by William Ryan
However, any doubts vanished when the blood seeped away from the major’s face. Korolev watched him in fascination; he looked like a hunted animal. Eventually he seemed to control himself and began to speak in a furious whisper, two red spots appearing on his blanched cheeks.
“What are you talking about? What foul nonsense is this? How dare you accuse a Chekist of such a crime? You dog. You filthy, rotten, slanderous dog. I’ll rip your skin off inch by inch.” He rose to his feet and jabbed a finger at Korolev, his voice rising to a scream. “Shut your dirty mouth, do you hear?”
But Korolev was, temporarily at least, past intimidation.
“A strange reaction, if you don’t mind me saying so, Comrade. I suppose the State property you’re looking for isn’t a certain icon either? That’s why you tortured her. Isn’t it, traitor? To find the icon?”
“You know where the icon is, prisoner,” The major replied, calmer now. “And you know who the real traitor is as well, you black-hearted dog.”
“What will your lad make of it when you arrive in America? To find out his own father’s a traitor to the Soviet People. It will be difficult for him. I could see how he looked up to you. A Pioneer, isn’t he? Will you pack his red scarf for the journey?”
The major’s eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, then Korolev’s words seemed to give him some comfort and he relaxed, waving Korolev’s barbs aside.
“You fool, I’m not going anywhere. You, on the other hand, will be shot this very hour if you refuse to cooperate. To hell is where you’re going.”
“Maybe I am. But why did you shoot your Comrade, Mironov, from the Foreign Department? Because he didn’t go along with the plan to sell the icon to the highest bidder?”
The major again blinked in surprise, and then it occurred to Korolev: perhaps the fool didn’t realize the conspiracy was Gregorin’s. Perhaps he was a dupe as well.
“You don’t know about Mironov, do you? Major Mironov? They went to him to arrange the visas. But no visa for you, it seems. You’ll be left to face the music, while they salute the Statue of Liberty with French champagne from the deck of an ocean liner. At least I got wise in time. If I’m going to be shot, let me be shot with my eyes open.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We’re the dupes, brother. The icon was recovered from Thieves in a raid led by Gregorin, and then it was stolen again right from this very building. You know this much, am I right?”
The major shrugged an acknowledgment. At least he wasn’t threatening to peel his skin off, Korolev thought to himself. That was progress, he supposed.
“What you don’t know is that the icon was a secret. Only Gregorin and a couple of others knew about it. He never told his superiors its significance—instead he made contact with foreign enemies, looking to sell it. Mironov was to help them with visas, but he took the icon for his own purposes, so they had to get it back. They knew the nun had entered the Soviet Union, and that there was a chance she was here for the icon—so they sent you after her in case she had it. With me so far?”
The major still wasn’t stopping him, so Korolev carried on, the pieces fitting into place as he talked.
“So, when she was found, us poor Militia investigators, we thought it was just another murder. Then Gregorin started taking an interest and told us there was an ongoing Cheka investigation into stolen artifacts and that the crime was probably connected. It was Gregorin who pointed us in the direction of the icon. We worked out the dead woman was a foreigner from her fillings and her clothes, but without him we’d never have made her for a nun or had a clue about the icon. So you were pursuing your line of inquiry, using your methods, and I was pursuing mine, following you, but we’re both looking for the icon and both of us dancing like puppets on strings pulled by Gregorin. Now do you see?”
The major looked at his fist for a long time. Eventually he lifted his head and frowned.
“No. Everything was authorized, of course it was, and at the highest levels. Sometimes a Chekist has to perform unpleasant tasks, but we’re the Party’s sword and it isn’t for us to decide the nature of the blow we must strike. No one likes the wet jobs, but sometimes they’re necessary—to exact retribution without judicial process. And this Mironov? What is he to this? A Chekist dies—there are many of us ready to do as much. There’s no connection to this matter.”
