The Bloody Meadow (35 page)

‘Off you go, then,’ Korolev said, moving backwards to lean against the nearest wall. He tried to do it nonchalantly, but it seemed he’d convinced few of his audience, and
certainly not Mishka, whose smile broadened as he opened that hand cannon of his and discarded the empty brass bullet casings, dropping each one theatrically to the ground, where they bounced and
rolled, and then filling the chambers left vacant with live bullets extracted from the pocket of his jacket.

‘We have something we need to take with us, Korolev,’ Kolya said eventually. Polite, but firm. Well, Korolev thought, bracing himself – at least the others were clear of this
now, with luck.

‘I thought we had a deal, Kolya. Those guns are going nowhere.’

‘Not the guns, Korolev. The leather suitcases over there in the corner, I think. The guns you can keep.’

Korolev saw the two bags he was talking about. Battered brown leather. No distinguishing marks. He looked round at Kolya’s men and saw that there wasn’t one of them didn’t have
a gun in his hand. And the truth of it was if he tried to stop them, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d done well to make it this far into the night, and there was a long way to go
till morning.

‘What’s in them?’

‘Money. You can’t start a revolution with bullets alone.’

Korolev nodded, looked around him at the determined faces and nodded once again.

‘What bags?’ he asked, when his mind was made up.

‘That’s very reasonable of you, Alexei Dmitriyevich,’ Kolya said.

‘I’m a reasonable man, and I have more important things to do this evening than worry about a couple of bags I never saw.’

‘Mishka, Fox?’ Kolya said, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. ‘Take a hold of those things and let’s be on our way.’

When Mishka and Fox had the bags in their hands, the Chief Authority of the Thieves of Moscow raised a finger to his forehead and saluted Korolev, then followed his men down the far tunnel.

KOROLEV looked at his watch – ten minutes past nine – and sat down on one of the wooden crates, wondering how the hell he’d got into such a situation. It was
unheard of, really. Maybe in Chicago the gangsters had shoot-outs like this, but you didn’t expect such a thing in the Soviet Union. Of course, there were criminals here just as there were in
the Capitalist countries, but this was extraordinary. To have so many dead in one place outside of a war was unbelievable. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, looking down into the
empty eyes of one of the gunrunners. It made you wonder. It certainly made you wonder.

The trembling that he’d managed to suppress until that point started up again in his left foot. He tried to stop it by wedging the toe of his boot into the gap between a crate and the
wall, but that did nothing. The trembling spread up to his knees. He was cold, so very, very cold. What the hell was wrong with him? He pulled an arm across his face, feeling his coat sleeve
pushing a layer of sweat across the skin as he did. He was worn out, that was all. Tired. And then this damned bloodbath. And how close death had been this evening. He looked down at the dead
terrorist and thought how easily it could have been him lying there, an empty husk of cold skin and bone.

When he was calm again, he gathered the dead men’s guns from the surrounding tunnels – for something to do as much as anything else. There were sixteen corpses altogether, and that
wasn’t even counting the unwilling guide whose throat Kolya had slit before the main shooting had started. And all he wanted was to get out of this tunnel and out of this city and away from
this place as soon as could possibly be managed. Back to Moscow, where he knew what was what, more or less.

He’d put the last of the weapons with the ones he’d gathered earlier into an empty crate when he heard the sound. Nothing at all, probably, but he hid behind a pile of crates,
putting a round into the chamber of his machine gun. Another more distinct noise, like the sound a hob-nailed boot makes when it is trying to move quietly.

He didn’t recognize the youngster who came into the room, but he had the look of a Chekist about him – a well-built fellow in a short black woollen overcoat, grey cavalry trousers
twisted into high brown boots that glinted in the light from the two remaining lanterns. He also had a punchy-looking revolver in his hand and an expression of extreme apprehension. Korolev watched
the Chekist’s gun barrel draw wide arcs in the air as it led his gaze around the destruction until eventually he saw Korolev and the machine gun. The Chekist gave an explosive gasp of fear
and his hands, gun included, flew upwards in a declaration of surrender. Korolev doubted he’d come all this way on his own, so he decided to keep quiet and wait and see what happened
next.

