by William Ryan
A middle-aged man walking along the bank of seats immediately beneath them looked up and then stood for a long moment with an expression of astonishment. He wore no color to indicate his team preference and Korolev was confused as to how he might have offended him. He pointed at the largest of the Red Army players.
“Come on, brother. You don’t think the horse-washers brought along a lump like him for his footballing skills, do you?”
The man nodded in acknowledgment, but still looked shaken. There wasn’t much to the fellow, Korolev thought, probably a clerk in a factory or a minor bureaucrat, but there was some strength to his face once you looked at it a second time. He sat down in front of them alongside a young boy, about ten years old. The clerk began to point out the players to the lad, reading their names from the program. His voice sounded constricted and the boy looked up at him with a question in his eyes, but the clerk didn’t stop reciting the names. Korolev turned to Babel and shrugged his shoulders. It was an unusual reaction from a stranger, but perhaps the bandage on his head made Korolev look like a hooligan. Babel examined the clerk as though trying to place him, but shook his head after a brief pause. Then, as if to change the subject, the writer produced a silver flask of brandy and they drank to a fair game—Schwartz joining in with enthusiasm.
By now the stands were crammed and, as if on a signal, the crowd rose as one and Korolev said farewell to his seat and joined in the cheer as the whistle blew for the game to start and Spartak passed the ball out wide.
It was a hard-fought first half. As Korolev had predicted, the Army defenders gave no quarter in the tackle, but then nor did Spartak when it was their turn. The game ebbed and flowed with Spartak appearing to dominate, until just before half-time when a well-placed cross allowed a tall Army player to head the ball into the back of the Spartak net. The Spartak supporters roared with anger while the Army fans in the north terraces cheered themselves hoarse. Spartak charged downfield, but they had nothing to show for their efforts by the time the first half finished, and the Spartak supporters muttered darkly about Army transgressions and a weak referee.
Korolev looked at the crowd packed in like logs in a woodpile and volunteered reluctantly to make his way to the buffet for some meat pies. The American should have the real Moscow sporting experience, and in Korolev’s view that meant meat pies—but he regretted his decision as soon as he descended beneath the stands. The room where the buffet was located stank of unwashed bodies, urine and stale papirosa tobacco, and the second half had started by the time he managed to get to the front of the queue. Then on his way back the small red-haired figure he’d seen earlier appeared beside him. Kim Goldstein gestured for Korolev to follow and he did, conscious of other children moving in the same direction through the crowd. Not more than a minute later they stood in a quiet spot behind the stands where the boy held out his hand.
“Ten roubles,” he said, determination hardening his jaw.
“Ten roubles. What have you got for me that’s worth ten roubles?”
“We found the woman you’re looking for, Comrade Investigator.”
Korolev looked around at the other children. The young girl he’d seen thrown through the air was with them, a streak of blood running down her neck and her eyes red-rimmed. He nodded to her as he tried to digest what Goldstein had told him. Again, surely it was his duty to establish where this Nancy Dolan was? Case or no case.
“Where is she?”
“Arbat. Ten roubles you said. We’ll take you there after the game.”
“All right.” Korolev nodded. “Here’s five on account. I need to take a foreigner back to his hotel, but I’ll meet you there with the rest of the money. Do you know Prague cinema?”
“Of course. We know it well.” The children shared a smile and Korolev guessed they’d found a way to slip in the back.
“Six o’clock then,” Korolev said, Counting out five notes. “Will you be there?”
“At your command, Comrade Investigator,” Goldstein said, giving him an ironic salute.
Korolev was wondering how he would ever make it back to his seat when the press of people in front of him reduced so suddenly he almost fell over. The explanation was out on the pitch, where hundreds of spectators had broken through the cordon of stewards and were spreading across the green of the grass like a muddy tide. The players moved to the central circle, where they stood around the referee as if to protect him. The crowd, however, was not hostile and it seemed the stands had simply reached capacity and were overflowing onto the pitch.
