The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  “Look at this—damn the man. No photographs or anything, and the crime scene now a heap of rubble. When do you think he died?”

  Chestnova ran her finger over the corpse’s skin and considered the question.

  “No more than forty-eight hours ago—I’ll have a better idea when I open him up.”

  Korolev began to look through the jacket pockets, but found only the stub of a pencil. He turned back to the corpse and began checking the trousers. Nothing there either. He wasn’t sure later what made him look at the feet, but when he did he immediately saw a shape in the corpse’s sock. It was just an outline, but when Korolev peeled the sock back, he found a red identity book and groaned as he read the letters NKVD embossed on its cover in raised black print.

  “He’s a Chekist,” Korolev said in a quiet voice, as he opened it. “Name—Mironov, Boris Ivanovich. Rank—major.” He compared the photograph to the dead man. It was definitely him.

  “What do we do?” Chestnova asked. She had turned almost as pale as the dead man.

  “I’ll call someone. We’d better make sure nobody else sees him until we get firm instructions. Say absolutely nothing. To anyone.”

  There was only one person to call in the circumstances, and that was Gregorin—no matter what Kolya had said.

  “Korolev?” Gregorin’s voice sounded flat on the fizzing line. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m at the Institute, Colonel,” Korolev began, before explaining what he’d found in the mortuary. When he’d finished there was a long delay. He thought he detected heavy breathing amidst the crackle.

  “Anyone else know? Just you and Chestnova?”

  “I’m here with Babel and Semionov, but they didn’t come in.

  Some others may have seen the body, but even if they have, they think it was just a drunk kicked to death by his fellows.”

  “Good. I’m on my way, but it will take a little while—I have to arrange a few things in the meantime. Let no one inside the mortuary until I arrive. And this is top secret, Korolev. You and Chestnova must understand the consequences if it isn’t kept so. Understood?”

  Before he could answer, the phone went dead in his hand, and Korolev replaced it on its cradle. His head felt as if it was about to split in two. Those damned Chekists—secrecy was like a sexual perversion for that lot.

  Korolev helped Chestnova lock the mortuary and then positioned himself outside to wait for the colonel, sending Chestnova to her office. There was no point in her being around when Gregorin arrived. It hurt like blazes when he frowned, but he couldn’t stop doing it, and his frown only deepened as Larinin turned into the corridor.

  “Ah, Korolev. What’s this? The mortuary shut?” Larinin seemed in a suspiciously good mood.

  “Only for an hour or so. No one’s to go in.”

  Larinin nodded, not apparently interested in the reason, which suited Korolev.

  “What happened to your head?”

  “A long story—it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Good—it looks pretty bad. Although not as bad as poor Tesak when Esimov opened up his skull to get at the bullet, I can tell you.”

  “Not that bad, certainly,” Korolev said, although if it got any more painful he’d begin to question that.

  “Anyway, I’ve good news. Mikhail Mitrofaniyevich Smitin, also known as Tesak, also known as Priest. I found his record.”

  “Mitrofaniyevich?”

  “A deacon’s son. His father died in the Zone in twenty-nine, but young Mikhail went to the bad long before that. Ran away from home and joined a Volga river boat before the war. He’s dodged and ducked any useful contribution to society ever since. The files are on your desk.”

  “Files?”

  “Several. He’s been a busy man, through the Zone three times for a start. He got off lightly the first time, appeared to have been reeducated but fell back into speculation and thievery once he was released. The second and third visits were for two years and five years. A senior Thief, as you said.” Korolev was surprised, not at the information—it was what he had expected—but at the way Larinin spoke, confident in his facts, proud even of the progress he’d made. It seemed the fellow was making a real effort for a change.

  “And the car?” he asked, still bemused.

  “Nothing, but I’m working on it.” Larinin’s jaw took on a determined line. He paused, looking at the closed door, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. “You know, I didn’t see many autopsies in the traffic department. Road accidents, yes indeed, and a tram will make a mess of a citizen when he’s unfortunate enough to fall in front of one, believe me. But cutting open skulls and scooping out brains and the like? And all the time whistling? It’s not right. Where is he, anyway? Esimov?”

