The Twelfth Department

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Somehow he slept. It probably helped that he was tired from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet but, even so, at first he found himself waking at the slightest sound, wondering if those might be Yuri’s footsteps on the staircase or if the argument down the lane might be something to do with his son.

Eventually sleep took him in its firm grasp and the next thing he knew the early dawn was brightening the window. And then he was on his feet and on the move. He wanted to go to Kievsky station again first thing—if Yuri was in Moscow, he might still be in the neighborhood of the station, and if he went early enough, he wouldn’t be missed from the investigation. And he also wanted to find out if Yasimov had tracked down any of Goldstein’s lairs and what, if anything, he’d found there.

He was just walking out onto the street when he saw them: the Chekists who’d followed him halfway round Moscow for most of the previous day, it seemed. They were standing under a streetlamp, smoking and, as usual, they didn’t avoid his gaze—instead the plump one waved him over. Korolev looked at them, the collar of his shirt suddenly feeling like a noose. He stared, hoping he’d mistaken the gesture, but then it came again, irritated now. The other one tapped his watch, as if to say, “We haven’t all day, Citizen Korolev, we’ve other people to be arresting as well, you know.”

There was no ceremony when he reached them. They didn’t introduce themselves or tell him what they wanted from him—just directed him down the lane, one of them falling in on either side. They didn’t seem that interested in him, if the truth be told—in fact one of them yawned loudly. He wondered whether they’d slept, it didn’t look like it—they were unshaven and his nose told him they both needed a wash. Perhaps they’d been up all night, doing whatever men like them did. It was really nighttime work, their business, after all.

They turned left at the corner, toward the sugar refinery, and Korolev wasn’t surprised to see their car parked farther along the street. There was also another car, however—a brand new ZIS, its chrome gleaming despite the long early morning shadows, a driver leaning against it.

“He wants to talk to you,” the plump goon said and, as he spoke, the driver saw them, walked to the rear door of the car, and opened it.

“Come in, Korolev,” a familiar voice said from the backseat and Korolev recognized it as Colonel Zaitsev’s. It occurred to him that not many citizens had the privilege of so many close encounters with senior Chekists in such a short period of time. He shrugged, took the sort of breath you might take before diving into a cold lake, and found himself squeezing onto what was left of the backseat. It might have helped if Korolev had been a smaller man. Or Colonel Zaitsev, for that matter. As it was, he found himself closer to the Comrade Colonel than was comfortable.

“Close the door, there’s a good fellow, and let me have a look at you.”

The colonel spoke softly, his dark eyes examining Korolev with care. Eventually Zaitsev nodded, as if satisfied with his inspection.

“You look nervous, Korolev, and you’re right to be. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes. No. Not at all.”

Korolev looked down at the footwear in question, then at the colonel’s boots. He knew the colonel didn’t mean it literally, but all the same—if he’d a choice between the colonel’s boots and his own shoes, then he wouldn’t choose his shoes either. The colonel’s boots looked shapely as a pair of ballet dancers—the highly polished leather almost seeming to glow in the car’s interior.

“Korolev? I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel”—Korolev shook his head to clear it—“I hear you.”

Which he did, but he’d been distracted by the fact that, while the colonel’s boots looked as though they’d just been stripped off an imperial hussar, the rest of Zaitsev’s clothes were crumpled and untidy, the buttons on his gymnastiorka undone as if he’d been exerting himself, and the buckle on his Sam Browne belt unfastened, letting his stomach spread out.

“Well then. What have you to say for yourself?”

To Korolev’s surprise he felt an enormous urge to say exactly what he thought of an organization in which one department told him to investigate two murders and another department came along and told him not to. Because he’d no doubt that this was what he was about to be told. But then, suspecting the brown specks on the colonel’s tunic might just be blood, he took a deep breath and reminded himself who he was talking to.

“Comrade Colonel, I always attempt to do my duty to the best of my ability. If this is about the Azarov and Shtange murders, I’ve only ever followed instructions from my superiors. To the best of my ability.”

The colonel snorted. “To the best of your ability?”

“Perhaps my ability is limited, Comrade Colonel. I’ve always tried to recognize my limitations.”

“It’s as well you do, Korolev. You are, after all, a simple detective—isn’t that right? A simple detective who has managed to become involved in matters well beyond his capabilities.”

