“No.”

“You are a filmmaker?”

“An independent filmmaker.”

“Could someone have rigged a film or a videotape?”

“Set it up and broken it down? Not fast enough.” Zelensky winked in the girl’s direction.

“He stood where?”

On the sketch Zelensky marked the platform directly opposite the last car.

“Then?”

“He walked away. Vanished.”

“Walked or disappeared?”

“Disappeared.”

“What did he do with the flag?”

“What flag?”

“You told the detectives that Stalin had a flag.”

“I guess it disappeared too.” Zelensky lifted his head. “But I saw Stalin.”

“And said, ‘Fuck your mother!’ Why the Chistye Prudy Metro? Of all the stations for Stalin to show up at, why here?”

“It’s obvious. You went to the university?”

“Yes.”

“You look it. Well, I’ll tell you something I bet you don’t know. When the Germans bombed Moscow, when this was called Kirov Station, this was where Stalin came, deep underground. He slept on a cot on the platform and the General Staff slept in subway cars. They didn’t have a fancy war room like Churchill or Roosevelt. They put plywood up for walls and every time a train came through, maps and papers would fly around, but they put together a strategy that saved Moscow. This place should be like Lourdes, with people on their knees, plaster Stalins for sale, crutches on the wall. Can’t you see it?”

“I’m not an artist like you. I remember One Plus One. That was an interesting film.”

“The serial killer. That was a long time ago.”

“What films have I missed?”

“How-to films.”

“Woodworking? Plumbing?”

“How to fuck.”

Arkady heard Zurin groan. The schoolgirl Marfa Bourdenova blushed but didn’t move away.

“Do you have a business card?”

Zelensky gave him one that read Cine Zelensky on new, crisply cut pasteboard suitable for a comeback. The address given was on fashionable Tverskaya, even if the phone prefix was for the less elegant south end of Moscow.

The clock over the tunnel read 0450. Arkady stood and thanked all the witnesses, warning them that it was snowing outside. “You’re all free to leave or wait for the first train.”

Zelensky didn’t wait. He bounced to his feet, spread his arms like the winner of a match and shouted, “He’s back! He’s back!” all the way to the escalator. He clapped as he rode up, followed by the Bourdenova girl, who was already fumbling for her phone.

Zurin said, “Why didn’t you warn them not to talk to people outside the station?”

“Did some riders have cell phones?”

“Some.”

“Did you collect them?”

“No.”

“They have had nothing else to do but spread the word.”

Arkady almost felt for Zurin. Through coup and countercoup, Party rule and brief democracy, fall of the ruble and rise of millionaires, the prosecutor had always bobbed to the surface. And here he was in the subway, shooting spittle in his confusion and rage. “It’s a hoax or it didn’t happen. But why would anyone perpetrate such a hoax? And why would the bastards do it in my district? How am I expected to stop someone from posing as Stalin? Should we shut down the Metro while detectives search on their hands and knees for the footprints of a ghost? I’ll look ridiculous. It could be Chechens.”

That was desperate, Arkady thought. He looked toward the tunnel. The time was 0456. “You don’t need me for this.”

The prosecutor shifted close enough. “Oddly enough, I do. Zelensky acts as if this was a miracle. I tell you that miracles only happen on orders from above. Ask yourself, where are the agents of state security in all this? Where is the KGB?”

“FSB now.”

“The same can of worms. Usually, they’re everywhere. Suddenly, they’re not. I’m not being critical, not a bit, but I know when someone pulls down my drawers and fucks me from behind.”

“Wearing a mask in the subway is not a crime and without a crime there’s no investigation.”

“That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Arkady wanted to be at Komsomol Square when the Metro began running.

“Most of our witnesses are elderly people. They have to be treated with sensitivity. Isn’t that what you are, our sensitive investigator?”

“There was no crime, and they’re useless as witnesses.”

Antipenko and Mendeleyev sat side by side, like the stones of a slumping wall.

“Who knows? They might open up. A little sympathy goes a long way with people that age. Also, there’s your name.”

“My name?”

“Your father’s. He knew Stalin. He was one of Stalin’s favorites. Not many can say that.”

And why not? Arkady thought. General Kyril Renko was a talented butcher, not a sensitive soul at all. Even given that all successful commanders were butchers-“None more passionately loved by the troops than Napoleon,” as the General used to say-even given that bloody standard, Kyril Renko stood out. A car, a long Packard with soldiers on the running boards, would come for the General to take him to the Kremlin. Either to the Kremlin or the Lubyanka, it wasn’t clear which until the car turned left or right at the Bolshoi, left to a cell at the Lubyanka or right to the Kremlin’s Spassky Gate. Other generals fouled their pants on the way. General Renko accepted the choice of fates as a fact of life. He would remind Arkady that his own swift rise through the ranks had been made possible by the execution by Stalin of a thousand Russian officers on the eve of the war. How could Stalin not appreciate a general like that?

Arkady asked, “What about the detectives who were on the scene?”

“Urman and Isakov? You said yourself there is no question of criminality. This is a matter we may not even want on the books. What is more appropriate is a humane, informal inquiry by a veteran like you.”

“You want me to find Stalin’s ghost?”

“In a nutshell.”

A heavyset man in underclothes sat at the kitchen table, his head resting on his forearm, a cleaver standing in the back of his neck. One forensic technician videotaped the scene while another peeled the dead man’s hand from a water glass. Vodka was still in it, Isakov told Arkady. A tech poured half the dead man’s glass into a vial to test later for rat poison, which would show premeditation. Crusted dishes, pickle bottles and glittering empties of vodka were piled in a corner to make room on the drain board for open packages of sugar and yeast, and in the sink for a pressure cooker, rubber hoses and plastic tubing. Alcohol formed at the end of a tube, hung and dripped into a jar. Otherwise, the kitchen was decorated with a mounted wolf head and bushy tail, a tapestry with a hunting motif and a photograph of the dead man and a woman as two people younger and happier. The refrigerator hummed, speckled with blood. Snow fidgeted with a loose windowpane. For the moment no one smoked, despite the flatulent stink of death. According to a cuckoo clock it was 4:55.

Arkady waited at the door with Nikolai Isakov and Marat Urman. Arkady had imagined Isakov so many times that the real man was smaller than expected. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but his blue eyes suggested coolness under fire and his forehead bore interesting scars. His leather jacket was scuffed from wear and his voice was almost whispery. Arkady’s father had always said that the ability to command was innate; men would either follow you or not. Whatever the quality was, Isakov had it. His partner Urman was a Tatar built round and hard, with the broad smile of a successful pillager. A raspberry red leather jacket and a gold tooth revealed a taste for flash.

“It seems to be a case of cabin fever,” Isakov said. “The wife says they hadn’t left the house since it started snowing.”

“Started like a honeymoon.” Urman grinned.

Isakov said, “It appears that they could drink vodka faster than they could make it.”