The Twelfth Department

by William Ryan

  “I’m here to talk to Madame Shtange, Comrade. She’s staying here—and I’m expected.”

  “Madame Shtange is a Soviet citizen?” The question was as carefully delivered as a ballet dancer’s pirouette. But the meaning was clear enough—if she’s a foreigner, you can go whistle, flatfoot—she’s State Security’s business.

  Korolev put his elbows on the counter and yawned, then looked at the receptionist with genial menace, pleased to see his reaction change from puzzlement to concern. Korolev let him sweat for a moment or two before he spoke.

  “She’s a Soviet resident,” Korolev said. “A Soviet resident that this Soviet Militiaman wants to talk to. Now, how about you do your duty to the Soviet State and tell her I’m here to speak to her? As I said, she’s expecting me. And be quick about it—the consequences for you if you don’t cooperate fully won’t be pleasant, believe me.”

  The receptionist blinked twice and then his demeanor was transformed smoothly to one of ingratiation.

  “Of course, Comrade Captain, it would be my pleasure. I always do my duty to the State, of that you can be completely and absolutely certain. Let me see which room she’s in.”

  Korolev smiled grimly, thinking there were certain advantages to his temporary assignment. The receptionist pulled out a long drawer that was built into the reception desk and let his fingers flicker along the filing cards it contained. The only problem, Korolev thought to himself, was that being able to push citizens round like this would probably make scoundrels out of most men before a week was out.

  “Here we are—seven seventeen.” He turned to look at the wall behind him—hundreds of keys were stored in regular rows along with messages and post. The concierge went to the box numbered 717, extracted a piece of paper and opened it.

  “Ah—my apologies, Comrade Captain. You are indeed expected. Madame Shtange is waiting for you in the roof-terrace cafe.”

  “The roof-terrace cafe? That would be on the roof?”

  The receptionist smiled, as if Korolev had made an amusing joke.

  “Of course. Where else?”

  “How many stories up would that be? This roof?”

  Korolev could hear the disgruntlement in his voice. It was there for a reason.

  “Twelve?” The fellow looked uncertain now.

  “Twelve,” Korolev said, and felt like battering his head against the smooth surface of the reception desk. Not two hours before he’d sworn he’d never venture on to the top of another tall building, and yet here he was, being forced to do it again almost straightaway.

  “Shall I ask someone to show you up?”

  “Thank you.” Korolev sighed.

  The receptionist seemed to remember something suddenly. He looked at him quizzically, then reached for a notebook.

  “Captain Korolev, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, there’s a message for you as well.” He went to an unmarked box underneath the rows of keys and extracted a small piece of paper, handing it over.

  It said “Captain A. D. Korolev. Call Petrovka.”

  Korolev turned it over, just in case, but there was nothing else to be read. It must be about Yuri, surely. He felt his knees begin to shake unaccountably. He wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anticipation.

  “Can you let me use a telephone?”

  “Here,” the receptionist said, placing one on the counter.

  “It’s Korolev here,” he said when he got through.

  “Yes, Comrade Captain,” a woman’s tinny voice said. “Captain Yasimov called. He told me to tell you your son was seen catching a train toward Moscow, one station further along the track. At around ten o’clock. He was with two other boys. Captain Yasimov moved his inquiries to Moscow now. And First Inspector Popov has asked all detectives to keep a look out for your son as well.”

  There was a cough and then the voice continued.

  “We all hope he will be found soon.”

  Korolev didn’t say anything for a moment—if Yuri was heading for Moscow then he’d be heading for the apartment, which was good. But who were these two other boys? And Moscow was a damned big place—finding him, if he didn’t go to Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, would be hard.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m grateful for your concern. I’ll call in again in an hour or so, and please pass my thanks to everyone—the chief in particular. And tell Yasimov I owe him.”

  * * *

  Korolev hung up and handed the telephone back to the receptionist. It was good news, he was sure of it. Yuri would be home before him, with a bit of luck, and they could forget this whole mess had ever happened.

  “I’ll go up to this roof of yours, then,” he said.

  A young lad in a uniform with a round tasselled cap appeared at the click of the receptionist’s fingers and directed Korolev toward the lifts. Korolev looked toward the stairs but the Lord knew how many steps there might be, and he was tired enough as it was. So he did his best to relax as the lift climbed higher and higher. He only realized he’d been holding his breath the whole way when they finally reached the top.

  “Here we are,” the youngster said, as proud of the colonnaded roof terrace as if he owned it. And the truth was—it wasn’t too bad. The best thing about it was that it had a fine parapet about four feet high between a fellow and a plunge to the ground below. And not only that, on top of the parapet, between the columns that stretched the length of the building, there was another two feet of solid-looking glass. Korolev congratulated the hotel’s architect from the bottom of his heart.

