“He wasn’t tall, was he? But strong-like an ox.”

“Did you see his pipe? I smoke a pipe myself. I wonder what brand he uses?”

Korolev maneuvered past them, feeling the same pride as his fellow Muscovites at the leadership’s decision to come out among them.

He was nearly clear when he felt his elbow taken in a strong grip and he turned to find himself facing Staff Colonel Gregorin.

“Captain Korolev, are you only going home now? Working late on the investigation, were you?” Gregorin pulled a cigarette case out of his uniform’s breast pocket; at some stage it had received a large dent and it opened stiffly. Gregorin saw his interest and closed the lid to tap his finger in the middle of the circular mark.

“A bullet. It saved my life-now it’s my good-luck charm. If it weren’t for the case, there would only have been a dead Corporal Gregorin rather than a live Staff Colonel Gregorin. I consider it a useful reminder of the arbitrariness of fate. And doctors tell us smoking weakens the chest…”

Gregorin chuckled at the well-worn joke and Korolev responded with an awkward smile. The colonel had taken him by surprise and he took the offered cigarette happily, relieved to have something to do with his hands. He reached into his pocket for the matches he habitually carried, but Gregorin stopped him, cracking open a lighter and moving the two of them away from the crowd.

“Comrade Stalin decided to visit the Metro on a whim. He’s seen it in construction, and was at the opening, of course, but he wanted to experience it like an ordinary citizen. A spontaneous thought, so we were all called out at a moment’s notice to provide security. A great responsibility.”

He pointed to a black car parked on the street about thirty meters further along the street, “Can I give you a lift home? It will save you the walk.”

Korolev nodded, feeling he should participate in the conversation, but finding himself at a loss for words.

“Good. Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, isn’t it? Oh don’t look so alarmed, it’s my business to know about those who interest me, whether for professional or personal reasons. It’s a good building-you’ll like your neighbors. Babel lives upstairs. Do you know him? The writer? If not, you should make it your business to do so-a citizen has a duty to be cultured these days.”

“I know of him, yes,” Korolev managed to say, recalling the writer’s all-too-vivid descriptions of the war against the Poles.

“I can introduce you, if you’d like. He may be useful to you. In fact, I’ll make it a point to do so. He’ll enjoy you, two veterans of the war in Poland -I can see you gossiping away like old women. Maybe he’ll write about you. Who knows?”

“What could a man like Comrade Babel see in a humble Militia investigator like me, Colonel? And, for that matter, what is your interest?”

Gregorin opened the driver’s door of a black Emka and Korolev saw humor flash in his dark brown eyes. The colonel’s authority hung easily about him and his thick black hair, swarthy skin and strong features made Korolev wonder if he might be a Georgian, like Stalin, although there was no clear accent when he spoke. He carried himself like an athlete. Not a wide or tall man, but he looked as though he could handle himself.

“You underestimate yourself, Comrade,” Gregorin said, when Korolev was sitting in the car. “I didn’t choose you to lecture tomorrow for no reason-you get results. It will do our students no harm to learn a thing or two from such an effective investigator. And General Popov recommended you-he thinks highly of your abilities.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Korolev said.

“So, tell me. How’s the case going? Making any progress?”

“It’s in its early stages. We haven’t much to go on just yet, but there are some indications. I’ve written up an initial report-I’ll bring it along tomorrow morning.”

“Good. As it happens, it’s a fortuitous coincidence that you’re working on this case.”

“Why, Colonel?”

“Because the higher echelons have asked me to provide a State Security oversight.”

Sitting back in to the driver’s seat, the colonel exhaled a perfect smoke ring, which hung round and still for a moment before gradually disintegrating. Gregorin observed the smoke ring with satisfaction.

“But why? The case has no political element, does it?” Korolev was mystified as to why the NKVD would be interested in a simple murder, albeit a nasty one. But then he remembered the possibility that the girl was a foreigner. He answered his own question in a whisper.

“Oh-but it does have a political element. The dead girl. She has foreign fillings, and her clothes…”

He let his voice trail off. He didn’t want to criticize Soviet clothes in front of an NKVD staff colonel, but her clothes were clearly of a better quality than anything the USSR could produce.

Gregorin leaned forward, the smile slipping from his face. “What’s this about the girl? Have you established her identity?”

“Not yet, Colonel, but we think there’s a possibility she may not have been a Soviet citizen.”

Gregorin gave an abrupt nod of his head and motioned with his cigarette for Korolev to continue. He listened without interruption as Korolev told him all he knew about the girl and her death.

“Is that all? Anything else?” he asked when Korolev had finished.

“That’s it, so far.”

“Very interesting. The higher echelons were correct.”

“So it does have a political element?”

“Yes, I believe it does.”

“But, if that’s so, surely it will be taken over by State Security.”

Gregorin blew on the tip of his cigarette, the orange glow lighting his face for a moment. He looked pensive.

“There’s certainly a political element, that’s true. But it’s still a murder.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem. Just investigate the matter as if it were an ordinary case. That’s all we ask of you. Understanding is something you should leave to us.”

“But what is the political element, Comrade Colonel? Can I at least be permitted to know that?” Korolev couldn’t help a note of frustration entering his voice.

Gregorin’s mouth was a straight black line in the faint glow from the street lights. He regarded Korolev in silence and then he smiled, again relaxed. He turned back to look out of the window at the thinning crowd.

“What I’m about to tell you is secret. Understood?”

“As you wish,” Korolev said, and wondered what the hell he’d got himself into this time.

“Very well-you’ll be aware of the State’s ongoing efforts to raise finances for the current Five Year Plan, yes? I’m sure you, like most workers, lend a proportion of your salary in the form of State bonds to assist in the struggle to achieve the plan’s objectives. Every citizen has tightened their belt for the greater good. And we’re on target to achieve those objectives.”

The belt on the colonel’s shiny leather jacket didn’t look as though it was tighter than it should be, but Korolev held his tongue.

“It’s a question of survival,” Korolev said.

“Indeed it is, and if we’re to withstand the enemies of socialism, the State needs money to acquire the technology and to buy the weapons to defend what we’ve achieved since 1917. Borrowing money abroad is difficult, of course-why would capitalists lend money to a Revolution that seeks to bring about their end? So we have to earn the foreign money we need. We go hungry so that we can sell our wheat to whoever pays the best price-a temporary situation, of course, but vital until recently. Now, as Comrade Stalin says, things are getting better. We’re turning the corner.”

“I often remember those words of his,” Korolev said.

“Well, one way we raise finance is through the sale of confiscated assets, such as works of art, jewelry, precious books and other valuables. The sales are managed by the Ministry of State Security-the NKVD, as it happens. Recently, however, we’ve become aware that there is a certain amount of ‘leakage’; items have been showing up in Europe or America that should still be here in Moscow. We know some of the people involved and it’s possible your victim is connected to this conspiracy. In fact, based on your description of her, I’m sure of it.”