CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They didn’t speak in the car-partly because of the driver’s presence but also because there didn’t seem to be much to say-nor did conversation start up when they entered the Metropol. The silence was only broken when Schwartz opened the door to his room.

“After you,” he said.

Korolev walked inside and, despite the shadows within, he was able to make out the huge bed, the elegant lines of a pair of chairs, a writing desk, dark wallpaper, the pile of packing crates that stood in front of the window, and the faces that stared up at him from the floor.

Icon after icon after icon leaned against the high skirting board that circled the room, golden halos reflecting the weak sun that streamed through the half-closed curtains. Korolev turned slowly, his eyes running round the wall at devout renderings of Christ at every age, saints and, of course, the Virgin Mother herself.

There were nearly twenty representations of the Virgin-in many of the traditional forms-but, of these twenty, five were Kazanskayas. They all had the appearance of great age and he looked at them in silence for several moments, intrigued by the small variations and then seeing how the thing was to be done.

“Clever,” he said in a low whisper.

Schwartz nodded in confirmation.

“I’m packing them up now-they’ll come with me by train to Hamburg, and from there I sail to New York.”

It was brilliant-what better way to hide an icon than among icons? He looked at the Kazanskayas once again.

“And?”

“We’ll never know for sure. It’s a question of belief, not truth-it always has been. But there’s enough truth here to base belief upon.”

Korolev felt the eyes of the Mother on him as if she were in the room. He wanted to ask which icon was the one, but he didn’t. He didn’t need to. There was no doubt in his mind-there was only one of them that it could be. The one that looked into his soul. But he didn’t kneel, or cross himself, or pray. “But what will they do with her in America?”

Schwartz considered the question. “D’you know my guess is, they’ll do nothing. Wait, I think, until things change.”

Korolev considered the icon, nodded and then held his hand out to the American.

“Have a good trip, Jack. Perhaps we will see you again in Moscow. One day.”

“Perhaps,” Schwartz said, and then Korolev was closing the door behind himself as he left.

He took his time walking back, rehearsing what he’d say when he arrived. He had it all worked out by the time he opened the door and saw Valentina Nikolaevna standing by the table, as if she was waiting for him, and so he came straight to the point.

“Valentina Nikolaevna, I’ve thought it over. I can’t forgive myself for being the cause of those men coming into your home, and for what happened here. I’ve decided the best thing will be if I leave this apartment. I can stay with my cousin and I’ll say nothing to Luborov or anyone else. You’ll have the whole place to yourself, if I’m still down as living here. It’s not enough, I know it, but it’s something at least.”

She considered him for a time and then shook her head.

“Thank you for your offer, Alexei Dmitriyevich. It’s kind of you, but unnecessary. It wasn’t you that brought the men here, they came themselves. You’re not responsible for the evil of others.”

“But-” he began.

“Enough, please. I mean what I say. And anyway, Natasha wouldn’t hear of it. She will only come out to Gorky Park this evening if you’ll be there as well. So, you see? I can’t do without you.”

And then she smiled at him.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I’ve done my best to recreate 1930s Moscow accurately in this book, but it should be remembered that it remains a work of fiction and that I’ve allowed myself some flexibility from time to time, particularly with regard to the interiors of buildings. For any mistakes that aren’t deliberate, I apologize.

Those curious about the period might find the following of interest:

Anne Applebaum. GULAG-A History of the Soviet Camps. Allen Lane, 2003.

Danzig Baldaev (and others). Russian Criminal Tattoo Encyclopedia, Vols 1-3. Steidl/Fuel, 2003; Fuel, 2006; Fuel, 2008.

Robert Edelman. Serious Fun-A History of Spectator Sports in the USSR. Oxford University Press, 1993.

Orlando Figes. The Whisperers. Allen Lane, 2007.

Sheila Fitzpatrick. Everyday Stalinism. Oxford University Press, 1999.

Sheila Fitzpatrick. Tear off the Masks-Identity and Imposture in Twentieth-century Russia. Princeton University Press, 2005.

Véronique Garros, Natasha Korenevskaya and Thomas Lahusen. Intimacy and Terror-Soviet Diaries of the 1930s. Trans. Carol A. Flath. New Press, 1995.

Jukka Gronow. Caviar and Champagne -Common Luxury and the Ideals of the Good Life in Stalin’s Russia. Berg, 2003.

Jochen Hellbeck. Revolution on My Mind-Writing a Diary under Stalin. Harvard University Press, 2006.

Marc Jansen and Nikita Petrov. Stalin’s Loyal Executioner-People’s Commissioner Nikolai Ezhov. Hoover Institute Press, 2002.

David King. Red Star over Russia -A Visual History of the Soviet Union from 1917 to the Death of Stalin. Tate, 2009.

Hiroaki Kuromiya. The Voices of the Dead. Yale University Press, 2007.

Catherine Merridale. Night of Stone-Death and Memory in Russia. Granta, 2000.

Simon Sebag Montefiore. Stalin-the Court of the Red Tsar. Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2003.

A. N. Pirozhkova. At His Side-the Last Years of Isaac Babel. Steerforth, 1996.

Vitaly Shentalinsky. The KGB’s Literary Archive. Harvill, 1993.

Frederick Starr. Red and Hot-the Fate of Jazz in the Soviet Union. Oxford University Press, 1983.

I was fortunate enough to complete a Masters in creative writing at St. Andrews University and remain indebted to Douglas Dunn, Meaghan Delahunt, Don Patterson and John Burnside for their patience, insights and guidance, and, above all, to A. L. Kennedy, who not only taught me a great deal about the nuts and bolts of writing but also included my short story “Denmark” in a German collection she edited-which was tangible encouragement when I very much needed it.

I’m also thankful to David Wilkinson, Kuhan Tharmananther, Jonathan Thake, Sue Turton, Bryan Hassett, Ken Murphy, Ed Murray, Ian Iqbal Rashid, Melanie Richmond and my wife, Joanne-all of whom read the book at various stages-and Larisa Ivash, who proved an invaluable source of information on subjects as diverse as pre-war Soviet cigarettes and the starting motor of the GAZ M-1. My agent Andrew Gordon at David Higham Associates helped make this book much better than it once was, as did my editor Maria Rejt and my US editor Lyndsey Sagnette at St. Martin’s. Their suggestions have always been valuable and their corrections always correct, and Maria’s attention to detail and care have made me weigh each word, which is probably how it should be. Thanks also to Liz Cowen for her precise and careful copyediting.

Above all though I’m grateful to my wife Joanne. This book is dedicated to her in acknowledgment of her patience, and other things.