Like a developing photo, the prints of the palm, heel and fingers of large hands appeared in sepia tones around Kuznetsov’s wrists.

Platonov was excited. “You found what you were looking for!”

“Smudged,” the pathologist said. “Too much twisting and torquing, not a single usable print.”

In a way it was the worst possible outcome, Arkady thought, more a matter of fears confirmed than knowledge gained. A call came in on his cell phone, a text message: “Urgent meet, U know where.;)” That had to be from Victor. Arkady acknowledged the call and turned to Kuznetsov’s wife. She was the indeterminate color of an old rug and possibly that was what she had been in life, Arkady thought, with her scabs and bruises, something Kuznetsov had wiped his boots on. Her head arched rigidly back, mouth and eyes agape.

“Can someone swallow their tongue?” Platonov asked.

The pathologist said, “The tongue is a muscle firmly attached to the base of the mouth. You can’t swallow it.”

“There’s dried blood in the nostrils,” Arkady said.

“She didn’t die of a nosebleed.”

“Then what happened to her? She doesn’t look happy.”

“Between congestive heart failure, pneumonia, diabetes, cirrhosis of the liver and her level of alcohol, who knows? Her heart stopped. Should I fume her the same as him?”

“Please.”

The pathologist played the flute around her arms and found no prints, smudged or otherwise. But her eyes said something, Arkady thought.

“Her face,” he said. “Try her face.”

The pathologist bent over her with the flute and when he stood back the print of a hand appeared across her nose and mouth. Individual prints were blurred; still there was that shadow hand sealing her face shut.

Arkady said, “If someone kept her mouth closed and pinched her nose, maybe from behind, a big man trained in hand-to-hand, who lifted her off the ground first and squeezed the air from her lungs…”

“Then the tongue might fall back and, yes, obstruct the airway to some degree. I don’t know how significant.”

“How long would it take?”

“If she lost her breath at the start, with her heart and alcohol content, no time at all. But I thought she was in a holding cell in militia custody.”

“She was. We want to get some pictures of these prints before they fade.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Platonov asked.

“Probably nothing.”

All the same, Kuznetsov had been a Black Beret from Tver, as were Isakov and Urman, and all three served in Chechnya. It was hard to believe the detectives had not recognized their old comrade even with a cleaver in his neck.

What was left of the Communist Party fit into a two-story gray stucco building off Tsvetnoy Boulevard opposite the circus. On the ground floor was a security desk with a gray-haired guard and a hall of stockrooms of pamphlets and mailing materials. On the second floor were Party headquarters: offices, secretary pool, conference room and coats everywhere, coats hung and boots piled, in the rush to the conference table where sweet champagne was poured and platters offered red caviar, silvery smoked fish, fatback so fine it was translucent, black bread and slices of seasoned horsemeat. On the wall hung a portrait photograph of Lenin, a red Soviet flag and a campaign banner that demanded, Who Stole Russia?

“Like the old days,” Platonov said. “Pigs to the trough.” He stacked sausage on a pamphlet of “Marx: Frequently Asked Questions.” “Have some?”

“No, thanks.”

Arkady hadn’t seen such a concentration of Homo Sovieticus for years. Supposedly extinct, here they were unchanged, with their bad suits, dull eyes, self-important frowns. These were bellies that had never missed a meal. He saw none of the elderly that picketed Red Square in the bitter cold for their miserable pensions.

Arkady moved back to the hall. “I’m going. You’re safe now you’re surrounded by friends.”

“These freeloaders and cretins? The smart ones, my real friends, left the Party years ago. This is what’s left, nothing left but the stupid rats swilling wine on a sinking ship.”

“Why didn’t you leave?”

“I was a son of the Revolution, which means I was illegitimate. A bastard, if you will. I tagged along with a regiment-that’s how I picked up chess-and when Hitler and his gang invaded Russia I volunteered for the army. I was fourteen. My first battle, out of two thousand men, twenty-five survived. I survived the war and then I represented the Soviet Union in chess for forty years. I am too old a leopard to change my spots. Stay and eat and give me someone to talk to.”

“I’m meeting a colleague for dinner.” If that described having a drink with Victor, Arkady thought. And after, meeting the journalist Ginsberg for a list of Black Berets who had served with Isakov in Chechnya.

Arkady flattened himself to let latecomers through. Among them was Tanya, the harpist from the Metropol, in the same white gown. With her golden hair she looked like a figure from a fairy tale. She whispered apologies as she squeezed by, not at all the reckless skier that the Cupid photo had made her seem.

“You’ll come back?” Platonov asked Arkady. “It will be an early night; I have to be sharp tomorrow.”

“Our grandmaster Ilya Sergeevich is going to a chess tournament and do the honor of playing the winner.” A plump little man bobbed at Platonov’s elbow. “It will be televised, won’t it?”

“Taped. Taped and burned, hopefully,” Platonov said.

“Surkov here, chief of propaganda.” The man offered Arkady a damp hand to shake. “I know who you are. You need no introduction here.”

Platonov informed Arkady, “This is one of the cretins I was telling you about.”

Surkov said, “The grandmaster is one of our most renowned and respected members. A link to the past. He’s always joking. The fact is, we’re a completely different Party these days. Streamlined, open and willing to adjust.”

“Ever since we went in the shit can,” Platonov muttered.

“See, that sort of talk doesn’t really help. We have to be upbeat. We’re giving people a choice,” Surkov called after Arkady, who was headed for the door.

Arkady’s only regret was that by the time he returned Tanya would be gone. He wasn’t so much attracted as curious. Something about her was familiar, something besides skiing or plucking the strings of a harp.

As Arkady drove away he passed a statue of a clown on a unicycle planted on the boulevard to mark the circus. With the snow spinning around the clown he seemed to Arkady to pedal toward the circus entrance one moment and to the Party offices the next, bowing to slapstick and then to farce.

The Gondolier offered murals of the Grand Canal, but the restaurant was on Petrovka Street, half a block from militia headquarters, and the regular customers were detectives who came to get hammered. The usual order was a hundred milliliters of vodka for a good day, two hundred milliliters for a bad. The regulars at the bar were reinforced by OMON officers in blue and black camos celebrating the acquittal for homicide of their former colleague Igor Borodin. Shouts of “Pizza delivery!” drew great laughs and the clamor had driven Victor to a back booth, where he sat like a brooding spider.

As Arkady joined him Victor indicated the vast distance to the bar and said, “I feel I’m too far from my mother’s tit.”

“You seem to be set up.”

Victor’s forearm protected a bottle.

“You have no sympathy at all, Investigator Renko. You’re an unsympathetic person. If you’re drinking at the bar the bottle is right there within your reach. Sit back here at a table and you could die of thirst waiting to be served. Vultures could pick at your bones, nobody would notice.”

“It is a sad picture. This is what you’ve been doing all day?”

Victor asked someone invisible, “Have you ever noticed how smug sober people can be?”