The Holy Thief Read Online Free PDF

fat between her fingers. Someone else had needed a hiding place once, it seemed. He placed the floorboard to one side and then raised himself to his feet. Underneath the other books he’d brought with him he found his Bible, and put it in the hiding place with relief. He liked to have the book near him but it had to be hidden, and it made him sweat to consider the risk he’d run carrying it across Moscow. It wasn’t that he was particularly religious, he told himself—he was certainly aware of the Party’s line on the Orthodox cult and agreed with it—but the bible had stood him in good stead through nearly eight years of soldiering and now, more than ever, it gave him comfort when the world around him sometimes seemed even bleaker.
    When he’d finished he looked down at the floorboards and was satisfied they’d stand up to most searches, then patted his pocket and felt the outline of the milkmaid. It would have been wrong to leave her with a holy book. He’d dispose of her when he got a chance.
    Half an hour later Korolev was walking quickly along Razin Street, past the statue of the rebel Cossack for whom the street had been renamed by the Bolsheviks. An officer of the People’s Militia couldn’t be seen whistling in full uniform, not if he wanted an ounce of respect from citizens, let alone criminals, but, even so, Korolev was sorely tempted. If he’d been in plain clothes he might have allowed himself to attempt a few bars of something martial and uplifting, in keeping with his mood—the “Internationale” perhaps—but the uniform prevented any outward display of satisfaction. In short, despite the morning’s unnerving start, the new apartment had restored his usual cautious optimism and he was confident, for a moment at least, that things weren’t so bad after all. In fact, things were getting better, as Comrade Stalin had recently stated. Things were definitely getting better.
    He was looking for a telephone to call Petrovka Street when he spotted two Black Crows parked further along the street outside a church. Uniforms stood beside the Militia cars and he guessed this was the crime scene Popov had asked him to attend. It was a small church, adorned with a Komsomol banner that hung above the entrance and invited the members of the Party’s youth wing to a dance in support of the Spanish Comrades. A rope was extended across the front of the building but it was unnecessary as most citizens were crossing the road to avoid the Militiamen. Only a starved-looking mongrel, lucky to have made it through a hungry summer without ending up in someone’s pot, and three equally bedraggled street children showed any direct interest, and even that was from a safe distance. Popov came out, trailed by more uniforms, who listened as he gave them orders, his fist pounding into his palm for emphasis. Korolev was rewarded with a nod from the general as he approached.
    “You got my message then?” the general said.
    “No, General, I was going to call in from the booth on the next block when I saw the cars.”
    “Just as well, just as well. This one’s got your name on it, Alexei Dmitriyevich.” The general pointed behind him with the pipe, the gesture taking in the front of the church in a brief sweep, then he turned and scowled at the uniformed Militiamen.
    “I want a statement from every citizen within a two-hundred-meter radius. We need to know the movement of every man, woman, child and mouse over the last two days. Send everything to Comrade Korolev here at Petrovka Street. He’ll be dealing with this matter.”
    The uniforms saluted and went. Popov looked after them.
    “Probably a waste of time, but if you don’t take every possible action these days, you leave yourself open to criticism.” He focused his irritation on the dwindling supply of tobacco in his pipe bowl, stuffing it full again from a small leather pouch with short angry jabs of his thumb. Korolev stood in silence, knowing better than to