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standing in Gorky Square, eating his lunch and pretending to admire the statue of Maxim Gorky erected in 1951. Chewing thoughtfully, Tkach pushed his blond hair from his forehead, skipped out of the way of two little boys who were playing a game, and pretended to admire the old Byelorussian railway station, one of the few structures that remain from Moscow’s past. The station is over a hundred years old with trains leaving daily for Paris, Vienna, London, Oslo, and Stockholm.
    Tkach had seen it all before, had been in the garden, heard his mother’s tale of welcoming home the war heroes, in the square in 1945, but today his thoughts were elsewhere. Several young men wandered by selling drinks, but all were blond. Then, after about an hour, Tkach saw what he was looking for. A young man with straight dark hair, looking very much like a French or American rocker of the 1950s, strode down from Leningrad Prospekt carrying a basketful of bottled drinks. Tkach began following him at a discreet distance. It might be the wrong youth, but Tkach had a hunch. The man was easy to follow. He moved slowly through the crowd and did not seem particularly concerned with selling his wares. Then a second young man joined him. A few minutes later, a third joined them and then a fourth. They laughed, pushed one another, looked at the passing women. Then they checked their watches and headed for the metro station. They took the underground walkway across the street, and Tkach almost lost them in the crowd, but they were in no hurry, and he found them well before they entered the station.
    Tkach got on the same car with them and his heart started pounding when, two stops later at Pushkin Square, they began pushing their way off the train. The pattern fit.
    Out on the street they hesitated, discussing whether they should move across the square toward the Rossyia Cinema or down Gorky Street. They opted for Gorky Street, and Tkach followed. They turned off at the Stanislavsky Theater, made another turn a block farther on, and stopped. The street was narrow and almost deserted. Tkach kept walking and went right past them as if he were in a hurry to get home. They watched him, he was sure, as he turned a corner. Darkness was coming now, and Tkach started looking for a public building, an open door. It was time to get help. He was confident that he had found the attackers, even though he had no evidence. The victims could identify them. That would be proof enough. He found a small gift shop and ducked inside, watching the window for the approaching muggers.
    â€œYes?” said the woman behind the counter without enthusiasm, recognizing Tkach for what he was, a Russian and not a foreign tourist.
    â€œYour phone,” he said, looking back. The young men had turned the corner and were walking toward the entrance to a building Tkach did not recognize. It was a large new office building.
    â€œWe have no phone,” the dark-haired shop owner said.
    â€œThen find one.” He pulled out his wallet and held his identification in front of the woman’s face. “Find one and call Petrovka nine-one-one. Ask for Chief Inspector Rostnikov.” The young men had now disappeared into the building across the street. “If he’s not there, ask for Inspector Karpo. Or ask for anyone and tell them Inspector Tkach needs help in that building.”
    He pointed to the building, stuffed his wallet in his pocket and turned to leave. But the woman looked unimpressed, and Tkach said angrily, “I vow to you, woman, if you do not find a phone and make the call, and do it quickly, you will be answering questions tonight instead of going home.”
    He dashed out of the store and ran across the street.
    He was panting lightly when he entered the building. He loosened his tie and looked around the lobby. It was the headquarters of some branch of the railway and transportation system. A guard should have been in the lobby to take names. Even