The Holy Thief (13 page)

“I told them, I told the first lot, the footsteps, look at the footsteps, but they paid no attention. I made them keep away from them all the same, and my boys as well. Look over there.” He pointed to a set of blurred tracks that led toward them from the corner entrance to the northeast of the ground, the furthest away from the main road.

“A terrible thing, a terrible thing. I came in early to get the pitch ready for the reserve match tomorrow, but I always have a good look around in the morning to see if anyone’s been in overnight. Local kids get up to the Lord knows what here in the summer, which is bad enough. I mean they’re young and I was young myself once, but can’t they find somewhere else? No, they can’t, and I’m the one has to chase the little hooligans out all summer long. And only last March we found two drunks frozen under the away team posts. Like this.” He stopped and contorted his face and body into an approximation of rigor mortis. “Very upsetting. Their eyes were wide open, like fish in a tank. So I thought it was a drunk when I saw someone lying in the snow and, I’m thinking, here we go again, but no. It was worse.”

Only the recollection of the dead man stopped Sergei Timofeevich’s monologue. His eyes glistened with tears, which he rubbed at with a threadbare glove.

“Oh it was a horrible sight, brothers. It shouldn’t happen to anyone—a thing like that.”

Korolev seized the opportunity to interrupt. “Sergei Timofeevich? I’m Captain Korolev and this is Junior Lieutenant Semionov. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask. I know you anyway, Alexei Dmitriyevich, even if you don’t remember me. A fine central defender in his time, Lieutenant; we used to call Korolev the Steamroller. If Korolev tackled you, you stayed tackled. That I can confirm. But always fair, always fair.”

Korolev looked carefully at the groundskeeper and detected a familiar face changed by drink and age. The eyes were the same though.

“Akunin? The referee?”

“Yes, yes, that’s me.” The groundskeeper was delighted. “Was me, I suppose. Akunin the referee. But then—ah well, now Comrade Starostin allows me to be Sergei Timofeevich the groundskeeper. It keeps me involved in the game and I enjoy the work. But enough—what are these questions you have for me?”

Korolev caught Semionov’s smile from the corner of his eye and deduced that it wouldn’t be long before his old nickname was doing the rounds in Petrovka Street. He turned his attention back to Akunin.

“It’s good to see you, Sergei Timofeevich. We players always thought you were a fine referee.”

“I wasn’t bad, it’s true.” Akunin beamed with pleasure. “So, how can I help you?”

“Well, for a start, could you show us how the body was laid out?”

“Of course, Captain. He was flat on his back, with his hands by his side, like this. The face, the poor face though. He looked terrified. His eyes were like this. I couldn’t turn my head away for a full minute when I saw them.”

The groundskeeper did an imitation of the corpse lying in the snow, with crazed eyes and a wide open mouth. It wasn’t dissimilar to his imitation of the dead drunks.

“And on his chest,” he continued, “God forgive him his sins, were—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Korolev said, cutting him off. “We know all about that, thank you. But tell me now, was there snow on top of the body, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“A bit. We had about four inches last night, as you can see, but I’d say he only had a dusting. Did I mention how his clothes were hanging off him? It looked like they’d been hacked and cut nearly as bad as him.”

“Thank you, that’s useful. Was there anything else you noticed? Anything at all?”

“Only the footsteps—they’re blurred by the snow, but there were two of them, I’d say. Do you see? One behind the other?”

Korolev crouched down beside the trail Akunin indicated.

“But on the way out they walked alongside each other.”

“Look, Vanya,” Korolev said, pointing down, ‘this fellow’s steps are wider apart. So he was probably taller; quite a bit taller, by the look of it.” Starostin was looking at his watch and Korolev took the hint. “Thanks for your time, Nikolai. We’ll just follow the tracks out. There’s no need for you to wait around—but if you could join us, Sergei Timofeevich, it might be useful.”

Starostin made his farewells and left the investigators to their work, along with their willing assistant, the former referee. Korolev looked with regret at where the body had lain.

“I wish I’d seen it myself. There might have been something, you never know.” He turned to the others. “Come on; let’s see if there’s anything else.” They walked alongside the two sets of footprints, following them to the northeastern entrance. Someone had taken a crowbar to the gate and it hung open, the lock disembowelled.

