The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  “Comrade,” he said, “if you wish to stay involved, that’s your choice, and we can use the manpower. On the other hand, if you would prefer another assignment, I’m happy to recommend to the general that you pursue some other matter. Either way, I’ll be making my own decisions as to how I investigate.”

  Korolev could see Larinin calculating the political benefits to him of being involved in a successful investigation, even if Korolev did most of the work, and the likely fallout if he walked away. It was an easy decision to make. After all, if things went wrong, he could blame Korolev for the failure.

  “Of course, Captain Korolev, it’s a sensible idea to work together on the investigation, and if you want to check the crime scene then you should do so. Let us work in a spirit of comradely cooperation.”

  Larinin held out his hand for Korolev to shake and Korolev, after a momentary hesitation, accepted it. It was a handshake neither of them committed to, the contact tentative and soft. Larinin’s gaze slid off toward Semionov, on whom he bestowed a nod of his head.

  “A partnership,” Larinin said to the younger man and then turned back to Korolev. His voice was a little too cheerful—the fellow couldn’t even pretend to be sincere, thought Korolev, letting go of his hand. Still, it seemed fate, or perhaps the general, had thrown them together, and if they were going to work the case jointly, he’d better make sure he got as much use out of him as he could.

  “Now tell me exactly where you found the body . . .” Korolev began once again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Semionov was silent on the way out to Tomsky stadium and his driving seemed to have lost some of its natural enthusiasm. Korolev hardly noticed, as he tried to work out what on earth connected the murders of a Thief and a foreign nun. Were the Thieves involved in the export of the stolen valuables? What was the murderer’s motive? Or were the killings a psychopath’s handiwork after all, and his victims random? Well, he must be truly insane if he’d murdered a Thief—that was like putting your head into a lion’s mouth while kicking him in the balls. No. No one was that crazed.

  If only he could put everything down on paper, perhaps he could begin to make some sense of the jumble of information that was making his head ache, but Gregorin would have him shot for that kind of breach of secrecy. What a complete mess this case was turning out to be. He groaned.

  “Are you all right, Alexei Dmitriyevich?”

  “I’m fine, just a little headache,” Korolev replied, wondering whether a bullet in the nape of his neck would actually hurt. Perhaps it would all be over before you realized what was happening. He swallowed.

  “And a stomach ache,” he said.

  “I don’t feel so well myself. That poor fellow with his you know what. Normally I’d say good riddance to a Thief like him, but you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  “No,” Korolev said, adding another worry to his list. What if he fell into the hands of the murderer? Given his victims to date and what he’d done to them it was unlikely that he’d go easy on some middle-aged, past-it gumshoe. A bullet in the head was beginning to seem almost attractive.

  “Also . . .” Semionov said no more but gave a loud and deliberate sigh. So heartfelt was the sound that Korolev turned to look at him.

  “What’s up with you?” he said.

  “Nothing. Really. It’s just—do we really have to work this case with Larinin? I know he’s well respected within the Party, but I’m not sure I like him very much. And what’s all this about General Popov being investigated? He’s been awarded the Order of the Red Flag and the Order of Lenin! He’s as true to the Party as Comrade Stalin himself!”

  There was a moment of silence in the car as both men thought about what Semionov had said. Korolev broke it.

  “Perhaps . . .”

  “Yes, I see your point. Comparing the General to Comrade Stalin . . .”

  “While he’s under investigation . . .”

  “No,” agreed Semionov, his face flushed.

  It wasn’t easy for the young lad, thought Korolev. Being a good Communist these days was like following an arbitrary God who required you to believe that white was white one day and black the next. It only made sense if you remembered that the country was surrounded by enemies who were terrified by its very existence. Faced with such implacable foes, sometimes the Party took steps which seemed at odds with its long-term historical destiny. That could be confusing for ordinary workers like Korolev and Semionov, but everyone knew the Party had to keep going forward, no matter what the cost. Korolev believed in the Party line absolutely, even if it required a leap of faith to do so from time to time. After all, unity was as important as truth sometimes—you learned that in the trenches, if nothing else.

