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    Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel
    Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel
    Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel
    Ebook276 pages4 hours

    Three Stations: An Arkady Renko Novel

    By Martin Cruz Smith

    3.5/5

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    A passenger train hurtling through the night. An unwed teenage mother headed to Moscow to seek a new life. A cruel-hearted soldier looking furtively, forcibly, for sex. An infant disappearing without a trace.

    So begins Martin Cruz Smith’s masterful Three Stations, a suspenseful, intricately constructed novel featuring Investigator Arkady Renko. For the last three decades, beginning with the trailblazing Gorky Park, Renko (and Smith) have captivated readers with detective tales set in Russia. Renko is the ironic, brilliantly observant cop who finds solutions to heinous crimes when other lawmen refuse to even acknowledge that crimes have occurred. He uses his biting humor and intuitive leaps to fight not only wrongdoers but the corrupt state apparatus as well.

    In Three Stations, Renko’s skills are put to their most severe test. Though he has been technically suspended from the prosecutor’s office for once again turning up unpleasant truths, he strives to solve a last case: the death of an elegant young woman whose body is found in a construction trailer on the perimeter of Moscow’s main rail hub. It looks like a simple drug overdose to everyone—except to Renko, whose examination of the crime scene turns up some inexplicable clues, most notably an invitation to Russia’s premier charity ball, the billionaires’ Nijinksy Fair. Thus a sordid death becomes interwoven with the lifestyles of Moscow’s rich and famous, many of whom are clinging to their cash in the face of Putin’s crackdown on the very oligarchs who placed him in power.

    Renko uncovers a web of death, money, madness and a kidnapping that threatens the woman he is coming to love and the lives of children he is desperate to protect. In Three Stations, Smith produces a complex and haunting vision of an emergent Russia’s secret underclass of street urchins, greedy thugs and a bureaucracy still paralyzed by power and fear.

     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSimon & Schuster
    Release dateAug 17, 2010
    ISBN9781439199923
    Author

    Martin Cruz Smith

    Martin Cruz Smith’s novels include Gorky Park, Stallion Gate, Nightwing, Polar Star, Stalin’s Ghost, Rose, December 6, Tatiana, The Girl from Venice, and The Siberian Dilemma. He is a two-time winner of the Hammett Prize, a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award and Britain’s Golden Dagger Award, and a winner of the Premio Piemonte Giallo Internazionale. He lives in California.

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    Reviews for Three Stations

    3.5/5

    228 ratings32 reviews

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    • 2/5
      Disjointed, disappointing. Interesting story, I think... but it felt like big chunks had been left out.
    • 3/5
      Liked the previous arkady renko novels a lot more.
    • 4/5
      Martin Cruz-Smith is incredible writer who I am not sure gets his due. Like Ian Rankin and James Lee Burke, to call him a mystery writer is to not give him his full due. His books while centered around a mystery have just as much to with history and social commentary as they do with solving a crime. Three Stations is no different. It explores the society that has become modern Russia with an emphasis on its young who are falling through the cracks. The mystery involving a missing baby and murdered girls is all secondary and almost seems to solve itself, with the real story being the saga of children who are forgotten in a modern society.
    • 3/5
      This is an Inspector Arkandy Renko novel set in his home city of Moscow.Renko is on the verge of a suspension when he comes across the suspicious death of a young lady near one of the 3 major railway stations.At the same time his young on off companion Zhenya assists a young girl who is looking for her baby.Lots of dodgy strange characters and a few deaths later, Renko is reinstated and the baby is returned to her mother.Not the best Renko novel but ok.
    • 3/5
      The plot never really makes sense but the characters are terrific. Cruz-smith is both deeply cycnical and sympathetic to his characters and their plights.Not as good as Gorky Park but worth the time if you like reading thrillers set in modern Russia.
    • 4/5
      Renko is fighting for his job, as usual and decides to help an alcoholic colleague investigate a potential serial killer, whilst his errant son Zhenya is trying to help a young mother find her stolen baby in and around 3 Stations. As usual captures a strong sense of what life must be like in Putin's Moscow which seems authentic but I can't judge if it is.
    • 3/5
      Back to Moscow and his usual cast of Russian criminals and detectives This one is about a run away girl (15) and her infant daughter who is stolen from her. The prostitution ring she was working for are after and she is after her daughter Interesting read.
    • 3/5
      "Three Stations"
      By Martin Cruz Smith
      3 Stars

      There are times when you start reading a book and you have to question that if your own train of thought is disjointed or if it the way that the author tells the story. I recognized while reading "Three Stations" that Cruz Smith's writing at times did feel disjointed, but it works for his particular brand of storytelling. He sets the story in Russia and this disjointed nature contributes to the feeling of it being authentic.

