The Twelfth Department (18 page)

Korolev was equally puzzled—the only reason he could think of for stripping the shelves would be because the books might be confidential. But shouldn’t they have sent specialists in that case? What was the point in taking useless material? Unless, of course, it had all been organized in a great rush.

“I presume they took his papers as well?”

“Yes,” she said. “As I told you—everything.”

“I’d like to look around in a moment, if that’s all right.”

“Of course, do whatever you want. Ask whatever you want.”

“If we could go through the events of the morning of his death to start with. That would be very helpful to me.”

She looked away, out the window at the blue sky, and when she spoke he had to lean forward to hear her.

“We rose at six, as we always do.” She hesitated, and her mouth twisted once again. “Did. The whistle from the Red October chocolate factory woke us. It always—did. We performed our callisthenics. To the radio. And then we washed and dressed.”

There was a program every morning that took citizens through a series of physical exercises. Sometimes Korolev listened to it himself.

“And so you breakfasted,” Korolev continued for her, when it began to feel as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“Yes,” she said, and sighed. “My husband went to the institute earlier than usual, at around seven. That was the last time I saw him. I left the apartment at eight.”

He hoped she didn’t cry—it was always awkward when citizens cried. Perhaps he should have asked Slivka to talk to her.

“How was the professor? I mean, what was his mood?”

“He was concerned about some developments at the institute, I think, but he didn’t say what. That was why he wanted to go into work early. He said he wanted to check something.”

“And by concerned you mean worried?”

“Perhaps.”

Korolev made a quick note.

“I understand you’re also a doctor.”

“A psychologist,” she said, but the correction was half-hearted.

“At an orphanage, I believe.”

“Yes, I assist the staff with the children’s development.”

Korolev took a moment to consider his next question. The fact was that all morning he’d been wondering what the connection was between the professor and Goldstein’s orphanage. After all, if Rodinov was to be believed, merely talking to Goldstein had been enough to have him picked up by the Twelfth Department’s people. And if he hadn’t spoken to Goldstein, then likely as not Yuri wouldn’t be missing. He took a deep breath.

“I heard the professor also worked with children—with orphans, in fact.”

It was a shot in the dark but when she looked up he felt he had her full attention for the first time.

“I’ve been instructed not to discuss my husband’s research in any way.” She spoke sharply.

“Which orphanage is it you work with, Comrade?” Korolev asked, and the question hit the mark. “It’s the Vitsin Street orphanage, isn’t it?” he said, and she nodded reluctantly. “What is it you do there, exactly?”

She examined him for a moment and Korolev was sure she was going to tell him nothing, but in the end she merely shrugged.

“You have to understand the type of children we’re dealing with. First there are the
besprizorniki
—the street children—who may have had no education at all, let alone a socialist one. Then there are the children of the enemies of the people, who may have been educated incorrectly. While the street children have little concept of their duties to the State and the Party, the children of enemies can be even more resistant. I assist the staff, using scientific techniques, naturally, to educate the children in proper socialist values. And, in the case of the children of enemies, to reeducate them.”

Azarova spoke in a monotone, almost as if she were reading from a prepared speech. Korolev wondered if this was how she taught at the orphanage—if so, he could understand why the
besprizorniki
fought tooth and nail to stay well clear of such places.

“Scientific techniques?” Korolev asked. “Such as?”

“What has this to do with the death of my husband?” Azarova asked wearily. Korolev did his best to smile reassuringly.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Comrade Azarova. My job is to gather together all available information, whether it seems directly relevant or not. An investigation is like a puzzle—sometimes the insignificant pieces are the ones that show the way to the solution.”

“If you say so.” Azarova looked doubtful.

“So,” Korolev said, returning to the attack, “what kind of techniques?”

“There are various techniques that can help make children, as well as adults, more receptive to correct mental processes. Mostly, we just encourage good behavior and right thinking with rewards, and then we discourage bad behavior and incorrect thinking with…” She paused. “Other methods.”

