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watch. It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning; the city was only slowly coming to life.
    He continued noticing that this section of the city had borne few physical changes. The huge windows of Alexandre’s were packed with scarves of woven Persian silk, jade, ivory, leather goods of all descriptions, and jewels beyond the imagination of most passersby. Druce’s, the famed magasin anglais, still had Harris Tweed and English soaps in its smaller windows, and Cabassue’s had fine French silk ties and linen along with fashionable botinky, the low-cut velvet boots with rubber soles so favored by the rich. All the stores had signs declaring “English spoken” or “Ici on parle français,” though, of course, they had all lost the once common “Man spricht Deutsch.”
    Ruzsky stopped dead. He had reached Wolff’s, the capital’s largest bookstore and his favorite as a child. The latest casualty lists from the front were posted in the window. The names stretched for column after column.
    He read through them all.
    Ruzsky turned around, deep in thought. Beyond the shop, tucked into the corner of the wall, was a bearded Circassian in traditional sheepskin coat, his wares-mostly silver bangles and brooches-spread out on a colored rug.
    The man was clutching the cape around him, head bent. These traders were a commonplace sight in summer on the Nevsky, but Ruzsky had never before seen one here in winter.

5
    T he city police department was housed in a grand, classical building situated on Ofitserskaya Ulitsa- Officers Street -not far from the Mariinskiy Theatre. Pavel was waiting for him by the gate and the pair strolled in through the side arch of the courtyard, past a group of horses being exercised in a tight circle. Behind them, men from the transport department had already hauled out sleds and carriages from the garage, ready to be hitched up.
    Ruzsky led the way into the lobby. It was warmer in here, but gloomy and run-down, blue and gold paint peeling from its walls.
    Directly ahead of them was the duty desk, then the incident room and the narrow stone steps leading down to the cells. To the right, behind a closed door, was the senior officers’ mess. Ruzsky stepped into the constables’ mess opposite, where small groups of men gossiped, sipping tea or perhaps vodka from steel cups. Few lamps were lit in the vaultlike room, and the warm air was thick with the smell of tobacco smoke, wet leather, and wool. The three constables who’d been out on the ice earlier sat on a bench in the corner, smoking. One had his boots off and was rubbing the circulation back into his toes.
    The men got immediately to their feet. “I should have introduced myself out on the ice,” Ruzsky said. “Investigator Ruzsky.”
    They thrust out their hands and announced their names in turn, with an eagerness borne of the fact that service here earned an exemption from the front.
    “You searched well,” Ruzsky said.
    They did not reply. They were just boys, and looking into their faces made him feel old. He hesitated, wishing he had something more to say, then turned and walked back into the hallway. He didn’t recognize the constable at the duty desk either, and Pavel didn’t bother to introduce him as he pulled across the report book. “Anyone missing last night or this morning?” he asked. A glass-fronted cabinet behind the desk was filled with rifles and revolvers.
    “No, sir.” The man had a wide, flat face. He wasn’t from Petersburg. Probably one of his parents was from the Far Eastern provinces.
    “They must have some form of identification on them,” Ruzsky said.
    “They haven’t,” Pavel responded. “I’ve just been down to check. We have two nameless victims.”
    Ruzsky watched his partner flick back through the pages. “Would you get us the missing persons book?” Pavel asked.
    The desk clerk went into the room behind, running his hand along the rows of files.
    Pavel slammed the incident book shut. Ruzsky