Authors: William Ryan
‘It will take me some time to get there by train,’ he said.
‘There’s a plane leaving for Odessa from the Central Airport in two hours and twenty-five minutes. You’ve just got time to go home and pick up some clothes. Todorov will take
you. Someone will meet you at the airport with the information we’ve pulled together on this matter – you can read it on the way.’
Korolev had never been in a plane before and had never expected to be in one either. The prospect took him aback for a moment. The colonel seemed to interpret this as concern about the nature of
his mission.
‘Look, Korolev. In this case, it’s important we act carefully and establish the truth. We could use the local Militia people, but we want to have direct control of this and someone
we know working on it. We could send in the local Chekists, but our people can be too enthusiastic. Certainly, if it’s murder, we might think again – but for the moment it’s your
case.’
‘A few things, then,’ Korolev said, pulling himself together. ‘A pathologist should examine her immediately.’
‘No one will examine her until you’re there.’
‘But, Colonel—’ Korolev began, before Rodinov interrupted him.
‘You are Comrade Ezhov’s eyes and ears. You are to be present at every stage of this investigation.’
‘But bodies deteriorate, and there are tests that must be done as soon as possible to determine time and means of death.’
‘Let me remind you, Captain, that as far as the world is concerned this is a suicide, nothing more, and we don’t want to do anything that might suggest otherwise. Let me ask you
– would the Militia haul a pathologist all the way from Odessa in the middle of the night for a suicide? These days?’
A fair point, Korolev conceded. Self-homicide had become so common recently that it would be rare for a pathologist to see the body at all. Rodinov nodded, seeing that Korolev understood.
‘The body has been moved to an ice house so it won’t deteriorate, and a pathologist will visit tomorrow at the same time as you arrive. Anything else?’
‘If possible, the place where she died should be protected – if it turns out to be murder there’s no need to make the forensics men’s job any more difficult than it has
to be.’
‘I’ll pass that on.’
There wasn’t much else to be said, so Korolev placed the photograph back on the desk and stood up, ready to go. Rodinov also stood and walked him to the door, placing a hand on
Korolev’s shoulder.
‘This is an opportunity to perform a useful service for Comrade Ezhov – remember that. He doesn’t forget his friends.’
Korolev nodded, thinking of the dead girl, and wondering whether, these days, it was such a good thing to be Commissar Ezhov’s friend.
THE CENTRAL Airport’s administrative buildings, workshops and hangars were surrounded by a thick white mist and Moscow felt a long way away. Korolev had been driven here
at breakneck pace on the icy roads by Todorov, the young Chekist, fog notwithstanding. Now, in contrast, everything was still and silent except for the low murmur of conversation from two
mechanics, one of them female, who were refuelling the tiny aeroplane that was taking off for Odessa in less than half an hour.
‘A Kalinin K-5,’ a voice behind him said and Korolev turned to see a burly figure dressed in an ankle-length fur coat. The man’s black eyes were the only visible part of him,
what with his round fur hat and turned-up collar, but Korolev had the impression of intense watchfulness all the same, as if he were being assessed for some reason. ‘It’s a good plane.
Still, best to dress up warm, Comrade – the cabin is heated, but all the same it can get cold up there.’
Korolev turned to examine the aircraft once again. It didn’t look very solid, but that was surely a good thing if it was meant to fly up to the heavens.
‘I don’t know much about them,’ he said, conscious of a certain skittishness in his lower stomach.
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry. She’s a beauty, I fly this route seven or eight times a year. She’s always on time, more or less.’
The fur hat slapped the aircraft’s flank appreciatively as if it were a trusted charger, and its thin metal skin responded with a wobbly boom.
‘She has a top speed of nearly two hundred kilometres an hour – can you imagine? And she’ll take us all the way to Kursk in one go. We’ll be in Odessa in the early
afternoon if the wind is behind us and they refuel quickly. There are sometimes delays, of course.’ The man shrugged his shoulders and Korolev nodded his understanding. There were often
delays, but even the possibility of being in Odessa within seven hours was astonishing. It had taken him nearly a month to get back from Odessa when he’d been discharged from the army in
’twenty-two, and that must be more or less the same distance. He put a gloved hand to one of the struts and pulled – it seemed sturdy.
‘It doesn’t look like much,’ Korolev said. ‘I mean – to go so fast and up so high.’
