The Holy Thief (30 page)

“I didn’t see the icon. It may have been there, but I saw none of it. I’ve told you the conversation I had with Kolya, word for word, and that’s as far as I got. If I knew who had it, I’d tell you. To me, it’s just a wooden board with some paint on it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to expand on the nature of his religious beliefs.

Gregorin considered him and there was no charm in his expression now, only calculation. It occurred to Korolev that, without the veneer of charm, Gregorin’s features had the cold malevolence of a snake. Gregorin scowled and turned to the major.

“He’s lying. Break him.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“You’ve four hours. Don’t bother telling me it’s not enough. We have to find this damned piece of cultist chicanery before they smuggle it out of the country. Don’t fail—there can be no excuses. My office will know where to find me.”

He turned to Korolev.

“The major here is skilled at what he does. For your own sake, Korolev, tell us now. Where’s the damned icon?”

“I don’t know, Colonel.”

“This isn’t a game, Korolev. The major isn’t just going to beat you. He’ll destroy you—you’ll be praying for a bullet by the end.”

Korolev didn’t doubt it, and he felt his body trying to back its way into the chair, but he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know.

“One thing, Colonel Gregorin,” Korolev said, as Gregorin turned away from him.

“Yes?” The colonel turned, impatient.

“What happens if you haven’t got the icon by tomorrow? Will you have enough money for the visas? Is the net closing in? Is that why you’re rushing? You won’t get a million dollars for a promise.”

The colonel was a sturdily built man and his knuckles had calluses from where he’d hit others before, so perhaps Korolev shouldn’t have been surprised at the force of the punch that sent his head slamming back into the headrest and warm blood coursing from above his eye, blinding him even as he tried to blink it away.

“You fool, you deserve everything you’re about to get,” Gregorin hissed. “When you’ve finished with him, Chaikov—room H.”

The door slammed as he left.

Once the far door shut as well, the major walked over and, bending down, cleaned the blood from Korolev’s forehead with a handkerchief. His touch was gentle on the raw cut. He held Korolev’s head back and stared into his eyes.

“You have concussion.”

“Everyone keeps hitting me.”

“Perhaps you provoke them.”

“Look, I know nothing, but if I did, I’d rather shoot myself than cooperate with a devil like Gregorin.”

“Fuck that Georgian rat,” Chaikov whispered, pulling the handkerchief down Korolev’s face with an almost dreamy expression. “Fuck his mother. Fuck his sister.” The handkerchief was soaked with blood now. “I had suspicions, but I ignored them. I let him lead me by the nose—like a pig to the slaughter. What will happen to my own son? Answer me that.”

Korolev stared at the man in amazement, wondering if this was some ploy to soften him up. A single tear rolled down the major’s face. “See what I’ve become. Look at me. He’s turned me into an enemy.”

There was the clang of the far door opening and then running footsteps in the corridor. What the hell was going to happen now, Korolev asked himself, as the door crashed open behind him.

“Up against the wall, one move and I fire. Hands high, hands high.”

Chaikov looked up calmly, smiled and reached for his pocket. Instantly there were three loud explosions and the major was thrown over the table by the force of the bullets hitting him.

“Damn,” an easily recognized voice said, through the ringing in Korolev’s ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Korolev’s head hurt a great deal. A dense, tooth-grinding pain, with not much variation for the individual injuries. It occurred to him that nearly everyone he’d met over the last few days, whether Chekist, factory worker or Thief, seemed to have left a lump on his skull as an aide-memoire. Perhaps as a side effect of the constant battering his cranium had taken, he remained slightly unsure that he really was sitting in a warm office, in a comfortable chair, with a glass of vodka in his hand and faces surrounding him that, if not all particularly friendly, didn’t seem to want to cause him any harm either. But, if the reality was something else, he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

The stitches the doctor was putting in the cut above Korolev’s eye were a good reason for suspecting that this wasn’t a dream, of course, as he could feel each millimeter of the needle as the doctor pushed it through his skin. Semionov, sitting on the desk watching the doctor work, seemed genuinely concerned, which was gratifying, but as Korolev had been wrong about him all along, he couldn’t trust to that either. Like now, for instance—Semionov had just put three bullets into a fellow Chekist, yet here he was, cool as a cucumber.

