The Bloody Meadow (37 page)

‘I knew it, but this fool didn’t. And didn’t bother asking either.’ She flicked the barrel of her gun in the dead Frenchman’s direction. Korolev didn’t need
to see her face to be certain it reflected the contempt in her voice. ‘And then it turned out she was Andreychuk’s daughter. If I could have talked to her, I would have reminded her
that our exposure was her own death sentence, but he was an adventurer, an amateur. How he pulled the wool over the eyes of the Comrades in Spain, I’ve no idea.’

‘Who was he?’

‘A Russian mother, a French father, a German spy. He was with the French in Odessa when they intervened in ’nineteen, and stayed on as an observer with the Whites. When he became
involved with the Germans I don’t know, but fascists have their own loyalties. To him, we were a means to an end. To us, he was a source of guns, so much the same. We gave him something he
wanted and he gave us what we wanted. But then he decided he should be the one making the decisions, and some of our people agreed with him. And I was overruled.’

‘And they paid the price?’

‘They listened to him when he said they could force the Thieves to ship in the guns. And look where that got them.’

‘Why did he kill the girl?’

‘She found out what she was bringing in from Moscow.’

‘And what? Threatened to reveal everything to the authorities?’

‘Not quite – she realized Lomatkin was compromised and wanted an end to the arrangement. Les Pins overreacted, and before the information had been recovered as well.’

‘It was him who drugged her?’

‘Yes, although Gradov was the one who killed her.’

‘And then he killed Andreychuk as well?’

‘I don’t know – I’d arranged to get him across the border, but when the boat came for him, they found him dead. Perhaps it was Gradov, or perhaps someone else. Andreychuk
was a good man – he fought with my husband in the war – but maybe Les Pins only had one way of dealing with problems like that.’

‘So that’s how you knew Andreychuk.’

‘My husband was a Party member before the Revolution, but when he was asked to betray the Petlyurists he was dealing with to the Whites, he refused and went over to them. Now, of course, I
see he was right – but then . . .’

‘And your son, he came to the same conclusion?’

‘Him? He’s still as loyal to the Party as a dog.’

Korolev could hear something close to hatred in her voice.

‘But he was involved in your conspiracy, wasn’t he? Isn’t that why he was here?’

‘Him? Never – the strain of being a butcher for twenty years is the reason he’s here, nothing else. If he’d known one tiny fraction of this – well, you must know
what would have happened.’

At that moment, two quick bursts of electricity energized the filaments of the light bulbs in the room to dramatic effect. It was like seeing two photographs, almost identical, each for a
fraction of a second. The first flash of light left them all dazzled, but Korolev was sure he could see a figure standing in the doorway behind Blumkin and the peasant, wearing a greatcoat. Slivka?
If it was her, Mushkina saw her as well because she called out a warning and there was a gunshot. Then the lights came on once again, illuminating a scene that was more confused than the first.
Blumkin’s eyes were wide open and his body seemed to be lifting off the ground, blood spurting from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Damienko had disappeared, probably hiding under the table.
But the figure in the doorway and Mushkina were standing still, each with a pistol aimed in the other’s direction, both guns blazing.

Korolev dropped to the floor, pulling out his Walther as shot after shot blasted across the room, and the shooting didn’t slacken for an instant when the lights went out again. It was like
a wall of noise, so quickly were they firing, and the muzzle flashes showed Mushkina standing there shooting towards the doorway and Blumkin firing at random, the wall slick with his blood as he
slipped lower and lower. It was impossible to work out what was happening and a bullet hitting the table beside his head convinced Korolev it was safer not to try. Finally there was a pause, then
one last shot and then nothing more.

What followed the explosion of light and gunfire was silence, broken only by a long whistling sigh from somewhere near the doorway and then a single word.

‘Mother.’ It was more like a long exhalation than anything and it sounded like Mushkin’s voice. Still, Korolev stayed where he was.

At first he could hear nothing except for the truck’s engine outside, still turning over, then he heard running feet from the direction of the Orlov House and the distinctive sound of
empty brass cartridges falling nearby onto a wooden surface – someone in the room was alive and reloading.

