‘Oh no, no one does that sort of thing. But they were together.’
‘Did they love each other?’
Minka looked down at her shoes: she was still wearing her pink sandals.
‘Sort of,’ she said, feeling a kind of betrayal.
Kobylov got up and left, kicking the door shut, swaggered down the corridor to the next door and opened it. Inside another child sat on his own.
George Satinov looked up, startled.
‘The girl named Rosa Shako loved Nikolasha Blagov?’ asked Kobylov. George blinked at him as if slightly disorientated. He still wore his football strip. Here was a boy who breathed privilege, Kobylov noticed, a right little baron’s son.
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of love? Puppy love? She wanted to marry him?’
‘Real love. Yes. She was so sweet, so romantic about him.’
‘I didn’t ask for her biography. Was it a crush on her part or the real thing?’
‘She probably wanted to marry him but—’
‘Just answer the questions. She loved him. He loved her. Case closed.’
George’s eye twitched and Kobylov could see that he was concentrating, choosing his words carefully. ‘Well . . .’
‘Good boy. That Minka’s a right beauty. Your girl?’
‘No.’
‘Have you kissed her?’
‘No.’
‘Have you fucked her?’
‘No, of course not.’ George raised his hands to his face, blushing.
‘What are you, a sissy?’ Kobylov smiled, relishing his power over the boy. ‘You see? I know all about you. Losha’s my old buddy. Oh yes, we’ve had some moments together, I can tell you.’
Kobylov got up, slammed the door, and went into the next interrogation room where Andrei Kurbsky was being interviewed by his keen subordinate, Mogilchuk.
‘Rosa adored Nikolasha,’ Andrei was saying. ‘She’d do anything for him.’
‘How did he treat her?’ asked Kobylov, taking charge.
‘He shouted at her. He belittled her. He was a real bully. He had to be in charge.’
‘Is this one cooperating?’ Kobylov asked Mogilchuk.
‘I am,’ said Andrei.
‘You’d better be,’ said Kobylov. ‘Because we know who you are, and you’re not like the others. We don’t have to wear silk gloves with you, Kurbsky. You’re the son of an Enemy of the People who’s wormed your way into that school, into the golden youth. And what we’re asking ourselves now is: Did you set up the murders?’
Andrei’s face went white. ‘No!’
‘If you turn out to be connected to this murder, you’ll receive the Vishka.’ Kobylov used the acronym for the Highest Measure of Punishment: death. ‘Nine grams in the neck.’ He turned to Mogilchuk. ‘Do you believe him, comrade colonel?’
‘I’m not sure I do, comrade general,’ said Mogilchuk.
‘Me neither. So Rosa and Nikolasha were love’s young dream. Tell us what changed, Andrei?’
‘I wouldn’t say Nikolasha was . . .’
‘What changed? What made him kill her? Tell me or I’ll grind you into camp dust.’
Kobylov saw that Andrei was clasping his hands to stop them shaking.
‘I think . . . I think Nikolasha heard about his father’s posting to Mexico.’
Kobylov clapped his hands: ‘Of course! The posting! Nikolasha was going away!’
He grabbed Mogilchuk’s puny arm, heaved him out of the room and down the corridor. The prospect of a case solved in a matter of hours made his nostrils flare.
Minka looked up as the two men came into her interrogation room. One was the bejewelled giant with the kinky hair, the other the ginger-haired colonel in spectacles, dull enough to be an accountant.
‘Minka,’ said the giant. ‘When did Nikolasha find out about the posting to Mexico?’
‘A day before the Victory Parade.’
‘Was he happy about it?’ asked the ginger man, leaning over her. She felt nauseous suddenly.
‘No. He said he would refuse to go.’
‘Good!’ said the giant, clapping his hands. ‘Comrade Mogilchuk, let’s have a smoke.’
Out in the corridor, the two men huddled.
‘What do you think, comrade general?’ With grandees like Kobylov, thought Mogilchuk, one should use their titles and ranks whenever possible. ‘Are we getting close, comrade general?’
‘It was worth pulling ’em all in,’ replied Kobylov. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s go and report to Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria. He’s going to be pleased with us, isn’t he?’
16
DR DASHKA DOROVA donned her white coat absentmindedly, shut the door of her surgery on the top floor of the Kremlevka, the Kremlin Clinic – and sat down on her velvet divan.
