The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  Schwartz was a young man, about thirty, good-looking with full lips, a long jaw and dark brown eyes that seemed large for his face. He sat reading through some typewritten pages, his overcoat and a briefcase taking up one of the other seats at the table.

  “What can I do for you, Captain?” Schwartz said in perfect Russian when Krylov introduced them. Korolev wondered whether his red tie was worn out of politeness or conviction.

  “I’m investigating a crime, Mr. Jack Schwartz, and I believe you may be able to assist me. My approach is unofficial, of course, and I hope if I ask you a few questions they will not interfere in any way with your enjoyment of your visit to Moscow and the Soviet Union, where you are most heartily welcome.” A little formal perhaps, Korolev thought, but better safe than sorry. Schwartz nodded his head toward one of the other chairs at the table.

  “Pull up a seat, Captain Korolev. I’m always pleased to fulfill my civic duties. What’s it that you’re investigating? Must be something serious.”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Jack Schwartz. A murder.”

  “A murder?” At first Schwartz seemed almost amused, but then, after he’d thought about it for a moment or two, Korolev saw the humor drain from his eyes.

  “Who was it?” he asked in a flat voice.

  “We’re not sure. A young woman, in her early twenties we believe. Attractive, dark hair cut short. Blue eyes, slim build, about five foot four in height? Does that sound like someone you might know?”

  Korolev thought he detected a reaction to the description, a momentary pause while Schwartz fitted the description together to make a picture, then an involuntary intake of breath, immediately suppressed, and covered up by a hunt through his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor, as it happened. He pulled a cigarette out of the packet of ten and then offered one to Korolev, before lighting both with a thin gold lighter.

  “I don’t think it sounds like anyone I know in Moscow,” Schwartz said, his face a picture of puzzlement. “What made you think I might have? I come to Moscow a couple of times a year it’s true, but I only stay for a week or so. Pretty much everyone I meet here is a business contact.”

  “You speak excellent Russian, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I would imagine a good-looking man such as yourself would find no shortage of female admirers in Moscow, even on such short visits.”

  Korolev might not visit the Metropol, but he knew what went on here. He knew about the Russian girls who threw themselves at foreigners, desperate for a new life in a place like New York, where their dreams about capitalist life would no doubt be subject to a rude awakening. Schwartz frowned.

  “I find my business here pretty much all-consuming, I’m afraid, Captain. But, like I said, what makes you think this woman knew me?”

  “A suggestion from a third party. They also indicated you might be able to tell me something about the export of various valuable objects, some of them possibly religious. I don’t know—icons, perhaps.”

  Again Korolev watched Schwartz carefully for a reaction, but there was nothing this time except a quick glance at his watch.

  “I’m afraid the description of the woman still means nothing to me, Captain. However, I’d be happy to tell you what I can about exporting art and so forth, but you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve an appointment at five at the Moskva. Could we arrange to meet another time?” He smiled in apology and indicated the overcoat and briefcase.

  “Of course. As I said, this is only an informal conversation. You shouldn’t be late for your meeting.”

  “I wish I could help you.” Schwartz looked at him for a moment, as though he were thinking something over. “But listen, why not walk with me? You can tell me more about the case—maybe it’ll jog my memory. And I’ll tell you about the antiques trade.”

  Once they were outside and walking across Teatralnaya Square, Schwartz turned to Korolev. “So how did she die, this nameless victim?”

  “Not easily. Are you sure you want me to tell you the details?”

  Schwartz nodded, “Yes, please do. If you’re permitted, of course.”

  “She was tortured, I’m afraid. Very badly. There was also some mutilation. Parts of her body were removed and it seems she was burned with electricity.”

  Schwartz slowed his pace and then stopped altogether. He carefully put his briefcase down beside him, put his hands in the pockets of his suit and looked over at the Bolshoi Theater—he seemed lost in thought.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  Schwartz’s reaction seemed genuine, so Korolev decided to give him some incentive to cooperate.

