Dead Meat

We'll show some clips of Milyukin's documentaries,' he explained smoothly. And then I'll ask you to say something about the circumstances of his death, appeal for information. Do you know the kind of thing I mean?'

I should do,' said Grushko. He was starting to have a bad feeling about this interview. It was me who got you started doing this kind of thing.'

Zverkov nodded sullenly. A few minutes later Grushko took his place on the set next to Zverkov and watched the short videotape which had been made about Milyukin: there were shots of him interviewing black-marketeers, prostitutes and the generally disaffected; shots of the Chernobyl nuclear-reactor accident; shots of Milyukin walking through a hospital ward containing firemen with fatal radiation burns with tears streaming down his face; shots of Milyukin speaking to citizens queuing for meat outside a state meat market; and, lastly, Milyukin speaking directly to the camera in the assembly hall at the Smolny Building where the victory of the socialist Revolution was announced on the night of 25-26 October 1917.

In life Mikhail Milyukin had been a small, intense-looking man with curly black hair, a rodent-like face and, it seemed to Grushko, a rather purplish, boozer's nose. To look at, a quite unprepossessing sort of character, as might have worked pushing paper around some forgotten government department. But it was for his dry humour and his consistent honesty, not his appearance, that he had been much beloved. As Grushko watched the tape, Milyukin's usual candour was tinged with such obvious pessimism that he was almost inclined to consider the possibility that Milyukin had known he was about to be killed.

The urgent need for foreign capital seems obvious,' said Milyukin, but what is there that's actually worth investing in? Our factories are hopelessly antiquated. The rudiments of political stability are missing. Individually we lack something as ordinary as a work ethic: everyone knows the saying They pretend to pay us, and we pretend to work.a__ But even the most basic human instinct of all the profit motive seems to be missing from all but a small and not always law-abiding section of society. After seventy years of this' here Milyukin waved his hand at the enormous portrait of Lenin that dominated the empty assembly hall many people are coming to realise that the task of redeveloping Russia may not just be difficult. It might actually be impossible.'

The film sequence concluded with the black Volga in the forest and several of the gory close-ups of the two dead bodies that were the hallmark of Zverkov's veracious style.

Grushko's interrogator fixed a sober look to his designer-stubbled face and looked away from the monitor to the camera.

The murder of Mikhail Mikhailovich Milyukin is being investigated by Colonel Yevgeni Grushko of the Criminal Services Department of the Central Board of Internal Affairs.' Zverkov turned to face Grushko.

The other man found dead with Mikhail Milyukin, Vaja Ordzhonikidze: he was a Georgian Mafioso, wasn't he?'

That's correct,' said Grushko, shifting uncomfortably in his swivel chair.

And I believe it has been suggested that the two men were shot because Ordzhonikidze was giving information to Mikhail?'

Well, that's one possibility,' Grushko allowed, but it's still too early to treat it as anything more than that. Obviously we would like anyone who saw or had contact with either of these two men recently to come forward as quickly as possible. For that matter we would like to speak to anyone who might be able to shed some light on the nature of the connection between them.'

Zverkov nodded. His expensive leather jacket creaked as he glanced down at the notes on his lap.

I'm sure people will do everything they can to help bring these murderers to justice,' he said quietly.

But now let me ask you this.' His tone became harder, more aggressive even. What are St Petersburg's militia doing to help the people? When are you going to put a stop to the Mafia in this city?'

Despite his intuitive feeling about appearing on Zverkov's show, this was more than Grushko had bargained for. But he did his best to field the question.

If we are going to defeat the Mafia, it will have to be a joint effort,' he said coolly. The Russian people and the militia acting together. We can only secure convictions of Mafia figures if people are prepared to come forward and give evidence to '

What, are you saying that the militia can't do the job?' Zverkov smiled contemptuously.

No, that's not what I'm saying at all.'

But isn't it a fact that people within your own department believe that the Mafia is now so strong that any attempts to combat it are doomed to fail?'

It's true,' admitted Grushko, there are such people. But I'm not one of them. No, I feel more optimistic about the '

Well, we'll all sleep more safely in our beds tonight knowing that you feel more optimistic, Colonel Grushko. But what's that optimism based on? Georgian brandy?'

Now wait a minute ' growled the detective.

No, you wait a minute.' Zverkov was almost shouting now. You cops can't even stop the Mafia from stealing free food from the EEC.'

The particular crime I think you're referring to was committed in Kiev,' said Grushko. I don't see that you can hold this city's militia responsible for solving that. You want to find out what happens to the food aid that arrives in St Petersburg from the West, then I suggest you ask the city councillors. And you' Grushko reached forward to feel the leather of Zverkov's leather jacket I'm sure we'd all like to be able to afford a nice leather jacket like this. How much was it? Fifteen? Twenty thousand roubles? That's two or three years' salary to one of my men. And you've got the nerve to lecture me about '

That's not the point '

It is exactly the point,' said Grushko, his face growing redder by the second. It's exactly the point. If you and others like you weren't so hell-bent on getting your hands on Western clothes and goods, the Mafia wouldn't stand a chance. You can't condemn the militia for fighting a losing battle with the Mafia when you yourself shop with these criminals.'

So you admit you're losing the battle?'

I admit nothing of the sort.'

The argument continued in this vein for several more minutes until, unable to tolerate Zverkov's insults any longer, Grushko snatched the microphone from his tie and walked off the set and out of the television studios.

Later on, when Grushko watched the broadcast at home with his wife and mother-in-law, his anger quickly gave way to depression as he considered what General Kornilov would make of his performance.

Well,' he sighed, I walked straight into that one, didn't I?'

Grushko's wife Lena was more inclined to look on the bright side of things.

But you were right,' she said. What you said about the need for people and militia to act together if the Mafia is to be defeated.'

You lose your temper, you lose the argument,' opined Lena's mother.

Don't worry dear,' said Lena. Nobody likes that man these days. Not even mother. Do you mother?'

He looks like a churki,' said the old woman. Either that or a Yid. One of those homeless cosmopolitans.'

Mother,' said Lena smiling gently, you mustn't say such things.'

Grushko poured himself a glass of home-made whisky and sipped it gently. This was the smoothest stuff he had distilled so far, made from vegetables grown on the allotment he shared with a detective in the vice squad, and it had a deceptively sweet taste. He only wished he could have grown some maize to make a corn-based liquor, but the beetroot whisky and the cucumber wine now fermenting in bottles on top of the lavatory cistern were better than queuing for hours to buy vodka in the state shops when they had any. What vodka he did manage to buy he usually kept for trade. So Grushko sipped his whisky, confident that it wasn't the kind of stuff that included alcohol taken from glue or toothpaste, and counted himself lucky in that at least.

They heard the front door. It was Tanya, Grushko's daughter. She came quickly into the tiny sitting-room.

Have we missed it?' she said, looking at the television.

I wish I had,' said Grushko.

How was it?'

Your father lost his temper,' said Lena.

Tanya looked hardly surprised to hear this, any more than she was surprised to see the look of distaste on her father's face when Boris, her boyfriend, followed her into the room.

Boris,' said Lena warmly, how nice to see you.'

Grushko merely grunted. He made no secret of his dislike of Boris. It was not that he objected to the young man's manners or his appearance. Boris was as polite as he was well-dressed. He had a good job, too. As a broker on the St Petersburg Commodities and Raw Materials Exchange, buying and selling everything from ox-tongues to railway sleepers, Boris was making a lot of money. What bothered Grushko was the discovery that a seat on the Exchange that had once cost a staggering 50,000 roubles now cost an astronomical 6 million.

Just look what Boris gave me,' said Tanya slipping the stopper out of a bottle of Christian Dior perfume and holding it under her mother's nose.

Mmmm, that's lovely,' said Lena.

Grushko took his time sniffing the scent. A lot of what was sold as French or American perfume was no more the real thing than a bottle of his cucumber wine. But not this. He nodded appreciatively.

The real thing,' he said. Hard currency, was it, Boris? Must have cost a lot of money, anyway.'

Boris shrugged nervously. Tanya's father made him nervous. No,' he said, not that much really.'

You surprise me, Boris,' said Grushko. Tell me: how are things on the Exchange? Whose birthright were you selling today?'

Dad, please,' said Tanya.

Well, I can't complain.'

No, I wouldn't have thought you could, Boris. Oh yes, you'll be all right '

Lay off, will you, Dad?'

whatever happens to the rest of us.'

Yevgeni Ivanovich,' Lena said sternly, that's enough.'

The phone started to ring. Grushko had a shrewd idea who it was. For a moment he was tempted not to answer it, but then he realised that everyone wanted him to, if only to get him out of the room for a few minutes. He walked into the hallway.

Saved by the bell,' grinned Boris, and then glanced at his gold watch. Well, I guess I'd better be going.'

I'm sorry about Yevgeni,' Lena said. Georgi Zverkov gave him a hard time.'

So he takes it out on the rest of us,' said Tanya.

The telephone was by the front door and Tanya made a point of kissing Boris with an extra amount of passion before saying good-night, just for her father's benefit. Then she went into the bedroom she shared with her grandmother and closed the door without another word. Grushko replaced the receiver and returned to the sitting-room, where he drained his glass.

Yevgeni Ivanovich, what comes over you sometimes?'

I'm sorry, love,' he said. I can't bring myself to like the man. I can't get it out of my head that a seat on the Exchange costs 6 million roubles 6 million. Now where does he get that kind of money? Where does anyone get it?'

Lena glanced up at the little reproduction icon on the wall, as if the Madonna and Child might have provided her with an answer that could satisfy him. She was anxious that Grushko should like a man with Boris's good prospects.

Perhaps he borrowed it,' she suggested. From Gosbank.'

Maybe I should go in and see them myself,' he laughed, and poured himself another whisky.

Who was on the phone?'

General Kornilov. He just told me to report to his office first thing in the morning. Then he hung up.' Grushko swallowed half of the whisky in his glass. Which is probably what he means to do with me.

