'You mean, they didn't know?'

'They didn't seem to know. Indeed they were most eager to find out.'

'I see.' Porfiry stood for a moment, giving himself over entirely to the act of blinking. 'The sly old fox.' He suddenly roused himself and bowed to Zamyotov. 'Thank you, Alexander Grigorevich. There is no need to worry. I shall see to it that nothing comes of this.'

'Thank you, Porfiry Petrovich.' Zamyotov gave a broad smile of relief. Then suddenly remembering something, he rushed back to his desk. 'Oh, and there is one more thing. This just came in. I didn't know what to do with it now that the file is closed. Should I send it on to Major Verkhotsev?'

Porfiry glanced down at the official slip. 'No need,' he said cheerfully.

'A long and eventful day,' sighed Porfiry, staring down at his empty desk. 'I suggest we hasten its end. There is nothing more for us to do, after all.'

'You are content to surrender the case to those . . . vipers?'

'I have no choice, Pavel Pavlovich.'

'I am surprised to find you so . . . pa.s.sive. You are no Oblomov, after all.'

'You once, not so long ago, took great delight in comparing me to that exemplar of lethargy.'

'You remember that?'

'It wounded me.' Porfiry gave a pout.

'Well, I was wrong.' Virginsky's brows drew together in thought. 'He told me the address, you know. Rakitin. Of the workshop.'

'Oh, Pavel Pavlovich. What are we to do?'

'Should we not at least go there?'

'But what would be the point? No. What we should do is forward this information to Major Verkhotsev immediately, so that he can decide what action to take.'

'You cannot be serious?'

Porfiry considered briefly. 'You're right. If it turned out to be a false lead, then we would have merely wasted Major Verkhotsev's valuable time. It would be better, I think, to look into the matter ourselves, on our own time, and if we find anything we consider pertinent, only then need we trouble the Major. I'm sure he will appreciate our discretion. It can do no harm if you tell me where the print shop is, I suppose. If it is not out of our way, we will pay a visit. If it is too inconvenient, we will not trouble ourselves.'

'What if Major Verkhotsev finds out you are continuing in the case?'

'I'm not,' said Porfiry, ironically insistent. 'Do you not remember the hash the Imperial State Print Works made of the latest commission with which we entrusted them? It is possibly time for us to investigate other suppliers. Many government departments employ private print shops, I believe.'

Virginsky smiled and shook his head admiringly. 'Do you really think he will be taken in by that?'

'It is the truth! That is to say, it is one truth. We do need to look into sourcing new printers. Tomorrow is Sat.u.r.day. We shall visit Pseldonimov's print shop, as prospective clients, in the morning.'

'Provided it is not too inconvenient to do so,' reminded Virginsky, mischievously.

'I trust it is not.'

'It is on Voznesensky Prospect. Close to where it crosses the Fontanka.'

'It is practically on our doorstep.'

Virginsky's smile broadened. But a shadow of doubt or perhaps even fear chased it away. 'And in the meantime, tonight, there is no time to waste . . .' He was aware of a heavy, fateful timbre in his own voice. The kick of his heart was suddenly stern, an inner alarm rousing him to a state of nervous expectancy.

'What are you talking about?'

'I must meet with my contact, the petroleur. It must be tonight. I will tell him that Rakitin is in the hands of the Third Section.'

Porfiry said nothing.

'It is a piece of information of immense significance, and must be urgently communicated to him. He will know that Rakitin will talk. A man like Rakitin will not be able to hold out for long against the Third Section. You saw that in the terror of his reaction. His pathetic attempt to strangle himself. Of what do you think he was so afraid? Simply that he would betray his a.s.sociates. That he would not be able to help himself. He will name names. And then, it will not be long before the Third Section closes in on those he betrays. Therefore, my contact will appreciate this information, because it enables the central committee to steal a march, to disperse . . .'

'And then what good would be served? We will lose them.'

'No. By then, I will have gained his trust. I will be on the inside.'

'But what if Rakitin is what he says he is? That is to say, a man without any real connections to any revolutionary grouping the information will be of no interest or significance at all. You will be exposing yourself to unnecessary risk.'

'Yes, there is a risk. But there is always a risk. Even if I do nothing. Better to take the bull by the horns. Besides, I do not see another way for us to move forward in this case.'

