Chechens cheated in the most devious way. Once a Chechen had title in hand, he paid only the official price, and there was as much chance of a seller getting the rest of his money as taking a bone from the jaws of a wolf. Of course the Chechen turned around and sold the car for full price. The tribe amassed fortunes at the South Port market. Not off every sale—that would destroy the incentive that brought fresh cars—but off an intelligent percentage. Chechens culled the market as if it were a flock of sheep that was all their own.

Jaak and Arkady stopped halfway down the line and the detective nodded toward a car parked by itself at the end of the lane. It was an old, black, once-official Chaika sedan with a scalloped chrome grille rubbed to a mirror finish. Curtains were drawn across the side windows of the backseat.

“Fucking Arabs,” Jaak said.

“They’re no more Arab than you are,” Arkady said. “I thought you were free of prejudice. Makhmud is an old man.”

“I hope he’s got the strength to show you his collection of skulls.”

Arkady went on alone. The last car for sale was a Lada so dented that it looked as if it had been rolled to the market end over end. Two young Chechens with tennis bags stopped him to ask where he was headed. When Arkady mentioned Makhmud’s name, they escorted him to the Lada, pushed him into the back, felt his arms, legs and torso for a gun or a wire and told him to wait. One went to the Chaika; the other got in front, opened his bag and turned to slide a gun between the two front seats so that the muzzle nestled in Arkady’s lap.

The gun was a new single-barrel “Bear” carbine cut to half-length and retooled for shot. The visors of the car were fringed with beads, the dash decorated with snapshots of grapevines, mosques and decals of AC/DC and Pink Floyd. An older Chechen got in behind the wheel, ignored Arkady and opened the Koran, droning aloud as he read. He had a heavy gold ring on the pinky finger of each hand. Another got in beside Arkady with a skewer of shashlik wrapped in paper and handed pieces of meat around, including Arkady, not in a friendly fashion, more as if he were a despised guest. All they needed were mustachios and bandoliers, Arkady thought. The Lada pointed away from the market, but in the rearview mirror he occasionally caught sight of Jaak examining different cars.