The Holy Thief (25 page)

He took a deep breath and walked over to the desk, leaning on it for support. He looked at the blood on the collar of his coat and the case wormed its way back into his thoughts. It occurred to him that if the traitors were trying to sell the icon abroad, that might explain why Mironov was involved—who better to help get it out than a major in the Foreign Department? But again, perhaps he had been trying to prevent the icon going to the West. He cursed Gregorin. Korolev didn’t mind being led up blind alleys and manipulated as though he were an idiot if it was for the greater good, but Kolya’s revelation that Gregorin had led the raid that recovered the icon had unsettled him. It occurred to him that Gregorin might be using him to try and track down the icon because he’d been the one responsible for losing it, through incompetence or worse. Well, if that was the case, it would come to light sooner or later, and if Korolev was still alive when it did, then he’d hunt the vermin down and rip his heart out with his own bare hands.

He was still contemplating the bare hands in question when there was a knock at the door and Semionov entered.

“How are you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? The general said you have concussion. Are you feeling better?”

The smile on his face seemed more teasing than sympathetic and Korolev gritted his teeth. What had he been thinking of after all—head-butting some giant
kulak
? He should have been more mature, given a better example to the youngster. He was supposed to be showing Semionov the ropes and yet here he was, his head cracked open and unable to pull his weight. It was humiliating.

“I’m fine,” he growled. “Sit down, take the weight off your feet. Stop standing there like a lamp post and tell me your news.”

“Well, first things first. I bring Comrade General Popov’s greetings to his favored shock worker.”

“Look, you little squirt, I’ve a head that’s splitting in two, so, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave your provocations until tomorrow.”

Semionov raised an eyebrow and Korolev wondered if the youngsters of today gave a damn about anything.
And
he was wearing that blasted mackintosh again. He looked like a corner boy in it, his hair slicked back with some kind of cream. It occurred to Korolev that Semionov would fit right in with the touts selling marked-up train tickets over at Kiev station.

“Come on, Alexei Dmitriyevich, don’t feel sorry for yourself. It could have been worse—think of poor Larinin. I’ve seen the Model T—two trucks ran right over it, one after the other—it’s like a pancake. They had to cut Larinin out of it piece by piece. And poor Pavel Timofeevich is mourning the Ford like a lost daughter. So if you don’t feel sorry for Comrade Larinin, then you should feel sorry for Comrade Morozov. Poor Larinin—cut down at the peak of his career as an investigator, mourned by his fellow workers.”

“Really?” Korolev found himself saying, the disbelief apparent in his voice, “Mourned?”

“Not exactly,” Semionov allowed his straight face to break into a small smile before resuming a more serious expression. “Although, for myself, I would say I’m grateful he took the car. Maybe the brakes were shot or a tire popped. Whatever happened, it could have been us, not Larinin, spinning into the oncoming traffic. So I remember him fondly on that account. I’ll say no more on the subject.”

Semionov pulled at the cuffs of his shirt so that they poked out from the sleeves of his mackintosh. “Of course, it’s still regrettable that Comrade Larinin was run over by the two trucks,” he added after a moment.

“Indeed,” Korolev said, his tone flat enough for Semionov to give him a searching look.

“But better him than us, right?” Semionov said with a shrug.

Korolev considered his younger colleague and noticed the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his demeanor. It made him wonder whether the younger man was entirely sure the crash had been accidental. There was just something in the way he had set out the possible explanations—the brakes, the tires—that made him wonder if Semionov wasn’t looking for reassurance from him. Well, he could look elsewhere. Whether they were in the shit or not, they still had to keep swimming. He sighed and rubbed at the bandage that swaddled his head.

“Despite a head that feels as if it belongs to someone else, I can only agree, young Vanya. It’s not so bad, being alive. What other words did the general have for me?”

“For us,” Semionov said, his expression serious, once again. “We’re off the case.”

It took a while for the news to sink in and Semionov watched him for his reaction.

“Has someone else been assigned to it?” Korolev said eventually, more to break the silence than anything.

“Paunichev. We’re to be assigned a new case on Monday morning. It’s because of your injury, the boss said. He didn’t want the case to lose momentum. He took the file and all the reports from me this morning.”

