The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  So who were the killers? It could be Kolya’s lot, but it seemed unlikely the Thieves would kill a nun, or one of their own, without good reason. On the other hand, if Mironov was indeed involved in this mess, Korolev could well imagine Kolya doing away with the Chekist for his own purposes. The dead Chekist aside, though, Kolya seemed to be in the clear, nor could Korolev believe the Church would ever be responsible for butchering people in sacristies and the like. So that left the NKVD. Gregorin had said the NKVD were looking for the icon, which was to be expected. But was it really possible that the NKVD were torturing people in churches and leaving bodies scattered around Moscow to be found by ordinary citizens? It didn’t make sense. Tesak and the nun could have disappeared into the Moscow prison system and no one would have ever heard of them again—secrecy wasn’t an issue for the Cheka. What’s more, if it were the NKVD, why would they rush things when they had the facilities and the time to carry out interrogations and dispose of prisoners at their leisure?

  Korolev felt a chill run down his spine. If it hadn’t been the NKVD, it could still have been Chekists—the conspiracy that Gregorin had referred to. The only question was whether the colonel was involved in that conspiracy, and Korolev was beginning to think there was a good chance he might be. He took a last drag and then stubbed the cigarette out against the wall. It was a bad situation. Very bad, because if Gregorin was a traitor, and planning to defect with the cash from the sale, that meant the icon, and the staff colonel, were going abroad. It didn’t take a fortune teller to predict how the Chekists would react if Kazanskaya turned up in New York with tales of heroic nuns martyred to recover her from Soviet oppression. Not only that, but with a senior Chekist in tow? Anyone associated with Gregorin’s treachery would have some explaining to do, and that meant Popov, Semionov, Babel and, most importantly, one Captain Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev. Stalin himself would give instructions on how to deal with the matter and Korolev had no illusions that the General Secretary would be measured in his response.

  All in all, he needed to talk to this Nancy Dolan, to get to the bottom of the whole mess. He pulled out the Walther and checked the magazine. He had a full clip. Five minutes had passed and no one had come poking down the alley looking for him, so the chances were he could move. He slipped the automatic back into his shoulder holster and started toward the meeting spot.

  Descending into the Arbat Cellar was a little like going down into an underground cave. It was dark and reeked of damp and years of spilled alcohol, sweat and cigarette smoke. The walls, once white, were, after countless thousand papirosa, covered in an orange-brown film that you could write your name in, if you had the inclination. In the corner of the room an emaciated elderly black man was performing half-familiar tunes on a battered piano, his fingers like spider’s legs as they traveled along the keys and his eyes focused on another place. Another foreign Comrade washed up on the Moscow beach, thinking of the place he’d left behind and wondering would he last another winter in this “worker’s paradise.” The Cellar was not at its best in the early evening, but later it would liven up. After all, it had the advantage that it stayed open late and served real vodka from a factory, not something made in a back room.

  At the bar Yasimov signaled for two drinks as Korolev took the stool beside him. They saluted each other and drank them down in one gulp.

  “I should go home soon, Lena’s sister is visiting us from Tver. On the other hand, I need a drink after listening to them gossip all day long.”

  Yasimov nodded to the barman and the glasses were filled again, this time accompanied by two slices of black bread.

  “It’s a little job, nothing much really,” Korolev said, hoping that he was telling the truth.

  “I see.” Yasimov raised an eyebrow. “You’re in trouble, I take it?”

  “Maybe. I just want you to follow me. Don’t intervene, just watch. If something happens, tell either Popov or Semionov. They know the full picture.”

  “You want me to just walk away?”

  “Yes. Don’t get involved. Absolutely not.” Korolev hesitated as he broke off a piece of bread. “There’s a chance it might be political. I need to find out, which means taking a risk.”

  “And this?” Yasimov patted his coat pocket where a gun-sized bulge stretched the fabric. He had indeed brought along his best friend.

  “For yourself, not for me. I have the Walther. There are undesirable elements involved. Thieves. If one of them comes at you, then shoot him and ask questions later. There may be State Security around as well, but they don’t walk the same way.”