‘Chief?’ called a voice from outside, and Korolev felt his spirits rise. It was Slivka – he might get out of this yet – and now a torch’s beam was angling in
through the window, cutting into the darkness.

‘Come out with your hands up,’ Slivka demanded, and then Korolev heard another familiar voice in the background.

‘That’s Militiaman Blumkin by the wall, over there,’ a boy’s voice called out. It was young Riakov.

But there was no response from the room and no sound other than Korolev’s pulse thudding in his ears and his unnaturally rapid breathing. More people were coming at a run now and Slivka
was telling them to keep back. Somewhere outside he could hear Belakovsky’s voice asking what was happening. Sorokina was proclaiming that it was a terrorist attack on the film while Shymko
was telling everyone to stay where they were.

‘Be careful, Slivka,’ Korolev said quietly, ‘take your time. I’m beside the table but I can’t see anything.’

There was a gunshot and a bullet cracked over his head and both he and Slivka fired in response; then there was more silence. Slivka’s torch shone into the room once again.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘I’ll live.’

‘I think one of us just shot Comrade Mushkina,’ Slivka said, unsure, by the sound of it, that this was a positive development.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Who was it in the doorway?’

‘Major Mushkin,’ Slivka said. ‘He’s not looking good. Finished, I’d say.’

‘And Blumkin?’ he asked.

‘In a bad way, but still conscious.’

‘There’s a fellow called Damienko in here as well.’

‘I surrender,’ Damienko said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ And there came the sound of a gun skittering across the floor.

Then Korolev rose to his feet just as the light came back on and he looked around him at the dead and the wounded and thanked the Lord for preserving his poor sinner’s life once again.

KOROLEV stood beside Slivka’s car on the village’s solitary street thinking back to the night before. When the lights had come on again, it had been chaos.
There’d been actors and technicians, production girls and all sorts swarming into Mushkina’s cottage as soon as it was clear it was safe, and more histrionic dramatics than on a bad
night at the Bolshoi. In the end, he’d had to fire a shot into the ceiling, and even then it had required a firm talking to and a reminder of his duty as a loyal Pioneer to persuade young
Riakov to leave.

After that, it had been a question of waiting until reinforcements arrived and adding up the butcher’s bill. Mushkin had caught a bullet in the chest and was dead, his face a mask of pain
– and Korolev couldn’t help thinking it was the knowledge that his mother had probably fired the bullet more than the injury. Blumkin and Mushkina were both clinging to life and had
been ambulanced to the care of Dr Peskov’s colleagues at the university hospital in Odessa, along with the concussed Sharapov. Damienko had emerged from his hiding place uninjured but
terrified and was now sitting in a cell in the Militia station, not twenty metres away from where Slivka and Korolev were standing, having a mysterious conversation with the newly arrived Colonel
Rodinov.

Snow had fallen throughout the night and most of the morning and it had pushed up against the walls of the village in deep drifts. Korolev, after all the excitement of the previous days, was
utterly exhausted. He rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet to try and revive the circulation.

‘He’s taking his time,’ he said, turning to Slivka.

‘I wonder why he wanted to talk to him.’

‘Best not to ask, and even better not to know,’ Korolev answered. He’d spoken to Rodinov the night before, immediately after the gunfight in Mushkina’s cottage, and a
lengthy silence had followed his report of the events that had taken place.

‘This Damienko fellow – you said he looked as though he’d handled a gun before.’

‘Yes,’ Korolev had answered. ‘A soldier at some stage, I’d imagine. I haven’t asked him yet – I thought I’d speak to you first.’

‘Good. Hold him at the village station. Have that pathologist fellow of yours take Les Pins and Mushkin into his morgue – but not under their own names. I’ll talk to Colonel
Marchuk to make arrangements. This fellow Blumkin – what is his condition?’

‘Conscious. More than that I can’t say.’

‘And Mushkina?’

‘She took a few bullets.’ Omitting to mention that they’d come from Slivka and himself. ‘She’s not talking much, but she’s tough.’

‘And you really think she shot Mushkin?’

‘It looks that way. It wasn’t me and Damienko’s gun wasn’t fired. It could have been Blumkin, but my money would be on Mushkina.’

