The Holy Thief

CHAPTER TEN

The Metropol wasn’t the tallest building on Teatralnaya, being a mere six stories high, but it enjoyed a prime location across the square from the Bolshoi Theater and on a dark, clouded day-such as this one-the hotel’s many lit windows sent out a welcoming glow. The structure, an ornate mixture of the art deco and Russian imperial styles, still retained a fin de siècle elegance despite the more recent inscription that ran the length of the fifth floor: ONLY THE DICTATORSHIP OF THE PROLETARIAT CAN FREE MANKIND FROM THE CAPITALIST YOKE -V. I. LENIN.

The inscription always struck Korolev as a little unfriendly given that the Metropol catered mostly to important visitors from abroad and Western specialists, many of whom were presumably enthusiastic proponents of that same capitalist yoke, and very much against being dictated to by the proletariat. Still, whether the foreign capitalists liked it or not, even ordinary Soviet workers like Korolev could visit the Metropol and order a glass of beer. Despite its splendors, it was owned by the State, and the State was the People. The thought buoyed him up as he crossed the road toward the entrance, conscious, as he was, that wherever there were foreigners there was danger, and that most ordinary people avoided the Metropol, leaving it to apparatchiks, Party cadres, famous actors and the like to fly the Red Flag on their behalf. The hotel might be owned by the People, but that didn’t mean the People were crazy enough to visit it.

Korolev nodded to the tall doorman and showed him his identity card.

“ Moscow CID. Militia business. Where’s the manager’s office, Comrade?”

The doorman, dressed in a uniform that had more gold braid and tassels than a tsarist general’s and with a magnificent beard that looked like it might be supported by hidden wires, took Korolev’s papers and examined them for a moment before smiling, as one worker to another.

“Up the stairs and ask at reception, Comrade. The duty manager’s the fellow you need to talk to. Nikolai Vladimirovich. Don’t be put off by him, he’s a decent lad.”

The foyer was huge, lined with mirrors and paintings and more gilt and crystal than could be taken in immediately, all topped by a sky-blue ceiling, the corners and edges of which were decorated with painted clouds. Korolev had never been to the Metropol before and he was sufficiently taken aback by the grandeur of the interior to stop in his tracks and look around him like, he suspected, some village idiot at his first May Day parade. But most extraordinary of all was the long pool that graced the center of the room, in which young women with unnaturally red lips and jeweled swimming caps were performing some kind of ballet, their tight black swimsuits stretching with their bodies as their legs rose from the water as one. Korolev found himself instinctively removing his hat out of respect, although the swimmers paid him no attention, their eyes being fixed at an indeterminate point somewhere in the vicinity of the chandeliers.

He felt his cheeks reddening, but pulled himself together enough to advance toward the ornate oak-paneled reception desk, hoping the foreigners paid through their noses for all this, the rats. A handsome fellow in a dinner jacket was waiting for him, looking like a film star with his oiled hair and carved cheekbones-it was enough to make a man want to kick something. Korolev placed his identity card on the waiting blotter.

“I’ve a few questions for the duty manager. I believe Nikolai Vladimirovich is the man I want.”

The receptionist examined Korolev’s photograph with polite attention. No doubt the capitalist women just loved this fellow, Korolev thought, taking a quick dislike to him. If he was a member of the proletariat, then Korolev was a tangerine.

“Of course, Comrade, I’ll go and fetch him. Please take a seat by the fountain and he’ll be with you shortly.”

The film star pointed him to a cluster of red velvet seating, beside which water splashed and sparkled. Korolev walked over and sat down beneath a half-naked gilded nymph carrying an unlikely looking red star. He tried to relax, but he couldn’t help noticing that his valenki were giving off a pungent aroma not dissimilar to damp horse. He looked down and saw melting slush spreading over the crisp marble floor around his feet. Well, at least it wasn’t yellow, he thought to himself, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

After a few minutes, most of which Korolev spent wishing he was somewhere else, a small rotund man approached with an outstretched hand, teeth sparkling beneath his precisely sculpted, razor-thin mustache. A party badge twinkled on the lapel of his morning-suit coat.

“Comrade, I came as soon as I could. Nikolai Vladimirovich Krylov, Duty Manager. Please follow me. I wish to be of every assistance.”

Korolev followed Krylov’s patent leather shoes as they clicked across the marble floor toward what appeared to be a mirrored wall. At Krylov’s confident push, the mirror revealed itself to be the hidden door to a comfortably furnished office. Aside from a green-topped wooden desk, there were a pair of buttoned leather armchairs and a matching leather couch gathered around a glass coffee table. Krylov pointed Korolev toward the couch.

