by William Ryan
Korolev held the phone tight in his grip—there were many things he wanted to say, and not one of them he could.
“Do you play chess, Korolev?”
“I’ve played it, but not for many years. Maybe once or twice with Yuri.”
“That’s a shame—I think you’d be a good player. Solid, mostly, but capable of identifying an opportunity when it comes along. More importantly you know how to be brave when you need to be, to risk defeat in order to achieve victory.”
“If you say so, Comrade Colonel.”
But Korolev suspected that in a chess game like this defeat was permanent.
“You’re in a difficult situation, Korolev. Your former wife’s situation is also precarious. And, it seems to me, your son is in a difficult position as well.”
Korolev felt his hand grip the telephone so hard it seemed possible he would crush it, but he somehow managed to hold his tongue.
“I think I can intervene in your wife’s predicament—I’d like to take her off the board, if that were possible.”
Korolev didn’t know what the colonel was suggesting and didn’t think he could ask either.
“But with regard to your son we must accept it’s a strong possibility that they’ll find him before we do. And if they do find him first, Korolev, the question is—how will they use him?”
That wasn’t a question Korolev much wanted to consider, let alone answer. The colonel was silent again—no doubt thinking. Korolev wondered if the colonel had a son, and just what he’d be thinking if it was his child out there on the streets of Moscow being hunted by Chekists.
“Well, Korolev,” Rodinov said eventually. “Whatever happens, you must remember that your best chance of coming out of this in one piece is with me. You probably already know too much to be allowed to survive long if Zaitsev wins. Will you remember that?”
“I will, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said.
“Good. And from now on you’ll report to me face-to-face. The telephone isn’t ideal for this kind of conversation. Five o’clock tomorrow—at the side entrance to the Lubyanka. In the meantime, carry on as you’ve done so far—it’s having an effect, it seems. I wish you luck, Korolev.”
The colonel hung up and for a moment Korolev sat listening to the hum of the telephone line in his ear and feeling more alone than he ever had.
Except that wasn’t entirely the case. There had been one other time. Nineteen sixteen—the summer—he’d been cut off during some pointless battle that had raged for the best part of a week. He’d spent two days in a shell hole between the lines, knowing if he stuck his head above the ground he’d be shot at by both sides. Just him, half a bottle of water, and four dead men. Or what was left of them. And German and Russian shells falling around him as each side tried to work out if the other was coming at them.
He sat there for a moment, remembering it—and coming to the conclusion that his current situation was worse. In 1916, his son hadn’t been in the shell hole with him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Korolev didn’t go straight home, even though he was exhausted. He stood on the street outside Shtange’s apartment building and thought about where Yuri might be. He had a few ideas. He looked back at the two goons in the Emka. They were looking tired now as well—or perhaps just bored. Well, if he did manage to find Yuri, he’d be damned if these two runts were going to take him away. He’d a temporary assignment to the NKVD, signed by Nikolai Ezhov himself. That must make him a colleague to these two—perhaps even their superior. Anyway, he was coming to understand that there might be some unexpected advantages to this temporary assignment of his. He tipped his hat to the men, and received two blank stares in response. Not very comradely, all things considered.
Korolev pointed the car in the direction of Kuznetsky Most, which would be busy even at this time of the evening, just in case he might spot Yuri there. Nothing. Then he went west to Arbat, where Moscow’s youth liked to gather during the evening, but there was no sign of him there either. Finally he went to Kievsky Station, where the train from Peredelkino came in, parked the car and walked through the station, checking each of the platforms and waiting rooms before picking his way through the surrounding streets. Still nothing.
It was getting dark by the time he decided that if Yuri was in Moscow he’d likely have gone to ground completely. With a dull pain in his chest, he turned the car in the direction of home, although his eyes kept searching, hoping against hope for a sign of the boy. And then, by chance perhaps, or more likely because his subconscious had taken over the driving while he scanned his surroundings, he found himself looking at an enameled street sign. Vitsin Street.
Vitsin Street wasn’t on his direct route home. But still, here he was. And what was more, twenty meters farther along the street was the orphanage where the professor’s wife worked. He parked the car and stepped out. Sure enough, the Emka pulled in thirty meters farther back.
“Who is it?” a voice said from inside when he knocked on the heavy wooden door for the second time.
“Militia. Open up.”
“A moment.”
There was the sound of a heavy lock being opened and a bolt being pulled before the door creaked open a few inches and a pair of wary eyes appeared in the narrow gap.
“What do you want, Comrade?” a deep voice asked him.
“I need to talk to the director.”
“He’s having his dinner.”
Korolev had had a long day and a longer night. And he’d good reasons for the temper that had been simmering nicely all day.
“I don’t care if he’s dancing naked to the damned radio.” Korolev pushed hard at the door. “I need to see him right now.”
The door didn’t move. The wary eyes, it seemed, were attached to a hefty amount of muscle. They blinked once when he pushed but otherwise they maintained their steady gaze.