‘We have you surrounded,’ a familiar voice called in from the next chamber along. ‘Put down your weapons and you’ll be treated fairly.’

‘Come on in, Comrade Major,’ Korolev called out, deciding to play the situation straight. ‘The room is secured.’

‘Korolev?’

‘The same, Comrade Major. And pleased you’ve shown up, I can tell you.’ Korolev hadn’t intended his words to sound ironic, but there it was. Mushkin came round the
corner, his gun pointing at the floor and a look of bemusement on his face as he looked at the dead men and crates full of guns. He even smiled as he slipped his pistol into the holster of the Sam
Browne belt he had strapped across his chest.

‘Well, Korolev, you’ve been busy I see,’ he said, turning to the young Chekist. ‘Put your hands down, Petrov. This is Korolev, the Militia expert from Moscow.’

‘No, he can keep them up for the moment, Comrade Major. You too, for that matter.’

‘What’s this, Korolev?’ Mushkin asked.

‘How did you find your way here, Comrade Major, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘How did I find my way here? What kind of question is that?’ Mushkin’s anger was beginning to show.

‘Did you have a look at any of the dead out there, Comrade Major? One of them is your protégé, Sergeant Gradov from the village station. You’ll remember him – the
fellow on whose behalf you interceded when he lost his weapon last year.’

‘Gradov?’

Irritated, yes, but no sudden fear or concern.

‘Yes, Gradov. He was one of the terrorists – that’s what he was doing here. Helping run guns for a rebellion against the State is how your Sergeant Gradov was passing his
time.’

‘Gradov? A terrorist? I don’t believe it.’

‘So my question to you is how did you end up down here, Comrade Major? I ask this because it’s not a place you just stumble upon.’

‘I didn’t just stumble upon it, Korolev. Petrov here is friendly with a woman whose husband disappeared yesterday. A stonecutter. She thought he’d got involved in some
smuggling operation and came to Petrov for help, and he came to me.’

‘How convenient. And you managed to make your way to this exact spot.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Korolev, but I haven’t been inside these tunnels since the Civil War. And wouldn’t be down here now if Petrov hadn’t
brought me down here.’

‘Olga Ivanova gave me a map.’ Petrov’s voice was a barely audible whisper.

‘And why would she tell you to come down here?’

‘Because her husband didn’t come home last night. She had a bad feeling about him. And she was right. We found him with his throat cut back along the passageway. But she knew where
this place was.’

‘Petrov came to me, as I said,’ Mushkin interjected, ‘and since Rodinov told us this business had something to do with the catacombs, we followed it up.’ Mushkin’s
voice sounded angry now. ‘So put the damned gun down, Korolev. You’ve done your duty – you’ve asked the questions – but enough is enough.’

Suddenly the sound of more people approaching came from the direction the Greek and Slivka had left in. Petrov looked concerned, as well he might, but it was Colonel Marchuk’s voice that
called into the chamber.

‘Korolev?’

‘In here, Comrade Colonel.’

The room was soon flooded with uniforms, all armed to the teeth. The colonel looked around at the weapons and the men lying dead, and nodded his grim approval to Korolev. Then he set to
work.

In a whirlwind of activity the colonel sent for more men, congratulated Korolev, praised Slivka and the Greek, calculated how long it might take to move the weapons, identified some of those
lying dead and cursed the traitor Gradov for a black-hearted villain. And at some point, amidst all the bustle and confusion, Mushkin disappeared.

§

‘Comrade Petrov,’ Korolev asked. ‘Where’s your boss gone to?’

‘Major Mushkin? He’s gone to report to headquarters. He wants our people to take over down here.’

Korolev looked around for Slivka. She was at his elbow, bless her.

‘When did he go and which direction?’

Petrov indicated the far tunnel, confused as he realized that the Major had chosen a different way out from the way he’d come in. Odd, given he’d said he hadn’t visited the
catacombs in fifteen years.

‘When?’

‘Not more than two minutes past, Comrade.’

Korolev turned to Slivka. ‘Run after him. If you find him, follow him. See where he ends up.’

