The Twelfth Department Read Online Free PDF Page A

would be finished in a couple of months and then—well, the old Bolshoi Kamenny Bridge would go the way of Christ the Savior, he supposed. Another piece of old Moscow disappearing in a cloud of dust.
    “Here we are, Slivka.”
    Korolev pointed to the massive construction ahead of them—eight stories of gray concrete that stretched from the end of the old Kamenny Bridge right along the embankment as far as the chocolate factory—and then back all the way to the Vodootvodny Canal. Of course, some might say it looked more like a prison than home to two or three thousand of the most important citizens in the Soviet Union—but no one could deny it was impressive.
    “Leadership House, Slivka. I’ll bet you’ve nothing like it in Odessa.”
    “No,” she said dryly. “Truly, a person hasn’t seen beauty till they’ve seen Moscow.”
    Korolev laughed. Slivka liked her proverbs and that one hit the nail on the head. Within its forbidding exterior, Leadership House contained a theater, a cinema, a post office, shops and the Lord knew what else—the leaders who gained the right to live there were well looked after—but Slivka was right, it wasn’t beautiful. It was functional—a straightforward building for hard-working citizens. In due course everyone in the Soviet Union would live in constructions such as this, so they said—protected from the elements by thick concrete and warmed by electricity from the new power stations. It might be only intended for important personages at the moment, but a building like this told the people that things were getting better—just as Comrade Stalin had promised. And it told the State’s enemies that the Soviet Union was becoming a force to be reckoned with.
    *   *   *
    Slivka pulled in behind a row of black motorcars, their drivers gathered together at one end of the rank. How many vehicles were there? Fifteen? Each of them belonged to someone senior enough to have a car and driver at his constant disposal—and this was in the middle of the day.
    “That must be it.”
    Slivka pointed to a cluster of people being kept waiting outside one of the entrances by two solid-looking uniforms in their summer whites. Behind them stood an older sergeant, who looked as if he might be waiting for someone, his blue peaked cap held in his hand.
    “Comrade Captain Korolev,” the sergeant said when Korolev showed him his identity card. The fellow had to shout to be heard above a sudden hammering from the bridge works. “I’m Belinsky.”
    “Good to meet you. This is Sergeant Slivka, she works with me. Well?”
    The sergeant pulled out his notebook, leafing through its pages.
    “We received a call at 11:05 from the apartment of Boris Vadimovich Azarov, forty-nine years of age, medical professor. The call was from his maid, informing us Professor Azarov had been shot. I immediately called the nearest post, just down by the bridge, and ordered Militiaman Startsev to hotfoot it up here, which he did. I didn’t like the sound of it, so I came directly with Militiaman Kruger—we arrived at 11:12. Startsev was waiting for us in the apartment and confirmed the professor was dead. I looked in—it was clearly a violent death, so I called for more men from the station and told my boss what was up. He said call Moscow CID.”
    “We must thank him for that,” Slivka said, but the irony seemed to go over Belinsky’s head. “What then?”
    “The chief said to ensure the crime scene was preserved and wait for your instructions—so we’ve prevented entry to the apartment. We’ve also ascertained from the doorman that access to this part of Leadership House is only possible via the front door or a door to the courtyard—which is fully enclosed. He signs guests in and out—but not residents. My men have just finished checking floor to floor in case the murderer was still on the premises but we found no one who shouldn’t be here. Everyone we’ve identified is a resident or a guest of a