“The carpets.”

“I understand.” It was hardly unusual to change footwear if slippers were provided.

“The professor’s pride and joy.” She pointed to the most threadbare carpet on the floor. “A minor carpet to be sure, but it was on a professor’s salary.” She sniffed. “Such ambience. Perhaps an open window would be a good idea.”

Arkady looked at a photo of a middle-aged man striking a pose with a beret squashed on his head and a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

“Does he have a family?”

“The professor’s son is an anarchist. He travels the world protesting international conferences by setting cars on fire. Notice the television and videotape player. Two bedrooms, one bath. The carpets, of course. The shower and kitchen have been redone. Gas and electricity are connected. I’m sorry to say that the telephone has been turned off, but you no doubt have a cell phone. Everyone does.”

Moving into such a completely furnished apartment was like wearing someone else’s clothes, but on the plus side the building directly opposite was commercial, not the roost of curious babushkas. The ground floor offered two exits, a front door to the street and carport and a back door to a courtyard with a playground and bicycle stand. Across the courtyard was a row of small enterprises-an Internet cafe, a weight-lifting club and a beauty salon. A couple of men loitered in sweat suits outside the club’s back door. Sofia Andreyeva was willing to rent month to month at a fraction of what a hotel would cost.

Arkady said, “I like it. Is the son likely to pop in?”

“I doubt it. He’s in jail in Geneva. In case there is a problem…” She tore off a corner of the newspaper and wrote a phone number. “My business cards are still at the printer’s. Just call in the afternoons and ask for Doctor Andreyeva.”

“A medical doctor? Two occupations?”

“For the sake of eating.”

“I’ll see you if I catch a cold.”

“Let’s hope not, for your sake. Are you married?”

“No.”

“You may not know, but men from America, Australia, from all over the world come here to meet Russian brides. I don’t think we really need a written contract. Keys count more than paper. Will you be getting any mail here?”

“No, that will go to the office.”

“Much better.”

Sofia Andreyeva buttoned her coat, ready to fly.

Arkady said, “Before you go, I didn’t get the professor’s name.”

“Professor Golovanov. He likes to say that his liver is Russian and his stomach is French. I am, in a sense, midway between Russian and French myself.”

“Polish?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I saw something. A certain flair.”

“Yes, yes.” She was delighted but froze at the sound of footsteps in the hall. A piece of paper slid under the door and the steps moved on. “What is it?”

“A flyer for a political rally.”

One side of the flyer promised music and clowns, while the other bore a photograph of Isakov in combat gear riding the fender of an armored personnel carrier.

“Politics.” Sofia Andreyeva treated the word like dirt. “Of course, we must register your new address with the militia. You being a prosecutor’s investigator, I’ll leave that to you.”

“Of course.”

Arkady understood perfectly. Sometimes it was better not to ask too many questions. Granted, there was a chance that a resuscitated Professor Golovanov might return from a holiday in the south of France, swilling wine and singing the Marseillaise. All the same, Arkady had rarely seen the law broken with such elan.

The day was comfortably crisp, more Easter weather than winter, the pastel walls of Lenin Square glowing in the sun. A balalaika ensemble entertained on a stage decorated with the white, blue and red of the Russian flag. Clowns swayed on stilts. Teenagers on in-line skates distributed “I am a Russian Patriot” T-shirts. Volunteers spun cotton candy, pink and blue. Technicians laid cable and every minute or so the sound system erupted with a shriek. A truck-mounted outdoor video screen rose on hydraulic lifts behind the stage while a camera crew worked on a platform facing the stage, Zelensky on the camera, Bora extending a microphone boom. Zelensky was as emaciated as ever. Bora appeared at the limit of his technical abilities. Arkady spotted Petya handling a mobile camera on the ground. Arkady took one of the Patriot shirts being handed out. The photo of Isakov printed on the back was similar to one on a T-shirt he had seen before, except that the hero carried a shovel instead of a rifle and the tiger’s head patch of OMON was replaced by the emblem of a red star, a rose and a third element Arkady could not identify.

More people than Arkady expected had come. Besides the usual steel-teeth pensioners, the rally had attracted coal miners and veterans of the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya. Miners and veterans were serious men. Some of the veterans were in wheelchairs, driving home the point that Isakov was one candidate who had not weaseled or bribed his way out of serving his country. Speeches had been scheduled to begin at one in the afternoon and last for an hour. At two, the minor candidates began even though the stage crew was still fighting feedback and the screen crew was still adjusting its angle. But a festive atmosphere prevailed. This was a taped event, not live. No one paid particular attention to the time except Arkady. He wanted to buy a car with Tver license plates before the day was out. A white Zhiguli with Moscow plates was too easy to track.

As the crowd grew, Arkady moved to the side so that he could see backstage as well. Two trailers, the kind afforded actors on a movie set, stood on either side of the video truck. One was for the lesser candidates; the Russian Patriots had a score of them to present to the public, decoys chosen to fill a slate. The party’s only genuine candidate was Isakov, who stood outside the opposite trailer with Urman and two figures that Arkady hadn’t seen since the Metropol Hotel, the American political wizards, Wiley and Pacheco. Isakov was entirely in black. Black was New Russia’s favorite color for German cars and Italian suits, but he also possessed the stillness of a movie actor resting with his entourage. Wiley’s fine comb-over lifted in the breeze.

Arkady wondered why the men were outside. Why didn’t they take advantage of the trailer?

He called Eva’s cell phone and watched the group.

At the first ring, Urman and Isakov looked at the trailer.

On the second they looked at each other.

“Hullo.”

“It’s me,” Arkady said.

“Are you in Moscow?” Eva asked. “Tell me that you are back in Moscow.”

“Not quite. Are you all right?” That seemed to Arkady a question apropos for a woman living with a murderer.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I just need time to sort this out.”

“You said we would talk.”

“After the election.”

At that moment the stage sound system emitted a squawk. Eva appeared at the trailer window. She had heard what he heard.

“You’re here?”

“This is better than the circus.”

“Go home. You’re safe if you go home.”

“Who told you that?”

As Isakov climbed in the trailer, Eva moved out of sight. Words were murmured. Arkady heard Isakov’s “please” and felt the surrender of the cell phone from Eva’s hand.

“Renko?”

“Yes.”

“Stay where you are,” Isakov said.

Arkady watched Isakov open the door to speak to Urman, who opened his cell phone and punched in a number. Arkady knew whose when Zelensky’s telephoto lens sorted through the crowd and locked on him like the scope of a rifle.

Arkady’s image leapt onto the video screen, only for a second because Isakov came onstage.

“You know me. I am Nikolai Sergeevich Isakov from Tver, and I stand for Russia.”

Fervent applause, as they used to say, Arkady thought.

Isakov described a nation under siege by religious fanatics and shadowy alliances. Out in the world were nuclear warheads, human bombs, and fair-weather friends. Closer to home was a circle of vampires that had stripped Russia of its treasure and, worse, subverted its values and traditions. It was an ordinary rant, but what did people actually take away from such an event? Arkady wondered. That Nikolai Isakov withstood magnification on a large screen. That he was handsome in a hard-used way. That he was accustomed to command. That he was one of their own, a son of Tver. That they had reached up and touched a hero.