Dead Meat

I'm sure you've both got a lot to discuss,' I said and quickly put on my own jacket. Thank you for a lovely dinner.'

Grushko grunted indifferently but I had the feeling that he welcomed the company.

So where are we going?' I asked him as we went down in the lift.

He wants to meet in the open,' said Grushko, looking at his watch. I'm to be on Bank Bridge across the Griboyedev Canal in twenty minutes.'

Can you trust him?'

We've got nothing to lose. And since there wasn't time to trace the call I really don't see any alternative.'

So you're just going to stand there and wait for him to turn up?'

Maybe I should surround the area with militiamen and risk scaring him off: is that what you're suggesting?'

You could wear a wire.'

Grushko chuckled. You've been watching too many movies, my friend,' he said. We've got one set of walkie-talkies for the whole department and they only work in open areas. Made in the USSR, just like this lousy lift.' He thumped the side of the urinous cabin impatiently.

About a month ago, we were going to pick this guy up in the Kutznechny Market. We had the place surrounded but the building was interfering with the walkie-talkies. So I had to get a man to keep running round the building to keep everyone informed of what was happening. How's that for a modern police force?'

Couldn't the KGB.'

We can just about twist their arms to install a few bugs for us. Like that Georgian funeral wake. But a wire, no. Not that that bug was worth the trouble. Most of the Georgians were too drunk for us to make out what they were saying.'

The lift arrived on the ground floor with a lurch and we walked unsteadily outside into the late evening sunshine. These white nights took a bit of getting used to. As we drove south and then west along Nevsky, we saw so few people on the streets that one might almost have thought that there had been some terrible, Chernobyl-style nuclear accident.

You know, I never mind being called out late at this time of year,' said Grushko. It gives me a chance really to see the city. This place must have been something before the revolution. It's nights like these when you might almost imagine that the whole thing was just a bad dream, you know? That it never happened.'

Passing Moscow Station we saw a group of ragged children collected in front of the station's great arched doorways. The clock on top of the short square tower said eleven-thirty.

It's a bit late for kids to be out,' I observed. Some of them don't look more than ten years old.'

Runaways,' said Grushko. City's full of them. They prefer to move around at night, like rats, when there's less chance of being picked up by the children's militia.'

We came down the side of the Griboyedev Canal and stopped a short way from a small wooden suspension bridge that looked like something out of a model village. The cables by which its short span was anchored were held in the mouths of four cast-iron gryphons.

You stay in the car and answer the phone if it rings,' Grushko told me. And keep your head down.'

He reached inside his jacket and took out an enormous automatic. He let the gun somersault over his finger in the trigger-guard, thumbed back the catch and drew out the double magazine. Then he hammered it back up the handle with the heel of his hard hand, spun the gun back into his palm like a cowboy, and worked the slide.

Just in case we run out of small talk,' he said, and slipped the gun back into his shoulder-holster. I hate not having the last word.'

Collecting his cigarettes off the dashboard, he got out and walked across the road to the edge of the canal. When he reached the centre of the bridge I saw him light a cigarette and lean forwards on the railing. Anyone seeing him there, staring down into the murky green water, might have taken him for some love-sick student contemplating suicide. I didn't doubt that the evening had already given him a lot to think about and that being sick of love probably came into it somewhere. I knew a fair bit about that myself.

The time appointed for Grushko's meeting came and went and still Sultan did not appear. With a hunter's patience Grushko hardly moved on the bridge and only the occasional flare of a match lighting another cigarette signalled his continuing vigilance. It was past one o'clock when the car telephone rang. As I answered it I could see that Grushko had heard it too. He straightened stiffly and then walked slowly back towards the car.

Sultan won't be coming,' said Nikolai.

What happened?'

He's been shot. Get across to the Titan Cinema on Nevsky. I'll see you both outside.'

When I relayed the message to Grushko he spat and took out his gun. For a brief second I thought that the death of his prime suspect was going to result in my own murder as well. However he merely removed the magazine and then worked the slide to eject the live round. He thumbed the bullet back into the magazine which he then replaced inside the grip. Grushko was quite fastidious where gun safety was concerned.

He drove us silently back up Griboyedev and on to Nevsky, slowing as we came across the Anichkov Bridge with its distinctive rearing bronze horses, and saw the blue flashing lights ahead of us. We pulled up and as we walked through the police line holding back the small crowd of onlookers which had gathered, I spotted Georgi Zverkov and a film crew. He shouted something after Grushko and was ignored.

Surrounding a red Zhiguli was a group of the Central Board's scientific experts. Two of them were holding a tape-measure through the driver's window and measuring the distance between two imaginary points: the gun which had been fired and the head it had been aimed at. This was Militia Section 59's precinct and Lieutenant Khodyrev was on hand to provide a first report of what had happened.

Three shots in the face, point blank,' she said, fired from another stationary vehicle. We've got a witness who claims he saw the whole thing.'

She turned and pointed to a small boy who was standing nervously between two militiamen.

Grushko waited until the two officers were finished with their tape-measure and then ducked through the car's open window. When he had seen all he wanted to see I took a look myself.

Sultan Khadziyev lay across the gearstick, his face hardly distinguishable from the blood-soaked passenger seat. The passenger door was open and one of the experts was carefully searching the floor and door upholstery for stray bullets.

I stood up, saw that Nikolai had arrived on the scene, and then looked around for Grushko. He was squatting down in front of the boy.

What's your name, son?' I heard him ask.

The boy looked across Grushko's shoulder like a hungry dog. He was wearing a dirty denim jacket and a polo-neck sweater that was several sizes too big for him. He rubbed his short-cropped, almost bald head and then his dark-shadowed eyes. I guessed him no more than twelve years old. He smelled worse than a mangy dog.

Come on,' said one of the militiamen gruffly. You don't want us to send you to an institution, do you?'

Hey, hey,' said Grushko, that's my star-witness you've got there.'

Grushko took out his cigarettes and offered the boy one. He took it, dipped the end on Grushko's gold lighter and puffed it expertly.

Rodya,' he said finally. Rodya Gutionov.'

Well, Rodya,' said Grushko. You're a brave fellow. Most boys of your age would have run away when they saw what you saw.'

The boy shrugged modestly. Me? I wasn't scared,' he bragged.

Of course you weren't,' said Grushko. So, what did you see?' He tucked the rest of his cigarettes into the pocket of the boy's greasy jacket.

The man who got shot had just pulled up at the traffic lights,' said Rodya, when, a few seconds later, this other car pulls up alongside him. The passenger in the front seat leaned out with a chalk and waved it, like he was after a light. So the other man, the one who got shot, winds down his window and is handing over some matches when the other man the one with the cigarette, grabs him by the arm and starts shooting.' He shook his head excitedly and mimed the action of the gunman. Bam-bam-bam just like that. I never heard such a noise. Well, then they drove off, fast. The car went up Nevsky a bit, towards the Admiralty building and then did a U-turn, tyres squealing like it was something out of a movie.'

What kind of car was this, Rodya?'

Zhiguli. Beige colour. Local plate.'

And how many men were in it?'

Three. But I think the one in the back was a woman. He shook his head. 'I couldn't be sure, because the other car was in the way. And when they started shooting I was trying to keep my head down in the doorway there.

He pointed at the cinema entrance. The film was some old historical epic of the early sixties starring Anthony Quinn. His was a face not unlike Grushko's own.

You did the right thing,' said Grushko. Tell me, Rodya, where do you live?'

Block 1, 77 Pushkinskaya Street,' replied the boy. Flat 25.'

You're out a bit late, aren't you?'

The boy looked down at his filthy trainers. My father's on leave from the navy,' he said. When he's on leave he likes to get drunk. And then he hits me. So I make myself scarce.'

Grushko nodded. It sounded plausible. Pushkinskaya Street was only a few blocks away. The drunken father was a common enough feature in a Russian home. With mine it had been my mother.

All right, Rodya, you can go. But be careful.'

The boy grinned and walked carefully away.

The lying little scrap,' Grushko muttered. Escaped from an institution more like, if that haircut is anything to go by.'

So why are you letting him go?' I asked.

Because I've been in a few of these places and I wouldn't keep an animal in them. You might better ask why he risked being sent back to an institution to speak to us.' He chuckled as he answered his own question. Bravado, I suppose. So he can brag to his mates about it, I wouldn't wonder.'

Grushko turned and went round the far side of the car to inspect the contents of the dead man's pockets that had been laid out on a plastic carrier bag. He picked up Sultan's revolver.

Milyukin was shot with an automatic,' he said, and flipped open the gun's cartridge chamber to inspect the barrel. Not that this would have shot anyone. It's a replica.'

Nikolai was examining a packet of Kosmos cigarettes.

Russian chalks,' he said and lifted one of the filter ends clear of the foil wrapping. And opened from the right end of the packet.'

Grushko unfolded Sultan's wallet. He tossed a wad of dollars on to the carrier bag, then some food coupons, a condom, a railway warrant and a cutting from Novy Mir about Milyukin's death. One thing seemed to interest him. It was a small piece of paper with an official-looking rubber-stamp on it.

Well, well, well,' he said quietly.

What is it?' I asked.

Sultan's alibi,' said Grushko. I imagine this is what he wanted to talk to me about. It's a release form, from the Petrogradsky Region Militia. According to this piece of paper, Sultan Khadziyev spent the night of Mikhail Milyukin's murder drunk in the local LTP. That was why he felt so confident about meeting me. If this is genuine and he did spend that night in the drying-out tank, then he would have been in the clear.'

Grushko handed Nikolai the document.

You'd best check this out in the morning,' he said. Just to make sure.'

He sighed and stared up at the purpling sky. It would soon be dark, if only for about fifty minutes.

And that is that.'

So why buy him a ticket upstairs?' said Nikolai.

The Georgians put two and two together and made five,' said Grushko. Just like we did.' He shrugged. Or that's what they want us to think. Either way we're back where we started.'

Still want us to pick the Georgians up tomorrow?'

Grushko looked at his watch. You mean today, don't you?' he murmured wearily. Yes, I do. More than ever.'

There is some good news, sir,' announced Lieutenant Khodyrev.

Well, don't make us beg for it,' said Grushko.

We've found your burglar. One of my men picked him up this evening. At Autovo Market. He was trying to sell Mr Milyukin's Golden Calf.'

Who is he?'

His name is Valentin Bogomolov,' she replied. He's a juvenile offender, lives with his parents in the same building as Milyukin.'

Grushko nodded appreciatively at her. Well done, Lieutenant,' he said. And Lieutenant?'

Sir?'

Sorry. sorry for biting your head off like that. It's been a long day.'

That's all right, sir.'

First thing in the morning, Nikolai, I want you and the lieutenant here to interview him.'

What about the Georgians, sir?'

You can leave them to Sasha and the OMON squad boys. I want to hear this little punk singing before lunchtime. Got that?'

Sir.'

By now Zverkov and his crew had succeeded in getting past the militia line. The cameraman was as close to Sultan's dead body as his lens permitted. Zverkov stood beside him describing the scene into the microphone he was holding. There was a bright, intense sort of look on his face and he was grinning wildly, as if he was excited by what he saw. He reminded me of the small runaway boy, Rodya, who was still hovering near the scene. Once again Zverkov called out to Grushko and followed us as we walked back to the car.

