The Holy Thief (9 page)

He started slowly, perhaps because one of the banners at the side of the lecture room read “Remain ever vigilant. Enemies surround you at all times!” which seemed, for a second or two, to be addressed to him personally, but he recovered and found himself moving through the presentation at a steady pace. Soon the scratch of the students’ pens was the only noise, and he took breaks to allow them to catch up before he started a new point. The pauses also allowed him to observe his audience, and there was something in their concentration that put him in mind of the wolves that had hunted behind his column on that long winter retreat in nineteen. It was not a comfortable feeling. There were some memories you wished you could leave behind you forever, like the corpses that had marked each kilometer on that terrible march.

Afterward, however, when Gregorin had thanked him on their behalf, the young men and women’s applause had seemed genuine enough. Perhaps he was just imagining they had the eyes of prowling predators.

“A keen-looking bunch, aren’t they? Comrade Ezhov wants their course cut in half; he says they can learn on the job. Every day we discover a new conspiracy and he wants us to strike back—and hard.”

The colonel led the way into another corridor, this time narrow and empty.

“Incidentally, Captain, I think I may have something of interest for you.”

Korolev followed Gregorin, the heels of the colonel’s riding boots sounding like pistol shots against the tiled floor. There was no natural light, just blank door after blank door. It was a relief when Gregorin stopped at one of them and opened it.

The room they entered was large, painted a bureaucratic cream and dominated by a wide desk, in front of which a chair stood on a carpet marked by several damp patches. There was a typewriter on a smaller desk to one side, which Korolev presumed was for the stenographer during interrogations because he had no doubt whatsoever that this was the purpose of the room. There were no windows and the lights were all arranged to focus on the sturdy metal chair, which the colonel now directed him toward. Gregorin himself sat down behind the desk and placed Korolev’s typewritten report inside a buff-colored cardboard folder. There was no name on the folder and it was the only one on the desk. The colonel put his hands under his chin, lifted his eyes toward Korolev and then indicated, with a drooping finger, the file.

“I read your report during the lecture. Very thorough.”

The colonel paused and Korolev found himself shifting in his seat, wondering about its last occupant and what might have become of him. After a moment Gregorin sighed and opened the folder once again. He turned a couple of pages and stopped at the photograph of the dead girl that Gueginov had been up half the night developing.

“We know who your victim is, anyway. Maria Ivanovna Kuznetsova. Born 1 July, 1913, here in Moscow. A Soviet citizen, in our eyes at least, although she emigrated to America at the age of six. Her father’s factories turned out guns for the Whites, so he didn’t hang around when the Civil War started going our way. We’ve kept an eye on the father, of course; he’s done well in America but, as you might expect, he continues to have extensive connections with various counterrevolutionary and émigré groups. We hadn’t heard much of his daughter but last week she entered the country as part of a tour group, under the name Mary Smithson. She disappeared soon after she arrived and that’s when her real identity emerged. Smithson is a rough translation of Kuznetsova—here’s her visa application form.”

Korolev picked up the form the colonel slipped across to him. A passport-sized photograph of the dead girl stared out at him from the first page. Although her expression was serious in the picture, her mouth had a curve to it that suggested a ready smile. Her hair was cut short, almost like a boy’s, and her eyes seemed a brilliant blue despite the photograph being in black and white.

“Do the Americans know she’s dead?” he asked, handing the form back to the colonel.

“We don’t think so; at least, they’ve made no inquiries—which is how we’d like to keep it, for as long as possible anyway. Once they report her missing we can decide how to handle the situation, but until then we must keep things quiet. Very quiet. You’re authorized to inform General Popov of her identity, but no one else.”

“I see. What about my assistant on the case, Lieutenant Semionov?”

“He’s very junior . . .”

“Yes, but a Komsomol member and reliable—I’d stake my life on him.”

Gregorin examined Korolev as though he represented a rather tricky problem.

“You’ll take full responsibility?”

“I will. He’s a good lad.”

“Then I leave it to your discretion.”

Korolev nodded his agreement, feeling a little offended on his colleague’s behalf. Semionov was a Militia investigator—he knew his duty. It was wrong for Gregorin to suggest otherwise.

The colonel, meanwhile, cleaned his nails with a letter opener and took great care about it. Korolev noticed his hands were trembling slightly and that both sets of knuckles were red, the skin broken in places. In the pause that developed, Korolev considered what he’d just been told and didn’t like it. Investigating the murder of a foreigner—worse still, an American foreigner—it was just the kind of assignment that could explode in a fellow’s face. He didn’t understand why he was still being allowed to handle the case; it just didn’t make sense. He found himself rubbing his palm across his chin, feeling a bristly scratch despite his morning shave. Well, if he was stuck with it, he’d better make sure he extracted as much information from the Chekists as was possible.

“Well, Colonel,” Korolev began, hearing the hoarseness in his voice, “if she’s from America—and rich—was she here to buy items like those you mentioned last night? Is that the connection?”

