Peter’s BMW stood in the dark far back from the highway. Arkady spread-eagled, leaning against the side of the car while Peter patted him down. They had a clear view of the turnout, of the cars off the road and of Tommy heading back to Munich alone in his Trabant.

“Moscow’s a mystery to me,” Peter said. He ran his hands around the small of Arkady’s back, the inside of his thighs, along his wrists and ankles. “I’ve never been there and never hope to be there, but it seems to me that a senior investigator shouldn’t have to work out of a public phone booth. I checked out the number when you didn’t answer.”

“I hate staying by a desk.”

“You don’t have a desk. I went by the consulate and talked to Federov. I pried him away from some singers. He doesn’t know anything about your investigation, he never heard of any Boris Benz and I think it’s fair to say he wishes he never heard of you.”

“We never did develop a rapport,” Arkady conceded.

When he tried to turn, Peter pushed his face against the roof of the car. “He told me where to find the pension. Your lights were out. I waited and thought about how to deal most effectively with you. It was obvious you picked Bayern-Franconia out of the blue to run a protection racket on. It’s also clear you were doing it alone, to make a few Deutsche marks during your holiday. A little Russian free enterprise. I considered the usual protests to different ministries and Interpol until I remembered how sensitive my grandfather is to any publicity attached to the bank. It’s a merchant bank, not for the public, and it doesn’t need publicity, least of all the kind you’d give it. So then I considered just taking you out someplace and beating you until you were a bloody pulp.”

“Isn’t that against the law?”

“Beating you so badly you’d be afraid to tell anyone what happened.”

“Well, you can always try,” Arkady said.

Arkady didn’t have a gun and Peter had a pistol, a Walther from the glimpse he’d had at the bank. He was pretty sure that Peter Christian Schiller wouldn’t shoot, at least not until he ordered Arkady away from the BMW, because a bullet could go right through soft tissue and spread glass and gore all over the interior of his handsome car. If Peter wanted to hit him, Arkady didn’t know whether he would resist. At this point what would a little blood or loose teeth matter? He straightened up and turned around.