by William Ryan
“I can imagine,” Korolev said dryly.
“ ‘You know about Tesak, how he died?’ I asked, and Kolya nods, a slow nod which tells me he not only knows about it, but that he has plans to send a bit of what Tesak got back to the return address. ‘Well, Korolev wants to ask a few questions. He’ll give information in exchange for information, and if you want the body, it can be arranged. And it will be safe for you, no trap. His word of honor.’ He looks at me and it’s a hard look, the kind that reaches down into you and squeezes your stomach till it feels like there’s nothing in it. He’s wondering whether he can trust me and then he’s telling me, with his eyes, what will happen to me if anything goes wrong. Eyes can be very expressive, you know. Anyway, ‘Where and when?’ he asks, after a couple of hours, it seemed, of him looking at me like I’m going to be lunch for his dog. ‘Up to you,’ I say, as we discussed. ‘Korolev understands you’ll want to feel secure, so you pick the spot and the time.’ At this he laughs. ‘I always feel secure, tell him that. Today. One thirty. Here. Then we’ll talk.’ And that was that. I was dismissed.”
“You did well, Isaac Emmanuilovich.”
“Oh, please, call me Isaac. And, to be honest, I found it a very interesting experience. Have you a plan?”
“We’ll see if he shows and then we’ll play it as it comes.”
They sat in silence smoking their cigarettes, watching as the crowd began to return to their seats. It was a mixed card and the next race was for trotters. Jockeys on low-slung sulkies came out onto the track and picked up speed as they headed round the course to the start. Babel pointed to a jockey with a red star on his white silks.
“Ivanov should win this. Proletariat Strength is a banker—I can’t see the rest of them getting close. Not very good odds, though.”
“Did you put something on?”
“A parny with number four. The odds were a little better.”
The stand had begun to fill up and Korolev became conscious of several likely looking fellows taking seats around them. A large tough, his face obscured by the turned-up collar of his leather jacket and a peaked hat pulled low over his face, sat in beside Babel, but the hat didn’t hide the tattooed fingers, burned yellow by nicotine, that were lifting a papirosa to his mouth.
“Can I barter a smoke off you, friend?” a clear-skinned youth on Korolev’s left asked, turning to him. Korolev nodded, put his hand into his pocket and offered him his packet of Belomors.
“Ah, the White Canal!” the youth said, tapping a blue finger on the map that graced the packet. “Many a fine fellow dug his own grave in that drain. But not me, amigo, not me. Lovely smoke they named after it, all the same.” Korolev looked into the young man’s sea-blue eyes; the pupils were the size of pin-pricks and there was no life in them when he flashed his chipped yellow teeth in a smile. The youngster’s breath stank of decay and Korolev had to make a conscious effort not to recoil.
“Be so kind as to follow me when the race starts, Señor. When we get to the corridor at the back of the stand, you pass me your piece. The one in your armpit—I can see the bulge. Quietly, of course. The citizens don’t like to see hardware being flashed around in a place of entertainment. You’ll get it back, don’t you worry.”
“Understood. You have your own light?”
“Yep.” A match appeared in the boy’s hand, which he ran across his teeth. The match burst into flame, the flash of sulfur lighting up his face. He was almost good-looking, thought Korolev, but the eyes would warn away all but the blind. This child would laugh as he slid a blade between your ribs, and then he’d twist it just for fun.
“Backed anything? I know my chariots, I could set you straight.” The boy spoke with friendly insolence.
“We move when the race starts, right?” Korolev asked, ignoring his question.
“Hey, don’t be like that. It’s not often I get to chat with the filth in a pleasant social atmosphere. Perhaps we might end up pals, you know? Go to watch Dinamo together, hang out with all the other Ments? Maybe you could even reform me? Turn me into a world-class Komsomol choirboy? No more thieving for Mishka—I’d have a new way to get fat off the back of the citizens.”
