The Twelfth Department

by William Ryan

  Korolev felt his stomach turn so violently that he thought he must vomit.

  “The boy?”

  “He’s coming too,” the pale one repeated.

  As he spoke, he took a step forward so that Korolev found himself staring down the barrel of his gun from a distance of no more than a few inches. Korolev prayed the fellow had the safety catch on.

  “You can’t arrest a twelve-year-old,” Korolev managed to whisper, mastering his fear. “He’s too young.”

  The pale Chekist’s eyes narrowed and Korolev braced himself for a blow.

  “We’re not arresting anyone, Citizen Korolev,” the Georgian said in his calm voice. “We’re just taking you to see someone. Your presence is requested. No one’s forcing you; but, of course, you’ll be coming with us just the same.”

  The Georgian’s eyes were unreadable, but if he wasn’t being arrested that was a good sign, surely?

  “Do we have a few minutes to pack?” he asked, hoping to extract a little bit more information.

  “We’re wasting time here. We should be back in the car by now.”

  “Cover Citizen Lipski here,” the Georgian said to his colleague. “I’ll get things moving quickly enough.”

  “Yuri isn’t well,” Korolev began to say, but the Georgian interrupted him by taking his elbow and pushing him through the door to the house.

  “I don’t care if he’s got two broken legs, he’s coming with us.”

  Korolev felt the pressure of the gun barrel digging into his spine as the Chekist pushed him through the kitchen and into the dining room.

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Korolev was about to suggest he just call the boy down, but one look at the Georgian and he changed his mind. They climbed the stairs.

  “Which room?”

  “The one on the left.”

  “In you go.”

  Korolev opened the door and stepped in, turned on the light and found—no one.

  “He’s gone,” Korolev said, mystified. He’d meant Yuri to go to Moscow if he was taken away—not for him to run off into the forest.

  The Chekist pushed past him, saw the open window and cursed.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. He was here two minutes ago.”

  Before he even saw the fellow’s hand move, the Chekist’s gun had hit the side of his head, knocking him to his knees.

  “Where’s the damned boy, Korolev?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Why did he run?” Colonel Rodinov asked him, making another note on the file he was reading. It was the first time he’d spoken. In fact, in the five minutes Korolev had been sitting in front of him, Rodinov had yet to raise his eyes from his paperwork.

  “He knows I deal with hardened criminals—maybe he thought men coming to the door with guns in the middle of the night were bandits.”

  Korolev wasn’t surprised to find his voice was a little distorted—he rolled his jaw around. He didn’t think it was broken. Just bruised—like most of his body. But the fat lip that went with it probably wasn’t helping his pronunciation.

  “Are you suggesting the operatives that went to collect you from Babel’s dacha looked like bandits? Respected members of State Security?” Rodinov said, finally lifting his gaze to examine Korolev.

  “Well they certainly didn’t look like ballerinas, Comrade Colonel.”

  Rodinov considered him for a moment, his face impassive. Korolev had a suspicion he looked as if he’d been used as a punchbag by a pair of heavyweight boxers—and it wasn’t far from the truth. A nurse had cleaned him up when he’d arrived but even so he’d a fat lip, plenty of cuts, bumps and grazes, his shirt was splattered with dried blood and he could barely see out of his left eye. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth.

  “I see,” Rodinov said. “Their orders were just to bring you in. Still, it says here you resisted our people.”

  “I didn’t want to leave my twelve-year-old son wandering around the woods in the middle of the night. I wanted to find him before we left. If that counts as resisting, then I resisted.”

  Korolev spoke in a monotone—he was tired, it was just past two in the morning and there wasn’t much of him that didn’t hurt.

  “He shouldn’t have run,” Rodinov said. “You knew who they were, after all.”

  “I’ve met members of State Security before. He’s only a boy.”

  “And now he’s a missing boy.”

  Korolev had nothing to say to that. Yuri had been with him for three days and somehow he’d managed to lose him and end up in the Lubyanka.

  “Well, I’ll ask Popov to make sure the local Militia start looking for him first thing,” Rodinov said, signing a page that was stapled to the inside of the file’s cardboard cover. “I’m sure they’ll track him down soon enough. Anyway, it’s time we got to the point.”

  Rodinov closed the file and placed his pen down on top of it, turning his full attention to Korolev.

  “We’ll start with you telling me why you carried on with your investigation into Professor Azarov’s death when you were given explicit orders not to.”

  Korolev could feel his mouth go slack with astonishment. Or as slack as it could go, given the damage that had been inflicted on it.

  “But I didn’t. As soon as we were told to drop the matter, we dropped it. Like a hot potato, believe me. I wanted nothing to do with the investigation once I knew it was State Security, I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  Rodinov had had a hard year by the look of him. Korolev had first met him not twelve months before, and back then he’d had a healthy sheen to his skin and seemed solid and full of energy. Now, despite a summer that had turned most Muscovites dark as Abyssinians, the colonel had the gray pallor of a prisoner—his cheeks were drawn and his tunic seemed too big for him. Whatever kind of work he was doing these days, and Korolev most certainly didn’t want to know what that might be, it looked as if it didn’t take him outside very often.

