The Holy Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They didn’t speak in the car-partly because of the driver’s presence but also because there didn’t seem to be much to say-nor did conversation start up when they entered the Metropol. The silence was only broken when Schwartz opened the door to his room.

“After you,” he said.

Korolev walked inside and, despite the shadows within, he was able to make out the huge bed, the elegant lines of a pair of chairs, a writing desk, dark wallpaper, the pile of packing crates that stood in front of the window, and the faces that stared up at him from the floor.

Icon after icon after icon leaned against the high skirting board that circled the room, golden halos reflecting the weak sun that streamed through the half-closed curtains. Korolev turned slowly, his eyes running round the wall at devout renderings of Christ at every age, saints and, of course, the Virgin Mother herself.

There were nearly twenty representations of the Virgin-in many of the traditional forms-but, of these twenty, five were Kazanskayas. They all had the appearance of great age and he looked at them in silence for several moments, intrigued by the small variations and then seeing how the thing was to be done.

“Clever,” he said in a low whisper.

Schwartz nodded in confirmation.

“I’m packing them up now-they’ll come with me by train to Hamburg, and from there I sail to New York.”

It was brilliant-what better way to hide an icon than among icons? He looked at the Kazanskayas once again.

“And?”

“We’ll never know for sure. It’s a question of belief, not truth-it always has been. But there’s enough truth here to base belief upon.”

Korolev felt the eyes of the Mother on him as if she were in the room. He wanted to ask which icon was the one, but he didn’t. He didn’t need to. There was no doubt in his mind-there was only one of them that it could be. The one that looked into his soul. But he didn’t kneel, or cross himself, or pray. “But what will they do with her in America?”

Schwartz considered the question. “D’you know my guess is, they’ll do nothing. Wait, I think, until things change.”

Korolev considered the icon, nodded and then held his hand out to the American.

“Have a good trip, Jack. Perhaps we will see you again in Moscow. One day.”

“Perhaps,” Schwartz said, and then Korolev was closing the door behind himself as he left.

He took his time walking back, rehearsing what he’d say when he arrived. He had it all worked out by the time he opened the door and saw Valentina Nikolaevna standing by the table, as if she was waiting for him, and so he came straight to the point.

“Valentina Nikolaevna, I’ve thought it over. I can’t forgive myself for being the cause of those men coming into your home, and for what happened here. I’ve decided the best thing will be if I leave this apartment. I can stay with my cousin and I’ll say nothing to Luborov or anyone else. You’ll have the whole place to yourself, if I’m still down as living here. It’s not enough, I know it, but it’s something at least.”

She considered him for a time and then shook her head.

“Thank you for your offer, Alexei Dmitriyevich. It’s kind of you, but unnecessary. It wasn’t you that brought the men here, they came themselves. You’re not responsible for the evil of others.”

“But-” he began.

“Enough, please. I mean what I say. And anyway, Natasha wouldn’t hear of it. She will only come out to Gorky Park this evening if you’ll be there as well. So, you see? I can’t do without you.”

And then she smiled at him.