The Holy Thief (22 page)

“And tell me this, Isaac Emmanuilovich, just how well did you know Mrs. Ezhov, in the past, when you were ‘friends?’ ”

Babel looked uncomfortable. It was an answer in itself.

“Does he know?”

Babel laughed. “I don’t think he minds much. It’s all in the past, after all, and he’s no wallflower when it comes to these things.”

“Does he know what you’re writing?”

Babel turned to check they weren’t being overheard. “What are you talking about Alexei Dmitriyevich? I never said I was writing anything.”

Korolev felt his eyebrows rise in disbelief. It hurt. Babel threw another nervous look at the building behind them.

“Just some notes, perhaps. You can’t deny it’s interesting. And the questions it raises? Can there really be so many enemies? What if the Chekists themselves have been infiltrated? What if the fear of the foreign interventionists, the spies, the Fascists and all the rest is self-perpetuating? You know, like a machine that, once you turn it on, can’t be stopped—it just carries on until there’s no one left. They tell me things, the Chekists, and they defy logic. They have quotas, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Like a factory. Each district has a set number of counterrevolutionaries and spies to identify. Do you know what that means? Suspicion isn’t even necessary these days because there’s a quota to be filled—and anyone will do. Not just filled, but exceeded if the local boss is to progress in his career, or avoid making up the numbers himself in the next quota that comes down the line. So maybe I am writing something, but only for the drawer. You could never even think of trying to publish it, of course, because the heart of the problem is that we are, as a country, genuinely in danger. Those trucks over there will be used one day, and it won’t just be for an exercise. There’s a war coming and we’ll be in it. But a few words for the drawer can’t hurt, can they?”

Korolev reached forward and put his hand to Babel’s mouth.

“Never talk about this, Isaac. To anyone, do you hear me? Never say such things. Most of all not to me.”

Babel looked confused. “But you’re not the same as them.”

“You barely know me, brother. I’m a member of the Militia and a loyal Soviet citizen. Don’t forget it.”

Babel smile was conspiratorial. “Of course, I understand.”

“Good, let’s be clear on that,” Korolev said, deciding to ignore the smile. “I have another question. Did you ever come across a Chekist called Mironov at these parties of yours? Boris Ivanovich Mironov? A major?”

“The name is familiar. I could ask a few people.”

“Neither of us would want Gregorin to know you’d asked about this man, believe me.”

“You worry too much. I’ve come to the conclusion after the last few years that the more you worry, and the more you try to avoid the danger, the more at risk you are. They smell the fear on you. Then the phone stops ringing and friends cross the road to avoid you and then, bang, one morning there’s a sealed apartment, red wax hanging from a string, and you’re never heard of again. I thought it through. If they’re going to take you, they’ll take you. Why help them?”

Korolev looked at him in disbelief, but Babel was oblivious.

“Anyway, I think I know the fellow to talk to—a decent man, well-connected within the organization, but not front line. I know him from the war; I can talk to him as one man to another and nothing will go further.”

“That would be just as well,” Korolev said.

Babel smiled at him, amused. Their footsteps crunched over the gravel as they returned to the Institute’s entrance. Some orderlies were unloading stretchers from a truck—it seemed that the following day’s exercise would be authentic.

The driver had come for him without announcement. A job needed to be done straight away and he was to be the backup in case things didn’t go according to plan. Not that there seemed to be much of a plan. The driver had a truck half full of rubble from somewhere, and an accident was to be arranged at the shortest of notice. He did as he was told, however, and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove across town and then parked on the side of the street. The driver went to make a phone call and, when he returned, handed him a photograph and explained what was to be done. “It won’t be long now,” the driver said, checking his watch.

After a little while a car had entered the gates across the street and the driver had nodded to him. Then, five minutes later, a different car had come out—a past-it looking Ford—and they’d followed it, from a distance initially. He was no saint—the Lord knew that—no one could have done the things he’d done and not be changed by it. But this smelled worse than anything up until now. By a distance.

He couldn’t complain: he’d had a chance to refuse at the beginning, all those years before. There would have been no shame then, but he knew someone would have to say yes sooner or later and so he’d offered it up to the future; to the expectation of a new society where crime didn’t exist, where the workers and peasants of the world would combine together in happy toil, where war and the exploitation of the masses were something students would study in history classes. He looked at the driver and felt weak with nausea. If this turned out to be a rogue operation, the very excuses he’d scorned from the State’s enemies would be the only ones he could think of to justify himself. He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong; he’d been misled by others; he’d believed he was acting in the best interests of the Party. He’d be better off saying nothing at all.