Colonel Grushko? Can you tell us what happened here please? For St Petersburg Television.' Zverkov covered the microphone. Come on, Grushko. You're not going to sulk about what happened the other night, are you? I was just doing my job. Same as now. Trying to find out what happened here. Was it a Mafia killing?'

Grushko stopped and looked at Zverkov with undisguised loathing. His lip wrinkled and for a second I thought he would punch the man. Instead he nodded towards the car and Sultan's body.

Why don't you ask him?' he said.

14

The OMON squad was a special-purpose unit, a sort of militia-commando outfit. They wore military-style uniforms with helmets, blue flak jackets and carried machine pistols and AK47s. While awaiting the order to move they sat in a large room in the Big House and watched an Arnold Schwarzenegger video, their weapons cradled in their strong arms like schoolboys emulating their screen hero. The film, Predator, was in English, but only the action seemed to matter. Most of the squad's members were in their twenties. Good-humoured and slightly nervous, they seemed more like a team of footballers trying to relax a little before a big match than a dedicated group of police gunmen. But there was nothing sporting about the way they tackled criminals and it was rare that anyone was inclined to offer these ruthless young men more than a token resistance.

Grushko put his head round the door and spoke to a man with a moustache who was smoking a cigarette and seemed less interested in the film than the others.

Pavel Pavlovich,' he said, a word, if you please.'

Lieutenant Pavel Pavlovich Khlobuyev, who was the unit's commander, stubbed out his cigarette and followed Grushko into the corridor.

Have you got a Georgi Rodionov in your squad, Pavel?' Grushko asked him.

Not any more. He took a bullet in the leg about a year ago. D'you remember? It was when we hit Kumarin and his gang.'

Grushko nodded vaguely.

Anyway, he was invalided out of OMON. He's now a firearms instructor at the Police Training Centre in Pushkin. Best shot with a handgun I ever saw.'

Do you think he's the sort who might handle a little private security work?'

Khlobuyev turned and looked back into the room. His men cheered as Arnie let rip with a heavy machine-gun.

Sir, half my squad is doing some kind of moonlighting.' He shrugged. It's a fact of life, salaries being what they are. At 225 roubles a month I wouldn't blame any of them if they were male models during their off-duty periods. The man you mentioned, Rodionov, do you know how much his compensation was when he got shot? Nothing. Nothing at all.'

Like I always say,' said Grushko. There's nothing more expensive than a cheap police force.'

I met Grushko on the stair, under the watchful eye of Iron Felix.

Have you seen Pushkin yet?' he asked.

I told him I hadn't.

You Muscovites,' he said, shaking his head with pity. You've got nothing to compare with it. I'll show you the Catherine Palace on the way to the Police Academy.'

He explained about Georgi Rodionov when we were in the car.

Does he know we're coming?'

God, no,' said Grushko. It'll be a nice surprise for him, eh?' He chuckled sadistically.

Pushkin is about twenty-five kilometres south of St Petersburg and so named, since 1937, after the famous poet. For Stalin the best poets were always the ones who had been dead for a century. It was a quiet, leafy little place with some beautiful parks and not one but two royal palaces.

The Pushkin Police Academy stood only a short way east of the Catherine Palace and yet it would have been hard to have found two more contrasting buildings in the whole of Russia: the palace with its 300-metre-long facade of blue and white stucco, its gold cupolas and its gilded wrought-iron gates; and the crumbling brown brick of the Academy, with its potholed courtyard, its leaking roof and its peeling paintwork.

I was no Communist, but you didn't have to be Lenin to see that a dynasty that could have built such palaces for themselves while peasants went hungry was headed for serious trouble. Yet I was glad that such places still existed: without these magnificent reminders of our former glories it would have been hard to see ourselves as anything but a third-world banana republic. With an acute shortage of bananas.

The Director of the Academy was a big ox of a man with a full, dark moustache you could have steered a motorcycle with. He had a friendly smile of the kind that is supposed to be lucky and, I was soon to suspect, a nose for making money that smelt in his Academy as many business opportunities as there were gaps between his teeth.

His office was big and gloomy, unremarkably Soviet in every way save only for the strange pictures that hung on the yellowing walls; when the telephone rang, I took a closer look at them.

Although they were expensively framed, none of the oil-pastel drawings looked particularly well rendered. But then lack of talent never stopped anyone from making a living as an artist in Russia. At the same time, what had been drawn was easily recognisable, even familiar, to anyone who has seen a science-fiction comic. There were four pictures in all and they formed a sequence that told the story of a man driving a car at night whose journey was interrupted by the arrival of an alien spaceship and who was engaged in conversation by one of these strange beings prior to being taken away in the flying saucer on a day-trip to a strange planet. UFOs were a common enough interest among people: UFOs, faith-healers, spiritualism, Nostradamus, pyramid power and Satanism. When it was a matter of believing in the impossible we are a most credulous people. Maybe that's not such a surprise. After all, we have had more than seventy years of practice.

I turned and found Grushko standing at my shoulder. He nodded with polite appreciation as the director replaced the telephone.

You've certainly picked a busy day to come and see us,' said the director. After the local priest has finished blessing our new canteen, the newspapers are coming here to photograph those pictures and to interview me about my UFO experience.'

I felt my jaw slacken with surprise.

I imagine that's where we'll find Georgi Rodionov,' he said.

What?' I heard myself say. In a UFO?'

The director chuckled. No, in the canteen. You'll stay to lunch, of course?'

Well ' Grushko glanced at his watch.

But I insist. Our canteen is excellent. You won't find a better one. Not anywhere. To be honest, we put a lot of cooperative restaurants to shame. You and Georgi can have your little chat in the officers' dining-room.'

Grushko was still too surprised to disagree with him.

Er, fine,' he said, and we followed the director into the corridor.

He's not in any trouble, I hope. Georgi's a good man. Best weapons instructor I've ever had.'

We hurried by some women who were busy replastering a wall.

We just want to ask him a few questions,' said Grushko. About an old inquiry.'

The director stopped abruptly and flung open a door. Several cadets looked up from the gym equipment they were exercising on.

Carry on,' he yelled at them. Then he looked at the two of us and grinned. What do you think? I got a couple of metal workers to copy some American Nautilus equipment. Otherwise we could never have afforded a gym like this. In the evening this place is a health and fitness club for the local community. Leastways for those who are prepared to pay the membership fee. All the money is ploughed back into the Academy. Not bad, eh?'

Grushko and I conceded that he had done well. The director was starting to interest me in a way I had not expected.

We moved on down the corridor and once again he stopped and flung open another door. This time it was a large lecture theatre with a cinema screen.

At the weekend,' he said without any sign of embarrassment, this is the town cinema. Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Madonnaanything. For just two roubles a head.'

You seem to have thought of everything,' I said.

To run a place like this, you have to be a good businessman. The new canteen cost 50,000 roubles. The money has to come from somewhere. It certainly doesn't come from the Ministry. He laughed bitterly. 'You find it any way you know how. And it's lucky I know how.

I wondered how much the UFO story was likely to raise. The pictures had been a shrewd addition: they would probably double the price. I began to like the director. He didn't care what people thought of him just so long as it brought in the money to improve the facilities for his cadets. At the same time I saw how the success of his UFO story depended on his never admitting the truth to anyone. The man wasn't corrupt, he was a genius. He ought to have been put in charge of the entire militia budget. He could probably have dreamed up a way of doubling that too.

In the new canteen nearly three hundred cadets were already seated at their refectory tables. Like their senior officers and the dinner-ladies they were awaiting the arrival of the black priest. With any Russian ceremony there is always a lot of waiting around. Grushko and I followed the director into the centre of the room and then suddenly, as if by magic, the priest and his acolyte were among us.

The priest was a young man of about thirty who stood a head taller than anyone else in the canteen so that his sharp blue eyes seemed to be on everyone. He was bearded and, as was traditional, he wore his hair long and tied in a tail behind his head. He was clothed in a voluminous black cassock with wide mandarin sleeves, a long white silk-brocade tippet, and a large cross on a silver chain. Handsome, and younger than most of the priests I had ever seen, he was also a dead ringer for Rasputin. His acolyte was altogether less distinguished, being younger, fatter, clean-shaven and rather sleepy-looking, as if he had just rolled out of a warm, greasy bed.

The director barked something at the cadets who, as one man, stood to attention. They were not entirely silent and I heard a few remarks and corresponding guffaws as the priest, taking it all in good part, addressed a short sermon to his strange flock.

Especially by the standards of the Russian Orthodox Church, this was not a long sermon, lasting only three or four minutes; and the blessing, with sung responses from the nasal-sounding acolyte and which lasted perhaps six or seven minutes, was not a long blessing. But since the lunch of soup and sausage was already cooling on the tables, the priest's little service seemed interminable.

Finally, as if to make quite certain that the food was cold, the two of them walked solemnly round the whole canteen, liberally dousing cadets, tables, walls and food with lashings of holy water. A light murmur of discomfort turned louder with amusement and the director took advantage of the stir to find Georgi Rodionov and then usher the three of us into an annexe to the main canteen that was the officers' dining-room. He sat us down at his own table and hospitably served us himself with three plates of soup. But he did not join us, claiming, not implausibly, that he was on a strict diet.

Quite a character,' observed Grushko when the director had left us.

Isn't he?' said Rodionov, and sipped his soup noisily.

Is he serious? About the UFO thing?'

Oh yes.' Rodionov looked up from his bowl and shrugged philosophically. These days we all of us have to do some pretty strange things in the way of making a living.'

While Grushko asked his questions, I studied the Academy's weapons-instructor. Rodionov was a strong-looking man with fair hair, blue eyes, a broad nose and thick sensual lips. But for the height of his cheekbones, he might have passed for a German or a Pole. It was a distinguished, dreamy sort of face, as might have better suited a poet rather than a policeman.

So tell me about it,' said Grushko, and drank some soup.

Rodionov scratched his nose self-consciously and looked from side to side. He was about to answer when Grushko interrupted him.

Why didn't you come forward? he said quietly. 'You knew that we would want to speak to everyone who had any contact with Mikhail Milyukin in the time leading up to his death. So what's your excuse, mister?

Rodionov's appetite was gone. He sat back on his chair and folded his arms defensively.

If it appeared on a report that I was moonlighting, then I could lose this job.' He spoke sullenly, like a schoolboy who had been caught stealing fruit. I've already lost any real prospect of getting on in the militia. I suppose you know I was invalided out of the OMON squad with no compensation?'

I know it,' said Grushko.

I've got a wife and family, and I can't afford to lose this job. I need the money. And any extra that I can earn.' He lit a cigarette. Besides, it's not as if there's much to tell.'

Why don't you let me be the judge of that?'

All right.' Rodionov poured himself some apple juice from the jug on the table. Really it was little more than water with a few slices of apple core floating in it.

