The Twelfth Department

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Korolev sat at Shtange’s desk. Dubinkin would be walking through the door in a few minutes and he wanted to spend some time considering his situation before the Chekist arrived. Korolev’s fury was still smoldering, but other emotions were making themselves felt now, not least of which was severe anxiety for Yuri’s safety. If he allowed it to, he knew fear could slow him down, knew it was essential he kept moving forward on this most perilous of paths. To panic would be fatal for them both. All he could do was pray that the good Lord would preserve Yuri until he could, with luck, rescue him from the dangers the boy now faced.

At least Slivka had been dealt with, more or less. It had been unpleasant to lie to her and he’d been prepared for her to dig her heels in more. But instead she’d been surprisingly compliant—perhaps even suspiciously so. He considered that for a moment—no, she’d gone along with it because she trusted him. He’d have to explain the deception to her at some stage, no doubt, but he hoped she’d forgive him. If she didn’t—well—that was just the way things would be. After all, he couldn’t take any risks with this—the stakes were too high.

Korolev picked up a couple of the photographs of Priudski. They’d been taken in the last day or so. Korolev presumed they were the arrest photographs. One was taken from the side and in the other the doorman was looking straight at the camera. The curious thing was, the Priudski who he’d spoken to only a few minutes ago looked quite different to the man who’d stood against a wall in some Chekist building to have his photograph taken. Korolev examined the face carefully. The old Priudski had a sly look about him—and a pursed, down-turned mouth, both of which, to Korolev’s mind at least, had been signposts to the malevolence he’d detected when he’d first met him.

This morning, however, it had seemed to him that a lot of the doorman’s character had been—well—smoothed from his face. His features seemed more or less the same, but his face was like one of those you might see in a newspaper—the ones that blurred the things you weren’t meant to see. Korolev had seen Stalin at close quarters twice, and knew that the General Secretary’s face was pitted with small-pox scars. It was a rare newspaper photograph that showed them, however. Korolev half-wondered whether something similar might be going on with Priudski, but how could that possibly be? Could Priudski’s entire personality have been rubbed away by someone using Azarov’s methods, whatever they were? Had they really managed to convince the doorman of his own guilt? Or had they some other hold over him?

He shook his head slowly. He was pretty sure Priudski hadn’t killed Shtange, and it concerned him that his going along with Zaitsev’s deception might result in the doorman’s imprisonment or execution. He’d never framed an innocent man, or a guilty one for that matter—he’d always let the evidence take him where it needed to take him. And whoever he found at the other end of the trail was the guilty man and that was that. He was doing something damned close to framing Priudski here—but what choice did he have? None. Not at the moment at least. If things changed he’d do his best to get the fellow off the hook—but for now he was going to have to do his level best to convince everyone necessary that Priudski had perpetrated the most vicious of knife attacks, and that was that.

Which brought him back to Dubinkin. It was, of course, essential that the Chekist went along with the idea that Priudski’s confession had some substance to it. And, unless Korolev was mistaken, it was in Dubinkin’s interests as much as his that this case was put behind them speedily and efficiently. After all, Dubinkin wanted to get out of this business with his hide intact, just as he did—and this was as good a way as any. But there was also something that Zaitsev had let slip that made Korolev wonder if Dubinkin might not have another reason for agreeing to his version of events.

“Good morning, Korolev,” the Chekist said as he came into Shtange’s study, interrupting Korolev’s chain of thought. Which was just as well—sometimes thinking about things for too long made them seem more difficult than they were. All he had to do now was convince an intelligent, experienced Chekist that a lie was a truth. He wouldn’t want that to seem any more difficult than it already was.

“You don’t look happy, Korolev—but I hope you’ve had more success than I have. No Priudski, I’m afraid but I do have the files of three residents of Leadership House that the late Professor Azarov felt obliged to bring to the attention of State Security. They make interesting reading.”

Dubinkin placed a pile of thick files on the desk. It looked like there were many more than three.

“Menchikov and Bramson we knew about. Let me guess, the third one is Weiss?” Korolev said, keeping his eyes steady on the Chekist.

“I’m impressed.”

“Slivka did some poking around over at the university.”

“I’ve another five from there and six more from the Azarov Institute.”

Dubinkin took the top five files from the stack and spread them out in a fan shape. These were the university “traitors,” he presumed. Korolev contemplated them for a moment before looking up at Dubinkin. The Chekist seemed to be waiting for him to speak, perhaps to congratulate him. Or was he anticipating something else?

“I’ve good news for you, Comrade Lieutenant,” Korolev said, picking the doorman’s statement up from the table in front of him and passing it over to the Chekist. “Priudski’s shown up after all and, it seems, solved the murders for us at the same time.”