  “We’re at an early stage of the investigation, I’m afraid, and not making much progress. If it carries on like this, there’s a good chance the killer will escape punishment—we’re running out of leads to follow up.”

  Schwartz seemed to consider this.

  “It’s very cold, isn’t it?” Korolev remarked, after a pause, having come to the conclusion that the antiques dealer knew exactly who the dead woman was.

  “Yes. To be honest, I didn’t really come prepared. I thought I’d miss the winter this year, but it’s started early.” Schwartz turned his gaze to Korolev and blinked. Korolev lowered his gaze, wondering whether he’d given his suspicions away.

  “You know I’m an American citizen, of course.”

  “Yes,” Korolev said, thinking this a strange statement to make.

  “I come here twice a year to buy valuable objects of historical and artistic importance from the Russian State. Did you know that?”

  “There’s no one else here to buy them from, I believe.”

  Schwartz smiled, as though at a hidden joke. Korolev noted the reaction.

  “Perhaps not. Anyway, I pay hard currency, very large amounts of it, and I deal with the Ministry of State Security. Your Militia is part of that, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, I think I know who your dead woman was and I’ll tell you here, out in the street, away from any recording device or witness—if you want me to. But I’ll deny everything if I’m ever contacted in the future. In other words, I’m asking whether I can rely on your discretion. Of course, I could probably just make a phone call and you’d be instructed not to bother me anymore, but I’d like to help you. If it’s who I think it is, she was a good person. I didn’t know her that well, but she sure as hell didn’t deserve to get killed in the way you describe. What do you say?”

  Korolev looked at the young man and then nodded briskly.

  “Tell me what you know, please, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I will keep it out of the file.” Korolev held out his hand to confirm the agreement and Schwartz took it.

  “Well, first off, you can just call me Jack.”

  Korolev nodded, although he thought this was a little informal, given that they had only just met. Still, everything was no doubt different in America. Capitalists probably had little need for politeness and refinement—they were unlikely to be as cultured as Soviet citizens.

  “OK, Jack. And please—call me Alexei.” It felt odd, but he supposed reciprocation was necessary in the circumstances.

  The American looked at his watch and appeared to be already reconsidering their agreement. He gave Korolev a quizzical look, sighed and then spoke very quickly.

  “I think your woman is called Nancy Dolan, she’s an American.”

  “Nancy Dolan?” Korolev said, wondering who the devil Nancy Dolan was. He’d seen Mary Smithson’s papers after all, and the dead girl certainly seemed to be her.

  “Yes, Nancy Dolan, or at least that’s the name she was using last time I saw her. Look, it works like this. I represent a number of clients on my visits here—art galleries, museums, collectors mainly—but I also act for some others. Your people know I act for them, and my clients know who I’m buying from, but it would be embarrassing for everyone if it became public knowledge.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I understand.”

  “I act for émigrés basically,
former nobility, that kind of person, and I also act for the Orthodox Church. That’s what you were hinting at, wasn’t it? When you mentioned icons?” Korolev nodded, hoping he wasn’t betraying his surprise.

  “Well, sometimes I’m sent to look for a particular item that one of those clients knows is in Soviet hands. An heirloom perhaps, a painting, a piece of jewelry—if it’s available, and the buyer is prepared to pay foreign currency and be discreet, your representatives are generally prepared to sell. With the Church it’s a little different. They look for items of religious significance, often icons, but also other things—relics, books, churchware. I let them know what your people have available and they give me instructions accordingly. But it’s rare for them to send me after a particular object. Are you still with me?”

  It wasn’t that different from what Gregorin had told him so Korolev nodded, although he was still a little perplexed that the State was selling property to former oppressors of the People.

