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  ‘Just one more thing, sweetness, and then you can have some peace. There are two Shaumian women. Was it the mother? Or the daughter? Which one was it, darling? Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Either. What’s the difference? It makes no difference. It doesn’t—’

  ‘Yes, it matters. The mother is dead. The mother dead, the daughter not. That’s the difference, darling. Mother or daughter?’

  Teslom choked and struggled for breath. He was mouthing silence like a fish drowning in air. Chazia waited. Everything depended on what he said next.

  ‘Mother or daughter?’ whispered Chazia gently. ‘Mother or daughter, darling?’

  ‘Daughter then.’ His voice was almost too quiet to hear. ‘Daughter. The key would be for the daughter.’

  ‘Maroussia Shaumian? Be sure now. Tell me again.’

  ‘Yes! For fuck’s sake. I’m telling you. That’s the name. Shaumian. Shaumian! Maroussia Shaumian!’

  He was screaming. Chazia felt his heart clenching and twitching in her hand. Shoving the blood hard round his body. He was working his lungs fast and deep. Too fast. Too deep.

  It didn’t matter. Not any more. She squeezed.

  When she had killed him, she withdrew her hand from his chest, wiped it carefully on a clean part of his shirt and went back round to her side of the desk. Turned the knob on the intercom box. Pulled the microphone towards her mouth.

  ‘Iliodor?’

  ‘Yes, Commander.’ The voice crackled in the small speaker.

  ‘There is a mess in my office. Have it cleared away. And I need you to find someone for me. A woman. Shaumian. Maroussia Shaumian. There is a file. Find her for me now, Iliodor. Find her today and bring her to me.’

  3

  Vissarion Lom and Maroussia Shaumian took the first tram of the day into Mirgorod from Cold Amber Strand. Marinsky Line. Cars 1639, 1640 and 1641, liveried in brown and gold, a thick black letter M front and back on each one. Four steep clattering steps to climb inside. Slatted wooden benches. Standard class, single journey, no luggage: 5 kopeks. There were few other passengers: in summer holidaymakers came to Cold Amber Strand for the bathing huts, the pleasure gardens, the bandstand, the aquarium, but now winter was closing in. Signs above the seats warned them: CITIZEN, YOU ARE IN PUBLIC NOW! BEWARE OF BOMBS! WHOM ARE YOU WITH?

  They went to the back of the car and Lom took a seat opposite Maroussia, facing forward to watch the door. He kept his hand in the pocket of his coat, holding the revolver loosely. A double-action Sepora .44 magnum. It was empty. But that was OK. That was better than nothing.

  The tram hummed and rattled and accelerated slowly away from the stop. Maroussia huddled into the corner and stared out of the window, eyes wide and dark. Flimsy shoes. Bare legs, pale and cold.

  ‘The Pollandore is in Mirgorod,’ said Maroussia. ‘It must be. Vishnik knew where it was–he found it, and he was looking in the city. So it’s in the city. That’s where it is.’ She frowned and looked away. ‘Only I don’t know where.’

  ‘We’ll start at Vishnik’s apartment,’ said Lom. ‘He had papers. Photo graphs. Notes. We’ll go and look. After we’ve eaten. First we need to find some food. Breakfast.’

  ‘I left my bag at Vishnik’s,’ said Maroussia. ‘I’ve got clothes in it. Clothes and money and things. Maybe the bag’s still there.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lom.

  ‘I can’t go back to my room,’ said Maroussia.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’ll be waiting. Watching. The militia…’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Lom. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be fine—’

  Lom broke off. A woman with two children got on the tram and took the seat behind Maroussia. Maroussia withdrew further into the corner and closed her eyes. She looked tired.

  The city opened to take them back. A fine rain greyed the emptiness between buildings. It rested in the air, softening it, parting to let the tramcars pass and closing behind them. The streets of Mirgorod were recovering from the flood. River mud streaked the pavements and pools of water reflected the low grey sky. Businesses were closed and shuttered, or gaped, water-ransacked and abandoned. People picked their way across plank-and-trestle walkways between piles of ruined furniture stacked in the road. Sodden mattresses, rugs, couches, wardrobes, books. A barge, lifted almost completely out of the canal and left beached by the flood, jutted its prow out into the road. A giant in a rain-slicked leather jacket was shouldering it off the buckled railings and trying to slide it back into the water. Gendarmes and militia patrols stood on street corners, checking papers, watching the clearing-up. They seemed to be everywhere. More than usual.

