“I’ll be at the Prague cinema at six. Just follow and observe. Semionov and Popov will put the pieces together. If you know nothing, you run less risk.”
Yasimov nodded. “You’ve saved my hide more than once, so I owe you, brother. But if things turn out badly, you never saw me or spoke to me. Promise me that, for Lena and the boys. I’ll see that Semionov and Popov get word.”
Korolev nodded his agreement and they shook hands. There was no need for further discussion. As Korolev walked out, he caught sight of Yasimov’s pale face reflected in a mirror, downing the drink the barman brought him and gesturing for another.
It was dark outside and the street was busy. Pedestrians crowded the pavement, shoulder to threadbare shoulder, as they searched the Arbat stores for something to buy. An open shop window had busts of Lenin and Marx and dusty cardboard boxes but nothing, apparently, to sell. Outside the Prague a long line of Arbat youth slouched along the wall waiting for the next show, the lads shivering in their mackintoshes and plus fours and the girls ignoring the cold that whipped their bare knees red. They looked thin and hungry in the blue light cast by the Prague ’s electric sign.
Korolev leaned against a street lamp on the other side of the street and tried to resist the urge to smoke a cigarette, instead examining the film poster while digging his hands deep into his pockets. We Are from Kronstadt was showing; three noble sailors faced a line of bayonets with defiant chests braced to meet the blades. Things didn’t look good for them, and the rocks hanging by ropes from around their necks suggested that things might even get worse. He gave in to the craving and pulled the packet of Little Star from his pocket. There was only one cigarette left, and after lighting it up he went to the kiosk on the corner to buy more. The transaction complete, he looked down to see a small girl, about seven years old, pretty, with a bow in her hair and not looking at all like one of the Razin Street Irregulars. She tugged at his coat.
“Hold my hand,” she said with a smile, and he reached down, feeling her warm little fingers take his as she led him away from the cinema. They walked along Arbat, a father and his daughter out for a stroll on a Friday evening. They weren’t the only ones and he thought to himself, not for the first time, that Goldstein was a clever little runt, destined to have a long and successful career-if he managed to survive. The girl stopped beside a narrow archway leading to a small square and he saw Goldstein’s red hair at the far end of it. The little girl turned and skipped away.
“There’s a man following you,” the youngster said as Korolev approached.
“Thinning hair, small mustache, heavy black overcoat?”
“That’s him.”
“Nothing to be concerned about.”
Goldstein’s eyes flickered back to the alleyway Korolev had come through.
“Are you sure? I’ll tell you this for free, Comrade Investigator, there are a lot of blue fingers hanging around the neighborhood this evening, you should be careful.”
“Thieves?”
“They’re not Pioneers, I know that much. Take the first right. There’s a big white apartment building with a green door and beside that a smaller wooden house with two trees in the front garden. She’s in there, on the ground floor. But there are some real bandit types outside, so be vigilant.”
Korolev produced ten roubles from his pocket. It was more than they’d agreed, but if things went badly, he wouldn’t have much use for the money.
“Thanks.”
Goldstein took the money without surprise or gratitude. “I’m just concerned for our future business relationship, that’s all.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do to ensure that it’s maintained.”
“That’s all I ask,” Goldstein said with a grave expression and saluted him with the bank notes before walking away. Shapes moved in the shadows and the rest of the Irregulars congregated around him, moving in silence and with purpose. Korolev felt reassured; Goldstein would have a plan for the winter, he was sure of it. They’d make it to spring-most of them, anyway.
When Korolev turned the corner of the lane, he found three likely looking lads clustered round an oil drum, warming their hands on whatever was burning inside. Their faces were red above the flaming fire and their black eyes shone as they looked up at him. Korolev recognized Mishka, and the Thief nodded in greeting as Korolev approached, the young tough’s thin-lipped smirk a dark crescent in the flickering light.
“What a coincidence, muchachos, the Comrade Captain strolls into view. And what brings you to this neck of the woods, old friend? As if we didn’t know.”
“Just out for a walk, same as yourselves I expect,” Korolev said as he came closer to them. The other two Thieves moved slowly to either side and so Korolev patted the pocket he’d moved his Walther to.
“Stay in front of me, lads-where I can see you. We’re all friends here tonight. Right, Mishka?”
The Thieves looked at Mishka, who nodded.
“So,” Mishka said, slipping his own hand into the pocket of his coat.
“So, indeed,” Korolev replied and waited. He felt his eyes itching with the effort not to blink. Mishka held the stare with his usual dead expression before eventually bestowing a lazy smile, and motioning with a blue-inked thumb toward the house with the two trees in the garden.
“I suppose you want to go in there?”
“Perhaps. Will you try to stop me?”
“Why would I? It’s a free country, right? A socialist democracy is what they say. You can do whatever you want here, I expect. None of us will try to stop you, that’s for sure. It would be uncultured. Anyway, you’ve an appointment.”
“I see,” Korolev said, and then walked on toward the house, an unpainted wooden building made from heavy, rough-cut timber logs, wondering how on earth the Thieves had known he was coming. He could feel every stitch of the fabric across his back as he turned away from them, but he wasn’t going to look over his shoulder; he was damned if he was going to do that.
The front door was old and wooden, in keeping with the house itself, but solid. Korolev knocked three times and only then allowed himself to look back at Mishka and his goons. They were watching him, sure enough, and Mishka raised a hand in salute. Korolev kept his face hard and straight and turned to the door as he heard footsteps coming.
“Hello?” a woman asked. The voice sounded elderly and genteel.
“Captain Korolev of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division, Citizen. Please open up.”
There was a pause and Korolev looked at the hinges, wondering if he could kick his way in. It seemed unlikely and he didn’t think it would do his feet much good to try, seeing as he was wearing felt boots.
“Citizeness?” he asked.
“Yes,” the reply came. The woman didn’t sound scared.
“I don’t want to have to break the door down.”
“I don’t want you to either.”
“Then perhaps you would be kind enough to open it,” Korolev said, allowing a trace of honey to sweeten his words.
“What do you want?”
“To talk to the Holy Sister, that’s all. I came alone. I’ll leave alone. Just a talk.”
“Just a talk?”
“That’s right. It’s important.”
“I’ll go and ask. Korolev, you say.” Footsteps walked away from the door, there was the sound of a conversation and then the footsteps returned, a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. A thin woman, about sixty years of age stood there. She looked calm, but she had no smile for him.
“This way, please, Captain.” She gestured along the corridor to where the yellow light of an electric bulb was framed by a doorway.
Inside the kitchen a woman sat at a table, looking up at him with a tired curiosity. If his memory of the visa photograph was correct, it was the second American nun, Nancy Dolan. She seemed older than in the visa photograph, and had lost the cheerful disposition he thought he’d detected in the picture, but a week in Moscow could do that to a person. Behind her, leaning against the wall, was Count Kolya. Kolya nodded a greeting, but his left hand was hidden in his pocket and Korolev decided it was safe to assume that it held a gun.