William Ryan - The Twelfth Department

“Be careful,” she said, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “Be very, very careful. And I know you’ll bring him home. I know it.”

Then she kissed him once again, on the cheek, ran the sleeve of her shirt across her face to dry it, smiled a crooked smile, and left the room.

Korolev walked quickly through the long-shadowed streets, squinting against the low-hanging sun. He didn’t want to think about what had just happened—but whenever his concentration slipped, there it was, a surge of emotion of a kind that wouldn’t be much use to him where he was going. Tomorrow he could think about it, and what the future might hold for them. But today was today and tomorrow might never come.

He turned down a side street and then made his way through an archway that led into a courtyard he knew had another doorway at the far end. He crossed the open space quickly, startling a group of citizenry who were sitting on a circle of upturned logs taking in the last of the sun. And then he was past them, ignoring the hard looks from men who stood to see what stranger had come in among them, and before any of them could summon the energy at the end of a hot day to question him on his reasons for being there he’d reached the far end of the courtyard and disappeared through the carriage doors, out into an alleyway. He turned left and left and then slowed his pace as he approached the street he’d originally turned off from. He looked to see if anyone might have been following him, but there was no one, and he found himself exhaling a long breath that he seemed to have been holding in since Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky. Then he took one more look around and, satisfied, made his way quickly across the street to a small lane that would eventually, with more cut-backs and false trails, take him to Kolya.

Unusually for Moscow, the tree-shadowed courtyard that the Thief had designated as their meeting place was deserted—and the buildings that surrounded it were either boarded up or burned out. The spot must be intended for some new construction project that had yet to start. Cautious, Korolev walked the length of a crumbling stone wall, looking for the green doors Kolya had mentioned. He found them, half-hidden behind a bush. The gates looked the worst for wear, paint peeling off them in large curls, and the wood underneath gray and brittle. He pushed one of the doors gently and, to his surprise, it slid open on well-oiled hinges.

“You took your time.”

Little Mishka was standing just inside, half-hidden in the late-evening gloom. Korolev wasn’t in the mood to bother with him and nor, it seemed, was the Thief his usual combatitive self, merely nodding Korolev toward a coach house, barely even bothering to scowl. Behind Mishka, Korolev could see the glowing tips of two cigarettes and the dark shape of a large man leaning against a wall to his right. Korolev ignored them. Again, ancient doors opened easily and in the shadows two cars were parked.

“Greetings Korolev,” Kolya’s voice came from the darkness as he entered. “Did you succeed?”

Korolev reached into his pocket. “I did,” he said, and took out the map of the estate’s location.

There was a movement to his left and Korolev turned to see a youngster standing by the wall. When he saw that Korolev had noticed him, Kim Goldstein stepped forward.

“He could be useful to us,” Kolya said. “Remember—we’ll look out of place there, while he might not.”

Korolev breathed deeply and held the boy’s gaze. Goldstein nodded to him, the personification of calm.

“What happened to Yuri?”

“Chekists.”

“I know—how though? And how is it you were with him in the first place?”

“We came across him by chance—he was watching the train station from the trees beside the monastery in Peredelkino and saw us come over the wall. He thought there were men staking the place out, although he wasn’t sure who they were, so we went to the next station along the track.”

“And when you got to Moscow?”

“We took a tram into the center—I don’t know if they saw us at Kievsky and followed us, but they were waiting for us when we got off.”

“But you got away, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t stop them taking Yuri,” Goldstein said. “I tried—they gave me this.”

He came further into the light and Korolev saw that someone had hit him a good belt—the skin around his eye was puffy and discolored.

“And Yuri?”

“They took him, like I said, but he was all right the last time I saw him. I only just managed to get away—they took Petya as well.”

Petya was the friend he’d gone over the wall with.

“It’s your damned fault he’s in this mess, Goldstein, and it’ll take more than that bruise to fix it now.”

Goldstein said nothing but held his gaze sullenly.

“I know everything,” Korolev continued. “I know your father’s name was Bramson and your mother’s Goldstein and how you took her name. I know your family lived in Azarov’s apartment before he did and, somehow or other, you found out about the ventilation system and how to get into it. I know that when Azarov denounced your parents, you ended up on the streets and your parents—well—elsewhere.”

“Dead,” Goldstein said.

“I see,” Korolev said. The anger in the boy’s eyes was such that his instinct was to look away, but Korolev held Goldstein’s gaze—and waited.

“Azarov took everything from me. When we were taken to his institute for the research project,” Goldstein said, “I knew I’d been given a chance to take something from him.”

“Where did you get the Derringer from?”

“I knew where my father kept it and when they came for him, I hid it in the ventilation system where no one would find it—under some rubble, right at the end of one of the tunnels.”

“And so Monday morning, you crept out of the orphanage and shot him while he sat at his desk.”

Goldstein shrugged. “He deserved it. But we got out the night before. We had to wait until the time was right.”

“Did Shtange deserve it? His murder was a direct result of what you did.”

“We went to do the same to him the next day,” Goldstein said quietly. “Only someone got there before us.”

“That scalpel-cut. You left your mark on him, all the same.”

Things were finally fitting into place.

“He was as bad as Azarov. He might have spoken kindly to us, but he did the same things.”

But in truth, had Shtange really had a choice? Once he was ordered to Moscow—he had to do what he was told. And he’d at least tried to stop it with his report. On the other hand, weren’t the prisoners and Thieves humans too? Didn’t they have rights? And Shtange had done nothing for them. Korolev shook his head—all he knew was that right and wrong were slippery commodities these days.

“Where’s the gun now?”

“In the river.”

Korolev sighed.

“I haven’t time for this now but you can believe me when I say I haven’t finished with you yet.”

If Goldstein was alarmed, he hid it well, only nodding.

“Shall we look at this map of yours?” Kolya asked, seeming to decide that the silence needed breaking.

“Why don’t we?” Korolev said.

The Thief lit a lantern and Korolev spread it out on the bonnet of the nearest car and they stood over it, looking down at his rough sketch. Korolev began to explain how to get there and where to leave the cars.

“We have a visitor,” Mishka’s voice came from behind them and they turned to see who he was talking about. A leather-jacketed female stood beside him, arms folded.

Slivka.

“I knew you were up to something,” she said.

“You followed me?”