  Lom leaned forward and slid open a gap in the window, letting the cold city air pumice his face. He inhaled deeply: the taste of coal-smoke, benzine, misting rain and sea salt was in his mouth–the taste of Mirgorod.

  Maroussia’s shoulder was raised protectively, half-turned against him. Her face was almost a stranger’s face, at rest and unfamiliar in sleep. She was almost a stranger to him. He knew almost nothing about her, nothing ordinary at all, but he knew the most important thing. She had set her will against the inevitability of the world. The Vlast had come for her, for no reason that she knew–not that the Vlast needed reasons–but Maroussia hadn’t gone slack, as so many did, numbed by the immensity and inertia of their fate. She had seized on the vague and broken hints of the messenger that came from nowhere–from the endless, uninterpretable forest–and she had turned them into the engine of her own private counter-attack against… against what? Against unchangeability, against the cruelty of things.

  But the energy of her counter-attack was Maroussia’s own. It came from dark inward places. She was alone, unsanctioned, uninstructed. Lom couldn’t have said with certainty what she thought she was going to achieve, or how, and it seemed not really possible, in the cold grey light of the morning return to the city, that she could do anything at all: Mirgorod was the foremost city of the continental hegemony of the Vlast, four hundred years of consolidated history, and they were two alone, without a map of the future, without a plan. But what struck him was how irrelevant the impossibility of her purpose was. It was its asymmetric absurdity that gave it meaning and shape. The under current of almost unnoticed fear that he was feeling now was fear for her. He had none for himself. He had never felt more alive. He was relaxed and open and strong. He would do what he could when whatever was coming came; he would stand with her side by side. Her mouth was slightly open in sleep, and she was doing the bravest, loneliest thing that Lom had ever seen done.

  The healing wound in the front of his skull pulsed almost imperceptibly under fine new skin with the beating of his heart. He pulled off the white scrap of cloth he’d tied round his forehead. It was unnecessary and conspicuous. As he stuffed it into his pocket, he felt the touch of something else: a quiet stirring under his fingers. He brought the thing out and cupped it in his palm. A small linen bag stained with dried blood. He’d forgotten he had it. He opened it and took out the strange small knotted ball of twigs and wax, tiny bones and dried berries. Brought it up to his face and breathed its earthy, resinous air. A woodland taint. He slipped the small thing back into its bag. It was a survivor.

  The tram got more crowded as they approached the city centre: squat, frowning women with empty string bags; workers going to work, each absorbed in their own silence. More than half the passengers were wearing black armbands. Lom wondered why. It was odd. Looking out of the window, he saw checkpoints at the major intersections. Traffic was backed up in the streets and people were lining up along the pavement to show their papers. The pale brick-coloured uniforms of the VKBD were out in force. Mirgorod, police city. Something was happening.

  ‘Pardon me please. May I?’

  A man with thinning hair and a crumpled striped suit slid onto the seat next to Maroussia. He rested a cloth attaché case on his knees, opened it and took out a paper bag. Nodding apologetically at Lom, he started to eat a
piece of sausage.

  ‘Sorry,’ the man said. ‘Running late. Crowds everywhere. I’ve had my cards looked at twice already. The funeral, I guess. Back to normal tomorrow.’

  Lom gave him a What can you do? shrug and went back to watching through the window. The sausage smelled strongly of garlic and paprika.

  Fifteen minutes later the tram pulled up at the terminus and the engine cut out. People started to stand up and shuffle down the aisle. The man sitting opposite Lom put his empty sausage bag into his attaché case and clicked it shut. He glanced out of the window and swore under his breath.

  ‘Not again,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be late. Damn, I don’t need this, not today.’ He got up with a sigh and joined the back of the line.

  Lom stayed where he was and took a look out of the window to see what the problem was. There were four gendarmes on the platform. Two were stopping the passengers as they got off–looking at identity cards, comparing photographs to faces–while the other two stood back, watchful, hands on their holsters. One of the watchers was a corporal. The checkpoint was set up right. The men were awake and alert and doing it properly. The corporal knew his stuff.