      "Three Stations" is a police procedural mystery book that starts with the abduction of a baby. This is, however, not the main plot though. It is about a body found by the investigator. This takes the story on a disjointed rump where you are left wondering what one scene had to do with the last one. Often in books this doesn't work because the reader is left wondering where the heck the book is going, but for some reason it works with "Three Stations." You do not want to put it down because you recognize it is a rather short read and you want to know how the child will reunited with the character of Maya. I won't reveal if the child ever does because you need to read it for yourself.

      If you are a mystery enthusiast I would recommend this book, but for those of you wanting something a little more light-hearted I don't think this is the book for you. There are scenes of violence, explosions and cursing that feels a bit overdone at times. For me, a mystery fan, it was the right cup of tea. To each their own and I recognize that. You really need to go into this particular novel knowing that it isn't a fluff "The Notebook" type of book, but one that is disconnected, violent, and a damn good read for seeing how an author can craft a story.

      The mystery aspect of the book felt a little bit predictable, but I think when you start reading mystery over and over again you start to see the basic formula naturally. He does however throw in enough side characters that could have done it that you are left wondering if you could be way off base on what your assumptions are. Then you recognize that some of the side characters are actually a side story, which adds a bit to the depth of the story. It makes it feel more organic and like it is set in the real world because for most people they have multiple things going on at once instead of a normal story that focuses so heavily on the one particular plot.

      The three stars for this novel is mainly because of the disjointed storytelling, but also because there are moments where you are suddenly thrust with characters that you have no idea why they are being showcased. It isn't until the end of the chapters that you find out why they are being mentioned and in this particular book it just doesn't work the way that Cruz Smith wanted. Outside of those things this is a worthwhile book to read.
    • 3/5
      "Three Stations"
      By Martin Cruz Smith
      3 Stars

      There are times when you start reading a book and you have to question that if your own train of thought is disjointed or if it the way that the author tells the story. I recognized while reading "Three Stations" that Cruz Smith's writing at times did feel disjointed, but it works for his particular brand of storytelling. He sets the story in Russia and this disjointed nature contributes to the feeling of it being authentic.

      "Three Stations" is a police procedural mystery book that starts with the abduction of a baby. This is, however, not the main plot though. It is about a body found by the investigator. This takes the story on a disjointed rump where you are left wondering what one scene had to do with the last one. Often in books this doesn't work because the reader is left wondering where the heck the book is going, but for some reason it works with "Three Stations." You do not want to put it down because you recognize it is a rather short read and you want to know how the child will reunited with the character of Maya. I won't reveal if the child ever does because you need to read it for yourself.

      If you are a mystery enthusiast I would recommend this book, but for those of you wanting something a little more light-hearted I don't think this is the book for you. There are scenes of violence, explosions and cursing that feels a bit overdone at times. For me, a mystery fan, it was the right cup of tea. To each their own and I recognize that. You really need to go into this particular novel knowing that it isn't a fluff "The Notebook" type of book, but one that is disconnected, violent, and a damn good read for seeing how an author can craft a story.

      The mystery aspect of the book felt a little bit predictable, but I think when you start reading mystery over and over again you start to see the basic formula naturally. He does however throw in enough side characters that could have done it that you are left wondering if you could be way off base on what your assumptions are. Then you recognize that some of the side characters are actually a side story, which adds a bit to the depth of the story. It makes it feel more organic and like it is set in the real world because for most people they have multiple things going on at once instead of a normal story that focuses so heavily on the one particular plot.

      The three stars for this novel is mainly because of the disjointed storytelling, but also because there are moments where you are suddenly thrust with characters that you have no idea why they are being showcased. It isn't until the end of the chapters that you find out why they are being mentioned and in this particular book it just doesn't work the way that Cruz Smith wanted. Outside of those things this is a worthwhile book to read.
    • 4/5
      Another strong entry in the Renko series. Arkady Renko is back in his familiar stamping ground of Moscow, embroiled in cases of child prostitution and human trafficking. As has been the case with recent Renko books, the mystery is a little perfunctory, but the rich and, in this case, surprisingly moving characterisation makes up for it. It would be nice to have one Renko book which doesn't open with him having lost his wife/girlfriend and include him finding a new one, though.
    • 4/5
      Investigator Arkady Renko in Putin's Russia, battles the foes within his corrupt police department as well as the criminal elements outside in the decadent Three Stations enclave of Moscow. At times, Renko recalls his late father, a vain general in the old army. Other times, he rues his lost romances. But through it all, he remains tenacious and relentless in his pursuit of a prostitute's killer. We're given a behind-the-scenes view of Russian society, high and low, at least as it's filtered through Mr. Smith's nonsentimental prism. I've enjoyed reading previous titles in the Arkady Renko series of which Three Stations is number seven.
    • 3/5
      Synopsis: A young girl with a baby is traveling by train to escape her life as a call girl and to protect her child. She falls asleep and the baby is stolen. Once at the Three Stations, she begins the long search for the child. Meanwhile, the body of a upper class woman is found, dressed as a hooker and left in an abandoned trailer near Three Stations. Renko thinks there is something wrong with the murder scene, but his investigation is hampered by the 'powers that be' since it leads to an influential family. These two cases are intertwined by location and by the crime families that operate in Moscow.Review: This story is a bit confusing, partly because of the disparate story lines and partly because of the setting. Not one of my favorites.
    • 4/5
      Three Stations is another police procedural set in Moscow starring the remarkable investigator Arkady Renko. He's remarkable for a number of reasons; competence, brilliance, non-linear thinking, but most importantly because he's almost always in trouble with his higher-ups, which in Russia can be a very bad thing. Without getting into the details, there were a couple key sub-plots that were tied off very satisfactorily at the end, and Arkady lives to investigate another day.

