Without lighting the lamp he crossed the bare boards. She was standing in a corner with a stillness and patience that told him she'd been there for a long time, and he cursed that he'd been delayed by an official dinner that had seemed endless. He had not told her yet that the delegation's time here was soon to end. She curled her arms around his neck and he inhaled the familiar scent of her, knew again the sense of completeness that only his fox girl could give him. He held her, but not so close as to crush the thoughts that hovered round her like fireflies in the dark. He gave them s.p.a.ce to fly.

'What is it, my love?'

'Do I damage you?'

He felt the evil night spirits flit past his head, rustling in the darkness, trying to burrow into her thoughts. He brushed a hand through the air to disperse them and she leaned her head back to study his face.

'Do I?'

'No, Lydia, you don't damage me. You make me whole. Who has been pouring such vile oil in your ear?'

'Elena.'

'Tell Elena that-'

'Popkov was shot and almost killed today. Because he was helping me.'

Chang's breath stilled.

'And,' she whispered the words as if they were fragile, 'Dmitri Malofeyev died tonight because of me. Now I'm asking for your help and it frightens me.'

He released his hold on her and lit the gas lamp. In the shadowy light the lines of her mouth were tense and there was a bruise on her face. But in her amber eyes there was something new, as if this day had changed her, and he recognised it at once. It was what he had seen in a soldier's eyes after battle, a self reliance, an independence of mind, and it chilled his heart. Nevertheless he smiled tenderly at her and opened his arms to welcome whatever it was she wanted of him.

'Ask me,' he said.

So Wolf Eyes was dead. Chang felt not a sc.r.a.p of sorrow for his greedy soul, and when he looked at the wife he saw no depth of sorrow in her bruised eyes either, despite her tears. But it unsettled him to see the concern on Lydia's face when he unrolled the carpet to remove the Russian's watch and wedding ring. The ring was too tight to slide off the flesh, so Chang used his knife to whittle the finger to the bone.

'Is that necessary?' she asked.

'Yes. There must be nothing on him that will identify the body.'

She nodded, tugging uncomfortably at her hair. He looked away because he couldn't bear to see her do that for this man who had hit her face. He rolled up the rug once more and sent the wife for the car, while Lydia scrubbed the floor to remove the stains.

'Lydia, his own people will come looking for him.'

She was still on her knees. 'I know.'

'How will the wife explain away his disappearance?'

'She's going to inform them tomorrow that he has travelled to visit his sick uncle in Kazan. He really does have an uncle there, so when she tells them he was taken ill suddenly they will believe her. It will at least buy her time to decide what to do next.'

He didn't point out that they might check the travel permits issued. Let her take one step at a time.

'Good,' he murmured and crouched down beside her. He placed one hand over hers on the floor. 'Why do you care for this woman? Why not let her go to prison? She is nothing to you.'

'She reminds me of someone,' she said softly. 'Someone equally damaged, equally in need of help.'

'Your mother?'

She shrugged. 'Anyway,' she added with a change of tone, 'I've been through Dmitri's desk and found a box of his official stamps. We can use them on any forms we need.' She looked at him. 'They'll be useful when we need to leave.'

'I always said you were my fox.' He lifted a lock of her red hair and let it trail through his fingers. 'Rummaging in bins and drawers, making use of whatever you can find. Sharp teeth, sharp mind and dark holes to run to.'

For a long moment her stare fixed on him. 'I love you, Chang An Lo,' she said simply.

It was only later, after he'd carried the rug through the darkness to the boot of the car and was driving all three of them through the black streets of Moscow, that he had time to think again about the someone Lydia had spoken of. The someone who was damaged and in need of help. For the first time it occurred to him that she wasn't talking about her mother. She was talking about herself.

The woman was nervy in the forest. Chang could hear her breath next to him, shallow and ragged. She jumped as shadows swayed towards her in the moonlight and picked her footing as delicately as a deer. When an owl screeched above her head, she froze. The sophisticated creature with the scarlet lips who had smiled so indifferently at him in the salon of the Hotel Metropol was now out of place, away from the chandeliers and the cigars. She tucked herself close to his elbow, uttering small gasps and murmurs. But on his other side Lydia moved in sure-footed silence, padding over the snow-covered ruts beneath the black arc of pine trees, her eyes wide and watchful, her face lifting at intervals as though scenting the night air with the caution of a fox.