Dubinkin took the sheet of paper, reading through it quickly—his face a moving picture that went from surprise to what looked a lot like irritation. Korolev was persuaded—almost.

“Priudski?” the Chekist said, when he’d finished. “Where did he appear from? I’ve had men going cell to cell in every damned prison in Moscow looking for him.”

Korolev filled him in on how the guilty man had been delivered in a nicely wrapped package with a pretty ribbon round it—a ribbon that had been tied by Colonel Zaitsev himself. When he’d finished, Dubinkin let out a long, low whistle. He seemed at a loss for words but after a moment he took Priudski’s statement and walked to the window, reading it over once again. Korolev watched him as he did so, unsure if he’d correctly predicted the Chekist’s reaction.

“This is extraordinary reading, Korolev,” Dubinkin said, returning to take a seat in front of the desk and pushing the statement toward him. “I can see a few inconsistencies, however.”

“Which in particular?”

“Wasn’t Shtange meant to have been at the institute at the time of Azarov’s death?”

“We don’t have the records for that—they’ve disappeared. We only have Shtange’s word for it—who is dead—and that of the two guards—who have disappeared.”

“And the murder weapon? This only mentions a knife—it says nothing about a scalpel.”

“Yes,” Korolev said, “but remember that the scalpel wound was inconsistent with the others and inflicted after death. It could have been made by someone else. Or it could have been made by him—we think he may be in shock of some form. I’ve questioned him—and well—I don’t think we can rule his story out straightaway. It’s a strange tale and I wouldn’t have picked him as a killer, but then not many people set out to be murderers—it’s more often a result of circumstances than character.”

“Very philosophical.”

“Perhaps. But we need to look into his story, one way or the other.”

“And you’re not concerned that Colonel Zaitsev might have his own agenda?”

Korolev shrugged. “I sat in this room not half an hour ago with a man who told me he killed Dr. Shtange and conspired to kill Professor Azarov. It’s my job to be skeptical, but it’s also my job to investigate likely perpetrators. This fellow is a likely perpetrator.”

“And what will you tell Colonel Rodinov?”

“Exactly what I’ve told you. I didn’t much like being followed around Moscow by Zaitsev’s men, but maybe he had good reasons. It’s not my job to second-guess State Security.”

Dubinkin considered this for a moment, seemingly amused at the idea that someone like Korolev should even contemplate such a possibility.

“No, that’s true.”

“I’ve a question though. People have been telling us that Priudski might have been in close touch with State Security all along. Did you ever look for a file on him?”

Dubinkin shook his head before looking at Korolev suspiciously.

“You’re sending me back to look for more files?”

“We need to find out everything we can about the fellow.” Korolev picked up the photograph of Priudski and slid it across the table. “That’s why Slivka and the uniforms are out showing his pretty face around the locality. And it’s why I’m making my way over to Leadership House to see what else of his story I can confirm.”

“I can’t wait to see the joy on the filing clerks’ faces,” Dubinkin said dryly as he rose.

“They’ll forgive you, I’m sure,” Korolev said. “But if things happened the way Priudski tells it, then it’s a neat ending for us. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”

He wondered if he’d overplayed his hand for a moment, but Dubinkin, after a brief pause, nodded.

“Yes, Korolev,” Dubinkin said. “That’s exactly what we want.”

After Dubinkin left, Korolev walked over to the window and considered the Chekist. There were certainly other ways that Zaitsev could have known about Korolev’s squeamishness—it was well known in Petrovka, he was sure, and most of the pathologists he dealt with knew he disliked the way they poked and sawed at dead citizens. But the coincidence of Zaitsev referring to his squeamishness the very day after Dubinkin had observed it made him wonder. Could Dubinkin, Rodinov’s man, also be reporting to Zaitsev?

He saw the Chekist appear from the shadow of the building and wait for a tram to pass by—and then out of the shadows cast by the overhanging trees he noticed someone approaching Dubinkin, shaking hands with him. At first he couldn’t be sure who it was, but he thought there was something familiar about the man. They discussed something briefly before going their separate ways.

Korolev let Dubinkin go about his business but kept his eye on the other one, hoping to get a clear view of him. The figure disappeared back into the trees and Korolev thought that was it—that he’d missed him. Then, quite by chance, he caught the briefest of half-glimpses of the fellow through the branches.

He couldn’t be absolutely certain, but it seemed to him it was none other than Svalov, the chubbier of Zaitsev’s watchers.

“Well, well, well,” Korolev found himself muttering.