'But there is no case anymore. Or have you forgotten?'

'We cannot simply allow these hoodlums to sidestep the judicial process,' cried Virginsky. 'Who knows what they will do to Rakitin, or if he will ever be seen again alive? One day they will be held to account.'

'I wonder, Pavel Pavlovich, whom you are intent on investigating: Pseldonimov's murderers or the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty's Chancellery?'

'It is not beyond the bounds of possibility that they are one and the same.'

'We have no evidence to suggest that.'

'And nor will we ever, unless I meet with my contact again. Tonight.'

Porfiry's expression grew pained. 'If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.'

'I take responsibility for my own actions, Porfiry Petrovich.'

'That suggests that even if I do not give my consent, you will go through with this. That of course would make you a revolutionary spy, you know, feeding secret information to the state's enemies.'

'Then you had better give your consent.'

Porfiry shook his head in forlorn protest. 'I thought you didn't gamble, Pavel Pavlovich. And yet this . . . this is far worse than any monetary wager. Here the stake you are playing for is your life.'

Virginsky clicked his tongue dismissively. He looked down at the floor, away from Porfiry's warning, to await his eventual acquiescence. He heard the cigarette case click open again. This time it was followed by the sc.r.a.pe and sulphurous whiff of a match igniting. When Virginsky at last looked at his superior, he saw him exhale a long cone of smoke. At the same time, he gave an upward tilt of his head, fixing Virginsky with a gaze that was for once utterly unblinking.

Virginsky stepped out onto Stolyarny Lane and thought of food. It was night. The lamps were lit. For its size, Stolyarny Lane was well illuminated: the presence of a police bureau counted for something. He felt a strange reluctance to take himself outside the protective glow. No harm could come to him, he felt, for so long as he could be seen. He sensed a voracious darkness lurking beyond the lamps' soft auras.

His stomach grumbled angrily. The claw of pain in his head dug in its nails. It had been clutching his brain all day, but now that he was released from duty, it tightened its grip for one last stab of torture. He knew that he was in no fit state to undertake the mission that he had so rashly, and perhaps feverishly, proposed. Equally, he also knew that it had to be done tonight, if it was to be done at all.

It was hard to believe it was only the night before that he had met the hatchet-headed man in the tavern on Haymarket Square. It seemed a lifetime ago. He realised, with a dawning sense of his own stupidity, that he had been in such a state of intoxication at the time that he had no clear memory of which tavern the encounter had taken place in. However, he distinctly remembered the man's last words to him: 'If you can't find me, I know where to find you.'

He wondered if the man was watching him now, hiding in the vast darkness that surrounded the small pockets of illumination. He had the sense that the true city was constructed out of darkness, with shadows for inhabitants. By keeping to the light, he was drawing attention to himself as an outsider.

He had to remind himself that he wanted the man to find him. The plan relied on their meeting again. But Virginsky was so distracted by headache and hunger that he could not be sure what the plan was anymore. It was no longer clear to him whom, or what, he was serving, or even where his loyalties lay.

To distract himself, he fell into his old habit of counting his steps: One, two, three . . .

The first thing to do was to eat something. But that would not ease the pain in his head. For that, there was only one cure that he knew.

He counted his way to Haymarket Square. Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight . . .

A boisterous crowd of muzhiks were pa.s.sing the bottle around. Virginsky shied away from them and headed for the nearest tavern. His mouth was salivating as he stumbled down the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

When it came to it, he ordered vodka first. He saw that his hands were trembling as he waited for his drink. The idea of the drink was more soothing than the drink itself, which did not provide the instantaneous easing of his discomfort that he had hoped for. However, for the time being at least, it seemed to steady his hands. Certainly, the bottle did not shake as he poured the second gla.s.s.

A display of collapsed pies drew his attention. In all honesty, he had never seen anything more unappetising. Nevertheless, he picked one out and watched with a mixture of impatience and horror as the landlady plated it for him.

It was the punch of petroleum in his nostrils that alerted him to the presence at his side. He turned and saw a familiar face, with a familiar lop-sided grin fixed in place. 'Hungry?'

'Yes, I am, in fact.'