I head up a small syndicate of militiamen offering private security to people. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about. Mostly it's shop owners, cooperative restaurants, and joint-ventures people trying to make an honest living who find themselves coming up against the Mafia. Occasionally we get an individual client. Like Mikhail Milyukin.

He contacted me. Said that he'd been threatened by some people. At first I assumed he was talking about the Mafia, but it later transpired that it was some people in the Department who had him really spooked. He didn't say what they wanted from him, just that they were trying to intimidate him. Apparently there was some Mafioso, a pimp whom Milyukin had helped to send to the zone, and these KGB people had told him that they were going to see to it that this fellow obtained an early release. Milyukin was worried that if he did get out, then he might come looking for him.

Well, I went to his apartment and we talked. I worked out a plan and a price for him but he said that it was too much. He offered me fifty roubles in cash, on account and I turned it down.' Rodionov shrugged. Simple as that, sir.'

When was this?'

A couple of days before he was shot.'

Morning or afternoon?'

Rodionov thought for a moment. Morning. Between nine and ten o'clock.'

It must have been just before the burglary,' I said.

Rodionov looked surprised.

Burglary? The papers didn't mention any burglary.' His surprise turned into a frown. Come to think of it though, there was something.'

Let's have it,' said Grushko.

It was when I was on my way out of the building where Milyukin lived. I saw this face. Fellow with a long record for petty thieving. Mainly a pickpocket, but he's done a bit of burglary in his time. Name of Pyotr Mogilnikov. Anyway, he was talking to these two characters in a car parked right outside. But I didn't think anything about it at the time. I mean, Milyukin was worried about being killed, not ripped off.'

Can you describe the two men in the car?'

I didn't get much more than a glance at them sir. But they were dark and one of them was smoking American cigarettes. I remember him throwing the pack out of the car.'

Brand?'

Rodionov shrugged and shook his head.

What make of car was it?'

Er. an old Zim. Black. Red upholstery. A nice clean car.' He stubbed his cigarette out with some ferocity. You know sir, for what it's worth, I'm not very proud of myself considering what happened to Mr Milyukin. I mean, he was a nice fellow. But fifty roubles, it just wasn't enough, for a syndicate.'

Grushko nodded sombrely. He wiped his soup bowl with a piece of black bread which he then ate.

Then we'll say no more about it, this time,' he said and, because I had also finished eating, he stood up from the table. At the same moment one of the dinner-ladies arrived bearing three plates of steaming sausage.

Thank you for the soup, said Grushko, 'but we have to get back now.

Here, what about your sausage?' said Rodionov. You eat it,' said Grushko. With two jobs, you probably need it.'

15

When we returned to the Big House we found the corridor outside Grushko's office busy with OMON squad militia and the Georgians they had arrested in the gym at the Pribaltskaya. We saw Sasha still wearing one of the new flak jackets that had just been supplied to the Criminal Services Department, and Grushko waved him towards us.

Any trouble?' he asked.

One of them gave us the slip, sir,' admitted Sasha. But we'll pick him up.'

See that you do.'

We watched the gang being led into the interrogation-room. They were attracting quite a bit of attention with their dark good-looks, their smart clothes and their macho swagger. Georgians always do. Seeing Dzhumber Gankrelidze, Grushko added, I'll want a word with that one. He's got some explaining to do.'

Sasha nodded.

Is Nikolai Vladimirovich back yet?' asked Grushko.

In the office. He's got Lieutenant Khodyrev with him. And some kid.'

We retreated down the corridor. The door to the detectives' room was open. Catching sight of Grushko, Andrei, still pursuing his telephone inquiry, stood up nervously, as if expecting to be yelled at once again.

Still nothing to report, sir,' he said awkwardly.

Grushko grunted, his interest apparently reserved for the youth sitting in front of Nikolai and Khodyrev, his left hand manacled to a statue of Lenin. He wore a black leather jacket with a painting of the Buddha on the back, and several earrings. His hair was fashionably quiffed and he looked as if he had been crying. He was reading through the statement he had given to Nikolai.

If you're happy with what's written there, then sign it,' said Nikolai, and handed him a pen.

The youth nodded and then sniffed unhappily. He took the pen, wet the end on his yellowish tongue, laid the statement on the desk and signed it carefully. Nikolai collected the statement, inspected it to see if Mickey Mouse had given him his autograph and, seeing Grushko, stood up and came towards us.

Is this the kid who washed Milyukin's Golden Calf?'

That's right sir. His name is Valentin Bogomolov. He's a rope-swallower.

Grushko frowned. Before he had joined Grushko's team, Nikolai had spent several years with the drugs squad. His knowledge of drug-users' slang was second to none.

I mean, he smokes a bit of hash.'

Thank you,' growled Grushko.

He lives with his mum and dad in the flat upstairs from Milyukin.'

So what's his story?'

Nikolai handed Grushko Bogomolov's statement. The older man glanced over it and then nodded.

Perhaps I'd better hear this for myself,' he said and perching himself on the corner of Nikolai's desk, picked up the Golden Calf, nodded at Khodyrev and then faced the youth sternly.

Nikolai took out his cigarettes and shoved one in Bogomolov's mouth as if he had been feeding a baby.

This is Colonel Grushko, he explained, and lit the cigarette. 'I want you to tell him what you've been telling us. Let's start from where you first saw these men outside Milyukin's door.

Bogomolov took an unsteady chestful of smoke and nodded meekly.

Well, I was on my way downstairs when I saw them,' he said tremulously. These three men. At first I thought they might be plainclothes militiamen or something. I mean, they didn't look like thieves, but I knew they didn't live in that flat. Plus the fact that they had keys. Two of them let themselves in the door while the third one stayed outside. He looked like he was keeping watch, and I guess then I knew they were up to something. Actually, he seemed less well-dressed than the other two who went in, and more like a thief, if you know what I mean.

He sighed profoundly and placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. With the leather jacket he looked quite like James Dean. But if there had been any cool bravado, it was long gone.

Go on,' said Grushko.

I was watching to see what happened. You see, it was quite dark on the stairs, so they didn't know I was watching them. Anyway, I suppose they were in there for ten or fifteen minutes, and when they came out again they had a few papers as well as some stuff in a carrier bag.'

What stuff?' said Grushko.

I don't know. Probably more papers. One of them said something funny something about going back to the seagulla__.'

The seagull? Grushko looked at Nikolai. 'Fans of Chekhov, were they?

I'm sure that was it,' said Bogomolov. Even though it didn't make any sense to me.'

Seagulla__ is army slang for a car, sir,' explained Nikolai.

That's interesting,' murmured Grushko. But it's also one of those old copies of American cars that Zim or Zil used to turn out. A Seagull was a Buick copy, I think. We'd better check it out.' Grushko glanced down at Bogomolov and frowned.

Well? What happened next?'

They cleared off, leaving the front door open. Well, that was my chance. I thought I'd just duck in and see if there was anything valuable lying around. There was some money on the table about fifty roubles and that golden cow thing. I had that and the money and ran out.'

He clutched at Grushko's sleeve with a hand that was covered with eczema. Grushko's nose wrinkled with distaste.

That's the honest truth, sir, I swear. I was going to sell the cow to buy some wheels, but I don't know anything about a murder, sir. Please, sir, please tell her that, will you? He nodded fearfully at Lieutenant Khodyrev. 'She's been saying all kinds of things, but they're not true, sir.

Grushlco nodded and detached the youth's scrofulous hand from his sleeve. He pushed himself off the desk and walked through the doorway where I was standing. Nikolai followed.

Think he's telling the truth?' said Grushko.

After the stick Olga waved at him, I'm sure of it.'

Olga?' Grushko smiled.

Lieutenant Khodyrev. She's a first-class cop, sir. Threatened the kid with the whole bunch of flowers. Murder, theft of state property '

What state property is that?' I asked.

The Golden Calf,' said Nikolai. It is an important literary award. You see, at first he claimed he'd just found it lying on the road, but Lieutenant Khodyrev, she.'

We get the picture, Nikolai,' said Grushko. You don't have to give her the Order of Lenin.' He looked back into the room.

Keep him here for a minute,' he said, and then went back into his own office. He picked up the phone and asked the Big House operator to put him through to the Criminal Records Department.

Is this one of the men you saw?'

Bogomolov stared at the photograph Grushko had removed from the file and placed in front of him.

It was dark,' he said, but I think he was the one who had the keys: the one who stayed outside and kept a lookout for the other two.'

The one who looked like a thief, you said.'

Bogomolov nodded and Grushko smiled.

Good boy,' he said. Now then, how do you feel about seeing if you can identify these two other men you saw? I'm talking about an identity parade.'

Bogomolov shrugged. S'fine by me,' he said. But look, what's going to happen to me when all this is over?'

Grushko looked over at Lieutenant Khodyrev.

Have the papers gone to an investigator yet?' he asked.

No, sir,' she said, not yet.'

Then what do you think?'

You mean if he's helping us with our inquiry, sir? Under the circumstances, I should be inclined not to press charges.'

You hear that?' Grushko said to Bogomolov. You can go home after you've had a look at these men. But take a good look at them, mind. And don't say it's them just because you want to be helpful. Understand?'

Bogomolov nodded.

We returned to Grushko's office.

We'll see if he recognises any of our handsome Georgian friends,' explained Grushko.

Want me to organise the protocol?' I offered.

Please.'

Nikolai took a look at the man in the photograph whom Bogomolov had positively identified.

Who's the face, sir?'

Fellow called Pyotr Mogilnikov,' said Grushko. A pickpocket. Georgi Rodionov saw him hanging around outside Milyukin's apartment building on the day of the burglary. He was with two men in a black Volga. My guess is that these two characters paid him to lift Milyukin's keys from his pocket. Probably bumped into him on the street or something like that. And while he was out they simply let themselves in through the front door.' He glanced over Bogomolov's statement once more.

I reckon one of these characters was our careful Winston smoker,' suggested Nikolai. You know, the one who takes his chalks from the wrong end of the packet.'

Rodionov did say that one of the two men in the Volga was smoking American cigarettes,' I said.

Grushko's forefinger tapped the photograph in Nikolai's hand.

Then you'd better get that circulated,' he said. I don't want this zek going the same way as Sultan Khadziyev. We have to burn him out, and soon.' He smacked his fist into his palm. Right then. Let's sort these Dzhugashvilis.'

Georgian men enjoy a not undeserved reputation with women, being hot-blooded, passionate characters and having a cynical eye for the main chance. Any joke or story involving sexual excess usually has a Georgian as its hero. There are two other things that most people know about Georgia, One is that the region produces an excellent cognac. The other is that it was the birthplace of Josef Stalin. Only then he called himself Josef Dzhugashvili. It used to be people also knew Georgia to be a nice place to go for a holiday. But since the collapse of the Soviet Union it is only the mercenaries who are much inclined to go there.

Once, many years ago, when I was a small boy, my parents took me to Georgia for a holiday by the Black Sea. I remember how hot it had been and the kindness of the people with whom we had stayed. Now, as I looked at the truculent faces of the men who had been brought to the Big House, it seemed almost impossible to associate them with the warm and distant land that I remembered from my childhood; and all too easy to associate them with the violent struggle for power in Georgia that followed the end of Communism. But for all their black looks and weary yawns, the Georgian Mafiosi conducted themselves with dignity; and treating Grushko's men with courtesy they found that their courtesy was returned.