  “Madame Shtange?” he asked when he was led to a corner table where a blond woman of about thirty sat, a cup of coffee in front of her and a lean, hungry-looking fellow who reminded Korolev of a greyhound sitting opposite. For a moment he was torn between the view—which was extraordinary, overlooking the Lenin Library, the Kremlin Arsenal, and the southern half of Moscow—and the woman, who was equally extraordinary, fine-featured yet, it seemed to him, strong, determined, and damned attractive to boot.

  “Captain Korolev,” she said, examining the identity card he offered her and then stubbing her cigarette into an ashtray that was already half-full. Her accent was foreign, but not too foreign. Meanwhile the greyhound had lifted himself languidly from his seat and was offering his hand.

  “This is Monsieur Hubert, from the French embassy,” Madame Shtange said.

  “I see,” Korolev said, wishing Dubinkin was here. He shook the fellow’s hand anyway. What else was he supposed to do?

  “Madame Shtange’s a French citizen, Comrade Captain,” the greyhound said. “She’s under the personal protection of our ambassador. Her uncle, you should be aware, is a minister in the current government—a government that is friendly toward the Soviet Union. For the moment, at least.”

  Hubert spoke slowly, with a sympathetic expression that Korolev decided shouldn’t be taken at face value.

  “The French Government?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a minister, you say.” Korolev managed to restrain his instinctive desire to groan. Dubinkin had promised he’d be here in the next half an hour but he couldn’t very well wait till then to start asking questions. “May I sit down?”

  Hubert nodded and Korolev lowered himself into the nearest chair, his tired body celebrating at not having to stand for a few minutes at least. He looked between Madame Shtange and the greyhound and wondered where to begin. Hubert returned his gaze with a watchfulness that suggested that the Frenchman wasn’t in favor of the meeting, and Korolev hoped that meant Anna Shtange might be more cooperative than he’d first thought.

  “Madame Shtange,” he said, after a moment or two, “I’m sorry about your husband. I’m afraid I’ve only just been asked to look after the case—I’m not sure what you’ve been told but I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions, as far as I can at this stage.”

  She smiled, but it wasn’t a smile that had much warmth to it. She didn’t look like she’d slept m
uch in the last two days.

  “I’ve been told almost nothing.” Her voice cracked on “nothing.” “I’ve been told that my husband was murdered. That I should come to Moscow. That I should stay in this hotel. I was told that under no circumstances was I to visit his apartment, the university, or the institute. Nor was I to contact anyone, in Moscow or Leningrad, and certainly not in France. That if I failed to comply with any of these instructions it would cause complications—which I took to mean complications for me and my sons. That’s all I’ve been told.”

  Korolev found his eyes wandering to the greyhound, who nodded. He didn’t bother to smile this time.

  “You’re wondering why I contacted the French Embassy?”

  “That’s not my business, Madame Shtange. I’m just a Militia detective. I know nothing about these instructions either.”

  She lit up another cigarette, her fingers shaking.

  “If it weren’t for my husband I’d have left this place years ago. I want to go home—I don’t want our children to grow up living in fear.”

  Korolev, thinking of Yuri, was unable to answer. His throat felt strangely constricted and he was only able to watch as she crushed the barely smoked cigarette into the pile of those she’d already disposed of. Then she reached for yet another.

  “So I’ve been waiting for someone to tell me something about his death and, still, nobody tells me anything. And then this morning, finally, I was told you’d be coming to see me. Not why or when or who you were—just that Captain Korolev would be coming to see me.”

  “I only found out you were in Moscow this morning,” Korolev said.

  “I believe you,” she said. “Nothing surprises me about this place anymore. If it will help, I’ll tell you what I can. But first, did he suffer? Can you at least tell me if he suffered?”

  She reached forward and Korolev felt the weight of her fingers as they rested on his.

  “It was quick,” he said, deciding she deserved to know this at least. “The pathologist thinks death happened almost immediately, so there wouldn’t have been time for him to have suffered much. Did they tell you how he died?”

  She shook her head.

  “As far as we can tell he opened his door to his attacker and then was stabbed a number of times. There were very few defensive wounds, so the pathologist believes he probably wasn’t fully aware of what was happening. One of the first blows seems to have cut the artery in his throat. He was also stabbed twice in the heart. He was probably dead before he fell.”

  Her mouth was a little round circle of shock and Korolev thought he might have said too much.

  “I’m sorry, but you can see the body this afternoon if you wish—it’s as well to be prepared. It looks bad, but, as I said, if he was aware of anything, it was only for a matter of seconds.”

  She looked at him for a long moment and then turned her head to look across the river toward, coincidentally, the very window Professor Azarov had been looking out of when he’d been killed. Korolev wondered if she knew it was where the professor had lived.

  “Thank you.” She whispered the words so quietly that Korolev wondered whether he was meant to hear them. “You’re an unusual Chekist.”

  “I’m a Militia detective, Madame Shtange.”

  She examined him, taking in his shirt, his jacket, his battered face, and while he held her gaze he wished he were able to look away. It was as if she were looking right into his soul, and he liked to keep his soul to himself.

  “No, I see that now,” she said eventually. “Ask me your questions then, Captain Korolev. I’ll answer them.”

