by William Ryan
Korolev stood in the doorway, looking in at the frightened faces in the small space, and lit the cigarette that every fiber in his body was crying out for. He thought he saw guilt in their expressions and possibly remorse. He hoped he did. He hoped they realized that if you did the kind of things to a person that they’d done—well then—you should expect that something similar might be done to you down the road.
“We said no killing, Kolya.”
Korolev could feel the heat of Kolya’s anger from where he stood behind him.
“Not here, maybe. But I’m remembering faces.”
Korolev, as it happened, was doing the same. Folk seldom turned the other cheek completely, in his experience, they just waited for an opportunity. It might never come—but if it did, they’d take it. And so he looked at the rats in the strongroom, at each one of their faces, and he memorized them. Then he slowly shut the door and locked it. And left them in the dark.
He turned to Kolya.
“Chances are Zaitsev will hand out their punishment for us, anyway. They failed him.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Kolya said. The Thief’s eyes looked as if they were glowing with a dark, volcanic rage.
“You go ahead—there’s something I have to do.” Korolev’s voice sounded tired, even to him.
Slivka stepped forward. “It’s not worth it, Chief. Stick to the plan—in and out. It’s the best way.”
“Not them.”
“What then?”
“There might be papers here that back up Shtange’s report. Somewhere.”
“We should go,” Slivka said in a flat tone.
“Where to, Slivka? You think they won’t know this is our work? Do you think we can hide? There are other people involved in this—Valentina, Yasimov, our friends, our families. You know how these things work. If there’s something that backs up what Shtange wrote, we’ve a chance.”
Slivka looked at him in silence for a moment, then nodded to Kolya.
“Give us ten minutes—we’ll see you at the cars.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Korolev could hear the boys moving around upstairs as they worked their way through the first of the offices. Meanwhile, file after file dropped to the floor as he and Slivka went through the cabinet drawers one by one.
“What are we looking for?” Slivka said.
“Anything financial. Accounts, invoices, receipts, estimates, orders, payslips—I don’t know. Anything with a number and a rouble.”
He left Slivka and went on to the other office—the desk was locked and so he went to the dining room and grabbed a handful of cutlery from the table. Two knives lay bent and broken on the floor by the time he got into the drawers, but he found nothing of use in them—just writing paper and some pencils.
He moved onto the cabinets and then the shelves, throwing books and paper around him, so that anyone walking in would have thought there’d been an explosion. But still he came across nothing which looked like it might be remotely relevant.
“Are there offices in the new building?” Slivka asked, coming in.
“There are, but we don’t have time.”
Korolev was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything except the plan they’d made.
“We do, if we’re quick.”
Korolev considered this, then considered the alternative. They’d have to make time.
“Well then, let’s hurry.”
Perhaps it was his tiredness, or the constant fear he’d been living with for days now—but it felt as though he were moving through water as they ran down to the new building. And even though his eyes were telling him he was moving fast, he’d the strong impression that he’d never reach the door he was heading for. He could barely hear the crunch and slide of his shoes on the gravel over the roaring in his ears. Then he was standing inside the doorway, trying to catch his breath.
“You take the doors on the left. I’ll take the right. Let’s be quick, but let’s be careful.”
The first office yielded nothing—patient files, manuals, an entire drawer full of political lectures, a folder full of photographs of Stalin, charts—everything, it seemed, except what he was looking for. He could hear drawers being emptied by Slivka across the corridor.
“Anything?” he called in to her as he moved onto the second door.
“Nothing,” was her reply.
There was a desk in this room, again locked. He looked round for something to open it with and, for a moment, considered using his gun. Then he saw a coat hook on the back of the door and, using all his weight, wrenched it out of the wood that held it. He wedged it into the desk and then used the heavy chair to hammer out the drawer. Pens. A bar of Three Piglets chocolate.
He took the chocolate for Yuri.
The third office had the two terrified nurses in it, both conscious now. These women in their crisp white dresses—if he hadn’t come here tonight it would be his son upstairs looking at them in terror.
“Witches. Devils. Wretches.” He spat each word at them, flinging useless paper to the floor from the drawers as he did so.
“Chief.”
It was Slivka, standing in the doorway. And there was something wrong. She looked as if the breath had been knocked out of her.
“Chief, two cars have just arrived. They’ve found the guard at the front gate. He’s talking to them. They’re closing the place off—they must know we’re here.”
He stood, the sweat turning cold on his skin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
It was always going to end this way, he supposed.
Korolev stood beside Slivka in a darkened room on the upper floor, watching another carload of men arrive. Svalov, Zaitsev’s tubby assistant, sent them up to the main house with Blanter—the boxer. Korolev closed his eyes and felt every last drop of energy drain away from him. Svalov had already surrounded the building they were in and was now looking up at it. It seemed to Korolev that he was staring at the very window they were standing at.
“We could try and run for it.” Slivka’s voice sounded tired.
“We’re surrounded and they know we’re here. They’d shoot us down.”
