hauled himself out of the car, suddenly determined to deal with this affair quickly so
he could take what was left of the two weeks to go and see the real Yuri in Zagorsk. He could be there in two days with a bit of luck and Rodinov’s help with the journey. Yes, that’s
what he’d do, he thought to himself, and prayed the girl had indeed killed herself.
He walked into the domed porch, glancing up for a moment at the curved sky-blue roof on which silver stars twinkled, then tried the front doors, which were locked. No one answered when he pulled
at a metal chain that rang a distant bell, and there was no one to be seen in the entrance hall when he looked through one of the small windows.
A cobbled path circled the house and Korolev followed it, listening for any sign of human activity and hearing none, only the sound of the wind pushing its way through the garden’s trees,
and on the opposite side of the building he found a long balustraded terrace that overlooked a frozen lake, ice embracing the withered reeds around its shore. The house was even more impressive
from this angle and in front of the terrace there was a large fountain, ice cascading from the mouths of cherubs into a deep, shell-shaped basin, a good twenty feet in diameter. Korolev imagined
the Orlovs eating on the terrace in the heat of an August evening, perhaps under an awning, dressed in their summer whites, the windows of the conservatory that ran the length of the house open to
let in the slight summer breeze, the fountain’s water tinkling beneath them, unaware that their days were numbered
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. A tall elderly woman with a straight back and almost military bearing appeared round the corner of the house in the company
of Major Mushkin. They were talking quietly, the old woman stabbing the path with a walking stick for emphasis as she marched along. She had a thin, angular face and her grey hair had slipped out
from under a worn fur hat, before curling round the upturned collar of her greatcoat. If the walking stick was needed, Korolev decided, it wasn’t for reasons of speed, as she was maintaining
a brisk pace, albeit with a stiff, awkward gait.
He coughed and they looked up, coming to a halt, Mushkin’s eyes cold, while the woman seemed to study him as if he were a potential problem that needed brisk and efficient resolution. He
raised his hand in greeting.
‘This is Korolev, Mother.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘If you want the film people, they’re off somewhere. Ask Andreychuk – he’ll be inside. Good morning to you, Comrade Korolev.’
She made to move on, but stopped as Korolev opened his mouth to speak.
‘Well?’ she asked, allowing her stern voice to become a little gentler, making Korolev feel as though he were a child. ‘What is it?’
‘The house seems to be locked, Comrade.’
‘Locked?’ she repeated. ‘I see.’
She pointed her walking stick up at a glass-paned door that offered access to the conservatory.
‘That door will be open, or the one at the other end – and Andreychuk is in there somewhere, I assure you. He’ll know where they are.’
‘Thank you, Comrade.’
She gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement and proceeded on her way, Mushkin falling into step beside her. Korolev looked after them for a moment, confused. Mushkin’s mother? Was that why the
major was convalescing here? She certainly behaved as if she belonged here.
He turned back to the house and climbed the chipped steps to the terrace, crossing to the conservatory and knocking on the door Mushkin’s mother had indicated, but there was no answer. He
looked around him, wondering whether the elderly woman had been mistaken, at the same time thinking the silence was strange. He found himself whistling under his breath, just to keep himself
company. Almost reluctantly, he turned the handle and it opened.
The conservatory was a high room, dominated by two elderly
he could take what was left of the two weeks to go and see the real Yuri in Zagorsk. He could be there in two days with a bit of luck and Rodinov’s help with the journey. Yes, that’s
what he’d do, he thought to himself, and prayed the girl had indeed killed herself.
He walked into the domed porch, glancing up for a moment at the curved sky-blue roof on which silver stars twinkled, then tried the front doors, which were locked. No one answered when he pulled
at a metal chain that rang a distant bell, and there was no one to be seen in the entrance hall when he looked through one of the small windows.
A cobbled path circled the house and Korolev followed it, listening for any sign of human activity and hearing none, only the sound of the wind pushing its way through the garden’s trees,
and on the opposite side of the building he found a long balustraded terrace that overlooked a frozen lake, ice embracing the withered reeds around its shore. The house was even more impressive
from this angle and in front of the terrace there was a large fountain, ice cascading from the mouths of cherubs into a deep, shell-shaped basin, a good twenty feet in diameter. Korolev imagined
the Orlovs eating on the terrace in the heat of an August evening, perhaps under an awning, dressed in their summer whites, the windows of the conservatory that ran the length of the house open to
let in the slight summer breeze, the fountain’s water tinkling beneath them, unaware that their days were numbered
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. A tall elderly woman with a straight back and almost military bearing appeared round the corner of the house in the company
of Major Mushkin. They were talking quietly, the old woman stabbing the path with a walking stick for emphasis as she marched along. She had a thin, angular face and her grey hair had slipped out
from under a worn fur hat, before curling round the upturned collar of her greatcoat. If the walking stick was needed, Korolev decided, it wasn’t for reasons of speed, as she was maintaining
a brisk pace, albeit with a stiff, awkward gait.
He coughed and they looked up, coming to a halt, Mushkin’s eyes cold, while the woman seemed to study him as if he were a potential problem that needed brisk and efficient resolution. He
raised his hand in greeting.
‘This is Korolev, Mother.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘If you want the film people, they’re off somewhere. Ask Andreychuk – he’ll be inside. Good morning to you, Comrade Korolev.’
She made to move on, but stopped as Korolev opened his mouth to speak.
‘Well?’ she asked, allowing her stern voice to become a little gentler, making Korolev feel as though he were a child. ‘What is it?’
‘The house seems to be locked, Comrade.’
‘Locked?’ she repeated. ‘I see.’
She pointed her walking stick up at a glass-paned door that offered access to the conservatory.
‘That door will be open, or the one at the other end – and Andreychuk is in there somewhere, I assure you. He’ll know where they are.’
‘Thank you, Comrade.’
She gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement and proceeded on her way, Mushkin falling into step beside her. Korolev looked after them for a moment, confused. Mushkin’s mother? Was that why the
major was convalescing here? She certainly behaved as if she belonged here.
He turned back to the house and climbed the chipped steps to the terrace, crossing to the conservatory and knocking on the door Mushkin’s mother had indicated, but there was no answer. He
looked around him, wondering whether the elderly woman had been mistaken, at the same time thinking the silence was strange. He found himself whistling under his breath, just to keep himself
company. Almost reluctantly, he turned the handle and it opened.
The conservatory was a high room, dominated by two elderly
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