The Twelfth Department (13 page)

“And the zoo? Who were you talking to there?”

“The Zoo? Count Kolya? But he came to me—I didn’t go looking for him.”

“So that was Count Kolya? The Thief?”

Korolev nodded.

“I see, the report doesn’t mention that fact—perhaps they didn’t know who he was.”

Rodinov looked pleased—which struck Korolev as odd. The colonel wrote a quick note.

“And what did Count Kolya want to talk to you about?”

“He told me if I was investigating Azarov’s murder, I should find out what he was up to at the institute. I explained I wasn’t involved with the matter anymore. That it was State Security business. And that was that.”

“And you didn’t think to report this to someone here?”

Korolev shrugged his shoulders.

“It was made clear to me that the institute was run under the auspices of the NKVD—so I thought they’d know what was going on there better than anyone. My orders were very specific, Comrade Colonel—I was to have no further involvement in the case whatsoever or there would be consequences.”

In his youth he’d been to more than one livestock market with the butcher he’d worked for. Back then he’d seen men weigh cattle with their eyes, and Korolev felt as though a similar kind of assessment were taking place now—only this time he was the bullock in the ring.

“Very well,” the colonel said, after what seemed like several hours but probably wasn’t more than a few seconds, then pushed a cigarette case across the desk to Korolev.

“Help yourself,” he said, and Korolev did, thinking he’d never needed a smoke more in his entire life. “There’s been another murder,” the colonel said, lighting his cigarette and then leaning across to light Korolev’s. “Which, as it happens, is good news for you.”

“I see,” Korolev said and had to stop himself from laughing out loud, so great was the release of tension. For a moment the colonel seemed about to say something, then appeared to think better of it. Instead he opened one of the files on his desk and passed a photograph across the table. Korolev recognized the man in the picture—what was his name again?

“Doctor Shtange—Professor Azarov’s deputy,” Rodinov said, and Korolev had the oddest thought. What if Azarov had invented some way of reading people’s minds? What if Rodinov was able to hear his thoughts as clear as if he were speaking them aloud? Is that what he’d been up to?

“What’s wrong?” Rodinov asked, frowning, and Korolev cursed himself. He had to concentrate, remember where he was—not allow his mind to wander.

“Nothing—it’s just, I met the man, that’s all. Only a day or two ago.”

“Someone stabbed him to death the same morning you went to the zoo.”

Korolev inhaled a lungful of smoke and held it there, before releasing it slowly.

“Well?” the colonel asked.

“The director and deputy director of the same scientific institute murdered within a day of each other? It’s unlikely to be a coincidence.”

Rodinov smiled and picked up the photograph, putting it back into the folder.

“I agree.”

“The NKVD is investigating the matter though,” Korolev said, and despite his best intentions it came out as more of a question than a statement.

“Yes. A different department has been handling the matter but it was transferred to this department—where it should have been all along—a few hours ago. The file, which isn’t much use otherwise, it has to be said, contained a series of reports from operatives that were, curiously, ordered to keep track of your activities. Perhaps there was some suspicion that you’d carry on your own investigation. You do have a reputation for doing things a little differently to other detectives, I suppose.”

“But—” Korolev began.

“Fortunately for you, I know that your methods are successful and, most importantly, accurate. Our men are stretched thin and have a tendency to adopt—well—imprecise solutions.” Rodinov gestured with his cigarette to indicate the bruises and bumps certain State Security men had left Korolev with.

“The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of you taking up the investigation once again. With you in charge, we’re more likely to find out who actually killed the scientists and why. With our people—well, they’ll find someone who’ll admit to the crime, certainly.”

Rodinov smiled—it seemed the thought amused him—before becoming serious once again.

“But these two were important to the State—so an accurate understanding of the situation is necessary. And you seem the ideal candidate for that job.”

“I’m ready to do my duty, of course,” Korolev began, and didn’t know quite where to go from there.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Korolev.”

