The Holy Thief

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-like 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.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, then pointed his gun, closed his eyes and fired. Volodya’s body jerked once and the kicking stopped. The red puddle around him spread a little faster.

Korolev’s back, meanwhile, had found the wall and there was nowhere further for him to go. He straightened up and began to pray in silence that the Lord would forgive him his sins. Then the muzzle of Gregorin’s gun was a black hole aimed straight between his eyes.

“This was all your fault,” Gregorin said.

Korolev closed his eyes and waited for the bullet. He hoped he’d feel nothing and that the Lord would hear his prayers and spare Valentina and Natasha.

Click. Click. Click.

Korolev opened his eyes at the sound of the trigger pulling on empty chambers. The colonel was looking at the gun in mild confusion, then he looked at Korolev and shook his head in disbelief. After a long moment the colonel dropped the empty gun onto the floor and limped to the door. As he left the apartment, Korolev saw him pull Volodya’s gun from his pocket and hold it straight down his wounded leg. In the distance a Militia whistle shrieked, and Korolev wondered why on earth the colonel hadn’t shot him.

He stood absolutely still, listening to the receding footsteps and then the sound of the colonel going down the stairs. It wasn’t fear that kept him immobile so much as amazement that he was still alive. But he was, and that meant he had to do something. He shook himself, then walked into the kitchen and reached into the drawer where Valentina kept a sharp knife.

“Valentina Nikolaevna, pay attention,” he said as he cut the cord that held her wrists, and then pressed the hilt of the knife into her freed hands. “I need you to do some things for me.”

She nodded, although her eyes were still wide with terror.

“First, you have to call the Lubianka and ask for Colonel Rodinov. Tell him that Colonel Gregorin has shot Semionov. Ask him to send an ambulance. Inform him Gregorin may be making his way to the Metropol and I’ve gone after him. Then, and only then, see to Semionov and Natasha. Understood?”

“Yes,” she managed to say when he pulled the gag off, and the effort of speaking seemed to calm her. He touched her face for a moment and she moved her head around so that her lips rested against his wrist. They held each other’s eyes for a moment and then he stood.

With a grunt of exertion, Korolev managed to turn Volodya’s body, and he pulled his Walther out of the dead driver’s coat pocket. Semionov lifted a hand as he left the apartment and he stooped down to him.

“His car. Emka. On Vorontsovo Pole. That’s how I knew. To come back.” The words came out in bubbles of blood that left Semionov’s lips crimson.

“Help is coming, Vanya. Hold on, friend.”

Korolev went down the staircase four steps at a time. White faces stared from half-open doors as he hurtled past and then he was out of the front door, looking up the alley toward the church for which the street was named. He thought he saw Gregorin turn the corner but couldn’t be sure. Two Militia uniforms were running toward the building and he held up his identity card.

“Korolev. Petrovka Street. You, come with me. You, there’s a wounded man on the first floor. See he gets taken care of. There’s a dead one, too.”

One of the Militiamen ran into the building while the other stood there with his hand on his holster. Korolev turned to the four or five curious neighbors who’d emerged from the surrounding buildings and raised his voice.

“A dark-haired man in a leather coat came out that door not more than a minute ago. Who saw where he went?”

The elderly Lobkovskaya, his downstairs neighbor, stepped forward from the group and pointed up the lane toward the church.

“He went off that way, Alexei Dmitriyevich.”

There was no sign of the limping figure, but then Korolev spotted a trail of dark red drops along the lane.

“Your gun, Sergeant. Make sure it’s ready for use.”

The uniform’s nervous fingers moved to the flap of his leather holster as he followed Korolev. The church sat in its cobwebbed splendor on the right-hand side of the alley, and he tried to think ahead as he ran toward it, his Walther pointing skywards and the safety catch off. Semionov would have turned left at the end of the alley if he were driving back toward Petrovka Street, or the Lubianka, he decided, so that’s where he must have passed Gregorin’s Emka. The colonel must be heading for the car to make his getaway. He sure as hell wouldn’t walk far with a bullet in his leg.

Korolev duly moved to the left-hand side of the alley as he approached the junction. There were already numbers of pedestrians heading along the bigger street toward Red Square for the parade, and a line of slogan-slung parked buses and trucks had parked up to the right, having dropped their loads of activists and workers. A group of drivers stood, and one of them pointed at him as he stopped at the corner. The Militia sergeant arrived beside him, breathing heavily.

“What’s this all about, Comrade?” the uniform asked in a low voice.

“A bandit. He killed a man back there and wounded a Chekist-he mustn’t get away.”

