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he had had any number, but not since becoming Adviser. Apple of his eye was son Boris, now studying in England. He, as it happened, had left by air two days before his father’s death, and would thus be spared being questioned and the pain of the funeral. He was only eighteen. His fees were paid, but only for the first six months, which had been a worry, until colleagues of her husband promised State funding for a year, after which he could complete his studies in Ukraine.
    Recalling this in the still of the Kiev night, Viktor thought of at least five more questions he ought to have asked. Helpful as they’d seemed at the time, her ramblings did not, he now saw, contribute anything of consequence.
    Tiptoeing to the living-room balcony, he made sure that his Mazda was still safe.
    Returning to the kitchen and punching two holes in a tin of ration-entitlement condensed milk, he drank, helping it down with cold tea.
    Outside in the corridor his mobile rang in the pocket of his jacket, and in three strides he reached and answered it.
    â€œMe, Georgiy. Hi!”
    â€œHi,” said Viktor, taken aback.
    â€œCouldn’t sleep, thought I’d ring. Seen the widow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLearn anything?”
    â€œNext to nothing.”
    â€œThat’s because she was on her home ground. Get her out to a café earlyish, when she’s got herself in order but not her thoughts.As in football, it’s harder to win away. Get it?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œYou ring her tomorrow at ten, tell her you’ll pick her up at eleven and put the phone down. You must be a fellow insomniac … Speak to you later.”
    From the window Viktor saw headlights go on, then move slowly away along the metro road.
    â€œYou look like death warmed up!” said Ira over breakfast next morning.
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll catch up on sleep,” he said, largely to himself, as Ira hurried away to feed their crying daughter.
    He breakfasted in solitude, then went to the balcony to check on his car.
    Strung out along the road, like Napoleon’s army retreating to Smolensk, an ant-like safari of commuters was making for the metro.
    For a while he sat in the bedroom, where Ira was feeding Yana, but feeling superfluous, soon returned to the kitchen. At 9.30, when the metro road was deserted, except for kids with toy tommy guns playing “New Russians”, he rang Bronitsky’s widow, as suggested.
    Widow Bronitsky in long black skirt and emerald blouse was sitting outside her residence when Viktor drove up and dutifully opened the door.
    â€œSo much for the myth of militia poverty!” she said, impressed by the car.
    The Grey Tom bar, steps still wet from washing, was only just open and apart from the bar girl, deserted.
    He settled the widow at the corner table where he and Dima had sat.
    â€œCoffee?”
    â€œAnd cognac.”
    Georgiy was right. Calmly, casually, smiling, mildly flirtatious in her melancholy, she came up with real answers. The lost friends had, in fact, departed the scene after scandal over a leak. There was hell to pay, a major clampdown. A colonel committed suicide, a female civilian secretary disappeared, and three senior HQ staff turned up in Moscow in cosy flats on Kutuzov Prospekt, and were duly followed by their families. Maksim Ivin, who was one of them, had phoned several times since. He’d been her husband’s best friend in the old days and a constant visitor. He and her husband hunted together, and played
préférence
.
    â€œDon’t you need three for that?” Viktor objected.
    â€œMaksim would call his son or some subordinate over, and they’d play on long after I’d gone to bed. Next morning there’d be one of them on the sofa, another in a chair.”
    They talked on over coffee and cognac, but as the morning advanced and the cognac took effect, the Widow Bronitsky said progressively less and the intervals