The Holy Thief (19 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It always struck Korolev that the exterior of the Moscow Hippodrome made it look more like a museum than a sports venue. With its columns and grandeur, the long white building seemed a relic of a time gone by—a building meant for princes rather than proletarians. Even the entrance resembled a triumphal arch, surmounted, as it was, by a bronze chariot team. It all seemed decidedly un-Soviet, despite the large banner exhorting the citizenry to early completion of the Five Year Plan. Perhaps the building’s elegance was why, for several years after the Revolution, there’d been no racing there. The need for a suspiciously bourgeois-looking race track hadn’t been a priority while the city starved and armies moved back and forth and battles were won and lost. Eventually, however, when the Civil War was over and peace had been reached with the Poles, it had been allowed to reopen. Muscovites still liked to gamble, after all, although these days the crowds wore flat caps instead of top hats.

Semionov brought the car to a halt a safe distance from the scattered groups of loungers and hawkers outside the entrance and turned to Korolev. “Close enough?”

“This will be fine.”

Korolev had a quick look round to see if there was anyone near, then checked his Walther was fully loaded—chambering a round, just in case. Semionov followed his example. As always, the smell of gun oil sent a shiver of anticipation down Korolev’s back. He didn’t expect to have to use the automatic, but it was best to be properly prepared, just as Popov had instructed.

“You stay back. I’ll pull out my handkerchief if I think I need help, but even then I don’t want you barging in on your own. There’ll be some uniforms around, so grab hold of them first—Kolya isn’t likely to be on his own.”

Semionov looked at Korolev’s white handkerchief as though memorizing it. “You won’t notice me, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but I swear on my Komsomol honor I won’t lose sight of you.”

“Good. Now, give me a head start before you follow.”

Korolev levered himself out of the car and started to walk toward the main entrance, the Walther a reassuring presence in his armpit.

He handed over a fifty kopek note at the ticket barrier, then walked through into the ill-lit entrance hall, the high walls of which were decorated with mosaics celebrating the glory of the equine species—barely visible beneath twenty years of grime. Here was a cavalry charge, with Cossacks galloping out of the gloom, their mounts’ nostrils huge and their teeth bared; there, a column of horse artillery advancing across a desert. Horses plowed, carried, fought, marched, jumped and pulled, in dust-streaked image after dust-streaked image. He hadn’t been to the races since before the German War, and was surprised how rundown the place was. It had been truly spectacular back then, and the smell of the aristocratic women parading themselves on this very spot had been that of a field of summer flowers. Now things were not so pleasant. Most of the light bulbs in the chandelier were blown, the roof seemed to be leaking and the tiled floor was pooled with rainwater. At least he hoped it was rainwater, although the smell made him suspicious it might be something else. Men’s faces peered at him from the gloom as he went past, one or two turning away but others staring at him with a strange intensity. He kept moving, unsure what these men were waiting for, and shrugged off a hand that tugged at his sleeve.

The next room was better lit, with a rank of glass booths manned by morose, middle-aged women, alongside which a thin man on a stepladder wrote odds on a blackboard. There was also a stall selling food so he handed over sixty kopeks and received in exchange a
buterbrod
—a slice of black bread decorated with some thinly sliced sausage. He took a bite and, remembering he’d smoked the last of his cigarettes back in Razin Street, picked up a packet from the next stall along, then climbed the cracked gray marble steps that led to the front of the stands, brushing his way past a swaying sailor, who gave his slice of bread a hungry stare.

It was good to be back outside, despite the swirling drizzle, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The stands were busy: several thousand Muscovites had packed themselves into the tiered seating and were now letting loose a rumbling roar of excitement that was increasing in volume second by second. He turned and saw a clump of brightly colored riders approaching, their silks all the brighter against the slate gray sky and the dirt track. A great spray of water and mud surrounded the jockeys as they urged their horses on and the roar of the crowd rose, drowning out the galloping hooves. Three horses detached themselves from the larger pack and a roar went up that mingled delight and dismay as the race splashed past, the jockeys’ whips flailing as the first two battled for the win.

