William Ryan - The Holy Thief

…

“Come, Korolev,” Gregorin said, when he’d finished, “this is all very interesting, but where is the icon? It was there, of course-but where did they take it when you warned them we were coming?”

“I didn’t see the icon. It may have been there, but I saw none of it. I’ve told you the conversation I had with Kolya, word for word, and that’s as far as I got. If I knew who had it, I’d tell you. To me, it’s just a wooden board with some paint on it.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but this wasn’t the time to expand on the nature of his religious beliefs.

Gregorin considered him and there was no charm in his expression now, only calculation. It occurred to Korolev that, without the veneer of charm, Gregorin’s features had the cold malevolence of a snake. Gregorin scowled and turned to the major.

“He’s lying. Break him.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.”

“You’ve four hours. Don’t bother telling me it’s not enough. We have to find this damned piece of cultist chicanery before they smuggle it out of the country. Don’t fail-there can be no excuses. My office will know where to find me.”

He turned to Korolev.

“The major here is skilled at what he does. For your own sake, Korolev, tell us now. Where’s the damned icon?”

“I don’t know, Colonel.”

“This isn’t a game, Korolev. The major isn’t just going to beat you. He’ll destroy you-you’ll be praying for a bullet by the end.”

Korolev didn’t doubt it, and he felt his body trying to back its way into the chair, but he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know.

“One thing, Colonel Gregorin,” Korolev said, as Gregorin turned away from him.

“Yes?” The colonel turned, impatient.

“What happens if you haven’t got the icon by tomorrow? Will you have enough money for the visas? Is the net closing in? Is that why you’re rushing? You won’t get a million dollars for a promise.”

The colonel was a sturdily built man and his knuckles had calluses from where he’d hit others before, so perhaps Korolev shouldn’t have been surprised at the force of the punch that sent his head slamming back into the headrest and warm blood coursing from above his eye, blinding him even as he tried to blink it away.

“You fool, you deserve everything you’re about to get,” Gregorin hissed. “When you’ve finished with him, Chaikov-room H.”

The door slammed as he left.

Once the far door shut as well, the major walked over and, bending down, cleaned the blood from Korolev’s forehead with a handkerchief. His touch was gentle on the raw cut. He held Korolev’s head back and stared into his eyes.

“You have concussion.”

“Everyone keeps hitting me.”

“Perhaps you provoke them.”

“Look, I know nothing, but if I did, I’d rather shoot myself than cooperate with a devil like Gregorin.”

“Fuck that Georgian rat,” Chaikov whispered, pulling the handkerchief down Korolev’s face with an almost dreamy expression. “Fuck his mother. Fuck his sister.” The handkerchief was soaked with blood now. “I had suspicions, but I ignored them. I let him lead me by the nose-like a pig to the slaughter. What will happen to my own son? Answer me that.”

Korolev stared at the man in amazement, wondering if this was some ploy to soften him up. A single tear rolled down the major’s face. “See what I’ve become. Look at me. He’s turned me into an enemy.”

There was the clang of the far door opening and then running footsteps in the corridor. What the hell was going to happen now, Korolev asked himself, as the door crashed open behind him.

“Up against the wall, one move and I fire. Hands high, hands high.”

Chaikov looked up calmly, smiled and reached for his pocket. Instantly there were three loud explosions and the major was thrown over the table by the force of the bullets hitting him.

“Damn,” an easily recognized voice said, through the ringing in Korolev’s ears.

Korolev’s head hurt a great deal. A dense, tooth-grinding pain, with not much variation for the individual injuries. It occurred to him that nearly everyone he’d met over the last few days, whether Chekist, factory worker or Thief, seemed to have left a lump on his skull as an aide-memoire. Perhaps as a side effect of the constant battering his cranium had taken, he remained slightly unsure that he really was sitting in a warm office, in a comfortable chair, with a glass of vodka in his hand and faces surrounding him that, if not all particularly friendly, didn’t seem to want to cause him any harm either. But, if the reality was something else, he didn’t want to have anything to do with it.

The stitches the doctor was putting in the cut above Korolev’s eye were a good reason for suspecting that this wasn’t a dream, of course, as he could feel each millimeter of the needle as the doctor pushed it through his skin. Semionov, sitting on the desk watching the doctor work, seemed genuinely concerned, which was gratifying, but as Korolev had been wrong about him all along, he couldn’t trust to that either. Like now, for instance-Semionov had just put three bullets into a fellow Chekist, yet here he was, cool as a cucumber.

Semionov’s real boss, the fat, aggressive Colonel Rodinov, was clearly only concerned at how long the doctor was taking.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Rodinov barked.

“Last stitch-one moment-there.” The doctor wrapped a bandage round Korolev’s head to protect the wound then stood, examined his work, and nodded his approval. Korolev was just pleased he’d finished.

“Leave,” the colonel said and pointed a stubby thumb toward the door. The doctor, a man of about fifty, began to bow before recollecting where he was and, rather than continue with a bourgeois gesture that could get you five years in a camp, walked with long steps and a hunched back to the door, reminding Korolev of an ostrich.

“Carry on where you left off,” the colonel said. He was a rosy pink in color and his round, bald head shone with a thin sheen of sweat. Korolev had told him pretty much everything he knew already, except for the fact that the icon was Kazanskaya. That was information Korolev had decided to keep to himself. As far as he was aware, everyone who knew the identity of the icon was either dead or had good reasons for keeping their mouths shut. And Korolev had a feeling that if Rodinov knew that the icon was Kazanskaya, things would escalate out of control very quickly.

“So you see,” he said, searching for another piece of relevant information and finding nothing, “Gregorin guided us through the whole affair. Step by step. And all for his own ulterior motives. Or those of the conspiracy, if there turns out to be one.”

“It’s a damned conspiracy all right. He’s had no orders from anyone other than himself. When Semionov started telling me about your investigation I thought it strange, but often there’s a need for secrecy in our work.”

He paused as if considering something, then picked up the phone, listening for a moment before speaking.

“Rodinov. Tell Sharapov to call me with news.” He put the phone back onto the cradle. Obviously social niceties were unnecessary if you were Colonel Rodinov. He turned his cold gaze back to Korolev.

“Chaikov, though-that man has waded through blood for the Party. Gregorin I can believe, but Chaikov. No gun, of course.”

“He was used by Gregorin. Once he realized he’d been manipulated and had contributed to a crime against the State-well, maybe he wanted to be shot.”

Rodinov shook his head. “I’d never have believed it. I’ve seen that fellow go through three pistols in a day liquidating enemies-wore out the barrels, one after the other. I don’t know why he didn’t just put up his hands. Lack of vigilance, yes, but what a worker.” Rodinov shook his head sadly. “Well, Captain, it seems your actions may have uncovered a nest of vipers. And yours, Semionov. If you hadn’t come to me when Gregorin took Comrade Korolev here, we’d never have got to the bottom of this. Commissar Ezhov himself is asking for hourly updates. Once we have Gregorin in our hands we’ll find out the true extent of it-it’s only a matter of time now.”