“Comrade Korolev? At the Metropol, I believe. Isn’t it a little early for you to be out on the town?”

“Strictly business, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev answered, trying his best to hide his surprise that Gregorin knew where he was. “I thought I’d talk to that American you mentioned-Schwartz.”

“I think you should, Korolev. But just talk to him, nothing more, you understand. Make it clear it’s an unofficial inquiry and be discreet about the girl. We don’t want to offend the Americans. You’re dealing with Krylov, I believe. Put him on. By the way, I’ll meet you at your building at seven-thirty this evening. I think you should be introduced to your neighbors.”

Krylov took the phone when summoned, agreed with the colonel twice in the one-sided phone call, then hung up. He turned to Korolev with a smile.

“Mr. Jack Schwartz is the gentleman you want. He’s a regular guest. American, from New York. He’s been here for the last ten days. The profession he gives on his visa, which is a business visa, not a tourist one, is ‘antiques dealer.’ ”

Korolev liked the way Krylov pointed out Schwartz was on a business visa. It meant that Schwartz was a friend of the State in case Korolev hadn’t worked it out already, and an antiques dealer would fit in with what Gregorin had told him.

“I’ll see if he’s in. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime, a sandwich perhaps?”

“No thank you, Comrade Krylov. I’m not hungry,” Korolev said, the lie tasting like meatballs in his mouth.

“Are you all right, Comrade? You look quite pale.”

“It’s nothing Comrade. Just a momentary dizziness. Perhaps my Soviet liver is reacting badly to this bourgeois cognac.”

“Well, your Soviet liver should be proud to prevent the cognac being drunk by foreign capitalists. A selfless act!” Krylov winked and left the room, returning moments later.

“You’re in luck, Comrade, he’s sitting outside at this very moment. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Mr. Jack Schwartz of New York fitted in very well at the Metropol. Korolev had to acknowledge that the American’s gray woolen suit was cut with a level of precision that was beyond Soviet tailors, even the one Krylov used. Disconcertingly, he found himself seized by a desire to run his fingers along the jacket’s lapel-just to feel the fabric. Looking at it, he guessed it would be just as soft as the dead girl’s skirt, but he put the thought aside, reminding himself that Soviet clothes would be its equal, and better, in time.

Schwartz was a young man, about thirty, good-looking with full lips, a long jaw and dark brown eyes that seemed large for his face. He sat reading through some typewritten pages, his overcoat and a briefcase taking up one of the other seats at the table.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” Schwartz said in perfect Russian when Krylov introduced them. Korolev wondered whether his red tie was worn out of politeness or conviction.

“I’m investigating a crime, Mr. Jack Schwartz, and I believe you may be able to assist me. My approach is unofficial, of course, and I hope if I ask you a few questions they will not interfere in any way with your enjoyment of your visit to Moscow and the Soviet Union, where you are most heartily welcome.” A little formal perhaps, Korolev thought, but better safe than sorry. Schwartz nodded his head toward one of the other chairs at the table.

“Pull up a seat, Captain Korolev. I’m always pleased to fulfill my civic duties. What’s it that you’re investigating? Must be something serious.”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Jack Schwartz. A murder.”

“A murder?” At first Schwartz seemed almost amused, but then, after he’d thought about it for a moment or two, Korolev saw the humor drain from his eyes.

“Who was it?” he asked in a flat voice.

“We’re not sure. A young woman, in her early twenties we believe. Attractive, dark hair cut short. Blue eyes, slim build, about five foot four in height? Does that sound like someone you might know?”

Korolev thought he detected a reaction to the description, a momentary pause while Schwartz fitted the description together to make a picture, then an involuntary intake of breath, immediately suppressed, and covered up by a hunt through his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor, as it happened. He pulled a cigarette out of the packet of ten and then offered one to Korolev, before lighting both with a thin gold lighter.

“I don’t think it sounds like anyone I know in Moscow,” Schwartz said, his face a picture of puzzlement. “What made you think I might have? I come to Moscow a couple of times a year it’s true, but I only stay for a week or so. Pretty much everyone I meet here is a business contact.”

“You speak excellent Russian, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I would imagine a good-looking man such as yourself would find no shortage of female admirers in Moscow, even on such short visits.”

Korolev might not visit the Metropol, but he knew what went on here. He knew about the Russian girls who threw themselves at foreigners, desperate for a new life in a place like New York, where their dreams about capitalist life would no doubt be subject to a rude awakening. Schwartz frowned.

“I find my business here pretty much all-consuming, I’m afraid, Captain. But, like I said, what makes you think this woman knew me?”

“A suggestion from a third party. They also indicated you might be able to tell me something about the export of various valuable objects, some of them possibly religious. I don’t know-icons, perhaps.”

Again Korolev watched Schwartz carefully for a reaction, but there was nothing this time except a quick glance at his watch.

“I’m afraid the description of the woman still means nothing to me, Captain. However, I’d be happy to tell you what I can about exporting art and so forth, but you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve an appointment at five at the Moskva. Could we arrange to meet another time?” He smiled in apology and indicated the overcoat and briefcase.

“Of course. As I said, this is only an informal conversation. You shouldn’t be late for your meeting.”

“I wish I could help you.” Schwartz looked at him for a moment, as though he were thinking something over. “But listen, why not walk with me? You can tell me more about the case-maybe it’ll jog my memory. And I’ll tell you about the antiques trade.”

Once they were outside and walking across Teatralnaya Square, Schwartz turned to Korolev. “So how did she die, this nameless victim?”

“Not easily. Are you sure you want me to tell you the details?”

Schwartz nodded, “Yes, please do. If you’re permitted, of course.”

“She was tortured, I’m afraid. Very badly. There was also some mutilation. Parts of her body were removed and it seems she was burned with electricity.”

Schwartz slowed his pace and then stopped altogether. He carefully put his briefcase down beside him, put his hands in the pockets of his suit and looked over at the Bolshoi Theater-he seemed lost in thought.

“Do you know who did it?”

Schwartz’s reaction seemed genuine, so Korolev decided to give him some incentive to cooperate.

“We’re at an early stage of the investigation, I’m afraid, and not making much progress. If it carries on like this, there’s a good chance the killer will escape punishment-we’re running out of leads to follow up.”

Schwartz seemed to consider this.

“It’s very cold, isn’t it?” Korolev remarked, after a pause, having come to the conclusion that the antiques dealer knew exactly who the dead woman was.

“Yes. To be honest, I didn’t really come prepared. I thought I’d miss the winter this year, but it’s started early.” Schwartz turned his gaze to Korolev and blinked. Korolev lowered his gaze, wondering whether he’d given his suspicions away.

“You know I’m an American citizen, of course.”

“Yes,” Korolev said, thinking this a strange statement to make.