The Holy Thief

by William Ryan

  “He took the icon from the storeroom,” Korolev guessed.

  “Yes,” the nun said.

  “So Gregorin was the traitor all along. He played me for a mug.”

  “Correct,” Kolya said, “although there must be a few of them in it—they’ve been tearing Moscow apart. Believe me, the deaths you know about are only part of it. I’ve lost two others. That’s it—now you know everything.”

  “But you said it was safe. Why then has Gregorin promised to show Schwartz the icon tomorrow?”

  “When did he say this?”

  “Earlier today, I think. Schwartz wasn’t specific.” Korolev saw a look on Kolya’s face that was as close as a man like him was ever likely to come to concern. The Thief digested the information, exchanging a glance with the nun. He looked as if he might say something, but was interrupted by a knocking at the front door—two quick knocks and then a pause before a final rap. Kolya’s pistol came out of the pocket.

  “We must go, Little Mother,” Kolya said gently.

  “Where to?” Korolev began, rising to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. You won’t be coming with us.”

  He heard steps behind him and caught Kolya’s nod to whoever had entered the kitchen. The last thing he saw was the nun’s eyes opening wide in shock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Korolev awoke it was the intense light he was first conscious of—it seemed to press down on him, even through his closed eyelids. He moved his head to the side and lay there, feeling the ridges of a brick wall against his cheek, and cursing the pain that seemed to stretch his skull outward.

  He knew where he was, he didn’t need to open his eyes. Prisons always smelled more or less the same—a mixture of piss, mildew, rotten cabbage and the stench of unwashed, frightened men. He mightn’t know which, but he was in one, that was for certain. He swallowed carefully, tasting blood in his mouth and, eyelash by eyelash, broke apart the crust that held them shut. Then he cursed again. He was in a small cell, about three meters long and two wide at the far end of which a tiny table and stool were bolted to the floor. The walls were painted a light, glossy blue, the smooth surface of which was scarred down to the brick with names, dates and messages. He didn’t need to read them to know where he was. The small wooden tiles barely visible under a layer of grime gave him the answer. The Lubianka had been the head office of an insurance firm before the Revolution, and its parquet flooring had famously survived when the paneled offices had been ripped out and replaced with cells and interrogation rooms. He’d known this case was cursed from the start.

  Angry with himself, and uncomfortable, he pushed down at the filthy floor, rolling onto his shoulder and then his back and eventually releasing his left arm from beneath his body. The arm was utterly numb, as though it belonged to someone else. He lifted his hand with difficulty and flexed his fingers, feeling no sensation at all to start with, before an itchy tingle told him the blood was coming back. With another effort he pushed himself to a sitting position against the wall, feeling a dizzy nausea as he did so. There was a bench long enough to sleep on, folded up against the wall and getting up onto it was the objective he had in mind, but his whole body hurt, most particularly his head, where a mess of hair had crusted around a fat sticky bruise. Some dog had given him another crack on the skull and he couldn’t imagine that was going to do his concussion any good. His belt was gone and his winter coat and felt boots were missing as well. He hoped that dirty brigand Kolya hadn’t made off with them, and then smiled at the thought. Kolya wouldn’t bother with a patched-up, moth-eaten rag like his. Not in a million years. Only honest men wore coats like Korolev’s. The boots and the coat would be waiting for him if he got out of this in one piece, no doubt of it. And if he didn’t make it out, he’d have no need of them.

  The metal plate that covered the Judas hole slid back and a pale blue eye examined him. Korolev instinctively raised a hand in greeting, but the metal plate was already sliding shut. He listened to the guard walk along the corridor, his keys jangling and the sound of other metal plates sliding back and forth. Well, at least they knew he was awake. Perhaps something would happen now. He allowed his eyes to shut.

  . . .

  When he came round for the second time, he found he’d enough energy to stand and then push down the wooden bed so he could sit on it. There was a thin blanket on the table which he hadn’t noticed before, and he placed it between himself and the wall to lean back on. A bucket stood in the corner, ringed with dried piss and more solid substances that he didn’t want to think about, so he didn’t. Anyway, he’d no need of it as yet. He sighed—the Lubianka, no less. Not the Butyrka, nor the Novinskaya. Not Lefertovo or any of the other Moscow prisons. The Lubianka. They only sent senior Party bosses here or foreigners. Zinoviev. Kamenev. The fellow who’d assassinated poor Kirov. British spies. That was the kind of traitor who ended up in the Lubianka—Central Committee types and foreign agents—not some half-dead Militia captain. He supposed he should feel privileged. It was enough to make him smile, although not with much humor.

  And what the hell had happened back at the Arbat house? One of Kolya’s men had slugged him from behind, most likely, but Kolya couldn’t be responsible for him being here, could he? The only connections Kolya had with the Organs were the kind that would put Kolya in prison himself. No, Kolya’s lot must have knocked him out cold and then left him in the house. Then he’d been found and brought here. That wouldn’t have happened if it had been Militia or even ordinary Cheka—they’d have asked questions and, even then, he wouldn’t have ended up in the Lubianka. It must be Gregorin behind it. At least he hadn’t been shot, for the moment anyway.