Kornilov was not a man to look or sound angry, even when he was furious. Grushko would have preferred it if he had been. At least you knew where you were with a man like that. But Kornilov was as inscrutable as a field of bison grass.

As Grushko came through the door the general nodded at the chairs in front of him and carried on with the protocol he was writing. Grushko sat down, reached for his cigarettes and then thought better of it. Perhaps it was best not to seem in any way relaxed about what had happened. Finally Kornilov put down his fountain-pen and clasped his hands on the blotter in front of him. Grushko's eyes noted how the fingernails on Kornilov's right hand were so badly stained with nicotine they looked as if they were made of wood; they seemed to underline Grushko's impression of Kornilov as something hard and inhuman.

What the hell did you have to go and make that stupid remark about the city councillors for?'

Grushko shook his head and shifted uncomfortably under his senior officer's scrutiny. It was said that Kornilov had once stared down Bobhov, formerly the first deputy chairman of the KGB. Grushko could easily believe it.

He was trying to provoke me,' he said.

I'd say he damn well succeeded, wouldn't you?'

Kornilov lit one of the Boyars he liked to smoke. Grushko watched the incriminating smoke curl round Kornilov's fingertips. Not wood, he thought, but smoked fish. Kornilov was kippering his own fingers. He wondered what the man's lungs looked like. For that matter, what did his own lungs look like?

I had Borzov from the mayor's office on that phone for fifteen minutes this morning,' grumbled Kornilov. He made his feelings quite plain about your performance, Grushko.'

Grushko winced. It was always bad when Kornilov called him by his surname.

Did he, sir?'

He suggests that we need to solve this business with Milyukin as quickly as possible in order to demonstrate that we are winning the war against the Mafia. Otherwise '

Borzov,' sneered Grushko. That idiot. It's only a few years since Borzov was telling people, Mikhail Milyukin included, that there was no such thing as the Soviet Mafia.'

Otherwise,' Kornilov repeated more loudly, things might go badly for us when it comes to renewing our budgets. I need hardly remind you of the shortages we already have to cope with. Petrol, paper, handcuffs, photocopiers, to say nothing of proper leisure facilities for off-duty officers.'

No, sir.'

I want results, Grushko. And I want them soon. Is that quite clear?'

Yes, sir.'

Kornilov picked up his fountain-pen. His yellowing fingers began to write.

That's all,' he murmured.

9

When the old man, whose name was Semyonov, had answered all our questions, Sasha thanked him for coming in and, wishing to humour him a little, asked him how he had come by the impressive row of medals he was wearing on his jacket.

During the blockade of the city,' said the old man. I was on the Pulkovo Heights. Four years facing the German 18th Army. Most of them are service medals. But this one I got for commanding the execution of eight German officers. We built a gallows right here in the centre of Leningrad and after a bit of a trial we put them on four trucks, two apiece, parked under the beam and then strung them up. Half of Leningrad came to watch.' The old man grinned cariously. First decent bit of entertainment folks had seen in three years.'

Sasha nodded politely but I could see that he was shocked. Neither of us was old enough to think of the nine-hundred-day siege, when over a million citizens of Leningrad had died, as anything more than another morbid statistic in our country's bitter history. Distracted from his continuing telephone inquiry by old Semyonov's story, Andrei nodded grimly.

Still,' he sniffed, I expect they deserved it.'

That they did,' said Semyonov. They were war-criminals. The only pity is that we didn't hang more of them.'

Grushko emerged from his dressing-down in General Kornilov's office and directed a face the colour of blood towards Andrei.

Haven't you finished making those calls yet?' he snarled. What's the matter with you: sleeves too long or something?'

I smiled. Sleeves that were much longer than a man's arms had been a mark of the privilege that the tsars enjoyed, showing that they did no work.

Andrei picked up the phone and extinguished his cigarette. No, sir.'

Well get on with it then. And where's Nikolai Vladimirovich?'

I stood up and walked towards him. I was just about to remind Grushko that Nikolai and Alek Svridigailov had spent half the night keeping an eye on the Georgian gang at the Pribaltskaya when the two of them appeared in the corridor behind him.

Where the hell have you been?' said Grushko, but before either one of them could answer he had turned to me. And who's the Hero of the Soviet Union with Sasha?'

Mr Semyonov,' I said. Reckons he saw Milyukin on the night he was killed.'

Why the hell doesn't anyone tell me what's going on around here?' Advancing on the old man he fixed a grumpy sort of smile to his face.

Hello, sir,' he said. I'm Colonel Grushko.'

The old man rose half out of his chair and touched his forehead with his forefinger in what looked like a salute.

Yes,' he said, I know. You were on television last night. I saw you. That's why I came.'

Grushko winced at the memory of it, and I saw Nikolai and Sasha exchange a smile.

I hear you think you saw Mikhail Milyukin on the night that he was murdered.'

It's what I've been telling the two detectives here,' said Semyonov. I was in the Poltava Restaurant, at the Peter and Paul Fortress, dining with some old army friends. We were in the blockade together, you know, and we always meet around this time of year. Of course the Poltava is expensive and so we have to save up a bit, but it's always worth it.'

Grushko nodded patiently.

Milyukin was at another table and he seemed to be waiting for someone.'

When was this exactly?'

Well, we got there at around eight. And he came in not long after that I think. He waited almost two hours, until about ten.'

Semyonov drew the sleeve up his bony old arm to reveal a new army watch of the kind you could buy from any street-corner spiv.

I'm sure about the time, because my daughter bought me this watch for my birthday and I kept looking at it all evening. Anyway, whoever Mr Milyukin was waiting for didn't show up. He kept looking at his watch too. That's why I noticed him in the first place. I wondered if he had a new watch as well.'

And you're sure it was him?'

The phone rang and was answered by Andrei.

Oh yes,' said Semyonov. It was him all right. He's on television as well, you see. And I never forget a face that's been on TV.'

Thank you, Mr Semyonov,' said Grushko. You've been most helpful.'

I know this restaurant, sir,' said Nikolai.

You would.'

His hand covering the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver, Andrei waved it at Grushko.

I've got a Lieutenant Khodyrev on the line,' he explained. From Militia Station 59. She says that Milyukin reported a break-in there, two days before the murder.'

So where the hell have they been?' said Grushko. On holiday?'

Do you want a word with her?'

Grushko reached for the phone and then seemed to think better of it.

No,' he said glancing at his watch. Tell her to meet us at Milyukin's address in half an hour. We can go there on our way to this restaurant, Nikolai.'

As Andrei relayed the message, Grushko looked at me inquiringly.

Yes, I'll come.'

Sounds like a few of our pigeons coming home,' said Nikolai.

You've got a car, haven't you?' Grushko said to Andrei when he had finished the call.

Yes, sir.' There was no mistaking the alacrity in Andrei's young voice. Later on, Nikolai told me that this was Andrei's first month with Criminal Services.

Good. Because there's something I want you to do. I want you to take Mr Semyonov home.'

Andrei's face fell, but he knew better than to argue with a man like Grushko.

Lieutenant Khodyrev was an attractive-looking woman in her early thirties, with dark hair gathered in a bun at the back of her head and the healthiest teeth I had ever seen in any Russian's mouth. No one goes to the dentist very much these days: the cost of any kind of health care is hugely expensive and most people rely on folk remedies and old wives' tales when they get sick.

She was wearing plainclothes and although Grushko seemed too preoccupied to pay Khodyrev much attention, it was clear to see that Nikolai was very taken with her, holding open every door for her as if he had learned his manners at the court of the tsar.

Have you been with the militia very long, Lieutenant?' he asked her as the four of us came upstairs to Nina Milyukin's flat.

Four years,' she said. Before that I was a gymnast with the Olympic team.'

Which explained her generally healthy demeanour.

Colonel Grushko, sir,' she said, there's something else I've discovered.'

Something else that slipped your mind? Or are you intending to impress us with your investigative abilities in instalments?'

No sir,' she said patiently. The fact is I've only just been transferred to Station 59 and it's taken a little while to find my feet there. I found out about this other thing just after I called the Big House.'

We arrived on the landing outside the flat.

Well, what is it?'

About three months ago, before I went to Station 59 '

All right,' said Grushko, I get the picture. None of this is your fault.'

Thank you, sir. Mikhail Milyukin came into the station and asked for police protection. He said that the Mafia was after him. He would have got it too, only my predecessor, Captain Stavrogin, was ordered to turn him down.'

Ordered? By who?'

Someone in the Department. I don't know why exactly. But the official reason was that no Russian citizen should be given any special privileges.'

I'd like to speak to this Captain Stavrogin,' Grushko said thoughtfully.

I'm afraid you can't, sir,' she said. He died of lung cancer, a couple of weeks ago. That's why I've been transferred. All I know is that when he told Mr Milyukin the decision, the captain advised him to hire a private bodyguard.'

And did he? Hire a private bodyguard?'

Khodyrev pursed her voluptuous lips. It doesn't look like it, sir,' she said.

Grushko nodded curtly and then rang the sonorous doorbell.

Nina Milyukin looked less than pleased to see us.

I'm sorry to bother you again,' said Grushko. Just a few more questions. It won't take long.'

You'd better come in,' she said and stood aside.

We advanced into the hall and then waited politely while she bolted the door behind us.

Would you like some tea?' she said and led the way into the communal kitchen.

I was disappointed by this invitation. I had been hoping to get a chance to step inside that wardrobe-study again and get another look at the photograph of her that was on Mikhail Milyukin's pinboard.

The kitchen was the standard arrangement. Two fridges, two cookers, two sinks and, hanging on the wall, two bathtubs.

Suspended from the ceiling was a large wooden clothesrack on which the day's wash was drying as well as it was able in that damp old flat. A large and battered brass samovar stood on a well-scrubbed wooden table and in the corner of the room lay an equally large, equally decrepit-looking black cat. Nina Milyukin found some glasses, drew off some tea and handed it round.

I'm afraid there's no sugar, and no milk,' she said.

We all shook our heads dismissively.