It was, I realised, a relationship born of mutual respect. The Georgians knew that the men of the Central Board were not the kind of militia that people were inclined to make jokes aboutthe kind that you could see strutting on the streets, blowing whistles, waggling batons and extracting fines for fictitious offences in order to supplement their wages. At the same time, the men of the Central Board knew that these Mafiosi were hard men, many of them having spent time in the labour-camp system that, despite the provisions of the Corrective Labour Code, treated men little better than animals. Having survived that dehumanising experience, most Mafiosi were sufficiently resourceful to make them hard to convict.

There were seven Georgians in custody and since the police rules regarding identity parades only required that a suspect be placed in a line with two other persons, this meant that fourteen members of the public were now required. Grushko explained that in order to make what was an admittedly crude procedure as fair as possible they had often gone to the blackmarkets at Autovo and Deviatkino in order to recruit suitably swarthy citizens; there was among these, however, an understandable lack of enthusiasm to go anywhere near the Big House and, as a result, all of the men who now volunteered to take part in Central Board identity parades were cadets from the local army barracks.

Not that there was even much of a parade: the suspect waited in a room with two of the volunteers and several militiamen; all three were asked to stand; the witness was brought into the room; and then he was asked if he recognised any of the three men standing before him. It was as simple as that.

Valentin Bogomolov looked at all seven Georgians in this way. He took his time and there was no pressure exerted on him to pick out a face. And seven times he shook his head. With the last of the Georgians, their boss Dzhumber Gankrelidze, Grushko asked Bogomolov if he was absolutely sure and Bogomolov said that he was.

All right,' said Grushko and Nikolai ushered Bogomolov out of the room.

When both of the army cadets taking part in the parade had left, Dzhumber lit a cigarette and smiled.

So, what's this all about, officer?' he asked.

With nothing to connect the Georgians with the burglary of Mikhail Milyukin's apartment Grushko decided to return to an earlier line of inquiry.

You told my men that on the night Vaja Ordzhonikidze was killed, you spent the whole evening at the Pribaltskaya Hotel.'

Dzhumber shrugged. Did I? I don't remember.'

But you were at the Pushkin Restaurant.'

Dzhumber pointed at the door that had closed behind Valentin Bogomolov.

Not according to Elvis,' he said.

Grushko did not bother to correct the Georgian's misapprehension of the identity parade's purpose.

You didn't get to the Pribaltskaya until well after you said,' he said. Your car was seen driving along Nevsky just a few minutes before eleven.'

You had your Kodak at Vaja's funeral, didn't you?' sighed Dzhumber. You saw the send-off we gave him. Now why should we do that if we killed him, eh?' He was keeping away from the subject of the Pushkin Restaurant and the firebomb.

I don't know,' said Grushko. Not yet, anyway. But say one thing, do another, that's the Georgian way, isn't it? Stalin, Beria, they were both from your part of the world.'

Dzhumber smiled his expensive gold smile and shook his head.

You sound just like the newspapers,' he said. Knocking Stalin is just another way you Russians have of knocking Georgia.'

You're a naturally contrary lot,' persisted Grushko. Everyone knows that. Even your word mamaa__ means father. Double-talk and deceit are part of the Georgian psychology.'

So who are you: the police psychiatrist?'

You know what I think?'

Go ahead. Surprise me.'

I think this whole thing has been cooked up as a pretext for you to settle a turf war with the Chechens. You kill Vaja and then go after them for it.'

I didn't think much of this theory. I wasn't sure that Grushko thought much of it himself: he seemed to want to provoke Dzhumber somehow. Perhaps that was part of his whole strategy of interrogation. But Dzhumber didn't think much more of Grushko's idea than I did.

You've got an active imagination,' he said. For a Russian.'

We had the same thought ourselves for a while. About the Chechens. Sultan Khadziyev looked like a pretty good suspect. Only he couldn't possibly have murdered Vaja. He spent the night of the murder in an LTP after a two-day bender.'

So now you've come back to us, is that it?' Dzhumber gazed wearily out of the window and then back at Grushko.

Hey, Sultan Khadziyev wasn't the only Chechen in St Petersburg, you know. Maybe you're right: maybe he wasn't the one who shot Vaja. Maybe it was one of the others. Those stinking caftans don't need much of an excuse to come after Georgians. Ever since the Central Board cleared out the Armenians, those Muslim bastards have been looking to fill the vacuum.'

Our success brings its own problems,' shrugged Grushko.

So you miss one Muhammad, I say look for another. Sultan couldn't have done it you say? Fine. Then it was another Chechen.'

I'll bear it in mind.'

You do that.'

Maybe we're wrong about this firebombing, too,' said Grushko. I don't know. The owner, a Mr Chazov, he's not helping us very much, so it's hard to know what to think.'

Go ahead. Tell me your problems.'

You had nothing to do with that either, right?'

Right. We were nowhere near the Pushkin Restaurant.'

Who said anything about the Pushkin Restaurant?'

You did,' said Dzhumber, frowning. Just now.'

No, I was talking about a firebombing.' He shook his head. I didn't say that had anything to do with the Pushkin Restaurant. It was you who connected the Pushkin with Mr Chazov, not me.'

Dzhumber's jaw shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure if Grushko had trapped him into saying something incriminating or not.

I want to see my lawyer,' he said.

Maybe in the morning,' said Grushko. But tonight you're our guests.'

Katerina was watching television by herself when finally I returned home to the apartment on Ochtinsky Prospekt. I found the tinned meat and spaghetti she had left out for me and then joined her sitting on the sofa, although I was ready to unfold the thing and go straight to sleep. She noticed my stifled yawn. Tired?'

Like I've been listening to Gorbachev. What's this you're watching?'

Hamlet.'

Hamlet was making a good job of ravishing Ophelia, or his mother, I wasn't exactly sure which. Either way it was Pasternak's translation, the famous Moscow Arts Theatre version and just the sort of thing that Katerina, who worked for Lenfilm on Kirovksy Prospekt, was only able to watch when Porfiry was away on one of his frequent business trips abroad. Porfiry preferred to watch videos of the kind that were also enjoyed by the OMON squad.

When's he back?' I asked.

Sometime tomorrow.' She shrugged and I had a fine view of her plunging cleavage.

I have to go back to Moscow tomorrow evening,' I said. To pick up my car. They've sent the part I was waiting for. I'm catching the overnight train.'

When you're there, maybe you can find some aspirin,' she said. There's none in any of the local pharmacies.'

Anything else?'

Well, we could always use some lightbulbs, live or dead. Even the duds are getting hard to find.'

It was an old dodge: people would swap the duds with functioning bulbs at their place of work.

I'm not so sure about that,' I joked. They used to call that wreckinga__ under Article 69.'

What it is to have a cop around the house,' she laughed. All right. I'll watch breakfast television and see what the latest shortages are. But really, with Porfiry away so much, it is nice to have you here. There are so many robberies around here these days.'

Maybe if the corridors weren't so dark,' I said pointedly, muggers would get less of a chance. But with people taking the lightbulbs.'

We talked for a while longer until finally Katerina said goodnight and I was at last able to unfold the sofa bed. This wasn't particularly comfortable but I slept well enough, which was more than Grushko could have said. The next morning, on my return to the Big House, I could see that he hadn't been to bed at all. Not long after returning home Grushko had received a call from Sasha informing him that a militiaman on duty at the Moskow Hotel had spotted Pyotr Mogilnikov in the lobby.

16

Two stops on the metro west of the city centre and overlooking the Alexander Nevsky Monastery, the Moskow Hotel has the shape and character of a communal-sized nuclear bomb-shelter. With nothing to distinguish the place architecturally, it is chiefly remarkable for the number of hard-currency prostitutes hanging around the doorway and the lobby, as well as for the Finnish drinking parties that arrive on the ferry from Helsinki every weekend. The prostitutes and the drunken Finns often end up together and it is commonly held that they deserve each other.

Grushko regarded the Moskow and its attendant dollar-hungry girls with obvious distaste. Like many men with grownup daughters, albeit one who earlier that same evening had announced her intention to emigrate to America, Gruskho had been shocked at a recent survey conducted among teenage Russian girls that revealed that being a hard-currency prostitute was regarded as one of the most attractive professions open to a girl.

Grushko and Sasha shoved their way past the vixen-pack waiting patiently between the hotel's double doors and entered the huge lobby, looking around for the militiaman who had summoned them. They spotted him crossing the marble floor, half-saluting as he came towards them, his thick, sinewy neck bulging over the blue collar of his uniform's shirt.

Your suspect was in the restaurant when I phoned,' explained the militiaman, who was a sergeant. But now he's gone into the amusement arcade. One of my lads is keeping an eye on him. I'd have arrested him myself, but I thought I should speak to you first.'

The three of them started towards an open flight of stairs that led up to the huge dining-hall and, beyond, the slot-machines.

What had sounded like the band at a circus was now revealed as the cabaret orchestra. On a brightly lit stage a troupe of dancing girls, wearing only G-strings under short Circassian-style red shirts, were going through their paces with all the artistic grace of a detachment of soldiers guarding Lenin's tomb. Waiters hurried to ignore their troublesome, often paralytically drunk customers, while pimps shifted between tables, finding clients and recovering percentages from prostitutes before returning to the Vegas-style amusement arcade.

To Grushko's tired eyes, it seemed a millennially decadent sight and he would not have been much surprised to have seen a hand appear in the smoky air to write the words of some prophecy on the strobe-lit wall. What bothered him most was the sight of so much food, with much of it going to waste, disregarded or rejected by those who had ordered it with hardly a second thought for whether they were actually hungry or not, while outside in the city at large the shops were empty and people queued hours to buy a loaf of bread.

Look at this swamp,' he muttered. God knows we need the hard currency, but we shouldn't have to sell our souls for it.'

This way, sir,' said Sasha.

The amusement arcade was full of people, most of them Russian, and all of them frantically feeding tokens into machines as if they too had seen the writing on the wall. They came from all over the old Soviet Union. There were agricultural engineers from Kharkov, steel workers from Magnitogorsk, timber merchants from Novosibirsk, miners from Irkutsk and teachers from Habarovsk: Siberians, Ukrainians, Tazaks, Armenians and Uzbeks Intourist travellers paying their first and only visit to the cultural and historical capital, pilgrims come to see the treasures of the Hermitage and the tombs of the tsars. But mostly they came to peer through Peter's grimy window on the West and to grab a two-week ersatz version of it for themselves.

The militia sergeant accompanying Grushko and Sasha caught his colleague's eye, followed it to a bank of fruit machines, and then drew Grushko's attention to a man sitting on a stool who was pumping coins into the slot from a paper cup that was resting in his lap. He was wearing jeans, a blue track-suit top and he had a pale, sharp-looking face. A cigarette hung like a referee's whistle on the man's grey and pendulous lower lip. It was Pyotr Mogilnikov.

