“My God,” Korolev breathed and had to bunch his hand into a fist to prevent himself making the sign of the cross. “I meant, hell’s bloody bells,” he corrected himself. “You kept it all this time.”
“Not exactly. You know something about us, I think. A Ment understands us better than a citizen. In our world there exists everyone else, and then us. We prey on the rest, but not on each other.” Kolya paused and considered this, after a moment raising his hand and twisting it from side to side, as if to say, “Not too much anyway.” He took a drink and passed the flask back to Korolev.
“We have rules-more rigid than any legal code, believe me-and if you break them you suffer. Every Thief knows what is expected of him. For example, robbing a church is acceptable, at least it was when they were worth robbing, but killing a priest is a death sentence. We have our own honor; we are right thinking people, judged by our way of thinking. Do you understand?” Korolev nodded in agreement. “So the Thieves who stole the icon brought shame on each one of us. They were caught, of course. And the icon’s cover was recovered.” He touched his heart. “But then we heard they’d burned the icon in their fear-well, if they were true Thieves they’d have killed themselves before doing such a thing. Instead they left us disgraced before the world and before heaven.”
He sighed and passed the flask to Korolev, inhaling on his cigarette. “So, we labored under a burden, maybe not all of us, but the men of honor, the Thieves-in-law, the keepers of the tradition-my uncles and my father among them. We wanted to shed blood to show atonement and so we hunted-the Okhrana had caught the men who stole the icon, but there were others. Men who had hidden them, women who had loved them, children who had been sired by them. We hunted them down.”
Kolya’s words were flat, but Korolev had no trouble imagining the savagery involved. Kolya looked up at Korolev and smiled, as if he’d read his thoughts. There was no gentleness in the smile.
“Then we found it. Almost by accident. In a whorehouse, believe it or not, hanging on a wall. The madame had been told to guard it with her life, but when faced with the choice she told us what she knew and we spared her. It was a miracle-we were forgiven. And we hid it, and have protected it for all the years since. When the priests were being shot in the street and Believers taken away to God knows where, when churches were being desecrated and worse, and cathedrals blown up with dynamite by Satan’s minions with the blood star to mark them out for who they are, all this time we guarded it and kept its resting place secret. And then, two months ago, the Cheka found the hiding place. The Devil’s work.”
Korolev wondered whether he was having his leg pulled. He searched Kolya’s face. “I don’t believe this,” he said eventually, shaking his head. Maybe it was the alcohol that was making his mind feel sluggish, but he just couldn’t take Kolya’s story in.
“You saw Tesak’s body? Where was his tattoo?” Kolya asked.
“On his arm, his right arm. The bicep.”
Kolya took off his waistcoat and opened his shirt, Christ’s crucifixion spread across his chest. He pulled the shoulder of the shirt down along his arm, revealing an image of an icon, the Virgin and the Child, Kazanskaya, Our Lady of Kazan. “Only the senior Thieves knew we protected her, but all our clan know she protects us.”
“What if it is the truth? What of it? What has it to do with me?”
“Maybe nothing. You want to catch the killer, am I right?”
“Of course. That’s my duty.”
“Even if he’s Cheka?”
Korolev considered yet again the course he found himself on and the insanity of it, the breath-stealing danger of it. But what choice did he have? He was a simple man and this was the road he walked. His job was to catch killers and assist in the administration of justice-he wouldn’t back away from his duty just yet. If it came to a choice between duty and death-well, he’d make a decision then, if he still could.
“I’m investigating the murders,” he managed to say. “If it’s in my power, I’ll bring whoever committed them to justice.”
“Soviet justice?”
“It’s as good as any. The system may not be perfect-I’m not blind. These are eyes in my head. But we work for the future, a Soviet future. And it’s as fair as any damned justice system the capitalists ever lied about.” He could feel his leg trembling against the bale of hay. Was it anger or some other emotion? He wasn’t sure of anything any more. But if he didn’t believe the leadership weren’t working for the People’s future-well, where would he be? What hell would he find himself in then-if it all turned out to be a blood-soaked lie? He spat on the floor to ward off the thought, and then fumbled for another cigarette. He put it in his mouth, reaching for his matches, but Kolya had already extended a lighter.
“Thank you,” Korolev said, hearing the gruffness in his voice. He offered the Thief the packet.
“You’re an honest man. And you are a Believer, aren’t you?” Kolya seemed to be weighing him up.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Maybe it isn’t. But what if, at some stage, you have to decide between your loyalty to the church and your loyalty to Comrade Stalin. How do you think you would decide?”
“I’m a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union.”
“But no Party member. Listen, our aim is to find the icon and see it returned to the Church. We don’t know who stole it from the Lubianka, but we want to make sure it ends up in the right place-we can’t keep it safe here, we know that now, and the icon is more important than our pride. But we’re not the only people trying to find it, as you know, and they’re the ones responsible for Tesak and the Holy Sister, and others besides. I have a feeling they are Cheka, these people, and they’ll stop at nothing. After all, there’s a lot at stake here-the icon is worth a great deal of money. But if we get to it first, we’ll see it safe-out of the country. Now you’ve a decision. Do you tell your bosses what I just told you, or do you keep it quiet?”
“I can’t see why I shouldn’t tell them.”
Kolya smiled. “Would you like to know the name of the Chekist commanding the search party? The one who took the icon from us?”
Korolev nodded, half-suspecting he knew the answer.
“Gregorin,” Kolya said and Korolev knew the time for choosing between duty and life had come.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The thieves took them back to the stands just as another race finished and Korolev felt his Walther slipped into his pocket, saw Mishka tip his cap in ironic salute and then they were gone, swallowed into the swirling, half-drunk crowd as the last of the runners cantered past the post. Babel, meanwhile, had the inward-looking smile of a man committing to memory each detail of their encounter, and it made Korolev feel trapped, that small smile; as though Korolev were in the middle of a story still being written and over which he had no control. Perhaps it was that sense of powerlessness, or perhaps something more sinister, but he suddenly had a vivid sensation of imminent danger. Looking round the crowd, he could see nothing untoward, but the feeling persisted, and if seven years of war had taught him anything at all it was that such a feeling shouldn’t be ignored. He took Babel ’s arm in a strong grip.
“We’re getting out of here,” Korolev said and began to direct him toward the exit. The strength of Korolev’s hold seemed to shock Babel and he threw him an indignant look, which Korolev chose to ignore. Instead, he shoved at the backs in front of them and dragged the writer along, observing Babel ’s confusion with some satisfaction.
“Watch where you’re going, friend,” someone said, loudly enough for people to turn to see what was happening. The words weren’t intended for a friend, however, Korolev realized as he looked up at a worker in overalls fresh from the factory floor and with a nasty smile on his face. The giant, face etched with engine oil and dirt, had placed a filthy hand on Korolev’s shoulder to hold him still and Korolev had an image of the fingers imprinting themselves into the fabric. What with the earlier razor cut, his only winter coat was having a hard day, and he felt a stab of irritation. He looked round at Babel, but the writer paid him no attention, his eyes fixed on the burly worker in expectant fascination.