The way they had taken me into their confidence. The way Jacobs had pretended to be so surprised to see me again. The way he had pretended to distrust me. The way “Britta Warzok” had sent me on a wild-goose chase for no other purpose than to make me believe that an assault occasioning the loss of my finger had been the direct result of asking awkward questions about the Comradeship.

Khristotonovna was gone for about ten minutes, and when she returned she was carrying two files. She laid them on the table in front of me. She had even brought me a notebook and a pencil. “Do you read Russian?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where did you learn?” she asked. “Your Russian is very good.”

“I was an intelligence officer, on the Russian front,” I said.

“So was I,” she said. “That is where I learned German. But your Russian is better than my German, I think.”

“Thank you for saying so,” I said.

“Perhaps . . .” But then she seemed to think better of whatever it was she had been about to say. So I said it for her.

“Yes. Perhaps we were adversaries once. But now we are on the same side, I hope. The side of justice.” A bit corny, perhaps. It’s odd, but Russian is a language that always brings out the sentimental in me.

“The files are in German and Russian,” she said. “One more thing. The rules state that when you have finished I shall have to ask you to sign a document stating that you have examined them. This document must remain on the file. Do you agree, Inspector?”

“Of course.”

“Very well.” Khristotonovna tried a smile. Her teeth were going bad. She needed a dentist like I needed a new passport. “Can I bring you some Russian tea?” she asked.

“Thank you, yes. If it’s no trouble. That would be very kind of you.”

“It’s no trouble.” She went away, her underskirt rustling like dried leaves, leaving me regretting my earlier unkind thought about her. She was much friendlier than I could ever have supposed.

I opened Gruen’s file and began to read.