Korolev didn’t know what to say. It was true-even in the east the Japanese were pushing up against the Soviet borders, eyeing up Siberia. It had always been this way, of course. Enemies had encircled the Soviet Union since its creation, only now they were stronger than ever.

“It was a failure of mine as well.”

The general scowled. “Don’t start with that again. Leave it to the Party to decide, and in the meantime keep your head low. Understand?”

Korolev nodded in reluctant agreement and the general’s scowl relaxed a little.

“Now tell me whatever it was you couldn’t say upstairs.”

Korolev took a deep breath and then told him about Citizeness Kardasheva’s opinion as to the profession of the Razin Street killers and that Gregorin might have led the raid that recovered the icon.

“I see. Still, Gregorin told you as much, that elements within the Cheka might be behind this whole mess.”

“He didn’t tell me he led the raid on the Thieves.”

“No. But if he did, that might be why he’s been assigned to investigate the case. What do you think? He wasn’t responsible for this icon going missing from the Lubianka storerooms, surely?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

The general considered the information in silence. Korolev wondered what he’d make of the dead Chekist or how he’d react if told that the icon was Kazanskaya. He’d probably crash the car.

“So what should I do?”

“Do? What can you do? You can’t walk away from it, can you? Where would you go?” He turned the car into Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and changed down a gear as the car struggled up the slippery slope. Mud had been washed down the alley by the rain and the car’s bonnet twitched from side to side. The street’s surface, despite being cobbled, was brown in the light of the car’s headlamps. “A bad night. The rasputitsa is upon us. Do you remember the autumn mud back in the war? I saw men drown in it. We can thank the Party for good roads and a lot else.”

Korolev nodded his agreement as the general came to a halt outside Number 4. The rain rattled on the roof of the car.

“Where’s your driver tonight, Comrade General?”

The general shrugged his shoulders. “Sick, or so he says.” He looked at Korolev. “Now, listen. You have to proceed as if this is an ordinary investigation. It’s the safest way. If there are traitors in the Cheka, they’ll get their come-uppance soon enough and it sounds like Gregorin is hot on their trail as it is. Maybe you are a decoy, and maybe not, but either way you have to do your duty. You might even be the one to catch them. And, of course, it might just turn out to be a madman, and nothing more to it. Who knows? With a bit of luck we’ll all come through in one piece.”

Korolev nodded and said his farewells, the general’s hand enveloping his for a finger-crushing moment. The only madman anywhere near this case, of course, was anyone who thought it had nothing to do with State Security. Korolev watched him drive off, the car’s wheels slithering through the mud. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears and wondered if he’d ever had such a headache. It felt as if he’d been shot, which would teach him to pick scraps with factory workers. At his age, that was ridiculous behavior, although he felt a little surge of pleasure remembering the look Semionov had given him afterward.

He stood there for a moment and then he felt the pavement shift under his boots. He took a step toward the door, but the street seemed to be closing in around him and panic made his nostrils flare. Now his stomach seemed to be squirming up toward his chest and instinct alone took him three slow steps over to the wall. He leaned against it, ignoring the stream from a broken gutter that splashed down onto his arm, soaking his coat black. His stomach lurched again and he bent over, still clutching at the rough plaster for balance and then vomited against the wall, the stream of half-digested food immediately beginning to dissipate in the heavy rain. Two retches seemed to empty his stomach and any strength he had left. He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand, but somehow he managed to hold himself there and then, infinitely slowly, to lift a hand up to his face and wipe his mouth. He ran his tongue around his teeth and spat, the effort bending him over once again as his stomach heaved. The ground beneath him came in and out of focus and he wondered if he’d been poisoned, but he couldn’t remember anything passing his lips in the previous few hours. He breathed deeply and put his free hand to his chest to try and control the shivering that was juddering throughout his body. He looked at the street lamp’s reflection in the puddle beneath him. It seemed like the last light in the world. He swore, the words frothing on his lips, and began to edge toward the doorway, leaning against the wall, his arm banging against the plaster so hard was he shaking. At least, if he could get inside, he wouldn’t drown like a dog in the street. He inched closer, feeling the weight of each thread of his sodden coat and praying for respite. “Preserve me, Oh Lord,” he whispered to himself, the words growling out and tearing at the large ball of dull pain that mapped the contours of his skull.

When he heard the footsteps coming, he was too weak to lift his head and he cursed himself. Here it comes, he thought, the bullet with my name-and I welcome it, I welcome the release. But the last thing he remembered was someone putting an arm around him just before he fell.

The landscape was flat in every direction right up to the dark blue line of the horizon; one enormous field that flowed and ebbed in the wind, the wheat stroking his elbows as he walked slowly forward. It was like a sea, tossed and flattened by the strong breeze, golden and dark as the clouds moved over it, gusts marking their progress in long, rolling indentations. The only noises were the rasping caw of a circling crow and the swish of the swaying wheat.

The rifle was heavy, and he let it hang there at waist height, his thumb rubbing the safety catch and his finger light against the trigger. The Pole was here, somewhere ahead of him, crawling on his elbows and knees, no doubt, trying not to disturb the surface above him. Korolev searched for an anomaly that would signal the scout’s progress. He’d be heading west-that was where he’d come from and that was where the rest of them would be. He wondered whether he was wounded. The Pole’s horse was a hundred meters back, panting its life out, its eyes looking for the last time on the sky above, thick blood already drying on its chest where the machine gun had caught it. He stopped and listened, but all he could hear was the crow still circling the horse, calling its fellows to the feast.

Each step he took was careful, feeling for a quiet place to rest his weight before he swung the other leg forward. He could hear each stalk pop underfoot, but he couldn’t hear the man ahead. The Pole’s rifle still hung from the saddle on the dying horse, but he could be sure the man had a pistol. Didn’t officers always have pistols? How else could you shoot your own men?

He stopped and slowly turned his body to the left, shifting his weight as he did so. He’d heard something; very close. The bayonet rippled silver as it led the rifle’s arc. Another noise and now he stood still, his thumb checking the safety catch was off. He thought about firing a bullet to smash a hole through the wheat just in case he might see a scrap of khaki cloth, but then up the Pole came, the sword first, then the arm, the cap, the eyes, the twisted gray teeth and the snarling mouth, the epaulettes, the dark polish of the Sam Browne belt, each gleaming button on the uniform coat, up they all came and straight onto the bayonet he’d pushed forward in a lunge. The point went in just above the buckle on the cross belt and slid through fabric and skin as if they were paper. The rifle twisted in his hands as the blade hit a rib and then another and then it was through, into the lungs, and then another rib as it searched for the daylight on the other side. The sword was still coming toward him though and instinctively he pulled the trigger, once, twice. The bullets flung the man off the end of the rifle, a look of surprise in his already dead eyes.