The Holy Thief (28 page)

“There’s a man following you,” the youngster said as Korolev approached.

“Thinning hair, small mustache, heavy black overcoat?”

“That’s him.”

“Nothing to be concerned about.”

Goldstein’s eyes flickered back to the alleyway Korolev had come through.

“Are you sure? I’ll tell you this for free, Comrade Investigator, there are a lot of blue fingers hanging around the neighborhood this evening, you should be careful.”

“Thieves?”

“They’re not Pioneers, I know that much. Take the first right. There’s a big white apartment building with a green door and beside that a smaller wooden house with two trees in the front garden. She’s in there, on the ground floor. But there are some real bandit types outside, so be vigilant.”

Korolev produced ten roubles from his pocket. It was more than they’d agreed, but if things went badly, he wouldn’t have much use for the money.

“Thanks.”

Goldstein took the money without surprise or gratitude. “I’m just concerned for our future business relationship, that’s all.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do to ensure that it’s maintained.”

“That’s all I ask,” Goldstein said with a grave expression and saluted him with the bank notes before walking away. Shapes moved in the shadows and the rest of the Irregulars congregated around him, moving in silence and with purpose. Korolev felt reassured; Goldstein would have a plan for the winter, he was sure of it. They’d make it to spring—most of them, anyway.

When Korolev turned the corner of the lane, he found three likely looking lads clustered round an oil drum, warming their hands on whatever was burning inside. Their faces were red above the flaming fire and their black eyes shone as they looked up at him. Korolev recognized Mishka, and the Thief nodded in greeting as Korolev approached, the young tough’s thin-lipped smirk a dark crescent in the flickering light.

“What a coincidence,
muchachos
, the Comrade Captain strolls into view. And what brings you to this neck of the woods, old friend? As if we didn’t know.”

“Just out for a walk, same as yourselves I expect,” Korolev said as he came closer to them. The other two Thieves moved slowly to either side and so Korolev patted the pocket he’d moved his Walther to.

“Stay in front of me, lads—where I can see you. We’re all friends here tonight. Right, Mishka?”

The Thieves looked at Mishka, who nodded.

“So,” Mishka said, slipping his own hand into the pocket of his coat.

“So, indeed,” Korolev replied and waited. He felt his eyes itching with the effort not to blink. Mishka held the stare with his usual dead expression before eventually bestowing a lazy smile, and motioning with a blue-inked thumb toward the house with the two trees in the garden.

“I suppose you want to go in there?”

“Perhaps. Will you try to stop me?”

“Why would I? It’s a free country, right? A socialist democracy is what they say. You can do whatever you want here, I expect. None of us will try to stop you, that’s for sure. It would be uncultured. Anyway, you’ve an appointment.”

“I see,” Korolev said, and then walked on toward the house, an unpainted wooden building made from heavy, rough-cut timber logs, wondering how on earth the Thieves had known he was coming. He could feel every stitch of the fabric across his back as he turned away from them, but he wasn’t going to look over his shoulder; he was damned if he was going to do that.

The front door was old and wooden, in keeping with the house itself, but solid. Korolev knocked three times and only then allowed himself to look back at Mishka and his goons. They were watching him, sure enough, and Mishka raised a hand in salute. Korolev kept his face hard and straight and turned to the door as he heard footsteps coming.

“Hello?” a woman asked. The voice sounded elderly and genteel.

“Captain Korolev of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division, Citizen. Please open up.”

There was a pause and Korolev looked at the hinges, wondering if he could kick his way in. It seemed unlikely and he didn’t think it would do his feet much good to try, seeing as he was wearing felt boots.

“Citizeness?” he asked.

“Yes,” the reply came. The woman didn’t sound scared.

“I don’t want to have to break the door down.”

“I don’t want you to either.”

“Then perhaps you would be kind enough to open it,” Korolev said, allowing a trace of honey to sweeten his words.

“What do you want?”

“To talk to the Holy Sister, that’s all. I came alone. I’ll leave alone. Just a talk.”

“Just a talk?”

“That’s right. It’s important.”

“I’ll go and ask. Korolev, you say.” Footsteps walked away from the door, there was the sound of a conversation and then the footsteps returned, a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. A thin woman, about sixty years of age stood there. She looked calm, but she had no smile for him.

“This way, please, Captain.” She gestured along the corridor to where the yellow light of an electric bulb was framed by a doorway.