“Who did?” Korolev said, finding it difficult to concentrate on what Semionov was telling him and conscious of a vein pulsing in his forehead. He forced himself to keep his voice calm, but he could feel his stomach filling with acid.

“Comrade Paunichev. It was the boss’s orders, Alexei Dmitriyevich. There was nothing to be done. Also the general told me to keep quiet about the second American. If something comes of the missing person inquiry, then the general will decide what to do.”

“Were you allowed to tell Paunichev anything? About the woman Smithson having been a nun? Schwartz’s information? Gregorin even?”

Semionov shook his head and Korolev slammed his right fist into his palm.

“Then they’ve got away with it. Did Popov really order you not to tell Paunichev any of it? What words did he use? Exactly what words, please.”

“He said that all information acquired from Colonel Gregorin has been designated a State secret. Under no circumstances are we to give that information to anyone without express permission. He didn’t tell me not to tell Paunichev—he told me not to tell
anyone.
”

“And what Schwartz told me?”

“The same. We’re ordered off the case, Alexei Dmitriyevich. I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

Korolev leaned back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling. There was a cobweb in the corner of the room and in the middle of it a spider sat, no doubt looking down at him and thinking, “All I need is a bigger web.” To his surprise, a burst of laughter came from somewhere inside him.

“You’re right. We should be pleased. And Paunichev will find someone that fits for the murder in the church. It won’t be the right person, of course, but the statistics won’t care.”

Semionov was looking at him as though he’d farted at the ballet. Korolev tapped his head in apology.

“Forgive me, Vanya. I still have some pain—I’m probably not in the best of moods to hear this kind of news.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Alexei Dmitriyevich. They say that’s why you’re a good detective—the other investigators. They say it’s because you treat each case as if the victim was your mother. But if you’ll permit me to make the suggestion, you must harden your heart, Comrade. The path of the Party is not always clear to ordinary folk like us, but it must be followed.”

“Stalin?”

“No, Comrade—you.”

Korolev smiled in bleak acknowledgment—the case was in the past and that was all there was to it. So they drank a cup of tea, washing the unpleasantness away, and spoke of other things. Semionov had been out to Gorky Park with some friends and climbed to the top of the parachute tower. For a few kopeks, the attendants had strapped him in and he’d floated down to the ground beneath, just like a real parachutist. Except the parachute itself wasn’t really that white any more, Semionov remembered with a touch of disappointment; more gray after the recent rain and snow. These days it seemed everything in Moscow became dirty after a little while.

They sat for a while in silence, listening to a convoy of military trucks rumble up the lane toward Vorontsovo Pole as the Exercise continued around them. Semionov shifted on his chair.

“I have another message for you,” the younger man said. “The works meeting is this evening and the general orders your non-attendance.”

The words hung there like a bad odor.

“What do you think will happen?” Korolev said in a voice that sounded as though it belonged to someone else.

“It’s difficult to know. The general is much respected, but Mendeleyev is a black mark against the department and ‘vigilance’ is the word of the hour. My impression, and I accept I’m inexperienced in these matters, is that the activists are afraid of things spiraling out of control—Andropov’s accident shocked people. The good news is I detect no external pressure either way—so I would say that public self-criticism should be sufficient. Any more Mendeleyevs, however, and the situation would be different.”

The strange thing was that, as he spoke, Semionov seemed to acquire five years in age and his voice dropped an octave. Korolev was aware the younger man was a Komsomol activist, but the information he had seemed to come from a higher level than that. And he spoke with the clarity and confidence of an insider. It never occurred to Korolev to question what Semionov was saying, but he made a mental note that the young man was no ingenue in the ways of the Party.

“And you? Will you be going?”

“Yes, I’ve been appointed the Komsomol representative on the committee. Yesterday. I’ll support the general, if the situation requires it. Of course I will. But you must rest here. Otherwise you’ll be too tired to go to the game tomorrow.” Semionov smiled. “It will work out fine, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Trust me. What time shall I pick you up?”

“The game is at two.”

“And the American?”

