By 6pm, Ponimayev was mad and sweaty. He called Oleg and asked if, instead of meeting at Oleg’s two-room apartment, which he shared with his wife, two children, and mother-in-law, they could meet near the subway station close to his own house. He lived alone: he and his wife had divorced the previous year. Irreconcilable differences, as they say.    As Ponimayev started saying goodbye, Oleg burst into another excited tirade about his discovery. Ponimayev asked him, as gently as he could in his present state, to wait until they were safely home, on the couch, holding two cold beers.    Ponimayev was in a horrible mood the entire drive home. He thought commandeering one of the de-partment’s limos would cheer him up, but it didn’t. He kept thinking of the Minister’s words. He suspected the Minister hadn’t been entirely wrong.    Traffic cops were out in full force, but there was little order on the streets of Moscow. As the old driver was swearing under his breath, Ponimayev stretched in the back seat and watched the gridlock. The backups seemed cyclical; they seemed to pulse around him, as if they really were directed by some al-torithm. Who created it and how they controlled the traffic, he didn’t know. It was hard to imagine that anyone would find these streets choked with cars desirable.    Ponimayev remembered the term Oleg had used: strange attractor. He shivered. The words called up images of mysticism and cyberspace wars. Ponimayev didn’t believe in mysticism, and cyberspace wars existed only in science fiction novels.    Needless to say, he was late. He jumped out of the car, wheeling around to look for Oleg. A small crowd surrounded two cars nearby: an ambulance and a police car.    His heart skipped a beat.    With a nasty, clammy feeling in his throat, Ponimayev rushed over and shoved his badge into the cop’s face.    “What happened?”    “A hit and run, colonel,” said the cop. “A black car hit a pedestrian and left the scene of the crime. We’re talking to the witnesses.”    “And the pedestrian?”    “Dead. Major head trauma, multiple fractures in the ribs, arms…”    Ponimayev didn’t want to hear the rest of the list. He squeezed through the throng of cops and para-medics towards the stretcher and pulled away the white sheet. The blood-covered face under it belonged to Oleg Kobrinsky.    Ponimayev grabbed Oleg’s shoulders.    “Young man!” said the doctor, pulling at his elbow.    “He’s my friend,” said Ponimayev in a flat, lifeless voice.    “You can’t help him.”    “I just want to…”    “This is my jurisdiction,” said the doctor sternly. “Move away, colonel! We’ll give you the full report once we’re done.”    Ponimayev stumbled away, glancing back at his old friend’s pale, broken face. He took the sergeant firmly by the arm.    “Did you search him?”    “Just in case.” The cop stared at his shoes, embarrassed. “We didn’t find much: a subway pass and a computer disk in a case. The case had some sort of headphone attached to it. And there was a Black-berry about 5 feet away.”    “He always liked to be connected. Where’s the disk?”    “In the car.”    “I’ll take it. And the rest of his things. I’ll give them to his family.”    “I can’t…”    “I work in the same place you do. This dead man over there is my friend.” The words got stuck in Poni-mayev’s throat. “If you need me, call me.”    The officer handed over Oleg’s things in a plastic bag, looking scared and unsure.    Ponimayev watched the paramedics swarming over the body. When they left, he got into the limo and told the driver to take him home.    “One day you’re alive,” said the old man, “then the next day – boom, and you’re a corpse. If it were up to me, I’d take the bastards who hit a person and run off and line them up against the nearest wall.”    Ponimayev didn’t answer. It suddenly occurred to him that Oleg’s death wasn’t accidental. He’d made some sort of discovery, something big, and somebody had killed him because of it.