The Holy Thief (3 page)

Korolev got to his feet so quickly that for a fraction of a second he felt dizzy.

“Comrade General,” he began and he could feel the gratitude making him pompous, but the general shook his head almost shyly, took Korolev’s hand in a firm grip and held it for a moment or two while he regarded his subordinate with affection. Then his face became grave again, as befitted a Soviet leader of men, and he turned away toward the window, his voice rough when he spoke.

“I said enough, Comrade, no need for a speech. Go on, quickly now—get your belongings moved in. You deserve it. Hurry, before I change
my
mind.”

And in this way, Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev acquired an apartment on the street of Great Nicholas and the Sparrows.

CHAPTER TWO

Petrovka Street was only half an hour’s walk from Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, but it took Korolev three hours to make his way out to his cousin’s room, pack up his few belongings and then travel back to Kitaj-Gorod by tram. Korolev’s life possessions didn’t amount to much. Zhenia had taken most of their joint belongings after the divorce, and with his blessing—she had their son Yuri to care for, and anyway there was little space in his cousin’s room. All he had these days were a few clothes, bedding and some cooking implements, his books, a small leather armchair which had been all that had been left of his mother when he’d returned from the wars, and a set of dumb-bells. The armchair and the dumb-bells he’d left with Mikhail, who’d tearfully vowed to guard them with his life, and the rest he’d lugged across town in a large canvas bag. By the time he stood outside Number 4, looking up at the faded grandeur of a fine old house now cut and sliced into apartments for Party officials and the odd lucky nobody like himself, he felt as tired as if he’d circumnavigated the world. But he couldn’t help a smile as he climbed the steps to the open hall door.

According to the requisition form, the head of the building management committee lived on the second floor, and so he left his bags at the bottom of the stairs and went up unencumbered. Reaching the correct landing, he knocked on a chipped and pitted door that had “BMC” painted on it in sloping, ill-matched letters. It was opened by a thin-faced man with the left sleeve of his ancient woolen pullover sewn at half mast, mourning a missing arm. He seemed to be not quite awake until he saw Korolev’s uniform, at which his eyes flew open.

“Is there a problem, Comrade?” he said, looking anxiously into the corridor. “Has someone been telling lies about me? I lost this arm in Poland, fighting with Budyonny, and now I’m to be persecuted? What a world we live in, what a world we live in. Who was it? At least tell me who it was. The lying scum.”

Korolev held up his hand to stop the man. “Please, Comrade. I’ve a requisition form, from the housing committee. That’s all. My name is Korolev.”

The head of the BMC let out an involuntary sigh of relief then recollected himself enough to smile and extend his hand in greeting.

“I apologize. Maxim Luborov. I look after the building. You know how it is: in this position you can’t help but make enemies. Sometimes people threaten things and, even if you’re innocent as a dove, you never know what might happen. Everyone wants a few square meters more and they don’t care how they get it. Devils.” He put his hand to his nose and squeezed it, and in some strange way this seemed to give him relief. “I’m sorry. My arm hurts today. I can’t even wear the prosthetic, it hurts so much. That damned Pole. Slice. Down came the sword and off went the arm. Sssssssh-shushuk.”

Korolev shook Luborov’s remaining hand and then raised a finger to the scar that ran along his own jaw. “I was luckier. One of Denikin’s Cossacks. I got him before he finished the job.”

“Good for you. An arm you can manage without—a head is more difficult.” Luborov took the form from him. “Ah yes, the room on the first floor. Come on, I’ll show you. There’s some furniture. A bed, a chair, a table. I think there’s even a wardrobe. It’s not too bad, a good size. Well above the official norm.” He was already halfway down the first flight of stairs. “If you need anything, let me know. No promises, but I might be able to help.”

He moved his hand from side to side to underline the speculative nature of the suggestion and the methods that might be used. Korolev nodded in thanks, although he wouldn’t take advantage of the offer. It wasn’t that he was averse to the idea exactly, but it wasn’t sensible to accept a favor from a stranger unless he came with a recommendation. After all, you never knew what might be asked in return.