“You’ll forgive me, Comrade Colonel, but it was made clear to me this was a case involving State secrets. I’m an ordinary Militia detective—I just don’t have the authority to investigate such matters.”

The colonel picked up a piece of paper and handed it across the table to him. It had an NKVD letterhead and Korolev could see his name in the text, beneath which had been applied three signatures and three ink stamps. One he didn’t recognize, another was Rodinov’s, and the third belonged to Nikolai Ezhov—the People’s Commissar for Internal Affairs and, some said, the most powerful man in the Soviet Union after Stalin.

“It’s been decided that you’ll work, temporarily, for this department. As you can see, this letter gives you all the authority you need.”

Korolev didn’t dare ask which department of State Security this might be, and anyway, he was struggling to come to terms with the idea that he was about to become a temporary Chekist. It wasn’t an outcome he’d expected when that blond oaf had been kicking him in the guts.

“Have you any further questions? You may speak freely, there should be openness between us—now that we are colleagues.”

It was a statement that invited Korolev to put his cards on the table—and there was something in the colonel’s demeanor that told him it was safe to do so—perhaps safer than not doing so anyway.

“Comrade Colonel, I only know the work Azarov did was related to the brain. Kolya suggested to me that some of his research was on humans and I got the impression he thought things didn’t go well for the men involved. Of course, I don’t believe that—I’m only repeating a Thief’s slander of the State. But if it
were
true…”

“My understanding is Professor Azarov applied scientific methodology to our interrogation techniques,” Rodinov said in a neutral voice. “And that his research was successful—our effectiveness had improved immeasurably as a result. But Azarov’s research wasn’t limited to that. I’ve heard he worked with various pharmaceutical substances, examining how they might affect the human mind; and I believe he also carried out a series of experiments into attitude alteration—turning enemies into friends, if you will. Telepathy was another area he may have investigated. The truth is I don’t know as much as a person in my position would expect to know. In my opinion the institute’s activities have been—well—a little
too
secret. But I do know that, yes, people died as a result of his research.”

“I see,” Korolev said and wished he didn’t.

“The ends sometimes justify the means, Korolev.”

“I understand that, Comrade Colonel—of course I do.”

Rodinov’s gaze felt like it was looking inside Korolev’s very skull, peering into every nook and cranny of his mind. It made him nervous, that gaze.

“Telepathy?” Korolev said—picking out, much to his own surprise, the word he’d decided was most worrying in the colonel’s description of the institute’s activities. After all, if men like Rodinov were able to read men’s thoughts then—well—the world would be a lot less safe.

“You know what it is?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Korolev said, recovering. “I understood it wasn’t possible.”

“It would make my job much easier if it were,” Rodinov said. “But I don’t think anything came of it—or at least, that’s my understanding.”

The colonel paused, put his pen down on the table, and seemed to consider what he should say next.

“You see, if my department were to directly investigate this matter,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully, it seemed to Korolev, “it might be difficult. People would begin to take sides. There would be different versions of the truth—there always are. And, as you of all people should know, truth can be manipulated to suit certain agendas—and hidden if it suits certain persons. In other words the case would become a political matter—and, as a result, whatever truth would finally be chosen would be based on politics. With you looking into it, there’s a chance things may be a little different. Korolev, let’s be clear—I want to know who killed these men and I want to know why. But I also want to know what was going on at this institute—and it occurs to me that while you’re investigating this murder, you may uncover things that could be of interest to me.”

He looked at Korolev expectantly and Korolev frowned. Was Rodinov really suggesting what he thought he might be?

“Comrade Colonel, forgive me, but are you asking me to spy on a department of the NKVD?”

The colonel smiled.

“Of course not, Korolev. You misunderstand me. I want you to keep your ears and eyes open—no more than that. You’re under my orders, so you should be safe enough if that’s what you’re worried about. Safer than if you don’t do what I suggest, let’s put it that way.”

When the colonel put it like that, of course, everything became clearer for Korolev—he took a deep breath.

“I’m always ready to do my duty, Comrade Colonel, as I said.”

“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.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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.”