There was silence as the sergeant took the information in. In the meantime, Korolev lowered himself to his knees and let his Walther lead his head round the corner. In his peripheral vision, he sensed the drivers backing away and pedestrians moving quickly into doorways as the presence of men with guns finally registered.

When the rest of the street came into view, Korolev saw an Emka parked about thirty meters down the street, a figure hunched in the front seat. But there was no sound of an engine. He turned to the sergeant.

“There’s an Emka just to the left. I think it’s our man.”

The sergeant nodded. He was about Korolev’s age, a broad face underneath his peaked cap, his blue eyes calm as he squinted across the street. He indicated a kiosk with his revolver.

“How about I make a run over there, Comrade? That way we’ll have two angles of fire.”

“I’ll cover you,” Korolev said and took a bead on the Emka, although now the hunched figure was gone, the driver’s door hanging open. He stood up to get a better view and then, when the uniform was in position, advanced along the wall toward the car, his Walther out in front of him. The car was empty except for broken glass and smeared blood on the driver’s seat. Of course, Volodya would have had the key. He waved the uniform forward and was just turning round when a bullet thwacked into the wall behind him, spraying fragments of plaster and stone. He dropped to his knee, trying to work out where the shot had come from and then heard the uniform’s pistol bark twice. There was another shot and he heard a shout of pain from behind him. The uniform was clutching his right arm, his heavy revolver lying at his feet, and his face twisted in pain. He’d taken cover behind the kiosk.

“On your side. There’s a yard entrance. About forty meters,” the uniform shouted, and Korolev nodded in acknowledgment. He could hear running feet and turned to see more Militiamen coming at a brisk trot, their guns out. He waved to them to keep low and then ran the few meters to the parked car and crouched behind it, feeling it vibrate as a bullet clanged into its side.

Further down the road Militiamen scattered for cover and the street was suddenly empty, the only noise that of an idling truck engine. He slipped to the ground and lay flat, looking toward the yard entrance, spying a knee-high boot with a dark stain running down its length. He aimed carefully and fired, seeing the boot and its twin jump away from the cloud of dust that erupted on the wall beside them. He stood up to take another shot and felt a bullet whip past his ear, and the simultaneous sound of breaking glass behind him. If he were a cat, it occurred to him as he dropped to the ground, he’d be down to his last couple of lives.

In the quiet that followed he heard the uniforms working their way closer and also the stop-start rhythm of a limping man’s boots as they broke into a run. He lay there and thought about leaving the uniforms to it when it occurred to him-if Gregorin made it as far as Yauzski Boulevard, he might well slip away into the crowd. It was enough to get him up. Gregorin was moving away at a surprisingly quick pace and, as Korolev stood up from the ground, he looked back and raised his pistol. Korolev was already moving but he fired in Gregorin’s direction, to remind the colonel that he was there if nothing else, and was gratified to see him duck. But Gregorin was already close to the column of soldiers, and the inflatable kolkhoz village strained against its ropes as white faces turned in the direction of the gunfire. Gregorin fired again and panic began to buckle the orderly ranks. There was another shot from behind Korolev and the village’s smithy lunged upward as two of its anchormen fell flat to the ground. The remaining men struggled to hold the balloon, but another shot weakened their resolution and the smithy soared with surprising grace toward the morning sky.

Korolev threw himself into an already occupied doorway as Gregorin lifted his gun to fire once again, still moving away as he did so. Curses greeted Korolev as he crashed in on top of a well-fed man in a fine fur hat. The curses stopped when Korolev’s Walther went off in his hand, causing lumps of plaster to drop down onto the doorway’s occupants.

“Sorry, Comrades,” Korolev muttered as he stepped back out into the street. Ahead of him Yauzski Boulevard was in chaos, the entire inflatable village now bumping its way up through the trees and along the side of the tall apartment buildings that lined the road, and brown-uniformed soldiers were scattering in all directions. Korolev ignored the chaos and took careful aim at the limping colonel, missing him and seeing men and women fall to the tarmac around the fleeing man, their hands over their heads as they crawled on their elbows toward more substantial cover.

Korolev’s shot must have been close because Gregorin stopped and turned, lifting his weapon. Korolev made no effort to take cover and aimed the Walther at the traitor’s chest. He saw the blaze of Gregorin’s shot even as he pulled his own trigger, and pain surged along his right arm as his body was shoved sideways by the impact of a bullet. He was hit, yes, but still standing and he still had the Walther in both hands-so he clenched his teeth and looked for Gregorin, ready to fire again.

But the colonel was just a crumpled heap of clothing lying motionless where he’d fallen.