  “Good. Now, as I said, I often don’t have a particular item in mind when I’m acting for the Church, unless it’s already on offer. But this trip is different. The Ministry has a particular icon, at least according to the Church’s contacts, and the Church wants it. They want it very badly, in fact. And I think it’s possible Nancy Dolan was here looking for that icon.”

  Korolev considered what he’d just been told. What icon was worth two deaths?

  “Tell me about the icon, please, Jack,” he said, the name feeling slippery on his tongue.

  “I can’t. I wish I could, but the information is sensitive to say the least. It’s important—that much you can guess.”

  “A miraculous icon?”

  “Nice try, but I can’t tell you anything more about it. Except that I’m ready to pay good money for it unless it’s an obvious fake, but my contacts here won’t confirm they have it. The only thing they’ve told me is that ‘they’re aware of the rumors.’ I’ve told them I have the money for it. They asked how much. I named a figure—a damned big figure—and they said that that was very interesting and something they would bear in mind. Nothing more. I think the whole thing’s a wild-goose chase.”

  “But what did Nancy Dolan have to do with all of this?”

  Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond and then he sighed.

  “When I discussed the commission with the Church in the States, I’m pretty sure she opened the door to the house. She was a good-looking woman, so I remembered her, even though I only caught a glimpse. Then I met her ten days ago in Berlin—she was getting on the train to Moscow, same as me. I don’t know if she recognized me, and I didn’t let on I knew her—you know how these things are—but we were put at the same table in the restaurant for the entire journey and it was definitely the same woman. I knew she wasn’t called Nancy Dolan back in New York, that’s for sure, because she spoke Russian like a native. But on the train? Nothing more than ‘pozhalsta’ and ‘spasiba.’ Anyway, we had a good time. I told her to look me up at the Metropol—she liked jazz and the Metropol’s the place to come in Moscow if you like jazz. I got a call from her three days ago.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I don’t know. The conversation lasted about thirty seconds—all she said was that she’d like to drop by. I told her to come over whenever she wanted to and that was the last I heard from her.”

  “Three days ago. Did she say where she was staying? Anything at all?”

  “Nothing. It was a pretty short conversation, like I said.”

  “What was her official reason for being here, do you know?”

  “She was on a tour, a Soviet organized one. Intourist, I think.”

  Korolev pulled a notebook out of his pocket and then thought better of it. Schwartz nodded in gratitude.

  “Thanks—I don’t think I want any of this written down.”

  “Understood. Did she mention meeting anyone in particular while she was here? Think back to the train journey. Anything you remember might be vital, Jack.”

  He still couldn’t get used to using Schwartz’s first name; it didn’t feel natural to him.

  “She told me about some friends of hers working for Comintern in Moscow, but I don’t remember their names or where they were staying. American I think.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Not really. Believe it or not, we spent most of the journey talking about the World Series. I saw the winning game—Yankees up against the Giants. She was a Yankees fan.”

  “The World Series?”

  “Yeah, baseball. You know, the game with the bat and the ball? American?”

  “Yes, I think so. With the circle? I saw it on a newsreel once. Maybe the Ukrainians play it. We play football, of course, and every factory has an athletics team.”

  “I think it’s just us. Anyway, the Yankees won. She was happy about it. If you ever come to New York, let me know. You should go to a game.”

  “Perhaps one day, Jack.” Korolev smiled at the unlikelihood of such a visit and then a thought occurred to him. “But if you’re still in Moscow on Friday, there’s a big football game, Spartak against Central House of The Red Army. It will be an interesting cultural experience—you should come.”

  They were nearly at the front door of the Moskva and Schwartz turned toward him and extended his hand with a smile. “Why not?”

  “Good,” Korolev said, already regretting the invitation. “The game is at two o’clock. I could pick you up from the Metropol—say at twelve-thirty?”

  “I’ll look forward to it. Listen, I’m running late, but we have a deal? You keep me out of this?”

