The man smiled, unsure whether the policeman was slightly mad or trying to make some kind of joke. The all-purpose smile of the hotel official would cover either contingency, but in spite of his curiosity the assistant manager decided to get away from this strange, limping barrel of a man as soon as possible.
Had Rostnikov, at that moment, gone back to the German’s room and listened at the door, he would have heard something that would have saved much time and at least one life, but he did not hear Wolfgang Bintz answer the ringing phone with a very tentative “Guten tag?”
EIGHT
The interview with the German director, Wolfgang Bintz, had not gone quite as Rostnikov had anticipated. Bintz had been sitting in a chair in the center of the room when a dark young woman from intourist led the chief inspector in. She looked quite calm, but the calmness, Rostnikov could see, was as thin as the first film of ice on the Moskva River. A very slight pressure would crack it.
“Chief Inspector Rostnikov,” he had introduced himself.
“Ludmilla Konvisser,” the young woman said in a businesslike way. “I am from Intourist and will translate for you as needed. This is Herr Bintz.”
Bintz’s robe was partly open to reveal a gold chain and crucifix lying against the wiry gray hairs of his chest. His hair was gray and bushy and his eyes gray and riveting. His face was clean shaven and pleasant, but what struck Rostnikov was the man’s massive bulk.
“Do’briy d’en,” said the German seriously without rising.
“Guten tag” replied Rostnikov as Bintz waved a massive hand at the chair opposite him.
Since they had both exhausted their vocabulary in the other’s language, they looked at Ludmilla Konvisser. Bintz was accustomed to translators and spoke quickly in German.
“Herr Bintz,” she translated for Rostnikov, “wants to know if you speak any language besides Russian.”
“English,” said Rostnikov, taking the chair across from Bintz.
“Good,” replied Bintz in English, “then we need not a translator.”
In German he said something to the young woman. Rostnikov was sure it was a dismissal. She turned almost apologetically to Rostnikov and was about to speak when he said, “It’s all right. We’ll be done in less than an hour.”
With that, Ludmilla picked up her blue bag, said something in German, and left the room.
“You are a policeman,” Bintz said, examining Rostnikov.
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov. “I’m a policeman.”
Bintz grunted and continued to examine him.
“What do they call you? You have a special name. An affection name?”
Rostnikov was puzzled.
“My name is Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.”
“No, no,” sighed Bintz, impatiently clapping his hands together. “I am called Der Grosser in German, the big one.”
“Washtub,” said Rostnikov understanding. “I am called Washtub.”
Bintz smiled.
“This is a good name?”
“It is not a bad name,” agreed Rostnikov, beginning to like the huge man with the dancing gray eyes. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“You are hungry?” came Bintz’s answer.
“I…”
Bintz gave an enormous grunt, pushed himself out of the chair, and lumbered across the small room to the dresser. His robe slipped open, revealing a mountain of stomach and a small pair of shorts. Bintz absently retied his robe, plunged his hand into a travel bag, and came out with something. Then he turned to Rostnikov.
“You try,” he said, lumbering back to Rostnikov and handing him a sausage and a knife. Rostnikov accepted the offering and cut himself a small piece. Bintz gave an exasperated sigh and cut a more generous piece for himself and another for Rostnikov. Then he watched Rostnikov intently as he took a bite.
“Good?” he asked.
“Very good,” agreed Rostnikov, biting into the larger piece of sausage. Rostnikov’s reaction brought a look of satisfaction to the German’s face. He took his seat again and leaned forward. “We are bugged?” he asked. His voice was gravelly and resonant.
“I don’t know,” said Rostnikov.
“I know,” Bintz said, finishing the last of his sausage and pointing to his chest. “We are bugged. That is expected. You have seen my movies?”
“I’m sorry,” said Rostnikov shifting slightly. “I have not seen them.”
“I do not think they show my pictures in Russia,” Bintz said, nodding. “Only at the film festival, and only ones they think are socialist. I make socialist westerns, socialist horror movies, socialist historical movies. In this festival, they are showing my Bullets of Bonn.”
“I would like to see it,” said Rostnikov. “But for now, I have a few questions.”
“Excuse me,” said Bintz, folding his hands on his belly and giving his full attention to Rostnikov.
“Warren Harding Aubrey,” said Rostnikov, looking directly into the man’s gray eyes. Bintz’s face did not change. His mouth moved into a small pout, but he said nothing. Rostnikov repeated, “Warren Harding Aubrey.”
“I meet him,” Bintz whispered. “His German is not bad. His manner is not good.”
“Why did he interview you on Tuesday?” Rostnikov went on.
Bintz looked around the room slowly. Rostnikov wondered if he was in search of food.
“Aubrey is a…I don’t know the words, one who likes to write bad words, make jokes. On top he is smiles and friends, but behind one sees the derision. Is that the right word, derision?”
“Yes.” Rostnikov nodded. “And he only asked you about the movies?”
“No,” growled Bintz. “He asks about Herzog. They all ask about Herzog. And he asks why I am in Moscow.”
“Why are you in Moscow?” Rostnikov asked.
