The Holy Thief (29 page)

“A conspiracy? I’ve been involved in no such conspiracy and no such theft,” Korolev said, feeling anger boiling up inside him. The major considered him for a moment and then nodded toward the file. He displayed no emotion except, perhaps, melancholy. He spoke like an accountant might speak about a factory’s output of shoes; calmly, with the remorseless weight of facts to back his words.

“Let me put it this way,” he said, quiet to the point that Korolev, with his damaged ear, had to lean forward to hear him. “You can tell me what I want to know freely, or I’ll break you like a frozen branch. And then you’ll tell me all I want to know anyway. And then you will be shot, your ex-wife will be sent to the Zone and your son will end up begging on trams. Your friends will also suffer.” He looked at his notes for a moment. “Popov, Semionov, Chestnova, Yasimov, Babel, Koltsova . . .” In a flat voice, he recorded the names of friends, family and acquaintances, his voice becoming quieter and quieter. When he slapped the file down on the table, the sudden sound seemed as loud as the guard’s punch.

“Do I need to go on?” Anger burned in his eyes for an instant and then his voice returned to a whisper. “There are fifty names there; you must know how this works. They’ll be arrested and imprisoned, and then
their
families and friends will suffer, and so on and so on. It will be a ripple across Moscow, one by one by one. Hundreds of people. All because you didn’t cooperate. What advice do you think they would give you, were they here beside you? Would they tell you to keep quiet? To defy the State? To fly your little flag of selfish honor from your besieged individualist castle of sand. Be sensible, prisoner. In fact, be merciful. Their lives are in your hands.”

The major shook his head and it seemed to Korolev that the light caught a glint of moisture in his defeated eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor. The cigarettes from the snowy football pitch where Tesak had been found. The major lit one and then walked over and put it into Korolev’s mouth. Korolev inhaled and watched the major light another. Korolev nodded to the empty stenographer’s desk, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

“No typist? This isn’t an official investigation, is it?”

The major sighed. “Come on, Captain. I ask questions, you answer. This isn’t a conversation. Do I have to beat that into your thick skull? Cooperate, Korolev, for your own sake. You will in the end, believe me.”

It was the first time since he’d found himself in the prison that he’d been addressed by his name or rank. It felt almost intimate, and the half-smile the major gave him opened a chink that Korolev aimed for, almost without thinking.

“With electricity? Like you did to Kuznetsova?” It wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark, but the words surprised Korolev almost as much as they seemed to surprise the major. Of course, it was a possibility—here was a man threatening to torture him who knew him by sight, in front of an empty stenographer’s desk, with a packet of Hercegovina Flor on the table beside him—but yet the major reminded Korolev more of a priest than a psychopath.

However, any doubts vanished when the blood seeped away from the major’s face. Korolev watched him in fascination; he looked like a hunted animal. Eventually he seemed to control himself and began to speak in a furious whisper, two red spots appearing on his blanched cheeks.

“What are you talking about? What foul nonsense is this? How dare you accuse a Chekist of such a crime? You dog. You filthy, rotten, slanderous dog. I’ll rip your skin off inch by inch.” He rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at Korolev, his voice rising to a scream. “Shut your dirty mouth, do you hear?”

But Korolev was, temporarily at least, past intimidation.

“A strange reaction, if you don’t mind me saying so, Comrade. I suppose the State property you’re looking for isn’t a certain icon either? That’s why you tortured her. Isn’t it, traitor? To find the icon?”

“You know where the icon is, prisoner,” The major replied, calmer now. “And you know who the real traitor is as well, you black-hearted dog.”

“What will your lad make of it when you arrive in America? To find out his own father’s a traitor to the Soviet People. It will be difficult for him. I could see how he looked up to you. A Pioneer, isn’t he? Will you pack his red scarf for the journey?”

The major’s eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, then Korolev’s words seemed to give him some comfort and he relaxed, waving Korolev’s barbs aside.

“You fool, I’m not going anywhere. You, on the other hand, will be shot this very hour if you refuse to cooperate. To hell is where you’re going.”

