William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

Vera spoke firmly but Korolev saw Natasha exchange a glance with Yuri that seemed to say: “That’s what she wants you to believe. The truth is something else again.”

“When was that?” Valentina asked Korolev. “The last time you were here?”

“Before the Revolution—a long time ago.”

“We’ve made many improvements since then,” Vera said. “Now we have an area devoted to the animals that underpin the fur industry—so that we can demonstrate nature within its socialist and industrial context.”

Korolev couldn’t help but exchange a glance with Valentina, who looked away quickly and covered her mouth as if she might be about to cough.

Not far along from the lions were the elephants—four of them. The huge creatures used their trunks to pick up carrots, two and three at a time, and place them in their mouths—all with a dexterity that had Yuri rubbing his nose in speculation.

“So much food,” Valentina said, in a quiet voice—not for the children’s ears, nor Vera’s either. No one must have told the elephants that belts needed to be tightened if they were to complete the Five Year Plan in record time. Or maybe elephants weren’t subject to the Five Year Plan. Perhaps they worked to a completely different schedule of industrial development—one that allowed them to guzzle as many carrots as they wanted to.

At Vera’s suggestion a young keeper, a bit of an athlete it seemed, persuaded the largest of the beasts to rear its head back and took a hold of her tusks, before using them to do chin-ups. The keeper looked over to the children, proud of his bulging biceps no doubt, and Korolev found that his mouth had curled with disdain of its own accord. He rearranged it into what he hoped might be a polite smile.

“Look, Mama—look,” Natasha squealed, delighted by the buffoon.

“Do you see him?” Yuri said, turning to Korolev to point him out as well. Korolev nodded approvingly, although his instinct was to go over and give the fellow a good shake. Not least because it seemed to him that the rascal wasn’t performing for the children, but rather for Valentina. And that sly smile he’d pasted on his handsome face had more than a suggestion of charming sweet-nothings about it, damn him.

“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen,” the children counted and with each number Korolev’s mood darkened further. It was a shame elephants weren’t carnivorous, really—it would be upsetting for the children, of course, but they’d recover in time. Children were surprisingly resilient to that kind of thing.

Korolev decided it was best to turn away before he said something unfortunate and, as he did so, he spotted none other than Count Kolya, Chief Authority of the Moscow Thieves, standing on the other side of the small square, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Korolev couldn’t believe his eyes for a moment—but it was Kolya all right, and the Thief wasn’t only looking right back at him, he was waving him over.

It occurred to Korolev that it would be unusual for Kolya to be out on his own and, sure enough, a quick glance around the environs revealed little Mishka, Kolya’s right-hand man, sitting in companionable silence with an outsized fellow, just past the polar bears. There’d be others nearby as well, he didn’t doubt—Kolya wasn’t a man who liked to take unnecessary risks.

Korolev said nothing to Valentina and the children, who anyway were all still beaming at the damned elephant keeper, and took a stroll over to Kolya, taking his time about it and allowing his gaze to wander over the surroundings—just in case.

The Thief nodded as he approached and Korolev was struck by how much older Kolya looked than when he’d last seen him—but the dark eyes were as intense as ever, and his presence just as menacing. Kolya might pretend gregariousness when it suited him, but he hadn’t become overlord of the criminal clans through charm alone.

“Korolev, it’s nice to see you in the company of friends. I worry about your solitary existence sometimes.”

Kolya spoke quietly, almost as if he were sincere.

“I worry about you too, Kolya. I worry about how you’ll fare in the Zone.”

“In the Zone? I think you know how I’ll fare,” Kolya said, shrugging. “I’ll do just fine—a prison camp is like a holiday for me.”

Korolev took the opportunity to scan the area around them once again—it wouldn’t be healthy for him if he was seen chatting away to a man wanted for any number of criminal acts. It was just the kind of meeting that could be misconstrued these days.

“How did you get in here, anyway?”

“I have acquaintances in strange places, Korolev—and not only you, either. Don’t worry, we were careful. I wanted to talk to you and when it turned out you were coming here, I made my way over. I wasn’t far away.”

Korolev glanced over at Mishka. He hadn’t looked for a tail earlier, but it was doubtful he’d have seen Mishka even if he had.

“Well,” he said, “I’m listening.”

“This investigation of yours—into the Azarov killing. I’ve some things to tell you about it.”

Korolev felt the muscles in his shoulders tense at the mere mention of the Azarov business—he’d almost forgotten about the aborted investigation, not without effort, and yet here it was, rearing its ugly head again already.

“I’m off the case, Kolya—it’s nothing to do with me.”

“Really?” Kolya said. “Is that how it is with you, these days?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not the Korolev I know, is all. You’re the Ment who always gets his man, come hell or high water.”

“I’m also the Ment who keeps my nose out of anything to do with State Security.”

That made Kolya smile, understandably—his thick mustache curving upward in what Korolev suspected was something close to mockery. It struck Korolev, not for the first time, how similar Kolya was in appearance to Stalin. It made him wonder, sometimes.

“Really, Korolev? Every time I meet you you’re up to your neck in Chekists.”

“Well, I’ve learned my lesson.”

Kolya came closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Listen, Korolev, if you knew what went on at that institute—believe me, it would interest you.”

“You think so, do you?”

“I’m certain of it, or I’ve misjudged you. And I don’t misjudge men often.”

Kolya pulled at his mustache with his tattooed hand. Korolev saw the circled crown of a ranking Thief on one of the fingers and remembered who he was dealing with.

“Kolya, even if I did give a damn about this institute—I’d have to ask myself why you of all people would come and tell me about it. In my experience you’ve never done anything that hasn’t been for your own benefit—in some way or another.”

“You see, I knew you’d be interested. And why shouldn’t I assist the forces of law and order when we both seek the same thing?”

“The forces of law and order are looking into the matter, believe me—I’ve seen them at it.”

“No, they’re not, Korolev. The men who’ve taken over your investigation have no interest in law or order, and certainly not in justice. You, on the other hand? You there’s hope for.”

Korolev shrugged his shoulders.

“There’s nothing I can do, Kolya. Even if I hadn’t been ordered off that investigation, I’d still avoid it. That case is trouble.”

“Oh—it’s trouble all right. I don’t deny that—but a man like you doesn’t mind such things. You’ve a son, Korolev—other men do too. And men’s sons have died there. Don’t you owe something to them? What if your son ended up in such a place?”

“I owe no one anything when it comes to Professor Azarov and his institute, and even if I did I couldn’t do anything about it, Kolya. That’s all there is to it.” Korolev nodded a farewell and turned away. “Put Mishka in with the wolves before you go.”