by William Ryan
He let his voice trail off. He didn’t want to criticize Soviet clothes in front of an NKVD staff colonel, but her clothes were clearly of a better quality than anything the USSR could produce.
Gregorin leaned forward, the smile slipping from his face. “What’s this about the girl? Have you established her identity?”
“Not yet, Colonel, but we think there’s a possibility she may not have been a Soviet citizen.”
Gregorin gave an abrupt nod of his head and motioned with his cigarette for Korolev to continue. He listened without interruption as Korolev told him all he knew about the girl and her death.
“Is that all? Anything else?” he asked when Korolev had finished.
“That’s it, so far.”
“Very interesting. The higher echelons were correct.”
“So it does have a political element?”
“Yes, I believe it does.”
“But, if that’s so, surely it will be taken over by State Security.”
Gregorin blew on the tip of his cigarette, the orange glow lighting his face for a moment. He looked pensive.
“There’s certainly a political element, that’s true. But it’s still a murder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s not necessarily a problem. Just investigate the matter as if it were an ordinary case. That’s all we ask of you. Understanding is something you should leave to us.”
“But what is the political element, Comrade Colonel? Can I at least be permitted to know that?” Korolev couldn’t help a note of frustration entering his voice.
Gregorin’s mouth was a straight black line in the faint glow from the street lights. He regarded Korolev in silence and then he smiled, again relaxed. He turned back to look out of the window at the thinning crowd.
“What I’m about to tell you is secret. Understood?”
“As you wish,” Korolev said, and wondered what the hell he’d got himself into this time.
“Very well—you’ll be aware of the State’s ongoing efforts to raise finances for the current Five Year Plan, yes? I’m sure you, like most workers, lend a proportion of your salary in the form of State bonds to assist in the struggle to achieve the plan’s objectives. Every citizen has tightened their belt for the greater good. And we’re on target to achieve those objectives.”
The belt on the colonel’s shiny leather jacket didn’t look as though it was tighter than it should be, but Korolev held his tongue.
“It’s a question of survival,” Korolev said.
“Indeed it is, and if we’re to withstand the enemies of socialism, the State needs money to acquire the technology and to buy the weapons to defend what we’ve achieved since 1917. Borrowing money abroad is difficult, of course—why would capitalists lend money to a Revolution that seeks to bring about their end? So we have to earn the foreign money we need. We go hungry so that we can sell our wheat to whoever pays the best price—a temporary situation, of course, but vital until recently. Now, as Comrade Stalin says, things are getting better. We’re turning the corner.”
“I often remember those words of his,” Korolev said.
“Well, one way we raise finance is through the sale of confiscated assets, such as works of art, jewelry, precious books and other valuables. The sales are managed by the Ministry of State Security—the NKVD, as it happens. Recently, however, we’ve become aware that there is a certain amount of ‘leakage’; items have been showing up in Europe or America that should still be here in Moscow. We know some of the people involved and it’s possible your victim is connected to this conspiracy. In fact, based on your description of her, I’m sure of it.”
Korolev thought for a moment, digesting the information and coming to a conclusion. “But that means . . .” He stopped himself in mid-sentence. Gregorin exhaled smoke calmly.
“We’re investigating it, of course. No family, not even State Security’s, is without an ugly member. Arrests have been made. But this is murder and that’s an interesting development. It smacks of desperation.”
“Do you know who she was?”
“She could be one of two possible candidates. With a bit of luck, I’ll be able to tell you for definite tomorrow. If you have photographs of the dead woman, that will help.”
“And you’re sure it’s one of these two because?”
Gregorin looked at his watch and shook his head. “Nearly ten o’clock. I’d better get you home. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
He turned on the ignition and the car engine started immediately. Korolev was impressed—he’d heard the Emka’s starter motor was unreliable.
“It’s a good car, this. You see? Another great achievement of the Soviet State. We needed to produce our own automobiles, so we put our minds to it. We devoted the necessary finance, manpower and expertise and then we achieved the objective. That’s the Bolshevik way.”