‘She’s reliable,’ the hat said firmly. ‘The new planes may be quicker and bigger, but this one’s never let us down. Am I right, Antonina Vladimirovna?’
‘You are indeed, Comrade Belakovsky.’ The young mechanic smiled – white teeth flashing in the light from a lantern. It occurred to Korolev that the girl was perhaps too young
for such a responsible job.
‘You should make a film about her,’ she continued.
Belakovsky laughed, revealing a pock-marked nose and a scrubby salt and pepper moustache that nestled under widely spaced nostrils. Korolev thought he recognized the fellow from a newspaper, or
perhaps a newsreel, and held out his hand in greeting.
‘Korolev,’ Korolev said. ‘Alexei Dmitriyevich. Moscow CID.’
‘Nice to meet you, Comrade Korolev. Belakovsky, Igor Zakharovich. And what takes you to Odessa?’ Korolev was considering how to respond when a officious-looking woman in a thick
padded coat came out of the terminal building.
‘Comrade Belakovsky? Comrade Korolev? We must weigh you now.’ She waved them towards the doorway.
‘The plane can only carry so much weight, Korolev,’ Belakovsky explained, seeing his surprise.
Sure enough, inside the terminal a pilot in a long leather flying coat was standing on some scales with a canvas postal bag in one hand and a half-smoked papirosa in the other.
‘One hundred and six kilos,’ said the female clerk, writing it into a ledger. ‘You’re putting on weight, Anton Ivanovich.’
‘It’s the post,’ the pilot answered gruffly, sucking on the paper tube of the cigarette, and Korolev was sure his voice was slurred. He certainly looked the worse for wear. At
least his colleague, a younger fellow with a clean shirt poking out from his fur collar, had bothered to put a razor to his chin. Unless, of course, he didn’t yet have to shave – it was
possible, he supposed. The boy
was
very young – but surely there would be exams and so on. They wouldn’t let just anyone fly such a valuable piece of machinery, would they?
The passengers lined up and Korolev saw that he was in privileged company. A short, round-chested officer with a general’s insignia on his collar and a cluster of medals visible underneath
his open greatcoat was next in line. Belakovsky took Korolev’s arm.
‘Comrade Korolev, you must meet Stepan Pavlovich. You’ll have read his articles in
Izvestia
. Lomatkin – the journalist? Comrade Lomatkin, this is Korolev from Petrovka
Street. A detective, I’m guessing.’
Korolev shook the hand of a thin young man, handsome in a bookish sort of way, who looked slightly nervous. Perhaps it was his first time flying as well.
The next fellow on the scales had Party cadre written all over him – a pale ascetic-looking fellow in a long brown coat that looked even more military than the general’s. He stood
unsmiling, a small leather suitcase in his hand.
‘Seventy-five kilos, Comrade Bagraev,’ the weigher said. ‘Captain Korolev, please.’
Korolev walked over and took his turn on the scales, sucking in his breath. He hadn’t had time to pack anything more than his arrest bag but, still, he wasn’t a small man.
‘Ninety-one kilos,’ the clerk said, and Korolev could see the Party bigwig’s disapproval as he stepped down. It didn’t seem to matter that Korolev was a good four inches
taller than him, the fellow clearly had him marked down as some sort of speculator, well fed on contraband butter.
‘What happens if there’s too much weight?’ Korolev asked Lomatkin in a quiet voice, so as not to be overheard by the disapproving Bagraev.
‘At this time of year they have to be careful with ice building up on the wings.’
Korolev looked out through the nearest window at the aeroplane and imagined it caked with ice.
‘What happens then?’ he asked and Lomatkin shrugged in a manner that left Korolev in no doubt that too much ice wasn’t a recipe for a long life.
When all the passengers had been weighed and their names checked off, the younger pilot and the clerk examined the ledger and the latter flicked balls back and forth on an abacus. Their faces
were grave and Korolev felt every one of his ninety-one kilos, bag included.
‘Captain Korolev?’ a voice asked. He looked round to see blue eyes in a pale pudgy face only a few centimetres away from his own. Korolev nodded and the man held out a thick
envelope.
‘Goldberg. Colonel Rodinov sent me with a package for you. To read on the plane. Please sign this receipt.’
