poured into her ears by men paying for sex with a child.
'If you love your baby so much, why won't you try to find her?'
'Won't look for her? All I've done for the last three days is search the stations again and again.'
'I know. But that's punishing yourself, not searching for the baby anywhere but Three Stations. There's much more to Moscow. It confuses me because I believe you're a good mother.'
'How would you know that?'
'Because you're suffering.'
'You don't know anything.'
'Then let me guess. You're a runaway, you're a prostitute and you're running for your life.'
She asked, 'What else?'
'You hid the baby in something it could breathe in, maybe a basket, and probably traveled second class at night. Pickpockets and confidence artists work as teams. One bumps you while the other lifts your money. Or one threatens you and the other comes to your rescue.'
'Auntie Lena chased a soldier who was bothering me.'
'Afterward, did Auntie Lena give you anything to drink?'
'Yes.'
'It had knockout powder. Once you drank that, you didn't have a chance.'
'I asked people later if they saw a woman with a baby get off the train.'
'By then the soldier had joined her, only he didn't look like a soldier and she didn't look like anybody's Auntie Lena. They looked like an ordinary family on a trip. That would be my guess.'
'And…'
'And the two men you saw in the elevator with Yegor are after you. I'm not sure whether you've seen them before, but you know what they are. Once in a while a girl escapes. Then someone has to go after her and not only catch her, but make an example of her, so other girls won't try.'
'They take pictures.'
'I've seen them.'
She had visions of women hanging from a meat hook, set on fire, floating facedown in a swimming pool.
'They tell us it's useless to escape because they're everywhere. Not only in Russia. They never stop looking and sooner or later they find you. I could be on the North Pole and they would find me. Is that true?'
'Pretty much.'
'You're cheery.'
'Sorry.'
'What about the…'
'The bodies? I don't care about them, I care about you. They're dead, you're alive. There are two professional killers after you. We have to keep you as far from this scene as possible.'
'I could do it if I knew Katya survived.'
'That's the baby's name?'
'Katya. She has a blue blanket with a design of baby chicks and a birthmark on the back of her neck if you lift her hair. I haven't settled on a last name yet.'
'Keep your options open.'
'My own is Pospelova. Remember that later.' She smiled. 'Maya Pospelova was here.'
They spread a bounty of cheese, bread, red caviar, chocolates and coffee on Arkady's kitchen table. He kept his eye on Maya. Surrendering her name seemed to have relieved her mind, as if a decision had been made. Her serenity worried Arkady, that and her use of the word 'later.' Arkady saw her wrist. He suspected that while Maya had little in the way of Plan A, she always had a trusty Plan B in the form of a razor blade.
Meanwhile Maya was entertained by Victor's stories. According to Victor, the art of the suicide note had deteriorated.
'A suicide tweet is not the same thing.'
'Don't you think that people who believe in love are happier?'
'It depends on who you are. Arkady falls in love with the regularity of spawning salmon, whereas I have incredibly high standards, yet we're equally miserable. It's become a national crisis. No romance, no little Russians, no army. That's why Putin played Cupid.'
'I don't remember that,' said Maya. There hadn't been newspapers at the bordello.
'He declared a Holiday of Love with bouquets for all the married women who came to Red Square. The weather was a little cool, a little cloudy. Putin wants everything perfect, so he salts the clouds.
'We do it for every parade. Planes go back and forth seeding clouds. The seeds are pellets of silver iodide and liquid nitrogen compacted into a block of cement powder. Each block, as an airman throws it out of the plane, explodes into a puff of dust. All but one.'
Arkady said, 'It's a shame you don't have children just so you could terrify them.'
Victor continued unabashed. 'One block stays together and plunges to the city from ten thousand meters like, well, a block of cement. To the pilots it appears that the block is aimed directly at the Kremlin. Options are considered. Try to shoot the block and make it disintegrate, at the risk of mowing down dozens of mothers in Red Square? Ram the block, at the risk of bringing down the plane? Do nothing and perhaps witness the most unusual political assassination in history? Of course they ended up doing nothing and the block came down in an apartment building nowhere near and tore through a roof and three bathrooms before coming to rest in a tub. I like to think of it as 'Putin's Arrow.''
Arkady was restless. He didn't know why. He fancied he heard the click of a latch out on the landing.
'Excuse me.' Arkady got up and went to the hall. Music was playing faintly in Anya's apartment. A samba.
Arkady knocked. When there was no answer, he rang the bell. He knocked again, then knelt and saw light under the door sash. The door was locked, but he carried a credit card for jimmying door locks.
Victor came out from Arkady's apartment. 'What's the matter?'
'Tell Zhenya and Maya to stay there.'
Arkady shoved the card in between the door and the jamb. A primitive method, but the door eased open.
The layout of Anya's apartment was a mirror of Arkady's, only hers was furnished with cheerful silk flowers, painted chairs and a buoyant disarray. Art covered the living-room walls. Mainly retro Socialist Realism painted with a smirk. The kitchen was dominated by a cafe-size espresso machine with brass fittings. There was little evidence of cooking besides a microwave oven and a list of phone numbers for take-out food. An empty glass stood in the sink.
Arkady called out Anya's name. No answer.
Victor pulled latex gloves from his pocket. Arkady wondered how many men walked around with latex gloves in their pocket, just in case.
Anya's office was a research center of book stacks, files, computer gear and photographs of Alexander Vaksberg pinned to a corkboard. Arkady's heart pounded, as if saying, Getting warmer.
'In here,' Victor said. 'The bedroom.'
Arkady had the general impression of a bright, messy bedroom with artwork and photos. He focused on Anya. She was on her back between a bureau and the bed, her nightgown pushed up to her waist. Her right ankle was over the left and her arms stretched back and gently touched, a perfect demonstration of the fifth position. She had no pulse or respiration and her skin was blue.
GOD IS SHIT was spray-painted on the wall above her. The paint was still wet and smelled of acetone. Victor turned where he stood as if they had fallen into a cave.
Arkady read the emergency bracelet on her wrist.
Milk.
Some people were fatally allergic to peanuts or shellfish. One taste and their immune system reacted so violently that they went into anaphylactic shock: their hearts stopped and their airways shut tight. Anya was blue for lack of oxygen. But there was death and there was death, and in between was a netherworld where the brain was on its own. He knelt beside her to look into her eyes. Her pupils still had their shape, not collapsed, and when he shined a penlight at them, they drew tight.
