Suddenly Chislenko wished he’d kept his mouth shut. A man should be careful in his choice of masters. True, at the head of the MVD was Minister of Internal Affairs Bunin who was known to be Serebrianikov’s protector. But it would be a comfort to know for certain that the Comrade Minister knew for certain what the Comrade Secretary was up to.
On the other hand, that burning curiosity to learn the causes of things which had taken him into the police force in the first place demanded to be satisfied in this matter.
He sent for Sub-Inspector Kedin who knew everything.
‘I bet you speak good German, Kedin?’
‘Pretty fair.’
‘I thought so. Sit here with me. I may need you.’
It took three phone calls spread out over the rest of the day to get things under way.
The first established contact and brought the information that there was no machine manufacturing company called Elsheimer currently operative in Karl-Marx-Stadt.
The second confirmed that yes, there had been a firm called Elsheimer, founded in 1885 and foundering in 1932.
The third revealed that rather than simply foundering in 1932, Elsheimer had been taken over by Luderitz GmbH, a subsidiary of Krupp, and thereafter had diverted to the manufacture of armaments. This in its turn had been taken over first by the Russians in 1945, and subsequently by the Democratic Republic itself, and still survived in a much developed and expanded form as State Machine Factory (Agriculture, Heavy) Number 364 AK.
With not much hope, Chislenko gave the details of the lift. They sounded slight, the story sounded feeble, the task impossible. He could almost hear the incredulity at the other end of the line as Kedin translated his request that the Karl-Marx-Stadt Polizei should check to see if any old records of the Elsheimer company remained and if they contained any reference to the lift in question.
Such a request to a Russian official would, he knew, have been tossed into a pending tray; a couple of months later, after two or three reminders, a token search might have been made, and the negative response sent through the slowest of official channels some few weeks later.
German efficiency – plus the desire to impress these Russian peasants with that efficiency – might speed things up in this case. But after all this time, it didn’t really seem likely the response could be anything but negative.
Early the following morning the phone rang. This time he did not need Kedin. The East Germans – clever bastards – had got their own Russian speaker who told him in a studiedly matter-of-fact voice that the records of the Elsheimer company had been found intact and that the lift in question was one of a pair manufactured in the spring of 1914 and shipped to St Petersburg (as it was then), shortly to be renamed, first, Petrograd (because after 1914 St Petersburg sounded too Germanic), and finally, in 1924, Leningrad. The order had been placed in 1913 by a St Petersburg construction company and the lifts were intended for a new hotel in the city to be called (the interpreter allowed himself the ghost of a chuckle) the Imperial.
These details would be confirmed in writing within the next few days, with photocopies of the relevant record sheets. If the Comrade Inspector required any further assistance, he should not hesitate to ask.
Chislenko smiled as he recognized the triumphant insolence behind the measured correctness.
‘We are most grateful,’ was all his reply. He didn’t grudge them their triumph. But once again he found himself wondering about the wisdom of the course he had set himself on.
But to turn back now was impossible. This information was official. When the written confirmation arrived, it would be on the record. He had to proceed, even though now he was beginning to guess where his progress would take him.
He picked up the telephone and asked to be put through to MVD Headquarters in Leningrad. The traditional rivalries between the two cities – Muscovites regarding natives of Leningrad as peasants and being regarded in their turn as barbarians – unfortunately extend even into official circles. Chislenko did not want to be messed about, so he cut through any potential delaying tactics with the sharpest instrument at his disposal.
‘This is an inquiry authorized by Comrade Secretary Serebrianikov of the Committee on Internal Morale and Propaganda,’ he declared baldly. Then after a pause to let the implications sink in, he made his request.
The promised return call came midway through the morning.
The Hotel Imperial no longer existed. Indeed it hadn’t really existed as the Hotel Imperial at all. Planned for completion at the end of 1914, its construction had been suspended at the outbreak of the war and it wasn’t actually finished till 1922. It occurred to someone shortly afterwards that Imperial was perhaps not the most suitable name for this revolutionary city’s most modern hotel, and the name was changed about the same time as Petrograd became Leningrad. It must have seemed a name for all time when they decided to christen it after the Father of the great Red Army and re-named it the L.D. Trotsky Building. The name survived Trotsky’s expulsion from the Party in 1927 – rehabilitation perhaps still seeming possible – but not his exile two years later, when it was rechristened, uncontroversially, the May Day Centre. During all these vicissitudes it was used as an administration and accommodation centre for visiting officials and delegations from all over the country. Moscow might be the official capital, but Leningrad was, and would always be, the historical centre of the great revolutionary movement …
Chislenko interrupted the threatened commercial brusquely. ‘And what happened to the place, whatever you call it, in the end?’
‘It was hit by German shells in 1943,’ came the reply in a rather hurt tone of voice.
‘Hit? You mean destroyed?’
‘It was rendered unusable, that’s what the records say.’
‘And it was never reconstructed as such.’
‘No, Comrade. That area of the city, like many others, was cleared and totally rebuilt in the great post-war reconstruction programme.’
‘Is there in the records a list of those who were in charge of that particular site in the clearance stage of the reconstruction programme?’
For the first time the MVD man in Leningrad let a hint of impatience sound in his voice.
‘We’ve no list as such, but I suppose I could go through the minutes and progress reports and see which names turn up.’
‘That would be kind. The Comrade Secretary would, I am sure, appreciate that,’ said Chislenko.
The names were soon forthcoming. In fact it wasn’t too long a list, and one name dominated the rest. Clearly this was the man on the ground who was in direct control of the day-to-day work.
Chislenko noted it without comment. He’d already written it down on his jotter with a large question-mark next to it. Now he crossed out the question-mark.
The name was Mikhail Osjanin.
6
That evening in Natasha’s apartment with the radio turned up high just in case he was right about KGB bugs, he told the girl about the two reports he had left in the Procurator’s office that afternoon.
One of them had been long and very detailed. This was the one which showed there was no possible historical basis for a ghost, then went on to give the new and revised accounts of events from Natasha, her mother, and Rudakov, ending with the conclusion that a combination of heat, fatigue, stale air and a little restorative alcohol had combined to make Josif Muntjan hallucinate so strongly that his hysteria had communicated itself to those around.
Chislenko then declared boldly that he could find no evidence of subversive intent and recommended that Muntjan should