  Lom had to do something. He needed to think.

  Maroussia stirred and woke. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was damp. Stray curls stood out from the side of her head where it had pressed against the window. She looked around, confused.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said.

  Lom began buttoning his cloak. Taking his time, but making it look natural. Not like he was avoiding joining the queue.

  ‘End of the line,’ he said quietly. ‘Marinsky-Voksal. But there’s trouble.’

  Maroussia turned to see, and took in at a glance what was happening. She bent forward to adjust her shoe.

  ‘Are they looking for us?’ she whispered.

  ‘Not necessarily. But possibly. Can’t discount it. I’ve got no papers. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK,’ said Lom. ‘We’ll separate. I’ll go first. Give them something to think about. You slip away while I’ve got them occupied.’ Maroussia started to protest, but Lom had already stood up and joined the end of the resigned shuffling queue.

  He was getting near the exit. There were only two or three passengers ahead of him, waiting with studied outward patience, documents ready in hand. One of the gendarmes was examining identity cards while the other peered over his shoulder into the tram, scrutinising the line. Lom saw his eyes slide across the faces, pass on, hesitate, and come to rest on Maroussia with a flicker of interest. He checked against a photograph in his hand and looked at her again, a longer, searching look. He took a step forward.

  Shit, thought Lom. I can’t let us be taken. Not like this. That would be stupid. His fingers in his pocket closed on the grip of the empty Sepora .44.

  He felt an elbow in his ribs.

  ‘Excuse me, please!’

  It was Maroussia, pushing past him and heading for the gendarme.

  ‘Excuse me!’ she said again in a loud voice.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Lom, putting his hand on her arm.

  ‘Making time,’ she said. ‘Not getting us killed.’

  She pulled her arm free, pushed past the waiting passengers and spoke to the gendarme.

  ‘You must help me, please,’ she said firmly. ‘Take me to the nearest police station. At once. My name is Maroussia Shaumian. I am a citizen of this city. A militia officer murdered my mother. He also tried to kill me. I want protection and I want to make a statement. I want to make a complaint.’

  The gendarme stared at her in surprise.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me,’ said Maroussia. ‘I want to make a complaint. What is your name? Tell me please.’

  Lom stepped up beside her.

  ‘Stand aside, man,’ he said to the gendarme. Peremptory. Authoritative. ‘I’m in a hurry. This woman is in my custody.’

  The gendarme took in his heavy loden coat, mud-stained at the bottom. The healing wound in his forehead.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’ he said.

  ‘Political Police,’ said Lom.

  ‘You don’t look like police. Let’s see your ID.’

  ‘I am a senior investigator in the third department of the Political Police,’ said Lom. ‘On special attachment to the Minister’s Office.’

  ‘You got papers to prove that?’

  ‘Vlasik,’ said the corporal, ‘this is a waste of time. Bring them both.’

  4

  In the pre-dawn twilight two thousand miles north and east of Mirgorod, Professor Yakov Khyrbysk stepped over the coaming and out into lamplit fog on the deck of Vlast Fisheries Vessel Chaika. Sub-zero air scraped at the inside of his nose and throat. Despite the two sweaters under his oilskin slicker the freezing cold wrapped iron bands round his ribcage and squeezed. He dug out his petrol lighter and a packet of Chernomors, cupped his hands to light one and inhaled the raw smoke deeply.

  The Chaika stank of diesel and fish. During the night sea spray had frozen in glassy sheets on every surface. Ice sheathed nets and hawsers and hung like cave growths from cleats, winches and davits. Crewmen, working under lamps, waist-deep in thunderous clouds of steam, were hosing the ice off the deck with hot water from the boilers. The men wore mountainous parkas and wrapped scarves across their mouths to keep from inhaling the foul spray. They sent gleaming slicks of slime, fish guts and oil sluicing across the planks and out through the bilge holes. Citizen Trawlermen, you are frontline workers! By feeding the people you strengthen the Vlast! Strive for a decisive upsurge in the production of fish protein!

  The Chaika heaved and dipped, her hull moaning with the low surge of her engine. Khyrbysk threaded his way across the treacherous deck and climbed the companionway. Captain Baburin was waiting up on the platform outside the wheelhouse.

