MOSCOW
MARCH 1
Lukin arrived at Dzerzhinsky Square the next morning at six. While he drank his first coffee, he spread out the map of Moscow and laid several sheets of paper on his desk. He looked at the map. If the Wolf was in Moscow, as he suspected, people had to be helping him. Perhaps Romulka was right about the Frenchman, Lebel. Lukin had phoned Romulka’s office the previous evening, but so far he had not returned the call. He would deal with that later. Right now there were other avenues to explore.
He spread the sheets of paper in front of him. They were lists of names of dissidents, mostly Jews, known supporters of the émigré groups. If any group was suspect and likely to be involved, it was this one. Eight pages that contained 312 names and addresses. It was a mammoth task to check them all, search their homes, and pull them in for questioning, but it had to be done. Some of the people on the lists had already endured harsh prison sentences. Others were allowed to remain free but were secretly watched by the KGB and informers.
There was the chance, of course, that whoever was helping Slanski wasn’t even on the list at all, and at this thought Lukin sighed. The hotels in the city still had to be checked, but he doubted that Slanski would be so foolish as to stay in a hotel. It was too public, a guest had to register, and besides, there weren’t that many hotels in Moscow in which to hide. But they would have to be eliminated. Lukin considered visiting the woman’s cell again but felt it was pointless. In the meantime, he had to do something.
He would need at least fifty men to check the hotels and pick up all those on the list. As he reached for the telephone to call the assignments office, the door opened, and a tired-looking Pasha came in. He had stayed through the night in case any news came in from Leningrad. Lukin put down the phone as Pasha sat in the chair opposite, put his feet on the desk, flung off his cap, and yawned. Lukin asked, “Any news?”
Pasha shook his head and ran a hand over his face. “Not a whisper. It’s been as quiet as the grave. Apart from a visit from Romulka, that is.”
Lukin sat up. “What happened?”
“He turned up last night. Said to tell you he had a Frenchman named Lebel. Who’s he?”
Lukin explained and Pasha said, “Who knows? Romulka might be right. He also said he wanted to see the woman.”
“And?”
“And I wouldn’t let him. I told him he’d have to see you first. He said he’s going to put me on report. But I say let him. The mood he was in, he would have probably done her damage. Let Romulka crawl to Beria and moan all he likes. What can they do, send me to a labor camp? Where I come from it gets much colder, and the food’s no worse.”
“Thanks, Pasha.” Lukin guessed that Romulka had ignored his phone call because of Pasha’s refusal. “How is she?”
“Awake, last time I looked.”
“How does she seem?”
“Like someone switched the lights off inside her heart.”
“You tried to talk with her?”
Pasha nodded. “Sure, like you asked. I brought her some food and coffee last night and this morning. But she just sits there, saying nothing and staring at the walls.” He sighed. “You really think she’ll talk?”
“I wish I knew, but somehow I doubt it. And I don’t have much time left. The question is, can she really help us? I get the feeling she may not know where Slanski is, as she claims. The problem is, that means we’re going to have to hand her over to Beria soon. It wouldn’t be beyond him to harm the child to make her talk. We have to find Slanski, if only for the child’s sake.”
Pasha stood. “Whatever happens, either way the woman’s dead. You know that, Yuri. Beria won’t send her to a camp. He’ll kill her.”
Lukin said solemnly, “I know.”
“What happens now?” asked Pasha.
Lukin told him what he intended. “It may turn up something, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
Pasha said, “I’ve been thinking about the missing pages in the Wolf’s file. If we could see the original, maybe there’s something in there that could help us. Relatives he had in Moscow, friends of his family he might be tempted to approach if he’s desperate.”
“I already asked Beria. He said no. If Beria doesn’t want you to see everything in a file, you don’t see it.”
Pasha grinned. “True, but there are other ways to crack a nut.”
“How? The Archives office is out of bounds without a permit. There are sensitive files kept there, top-secret files. A man could lose his head if he’s caught.”