  “Yes, of course,” Korolev said, shaking the American’s, hand. He watched Schwartz enter the hotel and shook his head in astonishment. What had he been thinking of? Asking a foreigner to a football game? He wouldn’t have believed five minutes before that he could come up with a way to make things even worse than they were, but the answer was yes, he could. He’d better ask the general what he thought. And make sure Gregorin had no objections. Damn.

  Still, Schwartz wasn’t a bad fellow. Optimistic, self-confident, friendly, he seemed fresh and clean against the gray Moscow autumn. He wondered if New York was the same: shiny, a little brash. Perhaps things weren’t quite as bad there as they made out. Things weren’t that good in Russia: they couldn’t keep the famines in the countryside secret, no matter how hard they tried. Hell, there were people starving in Moscow itself. The uniforms picked up bodies from the streets every day.

  He looked at his watch. It was ten past five, and a ten-minute walk to the office. If he was lucky, he might catch Semionov. He started toward Petrovka and, as he turned, caught a glimpse of a face he recognized from the lobby of the Metropol: a young fellow, square of body and face, with short brown hair, sallow skin and a scrubby mustache. He appeared to be very interested in a passing group of Pioneers, their red neck-scarves poking from their winter coats. Korolev let his glance slide across the man—if it was a tail he didn’t want him to know he’d spotted him. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had been followed. Someone would be keeping an eye on Schwartz, given what he was in Moscow for, and they’d be interested in anyone who spoke to him. He had a nonchalant look round the square but couldn’t see any others. Then again, if it was the NKVD, there’d be at least three or four and they’d be good at it too. He took a deep breath—they were either tailing him or they weren’t. There wasn’t much point in worrying about it, either way.

  But when he caught a young woman observing him in the reflection from a Torgsin window five minutes later he cursed the day Popov had lined him up for this damned case. The investigation was beginning to take on a life of its own and he wasn’t sure he was going to like what it might have in store for him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Semionov rose to his feet with an excited grin when Korolev entered Room 2F. It almost made Korolev feel cheerful for a moment. He put his hat on the desk and sat down.

  “Well?”

  “Well,�
�� Semionov began, and then paused as though to calm himself. “Well, I may not have the car itself, Alexei Dmitriyevich, but I think I can tell you the make.”

  “Go on,” Korolev said, shrugging his coat off onto the back of his chair.

  “I’ve a hunch anyway. I went back out to the stadium. Every car has a different turning circle, you see, and I thought—well, why not measure it and see what it tells us? You see the new ZIS 101 has a turning radius of 7.7 meters, for example, whereas the Emka’s is only 6.35 meters. The Model T we drove has a smaller one still. Anyway, I measured the tire marks and, presuming they turned as tightly as they could—and I think they did because the tire marks, if you remember, were within half a meter of the stadium wall—then I think the turning radius of the car they were driving was approximately 6.45 meters.”

  “A bit bigger than an Emka’s then?”

  Semionov smiled and held his finger and thumb apart. “Ten centimeters. Not much, really. But it rules out the ZIS 101. Anyway, listen to this. The nightwatchman was there when I went back and he told me he saw a new black car with a shiny metal radiator drive past his hut just after midnight. Coming from behind the stadium. The Emka has a chrome radiator facing, and we don’t import many new cars these days.”

  “I don’t suppose he went out and had a closer look, did he, this nightwatchman?”

  Semionov shook his head. “He saw two men in a Black Crow, so he decided it was State Security business and none of his affair. He’s about a hundred and five.”

  “Did he come up with anything else?”

  “He wanted me to investigate his next-door neighbor for currency speculation.” Semionov shrugged—everyone wanted to inform on everyone else these days. It seemed there was no class solidarity now that everyone was the same class.

  “An Emka,” Korolev said to himself and wondered how many there were in Moscow. There was a knock on the door behind him and then the sound of it opening. He looked round to see the typist from the night before enter with a pile of papers. She looked at Semionov uncertainly, but then recognized Korolev as he turned.