“That might be better.”
“For us, perhaps.”
Another car pulled in through the gates and Svalov went over to it, leaning down to speak to someone in the front passenger seat.
“Come on, let’s go and meet our fate. Leave the guns here.”
Korolev took the guard’s Nagant from his pocket and then slipped the Walther from his underarm holster. Was it fifteen years he’d had it? More. He placed Azarova’s little pea-shooter beside it. He patted the Walther farewell.
“Slivka,” he said, turning to her, “for what it’s worth, you’ve been the best of comrades.”
“And you, Chief, have been the best of chiefs.”
They walked down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, and then along the corridor to the half-open door that led outside.
“I’ll go first,” Korolev said.
“I—” Slivka began.
“This once, Nadezhda Andreyevna, let me have my way.”
Slivka looked as though she thought he might be taking advantage of the situation, but she nodded.
One of the cars had a searchlight and as he came out with his hands held high he had to turn his eyes from the glare.
“Take off the jacket, slowly.”
The voice sounded as if it meant business and he complied.
“Who are you?”
“Korolev, captain in the Militia. From Petrovka.” And then, because he thought it couldn’t do any harm. “On temporary assignment to State Security.”
He heard the sound of a car door opening and footsteps approaching, but it was as if the searchlight had mesmerized him, he couldn’t look away from it.
“Korolev, it seems you’re one step ahead of us.”
Korolev turned to confirm the voice belonged to the man he thought it did. A familiar mustache was attached to a familiar
face—only feet away.
“Dubinkin?”
“The very same—but you look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Korolev. Are you all right?”
Dubinkin had that irritating smile on his face once again—the one that told you he knew just that little bit more about you than you did yourself. And Korolev was damned if he’d play along with it.
“We’ve been worried about you,” the Chekist continued. “We wondered if you mightn’t have bitten off more than you could chew.”
Dubinkin had a cheek to feign concern, and Korolev found his irritation turning to anger. He’d face the consequences of his actions. But he was damned if he’d be made fun of.
“Did your boss Zaitsev send you here to do his dirty work?” he said, and could hear the bitterness in his voice.
“No,” Dubinkin said, with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “I’ve only ever had one boss. And Comrade Colonel Rodinov is a very pleased man this evening. Your investigation has turned from defeat to triumph. How did you know Dr. Weiss had a copy of Shtange’s report?”
“I didn’t,” Korolev said.
“Well,” Dubinkin said, smiling, “then you’re the luckiest man alive.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
In all the excitement, no one had bothered to ask how Slivka and Korolev had made their way out this far from Moscow, at night, on their own. Nor had anyone questioned how the two of them, again on their own, had managed to secure the entire facility. And as no one asked, Korolev decided not to mention that the Chief Authority of the Moscow Thieves and his right-hand man were waiting for them in the woods—or had been, until the NKVD cars showed up at least. No, he’d kept his mouth shut and thanked the all-merciful Lord above him that, for the moment at least, things seemed to have taken a surprising turn for the better.
During the drive back to Moscow in a car full of large men, however, the reality of his situation began to dawn on him. And during two hours waiting in a Lubyanka corridor to talk to Rodinov, the reality had hit home, and hard. The slow passing of each minute made him more and more conscious that certain questions were going to be asked once the colonel called him in. And he knew Rodinov well enough by now to know that when they were asked, there wouldn’t be much point in lying.
So by the time a lean, hungry-looking type had come to fetch him to see the colonel—well—it wasn’t just the close atmosphere that was making his shirt damp with sweat.
“Korolev.” The colonel looked up from a typed sheet of paper that he appeared to be signing. He followed Korolev’s gaze to the document and, to Korolev’s surprise, smiled.
“Do you know what this is, Korolev?”
Korolev shook his head. As far as he was concerned the colonel could sit there naked as God intended, singing “Kalinka Malinka” and it would be none of his business.
“I’ve no idea, Comrade Colonel.”
“I’ll tell you. My first orders as the head of the Twelfth Department.”
“I congratulate you, Comrade Colonel.” It seemed the thing to say.
The colonel scribbled what might have been a signature, put his pen down, and leaned back in his chair to examine Korolev.
“It’s been a hard evening for you. Dubinkin said you looked like you thought your last hour had come.”
“I thought he was working for Zaitsev.”
“He was, in a manner of speaking. But he’s always worked for me. Blanter and Svalov came to me later in the game, when they saw which way the wind was blowing.”
“I see that now. But at the time…”
“I can imagine. Dubinkin said you didn’t know Weiss had a copy of the report?”
“I knew he had something.”
“Well, whatever you said to Weiss, he felt obliged to pass the report on to Boldyrev.”
“I don’t even know who this Boldyrev is.”
“Comrade Boldyrev is the newly appointed People’s Commissar for Health. Haven’t you read the papers over the last few days?”
Rodinov smiled at his own joke, and opened a metal cigarette case. One that Korolev had seen before somewhere. It had a propeller engraved on its cover.
