was so naked, so vulnerable. Briefly he imagined how it would feel to encircle the fleshy throat with a cold, high-tensile catgut E string and, gloriously, to snap it tight, to choke off this unending stream of Scheisse, all this bullshit! Kleist noticed the sharply pointed paper spike on the bureaucrat's desk and wondered what it would feel like to plunge it into one of this blabbermouth's eyeballs and into the soft tissue of his brain.
Something in the violinist's expression, some glint of his malevolent little daydream, must have suddenly come across to the bureaucrat, because Kleist could see the man's pupils shrink, his blinking become rapid, and all at once the desk man turned compliant.
"... Which is not to say that we do not have our contacts here in Moscow," the man said hastily. "Bribes can be paid to the proper responsible authorities, our counterparts in the Soviet Foreign Ministry. They keep lists of all those who enter the country."
"Excellent," Kleist said. "When can I have this list?"
The bureaucrat swallowed, though he tried to cover his anxiety with a suave bravado. "I should think later this week we should be able to "
"Today. I need the list today."
The color drained from the man's face. "But of course, Herr Haupsturmfuhrer. I shall do my best."
"And if it's not asking too much, I wonder whether you might find me a room here where I can practice my violin while I'm waiting."
"Certainly, Herr Haupsturmfuhrer. Why don't you take my office?"
Chapter Nineteen
"Great thundering Jesus, what happened to you?" roared Ted Bishop as Metcalfe entered the Metropole lobby. "You look as bad as I feel. Even worse than your hotel room after the YMCA boys got through with it!"
Metcalfe winked but kept walking toward the elevator. "You were right these Russian girls can be wild."
"I don't think I ever said that." Bishop looked confused. "Hasn't really been my experience." He approached, shading his bloodshot eyes from the light, and confided: "Seems you've got an international following."
"How so?"
"Not just the Gay-Pay-Oo, or the NKVD buggers, as they're called these days. That's par for the course. Now you've got the Krauts sniffing around after you."
"Germans?"
"This morning a Kraut gentleman came by, asking the desk clerks for the names of any recent arrivals. Foreign guests who might have checked in within the last week."
Metcalfe stopped in his tracks, turned around, and tried to feign nonchalance. "Boy, the Nazis are already measuring Moscow for drapes, huh?" he attempted to joke. "Getting a bit too comfortable here, wouldn't you say?"
Bishop shrugged. "SD, from the look of him. Sicherheitsdienst, the SS security police, their intel types. But he wasn't making much headway with the desk clerk. Language difficulties, you know. That added to the fact that the Russkies don't much like questions, unless they're the ones asking' 'em."
"Did they give him what he wanted?" Recent arrivals? Foreign guests? Conceivably it could be a coincidence, but Metcalfe wasn't so sure. Why a German? he wondered.
"I took the bloke aside and had a nice little chat with him. You know how starved we are for news thought he might know something about what the Krauts are up to, gossip, rumors, anything I could use. Very least it could be worth a line or two in my next dispatch. You know: "According to one German visitor to this beleaguered capital..." People love that malarkey. Used all my ace interviewing skills. Had a good long talk."
"About what?"
"Fellow really knows a heck of a lot about music. Met Walter Gieseking personally. Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, too."
"Did he ask you for the names of guests?"
"Of course. Kept coming back to that."
"And did you help him out?" Metcalfe tried to keep the tone light.
"He said an old friend had asked him to look someone up. Said he didn't remember the exact name. Someone who just arrived from Paris."
"Well, that rules me out."
"Be that as it may. I'm a little better at getting information than giving it out, you know. Occupational hazard. Something about his story emitted the faintest odor of fish, I gotta say. Didn't remember the exact name? Please. Pull the other one; it's got bells on!"
Roger Martin was still asleep when Metcalfe knocked on his door. "Feel like going for a walk?" Metcalfe said.
"Not particularly," Roger groaned.
"Good. Let's go."
The two were followed out of the hotel by a new set of NKVD watchers, who immediately fell into the tail positions that Metcalfe was beginning to recognize as standard NKVD technique. One lagged behind at a distance; the