“I don’t see why not. We have Gregorin’s permission to take him and it’s our duty to show him how Soviet sport surpasses that of the capitalist countries. Babel will come too. We’ll make a day of it.”

“Morozov said he could let us have a car.”

“But we should take the tram. He should have the full experience.”

Semionov sighed at the missed opportunity to drive. “The tram it is. Morozov wasn’t very keen to be honest—I think he blames me for the Ford. He was never going to fix the windscreen, you know—we’d have frozen to the seat in January. Perhaps it was for the best, in that regard.”

When Semionov left Korolev sat in silence for a while, and then stood, going over to run a finger along the spines of his small collection of books. He stopped when he reached the faded gold lettering of
A Hero of Our Times.
With a feeling of pleasant anticipation he opened the cover and read the first line:

I was traveling post from Tiflis. All the luggage in my small springless carriage consisted of one valise half-stuffed with notes on my travels in Georgia. The greater part of them, luckily for you, has been lost; while the valise, with its other contents, luckily for me, remains safe.

Korolev nodded to himself with satisfaction. Now, Lermontov, whatever else they might say about the fellow, was a man who knew which end of a pistol to point where, and how to start a novel.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Korolev woke the next morning at the usual time, refreshed and with much of his old energy restored to him. The sky was still dark outside, but he didn’t immediately turn on the light. Instead he walked to the window—the alley was empty and, with a mixture of regret and relief, he felt the case becoming a memory. Gregorin had called the night before, thanked him for his efforts and wished him well, and that had been that. The colonel hadn’t asked him anything about the previous day’s report, or about Kolya, nor had he commented on Larinin’s mysterious death. It was as though Gregorin had lost all interest in the matter, which was a relief as Korolev was certain that the colonel would have smelled a rat the moment he’d opened his mouth. Now, as long as Gregorin maintained this lack of interest, Korolev could forget the whole thing, and particularly the icon.

It was deflating to walk away from an unsolved case, but, strangely, he found himself humming a tune as he began his morning exercises—perhaps he was not too disappointed after all.

The lane was beginning to see the first traffic of the day by the time he’d finished his final piece of stretching and was tying the laces on his battered but still sturdy summer shoes. He’d get another year out of them, with a bit of luck, and they were fine for wearing around the house—but he’d have to start asking around about a new pair soon enough. He hadn’t seen shoes in the ordinary shops for months, which didn’t mean there weren’t any—it just meant that finding a pair that was available and fitted him would take time and effort. As for leather boots to replace his felt ones? Well, perhaps he would have to ask the other Militiamen how to go about it. There was obviously a way, perhaps not entirely above board, and maybe he’d just have to swallow his pride if he wanted dry feet this winter.

It was a cause of some embarrassment to Korolev, later, that when Babel arrived to collect him, Valentina Nikolaevna should be in the middle of insisting on his wearing a scarf belonging to her dead husband, which Korolev didn’t consider necessary.

“Isaac Emmanuilovich,” she said, with no respect for Korolev’s dented pride, “keep an eye on poor Korolev today. I know what these football matches can be like. He’s to stay out of trouble, no fighting with factory workers. And he’s not to take off this scarf.”

“I can look after myself.” Korolev scowled at Babel, whose face was bright with suppressed mirth.

“Don’t worry yourself, Valentina Nikolaevna, it will be my pleasure to keep Comrade Korolev under the closest of observation.” Babel bowed in Korolev’s direction. “Would you like to take my arm on the way down the stairs, Comrade Korolev?”

“The Devil take you, I can manage myself. And take that damned smirk off your face, you rotten scribbler!”

“See, Valentina Nikolaevna, the injury has made him disgruntled, but I forgive him,” Babel said, the picture of indifferent innocence. “I shall see you downstairs, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Don’t forget the scarf.”

“Rat,” Korolev muttered as the door closed behind the writer. Valentina Nikolaevna raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Valentina Nikolaevna, I was rude. It’s just I think he was making presumptions.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could catch them and push them back in.

“Presumptions, is it?” She produced the word like a rapier from its sheath. Her imperious blue eyes looked at him in artful confusion and he felt the net close around him.

“Ah, to hell with this!” he growled, more to himself than her. “I’m destined to be provoked all day long I can see.”