  Looking ahead, he spotted a small crowd in front of a familiar snow-topped kiosk whose sole advertisement was the word “Snacks,” spelled incorrectly. Still, even “Snaks” would cheer up a growing lad like Semionov and, as it happened, the stallholder was known to Korolev of old. Each time he passed he felt relief that the stall had not succumbed to the reconstruction of the city or the continuing efforts to minimize private enterprise—the blinchiki, sometimes even containing meat, were among the best in Moscow.

  “I’m starving, Vanya. Let’s pull over and get some lunch. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  They came to a halt and Korolev stepped from the car and nodded to the stall owner. “How are things, Boris Nikolayevich? Two, please.”

  Several of the waiting men gave him angry looks, but seeing the car and the waiting Semionov drew the obvious conclusion, a couple even raising their collars and moving off. Korolev pretended not to notice—it wasn’t his job to check people’s papers—and as he prepared the blinchiki, Boris Nikolayevich told Korolev his news. He was now part of a nearby state canteen so his problems with bureaucracy had decreased. Unfortunately so had his flexibility in acquiring ingredients.

  “They keep the best stuff for themselves, but I make do,” the stallholder announced, wrapping the blinchiki and handing them over to Korolev in exchange for ninety kopeks. “I’m blessed to be the son of a street sweeper. See poor Denisov across the street. The son of a factory owner. The troubles he has, you wouldn’t believe, and we were both born in ninety seven. Who would have guessed then how things would turn out for us?”

  The food paid for, Korolev got back into the car, handing Semionov one of the wrappings as he did so. It was only when he went to open his own that he saw that it had been wrapped in a vellum page and that ancient ink had impregnated his blinchiki with mirrored Slavonic writing. A holy book had been torn to pieces to wrap food in. He looked around at Semionov, whose cheeks were bulging as his jaw worked away at a huge mouthful. He hesitated and then took a bite himself, hoping he wasn’t doing anything sinful. He chewed for a moment. If it was sinful, it was also delicious, and so he took a second mouthful, asking the Lord for forgiveness as he did so.

  The red and white flag of Spartak hung loosely outside Tomsky stadium. It was dwarfed by the Dinamo stands on the other side of the road, but size wasn’t everything. Spartak was the spirit of Moscow, as far as Korolev was concerned, whereas Dinamo represented the force that controlled that spirit. He might work for the Ministry, but Korolev was a Presnaya boy through and through, even if he now lived in Kitaj-Gorod. You didn’t betray your birthplace, not in his book anyway. Semionov pulled the car to a halt outside the administrative building and Korolev saw a group of players approaching, their bodies showing every sign of tiredness and their breath trailing them like the smoke from a train. Beside them walked a familiar figure, dressed in a pair of old gray flannel trousers, a green hunting jacket and a red and white scarf. Thick brown hair tumbled back from the sharply cut face, and a pair of eyes the color of old silver were already regarding him with amusement. Nikolai Starostin’s face broke into a grin as Korolev raised a hand in greeting.

  “Nikolai,” Korolev said, “I see you’re pushing the team hard as ever.”

  There was a ru
mble of good-humored agreement from the players, not least of which came from two more of the Starostin brothers, Aleksandr and Andrei.

  “Go on into the baths, boys,” said Starostin. “I must talk to this old player, even if he’s long past it.”

  Andrei Starostin waved a cheerful greeting but moved along with the others, several of whom also nodded to Korolev, being known to him as he was to them.

  “We haven’t seen you at many games recently. Worried the supporters will give you a hard time?”

  “I’ve been busy. Anyway I can look after myself, I’m not ashamed of my job.”

  “Yes, I know that much. It’s bad, though. When we play Dinamo it’s ‘Kill the terriers,’ ‘Kill the filth,’ and when we play Red Army, it’s ‘Kill the squaddies’ or ‘Kill the horse washers.’ It worries people in authority, which isn’t good these days, and when we’re beating their pet teams it adds insult to the injury. Still, what can we do? They’re a law unto themselves. They’ll shout whatever they damned well please and the Devil take the consequences.”

