The Twelfth Department

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When they stepped outside, the heat took Korolev by the throat and then did its best to push him down feet-first into the concrete sidewalk—a strange sensation and not at all pleasant. Up above, sitting on that eyrie of a roof terrace, they’d picked up whatever small breeze was whispering its way across Moscow and, slight as it had been, it had relieved some of the swelter from the day. Down here however the heat was a presence that surrounded you—and it seemed to have got even worse in the last hour or so.

“Were you trying to protect her?” Dubinkin asked with an amused smile.

“I’d finished questioning her,” Korolev said gruffly, hoping it would be enough to keep the fellow in check. “Are you coming with me to the institute?”

He pointed to the car Morozov had provided him with, noticing that the two goons were still parked not far behind it, although now they were leaning against the car, examining them at their leisure.

“You were trying to protect her, weren’t you? My dear Korolev, she wasn’t in any danger. She’s the daughter of an important French politician, one sympathetic to us.”

“Yes, I heard that. It would have been helpful if someone had mentioned it to me earlier.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You told me she was French,” Korolev said, his attention focused on the State Security men. “No more than that.”

Dubinkin chuckled.

“You’re a surprise in many ways, Korolev. I thought you’d be some aging bull, waiting his turn to be put out to pasture—but there’s more to you than that, isn’t there?”

Korolev wasn’t that interested in what Dubinkin thought of him. If the truth were told, which it seldom was these days, Korolev was beginning to get a little tired of Dubinkin toying with him. If he wanted to find a subject for study, he should go and look into the head of one of his Chekist friends in that car. He turned to Dubinkin.

“Those two likely looking fellows—leaning against the Emka? Recognize them?”

Dubinkin didn’t bother to look.

“I saw them on the way in. I believe they are comrades, yes—if that’s your question.”

“Comrades?” Korolev considered the word for a moment or two. “From this Twelfth Department?”

“I believe so. Would you like me to go and check?”

“No need,” Korolev said. “I’m sure you’re right. Not subtle when it comes to following a man, are they?”

“I think they want be seen, Korolev. I think they wouldn’t be following orders if they weren’t seen. They’re trying to distract you. To put pressure on you.”

Korolev thought back—it had been different once, hadn’t it? Back at the time of the Revolution there’d been people who’d pushed their weight around, but you could just push right back—and if your heart was in the right place, it all worked out. How had this mess come about? Here he was, an honest-enough policeman, doing his job, and being followed around Moscow by a couple of State Security bruisers for no good reason other than simply that—he was doing his job.

“Let’s just go,” Korolev said, with a sigh and, sure enough, the two heavies managed to summon enough energy to get themselves into their car and pull away from the curb at the same time as he did. Korolev took a quick glance in the mirror and then decided he’d enough on his plate without worrying about them as well.

“Madame Shtange told me about her husband’s relationship with Azarov. And a few other interesting things as well.”

“Tell me what she said.”

Korolev told him and, despite his best intentions, wasn’t able to resist the occasional instinctive glance in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, I think she may have described it correctly,” Dubinkin said when he’d finished. “The Azarov Institute was set up with the support of the former head of State Security, the counterrevolutionary Yagoda. I believe Comrade Ezhov wasn’t so convinced—perhaps he’s the one who commissioned this report. If so, he’s not telling us—which may mean something or may not.”

Korolev had given up trying to understand how things worked within the NKVD—it seemed no one trusted anyone else, however. Just like the rest of the population then.

“But the professor came up with some useful insights in the past, or so Colonel Rodinov said?”

“Yes, he did. Are you sure you want to know what they were?”

What choice did he have? If he didn’t know what the professor had been up to, how could he know how it might affect the case? Korolev nodded.

“He developed certain interrogation techniques. They’ve been particularly effective in preparing enemies of the state for public trial. He was able to ensure that they admitted their guilt, which was of course evident, and that any unnecessary justification or defense that might have misled suggestible citizens was avoided.”

Korolev thought back to the newsreels he’d seen of the trials in the cinemas—he was sure he wasn’t the only one who’d thought the defendants had seemed remarkably, if not eerily, compliant. He’d certainly never seen anything like it in a criminal trial. Senior Bolsheviks from long before the Revolution, who’d been in exile with Lenin, had pled guilty to incredible treacheries against the very State they’d fought tooth and nail to bring into being. Zinoviev, Kamenev, and half a platoon of the oldest Bolsheviks had been in cahoots with the snake Trotsky and, it seemed, nigh on every foreign enemy you could think of. Now, perhaps, that finally made sense.

“I see,” Korolev said, turning the car into the alleyway that led to the institute’s entrance.

He couldn’t help wondering how Azarov had gone about his research, although, at the same time, he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.