“Yes, of course.” The director stood and walked to a filing cabinet, opening the drawers until he came back with two files.
“Two of these have an ‘A’ beside them and one a ‘D,’” Korolev said, looking at the ledger entries. “What do they mean?”
“The ‘D’ means deceased-they were in poor shape when they came in and the boy caught influenza, if I remember. He didn’t make it. The other two were transferred to the Azarov Institute.”
Korolev nodded calmly, although he felt anything but calm. In fact he could feel energy racing round his body looking for a way out. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes-it was the only thing he could think of.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Help yourself.”
Korolev looked at the fingers that held the match as he lit his cigarette; they were steady. He wasn’t sure how.
“Professor Azarov’s wife works here, of course,” he said, somehow managing to speak in a neutral tone of voice.
“Listen, Comrade. What’s this all about? I understand you’re with Petrovka, but if I knew what you were looking for perhaps I could help you more.”
“I am with Petrovka,” Korolev said. “But I’ve also been assigned to State Security on a certain matter. You should know State Security doesn’t answer questions, it asks them. I can show you my letter of authority, if you wish.”
Spinsky looked doubtful, but then he seemed to reconsider. He swallowed before nodding slowly.
“Very good. Yes, Comrade Azarova comes three times a week. I’ll be honest, some of our boys are resistant to socialism, and she’s been of great assistance in our re-education efforts.”
“When exactly? When does she come in, that is?”
“Monday morning, Tuesday morning, and Friday morning, I think. She’s with us from eight-thirty until about twelve. She works with other orphanages as well though, on other days and in the afternoons.”
“So she was here on Monday and Tuesday of this week?”
“Monday morning certainly-I saw her myself. Tuesday morning-I can’t say for sure because I was out with the boys in Peredelkino-but if she was here, she’d have been here on her own, more or less. All the boys that weren’t in the infirmary were put on buses first thing.”
Korolev had been looking through the skimpy files on Goldstein and Petrov. He was sure he recognized Petrov-one of the boys who’d been talking to Yuri by the riverbank. He was another one like Goldstein-reserved. Not without confidence, or something similar-stubbornness perhaps.
“When you say these other two were transferred to the Azarov Institute? What does that mean?”
“It means exactly what I say-we’ve worked alongside the Azarov Institute for three years now. Most of the children spend a few weeks over there from time to time-if the professor identifies children who will be able to serve the State by assisting him further in his scientific research, they are permanently transferred to his establishment. Most come back, however.”
“I didn’t know he ran an orphanage over there.”
The director shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what he runs over there, Comrade Captain. It isn’t the kind of place you ask questions about. While the children are over there they participate in some neurological testing, I believe. Ones that are particularly suitable stay with them. The boys envy the ones that stay, I can tell you.”
“When you say neurological testing…?”
“I don’t know for sure. The children who come back-well, sometimes they’ve got small scars, just here.” The director pointed to his cheek, at exactly the same place as the murdered Shtange been cut with a scalpel and where Goldstein had a half-healed gash. “Nothing to worry about. The boys are proud of them.”
“But you have no further contact with them, the ones that stay? You never see them again?”
That seemed to be what Spinsky was saying. The director looked uncomfortable at the bluntness of the question and, for some reason, began to do up the buttons on his shirt, then undo them.
“At first I was a little uncomfortable with the arrangement, Comrade Captain, as I sense you are. Our children can be tough nuts but we try to treat them well. On the other hand, we often lack staff and struggle with resources.”
“Resources?”
“Food, clothing, textbooks, blankets. Not always-but when things run short it seems we’re often as not at the back of the queue when it comes to allocations. Shoes are always a problem, but they are for everyone, I suppose. The Azarov Institute has no such problems-the food the children get over there is first class-and the chosen boys, the ones selected for permanent transfer, they get sent brand-new clothing before they even leave, and a suitcase of the finest quality. I’ve seen them with my own eyes. Such suitcases.”
Suitcases were one of many things it was impossible to obtain these days. Korolev could understand why Spinsky had been impressed.
“So the children want to go-they know it’s important work, that the professor is our top man when it comes to brains. And they believe, if what he says is right, that they’ll be the leaders of the future, thanks to his efforts. That he’ll mold them into little Stalins.”
Korolev didn’t think that Spinsky’s prodigies would have been so excited if they’d seen the parts of the Azarov Institute Korolev had visited that afternoon.
“How many children have you transferred there?” Korolev asked, turning the pages of the ledger. There seemed to be at least one “A” on every page-and there were a lot of pages.
“Quite a few, I should think. Over fifty anyway. I haven’t added the numbers up.”
When Korolev and Dubinkin had left the Azarov Institute that afternoon, there’d only been two lonely guards still there-and even they’d been asking when they could leave as well.
“I’ve been to the Azarov Institute, I didn’t see any children there.”
“The institute has another facility, just outside of Moscow, I believe. I don’t know exactly where-Madame Azarova tells me it’s a wonderful place though, out near Lefortovo. I almost wish I could go there myself sometimes. Like a palace, she says.”
But Spinsky’s eyes told a different story and Korolev wondered what he knew and what he didn’t. He promised himself he’d be paying him a return visit if things turned out to be as bad as Korolev had a feeling they might be.
“Thank you. I need to use your phone now, if you don’t mind. In private.”
“Help yourself,” Spinsky said, and Korolev had the impression he was glad the interview was over.
* * *
Yasimov’s family lived right beside the shared kommunalka phone and his son answered. Yasimov himself was soon on the other end of the line.
“With Goldstein and a youngster called Petrov, you say? That fits in with the station sighting. Could Yuri have known they were going to leg it from the orphanage in advance?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe he just ran into them by chance-at the station perhaps. And the rest followed on from that.”
“I remember that youngster, Goldstein. Red hair, runt.”
“Bigger now, but still has the red hair. Cut short, of course-they keep the children’s hair trim here.”
“Mmmm. And Petrov-taller, brown hair, also with a close-shaved head, you say? It could be them. It sounds like them.”
“I’ve photographs. And I’ve a hunch I know where they might be going. This Azarov Institute had a home for children attached to it-two of his gang were transferred there. Somewhere out near Lefortovo, and I half-wonder if Goldstein doesn’t plan to spring them.”
He didn’t add that there was every chance the place no longer existed, like the institute itself-but Goldstein couldn’t know that might be the case.
“Another thing-there’s a sergeant called Pushkin over in Razin street.”
“Pushkin?” Korolev could hear the bemusement in Yasimov’s voice.
“I think he finds it as odd as you do. Anyway, he knows Goldstein-and probably knows his haunts as well. There was an old stable they used-I don’t know if it’s still there. Look him up.”