“Would you like a cognac, Comrade? French and very fine.” Krylov reached for a decanter.

Korolev was about to refuse the offer when he caught sight of a brass carriage clock on the chimneypiece. It was four o’clock already, and it had been a long day.

“French, you say? Well, why not?”

“Excellent,” Krylov said and filled two small glasses to the brim. He handed one to Korolev and sat down carefully opposite the other, raising the delicate glass in toast.

“Your health, Comrade.”

“And yours,” Korolev replied and they drank a healthy sip, but not all of it. They were cultured Soviet citizens, after all, not beasts of the field.

“So how can I assist you, Captain?” Krylov asked, leaning forward, his pale face showing a concern that was perhaps a little exaggerated. Korolev decided there was no point in beating about the bush.

“You’ve a fellow called Schwartz staying here-I’d like to talk to him.”

Krylov nodded slowly. His eyes were very dark, Korolev noticed, and perhaps this accounted for the lack of visible reaction to his request.

“May I ask what your inquiry is in connection with?” Krylov asked, after lengthy deliberation. “While we always cooperate fully with representatives of the Ministry of State Security, we do owe a duty of confidentiality to our guests.”

Korolev realized he had just very politely been reminded that he, a humble Militia captain, was treading on NKVD turf, and had better have some justification for doing so. He swirled the remaining cognac round his glass and finished it with a gulp, the heat of the alcohol warming his stomach.

“It’s to do with a murder, Comrade Krylov. It’s been suggested to me, by another part of the Ministry, that I should talk to this Schwartz fellow.”

Krylov stood up and reached for the bottle to refill Korolev’s glass.

“We’re under instructions to give this resident, in particular, a certain amount of discreet protection. Do you think…” he began and Korolev took the hint.

“May I use your phone, please, Comrade Krylov? I’ll speak to a colleague at State Security, just to make sure I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.”

Krylov gave him a relieved smile.

“Of course, please be my guest. Ask the operator to put you through. And don’t worry-she won’t be listening in. They know better than that, but then, of course…” Again he failed to finish his sentence, giving a small shrug as he stepped through the doorway that told Korolev that if the operator wasn’t listening in, someone else probably was. A good lad, despite the fancy dress. He picked up the phone on the desk, asking for the Lubianka and then for Staff Colonel Gregorin when the switchboard answered. Gregorin’s voice sounded tired when it came on the line.

“Comrade Korolev? At the Metropol, I believe. Isn’t it a little early for you to be out on the town?”

“Strictly business, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev answered, trying his best to hide his surprise that Gregorin knew where he was. “I thought I’d talk to that American you mentioned-Schwartz.”

“I think you should, Korolev. But just talk to him, nothing more, you understand. Make it clear it’s an unofficial inquiry and be discreet about the girl. We don’t want to offend the Americans. You’re dealing with Krylov, I believe. Put him on. By the way, I’ll meet you at your building at seven-thirty this evening. I think you should be introduced to your neighbors.”

Krylov took the phone when summoned, agreed with the colonel twice in the one-sided phone call, then hung up. He turned to Korolev with a smile.

“Mr. Jack Schwartz is the gentleman you want. He’s a regular guest. American, from New York. He’s been here for the last ten days. The profession he gives on his visa, which is a business visa, not a tourist one, is ‘antiques dealer.’ ”

Korolev liked the way Krylov pointed out Schwartz was on a business visa. It meant that Schwartz was a friend of the State in case Korolev hadn’t worked it out already, and an antiques dealer would fit in with what Gregorin had told him.

“I’ll see if he’s in. Is there anything else you would like in the meantime, a sandwich perhaps?”

“No thank you, Comrade Krylov. I’m not hungry,” Korolev said, the lie tasting like meatballs in his mouth.

“Are you all right, Comrade? You look quite pale.”

“It’s nothing Comrade. Just a momentary dizziness. Perhaps my Soviet liver is reacting badly to this bourgeois cognac.”

“Well, your Soviet liver should be proud to prevent the cognac being drunk by foreign capitalists. A selfless act!” Krylov winked and left the room, returning moments later.

“You’re in luck, Comrade, he’s sitting outside at this very moment. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

Mr. Jack Schwartz of New York fitted in very well at the Metropol. Korolev had to acknowledge that the American’s gray woolen suit was cut with a level of precision that was beyond Soviet tailors, even the one Krylov used. Disconcertingly, he found himself seized by a desire to run his fingers along the jacket’s lapel-just to feel the fabric. Looking at it, he guessed it would be just as soft as the dead girl’s skirt, but he put the thought aside, reminding himself that Soviet clothes would be its equal, and better, in time.