The body was heavy. It lay across his shoulder still shrouded in the rug, weighing down his step and causing him to stumble over unseen branches. The woman tried to help, seizing his arm or holding on to a piece of fabric but all she did was drag at him and twist him further off balance. Lydia did not touch the bulk of Wolf Eyes and even in the darkness he could sense her distaste. That satisfied him. That she didn't wish to touch this man.

'Here will do.' Lydia said it quickly, eager to rid Chang of the burden.

But the wife spoke up, her voice brittle in the icy silence of the forest. 'Not here, not yet, it's not deep enough in.'

'Antonina,' Lydia said so softly the wind almost stole her words, 'we are far from the road. No one will come here.'

With the wife's help Chang laid the body on the ground and she immediately crouched down beside it, her hand resting on the rug as if reluctant to release ownership of its contents. No one spoke. Chang flexed his shoulders to ease the muscles of his back and looked around. This was as good a place as any. The moon's pale light barely filtered through the spread of branches, but where it did it transformed the snow-packed ground into a harsh blue sea and the trees into silver sentinels. He took the shovel Lydia had carried and started to dig.

He worked to a steady rhythm but once through the snow it was like trying to dig into rock: the earth was frozen solid. He could feel his tendons tearing but didn't stop. This was not the first time he had buried a body in a forest or carried a fallen comrade from a battlefield; wherever he turned, in whatever country, death seemed to stalk him. And sadness seemed to rise out of the earth as he dug, with the stink of death on every shovel of soil. It crouched there and he breathed it in till his lungs ached.

'Enough,' Lydia murmured.

He looked up, surprised. He had almost forgotten that he was not alone. She was standing off to one side among the trees, watching his movements, her face in shadow, hidden from him.

'Enough,' she said again. 'No more.'

Was it the grave she meant? Or was it death itself she was speaking of ?

The wife was still crouched on her knees by the rug, her head bowed, her hair a curtain across her face. In the darkness she looked as though she had settled for ever on the forest floor and he wondered if she felt she was the one who should be lying in the rug, the one who should remain alone in the cold earth. He threw down the shovel and reached for the rug, but at that moment a sudden blundering noise in the forest startled the woman and she leapt to her feet, eyes wide and drained of colour by the moonlight.

'A moose,' he said and heard her gasp of relief.

With respect for the dead, even if it was Wolf Eyes, he rolled the rug carefully to the edge of the grave, but when he started to remove the body from its folds, the wife stepped forward.

'Let me,' she said.

He moved back while she unwrapped her husband's corpse with slow, hesitant movements and slid it into the shallow grave as gently as if it were a sleeping child.

'Goodnight, Dmitri,' she whispered softly. 'May G.o.d bring peace to your soul.' Silver tears were flowing down her cheeks.

Chang bowed his head and commended the Russian's spirit to his ancestors, but when he looked round for Lydia she was standing stiffly beside a tree, arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't move, just stared at the black trench he'd dug. What was she seeing? The terrible waste of death? Or the similar hole that had swallowed her mother only months earlier? He breathed slowly, calming the race of his blood as it burned through his veins. Or did she foresee her father's end, as her fears stared straight into the eyes of death? Out here in the forest, life was fragile. Its thread a fine silver filament in the moonlight.

He picked up the shovel and started to cover the body of Dmitri Malofeyev with black Russian soil. He did not mention that wolves would claw open the grave before dawn marked it with the light of day.

They washed each other. Chang loved the touch of her hands on his skin and the sight of her flaming mane spilling over her naked shoulder blades. Together they soaped away the dregs of the day's dirt, from their minds and from their bodies, and afterwards they made love. They didn't hurry, exploring and caressing each other, teasing tender places and tasting the curve of a neck, the hollow at the top of a thigh, the arch of a foot, the hardness of a nipple.

It was as though they were discovering each other all over again, at the end of a day that had changed something between them. He relearnt the exact sound of her moan when he was inside her and the way she whimpered when he slowed to long, rhythmic strokes, her fingers digging at his back as if they would scoop out his heart. When finally he lay with his cheek flat on her stomach, sweat salty on his tongue, he must have fallen asleep because he woke suddenly and sensed that Lydia had moved. She was kneeling beside him on the bed, moonlight painting her hair silver. Lying across her palms was his knife. She had removed it from his boot.

'It was you, wasn't it, Chang An Lo?'

He felt a rush of blood through his veins, but he lay totally still.

'What was me?'

'In the forest.'