“Another job to be done,” the groundskeeper muttered.

“Wait a second,” Semionov said and pointed to the snow in front of them. “No one else has been over here. Right, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“No, your colleague, the short fat one, said it was too cold to be running around in the snow on a wild-goose chase for a dead Thief.”

“Look, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” Semionov pointed to a half-covered empty packet of cigarettes. “Doesn’t that mean this would have had to have been left by the killers? Seeing as there’s snow underneath it.”

“Good lad, let’s get it out and have a look.”

Semionov stooped down and carefully picked the packet out, a small damp patch forming around it on the palm of his leather glove.

“Hercegovina Flor. Expensive. Restricted stores and restaurants. A friend of mine smokes them.” Semionov imparted the last piece of information with a certain reluctance.

“A woman friend?”

“Men smoke them too,” Semionov said defensively.

“I see. Got something to put the packet in?”

Semionov rooted in his pockets without finding anything suitable so he tore a page out of his notebook and wrapped it round the damp packet before following the older man through the gate. There were indeed tire tracks, but the snow covered an asphalted area so no distinguishable markings could be made out, just tracks coming in and then going out, and a circle where the car had turned. They followed them to the main road anyway, just in case.

“A shame,” Semionov said, kicking at the snow.

“Well, nothing to take a cast from, but it looks like it was a car, rather than a truck. And how many people have access to cars in Moscow? Not that many. We’ll ask at the local Militia station—see if one of their patrols saw any vehicles near here last night. Is there a nightwatchman, Sergei Timofeevich?”

“Of course, but he normally keeps to the office building if it’s snowing.”

“Thank you. Ask him to call the lieutenant when he comes in. Ivan Ivanovich will give you the telephone number.”

Korolev was quiet on the drive back to Petrovka Street as he tried to make something of the visit to the stadium. The expedition had been useful he supposed. Now they knew there were two men involved, that one was tall and the other shorter, that they’d access to a car and that one of them possibly smoked Hercegovina Flor. Progress, sure, but unless the killer struck again not much to go on. He growled once more with the frustration of it all.

Semionov looked over at him.

“It’s nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.”

The motive must be the key. Nine times out of ten with a murder, if you found the motive you found the killer attached to it. Gregorin had as good as confirmed that the murder was linked to someone in State Security flogging artworks on the side. So, if the dead girl was a nun, the logical deduction would be that she’d been after some item of religious significance or value. Gregorin had seemed to hint as much. A relic, perhaps. Or an icon? Many relics and icons had been destroyed since the Revolution, as had the churches they’d been displayed in. Still, it was worth following up. But what about the dead Thief? He didn’t look like someone who’d have anything to do with icons, unless they were drawn in blue ink. It was confusing, but it seemed to him that if the killer wasn’t a madman, or a pair of madmen now, then it was odd the bodies had been left in such public places. There weren’t so many murders in Moscow that two like this wouldn’t stand out. So, although the electricity burns and the signs of torture were the only definite links between the victims, he was pretty sure the killers were the same, but it was worth considering whether there might be different motives for the murders. He caught Semionov looking at him again, and pointed his assistant’s attention back to the road ahead.

Hopefully Larinin, who’d gone back to Petrovka to see if he could find the Thief’s file, would come up with something. There must be a file—he’d seen it on the fellow’s fingers. If they knew which gang he belonged to, they could round up a few of his pals and give them a grilling. Not that Thieves talked to policemen willingly, given that cooperation with the Soviet State in any form was forbidden by their code. Even having a paying job was frowned upon, unless it was a front for criminal activity. He scratched his head in frustration—he felt like a dog in a field of rabbits, chasing after ideas that seemed to breed in front of his very eyes. And what was it Gregorin had said about the nun? That she was one of two possible candidates. Did that mean there was another American wandering round Moscow? What on earth were they up to, these Americans?

“Alexei Dmitriyevich?” Semionov said.

“Yes?” Korolev barely succeeded in keeping the irritation out of his voice.

“He was a real gentleman, wasn’t he? Starostin? And giving us two tickets for the final against the squaddies. Will we go? It should be a great game.”

“I don’t see why not, I’ve a feeling this investigation is about to hit a brick wall.”

