“Leave the citizen alone, Ment. Damned filth-you’re all the same. Pushing your weight around.”

Korolev was aware of a sudden quietness around them. He wanted Babel ’s attention and so he gripped his arm still harder.

“Now, Isaac Emmanuilovich, come on. We’re getting out of here, like I said.” He intended continuing, but the worker now made to twist him round and Babel ’s eyes widened behind his bottle-thick glasses.

“Leave the Moishe be, do you hear me? We’ll see what his business is later. Right now, I’m talking to you, you dirty terrier.”

The voice sounded slurred and Korolev turned with the grip, only more quickly than the man expected. A feeling of cold rage filled him as he lifted his hands to grab the man’s shoulders while extending his head back to the limit of his neck’s reach. In his peripheral vision he saw the crowd pulling back from the fight, and then caught a snapshot of the man’s surprise just before the crunch of a breaking bone and the blinding pain in his forehead told him he’d cracked the fellow’s nose like a nut. The worker rocked backward a few paces, blood already spattering down his chin, but he managed to stay on his feet, his hands lifting to his face and then forward in defense. He stood there, legs apart for balance and seemingly mesmerized by the gobbets of blood on his hands. Korolev ignored his own pain and stepped toward him again, taking him by his collar this time and jabbing his knee upward. The worker, still dazed, was too slow to protect himself, and the impact of Korolev’s knee into his crotch brought a soft sigh from the watching crowd, a sound that seemed to combine sympathy for the injury with pleasure at its infliction. The worker leaned forward with a noise not dissimilar to a cow that hadn’t been milked for several days, and Korolev raised his right fist high above his head and brought it down on the man’s neck like an axe. That finished things. The man hit the ground like a bag of flour. Korolev could see the pointed brown caps and red stars of Militia uniforms pushing toward them, but his instincts were still screaming at him to get out.

“Hey, Ment, try that on me, why don’t you?” came a voice.

“Look what he did to that poor fellow, for no damned reason at all. Come on, boys, let’s get him.”

But Korolev was already twenty meters away with a bright-eyed Babel in tow and pleased to find Semionov beside them, looking calm, with one hand pushing out a gun-shaped bulge in his mackintosh pocket and the other clearing a path through the crowd. If the truth were told, the bang on the head was making Korolev feel a little unsteady on his feet, and when Semionov took Babel ’s other arm, it became more like Babel was dragging him along than the other way round. Somehow he staggered on with them through the entrance hall and then they were out on the street and clear. No one appeared to be following.

“Come on, to the car,” Korolev said, feeling a little better in the fresh air but still half-blinded by the pain in his forehead.

Semionov ran to the car and the engine was turning over by the time the others reached it. As soon as they were in, Semionov floored the accelerator and the car jerked forward, its tires spinning in the wet.

“We’re clear, we’re all right. You can slow down,” Korolev said, looking over his shoulder at the receding Hippodrome and conscious at the same time of blood making its sluggish way down the front of his face. He reached for his handkerchief.

“What the hell was that about?” Babel asked, beginning to laugh.

“No wonder they called you the Steamroller, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” Semionov was grinning with delight. “That was some demolition-Komsomol’s word on that. Pow, pow, pow. Goodnight and farewell.”

Korolev turned the rearview mirror toward him and inspected the wound, hoping most of the blood belonged to the other fellow. There certainly seemed to be a lot of it. He wet his handkerchief with spit and began to clean it away.

“Maybe he was just a drunk hooligan or maybe he was something else, but I wasn’t hanging round in the middle of a half-cut crowd of hungry workers to find out which.” Dark blood swelled from a deep purple cut. “The Devil take it, I need stitches in this. Come on, we need to go to the Institute anyway. Chestnova will fix me up.”

Semionov took the next turn to the right and they drove in silence. Korolev felt a little nauseous, and his head hurt like blazes, but he was also strangely elated. He thought back over the details of the encounter, the stale vodka on the man’s breath, the rough feel of the collar in his hands, the eyes widening in surprise. He’d been in control of himself throughout, he was sure of that. He’d been angry, yes, but not at the worker so much as finding himself in the middle of this ridiculous case. Everyone pushing him this way or that-Popov, Kolya, Gregorin. Babel was at it too, in his own way-even now he was busy scribbling notes in the back seat. All of them pulling strings, laying false trails, observing him-setting him up for a damned big fall if he didn’t watch out. Gregorin had never even had the politeness to pretend he wasn’t using Korolev in whatever game he was playing, feeding him leads and scraps of disconnected information without, as it turned out, having the decency to tell him that he’d been the fellow who recovered the icon in the first place. And then some big ox of a mechanic decides to push him around? Well, no wonder it had felt good to crack the brute’s nose. The grease monkey had picked out the wrong Ment on the wrong day to go pestering and putting his paws on. He dabbed at the cut again and hoped the bastard’s nose was flattened to pulp.

“So what did Kolya have to say for himself?” Semionov asked.

“Some things which need to be checked, nothing very useful.” Korolev tried to keep his tone nonchalant. Split-open head or not, Korolev didn’t like what Kolya had told him one little bit. It was the kind of information that could kill a man, and Semionov had his whole life ahead of him.

Semionov turned the car in through the gates of the Institute and then pulled in beside a muddy ZIS, which Korolev recognized from the Militia car pool. Several trucks were parked on the gravelled area in front of the entrance, their bonnets slick with rain. Chemical Warfare Defense Unit was painted in large white letters on each of their canvas sides. The drivers huddled beside them with damp cigarettes and a mutinous air, watching the Ford come to a halt as though it were bringing more bad news. There was a city-wide Civil Defense exercise the following day and these fellows must be part of it. The Fascists hadn’t used gas in Spain, so far, but he supposed they would sooner or later.

“Larinin must be here,” Korolev said, gesturing to the ZIS.

“Who?” Babel asked.

“A colleague. Isaac Emmanuilovich, do you mind waiting here in the car? The autopsy area is restricted, so your presence would compromise Dr. Chestnova. Vanya, do you mind keeping Comrade Babel company? I’ll send for you if you’re needed.”

…

He found Chestnova in her office, with her feet up on the desk, reading Sovietsky Sport.

“What happened to you?”

“I walked into a door,” Korolev said with a scowl. “Can you fix me up?”

“Unlucky door. Here, let me have a look at it. Ah, it’s not so bad. A couple of stitches and a bit of disinfectant.” She pointed him toward a small metal box with a red cross painted on its front that stood in the bookshelf beside the door. In the meantime she went to the sink in the corner of her office, where she washed her hands. Out of curiosity, Korolev opened the magazine the doctor had been reading.

“Don’t worry, Alexei Dmitriyevich, I’m not planning to take up athletics.”

“It’s never too late, I hear.” Korolev winced as she stretched the edges of the wound apart. “Where’s Larinin, by the way? I saw his car outside. You didn’t slip him into the incinerator, did you?”