‘Petrov,’ Korolev said, after Slivka had gone, ‘tell me why there weren’t more of you down here? Why just the two of you?’

‘The major said we had to keep it strictly confidential, Comrade Korolev. Between ourselves.’

‘So no one else apart from you and the major knew you were down here, or about Olga Ivanova’s map.’

‘No one.’

‘I see,’ Korolev said.

THINGS WERE moving quickly now, and Korolev had to admit he was impressed with Marchuk. In less than an hour the captured weapons had been moved out of the catacombs and into
the security of the Bebel Street station. On top of this, Marchuk had put every Militiaman in Odessa out on the streets, had closed down the railway station, blocked the roads out of the city, and
now even ships were to be prevented from leaving the harbour. Even Rodinov was pleased.

‘Marchuk has done well,’ he said when Korolev telephoned to inform him of the latest developments.

‘I agree, Comrade Colonel.’

‘And you’ve done well also, Korolev.’

As for Mushkin, Rodinov had seemed strangely unconcerned when told that he’d disappeared and that Slivka had been unable to track him. Almost as if he’d expected just such an
outcome.

‘Don’t worry about Mushkin, Korolev. He doesn’t like you and you don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s a traitor. No, we must look elsewhere for the
source of this conspiracy. Tell Marchuk I approve his every action, but that from now on the Odessa NKVD will be taking over this affair directly. Petrenko is in charge now, tell Marchuk that
– they’ll know each other, I’m sure of it – and all prisoners are to be transferred to his custody. As for you, Korolev, you keep on as you’ve been doing.’

‘Shall I ask this Comrade Petrenko for instructions?’

‘You report only to me, Korolev. No, you started off looking for the girl’s killer and you should carry on doing so. Petrenko will handle the rest. I suggest you go out to the Orlov
House immediately. If Les Pins is there, take him into custody. If not, I want you to search his belongings and seize any potential evidence. And remember this. Discretion is required. Absolutely
required. That’s why I’m sending you and not Chekists. And why you’re not to talk to anyone else about this case, except me.’

There was nothing friendly about the instruction and Korolev took the point. He might well have uncovered this conspiracy, but he wasn’t to be allowed to give either Marchuk or this new
fellow Petrenko any information that might link the matter back to the People’s Commissar’s mistress or to the People’s Commissar himself. And now it was his job to secure any
incriminating evidence.

§

Korolev’s grimace drew Slivka’s attention away from the road ahead and he shook his head to tell her it was nothing. In accordance with the colonel’s
instructions they were driving towards the Agricultural College, the car splashing the uneven road ahead with the only light in a world as dark as the inside of a grave.

‘The uniforms should have secured the place by now,’ Slivka said, glancing at her watch. The Militiamen from the village station had been told to prevent anyone from leaving until
they arrived, and also to hold anyone who attempted to enter the premises in the meantime.

Two minutes later the car’s headlights illuminated the Odessa Regional Agricultural College’s name, the foot-high concrete letters golden in their beam as they turned into the
entrance, but there was something oppressive about the way the night closed in behind them as they drove along the tree-lined avenue. The faint outline of the Orlov House showed ahead, ghostly pale
against the black sky with not a glimmer of welcoming light to be seen. There was no sign of the Militiamen.

‘Let’s leave the car here, Slivka,’ Korolev said. ‘I have a feeling about this.’

Slivka killed the engine and the headlights, and the car coasted to a halt. They sat there for a moment, listening to the silence of past midnight on the steppe. Not even a mouse was turning in
its sleep. The only sound was their own shallow breathing and the creak of the car’s warm bonnet as it adjusted to the sub-zero temperature.

They stepped out of the car, closing the doors very quietly, and waited for their eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. The air had the moist, frigid density that preceded snow, and Korolev
felt a speculative flake land on his cheek. They began to walk slowly towards the Orlov House, moving into the darker shadows on either side of the avenue, where the trees overhung it, and were
grateful they had when lights suddenly glowed up ahead – the long windows on the ground floor of the Orlov House and the white outside lamps of the college buildings dusting their immediate
surroundings with a silvery sheen. Korolev looked away from them to preserve his night vision, thinking there must have been a power cut that had just been repaired.