Stuart Kaminsky - Black Knight in Red Square

“I would like to see it,” said Rostnikov. “But for now, I have a few questions.”

“Excuse me,” said Bintz, folding his hands on his belly and giving his full attention to Rostnikov.

“Warren Harding Aubrey,” said Rostnikov, looking directly into the man’s gray eyes. Bintz’s face did not change. His mouth moved into a small pout, but he said nothing. Rostnikov repeated, “Warren Harding Aubrey.”

“I meet him,” Bintz whispered. “His German is not bad. His manner is not good.”

“Why did he interview you on Tuesday?” Rostnikov went on.

Bintz looked around the room slowly. Rostnikov wondered if he was in search of food.

“Aubrey is a…I don’t know the words, one who likes to write bad words, make jokes. On top he is smiles and friends, but behind one sees the derision. Is that the right word, derision?”

“Yes.” Rostnikov nodded. “And he only asked you about the movies?”

“No,” growled Bintz. “He asks about Herzog. They all ask about Herzog. And he asks why I am in Moscow.”

“Why are you in Moscow?” Rostnikov asked.

“To show my movie and”-he winked-“look around. I plan a big horror picture set in Moscow. I look, go back to Berlin, build Red Square. In English, we will call it either Werewolf in the Kremlin or Red Nights in Red Square .” Warming to the subject, Bintz got to his feet and began to act out the scene he described. “Imagine, a German werewolf, maybe French if we get Belmondo. The moon is above. He leaps to top of the Lenin Mausoleum, fighting off attack of soldiers, howling at the Kremlin. You know who he wants?”

Bintz was standing on top of the chair now, and Rostnikov was sure it was going to break and send the German director through the floor of the Rossyia Hotel.

“Who?” asked Rostnikov.

“Andropov,” Bintz shouted. “We have an actor, Hungarian, looks just like your Andropov. You like the idea, huh? Political allegory, better than Herzog.”

Bintz managed to get down from the chair, but not before the right arm flew off and hurtled into a far corner. Both Rostnikov and Bintz stopped to watch the wooden arm skitter across the floor. Then Bintz spoke.

“Aubrey made jokes with his eyes,” he said, easing himself into the one-armed chair.

“And that’s all you talk of?” said Rostnikov.

“All,” said Bintz.

“Herr Bintz,” Rostnikov pushed on, “have you ever heard of the organization World Liberation?”

Yes, no doubt about it, Bintz winced. He was an actor of the first order, but that wince came too spontaneously to hide.

“It is familiar,” he said, putting his clasped hands to his mouth.

“Terrorists,” said Rostnikov. “Aubrey was writing a story about them. So why did he interview you?”

“Because…I no know. Not about terrorists.”

“You have terrorists in Germany,” said Rostnikov.

“I make no movies with terrorists,” said Bintz, his hands still to his lips, his head shaking a vigorous no. “If they don’t like your movie, they put your head in bag and shoot off your knees. Werewolves are safe.”

“I agree,” said Rostnikov.

“Why you want to know about Aubrey?” Bintz said, cocking his head.

“He’s dead. Murdered. We think it might have been done by World Liberation.”

“I make movies,” said Bintz, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined, his statement almost a non sequitur.

“I catch criminals,” said Rostnikov, his gaze even, his mouth straight, determined.

“You have acted?” Bintz asked.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“To be a Russian is to act, yes?” supplied Bintz, leaning forward.

Rostnikov tilted his head slightly to indicate that Bintz was not off the mark.

“You would be good in Werewolf in the Kremlin ,” Bintz said, warming to the idea. “You could play yourself, detective, chasing the German werewolf. It appeals?”

“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.