No one replied.

“We need more constables, I see.”

It was a moment before Ruzsky realized that this had been an attempt at humor. “Yes,” he said.

“What is the situation?”

Ruzsky frowned. “What is what situation?”

“You have discovered another body and the constables have reported that the killing was aggressive?”

“Something like it.”

“Something like it?”

Ruzsky looked at the dead man. “It’s similarly savage.” He glanced at the constables, each of whom avoided his eye.

“So the same killer?” Vasilyev asked.

“Possibly. Or someone who wants us to think that.”

“You can go home now,” Vasilyev said. He’d spoken so quietly that it was a moment before Ruzsky grasped what had been said.

“What did you say?”

“Ivan will deal with this.”

Pavel tugged at Ruzsky’s arm. “Isn’t that Anton’s decision?” Ruzsky asked. “Or does the Okhrana have an interest in the case we should know about?”

“The same frenzied attack,” Vasilyev continued smoothly. “We should have let Ivan deal with the couple on the ice.”

“And why is that?” Ruzsky asked. Pavel tugged at his sleeve again.

“Ivan has many agents at his disposal, Sandro. A member of the imperial staff… it must have been the work of terrorists.”

Ruzsky hesitated. He was about to go on. He wanted a confrontation, but he could sense Pavel’s nervousness. He made them wait. “Good luck,” he said finally, before clambering back onto the bridge.

“Will they get Sarlov to do the autopsy?” Ruzsky asked when they had turned the corner.

“I don’t know.”

“We should get him out of bed and explain what has happened.”

“What’s that going to achieve?”

“Forewarn him, Pavel.”

“We should just leave it.”

“And how did they find out so quickly?” Ruzsky went on, ignoring his partner. “Which one of the constables is in their pay?”

“Calm down, Sandro.”

Ruzsky stopped and stared at his colleague.

“All right,” Pavel said, “but let’s slow down, can we? And by the way, you look terrible.” Ruzsky wasn’t surprised. He pressed his eyes into their sockets. His head was pounding. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Understand what?”

“When they took away the bodies from the Neva, why didn’t they just assume control of the case? It doesn’t make any sense to me. Their actions aren’t consistent.”

Pavel didn’t answer. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“Oh.” Ruzsky looked at the rag he had bound around his palm. “An accident with a vodka bottle.”

“You should be more careful, my friend.”

20

B ack at his desk, Ruzsky picked up the telephone earpiece and asked the operator to put him through to Dr. Sarlov at home. It rang repeatedly.

“Yes?” The pathologist sounded sleepy.

“We’ve had an incident with the Okhrana.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Another victim. Same kind of attack. The head was almost severed. They have removed the body. Will you still do the autopsy?”

“I have no idea.”

“If you do-”

“Consider who is listening,” the doctor said, before abruptly terminating the call.

Ruzsky sat back. He sorted through the telegraphs he’d received the previous night. He reread the one from Yalta. American wanted in connection with armed robbery in Yalta, October 1910. Fits description. More details upon request. He picked up the receiver again and asked to be put through to Detective Godorkin.

The line went dead, but he held on.

Ruzsky heard a loud crackle, as though someone were screwing up newspaper next to the mouthpiece. “Detective Godorkin, please,” he shouted again.

“Godorkin here,” a voice said calmly. The line was suddenly clear.

“Detective Godorkin?”

“I am he.”

“This is Chief Investigator Ruzsky, Petrograd City Police.”

“Chief Investigator. I was trying to contact you.”

“I don’t know how long the line will last,” Ruzsky said, “so let’s dispense with the niceties. We’ve got three dead bodies, including two from Yalta; a girl from the palace called Ella Kovyil who was murdered with her American boyfriend on the Neva, and a Boris Markov.”

“I see.”

“What can you tell me? Could the American have been the one you are searching for? His name was White…”

The line faded again and Ruzsky cursed.

It came back, but Ruzsky only caught the end of a sentence. “I missed that,” he shouted.

“Robert Whitewater,” Godorkin said.

“Whitewater?”

“Yes. That was his name. An American…”

The line disappeared again. Ruzsky tried repeatedly to get another connection, but without success. He sat back in the chair as Pavel walked in with a newspaper under his arm. He threw it across the desk at Ruzsky. “Page three.”

It was a copy of Novoe Vremia and Ruzsky flicked past the advertisements on the front page and scanned the inside of the newspaper. The article was a factual account of the discovery of the original bodies on the river and only the headline-Blood on the Neva -exhibited the sensationalism for which the paper was known. It did not give either Ella’s or the American’s name. The last line posed the question: In these difficult times, is a killer on the loose in Petrograd? The piece alongside it followed one woman’s daily struggle for survival while her husband was fighting at the front. While the rich drown in excess, it said, the struggle of the poor gets daily more impossible.

The news item at the top of the page appeared under the headline Further explosion of crime; Petrograd ’s streets more dangerous than ever.

Ruzsky glanced up at the clock. It was almost time for the morning conference. “Are we going?” Ruzsky asked.

Pavel shrugged.

Ruzsky stood and took his coat from the stand. Through the open door, he watched Vladimir rolling into the room opposite. The Investigator, Street Crime, was a barrel of a man, no taller than Ruzsky’s shoulder, but with the strength of an ox. He trailed a young assistant-a new one. He caught sight of Ruzsky, altered course immediately, and charged across the room toward him. “Here’s trouble,” he said, loud enough to be heard downstairs. “Welcome back.”

They clasped each other. “This is my new assistant”- Vladimir indicated the young man standing awkwardly in the doorway-“Constable Shavelsky.” Shavelsky’s handshake was firm, his grip making Ruzsky wince, though the constable appeared not to notice. Ruzsky wondered whether he knew of the fate of his predecessor.

“So,” Vladimir said, “they finally let you come home.”

The fat detective took out a cigarette and offered one to both Ruzsky and Pavel, but not his assistant. He lit his own when the others declined, and smoked it with one hand in his pocket, looking out toward the secretaries who had begun to take their places at the desks outside, steam rising from mugs of tea alongside their giant black typewriters. They leaned forward in their chairs, gossiping. “How was Tobolsk?” Vladimir asked.

“Cold.”

Vladimir shook his head. “He should never have let you go.”

Ruzsky remembered the last morning conference before his exile, when Vladimir had launched a vicious attack on Anton for not fighting harder to protect him.

“They’re keeping you busy, I see,” Ruzsky said, holding up his copy of Novoe Vremia.

In response, Vladimir held up the sheet of paper in his own hand. It listed a series of crimes and incidents. “Last night alone.”

“Deserters?”

“Deserters, the desperate. Serving soldiers sometimes. Our friends in the Okhrana. Another three Jewish properties burned last night.”

Ruzsky put his coat on. “How do you handle that?”

“We take a look. If it is them, which it usually is, we leave it. What choice is there?” Vladimir turned around. “Are you coming to the conference?”

“Not today,” Ruzsky said.