The Twelfth Department (22 page)

“He was a good and honest man whose fate it was to live at a time like this—and in a place like this. That was his tragedy.”

Korolev looked hard at his notebook and decided he hadn’t heard her. She might be able to say such things, with someone from the French embassy sitting alongside her and a French passport in her pocket—but he couldn’t hear them, not with a Soviet identity card sitting in his.

“We aren’t convinced the two murders are connected,” Korolev continued, “but it certainly isn’t something we’re ruling out. Now, it was clear from my discussion with him on Monday that your husband didn’t like the professor. Not one bit. And I understand the professor felt the same.”

“Arkady despised him, but he’d nothing to do with Azarov’s death. He was at work when it happened, he told me so.”

“Yes, we know where he was. But you must understand we have to look into their relationship.”

She nodded. “I understand, and the truth is if Azarov hadn’t been dead at the time of the murder, I’d have been certain he was my husband’s killer. Arkady was on the point of exposing him and the professor knew it.”

“Exposing him?” Korolev said.

“Azarov achieved his position by his willingness to condemn as a traitor or saboteur anyone who stood in his way or opposed him. He also lied through his teeth about everything he’d achieved and might achieve. Once he started working for State Security on his so-called breakthroughs he found he’d a receptive audience for his lies and his accusations. And after that, anyone who disagreed with him was sabotaging State Security itself—with predictable consequences. But my husband was appointed to verify Azarov’s claims and Azarov couldn’t deal with him the way he’d dealt with the others.”

“Who appointed him?”

“Arkady couldn’t tell me. Someone senior enough that Azarov couldn’t act against him openly without looking like a rogue. Whoever it was, I’m not sure they were bothered about the morality of the research—I suspect all that interested them was why there’d been so little recent progress and, perhaps most importantly, where all the money had gone.”

Korolev looked down at his notes, underlining some points he wanted to come back to.

“Money?”

“A lot of money—there was equipment to be bought, of course, and salaries to be paid but, even so, the amounts didn’t make sense. Or so Arkady said. He put it all in his report. That’s why, when Azarov died, he thought it was all over—that he could come back to Leningrad.”

“So he’d finished this report of his?”

“Yes.”

“And it was critical of Professor Azarov?”

“Most definitely. I never saw it, you understand, but it couldn’t have been any other way, from the conversations I had with Arkady. He couldn’t give me details—but he told me the gist of it. I should have told him to drop it, shouldn’t I?”

Korolev ignored the question—she already knew the answer.

“Do you know whether this report was delivered to the appropriate person? Or did your husband still have it when he died?”

“I don’t know for certain. The last time I spoke to him he thought he would be home with us by the weekend—that it had been confirmed. I presumed that meant he’d delivered it.”

“May I ask what research your husband was engaged in at the institute?”

“Again, he never told me precisely. The work was secret, I know that much, and obviously he had to be very careful about what he said—especially to me. I do know he found it deeply distasteful. In Leningrad his research focused on behavioral modification and how that might be useful to State Security is something I can understand his not wanting to discuss.”

She looked toward Hubert, but the greyhound said nothing—although if Korolev wasn’t much mistaken he saw a flicker of disappointment. Perhaps the French also wanted to know what the Azarov Institute had been researching. Behavioral modification? It sounded like something Militia captains should stay well clear of; but if foreign countries were interested in the professor’s research, that might explain why the two apartments had been stripped of paperwork. It also occurred to him that if Shtange’s report exposed wrongdoing and financial irregularities at the institute then that would mean the harshest penalties for those involved, as well as for those who’d failed to protect the State. Was that why the scientists might have been killed?

“Did he tell you anything?” Korolev asked. “About the research he did there? Anything at all might be helpful?”

After all, she’d be telling Hubert soon enough, he’d no doubt of that. Another cigarette stubbed out. Another cigarette immediately lit. The golden eyes appraised him before she shook her head, as if to disagree with the question itself.

“As I understand it, there
was
no research—not scientific anyway. Or so Arkady said. It seemed to him that whatever was being attempted wasn’t much more than a magic trick that Azarov was trying to dress up in a white coat and call science. But what the trick was, I’ve no idea. I know Azarov had support at the highest levels, however. That was clear.”