Schwartz was a young man, about thirty, good-looking with full lips, a long jaw and dark brown eyes that seemed large for his face. He sat reading through some typewritten pages, his overcoat and a briefcase taking up one of the other seats at the table.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” Schwartz said in perfect Russian when Krylov introduced them. Korolev wondered whether his red tie was worn out of politeness or conviction.

“I’m investigating a crime, Mr. Jack Schwartz, and I believe you may be able to assist me. My approach is unofficial, of course, and I hope if I ask you a few questions they will not interfere in any way with your enjoyment of your visit to Moscow and the Soviet Union, where you are most heartily welcome.” A little formal perhaps, Korolev thought, but better safe than sorry. Schwartz nodded his head toward one of the other chairs at the table.

“Pull up a seat, Captain Korolev. I’m always pleased to fulfill my civic duties. What’s it that you’re investigating? Must be something serious.”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Jack Schwartz. A murder.”

“A murder?” At first Schwartz seemed almost amused, but then, after he’d thought about it for a moment or two, Korolev saw the humor drain from his eyes.

“Who was it?” he asked in a flat voice.

“We’re not sure. A young woman, in her early twenties we believe. Attractive, dark hair cut short. Blue eyes, slim build, about five foot four in height? Does that sound like someone you might know?”

Korolev thought he detected a reaction to the description, a momentary pause while Schwartz fitted the description together to make a picture, then an involuntary intake of breath, immediately suppressed, and covered up by a hunt through his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Hercegovina Flor, as it happened. He pulled a cigarette out of the packet of ten and then offered one to Korolev, before lighting both with a thin gold lighter.

“I don’t think it sounds like anyone I know in Moscow,” Schwartz said, his face a picture of puzzlement. “What made you think I might have? I come to Moscow a couple of times a year it’s true, but I only stay for a week or so. Pretty much everyone I meet here is a business contact.”

“You speak excellent Russian, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I would imagine a good-looking man such as yourself would find no shortage of female admirers in Moscow, even on such short visits.”

Korolev might not visit the Metropol, but he knew what went on here. He knew about the Russian girls who threw themselves at foreigners, desperate for a new life in a place like New York, where their dreams about capitalist life would no doubt be subject to a rude awakening. Schwartz frowned.

“I find my business here pretty much all-consuming, I’m afraid, Captain. But, like I said, what makes you think this woman knew me?”

“A suggestion from a third party. They also indicated you might be able to tell me something about the export of various valuable objects, some of them possibly religious. I don’t know-icons, perhaps.”

Again Korolev watched Schwartz carefully for a reaction, but there was nothing this time except a quick glance at his watch.

“I’m afraid the description of the woman still means nothing to me, Captain. However, I’d be happy to tell you what I can about exporting art and so forth, but you’ll have to forgive me. I’ve an appointment at five at the Moskva. Could we arrange to meet another time?” He smiled in apology and indicated the overcoat and briefcase.

“Of course. As I said, this is only an informal conversation. You shouldn’t be late for your meeting.”

“I wish I could help you.” Schwartz looked at him for a moment, as though he were thinking something over. “But listen, why not walk with me? You can tell me more about the case-maybe it’ll jog my memory. And I’ll tell you about the antiques trade.”

Once they were outside and walking across Teatralnaya Square, Schwartz turned to Korolev. “So how did she die, this nameless victim?”

“Not easily. Are you sure you want me to tell you the details?”

Schwartz nodded, “Yes, please do. If you’re permitted, of course.”

“She was tortured, I’m afraid. Very badly. There was also some mutilation. Parts of her body were removed and it seems she was burned with electricity.”

Schwartz slowed his pace and then stopped altogether. He carefully put his briefcase down beside him, put his hands in the pockets of his suit and looked over at the Bolshoi Theater-he seemed lost in thought.

“Do you know who did it?”

Schwartz’s reaction seemed genuine, so Korolev decided to give him some incentive to cooperate.

“We’re at an early stage of the investigation, I’m afraid, and not making much progress. If it carries on like this, there’s a good chance the killer will escape punishment-we’re running out of leads to follow up.”

Schwartz seemed to consider this.

“It’s very cold, isn’t it?” Korolev remarked, after a pause, having come to the conclusion that the antiques dealer knew exactly who the dead woman was.