Gregorin shook his head, more in disappointment at the naivety of the question than disagreement.

“I can only tell you one thing more about her. We don’t know much else, as it happens, so don’t bother asking.”

“I’d be grateful, Comrade Colonel.”

“She is—or was—a nun. The Orthodox cult is stronger than you’d think in America. Even before the Revolution, it was strong. There’s a convent near New York and, according to our information, she joined it three years ago. The Church is very active against us, as you might expect. They are usually more adept at infiltrating agents, so perhaps there is another explanation—but it’s our suspicion that she was here on their instructions. Our people are working on it, of course, and they may turn up more information in time.”

“Do you have any idea what her instructions might have been? If she was working for the cultists, that is?”

Gregorin sighed. “It’s no secret that the Orthodox cult is interested in items of religious significance—icons in particular. If the murder is indeed connected to the matter we discussed last night, it might be a logical conclusion that she could have some connection to the ‘leakage.’ If you think some information about the sale of religious items might be of use to you, there’s a man called Schwartz staying at the Metropol. He’s an American and responsible for handling a very large proportion of the artifacts we send abroad. If you talk to him, remember that. Not that you would ever rough him up or anything.”

“I’m not that type of investigator. And if he does what you say, I can see his importance to the State.”

Colonel Gregorin tapped the folder. “Good. Keep the reports coming and I’ll be in touch. Be careful, Captain. You’re dealing with people who’ll kill to protect themselves—because if they’re caught . . .” Gregorin left the sentence unfinished and rose to his feet.

Korolev stood up as well. “Tell me, Comrade Colonel, why, again, are the NKVD not investigating the case directly?”

Gregorin pointed toward the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

He said nothing more.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Back at Petrovka Street, Korolev climbed the stairs to General Popov’s office with the intention of passing on Gregorin’s information and to ask for instructions on how to approach it. When he reached the second-floor landing, however, he saw Yasimov reading the Wall Paper. Every Soviet workplace had a Wall Paper, written by its Party activists to educate the workers politically and to publicize the Party line. Even from the staircase Korolev had no trouble making out the headline—the words were in lettering three inches high:

“COMRADE POPOV’S FAILURE TO SUPPRESS WRECKERS AND TRAITORS!”

Korolev looked at Yasimov, opening his mouth to speak, but his friend gave a tiny shake of his head. He then began to read a different article with almost exaggerated attention while Korolev, taking the hint, turned back to the editorial. To his surprise, there was no mention of anyone else having failed in their duty to detect wreckers and traitors, which group must include his former colleague Knuckles Mendeleyev. Korolev guessed that it wasn’t just sympathy for the general that was making Yasimov look grim—they’d both worked closely with Knuckles, after all, sharing a room with him for years, and if Knuckles had been a traitor to the State then surely they should have spotted him long before Larinin’s denunciation. He scanned the Wall Paper, but could see neither Yasimov’s nor his own name mentioned—they were in the clear, for the moment anyway.

Yasimov finished the article he was reading, patted Korolev’s shoulder and walked over to Room 2F’s battered door—there was nothing that could be said out on the landing. Korolev stayed for a little longer, then continued up the stairs to the general’s office, unable to shake the feeling that Yasimov’s pat on the shoulder hadn’t been meant to be reassuring, but rather was a warning.

Inside his office the general sat smoking his pipe and looking off into space. There was a glass of water on the table in front of him and two white pills beside it. The general followed Korolev’s glance.

“Stomach ulcer. I can barely look at decent food these days, let alone alcohol. It’s a hard life. I can still smoke though. Just about.” He puffed at the pipe and examined Korolev. “You saw the Wall Paper, I take it?”

“Yes. What are they going to do, Comrade General?”

“As if they’d tell me. There’ll be a disciplinary meeting in due course, no doubt, and then I’ll be guided by my Comrades. If the Party believes I wasn’t sufficiently active in my duties, then I’ll accept that—it’s my duty to accept it. But I’d never have thought it of Mendeleyev, and I can’t help thinking . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he sucked at the pipe and then focused his full attention on the glowing bowl that resulted. He seemed to have forgotten Korolev was there. When Korolev coughed into his fist, the general looked up, bemused.

“Alexei. What was it you wanted, anyway?”

“I’ll speak at the meeting, Comrade General. I worked closest of all with Mendeleyev. If there was something wrong, I should have seen it before anyone else.”

Popov’s brow creased, creating a series of deep Vs in his forehead.

“Don’t even think of it. I’m grateful, believe me, but please stay out of this—you’re not a Party member. Please, don’t become involved.”

“But, General, no one’s contributed more to our efforts than you have. Everyone knows it. Allow me to speak.”