It was a tragedy, really. They’d taught him to work for the collective good—explained to him that the individual was weak but the Collective was a mighty force that could change history itself. But now it turned out that he’d been an egotistical individualist all along. He’d a choice all right, he could shop the rats, but it was no choice really, he’d be shot as well. Or given twenty-five in the Zone, which was the same thing. That long in the Zone wasn’t possible. He knew how it was out there, men sleeping in the snow, frozen solid to each other in the morning, if they even survived the night. So much for theory—this was reality.

He probably wouldn’t even make it to a camp, of course, the other Zeks would have him on the train. They’d smell the Lubianka basement on him and he’d wake up with a hole where his throat had been. And his son? God might help the boy, if that villain still existed, but no one else would. He’d be lucky if he ended up half-starved and lice-ridden in an orphanage. More likely he’d be found dead under a bridge—another nameless waif to be tossed into an incinerator. This was the logic, Soviet logic. He was a traitor and his line would be eradicated, his family would cease to exist and no one would mention his name again. His fine apartment would be fought over by his former comrades, his belongings scavenged and there wouldn’t even be a ripple to mark his passing.

They were behind the car now, traveling in the inside lane while the car stayed wide. There was only one man in the vehicle—it wasn’t the boy and it couldn’t be the writer, not in a Militia vehicle. The driver’s face was white in the early evening light—his eyes were like black bullets and he could sense his physical excitement. Here was a fellow who enjoyed his work it seemed. A convoy of huge Metro trucks was rumbling toward them on the other side of the road, and he knew enough to brace himself.

The trucks came closer, and the driver moved up alongside the car. So near were they that he could hear the rattle of the Ford over the roar of the truck’s engine. Then the driver swung the truck, pushing the Militia vehicle up onto two wheels, and for a moment he stared down into the shocked eyes of the car’s occupant, no more than three feet beneath them. There was a crash and a screech of tearing metal. Did he imagine the Militiaman’s scream in among the noise? Perhaps. It all happened in milli-seconds. The Ford hit the lead truck of the convoy head on, collapsed like a concertina, and then the truck was mounting it and the car was being crushed as if it were made from paper.

He looked for the Militiaman in the rearview mirror, but there was just a jumble of twisted metal, jagged glass and shredded fabric. The face stayed with him, though. And it wasn’t the face from the photograph.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The general stood in his usual place, looking down on Petrovka Street and smoking his pipe with a pensive air. The street light caught the squalling rain, turning the raindrops into falling white streaks that flew at the window, spattering the glass and leaving Korolev glad he was sitting here in the warmth and not outside, hunched into sodden clothes with his face streaming wet, stuck in a queue for bread that stretched for two blocks ahead of him.

“A terrible thing. Half the kids in from the country have never even seen a tractor, let alone a truck, back on their
kolkhoz.
Then they get a construction job in Moscow and they’re put into one and told to drive it. Talk to the fellows in traffic—they can tell you stories that would make you weep. They might as well measure you for a wooden jacket when they give you a job as a truck driver in this town. Well, measure a pedestrian more likely.

“The truck driver who hit him was experienced enough, the uniforms said. They think a truck on Larinin’s side of the road ran him into the oncoming traffic and didn’t stop to pick up the pieces. Mind you, that’s all there were—pieces.

“Why would he stop? He saw what happened behind him on the road, didn’t he? And what he saw was ten years for sabotage under Article 58. Did anyone get a number plate? No? So it’s an accident. Leave it at that. The fellow probably didn’t even see Larinin from up in his cab and—who knows?—Larinin might have been in the wrong. The traffic boys will look into it, don’t worry. They’ll poke around enough for all of us, and if something comes of the poking? Well, it’s a different story then.”

Korolev opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw Popov shaking his head and pointing to the ceiling. The general held up the day’s report, a couple of pages only. It occurred to Korolev that the general’s insistence that Larinin’s death was an accident was a little overdone, but if he thought the office might be bugged, then that made sense. He nodded in understanding and the general turned to the first page of Korolev’s skimpy update.

The report was brief for a reason—Korolev hadn’t put anything in there about the dead Chekist because he’d been forbidden to. And as for the meeting with Kolya? He’d mentioned it, but only to indicate it had been a complete waste of time. In the end, the identity of Tesak was the only substantive piece of information it contained.