  Yasimov smiled. It was true—Thieves had a stylized walk, a sort of shuffle with toes turned inward. It was their version of a Mason’s handshake. Korolev signaled the barman to bring Yasimov another drink and laid roubles on the counter to cover the cost.

  “I’ll be at the Prague cinema at six. Just follow and observe. Semionov and Popov will put the pieces together. If you know nothing, you run less risk.”

  Yasimov nodded. “You’ve saved my hide more than once, so I owe you, brother. But if things turn out badly, you never saw me or spoke to me. Promise me that, for Lena and the boys. I’ll see that Semionov and Popov get word.”

  Korolev nodded his agreement and they shook hands. There was no need for further discussion. As Korolev walked out, he caught sight of Yasimov’s pale face reflected in a mirror, downing the drink the barman brought him and gesturing for another.

  It was dark outside and the street was busy. Pedestrians crowded the pavement, shoulder to threadbare shoulder, as they searched the Arbat stores for something to buy. An open shop window had busts of Lenin and Marx and dusty cardboard boxes but nothing, apparently, to sell. Outside the Prague a long line of Arbat youth slouched along the wall waiting for the next show, the lads shivering in their mackintoshes and plus fours and the girls ignoring the cold that whipped their bare knees red. They looked thin and hungry in the blue light cast by the Prague’s electric sign.

  Korolev leaned against a street lamp on the other side of the street and tried to resist the urge to smoke a cigarette, instead examining the film poster while digging his hands deep into his pockets. We Are from Kronstadt was showing; three noble sailors faced a line of bayonets with defiant chests braced to meet the blades. Things didn’t look good for them, and the rocks hanging by ropes from around their necks suggested that things might even get worse. He gave in to the craving and pulled the packet of Little Star from his pocket. There was only one cigarette left, and after lighting it up he went to the kiosk on the corner to buy more. The transaction complete, he looked down to see a small girl, about seven years old, pretty, with a bow in her hair and not looking at all like one of the Razin Street Irregulars. She tugged at his coat.

  “Hold my hand,” she said with a smile, and he reached down, feeling her warm little fingers take his as she led him away from the cinema. They walked along Arbat, a father and his daughter out for a stroll on a Friday evening. They weren’t the only ones and he thought to himself, not for the first time, that Goldstein was a clever little runt, destined to have a long and successful career—if he managed to survive. The girl stopped beside a narrow archway leading to a small square and he saw Goldstein’s red hair at the far end of it. The little girl turned and skipped away.

  “There’s a man following you,” the youngster said as Korolev approached.

  “Thinning hair, small mustache, heavy black overcoat?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Nothing to be concerned about.”

  Goldstein’s eyes flickered back to the alleyway Korolev had come through.

  “Are you sure? I’ll tell you this for free, Comrade Investigator, there are a lot of blue fingers hanging around the neighborhood this evening, you should be careful.”

  “Thieves?”

  “They’re not Pioneers, I know that much. Take the first right. There’s a big white apartment building with a green door and beside that a smaller wooden house with two
trees in the front garden. She’s in there, on the ground floor. But there are some real bandit types outside, so be vigilant.”

  Korolev produced ten roubles from his pocket. It was more than they’d agreed, but if things went badly, he wouldn’t have much use for the money.

  “Thanks.”

  Goldstein took the money without surprise or gratitude. “I’m just concerned for our future business relationship, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do to ensure that it’s maintained.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Goldstein said with a grave expression and saluted him with the bank notes before walking away. Shapes moved in the shadows and the rest of the Irregulars congregated around him, moving in silence and with purpose. Korolev felt reassured; Goldstein would have a plan for the winter, he was sure of it. They’d make it to spring—most of them, anyway.

  When Korolev turned the corner of the lane, he found three likely looking lads clustered round an oil drum, warming their hands on whatever was burning inside. Their faces were red above the flaming fire and their black eyes shone as they looked up at him. Korolev recognized Mishka, and the Thief nodded in greeting as Korolev approached, the young tough’s thin-lipped smirk a dark crescent in the flickering light.

