“Ask him how much he wants to leave the bank alone. Five thousand Deutsche marks? If he splits with Federov, ten thousand? This whole story about TransKom, Benz and Bayern-Franconia—they’ve cooked it up. There are no reports, there’s no connection. I look at him and I know he’s lying. This is a protection racket. I suggest that we call other banks and ask whether they’ve been approached by Federov and Renko, whether they’ve heard a story about joint ventures and investigations. You should call the consul general right now, make an official protest, and then call a lawyer. What do you think of that?”

The banker’s mouth had almost no lips at all, not enough to hold a smile. There was nothing old or weak about the eyes, though. They weighed Arkady as if he were small change.

“I agree,” Schiller said. “You have probably never seen a less genuine-looking article in your life. On the other hand, Peter, you’ve never met a Soviet banker. It’s true that the bank has no knowledge of or connection to any claims made by the individual whom the Soviet consulate has described. Certainly we feel under no obligation to give the consulate any assistance. However, if we’ve learned anything from history it is that mud makes good paint. Whether we deserve it or not, it never washes off entirely.”

He fell silent, as if he had left the room for a moment. Then he gathered himself and looked at Arkady. “The bank will not participate in any inquiry, but purely as a courtesy to me my grandson Peter has volunteered to assist you, as long as this affair is kept absolutely quiet.”

The outrage working in Peter’s face showed less than wholehearted enthusiasm, Arkady thought.

“On an informal basis,” Peter said.

“How can you help?” Arkady asked.

Peter produced a much nicer case than Arkady’s. Authentic leather, gold tooling, with a color photo in green jacket and cap of Lieutenant Schiller, Peter Christian, Münchner Polizei. This was more windfall than Arkady wanted. It was a trap of his own devising, though, because if he didn’t accept the offer, the Germans would call the consulate again and again until they got through to Federov.

“I’d be honored,” Arkady said.

Peter Schiller’s police car was a green-and-white BMW, radio and phone under the dash, blue flasher on the backseat. He wore a seat belt and always used the turn indicator, yielding to bikers who left their lane, passing pedestrians massed in docile formations to wait for WALK signs at corners where there was no cross traffic in sight. He looked a little too big for the car. He also looked as if he would be happy to run down anyone who crossed against the light.

“I bet your radio and phone work,” Arkady said.

“Of course they do.”