A couple of days before he died,' Grushko began, Mikhail Mikhailovich reported a break-in.'

Nina Milyukin's head sat back on her shoulders.

A break-in?' She smiled. There's been no break-in here. Surely you've seen our front door?'

Lieutenant Khodyrev shook her head. According to the report, Mr Milyukin believed that they gained entry using keys that he had lost.'

Yes, he did lose his keys,' she said thoughtfully.

Apparently his Golden Calf Literary Award and fifty roubles in cash were taken,' said Khodyrev.

It's the first I've heard of it. But now you come to mention it, I had wondered about the Golden Calf. I haven't seen it in a while. Even so, I can't imagine why anyone would have wanted it. After all, it's not real gold.' She smiled sadly. If it were we would have sold it.'

Well, whoever took it obviously thought it was real,' said Grushko. Have you noticed anything else that's missing?'

She sipped her tea and shook her head silently.

Perhaps some papers? Tapes?'

How could I? You took most of Mikhail's things away with you the other day.'

Yes, I did,' said Grushko. Well, how about before that?'

No.'

This is good tea, said Grushko.

I heard myself grunt in agreement.

I was speaking to Yuri Petrakov at St Petersburg Television, the other day.'

Yes, I saw the programme. Zverkov gave you a rough time, didn't he?'

Nina was smiling. I almost thought that she might have enjoyed that: Grushko being cross-examined.

Zverkov's a bully,' she added. Mikhail never liked him. He said that underneath the pretence of being pro-reform he was really a wicked man. But you only have to look at his work. The man's a complete opportunist. He doesn't care about people at all. They're just stories to him. All Zverkov cares about is Zverkov.'

What did he think of Mikhail?'

There was no love lost there, she said. 'A couple of years ago there was an evening organised by the Leningrad branch of the Soviet Cultural Fund, to mark the fiftieth birthday of the writer Josef Brodsky. It was held in the Public Library on Ostrovskovo Square. After it was over the two of them bumped into each other and exchanged a few insults. Zverkov had said something disparaging about Yeltsin. That he was a drunkard or some such nonsense. Mikhail called Zverkov a Fascist. There was a scuffle and Mikhail got his eye blacked.

About six months after that there was a three-day conference at the Academy of Sciences.' She snorted with laughter. Man in the World of Dialoguea__, or some such nonsense. And they had another argument. I think it was about Lithuanian independence. Or was it Latvian independence? I don't remember.' She shrugged. Either way, who cares?

Anyway, no one was really hit, but Mikhail kicked Zverkov's car and damaged it. Since then, nothing. They never spoke. But after the August coup was over Mikhail kept agitating for Zverkov's programme to be taken off the air. He said Zverkov had been sponsored by the KGB. The only reason Mikhail accepted a job offer from national television was because he knew they were also considering Zverkov for the same spot.'

Grushko said nothing for a moment but I could tell what he was thinking: did Zverkov have sufficient reason to have wanted Milyukin dead?

I find it extraordinary that he said nothing about all this.'

What do you expect of a man like that? He's a hypocrite,' said Nina.

Yuri Petrakov said that Mikhail had discovered that your phone was being bugged by the KGB.' Nina shrugged. Did you know about it?'

Yes.'

Mr Petrakov also said that Mikhail believed that he might have been the target of an anti-Semitic faction within the Department.'

You'd better ask them about that, hadn't you?'

Grushko sighed. Mrs Milyukin, I'm just trying to find out what your husband believed.'

He believed in all sorts of things, Colonel. Really, you've no idea. In some ways he was a rather credulous sort of person to have become a journalist. I suppose he wanted things to be true so that he could write about them. Faith-healing for instance. Did you know he believed in that?' She lit a cigarette, and shook her head impatiently. Look, what does it matter what he believed in now? He's dead. Why can't you just leave him alone?'

Surely what matters most,' argued Grushko, is that the people responsible for his murder are caught and punished.'

Nina sighed theatrically and stared out of the filthy window. When she said Why can't you just leave him alone?' I assumed she meant Why can't you leave me alone?' But Grushko was not to be put off.

Did he ever talk about hiring himself a bodyguard?'

A bodyguard?' Nina smiled. Look around you, Colonel. We're not wealthy people. We couldn't even afford a washing-machine, let alone a bodyguard. This was Mikhail Milyukin, not Mikhail Gorbachev.'

Grushko finished his tea and placed the glass on the table. By now the cat had stirred from its corner. It arched its black back, tiptoed forward and then curled its tail around Nikolai's trouser leg.

No you don't, Bulgakov,' said Nina, and shooed the animal into the corridor. She probably wished she could have been rid of the militia as easily. I smiled to myself. It was just what you would have expected a writer to have called his cat.

Your husband had asked the local militia for protection, you know,' Grushko persisted.

Then I hardly see why he would have needed to hire a bodyguard,' retorted Nina.

The militia turned him down.'

Nina gave Grushko a look of dim disapproval and then turned away.

Well, I don't suppose it even occurred to him to offer them money. Mikhail could be quite naive.'

It wasn't a question of money,' said Lieutenant Khodyrev.

No? What was it a question of?'

Khodyrev paused as she struggled to find an explanation that wouldn't have left her station looking like KGB poodles.

I think,' I said, that it was simply a question of manpower. Things are already stretched almost to breaking point. There are militia patrols that don't leave their stations for lack of spare parts and'

Now I see why you go around in threes and fours,' said Nina. It saves petrol. And it makes explanations so much easier.'

Thank you for your time, Grushko said crisply. 'And thank you for the tea.

When we were outside in the street, Grushko thumped on the roof of his car.

What the hell's the matter with that woman? Anyone would think she didn't care whether we caught her husband's murderer or not.'

She's feeling upset,' said Khodyrev. Who knows? Maybe she holds us partly to blame. For not providing him with protection in the first place.'

On the other hand,' said Nikolai, perhaps she just doesn't like policemen. My wife's the same.'

Living with you, I can't say I blame her,' said Grushko. Maybe you're right Lieutenant Khodyrev, I don't know. Meanwhile, see if you can manage to trace that Golden Calf. Before Moses.'

Sir?'

And he took the golden calf which they had made and burnt it with fire, and ground it to powder, and scattered it upon the water, and made the people of Israel drink it.

Standing on a small island in the centre of the Neva Delta, the three-hundred-year-old Peter and Paul Fortress was the nucleus around which St Petersburg had grown. The twelve o'clock cannon fired as Grushko drove across the wooden Ivan Bridge towards the main entrance and, instinctively, we all three of us checked our watches.

It seemed an odd place to locate a restaurant. It was true, the fortress was very popular with the tourists, but so many people had met unpleasant ends within its granite walls that it would have quite taken the edge off my appetite.

The Poltava Restaurant, named after the battle Peter the Great had won against the Swedes, was located in what had once been the officers' club. We pulled up outside and knocked on the heavy wooden door. The fat greasy man who opened it was typically obstructive, no doubt in the hope that we would pay more to get a table for lunch.

You've got no chance today,' he said. We're all full up.'

Grushko flashed his identity card. Save it for the starving,' he said and pushed his way inside.

The mood was more rustic than military. Old prints, including one of Peter the Great's wedding party, decorated the Snow-cemmed walls beneath heavily beamed ceilings that were hung with wrought-iron chandeliers. And somewhere, we could detect the mouth-watering smell of pastry cooking.

I'd like to speak to the manager, please,' said Grushko.

I'm the manager,' said the man who had let us in.

Grushko showed him a photograph of Milyukin.

Ever see him in here? His name is Mikhail Milyukin.'

The manager took the photograph in his grubby hands and looked closely at it for several seconds. He shook his head.

Looks too thin to be one of our regulars,' he said.

We think he was in here three nights ago.'

If you say so.'

He was supposed to meet someone, only the other party didn't show up.'

A girl was it? We get a lot of courting couples in here.'

That's what we'd like to find out,' said Grushko. Perhaps if you could check the booking?'

The manager led us into a small alcove where, on a tall oak table next to an ancient telephone, lay a large leather-bound book. He opened it, licked his finger, turned back several pages and then ran the same finger down the page, smudging some of the writing as it went.

Here we are,' he said. Yes, now I remember. Party of two for eight o'clock, it was. But the booking was made in the name of Beria.'

Beria?' exclaimed Grushko. You're joking.'

The manager turned the book towards Grushko.

Take a look for yourself,' he said.

Yes, you're right,' said Grushko. It's just it was just that Beria was the chief of Stalin's secret police.'

You don't say,' shrugged the man. I'm too young to remember that myself. But we get all sorts in here.'

As he spoke a swarthy, southern type with a droopy moustache and a sharp suit stepped out of the dining-room, heading for the lavatory. Each squeak of his patent-leather shoes seemed to suggest that he was Mafia. Grushko's eyes followed the man he would have called him a churki with distaste.

I'll bet you do,' he murmured and then returned his attention to the reservations' book.

What I mean is that it's obviously a false name,' he said.

Not obvious to me,' said the manager.

How was the booking made?'

Telephone. No one ever books in person. Not unless they're a regular. Being on an island, well, it's not exactly on anyone's way.'

Grushko pointed to the blue biro Cyrillic letters that constituted Mr Beria's booking.

Is this your writing?

Yes.'

Can you remember anything about the person who phoned?'

It was a man, I'm sure of that anyway.' He thought for a moment and then shrugged. Apart from that, nothing at all.'

Did he have an accent? Georgian? Chechen, maybe?'

Look, I'm sorry, I really don't remember. Like I say, we get all sorts here.'

When Mr Milyukin, the man in the photograph, left, did he offer any explanations as to why the other man hadn't shown up?'

He paid his bill and then collected his coat. I helped him on with it. I said I hoped that we might see him again, and he said he hoped so too. I even opened the door for him. I think he was on foot I mean, I don't remember hearing a car start.'

Well, thanks anyway,' said Grushko.

Well, now you're here, gents, why not stay and have a bite of lunch?' said the manager. On the house. We've got homemade Peter's soup.'