  Korolev smiled, knowing all about the rough bonhomie of the stands when Spartak were winning, and the rage when things were going badly.

  “So who’ll line up for you against the Army? They’ve a strong side: want me to dust off my boots?”

  Starostin smiled and touched his finger to the side of his nose.

  “All will be revealed, Lyoshka, in due course. But if you’re coming to the game, let me get you a ticket—in the stand with the civilized people, not down on the terraces. You’ll be able to see the game properly and, anyway, I need someone to keep an eye on my sisters. They can become a little obstreperous if things begin to go against us. Presnaya girls through and through. Feel free to arrest them. It’s better than them going up to Marshal Tukachevsky and telling him his boys are dirty cheats.”

  “I’d be grateful,” Korolev said. He caught sight of Semionov staring at them from the car and was reminded of the purpose of his visit. “Listen, Nikolai, there was a body dropped here last night and I need someone to show us exactly where.”

  Starostin frowned. “Ah, yes. The groundskeeper found him—I can show you myself. He dragged me out to have a look. Not pretty. Come on.”

  Korolev signaled to his colleague and a grinning Semionov extracted himself from the car, stood to attention and saluted.

  “Comrade Starostin!” he said, almost shouting, before reddening when the footballer laughed in response. However, Starostin stopped immediately when he saw the younger man’s discomfort, stepping forward to put an arm around Semionov’s shoulders then led him toward the stadium.

  “No, Comrade, don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “You were a little formal in front of my old friend, Alexei Dmitriyevich, that’s all. So you’re here to investigate our murder?”

  “It’s not as if he ever salutes me and I’m two ranks higher than him,” Korolev said to no one in particular. But he smiled at Semionov’s delight in having the famous Starostin walk with him, arm in arm.

  “Are you a football fan, Comrade? Spartak also?”

  Semionov couldn’t lie, but he had the good grace to look uncomfortable about his preference. “I’m sorry, Comrade Starostin—Dinamo.”

  “No reason not to support them, they’re a good team. I toured with some of them a few months back and a nicer bunch of lads you couldn’t meet.”

  Semionov nodded in agreement, they were a fine bunch of lads. Not that he’d ever actually met them. But he had just met Nikolai Starostin. He rubbed his chin as he considered his dilemma.

  “Perhaps now, having met you, Comrade,” he said, thinking aloud, “I might support Dinamo and Spartak.”

  Starostin laughed. “We always welcome new supporters. Alexei, I’ll have to give you another ticket for our new enthusiast. The Red and Whites are always glad to have fine fellows cheering them on.”

  “Well, Comrade, when you’re playing those dirty Army bastards you can trust me to be behind you one hundred and ten percent! Komsomol’s honor—believe it!”

  And there was something about the vehemence of Semionov’s statement that made the two older men laugh for a little longer than was polite.

  During the conversation, Starostin had led them through the open gates and now he pointed toward the Tribune area at the east end of the stadium, where the terraces were open to the elements.

  “The groundskeeper found him just there, a few rows back. I waited with him until the Militia arrived so that nothing would be disturbed. He was very badly cut up, you know; the dead man. Some bastard had—”

  “Yes, we know. We saw the body in the morgue,” Korolev cut in quickly, not wanting to be reminded. He looked at the spot to which Starostin was pointing. There was nothing much to indicate a body had been there, except the large number of footprints trailing toward it from several directions before meeting in a rutted, overlapping tangle where the snow was tinged pink.

  “It’s badly trampled, but do you remember whether there were any tracks when you got here? Any drag marks, for example?”

  “Not really, but we can ask Sergei Timofeevich. I’ll go and fetch him; he’s down at the other end of the ground—wait here for a minute.”

  Starostin walked toward the far goal post, where men were clearing snow from the pitch. Korolev looked at the muddle of footprints in disgust.

