The Twelfth Department

by William Ryan

  Korolev examined a small hand-shaped mark—an adult would be cramped in such a space, and this looked too small to have been made by a grown man or woman. Had children been scurrying around the ventilation system? But why had only this grille’s lock been picked? Korolev considered what it might mean. One thing was for certain—it opened up new possibilities. It most certainly did.

  Korolev lowered himself back down and pushed the grille shut above his head, then began the slow, hard work of dragging his body back up the ladder. He’d only gone up six rungs when there was a noise from beneath him. He stopped, unsure what it might be, and then heard the unmistakeable bang and judder of a cable connecting to the weight of the lift below. It occurred to him in an instant that there was more of him than would fit inside the ladder’s narrow shaft.

  “The Lord have mercy upon me,” Korolev muttered over and over again as he began swinging himself up from rung to rung.

  He caught a glimpse of Timinov’s face above him and thought about shouting out to him, but he had to concentrate on damned well climbing because that damned lift was still coming.

  The doorway was tantalizingly close now, but the lift catching up with him and it was traveling at remorseless speed. He wasn’t going to make it. He looked down in horror as it glided upward past his feet, past his knees. He tried to suck himself in but he was just too wide—and then the lift stopped. If he’d wanted to he could have leaned down and touched the roof—it was only centimeters away from crushing him.

  There was a moment of silence then he heard the lift doors open and Timinov speaking directly beneath him.

  “Good morning, Comrade Shepkin. Which floor are you going to?”

  “The eighth, of course,” a bad-tempered voice answered. “And why weren’t you downstairs when I came in?”

  But before the irritated resident had finished berating Timinov for his failure to keep the building secure only days after a “serious murder” had been committed on the premises, Korolev had made it to the tiny door. He glanced down as he arrived, and was struck by the incongruous sight of three shrunken apple cores on the roof of the lift, almost invisible against its dark surface. He blinked, looked again to check he’d seen what he thought he had, and then swung himself through the tiny door, struggling for breath and dripping sweat.

  He was still there, leaning against the wall, considering being sick and thinking better of it, when Timinov came up behind him.

  “A close call,” the doorman whispered.

  “Why didn’t you just tell him I was in the damned lift shaft?” Korolev asked, moving from relief to irritation.

  “Because the ventilation shafts are State Security business.”

  * * *

  There was a sink in the basement and Korolev allowed the doorman to lead him to it. He did his best to clean himself up with the towel Timinov provided, while listening to him whisper about the ventilation system.

  “Can you say that again?”

  It seemed his having nearly been crushed by a lift had affected his concentration. Korolev placed his face into the cool water he’d scooped up with both hands and savored it, before letting it run through his fingers back into the sink.

  “I was just telling you”—Timinov’s whisper wasn’t much louder than an exhaled breath—“how, although you can’t tell when you’re in the apartments, there’s room enough for a small man to crawl around right above you. And they do crawl. I’ve had to climb down to a few lifts that have got stuck between floors and I’ve seen things I wasn’t meant to see. Devices.”

  “Listening devices?” Korolev whispered back and immediately regretted it. Although the basement should be safe enough, shouldn’t it? Or perhaps that was why he wasn’t a Chekist—perhaps basements were the very place State Security would want to listen in on? Where better to overhear a whispered conspiracy?

  “What else would they be for? One of the other men told me the building was built this way on purpose—that the plans were altered by the Chekists—and it’s true they come here so often these days they should run a shuttle service. There’s barely a week goes by that they don’t arrest four or five of the residents.”

  Korolev considered this for a moment. If the Chekists had wanted Azarov out of the way, surely they’d more efficient methods than shooting him from the ventilation system—they could just have added him to the list of those who were to be arrested that week. Not that he’d had any indication they had wanted him out of the way. And how to account for the small handprint? Certainly it seemed unlikely that State Security employed a pygmy assassin—but could it belong to a woman? If he were able to ask Ushakov to look at it, perhaps he’d be able to tell him something—but that would put Yuri at risk. In fact, this whole line of inquiry was putting Yuri at risk. On the other hand, if what Rodinov had said about him was right, then Zaitsev wasn’t to be trusted when it came to Yuri’s safety anyway. At least if he worked out who’d killed the scientists he’d have a bargaining chip—whether it would be worth anything was another question.

  “You look troubled,” Timinov said.

  “I’m thinking—it takes a lot out of me. I’ve a question though.”

  “Ask me.”

  “Who knows about the ventilation shafts—apart from the doormen?”

  “Building management, and the men who come to fix the lifts when they stop working. Otherwise no one. The keys to the lift shaft are held in the building manager’s office—I only got them today because I said someone had been complaining about mice in the ventilation shafts.”

  Korolev wasn’t so sure about that—in his experience humans tended to know their surroundings better than even they themselves suspected. And if someone had been in the ventilation shaft, it would explain why there’d been no gunpowder residue found on the professor. It would also explain how he’d been shot from such a high angle.

