went right to the Germans, but you also involved the consulate.”
“Have you been to a fire?” Federov sniffed a jacket.
Arkady had washed the clothes he had worn the night before, and had showered too, but he doubted that his hair or his jacket would ever be completely free of smoke.
Platonov said, “Renko, twice a week I have tea with Bavarian industrialists and bankers to convince them that we are civilized people they can do business with and safely lend millions of Deutsche marks to. Then you show up and start twisting arms and demanding protection money. Federov tells me he had a difficult time convincing a lieutenant of the Polizei that he was not part of a conspiracy to defraud German banks.”
“How would you like to be visited by the Gestapo?” Federov asked. He poured wallet, change purse, toothbrush and toothpaste into the bag. The locker key and Lufthansa ticket he confiscated and put into his pocket.
“Did he mention any bank in particular?” Arkady asked.
“No.” Federov looked into the refrigerator and found it empty.
“Did the Germans make an official protest?”
“No.” Federov folded up the map and threw it into the bag.
“Have you heard from the police since?”
“No.”
Not even since the car wreck? That was interesting, Arkady thought. “I’ll need my airplane ticket,” he said.
“Actually, you won’t.” Platonov dropped an Aeroflot ticket on the table. “We’re sending you home today. Federov will put you on the plane.”
“My visa is good for another week,” Arkady said. “Consider your visa canceled.”
“I’d need new orders from the prosecutor’s office. Until then I can’t leave.”
“Prosecutor Rodionov is a hard man to reach. I have to ask myself why he sent an investigator on a tourist visa, giving you no real authority. The whole affair is too odd.” Platonov wandered to the window and looked out toward the rail yard. Over the vice-consul’s shoulder, Arkady saw trains slide across the tracks, morning commuters poised on the steps. Platonov shook his head in admiration. “Now, there’s efficiency.”
“I’m not going,” Arkady said.
“You have no choice. Either we put you on the plane or the Germans will. Think how that would look on your record. I’m giving you the easy way out,” Platonov said.
“All because I’m evicted?”
“As simple as that,” Platonov said, “and absolutely legal. I really have to appreciate good diplomatic relations.”
“I’ve never been evicted before,” Arkady said. Arrested and exiled, but never simply evicted. Life was getting subtle, he thought.
“It’s the coming thing.” Federov swept the rest of the wash off the line and into the carry-on.
The door opened. Standing in the hall was a black dog that Arkady assumed was part of the eviction process; the animal had eyes as dark as agate and, by its size and density of hair, looked crossbred from a bear. It walked in confidently and regarded the three men with equal suspicion.
Unequal footsteps followed from the hall and Stas looked in. “Going somewhere?” he asked Arkady.
“Being sent.”
Stas entered, ignoring Platonov and Federov, though Arkady was sure he knew who they were; he had studied Soviet apparatchiks all his life, and a man who studies worms all his life recognizes worms. Federov