“Max came back. Max loved her and he came back for her. It was what I couldn’t do and what you never did. Now he’s the hero and I’m demoted to mere ‘dear friend.’ ”

Stas’s eyes looked fueled by vodka. Arkady wondered if he had ever actually seen the man eat. He swirled the vodka in his own glass so that it rolled around like mercury. “What was Max before he ever came to the West?”

“He was a film director. He defected at a film festival. Hollywood, however, was not interested in his work.”

“What kind of films had he done?”

“War epics, killing Germans, Japanese, Israeli terrorists—the usual. Max did have the tastes of a famous director: custom suits, fine wine, beautiful women.”

“Where is he staying in Munich?” Arkady asked again.

“I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is that my last hope is you.”

“Max has outmaneuvered me, too.”

“No, I know Max. He only attacks when he has to. If you weren’t a threat he’d be your best friend.”

“Not much of a threat. As far as Irina is concerned, I’m dead.” That was the word she had used in Tommy’s kitchen, like a knife she’d found on the table.

“But did she tell you to go?”

“No.”

“So she hasn’t really made up her mind.”

“Irina doesn’t care whether I come or go. I don’t think she even sees me.”

“Irina hasn’t smoked for years. The first time she saw you she asked for a cigarette. She sees you.”

Laika’s head turned toward the balcony and she rose to her fore-paws, then stood, ears sharp. Stas motioned for Arkady to be quiet, then reached for the light fixture and turned it off.

The room was black. Outside was the percussive noise of Volkswagens and the sound of a bell chasing someone from a bike lane. Closer, Arkady heard the toeholds of rubber soles, the easing of a rail, the soft landing of a big man onto the balcony. Laika was invisible, but Arkady located her by an anticipatory growl in the darkness. As a step crossed the balcony he felt the dog coil to attack.

There was an audible intake of breath and a voice in pain. “Stas, please! Stas!”

Stas turned the lights on. “Sit, Laika. Good girl, sit, sit.”

Rikki staggered through the door. Arkady had met the Georgian actor-become-broadcaster in the station cafeteria and at Tommy’s party. Each time Rikki had appeared distraught, or at least histrionic. Now he was again. The back of one hand was covered in spines. “The cactus,” he moaned.

“I rearranged them,” Stas said.

Arkady turned on the outdoor light. Under a hanging lamp was a metal table, two chairs, a pail of empty beer bottles and a semicircle of potted cacti, some of them pincushions with short spines and some that resembled serrated bayonets.