“I’ll do it now, brother,” Yasimov said. “This very minute.”
“Listen, Mitya. I’ve a problem here, but if I can slip away-I will.”
Korolev thought about the men in the Emka outside. With a bit of luck he might find a way to drop them.
“If you can, you can. If not, don’t worry.”
Korolev felt a little glow of optimism-the Goldstein connection was the first real clue they’d had as to where his son might be.
* * *
The director had left him with the telephone, no doubt planning to reacquaint himself with his dinner as quickly as possible. When Korolev hung up he gathered the boys’ files together and opened the door-and was almost crushed by a surprised Little Barrel stumbling into the room.
“What the hell?” he managed to say, startled more than frightened. But almost instinctively, his hand had reached for his gun and there it was, snug in his hand.
“The director told me to stand here.”
But if Korolev was any judge it wasn’t just shyness that was preventing her from meeting his eyes.
“You were listening.” It came out as a statement rather than a question.
“I have ears,” the girl said, her head hanging with shame. “They do the listening.”
Korolev sighed, replacing the Walther in his holster. He found himself patting her elbow.
“Ears do that, they’re tricky things. Come on, I need to go home-you’d better let me out.”
“Of course, Comrade Captain. Thank you. You won’t tell him, will you?”
“No, of course not. How much did you hear?”
“About your son. About Kim and Petya. About that place.”
Petya must be Petrov.
“What place are you talking about?”
“The place in the woods, the place where they send them-out near Lefortovo. I keep them safe here-no one hurts them.” She looked up at him, her eyes fierce. “I look after them.”
“But it’s different at this other place?”
“Yes.”
And Korolev saw a teardrop, a huge teardrop, form at the corner of her eye.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When Korolev came out of the orphanage he found the Emka had been replaced with another car-a Ford-and two new Chekists as well. He looked at them and they looked back-alert and wide awake-and Korolev felt the tiredness drag at him and realized it would be pointless to try to shake them off.
He drove through the still summer-warm streets with fear for his son’s well-being weighing heavily on him once again-that glimmer of optimism not quite so strong after Little Barrel’s warning. He’d tried to get her to tell him more, but then she’d clammed up so tight he might as well have been talking to himself-and so now he found himself worrying over the little she had said, like a dog with a bone, and not much liking the taste of it. Outside the streets were full of Muscovites enjoying the warmth of the evening, some staggering with drink, others just out to stretch their legs rather than stay put in some sweltering little box that had been carved out of an already over-crowded kommunalka just for them. But Korolev looked through them all-the only person he had eyes for was Yuri.
* * *
By the time he’d reached Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, his thoughts had turned against himself. What kind of man was he? That he’d managed to put his own son at risk? He’d known for a year now that this job of his came with compromises, yet he’d usually done his best to avoid them. Why? And what was more, he’d known the job itself was a dangerous one-twice in the last twelve months he’d been close to disaster. And he’d known the risks weren’t only being taken by him-every morning he saw the queue of ordinary citizens outside Petrovka, waiting to find out from the records office which prison a relative had been sent to. And yet still he carried on trying to bring an antiquated version of justice to a society that thought telling a joke about the leadership a more serious crime than murder. He could have asked to do something else, training youngsters perhaps-he’d earned it, after all. Instead he’d carried on, putting his head deeper and deeper into the lion’s mouth. He could see now it had been selfish. If he got Yuri back he’d give it up, work in a factory if needs be, and keep his head where it belonged-intact and on his shoulders.
His steps were slow as he climbed the stairs to his apartment-not least, because he’d no hope whatsoever that his son would be there waiting for him. It felt as if the very air itself was thick with collective anxiety, and no trace of the joy he’d expect if the boy had returned safe and sound. He wondered what the other inhabitants of the building made of it all-he’d no doubt they’d seen him park the car, watched him cross the road, and now were listening to his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. They’d no doubt seen the two Chekists pull in behind him, as well.
Perhaps they’d already come to the conclusion that whatever was going on with Korolev’s son, it would be best to avoid the Militiaman until the matter had resolved itself, one way or another. He couldn’t blame them. He doubted Lobkovskaya was the only one who knew that Chekists had searched his room. And now he was going to have to tell Valentina what had happened-and he wondered what she might say.
He opened the door to his apartment and walked through to the shared room. Valentina was sitting at the table, Natasha beside her. Lobkovskaya was on the Chesterfield and Shura, Babel’s maid, was beside her. He stopped, looking from face to face, thinking what good fortune it was to have friends such as these-and what a responsibility as well. Valentina, meanwhile, had risen to her feet in one graceful movement. She came to him and wrapped her arms around him and held him close, and Korolev, despite himself, felt tears itching the corners of his eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Somehow he slept. It probably helped that he was tired from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet but, even so, at first he found himself waking at the slightest sound, wondering if those might be Yuri’s footsteps on the staircase or if the argument down the lane might be something to do with his son.
Eventually sleep took him in its firm grasp and the next thing he knew the early dawn was brightening the window. And then he was on his feet and on the move. He wanted to go to Kievsky station again first thing-if Yuri was in Moscow, he might still be in the neighborhood of the station, and if he went early enough, he wouldn’t be missed from the investigation. And he also wanted to find out if Yasimov had tracked down any of Goldstein’s lairs and what, if anything, he’d found there.
He was just walking out onto the street when he saw them: the Chekists who’d followed him halfway round Moscow for most of the previous day, it seemed. They were standing under a streetlamp, smoking and, as usual, they didn’t avoid his gaze-instead the plump one waved him over. Korolev looked at them, the collar of his shirt suddenly feeling like a noose. He stared, hoping he’d mistaken the gesture, but then it came again, irritated now. The other one tapped his watch, as if to say, “We haven’t all day, Citizen Korolev, we’ve other people to be arresting as well, you know.”
There was no ceremony when he reached them. They didn’t introduce themselves or tell him what they wanted from him-just directed him down the lane, one of them falling in on either side. They didn’t seem that interested in him, if the truth be told-in fact one of them yawned loudly. He wondered whether they’d slept, it didn’t look like it-they were unshaven and his nose told him they both needed a wash. Perhaps they’d been up all night, doing whatever men like them did. It was really nighttime work, their business, after all.
They turned left at the corner, toward the sugar refinery, and Korolev wasn’t surprised to see their car parked farther along the street. There was also another car, however-a brand new ZIS, its chrome gleaming despite the long early morning shadows, a driver leaning against it.