Black Knight in Red Square (12 page)

“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.”

“Me?” said Willery.

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“Yes, but—”

“Miss Freneau had an accident because she felt she was unable to make the screening. An unfortunate series of events. It could never happen again. But then again, who would have thought it would happen to Miss Freneau? You will make the screening, won't you?”

Willery glanced at the supervisor, but he was wearing dark glasses, so the supervisor could not see the panic in his eyes as they darted back and forth, looking for a way out that wasn't there.

“I'll make the screening,” he said.

“Sunday night. You know the time,” said the woman. “And you know where to pick up the ticket.”

“But—” he began. The phone went dead.

Willery hung up and looked down at the supervisor. The look he got back was not vastly different from the one the gorilla had given him when he set up the camera in that zoo in Chicago.

“Thanks,” said Willery, his mouth moving into an automatic smile. He had a wide, sincere smile and a very good laugh, after which he would inevitably say, “Priceless,” but he doubted if that smile and laugh would come back soon.

Willery left the room and walked back down the corridor to Alexander Platnov's room. The door was open. He walked in and, ignoring Platnov, went over to the small mirror on the wall. He looked at his face and wondered if he could do it. Unlike Bintz, James Willery had no impulse to laugh. He felt no hysteria, no panic, just a supreme curiosity. He, who had never engaged in an act of violence, never struck another human being, was going to destroy an entire theater full of people, and for a cause he didn't really understand.

Apparently they had gotten to Monique Freneau, and he had no doubt that they could find him, too, if he refused to cooperate. Could he get away after his act of terrorism without the Russians catching him? What would they do to him if they did catch him? Whatever it was, he was sure he would confess before they even started.

It was a toss-up as to whom he was more afraid of, the woman on the phone or the Russian police. He was still looking at his face in the mirror, marveling at its composure, when someone knocked on the door. Behind him he heard Alexander get up from his studies, cross the room, and open the door. Behind him he heard the voice say, “I'm Inspector Tkach of the MVD. I would like to talk to Mr. James Willery.”

Willery's command of Russian was not much of a command. It was more of gentle plea. He had understood the word “inspector” and the name Tkach, but the rest escaped him.

Then Alexander Platnov introduced Willery to the young policeman. After an unsuccessful attempt to converse in Russian, they decided to speak French, a language neither was terribly comfortable with, but which they could control.

Tkach wondered whether the Englishman was incredibly nervous or whether he behaved this way all the time. A glance at the Russian student told Tkach nothing. Was talking to a policeman sufficient to start this thin Englishman's pale hands trembling? Was there something else making him nervous? Tkach decided to push. As far as he was concerned, he had failed in his interrogation of Monique Freneau. He felt that he could have gotten more out of her if he had handled the questioning another way. If he could have spoken to her in Russian, he would have done better. Now he and this strange Englishman were on neutral ground in French. Tkach would not let this one get away.

To establish his direction he politely but firmly asked Platnov to leave the room. Willery looked as if he might protest, but Tkach turned a cold eye on him, trying to imitate Karpo. Platnov left the room with a sullen scowl, Willery withdrew his resistance, and Tkach moved forward to advance his control of the situation.

Tkach pointed to the chair Platnov had vacated, and Willery dutifully sat down with the detective standing over him. Tkach would have liked to open his collar, loosen his tie, even pace around, but he stood looking down at the Englishman, whose face held a fixed smile betrayed by a few drops of sweat on his brow.

“Mr. Willery,” Tkach began, referring to his notebook as if he had a series of important questions written there, “you were interviewed on Tuesday by an American journalist, Mr. Aubrey, were you not?”

“Yes,” said Willery. “Not the most cheerful person. Don't know why he singled me out.”

“What did he talk to you about?” Tkach went on, acting as if he could see through Willery's tinted glasses.