“Probably.”

Vasilyev was now standing with his back to them, staring out of the window.

“The man had a small branded star on his right shoulder,” Ruzsky said.

The official from the Ministry looked up and scribbled something on the notepad in front of him. But Vasilyev remained unmoved.

“In addition to which, the killer went to considerable effort to strip them of anything that might identify them.”

“So you are saying it was a political crime,” Vasilyev went on.

Ruzsky shook his head. “The man was stabbed seventeen times…”

“But the girl was a palace employee.” Vasilyev’s tone was emphatic.

Ruzsky glanced around the room. Anton shifted nervously in his seat. Pavel stared dead ahead.

Vasilyev took a pace forward. “Thank you, gentleman. That will be all.”

For a moment, nobody moved, then Pavel stood, looking relieved.

“A word in private, Sandro,” Vasilyev said, as he turned to leave.

The others filed out, but the man from the Ministry of the Interior stayed where he was. He seemed to relax a little, leaning back in his chair.

Vasilyev still had the remains of the cigarette in his hand. He stubbed it out in a big silver ashtray on his desk then lit another. He picked at his suit. “It is difficult,” he said, “isn’t it, when we cannot be certain of the victims’ identity, especially in these times, when our manpower is stretched so thin?”

“Criminal investigations are rarely as straightforward as we would like them to be.”

“But times have changed, Sandro. Our concerns are so…” Vasilyev spread his hands, “broad. I think we could view this as a lover’s argument. A man, a woman…”

“So, they killed each other?”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Ruzsky.” Vasilyev chose his words carefully. “I had a telephone call this morning, from the Alexander Palace. From the Empress herself. You can, perhaps, imagine my dilemma.” Vasilyev stubbed out his cigarette, in a manner that hinted at the anger bubbling under his cloak of self-control. “Or could if you weren’t so damned arrogant.”

Ruzsky fought hard to keep his voice level. “This is a murder. A criminal case, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the chief of the city police, according to the dictates of the Ministry of the Interior.” He paused. “There is no sign of political motivation. As soon as there is, we will pass over the evidence we have accumulated to this department.”

Vasilyev glared at him.

“Will that be all?” Ruzsky asked.

“There are other matters that require your attention, I’m sure.”

“But none as important.”

“So the Tsar is no longer to be obeyed?” Vasilyev’s voice was like velvet. “Is that what you think?”

“I think that now, more than ever, there is a need for justice.”

Vasilyev’s face darkened. “It is the Tsar or the mob, Ruzsky. You would do well to remember that.”

Ruzsky turned away. He could almost feel the fury at his back, propelling him down the corridor.

A t the headquarters of the Petrograd City Police Department, they were waiting for him in Anton’s office. Ruzsky sat down heavily, staring at the picture of Napoleon’s retreat on the wall opposite. He could see that the others were nervous and apprehensive.

“He invited me to close the case on the grounds that it had proved impossible to establish the identities of the victims,” Ruzsky said solemnly.

No one replied.

“He said he had received a call from Tsarskoe Selo, and that I must understand his dilemma.”

Pavel leaned forward. “Do you think that’s true?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Shulgin seemed concerned to me, and uncertain, rather than hostile.”

They considered this. Ruzsky looked into the eyes of his colleagues. They wanted to appear defiant, but none could entirely hide their fear.

Anton sighed deeply. “Vasilyev is a powerful and dangerous enemy, now more than ever.”

“But still not omnipotent.”

“I’m not so sure.” Anton suddenly looked old. “It has a pleasing hint of irony about it, don’t you think? In the dying hours of the regime, we loyally carry out the tasks assigned to us in the name of a tsar that none of us believes in, while those who once professed fanatical loyalty to the absolute monarch now prepare themselves for the moment when he is no longer with us.”

“I don’t understand,” Ruzsky said.

“What do you think our friend Vasilyev has been doing these past weeks?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“He’s been a very, very busy man. Meetings and telephone calls. Reading telegrams and letters. Those to him and those intercepted. He speaks to the generals, the politicians, and the grand dukes. He even talks to the revolutionaries.” Anton raised his hand. “You won’t believe it, but trust me, he does. How can I manage this for maximum advantage, he asks. He could stay loyal to the Tsar, as he claims, but he knows it’s moving beyond that. Change is coming, so which way is it going to blow and how can he be seen to assist it? Strikes, demonstrations, protests; the appearance of disorder. He can orchestrate them all. The generals and politicians and grand dukes could then claim they were forced to take resolute action. But, of course, if Vasilyev and his agents get it wrong… then who knows what could happen?”

“He just told me that the choice was between the Tsar and the mob.”

“And he is right.”

“If he is that preoccupied, then why bother to interfere with us?”

They sat in silence again. None of them could answer this.

“It doesn’t smell good,” Pavel said. “They were warned this American was coming back. And when he does, he gets seventeen stab wounds for his trouble.”

“And yet,” Ruzsky went on, “we cannot get away from the fact that, to all of us, their deaths still feel personal.”

They looked to Maretsky. He examined his chubby hands. As a professor of philosophy at the university, he had developed a passionate interest in the criminal mind and had been brought in by Anton-after his disgrace-on a part-time basis to assist in investigations. Shortly afterward, Vasilyev had seen the value of his work and had requested-or rather, they believed, coerced-his assistance too. “I see only files,” Maretsky said, “and sometimes individuals. I would be the last person they would tell.”

“What do you think lies beneath this case?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard of White or the girl. Never seen any paperwork on either of them. But then, if it was something they wanted to keep from you, I wouldn’t see it either.”

“Why have they warned us off?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did they-”

“Sandro, I can see the questions. I just don’t have the answers.”

They glanced at each other. Pavel seemed suddenly less than pleased at the idea of being one of a band of brothers, but there was warmth in Anton’s eyes.

“We cannot easily trace the American,” Ruzsky said. “So we must begin by following the path of the girl. If any of you want to stay officially neutral, then now’s the time to make that clear.”

There was an awkward silence.

Pavel got to his feet. His face was strained. He came level with Ruzsky, raised his head, looked apologetically into his eyes, and then slapped him so hard on the back that he almost choked. “God, Sandro,” he guffawed, “you’re a pain in the ass.”

Pavel went home and Ruzsky retired gratefully to his office. He shut the door, switched on his lamp, and sat behind his desk in the half-darkness.

He extracted the ticket Maria had sent him for the ballet from his pocket, and glanced up at the clock. It was almost eight; the performance had already begun.

He stared at the ticket, put it down, moved it from one side of his desk to the other.

He reached for his “in” tray.

On top was an internal envelope containing a note from the fingerprint laboratory; they needed a formal signature of authorization before examining the prints from the dagger.