The Twelfth Department

Overview

Captain Alexei Korolev has nothing to complain about. He has his own room in an apartment, a job in the police force that puts food on the table, and his good health. In Moscow in 1937, that’s a lot more than most people have to be grateful for. But for the first time in a long time, Korolev is about to be truly happy: his son Yuri is coming to visit for an entire week.

Shortly after Yuri’s arrival, however, Korolev receives an urgent call from his boss—it seems an ...

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The Twelfth Department

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Overview

Captain Alexei Korolev has nothing to complain about. He has his own room in an apartment, a job in the police force that puts food on the table, and his good health. In Moscow in 1937, that’s a lot more than most people have to be grateful for. But for the first time in a long time, Korolev is about to be truly happy: his son Yuri is coming to visit for an entire week.

Shortly after Yuri’s arrival, however, Korolev receives an urgent call from his boss—it seems an important man has been murdered, and Korolev is the only detective they’re willing to assign to this sensitive case. In fact, Korolev realizes almost immediately that the layers of sensitivity and secrecy surrounding this case far exceed his paygrade. And the consequences of interfering with a case tied to State Security or the NKVD can be severe—you might lose your job, if you’re lucky. Your whole family might die if you’re not. Korolev is suddenly faced with much more than just discovering a murderer’s identity; he must decide how far he’ll go to see justice served . . . and what he’s willing to do to protect his family.

In The Twelfth Department, William Ryan's portrait of a Russian policeman struggling to survive in one of the most volatile and dangerous eras of modern history is mesmerizing.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
The shooting murder of Boris Azarov, a high-level Russian scientist conducting secret psychological research, propels Ryan’s excellent third pre-WWII thriller featuring Alexei Korolev, a Moscow CID detective (after 2012’s The Darkening Field). Korolev, a methodical, almost plodding investigator, gets assigned to the case, but he soon realizes that several arms of the secret police either want him to back off entirely or to arrest someone just to clear the books. Korolev gets a quick demonstration of the power he’s up against: his 12-year-old son, Yuri, is kidnapped amid subtle assurances that the boy will be returned safely if Korolev goes with the flow. While the police work will keep readers engaged, the series’ chief strength comes from Ryan’s skillful evocation of everyday life under Stalin. Ordinary Soviet citizens, Korolev included, have become resigned to all forms of corruption and hypocrisy, yet must still wear the mask of communist devotion. Agent: Andrew Gordon, David Higham Associates (U.K.). (July)
From the Publisher
“Ryan's tense, tightly plotted whodunnits feel gloriously plausible, a function of the intimate link he forges between his readers and his characters, never mind that those characters are living through extraordinary times.”—The Guardian

“Ryan’s latest has a fine cast of characters, puzzling murders, interesting police work, and a strong sense of the terror that pervaded  Stalin’s Russia. But it is his eye for period detail (e.g., scheming apparatchiks who denounce a neighbor simply to move into a larger apartment) that makes this one special.”—Booklist (starred review)

The Twelfth Department is the third outing for William Ryan’s increasingly impressive Captain Korolev series…There’s an Orwellian influence to the manipulation of language and meaning…The geographical setting and political backdrop are compelling enough, but Korolev is a fascinating character in his own right, an army veteran of “the German War” who acknowledges the poisonous nature of the regime he serves even as he clings to the hope that its propaganda might some day chime with reality.”—The Irish Times

“Excellent…While the police work will keep readers engaged, the series’ chief strength comes from Ryan’s skillful evocation of everyday life under Stalin.”—Publishers Weekly (starred)

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780312586522
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
  • Publication date: 7/9/2013
  • Pages: 352
  • Sales rank: 824,774
  • Product dimensions: 6.40 (w) x 9.30 (h) x 1.30 (d)

Meet the Author

WILLIAM RYAN is the author of The Holy Thief, which was a Barry Award Nominee for Best First Novel and shortlisted for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. Ryan attended Trinity College, Dublin and completed his Masters in Creative Writing at St. Andrews University. He lives in London. The Twelfth Department is his third novel.

