He swung round and walked unhurriedly towards the exit. By the entrance to the “green corridor” he stopped and looked back at the queue that had formed at the check-in desk for Barcelona. It was a large, noisy queue. People going away for a holiday at the seaside. There were lots of women and children in it, lots of men and even one child-free young woman.

“God help you,” said the man. “I can’t.”

Dima Pastukhov had just taken out his lighter to give his partner Bisat Iskenderov a light, even though Bisat had his own lighter—it was simply a routine they’d got into. If Dima took out a cigarette, Bisat reached for his lighter. When the Azerbaijani decided to smoke, Dima offered him a light. If Pastukhov had been inclined to intellectual reflection, he might have said this was their way of demonstrating their mutual respect for each other, despite their differences of opinion on many things—from problems of nationality to which car was classier: the Mercedes ML or the BMW X3.

But Dima wasn’t inclined to reflections of this kind—he and Bisat both drove Fords, preferred German beer to Russian vodka or Azerbaijani cognac, and had quite friendly feelings for each other. So Dima clicked on the button, summoning up the little tongue of flame, glanced briefly at the exit from the airport terminal building—and dropped the lighter just as his friend’s cigarette was reaching for it.

There was a “dog” walking out through the doors of the departure lounge. A middle-aged man who didn’t look frightening at all—quite cultured, in fact. Pastukhov was used to seeing people like this, but this one wasn’t simply a “dog,” he was the “dog” . . . from the Exhibition of Economic Achievements district, from way back in the distant past. Only he didn’t look drunk now, more as if he had a bit of a hangover.

Pastukhov turned away and started slowly groping for the lighter on the ground. The man with watchdog’s eyes walked past without taking the slightest notice of him.

“A drop too much yesterday?” Bisat asked sympathetically.

“Who?” muttered Pastukhov. “Ah . . . no, it’s just that the lighter’s slippery . . .”

“Your hands are shaking and you’ve turned as white as a sheet,” his partner remarked.

Pastukhov finally gave him a light, checked out of the corner of his eye that the man was walking away towards the car park, took out a cigarette, and lit up himself—without waiting for Bisat’s lighter.

“You’re acting kind of funny . . .” said Bisat.

“Yes, I was drinking yesterday,” Pastukhov muttered. He looked at the terminal building again.

This time there was a “wolf” coming out of it. With a self-confident, predatory gaze and determined stride. Pastukhov turned away.

“You should eat khash the morning after,” Bisat admonished him. “But only the right khash—ours. That Armenian khash is poison!”