The Holy Thief (27 page)

“Possibly,” Schwartz said, after a moment’s consideration. “I won’t know anything until I see it, and even then I’ll probably only be able to date it, more or less. And, hopefully, say where it might have been painted. The quality will be the crucial thing. You’ve got to understand it’s been copied since the very beginning, millions of times. But if the quality is there, and I can date it back far enough—then I’ll know there’s a good chance it’s what they say it is.”

“So you still haven’t seen it,” Korolev said, and Schwartz gave him an inquiring look, as if guessing why Korolev had asked the question. Korolev tried to keep his face blank.

“Come on Alexei Dmitriyevich, fair’s fair. What’s going on?”

Korolev shrugged; he was in enough trouble that a little indiscretion like this wouldn’t make any difference. And he would be interested to see Schwartz’s reaction.

“I understand the icon has gone missing again.”

Schwartz looked puzzled and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Well, I have a viewing tomorrow. Their representative called while we were out.” There was something in the way that Schwartz used the word “representative” and his puzzlement that caught Korolev’s interest.

“Isn’t he one of your usual contacts?”

Schwartz opened his mouth to respond and then stopped, considering the question.

“No,” he said, after a brief pause. “Not one of my usual contacts, but he’s a full staff colonel in the NKVD. I normally deal with more junior ranks. But this is beyond the limits of their authorization, which is understandable.”

“A staff colonel?” Korolev repeated, a thought occurring to him. He tried to stop himself saying the name, but it seemed to come out of his mouth of its own volition. “Gregorin? Staff Colonel Gregorin?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve come across him. A very capable fellow,” Korolev managed to say.

“He seems that,” Schwartz went on. “He drives a hard bargain, that’s for sure.”

“What kind of hard bargain?”

“One million dollars, cash.”

“What’s that in roubles?” Korolev asked and Schwartz laughed.

“A lot. An awful, awful lot.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Before Korolev left the Metropol he showed his identification card at the reception desk and called Yasimov’s number. He had to wait for a couple of minutes while Yasimov was summoned to the communal phone, but his old friend agreed when Korolev suggested that they meet at the usual spot for a drink, and didn’t ask any questions when he told him to bring along his best friend. “An investigator’s best friend is his pistol,” was something Yasimov said at least once a week and their usual spot for an after-work drink was the Arbat Cellar, a late-night bar which was convenient for the Prague cinema and which would be empty at this time of day. Even if someone was listening to the telephone conversation, Korolev doubted they’d make much of it.

Stepping out into the square, Korolev crossed the street and took a tram in the direction of Arbat. He was reassured by the solid presence underneath his armpit. It had seemed silly bringing the Walther to the football game, but now—well, at least he’d have a chance to put some holes in anyone who looked like they were planning to do the same to him. He jumped off the tram a few stops early, having decided to use the network of passages, alleyways and courtyards that existed just off the main thoroughfare to throw any tail and as he walked, keeping to the shadows and constantly changing direction, his mind went backward and forward like an abacus in a bread shop.

If Gregorin was rotten, things were not good, and Korolev’s gut was saying Gregorin was rotten to the core and, what’s more, that he’d played Korolev for a dupe. He clung to the hope that it was impossible that such a senior Chekist could be behind the murders, and inconceivable that he could have had anything to do with the theft of the icon, but there were just too many coincidences, too many indicators to the contrary. Every instinct he had was telling him Gregorin was a dirty traitor, out to stab the Party and his fellow workers in the back. He cursed the fellow’s black heart.

He entered a courtyard festooned with washing that hung across the open spaces almost up to the height of the roof, and then ducked into a low archway leading to another alley. How had he ended up in this mess? He realized he’d asked the question aloud when he drew a glance from an old man unloading coal from a handcart into a shed. The man turned quickly away when he saw Korolev’s face and he realized he must look like a madman, bursting out of tiny archways with a bandaged head, muttering to himself. If he’d any sense, he’d go home, make himself some dinner and, if necessary, drink himself into a state where he forgot all about it. But then, if he did that, Gregorin could be off to Berlin or Paris or some other capitalist Gomorrah to spend his ill-gotten gains. And a staff colonel of the NKVD would be a fine fish to catch for a foreign intelligence service. The Judas would no doubt have many a state secret he could sell if he so chose. The fiend had guarded Stalin, for the love of God; they’d welcome him like manna from heaven.