Peter's soup,' Nikolai repeated hungrily. That's what I can smell.'

The Mafia type returned from the lavatory.

Thank you, no,' said Grushko, eyeing the man. We usually like to get away from our clients during the lunch hour.'

Nikolai's face fell and reluctantly he followed Grushko and myself out of the Poltava's door.

When we were outside Grushko looked squarely at the big man as if waiting for him to say something about walking away from a free meal.

What?' he said finally. No complaints about your stomach?'

Nikolai lit a cigarette and looked up at the golden spire on the nearby cathedral.

No,' he said, you were right. The food smelled better than the people eating there.' He slowly tightened his belt a notch. But I don't mind telling you, this honesty is damned hungry work.'

10

An investigator's job can only begin when a detective has made a statement to the effect that a crime has been committed and that a man should be arrested. All protocols follow this one-sentence declaration.

After our trip to the restaurant in the Peter and Paul Fortress I had a busy afternoon issuing several arrest protocols to two detectives from Grushko's department. A gang of Kazhaks had been preying on Jews who were about to emigrate to Israel, robbing them on the eve of their departure when all their belongings were neatly and for the robbers conveniently gathered together in bags and boxes. A man called the Goose had murdered an old Jewish woman in cold blood in her apartment on Bakunina Prospekt when she offered the gang resistance.

Having signed these arrest protocols, the next task was to justify them, and this required me to sign personal-search protocols and interrogation protocols. But to search the Goose's apartment for goods stolen from the old woman meant that I was going to need the relevant protocol stamped by the State Prosecutor's Office. So I called Vladimir Voznosensky and then went straight over there with the two detectives in their car. To some this might have all sounded rather bureaucratic, but that would have been to forget that the investigator was the best guarantee of a suspect citizen's rights.

I had not long arrived back at the Big House when I received a call from an old friend at the GUITI, the Chief Directorate of Corrective Labour Institutions. I had telephoned him earlier that same day to check on Sultan Khadziyev, the Chechen pimp whom Mikhail Milyukin had helped to put in the zone. My friend, whose name was Viktor, had been able to discover that Khadziyev had been serving his sentence in Beregoi 16/2, a camp that was close to the Kazakh border in western Siberia. Now he told me that Sultan had been released four weeks ago. For good behaviour. But he couldn't have served more than half of his sentence,' I said.

I don't understand it myself,' said Viktor. I called the regime chief at the camp and he assured me that a proper release order, authorised by this Directorate had been received. Believe me, I intend to investigate this matter thoroughly.'

Does the camp commander know where Khadziyev went?'

Apparently he spent a few days in the camp infirmary taking advantage of the medical facilities. The way things are on the outside these days, if you get sick you're better off as a zek. After that they gave him a salary cheque for seventy-five roubles and a railway warrant from Omsk back to St Petersburg.'

Let me know what you find out, Viktor.'

I was about to call Grushko and tell him what I had learned when the phone rang again. This time it was Nikolai.

I'm downstairs,' he explained. There's been a hit. The boss wants to know if you can come with us.'

I'll be right down.'

I found Nikolai, Sasha and Grushko waiting in his car on Kalayeva Street.

It looks like the gang war might just have started,' said Grushko, turning south on to Liteiny Prospekt. A couple of Mafiosi just got their wooden pea-jackets.'

I told them about Sultan Khadziyev.

Good behaviour, eh?' he said. Well, that'll give us something to talk about when we've got him in our bag of maybes.'

Want us to find him, Colonel?' said Nikolai.

Unless the dull definition of detective has escaped you. Let's just hope he's not today's dead meat.'

Bordered by apartment blocks and the Hotel Pulkovskaya, Victory Square is in reality an enormous roundabout at the southern end of Moscow Prospekt. Marking the former frontline of the Nazi advance on the city is a wide keyhole-shaped area of paving stones and sculptured groups that constitutes a monument to the heroic defenders of Leningrad. At its centre, standing within an incomplete circle of granite, is a fifty-metre-high obelisk. Near to its base is another typically Soviet group: a Red Army soldier supporting a woman faint from starvation; a wife comforting her wounded husband; and a mother holding the lifeless body of her child. It was only a couple of weeks since Remembrance Day and several bunches of flowers still lay at the feet of these heroic figures. At the base of the granite plinth which the figures occupied lay the bodies of two men, cut to pieces with a machine-gun that was at least the destructive equal of the one carried by the bronze soldier. Each man had been hit fifteen or twenty times, but before running away the killer had, according to a witness, stopped to light a cigarette and sweep some of the flowers off the plinth and on to the bodies. There was blood everywhere, as if someone had dropped a five-litre jug of wine from the top of the obelisk. One of the dead men still clutched a handful of the dollars he had been about to hand the other, while stray bills blew around the stone circle like dead leaves.

Dead meat was right, I thought. It was hard to think of these two men as at all human now. They looked ready for a butcher's hook.

The man clutching the dollars was dark-skinned, with moustaches that were the same length, colour and shape as his eyebrows. In the breast pocket of his suit was a pair of aviator-style sunglasses and he wore his tie in a double-knot that managed to make it look too small, as if it were a schoolboy's tie. Grushko reached inside the man's blood-stained jacket and withdrew a wallet and an identity card.

Ramzan Dudayev,' he said. Sounds like a Chechen name. But it's hard to tell with these churki bastards.'

The wallet produced several stolen credit cards and yet more dollars, while Nikolai found a revolver tucked underneath the dead man's snakeskin belt.

You can't be too careful these days,' he muttered.

The second man was younger, with spiky hair and several days' growth of beard. His lightweight suit was of a better cut than his friend's but no more bullet-proof and he wore a button-up vest instead of a shirt and tie. His wallet had been neatly holed by a bullet. Grushko tried to read the name on the bloodstained identity card.

Abu Sin. something or other,' he said. Sinbad the bloody sailor.'

Sasha turned up a set of amber prayer-beads, a large and greasy wad of roubles, a flick knife and a small cigarette case with the picture of a naked model embossed on the lid. He opened the case and sniffed at the roll-ups it contained.

Kojaks,' he said.

These Muslims like to smoke their bit of clover, Grushko observed. He stood up and turned towards me.

So, how do you like our Petersburg Mafia? The price of a hit like this is 50,000 roubles. Or around $230, if you want to pay hard currency. For an outside job. Of course the Georgians might just have preferred to have done it themselves. They take their revenge very personally.'

Do you think that these are the two who murdered Milyukin and Ordzhonikidze?' I asked him.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped some of the blood off his fingertips.

Assuming that the Georgians do think that it was the Chechens who were behind it, no, I reckon they just put these two on account. At least until they have a better idea of who killed Vaja. You see, with the Mafia it's almost as important that you hit someone as it is that you hit the right person. Otherwise it looks bad for business. Like you're letting things slide.'

I shook my head at the sheer waste of it all.

You'd better get used to this sight,' he said. You can bet you'll see a lot more.' He spat copiously, lit a cigarette and started towards the steps leading up from the stone circle. And it makes finding Sultan Khadziyev even more urgent. Before the Georgians can book him on the same flight as these two.'

Sultan's a pimp, sir,' said Nikolai, following. Chances are he'll find a couple of cash-cows and get himself started again. Why don't Sasha and I check a few of the hotels? Speak to some girls and the local melody. Maybe they can point us in the right direction.'

I've got a better idea,' said Grushko. Check all the hotels.'

As we came up the steps, the Central Board's Scientific Research Department van was drawing up alongside the circle's entrance.

Sorry we're late, sir,' said one of the experts, but our van broke down.'

Grushko shrugged and continued on his way. When he reached the car he looked around at the monument to victory.

Did we really win?' he said, shaking his head sadly. Or did the krauts just lose?'

Grushko was right about the ubiquity of Mafia killings, although the next one happened sooner than even he might have expected. Less than two hours after returning to the Big House, Grushko and I were summoned to the scene of yet another murder. Meanwhile Nikolai and Sasha had gone off to look for Sultan Khadziyev.

It was seven o'clock in the evening when we drove up to the gate of the Alexander Nevsky Monastery. Outside the Moskow Hotel on the other side of the road, a small jazz band was playing When the Saints Go Marching In'.

Sounds appropriate,' said Grushko.

We waved our identity cards in the tired faces of the young militiamen who were holding back a crowd of curious bystanders and made our way along a cobbled path that was flanked by the walls of two cemeteries the Lazarus and the Tivkin, where the bodies of Dostoevsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky were buried.

Well,' said Grushko as we approached the terracotta-coloured monastery that lay on the other side of a small moat, you can't say that we haven't been showing you our beautiful city.'

The small bridge across the moat was busy with experts and local detectives, one of whom, seeing Grushko, detached himself from the rest and came over to talk to us.

What have you got?' said Grushko.

Another churki killing,' the detective said negligently and spat across the parapet into the water. This one won't be walking up Rustaveli Avenue again.

A Georgian?'

The detective nodded and led us on to the bridge where, slumped against a wall, with a hole the size of a saucer in his chest, lay the body of a handsome young man.

Name of Merab Laventrivich Zodelava,' he said. A drug-dealer, apparently. His pockets were full of wheels.' He showed us a plastic bag containing lots of pills. Amphetamines, I should say. The whores buy them to keep awake on the job. Anyway, it seems like he was standing here about to make a sale when this other churki showed up and blasted a window in him with a sawn-off. Both barrels, it looks like. Makes the autopsy easy, I suppose.'

Any witnesses?'

Just the one. But don't get too excited.' The detective jerked his head at an old man who was sitting patiently on an empty beer crate under the watchful eye of a militiaman. The man had one leg.

See that one leg?' he said. Well, he's got just the one eye to match.'

Great,' said Grushko.

He was here to beg a few copecks off the people going into the cathedral. I reckon the only reason the gunman didn't pot the old man as well was because of those dark glasses he's wearing. Probably thought there was no point in shooting a blind man.'

Did he give you a description?' asked Grushko.

The detective flipped open his notebook.

