details—how many times she was stabbed, was she handcuffed?” Caprisi looked at him. “I don’t need to tell you what to ask. Better that you go alone. Think up some excuse to have a quick look through the report cards for that period.”
Caprisi’s driver pulled up opposite the Soviet consulate, and they crossed the road, light drizzle drifting into their faces as they walked alongside the tall wire fence. The building looked deserted.
Beyond the perimeter were two Chinese shops, one selling spices, the other hardware, a narrow staircase in between providing access to the cramped, damp offices of the
A corridor, with piles of the magazine stacked all along one wall, led into a small room with five or six desks. Two typists sat in one corner, hammering away.
Everyone turned to look at them. Two men cut short an animated discussion behind a wood and glass partition. Field recognized Borodin immediately. He was a tall, lean, well-built man with a hawkish face and closely cut dark hair.
“Can I help you?” he asked from the doorway, his English spoken with a faint American accent.
Field, who was closest, led the way down between the desks. He produced his identification. “Richard Field, S.1. My colleagues, Detectives Caprisi and Chen, are from the Crime Branch.”
Borodin was as tall as Field but leaner. He reminded Field a little of Granger, with his well-cut three-piece suit and polished shoes, but he was an aggressively angular man, his face hostile and suspicious. “No crime has been committed here. This is a legitimate magazine to try to counter the propaganda your newspapers put out about the new Soviet regime.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Field said easily.
“I must ask you to leave, or we will have no choice but to register a diplomatic protest.”
“I wasn’t aware this was diplomatic territory.”
“I must ask you . . .”
“Please, Mr. Borodin.”
The Russian stopped.
“A Russian girl has been murdered. We believe she worked here from time to time.”
Borodin stepped back to allow them through the partition, his face still suspicious. A thin, intellectual-looking man with round glasses stood from behind the desk and proffered his hand, but not his name. He was the spitting image of Sergei.
Chen moved to the back of the room. Caprisi and Field leaned against the glass, opposite Borodin. The walls were lined with more copies of the magazine, except the section behind the editor’s desk, which was covered with pictures of Russian leaders. Field noticed there was not one of Trotsky—just Stalin, in the center, surrounded by Kamenev, Zinoviev, and Lenin.
“Do you recall Lena Orlov?” Field asked.
The editor was staring at his desk, and Borodin, who was clearly going to be the spokesman, tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. Field was beginning to see why Granger detested this bespoke revolutionary. “Orlov?”
“Medium height, blonde, quite pretty,” Caprisi said.
“From Kazan,” Field added.
Borodin shrugged. “Perhaps she came to a meeting.”
“Just one?”
“Many people attend. There are many people who do not accept the version of the new Russia put forward by your newspapers.”
“So she came once?”
“Sure.”
“What about Natasha Medvedev?”
Borodin shrugged again, as if not recalling the name.
“You would remember her,” Caprisi said. “Tall, thin, strikingly beautiful.”
“There are many beautiful Russian girls here, Officer.”
“So we understand,” Field said. Borodin stared at him. “What about Sergei Stanislevich?”
Borodin shook his head. Field turned to the editor. “What about you?”
“I’m always at the meetings,” Borodin said.
“You’ve just been in the south.”
“I am happy to speak for the staff.”
“Then you didn’t know Stanislevich?”
Borodin shook his head.
“You must keep details of those who attend your meetings, names, addresses—”
“Of course we do not.” Borodin looked horrified. “So that you can harass anyone who wishes to counter the propaganda that you—”
“Yes,” Caprisi said. “I think we get the message.”
“Stanislevich, Medvedev, and Orlov all come from Kazan on the Volga,” Field said. “They attended meetings
