“No, that’s suspicious. The last thing anyone wants is an investigator who is out of control.”

“That’s been my experience, too,” Arkady had to admit.

“Aside from our staff, there aren’t many Soviets in Munich. Factory directors and bankers training with Germans, a dance troupe from Georgia. Who are you interested in?”

“I can’t say.”

Arkady supposed that representatives of the Foreign Ministry were taught a wide stock of encouraging expressions and public grins, those little gestures that signified they were still human. Platonov, however, seemed content with a direct, hostile stare that never wavered while he opened a case and took out a cigarette for himself.

“Just so we understand each other, I don’t care who you’re after. I don’t care if there’s a family lying slaughtered in its blood back in Moscow. No murderer is as important as the success of this consulate. The German people will not give hundreds of millions of Deutsche marks to murderers. We have fifty years of bad history to make up for. We want quiet, normal relations leading to loans and commercial agreements that will rescue all the families in Moscow. The last thing we want is Russians chasing each other through the streets of Munich.”

“I can see that.” Arkady tried to be agreeable.

“You have no official standing here. If you contact the German police, they will immediately call us and we will tell them you’re simply here as a tourist.”

“I’ve always been curious about Bavaria, the land of beer.”

“We’ll keep your passport. That means you can’t travel somewhere else or register at a hotel. We have accommodations for you at a pension. In the meantime I will be working hard to have you recalled to Moscow—tomorrow, if possible. My suggestion is that you forget about any investigation. See the museums, buy some gifts, have your beer. Enjoy yourself.”

The pension was above a Turkish travel agency half a block from the train station. The accommodations were two rooms with bed, bare mattress, bureau, chair, two tables and a cabinet that opened to reveal a miniature kitchen. The toilet and shower were down the hall.

“Turks on the third floor,” Federov said and pointed up. He pointed down. “Yugoslavians on the first. They all work at BMW. You could go join them.”

The lights worked. The refrigerator light went on when Arkady opened the door and there were no cockroach eggs in the corners. Even the closet had a light, and he had noticed when they came into the building that the halls smelled of disinfectant instead of piss.

“So this is paradise. It’s not all quite as great as you thought, is it?” Federov asked.