It's not much. He didn't stare too much in case he got a dose of lead. Well dressed, aged about thirty, dark hair, dark moustache, dark complexiona__.' He shrugged. Like I said, a churki.'

What about the pipes?' asked Grushko. Did he take it with him?'

The detective shrugged.

Drag the moat anyway,' Grushko ordered, just in case he dumped it. And better check both cemeteries in case he tossed it over the wall on his way out.'

What's the form on this one, sir?' asked the detective. Have we got another turf war on our hands? One of the scientific boys was saying something about a couple of Chechens getting their tickets to Allah this afternoon.'

I don't know about a turf war,' said Grushko, but there's plenty more blood where this lot came from.'

11

Vaja Ordzhonikidze's funeral cortege represented a small fortune in motor vehicles: Mercedes, Saabs, Volvos, BMWs there wasn't one that would have been within the purchasing range of a whole syndicate of militiamen, always assuming that they were straight. Not in this lifetime.

I thought of my own battered Volga back in Moscow, awaiting a new head gasket from the factory in Nizhniy Novgorod, and cursed the luck that had made me an honest man. Well, almost an honest man. Honesty is not always so clear cut. The nature of what I do requires that sometimes I have, as Dostoevsky might say, a Double, to do things of which one disapproves, such as misplace some evidence, or look the other way. Or to search a man's desk when he is out of his office and look for a sign of that man's corruption: a bank book, a name in a diary, a letter, a receipt from an expensive restaurant. A man who might have worked alongside you and thinks of you as his friend. A lie can sometimes illuminate the truth, but this can be hard. Still, nobody ever said the world was perfect.

The cars came down Oktabrisky Prospekt and pulled up at the gate of the Smolensky Cemetery. Several well-built men in dark suits and white shirts jumped out and stared with paranoid expectancy in several directions. Satisfied that there were no likely threats in the area they squired their team leaders and bosses, the Georgian Mafia elite, out of the cars.

From the other side of the canal, on Decembrist's Island, we watched the Georgian funeral through binoculars Nikolai, Sasha, Dmitri our photographer and myself. Grushko was the last to arrive, with General Kornilov.

Grushko shot a look of puzzlement at Dmitri and then leaned towards Sasha.

Who's he?' he said. Where's Arkady, our usual man?'

Sick,' said Sasha. This is Dmitri.'

Grushko nodded uncertainly and watched Dmitri turning the focus on a huge telephoto lens.

You needn't worry about him, sir,' said Sasha. He used to do surveillance work for the KGB, until he got made redundant.'

Oh? And what does he do now?'

Weddings, mostly.'

Grushko sighed and raised his binoculars.

Weddings,' he muttered darkly.

A group of Georgians were taking Vaja out of the hearse. He lay on an open bier like Lenin, covered in flowers. They lifted him on to their broad shoulders and, preceded by a priest of the Georgian Orthodox Church reading from a prayer-book, his acolyte swinging a censer and a third man bearing an icon, the funeral party started to proceed into the cemetery.

That's Dzhumber Gankrelidze, said Nikolai. The one straightening his tie. He's the boss.'

The power-wind of Dmitri's camera whirred busily.

It's quite a show,' observed the general. It doesn't much look as if they could have thought Vaja was an informer.'

This is nothing compared to the Little Gypsy's funeral in Sverdlovsk last year,' said Grushko. Brought the whole town to a standstill.'

Yes,' said Kornilov. Gregory Tsyganov. Who was it killed him?'

Azerbaijanis.'

Still, it's quite a show by our standards.'

And then, the year before that, there was Bosenko's brother.'

The Black Swan? I'd forgotten that one.'

Blown up in his car, he was,' said Grushko. There was hardly enough of him left to fill a shoe box, let alone a coffin, but the Cossacks still gave him the brass handles.' He smiled.

All right, Yevgeni,' said Kornilov. You've made your point.' He didn't enjoy taking lessons from Grushko. Do we know where they're holding the party afterwards?'

Our informers told us they're going to a restaurant called Tblisi. It's a little Georgian place on the other side of the Neva, in Petrogradsky Region. I've had the placed bugged, just in case they say anything coherent.'

The procession passed inside the cemetery and everyone lowered their binoculars. Dmitri started to wind back his film.

And what about this pimp?' said Kornilov, lighting a cigarette. The one who might have had a grudge against Mikhail Milyukin. Any sign of him yet?'

We're keeping an eye on all the tourist hotels,' said Grushko. If he is running a new herd of cows then that's where we'll find him.'

Yes, well, make it soon, Yevgeni. Since you mentioned Sverdlovsk, then remember what happened there. It was a war.'

Yes, sir.'

What puzzles me is how he got out of the zone so early?'

According to my contact in the GUITI,' I said, it was someone in the Department who fixed it.'

Does he have any idea who?'

I shrugged and shook my head.

What are they up to?' he muttered. Let's just hope you're right about this Chechen, Yevgeni. You know, without him, you've really got nothing. Nothing.'

I could see Grushko didn't much like to be ridden by Kornilov in front of us, but he just bit his lip and nodded sullenly. That was why Nikolai, Sasha, Andrei or any of his men would take it from Grushko: because they knew he had to take it from Kornilov.

By the way,' said Kornilov, after the funeral procession had disappeared from view. That icon they were carrying. Who was it?'

Grushko smiled thinly.

George, sir. Who else for Georgians?

There has been a police prison on the site of the Big House since the time of Catherine the Great. After the assassination of Alexander II the site at Number six Liteiny Prospekt became the headquarters of the newly created political police, the Okhrana. Following the abandonment of Leningrad as the country's capital, the Leningrad NKVD plotted the murder of Stalin's rival Kirov from the old building at Number six. They then used his death as a pretext for purging the local party and, for that matter, the local NKVD as well. Stalin's most notorious henchman, a Georgian named Laventri Beria, had spent some considerable time working in the newly built Big House. His desk and typewriter were still in use. It was small wonder people joked that from the top of the building you could see Solovki, the most notorious of all Stalin's White Sea Canal labour camps, where hundreds of thousands of people had perished; and it was only fitting that the Department, even in its post-Party truncated form as the Russian Security Service, should occupy the top two floors.

Grushko walked along the corridor and reflected that even now, after the demise of the Party, things were still more comfortable for the KGB than for their poor cousins downstairs. There were fresh towels, soap and lavatory paper in the washrooms. The floors were covered with thick blue carpets instead of dirty brown linoleum, while in every office were computers, fax machines and photocopiers.

He entered one office where a woman in her forties with neatly cut auburn hair and wearing a smart blue two-piece suit was taking books down from her shelves and packing them into cardboard boxes. Vera Andreyeva seemed more like someone who read the news on television than a major in the KGB.

What's this?' said Grushko. Are you moving into better offices?'

Andreyeva smiled at Grushko's little irony.

As a matter of fact I am,' she said. I'm leaving the Department, Yevgeni. What's left of it, anyway.'

Leaving? Surely they're not getting rid of you as well, Vera Fyodorovna? I thought that the Department was going to use its best resources to fight organised crime and economic corruption.'

Oh, they are,' she said. But then so is the army. And the navy. And for all I know the air force as well. All of us looking for a new role in life. And stepping on your toes.' She shook her head. Wasn't it Chekhov who said that when a lot of remedies are suggested for a disease, then it can't be cured?'

I never liked Chekhov much,' said Grushko. He picked up a book from her desk. Reforming the Soviet Economy: Equality versus Efficiency.' He inspected another. The Nature and Logic of Capitalism. You are on the move, Vera. What will you do?'

I've been offered a job with a Russo-American joint-venture company,' she said happily. They're planning to open a chain of real hamburger restaurants throughout Russia. I'm in charge of recruitment.'

An ex-KGB major in charge of recruitment? It figures.'

Vera turned towards Grushko and gave him a look, as if she were measuring him up.

I wonder,' she said thoughtfully.

What?' he said.

You, Yevgeni? How would you fancy handling security for us? We could use a man like you. The price of meat being what it is, security will be one of our most important considerations.'

Oh, I don't doubt it,' smiled Grushko. But you're serious, aren't you?'

Why not? Just think of the pay. You know what the Department were going to retire me on? Seven hundred and fifty roubles a month. You know how much I earn with the joint-venture?'

Please don't tell me,' said Grushko.

Thirty thousand roubles a month. That's forty times as much.'

Grushko smiled weakly. The same as a miner,' he joked, knowing that the joke was on him: since the miners had settled their strike, 30,000 roubles was indeed what one of them earned in a month.

Someone with your background could very probably pick up the same.'

What use would I have for that kind of money?'

Knowing you, Yevgeni Ivanovich, none at all. But your wife now she's a different story. I don't doubt she'd find plenty to spend it on. Even in the state shops.'

The riddle of the money fetish is therefore the riddle of the commodity fetish now become visible and dazzling to our eyes.

Vera looked taken aback.

I never thought I'd live to hear it,' she said. Of all the people to quote Marx.'

I couldn't remember any Chekhov,' said Grushko. Look, Vera, thanks for the offer but I'm not here to talk about myself.'

You want to know about your Georgians, don't you? Well, I've had a word with our friends in the seventh CD and the surveillance is in place. So you can relax.'

And the information about Mikhail Milyukin?'

Vera Andreyeva lifted another cardboard box on to the desk.

Tapes, transcripts, files, everything, like you asked.'

Grushko peered curiously into the box.

But why was his phone tapped at all?' he said. I mean, why now?'

She shrugged. Oh, I dare say it always had been and nobody thought to have it removed. Things are a bit like that these days: we're a plane on automatic pilot, only the captain's already baled out.' She lifted an armful of books and dropped them into another box. Well, now it's my turn.'

And does that mean you can talk freely?' Grushko's tone was cautious.

Andreyeva lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of her desk.

Try me.

Your colleagues.'

Correction: my former colleagues.'

Would you say that many of them are anti-Semitic?'

The Department has its fair share of prejudice, Yevgeni. Just like everywhere else.'

