The Metropol wasn’t the tallest building on Teatralnaya, being a mere six stories high, but it enjoyed a prime location across the square from the Bolshoi Theater and on a dark, clouded day-such as this one-the hotel’s many lit windows sent out a welcoming glow. The structure, an ornate mixture of the art deco and Russian imperial styles, still retained a fin de siècle elegance despite the more recent inscription that ran the length of the fifth floor: ONLY THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT CAN FREE MANKIND FROM THE CAPITALIST YOKE -V. I. LENIN.

The inscription always struck Korolev as a little unfriendly given that the Metropol catered mostly to important visitors from abroad and Western specialists, many of whom were presumably enthusiastic proponents of that same capitalist yoke, and very much against being dictated to by the proletariat. Still, whether the foreign capitalists liked it or not, even ordinary Soviet workers like Korolev could visit the Metropol and order a glass of beer. Despite its splendors, it was owned by the State, and the State was the People. The thought buoyed him up as he crossed the road toward the entrance, conscious, as he was, that wherever there were foreigners there was danger, and that most ordinary people avoided the Metropol, leaving it to apparatchiks, Party cadres, famous actors and the like to fly the Red Flag on their behalf. The hotel might be owned by the People, but that didn’t mean the People were crazy enough to visit it.

Korolev nodded to the tall doorman and showed him his identity card.

“ Moscow CID. Militia business. Where’s the manager’s office, Comrade?”

The doorman, dressed in a uniform that had more gold braid and tassels than a tsarist general’s and with a magnificent beard that looked like it might be supported by hidden wires, took Korolev’s papers and examined them for a moment before smiling, as one worker to another.

“Up the stairs and ask at reception, Comrade. The duty manager’s the fellow you need to talk to. Nikolai Vladimirovich. Don’t be put off by him, he’s a decent lad.”

The foyer was huge, lined with mirrors and paintings and more gilt and crystal than could be taken in immediately, all topped by a sky-blue ceiling, the corners and edges of which were decorated with painted clouds. Korolev had never been to the Metropol before and he was sufficiently taken aback by the grandeur of the interior to stop in his tracks and look around him like, he suspected, some village idiot at his first May Day parade. But most extraordinary of all was the long pool that graced the center of the room, in which young women with unnaturally red lips and jeweled swimming caps were performing some kind of ballet, their tight black swimsuits stretching with their bodies as their legs rose from the water as one. Korolev found himself instinctively removing his hat out of respect, although the swimmers paid him no attention, their eyes being fixed at an indeterminate point somewhere in the vicinity of the chandeliers.

He felt his cheeks reddening, but pulled himself together enough to advance toward the ornate oak-paneled reception desk, hoping the foreigners paid through their noses for all this, the rats. A handsome fellow in a dinner jacket was waiting for him, looking like a film star with his oiled hair and carved cheekbones-it was enough to make a man want to kick something. Korolev placed his identity card on the waiting blotter.

“I’ve a few questions for the duty manager. I believe Nikolai Vladimirovich is the man I want.”

The receptionist examined Korolev’s photograph with polite attention. No doubt the capitalist women just loved this fellow, Korolev thought, taking a quick dislike to him. If he was a member of the proletariat, then Korolev was a tangerine.

“Of course, Comrade, I’ll go and fetch him. Please take a seat by the fountain and he’ll be with you shortly.”

The film star pointed him to a cluster of red velvet seating, beside which water splashed and sparkled. Korolev walked over and sat down beneath a half-naked gilded nymph carrying an unlikely looking red star. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t help noticing that his valenki were giving off a pungent aroma not dissimilar to damp horse. He looked down and saw melting slush spreading over the crisp marble floor around his feet. Well, at least it wasn’t yellow, he thought to himself, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

After a few minutes, most of which Korolev spent wishing he was somewhere else, a small rotund man approached with an outstretched hand, teeth sparkling beneath his precisely sculpted, razor-thin mustache. A party badge twinkled on the lapel of his morning-suit coat.

“Comrade, I came as soon as I could. Nikolai Vladimirovich Krylov, Duty Manager. Please follow me. I wish to be of every assistance.”

Korolev followed Krylov’s patent leather shoes as they clicked across the marble floor toward what appeared to be a mirrored wall. At Krylov’s confident push, the mirror revealed itself to be the hidden door to a comfortably furnished office. Aside from a green-topped wooden desk, there were a pair of buttoned leather armchairs and a matching leather couch gathered around a glass coffee table. Krylov pointed Korolev toward the couch.

“Would you like a cognac, Comrade? French and very fine.” Krylov reached for a decanter.

Korolev was about to refuse the offer when he caught sight of a brass carriage clock on the chimneypiece. It was four o’clock already, and it had been a long day.

“French, you say? Well, why not?”

“Excellent,” Krylov said and filled two small glasses to the brim. He handed one to Korolev and sat down carefully opposite the other, raising the delicate glass in toast.

“Your health, Comrade.”

“And yours,” Korolev replied and they drank a healthy sip, but not all of it. They were cultured Soviet citizens, after all, not beasts of the field.

“So how can I assist you, Captain?” Krylov asked, leaning forward, his pale face showing a concern that was perhaps a little exaggerated. Korolev decided there was no point in beating about the bush.

“You’ve a fellow called Schwartz staying here-I’d like to talk to him.”

Krylov nodded slowly. His eyes were very dark, Korolev noticed, and perhaps this accounted for the lack of visible reaction to his request.

“May I ask what your inquiry is in connection with?” Krylov asked, after lengthy deliberation. “While we always cooperate fully with representatives of the Ministry of State Security, we do owe a duty of confidentiality to our guests.”

Korolev realized he had just very politely been reminded that he, a humble Militia captain, was treading on NKVD turf, and had better have some justification for doing so. He swirled the remaining cognac round his glass and finished it with a gulp, the heat of the alcohol warming his stomach.

“It’s to do with a murder, Comrade Krylov. It’s been suggested to me, by another part of the Ministry, that I should talk to this Schwartz fellow.”

Krylov stood up and reached for the bottle to refill Korolev’s glass.

“We’re under instructions to give this resident, in particular, a certain amount of discreet protection. Do you think…” he began and Korolev took the hint.

“May I use your phone, please, Comrade Krylov? I’ll speak to a colleague at State Security, just to make sure I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.”

Krylov gave him a relieved smile.

“Of course, please be my guest. Ask the operator to put you through. And don’t worry-she won’t be listening in. They know better than that, but then, of course…” Again he failed to finish his sentence, giving a small shrug as he stepped through the doorway that told Korolev that if the operator wasn’t listening in, someone else probably was. A good lad, despite the fancy dress. He picked up the phone on the desk, asking for the Lubianka and then for Staff Colonel Gregorin when the switchboard answered. Gregorin’s voice sounded tired when it came on the line.