Chapter Twenty-Three
‘What time is it?’ Slivka asked.
‘Time to go,’ Korolev answered, and checked his machine gun for the third time before repeating the exercise with the Nagant and then with the Walther.
‘The Greek will stay as close as he can,’ Firtov said. They’d parked, at his suggestion, a few streets away from the bar in a quiet lane behind a warehouse. They hadn’t told the two forensics men everything, but they’d told them enough and, as far as they knew, the Greek was close by, although they’d dropped him off some distance away.
‘Use your discretion, Comrade,’ Korolev said. ‘Stay back and report to the colonel in Moscow if things get rough – there’s a bigger picture here than our skins.’
Slivka nodded her agreement, a firm movement, and Korolev was reassured by her determination.
‘All right, Slivka, let’s see if we can make it to this bar of yours without clanking too much.’
At least the evening air was fresh compared to the fuggy atmosphere inside Firtov’s motor and Korolev breathed in a lungful with something approaching pleasure as he adjusted his clothing to cover his weaponry.
Moldovanka wasn’t a plush area, by any means, and even if its buildings were low, the streets themselves were wide and straight. The district still had more than an echo of the grandeur of the centre of Odessa, even if much of the paintwork was peeling and some of the plasterwork was well nibbled. When they turned out of the alleyway into a larger street they found it busy with workers returning home, and despite the temperature and the limited light from the street lamps there was a buzz of conversation as friends greeted each other and discussed the day’s happenings. Korolev kept his eyes moving as they walked, scanning the crowd for danger, so it was all the more of a surprise that he was almost on top of Mishka before he spotted the rotten-toothed rascal.
‘Nadezhda, darling,’ Mishka said with an insolent smile, ‘you must keep better company than this. Come on, this summer – you and I – we’ll go to Yalta and drink real champagne in the finest hotels. Caviar, you name it, we’ll have it. Hanging around with persons like this will give you a bad reputation.’
‘But Mishka, you’re a sewer rat,’ Slivka said to the Thief in mock bewilderment.
The Thief laughed, not in the least offended. ‘At least a rat like me would look after you, not take you out on dates to dumps like this.’
What was this about a date? Slivka and he were Militia detectives on an important assignment.
‘Hey, Mishka. Enough from the monkey. Take us to the organ grinder,’ Korolev growled, and his irritation turned to cold fury when the Thief’s response was to laugh again. At him. In front of witnesses, no less.
‘Did you hear that, Fox? These Moscow Terriers have dirty mouths on them.’
Mishka addressed his remark to a tall wiry individual with thick red hair who was dressed, like Mishka and, indeed, Korolev and Slivka, in a long overcoat that probably hid a similar amount of armaments. As he looked around him, Korolev saw that Fox was one of several men who’d appeared in their locality, all with an equally antisocial look about them. It seemed as if half the toughs in Odessa were out for an evening’s promenade.
‘Greetings, Fox,’ Slivka said with a small nod in the red-headed man’s direction.
‘Evening, Nadezhda. Kolya said to bring you and the flatfoot into Petya’s when you showed.’ Fox pointed in the direction of a bar on the corner of a wide crossroads. More men were posted around it; they looked hard and vigilant, men made in Fox’s image.
‘What have you got under your coat, Korolev?’ Mishka asked with that irritating smile of his.
‘Something that’s as good as a shovel if you want to dig yourself a grave, little Mishka.’
Mishka seemed ready to take up the challenge, a vein in his forehead visibly beating as his clear blue eyes, completely devoid of anything resembling emotion, contemplated Korolev, narrowing to slits as he did so.
‘Mishka, take a couple of the boys around the block – make sure we’re clear there.’
Kolya’s voice was like gravel pouring into an empty hole, remorseless and undeniable. The young Thief blinked, looked at Korolev as though he’d forgotten who he was, then nodded his agreement.
‘Fox? Benya? Let’s go.’
‘You brought something for us, Alexei Dmitriyevich?’ Kolya said, nodding at the shape in Korolev’s coat in turn.
‘Something useful.’
‘I hear you brought some friends along as well.’
‘Friends?’ Korolev asked, wondering if Rodinov had sent some dim-witted Chekists blundering into Moldovanka to keep an eye on things.
‘You’ve a car and a driver parked three streets away, in behind the box factory. Not a friend of yours? It’s a Militia vehicle and known as such.’
‘That’s Firtov,’ Slivka said, moving a little closer to intercede. ‘Firtov’s all right, Kolya. We need a car for later, but he’ll stay back. He’s trustworthy.’
‘I know who’s in the car, Nadezhda,’ Kolya said slowly, not looking at her, keeping instead his steady gaze on Korolev. An interesting gaze it was as well – inquisitive and yet menacing. As if Korolev were a curious question that needed to be examined from more than one perspective and then dealt with.
‘Well, Kolya?’ Korolev asked.
‘You should have told us about Firtov. If he hadn’t been recognized it might have gone badly for him. And now we wonder if we can trust you.’
‘We needed the car,’ Korolev replied firmly, ‘and I’d no way of telling you about him.’
Kolya nodded, then gestured to the hard-looking men who stood out by virtue of their stillness and intensity amongst the neighbourhood’s evening crowd.
‘Let’s go inside. Your car will be there when you need it. And Firtov too.’
They followed the Thief into the half-empty bar, and at a nod from Kolya a bottle of vodka and some dark rye bread arrived at the small table he led them to, followed swiftly by glasses. Korolev, after a moment’s consideration, unbuckled the strap of his machine gun and placed it on the floor, Slivka following suit with her own weapon.
The presence of two machine guns in the bar aroused little comment from the other drinkers, which wasn’t surprising given that everything from a bayonet to a cut-down shotgun was sitting on the tables around them.
Korolev was pretty certain that the half-dozen men in the room, including the bartender, had almost, but not quite, smiled with approval.
‘Nice artillery,’ Kolya said, placing a Luger on the table, followed by a saw-toothed knife.
‘We came prepared. So what’s the situation? It looks like there’s enough weaponry in here for a small war.’
‘A small war is what we might have on our hands.’ Kolya squinted at his watch, then smiled. ‘But in an hour or two we’ll bring the war to an end, I think.’
‘You know where the guns are?’
‘Yes. They have a place in the catacombs they think no one knows about, but they’re wrong.’
‘Catacombs?’ Korolev asked.
‘This city is built from limestone. Where do you think it all came from? Underneath the city is where – they’ve been cutting it out for a hundred years now, and once you start making holes like that beside the sea, pretty soon gentlemen like me link them up and make tunnels, and then you have a nice way of getting something from the port up to the town if you want to do it quietly. You can travel from one end of Odessa to the other without seeing daylight, they say. And even if they’re prone to exaggeration around here, it’s possible they’re talking the truth on this.’
‘So how do you know about this place of theirs?’
‘We have one of their men out the back, and he has a wife and children. He’ll show us where his friends have their stash.’
‘What’s in this stash of his?’ Korolev asked.
‘At least forty crates, he says – I don’t know more than that and there’s still more coming in, but we should catch most of it.’ Kolya looked at him keenly for a very brief moment, then resumed his impassive expression.
‘It’s understood that any weapons are for us, Kolya,’ Korolev said.