He clumped to the door, insofar as anyone can clump in felt boots, and tugged the handle toward him, half-disappointed that it offered no resistance.

“Well, goodbye then, Valentina Nikolaevna,” he called behind him and did his best to ignore what sounded very much like laughter from the kitchen, where he’d left her.

Semionov was waiting for them outside and, after a brief discussion, they decided to walk. It was a sunny day with a bite to the air that was pleasant on the skin after the rain and snow of the preceding weeks. They proceeded at Babel’s pace as he exchanged words with vagrants, kiosk vendors, street sweepers, ticket touts, as well as actresses and Party officials. Korolev took the opportunity offered by the writer’s distraction to ask Semionov about the works meeting.

“It went well. I myself took responsibility for my failure to observe anything untoward about former Party member Mendeleyev’s attitude and it was accepted that the lack of vigilance was a collective error.”

“But you hardly knew Knuckles.”

“So I ran no great risk,” Semionov acknowledged with a small smile. Korolev found his arm resting on the young man’s shoulder as they walked along, and it seemed quite natural. It occurred to him, however, that the relationship was not quite the paternal one he might have thought a few days before. Semionov was a handy lad; quite how he’d landed himself on the committee after only a few weeks was something of a mystery. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he looked the part with those clear blue eyes and his golden hair. But it was more than looks alone—the youngster was a solid fellow to have behind you in a scrap, for certain. In fact, it astonished him that Semionov had so little experience—he often carried himself like a man who’d been around the block once or twice at least.

When they finally arrived at the Metropol, Korolev was reassured to discover that it had lost none of its opulence over the previous few days. It occurred to him that foreigners must be equally impressed with this living embodiment of the great socialist dream. And it was open to everyone, unlike in the capitalist countries, where some lackey with a whip would no doubt send an ordinary man like him packing with a bloody stripe across his back for a souvenir. He turned with proprietorial pleasure to observe the reactions of Semionov and Babel, but was disappointed. The writer seemed uninterested in his surroundings, tapping a cigarette against an open enamel case and looking less animated than he had all morning. Semionov at least had the courtesy to look interested in the swimmers in the pool, but Korolev suspected that was for carnal rather than aesthetic reasons. Babel he could understand—the writer visited Paris every other month by the sound if it—but Semionov was yet again a surprise. Perhaps he’d been here before, with his Hercegovina Flor-smoking girlfriend.

Schwartz was sitting in the restaurant, perusing
Izvestia
with an expression that suggested he was reading it for amusement rather than political education. He rose as Korolev approached, looking slightly guilty and putting the paper behind him.

“Comrade Captain, good to see you. It looks like a great day for a sporting event.” He’d dressed down for the occasion; wearing a black jumper under a short blue overcoat with a turned-up collar, but the gray trousers were so precisely cut they looked as though they belonged in a museum of tailoring. What the Spartak fans would make of a crease like that could only be imagined. Schwartz pointed at a peaked cap on the table.

“I even got myself a hat. Think I’ll fit in?”

Korolev looked at the hat, wondering where he’d managed to buy it. One of the currency stores, no doubt.

“That’s a fine hat. Practical. You’ll need it—it’s brisk enough outside.”

Korolev didn’t feel he should add that he also thought the hat would look very well on his own head. Schwartz smiled in acknowledgment, then lowered his voice and leaned forward, his face serious.

“And the case? Any progress?”

“I’m no longer working on it,” Korolev said, indicating his bandaged forehead. “I had to take a few days off, so they transferred it to someone else. I’ve some good news for you, though. We identified the victim and it wasn’t your friend. Of course, if she contacts you, let me know—she might have some useful information.” But he could hear no conviction in his voice. After all, if the Chekists got their hands on an American nun traipsing round Moscow on a false passport, her original Intourist trip would be extended by a long visit to Siberia. Then something else struck him—Schwartz showed no relief or surprise at the news. He merely nodded in gratitude for the information. Did he not care about his friend from the train any more?

“If she does get in touch I’ll certainly advise her to contact you.” Schwartz said, with the careful intonation of a diplomat. “By the way, our previous conversation?”

