Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [96]
“I bet your radio and phone work,” Arkady said.
“Of course they do.”
Irrationally, Arkady yearned for Jaak’s homicidal driving and for the suicidal dashes of Moscow pedestrians. Peter looked as if he kept in shape by lifting small oxen. His windbreaker was yellow. Arkady had noticed that yellow was the most popular color worn in Munich. A gold-mustard-diarrhea yellow.
“Your grandfather speaks Russian well.”
“He learned it on the Eastern Front. He was a prisoner of war.”
“Your Russian is good, too.”
“I think all police should speak it,” Peter said.
They headed south, toward the two bonneted spires of the Marienkirche in the center of the city. Peter downshifted to pass a trolley that was as well maintained as a toy. You had to work to keep Peter Schiller’s kind of tan, Arkady thought. Ski in the wintertime, swim in the summer.
“Your grandfather said you’d volunteered. Volunteer something,” he said.
Peter gave him a couple of level looks before responding. “Boris Benz has no criminal record. In fact, the only thing we have is that according to the Bureau of Vehicle Registration, Benz has blond hair, blue eyes, was born in 1955 in Potsdam, outside Berlin, and does not need glasses.”
“Married?”
“To a Margarita Stein, a Soviet Jew. Her records are where? Moscow, Tel Aviv—who knows?”
“That’s a start. Tax or employment records? Service or medical records?”
“Potsdam is in the DDR. Was in the DDR. Understand, we’re all one Germany now, but many East German records have not been transferred to Bonn yet.”
“What about telephone calls?”
“Tsk, tsk. Without a court order, telephone records are protected by law. We have laws here.”
“I understand. You also have customs control. Did you check them?”
“Benz could be home, he could be anywhere in Western Europe. Since the EEC, there isn’t any real passport control anymore.”
“What kind of car does he drive?” Arkady asked.
Peter smiled, getting into the rhythm of the game. “A white Porsche is registered in his name.”
“Plate number?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to share any more information.”
“What information? Call Potsdam and order his records from there.”
“For a private matter? That’s absolutely against the law.”
At an obelisk cars merged and separated with none of the nebular fury of a Moscow roundabout. There, particularly in winter, trucks and cars thundered into roundabouts with all the discipline of yaks. Here drivers, bikers and walkers seemed to have received their orders for the day. It was like a rest home the size of a city. Peter smiled like a man who could play all day.
“Many murders here?” Arkady asked.
“Munich?”
“Yes.”
“Beer murders.”
“Beer?”
“Oktoberfest, Fasching. Drunks. Not real murders.”
“Not like vodka murders?”
“You know what they say about crime in Germany?” Peter asked.
“What do they say about crime in Germany?”
“It’s against the law,” Peter said.
Arkady recognized the trees of the Botanischer Garten. As soon as the BMW stopped at a light, he got out and reached back to stuff a piece of paper into Peter’s jacket. “That’s a Munich fax number. Find out who it belongs to, if that’s not against the law. On the other side is a phone number. You can call me there at five.”
“Your number at the consulate?”
“I won’t be there. It’s a private number.” My private minute at the booth, Arkady thought.
“Renko!” Peter shouted as Arkady reached the sidewalk. “Stay away from the bank.”
Arkady kept walking.
“Renko!” Peter added another warning. “Tell Federov what I said.”
Armed with soap and string, Arkady returned to the pension, washed his clothes and hung them up to dry. From the floor below came the sweet smell of spiced lamb. He wasn’t hungry. Such lethargy came over him that he could barely move. He stood by the window looking down the street and toward the railroad