It was a cosy room decorated in old-style comfort with Persian rugs overlapping each other, oil paintings of dachas and woods from the turn of the century, an umbrella stand in brown leather, two soft leather chairs, the divan. To the right was a medical couch with a white curtain round it.
She usually sat behind an old desk with green leather on top and two Bakelite telephones on the side desk. The portrait of Stalin – always a guide to an official’s importance – was medium-sized, not an original Gerasimov, and not an oil, but her safe was a large one because the medical records of the leaders were a state secret.
Finally alone, she found she was breathing fast. Keep it together, Dashka, she told herself. The pressure of her different roles – mother, wife, doctor, minister – was suffocating – and there was more. It was too much and something, however precious, had to be sacrificed. Even at home, she had had to be careful: Genrikh believed the Party and its ‘fearless knights’, as he called the secret police, could do no wrong. There was a Bolshevik way to behave and he, as the Party’s conscience, its enforcer, would decide what it was because Comrade Stalin trusted him to know. Genrikh decided every detail of their life. He had to. He was a Bolshevik leader and nothing – neither the décor of their dacha, nor the recipe for lunch, nor the rules for their children – nothing was too small for him to pass judgement on it. And that made Dashka feel safe. Only her love of fashion had somehow been allowed outside Genrikh’s control.
But now Minka had been arrested, her adorable Minka. Dashka’s outer personality was sunny and exuberant but within she was a tangle of emotions and anxieties. Minka, darling, where are you? Are you safe? she whispered. Answer their questions and come home. Thank God, her other children were safe.
She loved all four of them passionately of course, but Senka, the fourth, the baby of her thirtieth year, the last, that miniature of herself with his long face, his full lips, the sprinkle of freckles across the nose, the olive skin, was her delight. Nothing else, no ambition, no other passion however cherished, counted for more than her Senka, her Little Professor.
She closed her eyes. A drum beat behind them; her temples pounded. If only Genrikh would talk to her; if only he could bend his rules, checks and regulations a little. As it was, she felt utterly alone.
‘Comrade Doctor, you have an appointment in five minutes,’ her assistant blared from the intercom on her desk.
Dashka had two offices: one was in the Ministry of Health and one was here at the Kremlevka, the place where the ‘responsible workers’ were treated by the finest specialists. When she started working there, the Kremlevka had been in the Kremlin itself, but now it stood in a new home on Granovsky, near the building where many of the leaders lived.
The daughter of a cultured Jewish family in Galicia, Dashka had studied medicine in Odessa. After years of working as a cardiologist, she was promoted to the Kremlevka where she had become the trusted doctor to many of the leaders. Most of them suffered from hypertension, arteriosclerosis and other complaints associated with overwork, a fatty diet, stress, lack of exercise, obesity and alcoholism.
Comrade Andreyev: headaches. Treatment: cocaine. Comrade Zhdanov: heart disease and alcoholism.
Treatment: total rest and no alcohol. Comrade Beria: overweight. Excessive drinking. Treatment: vegetarian diet.
Then in late 1944, Comrade Molotov had summoned her to the Sovmin – Council of Ministers – in the Kremlin. ‘Sit down, comrade doctor,’ he said in that robotic voice of his. Dashka noticed his spherical head with its pince-nez was connected to his torso without much of a neck. ‘Let me cut to the chase. How do you feel about becoming Health Minister?’
Dashka recoiled in surprise – shock even. ‘I’m a doctor,’ she had protested. ‘Even running the Kremlevka is not ideal. I’ve never worked in government.’
‘Comrade Stalin wishes you to start tomorrow.’ He looked down. In front of him on the desk was a note scrawled in red crayon. During their short meeting, she managed to see that it read: Com. Molotov. Health Minister works poorly. Remove him and appoint lady cardiologist from Kremlevka. J. St.
Comrade Stalin had not even remembered her name, she realized, but she had never met him. She was not particularly ambitious and had never sought such a promotion, so someone must have recommended her. Zhdanov or Beria?
Dashka had a powerful vocation: she adored medicine, loved to help people and she had always aspired to be a doctor. Yes, she enjoyed the fine things in life, especially fashion (preferably imported from Paris), but she lived for her family, more specifically for her children.
