Ruzsky leaned forward. “Twenty copecks says you’ll take us.”

The man spat noisily into the snow beside them and turned around. They set off down the Nevsky in silence.

Ruzsky thought the capital surpassed itself in bleak grayness, snow and sky melting into each other, the city’s inhabitants bundles of rags hurrying to be out of the wind. One of the single-story buses pulled by a team of horses had veered into the course of a tram and there had been a minor collision which they had to work their way around. The passengers of both were shouting at the bus driver.

As they came close to the wooden pavement, Ruzsky saw a small group of students coming out of Filippov’s bakery. There were three girls dressed in the distinctive wide green robes of seniors at the Smolny Institute and two boys in the uniforms of cadets at the Corps des Pages. The sight of them brought back instant and vivid memories. For some reason, Ruzsky recalled rounding the corner of the washroom to see his brother Dmitri suspended naked from a chain, upside down, while some of the senior cadets beat him with leather whips.

He had been thinking of his brother on the journey home, nagged by lingering guilt at his liaison with Maria.

Ruzsky had fought to free his brother on that winter day at the Corps des Pages. The cadets had been seniors and the fight had proved the final nail in the coffin of his military career.

Ruzsky turned away and saw that Pavel was watching him. His expression was quizzical, but when Ruzsky frowned, he just shook his head and looked away.

The sled swung past the Kazan Cathedral and slithered along the banks of the frozen canal. Ruzsky buried his face in the collar of his jacket and pulled his sheepskin hat down over his eyes. He could feel the stubble on his chin scratching against his neck and his bones ached from the relentless rattle of the iron goods vehicle.

He’d found himself fantasizing about vodka. He looked again at Pavel. His partner’s eyes now carried the same message they had throughout the journey: How the hell did you get us into this?

As Pavel paid off the cabbie outside their office, Ruzsky hurried into a lobby so silent they could have heard a pin drop.

The entire department had gathered to hear Anton address them and Ruzsky was confronted by a sea of solemn faces.

They stood loosely in groups. It seemed that almost everyone in the department was present: cooks, transport boys from the stables, secretaries and typists, even the cleaners. There was tension in every face.

Maretsky stood next to Anton. He had clearly seen Ruzsky come in, but avoided his eye, staring at the floor and playing with his pocket watch. Vladimir and his assistant stood a few feet away. Only the journalist Stanislav appeared to be absent.

“Thank you all for coming,” Anton said. He had his fingers in his waistcoat pocket, his jacket pulled back, a confident stance that failed to conceal his nerves. “First a piece of unwelcome administrative news, which most of you will already be aware of and will certainly not surprise you: all leave has been canceled for the foreseeable future. This applies to every member of the department and is by direct order of the minister of the interior.” Anton’s face softened a little as he shifted his weight onto one leg and then back again. “I know it is some years since many of you had any leave and quite a number have made requests in the past few weeks.” He lowered his voice. “We will look to ensure leave entitlements are taken once the war is won and the current uncertainty brought to an end.”

Anton surveyed the room. “On a more positive note, I can confirm I have approved an order to allow all members of staff in each department to pick up one loaf of bread every second day from the canteen here after six in the morning. I hope this will do something to alleviate the circumstances that I know many of your families have found themselves in.”

Anton cleared his throat. “As to the reason for calling you together again like this, I am instructed to inform you that this afternoon, approximately ten thousand workers from five armaments factories in Vyborg will come out on strike. Shortly after dark, they will gather outside the gates of the Symnov factory. There will be an inflammatory speech and then, most workers imagine, they will disperse.

“In fact, they will be led over the Alexandrovsky Bridge and then toward the Winter Palace, where the leaders will attempt to incite the crowd to the point where bloodshed is again inevitable. It is the intention of the Okhrana that they will be intercepted long before they reach Palace Square and strongly discouraged from attempting such action again.”

Anton stared at the floor. They all knew exactly what he meant.

“I have been asked by the Ministry to draw this to your attention, firstly to be on the lookout for any peripheral troublemakers. We all know there are those who try to take advantage of any disorder, however well controlled, to engage in everyday criminality. And secondly, the Ministry, or rather the Okhrana believe that some of the most notorious agitators have slipped back over the border and returned to Petrograd. So, I am asked that you all check the suspect bulletins and sharpen your eyes. Report any sightings, at any time, anywhere, direct to me.”

Anton took a pace forward. “Are there any questions?”

The speech had not invited questions and there were none. Anton walked toward the stairs, the crowd ahead of Ruzsky parting to allow him through. It was only as he stopped next to him that Ruzsky realized Pavel was beside him. “I’d like to see you two, please.”

They turned and followed.

Anton passed the secretaries outside his office without acknowledgment and turned to shut the door behind them. He ran his hands through his hair. “An explanation, please.”

Maretsky slipped into the room and shut the door again. Pavel leaned back against the wall, Anton the desk. Ruzsky did not move.

“I don’t need this,” Anton went on. “I know exactly where you’ve been, by the way.” He went around to the other side of the desk and slumped into his chair. He threw his glasses down and then pressed his hands into his eyes. “What have you got us involved in? Do you have any idea how many times the palace has rung me? Colonel Shulgin has called twice, every day, without fail. The Empress would like to know, Anton Antipovich, how the investigation into the death of the girl Ella Kovyil is progressing? Where are the two detectives who came out to Tsarskoe Selo? They are in Yalta? What are they doing in Yalta?” Anton picked up his glasses again. “Then Vasilyev telephones. He’d like to speak to the chief investigator, please. That isn’t possible? Why is it not possible? He has taken a few days leave? But all leave is canceled by direct order of the minister of the interior. Why have they disobeyed regulations?”

“Vasilyev knew exactly where we were.”

Anton flicked his glasses with his hand, sending them flying onto the floor. Pavel picked them up and put them back on the desk.

“He tried to have us killed,” Ruzsky added.

Anton stared at the depiction of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow.

Ruzsky took out and lit a cigarette. Pavel shook his head when offered the case, as did Anton. “We found a file in Yalta,” Ruzsky said. “It contained details of the activities of a small cell of the Black Terror. Six individuals in all, three of whom are the corpses we have here. Vasilyev kept the group under surveillance until three weeks before an armed robbery, then nothing.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying? The implication is… you think Vasilyev… what?”

“It’s possible he was involved with the group in some way, or became involved. I cannot say exactly what transpired.”

“And the three corpses we have here were all members of this group?”