“The chief of Archives is a Mongol. He drinks like a camel after a month without water. I could get him drunk and borrow his keys and have a look for the original.”
“Forget it, Pasha, it’s too risky, and it’s unlikely the Wolf would use such people in Moscow. He’s been away too long.”
“How about I simply ask the chief?”
Lukin shook his head. “I told you what Beria said. His word is law. And there’s probably nothing much in there relevant to the case. Besides, it isn’t worth it if you’re caught riffling through files without permission. Forget it.”
Pasha shrugged. “If you say so.”
• • •
It was dark as the Skoda pulled up on Kutuzovsky Prospect just before seven that morning. Slanski climbed out dressed in the major’s uniform and said to Irena, “You know what to do. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Good luck.”
He watched as Irena drove off, and then he walked back along the street. There was hardly any traffic, but the trolley buses were running, blue sparks illuminating the morning darkness as they whirred along the prospect. He could make out the numbers of the apartment houses under the porch lights, and he counted them off as he walked.
Number 27 looked much like its neighbors. It was a big old granite four-story residence from the tsar’s time, which had obviously once been the home of a wealthy family but was now converted into apartments. There was no sign of the olive-green BMW outside in the street.
Slanski saw that the blue-painted entrance door was open and walked up the front garden path. He saw the names and numbers of the occupants written on small white cards above recessed letter boxes inside on the porch.
Apartment 14 sported the name Lukin. He pushed open the front door and stepped into a long, dark hallway. A stairway led up from the hall, and there was a faint wash of light from one of the upstairs landings. The hallway smelled of lavender polish. Two bicycles were stood against a wall, and he heard muffled voices somewhere off in the building.
He climbed the stairs up to the second floor. The landing light was on, and he saw the door, number 14 stenciled on the wood. No name, just the number. He examined the locks. Two. One top, one bottom. He put his ear to the door but heard no sound from inside. He guessed Lukin’s wife was still sleeping.
He went down the stairs again and walked around to the rear of the apartment block. The side path had been freshly swept of snow. There was a long communal garden at the back, covered in a blanket of white. A lamp was on, illuminating a paved walkway. A couple of wrought-iron summer benches sat under bare cherry trees and some overgrown melon patches lay tangled under a small greenhouse partly covered by snow.
Slanski looked at the back of the block. Some lights were on but the curtains were still closed. At the end of the garden he saw a wooden door set in a crumbling granite wall. He guessed it led to an alleyway at the back. He went down the path and saw that the door was almost rotted through. He pushed. It barely moved, and he had to kick away the snow piled at the bottom before the wood budged. The door opened onto an alleyway behind the house, as he had expected. It was dark and appeared deserted, but to the left and right at the end of the alleyway he saw streetlights. He guessed the alleyway led to side streets off Kutuzovsky Prospect.
He stepped back into the garden and went halfway up the path. He looked up at the second floor, counting off the windows until he guessed that number 14 was situated to the right of the middle. There were no lights on behind the curtain, and he walked back around to the front of the building. As he strolled back down the front path suddenly a voice behind him said, “Can I help you, comrade?”
Slanski turned and froze. An old man stood just inside the porch. He wore a greasy black peasant’s cap and a patched overcoat with string tied around the waist, a thick woolen scarf around his neck. He looked as if he hadn’t been up long, his eyes red raw, and he had a garden broom and some twigs and dead leaves in his hands. Slanski smiled. “I’m looking for an old friend of mine.”
“Really. And who would that be?”
He guessed the man was the block janitor. A pair of eyes stared at him suspiciously.
“Major Lukin. I believe he’s in apartment fourteen.”
“He’s a friend of yours, is he?” The old man took in the uniform shoulder boards.
“From the war, comrade. I haven’t seen him in a few years. I’m on leave in Moscow. Just got in from Kiev this morning on the overnight train. Is the major at home?”
