“Where’s Priudski now?” Korolev asked.
“Where you would like him to be?” the colonel said, and seemed pleased with Korolev’s reaction. “You seem surprised-why?”
Korolev’s hunch, after reading the statement, had been that Priudski was dead. That the doorman was available for questioning was indeed a surprising development.
“No reason in particular. Of course, it would be usual procedure for me to interview any witness whose statement we relied upon.” Korolev spoke carefully-he wanted to sound as if he were going along with Zaitsev’s proposal, but he also wanted to give himself some breathing space. Rodinov had been right, he’d have to play this game for himself now-and he needed time to think.
“You see,” he continued, “Colonel Rodinov won’t be satisfied with this statement just on its own. I’ll have to present him with a completed file-every full stop in the right place, every page numbered.”
“Priudski will back up the witness statement, and you may question him as you see fit. I’m aware that Rodinov will need to be fully satisfied by your conclusions. I know the colonel well.”
Korolev didn’t need to have been involved in Professor Azarov’s telepathy experiments to realize Zaitsev didn’t have loving feelings toward his Chekist colleague.
“And custody?”
“Priudski will remain in the custody of the Twelfth Department, the two dead men were ours.”
It seemed this was a point that wasn’t up for negotiation.
“We still haven’t spoken to all the persons we need to,” Korolev said. “I won’t be able to rely on the statement alone.”
“Speak away, as long as we agree on the outcome. You’ll need these.” Zaitsev handed him a sheaf of photographs of Priudski, as well as a fingerprint card. “I shouldn’t be surprised if Priudski’s prints show up at Dr. Shtange’s apartment.”
Korolev looked at the black smudges on the card and read the date beneath them-yesterday’s-and the location where the card had been filled out-“Internal Prison of the NKVD, Moscow-Butyrka.”
“It sounds as if the case is solved,” Korolev said, but he didn’t like the sound of it much.
Zaitsev nodded, closed the briefcase then tapped the confession Korolev was still holding.
“You can keep this. Listen to me, Korolev, and listen carefully. You have a reputation and it’s an admirable reputation in many ways. It’s said you get the job done, no matter what the risks or the obstacles. They tell me you follow the trail to the end. All of that might be very good when you’re hunting bandits or hooligans, but this is a different matter. Know your limitations. I want an end to this investigation within forty-eight hours and I don’t want any cleverness out of you. Just so you understand me.”
“It should be possible,” Korolev said. “I’ll do my best. But Colonel Rodinov is the one I report to.”
“Forty-eight hours, Korolev,” the colonel said in a voice that was as cold as a snowstorm in Siberia. “And there’s something else.”
“I’m at your command, Comrade Colonel.”
“There is a report, prepared by Dr. Shtange. About the institute. I want it.”
Korolev did his best to look as though this was all news to him. It was difficult, under the colonel’s intense examination, but he thought he managed it well enough.
“A report? What kind of a report?”
The colonel seemed to consider how to respond-and if the report contained half of what Anna Shtange thought it might, then Korolev understood why. After all, Zaitsev was the man in ultimate charge of the institute-and that meant he would be responsible for any of its failures.
“I haven’t read the report myself, Korolev. But I understand it is critical of Professor Azarov-serious allegations that I want to investigate thoroughly, without interference. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
“There may be more than one copy. I know Azarov had one, but there may be others. Shtange may have kept one for himself. I need all the copies.”
“I’ll do my best, Comrade Colonel. Believe it.”
“Do better than that, Korolev. I think if you put your mind to it, you’ll find them for me.”
“But-” Korolev began.
“But nothing, Korolev.”
The colonel reached inside his trouser pocket and produced a small pearl-handled pocket knife. A familiar pocket knife. The colonel handed it to him. It felt warm, as if it still held the warmth of Yuri’s hand. Korolev closed his fingers around it, remembering the boy whittling at his stick as they’d walked down to the river.
“Yes, Korolev, it belongs to him. Last night he volunteered to assist the State with an important matter, so I know you won’t object. Of course, there are risks that come with this task, but like any good Pioneer, he knows that duty comes first. Now, I want you to think about that. I understand you don’t like dead bodies-that they make you ill. How would you feel if you were standing over your own son’s corpse, Korolev? Can you imagine what that would be like?”
Korolev said nothing-he couldn’t say anything.
Zaitsev nodded. “So you’ll close this investigation and you’ll find me those reports, won’t you?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“What happened here? In your own words.” Korolev spoke dispassionately. His calm came, strangely, from ice-cold fury. He hadn’t wanted any part of this but they’d dragged him into it all the same-and now they’d taken his son. Why shouldn’t he be angry?
They’d gone through Priudski’s story once already-how he’d opened the door to the Azarovs’ apartment for the doctor, heard the sounds of an argument and the pop, pop of a small revolver. How he’d been horrified by the murder, how Shtange had told him he wanted to spring a surprise on Azarov, nothing more than that. And then, to make matters worse, Shtange had refused to pay up-leaving him with a dead tenant and a guilty conscience. He’d described, step by step, his journey across town to have it out with the murderer, and the meeting’s fatal result-for the doctor at least. From time to time, Slivka had looked more than a little puzzled-unsurprisingly. The story still had plenty of holes in it and, to complicate matters, Zaitsev had sent along his pet boxer, Blanter, who had spent most of the interview cracking his knuckles, one by one-all the while staring at Korolev with what seemed to be intense hatred. The man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a couple of days, his eyes red-rimmed and his stubble a sweaty gray shadow. Perhaps he blamed Korolev. In any event, it wasn’t the ideal atmosphere in which to conduct an interrogation.
Now Priudski stood, in the hallway where Shtange had been killed, looking confused.
“Here?” Priudski asked, looking around him. “You want to know what happened here?”
The carpet had been taken away and the walls cleaned, so that the only sign of the doctor’s murder was a dark stain on the floorboards-a stain which could have been caused by anything. Still, Priudski knew this was the doctor’s apartment and this was the hallway so he must know this was where the murder had been committed-he’d already told them as much in the study. And yet it seemed he didn’t.
“Where are we exactly?” Priudski asked, speaking slowly, as if not wanting to commit himself.
“You’re in an apartment building on Chistye Prudy,” Korolev said, casting a wary glance in Slivka’s direction. Even if this might all be complete nonsense, it was important he persuade Slivka to play along, even if only temporarily-and for that he needed Priudski to play his part just a little better.
“Chistye Prudy?” Priudski scratched his head, dropping his gaze to the floor as if there might be a clue there-but Shtange’s maid had done a good job of making sure that particular clue wasn’t as obvious as it had been the day before.