Arrival in Moscow was never a rose-strewn path, but this morning even the normal bleakness was accentuated. After Western lights, the baggage area was dark and cavernous, and Arkady wondered whether there had always been as much numbness in the faces, such a closed-down look to the eyes.

Michael Healey was waiting at the customs booths with a colonel of the Frontier Police. Radio Liberty’s deputy director wore a trench coat of many belts and watched passengers through dark glasses. The Frontier Police was KGB; they wore green tunics with red tabs and faces screwed to perpetual suspicion.

Stas said, “The winged shit must have taken the direct flight from Munich. Damn.”

“He can’t stop us,” Irina said.

“Yes, he can,” Stas admitted. “One word and the best that can happen to us is being put back on the plane.”

Arkady said, “I’m not going to let him take you back.”

“What are you going to do?” Stas asked.

“Let me talk to him. Just get in line.”

Stas hesitated. “If we do get through, there’s a car waiting to take us to the White House.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Arkady said.

“You promise?” Irina asked.

In this setting, Irina’s Russian seemed different, softer, with more dimensions. This was why beautiful icons had plain frames.

“I’ll be there.”

Arkady walked ahead to Michael, who followed his approach like a man pleased to find gravity working in his favor. The colonel seemed to be primed for more prosperous targets; he gave Arkady only passing notice.

Michael said, “Renko. Good to be home? I’m afraid that Stas and Irina won’t be able to stay. I have their tickets for the flight back to Munich.”

“You’d really point them out?” Arkady asked.

“They’re ignoring orders. The station has paid them, fed them, housed them. We can demand a little loyalty. I just want to make it clear to the colonel that Radio Liberty refuses any responsibility for them. They aren’t assigned to this story.”

“They want to be here.”

“Then they’re on their own and they can take their chances.”

“Are you going to cover the story?”

“I’m not a reporter, but I’ve been around reporters. I’ll help.”

“You know Moscow?”

“I’ve been here before.”

“Where is Red Square?” Arkady asked.

“Everyone knows where Red Square is.”

Arkady said, “You’d be surprised. A man here in Moscow got a fax just two weeks ago asking him, ‘Where is Red Square?’ ”

Michael shrugged.

Ahead of Stas and Irina, photographers top-heavy with gear and carry-on bags clattered forward. Stas slipped fifty-Deutsche-mark notes into his passport and Irina’s.

Arkady said, “The fax came from Munich. In fact, it came from Radio Liberty.”

“We have a number of facsimile machines,” Michael said.