      The first Arkady Renko novel, Gorky Park, was a fine book and what I considered to be a great movie. The film starred William Hurt in the Renko role (with Lee Marvin as the villain), and he did such a mannered performance that I literally hear him speak all of Renko's dialog in my mind in every subsequent book in the series. Very strange.

      One thing I really like about this series is how it paints a vivid picture of what life is like in the former Soviet Union. Corruption, alcoholism, drug use, shortages, rampant gangsterism.... it makes it seem like the picture a lot of Americans have of Moscow as the beautiful city with the onion-domed cathedrals is just a facade, and that under the surface is all this other unseemly stuff.

      This is a good, not great, novel, but it's relatively short and can be a good introduction to the writer. However, I'd really recommend starting with Gorky Park so that you can be introduced in a little more detail to the wonderful character Arkady Renko.
    • 3/5
      I really should've read this one before 'Tatiana,' which I just read earlier this month - but I couldn't find it, and the other book had an impending library due date.

      Investigator Arkady Renko is in disfavor with his boss, and under threat of dismissal. However, he just can't stop investigating, even when instructed not to. When his alcoholic colleague discovers a young woman's body in an abandoned trailer, he's compelled to find out who she was and how she died...

      Meanwhile, a runaway prostitute is in search of her stolen infant. Renko's ward, Zhenya, is willing to help, but the world of teens around the Three Stations area is pretty rough...

      The book is compelling reading. I found myself staying up late and caring about the fates of the characters.

      However, from a purely logical/structural viewpoint, there are some issues here. There are too many coincidences for events to be fully believable. There are extra crimes brought in too close to the end, nearly skipped over, and the 'bad guys' motivations remain mysterious - and a little eyebrow-raising.

    • 3/5
      Nice, not perfect. Scenes well and convincingly set. Plot just a bit deus ex machina.
    • 3/5
      I'm not sure where this volume of the Arkady Renko novels falls. It seems to take place in the late 90s or early 2000s. I think, because of some cryptic references in the book, that I skipped one or two novels. Now, Renko is again living in Moscow, has an uneasy relationship with a ward, the son of someone Renko shot, and investigating the murder of a supposed prostitute. He is not a detective and has no jurisdiction per say. On a parallel storyline, a young runaway has her baby taken from her. This novel takes an unflinching look at the seedy underworld hiding in plain sight: the gangs of children--homeless and abused--who have their own kind of rules.
    • 3/5


      Say three-and-a-half stars. Arkady is in his usual form, although he's clearly aged. Sometimes this book felt as if it had been rushed, and the plot is muddled by multiple POVs among other things. But Martin Cruz Smith still knows how to write a sentence and pace a story, and in Arkady Renko the author has one of the great detective characters of modern times.
    • 3/5
      "Three Stations"
      By Martin Cruz Smith
      3 Stars

      There are times when you start reading a book and you have to question that if your own train of thought is disjointed or if it the way that the author tells the story. I recognized while reading "Three Stations" that Cruz Smith's writing at times did feel disjointed, but it works for his particular brand of storytelling. He sets the story in Russia and this disjointed nature contributes to the feeling of it being authentic.

      "Three Stations" is a police procedural mystery book that starts with the abduction of a baby. This is, however, not the main plot though. It is about a body found by the investigator. This takes the story on a disjointed rump where you are left wondering what one scene had to do with the last one. Often in books this doesn't work because the reader is left wondering where the heck the book is going, but for some reason it works with "Three Stations." You do not want to put it down because you recognize it is a rather short read and you want to know how the child will reunited with the character of Maya. I won't reveal if the child ever does because you need to read it for yourself.

      If you are a mystery enthusiast I would recommend this book, but for those of you wanting something a little more light-hearted I don't think this is the book for you. There are scenes of violence, explosions and cursing that feels a bit overdone at times. For me, a mystery fan, it was the right cup of tea. To each their own and I recognize that. You really need to go into this particular novel knowing that it isn't a fluff "The Notebook" type of book, but one that is disconnected, violent, and a damn good read for seeing how an author can craft a story.

