Ruzsky waited for a tram to cross in front of him as he was buffeted by a sudden gust of wind on the Nicholas Bridge. The dawn sun washed the sky a delicate and subtle shade of red. The lamps hissed. Those on the waterfront were the last to be lit and put out.

It was cold, the Arctic wind still whistling down the Neva with startling ferocity. Ruzsky’s cheeks stung and his feet grew numb. He recalled running across the bridge to Konradi’s and reflected upon the way he still physically shuddered almost every time he thought of his schooldays. As he turned onto Horseguards, he considered, as he often did, how different his life would have been if he’d followed the course prescribed for him.

Would it, in fact, have been easier?

The giant semicircular colonnade of the Kazan Cathedral had been inspired by St. Peter’s in Rome, and this morning, as always, there were beggars standing on the steps at its entrance-mostly women with young children. Ruzsky stepped into the relative warmth of the cathedral’s interior. It was packed already; small groups stood in front of icons and candles, their heads bent in prayer. Ruzsky bought a candle from the nearest booth and joined a group close to the altar. He lit the candle and placed it in the metal holder, crossing himself as he did so.

The priest’s murmured prayers were answered by a choir on the mezzanine floor at the far end of the cavernous hall. Ruzsky breathed out. He did not believe in God, but for as long as he could recall, he had found the church’s rituals soothing.

Ruzsky crossed himself once more and then began to wander amongst the other worshipers. All around, pale blue spirals of incense drifted up toward the vaulted ceiling. He walked behind one of the great columns and stood directly before the altar, beneath the great chandelier that hung from the dome.

He searched the faces around him, without success. He was moving toward the darker corners down one wing of the cathedral when he saw her.

Her expression in repose, it seemed to him, had a wistful quality. But a slow smile spread across her face as he approached. “Hello, Sandro,” she whispered. “I thought you might come here.”

They stood close together, looking at the golden sun above the altar and listening to the priest’s mournful liturgy. “I got your note,” Ruzsky said.

“You will come?”

“Of course.”

Maria was still looking toward the altar. “Perhaps I should not have asked you.”

Ruzsky’s heart beat a little faster.

“You are chief investigator once more?”

“Yes.”

“So we can sleep easily in our beds again.” She smiled at him, then gazed back toward the altar.

“We found two bodies on the Neva yesterday. In front of the Winter Palace.”

“Who were they?”

“We don’t know,” Ruzsky said. He recalled Irina’s accusation that he never communicated, about anything. “They were badly mutilated.”

She turned to him suddenly. “Sandro, I…” She was biting her lip and he could see the confusion in her face.

“My wife has left me,” he said quickly, before she could go on. “She made her choice.”

“It may be that we now live in a world without choices.”

“Things change.”

“Yes.” Maria looked into his eyes. “Things change. But we must stay friends. We can achieve that, can’t we?”

“Of course.”

She was flustered. “I have to go. You will be there tonight?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

He watched her go. When she reached the door, she turned once, hesitated for a second, and then slipped out into the cold light.

Ruzsky went first to the duty desk, where the officer that he’d dealt with yesterday sat slumped forward, his face on the report book, fast asleep. His mouth was squashed open and he snored quietly.

“Good morning.”

The man sat bolt upright, with startled eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Ruzsky grinned. “It is a Sunday, after all. How long have you been on the night shift?”

“Two weeks. This is my last one.”

“Good. You look like you need some sleep.” Ruzsky reached for the report book and glanced at the previous day’s record of assaults, burglaries, and random acts of street violence. Many more than he ever remembered. “Get me Missing Persons again, would you?”

The officer hurried to oblige.

There were no new entries.

“Nothing there, sir?”

“No.”

“Who were they?”

Ruzsky looked at the man for a second. “We don’t know,” he said.

“Revolutionaries?”

Ruzsky frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s what the others think. Out there in front of the palace.”

Ruzsky shook his head. He assumed the men had been talking about yesterday’s visit from the Okhrana. “I think they’re wrong. When’s your relief?”

“In an hour, sir. If he’s on time.”

“Tell him if there is any report of someone missing, I want to be told immediately.”

There was a pile of papers on his desk, placed there after he’d left the previous evening. On top was a note from the fingerprint bureau asking for written authorization to begin a search. He filled in the form, ticked the box marked criminal suspects only, and placed it in his “out” tray. The one thing common to all departments of the Tsar’s government was their insane level of bureaucracy.

Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. He picked up the telephone earpiece and waited for a connection. He asked the operator for the line to Tsarskoe Selo and it was answered immediately.

“May I speak with Colonel Shulgin please?”

“Who is calling?”

“Investigator Ruzsky of the Petrograd Police Department.”

“What is it concerning?”

“I’d rather explain to the colonel in person.”

“One minute, please.”

Ruzsky waited and waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk.

“Are you still there?” the voice asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid Colonel Shulgin is engaged. He will telephone you later this morning.”

“I’d like to speak to him now.” Ruzsky was aware of the sharpness in his voice.

“He is otherwise engaged.”

“I’ll wait.”

“He will be engaged for some time.”

“This is a murder investigation.”

Ruzsky heard the man sigh. “Colonel Shulgin will telephone you later this morning.”

“Do you have any idea how long he will be? I have to go out.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Ruzsky terminated the call. He thought the arrogance of the palace staff in the face of the current popular mood defied belief. He looked at his pocket watch again.

Downstairs, Sarlov was drinking from a tin cup full of strong Turkish coffee. There was another corpse on the slab, covered by a single white sheet, folded back at the top. The victim was an old man.

“A drunk,” Sarlov explained. “Froze to death.”

There was a light on in the corner, but the room was mostly in shadow. The smell made Ruzsky gag, but he didn’t recoil. It irritated Sarlov when detectives were in a hurry to get away. He appeared to prefer the company of corpses to that of humans. There were times when Ruzsky couldn’t bring himself to blame him.

“So,” Ruzsky said.

“So… what?”

“Any further thoughts?”

“I’m thinking about whether you have a cigarette.”

Ruzsky took out the silver case and walked around the corpse’s head, offering Sarlov a cigarette and then lighting one for himself. They smoked in a silence that was almost companionable. Ruzsky stared at the old man in front of him. His face was as white as marble.

“It’s a Sunday morning,” Sarlov said. “I’m not officially working.”

“I can see.”

“You don’t know who they are, do you?” Sarlov said. “Or why they were taken?”

Ruzsky pointed with his cigarette. “The girl was called Ella. She worked in the nursery at Tsarskoe Selo-”

Sarlov whistled quietly.