“Because this is a more delicate investigation than we were first aware of,” Albov said. “Foreign investors, especially Germans, are sensitive to the messy scandals of the new Soviet capitalism. We want to clear everybody’s name, even the names of people we’ve never heard of. Because, even though the investigator may be chasing phantoms, we don’t want to place obstacles in his path. Besides, we don’t know everything the investigator knows or what rash steps he thinks he has to take to preserve his independence.”

“He never said what he knew.”

“Because he’s only desperate, he’s not an utter fool. He stuffed your pocket with telegrams and you didn’t even notice. I support Renko. More and more, I’m impressed by his adaptability. Still, I wonder,” Albov said, turning toward Arkady. “I wonder if you’ve considered the fact that as soon as you step onto the plane you lose your authority. In Germany you’ll be a common citizen—less, a Soviet citizen. To Germans you’ll be nothing but a refugee, because to them all Russians are refugees. Secondly, you will lose your credibility here. You won’t be a hero to your friends anymore. No one will believe any warnings, alarms or information that you left behind, because here too you will be regarded as a refugee. And refugees lie; refugees will say anything to get out. Nothing they say is considered the truth anywhere. The one thing I can promise you is that you’ll be sorry you ever went.”

“I’m only going for this case,” Arkady said.

“See, already you’re lying.” Albov’s eyes rested on Arkady sympathetically. He seemed to have to force himself to remember a less interesting man. “Rodionov, you’d better get to it. You have a great deal to do to make sure your investigator doesn’t miss his flight. Necessary papers, funds, whatever, in a day.” Turning to Arkady again, he asked, “What about flying Aeroflot?”

“Lufthansa.”

“You want an airline where the seat belts work. I completely agree,” Albov said.

Rodionov backed away, excluded, stealing glances, still watching for some other signal from Albov. Far down the road, Minin and his men had reassembled into a confused, forlorn group.

“Go,” Albov said.

He opened a pack of Camel Lights and lit a match for himself and Arkady. He had a fastidious manner, saving the last lick of the flame for the cellophane, which he let burn and blow away on the morning breeze. Then he returned his attention to the gate. As the sun rose, the trees on either side seemed to grow, come into focus, turn even more green, shift through stages of ornate light and shade. The light that crept around the guard walk was white, as if on fire. Simultaneously, the gate itself fell into more shadow and by contrast loomed darker, reflecting the two men.