“Don’t say that, Alexei Dmitriyevich. You told me yourself, my first day on the job—when it looks like there’s nothing to be done, that’s the time you go back to the beginning and start all over. One berry at a time, and the basket will be full. We still have avenues to explore.”

“Yes, there are certainly things to be done and berries to be picked.” He tried to sound more positive than he felt. They were driving along Okhotny Row and about to turn into Teatralnaya Square, when the Metropol came into view. And it occurred to him—hadn’t Gregorin as good as told him to go and talk to this American, Schwartz?

“Pull over, will you, Vanya? I’ll walk the rest of the way. I need to go and see someone.”

Semionov brought the car to a halt and noted his superior’s changed demeanor. “A berry, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

“Maybe—we’ll see. Start looking into the cars, Vanya. There are probably only twenty privately owned cars in the whole city, so you’ll have to go to the factories, the big concerns, the ministries. See if you can find out who had cars available to them last night. It’s a needle in a haystack job, but you never know. And take that cigarette packet over to forensics.”

It would keep him busy and away from the Metropol—full as it was of foreigners, bigwigs, speculators and the like—and, also, as a result, the NKVD.

CHAPTER TEN

The Metropol wasn’t the tallest building on Teatralnaya, being a mere six stories high, but it enjoyed a prime location across the square from the Bolshoi Theater and on a dark, clouded day—such as this one—the hotel’s many lit windows sent out a welcoming glow. The structure, an ornate mixture of the art deco and Russian imperial styles, still retained a
fin de siècle
elegance despite the more recent inscription that ran the length of the fifth floor: O
NLY THE
D
ICTATORSHIP OF THE
P
ROLETARIAT
C
AN
F
REE
M
ANKIND FROM THE
C
APITALIST
YOKE
—V. I. L
ENIN
.

The inscription always struck Korolev as a little unfriendly given that the Metropol catered mostly to important visitors from abroad and Western specialists, many of whom were presumably enthusiastic proponents of that same capitalist yoke, and very much against being dictated to by the proletariat. Still, whether the foreign capitalists liked it or not, even ordinary Soviet workers like Korolev could visit the Metropol and order a glass of beer. Despite its splendors, it was owned by the State, and the State was the People. The thought buoyed him up as he crossed the road toward the entrance, conscious, as he was, that wherever there were foreigners there was danger, and that most ordinary people avoided the Metropol, leaving it to apparatchiks, Party cadres, famous actors and the like to fly the Red Flag on their behalf. The hotel might be owned by the People, but that didn’t mean the People were crazy enough to visit it.

Korolev nodded to the tall doorman and showed him his identity card.

“Moscow CID. Militia business. Where’s the manager’s office, Comrade?”

The doorman, dressed in a uniform that had more gold braid and tassels than a tsarist general’s and with a magnificent beard that looked like it might be supported by hidden wires, took Korolev’s papers and examined them for a moment before smiling, as one worker to another.

“Up the stairs and ask at reception, Comrade. The duty manager’s the fellow you need to talk to. Nikolai Vladimirovich. Don’t be put off by him, he’s a decent lad.”

The foyer was huge, lined with mirrors and paintings and more gilt and crystal than could be taken in immediately, all topped by a sky-blue ceiling, the corners and edges of which were decorated with painted clouds. Korolev had never been to the Metropol before and he was sufficiently taken aback by the grandeur of the interior to stop in his tracks and look around him like, he suspected, some village idiot at his first May Day parade. But most extraordinary of all was the long pool that graced the center of the room, in which young women with unnaturally red lips and jeweled swimming caps were performing some kind of ballet, their tight black swimsuits stretching with their bodies as their legs rose from the water as one. Korolev found himself instinctively removing his hat out of respect, although the swimmers paid him no attention, their eyes being fixed at an indeterminate point somewhere in the vicinity of the chandeliers.

He felt his cheeks reddening, but pulled himself together enough to advance toward the ornate oak-paneled reception desk, hoping the foreigners paid through their noses for all this, the rats. A handsome fellow in a dinner jacket was waiting for him, looking like a film star with his oiled hair and carved cheekbones—it was enough to make a man want to kick something. Korolev placed his identity card on the waiting blotter.