“Maybe I am. But why did you shoot your Comrade, Mironov, from the Foreign Department? Because he didn’t go along with the plan to sell the icon to the highest bidder?”

The major again blinked in surprise, and then it occurred to Korolev: perhaps the fool didn’t realize the conspiracy was Gregorin’s. Perhaps he was a dupe as well.

“You don’t know about Mironov, do you? Major Mironov? They went to him to arrange the visas. But no visa for you, it seems. You’ll be left to face the music, while they salute the Statue of Liberty with French champagne from the deck of an ocean liner. At least I got wise in time. If I’m going to be shot, let me be shot with my eyes open.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“We’re the dupes, brother. The icon was recovered from Thieves in a raid led by Gregorin, and then it was stolen again right from this very building. You know this much, am I right?”

The major shrugged an acknowledgment. At least he wasn’t threatening to peel his skin off, Korolev thought to himself. That was progress, he supposed.

“What you don’t know is that the icon was a secret. Only Gregorin and a couple of others knew about it. He never told his superiors its significance—instead he made contact with foreign enemies, looking to sell it. Mironov was to help them with visas, but he took the icon for his own purposes, so they had to get it back. They knew the nun had entered the Soviet Union, and that there was a chance she was here for the icon—so they sent you after her in case she had it. With me so far?”

The major still wasn’t stopping him, so Korolev carried on, the pieces fitting into place as he talked.

“So, when she was found, us poor Militia investigators, we thought it was just another murder. Then Gregorin started taking an interest and told us there was an ongoing Cheka investigation into stolen artifacts and that the crime was probably connected. It was Gregorin who pointed us in the direction of the icon. We worked out the dead woman was a foreigner from her fillings and her clothes, but without him we’d never have made her for a nun or had a clue about the icon. So you were pursuing your line of inquiry, using your methods, and I was pursuing mine, following you, but we’re both looking for the icon and both of us dancing like puppets on strings pulled by Gregorin. Now do you see?”

The major looked at his fist for a long time. Eventually he lifted his head and frowned.

“No. Everything was authorized, of course it was, and at the highest levels. Sometimes a Chekist has to perform unpleasant tasks, but we’re the Party’s sword and it isn’t for us to decide the nature of the blow we must strike. No one likes the wet jobs, but sometimes they’re necessary—to exact retribution without judicial process. And this Mironov? What is he to this? A Chekist dies—there are many of us ready to do as much. There’s no connection to this matter.”

“But there is.” Korolev considered for a moment and then became resolute—after all, if Mironov had been murdered, it was because Gregorin already knew he’d taken the icon. “They offered to cut Mironov in, in exchange for the passports and visas, but instead Mironov stole the icon and handed it over to the Church. That’s why the nun was here. That’s what was confirmed to me by the cultists this evening. Now do you see?”

“Mironov?” The major seemed to be considering the name. “I’ve heard nothing about a Chekist being killed. When do you say this happened?”

“He was found four days ago. When he was killed is another question. But his body wasn’t meant to be found. They put it in a church due for demolition. By chance, someone came across it and, by another chance, I identified it. Gregorin took the body from the morgue and my guess is it’s buried deep in the forest by now.”

The major shook his head with a frown and, in the silence, Korolev heard a metal door down the corridor creak open and footsteps approaching. The door opened behind him and the major stood to attention.

“Well?” the voice asked.

“As you predicted, Colonel. He was turned by the cultists.” The major looked at Korolev with a disgust that chilled him to the core. Korolev tried to turn, but the chair held him tight. Then the colonel walked into his line of sight, a sad smile making his expression almost gentle. Gregorin. Korolev would have given a lot for a free right hand and room enough to swing it.

