“Explain Mironov to me, that’s the one I don’t understand. Why did you kill one of your own?”

The colonel’s eyes slid sideways to look at the major-enough to confirm to Korolev that Gregorin was a crook, and that the major probably wasn’t.

“Mironov was part of the conspiracy-it had to be resolved expediently and quietly. I can’t say anything else-Major Chaikov here isn’t cleared for the information, and you most certainly aren’t. Suffice it to say that Mironov had betrayed the Party’s trust for far too long and got what he deserved. Still.” Gregorin smiled. “I took my hat off to you when you came up with his body. You may not be very bright, but you have the Devil’s own way of being in the right place at the right time.”

“I don’t believe you. Mironov may have been working for the cultists out of misguided belief, but you’re even worse. You’re just after the money.”

Gregorin shook his head in disagreement, “No, Captain. I followed orders. You were given orders-to stay away from the case-and you ignored them like the petty individualist you are. Your clumsy bumbling messed up the Arbat operation. We burst in on that damned house hoping to find the icon and a pack of traitors. Instead all we found was an unconscious, blundering fool lying on the kitchen floor with a bump on his head. Presumably they turned you, got the information they wanted, and then knocked you out cold. Perhaps you really did think you were getting something useful from them. Who knows? We may still be able to find it in our hearts to forgive you-accept that you were stupid rather than criminal. We could even spare your friends and family. If you cooperate fully and with an open heart.”

Korolev sat there, conscious of the two men’s cold eyes on him, and decided he’d run out of cards to play. As he’d listened to Gregorin’s explanation, he’d been half-convinced. It was just possible he’d been mistaken-even if his instinct was telling him louder than ever that Gregorin was a crook of the highest degree. But Chaikov seemed to have fallen for it hook, line and sinker, and that meant Korolev’s room for maneuver was limited. It was time to roll over. After all, who was he protecting by keeping quiet? Kolya, who’d left him to be found? The nun-a woman he’d met once? He owed it to Yasimov and Babel to keep quiet about their parts in the affair, but the others could go hang. At least his son and his friends might have a chance this way. So he told them what had happened in the Arbat House…

“Come, Korolev,” Gregorin said, when he’d finished, “this is all very interesting, but where is the icon? It was there, of course-but where did they take it when you warned them we were coming?”

“I didn’t see the icon. It may have been there, but I saw none of it. I’ve told you the conversation I had with Kolya, word for word, and that’s as far as I got. If I knew who had it, I’d tell you. To me, it’s just a wooden board with some paint on it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to expand on the nature of his religious beliefs.

Gregorin considered him and there was no charm in his expression now, only calculation. It occurred to Korolev that, without the veneer of charm, Gregorin’s features had the cold malevolence of a snake. Gregorin scowled and turned to the major.

“He’s lying. Break him.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“You’ve four hours. Don’t bother telling me it’s not enough. We have to find this damned piece of cultist chicanery before they smuggle it out of the country. Don’t fail-there can be no excuses. My office will know where to find me.”

He turned to Korolev.

“The major here is skilled at what he does. For your own sake, Korolev, tell us now. Where’s the damned icon?”

“I don’t know, Colonel.”

“This isn’t a game, Korolev. The major isn’t just going to beat you. He’ll destroy you-you’ll be praying for a bullet by the end.”

Korolev didn’t doubt it, and he felt his body trying to back its way into the chair, but he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know.

“One thing, Colonel Gregorin,” Korolev said, as Gregorin turned away from him.

“Yes?” The colonel turned, impatient.

“What happens if you haven’t got the icon by tomorrow? Will you have enough money for the visas? Is the net closing in? Is that why you’re rushing? You won’t get a million dollars for a promise.”

The colonel was a sturdily built man and his knuckles had calluses from where he’d hit others before, so perhaps Korolev shouldn’t have been surprised at the force of the punch that sent his head slamming back into the headrest and warm blood coursing from above his eye, blinding him even as he tried to blink it away.

“You fool, you deserve everything you’re about to get,” Gregorin hissed. “When you’ve finished with him, Chaikov-room H.”

The door slammed as he left.

Once the far door shut as well, the major walked over and, bending down, cleaned the blood from Korolev’s forehead with a handkerchief. His touch was gentle on the raw cut. He held Korolev’s head back and stared into his eyes.

“You have concussion.”

“Everyone keeps hitting me.”

“Perhaps you provoke them.”

“Look, I know nothing, but if I did, I’d rather shoot myself than cooperate with a devil like Gregorin.”

“Fuck that Georgian rat,” Chaikov whispered, pulling the handkerchief down Korolev’s face with an almost dreamy expression. “Fuck his mother. Fuck his sister.” The handkerchief was soaked with blood now. “I had suspicions, but I ignored them. I let him lead me by the nose-like a pig to the slaughter. What will happen to my own son? Answer me that.”

Korolev stared at the man in amazement, wondering if this was some ploy to soften him up. A single tear rolled down the major’s face. “See what I’ve become. Look at me. He’s turned me into an enemy.”

There was the clang of the far door opening and then running footsteps in the corridor. What the hell was going to happen now, Korolev asked himself, as the door crashed open behind him.

“Up against the wall, one move and I fire. Hands high, hands high.”

Chaikov looked up calmly, smiled and reached for his pocket. Instantly there were three loud explosions and the major was thrown over the table by the force of the bullets hitting him.

“Damn,” an easily recognized voice said, through the ringing in Korolev’s ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Korolev’s head hurt a great deal. A dense, tooth-grinding pain, with not much variation for the individual injuries. It occurred to him that nearly everyone he’d met over the last few days, whether Chekist, factory worker or Thief, seemed to have left a lump on his skull as an aide-memoire. Perhaps as a side effect of the constant battering his cranium had taken, he remained slightly unsure that he really was sitting in a warm office, in a comfortable chair, with a glass of vodka in his hand and faces surrounding him that, if not all particularly friendly, didn’t seem to want to cause him any harm either. But, if the reality was something else, he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

The stitches the doctor was putting in the cut above Korolev’s eye were a good reason for suspecting that this wasn’t a dream, of course, as he could feel each millimeter of the needle as the doctor pushed it through his skin. Semionov, sitting on the desk watching the doctor work, seemed genuinely concerned, which was gratifying, but as Korolev had been wrong about him all along, he couldn’t trust to that either. Like now, for instance-Semionov had just put three bullets into a fellow Chekist, yet here he was, cool as a cucumber.

Semionov’s real boss, the fat, aggressive Colonel Rodinov, was clearly only concerned at how long the doctor was taking.