Gregorin paused while he concentrated on overtaking a slow-moving line of military trucks that was trundling along Dzherzhinsky Street, heavy canvas sides flapping.
“That’s what we want you to do: put your mind to catching the murderer and devote all your resources and efforts to that aim. Investigate every lead, question every suspect, leave no stone unturned—treat it as you would an ordinary crime. We don’t think the traitors know about our own investigation, so to do anything else might alert them. Understood? It’s possible that the killing really was the work of a madman—but it’s more probable it’s the work of these saboteurs and the mutilation and torture are just a smokescreen. Pursue your investigation vigorously and perhaps you’ll distract attention from our own inquiries.”
“I always investigate to the best of my ability,” Korolev said, feeling a little offended.
Five minutes later, Gregorin pulled up outside Number 4 Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and switched off the car’s engine. He turned to Korolev. “Bring the autopsy photographs tomorrow, please. They’ll help me identify her for you.”
“I have some questions,” Korolev began, but Gregorin shook his head.
“Perhaps tomorrow. Sleep well, Comrade.”
Gregorin’s eyes were shadowed in the weak light, but Korolev didn’t imagine they were anything other than cold. He stepped out of the car and watched the colonel drive away, knowing people were looking down from behind closed curtains. No one liked a car that had State Security written all over it to show up in front of their house this late at night, even if this time it had deposited a resident instead of taking one away. He made a silent apology to his new neighbors as he entered the building, feeling his tiredness with each step. He would think about what the staff colonel had said in the morning—there was nothing to be gained by worrying about it now. Reaching the door of the apartment, he rooted in his pocket for the key and then had a clear image of it sitting on the bed in his room, where he’d left it that afternoon. He cursed his stupidity and checked his pockets once again. He looked at his watch, past ten o’clock—he hoped Citizeness Koltsova would still be awake. He patted his coat one last time and then knocked gently, waiting for a response that didn’t come. He knocked again, but this time with more force. There was a pause and then the sound of a door opening inside the apartment, footsteps and finally a woman’s voice, suspicious but calm.
“Who is it?”
“I apologize, Citizeness. I’m your new neighbor. Korolev. I left my key inside this morning. On the bed. I know it’s very late.” He sensed people listening from the other apartments and lowered his voice. “Could you let me in?”
The door inched open and he found himself staring down the black barrel of a revolver. He took a step back.
“Captain Korolev?” Her voice asked and he lifted his eyes from the gun’s muzzle to find a pair of equally daunting blue eyes staring at him with unreadable intent.
“Yes,” he agreed.
The gun dropped a few inches, not that he felt any more comfortable with it pointing at his lower stomach. “I’m sorry about the time,” he managed
to say.
She was really quite beautiful, a narrow but firm jaw line below razor-sharp cheekbones and then short, bobbed hair that shone in the light from the hallway. If it hadn’t been for the gun he would have enjoyed looking at her. “I’m not normally forgetful, you can be assured.”
“I should hope not,” she responded, looking him up and down with a quizzical expression, as though not entirely sure how he fitted into her world. Her scowl relaxed, very slowly, into a smile as firm and uncompromising as a Pravda editorial and he found himself breathing again. She opened the door wider, slipped the revolver into her dressing-gown pocket and extended her hand.
“Comrade Korolev, we’re pleased to have a member of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division in the building; Luborov told me about you. Welcome. The gun wasn’t loaded. You have to be careful in Moscow, even in a building such as this. So many bandits around. Although, of course, I’m sure that’s not your fault.”
In fact, judging by the way she raised her eyebrows, it seemed she wasn’t sure of this at all. Korolev shrugged his shoulders in apology, took the offered hand and wasn’t surprised to discover her grip was as strong as a man’s.
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you’ve a permit for the gun—there are severe penalties.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he didn’t like the sound of them. Still, pulling a piece on your neighbor wasn’t the way to start sharing a flat together either.
