There was an old Russian saying: There is room for only one cock on any dunghill. He had no illusions that Kurbsky would be the star attraction at this soiree, but it might be amusing to knock him off his pedestal. He moved into the untidy living room of the small fifth-floor apartment, found a raincoat, and let himself out.

“HE NEVER BOOKS a cab,” Bounine had said. “It’s only a step into Columbus Avenue, where he can have them by the dozen.”

So Kurbsky waited in the shadows for Vronsky to emerge, stand for a moment under the light of the doorway to his apartment building, then advance to the left, pulling up his collar against the rain. As he passed, Kurbsky reached out and pulled him close with considerable strength, his left arm sliding around the neck in a choke hold, the blade of his bone-handled gutting knife springing into action at the touch of the button. Vronsky was aware of the needle point nudging in through his clothing, the hand now clamped over his mouth, the blade seeming to know exactly what it was doing as it probed for the heart.

He slid down in a corner of the doorway and died very quickly on his knees. Kurbsky took out a fresh handkerchief, wiped the knife clean, and closed it; then he leaned over the body, found a wallet and mobile phone, turned, and walked to where Bounine waited. He got in the Volvo and they drove away.

“It’s done,” Bounine said.

Kurbsky opened the glove compartment and put the wallet inside, plus the mobile phone. “You’ll get rid of those.”

“Just another street mugging.”

“He was on coke.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He took out a pack of Marlboros.

Bounine said, “Does it bother you?”