Free The White Russian by Tom Bradby

was a small, lean man with greasy hair, a long nose, round glasses, and oily, pockmarked skin. Pavel called him “the rat” and the name had stuck. He had been a journalist originally. He still called himself one, though he had been employed by the department for more than a decade. His official job was to provide information on the city police’s activities to the newspapers-which mostly meant murder cases, since that was all they were interested in-but Ruzsky had other uses for him. Stanislav, more than any of them, was at home in the city’s sewers.
    “I heard you’ve got a case for me,” Stanislav said, revealing an atrocious set of yellowing teeth. He wore woolen gloves with the fingers cut off.
    “Possibly.”
    “What do you want me to tell them?”
    “Nothing. If you have to: Two unidentified bodies found on the Neva. We’re searching the missing persons file, but we urge anyone who cannot locate a loved one or colleague to come forward.”
    Stanislav’s eyes narrowed. “I hear they’ve taken your bodies.”
    Ruzsky looked over the man’s shoulder. He had evidently only just arrived at the office. “How do you know that?”
    The rat leaned forward. “As always, my friend, better not to know how I know.”
    “All right.” Ruzsky stared at him. “I need to know who they were. Can you find out?”
    Stanislav shrugged, raising his hands to the skies, palms up. He took a step past him and then stopped. “I never thought I’d see you back here, do you know that?”
    “Why?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” He pointed a long, bony finger at him. “But you be careful.”
    “I’ve had enough warnings.”
    “Maybe, but the rules have changed.”
    Ruzsky frowned.
    “Your street investigator, Vladimir, had an assistant a year back. A young army officer, invalided out of the war. Honorable man, like you. He started trying to bring some of those thugs in the Black Bands to account. He wasn’t standing for any nonsense.” Stanislav’s stare was grave with meaning. “He was found in the Moyka with a knife in his back. No one here will tell you that; they don’t like to think of it.”
    “Who put it there?”
    “You don’t have to ask.”
    “Was there an investigation?”
    “There had to be.”
    “Who ran it?”
    “The Deputy Chief Investigator, Murder.”
    Ruzsky stared at the man. He wasn’t sure what he sought to imply. “I’m sure Pavel did his best.”
    Stanislav shrugged again. “Maybe. Vladimir helped. He was upset.”
    Ruzsky stared at the snow falling gently in the courtyard. Vladimir would have been upset. He was a strong man, like Pavel, but equally decent at heart. “Did the Okhrana know who these corpses were?” Ruzsky asked. “And if so, how?”
    Stanislav turned back. “How did they know you’d sealed the fate of the man who killed that girl three years ago. You or Pavel, whoever it was.”
    “Constables gossip. There are hundreds of people in this building.”
    “Yes, but very few who know exactly what’s going on inside the Criminal Investigation Division.”

8
    T he front door of the Mariinskiy Theatre was ajar, and as Ruzsky slipped through into the foyer, he heard the noonday gun being fired from the St. Peter and St. Paul Fortress on the far side of the river.
    Ahead of him, two young women stood by the main entrance to the auditorium in animated conversation. He interrupted them with less grace than he intended. He felt, suddenly, the way he had on the ice.
    The women looked taken aback. “Who wants to know?” one asked.
    “Chief Investigator Ruzsky. City police.” Ruzsky fumbled in a pocket for his small, dog-eared identification card, but the girls were not interested. They nodded toward the wooden doors that led into the auditorium.
    The door snapped back as he entered and one of the dancers on the stage turned in his direction.
    It wasn’t her.
    Ruzsky’s mouth was dry. He pulled the collar of his shirt away from his throat.
    He stood beneath the royal box,