“So Kolya had nothing to say. Interesting he met with you at all.” Popov let the thought hang there for a moment, and Korolev shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So what next for our inquiry, do you think?”

“We’ll do our best to track down the girl and the car. Keep looking for more local witnesses. Brusilov is still working his way through the Komsomol cell. We have a few known associates of Tesak’s to follow up on. Maybe we’ll get lucky and maybe not. Of course, State Security may take the matter over altogether.”

“Let’s hope they do,” Popov said. “The missing person bulletin has gone round the stations—that might produce something, I suppose.”

They looked at each other glumly.

“It feels like we’re coming to a dead end,” Popov said.

“Maybe for the best. After all, we know there’s a separate investigation going on.” Korolev realized they were both talking for the benefit of a microphone now.

“Agreed,” the general said. “Well, nothing else to be done here tonight. Off you go home.”

Korolev rose to his feet and then sat down again as his legs gave way. The room’s edges seemed soft all of a sudden and he had to swallow repeatedly to counter the nausea he felt. It felt as if all the energy in his body had dropped out through his feet.

“Excuse me,” he managed to say.

“What’s wrong with you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? Are you all right?”

“Just a moment, Comrade General. Forgive me.” He felt the general’s hand take his shoulder and, with some effort, he managed to focus his eyes on the table in front of him, while the rest of the room swayed about in his peripheral vision. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and he swallowed once again. Then it was as if the strength of Popov’s grip provided him with a point of solidity round which he was able to pull himself together again.

“Thank you,” he whispered, after what felt like hours, “I feel a little better now.” He understood, as he said it, that the general had been talking to him, but that he hadn’t heard a word.

“Can you stand?” Popov asked.

Korolev leaned forward to put his hands on the general’s desk for support and then pulled himself to his feet. “Good,” Popov said and patted Korolev’s back, “But I think I should give you a lift home. You look like a two-day-old corpse.”

Korolev wanted to object but the thought of fighting for the space to breathe on a tram changed his mind. “Are you sure, Comrade General?”

“Of course. You’re on the way. Pick up your things and meet me at the main gate. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, Comrade General,” Korolev said, already imagining the warmth of the car.

Five minutes later Korolev opened the door to the general’s ZIS on Petrovka Street, and sat in. The general smiled at him as they pulled away from the curb.

“Maybe the office is bugged or maybe it isn’t,” he said, “but my phone has developed a hissing sound that wasn’t there three days ago.”

“I see. It could be nothing, of course.”

“Of course, but then there’s another Party meeting tomorrow night.”

“I thought there was one today.”

“There was, but this one is specifically to address the Party cell’s lack of vigilance and potentially counterrevolutionary failings. I’ll be required to participate in the necessary self-criticism as a senior activist.”

The general’s profile revealed no emotion when Korolev turned to look at him, and the way he spoke was matter-of-fact—but Korolev knew how these things went, most of the time anyway. It was like seeing a bear torn to pieces by dogs. The questions came thick and fast, aggressive beyond belief, and no one bothered too much about the answers. If you managed to deal with one dog, two others would be attacking another spot. And the crowd would shout them on, knowing that if they didn’t, they might be the next in the chair.

“I’ll admit my errors, throw myself on the mercy of the Party. Suggest I be assigned to other duties for my failures. I’m not going to fight. If it’s the Party’s opinion that Mendeleyev’s loose mouth was a stab in the back at a time when the State is under threat, then I don’t disagree with them. I liked Knuckles, a good worker, a tough cop—not a Party member but still a Militiaman who should have known better. If I’d been asked before the decision was made to punish him, I’d have taken his record into account. But would that have been the right thing to do? The Party thinks I’ve ignored the political and dealt only with the practical and they’re right. I thought that was what I was meant to do, leave the political to the Chekists. I was wrong, of course.” The general’s voice had grown rough and stilted and Korolev could see his knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

“I’ve shed blood for the Party more than once, Korolev, and I’ll shed it again if it’s needed. We all know the world situation. The Spanish comrades are losing out against the Fascists, the Germans have crushed the Party there and are pushing out their borders, and the Italians are marching through blood in Africa. Sooner or later they’ll come for us—they’re already preparing the way with their spies and provocateurs. The Party knows this. We can’t let our guard drop—they’ll be on us like a flash if we do. If the Party needs an example to remind the department of this, I’m happy to be the example.”

