“Greetings, Captain,” Kolya said, “Have a chair. A glass of tea? Or something else perhaps?”

Kolya indicated the samovar that sat on the table, a thin ribbon of steam emanating from its spout.

“I’ll take a glass, why not?” Korolev said. “Do you mind if I sit down, Sister?”

“Please,” Dolan said. “Pelagia Mikhailovna, will you keep watch on the street?” Her Russian was perfect, but the pronunciation was that of an older person. Today’s Russian was more pragmatic, more comradely. Hers was the kind of accent people disguised these days.

“She knows nothing about all this,” Dolan said as the old woman shut the kitchen door behind her.

“Of course not,” Korolev replied, wondering how naive this American thought he was. “I’m not after old ladies, Citizeness Dolina. I’m not even after you, in particular.”

Korolev put an emphasis on the word citizeness. The nun opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She must know she was a long way from America now.

“I spent some time with Jack Schwartz today,” Korolev continued. “I think you met him on the train from Berlin.”

“The train from Berlin?” Dolan seemed to consider denying all knowledge of the journey, but then she lifted her eyes to meet his, calm again. “How is Jack?”

“I’m sure he would have sent his regards if he’d known I was meeting you. We thought for a while that the Holy Sister who died in the church on Razin Street was you. He was pleased to hear it wasn’t.”

She flinched, and Korolev was struck by how small she seemed alongside Kolya’s solid bulk.

“Can you tell me what happened to her?” she asked, her eyes a clear blue. “I know she’s dead, but no more than that. Kolya said it was best that way.”

Korolev looked at Kolya, who shrugged.

“She was tortured to death, Sister,” Korolev said, deciding Dolan should know what she was mixed up in. “There are better ways to die. I’d like to find the fellow who killed her, truly I would.”

“I see.” Her right hand made the sign of the cross. “God rest her soul.”

“And one of Kolya’s men here was also tortured and murdered, probably by the same persons.”

“Yes, he told me there had been others.” The nun seemed listless almost, or perhaps just resigned to her fate.

“And one of my colleagues died-in a car accident, which maybe wasn’t an accident. Then there’s a dead Chekist-Major Mironov. All in all, there’s quite a trail following you around Moscow.”

“It’s not following me. I’m not what they want.”

Kolya shifted, enough to draw Korolev’s attention. “Listen Alexei Dmitriyevich, if we didn’t want you to be here, you wouldn’t be. That moishe brat Goldstein knows where the sun sets, and that he wouldn’t see another if he turned me in. So let’s speak like friends.”

Korolev nodded-perhaps he was being a little aggressive. And if Kolya had a gun pointing at him from that pocket of his, then maybe that wasn’t sensible.

“Is it here?” Korolev asked. “The icon? You must know they’re closing in on you. We’ve been pulled off the case, and I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

“It’s safe,” Kolya said, “but if you’re not on the case, Korolev, do you mind my asking what you’re doing here?”

“I want to finish what I started-to get to the bottom of things. Let’s face it, we’re all in this together now. In a way.”

Kolya didn’t disagree. Instead he gave a small nod as if to acknowledge the point and to consent to the questions.

“Did you kill the Chekist, Mironov?” Korolev asked, deciding to get straight to the point.

“No,” Kolya said. “My conscience is clear on Mironov.”

“God rest his soul,” Dolan whispered.

“But he was involved in some way? Am I right? I see his death must be to do with the icon, but how exactly? It didn’t look like he was killed by the same person as the others.”

“Major Mironov was a Believer,” the nun said in a quiet voice. Kolya looked at her in surprise, but didn’t interrupt. “He recovered the icon on behalf of the Church. The same people killed him who killed the others. Maybe not the same person-but the same group of people.”

“Were they NKVD?”

“Yes, but they aren’t in this for the love of Stalin,” Kolya said. “Gregorin and his crew are in it for themselves.”

“How can you be sure it’s Gregorin?” Korolev asked. Even though it was as he’d suspected, it still shocked him to have it confirmed.

“Comrade Gregorin is close to Yagoda-not good news now this fellow Ezhov has taken over. Then the icon falls into Gregorin’s lap. One of the fellows caught in the raid must have blabbed and he couldn’t believe his luck. He made inquiries, found out what it could be worth, and decided it could be his ticket to the West. Mironov worked in the Foreign Department and so Gregorin approached him with a view to securing a safe exit route. Major Mironov didn’t believe him, so Gregorin took him to the storeroom, and there it was-Kazanskaya. So Mironov agreed to help with the exit visas in exchange for a cut. Originally Gregorin was going to sell the icon to the Church, which would have been all right, but then another party became involved. When it looked like the icon might be sold to the highest bidder the major acted.”

“He took the icon from the storeroom,” Korolev guessed.

“Yes,” the nun said.

“So Gregorin was the traitor all along. He played me for a mug.”

“Correct,” Kolya said, “although there must be a few of them in it-they’ve been tearing Moscow apart. Believe me, the deaths you know about are only part of it. I’ve lost two others. That’s it-now you know everything.”

“But you said it was safe. Why then has Gregorin promised to show Schwartz the icon tomorrow?”

“When did he say this?”

“Earlier today, I think. Schwartz wasn’t specific.” Korolev saw a look on Kolya’s face that was as close as a man like him was ever likely to come to concern. The Thief digested the information, exchanging a glance with the nun. He looked as if he might say something, but was interrupted by a knocking at the front door-two quick knocks and then a pause before a final rap. Kolya’s pistol came out of the pocket.

“We must go, Little Mother,” Kolya said gently.

“Where to?” Korolev began, rising to his feet.

“I’m sorry, Captain. You won’t be coming with us.”

He heard steps behind him and caught Kolya’s nod to whoever had entered the kitchen. The last thing he saw was the nun’s eyes opening wide in shock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Korolev awoke it was the intense light he was first conscious of-it seemed to press down on him, even through his closed eyelids. He moved his head to the side and lay there, feeling the ridges of a brick wall against his cheek, and cursing the pain that seemed to stretch his skull outward.

He knew where he was, he didn’t need to open his eyes. Prisons always smelled more or less the same-a mixture of piss, mildew, rotten cabbage and the stench of unwashed, frightened men. He mightn’t know which, but he was in one, that was for certain. He swallowed carefully, tasting blood in his mouth and, eyelash by eyelash, broke apart the crust that held them shut. Then he cursed again. He was in a small cell, about three meters long and two wide at the far end of which a tiny table and stool were bolted to the floor. The walls were painted a light, glossy blue, the smooth surface of which was scarred down to the brick with names, dates and messages. He didn’t need to read them to know where he was. The small wooden tiles barely visible under a layer of grime gave him the answer. The Lubianka had been the head office of an insurance firm before the Revolution, and its parquet flooring had famously survived when the paneled offices had been ripped out and replaced with cells and interrogation rooms. He’d known this case was cursed from the start.