by William Ryan
“So the question is—where have they moved this institute to?” Kolya asked.
“We’re trying to find out—but this ‘house in the woods’ that Little Barrel at the orphanage mentioned, the place out near Lefortovo—that seems our best bet. My guess is it’s the same secret establishment your sources told you about. And, of course, it’s under Zaitsev’s sole control. It seems to me there’s a chance both our boys could be there. A good chance. If we knew where it was.”
“Perhaps. What would you suggest?”
Kolya wasn’t pulling his punches today, it seemed, and so Korolev told him the plan he’d come up with, half-amazed to hear what he was suggesting and equally amazed that the Thief seemed to be taking him seriously—even nodding his agreement.
“And unless I’m wrong,” Korolev said in conclusion, “young Kim Goldstein knows the exact location of this facility.”
“No,” Kolya said, shaking his head. “He doesn’t.”
“You’ve asked him?”
“Of course I asked him. You’re right to think he and his friend were looking for it, same as us. Two of his crew ended up out there it seems. But where exactly, he has no idea. I’ve sent people to look for it, of course, but nothing.”
They stood there, two glum-looking, middle-aged men in among the summer-swarthy Muscovites.
“Kolya,” Korolev said, after he’d thought it through. “There’s someone I can get to tell us what we need to know, I think. If I can—are we agreed?”
“Yes,” the Thief said, holding out his hand—his eyes bright once again. Korolev, not entirely happily, took it.
“Then I’ll get them to tell us. But Kolya, we can’t wait around on this—you must understand that. It has to be tonight.”
“It’s my son. I’m ready.”
“Then tonight it is.”
“And Slivka?” Kolya asked. “It’s her cousin in the hands of these people. Her flesh and blood.”
“I don’t want her involved, Kolya. I’m sick of taking risks with other people’s lives.”
Kolya shook his head slowly. “What you have to understand, Korolev, is that there’s no safe place in these times. She’s already at risk. And it’s not your fault—or your responsibility.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The car’s engine grumbled to a stop and it occurred to Korolev that if he continued to visit Leadership House this often he might eventually acquire some sort of right of residency. The thought appealed to him for a moment as he recalled the size of the apartments and their views over Moscow—but then he remembered State Security’s habit of taking residents for early-morning drives. On balance, he decided he was fine where he was.
“Comrade Captain.” Timinov nodded a greeting, then looked around him and, satisfied there was no one nearby, nodded once again—more significantly this time.
“You looked at the schedule?”
“Priudski was on duty. Until six. And he was arrested just before he finished for the day.”
“So he was here all that morning. Could he have left for an hour or so—or even longer? Say if he needed to go up to one of the apartments, or something else perhaps?”
“If a doorman leaves his post for any length of time, he has to get cover. He had half an hour for lunch at twelve-thirty and he was covered for that. But I had a look at the book in the canteen, he signed in there at twelve-forty—so that’s where he went. I even looked at the log for the building, where we sign visitors in and out. If he slipped off during the morning, I don’t know how he could have managed it—none of the visitors are more than twenty minutes apart and he has to counter-sign each one of them in and out—which he did.”
“I see,” Korolev said, grasping Timinov’s arm in gratitude. “This has to be kept between us. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Is the professor’s wife in?”
“I’m not sure, Comrade Captain, but the maid, Galina, just went up.”
“I’ll pay a visit, I think.”
Korolev looked at the lift’s doors for a long moment, felt sweat prickling at the back of his neck, and found his experience earlier in the day had made him even less keen to take it. He started up the stairs, looking at his watch as he did so. He’d two hours before he was due to meet Rodinov, but that should be enough—at least, it would be if Comrade Madame Azarova was at home. If not? Well, he’d solve that problem if it came to pass.
Galina came to the door when he knocked, and her eyes widened at the sight of him.
“Comrade Azarova isn’t here,” she said with an urgency that came close to vehemence.
She made to push the door closed, but Korolev put his foot against it, and then a hand. He could feel her try to close it all the same, but that wasn’t going to happen. She might have been a farm girl and still have a farm girl’s biceps, but Korolev was a solid man, a few too many pounds solid, as it happened. The door swung open under his weight and Galina stepped back.
“Where is she?” Korolev could feel disappointment in his throat like a physical object, but he swallowed it, just about.
“I’m sorry,” Galina said, and there was a break in her voice.
Korolev examined her. He thought back to the last time she’d been here, her strange behavior. Now more strange behavior. But then, of course—there should be strange behavior. She must know most of it—she was bright enough.
“You’re sorry?” he said. “You think that’s enough?”
The words came out just as bluntly as he intended and Galina’s head dropped. Meanwhile Korolev recalled the various pieces of information he’d discovered, dusted them off, and lined them up in a row.
“I think you’d better tell me everything, Citizeness Matkina. I think it’s about damned time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I don’t.”
It came out almost like a wail. Her hand went to her throat and, avoiding his eyes, she turned away from him.
“I think you do, Citizeness. Stand aside.”
