Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [106]
When he went outside, a traffic policeman was trying to move Stas’s shabby Mercedes out of the way of an Italian tour bus. The bus was polished like a gondola and had a furious musical horn. The more the bus honked and the policeman shouted, the louder the dog barked back. Stas himself sat behind the wheel and enjoyed a cigarette. “Not opera,” he told Arkady, “but close.”
Arkady was getting his bearings. He knew when Stas turned north toward the museums and east toward the Englischer Garten. He noticed that a white Porsche he had seen at the station was half a block behind them.
“So, who is Boris Benz?” Stas asked.
“I don’t really know. He’s an East German who lives in Munich and travels to Moscow. Tommy said he’d met him. That’s who we were looking for last night.”
“If you and Tommy were together, why weren’t you in the crash? Why didn’t you die too?”
“The police picked me up. I was coming back in a police car when we saw the fire.”
“They didn’t mention that you were along.”
“There was no reason to. An accident report is a short, simple form.”
Peter had identified Arkady as a “witness who observed the deceased consuming alcohol at a roadside erotic club.” A brief but pungent description, he thought. He added, “Especially a single-car accident where the car has burned so badly it almost disappears. There’s nothing left to report.”
“I think there’s more. What did this Benz do in Moscow? Why aren’t you investigating on a more official level? Where did Tommy meet Benz? Who introduced them? Why would the police take you out of Tommy’s car? Was it an accident?”
“Did Tommy have any enemies?” Arkady asked.
“Tommy didn’t have many friends, but he had no enemies at all. Why do I have this foreboding that anyone who helps you immediately acquires enemies? I shouldn’t have sent him to you. He couldn’t protect himself.”
“You can?”
Although he didn’t catch any signal from Stas, Arkady felt a hot canine breath at the back of his neck.
“Her name is Laika, but she’s very German. Loves leather and beer, distrusts Russians. She makes an exception in my case. We’re almost there.” He waved toward a building that was a vertical garden of geraniums. “Every balcony a beer garden. Bavarian heaven. Actually, the balcony with cactus is mine.”
“Thanks, but I won’t be staying,” Arkady said.
Stas swung in front of the building and killed the engine. “I thought you needed a place.”
“I needed to get away from the consulate. You’re generous. Thanks,” Arkady said.
“You can’t just walk off. Look, the truth is that you don’t have a place to sleep.”
“Right.”
“And you don’t have much money.”
“Right.”
“But you think you can survive in Munich?”
“Right.”
Stas said to the dog, “He’s so Russian.” He told Arkady, “You think some special destiny is protecting you? Do you know why Germany looks so neat? Because every night the Germans pick up Turks, Poles and Russians and put them in sanitary jails until they’re shipped home.”
“Maybe I’ll be lucky. You showed up when I needed you.”
“That’s different.”
Stas got no farther before the Porsche eased alongside. The sports car moved back and forth, eyeballing Arkady and Stas. An electrically controlled window slid down, revealing a driver wearing dark sailing glasses with a red cord. His smile seemed to have more than two rows of teeth.
“Michael,” Stas said.
“Stas.” Michael had the kind of American voice that cut through the sound of a car engine. Arkady recalled a cool introduction to the station’s deputy director at Tommy’s party. “Have you heard about Tommy?”
“Yes.”
“Sad.” Michael observed a moment of silence.
“Yes.”
Michael became more businesslike. “I was just coming to ask you about it.”
“You were?”
“Because I heard that your friend, the visiting Investigator Renko from Moscow, was with our Tommy last night. And who do I see here but Renko himself?”
“I was just leaving,” Arkady said.
“Good, because the station president