“I’ve a few questions for the duty manager. I believe Nikolai Vladimirovich is the man I want.”

The receptionist examined Korolev’s photograph with polite attention. No doubt the capitalist women just loved this fellow, Korolev thought, taking a quick dislike to him. If he was a member of the proletariat, then Korolev was a tangerine.

“Of course, Comrade, I’ll go and fetch him. Please take a seat by the fountain and he’ll be with you shortly.”

The film star pointed him to a cluster of red velvet seating, beside which water splashed and sparkled. Korolev walked over and sat down beneath a half-naked gilded nymph carrying an unlikely looking red star. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t help noticing that his
valenki
were giving off a pungent aroma not dissimilar to damp horse. He looked down and saw melting slush spreading over the crisp marble floor around his feet. Well, at least it wasn’t yellow, he thought to himself, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

After a few minutes, most of which Korolev spent wishing he was somewhere else, a small rotund man approached with an outstretched hand, teeth sparkling beneath his precisely sculpted, razor-thin mustache. A party badge twinkled on the lapel of his morning-suit coat.

“Comrade, I came as soon as I could. Nikolai Vladimirovich Krylov, Duty Manager. Please follow me. I wish to be of
every
assistance.”

Korolev followed Krylov’s patent leather shoes as they clicked across the marble floor toward what appeared to be a mirrored wall. At Krylov’s confident push, the mirror revealed itself to be the hidden door to a comfortably furnished office. Aside from a green-topped wooden desk, there were a pair of buttoned leather armchairs and a matching leather couch gathered around a glass coffee table. Krylov pointed Korolev toward the couch.

“Would you like a cognac, Comrade? French and very fine.” Krylov reached for a decanter.

Korolev was about to refuse the offer when he caught sight of a brass carriage clock on the chimneypiece. It was four o’clock already, and it had been a long day.

“French, you say? Well, why not?”

“Excellent,” Krylov said and filled two small glasses to the brim. He handed one to Korolev and sat down carefully opposite the other, raising the delicate glass in toast.

“Your health, Comrade.”

“And yours,” Korolev replied and they drank a healthy sip, but not all of it. They were cultured Soviet citizens, after all, not beasts of the field.

“So how can I assist you, Captain?” Krylov asked, leaning forward, his pale face showing a concern that was perhaps a little exaggerated. Korolev decided there was no point in beating about the bush.

“You’ve a fellow called Schwartz staying here—I’d like to talk to him.”

Krylov nodded slowly. His eyes were very dark, Korolev noticed, and perhaps this accounted for the lack of visible reaction to his request.

“May I ask what your inquiry is in connection with?” Krylov asked, after lengthy deliberation. “While we always cooperate fully with representatives of the Ministry of State Security, we do owe a duty of confidentiality to our guests.”

Korolev realized he had just very politely been reminded that he, a humble Militia captain, was treading on NKVD turf, and had better have some justification for doing so. He swirled the remaining cognac round his glass and finished it with a gulp, the heat of the alcohol warming his stomach.

“It’s to do with a murder, Comrade Krylov. It’s been suggested to me, by another part of the Ministry, that I should talk to this Schwartz fellow.”

Krylov stood up and reached for the bottle to refill Korolev’s glass.

“We’re under instructions to give this resident, in particular, a certain amount of discreet protection. Do you think . . .” he began and Korolev took the hint.

“May I use your phone, please, Comrade Krylov? I’ll speak to a colleague at State Security, just to make sure I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.”

Krylov gave him a relieved smile.

“Of course, please be my guest. Ask the operator to put you through. And don’t worry—she won’t be listening in. They know better than that, but then, of course . . .” Again he failed to finish his sentence, giving a small shrug as he stepped through the doorway that told Korolev that if the operator wasn’t listening in, someone else probably was. A good lad, despite the fancy dress. He picked up the phone on the desk, asking for the Lubianka and then for Staff Colonel Gregorin when the switchboard answered. Gregorin’s voice sounded tired when it came on the line.

“Comrade Korolev? At the Metropol, I believe. Isn’t it a little early for you to be out on the town?”

“Strictly business, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev answered, trying his best to hide his surprise that Gregorin knew where he was. “I thought I’d talk to that American you mentioned—Schwartz.”