Reaching the first floor, Luborov led him along the landing.

“Here you go, Comrade,” he said, opening a door with a key, which he handed to Korolev. “Number seven. You share with Valentina Nikolaevna Koltsova and her daughter Natasha—not a bad child, quiet at least. Comrade Koltsova’s husband was that engineer who got himself killed in the Metro accident last year. E. N. Koltsov? D’you remember him? They made him a Hero of the Soviet Union. Just for getting crushed in a tunnel. It wasn’t that easy in Poland, I can assure you. They were tight with medals back then. All I got was a wooden arm for my heroics and I had to wait three years for that.”

The door opened onto a large shared kitchen into which the autumn sun splashed, tingeing the surface of a long, planked table in the middle of the room with a warm yellow. An ancient and much-scuffed chesterfield ran along one wall, above which hung a full-length portrait of an officer in turn-of-the-century cavalry uniform. Underneath the large windows a smaller table stood, on which a child’s exercise books were neatly piled beside some knitting. It was positively luxurious compared to Mikhail’s cardboard-walled shoebox.

“One of the previous owners—a count, I believe,” Luborov said, gesturing at the painting. “Who knows where he is now, eh? Paris? Shanghai? The grave? Serves him right, wherever he is. Covering up the cracks in the wall is all his kind are good for now. Anyway, this is the kitchen: you share it with Citizeness Koltsova, of course, and the cooking area is in there,” Luborov pointed to a smaller room beside the front door in which a primus stove stood, as well as a stone basin. “You have your own stove?”

Korolev nodded.

“Excellent, that makes life easier for everyone; this one belongs to Valentina Nikolaevna. Your room’s through here.”

When Luborov left, Korolev stood alone in the room he’d been allocated. He placed his hat on the writing desk and looked around him. A narrow bar of light marked where the curtains met, leaving most of the room in shadow, and so he walked across to push them as wide as they would go, allowing sunshine to flood in. It was a good room, large, with high ceilings—it even had wallpaper. Of course, the wallpaper was a relic from before the German War, but it was in reasonable condition, and the mattress on the bed looked clean—there was even a worn Persian carpet to cover some of the wooden floorboards. He glanced out of the window at the alleyway below. A quiet street as well, he thought, looking to the left at the domes of the small church of St. Nicholas Vorobinsky. He heard bells chiming for one o’clock and remembered he only had a few minutes to spare, so he looked over the room once again, but this time with a searching eye.

To start with, he examined the writing desk, opening the lid to the compartment where some nobleman had once no doubt kept a stock of fine writing paper, but which now contained only a browned edition of
Pravda
from 1928. The desk wouldn’t do. He ignored the bed as being too obvious and, after a quick scrutiny, discarded the wardrobe as well. He flicked back the rug and paused, his focus gradually narrowing until it was entirely aimed at one floorboard and the infinitesimally wider gap between it and its neighbors. There were tiny signs of wear to the edges and he squatted, hearing the cartilage in his knees click, and took the clasp knife from his pocket. He inserted the blade at one end of the board and, sure enough, it came up smoothly.

The lifted floorboard revealed a small cavity in which lay a photograph of a half-naked woman, looking over her bare shoulder at the camera with a suggestive smile, her breasts pushed over a corset. She seemed to be milking the cow that stood behind her, its head out of shot but the udders fat between her fingers. Someone else had needed a hiding place once, it seemed. He placed the floorboard to one side and then raised himself to his feet. Underneath the other books he’d brought with him he found his Bible, and put it in the hiding place with relief. He liked to have the book near him but it had to be hidden, and it made him sweat to consider the risk he’d run carrying it across Moscow. It wasn’t that he was particularly religious, he told himself—he was certainly aware of the Party’s line on the Orthodox cult and agreed with it—but the bible had stood him in good stead through nearly eight years of soldiering and now, more than ever, it gave him comfort when the world around him sometimes seemed even bleaker.

When he’d finished he looked down at the floorboards and was satisfied they’d stand up to most searches, then patted his pocket and felt the outline of the milkmaid. It would have been wrong to leave her with a holy book. He’d dispose of her when he got a chance.