“Ask nicely and I’ll let you in. Otherwise it’s good night to you.”
Korolev could feel a headache coming on, but he did his best to swallow his irritation.
“Please open this damned door,” he said. “I would be very grateful.”
“That’s better.” The door swung open and Korolev was surprised to discover that, while the cautious eyes were indeed attached to a body that had more bulk than a prize-winning ox, he’d been talking to a woman. But that was probably just as well, he decided—because if she’d been a man he might have felt obliged to throw a punch, and there was every chance, to judge from the way the fabric stretched across those biceps, that this would have been a mistake.
“My name’s Korolev. From Petrovka.”
She examined his identity card before handing it back to him, glancing at his face for the briefest of moments. She made no comment on his black eye.
“We have to be careful. Not all the boys want to be in here—and some of them have friends on the outside. I’m Tambova—the boys call me Little Barrel.” She snuck another look at him, perhaps gauging his reaction, and shrugged.
“I prefer Little Barrel. Sit here and I’ll knock on the director’s door. Korolev, you said.”
“That’s me.”
“Don’t let anyone in while I’m away.”
She turned to climb up the staircase behind her, her movements surprisingly delicate.
There was a long wooden bench in the hallway where she probably wanted him to sit, but Korolev decided to take a walk along the corridor that led deeper into the building. At one stage the place had been a monastery, of course, and he found traces of its former identity—the outline of a three-fingered hand raised in blessing behind poorly applied whitewash, ancient wooden doors with crosses cut into the nails, and a stone-flagged floor that had been worn smooth by hundreds of years of monks’ feet. He followed his nose until he found himself in a chapel, now a dormitory. Ranks of bunk beds were pressed in on top of each other, with only the narrowest of spaces between them for movement. There were no children, however, only rolled-up mattresses resting on the
wooden bases of the beds.
“Can I help you?”
Korolev turned to find himself face-to-face with a stout man dressed in a white shirt, the top three buttons of which were open—a tuft of grey chest hair and the top of a string vest poking out.
“You are?” Korolev asked.
“I’m the director of the orphanage. Spinsky.” He looked none too pleased to be separated from his supper, but Korolev didn’t care. If Spinsky thought he had it tough he should walk in Korolev’s shoes for half an hour and see how he liked them.
“Captain Korolev, Moscow CID. I’ve some questions for you.”
“It’s late.”
Korolev said nothing and Spinsky, after a brief pause, sighed and nodded.
“All right then. Is this about the missing boys?”
“Which missing boys would these be?” Korolev asked, more than a little curious.
“Two of them absconded from a trip to Peredelkino. We’ve sent the children out there for the week.”
Korolev said nothing. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.
“Are you all right?” Spinsky asked.
“When was this?”
“Last night. Listen, what’s all this about?”
“Have you photographs of them?” Korolev said, ignoring the question. “The boys that ran, that is.”
“I should think so.”
The director led him outside into the corridor and indicated a low door. “My office.”
“Do you mind my asking—would one of these two runaways be called Goldstein?”
Spinsky looked over his shoulder as he inserted a key into its lock. “Yes, have you found him?”
Last night—the same night Yuri had disappeared—two orphans make a run for it. This morning, three boys are seen at the next station along from Peredelkino. One of them—perhaps—Yuri; and another—perhaps—Kim Goldstein.
“Not yet,” Korolev said, his voice much calmer than he felt.
“Please, take a seat,” Spinsky said, opening the door.
“Can you tell me the circumstances? How they managed it?”
“I wasn’t there, but the children were missing in the morning—they must have slipped over the wall at some stage. It’s less secure out there and, well, it’s not unusual. We don’t run a prison camp.”
“I know Goldstein lived on the streets, what about this other fellow?”
“Yes, Petrov is his name. They came in together in January—the winter’s our biggest recruiter among street children.”
“Together. Was there a gang of them came in at the same time?”
“I think so, I’d have to check.”
Goldstein’s gang. The Razin Street Irregulars, or so he’d once called them.
“Have you reported their running away to the Militia?”
Spinsky glanced up. “We used to. But it takes a long time to make the report and nothing ever comes of it. I’m sorry if that seems blunt.”
Which would explain why no one had made the connection. Still, if Yuri was with him the chances were they’d be visiting Goldstein’s old haunts—and Korolev knew someone who’d know where at least some of those were.
“Could you check who came in with them? It might be useful. I know a bit about Goldstein and his crew.”
The director frowned. “All right.”
He pulled a heavy ledger from the shelf beside his desk and opened it up, flicking through the pages.
“There were five of them.”
“May I see?”
The director pushed the ledger across and Korolev ran his finger down the column of names until he found Goldstein’s. There were four other children admitted the same day. Beside Goldstein’s name and that of Petrov someone had written an “R” in red ink and today’s date.
“The ‘R’ means?”
“Run.”
“This is the other fellow, is it? Petrov? You said you might have photographs of them.”
