by William Ryan
“Rodinov. Tell Sharapov to call me with news.” He put the phone back onto the cradle. Obviously social niceties were unnecessary if you were Colonel Rodinov. He turned his cold gaze back to Korolev.
“Chaikov, though—that man has waded through blood for the Party. Gregorin I can believe, but Chaikov. No gun, of course.”
“He was used by Gregorin. Once he realized he’d been manipulated and had contributed to a crime against the State—well, maybe he wanted to be shot.”
Rodinov shook his head. “I’d never have believed it. I’ve seen that fellow go through three pistols in a day liquidating enemies—wore out the barrels, one after the other. I don’t know why he didn’t just put up his hands. Lack of vigilance, yes, but what a worker.” Rodinov shook his head sadly. “Well, Captain, it seems your actions may have uncovered a nest of vipers. And yours, Semionov. If you hadn’t come to me when Gregorin took Comrade Korolev here, we’d never have got to the bottom of this. Commissar Ezhov himself is asking for hourly updates. Once we have Gregorin in our hands we’ll find out the true extent of it—it’s only a matter of time now.”
“I knew it was inconceivable that Captain Korolev could be a traitor, Comrade Colonel.”
“If there’s to be an arrest—” Korolev began.
Rodinov raised an eyebrow, “You’d like to be involved?”
“If it were possible.”
“We’ll see. We have to find him first. It’s a Cheka matter, but I doubt Commissar Ezhov would object in the circumstances. Yes, I’m sure you have some things you’d like to say to him. I certainly would have in your shoes.” He turned to Semionov. “A tough bird, this investigator of yours, Semionov. Look at his forehead—it’s like a railway junction with all that stitching.”
“Comrade Korolev has taught me a great deal in the few months I’ve been with the People’s Militia, Colonel. I’ve been impressed with his dedication to duty and his logical and practical approach.”
“High praise, Korolev—from a young man Comrade Ezhov himself has his eye on. High praise indeed.”
Dawn was coloring the silhouetted domes of Moscow’s churches when Semionov drove Korolev home. It would have been earlier, but it took some time to find Korolev’s belongings and he’d refused to leave without the winter coat or his felt boots. Eventually one of the twins, now himself beltless and barefoot and wearing an expression of terrified bewilderment on his heavily bruised face, guided them to a cardboard box which contained Korolev’s belongings, including his Walther and papers. Korolev considered giving the twin a dig or two—his ear was still ringing from the guard’s blow—but he decided fate had revenged him sufficiently. Anyway, it might have been the other twin who’d swung the fist.
“It’s like old times driving this Ford,” Semionov said, as the Lubianka became smaller in the rearview mirror—the Model T they were driving was remarkably similar to the car in which Larinin had met his end.
“Watch out for trucks,” Korolev muttered and Semionov smiled. He looked uncomfortable, and Korolev didn’t feel the situation was entirely normal himself, so they drove in silence. It was the morning of the October Day Parade and the early trams and buses were covered with placards extolling the successes of the Five Year Plan, the might of the Party and the wisdom of Stalin. Work parties were clearing the streets and a column of soldiers had halted in formation on Yauzski Boulevard, holding huge balloons in the shape of kolkhoz buildings. Here was the cooperative store, there the Party office, behind that a smithy—altogether there were forty or more swollen structures swaying in the light wind. The soldiers’ breath and cigarette smoke made it look as if the village was floating on a thin mist. Further along there were massed squares of pioneers in overcoats and red scarves, their flags and banners touching the last autumn leaves on the trees, and behind them a line of brown tanks, their exhausts belching black smoke as they turned their engines over. Korolev wondered how the teachers would keep the Pioneers quiet in the hours they’d have to wait before the parade moved. Perhaps the tanks were there to maintain order among the little Comrades.
“Were you surprised?” Semionov asked.
“That you turned out to be a Chekist? Yes, although when I look back, maybe I should have suspected something. You look young but you’ve an old head on your shoulders.”
