In its shopping area, the Europa Center had more than a hundred shops, restaurants, cinemas and cabarets. Borya led Arkady past the entreaties of sushi bars, first-run westerns, cultured pearls, Swiss watches and nail salons. His eye had a speculative glint, as if he were considering expanding on his golf range.

“Makhmud trusts you. With you along, he might listen.”

“He’s here?” Arkady asked.

“It’s one thing for Max to say that you’re as good as on the team. If you do this for me, this little thing, then I’ll know you’re okay. He’s right upstairs. You know how he is about his health.”

They climbed three flights. Arkady had expected that any meeting with Makhmud Khasbulatov would take place in the back of a car or in the corner of a dimly lit restaurant, but at the top of the stairs was a brightly illuminated carpeted foyer and a counter lined with a selection of organic shampoos, sunglasses and chelated vitamins. For sixty Deutsche marks the clerk issued them towels, rubber slippers and metal-bead chains with locker keys.

“A bathhouse?” Arkady asked.

“A sauna,” Borya said.

The changing room had lockers, showers, hair dryers, complimentary mousse. Arkady hung his miserable few clothes on hangers, locked up and slipped the chain over his hand like a bracelet. Borya had to stuff his wardrobe in. Most men when they stripped looked misshapen or diminished. An athlete like Borya Gubenko had undressed before other people all his life. He wore physical ease. Arkady looked starved alongside him.

“Makhmud comes here?” Arkady asked.

“Makhmud is a health nut. Wherever he is, here or Moscow, he spends an hour a day in a sauna.”

“How many other Chechens are here?” At the South Port car market, Makhmud never had less than half a dozen.

“A few. Relax,” Borya said. “I just want you to talk to Makhmud face-to-face. For whatever reason, he likes you. Also I want you to see that everything I do here is legitimate.”

“This is a public place?”

Borya pushed open the sauna door. “It couldn’t be more public.”