“Out of Moscow?” Arkady asked.

“It’s not a demotion,” Rodionov said. “The fact is that there are crimes in other cities besides Moscow, real hot spots. I’m always lending investigators where they’re needed. Without the Rosen case you are available.”

“Where?”

“Baku.”

Arkady had to laugh. “Baku is not just out of Moscow, it’s out of Russia.”

“They asked for my very best man. This is a chance for you to recoup some honor.”

Between the three-way civil war going on between Azeris, Armenians and the army, in addition to mafia battles over the drug trade, Baku was a combination of Miami and Beirut. There was no easier place on earth for an investigator to vanish.

Twenty meters back, Minin stepped into the road to brush leaves from his overcoat, which was a signal for other men to emerge from the trees. The Gypsy jogged back to Minin’s side.

To Arkady it looked as if the stroll had become a parade. “A fresh opportunity,” he said.

“That’s the way to look at it,” Rodionov agreed.

“I think you’re right; it is time for me to leave Moscow,” Arkady said. “But I wasn’t thinking of Baku.”

“Where you go is not up to you,” Rodionov said. “Or when.”

They had reached the gate. Up close, it wasn’t black but dark green, with a guard walk over double doors of wood backed with steel plates and guard towers on the sides. In front was a striped barrier to keep the curious away, but how could anyone resist? Arkady stepped over and ran his hands over the lacquer finish, still lovingly maintained. Through it the long sedans used to roll another fifty meters to the dacha, to the midnight dinners and the after-midnight writing of the lists of names, when men and women passed, even while they slept, from the living to the dead. Sometimes children were brought to the dacha to decorate a lawn party or present a bouquet, but always during the day, as if they were safe only in the sun.

This was the door of the dragon, Arkady thought. Even if the dragon was now dead, the gate should be charred black and the road should be scarred by claws. Bones should be hanging from the branches. The soldiers in greatcoats should at least have stayed on as statues. Instead, watching from the guard walk, was the solitary wide-angle eye of a security camera.

Rodionov hadn’t noticed. “Minin will—”

“Shut up,” Albov said and looked up at the lens. “Smile.” He asked Arkady, “There are other cameras on the road?”

“The entire way. The monitors are in the dacha. They’re actively watched and taped. It’s a historical area, after all.”

“Naturally. Do something about Minin,” Albov said softly to Rodionov. “We don’t want strong-arm tactics. Get the fool out of here.”