The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  “Morozov said he could let us have a car.”

  “But we should take the tram. He should have the full experience.”

  Semionov sighed at the missed opportunity to drive. “The tram it is. Morozov wasn’t very keen to be honest—I think he blames me for the Ford. He was never going to fix the windscreen, you know—we’d have frozen to the seat in January. Perhaps it was for the best, in that regard.”

  When Semionov left Korolev sat in silence for a while, and then stood, going over to run a finger along the spines of his small collection of books. He stopped when he reached the faded gold lettering of A Hero of Our Times. With a feeling of pleasant anticipation he opened the cover and read the first line:

  I was traveling post from Tiflis. All the luggage in my small springless carriage consisted of one valise half-stuffed with notes on my travels in Georgia. The greater part of them, luckily for you, has been lost; while the valise, with its other contents, luckily for me, remains safe.

  Korolev nodded to himself with satisfaction. Now, Lermontov, whatever else they might say about the fellow, was a man who knew which end of a pistol to point where, and how to start a novel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Korolev woke the next morning at the usual time, refreshed and with much of his old energy restored to him. The sky was still dark outside, but he didn’t immediately turn on the light. Instead he walked to the window—the alley was empty and, with a mixture of regret and relief, he felt the case becoming a memory. Gregorin had called the night before, thanked him for his efforts and wished him well, and that had been that. The colonel hadn’t asked him anything about the previous day’s report, or about Kolya, nor had he commented on Larinin’s mysterious death. It was as though Gregorin had lost all interest in the matter, which was a relief as Korolev was certain that the colonel would have smelled a rat the moment he’d opened his mouth. Now, as long as Gregorin maintained this lack of interest, Korolev could forget the whole thing, and particularly the icon.

  It was deflating to walk away from an unsolved case, but, strangely, he found himself humming a tune as he began his morning exercises—perhaps he was not too disappointed after all.

  The lane was beginning to see the first traffic of the day by the time he’d finished his final piece of stretching and was tying the laces on his battered but still sturdy summer shoes. He’d get another year out of them, with a bit of luck, and they were fine for wearing around the house—but he’d have to start asking around about a new pair soon enough. He hadn’t seen shoes in the ordinary shops for months, which didn’t mean there weren’t any—it just meant that finding a pair that was available and fitted him would take time and effort. As for leather boots to replace his felt ones? Well, perhaps he would have to ask the other Militiamen how to go about it. There was obviously a way, perhaps not entirely above board, and maybe he’d just have to swallow his pride if he wanted dry feet this winter.

  It was a cause of some embarrassment to Korolev, later, that when Babel arrived to collect him, Valentina Nikolaevna should be in the middle of insisting on his wearing a scarf belonging to her dead husband, which Korolev didn’t consider necessary.

  “Isaac Emmanuilovich,” she said, with no respect for Korolev’s dented pride, “keep an eye on poor Korolev today. I know what these football matches can be like. He’s to stay out of trouble, no fighting with factory workers. And he’s not to take off this scarf.”

  “I can look after myself.” Korolev scowled at Babel, whose face was bright with suppressed mirth.

  “Don’t worry yourself, Valentina Nikolaevna, it will be my pleasure to keep Comrade Korolev under the closest of observation.” Babel bowed in Korolev’s direction. “Would you like to take my arm on the way down the stairs, Comrade Korolev?”

  “The Devil take you, I can manage myself. And take that damned smirk off your face, you rotten scribbler!”

  “See, Valentina Nikolaevna, the injury has made him disgruntled, but I forgive him,” Babel said, the picture of indifferent innocence. “I shall see you downstairs, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Don’t forget the scarf.”

  “Rat,” Korolev muttered as the door closed behind the writer. Valentina Nikolaevna raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Valentina Nikolaevna, I was rude. It’s just I think he was making presumptions.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could catch them and push them back in.