  ‘There is low pressure coming in, Yakov Arkadyevich,’ said Baburin. ‘Then it will be cold enough for you, I think.’ In the yellow light from the wheelhouse his heavy black beard and the folds of his greatcoat and cap glittered with frost.

  ‘Is she there?’ said Khyrbysk. ‘Can you see her yet?’

  Baburin shrugged towards the starboard bow.

  ‘She’s there,’ he said. ‘Exactly where she should be. We’ll come up with her soon enough.’

  Khyrbysk peered in the same direction. Fog and black water were emerging out of the night. The glimmer of scattered pieces of ice.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ he said.

  ‘She is coming,’ said Baburin.

  Khyrbysk waited, leaning on the rail, smoking and watching the grey dawn seep out of the fog and the sea. The day came up empty and sunless. Fog blanked out distance and brought the horizon near. Coal-black swells rose, marbled with foam, and surged forward, shouldering the Chaika’s prow upwards. She heaved and dipped. Rafts of sea-ice scraped against her hull. Every so often she hit a larger piece and shuddered. This was the grey zone: the crew of the Chaika might see the sun once or twice in three months. If they were lucky. Khyrbysk felt an involuntary surge of excitement. Was he himself not the igniter of a thousand suns?

  ‘There!’ shouted Baburin from the wheelhouse, pointing. Khyrbysk could just about make out a wedge of darker grey in the fog, a triangle embedded in black water. The triangle loomed larger and resolved itself into a head-on view of the factory ship Musk Ox steaming towards them, twin stacks brimming dark heavy smoke. The blunted prow and swollen skirts of an icebreaker.

  Ten minutes, and Baburin had swung the Chaika right in under the lee of the factory ship. The Musk Ox’s huge hull towered overhead, a sheer and salt-scoured cliff of bleeding rust, battered and dented from twenty years of unloading trawlers in bad weather. Khyrbysk stared down into the narrow channel between the two vessels. The water was so cold it had a thick, sluggish sheen, laced with soft congealing slushice. A shout from above told him the Musk Ox’s side crane was ready.

  The transport cage was descending,
swinging gently from its cable, four tyres fixed to the underside to soften the landing. In the cage, Kolya Blegvad rested one gloved hand on the rectangular wooden crate that stood on its end beside him, taller than he was, and with the other he kept a tight grip on the cable chain. A crewman on the Chaika leaned out with a gaff to guide the cage in.

  Khyrbysk went to find Zakopan, the Chaika’s mate.

  ‘I want the box in my cabin,’ he told him. ‘And quickly. The machinery is delicate. It will not tolerate the cold on the deck.’

  In Khyrbysk’s overheated cabin, the crate took up all the space between his bunk and the pale green bulkhead. Khyrbysk locked the door, drew the curtain across the porthole and lit the oil lamp. From the same match he lit another Chernomor. Kolya Blegvad watched him with clever soft brown eyes.

  ‘You came to meet me, Yakov,’ he said. ‘I am touched.’

  ‘Were there any difficulties?’ said Khyrbysk.

  ‘With transit papers signed by Dukhonin himself? No. How could there be? Our friend in Mirgorod was as good as his word.’

  ‘I want to see it,’ said Khyrbysk. He produced a crowbar.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now,’ said Khyrbysk. ‘Yes. Now.’

  He prised off the lid. Inside the crate was thirty million roubles in used notes of miscellaneous denomination.

  5

  In Levrovskaya Square the gendarmes drew their revolvers and moved towards Lom and Maroussia. Lom considered the position. All the angles. Staying calm, staying relaxed. Assess and evaluate. Think and plan. Like he’d been trained to do. It took him a second. Maybe a second and a half.

  The misting rain softened edges and blurred distances. He felt in his face and across his shoulders the weight of massive slabs of high cold air sliding in off the sea. The temperature was dropping. Freezing cold snagged at the back of his throat and in his nose. His visible breath flickered. Tiny vanishing ghosts. Stone slabs slick and slippery underfoot. The Marinsky-Voksal Terminus was a double row of tram stops, low raised platforms under wrought-iron canopies. Tramcars were pulled up at three of them, including the one they’d arrived at, and waiting passengers crowded at the other three. Beyond the terminus, Marinsky Square was a grumbling tangle of traffic, street sellers and pedestrians.