The Twelfth Department

PROLOGUE

Patriarch’s Ponds was one of Korolev’s favorite corners of Moscow-a small park with a square-shaped lake around which, especially on a hot summer’s day like this, white-shirted men and their befrocked womenfolk strolled with slow steps. At the southern end a white colonnaded pavilion stood where, for a reasonable price, a citizen could sip a glass of tea and sit and watch the ducks. Alternatively, in the eastern corner of the park, there stood a wooden kiosk where beer and kvass could be purchased and, if you knew how to ask for them, stronger beverages as well. If they’d had time to spare and a less pressing matter to attend to, Korolev thought to himself, a sip of vodka mightn’t have been such a bad idea. But not today and not now. Not with a certain gangster he’d been after for six months about to walk into a trap of Korolev’s making.

Anyway, he decided, he’d need all his wits about him. Semyon Shabalin was as slippery as an eel dipped in oil, and clever with it. Korolev and his comrades had managed to catch up with most of his Gray Fox gang and put them where they belonged-but Shabalin had wriggled free each time they’d thought they had him, even when escape had seemed an impossibility. And while most of Moscow’s underworld had certain standards-which, it had to be said, they often seemed to forget about-the Gray Foxes had none. With each robbery they’d committed, they’d set new standards in brutality and viciousness-so that now even the Thieves, the organized clans that ran crime in Moscow, were shaking their heads in disapproval. Whatever else happened today, Korolev was determined Shabalin wasn’t leaving this park a free man.

Korolev walked outside the park’s railings while Petya the Persuader, their informant, followed the tree-covered path that ran alongside the sky-reflecting blue water. Slivka was a few paces behind Petya, wearing a pretty white dress, her short blond hair looking almost golden in the dappled sunlight. Her lips might be a little thin and her expression grave, but she was a good-looking woman and he watched men’s heads turn one after the other to follow her procession through the park. He wondered if they’d be so keen if they knew the hand nonchalantly resting inside her open purse was wrapped around the butt of a service-issue revolver.

Korolev glanced at his watch. If Petya was to be believed, Shabalin would meet him on the fourth bench to the left of the pavilion-in just a few minutes’ time. He adjusted the ticket machine he had slung over his shoulder-part of his disguise as a tram conductor on a break-and found himself, to his surprise, wishing there was a sandwich in the tin lunchbox he was carrying-as opposed to his Walther.

Korolev kept his eyes moving-examining each of the pedestrians who passed him, watching for anyone or anything that seemed out of place. If things went as he hoped, there’d be a small scuffle and Shabalin would be in the bag. If things didn’t go to plan? Well, if he had to shoot Shabalin’s legs from him, then so be it.

Korolev took a seat beside an elderly lady ten meters from the bench Petya now occupied. Slivka found herself a spot a little farther along the path on Petya’s other side and, two minutes later, a familiar-looking balloon seller began hawking his wares in their general vicinity. From where Korolev was sitting, Yasimov’s disguise looked less than convincing-it seemed one end of the detective’s mustache was slightly higher than the other. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

Korolev sighed, took his newspaper from the pocket of his coat and opened it, scanning his surroundings one more time as he did so. All was peaceful-a toy sailing boat moved slowly across the water, leaving a v-shaped wake behind it, the only disturbance on the pond’s surface. It was a sweltering afternoon and the heat seemed to be pressing down on everything-making even the noises of the city that surrounded them seem distant. He found himself yawning as he opened the latch on the lunchbox so that his Walther would be easily accessible. It wasn’t much good having a gun if you couldn’t get to it quickly. The toy yacht moved onward and Korolev had no idea where it was picking up a breeze from. He could feel nothing-just the remorseless weight of the heat. It occurred to him that if he couldn’t have a sandwich, then an ice cream would be just the thing on a day like this.

He yawned again. He could feel his eyes growing heavy and put a hand to his ear to twist it-hard. The pain woke him up a little-just as a gaggle of besprizorniki came ambling into the park and caught his attention. Most of the street children were barefoot and wearing nothing but short trousers, their shirts tucked into belts or slung over their bare shoulders-skin dark as oiled wood from the long summer. They walked with chests out and shoulders back and it seemed that if they didn’t own the place, then no one had told them.

