William Ryan: The Twelfth Department

He yawned again. He could feel his eyes growing heavy and put a hand to his ear to twist it—hard. The pain woke him up a little—just as a gaggle of besprizorniki came ambling into the park and caught his attention. Most of the street children were barefoot and wearing nothing but short trousers, their shirts tucked into belts or slung over their bare shoulders—skin dark as oiled wood from the long summer. They walked with chests out and shoulders back and it seemed that if they didn’t own the place, then no one had told them.

Korolev didn’t like the look of them—the thing was, they looked in the mood for wickedness, staring impudently into the faces of the citizens they passed and sharing jokes among themselves that seemed to have more than a hint of malice about them. They were out for trouble, no doubt about it. And, in a moment of complete clarity, Korolev realized that the target they’d choose for their mischief would inevitably be the odd-looking balloon seller with the unbalanced mustache.

“Twenty kopecks for a big red balloon,” Yasimov called out and his voice sounded like the sad bleat of a lambless sheep. The besprizorniki turned as one, like hounds catching a scent. And, without anyone needing to say a word, they fanned out around the unhappy detective.

“Twenty kopecks? Twenty? For a balloon that you filled with your own gas?”

This from the leader—a ratty-looking rascal and one Korolev didn’t doubt would be a long-standing future acquaintance of the Moscow Militia.

“Get lost, puppy, or you’ll feel the toe of my boot,” Yasimov said, whipping around as another of the youngsters pulled at the striped sailor’s shirt he’d thought, for some unknown reason, would make him look the part.

“Two for ten would be more like it, damned speculator.”

A stunted, dark-haired boy, this one, with a prematurely lined forehead and a nose that had been bent sideways somewhere along the way. A cigarette jutted out of the corner of his mouth and the runt blew a cloud of smoke up into Yasimov’s indignant face to make his point.

“I’d say he’s more than a speculator, Comrades,” their leader drawled. “I’d say he’s an enemy. He’s got that look about him.”

“Get out of here, fleas, or you’ll regret waking up this morning.”

That was when the first balloon popped—the runt stabbing it with a glowing cigarette end. And simultaneously, as if the balloon had been a signal, from farther down the pathway came a rapid series of explosions not unlike machine-gun fire, as a separate group of children let off a belt of firecrackers.

From complete calm, the scene around him had changed in an instant to chaos, but strangely Korolev found that for him everything was slowing down. This turmoil was no damned coincidence, he was thinking. It was a diversion, or he was a Bolshoi ballerina.

Where was Shabalin?

Once he looked, it wasn’t hard to find him—he’d already climbed over the park railings not twenty meters behind him. And once inside the park, Shabalin was heading for Petya at a brisk walk, one hand in his pocket. And Korolev was pretty sure it wasn’t a comb that Shabalin was holding in there.

Petya saw Shabalin and the big man jumped to his feet, lifting his hands up to fend him off. Korolev was running now and just as the silver flash of Shabalin’s blade began to slice toward Petya’s chest, he found that he’d swung the solid weight of the ticket machine on its leather strap over his head and down toward Shabalin’s shoulder, where it hit with a solid blow, knocking the arm down just before the knife connected—and sending it skittering away across the path.

“You damned traitor, Petya,” Shabalin cried out as he ducked, clutching his shoulder and twisting himself out of Korolev’s attempt to hold him.

“Stay where you are, Shabalin,” Korolev shouted, but the gang leader was already two steps away and moving along the pathway fast. Yasimov’s whistle was shrieking somewhere close and someone was shouting for the police.

“Stop,” Korolev called out. “Or I shoot.”

Shabalin turned to look back and so never saw the white dress coming toward him like an express train. Slivka drove her right shoulder into the killer’s midriff—every ounce of her weight behind it—and Shabalin hit the ground like lead, his head bouncing off the tarmac path. He lay where he fell, completely still—a bundle of clothes and limbs—while Slivka scrambled to her knees, turned him and handcuffed his arms behind his back.

“Sit down,” Yasimov was shouting and Korolev turned to see Petya slump back onto the bench, putting his hands on his head—a penitent look on his face. Balloons were floating through the branches above, while the last of the besprizorniki were scattering as uniforms flooded into the park.

“Good work, Comrades,” Korolev said, kneeling down to examine the unconscious Shabalin. It seemed it was all over—the battle was won. He put his hand to the gangster’s neck, feeling for a pulse—relieved to find one. In the circumstances, the fact that no one had been killed seemed a miracle.

Korolev took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to Slivka and lighting one for himself. It was just coming up to four o’clock—plenty of time to make it to the station. And what happier omen could there be for young Yuri’s visit to Moscow than to have put Semyon Shabalin behind bars?

Yaroslavsky station was crowded and unpleasant—but Korolev breathed in the hot, muggy air and allowed himself a smile. What did it matter, when Yuri, his twelve-year-old son, would be stepping down from the Zagorsk train in a matter of minutes?

It was hot though. Even in the relative cool of the ticket hall, Korolev could feel sweat pooling under his arms and running down his back in what seemed to be a constant stream—but he still couldn’t help the joy bubbling up through him. Anyway, it couldn’t stay this hot for much longer—the weather would turn more comfortable in the next few days. It had to.

Ideally, he’d take off his jacket, which felt heavy as a fur coat in this heat. But if he did take it off then he’d have every citizen in the place looking at the Walther in its holster and wondering if he was a Chekist come to arrest somebody—and whether that somebody might just be them. He could do without that kind of attention.

He just hoped that the train would be on time—or at least not too late.

There was one niggling concern at the back of his mind about this visit though, and that was its unexpectedness—it had come completely out of the blue. His ex-wife Zhenia had called him just a few days before to ask if he could take Yuri—she hadn’t explained why and he hadn’t asked. At the time, it had been enough for him that he’d be seeing the boy for a whole week—just the two of them. But afterward, when he’d thought it through, he couldn’t help but have a more complex reaction to the news. After all, he’d loved Zhenia back when they’d still been man and wife—and love left its mark on a man’s soul and that was all there was to it. And even if it wasn’t any of his business what Zhenia was up to, he couldn’t help but feel a little low at the thought that, likely as not, she’d be spending a week with some other member of the male species, and in a place where their son wouldn’t be welcome. He bore her no ill will, of course, and she was within her rights—but still.

His thoughts were diverted from their glum turn by two shrill blasts of a whistle from somewhere far down the tracks and, as if in response, the station speakers announced the arrival of the Zagorsk train. Not a minute passed before it came into view, steam billowing out behind and around it—eventually coming to a halt just short of the buffers with a loud grinding of brakes. In no time at all, the empty platform was full of passengers and a surge of baggage and humanity flooded toward him.