What’s in it for me? Nicolas knows the answer to that one. It’s the gravity of Rachkovsky that’s so persuasive. His world is heavy and solid. For someone like Nicolas who’s been travelling so much, who’s been making his living with evanescent words, the prospect of drawing a regular salary, paid holidays and a pension is very attractive. Added to that there’s the whiff of power, the sensation of proximity to the centre. That is the secret conviction Rachkovsky projects: wherever he is, that is the inner chamber. No one knows more or sways more than he.

On the way out, Nicolas notices that the gleaming refurbishment has omitted one detail of the basement. In the far left-hand corner, the interrogation room with its green door and spyhole has been left untouched.

Rachkovsky’s used to quick responses, but after leaving, Nicolas vacillates. He’s barely aware of the reason. Something stirs in the depths of his consciousness, something whose shape is indistinct, but from which bubbles of discomfort rise and disturb his sleep.

Sensing hesitancy, Rachkovsky makes his pitch again.

Candlelight gleams goldenly on heavy silverware. Crystal glasses, clearer than the conscience of a sleeping child, ring to the touch. The waiters speak in hushed voices. Rachkovsky has promised a special treat tonight.

The recollection of Verzilov has been nagging at Nicolas. The black blood in his beard. The broken face. It can’t be right to do that to a man. In spite of all his outward changes, Nicolas retains the fundamental conviction of the small-l liberal that the worst thing a human can be is cruel. He hears Suvorin: You eat meat, don’t you? You sound like that crazy vegetarian Tolstoy.

‘Whatever happened to Verzilov. I wasn’t comfortable with that. Will I …? Do you …?’

Rachkovsky shakes his head. ‘I didn’t like that one. The Verzilov business was a mess. Not necessary. And before my time, of course. I don’t approve of pain – except recreationally. Have you read the Marquis? You simply must! Why, here they are!’ He rubs his hands excitedly.

The waiter sets down a dish of tiny roasted birds. Nicolas doesn’t even recognise the name in Russian when Rachkovsky tells him: ovsianki.

‘You’re a townie like me, dear boy. As far as I’m concerned, the countryside is made up of birds and trees. Any finer distinctions are simply lost on me. Now watch carefully.’ Rachkovsky takes one and pops the whole thing in his mouth. He closes his eyes orgasmically. Leaning his head back, he veils the lower third of his face with a napkin and removes the tiny bones discreetly from his mouth one by one. ‘Now your turn.’

These ortolans, like most delicacies, in Nicolas’s view, have had their virtues overpraised. They’re bony and taste more or less like chicken, but he does his best to seem to enjoy it. Rachkovsky is quick to see that his dinner companion is both intimidated and underwhelmed and dials back his enthusiasm. He dabs the grease from his chin and turns back to business.