William Ryan: The Twelfth Department

Doctor Irina Azarova—Professor Azarov’s wife

Isaac Babel—famous author and also Korolev’s neighbor

Sergeant Belinsky—Militiaman in charge of the investigating uniforms (uniformed police) at Leadership House

Blanter—State Security operative working for the NKVD’s Twelfth Department

Doctor Zinaida Chestnova—pathologist and friend of Korolev’s

Count Kolya—leader of the Moscow Thieves

Danilov—in charge of the removals at the Azarov Institute

The Deacon—one of Count Kolya’s men

Dubinkin—a lieutenant with the NKVD

Nikolai Ezhov—General Commissar of State Security and head of the NKVD

Monsieur Hubert—a representative of the French embassy in Moscow

Captain Alexei Korolev—a detective with the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division

Yuri Korolev—Captain Korolev’s son

Kuznetsky—Militiaman assisting Korolev

Valentina Nikolayevna Koltsova—Korolev’s friend and neighbor

Natasha Koltsova—Valentina Koltsova’s daughter

Levschinsky—forensics specialist for Moscow CID

Lilova—maid to Dr. Shtange

Maria Lobkovskaya—Korolev’s elderly downstairs neighbor

Galina Matkina—maid to Professor Azarov

Menchikova—resident of Leadership House

Mishka—Count Kolya’s right-hand man

Pavel Morozov—responsible for the car pool at Militia headquarters and a friend of Korolev’s

Petya the Persuader—an informant

First Inspector Popov—Korolev’s boss

Priudsky—original doorman at Leadership House

Colonel Rodinov—a senior NKVD officer

Semyon Shabalin—a bank robber and gangster

Dr. Arkady Shtange—deputy director of the Azarov Institute

Anna Shtange—Dr. Shtange’s wife

Shura—maid to Babel and a friend to Korolev

Nadezhda Slivka—a junior detective with the Odessa CID

Spinsky—director of the Vitsin Street Orphanage

Svalov—State Security operative working for the NKVD’s Twelfth Department

Tambova—also known as “Little Barrel,” attendant at the Vitsin Street Orphanage

Timinov—replacement doorman at Leadership House

Ushakov—forensics specialist for Moscow CID

Vera—Valentina’s friend and a worker at Moscow Zoo

Doctor Weiss—neighbor and colleague of Professor Azarov

Captain Dmitry Yasimov—Korolev’s fellow detective with Moscow CID

Colonel Zaitsev—head of the NKVD’s Twelfth Department

Patriarch’s Ponds was one of Korolev’s favorite corners of Moscow—a small park with a square-shaped lake around which, especially on a hot summer’s day like this, white-shirted men and their befrocked womenfolk strolled with slow steps. At the southern end a white colonnaded pavilion stood where, for a reasonable price, a citizen could sip a glass of tea and sit and watch the ducks. Alternatively, in the eastern corner of the park, there stood a wooden kiosk where beer and kvass could be purchased and, if you knew how to ask for them, stronger beverages as well. If they’d had time to spare and a less pressing matter to attend to, Korolev thought to himself, a sip of vodka mightn’t have been such a bad idea. But not today and not now. Not with a certain gangster he’d been after for six months about to walk into a trap of Korolev’s making.

Anyway, he decided, he’d need all his wits about him. Semyon Shabalin was as slippery as an eel dipped in oil, and clever with it. Korolev and his comrades had managed to catch up with most of his Gray Fox gang and put them where they belonged—but Shabalin had wriggled free each time they’d thought they had him, even when escape had seemed an impossibility. And while most of Moscow’s underworld had certain standards—which, it had to be said, they often seemed to forget about—the Gray Foxes had none. With each robbery they’d committed, they’d set new standards in brutality and viciousness—so that now even the Thieves, the organized clans that ran crime in Moscow, were shaking their heads in disapproval. Whatever else happened today, Korolev was determined Shabalin wasn’t leaving this park a free man.

Korolev walked outside the park’s railings while Petya the Persuader, their informant, followed the tree-covered path that ran alongside the sky-reflecting blue water. Slivka was a few paces behind Petya, wearing a pretty white dress, her short blond hair looking almost golden in the dappled sunlight. Her lips might be a little thin and her expression grave, but she was a good-looking woman and he watched men’s heads turn one after the other to follow her procession through the park. He wondered if they’d be so keen if they knew the hand nonchalantly resting inside her open purse was wrapped around the butt of a service-issue revolver.

Korolev glanced at his watch. If Petya was to be believed, Shabalin would meet him on the fourth bench to the left of the pavilion—in just a few minutes’ time. He adjusted the ticket machine he had slung over his shoulder—part of his disguise as a tram conductor on a break—and found himself, to his surprise, wishing there was a sandwich in the tin lunchbox he was carrying—as opposed to his Walther.

Korolev kept his eyes moving—examining each of the pedestrians who passed him, watching for anyone or anything that seemed out of place. If things went as he hoped, there’d be a small scuffle and Shabalin would be in the bag. If things didn’t go to plan? Well, if he had to shoot Shabalin’s legs from him, then so be it.

Korolev took a seat beside an elderly lady ten meters from the bench Petya now occupied. Slivka found herself a spot a little farther along the path on Petya’s other side and, two minutes later, a familiar-looking balloon seller began hawking his wares in their general vicinity. From where Korolev was sitting, Yasimov’s disguise looked less than convincing—it seemed one end of the detective’s mustache was slightly higher than the other. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

Korolev sighed, took his newspaper from the pocket of his coat and opened it, scanning his surroundings one more time as he did so. All was peaceful—a toy sailing boat moved slowly across the water, leaving a v-shaped wake behind it, the only disturbance on the pond’s surface. It was a sweltering afternoon and the heat seemed to be pressing down on everything—making even the noises of the city that surrounded them seem distant. He found himself yawning as he opened the latch on the lunchbox so that his Walther would be easily accessible. It wasn’t much good having a gun if you couldn’t get to it quickly. The toy yacht moved onward and Korolev had no idea where it was picking up a breeze from. He could feel nothing—just the remorseless weight of the heat. It occurred to him that if he couldn’t have a sandwich, then an ice cream would be just the thing on a day like this.