Inside the kitchen a woman sat at a table, looking up at him with a tired curiosity. If his memory of the visa photograph was correct, it was the second American nun, Nancy Dolan. She seemed older than in the visa photograph, and had lost the cheerful disposition he thought he’d detected in the picture, but a week in Moscow could do that to a person. Behind her, leaning against the wall, was Count Kolya. Kolya nodded a greeting, but his left hand was hidden in his pocket and Korolev decided it was safe to assume that it held a gun.

“Greetings, Captain,” Kolya said, “Have a chair. A glass of tea? Or something else perhaps?”

Kolya indicated the samovar that sat on the table, a thin ribbon of steam emanating from its spout.

“I’ll take a glass, why not?” Korolev said. “Do you mind if I sit down, Sister?”

“Please,” Dolan said. “Pelagia Mikhailovna, will you keep watch on the street?” Her Russian was perfect, but the pronunciation was that of an older person. Today’s Russian was more pragmatic, more comradely. Hers was the kind of accent people disguised these days.

“She knows nothing about all this,” Dolan said as the old woman shut the kitchen door behind her.

“Of course not,” Korolev replied, wondering how naive this American thought he was. “I’m not after old ladies, Citizeness Dolina. I’m not even after you, in particular.”

Korolev put an emphasis on the word
citizeness.
The nun opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She must know she was a long way from America now.

“I spent some time with Jack Schwartz today,” Korolev continued. “I think you met him on the train from Berlin.”

“The train from Berlin?” Dolan seemed to consider denying all knowledge of the journey, but then she lifted her eyes to meet his, calm again. “How is Jack?”

“I’m sure he would have sent his regards if he’d known I was meeting you. We thought for a while that the Holy Sister who died in the church on Razin Street was you. He was pleased to hear it wasn’t.”

She flinched, and Korolev was struck by how small she seemed alongside Kolya’s solid bulk.

“Can you tell me what happened to her?” she asked, her eyes a clear blue. “I know she’s dead, but no more than that. Kolya said it was best that way.”

Korolev looked at Kolya, who shrugged.

“She was tortured to death, Sister,” Korolev said, deciding Dolan should know what she was mixed up in. “There are better ways to die. I’d like to find the fellow who killed her, truly I would.”

“I see.” Her right hand made the sign of the cross. “God rest her soul.”

“And one of Kolya’s men here was also tortured and murdered, probably by the same persons.”

“Yes, he told me there had been others.” The nun seemed listless almost, or perhaps just resigned to her fate.

“And one of my colleagues died—in a car accident, which maybe wasn’t an accident. Then there’s a dead Chekist—Major Mironov. All in all, there’s quite a trail following you around Moscow.”

“It’s not following me. I’m not what they want.”

Kolya shifted, enough to draw Korolev’s attention. “Listen Alexei Dmitriyevich, if we didn’t want you to be here, you wouldn’t be. That
moishe
brat Goldstein knows where the sun sets, and that he wouldn’t see another if he turned me in. So let’s speak like friends.”

Korolev nodded—perhaps he was being a little aggressive. And if Kolya had a gun pointing at him from that pocket of his, then maybe that wasn’t sensible.

“Is it here?” Korolev asked. “The icon? You must know they’re closing in on you. We’ve been pulled off the case, and I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

“It’s safe,” Kolya said, “but if you’re not on the case, Korolev, do you mind my asking what you’re doing here?”

“I want to finish what I started—to get to the bottom of things. Let’s face it, we’re all in this together now. In a way.”

Kolya didn’t disagree. Instead he gave a small nod as if to acknowledge the point and to consent to the questions.

“Did you kill the Chekist, Mironov?” Korolev asked, deciding to get straight to the point.

“No,” Kolya said. “My conscience is clear on Mironov.”

“God rest his soul,” Dolan whispered.

“But he was involved in some way? Am I right? I see his death must be to do with the icon, but how exactly? It didn’t look like he was killed by the same person as the others.”

“Major Mironov was a Believer,” the nun said in a quiet voice. Kolya looked at her in surprise, but didn’t interrupt. “He recovered the icon on behalf of the Church. The same people killed him who killed the others. Maybe not the same person—but the same group of people.”

“Were they NKVD?”

“Yes, but they aren’t in this for the love of Stalin,” Kolya said. “Gregorin and his crew are in it for themselves.”

“How can you be sure it’s Gregorin?” Korolev asked. Even though it was as he’d suspected, it still shocked him to have it confirmed.