“I was following orders. I know it may seem I didn’t behave in a comradely way—concealing my identity—but my orders demanded it.”
“I’m sure they did. Whatever you were up to, announcing you were an NKVD operative would no doubt have defeated the object. I’m not complaining, Vanya. A junior lieutenant in the Militia couldn’t have sprung me from the Lubianka. I’m grateful you turned out to be a Cheka captain.”
“Thank Yasimov. He called me with the registration number of the car. Once I’d tracked it to Gregorin—I asked Rodinov to look into it. Gregorin’s story came apart almost immediately—he was riding his luck, hoping people would be too frightened to ask questions. If it hadn’t been for Yasimov, though, we’d never have found you. When Gregorin told Chaikov to send you to Room H, it meant you were to be shot immediately.”
Korolev hadn’t focused on how close he’d been to death—he’d been conscious of it in the interrogation room, but since Semionov and the other rescuers had broken in on them the time had been filled with explanations and activity. Now he allowed himself to consider how close-run a thing it had been, and it was much too close for his liking.
“Yasimov’s a good friend. I’m thankful to you both,” he said, grateful beyond words if the truth had been told.
“I wasn’t lying when I spoke to Rodinov earlier. I learned a great deal from you.”
Korolev wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The affection he’d had for the old Semionov still existed, but he kept on remembering his own indiscretions, wondering if they featured in the younger man’s reports. And what about the questionable things Semionov himself had said from time to time? Had they been designed to trap him and others into making disloyal statements? He didn’t want to know what Semionov had been up to in Petrovka Street, but he must have been spying on the Criminal Investigation Division in some way.
It was as if Semionov had read his mind. “I spoke up for Mendeleyev, by the way, and I told Rodinov that I’d uncovered no evidence of serious disloyalty or dissent within the Criminal Investigation Division—only the usual mutterings that informers such as Larinin are always keen to pass on. Popov took the right approach, thorough self-criticism and an apology to the Party. Rodinov’s no hothead—he’ll recommend no further action is taken, I’m sure of it. Especially after this.”
Korolev held up his hand to stop him speaking.
“Please, Vanya.” He paused, considering whether the diminutive form of Semionov’s name was appropriate, and then deciding to continue anyway. “You saved my life back there, everything else is irrelevant. Believe me—when we meet again, it will be as friends.”
Semionov turned toward Korolev and the pleased smile on his honest, open face belonged to the old Semionov. But Korolev suspected the NKVD would soon change him into something harder, crueller probably as well. If it didn’t, then the likelihood was the boy would become a victim himself.
Semionov turned into Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinski and parked the car in front of Korolev’s building. He extended a hand.
“Friends then, Alexei Dmitriyevich.”
“Friends, Ivan Ivanovich.”
There was nothing else to say, and so they smiled at each other. Korolev knew his was genuine, in thanks and in the memory of the three months they’d worked together, but he couldn’t help wondering about Semionov. Who knew what he thought about anything after the way things had turned out?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was a weary Korolev who opened the apartment door as quietly as possible, just in case Valentine Nikolaevna was still asleep. He hadn’t taken more than two steps inside when he felt something cold and metallic being pressed just above his left ear.
“That’s a gun against your head, Captain Korolev. Not a word now. Hands above your head, please, and then take one slow step forward.”
Korolev did as he was instructed and the gun barrel moved with him, just as if it were glued to his hair. He could hear the click of the door being closed behind him and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw Gregorin sitting on one of the chairs. The pale morning light that slipped through the gaps in the curtains gave a slight polish to the leather jacket the colonel was wearing. Gregorin regarded the policeman with distaste.
An expert hand ran itself up and down Korolev’s body, quickly locating the Walther and removing it. Then he was pushed forward into the middle of the room. Gregorin nodded in greeting.
“Korolev. I was beginning to wonder whether you would come home at all, but it seems the wait was worth it.”
Korolev allowed his eyes to sneak sideways. The man holding the gun was Volodya, Gregorin’s driver.
“Luck’s an amazing thing. If you have it, you’re unstoppable really—even a fat, incompetent pedant like you. Isn’t that right?”
