by William Ryan
He grunted and then carried on with the interview and, when all was said and done, and she’d told him all she had to tell, it seemed the only person Madame Shtange could conceive of having wanted to kill her husband had been killed the day before him.
* * *
“Is Captain Korolev here?” a voice inquired loudly, as they were finishing up. Korolev turned to see a familiar face approaching them.
“This is Lieutenant Dubinkin,” Korolev said, rising to his feet. “He’s also working on the investigation.” Korolev made the introductions and hid his surprise when Dubinkin addressed Hubert and Madame Shtange in apparently fluent French. What was more, it seemed Dubinkin and Hubert knew each other already. Korolev wondered if they shared the same profession.
“Are you from Petrovka as well?” Anna Shtange spoke in Russian and Korolev wondered if it was for his benefit.
“Another organization, Madame Shtange. One equally dedicated to uncovering your husband’s killer, of course.”
Dubinkin spoke smoothly, with an apparently sincere concern, but Anna Shtange’s reaction was to rise to her feet with something close to fury in her eyes. Korolev found himself stepping forward while giving her his warmest smile. She paused, confused, and he took the opportunity to pick his notebook up from the table and nod to Dubinkin.
“We’ve just finished, Comrade Dubinkin. I’ve informed Madame Shtange that arrangements will be made for her to view her husband’s body this afternoon.” He turned his attention back to Anna Shtange. “With luck he should be released to you before the day is out.”
Hubert placed a hand on her arm, and Korolev wondered if the Frenchman shared his concerns. Surely she wouldn’t pick a fight with a man like Dubinkin in public—important French uncle or not. She must know what kind of organization she was dealing with.
“If we have any further questions?” Korolev asked, trying to keep the conversation moving, sensing that a pause would be dangerous.
“You may contact Madame Shtange through the embassy,” Hubert said, already steering her toward the lift. “She’ll be staying with us until we can arrange her and her children’s return to France.”
Anna Shtange turned, caught Korolev’s eye and nodded.
“Thank you, Captain Korolev.”
“My pleasure, Madame Shtange. Your husband’s killer will face Soviet justice very soon, believe me.”
She gave him a weak smile, then glanced at Dubinkin.
“Good—Soviet justice is famed throughout the world,” she said, before adding after a moment’s pause, “I could wish them no worse fate.”
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 cou
ld 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The guards manning the gates weren’t the same as the ones from Monday, but as soon as they saw Dubinkin’s identity card, their resentful suspicion changed to alert welcome. The taller of the two lifted the bar that guarded the entrance and the other walked alongside the car until they reached the back door of the main building.
From the street, the Azarov Institute appeared as though it had always been there and always would be there—but to judge from the activity in the courtyard it seemed this was not entirely the case. A number of workmen were loading trucks with cardboard boxes, metal bedsteads, wooden crates of various sizes, and even what looked like a dentist’s chair.
“What’s going on here?” Korolev asked the guard, who shrugged his shoulders
“I’m not the person to ask about such things, Comrade Captain.”
“Well, who is?”
“We just guard the gate, Comrade Captain. Maybe ask inside.”
“Guard it from who?”
“Enemies, I suppose.” Although the fellow looked like he was none too sure what an enemy might look like.
“What happened to the men who were guarding the gate on Monday?” Korolev asked, a possibility beginning to occur to him.
“I wouldn’t know, Comrade Captain. This is the first time I’ve ever been here. I hoped the Comrade Lieutenant might be able to tell us what time we’ll be relieved.”
When Dubinkin explained he couldn’t help them, the guard said his farewells and they saw him open his hands as he approached his comrade, as if to say—the new arrivals know nothing either. Which was true enough, Korolev thought.
One of the workers told them a man called Danilov was in charge and directed them into the main building where he assured them they’d find him easily enough. They followed the sound of conversation along a long, oak-lined corridor to what must have been an office but which now stood empty, only the shadows on the carpet indicating where furniture had once rested—and now the carpet was itself in the process of being rolled up by three men. One of the men, a broad-shouldered fellow in a blue shirt, damp with sweat, was telling the others what to do.
“Comrade Danilov?”
“What’s it to you?” He rose to his feet, looking at them without enthusiasm. But the surly manner disappeared when Dubinkin showed him his identification card.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Lieutenant,” the man said. “I thought you might be—well—I don’t know quite what I thought. I’m Danilov, right enough.”
“What’s going on here?” Korolev asked, stepping over the carpet the two other men were continuing to roll up, apparently oblivious to their presence.
“We’re moving the place. We’re to have it finished by tomorrow—a big task, I can tell you. But we’re up to it.”
Korolev looked to Dubinkin who was nodding his sympathy to the foreman. Behind them the carpet was lifted on to shoulders and then taken from the room, heading for the courtyard. The men’s footsteps sounded loud on the now-bare floorboards.
“Where to?” Korolev asked.
Danilov looked to Dubinkin for permission to answer. It seemed he was under the mistaken impression that Dubinkin was one of those who’d ordered the institute’s relocation at a moment’s notice. Korolev had to hand it to the Chekist, as Dubinkin gave his permission with a measured nod—he thought on his feet.
“We drive the trucks up Leningradsky Chaussée to a warehouse. Other drivers take them from there. As instructed.”