“To show my movie and”-he winked-“look around. I plan a big horror picture set in Moscow. I look, go back to Berlin, build Red Square. In English, we will call it either Werewolf in the Kremlin or Red Nights in Red Square.” Warming to the subject, Bintz got to his feet and began to act out the scene he described. “Imagine, a German werewolf, maybe French if we get Belmondo. The moon is above. He leaps to top of the Lenin Mausoleum, fighting off attack of soldiers, howling at the Kremlin. You know who he wants?”
Bintz was standing on top of the chair now, and Rostnikov was sure it was going to break and send the German director through the floor of the Rossyia Hotel.
“Who?” asked Rostnikov.
“Andropov,” Bintz shouted. “We have an actor, Hungarian, looks just like your Andropov. You like the idea, huh? Political allegory, better than Herzog.”
Bintz managed to get down from the chair, but not before the right arm flew off and hurtled into a far corner. Both Rostnikov and Bintz stopped to watch the wooden arm skitter across the floor. Then Bintz spoke.
“Aubrey made jokes with his eyes,” he said, easing himself into the one-armed chair.
“And that’s all you talk of?” said Rostnikov.
“All,” said Bintz.
“Herr Bintz,” Rostnikov pushed on, “have you ever heard of the organization World Liberation?”
Yes, no doubt about it, Bintz winced. He was an actor of the first order, but that wince came too spontaneously to hide.
“It is familiar,” he said, putting his clasped hands to his mouth.
“Terrorists,” said Rostnikov. “Aubrey was writing a story about them. So why did he interview you?”
“Because…I no know. Not about terrorists.”
“You have terrorists in Germany,” said Rostnikov.
“I make no movies with terrorists,” said Bintz, his hands still to his lips, his head shaking a vigorous no. “If they don’t like your movie, they put your head in bag and shoot off your knees. Werewolves are safe.”
“I agree,” said Rostnikov.
“Why you want to know about Aubrey?” Bintz said, cocking his head.
“He’s dead. Murdered. We t
hink it might have been done by World Liberation.”
“I make movies,” said Bintz, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined, his statement almost a non sequitur.
“I catch criminals,” said Rostnikov, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined.
“You have acted?” Bintz asked.
Rostnikov shrugged.
“To be a Russian is to act, yes?” supplied Bintz, leaning forward.
Rostnikov tilted his head slightly to indicate that Bintz was not off the mark.
“You would be good in Werewolf in the Kremlin,” Bintz said, warming to the idea. “You could play yourself, detective, chasing the German werewolf. It appeals?”
“I catch real killers,” Rostnikov said. “What do you know of World Liberation?”
Bintz’s eyes looked toward heaven in exasperation at this Russian who would not let loose of an idea.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. No thing.”
Which, Rostnikov was now sure, meant that Wolfgang Bintz had something on his mind, and it was related to World Liberation.
Rostnikov rose, and asked, “How long are you to remain in Moscow?”
“Feature competition ends Tuesday next,” said Bintz. “Bullets of Bonn shows tomorrow night. I will win nothing. So I will go home two days. Food in Moscow is not good, not like Germany, not like Italy, not even like New York.”
Bintz now looked quite sad, but Rostnikov didn’t know just what he was sad about. Was it the poor chances of his film winning an award? The mention of World Liberation? The quality of food in Moscow?
“We will have to talk again,” Rostnikov said, going to the door. Bintz shrugged and looked up, but not at Rostnikov. His eyes found the flight bag that contained the sausage.
Bintz’s phone did not ring until a minute or two after Rostnikov left. The voice of the woman on the other end was familiar, a voice Bintz had hoped never to hear again, but there it was, like the voice of an actor who had been told he can’t have the role but who keeps coming back in the hope that all the other performers have met with disaster.
“Our friend from Paris had an accident,” she said in German. Bintz said nothing. “A terrible accident,” she went on.
“Accident,” repeated Bintz.
“Yes,” said the woman’s voice sadly. “An emergency came up, but instead of taking care of it, she tried to get someone else to do it, and met with an accident. I thought you would like to know. I’m sure you would know what to do in an emergency. I suppose there are even times when you could step in for another actor.”
Bintz said nothing but looked at the door through which the policeman had left. The phone call was dangerous, insane. The room might well be bugged, probably was if he had read the Russian policeman correctly. This call was madness, and what the woman was asking of him was madness.
Twice, before the terrorism had begun in earnest, Wolfgang Bintz had hosted fund-raising parties for World Liberation, had pledged that his films would be devoted to showing the basic rot of the nations on both sides of the East-West struggle. He had given money and, in a fit of good fellowship, had pledged his help. Good Lord, he’d never expected them to ask him for any help other than money, yet now he was being told to commit an act of terrorism. Had they really killed Monique? He would find out for sure soon enough, but he also knew that the woman on the other end did not lie. He had never met her, had only heard her voice once in the dark. In fact, he didn’t think she was a member of World Liberation, only an outside expert. Robert and Seven had insisted that he meet her and talk to her. They had made him part of their backup plan because he was going to be in Moscow during the film festival.
At that point, he had considered telling Robert to cart himself off, that World Liberation had become an embarrassment. The train bombing in Iraq, the shooting of the Japanese cabinet minister. But it was too late now. These people were mad. He should have seen that.
