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bank had been miscast as a military policeman. He would be trustworthy in either capacity, Dobrshinsky thought, thorough and energetic and, when necessary, ruthless.
    The bedroom door opened behind them and a gendarme sergeant stepped into the corridor and saluted. ‘We found this under the mattress, sir.’
    Barclay took the small scrap of paper. Scrawled on it in pencil were six names:
Kviatkovsky, Goldenberg, Presnyakov, Morozov, Mikhailov, Kovalenko.
    ‘Bronstein,’ said Barclay, handing the note to Dobrshinsky, ‘I recognise the hand. He must have hidden it.’
    ‘And the names?’
    The policeman rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his chubby fingers. ‘Goldenberg is wanted for the murder of the governor general of Kharkov – and Presnyakov . . . Presnyakov has been living in exile for the last two years, after he murdered one of our agents.’
    ‘Perhaps Presnyakov is back in the city,’ said Dobrshinsky. ‘He may be involved in the new party Bronstein spoke of.’ He stood gazing at the names for a few more seconds then slipped the paper into his waistcoat pocket. ‘You will be hearing from me soon,’ he said, and nodding to Barclay he began walking down the hotel corridor in the direction of the staircase. The gendarme officer watched his bent shoulders for a moment and the image of a fox on hind legs flashed through his mind. Like the fox in the old folk tale, he thought, who seemed so mild and inoffensive but stole the fisherman’s food and appropriated the warmest corner of his home.
    In the bedroom, his men were beginning to prise thefloorboards from the joists. Bronstein’s body still lay crumpled on the rug.
    From the opposite bank of the Fontanka river it looked like a nobleman’s mansion, and even those who passed beneath the delicate wrought iron canopy that hung over the pavement in front of its entrance were hard pressed to detect any clue as to its true purpose. And yet Fontanka 16 was one of the best known and – for all its elegance – least loved buildings in the city. Dobrshinsky had been given a large room on the second floor, with windows overlooking the river. The head of the Third Section of His Majesty’s Chancellery and Chief of the Corps of Gendarmes, General Drenteln was on the opposite side of the grand staircase, close enough to make his presence felt but a comfortable corridor away from the day-to-day business of his section. At first the general had resented the appointment of a special investigator from the Justice Ministry to his headquarters, but after only a few days it was evident to all in the building that he had gratefully accepted the excuse Dobrshinsky offered to delegate most of his work. And the special investigator did not blame him for taking the opportunity: who wouldn’t have done the same? It was a delicious irony that a force feared more than Baba Yaga herself and invested in the public imagination with some of the same supernatural powers was in reality so close to collapse. In a country renowned for the corruption and incompetence of its institutions, the secret police had distinguished itself by its inefficiency. The task of clearing this stable was now Dobrshinsky’s, and when there was time to reflect upon it he found himself close to laughing aloud. Protect the emperor and bring the nihilists to justice, and in the course of your work breathe new life into the Third Section – that, in so many words, was how von Plehve had put it to him. Failure would bring disgrace, of course. So General Drenteln was doing what anyold soldier would do when faced with overwhelming odds – retreating with as much of his honour as he could salvage. It was Dobrshinsky’s lot to lead
Les Enfants Perdus
.
    The clerks in the outer office jumped to their feet as he stepped through the door.
    ‘I want the files on these names now,’ he said, handing a clerk the scrap of paper.
    Within the hour Agent Fedorov from Investigations was standing at the edge of his desk with