The Holy Thief (15 page)

Korolev pushed the pile of interviews to the back of his desk. “Well, a few things to follow up, at least. I’ll ask Staff Colonel Gregorin if he can help us with the Emka, but a registration number is what we really need.”

“What about identifying the dead Thief?”

“Larinin’s looking through the mugshots and files, but if you could look through them as well, that would help. We’ll see if we can get a picture to show around the stations. He’s been through the Zone so there should be something.”

“Of course, Alexei Dmitriyevich. And thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I know. Get on home now, I’ll write up this report and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Semionov didn’t need to be told twice and with a quick farewell was on his way. Korolev looked at the younger man’s empty seat, put his concerns about the lad behind him and started to write down the latest developments. It didn’t take long: after all there were only so many of the day’s revelations that he could put in writing. The rest would have to be communicated verbally.

He’d just finished and was checking over it for spelling mistakes when he heard a gunshot, muffled, but sounding as though it came from inside the building. He stood, slipped the Walther from his shoulder holster, pushed a round into the chamber, flicked the safety catch back and opened the door very slowly. Across the hall he could see the occupants of 2C and 2D also maneuvering out into the corridor, guns first. He held his automatic up toward the ceiling and whispered across to Paunichev from 2C.

“Hey, Semyon. What the hell was that?”

Paunichev kept his eyes on the corridor he was slowly moving down and whispered back, “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Then a loud voice came from the stairwell up ahead. “It’s all right, boys. Just an accident.”

Korolev recognized General Popov’s voice and slid his safety catch back on, the click it made echoed by several others along the corridor. Korolev stood upright and walked toward the stairwell, which was ringed on every floor by curious faces, some in uniforms and some not. The general looked down from the third-floor landing.

“Andropov had an accident, nothing to worry about. An ambulance is on its way.” His face looked pale in the electric light. “Go on, back to work or off to a bar. If you all stand on the staircase at once, it might give way.”

There was a low rumble of laughter and the Militiamen started to disperse. Korolev took the opportunity to pick up the report he’d written and take it down to typing. Anna Solayevna was leaning out of the hatch to the typing harem, her face white in the shadows.

“What happened?” she asked in a whisper. “I heard a shot.”

“It was nothing. An accident I think.”

But neither of them believed it.

Korolev returned to his office and read through the interview notes once more, in case they’d missed anything, until the clock reminded him that it was nearly seven and time to go home. He collected his coat and hat and stopped at the canteen on the first floor for his weekly food parcel, which he slipped under his arm, where it was joined by the freshly typed daily report, handed to him by a proud Anna Solayevna as he passed the typing pool. She must have typed like a demon to have it ready in time, he thought to himself as he thanked her.

The temperature outside was so cold it hurt his eyes. He was turning up the collar of his coat when he saw the general standing beside an ambulance, watching a stretcher being loaded. A blanket covered the body but Korolev presumed it was Andropov—a fatal accident then. He walked over, murmuring a prayer for the dead man and removing his hat as he did so. Other people leaving the building had stopped, and five or six of them came closer to form a clump of dark solemnity on the wide steps that graced the front of the building. They waited until the ambulance pulled away. No one said a word—there was nothing to be said. Perhaps it really had been an accident, but now it had become yet another hole in the chronology to be carefully avoided. Korolev replaced his hat and walked away, not looking at the others. As far as he’d known, Andropov, a colonel, had been a happily married man with two children and a good apartment. A lucky man. Something had happened to change that, he supposed.

He watched the ambulance turn a corner, then walked out of the gates to join the dark crowds of silent pedestrians walking into the Moscow night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gregorin’s Emka was waiting for him when he reached Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and, as he approached, the door opened and Gregorin stepped out. He leaned back into the car and spoke a few words to the driver, a large black shape behind the steering wheel. Gregorin looked at his watch and smiled.

“A few minutes late. Busy day?”

There was something in his cheerful demeanor that infuriated Korolev. The feeling was so intense that he could feel it twisting his face into a snarl. He tried to suppress it but Gregorin was already giving him a quizzical look.

“Is there something wrong, Comrade?”

“Nothing. I watched an ambulance take away a colleague’s body not thirty minutes ago. Perhaps it’s that.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. What happened to him?”

“An accident, they say.”

“I see. There are a lot of accidents these days. Your friend Chestnova is kept busy.”

“Yes, it seems so.”

Gregorin shrugged his shoulders. Korolev knew what he was thinking—this was just the way things were these days.

“Have you brought today’s report?” the colonel asked.

“Yes,” Korolev said, patting the front of his jacket with his free hand.

Inside the car, Korolev placed his food parcel at his feet. Gregorin switched on a small roof light, gesturing toward the driver as he began to read.

“This is Volodya, my driver. We can talk in front of him.”

Volodya turned his head toward Korolev. Everything about the face seemed to bulge, except for the eyes that peered out at him through pillbox slits. A massive hairy hand gave Korolev an incongruous thumbs up. Korolev nodded back, aware of the smell of sausage wafting up from the parcel on the floor. Krakow sausage. Korolev hoped this wouldn’t take too long.

