by William Ryan
‘Did you have a look at any of the dead out there, Comrade Major? One of them is your protege, Sergeant Gradov from the village station. You’ll remember him – the fellow on whose behalf you interceded when he lost his weapon last year.’
‘Gradov?’
Irritated, yes, but no sudden fear or concern.
‘Yes, Gradov. He was one of the terrorists – that’s what he was doing here. Helping run guns for a rebellion against the State is how your Sergeant Gradov was passing his time.’
‘Gradov? A terrorist? I don’t believe it.’
‘So my question to you is how did you end up down here, Comrade Major? I ask this because it’s not a place you just stumble upon.’
‘I didn’t just stumble upon it, Korolev. Petrov here is friendly with a woman whose husband disappeared yesterday. A stonecutter. She thought he’d got involved in some smuggling operation and came to Petrov for help, and he came to me.’
‘How convenient. And you managed to make your way to this exact spot.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Korolev, but I haven’t been inside these tunnels since the Civil War. And wouldn’t be down here now if Petrov hadn’t brought me down here.’
‘Olga Ivanova gave me a map.’ Petrov’s voice was a barely audible whisper.
‘And why would she tell you to come down here?’
‘Because her husband didn’t come home last night. She had a bad feeling about him. And she was right. We found him with his throat cut back along the passageway. But she knew where this place was.’
‘Petrov came to me, as I said,’ Mushkin interjected, ‘and since Rodinov told us this business had something to do with the catacombs, we followed it up.’ Mushkin’s voice sounded angry now. ‘So put the damned gun down, Korolev. You’ve done your duty – you’ve asked the questions – but enough is enough.’
Suddenly the sound of more people approaching came from the direction the Greek and Slivka had left in. Petrov looked concerned, as well he might, but it was Colonel Marchuk’s voice that called into the chamber.
‘Korolev?’
‘In here, Comrade Colonel.’
The room was soon flooded with uniforms, all armed to the teeth. The colonel looked around at the weapons and the men lying dead, and nodded his grim approval to Korolev. Then he set to work.
In a whirlwind of activity the colonel sent for more men, congratulated Korolev, praised Slivka and the Greek, calculated how long it might take to move the weapons, identified some of those lying dead and cursed the traitor Gradov for a black-hearted villain. And at some point, amidst all the bustle and confusion, Mushkin disappeared.
§
‘Comrade Petrov,’ Korolev asked. ‘Where’s your boss gone to?’
‘Major Mushkin? He’s gone to report to headquarters. He wants our people to take over down here.’
Korolev looked around for Slivka. She was at his elbow, bless her.
‘When did he go and which direction?’
Petrov indicated the far tunnel, confused as he realized that the Major had chosen a different way out from the way he’d come in. Odd, given he’d said he hadn’t visited the catacombs in fifteen years.
‘When?’
‘Not more than two minutes past, Comrade.’
Korolev turned to Slivka. ‘Run after him. If you find him, follow him. See where he ends up.’
‘Petrov,’ Korolev said, after Slivka had gone, ‘tell me why there weren’t more of you down here? Why just the two of you?’
‘The major said we had to keep it strictly confidential, Comrade Korolev. Between ourselves.’
‘So no one else apart from you and the major knew you were down here, or about Olga Ivanova’s map.’
‘No one.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Things were moving quickly now, and Korolev had to admit he was impressed with Marchuk. In less than an hour the captured weapons had been moved out of the catacombs and into the security of the Bebel Street station. On top of this, Marchuk had put every Militiaman in Odessa out on the streets, had closed down the railway station, blocked the roads out of the city, and now even ships were to be prevented from leaving the harbour. Even Rodinov was pleased.
‘Marchuk has done well,’ he said when Korolev telephoned to inform him of the latest developments.
‘I agree, Comrade Colonel.’
‘And you’ve done well also, Korolev.’
As for Mushkin, Rodinov had seemed strangely unconcerned when told that he’d disappeared and that Slivka had been unable to track him. Almost as if he’d expected just such an outcome.
