“Anyway, I’ve good news. Mikhail Mitrofaniyevich Smitin, also known as Tesak, also known as Priest. I found his record.”

“Mitrofaniyevich?”

“A deacon’s son. His father died in the Zone in twenty-nine, but young Mikhail went to the bad long before that. Ran away from home and joined a Volga river boat before the war. He’s dodged and ducked any useful contribution to society ever since. The files are on your desk.”

“Files?”

“Several. He’s been a busy man, through the Zone three times for a start. He got off lightly the first time, appeared to have been reeducated but fell back into speculation and thievery once he was released. The second and third visits were for two years and five years. A senior Thief, as you said.” Korolev was surprised, not at the information-it was what he had expected-but at the way Larinin spoke, confident in his facts, proud even of the progress he’d made. It seemed the fellow was making a real effort for a change.

“And the car?” he asked, still bemused.

“Nothing, but I’m working on it.” Larinin’s jaw took on a determined line. He paused, looking at the closed door, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. “You know, I didn’t see many autopsies in the traffic department. Road accidents, yes indeed, and a tram will make a mess of a citizen when he’s unfortunate enough to fall in front of one, believe me. But cutting open skulls and scooping out brains and the like? And all the time whistling? It’s not right. Where is he, anyway? Esimov?”

“Not in there. Have you tried their office? First floor. Ask anyone-they all know where Chestnova sits.”

Larinin nodded his thanks and Korolev watched him walk toward the stairs. It seemed that the traffic cop had decided to take a stab at being a proper detective for once, and Korolev couldn’t help thinking he might make a half-decent job of it.

Korolev sat back against the wall and thought about the dead Chekist. Beaten up and shot in the head. A coincidence? Unlikely. He’d bet his last kopek the fellow was involved in this damned Kazanskaya business. Was he one of Gregorin’s people or one of the conspirators? That was the question. The body hadn’t been meant to be found, that was for sure, not with a thousand tons of rubble on top of it. Kolya had warned him the killings would carry on until either the murderers were caught or the icon left the country

He looked at his watch. Gregorin should be along soon. If the colonel wanted it kept quiet, maybe that meant they were close to catching the conspirators and bringing an end to all this. He could only hope.

As if on cue, the far doors opened and Gregorin entered the corridor, flanked by two large bruisers who looked as if they could stop tanks barehanded. Someone has been lifting weights in the Dinamo gymnasium, Korolev thought to himself as he stood and offered them the key. One of them opened the door and Gregorin looked in at the empty mortuary with no obvious emotion. Korolev handed him the small brown paper bag he’d put Mironov’s papers in.

“His identity card. My fingerprints are on it, I’m afraid.”

“And it was in his sock?” Gregorin sounded a little angry at that detail.

“Yes.”

“I see-no one’s been in?”

“No.”

“And Dr. Chestnova?”

“Upstairs in her office.”

“Good. What happened to your head?”

Without really thinking about it, Korolev decided to keep his mouth shut about his meeting with Kolya, at least for the moment. The dead Chekist changed things and he needed to think the situation through.

“An accident, nothing serious,” he said, shrugging it off.

Gregorin nodded, and for a moment his detached manner slipped and Korolev thought he saw tiredness in the staff colonel’s eyes. Not physical fatigue so much as weariness with the world.

“Thank you, Captain. You may go. We’ll look after this from here. I’ll be in contact later. Nothing about this in your report, obviously. And not a word to anyone about this-not even Popov. Understood?”

Korolev nodded, choosing to ignore the way Gregorin’s colleagues looked at him. He expected that kind of examination from Gregorin by now, but from strangers it made him feel uncomfortable. They stared at him like butchers weighing meat on the hoof.

Outside the rain had stopped, but the sky was dark with more to come. Larinin stood with Semionov and Babel. They looked up as he approached and Larinin took a step forward.

“Listen, Alexei Dmitriyevich, can I take your car? I have to attend a Party meeting in twenty minutes and the ZIS won’t start. Morozov’s mechanic will be here in ten minutes at most, so even if it’s past it-you can take his car.”

His voice tailed off as he seemed to conclude from Korolev’s stern expression that his request would be refused, but Korolev had good reason to want to see the back of Larinin. He nodded after a moment.

“Of course, Comrade. Take it. We’ll see you later.”

Larinin looked surprised at his agreement but had no hesitation in getting behind the driving wheel. Semionov wasn’t disappointed to see the back of the Ford either, and was already prowling around the ZIS, inspecting it with unashamed enthusiasm.

“A great car. International class, you know. A real Soviet world-beater-that’s the ZIS.”

The fact that it was temporarily out of action didn’t seem to affect his positive view. Larinin, meanwhile, pushed at the Ford’s broken windscreen with a look of disappointment but, seeing there was nothing else for it, pulled his hat low over his ears and pushed the collar of his coat up to meet it. Korolev didn’t envy him the drive as rain drops began to spatter the ZIS’s bonnet.

“Vanya, could you get us something to eat from the canteen? Whatever they have.”

Semionov looked at Korolev for a moment, then at Babel, before nodding in a mixture of agreement and understanding. They watched him walk past the chemical defense trucks toward the canteen’s entrance.

“Isaac,” Korolev began, “how do you know Colonel Gregorin?” As he asked the question, Korolev thought to himself what a good question it was. After all, what if Babel were Gregorin’s informer? If Babel was an informer, though, he was worth his weight in gold; never had he met anyone more transparent. He was openly curious about everything and everyone, and yet he managed it with such charm that it was almost impossible to take offense. You couldn’t be like that and betray people’s confidences. No, Babel might be an eccentric, but he wasn’t a rat.

“I met him through an old friend, Evgenia Feinberg,” Babel said, after thinking about it. “She has these parties I go along to, out of curiosity as much as anything.”

“Who is this Feinberg woman?” Korolev said, the pain in his head making his voice gruff.

“I know her from Odessa, we were friends once.” The way Babel lingered over the word “friends” told Korolev they’d been more than that. “And now of course, she’s married to Ezhov, so you meet some really very interesting people at her place.”

“Ezhov? The new Commissar of State Security?”

“Yes, that’s the fellow. In private he’s a very pleasant man, and I must admit I like to observe these protectors of the State at close quarters. It can’t be easy to do what they do, and yet you wouldn’t know it from the way they stand with a glass of Abrau Dursov fizzing away in their hands. Refined, almost like they might be accountants for a State concern, but no more than that. All the interrogations and the rest, they barely show on them.”

Korolev found himself shaking his head, a reflection of the utter bewilderment he felt. No, Babel wasn’t spying for the NKVD. Babel was spying on the NKVD.

“And tell me this, Isaac Emmanuilovich, just how well did you know Mrs. Ezhov, in the past, when you were ‘friends?’ ”

Babel looked uncomfortable. It was an answer in itself.

“Does he know?”

Babel laughed. “I don’t think he minds much. It’s all in the past, after all, and he’s no wallflower when it comes to these things.”