Moscow is eight hours ahead of Washington, a source of annoyance to diplomats who are either a day behind the times or too far out of synch with their body clocks to conduct business properly.  This was more a problem for the Russians, as by five or six in the evening, most of them had had a few stiff drinks, and given the relative speed of all diplomatic exchange, it was well into the falling night in Moscow before American diplomats emerged from their "working lunches" to issue a démarche or communiqué, or a simple letter of reply to whatever the Russians had issued the previous working day.  In both capitals, of course, there was always a night crew to read and evaluate things on a more timely basis, but these were underlings, or at best people on their way up but not quite there yet, who always had to judge which possibility was worse: waking up a boss with something unworthy of the nighttime phone call, or delaying until the post-breakfast morning something that the minister or secretary ought to have been informed of right now!  And more than one career had been made or broken on such seeming trivialities.

In this particular case, it would not be a diplomat's hide at risk.  It was six-fifteen on the Russian spring evening, the sun high in the sky still, in anticipation of the "White Nights" for which the Russian summer is justly famous.

"Yes, Pasha?"  Lieutenant Provalov said.  He'd taken over Klusov from Shablikov.  This case was too important to leave in anyone else's hands - and besides, he'd never really trusted Shablikov:  There was something a little too corrupt about him.

Pavel Petrovich Klusov was not exactly an advertisement for the quality of life in the new Russia.  Hardly one hundred sixty-five centimeters or so in height, but close to ninety kilos, he was a man the bulk of whose calories came in liquid form, who shaved poorly when he bothered at all, and whose association with soap was less intimate than it ought to have been.  His teeth were crooked and yellow from the lack of brushing and a surfeit of smoking cheap, unfiltered domestic cigarettes.  He was thirty-five or so, and had perhaps a fifty-fifty chance of making forty-five, Provalov estimated.  It was not as though he'd be much of a loss to society, of course.  Klusov was a petty thief, lacking even the talent - or courage - to be a major violator of the law.  But he knew those who were, and evidently scampered around them like a small dog, performing minor services, like fetching a bottle of vodka, the Militia lieutenant thought.  But Klusov did have ears, which many people, especially criminals, had an odd inability to consider.
"Avseyenko was killed by two men from St. Petersburg.  I do not know their names, but I think they were hired by Klementi Ivan'ch Suvorov.  The killers are former Spetsnaz soldiers with experience in Afghanistan, in their late thirties, I think.  One is blond, the other red-haired.  After killing Grisha, they flew back north before noon on an Aeroflot flight."

"That is good, Pasha.  Have you seen their faces?"

A shake of the head: "No, Comrade Lieutenant.  I learned this from... someone I know, in a drinking place."  Klusov lit a new ciga-rette with the end of its predecessor.

"Did your acquaintance say why our friend Suvorov had Avseyenko killed?"  And who the hell is Klementi Ivan'ch Suvorov? the policeman wondered.  He hadn't heard that name before, but didn't want Klusov to know that quite yet.  Better to appear omniscient.

The informant shrugged.  "Both were KGB, maybe there was bad blood between them."

"What exactly is Suvorov doing now?"

Another shrug: "I don't know.  Nobody does.  I am told he lives well, but the source of his income, no one knows."

"Cocaine?" the cop asked.