“I think you should, Korolev. But just talk to him, nothing more, you understand. Make it clear it’s an unofficial inquiry and be discreet about the girl. We don’t want to offend the Americans. You’re dealing with Krylov, I believe. Put him on. By the way, I’ll meet you at your building at seven-thirty this evening. I think you should be introduced to your neighbors.”

Krylov took the phone when summoned, agreed with the colonel twice in the one-sided phone call, then hung up. He turned to Korolev with a smile.

“Mr. Jack Schwartz is the gentleman you want. He’s a regular guest. American, from New York. He’s been here for the last ten days. The profession he gives on his visa, which is a business visa, not a tourist one, is ‘antiques dealer.’ ”

Korolev liked the way Krylov pointed out Schwartz was on a business visa. It meant that Schwartz was a friend of the State in case Korolev hadn’t worked it out already, and an antiques dealer would fit in with what Gregorin had told him.

“I’ll see if he’s in. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime, a sandwich perhaps?”

“No thank you, Comrade Krylov. I’m not hungry,” Korolev said, the lie tasting like meatballs in his mouth.

“Are you all right, Comrade? You look quite pale.”

“It’s nothing Comrade. Just a momentary dizziness. Perhaps my Soviet liver is reacting badly to this bourgeois cognac.”

“Well, your Soviet liver should be proud to prevent the cognac being drunk by foreign capitalists. A selfless act!” Krylov winked and left the room, returning moments later.

“You’re in luck, Comrade, he’s sitting outside at this very moment. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Mr. Jack Schwartz of New York fitted in very well at the Metropol. Korolev had to acknowledge that the American’s gray woolen suit was cut with a level of precision that was beyond Soviet tailors, even the one Krylov used. Disconcertingly, he found himself seized by a desire to run his fingers along the jacket’s lapel—just to feel the fabric. Looking at it, he guessed it would be just as soft as the dead girl’s skirt, but he put the thought aside, reminding himself that Soviet clothes would be its equal, and better, in time.

Schwartz was a young man, about thirty, good-looking with full lips, a long jaw and dark brown eyes that seemed large for his face. He sat reading through some typewritten pages, his overcoat and a briefcase taking up one of the other seats at the table.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” Schwartz said in perfect Russian when Krylov introduced them. Korolev wondered whether his red tie was worn out of politeness or conviction.

“I’m investigating a crime, Mr. Jack Schwartz, and I believe you may be able to assist me. My approach is unofficial, of course, and I hope if I ask you a few questions they will not interfere in any way with your enjoyment of your visit to Moscow and the Soviet Union, where you are most heartily welcome.” A little formal perhaps, Korolev thought, but better safe than sorry. Schwartz nodded his head toward one of the other chairs at the table.

“Pull up a seat, Captain Korolev. I’m always pleased to fulfill my civic duties. What’s it that you’re investigating? Must be something serious.”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Jack Schwartz. A murder.”

“A murder?” At first Schwartz seemed almost amused, but then, after he’d thought about it for a moment or two, Korolev saw the humor drain from his eyes.

“Who was it?” he asked in a flat voice.

“We’re not sure. A young woman, in her early twenties we believe. Attractive, dark hair cut short. Blue eyes, slim build, about five foot four in height? Does that sound like someone you might know?”

Korolev thought he detected a reaction to the description, a momentary pause while Schwartz fitted the description together to make a picture, then an involuntary intake of breath, immediately suppressed, and covered up by a hunt through his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor, as it happened. He pulled a cigarette out of the packet of ten and then offered one to Korolev, before lighting both with a thin gold lighter.

“I don’t think it sounds like anyone I know in Moscow,” Schwartz said, his face a picture of puzzlement. “What made you think I might have? I come to Moscow a couple of times a year it’s true, but I only stay for a week or so. Pretty much everyone I meet here is a business contact.”

“You speak excellent Russian, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I would imagine a good-looking man such as yourself would find no shortage of female admirers in Moscow, even on such short visits.”

Korolev might not visit the Metropol, but he knew what went on here. He knew about the Russian girls who threw themselves at foreigners, desperate for a new life in a place like New York, where their dreams about capitalist life would no doubt be subject to a rude awakening. Schwartz frowned.