William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“It’s possible. I’m a detective, sometimes these things happen. Like the other day, if you remember.”

Yuri considered this. “You’d want me to get the train on my own?”

“I don’t see why not—you made it all the way from Zagorsk on your own.”

“I’m only twelve.”

“I was only ten when I started work for the butcher Lytkin—and you’re a brighter spark than I was.”

Yuri looked pleased at the compliment.

“I’d need money for the train and the tram.”

“You’re right—and I should have given you money before, anyway. A young man needs a rouble or two on his person, or so I’ve always found.”

Korolev reached in his pocket and Yuri rubbed the notes he handed him between his finger and thumb. He looked suspicious.

“It’s just in case,” Korolev said. “But if I have to go—make your way to Valentina, she’ll look after you till I get back.”

In the evening they played chess and then listened to a football game on the radio, an important match between Spartak and Lokomotiv, and then, when Yuri fell asleep in his chair, Korolev carried him to bed.

He looked down at the boy in the half-light of the dusk and saw Zhenia in his features, but also some of himself. He couldn’t help but feel frightened for the boy, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead before he left the room.

Korolev stayed up for a while pretending to himself he was reading, knowing he wouldn’t sleep while his brain kept going over the little he knew and trying to make sense of it. And when he did go to bed he found himself shifting around, unable to relax or get himself comfortable, turning over possibilities and probabilities in his head; wide awake—no matter how much he wished he wasn’t.

So when the silence was shattered by someone hammering on the door downstairs, Korolev was on his feet and reaching for his clothes before he’d even thought who it might be. He went straight to Yuri’s room and found the boy sitting up in his bed, his eyes dark and round in his moonlit face. Korolev tried to keep the fear out of his voice.

“I’ll go and see who it is—but if I’m called away, remember what I told you. Valentina will look after you and I’ll come as soon as I can.”

He turned and went down the staircase, his feet hitting the steps with the same rhythm as whoever was still banging at the door. Whoever? Well, no thief ever knocked and no honest citizen battered another’s door in the middle of the night.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he called out as he passed through the kitchen—and the knocking stopped.

He turned on the light in the small winter hallway and opened the door. Two men were outside, their faces yellow in the glow that spilled from the doorway. They were wide-bodied, slab-shouldered professionals—one a dark-skinned, black-haired fellow with the look of the Caucasus about him, and the other a blond, unseasonably pale Slav. They examined him without speaking and he wondered if they were deciding whether he’d come easily or whether he’d be trouble.

“Comrades,” Korolev said.

“We’ll see about that,” the paler of the two answered, with a curl of his lip that didn’t bode well.

“Korolev, Alexei Dmitriyevich?” The dark one’s cheeks were round and might have been jolly with another man’s eyes. This one’s had seen too much.

“That’s me.”

“Do we need to introduce ourselves?” the pale one asked.

From behind them came the sound of a door closing and Lipski appeared from the caretaker’s hut. The men turned quickly and Lipski had the good sense to come to a halt, putting his hands on his head as he did so. By then the dark one had a pistol pointing at the old man’s chest and the other was aiming his weapon at Korolev.

“It’s Lipski, the caretaker,” Korolev said in what he hoped was a calm voice. “He must have heard the noise. This is nothing to do with him.”

“That’s the truth,” the pale one said, an ominous tone coloring his voice.

Lipski looked at the Chekists for a moment, then seemed to decide this was the worst possible thing to do and shut his eyes altogether.

“I’ve seen nothing, Comrades, and I’ve heard nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”

“Remember the orders; the matter’s to be handled quietly.” The darker of the men spoke quietly, with a Georgian accent. “Citizen Lipski here will oblige us by keeping his mouth shut, I’m sure.”

“Of course, Comrade,” Lipski said, his eyes still closed and his shoulders hunched over as if to make himself a smaller target.

“Good. So we’ll all be very calm, won’t we? And then we’ll be on our way all the quicker.”

The Georgian was speaking as much to his colleague as to them, and the pale Chekist nodded his agreement.

“Korolev? You’re coming with us.”

Korolev nodded, looking down at his feet.

“I’ll need some shoes.”

“We’ll come with you to get them, don’t worry.” The dark one spoke softly. “And you’ll need to wake the boy while you’re at it. He’s coming too.”

Korolev felt his stomach turn so violently that he thought he must vomit.

“The boy?”

“He’s coming too,” the pale one repeated.

As he spoke, he took a step forward so that Korolev found himself staring down the barrel of his gun from a distance of no more than a few inches. Korolev prayed the fellow had the safety catch on.

“You can’t arrest a twelve-year-old,” Korolev managed to whisper, mastering his fear. “He’s too young.”

The pale Chekist’s eyes narrowed and Korolev braced himself for a blow.

“We’re not arresting anyone, Citizen Korolev,” the Georgian said in his calm voice. “We’re just taking you to see someone. Your presence is requested. No one’s forcing you; but, of course, you’ll be coming with us just the same.”

The Georgian’s eyes were unreadable, but if he wasn’t being arrested that was a good sign, surely?

“Do we have a few minutes to pack?” he asked, hoping to extract a little bit more information.

“We’re wasting time here. We should be back in the car by now.”

“Cover Citizen Lipski here,” the Georgian said to his colleague. “I’ll get things moving quickly enough.”

“Yuri isn’t well,” Korolev began to say, but the Georgian interrupted him by taking his elbow and pushing him through the door to the house.

“I don’t care if he’s got two broken legs, he’s coming with us.”

Korolev felt the pressure of the gun barrel digging into his spine as the Chekist pushed him through the kitchen and into the dining room.

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs.”

Korolev was about to suggest he just call the boy down, but one look at the Georgian and he changed his mind. They climbed the stairs.

“Which room?”

“The one on the left.”

“In you go.”

Korolev opened the door and stepped in, turned on the light and found—no one.

“He’s gone,” Korolev said, mystified. He’d meant Yuri to go to Moscow if he was taken away—not for him to run off into the forest.

The Chekist pushed past him, saw the open window and cursed.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He was here two minutes ago.”

Before he even saw the fellow’s hand move, the Chekist’s gun had hit the side of his head, knocking him to his knees.

“Where’s the damned boy, Korolev?”

“Why did he run?” Colonel Rodinov asked him, making another note on the file he was reading. It was the first time he’d spoken. In fact, in the five minutes Korolev had been sitting in front of him, Rodinov had yet to raise his eyes from his paperwork.