“If you say so, Colonel.”
“I do say so. I said it when Volodya here ran your car off the road and it turned out to be some other fellow. I said it when you stumbled across Mironov’s body. Now fortune has favored you again—it’s quite extraordinary. Sure as hell there’s no intelligence involved, you just have the Devil’s own luck. But it’s run out this time.”
Korolev said nothing—what was there to be said when a man the size of a bull was holding a gun to your head? If he hit Volodya with the table, the table would come off worst.
“Chaikov, was it?” the colonel mused. “He’d never have cooperated if he’d known, but I thought once he was in so deep he’d have no choice. It was always a risk if he found out.”
“Not just him, I was followed by a colleague to the Arbat house. He took the number plate of your car. Once people started asking questions about why you’d taken me into custody, things fell apart for you.”
“I take it I’m being searched for high and low.”
“Yes.”
Gregorin shrugged. “Well we’re not done yet, although this does make things more difficult, it’s true. I’m surprised it took so long to come unravelled, in a way, but once the icon went missing we had to move fast. Yagoda’s incriminated me, so I’m told, and I wasn’t going to wait around for the axe to fall. The icon was heaven-sent, and I’m not even a Believer.”
“You were never going to get away with this.”
“Wasn’t I? It was just another icon as far as everyone else was concerned. I was the only one who knew what it was, initially at least. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing when the Thief we caught in the raid told me, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what the icon might be worth. A great deal, of course, and I knew the people to talk to. Mironov was the only fly in the ointment.”
“So you killed him—not Chaikov.”
“Volodya did, in fact. Chaikov could be pointed in a direction, but even he would ask questions if he was interrogating an NKVD major. Fortunately Mironov wasn’t strong like the American nun. A few broken fingers and he sang like a nightingale.”
“So the nun Dolan has the icon, after all?”
Gregorin sighed. “Don’t try and play me for a fool, Korolev. I’m tired and I don’t have any time to waste. You spoke to the nun, you told me that, so you must know where it is. Tell me.”
Volodya pushed the muzzle of the pistol hard against Korolev’s head, making Korolev wince, partly from the pain and partly from the fact that Volodya’s hand seemed to be shaking. He hoped the big man had the safety catch on.
“I don’t know where it is, I told you that back in the Lubianka and it’s true.”
“Please, Korolev, don’t take me for an idiot.” Gregorin extracted a revolver from his pocket, the gray metal an oily shine in the half-light. He pointed the gun at Korolev and then nodded to Volodya.
“Bring them out.”
Volodya pocketed his own gun and entered Valentina Nikolaevna’s bedroom. First he brought out Natasha, who looked tiny in Volodya’s massive arms. She struggled, although she was bound hand and foot, but the big man paid no attention and sat her on the chesterfield. She was gagged and her eyes were wide with fear. Next he dragged out Valentina Nikolaevna, his hands under her arms. Korolev could see a purple bruise down the side of her face which vanished beneath the white cotton strip that pulled her mouth back in a blood-smeared grimace. Volodya sat her down as well, as though arranging dolls for a tea party.
“Look, Korolev, I think I know you by now. You’re a tough fellow, but you have a soft heart. You probably believe I’m going to shoot you in any event, so you’ll likely tell me to go to hell if I threaten you. But these two could still come out of this in one piece.” Gregorin leaned over and stroked Natasha’s face with his pistol. The girl made a low buzzing sound through her gag, while Valentina Nikolaevna’s head bowed in supplication, tears rolling from her eyes.
“The girl first, I think. Understand me, Korolev, I don’t do this from pleasure. You’re forcing me into it. That icon belongs to me now, and I will have it. If I make it out of this damned country, I don’t plan to live in penury. Nor does Volodya. Do you, Volodya?”
Volodya’s gun was back at Korolev’s head now and he pushed it in affirmation. Valentina had now turned toward Korolev and her eyes seemed to be begging him for mercy. He’d no choice in the face of eyes like that.