      The mystery aspect of the book felt a little bit predictable, but I think when you start reading mystery over and over again you start to see the basic formula naturally. He does however throw in enough side characters that could have done it that you are left wondering if you could be way off base on what your assumptions are. Then you recognize that some of the side characters are actually a side story, which adds a bit to the depth of the story. It makes it feel more organic and like it is set in the real world because for most people they have multiple things going on at once instead of a normal story that focuses so heavily on the one particular plot.

      The three stars for this novel is mainly because of the disjointed storytelling, but also because there are moments where you are suddenly thrust with characters that you have no idea why they are being showcased. It isn't until the end of the chapters that you find out why they are being mentioned and in this particular book it just doesn't work the way that Cruz Smith wanted. Outside of those things this is a worthwhile book to read.
    • 5/5
      Let me begin by admitting my bias: I think that Martin Cruz Smith is one of the best novelists out there today. What has often been said of David Cornwell (a.k.a. John LeCarre)also goes for Martin Cruz Smith: he may write popular fiction but it's also great literature. If you want a sample of what I mean, just read the final page or even just the final line of "Three Stations." (Although it's best if you read the rest of it first.)"Three Stations" is the latest chapter in the life and career of Arkady Renko, Smith's wise and somewhat world-weary Moscow detective who is forced to suffer fools, corruption, and social depravity in the course of his job. Renko is a complex and appealing man and just listening to his thinking is a treat in itself. However,the real treat is Smith's ability to bring you right onto the streets beside Detective Renko. Indeed, Smith has a way with his descriptions and dialog that's almost cinematic. (My 12th grade English teacher used to talk about a "language of vision" and that's something that Smith has really nailed.)This story and its characters - particularly the children - will almost break your heart. Indeed, there are few writers of popular fiction who can portray children with no future in such an unflinching and yet compassionate manner. Fortunately, the book ends on a note of affirmation: there are still tattered pieces of hope for the legions of people who are the victims of modern Russia. Even if you're not at all a fan of detective/mystery stories, the works of Martin Cruz Smith are still worth a look. Great literature always is.
    • 4/5
      Ah... Arkady Renko is back to form. His last appearance was dismal, very depressing.
    • 3/5
      "Three Stations" is author Martin Cruz Smith's latest installment featuring Russian prosecutorial investigator Arkady Renko, though it's not the greatest. That honor remains firmly in the grip of Smith's exceptional 1981 thriller "Gorky Park," which first introduced Renko to the literary world. "Three Stations" is the seventh novel in the Renko series. Smith wasn't quite 40 years old when "Gorky Park" came out, and the Soviet Union still had a decade of life left in it. Smith was nearly nearly 70 when "Three Stations" was published in 2010, by which time the Soviet Union that Smith and Renko grew up with had been dead and gone for almost 20 years.Or had it? As he has with all the novels in his Renko series, Smith artfully imbues the stories and the characters that fill them with a certain brand of uniquely vodka-drenched Russian discontent and world-weariness that has thrived unabated for generations. It's clear Smith and Renko see Russia's current sociopolitical and economic oligarchical hierarchy as fundamentally far more the same than different from its Soviet and Tsarist predecessors in all but name.The plot in "Three Stations" is straightforward, anchored to a rural teenage prostitute named Maya's frantic search for her stolen baby in the bleak and dangerous Moscow neighborhood from which the novel takes its name, while Renko tracks a serial killer of young women. The book directs at least as much focus on Maya's travails as on Renko's, which has disappointed some of this book's reviewers. That said, it's clear the principal character in "Three Stations" isn't Maya, or even Renko, so much as it is present-day Moscow. Viewed from that perspective, "Three Stations" is a very good book; Smith's eye for detail and his talent for unveiling the crushing and seemingly insurmountable disparities between Moscow's privileged elite and downtrodden masses are no less sharp than they were in "Gorky Park." Smith's deft touch with dialogue, in particular, is just as brilliant as it has ever been in succinctly conveying modern Muscovites' daily tribulations. Moscow is a massive city of 11.5 million people that lately finds itself drowning in cash wrenched as much via the country's deeply imbedded corruption and criminality as from rampant exploitation of Russia's vast natural resources. The brutish effects of that money's savagely inequitable distribution inflame the novel's every page. Russia is a very old country, and whether ruled by Tsar, Secretary General, or President, Smith's premise is that Russia's internal monologue has stayed remarkably unchanged in many ways for many centuries.Though it's not hard to tell both author and character have grown somewhat tired in the past 30 years, nevertheless they've done so gracefully. Fans of Smith and Renko, and those who find modern Russia fascinating, will appreciate "Three Stations" as a knowledgeable thriller author's newest postcard from an unvarnished Moscow.