  “God knows what happened here. At least Larinin had the sense to have some photographs taken, although I wish we’d seen it ourselves.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s blood in the snow—not that much, but it might mean the man was dropped here quite soon after he died, or even that he was still alive when they put him here. If he was dropped after the snow stopped, the body wouldn’t have had any snow on top of it and if it was dropped while it was snowing, we might have been able to work out what time it was left here by the thickness covering it. Still, the photographs might help. What time did the snow start last night?”

  Semionov looked at him with wide eyes. “Deduction! I see, like Sherlock Holmes. Excellent, Alexei Dmitriyevich—really excellent.”

  Korolev lifted his hand to cuff the youngster.

  “No, I’m being serious.” Semionov, half-offended, took his notebook out. “Anyway, the snow. After midnight, I’m sure. I was out with some friends and didn’t get home until then. It was very cold, but the snow still hadn’t fallen. But I’ll check with the meteorological office when we get back to the office. And what time it finished, yes?”

  Korolev nodded agreement and turned to greet the groundskeeper as he approached them, his felt boots moving quickly over the snow and his cap twisted in his gloved hands. Starostin followed behind him, smiling.

  “I told them, I told the first lot, the footsteps, look at the footsteps, but they paid no attention. I made them keep away from them all the same, and my boys as well. Look over there.” He pointed to a set of blurred tracks that led toward them from the corner entrance to the northeast of the ground, the furthest away from the main road.

  “A terrible thing, a terrible thing. I came in early to get the pitch ready for the reserve match tomorrow, but I always have a good look around in the morning to see if anyone’s been in overnight. Local kids get up to the Lord knows what here in the summer, which is bad enough. I mean they’re young and I was young myself once, but can’t they find somewhere else? No, they can’t, and I’m the one has to chase the little hooligans out all summer long. And only last March we found two drunks frozen under the away team posts. Like this.” He stopped and contorted his face and body into an approximation of rigor mortis. “Very upsetting. Their eyes were wide open, like fish in a tank. So I thought it was a drunk when I saw someone lying in the snow and, I’m thinking, here we go again, but no. It was worse.”

  Only the recollection of the dead man stopped Sergei Timofeevich’s monologue. His eyes glistened with tears, which he rubbed at with a threadbare glove.

  “Oh it was a horrible sight, brothers. It shou
ldn’t happen to anyone—a thing like that.”

  Korolev seized the opportunity to interrupt. “Sergei Timofeevich? I’m Captain Korolev and this is Junior Lieutenant Semionov. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Ask. I know you anyway, Alexei Dmitriyevich, even if you don’t remember me. A fine central defender in his time, Lieutenant; we used to call Korolev the Steamroller. If Korolev tackled you, you stayed tackled. That I can confirm. But always fair, always fair.”

  Korolev looked carefully at the groundskeeper and detected a familiar face changed by drink and age. The eyes were the same though.

  “Akunin? The referee?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s me.” The groundskeeper was delighted. “Was me, I suppose. Akunin the referee. But then—ah well, now Comrade Starostin allows me to be Sergei Timofeevich the groundskeeper. It keeps me involved in the game and I enjoy the work. But enough—what are these questions you have for me?”

  Korolev caught Semionov’s smile from the corner of his eye and deduced that it wouldn’t be long before his old nickname was doing the rounds in Petrovka Street. He turned his attention back to Akunin.

  “It’s good to see you, Sergei Timofeevich. We players always thought you were a fine referee.”

  “I wasn’t bad, it’s true.” Akunin beamed with pleasure. “So, how can I help you?”

  “Well, for a start, could you show us how the body was laid out?”

  “Of course, Captain. He was flat on his back, with his hands by his side, like this. The face, the poor face though. He looked terrified. His eyes were like this. I couldn’t turn my head away for a full minute when I saw them.”

  The groundskeeper did an imitation of the corpse lying in the snow, with crazed eyes and a wide open mouth. It wasn’t dissimilar to his imitation of the dead drunks.

  “And on his chest,” he continued, “God forgive him his sins, were—”