William Ryan - The Holy Thief

“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.”