“I must be modest. I only harvest, I do not sow.” Stas fell silent for a moment. “Speaking of the truth, I can well believe that the bloodiest, most cynical Soviet investigator could fall in love with Irina, jeopardize family and career, even kill for her. Afterwards, as I heard it, you received a Party reprimand, but the only punishment was a short tour in Vladivostok, where you had a soft job with the fishing fleet shuffling papers in an office. Then you were brought back to Moscow to help the most reactionary forces stifle business entrepreneurs. I heard that the prosecutor’s office could barely control you because you were such a well-connected Party member. So when you joined us at the beer garden yesterday, you were not the plump apparatchik that I expected. I noticed something else.” He rolled his chair forward; he moved more agilely on casters. “Give me your hand.”

Arkady did so and Stas spread the hand to look at scars that crossed the palm laterally. “Those aren’t paper cuts,” he said.

“Trawl wires. The fishing equipment is old, so the wires fray.”

“Unless the Soviet Union has changed more than I knew, hauling a bloody net is hardly the usual reward for a favorite of the Party.”

“I lost the trust of the Party a long time ago.”

Stas studied the scars like a palm reader. It struck Arkady that he had that heightened level of concentration that came from years of being either crippled or confined to bed. “Are you after Irina?” he asked.

“My business in Munich has nothing to do with her.”

“And you can’t tell me what that business is?”

“No.”

The phone rang. Although dust seemed to rise with the clamor, Stas equably regarded the phone as if it were waving from a distant shore. He checked his watch. “That’ll be the deputy director. Ludmilla has just told him that a notorious investigator from Moscow has infiltrated the station.” He studied Arkady. “It just occurred to me that you’re hungry.”

The Station Cafeteria was on the floor below. Stas led Arkady to a table, where a German waitress in a black-and-white dirndl took their orders for schnitzel and beer. Young, fresh-faced Americans went outside to the garden. The tables inside were occupied by an older, largely male émigré population that lingered under a haze of cigarette smoke.

“Won’t the director look for you here?” Arkady asked.