“Because he’s an investigator, Natasha, and he needs to feed himself up to catch murderers and the like,” Shura said, with a mixture of conviction and reproof that seemed to satisfy the little girl. Natasha returned to her homework and the two women watched him finish the soup with satisfaction.

“A strong appetite, hasn’t he, Valentina Nikolaevna-the Comrade Investigator?” Shura said when he tilted the bowl toward himself to scoop up the last of the liquid.

“What happened to my clothes?” Korolev asked, aware that he was wearing an old sweater and his uniform trousers.

“You were soaked to the skin. Don’t worry, we didn’t look,” Valentina Nikolaevna said, causing a burst of laughter from Shura and Natasha, which they hid behind their hands.

“No wonder he has such an appetite,” Shura said in a low tone, and Korolev felt his cheeks becoming warm. He wasn’t used to having so many women around him-they weren’t as cultured as people thought they were.

“What? There’s no other entertainment in Moscow?” he said. “Must all three of you stare at me like I’m a giraffe at the zoo?”

His anger wasn’t false, but it seemed ridiculous in the context, both to the women and to himself, and they didn’t bother to hide their laughter this time. He found a smile tugging at his own lips, which delighted them even more.

“I should go back upstairs,” Shura said, when they’d finished. “Isaac Emmanuilovich will be home soon. But I’ll come down later, Valentina Nikolaevna, in case you need me.”

They said their farewells to Shura and then sat looking at each other: Korolev, Valentina and the small girl. Natasha was the first to break the silence.

“I’ve finished my homework,” she said.

“Good,” Valentina said. “Go and get ready for bed, Natasha. I’ll be through in a moment.”

Natasha picked up her exercise books and her pen and, with a shy glance at Korolev, left the two adults alone. Korolev tried to look elsewhere but his eyes kept wandering back to Valentina’s.

“Natasha did well,” he finally managed to say, after rejecting several alternative ways of breaking a silence that had become too intimate to bear. Valentina seemed to consider the question, clenching her hands together, the knuckles white.

“She’s old for her years. They all are these days. We demand it of them. You saw her Pioneer scarf? Even primary schoolchildren are being prepared for war.” She put a hand to her forehead and tapped a finger gently between her eyebrows. “You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course.”

“I don’t, believe me. I know you to be a loyal citizen.” Which didn’t come out quite how he meant it to, but perhaps all she wanted was reassurance.

She looked up at him and shook her head, as though at her own foolishness.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I say it makes me nervous, having you share the apartment with us. What if I were to say something in anger? Do you understand? I can see Natasha likes you, I don’t know how or why, perhaps because she helped you. But it makes me nervous. Having you around all the time, it’s like being watched.”

“I’m an investigator. I’m not a Chekist. I’m just a simple Militiaman.”

She laughed dryly. “You think the Militia don’t get involved in internal security? That it’s all handled by the Cheka? You must know that’s not the case.”

He did. He knew that a large proportion of the arrests under Article 58 were carried out by Militia officers, usually under the direction of the NKVD, but often independently. He was able to ignore it, more or less, sitting in his Petrovka Street ivory tower, dealing with murder and mayhem, and glad of it. But he was no longer surprised when witnesses to the crimes he investigated took the opportunity to denounce their neighbors, workmates and even family for political offenses. The citizens on the street knew better than he did that the Militia handled political matters, even if he’d clung to the belief that he worked on purely non-political crime. He nodded in agreement.

“I understand. But what can I do? I’m assigned to this apartment. If another becomes available, then I’ll move on. But you know how unlikely that is. I’ll try to keep to my room. Don’t worry-I’m not here to spy on you.”

She waved his words away. “That’s not what I meant either. You’re here now, and that’s that. I was just trying to explain-” she paused and considered him for a moment “-I was trying to explain my reserve.” She stood, holding out her hand to shake his. It seemed a very manly gesture. “I’m glad we spoke so frankly.”

He took her hand with a feeling of confusion. He really wasn’t sure what the conversation had meant, but he nodded his head in agreement.

“You should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll stay at home tomorrow to keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you.”

“Natasha will expect me to; you’re the stray dog she rescued from the rain. Would you like me to help you to your room?”

“I think I can manage.” He stood up from the chesterfield slowly, holding onto one of the chairs for support. He swayed for a moment, smiled at Valentina, and then made his way to the door to his bedroom with tentative steps.

“See? I’m fine.” He nodded a goodnight and then closed the door, leaning against it with his shoulder while his right hand felt for the round molding of the light switch. Finding it, he hesitated. Instead he walked to the window and looked across the lane. The shadow of a man was clearly distinguishable in the gateway opposite. A round fur hat and a long coat that could be leather, judging from the way it reflected the light from the streetlamp. Who was he? A Thief? A priest? A Chekist? A foreign spy? If the devil was still there tomorrow, he’d pull a little surprise on him, but tonight he would be lucky to make it over to the bed. He pulled the curtain shut and, without turning on the light or taking off his clothes, walked to the chair where they’d stretched out his overcoat to dry. His leather holster lay on the seat and he took the automatic out, checked the safety was on, slipped it under his pillow and then rolled himself into the blankets.

For a few moments he was aware of the sounds of the building-conversation from Valentina and Natasha’s room, someone walking around upstairs, the rush of water down a pipe-and then the room, the building and even Moscow itself spun away as sleep finally took hold of him.

Korolev slept like a dead man, as his mother would have said had she not been dead herself for fifteen years. He slept past five o’clock and then past six. He wasn’t woken by dawn squeezing itself round the edges of the curtain, and the cockerels calling to each other from street to street didn’t wake him either. He slept through the pack of dogs that chased a cart down the lane and even the crack of the driver’s whip as he tried to get rid of them. The factory whistles calling the workers to their shifts made no impression on his slumbering. For the first time in many years he slept past seven and then past eight. He didn’t even stir when Valentina Nikolaevna opened the door with great care and listened to his gentle snoring. She and Natasha watched him for a moment or two, Valentina told him later, and then decided to let him sleep on. If neither of them mentioned the strange affection that darkened their faces in the half-light, it might have been because they were unaware of it themselves. Or perhaps a man sleeping soundly can make a woman of any age maternal, if she’s so inclined. In fact, it was only when Babel looked in on him and, curious to see his reaction, shook him by the shoulder, that Korolev woke abruptly and, before his eyes had quite caught up with him, rewarded Babel with a close-up view of the business end of the automatic. Babel responded with a wide smile.