  “Presumptions, is it?” She produced the word like a rapier from its sheath. Her imperious blue eyes looked at him in artful confusion and he felt the net close around him.

  “Ah, to hell with this!” he growled, more to himself than her. “I’m destined to be provoked all day long I can see.”

  He clumped to the door, insofar as anyone can clump in felt boots, and tugged the handle toward him, half-disappointed that it offered no resistance.

  “Well, goodbye then, Valentina Nikolaevna,” he called behind him and did his best to ignore what sounded very much like laughter from the kitchen, where he’d left her.

  Semionov was waiting for them outside and, after a brief discussion, they decided to walk. It was a sunny day with a bite to the air that was pleasant on the skin after the rain and snow of the preceding weeks. They proceeded at Babel’s pace as he exchanged words with vagrants, kiosk vendors, street sweepers, ticket touts, as well as actresses and Party officials. Korolev took the opportunity offered by the writer’s distraction to ask Semionov about the works meeting.

  “It went well. I myself took responsibility for my failure to observe anything untoward about former Party member Mendeleyev’s attitude and it was accepted that the lack of vigilance was a collective error.”

  “But you hardly knew Knuckles.”

  “So I ran no great risk,” Semionov acknowledged with a small smile. Korolev found his arm resting on the young man’s shoulder as they walked along, and it seemed quite natural. It occurred to him, however, that the relationship was not quite the paternal one he might have thought a few days before. Semionov was a handy lad; quite how he’d landed himself on the committee after only a few weeks was something of a mystery. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he looked the part with those clear blue eyes and his golden hair. But it was more than looks alone—the youngster was a solid fellow to have behind you in a scrap, for certain. In fact, it astonished him that Semionov had so little experience—he often carried himself like a man who’d been around the block once or twice at least.

  When they finally arrived at the Metropol, Korolev was reassured to discover that it had lost none of its opulence over the previous few days. It occurred to him that foreigners must be equally impressed with this living embodiment of the great socialist dream. And it was open to everyone, unlike in the capitalist countries, where some lackey with a whip would no doubt send an ordinary man like him packing with a bloody stripe across his back for a souvenir. He turned with proprietorial pleasure to observe the reactions of Semionov and Babel, but was disappointed. The writer seemed uninterested in his surroundings, tapping a cigarette against an open enamel case and looking less animated than he had all morning. Semionov at least had the courtesy to look interested in the swimmers in the pool, but Korolev suspected that was for carnal rather than aesthetic reasons. Babel he could understand—the writer visited Paris every other month by the sound if it—but Semionov was yet again a surprise. Perhaps he’d been here before, with his Hercegovina Flor-smoking girlfriend.

  Schwartz was sitting in the restaurant, perusing Izvestia with an expression that suggested he was reading it for amusement rather than political education. He rose as Korolev approached, looking slightly guilty and putting the paper behind him.

  “Comrade Captain, good to see you. It looks like a great day for a sporting event.” He’d dressed down for the occasion; wearing a black jumper under a short blue overcoat with a turned-up collar, but the gray trousers were so precisely cut they looked as though they belonged in a museum of tailoring. W
hat the Spartak fans would make of a crease like that could only be imagined. Schwartz pointed at a peaked cap on the table.

  “I even got myself a hat. Think I’ll fit in?”

  Korolev looked at the hat, wondering where he’d managed to buy it. One of the currency stores, no doubt.

  “That’s a fine hat. Practical. You’ll need it—it’s brisk enough outside.”

  Korolev didn’t feel he should add that he also thought the hat would look very well on his own head. Schwartz smiled in acknowledgment, then lowered his voice and leaned forward, his face serious.

  “And the case? Any progress?”

  “I’m no longer working on it,” Korolev said, indicating his bandaged forehead. “I had to take a few days off, so they transferred it to someone else. I’ve some good news for you, though. We identified the victim and it wasn’t your friend. Of course, if she contacts you, let me know—she might have some useful information.” But he could hear no conviction in his voice. After all, if the Chekists got their hands on an American nun traipsing round Moscow on a false passport, her original Intourist trip would be extended by a long visit to Siberia. Then something else struck him—Schwartz showed no relief or surprise at the news. He merely nodded in gratitude for the information. Did he not care about his friend from the train any more?

