William Ryan: The Holy Thief

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.”