  “Not in there. Have you tried their office? First floor. Ask anyone—they all know where Chestnova sits.”

  Larinin nodded his thanks and Korolev watched him walk toward the stairs. It seemed that the traffic cop had decided to take a stab at being a proper detective for once, and Korolev couldn’t help thinking he might make a half-decent job of it.

  Korolev sat back against the wall and thought about the dead Chekist. Beaten up and shot in the head. A coincidence? Unlikely. He’d bet his last kopek the fellow was involved in this damned Kazanskaya business. Was he one of Gregorin’s people or one of the conspirators? That was the question. The body hadn’t been meant to be found, that was for sure, not with a thousand tons of rubble on top of it. Kolya had warned him the killings would carry on until either the murderers were caught or the icon left the country

  He looked at his watch. Gregorin should be along soon. If the colonel wanted it kept quiet, maybe that meant they were close to catching the conspirators and bringing an end to all this. He could only hope.

  As if on cue, the far doors opened and Gregorin entered the corridor, flanked by two large bruisers who looked as if they could stop tanks barehanded. Someone has been lifting weights in the Dinamo gymnasium, Korolev thought to himself as he stood and offered them the key. One of them opened the door and Gregorin looked in at the empty mortuary with no obvious emotion. Korolev handed him the small brown paper bag he’d put Mironov’s papers in.

  “His identity card. My fingerprints are on it, I’m afraid.”

  “And it was in his sock?” Gregorin sounded a little angry at that detail.

  “Yes.”

  “I see—no one’s been in?”

  “No.”

  “And Dr. Chestnova?”

  “Upstairs in her office.”

  “Good. What happened to your head?”

  Without really thinking about it, Korolev decided to keep his mouth shut about his meeting with Kolya, at least for the moment. The dead Chekist changed things and he needed to think the situation through.

  “An accident, nothing serious,” he said, shrugging it off.

  Gregorin nodded, and for a moment his detached manner slipped and Korolev thought he saw tiredness in the staff colonel’s eyes. Not physical fatigue so much as weariness with the world.

  “Thank you, Captain. You may go. We’ll look after this from here. I’ll be in contact later. Nothing about this in your report, obviously. And not a word to anyone about this—not even Popov. Understood?”

  Korolev nodded, choosing to ignore the way Gregorin’s colleagues looked at him. He expected that kind of examination from Gregorin by now, but from strangers it made him feel uncomfortable. They stared at him like butchers weighing meat on the hoof.

  Outside the rain had stopped, but the sky was dark with more to come. Larinin stood with Semionov and Babel. They looked up as he approached and Larinin took a step forward.

  “Listen, Alexei Dmitriyevich, can I take your car? I have to attend a Party meeting in twenty minutes and the ZIS won’t start. Morozov’s mechanic will be here in ten minutes at most, so even if it’s past it—you can take his car.”

  His voice tailed off as he seemed to conclude from Korolev’s stern expr
ession that his request would be refused, but Korolev had good reason to want to see the back of Larinin. He nodded after a moment.

  “Of course, Comrade. Take it. We’ll see you later.”

  Larinin looked surprised at his agreement but had no hesitation in getting behind the driving wheel. Semionov wasn’t disappointed to see the back of the Ford either, and was already prowling around the ZIS, inspecting it with unashamed enthusiasm.

  “A great car. International class, you know. A real Soviet world-beater—that’s the ZIS.”

  The fact that it was temporarily out of action didn’t seem to affect his positive view. Larinin, meanwhile, pushed at the Ford’s broken windscreen with a look of disappointment but, seeing there was nothing else for it, pulled his hat low over his ears and pushed the collar of his coat up to meet it. Korolev didn’t envy him the drive as rain drops began to spatter the ZIS’s bonnet.