In not much more than twenty-four hours Korolev had been directly and indirectly threatened by two Chekist colonels, each of whom, he suspected, wanted completely different things from him. Yes, there was no doubt that he’d got in over his head. The colonel was certainly right about that.

“You’ve even managed to lose your son.”

Korolev was momentarily angry, but more than that he was concerned. Did Zaitsev have the boy? The colonel seemed to follow his thoughts because he smiled, apparently satisfied that he had Korolev’s full attention now.

“Korolev, if I wanted to cause you difficulties, we wouldn’t be talking about things in such a comradely way. If I wanted to make life awkward for you, those fellows outside would be having the conversation, not me. And they’re very efficient at what they do, believe me. The big one, Blanter, looks on it as training for the ring. He’s tireless, believe me: punch, punch, punch. All night long. The other one, Svalov, looks softer but don’t be deceived—he’s the more inventive of the two. You can take my word for it, compared to Svalov, Blanter’s the soft one.”

“I can believe it,” Korolev said, strangely pleased that he’d spotted Blanter as a boxer, while at the same time feeling his guts trying to make their way down to his toes.

“Korolev, I want to make life easy for you. I’ve a proposal, a generous proposal. If you accept it—then, believe me, you’ll have a new friend. And friends like me can be useful in times like these. Of course, if you decline it—well—that would be a different story.”

The colonel gestured in the direction of the two Chekists on the other side of the street.

“Comrade Colonel?” Korolev said, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, he was. But when a man’s afraid for a long time, Korolev knew, he begins to treat it as normality. And normality for him involved smoking cigarettes.

“Of course not. We’re going to be friends, after all. Aren’t we?”

Korolev found himself offering the Colonel the packet and, to his surprise, the Chekist took one, beginning to root around in his pockets for something to light it with before Korolev discovered his hand was now offering his matches as well.

“Thank you, Korolev, a busy night—I smoked the last of mine a couple of hours back.”

“I’m pleased to have the opportunity to assist you, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said, thinking that cigarettes didn’t grow on trees.

Perhaps the colonel heard the reservation in his voice because he laughed, smoke coming out of his mouth as he did so—before reaching into the pocket of his tunic for a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his face, a smile still on his lips.

“Do you know why I want to help you find Professor Azarov’s killer?”

Korolev decided that the colonel’s question wasn’t one he could safely answer.

“Because,” the colonel continued, “it will stop you, and others, digging around in our affairs. Which would be better for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

“From where I’m sitting, I’d have to agree with you,” Korolev said—and something about that amused the colonel all over again.

“Well, if that’s your sincere wish—then I’ve something for you. Pass me that briefcase.”

Korolev did as he was asked and Zaitsev pulled from it a sheet of typed paper, which he inspected briefly before handing it over.

“This is a witness statement—evidence that establishes that there’s no direct connection between the murders and the institute. It was Shtange who killed the professor, so there’s a connection in that regard—but the reasons have more to do with personal animosity than science.”

Korolev found himself struggling to keep his amazement from showing.

“Personal animosity?” he said in a quiet voice.

“The professor denounced Shtange as a saboteur, maliciously, so the good doctor killed him in revenge—or perhaps self-defense, if you consider the likely consequences if he’d been arrested on basis of the professor’s accusation. It doesn’t matter, either way, now they’re both dead.”

Korolev read the first few lines of the document, before glancing back to the top of the page to find out who’d provided this helpful information.

“But this is Priudski, the doorman. What did he have to do with it?”

“Shtange promised him money to let him into the professor’s apartment on the morning of the murder. Shtange then refused to pay him, so Priudski went to his apartment to confront him. When the doctor still wouldn’t pay up, he stabbed him. It all turns out to be very straightforward.”

Korolev read the statement and it was as exactly as the colonel said. At first glance, there was nothing obviously wrong with it—the signature was clear and firm and it was in the correct format. Of course, it was typed, which was unusual for Militia witness statements—but perhaps not for State Security. And perhaps its coming from the NKVD accounted for the fact that the paper was of surprisingly good quality, white and crisp to the touch. In Korolev’s world, statements were written on thin brownish paper that sometimes looked as if it had been an active participant in the interrogation. He’d opened files to find statements that had been smudged by what might have been sweat, or even tears—and sometimes other substances as well. His instincts told him this statement was too well written and too tidy. And then, of course, there were the anomalies in the story—anomalies that couldn’t be just winked away, either.