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Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Yaroslavsky station was crowded and unpleasant—but Korolev breathed in the hot, muggy air and allowed himself a smile. What did it matter, when Yuri, his twelve-year-old son, would be stepping down from the Zagorsk train in a matter of minutes?

It was hot though. Even in the relative cool of the ticket hall, Korolev could feel sweat pooling under his arms and running down his back in what seemed to be a constant stream—but he still couldn’t help the joy bubbling up through him. Anyway, it couldn’t stay this hot for much longer—the weather would turn more comfortable in the next few days. It had to.

Ideally, he’d take off his jacket, which felt heavy as a fur coat in this heat. But if he did take it off then he’d have every citizen in the place looking at the Walther in its holster and wondering if he was a Chekist come to arrest somebody—and whether that somebody might just be them. He could do without that kind of attention.

He just hoped that the train would be on time—or at least not too late.

There was one niggling concern at the back of his mind about this visit though, and that was its unexpectedness—it had come completely out of the blue. His ex-wife Zhenia had called him just a few days before to ask if he could take Yuri—she hadn’t explained why and he hadn’t asked. At the time, it had been enough for him that he’d be seeing the boy for a whole week—just the two of them. But afterward, when he’d thought it through, he couldn’t help but have a more complex reaction to the news. After all, he’d loved Zhenia back when they’d still been man and wife—and love left its mark on a man’s soul and that was all there was to it. And even if it wasn’t any of his business what Zhenia was up to, he couldn’t help but feel a little low at the thought that, likely as not, she’d be spending a week with some other member of the male species, and in a place where their son wouldn’t be welcome. He bore her no ill will, of course, and she was within her rights—but still.

His thoughts were diverted from their glum turn by two shrill blasts of a whistle from somewhere far down the tracks and, as if in response, the station speakers announced the arrival of the Zagorsk train. Not a minute passed before it came into view, steam billowing out behind and around it—eventually coming to a halt just short of the buffers with a loud grinding of brakes. In no time at all, the empty platform was full of passengers and a surge of baggage and humanity flooded toward him.

Korolev took up position just beside the engine’s coal tender, keeping his eyes peeled for a mop of blond hair and a smiling face, hardly able to contain his own excitement—but there was no sign of Yuri. The people kept coming but still his son didn’t appear, and now he was looking only at stragglers and railway workers. Where was he? There’d been youngsters among the crowd right enough, but they’d had parents and family in tow. Zhenia had sent the boy on his own, saying he’d be fine, that the journey wasn’t very long; but Korolev knew things he’d never tell Zhenia about what could happen on a Soviet train—even in the middle of the day with the sun shining. He found his hands had balled into fists and that dread was seeping through his veins.

Korolev moved forward along the length of train, his pace increasing with each step, checking each compartment and pushing aside anyone who got in his way. By the time he’d reached the fourth carriage he was almost certain something had happened to the boy. And by the time he’d checked the fifth carriage, and found it empty as well, he was convinced of it. It wasn’t until the very last carriage—by which time guards were shutting doors further up the train—that he found what he’d been looking for. A small head. Blonde hair pressed against a window.

Korolev swallowed hard and opened the door, fearing the worst. The young boy sat slumped in the corner of a bench seat, a suitcase on his knees nearly as big as he was. Deathly pale, his eyes shut. Yuri. Korolev reached forward to touch his son’s cheek, bracing himself; but the skin was warm. Korolev hadn’t even been aware he’d been holding his breath until he let it go.

The boy was fast asleep.

Korolev took the seat opposite, not sure quite what to do. Should he wake him? He examined him—a little over five feet tall now, he’d say—a good-looking child with a strong mouth and a firm chin. His hair was cut short at the sides but had a little length on top so his curls showed. Around his neck, above the white sleeveless shirt, hung a red Pioneer’s scarf—the brass ring that gathered it together underneath the boy’s chin looking as though it had been polished for the trip.

He’d changed, was the truth of the matter, his face was leaner and he’d grown an inch or two, but it was more than that. It seemed to Korolev almost as if he was looking at a version of the son he remembered. He’d only seen Yuri once in two years, for three days back in March, and even then they’d only been together in the evenings. Of course, he would have changed—he was young, it was what they did. Only middle-aged men like him stayed more or less the same.