  “It’s known what you were up to in Peredelkino, Korolev. What did you think? That you could go around questioning people without State Security hearing about it? And what did you hope to achieve by it? You knew this was a secret matter. Did you hope to pass information to the State’s enemies?”

  Korolev ran his tongue over his fat lip and shook his head, both in disagreement and in bewilderment.

  “I spoke to no one in Peredelkino, Comrade Colonel. The caretaker, Lipski, of course—but, apart from him, no one.”

  “No one, is it?” Rodinov said. “No one? I have on my desk a report, submitted only a matter of hours ago, that says differently.”

  Rodinov opened a thick green folder and extracted a typed piece of paper.

  “It says here you were seen talking to a number of people who have a clear connection with Professor Azarov’s work. I’d like to know why.”

  Korolev thought back—he’d spoken to the ticket collector at the station. Apart from her, he couldn’t remember anyone else. Except for Kim Goldstein, of course. He frowned.

  “There was one of the boys at the river—they were out from some orphanage in the city for a few days, I think. A youngster by the name of Goldstein—but I knew him from before.”

  Rodinov said nothing, giving Korolev the distinct impression that Goldstein was exactly who he’d been referring to.

  “I spoke to him,” Korolev said. “But I’d no idea he was connected with Azarov.”

  “And the others?”

  “I spoke to no one else.”

  “Your son did.”

  “He went swimming with Goldstein is all. But Goldstein was the boy who assisted on that matter last year—the icon affair. You’ll recall he provided useful information.”

  Rodinov considered this, tapping his pencil against his chin as he did so.

  “And what did you speak to him about, this time? Did he provide you with more useful information? Or was it his friends who told your son what you wanted to know?�
��

  “Have those orphans got something to do with the professor’s murder?”

  “You don’t ask questions here,” the colonel said, and Korolev looked around at the chipped blue walls and the stained parquet flooring—and saw his point.

  “I apologize, Comrade Colonel. Goldstein just happened to be there at the riverbank and so were we. It was a chance meeting—no more than that. If anyone has informed you to the contrary, they’re mistaken.”

  “And the zoo? Who were you talking to there?”

  “The Zoo? Count Kolya? But he came to me—I didn’t go looking for him.”

  “So that was Count Kolya? The Thief?”

  Korolev nodded.

  “I see, the report doesn’t mention that fact—perhaps they didn’t know who he was.”

  Rodinov looked pleased—which struck Korolev as odd. The colonel wrote a quick note.

  “And what did Count Kolya want to talk to you about?”

  “He told me if I was investigating Azarov’s murder, I should find out what he was up to at the institute. I explained I wasn’t involved with the matter anymore. That it was State Security business. And that was that.”

  “And you didn’t think to report this to someone here?”

  Korolev shrugged his shoulders.

  “It was made clear to me that the institute was run under the auspices of the NKVD—so I thought they’d know what was going on there better than anyone. My orders were very specific, Comrade Colonel—I was to have no further involvement in the case whatsoever or there would be consequences.”

  In his youth he’d been to more than one livestock market with the butcher he’d worked for. Back then he’d seen men weigh cattle with their eyes, and Korolev felt as though a similar kind of assessment were taking place now—only this time he was the bullock in the ring.

  “Very well,” the colonel said, after what seemed like several hours but probably wasn’t more than a few seconds, then pushed a cigarette case across the desk to Korolev.

  “Help yourself,” he said, and Korolev did, thinking he’d never needed a smoke more in his entire life. “There’s been another murder,” the colonel said, lighting his cigarette and then leaning across to light Korolev’s. “Which, as it happens, is good news for you.”

  “I see,” Korolev said and had to stop himself from laughing out loud, so great was the release of tension. For a moment the colonel seemed about to say something, then appeared to think better of it. Instead he opened one of the files on his desk and passed a photograph across the table. Korolev recognized the man in the picture—what was his name again?

  “Doctor Shtange—Professor Azarov’s deputy,” Rodinov said, and Korolev had the oddest thought. What if Azarov had invented some way of reading people’s minds? What if Rodinov was able to hear his thoughts as clear as if he were speaking them aloud? Is that what he’d been up to?

  “What’s wrong?” Rodinov asked, frowning, and Korolev cursed himself. He had to concentrate, remember where he was—not allow his mind to wander.

  “Nothing—it’s just, I met the man, that’s all. Only a day or two ago.”

  “Someone stabbed him to death the same morning you went to the zoo.”

  Korolev inhaled a lungful of smoke and held it there, before releasing it slowly.

  “Well?” the colonel asked.

  “The director and deputy director of the same scientific institute murdered within a day of each other? It’s unlikely to be a coincidence.”

  Rodinov smiled and picked up the photograph, putting it back into the folder.

  “I agree.”

  “The NKVD is investigating the matter though,” Korolev said, and despite his best intentions it came out as more of a question than a statement.

