by William Ryan
“Just because he reported to Colonel Zaitsev—” Korolev began.
“Of course,” Slivka interrupted him, “we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. That would be wrong. After all, we have a perfectly good solution to these crimes already.”
“That’s enough, Slivka.”
Slivka said nothing, but it looked as though the lemons were repeating on her.
“As you know, I visited Leadership House this morning,” Korolev said, conscious that the other two seemed to be examining him as if he were a criminal trying to spin them a tale. “It seems possible Priudski could have left there on Tuesday morning and made his way here, just about. I also spoke to Dr. Weiss and I’m satisfied he had nothing to do with either Azarov’s or Shtange’s death. So will you be, when you read this letter.”
He passed it to Dubinkin.
The Chekist read it through and nodded—it seemed nothing much fazed him. At least Slivka had the good grace to look impressed.
“What about you, Slivka?”
“Me?” Slivka said. “I spent the day talking to tram drivers, bus conductors, metro workers, kiosk workers, street sweepers, and duck feeders. I even hot-tailed it back here to meet you, although you’d slipped off before I arrived. Not that it made any difference. No one saw Priudski. No one saw anything.”
“We don’t need them to have.” Korolev spoke deliberately.
“We don’t even need evidence now?” Slivka wasn’t so much indignant as mystified.
“We have evidence. His confession.”
“But it’s inconsistent with much of what we know.”
“We have other evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“His fingerprints. Forensics found them all over this apartment. He did it all right.”
Slivka’s mouth dropped open far enough for Korolev to be able to make out her tonsils quite clearly from where he was sitting.
But it was Dubinkin’s quick smile, a smile that he suspected he wasn’t meant to see, that really caught his attention.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Colonel Rodinov listened to Korolev’s account of the day’s events with an impassive face—and it made Korolev nervous, this impassiveness, because Korolev thought it was a story worthy of a little bit of interest.
After all, he’d been threatened by an NKVD colonel—and for a change it hadn’t been Rodinov. He’d nearly been crushed by a lift. He’d had a gun held on him by a murderess. He’d done his level best to muddy the waters in two murder cases. He’d even produced a blood-stained report into the activities of the Azarov Institute, which now sat on the desk in front of the colonel. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned his meeting with the Chief Authority of the Moscow Thieves, but the report alone deserved some excitement—given it was sitting, caked in blood, right in front of him. But Rodinov showed no reaction to a word he said.
The colonel was listening, however—he was listening so hard that Korolev felt as if his words were being sucked right out of his mouth.
“So, you see—I’ve made some progress, not all of it in the right direction, perhaps, but definitely progress.”
Rodinov’s gaze remained remorseless, but Korolev had nothing left to say. He was empty of words and very nearly empty of emotion. It was like that sometimes, when too much happened in too short a period—you just had nothing left, and anything he did have was reserved for Yuri.
“Let’s have a look at this report of Shtange’s, shall we?” Rodinov said eventually, after a pause so lengthy that if they’d been at the theater the management would have opened the buffet and called it an intermission. He pulled the document closer to him, opened up the stiff pages, and began to read.
It seemed to Korolev that the colonel was scanning the report at first—picking up the gist of it without absorbing details—but when he got to the last few pages, the ones that dealt with the alleged financial irregularities, the colonel seemed to take his time. And when he finished and looked up at Korolev, it was his impression that the colonel could have recited those pages line by line.
“This part is interesting, Korolev. Very interesting.”
“The part that deals with financial indiscretions?”
The question got him a raised eyebrow, and Korolev wondered whether it hadn’t been better when the Chekist had stayed stony-faced. Rodinov picked up a pen from the desk and twirled it around—an incongruous gesture from a man who held the power of life and death over him.
“You’re correct, Korolev. Scientific-procedural concerns and ethical dilemmas are all well and good. It doesn’t mean I approve of what went on there—but I live in the real world. On such matters there will be opinions either way. In other words, it would be difficult to act on.”
Rodinov began to tap the pen gently on the table, before continuing.
“But financial indiscretions such as these are different. If they can be proved and laid at the door of Zaitsev—well, then that would be something. Yes, indeed—it would be something, all right. And it would explain Colonel Zaitsev’s actions over the last few days. Looked at in the light of this report, those actions would appear to indicate an attempt to cover up serious wrong-doing on his part.”
The thought did not appear to displease Rodinov—but he was still frowning.
“There’s a problem, isn’t there, Comrade Colonel?”
It didn’t look as though the colonel much liked the question, but Korolev didn’t much like the answer either—he’d thought through his role in this little chess game between Zaitsev and Rodinov, and he’d thought about the report as well. From where he was sitting, there appeared to be only one obvious result for Korolev—and when all your routes of escape are closed off to you then there really isn’t much point in fear.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Rodinov said. “This is a report prepared by a dead man. It describes crimes, but doesn’t produce evidence for them—the sources it mentions are unavailable to us. The only thing that links anything irregular to Zaitsev is his name written in the margin by another dead man. A dead man who, on the basis of the report, seems the likeliest person to have committed these financial misdeeds. Not that we even know for sure that it was Professor Azarov who wrote Zaitsev’s name. For all we know it could have been you. Or me.”