    • 4/5
      I found this book entertaining...I am a Martin Cruz Smith fan and rather like his character Arkady Renko. Like other reviewers, I found this book a bit under developed, but it did not fail to grip me as a page turner. The series continues to be good reading. I would love for Smith to produce another epic novel with Renko....
    • 3/5
      Arkady Renko is one of the most engaging fictional detectives of our time, but if you have not already made his acquaintance, Three Stations is not the book in which to do it. Once again Renko is suspended and his warning of a serial killer ignored: one would think after six books his superiors would have learned to listen to him, but apparently not. Set in today’s Moscow, the book is not a patch on the previous ones yet Arkady continues to charm in his quietly obstinate manner as he investigates a series of corpses laid out in the positions of the classic ballet as well as helping find the baby of a runaway prostitute, with whom his ward - a chess hustler and truant on the fringes of gang culture - has fallen in love. Verdict? Quick and good in parts.
    • 3/5
      A clever idea but somehow unnecessarily unsavoury.
    • 5/5
      It's good to see Smith back on form in this seventh entry in the Arkady Renko series. Shorter than its predecessors, it provides a much more focused story without as much extraneous background info thrown in (see Wolves Eat Dogs for the worst example of this). Renko remains one of the great characters in fiction. An unfailingly honest police detective who lives by his own code even if the world is falling apart around him, Renko trudges through a morass of murder, corruption, and indifference to get to the heart of a Moscow killing.As usual, the book has a few too many coincidences and all the threads tie up a little too nicely at the end, but the joy is in the dark ride through the alleys and stations and forgotten places of Moscow in the company of Renko, a 15-year old mother looking for her baby, some sub-teen runaways scratching out their existence, and Zhenya, the chess-hustling teenager introduced in a previous book who maintains a tenuous relationship with Renko.This will not do a lot for Moscow tourism, however.
    • 3/5
      I like the author's style of writing. But it seems like there is a fairly regular pattern to the Arkady Renko novels. I wish the author would break out of that.
    • 5/5
      Excellent! One of his best efforts in my opinion. Inspector Arkady again comes to the rescue against all odds! A wonderful insight into semi-modern day Moscow.
    • 4/5
      A very good crime story in lawless Moscow.
    • 3/5
      Arkady Renko may be my favorite fictional detective. Wry, long-suffering, stubborn, quietly principled, philosophical, observant, hesitant, a bit of a schlemiel. And the late/former Soviet Union has been an excellent setting to let his sensibility play out. This latest installment in his series is welcome and is an enjoyable read, but in some ways is sad for a fan of Renko's. Like all things on this earth, detective series are mortal and the signs of decay are pretty apparent in this series by now: Renko has now acquired a young sidekick, and the novels are now driven largely by setting.Not to say that there is nothing left to the series. Smith is a very good writer, and the changing historical situation of Russia brings new opportunity for Smith to observe the curiosities of human and institutional nature. But the novels are no longer energized by the sense of discovery. They have become a lot more generic--plots are resolved with cliche cinematic scenes (as in the climactic car chase in Three Stations) and the new themes (here: child exploitation of various sorts) seem rather imposed.But, as I say, Smith is a fine writer. The understated wit won a few out-loud laughs from this reader, and he keeps the novel short and fast-moving, so none of the faults mentioned above has to be suffered with for very long. And Renko is always good company.Another upside for fans of the series: one can easily imagine this novel being filmed, and, to some extent, I think it may have been written with that in mind. Done right, Renko might make a great film protagonist. Let's hope.
    • 4/5
      Another insightful adventure with Renko. The descriptions of Moscow life are so interesting. But why would anyone want to live there.

