Urman stood next to Arkady. “I think that bullet must have really addled your brain. You should be as far from here as you can get.”

“That occurred to me, but I wanted to hear Isakov in person.”

“So, what do you think?” Urman asked.

“He’s going from murder to politics. Is that a step up or down? What do the Americans think?”

“They’re happy. I told them you were harmless. Are you harmless?”

“As a babe.”

“Were you a babe at the Boatman last night? Are you fucking with me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare fuck with you. I don’t want to swallow my tongue.”

“Because I could take care of you now.”

“I doubt that. No, not at a rally days before the election. Wiley is an expert. He can explain to you the negative effect murder has on a rally. In fact, I think I have a little breathing room here.” Arkady had tuned out Isakov’s speech, but he contributed a polite clap. “What a perfect day for an event like this. You are a lucky man. But what exactly are you? In Chechnya you were second in command to Isakov. You’re partners with him in the detective squad. Now you’re his campaign manager? What’s next? Footstool? Bootlick?”

Urman half laughed, half sighed. “You’re trying to provoke me?”

“Well, Mongols do have a history of violence, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane and all.”

“You’ve gone mental.”

“Maybe. A funny thing about being shot in the head is-”

“You should be dead.”

“That’s it, I should be.”

“Did you get a glimpse of the other side? Did you see a tunnel and a light?”

“I saw a grave.”

“You know, that’s what I always figured.”

People swarmed by. Eighty-year-old farmers in forty-year-old suits were followed at a quick march by men and boys in military camos and by babushkas at full hobble. A teenage boy rushed by with his father and grandfather. They made a heartwarming picture, three generations in camos with identical shoulder patches of a red star, a helmet and a rose.

“An outdoor club?”

“Diggers.”

“Why are they called that?”

Urman shrugged. “They dig. They dig and they love Nikolai; they’re what Wiley calls Nikolai’s base. They need someone like him.”

“A serial killer?”

“That is an unsubstantiated accusation by a brain-damaged man. Prosecutor Zurin will say so, Prosecutor Sarkisian will say so and so will we.”

On stage Isakov built to a climax. “Russia’s blood sacrifice of twenty million lives stemmed the Fascist invaders. Reminders of that struggle can be found around Tver even today.”

Overwhelming applause.

“Why are the Americans here?” Arkady asked.

“Nikolai has momentum. The Americans say momentum is very important in politics. They thought they were setting up a paper candidate to fuck up the opposition. They’re taking a second look at Nikolai now.”

The real and the projected Isakovs said together, “It is our moral duty to protect Russia’s security, rationalize her economic gains, uproot corruption, identify the thieves and connivers who stole the assets of the people, ruthlessly stamp out terrorism, rebuild her defenses with apologies to no one, reject the meddling by foreign hypocrites in our internal affairs, promote traditional Russian customs and values, protect our environment and leave a better world for our children. And I will always remember that I am one of you.” He wasn’t done. A girl came out on stage bearing the obligatory bouquet and something that Isakov pinned to his jacket lapel. On the video screen the camera closed in on an emblem of the star, helmet and rose. Isakov was a Digger too.

Rapturous, passionate applause. A standing ovation. Shouts of “Isakov! Isakov!”

“What the devil was that about?” Arkady asked.

“It’s a good windup to the campaign,” Urman said. “It’s got everything.”

“Like a fruit salad. You really think Isakov has a chance?”

“He’s been a winner ever since I’ve known him. Since we joined the Black Berets. There are twelve candidates. He only needs a plurality.”

Isakov had not left the stage. He carried the girl from one side to the other while roses landed at his feet. Urman joined in the rhythmic applause.

“Why did he drop out?” Arkady asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you and Isakov met in OMON, he had just left the university.”

“He was bored. He was sick of books. They taught us something useful in OMON. Hit first, keep hitting.”

“Good advice. But he was a five-point student, at the top of his class, and in his last week, he threw away all that hard work. That doesn’t strike me as boredom. Something happened.”

“You never let up,” Urman said.

“It’s an innocent question. Anyway, you’re going to kill me as soon as you get the nod.”

Urman leaned close to speak confidentially. “Do you know how I kill an enemy? First I cut off his testicles-”

“You fry them and eat them and on and on. I heard all about it. But at the Sunzha Bridge, you simply shot people in the back.”

“I was in a hurry. With you I’ll take my time.” Urman reassured Arkady with a pat on the back and slipped away.

The crowd wasn’t leaving. A rhythmic clap continued and so many boys rode their fathers’ shoulders they were a second tier of enthusiasm. The sound system poured out the Soviet national anthem, the wartime version that included, “Stalin has raised us with faith in the people, inspiring them to labor and glorious deeds!” The applause doubled when Isakov returned to the stage to say informally, like a personal reminder, “The dig will tell the tale!”

Maybe, Arkady thought. Maybe Urman could make him beg for mercy, although Arkady had trained with a master.

“Skin is sensitive.”

Arkady was twelve years old. In Afghanistan. He had returned to camp covered with ant bites, each bite hot and throbbing and his face swollen.

His father sat on the cot and continued. “There have been experiments. Subjects have been hypnotized and told they were burned and blisters appeared on their skin. Other patients who were in pain were hypnotized and their pain went away. Not far away, perhaps, but enough.”

The General loosened his necktie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. Took a sharp breath through his nose and sipped his scotch.

“The skin blushes with embarrassment, goes pale with fear, shivers in the cold. The question is, why were you riding around on a motorcycle outside the base? Outside the base is dangerous and off-limits, you know that.”

“I didn’t see any signs.”

“There have to be signs posted for you? What were you doing on the bike when you fell?”

“Just riding.”

“A little too fast, maybe? Doing some stunts?”

“Maybe.”

The General finished the glass and poured another. He lit a cigarette. Bulgarian tobacco. For Arkady, the match flame focused the pain of the bites.

“So far as the natives are concerned we are guest engineers building an airstrip under a treaty of friendship and cooperation. That’s why we’re in civilian clothes. That’s why we buy their pomegranates and grapes, because we want to cement our friendship and be even more welcome. But this is still a Soviet military base and I am still its commander. Understood?

“Yes.”

The cigarette smoke was aromatic and blue as a thunderhead.

“Were there any natives there? Did any of them see the accident?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Two men. I was lucky they were there.”

“I’m sure.” His father blew the flame out as it reached his fingertips. “It must hurt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re thirteen years old?”

“Twelve.”

“Twenty bites is a lot at any age. Did you cry?”

“Yes, sir.”

The General picked a flake of tobacco from his lip. “The people who live here and surround this base are tough. These people fought Alexander the Great. They’re warriors and their children are trained to be warriors and, no matter what, not to cry. Understand? Not to cry.” His father’s face turned red. Arkady didn’t think it was from embarrassment. Veins spread on the General’s forehead and neck. “I am the commander of this base. The son of the commander does not fall off his bike in front of the natives and if he does fall off and is bitten by a hundred ants he does not cry.”