“Yes. To be honest, I didn’t really come prepared. I thought I’d miss the winter this year, but it’s started early.” Schwartz turned his gaze to Korolev and blinked. Korolev lowered his gaze, wondering whether he’d given his suspicions away.

“You know I’m an American citizen, of course.”

“Yes,” Korolev said, thinking this a strange statement to make.

“I come here twice a year to buy valuable objects of historical and artistic importance from the Russian State. Did you know that?”

“There’s no one else here to buy them from, I believe.”

Schwartz smiled, as though at a hidden joke. Korolev noted the reaction.

“Perhaps not. Anyway, I pay hard currency, very large amounts of it, and I deal with the Ministry of State Security. Your Militia is part of that, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I think I know who your dead woman was and I’ll tell you here, out in the street, away from any recording device or witness-if you want me to. But I’ll deny everything if I’m ever contacted in the future. In other words, I’m asking whether I can rely on your discretion. Of course, I could probably just make a phone call and you’d be instructed not to bother me anymore, but I’d like to help you. If it’s who I think it is, she was a good person. I didn’t know her that well, but she sure as hell didn’t deserve to get killed in the way you describe. What do you say?”

Korolev looked at the young man and then nodded briskly.

“Tell me what you know, please, Mr. Jack Schwartz. I will keep it out of the file.” Korolev held out his hand to confirm the agreement and Schwartz took it.

“Well, first off, you can just call me Jack.”

Korolev nodded, although he thought this was a little informal, given that they had only just met. Still, everything was no doubt different in America. Capitalists probably had little need for politeness and refinement-they were unlikely to be as cultured as Soviet citizens.

“OK, Jack. And please-call me Alexei.” It felt odd, but he supposed reciprocation was necessary in the circumstances.

The American looked at his watch and appeared to be already reconsidering their agreement. He gave Korolev a quizzical look, sighed and then spoke very quickly.

“I think your woman is called Nancy Dolan, she’s an American.”

“Nancy Dolan?” Korolev said, wondering who the devil Nancy Dolan was. He’d seen Mary Smithson’s papers after all, and the dead girl certainly seemed to be her.

“Yes, Nancy Dolan, or at least that’s the name she was using last time I saw her. Look, it works like this. I represent a number of clients on my visits here-art galleries, museums, collectors mainly-but I also act for some others. Your people know I act for them, and my clients know who I’m buying from, but it would be embarrassing for everyone if it became public knowledge.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure I understand.”

“I act for émigrés basically, former nobility, that kind of person, and I also act for the Orthodox Church. That’s what you were hinting at, wasn’t it? When you mentioned icons?” Korolev nodded, hoping he wasn’t betraying his surprise.

“Well, sometimes I’m sent to look for a particular item that one of those clients knows is in Soviet hands. An heirloom perhaps, a painting, a piece of jewelry-if it’s available, and the buyer is prepared to pay foreign currency and be discreet, your representatives are generally prepared to sell. With the Church it’s a little different. They look for items of religious significance, often icons, but also other things-relics, books, churchware. I let them know what your people have available and they give me instructions accordingly. But it’s rare for them to send me after a particular object. Are you still with me?”

It wasn’t that different from what Gregorin had told him so Korolev nodded, although he was still a little perplexed that the State was selling property to former oppressors of the People.

“Good. Now, as I said, I often don’t have a particular item in mind when I’m acting for the Church, unless it’s already on offer. But this trip is different. The Ministry has a particular icon, at least according to the Church’s contacts, and the Church wants it. They want it very badly, in fact. And I think it’s possible Nancy Dolan was here looking for that icon.”

Korolev considered what he’d just been told. What icon was worth two deaths?

“Tell me about the icon, please, Jack,” he said, the name feeling slippery on his tongue.

“I can’t. I wish I could, but the information is sensitive to say the least. It’s important-that much you can guess.”

“A miraculous icon?”

“Nice try, but I can’t tell you anything more about it. Except that I’m ready to pay good money for it unless it’s an obvious fake, but my contacts here won’t confirm they have it. The only thing they’ve told me is that ‘they’re aware of the rumors.’ I’ve told them I have the money for it. They asked how much. I named a figure-a damned big figure-and they said that that was very interesting and something they would bear in mind. Nothing more. I think the whole thing’s a wild-goose chase.”

“But what did Nancy Dolan have to do with all of this?”

Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond and then he sighed.

