"Sadly, no. But you have to help us."

"We can't hand over a baby to just anyone," the lieutenant said.

"Lieutenant…" As if to a naughty boy.

"Just playing with her head."

The major said, "Your train arrived more than an hour ago. You should have come to us then. Time is critical in finding a child alive."

"We're wasting time now."

"Your full name?"

"Maya."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Are you married, Maya?"

"No."

"I see. Who is the father?"

"Someone I met, I suppose."

The lieutenant said, "Someone she met."

"I don't know." Still, woman-to-woman, the major seemed sympathetic.

"You're very young to have a baby. What grade are you in?"

"I graduated."

"You don't look it. Show me your ticket and papers, please."

"They were in my basket. I had two baskets, one for the baby and one for her things. She has a special blue blanket with yellow ducklings. All gone."

"A birth certificate?"

"Gone. I know the color of her eyes and her hair and birthmark. Things only a mother would know."

"Do you have any papers at all for you or the baby?"

"Stolen."

"Can your parents supply this information?"

"They're dead."

"So on paper this baby does not exist and on the train it was invisible. Is that what you're saying?"

The girl was silent.

"At what station did you board? Come now. You must know at what station you got on the train."

"Or when she disappeared."

"I told you. She was stolen while I was asleep. She was in a basket."

"And you blame this so-called Auntie Lena?"

"Have you heard of her? She said everyone knew her."

"No, I have never heard of such a person. Did you talk to anyone besides Auntie Lena?"

"No."

"Did anyone else see the baby?"

"No."

"Were you hiding the baby?"

The girl said nothing, although she felt the questions accelerate.

"What about the soldier?" the major asked.

"Sorry?"

"In your first version there was a soldier. You said you took your baby to the end of the car."

"For fresh air."

"For fresh air and out of view of the rest of the passengers?"

"Yes."

"And very private."

"I guess."

"And there you were joined by the soldier."

"Yes."

"You and the soldier and the invisible baby."

"Yes."

The girl saw where they were headed. It was like suddenly finding herself being dragged down a snake hole. She spaced out, and when she tuned back in, the major was speaking with an air of conclusion. "…a false alarm. Taking her age into account, her fantasy might not have malicious intent, but a dangerous fantasy it is because the terrorist threat is real. A full-bore hunt would have demanded scores of militia chasing the chimera of a stolen baby. There is no stolen baby because there was no baby to steal. No further action will be taken by the Search Department, except to remand for observation the juvenile who identifies herself only as Maya." The major turned off the recorder and added, "Sorry, dear. I never believed it from the start. No one would."

"Just tell me," the lieutenant said. "When you and the soldier went to the end of the car, did you give him a hand job or a blow job?"

Zhenya couldn't see what happened in the interview room. He heard shouts and the sound of water mixed with breaking glass. The door flew open as the lieutenant, soaked through, rushed the girl through the corridor, past the velvet rope and piano and down the escalator, holding her by the collar of her jacket so that her feet barely touched the floor. One moment he was lifting her into the air and the next she slipped clean out of her jacket and bolted through the waiting room.

The lieutenant pursued her, his knees pumping, suddenly a track star. In the lingering twilight the pavement was still active despite the hour. The lieutenant was nearly within reach when she darted behind a stack of parcels, between pensioners in wheelchairs, under a table of souvenirs and finally through an extended family of Chechens. Some devious shit, Zhenya thought. People cheered and applauded the girl's wild dash. Zhenya watched in awe.

"Cunt!" The officer pulled up lame and threw the girl's jacket. He limped in a circle to catch his breath, and by the time the cramp in his leg began to ease, the girl had disappeared. He didn't even know in which direction. Would it have been so hard for a citizen to stick out a foot and trip the little bitch? The arrogant shits of Moscow had, as usual, given the militia no help at all. For example, he went to collect the girl's jacket and it was gone.

It wasn't difficult for Zhenya to find the girl. Her red hair was hard to hide, and although she had found the underground connection to the Metro, he didn't think she was going far. He went through the contents of her jacket: reading glasses, a butane lighter, half a pack of "Russian Style" cigarettes and an envelope containing 1,500 rubles, the rough equivalent of sixty dollars, which Zhenya suspected was all the money she had in the world. No cell phone and no ID. Internal passports were issued at sixteen years. She was no older than he was.

The Metro was a grandiose Stalin-era hole in the ground a hundred meters deep, an air-raid shelter with ballroom chandeliers and escalators that clacked like wooden teeth. The girl was ten steps below him.

How crazy was she? The lieutenant aside, wouldn't a real mother have supplied all the information the major demanded? There would have been a proper search with bulletins, television appeals, adequate manpower and search dogs. Probably she was mentally unbalanced and "Baby" would turn out to be a lost pet.

Riders divided onto the platform or to the escalator to another, deeper subway line. Alone, the girl went to the far end of the platform and slipped down behind an octagonal column of limestone. Zhenya followed at a distance in a self-appointed, vaguely protective way. Over the train tunnel a digital clock began counting down from five minutes until the next train.

A mural in gilded tiles celebrated Soviet labor, and on the ceiling-for those with rubber necks-spread a gallery of patriots. The rush of air through tunnels seen and unseen and around the columns sounded like a respiratory system beneath the earth.

She was peeved as he came around the last column, as if her concentration had been broken. Or a private moment violated. To himself he said, "This is fucked."

Sitting cross-legged, the girl pressed a razor against her wrist but not hard enough yet to pop the vein. Double-edged. She might have outraced the lieutenant minutes before. Now she looked catatonic. As she raised her eyes he understood that at any moment he could be standing in blood.

"Do you have my baby?"

"I can help," Zhenya said. He drew her leather jacket out of his backpack and showed her that the money and other contents were still in the jacket pockets, but she wouldn't take her eyes off his.

"You don't have my baby?"

"But I can help you. No one knows Three Stations better than me. I'm here all the time. Every day." He talked fast with his eye on the blade. "I'm just saying if you want, you know, I can help."

"You'll help me?"

"I think so."

"In exchange for what?"

"What do you mean?"

She let a pause build. "You know what I mean."

"No." Zhenya's face went red.

"It doesn't matter." Keeping the razor poised became tiresome and she let her arms relax. "Where are we?"

"The Metro under Three Stations. You've never been here before?"

"No. Why aren't you in school?"

"Bobby Fischer used to say school was a waste of time, that he never learned anything in school."

"Who is Bobby Fischer?"

"The greatest chess player in history."