“Korolev,” he said, through the corner of his mouth, picking up his receiver.

“Alexei Dmitriyevich? Popov here.” The general sounded like he’d been rudely awakened from hibernation. “I read your report. Come up with Semionov, please. Larinin as well.”

“They’re not in the office at the moment, Comrade General.”

“When they arrive then-the lazy rascals. In the meantime send up Yasimov. Tell him I hope he’s made progress on that damned bear.”

“Of course, Comrade General.”

The general hung up and Korolev lit the cigarette with a sigh that was more sadness than satisfaction. An angry General Popov was not an ideal way to start the morning and took some of the sweetness from the smoke. He caught Yasimov’s eye and pointed the orange tip at the ceiling.

“The boss wants an update on the bear. By the sound of things they were related.”

…

Half an hour later it was the turn of Korolev and his two colleagues. Korolev summarized the developments from the previous day and, at the general’s suggestion, informed Larinin of Mary Smithson’s identity and the NKVD’s involvement. As Korolev spoke, he saw Larinin’s face gradually pale. He still looked like a pig, but not a happy pig. In fact, he looked like a pig who’d just discovered what sausages were made from.

“Comrade General,” Larinin began, but he got no further.

“Don’t waste your time, Larinin. The Thief was yours, so you’re not ducking out, and I’ll be keeping an eye on you to make sure you don’t try. Any questions?”

All eyes turned to Larinin. His mouth was slightly open as though still trying to speak, but then he shook his head.

“Good,” Popov said. “Now, today-what have you in mind, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

“It seems to me we need to try and identify the car. We think it’s a black Emka, but perhaps Comrade Larinin could see if his former colleagues in the traffic department are able to narrow the search. If we had an idea of how many Emkas there are in Moscow and which organizations they’ve been allocated to, that would help. Then whether any identifiable vehicles were seen in the neighborhood of the stadium or the church on the nights in question. Anything would be useful.” The general nodded his agreement.

“Also Comrade Semionov should follow up with the interviewees,” Korolev continued. “And there were some street children around at the time the nun’s body was discovered-I think I might see if I can talk to them this morning.”

“What about friend Tesak?”

Semionov and Korolev turned toward Larinin.

“I’m still going through the mugshots-nothing so far. I’ll try showing the autopsy pictures around to the other investigators when they’ve been developed-see if anyone recognizes him.” Larinin’s voice sounded tired.

“And this new girl, Dolina? Or Dolan, is it?” Popov said.

“I’ll show the photograph to Schwartz.” Korolev considered what he was about to say next. “If she does have a link with Mary Smithson then we should start looking for her, quietly. She’s an American, in their eyes anyway, but it’s probable she’ll have assumed a Russian identity. Even so, we could maybe have a discreet look at the places Americans frequent. The embassy, I suppose, the hotels.”

Popov cut him off with an upheld hand. “No. Don’t piss on the NKVD’s lamp post-believe me they’ll smell it straight away if we do. Steer clear of hotels and embassies. Get Gueginov to make bigger copies if he can and we’ll circulate her picture to the stations as a missing person. That’s as far as we can go. And keep it low key.”

Korolev nodded in agreement. “I’ve already asked him. How about informers with cult contacts?”

“I’ll see what can be done. Do you really think your writer friend will be able to arrange a meeting with the Thieves?”

“It’s worth a try. If Count Kolya will talk, he might be able to explain some things. About the icon for a start, and perhaps why Tesak ended up as he did.”

“A Thief won’t talk to you,” Larinin said. Korolev looked at him, expecting to see contempt, but Larinin’s frown seemed to be from doubt more than anything else.

“I could offer him Tesak’s body.”

Larinin’s chin dropped the fraction of a millimeter it took to reach his neck. General Popov merely grunted and pointed at Semionov.

“If there’s a meeting, take him with you. And keep your safety catches off. Only give him the body in exchange for good information. Anything else?”

Korolev thought of mentioning his overnight watcher and the tail he thought he’d detected the day before, but decided there was no point. After all, he’d nothing concrete to tell them, only a feeling which he wasn’t too sure about himself.

“Off you go,” Popov said and the three investigators rose as one.

Larinin looked at Korolev as they left and shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ll keep on with the mugshots,” he said. “First things first.” His sad, pale face reminded Korolev of a circus clown’s.

By the time Korolev and Semionov reached the Razin Street Militia station, the clouds had darkened from white to gray and were becoming blacker by the minute. The remaining snow was being washed into clumps of dirty ice by the curtain-like drizzle and the broken windscreen in the Ford had left Korolev’s coat soaked through. He nodded to Semionov as he stepped out of the car.

“I’ll meet you back here,” Korolev said, wiping rain from his face. “If the witnesses have anything interesting, ask Brusilov to hold onto them till I come back.”

Korolev didn’t really mind the rain; after all, what could you do about weather? It was what it was. Maybe, in the future, Soviet science would be able to control it, turn it on and off or adjust it like a radiator, but for now it was something that only God could influence, and today God had decided to let it wash Moscow’s skies clear of the factories’ smog and drop it onto her streets as murky puddles and black sludge. Korolev suspected the chances of finding the street children would be few in this muck, but there was a Militia post near the church which was manned during the day so he decided to ask there just in case.

The Militiaman, a sergeant, looked at his identification with great care. Korolev had a suspicion that he was spelling the words out to himself one by one.

“Ko-ro-lev?” The elderly sergeant said with a frown, as though unsure of the pronunciation. Despite the roof on the small hut, it was open to the sides and his gray beard and eyebrows were greasy with rain. He looked like a damp St. Nicholas.

“From Petrovka Street. I’m investigating the murder earlier in the week.”

“Ach,” the sergeant said in disgust, “What’s the world coming to, Comrade? When they kill a young girl in God’s own house? Things must be bad. Well, we’re all atheists, of course, but some things just shouldn’t happen. It’s the Devil’s work. I remember you, now I think of it. You were here the morning we found her. In your uniform, weren’t you?”

Another atheist like myself, thought Korolev. There are a lot of us around.

“That was me. Listen, Comrade, there were some besprizorny at the church that morning-have you any idea where I might find them? They were very young, under ten I’d say. One had red hair, blue eyes, a thin, bony face and a big padded jacket-ring any bells?”

“That little one rings all the bells in Moscow, Comrade Captain-a hooligan in the making of the first degree called Kim Goldstein. His parents got caught up in something or other, you know the way it is-who knows where they ended up and best not to ask I should think. Left him to fend for himself, anyway, and the rascal’s been running wild ever since-I’ve felt his collar in my hand once or twice, but I haven’t had the heart to hold onto it. Although maybe I should, maybe I should-he hasn’t an ounce of flesh on him and won’t last the winter if I don’t, that’s for certain.”

“Any idea where I might find him?”