I went down to get my clothes. I looked out. Lev was pulling God from the water. Nietzsche was laughing of course. He loved that God is dead stuff, even if it was just a pun on a cheesy Russian name. After I grabbed my clothing, I went back upstairs. I asked Kaylee where I could change. She said, “Upstairs.” The third floor. That was good. I would be out of sight when Pavel and the others arrived. They’d probably go outside first, expecting me to be there with a living Grigor God Voloshin. Instead, they’d find the dead one with Lev, trying to revive him. That would create some confusion. Which would create time. A few more minutes before they came searching for me. I’d be upstairs, out of sight, dressing. Another minute or two. Maybe more. I waited. My heart was beating hard enough for me to feel it, though not so hard as when I was in the water, anxious to hear the sounds of the police and ambulance sirens, hoping they got there before Pavel came back with the Russian intelligence operatives.

—

Pavel came before the cops. They ran into the house. They ran downstairs and outside. They came back up. I heard the sounds of their feet rushing up the stairs, barking and yelping, indeed, louder than cats, even though the floors here were much more solid and firm than my own. They surrounded me. Grabbed me. I didn’t resist. They shoved me along, down the stairs.

But Lukas and another bundespolizei and the EMTs showed up before they could haul me away. The bundespolizei took their guns out. They separated the civilians, Russians over there, in a small group, me, the American, to the other side.

Lukas grabbed me. “What’s going on?”

I told him my story. The one in which the cold of the pond had shocked Grigor into drowning. Lukas looked skeptical. Maybe it was the natural response. Maybe because it was me.

Lukas made a phone call. Then he spoke to everyone else. The EMT guys said that the water was as cold as it could get and if Voloshin jumped in, it was likely to cause a heart attack or, even without that, if he was as drunk as the empty bottles indicated—there would be a toxicology report to give some exact measure—he could have been disoriented, not known up from down, tried to yell, swallowed water, all sorts of things, and drowned. They were deliberate, detailed, and thorough, as you’d expect from a Teutonic rescue squad. Even so, Lukas made them repeat it all, as he took notes. It seemed like he was stretching things out.

Then Franz, his father arrived. It was clear that was what Lucas had been waiting for. I guessed that was whom he’d called earlier. They huddled in a corner and consulted.

Then Franz pulled me aside. “What’s going on?”