All right then, let me ask you this: is there anyone here who might have had it in for Mikhail Milyukin?'

Enough to kill him? No, I don't think so.'

Enough to scare and harass him maybe?'

She thought carefully for a minute.

I couldn't ever repeat this,' said Vera. At least, not before an investigator.'

Grushko shook his head. Between you and me then,' he said.

All right,' she said. I believe there was someone in the second CD who tried to persuade Milyukin to spy on a couple of English journalists. I think he probably tried to squeeze him a little.' She shrugged. Well, that's the way they work, of course. But not what you're suggesting. Anyway, they've left now. The officer and the two journalists.'

Vera Andreyeva picked up a smart new pigskin briefcase and took out a copy of Ogonyok. On the front cover was a picture of Milyukin.

You know, a lot of people in this Department admired Milyukin,' she said. Myself included.'

But you're leaving,' said Grushko. It wouldn't be the first time that this Department has got rid of its liberals.'

Half the KGB is going to be looking for a new job,' she said insistently. It's not politics that runs the system now. It's the International Monetary Fund.'

You'd know more about that than I do.' He picked up the box containing the information on Mikhail Milyukin and walked to the door.

Thanks for this,' he said. And good luck with the hamburgers.'

Promise me you'll think it over,' she said.

Grushko nodded.

I promise,' he said. But if unemployment is set for a big rise then that's good news for the Mafia. The way things are shaping up Petersburg will be just like Chicago in the twenties.' He grinned. And it's not much of a story if there's no Elliot Ness.'

It was while I was leaving the synagogue on Lermontovsky Prospekt after the service for her husband that I first saw the beauty of Nina Milyukin. Taller by a head than the friends and relations surrounding her, she stood waiting for the cars to take us down to Volkov Cemetery, without tears but with such a look of sadness as I had never seen. Before I had thought her face merely clever. Now she struck me as something more distinguished, aristocratic even, like some long-lost Romanov princess from that old tragedy. These are odd words for a lawyer but they must be said, for this is not only Grushko's story, it is also mine.

I do not know whether Grushko made it to the synagogue or not, as I did not actually see him until the funeral party arrived at the cemetery, which was not surprising given the large number of people, many of them Milyukin's readers, who had turned up to pay their respects to him. Even the Mayor of St Petersburg was there, his office having given permission for Milyukin's burial in one of the city's oldest and most exclusive cemeteries, where some of the country's best writers Belinsky, Blok, Turgenev and Kupin were buried.

The funeral could not have been more different from the Georgian's. The State's contribution of 100 roubles was as nothing compared to the cost of the cheapest coffin: at 2,000 roubles apiece these were hard to find and, but for a whip-round in the Big House organised by Grushko, Nina Milyukin might easily have been forced to hire a coffin for the trip to Volkov Cemetery and then to transfer her husband's body to a plastic bag for the actual burial. None of the cars, with the possible exception of the mayor's Zil, would have excited much interest. Nor were there any enormous wreaths, only single carnations. But there was no mistaking the sense of real grief that affected everyone who was there that warm June afternoon.

Afterwards, as the crowds drifted slowly away, Nina remained standing by her husband's grave and watched as the gravediggers began to fill it in.

Grushko spoke to Nikolai, Sasha and myself.

Wait in the car,' he told us. I'm going to try and have a word with her. If she is holding back on us then now's the time to squeeze her.'

To me this seemed insensitive of him but I said nothing until the three of us were back in the car.

How can he do that?' I asked. Surely she has the right to a little privacy at her husband's funeral?'

Nikolai pointed to the television crew that had covered the event and were now loading their equipment back into a van.

What privacy?' he said.

No, he's right,' said Sasha. Grushko can be a hard bastard sometimes.'

Nikolai pursed his lips and lit a cigarette.

I'll tell you something,' he said. I never met a fairer cop. Not anywhere. If he said he thought the Patriarch himself was a crook, then I'd believe him. If Grushko thinks that she needs a squeeze, then that's good enough for me.

Besides,' he added, if she's not telling us the whole story then now's the best time to find out. When she's feeling vulnerable. There's no telling how long a woman like that might give you the run-around.'

Grushko found Nina walking alone on the Poet's Pathway.

May I talk to you?'

It's a free country now,' she sighed. So they tell me.'

He took a deep breath and spat it out.

I don't think that you've been entirely honest with us,' he said. Have you?'

She was silent for a moment.

Grushko repeated the question.

You know, Colonel, when I was younger, I used to imagine that my father was buried here. You see, he was a writer too. Not that I really knew him. I was just a baby when he was arrested. We never found out what became of him. Where or when he died. I like to think that if he had lived, he would have been good enough to come here with the rest of them.' She smiled sadly. Ironic, isn't it? I never thought I'd ever marry a man whom they buried here. I don't suppose it would have crossed Mikhail's mind either.'

I didn't know about your father,' said Grushko. I'm sorry. But look, things are different now.'

Are they?' She shrugged. I don't know. Maybe.'

So how about it? Some straight answers.'

She looked up at the blue sky and Grushko saw that there were tears in her eyes.

You were right,' she said. When you asked about that bodyguard. Mikhail did try and hire one. But it wasn't because he was scared of anyone in particular.'

I'm not sure I understand.'

It was more of a collective thing really. You see, Mikhail was never happy unless he was working on a story that involved a degree of risk. He was always in danger from somebody or other. He thrived on that. Despite all the threats, all that hate, he wouldn't have changed places with anyone. As I told you before, it was beginning to get to him. But the idea of having a bodyguard seemed to be a way of helping him to cope with the pressure of what he was doing. That and his drinking. So he tried to hire one of your own police thugs: the ones they use to put down riots.'

The OMON squad?

Yes. Only the man wanted too much money. That's why I told you we couldn't afford it. I'm afraid I was rather angry with the militia, Colonel. I was bitter at the idea that, but for a few more roubles, Mikhail might still be alive.'

This man from the OMON squad: do you remember his name?'

Georgi. Rodionov.'

Grushko made a note of the name. Nina sighed deeply and laid her hand on her chest.

And now if you don't mind, I'd really like to be left alone for a while.'

While we were waiting, Iron Lenya rang from the morgue on Grushko's car phone. There was a body she wanted us to come and have a look at. When Nikolai had finished speaking to her, Sasha groaned loudly. I hate the morgue,' he said.

Nikolai fed another cigarette into his mouth, lit it with the last one and chuckled.

Look on the bright side,' he said. At least it'll take away your appetite.'

12

Of the two to three hundred people who died every day in St Petersburg, most were taken north-east across the River Neva, past the Piskarov Memorial where 500,000 victims of the blockade were buried, to the suitably contiguous Bureau of Juridical Medical Examinations.

It was late in the afternoon when we followed this sad trail off Piskarovksy Prospekt and on to a rough track leading down the side of the pre-Revolutionary Mechnikov Hospital. Seen from a distance, the fortress-shaped building that was the Bureau could not have looked less morbid. Sunlight warmed its pink brick and illuminated the yellow-tinted windows so that it resembled some fantastic sugar-candy palace in a children's fairytale. Certainly there was nowhere else like it in Russia. Grushko told me that the Director, Professor Vitali Derzhavin (who was descended from the great Russian poet), claimed that only Helsinki and New York had a similarly comprehensive forensic facility. Catching my eye in his driving mirror, he added:

You'll make a friend for life if you take my advice and say something nice about the place. Derzhavin's very proud of it. So proud he even had a time capsule installed in one of the walls telling the story of him and all his staff.'

We parked the car and were ushered into Professor Derzhavin's office. While we waited for him to finish his telephone call I studied his collection of silver roubles that was displayed in several glass cases on the walls.

Thallium,' he said. Yes, that's what I said. Thallium 203.' He waved at us to be seated. Oh, highly poisonous. They used to use the sulphate as a rodenticide. Well, she's a Professor of Chemistry, isn't she, Lieutenant? It wouldn't be too difficult for her to get hold of some. All right then. No problem. Yes, you'll have the written report in the morning. Goodbye.'

He replaced the receiver, stood up, and shook hands all round. Grey-haired with a light suntan, he wore a white coat and an easy-going sort of expression.

How about that?' he said, to nobody in particular. Some bitch has been poisoning the people she shared her flat with. With thallium. Just to get hold of an extra couple of rooms.'

Is that a good way of doing it?' asked Grushko. Only my neighbour has this piano. The kid practises all the time, and it's not even in tune.'

I thought of my own wife and her music-teacher lover. Thallium. I never thought of that.

The professor grinned, collected his cigarettes off the desk-top and buttoned his coat.

Get my secretary to order some for you,' he said.

We followed him out through his secretary's office. She looked up from behind a smart new IBM typewriter and smiled sweetly.

Colonel Shelaeva's waiting for you in Detective-Room Number five,' she announced and carried on with her typing.

The professor led the way out of the office and turned down a long, sloping corridor.

I sectioned this fellow myself,' he explained. We left him on the slab for you, just in case you were thinking of having lunch.'

Very thoughtful of you,' said Grushko.

The militia found him early this morning. Not far from where Mikhail Milyukin was murdered. Unfortunately, due to someone's incompetence, the body was removed and brought here before it was realised that these homicides might be connected. Lenya's pretty mad about it.'

I'm sure,' said Grushko.

He's been outside for about a week I'd say, and you know how warm it's been. Also I think some small animal has been feeding on him. One side of his face is more or less eaten away, so I'm warning you, gentlemen, he's no icon.'

We went through a set of swing doors and were met with a strong smell of formaldehyde and a traffic jam of trolleys, each of them bearing a naked body for autopsy. Even in death, most of them through old age or accident, Russians were still obliged to wait in line.

The professor stopped by a door and opened it. Colonel Shelaeva stood up, collected her papers and joined us in that dreadful corridor.

What took you so long?' she said to Grushko.

We were at Mikhail Milyukin's funeral,' he said.

All of you?' she said frowning. For that troublemaker?'

Grushko nodded.

Shelaeva shook her head, offended by this waste of manpower. Professor Derzhavin spoke quickly as if to defuse a potential disagreement.

