The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  He took his last clean shirt, put his arms through the sleeves with a bit of difficulty and fastened a respectable number of buttons, then he pulled on a fresh pair of trousers by leaning against the wall and stepping into the legs one at a time. He slipped the braces over his shoulder.

  “There, that’s better.”

  “You’re meant to be looking out of the window.”

  “I’m a writer—we’re interested in moments like this. How you walked, the color of your face, the way you put your shirt on. I’m making mental notes.”

  Korolev tried to summon that spectacle-melting glare, but it seemed to be a harder task than he was capable of at that particular moment in time. Instead he sat down on the nearest chair.

  “So what did you find out?”

  “Not too much, I’m afraid. The fellow I spoke to knew Mironov’s name—but all he said was that he was Seventh Department and that asking questions about the Seventh Department wasn’t sensible these days.”

  “The Seventh Department?”

  “The former Foreign Department.”

  “I see,” Korolev said. Everything he’d ever heard about the Foreign Department had been whispered. He knew that it was responsible for the Soviet Union’s intelligence operations overseas and had a reputation for ruthlessness and obsessive secrecy above and beyond even the NKVD’s high standards. Interesting, though. The Foreign Department loses a man in the same week as an American émigré shows up dead and half of Moscow is searching for an icon that might well be heading outside the State’s borders.

  “There’s a purge coming, you know,” Babel said. “Not that that’s news. The Chekists are nervous as hell.”

  “They removed Yagoda’s statue from Petrovka Street the other day. Smashed it in the process.”

  “They say he’s to be arrested any day. In the meantime he sits in his office alone and the phone never rings. He walks like a ghost through the corridors of the Ministry and no one seems to see him. And this was the most feared man in Russia just weeks ago. When he falls, he’ll fall hard, and the Chekist factions are running round trying to make sure they don’t go down with him. Which brings me to Gregorin.”

  “What did you find out about him?”

  “Well, he’s not loved by the Georgians, that’s certain, despite being a Georgian himself. Half a Georgian, anyway—his father was Russian. There’s bad blood there. I’ve an idea he may have stepped on a few toes back in Tbilisi. And, of course, he was a protégé of Yagoda, which is no longer healthy. Still, Ezhov seems to like him, so he might be all right even if the Georgians do come out on top. And they probably will. Well, they’re close to Stalin, they sing the same songs. It seems likely they’ll win in the end.”

  “He gave me the impression he was working directly for Ezhov, maybe even higher.”

  “It could be, it could well be. But I got the feeling he’s not in a very good position at the moment, although not in immediate danger. He’s the same as everyone else, in other words.”

  “More research for the drawer?”

  “As you say—a very secret drawer.” Babel lifted himself off the windowsill on which he’d been sitting and stretched his arms. “I must do some writing before the exercise this afternoon. Who knows if I’ll be able to do anything after half an hour in a gas mask.”

  “Better a mask than a lungful. I’ve seen men gassed and I hope never to see it again.”

  “No, and I don’t think the Fascists will be dropping bouquets from their bombers if it comes to war. It’s as well to be prepared. I hear Stalin ordered the Metro stations to be dug as deep as they are because of air raids. Well, if we’re prepared for bombs—why not for gas?”

  “Do you really think they’ll come?”

  “They’re already on their way, my friend. We’re shooting at them in Madrid and they’re shooting back, and it won’t stop there.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Stalin sees it. He’s making sure we’re ready.”

  “Yes,” Korolev agreed, thinking about the man of steel, who expected all others to be made of steel too.

  Babel said his farewells and left, and for a moment Korolev felt every one of his forty-two years of age. The thought of another war, and the horror and the hardship it would bring, was like a weight pressing him down onto the mattress. It had been bad enough against the Germans and the Austrians: he could see the faces still of dead young men, each one of whom could so easily have been him. Thousands of them—millions by the end of the Great War, and then twice as many again in the Civil War, and it would be worse this time, with the new tanks and bombers, and machine guns that could kill an entire battalion in two minutes flat. He’d serve, of course, when it came to it. He knew his duty as well as the next man.

  Perhaps he drifted off, because the next thing he knew Valentina Nikolaevna was standing in the doorway, the pale sun turning her hair golden as it streamed in through the open window. She looked as though she’d just stepped down from a cinema poster.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Not too bad. Better. I’m not used to lying around like this, but I think I can get up now.”

  “Good, I’ll bring you some tea from the samovar. Your colleague Semionov is on his way over. And Colonel Gregorin called as well—he hopes you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you,” he said, wondering how Gregorin felt about his puppet being off its strings.

  “All you men need looking after from time to time. I don’t mind.” She smiled and turned to leave the room and, as the door shut behind her, he allowed himself to think about holding Valentina Nikolaevna in his arms. How small she would feel there, yet strong as well. Her hair would smell of flowers and her skin of fresh bread, he was sure of it.

