Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [120]
“Were there any flash marks in the car, any sign of arson?”
“No.”
Peter raced in reverse, and with no more than a tap of the brake snapped the car around so that it followed its nose. Arkady remembered that he had flown jets. In Texas, where there was less to hit.
“When Tommy was burning you shouted that you saw a fire like that before. Who?”
“A racketeer.” Arkady corrected himself. “A banker named Rudik Rosen. He burned up in an Audi. Audis burn well, too. After Rudy died he got a fax from the machine that we saw at the station.”
“The sender thought he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car fire was it? Electrical? Collision?”
“Different from this. It was arson. A bomb.”
“Different? I have another question. Before this Rosen died, were you in his car with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that the first thing I completely believe? Renko, you’re still lying about everything else. There’s more than Benz involved. Who else? Remember, there’s a plane leaving for Moscow tomorrow. You could still be on it.”
“Tommy and I were looking for something.”
“What?”
“A red Bronco.”
Ahead, taillights lined the shoulder of the highway. On the turnout were the taller outlines of off-the-road vehicles. Peter swerved up among them and coasted to a stop. Figures jumped out of the way, arms shielding their eyes. From the dashboard he took flashlights for Arkady and himself. When they got out, they were accosted by men angry about the intrusion into turnout privacy. Peter stiff-armed one and snarled convincingly enough at another to send him backpedaling between fenders. There seemed to be two sides of Peter Schiller, Arkady thought: the Aryan ideal and the werewolf—nothing in between.
Peter worked the women waiting for customers while Arkady moved along vehicles that had pulled back to the far side of the turnout to consummate business. Since he didn’t know what a Bronco looked like, he had to read the name on each vehicle. Wasn’t a bronco a bucking horse? No, that wasn’t the sound. It was more like the beating of a damp drum or, in the shells of the vehicles, the mating of turtles.
There were no red Broncos, but Peter returned from the other side of the turnout to say that one had just left with a driver named Tima. He didn’t seem discouraged. Maybe he drove a little faster getting back onto the highway.
Arkady imagined the night trailing behind them like a scarf. The rest of Munich lived quietly on a schedule, ate its muesli, biked to work, paid for sex. Peter moved as if he lived at a higher rpm.
“I think when you were in the Trabi waiting for Tommy, somebody saw you. Then poor Tommy started home and someone followed him. It wasn’t an accident. It was murder, but they thought they were killing you.”
“You want to drive around until someone tries to kill us?”
“To clear my head. Are you following someone from Moscow? Or has someone followed you?”
“At this point I’d follow anything. I’d pick out one star and aim at that.”
“Like my grandfather?”
“Maybe your grandfather is connected and maybe he’s not. I honestly don’t know.”
“Have you ever met Benz?”
“No.”
“Have you talked to anyone who met Benz?”
“Tommy. Slow down,” Arkady said. Walking on the shoulder of the road was a girl in a red-leather jacket and boots, and as they went by he saw that she had black hair and a round Uzbek face. “Stop!”
She was angry and not in the mood for a lift. Her German was a dialect of Russian.
“That Arschloch threw me out of my car. I’ll kill him.”
“What did your car look like?” Arkady asked.
She stamped her boot. “Scheisse, everything I have is in there.”
“Maybe we can find it.”
“Pictures and personal letters.”
“We’ll look for it. What kind is it?”
She looked off toward the dark and reconsidered. Uzbekistan is a long way off, Arkady thought. Her legs looked thin and cold. She said, “Never mind. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Peter said, “If someone stole your car, you should report it to the police.”
She studied him