E lla’s mother lived in a squalid tenement building in the Alexander Nevsky Quarter, but the door was locked and her neighbor told them she worked nights and had only just gone on shift.

Ruzsky and Pavel hurried back on foot to the department through the darkened, snow-covered streets, but when they got to the office, there was a note on Ruzsky’s desk saying that a briefing had been fixed for Vasilyev at Alexandrovsky Prospekt at six. They were already late.

They got a droshky to take them over the ice-packed Troitzky Bridge. The spire of the St. Peter and St. Paul Fortress, bright in the moonlight, was a visible reminder at the heart of the city-as the place where the regime’s enemies were confined-of the power of the man they were heading to meet.

As they disembarked outside the dimly lit entrance to Alexanderovsky Prospekt, they heard a dull mechanical roar and turned to see a green liveried car sliding to a halt behind them.

The nearside door opened and Vasilyev stood for a moment on the running board, his outstretched arms and wide black cloak making him look like a bird of prey.

He stepped down and began to stalk toward them with the slow, deliberate gait that Ruzsky recalled so well.

Vasilyev drew level and stopped. His hair was short and deep crow’s feet at the edge of his temples led down to hooded, pale blue eyes that were washed out with too much knowledge. A man who could look the devil in the eye without blinking, Anton had once said. He had a pronounced scar on the right side of his forehead.

“Chief Investigator,” he said. His voice was low and measured. “Welcome back.”

Vasilyev led the way up into the gloomy hallway. Just as in their own headquarters, a reception desk faced them. The corridor was full of newspaper sellers and cabbies and tramps-men from the External Agency, or the Okhrana’s street surveillance division. As Vasilyev walked in, their conversation became instantly subdued.

They marched down the long corridor behind him. Ruzsky glimpsed giant black presses in noisy operation as they passed the print room. He saw several leaflets scattered on the floor, but read only one headline: Vermin of Russia. The Okhrana’s notorious anti-Jewish propaganda machine appeared to be in full swing.

Ruzsky glanced at Pavel, who was staring straight ahead, determined to avoid any chance of confrontation.

They walked into the elevator and the attendant pulled back the cage, pushed the button, and stood ramrod straight as they ascended to Vasilyev’s office; it did not stop at any other floor.

Anton was already at the round wooden conference table, alongside Maretsky. There was a bespectacled official next to him-perhaps the man from the Ministry of the Interior-whom nobody bothered to introduce and who avoided Ruzsky’s eye. Next to him sat Prokopiev, in a shirt and thick leather suspenders.

Vasilyev’s protégé might have been wrought in his image. They were physically different-Prokopiev was tall and lean, where his master was stocky and short-but they had the same hair color, cropped close, and a similar intensity in their eyes that gave no hint of warmth or humanity. Prokopiev was head of the Internal Division, the section of the Okhrana responsible for running agents within organizations hostile to the state.

As they sat down, Pavel leaned toward Ruzsky. “Be careful,” he whispered.

“Would you care to share your thoughts with us, Deputy Chief Investigator?” Vasilyev asked. He was standing behind his desk, with his back to a tall window that afforded an astonishing view of the fortress, and the frozen river beyond.

Pavel flushed.

“He told me to remember to be respectful,” Ruzsky said.

“Ah,” Vasilyev responded. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

The chief of the secret police moved a round metal weight from some papers and shuffled them to the center of his desk, before walking over to the bookcase and leaning back against it. Above him hung a line of religious icons and pictures of the Tsar and Tsarina. Vasilyev took a silver case from the inside of his pocket. “Cigarette, anyone?”

No one answered. Ruzsky studied him. He was immaculately turned out, from his neatly groomed mustache to his highly polished shoes. His manner was precise and meticulous, and he still had the habit of obsessively removing small specks of dust from his waistcoat as he spoke.

“Would you like some English tea?” Vasilyev asked. It was a question to all of them, but directed at Ruzsky.

“No.”

“Your father is well?”

Ruzsky hesitated. He wondered if the question was designed to humiliate him. “I believe so.”

Vasilyev lit his cigarette. He held it away from his body, so that the ash did not fall upon his suit. “Anton Antipovich has told me a little, but perhaps you would care to expand. You found two bodies on the Neva. Who were they?”

Ruzsky scrutinized the table in front of him. It was inconceivable that Vasilyev had called the meeting in ignorance; he wondered how much he already knew, and how little he could get away with telling him. “You have the bodies,” he said caustically.

Vasilyev betrayed no visible reaction. “But you have still been working on the case, is that not so?”

“The girl was called Ella.”

“Her family name?”

“Kovyil.”

“Kovyil?” Vasilyev frowned and glanced at Prokopiev. “Does that sound familiar?”

Prokopiev shrugged, but Ruzsky could see that it was a charade. They both knew precisely who she was. “She worked in the nursery out at Tsarskoe Selo,” he said, since he was certain they must know that, too.

“You should have informed me immediately that the girl was a palace employee.”

“We only found out this afternoon,” Ruzsky lied.

“And the man?”

“As I said, you have the bodies.”

“We wished to ascertain that the murder was not the work of a political assassin.”

“And have you done so?”

“Indeed we have. But I repeat. It is your belief, is it not, that the course of the overall investigation remains under the jurisdiction of the Petrograd City Police Department.”

To buy himself time, Ruzsky pulled out his own cigarette case and lit up. “We believe the dead man was probably an American called Robert White.”

Ruzsky watched Vasilyev’s face for a reaction.

Apparently unperturbed, Vasilyev drew deeply on his cigarette. “An American?”

“So it would appear.”

“How did you discover this?”

“Sarlov thought he might be, from his dental work. So we went to the embassy and asked.”

“And they confirmed it?”

“Yes.”

“How could they be so sure?”

“They were looking for him.”

“Looking for him? Here?”

Ruzsky watched his opponent. “He was a criminal and labor agitator.”

“A labor agitator?” Vasilyev turned back to Prokopiev. “Ivan?”

Prokopiev shrugged again.

“You’ve never heard of him?” Ruzsky asked.

Prokopiev blinked, but did not feel the need to reply.

“You’ve spoken to Shulgin?” Vasilyev asked. He clearly knew that they had.

“Yes.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Ella worked in the nursery at the Alexander Palace. She was from Yalta. Perhaps you remember her?” He noticed a muscle twitch in Prokopiev’s cheek. “I believe you were chief of police in the city at the time, and Ivan your deputy?”

“Why should either of us remember her?” Prokopiev asked.

“No reason.”

They were silent. The man from the Ministry of the Interior stared at his notepad. Ruzsky needed no further evidence that the city’s overall chief of police, Prince Obolensky, was no longer in control. In the deteriorating political climate, all power had passed to the man in front of them.

“Go on,” Vasilyev said.

“Ella was dismissed for stealing.”

“Stealing what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Money?”