His sniggering laugh didn’t extend to his eyes and suddenly Korolev wanted to hold onto his gun very much indeed, but then the race began and Mishka was standing, and so was the papirosa smoker. Korolev hoped his face showed none of the nervousness he felt as three other burly ruffians stood as well.
“The scribbler comes too,” Mishka said and Korolev nodded to the wide-eyed Babel to stand. The writer rose to his feet, looking with open curiosity at the Thieves, the suggestion of a smile playing about his lips. He’s enjoying this, Korolev realized with surprise, taking it all in so he can write one of his damned stories. There was something so ridiculous about the thought that it made him smile in turn.
“That’s the spirit, compadres. Up the stairs and then we’re on our way. Step lively—we don’t want to be late.”
In the corridor at the back of the stand Korolev held open his jacket, and Mishka slipped the Walther out of its holster, flicked on the safety catch and then put it into his own pocket. Another man checked Babel, then Mishka inclined his head to the left, pointing them toward a door at the far end of the corridor. He fell in step beside Korolev.
“Nice piece. Reliable artillery, the Walther. Of course, the Americans make the best armaments. A Browning or a Colt, that’s the kind of cannon gets respect from the dead, if you know what I mean. And the Thompson? Now there’s something that stacks the odds in your favor—rat-a-tat-tat-tat and down they go. Still, the Germans make nice cannons too. Your German knows a thing or two about how to build a howitzer.”
One of the escorts knocked twice and the door was opened by a shaved head that Korolev recognized from the entrance hall. The man looked at Korolev with an unreadable expression, then spat on the floor as they passed.
“Pay no attention. It’s his time of the month: he turned into a bitch in the Zone is what I heard.”
They descended the wooden staircase, their footsteps echoing down the stairwell, the shaved head bringing up the rear. At each turn in the stairs, Korolev cast quick glances at their escort, coming to the conclusion that they knew what they were about, and hoping Semionov would realize it and stay well back.
At the bottom, they left the building and walked across a deserted yard to a set of heavy doors already being opened by a waiting goon, then entered a dark corridor heavy with the warm, earthy smell of horses. Korolev could hear Proletarian Strength’s name being shouted outside as the race reached the final stages and wondered whether Babel had landed his parny. He looked across at him and was unsurprised to see the smaller man’s eyes bright with excitement despite the murky light. He doubted it was much to do with the horse race. The lead Thief stopped in front of a large double-width door and Mishka followed Korolev and Babel into a barn-sized room which had open stalls down either side, then the door was shut behind them. The only illumination came from the far corner, where a large man sat underneath a lantern, his shoulders stretching taut the black leather waistcoat he was wearing. The man’s face was hidden in shadow, but he had a wrestler’s physique.
“Not you, scribbler,” Mishka said. “Just the strong arm of workers’ justice, if you don’t mind. You get to wait here with me.” Korolev put a reassuring hand on the writer’s arm as he passed. From outside the tumult of the race’s finish could be heard, but it seemed a long way from the stillness of the barn.
The waistcoat looked up as Korolev approached.
“I heard you wanted to talk to me.”
Korolev was surprised how cultured the voice was, its tone as deep and clear as an actor’s. Perhaps that’s where the “Count” came from, he thought. Kolya’s wide face was pale and clean-shaven in the flickering light, but his eyes were black and deep-set. His muscular neck emerged from a crisp white shirt that seemed all the brighter against the dark waistcoat. He was handsome in the way that athle
tes often were, with regular, well-defined features and charcoal hair cut close to his skull. The Thief raised a hand to his ear with fingers blue from prison ink and pulled at the lobe, returning the appraisal with interest. It felt as though Korolev was being calculated—added, subtracted and, finally, solved. An uncomfortable experience.
“And I heard you wanted to talk to me,” Korolev said. “I was surprised,” he added when the pause became uncomfortable.
“You should be. A man like me talking to a captain of Moscow CID? I ought to shoot myself.” There was a hint of a smile. Korolev noticed an expensive-looking overcoat hung on a hook like an advertisement of the man’s crooked ways.
“So why?”