As Grushko started forward he saw the second man. Or rather he saw the light catch on the knife that the man was holding close to his thigh. His was a darker-looking face with heavy brows, a long broad nose and a full Stalin-style moustache. The man advanced steadily on Mogilnikov's back and as the knife began its deadly ascent, Grushko drew his gun.

Drop that feather,' he yelled.

The man with the knife turned and saw the huge Makarov automatic in Grushko's hand. Mogilnikov turned on his stool and saw the Georgian with the knife at the very same moment that the machine he had been feeding so assiduously hit the jackpot. It was just enough distraction to enable Mogilnikov to make his getaway. He shoved the Georgian backwards and bolted towards the restaurant. Seeing the shower of descending coins deserted by their winner, other gamblers struggled to get their hands on the payout and, in the ensuing melee, the Georgian made for the back door. Grushko did not dare to fire. It was not that he worried about missing the Georgian, so much as he knew a .45 calibre bullet might pass straight through the man's body and hit an innocent bystander. Sasha had already chased after Mogilnikov and that left Grushko struggling to get through the crowd of gamblers and then the back door in pursuit of the man with the knife.

Arriving outside he glanced north along the side of the river, and then across the bridge. There was no sign of the Georgian and so he started to run round the front of the hotel. Still holding the big gun in his hand, he jogged carefully through the taxi rank, checking between the cars as he came and scanning the other side of the square and the gate of the monastery. At the corner of Nevsky Prospekt he stopped and, still seeing no sign of the Georgian, he began to retrace his steps. There was only the Metro station left to try.

Grushko came through the heavy glass doors and stopped by a busker who was collecting up the few roubles and copecks he had found in his guitar case.

Did you see a man run in here just now?' he said.

The busker caught sight of the gun in Grushko's hand and for several seconds he was too scared to do anything but open and close his mouth soundlessly.

What sort of man?' he finally stammered.

Grushko shook his head impatiently, vaulted the barrier and then jogged to the top of the huge and empty escalators. A wind stirred his hair and cooled his face pleasantly as he stopped there to decide his next move. With no one coming up, he doubted that a train could have come and gone. If the Georgian had gone into the Metro, he was probably still down there.

He stepped on to the escalator and started his descent, all the time keeping an ear out for the loudspeaker-voice that would announce the arrival of the next train. Then, at the bottom of the ascending escalator, he saw another man start back as if something had dissuaded him from going up, and Grushko knew that his quarry was lying low on the other moving stair. The Georgian must have heard him questioning the busker and climbed on the up escalator in the hope that he could get past Grushko coming down.

Grushko turned and started to climb against the downward motion of the wooden stairway. For a moment or two he succeeded only in keeping pace with it and had to climb harder in order to make his ascent. On reaching ground level again he kept low until he got to the barrier. He jumped silently over it and, seeing the busker once more, he put his finger to his lips and quietly took the guitar from him. Pressing himself into the wall, he started to tune one of the strings.

He heard the footsteps and then saw the gun. The next moment he swung the guitar by its neck and caught the Georgian full in the face. The man's gun clattered to the ground as he fell.

Grushko moved quickly forwards and kicked it away. Then he returned the still-ringing instrument to the busker.

Nice tone,' he said.

As the Georgian sat up and wiped the blood from his mouth, he found himself expertly handcuffed.

Come on you,' said Grushko. On your feet. You've got some more music to face.'

He frog-marched the Georgian back to the hotel front door, where a small crowd was gathering near Sasha.

Don't say you lost him.'

Sasha pointed at Grushko's car. Pyotr Mogilnikov was sitting in the back seat with his forearms covering his face.

Is he all right?' Grushko asked solicitously.

He's all right,' said Sasha. I had to hit him, that's all. He's just a bit winded.'

What about me?' mumbled the Georgian as he tried to staunch the copious flow of blood from his nose and mouth. I need a doctor.'

You need a lawyer more,' said Grushko and shoved him towards the militia sergeant as a black police van sped towards them with its blue light flashing.

Stick him in the raven, and bring him down to the Big House,' he said. I'd take him myself only I don't want to get any blood on my upholstery.'

Right you are, sir,' said the sergeant and, taking hold of the Georgian's blood-stained shirt collar, he shoved him towards the van as it pulled up beside them.

It was after two o'clock by the time they got back to the Big House. The Georgian, whose name was Ilya Chavchavadze, was not saying a thing, so they locked him up in the old police gaol underneath the Big House and turned their attention to Pyotr Mogilnikov. Sasha unlocked his handcuffs and sat him down on a chair in front of Grushko. You know,' he said, lighting the man a cigarette, another few seconds and that Georgian would have had you.' He tipped his own cigarette towards the lighter.

My lucky day, isn't it?'

I'd say so. I don't suppose you have any idea why he wanted to kill you?'

Mogilnikov pushed his chair back on to two legs and rocked it with insolent nonchalance.

Who knows what goes through that sort of sick mind?' he said.

How about if you were to hazard a guess?'

Your guess is as good as mine.'

Better, I shouldn't wonder,' said Grushko.

Mogilnikov smirked.

So why are you asking me?'

Oh, I just thought that almost being murdered might have helped you to see your priorities.'

Mogilnikov tugged the cigarette from his lips and stayed silent.

So tell me, why did you make a run for it?'

I thought you were with the other guy, of course. How was I to know you guys were the fairies?'

He let the chair down on all four legs, reached forward and flicked his cigarette ash at the tin lid on the desk. Grushko caught his wrist and whistled loudly.

Now that's a very nice watch,' he said, eh, Sasha?'

Looks expensive, sir.'

Grushko scrutinised the brand name on the watch face.

Rolex. Is it a real one?'

Nah, of course not,' said Mogilnikov. It's one of those fakes. From Hong Kong. How could I afford a real one?'

How indeed?' Grushko unbuckled the gold and stainless-steel strap. Do you mind if I have a closer look?'

Mogilnikov shrugged uncertainly and then drew his hand out of the bracelet. Grushko turned the watch over and inspected the underside of the case.

Amazing,' he said. I'll bet that only an expert could tell them apart.' He pursed his lips and nodded. You know, I've just thought of something. Maybe that's why the Georgian wanted to knife you: to get his hands on this watch. Those Georgians, they like flashy looking stuff like this.'

You don't say.'

What do you think, Sasha?' Grushko tossed him the watch.

Hey,' protested Mogilnikov, be careful.'

Sorry,' smiled Grushko. But after all, it is a fake.'

Fake or not, it still cost money.'

Nice, very nice,' said Sasha, nodding appreciatively. Looks too good to be home-made.'

So who are you?' frowned Mogilnikov. The militia's resident watchmaker?'

No, but he will give you a pledge,' said Grushko.

Oh? And what might that be?'

That it was you who fingered Vaja Ordzhonikidze.'

Vaja who? Look, what are you talking about?'

Sasha tossed Grushko the watch. Mogilnikov sighed and shook his head.

You phoned him up,' said Grushko. You offered to sell him this watch.' He dangled it in the air as if he had been teasing a cat with a piece of fish.

You've been sitting on someone's needle.'

You told Ordzhonikidze that you'd washed this off some foreign tourist's arm, didn't you?'

I never heard of the guy. And I didn't steal that watch.'

That's the real reason you were booked on the midnight plane from Georgia,' declared Grushko. You set Vaja up to get murdered.'

Mogilnikov continued to shake his scrawny head.

Just like it was you who helped to turn over Mikhail Milyukin's place,' added Sasha.

Mikhail who?'

Maybe you helped to shoot them both,' said Grushko. Either way you're looking at the maximum fifteen years in the zone, strict regime. Felling timber in Perm.'

Freezing winters,' said Sasha, blazing hot summers, miles away from anywhere. Even the guards don't want to go there, it's so remote. The camp there covers thirty-eight whole regions of the country. The place is vast and so empty that you might think the world had forgotten all about you.'

You don't scare me,' said Mogilnikov.

Good-looking fellow like you make some zek a nice boy-girl,' said Grushko with malicious pleasure. If the mosquitoes don't drive you mad, or TB doesn't kill you first.'

You bastards,' snarled Mogilnikov.

Of course, the chances are,' added Grushko, that you may never even get there not now that the Georgians have marked you down for the top tower. You could be in sit at Kresti and they might still tickle your ribs, son. Isn't that so, Sasha?'

Nothing easier. Those Georgians have got friends in every gaol in Peter. Price of killing a man when he's in sit is a couple of bags of scratch. Or maybe a loan of someone's boy-girl for an afternoon.'

Sweat started on Mogilnikov's pale forehead. He rubbed it away with his hand and then tore the cigarette from the corner of his trembling mouth. Ash fell unnoticed on to his trousers.

Who put you up to it?' Grushko's voice sounded harsh and impatient. It was early in the morning and he wanted to go home.

Nobody '

Who were the two men you went to Milyukin's flat with?'

I I don't know what you're talking about.'

Why did you kill Milyukin?'

I never killed anyone.'

Grushko sighed wearily and leaned back on his chair. He held the butt of his cigarette to another one and then screwed it out in the ashtray.

You know, your life isn't worth five copecks unless you start talking to me, son.'

Mogilnikov smiled a nervous, sarcastic sort of smile.

And if I do? How much will it be worth then? Maybe less than that. It could be I am in danger, but I'm dead meat for sure the minute I open my mouth to you bastards.'

Grushko shrugged, looked at the Rolex and then put it into his desk drawer.

Hey, give that back,' said Mogilnikov.

He was starting to stand until he met Grushko's hand, which pushed him back down on to his chair.

Stay where you are,' he said. You'll get it back when I say. But only if you're a good boy.'

Mogilnikov shook his head impatiently.

I've got no time for your games,' he said.

Grushko laughed harshly.

Son,' he said, you've got nothing but time.'

It was nine o'clock in the morning and they had just taken Pyotr Mogilnikov down to the lock-up when I arrived. Grushko explained the night's events while he shaved with an ancient electric razor. It looked like it had been designed to shear sheep.

We'll transfer him across the river to Kresti later this morning,' he announced. Perhaps a stretch on remand will persuade him to change his mind. Organise it, will you, Sasha? But let's have someone keeping an eye on him. I don't want any accidents. And if we do manage to charge those Georgians we'd better make sure they're remanded somewhere else: Shpalerny or Nizhegorodsky, anywhere but Kresti.'

He glanced round at me and grinned.

Talking about Georgians, that reminds me. You've got a visitor.'

17

Oemyon Sergeyevich Luzhin was a brisk, small man, bald on top, with a short sandy-coloured beard and thick black-framed glasses, more like a university professor than the Mafia's favourite lawyer. He wore a checked short-sleeved shirt, grey flannel trousers, and was smoking a small cigar. I guessed him to be about fifty. I found him waiting in my office. He was reading some international law journal that was written in English but I decided that he probably did that just to impress me.

Ah, there you are,' he said and stood up politely.

We did not bother to shake hands, and although I knew exactly why Luzhin was there, I decided to let him earn his fee. So I sat down behind my desk and reached for my cigarettes. Luzhin offered me a cigar from the tin he had laid open on top of his papers, but by then I already had the cigarette alight. I said nothing and watched him get ready to make his move.