  The metal grate scraped open and the blue eye stared in at him once again. Korolev looked back, but the eye remained expressionless. Then the grate slid back into place and the keys moved off down the corridor to another cell. He stood up slowly and leaned his hands against the facing wall and stared at the painted bricks in front of him. “Forgive me, my darling wife,” some poor bastard had scrawled and he thought of Zhenia and the boy in Zagorsk. Maybe Yasimov would be able to look out for them. Or maybe not. The boy, of course, would suffer. Having an Enemy of the People for a father would be a burden on the youngster, even if he hadn’t seen the poor mite in the best part of a year. But then it occurred to him that, if it was Gregorin who’d found him, there’d be no judicial proceedings. If he was alive now, and here, it was for a reason. He’d want to know what Korolev knew and that would be that. He couldn’t let him go free. Not with what he knew. The thought sent cold sweat trickling down his spine—that was why they’d brought him to the Lubianka. To mine him of whatever information he had and then finish him off.

  As if on cue, footsteps approached the cell, keys sounding their discordant tune, and the door squealed open. Three guards stood there. Two of them were young fellows, strong shoulders and broad faces—almost identical in fact—but with eyes that reminded Korolev of dead fish. The twins entered the cell and lifted Korolev to his feet. The third was taller and older, his skull shaved to a gray shine and softened by rolls of fat that pushed out his ears like cup handles. He, at least, had some expression in his eyes, even if it was contemptuous. The bald guard examined a file he was carrying and then looked up at Korolev.

  “Prisoner, you will not speak unless asked a question, in which case your answer should be brief and to the point. For preference, use ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Any attempt to speak to the guards otherwise will be treated as a physical assault and dealt with accordingly. Understood?”

  Korolev was surprised that the guard had the voice of an educated man, even if he looked like a brute. He considered trying to tell them about Gregorin, but dismissed the idea. He’d get his beating soon enough, no point in asking for one in advance.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “Yes or no, prisoner.”

  “Yes,” Korol
ev said.

  “I’ll lead, one beside, one behind. Handcuff him first. Eyes front at all times, prisoner.”

  The twins turned him to the wall, cuffed his hands behind his back and then pushed him out into a narrow corridor that was painted the same light blue as the cell. Heavy metal doors lined both sides of the passage, lit by single high-watt bulbs that dangled from the ceiling at regular intervals. In one of the cells someone was sobbing like a child; an unreal sound, as if it were happening on the radio in another room. The bald guard checked their positioning and then they started off, the lead warder jangling his keys like a bell as they walked. The brownish streaks on the painted floor and walls looked like dried blood to Korolev. In the circumstances he was surprised he didn’t feel fear. Instead, after the initial shock, he felt quite calm.

  They entered a stairwell and descended four flights. The windows were blacked out to allow no light or noise to come in from the outside so, as a result, it felt like being underwater, the only solid sounds being those of their own footsteps, and even they seemed distorted. There were other sounds, but they were smothered and remote, from elsewhere in the building, and, like the sobbing from the cell, had an unnatural quality. Korolev half-wondered whether this might all be a dream, and it was almost a relief to be led into a plainly furnished room with a solid metal chair in front of a desk, thick leather straps hanging from its arms and legs. The room had the harsh rasp of reality to it.

  “Sit in the chair, prisoner.”

  He sat and the twins took off his handcuffs before buckling the leather straps on, tight as tourniquets. The only part of his body he could move was his head and he began to look around him to see what kind of a place he’d ended up in.

  “Eyes front, prisoner.”

  “But,” Korolev began and got no further. One of the twins hit his left ear with a blow that exploded inside his head like a pistol shot. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, but then his vision cleared and the room settled into something resembling focus. He thought he was deaf for a moment, until the bald guard spoke. It was if the blow had never been struck.

  “Hood the prisoner. You, wait with him until the major comes.”

  Some kind of small sack was put over his head. It stank of vomit and something worse which took him a moment to identify. Then he had it—rotting flesh. For a moment he was back among the broken, decomposing bodies scattered along a recaptured trench somewhere in the Ukraine. He gripped the arms of the chair and tried to breathe through his mouth. Korolev started to count, anything to distract himself. At first all he could hear was his own breathing and he felt like screaming or trying to throw the hood off but he knew he’d just be beaten for his troubles. He forced himself to concentrate on the counting. Seventy-five, seventy-six. He’d reached four hundred and sixty-two by the time the door opened.

  “You may go. You’ve been told that you are never to discuss the prisoner, under any circumstances, not even with the other guards or your superiors. Please confirm you understand, and commit to fulfill this duty to the State.”

  “Confirmed, Comrade,” the guard replied.

  “He is secure?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will be all. This corridor is to be sealed until further instructions are given.”

  The guard took care shutting the door, so that all Korolev heard was a quiet click, footsteps receding and then another door, far away, shutting with a metallic clang, and finally nothing except the sound of pages being turned.

  “You know why you’re here, prisoner?” The voice was quiet, putting a small emphasis on the word “prisoner,” which succeeded in conveying resigned disappointment.

