Arkady gathered his towel and slippers and left the bath. The two Chechens had moved down to the pool, though Rita was gone. He was aware he was covered in blood. He dove into the nearest sitting pool, which was frigid, and climbed out, leaving red curls unraveling in the water. He rinsed in the second, heated pool and dried himself as he went to the changing room.

Ali’s locker contained his shiny suit and a Louis Vuitton bag with a machine pistol, three clips and a Vuitton wallet fat with high-denomination Deutsche marks. Arkady dressed at normal speed and on the way down the stairs passed office workers who were hurrying up for after-hours relaxation and didn’t seem to find it unusual how badly a Russian’s clothes could fit. He returned his slippers to the cashier on the way out.

At Friedrichstrasse the garage door was still wedged open. Arkady climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. He left the lights off while he found his carry-on and changed clothes. Ali’s shoes pinched; he would have to get new ones tomorrow.

Timing was everything. If Borya heard that two bodies had been found in the bath, he’d be reassured. If he heard both were Chechen, he’d be warned. The police would put together a description of the man who had left in Ali’s suit. Beno and the other Chechens would already be looking for him.

Arkady was no expert on small arms, but he recognized the machine pistol as a Czech Skorpion, an automatic with a snout sticking out of an oversized slide. The clips held twenty rounds each, which the pistol could empty in two seconds. Perfect Ali fireworks; with a Skorpion, no one needed to aim.

When the door opened behind him, Arkady pushed home a clip and turned to fire.

Irina was in the doorway, so frozen in place she balanced between the light of the hall and the dark of the room. Arkady looked to see whether anyone else was in the hall, then pulled her in by the wrist and shut the door.

“I thought I heard you,” she said. Her voice came out as small as a prerecorded tape.

“Where’s Max?”

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Where is Max?”

“Dinner was over early. The Americans had to catch a plane. Max went to the gallery to see Rita. I came here to see you.” She pulled her wrist free. “Why is it dark in here?”

When she tried to reach the switch, he pushed her hand away. She tried to open the door and he kicked it shut.

“I can’t believe this, Arkady. It’s happening again. You didn’t come back for me, you came for someone else. You used me again.”

“No.”

“Yes, you did. Who are you after?”

Arkady was silent.

“Who else?” she asked.

He said, “Max. Rita. Boris Benz, except that his real name is Borya Gubenko.”