  The tea that she brought him was the turning point—he stood and walked to the window, pleased that the room and the floor were both holding steady underfoot. He crossed his arms and looked out at a blue sky empty of any cloud. Beneath the window a long line of Civil Defense handcarts was being pushed by gas-masked women in loose-fitting boiler suits and heavy rubber gloves. The handcarts seemed to be full of some kind of white powder. He wondered what the powder was—in his experience the best counter-measure against gas was to run as fast as you could; and gas masks weren’t much use against mustard gas, that much he did know. Whatever that stuff in the handcarts was, he hoped it worked.

  His regiment had been in reserve when the Germans had dropped mustard-gas shells on the Russian trenches back in seventeen. At first the troops had thought the Germans were making a mistake—hundreds of shells crashing through the forest, splashing into mud, but no explosions. The only hint they’d had of the trouble they were in was a slight smell of garlic. A few hours later and blisters covered every inch of exposed skin. Not only exposed skin, though, the gas wormed its way through their uniforms to crotches, armpits, chests, stomachs—everywhere. Who knew how many had died? There’d been thousands of blind soldiers, begging aloud for help, wandering the battlefield. The Germans shot them like rats, and those were the lucky ones. His regiment had been sent to plug the gap, and maybe God had forgiven the few Prussians who fell into their hands, but they hadn’t.

  The building shook as a squadron of bombers flew overhead, and one of them momentarily filled the sky above the lane—so low he could see the individual rivets on its open bomb doors. The glass rattled in the window frame and a dog ran howling for safety. The raw power of the airplane lifted Korolev’s spirits, even as it sent a shiver down to the soles of his feet. This time they would be prepared for anything the Fascists threw at them.

  He took a deep breath and walked over to the desk, leaning on it for support. He looked at the blood on the collar of his coat and the case wormed its way back into his thoughts. It occurred to him that if the traitors were trying to sell the icon abroad, that might explain why Mironov was involved—who better to help get it out than a major in the Foreign Department? But again, perhaps he had been trying to prevent the icon going to the West. H
e cursed Gregorin. Korolev didn’t mind being led up blind alleys and manipulated as though he were an idiot if it was for the greater good, but Kolya’s revelation that Gregorin had led the raid that recovered the icon had unsettled him. It occurred to him that Gregorin might be using him to try and track down the icon because he’d been the one responsible for losing it, through incompetence or worse. Well, if that was the case, it would come to light sooner or later, and if Korolev was still alive when it did, then he’d hunt the vermin down and rip his heart out with his own bare hands.

  He was still contemplating the bare hands in question when there was a knock at the door and Semionov entered.

  “How are you, Alexei Dmitriyevich? The general said you have concussion. Are you feeling better?”

  The smile on his face seemed more teasing than sympathetic and Korolev gritted his teeth. What had he been thinking of after all—head-butting some giant kulak? He should have been more mature, given a better example to the youngster. He was supposed to be showing Semionov the ropes and yet here he was, his head cracked open and unable to pull his weight. It was humiliating.

  “I’m fine,” he growled. “Sit down, take the weight off your feet. Stop standing there like a lamp post and tell me your news.”

  “Well, first things first. I bring Comrade General Popov’s greetings to his favored shock worker.”

  “Look, you little squirt, I’ve a head that’s splitting in two, so, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave your provocations until tomorrow.”

  Semionov raised an eyebrow and Korolev wondered if the youngsters of today gave a damn about anything. And he was wearing that blasted mackintosh again. He looked like a corner boy in it, his hair slicked back with some kind of cream. It occurred to Korolev that Semionov would fit right in with the touts selling marked-up train tickets over at Kiev station.

  “Come on, Alexei Dmitriyevich, don’t feel sorry for yourself. It could have been worse—think of poor Larinin. I’ve seen the Model T—two trucks ran right over it, one after the other—it’s like a pancake. They had to cut Larinin out of it piece by piece. And poor Pavel Timofeevich is mourning the Ford like a lost daughter. So if you don’t feel sorry for Comrade Larinin, then you should feel sorry for Comrade Morozov. Poor Larinin—cut down at the peak of his career as an investigator, mourned by his fellow workers.”

  “Really?” Korolev found himself saying, the disbelief apparent in his voice, “Mourned?”

  “Not exactly,” Semionov allowed his straight face to break into a small smile before resuming a more serious expression. “Although, for myself, I would say I’m grateful he took the car. Maybe the brakes were shot or a tire popped. Whatever happened, it could have been us, not Larinin, spinning into the oncoming traffic. So I remember him fondly on that account. I’ll say no more on the subject.”

  Semionov pulled at the cuffs of his shirt so that they poked out from the sleeves of his mackintosh. “Of course, it’s still regrettable that Comrade Larinin was run over by the two trucks,” he added after a moment.

  “Indeed,” Korolev said, his tone flat enough for Semionov to give him a searching look.

  “But better him than us, right?” Semionov said with a shrug.

  Korolev considered his younger colleague and noticed the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his demeanor. It made him wonder whether the younger man was entirely sure the crash had been accidental. There was just something in the way he had set out the possible explanations—the brakes, the tires—that made him wonder if Semionov wasn’t looking for reassurance from him. Well, he could look elsewhere. Whether they were in the shit or not, they still had to keep swimming. He sighed and rubbed at the bandage that swaddled his head.