“But there is.” Korolev considered for a moment and then became resolute—after all, if Mironov had been murdered, it was because Gregorin already knew he’d taken the icon. “They offered to cut Mironov in, in exchange for the passports and visas, but instead Mironov stole the icon and handed it over to the Church. That’s why the nun was here. That’s what was confirmed to me by the cultists this evening. Now do you see?”
“Mironov?” The major seemed to be considering the name. “I’ve heard nothing about a Chekist being killed. When do you say this happened?”
“He was found four days ago. When he was killed is another question. But his body wasn’t meant to be found. They put it in a church due for demolition. By chance, someone came across it and, by another chance, I identified it. Gregorin took the body from the morgue and my guess is it’s buried deep in the forest by now.”
The major shook his head with a frown and, in the silence, Korolev heard a metal door down the corridor creak open and footsteps approaching. The door opened behind him and the major stood to attention.
“Well?” the voice asked.
“As you predicted, Colonel. He was turned by the cultists.” The major looked at Korolev with a disgust that chilled him to the core. Korolev tried to turn, but the chair held him tight. Then the colonel walked into his line of sight, a sad smile making his expression almost gentle. Gregorin. Korolev would have given a lot for a free right hand and room enough to swing it.
“Poor Korolev,” Gregorin said with a sympathetic smile. “You became confused, didn’t you? Political matters are complex—shades of gray, whereas you see things in black and white. You swam into deep waters and the Party’s enemies were waiting. The Party warns of this over and over again. ‘Be vigilant!’ they tell you. ‘They’re not fools, these counterrevolutionaries.’ No, indeed they’re not—they’re adept at deception and deceit and yet citizens are always surprised at their cunning ways. So and so was a Party member for thirty years, Lenin’s right-hand man, how could he have been a traitor? Because we’re fighting a many-headed hydra, Korolev, with infinite patience and incomparable self-control and its agents are everywhere. Your Mendeleyev, for example, an apparently useful contributor to the Revolution for many years and then he’s spreading Fascist lies dressed up as humor. A dupe perhaps, or was he simply in hibernation, waiting for this time of crisis to unleash his poison? And what about you? Were you a willing participant in this attempt to steal from the State or were you cynically manipulated without even being aware of it? What’s Korolev’s son’s name?”
The major looked at his file.
“Yuri.”
“Yes, Yuri. Poor child. You know about State orphanages, don’t you? They’re in transition, of course. In time, ordinary children will be envious of orphans who are cared for by the State. But these days, I’m afraid, things aren’t so good. Did you hear about that little boy who was crucified for wetting his bed? Crucified? Nailed to the wall in the dormitory as an example to the other children? Nailed, I ask you. Of course, the perpetrators were punished when it was discovered, but even so these things happen more than we would like. And he’s a good-looking boy, your son. It’s a shame, but some of the staff are degenerates. They slip in, no matter how hard we try. Well, one can only hope for the best.”
“Why isn’t there a stenographer, Colonel?”
Gregorin smiled, his teeth white, and Korolev was not for the first time reminded of a predator toying with its prey.
“I told you, Korolev. This is a confidential matter. And that comes from the top. The very top. You know how the peasants are about icons—w
e can’t have them getting upset about Kazanskaya now, can we? Not the same year the cultist cathedral named for her in Red Square is blown to smithereens. I don’t think that would be very sensible. Do you?” His voice lost its amused tone and became hard. “So no stenographer, and no mercy if you don’t tell us everything we need to hear. Not to you or anyone who knows you. That isn’t a threat, Korolev. It’s a sacred oath.”
“Explain Mironov to me, that’s the one I don’t understand. Why did you kill one of your own?”
The colonel’s eyes slid sideways to look at the major—enough to confirm to Korolev that Gregorin was a crook, and that the major probably wasn’t.
