William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“You were arrested?” It was news to Korolev.

“Not exactly. But the person whose name I gave them spent time staring at the sky through crossed bars. Or at least that’s what the records show. I won’t deny it was my friends’ persuasive skills saw that person released and that I was pleased to be out in the fresh air when he was. Fortunately not everyone’s as honest as you are, you see. Many are open to persuasion.”

Korolev wasn’t surprised—Militiamen did well compared to the general populace, but that didn’t mean money wasn’t tight and small mouths didn’t need feeding.

“It took two weeks for the matter to resolve itself. At the time my wife was down in the south with her people. When I got myself out, I discovered Anton had been taken by some well-meaning folk and placed in a certain orphanage. I wonder if you can guess which one?”

“Vitsin Street.”

“The very same. From the orphanage he was sent somewhere else, and for a while no one was able to tell me where. I’ve a talent for persuasion, as I’ve said, and know many people, but none of them could find out—except that he might have been sent to the Azarov Institute. When I heard that, I became concerned, because I’d already heard things about the place. People I know—strong men, clever men, men of authority among us—you know the kind—men who’d earned their tattoos and stood by them—they’d ended up there and hadn’t fared well. Not one of them will ever be the same, those that survived, that is.”

“You think your boy ended up there?”

“He was there—I know that much. But they moved him somewhere else again—somewhere outside Moscow. Some secret establishment.”

“I’m sorry for it, Kolya. I didn’t know anything about the institute when we met. Except that it was a place to avoid.”

“I thought as much, Korolev—you wouldn’t have walked away if you had. I think I know that much about you.”

Korolev wasn’t sure this was the case, but he said nothing in response.

“And I know I won’t be grieving for Professor Azarov or that fellow Shtange,” Kolya said. “They got what they deserved.”

“But you didn’t kill them.” Korolev spoke quietly—there were citizens close by after all.

“No,” Kolya said, and Korolev thought he detected regret. “Their blood isn’t on my hands.”

“From the little I know, most of the children who went to the Azarov Institute go back to the orphanage, sooner or later.” Korolev wanted to reassure the Thief, although he wasn’t entirely convinced by his own words.

“So I believe, but some stay on—and no one’s quite sure what happens to them. Even the ones that came back—the things they’d had done to them weren’t pleasant. They treated them like animals, Korolev, and I’m not just saying that. They did what that fellow Pavlov did with dogs, only with children. That’s Soviet progress, for you. They cut holes in the boys’ cheeks then showed them biscuits and rang a bell or something. The holes were there so they could see if they salivated.”

Korolev found he couldn’t say anything at first. His hands, though, were itching to smack the hell out of someone.

“Kim Goldstein?” he managed to say eventually.

Kolya glanced at him. “Why do you ask about Goldstein?”

“He’s your source for this, isn’t he? He was at the institute—I need to speak to him.”

“About your son?”

Well, Korolev thought to himself, he’d been fooling himself if he’d thought Kolya wouldn’t know that much at least.

“About him, of course. And other things.”

“You know your boy was picked up by Chekists yesterday evening.”

“Not just any Chekists, Kolya.” Korolev hesitated a moment, then told Kolya all that he knew about the Azarov Institute and its relationship to Colonel Zaitsev’s Twelfth Department—and how the Vitsin Street Orphanage fitted into the picture. The Thief listened carefully but Korolev had the sense that most of what he was telling him, he already knew.

“There are times, Kolya,” Korolev said in conclusion, “when I wonder if we haven’t been joined together by fate in some way.”

“It’s a possibility,” Kolya agreed.

He didn’t look too happy at the idea, but then again, nor was Korolev. He found himself kicking a small stone, more to avoid the Thief’s gaze than anything else. There was sympathy there, perhaps even kindness, and that wasn’t what he wanted to see. It seemed they’d a common interest, and perhaps, as he’d said, they might even have a shared fate. But there could be no question of friendship. Kolya might talk about his code and the Thieves’ honor but there wasn’t a crime thought up by humankind that Kolya wouldn’t commit if it suited him.

“So the question is—where have they moved this institute to?” Kolya asked.

“We’re trying to find out—but this ‘house in the woods’ that Little Barrel at the orphanage mentioned, the place out near Lefortovo—that seems our best bet. My guess is it’s the same secret establishment your sources told you about. And, of course, it’s under Zaitsev’s sole control. It seems to me there’s a chance both our boys could be there. A good chance. If we knew where it was.”

“Perhaps. What would you suggest?”

Kolya wasn’t pulling his punches today, it seemed, and so Korolev told him the plan he’d come up with, half-amazed to hear what he was suggesting and equally amazed that the Thief seemed to be taking him seriously—even nodding his agreement.

“And unless I’m wrong,” Korolev said in conclusion, “young Kim Goldstein knows the exact location of this facility.”

“No,” Kolya said, shaking his head. “He doesn’t.”

“You’ve asked him?”

“Of course I asked him. You’re right to think he and his friend were looking for it, same as us. Two of his crew ended up out there it seems. But where exactly, he has no idea. I’ve sent people to look for it, of course, but nothing.”

They stood there, two glum-looking, middle-aged men in among the summer-swarthy Muscovites.

“Kolya,” Korolev said, after he’d thought it through. “There’s someone I can get to tell us what we need to know, I think. If I can—are we agreed?”

“Yes,” the Thief said, holding out his hand—his eyes bright once again. Korolev, not entirely happily, took it.

“Then I’ll get them to tell us. But Kolya, we can’t wait around on this—you must understand that. It has to be tonight.”

“It’s my son. I’m ready.”

“Then tonight it is.”

“And Slivka?” Kolya asked. “It’s her cousin in the hands of these people. Her flesh and blood.”

“I don’t want her involved, Kolya. I’m sick of taking risks with other people’s lives.”

Kolya shook his head slowly. “What you have to understand, Korolev, is that there’s no safe place in these times. She’s already at risk. And it’s not your fault—or your responsibility.”

The car’s engine grumbled to a stop and it occurred to Korolev that if he continued to visit Leadership House this often he might eventually acquire some sort of right of residency. The thought appealed to him for a moment as he recalled the size of the apartments and their views over Moscow—but then he remembered State Security’s habit of taking residents for early-morning drives. On balance, he decided he was fine where he was.

“Comrade Captain.” Timinov nodded a greeting, then looked around him and, satisfied there was no one nearby, nodded once again—more significantly this time.

“You looked at the schedule?”

“Priudski was on duty. Until six. And he was arrested just before he finished for the day.”