“We will die!”

Ruzsky looked at Maria, but her face was stony, her lips tight, her eyes fixed on the man at the top of the steps.

Ruzsky glanced about him and took in for the first time the composition of the crowd. He saw railwaymen in uniform and workers from the tramcar depot in knee boots and leather jerkins, better-dressed civilians from white-collar jobs in long overcoats and groups of what he would have said were no more than children, pockets of schoolboys and girls. “Do you swear to die?” Borodin demanded.

“We swear!”

“Let the ones who swear raise their hands…”

Borodin swept down the steps and through the crowd, pushing forward toward the gates. Maria followed, Ruzsky half a step behind her.

He turned to see Pavel making his way toward him, his eyes wide with alarm. “Slowly,” he seemed to be saying, but as Ruzsky forged ahead through the factory gates, the big detective was swallowed by the crowd.

The moon was bright. Around him, in every face, Ruzsky saw determination and anger as the protesters cascaded out into streets. He walked by Maria’s side.

She still would not meet his eye.

Ruzsky brushed past a group of schoolchildren; would they not be siphoned off from the march?

And then Borodin was once again alongside them. He had put on a fur hat. He leaned toward Ruzsky. “Do you fear the police, Khabarin?” he asked quietly.

Ruzsky shook his head.

“Do you fear the Cossacks?”

He did not answer.

“If blood is shed, then it will be to the greater glory of our revolution, isn’t that so?”

Ruzsky still did not respond.

“People do not care anymore, do they? Desperation is the force we need.” Borodin touched his shoulder. “Can you fire a rifle?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will find a use for you.”

Borodin swung around the front of them, so that he was next to Maria. He whispered in her ear and then dropped back. Ruzsky wanted desperately to know what he had said.

As they passed the barracks of the Lithuanian Regiment, a group of soldiers hurried to the iron railings to cheer them on. “We’re with you,” one shouted. “Show the dogs,” another called. As they walked along, more soldiers came to the railings. A few started to sing the first bars of “ La Marseillaise ” and the song was taken up by the crowd.

There was a shot from inside the compound and a series of barked orders from the officers.

Ruzsky was swept on.

Half a minute later, there was another shot. Ruzsky began to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

Was this revolution? What plans had Borodin sought to involve him in?

The strikers were silent as they marched over the bridge. Across the river, the city’s ornate and classical domes were swathed in moonlight.

Occasionally, one of their number would cough, but otherwise the only sound was of hundreds of feet crunching against the snow-covered ground.

Maria had been pushing forward, so that now they were once again nearing the front of the crowd. There was more space here and Ruzsky caught up with her. “What happened-”

She turned to him, her eyes blazing. “I never asked you to get involved,” she hissed.

Ruzsky took hold of her arm, but she shook it free. He looked around to be sure that others had not witnessed the gesture, but saw only grim concentration; they expected the worst.

As they came to the far side of the bridge, the protesters wheeled right. Ruzsky turned to see if Borodin was still watching them. He heard muffled cries.

The snow had shielded the sound of the horses’ hooves and the Cossacks were close, approaching fast, heads low and sabers raised.

For a brief moment, it was unreal and almost beautiful: the dark horses against white snow and moonlight glinting off swords held high above the soldiers’ heads.

They thundered silently toward the marchers, snow flying up around them.

The protesters were suddenly still. There was a single cry and then others. The crowd began to break up at the back. There was a high-pitched scream as the horses reached them and Ruzsky saw the first lightning flash of a saber striking down.

The panic spread in an instant, like wind on water, and Ruzsky was a prisoner of a chaotic, uncontrolled mass. He was almost knocked down, but he used his strength to hold himself upright against the swell. He took hold of Maria and moved forward, pushing through the chaos around him. She did not resist.

White, fearful faces flashed past his eyes as he focused on the broad expanse of Liteiny Prospekt, stretching away into the distance. Maria gripped him, her face wild. “You’re a fool,” she said.

Ruzsky turned and saw that a horse and rider were almost upon them.

In a split second, they would be dead.

Ruzsky could not move.

Then he was pushed violently. For a moment, as he was tumbling toward the flailing hooves, he knew that she had propelled him to his death.

But as he hit the snow, he rolled over in time to see Maria take the full force of the collision, her body like a rag doll. The rider was thrown forward, the horse whinnying as it skidded to its knees.

Ruzsky heard more gunfire, and screaming all around him. Ahead, a group of infantrymen were kneeling in the snow, firing volley after volley above the crowd.

Maria was lying flat on her back. He bent down and took her in his arms. Her eyes were open, but her face was as lifeless as a statue.

Ruzsky ran. He careered into the side of a horse and heard a curse, but kept charging down Liteiny Prospekt.

He heard another volley of shots and more screams. He ran faster, slipping and crashing onto his back as he reached the corner.

As he rolled over, Ruzsky saw a Cossack lash out with his whip against the head of the woman who had been running alongside him. She collapsed.

Ruzsky lay still. They were encircled by three horsemen who were eliminating moving figures one by one until they were just so many black stains upon the white earth. Ruzsky could hear people crying for help. He raised his head and looked back toward the bridge. There was no crowd now.

A young girl had climbed to her feet and was running toward where they lay. A Cossack circled her, shrieking like a banshee, the glint of steel above his head before he slashed down across the girl’s face, cutting it open from the eyes to the chin.

The Cossack yelled again, punching the air with his saber.

Ruzsky edged forward and touched Maria’s alabaster cheek. He heard the thunder of hooves and half turned, but the horse passed within inches of him, kicking snow into his face as its rider sought another figure fleeing for the cover of a nearby house.

Ruzsky stood again and scrabbled for Maria in the snow. She felt pitifully slight, her head lolling back against his arm.

In the distance up ahead he saw a private carriage still waiting outside one of the huge houses, a world away from the gunfire and screams.

Ruzsky ran toward it. He slipped, almost fell, but regained his footing and ran on, the sounds becoming distant echoes as he focused on his destination.

He heard the thunder of a horse’s hooves again and turned. The rider was close, bent for the strike, and Ruzsky stopped suddenly and swerved toward the iron railings of the houses alongside them.

The Cossack swung his whip down, but missed. He spun the horse around, turning on the smallest circle Ruzsky had ever seen, and charged toward them again, his long whip raised high above his head, his saber bouncing up and down at his side.

Ruzsky stood with his legs apart, Maria in his arms, offered up like a sacrifice. He breathed in deeply. “Police!” he yelled. “I’m a police officer!”

He saw the shock in the rider’s eyes and the sudden uncertainty as he lowered the whip and veered away, almost crashing into the railings.

“City police!”