by William Ryan
“Thanks for your time, Comrade Shtange,” he said and stood. This was, after all, a conversation that had probably gone on for far too long already.
“Wait one moment, Comrade Captain. I mentioned I was also authorized to give you my impressions.”
Korolev pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited.
“While Comrade Azarov was all the things I’ve mentioned, in terms of his qualities as a worker, he was not someone who dealt with those around him in an amicable way. I doubt he was any different in his personal life—in fact, I know he wasn’t. I thought you’d like to know that. My impression of his character, that is. You’ll find plenty of people inside and outside this institute that share my opinion, I’m sure of it. And as for his contributions to science? Well, perhaps they didn’t reflect the amount of work he put into achieving them.”
“And you’ve been authorized to tell me that?” Korolev asked, in complete disbelief.
“I’ve been instructed to tell you that,” Shtange said and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say the reasons were beyond him as well. Shtange seemed to consider something for a moment, then put his fingers together to make a small pyramid with his hands. There was something mischievous in his expression.
“Although perhaps with my comment about his contributions to science I went a little further than I should have.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time Korolev reached the car his clothes were soaked through and still the rain kept coming down, rattling on the roof like a battalion of military drummers. He sat there on the bench seat, rainwater pooling around him, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into. Thankfully someone had left a box of matches on the dashboard and Korolev used them to light a damp cigarette, the smoke scraping his throat as he inhaled. He thought about leaving the matches for the next detective but then decided to hold on to them—they weren’t always easy to find these days.
A truck drove past, its engine like a rolling explosion, and flung a great wave of water up onto the car, rocking it. Korolev rubbed at the fogged glass. Even though it wasn’t much past three o’clock, it was black as night—and the few dark figures making their way along the street looked like refugees from a war.
He glanced up at the institute and swore under his breath. Whatever they were up to in there was no business of his—that was for certain. There might be cleverer men than him around—plenty of them—but he was no fool. He smoked the last of the cigarette, stubbed it out on the floor, and started the car—just as the first patch of blue sky appeared to the west and the rain, without warning, stopped.
* * *
“Well?” Korolev said when he found Slivka sitting in the dead man’s study, her notebook open and a pencil in her hand. The forensics men had gone and all that was left of the professor was a damp patch on the desk where his blood had been washed away.
“Forensics are finished. Ushakov says they’ve found a number of possible fingerprints—but it will take them awhile to go through them.”
“I’ll call him. We can’t wait around on this, believe me.”
Korolev found that he was looking at the gouged-out hole in Azarov’s desk and, not for the first time, wondering how one of the bullets could have missed at such close range.
“Did you speak to Comrade Madame Azarova?” he asked.
“No, but I’ve confirmed her alibi. She was at the orphanage all right. And the maid’s story stacks up as well. There was a queue at the bakery and she was standing in it for at least an hour. Two of the other maids confirmed it. Everyone has a maid in this place, did you know that?”
“It’s a place for important people. Important people have maids.”
“That must be it. Anyway, that doorman fellow remembers her leaving at nine-thirty and coming back not long before eleven. So that’s still more confirmation of her story.”
“He’d remember, right enough.”
There was something about Priudski that suggested to Korolev that he’d be the type who’d keep a particular eye out for pretty young things like Matkina.
“Still, she could have killed him when she came back,” Korolev said, not convincing himself or, it seemed, Slivka.
“Assuredly. But you’ve met her, and now so have I. I don’t see it.”
“Stranger people have committed murder.”
“True.”
“She’s the obvious suspect and she had the opportunity.”
Slivka said nothing and Korolev found himself nodding in agreement.
“All right, I agree. She doesn’t strike me as a killer either, on top of which she doesn’t seem to have a motive—on the contrary, in fact. What else did you find out? Anything from the other residents?”
Slivka looked through her notebook.
“The upstairs neighbor thought she heard something not long before eleven o’clock. At the time she thought it was noise from the bridge-building but, whatever she heard, she heard it twice. And no one told her there were two bullets. And, yes, thinking back, she agreed the noises could have been gunshots.”
“Before eleven would rule out Matkina,” Korolev said.
“If what the neighbor heard was a gun.”
“Matkina said she could smell gunpowder when she entered the room. That would tie in with the neighbor’s story nicely. Of course, if Matkina did it the gun should still be here. If it was one of those little pocket pistols, you could almost fit it inside a packet of cigarettes. Have we been through the place thoroughly?”
“Not a speck of dust hasn’t been lifted and looked under. I’m sure as I can be that it’s not here. What’s more, Levschinsky checked the wife and the maid’s hands for gunpowder residue—nothing.”
There was a cough from behind Korolev, and Slivka, looking up to see who it was, stood so quickly that Korolev had to take a step back to avoid being knocked into.
Korolev turned to see who could have had such an effect on his normally unflappable sergeant—and found a full NKVD colonel standing in the doorway, dressed in his summer uniform, the golden sword and shield badge gleaming on his chest—alongside the Order of the Red Star, the Red Banner and several others. He was smiling at them benignly.
