The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  The trucks came closer, and the driver moved up alongside the car. So near were they that he could hear the rattle of the Ford over the roar of the truck’s engine. Then the driver swung the truck, pushing the Militia vehicle up onto two wheels, and for a moment he stared down into the shocked eyes of the car’s occupant, no more than three feet beneath them. There was a crash and a screech of tearing metal. Did he imagine the Militiaman’s scream in among the noise? Perhaps. It all happened in milli-seconds. The Ford hit the lead truck of the convoy head on, collapsed like a concertina, and then the truck was mounting it and the car was being crushed as if it were made from paper.

  He looked for the Militiaman in the rearview mirror, but there was just a jumble of twisted metal, jagged glass and shredded fabric. The face stayed with him, though. And it wasn’t the face from the photograph.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The general stood in his usual place, looking down on Petrovka Street and smoking his pipe with a pensive air. The street light caught the squalling rain, turning the raindrops into falling white streaks that flew at the window, spattering the glass and leaving Korolev glad he was sitting here in the warmth and not outside, hunched into sodden clothes with his face streaming wet, stuck in a queue for bread that stretched for two blocks ahead of him.

  “A terrible thing. Half the kids in from the country have never even seen a tractor, let alone a truck, back on their kolkhoz. Then they get a construction job in Moscow and they’re put into one and told to drive it. Talk to the fellows in traffic—they can tell you stories that would make you weep. They might as well measure you for a wooden jacket when they give you a job as a truck driver in this town. Well, measure a pedestrian more likely.

  “The truck driver who hit him was experienced enough, the uniforms said. They think a truck on Larinin’s side of the road ran him into the oncoming traffic and didn’t stop to pick up the pieces. Mind you, that’s all there were—pieces.

  “Why would he stop? He saw what happened behind him on the road, didn’t he? And what he saw was ten years for sabotage under Article 58. Did anyone get a number plate? No? So it’s an accident. Leave it at that. The fellow probably didn’t even see Larinin from up in his cab and—who knows?—Larinin might have been in the wrong. The traffic boys will look into it, don’t worry. They’ll poke around enough for all of us, and if something comes of the poking? Well, it’s a different story then.”

  Korolev opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw Popov shaking his head and pointing to the ceiling. The general held up the day’s report, a couple of pages only. It occurred to Korolev that the general’s insistence that Larinin’s death was an accident was a little overdone, but if he thought the office might be bugged, then that made sense. He nodded in understanding and the general turned to the first page of Korolev’s skimpy update.

  The report was brief for a reason—Korolev hadn’t put anything in there about the dead Chekist because he’d been forbidden to. And as for the meeting with Kolya? He’d mentioned it, but only to indicate it had been a complete waste of time. In the end, the identity of Tesak was the only substantive piece of information it contained.

  “So Kolya had nothing to say. Interesting he met with you at all.” Popov let the thought hang there for a moment, and Korolev shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “So what next for our inquiry, do you think?”

  “We’ll do our best to track down the girl and the car. Keep looking for more local witnesses. Brusilov is still working his way through the Komsomol cell. We have a few known associates of Tesak’s to follow up on. Maybe we’ll get lucky and maybe not. Of course, State Security may take the matter over altogether.”

  “Let’s hope they do,” Popov said. “The missing person bulletin has gone round the stations—that might produce something, I suppose.”

  They looked at each other glumly.

  “It feels like we’re coming to a dead end,” Popov said.

  “Maybe for the best. After all, we know there’s a separate investigation going on.” Korolev realized they were both talking for the benefit of a microphone now.

  “Agreed,” the general said. “Well, nothing else to be done here tonight. Off you go home.”

  Korolev rose to his feet and then sat down again as his legs gave way. The room’s edges seemed soft all of a sudden and he had to swallow repeatedly to counter the nausea he felt. It felt as if all the energy in his body had dropped out through his feet.

  “Excuse me,” he managed to say.

  “What’s wrong with you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? Are you all right?”

  “Just a moment, Comrade General. Forgive me.” He felt the general’s hand take his shoulder and, with some effort, he managed to focus his eyes on the table in front of him, while the rest of the room swayed about in his peripheral vision. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and he swallowed once again. Then it was as if the strength of Popov’s grip provided him with a point of solidity round which he was able to pull himself together again.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, after what felt like hours, “I feel a little better now.” He understood, as he said it, that the general had been talking to him, but that he hadn’t heard a word.

  “Can you stand?” Popov asked.

  Korolev leaned forward to put his hands on the general’s desk for support and then pulled himself to his feet. “Good,” Popov said and patted Korolev’s back, “But I think I should give you a lift home. You look like a two-day-old corpse.”

  Korolev wanted to object but the thought of fighting for the space to breathe on a tram changed his mind. “Are you sure, Comrade General?”

  “Of course. You’re on the way. Pick up your things and meet me at the main gate. Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, Comrade General,” Korolev said, already imagining the warmth of the car.

  Five minutes later Korolev opened the door to the general’s ZIS on Petrovka Street, and sat in. The general smiled at him as they pulled away from the curb.