  “If she does get in touch I’ll certainly advise her to contact you.” Schwartz said, with the careful intonation of a diplomat. “By the way, our previous conversation?”

  “Remains between the two of us, of course,” Korolev answered, surprised how easily the lie slipped off his tongue. A thought occurred to Korolev, and he looked around to see whether Babel and Semionov were within listening distance. “In fact, I would like to extend that conversation if you don’t mind—now that I know which icon we’re dealing with.”

  Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond. Again he didn’t look surprised, merely mildly perturbed. “I thought you were off the case?”

  “For the moment, yes, but on Monday I will probably return to duty.” Well, who knew what Monday would bring? “A few minutes of your time is all I ask.”

  Korolev was sure from Schwartz’s reaction that he’d already known the dead nun wasn’t his friend, Nancy Dolan. Now how could that be? He couldn’t press the matter because of the American’s importance to the State’s finances, but it seemed clear it was his duty to see if the American would tell him anything useful about the icon. He was sure the General would understand—well, almost sure.

  “I don’t see why not,” Schwartz said, after he’d considered the proposal for another lengthy moment, “provided we keep to the same terms as before.”

  “Agreed.”

  They turned to watch Semionov and Babel looking with salacious smiles into the swimming pool, from which sixteen legs, slick with water and with red-painted toenails, pointed up at the huge central chandelier. The mysterious limbs looked, for a moment, as though they should be hanging from hooks in an abattoir.

  “After the game?” Schwartz asked.

  Babel looked toward them, indicating his watch. Korolev nodded to Schwartz.

  “After the game will be fine,” he agreed.

  “I’ve never traveled on a tram before,” Schwartz said, as they walked out onto Teatralnaya Square. “Not in Moscow, anyway.”

  “That may not change today,” Babel said, looking at a passing red and white tram that seemed in danger of exploding outward from the press of people inside. Young men hung from the door handles, their feet wedged onto the running plates and their Spartak scarves mimicking the huge red flags that fluttered from either side as it charged past the crowd waiting at the stop across the street.

  “The bandit isn’t even stopping!” Semionov said, echoing the rest of the queue, who were cursing the driver and waving clenched fists at the conductress, who shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response.

  “Should we walk?” Schwartz asked, apparently nervous at the idea of risking his life by hanging onto the outside of a hurtling tram. Others had already started to look around for alternative means of transportation, and Korolev was on the point of suggesting they join them when another tram approached. Like the first it was bedecked with banners and slogans celebrating the imminent anniversary of the October Revolution, but it also looked as though it might stop.

  “Order, Citizens, order!” shouted the conductor in vain as people surged forward. Korolev decided it was every man for himself and pushed and pulled his way on, conscious that Schwartz was right behind him, and together they managed to squeeze their way into the muggy traveling compartment. Korolev found himself pressed up against a window facing Semionov on the other side of the glass, the youngster’s knuckles white around a chrome handle on the side of the tram.

  “It looks like Vanya is taking the scenic route,” Schwartz said. “Not a bad idea,” he added, trying to turn away from the armpit of an inebriated soldier with his hand stretched up to the roof for balance. Babel wormed his way through to join them and then the tram groaned forward, the passengers breaking into good-natured chatter.

  They rumbled onward in the direction of the stadium, cheering when the tram driver narrowly missed separating a green bread van from the two tired horses pulling it, singing songs and loudly discussing the merits of the various players. The mood was one of excitement, although Korolev knew things could change quite suddenly, particularly at a game like this, where the newly constituted Union-wide league could be decided in Spartak’s favor. Sure enough, when they arrived at the ground, several scrappy fights were already under way between rival supporters. Chants of “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!” from the Spartak fans, were answered with equally loud shouts of “RED ARMY, RED ARMY, RED ARMY!” Mounted Militiamen patrolled the area in pairs, occasionally inserting themselves between opposing groups. In all the excitement, getting off the tram was nearly as hard as getting on it.

