William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

Korolev was cautious, taking his time, playing the torch beam back and forth. Five dead, that was certain – a machine-gun bullet at close range was an unforgiving visitor and not many of the fifty odd he’d sent down into the mass of men seemed to have missed. But one man was still alive – Sergeant Gradov. One of the bullets had pulled an ear from his head, and others had torn at his thighs and an arm – but it looked as if he would live, and also as though he might be able to talk.

Korolev took no chances, advancing slowly, picking up any weapons he came upon, emptying the ammunition they contained and throwing them behind him – all the time keeping his gun pointing at the sergeant. Korolev felt his jaw tighten as he stepped over dead men, a feeling of nausea rising in him at the smell of warm blood and cordite mixed with the chill damp of the tunnel. He’d killed these men. All right, they’d have killed him soon as blink, and no doubt about it – but still. He’d sent their souls to the Lord whichever way you looked at it, and who was to say the Lord wouldn’t look on them kindly for resisting the Soviet Power that had destroyed his Church? Korolev felt despair dragging at him, and reminded himself not to think about such matters – maybe things weren’t perfect in this Soviet State of his, but at least he’d done his duty. And that was all there was to it – thinking about right and wrong was a dangerous game these days.

While Korolev was making his slow approach, Gradov had managed to push himself up so that he was now leaning against the tunnel wall, his weight balanced on one buttock, face haggard with pain and effort.

‘Go on, then – finish me off.’ His voice was hoarse as he summoned the energy to speak.

‘So, Gradov – a traitor.’

Gradov adjusted his gaze to look behind the torch’s beam.

‘Captain Korolev?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I told them you were trouble, but they wouldn’t listen to me. “If he came all the way from Moscow, it must be for a reason,” I said. But they knew better.’

Korolev took a step closer. He could hear voices from the room in which he’d left the Greek, Slivka’s amongst them. The battle was clearly over.

‘How did a fellow like you get involved in this? You don’t look the type.’

Which was true – he looked like a brute and a bully, sure enough, but not the kind who would take a risk if it didn’t involve lining his pockets.

‘We all have a past, Korolev.’

‘They had something on you as well, did they?’ Korolev said, thinking of Lomatkin and how he’d been led astray.

‘They had me where they wanted me. If I didn’t do as I was told, there was a letter addressed to the Chekists with my name inside it. And proof I’d fought with Makhno and shot a commissar or two one April morning back in ’twenty. Not just any commissars either. I picked some high-up ones, friends of today’s high-up ones, to make matters worse.’

Korolev nodded. A past like that didn’t leave much of a future.

‘Well, they did for you anyway. Tell me who it was. That you owe them nothing is certain.’

‘They did for me? No, Korolev, you and that damned gun of yours did for me.’

‘I didn’t put you in this hole, Gradov, believe me. Others were responsible for that and you’ll give me their names if you have any sense.’

‘Don’t waste your time, Korolev.’

‘It was Mushkin, wasn’t it? He’s the link. He knew about you and he knew about Andreychuk – he even made sure you weren’t disciplined when you lost your gun.’

The sergeant didn’t say anything, but Korolev caught the ghost of a smile before the wounded man looked away and spat. Then there was the sound of someone approaching from the passageway behind him, picking his way amongst the bodies, and he turned to see Kolya, the Thief’s face taking on a sudden look of anger in the half-light given off by the torch. Korolev didn’t even have time to open his mouth before the pistol in Kolya’s hand fired twice, each blast like a punch that pushed him backwards.

‘What the…’ Korolev began to say before his feet slipped on someone or something, and he tumbled backwards onto the sprawl of bodies, all the time waiting for the pain of the bullets.

‘Did he hit you?’ Kolya asked, before answering his own question. ‘No, he couldn’t have. What happened to you, then?’

‘What do you mean, “What happened to you?” ’ Korolev began indignantly, before he realized he hadn’t in fact been shot. He was still holding the torch and, pointing it at Gradov, he saw that a neat round hole had appeared in the centre of the sergeant’s forehead. He lowered the beam of the torch and saw a small automatic in the dead sergeant’s good hand, before turning it back to the newly minted bullet wound.

‘Nice shot,’ he said reluctantly.

‘He pulled on you when you turned your back.’

Korolev got to his feet, using the stock of his machine gun to lever himself upwards. The embarrassment and anger he felt at having made such a stupid mistake was one thing, but to have been helped out of the consequences by Count Kolya – well, that was another thing altogether. He thanked the Lord that the darkness gave him the opportunity to marshal what little dignity might be left to him.

‘You took your time – we had them coming at us from all sides while you dawdled along.’

‘So I can see. That gun of yours dealt with them, though. Was the grenade yours or theirs?’

‘Theirs. Did you get them all?’

‘We missed one or two – things were confused in the dark. Slivka and Mishka sent them running, but Fox’s men weren’t ready for them. We lost a couple of ours in the tunnel, and a couple of them got past – but you have your guns all the same and the battle’s won.’

Korolev looked at Gradov. Six dead here, then. One in the next room, three in the chamber with the guns. Two of Kolya’s men and on top of that however many of the gunrunners who had been killed in the tunnels trying to escape. As quick and bloody an evening’s work as he’d ever heard of.

‘I hope it was all worth it.’

‘I’d say it was worth it, Korolev. They wouldn’t have been able to keep their fingers from the triggers of that weaponry, and they wouldn’t have been shooting at crows with them either.’

But Korolev was just a bit too old for all this killing and that was the truth. He’d never been much good at it, if he was honest, but he’d done what was asked of him.

‘Are you all right, Chief?’ Slivka asked as he emerged into the relative light of the big chamber. She looked at his forehead with a frown, and Korolev remembered the graze he’d picked up during the shooting and lifted a hand to wipe away the blood.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, surprised by how much blood there was – his fingers were red with the stuff and he dragged them down the wall to clean some of it off. ‘We need to think what to do with these guns, Slivka. And these bandits for that matter. Greek,’ he said, turning to the doughty forensics man, ‘can you find your way out of here?’

The Greek nodded.

‘And back as well?’

The Greek nodded again.

‘I need you to get above with the prisoners. Slivka, you’ll go with him. Get our men down here as soon as possible. If a couple of them managed to get free, they might chance it and come back – so time is important. If you’re not sure of the way, Kolya will lend you his guide.’

But Kolya shook his head when Korolev looked to him for confirmation.

‘That can’t be, Korolev. We worked together on this job because we had good reasons to – to go after these rats who were killing ours. But if I sent Mole with you, that would be something else again.’