Korolev looked at his watch; he had a few minutes before he was due to meet Yasimov, so he slipped into a doorway from where he could watch both ends of the narrow lane he’d ended up in. If he was being followed by anyone, and it was by no means certain that he was, they’d be scurrying around trying to catch up with him after all his jinks and turns, and that meant it was a good time to stop, lie low and let any search pass him by. It would also allow him a little time to gather his thoughts. He lit a cigarette and considered the situation.

Of course, the possibility remained that Gregorin was straight, in which case everything was fine. However, if that wasn’t the case, what had driven the colonel to murder and the theft of valuable State property? A million dollars in roubles wouldn’t be worth much if he was in the Zone. Korolev exhaled a wispy trail of smoke. Start at the beginning, he told himself. The first victim had been the American nun, Mary Smithson. Everyone agreed her presence in Moscow was because of the icon; Gregorin had said as much, and Kolya seemed to have confirmed it. Even Schwartz’s story about Nancy Dolan backed it up. So why had she been tortured to death? Well, obviously whoever did it must have wanted information. What kind of information? What else could it have been other than the location of the icon? Kolya and Gregorin, and Schwartz as well, all confirmed that the Cheka had been in possession of the icon after the raid on the Thief’s hideout. There would have been no point in torturing the girl if it had still been in the Lubianka, would there? So it really had been stolen, and whoever had tortured her must have thought the Church was responsible, or at the very least knew where the icon was located. But judging by the level of violence and the loss of blood, if the Holy Sister had known the icon’s location, she’d been stubborn about revealing it to the killers. Korolev thought back to the scene in the sacristy and shivered.

The motive for Tesak’s torture, and his subsequent murder, was also probably information. Tesak probably
had
talked, but whether he’d taken the killers closer to the icon was another question. Kolya had said the Thieves were trying to make sure the icon was returned to the Church, but he’d denied that they knew the whereabouts of the icon. The killers, however, seemed to believe to the contrary, perhaps with reason. He wouldn’t put it past Kolya to have lied to him on that point, although strangely he did believe much of the rest of his story. He wasn’t sure where Mironov, the dead Chekist, fitted into this, if he did at all. He’d been killed in a different way, but he’d also been tortured, and he’d been found in a church. So it was more than possible that his death was linked to the others. Korolev’s guess was that the link was something to do with Mironov being a member of the Foreign Department.

So who were the killers? It could be Kolya’s lot, but it seemed unlikely the Thieves would kill a nun, or one of their own, without good reason. On the other hand, if Mironov was indeed involved in this mess, Korolev could well imagine Kolya doing away with the Chekist for his own purposes. The dead Chekist aside, though, Kolya seemed to be in the clear, nor could Korolev believe the Church would ever be responsible for butchering people in sacristies and the like. So that left the NKVD. Gregorin had said the NKVD were looking for the icon, which was to be expected. But was it really possible that the NKVD were torturing people in churches and leaving bodies scattered around Moscow to be found by ordinary citizens? It didn’t make sense. Tesak and the nun could have disappeared into the Moscow prison system and no one would have ever heard of them again—secrecy wasn’t an issue for the Cheka. What’s more, if it
were
the NKVD, why would they rush things when they had the facilities and the time to carry out interrogations and dispose of prisoners at their leisure?

Korolev felt a chill run down his spine. If it hadn’t been the NKVD, it could still have been Chekists—the conspiracy that Gregorin had referred to. The only question was whether the colonel was involved in that conspiracy, and Korolev was beginning to think there was a good chance he might be. He took a last drag and then stubbed the cigarette out against the wall. It was a bad situation. Very bad, because if Gregorin
was
a traitor, and planning to defect with the cash from the sale, that meant the icon, and the staff colonel, were going abroad. It didn’t take a fortune teller to predict how the Chekists would react if Kazanskaya turned up in New York with tales of heroic nuns martyred to recover her from Soviet oppression. Not only that, but with a senior Chekist in tow? Anyone associated with Gregorin’s treachery would have some explaining to do, and that meant Popov, Semionov, Babel and, most importantly, one Captain Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev. Stalin himself would give instructions on how to deal with the matter and Korolev had no illusions that the General Secretary would be measured in his response.

All in all, he needed to talk to this Nancy Dolan, to get to the bottom of the whole mess. He pulled out the Walther and checked the magazine. He had a full clip. Five minutes had passed and no one had come poking down the alley looking for him, so the chances were he could move. He slipped the automatic back into his shoulder holster and started toward the meeting spot.

