Over blini and caviar she talked about the exhibits at the Hermitage, whose history he absorbed completely. He found it amusing that not far away on the bottom of the Neva lay the corpse of the politician, wrapped and tied like a sack of rotten potatoes, weighed down with bars of lead. The river was as peaceful as ever, lights from the monuments dancing on its surface, hiding the murky darkness beneath. He wondered briefly if there were fish in the river and, if so, what they’d make of the grisly package he’d delivered into their world earlier that day.

Over dessert she said, “I have something to ask you.”

He had looked at her expectantly.

She hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed or whether to go on at all. At length, she took a sip of water and said, “This isn’t easy for me, though, oddly, the fact that we hardly know each other makes it a bit easier.”

“It’s often easier to talk to people we’ve just met.”

She nodded, but she was pale and the words seemed to have gotten stuck in her throat. “It’s a favor, really.”

Arkadin had been waiting for this. “If I can help you, I will. What sort of favor?”

Out on the Neva a long sightseeing boat plowed slowly by, its spotlights illuminating great swaths of the river and the buildings on either embankment. They might have been in Paris, a city in which Arkadin had managed to lose himself many times, if only for a short time.

“I need help,” she said in a lost little voice that caused him to put his elbows on the table and lean toward her. “The kind of help your friend-what did you say his name was?”

“Oserov.”

“That’s right. I’ve always been good at summing people up very quickly. Your friend Oserov strikes me as the kind of man I need, am I right?”

“What kind of man is that?” Arkadin said, wondering what she was getting at and why this normally articulate woman was now having such a hard time finding the words she needed.

“Disposable.”

Arkadin laughed. She was a woman after his own mind. “What do you need him for, exactly.”

“I’d rather tell him personally.”

“The man hates your guts, so you’re better off telling me first.”

She looked out at the river and the opposite bank for a moment, then turned back to him. “All right.” She took a deep breath. “My brother’s in trouble-serious trouble. I need to find some way-some permanent way-of extricating him.”

Was her brother some sort of criminal? “So the police won’t find out, I’m guessing.”

She laughed without any humor. “I wish I could go to the police with this. Unfortunately, I can’t.”

Arkadin hunched his shoulders. “What’s he gotten into?”

“He’s in over his head with a loan shark-he’s got a gambling problem. I gave him some money to help him out but he just blew through that and when he came up short yet again, he stole a piece of artwork I was delivering to one of my clients. I’ve mollified the client, thank God, but if it ever came out I’d be finished.”

“I imagine it gets worse from here.”

She nodded woefully. “He went to the wrong people to fence it, got a third of what he should have gotten, an amount that wasn’t nearly enough. Now, unless something drastic is done, the lender will have him killed.”

“This lender, he’s powerful enough to make that happen?”

“Oh, yes.”

“All the better.” Arkadin smiled. He thought helping her would be fun, but also, like a chess player, he could already see how he could bring her into checkmate. “I’ll take care of it.”

“All I want you to do,” she said, “is introduce me to Oserov.”

“I’ve just told you, you don’t need him. I’ll do this favor for you.”

No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want you involved.”

He spread his hands. “I already am involved.”

“I don’t want you involved any deeper than you are.” The low lamplight fell across her as if they were in an intimate scene in a play, as if she were about to say the things that would make the audience gasp after holding its collective breath. “And as for Oserov, unless I’ve mistaken him, he likes money more than he hates me.”

Arkadin laughed again, despite himself. He was going to tell her she was forbidden to talk with Oserov, but something in her eyes stopped him. He suspected that she would get up, walk away, and he’d never see her again. And he very much did not want that to happen, because this opportunity to hold something vital over her, to use her, would be lost.

The increased jouncing of the cigarette boat returned Arkadin’s attention to the present. He had crossed the wake of the schooner and was now bearing down across its port flank. He got on the two-way radio and spoke to the schooner’s captain, with whom he had made prior arrangements.

Five minutes later he was bobbing alongside the schooner, a rope ladder had been lowered, and Boris Karpov’s rather corpulent body was climbing down.

“A fine place for two Russians to meet, eh, Colonel?” he said with a grin and a wink.

“I admit I was looking forward to meeting you,” Karpov said, “under vastly different circumstances.”

“Me in manacles or dead in a pool of blood, I can only imagine.”

Karpov seemed to be having trouble breathing. “You’ve amassed quite the reputation for mayhem and murder.”

“It’s difficult for any one person to live up to those rumors.” Arkadin was amused to see that Karpov, rather green around the gills, seemed in no mood for banter. “Don’t worry, seasickness lasts only as long as we’re on the water.”

He chuckled as the ladder was hoisted up. He pulled away from the schooner, cutting a pale wake through the water. The bow lifted as the cigarette began to slice through the waves, and Karpov sat down with an audible thump, head between his legs.

“Stand up,” Arkadin suggested, “and keep your eye on a fixed spot on the horizon-that freighter, for instance. That’ll minimize the nausea.”

After a moment, Karpov did just that.

“Don’t forget to breathe.”

Arkadin steered them south by southeast and when he judged he’d put enough distance between the cigarette and the schooner, he cut the engines to just above an idle, turned, and regarded his passenger.

“One thing I have to say about our government,” he said, “it trains its employees to follow orders to the letter.” He made a little mock-bow. “Congratulations.”

“Fuck you,” Karpov said before he turned toward the water and vomited copiously over the side.

Arkadin dragged out the ice chest that El Heraldo had stocked, and drew out a bottle of chilled vodka. “We don’t stand on ceremony at sea. Here’s a little bit of home, it’ll help settle your stomach.” He handed the bottle to Karpov. “But do me a favor and rinse your mouth before you take a swig.”

Karpov scooped a handful of seawater into his mouth, swished it around, and spat it out. Then he unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. His eyes closed as he swallowed.

“That’s better.” He returned the bottle to Arkadin. “Now to business, the sooner I get back on dry land the better.” But before Arkadin could reply, he turned and vomited again, hanging over the side of the cigarette, sweaty and limp. He moaned. And then again when Arkadin patted him down, looking for a weapon or an electronic recording device.

Finding none, Arkadin stepped away and waited until Karpov had rinsed his mouth out again, then said, “It seems we’d better get you to land sooner rather than later.”

Returning the bottle to the ice chest, he offered a handful of cubes to the colonel, then got back to driving the boat. He headed due south now, following a line of white-and-gray pelicans, flying in perfect formation, low to the inky water, at length turning in at the estuary of Estero Morua where he moored in shallow water. By that time darkness had engulfed the eastern sky. In the west it looked like a banked fire, all smoldering embers, glimmering dimly in a vain attempt to keep back the fall of night.