  “Vanya, could you get us something to eat from the canteen? Whatever they have.”

  Semionov looked at Korolev for a moment, then at Babel, before nodding in a mixture of agreement and understanding. They watched him walk past the chemical defense trucks toward the canteen’s entrance.

  “Isaac,” Korolev began, “how do you know Colonel Gregorin?” As he asked the question, Korolev thought to himself what a good question it was. After all, what if Babel were Gregorin’s informer? If Babel was an informer, though, he was worth his weight in gold; never had he met anyone more transparent. He was openly curious about everything and everyone, and yet he managed it with such charm that it was almost impossible to take offense. You couldn’t be like that and betray people’s confidences. No, Babel might be an eccentric, but he wasn’t a rat.

  “I met him through an old friend, Evgenia Feinberg,” Babel said, after thinking about it. “She has these parties I go along to, out of curiosity as much as anything.”

  “Who is this Feinberg woman?” Korolev said, the pain in his head making his voice gruff.

  “I know her from Odessa, we were friends once.” The way Babel lingered over the word “friends” told Korolev they’d been more than that. “And now of course, she’s married to Ezhov, so you meet some really very interesting people at her place.”

  “Ezhov? The new Commissar of State Security?”

  “Yes, that’s the fellow. In private he’s a very pleasant man, and I must admit I like to observe these protectors of the State at close quarters. It can’t be easy to do what they do, and yet you wouldn’t know it from the way they stand with a glass of Abrau Dursov fizzing away in their hands. Refined, almost like they might be accountants for a State concern, but no more than that. All the interrogations and the rest, they barely show on them.”

  Korolev found himself shaking his head, a reflection of the utter bewilderment he felt. No, Babel wasn’t spying for the NKVD. Babel was spying on the NKVD.

  “And tell me this, Isaac Emmanuilovich, just how well did you know Mrs. Ezhov, in the past, when you were ‘friends?’ ”

  Babel looked uncomfortable. It was an answer in itself.

  “Does he know?”

  Babel laughed. “I don’t think he minds much. It’s all in the past, after all, and he’s no wallflower when it comes to these things.”

  “Does he know what you’re writing?”

  Babel turned to check they weren’t being overheard. “What are you talking about Alexei Dmitriyevich? I never said I was writing anything.”

  Korolev felt his eyebrows rise in disbelief. It hurt. Babel threw another nervous look at the building behind them.

  “Just some notes, perhaps. You can’t deny it’s interesting. And the questions it raises? Can there really be so many enemies? What if the Chekists themselves have been infiltrated? What if the fear of the foreign interventionists, the spies, the Fascists and all the rest is self-perpetuating? You know, like a machine that, once you turn it on, can’t be stopped—it just carries on until there’s no one left. They tell me things, the Chekists, and they defy logic. They have quotas, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Like a factory. Each district has a set number of counterrevolutionaries and spies to identify. Do you know what that means? Suspicion isn’t even necessary these days because there’s a quota to be filled—and anyone will do. Not just filled, but exceeded if the local boss is to progress in his career, or avoid making up the numbers himself in the next quota that comes down the line. So maybe I am writing something, but only for the drawer. You could never even think of trying to publish it, of course, because the heart of the problem is that we are, as a country, genuinely in danger. Those trucks over there will be used one day, and it won’t just be for an exercise. There’s a war coming and we’ll be in it. But a few words for the drawer can’t hurt, can they?”

  Korolev reached forward and put his hand to Babel’s mouth.

  “Never talk about this, Isaac. To anyone, do you hear me? Never say such things. Most of all not to me.”

  Babel looked confused. “But you’re not the same as them.”

  “You barely know me, brother. I’m a member of the Militia and a loyal Soviet citizen. Don’t forget it.”

  Babel smile was conspiratorial. “Of course, I understand.”

  “Good, let’s be clear on that,” Korolev said, deciding to ignore the smile. “I have another question. Did you ever come across a Chekist called Mironov at these parties of yours? Boris Ivanovich Mironov? A major?”

