Korolev found himself beginning to hope. Ever since his divorce two years before he’d been living with Mikhail, two tram rides and a long walk from Petrovka Street. He liked his cousin, but he wished he lived a little closer and drank a little less.

“Thank you, Comrade General. I’m grateful for your efforts on my behalf.”

“Efforts? I did better than efforts. She called me this morning and said that for the man who caught the filthy rapist Voroshilov-and how she knew about him, I don’t know, but that woman knows when a sparrow farts on the Lenin Hills, I’m sure of it. Still, it worked in your favor-for the man who felt Voroshilov’s collar nothing less than a big room on Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky would do. Fourteen square meters. Some furniture as well. Here.”

The general pushed across a requisition form from the housing department signed by the sainted Kurilova. Korolev took it from him, feeling his face grow warm. Forty-two years old and still he blushed. He was glad Yasimov wasn’t there to see it.

“I was only doing my duty, Comrade General,” he began, but the general interrupted him.

“Enough. It’s a shared apartment, so don’t get too excited. But you’ll have your own room and as for the area-well, Kitaj-Gorod is not to be sneezed at. Full of VIPs and Party cadres. It’ll do them good to see a real worker for a change.”

The general smiled at Korolev’s discomfort.

“Don’t worry, Alexei, I don’t talk this way in front of Larinin and his like. Not that Larinin won’t be back directing traffic on Tverskaya soon enough if he doesn’t get off his backside and catch a criminal. We’ve quotas here, same as everywhere else, and he’s not pulling his weight. Anyway, best get over there before they change their mind-the head of the building management committee has the keys. And as soon as you’ve finished, call in. There’s been a murder over on Razin Street; it sounds like the work of a maniac-just your kind of thing. I’m going over to take a look.”

Korolev got to his feet so quickly that for a fraction of a second he felt dizzy.

“Comrade General,” he began and he could feel the gratitude making him pompous, but the general shook his head almost shyly, took Korolev’s hand in a firm grip and held it for a moment or two while he regarded his subordinate with affection. Then his face became grave again, as befitted a Soviet leader of men, and he turned away toward the window, his voice rough when he spoke.

“I said enough, Comrade, no need for a speech. Go on, quickly now-get your belongings moved in. You deserve it. Hurry, before I change my mind.”

And in this way, Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev acquired an apartment on the street of Great Nicholas and the Sparrows.

Petrovka Street was only half an hour’s walk from Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, but it took Korolev three hours to make his way out to his cousin’s room, pack up his few belongings and then travel back to Kitaj-Gorod by tram. Korolev’s life possessions didn’t amount to much. Zhenia had taken most of their joint belongings after the divorce, and with his blessing-she had their son Yuri to care for, and anyway there was little space in his cousin’s room. All he had these days were a few clothes, bedding and some cooking implements, his books, a small leather armchair which had been all that had been left of his mother when he’d returned from the wars, and a set of dumb-bells. The armchair and the dumb-bells he’d left with Mikhail, who’d tearfully vowed to guard them with his life, and the rest he’d lugged across town in a large canvas bag. By the time he stood outside Number 4, looking up at the faded grandeur of a fine old house now cut and sliced into apartments for Party officials and the odd lucky nobody like himself, he felt as tired as if he’d circumnavigated the world. But he couldn’t help a smile as he climbed the steps to the open hall door.

According to the requisition form, the head of the building management committee lived on the second floor, and so he left his bags at the bottom of the stairs and went up unencumbered. Reaching the correct landing, he knocked on a chipped and pitted door that had “BMC” painted on it in sloping, ill-matched letters. It was opened by a thin-faced man with the left sleeve of his ancient woolen pullover sewn at half mast, mourning a missing arm. He seemed to be not quite awake until he saw Korolev’s uniform, at which his eyes flew open.

“Is there a problem, Comrade?” he said, looking anxiously into the corridor. “Has someone been telling lies about me? I lost this arm in Poland, fighting with Budyonny, and now I’m to be persecuted? What a world we live in, what a world we live in. Who was it? At least tell me who it was. The lying scum.”

Korolev held up his hand to stop the man. “Please, Comrade. I’ve a requisition form, from the housing committee. That’s all. My name is Korolev.”

The head of the BMC let out an involuntary sigh of relief then recollected himself enough to smile and extend his hand in greeting.

“I apologize. Maxim Luborov. I look after the building. You know how it is: in this position you can’t help but make enemies. Sometimes people threaten things and, even if you’re innocent as a dove, you never know what might happen. Everyone wants a few square meters more and they don’t care how they get it. Devils.” He put his hand to his nose and squeezed it, and in some strange way this seemed to give him relief. “I’m sorry. My arm hurts today. I can’t even wear the prosthetic, it hurts so much. That damned Pole. Slice. Down came the sword and off went the arm. Sssssssh-shushuk.”

Korolev shook Luborov’s remaining hand and then raised a finger to the scar that ran along his own jaw. “I was luckier. One of Denikin’s Cossacks. I got him before he finished the job.”

“Good for you. An arm you can manage without-a head is more difficult.” Luborov took the form from him. “Ah yes, the room on the first floor. Come on, I’ll show you. There’s some furniture. A bed, a chair, a table. I think there’s even a wardrobe. It’s not too bad, a good size. Well above the official norm.” He was already halfway down the first flight of stairs. “If you need anything, let me know. No promises, but I might be able to help.”

He moved his hand from side to side to underline the speculative nature of the suggestion and the methods that might be used. Korolev nodded in thanks, although he wouldn’t take advantage of the offer. It wasn’t that he was averse to the idea exactly, but it wasn’t sensible to accept a favor from a stranger unless he came with a recommendation. After all, you never knew what might be asked in return.

Reaching the first floor, Luborov led him along the landing.

“Here you go, Comrade,” he said, opening a door with a key, which he handed to Korolev. “Number seven. You share with Valentina Nikolaevna Koltsova and her daughter Natasha-not a bad child, quiet at least. Comrade Koltsova’s husband was that engineer who got himself killed in the Metro accident last year. E. N. Koltsov? D’you remember him? They made him a Hero of the Soviet Union. Just for getting crushed in a tunnel. It wasn’t that easy in Poland, I can assure you. They were tight with medals back then. All I got was a wooden arm for my heroics and I had to wait three years for that.”

The door opened onto a large shared kitchen into which the autumn sun splashed, tingeing the surface of a long, planked table in the middle of the room with a warm yellow. An ancient and much-scuffed chesterfield ran along one wall, above which hung a full-length portrait of an officer in turn-of-the-century cavalry uniform. Underneath the large windows a smaller table stood, on which a child’s exercise books were neatly piled beside some knitting. It was positively luxurious compared to Mikhail’s cardboard-walled shoebox.