woods opened up and a series of newly built concrete buildings appeared – dormitories, what looked like a gymnasium, classrooms, lecture halls and several large barns. Finally
the drive led to a large house built from ochre-coloured stone, three storeys high and standing in the middle of winter-stripped gardens.
It wasn’t a palace as such, but a substantial residence all the same. It didn’t look Russian, with its small turrets at each corner and its arched windows, more like a building from
North Africa. To the left of the house stood what must have been the stable block, the courtyard of which contained a number of trailers, a bus and a truck, as well as an odd assortment of
equipment, some of which was covered with tarpaulins bearing the stencilled logo ‘Ukrainfilm’.
Mushkin stopped the car in front of the ornate entrance to the house. ‘The local Militia will be arriving soon,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘You’re not here in an
official capacity, but as Babel’s friend. We’ll be asking your opinion, seeing as you’re here – by complete coincidence.’
‘So I was informed.’
‘I’m informing you again,’ Mushkin said as he pulled himself out of the car. He glanced round at Korolev once, then walked towards the stable yard, his hands deep in his
pockets.
Korolev stayed where he was for a moment, looking around him. Apart from Mushkin’s departing figure there was no one to be seen. Perhaps Korolev was a little tired, and Mushkin’s
story about the family graves and the burning priest too fresh in his mind, but he had a sudden image of the porch’s black-and-white tiled floor slicked with blood. For a moment the image was
so vivid that he couldn’t breathe.
Shocked, Korolev sat there, not sure what else to do but open up the packet of cigarettes he had in his pocket, extract one with some difficulty, his fingers rattling a nervous tattoo on the
cardboard box, and put it in his mouth. He lit it, wondering if he was cracking up, and feeling so worn that he almost didn’t care. Tiredness was all this was, he reassured himself for the
second time in twenty-four hours – the previous day’s arrest, the Chekist knocking on the door, the Lubianka waiting room, the plane journey, Mushkin. Things like that took it out of a
man. He sighed and coughed as he inhaled, savouring the spread of nicotine through his body.
When the bang on the driver’s door came, the surprise lifted Korolev out of his seat so high his head touched the roof.
‘What the hell?’ he shouted, adrenalin shuddering though his body like electricity and his hand instinctively going for his shoulder holster.
‘Sorry, Comrade.’ The smiling face of a small blond boy with a red Pioneer’s scarf round his neck was looking in at him through the window, nose flat against the glass. And the
strangest thing was that he was the spitting image of Korolev’s son Yuri, so much so that Korolev wondered whether he were having another hallucination until he saw the small differences, the
slightly darker blue of the eyes, the perfect teeth where Yuri’s were a little crooked. But the likeness was uncanny and it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, and the question came out a little more gruffly than he’d intended.
‘Pavel.’
‘And do you usually go around scaring the living daylights out of honest citizens, Pavel? And you a Pioneer as well.’ Which, again, wasn’t how he’d intended to speak to
the boy and when the boy’s smile was replaced with a grave expression he felt a parent’s guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Comrade,’ the boy began, but Korolev shook his head.
‘Don’t be, Pavel. It’s me should be apologizing – you caught me by surprise, that’s all. Off with you now – we’ll meet again, I’m sure, and start
from the beginning again.’
The boy’s smile reappeared and he saluted before disappearing round the corner at a gallop. Korolev
the drive led to a large house built from ochre-coloured stone, three storeys high and standing in the middle of winter-stripped gardens.
It wasn’t a palace as such, but a substantial residence all the same. It didn’t look Russian, with its small turrets at each corner and its arched windows, more like a building from
North Africa. To the left of the house stood what must have been the stable block, the courtyard of which contained a number of trailers, a bus and a truck, as well as an odd assortment of
equipment, some of which was covered with tarpaulins bearing the stencilled logo ‘Ukrainfilm’.
Mushkin stopped the car in front of the ornate entrance to the house. ‘The local Militia will be arriving soon,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘You’re not here in an
official capacity, but as Babel’s friend. We’ll be asking your opinion, seeing as you’re here – by complete coincidence.’
‘So I was informed.’
‘I’m informing you again,’ Mushkin said as he pulled himself out of the car. He glanced round at Korolev once, then walked towards the stable yard, his hands deep in his
pockets.
Korolev stayed where he was for a moment, looking around him. Apart from Mushkin’s departing figure there was no one to be seen. Perhaps Korolev was a little tired, and Mushkin’s
story about the family graves and the burning priest too fresh in his mind, but he had a sudden image of the porch’s black-and-white tiled floor slicked with blood. For a moment the image was
so vivid that he couldn’t breathe.
Shocked, Korolev sat there, not sure what else to do but open up the packet of cigarettes he had in his pocket, extract one with some difficulty, his fingers rattling a nervous tattoo on the
cardboard box, and put it in his mouth. He lit it, wondering if he was cracking up, and feeling so worn that he almost didn’t care. Tiredness was all this was, he reassured himself for the
second time in twenty-four hours – the previous day’s arrest, the Chekist knocking on the door, the Lubianka waiting room, the plane journey, Mushkin. Things like that took it out of a
man. He sighed and coughed as he inhaled, savouring the spread of nicotine through his body.
When the bang on the driver’s door came, the surprise lifted Korolev out of his seat so high his head touched the roof.
‘What the hell?’ he shouted, adrenalin shuddering though his body like electricity and his hand instinctively going for his shoulder holster.
‘Sorry, Comrade.’ The smiling face of a small blond boy with a red Pioneer’s scarf round his neck was looking in at him through the window, nose flat against the glass. And the
strangest thing was that he was the spitting image of Korolev’s son Yuri, so much so that Korolev wondered whether he were having another hallucination until he saw the small differences, the
slightly darker blue of the eyes, the perfect teeth where Yuri’s were a little crooked. But the likeness was uncanny and it was with some difficulty that he pulled himself together.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, and the question came out a little more gruffly than he’d intended.
‘Pavel.’
‘And do you usually go around scaring the living daylights out of honest citizens, Pavel? And you a Pioneer as well.’ Which, again, wasn’t how he’d intended to speak to
the boy and when the boy’s smile was replaced with a grave expression he felt a parent’s guilt.
‘I’m sorry, Comrade,’ the boy began, but Korolev shook his head.
‘Don’t be, Pavel. It’s me should be apologizing – you caught me by surprise, that’s all. Off with you now – we’ll meet again, I’m sure, and start
from the beginning again.’
The boy’s smile reappeared and he saluted before disappearing round the corner at a gallop. Korolev
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