We're in the blue section-room,' he said. If you'll come this way?'

We proceeded down the corridor, through a gauntlet of dead bodies.

And what mood is blue?' said Grushko.

Efficient and businesslike.'

Grushko explained to me that Professor Derzhavin had ordered the morgue's builders to tile each section-room in a different colour, so that the staff working there might be spared any further lowering of their spirits that could have been occasioned by something more homogeneous.

There were two section tables. On one of them a beautiful young woman was being cut open, her body a yellow coat half-stripped off the meaty skeleton that had worn it. Derzhavin's staff worked loudly, like workers in a meat-processing factory, habituated to what they were doing, wielding knives and handling viscera, with rubberised bloody fingers staining the butts of their blasAc cigarettes.

At the other table, the table that we gathered round like a group of black priests performing a service of communion, lay a naked man of about forty-five years old, his upper torso still positioned on the dissecting block, his arms outstretched as if he had fallen from the ceiling. That which was never meant to be seen intestines, lights and brain had been bundled back inside his stomach, and the body crudely stitched up like a piece of Red Indian buckskin.

Derzhavin had not exaggerated the man's facial injuries. One of his ears was missing while the cheek and the underside of his chin were cratered with coin-sized wounds.

He's not yet been identified,' said Colonel Shelaeva. There was nothing but air in his pockets.' She opened a file and handed Grushko a photograph. But I think we can agree that it's not Sultan Khadziyev.'

Grushko nodded silently.

Still, I asked you to come here because it seems that your hygiene-conscious smoker was on the scene.' She shot Nikolai a meaningful look and then showed us a plastic bag containing another soft-pack of Winston that had been opened upside down.

They found this near the body,' she said.

I lit a cigarette that helped to keep my nose, my mind and most importantly my stomach off the smell.

Cause of death?'

He was shot once through the head,' said Professor Derzhavin. At first I thought it was another animal bite. But if you look at the centre of his forehead you can see the bullet hole. Whoever shot him pressed the gun right up against the skull. The muzzle has pinned the force of discharge on to the scalp, splitting the entry wound. An executioner's shot.'

It's too early to say that it's the same gun,' said Shelaeva, but I shouldn't be at all surprised if it was.'

Any idea when he died?'

About a week ago,' said the professor. Perhaps a little longer. It's difficult to be more precise than that. Not with all the sunbathing he's been doing.'

A week or a little longer,' Grushko said ruminatively. Then he could have been dead before Milyukin?'

Yes, I'd say so.'

What about those triangular marks on the chest and the stomach?'

Burn marks, inflicted before death,' said Derzhavin.

Inflicted with an electric iron,' Shelaeva added.

The Mafia meat-tenderiser,' murmured Nikolai.

Just so,' said Grushko. I wonder what they wanted to know?' He lifted the dead man's hand. What's this, under his fingernails?'

Diesel oil,' said Shelaeva. There's more on his clothes and his boots.'

She drew a cardboard box across the floor and pointed inside. Grushko bent forward and picked out one of the dead man's boots. He looked into the boot and frowned as he tried to make out the name of the manufacturer.

Lenwest,' he said finally.

Perhaps he was a mechanic, sir,' suggested Nikolai.

Grushko nodded silently, turning the boot over in his hands as if it were some fossil recovered from a palaeontologist's dig.

Or a driver, maybe,' he said. Take a look at the wear on this boot. It's heavily worn on the right heel. That could be from repeatedly pressing an accelerator.'

A bus-driver?'

Could be. Or a truck-driver.'

I'll have a better idea for you when we've had a chance to analyse that oil,' said Shelaeva.

Oh, one more thing,' said Professor Derzhavin. He turned to one of his staff and called her over.

Anna, that liver, could you do the honours?'

The girl Anna was a small, red-haired creature who looked hardly old enough to vote, let alone dissect a human cadaver. She produced a bucket from underneath the table and removed a glutinous black-red hunk that she then lay on the slab by the dead man's feet.

It's pretty enlarged,' said the professor, so I thought he might be a heavy drinker. But I thought we'd wait for you before we made sure.'

The girl produced a scalpel and prepared to slice the liver in two.

When she cuts the liver open, I want you to get a sniff of it.' We leant towards the liver. All right, Anna.'

As the scalpel moved perfectly through the dead man's organ, the air was filled with such a stench of stale alcohol that I thought I would choke. We reeled back from the table, coughing and laughing disgustedly.

Well I don't think there can be any doubt about that,' chuckled the professor. But what is curious is that he seems to have been a vegetarian.'

Yes, that is unusual,' agreed Grushko.

Oh I don't know,' said Nikolai. Have you seen the price of meat lately?'

Sasha groaned as one of the staff working on the girl's body opposite began to remove the top of her skull with an electric saw.

I don't think I'll ever eat meat again,' he muttered weakly.

Nikolai had asked Chazov to come and see him at the Big House again, only on this occasion he had chosen a time more inconvenient to the restaurateur, in the early evening, when he would normally have been preparing to open for dinner.

I left the two of them arguing, to deal with the investigation of the Kazakh gang that had now been arrested for the robberies of the Jewish emigrants and, in particular, the Goose.

The Goose was a big man with a shaven head and a long, scrawny neck and it was easy to see how he had come by his nickname. Although he could speak Russian fluently I asked him if he wished to have the services of an interpreter. The man shrugged and shook his head. Then I read him the rules of his interrogation as laid down in Article 51.

You have the right to remain silent,' I told him. You have the right to an advocate. You have the right to appeal to the State Prosecutor and say why you have been wrongly arrested. You may add something to this protocol if you wish to do so.'

The Goose knew that the two arresting detectives had obtained plenty of evidence to convict him and he was an old enough hand at the game to exercise his right to silence. He signed the protocol and then they took him back to his cell. At some later date I would have to reacquaint him of the charges pending against him in the presence of his lawyer.

After this my wife telephoned to say that the gasket for my car had arrived and when would I be coming back to Moscow to repair it and drive it away? I told her, in a few days. I wanted to tell her I missed her, but something stopped the words in my mouth. Maybe because it wasn't true. I missed my own bed, my television set, my fishing rods, my books and having my meals cooked for me, I even missed my daughter. But her? No way.

So how are things at home?' I asked. How's my daughter?'

She's fine. Sends her love.'

How's Moscow?'

The prices are just ridiculous. Everything is so expensive.'

Yes, it is,' I said.

How's Leningrad?' she asked.

St Petersburg. You get sent to the zone for calling the place the wrong name. Things are all right. I'm on a case already.'

She grunted. She never was much interested in my work as an investigator. She always wanted me to go into business for myself, as a lawyer. To make real money.

How's Porfiry?' she asked.

He's much the same. Thinner.'

Everyone's thinner.'

Are you feeding Misha?'

Misha was my dog.

He gets as much porridge as he can eat.'

Well, I guess his breath won't smell so bad.'

When you do come back for your car '

Yes?'

Could you bring some cheese perhaps?'

Cheese?'

I've heard that there's plenty of cheese in Leningrad. I mean St Petersburg. There's none in the whole of Moscow. Naturally I'll pay you for it.'

I'll see what I can do. Anything else?'

Not that I can think of.'

All right. I'll ring you before I come.' I laughed unpleasantly. Nice doing business with you.'

A little later on I went round the corner to find Grushko.

He was in his office. There was a tape-recorder on his desk on which he had been listening to the tapes the KGB had made of Mikhail Milyukin's telephone conversations. He seemed troubled by something and I was just about to ask him what it was when Sasha came into the office, his face eager with what he had to tell.

I've had a call from the drugs squad,' he explained. There's a friend of mine who works there who told me that on the night of Milyukin's murder they had some information that a suspect they were after was driving around in a green Mercedes. Well, they checked with the GAI and found that there are only three such cars in the whole of Peter. Anyway, in the process of eliminating these two other Mercs, they saw one of them driving down Nevsky at about eleven o'clock that night. It's registered to Dzhumber Gankrelidze.'

That would put the Georgians a long way from where they claimed they were,' said Grushko. In the restaurant at the Pribaltskaya Hotel.' He lit a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair.

After a moment or two I nodded at the tape machine.

Anything there for us?

Listen to this a minute, will you? This was recorded a week before the murder.'

He switched the tape on.

Mikhail Milyukin,' said the first voice, which was easily recognisable from Milyukin's many television reports.

This is Tolya.'

Ah yes, Tolya. I was hoping you'd call.'

You got my letter?'

Yes, I did. And I'm very interested in what you wrote. But is it really true?'

Every word. And I can prove it.'

Then I think it could make quite a story.'

You know it would.'

Look, it's best we don't talk about this on the phone. Where can we meet?'

How about the Peter and Paul Fortress? Inside the cathedral at, say, three o'clock?'

All right then. I'll be there.'

Grushko hit the stop button and looked expectantly at Sasha and myself.

This Tolya sounds like he could be a Ukrainian, I said. 'Those slurred consonants.

That's what I thought, said Grushko. He glanced at his notebook and then fast-forwarded the tape to a position on the machine's counter he had previously noted. 'Now listen to this. The call was made on the morning of the same day that Milyukin reported his flat had been burgled.

Hello.' It was a woman's voice, and an educated one. The accent sounded local.

Hi. It's Mikhail Milyukin.'

It's been a long time, how are you?'

Good, thanks.'

What are you working on this time?'

Well, I've got a little job for you, if you're interested?'

Anything to help the press, you know that.'

Good.'

What sort of material are we talking about?'

I'd rather not say on the telephone. Can I drop it round to you? How does later on this morning sound?'

Fine.'

See you later then.'

Now what,' asked Grushko, was all that about?'

He moved the tape on a second time.

And then there's this,' he said. Our Ukrainian friend calling back on the day that Milyukin was murdered.'

Mikhail Milyukin, hello.'

It's me, Tolya.'

Tolya, where have you been? I was worried something might have happened to you.'

Yeah well, something did happen. I got drunk last night.'