‘A husband and a son,’ Rodinov said, and there was a note of admiration in his voice. Korolev made no comment. It wasn’t the kind of statement that required one.

‘He was loyal all along – Mushkin, that is. You know that now, don’t you? He even had suspicions about his mother, but I didn’t believe him. I thought his exhaustion was
playing tricks on him.’

‘I see it now. I had my doubts.’

‘He had his doubts about you as well, Korolev.’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

‘But you got the job done between you.’

‘I hope so, Comrade Colonel.’

‘The guns are safe, and most of the conspirators in custody – I’d say you completed the task assigned to you. But what happens to them now you don’t need to bother
about.’

‘As you say, Comrade Colonel.’

There was a pause that reminded Korolev, yet again, of the precariousness of his situation. He opened his mouth to say something, but what could he say? After a few moments, Rodinov spoke again.
The voice was slow and deliberate, each word weighted with menace.

‘You said the film people thought it was a terrorist attack.’

‘That was their initial reaction.’

‘Don’t disagree with that explanation, Korolev. Tell them the matter is still under investigation. Where possible, encourage them in their belief but without confirming it.
Understood?’

‘Of course, Comrade Colonel,’ Korolev replied.

There was another pause.

‘No one, including you, is to speak to this Damienko until I arrive. The same applies to Mushkina and Blumkin. I will talk to Petrenko and Marchuk to ensure this happens, but this
instruction applies to you more than anyone. Just in case you were to become confused about the extent of your responsibilities in the meantime, this matter is now in my hands – no one
else’s. Is that clear?’

It was clear enough, and Korolev had followed the colonel’s instructions to the letter – to the extent that now he and Slivka stood in the snow, stamping their feet to keep warm and
uncomfortable under the close inspection of the four goons who’d come with the colonel from Moscow. Hard men, young, hungry – looking like hunting dogs waiting for an order from their
master.

‘I hope that’s it,’ Slivka said, breaking the silence. Korolev turned to find her looking up at the sky.

‘What?’ he asked, curious.

‘The winter. I hope that’s it finished now. That we can leave it behind us at last.’

‘Yes,’ Korolev said, a little distracted. ‘The spring is always welcome.’

Their attention was diverted by the sound of the door to the Militia station closing. Rodinov stood in front, pulling on his gloves.

‘Korolev?’ he said, looking around the village for a moment, as if to remember it for ever. Korolev raised his hand to his hat in salute.

‘Come with me.’

Korolev followed the colonel to his car, its engine still running. At Rodinov’s invitation he joined him in the back seat.

‘Well, Korolev. You did a good job.’

‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank Comrade Ezhov. He’s pleased with how things have turned out and wants you to know it.’

‘I’m grateful for that.’

‘You should be. Of course there are a few matters that still need to be resolved, and that’s what I’m here to do.’

‘I see,’ Korolev said quietly, wondering if he was one of them.

‘Yes.’ The colonel took off one of his gloves and examined his fingernails. ‘A little tidying up is called for. So I will now tell you what exactly happened here over the last
few days, in case you become confused when you read about it in the newspapers. Are you listening carefully?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Korolev tried to make sure his face was devoid of any indications that could be construed as confusion, although his mind was racing.

‘What happened is this,’ Rodinov continued, not looking at Korolev and speaking as though to an invisible audience. ‘A young comrade, the late Maria Lenskaya, beautiful,
dedicated and utterly loyal to the Soviet State, came across her estranged father – the traitor Andreychuk – whom she knew to be a former Petlyurist officer and suspected of being an
active counter-revolutionary. The rat didn’t recognize her and so she was able to observe him behaving suspiciously – we’ll fill in the exact details later on. It helps, of
course, that he was involved in such activities.’

He glanced at Korolev, as if looking for approval, and so Korolev nodded, beginning to understand.

‘Alerted to his evil intentions, she informed Comrades Mushkina and Les Pins about her fears and, under Mushkina’s direction, Lenskaya and Les Pins, together with Comrade Lomatkin, I
think, infiltrated a conspiracy to create an independent Petlyurist state in the Ukraine – with German backing. With me so far?’