‘Don’t worry about Mushkin, Korolev. He doesn’t like you and you don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s a traitor. No, we must look elsewhere for the source of this conspiracy. Tell Marchuk I approve his every action, but that from now on the Odessa NKVD will be taking over this affair directly. Petrenko is in charge now, tell Marchuk that – they’ll know each other, I’m sure of it – and all prisoners are to be transferred to his custody. As for you, Korolev, you keep on as you’ve been doing.’
‘Shall I ask this Comrade Petrenko for instructions?’
‘You report only to me, Korolev. No, you started off looking for the girl’s killer and you should carry on doing so. Petrenko will handle the rest. I suggest you go out to the Orlov House immediately. If Les Pins is there, take him into custody. If not, I want you to search his belongings and seize any potential evidence. And remember this. Discretion is required. Absolutely required. That’s why I’m sending you and not Chekists. And why you’re not to talk to anyone else about this case, except me.’
There was nothing friendly about the instruction and Korolev took the point. He might well have uncovered this conspiracy, but he wasn’t to be allowed to give either Marchuk or this new fellow Petrenko any information that might link the matter back to the People’s Commissar’s mistress or to the People’s Commissar himself. And now it was his job to secure any incriminating evidence.
Korolev’s grimace drew Slivka’s attention away from the road ahead and he shook his head to tell her it was nothing. In accordance with the colonel’s instructions they were driving towards the Agricultural College, the car splashing the uneven road ahead with the only light in a world as dark as the inside of a grave.
‘The uniforms should have secured the place by now,’ Slivka said, glancing at her watch. The Militiamen from the village station had been told to prevent anyone from leaving until they arrived, and also to hold anyone who attempted to enter the premises in the meantime.
Two minutes later the car’s headlights illuminated the Odessa Regional Agricultural College’s name, the foot-high concrete letters golden in their beam as they turned into the entrance, but there was something oppressive about the way the night closed in behind them as they drove along the tree-lined avenue. The faint outline of the Orlov House showed ahead, ghostly pale against the black sky with not a glimmer of welcoming light to be seen. There was no sign of the Militiamen.
‘Let’s leave the car here, Slivka,’ Korolev said. ‘I have a feeling about this.’
Slivka killed the engine and the headlights, and the car coasted to a halt. They sat there for a moment, listening to the silence of past midnight on the steppe. Not even a mouse was turning in its sleep. The only sound was their own shallow breathing and the creak of the car’s warm bonnet as it adjusted to the sub-zero temperature.
They stepped out of the car, closing the doors very quietly, and waited for their eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. The air had the moist, frigid density that preceded snow, and Korolev felt a speculative flake land on his cheek. They began to walk slowly towards the Orlov House, moving into the darker shadows on either side of the avenue, where the trees overhung it, and were grateful they had when lights suddenly glowed up ahead – the long windows on the ground floor of the Orlov House and the white outside lamps of the college buildings d
usting their immediate surroundings with a silvery sheen. Korolev looked away from them to preserve his night vision, thinking there must have been a power cut that had just been repaired.
It wasn’t so much the silence that disturbed him or the absence of the Militiamen who should have been challenging them. It was something else again, something much more intangible. And he was grateful for the snug feel of the Walther in his hand when the light spilling from the windows and open front door of Mushkina’s cottage showed a crumpled body lying on the cobblestones in front of it.
With Slivka covering him, Korolev carefully approached, recognizing the young uniform from the village, Sharapov. Wet blood oozed down the boy’s pale face. Korolev leant down to feel for a pulse and was surprised by the wave of relief when he felt it. But the relief was tempered with caution – Korolev looked around the courtyard, concerned that the boy’s attacker might still be close by. The lights flickered, then went out once again and they were left in darkness. Slivka had already positioned herself beside Mushkina’s open doorway and he made his way to her, crouching as he did so.
‘Who’s that?’ she whispered.
‘Sharapov – someone’s knocked him out cold.’
In the dark, he couldn’t see Slivka’s reaction.
