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“And a stomach ache,” he said.

“I don’t feel so well myself. That poor fellow with his you know what. Normally I’d say good riddance to a Thief like him, but you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“No,” Korolev said, adding another worry to his list. What if he fell into the hands of the murderer? Given his victims to date and what he’d done to them it was unlikely that he’d go easy on some middle-aged, past-it gumshoe. A bullet in the head was beginning to seem almost attractive.

“Also…” Semionov said no more but gave a loud and deliberate sigh. So heartfelt was the sound that Korolev turned to look at him.

“What’s up with you?” he said.

“Nothing. Really. It’s just-do we really have to work this case with Larinin? I know he’s well respected within the Party, but I’m not sure I like him very much. And what’s all this about General Popov being investigated? He’s been awarded the Order of the Red Flag and the Order of Lenin! He’s as true to the Party as Comrade Stalin himself!”

There was a moment of silence in the car as both men thought about what Semionov had said. Korolev broke it.

“Perhaps…”

“Yes, I see your point. Comparing the General to Comrade Stalin…”

“While he’s under investigation…”

“No,” agreed Semionov, his face flushed.

It wasn’t easy for the young lad, thought Korolev. Being a good Communist these days was like following an arbitrary God who required you to believe that white was white one day and black the next. It only made sense if you remembered that the country was surrounded by enemies who were terrified by its very existence. Faced with such implacable foes, sometimes the Party took steps which seemed at odds with its long-term historical destiny. That could be confusing for ordinary workers like Korolev and Semionov, but everyone knew the Party had to keep going forward, no matter what the cost. Korolev believed in the Party line absolutely, even if it required a leap of faith to do so from time to time. After all, unity was as important as truth sometimes-you learned that in the trenches, if nothing else.

Looking ahead, he spotted a small crowd in front of a familiar snow-topped kiosk whose sole advertisement was the word “Snacks,” spelled incorrectly. Still, even “Snaks” would cheer up a growing lad like Semionov and, as it happened, the stallholder was known to Korolev of old. Each time he passed he felt relief that the stall had not succumbed to the reconstruction of the city or the continuing efforts to minimize private enterprise-the blinchiki, sometimes even containing meat, were among the best in Moscow.

“I’m starving, Vanya. Let’s pull over and get some lunch. I haven’t eaten all day.”

They came to a halt and Korolev stepped from the car and nodded to the stall owner. “How are things, Boris Nikolayevich? Two, please.”

Several of the waiting men gave him angry looks, but seeing the car and the waiting Semionov drew the obvious conclusion, a couple even raising their collars and moving off. Korolev pretended not to notice-it wasn’t his job to check people’s papers-and as he prepared the blinchiki, Boris Nikolayevich told Korolev his news. He was now part of a nearby state canteen so his problems with bureaucracy had decreased. Unfortunately so had his flexibility in acquiring ingredients.

“They keep the best stuff for themselves, but I make do,” the stallholder announced, wrapping the blinchiki and handing them over to Korolev in exchange for ninety kopeks. “I’m blessed to be the son of a street sweeper. See poor Denisov across the street. The son of a factory owner. The troubles he has, you wouldn’t believe, and we were both born in ninety seven. Who would have guessed then how things would turn out for us?”

The food paid for, Korolev got back into the car, handing Semionov one of the wrappings as he did so. It was only when he went to open his own that he saw that it had been wrapped in a vellum page and that ancient ink had impregnated his blinchiki with mirrored Slavonic writing. A holy book had been torn to pieces to wrap food in. He looked around at Semionov, whose cheeks were bulging as his jaw worked away at a huge mouthful. He hesitated and then took a bite himself, hoping he wasn’t doing anything sinful. He chewed for a moment. If it was sinful, it was also delicious, and so he took a second mouthful, asking the Lord for forgiveness as he did so.

The red and white flag of Spartak hung loosely outside Tomsky stadium. It was dwarfed by the Dinamo stands on the other side of the road, but size wasn’t everything. Spartak was the spirit of Moscow, as far as Korolev was concerned, whereas Dinamo represented the force that controlled that spirit. He might work for the Ministry, but Korolev was a Presnaya boy through and through, even if he now lived in Kitaj-Gorod. You didn’t betray your birthplace, not in his book anyway. Semionov pulled the car to a halt outside the administrative building and Korolev saw a group of players approaching, their bodies showing every sign of tiredness and their breath trailing them like the smoke from a train. Beside them walked a familiar figure, dressed in a pair of old gray flannel trousers, a green hunting jacket and a red and white scarf. Thick brown hair tumbled back from the sharply cut face, and a pair of eyes the color of old silver were already regarding him with amusement. Nikolai Starostin’s face broke into a grin as Korolev raised a hand in greeting.

“Nikolai,” Korolev said, “I see you’re pushing the team hard as ever.”

There was a rumble of good-humored agreement from the players, not least of which came from two more of the Starostin brothers, Aleksandr and Andrei.

“Go on into the baths, boys,” said Starostin. “I must talk to this old player, even if he’s long past it.”

Andrei Starostin waved a cheerful greeting but moved along with the others, several of whom also nodded to Korolev, being known to him as he was to them.

“We haven’t seen you at many games recently. Worried the supporters will give you a hard time?”

“I’ve been busy. Anyway I can look after myself, I’m not ashamed of my job.”

“Yes, I know that much. It’s bad, though. When we play Dinamo it’s ‘Kill the terriers,’ ‘Kill the filth,’ and when we play Red Army, it’s ‘Kill the squaddies’ or ‘Kill the horse washers.’ It worries people in authority, which isn’t good these days, and when we’re beating their pet teams it adds insult to the injury. Still, what can we do? They’re a law unto themselves. They’ll shout whatever they damned well please and the Devil take the consequences.”

Korolev smiled, knowing all about the rough bonhomie of the stands when Spartak were winning, and the rage when things were going badly.

“So who’ll line up for you against the Army? They’ve a strong side: want me to dust off my boots?”

Starostin smiled and touched his finger to the side of his nose.

“All will be revealed, Lyoshka, in due course. But if you’re coming to the game, let me get you a ticket-in the stand with the civilized people, not down on the terraces. You’ll be able to see the game properly and, anyway, I need someone to keep an eye on my sisters. They can become a little obstreperous if things begin to go against us. Presnaya girls through and through. Feel free to arrest them. It’s better than them going up to Marshal Tukachevsky and telling him his boys are dirty cheats.”

“I’d be grateful,” Korolev said. He caught sight of Semionov staring at them from the car and was reminded of the purpose of his visit. “Listen, Nikolai, there was a body dropped here last night and I need someone to show us exactly where.”

Starostin frowned. “Ah, yes. The groundskeeper found him-I can show you myself. He dragged me out to have a look. Not pretty. Come on.”

Korolev signaled to his colleague and a grinning Semionov extracted himself from the car, stood to attention and saluted.