Igor lit the cigar and as he smoked it, he went to the window and imagined looking out on all the construction work from a window on the top floor. Tatyana was dead, and he was on his way up in the world. If he was to have any chance of survival up there, he had to know what was going on.

And Agniya was his only lead.

He reached inside his drawer and pulled out the PYa, or Pistolet Yarygina, his military-issue side-arm, and put it in the holster under his jacket.

Then he sat back at his desk and pressed the button that called his secretary to the room. She opened the door.

“Come in Agniya Bunina,” he said, aware of the ominous undertone of using her full name. “Shut the door. Take a seat.”

She eyed him suspiciously as she sat.

“It seems we’ve had a little slip up,” he said.

“How so?” she said, her voice flat, betraying nothing.

“Direktor Timokhin had one of my agents killed.”

“I see.”

“Tatyana Aleksandrova,” he said.

“I see,” she said again.

He was toying with her. Making her squirm.

“It’s regrettable,” he said.

“You were close to her.”

“Yes, I was close to her.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“If there are any more leaks from this office,” he said, “I will be very upset.”

She said nothing. She denied nothing. Confirmed nothing. Just sat there, looking at him blankly.

He dismissed her and leaned back in his chair, staring at where she’d been sitting.

That evening, he went into town. He spent a few hours at one of his favorite restaurants close to the Patriarshiye Ponds. It was an expensive place and he got a table that allowed him to watch the traffic along Balshaya Sadovaya. He dined alone and ordered Beluga vodka with his steak.

Afterward, he went to Agniya’s apartment building. It was even nicer than his own, overlooking the park. He waited for another resident to open the door and then went in. He took the stairs to the fifth floor and knocked.

He waited until he heard her approach then shot the lock with his pistol. He kicked open the door and saw the elderly woman standing there in shock. She really hadn’t seen this coming.

Poor creature.

She was wearing slippers and a bathrobe and holding a paperback romance novel. Prokofiev was playing on a vinyl record player in the living room.

Igor leapt at her, knocking her over. She was like paper. She fell on her back and hit the ground hard. Igor climbed up on top of her, his hands on her neck. He began to squeeze. She flailed wildly, her arms grasping for anything that was within reach. She managed to grab something, Igor didn’t see what, and struck him on the side of the head with it.