Kolya considered his response, and then shrugged. “We felt it was an exceptional situation.”
“Exceptional?”
“I think that’s the correct word for the circumstances.” Kolya nodded, as if agreeing with himself, giving Korolev the feeling the Thief had made a rather dark joke.
“Your men agreed it was exceptional? You had a vote, did you?”
“They aren’t my men, Captain. I represent them, it’s true. But if I don’t represent them the way they like, the job goes to someone else and I get a bullet in the head as a pension. But, yes, we had a meeting, the senior Thieves anyway—the ‘Authorities,’ as we say—and the decision was a collective one. Very Bolshevik—you should approve. You know the saying: if all your choices are bad, you choose the one that hurts the least. So we chose to talk to you.”
“Why me?”
“You have a straight reputation, unlike many of your colleagues. And then it turned out you wanted to talk to us, which is always a good starting point.”
Korolev took a moment to remind himself what he needed from Kolya and what he was prepared to give. It seemed to him there wasn’t much point in being indirect.
“I can arrange for you to have Tesak’s body, and I can share some information about his death, but I want information in exchange,” he said, getting straight to the point.
“Tesak? Well, between yourself and myself, Captain, he deserved what he got. You could have cut logs on that fellow’s head, though he never knew it. But yes, we’d like to have his body; his woman is one of us still. The sharing of information is of more interest though. Is that authorized?”
“I’m authorized to speak to you, of course, but there are restrictions. Tesak’s body is from myself. How he lived his life is for God to decide on, but you can bury him like a Christian, if that’s what you do.”
Kolya nodded and gestured to a hay bale beside him.
“Sit then, Comrade Captain, and have a drink.”
They sat down and Kolya held up his hip flask, the silver flashing as he shook it gently like a fisherman’s lure. Korolev looked at it and then at Kolya and, not for the first time wondered how the hell he’d ended up, at this moment in time, with this person, having this conversation. He sighed, reached for the hip flask and took a long drink, the spirit’s warmth making him shiver.
“Either I’m cold or the Devil just walked over my grave. Drinking with you, I’m inclined to think it’s the Devil.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Kolya said, chuckling. Korolev reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. They looked a little damp, but he offered the packet to Kolya anyway, who took one.
“So all this killing is to do with an icon?” Korolev said, exhaling slowly as he spoke and looking for any reaction to the question. He could feel the nicotine and vodka swirling down to his toes. Kolya nodded, but it was unclear whether this was agreement or something else.
“Tell me where you are with your investigation,” Kolya said. “I’ll make it worth your while from my side. You have my word”
“And I trust you?”
“I’m not the type to run squealing to the Cheka, if that’s what you’re worried about, and it’s in both our interests that you identify the killers, believe me.”
Well, the conversation had to start somewhere. Korolev didn’t tell him everything, but he told him who the dead woman was, about Schwartz and the NKVD’s interest in the investigation. In fact he ended up telling him more than he’d intended. When he’d finished, Kolya passed the flask to him once again.
“The torture—you think it was a professional?”
“Yes.”
“Cheka?”
“Who knows?”
“Did they talk?”
“Maybe. Possibly not the nun. She died from the torture itself. Tesak was shot, which would make me think they’d finished with him.”
Kolya seemed to consider the implications of Tesak having been broken. After a moment he shrugged his shoulders and spat on the ground. “Tesak had a hard skin but a soft center—I’d say he talked.”
He turned back to Korolev. “Babel says you’re a Believer.”
“I don’t know where he got that idea.” Korolev couldn’t help glancing toward the door of the stall, thinking that if he could see that damned scribbler now he’d give him a look that would singe the hair off his fat meddling head.
“And yet you have a bible underneath the floorboards in your room and talk about God deciding how Tesak lived his life,” Kolya continued.
Korolev rose to his feet, but Kolya waved him down.
“Once you began to investigate the Holy Sister’s murder, and then Tesak’s, we needed to know more about you. And that lock you have needs replacing—Mishka was inside in less than ten seconds.”
