been discussing the weather as aiming a loaded gun at a Militiaman’s head. The Frenchman, on the other hand, looked as dead as ever.
Korolev’s cigarette tip glowed orange as he blew out the match.
‘How did you find out about the guns?’ Mushkina asked, her voice gentle.
‘A fellow I know told me about them. It seems you tried to force the wrong people to shift them for you.’
‘Not my work. Some men must always take the hardest way. I choose the way that gets me to the destination safely. I knew it was an error to cross the Odessa Thieves.’
‘You know what happened, then?’
‘In the catacombs? Yes. Some of our people escaped.’
‘Not for long. When I left Odessa the place was crawling with Militia and Chekists. A mouse in a bread-bin had better have his papers in order tonight.’
‘Not so many that I couldn’t make my way out, Korolev – age and standing in the Party count for something, even these days. Tell me, how did you find out about Les Pins and Gradov? We know you were looking for them. Blumkin here was ordered to hold them on sight.’
‘Gradov? Well, it was his habit of losing guns that turn up in dead men’s hands, and given Andreychuk had escaped on his watch – well, even I began to wonder whether he might be worth talking to. As for Les Pins, we found his fingerprint on the bracket the girl was hung from. And Sharapov spotted the morphine tablets he used to drug her in his bedroom.’
‘The girl was another mistake. She could have been dealt with a different way.’
‘I wanted to ask you why she was killed. You must have known she was Ezhov’s lover – everyone else did. Surely killing her could only cause you trouble.’
‘I knew it, but this fool didn’t. And didn’t bother asking either.’ She flicked the barrel of her gun in the dead Frenchman’s direction. Korolev didn’t need to see her face to be certain it reflected the contempt in her voice. ‘And then it turned out she was Andreychuk’s daughter. If I could have talked to her, I would have reminded her that our exposure was her own death sentence, but he was an adventurer, an amateur. How he pulled the wool over the eyes of the Comrades in Spain, I’ve no idea.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A Russian mother, a French father, a German spy. He was with the French in Odessa when they intervened in ’nineteen, and stayed on as an observer with the Whites. When he became involved with the Germans I don’t know, but fascists have their own loyalties. To him, we were a means to an end. To us, he was a source of guns, so much the same. We gave him something he wanted and he gave us what we wanted. But then he decided he should be the one making the decisions, and some of our people agreed with him. And I was overruled.’
‘And they paid the price?’
‘They listened to him when he said they could force the Thieves to ship in the guns. And look where that got them.’
‘Why did he kill the girl?’
‘She found out what she was bringing in from Moscow.’
‘And what? Threatened to reveal everything to the authorities?’
‘Not quite – she realized Lomatkin was compromised and wanted an end to the arrangement. Les Pins overreacted, and before the information had been recovered as well.’
‘It was him who drugged her?’
‘Yes, although Gradov was the one who killed her.’
‘And then he killed Andreychuk as well?’
‘I don’t know – I’d arranged to get him across the border, but when the boat came for him, they found him dead. Perhaps it was Gradov, or perhaps someone else. Andreychuk was a good man – he fought with my husband in the war – but maybe Les Pins only had one way of dealing with problems like that.’
‘So that’s how you knew Andreychuk.’
‘My husband was a Party member before the Revolution, but when he was asked to betray the Petlyurists he was dealing with to the Whites, he refused and went over to them. Now, of course, I see he was right – but then…’
‘And your son, he came to the same conclusion?’
‘Him? He’s still as loyal to the Party as a dog.’
Korolev could hear something close to hatred in her voice.
‘But he was involved in your conspiracy, wasn’t he? Isn’t that why he was here?’
‘Him? Never – the strain of being a butcher for twenty years is the reason he’s here, nothing else. If he’d known one tiny fraction of this – well, you must know what would have happened.’
At that moment, two quick bursts of electricity energized the filaments of the light bulbs in the room to dramatic effect. It was like seeing two photographs, almost identical, each for a fraction of a second. The first flash of light left them all dazzled, but Korolev was sure he could see a figure standing in the doorway behind Blumkin and the peasant, wearing a greatcoat. Slivka? If it was her, Mushkina saw her as well because she called out a warning and there was a gunshot. Then the lights came on once again, illuminating a scene that was more confused than the first. Blumkin’s eyes were wide open and his body seemed to be lifting off the ground, blood spurting from a bullet wound in his shoulder. Damienko had disappeared, probably hiding under the table. But the figure in the doorway and Mushkina were standing still, each with a pistol aimed in the other’s direction, both guns blazing.
Korolev dropped to the floor, pulling out his Walther as shot after shot blasted across the room, and the shooting didn’t slacken for an instant when the lights went out again. It was like a wall of noise, so quickly were they firing, and the muzzle flashes showed Mushkina standing there shooting towards the doorway and Blumkin firing at random, the wall slick with his blood as he slipped lower and lower. It was impossible to work out what was happening and a bullet hitting the table beside his head convinced Korolev it was safer not to try. Finally there was a pause, then one last shot and then nothing more.
What followed the explosion of light and gunfire was silence, broken only by a long whistling sigh from somewhere near the doorway and then a single word.
‘Mother.’ It was more like a long exhalation than anything and it sounded like Mushkin’s voice. Still, Korolev stayed where he was.
At first he could hear nothing except for the truck’s engine outside, still turning over, then he heard running feet from the direction of the Orlov House and the distinctive sound of empty brass cartridges falling nearby onto a wooden surface – someone in the room was alive and reloading.
‘Chief?’ called a voice from outside, and Korolev felt his spirits rise. It was Slivka – he might get out of this yet – and now a torch’s beam was angling in through the window, cutting into the darkness.
‘Come out with your hands up,’ Slivka demanded, and then Korolev heard another familiar voice in the background.
‘That’s Militiaman Blumkin by the wall, over there,’ a boy’s voice called out. It was young Riakov.
But there was no response from the room and no sound other than Korolev’s pulse thudding in his ears and his unnaturally rapid breathing. More people were coming at a run now and Slivka was telling them to keep back. Somewhere outside he could hear Belakovsky’s voice asking what was happening. Sorokina was proclaiming that it was a terrorist attack on the film while Shymko was telling everyone to stay where they were.
‘Be careful, Slivka,’ Korolev said quietly, ‘take your time. I’m beside the table but I can’t see anything.’
There was a gunshot and a bullet cracked over his head and both he and Slivka fired in response; then there was more silence. Slivka’s torch shone into the room once again.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘I’ll live.’
‘I think one of us just shot Comrade Mushkina,’ Slivka said, unsure, by the sound of it, that this was a positive development.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Who was it in the doorway?’
‘Major Mushkin,’ Slivka said. ‘He’s not looking good. Finished, I’d say.’
‘And Blumkin?’ he asked.
‘In a bad way, but still conscious.’