  “Maybe the office is bugged or maybe it isn’t,” he said, “but my phone has developed a hissing sound that wasn’t there three days ago.”

  “I see. It could be nothing, of course.”

  “Of course, but then there’s another Party meeting tomorrow night.”

  “I thought there was one today.”

  “There was, but this one is specifically to address the Party cell’s lack of vigilance and potentially counterrevolutionary failings. I’ll be required to participate in the necessary self-criticism as a senior activist.”

  The general’s profile revealed no emotion when Korolev turned to look at him, and the way he spoke was matter-of-fact—but Korolev knew how these things went, most of the time anyway. It was like seeing a bear torn to pieces by dogs. The questions came thick and fast, aggressive beyond belief, and no one bothered too much about the answers. If you managed to deal with one dog, two others would be attacking another spot. And the crowd would shout them on, knowing that if they didn’t, they might be the next in the chair.

  “I’ll admit my errors, throw myself on the mercy of the Party. Suggest I be assigned to other duties for my failures. I’m not going to fight. If it’s the Party’s opinion that Mendeleyev’s loose mouth was a stab in the back at a time when the State is under threat, then I don’t disagree with them. I liked Knuckles, a good worker, a tough cop—not a Party member but still a Militiaman who should have known better. If I’d been asked before the decision was made to punish him, I’d have taken his record into account. But would that have been the right thing to do? The Party thinks I’ve ignored the political and dealt only with the practical and they’re right. I thought that was what I was meant to do, leave the political to the Chekists. I was wrong, of course.” The general’s voice had grown rough and stilted and Korolev could see his knuckles were white around the steering wheel.

  “I’ve shed blood for the Party more than once, Korolev, and I’ll shed it again if it’s needed. We all know the
world situation. The Spanish comrades are losing out against the Fascists, the Germans have crushed the Party there and are pushing out their borders, and the Italians are marching through blood in Africa. Sooner or later they’ll come for us—they’re already preparing the way with their spies and provocateurs. The Party knows this. We can’t let our guard drop—they’ll be on us like a flash if we do. If the Party needs an example to remind the department of this, I’m happy to be the example.”

  Korolev didn’t know what to say. It was true—even in the east the Japanese were pushing up against the Soviet borders, eyeing up Siberia. It had always been this way, of course. Enemies had encircled the Soviet Union since its creation, only now they were stronger than ever.

  “It was a failure of mine as well.”

  The general scowled. “Don’t start with that again. Leave it to the Party to decide, and in the meantime keep your head low. Understand?”

  Korolev nodded in reluctant agreement and the general’s scowl relaxed a little.

  “Now tell me whatever it was you couldn’t say upstairs.”

  Korolev took a deep breath and then told him about Citizeness Kardasheva’s opinion as to the profession of the Razin Street killers and that Gregorin might have led the raid that recovered the icon.

  “I see. Still, Gregorin told you as much, that elements within the Cheka might be behind this whole mess.”

  “He didn’t tell me he led the raid on the Thieves.”

  “No. But if he did, that might be why he’s been assigned to investigate the case. What do you think? He wasn’t responsible for this icon going missing from the Lubianka storerooms, surely?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  The general considered the information in silence. Korolev wondered what he’d make of the dead Chekist or how he’d react if told that the icon was Kazanskaya. He’d probably crash the car.

  “So what should I do?”

  “Do? What can you do? You can’t walk away from it, can you? Where would you go?” He turned the car into Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and changed down a gear as the car struggled up the slippery slope. Mud had been washed down the alley by the rain and the car’s bonnet twitched from side to side. The street’s surface, despite being cobbled, was brown in the light of the car’s headlamps. “A bad night. The rasputitsa is upon us. Do you remember the autumn mud back in the war? I saw men drown in it. We can thank the Party for good roads and a lot else.”

  Korolev nodded his agreement as the general came to a halt outside Number 4. The rain rattled on the roof of the car.

  “Where’s your driver tonight, Comrade General?”

  The general shrugged his shoulders. “Sick, or so he says.” He looked at Korolev. “Now, listen. You have to proceed as if this is an ordinary investigation. It’s the safest way. If there are traitors in the Cheka, they’ll get their come-uppance soon enough and it sounds like Gregorin is hot on their trail as it is. Maybe you are a decoy, and maybe not, but either way you have to do your duty. You might even be the one to catch them. And, of course, it might just turn out to be a madman, and nothing more to it. Who knows? With a bit of luck we’ll all come through in one piece.”

  Korolev nodded and said his farewells, the general’s hand enveloping his for a finger-crushing moment. The only madman anywhere near this case, of course, was anyone who thought it had nothing to do with State Security. Korolev watched him drive off, the car’s wheels slithering through the mud. He could hear the blood pumping in his ears and wondered if he’d ever had such a headache. It felt as if he’d been shot, which would teach him to pick scraps with factory workers. At his age, that was ridiculous behavior, although he felt a little surge of pleasure remembering the look Semionov had given him afterward.