    Book preview

    Three Stations - Martin Cruz Smith

    1

    The summer night swam by. Villages, ripening fields, derelict churches flowed and mixed with Maya’s dreams.

    She tried to stay awake but sometimes her eyelids had their way. Sometimes the girl dreamt of the train’s first-class passengers tucked away asleep in their compartments.

    Hard class had no compartments. Hard class was a dormitory coach where a few lamps were still lit and snoring, muffled sex, body odor and domestic quarrels were shared by all. Some passengers had been on the train for days and the fatigue of close quarters had set in. A round-the-clock card game among oil riggers soured and turned to resentment and accusations. A Gypsy went from berth to berth hawking the same shawls in a whisper. University students traveling on the cheap were deep in the realm of their headphones. A priest brushed cake crumbs from his beard. Most of the passengers were as nondescript as boiled cabbage. An inebriated soldier wandered up and down the corridor.

    Still Maya preferred the rough sociability of hard class to traveling first class. Here she fit in. She was fifteen years old, a stick figure in torn jeans and a bomber jacket the texture of cardboard, her hair dyed a fiery red. One canvas bag held her earthly possessions, the other hid her baby girl of three weeks, tightly swaddled and lulled by the rocking of the train. The last thing Maya needed was to be trapped in a compartment under the scrutiny of snobs. Not that she could have afforded first class anyway.

    After all, a train was just a communal apartment on rails, Maya decided. She was used to that. Most of the men stripped to warm-up pants, undershirts and slippers for the duration; she watched for any who had not because a shirt with long sleeves might conceal the tattoos of someone sent to bring her back. Playing it safe, she had chosen an otherwise empty berth. She talked to none of the other passengers and none noticed that the baby was on board.

    Maya enjoyed creating stories about new people, but now her imagination was caught up with the baby, who was both a stranger and part of herself. The baby was, in fact, the most mysterious person she had ever met. All she knew was that her baby was perfect, translucent, unflawed.

    The baby stirred and Maya went to the vestibule at the end of the car. There, half open to the wind and clatter of the train, she nursed the baby and indulged in a cigarette. Maya had been drug-free for seven months.

    A full moon kept pace. From the tracks spread a sea of wheat, water tanks, a silhouette of a shipwrecked harvester. Six more hours to Moscow. The baby’s eyes regarded her solemnly. Returning the gaze, Maya was so hypnotized that she did not hear the soldier join her in the vestibule until the sliding door closed behind him and he said smoking was bad for the baby. His voice was a jolt, a connection with reality.

    He removed the cigarette from her mouth and snapped it out the vestibule window.

    Maya took the baby from her breast and covered herself.

    The soldier asked if the baby was in the way. He thought it was. So he told Maya to put the baby down. She held on, although he slid his hand inside her jacket and squeezed her breast hard enough to draw milk. His voice cracked when he told her what else he wanted her to do. But first she had to put the baby down. If she didn’t, he would throw the baby off the train.

    It took a second for Maya to process his words. If she screamed, could anyone hear her? If she fought, would he toss the baby like an unwanted package? She saw it covered with leaves, never to be found. All she knew was that it was her fault. Who was she to have such a beautiful baby?

    Before she could put the baby down, the vestibule door opened. A large figure in gray stepped out, gathered the soldier’s hair with the grip of a butcher and laid a knife across his neck. It was the babushka who had been suffering the crumbs of the priest. The old woman told the soldier she would geld him next time they met and gave him a vigorous kick as a demonstration of sincerity. He could not get to the next car fast enough.

    When Maya and the baby returned to their berth, the babushka brought tea from the samovar and watched over them. Her name was Helena Ivanova but she said that everyone up and down the line called her Auntie Lena.

    Worn-out, Maya finally allowed herself to plunge into true sleep, down a dark slope that promised oblivion.

    When Maya next opened her eyes sunlight flooded the coach. The train was at a platform and the dominant sound was flies circling in the warm air. The fullness in her breasts was urgent. Her wristwatch said 7:05. The train was expected to arrive at six-thirty. There was no sign of Auntie Lena. Both baskets were gone.

    Maya rose and walked unsteadily down the corridor. All the other passengers—the boisterous oil riggers, the university boys, the Gypsy and the priest—were gone. Auntie Lena was gone. Maya was the only person on the train.

    Maya stepped onto the platform and fought her way through early-morning passengers boarding a train on the opposite side. People stared. A porter let his baggage cart coast into her shin. The ticket takers at the gate didn’t remember anyone resembling Auntie Lena and the baby. It was a preposterous question from a ridiculous-looking girl.

    People in the platform area were making good-byes and hundreds circulated around kiosks and shops selling cigarettes, CDs and slices of pizza. A thousand more sat in the haze of a waiting room. Some were going to the wilds of Siberia, some all the way to the Pacific and some were just waiting.

    But the baby was gone.

    2

    Victor Orlov stood in a shower stall, his head bowed and his eyes shut while an orderly clad in a surgical mask, goggles, rubber apron and rubber gauntlets poured disinfectant on Victor’s head until it dripped from his nose and four-day stubble, ran down his sunken stomach and naked ass and pooled between his feet. He looked like a wet, shivering ape with patches of body hair, black bruises and toenails thick as horn.

    The station medic had been called Swan for a long time for his long neck. Having been a pickpocket and snitch, he was proud that he had worked his way to a position of responsibility and opportunity.

    I called as soon as Sergeant Orlov came in. I said to myself, call Senior Investigator Renko. He’d want to know.

    You did the right thing, Arkady said.

    As the candle burned it released a florid, slightly rotten odor.

    We do what we can. So, is our old friend Victor using anything new, anything besides alcohol? Heroin, methadone, antifreeze?

    Alcohol. He’s from the old school.