  “What a coincidence, muchachos, the Comrade Captain strolls into view. And what brings you to this neck of the woods, old friend? As if we didn’t know.”

  “Just out for a walk, same as yourselves I expect,” Korolev said as he came closer to them. The other two Thieves moved slowly to either side and so Korolev patted the pocket he’d moved his Walther to.

  “Stay in front of me, lads—where I can see you. We’re all friends here tonight. Right, Mishka?”

  The Thieves looked at Mishka, who nodded.

  “So,” Mishka said, slipping his own hand into the pocket of his coat.

  “So, indeed,” Korolev replied and waited. He felt his eyes itching with the effort not to blink. Mishka held the stare with his usual dead expression before eventually bestowing a lazy smile, and motioning with a blue-inked thumb toward the house with the two trees in the garden.

  “I suppose you want to go in there?”

  “Perhaps. Will you try to stop me?”

  “Why would I? It’s a free country, right? A socialist democracy is what they say. You can do whatever you want here, I expect. None of us will try to stop you, that’s for sure. It would be uncultured. Anyway, you’ve an appointment.”

  “I see,” Korolev said, and then walked on toward the house, an unpainted wooden building made from heavy, rough-cut timber logs, wondering how on earth the Thieves had known he was coming. He could feel every stitch of the fabric across his back as he turned away from them, but he wasn’t going to look over his shoulder; he was damned if he was going to do that.

  The front door was old and wooden, in keeping with the house itself, but solid. Korolev knocked three times and only then allowed himself to look back at Mishka and his goons. They were watching him, sure enough, and Mishka raised a hand in salute. Korolev kept his face hard and straight and turned to the door as he heard footsteps coming.

  “Hello?” a woman asked. The voice sounded elderly and genteel.

  “Captain Korolev of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division, Citizen. Please open up.”

  There was a pause and Korolev looked at the hinges, wondering if he could kick his way in. It seemed unlikely and he didn’t think it would do his feet much good to try, seeing as he was wearing felt boots.

  “Citizeness?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the reply came. The woman didn’t sound scared.

  “I don’t want to have to break the door down.”

  “I don’t want you to either.”

  “Then perhaps you would be kind enough to open it,” Korolev said, allowing a trace of honey to sweeten his words.

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk to the Holy Sister, that’s all. I came alone. I’ll leave alone. Just a talk.”

  “Just a talk?”

  “That’s right. It’s important.”

  “I’ll go and ask. Korolev, you say.” Footsteps walked away from the door, there was the sound of a conversation and then the footsteps returned, a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. A thin woman, about sixty years of age stood there. She looked calm, but she had no smile for him.

  “This way, please, Captain.” She gestured along the corridor to where the yellow light of an electric bulb was framed by a doorway.

  Inside the kitchen a woman sat at a table, looking up at him with a tired curiosity. If his memory of the visa photograph was correct, it was the second American nun, Nancy Dolan. She seemed older than in the visa photograph, and had lost the cheerful disposition he thought he’d detected in the picture, but a week in Moscow could do that to a person. Behind her, leaning against the wall, was Count Kolya. Kolya nodded a greeting, but his left hand was hidden in his pocket and Korolev decided it was safe to assume that it held a gun.

  “Greetings, Captain,” Kolya said, “Have a chair. A glass of tea? Or something else perhaps?”

  Kolya indicated the samovar that sat on the table, a thin ribbon of steam emanating from its spout.

  “I’ll take a glass, why not?” Korolev said. “Do you mind if I sit down, Sister?”

  “Please,” Dolan said. “Pelagia Mikhailovna, will you keep watch on the street?” Her Russian was perfect, but the pronunciation was that of an older person. Today’s Russian was more pragmatic, more comradely. Hers was the kind of accent people disguised these days.

  “She knows nothing about all this,” Dolan said as the old woman shut the kitchen door behind her.

  “Of course not,” Korolev replied, wondering how naive this American thought he was. “I’m not after old ladies, Citizeness Dolina. I’m not even after you, in particular.”