“Comrade Captain Korolev, isn’t it? My name’s Zaitsev.”
The colonel looked around the room and took his time doing it. He was a tall man, over six foot, and broad in a way that not many Muscovites could manage to be these days. Not exactly fat, was Korolev’s impression, more muscle gone soft. The Chekist’s round, pale face was decorated with a small triangular mustache that only covered the middle of his upper lip, and his scalp had been shaved down to a gray shadow that left his ears sticking out like jug handles and revealed an interesting collection of scars; as if someone had given the colonel a savage beating sometime in the past.
There was something almost dreamy about the colonel’s expression, but there was also an absolute authority. He turned his attention to Korolev, his thumbs hooked into the waist strap of his Sam Browne belt—the colonel’s forefingers beating time on its buckle to a tune only he could hear, as he examined him.
“What progress have you made, Korolev?” The colonel said eventually, and Korolev, as succinctly as possible, filled him in. Meanwhile it sounded as if other men were moving into the apartment, fanning out through the rooms, but it was difficult to see if this was indeed the case as it would involve breaking eye contact, which was something Korolev was loath to do.
“So, in summary,” Zaitsev said when he’d finished, “you’ve no idea who the killer is, except that he has escaped and may even now be planning his next crime.”
“We’ve only just begun the investigation,” Korolev began—but the colonel’s eyes narrowed with menace.
“I’m not interested in excuses, Korolev, and nor is the Party. We only care for results. Professor Azarov was engaged in work vital to the State and, through his death, a blow has been struck that may threaten the security of the Revolution itself. It seems to me we’ll
have to take a different approach to catching this killer—a more direct one. You could be blundering around for weeks at this rate. I’m sure First Inspector Popov will assign you to something more worthy of your talents. You may go.”
Korolev must have looked confused because the colonel leaned forward so that his face was only a few inches away.
“You understand what I’m telling you, don’t you, Korolev?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel. You want us to go.”
“That’s right, Korolev. Look at you, you’re leaving puddles on the floor. You can’t even look after yourself, let alone a matter like this. So go on, Korolev, go.”
“At your command, Comrade Colonel.”
Three Chekists slouched in the corridor behind Zaitsev, and Korolev found his cheeks warming as he and Slivka passed them. It wasn’t just shame he felt, there was anger too—a rage that flickered in his stomach like fire.
“Well, that’s that then,” Slivka said, when they’d made their way down the stairs and out of the building.
“It seems so,” Korolev said, conscious that his hands had bunched into fists.
“Back to Petrovka?”
“Why not?”
* * *
Pugnacious black clouds still scudded across the brightening sky as Slivka drove them across the Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge, but they were only camp followers to what had preceded them. The sudden storm had more or less passed and, despite the battering it had received, Moscow looked much the same as it always had—as it always would, Korolev supposed. People might come and go and regimes might change back and forth, but Moscow would remain—the city was a constant, even when everything else turned to dust. Slivka opened her mouth to speak but Korolev shook his head—there wasn’t any point in talking about it, she must know that. So they traveled in silence, listening to the car’s engine, until they reached Teatralnaya.
“Chief,” she said finally, reaching across to feel the arm of his jacket, “he really wasn’t wrong about you being wet.”
And perhaps it was just the way the sun was bathing the wet Moscow streets, turning them a brighter gold than the eye could bear, but Korolev found he was smiling.
Back at Petrovka, Popov had left instructions for them to come up straightaway and Korolev wasn’t surprised to find the First Inspector pacing his office when they entered.
“What happened to you?” he asked Korolev.
Korolev looked down at his clothes.
“I got caught in the storm—over in Bersenevka.”
Popov sighed. “You look like you went swimming, that’s what you look like. Over there in Bersenevka.”
Korolev looked down at himself, hearing an echo of the colonel’s rebuke in Popov’s words.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He caught Slivka’s sideways glance out of the corner of his eye.
“That’s just as well—a drowned rat couldn’t look more drowned than you do at the moment.” Popov paused to smile. “Be sure to get yourself dry when we’ve finished here. It wouldn’t do for you to catch a summer cold.”
“I will, Comrade First Inspector.”
Popov waved for them to sit down. He walked to the window, taking his unlit pipe from his pocket as he did so and chewing on its stem. Then he turned and walked slowly back toward the desk, placing his left hand on the back of his chair as he considered them.
“Investigations don’t usually come and go this quickly,” Popov said. “But we weren’t to know the responsibility for it lay elsewhere.”
Slivka opened her mouth to speak but a glance from Popov closed it.
“You’re back on holiday, Korolev. And Slivka, you’re back chasing Gray Foxes.”
Popov pulled his chair back and sat down, taking reading glasses from the breast-pocket of his jacket and picking up a handwritten sheet of paper from the desk—precise instructions would now follow, it seemed.
