Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [69]
“I’m only going for this case,” Arkady said.
“See, already you’re lying.” Albov’s eyes rested on Arkady sympathetically. He seemed to have to force himself to remember a less interesting man. “Rodionov, you’d better get to it. You have a great deal to do to make sure your investigator doesn’t miss his flight. Necessary papers, funds, whatever, in a day.” Turning to Arkady again, he asked, “What about flying Aeroflot?”
“Lufthansa.”
“You want an airline where the seat belts work. I completely agree,” Albov said.
Rodionov backed away, excluded, stealing glances, still watching for some other signal from Albov. Far down the road, Minin and his men had reassembled into a confused, forlorn group.
“Go,” Albov said.
He opened a pack of Camel Lights and lit a match for himself and Arkady. He had a fastidious manner, saving the last lick of the flame for the cellophane, which he let burn and blow away on the morning breeze. Then he returned his attention to the gate. As the sun rose, the trees on either side seemed to grow, come into focus, turn even more green, shift through stages of ornate light and shade. The light that crept around the guard walk was white, as if on fire. Simultaneously, the gate itself fell into more shadow and by contrast loomed darker, reflecting the two men.
It occurred to Arkady what Albov had meant about being paid back. “You will be in Munich?”
“Some of my best friends are in Munich,” Albov said.
II
MUNICH
August 13–August 18, 1991
Federov, the consular aide who gathered Arkady at the airport, pointed out sights as if he had personally built Munich, poured the River Isar, gilded the Peace Angel and balanced the domes on the twin church spires of the Frauenkirche.
“The consulate here is new, but I was in Bonn, so this is pretty much old hat to me,” Federov said.
It wasn’t to Arkady. The world seemed to be spinning around him, full of traffic and unintelligible signs. Streets were so clean that they looked plastic. Bikers in shorts and summer tans shared the road without being mangled under the wheels of every passing bus. Windows were glass instead of crusted dirt. There were no lines anywhere. Women in short skirts carried not string bags but colorful sacks emblazoned with the names of stores; in full stride, legs and sacks moved with a purposeful, integrated rhythm.
“That’s all you brought?” Federov was looking at Arkady’s carry-on. “You’ll have two suitcases on the way back. How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your visa’s only good for two weeks.”
He searched for some sign from his passenger, but Arkady was looking at walls of Bavarian yellow as smooth as butter, with balconies that had no weepy stains, stucco that was not cracked on brick lines, doors that did not wear graffiti and scars of abuse. In a pastry-shop window, marzipan pigs gamboled around chocolate cakes.
One moment Federov had the cautious attitude of a young man who had been sent to take delivery of dubious goods; the next he was consumed by curiosity. “Generally when someone like you arrives there’s a welcoming committee and an official program. I want to warn you there’s nothing laid on for you at all.”
“Good.”
Pedestrians waited like troops at red lights, whether traffic was coming or not. On green, cars swarmed ahead; it was like being in a hive of BMWs. The street spread into an avenue of stone mansions with steps that were guarded by iron gates and marble lions. Signs announced art galleries and Arab banks. The next square was lined by a row of medieval banners with corporate logos. Arkady saw a man who was dressed in lederhosen and high socks despite the heat.
“I just don’t understand how you got a visa so fast,” Federov said.
“Friends.”
Federov glanced over again because Arkady didn’t look like a man who had friends. “Well, however you did it, you landed in whipped cream,” he said.
The consulate was an eight-story