Zhenia would have liked it, he thought. His ex-wife had given up their old room in the Presnaya district a year or so after the divorce and returned to her people in Zagorsk. She’d never much liked Moscow, but as one of the first Soviet-educated female engineers, the capital had offered her opportunities for advancement, as well as the excitement of being at the center of a Revolution that was transforming history itself. Indeed, she’d been a poster girl for the new revolutionary society and why she’d chosen Korolev, when half the men in Moscow had been after her, had been a mystery to him. After three years of marriage it had been to her as well. It hadn’t helped that he’d been an investigator, of course not, but then she’d worked even longer hours. They’d met in bed like strangers sometimes, and from one of those encounters Yuri had been conceived. The thought of Yuri saddened him; he hadn’t seen the boy for six months. She had a new man now, a doctor, and it worried him. How long would it be before Yuri started calling the stranger “Papa?” Would he even remember Korolev the next time they met?
Korolev put the handwritten pages in order, wrote a request for four copies, then took out his hat from the bottom drawer of the desk in preparation for the walk home. Zagorsk was just too damned far away-but he’d make the trip in the spring, no matter what.
On the way out he stopped on the first floor and knocked at a wooden window, which guarded the all-female typing pool as though it were an Ottoman harem. A moment passed before the panel slid back and a tired female face peered out at him. He couldn’t remember seeing her before and he watched her examine his epaulettes, noticing the slight stiffening of posture that they brought.
“Yes, Captain? Something urgent?”
“A report for the general. He needs it for tomorrow morning. Four copies altogether.”
“Four copies.” The woman flicked back her gray-streaked brown hair from her eyes as she examined the papers. The gesture was almost sensuous. “Captain Korolev,” she read. “That’s you?”
“Yes.”
“Eight o’clock in the morning?”
“Thank you.” He thought he saw the ghost of a smile lighten her features. “One thing, though. It’s not one for an inexperienced typist. It’s a murder, a young woman-not very pleasant. Probably best to give it to someone who’s been here a bit longer.”
She took a quick look at the first page, raised her eyebrows and nodded her head gravely in agreement, then smiled before sliding the panel shut.
He walked home, keeping to the main thoroughfares and maintaining a good pace. There were the usual queues outside the late-night shops and tired groups of workers, covered from head to toe in grime, were making their way back to their hostels, passing their replacements, only a little cleaner, heading in the opposite direction. There were students, hands bunching threadbare coats around their throats, and, even this close to the Kremlin, beggars with the dead eyes of the starving. There were more of them recently-despite it being a criminal offense with a five-year ticket attached. Yet, for all the people, there was not much noise. The rumble of a truck passing drowned out what little conversation there was. It was as if the citizens suspected they were being listened to, and Korolev suspected they might have a point.
Turning a corner, Korolev saw two men with the strange pigeon walk that marked them out as belonging to the caste of Thieves. They recognized him for what he was as well, but showed no obvious reaction, except that one made a comment to the other as they walked by. Of all the people he’d passed they were the only ones who seemed relaxed. The Party believed in the principle of re-education for criminals, and so hooligans and bandits were receiving political lectures rather than lengthy sentences. What was more, Korolev, as a policeman, suspected the only real education the Thieves received in the Zone, as the camp and prison system was known, was from other Thieves. And the leniency to professional criminals meant Soviet cities weren’t as safe as they should be.
It was a different story for political prisoners, of course-they were punished to the full extent of the law.
Still, the streets seemed quiet tonight, perhaps because it was cold, certainly below freezing point. He looked up at the dark sky lurking above the street lights and wondered if it would snow. He turned the corner of the Lubianka and, as usual, scanned the street ahead for trouble. It was more out of habit than from a perception of risk-after all, any sane criminal would stay well clear of the NKVD headquarters-so he was surprised when he saw black cars pulled up outside the Dzherzhinskaya Metro station and a crowd that swirled and jostled with excitement.
As he approached, the several hundred people seemingly laying siege to the station entrance appeared all the stranger. Perhaps it was a terrorist attack or an accident. He quickened his pace and patted his holster, checking the gun was secured in case there was rough stuff ahead, but the crowd seemed in a good mood, even cheering, as they surged forward and backward. A line of Chekists and Red Army soldiers, faces pale under the street lights, had joined elbows to hold the ever-growing number of citizens away from a convoy of black cars that was parked in front of the large illuminated M marking the station entrance. The line looked as though it would be brushed aside at any moment, but, despite the number of people, and Korolev estimated there were now close to a thousand souls waving thin hands and red handkerchiefs, he had the sense that the situation was under control.
The shouting slackened for a moment as the gleaming door of one of the limousines opened and a familiar face, pitted by smallpox and bedecked with a thick mustache, emerged, black eyes taking everything in. It was a powerful gaze, as sure of itself as a champion boxer’s, and Korolev felt his own hand rising in salute. He joined in the growl of approval, which built into a roar that sent the hairs on the back of his neck shivering as his fist clenched above his head.
“Stalin! Stalin! Stalin!” the crowd cheered and Korolev bellowed along with them. Bulky Chekists gathered round the General Secretary, but they seemed small beside him, as though the world had to adjust to his scale because he clearly wasn’t that tall, maybe five foot three. It must be the presence of the man, Korolev thought, and then found himself shouting Stalin’s name again as the great man smiled at the crowd, his mustache curling upward. He touched his arm stiffly to his military cap in acknowledgment, but only as if to say, “You aren’t cheering me, you’re cheering my position in the Party, and I accept the adulation on that basis alone.”
One of his bodyguards leaned to whisper in Stalin’s ear and the General Secretary nodded in agreement, then smiled at the crowd once again before disappearing into the Metro station. Other men stepped out of the cars now: Ezhov, Molotov, Budyonny with his cavalryman’s twirling mustache, Ordzhonikidze, Mikoyan. It seemed as though half the Politburo had decided to take the Metro home. They smiled blearily from behind the collars of their greatcoats and leather jackets and followed Stalin inside. Some of them seemed a little unsteady on their feet, as though they’d been drinking. Their waves and salutes were friendly also, similarly dismissive of the adulation: “We’re all workers for the Revolution together, Comrades, no need to make a fuss.” And when the last of them had disappeared inside the crowd wanted to follow them, but the Chekists held firm and exhorted them to be patient, to give the leaders some room.
“Stand back, Citizens!” a man with a loudhailer instructed and the crowd reluctantly complied, stepping back as the Chekist cordon advanced. Now that Stalin had gone, they turned to each other and discussed what they’d seen-enthusiastic, like children. Korolev skirted the crowd, hearing snatches of conversation as he moved past.