‘What do we do about this someone, Chief?’ she asked, her voice calm.
‘We see if we can find him and we deal with him.’ Korolev took a deep breath and stepped inside Mushkina’s cottage.
§
Inside it was as dark as the bottom of a coal mine and Korolev pushed himself against the wall, lifted his Walther and turned on his torch, running it quickly round the room. It looked just as he might have expected except for the slumped figure lying across Mushkina’s writing desk.
‘It’s clear, but we’ve another body,’ he whispered to Slivka, who entered behind him and covered him as he approached the desk.
‘The Frenchman,’ he muttered as he turned Jean Les Pins’ head, the dead man’s hair surprisingly soft and his skin, even more surprisingly, with a trace of the heat of a living person. But a thin strip of rope was still dug deep into his neck. And then the smell struck him. The perfume of hot wax. He put a finger to the wick of the candle beside Les Pins’ head – still warm and the wax underneath still liquid. The killer must have left only moments before they arrived.
‘Who is it?’ Slivka asked, moving slowly across the room, gun held out in front of her with her left hand supporting her right.
‘Les Pins. Strangled. Whoever did it is still close, Slivka. Be careful.’
There was no sign of a struggle, and yet here Les Pins was, garrotted, and Sharapov lying unconscious outside with a lump on his head the size of a lemon. There was a door leading further into the house and Korolev, followed closely by Slivka, crept towards it and, gun first, made his way into the kitchen. A quick scan of the room with his torch showed the back door was ajar.
‘Do you think we disturbed them?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m going to check upstairs.’
Leaving Slivka to cover his back, Korolev climbed the stairs to the upper storey, his feet seeming to find every possible creak in the steps as he went. A shirt lay discarded on the small landing and it was clear that someone had ransacked the two bedrooms – Mushkina’s clothes were strewn everywhere, a mattress had been thrown from the bed and cut open with a knife and books littered the floor, their spines and boards filleted. A very thorough job, but hastily done, Korolev decided, wondering what the ransacker had been looking for, and why similar havoc hadn’t been visited on the rooms downstairs. Perhaps they had disturbed the intruder. Or perhaps Les Pins had.
‘Well, Chief?’ Slivka called up to him in a loud whisper.
‘That someone’s been up here, Slivka – and searching for something by the looks of it. No sign of Comrade Mushkina.’
He turned off his torch and went back downstairs – whatever they’d been looking for must be worth having.
‘Where’s Mushkina’s telephone?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Get it winding, Slivka, and get people out here, soon as you can. I’ll bring Sharapov into the kitchen before he freezes.’
By the time Korolev had dragged the young Militiaman inside the front door, fat snowflakes were beginning to fall in earnest and already a thin coating of white covered the cobblestones. He could hear Slivka frantically turning the handle on the telephone she’d found on the kitchen wall.
‘No line, not even a crackle. It must be the electricity.’
‘Or perhaps that “someone” fellow cut it, just to make things easy for us. Come on, help me get Sharapov into the kitchen.’
‘Chief,’ Slivka said a few moments later, speaking quietly as she placed a cushion under the unconscious Militiaman’s head, ‘do you hear something?’
He heard it all right – the sound of an approaching motor, its engine barely turning over, but audible enough despite the snow. They crossed the room to the small window that overlooked the courtyard and saw a small truck coming up the lane where they’d left the car at a pace that a man on crutches could have kept up with, its lights off.
‘There’s a phone in the investigation room and one up at the house,’ Slivka whispered. ‘Shall we try for them?’
‘You go, Slivka. I’ll stay here. We can’t leave Sharapov on his own.’
Korolev sensed that she was about to disagree, but he took hold of her shoulder and pushed her firmly towards the back entrance.
