“Well, Colonel,” Korolev began, hearing the hoarseness in his voice, “if she’s from America-and rich-was she here to buy items like those you mentioned last night? Is that the connection?”

Gregorin shook his head, more in disappointment at the naivety of the question than disagreement.

“I can only tell you one thing more about her. We don’t know much else, as it happens, so don’t bother asking.”

“I’d be grateful, Comrade Colonel.”

“She is-or was-a nun. The Orthodox cult is stronger than you’d think in America. Even before the Revolution, it was strong. There’s a convent near New York and, according to our information, she joined it three years ago. The Church is very active against us, as you might expect. They are usually more adept at infiltrating agents, so perhaps there is another explanation-but it’s our suspicion that she was here on their instructions. Our people are working on it, of course, and they may turn up more information in time.”

“Do you have any idea what her instructions might have been? If she was working for the cultists, that is?”

Gregorin sighed. “It’s no secret that the Orthodox cult is interested in items of religious significance-icons in particular. If the murder is indeed connected to the matter we discussed last night, it might be a logical conclusion that she could have some connection to the ‘leakage.’ If you think some information about the sale of religious items might be of use to you, there’s a man called Schwartz staying at the Metropol. He’s an American and responsible for handling a very large proportion of the artifacts we send abroad. If you talk to him, remember that. Not that you would ever rough him up or anything.”

“I’m not that type of investigator. And if he does what you say, I can see his importance to the State.”

Colonel Gregorin tapped the folder. “Good. Keep the reports coming and I’ll be in touch. Be careful, Captain. You’re dealing with people who’ll kill to protect themselves-because if they’re caught…” Gregorin left the sentence unfinished and rose to his feet.

Korolev stood up as well. “Tell me, Comrade Colonel, why, again, are the NKVD not investigating the case directly?”

Gregorin pointed toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

He said nothing more.

Back at Petrovka Street, Korolev climbed the stairs to General Popov’s office with the intention of passing on Gregorin’s information and to ask for instructions on how to approach it. When he reached the second-floor landing, however, he saw Yasimov reading the Wall Paper. Every Soviet workplace had a Wall Paper, written by its Party activists to educate the workers politically and to publicize the Party line. Even from the staircase Korolev had no trouble making out the headline-the words were in lettering three inches high:

“COMRADE POPOV’S FAILURE TO SUPPRESS WRECKERS AND TRAITORS!”

Korolev looked at Yasimov, opening his mouth to speak, but his friend gave a tiny shake of his head. He then began to read a different article with almost exaggerated attention while Korolev, taking the hint, turned back to the editorial. To his surprise, there was no mention of anyone else having failed in their duty to detect wreckers and traitors, which group must include his former colleague Knuckles Mendeleyev. Korolev guessed that it wasn’t just sympathy for the general that was making Yasimov look grim-they’d both worked closely with Knuckles, after all, sharing a room with him for years, and if Knuckles had been a traitor to the State then surely they should have spotted him long before Larinin’s denunciation. He scanned the Wall Paper, but could see neither Yasimov’s nor his own name mentioned-they were in the clear, for the moment anyway.

Yasimov finished the article he was reading, patted Korolev’s shoulder and walked over to Room 2F’s battered door-there was nothing that could be said out on the landing. Korolev stayed for a little longer, then continued up the stairs to the general’s office, unable to shake the feeling that Yasimov’s pat on the shoulder hadn’t been meant to be reassuring, but rather was a warning.

Inside his office the general sat smoking his pipe and looking off into space. There was a glass of water on the table in front of him and two white pills beside it. The general followed Korolev’s glance.

“Stomach ulcer. I can barely look at decent food these days, let alone alcohol. It’s a hard life. I can still smoke though. Just about.” He puffed at the pipe and examined Korolev. “You saw the Wall Paper, I take it?”

“Yes. What are they going to do, Comrade General?”

“As if they’d tell me. There’ll be a disciplinary meeting in due course, no doubt, and then I’ll be guided by my Comrades. If the Party believes I wasn’t sufficiently active in my duties, then I’ll accept that-it’s my duty to accept it. But I’d never have thought it of Mendeleyev, and I can’t help thinking…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he sucked at the pipe and then focused his full attention on the glowing bowl that resulted. He seemed to have forgotten Korolev was there. When Korolev coughed into his fist, the general looked up, bemused.

“Alexei. What was it you wanted, anyway?”

“I’ll speak at the meeting, Comrade General. I worked closest of all with Mendeleyev. If there was something wrong, I should have seen it before anyone else.”

Popov’s brow creased, creating a series of deep Vs in his forehead.

“Don’t even think of it. I’m grateful, believe me, but please stay out of this-you’re not a Party member. Please, don’t become involved.”

“But, General, no one’s contributed more to our efforts than you have. Everyone knows it. Allow me to speak.”

Popov blew a gust of smoke out as he laughed. “But I haven’t done enough, Alexei Dmitriyevich, not nearly enough. They keep coming, the Thieves and the hooligans, the rapists, the murderers, the speculators, the whores and the bandits. According to theory, they should have been subsumed into the greater working class by now. And if they haven’t been, then it must be someone’s fault. Of course, you’d think my job would have become easier if the theory was…” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry. Let’s stop talking about this-otherwise I’ll say something stupid and we’ll both be in the soup.”

“I’m sure the Party will come to the correct conclusion, Comrade General.”

The general shook his head as if to put the whole mess behind him. He looked round for inspiration and found it when his eyes met Korolev’s report. He picked it up from the desk with one hand and put the pipe back into his mouth with the other.

“You’re making some progress, Alexei Dmitriyevich. What did Staff Colonel Gregorin make of it?”

His voice was muffled by the presence of the pipe, but he was clearly more cheerful discussing the case than the Party meeting, so Korolev, after a brief hesitation, filled him in on Gregorin’s information, leaving nothing out. The general’s reaction was to give a long low whistle.

“The Devil-this on top of everything else? It’s got trouble written all over it, but you don’t need to be told that.”

“No,” Korolev said dryly.

“What I don’t understand is why they’re leaving it with us.” The general considered the question, running the pipe’s mouthpiece along his jaw. “Let’s see-Gregorin must think the killing is to do with the conspiracy behind the missing artworks, right? So he must think that if you poke around looking for your murderer, you’ll distract the criminals from the investigation Gregorin’s boys are carrying out. Yes. Not a bad plan.” The general nodded in approval.

Then he looked up. “But what if they decide to knock you off as well? If there are Chekists involved, as Gregorin seems to think, you could be in an unmarked grave out at Butyrka before morning. They’ve killed an American and clearly didn’t turn a hair, so why wouldn’t they do the same to you? It’d be no problem for them to slip one more onto the production line; the investigations they’re doing now are speedy, to say the least. Which makes me wonder why they didn’t just do the same with the girl. Ah. American. Yes. Maybe they mutilated her to stop her being recognized.”