Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [79]
An authoritative voice came on the other end of the line and asked in Russian, “This is Schiller. Can I help?”
“I hope so. Have you ever been to the consulate?” Arkady asked.
“No, I regret …” By the sound of it, it wasn’t a bottomless regret.
“We’re fairly new here, as you know.”
“Yes.” A dry tone.
“We have some confusion at the consulate,” Arkady said.
The answer mixed caution and amusement. “How so?”
“It may just be a misunderstanding or something lost in the translation.”
“Yes?”
“We were visited by a certain firm that wants to engage in a joint venture in the Soviet Union. Of course that’s good; that’s what the consulate is here for. What is especially promising is that the firm claims it can produce financing in hard currency.”
“Deutsche marks?”
“Quite a large sum of Deutsche marks. I was hoping you could give us some assurance that these funds are, in fact, available.”
A deep breath at the other end suggested the effort necessary to explain finances to small children. “The firm may have a sufficient corporate budget, private funds, a loan from a bank or other institutions. There are many combinations, but Bayern-Franconia can only give you information if it is a partner in the venture. My advice is that you should study their credentials.”
“Precisely what I was getting at. They led us to believe—or we misunderstood them to say—that their firm was associated with Bayern-Franconia, and that all the funding would come from you.”
A new gravity issued from the other end. “What is the name of this company?”
“TransKom Services, It’s engaged in recreational and personnel services—”
“This bank has no subsidiaries involved in the Soviet Union.”
Arkady said, “I was afraid not. But the bank might have committed itself to such financing?”
“Unfortunately Bayern-Franconia does not believe the economic situation in the Soviet Union is stable enough to recommend investment at this time.”
“Strange. He used the name of Bayern-Franconia freely at the consulate,” Arkady said.
“Which is something we take seriously at Bayern-Franconia. Just who am I talking to?”
“Artur Federov. We would like to know, today if possible, whether the bank stands behind TransKom or not.”
“I can reach you at the consulate?”
Arkady paused a suitable length of time to check a schedule. “I’ll be out most of the day. I have a Belorussian chorus to meet at the airport, then Ukrainian artists, lunch with Bavarian film studios, then some dancers.”
“You do sound busy.”
“Could you call at five?” Arkady asked. “I will keep that time clear to speak to you. The best line to reach me on is 55 56 020.” He was reading the number of the phone booth.
“What was the name of the representative of TransKom?”
“Boris Benz.”
There was a pause. “I’ll look into it.”
“The consulate appreciates your interest.”
“Herr Federov, my interest is in the good name of Bayern-Franconia. I will call at five exactly.”
Arkady hung up. He assumed the banker would verify the call by immediately phoning the listed number of the consulate to ask for an Artur Federov, who should be safely bearing bouquets to the airport. He hoped the banker wouldn’t be inquisitive enough to ask for anyone else at the consulate.
As he stepped out of the booth, he felt something change—a foot withdraw into a doorway or a shopper suddenly transfixed by a window display. He considered slipping back into the department store until he caught sight of himself reflected in the window. Was that him? This pale apparition in a shrinking jacket? In Moscow, he could pass as one scarecrow among many; among the robust sausage-eaters of Munich, he was frighteningly unique. He could no more lose himself among shoppers and tourists in the Marienplatz than a skeleton could hide by wearing a hat.
Arkady turned to the garage and walked up a ramp under a yellow-and-black sign that said AUSGANG! A BMW roaring down the chute squealed and rocked on its shocks while he pressed himself against the wall. The driver’s beefy head swiveled and shouted, “Kein Eingang! Kein Eingang!”
On the