“Well then, let’s hurry.”
Perhaps it was his tiredness, or the constant fear he’d been living with for days now-but it felt as though he were moving through water as they ran down to the new building. And even though his eyes were telling him he was moving fast, he’d the strong impression that he’d never reach the door he was heading for. He could barely hear the crunch and slide of his shoes on the gravel over the roaring in his ears. Then he was standing inside the doorway, trying to catch his breath.
“You take the doors on the left. I’ll take the right. Let’s be quick, but let’s be careful.”
The first office yielded nothing-patient files, manuals, an entire drawer full of political lectures, a folder full of photographs of Stalin, charts-everything, it seemed, except what he was looking for. He could hear drawers being emptied by Slivka across the corridor.
“Anything?” he called in to her as he moved onto the second door.
“Nothing,” was her reply.
There was a desk in this room, again locked. He looked round for something to open it with and, for a moment, considered using his gun. Then he saw a coat hook on the back of the door and, using all his weight, wrenched it out of the wood that held it. He wedged it into the desk and then used the heavy chair to hammer out the drawer. Pens. A bar of Three Piglets chocolate.
He took the chocolate for Yuri.
The third office had the two terrified nurses in it, both conscious now. These women in their crisp white dresses-if he hadn’t come here tonight it would be his son upstairs looking at them in terror.
“Witches. Devils. Wretches.” He spat each word at them, flinging useless paper to the floor from the drawers as he did so.
“Chief.”
It was Slivka, standing in the doorway. And there was something wrong. She looked as if the breath had been knocked out of her.
“Chief, two cars have just arrived. They’ve found the guard at the front gate. He’s talking to them. They’re closing the place off-they must know we’re here.”
He stood, the sweat turning cold on his skin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
It was always going to end this way, he supposed.
Korolev stood beside Slivka in a darkened room on the upper floor, watching another carload of men arrive. Svalov, Zaitsev’s tubby assistant, sent them up to the main house with Blanter-the boxer. Korolev closed his eyes and felt every last drop of energy drain away from him. Svalov had already surrounded the building they were in and was now looking up at it. It seemed to Korolev that he was staring at the very window they were standing at.
“We could try and run for it.” Slivka’s voice sounded tired.
“We’re surrounded and they know we’re here. They’d shoot us down.”
“That might be better.”
“For us, perhaps.”
Another car pulled in through the gates and Svalov went over to it, leaning down to speak to someone in the front passenger seat.
“Come on, let’s go and meet our fate. Leave the guns here.”
Korolev took the guard’s Nagant from his pocket and then slipped the Walther from his underarm holster. Was it fifteen years he’d had it? More. He placed Azarova’s little pea-shooter beside it. He patted the Walther farewell.
“Slivka,” he said, turning to her, “for what it’s worth, you’ve been the best of comrades.”
“And you, Chief, have been the best of chiefs.”
They walked down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, and then along the corridor to the half-open door that led outside.
“I’ll go first,” Korolev said.
“I-” Slivka began.
“This once, Nadezhda Andreyevna, let me have my way.”
Slivka looked as though she thought he might be taking advantage of the situation, but she nodded.
One of the cars had a searchlight and as he came out with his hands held high he had to turn his eyes from the glare.
“Take off the jacket, slowly.”
The voice sounded as if it meant business and he complied.
“Who are you?”
“Korolev, captain in the Militia. From Petrovka.” And then, because he thought it couldn’t do any harm. “On temporary assignment to State Security.”
He heard the sound of a car door opening and footsteps approaching, but it was as if the searchlight had mesmerized him, he couldn’t look away from it.
“Korolev, it seems you’re one step ahead of us.”
Korolev turned to confirm the voice belonged to the man he thought it did. A familiar mustache was attached to a familiar face-only feet away.
“Dubinkin?”
“The very same-but you look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Korolev. Are you all right?”
Dubinkin had that irritating smile on his face once again-the one that told you he knew just that little bit more about you than you did yourself. And Korolev was damned if he’d play along with it.
“We’ve been worried about you,” the Chekist continued. “We wondered if you mightn’t have bitten off more than you could chew.”
Dubinkin had a cheek to feign concern, and Korolev found his irritation turning to anger. He’d face the consequences of his actions. But he was damned if he’d be made fun of.
“Did your boss Zaitsev send you here to do his dirty work?” he said, and could hear the bitterness in his voice.
“No,” Dubinkin said, with what appeared to be genuine amusement. “I’ve only ever had one boss. And Comrade Colonel Rodinov is a very pleased man this evening. Your investigation has turned from defeat to triumph. How did you know Dr. Weiss had a copy of Shtange’s report?”
“I didn’t,” Korolev said.
“Well,” Dubinkin said, smiling, “then you’re the luckiest man alive.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
In all the excitement, no one had bothered to ask how Slivka and Korolev had made their way out this far from Moscow, at night, on their own. Nor had anyone questioned how the two of them, again on their own, had managed to secure the entire facility. And as no one asked, Korolev decided not to mention that the Chief Authority of the Moscow Thieves and his right-hand man were waiting for them in the woods-or had been, until the NKVD cars showed up at least. No, he’d kept his mouth shut and thanked the all-merciful Lord above him that, for the moment at least, things seemed to have taken a surprising turn for the better.
During the drive back to Moscow in a car full of large men, however, the reality of his situation began to dawn on him. And during two hours waiting in a Lubyanka corridor to talk to Rodinov, the reality had hit home, and hard. The slow passing of each minute made him more and more conscious that certain questions were going to be asked once the colonel called him in. And he knew Rodinov well enough by now to know that when they were asked, there wouldn’t be much point in lying.
So by the time a lean, hungry-looking type had come to fetch him to see the colonel-well-it wasn’t just the close atmosphere that was making his shirt damp with sweat.
“Korolev.” The colonel looked up from a typed sheet of paper that he appeared to be signing. He followed Korolev’s gaze to the document and, to Korolev’s surprise, smiled.
“Do you know what this is, Korolev?”
Korolev shook his head. As far as he was concerned the colonel could sit there naked as God intended, singing “Kalinka Malinka” and it would be none of his business.
“I’ve no idea, Comrade Colonel.”
“I’ll tell you. My first orders as the head of the Twelfth Department.”
“I congratulate you, Comrade Colonel.” It seemed the thing to say.
The colonel scribbled what might have been a signature, put his pen down, and leaned back in his chair to examine Korolev.
“It’s been a hard evening for you. Dubinkin said you looked like you thought your last hour had come.”
“I thought he was working for Zaitsev.”
“He was, in a manner of speaking. But he’s always worked for me. Blanter and Svalov came to me later in the game, when they saw which way the wind was blowing.”