‘There’s a fellow called Damienko in here as well.’
‘I surrender,’ Damienko said. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’ And there came the sound of a gun skittering across the floor.
Then Korolev rose to his feet just as the light came back on and he looked around him at the dead and the wounded and thanked the Lord for preserving his poor sinner’s life once again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Korolev stood beside Slivka’s car on the village’s solitary street thinking back to the night before. When the lights had come on again, it had been chaos. There’d been actors and technicians, production girls and all sorts swarming into Mushkina’s cottage as soon as it was clear it was safe, and more histrionic dramatics than on a bad night at the Bolshoi. In the end, he’d had to fire a shot into the ceiling, and even then it had required a firm talking to and a reminder of his duty as a loyal Pioneer to persuade young Riakov to leave.
After that, it had been a question of waiting until reinforcements arrived and adding up the butcher’s bill. Mushkin had caught a bullet in the chest and was dead, his face a mask of pain – and Korolev couldn’t help thinking it was the knowledge that his mother had probably fired the bullet more than the injury. Blumkin and Mushkina were both clinging to life and had been ambulanced to the care of Dr Peskov’s colleagues at the university hospital in Odessa, along with the concussed Sharapov. Damienko had emerged from his hiding place uninjured but terrified and was now sitting in a cell in the Militia station, not twenty metres away from where Slivka and Korolev were standing, having a mysterious conversation with the newly arrived Colonel Rodinov.
Snow had fallen throughout the night and most of the morning and it had pushed up against the walls of the village in deep drifts. Korolev, after all the excitement of the previous days, was utterly exhausted. He rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet to try and revive the circulation.
‘He’s taking his time,’ he said, turning to Slivka.
‘I wonder why he wanted to talk to him.’
‘Best not to ask, and even better not to know,’ Korolev answered. He’d spoken to Rodinov the night before, immediately after the gunfight in Mushkina’s cottage, and a lengthy silence had followed his report of the events that had taken place.
‘This Damienko fellow – you said he looked as though he’d handled a gun before.’
‘Yes,’ Korolev had answered. ‘A soldier at some stage, I’d imagine. I haven’t asked him yet – I thought I’d speak to you first.’
‘Good. Hold him at the village station. Have that pathologist fellow of yours take Les Pins and Mushkin into his morgue – but not under their own names. I’ll talk to Colonel Marchuk to make arrangements. This fellow Blumkin – what is his condition?’
‘Conscious. More than that I can’t say.’
‘And Mushkina?’
‘She took a few bullets.’ Omitting to mention that they’d come from Slivka and himself. ‘She’s not talking much, but she’s tough.’
‘And you really think she shot Mushkin?’
‘It looks that way. It wasn’t me and Damienko’s gun wasn’t fired. It could have been Blumkin, but my money would be on Mushkina.’
‘A husband and a son,’ Rodinov said, and there was a note of admiration in his voice. Korolev made no comment. It wasn’t the kind of statement that required one.
‘He was loyal all along – Mushkin, that is. You know that now, don’t you? He even had suspicions about his mother, but I didn’t believe him. I thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him.’
‘I see it now. I had my doubts.’
‘He had his doubts about you as well, Korolev.’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’
‘But you got the job done between you.’
‘I hope so, Comrade Colonel.’
‘The guns are safe, and most of the conspirators in custody – I’d say you completed the task assigned to you. But what happens to them now you don’t need to bother about.’
‘As you say, Comrade Colonel.’
There was a pause that reminded Korolev, yet again, of the precariousness of his situation. He opened his mouth to say something, but what could he say? After a few moments, Rodinov spoke again. The voice was slow and deliberate, each word weighted with menace.
‘You said the film people thought it was a terrorist attack.’
‘That was their initial reaction.’
‘Don’t disagree with that explanation, Korolev. Tell them the matter is still under investigation. Where possible, encourage them in their belief but without confirming it. Understood?’
‘Of course, Comrade Colonel,’ Korolev replied.
There was another pause.
‘No one, including you, is to speak to this Damienko until I arrive. The same applies to Mushkina and Blumkin. I will talk to Petrenko and Marchuk to ensure this happens, but this instruction applies to you more than anyone. Just in case you were to become confused about the extent of your responsibilities in the meantime, this matter is now in my hands – no one else’s. Is that clear?’
It was clear enough, and Korolev had followed the colonel’s instructions to the letter – to the extent that now he and Slivka stood in the snow, stamping their feet to keep warm and uncomfortable under the close inspection of the four goons who’d come with the colonel from Moscow. Hard men, young, hungry – looking like hunting dogs waiting for an order from their master.
‘I hope that’s it,’ Slivka said, breaking the silence. Korolev turned to find her looking up at the sky.
‘What?’ he asked, curious.
‘The winter. I hope that’s it finished now. That we can leave it behind us at last.’
‘Yes,’ Korolev said, a little distracted. ‘The spring is always welcome.’
Their attention was diverted by the sound of the door to the Militia station closing. Rodinov stood in front, pulling on his gloves.
‘Korolev?’ he said, looking around the village for a moment, as if to remember it for ever. Korolev raised his hand to his hat in salute.
‘Come with me.’
Korolev followed the colonel to his car, its engine still running. At Rodinov’s invitation he joined him in the back seat.
‘Well, Korolev. You did a good job.’
‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Comrade Ezhov. He’s pleased with how things have turned out and wants you to know it.’
‘I’m grateful for that.’
‘You should be. Of course there are a few matters that still need to be resolved, and that’s what I’m here to do.’
‘I see,’ Korolev said quietly, wondering if he was one of them.
‘Yes.’ The colonel took off one of his gloves and examined his fingernails. ‘A little tidying up is called for. So I will now tell you what exactly happened here over the last few days, in case you become confused when you read about it in the newspapers. Are you listening carefully?’
‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Korolev tried to make sure his face was devoid of any indications that could be construed as confusion, although his mind was racing.
‘What happened is this,’ Rodinov continued, not looking at Korolev and speaking as though to an invisible audience. ‘A young comrade, the late Maria Lenskaya, beautiful, dedicated and utterly loyal to the Soviet State, came across her estranged father – the traitor Andreychuk – whom she knew to be a former Petlyurist officer and