Semionov’s real boss, the fat, aggressive Colonel Rodinov, was clearly only concerned at how long the doctor was taking.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Rodinov barked.

“Last stitch—one moment—there.” The doctor wrapped a bandage round Korolev’s head to protect the wound then stood, examined his work, and nodded his approval. Korolev was just pleased he’d finished.

“Leave,” the colonel said and pointed a stubby thumb toward the door. The doctor, a man of about fifty, began to bow before recollecting where he was and, rather than continue with a bourgeois gesture that could get you five years in a camp, walked with long steps and a hunched back to the door, reminding Korolev of an ostrich.

“Carry on where you left off,” the colonel said. He was a rosy pink in color and his round, bald head shone with a thin sheen of sweat. Korolev had told him pretty much everything he knew already, except for the fact that the icon was Kazanskaya. That was information Korolev had decided to keep to himself. As far as he was aware, everyone who knew the identity of the icon was either dead or had good reasons for keeping their mouths shut. And Korolev had a feeling that if Rodinov knew that the icon was Kazanskaya, things would escalate out of control very quickly.

“So you see,” he said, searching for another piece of relevant information and finding nothing, “Gregorin guided us through the whole affair. Step by step. And all for his own ulterior motives. Or those of the conspiracy, if there turns out to be one.”

“It’s a damned conspiracy all right. He’s had no orders from anyone other than himself. When Semionov started telling me about your investigation I thought it strange, but often there’s a need for secrecy in our work.”

He paused as if considering something, then picked up the phone, listening for a moment before speaking.

“Rodinov. Tell Sharapov to call me with news.” He put the phone back onto the cradle. Obviously social niceties were unnecessary if you were Colonel Rodinov. He turned his cold gaze back to Korolev.

“Chaikov, though—that man has waded through blood for the Party. Gregorin I can believe, but Chaikov. No gun, of course.”

“He was used by Gregorin. Once he realized he’d been manipulated and had contributed to a crime against the State—well, maybe he wanted to be shot.”

Rodinov shook his head. “I’d never have believed it. I’ve seen that fellow go through three pistols in a day liquidating enemies—wore out the barrels, one after the other. I don’t know why he didn’t just put up his hands. Lack of vigilance, yes, but what a worker.” Rodinov shook his head sadly. “Well, Captain, it seems your actions may have uncovered a nest of vipers. And yours, Semionov. If you hadn’t come to me when Gregorin took Comrade Korolev here, we’d never have got to the bottom of this. Commissar Ezhov himself is asking for hourly updates. Once we have Gregorin in our hands we’ll find out the true extent of it—it’s only a matter of time now.”

“I knew it was inconceivable that Captain Korolev could be a traitor, Comrade Colonel.”

“If there’s to be an arrest—” Korolev began.

Rodinov raised an eyebrow, “You’d like to be involved?”

“If it were possible.”

“We’ll see. We have to find him first. It’s a Cheka matter, but I doubt Commissar Ezhov would object in the circumstances. Yes, I’m sure you have some things you’d like to say to him. I certainly would have in your shoes.” He turned to Semionov. “A tough bird, this investigator of yours, Semionov. Look at his forehead—it’s like a railway junction with all that stitching.”

“Comrade Korolev has taught me a great deal in the few months I’ve been with the People’s Militia, Colonel. I’ve been impressed with his dedication to duty and his logical and practical approach.”

“High praise, Korolev—from a young man Comrade Ezhov himself has his eye on. High praise indeed.”

Dawn was coloring the silhouetted domes of Moscow’s churches when Semionov drove Korolev home. It would have been earlier, but it took some time to find Korolev’s belongings and he’d refused to leave without the winter coat or his felt boots. Eventually one of the twins, now himself beltless and barefoot and wearing an expression of terrified bewilderment on his heavily bruised face, guided them to a cardboard box which contained Korolev’s belongings, including his Walther and papers. Korolev considered giving the twin a dig or two—his ear was still ringing from the guard’s blow—but he decided fate had revenged him sufficiently. Anyway, it might have been the other twin who’d swung the fist.

“It’s like old times driving this Ford,” Semionov said, as the Lubianka became smaller in the rearview mirror—the Model T they were driving was remarkably similar to the car in which Larinin had met his end.