Descending into the Arbat Cellar was a little like going down into an underground cave. It was dark and reeked of damp and years of spilled alcohol, sweat and cigarette smoke. The walls, once white, were, after countless thousand
papirosa
, covered in an orange-brown film that you could write your name in, if you had the inclination. In the corner of the room an emaciated elderly black man was performing half-familiar tunes on a battered piano, his fingers like spider’s legs as they traveled along the keys and his eyes focused on another place. Another foreign Comrade washed up on the Moscow beach, thinking of the place he’d left behind and wondering would he last another winter in this “worker’s paradise.” The Cellar was not at its best in the early evening, but later it would liven up. After all, it had the advantage that it stayed open late and served real vodka from a factory, not something made in a back room.

At the bar Yasimov signaled for two drinks as Korolev took the stool beside him. They saluted each other and drank them down in one gulp.

“I should go home soon, Lena’s sister is visiting us from Tver. On the other hand, I need a drink after listening to them gossip all day long.”

Yasimov nodded to the barman and the glasses were filled again, this time accompanied by two slices of black bread.

“It’s a little job, nothing much really,” Korolev said, hoping that he was telling the truth.

“I see.” Yasimov raised an eyebrow. “You’re in trouble, I take it?”

“Maybe. I just want you to follow me. Don’t intervene, just watch. If something happens, tell either Popov or Semionov. They know the full picture.”

“You want me to just walk away?”

“Yes. Don’t get involved. Absolutely not.” Korolev hesitated as he broke off a piece of bread. “There’s a chance it might be political. I need to find out, which means taking a risk.”

“And this?” Yasimov patted his coat pocket where a gun-sized bulge stretched the fabric. He had indeed brought along his best friend.

“For yourself, not for me. I have the Walther. There are undesirable elements involved. Thieves. If one of them comes at you, then shoot him and ask questions later. There may be State Security around as well, but they don’t walk the same way.”

Yasimov smiled. It was true—Thieves had a stylized walk, a sort of shuffle with toes turned inward. It was their version of a Mason’s handshake. Korolev signaled the barman to bring Yasimov another drink and laid roubles on the counter to cover the cost.

“I’ll be at the Prague cinema at six. Just follow and observe. Semionov and Popov will put the pieces together. If you know nothing, you run less risk.”

Yasimov nodded. “You’ve saved my hide more than once, so I owe you, brother. But if things turn out badly, you never saw me or spoke to me. Promise me that, for Lena and the boys. I’ll see that Semionov and Popov get word.”

Korolev nodded his agreement and they shook hands. There was no need for further discussion. As Korolev walked out, he caught sight of Yasimov’s pale face reflected in a mirror, downing the drink the barman brought him and gesturing for another.

It was dark outside and the street was busy. Pedestrians crowded the pavement, shoulder to threadbare shoulder, as they searched the Arbat stores for something to buy. An open shop window had busts of Lenin and Marx and dusty cardboard boxes but nothing, apparently, to sell. Outside the Prague a long line of Arbat youth slouched along the wall waiting for the next show, the lads shivering in their mackintoshes and plus fours and the girls ignoring the cold that whipped their bare knees red. They looked thin and hungry in the blue light cast by the Prague’s electric sign.

Korolev leaned against a street lamp on the other side of the street and tried to resist the urge to smoke a cigarette, instead examining the film poster while digging his hands deep into his pockets.
We Are from Kronstadt
was showing; three noble sailors faced a line of bayonets with defiant chests braced to meet the blades. Things didn’t look good for them, and the rocks hanging by ropes from around their necks suggested that things might even get worse. He gave in to the craving and pulled the packet of Little Star from his pocket. There was only one cigarette left, and after lighting it up he went to the kiosk on the corner to buy more. The transaction complete, he looked down to see a small girl, about seven years old, pretty, with a bow in her hair and not looking at all like one of the Razin Street Irregulars. She tugged at his coat.

“Hold my hand,” she said with a smile, and he reached down, feeling her warm little fingers take his as she led him away from the cinema. They walked along Arbat, a father and his daughter out for a stroll on a Friday evening. They weren’t the only ones and he thought to himself, not for the first time, that Goldstein was a clever little runt, destined to have a long and successful career—if he managed to survive. The girl stopped beside a narrow archway leading to a small square and he saw Goldstein’s red hair at the far end of it. The little girl turned and skipped away.