'Very well. Let us go back to the day before - and go through this process again. Just for a change, show me the pictures first.'

Once more the blind was dropped, and the slides flicked on the screen. He felt no irritation at the lack of substance emerging from the surveillance, and little responsibility other than that of the automation, checking and double-checking. The routine soothed, refreshed. Even in the SID there was the humming of obedient, unthinking machinery.

'Who's that ?' he asked. The background was the Museum of the Revolution on Gorki Street. Ossipov was engaged in conversation with a man in a dark overcoat and hat.

The slides fucked on, the projector humming slightly with warmth. More pictures of the two old men, still in conversation.

'No one special. Ilya was able to listen. It was about politics.'

'Politics?'

'Nothing controversial. In praise of Soviet achievements -especially the Revolution itself, and the war.' The girl, too, seemed bored, answering for Ilya.

'Is that it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very well - go on.'

More slides - out of doors. Snow, caught on the shoulders of the General's dark overcoat, and curtaining the clarity of the picture. Vorontsyev squinted.

'What is this ?'

'After he left the museum - it's Pushkin Square. I took one here because he waited a bit, as if to meet someone ...'

'And?1

'Nothing. Caught a taxi - and we took another, to follow him.'

'Where?'

'Hotel - a couple of drinks.'

The scenes flicked, as if accompanying the narrative. Back of the man, then the taxi, back of the man outside the Moskva Hotel, entering the foyer ... 'You followed him in?'

'Yes. He stayed in the bar, then went to the toilet, then caught another taxi...' Both of them were bored, it was evident now. Brushing aside a minor irritation, Vorontsyev watched the screen. Back of the man, entering a taxi. 'Where next ?'

'The cinema. On the Marx Prospekt. Some epic extolling the usual virtues, school of Eisenstein. Wartime stuff, I think. I almost went to sleep.'

'But you watched him throughout?'

'Yes. He went to the toilet again - must have a bladder problem, or it was the cold - then took his seat, sat alone for two hours, came out, oh - went to the toilet again, then caught a taxi back to the Moskva for a light meal. . .'

Slides. Back of the man entering the cinema, grainy with snow, head bowed, hat held on head. Back of the man coming out of the cinema. Other people. 'Back!'

'What?'

'Back! The shot of him going in - then this shot again.'

'Sir.'

Vorontsyev watched, felt the tension close on his bowels, then ungrip again as he sensed an error. The two young officers had hardly risen from their langour, except that the girl whispered the time to Ilya. 'No - ' Vorontsyev whispered. 'No.'

'Shall I go on, sir?'

'Yes. How close were you when he went into the cinema ?'

'A bit back. Not many customers at that time.'

'And he went into the toilet ?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're sure ? On the way in ?'

Alevtina consulted her notes. 'On the way out...'

'You said on the way in!' 'I - no, only on the way out.'

'Quickly, go back to the Moskva - to the shot of him leaving the hotel, getting in the taxi. Quickly!'

Ilya fumbled with the cartridge; stuttering clicks, then the smoother sound as images flashed on the screen in quick succession.

Back of the man entering the taxi. It was inconclusive, Vorontsyev recognised, as if he had hoped for something clearer. Yet he sensed how it might have been done.

'What is it, sir?' Alevtina asked, craning forward in her chair, staring at the flecked expanse of overcoat. Snow, the flurried curtain.

'Where were you when he came out of the toilet - the hotel toilet ?' Vorontsyev snapped.

'Recess in the foyer.'

'At the bar,' added Ilya.

'Where did he put on his coat ?' Vorontsyev enunciated the words slowly, carefully. They sensed the importance of their answer. They screwed up their faces helpfully.

'In - the bar,' Ilya said finally.

The girl added eagerly, 'He was wearing it as he crossed the foyer.'

'And you were behind him all the time, from the moment he left the toilet until he got into the taxi ?'

'Yes.' Her voice held an apprehension of failure, but puzzlement was more evident.

'Then that's it!'

'What is ?'

'What's the next slide ?' Vorontsyev calmed himself, afraid of his leap of insight, the certainty of suspicion. 'Before this one, I mean.'