Elena handed Alex a piece of buttered toast and a cup of coffee. She raised her eyebrows. He answered with a wavering hand. He took a large bite and washed it down with coffee.
After a long pause, the colonel said, "About the fax you sent the minister, it raises many provocative questions. For instance, you implicate General Golitsin."
"I didn't implicate him, I said very clearly that he was behind this. He had people murdered, he had me kidnapped, he had me tortured, and he stole everything."
"We are talking here about a very distinguished man. A patriot who served this country nobly for many decades. These are serious charges. I need to question you directly."
"Fine. I'm in New York. Come and ask whatever you like."
"Not possible. My jurisdiction ends at the Russian border. My friends in foreign intelligence are understandably territorial. They become quite touchy if I forget my place."
"All right. We'll handle this by phone. Ask whatever you like."
"That is… unacceptable."
"Is it? Why?"
"For one thing, the case is very complicated and implicates some very important people. For a second thing, I like to see the face of the man I'm interrogating. And of course, everything will have to be checked out. Over the phone won't work."
"Neither will coming to Moscow, Colonel. They tried to kill me and they might want to finish the job. I explained that in the fax."
"I will personally provide for your security, Mr. Konevitch. Arrangements will be made. You have my word as an officer."
"I don't even know you."
"Look, the state prosecutor is preparing an indictment. Do you want your name cleared or not?"
"Don't ask stupid questions. I'm not setting foot in Russia until I read in the paper that Golitsin and his people are under arrest."
A long moment passed. It sounded to Alex like Colonel Volevodz had a hand over the mouthpiece while he conferred with somebody. Alex munched toast and drank his coffee.
Volevodz came back on and suggested, "Why don't we meet on neutral ground?"
"Who were you speaking with?"
"Are we having trust issues, Mr. Konevitch?"
"No, no issues. I don't trust you."
A long pause, then, "That was my secretary. Another call has come in that I need to take. Quickly, Mr. Konevitch, do you want to meet or not?"
"Make it a very neutral place, Colonel."
"Berlin. Is that neutral enough for you? You know Checkpoint Charlie?"
"Of course."
"Tomorrow, be there at three. Don't be late."
14
Colonel Volevodz had a crooked sense of humor; or, at the very least, a wicked conception of irony. Checkpoint Charlie, for four troubled decades, had been the fabled symbol of a divided world-socialism versus capitalism, the free world versus the chained one. This was where hooded prisoners had been exchanged between East and West, where tense, shadowy bargains had been fashioned that kept both sides from blowing each other into overradiated rubble.
Alex and Elena had caught an overnight, landed at stately old Tempelhof Airport, and took a fast taxi to a modest gasthaus near the city center, in a nontrendy neighborhood, an anonymous little place off the beaten track. They checked in under false names; they paid with cash.
The recently reunited Berlin was a boomtown. Towering cranes poked at the sky like a thick forest. Construction crews seemed to outnumber the city's population by two to one. Real estate prices in the eastern half of the city were racing to catch up with the inflated prices in the west. The West Germans were stumbling over themselves to gentrify their neglected, prodigal brothers to the east.
Alex stared glumly out the window during the taxi ride and fell ineluctably back into an old habit. Fortunes were being made all around him, new buildings being thrown up at a dizzying pace, a whole city being refashioned before his eyes. He conceived of ten ways he could edge himself into this market and produce millions. He felt like an Olympic sprinter whose legs had been amputated, seated in the bleachers, watching the rookies take their victory laps while he stared on in frustration, hobbled, unable to compete.
At three o'clock, Alex stood alone, at the west end of Checkpoint Charlie. The guardshacks, the lights, the swinging gates were still in place, unmanned though, and all too happily neglected. The long, narrow alley was now little more than a tourist trap, and a very popular one. People of all nationalities and complexions loitered around in herds, snapping pictures of the remains, wandering through the museum of a now dead era, pausing to ogle the graying old photographs of desperate people employing desperate, and often brilliant, means to escape the horrors of communism and make new lives in the West.
Volevodz kept Alex waiting twenty minutes. The message was unmistakable. You're an ex-mogul, a wanted felon, a sorry thief, a loser. I may be only a lowly colonel but I'm your only hope and you'll kiss my boots or else.
Colonel Volevodz finally marched around the corner of a short gray building, a middle-aged, tall, thin man in civilian clothes wrapped in a rumpled trench coat. Two young assistants dressed nearly identically accompanied him, both slightly behind, one to his left, one to his right. They strutted in step, like conquering military men, across Checkpoint Charlie from the east, no doubt attempting to concoct a cinematic entrance. The colonel stopped about two feet from Alex. They eyed each other suspiciously for a moment.
The colonel finally put out a hand. They shook without enthusiasm. Volevodz pointed at his two colleagues, who kept their hands in their pockets and edged a little closer. "Captains Kaputhcuv and Godunov. They're assisting me with this investigation."
"Thank you for coming," said Alex without a trace of warmth. He had dressed carefully for this meeting-the same tailored suit he had escaped in, cleaned and neatly pressed, with a stiffly starched, monogrammed shirt and silk tie completing the ensemble. He looked every bit the big-deal gazillionaire who could roil entire markets with a swipe of his pen.
"So, where is your wife?"
"Around."
"You are alone, then?"
"But you're not," Alex answered without really answering. "I'd like to see your identification."
"I don't believe you should be making demands, Mr. Konevitch. You're a wanted man in Russia."
"Welcome to the new Russia, Colonel. I'm a taxpayer with rights. You're my servant now. Identification, please."
"I can arrest you right now and drag you back to Russia. I'd be a big hero."
"Then welcome to Germany, too. You have no legal authority here."
The colonel's hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. Alex studied him carefully. He had a thin face, thin eyes, thin lips, and close-cropped hair molded to conceal a thinning spot on top. The face was neither mean nor nice, neither handsome nor ugly; the prototypically stonewashed face of a career Soviet functionary. He pushed one hand toward Alex-something round and hard poked forward against his trench coat. "Here's all the authority I need. My assistants are also armed. I can kill you right here." He paused to produce a hard grin. "Maybe I will."
Alex upped him with a tight smile. "A bad idea. For you and for me."
"To the contrary, it would be a great idea. It would solve a lot of problems."
"Look behind me at that big gray apartment building."
Volevodz's gaze left Alex's face.
"Keep going," Alex ordered, following the colonel's roving eyes. "Third window down on the right side. See the barrel pointed out the window?"
Volevodz's mouth nearly fell open when his eyes finally settled on something long, cylindrical, and dark poking out a window.
"Look long and hard, Colonel," Alex said. "That's one of three snipers I hired to protect me. If I lift my right arm, you're dead, all of you. If I die, you're dead. I had hoped not to do this, but…" He cranked his right arm halfway up, nearly to his waist.