William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“Good.”

“And the evidence we gathered?”

“Will be made available to you. This will be an ordinary investigation, to all intents and purposes, but without involving the procurator’s office. You’ll have the same team assigned to you as before, along with Lieutenant Dubinkin, who works for me. He’ll assist you and your colleagues in getting hold of any information that might otherwise prove difficult to obtain. You shouldn’t have any problems, however—as you’ve seen, this investigation and your involvement have been authorized at the highest levels. Comrade Ezhov remembers you, you’ll be pleased to hear, and retains a high opinion of you.”

Korolev nodded, not at all pleased that the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs was even aware of his existence. Something in his expression must have amused Rodinov because the brief smile that crossed his face appeared genuine enough.

“So high an opinion,” Rodinov went on, “that he even wondered whether your temporary assignment to the NKVD shouldn’t be made permanent.”

Korolev’s immediate reaction must have shown because Rodinov laughed.

“Don’t worry, Korolev. I can think of few people less suited to the kind of work we generally do. And that’s not to speak ill of you. No, Korolev, you’re an excellent Militia detective—it’s just we’re specialists in our field; and you don’t use a hammer to cut wood, or a saw to hammer nails—that’s all there is to it.”

Korolev did his best to keep his relief to himself.

“Very good,” Rodinov said, picking up a piece of paper from the desk. “Dubinkin will meet you at Shtange’s apartment at eight o’clock. This is the address. I’ll expect daily reports. You may go.”

Korolev stood and walked toward the door. He was just about to open it when the colonel interrupted him.

“Korolev, just so you’re aware—those weren’t my department’s men who came for you this evening. And they weren’t my orders either. I think you’ve met Colonel Zaitsev—it seems he wanted to meet you again. Luckily for you, I took the matter over before he did.”

Korolev was able to persuade the garage at Petrovka to send a car to the Militia post across the square and occupied himself during the time it took to arrive by calling Yasimov. His old friend looked grim-faced when he pulled up outside his building not fifteen minutes later.

“This better be important—I’ve had half the kommunalka threatening to kill me over you disturbing their sleep with your phone call,” Yasimov said, opening the car door. His eyes widened when he saw the state Korolev was in.

“A long story,” Korolev said, “and not all of which I can tell you.”

But he told him what he could—and the fact that Yuri was alone somewhere out near Babel’s summer house and how he was back on the Azarov case. Yasimov didn’t ask any questions, only nodded.

“We’ll find him—don’t worry.”

Korolev drove as if the devil himself were snapping at the rear bumper of the Packard. He threw the heavy car round one corner so hard that its chassis rose onto two wheels, teetering for a moment on the point of turning over before it crashed back down.

“Lyoshka,” Yasimov said. “We’ll never get there if we’re dead.”

Korolev took his point and slowed to a more reasonable speed—but even so, he barely lifted his foot from the accelerator the whole journey. By the time he’d reached Peredelkino he was drenched in sweat from the heat of the engine and the effort of bullying the car to do his will. But he at least retained enough good sense to coast down the slope toward the dacha, rolling to a silent stop about fifty meters away.

By now the darkness had given way to a shadowy half-light. Not the slightest breeze moved through the silent trees but the birds must already be stretching themselves in their nests to greet the day. Korolev and Yasimov walked along the gravel drive that led toward the house, their footsteps the only sound, and Korolev hoped his hunch that Yuri would have stayed close to the house—at least until dawn—was right. After all, this was the only spot he knew apart from the river. They moved as quietly as they could, but they must have been making more noise than he thought, because a white face appeared at the caretaker’s window. Not long afterward, Lipski opened the door to his small house, looking at Korolev with sympathy.

“They let you go?”

“They really did just want to talk to me.”

Lipski’s glance took in Korolev’s battered face but he said nothing.

“I see.” Lipski ran fingers through his thick beard. “I’ve kept an eye out but there’s been no sign of him—I’m sorry.”

They searched the woods, calling Yuri’s name, until the sun came up and it was time for Korolev to leave.

“Mitya,” Korolev said to his friend, “I have to go—if he’s still in the locality, my guess is he’ll try to take a train to Moscow.”

“I’d better get down to the station, then.”

“If he manages to get that far, he’ll try and make his way to Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky—can you call Valentina Nikolayevna? Just in case. Tell her what’s happened and ask her to make sure people keep an eye out for him?”

Yasimov nodded, then put a hand on Korolev’s arm.

“Don’t worry, brother. We’ll find him for you—see if we don’t.”

But Korolev couldn’t shake the fear he felt for his son, despite the reassurance Yasimov offered him

The building Shtange had lived in was familiar to Korolev. It overlooked Chistye Prudy—a small green area with a pond on the Boulevard Ring that wasn’t far—about a mile or so—from Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky. It was the decoration on the apartment building’s external walls that made it a landmark for Muscovites, however. Strange abstract animals and weird elongated plants twisted and turned up its white walls—carved in relief and highlighted with black paint. It reassured him, for some reason—a familiar location was always a good starting point for an investigation.

A baby-faced uniform was standing in front of the building, his summer jacket too tight for him and not as white as it should be. As Korolev approached, he noticed the boy’s gaze kept shifting as if he wasn’t sure what to do with himself or where to look. One moment, he was staring at the ground, then he was peering into the holster that hung from his belt to check his revolver was still there, then he was examining each of his boots in turn, then rubbing them against the back of his trousers to try and make them look as though they remembered what it felt like to be polished. Yet for all his looking, the boy didn’t spot Korolev until he was within a few feet of him—which didn’t say much for his abilities as a guard. When he finally noticed his visitor, the boy’s eyes widened in a mixture of alarm and suspicion and his hand reached toward the holster.

“Korolev—from Petrovka,” Korolev said, holding out his identification card. The boy took it with relief. This, at last, was something the fellow felt comfortable with—Korolev would be surprised if the boy had come top of his class when it came to examining papers.

“Captain Korolev?” he said, reading from the card and then looking up at him, doubt twisting his mouth. Korolev hadn’t had time to change his clothes or clean himself up. Not that there would have been much he could have done about his face anyway.

“I walked into a door,” Korolev said. “It’s me, all right. It’s who you are I’d like to know.”

“Militiaman Kuznetsky, Comrade Captain” the boy said, straightening to attention. “My apologies—it’s just you look…”