They crossed to the east side of the city and the largest houses, short of palaces, that Arkady had ever seen. Some of them were modern, stark Bauhaus plaster and steel tubing. Others looked almost Mediterranean, with glass doors and potted palms. A few were either miraculously surviving or painstakingly reconstructed examples of Jugendstil, mansions covered with playful, vinelike façades and curving eaves.

Michael pulled into the driveway of the grandest of the mansions. On the front lawn a man was setting up a combination umbrella and table.

Michael led Arkady across the grass. Although no drops were falling, the man was dressed in a raincoat and rubber boots. About sixty, with a noble brow and jowls, he regarded Michael’s arrival with a mixture of exasperation and relief.

“Sir, this is Investigator Renko. President Gilmartin,” Michael said.

“A pleasure.” Gilmartin gave Arkady a firm sportsman’s hand and then sorted through a toolbox on the table for the shiniest pair of pliers. A wrench and screwdriver had already spilled onto the lawn.

Michael pulled off his sunglasses and let them hang from the cord. “I wish you’d waited for me, sir.”

“The goddamn Germans are always complaining about my dish. The grief. I have to have a dish, and this is the only place with a clear sight of satellites unless I put it on the roof, and then would the Heinies scream.”

Now that Arkady looked, he saw that the umbrella was actually camouflage, striped fabric over a satellite dish three meters wide. Dish and table were bolted to the ground.

“The boots are a good idea,” Michael said.

“I’ve been around broadcasting long enough to know better safe than sorry,” Gilmartin said. He told Arkady, “I was with the networks for thirty years until I decided I didn’t like the direction the medium was going. I wanted to have an impact.”

“Tommy,” Michael reminded him.

“Yes.” Gilmartin fixed Arkady with a stare. “Dark Ages, Renko. We’ve had trouble in the past. Murders, break-ins, bombings. You blew up our Czech section a few years back. Tried to stab our Rumanian chief to death in his garage. Electrocuted one of our nicest Russian contributors. But we never lost an American, and those were the days when we were admittedly CIA. Prehistoric. We’re funded by Congress now.”

“We’re a private corporation,” Michael said.

“Delaware, I believe. My point is, we’re not secret agents.”

“Tommy was an inoffensive guy,” Michael said.

“The most inoffensive guy I ever met,” Gilmartin said. “Besides, the days of rough stuff are supposed to be over, so what were you, a Soviet investigator, doing with Tommy when he died?”

Arkady said, “Tommy had a historical interest in the war against Hitler. He asked some questions about people I knew.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Gilmartin said.

“There’s a lot more to it,” Michael agreed.