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the order. They are exactly the same as he has always ordered from me. Well, almost exactly.’
    ‘What do you mean by ‘almost’?’ asked Kirov.
    ‘The coat had some modifications.’
    ‘What kind of modifications?’
    ‘Little pockets, two dozen of them, built into the left inside flap.’
    ‘What was the exact size of these pockets?’
    ‘Four centimetres long and two centimetres wide.’
    Too wide for a bullet, thought Kirov.
    ‘And there was more,’ continued Linsky. ‘He also ordered several straps to be fitted into the right inside flap.’
    ‘For what purpose? Was it clear?’
    Linsky shrugged. ‘The specifications were for double-thick canvas straps so whatever things he intended to carry with them must have been quite heavy. It required reinforcement of the coat’s entire right flap.’
    ‘More than one strap, you say?’
    ‘Yes. Three of them.’
    ‘Did they correspond to any particular shape?’
    ‘Not that I could tell. I puzzled over them for quite some time.’
    ‘And did you make the clothes?’
    ‘Of course, exactly as instructed.’
    Kirov turned his attention back to the piece of paper in his hand. ‘According to this, everything should have been picked up by now.’
    ‘Yes, Major.’
    ‘But you say you haven’t seen Pekkala.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then where is the clothing? May I see it?’
    ‘No, Major. It’s all gone.’
    ‘Gone?’ Kirov’s forehead creased. ‘You mean somebody stole the clothes?’
    ‘Not exactly, Major.’ Linsky pulled back a dark blue curtain directly behind him, revealing a grey metal bar, on which hung several sets of newly finished clothes, waiting to be picked up by their owners. ‘On the day before everything was due to be picked up I placed the garments here, as I always do with outgoing orders. But when I arrived here for work on the following day, the clothes were missing. The lock had been picked.’
    ‘Did you report the break-in?’
    ‘No. Nothing was stolen.’
    ‘But you just told me you were robbed!’
    ‘The clothing was gone, but payment for the order was left in a small leather bag, hanging from the bar where the clothes had been hanging.’
    ‘And there were no messages inside?’
    ‘Just the money.’
    ‘Do you still have that leather bag?’
    ‘Yes, somewhere here.’ He rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a bag of the type normally used by Russian soldiers to carry their rations of machorka tobacco. The bags were made from circles of leather, which then had holes punched around the edges. A leather cord was threaded through the holes and drawn tight, forming the shape of the bag. The bag Linsky held out to Kirov was, like most bags of this type, made from soft, suede leather, since it was intended to be worn around the neck of the soldier, where the tobacco stood the best chance of staying dry.
    ‘What type of payment was used?’ asked Kirov. ‘Gold? Silver?’
    ‘Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid. Just paper notes. That’s all.’
    ‘Was anything written on them? There might have been a message.’
    ‘I thought of that,’ Linsky replied, ‘but it was just a fistful of money, the likes of which you’d find inside the pocket of every person walking past this shop.’
    ‘And all of this happened almost a week ago.’
    ‘Five days, to be precise.’
    ‘And why didn’t you tell anyone until now?’
    ‘I did,’ answered Linsky. ‘I told Comrade Poskrebychev the day after the clothes disappeared, when he came in to pick up a new tunic for himself.’
    ‘Let me get this straight, Linsky. You don’t trust me enough to let me know that Pekkala himself, with whom I have worked for over a decade, was, in all probability, standing right here in this shop when the whole world thinks he is dead and yet the only person in whom you choose to confide is Poskrebychev?’
    Now Linsky leaned across the counter. For a moment, he did not speak, but only stared at Kirov, his pupils the colour of old glacier ice. ‘Would you mind