Elena was closest, and she lifted it up, expecting it to be room service. She listened for a moment, then in Russian said, "Yes, he's here," and handed the phone to Alex. "Some officer from the Ministry of Security."
Alex put the phone to his ear and identified himself.
"This is Colonel Leonid Volevodz, special assistant to the minister of security." The voice was deep, with the clipped, irritatingly authoritative bark of a career officer.
"What do you want?" Alex replied in kind, in Russian.
"I have your number because a week ago, the minister asked me to look into your complaint."
"Pass him my thanks." He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a brief moment found it hard to speak. "What have you found?"
"What have I found? Well, there are… shall we say, certain irregularities and incongruities in your story."
"You think I'm lying."
"Don't put words in my mouth, Mr. Konevitch. I think there also happen to be big holes in the reports about what happened."
"Then why don't we discuss those holes?"
"Fine. For starters, on the fifth, you flew on Flight 290 to Budapest. The-"
"Yes, I-"
"Don't interrupt me, Konevitch. I will talk and you listen until I ask you a question. Are we clear?"
The arrogance was so thick the man probably was exactly what he claimed to be, a high-ranking bureaucrat in an important ministry. Alex drew a long breath and said, "No more interruptions."
"One more and I'll hang up. Now, where was I? Ah yes… the flight manifest confirms this. Also, Hungarian customs show you arrived there at 1:05. Nothing shows that you reentered Russia, yet bank records indicate your personal accounts were emptied out the morning of the sixth. A few hours later, fifty million more was stolen from your customers. The terminals that ordered the transactions were traced back to your own headquarters." He paused a moment, then asked, "What am I to make of this?"
This was the first time Alex had heard the precise details of the thievery, and he spent a long painful moment taking it in. Oh, how he would love to have Golitsin seated in a chair in this room, to have his strong hands gripped around the old man's throat. He would squeeze and squeeze harder until every last detail poured out. How did you get into my safe? Where did you send my money? Who's in this with you, and where is it parked now? Alex said, "I was on a plane to New York during that time. If you read my fax, you'd know that. It's easily confirmed."
"I read your fax, Mr. Konevitch. But that's not the only possibility, is it? Maybe you had an accomplice who moved the money."
"But I didn't. Is that all?"
"Not quite. From the Central Bank, I obtained copies of the letters assigning your properties to Sergei Golitsin. One of our handwriting experts gave your signature a look."
"Go on."
"The writing is pinched, nonlinear, and extended. He believes it is your writing. But perhaps scrawled under conditions of discomfort or duress."
"After three hours of beating and torture, it wasn't my best work."
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.