  “Why do they chant ‘Meat?’ ” Schwartz asked.

  “The Spartak sponsor is Promkooperatsya, the food workers’ union. So the fans chant, ‘Who are we? We are the Meat.’ It’s a good thing.”

  “But sometimes the opposing fans call them ‘the Pigs,’ ” Babel added.

  “Only if they are uncultured hooligans. And who are you supporting today, Isaac Emmanuilovich?”

  “Why Central House of the Red Army, of course. As an ex-Red Cavalryman it’s my duty.”

  “I was a soldier too once, but I was from the Presnaya long before that,” Korolev said, feeling slightly offended.

  “Even pigs can choose to leave their sty,” Babel replied with an innocent smile.

  Korolev was about to respond in kind when he saw a group of determined-looking young men arrange themselves in front of the gates, each holding onto the belt of the man in front with one hand, with the two biggest and hardest-looking in the front.

  “Jack, we should wait for a couple of moments now.”

  “Yes,” Babel agreed. “The train is about to leave the station.”

  Schwartz looked at the crowd and smiled. “They’re going to crash the barriers?”

  “Yes, it’s called ‘the steam engine.’ Ah, the ticket collectors have spotted them.”

  But the ticket collectors were too late to marshal an effective defense and the snake of men charged forward, kicking and punching, knocking bystanders and defenders out of their path and, in the case of one, trampling him underfoot. The chain remained unbroken until two of the collectors and a Militiaman, furious and blood-smeared, grabbed the last of them by an arm and detached him from his colleagues. Their triumph was short-lived, however, as the captured gate-crasher’s fellows gathered themselves into a tight wedge and returned to the fray, snatching the captive back and leaving one of the ticket collectors sitting on the ground spitting blood into his hand. The crowd waiting outside cheered and the youths raised their arms in triumph before retreating in the face of approaching Militia reinforcements. Then the crowd cheered once again as a darting rabble of wild-haired
street children launched themselves at the same place, squirming and diving around the distracted ticket collectors’ legs. A tiny girl was caught by the hair and flung back through the gates, where she landed in a crumpled heap. The crowd growled and stepped forward in unison, eyes fixed on the perpetrator, a Militiaman with the build of a wrestler and a face like a squashed cabbage. Korolev took Schwartz’s arm.

  “Perhaps we’ll try another gate,” he said, as the first brick clanged off the metal fence and, with a roar, the crowd charged. The last thing they saw of the Militiaman was his panicked face just before it disappeared in a tumble of flat caps and flying fists. The other uniforms would have their work cut out to keep the fellow out of the morgue, Korolev thought to himself without much sympathy, as men ran from all directions to join in the mayhem.

  “They seem fond of children,” Schwartz said.

  “Fonder, I think, of the opportunity to put a Militiaman in hospital,” Babel replied. That was true, Korolev thought. In fact, they’d probably run straight over the girl to get at him. He recalled a splash of red hair in among the scrabbling rush of children and wondered if it had been Kim Goldstein’s gang of ragamuffins charging the gates.

  Korolev was relieved when they arrived safely in the relative calm of the south stand. He couldn’t imagine, after all, that the general would forgive him, let alone Gregorin, if he managed to get Schwartz caught up in a football riot. They sat down on the concrete benches and watched players kicking the ball back and forth and occasionally test the goalkeepers. The Spartak players were at one end of the field in red shirts with a thick white hoop around the chest, while at the other were the Army players, wearing blue shirts and red shorts. The Army players looked big.

  “They’ll give our lads a good battering, if I’m not much mistaken. I hope Alexei Starostin has put on an extra pair of socks.”