“Comrade Gregorin is close to Yagoda—not good news now this fellow Ezhov has taken over. Then the icon falls into Gregorin’s lap. One of the fellows caught in the raid must have blabbed and he couldn’t believe his luck. He made inquiries, found out what it could be worth, and decided it could be his ticket to the West. Mironov worked in the Foreign Department and so Gregorin approached him with a view to securing a safe exit route. Major Mironov didn’t believe him, so Gregorin took him to the storeroom, and there it was—Kazanskaya. So Mironov agreed to help with the exit visas in exchange for a cut. Originally Gregorin was going to sell the icon to the Church, which would have been all right, but then another party became involved. When it looked like the icon might be sold to the highest bidder the major acted.”

“He took the icon from the storeroom,” Korolev guessed.

“Yes,” the nun said.

“So Gregorin was the traitor all along. He played me for a mug.”

“Correct,” Kolya said, “although there must be a few of them in it—they’ve been tearing Moscow apart. Believe me, the deaths you know about are only part of it. I’ve lost two others. That’s it—now you know everything.”

“But you said it was safe. Why then has Gregorin promised to show Schwartz the icon tomorrow?”

“When did he say this?”

“Earlier today, I think. Schwartz wasn’t specific.” Korolev saw a look on Kolya’s face that was as close as a man like him was ever likely to come to concern. The Thief digested the information, exchanging a glance with the nun. He looked as if he might say something, but was interrupted by a knocking at the front door—two quick knocks and then a pause before a final rap. Kolya’s pistol came out of the pocket.

“We must go, Little Mother,” Kolya said gently.

“Where to?” Korolev began, rising to his feet.

“I’m sorry, Captain. You won’t be coming with us.”

He heard steps behind him and caught Kolya’s nod to whoever had entered the kitchen. The last thing he saw was the nun’s eyes opening wide in shock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Korolev awoke it was the intense light he was first conscious of—it seemed to press down on him, even through his closed eyelids. He moved his head to the side and lay there, feeling the ridges of a brick wall against his cheek, and cursing the pain that seemed to stretch his skull outward.

He knew where he was, he didn’t need to open his eyes. Prisons always smelled more or less the same—a mixture of piss, mildew, rotten cabbage and the stench of unwashed, frightened men. He mightn’t know which, but he was in one, that was for certain. He swallowed carefully, tasting blood in his mouth and, eyelash by eyelash, broke apart the crust that held them shut. Then he cursed again. He was in a small cell, about three meters long and two wide at the far end of which a tiny table and stool were bolted to the floor. The walls were painted a light, glossy blue, the smooth surface of which was scarred down to the brick with names, dates and messages. He didn’t need to read them to know where he was. The small wooden tiles barely visible under a layer of grime gave him the answer. The Lubianka had been the head office of an insurance firm before the Revolution, and its parquet flooring had famously survived when the paneled offices had been ripped out and replaced with cells and interrogation rooms. He’d known this case was cursed from the start.

Angry with himself, and uncomfortable, he pushed down at the filthy floor, rolling onto his shoulder and then his back and eventually releasing his left arm from beneath his body. The arm was utterly numb, as though it belonged to someone else. He lifted his hand with difficulty and flexed his fingers, feeling no sensation at all to start with, before an itchy tingle told him the blood was coming back. With another effort he pushed himself to a sitting position against the wall, feeling a dizzy nausea as he did so. There was a bench long enough to sleep on, folded up against the wall and getting up onto it was the objective he had in mind, but his whole body hurt, most particularly his head, where a mess of hair had crusted around a fat sticky bruise. Some dog had given him another crack on the skull and he couldn’t imagine that was going to do his concussion any good. His belt was gone and his winter coat and felt boots were missing as well. He hoped that dirty brigand Kolya hadn’t made off with them, and then smiled at the thought. Kolya wouldn’t bother with a patched-up, moth-eaten rag like his. Not in a million years. Only honest men wore coats like Korolev’s. The boots and the coat would be waiting for him if he got out of this in one piece, no doubt of it. And if he didn’t make it out, he’d have no need of them.

The metal plate that covered the Judas hole slid back and a pale blue eye examined him. Korolev instinctively raised a hand in greeting, but the metal plate was already sliding shut. He listened to the guard walk along the corridor, his keys jangling and the sound of other metal plates sliding back and forth. Well, at least they knew he was awake. Perhaps something would happen now. He allowed his eyes to shut.

.  .  .

