“Thank you, brother,” the man said, his eyes sliding away. Korolev, delighted with the goal, ruffled the boy’s hair.

“My pleasure. One more to be sure, eh? Best keep this in your pocket in the meantime, youngster. It’ll be a long winter with no hat.”

“Yes,” the man replied with a half-hearted smile. “One more for safety.”

Just before full-time, the wished-for third goal came and, to the absolute delight of the Spartak supporters and the rueful acknowledgment of the Army fans, the game was won. The referee allowed another minute of play but with red and white waving all along the touchline, and the thinly stretched Militiamen looking more and more nervous, he blew the whistle and the second pitch invasion of the day took place, far rowdier and more joyful than the first, with the white hoops of the Spartak players visible above the crowd as they were borne around the field.

As they walked away from the stadium, Korolev considered how best to approach the new information Goldstein had given him. The logical thing to do, of course, would be to get hold of Paunichev and let him deal with it, but that would mean disobeying the general’s orders, as he would have to explain to Paunichev who Nancy Dolan was, and how she was relevant to the case. He could haul Semionov along with him, but it was too dangerous to involve the youngster. Or Babel for that matter. And he didn’t even consider calling Gregorin. There, Korolev thought to himself, Kolya had his answer. His loyalty to the State was not, it seemed, absolute. He could always go to Arbat on his own. Hopefully, a quick look at the situation would tell him whether it was worth involving anyone else and, with luck, who that person might be. After all, Arbat was a safe area; he couldn’t imagine anything happening there that he couldn’t handle. Then he thought over the last few days and reconsidered. Maybe he would call Yasimov. He lived nearby.

“So,” Schwartz said, interrupting Korolev’s deliberations, “would you men like to come back to the Metropol for a celebratory drink? So I can say a comradely thank you for an authentic Soviet experience in such excellent company?”

“If you put it like that, it’s impossible to say no,” Babel said cheerfully.

“I agree, Comrade Babel. We are honor bound to accept.” Semionov’s open smile was contagious and so, at Schwartz’s insistence, they hailed a taxi and headed back to the center of town. It wasn’t long before they took their seats at the Metropol bar and watched a white-jacketed barman pour beer from a silver tap into improbably tall glasses. Behind them a jazz band was tuning up for the evening’s performance. Semionov nodded over to them.

“They’re not bad these guys, they’re Utyosov’s players, although the man himself refuses to perform in hotels. A real artist, you see-theaters only for him.”

Semionov caught the eye of one of the band and raised a hand in greeting. The musician gave him a quick grin in response and Semionov excused himself to go and talk to his acquaintance.

Korolev looked around the bar. Babel had wandered off to find a toilet and they were alone.

“So Jack, is it true? About the icon? That it’s the original Kazanskaya?” He spoke in a low voice, too low for any microphone to pick up with the band playing in the background.

“Possibly,” Schwartz said, after a moment’s consideration. “I won’t know anything until I see it, and even then I’ll probably only be able to date it, more or less. And, hopefully, say where it might have been painted. The quality will be the crucial thing. You’ve got to understand it’s been copied since the very beginning, millions of times. But if the quality is there, and I can date it back far enough-then I’ll know there’s a good chance it’s what they say it is.”

“So you still haven’t seen it,” Korolev said, and Schwartz gave him an inquiring look, as if guessing why Korolev had asked the question. Korolev tried to keep his face blank.

“Come on Alexei Dmitriyevich, fair’s fair. What’s going on?”

Korolev shrugged; he was in enough trouble that a little indiscretion like this wouldn’t make any difference. And he would be interested to see Schwartz’s reaction.

“I understand the icon has gone missing again.”

Schwartz looked puzzled and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Well, I have a viewing tomorrow. Their representative called while we were out.” There was something in the way that Schwartz used the word “representative” and his puzzlement that caught Korolev’s interest.

“Isn’t he one of your usual contacts?”

Schwartz opened his mouth to respond and then stopped, considering the question.

“No,” he said, after a brief pause. “Not one of my usual contacts, but he’s a full staff colonel in the NKVD. I normally deal with more junior ranks. But this is beyond the limits of their authorization, which is understandable.”

“A staff colonel?” Korolev repeated, a thought occurring to him. He tried to stop himself saying the name, but it seemed to come out of his mouth of its own volition. “Gregorin? Staff Colonel Gregorin?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve come across him. A very capable fellow,” Korolev managed to say.

“He seems that,” Schwartz went on. “He drives a hard bargain, that’s for sure.”

“What kind of hard bargain?”

“One million dollars, cash.”

“What’s that in roubles?” Korolev asked and Schwartz laughed.

“A lot. An awful, awful lot.”

Before Korolev left the Metropol he showed his identification card at the reception desk and called Yasimov’s number. He had to wait for a couple of minutes while Yasimov was summoned to the communal phone, but his old friend agreed when Korolev suggested that they meet at the usual spot for a drink, and didn’t ask any questions when he told him to bring along his best friend. “An investigator’s best friend is his pistol,” was something Yasimov said at least once a week and their usual spot for an after-work drink was the Arbat Cellar, a late-night bar which was convenient for the Prague cinema and which would be empty at this time of day. Even if someone was listening to the telephone conversation, Korolev doubted they’d make much of it.

Stepping out into the square, Korolev crossed the street and took a tram in the direction of Arbat. He was reassured by the solid presence underneath his armpit. It had seemed silly bringing the Walther to the football game, but now-well, at least he’d have a chance to put some holes in anyone who looked like they were planning to do the same to him. He jumped off the tram a few stops early, having decided to use the network of passages, alleyways and courtyards that existed just off the main thoroughfare to throw any tail and as he walked, keeping to the shadows and constantly changing direction, his mind went backward and forward like an abacus in a bread shop.

If Gregorin was rotten, things were not good, and Korolev’s gut was saying Gregorin was rotten to the core and, what’s more, that he’d played Korolev for a dupe. He clung to the hope that it was impossible that such a senior Chekist could be behind the murders, and inconceivable that he could have had anything to do with the theft of the icon, but there were just too many coincidences, too many indicators to the contrary. Every instinct he had was telling him Gregorin was a dirty traitor, out to stab the Party and his fellow workers in the back. He cursed the fellow’s black heart.

He entered a courtyard festooned with washing that hung across the open spaces almost up to the height of the roof, and then ducked into a low archway leading to another alley. How had he ended up in this mess? He realized he’d asked the question aloud when he drew a glance from an old man unloading coal from a handcart into a shed. The man turned quickly away when he saw Korolev’s face and he realized he must look like a madman, bursting out of tiny archways with a bandaged head, muttering to himself. If he’d any sense, he’d go home, make himself some dinner and, if necessary, drink himself into a state where he forgot all about it. But then, if he did that, Gregorin could be off to Berlin or Paris or some other capitalist Gomorrah to spend his ill-gotten gains. And a staff colonel of the NKVD would be a fine fish to catch for a foreign intelligence service. The Judas would no doubt have many a state secret he could sell if he so chose. The fiend had guarded Stalin, for the love of God; they’d welcome him like manna from heaven.