Korolev woke the next morning at the usual time, refreshed and with much of his old energy restored to him. The sky was still dark outside, but he didn’t immediately turn on the light. Instead he walked to the window-the alley was empty and, with a mixture of regret and relief, he felt the case becoming a memory. Gregorin had called the night before, thanked him for his efforts and wished him well, and that had been that. The colonel hadn’t asked him anything about the previous day’s report, or about Kolya, nor had he commented on Larinin’s mysterious death. It was as though Gregorin had lost all interest in the matter, which was a relief as Korolev was certain that the colonel would have smelled a rat the moment he’d opened his mouth. Now, as long as Gregorin maintained this lack of interest, Korolev could forget the whole thing, and particularly the icon.

It was deflating to walk away from an unsolved case, but, strangely, he found himself humming a tune as he began his morning exercises-perhaps he was not too disappointed after all.

The lane was beginning to see the first traffic of the day by the time he’d finished his final piece of stretching and was tying the laces on his battered but still sturdy summer shoes. He’d get another year out of them, with a bit of luck, and they were fine for wearing around the house-but he’d have to start asking around about a new pair soon enough. He hadn’t seen shoes in the ordinary shops for months, which didn’t mean there weren’t any-it just meant that finding a pair that was available and fitted him would take time and effort. As for leather boots to replace his felt ones? Well, perhaps he would have to ask the other Militiamen how to go about it. There was obviously a way, perhaps not entirely above board, and maybe he’d just have to swallow his pride if he wanted dry feet this winter.

It was a cause of some embarrassment to Korolev, later, that when Babel arrived to collect him, Valentina Nikolaevna should be in the middle of insisting on his wearing a scarf belonging to her dead husband, which Korolev didn’t consider necessary.

“Isaac Emmanuilovich,” she said, with no respect for Korolev’s dented pride, “keep an eye on poor Korolev today. I know what these football matches can be like. He’s to stay out of trouble, no fighting with factory workers. And he’s not to take off this scarf.”

“I can look after myself.” Korolev scowled at Babel, whose face was bright with suppressed mirth.

“Don’t worry yourself, Valentina Nikolaevna, it will be my pleasure to keep Comrade Korolev under the closest of observation.” Babel bowed in Korolev’s direction. “Would you like to take my arm on the way down the stairs, Comrade Korolev?”

“The Devil take you, I can manage myself. And take that damned smirk off your face, you rotten scribbler!”

“See, Valentina Nikolaevna, the injury has made him disgruntled, but I forgive him,” Babel said, the picture of indifferent innocence. “I shall see you downstairs, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Don’t forget the scarf.”

“Rat,” Korolev muttered as the door closed behind the writer. Valentina Nikolaevna raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Valentina Nikolaevna, I was rude. It’s just I think he was making presumptions.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could catch them and push them back in.

“Presumptions, is it?” She produced the word like a rapier from its sheath. Her imperious blue eyes looked at him in artful confusion and he felt the net close around him.

“Ah, to hell with this!” he growled, more to himself than her. “I’m destined to be provoked all day long I can see.”

He clumped to the door, insofar as anyone can clump in felt boots, and tugged the handle toward him, half-disappointed that it offered no resistance.

“Well, goodbye then, Valentina Nikolaevna,” he called behind him and did his best to ignore what sounded very much like laughter from the kitchen, where he’d left her.

Semionov was waiting for them outside and, after a brief discussion, they decided to walk. It was a sunny day with a bite to the air that was pleasant on the skin after the rain and snow of the preceding weeks. They proceeded at Babel ’s pace as he exchanged words with vagrants, kiosk vendors, street sweepers, ticket touts, as well as actresses and Party officials. Korolev took the opportunity offered by the writer’s distraction to ask Semionov about the works meeting.

“It went well. I myself took responsibility for my failure to observe anything untoward about former Party member Mendeleyev’s attitude and it was accepted that the lack of vigilance was a collective error.”

“But you hardly knew Knuckles.”

“So I ran no great risk,” Semionov acknowledged with a small smile. Korolev found his arm resting on the young man’s shoulder as they walked along, and it seemed quite natural. It occurred to him, however, that the relationship was not quite the paternal one he might have thought a few days before. Semionov was a handy lad; quite how he’d landed himself on the committee after only a few weeks was something of a mystery. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he looked the part with those clear blue eyes and his golden hair. But it was more than looks alone-the youngster was a solid fellow to have behind you in a scrap, for certain. In fact, it astonished him that Semionov had so little experience-he often carried himself like a man who’d been around the block once or twice at least.

When they finally arrived at the Metropol, Korolev was reassured to discover that it had lost none of its opulence over the previous few days. It occurred to him that foreigners must be equally impressed with this living embodiment of the great socialist dream. And it was open to everyone, unlike in the capitalist countries, where some lackey with a whip would no doubt send an ordinary man like him packing with a bloody stripe across his back for a souvenir. He turned with proprietorial pleasure to observe the reactions of Semionov and Babel, but was disappointed. The writer seemed uninterested in his surroundings, tapping a cigarette against an open enamel case and looking less animated than he had all morning. Semionov at least had the courtesy to look interested in the swimmers in the pool, but Korolev suspected that was for carnal rather than aesthetic reasons. Babel he could understand-the writer visited Paris every other month by the sound if it-but Semionov was yet again a surprise. Perhaps he’d been here before, with his Hercegovina Flor-smoking girlfriend.

Schwartz was sitting in the restaurant, perusing Izvestia with an expression that suggested he was reading it for amusement rather than political education. He rose as Korolev approached, looking slightly guilty and putting the paper behind him.

“Comrade Captain, good to see you. It looks like a great day for a sporting event.” He’d dressed down for the occasion; wearing a black jumper under a short blue overcoat with a turned-up collar, but the gray trousers were so precisely cut they looked as though they belonged in a museum of tailoring. What the Spartak fans would make of a crease like that could only be imagined. Schwartz pointed at a peaked cap on the table.

“I even got myself a hat. Think I’ll fit in?”

Korolev looked at the hat, wondering where he’d managed to buy it. One of the currency stores, no doubt.

“That’s a fine hat. Practical. You’ll need it-it’s brisk enough outside.”

Korolev didn’t feel he should add that he also thought the hat would look very well on his own head. Schwartz smiled in acknowledgment, then lowered his voice and leaned forward, his face serious.

“And the case? Any progress?”

“I’m no longer working on it,” Korolev said, indicating his bandaged forehead. “I had to take a few days off, so they transferred it to someone else. I’ve some good news for you, though. We identified the victim and it wasn’t your friend. Of course, if she contacts you, let me know-she might have some useful information.” But he could hear no conviction in his voice. After all, if the Chekists got their hands on an American nun traipsing round Moscow on a false passport, her original Intourist trip would be extended by a long visit to Siberia. Then something else struck him-Schwartz showed no relief or surprise at the news. He merely nodded in gratitude for the information. Did he not care about his friend from the train any more?