When he came round for the second time, he found he’d enough energy to stand and then push down the wooden bed so he could sit on it. There was a thin blanket on the table which he hadn’t noticed before, and he placed it between himself and the wall to lean back on. A bucket stood in the corner, ringed with dried piss and more solid substances that he didn’t want to think about, so he didn’t. Anyway, he’d no need of it as yet. He sighed—the Lubianka, no less. Not the Butyrka, nor the Novinskaya. Not Lefertovo or any of the other Moscow prisons. The Lubianka. They only sent senior Party bosses here or foreigners. Zinoviev. Kamenev. The fellow who’d assassinated poor Kirov. British spies. That was the kind of traitor who ended up in the Lubianka—Central Committee types and foreign agents—not some half-dead Militia captain. He supposed he should feel privileged. It was enough to make him smile, although not with much humor.

And what the hell had happened back at the Arbat house? One of Kolya’s men had slugged him from behind, most likely, but Kolya couldn’t be responsible for him being here, could he? The only connections Kolya had with the Organs were the kind that would put Kolya in prison himself. No, Kolya’s lot must have knocked him out cold and then left him in the house. Then he’d been found and brought here. That wouldn’t have happened if it had been Militia or even ordinary Cheka—they’d have asked questions and, even then, he wouldn’t have ended up in the Lubianka. It must be Gregorin behind it. At least he hadn’t been shot, for the moment anyway.

The metal grate scraped open and the blue eye stared in at him once again. Korolev looked back, but the eye remained expressionless. Then the grate slid back into place and the keys moved off down the corridor to another cell. He stood up slowly and leaned his hands against the facing wall and stared at the painted bricks in front of him. “Forgive me, my darling wife,” some poor bastard had scrawled and he thought of Zhenia and the boy in Zagorsk. Maybe Yasimov would be able to look out for them. Or maybe not. The boy, of course, would suffer. Having an Enemy of the People for a father would be a burden on the youngster, even if he hadn’t seen the poor mite in the best part of a year. But then it occurred to him that, if it was Gregorin who’d found him, there’d be no judicial proceedings. If he was alive now, and here, it was for a reason. He’d want to know what Korolev knew and that would be that. He couldn’t let him go free. Not with what he knew. The thought sent cold sweat trickling down his spine—that was why they’d brought him to the Lubianka. To mine him of whatever information he had and then finish him off.

As if on cue, footsteps approached the cell, keys sounding their discordant tune, and the door squealed open. Three guards stood there. Two of them were young fellows, strong shoulders and broad faces—almost identical in fact—but with eyes that reminded Korolev of dead fish. The twins entered the cell and lifted Korolev to his feet. The third was taller and older, his skull shaved to a gray shine and softened by rolls of fat that pushed out his ears like cup handles. He, at least, had some expression in his eyes, even if it was contemptuous. The bald guard examined a file he was carrying and then looked up at Korolev.

“Prisoner, you will not speak unless asked a question, in which case your answer should be brief and to the point. For preference, use ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Any attempt to speak to the guards otherwise will be treated as a physical assault and dealt with accordingly. Understood?”

Korolev was surprised that the guard had the voice of an educated man, even if he looked like a brute. He considered trying to tell them about Gregorin, but dismissed the idea. He’d get his beating soon enough, no point in asking for one in advance.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Yes or no, prisoner.”

“Yes,” Korolev said.

“I’ll lead, one beside, one behind. Handcuff him first. Eyes front at all times, prisoner.”

The twins turned him to the wall, cuffed his hands behind his back and then pushed him out into a narrow corridor that was painted the same light blue as the cell. Heavy metal doors lined both sides of the passage, lit by single high-watt bulbs that dangled from the ceiling at regular intervals. In one of the cells someone was sobbing like a child; an unreal sound, as if it were happening on the radio in another room. The bald guard checked their positioning and then they started off, the lead warder jangling his keys like a bell as they walked. The brownish streaks on the painted floor and walls looked like dried blood to Korolev. In the circumstances he was surprised he didn’t feel fear. Instead, after the initial shock, he felt quite calm.

They entered a stairwell and descended four flights. The windows were blacked out to allow no light or noise to come in from the outside so, as a result, it felt like being underwater, the only solid sounds being those of their own footsteps, and even they seemed distorted. There were other sounds, but they were smothered and remote, from elsewhere in the building, and, like the sobbing from the cell, had an unnatural quality. Korolev half-wondered whether this might all be a dream, and it was almost a relief to be led into a plainly furnished room with a solid metal chair in front of a desk, thick leather straps hanging from its arms and legs. The room had the harsh rasp of reality to it.

