Although the night's rainstorm had become morning's drizzle, Yegor insisted on getting in line for hot dogs and beer at an outdoor kiosk.

"I knew you'd come," he told Maya.

"Just until we find my baby."

The clerk in the kiosk was brown, with dark eyelids and a scholar's wire-rim glasses. He greeted Yegor tentatively. "Are you in a good mood today, my friend?"

"Definitely."

"That's good. You are always welcome when you are in a good mood."

"We've been waiting an hour for some fucking service. I'm just kidding."

"You are in a fine mood, I can see. You are our guest. Whatever you want."

"You're sure?"

"A hundred percent."

"Ali is a good guy," Yegor told Maya. "Indian or Pakistani?"

"Pakistani, please," Ali said.

"Who somehow got stuck here in Moscow."

"Stranded by fate. I came to study thirty years ago and here I am."

"Some ignorant shits gave Ali some trouble."

"Prejudice is a terrible thing. You bet I am the only Pakistani with his own kiosk."

"Prejudice." Yegor shook his head.

"But Yegor snapped his fingers and trouble disappeared. Now there are no more problems, at least not from violent youth, thanks to Yegor. You go to any other kiosk and you will hear the same story. Yegor is an important friend to have."

Yegor pushed Maya's hood back and revealed her blue scalp. "What do you think?"

"Quite exotic. How old is she?"

"Enough." Yegor collected the food and hustled Maya away, but he was pleased. "Did you hear that? You have an 'important friend.'"

"I don't want a friend, I want Katya."

"Agreed, but you can't go talking about a fucking baby with potential customers. A deal goes both ways. You have to keep your end of the bargain."

"I will."

"And stay away from Genius. He thinks you're the Virgin Mary. Don't act that way around me. You should be happy I appreciate you the way you are."

Which was nothing more than a prostitute, Maya thought. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if his hands crawled over her body, milking her breasts and insinuating himself between her legs, although he hadn't put a hand on her. The sensation was hypnotic and demeaning and she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing.

From hours of intimate observation she could read men. Some wanted the fantasy sex of a lifetime, worth a special chapter in a book. Some wanted to rescue an innocent girl, after sex, not before. They all wanted their money's worth.

Maya choked on her hot dog and spat it into the gutter.

"What's the matter?" Yegor asked.

"It's disgusting."

"No time to start like the present, then."

Rain slowed but didn't halt traffic and Maya wondered what passengers in the cars saw when they looked out of their cozy lives. A red stream of brake lights. A miserable few tables of CDs and DVDs under plastic. A young pimp and a whore in their element.

At three weeks Katya was still a part of her mother. Every taste and smell, warmth and touch, was her mother. When she was startled her mother's voice soothed her, and if she could not focus farther than her mother's face, that was enough. Like the earth and moon, they seemed to be in perpetual orbits around each other, and when she woke and heard a different voice, her universe began to collapse. The babushka Auntie Lena went into the Kazansky Station ladies' room and came out as Magdalena, still an imposing woman but colorfully dressed, with hoop earrings and hennaed hair. Basket in hand, she swept through the waiting room and joined her partner, Vadim, who had made his own transformation from drunken soldier to sober civilian. Together they left the station and crossed a side plaza with a statue of Lenin to an eight-story apartment house that overlooked Three Stations.

Usually she put on her Auntie Lena act to troll for girls. Hard class always had a couple. She would soften them up with stories about money to be made in Moscow and share snapshots of herself and a "daughter" in front of an expensive car. Why endure the boredom of a rural village giving sex for free to pimply youths when a glamorous life awaited them in exclusive clubs as escorts of the wealthiest, most dynamic men in the world? Then Vadim would step in as a menace or a friend in need; he could play it either way.

The baby was pure luck. Vadim had gotten drunk with a General Kassel, who confided how his wife was driving him crazy from wanting a baby. Not a shelter baby or some disease-ridden four-year-old delinquent, but a real baby. If possible, one with no birth certificate or history. The general was being reassigned to a new post two thousand kilometers from the old. It would be nice if they could show up without having to explain to people the miraculous addition of a newborn. The general named a figure that was astronomical. At best Magdalena and Vadim had hoped for a pregnant girl who would prefer her freedom and money in her pocket to pushing a stroller with a snotty, bawling baby. Maya was the dream candidate.

"I'll tell you just how this will go. The new parents will examine the goods-that's only natural-but they will have milk, diapers and rattle laid out so they can play mommy and daddy right away. It will take fifteen minutes. They won't want us hanging around."

At the elevator Vadim asked if the baby's diapers were clean.

"Yes. She's a beautiful baby. The general and his wife should be very happy."

"What if it's a trap?"

"You're always so nervous. That girl's not going to go to the police. She's on the run. She's our ticket. A healthy baby without a single record? Who doesn't even exist on paper? That's one in a million." When the baby started to fuss, Magdalena smiled indulgently. "Our golden baby."

The Kassels were in a second-floor apartment borrowed from friends who were on holiday. The general welcomed Vadim and Magdalena with a bonhomie that didn't hide the sweat on his forehead. He had brought in a doctor the same way a sensible man has an auto mechanic check out a used car before buying.

The general's wife bit her knuckles. Her fingertips were already raw.

She said, "You should have given me more warning."

"Everything happened so fast. And we're leaving tomorrow."

However, she was ready with nappies and formula, as Magdalena had predicted, right down to the rattle.

The doctor warned the Kassels not to get their hopes up. Generally a baby was abandoned for a reason. The chances of a street foundling not being damaged or sickly were poor.

Magdalena opened the basket. "See for yourself."

While the doctor unwrapped the swaddling Vadim tried to entertain the general and his wife with lies about the baby's provenance, how the mother was a young ballerina forced to choose between the baby and a career. He tailed off when he noticed that no one was listening. The room's attention had shifted to the examination.

The human face was a map. The shape, size and position of the ears could imply one syndrome. The spacing of eyes, mouth or nose could imply another. Or genetic damage. No alarms yet.

She was quiet while the doctor listened to her chest and back, but she fussed during her ear exam and cried vigorously about having a light shined in her eyes. The doctor looked in the baby's mouth for thrush and checked the palate. Felt her abdomen, scanned her for rashes, bruises or birthmark and finally gave her a shot of hepatitis B, which didn't make her any happier.

"This is a well-cared-for infant," the doctor said.

"Is it healthy?" the general demanded.

"Oh, yes. Off a brief examination, thriving."

"Didn't we say so?" Vadim jumped out of his seat and shook the general's hand. "Congratulations, you're a father."