Korolev wished she’d just said “punishment.” “Other methods” sounded worse somehow.

“To speak in the most general terms, we indoctrinate the children. We teach them the truth of Marxist–Leninist theory—in an accessible way—and use this as a framework for their future development into right-thinking socialist citizens.”

The look she gave him contained a challenge and Korolev realized he wouldn’t get any more from Azarova on this topic without a fight—and he’d other matters he wanted to discuss with her before it got to that. All the same, he made a note to find out more about these so-called techniques—and this orphanage. He’d an idea it wouldn’t be time wasted.

“So, you spent the whole morning at this orphanage?”

“Until not long after eleven. And then I came back and—well.” She put a hand to her mouth.

“It must have been a terrible shock—my sympathies again.”

She nodded and then looked away.

“I must ask about your relationship with your husband, I’m afraid,” Korolev said.

A solitary tear rolled down her cheek but then she seemed to gather herself.

“We were each other’s support in our struggle for the great aims of the Revolution and Soviet science—what more is there to say?”

“Not much, I’m sure,” Korolev said, thinking it sounded like a strange sort of marriage. But, then again, perhaps that’s why he was divorced.

“Did you ever argue?” he asked.

“Argue? We’d no time for arguments. Our union was intended to strengthen our ability to serve the Party, not to undermine it. Did we argue? That question implies a catalog of concepts that were alien to our marriage and our commitment to the Revolution. No, we didn’t argue and, no, I’d nothing to do with his murder.”

Korolev raised an eyebrow. He didn’t doubt that she was sincere—there was no emotion in what she’d said, just a bald statement of fact. But still. He decided to change direction.

“Were you aware your husband met with Dr. Shtange on the morning of his murder?”

“Met with Shtange?” She repeated his words as if surprised by them.

“They didn’t get on, did they? Dr. Shtange was unhappy with the way things were done at the institute, wasn’t he?”

“Who told you that?” she asked indignantly. “Was it Shtange? My husband was the director of the institute and Shtange was his deputy, so Shtange had no right to be unhappy with anything and certainly no right to attempt to alter the way things were done. In my husband’s opinion he was a saboteur and a wrecker.”

“I see,” Korolev said, a little taken aback by her passion. “Had they worked together for long?”

“Three months,” she replied, calmer now. “It wasn’t my husband’s decision—he was barely consulted. If the decision had been left to him, the man would still be in Leningrad working with his monkeys.”

“His monkeys?” Korolev asked.

“And his dogs,” she said, her eyes sparkling with disdain.

“And dogs as well, you say?”

Did she think he’d worked in a zoo of some kind?

“Dogs. My husband believed it was impossible to make real scientific progress in the study of the human brain using animals. At best they provide indications—but if you want to drink water, you have to go to the river. Shtange’s experience was therefore entirely useless for the work he was assigned to.”

“I suppose,” Korolev said, sensing an opportunity, “Deputy Director Shtange must have found it difficult to adapt to working with humans. Was that where some of the conflict arose?”

“That is exactly where the conflict arose—not only did the fool not understand the processes my husband was developing, he stated that he considered my husband’s work to be unscientific. Even unethical. Shtange, the monkey man, considered
my
husband unethical.”

“Which particular aspects did he consider to be unethical?” Korolev asked, innocently. Azarova opened her mouth to answer and then stopped herself.

“I’ve told you I can’t discuss the details of my husband’s work, not that he told me about it in any detail. His research was highly secret. But he believed Shtange’s supposed concerns were in fact attempts to sabotage its success.”

“I see, did your husband perhaps take some action against Comrade Shtange? Inform State Security as to his concerns, perhaps?”

She shrugged, not meeting his gaze, and her reaction was as good as a written confirmation. Well, that was a motive for murder, Korolev thought—if only Shtange hadn’t had such a solid alibi.

“You disagree with such an action, Comrade Korolev?” Azarova’s question interrupted his thoughts.

