“I’m not afraid, you know. Of saying two Chekists might have been involved in a murder.” She sighed, and then lifted her chin slightly, proud or perhaps just resigned. “Maybe I would be if I were younger, Captain, but I saw what I saw. What can I do? It’s my duty to tell the truth, surely. Weren’t we all taught that in school?”

Before the Revolution perhaps, thought Korolev, and nodded toward the door. “Lieutenant Semionov will see you out. Thank you, Citizeness.”

When the heavy door had shut behind them, he turned to Brusilov.

“What d’you make of that?”

“Not possible, surely? If the Chekists need to do something like that, they’ve got the Lubianka and the Butyrka and half a dozen other prisons. It just seems unlikely. What else have you got?”

Korolev told him about the Emka and the electrical burns and the dead Thief. Brusilov rasped a broad hand back and forth across his unshaven chin.

“I’m glad it’s your case and not mine,” he said, after a long pause. “It stinks. Still, we’ll pass on anything we come across. We’re still checking the Komsomol members who visited the church.”

The way he raised his eyebrows told Korolev he thought this was a waste of time.

“It’s worth doing,” Korolev said and reached for a cigarette, offering the pack to Brusilov, who refused with a sigh.

“Did you hear the explosion last night?” Brusilov said, changing the subject.

Korolev thought for a moment before he shook his head.

“Another church. They’ve half of it cleared away already. To make space for the October Day Parade.” Brusilov’s statement was neutral, betraying no feeling about the event, one way or the other. “Maybe I will have one of those cigarettes.”

He was just lighting it when Semionov returned and handed Korolev a note with an expectant look.

Meet me at the Hippodrome at 1:30. Sit in the stands-in line with the winning post. I’ll find you. Our friend wants to meet you. I.E.B.

It always struck Korolev that the exterior of the Moscow Hippodrome made it look more like a museum than a sports venue. With its columns and grandeur, the long white building seemed a relic of a time gone by-a building meant for princes rather than proletarians. Even the entrance resembled a triumphal arch, surmounted, as it was, by a bronze chariot team. It all seemed decidedly un-Soviet, despite the large banner exhorting the citizenry to early completion of the Five Year Plan. Perhaps the building’s elegance was why, for several years after the Revolution, there’d been no racing there. The need for a suspiciously bourgeois-looking race track hadn’t been a priority while the city starved and armies moved back and forth and battles were won and lost. Eventually, however, when the Civil War was over and peace had been reached with the Poles, it had been allowed to reopen. Muscovites still liked to gamble, after all, although these days the crowds wore flat caps instead of top hats.

Semionov brought the car to a halt a safe distance from the scattered groups of loungers and hawkers outside the entrance and turned to Korolev. “Close enough?”

“This will be fine.”

Korolev had a quick look round to see if there was anyone near, then checked his Walther was fully loaded-chambering a round, just in case. Semionov followed his example. As always, the smell of gun oil sent a shiver of anticipation down Korolev’s back. He didn’t expect to have to use the automatic, but it was best to be properly prepared, just as Popov had instructed.

“You stay back. I’ll pull out my handkerchief if I think I need help, but even then I don’t want you barging in on your own. There’ll be some uniforms around, so grab hold of them first-Kolya isn’t likely to be on his own.”

Semionov looked at Korolev’s white handkerchief as though memorizing it. “You won’t notice me, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but I swear on my Komsomol honor I won’t lose sight of you.”

“Good. Now, give me a head start before you follow.”

Korolev levered himself out of the car and started to walk toward the main entrance, the Walther a reassuring presence in his armpit.

He handed over a fifty kopek note at the ticket barrier, then walked through into the ill-lit entrance hall, the high walls of which were decorated with mosaics celebrating the glory of the equine species-barely visible beneath twenty years of grime. Here was a cavalry charge, with Cossacks galloping out of the gloom, their mounts’ nostrils huge and their teeth bared; there, a column of horse artillery advancing across a desert. Horses plowed, carried, fought, marched, jumped and pulled, in dust-streaked image after dust-streaked image. He hadn’t been to the races since before the German War, and was surprised how rundown the place was. It had been truly spectacular back then, and the smell of the aristocratic women parading themselves on this very spot had been that of a field of summer flowers. Now things were not so pleasant. Most of the light bulbs in the chandelier were blown, the roof seemed to be leaking and the tiled floor was pooled with rainwater. At least he hoped it was rainwater, although the smell made him suspicious it might be something else. Men’s faces peered at him from the gloom as he went past, one or two turning away but others staring at him with a strange intensity. He kept moving, unsure what these men were waiting for, and shrugged off a hand that tugged at his sleeve.

The next room was better lit, with a rank of glass booths manned by morose, middle-aged women, alongside which a thin man on a stepladder wrote odds on a blackboard. There was also a stall selling food so he handed over sixty kopeks and received in exchange a buterbrod-a slice of black bread decorated with some thinly sliced sausage. He took a bite and, remembering he’d smoked the last of his cigarettes back in Razin Street, picked up a packet from the next stall along, then climbed the cracked gray marble steps that led to the front of the stands, brushing his way past a swaying sailor, who gave his slice of bread a hungry stare.

It was good to be back outside, despite the swirling drizzle, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The stands were busy: several thousand Muscovites had packed themselves into the tiered seating and were now letting loose a rumbling roar of excitement that was increasing in volume second by second. He turned and saw a clump of brightly colored riders approaching, their silks all the brighter against the slate gray sky and the dirt track. A great spray of water and mud surrounded the jockeys as they urged their horses on and the roar of the crowd rose, drowning out the galloping hooves. Three horses detached themselves from the larger pack and a roar went up that mingled delight and dismay as the race splashed past, the jockeys’ whips flailing as the first two battled for the win.

The race finished; much of the crowd began to disperse. Some happy citizens waved winning tickets, while others made for the bar at the back of the stand and the consolation of vodka. Korolev climbed to the second tier of seating and picked a spot in line with the finishing post, as Babel had asked. He sat down, made himself comfortable, finished the last of the bread and sausage and lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke with quiet pleasure. He wriggled a little deeper into his damp but still warm overcoat and tried to spot the stocky figure of the writer.

He was still looking when Babel sat down beside him, smiling with pleasure.

“You didn’t see me coming.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Korolev lied. “I decided it would be less hard work if you found me instead.”

“Got one of those for me?” Babel said, pointing to the cigarette.

“Sure.” Korolev offered the packet he’d just bought. “So, tell me. How’d it go with Kolya?”