The Holy Thief (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Korolev was still considering the significance of the Wall Paper’s attack on Popov as he descended the stairs to Room 2F. Perhaps, after all, it was nothing to be worried about. Maybe it would be enough if the general was open and frank with the Party meeting and admitted to a lapse in the constant vigilance which Party members were required to exercise. Perhaps it was an offense that could be forgiven if Popov cleansed his character through public self-criticism. Or perhaps not. There seemed to be something in the air these last few weeks that didn’t bode well. Nobody knew much about Ezhov, the new Commissar for State Security, except that he had to be better than Yagoda. After all, even Stalin had seemed to suggest, in the months before Yagoda’s replacement, that the endless self-evisceration might have gone too far. But now, more recently still, Yagoda seemed to be in disgrace for not having gone far
enough.
If this was the case, then the public criticism of Popov, who’d discreetly, but firmly, prevented a wholesale purge of the Criminal Investigation Division, could signal the commencement of something far worse than had gone before. Gregorin’s talk that morning of Ezhov wanting to hit back hard against the Party’s enemies was alarming, after all it seemed to confirm the rumors that Yagoda had in some way been
soft.
Korolev cursed under his breath as he caught sight of the Wall Paper and the clutch of tight-faced detectives gathered around it. He hoped his instincts were failing him, but judging from his colleagues’ expressions and the bubbles of silence surrounding each of them, he suspected he wasn’t the only one who had a bad feeling about where things were heading.

Semionov was waiting in Room 2F and, unlike Korolev, seemed positively enthusiastic at the prospect of an autopsy, as well as apparently being the only person in the building oblivious to the portent of the Wall Paper. It took Korolev a moment to outline the events at Tomsky stadium and by then Semionov had gathered his flat cap and mackintosh from behind the door, and they were on their way down to the courtyard to pick up a car. As they walked, the younger man filled Korolev in on the details of the forensic investigation and the house-to-house interviews that the local Militia were undertaking. As far as Semionov could tell, the power cut had indeed been an accident—he’d spoken to the foreman on the building site and the worker who had cut into the cable was seriously ill in hospital. That seemed to suggest that the location of the crime had been opportunistic—which was interesting. Otherwise there had been no substantive steps forward as yet, but at least the process was starting and with a bit of luck it might soon begin to produce scraps of information that could lead to the killer. Semionov was excited at the scale of the investigation and the mysterious nature of the crime.

“This is just like Sherlock Holmes, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Really it is. Logical deduction, that’s what we need here. ‘Logic, my dear Watson’—that’s what will unmask the fellow.”

Korolev looked at his colleague with some amusement, although he was careful not to show it. He pointed at the mackintosh.

“That won’t be much good when the cold weather comes,” he said.

Semionov took the hem of his coat between his finger and thumb and squeezed it, showing how thin the rubberized cotton was.

“Maybe not. But I’ve three vests on underneath my shirt. I have an old winter coat, from before. When it gets really cold, I’ll wear that.”

“At least it looks as though it’s waterproof,” Korolev said.

“Indeed it is, and all the Arbat crowd are wearing them.”

Korolev could think of several responses to that, but he decided to restrain himself. In his opinion, the trend-setting youngsters who paraded up and down Arbat Street could jump into the Moskva River en masse and the city wouldn’t be the poorer.

When they arrived at the small wooden hut that stood in the center of the cobbled courtyard, the elderly Morozov, a bearded ex-soldier who’d lost an eye in 1914 came out to greet them. Morozov supervised the twenty or so cars that constituted the Criminal Investigation Division’s transport pool from behind his pirate’s patch, and was renowned for his grouchy demeanor.

“Let me handle him,” whispered Semionov.

“Greetings, Comrades,” Morozov said, as he slapped his gloved hands together and stamped his feet. “Winter’s early this year. Looking for a car, are we, Alexei Dmitriyevich? Taking young Semionov for a spin?” His good eye gleamed from under his fur hat. Despite his reputation, he had a soft spot for Korolev.