Korolev didn’t like the look of them-the thing was, they looked in the mood for wickedness, staring impudently into the faces of the citizens they passed and sharing jokes among themselves that seemed to have more than a hint of malice about them. They were out for trouble, no doubt about it. And, in a moment of complete clarity, Korolev realized that the target they’d choose for their mischief would inevitably be the odd-looking balloon seller with the unbalanced mustache.

“Twenty kopecks for a big red balloon,” Yasimov called out and his voice sounded like the sad bleat of a lambless sheep. The besprizorniki turned as one, like hounds catching a scent. And, without anyone needing to say a word, they fanned out around the unhappy detective.

“Twenty kopecks? Twenty? For a balloon that you filled with your own gas?”

This from the leader-a ratty-looking rascal and one Korolev didn’t doubt would be a long-standing future acquaintance of the Moscow Militia.

“Get lost, puppy, or you’ll feel the toe of my boot,” Yasimov said, whipping around as another of the youngsters pulled at the striped sailor’s shirt he’d thought, for some unknown reason, would make him look the part.

“Two for ten would be more like it, damned speculator.”

A stunted, dark-haired boy, this one, with a prematurely lined forehead and a nose that had been bent sideways somewhere along the way. A cigarette jutted out of the corner of his mouth and the runt blew a cloud of smoke up into Yasimov’s indignant face to make his point.

“I’d say he’s more than a speculator, Comrades,” their leader drawled. “I’d say he’s an enemy. He’s got that look about him.”

“Get out of here, fleas, or you’ll regret waking up this morning.”

That was when the first balloon popped-the runt stabbing it with a glowing cigarette end. And simultaneously, as if the balloon had been a signal, from farther down the pathway came a rapid series of explosions not unlike machine-gun fire, as a separate group of children let off a belt of firecrackers.

From complete calm, the scene around him had changed in an instant to chaos, but strangely Korolev found that for him everything was slowing down. This turmoil was no damned coincidence, he was thinking. It was a diversion, or he was a Bolshoi ballerina.

Where was Shabalin?

Once he looked, it wasn’t hard to find him-he’d already climbed over the park railings not twenty meters behind him. And once inside the park, Shabalin was heading for Petya at a brisk walk, one hand in his pocket. And Korolev was pretty sure it wasn’t a comb that Shabalin was holding in there.

Petya saw Shabalin and the big man jumped to his feet, lifting his hands up to fend him off. Korolev was running now and just as the silver flash of Shabalin’s blade began to slice toward Petya’s chest, he found that he’d swung the solid weight of the ticket machine on its leather strap over his head and down toward Shabalin’s shoulder, where it hit with a solid blow, knocking the arm down just before the knife connected-and sending it skittering away across the path.

“You damned traitor, Petya,” Shabalin cried out as he ducked, clutching his shoulder and twisting himself out of Korolev’s attempt to hold him.

“Stay where you are, Shabalin,” Korolev shouted, but the gang leader was already two steps away and moving along the pathway fast. Yasimov’s whistle was shrieking somewhere close and someone was shouting for the police.

“Stop,” Korolev called out. “Or I shoot.”

Shabalin turned to look back and so never saw the white dress coming toward him like an express train. Slivka drove her right shoulder into the killer’s midriff-every ounce of her weight behind it-and Shabalin hit the ground like lead, his head bouncing off the tarmac path. He lay where he fell, completely still-a bundle of clothes and limbs-while Slivka scrambled to her knees, turned him and handcuffed his arms behind his back.

“Sit down,” Yasimov was shouting and Korolev turned to see Petya slump back onto the bench, putting his hands on his head-a penitent look on his face. Balloons were floating through the branches above, while the last of the besprizorniki were scattering as uniforms flooded into the park.

“Good work, Comrades,” Korolev said, kneeling down to examine the unconscious Shabalin. It seemed it was all over-the battle was won. He put his hand to the gangster’s neck, feeling for a pulse-relieved to find one. In the circumstances, the fact that no one had been killed seemed a miracle.

Korolev took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Slivka and lighting one for himself. It was just coming up to four o’clock-plenty of time to make it to the station. And what happier omen could there be for young Yuri’s visit to Moscow than to have put Semyon Shabalin behind bars?