Her eyes flicked to the left, inviting him to look in the direct of the Kremlin. It was an invitation Korolev wouldn’t be taking up any time soon. Was she suggesting Stalin himself had approved this damned institute of Azarov’s? Already there were Chekists everywhere he looked—and now Stalin? He prayed to the good Lord above that his next case, if he survived this one, had nothing to do with the Organs of State Security and certainly not with the General Secretary. A murder or an armed robbery would be fine.

He grunted and then carried on with the interview and, when all was said and done, and she’d told him all she had to tell, it seemed the only person Madame Shtange could conceive of having wanted to kill her husband had been killed the day before him.

*   *   *

“Is Captain Korolev here?” a voice inquired loudly, as they were finishing up. Korolev turned to see a familiar face approaching them.

“This is Lieutenant Dubinkin,” Korolev said, rising to his feet. “He’s also working on the investigation.” Korolev made the introductions and hid his surprise when Dubinkin addressed Hubert and Madame Shtange in apparently fluent French. What was more, it seemed Dubinkin and Hubert knew each other already. Korolev wondered if they shared the same profession.

“Are you from Petrovka as well?” Anna Shtange spoke in Russian and Korolev wondered if it was for his benefit.

“Another organization, Madame Shtange. One equally dedicated to uncovering your husband’s killer, of course.”

Dubinkin spoke smoothly, with an apparently sincere concern, but Anna Shtange’s reaction was to rise to her feet with something close to fury in her eyes. Korolev found himself stepping forward while giving her his warmest smile. She paused, confused, and he took the opportunity to pick his notebook up from the table and nod to Dubinkin.

“We’ve just finished, Comrade Dubinkin. I’ve informed Madame Shtange that arrangements will be made for her to view her husband’s body this afternoon.” He turned his attention back to Anna Shtange. “With luck he should be released to you before the day is out.”

Hubert placed a hand on her arm, and Korolev wondered if the Frenchman shared his concerns. Surely she wouldn’t pick a fight with a man like Dubinkin in public—important French uncle or not. She must know what kind of organization she was dealing with.

“If we have any further questions?” Korolev asked, trying to keep the conversation moving, sensing that a pause would be dangerous.

“You may contact Madame Shtange through the embassy,” Hubert said, already steering her toward the lift. “She’ll be staying with us until we can arrange her and her children’s return to France.”

Anna Shtange turned, caught Korolev’s eye and nodded.

“Thank you, Captain Korolev.”

“My pleasure, Madame Shtange. Your husband’s killer will face Soviet justice very soon, believe me.”

She gave him a weak smile, then glanced at Dubinkin.

“Good—Soviet justice is famed throughout the world,” she said, before adding after a moment’s pause, “I could wish them no worse fate.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

When they stepped outside, the heat took Korolev by the throat and then did its best to push him down feet-first into the concrete sidewalk—a strange sensation and not at all pleasant. Up above, sitting on that eyrie of a roof terrace, they’d picked up whatever small breeze was whispering its way across Moscow and, slight as it had been, it had relieved some of the swelter from the day. Down here however the heat was a presence that surrounded you—and it seemed to have got even worse in the last hour or so.

“Were you trying to protect her?” Dubinkin asked with an amused smile.

“I’d finished questioning her,” Korolev said gruffly, hoping it would be enough to keep the fellow in check. “Are you coming with me to the institute?”

He pointed to the car Morozov had provided him with, noticing that the two goons were still parked not far behind it, although now they were leaning against the car, examining them at their leisure.

“You
were
trying to protect her, weren’t you? My dear Korolev, she wasn’t in any danger. She’s the daughter of an important French politician, one sympathetic to us.”

“Yes, I heard that. It would have been helpful if someone had mentioned it to me earlier.”

“Didn’t I?”

“You told me she was French,” Korolev said, his attention focused on the State Security men. “No more than that.”

Dubinkin chuckled.