When Korolev reached the others he found Babel standing on his seat to get a better view as a line of mounted Militia began to push the crowds back to the touchlines. One of the Militia horses was completely white and Korolev found himself following its slow and patient progress along the length of the football field, as the dark-clothed crowd gradually retreated to mark out its edges.
“Will they be able to finish the game?” Schwartz asked, squinting into the afternoon sun that now cast long shadows across the pitch.
“I think so. It just needs a little patience from the Ments—sorry, Alexei Dmitriyevich, I meant the Militia. At least they’re being comradely about it. See—they have most of them on the sidelines now.”
The crowd began to clap for the Militia, which was so unusual that Korolev and Semionov exchanged a glance.
“Nicely done,” Schwartz said, joining in the applause. As if on cue, the announcer began requesting the crowd’s cooperation in a friendly voice and a wave of good humor spread around the stands, extending even to the players, who began to shake hands with each other. Korolev handed round the pies and pretended he didn’t see Schwartz’s expression of surprise.
“See, Jack, it’s the Soviet way. Play hard, but always in the proper spirit.” Korolev said, wondering if perhaps the man had never seen a meat pie before. Then there was more applause as the spectators on the touchline linked arms to provide an unbroken human barrier around the playing area. Korolev felt his chest fill with pride and he turned to beam at his friends.
Play began again with a sustained Spartak attack that yielded a goal to Alexei Starostin. The crowd surged again and the Army goal collapsed sideways, leading to another delay as ground staff pushed the upright back into place. Korolev could see the referee discussing the situation with the captains and the coaching staff in the center of the pitch and he could imagine what was going through their minds. The crowd was well behaved enough for the moment, but if the game was canceled the mood would more than likely turn ugly. Even he could feel anger welling up inside at the thought that Spartak might have to wait until a rematch to win the league. But after another flurry of handshakes the game was on once again with the Spartak players returning to the attack. The volume of cheering rose higher and higher as the crowd willed them on and, when the goal came, it was as if the crowd, rather than any one player, propelled the ball into the corner of the net. The Spartak fans embraced each other, stamping their feet and chanting, “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” The clerk’s son threw his cap in the air and his father searched desperately for it on the ground. Korolev retrieved it from the row behind him, but when he touched the clerk’s shoulder the man whipped round as if he’d been hit, before blushing bright red when he saw the cap in Korolev’s hands.
“Thank you, brother,” the man said, his eyes sliding away. Korolev, delighted with the goal, ruffled the boy’s hair.
“My pleasure. One more to be sure, eh? Best keep this in your pocket in the meantime, youngster. It’ll be a long winter with no hat.”
“Yes,” the man replied with a half-hearted smile. “One more for safety.”
Just before full-time, the wished-for third goal came and, to the absolute delight of the Spartak supporters and the rueful acknowledgment of the Army fans, the game was won. The referee allowed another minute of play but with red and white waving all along the touchline, and the thinly stretched Militiamen looking more and more nervous, he blew the whistle and the seco
nd pitch invasion of the day took place, far rowdier and more joyful than the first, with the white hoops of the Spartak players visible above the crowd as they were borne around the field.
As they walked away from the stadium, Korolev considered how best to approach the new information Goldstein had given him. The logical thing to do, of course, would be to get hold of Paunichev and let him deal with it, but that would mean disobeying the general’s orders, as he would have to explain to Paunichev who Nancy Dolan was, and how she was relevant to the case. He could haul Semionov along with him, but it was too dangerous to involve the youngster. Or Babel for that matter. And he didn’t even consider calling Gregorin. There, Korolev thought to himself, Kolya had his answer. His loyalty to the State was not, it seemed, absolute. He could always go to Arbat on his own. Hopefully, a quick look at the situation would tell him whether it was worth involving anyone else and, with luck, who that person might be. After all, Arbat was a safe area; he couldn’t imagine anything happening there that he couldn’t handle. Then he thought over the last few days and reconsidered. Maybe he would call Yasimov. He lived nearby.