Now at 9.30 a.m., she had an appointment that would not normally have concerned her. But she could not stop thinking of Minka and worrying about the other children. She had not slept and the worst of it was that she could do nothing to help them. Nothing at all.
She knew the leaders. She had seen them without their shirts on. She knew their medical secrets and often more, because even Bolshevik grandees felt the need to confide in their doctor.
She was waiting for her next patient, surely a powerful man who could get Minka released. But even asking for special help was against the rules.
No, she must continue as if her darling Minka was not a mile away in a cell in the most dreaded prison in Europe. She raised her hands to her face. She would not let herself cry. She must not!
One of the phones on her desk rang and, shaking herself free of the silent tears running down her face, she rose and answered it.
‘Comrade doctor, the comrade is waiting for you.’
Dashka looked at herself in the mirror. She wore a little mascara to hide her tired brown eyes and her black hair was pulled back in a strict bun but she looked presentable. Her mother had taught her that the greater the challenge, the better you should look. Dashka knew she was a beautiful woman.
She pulled back her shoulders, clipped her stethoscope around her neck, opened the door and gave her dazzling smile. ‘Comrade, come on in.’
‘Comrade Beria is not in his office,’ said the aide who ran Beria’s complicated schedule. ‘Please wait.’ He nodded to Kobylov to take a seat at the far end of the otherwise empty ante-room.
Kobylov grunted and shifted his considerable weight on the leather sofa as he resigned himself to a wait.
After ten minutes, one of the Bakelite phones on the aide’s side desk rang. ‘Comrade Kobylov, Comrade Beria is on the phone for you,’ said the aide.
Kobylov seized it hungrily: ‘Lavrenti Pavlovich,’ he said. ‘We’ve solved it. Yes, I’ll tell you. We’ve closed it! Well . . .’ Here Kobylov grinned triumphantly at Mogilchuk who was still in awe of Beria. ‘It’s like this: Nikolasha Blagov loves Rosa Shako; she loves him. They want to get married. He’s a fucking degenerate who talks about death all the time; she’s a droopy, simpering rose petal – but he loves her to death. Literally. He hears his father’s being sent off to Mexico. He’s going to lose Rosa. Perhaps never see her again. So he kills her and then himself. Solved!’
A hush except for a tinny voice blaring faintly out of the earpiece. Kobylov straightened up by degrees until he was standing to attention. ‘Right. Of course. We’ll be right down there, Lavrenti Pavlovich!’
Kobylov banged down the phone, feeling his heart racing and his hands sweating.
‘You idiot!’ Grabbing Mogilchuk by the arm and heaving him out of Beria’s antechamber. The moment he was outside, he punched him in the face: ‘This is far from solved and you’ve made a fool of me in front of Comrade Beria!’
‘But I . . . aah!’ Mogilchuk stepped back and felt his cheek. Stalin had once recommended Management by Punching. It was Bolshevik leadership. But his lip was bleeding. ‘Your rings cut me!’
‘You want another smack in the kisser, you pansy? Come on!’ boomed Kobylov, marching down the corridor and out into the courtyard where a group of drivers waited.
They rode in a Packard down the hill around the Kremlin and up towards Gorky, turning left on to Granovsky. They did not stop at the building where the Satinovs lived, however, but drove on.
At the end of the street, the car turned left into a new building with no name. Two checkpoints waved them through. Kobylov and Mogilchuk, who was by now holding a handkerchief to his mouth, jumped out and hurried up the steps. Nurses in pinafores and a doctor in a white coat were smoking in the lobby of the building where four bodyguards in blue MGB tabs kept watch brandishing PPSh machine-guns.
At the end of the hall, Colonel Nadaraia, Beria’s chief bodyguard, a small sturdy man with fair hair and slightly bulging eyes, was expecting them. He kissed Kobylov with the camaraderie of drinking partners. ‘Hurry up, Bull,’ he said in their native Georgian. ‘And who’s your ginger friend with the bleeding lip? Hurry up. He’s ready!’
One of Nadaraia’s men was holding open the lift even though a handful of doctors and nurses were waiting to get in. They rode down two levels and when the doors opened, they found another two bodyguards waiting.