“Where’s Priudski now?” Korolev asked.

“Where you would like him to be?” the colonel said, and seemed pleased with Korolev’s reaction. “You seem surprised—why?”

Korolev’s hunch, after reading the statement, had been that Priudski was dead. That the doorman was available for questioning was indeed a surprising development.

“No reason in particular. Of course, it would be usual procedure for me to interview any witness whose statement we relied upon.” Korolev spoke carefully—he wanted to sound as if he were going along with Zaitsev’s proposal, but he also wanted to give himself some breathing space. Rodinov had been right, he’d have to play this game for himself now—and he needed time to think.

“You see,” he continued, “Colonel Rodinov won’t be satisfied with this statement just on its own. I’ll have to present him with a completed file—every full stop in the right place, every page numbered.”

“Priudski will back up the witness statement, and you may question him as you see fit. I’m aware that Rodinov will need to be fully satisfied by your conclusions. I know the colonel well.”

Korolev didn’t need to have been involved in Professor Azarov’s telepathy experiments to realize Zaitsev didn’t have loving feelings toward his Chekist colleague.

“And custody?”

“Priudski will remain in the custody of the Twelfth Department, the two dead men were ours.”

It seemed this was a point that wasn’t up for negotiation.

“We still haven’t spoken to all the persons we need to,” Korolev said. “I won’t be able to rely on the statement alone.”

“Speak away, as long as we agree on the outcome. You’ll need these.” Zaitsev handed him a sheaf of photographs of Priudski, as well as a fingerprint card. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Priudski’s prints show up at Dr. Shtange’s apartment.”

Korolev looked at the black smudges on the card and read the date beneath them—yesterday’s—and the location where the card had been filled out—“Internal Prison of the NKVD, Moscow—Butyrka.”

“It sounds as if the case is solved,” Korolev said, but he didn’t like the sound of it much.

Zaitsev nodded, closed the briefcase then tapped the confession Korolev was still holding.

“You can keep this. Listen to me, Korolev, and listen carefully. You have a reputation and it’s an admirable reputation in many ways. It’s said you get the job done, no matter what the risks or the obstacles. They tell me you follow the trail to the end. All of that might be very good when you’re hunting bandits or hooligans, but this is a different matter. Know your limitations. I want an end to this investigation within forty-eight hours and I don’t want any cleverness out of you. Just so you understand me.”

“It should be possible,” Korolev said. “I’ll do my best. But Colonel Rodinov is the one I report to.”

“Forty-eight hours, Korolev,” the colonel said in a voice that was as cold as a snowstorm in Siberia. “And there’s something else.”

“I’m at your command, Comrade Colonel.”

“There is a report, prepared by Dr. Shtange. About the institute. I want it.”

Korolev did his best to look as though this was all news to him. It was difficult, under the colonel’s intense examination, but he thought he managed it well enough.

“A report? What kind of a report?”

The colonel seemed to consider how to respond—and if the report contained half of what Anna Shtange thought it might, then Korolev understood why. After all, Zaitsev was the man in ultimate charge of the institute—and that meant he would be responsible for any of its failures.

“I haven’t read the report myself, Korolev. But I understand it is critical of Professor Azarov—serious allegations that I want to investigate thoroughly, without interference. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“There may be more than one copy. I know Azarov had one, but there may be others. Shtange may have kept one for himself. I need all the copies.”

“I’ll do my best, Comrade Colonel. Believe it.”

“Do better than that, Korolev. I think if you put your mind to it, you’ll find them for me.”

“But—” Korolev began.

“But nothing, Korolev.”

The colonel reached inside his trouser pocket and produced a small pearl-handled pocket knife. A familiar pocket knife. The colonel handed it to him. It felt warm, as if it still held the warmth of Yuri’s hand. Korolev closed his fingers around it, remembering the boy whittling at his stick as they’d walked down to the river.

“Yes, Korolev, it belongs to him. Last night he volunteered to assist the State with an important matter, so I know you won’t object. Of course, there are risks that come with this task, but like any good Pioneer, he knows that duty comes first. Now, I want you to think about that. I understand you don’t like dead bodies—that they make you ill. How would you feel if you were standing over your own son’s corpse, Korolev? Can you imagine what that would be like?”

Korolev said nothing—he couldn’t say anything.

Zaitsev nodded. “So you’ll close this investigation and you’ll find me those reports, won’t you?”