The race finished; much of the crowd began to disperse. Some happy citizens waved winning tickets, while others made for the bar at the back of the stand and the consolation of vodka. Korolev climbed to the second tier of seating and picked a spot in line with the finishing post, as Babel had asked. He sat down, made himself comfortable, finished the last of the bread and sausage and lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke with quiet pleasure. He wriggled a little deeper into his damp but still warm overcoat and tried to spot the stocky figure of the writer.

He was still looking when Babel sat down beside him, smiling with pleasure.

“You didn’t see me coming.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Korolev lied. “I decided it would be less hard work if you found me instead.”

“Got one of those for me?” Babel said, pointing to the cigarette.

“Sure.” Korolev offered the packet he’d just bought. “So, tell me. How’d it go with Kolya?”

“Not too bad. It seems I’m a first-class matchmaker; you both can’t wait for your first walk out. He knew all about you, anyway.”

“He knew about me?” Korolev repeated, mystified as to what a Thief like Kolya could possibly know about a run-of-the-mill investigator like him.

“It seems so.”

“Does he know about Tesak, perhaps? That I’m investigating his murder?”

“Well, he knows that Tesak’s dead. I’ll tell you how it went. I saw him by the parade ring and tipped my hat to him. He waved me over. ‘I wanted to have a word with you,’ I said. ‘Me likewise,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve a proposal for you,’ I said. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘I wonder if I can guess what it is.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘mine concerns a policeman who wants to have a word with you.’ ‘Korolev,’ he said, ‘your neighbor?’ At which point you could have tipped me over with a feather. But Kolya just gives a little smile, as if to say, ‘I know when you fart in the bath, Babel.’ Which was disconcerting, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine,” Korolev said dryly.

“ ‘You know about Tesak, how he died?’ I asked, and Kolya nods, a slow nod which tells me he not only knows about it, but that he has plans to send a bit of what Tesak got back to the return address. ‘Well, Korolev wants to ask a few questions. He’ll give information in exchange for information, and if you want the body, it can be arranged. And it will be safe for you, no trap. His word of honor.’ He looks at me and it’s a hard look, the kind that reaches down into you and squeezes your stomach till it feels like there’s nothing in it. He’s wondering whether he can trust me and then he’s telling me, with his eyes, what will happen to me if anything goes wrong. Eyes can be very expressive, you know. Anyway, ‘Where and when?’ he asks, after a couple of hours, it seemed, of him looking at me like I’m going to be lunch for his dog. ‘Up to you,’ I say, as we discussed. ‘Korolev understands you’ll want to feel secure, so you pick the spot and the time.’ At this he laughs. ‘I always feel secure, tell him that. Today. One thirty. Here. Then we’ll talk.’ And that was that. I was dismissed.”

“You did well, Isaac Emmanuilovich.”

“Oh, please, call me Isaac. And, to be honest, I found it a very interesting experience. Have you a plan?”

“We’ll see if he shows and then we’ll play it as it comes.”

They sat in silence smoking their cigarettes, watching as the crowd began to return to their seats. It was a mixed card and the next race was for trotters. Jockeys on low-slung sulkies came out onto the track and picked up speed as they headed round the course to the start. Babel pointed to a jockey with a red star on his white silks.

“Ivanov should win this. Proletariat Strength is a banker—I can’t see the rest of them getting close. Not very good odds, though.”

“Did you put something on?”

“A
parny
with number four. The odds were a little better.”

The stand had begun to fill up and Korolev became conscious of several likely looking fellows taking seats around them. A large tough, his face obscured by the turned-up collar of his leather jacket and a peaked hat pulled low over his face, sat in beside Babel, but the hat didn’t hide the tattooed fingers, burned yellow by nicotine, that were lifting a
papirosa
to his mouth.

“Can I barter a smoke off you, friend?” a clear-skinned youth on Korolev’s left asked, turning to him. Korolev nodded, put his hand into his pocket and offered him his packet of Belomors.