  Korolev took his notebook from the pocket of his jacket and flicked through its pages till he found an empty one.

  “Did you know your husband’s colleague, Professor Azarov, was also murdered? The day before?”

  “Arkady told me. On Monday, when he found out.”

  “I interviewed him on Monday—your husband that is. I was sorry to hear of his death. I liked him, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “He was a good and honest man whose fate it was to live at a time like this—and in a place like this. That was his tragedy.”

  Korolev looked hard at his notebook and decided he hadn’t heard her. She might be able to say such things, with someone from the French embassy sitting alongside her and a French passport in her pocket—but he couldn’t hear them, not with a Soviet identity card sitting in his.

  “We aren’t convinced the two murders are connected,” Korolev continued, “but it certainly isn’t something we’re ruling out. Now, it was clear from my discussion with him on Monday that your husband didn’t like the professor. Not one bit. And I understand the professor felt the same.”

  “Arkady despised him, but he’d nothing to do with Azarov’s death. He was at work when it happened, he told me so.”

  “Yes, we know where he was. But you must understand we have to look into their relationship.”

  She nodded. “I understand, and the truth is if Azarov hadn’t been dead at the time of the murder, I’d have been certain he was my husband’s killer. Arkady was on the point of exposing him and the professor knew it.”

  “Exposing him?” Korolev said.

  “Azarov achieved his position by his willingness to condemn as a traitor or saboteur anyone who stood in his way or opposed him. He also lied through his teeth about everything he’d achieved and might achieve. Once he started working for State Security on his so-called breakthroughs he found he’d a receptive audience for his lies and his accusations. And after that, anyone who disagreed with him was sabotaging State Security itself—with predictable consequences. But my husband was appointed to verify Azarov’s claims and Azarov couldn’t deal with him the way he’d dealt with the others.”

  “Who appointed him?”

  “Arkady couldn’t tell me. Someone senior enough that Azarov couldn’t act against him openly without looking like a rogue. Whoever it was, I’m not sure they were bothered about the morality of the research—I suspect all that interested them was why there’d been so little recent progress and, perhaps most importantly, where all the money had gone.”

  Korolev looked down at his notes, underlining some points he wanted to come back to.

  “Money?”

  “A lot of money—there was equipment to be bought, of course, and salaries to be paid but, even so, the amounts didn’t make sense. Or so Arkady said. He put it all in his report. That’s why, when Azarov died, he thought it was all over—that he could come back to Leningrad.”

  “So he’d finished this report of his?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was critical of Professor Azarov?”

  “Most definitely. I never saw it, you understand, but it couldn’t have been any other way, from the conversations I had with Arkady. He couldn’t give me details—but he told me the gist of it. I should have told him to drop it, shouldn’t I?”

  Korolev ignored the question—she already knew the answer.

  “Do you know whether this report was delivered to the appropriate person? Or did your husband still have it when he died?”

  “I don’t know for certain. The last time I spoke to him he thought he would be home with us by the weekend—that it had been confirmed. I presumed that meant he’d delivered it.”

  “May I ask what research your husband was engaged in at the institute?”

  “Again, he never told me precisely. The work was secret, I know that much, and obviously he had to be very careful about what he said—especially to me. I do know he found it deeply distasteful. In Leningrad his research focused on behavioral modification and how that might be useful to State Security is something I can understand his not wanting to discuss.”

  She looked toward Hubert, but the greyhound said nothing—although if Korolev wasn’t much mistaken he saw a flicker of disappointment. Perhaps the French also wanted to know what the Azarov Institute had been researching. Behavioral modification? It sounded like something Mi
litia captains should stay well clear of; but if foreign countries were interested in the professor’s research, that might explain why the two apartments had been stripped of paperwork. It also occurred to him that if Shtange’s report exposed wrongdoing and financial irregularities at the institute then that would mean the harshest penalties for those involved, as well as for those who’d failed to protect the State. Was that why the scientists might have been killed?

  “Did he tell you anything?” Korolev asked. “About the research he did there? Anything at all might be helpful?”

  After all, she’d be telling Hubert soon enough, he’d no doubt of that. Another cigarette stubbed out. Another cigarette immediately lit. The golden eyes appraised him before she shook her head, as if to disagree with the question itself.

  “As I understand it, there was no research—not scientific anyway. Or so Arkady said. It seemed to him that whatever was being attempted wasn’t much more than a magic trick that Azarov was trying to dress up in a white coat and call science. But what the trick was, I’ve no idea. I know Azarov had support at the highest levels, however. That was clear.”

  Her eyes flicked to the left, inviting him to look in the direct of the Kremlin. It was an invitation Korolev wouldn’t be taking up any time soon. Was she suggesting Stalin himself had approved this damned institute of Azarov’s? Already there were Chekists everywhere he looked—and now Stalin? He prayed to the good Lord above that his next case, if he survived this one, had nothing to do with the Organs of State Security and certainly not with the General Secretary. A murder or an armed robbery would be fine.

  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.