“Aren’t you finished yet?” Rodinov barked.
“Last stitch-one moment-there.” The doctor wrapped a bandage round Korolev’s head to protect the wound then stood, examined his work, and nodded his approval. Korolev was just pleased he’d finished.
“Leave,” the colonel said and pointed a stubby thumb toward the door. The doctor, a man of about fifty, began to bow before recollecting where he was and, rather than continue with a bourgeois gesture that could get you five years in a camp, walked with long steps and a hunched back to the door, reminding Korolev of an ostrich.
“Carry on where you left off,” the colonel said. He was a rosy pink in color and his round, bald head shone with a thin sheen of sweat. Korolev had told him pretty much everything he knew already, except for the fact that the icon was Kazanskaya. That was information Korolev had decided to keep to himself. As far as he was aware, everyone who knew the identity of the icon was either dead or had good reasons for keeping their mouths shut. And Korolev had a feeling that if Rodinov knew that the icon was Kazanskaya, things would escalate out of control very quickly.
“So you see,” he said, searching for another piece of relevant information and finding nothing, “Gregorin guided us through the whole affair. Step by step. And all for his own ulterior motives. Or those of the conspiracy, if there turns out to be one.”
“It’s a damned conspiracy all right. He’s had no orders from anyone other than himself. When Semionov started telling me about your investigation I thought it strange, but often there’s a need for secrecy in our work.”
He paused as if considering something, then picked up the phone, listening for a moment before speaking.
“Rodinov. Tell Sharapov to call me with news.” He put the phone back onto the cradle. Obviously social niceties were unnecessary if you were Colonel Rodinov. He turned his cold gaze back to Korolev.
“Chaikov, though-that man has waded through blood for the Party. Gregorin I can believe, but Chaikov. No gun, of course.”
“He was used by Gregorin. Once he realized he’d been manipulated and had contributed to a crime against the State-well, maybe he wanted to be shot.”
Rodinov shook his head. “I’d never have believed it. I’ve seen that fellow go through three pistols in a day liquidating enemies-wore out the barrels, one after the other. I don’t know why he didn’t just put up his hands. Lack of vigilance, yes, but what a worker.” Rodinov shook his head sadly. “Well, Captain, it seems your actions may have uncovered a nest of vipers. And yours, Semionov. If you hadn’t come to me when Gregorin took Comrade Korolev here, we’d never have got to the bottom of this. Commissar Ezhov himself is asking for hourly updates. Once we have Gregorin in our hands we’ll find out the true extent of it-it’s only a matter of time now.”
“I knew it was inconceivable that Captain Korolev could be a traitor, Comrade Colonel.”
“If there’s to be an arrest-” Korolev began.
Rodinov raised an eyebrow, “You’d like to be involved?”
“If it were possible.”
“We’ll see. We have to find him first. It’s a Cheka matter, but I doubt Commissar Ezhov would object in the circumstances. Yes, I’m sure you have some things you’d like to say to him. I certainly would have in your shoes.” He turned to Semionov. “A tough bird, this investigator of yours, Semionov. Look at his forehead-it’s like a railway junction with all that stitching.”
“Comrade Korolev has taught me a great deal in the few months I’ve been with the People’s Militia, Colonel. I’ve been impressed with his dedication to duty and his logical and practical approach.”
“High praise, Korolev-from a young man Comrade Ezhov himself has his eye on. High praise indeed.”
Dawn was coloring the silhouetted domes of Moscow ’s churches when Semionov drove Korolev home. It would have been earlier, but it took some time to find Korolev’s belongings and he’d refused to leave without the winter coat or his felt boots. Eventually one of the twins, now himself beltless and barefoot and wearing an expression of terrified bewilderment on his heavily bruised face, guided them to a cardboard box which contained Korolev’s belongings, including his Walther and papers. Korolev considered giving the twin a dig or two-his ear was still ringing from the guard’s blow-but he decided fate had revenged him sufficiently. Anyway, it might have been the other twin who’d swung the fist.
“It’s like old times driving this Ford,” Semionov said, as the Lubianka became smaller in the rearview mirror-the Model T they were driving was remarkably similar to the car in which Larinin had met his end.
“Watch out for trucks,” Korolev muttered and Semionov smiled. He looked uncomfortable, and Korolev didn’t feel the situation was entirely normal himself, so they drove in silence. It was the morning of the October Day Parade and the early trams and buses were covered with placards extolling the successes of the Five Year Plan, the might of the Party and the wisdom of Stalin. Work parties were clearing the streets and a column of soldiers had halted in formation on Yauzski Boulevard, holding huge balloons in the shape of kolkhoz buildings. Here was the cooperative store, there the Party office, behind that a smithy-altogether there were forty or more swollen structures swaying in the light wind. The soldiers’ breath and cigarette smoke made it look as if the village was floating on a thin mist. Further along there were massed squares of pioneers in overcoats and red scarves, their flags and banners touching the last autumn leaves on the trees, and behind them a line of brown tanks, their exhausts belching black smoke as they turned their engines over. Korolev wondered how the teachers would keep the Pioneers quiet in the hours they’d have to wait before the parade moved. Perhaps the tanks were there to maintain order among the little Comrades.
“Were you surprised?” Semionov asked.
“That you turned out to be a Chekist? Yes, although when I look back, maybe I should have suspected something. You look young but you’ve an old head on your shoulders.”
“I was following orders. I know it may seem I didn’t behave in a comradely way-concealing my identity-but my orders demanded it.”
“I’m sure they did. Whatever you were up to, announcing you were an NKVD operative would no doubt have defeated the object. I’m not complaining, Vanya. A junior lieutenant in the Militia couldn’t have sprung me from the Lubianka. I’m grateful you turned out to be a Cheka captain.”
“Thank Yasimov. He called me with the registration number of the car. Once I’d tracked it to Gregorin-I asked Rodinov to look into it. Gregorin’s story came apart almost immediately-he was riding his luck, hoping people would be too frightened to ask questions. If it hadn’t been for Yasimov, though, we’d never have found you. When Gregorin told Chaikov to send you to Room H, it meant you were to be shot immediately.”
Korolev hadn’t focused on how close he’d been to death-he’d been conscious of it in the interrogation room, but since Semionov and the other rescuers had broken in on them the time had been filled with explanations and activity. Now he allowed himself to consider how close-run a thing it had been, and it was much too close for his liking.
“Yasimov’s a good friend. I’m thankful to you both,” he said, grateful beyond words if the truth had been told.
“I wasn’t lying when I spoke to Rodinov earlier. I learned a great deal from you.”
Korolev wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The affection he’d had for the old Semionov still existed, but he kept on remembering his own indiscretions, wondering if they featured in the younger man’s reports. And what about the questionable things Semionov himself had said from time to time? Had they been designed to trap him and others into making disloyal statements? He didn’t want to know what Semionov had been up to in Petrovka Street, but he must have been spying on the Criminal Investigation Division in some way.