“Well, you know now—and when Weiss told him about the report, Boldyrev saw an opportunity to prove himself worthy of promotion to People’s Commissar. So he showed it to Molotov. And Molotov showed it to Comrade Stalin. And Comrade Stalin decreed that Zaitsev should be arrested. And he has been.”
Rodinov lit a cigarette and pushed the box over to Korolev. “It was Dr. Shtange who gave Weiss his copy of the report, of course. He knew the contents were damning but he felt loyalty to an outdated academic convention that required him to show it to Azarov before he gave it to the person who’d commissioned it—or in this case, his successor. But just in case things went badly, he thought he’d leave a copy of the report with Weiss for safe keeping.”
Korolev nodded as though he understood. But he didn’t.
“Shtange must have told Azarov there was another copy in existence,” the colonel continued. “As a kind of insurance in case Azarov tried anything, I suppose. And Azarov must have told Zaitsev about it—that’s how Zaitsev knew there were at least two copies for you to look for.”
Korolev took a cigarette, listening to the colonel but sneaking another quick look at the cigarette box. He’d seen it only days before, he was sure—and it hadn’t been in this room.
“Zaitsev didn’t know who had the second copy—no one did—and, of course, you inadvertently removed Azarov’s copy before he could place his hands on that one. So all Zaitsev knew about the report was what he’d been told by Azarov on the phone—and that was enough to frighten him, but not too much. Until, that is, Azarov showed up with a bullet in his head and his copy wasn’t to be found. Then he began to become concerned. And he became very concerned when Shtange was murdered and his copy couldn’t be found either. Well, you can only imagine—I shouldn’t be surprised if he thought I was behind the whole thing.”
Korolev was tired enough that if he’d been a horse he’d have been put down—but the cigarette case was bothering him. He should remember where he’d seen it.
“So that’s why Zaitsev stripped all the paperwork and books from the apartment. To try to find the report before anyone else got their hands on it.”
“Just in case, however, he shut down the institute. He reasoned that without the institute there’d be next to no evidence to back up the allegations contained in the report. And he was right. Comrade Ezhov hasn’t fully settled in as Chief of State Security yet and has enough on his plate, believe me, without going after someone like Zaitsev. So Zaitsev must have felt he was safe—until, of course, someone showed the report to Comrade Stalin himself. Which Comrade Molotov did yesterday evening.”
Korolev had never seen the colonel so—well—ebullient.
“And it’s all thanks to you.”
“I only did my duty,” Korolev said.
“Well, not quite.” The colonel looked stern for a moment, but the effort seemed too much for him. He shook his head as if Korolev had done something that had amused him.
“Don’t worry, Korolev, I’ll overlook what happened out in Lefortovo. As far as I’m concerned you were looking for evidence of Colonel Zaitsev’s crimes and that’s that. The fact you may have had some unorthodox assistance and seem to have made off with two children is—well—neither here nor there, as far as I’m concerned.”
Korolev didn’t know what to say.
“Yes.” The colonel nodded. “That’s the way to leave things—as they are. Your son, I hope, is safe?”
“I hope so,” Korolev said, trying to maintain a somber expression while relief was singing in his veins. “I’ll find out soon.”
“And so, you’ll be pleased to hear, is your wife. Your ex-wife rather. But a word of advice for her—she should leave Zagorsk. I can only intervene once. She might be better off moving to the new territories we’re opening up in Siberia—they need good engineers there, and a fresh start will
do her no harm.”
Korolev thought about that—about Yuri going even farther away. And he felt a small part of his pleasure in the boy’s safety diminish.
“I’ll tell her.”
“Good.” Rodinov considered him for a moment. “Which brings us to the murders, I suppose. Professor Azarov?”
Korolev thought about Goldstein and his bravery at the institute. If he’d killed the professor hadn’t he been administering a higher form of justice? In any normal society, the professor would have been a criminal—at least in Korolev’s opinion. But then hadn’t Goldstein’s action caused this whole chain of events? He needed to think about it.
“We’ll have to carry on our investigations,” he said. “We have a few leads. It wasn’t Shtange, that’s for sure. I can only think some of the professor’s techniques were used on Priudski to make him give that evidence.”
Rodinov considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Shtange’s dead and his wife leaves for France this afternoon with their children. Shtange will do. That’s the end of it, Korolev.”
Korolev was about to object and then stopped himself. Yes, Dr. Shtange would do. If his wife ever found out, she’d know the truth and she’d know it in Paris or wherever she ended up. Korolev lived in Moscow and if the colonel said, in as many words, that Shtange had killed the professor—then who was he to second-guess the newly appointed head of the Twelfth Department?
“Now what about Shtange’s death?” the colonel continued.
“Madame Azarova,” Korolev said. “Although, I’m not sure she was quite right in the head at the time.”
And perhaps it was the mention of Shtange’s death that finally jolted his exhausted brain to remember who that damned cigarette case belonged to. Perhaps the realization showed on his face, because the colonel slid it across the table to him once again.