Rodinov placed the pen back onto the table and shook his head slowly from side to side. “It’s not enough.”
“So there’s nothing to be done.”
Rodinov looked up at him and Korolev thought he detected something in the colonel’s gaze that might amount to sympathy.
“Not at the moment. There may be other ways of authenticating the report’s contents, of course. But it may take time. At least now I know what I’m looking for.”
“What you really need is the institute’s records.”
“They’ll surely have been destroyed by now, Korolev. It would be the sensible thing to do. And Zaitsev is sensible. Look at how he’s handled this—the doorman’s fingerprints in the apartment? He must have had them placed there before we even took over the case, as a precaution.”
Korolev couldn’t deny that, when it came to framing a man, Colonel Zaitsev had talent.
“But if we were able to find out where this ‘house in the woods’ is—this facility near Lefortovo?” Korolev said, getting back to the original point. “There must be a small chance that there’s evidence out there that will make your case.”
The colonel held up the report. “Even if I knew where the place was, I couldn’t send men out there based on this. We’re not dealing with an ordinary citizen here. We’re dealing with a colonel of the NKVD.”
“I thought as much.” Korolev sighed, then looked the colonel in the eyes. “Comrade Colonel, I’ve another twenty-four hours to give Colonel Zaitsev that report, the one there in your hands, or he says he’ll kill my son and likely me as well.”
It was best to be straightforward about these things, Korolev thought. After all, he’d come here to find something out.
“Would you like to give him this, Korolev? I can have a copy made—you can say you found it wherever you like.” Rodinov shook his head. “It won’t make any difference. You should know that. Colonel Zaitsev will be covering his tracks.”
“And I’m a track.”
“I’ll do what I can, Korolev. The situation may be difficult—I can make no promises—but I should be able to protect you. And, as I said, now that I know what I’m looking for—it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m grateful, Comrade Colonel. But it’s my son I’m concerned about.”
Rodinov shrugged. “I understand that, Korolev—and if I could help you, I would.”
And there it was—the answer he’d expected.
“My advice is to proceed as you have been. I’ll accept Priudski as Shtange’s killer and I’ll accept Shtange as the one who murdered Azarov. I don’t give a damn about Azarova or whoever was poking around in this ventilation system. You can have this report too. It suits me to have Zaitsev think he’s won. Take my advice though, and drag out the investigation as long as you can—call him tomorrow, tell him I’ve demanded more evidence. While this case is ongoing, you still have something to bargain with.”
Korolev nodded—it wasn’t bad advice, but in truth it was like giving him sugar to sprinkle on horse dung. He’d have to eat it all the same.
“There’s one other thing, Comrade Colonel.”
“Go on.”
“I’d prefer if you assigned another of your men to the case—someone other than Lieutenant Dubinkin.”
The colonel’s attention seemed to have turned back to his paperwork. He didn’t look up.
“You have a reason for this request?”
“I’d rather not give it.”
“You’d rather not give it? Where do you think you are?”
“I just don’t feel we work well together.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Korolev. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”
Korolev nodded but the colonel didn’t see it. Nor did he look up when Korolev stood to leave the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The apartment was empty when Korolev got there, and it unnerved him—normally Valentina and Natasha would be having their evening meal at around this time. He stood for a moment in the doorway, reassuring himself, waiting for the thudding pulse in his head to slow a little and, as he did so, listened to the sounds of the building—muffled laughter from the floor above, a door closing somewhere. There was nothing wrong, he told himself, he was jumping at shadows. They’d probably just gone for a walk around the Boulevard Ring or down to the river—that was it. They might even have gone as far as the pond at Chistye Prudy, which was no great distance. He stood there for a few more minutes, thinking about what he was about to do, for the hundredth time—and considering the potential consequences.
But what choice did he have? Rodinov had as good as told him he was on his own. It might even be worse than that—it wasn’t only Zaitsev who might want to cover his tracks come tomorrow. It might well be just as much in Rodinov’s interests to ensure that Korolev’s mouth was well and truly shut; at least that way Zaitsev couldn’t question him about Rodinov’s involvement in the whole business. And, as an indirect consequence, it seemed likely that Valentina and Natasha might well be at risk. Not to mention Slivka and Yasimov.
Korolev sighed, walked through to his bedroom and felt on the top of the wardrobe for the cleaning kit and box of ammunition he kept there, along with a spare clip for the Walther. There was a chance, a small chance—that all of them would come out of this in one piece. And that chance would be just that little bit better if he had every bullet he could lay his hands on in his pockets. The Lord knew the last thing he wanted to do was go shooting at Chekists and the like, but neither was there any point in taking a feather to plow a field.
He sat down on the bed and pulled out the map he’d drawn on the basis of Azarova’s recollections, unfolding it onto the pillow. Then having checked the spare clip, he began to press loose bullets from the box into it automatically as he examined his hastily drawn outline of the location of Little Barrel’s “house in the woods.” It looked like something might just be possible. It all depended how many men they had out there—and how many Kolya could produce.