“Of course I do,” she said, with a protective pat of her pocket. She perhaps spoke a little too quickly, however.
“Natasha,” she called along the corridor, “it’s Comrade Korolev, our new neighbor, come and meet him.”
A small face appeared and disappeared in a doorway behind her. Koltsova laughed, her face lighting up for a moment, as though a switch had been turned on. Her skin seemed to glow when she laughed. She turned back to Korolev and smiled. “She’s a little shy, Comrade, and she doesn’t like uniforms. Do you wear it all the time?”
He shook his head. “No. Not at all, hardly. Normally I wear ordinary clothes. Just today, you see, and only because I absolutely had to wear a uniform. It was an exception. In fact the moths have been at it, it’s so long since I’ve worn it. Look.”
He showed her the sleeve of his uniform jacket and was rewarded with a smile that seemed to express pity rather than empathy. He tried to collect himself, but his mouth had already opened.
“You see I’m a detective. Criminal. I mean I’m a detective who catches criminals, of course. A detective criminal would be absurd.” He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment hoping he would be somewhere else when he opened them. “I apologize, Comrade. I’ve had a long day.”
“Come in, Comrade Captain Korolev,” she said, with a resigned tone to her voice. She followed him into the communal kitchen. “Welcome to your new home.”
An easier job this time, he thought to himself, as Tesak* the Thief began to tell him what he wanted to hear. Straightforward even. You just knew where you were with fellows like Tesak. He might puff out his chest, threaten and swear, but at the end of the day Tesak only believed in one thing and that was Tesak. So when he was really in trouble, when he faced the choice between oblivion and survival, he was always going to choose survival. After all, if there was an afterlife, someone like Tesak wasn’t going to heaven—that was for sure.
They tied the Thief between two metal pillars, arms and legs spread wide, and then it was just him and Tesak, already feeling the pain of being hung up like a drying skin. At first there’d been the usual bravado; the fellow had thought he was just another cop looking for information. He could take a beating and had told him so. He’d even spat at him. But his swagger had begun to leave him when the gauntlets and the apron appeared and, by the time he opened his box of tricks, Tesak wasn’t looking quite so confident.
“We live in a modern world,” he said to Tesak as he cut open his shirt, button by button. The buttons fell onto the concrete floor one by one, bouncing and rolling across the hard surface.
“That’s a new fucking shirt, flatfoot.” Tesak was indignant, yes, but it was the indignation of a frightened man. So far, so good. Now was the time to establish the rules of engagement, so he stepped back a pace, looked Tesak in the eye, and then put his entire body into a back-fisted slap that spun Tesak’s head hard against his upstretched arm. He had Tesak’s attention after that.
“As if I care about your shirt. The very thought. Let’s be clear—from now on you will only speak in answer to a question. Understand?”
Tesak just looked at him, a little confused from the blow to the head perhaps, but quiet now. He stepped closer once again, close enough to detect the stale alcohol on Tesak’s breath. The Thief’s eyes were now completely focused on the knife as it slowly climbed toward his midriff.
“Now, what do these tattoos mean?” he asked, looking at the rough blue etchings on the man’s chest. He touched the blade to the skin underneath the ranked profiles of Marx, Lenin and Stalin staring across Tesak’s chest from beneath a Soviet flag. “You’re not telling me you’re a Bolshevik, are you, Tesak?”
“Not me. No way. That’s so no firing squad will ever put Tesak in some shallow flower bed. Reds like you don’t take potshots at your big men, do you? See? Not unless you want to end up in the same place.”
“You think I give a damn about Marx?” he said and then, taking hold of Tesak’s neck for purchase, sliced Marx away with one clean cut. Then he punched him twice to stop the roar of pain. The comment about Marx was textbook, of course. Sudden changes in the expected parameters of a situation undermined defenses. Tesak hung there whimpering, looking down at the bubbling rawness of his chest. He took the opportunity to gag him, whispering to him, as he did so.