“He left early, I’d say. His car’s not here. You ought to find him at Dzerzhinsky Square. But his wife ought to be back soon. She usually goes shopping early on Saturday mornings to the vegetable market. She gets back before eight.”
“Of course, Yuri’s wife. I’m afraid I can’t remember her name.”
The old man gave a cackled laugh as he leaned on his broom handle. “Nadia. A redhead. Good-looker.”
Slanski smiled back. “That’s her. Lukin did all right for himself.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll call back later. But do me a favor. If you see Nadia, don’t tell her I called. I’d like to surprise her. You know how it is.”
The old man winked as he touched his cap. “As the major wishes.” Slanski tapped him on the shoulder and looked down at the swept path. “You’re doing a fine job here, comrade. Keep up the good work.”
• • •
Slanski walked back and crossed over to the other side of the street. A café stood fifty yards beyond. The lights were on and he went inside.
It was a dismal-looking place but full of early morning workers. Taxi and tram drivers and sleepy-looking shop girls from the stores along Kutuzovsky Prospect having coffee or breakfast. It smelled of rancid food and stale cigarette smoke, and everyone in it looked bored to death or half asleep. It took him almost ten minutes to get a glass of tea. He found a free table by the window.
Slanski sat smoking a cigarette. The streetlamps were on and the light was reasonable, so he had a good view of the apartment block across the street. The old janitor was still clearing away debris from the front garden, but ten minutes later he disappeared into the building.
Meeting the old man had been a help—now he had the name of Lukin’s wife and a brief description—but he could also be a problem. If he didn’t stay out of the way, Slanski would have to deal with him, and he hoped to avoid complicating things.
Fifteen minutes later he saw the woman across the street. He didn’t notice her red hair at first because she wore a fur hat, but when she turned into the pathway he spotted the flame-red color at the nape of her neck. She carried a heavy shopping basket and was dressed in a fur-collared coat and knee boots. From the brief glimpse he had of her face she looked pretty. He watched her go in the front door.
Slanski sat in the café for another five minutes, waiting to see if the janitor reappeared. He didn’t, and Slanski crushed out his cigarette and stood up.
He crossed the street briskly, and when he rounded the corner nearest the apartment block he saw Irena sitting in the parked Skoda, a woolen scarf partly covering her face. The Skoda’s license plates were muddied and unreadable. He tapped on the passenger window and he saw her start as she looked around, then she opened the door for him and he climbed inside.
Irena looked frozen. “What kept you? I was beginning to get worried you weren’t coming back.”
“Lukin’s wife was out. I think she’s just come back. She’s alone, as far as I can tell.”
“What if she isn’t?”
“Let me worry about that. I’ll just have to play the cards as they fall. There’s an alleyway around the next corner that leads to the back of the apartment block.”
Irena nodded. “I saw it.”
“A door leads out from the garden. It’s about midway along. Wait for me at this end of the alleyway.”
“What if someone asks me what I’m doing there?”
“Just tell them the car’s broken down, and you’re waiting for a friend. Keep the scarf covering your face.” Slanski saw the doubtful look on her face and smiled. “Trust me.”
“You’re a crazy man, and I don’t know why but I do.”
“See you soon.”
Slanski stepped out of the Skoda and walked back around to the front of number 27. He went up the path and still saw no sign of the janitor. He climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing. He took the bottle of ether out of his pocket and uncorked the top. He doused a handkerchief with a splash of the liquid. The pungent vapor was sickly and overpowering, and he quickly stuffed the bottle and the handkerchief back in his pockets. He checked that his holster flap was undone and his weapon ready. He knocked on the door.
The woman appeared almost at once. It was the same woman he had seen go up the path. Red-haired, pretty. She had removed her coat and wore a dress and cardigan and a kitchen apron. When she opened the door she frowned slightly at the sight of the uniform, but when Slanski smiled she smiled back and wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes?”
