Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [107]
Stas said to Arkady, “If you think Michael is any kind of salvation, you’re insane.”
Michael drove the Porsche with one hand and used a cellular phone with the other. “Sir, I have Comrade Renko in tow.” He gave Arkady a wink. “In tow, sir, in tow. We hit a gap between radio receivers. These phones work on line of vision.” He cupped the phone on his shoulder to shift. “Sir, we’ll be there in a second. I wish you’d wait until I get there. In a second.” He dropped the phone into a sleeve between bucket seats and offered another glimpse of his dark glasses and bright smile. “Fucking technical incompetent. Well, Arkady, I’ve been checking up on you and you’re an interesting guy. From what I hear, you’re a maverick. I found you in Irina’s file. It’s safe to say that now you’re in Tommy’s file too. Does trouble just follow you, or what?”
“Were you following Stas?”
“I admit I was, and he led me right to you. The side trip to the train station gave me a scare. What did you take out of the locker?”
“A fur hat and an Order of Lenin.”
“It looked like a little plastic box. A familiar kind of box. I can’t place it and it’s driving me crazy. You know, as deputy director for security I have excellent relations with the local police. I can find out in a roundabout way what you and Tommy were doing last night, or else you can simply tell me. Only one way gets you extra credit.”
“Extra credit?”
“Let me put it more simply: money. What we can’t afford is any mystery about one of our employees being killed. We hoped that the bad old days of the cold war were behind us. I’m betting they are.”
“Why? You might lose your job; they might shut the station.”
“I’m looking ahead.”
“So is Max Albov.”
“Max is a winner. He’s a star. Like Irina, if she polished her English a little more and chose her friends a little better.” He glanced over. “President Gilmartin is going to ask you about Tommy. Gilmartin is head of Radio Liberty and Radio Free Europe. He’s the frontline voice of the United States and he’s a busy man. So if you’re cute, then fuck you and you can eat dog food. If you’re honest, then there’s a bonus for you.”
“It pays to be honest?”
“Exactly!”
The Porsche surged ahead of the traffic like a speedboat, and Michael smiled as if Munich were tossing in his wake.
They crossed to the east side of the city and the largest houses, short of palaces, that Arkady had ever seen. Some of them were modern, stark Bauhaus plaster and steel tubing. Others looked almost Mediterranean, with glass doors and potted palms. A few were either miraculously surviving or painstakingly reconstructed examples of Jugendstil, mansions covered with playful, vinelike façades and curving eaves.
Michael pulled into the driveway of the grandest of the mansions. On the front lawn a man was setting up a combination umbrella and table.
Michael led Arkady across the grass. Although no drops were falling, the man was dressed in a raincoat and rubber boots. About sixty, with a noble brow and jowls, he regarded Michael’s arrival with a mixture of exasperation and relief.
“Sir, this is Investigator Renko. President Gilmartin,” Michael said.
“A pleasure.” Gilmartin gave Arkady a firm sportsman’s hand and then sorted through a toolbox on the table for the shiniest pair of pliers. A wrench and screwdriver had already spilled onto the lawn.
Michael pulled off his sunglasses and let them hang from the cord. “I wish you’d waited for me, sir.”
“The goddamn Germans are always complaining about my dish. The grief. I have to have a dish, and this is the only place with a clear sight of satellites unless I put it on the roof, and then would the Heinies scream.”
Now that Arkady looked, he saw that the umbrella was actually camouflage, striped fabric over a satellite dish three meters wide. Dish and table were bolted to the ground.
“The boots are a good idea,” Michael said.
“I’ve been around broadcasting long