Chechens had nothing to do with Arabs. Chechens were Tartars, a western tide of the Golden Horde that had settled in the fastness of the Caucasus Mountains. Arkady studied the postcards on the dash. The city with the mosque was their mountain capital of Grozny, as in “Ivan Grozny”—Ivan the Terrible. Did that twist the Chechen psyche a little bit, growing up with a name like that?

Finally the first Chechen returned, accompanied by a boy not much bigger than a jockey. He had a heart-shaped face with raddled skin and eyes full of ambition. He reached into Arkady’s jacket for his ID, studied it and slipped it back. To the man with the shotgun he said, “He killed a prosecutor.” So by the time Arkady got out of the car, he was accorded some respect.

Arkady followed the boy up to the Chaika, where the rear door opened for him. A hand reached out and pulled him in by the collar.

Vintage Chaikas had a stately Soviet style: upholstered ceiling, elaborate ashtrays, banquette seats with corded piping, air-conditioning, plenty of room for the boy and driver up front and Makhmud and Arkady in back. Also bulletproof windows, he was sure.

Arkady had seen pictures of mummified figures dug from the ashes of Pompeii. They looked like Makhmud, bent and gaunt, no lashes or brows, skin a parchment gray. Even his voice sounded burned. He turned stiffly, as if hinged, to hold his visitor at arm’s length and stare with eyes as black as little coals.

“Excuse me,” Makhmud said. “I had this operation. The wonder of Soviet science. They fix your eyes so you don’t have to wear glasses anymore. They don’t do this operation anywhere else in the world. What they don’t tell you is from then on you only see at one distance. The rest of the world is a blur.”

“What did you do?” Arkady asked.

“I could have killed the doctor. I mean, I really could have killed the doctor. Then I thought about it. Why did I have this operation? Vanity. I’m eighty years old. It was a lesson. Thank God I’m not impotent.” He held Arkady steady. “I can see you right now. You don’t look very good.”

“I need some advice.”

“I think you need more than advice. I had them keep you down there while I asked some questions about you. I like to have information. Life is so various. I’ve been in the Red Army, White Army, German Army. Nothing is predictable. I hear that you’ve been an investigator, a convict, an investigator again. You’re more confused than I am.”

“Easily.”

“It’s an unusual name. You’re related to Renko, that madman from the war?”

“Yes.”