“Poor Korolev,” Gregorin said with a sympathetic smile. “You became confused, didn’t you? Political matters are complex—shades of gray, whereas you see things in black and white. You swam into deep waters and the Party’s enemies were waiting. The Party warns of this over and over again. ‘Be vigilant!’ they tell you. ‘They’re not fools, these counterrevolutionaries.’ No, indeed they’re not—they’re adept at deception and deceit and yet citizens are always surprised at their cunning ways. So and so was a Party member for thirty years, Lenin’s right-hand man, how could he have been a traitor? Because we’re fighting a many-headed hydra, Korolev, with infinite patience and incomparable self-control and its agents are everywhere. Your Mendeleyev, for example, an apparently useful contributor to the Revolution for many years and then he’s spreading Fascist lies dressed up as humor. A dupe perhaps, or was he simply in hibernation, waiting for this time of crisis to unleash his poison? And what about you? Were you a willing participant in this attempt to steal from the State or were you cynically manipulated without even being aware of it? What’s Korolev’s son’s name?”

The major looked at his file.

“Yuri.”

“Yes, Yuri. Poor child. You know about State orphanages, don’t you? They’re in transition, of course. In time, ordinary children will be envious of orphans who are cared for by the State. But these days, I’m afraid, things aren’t so good. Did you hear about that little boy who was crucified for wetting his bed? Crucified? Nailed to the wall in the dormitory as an example to the other children? Nailed, I ask you. Of course, the perpetrators were punished when it was discovered, but even so these things happen more than we would like. And he’s a good-looking boy, your son. It’s a shame, but some of the staff are degenerates. They slip in, no matter how hard we try. Well, one can only hope for the best.”

“Why isn’t there a stenographer, Colonel?”

Gregorin smiled, his teeth white, and Korolev was not for the first time reminded of a predator toying with its prey.

“I told you, Korolev. This is a confidential matter. And that comes from the top. The very top. You know how the peasants are about icons—we can’t have them getting upset about Kazanskaya now, can we? Not the same year the cultist cathedral named for her in Red Square is blown to smithereens. I don’t think that would be very sensible. Do you?” His voice lost its amused tone and became hard. “So no stenographer, and no mercy if you don’t tell us everything we need to hear. Not to you or anyone who knows you. That isn’t a threat, Korolev. It’s a sacred oath.”

“Explain Mironov to me, that’s the one I don’t understand. Why did you kill one of your own?”

The colonel’s eyes slid sideways to look at the major—enough to confirm to Korolev that Gregorin was a crook, and that the major probably wasn’t.

“Mironov was part of the conspiracy—it had to be resolved expediently and quietly. I can’t say anything else—Major Chaikov here isn’t cleared for the information, and you most certainly aren’t. Suffice it to say that Mironov had betrayed the Party’s trust for far too long and got what he deserved. Still.” Gregorin smiled. “I took my hat off to you when you came up with his body. You may not be very bright, but you have the Devil’s own way of being in the right place at the right time.”

“I don’t believe you. Mironov may have been working for the cultists out of misguided belief, but you’re even worse. You’re just after the money.”

Gregorin shook his head in disagreement, “No, Captain. I followed orders. You were given orders—to stay away from the case—and you ignored them like the petty individualist you are. Your clumsy bumbling messed up the Arbat operation. We burst in on that damned house hoping to find the icon and a pack of traitors. Instead all we found was an unconscious, blundering fool lying on the kitchen floor with a bump on his head. Presumably they turned you, got the information they wanted, and then knocked you out cold. Perhaps you really did think you were getting something useful from them. Who knows? We may still be able to find it in our hearts to forgive you—accept that you were stupid rather than criminal. We could even spare your friends and family. If you cooperate fully and with an open heart.”

Korolev sat there, conscious of the two men’s cold eyes on him, and decided he’d run out of cards to play. As he’d listened to Gregorin’s explanation, he’d been half-convinced. It was just possible he’d been mistaken—even if his instinct was telling him louder than ever that Gregorin was a crook of the highest degree. But Chaikov seemed to have fallen for it hook, line and sinker, and that meant Korolev’s room for maneuver was limited. It was time to roll over. After all, who was he protecting by keeping quiet? Kolya, who’d left him to be found? The nun—a woman he’d met once? He owed it to Yasimov and Babel to keep quiet about their parts in the affair, but the others could go hang. At least his son and his friends might have a chance this way. So he told them what had happened in the Arbat House . . .

“Come, Korolev,” Gregorin said, when he’d finished, “this is all very interesting, but where is the icon? It was there, of course—but where did they take it when you warned them we were coming?”