He shuffled his papers, disposed of the cigar, glanced at me over the top of his glasses and finally spoke in a firm baritone, his manner brisk and businesslike.

Now I understand that you are holding my clients,' he said and proceeded to name every one of the seven Georgians, patronymics included, and all without consulting any of his notes.

That did impress me. Some of those Georgian names were a mouthful.

You seem to know them very well,' I said. And you're very well-informed. We've only just picked them up.'

I'm on a permanent retainer with Mr Gankrelidze and his colleagues,' Luzhin said without a hint of embarrassment. A friend of Mr Gankrelidze contacted me late last night and informed me that they'd been arrested. I thought it best that I come straight here this morning.' He paused and waited for me to say something, but when I merely shrugged at him, he smiled politely and added:

I presumed that at some stage during the day you would observe the normal protocol whereby the suspects are re-acquainted with the charges that are facing them, in the presence of their advocate. Well, I am here and I am at your disposal.'

Thank you, Mr Luzhin, that's very helpful of you,' I said. But I'm not sure we'll be doing that until I've asked the State Prosecutor's Office for a search protocol.'

May one inquire what you are looking for?'

I'm afraid not.'

The fact of the matter was, I hadn't much of a clue what we could look for that was specifically related to the firebombing of the Pushkin Restaurant. I could hardly have asked Voznosensky for permission to search for some empty vodka bottles, some assorted rags, a can of gasoline, oil and a box of matches. The whole idea of a search protocol was simply a delaying tactic. I knew it. He knew it.

And when will you be going to see the State Prosecutor?'

Some time today,' I said vaguely.

He made a note with his gold pen and lit another of his small cigars with a slimline gold lighter. I noticed that it was the same kind of lighter that Grushko had. Then I saw the gold watch and the gold wedding ring to match. Maybe he had a sensitive skin, I said to myself: one that could not bear the touch of any metal except gold.

And what are the charges facing my clients?'

Racketeering, extortion, arson and murder.'

Can you be more specific?'

Not without compromising our witnesses. But I'll certainly keep you informed, Mr Luzhin.'

Please do,' he said, and taking out his crocodile leather wallet he handed me his business card. It was printed on both sides, in Russian and in English.

Now then. I understand my clients were arrested early yesterday afternoon,' he said. That gives you fifty-three well, let's be generous, say fifty-five hours before you must either bring charges against my clients or release them.'

No, let's just say fifty-three,' I said coolly. I didn't want any favours from this snake.

Fifty-three it is then,' he said, without sounding insulted, and made another note. Naturally if my clients are charged I shall be applying for bail.'

Which I will oppose.'

He smiled patiently.

Might I see the interrogation protocols? I merely wish to ascertain that my clients' rights under Article 51 have been observed.'

I opened my drawer and took out the file.

Sometimes these fellows in Criminal Services can get a little carried away,' he added by way of an apology.

Not in this particular case,' I said, handing him a sheaf of paper. One protocol for each of the seven dwarves. I think you'll find everything's in order, Mr Luzhin.'

Thank you,' he said and inspected them carefully. When he was satisfied he returned them to me and puffed several times at his cigar, almost as if he had been about to light a length of fuse.

You're not from St Petersburg, are you?'

Moscow.'

You'll like it here,' he said confidently. It's a very civilised sort of city.'

I thought of the firebomb sailing through the window of the Pushkin Restaurant, the bodies at the monument to the Heroes of Leningrad and outside the cinema on Nevsky, and nodded politely.

Much friendler than Moscow. Let me know if I can be of service to you.'

He collected up his papers and placed them inside a smart black leather attache case. Then he lingered as if there was something else he wished to tell me.

It's several years since I went to Moscow,' he announced.

The last time was in 1987. Margaret Thatcher was on a visit to the Soviet Union. I saw her when she was walking round the city.

I smiled. Luzhin just wanted to be able to talk to another lawyer, someone who wasn't a criminal at least. I wondered if Thatcher's trip to Moscow had also been the occasion of Mikhail Milyukin meeting her.

That's a very great lady,' he said. A very great lady indeed.'

This was not an uncommon view. Most Russians were of the opinion that little Maggie', as she was affectionately known, would have made a great Russian premier.

Yes,' I said, but don't forget: the British had the same opinion of Gorbachev.'

Grushko had disappeared when I returned to his office. Nor was there any sign of Nikolai or Sasha. But Andrei was in his usual seat, staring at the telephone; however on this occasion he was looking rather pleased with himself.

Where's Grushko?' I asked.

Gone out with Nikolai,' he said. They're checking out a lead. He grinned proudly. 'Something I turned up with that telephone inquiry.

Well done,' I said. What was it?'

You remember that body they found the other day Tolya?'

The one with the electric-iron burns? I could hardly forget it.'

Turns out he worked for one of those Anglo-Russian joint-venture companies. An outfit called Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit. One of their truck-drivers apparently. They're in the nuclear-waste-disposal business.'

Grushko told me they just dumped the stuff in the ocean. I guess he must have meant the low-level stuff.'

You mean there's more than one type?'

Low-level, intermediate and high-level. You need a proper disposal programme for the intermediate and high-level stuff.'

Sounds like you know something about it, sir.'

Only what I read in the papers, and see on TV.'

Then maybe you can tell me,' he said, consulting his notebook. Radio-biology: is that anything to do with nuclear?'

I shrugged.

Haven't we got a dictionary round here?'

Andrei laughed and shook his head. We haven't even got a telephone directory.'

Well, isn't there a library in this building?'

Not that I know about.'

I picked up the phone and asked the operator to put me through to Colonel Shelaeva's office in Scientific Research. When at last I was connected I explained my problem to her.

Radio-biology?' she said. It's a branch of biology that is concerned with the effects of radioactive substances on living organisms. Why do you ask?'

I looked at Andrei.

Why do you want to know?'

Well it might just be a coincidence,' he explained, what with this Tolya fellow working for Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit, but there's a Dr Sobchak in Mikhail Milyukin's address book. She works at the Pavlov the Medical University here in Peter. Well, when I rang up to speak to her they told me that she was away on holiday. And so I asked what kind of a doctor she was and they said a radio-biologist.'

Did you hear that?' I said to Shelaeva.

More or less,' she said. And you can tell that detective something important from me. Tell him that it's always a mistake to dismiss things as a coincidence in a criminal investigation. Coincidence is what this business is all about.'

With that advice she rang off.

What did she say?'

Radio-biology: it's to do with the effects of radiation on living organisms. And she says to tell you that coincidence is what this business is all about.'

Andrei pulled a face.

Bitch,' he said. Now you know why I didn't phone her myself. You risk a bloody lecture every time you ask for a lousy fingerprint. Reckon it's worth calling Grushko on the car phone and telling him? I mean about Dr Sobchak.'

Why not?' I said. Maybe the people at Anglo-Soyuz will have heard of her.'

I lit a cigarette and watched Andrei write down the definition as provided by Colonel Shelaeva.

Where is this joint-venture anyway?' I asked.

About seventy-five kilometres west of here, along the coast on the road to Sosnovy Bor.'

I glanced at my watch.

Then I may be gone by the time they're back,' I said. Look, I've got to go to Moscow this afternoon. To pick up my car. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling Grushko that I'll be back tomorrow, mid-morning with any luck.'

Sure,' said Andrei. He lit a cigarette and gave me a sideways sort of look, as if trying to gauge what kind of character I was. Mind if I ask you a question?'

Go ahead.'

Do you like the ballet?'

When I can afford it.'

We've got a pretty good one here in Peter. I'm a close friend of the director. Maybe I could get you some free tickets.'

I wondered what someone like Andrei could possibly have done for the director of the Kirov.

I get it. Do a favour for a good man, right?'

Something like that,' he said.

So what is it you want?'

Well, when you're in Moscow, if you happen to see any music tapes but especially the new Michael Jackson album.' He took out his wallet and handed me two greasy five-dollar bills. For my son's birthday,' he added quickly.

I pocketed his ten dollars.

Kids,' I muttered. They've got a lot to answer for.'

Andrei called Grushko after I had left and told him about Dr Sobchak.

So where's she gone on holiday?' he asked.

A friend's dacha. The secretary wasn't exactly sure where that was.'

So you'd better find out, hadn't you?'

Then Andrei remembered to pass on my message.

Has he gone yet?'

About ten minutes ago.'

Damn,' said Grushko. I wanted him to get me some chocolate.'

With the exception of the high wire fence that marked its perimeter, Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit, situated in a remote birch forest on the shores of the Gulf of Finland, did not look like the kind of place that had anything to do with Russia's nuclear-power industry. There were no tall towers or bubble-shaped reactors. No security guards and no dog patrol. The small collections of buildings that comprised the Russian headquarters of the joint-venture company were all pre-Revolutionary in their construction with the largest a well-restored dacha that might have belonged to some Finnish aristocrat in the days before that part of the coast came to be Russian. Built of white brick with grey pointing and a grey roof, it had a small palladian-style portico and so many different shapes and sizes of window that Grushko was tempted to suppose that the original architect must have had some private deal with a local glazier.

The battered Zhiguli carrying the two detectives drew up alongside a smart new BMW. They got out, admired the other car briefly and then walked up the steps to the front door.

The building's interior was no less impressive to Grushko and Nikolai than the exterior: wall-to-wall thick wool carpets and expensive hardwood furniture. Near the door was a polished walnut desk on top of which was a computer. Peering at the four-colour monitor were an extremely attractive-looking girl of about twenty and, behind her, an academic-looking type with rimless glasses and a strong line in aftershave. The man straightened when he saw the two detectives.

Can I help you?' he said.

This is Anglo-Soyuzatom? Grushko sounded uncertain. He hadn't been expecting anything like this.

That's right. I'm Yuri Gidaspov, transit controller here.

Grushko produced his identity card and gave the man a long look at it.

Colonel Grushko, from the Criminal Services Department, sir,' he said. And this is Major Vladimirov.'

Nikolai's eyes were busy with the secretary's thighs, easily visible under the remnant of skirt that she was wearing.

It's about Tolya,' Grushko explained. Anatoly Boldyrev. I understand he worked here.'

Gidaspov's face registered a fleeting look of discomfort.

Ah yes,' he said hesitantly. I spoke to your lieutenant earlier this morning, didn't I? Look er. why don't we go into my office and discuss this.'

No calls, Katya,' he said to the girl on the desk, and ushered them towards a shiny pine door.

Grushko's eyes crossed the ceiling and the walls.

We're not what you imagined, eh, Colonel?' said Gidaspov, opening his office door.

No indeed, sir.'

The place used to belong to a member of the Politburo. As a matter of fact, he's still here, in one of the smaller guest-sized dachi on the estate. We can't get rid of him unless we can prove he came to live here illegally, but there's no documentary evidence to prove anything either way.

Evidence can be tricky stuff,' Grushko observed.

Not that he gives us any trouble. Keeping his head down, I shouldn't wonder. Still, he knew how to live well, I'll say that for him. There's a sauna, a billiard-room, an indoor swimming pool, a movie theatre we use it as a lecture theatre and six tennis courts. The tennis courts are where we park our trucks for the moment. ASA bought the place from the Russian government for $2 million.'