“So,” Schwartz said, interrupting Korolev’s deliberations, “would you men like to come back to the Metropol for a celebratory drink? So I can say a comradely thank you for an authentic Soviet experience in such excellent company?”
“If you put it like that, it’s impossible to say no,” Babel said cheerfully.
“I agree, Comrade Babel. We are honor bound to accept.” Semionov’s open smile was contagious and so, at Schwartz’s insistence, they hailed a taxi and headed back to the center of town. It wasn’t long before they took their seats at the Metropol bar and watched a white-jacketed barman pour beer from a silver tap into improbably tall glasses. Behind them a jazz band was tuning up for the evening’s performance. Semionov nodded over to them.
“They’re not bad these guys, they’re Utyosov’s players, although the man himself refuses to perform in hotels. A real artist, you see—theaters only for him.”
Semionov caught the eye of one of the band and raised a hand in greeting. The musician gave him a quick grin in response and Semionov excused himself to go and talk to his acquaintance.
Korolev looked around the bar. Babel had wandered off to find a toilet and they were alone.
“So Jack, is it true? About the icon? That it’s the original Kazanskaya?” He spoke in a low voice, too low for any microphone to pick up with the band playing in the background.
“Possibly,” Schwartz said, after a moment’s consideration. “I won’t know anything until I see it, and even then I’ll probably only be able to date it, more or less. And, hopefully, say where it might have been painted. The quality will be the crucial thing. You’ve got to understand it’s been copied since the very beginning, millions of times. But if the quality is there, and I can date it back far enough—then I’ll know there’s a good chance it’s what they say it is.”
“So you still haven’t seen it,” Korolev said, and Schwartz gave him an inquiring look, as if guessing why Korolev had asked the question. Korolev tried to keep his face blank.
“Come on Alexei Dmitriyevich, fair’s fair. What’s going on?”
Korolev shrugged; he was in enough trouble that a little indiscretion like this wouldn’t make any difference. And he would be interested to see Schwartz’s reaction.
“I understand the icon has gone missing again.”
Schwartz looked puzzled and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.
“Well, I have a viewing tomorrow. Their representative called while we were out.” There was something in the way that Schwartz used the word “representative” and his puzzlement that caught Korolev’s interest.
“Isn’t he one of your usual contacts?”
Schwartz opened his mouth to respond and then stopped, considering the question.
“No,” he said, after a brief pause. “Not one of my usual contacts, but he’s a full staff colonel in the NKVD. I normally deal with more junior ranks. But this is beyond the limits of their authorization, which is understandable.”
“A staff colonel?” Korolev repeated, a thought occurring to him. He tried to stop himself saying the name, but it seemed to come out of his mouth of its own volition. “Gregorin? Staff Colonel Gregorin?”
“You know him?”
“I’ve come across him. A very capable fellow,” Korolev managed to say.
“He seems that,” Schwartz went on. “He drives a hard bargain, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of hard bargain?”
“One million dollars, cash.”
“What’s that in roubles?” Korolev asked and Schwartz laughed.
“A lot. An awful, awful lot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Before Korolev left the Metropol he showed his identification card at the reception desk and called Yasimov’s number. He had to wait for a couple of minutes while Yasimov was summoned to the communal phone, but his old friend agreed when Korolev suggested that they meet at the usual spot for a drink, and didn’t ask any questions when he told him to bring along his best friend. “An investigator’s best friend is his pistol,” was something Yasimov said at least once a week and their usual spot for an after-work drink was the Arbat Cellar, a late-night bar which was convenient for the Prague cinema and which would be empty at this time of day. Even if someone was listening to the telephone conversation, Korolev doubted they’d make much of it.
Stepping out into the square, Korolev crossed the street and took a tram in the direction of Arbat. He was reassured by the solid presence underneath his armpit. It had seemed silly bringing the Walther to the football game, but now—well, at least he’d have a chance to put some holes in anyone who looked like they were planning to do the same to him. He jumped off the tram a few stops early, having decided to use the network of passages, alleyways and courtyards that existed just off the main thoroughfare to throw any tail and as he walked, keeping to the shadows and constantly changing direction, his mind went backward and forward like an abacus in a bread shop.
