The car turned left, towards the Senate and the cordoned-off area, cutting off Kalenin’s view of the tourists. It was recognized as an official vehicle and gestured through towards the Praesidium wing. There was a guide waiting for him, which was unnecessary, but Kalenin fell into step with the procedure. How many times had he journeyed along these tall, echoing corridors, to appear before ambitious men and inquiring committees? Too many to remember. It would be good, to have others come to explain themselves to him. And it was going to happen, he thought confidently.

It was a room the Politburo used for committee meetings, away from the main, impressive chamber. All thirteen members of the Soviet hierarchy were assembled around the kidney-shaped table. Already there was a fug of cigarette smoke, with pushed-aside cups and glasses on the table; even an occasional loosened collar, he saw. Despite the impression of informality, there was a secretariat table at the side of the room with three stenographers as well as a technician to operate the tape equipment. Kalenin was glad there would be records.

Vladimir Zemskov, the First Secretary, was in the chair. He was a dried-out stick of a man, thin-haired and emaciated, like an erudite vulture. He was smoking – a full-packed, Western-style cigarette, not the half-and-half Soviet version – and when he spoke his voice was thick and phlegmy. ‘There has been some preliminary discussion,’ he said.

As he spoke, Zemskov looked sideways along the table, towards Boris Kastanazy. The man responsible for Politburo control of the KGB was a complete contrast to the First Secretary. Kastanazy was obesely fat, so much so that there was no impression of a neck, making it seem as if his head had been attached as some sort of afterthought. From the perspiration pricked out on Kastanazy’s face, Kalenin guessed the open, damning criticism had already begun: Kastanazy looked as if he were gradually melting in the sun.