In one direction, the road continued for fifty meters, then veered right, approaching and then pulling away from a high gate, a black square framed by green trees. In the other direction, only ten meters away, were Rodionov and Albov. The city prosecutor looked surprised to see his investigator, though this was the appointed hour and place. Some people resented missing even a single night’s sleep, Arkady thought. Rodionov walked stiffly, angrily, as if it were cold, instead of the pleasant summer day that was unfolding. Albov, however, appeared well rested, in tweed jacket and slacks, with an aura of after-shave. “I told Rodionov we wouldn’t spot you,” he said as a greeting. “You must have visited here quite a lot.”

Rodionov said, “You were supposed to return to your office and write your account of what happened at the farm. Instead, first you disappear, and then you call and demand that we meet you in the middle of nowhere.”

“Hardly nowhere,” Arkady said. “Let’s walk.” He started to amble in the direction of the gate.

Rodionov stayed by his side. “Where is that report? Where did you go?”

The road was still deep in shadow. Albov lifted his eyes appreciatively to sunlight spilling halfway down a wall of trees. “Stalin had a number of dachas around Moscow, didn’t he?” he asked.

“This was his favorite,” Arkady said.

“Your father visited frequently, I’m sure.”

“Stalin liked to drink and talk all night. In the morning, they would walk here. Notice that the larger trees are firs. Behind every fir was a soldier who had to stay absolutely silent and out of sight. Of course, times have changed.”

From either side of the road came the sound of crashing, as if heavy-footed mice were trying to keep pace.

Rodionov was exasperated. “You didn’t write a report.”

He jumped back when Arkady reached into his jacket. Instead of the Nagant, however, he produced a folded sheaf of yellow pages neatly filled with handwriting.

Rodionov said, “It will have to be typed on the proper forms. That’s just as well. We’ll go over it together at the office.”

“And then?” Arkady asked.

Rodionov was encouraged. A report, even handwritten, was a token of surrender. “We’re all shaken by the death of our friend General Penyagin,” he said, “and I understand how upset you must be over the murder of your detective. Nevertheless, nothing excuses your disappearance and wild accusations.”

“What accusations?” Arkady kept walking. So far he had made no mention of his phone calls to Albov and Borya Gubenko. Neither had Albov.

“Your erratic behavior,” Rodionov said.

“Erratic in what way?” Arkady asked.

“Your disappearance,” Rodionov said. “Your unprofessional reluctance to cooperate in the Penyagin investigation simply because you will not be in charge. Your fixation on the Rosen case. The pressure of being back in Moscow was too much. For your own sake a change is in order.”