The man shook his head. “She was only here a short time. I could never have-”

“Who was responsible for ensuring she had the correct security clearance to take a job working in close, daily contact with the heir to the throne? The chief of police in the town, isn’t that so?”

“She was from Yalta,” the man answered defensively. “She’d lived here all her life. We naturally assumed that if there was anything amiss, then it would have come to the attention of the chief of police. And of course, Mr. Vasilyev is now…” He trailed off, not wishing to offer a criticism.

“The information that I have just given you,” Ruzsky said, “was gleaned from Mr. Vasilyev’s files here in Yalta.”

The official stared out to sea. He pressed his finger against the skin above his lip, as if smoothing an imaginary mustache.

Ruzsky left him. He wanted to find Pavel. He wanted to find Pavel now.

On the journey down the hill, Ruzsky rested his head on the back of the horse-drawn cab and gazed up at the unblemished sky.

The path was dusty and the cab threw up a cloud behind it which was blown gently across the rocky scrubland.

He considered the possibility that Ella had once been a police agent, but could not see it. The girl of his imagination, and of her own mother’s description, was too timid for such a thing. And yet, she’d continued in her doomed love affair against the wishes of her family, and had stolen something intensely personal from the most powerful woman in Russia -or had tried to.

The cab stopped in front of the hotel and Ruzsky climbed down into the street. He paid the driver and noticed as he did so that a different man sat behind the red and white stall on the promenade. He seemed to be consciously avoiding his eye, even though the street was almost deserted.

Ruzsky put the change in his pocket. He watched the group of boys he’d seen earlier climb the steps from the beach and walk off in the direction he’d just come from.

Ruzsky patted the cabbie’s horse. The man at the stall still didn’t look at him.

He turned around and moved slowly into the lobby of the hotel.

He knew people were watching. Everyone seemed suddenly too busy. The air of indolence had been replaced by one of unnatural industry. Only the palm trees still swaying in the gentle breeze bore witness to the hotel’s normal, relaxed atmosphere.

Ruzsky approached the desk. The clerk gave him a frozen smile.

Ruzsky heard himself ask if his colleague had returned, but now, when the man shook his head, Ruzsky could see that he was lying.

The world seemed to turn more slowly. Ruzsky felt the screeching in his ears that he remembered from the day of Ilusha’s death-and the sense of everything around him disintegrating.

He watched his boots as he climbed the stone steps.

The first-floor landing was deserted, the window still open, another palm swaying in the breeze. A fan turned on the ceiling above him.

Ruzsky crossed the wooden floor toward Pavel’s room. He saw the gold number eleven on the big green door and heard his own knock, though he could barely feel the impact on his knuckles.

There was no reply.

He knocked again.

Ruzsky hammered harder. “Pavel.”

He waited.

“Pavel!” he shouted.

He reached inside his jacket for his revolver. “Pavel!” he bellowed again.

The corridor and the room within remained silent. No one had come to investigate the source of the shouting.

Ruzsky put his shoulder to the door and shoved. He stepped back and kicked it. He tried again with his shoulder and it suddenly gave.

The room was dark, thick, embroidered curtains tightly drawn.

Pavel Miliutin lay facedown on the bed, a naked arm trailing along the floor.

Ruzsky did not move. The silent breeze cooled his face. His head spun and he pushed himself forward. He opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came out.

He reached his friend and heaved him roughly over, pitching him onto the floor.

The sunlight spilled onto his face. Pavel opened his eyes. “Sandro?” His breath reeked of vodka.

Ruzsky stood up, gave him a firm kick, and then slumped down on the bed. He saw the bottle of vodka on the floor beside him. “You idiot,” he said.

Pavel heaved himself up, frowning heavily. He rubbed his eyes. “Why didn’t you answer the door?” Ruzsky asked.

“What time is it?”

“Time I got a new deputy.”

“Be my guest.” Pavel frowned again. “What happened to the door?”

“You didn’t answer when I knocked. Everyone in the lobby was behaving as if they knew something that I didn’t.”

“They’ve been like that for days.” Pavel yawned and rubbed his forehead again. “They know we’re being watched.”

Ruzsky strode forward, tore the curtain back from the window, picked up his revolver from where he had dropped it, and stepped out onto the balcony. The red and white stall on the promenade had disappeared.

The street was deserted, the light rapidly fading.

Ruzsky waited, but there was no sign of life. Even the waves seemed quieter.

He came back into the room. The last of the sunlight illuminated Pavel’s creased face.

They both heard the quick footsteps of someone running in the street and Ruzsky looked down to see a man in a dark suit-young, with long hair-sprinting with his arm stretched back behind his shoulder.

For a moment, he was paralyzed, his eyes on the black cylinder as it left the man’s hand.

Ruzsky took two quick paces and hit Pavel, knocking him to the floor as the bomb thumped against the wooden frame of the balcony door and then fell to the ground.

There was a moment’s silence.

The explosion sucked the air from the room, filling it instead with a deafening roar.

Ruzsky moved his arms first and was relieved to find he could feel the broken glass around him. He tried to push himself to his feet and was able to do so without any pain. He could find no signs of injury, save for some blood on his face.

He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

Pavel was staring at him, his face white. “All right?” Ruzsky asked, but his ears were ringing.

Ruzsky turned and leaned against the wall.

The curtain still twisted in the breeze, but the windows had been shattered, along with the woodwork of the door. Pavel pushed himself to his feet. It was clear to both of them that they had been saved by the way the bomb had bounced back off the window frame before exploding, the force of the blast twisting the balcony’s iron balustrade.

Ruzsky walked toward the door across broken glass, but Pavel moved swiftly to intercept him, a giant hand upon his shoulder. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he bellowed. Pavel had small specks of broken glass in his beard.

“Let’s find him.”

“No.” Pavel shook his head and it was clear he was not going to let go. “They’ll be waiting for us.”

“If we catch the man, we can find who sent him.”

“We know who did.” Pavel prized Ruzsky’s gun from his hand and shoved it into his own pocket, then wedged the door shut as best he could and manhandled Ruzsky across the room. He pushed him into the chair and sat himself on the bed.

They watched the red sun sink slowly toward the bay. The wind was still fresh, the world around them quiet.

There were hushed voices in the road outside.

“No one is coming,” Ruzsky said.

Pavel did not answer.

The voices died away and only the sound of the waves disturbed the peace.

“No one from the hotel has been up,” Ruzsky said.

Pavel still didn’t respond.

“Nor Godorkin.”

Pavel stood. He took out his own revolver and handed Ruzsky’s back to him, then brushed the glass from his clothes and beard.

“What should we do?” Ruzsky felt disoriented. He was conscious of how rarely he had looked to Pavel for a lead.