“Mironov was part of the conspiracy—it had to be resolved expediently and quietly. I can’t say anything else—Major Chaikov here isn’t cleared for the information, and you most certainly aren’t. Suffice it to say that Mironov had betrayed the Party’s trust for far too long and got what he deserved. Still.” Gregorin smiled. “I took my hat off to you when you came up with his body. You may not be very bright, but you have the Devil’s own way of being in the right place at the right time.”
“I don’t believe you. Mironov may have been working for the cultists out of misguided belief, but you’re even worse. You’re just after the money.”
Gregorin shook his head in disagreement, “No, Captain. I followed orders. You were given orders—to stay away from the case—and you ignored them like the petty individualist you are. Your clumsy bumbling messed up the Arbat operation. We burst in on that damned house hoping to find the icon and a pack of traitors. Instead all we found was an unconscious, blundering fool lying on the kitchen floor with a bump on his head. Presumably they turned you, got the information they wanted, and then knocked you out cold. Perhaps you really did think you were getting something useful from them. Who knows? We may still be able to find it in our hearts to forgive you—accept that you were stupid rather than criminal. We could even spare your friends and family. If you cooperate fully and with an open heart.”
Korolev sat there, conscious of the two men’s cold eyes on him, and decided he’d run out of cards to play. As he’d listened to Gregorin’s explanation, he’d been half-convinced. It was just possible he’d been mistaken—even if his instinct was telling him louder than ever that Gregorin was a crook of the highest degree. But Chaikov seemed to have fallen for it hook, line and sinker, and that meant Korolev’s room for maneuver was limited. It was time to roll over. After all, who was he protecting by keeping quiet? Kolya, who’d left him to be found? The nun—a woman he’d met once? He owed it to Yasimov and Babel to keep quiet about their parts in the affair, but the others could go hang. At least his son and his friends might have a chance this way. So he told them what had happened in the Arbat House . . .
“Come, Korolev,” Gregorin said, when he’d finished, “this is all very interesting, but where is the icon? It was there, of course—but where did they take it when you warned them we were coming?”
“I didn’t see the icon. It may have been there, but I saw none of it. I’ve told you the conversation I had with Kolya, word for word, and that’s as far as I got. If I knew who had it, I’d tell you. To me, it’s just a wooden board with some paint on it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to expand on the nature of his religious beliefs.
Gregorin considered him and there was no charm in his expression now, only calculation. It occurred to Korolev that, without the veneer of charm, Gregorin’s features had the cold malevolence of a snake. Gregorin scowled and turned to the major.
“He’s lying. Break him.”
“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”
“You’ve four hours. Don’t bother telling me it’s not enough. We have to find this damned piece of cultist chicanery before they smuggle it out of the country. Don’t fail—there can be no excuses. My office will know where to find me.”
He turned to Korolev.
“The major here is skilled at what he does. For your own sake, Korolev, tell us now. Where’s the damned icon?”
“I don’t know, Colonel.”
“This isn’t a game, Korolev. The major isn’t just going to beat you. He’ll destroy you—you’ll be praying for a bullet by the end.”
Korolev didn’t doubt it, and he felt his body trying to back its way into the chair, but he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know.
“One thing, Colonel Gregorin,” Korolev said, as Gregorin turned away from him.
“Yes?” The colonel turned, impatient.
“What happens if you haven’t got the icon by tomorrow? Will you have enough money for the visas? Is the net closing in? Is that why you’re rushing? You won’t get a million dollars for a promise.”
The colonel was a sturdily built man and his knuckles had calluses from where he’d hit others before, so perhaps Korolev shouldn’t have been surprised at the force of the punch that sent his head slamming back into the headrest and warm blood coursing from above his eye, blinding him even as he tried to blink it away.
“You fool, you deserve everything you’re about to get,” Gregorin hissed. “When you’ve finished with him, Chaikov—room H.”
The door slammed as he left.