Slivka turned as if she might resist, but then she kept on moving and closed the door behind her. Good girl, he thought, then retrieved Sharapov’s Nagant from its side holster. He cracked it open and ran a thumb round the chambers before snapping it shut. Good, it was fully loaded – he’d keep the Walther for later. He slipped off the safety catch and returned to the window just as the truck disgorged three people at the very spot where Sharapov’s body had lain just minutes before.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The first man into Mushkina’s sitting room looked around nervously, apparently not knowing what to expect, before retreating. When the tall man returned, he was accompanied by another shadowy figure who aimed what looked like a revolver into the darkness. Korolev wasn’t sure where the third member of the crew was, but he hoped he’d stayed in the truck. He waited until the two men reached the middle of the room before aiming the torch at their eyes to dazzle them.
‘Militia. I’ve a gun pointed right at you so put your hands up and drop your weapons to the floor. One wrong move and I shoot.’
Korolev flicked the beam back and forwards between the two men – he didn’t recognize the taller man, but the second man was familiar, even if it weren’t for the Militia overcoat. Blumkin from the village station. There was a clatter as Blumkin’s pistol hit the floor.
‘Who are you?’ Korolev asked the stranger, his voice sounding far more measured and calm than he felt.
The man opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Blumkin seemed to be trying to slowly back away towards the door until Korolev fixed him to the spot with a warning flash of the torch.
‘Blumkin, try anything and you’ll be breathing through a hole in your chest. Kick your gun over here.’
The Militiaman moved back towards his gun in order to comply, while Korolev, his eyes never leaving Blumkin, addressed the tall man.
‘You. Surname, name, patronymic.’
But the stranger was looking at a point behind Korolev’s shoulder and even Blumkin had stopped moving, waiting for something. It wasn’t much of a surprise when a voice came from the kitchen doorway.
‘Don’t move, Korolev. It would be a mistake if you did.’
It was the voice of a person who had a gun pointed at a fellow’s back and a bullet ready to plant a hole the size of a baby’s fist between his shoulder blades if he should so much as shiver. But Korolev started to turn anyway. After all, he recognized the voice well enough.
‘That’s
enough, Korolev. Put your gun and the torch on the table beside you.’
‘As you wish,’ Korolev said, placing Sharapov’s Nagant down as instructed and noting without surprise that Blumkin had recovered his pistol and was pointing it straight at his throat.
‘Damienko, pick up that gun and take the torch.’
‘What’s going on, Comrade Mushkina?’ the tall man asked.
‘Trouble is what’s going on, Damienko. And your only way out of it is to do as I say.’
Mushkina’s voice had enough iron in it to armour a tank and the stranger did as he was told, checking the magazine of Sharapov’s Nagant and making sure there was a bullet in the firing chamber. Whoever he was, he’d handled a gun before. Korolev was conscious of the weight of the Walther in his pocket, but with three guns now trained on him it seemed to him the best place for his hands was pointing upwards, which was where he put them.
‘What happened to Les Pins?’
‘We found him searching for certain information. A guest who overstayed his welcome – in more ways than one – and a loose end that needed tying up.’
Korolev sighed: it didn’t take much detective work to realize he was another loose end that needed tying up – permanently. Still, he had a gun in his pocket and Slivka was out there somewhere. The game wasn’t over yet – not for as long as he was allowed to keep playing it, anyway.
‘So it was you, all along, Comrade Mushkina. Pulling the strings, finding enemies and counter-revolutionaries and bringing them together. Killing anyone who stood in your way.’
‘Finding them, Korolev?’ she repeated bitterly. ‘That wasn’t hard – there isn’t a man, woman or child in this part of the world doesn’t know that the Revolution has failed them. I don’t have to search for people who are against the Revolution – around here everyone is against the Revolution. Ask people in the village about hunger and they’ll tell you stories that will turn your blood to ice. They were left with nothing for a long winter – but I know where it all went. Do you know where, Korolev? Abroad. To the Capitalist countries. To the imperialists and bankers. To prop up fascists and oppressors while our own people starved. And there’s nothing that wasn’t eaten here at that time. Leather, grass, the bark of trees and worse, much worse than that. This is what the Revolution gave these people – the same people it was meant to be freeing from tyranny and want. Let me tell you, Korolev, the tsars were better to the people round here than Stalin, and that’s the truth of it.’