Is that all?' said Grushko.

Nikolai whistled quietly. Gidaspov closed the door behind them. Grushko silently crossed the wide expanse of carpet and came round the mausoleum-sized desk to the picture window. In front of a row of trees he could see the tennis courts and on one of them was parked the most futuristic-looking truck Grushko had ever seen. It looked like one of the UFOs dreamed up by the Director of the Police Academy.

You seem to want for nothing, sir,' he said. Is that one of your trucks there?'

Yes. Quite something isn't it? Cost $1 million, and there are four more the same as that one.' He picked a packet of Winston off the desk and offered one to Grushko.

Grushko seemed about to accept one, but changed his mind. He had only wished to take a closer look at the packet to see from which end the packet had been opened.

No, thanks, sir,' he said, taking out his own pack of Astra, I'll stick to my own. It's best that I'm not reminded of how bad they taste in comparison with yours.' He pointed towards the truck again.

Did Tolya drive one of those?'

Yes, he did. Tolya was one of our best drivers actually. He was with us since the beginning, about ten months ago. Before that he worked for SOTRA, driving to Afghanistan, India and Iran for Irantransit and then for Yuzhtransit. He came highly recommended, like all our drivers. Well, you can imagine what our vetting procedures are like. Ingostrakh, the state insurance organisation, was very strict about the kind of men we could employ: only the best drivers with absolutely clean licences.

Anyway, about a month ago Tolya started to become unreliable. Family problems of one sort or another. He started drinking rather a lot. There was never any question of him driving under the influence, you understand, but it meant that he was late on a number of occasions. I'm afraid I had been intending to dismiss him, Colonel. But before that happened he just stopped coming to work altogether. That's why we've one vehicle still here instead of on convoy.

Of course I had no idea that something had happened to him. I tried telephoning him. I even went round to his address once.'

Gidaspov shrugged. To be honest with you, I assumed his drinking had got the better of him, and that he was probably out on a bender.' He sighed and shook his head. Poor Tolya. Have you any idea how he died?'

He was murdered, sir,' said Grushko. Shot through the head. But only after someone had tortured him with an electric iron.'

Good God,' breathed Gidaspov. But why. ?'

That's what we're trying to find out, sir,' said Grushko. It might help if you could tell us a little more about your work here.'

You don't think it might be connected, do you, Colonel?' Gidaspov sucked nervously at his cigarette. Oh, I'm sure it wasn't.'

We're investigating all the possibilities, sir,' said Grushko. No matter how remote.'

Gidaspov nodded and then remembered Grushko's request for an outline of the company's operation.

Well, Colonel, as you may or may not know, there are four reactors working at Sosnovy Bor, and reactors produce waste. Our past record in the matter of waste disposal has not been a good one in this country. And many of the RBMKs operating in Russia, Lithuania and the Ukraine are in poor condition. At the same time they also provide half of the former Soviet Union's nuclear electricity. So you can see how important they are.

In order to qualify for certain international loans to help us modernise these plants, Russia has agreed to cooperate with the International Atomic Energy Authority in the matter of nuclear-waste disposal. In the short term we are dealing only with intermediate-level waste from the local facility and the Lithuanian reactor at Ignalina. But when St Petersburg becomes a free economic zone it is hoped that it will become an entrepA't for the whole of northern Europe's nuclear waste.

The waste itself is sealed inside steel drums and loaded on to our part-refrigerated vehicles. As you can see they're even part armoured in case of accident. The British lead the field in this particular area and they have provided the technical know-how, and the trucks themselves, of course. The trucks then take the barrels to our long-term encapsulation plant.'

In other words,' said Grushko, the West is helping us to modernise our own nuclear reactors in return for letting them dump their waste with us.'

That's about the size of it, Colonel, yes. Of course it's not just waste that needs to be dealt with. There is also the matter of transporting nuclear warheads to destruction sites. There are already plans afoot for us to operate another specially designed fleet of trucks to cope with that problem as well.

But why transport all this stuff by road?' asked Nikolai. Surely rail would be a lot safer?'

Forgive me, Major, but anywhere else and I might agree with you. Here in Russia, however, most people don't own a car and when they travel any distance at all they go by train. Passengers take priority on the railways. That makes rail freight slow and unreliable. You can't afford any delays where the transport of radioactive material is involved.'

I'm sure you've investigated all the feasibilities with an operation like this,' said Grushko. But I would like a chance to speak to some of your other drivers. Men who knew Tolya. Ones he may have got drunk with, maybe. Perhaps they can help to shed some light on his death.' He shook his head vaguely. He may have said something to someone.'

By all means, Colonel, only you'll have to wait for a few days. At least until the convoy returns from the disposal site.'

And where is that sir?'

Didn't I say? It's in southern Byelorussia, on the Ukrainian border. Near Pripyat.'

But that's close to Chernobyl, isn't it, sir?' said Nikolai.

Three kilometres away, to be precise.'

I thought there was some sort of exclusion zone in operation around the whole area.' Nikolai was frowning now. He didn't much care for the nuclear industry. Nobody did in St Petersburg. Not since the leak of radioactive iodine gas from the reactor at Sosnovy Bor.

You're right, there is,' said Gidaspov. A hundred-kilometre exclusion zone, enforced by the KGB. But the zone does not apply to nuclear-industrial personnel. After all, three of the four reactors at Chernobyl are still in operation.'

Three still operating? I didn't know that,' said Nikolai.

Gidaspov tried to look reassuring.

I can assure you that this is all perfectly in order, gentlemen,' he said smoothly. The whole programme has the full blessing of our own Ministry of Atomic Energy and the IAEA, not to mention the new Nuclear Power Plant Operating Directorate of the Russian Federation. Why, just last week we had a team over from the SKE that's the Swedish nuclear-installations inspectorate.

And after all the waste does have to go somewhere. The exclusion zone at Pripyat already has 800 separate burial sites containing 500 million cubic metres of radioactive scrap and debris from the accident at the Chernobyl reactor.' He shrugged. That's land that will never be reclaimed. Can you think of a better place for a nuclear-waste-disposal facility than somewhere that is already impossibly contaminated?'

No, I guess not,' admitted Grushko. It makes a change from just dumping it into the ocean, I suppose.' He paused and lit another cigarette.

You said you undertook vetting procedures for all your drivers, sir: does that mean you keep personnel files on them?'

Nothing wrong with that, is there?'

No, of course not. I just wondered if you might let me have Tolya Boldyrev's file. There might be something in his background that is relevant to our inquiry.'

Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound defensive.'

Gidaspov unlocked a filing-cabinet and pulled out a drawer. He sorted through the contents and then took out a file that he handed to Grushko.

You'll find everything in there,' he said. Address, passport number, medical report, employment records, everything right back to when he was in the Young Pioneers.'

Thank you, sir. Grushko handed Gidaspov his card. 'When the convoy does return, I'd be grateful if you could give me a ring.

Nikolai followed Grushko to the door.

One more thing, Mr Gidaspov,' said Grushko. Are you at all familiar with a Dr Sobchak?'

No, I don't think I've heard of him.'

Grushko nodded. He did not bother to correct Gidaspov's assumption that Sobchak was a man. It seemed only to confirm that his answer had been an honest one. Instead he thanked him for his time, once again complimented Gidaspov on the excellence of the facilities at ASA and then left.

He and Nikolai then spent the remainder of a hot and sticky afternoon fruitlessly inquiring into the particulars of Tolya Boldyrev's life.

18

I came out of Leningrad Railway Station (Muscovites continued to call the station that served travellers to St Petersburg by its old name) and caught a trolley bus going south. It was good to be back in Moscow and, even at that early hour of the morning, the place felt more affluent, more like a big city than Petersburg. People moved with more of a spring in their step. The traffic moved faster. There were already more of the gold-coloured aluminium kiosks housing privately owned shops than I remembered from before; and it seemed that there was more food about than in St Petersburg. But the prices were hard to believe. How could people afford to buy things?

I got off the bus and walked west along the Boulevard Ring to the Militia Headquarters that was located just north of the Ring, at Number 38 Petrovka, close to the old Hermitage Gardens. From the outside the Moscow Big House was very different from its St Petersburg counterpart: the neoclassical frontage looked on to an attractive garden with flower beds, herbaceous borders and a marble monument of the militia insignia's sword. But inside the place was more or less identical.

I went through the security turnstile, walked through the garden to the front door and rode the lift up to the second floor. Shaverdova's secretary, Irina, was making tea. She did not look surprised to see me.

Is he free?' I asked her.

Yes,' she said.

I knocked at the door and went in. Vladimir Shaverdova, the Chief of Moscow's Organised Crime Department, was on the telephone. He waved me towards him and started writing something on a piece of paper. I sat down and lit a cigarette while I waited for him to finish his call. The only pictures in his office were the ones of his wife and family that lay under the sheet of glass on his desk.

Shaverdova was a tall, dark man, with one of those heads that looked as if it had grown through his hair, and a rather sulky, childish sort of mouth. He wore a claret-coloured three-piece suit, a light-grey shirt and a black tie.

Irina came through the door with his tea. Shaverdova replaced the receiver and collected the cup and saucer from her.

You want some tea?' he asked me.

Thanks, I could use one.'

Irina nodded and went out again.

Shaverdova nodded at the telephone.

Guess what?' he said. That was Khasbulatov.

Khasbulatov was the Moscow State Prosecutor.

We just charged Batsunov with accepting bribes.'

You're joking.'

Arkady Batsunov was the Assistant State Prosecutor who had been responsible for the majority of the prosecutions involving the Organised Crime Division. Most of my investigative life in Moscow had been spent in preparing cases for him. Arkady Batsunov had also been my friend.

It's true,' said Shaverdova. He's admitted it. Well he could hardly do anything else. We caught him red-handed, taking a twenty-thousand-rouble bribe from a Dazhakstani. We found over a hundred thousand roubles at his apartment.'

Irina returned with my tea and I sipped it thoughtfully while Shaverdova took another call. Arkady Batsunov, corrupt. It seemed incredible. I wondered if they imagined that I might also be corrupt. Guilt by association.

Shaverdova finished the call and lit a cigarette.

I'd never have believed it,' I said.

Shaverdova shrugged silently. So how are things going in St Petersburg?' he asked. What have you found?'

Nothing,' I said. Not a damn thing. Well if they are bent, I can't spot it.'

You've looked in all the usual places?'

Of course. You know me. I'm nothing if not thorough. Shit, I've even looked under Grushko's mattress. If you ask me they're clean. Most honest bunch of cops I've seen in a long time. I can't imagine why Kornilov ordered this investigation.'

Shaverdova shrugged.

It's up to him. It's his department.'

Besides, I'm pretty sure Grushko knows what I'm up to. He wasn't much impressed by all that crap about intercity liaison, and finding out about the way they handle things in St Petersburg.'

Grushko's not stupid.' He flicked some ash towards the ashtray. So what's he doing with you? Is he playing things close to his chest? Or what?'

