Arkady flattened the envelope on the floor. He tugged open the corner of the flap, inserted a finger and cautiously tore open the end, because he wouldn’t have been surprised if his father had left a razor. No, the letter itself would be the razor. What were the most hateful, damaging words he could hear? What was worth hissing from the grave?

Arkady blew into the envelope and his breath lifted a half-sheet of onionskin. He smoothed the paper and held it to the light.

The handwriting was so faint and palsied that it was more a wave from the deathbed than a letter, written with a hand that could barely hold a pen. The general had managed only one word: “Irina.”

Night traffic on Leopoldstrasse was a sinuous flow of headlights, glass, sidewalk cafés, chrome.

Peter lit a cigarette while he drove. “Sorry about the cell. I had to put you someplace where Michael and Federov couldn’t get at you. Anyway, you screwed them good. You should be proud. They can’t figure out how you switched phones. They kept showing me: car, tennis court, car.”

He downshifted and snaked in front of cars. Sometimes Arkady got the impression that Peter barely controlled the urge to drive on the sidewalk to get ahead.

“Apparently Michael’s phone was special. It had a scrambler for security. He was upset because he would have to get a new one from Washington.”

“He found his phone?” Arkady asked.

“This is wonderful. This is the Schlag, the whipped cream on the cake. He took your advice. After Federov left, Michael put on long pants and called his own number and walked up and down the streets until he found his phone ringing just so softly inside a garbage bin. Like finding a kitten.”

“So there are no charges?”

“You were seen leaving the garage where the first phone was stolen, but by the time I was finished with him, the attendant didn’t know if you were short or tall, white or black. With better prompting, he might give a more accurate description. The main thing is, you’re still here and you have me to thank.”

“Thank you.”

Peter showed a crescent smile. “See, that wasn’t hard. Russians are so touchy.”

“You feel unappreciated?”

“Ignored. It’s nice that Russians and Americans get along so well, but that doesn’t mean they can ship you back to Moscow when they want.”

“Why didn’t you look at Michael’s fax when I told you to?”

“I already knew. After your friend Tommy died, I called the number. The woman answered herself. I’m that way, when someone is killed I become more curious, not less.” He handed Arkady the pack of cigarettes. “You know, I enjoyed your game with the phones. We must be alike. If you weren’t such a liar, we could be a good team.”