“Yes, of course.” The director stood and walked to a filing cabinet, opening the drawers until he came back with two files.
“Two of these have an ‘A’ beside them and one a ‘D,’” Korolev said, looking at the ledger entries. “What do they mean?”
“The ‘D’ means deceased—they were in poor shape when they came in and the boy caught influenza, if I remember. He didn’t make it. The other two were transferred to the Azarov Institute.”
Korolev nodded calmly, although he felt anything but calm. In fact he could feel energy racing round his body looking for a way out. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes—it was the only thing he could think of.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Help yourself.”
Korolev looked at the fingers that held the match as he lit his cigarette; they were steady. He wasn’t sure how.
“Professor Azarov’s wife works here, of course,” he said, somehow managing to speak in a neutral tone of voice.
“Listen, Comrade. What’s this all about? I understand you’re with Petrovka, but if I knew what you were looking for perhaps I could help you more.”
“I am with Petrovka,” Korolev said. “But I’ve also been assigned to State Security on a certain matter. You should know State Security doesn’t answer questions, it asks them. I can show you my letter of authority, if you wish.”
Spinsky looked doubtful, but then he seemed to reconsider. He swallowed before nodding slowly.
“Very good. Yes, Comrade Azarova comes three times a week. I’ll be honest, some of our boys are resistant to socialism, and she’s been of great assistance in our re-education efforts.”
“When exactly? When does she come in, that is?”
“Monday morning, Tuesday morning, and Friday morning, I think. She’s with us from eight-thirty until about twelve. She works with other orphanages as well though, on other days and in the afternoons.”
“So she was here on Monday and Tuesday of this week?”
“Monday morning certainly—I saw her myself. Tuesday morning—I can’t say for sure because I was out with the boys in Peredelkino—but if she was here, she’d have been here on her own, more or less. All the boys that weren’t in the infirmary were put on buses first thing.”
Korolev had been looking through the skimpy files on Goldstein and Petrov. He was sure he recognized Petrov—one of the boys who’d been talking to Yuri by the riverbank. He was another one like Goldstein—reserved. Not without confidence, or something similar—stubbornness perhaps.
“When you say these other two were transferred to the Azarov Institute? What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I say—we’ve worked alongside the Azarov Institute for three years now. Most of the children spend a few weeks over there from time to time—if the professor identifies children who will be able to serve the State by assisting him further in his scientific research, they are permanently transferred to his establishment. Most come back, however.”
“I didn’t know he ran an orphanage over there.”
The director shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what he runs over there, Comrade Captain. It isn’t the kind of place you ask questions about. While the children are over there they participate in some neurological testing, I believe. Ones that are particularly suitable stay with them. The boys envy the ones that stay, I can tell you.”
“When you say neurological testing…?”
“I don’t know for sure. The children who come back—well, sometimes they’ve got small scars, just here.” The director pointed to his cheek, at exactly the same place as the murdered Shtange been cut with a scalpel and where Goldstein had a half-healed gash. “Nothing to worry about. The boys are proud of them.”
“But you have no further contact with them, the ones that stay? You never see them again?”
That seemed to be what Spinsky was saying. The director looked uncomfortable at the bluntness of the question and, for some reason, began to do up the buttons on his shirt, then un
do them.
“At first I was a little uncomfortable with the arrangement, Comrade Captain, as I sense you are. Our children can be tough nuts but we try to treat them well. On the other hand, we often lack staff and struggle with resources.”
“Resources?”
“Food, clothing, textbooks, blankets. Not always—but when things run short it seems we’re often as not at the back of the queue when it comes to allocations. Shoes are always a problem, but they are for everyone, I suppose. The Azarov Institute has no such problems—the food the children get over there is first class—and the chosen boys, the ones selected for permanent transfer, they get sent brand-new clothing before they even leave, and a suitcase of the finest quality. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Such suitcases.”
Suitcases were one of many things it was impossible to obtain these days. Korolev could understand why Spinsky had been impressed.
“So the children want to go—they know it’s important work, that the professor is our top man when it comes to brains. And they believe, if what he says is right, that they’ll be the leaders of the future, thanks to his efforts. That he’ll mold them into little Stalins.”
Korolev didn’t think that Spinsky’s prodigies would have been so excited if they’d seen the parts of the Azarov Institute Korolev had visited that afternoon.
“How many children have you transferred there?” Korolev asked, turning the pages of the ledger. There seemed to be at least one “A” on every page—and there were a lot of pages.
“Quite a few, I should think. Over fifty anyway. I haven’t added the numbers up.”
When Korolev and Dubinkin had left the Azarov Institute that afternoon, there’d only been two lonely guards still there—and even they’d been asking when they could leave as well.
“I’ve been to the Azarov Institute, I didn’t see any children there.”
“The institute has another facility, just outside of Moscow, I believe. I don’t know exactly where—Madame Azarova tells me it’s a wonderful place though, out near Lefortovo. I almost wish I could go there myself sometimes. Like a palace, she says.”
