“If she does get in touch I’ll certainly advise her to contact you.” Schwartz said, with the careful intonation of a diplomat. “By the way, our previous conversation?”

“Remains between the two of us, of course,” Korolev answered, surprised how easily the lie slipped off his tongue. A thought occurred to Korolev, and he looked around to see whether Babel and Semionov were within listening distance. “In fact, I would like to extend that conversation if you don’t mind-now that I know which icon we’re dealing with.”

Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond. Again he didn’t look surprised, merely mildly perturbed. “I thought you were off the case?”

“For the moment, yes, but on Monday I will probably return to duty.” Well, who knew what Monday would bring? “A few minutes of your time is all I ask.”

Korolev was sure from Schwartz’s reaction that he’d already known the dead nun wasn’t his friend, Nancy Dolan. Now how could that be? He couldn’t press the matter because of the American’s importance to the State’s finances, but it seemed clear it was his duty to see if the American would tell him anything useful about the icon. He was sure the General would understand-well, almost sure.

“I don’t see why not,” Schwartz said, after he’d considered the proposal for another lengthy moment, “provided we keep to the same terms as before.”

“Agreed.”

They turned to watch Semionov and Babel looking with salacious smiles into the swimming pool, from which sixteen legs, slick with water and with red-painted toenails, pointed up at the huge central chandelier. The mysterious limbs looked, for a moment, as though they should be hanging from hooks in an abattoir.

“After the game?” Schwartz asked.

Babel looked toward them, indicating his watch. Korolev nodded to Schwartz.

“After the game will be fine,” he agreed.

“I’ve never traveled on a tram before,” Schwartz said, as they walked out onto Teatralnaya Square. “Not in Moscow, anyway.”

“That may not change today,” Babel said, looking at a passing red and white tram that seemed in danger of exploding outward from the press of people inside. Young men hung from the door handles, their feet wedged onto the running plates and their Spartak scarves mimicking the huge red flags that fluttered from either side as it charged past the crowd waiting at the stop across the street.

“The bandit isn’t even stopping!” Semionov said, echoing the rest of the queue, who were cursing the driver and waving clenched fists at the conductress, who shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response.

“Should we walk?” Schwartz asked, apparently nervous at the idea of risking his life by hanging onto the outside of a hurtling tram. Others had already started to look around for alternative means of transportation, and Korolev was on the point of suggesting they join them when another tram approached. Like the first it was bedecked with banners and slogans celebrating the imminent anniversary of the October Revolution, but it also looked as though it might stop.

“Order, Citizens, order!” shouted the conductor in vain as people surged forward. Korolev decided it was every man for himself and pushed and pulled his way on, conscious that Schwartz was right behind him, and together they managed to squeeze their way into the muggy traveling compartment. Korolev found himself pressed up against a window facing Semionov on the other side of the glass, the youngster’s knuckles white around a chrome handle on the side of the tram.

“It looks like Vanya is taking the scenic route,” Schwartz said. “Not a bad idea,” he added, trying to turn away from the armpit of an inebriated soldier with his hand stretched up to the roof for balance. Babel wormed his way through to join them and then the tram groaned forward, the passengers breaking into good-natured chatter.

They rumbled onward in the direction of the stadium, cheering when the tram driver narrowly missed separating a green bread van from the two tired horses pulling it, singing songs and loudly discussing the merits of the various players. The mood was one of excitement, although Korolev knew things could change quite suddenly, particularly at a game like this, where the newly constituted Union-wide league could be decided in Spartak’s favor. Sure enough, when they arrived at the ground, several scrappy fights were already under way between rival supporters. Chants of “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!” from the Spartak fans, were answered with equally loud shouts of “RED ARMY, RED ARMY, RED ARMY!” Mounted Militiamen patrolled the area in pairs, occasionally inserting themselves between opposing groups. In all the excitement, getting off the tram was nearly as hard as getting on it.

“Why do they chant ‘Meat?’ ” Schwartz asked.

“The Spartak sponsor is Promkooperatsya, the food workers’ union. So the fans chant, ‘Who are we? We are the Meat.’ It’s a good thing.”

“But sometimes the opposing fans call them ‘the Pigs,’ ” Babel added.

“Only if they are uncultured hooligans. And who are you supporting today, Isaac Emmanuilovich?”

“Why Central House of the Red Army, of course. As an ex-Red Cavalryman it’s my duty.”

“I was a soldier too once, but I was from the Presnaya long before that,” Korolev said, feeling slightly offended.

“Even pigs can choose to leave their sty,” Babel replied with an innocent smile.

Korolev was about to respond in kind when he saw a group of determined-looking young men arrange themselves in front of the gates, each holding onto the belt of the man in front with one hand, with the two biggest and hardest-looking in the front.

“Jack, we should wait for a couple of moments now.”

“Yes,” Babel agreed. “The train is about to leave the station.”

Schwartz looked at the crowd and smiled. “They’re going to crash the barriers?”

“Yes, it’s called ‘the steam engine.’ Ah, the ticket collectors have spotted them.”

But the ticket collectors were too late to marshal an effective defense and the snake of men charged forward, kicking and punching, knocking bystanders and defenders out of their path and, in the case of one, trampling him underfoot. The chain remained unbroken until two of the collectors and a Militiaman, furious and blood-smeared, grabbed the last of them by an arm and detached him from his colleagues. Their triumph was short-lived, however, as the captured gate-crasher’s fellows gathered themselves into a tight wedge and returned to the fray, snatching the captive back and leaving one of the ticket collectors sitting on the ground spitting blood into his hand. The crowd waiting outside cheered and the youths raised their arms in triumph before retreating in the face of approaching Militia reinforcements. Then the crowd cheered once again as a darting rabble of wild-haired street children launched themselves at the same place, squirming and diving around the distracted ticket collectors’ legs. A tiny girl was caught by the hair and flung back through the gates, where she landed in a crumpled heap. The crowd growled and stepped forward in unison, eyes fixed on the perpetrator, a Militiaman with the build of a wrestler and a face like a squashed cabbage. Korolev took Schwartz’s arm.

“Perhaps we’ll try another gate,” he said, as the first brick clanged off the metal fence and, with a roar, the crowd charged. The last thing they saw of the Militiaman was his panicked face just before it disappeared in a tumble of flat caps and flying fists. The other uniforms would have their work cut out to keep the fellow out of the morgue, Korolev thought to himself without much sympathy, as men ran from all directions to join in the mayhem.

“They seem fond of children,” Schwartz said.

“Fonder, I think, of the opportunity to put a Militiaman in hospital,” Babel replied. That was true, Korolev thought. In fact, they’d probably run straight over the girl to get at him. He recalled a splash of red hair in among the scrabbling rush of children and wondered if it had been Kim Goldstein’s gang of ragamuffins charging the gates.