Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [117]
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 Tsetaeva, 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 onto 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?”
“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 practiced 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 communiqué 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 and after-shave. “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