Polina was stung. Arkady was shocked at himself. What could he say now? That he was tired, upset, wanted to be home cupping his ear to his radio? “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was mean.”

“I think you’d better get a different pathologist,” Polina said.

“I think I’d better go.”

As he got out, the seventh car exploded, shooting fountains of glass high into the air. After the clap of detonation, the glass rang like chimes as it fell and scattered in crystals around his feet. The Moskvitch burned like a furnace at full blast, white flames leaping excitedly from window to window, broadcasting a circle of heat that made Arkady flinch and step back. As the seat burned, the nature of the flames changed into roiling purplish smoke rich with toxin. Paint bubbled and the whole dock glowed with shining glass, like coals.

He noticed that Polina was making notes again. She would have made a good assassin, he thought. She was a good pathologist. He was an idiot.

It’s sad about Rudy. He was very human, warm, concerned about Soviet youth.” Antonov winced as one boy backed another into a corner and knocked out his mouthpiece. “Many’s the time he was here, encouraging the kids, telling them to mind the straight and narrow.” Antonov bobbed sympathetically as the beleaguered fighter slipped free. “Stick him, stick him, move! Well, that’s a good imitation of a propeller! Anyway, Rudy was like an uncle. This is not the center of Moscow. These kids are not going to special schools for ballerinas. Hit him! But youth is our most precious possession. Every boy and girl in Komsomol gets a fair chance. Model planes, chess, basketball. I bet Rudy sponsored every club here. Backpedal! Not you! Him!”