Korolev could feel rage pressing at his ribs, like the air inside a balloon close to bursting, but he held his tongue. Kolya’s eyes were steady on his and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment.
“This is important to us, this matter. Very important. The icon looks over us, from long ago. You might read in books that St. Nicholas is the patron saint of Thieves, but Our Lady of Kazan is our true protector. That’s our belief.”
“Our Lady of Kazan? The icon is Kazanskaya? But there are a million Kazanskaya icons—every newlywed couple used to get one in the old days. Surely no one needs to die for such a thing.” Then he paused for a moment, catching the weight in Kolya’s calm gaze, as he waited for the penny to drop. “Tell me you’re not talking about the Kazan cathedral icon. But it was destroyed back in the tsar’s time—it’s just not possible.”
Kolya sat in silence, watching him, as Korolev thought it through. In the Orthodox Church, icons had always been venerated almost as much as the subjects they represented. Kazanskaya was an icon of the Virgin Mother and the infant Jesus, named after the city of Kazan in which it had been miraculously discovered by the Blessed Matryona. Ever since its discovery, it had protected Russia in its hour of need—it had been paraded by Pozharsky and Minin before their victory over the Poles in the seventeenth century, as well as before the battle of Borodino when Napoleon had been sent packing. Hell, he remembered marching past it on his way to fight the Germans back in fourteen. There were indeed millions of copies—each house had had one in the corner before the Revolution—but the original, the miracle worker, had been stolen at the beginning of the century and then destroyed by the panicked culprits, or so he’d thought. But then he remembered the image of the icon on Tesak’s body and it occurred to him that if anything was worth killing for, it was Kazanskaya—the icon that looked over Russia herself.
“My God,” Korolev breathed and had to bunch his hand into a fist to prevent himself making the sign of the cross. “I meant, hell’s bloody bells,” he corrected himself. “You kept it all this time.”
“Not exactly. You know something about us, I think. A Ment understands us better than a citizen. In our world there exists everyone else, and then us. We prey on the rest, but not on each other.” Kolya paused and considered this, after a moment raising his hand and twisting it from side to side, as if to say, “Not too much anyway.” He took a drink and passed the flask back to Korolev.
“We have rules—more rigid than any legal code, believe me—and if yo
u break them you suffer. Every Thief knows what is expected of him. For example, robbing a church is acceptable, at least it was when they were worth robbing, but killing a priest is a death sentence. We have our own honor; we are right thinking people, judged by our way of thinking. Do you understand?” Korolev nodded in agreement. “So the Thieves who stole the icon brought shame on each one of us. They were caught, of course. And the icon’s cover was recovered.” He touched his heart. “But then we heard they’d burned the icon in their fear—well, if they were true Thieves they’d have killed themselves before doing such a thing. Instead they left us disgraced before the world and before heaven.”
He sighed and passed the flask to Korolev, inhaling on his cigarette. “So, we labored under a burden, maybe not all of us, but the men of honor, the Thieves-in-law, the keepers of the tradition—my uncles and my father among them. We wanted to shed blood to show atonement and so we hunted—the Okhrana had caught the men who stole the icon, but there were others. Men who had hidden them, women who had loved them, children who had been sired by them. We hunted them down.”
Kolya’s words were flat, but Korolev had no trouble imagining the savagery involved. Kolya looked up at Korolev and smiled, as if he’d read his thoughts. There was no gentleness in the smile.
“Then we found it. Almost by accident. In a whorehouse, believe it or not, hanging on a wall. The madame had been told to guard it with her life, but when faced with the choice she told us what she knew and we spared her. It was a miracle—we were forgiven. And we hid it, and have protected it for all the years since. When the priests were being shot in the street and Believers taken away to God knows where, when churches were being desecrated and worse, and cathedrals blown up with dynamite by Satan’s minions with the blood star to mark them out for who they are, all this time we guarded it and kept its resting place secret. And then, two months ago, the Cheka found the hiding place. The Devil’s work.”