Half an hour later Korolev was walking quickly along Razin Street, past the statue of the rebel Cossack for whom the street had been renamed by the Bolsheviks. An officer of the People’s Militia couldn’t be seen whistling in full uniform, not if he wanted an ounce of respect from citizens, let alone criminals, but, even so, Korolev was sorely tempted. If he’d been in plain clothes he might have allowed himself to attempt a few bars of something martial and uplifting, in keeping with his mood—the “Internationale” perhaps—but the uniform prevented any outward display of satisfaction. In short, despite the morning’s unnerving start, the new apartment had restored his usual cautious optimism and he was confident, for a moment at least, that things weren’t so bad after all. In fact, things were getting better, as Comrade Stalin had recently stated. Things were definitely getting better.

He was looking for a telephone to call Petrovka Street when he spotted two Black Crows parked further along the street outside a church. Uniforms stood beside the Militia cars and he guessed this was the crime scene Popov had asked him to attend. It was a small church, adorned with a Komsomol banner that hung above the entrance and invited the members of the Party’s youth wing to a dance in support of the Spanish Comrades. A rope was extended across the front of the building but it was unnecessary as most citizens were crossing the road to avoid the Militiamen. Only a starved-looking mongrel, lucky to have made it through a hungry summer without ending up in someone’s pot, and three equally bedraggled street children showed any direct interest, and even that was from a safe distance. Popov came out, trailed by more uniforms, who listened as he gave them orders, his fist pounding into his palm for emphasis. Korolev was rewarded with a nod from the general as he approached.

“You got my message then?” the general said.

“No, General, I was going to call in from the booth on the next block when I saw the cars.”

“Just as well, just as well. This one’s got your name on it, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” The general pointed behind him with the pipe, the gesture taking in the front of the church in a brief sweep, then he turned and scowled at the uniformed Militiamen.

“I want a statement from every citizen within a two-hundred-meter radius. We need to know the movement of every man, woman, child and mouse over the last two days. Send everything to Comrade Korolev here at Petrovka Street. He’ll be dealing with this matter.”

The uniforms saluted and went. Popov looked after them.

“Probably a waste of time, but if you don’t take every possible action these days, you leave yourself open to criticism.” He focused his irritation on the dwindling supply of tobacco in his pipe bowl, stuffing it full again from a small leather pouch with short angry jabs of his thumb. Korolev stood in silence, knowing better than to interrupt the general when he was thinking. Eventually Popov remembered his presence and pointed the unlit pipe toward the entrance once again.

“A terrible thing, Korolev. Some fellow got in there last night and . . .” he paused and then beckoned Korolev to follow him into the church. “It’s not pretty, anyway, and if we don’t catch him soon he’ll be at it again. He has the taste for it—I feel it in my bones.”

The interior was dark except for weak rays of light squeezing through the small stained-glass windows that circled the several domes. Each dome of the church offered a separate fresco representation of a scene from the Bible and the murky light picked out the gold-circled heads and silver robes of saints. Korolev felt his mouth harden as Party slogans loomed out of the darkness, painted directly onto the frescos and mosaics. The young brats should find better things to do with their time than acts of mindless hooliganism, he thought to himself as he followed Popov from shadow to shadow toward the sacristy at the far end of the church.

Even the sacred templon, the wooden wall that separated the congregation from the mysteries of the altar and which would have been covered with icons in the old days, was now hung with banners exhorting greater efforts for the Soviet cause. Korolev made the sign of the cross in his pocket. Hadn’t Comrade Stalin himself nearly become a priest? He’d have words to say if he saw what these Komsomol pups had been up to.

“She’s in here,” the general said, walking blithely through the central doors of the templon and into the sacristy, from which white light poured out into the murky nave. Korolev hesitated and then made for the “Deacon’s Door” to the side. The “Holy Doors” in the center were forbidden to all except priests and, even if the holy fathers didn’t seem to have been inside this particular church for a good ten years, he wasn’t walking through their doorway.