“At three A.M., the middle of the night. They’ll use tanks. It will be fast but messy, and they won’t be able to spare reporters even if they wanted to. Do you know what would really be ironic? If this time I saved Irina.” Max let a moment pass. “Irina’s here. Don’t deny it. You still have a little glow. She wouldn’t let you come back without her.”

Strangely, Arkady couldn’t deny it, though a lie would have served. As if a word could make her disappear.

“Now do you know what you wanted to know?” Borya asked Max, who nodded. “Let’s see the painting.” He snatched the bag away and opened it while Max played the flashlight through the plastic wrap. “Just like Rita told us.”

Max lifted the painting out. “It’s heavy.”

Borya protested, “It’s the painting.”

Max unwound the wrap. “It’s wood, not canvas, and it’s the wrong color.”

“It’s red,” Borya pointed out.

“Red is all it is,” Max said.

Arkady thought it looked like one of Polina’s better efforts—vibrant crimson instead of dark maroon, with more consistent brush strokes.

“I think it’s a fake, but what’s your opinion?” Max turned the flashlight directly into Arkady’s eyes.

Borya kicked Arkady’s legs out from under him, then, with no loss of momentum, moved in and planted a second kick in his chest. Arkady rolled into the dark. On his side, he freed the Nagant from the back of his belt. Faster, Borya produced a pistol and fired into the floor, spraying Arkady with cement.

Arkady shot. Max had been standing in the black behind the flashlight. Now he held a shield of phosphorescent white brilliant enough to light the entire butchering house. Polina’s canvas had ignited as the slug passed through and Borya squinted, stupefied by the blaze. When he understood what was happening, he turned back to Arkady and fired wildly four more times.

Arkady shot and Borya dropped to his knees, into the soft folds of his coat. The breast of his coat showed a bright rosette. Arkady fired a second time in the same place. Borya swayed, rose and lined his eye on the sight. His eye wavered. As he started to topple, he put his hands on the floor, still clutching his gun, trying to keep the world from spinning. His head rolled and he relaxed and slumped across the floor at full length, as if he were diving for a penalty kick.

On the floor, the canvas produced a white light that broke into noxious smoke against the ceiling. Max’s sleeve was on fire. He was framed in the doorway for a moment, a man attached to a torch. Then the doorway went dark as he ran.