  Korolev looked at his watch.

  “How many ways into the lift shaft are there?”

  “There are access doors on every other floor, five altogether, and there’s a trapdoor in the lift itself.”

  “I’d like to have a look at them—the lock on the fifth-floor grille seems to have been picked, so maybe that’s how they got in. If they had a key, then that points us in a different direction.”

  “I see,” Timinov said, and Korolev wondered if he realized that the likely direction was toward State Security—because the doorman still looked quite cheerful.

  “Is Comrade Madame Azarova in?” Korolev continued.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And her maid?”

  “She went out an hour ago.”

  “Can you get me into the apartment? I’d like to have a quick look at this ventilation space from the other side.”

  “Of course,” Timinov said, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

  It was strange, Korolev thought, how some people seemed to think playing at detective was an adventure, an amusing diversion from their daily existence. Well, if Timinov wanted to share in the excitement, why not let him?

  “Another thing—there are three apple cores on the roof of the lift. Can you get them for me?”

  Because nothing would persuade Korolev himself to get back inside that lift shaft ever again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ten minutes later, Korolev was standing outside Dr. Weiss’s apartment, three dusty apple cores in his pocket, and more than a few questions and scenarios buzzing around his head.

  He was about to knock for a second time, when the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron, a mop in her hand and a bucket of soapy water beside her bare feet—her hair covered with a white cotton headscarf.

  She seemed surprised to see him at first, then suspicious. Her eyes examined him from head to toe as she rolled something around in her mouth that might have been a ball of spit.

  “I’m Korolev, from Moscow CID.”

  The woman appeared to reconsider discharging whatever was in her mouth onto the g
round in front of him—instead turning to shout back into the apartment.

  “Mikhail Nikolayevich, there’s another Ment at the door. What do you want me to do with him?”

  She turned back to Korolev, making a small upward gesture with the mop that seemed to indicate she might have a suggestion of her own.

  “Let the Comrade Militiaman in, Tasha. For the sake of kindness, let him in.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps brought a tall, well-proportioned man to the door. He pushed a pair of reading glasses back onto his graying hair to examine Korolev more closely, squinting as he did so.

  “I was expecting your colleague, Sergeant Slivka.”

  “I’m Korolev. I’d like a few moments of your time, Dr. Weiss—if you don’t mind.”

  “She mentioned you. Of course, come through to the sitting room.”

  Weiss wasn’t exactly good-looking—it appeared his nose had been punched flat once or twice—but he had the sort of benevolent confidence that Korolev suspected women found attractive. And if the clear blue eyes that were calmly appraising him were anything to go by, the fellow was clever too.

  “I’ll be mopping down the staircase then, Mikhail Nikolayevich,” Tasha growled. “You shout if you need me. I’ll be listening, don’t you worry about that.”

  She placed a hand on Korolev’s arm to move him sideways, revealing a surprising strength, before picking up her bucket. She gave him a threatening look as she passed.

  Korolev caught Weiss’s small smile.

  “Tasha’s been with me a long time,” the doctor said, waving him along the short corridor. “She can be a little—well—abrupt, but she’s a loyal soul. A glass of tea? Or something else?”

  Weiss picked up a toy airplane from an armchair and invited Korolev to sit down. Timinov was right, it was a big place.

  “How many children do you have, Dr. Weiss?”

  Weiss looked down at the plane he was holding, smiled, and placed it on a small table beside him.

  “Ah—yes, the toy. Three—all boys. Eight, eleven, and fourteen. They’ve gone to the park with my wife. I thought it would be better if we spoke without interruption. You know how boys can be—especially when it comes to matters such as this.”

  Yes, Korolev thought, thinking that he also knew how wives could be when an affair came to light during an investigation—not very happy, nine times out of ten.

  “I know you spoke to Sergeant Slivka yesterday,” Korolev began, opening his notebook.

  “I presumed you’d want to talk to me again, but may I ask what happened to you?”

  Korolev looked down at his clothes. His trousers and shirt suggested he’d been—well—nearly killed in a lift shaft. On top of which, his face—well—the bruising probably didn’t look any better than it had the day before.

  “It goes with the job, I’m afraid.”

  “I never knew it was such tough work.”

  Korolev remembered the whirr of the cable as the lift came up toward him.

  “Sometimes we find ourselves in unfortunate situations, but perhaps this week has been—exceptional.”

  Korolev could feel the hair on the back of his neck quivering at the memory of the lift shaft. Anyway, enough of the pleasantries.

  “I have to ask about Professor Azarov’s wife. About your relationship with her.”

  “You’re very direct,” Weiss said.

  “I don’t have time to be otherwise.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t.” Weiss rested his hands on his knees and nodded, perhaps to himself. “I suspect some kind soul has told you that I’m having an affair with Irina Azarova? Is that the case?”

  Korolev nodded.

  “Then let me try and be just as direct in turn, Comrade Captain. The rumor’s true. Unless I’m wrong, your next question will be where I was on the morning of the murder.”

