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He barked a few words, looking at Byrnes.
    “You are not guest at the Baltschug,” the Tatar translated. “The hotel does not know you. The officer would like to know where you are staying, please?”
    “The Baltschug.” Byrnes could not keep the irritation from his voice. “I checked in at four o’clock. Room 335. Look, I have a key.” He delved into his pocket for the room key. Not finding it, he tried the other pocket, then his jacket. He remembered the tempting blond leaning close to him, rubbing his leg. “Please tell the officer that he can accompany me back to the hotel. I’ll be happy to show him my room. My suitcase, my clothing, everything is there.”
    But the militiaman was already shaking his head. An amused grin said he’d heard this one a hundred times before. “No,” he said in his brusque English before rattling off a few more bursts at the Tatar.
    “We must go,” said Byrnes’s chauffeur worriedly, pulling at his sleeve. “The road is closed. A bad accident farther on.”
    “Go? Hold on a goddamn minute,” cried Byrnes, freeing himself. “The guy still has my passport. I’m not going anywhere.” He took a step toward the police officer, his ingrained belief in law and order overruling his common sense. “I’m an American citizen. You have no right to keep my passport. Please, I’d like it back.”
    “When you check into a hotel, you are to call police,” explained the Tatar, scuttling back to the Lada. “They will bring you passport. Now please, we go.”
    “Ask him how much he wants for it. Here, here’s another hundred.” The militiaman feinted with the baton, and Byrnes jumped back. “You go,” barked the policeman, ignoring the proffered currency. Then slipping the passport into his breast pocket, he ambled back to his beat-up patrol car.
    Furious, Byrnes climbed into the Lada. The Tatar started the car, executed a neat three-point turn, then steered them back toward Moscow. Turning in his seat, Byrnes stared behind him. Fading into the distance was the same featureless vista that had played out before him for the past thirty minutes, a rutted, dusty road rolling like a draftsman’s straightedge into the horizon. The Tatar began humming a tuneless melody, his breath whistling through chipped teeth. The car bumped along and Byrnes kept staring over his shoulder at the blinking strobes, feeling cheated and unjustly persecuted, asking himself what he might have done differently to effect a better outcome. He had no doubt he’d get his passport back—or that it would cost him another hundred dollars, if not more. He was sure the cop had never called the Baltschug. Of course, there was no accident, but his mind did not allow him to go any further. He waited until he could no longer see the militiaman, then said, “Stop.”
    The Tatar dashed an annoyed look his way. “We go home now. I take you to hotel. You sleep. I sleep. Okay?”
    Byrnes slipped his wallet from his jacket and took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Stop,” he repeated. “Please.”
    The Tatar sighed painfully, as if he knew what Byrnes was going to ask, then slowed the car.
    “I must go to Rudenev,” Byrnes said. Using his hands, he indicated his desire to make a bell-shaped detour around the militiaman. He was sure the Lada was sturdy enough to handle a few miles through hardscrabble fields. When the Tatar hesitated, Byrnes took out another hundred and pressed both bills into the man’s creased palms. Two hundred dollars was probably double his monthly salary. “Please. It’s important.”
    The Tatar stuffed the bills in his pocket and grunted as if Byrnes’s request was but the final depredation forced upon him by a world going to the devil. Pulling off the road, he said, “I am Mikhail. Pleased to meet you. You are millionaire, maybe?”
    Byrnes shook the callused hand. What was it about this place? “Graf. Likewise.”

    They drove through the fields for half an hour. The Lada bounced and