“Other drivers take them from there?” Korolev asked.
“It’s secret business. That’s all we need to know.” Danilov turned to Dubinkin. “We’re to tell no one what we’ve seen. Or what we’re doing. That’s understood, of course, Comrade Lieutenant. That’s why I wasn’t sure when you came in.”
“And what about the people? The people who worked here?” Korolev asked.
Danilov shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t help you, Comrade. There was no one here when we arrived yesterday.”
Dubinkin glanced at Korolev with a look that could only be described as meaningful. And, Korolev, despite his bemusement, took the hint. Danilov had clearly been told only what he needed to know—which wasn’t much. But if anyone was going to get what he knew out of him, it was going to be Dubinkin.
“We’ll just look around,” Dubinkin said. “We’re expecting to meet someone here. All the paperwork’s gone already, I take it.”
“Paperwork, Comrade? We haven’t seen any paperwork—it must have been your lads did that. There were some of them packing up their own trucks when we arrived.”
“Excellent. Remind me which warehouse you’re driving to at the moment—we have two up there. We may have to make a change.”
Danilov gave him the address and then Dubinkin delicately questioned the man without seeming to. As it turned out, the location of the warehouse was the only useful piece of information he had.
* * *
They left Danilov to his work and walked farther down the corridor, opening the door to what had once been Azarov’s office. Their footsteps echoed on more bare floorboards. Everything had been taken from the room, except a portrait of Stalin. He looked down at them benevolently.
“This is where I met Shtange,” Korolev said. “His desk was just there.”
Dubinkin walked to the window, looking out as a truck’s engine started.
“Where do you think they’re taking everything?” Korolev asked him. “After the warehouse. And what about the people who worked here—where have they gone?”
“Somewhere we’re not meant to find them, I suspect. Although we’ll do our best, of course. I suspect Colonel Zaitsev was concerned that the security of the institute’s work might have been compromised.”
Dubinkin spoke in a resigned monotone that told Korolev the Chekist considered any hope of locating the missing institute forlorn at best.
“But there’s an investigation going on into the death of two men. Surely Colonel Rodinov can just order Zaitsev to take us to the people we want to talk to.”
Dubinkin made a noise that might have been a laugh if there’d been any humor in it.
“The only person who might be able to order Zaitsev about is Ezhov. And even then, it might have to go higher. Zaitsev’s an important man and dealing with him is a delicate business—I can’t say any more than that.”
Korolev looked around him, thinking that if an entire institute could disappear, just like that, with no explanation required—then where did that leave a Militia detective?
They walked through the building, from offices to meeting rooms, from operating rooms down deserted corridors to what looked like hospital wards, storage rooms, a canteen. Everywhere was empty or being emptied.
“What do you make of these?” Korolev asked, gesturing toward a metal door. He’d noticed that each area was divided from those adjoining it by two sets of metal doors, each with eyeholes and locks so that moving from one side to another would require both sides to cooperate.
“I imagine they segregated each area,” Dubinkin said. “That way no one knew everything that was going on. Almost like a cell structure, so that infiltration or treachery could only have a limited effect. And perhaps to make sure information wasn’t shared—that people only saw what was in front of them and never the bigger picture.”
“Yes,” Korolev said. “Shtange said something similar. That only the professor had known everything that went on in the institute.”
They walked out into the courtyard, standing silent among the busy workers, none of whom paid them much attention. Men were loading one truck with small metal bed frames.
“I understand the professor didn’t restric
t his research solely to adults,” Dubinkin said.
Korolev said nothing, his attention drawn by the two long concrete buildings he’d seen on his first visit. They looked like massive bunkers more than anything else. Thick iron shutters were bolted into the walls where windows should be.
“Shall we have a look?”
They walked over and Dubinkin pushed at the massive door of the nearest of the two buildings. To Korolev’s surprise, it swung inward smoothly, only the slightest sound coming from its oiled hinges. The Chekist ran a finger along the edge of the door with what seemed to be admiration—it had been heavily sound-proofed with felt on the inside, even though it was already a good six inches thick.
“I’ve seen this kind of sound-proofing before.”
So had Korolev—he’d made a brief unwilling visit to the Lubyanka the year before and seen just the same felt applied to some of the doors. And when Dubinkin found the electricity switch, he recognized the circular metal light shades that ran along the narrow central passage. It was cool inside the building but, then again, unless he was wrong, it was a place where the sun had never shone.
Korolev said nothing as he followed the Chekist past the heavy cell doors that lined each side of the corridor. All of them were open.
“Look in here,” Dubinkin said, peering into one.
The room was as dark as a pit. There was nothing in it—not a bed, nor a basin, nor a chair. Not even a bucket for a man’s necessary activities. The walls were painted black—as was the floor. Korolev looked round for a light fitting inside the cell. But there was none to be found.
“Put a man in here for a few days and he’ll tell you whatever you want him to,” Dubinkin said, and to judge from his voice, his view of such measures wasn’t necessarily negative. “But he won’t like you for it. Or ever be the same, I shouldn’t think.”
The next three cells were identical—but the fifth was a complete contrast. Here the walls and the floor were painted a glossy white and its high ceiling, ten feet up, was thick glass. Korolev flicked a switch and the room lit up like the inside of a light bulb.