“Watch out for trucks,” Korolev muttered and Semionov smiled. He looked uncomfortable, and Korolev didn’t feel the situation was entirely normal himself, so they drove in silence. It was the morning of the October Day Parade and the early trams and buses were covered with placards extolling the successes of the Five Year Plan, the might of the Party and the wisdom of Stalin. Work parties were clearing the streets and a column of soldiers had halted in formation on Yauzski Boulevard, holding huge balloons in the shape of
kolkhoz
buildings. Here was the cooperative store, there the Party office, behind that a smithy—altogether there were forty or more swollen structures swaying in the light wind. The soldiers’ breath and cigarette smoke made it look as if the village was floating on a thin mist. Further along there were massed squares of pioneers in overcoats and red scarves, their flags and banners touching the last autumn leaves on the trees, and behind them a line of brown tanks, their exhausts belching black smoke as they turned their engines over. Korolev wondered how the teachers would keep the Pioneers quiet in the hours they’d have to wait before the parade moved. Perhaps the tanks were there to maintain order among the little Comrades.

“Were you surprised?” Semionov asked.

“That you turned out to be a Chekist? Yes, although when I look back, maybe I should have suspected something. You look young but you’ve an old head on your shoulders.”

“I was following orders. I know it may seem I didn’t behave in a comradely way—concealing my identity—but my orders demanded it.”

“I’m sure they did. Whatever you were up to, announcing you were an NKVD operative would no doubt have defeated the object. I’m not complaining, Vanya. A junior lieutenant in the Militia couldn’t have sprung me from the Lubianka. I’m grateful you turned out to be a Cheka captain.”

“Thank Yasimov. He called me with the registration number of the car. Once I’d tracked it to Gregorin—I asked Rodinov to look into it. Gregorin’s story came apart almost immediately—he was riding his luck, hoping people would be too frightened to ask questions. If it hadn’t been for Yasimov, though, we’d never have found you. When Gregorin told Chaikov to send you to Room H, it meant you were to be shot immediately.”

Korolev hadn’t focused on how close he’d been to death—he’d been conscious of it in the interrogation room, but since Semionov and the other rescuers had broken in on them the time had been filled with explanations and activity. Now he allowed himself to consider how close-run a thing it had been, and it was much too close for his liking.

“Yasimov’s a good friend. I’m thankful to you both,” he said, grateful beyond words if the truth had been told.

“I wasn’t lying when I spoke to Rodinov earlier. I learned a great deal from you.”

Korolev wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The affection he’d had for the old Semionov still existed, but he kept on remembering his own indiscretions, wondering if they featured in the younger man’s reports. And what about the questionable things Semionov himself had said from time to time? Had they been designed to trap him and others into making disloyal statements? He didn’t want to know what Semionov had been up to in Petrovka Street, but he must have been spying on the Criminal Investigation Division in some way.

It was as if Semionov had read his mind. “I spoke up for Mendeleyev, by the way, and I told Rodinov that I’d uncovered no evidence of serious disloyalty or dissent within the Criminal Investigation Division—only the usual mutterings that informers such as Larinin are always keen to pass on. Popov took the right approach, thorough self-criticism and an apology to the Party. Rodinov’s no hothead—he’ll recommend no further action is taken, I’m sure of it. Especially after this.”

Korolev held up his hand to stop him speaking.

“Please, Vanya.” He paused, considering whether the diminutive form of Semionov’s name was appropriate, and then deciding to continue anyway. “You saved my life back there, everything else is irrelevant. Believe me—when we meet again, it will be as friends.”

Semionov turned toward Korolev and the pleased smile on his honest, open face belonged to the old Semionov. But Korolev suspected the NKVD would soon change him into something harder, crueller probably as well. If it didn’t, then the likelihood was the boy would become a victim himself.

Semionov turned into Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinski and parked the car in front of Korolev’s building. He extended a hand.

“Friends then, Alexei Dmitriyevich.”

“Friends, Ivan Ivanovich.”

There was nothing else to say, and so they smiled at each other. Korolev knew his was genuine, in thanks and in the memory of the three months they’d worked together, but he couldn’t help wondering about Semionov. Who knew what he thought about anything after the way things had turned out?