The city prosecutor was Arkady’s superior, the all-seeing eye of Moscow courts, the guiding hand of Moscow investigators. More than that, Rodionov was also an elected deputy to the People’s Congress, a barrel-chested totem of the democratization of Soviet society at all levels. He had the frame of a foreman, the silvery locks of an actor and the soft palm of an apparatchik. Perhaps a few years ago he had been just one more clumsy bureaucrat; now he had the particular grace that comes from performing for cameras, a voice modulated for civil debate. As if he were bringing together two dear friends, he introduced Arkady to General Penyagin, a larger, older man with deep-set, phlegmatic eyes whose blue summer uniform was marked by a black armband. The chief of Criminal Investigation had died only days before. Penyagin was now head of CID, and though he had two stars on his shoulder boards, he was distinctly the new bear in the circus, taking his cue from Rodionov. The city prosecutor’s other companion was a different type altogether, a jaunty visitor named Albov who looked less Russian than American.

Rodionov dismissed the displays and cartons with a wave and told Arkady, “Penyagin and I are in charge of cleaning out the Ministry archives. These will all be junked, replaced by computers. We joined Interpol because as crime becomes more international, we have to react imaginatively, cooperatively, without outdated ideological blinders. Imagine when our computers here are hooked up to New York, Bonn, Tokyo. Already Soviet representatives are actively assisting in investigations abroad.”

“No one could escape anywhere,” Arkady said.

“You don’t look forward to that prospect?” Penyagin asked.

Arkady wanted to please. He had once shot a prosecutor, a fact that lent relations a certain delicacy. But was he thrilled by that prospect? The world as a single box?

“You’ve worked with Americans in the past,” Rodionov reminded Arkady. “For which you suffered. We all suffered. That’s the tragic nature of mistakes. The office suffered the loss of your services during crucial years. Your return to us is part of a vital healing process that we all take pride in. Since this is Penyagin’s first day at CID, I wanted to introduce him to one of our more special investigators.”

“I understand you demanded certain conditions when you returned to Moscow,” Penyagin said. “You were given two cars, I hear.”

Arkady nodded. “With ten liters of gas. That makes for short car chases.”

“Your own detectives, your own pathologist,” Rodionov reminded him.

“I thought a pathologist who wouldn’t rob the dead was a good idea.” Arkady glanced at his watch. He had assumed they would leave the museum for the usual conference room with baize table and double sets of aides taking notes.