“Sit in the chair, prisoner.”

He sat and the twins took off his handcuffs before buckling the leather straps on, tight as tourniquets. The only part of his body he could move was his head and he began to look around him to see what kind of a place he’d ended up in.

“Eyes front, prisoner.”

“But,” Korolev began and got no further. One of the twins hit his left ear with a blow that exploded inside his head like a pistol shot. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but then his vision cleared and the room settled into something resembling focus. He thought he was deaf for a moment, until the bald guard spoke. It was if the blow had never been struck.

“Hood the prisoner. You, wait with him until the major comes.”

Some kind of small sack was put over his head. It stank of vomit and something worse which took him a moment to identify. Then he had it—rotting flesh. For a moment he was back among the broken, decomposing bodies scattered along a recaptured trench somewhere in the Ukraine. He gripped the arms of the chair and tried to breathe through his mouth. Korolev started to count, anything to distract himself. At first all he could hear was his own breathing and he felt like screaming or trying to throw the hood off but he knew he’d just be beaten for his troubles. He forced himself to concentrate on the counting. Seventy-five, seventy-six. He’d reached four hundred and sixty-two by the time the door opened.

“You may go. You’ve been told that you are never to discuss the prisoner, under any circumstances, not even with the other guards or your superiors. Please confirm you understand, and commit to fulfill this duty to the State.”

“Confirmed, Comrade,” the guard replied.

“He is secure?”

“Yes.”

“That will be all. This corridor is to be sealed until further instructions are given.”

The guard took care shutting the door, so that all Korolev heard was a quiet click, footsteps receding and then another door, far away, shutting with a metallic clang, and finally nothing except the sound of pages being turned.

“You know why you’re here, prisoner?” The voice was quiet, putting a small emphasis on the word “prisoner,” which succeeded in conveying resigned disappointment.

“I haven’t committed any crime.”

“Everyone has committed a crime, prisoner.” The voice sounded bored. “It’s only a question of discovering which one. Would you like me to take off the hood?”

“Of course I would.”

“Well then, perhaps you could tell me what you were doing lying unconscious in the apartment of a known proponent of the Orthodox cult.” There was that rustle of papers again.

“I was making inquiries with regard to a criminal case, in the course of which I was attacked.”

“What case is this?”

“A series of murders. One of which was the murder of Citizeness Kuznetsova, also known as Mary Smithson, an American nun. I’ve been working under the direction of Staff Colonel Gregorin of the NKVD.”

He could hear the interrogator approach him and braced himself for a blow, but instead he felt hands pulling at the hood and then the stark light of the interrogation room flooded in.

“It’s not very pleasant, the hood.” The interrogator said, his disinterested voice coming from behind Korolev. Korolev knew better than to turn to look. “Deliberately so, of course. It’s often as effective as more traditional methods. You know how it goes, being an investigator—a brutal interrogation is exhausting. It leaves some people in as bad a state as the prisoner. But the hood works well.” The interrogator sounded as if he were speaking to himself.

“I don’t beat confessions out of prisoners. I find such measures counter-productive.”

A hand patted Korolev’s shoulder—it wasn’t clear whether in approval or sympathy.

“Now, who do you say assaulted you?” The voice had moved to Korolev’s left. It was disconcerting, having no one to look at. But then it was probably deliberately so.

“I didn’t see him. He hit me from behind. Why am I being held, Comrade? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

There was silence while the interrogator walked to the desk and then turned. With a shock, Korolev recognized him. It was the man from the football game. His watery blue eyes looked tired and his face seemed grayer than Korolev remembered, but it was definitely him, and now in the uniform of an NKVD major. He smiled when he saw he’d been recognized; a small upward spasm of the lips; the smile of a man unaccustomed to the act.

“Yes, a strange coincidence,” the major agreed. “I was surprised to see you at the game.”

“You knew who I was?”

The major considered the question and then shook his head as if deciding it couldn’t be answered safely.

“To business. Prisoner, we’re here to determine the extent of your involvement in a conspiracy concerning the theft of State property. The priority of the investigation at this stage is directed at recovering the property in question.” He paused for a moment and then added, almost as an afterthought. “The extent of your guilt will be determined at a later stage. But your cooperation will be considered a mitigating factor.”