you.”
Korolev followed Gregorin, the heels of the colonel’s riding boots sounding like pistol shots against the tiled floor. There was no natural light, just blank door after blank door. It was a relief when Gregorin stopped at one of them and opened it.
The room they entered was large, painted a bureaucratic cream and dominated by a wide desk, in front of which a chair stood on a carpet marked by several damp patches. There was a typewriter on a smaller desk to one side, which Korolev presumed was for the stenographer during interrogations because he had no doubt whatsoever that this was the purpose of the room. There were no windows and the lights were all arranged to focus on the sturdy metal chair, which the colonel now directed him toward. Gregorin himself sat down behind the desk and placed Korolev’s typewritten report inside a buff-colored cardboard folder. There was no name on the folder and it was the only one on the desk. The colonel put his hands under his chin, lifted his eyes toward Korolev and then indicated, with a drooping finger, the file.
“I read your report during the lecture. Very thorough.”
The colonel paused and Korolev found himself shifting in his seat, wondering about its last occupant and what might have become of him. After a moment Gregorin sighed and opened the folder once again. He turned a couple of pages and stopped at the photograph of the dead girl that Gueginov had been up half the night developing.
“We know who your victim is, anyway. Maria Ivanovna Kuznetsova. Born 1 July, 1913, here in Moscow. A Soviet citizen, in our eyes at least, although she emigrated to America at the age of six. Her father’s factories turned out guns for the Whites, so he didn’t hang around when the Civil War started going our way. We’ve kept an eye on the father, of course; he’s done well in America but, as you might expect, he continues to have extensive connections with various counterrevolutionary and émigré groups. We hadn’t heard much of his daughter but last week she entered the country as part of a tour group, under the name Mary Smithson. She disappeared soon after she arrived and that’s when her real identity emerged. Smithson is a rough translation of Kuznetsova—here’s her visa application form.”
Korolev picked up the form the colonel slipped across to him. A passport-sized photograph of the dead girl stared out at him from the first page. Although her expression was serious in the picture, her mouth had a curve to it that suggested a ready smile. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy’s, and her eyes seemed a brilliant blue despite the photograph being in black and white.
“Do the Americans know she’s dead?” he asked, handing the form back to the colonel.
“We don’t think so; at least, they’ve made no inquiries—which is how we’d like to keep it, for as long as possible anyway. Once they report her missing we can decide how to handle the situation, but until then we must keep things quiet. Very quiet. You’re authorized to inform General Popov of her identity, but no one else.”
“I see. What about my assistant on the case, Lieutenant Semionov?”
“He’s very junior . . .”
“Yes, but a Komsomol member and reliable—I’d stake my life on him.”
Gregorin examined Korolev as though he represented a rather tricky problem.
“You’ll take full responsibility?”
“I will. He’s a good lad.”
“Then I leave it to your discretion.”
Korolev nodded his agreement, feeling a little offended on his colleague’s behalf. Semionov was a Militia investigator—he knew his duty. It was wrong for Gregorin to suggest otherwise.
The colonel, meanwhile, cleaned his nails with a letter opener and took great care about it. Korolev noticed his hands were trembling slightly and that both sets of knuckles were red, the skin broken in places. In the pause that developed, Korolev considered what he’d just been told and didn’t like it.
Korolev followed Gregorin, the heels of the colonel’s riding boots sounding like pistol shots against the tiled floor. There was no natural light, just blank door after blank door. It was a relief when Gregorin stopped at one of them and opened it.
The room they entered was large, painted a bureaucratic cream and dominated by a wide desk, in front of which a chair stood on a carpet marked by several damp patches. There was a typewriter on a smaller desk to one side, which Korolev presumed was for the stenographer during interrogations because he had no doubt whatsoever that this was the purpose of the room. There were no windows and the lights were all arranged to focus on the sturdy metal chair, which the colonel now directed him toward. Gregorin himself sat down behind the desk and placed Korolev’s typewritten report inside a buff-colored cardboard folder. There was no name on the folder and it was the only one on the desk. The colonel put his hands under his chin, lifted his eyes toward Korolev and then indicated, with a drooping finger, the file.
“I read your report during the lecture. Very thorough.”
The colonel paused and Korolev found himself shifting in his seat, wondering about its last occupant and what might have become of him. After a moment Gregorin sighed and opened the folder once again. He turned a couple of pages and stopped at the photograph of the dead girl that Gueginov had been up half the night developing.
“We know who your victim is, anyway. Maria Ivanovna Kuznetsova. Born 1 July, 1913, here in Moscow. A Soviet citizen, in our eyes at least, although she emigrated to America at the age of six. Her father’s factories turned out guns for the Whites, so he didn’t hang around when the Civil War started going our way. We’ve kept an eye on the father, of course; he’s done well in America but, as you might expect, he continues to have extensive connections with various counterrevolutionary and émigré groups. We hadn’t heard much of his daughter but last week she entered the country as part of a tour group, under the name Mary Smithson. She disappeared soon after she arrived and that’s when her real identity emerged. Smithson is a rough translation of Kuznetsova—here’s her visa application form.”
Korolev picked up the form the colonel slipped across to him. A passport-sized photograph of the dead girl stared out at him from the first page. Although her expression was serious in the picture, her mouth had a curve to it that suggested a ready smile. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy’s, and her eyes seemed a brilliant blue despite the photograph being in black and white.
“Do the Americans know she’s dead?” he asked, handing the form back to the colonel.
“We don’t think so; at least, they’ve made no inquiries—which is how we’d like to keep it, for as long as possible anyway. Once they report her missing we can decide how to handle the situation, but until then we must keep things quiet. Very quiet. You’re authorized to inform General Popov of her identity, but no one else.”
“I see. What about my assistant on the case, Lieutenant Semionov?”
“He’s very junior . . .”
“Yes, but a Komsomol member and reliable—I’d stake my life on him.”
Gregorin examined Korolev as though he represented a rather tricky problem.
“You’ll take full responsibility?”
“I will. He’s a good lad.”
“Then I leave it to your discretion.”
Korolev nodded his agreement, feeling a little offended on his colleague’s behalf. Semionov was a Militia investigator—he knew his duty. It was wrong for Gregorin to suggest otherwise.
The colonel, meanwhile, cleaned his nails with a letter opener and took great care about it. Korolev noticed his hands were trembling slightly and that both sets of knuckles were red, the skin broken in places. In the pause that developed, Korolev considered what he’d just been told and didn’t like it.
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