Popov blew a gust of smoke out as he laughed. “But I haven’t done enough, Alexei Dmitriyevich, not nearly enough. They keep coming, the Thieves and the hooligans, the rapists, the murderers, the speculators, the whores and the bandits. According to theory, they should have been subsumed into the greater working class by now. And if they haven’t been, then it must be someone’s fault. Of course, you’d think my job would have become easier if the theory was . . .” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry. Let’s stop talking about this—otherwise I’ll say something stupid and we’ll both be in the soup.”

“I’m sure the Party will come to the correct conclusion, Comrade General.”

The general shook his head as if to put the whole mess behind him. He looked round for inspiration and found it when his eyes met Korolev’s report. He picked it up from the desk with one hand and put the pipe back into his mouth with the other.

“You’re making some progress, Alexei Dmitriyevich. What did Staff Colonel Gregorin make of it?”

His voice was muffled by the presence of the pipe, but he was clearly more cheerful discussing the case than the Party meeting, so Korolev, after a brief hesitation, filled him in on Gregorin’s information, leaving nothing out. The general’s reaction was to give a long low whistle.

“The Devil—this on top of everything else? It’s got trouble written all over it, but you don’t need to be told that.”

“No,” Korolev said dryly.

“What I don’t understand is why they’re leaving it with us.” The general considered the question, running the pipe’s mouthpiece along his jaw. “Let’s see—Gregorin must think the killing is to do with the conspiracy behind the missing artworks, right? So he must think that if you poke around looking for your murderer, you’ll distract the criminals from the investigation Gregorin’s boys are carrying out. Yes. Not a bad plan.” The general nodded in approval.

Then he looked up. “But what if they decide to knock you off as well? If there are Chekists involved, as Gregorin seems to think, you could be in an unmarked grave out at Butyrka before morning. They’ve killed an American and clearly didn’t turn a hair, so why wouldn’t they do the same to you? It’d be no problem for them to slip one more onto the production line; the investigations they’re doing now are speedy, to say the least. Which makes me wonder why they didn’t just do the same with the girl. Ah. American. Yes. Maybe they mutilated her to stop her being recognized.”

He flicked back the autopsy photographs and then shook his head.

“No. If they were worried about that, they’d have chopped off her face and hands. Old Thief trick. They get rid of the tattoos as well, if there are any. Perhaps they were disturbed?”

The general’s rambling series of deductions were making Korolev uncomfortable, particularly the part about him ending up in an unmarked Butyrka grave.

“All very interesting,” the general continued. “Not least because there was another murder last night, out at Tomsky stadium. A Thief, it’s true, but there might be a connection. It certainly sounds like it. The body was nicely sliced up, like your one. But what do a Thief and a nun have in common?” He stopped and half-smiled at the thought. “It sounds like the beginning of a joke.”

“Tomsky?” Korolev said, trying to refocus the general on the matter at hand rather than suggest a punchline.

“Yes, Tomsky. They found the body there this morning. Larinin’s taking it over to the Institute. Go and have a look—ask the good doctor for her opinion. Maybe it’s our killer, maybe not. Maybe the conspirators are falling out. Mind you, it was found in Spartak’s stadium—anything could happen there.”

The general smiled, almost hopefully, looking for a reaction from Korolev, who, in his youth had played central defender for the Presnaya football team, the factory area he grew up in. The same team, led by the four Starostin brothers, had become the nucleus of the now famous Spartak.

“You know I’m too old to play for Dinamo,” Korolev said, preempting the general’s usual teasing on the subject. Korolev, despite having been a useful defender in his time, had never joined Dinamo, Spartak’s great rival, whose players largely came from the Militia, NKVD and other arms of State Security. The general found it amusing that he had a Spartak old boy in his command. “Anyway,” Korolev continued, “Presnaya boys stand together, thick and thin, and we wouldn’t do in one of our own.”

Popov nodded, but the smile slowly faded.

“You know, Alexei,” he said in a quiet voice, “you’re a good man and people see that. But, for your own sake, be careful on this one. Promise me? And let’s hope the Chekists take it off us. A good honest axe murder or something, that’s what we need.”

The two men held each other’s eyes for longer than would have been polite in other circumstances, then the general stood up from his chair and extended his hand across the table. Korolev took it and felt the general’s grip hot and hard around his own.

“Don’t come to the meeting. It won’t do any good and if the bastards want my head, well, I won’t drag a good man down with me. Anyway, nothing may come of it. It’s only the Wall Paper, after all. Nothing official as yet.”

Popov stood back a pace and regarded Korolev for a moment, then nodded, as if to agree with his private assessment of the detective. Korolev also took a step backward and, because the moment seemed to require the gesture, he brought his heels together and came to attention. The general’s smile turned downward into a scowl, but he didn’t look particularly displeased for all that, and he waved his pipe at Korolev to dismiss him.

Korolev left the general at the window, looking down at the pedestrians, cyclists, horses, carts and occasional car that struggled along Petrovka in the slush and ice left by the snowfall. Perhaps the general was considering how so many people, moving in so many different directions and at such different speeds, managed to avoid collision. It could put years on you, trying to work out the answer to a question like that.