“Comrade Azarova, if you think I disagree with citizens bringing their honest concerns about potential enemies of the State to the proper authorities, then you’re much mistaken.” He spoke sternly, as he was supposed to. “One more question—it seems likely that your husband opened the door to whoever killed him. Your maid says she locked it when she left to go shopping and unlocked it when she came back and found him dead. Was he expecting anyone to visit that morning?”

“No one.” She shook her head after a moment’s consideration. “And I can’t think who he would have opened the door to either, if he was working. Galina was under strict instructions to admit no one who might interrupt him and he certainly wouldn’t have answered the door himself.”

“I see,” Korolev said. “One last thing—are you aware that Dr. Shtange was also murdered? On Tuesday morning?”

“Murdered? Shtange?” She looked at him blankly.

“You’re sure you weren’t aware he was dead? No one called to tell you? A friend perhaps?”

“No one.”

It amazed him that the Twelfth Department hadn’t questioned her about the deputy director—because if Azarova was in the clear for her husband, that wasn’t necessarily the case with regard to Shtange’s murder.

“May I ask where you were on Tuesday morning?”

“I was at the orphanage. I leave at eight and I would have arrived at eight-fifteen. I departed at twelve-thirty, no earlier.”

“The day after your husband’s murder?”

“Of course.” She seemed surprised he should question it. “I believed my duty to the State required it. We’re under siege by our enemies, Comrade Korolev—we might as well be at war. If you were a soldier and your brother was killed beside you in battle, you’d fight on—wouldn’t you? This situation is no different. That’s what being part of a Revolution means.”

Korolev thought it best to say nothing, just write the information down: “Tuesday morning left for orphanage at eight,” and the time she’d returned. But he did allow himself to add a small exclamation mark and an asterisk. He looked at his watch. He needed to wind this up.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re not there today?”

“Doctor Weiss believes I need to rest—he was annoyed with me for going out on Tuesday. He said I must conserve my strength.” She seemed torn between gratitude and irritation.

“And you do what he says?”

She shrugged.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone there on Tuesday. I’m not sure I did useful work. Perhaps I made a mistake—it’s difficult to tell.” She seemed tired now, her voice becoming quieter each time she spoke.

He shut his notebook. Slivka could talk to her again later—she might get more out of her with a different approach. And for the moment, he’d no good reason to doubt anything Azarova had said.

“Can you understand what my life will be without him?” she said, looking up again through her tears. “I’ve lost—so much. And more will be taken. Galina has heard that the neighbors are already jostling among themselves to take over this apartment. I’ll be lucky if I’m allowed to stay in the building.”

Korolev nodded—he didn’t think she was being paranoid. He’d come into his own room because Valentina Nikolayevna’s husband had been killed in an accident. In some buildings in Moscow there were two or three families sharing smaller spaces than one of this apartment’s bedrooms. If she was looking for sympathy, she’d find none from her fellow Muscovites.

“Thank you for your time, Comrade. May I look around your husband’s study once again? I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

“Help yourself,” she said, turning away to look out the window, and leaning her head onto the back of the armchair.

He nodded and walked out into the hallway. There was no sign of the girl.

“Where’s your maid?”

“She’s gone for bread,” she said, and Korolev could have sworn she was crying, but he thought it impolite to go back to check. Instead he turned the handle to the professor’s study and saw that, as with Shtange’s, the bookcases in his study stood bare, cleared of books and papers. His footsteps sounded loud as he walked across the room to the open window.

He leaned out, looking around to see if there was any possibility someone could have climbed in from somewhere, but it seemed impossible. Perhaps if they’d been one of Shtange’s monkeys—otherwise there was a five-story drop to the pavement below.

He turned back to look at the room once again, even considering the two small ventilation grilles high on the wall behind the professor’s desk—but not even the smallest of monkeys could have got through one of them. And the mice the professor had complained of wouldn’t have been firing bullets.

Everything pointed to the killer having been someone Azarov had let into the apartment.

Now all he needed to do was find out who.