“Interesting, the tattoos. You’ll have a full autopsy report tomorrow?”

“Yes, and hopefully an identification as well. There’s bound to be a file on him—probably has a filing cabinet to himself if the tattoos are anything to go by.”

“And the car?”

“If it’s an Emka—well, they’re not easy to get access to.”

“No,” Gregorin said, with a smug smile.

“We’ll do our best, Comrade Colonel, but it might be that the NKVD would have more success tracking it down.”

“We’ll certainly be looking into it,” Gregorin said, turning the last page and then switching off the light.

“What about the American?”

“It was an off-the-record conversation, for what that’s worth.”

“Don’t worry, Schwartz is useful to us. We leave the Americans well alone, particularly those who are, as I said, useful to us.”

There was something contemplative in the way he said the word “useful,” which made Korolev wonder if Schwartz did more for State Security than just buy a few icons from time to time. He hesitated, pretending to himself for a fleeting moment that he had a choice, and then repeated to Gregorin everything that Schwartz had told him. Maybe Korolev would have withheld something if he’d had an American passport and a return ticket to New York in his pocket. But he didn’t and so discretion was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

When Korolev had finished, Gregorin reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced his battered cigarette case, taking one out for himself, and then one each for Korolev and Volodya. Soon the car was a fug of cigarette smoke.

“Well, you’re right,” Gregrorin said after a while. “Nancy Dolan isn’t Miss Smithson. Lydia Ivanovna Dolina is her name. You remember I thought the dead girl could be one of two possible candidates? Well, Citizeness Dolina was the other candidate. A similar White Guard background.”

“Not a nun?”

“We don’t know, but Schwartz’s information seems to indicate she has religious connections at the very least. We have people working on it—I’ll pass this on to them.”

“Schwartz said she was with an Intourist group.”

“Yes, it was when she went missing from the group that her cover story began to come apart. No one at Comintern has ever heard of her, although we’re keeping an eye on the Americans there just in case. It’s possible she has ended up the same way as Miss Smithson—if not, we’ll find her sooner or later. Moscow isn’t such an easy place to hide.”

“You’re looking for her?” Korolev asked through a cough—by this stage there was enough smoke in the car to cure fish.

“Only as a visa violator. We don’t know how she fits into the picture, so we’re keeping it low-key. I’ll let you have a photograph, in case you come across her.”

Korolev nodded his thanks.

“And this icon? Can you tell me anything about it?”

Gregorin let a small leaf of smoke curl out of his mouth and then exhaled the rest through his nose.

“There is a particular icon—one that went missing from a Lubianka storeroom two weeks ago. There might be a connection.” His words seemed carefully measured.

“The Lubianka? Christ,” Korolev said and would have pushed the word back into his mouth if he could, but Gregorin only laughed.

“No, I don’t think it was him, he hasn’t got the clearance. Other people have, though.”

“Is there a connection? Between the murders and the icon going missing?” Korolev was surprised his voice sounded relatively calm, given his entire body had broken into an icy sweat. To mention Christ in front of a Chekist staff colonel—he felt his toes curl into a cramp.

“It seems certain Nancy Dolan knows about the icon, if it was her who opened the door to Schwartz in New York—therefore it seems reasonable to assume she’s here in connection with it. I think your dead nun must have been as well.” Gregorin spoke slowly, seeming to weigh each word. “And if she was, then the Thief also—after all, it seems they were both tortured in the same way.”

“What icon is this—that people are dying for it?”

Gregorin shook his head after a long pause. “I’m sorry, Comrade. There’s no need for you to have that information at this stage. You must now concentrate on identifying this fellow Tesak and then any associates of his who might be involved. If you find Nancy Dolan along the way, so much the better. But leave the icon to us.”

“I see.” Korolev didn’t really, but he saw enough to keep his mouth shut. Gregorin leaned across and opened the door for the detective.

“You’re expected.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Babel, the writer, your neighbor. He has good connections with the Thieves. He may be able to assist in your inquiries. I’m afraid another matter has come up that Volodya and I have to deal with. But I’ll see you tomorrow evening, if not before.”

It was only after he entered the building that Korolev remembered he’d no idea which apartment Babel lived in, so he left his food parcel in his room and climbed the stairs to the second landing, hoping that the one-armed BMC chairman, Luborov, would be able to direct him properly. He knocked on his door a little out of breath, and waited, hearing movement and then the hollow sound of footsteps approaching on the wooden floorboards.

“Who’s there?” Luborov’s voice sounded strained.

“Korolev. I moved in yesterday.”

The door opened and Luborov looked out at him.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock, Comrade. Do you need me as a witness?” Luborov was referring to the practice of having two independent witnesses present for arrests, particularly when it was a political matter.

“No, I just need you to tell me where the writer Babel’s apartment is.”

Korolev knew some people made a living from being witnesses, but it was generally night work and often meant going without sleep if you worked in a factory or on a building site. He supposed Luborov’s condition and his position on the BMC made it easier for him than for most people, but it wasn’t a pleasant way to pass your time.