  “The name is familiar. I could ask a few people.”

  “Neither of us would want Gregorin to know you’d asked about this man, believe me.”

  “You worry too much. I’ve come to the conclusion after the last few years that the more you worry, and the more you try to avoid the danger, the more at risk you are. They smell the fear on you. Then the phone stops ringing and friends cross the road to avoid you and then, bang, one morning there’s a sealed apartment, red wax hanging from a string, and you’re never heard of again. I thought it through. If they’re going to take you, they’ll take you. Why help them?”

  Korolev looked at him in disbelief, but Babel was oblivious.

  “Anyway, I think I know the fellow to talk to—a decent man, well-connected within the organization, but not front line. I know him from the war; I can talk to him as one man to another and nothing will go further.”

  “That would be just as well,” Korolev said.

  Babel smiled at him, amused. Their footsteps crunched over the gravel as they returned to the Institute’s entrance. Some orderlies were unloading stretchers from a truck—it seemed that the following day’s exercise would be authentic.

  The driver had come for him without announcement. A job needed to be done straight away and he was to be the backup in case things didn’t go according to plan. Not that there seemed to be much of a plan. The driver had a truck half full of rubble from somewhere, and an accident was to be arranged at the shortest of notice. He did as he was told, however, and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove across town and then parked on the side of the street. The driver went to make a phone call and, when he returned, handed him a photograph and explained what was to be done. “It won’t be long now,” the driver said, checking his watch.

  After a little while a car had entered the gates across the street and the driver had nodded to him. Then, five minutes later, a different car had come out—a past-it looking Ford—and they’d followed it, from a distance initially. He was no saint—the Lord knew that—no one could have done the things he’d done and not be changed by it. But this smelled worse than anything up until now. By a distance.

  He couldn’t complain: he’d had a chance to refuse at the beginning, all those years before. There would have been no shame then, but he knew someone would have to say yes sooner or later and so he’d offered it up to the future; to the expectation of a new society where crime didn’t exist, where the workers and peasants of the world would combine together in happy toil, where war and the exploitation of the masses were something students would study in history
classes. He looked at the driver and felt weak with nausea. If this turned out to be a rogue operation, the very excuses he’d scorned from the State’s enemies would be the only ones he could think of to justify himself. He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong; he’d been misled by others; he’d believed he was acting in the best interests of the Party. He’d be better off saying nothing at all.

  It was a tragedy, really. They’d taught him to work for the collective good—explained to him that the individual was weak but the Collective was a mighty force that could change history itself. But now it turned out that he’d been an egotistical individualist all along. He’d a choice all right, he could shop the rats, but it was no choice really, he’d be shot as well. Or given twenty-five in the Zone, which was the same thing. That long in the Zone wasn’t possible. He knew how it was out there, men sleeping in the snow, frozen solid to each other in the morning, if they even survived the night. So much for theory—this was reality.

  He probably wouldn’t even make it to a camp, of course, the other Zeks would have him on the train. They’d smell the Lubianka basement on him and he’d wake up with a hole where his throat had been. And his son? God might help the boy, if that villain still existed, but no one else would. He’d be lucky if he ended up half-starved and lice-ridden in an orphanage. More likely he’d be found dead under a bridge—another nameless waif to be tossed into an incinerator. This was the logic, Soviet logic. He was a traitor and his line would be eradicated, his family would cease to exist and no one would mention his name again. His fine apartment would be fought over by his former comrades, his belongings scavenged and there wouldn’t even be a ripple to mark his passing.

  They were behind the car now, traveling in the inside lane while the car stayed wide. There was only one man in the vehicle—it wasn’t the boy and it couldn’t be the writer, not in a Militia vehicle. The driver’s face was white in the early evening light—his eyes were like black bullets and he could sense his physical excitement. Here was a fellow who enjoyed his work it seemed. A convoy of huge Metro trucks was rumbling toward them on the other side of the road, and he knew enough to brace himself.