Eventually he leaned forward and shook Yuri’s shoulder till his blue eyes opened in surprise. The boy shifted his focus rapidly from Korolev to the carriage, to the station he found himself in—sitting up as he did so.

Korolev heard him murmur a single word—“Moscow”—before he leaned back against the seat.

“Yuri,” Korolev said, softly, and expected to see the boy’s face break into a smile, for the suitcase to be tossed aside and for arms to reach around his neck, but instead his son’s expression remained melancholy, and he said nothing. Korolev leaned forward once again to ruffle the boy’s hair—careful to be gentle with him.

“Are you all right?”

Yuri nodded but it seemed to be an effort for him. Korolev looked at him for a long moment—there was something not right, that was certain. But like as not, tiredness was mostly what it was—that and the heat. He took the bag from the boy’s unresisting grip then slipped his arm around him.

“Come here, Yurochka,” he said and scooped the boy up to his shoulder, turning to climb down from the carriage and place Yuri on his unsteady feet.

“We’ll have to walk for a while, can you manage?”

The boy nodded.

“I’ll carry the suitcase then.”

They made their way along the platform in silence, Yuri’s eyes fixed on the ground in front of his feet, not once looking up at him. And Korolev felt almost as lost as the boy looked.

*   *   *

They traveled by tram back to Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky. Korolev managed to squeeze Yuri onto a seat and stood over him, protecting the boy from the late-afternoon crush. Yuri didn’t look at him or the other passengers, or even out the window at the city passing by. His stare was blank and seemed fixed on nothing. Korolev felt his hand instinctively reach forward to touch him, but he held it back. He’d take it slowly—there was time. They needed to get to know each other again was all.

It was only five minutes from the tram stop to the street Korolev lived in, but Yuri still hadn’t spoken—or even properly acknowledged him. Korolev stopped at the door to the apartment and crouched down in front of Yuri so that the boy couldn’t avoid looking at him. Even in the gloom of the stairwell, the boy’s blue eyes seemed unnaturally bright.

“Listen, Yuri. I know you’re tired, I can see that, but these are your neighbors for the next week and you’ll make an effort, yes? The woman is called Koltsova—Valentina Nikolayevna.” Korolev spoke distinctly—until the boy was better acquainted, it would be polite for him to use both Valentina’s name and patronymic. Yuri nodded to show he had it memorized.

“Her husband was that famous engineer I told you about, the one who died in the Metro accident.”

“I remember.” Yuri’s voice, when it came, was little better than a croak.

“Good. Now her daughter is Natasha—she’s a bit younger than you and a good person as well. A Pioneer, same as you are. Theyre the best of people, both of them—I couldn’t ask for better. So I want you to speak up and speak strongly, as Comrade Stalin would expect from such a fine young specimen of socialist youth, and treat them as the good comrades they are.”

Yuri seemed to wake at that, and give Korolev his full attention for the first time.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

Korolev stood and put his key in the lock, knocking once on the door as he opened it.

“We’re here,” he called in.

“Come in, come in.” Valentina bustled out from the small kitchen area, wiping her hands on an apron, her cheeks rosy from the heat. It occurred to Korolev that he’d never seen her wear an apron before.

“We made a cake,” she said. “We wanted to do something nice for Yuri.”

“An apricot cake,” Natasha said, appearing beside her mother, a smile on her face. “I queued for them. The apricots that is.”

“We didn’t get everything we needed.” Valentina put a finger to her chin as she considered this. “But it worked out, I think.”

“It smells good.”

“It does smell good,” Yuri agreed, and Korolev was pleased to see his son was smiling along with everyone else.

“Yuri.” Valentina stepped forward to embrace him. “We’re pleased to have you here.”

“Thank you. I’m pleased to be here.”

Yuri looked up toward Korolev, who nodded his approval.

“Yes, Comrade Yuri—fellow Pioneer.” Natasha took Yuri’s hand in hers, shaking it vigorously. “Welcome to Moscow.”

 

Copyright © 2013 by William Ryan

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