Irina was never alone long enough for Arkady to approach her. While he maneuvered between groups, he was snared by Tommy and led to an enormous map of Eastern Europe tacked to a wall, with German and Russian positions on the eve of Hitler’s invasion marked by swastikas and red stars.

Tommy said, “This is terrific. I just learned who your father was. One of the great military minds of the war. What I’d love to do is mark exactly where your father was when the Germans rolled in. If you could point that out, it would be great.”

It was a Wehrmacht map. Place names and rivers were in German. Widely spaced lines climbed the Ukrainian steppe, dashes warned of swamps in Bessarabia, swastikas were massed to sweep on separate fronts to Moscow, Leningrad and Stalingrad.

“I have no idea,” Arkady said.

“Not a hint? Did he leave you any anecdotes?” Tommy asked.

“Only tactics.” Max joined them. “Hide in a hole and stab your enemy in the back. Not bad tactics when you’re overwhelmed and overrun.” He turned to Arkady. “Are you feeling overwhelmed and overrun? Question retracted. What interests me, however, is that the father becomes a general and the son becomes an investigator. There’s a similarity there, an inclination towards violence. What do you think, Professor? You’re a medical man.”

The psychologist who had arrived with Max was still tagging along. He ventured, “Perhaps a discomfort with normal society.”

“Soviet society is not normal society,” Arkady said.

“Then you tell us,” Max said. “Explain to us why you are an investigator. Your father chose to kill people. That’s why men become generals. To say a general hates war is to say that a writer hates books. You’re different. You choose to arrive after the murder. You get the blood without the fun.”

“Much like the victim,” Arkady said.

“Then, what draws you? You live in one of the worst societies on earth, and then you choose the worst part of it. What is the morbid appeal? Picking over bodies? Sending one more hopeless soul to jail for the rest of his life? As my friend Tommy would say, what’s in it for you?”

They weren’t bad questions. Arkady had asked them about himself. “Permission,” he said.

“Permission?” Max repeated.

“Yes. When someone is killed, for a short time people have to answer questions. An investigator has permission to go to different levels and see how the world is built. A murder is a little like a house splitting in half; you see what floor is above what floor and what door leads to another door.”

“Murder leads to sociology?”

“Soviet sociology.”

“Assuming people are honest. I would assume that people would lie.”

“Murderers do.”