Why insert Margarita Benz into the tape? The only reason Arkady could think of was identification if she had never met Rudy before and didn’t want to give him her name. But she was the sort of woman who had her own table at an attractive restaurant on a stylish plaza in Berlin. What business could a Moscow money changer have with her?

The waiter was still staring. “Danke.” Arkady backed away, catching his own image in the glass, as if he had stepped into the tape too.

On the way back to the apartment, Arkady bought blankets, towel, soap and a pullover in intellectual black. At six-thirty P.M. he was collected by Max and Irina on their way down to the garage.

“You’re thin; you can wear something like that,” Max said. Covered by a jacket with brass buttons, he looked as if he had stepped off a yacht.

Irina wore an emerald outfit that accented the red in her hair. She was so nervous and excited that in the elevator she was like an extra light.

Arkady was fascinated by this whole new life she had. He said, “This is a big affair. You don’t want to tell me what it is?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Do you know anything about art?” Max asked Arkady as if including a child.

Irina said, “Arkady will recognize this.”

They drove in the Daimler along the Tiergarten to Kantstrasse. Irina turned around to Arkady, her eyes huge in the shell-like gloom of the sedan. “You are all right? It worried me when you called.”

Max asked, “He called?”

“I’m looking forward to this, whatever it is,” Arkady said.

Irina reached back and took his hand. “I’m glad you came,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

They parked at Savigny Platz. Walking to the gallery, Arkady became aware that he was approaching a cultural event of some size. Men so distinguished that they could have been the kaiser escorted matrons draped in beads and jewels. Academics in black marched with wives in knit coats. There were even berets. Photographers crowded around the nondescript entrance to the gallery. Arkady slipped in while Irina endured a short bath of flashes. Inside, a line had formed at a brass elevator. Max led the way to the stairs and pushed along the banister past people inching up.

On the third floor, a throaty voice called out, “Irina!” Arrivals showed invitations at a desk, but Irina was waved forward by a woman with a broad Slavic face and dark eyes that contradicted a mane of golden hair. She wore a long purple dress that looked like the vestment for a cult. Her makeup shifted when she smiled.

“And Max.” She kissed him three times, Russian style.

“You must be Margarita Benz,” Arkady said.

“I hope so, or I’m at the wrong gallery.” She let Arkady touch her hand.