When Korolev had finished, Gregorin reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced his battered cigarette case, taking one out for himself, and then one each for Korolev and Volodya. Soon the car was a fug of cigarette smoke.

“Well, you’re right,” Gregrorin said after a while. “Nancy Dolan isn’t Miss Smithson. Lydia Ivanovna Dolina is her name. You remember I thought the dead girl could be one of two possible candidates? Well, Citizeness Dolina was the other candidate. A similar White Guard background.”

“Not a nun?”

“We don’t know, but Schwartz’s information seems to indicate she has religious connections at the very least. We have people working on it-I’ll pass this on to them.”

“Schwartz said she was with an Intourist group.”

“Yes, it was when she went missing from the group that her cover story began to come apart. No one at Comintern has ever heard of her, although we’re keeping an eye on the Americans there just in case. It’s possible she has ended up the same way as Miss Smithson-if not, we’ll find her sooner or later. Moscow isn’t such an easy place to hide.”

“You’re looking for her?” Korolev asked through a cough-by this stage there was enough smoke in the car to cure fish.

“Only as a visa violator. We don’t know how she fits into the picture, so we’re keeping it low-key. I’ll let you have a photograph, in case you come across her.”

Korolev nodded his thanks.

“And this icon? Can you tell me anything about it?”

Gregorin let a small leaf of smoke curl out of his mouth and then exhaled the rest through his nose.

“There is a particular icon-one that went missing from a Lubianka storeroom two weeks ago. There might be a connection.” His words seemed carefully measured.

“The Lubianka? Christ,” Korolev said and would have pushed the word back into his mouth if he could, but Gregorin only laughed.

“No, I don’t think it was him, he hasn’t got the clearance. Other people have, though.”

“Is there a connection? Between the murders and the icon going missing?” Korolev was surprised his voice sounded relatively calm, given his entire body had broken into an icy sweat. To mention Christ in front of a Chekist staff colonel-he felt his toes curl into a cramp.

“It seems certain Nancy Dolan knows about the icon, if it was her who opened the door to Schwartz in New York -therefore it seems reasonable to assume she’s here in connection with it. I think your dead nun must have been as well.” Gregorin spoke slowly, seeming to weigh each word. “And if she was, then the Thief also-after all, it seems they were both tortured in the same way.”

“What icon is this-that people are dying for it?”

Gregorin shook his head after a long pause. “I’m sorry, Comrade. There’s no need for you to have that information at this stage. You must now concentrate on identifying this fellow Tesak and then any associates of his who might be involved. If you find Nancy Dolan along the way, so much the better. But leave the icon to us.”

“I see.” Korolev didn’t really, but he saw enough to keep his mouth shut. Gregorin leaned across and opened the door for the detective.

“You’re expected.”

“I’m sorry?”

“ Babel, the writer, your neighbor. He has good connections with the Thieves. He may be able to assist in your inquiries. I’m afraid another matter has come up that Volodya and I have to deal with. But I’ll see you tomorrow evening, if not before.”

It was only after he entered the building that Korolev remembered he’d no idea which apartment Babel lived in, so he left his food parcel in his room and climbed the stairs to the second landing, hoping that the one-armed BMC chairman, Luborov, would be able to direct him properly. He knocked on his door a little out of breath, and waited, hearing movement and then the hollow sound of footsteps approaching on the wooden floorboards.

“Who’s there?” Luborov’s voice sounded strained.

“Korolev. I moved in yesterday.”

The door opened and Luborov looked out at him.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock, Comrade. Do you need me as a witness?” Luborov was referring to the practice of having two independent witnesses present for arrests, particularly when it was a political matter.

“No, I just need you to tell me where the writer Babel ’s apartment is.”

Korolev knew some people made a living from being witnesses, but it was generally night work and often meant going without sleep if you worked in a factory or on a building site. He supposed Luborov’s condition and his position on the BMC made it easier for him than for most people, but it wasn’t a pleasant way to pass your time.

“ Babel? He has rooms in the Austrian’s apartment. I’m glad you weren’t calling me out, I could do with a good night’s sleep. It’s become busy all of a sudden-it hasn’t been like this for a while. Anyway, big black door to the left on the next landing up. Comrade Babel entertaining, is he?”

“I don’t know, I’ve an appointment.”

“I thought I saw some people go up earlier-he likes to entertain. He never asks me, of course. Well, remember me to him. Goodnight, Comrade.” Luborov shut the door.

Korolev stood for a moment, considering what Luborov had said, and then turned to climb the stairs. So the witnesses were busy again. No one had thought things would change completely, of course, Muscovites knew better than that, but it seemed the quiet optimism of the last few months had been misplaced. He shrugged-it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it, after all. It was like poor Andropov’s accident: you just had to accept that these things happened and then forget about them.

He knocked on Babel ’s black door, which was indeed a fair size, and heard laughter and music inside. It sounded like Melkhov’s band performing “Girls, Tell Your Friends!” He knocked again in case they couldn’t hear him and the door opened. A small woman in a black dress with a white handkerchief over her gray hair looked up at him, her sagging sallow face speaking of troubles endured, as much as age. Two sad brown eyes started at his waist and worked their way up. He took off his hat-there was something about the old woman that made him feel like a small boy.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the woman said; her voice rumbling with quite astonishing depth for such a small frame. The jazz record came to a bumping stop in the background.

“I’m Captain Korolev, Criminal Investigation Division. I believe I’m expected.”

“A Ment? I suppose I shouldn’t ask.” She stood aside with an expression of distaste. “Come in, come in. You’re letting the warmth out. You think we can afford to heat the stairwell, do you?”

“Thank you.”

“Give me your hat and your coat, come on. Don’t worry, I won’t sell them to a passing speculator. I wouldn’t get much anyway, they’ve seen better days. There.” She took the coat and hat and dropped them in a heap on a nearby chair. ‘You can leave your briefcase as well. Have you eaten?”

Korolev hadn’t had anything since the blinchiki on the way out to the stadium, but it wasn’t polite to eat other people’s food. Not with queues for bread the way they were since the poor harvest.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, hoping his stomach wouldn’t betray him.

“Of course you’re not. I made some cheese dumplings this morning. Will I bring you a plate?”

He shook his head, but his eyes must have betrayed him and she squeezed his arm.

“Of course I will,” she said.

In the sitting room five people sat around a low table on which glasses, a full ashtray and bottles stood. Five pairs of eyes looked up at him through the layers of smoke.

“Who’s this?” A short, balding, heavy-set man was sitting cross-legged on the daybed, squinting at them from behind a pair of round, gold-framed glasses. He wore a collarless shirt with open cuffs and a pair of old trousers held up with braces. The shirt was starched a dazzling white and all the light in the room seemed to be focused on it. He smiled at Korolev, his brown eyes mischievous. “Some boyfriend of yours, is it, Shura?”