“I am not your friend. You have always been suspicious of my leadership. You felt the investigation had strayed onto nonproductive paths.”

“In other words?”

“Stay clear.”

“You can’t order me to do that.”

“I’m asking you.” He whispered into the phone, “Please.”

“Call me,” Polina said after a silence.

“When everything is straightened out.”

“I’ll take Rudy’s fax and put it on my number. You can leave a message.”

“Be careful.” He hung up.

Suddenly exhaustion overwhelmed him. He stuffed the blanks into the pocket with the gun and assumed a semi-upright position at the end of a bench. As soon as his eyes closed he was half asleep. He didn’t dream as much as feel that he was falling down a soft, loamy hill in the dark, rolling lazily and without a sound, following the course of gravity. At the bottom of the hill was a pond. Someone ahead dove in and ripples spread in white rings. He hit the water without a struggle, sank and then really was asleep.

Two eyes stared up from a face of loose, badly shaven cheeks. A hand raised a black pistol. The fingers were filthy and callused and shaky. Another dirty hand held Arkady’s ID. As he came fully awake he saw a plaque of war ribbons sewn onto a stained jacket. He also saw that the man, legless, stood on a wooden truck. By its casters lay two blocks surfaced with strips of rubber tread for him to propel himself with. The face unveiled steel teeth and a breath like gasoline fumes. A human car, Arkady thought.

The man said, “I was only looking for a bottle. I didn’t know I was going to run into a fucking general. I apologize.”

The pistol was the Nagant. Carefully he handed it to Arkady butt first. Arkady took the ID, too.

The man hesitated. “Spare some coins? No?” He picked up the blocks to push himself away.

Arkady checked the clock; it was five A.M. He said, “Wait.”

Something had occurred to him. While the idea was fresh, he laid his gun and ID down and pulled out the sketch of the farm. On a fresh blank he drew the interior of the shed as best he could remember: door, table, stacks of VCRs and computers, racks of clothes, copier, dominoes, telltale Grozny newspaper on the table, prayer rug on the floor. Referring to the farm sketch, he added an arrow north. Now that he thought about it, the rug had been new, with no wear from knees or forehead, and it had been aligned east-west. But from Moscow, Mecca was directly south.

“Do you have a two-kopeck piece?” Arkady asked. “For a ruble?”

The beggar dug a change purse from his shirt and produced a coin. “You’re going to make a businessman out of me.”

“A banker.”