“Do you have something good for us, Comrade Morozov?” Semionov said, before Korolev could respond, “I see a new Emka over there. Fine cars, I hear.”

Morozov looked Semionov up and down, turned to Korolev, and put a glove up to his face, adjusting his eye patch.

“You’ll be driving, won’t you, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

Korolev looked at Semionov’s hopeful eyes and relented. “I might let the youngster drive, Pavel Timofeevich. Under my direction, of course.”

Morozov looked back at Semionov, grunted, re-entered the hut, and emerged with a set of car keys.

“The Ford,” he said and tossed the keys to Semionov, who caught them with a smile. “A car’s a means of transportation, young lad, not entertainment. It’ll do the job. The Emka’s not for the likes of you.”

“I’ll look after it as if it were my own, Pavel Timofeevich.”

“Your own, is it? Look after it better than that, it belongs to the Soviet People, that car. It’s no speedster, but it’s reliable.” Morozov pointed the young man toward the end of the line of cars.

Semionov already had the engine started by the time Korolev squeezed himself into the passenger seat.

“Now, let’s get this clear. I’m allowing you to drive, it’s true, but take it slowly. The roads are icy and I’d like to make it home in one piece.”

“Of course, Alexei Dmitriyevich,” Semionov answered, with a look too innocent to be trusted. “The Institute?”

“The Institute,” Korolev agreed, without enthusiasm.

“Excellent. And afterward?”

“We’ll see,” Korolev answered, having to shout the words because Semionov had inadvertently revved the engine as high as it would go, causing a flock of screeching black birds to fly up from the overhanging trees. Morozov emerged from his hut to give the younger man a one-eyed look that immediately reduced the engine’s scream to a rattling growl. An abashed Semionov let off the handbrake and directed the car away from its fellows, while Korolev turned up the collar of his overcoat against the chill draft from the windscreen, and avoided Morozov’s aggrieved gaze.

Semionov drove out through the front gate, saluting the wet-looking sentry and turning left into a stream of carts, cyclists and slow-moving trucks, before maneuvering to the middle of the street, where he had a clearer run. It was strange, Korolev thought, how they never showed the carts and horses in the newsreels. It was almost as though they didn’t exist in black and white; slowly fading from the picture and leaving only the speeding trucks and cars of the future. They weren’t the only things that were being replaced, of course, and, as they drove along Gorky Street, Korolev found himself marveling, not for the first time, at the extent of the reconstruction taking place in the city. Tverskaya Street had been a narrower, more intimate thoroughfare before it had been renamed in honor of the great Soviet writer, and now it was being turned into a fine wide strip of asphalt with pedestrian walkways along both sides, as well as giant new buildings, solid and practical, as you’d expect from Soviet architects. The car ran along the street’s new surface as smoothly as its aged engine and bone-jangling suspension would permit, passing work parties who were clearing the remaining slush from the road and piling it up in banks that ran along the pavements’ edges.

There were more motorized vehicles here: green and cream city buses coughing clouds of black smoke as they pulled away from the curb; bustling red and white trams and a constant stream of mud-washed trucks; but theirs was one of the only cars to be seen. Forward planning was the key to achieving the economic development necessary for the Soviet Union to take its place among the great countries of the world. The cars would come in due course.

“We’ll outstrip America soon enough,” Korolev shouted above the engine as they passed yet another construction site where iron girders were sketching out a new building against the gray clouds overhead.

“I hear they’re going to build skyscrapers,” Semionov shouted back. “Bigger than the ones in New York, bigger even than the Empire State building itself. Comrade Stalin himself has approved the plans, and they’ll be twenty times the size of the Hotel Moskva.” He indicated the huge squat building with a dismissive nod. “And they’re going to move the buildings on rails, to widen the street. It will be as wide as a football pitch, if not wider. What could be wider? Perhaps it will be as wide as a football pitch is long. Anyway, the plans are well under way.”

