Korolev looked at his watch; he had a few minutes before he was due to meet Yasimov, so he slipped into a doorway from where he could watch both ends of the narrow lane he’d ended up in. If he was being followed by anyone, and it was by no means certain that he was, they’d be scurrying around trying to catch up with him after all his jinks and turns, and that meant it was a good time to stop, lie low and let any search pass him by. It would also allow him a little time to gather his thoughts. He lit a cigarette and considered the situation.
Of course, the possibility remained that Gregorin was straight, in which case everything was fine. However, if that wasn’t the case, what had driven the colonel to murder and the theft of valuable State property? A million dollars in roubles wouldn’t be worth much if he was in the Zone. Korolev exhaled a wispy trail of smoke. Start at the beginning, he told himself. The first victim had been the American nun, Mary Smithson. Everyone agreed her presence in Moscow was because of the icon; Gregorin had said as much, and Kolya seemed to have confirmed it. Even Schwartz’s story about Nancy Dolan backed it up. So why had she been tortured to death? Well, obviously whoever did it must have wanted information. What kind of information? What else could it have been other than the location of the icon? Kolya and Gregorin, and Schwartz as well, all confirmed that the Cheka had been in possession of the icon after the raid on the Thief’s hideout. There would have been no point in torturing the girl if it had still been in the Lubianka, would there? So it really had been stolen, and whoever had tortured her must have thought the Church was responsible, or at the very least knew where the icon was located. But judging by the level of violence and the loss of blood, if the Holy Sister had known the icon’s location, she’d been stubborn about revealing it to the killers. Korolev thought back to the scene in the sacristy and shivered.
The motive for Tesak’s torture, and his subsequent murder, was also probably information. Tesak probably had talked, but whether he’d taken the killers closer to the icon was another question. Kolya had said the Thieves were trying to make sure the icon was returned to the Church, but he’d denied that they knew the whereabouts of the icon. The killers, however, seemed to believe to the contrary, perhaps with reason. He wouldn’t put it past Kolya to have lied to him on that point, although strangely he did believe much of the rest of his story. He wasn’t sure where Mironov, the dead Chekist, fitted into this, if he did at all. He’d been killed in a different way, but he’d also been tortured, and he’d been found in a church. So it was more than possible that his death was linked to the others. Korolev’s guess was that the link was something to do with Mironov being a member of the Foreign Department.
So who were the killers? It could be Kolya’s lot, but it seemed unlikely the Thieves would kill a nun, or one of their own, without good reason. On the other hand, if Mironov was indeed involved in this mess, Korolev could well imagine Kolya doing away with the Chekist for his own purposes. The dead Chekist aside, though, Kolya seemed to be in the clear, nor could Korolev believe the Church would ever be responsible for butchering people in sacristies and the like. So that left the NKVD. Gregorin had said the NKVD were looking for the icon, which was to be expected. But was it really possible that the NKVD were torturing people in churches and leaving bodies scattered around Moscow to be found by ordinary citizens? It didn’t make sense. Tesak and the nun could have disappeared into the Moscow prison system and no one would have ever heard of them again-secrecy wasn’t an issue for the Cheka. What’s more, if it were the NKVD, why would they rush things when they had the facilities and the time to carry out interrogations and dispose of prisoners at their leisure?
Korolev felt a chill run down his spine. If it hadn’t been the NKVD, it could still have been Chekists-the conspiracy that Gregorin had referred to. The only question was whether the colonel was involved in that conspiracy, and Korolev was beginning to think there was a good chance he might be. He took a last drag and then stubbed the cigarette out against the wall. It was a bad situation. Very bad, because if Gregorin was a traitor, and planning to defect with the cash from the sale, that meant the icon, and the staff colonel, were going abroad. It didn’t take a fortune teller to predict how the Chekists would react if Kazanskaya turned up in New York with tales of heroic nuns martyred to recover her from Soviet oppression. Not only that, but with a senior Chekist in tow? Anyone associated with Gregorin’s treachery would have some explaining to do, and that meant Popov, Semionov, Babel and, most importantly, one Captain Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev. Stalin himself would give instructions on how to deal with the matter and Korolev had no illusions that the General Secretary would be measured in his response.
All in all, he needed to talk to this Nancy Dolan, to get to the bottom of the whole mess. He pulled out the Walther and checked the magazine. He had a full clip. Five minutes had passed and no one had come poking down the alley looking for him, so the chances were he could move. He slipped the automatic back into his shoulder holster and started toward the meeting spot.
Descending into the Arbat Cellar was a little like going down into an underground cave. It was dark and reeked of damp and years of spilled alcohol, sweat and cigarette smoke. The walls, once white, were, after countless thousand papirosa, covered in an orange-brown film that you could write your name in, if you had the inclination. In the corner of the room an emaciated elderly black man was performing half-familiar tunes on a battered piano, his fingers like spider’s legs as they traveled along the keys and his eyes focused on another place. Another foreign Comrade washed up on the Moscow beach, thinking of the place he’d left behind and wondering would he last another winter in this “worker’s paradise.” The Cellar was not at its best in the early evening, but later it would liven up. After all, it had the advantage that it stayed open late and served real vodka from a factory, not something made in a back room.
At the bar Yasimov signaled for two drinks as Korolev took the stool beside him. They saluted each other and drank them down in one gulp.
“I should go home soon, Lena ’s sister is visiting us from Tver. On the other hand, I need a drink after listening to them gossip all day long.”
Yasimov nodded to the barman and the glasses were filled again, this time accompanied by two slices of black bread.
“It’s a little job, nothing much really,” Korolev said, hoping that he was telling the truth.
“I see.” Yasimov raised an eyebrow. “You’re in trouble, I take it?”
“Maybe. I just want you to follow me. Don’t intervene, just watch. If something happens, tell either Popov or Semionov. They know the full picture.”
“You want me to just walk away?”
“Yes. Don’t get involved. Absolutely not.” Korolev hesitated as he broke off a piece of bread. “There’s a chance it might be political. I need to find out, which means taking a risk.”
“And this?” Yasimov patted his coat pocket where a gun-sized bulge stretched the fabric. He had indeed brought along his best friend.
“For yourself, not for me. I have the Walther. There are undesirable elements involved. Thieves. If one of them comes at you, then shoot him and ask questions later. There may be State Security around as well, but they don’t walk the same way.”
Yasimov smiled. It was true-Thieves had a stylized walk, a sort of shuffle with toes turned inward. It was their version of a Mason’s handshake. Korolev signaled the barman to bring Yasimov another drink and laid roubles on the counter to cover the cost.