“Babel? He has rooms in the Austrian’s apartment. I’m glad you weren’t calling me out, I could do with a good night’s sleep. It’s become busy all of a sudden—it hasn’t been like this for a while. Anyway, big black door to the left on the next landing up. Comrade Babel entertaining, is he?”

“I don’t know, I’ve an appointment.”

“I thought I saw some people go up earlier—he likes to entertain. He never asks me, of course. Well, remember me to him. Goodnight, Comrade.” Luborov shut the door.

Korolev stood for a moment, considering what Luborov had said, and then turned to climb the stairs. So the witnesses were busy again. No one had thought things would change completely, of course, Muscovites knew better than that, but it seemed the quiet optimism of the last few months had been misplaced. He shrugged—it wasn’t as if he could do anything about it, after all. It was like poor Andropov’s accident: you just had to accept that these things happened and then forget about them.

He knocked on Babel’s black door, which was indeed a fair size, and heard laughter and music inside. It sounded like Melkhov’s band performing “Girls, Tell Your Friends!” He knocked again in case they couldn’t hear him and the door opened. A small woman in a black dress with a white handkerchief over her gray hair looked up at him, her sagging sallow face speaking of troubles endured, as much as age. Two sad brown eyes started at his waist and worked their way up. He took off his hat—there was something about the old woman that made him feel like a small boy.

“Who are you? What do you want?” the woman said; her voice rumbling with quite astonishing depth for such a small frame. The jazz record came to a bumping stop in the background.

“I’m Captain Korolev, Criminal Investigation Division. I believe I’m expected.”

“A
Ment
? I suppose I shouldn’t ask.” She stood aside with an expression of distaste. “Come in, come in. You’re letting the warmth out. You think we can afford to heat the stairwell, do you?”

“Thank you.”

“Give me your hat and your coat, come on. Don’t worry, I won’t sell them to a passing speculator. I wouldn’t get much anyway, they’ve seen better days. There.” She took the coat and hat and dropped them in a heap on a nearby chair. ‘You can leave your briefcase as well. Have you eaten?”

Korolev hadn’t had anything since the
blinchiki
on the way out to the stadium, but it wasn’t polite to eat other people’s food. Not with queues for bread the way they were since the poor harvest.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, hoping his stomach wouldn’t betray him.

“Of course you’re not. I made some cheese dumplings this morning. Will I bring you a plate?”

He shook his head, but his eyes must have betrayed him and she squeezed his arm.

“Of course I will,” she said.

In the sitting room five people sat around a low table on which glasses, a full ashtray and bottles stood. Five pairs of eyes looked up at him through the layers of smoke.

“Who’s this?” A short, balding, heavy-set man was sitting cross-legged on the daybed, squinting at them from behind a pair of round, gold-framed glasses. He wore a collarless shirt with open cuffs and a pair of old trousers held up with braces. The shirt was starched a dazzling white and all the light in the room seemed to be focused on it. He smiled at Korolev, his brown eyes mischievous. “Some boyfriend of yours, is it, Shura?”

“Ah, Isaac Emmanuilovich, you do like your little jokes. I can’t grudge you them, I suppose, you poor thing you.” The old woman’s deep voice rumbled out from the kitchen she’d stepped into.

“It’s Captain Korolev, our new neighbor. I was just telling you about him.” Valentina Nikolaevna rose from the soft chair in which she’d been sitting. She was wearing a cocktail dress with a neckline that plunged low enough to reveal chiseled clavicles and swan-white skin. She smiled at him; not exactly a friendly smile, but not unfriendly either. Babel uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet, as did the others, and his smile was, in contrast, as warm as the sun. He waved Korolev to an empty chair.

“Welcome, Comrade. Valentina you know, and Shura it seems. This is my wife Antonina Nikolaevna—Tonya—and this is Avram Emilievich Ginzburg, the poet, and his wife, Lena Yakovlevna. Shura, bring Comrade Korolev a glass. Would you like wine or vodka, Comrade? We’ve both, you see.” He laughed, revealing even, white teeth.

“I’d drink a glass of wine, if I might,” Korolev said.

“Let me guess, Captain. You’re late home after a long day wrestling with evil, heard our little party and thought you’d introduce yourself. Thank God you did—poor Ginzburg was getting bored.”

The small man with wary eyes and a gray beard waved the suggestion away with a half-irritated smile, not shifting his gaze from Korolev’s. He looked ready to run, but that was a reaction you became accustomed to as an investigator. It used to mean people had something to hide, but that wasn’t necessarily the case any more; although, on second thought, there was something about the man’s pallor and frailty that suggested Ginzburg was no stranger to the Zone.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Comrade, but I’d hoped you were expecting me. Staff Colonel Gregorin suggested I come by.”

“Gregorin, ah yes,” Babel said.

“He thought you might be able to assist me with a case I’m working on. A murder.”

“A murder,” Babel said, his eyebrows lifting. “Did you hear that, Shura? I know you’re listening. Shura loves a good murder—the more horrific the better. And my beautiful Tonya isn’t averse to homicide either.” Babel placed a proprietary hand on the knee of the pretty, long-necked brunette, who shook her head in shy disagreement.