“It is very important,” Rostnikov said. He had declined a chair, hoping that he could intimidate the manager by standing over him, but when that proved useless, he had backed away and become as matter-of-fact and businesslike as he could.
“You will have to sign a form accepting full responsibility,” the manager said after taking a call during which he did not remove his eyes from Rostnikov.
Rostnikov nodded.
“I will also have to call your superior to confirm that this has been approved,” the man said, reaching out to take yet another call.
Rostnikov had not considered this possibility, and while the manager was on the phone, he looked at Lenin for help.
“Yes,” the manager was saying into the phone, running a hand through his carefully combed hair. “If you expect that many employees. As long as we do not go over the one hour allotted for each. Yes, I know it is the hotel Party’s responsibility to keep up the moral level of all employees, and I am not in any way suggesting that we limit the lectures. In fact, I think the subject for this week is excellent. Let me see…” He took his eyes off Rostnikov long enough to find a blue sheet of paper on his desk. “ ‘The Ideological Struggle between Socialism and Capitalism in Today’s World-How It Can Be Stepped Up.’ I will, of course, attend if at all possible. By all means. Let us meet on Tuesday. Eleven in the morning.”
With that the manager hung up, shaking his head.
“We have over three thousand employees in the hotel, Chief Inspector,” he said. “Can you imagine the logistics necessary to ensure that they all have time off to attend lectures for the collective?”
“Considerable,” said Rostnikov.
“Considerable,” agreed the manager. “Now, I will have to call your superior.”
“Procurator Timofeyeva,” said Rostnikov. “She is well aware of the circumstances surrounding this investigation. Unfortunately, she is in the hospital with a heart condition, and she doesn’t have a phone in her room. If you wish,” he said looking at his watch, “we have just enough time to get to the hospital, talk to her, and get back to the hotel, but we’d have to hurry.”
The manager’s gaze looked on Rostnikov as the bank of telephone lights blinked their demand. Rostnikov was counting heavily on the man’s unwillingness to take time out from his busy job to make such a check. He might send an assistant, in which case Rostnikov would have to work something out to fool whoever was sent. He was not at all sure he would be able to fool the manager.
“Ah,” sighed the manager, tapping his fingers on the desk. “We’ll forget about it for now, though I would like an official memo from him.”
“Her,” corrected Rostnikov. “Comrade Timofeyeva is a woman.”
“Her,” said the manager, bowing his head slightly to acknowledge his error. “I’ll have a statement of responsibility prepared for you to sign when you are finished. You are confident that Herr Bintz will make no complaint?”
“He will make no complaint,” Rostnikov assured him.
The manager reached for the phone and, before answering, looked at Rostnikov and opened his hands in a so-be-it gesture. Rostnikov nodded and turned to leave the office.
“Yes, we have an interpreter for Gujarati,” the manager was saying into the phone, “but I’ll have to check on who it is and whether he is on duty. I’ll call you…”
And Rostnikov was gone. He had already checked with his office and had been given a message from Ivanolva, the man who had been trailing Bintz. It was quite evident that the German was out for the afternoon. In fact, according to Ivanolva, he was at the Moskva Swimming Pool with his Intourist guide. So Rostnikov had plenty of time.
He took the elevator up to the German’s room and entered, using the passkey the manager had given him. Although Rostnikov had taken a few trips in his life, always on police business, he was not particularly adept at packing clothes, and he was surprised at the large amount that Bintz had brought with him. The oversized shirts and four suits constituted a wardrobe far larger than Rostnikov’s, but then, Bintz was a reasonably well-known capitalist filmmaker. It took Rostnikov almost half an hour to pack everything. He had estimated that it would take much less time.
There was no need to call the airport again. He had already called from a street phone that could not be tapped or traced. The next trick was to get the suitcases to a taxi. He did not want the KGB men to see him and get curious. But Rostnikov had thought of all of this. He had also taken the packet from his pocket and put it in one of the suitcases, hiding it among a pile of scripts and notes.
He had investigated enough cases to know that the Soviet authorities would almost certainly not disturb the luggage of a German tourist, especially one who had been invited to the Moscow Film Festival. Actually, those leaving on Moscow flights were seldom given any trouble, which surprised many tourists. Rostnikov was also sure that Bintz would not be subjected to search in Berlin. He had checked and found that West Berlin’s customs officials were even more lax than Moscow’s. It was the British, French, and Americans whom tourists and businessmen complained most of.
Rostnikov struggled down to the elevator with the luggage and descended to the second floor. Then he found a freight elevator just off a second-floor ballroom. The elevator was large and almost empty. The man who ran it questioned him and he showed him his police identification and told him in serious tones that he was engaged on official business that the man had best ignore.
The man was a Muscovite and knew well how to ignore what he was told to ignore.
“Is there a freight office?” Rostnikov asked when the elevator stopped on the ground floor in a service area behind the main ballroom.
“There,” said the man, pointing, and Rostnikov lugged the suitcase forward, kicking a light brown leather case along the floor. He pushed the freight office door open, dropped the suitcases, and ignored the gray-capped young man at the small desk, who scowled up at him. Rostnikov fetched the leather case, then whipped out his identification before the man at the desk could speak.
“I will have a taxi come by here within the hour for these cases,” Rostnikov said. “Watch them and tell no one they are here. If you wish to check up on me, call the hotel manager. He has been informed of this.”
Before the man could answer, Rostnikov left the office.
The man might call the manager. In all likelihood, however, he would prefer to remain unknown to those in power. Even if he did call, the manager would confirm Rostnikov’s mission and probably pretend he knew more about these secret doings than he actually did.
Rostnikov found a stairway as quickly as he could, made his way up two flights, and caught the passenger elevator down to the lobby where the KGB men could pick him up again.
Choosing a taxi required some care. Fortunately, the first one he hailed was driven by a bearded young man with a massively bored look on his face.
“Kropotkinskaya Embankment,” Rostnikov said, settling in the back seat. “The swimming pool.”
The driver twisted around to examine Rostnikov briefly, trying to imagine what this creature would look like in a bathing suit. And then he drove.
“I have taken down your license number and your name,” Rostnikov said to the driver a few blocks later. He had not bothered to look back for the KGB men.
“My number?” asked the driver.
“I am with the police, Chief Inspector Rostnikov.” He held his identification up for the man to see in the rearview mirror.
“What have I done?” the driver whimpered. “If this is about that girl, I didn’t know she was a-”