“Schwartz has it. In his room at the Metropol.”
“What?” Gregorin said, in something close to shock. Then he began to think about it, and the anger was soon visible in his face. “The bastard. Of course—he strung us along the whole time. Used you to mislead us as well, no doubt.”
“The nun told me.” It occurred to Korolev, as he was speaking, that Schwartz’s involvement in smuggling out icons for the Church sounded more than plausible, even though he was making it up as he went along. “Schwartz told me the Church approached him in America, remember? He’s been working with them all along.”
Gregorin seemed to be thinking hard, then he looked up at Korolev and from him to Valentina Nikolaevna and her daughter. He seemed to consider the relationship for a moment and then to come to a decision and pointed his gun toward Valentina Nikolaevna.
“You’ll go and fetch it for us then. If you fail, or try some trick, your daughter won’t just be shot. Look at Volodya, he hasn’t had a woman in hours. The girl’s perhaps a little young for him, but he’s not choosy. You won’t mind, will you, Volodya?”
“No,” Volodya said, the deep voice sounding half-amused.
Natasha was crying now and Valentina’s purple bruise was vivid against the shocked pallor of her skin, her pupils large black discs. The tension was like an electric force, humming from person to person. When the creak in the corridor outside the apartment’s front door came, it sounded like the crack of a whip.
At first everything froze. A cart bumping down the cobblestones outside sounded like a tank in the silence. Then there was another noise from the corridor, as if someone were very carefully advancing toward the door. Gregorin’s eyes were now as round as Natasha’s had been and his arms stretched forward as he gradually stood from his chair. He gestured Korolev toward the corner with his gun, away from the door, and then nodded to Volodya, miming turning an invisible handle. Volodya moved across the room in preparation, while Gregorin aimed his weapon. Korolev, crouching against the wall, wished he were a lot smaller than he was. Everyone waited.
When the door smashed in, it pulled Volodya’s wrist with it, and for a moment he was jerked forward. Korolev dropped to his knees as guns fired repeatedly, splashing yellow on the walls of the darkened room again and again. In the flashes Korolev saw Volodya thrown to the floor, his gun tumbling toward the still standing Gregorin, while Valentina tried to cover Natasha with her own body. Then the only sounds were Natasha’s sobbing and a strange muffled banging—l
ike a drum being hit with a sock.
The smell of cordite was sharp as Korolev stood up, watching Gregorin move his gun toward him as he did.
“Stay where you are!” Gregorin’s voice came to Korolev from a distance. The gunfire had half-deafened him. “No. Go to Volodya. But keep your hands in the air.”
Volodya was lying on his side, facing Gregorin, his left leg kicking against the wall in involuntary spasm. That accounted for the noise. The driver’s eyes, caught in a dusty ray of light from the window, looked up at Korolev in confusion. There were bloody black holes in his coat and a dark puddle was slowly spreading around him.
“How is it?” the big man whispered to Korolev. Korolev didn’t answer, his attention caught by Semionov, who’d been thrown against the opposite wall outside in the corridor. Blood was pumping down his chin from a long red gouge that revealed the white of his jawbone. He’d also been hit in the shoulder and chest and his breath bubbled red in his open mouth. He didn’t look as if he’d last long.
“How is it?” Volodya said, a little louder. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Korolev looked down at him and shrugged.
“Not good.”
“Damn it,” Gregorin said. “Back to where you were, Korolev.”
Korolev stood up and retreated toward the corner with slow backward steps, not taking his eyes off the colonel. Gregorin walked over to Volodya, pausing as he did so to pick up the stricken man’s weapon and put it in his pocket. He moved heavily, favoring his right side, and when he dipped to pick up the gun Korolev could see that his left leg was damp with blood. Good for Semionov, thought Korolev—he’d clipped the rat.
When Gregorin reached his driver, Volodya looked up with a calm expression and then breathed out slowly.
“Do it. There’s no way you can get me out like this, I know that. There’s only one way this ends for me now.”
Gregorin looked down at the driver for a long moment.