    Well, the disinfectant will kill body lice, bacteria, microbes, fungi and spores. That’s a bonus. Your friend’s insides I can’t do anything about. His blood pressure is low, but that’s to be expected. His eyes are dilated, but there are no signs of head trauma. He’s just detoxing. I gave him Valium and an injection of B1 to calm him down. We should keep him here for observation.

    In a drunk tank?

    We prefer ‘sobriety station.’

    Not if he can walk. Arkady held up a plastic bag with a change of clothes.

    The orderly in the shower stall unreeled a hose and opened it full force. Victor took a step back as water drummed on his chest. The orderly circled him, hosing Victor from every angle.

    It was not easy to be arrested for drunkenness. It was difficult to distinguish drunkenness from, say, sharing a bottle with friends, jolly times, sad times, saint’s day, women’s day, the urge to nap, the need to hold up a wall, the need to piss on the wall. It was hard to stand out as legitimately drunk when the bar was set so high. The consequences, however, could be dire. The fine was insignificant but family and colleagues would be informed—in Victor’s case that would be his commander, who had already threatened to drop him a grade. Worse, multiple offenders had to spend two weeks in jail. Policemen did not thrive in jail.

    A digital clock on the wall flipped to 2400.

    Midnight. Victor was four hours late for his shift.

    Arkady gathered his clothes from a dimly lit recovery area, moving among the beds of sedated men and urine-soaked sheets. The legs of the beds were sawed off to allow for falls. All the figures were still except for one who twisted against restraining belts and urgently whispered to Arkady, I am God, God is shit, I am shit, God is shit, God is dog, I am God, over and over.

    You see, we get all types, Swan said. He had Victor’s ID, keys, cell phone and handgun waiting when Arkady returned to the desk.

    They dried and dressed Victor, trying to keep him from unraveling.

    He’s not registered, right? Arkady just wanted to check.

    He was never here.

    Arkady laid fifty dollars on the desk and maneuvered Victor toward the door.

    I am God! said the voice from the bed.

    God is drunk, Arkady thought.

    Arkady drove Victor’s Lada because his own Zhiguli was in the shop awaiting a new gearbox and Victor had lost his license for drunk driving. It didn’t matter that Victor had been washed and wore a change of clothes, the smell of vodka came off him like heat from a stove and Arkady cranked a window open for fresh air. The short nights of summer had begun, nothing like the white nights of St. Petersburg but enough to make sleep difficult and aggravate relationships. The police radio maintained a constant squawk.

    Arkady handed Victor the walkie-talkie. Call in. Let Petrovka know that you’re on duty. Petrovka was shorthand for militia headquarters on Petrovka Street.

    Who cares? I’m fucked.

    But Victor pulled himself together to call the dispatcher. Miraculously no one in his district had been murdered, raped or assaulted all evening.

    Bunch of fairies. Do I have my gun?

    Yes. We’d hate to see that fall into the wrong hands.

    Arkady thought Victor was nodding off but the detective muttered, Life would be wonderful without vodka, but since the world is not wonderful, people need vodka. Vodka is in our DNA. That’s a fact. The thing is, Russians are perfectionists. That’s our curse. It makes for great chess players and ballerinas and turns the rest of us into jealous inebriates. The question is not why don’t I drink less, it’s why don’t you drink more?

    You’re welcome.

    That’s what I meant. Thank you.

    Other cars, beefed-up foreign monsters, roared up behind them but didn’t tailgate for long. The Lada’s exhaust pipe and muffler hung low and occasionally dragged a rooster tail of sparks, fair warning to keep a safe distance.

    If the Lada was a wreck, so were the men in it, Arkady thought. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. Who was this graying stranger who rose from his bed, usurped his clothes and occupied his chair at the prosecutor’s office?

    Victor said, I read in the paper about two dolphins trying to drown a man in Greece or someplace. You always hear about noble dolphins saving someone from drowning. Not this time; they were pushing him out to sea. I asked myself what was different about this poor bastard. It turned out he was Russian, naturally, and maybe a little drunk. Why does the reverse of the normal always happen to us? Maybe the dolphins had rescued him a dozen times before. Enough was enough. What do you think?

    Maybe we should make it official, Arkady said.

    Make what official?

    Russia is upside down.

    Arkady was neither up nor down. He was an investigator who investigated nothing. The prosecutor made sure Arkady followed orders by giving him none to defy. No investigations meant no runaway investigations. Arkady was ignored, welcome to spend his time reading novels or arranging flowers.

    Although he had time he hadn’t spent it with Zhenya. At fifteen the boy was at the peak of sullen adolescence. Was Zhenya absent from school? Arkady had no say. His status with the boy was not official. All he could offer Zhenya was a clean place to spend the night. Arkady might not see him for a week and then by chance spot Zhenya in his other, secretive life trudging along in a hooded sweatshirt with a street gang. If Arkady approached, Zhenya froze him with a look.

