“The way you broke it up? How can I forget?”

“I apologize.”

Pacheco had a rough face and small black eyes. “The man speaks English better than me.”

“Ernie is from Texas.” Wiley said. “He’s a cowboy.”

“Shh.” Pacheco put up a finger as the harpist drifted from “Fur Elise” to “Lara’s Theme.” “Ever see Doctor Zhivago?”

Wiley said, “There’s a chance that Investigator Renko has even read the book.”

“Two Americans show up at a Metro platform in the middle of the night. They don’t get off or board the train. Instead, they participate in the illegal videotaping of a ceremony in honor of Stalin. Do you both speak Russian?”

Wiley said, “I minored in Russian.”

“I was a marine sergeant at the embassy.” Pacheco sawed his meat and corralled it. “Back in the Cold War.”

“All I can tell you is that we were doing our job.”

“In Moscow? What would that job be?”

“I’m in marketing. I help people sell things. They can be soda pop, faster automobiles, fresher detergents, whatever and anywhere, Moscow, New York, Mexico City.”

“You want to sell Stalin in America?”

“No. In the States, Stalin is dead. Now, Hitler’s different. In America, Hitler continues to be hot. History Channel, street fashion, video games. But here in Russia, Stalin is the king. Long story short, we’re using nostalgia for Stalin to publicize the Russian Patriot political party. It’s a start-up party with only three weeks left before the election; it needs an instant identity and an attractive candidate. A good-looking war hero, if possible.”

“Brandy?” Pacheco asked Arkady.

“For breakfast?”

“It’s not over yet.”

Arkady tried to get back on track. “But Russian elections are Russian business. You are Americans.”

Wiley said, “Remember Boris Yeltsin’s return from the dead? He had an approval rating of two percent-he was a drunk, he was a clown, you name it-but American political consultants like me came on board, ran an American-style campaign and Yeltsin won, thirty-six percent to thirty-four percent for the Communists. Nikolai Isakov’s favorable rating is at least that. He will make an impact.”

“You do this for anyone? For either side?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a mercenary.”

“A professional. The main thing is-and I want to stress this-what I do is perfectly legitimate.”

“How is the campaign for Isakov going?”

Wiley paused. “Better than expected.”

“My questions aren’t offensive, I hope.”

“No, we’ve been expecting them. To be honest, Arkady, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Me?”

“You see, with any candidate we do a kind of questionnaire. Pluses and minuses. Mainly minuses because we need to anticipate any potential line of attack the opposition may take: drugs, assault, corruption, sexual orientation. We need to see the client naked, so to speak, because you never know when personal issues are going to go public. So far it looks like the only thing we have to worry about is you.”

“Me?”

Pacheco had twisted in his chair to watch the harpist. “Isn’t she an angel? Golden hair, white skin, white gown. All she needs is a pair of wings. Imagine what it’s like for her, getting up at five in the morning, dressing, riding the subway from God knows where to waste beautiful music on a crowd with their faces in their shredded wheat.”

Wiley hunched closer to Arkady. “Your wife ran off with Isakov. Are you going to make a stink about that?”

“She’s not my wife.”

Wiley’s face lit up. “Oh, I misunderstood. That’s a huge relief.”

The brandy came and Arkady drank half a snifter in one hot swallow.

“See, you did want it,” Pacheco said.

“What was the trick?” Arkady asked.

“Pardon?”

“Getting people to say they saw Stalin. What was the trick?”

Wiley smiled. “That’s simple. Create the right conditions and people will do the rest.”

“What do you mean?”

“People create their own reality. If four people see Stalin and you don’t, who are you, Arkady, to dispute the majority opinion?”

“I was there.”

“So were they. Millions of devout pilgrims believe in visions of the Virgin Mary,” Pacheco said.

“Stalin was not the Virgin Mary.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wiley said. “If four out of five people say they saw Stalin in the Metro, then Stalin was there as much as you. From what I’m told, your father did pretty well by the old butcher, so maybe you should have given him a salute instead of breaking up the party.”

As soon as Arkady left the Metropol he used his cell phone to call Eva’s. There was no answer. He called the apartment phone. Again, no answer. He called the number of the clinic desk and the receptionist said Eva wasn’t there either.

“Do you know when she left this morning?”

“Doctor Kazka wasn’t on duty this morning.”

“Last night, then.”

“She wasn’t on last night. Who is this?”

Arkady turned the phone off.

The sun was up, backlighting the snow. From the parking lot of the Metropol he looked directly at Theatre Square. The Bolshoi was being renovated and a chariot drawn by four horses was trapped high in the scaffolding. A man and woman walked arm in arm along the theater steps. They had a melancholy air, the classic scene of lovers hiding from a jealous mate.

“How would you describe yourself? A cheerful, sunny personality? Or serious, perhaps melancholy?” Tatiana Levina asked.

“Cheerful. Definitely sunny,” Arkady said.

“Do you like the outdoors? Sports? Or do you prefer indoor, intellectual activities?”

“The great outdoors. Skiing, soccer, long walks in the mud.”

“Do you have books?”

“Television.”

“Would you prefer a concert of Beethoven or gambling at a casino?”

“Of who?”

“Smoke?”

“Cutting back.”

“Drink?”

“Perhaps a glass of wine with dinner.”

Arkady had told Tatiana that he was a Russian American hoping to find a Russian bride. The matchmaker eyed him dubiously from his thin Russian shoes to his winter pallor, but her salesmanship responded to the challenge.

“Our women expect to meet American Americans, not Russian Americans. Also, I have this feeling you are a little more intense than you may be aware of. We try to match men and women who are alike in their interests and personalities. Opposites attract…and then they divorce. Tea?”

Tatiana had bright hennaed hair, an optimistic smile and a scent of sachet. She filled two cups from an electric kettle and wondered aloud how Arkady had found Cupid’s basement office with so much snow on the Arbat. The Arbat was a pedestrian thoroughfare designed to funnel strolling tourists into shops selling amber, vodka, nesting dolls, imperial knickknacks and T-shirts with Lenin’s face. Or, in Cupid’s case, introductions to Russian women. Today the snow had blown away the sketch artists, jugglers, Gypsies and all but the hardiest tourist. Arkady had seen Zoya leave, sleek in a full-length fur coat and matching hat, but the office lights had stayed on and he thought that before Victor descended on the morgue again it might be wise to see the business Zoya co-owned with the husband she wanted dead. Victor had stopped by the apartment and jumped to copy Petrov’s mini cassettes. Pornography was wasted on Arkady, who had dashed through it, but all evidence demanded study, Victor maintained. Anything less was unprofessional.

Cupid had a waiting area, a conference space where the matchmaker and Arkady sat, two cubicles separated by frosted glass and a closed inner office he assumed was Zoya’s. Framed photographs of happy couples covered the walls. The wives were young and Russian; the husbands were middle-aged Americans, Australians, Canadians.

“What is most important is that you and your mate are alike. Wouldn’t you want someone educated, cultured and deep?”