“Remains between the two of us, of course,” Korolev answered, surprised how easily the lie slipped off his tongue. A thought occurred to Korolev, and he looked around to see whether Babel and Semionov were within listening distance. “In fact, I would like to extend that conversation if you don’t mind—now that I know which icon we’re dealing with.”

Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond. Again he didn’t look surprised, merely mildly perturbed. “I thought you were off the case?”

“For the moment, yes, but on Monday I will probably return to duty.” Well, who knew what Monday would bring? “A few minutes of your time is all I ask.”

Korolev was sure from Schwartz’s reaction that he’d already known the dead nun wasn’t his friend, Nancy Dolan. Now how could that be? He couldn’t press the matter because of the American’s importance to the State’s finances, but it seemed clear it was his duty to see if the American would tell him anything useful about the icon. He was sure the General would understand—well, almost sure.

“I don’t see why not,” Schwartz said, after he’d considered the proposal for another lengthy moment, “provided we keep to the same terms as before.”

“Agreed.”

They turned to watch Semionov and Babel looking with salacious smiles into the swimming pool, from which sixteen legs, slick with water and with red-painted toenails, pointed up at the huge central chandelier. The mysterious limbs looked, for a moment, as though they should be hanging from hooks in an abattoir.

“After the game?” Schwartz asked.

Babel looked toward them, indicating his watch. Korolev nodded to Schwartz.

“After the game will be fine,” he agreed.

“I’ve never traveled on a tram before,” Schwartz said, as they walked out onto Teatralnaya Square. “Not in Moscow, anyway.”

“That may not change today,” Babel said, looking at a passing red and white tram that seemed in danger of exploding outward from the press of people inside. Young men hung from the door handles, their feet wedged onto the running plates and their Spartak scarves mimicking the huge red flags that fluttered from either side as it charged past the crowd waiting at the stop across the street.

“The bandit isn’t even stopping!” Semionov said, echoing the rest of the queue, who were cursing the driver and waving clenched fists at the conductress, who shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response.

“Should we walk?” Schwartz asked, apparently nervous at the idea of risking his life by hanging onto the outside of a hurtling tram. Others had already started to look around for alternative means of transportation, and Korolev was on the point of suggesting they join them when another tram approached. Like the first it was bedecked with banners and slogans celebrating the imminent anniversary of the October Revolution, but it also looked as though it might stop.

“Order, Citizens, order!” shouted the conductor in vain as people surged forward. Korolev decided it was every man for himself and pushed and pulled his way on, conscious that Schwartz was right behind him, and together they managed to squeeze their way into the muggy traveling compartment. Korolev found himself pressed up against a window facing Semionov on the other side of the glass, the youngster’s knuckles white around a chrome handle on the side of the tram.

“It looks like Vanya is taking the scenic route,” Schwartz said. “Not a bad idea,” he added, trying to turn away from the armpit of an inebriated soldier with his hand stretched up to the roof for balance. Babel wormed his way through to join them and then the tram groaned forward, the passengers breaking into good-natured chatter.

They rumbled onward in the direction of the stadium, cheering when the tram driver narrowly missed separating a green bread van from the two tired horses pulling it, singing songs and loudly discussing the merits of the various players. The mood was one of excitement, although Korolev knew things could change quite suddenly, particularly at a game like this, where the newly constituted Union-wide league could be decided in Spartak’s favor. Sure enough, when they arrived at the ground, several scrappy fights were already under way between rival supporters. Chants of “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!” from the Spartak fans, were answered with equally loud shouts of “RED ARMY, RED ARMY, RED ARMY!” Mounted Militiamen patrolled the area in pairs, occasionally inserting themselves between opposing groups. In all the excitement, getting off the tram was nearly as hard as getting on it.

“Why do they chant ‘Meat?’ ” Schwartz asked.

“The Spartak sponsor is Promkooperatsya, the food workers’ union. So the fans chant, ‘Who are we? We are the Meat.’ It’s a good thing.”

“But sometimes the opposing fans call them ‘the Pigs,’ ” Babel added.

“Only if they are uncultured hooligans. And who are you supporting today, Isaac Emmanuilovich?”