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Neither of them was his brother.

His mind had turned into a hornet’s nest of calculations as he tried to gauge the situation. Are they looking for me? he wondered. Did Stefan get a message through to the scientists at Sosnogorsk? Maybe that civilian is one of them. Have they come to bring me back with them?

Whatever the answer, it was too late now to run.

They were close enough now that Emil could see their faces.

He set down his briefcase and slowly raised one hand in greeting. ‘By any chance,’ he called to them, ‘are you looking for Professor Emil Kohl?’

‘Indeed we are,’ answered the civilian, ‘and also his brother, Stefan.’

‘Did he send you here to find me?’ Emil asked.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ answered Pekkala.

Kohl lifted the briefcase. ‘It’s all here, as promised.’ Fumbling with the brass catches, he lifted the lid and removed one of the two remaining spring-loaded metal canisters. He held it up for them to see, his hands trembling. ‘The crown jewel of Sartaman Project, along with its creator!’ Then he hurriedly returned the vial to its blue velvet nest inside the briefcase.

‘What about your brother?’ asked the civilian.

‘I don’t know,’ Emil admitted. ‘He left here weeks ago and I haven’t seen him since. I thought you . . .’

His voice was silenced by a gunshot.

Emil’s legs collapsed beneath him. A jet of blood as long as a man’s arm sprayed from his shattered skull. The briefcase fell from his hands.

As Pekkala and Kirov drew their weapons, they searched the houses for any sign of movement, but all they could see were their own blurred reflections in those windows not blinkered by the wooden shutters.

At that moment, a stranger appeared from a gap between two houses, smoke still leaking from the barrel of the old Nagant revolver in his grasp. He stood at the very edge of the narrow alleyway, but still in full view of the men. It was Stefan Kohl.

Even after all these years, Pekkala remembered that face. He lined Stefan up in his gunsight.

Kirov did the same.

Stefan made no attempt to raise his pistol, as if he knew that he had nothing to fear from the two men, in spite of the weapons they had aimed at him. ‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Pekkala, nodding at the crumpled body of Emil Kohl.

‘He betrayed me.’

‘He thought you were trying to save him,’ said Pekkala.

‘What I’m saving is far more important,’ answered Stefan. ‘I warned you long ago to stay away from me, Inspector. How much more blood must we shed before you will finally listen?’

‘None,’ replied Pekkala, ‘including yours if you walk away now.’

‘Not without The Shepherd .’

‘It is only a matter of time,’ said Pekkala, ‘before Russian scientists have reproduced the compound you used to murder Father Detlev. All you have is the contents of that briefcase, and I will shoot you dead before you lay a hand on them. You must face the fact that you have nothing left to bargain with.’

‘That is where you’re wrong, Inspector.’ Reaching back into the shadows of the alley, he hauled out his prisoner.

To the horror of Kirov and Pekkala, they saw it was Elizaveta.

With one hand knotted in her hair, Stefan dragged her out into the street. A shout went up from Kirov. Without thinking, he lunged towards his wife.

‘Stop if you want her to live!’ bellowed Stefan.

The words cut through the blindness of Kirov’s rage and he skittered to a halt, his face red, and breathing hard. ‘If you have harmed her . . .’ he growled.

‘I have no wish to hurt her, Major Kirov, but I will not leave this place without The Shepherd .’ He pressed the barrel of the Nagant against the back of Elizaveta’s skull and tightened his grip in her hair, causing the young woman to gasp with pain. ‘Now, what is it to be?’

Pekkala’s mind reeled as he attempted to calculate the situation, but he soon reached the inevitable conclusion. He would not see the value of that icon measured out in human blood, least of all hers. ‘Let her go,’ he told Stefan. ‘I placed The Shepherd on the altar table in the church. All you have to do is go and get it.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ demanded Stefan.

‘Because I have given you no reason to do otherwise,’ replied Pekkala.

Stefan paused as Pekkala’s words sank in. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘but empty your guns before I leave.’ He jerked his chin at Kirov. ‘And him too.’

Pekkala unfastened the top break of the Webley, causing the barrel to tilt forward. He ejected the bullets, and they fell to the ground. Then Pekkala held up the gun, so that Kohl could see daylight through the empty cylinders.

But Kirov seemed frozen in place, his Tokarev still aimed at the Skoptsy.

‘Do as he says,’ ordered Pekkala.

A moment passed. Kirov’s arm trembled, as if his body was at war with itself. Then he pressed a button near the trigger guard, slid out the magazine and threw it away to the other side of the street. ‘Now let her go,’ he commanded.

Kohl released his grip on the woman and pushed her to the ground, but before he turned to run, he took aim at the briefcase which contained the vials of soman and fired. The case jumped as if it had suddenly come to life. A slab of its leather side flew off. He fired once more and the brass latch was ripped from its mounting more and the lid sprang open. Another round smashed through the blue velvet protecting the glass and silver vials. Again and again, Stefan pulled the trigger of the Nagant until all of its chambers were empty.

Elizaveta had been climbing to her feet in the moment that Kohl opened fire. Hearing the whip-crack of bullets, she threw herself back down, covering her head with her hands.

Kohl’s third shot had ploughed through the mangled briefcase, shattering the vials and spraying their contents into the air.

A single droplet landed on Elizaveta’s wrist, so tiny that she did not even feel it. She stood, but then immediately began to stagger. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell in a heap.

Pekkala knew immediately what must have happened and he reached for the two syringes of atropine in his coat pocket.

Kirov, standing right beside Pekkala, had also grasped the situation. To help Elizaveta meant the possibility of being exposed to the soman, and there was only enough antidote for two people. ‘What should I do?’ he gasped.

‘Kohl,’ was all Pekkala said.

Without another word, Kirov spun on his heel and sprinted towards the church and, as he ran, he removed the spare magazine from his Tokarev holster and fitted it into the pistol.

By the time Pekkala reached Elizaveta, she was already beginning to choke. Her hands had twisted into claws and a slick of white foam seeped from the corner of her mouth. He knelt down beside her, twisted off the cap of the metal container and slid out the syringe. Then he tore away the buttons of her shirt at the same time as he clamped his teeth over the Bakelite needle protector, pulled it off and spat it away. He placed his hand directly over her heart and felt for a gap between her ribs. Then he forced the needle home, pressing hard to drive it in between her ribs.

For a moment, which seemed to Pekkala to last forever, it seemed as if the drug had no effect.

Then suddenly, she gasped and sat upright, her eyes wide and terrified.

Grabbing her under the arms, Pekkala dragged her away from the contaminated ground. They had reached the other side of the street before he let her go again. As Pekkala watched her lying there, too weak to stand and retching as she tried to clear her lungs, he wondered if the atropine had saved her life or was only prolonging her agony.