Chestnova scowled. “Esimov is assisting your esteemed colleague. I thought it best to leave them to it. The magazine is Esimov’s. Esimov gets to look at your colleague and the dead Thief for an hour or so, and I get to look at bare-chested Soviet athletes in their shorts. It’s as good as a refresher course in anatomy that magazine, I can tell you.”

“It seems like a fair division of labor.”

“Ha. Now hold still when I do this, like a good Militiaman.” She dabbed at the cut with a piece of cotton wool impregnated with something yellow and strong. His eyes were watering even before it touched his forehead.

“There, it’s not so bad, is it?” she said in a mischievous voice.

“Just put the stitches in and get it over with,” Korolev said, feeling sweat dampen his armpits and wanting to be somewhere else. For some reason he felt a strong desire to vomit.

“A moment, a moment,” Chestnova said, as she threaded a needle. “Hold still, will you?”

“I am holding still,” Korolev said as he recoiled from the needle’s point.

“That’s better. By the way, an interesting body arrived in this morning. Found in a church that was being demolished. The explosives didn’t blow and when they were checking the charges they found a dead drunk. I wondered if there might be a connection. Seeing as he was found in a church. Not the usual dumping spot-churches.”

“Are you finished?”

She patted his cheek and put the bloodied needle in a metal bowl.

“More or less. You should be careful for a day or so-that was a nasty bang. Have you felt dizzy at all? Nauseous? A headache?”

“I’m fine,” Korolev said, ignoring the spinning floor. He was damned if a bump on the head was going to slow him down.

Chestnova looked into his eyes for a moment, then held up some fingers.

“How many fingers?”

“Count them yourself. I’m fine.” Korolev wasn’t about to admit there were six of them. Even in his state he knew that was too many.

“Concussion’s no fun-it’s up to you, of course.”

“I’ve had bigger knocks on the head, believe me.”

“Oh, that I believe,” Chestnova said with a smirk.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The mortuary was empty when they entered and he followed Chestnova into the smaller of the autopsy rooms. The blinds had been lowered, but a gray light filtered in anyway-just enough to show a dead man on the stainless-steel table, his clothes covered in muck and blood. When Chestnova turned on the light, however, Korolev saw that the corpse’s face was black with bruising.

“Could we clean him up a bit? See what he looks like?”

“Of course. Help me off with his clothes first.”

Chestnova had to cut the fabric of the military-style jacket in several places to remove it, and then do the same with the shirt underneath. As the shirt collar came unstuck from the blood-caked neck, she whistled.

“Well, well,” she said. “He’s picked up a bullet hole along the way. Strange-drunks don’t often get shot in the back of the head. What do you think of that?”

She leaned closer to examine the small dark wound. Enough of the crusted blood had been removed with the shirt to reveal a circle of burned powder that had impregnated itself into the skin around it.

“The Devil,” Korolev said, his stomach making its presence felt. “Let’s see if he picked up any other interesting injuries.”

Chestnova nodded and, the dead man’s upper body now naked, she began to clean it with the small hose.

“He’s been beaten to a pulp, all right, and look-cigarette burns.” Chestnova pointed to some blackened circles-someone had certainly gone out of their way to cause the man pain.

“Do you think they did all this in the church?”

“Who knows?” Korolev said, angry that the uniforms had just dumped the body at the mortuary.

“Your colleagues were at the end of their shift and they needed the body out of the church before they demolished it,” Chestnova said, seeing the anger in his eyes. “Nobody bothers too much about dead drunks these days. We get two or three in here a day. Often looking like this. Most of the time they died from what they drank, rather than a beating. The Militiaman who dropped him off was called Nikitin, if that helps. I’ll have a record upstairs of which station he’s based at.”

The dead man’s mouth was missing several teeth, but his nails were clean and the palm and fingers soft-clerk’s hands. Not that usual for an alcoholic, Korolev thought to himself. Then he saw that the wrists were rubbed and raw, just as the girl’s had been, and that several of the corpse’s fingers were twisted out of shape.

“Look at this-damn the man. No photographs or anything, and the crime scene now a heap of rubble. When do you think he died?”

Chestnova ran her finger over the corpse’s skin and considered the question.

“No more than forty-eight hours ago-I’ll have a better idea when I open him up.”

Korolev began to look through the jacket pockets, but found only the stub of a pencil. He turned back to the corpse and began checking the trousers. Nothing there either. He wasn’t sure later what made him look at the feet, but when he did he immediately saw a shape in the corpse’s sock. It was just an outline, but when Korolev peeled the sock back, he found a red identity book and groaned as he read the letters NKVD embossed on its cover in raised black print.

“He’s a Chekist,” Korolev said in a quiet voice, as he opened it. “Name-Mironov, Boris Ivanovich. Rank-major.” He compared the photograph to the dead man. It was definitely him.

“What do we do?” Chestnova asked. She had turned almost as pale as the dead man.

“I’ll call someone. We’d better make sure nobody else sees him until we get firm instructions. Say absolutely nothing. To anyone.”

There was only one person to call in the circumstances, and that was Gregorin-no matter what Kolya had said.

“Korolev?” Gregorin’s voice sounded flat on the fizzing line. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m at the Institute, Colonel,” Korolev began, before explaining what he’d found in the mortuary. When he’d finished there was a long delay. He thought he detected heavy breathing amidst the crackle.

“Anyone else know? Just you and Chestnova?”

“I’m here with Babel and Semionov, but they didn’t come in.

Some others may have seen the body, but even if they have, they think it was just a drunk kicked to death by his fellows.”

“Good. I’m on my way, but it will take a little while-I have to arrange a few things in the meantime. Let no one inside the mortuary until I arrive. And this is top secret, Korolev. You and Chestnova must understand the consequences if it isn’t kept so. Understood?”

Before he could answer, the phone went dead in his hand, and Korolev replaced it on its cradle. His head felt as if it was about to split in two. Those damned Chekists-secrecy was like a sexual perversion for that lot.

Korolev helped Chestnova lock the mortuary and then positioned himself outside to wait for the colonel, sending Chestnova to her office. There was no point in her being around when Gregorin arrived. It hurt like blazes when he frowned, but he couldn’t stop doing it, and his frown only deepened as Larinin turned into the corridor.

“Ah, Korolev. What’s this? The mortuary shut?” Larinin seemed in a suspiciously good mood.

“Only for an hour or so. No one’s to go in.”

Larinin nodded, not apparently interested in the reason, which suited Korolev.

“What happened to your head?”

“A long story-it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Good-it looks pretty bad. Although not as bad as poor Tesak when Esimov opened up his skull to get at the bullet, I can tell you.”

“Not that bad, certainly,” Korolev said, although if it got any more painful he’d begin to question that.