“Do you really think they’ll come?”

“They’re already on their way, my friend. We’re shooting at them in Madrid and they’re shooting back, and it won’t stop there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Stalin sees it. He’s making sure we’re ready.”

“Yes,” Korolev agreed, thinking about the man of steel, who expected all others to be made of steel too.

Babel said his farewells and left, and for a moment Korolev felt every one of his forty-two years of age. The thought of another war, and the horror and the hardship it would bring, was like a weight pressing him down onto the mattress. It had been bad enough against the Germans and the Austrians: he could see the faces still of dead young men, each one of whom could so easily have been him. Thousands of them-millions by the end of the Great War, and then twice as many again in the Civil War, and it would be worse this time, with the new tanks and bombers, and machine guns that could kill an entire battalion in two minutes flat. He’d serve, of course, when it came to it. He knew his duty as well as the next man.

Perhaps he drifted off, because the next thing he knew Valentina Nikolaevna was standing in the doorway, the pale sun turning her hair golden as it streamed in through the open window. She looked as though she’d just stepped down from a cinema poster.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Not too bad. Better. I’m not used to lying around like this, but I think I can get up now.”

“Good, I’ll bring you some tea from the samovar. Your colleague Semionov is on his way over. And Colonel Gregorin called as well-he hopes you feel better soon.”

“Thank you,” he said, wondering how Gregorin felt about his puppet being off its strings.

“All you men need looking after from time to time. I don’t mind.” She smiled and turned to leave the room and, as the door shut behind her, he allowed himself to think about holding Valentina Nikolaevna in his arms. How small she would feel there, yet strong as well. Her hair would smell of flowers and her skin of fresh bread, he was sure of it.

The tea that she brought him was the turning point-he stood and walked to the window, pleased that the room and the floor were both holding steady underfoot. He crossed his arms and looked out at a blue sky empty of any cloud. Beneath the window a long line of Civil Defense handcarts was being pushed by gas-masked women in loose-fitting boiler suits and heavy rubber gloves. The handcarts seemed to be full of some kind of white powder. He wondered what the powder was-in his experience the best counter-measure against gas was to run as fast as you could; and gas masks weren’t much use against mustard gas, that much he did know. Whatever that stuff in the handcarts was, he hoped it worked.

His regiment had been in reserve when the Germans had dropped mustard-gas shells on the Russian trenches back in seventeen. At first the troops had thought the Germans were making a mistake-hundreds of shells crashing through the forest, splashing into mud, but no explosions. The only hint they’d had of the trouble they were in was a slight smell of garlic. A few hours later and blisters covered every inch of exposed skin. Not only exposed skin, though, the gas wormed its way through their uniforms to crotches, armpits, chests, stomachs-everywhere. Who knew how many had died? There’d been thousands of blind soldiers, begging aloud for help, wandering the battlefield. The Germans shot them like rats, and those were the lucky ones. His regiment had been sent to plug the gap, and maybe God had forgiven the few Prussians who fell into their hands, but they hadn’t.

The building shook as a squadron of bombers flew overhead, and one of them momentarily filled the sky above the lane-so low he could see the individual rivets on its open bomb doors. The glass rattled in the window frame and a dog ran howling for safety. The raw power of the airplane lifted Korolev’s spirits, even as it sent a shiver down to the soles of his feet. This time they would be prepared for anything the Fascists threw at them.

He took a deep breath and walked over to the desk, leaning on it for support. He looked at the blood on the collar of his coat and the case wormed its way back into his thoughts. It occurred to him that if the traitors were trying to sell the icon abroad, that might explain why Mironov was involved-who better to help get it out than a major in the Foreign Department? But again, perhaps he had been trying to prevent the icon going to the West. He cursed Gregorin. Korolev didn’t mind being led up blind alleys and manipulated as though he were an idiot if it was for the greater good, but Kolya’s revelation that Gregorin had led the raid that recovered the icon had unsettled him. It occurred to him that Gregorin might be using him to try and track down the icon because he’d been the one responsible for losing it, through incompetence or worse. Well, if that was the case, it would come to light sooner or later, and if Korolev was still alive when it did, then he’d hunt the vermin down and rip his heart out with his own bare hands.

He was still contemplating the bare hands in question when there was a knock at the door and Semionov entered.

“How are you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? The general said you have concussion. Are you feeling better?”

The smile on his face seemed more teasing than sympathetic and Korolev gritted his teeth. What had he been thinking of after all-head-butting some giant kulak? He should have been more mature, given a better example to the youngster. He was supposed to be showing Semionov the ropes and yet here he was, his head cracked open and unable to pull his weight. It was humiliating.

“I’m fine,” he growled. “Sit down, take the weight off your feet. Stop standing there like a lamp post and tell me your news.”

“Well, first things first. I bring Comrade General Popov’s greetings to his favored shock worker.”

“Look, you little squirt, I’ve a head that’s splitting in two, so, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave your provocations until tomorrow.”

Semionov raised an eyebrow and Korolev wondered if the youngsters of today gave a damn about anything. And he was wearing that blasted mackintosh again. He looked like a corner boy in it, his hair slicked back with some kind of cream. It occurred to Korolev that Semionov would fit right in with the touts selling marked-up train tickets over at Kiev station.

“Come on, Alexei Dmitriyevich, don’t feel sorry for yourself. It could have been worse-think of poor Larinin. I’ve seen the Model T-two trucks ran right over it, one after the other-it’s like a pancake. They had to cut Larinin out of it piece by piece. And poor Pavel Timofeevich is mourning the Ford like a lost daughter. So if you don’t feel sorry for Comrade Larinin, then you should feel sorry for Comrade Morozov. Poor Larinin-cut down at the peak of his career as an investigator, mourned by his fellow workers.”

“Really?” Korolev found himself saying, the disbelief apparent in his voice, “Mourned?”

“Not exactly,” Semionov allowed his straight face to break into a small smile before resuming a more serious expression. “Although, for myself, I would say I’m grateful he took the car. Maybe the brakes were shot or a tire popped. Whatever happened, it could have been us, not Larinin, spinning into the oncoming traffic. So I remember him fondly on that account. I’ll say no more on the subject.”

Semionov pulled at the cuffs of his shirt so that they poked out from the sleeves of his mackintosh. “Of course, it’s still regrettable that Comrade Larinin was run over by the two trucks,” he added after a moment.

“Indeed,” Korolev said, his tone flat enough for Semionov to give him a searching look.

“But better him than us, right?” Semionov said with a shrug.

Korolev considered his younger colleague and noticed the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his demeanor. It made him wonder whether the younger man was entirely sure the crash had been accidental. There was just something in the way he had set out the possible explanations-the brakes, the tires-that made him wonder if Semionov wasn’t looking for reassurance from him. Well, he could look elsewhere. Whether they were in the shit or not, they still had to keep swimming. He sighed and rubbed at the bandage that swaddled his head.