The hatchet-headed man looked Virginsky up and down. 'Well, well, look at you, magistrate. Come to see me in your service uniform.'

'I have come straight from the bureau. I have something to tell you that cannot wait.'

'My goodness, you are an eager little magistrate. At least eat your pie first. The sound of your stomach churning is deafening. Come, there is a booth in the corner. We will be able to talk more freely there.'

They transferred to the booth, Virginsky making sure to take the vodka as well as the food with him. The table was covered in crumbs. A candle flickered, almost burnt out, the feeble flame surrounded by frozen rivulets of wax.

Virginsky took a bite of the pie, as he had been bid. He discovered it contained some kind of fish mixed with rice. It was devilishly dry. Despite his hunger, he had great difficulty swallowing the first mouthful. A swig of vodka helped to wash it down. 'There is something you must know. I trust you will pa.s.s it on to the appropriate people.'

'I am the appropriate people. As far as you are concerned.'

A chilling thought struck Virginsky. Suppose this man was not who he purported to be. Suppose he was simply a solitary crank, a fantasist without any connections to the revolutionary movement. The only link with Kozodavlev and Pseldonimov was the manifesto. But it was a common enough piece of trash. Even Porfiry had had a copy in his possession. Virginsky took a second bite of the pie, followed by more vodka. 'An urgent situation has developed. The Third Section have Rakitin.'

'Who is Rakitin?'

'Please. Don't insult me.'

'Why do you think I should be interested in this information?'

'If you do not understand the significance of it, you should pa.s.s it on to those who will.'

'You are sweating, magistrate. What's the matter? Is it hot in here?'

'I suffer from a medical condition. This comes upon me without warning. And for entirely no reason.'

'A medical condition, or a guilty conscience?'

'No. It is . . .' Virginsky drained his gla.s.s.

'Doesn't the vodka exacerbate the condition? Most of the drunks I know suffer terribly from the sweats.'

'It's not the sweats. It is something more . . .' Virginsky poured another drink. The bottle rattled in the gla.s.s. His hand was shaking again.

'Dear dear, the shakes as well. That does not bode well. We need men we can rely on, you know. Not alcoholics.'

'You must understand,' began Virginsky. 'This is very difficult for me. I am putting myself at great risk. I have given you valuable secret information. And what if you are an informer? You say you need men you can rely on. But how do I know I can trust you?'

'It is not necessary that you trust me. Simply that, when the time comes, you obey me.'

'But how can I give obedience without trust?'

The guttering candle finally went out. The man's features grew less distinct, his sarcastic smile lost in the shadows. 'Blindly. That is what we require of you. Blind obedience.' The man shook his head discouragingly. 'Now then, my dear magistrate, this information you have given me. It is nothing. It does not help us. We will need more than this before we trust you.'

'What do you mean?'

'Perhaps you could see to it that this . . . what was his name?'

'Rakitin. You know who he is.'

'Perhaps you could see to it that this Rakitin does not betray his friends, whoever they may be. Perhaps you could personally see to it that he is silenced.'

'Impossible. He has been taken away by the Third Section, I tell you.'

'Do you not have contacts in the Third Section?'

Virginsky thought for a moment before replying. 'No.'

'Then you know what you must do. Apply for a transfer into the Third Section.'

'But I despise them. I am against everything they stand for!'

'That remark reveals you to be a very naive individual.'

Although he could not see it, Virginsky sensed the man's sarcastic grin was back in place. He felt himself flush. 'If I may say so, your proposal is quite absurd. Even if I were able to secure a transfer, which is by no means certain, it would take time. That effectively rules out your plan as a means of silencing Rakitin. He would have informed before I had a chance to get anywhere near him.'

'Then you are no use to us. Superfluous. But it is no matter. We already have our people inside the Third Section. If the central committee decide that this is a matter that requires acting on, there is someone in place to silence this fellow. Indeed that is how you may know that you can trust me. Wait for news of Rakitin's . . . silencing.'

'You would have him killed?'

'If what you have said is true, then that would be the logical course of action.'

'Would it not be safer for the central committee to disperse?'

'The central committee is not interested in what is safer, but in what is necessary. If they disperse, the work will be abandoned. And all that we have struggled to achieve so far will be in vain. Yours is the suggestion of a coward.'