What again? You shouldn't drink so much. It's not good for you.'

What else is there to do? Besides it takes my mind off the other business.'

You don't sound too good. It must be some kind of hangover you've got there.'

Yes. It is. Look, I was wondering if we could meet again? There's something important that I haven't told you about yet.'

Sure. Where?'

The Peter and Paul again. You know the restaurant there?'

The Poltava? Yes, I know it.'

I've booked a table for 8.30, in the name of Beria.'

Beria?' Milyukin chuckled. Couldn't you have chosen a different name?'

There was a moment's silence.

Why, what's wrong with it?'

Nothing. Forget it. Are you sure you're all right, Tolya?'

It's just a hangover. Really, See you there. OK?'

OK.'

Well?' said Grushko.

Tolya he sounded nervous that time,' said Sasha.

Very,' agreed Grushko.

Now we know who Milyukin was waiting for,' I said.

Imagine not knowing who Beria was,' said Grushko. Was that just ignorance? A false name Tolya just plucked out of the air? Or was it something else? A sign that Milyukin should be careful maybe?'

A sign which he failed to spot,' I said.

I wonder,' said Grushko. Could this be our friend from the morgue this afternoon? It sounds as if Tolya might have been the owner of that liver we all enjoyed so much.'

If that's so,' I said, then whoever tortured him might have wanted him to bring Milyukin to them. Maybe they had a gun pointed at his head when he made that last telephone call. So it could be that he's not so much ill as worried. Worried that they're going to blow his brains out when he's finished making the call. And I suspect that's exactly what happened.' I paused, waiting to see if Grushko agreed.

Go on,' he said.

They let Milyukin sit in the restaurant and then pick him up as he's leaving. It's nice and quiet in the fortress at night, so there's no fuss. Persuading him to get into the car shouldn't be too much of a problem. By that time they'd already grabbed Vaja Ordzhonikidze, so it was probably his car they were driving. Then they drive them both to the forest and shoot them.'

Grushko nodded. Yes,' he said, I think that's it. Sasha, get Andrei to ring round all the local bus and freight companies. Tell him to find out if there's one of them which employs a Ukrainian driver called Tolya who might not have turned up for work in the last week or two.'

He noted the expression of doubt on Sasha's face and shook his head.

I know that's a pretty tall order, absenteeism being what it is these days, but we have to find out who this character was and what he was up to. Once we've discovered that we'll know why Milyukin was murdered. Ordzhonikidze too, I expect.'

For another ten minutes or so, we discussed a few speculative theories as to what Tolya might have wanted to tell Milyukin. Nothing seemed particularly likely. At the same time I was impressed with the democratic way Grushko was handling this inquiry. There is an old Russian saying, If I am a boss then you are a fool; and if you are a boss then I am a fool.' It was not a sentiment that Grushko would have had much time for.

Nikolai came into the office. He was carrying some photographs.

Dmitri just brought in the snaps of the Georgian's funeral, sir,' he said and laid them on the desk in front of Grushko. There was one in particular he seemed eager to draw to Grushko's attention. It was a picture of Dzhumber Gankrelidze, the Georgian gang boss.

Handsome bastard, isn't he?' said Grushko.

Funny thing,' said Nikolai. While I was interviewing Chazov just now, I knocked these on to the floor. He caught a good look at that one of Dzhumber, sir, and I swear it scared the hell out of him.'

Chazov's restaurant is only a short way off Nevsky Prospekt,' he said thoughtfully. When was that firebomb actually reported?'

About 10.50 p.m.,' I said.

Ten minutes later the State Automobile Inspectorate report Dzhumber's green Merc on Nevsky. So he and a few of the boys could have been driving away from Chazov's after giving him the squeeze.'

Grushko got up from his chair and went over to his cupboard. He opened the door and started to wash his hands in the little sink.

You know,' he said, if we were to pick the Georgians up to help us with our inquiries into the arson attack ' he paused as he dried his hands on the towel that was hanging inside the door we might manage to help keep Sultan Khadziyev alive for a while. At least until we find him.'

His eyes met mine with a question for which I already had the answer.

I think that if Nikolai were to show me his papers, then an arrest protocol could probably be issued. But remember, you'll only be able to hold them for three days.'

Grushko shrugged. Perhaps our friend Chazov will be more inclined to cooperate once he finds that we've got the Georgians in custody. And we might actually get to charge them before our three days are up.'

He put on his jacket and straightened his tie.

Are you ready?' he said to me.

I nodded and followed him to the door.

You're in for a treat,' he said. Sometimes I think that I married the Winston Churchill of cooking. To do so much with so little.'

13

Grushko lived modestly, I thought. Too modestly, it seemed, for someone who could have been having his paw stroked. The colour television set was an old one, but not as old as the record-player. There were more books than I had expected, although many of them were medical textbooks. The sofa and armchairs were made of plastic-vinyl and in need of re-springing, while the linoleum in the tiny hallway was worn in places. About the only thing that looked new was a radio-cassette player in the kitchen and a rather gaudy set of wine-glasses that still had the labels on their bases. Of course Grushko might have been the type who was patient spending any corruptly received money. Maybe he was hoarding dollar bills underneath his mattress for a holiday abroad or, police pensions being as miserable as they were, for the day when he retired. I wondered how I might get a chance to go in his bedroom and make a quick search.

But he had not exaggerated his wife's abilities in the kitchen. We ate a delicious cabbage soup, followed by some deep-fried cheese with mushrooms and potatoes and then a scoop of icecream. We drank some of Grushko's home-made whisky, which was a lot stronger than it seemed, a discovery I was only to make the following morning.

With the exception of Tanya, Grushko's daughter, they were a fairly typical family: the old mother who drank just a little too much of the Georgian wine I brought with me; her daughter Lena, small and neatly dressed, who ate less so that her guest could eat more and who seemed hardly old enough to have a twenty-four-year-old daughter of her own; and Grushko himself, whose strength of character and obvious authority counted for nothing in this, the most matriarchal of Russian institutions, for Lena ran the home and he knew it.

Tanya was a different flock of sheep: young, beautiful and intelligent, she looked like one of those people who can travelmore like a musician or a ballet dancer than a doctor at the Vreden Casualty Institute. Of course the fact that she was so well-groomed I learned was due not at all to Grushko but to her boyfriend, Boris, who seemed to have unlimited access to foreign goods, or so Grushko told me later. She was also a rather capricious young woman, for I can think of no other explanation to account for why she should have chosen the occasion of my being there to announce that she and Boris were planning to get married. Unless it was simply that she knew Grushko was less likely to lose his temper about it with me being there. Or perhaps it was some sort of revenge for all the times he must have embarrassed her with his obvious dislike of Boris. Neither one of the explanations appeared to me to be particularly satisfactory. But then I am a lawyer.

On hearing the news, Lena Grushko and her old mother seemed delighted. But it was all Grushko could do not to take a bite out of his table mat. He did his best to make a show of being pleased but it wasn't much of an act and it didn't last longer than a couple of nods and a thin rictus of a smile. Still, Tanya was not about to let him get away with anything less than a complete Te Deum.

Aren't you pleased for me, Dad? she said.

Well, naturally I'm pleased for you,' he said with considerable difficulty. Naturally.' He frowned as he tried to think of something pleasant to say. Instead he found his line of argument.

But have you thought about where you're both going to live? I mean, you could always have this room '

I could see that this was not an idea that held much attraction for him.

Excuse me,' I said. Where's the. ?'

Left as you go out of the door,' he said.

I left the room and opened the lavatory door, but did not go inside. Instead I went into Grushko's bedroom. I listened to their raised voices for a second and then lifted the mattress.

We're going to live with Boris's parents,' said Tanya. At least until we can get a place of our own.'

That could be a lot harder than you think,' said Grushko. Apartments are not so easy to come by in Petersburg.'

Boris has lots of connections,' she said glibly. He'll sort it out. You needn't worry about that.'

Where do Boris's parents live?' asked Lena Grushko.

On Decembrist's Square.'

Oh, how lovely.'

There was about fifty dollars under Grushko's mattress, on his wife's side of the bed. But this meant nothing. My own wife had amassed almost two hundred dollars before I moved out. I tucked the sheets in at the corners, flushed the toilet and then returned to the dinner table.

Not that modern block on the corner?' said Grushko.

Yes. It's very nice.'

But those apartments were built for people who were imprisoned by the tsar, and their descendants.'

Yes,' said Tanya. That would be Boris's grandfather, Cyril.'

Grushko shook his head impatiently. What I mean to say is that those flats were for people in the Party.'

But things are different now. The Party's finished. You're always saying so.'

Maybe so, but those people who were in the Party are still enjoying their old privileges. Including a nice apartment on Decembrist's Square. Well, don't you see?'

I haven't seen them enjoying many privileges. They still have to queue for bread like anyone else. And they don't own a car like you do.'

Living where they do, I don't suppose they need one,' said Grushko. Besides, Boris has a car. A BMW.'

Grushko's wife shot him a fierce look.

Yevgeni Ivanovich,' she said stiffly. But before she could begin her reprimand the phone rang and Grushko got up to answer it.

I smiled politely at Tanya.

Congratulations,' I said lamely. I hope you'll be very happy.'

We must ask Boris and his family to dinner,' said Lena.

Tanya's eyes drifted towards the doorway and the sound of her father speaking on the telephone.

I don't know that that's a very good idea,' she said. Besides, what could we feed them? A kilo of meat costs a week's pay.'

I have a box of English soaps,' said Lena. I could trade that.'

Oh, Mum, you can't trade that. Not your English soaps.'

Well, they're much too good ever to use.'

When Grushko came back he was putting on his jacket.

I'm afraid I have to go out,' he said quietly.

What's up?' I asked.

Sultan Khadziyev just called Nikolai at the Big House,' he explained. Apparently he wants to talk. A chance to clear his name. He reckons he can prove that he had nothing to do with Milyukin's death.'

I got up from the table.

No need for you to leave,' he said.

I glanced at Lena and her daughter and smiled.