“Any notes you took or other evidence collected must be given to me—I’ll see they reach the right place. If any file was opened with regard to the matter it is to be immediately closed and its contents passed to me, as before. You will not discuss or refer to the investigation into Professor Azarov’s murder—not even among yourselves. In fact, you’re to forget it ever happened. I think that’s all pretty straightforward. Understood?”
They nodded.
“Good. Off you go then.”
Korolev stood up and left the first inspector’s office with Slivka in tow.
“Are we in trouble of some sort, Chief?” she said out of the corner of her mouth as they descended the stairs.
“I don’t think so,” Korolev said, “as long as we do as we’re told we should be fine. The whole business never happened, is all.”
Korolev located the last of his cigarettes in his damp pocket, along with the matches from the car—and was pleasantly surprised when he managed to get them both to light.
“Well,” he said when they reached the second floor, where their office was. “I’d best leave you to it. Good luck with Shabalin.”
“Thanks,” Slivka said, nodding. “Good luck with your holiday.”
What else was there to say? They certainly couldn’t discuss the matter in question. So instead Korolev nodded once again and squelched off down the staircase, across Petrovka’s cobbled courtyard before making straight for the Sandunovsky bathhouse on Neglinaya Street. And there he soaked in a long bath while a white-coated attendant with a boxer’s ears took his clothes from him and promised he’d have them back dry as a bone within the hour.
So Korolev emptied his mind, allowed his feet to float up till his toes broke the surface and ignored the conversations going on around him. He focused on the ornate ceiling, on the gilded knots and twirls, on the occasional damp patch that marred the decoration, and squinted away the sweat that rolled down into his eyes. It occurred to him that this was as good a way as any to forget all about the day he’d just had. And, after half an hour of floating, a long stretch in the sauna and a few pages of the newspaper, he found he felt more like a human being again. In fact, by the time he come back out onto the street, his clothes dry and ironed, and looking better than they had for some time, he felt as relaxed as anyone had any right to expect these days. The evening sky was a deep blue and the light that the low sun cast flattered the older Moscow buildings and burnished the newer ones. His son was at home waiting for him and nothing more could be desired from life, really.
It was only because Korolev happened to be walking past the Lubyanka’s side-entrance that he allowed himself to even think of anything to do with State Security. They were doing more work on the building, he saw. More cells, he supposed, or more offices for more Chekists. The comrades from State Security were busier than ever these days.
CHAPTER NINE
“Papa?”
Yuri’s voice came from the other side of the bedroom. Two streets away a cockerel crowed, as it did every morning, and Korolev, as he did every morning, wondered how the bird had managed to survive this long. There were plenty of people in Moscow who’d happily eat a cockerel given half a chance, cooked or uncooked. Its owner must guard it well.
“Yuri?” Korolev said. His voice sounded like the creak of a barn door.
“You’re sure you won’t have to go to work today?”
“As I told you,” Korolev said, his eyes still firmly shut, “they’ve assigned the investigation to someone else. Which means we can do anything we want.”
“Anything?”
“Yes,” Korolev said, but he didn’t fully trust his answer. Who knew what a twelve-year-old boy might want to do?
He heard Yuri get out of bed and pad over to him.
“We could go to the zoo then, couldn’t we?”
Korolev opened his left eye to see Yuri looking down at him. Weak sunlight was streaming in through the gap in the curtains and footsteps were moving back and forth above his head as the people upstairs prepared to face the day. They wouldn’t be so loud if they put d
own a carpet. He should mention it to them.
“The zoo?” Korolev looked at his watch. A quarter past six already. “Isn’t it a bit early for the zoo?”
“Natasha says they feed the lions at eight.” Yuri crossed his arms and turned his face toward the window, avoiding Korolev’s gaze as if expecting a refusal. “With red meat.”
Something about the thought of the red meat seemed to cheer Yuri up, however, and he smiled slowly. No doubt he was imagining the gore.
“Red meat, you say?” Korolev allowed his open eye to close naturally.
“Blood red. She says sometimes they give them a goat. A whole goat. But not alive—at least I don’t think so anyway. Although Natasha says sometimes the goats are alive, but I’m sure that can’t be right.” Yuri paused, his mouth twisting sideways as he considered this.
“That Natasha says a lot.” Korolev turned onto his side so that now he was facing his son.
“Well,” Yuri said, “I suppose the goats might be alive—every now and then. You know, for authenticity—what good would a lion be if it didn’t remember what it was to hunt?”
“That’s a good question.” Korolev made the effort to open both his eyes now, look at his son fondly and smile. He even managed to push himself up onto his elbow. This was what it was to be young, he supposed—to think that anything was possible.
Yuri, after a moment, smiled back.
“Torn to pieces?” Korolev continued, fighting a yawn. “Now that would be a sight to see.”
Moscow’s zoo was located only a few streets from where Korolev had lived when he was Yuri’s age. And sometimes back then—not often, but occasionally—a boy might hear a lion roar—a strange and marvelous sound in the middle of a Moscow winter. The memory persuaded Korolev to push down the sheet and get out of bed.
“But I thought the zoo didn’t open until nine?”