“Ah, the White Canal!” the youth said, tapping a blue finger on the map that graced the packet. “Many a fine fellow dug his own grave in that drain. But not me,
amigo
, not me. Lovely smoke they named after it, all the same.” Korolev looked into the young man’s sea-blue eyes; the pupils were the size of pin-pricks and there was no life in them when he flashed his chipped yellow teeth in a smile. The youngster’s breath stank of decay and Korolev had to make a conscious effort not to recoil.

“Be so kind as to follow me when the race starts,
Señor.
When we get to the corridor at the back of the stand, you pass me your piece. The one in your armpit—I can see the bulge. Quietly, of course. The citizens don’t like to see hardware being flashed around in a place of entertainment. You’ll get it back, don’t you worry.”

“Understood. You have your own light?”

“Yep.” A match appeared in the boy’s hand, which he ran across his teeth. The match burst into flame, the flash of sulfur lighting up his face. He was almost good-looking, thought Korolev, but the eyes would warn away all but the blind. This child would laugh as he slid a blade between your ribs, and then he’d twist it just for fun.

“Backed anything? I know my chariots, I could set you straight.” The boy spoke with friendly insolence.

“We move when the race starts, right?” Korolev asked, ignoring his question.

“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s not often I get to chat with the filth in a pleasant social atmosphere. Perhaps we might end up pals, you know? Go to watch Dinamo together, hang out with all the other
Ments
? Maybe you could even reform me? Turn me into a world-class Komsomol choirboy? No more thieving for Mishka—I’d have a new way to get fat off the back of the citizens.”

His sniggering laugh didn’t extend to his eyes and suddenly Korolev wanted to hold onto his gun very much indeed, but then the race began and Mishka was standing, and so was the
papirosa
smoker. Korolev hoped his face showed none of the nervousness he felt as three other burly ruffians stood as well.

“The scribbler comes too,” Mishka said and Korolev nodded to the wide-eyed Babel to stand. The writer rose to his feet, looking with open curiosity at the Thieves, the suggestion of a smile playing about his lips. He’s enjoying this, Korolev realized with surprise, taking it all in so he can write one of his damned stories. There was something so ridiculous about the thought that it made him smile in turn.

“That’s the spirit,
compadres.
Up the stairs and then we’re on our way. Step lively—we don’t want to be late.”

In the corridor at the back of the stand Korolev held open his jacket, and Mishka slipped the Walther out of its holster, flicked on the safety catch and then put it into his own pocket. Another man checked Babel, then Mishka inclined his head to the left, pointing them toward a door at the far end of the corridor. He fell in step beside Korolev.

“Nice piece. Reliable artillery, the Walther. Of course, the Americans make the best armaments. A Browning or a Colt, that’s the kind of cannon gets respect from the dead, if you know what I mean. And the Thompson? Now there’s something that stacks the odds in your favor—rat-a-tat-tat-tat and down they go. Still, the Germans make nice cannons too. Your German knows a thing or two about how to build a howitzer.”

One of the escorts knocked twice and the door was opened by a shaved head that Korolev recognized from the entrance hall. The man looked at Korolev with an unreadable expression, then spat on the floor as they passed.

“Pay no attention. It’s his time of the month: he turned into a bitch in the Zone is what I heard.”

They descended the wooden staircase, their footsteps echoing down the stairwell, the shaved head bringing up the rear. At each turn in the stairs, Korolev cast quick glances at their escort, coming to the conclusion that they knew what they were about, and hoping Semionov would realize it and stay well back.

At the bottom, they left the building and walked across a deserted yard to a set of heavy doors already being opened by a waiting goon, then entered a dark corridor heavy with the warm, earthy smell of horses. Korolev could hear Proletarian Strength’s name being shouted outside as the race reached the final stages and wondered whether Babel had landed his
parny.
He looked across at him and was unsurprised to see the smaller man’s eyes bright with excitement despite the murky light. He doubted it was much to do with the horse race. The lead Thief stopped in front of a large double-width door and Mishka followed Korolev and Babel into a barn-sized room which had open stalls down either side, then the door was shut behind them. The only illumination came from the far corner, where a large man sat underneath a lantern, his shoulders stretching taut the black leather waistcoat he was wearing. The man’s face was hidden in shadow, but he had a wrestler’s physique.