“When I discussed the commission with the Church in the States, I’m pretty sure she opened the door to the house. She was a good-looking woman, so I remembered her, even though I only caught a glimpse. Then I met her ten days ago in Berlin -she was getting on the train to Moscow, same as me. I don’t know if she recognized me, and I didn’t let on I knew her-you know how these things are-but we were put at the same table in the restaurant for the entire journey and it was definitely the same woman. I knew she wasn’t called Nancy Dolan back in New York, that’s for sure, because she spoke Russian like a native. But on the train? Nothing more than ‘pozhalsta’ and ‘spasiba.’ Anyway, we had a good time. I told her to look me up at the Metropol-she liked jazz and the Metropol’s the place to come in Moscow if you like jazz. I got a call from her three days ago.”

“What did she want?”

“I don’t know. The conversation lasted about thirty seconds-all she said was that she’d like to drop by. I told her to come over whenever she wanted to and that was the last I heard from her.”

“Three days ago. Did she say where she was staying? Anything at all?”

“Nothing. It was a pretty short conversation, like I said.”

“What was her official reason for being here, do you know?”

“She was on a tour, a Soviet organized one. Intourist, I think.”

Korolev pulled a notebook out of his pocket and then thought better of it. Schwartz nodded in gratitude.

“Thanks-I don’t think I want any of this written down.”

“Understood. Did she mention meeting anyone in particular while she was here? Think back to the train journey. Anything you remember might be vital, Jack.”

He still couldn’t get used to using Schwartz’s first name; it didn’t feel natural to him.

“She told me about some friends of hers working for Comintern in Moscow, but I don’t remember their names or where they were staying. American I think.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. Believe it or not, we spent most of the journey talking about the World Series. I saw the winning game-Yankees up against the Giants. She was a Yankees fan.”

“The World Series?”

“Yeah, baseball. You know, the game with the bat and the ball? American?”

“Yes, I think so. With the circle? I saw it on a newsreel once. Maybe the Ukrainians play it. We play football, of course, and every factory has an athletics team.”

“I think it’s just us. Anyway, the Yankees won. She was happy about it. If you ever come to New York, let me know. You should go to a game.”

“Perhaps one day, Jack.” Korolev smiled at the unlikelihood of such a visit and then a thought occurred to him. “But if you’re still in Moscow on Friday, there’s a big football game, Spartak against Central House of The Red Army. It will be an interesting cultural experience-you should come.”

They were nearly at the front door of the Moskva and Schwartz turned toward him and extended his hand with a smile. “Why not?”

“Good,” Korolev said, already regretting the invitation. “The game is at two o’clock. I could pick you up from the Metropol-say at twelve-thirty?”

“I’ll look forward to it. Listen, I’m running late, but we have a deal? You keep me out of this?”

“Yes, of course,” Korolev said, shaking the American’s, hand. He watched Schwartz enter the hotel and shook his head in astonishment. What had he been thinking of? Asking a foreigner to a football game? He wouldn’t have believed five minutes before that he could come up with a way to make things even worse than they were, but the answer was yes, he could. He’d better ask the general what he thought. And make sure Gregorin had no objections. Damn.

Still, Schwartz wasn’t a bad fellow. Optimistic, self-confident, friendly, he seemed fresh and clean against the gray Moscow autumn. He wondered if New York was the same: shiny, a little brash. Perhaps things weren’t quite as bad there as they made out. Things weren’t that good in Russia: they couldn’t keep the famines in the countryside secret, no matter how hard they tried. Hell, there were people starving in Moscow itself. The uniforms picked up bodies from the streets every day.

He looked at his watch. It was ten past five, and a ten-minute walk to the office. If he was lucky, he might catch Semionov. He started toward Petrovka and, as he turned, caught a glimpse of a face he recognized from the lobby of the Metropol: a young fellow, square of body and face, with short brown hair, sallow skin and a scrubby mustache. He appeared to be very interested in a passing group of Pioneers, their red neck-scarves poking from their winter coats. Korolev let his glance slide across the man-if it was a tail he didn’t want him to know he’d spotted him. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had been followed. Someone would be keeping an eye on Schwartz, given what he was in Moscow for, and they’d be interested in anyone who spoke to him. He had a nonchalant look round the square but couldn’t see any others. Then again, if it was the NKVD, there’d be at least three or four and they’d be good at it too. He took a deep breath-they were either tailing him or they weren’t. There wasn’t much point in worrying about it, either way.

But when he caught a young woman observing him in the reflection from a Torgsin window five minutes later he cursed the day Popov had lined him up for this damned case. The investigation was beginning to take on a life of its own and he wasn’t sure he was going to like what it might have in store for him.