Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [87]
Shamefaced, Arkady sank as far into his chair and as deep into shadow as he could go. If shadow were water he would have drowned happily.
The phone in the booth rang exactly at five.
“Federov here,” Arkady said.
“This is Schiller at the Bayern-Franconia Bank. We spoke this morning. You had some questions about a firm called TransKom Services.”
“Thank you for calling back.”
“There is no TransKom in Munich. No local bank knows it. I spoke to several state offices and no TransKom is registered in Bavaria for workers’ insurance.”
“It sounds like you’ve been thorough,” Arkady said.
“I think I’ve done all your work for you.”
“What about Boris Benz?”
“Herr Federov, this is a free country. It is difficult to investigate a private citizen.”
“Is he an employee of Bayern-Franconia?”
“No.”
“Does he have a bank account with you?”
“No, but even if he did, there are safeguards of depositor confidentiality.”
“Does he have a police record?” Arkady asked.
“I’ve told you everything I can.”
“Someone who misrepresents an association with a bank has probably done so more than once. He could be a professional criminal.”
“There are professional criminals even in Germany. I have no idea whether Benz is one. You told me yourself that you might have misunderstood what he said.”
“But now the name of the Bayern-Franconia Bank is in the consulate reports,” Arkady said.
“Remove it.”
“It’s not that simple. With such a major contract, there’s sure to be an investigation.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“Apparently Benz showed documents from Bayern-Franconia describing the bank’s financial commitment. He took the papers with him, but Moscow will want to know why the bank is pulling out now.”
The voice on the other end spoke as distinctly as possible. “There was no commitment.”
“Moscow will wonder why Bayern-Franconia isn’t more interested in Benz. If the bank is being unfairly implicated by a criminal, why isn’t it more cooperative about finding him?” Arkady asked.
“We’ve cooperated with everything.” Schiller sounded convincing, except there was that letter from him to Benz.
“Then, you don’t mind if we send a man over to see you?”
“Send him. Please. Just so we can get this over with.”
“His name is Renko.”
The third floor of the Soviet consulate was filled with women in such intricately embroidered blouses and full, brightly striped skirts that they looked like Easter eggs rolled pell-mell into the hall. Since each held a bouquet of roses, negotiating the corridor involved force and apologies.
Federov’s desk stood among pails of water. He looked up from a stack of visas with a snarl that announced he had already fulfilled his day’s quota of diplomacy. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Nice,” Arkady said. The office was small and windowless, the furniture modern and slightly miniature. Perhaps the occupant faced a subtle, nightmarish sense of growing larger every time he went to work. And getting wetter. A damp spot on the carpet showed where one pail had been kicked over. Arkady noted the dampness of Federov’s pants and sleeves, pink petals on Federov’s lapel and the way Federov’s tie had become not looser but tighter and twisted to one side. “Like a florist shop.”
“If we want to talk to you, we’ll visit you. Don’t come here.”
Besides the passports, the desktop held sheets of consulate stationery, a pen-and-pencil set and a brace of phones, all new and shiny as a start-up kit.
“I want my passport,” Arkady said.
“Renko, you’re wasting your time. First of all, Platonov has your passport, not me. Second, the vice-consul is going to keep it until you get on the plane for Moscow, which will be tomorrow if all goes well.”
“Maybe I could make myself useful. It looks like you have your hands full.” Arkady nodded toward the hall.
“The Minsk Folkloric Chorus? We asked for ten, they sent thirty. They’re going to have to sleep stacked like blini.