Korolev signed with the pen the Chekist handed him and accepted the offering, feeling its weight, thinking someone must have worked like a dog to get it ready.
‘Captain Korolev, would you come forward please?’ the weighing clerk asked and he caught the tail of a smug glance from the Party bigwig, but Goldberg, assessing the situation in an
instant, walked across to the clerk and whispered in her ear. The clerk asked a question, her face seeming to lose a little colour, and the Chekist nodded.
‘Excuse me, Captain Korolev, I made a mistake,’ the clerk said, her voice uncertain, and looked down at the list again. ‘Comrade Bagraev, please – could I ask you come to
the desk?’
The Party boss shot Korolev a look of irritation and walked brusquely over to the clerk, his whole demeanour expressing impatience.
‘What is the meaning of this? I’m due in Kursk this afternoon on Party business of the highest importance—’ Bagraev began, but his protest was interrupted by Goldberg
tugging his sleeve. Bagraev looked at him in annoyance but stopped speaking. Goldberg leant in close and whispered once again. It was interesting to Korolev to see how quickly the irritation
disappeared. Bagraev’s mouth opened as though to speak and hung there for a moment, making him look like a beached fish. He darted a look at Korolev, nodded sharply to the Chekist, then
turned to walk out of the building without another word.
Goldberg came back. ‘Is there anything else I can assist with?’
‘No,’ Korolev said, conscious that everyone in the building was looking at him. ‘You’ve been more than helpful already, Comrade.’
‘A pleasure,’ Goldberg said in his quiet voice. ‘You’ll be met by Major Mushkin at the airport. The colonel asked me to tell you that he expects to hear from you this
evening – the major will arrange the call. Enjoy the flight.’ He touched a finger to his hat in salute and turned to leave.
Outside the fog still lingered as the passengers walked across the packed snow towards the aeroplane. At first Korolev thought the bone-shuddering noise came from the Kalinin’s single
engine, but then, through the mist, dark shadows came in a line from the left, accelerating as their propellers struggled to lift them into the sky. The roar of engines felt solid – as though
someone were pushing at his chest – and even Korolev recognized that the fuselages belonged to bombers. They came past, one after the other, a chain of fat black silhouettes, their propellers
creating a snowstorm that forced Korolev to look through squinted eyes.
‘Come on, Comrade,’ someone shouted in his ear, and pushed him towards the plane. ‘The imperialists will think twice about attacking us now we have bombers.’
It was the young pilot, and Korolev nodded, knowing what terrible weapons such planes could carry, and followed the boy up the steps to the cramped cabin. The pilot turned and gave him a blanket
from a pile.
‘Here you are, Comrade.’ He looked at Korolev’s well-worn coat and handed him a second.
Korolev settled into his seat and looked out as part of the wing dropped down at the back and the plane juddered forward, turning to the left. He could see burning oil drums marking a way
forward across the flattened snow and he made the sign of the cross in his pocket, feeling his stomach squirm as the plane bounced along, slowly picking up pace. Surely only birds and the Lord
belonged above – if only he could have taken the damned train instead. The window offered him a distorted reflection that gave him no comfort – his face looked as pale as a
choirboy’s surplice and as miserable as a bereaved mother.
‘Christ protect me,’ Korolev muttered as the plane lurched into the air before landing again with a solid bump and a worrying slide. He was thankful no one could hear him with all
the racket. Finally, with the engine whining like an angry swarm of giant hornets, the plane soared upwards and the lights disappeared into the mist.
For a while they flew in a grey world, completely alone, as the plane hauled itself upward, metre by metre, the pressure in Korolev’s ears building as he desperately tried to swallow,
before, eventually, they left the milky sea beneath them and he saw a splash of blue sky to the left, which slowly grew so that the dawn sun shone into the cabin, bathing the other passengers in
gold. Korolev could see the suburbs of Moscow far beneath him, or at least the rooftops, and a frozen curve of the Moskva River where the morning mist had cleared a thousand feet below. He glanced
away from the window and caught Lomatkin looking over at him. Korolev nodded back with what he hoped was polite enthusiasm, but he didn’t like this flying one bit. Not one tiny little
bit.
After a few minutes of gritting his teeth so hard he thought there was a chance they might crumble to dust, Korolev decided it would be best to occupy his mind. His gaze fell on Goldberg’s
thick envelope and he opened it.