  “Despite a head that feels as if it belongs to someone else, I can only agree, young Vanya. It’s not so bad, being alive. What other words did the general have for me?”

  “For us,” Semionov said, his expression serious, once again. “We’re off the case.”

  It took a while for the news to sink in and Semionov watched him for his reaction.

  “Has someone else been assigned to it?” Korolev said eventually, more to break the silence than anything.

  “Paunichev. We’re to be assigned a new case on Monday morning. It’s because of your injury, the boss said. He didn’t want the case to lose momentum. He took the file and all the reports from me this morning.”

  “Who did?” Korolev said, finding it difficult to concentrate on what Semionov was telling him and conscious of a vein pulsing in his forehead. He forced himself to keep his voice calm, but he could feel his stomach filling with acid.

  “Comrade Paunichev. It was the boss’s orders, Alexei Dmitriyevich. There was nothing to be done. Also the general told me to keep quiet about the second American. If something comes of the missing person inquiry, then the general will decide what to do.”

  “Were you allowed to tell Paunichev anything? About the woman Smithson having been a nun? Schwartz’s information? Gregorin even?”

  Semionov shook his head and Korolev slammed his right fist into his palm.

  “Then they’ve got away with it. Did Popov really order you not to tell Paunichev any of it? What words did he use? Exactly what words, please.”

  “He said that all information acquired from Colonel Gregorin has been designated a State secret. Under no circumstances are we to give that information to anyone without express permission. He didn’t tell me not to tell Paunichev—he told me not to tell anyone.”

  “And what Schwartz told me?”

  “The same. We’re ordered off the case, Alexei Dmitriyevich. I would have thought you’d be pleased.”

  Korolev leaned back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling. There was a cobweb in the corner of the room and in the middle of it a spider sat, no doubt looking down at him and thinking, “All I need is a bigger web.” To his surprise, a burst of laughter came from somewhere inside him.

  “You’re right. We should be pleased. And Paunichev will find someone that fits for the murder in the church. It won’t be the right person, of course, but the statistics won’t care.”

  Semionov was looking at him as though he’d farted at the ballet. Korolev tapped his head in apology.

  “Forgive me, Vanya. I still have some pain—I’m probably not in the best of moods to hear this kind of news.”

  “You don’t need to apologize, Alexei Dmitriyevich. They say that’s why you’re a good detective—the other investigators. They say it’s because you treat each case as if the victim was your mother. But if you’ll permit me to make the suggestion, you must harden your heart, Comrade. The path of the Party is not always clear to ordinary folk like us, but it must be followed.”

  “Stalin?”

  “No, Comrade—you.”

  Korolev smiled in bleak acknowledgment—the case was in the past and that was all there was to it. So they drank a cup of tea, washing the unpleasantness away, and spoke of other things. Semionov had been out to Gorky Park with some friends and climbed to the top of the parachute tower. For a few kopeks, the attendants had strapped him in and he’d floated down to the ground beneath, just like a real parachutist. Except the parachute itself wasn’t really that white any more, Semionov remembered with a touch of disappointment; more gray after the recent rain and snow. These days it seemed everything in Moscow became dirty after a little while.

  They sat for a while in silence, listening to a convoy of military trucks rumble up the lane toward Vorontsovo Pole as the Exercise continued around them. Semionov shifted on his chair.

  “I have another message for you,” the younger man said. “The works meeting is this evening and the general orders your non-attendance.”

  The words hung there like a bad odor.

  “What do you think will happen?” Korolev said in a voice that sounded as though it belonged to someone else.

  “It’s difficult to know. The general is much respected, but Mendeleyev is a black mark against the dep
artment and ‘vigilance’ is the word of the hour. My impression, and I accept I’m inexperienced in these matters, is that the activists are afraid of things spiraling out of control—Andropov’s accident shocked people. The good news is I detect no external pressure either way—so I would say that public self-criticism should be sufficient. Any more Mendeleyevs, however, and the situation would be different.”

  The strange thing was that, as he spoke, Semionov seemed to acquire five years in age and his voice dropped an octave. Korolev was aware the younger man was a Komsomol activist, but the information he had seemed to come from a higher level than that. And he spoke with the clarity and confidence of an insider. It never occurred to Korolev to question what Semionov was saying, but he made a mental note that the young man was no ingenue in the ways of the Party.

  “And you? Will you be going?”

  “Yes, I’ve been appointed the Komsomol representative on the committee. Yesterday. I’ll support the general, if the situation requires it. Of course I will. But you must rest here. Otherwise you’ll be too tired to go to the game tomorrow.” Semionov smiled. “It will work out fine, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Trust me. What time shall I pick you up?”

  “The game is at two.”

  “And the American?”

  “I don’t see why not. We have Gregorin’s permission to take him and it’s our duty to show him how Soviet sport surpasses that of the capitalist countries. Babel will come too. We’ll make a day of it.”