  “I haven’t committed any crime.”

  “Everyone has committed a crime, prisoner.” The voice sounded bored. “It’s only a question of discovering which one. Would you like me to take off the hood?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Well then, perhaps you could tell me what you were doing lying unconscious in the apartment of a known proponent of the Orthodox cult.” There was that rustle of papers again.

  “I was making inquiries with regard to a criminal case, in the course of which I was attacked.”

  “What case is this?”

  “A series of murders. One of which was the murder of Citizeness Kuznetsova, also known as Mary Smithson, an American nun. I’ve been working under the direction of Staff Colonel Gregorin of the NKVD.”

  He could hear the interrogator approach him and braced himself for a blow, but instead he felt hands pulling at the hood and then the stark light of the interrogation room flooded in.

  “It’s not very pleasant, the hood.” The interrogator said, his disinterested voice coming from behind Korolev. Korolev knew better than to turn to look. “Deliberately so, of course. It’s often as effective as more traditional methods. You know how it goes, being an investigator—a brutal interrogation is exhausting. It leaves some people in as bad a state as the prisoner. But the hood works well.” The interrogator sounded as if he were speaking to himself.

  “I don’t beat confessions out of prisoners. I find such measures counter-productive.”

  A hand patted Korolev’s shoulder—it wasn’t clear whether in approval or sympathy.

  “Now, who do you say assaulted you?” The voice had moved to Korolev’s left. It was disconcerting, having no one to look at. But then it was probably deliberately so.

  “I didn’t see him. He hit me from behind. Why am I being held, Comrade? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  There was silence while the interrogator walked to the desk and then turned. With a shock, Korolev recognized him. It was the man from the football game. His watery blue eyes looked tired and his face seemed grayer than Korolev remembered, but it was definitely him, and now in the uniform of an NKVD major. He smiled when he saw he’d been recognized; a small upward spasm of the lips; the smile of a man unaccustomed to the act.

  “Yes, a strange coincidence,” the major agreed. “I was surprised to see you at the game.”

  “You knew who I was?”

  The major considered the question and then shook his head as if deciding it couldn’t be answered safely.

  “To business. Prisoner, we’re here to determine the extent of your involvement in a conspiracy concerning the theft of State property. The priority of the investigation at this stage is directed at recovering the property in question.” He paused for a moment and then added, almost as an afterthought. “The extent of your guilt will be determined at a later stage. But your cooperation will be considered a mitigating factor.”

  “A conspiracy? I’ve been involved in no such conspiracy and no such theft,” Korolev said, feeling anger boiling up inside him. The major considered him for a moment and then nodded toward the file. He displayed no emotion except, perhaps, melancholy. He spoke like an accountant might speak about a factory’s output of shoes; calmly, with the remorseless weight of facts to back his words.

  “Let me put it this way,” he said, quiet to the point that Korolev, with his damaged ear, had to lean forward to hear him. “You can tell me what I want to know freely, or I’ll break you like a frozen branch. And then you’ll tell me all I want to know anyway. And then you will be shot, your ex-wife will be sent to the Zone and your son will end up begging on trams. Your friends will also suffer.” He looked at his notes for a moment. “Popov, Semionov, Chestnova, Yasimov, Babel, Koltsova . . .” In a flat voice, he recorded the names of friends, family and acquaintances, his voice becoming quieter and quieter. When he slapped the file down on the table, the sudden sound seemed as loud as the guard’s punch.

  “Do I need to go on?” Anger burned in his eyes for an instant and then his voice returned to a whisper. “There are fifty names there; you must know how this works. They’ll be arrested and imprisoned, and then their families and friends will suffer, and so on and so on. It will be a ripple across Moscow, one by one by one. Hundreds of people. All because you didn’t cooperate. What
advice do you think they would give you, were they here beside you? Would they tell you to keep quiet? To defy the State? To fly your little flag of selfish honor from your besieged individualist castle of sand. Be sensible, prisoner. In fact, be merciful. Their lives are in your hands.”

  The major shook his head and it seemed to Korolev that the light caught a glint of moisture in his defeated eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor. The cigarettes from the snowy football pitch where Tesak had been found. The major lit one and then walked over and put it into Korolev’s mouth. Korolev inhaled and watched the major light another. Korolev nodded to the empty stenographer’s desk, speaking from the corner of his mouth.

  “No typist? This isn’t an official investigation, is it?”

  The major sighed. “Come on, Captain. I ask questions, you answer. This isn’t a conversation. Do I have to beat that into your thick skull? Cooperate, Korolev, for your own sake. You will in the end, believe me.”

  It was the first time since he’d found himself in the prison that he’d been addressed by his name or rank. It felt almost intimate, and the half-smile the major gave him opened a chink that Korolev aimed for, almost without thinking.

  “With electricity? Like you did to Kuznetsova?” It wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark, but the words surprised Korolev almost as much as they seemed to surprise the major. Of course, it was a possibility—here was a man threatening to torture him who knew him by sight, in front of an empty stenographer’s desk, with a packet of Hercegovina Flor on the table beside him—but yet the major reminded Korolev more of a priest than a psychopath.