Korolev pointed the car in the direction of Kuznetsky Most, which would be busy even at this time of the evening, just in case he might spot Yuri there. Nothing. Then he went west to Arbat, where Moscow’s youth liked to gather during the evening, but there was no sign of him there either. Finally he went to Kievsky Station, where the train from Peredelkino came in, parked the car and walked through the station, checking each of the platforms and waiting rooms before picking his way through the surrounding streets. Still nothing.
It was getting dark by the time he decided that if Yuri was in Moscow he’d likely have gone to ground completely. With a dull pain in his chest, he turned the car in the direction of home, although his eyes kept searching, hoping against hope for a sign of the boy. And then, by chance perhaps, or more likely because his subconscious had taken over the driving while he scanned his surroundings, he found himself looking at an enameled street sign. Vitsin Street.
Vitsin Street wasn’t on his direct route home. But still, here he was. And what was more, twenty meters farther along the street was the orphanage where the professor’s wife worked. He parked the car and stepped out. Sure enough, the Emka pulled in thirty meters farther back.
“Who is it?” a voice said from inside when he knocked on the heavy wooden door for the second time.
“Militia. Open up.”
“A moment.”
There was the sound of a heavy lock being opened and a bolt being pulled before the door creaked open a few inches and a pair of wary eyes appeared in the narrow gap.
“What do you want, Comrade?” a deep voice asked him.
“I need to talk to the director.”
“He’s having his dinner.”
Korolev had had a long day and a longer night. And he’d good reasons for the temper that had been simmering nicely all day.
“I don’t care if he’s dancing naked to the damned radio.” Korolev pushed hard at the door. “I need to see him right now.”
The door didn’t move. The wary eyes, it seemed, were attached to a hefty amount of muscle. They blinked once when he pushed but otherwise they maintained their steady gaze.
“Ask nicely and I’ll let you in. Otherwise it’s good night to you.”
Korolev could feel a headache coming on, but he did his best to swallow his irritation.
“Please open this damned door,” he said. “I would be very grateful.”
“That’s better.” The door swung open and Korolev was surprised to discover that, while the cautious eyes were indeed attached to a body that had more bulk than a prize-winning ox, he’d been talking to a woman. But that was probably just as well, he decided-because if she’d been a man he might have felt obliged to throw a punch, and there was every chance, to judge from the way the fabric stretched across those biceps, that this would have been a mistake.
“My name’s Korolev. From Petrovka.”
She examined his identity card before handing it back to him, glancing at his face for the briefest of moments. She made no comment on his black eye.
“We have to be careful. Not all the boys want to be in here-and some of them have friends on the outside. I’m Tambova-the boys call me Little Barrel.” She snuck another look at him, perhaps gauging his reaction, and shrugged.
“I prefer Little Barrel. Sit here and I’ll knock on the director’s door. Korolev, you said.”
“That’s me.”
“Don’t let anyone in while I’m away.”
She turned to climb up the staircase behind her, her movements surprisingly delicate.
There was a long wooden bench in the hallway where she probably wanted him to sit, but Korolev decided to take a walk along the corridor that led deeper into the building. At one stage the place had been a monastery, of course, and he found traces of its former identity-the outline of a three-fingered hand raised in blessing behind poorly applied whitewash, ancient wooden doors with crosses cut into the nails, and a stone-flagged floor that had been worn smooth by hundreds of years of monks’ feet. He followed his nose until he found himself in a chapel, now a dormitory. Ranks of bunk beds were pressed in on top of each other, with only the narrowest of spaces between them for movement. There were no children, however, only rolled-up mattresses resting on the wooden bases of the beds.
“Can I help you?”
Korolev turned to find himself face-to-face with a stout man dressed in a white shirt, the top three buttons of which were open-a tuft of grey chest hair and the top of a string vest poking out.
“You are?” Korolev asked.
“I’m the director of the orphanage. Spinsky.” He looked none too pleased to be separated from his supper, but Korolev didn’t care. If Spinsky thought he had it tough he should walk in Korolev’s shoes for half an hour and see how he liked them.
“Captain Korolev, Moscow CID. I’ve some questions for you.”
“It’s late.”
Korolev said nothing and Spinsky, after a brief pause, sighed and nodded.
“All right then. Is this about the missing boys?”
“Which missing boys would these be?” Korolev asked, more than a little curious.
“Two of them absconded from a trip to Peredelkino. We’ve sent the children out there for the week.”
Korolev said nothing. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.
“Are you all right?” Spinsky asked.
“When was this?”
“Last night. Listen, what’s all this about?”
“Have you photographs of them?” Korolev said, ignoring the question. “The boys that ran, that is.”
“I should think so.”
The director led him outside into the corridor and indicated a low door. “My office.”
“Do you mind my asking-would one of these two runaways be called Goldstein?”
Spinsky looked over his shoulder as he inserted a key into its lock. “Yes, have you found him?”
Last night-the same night Yuri had disappeared-two orphans make a run for it. This morning, three boys are seen at the next station along from Peredelkino. One of them-perhaps-Yuri; and another-perhaps-Kim Goldstein.
“Not yet,” Korolev said, his voice much calmer than he felt.
“Please, take a seat,” Spinsky said, opening the door.
“Can you tell me the circumstances? How they managed it?”
“I wasn’t there, but the children were missing in the morning-they must have slipped over the wall at some stage. It’s less secure out there and, well, it’s not unusual. We don’t run a prison camp.”
“I know Goldstein lived on the streets, what about this other fellow?”
“Yes, Petrov is his name. They came in together in January-the winter’s our biggest recruiter among street children.”
“Together. Was there a gang of them came in at the same time?”
“I think so, I’d have to check.”
Goldstein’s gang. The Razin Street Irregulars, or so he’d once called them.
“Have you reported their running away to the Militia?”
Spinsky glanced up. “We used to. But it takes a long time to make the report and nothing ever comes of it. I’m sorry if that seems blunt.”
Which would explain why no one had made the connection. Still, if Yuri was with him the chances were they’d be visiting Goldstein’s old haunts-and Korolev knew someone who’d know where at least some of those were.
“Could you check who came in with them? It might be useful. I know a bit about Goldstein and his crew.”
The director frowned. “All right.”
He pulled a heavy ledger from the shelf beside his desk and opened it up, flicking through the pages.
“There were five of them.”
“May I see?”
The director pushed the ledger across and Korolev ran his finger down the column of names until he found Goldstein’s. There were four other children admitted the same day. Beside Goldstein’s name and that of Petrov someone had written an “R” in red ink and today’s date.
“The ‘R’ means?”
“Run.”
“This is the other fellow, is it? Petrov? You said you might have photographs of them.”