Korolev turned his attention to the Walther, taking out its clip and beginning to clean the weapon. The metallic scent of gun oil filled his nostrils and he felt the slight tremble of adrenaline that it always brought. The key to success would be swiftness. There’d be a telephone connection and that would have to be cut. And if there were any vehicles that might pursue them—he’d like to make sure they couldn’t. But still—swiftness was the best policy. Get in, find what they were looking for, and then get the hell out. It was best to presume that their presence would be discovered at some point. And it was best to be prepared if it came to a fight.
Finished with the Walther, he placed it back in its holster, underneath his arm. Then he took the small automatic he’d taken from the professor’s widow out of his pocket, turning it over in his hand. He emptied the bullets and began to strip it. The weapon didn’t look as though it had been cleaned since it had left the factory, and that had probably been a quarter of a century in the past. If Irina Azarova had fired it in this condition, she’d likely have killed herself rather than him. Still, a gun was a gun. He might need it later on.
A few minutes later and familiar voices came from the corridor outside the apartment. He looked quickly at his watch. He had to meet with Kolya in just under an hour. He put a handful of bullets and the spare clip in his pockets and walked out to them.
“Alexei.” Valentina smiled when she saw him—but the warmth in the smile slowly dimmed.
“You’ve had news of Yuri?” Her smile had now turned to concern.
“No.”
“I thought…”
Her voice faltered and Korolev realized how he must look, hard-faced and with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“I’ve had no bad news.” He stopped and looked from Valentina to her daughter, who was listening to him with an expression of determined concentration. At her throat was the red scarf of the Pioneers.
“Natasha, perhaps your mother and I could talk for a moment.”
Natasha glanced between them, but had enough sense to do as she was asked without asking why. When she’d gone into the room she shared with her mother, Korolev took Valentina by the hand and led her into his. He leaned in close to her, whispering so low he could barely hear himself.
“Look, Valentina. I have to do something this evening. The only thing is, if it doesn’t work out—it might be a mess.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She doesn’t ask what kind of mess, Korolev thought to himself, she asks what she can do to help. And in times like these as well.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But if I don’t come home tonight—maybe you should go to Peredelkino tomorrow, first thing. To Babel’s Dacha. Stay there for a few days. Out of the way of things. Don’t get involved in this. In fact, perhaps you’d both be better off spending the night upstairs with Shura. Just in case.”
“Is this to do with Yuri?”
“I’m answering no questions. You know that’s best. And I’ve thought it through, believe me.”
Valentina shook her head but he squeezed her hand, begged her with his eyes.
“Think of Natasha.” He put a hand to her neck, whispering into her ear. “It’s best if you know nothing, nothing at all. So if someone comes to ask you something, you can tell the truth. You knew nothing. I behaved oddly, and that was that.”
She turned her face to him, and for a moment he thought she was going to disagree with him, but instead she stepped forward into his arms and, to his surprise, her lips met his.
He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that but it seemed as though it might be forever—the moment stretching out around them. Her tears were wet against his face and the salt
y smell of them filled his nostrils. He held her as tight as he dared and thought how small she seemed as he held her in his arms.
“Be careful,” she said, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “Be very, very careful. And I know you’ll bring him home. I know it.”
Then she kissed him once again, on the cheek, ran the sleeve of her shirt across her face to dry it, smiled a crooked smile, and left the room.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Korolev walked quickly through the long-shadowed streets, squinting against the low-hanging sun. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened—but whenever his concentration slipped, there it was, a surge of emotion of a kind that wouldn’t be much use to him where he was going. Tomorrow he could think about it, and what the future might hold for them. But today was today and tomorrow might never come.
He turned down a side street and then made his way through an archway that led into a courtyard he knew had another doorway at the far end. He crossed the open space quickly, startling a group of citizenry who were sitting on a circle of upturned logs taking in the last of the sun. And then he was past them, ignoring the hard looks from men who stood to see what stranger had come in among them, and before any of them could summon the energy at the end of a hot day to question him on his reasons for being there he’d reached the far end of the courtyard and disappeared through the carriage doors, out into an alleyway. He turned left and left and then slowed his pace as he approached the street he’d originally turned off from. He looked to see if anyone might have been following him, but there was no one, and he found himself exhaling a long breath that he seemed to have been holding in since Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky. Then he took one more look around and, satisfied, made his way quickly across the street to a small lane that would eventually, with more cut-backs and false trails, take him to Kolya.
Unusually for Moscow, the tree-shadowed courtyard that the Thief had designated as their meeting place was deserted—and the buildings that surrounded it were either boarded up or burned out. The spot must be intended for some new construction project that had yet to start. Cautious, Korolev walked the length of a crumbling stone wall, looking for the green doors Kolya had mentioned. He found them, half-hidden behind a bush. The gates looked the worst for wear, paint peeling off them in large curls, and the wood underneath gray and brittle. He pushed one of the doors gently and, to his surprise, it slid open on well-oiled hinges.