“And I’m no flatfoot either. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll make your death easy.” Tesak’s eyes bulged as he lifted the blade once again. “If not?” he continued, and to answer his own question he sliced Lenin away. Now Stalin alone stared across the mangled chest. Tesak was struggling desperately against the ropes and so he took the mason’s hammer from his bag and hit his kneecaps hard, one after the other. Tesak mewled through the gag, but hung limply now that his legs couldn’t support him.
“As I said, we live in a modern world, and one of the glories of Soviet power is the progress we’ve made in the field of electricity. Such a useful thing—and we’re leading the world when it comes to electricity, you know. Every household will have a little Lenin’s lamp soon, dazzling the peasants with four hundred watts of light at the flick of a switch. You’ll have read about it in the paper.” He considered the likelihood of the Thief being able to read for a moment. “Or perhaps not.”
He picked up the prod and showed it to Tesak.
“Anyway, every Soviet citizen should experience the reality of electricity. Theory is all well and good, but practical application is the thing.”
Then he’d attached the prod to the battery and he’d been surprised at how much noise Tesak had made, even through the gag. So he did know something about electricity. There were always surprises.
After a few minutes work, he’d removed the gag and the whimpering Thief had bargained for his life, as was to be expected.
“What have you got to offer me? Money? I don’t want your money. Love? I don’t need it. What have you got for me? Come now, Tesak, you know what I want. Where have they hidden it?”
“I don’t know. Count Kolya is the only one who knows. He’s the one you want. I didn’t even know it was real—I thought it was a fucking copy, believe me, Comrade.”
“The pig’s no comrade to the goose, Tesak. You call me citizen.”
The Thief was hanging limply in the ropes, the bloody remnants of the clothes that had been cut away from him bunched around his ankles and shoulders. He looked ready. One final push perhaps. He almost felt sympathy for the Thief, but then he hardened his heart and put the gag back in place.
* Hatchet
/> CHAPTER SIX
Korolev awoke at five o’clock, as he always did. There were times he wished he could sleep for a few minutes more, but his mother, the tsar’s army, and finally the Red Army, had trained him so that he had no choice in the matter. “God gives to those who rise early,” had been his mother’s mantra, but this particular morning he allowed himself a moment or two to savor the pleasure of the new room.
On the ceiling above him the floral pattern of the moulding was just visible in the pale creamy glow from the streetlamp outside and he found himself smiling with very un-Soviet, very bourgeois, very proprietorial pleasure at the beauty of it. Who else did he know who had a ceiling rose with plaster grapes and flowers and even what looked like apples? No one. Not even the general, he suspected. Nor did the draft from the window that nipped at his nose detract from the comfort of the new bed or the warmth of the quilt that had been loaned to him by Koltsova. A strange woman, her. One moment she’s pointing a gun at his heart and the next thing she’s loading him down with bedclothes. Not from Moscow, of course. Odessa. Everyone knew they were different down there—the Odessians weren’t Ukrainian and they weren’t Russian either. They were just Odessian.
He lay there thinking how curious life was and how, at this particular moment and in this particular place, it had suddenly become quite pleasant. It was only with great reluctance that he reminded himself of the impending lecture. Some preparatory notes would stand him in good stead.
He swung his legs down onto the floorboards, found them cold to the touch, and crossed over to the window to look out. Snow had fallen overnight, sloping up against the wall opposite where the wind had pushed it. A solitary set of footprints marked out the middle of the lane—winter was early this year. The day before had had a bite to it, and the cold season had whispered its arrival in the chill breeze that had slipped through the streets as darkness fell. Personally, he greeted it as an old friend; the first snow was always welcome to him. Winters were hard, of course, but the snow masked Moscow’s imperfections and, at night, silenced the city into a semblance of tranquility. Moscow in winter was a beautiful, hard, breathless place where the only smell was the inside of your coat. He wouldn’t miss the summer and the stench and swelter. How the People smelled in summer. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before soap became a production priority.