Ruzsky placed the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the window and waited until they grew numb.

He walked to his suitcase and pulled out his last bottle of vodka. There was no trace in the apartment of the tramp he had rescued this morning, except a lingering smell of decay.

Ruzsky upended the bottle. He gulped down the harsh liquid within.

Oblivion came quickly. His head swam, but even the fire of the vodka in his belly could not extinguish his fury. He raised the almost empty bottle above his head and smashed it against the edge of the dresser next to the door, slashing the palm of his hand.

He looked at the blood oozing from his skin, but could feel nothing. He staggered toward his bunk and fell, face first, out cold.

But if Ruzsky achieved sleep, peace eluded him. He found himself returning to the lake at Petrovo, the images that assaulted him stark against a clear, blue sky. He could see the ice cracking and feel the freezing water and then he was down-plunging back into the darkness, his arms flailing as he sought Ilusha’s outstretched hand.

He could hear the dull swish of his movements in the water and the sound of the bubbles ascending as the air escaped from his lungs. He could see, through the shimmering surface, his father’s long hand stretched out toward him.

And then he had turned away and was flailing in the darkness once more.

Ruzsky kicked and swam, down and down. But all that touched his grasping fingers were the weeds and all that he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

Ruzsky closed his eyes and began to shout, the pain searing his soul.

He looked up. He could see the light slicing through the surface and his father’s hand pawing at the water. He felt the lake wrapping him in its icy embrace.

He could no longer summon the will to resist. He slipped farther and farther away, the hand that trembled on the surface receding. Until at last, he was enveloped in water the color of night, and with it, a kind of peace.

The banging had risen to a crescendo in his dream long before it woke him. Ruzsky had been curled up beneath his blankets like a fetus, and only reluctantly stuck his head out into the night. The gash in his hand was painful, his throat was dry, and his head pounded like a locomotive. The empty bottle of vodka beside him shimmered in the moonlight.

Someone was thumping insistently on his door.

“Who is it?” he yelled.

Ruzsky heard a muffled cry, so he pulled back the covers and dived for his overcoat. As he walked across the room, he pulled out the Sauvage revolver. He winced as he gripped it with his injured palm. By the door, he considered turning on the light, then thought better of it. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Ruzsky pulled the bolt back and left Pavel to push the door open. The pain in his head seemed suddenly to explode.

“Get dressed,” Pavel said.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“We have another body.”

19

T he victim lay crumpled in the shadow of the arch.

They were not far from the Mariinskiy Theatre, next to the Lviny Most, the Lion Bridge, a well-known haunt for lovers. It was about six in the morning, the city around them still shrouded in darkness.

Ruzsky was standing next to one of the white stone lions, wondering how he could avoid going down onto the ice. His injured hand still throbbed gently. “Do you want us to bring him up?” Pavel asked. “He was pushed over from the parapet.”

Ruzsky looked around him. The path was too well trodden to trace any footprints. “All right.”

There were three constables, the same men who’d been on duty when the bodies had been found on the Neva. They listened to Pavel without enthusiasm and then walked down onto the ice behind him.

Pavel bent over the body. One of the constables glanced up toward Ruzsky.

The chief investigator muttered a curse and then walked down to the ice. The Griboedov Canal curved to the left here, its frozen surface ghostly in the light of the gas lamps. As he stepped onto it, Ruzsky twisted involuntarily and slipped. He struggled to control his breathing. Gradually, he became aware that he was under the scrutiny of the constable closest to him. Ruzsky lowered his head and marched toward the body.

The man lay curled up, his body frozen. “Shit,” Ruzsky said. He waved to indicate that the constables should move back, then he took hold of the corpse with his good hand and dragged it out into the moonlight.

He bent down again.

For all his experience, he felt his stomach lurch. The man had been stabbed so many times in the neck, his head had almost been severed. The blood had frozen and crystals of ice had collected in his mustache and along his eyebrows.

“Christ,” Pavel whispered beside him.

The man had a young, lean face and yellow teeth. Ruzsky guessed that he would only have been marginally more attractive in life than he now appeared in death.

He pulled back the man’s overcoat. There were no markings on it, and at first, he thought the body had been systematically stripped again. In the right-hand pocket he found a disordered fistful of banknotes.

Ruzsky riffled through them, holding them up to see if any had been marked in the same way as the American’s, but they had not. In the middle of the bundle was a return rail ticket from Sevastopol to Petrograd, issued from an office in Yalta. The card for the first leg of the journey had been stamped three days ago at Sevastopol, so the man must just have arrived in the capital.

Ruzsky tried the other pocket. He pulled out some identity papers. They appeared to be genuine. “Boris,” Ruzsky said. “What does that say?”

“Molkov,” Pavel said, scrutinizing it closely. “Or Markov. Markov.”

“ Yalta. Thirty-four years of age.”

Pavel pulled the coat back farther to be sure there were no other wounds. “Almost certainly the same killer, wouldn’t you say?”

Ruzsky didn’t answer. He took two paces back and scanned the buildings overlooking the canal. They were residential apartments or houses, backing onto the Conservatory. “More chance of someone having seen here,” Ruzsky said.

“Not at that time in the morning. He’s been dead several hours, at least.”

Ruzsky looked at his pocket watch. It was almost seven. He wondered if the man had already been dead when he had left the theater with Maria.

“This time,” Pavel said, “the killer wasn’t stalking his victim.”

“An arranged meeting?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, but it’s a strange time to choose.”

They heard a group of horses whinnying and turned to see a green Okhrana sledge pulling up. Prokopiev jumped down before it had stopped and strode toward them. He vaulted the side and landed squarely on the ice-a silly, theatrical gesture. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. We shall take over from here.”

Prokopiev’s shirt was open at the neck, as though he had, himself, just gotten out of bed. He looked at them with his head titled down a fraction, and, in the dark, it had the effect of making his stare still more intense. Two other Okhrana men leaned over the bridge above them.

Ruzsky slipped the dead man’s identity papers and the wad of money into his overcoat pocket. Prokopiev was too busy preening himself to notice.

“By order of the interior minister,” Prokopiev said.

“What is?”

“We’ll deal with the case.”

The two groups glared at each other. “Is there something I’m missing?” Ruzsky asked. As he spoke another sledge rounded the corner and drew up in front of the Lion Bridge. The chief of the Okhrana climbed down and strode toward them. He wore a fur hat. He stepped awkwardly onto the ice, before turning to face them. The moonlight made his face seem older, the lines exaggerated and his skin bloodless. He nodded once. “Good morning, gentlemen.”