Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [119]
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.”
Night traffic on Leopoldstrasse was a sinuous flow of headlights, glass, sidewalk cafés, chrome.
Peter lit a cigarette while he drove. “Sorry about the cell. I had to put you someplace where Michael and Federov couldn’t get at you. Anyway, you screwed them good. You should be proud. They can’t figure out how you switched phones. They kept showing me: car, tennis court, car.”
He downshifted and snaked in front of cars. Sometimes Arkady got the impression that Peter barely controlled the urge to drive on the sidewalk to get ahead.
“Apparently Michael’s phone was special. It had 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 long pants and called his own number and walked up and down the streets until he found his phone ringing just so softly inside a garbage 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 was 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 highway, 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.”
Kilometer marks flashed by. Overpasses 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 downshifted 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 of force? Doors folded, locked shut. Steering wheel bent. There are only tire prints of the Trabi and no sign of any broken glass or taillights. But as we come back onto the road, see the skid marks.”
Two dark apostrophes tailed away from the road toward the ramp.
“Did you test them?”
“Yes. Poor-quality carbon rubber. You can’t even recap tires like that, can’t burn them or recycle them. Trabi tires. 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 highway