“You’re a surprise in many ways, Korolev. I thought you’d be some aging bull, waiting his turn to be put out to pasture—but there’s more to you than that, isn’t there?”

Korolev wasn’t that interested in what Dubinkin thought of him. If the truth were told, which it seldom was these days, Korolev was beginning to get a little tired of Dubinkin toying with him. If he wanted to find a subject for study, he should go and look into the head of one of his Chekist friends in that car. He turned to Dubinkin.

“Those two likely looking fellows—leaning against the Emka? Recognize them?”

Dubinkin didn’t bother to look.

“I saw them on the way in. I believe they are comrades, yes—if that’s your question.”

“Comrades?” Korolev considered the word for a moment or two. “From this Twelfth Department?”

“I believe so. Would you like me to go and check?”

“No need,” Korolev said. “I’m sure you’re right. Not subtle when it comes to following a man, are they?”

“I think they want be seen, Korolev. I think they wouldn’t be following orders if they weren’t seen. They’re trying to distract you. To put pressure on you.”

Korolev thought back—it had been different once, hadn’t it? Back at the time of the Revolution there’d been people who’d pushed their weight around, but you could just push right back—and if your heart was in the right place, it all worked out. How had this mess come about? Here he was, an honest-enough policeman, doing his job, and being followed around Moscow by a couple of State Security bruisers for no good reason other than simply that—he was doing his job.

“Let’s just go,” Korolev said, with a sigh and, sure enough, the two heavies managed to summon enough energy to get themselves into their car and pull away from the curb at the same time as he did. Korolev took a quick glance in the mirror and then decided he’d enough on his plate without worrying about them as well.

“Madame Shtange told me about her husband’s relationship with Azarov. And a few other interesting things as well.”

“Tell me what she said.”

Korolev told him and, despite his best intentions, wasn’t able to resist the occasional instinctive glance in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, I think she may have described it correctly,” Dubinkin said when he’d finished. “The Azarov Institute was set up with the support of the former head of State Security, the counterrevolutionary Yagoda. I believe Comrade Ezhov wasn’t so convinced—perhaps he’s the one who commissioned this report. If so, he’s not telling us—which may mean something or may not.”

Korolev had given up trying to understand how things worked within the NKVD—it seemed no one trusted anyone else, however. Just like the rest of the population then.

“But the professor came up with some useful insights in the past, or so Colonel Rodinov said?”

“Yes, he did. Are you sure you want to know what they were?”

What choice did he have? If he didn’t know what the professor had been up to, how could he know how it might affect the case? Korolev nodded.

“He developed certain interrogation techniques. They’ve been particularly effective in preparing enemies of the state for public trial. He was able to ensure that they admitted their guilt, which was of course evident, and that any unnecessary justification or defense that might have misled suggestible citizens was avoided.”

Korolev thought back to the newsreels he’d seen of the trials in the cinemas—he was sure he wasn’t the only one who’d thought the defendants had seemed remarkably, if not eerily, compliant. He’d certainly never seen anything like it in a criminal trial. Senior Bolsheviks from long before the Revolution, who’d been in exile with Lenin, had pled guilty to incredible treacheries against the very State they’d fought tooth and nail to bring into being. Zinoviev, Kamenev, and half a platoon of the oldest Bolsheviks had been in cahoots with the snake Trotsky and, it seemed, nigh on every foreign enemy you could think of. Now, perhaps, that finally made sense.

“I see,” Korolev said, turning the car into the alleyway that led to the institute’s entrance.

He couldn’t help wondering how Azarov had gone about his research, although, at the same time, he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The guards manning the gates weren’t the same as the ones from Monday, but as soon as they saw Dubinkin’s identity card, their resentful suspicion changed to alert welcome. The taller of the two lifted the bar that guarded the entrance and the other walked alongside the car until they reached the back door of the main building.

From the street, the Azarov Institute appeared as though it had always been there and always would be there—but to judge from the activity in the courtyard it seemed this was not entirely the case. A number of workmen were loading trucks with cardboard boxes, metal bedsteads, wooden crates of various sizes, and even what looked like a dentist’s chair.