“You understand?” came the voice. “You know what to do?”
Bintz said yes and hung up the phone. He wandered across the room, tried to bend to pick up the arm of the chair from the floor, found, as he expected, that he could not. As he straightened, he discovered that he was in front of a mirror. His robe had come open again, and he examined his massive chest and belly.
It was a joke, a better joke than any of those his films were known for. A three-hundred-pound German who could speak no Russian was now supposed to join the terrorists and destroy one of the most famous landmarks in Moscow.
He imagined himself running away from the explosion. The image was impossible. He cast Klaus Kinski as himself running away, and he could imagine the scene, but a look in the mirror reminded him that this was no movie and that he would not be directing the scene. She was directing it. And afterward, was there any chance he would get away? Would that washtub policeman with the wise eyes come after him? Would he have to hide out in dirty rooms? Wolfgang Bintz? The last time he had hidden was during World War II when he was a boy in Berlin. Then he had been thin and fast.
He tried to pull his stomach in, but it did nothing more than shift a bit. And then he began to chuckle. And the chuckle turned to a laugh, and the laugh went out of control till there were tears in his eyes. When Ludmilla came through the door she found the massive director choking and laughing, bright red in the face, his right hand on his chest.
“Sit,” she cried, rushing to him. “Herr Bintz, sit, please. I’ll get a doctor.”
He shook his head and kept choking and laughing. She put her arm around him and got his right arm over her shoulder, trying to hold him up as she struggled toward the bed. She had never felt weight like this before and couldn’t erase the horrible image of this huge man on top of her in an act of sex or violence.
Why, she thought, did I get him? Does Stasya really dislike me so much that he gave me this one? Am I going to keep getting these problems until I give in to him? And what then? Is it worth it?
“I’m all right,” Bintz said, easing himself onto the bed.
“Are you sure?” Ludmilla said, leaning toward him with a look of real concern. If he died while she was responsible for him, it would not look good on her record.
“Yes,” he said sitting back, the bed sagging beneath him. “I need only a little rest. You can leave me. But make a reservation at a good restaurant for seven, and be back in time to get me there, please.”
She gave him a final look of concern and turned to leave.
So, thought Bintz as the door closed, blowing up a swimming pool might not be the strangest thing I’ve ever done.
The dark-eyed woman called the Englishman, James Willery, before the police visited him.
James Willery had friends and acquaintances all over the world, for he was internationally known in certain circles. Those circles, granted, were not densely populated, but they were far-reaching. Their membership consisted of the most avant of the avant-garde filmmakers of the world, who referred to themselves variously as the underground, the new structuralists, and the experimentalists. James Willery’s films were definitely not for the masses. In fact, it had been difficult to determine which category his film should be entered in for the festival. Although it was ninety minutes long, it had no real story line and so did not fit into the feature film category as defined by the committee. In fact, Willery’s film didn’t have any people in it. This led the committee to consider putting To the Left in the animated film category. But someone pointed out that the film had no animation. To the Left was a single shot taken with video equipment and later transferred to film. In that shot, the camera moved to the left on a tripod. The camera was set up in the ape house of the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and, for ninety minutes, made slow and fast 360-degree turns. The only sounds were the occasional hoots of the gorillas. The highlight of the film came when one curious gorilla came forward to examine the spinning camera. The viewers, however, glimpsed only a fleeting image of a hulking black figure with bared
teeth.
When the film was described to the committee, one member suggested that it be entered either as a documentary or as a popular science film. The only thing they could all agree on was that it was not a young people’s film.
Oleg Makhach suggested they refuse to accept the film, but that was not possible. It had already been accepted on the basis of Willery’s international reputation as a radical socialist filmmaker. Besides, the film was subtitled, Homage to Eisenstein,
It was finally decided that the film would be shown as a special feature. When informed of this, the very tall, very gaunt Willery, with his Edwardian jacket and faded jeans, adjusted his dark glasses, gave a pleased smile and said, “Super.”
James Willery had friends. He also had inherited a bit of money. His father had been an earl, but better than that, he had owned a great deal of land in Essex. James Willery had sold it soon after his father’s death and used the money to make films and support a variety of causes that appealed to his sense of the absurdity of the world. World Liberation had been one such cause.
When the call came, he was lying on the floor in the room of Alexander Platnov, a student at the Moscow Film School who had agreed to put Willery up and had long since regretted it. Platnov had no phone in his small room; the call came in to the floor office of the Party member who served as dormitory supervisor.
The Party member, a man of dark looks who made it clear that he did not like to be disturbed, stood and listened to Willery’s end of the conversation.
“Hello,” said Willery cheerfully, casting an even-toothed smile at the dormitory superintendent, who didn’t respond.
“Mr. Willery,” came the woman’s voice, “there has been an accident.”
“An accident,” said Willery. “Sorry to hear it.”
“To a Frenchwoman at the Rossyia Hotel. Her name was Monique Freneau.”
“Was?” said Willery, the smile disappearing.
“She had an accident,” said the woman, “which means she cannot make the movie tomorrow night. You will have to go in her place.”
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