“One of the previous owners-a count, I believe,” Luborov said, gesturing at the painting. “Who knows where he is now, eh? Paris? Shanghai? The grave? Serves him right, wherever he is. Covering up the cracks in the wall is all his kind are good for now. Anyway, this is the kitchen: you share it with Citizeness Koltsova, of course, and the cooking area is in there,” Luborov pointed to a smaller room beside the front door in which a primus stove stood, as well as a stone basin. “You have your own stove?”

Korolev nodded.

“Excellent, that makes life easier for everyone; this one belongs to Valentina Nikolaevna. Your room’s through here.”

When Luborov left, Korolev stood alone in the room he’d been allocated. He placed his hat on the writing desk and looked around him. A narrow bar of light marked where the curtains met, leaving most of the room in shadow, and so he walked across to push them as wide as they would go, allowing sunshine to flood in. It was a good room, large, with high ceilings-it even had wallpaper. Of course, the wallpaper was a relic from before the German War, but it was in reasonable condition, and the mattress on the bed looked clean-there was even a worn Persian carpet to cover some of the wooden floorboards. He glanced out of the window at the alleyway below. A quiet street as well, he thought, looking to the left at the domes of the small church of St. Nicholas Vorobinsky. He heard bells chiming for one o’clock and remembered he only had a few minutes to spare, so he looked over the room once again, but this time with a searching eye.

To start with, he examined the writing desk, opening the lid to the compartment where some nobleman had once no doubt kept a stock of fine writing paper, but which now contained only a browned edition of Pravda from 1928. The desk wouldn’t do. He ignored the bed as being too obvious and, after a quick scrutiny, discarded the wardrobe as well. He flicked back the rug and paused, his focus gradually narrowing until it was entirely aimed at one floorboard and the infinitesimally wider gap between it and its neighbors. There were tiny signs of wear to the edges and he squatted, hearing the cartilage in his knees click, and took the clasp knife from his pocket. He inserted the blade at one end of the board and, sure enough, it came up smoothly.

The lifted floorboard revealed a small cavity in which lay a photograph of a half-naked woman, looking over her bare shoulder at the camera with a suggestive smile, her breasts pushed over a corset. She seemed to be milking the cow that stood behind her, its head out of shot but the udders fat between her fingers. Someone else had needed a hiding place once, it seemed. He placed the floorboard to one side and then raised himself to his feet. Underneath the other books he’d brought with him he found his Bible, and put it in the hiding place with relief. He liked to have the book near him but it had to be hidden, and it made him sweat to consider the risk he’d run carrying it across Moscow. It wasn’t that he was particularly religious, he told himself-he was certainly aware of the Party’s line on the Orthodox cult and agreed with it-but the bible had stood him in good stead through nearly eight years of soldiering and now, more than ever, it gave him comfort when the world around him sometimes seemed even bleaker.

When he’d finished he looked down at the floorboards and was satisfied they’d stand up to most searches, then patted his pocket and felt the outline of the milkmaid. It would have been wrong to leave her with a holy book. He’d dispose of her when he got a chance.

Half an hour later Korolev was walking quickly along Razin Street, past the statue of the rebel Cossack for whom the street had been renamed by the Bolsheviks. An officer of the People’s Militia couldn’t be seen whistling in full uniform, not if he wanted an ounce of respect from citizens, let alone criminals, but, even so, Korolev was sorely tempted. If he’d been in plain clothes he might have allowed himself to attempt a few bars of something martial and uplifting, in keeping with his mood-the “Internationale” perhaps-but the uniform prevented any outward display of satisfaction. In short, despite the morning’s unnerving start, the new apartment had restored his usual cautious optimism and he was confident, for a moment at least, that things weren’t so bad after all. In fact, things were getting better, as Comrade Stalin had recently stated. Things were definitely getting better.

He was looking for a telephone to call Petrovka Street when he spotted two Black Crows parked further along the street outside a church. Uniforms stood beside the Militia cars and he guessed this was the crime scene Popov had asked him to attend. It was a small church, adorned with a Komsomol banner that hung above the entrance and invited the members of the Party’s youth wing to a dance in support of the Spanish Comrades. A rope was extended across the front of the building but it was unnecessary as most citizens were crossing the road to avoid the Militiamen. Only a starved-looking mongrel, lucky to have made it through a hungry summer without ending up in someone’s pot, and three equally bedraggled street children showed any direct interest, and even that was from a safe distance. Popov came out, trailed by more uniforms, who listened as he gave them orders, his fist pounding into his palm for emphasis. Korolev was rewarded with a nod from the general as he approached.

“You got my message then?” the general said.

“No, General, I was going to call in from the booth on the next block when I saw the cars.”

“Just as well, just as well. This one’s got your name on it, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” The general pointed behind him with the pipe, the gesture taking in the front of the church in a brief sweep, then he turned and scowled at the uniformed Militiamen.

“I want a statement from every citizen within a two-hundred-meter radius. We need to know the movement of every man, woman, child and mouse over the last two days. Send everything to Comrade Korolev here at Petrovka Street. He’ll be dealing with this matter.”

The uniforms saluted and went. Popov looked after them.

“Probably a waste of time, but if you don’t take every possible action these days, you leave yourself open to criticism.” He focused his irritation on the dwindling supply of tobacco in his pipe bowl, stuffing it full again from a small leather pouch with short angry jabs of his thumb. Korolev stood in silence, knowing better than to interrupt the general when he was thinking. Eventually Popov remembered his presence and pointed the unlit pipe toward the entrance once again.

“A terrible thing, Korolev. Some fellow got in there last night and…” he paused and then beckoned Korolev to follow him into the church. “It’s not pretty, anyway, and if we don’t catch him soon he’ll be at it again. He has the taste for it-I feel it in my bones.”

The interior was dark except for weak rays of light squeezing through the small stained-glass windows that circled the several domes. Each dome of the church offered a separate fresco representation of a scene from the Bible and the murky light picked out the gold-circled heads and silver robes of saints. Korolev felt his mouth harden as Party slogans loomed out of the darkness, painted directly onto the frescos and mosaics. The young brats should find better things to do with their time than acts of mindless hooliganism, he thought to himself as he followed Popov from shadow to shadow toward the sacristy at the far end of the church.

Even the sacred templon, the wooden wall that separated the congregation from the mysteries of the altar and which would have been covered with icons in the old days, was now hung with banners exhorting greater efforts for the Soviet cause. Korolev made the sign of the cross in his pocket. Hadn’t Comrade Stalin himself nearly become a priest? He’d have words to say if he saw what these Komsomol pups had been up to.