What do you expect of a man like that? He's a hypocrite,' said Nina.
Yuri Petrakov said that Mikhail had discovered that your phone was being bugged by the KGB.' Nina shrugged. Did you know about it?'
Yes.'
Mr Petrakov also said that Mikhail believed that he might have been the target of an anti-Semitic faction within the Department.'
You'd better ask them about that, hadn't you?'
Grushko sighed. Mrs Milyukin, I'm just trying to find out what your husband believed.'
He believed in all sorts of things, Colonel. Really, you've no idea. In some ways he was a rather credulous sort of person to have become a journalist. I suppose he wanted things to be true so that he could write about them. Faith-healing for instance. Did you know he believed in that?' She lit a cigarette, and shook her head impatiently. Look, what does it matter what he believed in now? He's dead. Why can't you just leave him alone?'
Surely what matters most,' argued Grushko, is that the people responsible for his murder are caught and punished.'
Nina sighed theatrically and stared out of the filthy window. When she said Why can't you just leave him alone?' I assumed she meant Why can't you leave me alone?' But Grushko was not to be put off.
Did he ever talk about hiring himself a bodyguard?'
A bodyguard?' Nina smiled. Look around you, Colonel. We're not wealthy people. We couldn't even afford a washing-machine, let alone a bodyguard. This was Mikhail Milyukin, not Mikhail Gorbachev.'
Grushko finished his tea and placed the glass on the table. By now the cat had stirred from its corner. It arched its black back, tiptoed forward and then curled its tail around Nikolai's trouser leg.
No you don't, Bulgakov,' said Nina, and shooed the animal into the corridor. She probably wished she could have been rid of the militia as easily. I smiled to myself. It was just what you would have expected a writer to have called his cat.
Your husband had asked the local militia for protection, you know,' Grushko persisted.
Then I hardly see why he would have needed to hire a bodyguard,' retorted Nina.
The militia turned him down.'
Nina gave Grushko a look of dim disapproval and then turned away.
Well, I don't suppose it even occurred to him to offer them money. Mikhail could be quite naive.'
It wasn't a question of money,' said Lieutenant Khodyrev.
No? What was it a question of?'
Khodyrev paused as she struggled to find an explanation that wouldn't have left her station looking like KGB poodles.
I think,' I said, that it was simply a question of manpower. Things are already stretched almost to breaking point. There are militia patrols that don't leave their stations for lack of spare parts and'
Now I see why you go around in threes and fours,' said Nina. It saves petrol. And it makes explanations so much easier.'
Thank you for your time, Grushko said crisply. 'And thank you for the tea.
When we were outside in the street, Grushko thumped on the roof of his car.
What the hell's the matter with that woman? Anyone would think she didn't care whether we caught her husband's murderer or not.'
She's feeling upset,' said Khodyrev. Who knows? Maybe she holds us partly to blame. For not providing him with protection in the first place.'
On the other hand,' said Nikolai, perhaps she just doesn't like policemen. My wife's the same.'
Living with you, I can't say I blame her,' said Grushko. Maybe you're right Lieutenant Khodyrev, I don't know. Meanwhile, see if you can manage to trace that Golden Calf. Before Moses.'
Sir?'
And he took the golden calf which they had made and burnt it with fire, and ground it to powder, and scattered it upon the water, and made the people of Israel drink it.
Standing on a small island in the centre of the Neva Delta, the three-hundred-year-old Peter and Paul Fortress was the nucleus around which St Petersburg had grown. The twelve o'clock cannon fired as Grushko drove across the wooden Ivan Bridge towards the main entrance and, instinctively, we all three of us checked our watches.
It seemed an odd place to locate a restaurant. It was true, the fortress was very popular with the tourists, but so many people had met unpleasant ends within its granite walls that it would have quite taken the edge off my appetite.
The Poltava Restaurant, named after the battle Peter the Great had won against the Swedes, was located in what had once been the officers' club. We pulled up outside and knocked on the heavy wooden door. The fat greasy man who opened it was typically obstructive, no doubt in the hope that we would pay more to get a table for lunch.
You've got no chance today,' he said. We're all full up.'
Grushko flashed his identity card. Save it for the starving,' he said and pushed his way inside.
The mood was more rustic than military. Old prints, including one of Peter the Great's wedding party, decorated the Snow-cemmed walls beneath heavily beamed ceilings that were hung with wrought-iron chandeliers. And somewhere, we could detect the mouth-watering smell of pastry cooking.
I'd like to speak to the manager, please,' said Grushko.
I'm the manager,' said the man who had let us in.
Grushko showed him a photograph of Milyukin.
Ever see him in here? His name is Mikhail Milyukin.'
The manager took the photograph in his grubby hands and looked closely at it for several seconds. He shook his head.
Looks too thin to be one of our regulars,' he said.
We think he was in here three nights ago.'
If you say so.'
He was supposed to meet someone, only the other party didn't show up.'
A girl was it? We get a lot of courting couples in here.'
That's what we'd like to find out,' said Grushko. Perhaps if you could check the booking?'
The manager led us into a small alcove where, on a tall oak table next to an ancient telephone, lay a large leather-bound book. He opened it, licked his finger, turned back several pages and then ran the same finger down the page, smudging some of the writing as it went.
Here we are,' he said. Yes, now I remember. Party of two for eight o'clock, it was. But the booking was made in the name of Beria.'
Beria?' exclaimed Grushko. You're joking.'
The manager turned the book towards Grushko.
Take a look for yourself,' he said.
Yes, you're right,' said Grushko. It's just it was just that Beria was the chief of Stalin's secret police.'
You don't say,' shrugged the man. I'm too young to remember that myself. But we get all sorts in here.'
As he spoke a swarthy, southern type with a droopy moustache and a sharp suit stepped out of the dining- room, heading for the lavatory. Each squeak of his patent-leather shoes seemed to suggest that he was Mafia. Grushko's eyes followed the man he would have called him a churki with distaste.
I'll bet you do,' he murmured and then returned his attention to the reservations' book.
What I mean is that it's obviously a false name,' he said.
Not obvious to me,' said the manager.
How was the booking made?'
Telephone. No one ever books in person. Not unless they're a regular. Being on an island, well, it's not exactly on anyone's way.'
Grushko pointed to the blue biro Cyrillic letters that constituted Mr Beria's booking.
Is this your writing?