Korolev walked past her without bothering to wait for permission and she didn’t resist him. He made his way into the Azarovs’ sitting room and heard the apartment’s front door shut and her footsteps following him. He looked around the room. It was as before—the empty shelves, the plush furniture, the panoramic view over the capital city of the Soviet Union. Madame Azarova had sat just there, wearing her black gloves, only yesterday. Black gloves in summer. In a country that didn’t mourn that way these days.
“She cut herself, didn’t she, Galina? She cut her hand.”
He heard movement—as if Galina were walking in a circle, looking for a way out perhaps. He didn’t turn around. If he turned she might be able to tell that he was half-bluffing.
“She came back early on Tuesday morning, didn’t she? You weren’t expecting her. She came back in a stranger’s coat.”
He tried to remember the respective size difference between Azarova and Madame Shtange’s wife. Azarova would have been taller, possibly broader in the shoulder as well.
“A coat that was too small for her,” he continued. “Black, with large shoulders. Four buttons, if I remember.”
“How do you—?” Galina began to say, but Korolev held up a hand to stop her.
“Her hand was bleeding. No, she’d bandaged it with something—hadn’t she? And, of course”—Korolev remembered back to the small footprints the forensics men had told him about in Shtange’s apartment—“there was blood on her shoes as well—not her blood. And her clothes underneath the coat—they must have been covered as well. That’s why you were so nervous when I came to see her yesterday. And that’s why you were sent out immediately. She’d sworn you to secrecy but you’re no fool, you knew keeping a secret like that could mean ten years in a mine. So she had something over you. Let me think … Ah—the residency permit. Of course. Did she promise she’d get you one? Or did she tell you if you opened your mouth that at best you’d be on a train back home before the week was o
ut? That, more likely, you’d end up in the mine just the same.”
There was silence behind him, before a quiet sobbing began.
“The doorman told me what happened to Dr. Shtange,” she said.
Galina’s voice was almost drowned out by a sudden hammering from the direction of the bridge. The windows rattled and for a moment it was all Korolev could do just to think. The hammering ended, and Korolev turned to find Galina, tear tracks running down her face.
And behind her, standing in the doorway, face as pale as a sheet of freshly milled paper, was the professor’s wife. In the gloved hand that was pointed at him was a small silver automatic.
“You can go into the kitchen, Galina,” Azarova said, calm as death itself.
“I tried to keep him out.”
“I know you did.”
Galina cast Korolev a quick glance and he nodded his agreement. “Go on, go into the kitchen. Don’t worry about anything. This will all be agreed in a sensible fashion or it will go hard with everyone. Harder than anyone can imagine.”
“We’ll see about that, Comrade Captain Korolev,” the professor’s wife said and, when Galina had made her way back into the corridor, Azarova closed the door behind the girl and turned a key in the lock.
“You overheard our conversation?”
“Enough of it.”
“Well?”
“He killed Boris. I killed him. I’m not going to let you take me to prison for it. I’ll shoot myself before that happens.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but Korolev thought back to Shtange’s body, stabbed twenty or thirty times. He looked into her eyes and saw something like madness there, but he thought he also saw uncertainty.
“Shtange didn’t kill your husband,” he said. “Someone else killed your husband.”
She appeared to consider this—then shrugged.
“Who?” she asked—as if such a possibility could matter less to her.
“If it’s who I think it was, someone who’d a reason to kill him and an opportunity to do it. Anyway, Shtange was at the institute at the time of your husband’s death. Whoever it was, it wasn’t him.”
Azarova considered this for a moment, before shaking her head in the negative.
“No, it was Shtange. He might not have pulled the trigger himself, but he as good as did so with that report of his. Boris meant well, but Shtange couldn’t see that—couldn’t see that everything Boris did, every hard decision he made, every necessary brutality, they were all done with the best interests of the State as their basis. We’re a country of two hundred million—a few convicted criminals don’t count for anything against that. He had to make progress—and quickly. We’re in a war already, Korolev. An internal war that each Soviet citizen wages against an enemy that is within themselves. Boris was going to help Soviet citizens defeat that enemy—to allow us to become fully one with the Revolution, completely loyal, completely dedicated. There would have been no more doubt, no more backsliding—we would all be perfect citizens of a socialist utopia built in Lenin’s image.”
Her voice rose as she spoke and by the time she’d finished it wasn’t far off the level at which you might address a small crowd—but it seemed she was trying to persuade herself as much as him. Korolev was past persuasion—he was too close to the Revolution as it was, and reluctant to get any closer, given its habit of putting him in dangerous situations. Situations like this one.
“You knew about Shtange’s report then?” Korolev said, wishing she’d hold the gun steady at least. He wanted to forget it was there—but the way she was waving it about made that difficult.
“Boris told me about it.”
“Then you know it wasn’t just convicted criminals he operated on. There were others as well, children. Children who were once under your care.”
“Minor operations, Korolev. Basic Pavlovian research. The children didn’t suffer. What’s more they were proud to help drive Soviet science into the future. And they were treated well. I made sure of it. Each one of them was a willing volunteer. When they came back to the orphanage they were envied.”