  Korolev put an emphasis on the word citizeness. The nun opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She must know she was a long way from America now.

  “I spent some time with Jack Schwartz today,” Korolev continued. “I think you met him on the train from Berlin.”

  “The train from Berlin?” Dolan seemed to consider denying all knowledge of the journey, but then she lifted her eyes to meet his, calm again. “How is Jack?”

  “I’m sure he would have sent his regards if he’d known I was meeting you. We thought for a while that the Holy Sister who died in the church on Razin Street was you. He was pleased to hear it wasn’t.”

  She flinched, and Korolev was struck by how small she seemed alongside Kolya’s solid bulk.

  “Can you tell me what happened to her?” she asked, her eyes a clear blue. “I know she’s dead, but no more than that. Kolya said it was best that way.”

  Korolev looked at Kolya, who shrugged.

  “She was tortured to death, Sister,” Korolev said, deciding Dolan should know what she was mixed up in. “There are better ways to die. I’d like to find the fellow who killed her, truly I would.”

  “I see.” Her right hand made the sign of the cross. “God rest her soul.”

  “And one of Kolya’s men here was also tortured and murdered, probably by the same persons.”

  “Yes, he told me there had been others.” The nun seemed listless almost, or perhaps just resigned to her fate.

  “And one of my colleagues died—in a car accident, which maybe wasn’t an accident. Then there’s a dead Chekist—Major Mironov. All in all, there’s quite a trail following you around Moscow.”

  “It’s not following me. I’m not what they want.”

  Kolya shifted, enough to draw Korolev’s attention. “Listen Alexei Dmitriyevich, if we didn’t want you to be here, you wouldn’t be. That moishe brat Goldstein knows where the sun sets, and that he wouldn’t see another if he turned me in. So let’s speak like friends.”

  Korolev nodded—perhaps he was being a little aggressive. And if Kolya had a gun pointing at him from that pocket of his, then maybe
that wasn’t sensible.

  “Is it here?” Korolev asked. “The icon? You must know they’re closing in on you. We’ve been pulled off the case, and I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

  “It’s safe,” Kolya said, “but if you’re not on the case, Korolev, do you mind my asking what you’re doing here?”

  “I want to finish what I started—to get to the bottom of things. Let’s face it, we’re all in this together now. In a way.”

  Kolya didn’t disagree. Instead he gave a small nod as if to acknowledge the point and to consent to the questions.

  “Did you kill the Chekist, Mironov?” Korolev asked, deciding to get straight to the point.

  “No,” Kolya said. “My conscience is clear on Mironov.”

  “God rest his soul,” Dolan whispered.

  “But he was involved in some way? Am I right? I see his death must be to do with the icon, but how exactly? It didn’t look like he was killed by the same person as the others.”

  “Major Mironov was a Believer,” the nun said in a quiet voice. Kolya looked at her in surprise, but didn’t interrupt. “He recovered the icon on behalf of the Church. The same people killed him who killed the others. Maybe not the same person—but the same group of people.”

  “Were they NKVD?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t in this for the love of Stalin,” Kolya said. “Gregorin and his crew are in it for themselves.”

  “How can you be sure it’s Gregorin?” Korolev asked. Even though it was as he’d suspected, it still shocked him to have it confirmed.

  “Comrade Gregorin is close to Yagoda—not good news now this fellow Ezhov has taken over. Then the icon falls into Gregorin’s lap. One of the fellows caught in the raid must have blabbed and he couldn’t believe his luck. He made inquiries, found out what it could be worth, and decided it could be his ticket to the West. Mironov worked in the Foreign Department and so Gregorin approached him with a view to securing a safe exit route. Major Mironov didn’t believe him, so Gregorin took him to the storeroom, and there it was—Kazanskaya. So Mironov agreed to help with the exit visas in exchange for a cut. Originally Gregorin was going to sell the icon to the Church, which would have been all right, but then another party became involved. When it looked like the icon might be sold to the highest bidder the major acted.”