The Twelfth Department

by William Ryan

  “You mean did anyone see a blood-drenched doorman making his way several miles across town on a tram?”

  She paused, seeming to consider what she’d said, before she continued, apparently more receptive to the possibility.

  “Of course, this is Moscow. People can be blind when it suits them.”

  Korolev didn’t like to say that that was because Muscovites were sensible people, by and large.

  “Exactly,” he said. “So ask around—I’ll carry on with the other leads, but I want you to focus on this.”

  What he meant, of course, was that he wanted her to stay safely away from the things he might or might not have to do to get both Yuri and himself out of this mess in one piece. Or as safely away as possible, anyway.

  “All right,” she agreed, and if she was still reluctant about Priudski’s story, he appreciated the fact that she made some effort to hide it. “I’ll do it, but there’s another matter we have to attend to in the meantime.”

  “What?”

  “Kolya. He’ll meet us at Gorky Park. At two. On the embankment—there’s a statue of a diver about two hundred meters along from the Krimsky Bridge.”

  “I know it. Well done.”

  “He’ll find us,” Slivka said. “We just go to the statue and walk on from there—he’ll pick us up when he thinks it’s safe.”

  Korolev made a show of considering this, before shaking his head.

  “No, Slivka, I’ll see him on my own. You need to keep on at this.”

  Slivka gave him a strange glance, and Korolev found it difficult to hold her gaze.

  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.�
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  “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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Thirty minutes later a pensive Korolev parked outside Leadership House and found Priudski’s replacement, Timinov, standing at the entrance wearing a short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck, his face shaded by a flat cap. Korolev envied him, as he sweated, once again, under a gun-covering outer layer.

  The doorman tipped the brim of his cap.

  “Enjoying the weather, Comrade?” Korolev asked him, offering him a cigarette.

  “We’ll miss it in a few months, don’t think we won’t.” The doorman gave him a cheery smile.

  “Listen,” Korolev said, lighting their cigarettes. “That fellow Priudski—exactly when was he arrested again?”

  “On Tuesday afternoon. At close to six.”

  “I thought so. The thing is—I need to know if he was here all that day, before he was arrested.”

  “I would think so—I can check.”

  “Can you check in a quiet fashion?”

  “The schedules are there for us all to see—nothing easier. Are you around for long?”

  “An hour or so, maybe longer—I need to talk to one or two of the tenants.”

  “I’ll know by then.” He looked around, lowering his voice. “And I’ve something to show you—it may be nothing, but you can be the judge.”

  “No better time than now,” Korolev said, and followed him to his office, where the doorman handed him a heavy-looking metal torch.

  “You’ll need this.”

  “What for? To hit someone with?” Korolev asked, taking it from him and hefting it in his hand.

  “No,” Timinov answered with an enigmatic air. “You’ll need it to see what isn’t often seen.”

  Korolev followed him, curious now, as they climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. Alongside the lift there was a small, almost invisible door, painted the same color as the wall. Timinov opened it with a key from a large ring.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s an access door to the lift shaft. Have a look.”

  Korolev peered down into the dark shaft then upward. What light there was came through the gaps between the lift doors on each floor—just enough to show thick cables running the height of the building. Beside the door, in a separate, much smaller space that ran alongside the main lift shaft, there was a narrow ladder.

  “What am I looking for?” Korolev asked and, for an answer, Timinov put the torch into his hand.

  Sighing, Korolev squeezed through the small door, took a firm hold of a ladder rung with his left hand and with his left foot sought out another, lower rung. His stomach felt hollow, but after he’d tested both rungs and was sure they were secure, he persuaded himself to swing his weight out. And there he was—suspended above a drop that was all the more worrying because of the darkness.

  He turned the torch on, pointed it upward and saw a similar door quite a way up and, on each floor in between, a series of grilles that were each about eighteen inches square. There was one just above his head—which meant they probably led into the ceiling spaces between each floor.

  “What are those grilles? Some kind of ventilation system?”

  “Correct, Comrade Captain,” said Timinov from the open door. For some reason they were both whispering.

  Korolev took a deep breath and pointed his torch downward, feeling a lurch of nausea as the beam revealed the drop to the bottom. Or was it the bottom? No, the cables dropped down to a series of heavy wheels, fixed to what must be the roof of the lift. He angled the torch so that it was directed at the fifth floor and saw that the small grille that marked the entrance to the ventilation system was standing slightly ajar.

  “You see it?”

  “I see it.” Korolev spoke grimly, realizing he’d have to go down and look at it.

>   “Think that’s where your rats got in?”

  “I wonder.”

  He ducked back out onto the landing and took off his jacket. There was no point in ruining it. He slipped the torch into his trouser pocket and squeezed himself back into the tiny ladder space. It was tight and, not for the first time, he considered whether it might not be time to lose a few pounds. At least he could only fall to the left, he supposed—there was damn-all space in any other direction. He sighed, made a brief acknowledgment of the infinite power and holiness of the Lord above, and began to move downward, lowering his entire weight with his arms, feeling for the next rung beneath him with both feet. If only Slivka were here—she was the right size for a job like this. Although if he found what he suspected he was going to find, then it was just as well she wasn’t.

  Rung by rung he descended—it was slow going and, despite his fear of heights, he found that all he could think about was his almost-new shirt and how hard shirts were to come by these days. Perhaps he should have taken it off altogether. If it was ruined he might never find another.

  Now he could hear voices in the gloom—a couple were arguing somewhere beneath him and, by the sound of it, someone on a floor above was shouting at a subordinate down the telephone, threatening the direst consequences if a delivery of piping wasn’t made immediately. The ventilation system seemed to be funneling the sounds of the apartments into the lift shaft.

  Then he felt the top of the open grille under his foot. Good. He nudged it shut and carried on until he was just beneath it, reached for the torch and turned it on. There was a lock that should have held the grille shut—he examined it closely. There were small scratch marks around the mechanism and if it hadn’t been picked, then he’d be very surprised. If this had been an ordinary investigation he’d have stopped at this point and had the forensics men take over. But this wasn’t an ordinary investigation.

  He opened the grille and pulled himself up till he was on the same level. The torch lit up a long square-shaped crawl space, off which more passages ran. If every floor was the same then, by the look of it, if you were small enough you could access any room in the building. There was a fair amount of dust, as you’d expect, but it had been heavily disturbed—and not by rats, or even mice. Well, well, well.