He couldn't be more open. I've even been to his home.'

So I gathered. Well, that's good. If he were bent he wouldn't have let you through the door. So what's the story?'

They need a new carpet, and the colour TV's on the blink. The wife was planning to trade some English soaps in order to get hold of a piece of beef. If there's any extra money around it isn't coming from Grushko. The daughter's a doctor. She's seeing a yuppie who makes plenty of money on the local exchange. Could be he's some kind of a crook, but you can hardly hold that against Grushko. Besides, he hates the boy's guts.'

What about the others?'

Like I say, they seem clean enough.'

Well, seema__ isn't isa__. After all, we all thought Batsunov was on the side of the angels, didn't we? And look what happened to him. So just keep at it for a while longer, will you? I know it's a lousy job but it has to be done. Well, I don't have to tell you that. You've done this sort of thing before. If they're straight then they've got nothing to worry about. Besides, it's not like you're not trying to catch them out; you're just trying to prove that they're on the level, right?'

I nodded gloomily.

Right.'

Emerging from the Big House I walked south down Petrovka and into the large square that was the downhill end of the shopping street of Kuznetsky Most, which still retained a faded echo of its grander, pre-Revolutionary days. To the left of the Bolshoy Theatre was a modern glass building called TSUM, the Central Universal Store, and it was there that I found a hard-currency music shop that sold Andrei's Michael Jackson tape. It was depressing to see just how many shops now had signs in their windows declaring themselves Hard Currency Only'. It would soon be impossible to buy anything with the rouble.

I went down into the underground passageway that led to the Metro. It was full of beggars: gypsy women with children, an old woman who was busking with an accordion to pay for an operation, a teenage war-veteran both of whose legs had been blown off just above the knee, and yet more drunks. There were people selling pornographic newspapers, and others offering to trade whatever small surplus they had: a bottle of vodka, a packet of American cigarettes, a pair of boots, chocolate, a set of bed-sheets.

I bought a couple of tokens and boarded a northbound Metro. Even the price of a token had quadrupled in price.

My apartment was just off Mira Prospekt, in Duboyava Roshcha. From the bedroom window you could just see the soaring obelisk that marked the Memorial Museum of Cosmonautics, a pompous and wholly unrealistic celebration of Soviet scientific and technological achievement. I rode the lift up to the sixth floor and knocked at the front door. When after a minute or two there was no reply, I found my keys and let myself in. I was surprised to see there was nobody at home, although it was not quite nine o'clock. I was not sorry that my wife and her lover were out of the apartment. But I almost missed seeing my daughter. Then I found a note that explained that they had gone away for a few days to our dacha in the country. I had been planning to go there myself on my journey back to St Petersburg to pick up a few of my books. But now I was more inclined to give the place a wide berth. Still, I wasn't about to let my wife acquire the dacha as well as our apartment, and I told myself that she would have to ask permission to use it in future. My father had built that dacha and I intended to keep it.

I put the piece of cheese I had bought for her in the fridge and helped myself to some breakfast. There was some chocolate so I took that too. Then, having found my head gasket waiting for me on the dining table, I put on my overalls, collected my tools and went down to the locked compound where I had left my car. It wasn't a complicated job and I had it fixed within a couple of hours. By eleven I had washed and was on the road.

I'll admit it was not a very professional thing that I did. Especially for an investigator. Detectives have more leeway in these matters. For example, a detective is allowed to have an informer, but an investigator is not. But when you've sent several hours on the M10 from Moscow a journey of over 500 kilometres you're not always thinking straight. That's half of my excuse anyway. The other half? I expect I was feeling sorry for myself.

So there I was, coming along Nevsky at just around three o'clock that same afternoon when I saw her.

Nina Milyukin was standing at a tram stop in front of the House of Books, reputedly the largest bookshop in the city. In pre-Revolutionary days the building had belonged to the Singer Sewing-Machine Company, but it might just as well have belonged to them still for all the books they sold in there now. The line for the tram was enormous and I didn't think she would be getting on one for a while. She looked as sad as ever, her arms folded in front of her in that way women have when they're waiting for something that isn't going to arrive. But she was just as beautiful as I remembered. She was wearing a light black and white print dress with a wide lacy collar and in her hand was an empty shopping bag.

I pulled up next to the line, leaned across the passenger seat and wound down the car window.

Nina Romanovna,' I called to her.

At first she did not recognise me, but then slowly she came forward.

Can I offer you a lift somewhere?'

She seemed inclined to refuse, but straightening up she took another look at the number of people who were waiting for a tram. The day was a hot one and even the shortest tram journey was likely to prove uncomfortable. For a moment the car window framed the swell of her belly against the thin material of her dress, and I thought of that photograph on Mikhail Milyukin's pinboard. Not much of a sex life when you think about it, but at the time it seemed better than nothing.

I don't think I'll be going your way,' she said leaning in the car window again. I'm going to the television centre to pick up some of my husband's things.'

Then hop in.'

Well, if you're sure it's no trouble.'

It's no trouble,' I said, although it was considerably out of my way, no trouble at all.'

When she got in I pulled out into a space in the traffic and headed west.

You'll have to direct me when we get across the Neva,' I told her. I'm still not all that familiar with the streets here.'

She smiled politely and nodded.

Is this your car?' she asked after a moment or two.

Yes. I've just driven it up from Moscow.'

It's nice.'

It belonged to my father,' I explained. When it goes, it goes very well, but the spares are a problem. And the tyres are very worn. I wouldn't like to drive it in winter.'

I'd say that's when you need a car most.'

My wife used to think the same.'

And now she agrees with you?' She sounded surprised.

Now it really doesn't matter what she thinks. She's living with my daughter's music teacher. Or rather, he's living with her.'

Nina laughed, the first time that I had ever heard her amused by something.

I'm sorry,' she said, stifling it with the back of her hand. It's not funny.'

There's a funny side to it. She's only interested in his money.'

Now you really are joking,' she said. Teachers don't make money.'

Music teachers do,' I insisted. Especially when they've studied at a top piano school. Around 25,000 roubles a month, some of them. Anyway, my wife thinks he's one of those.'

And he isn't?'

No.'

She laughed. Twenty-five thousand,' she said. That's more than a surgeon.'

It's more than a government minister. What you have to bear in mind is that most families will make any amount of sacrifices for their children. Especially when it comes to music. Especially when the teacher tells the parents that their child is gifted.'

And your daughter? Is she gifted?'

I laughed. My daughter is as tone deaf as her mother. He just told us she was gifted in order to justify the tuition fees. You can't say he's not trying hard to make as much as the best of them.'

We went past the Hermitage and across the Palace Bridge on to the eastern point of Vasilyostrovsky Island, with the two red Rostral columns to our right, before crossing the river once more. In front of the walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress some of the city's more zealous sun-worshippers were trying to catch the afternoon rays. They stood flat against the grey granite, as if held there by gravitational force, their bodies almost colourless from many months of wearing winter clothing.

You're not at all like that other policeman,' she said. Colonel Grushko. He's made of stone, that one.'

Grushko's all right,' I told her. But he takes this investigation very seriously.'

I don't think he likes me very much.'

That's nonsense. Why on earth should he dislike you?'

She shrugged and was apparently unwilling to offer a reason.

Grushko gets impatient,' I added. He wants to know everything right away. He can't seem to understand that you might need a little more time before you can talk about Mikhail Mikhailovich. But he means well. I'm sure of it.'

It won't bring Mikhail back,' she said, the sadness returning to her face. So what good is it if he does mean well?' She sighed and looked out of the window. Even if you do catch the men who killed him, it won't make any difference. I think I can summon up words, as pristine as those in your song, but if I don't, I won't give a damn, I don't care if I'm wrong.

Nina glanced over at me, her face reddening a little with embarrassment.

You're going to think me such a fraud, quoting poetry at you like this,' she said, smiling gently. I'm always doing it. I did it with your Colonel Grushko when he told me. I don't think he cared very much for it. Still, I was quite surprised at him knowing Pasternak like that.'

Grushko's not the only cop who can quote poetry,' I said.

Yes, but with him it's done with a reason. I'm only guessing, mind, but he strikes me as the kind of person who would read a poem in order to learn something something that might help him to understand a man's soul for example and not for its own sake. In other words he does it like a policeman to gain an insight into a man's soul.'

I think you're being a bit unfair,' I said. You make Grushko sound rather terrifying.'

Oh, but he is,' she insisted. He terrifies me, anyway. He's like one of those people who used to work for the NKVD. Ruthless, single-minded and utterly dedicated to what they do. No room for shades of meaning. Just black and white. Right and wrong.'

You couldn't be more wrong,' I said. He's a democrat. He was one of the first men in the Central Board to come out against the Party.'

You don't understand,' she said. I wasn't speaking politically. I was talking about the Man. And I don't know that being one of the first men in your department to come out against the Party counts for very much anyway. Except to say that he must be more dangerous than I thought.'

I shook my head and smiled. I'm not sure I understand that either,' I said.

Never mind,' she said and smiled back.

By the time we reached the TV station I realised that I simply had to see her again.

Look,' I said, remembering the Michael Jackson tape I had brought for Andrei. I have a friend who's offered me two tickets for the Kirov. I was wondering ?'

I don't think I'd be very good company,' she said, getting out of the car. Besides, I'm not sure your Colonel Grushko would approve.'

I can't imagine why he would object.'

No, perhaps not. Even so, there are some things which he might find it hard to understand.'

She closed the door and leaned in through the window.

You're very kind,' she said. Please don't think me proud or ungrateful. I'm just not ready yet.'

Of course. I understand. It was stupid of me.'

Look, when you know all there is to know about what happened, when all this is over, if you still want to ask me, then give me a ring.'

All right.'

Promise?'

Yes.'

But things didn't work out that way. Nothing ever works out as it should. Not these days. Not in the New Commonwealth of Independent States.

Grushko was in a sombre mood when I saw him again. He had spent the morning attending the execution of Gerassim the Butcher', a notorious Mafioso who had killed four members of a rival gang with a meat cleaver and then fed their dismembered limbs to his pet dogs. It's always a problem, feeding pets in Russia.

All the same it is not very often that a murderer actually faces a firing squad. There are perhaps no more than fifteen to twenty executions a year and a death sentence is frequently commuted to fifteen years' strict regime'. Only the most bestial murderers, such as serial killers and child murderers, are shot. But the courts have a special abhorrence of cases that have some anthropophagous aspect, such as the Black Sea Widow case or the infamous Chakatilo who liked to eat his victims' genitals. Perhaps this had something to do with the fact that real meat is such a valuable commodity. Or maybe it is because people want to forget that cannibalism had actually taken place during the famines that Stalin had inflicted on the Ukraine during the 1930s. Whatever the reason, feeding a man to your dogs is considered almost as terrible as eating him yourself, and Gerassim had found himself subject to the full force of the law.

Grushko nodded grimly as he recalled the circumstances of the man's execution. I knew that he approved of the death sentence and although it was not the first time he had been obliged to attend an execution it was clear that he had been deeply affected by his morning's experience. But I had no doubt that it would not have altered his opinion about capital punishment.