“I come here twice a year to buy valuable objects of historical and artistic importance from the Russian State. Did you know that?”

“There’s no one else here to buy them from, I believe.”

Schwartz smiled, as though at a hidden joke. Korolev noted the reaction.

“Perhaps not. Anyway, I pay hard currency, very large amounts of it, and I deal with the Ministry of State Security. Your Militia is part of that, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I think I know who your dead woman was and I’ll tell you here, out in the street, away from any recording device or witness-if you want me to. But I’ll deny everything if I’m ever contacted in the future. In other words, I’m asking whether I can rely on your discretion. Of course, I could probably just make a phone call and you’d be instructed not to bother me anymore, but I’d like to help you. If it’s who I think it is, she was a good person. I didn’t know her that well, but she sure as hell didn’t deserve to get killed in the way you describe. What do you say?”

Korolev looked at the young man and then nodded briskly.

“Tell me what you know, please, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I will keep it out of the file.” Korolev held out his hand to confirm the agreement and Schwartz took it.

“Well, first off, you can just call me Jack.”

Korolev nodded, although he thought this was a little informal, given that they had only just met. Still, everything was no doubt different in America. Capitalists probably had little need for politeness and refinement-they were unlikely to be as cultured as Soviet citizens.

“OK, Jack. And please-call me Alexei.” It felt odd, but he supposed reciprocation was necessary in the circumstances.

The American looked at his watch and appeared to be already reconsidering their agreement. He gave Korolev a quizzical look, sighed and then spoke very quickly.

“I think your woman is called Nancy Dolan, she’s an American.”

“Nancy Dolan?” Korolev said, wondering who the devil Nancy Dolan was. He’d seen Mary Smithson’s papers after all, and the dead girl certainly seemed to be her.

“Yes, Nancy Dolan, or at least that’s the name she was using last time I saw her. Look, it works like this. I represent a number of clients on my visits here-art galleries, museums, collectors mainly-but I also act for some others. Your people know I act for them, and my clients know who I’m buying from, but it would be embarrassing for everyone if it became public knowledge.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I understand.”

“I act for émigrés basically, former nobility, that kind of person, and I also act for the Orthodox Church. That’s what you were hinting at, wasn’t it? When you mentioned icons?” Korolev nodded, hoping he wasn’t betraying his surprise.

“Well, sometimes I’m sent to look for a particular item that one of those clients knows is in Soviet hands. An heirloom perhaps, a painting, a piece of jewelry-if it’s available, and the buyer is prepared to pay foreign currency and be discreet, your representatives are generally prepared to sell. With the Church it’s a little different. They look for items of religious significance, often icons, but also other things-relics, books, churchware. I let them know what your people have available and they give me instructions accordingly. But it’s rare for them to send me after a particular object. Are you still with me?”

It wasn’t that different from what Gregorin had told him so Korolev nodded, although he was still a little perplexed that the State was selling property to former oppressors of the People.

“Good. Now, as I said, I often don’t have a particular item in mind when I’m acting for the Church, unless it’s already on offer. But this trip is different. The Ministry has a particular icon, at least according to the Church’s contacts, and the Church wants it. They want it very badly, in fact. And I think it’s possible Nancy Dolan was here looking for that icon.”

Korolev considered what he’d just been told. What icon was worth two deaths?

“Tell me about the icon, please, Jack,” he said, the name feeling slippery on his tongue.

“I can’t. I wish I could, but the information is sensitive to say the least. It’s important-that much you can guess.”

“A miraculous icon?”

“Nice try, but I can’t tell you anything more about it. Except that I’m ready to pay good money for it unless it’s an obvious fake, but my contacts here won’t confirm they have it. The only thing they’ve told me is that ‘they’re aware of the rumors.’ I’ve told them I have the money for it. They asked how much. I named a figure-a damned big figure-and they said that that was very interesting and something they would bear in mind. Nothing more. I think the whole thing’s a wild-goose chase.”

“But what did Nancy Dolan have to do with all of this?”

Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond and then he sighed.

“When I discussed the commission with the Church in the States, I’m pretty sure she opened the door to the house. She was a good-looking woman, so I remembered her, even though I only caught a glimpse. Then I met her ten days ago in Berlin -she was getting on the train to Moscow, same as me. I don’t know if she recognized me, and I didn’t let on I knew her-you know how these things are-but we were put at the same table in the restaurant for the entire journey and it was definitely the same woman. I knew she wasn’t called Nancy Dolan back in New York, that’s for sure, because she spoke Russian like a native. But on the train? Nothing more than ‘pozhalsta’ and ‘spasiba.’ Anyway, we had a good time. I told her to look me up at the Metropol-she liked jazz and the Metropol’s the place to come in Moscow if you like jazz. I got a call from her three days ago.”

“What did she want?”

“I don’t know. The conversation lasted about thirty seconds-all she said was that she’d like to drop by. I told her to come over whenever she wanted to and that was the last I heard from her.”

“Three days ago. Did she say where she was staying? Anything at all?”

“Nothing. It was a pretty short conversation, like I said.”

“What was her official reason for being here, do you know?”

“She was on a tour, a Soviet organized one. Intourist, I think.”

Korolev pulled a notebook out of his pocket and then thought better of it. Schwartz nodded in gratitude.

“Thanks-I don’t think I want any of this written down.”

“Understood. Did she mention meeting anyone in particular while she was here? Think back to the train journey. Anything you remember might be vital, Jack.”

He still couldn’t get used to using Schwartz’s first name; it didn’t feel natural to him.

“She told me about some friends of hers working for Comintern in Moscow, but I don’t remember their names or where they were staying. American I think.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. Believe it or not, we spent most of the journey talking about the World Series. I saw the winning game-Yankees up against the Giants. She was a Yankees fan.”

“The World Series?”

“Yeah, baseball. You know, the game with the bat and the ball? American?”

“Yes, I think so. With the circle? I saw it on a newsreel once. Maybe the Ukrainians play it. We play football, of course, and every factory has an athletics team.”

“I think it’s just us. Anyway, the Yankees won. She was happy about it. If you ever come to New York, let me know. You should go to a game.”

“Perhaps one day, Jack.” Korolev smiled at the unlikelihood of such a visit and then a thought occurred to him. “But if you’re still in Moscow on Friday, there’s a big football game, Spartak against Central House of The Red Army. It will be an interesting cultural experience-you should come.”

They were nearly at the front door of the Moskva and Schwartz turned toward him and extended his hand with a smile. “Why not?”

“Good,” Korolev said, already regretting the invitation. “The game is at two o’clock. I could pick you up from the Metropol-say at twelve-thirty?”