  He stood there for a moment and then he felt the pavement shift under his boots. He took a step toward the door, but the street seemed to be closing in around him and panic made his nostrils flare. Now his stomach seemed to be squirming up toward his chest and instinct alone took him three slow steps over to the wall. He leaned against it, ignoring the stream from a broken gutter that splashed down onto his arm, soaking his coat black. His stomach lurched again and he bent over, still clutching at the rough plaster for balance and then vomited against the wall, the stream of half-digested food immediately beginning to dissipate in the heavy rain. Two retches seemed to empty his stomach and any strength he had left. He could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand, but somehow he managed to hold himself there and then, infinitely slowly, to lift a hand up to his face and wipe his mouth. He ran his tongue around his teeth and spat, the effort bending him over once again as his stomach heaved. The ground beneath him came in and out of focus and he wondered if he’d been poisoned, but he couldn’t remember anything passing his lips in the previous few hours. He breathed deeply and put his free hand to his chest to try and control the shivering that was juddering throughout his body. He looked at the street lamp’s reflection in the puddle beneath him. It seemed like the last light in the world. He swore, the words frothing on his lips, and began to edge toward the doorway, leaning against the wall, his arm banging against the plaster so hard was he shaking. At least, if he could get inside, he wouldn’t drown like a dog in the street. He inched closer, feeling the weight of each thread of his sodden coat and praying for respite. “Preserve me, Oh Lord,” he whispered to himself, the words growling out and tearing at the large ball of dull pain that mapped the contours of his skull.

  When he heard the footsteps coming, he was too weak to lift his head and he cursed himself. Here it comes, he thought, the bullet with my name—and I welcome it, I welcome the release. But the last thing he remembered was someone putting an arm around him just before he fell.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The landscape was flat in every direction right up to the dark blue line of the horizon; one enormous field that flowed and ebbed in the wind, the wheat stroking his elbows as he walked slowly forward. It was like a sea, tossed and flattened by the strong breeze, golden and dark as the clouds moved over it, gusts marking their progress in long, rolling indentations. The only noises were the rasping caw of a circling crow and the swish of the swaying wheat.

  The rifle was heavy, and he let it hang there at waist height, his thumb rubbing the safety catch and his finger light against the trigger. The Pole was here, somewhere ahead of him, crawling on his elbows and knees, no doubt, trying not to disturb the surface above him. Korolev searched for an anomaly that would signal the scout’s progress. He’d be heading west—that was where he’d come from and that was where the rest of them would be. He wondered whether he was wounded. The Pole’s horse was a hundred meters back, panting its life out, its eyes looking for the last time on the sky above, thick blood already drying on its chest where the machine gun had caught it. He stopped and listened, but all he could hear was the crow still circling the horse, calling its fellows to the feast.

  Each step he took was careful, feeling for a quiet place to rest his weight before he swung the other leg forward. He could hear each stalk pop underfoot, but he couldn’t hear the man ahead. The Pole’s rifle still hung from the saddle on the dying horse, but he could be sure the man had a pistol. Didn’t officers always have pistols? How else could you shoot your own men?

  He stopped and slowly turned his body to the left, shifting his weight as he did so. He’d heard something; very close. The bayonet rippled silver as it led the rifle’s arc. Another noise and now he stood still, his thumb checking the safety catch was off. He thought about firing a bullet to smash a hole through the wheat just in case he might see a scrap of khaki cloth, but then up the Pole came, the sword first, then the arm, the cap, the eyes, the twisted gray teeth and the snarling mouth, the epaulettes, the dark polish of the Sam Browne belt, each gleaming button on the uniform coat, up they all came and straight onto the bayonet he’d pushed forward in a lunge. The point went in just above the buckle on the cross belt and slid through fabric and skin as if they w
ere paper. The rifle twisted in his hands as the blade hit a rib and then another and then it was through, into the lungs, and then another rib as it searched for the daylight on the other side. The sword was still coming toward him though and instinctively he pulled the trigger, once, twice. The bullets flung the man off the end of the rifle, a look of surprise in his already dead eyes.

  Korolev stood there, shaking, blood slick along the length of the bayonet, listening to the screaming and knowing it was his own voice.

  “There, there. Quiet now. You’re frightening the child.” The voice was deep and calm. He tried to open his eyes, but the lids seemed to be stuck together, and came apart only with difficulty. The resulting light was intense enough to hurt and he shut his eyes against it, as tightly as he could, feeling a familiar stab of pain in his forehead, and then opened them wide all at once. A pair of spectacles stared down at him.

  “Concussion,” the spectacles said. “That’s what it is. Concussion.”

  “Will he be all right?” a girl’s voice asked. She sounded very young, interested rather than concerned. He felt relief there was no fear in her voice.

  “Of course he will. Look at him. He’s strong as a horse. He’ll be fine.” The spectacles gleamed approvingly, “He needs a good night’s sleep and a little bit of care. But yes, he’ll be all right. Don’t worry yourself, young lady.”

  Korolev blinked. He was in Moscow, in the new flat. The Polish officer remained in the past, just a memory indistinguishable from all the other bad memories from that time. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and someone put a glass to his lips. He swilled the water round his tongue before drinking it, feeling it work its way down his throat.