William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

The thought that someone had been in here, because of him, reading through Natasha’s homework, running his hands down the seams of Valentina’s clothing and handling her belongings—well, it took the air out of his chest all of a sudden. He had to make a conscious effort to start breathing again.

He stood, not moving for at least a minute, becoming almost certain he could smell the faintest trace of the searchers—that slight scent of sour sweat and stale cigarettes wasn’t coming just from him; they’d been suffering in the heat as much as he was.

He could almost see them, their practiced movements as they searched for—what? The thought soon had him reaching for a knife in the small kitchen and making his way into his bedroom, pulling the curtains shut and then rolling up the small carpet near the window. He pushed the blade of the knife into the crack between two boards and levered up one of them to reveal a small cavity. There it was, sitting there, the bible he kept for the insane reason that he believed it protected him—when the opposite was almost certainly the case. As far as he could tell, it hadn’t been disturbed, but how could he be sure?

He replaced the board and the carpet and looked around him—scratching at that familiar itch just beneath his right ear and thinking for a moment. Well, whatever was going on, he decided, after considering the situation from a number of different angles, it wasn’t good news—but he had to tidy himself up and move on. There wasn’t anything to be done about this—it had happened and that was that.

Removing his clothes, he picked up a towel and made his way to the kitchen to wash.

His first thought was that Rodinov might be behind it. But why would Rodinov search his apartment? What would he gain from it? Nothing. Rodinov had him where he wanted him already. Why waste energy on a man you already had firmly under your thumb? No, not Rodinov.

That other Chekist, the one who had taken over the case before Korolev had been reinstated—Zaitsev. Now he might have a reason—he’d certainly wanted to talk to him the night before. If a man like him didn’t want a person, Korolev for example, poking into the affairs of his institute, what better way to exert pressure than to dig up some dirt on him? And, if they’d found the bible, then they had it.

He looked up to see his face in the mirror over the sink, his stubble like a shadow, his teeth yellow as a carthorse’s, his swollen, purpled eye. The tap squirted out brown water before it began to run cleaner. He leaned down, feeling his bruised ribs, his stomach complaining as he did so, and allowed the water to splash over his hands before pulling a scoop of it up to his face, rubbing it into his skin. The fact was he’d nowhere to run to. And how could he run anywhere with Yuri still missing? All he could do was hope that, if he did what Rodinov told him to, things would return to normal. That whatever these Chekists were up to, they’d eventually forget about him.

He picked up his shaving soap and reached for his razor.

When Korolev came back out of his building Morozov was leaning against the car once again, his arms folded, his good eye shut as he allowed the sun to warm his face.

“It took longer than I thought it would.”

Morozov opened his eye to look him over. “You look better in some ways, worse in others,” he said. Korolev knew what he meant—he was tidier, for certain—but shaving seemed to have shown up his cuts and bruises all the more. At least the shirt he was wearing was clean and ironed—that must count for something.

They got into the car and Morozov turned the key in the ignition, causing a bark from the exhaust that sent a cat on the other side of the road leaping for the protection of a windowsill.

“Well, I feel better in some ways and worse in others.”

Korolev ran a hand through his still-wet hair and took a deep breath. He had to focus on one thing—the most important thing. He’d a job to do and doing it well might save both Yuri and him from unpleasantness.

By now, they were on the Boulevard Ring heading north and he caught Morozov looking in the rearview mirror—and not for the first time, it occurred to him. He twisted in the seat to look out of the back window, wondering what had caught the old soldier’s attention.

“Do you see them?” Morozov asked.

“Who?”

“Those two fellows in the black Emka.”

Korolev saw them all right—they were hard to miss, given that there wasn’t much traffic and they were only a short distance behind them. Two familiar men, as it turned out—the two fellows from the station in Peredelkino and from the riverbank.

“I have to ask you, Alexei Dmitriyevich, are you in some sort of trouble? They’ve been behind us since I picked you up in Bersenevka. I thought they’d dropped us when we went to your place, but they were just waiting at the top of the lane.”

Korolev had a quick look at his surroundings.

“Pavel Timofeevich—if we stop at the next corner it’s a five minute walk to Petrovka. I’ll need the car for the rest of the day and I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing than driving me around.”

Morozov looked reluctant and began to shake his head in disagreement, but Korolev touched his shoulder.

“There’s no point in two of us being in a mess when one will do. If I need a friend, I know I have one and I’m grateful for it.”

Morozov took Korolev’s outstretched hand in his own and shook it once. Then with a grunt that seemed to be born of resignation more than anything else, he pulled the car over to the pavement.

Korolev watched his colleague walk away and was pleased that he didn’t look back as he did so. Then he turned his attention to the occupants of the Emka. They’d pulled in, not more than twenty meters back, and were sitting there—looking at him. The plump one smiled and touched a finger to his forehead in salute.

Korolev followed the cobbled drive until the trees opened up to reveal the imposing facade of the Anatomical Institute. Before the Revolution, the building had housed some prince or other and back then it must have been a sight to see. The years since might have left it a little the worse for wear perhaps, but it was holding itself together somehow, and in that respect it reminded him of certain other remnants of the years before the Revolution—himself included.

Chestnova was sitting on the former palace’s marble steps, enjoying the sunshine and engaged in desultory conversation with two burly men in white coats while she worked her way through a papirosa cigarette. As the car came to a halt she put a hand up to shade her eyes so she could see who’d arrived.

“Korolev,” Chestnova said, when he opened the car door. “I was expecting you before this.”

“I had to stop off at home.”

“Don’t worry. I found a pleasant way to pass the time.”

She took a step forward, squinting at his face then reaching a finger to pull the lid of his injured eye down. She shook her head slowly.

“I won’t ask.”

“That would be best.”

There was the sound of another car coming along the drive and Dubinkin’s Packard emerged from the trees. When it came to a halt, the Chekist stepped out wearing a neat gray suit and an open white shirt. Korolev wouldn’t necessarily have spotted him as a Chekist, but perhaps the two fellows in the white coats were better judges of that sort of thing. By the time Dubinkin had taken two more steps, they’d disappeared—leaving only the faintest wisp of smoke to show they’d ever been there.

“Comrade Lieutenant,” Chestnova said, glancing at the space where the two men had been. “It’s always a pleasure.”