“A football pitch? And they’ll move the buildings?” Korolev shook his head.

“On rails, like a tram. They’ll get on at one stop and get off at another. My friend told me, but it’s secret. Although everyone knows it, so it can’t be that much of a secret. Apparently our engineers have it all worked out.”

“The Soviet Union, Vanya. An example to the world,” Korolev said, and meant it, but he spared a thought for the poky streets and familiar buildings of his youth, now being pushed hither and thither if they were lucky, but more usually flattened into rubble and used to fill in the foundations of the new city. The Moscow he’d grown up in had been a place of secrets and smells, courtyards and alleys, corners and hideaways. The reconstruction, however, would be about size and space and grandeur, as it should be, but he sometimes wondered whether he, like the old Moscow, had a place in the new world Socialism was creating around him.

The further they drove away from the center of the city, however, the more the road narrowed and deteriorated—the surface holed and pitted by heavy trucks, and slippery with packed snow that had still not been properly cleared. The reconstruction hadn’t reached this far out as yet, and tottering tenements leaned against multi-domed churches, shabby with twenty years of neglect. Most of this neighborhood had been slated for demolition and some buildings had already disappeared, flattened to create a massive tunnelling site for one of the new Metro lines. A queue of young, mud-spattered workers were gathered outside underneath a banner that they had probably answered: K
OMSOMOLETS
, K
OMSOMOLKA
! H
ELP
B
UILD
T
HE
M
ETRO
! Y
OUR
F
UTURE
N
EEDS A
G
REAT
R
AILWAY
! As they passed the queue, a heavy truck surged out of the site entrance, forcing Semionov to stamp hard on the brakes, the Ford’s tires slithering across unexpected ice before coming to a halt. The driver, looking as though he should still be at school, waved a good-natured apology as Semionov sounded the horn.

“We’re Militia!” Semionov shouted at the driver as the truck swept past them, but the young fellow just carried on waving. Semionov was still muttering to himself when they pulled up at the Institute five minutes later.

“I’m Komsomol as well, Alexei Dmitriyevich, and that just wasn’t good driving. I’m ashamed of him, if the truth be told. If I knew which cell he was from, I’d report him. He could have killed us and it wouldn’t have been my fault. Believe me.”

“I believe you, Vanya. Come on, let’s go and have a look at the body.”

The car parked, they entered the building with its familiar smell of disinfectant and damp and, as they approached the mortuary, they heard Larinin’s voice in loud discussion with Chestnova.

“I have important matters to attend to elsewhere today, Doctor. Make no excuses for delay. It can only be inefficiency on your part. That’s what we Party members must fight against. Inefficiency.”

As they opened the door, they saw Larinin emphasize his point by stabbing a fat finger at Chestnova. The two were of an even size and bulk, but Korolev’s money would be on Chestnova if it came to blows and, indeed, she was giving a good impression of an angry bull about to charge. In the background, Gueginov was smiling nervously and, from the slightly lopsided slant to his face, Korolev deduced that he’d been at the medical spirit again.

“What’s going on here, Larinin?” Korolev asked as they approached the two combatants. Larinin turned and then adjusted his eye line upward to take account of Korolev’s greater height.

“The doctor here doesn’t seem to be aware of the Militia’s priority when it comes to the performance of speedy autopsies, Comrade Korolev. I’ve a very important case—the general himself asked me to make sure it was dealt with immediately—and now the doctor is telling me I have to wait. The criminal could be making his escape as we speak, all because she hasn’t time to look at the victim. She’s sabotaging our efforts to do our work efficiently, Comrades. She’s a wrecker, if you ask me. I wonder what her class background is.” The last remark was made with a malevolent glare that would have terrified an ordinary person but seemed to have no effect on Dr. Chestnova, other than to irritate her still further.