Polina said, “If they’re trying to reach Rudy, they don’t know he’s dead.”

“That’s the idea.”

“So you’ll get pointless information or find yourself in an embarrassing social situation. I can’t wait.”

They waited an hour without an answer. Finally Arkady went downstairs and visited the garage, where Minin was tapping the floor with the butt end of a shovel. The hanging light bulb had been replaced by one with greater wattage. Tires were moved to the side and stacked according to size; rubber belts and oil cans were enumerated and tagged. Minin’s only concession to the heat had been to remove his coat and jacket; his hat stayed on his head, casting an umbra across the middle of his face. The man in the moon, Arkady thought. When he saw his superior, Minin came to sullen attention.

Arkady thought the problem was that Minin was the classic dwarf child. Not that he was small, but Minin was the unloved creature, the sort who always felt despised. Arkady could have removed him from the team—an investigator didn’t have to accept everyone assigned to him—but he didn’t want to justify Minin’s attitude. Also, he hated to see an ugly man pout.

“Investigator Renko, when Chechens are on the loose, I think I would be of better use on the street than in this garage.”

“We don’t know if we’re after the Chechens, and I need a good man doing this. Some people would slip the tires under their coat.”

Humor seemed to give Minin a wide berth. He said, “Do you want me to go upstairs and watch Polina?”

“No.” Arkady tried human interest. “There’s something new about you, Minin. What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s it.” On Minin’s sweat-darkened shirt was the enamel pin of a red flag. Arkady never would have noticed it if he hadn’t taken off his jacket. “A membership pin?”

“Of a patriotic organization,” Minin said.

“Very stylish.”

“We stand for the defense of Russia, for the repeal of so-called laws that steal the people’s wealth and give it to a narrow group of vultures and money changers, for a cleansing of society and an end to chaos and anarchy. You don’t mind?” It was a challenge as much as a question.

“Oh, no. On you it looks right.”

Driving to Borya Gubenko’s, it seemed to Arkady that the summer evening had fallen like a silence. Streets vacant, taxis camped outside hotels, refusing to carry anyone but tourists. One store was besieged with shoppers, while stores on either side were so empty they looked deserted. Moscow looked like a cannibalized city, without food, gas or basic goods. Arkady felt like a cannibalized man, as if he might be missing a rib, a lung, some part of his heart.