Max said, “The situation being what it is, I don’t want to broadcast that. Frankly, I’m worried about Rodionov and his friends. I hope they have the resolve to finish this business quickly, because the longer they wait, the bloodier it will be. Your father would have wiped out the defenders at the White House already, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that you want to make some sort of arrangement about the painting. What?”

“A British Air ticket to London and fifty thousand dollars.”

“A lot of people are trying to leave town. I can give you any amount of rubles, but foreign currency is tight right now.”

“I’m giving the phone back to Minin.”

As soon as he had handed over the phone, Arkady took a serrated knife from a drawer by the sink. While each act was reported by Minin, he opened the window and pulled the wrapped painting out of the bag. The wrap’s plastic bubbles started popping as Arkady sawed.

“Wait!” Minin said and offered the phone to Arkady again.

Max was laughing. “I get the point. You win.”

“Where are you?”

“Minin will bring you.”

“He can lead me. I have a car.”

“I’d better talk to him,” Max said.

Minin listened grimly before he returned the receiver to the hall. “You don’t have to lead me,” Arkady said. “Just tell me where he is.”

“There’s going to be a curfew tonight. In case there are any roadblocks, it’s better if we all go.”

Kim broke into a grin bursting with personality. “Hurry up. I want to come back and find the girl on the scooter.” It was the first time he had opened his mouth and it wasn’t what Arkady wanted to hear.

“We saw Polina,” Minin said. His tone was judicial, though his tongue left a brief dab on his lips. “You look like shit. You look like you’ve been rolling on the ground. They didn’t treat you too well in Germany.”

“Travel is wearing,” Arkady said. Switching the bag from hand to hand, he slipped out of the soiled jacket. The back of his shirt was black with old blood and red with new. Kim sucked in an audible breath. From the closet, Arkady selected a wrinkled but cleaner jacket, the one he had worn to the cemetery. From its pocket, he pulled his heirloom, his father’s revolver, the Nagant, an ancient firearm with a hammer and wooden grip as curved as apostrophes. The four rounds, thick as silver nuggets, were in the pocket, too. One arm through the handle of the bag, he swung open the cylinder and loaded it. He said, “How many times have I told you, Minin? Don’t just check the closets, check the clothes too.”