If Gregorin was rotten, things were not good, and Korolev’s gut was saying Gregorin was rotten to the core and, what’s more, that he’d played Korolev for a dupe. He clung to the hope that it was impossible that such a senior Chekist could be behind the murders, and inconceivable that he could have had anything to do with the theft of the icon, but there were just too many coincidences, too many indicators to the contrary. Every instinct he had was telling him Gregorin was a dirty traitor, out to stab the Party and his fellow workers in the back. He cursed the fellow’s black heart.
He entered a courtyard festooned with washing that hung across the open spaces almost up to the height of the roof, and then ducked into a low archway leading to another alley. How had he ended up in this mess? He realized he’d asked the question aloud when he drew a glance from an old man unloading coal from a handcart into a shed. The man turned quickly away when he saw Korolev’s face and he realized he must look like a madman, bursting out of tiny archways with a bandaged head, muttering to himself. If he’d any sense, he’d go home, make himself some dinner and, if necessary, drink himself into a state where he forgot all about it. But then, if he did that, Gregorin could be off to Berlin or Paris or some other capitalist Gomorrah to spend his ill-gotten gains. And a staff colonel of the NKVD would be a fine fish to catch for a foreign intelligence service. The Judas would no doubt have many a state secret he could sell if he so chose. The fiend had guarded Stalin, for the love of God; they’d welcome him like manna from heaven.
Korolev looked at his watch; he had a few minutes before he was due to meet Yasimov, so he slipped into a doorway from where he could watch both ends of the narrow lane he’d ended up in. If he was being followed by anyone, and it was by no means certain that he was, they’d be scurrying around trying to catch up with him after all his jinks and turns, and that meant it was a good time to stop, lie low and let any search pass him by. It woul
d also allow him a little time to gather his thoughts. He lit a cigarette and considered the situation.
Of course, the possibility remained that Gregorin was straight, in which case everything was fine. However, if that wasn’t the case, what had driven the colonel to murder and the theft of valuable State property? A million dollars in roubles wouldn’t be worth much if he was in the Zone. Korolev exhaled a wispy trail of smoke. Start at the beginning, he told himself. The first victim had been the American nun, Mary Smithson. Everyone agreed her presence in Moscow was because of the icon; Gregorin had said as much, and Kolya seemed to have confirmed it. Even Schwartz’s story about Nancy Dolan backed it up. So why had she been tortured to death? Well, obviously whoever did it must have wanted information. What kind of information? What else could it have been other than the location of the icon? Kolya and Gregorin, and Schwartz as well, all confirmed that the Cheka had been in possession of the icon after the raid on the Thief’s hideout. There would have been no point in torturing the girl if it had still been in the Lubianka, would there? So it really had been stolen, and whoever had tortured her must have thought the Church was responsible, or at the very least knew where the icon was located. But judging by the level of violence and the loss of blood, if the Holy Sister had known the icon’s location, she’d been stubborn about revealing it to the killers. Korolev thought back to the scene in the sacristy and shivered.
The motive for Tesak’s torture, and his subsequent murder, was also probably information. Tesak probably had talked, but whether he’d taken the killers closer to the icon was another question. Kolya had said the Thieves were trying to make sure the icon was returned to the Church, but he’d denied that they knew the whereabouts of the icon. The killers, however, seemed to believe to the contrary, perhaps with reason. He wouldn’t put it past Kolya to have lied to him on that point, although strangely he did believe much of the rest of his story. He wasn’t sure where Mironov, the dead Chekist, fitted into this, if he did at all. He’d been killed in a different way, but he’d also been tortured, and he’d been found in a church. So it was more than possible that his death was linked to the others. Korolev’s guess was that the link was something to do with Mironov being a member of the Foreign Department.