  “Yes. A different department has been handling the matter but it was transferred to this department—where it should have been all along—a few hours ago. The file, which isn’t much use otherwise, it has to be said, contained a series of reports from operatives that were, curiously, ordered to keep track of your activities. Perhaps there was some suspicion that you’d carry on your own investigation. You do have a reputation for doing things a little differently to other detectives, I suppose.”

  “But—” Korolev began.

  “Fortunately for you, I know that your methods are successful and, most importantly, accurate. Our men are stretched thin and have a tendency to adopt—well—imprecise solutions.” Rodinov gestured with his cigarette to indicate the bruises and bumps certain State Security men had left Korolev with.

  “The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of you taking up the investigation once again. With you in charge, we’re more likely to find out who actually killed the scientists and why. With our people—well, they’ll find someone who’ll admit to the crime, certainly.”

  Rodinov smiled—it seemed the thought amused him—before becoming serious once again.

  “But these two were important to the State—so an accurate understanding of the situation is necessary. And you seem the ideal candidate for that job.”

  “I’m ready to do my duty, of course,” Korolev began, and didn’t know quite where to go from there.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Korolev.”

  “You’ll forgive me, Comrade Colonel, but it was made clear to me this was a case involving State secrets. I’m an ordinary Militia detective—I just don’t have the authority to investigate such matters.”

  The colonel picked up a piece of paper and handed it across the table to him. It had an NKVD letterhead and Korolev could see his name in the text, beneath which had been applied three signatures and three ink stamps. One he didn’t recognize, another was Rodinov’s, and the third belonged to Nikolai Ezhov—the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs and, some said, the most powerful man in the Soviet Union after Stalin.

  “It’s been decided that you’ll work, temporarily, for this department. As you can see, this letter gives you all the authority you need.”

  Korolev didn’t dare ask which department of State Security this might be, and anyway, he was struggling to come to terms with the idea that he was about to become a temporary Chekist. It wasn’t an outcome he’d expected when that blond oaf had been kicking him in the guts.

  “Have you any further questions? You may speak freely, there should be openness between us—now that we are colleagues.”

  It was a statement that invited Korolev to put his cards on the table—and there was something in the colonel’s demeanor that told him it was safe to do so—perhaps safer than not doing so anyway.

  “Comrade Colonel, I only know the work Azarov did was related to the brain. Kolya suggested to me that some of his research was on humans and I got the impression he thought things didn’t go well for the men involved. Of course, I don’t believe that—I’m only repeating a Thief’s slander of the State. But if it were true…”

  “My understanding is Professor Azarov applied scientific methodology to our interrogation techniques,” Rodinov said in a neutral voice. “And that his research was successful—our effectiveness had improved immeasurably as a result. But Azarov’s research wasn’t limited to that. I’ve heard he worked with various pharmaceutical substances, examining how they might affect the human mind; and I believe he also carried out a series of experiments into attitude alteration—turning enemies into friends, if you will. Telepathy was another area he may have investigated. The truth is I don’t know as much as a person in my position would expect to know. In my opinion the institute’s activities have been—well—a little too secret. But I do know that, yes, people died as a result of his research.”

  “I see,” Korolev said and wished he didn’t.

  “The ends sometimes justify the means, Korolev.”

  “I understand that, Comrade Colonel—of course I do.”

  Rodinov’s gaze felt like it was looking inside Korolev’s very skull, peering into every nook and cranny of his mind. It made him nervous, t
hat gaze.

  “Telepathy?” Korolev said—picking out, much to his own surprise, the word he’d decided was most worrying in the colonel’s description of the institute’s activities. After all, if men like Rodinov were able to read men’s thoughts then—well—the world would be a lot less safe.

  “You know what it is?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Korolev said, recovering. “I understood it wasn’t possible.”

  “It would make my job much easier if it were,” Rodinov said. “But I don’t think anything came of it—or at least, that’s my understanding.”

  The colonel paused, put his pen down on the table, and seemed to consider what he should say next.

  “You see, if my department were to directly investigate this matter,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully, it seemed to Korolev, “it might be difficult. People would begin to take sides. There would be different versions of the truth—there always are. And, as you of all people should know, truth can be manipulated to suit certain agendas—and hidden if it suits certain persons. In other words the case would become a political matter—and, as a result, whatever truth would finally be chosen would be based on politics. With you looking into it, there’s a chance things may be a little different. Korolev, let’s be clear—I want to know who killed these men and I want to know why. But I also want to know what was going on at this institute—and it occurs to me that while you’re investigating this murder, you may uncover things that could be of interest to me.”

  He looked at Korolev expectantly and Korolev frowned. Was Rodinov really suggesting what he thought he might be?

  “Comrade Colonel, forgive me, but are you asking me to spy on a department of the NKVD?”

  The colonel smiled.

  “Of course not, Korolev. You misunderstand me. I want you to keep your ears and eyes open—no more than that. You’re under my orders, so you should be safe enough if that’s what you’re worried about. Safer than if you don’t do what I suggest, let’s put it that way.”