  “If you ever want to change professions,” Korolev said dryly, “you can always try mine.”

  Weiss smiled and pointed to a sheet of paper that was lying on a low table beside Korolev’s chair.

  “That tells you where I was and who I was with. When you read it, you’ll understand why I couldn’t be more frank with Sergeant Slivka.”

  The letter was brief and to the point and, curiously, addressed to Captain A. D. Korolev, 38 Petrovka Street. When he’d finished it, Korolev decided he’d have been happier if it had been addressed to someone else. He found himself trying to swallow on a dry mouth and, as a result, making a strange sound not dissimilar to the beginnings of a death rattle.

  “You were in a meeting with the General Secretary? Himself?”

  Four people had attended the meeting. Two of them were from the Ministry of Health—a man and a woman he’d never heard of. Dr. Weiss had been the third, and the fourth was a man he knew all too well, seeing as he was the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

  “Comrade Stalin values my advice from time to time,” Weiss explained.

  Honestly, Korolev thought to himself, he should move to a different city—some place where people couldn’t possibly have meetings with people like Stalin or be connected with State Security or have mysterious benefactors who could land them apartments as big as a metro station. Omsk, perhaps.

  “The meeting was from ten until twelve,” Weiss continued. “Before that I was, as the letter says, waiting. I was waiting from eight o’clock that morning. So I couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the professor’s murder.”

  As Dr. Weiss was pleased to point out, by the time he’d returned from advising the General Secretary on the need for a new children’s hospital in Moscow, Belinsky’s Militiamen had been on the scene, trying to calm a distraught Irina Azarova. He’d stepped in to assist—as any good physician would.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more frank yesterday. But it’s best to be careful with such a personage.”

  “Of course,” Korolev said, wondering where he went with an interview that seemed to have ended before it had begun.

  “You wanted to ask me about my relationship with Irina?”

  Korolev felt his cheeks redden from a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. This Weiss fellow was making fun of him now.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve known each other for a long time—since we were children. Her mother and mine grew up beside each other on Bolshaya Sadovaya Street, so they were very old friends as well. The family came to live with us during the German War while her father was at the front. I’ve always been very fond of her—and so has my wife. She knows about Irina, incidentally. That’s not the reason why she isn’t here, in case you’re wondering. I told her when it started.”

  Korolev felt disbelief manifesting itself on his face.

  “We have that kind of marriage, Korolev,” Weiss said, picking up the toy airplane once again and turning it over in his hand absentmindedly.

  “It’s unusual, that kind of marriage.”

  “You think so? All we are is honest with each other.”

  “Your lover wasn’t quite so honest when I asked her about her relationship with her husband.”

  “But you see, even when we were lovers—and no, we no longer are—I had the sensation she never fully admitted to herself what we were doing. It was a strange feeling—as if the Irina who I spent time with was a completely separate person. It was as if she had a public persona and then a private one—the one I saw when we were together. Although perhaps that isn’t so unusual these days. I can tell you that, on many levels, Irina was always loyal to Azarov—to a fault, in my opinion. I know she didn’t approve of certain of his actions—but she believed in him. And when, in recent months, she began to uncover some unpleasant truths about her husband, I think that, rather than blaming him, she blamed herself. Her grief isn’t feigned, that much I can tell you. She loved him deeply. Much more than he deserved, in my opinion.”

  “And you as well?”

  “Perhaps—these things h
appen. Love never follows a predictable path. The heart isn’t an organ that has the capacity for logic.” Weiss smiled, and Korolev could have sworn it was with satisfaction at his own nicely turned phrase.

  “What was your personal opinion of the professor, if you don’t mind?” Korolev asked.

  “I thought he was a bully and a braggart.” Weiss’s eyes were less kindly than they had been. Much less kindly.

  “His area isn’t something I have great expertise in, but colleagues who know better than me had reservations. Serious reservations, which they were careful to keep to themselves—because he had considerable support in certain circles.”

  “So I hear,” Korolev said, wondering if “certain circles” was a euphemism for State Security that he hadn’t heard before.

  “Azarov used that support to his advantage, of course. People say that Irina was as bad as he was—that husband and wife were the same Satan—but it wasn’t like that. She was a loyal, dedicated follower. She followed Azarov the same way she follows the Party. She didn’t question, she obeyed. Even when she had to hold her nose.”

  Korolev found the comparison of Azarov to the Party worrying, particularly as he now knew that the walls of the building were riddled with secret tunnels in which listening devices lurked as well as, possibly, diminutive killers. But Weiss was oblivious to his reaction, moving on to tell Korolev how Azarov had denounced him—and how, with the way things were these days, he’d thought things would go badly. And they probably would have, if Shtange hadn’t intervened.

  Korolev was surprised.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, Comrade Weiss. I’d have thought you’d have been secure against such criticism—being an adviser to—well—to him.” Korolev nodded in the general direction of the Kremlin.