CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The general stood in his usual place, looking down on Petrovka Street and smoking his pipe with a pensive air. The street light caught the squalling rain, turning the raindrops into falling white streaks that flew at the window, spattering the glass and leaving Korolev glad he was sitting here in the warmth and not outside, hunched into sodden clothes with his face streaming wet, stuck in a queue for bread that stretched for two blocks ahead of him.

“A terrible thing. Half the kids in from the country have never even seen a tractor, let alone a truck, back on their kolkhoz. Then they get a construction job in Moscow and they’re put into one and told to drive it. Talk to the fellows in traffic-they can tell you stories that would make you weep. They might as well measure you for a wooden jacket when they give you a job as a truck driver in this town. Well, measure a pedestrian more likely.

“The truck driver who hit him was experienced enough, the uniforms said. They think a truck on Larinin’s side of the road ran him into the oncoming traffic and didn’t stop to pick up the pieces. Mind you, that’s all there were-pieces.

“Why would he stop? He saw what happened behind him on the road, didn’t he? And what he saw was ten years for sabotage under Article 58. Did anyone get a number plate? No? So it’s an accident. Leave it at that. The fellow probably didn’t even see Larinin from up in his cab and-who knows?-Larinin might have been in the wrong. The traffic boys will look into it, don’t worry. They’ll poke around enough for all of us, and if something comes of the poking? Well, it’s a different story then.”

Korolev opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw Popov shaking his head and pointing to the ceiling. The general held up the day’s report, a couple of pages only. It occurred to Korolev that the general’s insistence that Larinin’s death was an accident was a little overdone, but if he thought the office might be bugged, then that made sense. He nodded in understanding and the general turned to the first page of Korolev’s skimpy update.

The report was brief for a reason-Korolev hadn’t put anything in there about the dead Chekist because he’d been forbidden to. And as for the meeting with Kolya? He’d mentioned it, but only to indicate it had been a complete waste of time. In the end, the identity of Tesak was the only substantive piece of information it contained.

“So Kolya had nothing to say. Interesting he met with you at all.” Popov let the thought hang there for a moment, and Korolev shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So what next for our inquiry, do you think?”

“We’ll do our best to track down the girl and the car. Keep looking for more local witnesses. Brusilov is still working his way through the Komsomol cell. We have a few known associates of Tesak’s to follow up on. Maybe we’ll get lucky and maybe not. Of course, State Security may take the matter over altogether.”

“Let’s hope they do,” Popov said. “The missing person bulletin has gone round the stations-that might produce something, I suppose.”

They looked at each other glumly.

“It feels like we’re coming to a dead end,” Popov said.

“Maybe for the best. After all, we know there’s a separate investigation going on.” Korolev realized they were both talking for the benefit of a microphone now.

“Agreed,” the general said. “Well, nothing else to be done here tonight. Off you go home.”

Korolev rose to his feet and then sat down again as his legs gave way. The room’s edges seemed soft all of a sudden and he had to swallow repeatedly to counter the nausea he felt. It felt as if all the energy in his body had dropped out through his feet.

“Excuse me,” he managed to say.

“What’s wrong with you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? Are you all right?”

“Just a moment, Comrade General. Forgive me.” He felt the general’s hand take his shoulder and, with some effort, he managed to focus his eyes on the table in front of him, while the rest of the room swayed about in his peripheral vision. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and he swallowed once again. Then it was as if the strength of Popov’s grip provided him with a point of solidity round which he was able to pull himself together again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, after what felt like hours, “I feel a little better now.” He understood, as he said it, that the general had been talking to him, but that he hadn’t heard a word.

“Can you stand?” Popov asked.

Korolev leaned forward to put his hands on the general’s desk for support and then pulled himself to his feet. “Good,” Popov said and patted Korolev’s back, “But I think I should give you a lift home. You look like a two-day-old corpse.”

Korolev wanted to object but the thought of fighting for the space to breathe on a tram changed his mind. “Are you sure, Comrade General?”

“Of course. You’re on the way. Pick up your things and meet me at the main gate. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Korolev said, already imagining the warmth of the car.

Five minutes later Korolev opened the door to the general’s ZIS on Petrovka Street, and sat in. The general smiled at him as they pulled away from the curb.

“Maybe the office is bugged or maybe it isn’t,” he said, “but my phone has developed a hissing sound that wasn’t there three days ago.”

“I see. It could be nothing, of course.”

“Of course, but then there’s another Party meeting tomorrow night.”

“I thought there was one today.”

“There was, but this one is specifically to address the Party cell’s lack of vigilance and potentially counterrevolutionary failings. I’ll be required to participate in the necessary self-criticism as a senior activist.”

The general’s profile revealed no emotion when Korolev turned to look at him, and the way he spoke was matter-of-fact-but Korolev knew how these things went, most of the time anyway. It was like seeing a bear torn to pieces by dogs. The questions came thick and fast, aggressive beyond belief, and no one bothered too much about the answers. If you managed to deal with one dog, two others would be attacking another spot. And the crowd would shout them on, knowing that if they didn’t, they might be the next in the chair.

“I’ll admit my errors, throw myself on the mercy of the Party. Suggest I be assigned to other duties for my failures. I’m not going to fight. If it’s the Party’s opinion that Mendeleyev’s loose mouth was a stab in the back at a time when the State is under threat, then I don’t disagree with them. I liked Knuckles, a good worker, a tough cop-not a Party member but still a Militiaman who should have known better. If I’d been asked before the decision was made to punish him, I’d have taken his record into account. But would that have been the right thing to do? The Party thinks I’ve ignored the political and dealt only with the practical and they’re right. I thought that was what I was meant to do, leave the political to the Chekists. I was wrong, of course.” The general’s voice had grown rough and stilted and Korolev could see his knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

“I’ve shed blood for the Party more than once, Korolev, and I’ll shed it again if it’s needed. We all know the world situation. The Spanish comrades are losing out against the Fascists, the Germans have crushed the Party there and are pushing out their borders, and the Italians are marching through blood in Africa. Sooner or later they’ll come for us-they’re already preparing the way with their spies and provocateurs. The Party knows this. We can’t let our guard drop-they’ll be on us like a flash if we do. If the Party needs an example to remind the department of this, I’m happy to be the example.”