Korolev didn’t know what to say. It was true—even in the east the Japanese were pushing up against the Soviet borders, eyeing up Siberia. It had always been this way, of course. Enemies had encircled the Soviet Union since its creation, only now they were stronger than ever.

“It was a failure of mine as well.”

The general scowled. “Don’t start with that again. Leave it to the Party to decide, and in the meantime keep your head low. Understand?”

Korolev nodded in reluctant agreement and the general’s scowl relaxed a little.

“Now tell me whatever it was you couldn’t say upstairs.”

Korolev took a deep breath and then told him about Citizeness Kardasheva’s opinion as to the profession of the Razin Street killers and that Gregorin might have led the raid that recovered the icon.

“I see. Still, Gregorin told you as much, that elements within the Cheka might be behind this whole mess.”

“He didn’t tell me he led the raid on the Thieves.”

“No. But if he did, that might be why he’s been assigned to investigate the case. What do you think? He wasn’t responsible for this icon going missing from the Lubianka storerooms, surely?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

The general considered the information in silence. Korolev wondered what he’d make of the dead Chekist or how he’d react if told that the icon was Kazanskaya. He’d probably crash the car.

“So what should I do?”

“Do? What can you do? You can’t walk away from it, can you? Where would you go?” He turned the car into Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and changed down a gear as the car struggled up the slippery slope. Mud had been washed down the alley by the rain and the car’s bonnet twitched from side to side. The street’s surface, despite being cobbled, was brown in the light of the car’s headlamps. “A bad night. The
rasputitsa
is upon us. Do you remember the autumn mud back in the war? I saw men drown in it. We can thank the Party for good roads and a lot else.”

Korolev nodded his agreement as the general came to a halt outside Number 4. The rain rattled on the roof of the car.

“Where’s your driver tonight, Comrade General?”

The general shrugged his shoulders. “Sick, or so he says.” He looked at Korolev. “Now, listen. You have to proceed as if this is an ordinary investigation. It’s the safest way. If there are traitors in the Cheka, they’ll get their come-uppance soon enough and it sounds like Gregorin is hot on their trail as it is. Maybe you
are
a decoy, and maybe not, but either way you have to do your duty. You might even be the one to catch them. And, of course, it might just turn out to be a madman, and nothing more to it. Who knows? With a bit of luck we’ll all come through in one piece.”

Korolev nodded and said his farewells, the general’s hand enveloping his for a finger-crushing moment. The only madman anywhere near this case, of course, was anyone who thought it had nothing to do with State Security. Korolev watched him drive off, the car’s wheels slithering through the mud. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears and wondered if he’d ever had such a headache. It felt as if he’d been shot, which would teach him to pick scraps with factory workers. At his age, that was ridiculous behavior, although he felt a little surge of pleasure remembering the look Semionov had given him afterward.

He stood there for a moment and then he felt the pavement shift under his boots. He took a step toward the door, but the street seemed to be closing in around him and panic made his nostrils flare. Now his stomach seemed to be squirming up toward his chest and instinct alone took him three slow steps over to the wall. He leaned against it, ignoring the stream from a broken gutter that splashed down onto his arm, soaking his coat black. His stomach lurched again and he bent over, still clutching at the rough plaster for balance and then vomited against the wall, the stream of half-digested food immediately beginning to dissipate in the heavy rain. Two retches seemed to empty his stomach and any strength he had left. He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand, but somehow he managed to hold himself there and then, infinitely slowly, to lift a hand up to his face and wipe his mouth. He ran his tongue around his teeth and spat, the effort bending him over once again as his stomach heaved. The ground beneath him came in and out of focus and he wondered if he’d been poisoned, but he couldn’t remember anything passing his lips in the previous few hours. He breathed deeply and put his free hand to his chest to try and control the shivering that was juddering throughout his body. He looked at the street lamp’s reflection in the puddle beneath him. It seemed like the last light in the world. He swore, the words frothing on his lips, and began to edge toward the doorway, leaning against the wall, his arm banging against the plaster so hard was he shaking. At least, if he could get inside, he wouldn’t drown like a dog in the street. He inched closer, feeling the weight of each thread of his sodden coat and praying for respite. “Preserve me, Oh Lord,” he whispered to himself, the words growling out and tearing at the large ball of dull pain that mapped the contours of his skull.

When he heard the footsteps coming, he was too weak to lift his head and he cursed himself. Here it comes, he thought, the bullet with my name—and I welcome it, I welcome the release. But the last thing he remembered was someone putting an arm around him just before he fell.