Once the far door shut as well, the major walked over and, bending down, cleaned the blood from Korolev’s forehead with a handkerchief. His touch was gentle on the raw cut. He held Korolev’s head back and stared into his eyes.
“You have concussion.”
“Everyone keeps hitting me.”
“Perhaps you provoke them.”
“Look, I know nothing, but if I did, I’d rather shoot myself than cooperate with a devil like Gregorin.”
“Fuck that Georgian rat,” Chaikov whispered, pulling the handkerchief down Korolev’s face with an almost dreamy expression. “Fuck his mother. Fuck his sister.” The handkerchief was soaked with blood now. “I had suspicions, but I ignored them. I let him lead me by the nose—like a pig to the slaughter. What will happen to my own son? Answer me that.”
Korolev stared at the man in amazement, wondering if this was some ploy to soften him up. A single tear rolled down the major’s face. “See what I’ve become. Look at me. He’s turned me into an enemy.”
There was the clang of the far door opening and then running footsteps in the corridor. What the hell was going to happen now, Korolev asked himself, as the door crashed open behind him.
“Up against the wall, one move and I fire. Hands high, hands high.”
Chaikov looked up calmly, smiled and reached for his pocket. Instantly there were three loud explosions and the major was thrown over the table by the force of the bullets hitting him.
“Damn,” an easily recognized voice said, through the ringing in Korolev’s ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Korolev’s head hurt a great deal. A dense, tooth-grinding pain, with not much variation for the individual injuries. It occurred to him that nearly everyone he’d met over the last few days, whether Chekist, factory worker or Thief, seemed to have left a lump on his skull as an aide-memoire. Perhaps as a side effect of the constant battering his cranium had taken, he remained slightly unsure that he really was sitting in a warm office, in a comfortable chair, with a glass of vodka in his hand and faces surrounding him that, if not all particularly friendly, didn’t seem to want to cause him any harm either. But, if the reality was something else, he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
The stitches the doctor was putting in the cut above Korolev’s eye were a good reason for suspecting that this wasn’t a dream, of course, as he could feel each millimeter of the needle as the doctor pushed it through his skin. Semionov, sitting on the desk watching the doctor work, seemed genuinely concerned, which was gratifying, but as Korolev had been wrong about him all along, he couldn’t trust to that either. Like now, for instance—Semionov had just put three bullets into a fellow Chekist, yet here he was, cool as a cucumber.
Semionov’s real boss, the fat, aggres
sive Colonel Rodinov, was clearly only concerned at how long the doctor was taking.
“Aren’t you finished yet?” Rodinov barked.
“Last stitch—one moment—there.” The doctor wrapped a bandage round Korolev’s head to protect the wound then stood, examined his work, and nodded his approval. Korolev was just pleased he’d finished.
“Leave,” the colonel said and pointed a stubby thumb toward the door. The doctor, a man of about fifty, began to bow before recollecting where he was and, rather than continue with a bourgeois gesture that could get you five years in a camp, walked with long steps and a hunched back to the door, reminding Korolev of an ostrich.
“Carry on where you left off,” the colonel said. He was a rosy pink in color and his round, bald head shone with a thin sheen of sweat. Korolev had told him pretty much everything he knew already, except for the fact that the icon was Kazanskaya. That was information Korolev had decided to keep to himself. As far as he was aware, everyone who knew the identity of the icon was either dead or had good reasons for keeping their mouths shut. And Korolev had a feeling that if Rodinov knew that the icon was Kazanskaya, things would escalate out of control very quickly.
“So you see,” he said, searching for another piece of relevant information and finding nothing, “Gregorin guided us through the whole affair. Step by step. And all for his own ulterior motives. Or those of the conspiracy, if there turns out to be one.”
“It’s a damned conspiracy all right. He’s had no orders from anyone other than himself. When Semionov started telling me about your investigation I thought it strange, but often there’s a need for secrecy in our work.”
He paused as if considering something, then picked up the phone, listening for a moment before speaking.
