‘Let me remind you, Captain, that as far as the world is concerned this is a suicide, nothing more, and we don’t want to do anything that might suggest otherwise. Let me ask you – would the Militia haul a pathologist all the way from Odessa in the middle of the night for a suicide? These days?’
A fair point, Korolev conceded. Self-homicide had become so common recently that it would be rare for a pathologist to see the body at all. Rodinov nodded, seeing that Korolev understood.
‘The body has been moved to an ice house so it won’t deteriorate, and a pathologist will visit tomorrow at the same time as you arrive. Anything else?’
‘If possible, the place where she died should be protected – if it turns out to be murder there’s no need to make the forensics men’s job any more difficult than it has to be.’
‘I’ll pass that on.’
There wasn’t much else to be said, so Korolev placed the photograph back on the desk and stood up, ready to go. Rodinov also stood and walked him to the door, placing a hand on Korolev’s shoulder.
‘This is an opportunity to perform a useful service for Comrade Ezhov – remember that. He doesn’t forget his friends.’
Korolev nodded, thinking of the dead girl, and wondering whether, these days, it was such a good thing to be Commissar Ezhov’s friend.
Chapter Three
The Central Airport’s administrative buildings, workshops and hangars were surrounded by a thick white mist and Moscow felt a long way away. Korolev had been driven here at breakneck pace on the icy roads by Todorov, the young Chekist, fog notwithstanding. Now, in contrast, everything was still and silent except for the low murmur of conversation from two mechanics, one of them female, who were refuelling the tiny aeroplane that was taking off for Odessa in less than half an hour.
‘A Kalinin K-5,’ a voice behind him said and Korolev turned to see a burly figure dressed in an ankle-length fur coat. The man’s black eyes were the only visible part of him, what with his round fur hat and turned-up collar, but Korolev had the impression of intense watchfulness all the same, as if he were being assessed for some reason. ‘It’s a good plane. Still, best to dress up warm, Comrade – the cabin is heated, but all the same it can get cold up there.’
Korolev turned to examine the aircraft once again. It didn’t look very solid, but that was surely a good thing if it was meant to fly up to the heavens.
‘I don’t know much about them,’ he said, conscious of a certain skittishness in his lower stomach.
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry. She’s a beauty, I fly this route seven or eight times a year. She’s always on time, more or less.’
The fur hat slapped the aircraft’s flank appreciatively as if it were a trusted charger, and its thin metal skin responded with a wobbly boom.
‘She has a top speed of nearly two hundred kilometres an hour – can you imagine? And she’ll take us all the way to Kursk in one go. We’ll be in Odessa in the early afternoon if the wind is behind us and they refuel quickly. There are sometimes delays, of course.’ The man shrugged his shoulders and Korolev nodded his understanding. There were often delays, but even the possibility of being in Odessa within seven hours was astonishing. It had taken him nearly a month to get back from Odessa when he’d been discharged from the army in ’twenty-two, and that must be more or less the same distance. He put a gloved hand to one of the struts and pulled – it seemed sturdy.
‘It doesn’t look like much,’ Korolev said. ‘I mean – to go so fast and up so high.’
‘She’s reliable,’ the hat said firmly. ‘The new planes may be quicker and bigger, but this one’s never let us down. Am I right, Antonina Vladimirovna?’
‘You are indeed, Comrade Belakovsky.’ The young mechanic smiled – white teeth flashing in the light from a lantern. It occurred to Korolev that the girl was perhaps too young for such a responsible job.
‘You should make a film about her,’ she continued.
Belakovsky laughed, revealing a pock-marked nose and a scrubby salt and pepper moustache that nestled under widely spaced nostrils. Korolev thought he recognized the fellow from a newspaper, or perhaps a newsreel, and held out his hand in greeting.
‘Korolev,’ Korolev said. ‘Alexei Dmitriyevich. Moscow CID.’
‘Nice to meet you, Comrade Korolev. Belakovsky, Igor Zakharovich. And what takes you to Odessa?’ Korolev was considering how to respond when a officious-looking woman in a thick padded coat came out of the terminal building.
‘Comrade Belakovsky? Comrade Korolev? We must weigh you now.’ She waved them towards the doorway.
‘The plane can only carry so much weight, Korolev,’ Belakovsky explained, seeing his surprise.
Sure enough, inside the terminal a pilot in a long leather flying coat was standing on some scales with a canvas postal bag in one hand and a half-smoked papirosa in the other.
‘One hundred and six kilos,’ said the female clerk, writing it into a ledger. ‘You’re putting on weight, Anton Ivanovich.’
‘It’s the post,’ the pilot answered gruffly, sucking on the paper tube of the cigarette, and Korolev was sure his voice was slurred. He certainly looked the worse for wear. At least his colleague, a younger fellow with a clean shirt poking out from his fur collar, had bothered to put a razor to his chin. Unless, of course, he didn’t yet have to shave – it was possible, he supposed. The boy was very young – but surely there would be exams and so on. They wouldn’t let just anyone fly such a valuable piece of machinery, would they?
The passengers lined up and Korolev saw that he was in privileged company. A short, round-chested officer with a general’s insignia on his collar and a cluster of medals visible underneath his open greatcoat was next in line. Belakovsky took Korolev’s arm.
‘Comrade Korolev, you must meet Stepan Pavlovich. You’ll have read his articles in Izvestia. Lomatkin – the journalist? Comrade Lomatkin, this is Korolev from Petrovka Street. A detective, I’m guessing.’
Korolev shook the hand of a thin young man, handsome in a bookish sort of way, who looked slightly nervous. Perhaps it was his first time flying as well.
The next fellow on the scales had Party cadre written all over him – a pale ascetic-looking fellow in a long brown coat that looked even more military than the general’s. He stood unsmiling, a small leather suitcase in his hand.
‘Seventy-five kilos, Comrade Bagraev,’ the weigher said. ‘Captain Korolev, please.’
Korolev walked over and took his turn on the scales, sucking in his breath. He hadn’t had time to pack anything more than his arrest bag but, still, he wasn’t a small man.
‘Ninety-one kilos,’ the clerk said, and Korolev could see the Party bigwig’s disapproval as he stepped down. It didn’t seem to matter that Korolev was a good four inches taller than him, the fellow clearly had him marked down as some sort of speculator, well fed on contraband butter.
‘What happens if there’s too much weight?’ Korolev asked Lomatkin in a quiet voice, so as not to be overheard by the disapproving Bagraev.
‘At this time of year they have to be careful with ice building up on the wings.’
Korolev looked out through the nearest window at the aeroplane and imagined it caked with ice.
‘What happens then?’ he asked and Lomatkin shrugged in a manner that left Korolev in no doubt that too much ice wasn’t a recipe for a long life.
When all the passengers had been weighed and their names checked off, the younger pilot and the clerk examined the ledger and the latter flicked balls back and forth on an abacus. Their faces were grave and Korolev felt every one of his ninety-one kilos, bag included.
‘Captain Korolev?’ a voice asked. He looked round to see blue eyes in a pale pudgy face only a few centimetres away from his own. Korolev nodded and the man held out a thick envelope.
‘Goldberg. Colonel Rodinov sent me with a package for you. To read on the plane. Please sign this receipt.’