'Of course it was. We were there together. I helped you bury your-'

'No.' She turned the blade over and over in her hand, the way she was turning over her thoughts, touching a finger to the unicorn carved into the ivory handle. 'You know what I mean.'

Her hair hung round her face, shrouding it in secretive shadows.

'Yes, Lydia, I know what you mean.'

'In the forest with the soldiers. Four of them dead.'

He listened to her breathing. It was fast and shallow.

'I could not bear to let you die,' he answered.

'So it wasn't Maksim Voshchinsky watching our backs?'

'No.'

'How did you know where I was?'

'It wasn't hard, you are part of my heart. How could I not know where it was beating?'

But she would not be put off. 'Tell me how.'

'You mentioned to me that you were going out in Voshchinsky's car. It was not hard to guess where you would be heading.'

'So you knew? Already knew where the complex was that my father works in?'

'I have a companion who is as capable of tracking trucks as any Muscovite vor.' vor.'

'Kuan?'

'No. A good friend of my heart named Biao.' He removed the knife from her grasp and placed it to one side. 'You must take care, my love. Beware of betrayal. Too many people know what you are doing.'

'Except my father.' He heard her pause and release a long, low sigh. 'Jens Friis doesn't know.'

With an abrupt movement Chang sat up and brushed Lydia's hair from her face. Her pupils were huge as she looked at him, her mouth alive. Firmly she pressed him back on the bed and moved on top of his body, her hands flat on his chest.

'My love,' she murmured, 'how do I thank you for my life?'

'By keeping it safe.'

As her hips started to move, he yearned to take her away from Moscow. From her father, from her brother, from the woman with the dead husband. From herself.

51.

Snow had fallen overnight and transformed the prison into a creature of beauty. Its roofs and windowsills, its courtyard and even its stone seat, all glittered under the early morning floodlights like pearls on a wedding dress. Jens hated it. Such hypocrisy. How could something so ugly inside look so exquisite? He trudged the circle, single file, head down, no talking. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes and melted down his cheeks like tears. In front of him Olga's small figure stumbled and for half a second he held her elbow to support her. It felt as fragile as a sparrow's wing.

'No touching!' Babitsky yelled.

Jens muttered under his breath, 'One day soon, Babitsky, I swear I'll come and touch you.'

'Jens,' Olga whispered behind her glove without turning round, 'don't. The brute isn't worth it.'

'He is to me.'

He hadn't told her that the big man shot dead in the courtyard the day before was his friend. That in the golden days of the Tsar they had sat up all night playing cards together in the stables of the Winter Palace, that they'd fought each other over a girl, arm wrestled for a horse. That they'd bound each other's wounds and saved each other's lives. No, he hadn't told her any of that. He picked up his feet on the white carpet that was smothering the tramp of boots, as if the prisoners were no longer real. Transparent and soundless. Ghosts of a past that was gone. How could he have imagined that they would ever fit into this real Soviet world again? He must have been mad.

He lifted his face to the falling snow and squinted up past the yellow prison lights to the black clouds beyond, where the moon and the stars lay buried. Out of reach. He thought about his daughter for ever out of reach and again felt that dull ache in his chest that, until the letters started arriving, he'd learned to strangle at birth with a simple click of the mind. But now it wouldn't go away. It was stuck there, as though someone had hammered a nail into his heart and left it there to rust.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that when the iron gate to the courtyard swung open, growling on its ma.s.sive hinges and letting in the rumble of early traffic noise, he didn't look up. There would be no more letters, he was certain of that. Dimly he was aware of the horse jingling its bridle, of the baker grumbling about the cold, of the rattle of metal trays and the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread. But still he couldn't bear to see beyond their compound.

'Jens.' It was Olga. A quick whisper. 'Look.'

He glanced at her and then through the fence, and saw a girl. She was holding a tray of pirozhki pirozhki on her head, walking into the building. All he caught was a glimpse of her long straight back, of the way she picked her feet up in the snow as daintily as a cat. A dismal brown hat. A flash of flaming hair at her collar. on her head, walking into the building. All he caught was a glimpse of her long straight back, of the way she picked her feet up in the snow as daintily as a cat. A dismal brown hat. A flash of flaming hair at her collar.

'Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!'

'Keep walking, Prisoner Friis,' a guard growled.

Only then did Jens realise how twelve years in labour camps had trained his tongue. His screams had been silent, exploding only in his head.

'Move, Friis!'