    The director of the children’s shelter that Zhenya originally came from claimed that the boy and Arkady had a special relationship. Zhenya’s father had shot Arkady. If that wasn’t special, what was?

    The day before, friends brought champagne and cake to celebrate Arkady’s birthday, and then gave such rueful, eloquent speeches about the cost of integrity that the women cried. Some of the drunker men too, and Arkady had to go from person to person and reassure them that he was not dead.

    He had written a letter of resignation.

    As of noon today I resign my position in the Prosecution Service of the Russian Republic. Arkady Kyrilovich Renko, Senior Investigator of Important Cases.

    But to afford Zurin so much satisfaction was unbearable. Arkady had burned the letter in an ashtray.

    And the days marched on.

    Arkady had a new neighbor across the hall, a young woman who was out all hours and sometimes needed help finding her latchkey in her voluminous bag. A journalist young enough to burn the candle at both ends. One night she showed up at his door with a black eye and a boyfriend in hot pursuit. The light on the landing was out, as usual, and Arkady did not get a good look at his face. However, the man could see Arkady in the open doorway, gun in hand, and vanished down the stairs in bounds.

    I’m fine. It was nothing, Anya said. Really, thank you so much, you’re the hero of the hour. I must look a mess.

    Who was it?

    A friend.

    That was a friend?

    Yes.

    Are you going to report this to the militia?

    The militia? You must be kidding. Oh, you must be the investigator in the building. I heard about you, she said. I take back any insinuation about the honesty and integrity of our brave men in their battle against the criminal element in our society.

    He heard her whooping and laughing as soon as she was in her apartment.

    The following night she knocked on Arkady’s door and saw the bottles and plates of his birthday celebration scattered around the living room.

    A party?

    It wasn’t the Sack of Rome, just a few friends.

    Next time let me know. From her bag she gave him two tins of Osetra caviar, 125 grams each, together worth almost a thousand dollars.

    I can’t.

    We’re even. I get these all the time and I hate caviar. Where’s the woman who lived here?

    She left.

    Are you sure you didn’t chop her into small pieces and mail her around the country? Just joking. You scared the shit out of my friend. Served him right.

    Her name was Anya Rudikova. Oddly enough, he saw her a week later on television, black eye and all, discussing violence in film with the objectivity of a sociologist.

    The radio dispatcher called and Arkady picked up on Victor’s behalf.

    Orlov.

    The dispatcher was cautious. She demanded to know whether he was fit for duty.

    Yes, Arkady said.

    Because when you called earlier you didn’t sound so good. People are talking about you.

    Fuck them.

    Well, you do sound better. Can you handle an overdose? The ambulances are running late.

    Where?

    While Arkady listened he executed a satisfying U-turn in the face of oncoming traffic.

    What tourist maps called Komsomol Square, the people of Moscow called Three Stations for the railway terminals gathered there. Plus the converging forces of two Metro lines and ten lanes of traffic. Passengers pushed their way like badly organized armies through street vendors selling flowers, embroidered shirts, shirts with Putin, shirts with Che, CDs, DVDs, fur hats, posters, nesting dolls, war medals and Soviet kitsch.

    During the day Three Stations was in constant motion, a Circus Maximus with cars. At night, however, when the crowds were gone and the square was floodlit and gauzy with insects, Arkady felt that the stations were as exotic as opera sets. Leningrad Station was a Venetian palace, Kazansky Station was an Oriental mosque and Yaroslavl Station wore a clown’s face and cap. The night revealed a population that the daytime bustle had obscured: pickpockets, flyboys handing out directions to strip clubs and slot arcades, gangs of street kids looking for the wounded, the slow, the easy mark. Men with vague intentions idled in small groups, beers in hand, watching prostitutes grind by. The women walked with a predatory eye and looked as likely to eat their clients as have sex with them.

    Drunks were everywhere, but hard to see because they were as gray as the pavement they sprawled on. They were bandaged or bloody or on crutches like casualties of war. Every doorway had a resident or two; they might be homeless but Three Stations was their roost. A beggar with broad shoulders and withered legs propelled his cart past a Gypsy who absentmindedly pulled out her baby and her breast. At Three Stations the crippled, outcast and usually hidden members of society gathered like the Court of Miracles only without the miracles.

    Arkady jumped the curb at Yaroslavl Station and rolled across a small plaza to a workers’ trailer that had stood in place so long its tires had deflated.

    He asked Victor, Do you want to stay in the car? I can cover for you.

    Duty calls. Someone may be pissing on my crime scene. Piss on a man’s crime scene and you piss on the man himself.

    Workers’ trailers provided basic on-site accommodations: four bunk beds and a stove, but no toilet, shower or a/c. They baked in the summer and froze in the winter and from the outside

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