‘This way!’ said a third, leading them down a corridor with a blue-tiled floor and through two double swing doors. Kobylov noticed that the deeper they went into the building, the colder the air became, the more acrid the stench of formaldehyde and carbolic soap. Finally, they entered a chilly white-tiled room with channels set in the concrete floor, like an abattoir. One entire wall of steel doors faced the men.
‘Ah, there you are, Sherlock Holmes! What kept you? Solving more cases, you fat fool?’ Lavrenti Beria, wearing a summery cream jacket, a flowery Georgian shirt open at the neck and baggy linen trousers, stood between two white slabs. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do? My wife’s away in Gagra and I’ve got a new fourteen-year-old girl waiting for me at the dacha.’
‘I apologize, Lavrenti Pavlovich,’ said Kobylov, bowing slightly.
‘Comrade Stalin will want a report tonight. But don’t rush so much, Bull. That’s how we make mistakes. Things take as long as they take.’ Beria glanced at Mogilchuk. ‘What happened to your lip?’
‘I banged it on a door.’
Beria laughed. ‘I can see the imprint of Kobylov’s rings. But don’t blame your subordinates, Bull. It was your theory, right? Professor Schpigelglaz, where are you?’
‘Here!’ trilled an adenoidal voice with a Yiddish accent. ‘Stwaightforward, very stwaightforward, comrades.’ Beria stepped aside to reveal Professor Schpigelglaz, whose angular glasses with huge black frames dwarfed his beaky face. He had a white coat and a cloud of frizzy white hair to match.
The professor was such a wraith that he had been entirely concealed by Beria’s paunchy bulk. ‘Gentlemen, I have something to show you.’
‘Get it right,’ Beria said, ‘and you go back to your cushy sharashka laboratory. Get it wrong and you’ll be hauling logs in the Arctic.’
‘Ach, no danger of that!’ Professor Schpigelglaz seemed delighted to have such an interesting case. ‘May I pwoceed? Now, let’s roll out our young overnight guests. That’s what we call them here – overnight guests.’ He gestured to a hollow-eyed young man who looked as if he had spent too much time in the company of the dead. The assistant opened the steel doors to pull out a metal platform on which lay the waxy naked body of a male red
-haired teenager. As the platform came out, wheeled legs dropped down from it, enabling the hollow-eyed young man to push the trolley alongside one of the slabs. Then he and another assistant lifted it on to the slab.
‘Let’s see now, gentlemen.’ Kobylov enjoyed being addressed as a gentleman – the professor talked as if the Revolution had never happened and he and Beria were a pair of aristocratic generals. ‘Who are our overnight guests? Ach ya. Blagov, Nikolasha. Eighteen years old,’ said the professor, reading from a label tied to the big toe.
The body looked to Kobylov as if it had been filleted: jagged red lines – like railways on a map of flesh or a zip made of skin – ran around the hairline of the head and from the throat down the centre of the chest to split at the waist. All was clean and neat – except the jaw and mouth. All the cleaning in the world could not put that together again. The assistants then returned to the steel doors. This time a naked female body was laid on the other slab. Again, a label on the toe.
‘Shako, Rosa. Eighteen years old.’
Beria whistled through his teeth, looking at the teenage girl. ‘Shame we didn’t get to her when she was alive, eh, Bull?’
‘Not my type,’ said Kobylov, grinning. ‘A little dainty for me.’
Beria turned to the professor. ‘Start with the boy,’ he instructed.
‘Ach yes, Lavrenti Pavlovich. Well, it’s quite obvious when you examine the wounds. The boy has a diwect bullet wound fired from a Mauser service revolver. One shot.’ He leaned over Nikolasha’s face. ‘There’s the entwy wound in the mouth which shattered the jaw and passed through the cwanial chamber, causing catastwophic twauma.’ He twisted the boy’s head with its slicked-back red hair, ‘And here’s the exit wound, back of the head. Death instantaneous.’
‘And the girl?’ said Beria.
‘Ach yes, the girl.’ He crossed to the other slab. ‘Here on the right breast, gentlemen, we see a single shot to the heart. Vewy neat. We dug out the bullet. Here it is. You may keep it, dear genewal, as a memento of me, ha ha. Yes, a standard service revolver was used. Mauser. Death also instantaneous.’