Slanski glanced over her shoulder. The narrow hallway behind her looked empty. “Madame Lukin? Nadia Lukin?”
“Yes.”
At that moment Slanski pushed in the door and lunged at the woman. As she started to scream his hand went over her mouth, and he kicked the door shut behind him.
• • •
Lukin was standing at the office window shortly before noon, smoking a cigarette, when he saw the gates in the courtyard below swing open and two Zis trucks drive in and brake to a halt on the cobbles. Plainclothes KGB men and uniformed militia jumped down and began to force a crowd of civilian prisoners from the trucks, beating them with rifle butts. As he stood watching there was a knock on the door. “Enter.” Pasha came in, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
Lukin said, “I thought I’d see how the men were making out with the city hotels. Any luck?”
“They’ve covered half on the list but nothing so far.”
Lukin nodded down into the courtyard as the trucks disgorged their cargo. “What’s going on down there?”
Pasha came to the window and looked down. “More work for the bully boys in the cellars, by the look of it. They’re the people on the dissident lists being brought in for questioning. The rest are still being rounded up. The interrogation teams will let us know if anything turns up. We should have everyone on the lists covered by tonight. The men are working flat out.”
Lukin sighed and nodded. “Hardly quick enough. Okay, keep checking the hotels. When you’re finished, I want you to have the men check all the cooperative guesthouses to within a fifteen-mile radius of Moscow.”
“Yuri, there must be hundreds . . .”
“And I want them checked, Pasha. All of them. And another thing.” Lukin nodded down at the courtyard. “Tell whoever’s in charge below to go easy on the prisoners. They’re citizens, not cattle for slaughter.”
“As you say.” Pasha nodded and left.
Lukin looked at his watch. Another twelve hours and Anna Khorev’s time was up. If she didn’t talk soon, he’d have to deliver her to Beria and face him himself. He’d have to try to interrogate her again.
The door burst open without a knock. Romulka stood grinning. “I thought I’d find you here. Well, Lukin, any progress?”
“Not as yet. What do you want?”
“Just a friendly chat.”
“The prisoner, Lebel, where is he?”
“Odd, but that’s what I came to see you about. Right now he’s in one of the cellars being softened up.”
“I told you to be careful, Romulka. The man has connections. I want to see him.”
Romulka shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Lukin. The Frenchman is mine. And Beria will tell you that if you care to ask.”
“As officer in charge I demand it.”
Romulka stepped closer and tapped the riding crop in his palm. “Demand all you like. Of course, we could always come to an agreement. Let me interrogate the woman, and you get access to Lebel in return.”
“Forget it.”
Romulka grinned. “A pity. I would have enjoyed a little fun with her. Still, another twelve hours and she’ll be mine.”
“You’re the lowest form of life, Romulka.”
“A matter of opinion, surely. Think about the offer, Lukin. And remember, it’s not my life at stake—it’s yours.” With that he went out of the door.
Lukin returned to the window and bit back his anger. He heard more vehicles entering the courtyard. Another two Zis trucks pulled up, and this time a couple of militiamen tied back the canvas flaps and jumped down. As they unslung their rifles, a group of frightened-looking men and women prisoners began to climb out of the trucks. One of the women fell to her knees, and a militiaman struck her across the face with his rifle.
As Lukin went to turn away in frustration, he saw Pasha cross the courtyard and have words with the sergeant in charge. So many people were going to suffer unnecessarily because of the Wolf. Many would end up in prison or the Gulags. Some would die.
Lukin shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He had slept badly last night, tossed and turned for four hours, and his mood had upset Nadia. He wanted to forget he had ever become part of this nightmare. But he had to get the woman to tell him what she knew.
As he reached for his cap, the telephone jangled. He picked it up.
A man’s voice said, “Major Lukin?”
“Yes, this is Lukin.”
There was a pause, then the voice said, “Major, we need to talk.”