Her voice rose once again as she spoke, before she seemed to collect herself.
“What my husband did with the men was different, of course. And in another situation—well, if it hadn’t been necessary, it wouldn’t have been done. The work he did with them was difficult, but vital—for the Revolution. My husband didn’t enjoy what he did, believe me, but he knew his duty.”
Korolev couldn’t help but glance down again at the gun in Azarova’s hand. She followed his gaze, looking back up at him with an expression that was difficult to read.
“What about the children who didn’t go back to the orphanage?” Korolev said. “The ones who went to this other place, this house in the woods? The ones chosen by your husband for their ‘special aptitude.’ They didn’t have such a pleasant time, did they?”
Azarova frowned. She looked confused.
“They weren’t treated well, Comrade Madame Azarova, now were they?”
She shook her head and again her gun began to waver in her grasp.
“The work out there was purely educational. It was more Pavlovian theory, but this time applied in an educational context—he was training the Bolsheviks of the future. Through encouragement, no more than that. It was educational, nothing more.”
“Your husband lied to you, Comrade Azarova, and he used you. What went on out there was barbarism. But you knew that, didn’t you?”
She took a step backward, her face shrinking in on itself. “I’ve been out there,” she managed. “The children are happy. Yes, they are perfectly happy. I talked to them. I looked at the progress they’d made. Such loyalty, such devotion to the Party—it was heartening. Those children will be enormous assets to the State in due course, of that you can rest assured. There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”
“Do you know what ‘repeated high-voltage electrical shocks to the cortex administered for sustained periods’ means? I won’t forget those words in a hurry. Shtange may not have been an angel but at least he was trying to put a stop to your husband’s playing God with poor, orphaned children.”
“That isn’t true. It simply isn’t true.”
Korolev paused and examined Azarova dispassionately. Her arm had dropped down now, so that the gun pointed at the floor—which was something. From the kitchen he could hear Galina weeping. When Azarova put a gloved hand to her face, Korolev changed his approach.
“Your husband was the monster, not you,” he said in a gentle voice. “I didn’t come here to arrest you, Comrade Madame Azarova. I know you killed Shtange, but you were confused—you were insane with grief. I can understand that.”
She looked confused now. “But you can’t forget about Shtange, you’ll have to take me to prison.”
The gun straightened, the barrel’s dark circle rising once again. He hoped she’d left the safety catch on.
“You made one mistake,” Korolev said, “don’t make another. Give me the gun. If you tell me where this place is, out in Lefortovo, I’ll walk away, and forget everything I’ve worked out. I don’t care about Shtange—as far as I’m concerned, he deserved to die for what he did to those prisoners.”
The hammer, hammer, hammer of the bridge’s pile driver came again, rattling the windows once more. A long moment passed. Then, to his relief, Azarova put a hand to her head, placed the gun on the sideboard, and sat down. She looked around her, at him, at the gun, at the room she was in, as if seeing everything for the first time. The hammering stopped and in the silence that followed he could hear a tram pass by on the street below.
“Why do you want to know about that place?”
“I think my son’s being held out there.”
She looked at him in disbelief—but then she saw his expression.
“I don’t know how this all happened,” she said in a weak voice.
He walked across the room and picked up the gun, made sure the safety was on, then put it in his pocket.
“Now, let’s talk.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
There was an atmosphere in Shtange’s study it would have taken a mechanical saw a week to cut through—Dubinkin kept glancing at him with a curiosity that Korolev found unnerving, Slivka appeared to have been subsisting on a diet of lemons since breakfast, while poor Kuznetsky looked like a nervous child caught in the middle of an argument he knew nothing about.
Well, Korolev could get rid of one of them, at least.
“Go outside and guard the building, Kuznetsky.”
He immediately regretted the tone in his voice. Not that the young Militiaman seemed to notice.
“Of course, Comrade Captain. From who?”
“From you, for all I care.”
“And the telephone? Who will answer the telephone?”
Korolev looked at him, wondering if the scamp was daring to be cheeky, but it wasn’t that—the boy was just confused. But Korolev’s glance, murderous as it must have been, soon shifted him.
“I’ll be outside, Comrade Captain,” Kuznetsky said, and the door was shut behind him almost before he’d finished speaking. Korolev turned his attention to Dubinkin.
“What did you find out about our friend, Priudski?”
Korolev still had Azarova’s small automatic in his pocket and was surprised to discover that his hand had gripped the butt of the weapon—his finger inside the trigger guard and the muzzle pointing at Dubinkin. He slowly unwrapped his fingers from the gun, and crossed his arms over his chest, so that there was less likelihood of a moment of irritation causing him to inadvertently shoot a Chekist.
“He was as you said. A State Security ear. Interestingly though, he didn’t report to the Fifth Department, as I’d expect—instead he reported to the Twelfth Department. It looks as if Zaitsev wanted to keep tabs on the professor and was using Priudski to do it. Zaitsev holds the file so I can’t tell you as much as I might like. But the clerks were able to do enough cross-referencing to give a good picture of what he was up to.”