And so it went on, and on, and on. Anything that could be done to mine a man’s mind, to change it, stretch it, or compress it-had been tried. Thankfully the scientific basis of most of what the professor had attempted had been questioned by the doctor. The section that covered research irregularities was almost unreadable, as the professor-at least, Korolev presumed it was the professor-had scribbled out entire paragraphs. But from what Korolev could make of it, there was an established way of doing these things, and the professor had done it the wrong way-stumbling around looking for a quick solution, rather than taking it step by step. When Shtange had moved on to ethical irregularities, the professor’s notes had seemed calmer-“Bourgeois Morality!” he’d written beside a paragraph in which Shtange had questioned the use of humans for such research. “Necessary sacrifices for the greater cause of socialism,” had been his comment when Shtange had questioned the deaths of so many of the subjects. And beside the paragraph that had confirmed Korolev’s worst fears-children had indeed been used and in nearly every aspect of the research-Azarov had written a brief defense in the margin: “Children have proved the most pliant research subjects-great progress has been made thanks to their inclusion in experimental activities.”
Korolev put his hand over his mouth when he read this, his stomach plummeting. He swore to himself that if the professor hadn’t already been dead then he himself would have done the job. Cheerfully.
But it was the section that dealt with financial irregularities that caught Korolev’s particular attention-unaccounted-for expenditures, inflated prices paid for basic equipment, salaries paid to nonexistent employees. In Shtange’s opinion, the institute’s budget had been stripped of large quantities of the foreign currency allocated to it for the purchase of equipment, books, periodicals, and any number of other items from abroad-and irregularities were apparent in every aspect of the finances. Shtange had no idea who was stealing from the NKVD on such a scale, but considered it imperative that it was investigated immediately.
But the professor knew, because he’d written one name, over and over again, beside each allegation.
Zaitsev.
Zaitsev.
Zaitsev.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Korolev put the report back into its envelope and then dropped it into the waiting cavity and replaced the bottom drawer. He had a good idea what might have been said during one of those phone calls Kuznetsky had found out about.
He stood and walked to the window, looking down on the children playing in the small park, before changing his focus to see the grim, merciless anger that showed in his reflection. He reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lit one up, thinking it all through, and when he’d finished he stubbed the butt out on the glass before opening the window and flicking it out. It was uncultured, the act of a hooligan. But then he’d just read what cultured men had got up to in the name of science. Maybe being uncultured wasn’t such a bad thing, if you knew what was right and what was wrong. It might be “bourgeois morality” to a wretch like the professor, but in Korolev’s opinion knowing the difference between right and wrong was what separated humans from wolves.
The stack of files was still on the table and Korolev walked over to it, going through them until he found the Bramson file. He picked it up and stopped when he saw the other name on the file. Goldstein. Varvara Goldstein. Bramson’s wife. She’d been arrested on 1 March 1936-three days after a husband whose surname she hadn’t taken. And the couple had a son named after the acronym for the Komsomol International Movement: Kim. Age at the time of the arrest of both his parents-eleven. Korolev swallowed dryly. The same Kim Goldstein who was now on the run from the Vitsin Street Orphanage turned out to be the son of the former occupants of Azarov’s apartment. People who owed their arrests to the professor. Korolev felt the band around his chest tighten another notch or two and reached for another cigarette. If he came through this alive he’d give the damned things up, he swore it-but for the moment, he needed all the help he could get.
Korolev reached for the telephone, tapping for the operator. When she came on the line he asked to be put through to the director of the Vitsin Street Orphanage.
“Comrade Spinsky? Korolev here, from Petrovka. I came to see you last night.”
“I remember.” The tinny voice sounded wary.
“It’s about those two boys-the ones that went missing on Wednesday night. I wanted to know where they might have been earlier in the week.”
“Earlier in the week?”
“Monday and Tuesday in particular.”
“Goldstein and Petrov? They’d have been here on the Monday-it was Tuesday morning that we bussed the boys out to Peredelkino.”
“What are the chances one or both of them could have slipped away at some stage?”
“From the orphanage? We keep a close eye on them, but it’s not a prison,” Spinsky said, and there was no mistaking the director’s concern now.
“So they could have? Do children often leave the Vitsin grounds on their own?”
“Very rarely. Only the older children, even then. As for Goldstein and Petrov-it’s not impossible. Unlikely, but not impossible. You’d have to ask Comrade Tambova or one of the others, to be certain.”
“Tambova? Little Barrel?”
“That’s what the children call her, yes.” The director sounded as though he didn’t approve of such familiarity, either from Korolev or the boys.
“Can I speak to her?”
There was a pause.
“She’s out.”
“Doesn’t she live at the orphanage?”
“She has time off the same as any other citizen. Today is her day off. I’ve no idea where she might be.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“I’ll tell her you called.”
To Korolev’s ears, the director sounded rattled. Korolev wondered if someone might have come to visit him after he’d left the night before. Cartainly Zaitsev would have wanted to know what they’d been talking about, wouldn’t he?
“Last night you mentioned a facility out near Lefortovo where the children who were chosen by Professor Azarov were taken-have you remembered where that facility might be?”
There was a lengthy pause. “I’ve no idea. As I told you yesterday-the institute takes over responsibility for the children once they are transferred.”
“Yes, so you said. So you said. And you’ve heard nothing from either Goldstein or Petrov since last night?” Korolev asked.
“Not a thing. We’ll give them a few more days and then we presume they’ve gone back on the streets. It’s not unusual, Comrade Captain. Not unusual at all.”
Korolev smiled grimly. Someone had got to Spinsky, he was sure of it. The man was doing a good impression of being offhand, but Korolev could almost smell his fear down the telephone line.
“One last question, Comrade Director-I can tell you’re busy. You remember that there were three other children who came in with Goldstein and Petrov back in January. One of them died and the other two were transferred to Professor Azarov’s care. Can you give me the names of the two boys who were transferred?”
“I’m not sure,” Spinsky began.
“Let me remind you who I’m working for on this investigation.”
“One moment,” the director said after a pause, and Korolev heard footsteps and then a drawer squealing open.